As some of you (ahem…Allison,) may have noticed, I’ve been a bit scarce around here. The reason, (I didn’t say excuse, I said reason,) is that I got a new job. A moment of celebration, please. No growing depression and sliding sanity for Stephanie this year!
It’s a pretty good job, working for a roadhouse theatre in Albany called The Egg. That seriously looks like an egg.
It’s a nice space, well maintained and with a good inventory on hand. Despite my now-bosses original warning that the job was a part-time, over-hire, as-needed, (read: don’t get your hopes up, kid,) I’ve worked four gigs so far this week, with four more lined up into the next week. (Including head electrician for Margaret Cho tomorrow, [squeal!] which will clearly lead to us being best friends. Clearly.) The guys I’m working with are cool, very fun and very laid back, and so far I’m really digging this job.
But there’s one massive blight on my new job. One enormous bit of evil, that ruins my day like an errant fingernail clipping ruins the delicious comfort of a warm bed.
It’s not the 40-minute commute in either direction, though that is a bit of a drag. It’s not the uncomfortable amount of asbestos that resides within the space. It’s not even the long hours that keep me from seeing much of my husband. (No matter how bad-ass the gig or fun the co-workers, a 12 hour day will kick anyone’s ass.)
It’s far worse.
It’s the parking.
Attached to this behemoth complex is a multi-level parking garage. It’s a rather nice one, guarded by state troopers, and there’s always an empty spot close to the elevators. But the price of this pleasant convenience…well, let’s say that I’d rather they just cut to the chase and start collecting appendages.
It’s $2 an hour, which if you’re going to see the ballet for two hours is fine, but if you’re working an 11-hour day like I did on Wednesday, it ends up being a substantial amount. Graciously, they’ve placed a cap at $20, (so kind,) but $20 a day is a lot of money when you consider that I’m only pulling $13 an hour. For the privilege of parking my car. Granted, I don’t always have to pay. On weekends I can park on the street without paying. And sometimes, the arm is up when I leave, which I hope to god means that I don’t have to pay, because I don’t. So sometimes I get to park next to the elevator for free, and sometimes I get to park next to the elevator for $20. It’s literally playing Russian Roulet…with my credit card.
It fucking pisses me OFF! $20! To park my car! Who in the hell thinks they deserve $20 of my money! Nothing makes me angrier than sticking my credit card in that fucking grey box so the damn red and white striped arm will raise and let me through. And the anger? It doesn’t go away. Oh, no. Instead, it festers for 40 minutes, so that when I walk in the door at home, it’s been marinating and is plenty bitter. Which is awful unfortunate for my poor husband when he’s ambushed by Hurricane Angry Bitch upon my return.
The nights that I don’t have to pay, however? Puts me on top of the damn moon. Instead of spending the entire commute fuming, I spend it belting Avril Lavign and Journey, and I walk in the door doing the fox trot and singing Moondance before I try to take off his pants. So not only does this arm barrier dictate whether I loose out on my last hour’s worth of income, it also dictates which wife Kyle sees walk through the door and whether I go to bed angry at the world. That’s how much control that fucking arm has over my life.
I need a moment.
I’m sorry, I don’t usually like to complain about work like this. I really do like my job.
(But seriously! $20!)