Whew.

I got through the eight-hour shift, and it didn't kill me, despite the fact that the store did about four hundred dollars worth of business today and, according to the receipts, three hundred dollars of that business took place between seven and eight PM. Bear in mind that most of the individual items at this bakery cost somewhere between a buck-fifty and two dollars, and you'll see that I was rather run off my feet. However, I feel extremely competent right now, because today I singlehandedly ran a small business in every aspect-- opening, closing, stock-taking, bookkeeping, cleaning, you name it, I did it-- and I didn't do anything egregiously wrong even after I got stupid-tired, and the customers seemed happy, and I did well in tips. This just... would not have been possible, even at the beginning of the summer, I think. I can hardly believe it now.

I'm going to try to keep them from giving me whole-day shifts for a while, still, because I suspect that a good part of today was adrenaline and that the bill will be handed to me later, but so far, so good.

In addition, Ruth happened to stop by and mention that the bookstore had called and said something of hers was in, and could I stop by and get it because she was going to the movies and would be out until after they closed. I immediately wracked my brain to try to figure out what it could be, because there are very few items we buy new instead of used, and even fewer that we pre-order, and the most likely suspect shouldn't have been in existence for another few weeks. So I hustled through closing and got there while the bookstore was still technically open, and it was, in fact, the most likely suspect, so I got to go home with our shiny new copy of Rachel Manija Brown's memoir, All of the Fishes Come Home to Roost.

And that, dear readers, is why I am still up at three in the morning after an eight-hour shift.

I promise to write up a review later. I do not promise to attempt to keep it impartial, because it is an inexpressible gift to have encountered something that, at one and the same time, sends me incredibly deeply into flashback mode on my childhood, and is also very, very funny. So it's a book that hits too close to the bone for me to say much about critically, or even for me to deal with the peculiar brain-freeze that occurs when you know a writer is going to be reading what you say about them, but I'm going to try to do that, later, because I want to recommend this book highly to my acquaintanceship who might not have heard of it, and I want to give reasons.

For now, though, Rachel, you rock, and I love you, and thank you.

Whew.

I got through the eight-hour shift, and it didn't kill me, despite the fact that the store did about four hundred dollars worth of business today and, according to the receipts, three hundred dollars of that business took place between seven and eight PM. Bear in mind that most of the individual items at this bakery cost somewhere between a buck-fifty and two dollars, and you'll see that I was rather run off my feet. However, I feel extremely competent right now, because today I singlehandedly ran a small business in every aspect-- opening, closing, stock-taking, bookkeeping, cleaning, you name it, I did it-- and I didn't do anything egregiously wrong even after I got stupid-tired, and the customers seemed happy, and I did well in tips. This just... would not have been possible, even at the beginning of the summer, I think. I can hardly believe it now.

I'm going to try to keep them from giving me whole-day shifts for a while, still, because I suspect that a good part of today was adrenaline and that the bill will be handed to me later, but so far, so good.

In addition, Ruth happened to stop by and mention that the bookstore had called and said something of hers was in, and could I stop by and get it because she was going to the movies and would be out until after they closed. I immediately wracked my brain to try to figure out what it could be, because there are very few items we buy new instead of used, and even fewer that we pre-order, and the most likely suspect shouldn't have been in existence for another few weeks. So I hustled through closing and got there while the bookstore was still technically open, and it was, in fact, the most likely suspect, so I got to go home with our shiny new copy of Rachel Manija Brown's memoir, All of the Fishes Come Home to Roost.

And that, dear readers, is why I am still up at three in the morning after an eight-hour shift.

I promise to write up a review later. I do not promise to attempt to keep it impartial, because it is an inexpressible gift to have encountered something that, at one and the same time, sends me incredibly deeply into flashback mode on my childhood, and is also very, very funny. So it's a book that hits too close to the bone for me to say much about critically, or even for me to deal with the peculiar brain-freeze that occurs when you know a writer is going to be reading what you say about them, but I'm going to try to do that, later, because I want to recommend this book highly to my acquaintanceship who might not have heard of it, and I want to give reasons.

For now, though, Rachel, you rock, and I love you, and thank you.