Everyday Life

It’s a inconvenient aspect of working in a 7 day a week industry–days of the week are largely irrelevant. Depending on when your days off fall, you may enjoy “Friday” on any day of the week.

Working at the University, as I do, means even more day of the week confusion. You see, the University’s workweek runs from Friday to Thursday. So, Friday is Monday (or Sunday). Except that our menu cycle runs from Monday to Sunday. Yeah. Fun.

Usually, though, we count based on our days off. Which is why today is Friday. And Saturday will be Friday too. And Monday at the same time. A little confused?

Introducing my life: The (work)week before the Fourth of July I worked Friday, Saturday, Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday. My days off were Sunday and Thursday. The week of the fourth, I worked Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday–and got holiday pay for Friday the 4th. Saturday and Sunday were my days off. This week? (As in, the week starting tomorrow?) I work Saturday, Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday and have Friday and Sunday off.

And I have a much more regular schedule than my coworkers–well, sort of. I always get Sunday off. Very few others have such privileges. There are trade-offs. Most of my coworkers have more regular hours. They work 12:30-8 every time they work, or 6-2:30 or whatever. I work whatever they need me to work. At the end of June, that meant 11-7:30. Then it was 7:30-4. Then it was 6:30-3. Next week it’s 7:00-2:30. But even that is better than at the beginning of the semester, when I might awaken to a phone call–“How soon can you come in?” It was 9 am. Half an hour. Another time it was 8. Forty-five minutes. Call at 6:30? Give me an hour. They let me relax that morning. I came in at 8.

It would probably drive most people nuts. I think it’s great. I have my mornings free. I have my evenings free. I have a two day weekend, a three day weekend, a one day weekend. I work with morning people and evening people, weekday people and weekend people. I get to enjoy it all.

TGIF!–and I get three Friday’s in a row. (Today, the day before my “weekend”. Tomorrow, which on the calendar is labeled “Friday”. And Saturday, the day before my next “weekend!”)

because typing with a right ring finger that hits two or three keys at a time is somewhat tedious. (Count out how many times I use the letters “o” and “l”, and how many times I use the characters “(” and “.” to get an idea of how tedious it can be–and since I’m using HTML, I also have to worry about the close bracket.)

What is wrong with my right ring finger? I cut it today at work and it wouldn’t stop bleeding. After a half an hour and still dripping blood, I went to an urgent care clinic. The medical assistant thought I’d need stitches–but she didn’t look closely enough. Since my cut was actually two parallel lacerations approximately 1/4 of an inch apart, stitching one would pull the other and vice versa. So instead, a piece of what looked like Styrofoam was placed on my cuts–to act as a matrix for blood clotting–and my finger was wrapped up so that it now resembles a chicken drumstick.

My roommate has been babysitting for my pastor’s kids while he and his wife were running their fireworks tent. I dropped by this morning and discovered that I had been renamed.

I thought it strange that A., who has known me her entire life, would suddenly be forgetting my name and calling me Amanda. I had almost convinced myself that I was hearing things–but just to be sure, I asked Casandra “Did she just call me Amanda?” Casandra confirmed that yes indeed she did, and she has been calling me Amanda all week.

I’ve been planning to drop by sometime this week–and A. knew it. Yesterday, she asked Casandra seriously “When is Amanda coming over?” Casandra was confused, “Amanda?” she asked. “The big Rebekah!” (to distinguish me from a highschooler in our church also named Rebekah-or Rebecca maybe) Then A. clarified a bit more. “Amanda is my friend’s name.” (that is, her friend from down the street.)

I can’t say that it makes any sense, but A. referred to me as “Amanda” at least five times today. So, hello, my name is Amanda. Or anything else you care to call me, I suppose.

I’ve decided to do something different tonight. Instead of blogging all night–I’m going to try sleeping. Novel idea. I know.

Sigh

If only I’d learn that little trick.

I debated with myself for a while before finally deciding to go to Scrumpy Jacks last night to see a coworker perform.

Ash sings all the time at work–generally parodies on the name of another coworker–and I was curious to hear him in “real time”. He had posters up at work for the last couple of weeks–and he also actually asked me to show up. “It won’t be death metal or anything,” he says “just me and an acoustic guitar. Just your average bar music.”

What I haven’t mentioned yet is that:

1. I don’t go to bars
2. I don’t drink alcohol “solo” (without a meal)
3. I don’t hang out with coworkers outside of the “office”
4. I don’t go to concerts (in general)
5. I don’t go out on Saturday nights

That’s an awful lot of don’ts. So perhaps you can understand my inner debate.

Scrumpy Jacks isn’t exactly a bar–it’s a restaurant that closes the kitchen at 10 pm and keeps its bar open ’til one while they have live music. Still, for all intents and purposes, it’s a bar–and there’s little chance that I’ll be sitting down to a meal with the music starting at 9:30.

I’ve never, in all my years (hardy har, don’t I make myself sound old?) of working, spent time with coworkers outside of the workplace. I like to keep personal time sacred. I have no desire to be one of those people whose life revolves around work and coworkers and what I’m doing with either. I especially have little desire to join the “after work at the bars” crowd.

I’m not really a music person. I listen to music on occasion. I enjoy classical music, and seek to appreciate it. I enjoy jazz. I enjoy singing to oldies. Mostly I like worship music, something I can dance to. With the exception of an orchestral performance or something of the like, I don’t go places for the sole purposes of listening to music.

And I have church in the morning and am exhausted already from a long work week.

So what do I do? I change into a conservative tank top and sweater, slip on loafers, and drive across town to Scrumpy Jacks. I order a Sierra Mist for $1.86 and tip $5–I do know that bartenders aren’t generally that fond of non-drinkers, and that it’s a good idea to keep a bartender on your side. I hope that a big tip helps. I slide into a chair in the little corner area, say hello to a coworker, and listen to the music.

It was pretty good. Ash sings well, plays well, has a good “stage presence” in general. I enjoyed the music–with the exception of the occasional vulgarity and the couple of token anti-America, anti-Bush, anti-war songs. I was only there from ten to eleven–so nobody had gotten too drunk, the bar wasn’t that full.

It turned out to be fairly innocuous. I drank 20 ounces of Sierra Mist, listened to some music, and spoke maybe 20 words to a coworker. I was thankful that I’d slipped almost completely under the radar. Whew! A night of doing my don’ts and I escape without notice–Well, almost.

Ash had just finished a song when I left, so he was filling time while preparing for the next song, and my leaving was apparently ample material for time-fill. He’s chattering about me over the mic while I’m walking out, and for the most part, I’m ignoring him. Then on my way out the door, he declares “You’re a better checker than me, Rebekah.” I couldn’t help but turn around and agree. “Yes. I am,” I emphatically half-yell across the restaurant before taking my leave. So much for slipping completely under the radar.

Well, that’s might exciting night at the bar. Not too exciting, actually. But I think it’s enough of that sort of excitement to last me for a very long time. So, in case you’re looking for me some Saturday night, you’re not likely to find me in a bar.