Life at Terget is great, I guess. Seems I am finally accepted there, since the night crew asked me to get a beer with them after work one night. Look at me, all Sally Fields. "They like me!" The tnuc in grocery has been like a light switch in a gay bathhouse. On and off, and no one wants to touch it. She added hair extensions to her already mousy blond hair. I for one did not know that they sold hair extensions with the dirt still in it. Now you know.
I had a shit fit one Saturday when they assigned me to grocery. I know! Grocery. Jimmy don't do grocery. Well, I did, but I didn't like it. I treated it as punishment, only to find (to my shock and surprise) that the assistant store manager wanted me to go there because she said she could trust me there. Trust me? What the fuck am I gonna do, steal packages of taco seasoning under my red shirt?
I also got my 90 day review. As I expected, the comments were all spectacular, pointing out how wonderful I am , and how gracious and even funny to our guests. Fuck that...CUSTOMERS. Then some douche hand wrote on it these words "Sense of Urgency - Speed is Life" and then changed my meets expectations to not meeting expectations. WTF?? No one ever told me that I didn't meet expectations, and I have done enough performance reviews to know you just don't pop that out on a 90 day. So I questioned it, and it turns out to be something that everyone has a problem with, not just me. But try finding that written on the evaluation. Speed is life, my ass. Like you are going to see me running down the aisle at Target - literally running - to make sure that the CUSTOMER in Sporting Goods can find the proper jock strap. I'll do that only if he is good looking.
And let me tell you about the absolute variety of people that come to the Lone Tree Terget. It's the freaking Life of the Rich and Famous, combined with Pawn Stars. Really good looking people, and then some absolute heathens. Oh, and the damn children. Screaming children. "May I show you where the bleach is? It looks exactly like water in that sippy cup." Yuppie central...same ol song and dance...really good looking dudes with Fuck Ugly wives. My advice to them: "Pitch the Bitch and Make the Switch".
And then, like magic, every Saturday and Sunday nights around an hour before closing, the Indians come in. Not the pow-wow Indians, but the Slurpee Indians. Going around asking questions in an accent that there is no way in hell that I understand what they are saying. How the fuck do you think that I know, let alone care, that this Remington shaver works on the electrical system in Bangladesh? What makes you think that anyone at Terget even knows that the subcontinent works on a different system? Or even knows to call it the subcontinent?
And then there are the Asians. They navigate their carts just like they drive. They pick up an item, look at it (maybe to make sure it was manufactured by Mom and Dad), and then just dispose of it on the floor. Or in an aisle on the other side of the store. Fuckers.
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Life at LA Boxing has been great. Training with Pam on weights because I want cop arms, with Nathan on boxing, and with Geremy on boxing. I make them separate because they have completely different training regimens. Both make perfect sense to me. But it is tough being in the middle. You know me, I always want to please people, and I apologize too much if I don't hit the mark on the pads. So, I go back and forth trying to make the best of both worlds into mine. Mine, mine, mine.
I did get to spar the other weekend, but the only ones who showed up were all brought there by their Mommies. None of them had drivers licenses! So there I am in the ring pounding away at a kid who a) has calves that look like Little Lotta (will add a pic so you have the visual) and has no clue what to do when some guy is coming at him. Sorta like me when I started! But DAHUM, it was great to get in there and totally wail on a fourteen year old.
I still do the cardio classes as much as I can. Usually the only one I consistently get in is Geremy's on Monday nights. So let's get ready to SNARK!! There is this one dude there, actually two of them, they seem to be friends since they high five and talk to each other. I don't do that with just anyone. Do you? Anywho, one is a big boy, about 6'2, maybe 200. Good looking, and man, does he know it. Word on the street is that he is a doctor. Now it all makes sense. The other one is probably 5'9, 170 tops. This second dude wears bicycle tights under his shorts. The ones that come mid-calf. Or, in fashion speak, they are capriHmmm, there is another peeve that I will get to in a bit. So anyways, these guys are Joe Cool personified in their own head.
This is why I want to get in the ring with them. And beat the living shit out of them. Just for fun. Doubt it will happen. And if it does, I will, post beating, be very polite. But in the mean time, I am watching the bigger one when he works on the bag, I want to know every weakness of every punch. To you psychologists out there, see anything troubling here?
Which leads me to aforementioned peeve. There are a lot of guys who train one on one with a trainer there, specifically boxing. Not kicky poo boxing, but the real McCoy. But they don't spar. What the hell are they preparing for? Why learn to box is you aren't going to box?
At first I thought this was just the gym's mantra, since they are not grooming guys to box, just to take training. But this is weird, it happens all the time. I heard from Geremy that one is a pilot and doesn't want to get hit for fear of losing his license. I appreciate that, but what is he preparing for? A fight with a light pole? There are others that I would be more than happy to spar with, and they even have cars! So, as I have done for the past 5 years, I don't push it, I wait.
So, time for me to scoot boots to the gym. Cop Arm Night. Glad to be back.
And here is the pic of Little Lotta. Check out the calves on this bitch!
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