How NOT to Steal From the Peeter.

Sufferin' Succotash! (yeah, it didn't work for me either, but I'm running out of cute exclamations to begin posts with.) Yesterday was a painfully slow Sunday. We didn't have jack shit to put in the seafood case. No more fresh sea scallops, sole, Alaskan salmon, or even space fillers like the creepy frog legs or fetus-like baby squid. So I had to keep busy. I re-arranged the sad selection of fish fillets and sprayed them with distilled water for an attractive sheen. I scrubbed every exposed section of the case with bootleg Windex. I prepped entire pans of frozen tilapia and mahi-mahi for tomorrow's lazy-ass opener. Finally, I made it around to the outside of the case, making sure every can of crabmeat and package of sausage was OCD-straight. I was about to head back into the fort when I saw a target. YAAAAY BUISNESS. I bounced right on over to him, wishing I had not when I got closer. He was not going to buy a damn thing. A Black dude in his early 40's, wearing a stained red t-shirt, jeans, and a pair of bustdown sneakers. "HEEEEY! How are you today? You finding everything..." I trailed off as I watched him grabbing steaks and throwing them into his hand basket. He appeared to be on his cell phone. "Yeah. But do you know where the charcoal at?" Um... It's the middle of grilling season. We always have stuff like that on huge displays. Usually at either entrance of the store. I then notice the TYPE of steaks that he was carelessly nabbing. Porterhouse steak, which is not on sale. He had completely cleaned the section out. And he had not so much as glanced at the price, weight, thickness or anything. My heart started beating fast. "Yeah, charcoal is over this way sir! I'll show you..." While I frantically tried to think of the best way to alert someone that foolio was going to make a break for it very soon. "Nah, I'll find it. I need to get some cooking oil anyway. Thanks." Meanwhile, the phone he had jammed to his face vibrated and rang at the same time. I raised my eyebrows and a shadow of guilt passed over his face. Fuck. I perfectly executed a quick about-face from my brief stint in NJROTC and started speed-walking up to the manager's office at the front of the store. True to form, Hee-Haw was sitting in front of the computer in his office, frowning at the screen like he had just smelled a fart. He looked like he was mildly irritated at me as I walked in, out of breath. "I think there's this guy trying to steal and he got a whole bunch of steaks and he is looking for charcoal and..." (fuck, I hate how easilyI turn into a babbling idiot in front of these douchetarded managers.) He literally leapt out of his bendy office chair. "Okay, now do What? What does the guy have on?" I told him, and he got on his house-phone style floor monitor handset. He strolled off, leaving me feeling slightly embarrassed and lonely, so I went back and waited in my department, where of course in the two minutes I was gone, I'd aquired a line of five fuckin' people. Time passed quickly as I wrapped up the customer's shit and sent them on their merry way. About ten minutes after I was damn near comatose from pure nosy-ness, Hee-Haw and Deyshawn,(a grocery manager) walked through the back door in the meat department, smiling triumphantly with the basket of expensive steaks, topped off by a bottle of cheap Peeter brand vegetable oil. "$189 worth of steaks," he pronounced in his syrupy drawl. He reminded me to call his extension the next time I saw a stealer. I smoked so much pot when I was a kid, I'm lucky I remember how to use the bathroom. Sweet black baby Jesus in Detroit....

The Seafood Department That is My Brain

What you see is row upon row of gleaming fillets of halibut and grouper and salmon. You see the shiny scales of fresh rainbow trout. The fluffy pieces of catfish, begging to be battered and deep-fried. You see the neatly arranged shrimp, waiting to squirm their way into a bowl of pho or a stunning shrimp cocktail. You see the majestic king crab legs, full of lucious meat...

What you don't see is the struggle to lift heavy boxes of fish and the pain of falling with said boxes on an icy cooler floor. You don't see the scars on my brown hands from being stabbed repeatedly with shrimp tails, crab legs, and sharp knives. You don't see my ashy, puckered fingers at the end of a night, wrinkled from chemicals and cold.

You hear the loud hum of bone saws, cutting your porterhouse steaks, bone-in pork chops, and depending on who's there, frozen salmon. The friendly, helpful banter between employees and customers, and the P.A. system advertising the pharmacy and the discounted chickens in the Deli department.

What you don't hear is the soft, under-my-breath swears of frustration, the muted moans of pain as your muscles slowly cramp due to months of refridgeration. You don't hear the hateful shouts from the management that make you feel worthless and dumb. You don't hear my unconsolable, child-like weeping in the arms the love of my life, hopeless because he can't heal me.

