Dear Diary . . . day by day

Thursday, February 8th, 2001 - God bless, hootchie-coochie, if you wanna, I like my women a little on the trashy side

So, I hate my new job. I don't think it's going to be my new job for very much longer.
No, no, it isn't as bad as Ms. X from hell. But there are some things about it that make me very uncomfortable.
For one thing, I am picked up at the BART station by one of the guys who works in the shop. He's nice enough, but I find it still very uncomfortable. We really have nothing to talk about, and it's obvious he doesn't want to talk, get to know one another. I wait for him to come out of the shop and then I trail after him as he walks quickly to his car. I feel so awkward, like I'm running after him, begging him for a ride. Ugh.
The shop is in the middle of nowhere - well, nowhere interesting. If I forget to bring my lunch, the only option is the lunch truck, where I can get a grilled cheese and some french fries, which will hurt my stomach. The other day someone did offer to run to Subway for us, but by then I'd learned to bring my own lunch.
So, there's nowhwere to walk at lunch. I sit on the small leather couch in the ladies' locker room/restroom, and read. I'm reading quite a bit these days, as the train ride is 30 min. each way and I take my breaks on that couch with the latest book. I'm encouraged to take lots of breaks. Why? Because everyone there knows that the details of this job are so boring your eyes might pop out if you do it too long without a break. I'm not taking enough of them, but with the way they encourage them around here, soon I'll be lucky to force myself to work at all. The same thing all day long - meaningless, abbreviated repair forms, logged onto a slow computer system. UGH! And don't even get me started on my RSI pain at this job.
Oh, and it's freezing cold, because the big door down in the shop have to open to let the train cars in. I sit on the other side of some filing cabinets from my boss in the office, but the door (right behind me) has to be left open at all times. She has two heaters in the office, but she keeps them on either side of her, over in her side of the office. Waste of energy, using them over by the door. I'm just a temp, after all.
But, you know, all that's just bitching. Feeling trapped, freezing in a place with no stimulus at a boring, mindless job - it's nothing compared to the real, first, honest-to-god reason I will refuse to work at this job past Friday:
My boss, with whom I share an office? She just loves her some good ol' country music.
LOUD country music. And not CDs of her own choosing, but the "Bay Area's Best Country Music Radio Station"! This not only means sappy commercials (never have I been so incessantly reminded of upcoming Valentines day, not since I left the Midwest). No, it also means that I'm likely to hear some songs 2 or 3 times a day!
The first day, I tried to tune it out. When she left for her doctor's appointment, I noticed she remembered to turn the heaters off, but kindly left the radio blaring for me. I didn't turn on the heaters, but I marched over and hit the OFF button on her box. Note that I didn't change the station, but saved myself from listening to it for a few hours.
Blessed, blessed silence.
When she came back, she took the hint, and turned the volume down so it no longer hurt my ears (yes, even though I was on the other side of some filing cabinets - I swear the woman will go deaf). On the second day, she felt more comfy with me, and started singing along.
What? No, I can't wear headphones. Although it only rings 5 or 6 times a day, it is part of my job to answer the phone, and I have to be able to hear it.
Oh, gods, help me.
As the songs repeated, I couldn't help but start learning some words. The repetitve song structure, the sappy lyrics, oozed in through my defenseless ears and began nesting in my brain. Pathos had its way with me, and I had to take a break more than once because the stories manipulated me into crying.
I hate how easily I cry in the best of circumstances. But I felt - invaded - crying over a STUPID COUNTRY SONG THAT I HATE HATE HATE!
Anyway. Even when I'm away from there, I find country rhythm (there seems to be only one) marching through my head, fragments of all the worst songs combining in creative ways in my head. My Hoosier accent is making a slight comeback, as if I'd spent two weeks in the heartland. I'm afraid to sing something else, for fear it'll morph into "God Bless Texas", which might get you stoned alive in Berkeley - uh, not in a good way, I mean.
If you happen to love country music, my apologies. I do not mean to offend. But surely you have some sort of music you hate, that makes you want to run screaming rather than endure 8 hours a day of listening to it (especially at high volume)? So, think of that situation, have some empathy.
The rest of you know what I mean.
So, as I was saying, I belive Friday will be my last day. I'll sign up with more temp agencies, expand my options, buy a better wardrobe so I can work in SF. And I'll make it a stipulation:
No more jobs that involve torturous country music.

Exercise log:
Lifted weights gently last night: back and biceps. 30 min on the precor machine followed by a 15 min abs class.
Writing log:
In my mind, there are too many ways a story can end. Which to choose?
I'm currently reading:
The Telling by Ursula K. LeGuin
Starlight 2 anthology edited by Patrick Nielsen Hayden

My new PO Box is:
Heather Shaw
P.O. Box 13222
Berkeley, CA 94712-4222

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