Back on the Chain Gang

Previously ……… The starting point: The Unemployment Chronicles, Vol. 1

—  Vol. 4  —

Later that week …

Third restaurant I’ve been to where I ask if they’re hiring and the manager says, “we’re always looking for experienced waitstaff.” The exact wording every time, all three places. You’d swear it’s straight from The Manchurian Candidate. I must be triggering a programmed synaptic reflex with my wording. I’ll have to be more careful.

Pay attention to what they’re saying, you realize this doesn’t in any way mean they’re actually hiring, just collecting applications. Some are staffing for the holidays, so they want a farm squad of resumes they can call up if they need help. It’s an extremely polite way of saying no, so I can’t really be upset about it.

That said, I’m worried that concealing my grammar school information will come back to haunt me. I should have just made something up. You think they’re going to look into this?

“We did some checking … you went to Milton Grammar School. It says St. Agnes on your application … You think we wouldn’t find out? … Lie about something insignificant like this, what else you hiding? … You should have just left it blank.”

So I guess I did the right thing. We’ll see.

Phone rang. Interview 3:00 today.

Life Insurance cash is going fast with mortgage and bills. I’m actually thrilled I got a call. In this economy, I’ve decided that if I can make $12 an hour I should be thankful. Don’t want look old and desperate, therefore I’m going to put on make-up and drink a fifth of tequila. Should work.

Well, well. Looks like you’ll pioneer this trip. Go forth and prosper. “Donner Party, table for six. Donner Party? Last call, Donner Party, table for five.”

I have to find something that keeps me working from home. I mentioned the cat situation earlier. I’m still referee of three animals who consider me their doorman.

As enjoyable as the addition of a rescued kitten has been, it’s greatly altered the dynamic (as expected) and one individual is always physically and/or mentally stressing out another, although it’s gotten better lately. Three months in and cooler heads prevail — because I’m here. If I’m gone nine hours a day, this house becomes Papillon.

Later that evening …

Heading back into the trenches — waiting tables, ugh, with the chance to get back to the bar … as if that’s incentive. They only “promote” to the bar from within.

They hired me on the spot. Met with two managers, both gave me the “what does team mean to you? How about service?” blah, blah, blah.

Once again, I wanted to say “no” but I got nowhere else to go. “No” seems to have gotten me nowhere and the mortgage needs to be paid.

Orientation Sunday morning at 7:30 AM.

I’m happy to make a little money, but this is truly tough to swallow.

Fuck.

Fuck.

Fuck.

I can only imagine how you feel — like you finally got that appointment for the root canal.

CJ and I got into a nice little fight tonight. It happens rarely, but when she gets going, she gets crazy. And I can’t help but laugh, which is the wrong thing to do … believe me. I tell myself, whatever you do, don’t laugh. And then I do. It’s like a death wish. I finally exited, stage right. At a bar spending more money I don’t have — and I’m still giggling like a little girl.

Ah, love and marriage.

Must be the 24/7 over the last five weeks. It’s like Survivor!

What are we fighting about? I don’t know. Stress, I guess. But for some reason I wanted it. I needed it. Fuck it. It’s not her fault.

Kids told us not to fight, for the first time. Mind you it’s not a fight, more of an argument. The kids rarely see it. But it’s reality, so I guess it’s good. The “reality,” that is.

One more drink, then I’m off to Walmart to buy black Dickies for my “orientation” on Sunday. It is what it is. I’m drinking some bourbon called Ten High. Horrible. Washing it down with Miller Lite. Nice.

Will I make it to Walmart? Will I make it home? Tune in tomorrow — same Bat-time, same Bat-channel!”

Oh Christ, I used to clean paintbrushes with Ten High. Hang in there. One unwanted step at a time, meaning the Dickies.

It gives me chills, not sure how you’ve gotten so far. I freeze at the thought of anything to do with that job. I don’t know if it’s the pride-swallowing or the abuse, maybe it was just working in Glendale.

The rudest people on the face of the Western Hemisphere —  concentrated between the Burbank, Glendale and Ventura freeways — don’t be surprised if some end up in your section. Eventually you question humanity, the point of it.

