I hate my job. I hate it. I hate my job. HATE IT.

I thought that I had paid my dues. I sold cricket lollipops in the Exhibit Museum gift shop, sat at a makeshift desk in the lobby of the Gettysburg Foundation, and managed the stupid historical society that no one ever came to see. Probably the worst day that I ever had at that craptastic place almost had me kicking a woman in the teeth:

So in the dreaded gift shop in the damned Historical Society, we are selling reproduction 'vintage' Valentines. And so, yeah. So this woman (50s) and her daughter (20s) come into the store and specifically ask about the Valentines. I direct them. After about 10 minutes, one of them approaches to ask how much they are. Me, "They're one dollar each." Satisfied, she returns to the basket o' cards. 10 more minutes go by. The woman then approaches me at the register and is holding a pre-packaged Valentine. Very ornate, lots of tacky lace and glitter. It is pre-priced. Everything one looks for in a Valentine.

Crazy: Okay, you said that this was a dollar. The tag says $3.95.

Me: Oh, well the pre-packaged ones are priced already. The loose cards are a dollar each.
Crazy: You said that they were a dollar each.
Me: Yes, but I forgot that there were more ornate (I actually used the word 'ornate'), pre-packaged cards. Those are already priced.
Crazy: But you said that they were a dollar.
Me: Yes, I did, but obviously that one is more expensive.
Crazy: Well, I was in here last week, and there used to be a sign there that said that all cards were a dollar.
Me: I'm not the shop manager. She prices the items. I have to charge you the price that is printed on the item.
Crazy: But you said that the cards were a dollar.
Me: I'm going to give you the phone number for the shop manager. You can call her during the week when she's in.

Crazy responds by walking back to her daughter (3 feet away) where they bitch and moan about what a bitch I am. HELLO? I CAN HEAR YOU! The daughter comes up with her cards. She buys 3 loose cards. $3 plus tax. I ring it up. She's like, "Oh, we're members." So I have to void the transaction because the register is antique. I'm surprised it works at all, to be honest. I don't DARE ask for proof that they're members, for fear of getting my eyes scratched out.

They leave. Another person in the shop comes up and tells me that she was very impressed with the way that I handled them. She would have yelled, she tells me. Isn't it impressive that I know when to use my rage? Like in the car on the beltway?"

The second worst day I had at that place is pretty good too:

I really, really, really, really, really, really HATE my weekend job. I mean DESPISE IT. For example, this past weekend, I went in on Saturday and it sucked. Mostly because I have to be there at 10 a.m. on Saturdays. Sunday, though. Oh Sunday. I show up and I am all alone for about 15 minutes. Suddenly, there are a few women that come in to shop. You should see this gift shop. Apparently, things that relate to historic house museums are few and far between. I can't even describe the CRAP that they sell. So these women come in to peruse the crap, and all of a sudden, this 55 year old man comes in and goes on and on about how he called yesterday and someone told him that we would love for him to donate his antique typewriters.

So I have to act like I actually care, and I tell him to bring them in, blah. It's 29 degrees out, by the way, and historic homes are not really known for their insulation/warmth. He brings FIVE of these dirty things into the house - one at a time - leaving the door open every time. At this point, I have unzipped my coat (can't take it off for fear of freezing) and wrapped myself around the space heater. I keep closing the door after him each time, and he keeps leaving it open. Oh son of a bitch. I then have to explain to him that I can't give him a deed of gift form because I only authorize non-collection items. BLAH. He doesn't understand this, and that's fine because it is actually a little confusing for someone not in the Museum Studies program, but he won't LEAVE. Finally, one of the 'shoppers' (read: huge sucker) brings something to the register. He leaves.

I ring up her extremely tacky item, and guess who's back? Oh yes, he's come to take pictures. Of the typewriters. And that's not all. He proceeds to tell me about each one. Oh son of a bitch. This was Sunday, December 14. I had a 20 page paper and a take-home final due the next day. I had been planning on working on them at work. Nope. Because here's what happens next:

In walks the director, the education director, and the collections manager. Followed by the entire office staff of 4. They are all carrying bags and bags of food and dressed to the nines. And by nines, I mean the clothing that old people wear. That they think is classy.

But it's really just the things that they would have worn while sitting to watch the McLaughlin Group.

They start "setting up" for the holiday fete (which, I discovered, is pronounced "fet" and not "fe-tay" like I thought. Do you see what I get out of this job? It's not just a great thing for the resume). Apparently, there was a party for the staff and all of the volunteers (average age - deceased) for the holidays. Did anyone invite me? No, but they put me to work cutting up pita bread into little triangles. And then - the best thing that happened the entire day - a cub scout troop showed up for a tour. Who had to give it? That's right, the STAFF MEMBER who wasn't invited to the STAFF PARTY. F-ing kids needed intravenous ritalin. Horrible.

Now, to be fair, even if I had been invited to this fabulous fete, I wouldn't have gone if they had paid me for the hours. Hell, I wouldn't have gone if I had finished the semester a week earlier. These people are ridiculous. Collectively, their sense of humor is... no wait. None of them seem to know what sarcasm is. It's painful.

And now I'm back to being the front desk monkey. I cannot believe this. Now, just more of an incentive to start looking for a new job, I guess. GAH!