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In the barely lit room the mother could discern darker shapes on the floor, her sleeping children oblivious to the battle raging in her mind; in her heart. Somewhere in the middle of the room she heard a moan and knew it was Sizwe, the one after whom the baby came. How could she tell them apart, not just their faces but even their coughs, their laughs, and the way each turned himself or herself at night on their little grass mats. But then, she thought, if I couldn't do that, I would not be a mother.
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Saturday February 17. 2001 making my dime During the past few days, I've been evaluating my job prospects for the summer. Seeing as there is no way in hell I am ever setting foot in Ingr*m M*cro again, I have to find means to make as much or more money than I did last summer (which, at $9.50 an hour, is going to be quite difficult). I've already determined that I'm not going to work at B&N this summer. Well, if I do, it will be on a part time basis. I really don't think I could stand working there for 40 hours a week, especially making the paltry wage that I do. Retail is hell. No if, ands or buts about it. It's a dead end job, but unfortunately, it's all I'm really qualified to do. Certainly no one will hire me for my pretty face, and the vast majority of my computer expertise is web-based, so that won't help if I wanted to get a job in tech support. And my artistic skills are not such that I could make use of them, except maybe as a gopher at a graphic design firm. Cara suggested that I be a nanny for the summer, which is very appealing to me, as long as it would allow me to take classes during the summer and the children be well out of the diaper changing stage. Cara herself is a nanny, and has been for over 10 years. She's an incredibly fascinating person, and has been all around the world (when I first met her, she non-chalantly informed me "Thailand was my favorite place!"). And apparently nannies get paid very well.
Surprise, I have another stupid manager at work. As if social retard M wasn't enough, now we have J. She's actually the one who interviewed me for the job, and looking back, lord knows why she wasn't enough to send me running from the store in terror. She's cute, she's plump (her butt has this adorable way of wiggling when she stalks across the store), she talks about her fiance constantly, and her voice has the treble permanently set on high. A thousand different pitches of squeak. Plus, she's really into her job. Really into it. A manager at B&N isn't exactly a job that requires the skills of a ruthless corporate climber. As if that wasn't enough, since our little trip to TGI Friday's last week, M seems to think that we're now friends. This guy is seriously hurting for some self-esteem and friends. Now he's taking to snapping or yelling at me in front of customers, and then smiling his goofy smile, giving me a nudge, and thinking, "Ha, ha! Isn't it great, how we're friends now so we make fun of each other and have little inside jokes!" God, I need a new job.
One Year Ago:
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The other option I've considered (my parents will cringe at the thought) is being a bartender. Non-retail, good money, some skills required. I'd have to go to bartending school, a prospect which excites me. And who doesn't want to be the sexy vixen prowling around behind the bar provacatively mixing drinks for her patrons? Maybe I've been thinking about Coyote Ugly too much...but one can dream. I'd probably end up in a TGI Friday's serving beers to bunch of drunken fratboys, anyway.