Wednesday, April 15, 2015
She used to have a carefree mind of her own and a devilish look in her eye
I don't like small children and retirees. Plain and simple. There are, of course, exceptions to this rule. There are some small children that I think are totes adorbs. Even when they are being little bastards. Similarly, there are old people that I connect with. even if they are crotchety old pricks.
The reason for this passionate dislike of all things too young and too old probably stems from years in the service industry - children like to lay in the middle of the floor and scream where I am trying to walk with hot plates and they like to make a really big mess of EVERYTHING. Old people, on the other hand, like to take their sweet fucking time when placing their own orders, but want you to serve them without having to wait. They also like to complain about everything and then leave a tip that might have been acceptable in 1962.
So, why in the name of Holy Pete Noble* did I take a job as a dietary aide at a local retirement home? Simple. I needed the money and I am terrible at blow jobs.
But, "dietary aide" sounds nice and easy. Perhaps it involves mashing up food for people with no teeth. Perhaps I would be feeding people too feeble to lift their own spoons (who would also be too feeble to speak - fingers crossed). Maybe it's just running plates of healthy food out to hungry and grateful septuagenarians, who are (hopefully) fully functioning and pleasant individuals enjoying their golden years in comfort.
I wash muhfucking dishes. That's what it means to be a dietary aide. Means I wash three courses worth of dishes for 35 people every shift for about two hours. The other two hours, I fill water glasses, serve coffee and tea, and take around a cookie tray before bed time. But, mostly, I wash muhfucking dishes.
When I first started, most of the residents wanted to know how my classes were going. They all assumed I was still in high school. I should have been flattered by the unintended compliment considering I am in my forties. In fact, my pride was wounded horribly - only high school students had previously been employed here as dietary aides. And, it wasn't like they thought I looked young enough to be a teenager, it's just that their eyesight is bad and they made an assumption.
Sigh. So, I struggled through the first few weeks. Swallowing my pride (I'm a college graduate, ffs!) and biting my tongue (minimum wage sucks ass). My eyes are firmly locked on the prize in the form of a ten day vacation in May, in which I will be backpacking through Massachussets... but that's another blog.
Meanwhile, I've become very attached to some of the residents whose dishes I have been washing all the time. I've gotten to know all their preferences and all their little idiosyncrasies and...I've fallen in love. One man likes to take my hand in his every time he comes in for dinner. Not just a handshake, but a hand HOLD. This is one thing I really like about older people; when they take your hand and hold onto it while they speak to you. It's so comforting to me and... affectionate. Personal. Warm. It's just a good feeling.
One lady likes coffee for dinner, but only filled three-quarters of the way and with half a teaspoon of sugar. Another man wants his tea filled all the way to the top so there's not enough room for the two milk he wants in it. Yet another woman wants milk for her tea before the tea is even poured AND she wants more milk than she will ever use... just in case.
I'm in love with all of them. I'm in love with the lady who is so quiet and dainty who has a beautiful cat, but she eats more junk food than a seven year old on Halloween. I'm in love with the man who walks to the dining room every night because it has the best view of sunsets. I'm in love with the cantankerous woman who will hit you with her cane if you try to touch her walker, but beams when you bring her a snack and always wishes you a good night. I'm in love with the old dairy farmer who falls asleep at the table so I have to vacuum around his feet until someone comes to take him to his room.
Yeah, it's been pretty good times with this bunch of hoodlums. LOL. One day, while waiting for lunch, I overheard this conversation between a woman at one table and a man at the table behind her.
Sally**: Bill***, is Tiger playing golf today or tomorrow?
Bill: What did she say?
Sally: I wanna know if Woods is golfing today. Do you know?
Bill: I can't hear you, Sally. What are you asking me?
Sally: Oh for goodness sake. When is Tiger playing?
Bill: Yeah, I'm having the chicken salad sandwich!
Sherla (at this point, I intervene because everyone is yelling at everyone else): Bill, Sally wants to know when Tiger Woods is playing golf.
Bill: Oh... I don't know. I don't watch golf.
So, it is with some sadness that I am leaving my new friends to meet some crazy hippies while hiking through the Berkshires. But, I won't miss dish pan hands, stray peas that refuse to be sucked up with a vacuum and room temperatures that reach very close to 30- C even in the dead of winter.
