Dear Darling Ones,

A surprising number of conversations I have with my friends start like this: “I know you don’t listen to podcasts, but. . .”

Then they go on to describe in excruciatingly dull detail the podcast or the episode they think I should listen to. Most of the time I listen politely because obviously this is important to them. Sometimes though I am not my best self and instead I make obnoxious fart noises while giving two thumbs way way way all the way down.*

Imagine my surprise when not only did I listen to an episode of a podcast while showering this morning, I emailed a friend about the episode. He had told me about the “60 songs that explain the 90s” podcast a few weeks ago, complete with the “I know you don’t listen to podcasts” disclaimer. But he got me by telling me they spent an entire episode discussing Sinead O’Connor’s version of “Nothing Compares 2 U” and, well, apparently that’s all it takes. Since then I’ve been cherry-picking episodes based on if I like the song or artist.

This morning I listened to the episode about Cake’s “The Distance”, and of the four episodes I’ve listened to so far, this is the very best one. Mostly because Podcast Dude seems to have a real relationship and connection to Cake’s music and it’s not just something he’s researching like the other episodes I’ve listened to so far.

What I really, super loved is how Podcast Dude made a connection between Cake and Soul Coughing and the howl of glee I let out while getting dressed was almost loud enough to go back in time to 1996 when I tried to tell Corey the same thing and he refused to hear it.

Corey was a Christian-Slateresque rollerblader who worked at the gas station with me. I, of course, had a huge crush on him despite my aversion to rollerbladers. I was firmly in the skatepunks are the cutest of all wheeled-mammals camp.

Because I’m 95% awkward yeti I have no idea how to flirt. Because I was twenty-three and it was the 90s, I did not think trying to flirt with my co-worker was a bad idea. So I did what every rock & roll loving awkward yeti does, I argued with him about music. My brain was infected by romcoms and shitty tv sitcoms where arguing is the same thing as flirting. Like, why wouldn’t he fall in love with me as I passionately disassembled whatever he just said about the Mighty Mighty BossTones. I might not have know much about love, but I do know that men really love it when you vehemently disagree with them and lay out cogent arguments that make your case.**

Anyway, from 3 p.m. – 11 p.m. Corey and I would talk about music constantly stopping only to sell Mountain Dew and Camel Lights to the citizens of Shakopee or to chat with his roommate or my sisters when they would stop in.

One of Corey’s most endearing traits was that he loved Soul Coughing almost as much as I did and we spent many hours talking about Mike Doughty’s lyrical genius. One of his most unendearing traits was his dislike of Cake. He could not get behind “The Distance” no matter how many times Rev105 played it during our shift. I could not comprehend this because to me Soul Coughing and Cake were like blue M&Ms and green M&Ms. . . virtually the same damn thing with minor cosmetic differences.

I was a twenty-three-year-old absolutist. Everything was black or white. I had no time for namby pamby nuance. I like to think I’ve grown since 1996. However, I have to admit I have not grown so much that I didn’t wish for a flux capcitor so I could go back in time and wave my very excellent rectangle in Corey’s face and shout “I told you so, Soul Coughing and Cake do share a branch on the family tree.”

Unfortunately, Corey got lost to time. I think he went to work in a gas station in Chaska and I went to work at a different gas station in Shakopee. The last time I saw him was in the early-aughts. I was on a first date and we were going to see a movie at the shitty theater in the Eden Prairie mall. I literally bumped into Corey who had a cast on his arm. He was still pretty cute, but there with his girlfriend. It was like awakward yeti to the 107th power. I’m surprised EP didn’t implode from all the awkward I was pushing out.

So the moral of this story is, I was right. He was wrong. I’m bad at flirting, but good at arguing about rock & roll.

Jodi

P.S. I wrote this p.s. as the first two graphs of this letter, but then I made the editorial decision to put them at end since they have very little to do with today’s topic.

I’m cursing myself because I had the idea for this letter when I was filled with caffeine and sunshine and couch dancing to Cake’s phenomenal 1996 album “Fashion Nugget.” Usually when I am so moved I strike while the iron is hot and bang one out all quick and exuberant like. Instead, I tried to be responsible and do the work that people give me money to do.

