Noise

Like every minor annoyance in life, sometimes it is best to ignore things and just let sleeping dogs lie. I wish they would lie down and sleep. My neighbor is a nearly deaf diesel mechanic. He is a proud man who takes he lawn very seriously. He is under the assumption that I have a bone to pick with him, because I have given him strange looks in the past as he toils over his piece of land. Anyone who would brave heat stroke to edge their property is a bit off. But that is a mere quibble compared to his dog whom I have dubbed Pepper. Don't start jumping down my throat about not liking dogs, because I have had two (actually four, but the former two were footnotes) that I deply loves and broke my heart when they passed on. Barney was a orange menace, part Brittany Spaniel, part Golden retriever and an endless set of escape tactics. Hoss was a Black Lab mix who adopted me due to the affection I would give him everyday. Affection I wish my neighbor would imbue Pepper with. She seems like the sweetest dog in the world and was still a puppy when the older dog that she shared the pen with died suddenly. Almost matter of factly, My neighbor buried the older dog and Pepper mourned for almost a month. Her baleful howls and bellows broke my heart and I would often go outside and talk to her. But now that new tenants have moved into the house adjacent to her pen, she takes delight at parking whatever she sees and hears. Yelling and negative reinforcement do nothing for a dog. So I suppose I'll just have to keep being the gentle voice on the other side of the fence

Where is the horseradish?

My dogs are killing me and that's not a bad thing in the least. After a day of desperately trying to help some of the nicest people find the things that will make their New Years one to remember, it becomes glaringly obvious that once you have a job that everything revolves around said job. Being the type of person who believes that purpose comes from being both dependable and productive, it just feels like I'm never moving fast enough. There is always something that needs restocking or these items have not been properly rotated, etc. There is much to be said of the satisfaction of a clean and orderly dairy case or someone thanking yo for pointing them to brown eggs. I have actually been told be a few managers that I expect others to conform to my standards, and they may be right. But there can be much said for just going to work and working up until the zero hour. Yes, it all must be done, but all of it will eventually be done.

Sprawl

It is a small wonder that things is western civilization have advanced to this fevered pitch. The combustion engine allowed people to move freely and inexpensively along the concrete veins of commerce. These roads have advanced and branched out from the main strips into huge networks of interconnected suburbs. With the middle class rapidly disappearing, I can't help but wonder if there is any future for such places. Just to get away from the negativity in the house (the holidays are here, everyone is home), I took a long walk around a development that looks to have been established in the 70's, when McCain mall was at the height of it's influence. Everybody wanted to live near the mall an it's adjacent cluster of restaurants and niche shops. Thus, yards were made smaller and most streets would end in a cul de sac, maximizing space and allowing more people to have access to the amenities that would soon encroach upon residential space. Homes that would have multiple garages to store cars, bikes, motorcycles, and the odd atv. The trappings of a consumer based society. In fact, I would be so bold as to say that that most people can be classified as consumers. It's what we do. Why cook when somebody else can clean up afterwards? Why drive into the city to shop at a department store when a lesser experience can be had just up the road? Sure it's not as nice as the one downtown, but there is ample parking and shopping carts. The shopping cart is the great unsung hero of the suburbs. Able to convey goods as well as people. I don't know of any child that doesn't like to ride in the cart. It's an American pastime, like washing your car on Sunday or looking for a place to eat after church. I'm sure the south does things a little differently, then again things are a little slower down here. Oh, Arkansas has tried to progress past the hillbilly stereotypes (I'm looking at you Cabot), but when land is in short uppl even the hillbilly can find peace in a cul de sac.

Hope

Well, training has come and gone and we're back to waiting. I'm hoping with the holiday crush escalating to a fever pitch, I'm still hoping for that call anytime. Hope is a powerful thing. Not only does it adorn thousands of products that will be promptly returned to a Christian bookstore after Christmas, but it is the greatest coping mechanism out there. I've been hoping for years that my big break in comics will come just by merit of personality. I like to pencil and ink, what else is there to it, right? Here's to hoping that I can remember how to operate a powered palette jack, because the only memories I have of using such a tool involve disaster. Then again, the other stockers I was working with at the time had even less finesse with the cumbersome truck. I can't tell you how many times I would see over a ton of stock teetering and tearing through the protective plastic and hurdle to the floor. I can still see the El Paso mix fiasco as if it were yesterday. Well, if there is no call at least I can check the website at noon to see if I'm at least on the schedule next week. See....hope.

