Did I mention I’m finally getting a raise? Word travels fast at our store. Everyone already knows Sarah is pregnant, and I wouldn’t be surprised if someone “accidentally” let it slip that I was putting my resume and applications out in the workosphere. I’ve already had a couple of offers, but as usually happens at our store, once a year or so, shit hits the fan and I get really frustrated … then it calms down and so do I.
This was the first time I’d been determined to get another job and was patiently awaiting my completely expected call from the new market down the street. For some reason, they never called, and the web site where I filled out everything said the position I’d applied for was filled. My theory is that I didn’t fit their tax write-off requirements. Part of the application process included asking me whether I’d been unemployed, received unemployment, was on public assistance, food stamps, WIC, or Section 8 in the past 6 months. I answered no to all, so perhaps I wasn’t worth hiring?
Sarah probably got wind of my frustrations, and last Saturday mentioned that she wasn’t supposed to tell me, but that I would be getting a raise effective the first of the month, and she’d have the evaluation filled out and ready for me to sign in a few days. I got fifty extra cents an hour, which is nothing to sneeze at, because we don’t make all that much there to begin with. I know that one of our employees only got an extra ten cents at their last evaluation, so I’m not complaining.
I’m glad that Sarah fought for me, and that the owner recognized I had at least some sort of value, even if her husband doesn’t know my name. Supposedly, there was an argument at a managers’ meeting where Sarah followed the owner in to her office and said that if they didn’t give me more money, I’d leave and find another job that paid more. She also mentioned that I was their “best employee” and they couldn’t afford to lose me. That was really sweet.
Ideally, this is where I’d like to stay until I graduate, if only because it affords me the opportunity to walk to and from work every day and avoid wasting any gas, plus a flexible schedule. And, for all the assholes and nutjobs who come in, there are ten more nice people who like to chat with me and make my job easier. The market isn’t that much farther, but far enough that it would be impossible to walk to in the dead of winter.
Last night Cavan’s plane arrived at some point (at least, I hope so) and I’ve been eagerly awaiting a phone call all day. I misread his last email, thinking he’d be coming around today for lunch, but then realized that didn’t make any sense. He would most likely have jet lag and need to sleep for a while before running around town. (Update: Just got a call! Lunch on Friday!)
And in case you didn’t already know: Mel’s pregnant! She’s about as far along as Sarah, which is both exciting and weird for me. This is probably the first time anyone very close to me has gotten knocked up. Most of the people I know with kids either lost touch soon after getting pregnant, or had kids when I met them. I have to admit, a very small part of me was almost a little bit disappointed when I started my period on Monday. My therapist thinks it’s funny because she’s convinced I would be a good mom, while I think it’s terribly frightening (epidurals! episiotomies! hemorrhoids! 48 hours of labor! diapers!). Since I didn’t get the job at the market, which offers health insurance for part time employees, and my only other options are paying an arm and a leg for the shittiest insurance out of pocket (private and student), I’m not sure that’s really an option for us right now, anyway.
Last, but certainly not least, I have an appointment for another tattoo in a couple of weeks. Megan (also pregnant), the newest artist at Metamorphosis, drew up an octopus for me. I’m really excited about this because Megan’s stuff is so crisp and clean looking. Plus, I’ve never gotten work done by a woman. When I went to look at it yesterday, I really liked it, but I got a little nervous after making the appointment. I have no real interest in covering my entire body with tattoos, but I also have no intentions of not getting more tattoos. At what point does a person stop? I’m running out of cover-able space . . .