Now it’s hours later and I am filled with tacos and a setting sun and sleepiness even though I am still listening to Cake’s phenomenal 1996 album “Fashion Nugget” this is zero couch dancing. There isn’t even a shoulder shimmy to be found. A bitch is tired.

 
*This happened to poor BFK recently when she tried to get me to listen to the Obama/Springsteen podcast. Not only did she get the above antics she also got to hear how I’m don’t care for Springsteen and mostly just think of him as a boring John Cougar Mellencamp. I blame MTV for playing the “Glory Days” video roughly 183 times a day the summer of 1985. She also got a small lecture on how I do not care even a little bit about what two super-wealthy men have to say about anything.

I’m a great friend and people love me.

 
**Patently false. Men do not love this and I have been called a boner-killer on more than one occasion because I do this all the time.

I am a great woman and men do not love me.

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Hi Darling Ones,

Sometimes a memory comes at you so fast and furious you have to blow off work to get it off your chest lest it fester all day. I saw a tweet a few minute ago where a woman talked about quitting her job, and it made me think about if I had ever quit a job, then the floodgates. . .

In the 90s after college I worked at a gas station across the street from my parents’ house. I’ve mentioned this about one thousand times over the past twenty-years of this blog. However, I don’t think I ever mentioned why I stopped working at that gas station.

I quit a mere minutes before I was supposed to start my 3-11 shift. In fact, I might have just done a no call/no show. I don’t know if I formally quit. 1997 was a long time ago.

I quit because Sister #3 came home from the gas station and told me how my boss, Wes, was making fat jokes about me. He said something about his shock that she and I were sisters since she was so thin and petite and I was not. He said something about how she must be so thin because I ate all the food in the house.

Of course I burst into tears. I was so ashamed and humiliated. Even though we’ve come a long way on the word fat, we weren’t there in the nineties. It was the worst thing you could call a white girl, and was shorthand for so many things: lazy, gross, unkempt, ignorant, oblivious, and icky. Here was my boss calling me all these things, in front of my sister and other coworkers. I still blush and my eyes prick with tears remembering it.

I don’t remember exactly what happened immediately after that. Like I said, I don’t know if I called in or not.

What I do remember is almost every person in my life thought I was overreacting, being irrational, especially my mom. The prevailing wisdom was that since I was fat, it was okay for him to make jokes about me and my body. As a fat girl I was supposed to take it because that’s what you get for being a fat girl. They expected me to suck it up and go back to work for that man who disrespected me and act like it was okay for him to do that. After all, he was only kidding. It was just a joke. Why did I have to be so sensitive?

It was the 90s so we didn’t have words like hostile work environment or body-shaming or fatphobia. Or, if we did, I didn’t know them.

I must have filed some sort of official complaint because I know I talked to corporate HR on the phone. I was pretty adamant that I would not work there as long as Wes was in charge. Their solution was, “well, how about you go work at a gas station in Chaska?” And my response was, “Why doesn’t he go work at a gas station in Chaska?”

I know I kept insisting this was discrimination but nothing came of it. He continued to work there. I did not. And my parents were super mad at me for like a month until I got a job at a different gas station, which I got fired from for stealing.*

Looking back, I’m kind of amazed I stood up for myself. I was only 24 and up until that point took all the fatshaming and bullying life had dealt me like a good fatgirl. It had been drilled into me since birth that being fat was a moral failing on my part (my mom still thinks thin people are morally superior) and therefore it was my fault people made jokes at my expense, bullied me, and picked on me. I still have no idea where that sense of self-respect came from. I don’t even know if I would have it now.

But damn, I’m impressed with Gas Station Jodi for standing up and advocating for herself.

Ahh, memories.
Jodi
 
*A bunch of us got fired for stealing because they were not keen on us eating the cheese sticks and corndogs without paying for them. They literally wanted us to throw them away. We made like $6/hr.

