In Which Carmen Grooves

[xaara]

I had an awful day at work. The kitchen staff kept messing up the orders, which resulted in irate customers; the credit card machine kept mangling the receipt paper; the air conditioning blew sideways across the back of my neck no matter how I stood; I ended up with $5.00 extra when they counted my money at the end of the day. There were bright spots, of course, but my having to deal with tens of rude and (mostly justifiably) angry customers put me in this strange mood where I had to pretend to be calm, helpful, and reasonable but where I was really seething.

A small reprieve came when my location leader, Gary, asked me how much longer I planned to work there.

"Until the end of August," I said. "So another few weeks."

"Man," he said. "'Cause I was ready to put you up on recommendation for promotion to supervisor."

"Oh," I said, thinking fast. "Well, I might come back next summer."

"Oh, good," he said. "I'll mention it to Kurt."

I didn't even have time to preen before customers arrived at my window and it was back into the maelstrom.

Anyway, I arrived home in a foul mood, compounded by the fact that Mom still hadn't ordered my loft bed for my dorm, something that I should remind her to do before I leave in the mornings. This never being home during the work day thing is hard. Dinner took a little while to come together, and I read some decent but not recommendable fic in an attempt to calm myself into something not most closely resembling a rabid hyena.

The general pissiness subsided into a general feel-sorry-for-self-ness until, by the end of dinner, I was just moping. (Not brooding. This is an important distinction.)

Then, my parents went out after ice cream and paper towels and came back with a lava lamp.

"For your dorm," Mom explained. "Because no dorm is complete without a lava lamp."

I realized in that moment that I love my parents so much I can barely articulate it. They frustrate me, they annoy me, they battle me, they clean my room without permission. They rearrange my closet, they complain that my showers are too long, they use my body wash without asking, and they take my books back to the library before I'm done with them.

But they bought me a lava lamp.

A week or two ago, Pop heard me complain about how the lotion we have stings my legs, especially if I've just shaved, and a few days later, a soy-based, acid-free lotion arrived in the mail. Mom found a giant wooden C for sale at some disreputable store and brought it home for me. They went to a book sale and bought an immense, slightly musty collection of Conrad.

They care. I have to keep remembering that, because they infuriate me so much of the time. But they care, deeply.

They love me. We're okay.

Comments

[shadowserenity.livejournal.com]

Sorry about the hell of a day, but supervisor! Gives you a nice little boost in the middle of chaos.

They care. I have to keep remembering that, because they infuriate me so much of the time. But they care, deeply.

So true. These days I have problems with my parents "trying to help me" (their words) and it all turns foul, but it's all about love.