You smell the ocean-y scent of fresh, succelent sea scallops, and the clean, watermelon-like odor of organic Irish salmon. You smell the honey-soy-ginger marinade of chicken and vegetable kabobs, and the coconut and oreganato panko coating of the probably too old mahi-mahi fillets. You smell the strong, mouth-watering affair of steamed peel-and-eat shrimp and snow crab clusters, heavily spiced with Old Bitch Seasoning.

You don't smell the ammonia-based cleaner on the bathroom floor, snorted in, because of the severity of your sobs. You don't smell the expensive cologne on the store manager as you essentially beg for some type of feedback on what kind of job you are doing. You don't smell my nervous sweat as I wonder with every small mistake, if this will be the straw that broke the camel's back.

Because you don't have to. Every time I work, I deal with a fierce internal struggle between my pride and my common sense...

Fo Shizzle...

I hate music where white people are trying to sound black. The white music I like is white.-Kanye West

This also describes my feeling of "black" speech from someone who has admittedly never spent a day outside of the suburbs. And don't get me started on the issue of white/black "speech. If I had a nickel for everytime some redneck remarked, "You sayound lahk a whaat girl on dat speaker!" while I was in drive-thru, I would be able to turn my back on bullshitting fast food jobs forever. It saddens me that speaking properly and cohesively is considered "white" and "high siddity". My huge vocabulary often surprises everyone I meet. But karma comes back to bite me, I suppose, as the nOOb, Josh, was suddenly thrown into my department. This is where the management's poor communication skills come into play. I felt horrible, insecure, and worried. Why am I out of the loop? I found out shortly after that one of our most loved butchers was packing up his knives and getting the hell out of Dodge. God Damn! I suppose it has to happen, every department has to change eventually, but it's scary. Especially when your own job is threatened. By Josh. A wigga in every sense of the word. But, he seems to retain most of his ethnicity inside until I clock in. It was midly amusing at first, but he started getting aggravating at a breakneck speed. By the fourth time he asked a customer "Yo! Can I help you?" I wanted to slap the fuck out of him with a hammer. "Ayo; I'm about to take a break, yo. Is dat cool with you?" Me- yes, that's fine. "Aight, when I get back, I'm going to gangbang some of those leg quarters." My eyebrow shot up as I immediatly pictured him howling in agony as huge frozen leg quarters in assless chaps pistol-whipped him. He shuns anything that I try to teach him, in favor of any bulky, inconvenient method that Clay has taught him, from wrapping frozen shrimp, to defrosting large crabs before you put them in the display case. So I just gave up. I essentially became his little bitch who does everything at 3 or 4 that should have been done hours before I got there. I saw my fearless mentor, BayBay, a few nights ago, and he spoke one of the truest statements I've heard in months. "A.R. is not seeing you for who you've become, or any progress you've made. He is seeing you, still, as how you were when you started this job (complaining about not getting breaks, taking lunches that lasted more than 1/2 hour, being late because I did not read the schedule correctly, ect, ect, because I can't ever do anything right.). He is not going to consider you for a full time position." He kept getting passed over for management, so he moved on, too. It might be time for me to make that switch back to Hell-Mart before it's too late.

Briefly Back...

To congratulate the ghey who has a crush on my boyfriend. You just caused me to disable the anonymous commenting feature on my bloggy. I should have known that some people get butt-hurt too easily over something stupid. I also enabled comment moderation. Sorry to the decent folks who don't have the time to make an account, who usually have something relevant to add to my posts.

Valentine's Day. 1 Month Later

“Why does Sea World have a seafood restaurant?? I’m halfway through my fish burger and I realize, Oh my God....I could be eating a slow learner.”
Lyndon B. Johnson (1908-1973)
Former president of the U.S.


Valentine's Day is always February 14. Always. Always. Never had the date changed due to bad weather or lack of participation. Every Year. Feb. 14. I seem to be able to grasp that, and have been able to since I made my first construction paper Valentine for my "Mammy". Most customers that shop at the Hairy Peter, apparently do not get the memo until around 2:00pm, February 14. I came in at 3:00pm(okay, 3:03), (thus beginning weeks of cutting hours of the Queen :/ ) and I just caught Clay, walking away from the time clock, sweating. "Hey Clay, what's going on?" He took a swig from his mini-keg of "Kool-Aid" (coughBoone'sFarmcough) and responded. "Jesus, it's busy back there, sweety. I gotta go.." and with that, strolled his bulk out of the sliding doors. Aw, fuck... I was closing with A.R., aka Luke Skywalker, and Tattoo Tim. Now everybody loves Tim, because he's easygoing and friendly and full of tatts and crack. He was slightly irritated because he had to work on Valentine's Day. Luke is a different story. I would probably rather play leapfrog with a unicorn, or drink a gallon of Bony the Noob's (new management) tit sweat than work with him. He's extremely rushed and nervous and anal, and constantly reminds me of a poster child for ADHD, with extreme communication issues.. Great, a fun filled night of fuckery with Asshole and Asshole Lite.

