Lilac Colored Glasses

In 4 months I will be someone’s wife.

Woah.

On this, my second day at my new job, I have learned the following:

1. Belgians drink a hellaton of chocolate milk. I work in a coffee place and over the past two days I have sold, by far, more hot chocolate than coffee.

2. Those irritating people that rub and crumple the nice shiny new bill in order to be absolutely sure that it isn’t two bills sticking together are an international phenomenon.

3. Leaving work smelling like cocoa powder is not as yummy as you’d think.

But overall, everything is okay. I haven’t worked a basic counter/customer service type job in years so I’m not used to standing for almost 8 hours straight, but I’ll get used to it. Otherwise, it’s exactly what I just said; your basic counter/service job. I’ve done it before and I have no problem doing it now. My coworkers all seem very nice and it’s corporate, so I don’t have to deal with any tyrannical bastards.

This idea occurred to me at some point in the last three months or so, that in many employment situations, employers and employees both are guilty of regarding each other as something akin to, but not quite on the same level as human. To clarify, during a very brief interaction with the owner of the daycare chain I worked for, we both found out that the other wakes up every morning at 5 am. He seemed surprised that I woke up so early, as it probably never occurred to him that I have to get up that early to be able to make it to work on time in Brussels. I, on the other hand, was not surprised that he got up so early, as it just added to my impression that my boss is sort of the francophone Belgian version of American Psycho‘s Patrick Bateman. Of course he got up that early. That would give him plenty of time to go to the gym, hit the tanning bed, get a manicure, meticulously trim his hair and retrieve one of his spotless tailored suits from the cleaners before arriving at work.

So this got me to thinking that all job applications/interviews should include a section for people to list some of their endearing traits. You know, little things about themselves to remind their employer that that they are, indeed, human; as opposed to mindless, lifeless automatons that serve only to further your mission of lining your pockets as thickly as possible. And vice versa.
If I had known something small about my employer, like that he collects seashells or secretly wanted a puppy, perhaps that would have softened the “highly polished, manipulative bastard” vibe I got from him during most of our interactions (which weren’t that many). Perhaps not, since I’m pretty sure those vibes were basically who he was, but even highly polished manipulative bastards once dreamed of becoming an astronaut or harbors a secret love of gummy bears. Everyone has at least one endearing trait.

So I’ve decided to list some of mine and I invite you to do the same, either here in the comments, or maybe in your own blog.

1. I love the smell and feel of laundry right out of the dryer. Sometimes if no one else is around, I take a big armful out of the dryer and bury my face in it.

2. I love stuffed animals, especially teddy bears.

3. I can’t grow them and I’m usually allergic to them, but I really love flowers.

4. A tiny little part of me will always believe that fairytale and mythical creatures are real.

Okay, I can’t believe I’m about to type this, and so many of you will probably lose some respect for me…but I actually like Lady Gaga.

Are you done jeering yet? I can wait.

There.
And I’m not sure how I feel about this development because I have always, always been a loather of half naked, over sexed pop music. I have never believed that having a body that makes guys want to bang you is synonymous with having musical talent. I have never believed that society should deify girls/women whose image preaches all of the exact opposite perceptions that young girls (or boys) should have about themselves or themselves in relation to others.

And the first time I heard a Gaga song (Pokerface) I thought, “ooh, catchy, and she’s not afraid to do interesting things with her voice.” But then I saw the video for Love Game and immediately jumped from “maybe she’s okay” to “slut!raging slut who demeans women simply by existing!ack! Damn those whippersnappers and their new fangled, trashy music!” (see also:

)

Y’know, pretty much the same reaction my parents had to what I liked when I was young and had to sneak my friend’s copy of Dookie* up to my bedroom to secretly listen because anything with a parental advisory on it was contraband until I was 15 or so.

So I’ve been clinging to my intense distaste of Gaga, all the while hearing songs on the radio and occasionally thinking about a few particular songs: “hey, I really like these, whoever this girl is, she’s good!”

This morning I was on a forum I frequent and some conversation led me to dare to look up some videos on youtube by Lady Gaga that weren’t Love Game and lo and behold… every song I’ve liked off the radio was hers. And although there is the mostly naked element in her videos, the times she is dressed are incredibly interesting and out there. And I love the really interesting burlesque style imagery she uses as well as the fact that a lot of her videos actually depict a narrative, which I prefer in music videos (one of my favorites is Don’t Come Around Here by Tom Petty).

Anyway, this morning, about 5 minutes before I began writing this post, I was forced to admit that I am not too old to enjoy the music kids are listening to nowadays. I actually sincerely like some of it.

I pity my future pre-teens when I start singing Bad Romance in the carpool on the way to volleyball practice/ballet lessons/etc.

Free at last! Free at last! Thank God (insert something secular) Almighty, I am free at last!

And two workdays sooner than expected.

Here’s what went down yesterday…

Since my bosses decided last Friday not to add a third person to our crèche to help with the ten (soon to be eleven or twelve) children ages 4 months to 15 months (which was also a major catalyst for quitting when I did), they also either never took into account, or simply ignored that, with one of us opening the creche and one closing, there was a 3 hour gap where each of us was working solo. The result being that from about 9:00 until 10:30 in the morning I was alone with 8 children on Tuesday and Wednesday, and 9 children yesterday.

Which is not only a mental and physical strain, but is also illegal in pretty much any modernized country. In Pennsylvania, the child:teacher ratio depends on the age of the youngest child. So, since the youngest was 4 months old, legally, had I been in PA, the ratio would be 4:1. According to Kind en Gezin, the governing body of childcare regulations in Belgium, the ratio for the age group in my creche is 5:1. Either way, I was pretty much running at double the legal capacity. I sent a message to my manager saying I was alone with 9 kids and it was too much, but she never answered me back.
Needless to say, it was insane. So much so that at least 3 parents commented on the situation and I was left to shrug and say, “I dunno.”

Because there is absolutely no fucking excuse for leaving one daycare worker in charge of nine children, half of which are babies, alone. Anyone, even someone with no experience in childcare can see that. But anyway, that’s the situation I was in for the third day in a row (the week before a few kids were sick so I was caring for 6-7 children alone for the first few hours) and that was about the time my physical ability to endure the work load failed. I’ve had a knot in the mid-left side of my back for a week or two now and yesterday the knot turned into a fire ball.

Lifting my left arm and shoulder began to cause back pain.

Standing up caused back pain.

Breathing caused back pain.

So I finally caved and called the doctor (while juggling two kids on my lap and keeping another entertained with my foot) and made an appointment.

CB came with me to better explain the full situation (I could’ve done this myself but he knew how stressed and upset I was so he came for moral support) and after hearing the whole story, plus seeing the fact that I was clearly in pain, the doctor told me I had to rest my back and he gave me sick leave for the rest of the week.

I will never have to go back to Brussels again.
Okay, that’s a lie, cause the embassy is there and sometimes some good concerts and events.

But I’ll never have to go back to that particular place again. I’m mailing the keys, uniform and sick note today and spending the next several days enjoying Gent and the tranquility of a city that takes it’s time and treats its residents like human beings (well, mostly, with the exception of Immigrant Hell, although Immigrant Hell borders on pleasant compared to Brussels rush hour).