My pal the Cashier from Hungary (CH) and I were talking about how we're torn about our workplace. She especially is in a tight place, being a single mother living on near-minimum wage.
She's looking for a better paying job, but she's sad to think of leaving the thrift store because, she said, "I feel safe here", immediately adding, "well, not physically."
LOL. I feel the same, I told her.
The neighborhood is dangerous, and the cashiers are on the front line with crazed customers, but we can be honest with our coworkers, all of whom are down and out in various ways, trusting they will understand.
We who work at the thrift store are like dishware that gets donated:
Many are gorgeous pieces of well-designed pottery, porcelain, or even plastic (mid century!) that are cracked, scratched, and chipped on the edges...
Still serviceable, just don't wash them in super hot water—the glue holding them together will melt.
Price: 79 cents.
Everyone gets how wearing life can be, and nobody, not even Big Boss, tries to jolly you out of the pain of it.
"No one here is going to tell me to take a fucking bubble bath," CH said.
"Right," I said, "or light a candle!"
"A fucking scented candle!" she said.
"Why don't you take a walk?" I said.
"After being on my feet all day," she said.
"But... A nice glass of wine?" I said.
"YES!" she said
People won't try to minimize hardship, but there is a spirit of fun (especially since Ass't Man has backed off from trying to Improve Us).
Last night in the parking lot, those of us who worked till close––
(5:30 p.m., it's not safe for the store to stay open much later, as unofficial business on the street starts to pick up)––
we were all laughing about ...um, I don't even know.
Oh--yeah.
About “dog blossom" which, a coworker was telling us, is a phrase for a dog's butthole.
"This place is like the grade school playground," I said, and everybody agreed.