Perhaps I forgot to mention I have another job.
Yep, I flip through jobs faster than my moods change.
I’m a housekeeper at a nursing home exactly one minute from my apartment. I walk to work: I’m serious, I can see it from my bedroom window. It’s right there. Right across the street.
Today I had my orientation and . . . and let me tell you. Let me tell you something.
I’ve had my fill of people already. It’s not looking good, folks, I’ll make sure to round up some more applications and you can tune in next blog post to see which other job I hop to.
There were two other women doing the orientation with me as first. They were applying for CNA positions. They were mother and daughter. They would not, could not . . .
Shut. The. Fuck. Up.
I fucking hate, and I mean HATE, casual chatter. It is human kind’s single most useless skill.
I mean this in the most respectful way possible: they would not shut the fuck up. They kept telling stories about their lives, about their schooling, about how they went for a quick “Two month” program because they’d been working as nursing assistants for a while (the mother for ten years, the daughter who fucking knows, she was 14 in 2008, I was 13 in 2008) but had never been officially “registered”. She worked for a place where her boss got hammered, never showed up for work, and she got stuck working 13 hour shifts at night.
The guy doing our orientation is a nice guy. I could tell. He was too nice. He let them take over the conversation sometimes and the lot of them had a nurse-threesome while I sat in the corner staring into spacing waiting for this bullshit to end.
I can tell there are cliques. CNA’s stick with CNA’s, RN’s stick with RN’s and the fucking physicians spend two minutes wandering around the facility dressed in their fancy clothes with their stethoscopes and then they take them and their fucks and they leave off to wherever the hell they go.
The kitchen staff? They stare blankly at you like you’re an alien.
A fourth woman, also applying for a CNA position, came an hour and a half late. She was from Kenya.
The orientation guy kept saying the word “Bloodborne” in terms of pathogens, but I kept hearing “Bloodborne” the video game. I kept getting myself confused. Legitimately. I asked myself once, “why is he talking about Bloodborne?”
The orientation often got interrupted by stories of the mother and daughter duo and their tattoos and piercings. Once again. I don’t give a fuck.
We had to watch training videos. Now, I’m relatively alright around the elderly, they generally like me because I’m quiet and smile a lot (little do they know how utterly fucking annoyed I am inside) and I let them talk. I’m used to short term memory loss because of my father, I’m used to brain damage-type behavior because of my father, I’m generally alright with being around psychosis and mania, because of my father’s reaction to Ativan and a woman I used to talk to who was part of a residential mental health facility. She used to walk around the block sometimes manic, sometimes psychotic, talking about the most random shit and on my way home from high school I’d stop and talk with her until I had to go over the railroad tracks and she had to go back to the facility.
That does not mean I do not get tired after two and a half hours of talking with an elderly woman obviously in the midst of a mental disease. She kept repeating the same questions to me over and over again “are you alright? Alright, that’s good. Are you hungry? No? Are you going to eat? Are you all going to eat?” and once she pointed at me and said, about four times, that Jesus had told her this morning that I would be coming to make her happy today.
Knowing me and my tendency to link everything to everything, that freaked me out a little #Trigger-moment.
Then she pointed at my feet and said “is that yours? Is that yours? You should pick it up. Pick it up and put it in your pocket.”
I thought she was talking about my shoe, so I lifted it and asked “this?”
She pointed at the floor and said “no, that. Is that yours? You should pick it up.”
One of the new hire CNA’s picked some air up for me and I put it in my pocket.
Then she started singing the star spangled banner. Loudly.
She liked calling me Irene. In fact, she called all four of us Irene. And she liked alluding me to Jesus, calling me beautiful, a prophet, and that I’m the boss around here, that when I walk down the hall people know who I am. Again: freaked me out a little. Had to rub my ears and blink a little to make sure I wasn’t also hallucinating.
She asked the Kenyan woman if “the little one” was hers and pointed. We stared where she was staring. The Kenyan woman tried to reason her out of the hallucination, that she did indeed have ” a little one” but that little one was at home and she was only four years old. It didn’t work very well.
I generally enjoyed this woman. She was from Hawaii, and if you could yell in her ear loud enough for her to hear you, she gave coherent answers sometimes. But the majority of the time it was just babble, hallucinations, and an odd growl she kept exuding. After two and a half hours of simultaneously watching some boring ass 80’s video about HIV while also trying to be kind to the woman spouting nonsense, I had a headache, was thoroughly irritated, and had had enough of the fucking chatter box next to me.
Not the elderly woman, the fucking new CNA’s. The daughter, the one my age, kept trying to fast forward the DVD because they’d “seen it before”, and they almost broke the fucking DVD player and the T.V.
I don’t mean to be cocky, but I was sitting there like bitch, I’ve read more books about your profession than you did in that two month course you took when I was fifteen, stop acting like you’re someone, sit the fuck down, and be professional. You don’t see me spouting all my knowledge about the brain, dementia, Alzheimer’s, hallucinations, ativan, and other things do you? No. So sit the fuck down and shut the fuck up before I do get smart and shove one of those DVD’s up your ass.
At this point I was NOT in the mood for the disorganization of this system. We got a tour of the facility in which the guy giving us the orientation caught six health code violations his employees were doing right under his nose. Within the first two minutes of the tour. Things he said they always did no matter how many times he told them to quit.
I said I could work tomorrow. The guy in the orientation took me to the administrator to ask where I should report in the morning and he spent a few minutes running around looking for the housekeeper. They started speaking Spanish to each other. They stared at me.
I stared him dead in the eye and said, as calmly as I could at this point, “I don’t speak motherfucking Spanish.”
Minus the “motherfucking” part
He, being obviously CONFUSED because he was yet another person to NOT ask me if I fucking spoke Spanish and just assumed because I’m tan, apologized and said I would meet up with this woman (I forgot her fucking name already) in the morning at 7.
Where the fuck am I supposed to find her? I asked twice. He just kept saying to meet with her.
How do we clock in? We fucking don’t. We grab a piece of paper, write in the time we came in, the times we go out for lunch, the time we leave, fold the paper and slip it in a box until we get employee ID numbers and can use the automated system like normal people.
The problem is, no one told us if we fill it out right when we get in or after our shift. Where do we keep it if we fill it in in the morning? How do we known when to take our lunch? Where the FUCK are the superiors in this fucking place?
They also forgot to mention I needed Scrubs.
Which I handily remembered at 4:20 P.m and called just in time to catch the administrator and ask. This entailed I drive to a Goodwill and pray I could find some last minute without blood stains on them. I did.
I’ve been suffering mini anxiety attacks over this place already and I haven’t even started yet. I assume once I go into the flow of things, once I figure out how to clock in correctly and where to go, I’ll be working on my own like normal and generally keep to myself.
Thank God. This place is letting my inner Schizoid Personality out. I could honestly give two shits. The residents are fine, I’ll say hi, how are you, smile and hopefully make them smile by default. But everyone else I refuse to fake for. I’m done faking.
As for now, since I have no idea where to go tomorrow or what to do, I’ve convinced myself that it’s time to stop giving a fuck. I give out way too many fucks in a day, it makes me anxious.
So I’m emptying out my fucks.
I’m pouring them on the curb right in the red zone so no more SUV’s can park there and block my vision. I’m sure you all remember that rant. I drew pictures. Me. That’s how you know I’m pissed off, when I use my shitty artistic skills to illustrate a point.
I’m going to leave the fucks there. So if some of you feel you need to start giving a fuck more often, there’s a few hundred outside my apartment for free. Take them. They’re no use to me.