Domestic Help

I worked the unpopular convenience store again tonight. Unbusy = fine with me. I went up to the cafeteria to take my dinner break, and as I'm scooping out some ice cream to take back downstairs, this idiotic athletic trainer stops to tell me, "Hey, you shouldn't be eating ice cream. You're just the help." Who the heck says that? I felt like I was relegated to 19th century domestic servitude. Just the help? It's my freaking dinner break, bucko.

On the positive side, the other attendant and I got to talking, and it turns out after a series of amazing coincidences that his grandmother and my grandmother live on the same floor of the exact same swanky condo building. I cannot even fathom the odds of meeting someone at Penn State whose grandmother shares an address with mine, let alone having it come up in conversation. I called my grandma and she was very excited to hear that. Apparently she knows this lady well, and says that she is "very dignified".

I found out that we can help ourselves to free drinks and stuff, which would be good except for the fact that this was my last Good2Go shift. I wanted to choose wisely, so I picked the weird-looking Diet Pepsi Jazz, which claimed to be a subtle blend of black cherry and vanilla. I wasn't expecting much, but it was a lot better than I had hoped. When I smelled it, I was reminded of the Bazooka Joe gum (which we also sell, for five cents a square). Hmm. Maybe I was just smelling the box of gum. Hmm.