I am a means to an end.

I work with a lot of people that have different needs and wants in their lives. I work with a bunch of older people that have complicated medical treatments they have to follow, or are caring for someone that have complicated medical treatments. This said, in my almost 10 years at my dead end job, I have found through working with people that when you care enough to head a problem off at the pass, you do just that: you prevent the problem.

Preventative care is a wonderful concept this whole country needs to embrace before it is to late.

One of my cashiers just came back to work after being rushed to the hospital in December for a heart attack. She died three times en route. After a very easy week, it has come to my attention, and the attention of my co-workers that she can't really handle working a six hour day.

Another of my cashier has experienced loss four times since April. She lost her dad to health problems, an uncle to a somewhat mysterious suicide, and a cousin. Today she lost another cousin. She's also very lonely, and she has a little boy that she thinks needs a dad. We think she is currently involved in a money transfer scam where she is being swindled out of her money, what little she makes.

Both yesterday and today my managers, the gentlemen above me (i use the term very loosely right now), have decided that when I ask for something over the walkie-talkie, they think they are to question it, even though I've never called them to solve a problem without their being a problem their.

And today I have found out that the second week of school, I am to work on a Monday from 2pm to 11pm. That will make me get home at 12am, and get back up at 5:30am in order to go to class. They do this every semester and I'm tired of the sabotage.

I am a means to an end. To this company, I am no more than a warm fleshy body, that serves the purpose of doing the work they didn't want to do. To the managers above me, I am the one that solves to problems, so when I have a real problem and need help, I'm not serving my purpose.

It's taken me along time to learn to ask for help. I am a former overly shy and self-conscious person. I hate group projects, and I would rather do everything myself than trust someone to do an assigned part. Call me a control freak, but it has taken a long time for me to learn that even though I love to solve problems, I can't fix somethings. I can't save some people from themselves, and I can't make people make better decisions.

Knowing these inabilities can make a person mad with frustration. Not being able to fix the problems adds to that.

I don't know where this need to solve problems came from, or how I got to be good at make decisions on my feet. I know I'm an excellent judge of situations, because in my experience, I had almost every situation one can imagine. And I've dealt with it.

I am my own means to my own end.

It is because of these puzzles and problems that I've had to solve that I believe in preventative measures.

Don't send money to people you've only met online who promise to marry you, you'll be broke in more ways than one.
Don't continue to abuse your body when you have had 40 pound of fluid drained off of you.
Don't dress like a whore and expect to be treated like a queen.
Don't let people walk all over you because you are too polite to tell them not to.

It's these little preventative measures that let a person know just how far they can go with their self.

I am a means to an end because, I have let people use me for just that.
I am the the employee that will stay past her shift and cover their mistakes, so let's not worry about whether she sleeps or not.
I am the employee that never complains so let's see how crappy I can make it on her.
I am the employee that can make people see both sides of the argument, and she has more than once covered my ass, so why not let her continue to do it.

She is also the employee who is 12 hours away from a college degree, a wedding, and a possible move to another state.
When she goes, she takes with her old knowledge of how registers work, the mechanical workings of a scanner and scale, and knowledge of how to solve any situation that is thrown at her. She knows these things, because she was not trained for it, nor was she handed a guide, or just given the answers by an older associate. She figured it out for herself.
You can't train a thirst for knowledge and a desire to prevent problems.

I am a means to an end.

I am the associate who can load mulch, mix paint, do a fishing license, pierce ears, solve a contract phone problem (in Spanish), and make sure 12 associates get their lunches and breaks on time, and that there are no more than 2 people to a line.

I am a means to an end. Just like my cashier who is going to end up with a broken heart is a means to some one's financial difficulties in Nigeria. Or how my other cashier who can't really work is just a hunk a flesh to cover the service desk, because apparently, the four people we trained to take her place, didn't count.

I am a means to an end.
But what happens to a place when a person refuses to be one anymore.
Do they struggle to make do or does that struggle just make the ones left behind the new means?

I can't continue to work for drivel. It's not fair to me. My ends are not being met, and it's unacceptable.

"I saved bees today" (previously posted on my livejournal.)

Last year while reading one of the many Hobby Farm Magazines that I love to find at the bookstore, I found out that bees of all varieties are in trouble due to a thing called Colony Collapse Disorder. I have yet to find out exactly what happens, but I assume that the colony collapses.

Bees are extremely important to the environment, because they are like the nurses at the fertility clinic for plants. They make more plants possible. While butterflies and a host of other insects are responsible for this too, if you were to put insects into human bodies, I'd take intelligent bee nurse Hazel any day over air-headed butterfly nurse Tiffany any day.

I can actually speak from experience because lately I feel as though I work with butterflies. Not necessarily that the people that I work with are beautiful, but that they are flighty. I cannot get them to stop standing in group, like butterflies, gathering the moisture that is the neighborhood gossip, or the store gossip, or just how their dates went the night before.

I have no problem with socializing at work, but I don't think customers are to be ignored while people discuss the intimate going-ons of their lives while bagging the groceries of complete strangers. Strangers who, from time to time, stand there, wide-eyed and shock because a cashier has just admitted that the previous night they went to a bar, and do not really remember what they did, and have the bruises to prove it.
This just shouldn't be happening.
Butterflies should not be on my front end.

I found out this week, that I could quite possibly be moving to Huntsville, Alabama. Mike could be getting a promotion to Sous Chef which would involve him being moved to a store that needs him.
This is huge news, and I'm extremely excited, but I am also terrified by leaving everything that I know is by the hand of God beautiful to go live in a city, in a cramped apartment either.

This is where MIke and I diverge in opinion, and it's my biggest fear in our relationship. I think where I live is the most beautiful place on the earth, hands down. Mike agrees that it's beautiful, but I'm not sure he appreciates it. I on the other hand enjoy the convenence of city living, with everything being 10 minutes away instead of an hour, and I love the variety and the graffiti, but it's more a place to visit than live.

I need crickets. I need bees.


I saved bees today. At our hopeless Memorial Day Cookout, I noticed tiny baby bumblebees flying into my grandmother's pet taxi. Her dog is so fat, she can no longer sleep in it. She finally told me the other day, that there are a nest of tiny bees living in it, and I need to come see them before she "gets rid of them."

Getting rid of something, in my grandmothers language means to kill it. This woman has a blood lust that would make Genghis Khan jealous.

So I moved them. I fearlessly picked up the purple towel that they had attached their tiny nest of pollen columns to and I put them in a cardboard box and took them up to my house, where I found them a suitable shelter. I hope they survive and that it does not mess up some internal mapping system that bees are said to have.

I don't see killing something that tiny and delicate. The smallest bee was the same size as my pinkie nail. It was adorable. The black and yellow fuzz and the shiny little wings with the wonderful little buzz sound that they make. The bigger bee was teaching them to fly, and mom said it would have been a couple of weeks and then they would have been gone. So why my grandmothers need to massacre the adorable? To declare war on something that wasn't hurting her?

"She's just that way, she's old."

I return to work tomorrow after a difficult day on Sunday, where every attempt I made to make my butterfly cashiers into bees, were twisted into attempt to make me seem petty and underhanded. Apparently me telling a cashier that she was in dress code violation by wearing shorts, meant to her that I was offended by her knees. Mature butterflies I have.

Oh to be a bee. To dance delicately on the breezes and to drink and eat sweet delicious things everyday.
I could only be hoped to be saved myself.

Maybe I am a bee in the wrong place, and God is just trying to move me to a better place.
Who am I to fight it?