An ending

I don't like to cry. I especially don't like to cry in public. There's something so humiliating about putting yourself out there like that. There's something shameful in being honest about your emotions with other people. I don't know why, but that's the way it is.

I can remember several moments that I've cried in public:
In fifth grade, when I had a 103 degree fever.
In my tenth grade math class, when one of my brothers was kicked out of our house.
Two weeks after I got my driver's license, when I got my first speeding ticket.
Last Saturday at work.

Before I went in, I wondered if I should call out because I hadn't gotten much sleep the night before and I felt like I was teetering on the edge of an emotional cliff. But I went in anyways. I figured keeping myself busy would somehow keep me from thinking about how miserable I was. About how terrified I was. About how I had let things get to this.

So I wore my best mask. I used my best automated "I'm fine, how are you?" responses.

It worked for about an hour and a half.

Then, one of my managers asked me if I was ok. I said I was fine.
"Are you sure? You seem flustered," she said.
"No, I'm ok. I'm just dealing with a few things," I trailed off.
"Nothing wrong here?"

Why, oh why couldn't she just drop it? Every lying answer I gave only made things harder and harder for me to bear.

"No, just some stuff at home," I said.

But that was the final straw. I couldn't look her in the eyes. I could feel my face getting red and blotchy. I could feel my eyes swell, threatening to spill over. I tried to blink it out. I tried to think about something positive.

She just stood there waiting. It's like she knew this was coming, and she was just trying to coax it out of me all along. I had held it all day, and I couldn't hold it any longer. This was it. I was breaking.

I started to cry, right there by the front registers. My manager let me leave the floor. I trudged up the stairs, trying my best to hold it in. I futilely wiped my eyes in an attempt to hide the tears staining my cheeks. The tears that were leaving behind evidence that nothing, in fact, was alright.

I got to the employee bathroom where I sat on the floor and cried.

I have a few days off. I think it will be good for me.

How old is too old?

Imagine seeing this



on this



WTF

Zebra Bites

Hung over. Not the best way to go to work.

Especially when they surprise you with register training.

Nevermind standing around the store, keeping to myself while I fold clothes.

At least I got to hear an amazing story. About zebras.

I was ringing up this older lady, and decided to make small talk. One of the shirts she was buying had zebras on it, and me, being the animal print fiend that I am, told her how much I liked the shirt.

She laughed and said she was buying it for her neice. Her neice that got bit by a zebra once.

WHAT?!

The lady started to cackle at the thought of seeing her poor neice opening the Christmas present only to find the one thing in the world that terrifies her most. Zebras.

How in the hell does someone get bitten by a zebra? Apparently as a child, the neice was at a zoo with her family, stuck out her hand towards a zebra, and the zebra bit it. The neice remembers trying to scream, but nothing came out, like in one of those bad dreams. The lady told me that everyone just couldn't stop laughing when it happened.
They even took pictures of it.

That's a little fucked up. Getting bitten by a zebra as a child clearly has had an effect on this poor girl, as she is still terrified by them. I'm sure they bring out the pictures every once in a while just to shake her up a bit. I can hear it now:

"Oh, remember that time when soandso got bitten by a zebra?! Hahahaa!"

The neice probably secretly wants to kill them all. And I'm not talking about zebras.

Sober Friday

Today, I was up at the front of the store folding clothes and eavesdropping on people coming and going.

I was listening in on this blond lady in her late 40s. I heard her ask the person on the other end of her cell phone,
"When did it happen?"

Her mother died.

The blond woman started crying right there on the spot.

"I can't believe she's gone," she repeated over and over through her muffled tears. Her husband held her and slowly escorted her out of the store while a sad song filtered through the speakers.

It made me want to cry. I wanted to hug her, to somehow make her feel better even though I knew that a simple hug never could.

My parents are getting older. They will die someday, and that scares me. I will have to continue on without their guidance.

Sometimes I think that I haven't been a good enough daughter. That I haven't thanked them enough. That I've asked for too much and given too little back.

What a solemn night.

Dazzled

I saw a guy in a silver sequin suit and top hat while I was at work.
It made my night.

Drug Test, Schmug Test

Alright, kids. I finally did it. I finally buckled down. I gave up my moaning, my groaning and my hopes of becoming a hobo. I got the job.

My first day was Sunday. Easy, Easy, Easy.

I have to admit, I was scared that they were going to make me do a drug test.

Not because I do drugs. I don't.