One of my biggest surprises was that the live lobsters were actually selling. They are pretty much tiny "chix"(1 1/4 pounds or so) and were $14.99Lb. I hate the lobster tank. Why? Because the fucking thing has not been cleaned since BayBay(legendary seafood dude) left. The water is brown and smelly, I guess from overcrowding the poor things, and lack of knowledge about how to clean it. Mentos is going to be an assistant manager back here in a few, and she does not know how to clean it. OMGWTFBBQ? She's been up in the Peet for at least thirteen years. In Hell-Mart, they got a third-party company to come in after close and do it professionally. Now, when I open it, there is a weird brown foam bubbling out of the cover, and it smells like wild monkeys. I must have had to dip my arm in that cesspool at least eight times, scrubbing furiously afterwards. I feel a flashback coming on.....

***"I can't take this shit anymore!! Fuck!"- an exclamation inside my head, walking in my department at 12:30 one day. The lobster tank is looking like lobsters swimming in diarreah. "Mentos! Look at this! I think there are some dead ones in here!" She took a cursory glance. "Oh, yeah, there might be a couple. I have to leave a little bit early today..." So she was out the door before you could say, "Clap-Havin Jezebel". Man, God Damn! I lifted the lid, and the stench of dead crustaceans and musty armpits assaulted my nose. Fart was cutting meat about 15 feet away, and I heard him yelp, "Christ! What is that fuckin smell?" All I could do was shake my head. The tank had been looking like Who-Shot-Johnny-But-Forgot-To-Kill-Him for days now, but I (wrongly) assumed that one of the full-timers would get around to cleaning it. I was lost. I called Fart over to help, and he showed me a filter at the top that was filled with a black, charcoal-looking substance. He rinsed it out, and shoved it back in. "You might haveta get you some of those dead ones out of there." No shit, Sherlock? Because I was seriously considering building a campfire up in this bitch and making a pot of stew. I set up two grey lugs on my seafood cutting board next to the tank. I grabbed a long pair of tongs, and began to sort. Dead, dead, dead, giving up the ghost soon, feisty, dead, dead, dead, HALF EATEN??!!-Hold the fuck up! I started finding pieces of tail and heads with the meat gnawed off floating around. That, combined with the funky odor, was making my stomach churn. When I finally finished, the "Dead" lug was overflowing. The total waste was about $400. This was my first lesson of, "Do it your Motherfucking Self, Or It Won't Get Done."**





It started off innocently enough. We sell live lobsters at $14.99lb. And cold water lobster tails from Canada, at $7.99lb. Mentos ordered two cases of live lobster, about 24 total, and probably 839328989348 cases of the frozen tails. I guess Luke finally dug in her ass enough about ordering enough shit to cover a sale. The past few weeks,customers have been SOL on numerous sale items. Fart helped me tray up two cases the day before, much to my dismay. Not to be an asshat, but if I need help with something, I'll ask. Fart took the liberty of thawing out two cases and putting them in trays. Problem being, these motherfuckers come in frozen. Re-freezing shellfish is just wrong. The ice crystals break down the texture of the flesh. So when you put them in the tray dripping wet, and sealed with plastic wrap by hand, the sharp edges of the shell may create tiny holes, and they are more susceptible to freezerburn. So they did look like shit the next day. And I'm writing this a month later- we still have most of the shitty-looking packages that he wrapped sitting in the freezer. The bulk of the people came after five, rushing, Bogarting the front counter, being rude, but at least being less thrifty then usual. They day became a blur of filling, filleting, cutting, removing skin, and steaming lobster/shrimp/crab. When it finally hit around 8, and Luke finally put away his light saber, a woman came up to the meat counter in her ugly granny-print coat, and wanted some lamb chops. More than happy to get that, so you can GTFO. As soon as I had it wrapped, about to slide it over the counter, she said, "I changed my mind. I need another one." I raised my eyebrows. Not in any rude fashion, whatsoever. (I'm very careful now, since the confrontation from Big Slim, the co-manager.) But she goes on. "Unless it's too much trouble." I should have said nothing else, but I was borderline psychopathic at this point and had to say, "No maam! That's my job!" She gave me one of those half-smirk, half-arrogant looks and said snarkily, "Well, you looked like you were going to blow your top." AWHELLZTOTHEFUCKNAW. Blow my top??? Fool, do you know the shit I had to put up with today? The ass I had to kiss?? The fuckin abuse I take from crazies like you? Constantly?.... No... She does not know. She probably will never have to. It was not her fate to become a salmon-selling buttmunch. She just knows what she is used to. And that's all I can expect her to care about. So I wrapped up the extra chop, and wished her a good night. She stomped off prissily, and I sent a silent prayer for help. Please don't let this fucker go find management and tell them I was rude. I just want to go home to my cat, my ramen with siracha, and my chocolate ice cream sandwitches in peace. Fuckin Peeter...