My problem will likely be prospective restaurant employers — who have my resume and know where to find the website — reading any of this …

THEM: What does team mean to you?

ME: Go to hell.

THEM: How about service?

ME: Fuck off. Are we done here?

Something will work itself out, rest assured. For now, obvious fake smile and don’t stab anyone in the neck with your pen.

Check back in when you get home.

Went to Walmart. For the first time, I was one with the tweekers and misfits. They accepted my off-kilter gait and welcomed me with the obligatory nod and “you are so fucked-up” smile of recognition. Unfortunately, I answered without the prompt … that being a question; yelling, “I’m not one of you!”

Really, that’s what I said. Ten High. I’m dead serious. Perused the Dickies like I was at an adult bookstore. Whenever someone looked at me, I turned away, but they knew … they knew I was a blue-collar posing as a white-collar. Fuckers were on to me. My defense was opaque.

Plus, there’s no place to try things on — so I tried to pull them over my shorts and fell on the ground. I’m home now. CJ is making me food. Turkey sandwich. She says I’m not looking too good.

High Ten … works like magic.
The day after …

 I started drinking at 3. I’m in my office watching sports … mainly I just want to be left alone. CJ doesn’t know what to do. It’s not her fault.

I woke up at 3:30 last night (morning) and haven’t batted an eye since. Absolutely dreading tomorrow morning. Not sure why I’m having such a hard time with this, you’d think I was going to prison. It’s honest work. Ego is evil.

Maybe it’s reality. I did this shit at 16. Never thought I’d be doing this at 41.

But at least I wasn’t born in Somalia. Things could be so much worse, or so I try to justify.

To be continued (link below) …

  • “The job security rate for all federal workers was 99.43% last year and nearly 100% for those on the job more than a few years . . . . White-collar federal workers have almost total job security after a few years on the job. Last year, the government fired none of its 3,000 meteorologists, 2,500 health insurance administrators, 1,000 optometrists, 800 historians or 500 industrial property managers . . . . The nearly half-million federal employees earning $100,000 or more enjoyed a 99.82% job security rate in 2010. Only 27 of 35,000 federal attorneys were fired last year, none laid off. Death claimed 33.”                          Some federal workers more likely to die than lose jobs — USA TODAY

ARCHIVES: Follow The Unemployment Chronicles.

Next chapter: Vol. 5 — We are the chosen ones

>> Follow: @SoapyJohnson on Twitter.

>> Comment: Place it on Lucky Dan on Facebook.

/by

Lost kittens find their way home

Every thought is with the kid

—  Vol. 1  —

Saturday, Oct. 8, 2011 …

Started writing this last night but hit a wall, woke up on the couch and the game was over. The one game I wanted to see all week — picked it up bottom of the 7th, fell asleep in the 8th with runners on base. Game 5, playoffs. It was a good game too, what I saw, I was totally into it … Zonk.

Now I’ve got an hour before Jules gets home. Headed back to the hospital to see Carlisle. At one point yesterday, I started to mentally whine about the day it had been but stopped myself before the thought could finish. My ass isn’t bandaged and I’m not being pumped with fluids.

Long story short, Carlisle may lose his tail. He’ll be at the hospital for almost a week. He had an infection, assume from a bite — another cat, possibly Jackson (they play, at some point the Dude has had enough. Carlisle’s a kitten, he can do that all day). It wasn’t Bibby, no teeth. Neighborhood cat, maybe, who knows? He didn’t eat one night and that was a huge alarm, the kid can chow. They said he probably fell on his tailbone, at first they thought his tail was pulled — this is Banfield Pet Hospital. Doctor said it was a bone bruise.

Swelling above where the tail starts, he’d bark if you touched him there. X-rays were negative and $158, thank you. Gave him an anti-inflammatory shot and painkillers, this was Tuesday. Better Wednesday and Thursday morning but by evening, more pain than ever. He was licking the underside of his tail — right near all the business — so much, I had to put the cone on him so he’d leave it alone.