P.S. This must have all been floating near the surface because yesterday I listened to a playlist called “1996 Rock” and in my head I said, “more like ‘Jodi’s Gas Station Jams.'”

The post The COVID Diaries: That Time My Boss Made Fat Jokes About Me appeared first on I Will Dare.

Total gas station used to be on the corner of First Avenue and Atwood in Shakopee. The house my parents’ rented was right across the street. I worked the 3-11 shift most nights in 1996 and 1997. I hated the job because I thought I was too good for it. Yes, I was an insufferable jackass as a twenty-something. Thank you for noticing.

My coworkers and I didn’t have a lot in common, well except for Sister #2, who also worked there, but never with me.

Angie was a mean girl with bad skin, bleached-blonde hair who tight-rolled her pants and drove a purple Corvette. She had her own tanning bed in the trailer she shared with her, allegedly, abusive boyfriend. Shari was an eighteen-year-old who looked like Alanis Morissette and struggled a lot. In the year I knew her she had two abortions and gave birth to a super-preemie who died after a few days.

One day as Shari was counting out and I was counting in, “Santeria” came on the radio.

“Did you know that Santeria is like a real religion?”
“Really? How do you know that?” I asked.
“I saw it on Pop-Up videos.”
“Huh,” I said. “I had no idea.”

The post Day 168 of 200: How We Learned in the Time Before Google appeared first on I Will Dare.

This random flashback brought to you by hearing “Creep” by Radiohead on the radio this afternoon.
After college and before Corporate America I spent two(ish) years working at two different gas stations. With twenty-years of hindsight I can see these jobs were not so bad. I basically got paid to listen to The Replacements, smoke cigarettes, and read — mostly the trashy magazines we sold but occasionally, I’d bring a book with me. I lived at home for most of the this time and all my money was spent on CDs and books. It was kinda glorious.

However, as a sullen 20something asshole I thought the jobs were beneath me and that my life was wasting away one shift at a time. I hated working there and worried incessantly that everyone I sold Marlboros and Mountain Dew to would think I was nothing but a gas station attendant. I had gone to college! I was smart! I read books! Having people knows these things was very important to me at the time. It’s not like I was some loser.

Did I mention what a jackass I was? Total jackass. I would have more guilt about this if I wasn’t firmly convinced most people are total assholes while they’re in their 20s. It’s biological or something.

Working at a gas station was about as exciting as you’d imagine it to be. There were annoying things that happened (people dressed in RenFest garb) and unusual things (Davy Jones from the Monkees coming in and buying an ice cream sandwich and a coke), but mostly it was mundane as hell.

Most of the customers blurred into a faceless blob, with a few regulars who stuck out when I was working there but have been lost to time.

Except for Creep.

He was nearly as tall as I was, darkly-tanned, brown-eyed, and you could tell his normally dark hair had been lightened by the sun to a sandy shade of brown. He wore a tank top splattered with paint that showed of nice arms and one of those hemp necklaces that clung tight around his throat. It’s forgivable, because it was the nineties. We didn’t know any better.

As soon as he walked in all I was all ZING! POW! hard nipples, tingling between my legs, and short of breath. It must have been a chemical reaction. I had never seen him before but damn my reaction was physical and immediate.

He smiled as he walked up to my cash register with a half-gallon of orange juice in one hand and a Snickers in the other. My knees got all jelly-like and my brain left my body. Then, when he was about two feet away, he burst into song.

I wish I was special. You’re so fucking special. But I’m a creep. I’m a weirdo. What the hell am I doing here?

I barked with laughter as he plopped his stuff on the counter between us and I rang up his stuff.

“Anything else?” I asked.
“You don’t belong here. You don’t belong here,” he sang.
I laughed again. “Great song.”
“Stop flirting with the girl,” one of his friend yelled from the door. “We gotta go.”

He grabbed his orange juice and candy bar, while leaning over the counter and smiling right in my face, raising his eyebrows in goodbye.

I watched him walk across the parking lot with two other dudes to a truck filled with ladders and painting stuff. I gasped when he climbed into the truck and shut the door, but only because I had been holding my breath.

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