Friday and Saturday, The Swinger wasn't feeling well. Which is fine - except he kept wanting me to feel how cold his hands were.
My Brain: Dude, you're a swinger. I could watch you wash your hands in bleach and I still wouldn't want to touch them. Now you're sick and you want me to touch your hands! Are you nuts? That's like swishing my hands around in germ stew.
Finally, I touched them. They were a fuck of a lot warmer than my hands. Then I walked to the washroom like a doctor who had just scrubbed in, and scrubbed my hands with a vengeance.
So Monday, he called in sick. I should have been all Oh my God, how am I going to do all the stuff he normally does. Instead I was all Good, one less day for him to get all pissed off on me.
I learned how to call for a trailer and turn on a reefer. The day went great.
Tuesday he called in sick again. No problem!
My Brain: Yesterday was fine, what's one more day?
|This is the stacker - after it was fixed.|
Then the stacker got stubborn and wouldn't drop a pallet. The stacker has gears and moving chains and shit.
I have a fear of getting my fingers pinched, or I don't know - severed? I called maintenance.
No more than 30 minutes after maintenance left - the strapper vomited.
I hit the emergency stop and started hunting for a manual. I mean seriously folks - I can thread a Serger so how fucking hard could it be?
What seemed like miles of strapping vomit later, I called maintenance again.
I know how to do it now.
The Swinger is supposed to be back tomorrow. If anyone breathes a word of this to him, I might have to run them through the strapper.
I promise, I'll never run you through the strapper, so go vote for me at Circle of Mom's Top 25 Funny Mom's contest. Maybe get your friends and family to vote too - since I'm nowhere near my goal of making it into the top 100. You can vote your favorites every day until February 13th.