Gave him the last painkiller. You couldn’t touch him, he was obviously hurting and it didn’t make sense that a bone bruise was getting worse. First thing in the morning, I was taking him in. Had no idea we didn’t have time.

At 4 am, Carlisle wakes up Jules, walks over and nudges her. She tries to make him comfortable, put him back to sleep. The abscess bursts.

I’m in the spare room, I wanted give the kid as much room on the bed as he needed. I happen to wake up about a minute before all this happens, suddenly wide awake. Jules screams and I fly down the stairs.

Talk about stink. Blood, nastiness. Poor guy isn’t even six months old. It took a lot to hold it together. We’re freaked out, we don’t know what’s going on. The other cats could sense something was horribly wrong.

Rushed him to emergency, he’s sedated because otherwise they couldn’t get a look. They shave part of the area and call me in. The bottom portion of the base of his tail essentially exploded — the exact spot he was licking earlier. Had it been raised or swollen, I would have taken him in then. Turned out it was the spot of least resistance, the pressure couldn’t expand up due to the spine.

Pain one can only imagine. Hole an inch wide, inch & 1/2 long, tiny strip of skin left down the middle. Problem, it’s maybe a 1/4-inch above his rectum — the wound naturally falls where you don’t want it, extremely easy to infect.

They shot him up with antibiotics. Anywhere else on the body, like his shoulder, they patch him up and he comes home with me. The plan is to kill the infection and keep him clean; see how the remaining skin is growing back; determine if they have enough to stitch it up; and by Monday, a decision. The wound needs to be cleansed and re-bandaged constantly and — $1000 later — it all depends how fast he heals. But they may need to remove the tail. Doctor wasn’t too optimistic.

Then when I left, my battery was dead. No clue what drained it. I may have left a door open in my rush to get him checked. Called AAA, an extra from “Sling Blade” arrived, jumped it and I made it home before he had a chance to put mustard on my biscuits. Tried the car later, battery was dead again.

Maybe four hours sleep, spent five hours getting the battery replaced. Come back home, finally able to take a breath and the house feels empty without him here.

It sounds horrific. I am so sorry. I could’ve taken care of Big Car were I there. I’m not a vet, but I did stay at a Holiday Inn. Why do I think $1000 is only the start? Blood-sucking vets.

Timba got clipped by a bear a month ago. Huge gash that obviously needed stitches. I got three different antibiotics, iodine and hockey tape. Five days I worked to keep it clean, it heeled finally.

Sadly, he went rabid and ate the children. Well, you win some and lose some, right? Actually, he’s good. Betadine and hockey tape is my recommendation.

Hang in there, let me know how Big Car rebounds.

There’d be no home patch, you could see bone. They cleaned and bandaged but must do it at least once a day and sedate him every time because it’s so damn painful. It’s raw flesh. We saw him last night — they shaved his front legs to insert the fluids, it looks like he’s wearing Uggs — a little woozy but snapped out of it when he saw us and just poured on the motor.

The doctor was confident he’d be able to keep the tail, he’s already showing improvement. It’s too soon to know for sure but that would be great, not only because losing it will effect his balance but Carlisle digs his tail. He plays with it all the time, it’s his thing. Such a sweet kid. When all four kittens were here, he’d be calm and able to keep his composure while the others played, until a tail came his way. He couldn’t stand it, had to get involved. That mellow/playful thing is one of the reasons we chose him.

Jules was asking why Banfield didn’t give him an antibiotic shot, simply as a precaution. I don’t know. They said he didn’t have a fever.

We were giving him an opiate of some kind (“bupre” something,” ends with “orphine,” so you know it’s good). It only needs to touch the inside of his mouth, he could spit it out and it still doses him. One of the strongest painkillers available, yet he’s yelping if you touch the area and growling right before his tail burst. Can’t imagine the pain he was fighting through, even with the drugs.

He didn’t deserve this and it didn’t need to happen. Most likely, another vet — hell, even another doctor at Banfield. This wasn’t our usual doctor — gives him an antibiotic and we’re not talking about this right now.