Waiting

Still waiting on that call from the grocery store and wonder how a conglomerate grows to that size with such terrible communication skills. Sure it beats going out into the city and pounding the pavement. Remembering the pink slip each and every time I have to put down the address of previous employers and just wondering how things would have been different if I still had that job. I don't miss coming in to a disaster daily. Trash would always be at the back door (and the bags not tied), dishes would be stacked on the floor and most of the time whoever cleared off what few tables were done would not even bother to put the garbage in the can. However, I was able to listen to whatever I wanted to in the back, no matter how profane. The wifi was nice as well and insured that streaming radio stations would come in on occasion. I suppose the job would have been fine if busing weren't heaped onto my lap. I am not a social creature and glean no joy from having to clean up after people for the same wage I was making. The management used to cover their ass by stating that I made more than the others. But 1.50 over minimum wage for somebody who was 30, had real expenses, 14 years of experience, and did most of the manual labor around the place is pathetic. Then Corporate bought the place, promised the world, installed 16 video cameras, and sent in the goon squad every two weeks for impromptu inspections. So, I suppose I'll keep waiting  for this call.

Sesquipedalian on wheels

Last night, I received a call from a company I had given up hope on. They stated that I was to be in the office at 10 am the following day to fill out paperwork and receive an identification number. On a Saturday. If I know anything about the 9 to 5 crowd around mid-December is that once that clock is punched on Friday, everything else can wait. This poses an issue, as I would love to be training and pulling in a check asap. Mind you I would be a produce clerk, but I just thrilled to have anything at this point. Being fired from your last jobs (here's hoping they aren't the prying type) might as well be the scarlet letter in a puritanical society. In fact, adultery is looked upon with less disdain than being fired at least when seeking employment. Anyhow, I completed the provided forms and am now to wait for another summons. My id number is still pending (learning to despise that word, but two months without work or income of any kind has made me desperate), so who knows when I'll be hearing back from them. Patience is a virtue. That can't be said for the traffic on the return home. I really don't like driving. In fact if the bus were more accessible from where I live, that would be my ideal mode of transport. I have more faith in a professional driver than I have in my own reflexes, and the bulk of such a vehicle commands much more respect than my third hand Mazda 626. I believe that's the reason why the massive pickup truck is synonymous with road rage. This isn't always the case, but more often than not the most aggressive drivers I've come in contact with favor this vehicle. I can't see the advantage of owning something that requires a running start to enter. The mid-south is the kind of place where a large truck is considered heritage. Where one arm is more tanned than the other and a person's arrogance can be gauged by how much elbow is jutting from the window. And they have a knack for always being behind me during inclement weather, high beams illuminating the interiors of the three cars ahead of them. If I had things my way, anyone who is purchasing one of these eyesores should have to prove that they will be hauling something at least 15 percent of the time. Besides the 3 cases of Busch light and the scared looking feral children clinging desperately to the sides as Pee-pa makes a left at 45 miles per hour across three lanes of traffic. Alright, that's enough vitriol for today. Time to stare longingly at the phone.      

The shadowed copse

With finals over, one would normally give in to atrophy of the mind for a while. But now is not a time for inaction. Yesterdays job hunt was less than fruitful, though I have come to appreciate the brevity of the applications that local businesses offer prospective employees. It's just making it past the application process that has proven to be quite the quandary. I know that experience seems to take a back seat to an amiable past, but I also know that if I were in the employers shoes that dependability would be paramount. I know that it only takes one manager to give the word, but two months in is a while and funds are running in short supply. This is going somewhere, so just put up with Downer Debbie. Hand her a weak cosmo and prop her up by the dj. There ya go. Daddy's got you. The last place I applied at yesterday was an assisted living center for the more upscale 50+ crowd. The place had almost a a townhouse on the course vibe, with doctors offices and services easily accessible for an adjacent footpath. If some adventurous soul were to drive to the crest of the hill and look back, they would see a massive, derelict complex. I'll admit that I had cased the place on Google maps prior, and who would turn down the opportunity to drive on Shadow-wood court? I can only speculate that this eerie monolith was once owned the Veterans Affair office that owns most off the plot. I know that the city of North Little Rock bought the land that was to become Pulaski Technical College back in 1945, and there has been recent development of townhouses that follow Pershing up the hill. I have no doubt that Baptist health owns this tract, as there is an office building down the way with the logo over the awning. It just seems like such a waste that this massive complex is just lying derelict in a area where affordable housing is desperately needed. Not to mention that it has a view that makes even a dump like North Little Rock look pastoral. The next time I'm up in that neck of the woods, I may snap some pictures and post them here as a little bit of incriminating evidence never hurt anyone.