*I don't know anyone named Pete Noble.
** Not her real name
***not his real name, obvsly
The reason for this passionate dislike of all things too young and too old probably stems from years in the service industry - children like to lay in the middle of the floor and scream where I am trying to walk with hot plates and they like to make a really big mess of EVERYTHING. Old people, on the other hand, like to take their sweet fucking time when placing their own orders, but want you to serve them without having to wait. They also like to complain about everything and then leave a tip that might have been acceptable in 1962.
So, why in the name of Holy Pete Noble* did I take a job as a dietary aide at a local retirement home? Simple. I needed the money and I am terrible at blow jobs.
But, "dietary aide" sounds nice and easy. Perhaps it involves mashing up food for people with no teeth. Perhaps I would be feeding people too feeble to lift their own spoons (who would also be too feeble to speak - fingers crossed). Maybe it's just running plates of healthy food out to hungry and grateful septuagenarians, who are (hopefully) fully functioning and pleasant individuals enjoying their golden years in comfort.
I wash muhfucking dishes. That's what it means to be a dietary aide. Means I wash three courses worth of dishes for 35 people every shift for about two hours. The other two hours, I fill water glasses, serve coffee and tea, and take around a cookie tray before bed time. But, mostly, I wash muhfucking dishes.
When I first started, most of the residents wanted to know how my classes were going. They all assumed I was still in high school. I should have been flattered by the unintended compliment considering I am in my forties. In fact, my pride was wounded horribly - only high school students had previously been employed here as dietary aides. And, it wasn't like they thought I looked young enough to be a teenager, it's just that their eyesight is bad and they made an assumption.
Sigh. So, I struggled through the first few weeks. Swallowing my pride (I'm a college graduate, ffs!) and biting my tongue (minimum wage sucks ass). My eyes are firmly locked on the prize in the form of a ten day vacation in May, in which I will be backpacking through Massachussets... but that's another blog.
Meanwhile, I've become very attached to some of the residents whose dishes I have been washing all the time. I've gotten to know all their preferences and all their little idiosyncrasies and...I've fallen in love. One man likes to take my hand in his every time he comes in for dinner. Not just a handshake, but a hand HOLD. This is one thing I really like about older people; when they take your hand and hold onto it while they speak to you. It's so comforting to me and... affectionate. Personal. Warm. It's just a good feeling.
One lady likes coffee for dinner, but only filled three-quarters of the way and with half a teaspoon of sugar. Another man wants his tea filled all the way to the top so there's not enough room for the two milk he wants in it. Yet another woman wants milk for her tea before the tea is even poured AND she wants more milk than she will ever use... just in case.
I'm in love with all of them. I'm in love with the lady who is so quiet and dainty who has a beautiful cat, but she eats more junk food than a seven year old on Halloween. I'm in love with the man who walks to the dining room every night because it has the best view of sunsets. I'm in love with the cantankerous woman who will hit you with her cane if you try to touch her walker, but beams when you bring her a snack and always wishes you a good night. I'm in love with the old dairy farmer who falls asleep at the table so I have to vacuum around his feet until someone comes to take him to his room.
Yeah, it's been pretty good times with this bunch of hoodlums. LOL. One day, while waiting for lunch, I overheard this conversation between a woman at one table and a man at the table behind her.
Sally**: Bill***, is Tiger playing golf today or tomorrow?
Bill: What did she say?
Sally: I wanna know if Woods is golfing today. Do you know?
Bill: I can't hear you, Sally. What are you asking me?
Sally: Oh for goodness sake. When is Tiger playing?
Bill: Yeah, I'm having the chicken salad sandwich!
Sherla (at this point, I intervene because everyone is yelling at everyone else): Bill, Sally wants to know when Tiger Woods is playing golf.
Bill: Oh... I don't know. I don't watch golf.
So, it is with some sadness that I am leaving my new friends to meet some crazy hippies while hiking through the Berkshires. But, I won't miss dish pan hands, stray peas that refuse to be sucked up with a vacuum and room temperatures that reach very close to 30- C even in the dead of winter.
*I don't know anyone named Pete Noble.
** Not her real name
***not his real name, obvsly
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