How ironic that this Labor Day Celebration blog should appear six weeks into The Angry White Mom’s thirty-second career incarnation as a janitor (only and estimate). And it’s wonderful. Five or so years of unemployment has been a difficult time. My husband, in addition to being rewarded the same salary for the past eight years with no increases for cost of living or merit (well, forget merit, he works for the State of Texas, after all), has had to take on two additional part time jobs. Both are physically demanding and exhausting for a fifty-six year old heart patient with six stents and three knee surgeries.
But I digress. I am finally employed. And at more than minimum wage, which in my opinion should be eleven bucks an hour. And although it is part time my schedule is
darn near perfect for what my life demands. My supervisors are the rare specimen, real persons, who have worked harder than most for their positions, and they remember what it is like to endlessly toil for one’s daily bread.
That said, my work brings me face to, um, face, with an incredible number of people. In all my careers, I doubt I have had as much direct contact with Johnny and Jenny Public. Only two of my past incarnations come even close – the years I sang solo as well as with a trio at places like pizza parlors and military officers clubs, and the year I spent as a waitress in Houston.
And I have to tell ya, folks, it ain’t pretty. In just a mere six weeks, my experience tells me that The Public should be ashamed of Itself. The facility I serve is a public rest area, designed to help weary drivers rest and recuperate from driving the seemingly endless miles across the Texas prairies. Paid for by road taxes, the facilities are of course owned by the Texas Department of Transportation, but thanks be to my creator I work for a contractor. We see thousands of people during the week, from truck drivers to teens taking “road trips” and from senior citizens visiting distant grandchildren to foreign tourists seeking the Texas experience. We plow through voluminous amounts of toilet paper, trash bags of all shapes and sizes (we shall review some of them here in this space in the coming months, I ‘m sure), as well as gallons of cleaning fluids, gasoline and mixed fuels to keep the entire facility from collapsing beneath the weight of both nature and the trash and effluvia deposited there.
So now I am a Professionally Trained Mop Jockey. And in addition to the wages, this
job gives me a wealth of observations about our visitorsto be shared with the best application of truth that I can muster. A short list of these would no doubt include gems like: The Inability to Read Signs. The Inability to Follow Instructions. Inappropriate Gum Disposal (this one has special sub-factions).The Inability to Flush a Toilet. The Inability to Hit a toilet (this one can be divided into gender categories). The Undeniable Urge to Touch Sparkling Windows with Grubby Hands (this seems to be universal among all races, genders and ages). As a general thing, I have come to understand quite personally that there is a lot you can tell about Johnny and Jenny Public by the way they treat The Help (I loved that movie. If you haven’t seen it, you should. If you are a white woman, you need to). In fact, I suspect I have a lot in common with domestic workers. And proudly so. My brilliant 18-year old son recently reminded me that Money is just an expression of Effort, which in turn is an expression of Energy. Most rich folks collect on other people’s efforts, and other people’s energy, regardless of how much of their own personal energy they exert. When I contemplate this, I find myself wondering if say, Governor Rick Perry puts in any more effort in to his “shift” than I, or if Warren Buffet soaks his shirt through halfway through his day like I do.
While all employment is noble, not all jobs are the same. For a long long time I have believed that school teachers should be paid $250,000 a year and lawyers should earn
$8.50 and hour. Totally based on my experiences with both. In the coming weeks, I will probably diverge quite a bit from my more philosophical and political ramblings to dig
out some real nuggets of experience that this gold mine of stories that my new job
provides. And I hope, fervently, that other – former, current, and retired – Mop Jockeys
of The World will feel free to comment here.
Because the Truth hurts. Now go wash your hands, and put a bandage on it.
But I digress. I am finally employed. And at more than minimum wage, which in my opinion should be eleven bucks an hour. And although it is part time my schedule is
darn near perfect for what my life demands. My supervisors are the rare specimen, real persons, who have worked harder than most for their positions, and they remember what it is like to endlessly toil for one’s daily bread.
That said, my work brings me face to, um, face, with an incredible number of people. In all my careers, I doubt I have had as much direct contact with Johnny and Jenny Public. Only two of my past incarnations come even close – the years I sang solo as well as with a trio at places like pizza parlors and military officers clubs, and the year I spent as a waitress in Houston.
And I have to tell ya, folks, it ain’t pretty. In just a mere six weeks, my experience tells me that The Public should be ashamed of Itself. The facility I serve is a public rest area, designed to help weary drivers rest and recuperate from driving the seemingly endless miles across the Texas prairies. Paid for by road taxes, the facilities are of course owned by the Texas Department of Transportation, but thanks be to my creator I work for a contractor. We see thousands of people during the week, from truck drivers to teens taking “road trips” and from senior citizens visiting distant grandchildren to foreign tourists seeking the Texas experience. We plow through voluminous amounts of toilet paper, trash bags of all shapes and sizes (we shall review some of them here in this space in the coming months, I ‘m sure), as well as gallons of cleaning fluids, gasoline and mixed fuels to keep the entire facility from collapsing beneath the weight of both nature and the trash and effluvia deposited there.
So now I am a Professionally Trained Mop Jockey. And in addition to the wages, this
job gives me a wealth of observations about our visitorsto be shared with the best application of truth that I can muster. A short list of these would no doubt include gems like: The Inability to Read Signs. The Inability to Follow Instructions. Inappropriate Gum Disposal (this one has special sub-factions).The Inability to Flush a Toilet. The Inability to Hit a toilet (this one can be divided into gender categories). The Undeniable Urge to Touch Sparkling Windows with Grubby Hands (this seems to be universal among all races, genders and ages). As a general thing, I have come to understand quite personally that there is a lot you can tell about Johnny and Jenny Public by the way they treat The Help (I loved that movie. If you haven’t seen it, you should. If you are a white woman, you need to). In fact, I suspect I have a lot in common with domestic workers. And proudly so. My brilliant 18-year old son recently reminded me that Money is just an expression of Effort, which in turn is an expression of Energy. Most rich folks collect on other people’s efforts, and other people’s energy, regardless of how much of their own personal energy they exert. When I contemplate this, I find myself wondering if say, Governor Rick Perry puts in any more effort in to his “shift” than I, or if Warren Buffet soaks his shirt through halfway through his day like I do.
While all employment is noble, not all jobs are the same. For a long long time I have believed that school teachers should be paid $250,000 a year and lawyers should earn
$8.50 and hour. Totally based on my experiences with both. In the coming weeks, I will probably diverge quite a bit from my more philosophical and political ramblings to dig
out some real nuggets of experience that this gold mine of stories that my new job
provides. And I hope, fervently, that other – former, current, and retired – Mop Jockeys
of The World will feel free to comment here.
Because the Truth hurts. Now go wash your hands, and put a bandage on it.
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