It’s February 2.
Which, in the land of big box home improvement, means it’s Spring Hire Time.
The caps are intentional.
This means that I have 26 days left to hire 35 people. 30 of those are seasonal, which means they are only of use to me for six months from their date of hire.
Which means I bleed and sweat and work my ass off 70 hours a week for the next three weeks…
In order to fire most of them, five months from now.
I’m having a bit of trouble with the cost/benefit analysis on this one, I gotta say.
The way my schedule works (because it’s still retail, so there’s no such thing as 8 – 5), I work a six day week, am off Sunday, work Monday/Tuesday, off Wednesday, work Thursday/Friday, and then am off the next weekend. What that means is that I don’t track my life week by week, but on two-week cycles.
Which means I lose track of time and days easily, and often.
Moreso now that my usual 10 hour days (no, really, I’m scheduled 7:00 am to 5:30 PM on eight of my 10 days in a cycle), are stretching to 11, 12, and occasionally 13 hours at a pop. Add to that my Little League board member schedule, the fact that Sharkman is bridging to Boy Scouts, and that the actual baseball season is what seems like minutes away, and you get one very tired and frazzled Jolie.
This was my six-day week. I rolled in the door about an hour and a half ago, twelve hours after I left home this morning. In between running background checks and drug screenings and closing out the last payroll of the fiscal year and reconciling accrual balances (that means making sure people didn’t use more vacation than they earned, which a shocking number did) and trying to set my schedule for next week and catching up on the filing that I didn’t have time to do this week…
Wait. Where was I going with that?
I have no fucking idea, that’s where.
When my ass catches up with the rest of me, I might have more of a clue.
In the meantime, I’m going to sit down and not think for the next hour or two before I finally lose consciousness. I have to get up tomorrow, finish magically creating a set of books from a pile of receipts from last Little League season, and try very hard to be good company for my boys while they watch a Super Bowl that I honestly couldn’t care less about.
Maybe I should procrastinate in the morning so that I can play with my receipts while they watch a game I couldn’t care less about.
I heard on the radio today (or maybe CNN? I dunno. It was this morning, about a week ago) that everyone watches the Super Bowl for the Puppy Bowl (which I had never even heard of until this morning, but apparently it’s a thing) and the commercials. A) I loathe commercials on regular tv, so I’ve never understood the glamour of more commercials, much less subjecting yourself to an entire five hour televised event just to watch commercials. B) I’m such a pop culture moron that I didn’t know there was such a thing as a Puppy Bowl, so I just don’t think I’m going to be mustering up a whole lot of enthusiasm in the next 19.5 hours.
Did I also mention that every interview I do has to be transcribed in enough detail to recreate the interview if I’m ever audited by the Feds? This means that I spend half an hour writing, as in with pen and paper, for each interview. Have I ever told you, bois and grrls, that I have horrific carpal tunnel syndrome, diagnosed almost 20 years ago now, when I was still a teenager?
My right hand has been numb for a week. And not even from something fun, like too much vibrator time.
(This is where Rhett snorts indignantly at the idea that I would need a vibrator these days…)
Somehow, I think I might have allowed my original train of thought for this post to be derailed.
My dinner’s ready. I’ll go looking for the right track later.