Daxohol: Clock Punching

I avoid writing about work. I want to write about it. Very badly people. I mean, you would not believe the stories. I barely even talk about it because I just don't even know where to start and I could end up spending far too much time talking about work. Not because it makes me unhappy, but because the things that I hear, deal with or witness in a day are of such a varied nature. Each day is different. Some days are depressing and I am close to tears. Other days are happy and I spend most of it laughing my head off. Some days it's one minute I'm drying my eyes in the bathroom and laughing into my sleeve the very next.

Today, I'm going to write a little bit about work. I am going to share with you some of my frustrations matched with some of the reasons I come back to work everyday.

Right now, my job is sucking every ounce of memory and head space I have because of a fundraising event I am planning that is taking place this Saturday. One of the things this event is featuring is a garage sale table containing donated used items.

This event has brought in people's basements in a tornadic flurry. If you must know, I can't swallow at the moment, as I have given myself a c*ckpunch.

People have been dropping off boxes and bags of stuff at a rate that comapres to Mickey Mouse's out of control brooms in The Sorcerer's Apprentice. Which is great! We want to sell your nifty, funky, tacky used items! What we do not want to sell is dirty kleenexs, old nylons and stained old underwear. It just blows me away that people think we don't mind pulling out old smelly socks to find the few objects that another person would have in their home. Our time is apparently so disposable, and we have such kind hearts, that we don't mind taking the burden of doing the nasty part of cleaning basements. Of course we'll throw away that prized jock strap from college for you! We know that you are far too busy, and since we have nothing else more productive in the community to do, so count on us!

Then there is the craft table. Which includes handmade christmas ornaments. Adorable isn't it? I mean, doesn't everyone want to buy a little outhouse with a small bear inside it taking a crap? Don't think I'm exaggerating here people. Please, believe every word of that. Bears. Taking shits. In outhouses. ON YOUR CHRISTMAS TREE! Christmas isn't Christmas without poo.

One one particularly bad sorting day, just as I am reeling from both anger peppered perplexity and laughter, I am sent to go knock on the door of a sweet woman who volunteers in our food bank. She has been unloading boxes outside and socializing with her friends in the crisp cold air wear only a sweater. One of the treasures that came in with the rest of the junk was a brand new $250 dollar winter coat. When she came to the door, I held the coat out to her and told her to try it on. It fit perfectly. The warm joy filled smile on this woman's face was the most precious treasure I found all day.

So you see, my job, it provides so much to write about. But I shan't flirt with the tom-doocery that could result if ever I was caught...somehow...

Anyway, Thursday I will be slingin' chickens out of the back of a truck. Yip. Printing up tax reciepts one minute, throwing chickens at people the next. My job is full of non sequiturs. Matches my improv style.

Comments

Your use of "tom-doocery" makes up for your use of the word "tornadic". Almost.

Posted by: Auntie Bernie | November 23, 2005 at 08:40 AM

As a requirement for a class I took in college I had to volunteer X amount of hours at a charity from a specific list. I blew off the assignment long enough until all the spaces were filled at the "good" places and ended up working at a thrift shop; sorting donations. It was one of the most eye opening experiences I have ever had, and was also one of the more disgusting experiences I've had. I only donate the best stuff now - and everything else goes in the garbage or in the rag bag.

Posted by: cursingmama | November 23, 2005 at 09:33 AM