Rather, because of an unfortunate drug test experience I once had.

It was fall of 2006. I had just moved up to Tampa for my first semester at USF. I didn't really know a whole lot of people up here, and I figured I would just kinda do something on my own and apply to work at Howl-O-Scream. (See Previous Blog Posts)

So there I was, filling out paper work to be some sort of ghoul or demon and they asked if I could do a drug test. No problem.



Boy, was I ever wrong.

I walked down this rinky-dink road to some motor home shack stationed out in the middle of nowhere in some corner on Busch Gardens' ground. I walked up the creaky stairs and into this room where several people sat waiting.

"Are you going to need help going pee?" some creepy Chinese guy asked me.

"Excuse me?" I responded.

He was scrawny. His hair was too short. I looked at the book in his hand: The Life of Pi. This could be nothing good.

"Oh, I didn't mean to scare you," he replied.

"I think I have it under control," I said as I took my seat. Far, far away.

I waited for about 10 minutes, and a nurse called out my name. I followed her to this back room where the Chinese guy waited.

He handed me a cup, a very large cup, and instructed me to pee in it.

Well, wasn't that just perfect?

He took me across the small room to a stall. Yes, I had a stall all to myself.

He stepped back and waited.

AWKWARD.

I took a deep breath and told myself it was no big deal that he was in the same room. Listening. And being creepy.

So I proceeded to attempt filling the cup. That's when he started talking to me.

Needless to say, I could not do it. I could not pee with some strange man talking to me through a small, thin stall door. For all I knew, he was one of those weirdies with some pee fetish. It only makes sense.



So I was escorted back to the waiting room, where I chugged a bottle of water. I needed to get out of this place. And fast.

I grabbed the cup from the Chinese guy and peed as quickly as possible.

And then, to my horror, he started to touch my hair.

But I had to let him. Because he needed a hair sample. A LOT of hair. Three big chunks from the base of my head, to be exact.

Now, this was a horrifying experience for me. And it only got worse.

I was at school the next day, the first day of classes. I was sitting on this bench reading a newspaper by the Burger King waiting for my lecture hall to open up, when I happened to glance up and none one other than the Chinese guy was walking by! I quickly looked back down, praying to God he didn't see me.

Out of all of the people on campus, why, oh why, did I have to run into him?!

He didn't stop, so I figured I was ok. About 15 minutes later, the lecture hall was cleared out, so I stood up to make my way over. I looked over by the Burger King tables.

There he was. The Chinese guy. He was just standing there, watching.

And that's my creepy Chinese guy drug test story.

A job interview, or two

I want a laid-back job. Not one where I have to dress up, take out my piercing, brush my hair or take a shower. You get the picture. I just want to be, well, me.



I applied at Zumiez a while back. Do I skateboard? No. Do I wear their clothes? Nope. But this place seemed like it has a pretty chill environment.

TOO BAD THEY NEVER CALLED ME.

I guess they didn't buy me singing Avril's "He was a skater boy" as I did ollies on my imaginary skateboard with my application in hand.



Just when I was thinking about calling the job hunt quits, I decided to spend more money I didn't have. I went to Ybor to go to this show and the girls and I wandered to Urban Outfitters where I looked at all the neat things saying,
"OOOOH I love that!" and
"When I get a job, I'm coming for this!" and
"This is what I want for Christmas, hint hint, nudge nudge." etc etc.

That was about the moment when the sky parted. The birds sang. Rainbows, butterflies, Starbucks (Tall Mocha Frappucinno, please)

Yes, yours truly filled out a job application for Urban Outfitters, where hardest question was, "What was the last CD you bought?"

The interview was much of the same. Until the manager dropped the bomb.

"Ok, you're stuff checks out, so now we just need you to fill out a questionaire online and if you pass...."

Profanities coursed through my head. I tried so hard not outwardly show my inward upheaval.

If you've ever had to take one of those tests, I'm sure you know what I mean.



Alright. So I may be exaggerating a little bit. It's not exactly THAT kind of test, but it may as well be!

It's one of those timed things that asks you all sorts of personal questions, all relating to the following categories:

Drug use
Stealing
Lying
Following the rules
blah, blah, blah

These tests wouldn't be so bad if there wasn't so much pressure. Especially if the test asks THE question:

"Do you lie?"

Now, how in the hell are you supposed to answer that in a "Yes" or "No" format? This question royally fucks anyone trying to get a job anywhere and should be banned.

