Skip to main content

Sacrifice *does* pay off.

So at American Eagle, we're given something called "call-in" hours in addition to our regular work hours. They're basically like tentative work hours; we call in about an hour before they start to see if the store needs us and if so, we gotta be there or it's just like skipping a regular shift of work.

Due to a few recent factors I've ended up working many of mine this week. And how.

We have two new managers. They're goal is to whip this store into shape. They're demanding but reasonable. For example, they want an orderly, logical stock room. Ours is a nearly innavigable mess. There's men's hoodies among women's jeans; there's graphic t's along side cute fuzzy women's winter hat things; things are out of size order; there's stuff that's supposed to have been out on clearance weeks ago that'd sell just great--if it were actually on the floor; etc.

And so on. In fact we just got a new shipment of more stuff. Like You may be saying, "But, my dear Tophster, isn't it someone's job to take care of this? A, as it were, a 'Stock Manager'?"

Well, yes, good sirs & madams, we did, but he quit this week. Yeah.

So I've worked an extra 11 hours this week. They kept me on for the two 'call-in' hours after my Monday shift, and they brought me in yesterday at noon for my 4 'call-in' hours but kept me around for 9 hours instead. That's right, 5 unscheduled hours. That's an additional $82 or so for my paycheck.

Part me feels bad, though. I had plans. I was gonna meet with my sponsor at 5, then meet up at 6ish with an old friend from the rooms who's been out of town or stuff for a while, go to my home group with him at 7, then grab dinner with another friend after that.

Around about 4pm when my manager asked me if I wouldn't mind staying on a little extra beyond my 4pm 'call-in' hours, I made what could be considered a rash decision. I knew if I got out at 4, I'd prolly narrowly squeak by in meeting with my sponsor at 5, etc. I knew this, and still decided to stay on. And on. And on.

Somewhere in there it did dawn on me I was blowing off my plans and my meeting and stuff. And part of me felt bad; I gave my friends notice in advance that I wasn't gonna meet up with'em. So at least I wasn't a total asshole....

So, why did I blow off what I knew was important--socially, spiritually, etc--for what was differently, if at all, important--financially, professionally, etc? I've been skipping a lot of meetings recently, not entirely because of work, too. It's not a habit I should really let myself get into, and I know it. I should be able to find other meetings that do work with my schedule when there are conflicts. I should also try to prioritize and balance, I suppose, something I'm craptastic with already....

Part of me wanted the money--the extra hours and resulting additional pay. I'm paying rent now and have bills/payments to meet and so forth. Part of me also felt some obligation, loyalty even, to the job. They needed me, more or less, and did appreciate my help. The 6 o'clock girl never showed up, for example.

But was this really my responsibility? Did I really need to do this as I did? Was it the best--or, to put it better, a wise--decision? I can't (continue to) neglect my program as I have. It has to have priority, at the very least relatively. But it's so easy to get wrapped up in the job, thinking about the job, working around the job that I forget to look up workable meetings and plans with my friends and sponsor, etc.....

This'll take some brain-workin--and phone callin, methinks--to work out a feasible, responsible balance. But it'll be more than worth it to keep working my program even as I keep working my job. It's just a matter of how.


Other things that might interest you...

This moment: A tattoo.

So I read Mrs. Dalloway in high school, and it was perhaps the most beautiful thing I'd ever read. One passage in particular, very early in the book, hit me hard with my first experience of the sublime, and stayed with me—and led at last to my first tattoo.
In people’s eyes, in the swing, tramp, and trudge; in the bellow and the uproar; the carriages, motor cars, omnibuses, vans, sandwich men shuffling and swinging; brass bands; barrel organs; in the triumph and the jingle and the strange high singing of some aeroplane overhead was what she loved; life; London; this moment of June.  (Emphasis added; full paragraph included below. From the full text of the novel as made available by the University of Adelaide.)

The paragraph this is from, the 4th paragraph of the novel, is the 1st passage with the stream of consciousness the book is famous for; although self-limited here, the flow is no less gorgeous. In the passage, Clarissa is walking on a street to get those famous flowers herse…

Losing Doolittle.

I recently got to spend a few days at the lake house my family used to visit through most of my childhood; we no longer own it, and it turns out I missed it more deeply than I realized.

Anthony and I both got the week before NYC Pride off this year, so I contrived to get us a little time there. The cousins who own Greenshore gave Anthony and me permission to relax there for several days rather than just the 1 or 2 I had expected. Good god, I'm grateful for that.

I missed this place. Standing on the balcony, the porch, or the dock and looking out over the lake, I was reminded of the beauty and tranquility this lake represents for me. The meaning and memories, too.

This was always a place of solace and stability for me. We moved around a lot when I was a kid, but we always came back to this place. It had been in our family for generations before I was even born—if we'd been able to keep it, it would have been a solid 4 generations including mine. This was where I figured out I w…

Sarracenia 'Palmerpink.'

So I posted the other day about my rekindled carnivorous plant obsession—I mean, hobby. I mentioned, in passing, that I had "discovered" a possible cultivar, so here's the lowdown on what that means and what I meant.

The term "cultivar" is short for "cultivated variety," and signifies that a particular plant is so desirable and interesting that people want exact copies of it rather than simply seed from it. Some famous American pitcher plant (Sarracenia) cultivars include the legendary Adrian Slack, the massive Leah Wilkerson, and the classic Judith Hindle.

Part of how these come about is that, unlike horses x donkeys = mules and certain other hybrids, Sarracenia hybrids aren't sterile and can be crossed and recrossed without limit. Further, random chance can create crazy combinations of genes such that even hybrids between the same species—heck, even the same parents—can demonstrate quite the variety. More on that elsewhere.

Depending on how easy…