I told Jules your line about Timba eating the children and she laughed. She said to thank you because she needed that.

What a terrible ordeal. How awful your regular doc wasn’t there. Maybe it wouldn’t have made a difference but to wonder if it would must be excruciating.

This doctor looked for a bite or scratch but she couldn’t find anything. Turns out, you’d have to shave him and even then wouldn’t necessarily find a puncture wound. On the X-rays, you could see the spine raise in that spot and I asked the doctor what was pushing it up. She said it was the bruise. Beneath the spine? She said yes. I didn’t understand how it was possible but I went with the diagnosis. After all, she’s the doctor.

Later that night …

I called the shelter where we took the other kittens. The woman who runs it (not a vet but 30+ years with cats and has seen everything) correctly diagnosed him before I could finish my sentence. She asked, “was it an infection? Did it abscess?” You’ve got to be kidding me.

She explained, cats get bitten on the paws while protecting themselves and the butt when they flee. Likely a neighborhood cat. Cats in the same household may bite but usually as a warning, they won’t break skin, she said. They couldn’t find a bite mark because it likely healed, creating the abscess and trapping the infection. The doctor doesn’t know any of this?

I assume he needs more pain meds, I don’t know it’s a fucking infection. Had we known it was a possibility, we would have reacted — I would have taken him in Thursday. Instead, we thought he was in a lot of pain from the “bruise.”

All she needs to do is give him the antibiotic, just to be safe. Treat him for both or tell me if it doesn’t get better by X amount of time, bring him back and we’ll treat for Plan B — let me know what we’re working with. This doctor was stuck on Plan A, it had to be bone-related, even though X-rays were negative.

She essentially treated for the least dangerous of the two possibilities, which is mindless. Then she doesn’t stress the threat that the other option is capable of, especially in an area so vital to bodily function. It’s beyond careless, it defies logic.

To be continued (link below)…

ARCHIVES: Follow Lost kittens find their way home. Updates to follow.

Next chapter: Vol. 2 — Casualty of warring felines

>> Follow: @SoapyJohnson on Twitter.

>> Comment: Place it on Lucky Dan on Facebook.

/by

Chaz Bono needs to grow a pair

Chaz Bono. We need to talk.

If you’re going to be a man, you need to act like one.

We welcome you and couldn’t be happier to have you on our team. Maybe a bunch of us should meet up at Hooters sometime, say, Monday Night Football? They usually have a special on wings and cheap drafts. Bears/Eagles up next. Are you in a fantasy league? What do you drive?

Okay, Chaz, I’m assuming that close to half of the terms in the last paragraph may be foreign to you but that’s what we’re determined to work on.

You were eliminated from competition on Dancing with the Stars. The judges bullied you, they called you names. You got your feelings hurt. It happens.

Forget sewing on a pair, you need to grow one. Let’s get started.

As for the show, you put yourself out there, people got to see you for you and you’re viewed as the LGBT Jackie Robinson of DWTS.

Good on ya. That took balls.

The judges are mean and there’s always one who’s meanest of all — this happens on reality TV. Deal with it. You know that going in. It’s like complaining that Simon Cowell offered hurtful criticism, MTV put you in an embarrassing spot or Fear Factor made you eat something that isn’t on the Del Frisco’s menu. Well, yeah, they all tend to do that.

I’ll refer you to words valuably imparted to me at a young age, when I too was bullied for being overweight: “I’m rubber you’re glue, your words bounce off me and stick to you.” There’s another about sticks and stones, also quite good.

Man up.

This “bullying” thing is a crutch. You’re 42 years old, Chaz. I don’t care about your gender and clearly the judges didn’t either. They called you “a basketball, a penguin, an Ewok.” The reassignment process accounts for the weight gain, not the issue. You’re cut miles of slack on that, we get it. But people have been called worse without tossing the bullying card.

Dude.

Consider your card revoked until you can demonstrate a tougher skin. The judges are assholes, no kidding. If you were 12 and not on a reality show, I’d agree those names were completely uncalled for.