If you answer "Yes," then whatever dipshit that put the question on the test will think that you are a liar and that you probably lied about every other question you answered on the test.

If you say "No," then the dipshit will still think that you are a liar because come on, everybody lies from time to time.

This is a lose-lose situation, people.


Luckily, this question was not on the test for Urban Outfitters.

I'll give you one guess as to what kind of corporation DOES have this absurd question.
*Cough, Victoria's Secret, Cough*

Anyway, I passed the test for Urban, and go for a second interview Thursday.

Two interviews?

Do I Really Need a Job?

I don't want to get another job.

As a matter of fact, I'd be perfectly content with going back to my initial plan of becoming a hobo. Or maybe a cat lady.



I mean, how can I go back to a regular ho-hum mall job after working at Howl-O-Scream? Just remembering my last regular job gives me shivers.

You would think that Victoria's Secret would be a great place to work.

Think again, my friends. Think again.



Sure, getting discounts and free bras sounds great. But what price do you really pay?

"Kristin, measure this ridiculously fat lady's boobs because I'm too lazy."

"Kristin, sorry I'm a half an hour late this morning. I know I told you to be here at 8:30 a.m., but I just HAD to buy donuts."

"Kristin, don't stand with your arms crossed. It's not inviting."

"Kristin, organize every panty in the entire store while I sit here on my fat ass and eat."

"Kristin, sell a credit card to that lady over there and I'll buy you a cookie."

What? Do I look like a fucking monkey? Do it yourself, bitch.

I became one of those annoying people. You know, the ones that bombard you the first second you walk through the door of the store. The ones that try to sell you something you don't want. I was forced to sell 2 credit cards every 4 hour shift I worked.

But measuring people's breasts sounds fun, right?

Maybe to a guy. Or a lesbian. But the stories I can tell would be sure to steer both away from the female race.

"I'm sorry ma'am. We don't carry 82 FFF at Victoria's Secret."



Once, this old lady tried to get me touch her underwear.
WHILE SHE WAS STILL WEARING THEM.

Another time, I fitted this lady for a bra who was rather strange looking.
Her boobs, I mean. They just looked off. She told me that she shouldn't be the size I had fitted her for because she had just gotten a boob job.
That explained it. It was a terrible boob job.
"Are you wearing a pushup bra?" I asked her.
"I'm not wearing any bra," she stated with a creepy smile.

Oh. my. god.

So not worth the measely $7 an hour.

I had to get the hell out of that place. In the end, they only gave me about 6 hours a week because they kept hiring new sluts to work the panty tables.

Greedy bastards.

Hooray for Corporate America.

Wish me luck on my quest for a new job.

Become a Part of the Madness

July. That's when auditions are. Because ex Howl-O-Scream workers can't stand to wait any longer.

July is actually the auditions for those who have worked Howl-O-Scream before, but anyone can go. The early dates are only advertised to us, so we get first dibs on what positions we want to work. FYI- I'll be in Masters and Monsters again next year.

The regular auditions run from August through the beginning of October.

Now, I know you're thinking, "Audition? I don't know if I can do that."



Trust me. You can.

Here's what it entails:
- Doing bullshit paperwork
- Signing more papers, yaddayadda
- ACTING LIKE A FOOL

You audition in groups of ten in this large, spacious room. There is a panel of people at one end watching and taking notes.

What do you have to do you ask?

Walk like a zombie. Dig a grave. Turn into a werewolf. Pretend like someone is following you. Pretend that half of your body is limp.

Everyone does it together. People are screaming, falling on the ground foaming at the mouths. You know, this is normal for them.

I generally am not quite SO open about being a freak. So, it may feel a little weird, but once you watch the crazy guy next to you rolling around on the ground ripping off his shirt, you feel a lot better about yourself.



The next part of the audition is working with a wall. The wall looks like one you would find in a haunted house. There are drop doors to open, holes to poke out from and more hidden spaces meant to scare from.

Everyone is assigned a spot and must scare the guy that walks by.

After you are done with that, you find out what position you will be in.

Basically everyone who auditions gets a part. You just have to loosen up a little. Just a little.

It'll be good for you.

I'll see you there!

Final Weekend!

It was a bittersweet ending. The last weekend of making people scream, jump, fall and spill drinks all over themselves. The last weekend of making like-minded twisted friends, getting paid to stay up all night and wearing gory makeup. The last weekend of having to put up with insults from crazed guests, dodging punches and being disgustingly sweaty.