SMH.

Lent was anti-climatic like a mofo. I truly expected buisness to be jumpin like Taco Bell on Cinco de Mayo, but it was just a normal, steady day. We got a 100.05 on the Health Department's walk.

Yay! I got in at ten thirty, having just woke up that morning at about ten fifteen, and damn near wrecking my car trying to get there on time. Clay was moping around at the front counter, looking like someone pissed in his cornflakes. It was Wednesday, and there were tons of cryptkeepers walking, fresh from Mass, looking extremely butthurt because they actually had to spend some money and not just wait until tomorrow(Cryptkeeper discount Thursdays, Yeeyyy). I started noticing something, very early in the morning. First I just saw an old lady, with a dusky-looking grey bruise on her forehead. I didn't ask her anything; it's rude, and older people tend to bruise easily. But after her, there was an older couple sporting the same type of bruise. Then an older man, and another couple. I started to get a little nosy. We got busy after lunchtime, selling hella cod, tilapia, and catfish, and a middle aged woman with too loud boys stopped by for a pound of cod. She had the "mark" too. My curiousity finally overpowered my good sense, and I asked her, "Maam? Did you know that you have some paint or makeup on your forehead?" She looked confused for a second, then said "Oh! The ashes! Today is Ash Wednesday. It's a Catholic holiday, and when you go to Mass, you have ashes put on your forehead........" I could feel a spiritual long winded speech brewing, so interjected with, "Wow, thanks for telling me!" All this time, I was seriously starting to think that there was some type of Cryptkeeper's Fight Club meeting that that they'd all gotten a little too enthusiastic in. Kind of hilarious if you think about it, but the day got weirder. A man came in a few hours later, needing some King Crab Legs. We have the XL 6-9 size,(per 10lbs) and they were on "sale" for $12.99plb. He wanted some frozen ones, which I brought out, right before I noticed he was blowing and picking his damn nose, and he immediately started peeking over the counter, then ducking to try and look throught the case glass, and then standing on his tiptoes to peek again, like some retarted ferret. "Sir, would you like to see the crab legs? I'll bring them around the..." Next thing I know, Foolio is trying to walk into our department in his scuffed-ass tennis shoes and no hairnet. Loss Prevention's worst fucking nightmare. I'm strugging to hold up the flimsy, damp box, which is starting to fold under the weight of the legs, and shuffling through the legs at the same time when this ass-pirate reaches in the box with his filthy hands and starts grabbing legs. Ugh!!! I made a mental note to never buy any more legs there unless the plastic is still holding the box together. "Sir!! Would you like some gloves or something?! Because you.." "NO, I'm fine," he wheezed, making me want to poke his eyes out with the legs he was discarding in one half of the box because they were not "fat enough". "Sir, I'm going to have to ask you to put some gloves on, if you want to look through them like this. It's not sanitary, and I could really get in a lot of trouble!" He paused for just a moment. "Welllllll, I guess I don't want you to get in trouble. I'll take these two,", he said plunking two huge legs on the top of the stainless steel counter, "and you find me two more that look just like that." With that said, he tooted a few more boogies into his tissue, and stepped back, expectantly. What a fucktard! My soon to be Seafood Manager, Mentos (I'm looking at a box of Mentos and cannot think of a nickname for her) said I was correct to ask him to put some gloves on those nasty mitts. The rest of the day was fairly uneventful, though..

Fuck Fuck Fuckity Fuck

You know something? It's some real, grown up shit when you finally realize that you have to take responsibility for your own fucking actions. I walked around in a pissy mood all night because my hours are getting cut, they are bringing in another part-timer from fuckin produce. I'M SLACKING OFF. I must be smoking crack to think that Big Brother is not watching when I'm goofing off, on the phone, taking a more than thirty minute lunch, or not tearing myself away from some Bible-thumping Jesus freak while on the clock. It's my freakin fault! Fuck, it fucking sucks to admit it. I'm not used to owning up to my shortcomings. But that's the only way I can change my future. If I don't it could lead to worse, as far as being terminated. My job-hopping ass cannot afford to do another change right now. at least wait until you issue those motherfucking bonus checks!! Ugh!! I feel dumb.