I Cannot Understand A Word

Thank god my dealer is on his way.

Okay. Maybe I should not start a post like that. It is just that, right before this exact moment, I got a call from my dealer and so it was on my mind.

I feel so horrible right now.

I started this job at a cafe in Little Italy. Knowing my desperation, Tara referred me to this job as barrista- where I could start off with no experience, learn how to make awesome Cappuccinos, and get some quick cash. She also made sure to warn me of what a douchebag the owner is, suggesting I stick around for 2 weeks, gain some experience and move on.

So last night was my first night. Ownerdouche was not so bad at first; I found myself just blanking out on his endless streams of broken French speech about his Glory Days when all the semi-celebrities gave a shit about his cafe. I would roll my eyes, nod now and then, and ask some random questions (in my own version of broken French) which he didn't understand anyways. I toughed out an evening of my best attempt to kiss ass just enough for him to not throw me out for some fucked up reason, as he had done to Tara. (He fired her for walking home with a client every night so she wouldn't get killed on the 25 min walk home after midnight).

So tonight, I came in, and found his behaviour more than just tedious. I could take the barking orders, the criticism of my mousse-making, I didn't give a shit. And I tried my best to block out his narcissistic speeches. But then he casually lifted my scarf, took a glimpse at my hidden cleavage, and said, "I've seen bigger."

And instead of slapping the motherfucker and jetting, my shell-shocked response was self-deprecating humour, "Well, there are bigger." Not only did I just lose a fucken billion points for women everywhere who are still victims of the male superiority complex, but I allowed myself to be exploited and made light of it. My response told him it was okay to objectify me, to look at a person your granddaughter's age with such disrespect, and to treat your employees like figurines.

And I don't know why. I just have a hard time reacting to such caveman behaviour. My tongue is trained in sarcasm. It is my defense mechanism to guys who fuck me over, parents who argue with me, friends who try to underhand me, and now to dirty old fucken men who deserve much more than a witty response. I should have punched him right in the penis.

I still took the ride home with him and the other worker, believing that he would not actually attempt anything, in fear of ruining his reputation since 1964. I figured he wouldn't be around that long if he had tried anything before. But then again, who knows? How many women were victimized like this, and instead of telling someone, kept it secret because they felt stupid at how they reacted? It is so twisted that as women, we take the blame for everything. There is an underlying problem that is rooted so deep into our psyches, still there since the beginning of man (or woman) kind. We feel like somehow we ask for it. By not kicking the guy in the balls or calling him out on it, we feel like it is our fault- as if we are open receptors to this kind of behaviour.

But I think I should change that. I should tell my friends, my family. I should just not show up on Monday.

Would that be an overreaction?

Allow me to also add that on the way home, once we were alone in the bloody jeep, I picked up on some strange topics he was trying to approach, that thankfully our language barrier broke. He said something about drinking with him, but working hard, about not flirting with customers, about his choice to not sleep with employees (or something along those lines), and some questions about my Romantic Life. He also wanted to go pick up newspapers on Mount-Royal and for me to tag along. "Si je voulais."

Um, no thanks.

Thankfully, as we pulled up to my apartment, my Mom called. (Chorus of Hallelujahs). This meant that I could thankfully skip the dreaded, akward Ciao Ciao Kiss Kiss on the cheeks that I feel is rude to not do to Italians. He had this fucken constipated look on his face when I was too preoccupied to give him the proper goodbye.

And all this, I did for slave labor- the fucken deevolutioned man's idea to not pay his trainees.

Fuck that. I cannot go back there.

But even as I write that, I feel this choking sensation fighting to hold on for a few more days; get some money which I so desperately need.

I could always go in there, suck it up, and just not let him win. Act distant enough to stay hired until I get get my ass out, but arrange for a lift home and avoid him as much as possible.

Don't worry though, there is a small light cracking through the dark.

My friend called me today about a job opening which her boss is very interested in me filling. It would be to work in cosmetics for a very prestigious line. So cross my fingers and hope not to die before than.

Please pray to the Astrology God for me.

xx
Anne