In the end, it was definitely worth it.

Despite my clumsiness. If you ever walked through the zone, chances are you saw me trip over myself, get my hair stuck in a tree or fall down a step. I somehow broke my big toenail off, even though I wore closed toed shoes.

The last shift of the last night was the best yet. The zone was complete chaos. Dancing, singing and yelling absurd things.

The best thing about Howl-O-Scream is that you are allowed to act like a complete lunatic. You are allowed to run around and be creepy. You are allowed to scare people senseless.

I have this theory: that everyone has a little sick, psycho inside of them waiting to come out. And this is the perfect outlet. Because you don't actually have to kill anyone.

Howl-O-Scream makes Halloween a month affair. What more could you ask for?

Stay tuned on how YOU TOO can be a part of it....

BUAHAHAHA

Take a Daytime Tour of the Zone!

Fourth Weekend!

Working four nights in a row without having your costume washed? Not
pleasant. Not for you or anyone else within a 20 foot radius of you for
that matter.

Good thing I called out for two of the nights. I guess I had to learn that
life gets in the way of scaring from time to time.

Unfortunately, I also had to learn to share this weekend.

You see, there are several noisemakers to choose from to use in our zone. I always called dibs on this one that cranks. Think human bones on a cheese grater.

Anyway, this other kid discovered it when I was busy banging mallets on barrels.
But, lets just say that he had to learn to share as well.

When I wasn't using the crank, I learned to use a new toy. It is a large,
wooden slap stick that sounds like a whip when used properly. I
eventually got the hang of it, but not before I ended up hitting myself
a half a dozen times. The slap stick felt as though it would fall
apart at any moment. All I could think was that the prop was going to
break and wood would fly apart and hit a guest in the face. So I slapped harder.


"You're just evil with that thing," a zone manager told me.
Mother would be proud.

The first night I worked, I did an hour and a half shift. Which,
I'm sure sounds like a glorious thing to those who have never worked at Howl-O-Scream. But, believe me, it is not.

While working at HOS, employees get breaks every half hour for a
half hour. There is also and hour break thrown in there for lunch. So
basically, we work half the time. The best part is that we only get
our pay deducted for one of the breaks.

Well that night, I covered this girl's shift and thought I was going to die from the heat.

But I have concluded that the real reason Busch Gardens gives its HOS employees so many breaks is because employees need time for their frustrations with guests to subside.

Highlights of the weekend:

Worst: I scared a guy and he nearly punched me in the face. I ducked out of the way right in time.

Funniest: A coworker and I accidentally scared each other.

Best: I was doing my infamous "crazy dance" when I heard a
girl coming up behind me say, "This girl is crazy. She doesn't know
what she's doing." I took it as my cue to scare. She ran the other way
yelling, "Yes she does!"

Weirdest: Bird man asking me if he looks better with his regular nose or beak.

Third Weekend!

"You're a creepy little shit!" a huge guy dressed as a bloodied half
wolf said. I smiled. "Good to know I'm doing my job well," I replied to
my co-worker on our break.

You see, he was speaking of this particular technique I like to use. Sometimes some
smart ass in the crowd will say something like "oh baby" to
try and freak me out. HA. Silly, silly boys and girls. When this
happens, I usually stop whatever it is I'm doing and proceed to follow
you. I don't just walk behind you. I crouch down as if I'm ready to
pounce. Sometimes I skip. Sometimes I run. I make plenty of noise just
to make sure you know I'm there. And every time you turn around, I
smile the creepiest smile that gets bigger and creepier every time you
look.

Bottom line: you'll regret trying to scare me.

This weekend, I have perfected my niche. My favorite thing to do is
dance. Our zone has drums beating constantly in the background. So I
dance. Not just a regular dance. The kind of dance that leads people to
call me "retarded" and "crazy." After I distract them with that, then
BAM. I scare.

Highlights of the weekend:

Worst: The usual- getting called every profanity in the book, being
spit on, grabbed by drunk guys, tickled(?) by a drunk guy and all in
all having my patience tested beyond belief

Funniest:



Best: Having a dance-off with a fellow urchin. We both scared the crap out of a huge
group of people

Weirdest: When I was doing my dance, a guy yelled "It's her sex dance!"
Another guy sang, yes sang the word, "Masturbation" and did a robot
dance. I guess that's how he masturbates.

Second Weekend!

Rain. Cold rain.

We waited for it to stop.

