Eat MeDecember 1, 2008 at 4:39 PM | Posted in Journal | Leave a comment
Downtown St Louis is one of the few metropoli to have parade on Thanksgiving. I’ve gone every year except two, I think, in the last 20 years of going to the parade.
My older son Mike wanted to go also, so he was going to bring his kids and my daughter with. We met at my house, and I rode down with.
It was a nice day, much warmer than I thought it was going to be. As soon as we walked up, there was a few people with a table giving out hot chocolate. We watched the parade and I talked with my son–hadn’t seen him in a while. I visited with the grandkids, too. I can’t believe Jessica is going to be 17 on January 1st. Michael is 14? Wow.
Miranda and Dollinee wandered off away from the parade, and Samantha eventually went also. They sat over in the grass and missed half the parade. Me, I love a parade. I just absorb the spirit of community like it was bourbon spilled on the floor.
We get back to my house, and the kids go in to visit with Detroit (she is their favorite not-grandmother-yet) while Mike and I stand outside and catch up. He’s doing pretty well. Working for a fast food chain and became an assistant manager a few weeks ago. Odd–I thought he had started as one. As it turns out, he started just as a grunt, but was making what I consider pretty damn good money for that job. Now as an assistant, he’s making even better dough, and expects to be a GM–a store manager–within 6 months.
After we talk, I’m all but convinced I need to find a new job. My son is a single father with 4 kids and a house payment, and he gets by. He makes it, on one job. Eight years younger than me, my son says, "We’re too old to be working two jobs." Yes, yes we are. He said he doesn’t even hustle side jobs anymore, although he would do that before working a second job. "Hustling" he calls it, when he does work on the side, usually working on someone’s car for extra cash. I’ve done that once in a while, but never on a steady basis. I feel I’d have more luck working on people’s computers, and even so these things tend to end badly.
But he started as a line worker making more than I make as an assistant–in a job I have twenty goddamn years of motherfucking experience in. Just thinking about it pisses me off again. If I was making what I was worth I wouldn’t have to work as many hours. Dammit. I may have to go back to restaurant management, bit not at Domino’s, obviously. They are the lowest rung on the pay scale. If I do, I know I’ll give up my weekends, but right now, working on the weekends is a small price to pay if it means only working 50 hours a week, versus the 70 I do now.
So, now the clock is ticking–once I get my loan refinanced, I will be on a serious quest for another job. It will mean leaving the bank as well, but it is downright scary working here. The mortgage division…has become a scary place. It’s kind of a cross between "Office Space" and "Dawn of the Dead." Or "Butch and Sundance: The Early Years."
Either way, it’s scary.
Dinner was good. After Mike and the kids left, it was about time to eat. No matter how big of a damn turkey we get, there never seems to be enough meat–maybe I should have carved it better. It didn’t seem like there was dick for leftovers. But then, we do have the two boys, who–like pirhana–can skeletize a cow in two minutes.
My sister got an affirmation–she’s not so completely crazy after all; she met Detroit’s sister.
I took a nap on the couch, that was nice. I got up and everyone was gone, so that was even nicer. Quiet. Had some more to eat, had a drink, and laid back on the couch again. It was a purty good day.