There’s always a fat person on these shows — this is television. You grew up in it, you should know this better than anyone. There was a fat guy on Lost, Gilligan’s Island, ‘N Sync. There’s an entire show that’s nothing but fat people trying not to be fat people. On this particular program, this particular season, the fat person was you. Did you not look around, first day on the set?

It’s unbecoming for a man to play the victim, even more to be this trigger-happy. You’ve been through too much to rely on that. You’ve come a long way, baby.

If you failed to anticipate mention of excess weight not necessarily allowing for advanced freedom of movement — which most agree is an important aspect of dance — you should have a long talk with your agent. That’s not being realistic to the concept of judges actually doing their job. Don’t get caught up in the descriptions and the words they use.

Would you prefer they lie to you?

Did you ever think that maybe the judges toned it down? Were you asked why you decided against dancing to a “Fat Benatar” song? Did they call you “Fatty McLardass” or question if rehearsals were interfering with your plans to be Macy’s Day Parade float?

Men are stronger than words.

You complain of a double standard — Kirstie Alley was treated better by the judges. That’s fighting fat with fat, bringing Kirstie into this is completely undignified.

I’d point out that Kirstie Alley lost several thousand pounds in the process of training and rehearsing — and she finished second! In truth, she’s lost 100 pounds since, which is amazing! She attributes her weight loss to dancing and hasn’t stopped, averaging 4 to 5 hours a day.

What do you bench? Do you deadlift? Squat? Imagine for a moment lifting 100 pounds, that’s what this 60-year old woman is no longer lugging around. This is highly impressive.

Add to that, the previous season, Kyle Massey also finished second, losing 18 pounds and eight inches off his waistline in the process. These are the transformations that quite possibly led producers to select you and America was hoping would inspire you into better health. You look the same as when you started, kind of like a basketball. Dress you in a tux and how can one not think penguin?

I’m guessing many in your circle won’t break it to you with this degree of brutal honesty, so these words are no doubt refreshing. Late-night comedians leave you alone. When has Kirstie Alley not been the go-to punchline to a fat joke? Paris Hilton is a slut, George W. Bush is stupid, Kirstie Alley is fat — these are dependable punching bags and be grateful you’re not one of them.

Not to start a pissing contest, but in terms of attitude comparison, here’s a recent cover of People Magazine. J.R. Martinez, fan favorite and leading DWTS vote-getter. Iraq war vet, burned over 40% of his body in 2003, he wanted to die.

I never knew what he looked like originally until this cover, only how he appears today — always smiling, it’s infectious. See him and you can’t help but smile too, it eliminates any ability for your mind to linger on the disfigurement caused when his Humvee hit a landmine.

An astonishing transformation from pain to joy, changing his body dramatically but leaving his mind purely focused on generating positivity. J.R. is full of life and a motivating force for those touched by his story. It’s a remarkable thing to see a man pull himself up from the hopeless mindset that overwhelmed him 7 or 8 years ago to where he’s brought himself today, on the wings of unwavering self-confidence. If that can’t inspire someone, nothing can.

Do you ever hear him say, “look at me, feel for me, I’ve been slighted” or allow name-calling to get him down, seek people to blame?

America adores people like J.R. because he’s full of determination and overcame one of the most gruesome and difficult struggles one can only imagine. America is tired of whiners who fly across the country — LA to NY — specifically to give an interview on Good Morning America where they say they were called bad names and bullied. I’ll say it again, Chaz, you’re 42 years old — grow a pair.

If you can’t handle this criticism, you’ve only proven my point. Tattoos aren’t enough to make a man, the rest needs to come from inside. It can’t be a facade protecting an empty building.

When Jackie Robinson broke the color barrier, he carried the mantle for an entire race and endured a spotlight that started in 1947 and some would say followed him the rest of his life. He took far greater abuse than you will ever be subjected to. Rookie of the Year (1947) and National League Most Valuable Player (1949) — that shuts a lot of people up. It’s not enough to be Jackie Robinson, you have to play like him as well.

>> Follow: @SoapyJohnson on Twitter.

>> Comment: Place it on Lucky Dan on Facebook.

/by