Our makeup dripped down our faces. Our bodies shook from cold. Our feet squished in wet shoes.

We scared for less than an hour that night.

The rest of our time was spent sitting in the break area eating candy.

At least we got paid.

Why My Job is Better than Yours: My 2006 Blog

So working at Howl-O-Scream has been the best job ever. EVER. I mean, when you audition for something that requires you to act like a zombie and turn into a werewolf, you know you're at the right place.

I'm working in the Third-Dementia. Now, a lot of people don't like this house, because it's not necessarily "scary." However, it is something different. Trippy music plays as you wear 3-D glasses and walk through the house full of crazy paintings. The house can best be described as more of an acid trip minus the acid. And at first, I have to admit I was upset that I wouldn't be dressing up as a creature of the dead or a psychotic dancer at Club Muse. But now I am very happy with being a polka-dotted ninja!



I work in the Spots Room, where I blend in with the walls and jump out and scare people. It's satisfying enough just listening to the screams, but I get paid too! I bang on the walls and shake this thing in people's ears. I get to freak people out. My dream job.

So far, there have been a mixture of good and bad experiences. But the good far outweigh the bad.
I was groped by two different girls. Yeah. They grabbed my boobs. On two seperate occasions. And one girl called me a nigger after I shoved her? yeah...........

One time this lady grabbed my arm and tried to pull me "away" with her. Guests always assume that I'm a guy. Another time, this girl bent over and asked me to spank her. HA. And an old guy tried poking my boob once. EEEW. But it's probably because the people who made the costume put a dot right on my boob. Why would they do that?? It's silly. Just because there are Polka-dots on my costume doesn't mean you can Poke a dot.
hardyharhar.

I've lost track of how many people I have made fall to the ground screaming, losing their glasses and gum.

One time this guy with a neck brace came through. I decided not to scare him. And some people come through with little kids. And babies!! Why on Earth would someone bring their baby through a haunted house?? Craziness.

I made a little boy cry.

I made a sixteen year old girl cry. "Please, NO!! I'm so scared!!! WAAAA!" Exactly what she said. She ran out crying histerically. I proceeded to laugh histerically. I'm a nice person, really.

I like to make big guys scream like little girls. Its quite gratifying when they jump two feet in the air then swear at me. I'm sorry you cant take it. Suckers!

It's annoying when people walk through and point and say "I see you!" because they usually don't even have the 3-D glasses on. If they are so brave, then why did they take the glasses off? Pansies. BTW, if you say you see me, I'm still going to scare you.

My co-workers are awesome. Period.

Howl-O-Scream Opening Weekend: SUCCESS!!

I spotted him. He walked with his chest stuck out, head held high. The girls he was with clung to him as he laughed at those who screamed. He sipped his beer as if nothing could faze him. His overbearing ego made me cringe.

Yes, he would be perfect; my next victim.

As I patiently waited in the eerie light, I planned the perfect scare and how I would do my worst to this poor sap. Scaring is, afterall, an art.

I jumped out with my noisemaker and cried a bloodcurdling scream. He jumped about 3 feet into the air, screamed like a little girl and spilled his beer all over himself. I turned around, shared a smug smirk with a fellow scarer who had witnessed it and reset for the next person who would be so unfortunate as to cross paths with me.

Oh, the sweet satisfaction.

It’s that time of year again, when the lovers of vampires, gore and horror movies get together for the best job-that’s-almost-not-even-a-job: Howl-O-Scream at Busch Gardens.

It’s my second year with the Scare Squad, and this year I’m working at one of the newest scare zones: Masters and Monsters. When I’m in costume, please address me as Ursula, the street urchin.

Masters and Monsters is set up outside for guests to walk through on the way to other attractions. Think "The Island of Dr. Moreau" meets "Mad Max." Monsters are loosed from their huge cages and fighting arenas by their masters, terrorizing all who dare to pass through.

Last weekend was opening weekend. All in all, the experience was horrifying. And I, of course, mean that in a good way.

I creep people out. I scare. I get eaten by monsters.
You know, same old same old.

The highlights of opening weekend:

Worst: Some drunk guy pushing me and my left index finger going numb

Funniest: Some drunk guy running up to me, yelling the word “boobie” and running away

Best: Making all those macho guys scream like little girls

Weirdest: A coworker dressed as a half bird half human, whose costume included a beak on his nose, telling me that he loves my scream and not to worry because he wouldn’t peck me; he then proceeded to laugh

Scaring on until next weekend…