Well, I've been canned at Pizza Pit. The story isn't very exciting, but I'm gonna tell it anyway simply because it bothers me still, after over a week.
Sunday before Christmas, I was feeling pretty crappy. I woke up exhausted, which is unusual for me, and kept hitting the snooze button on my alarm clock. I was feeling warm and woozy, and ended up calling my boss and telling him I didn't think I could make it in that day, as I had already missed the bus and I was SOL for a ride until way after we opened. Right after I did that, my boyfriend woke up with an alarming temperature and immediately started vomiting, so I had to put my feelings of crappyness on the back burner whilst I took care of him. My poor boy was really ill all day, and I was fetching him applesauce, blankets and drinks for most of the day. The next day he was feeling much better, and I cleaned up the apartment a bit whilst he went to work. Tuesday the woozy feeling was worse, but I managed to haul myself into work and ended up swaying through most of my shift.
I figured that some good sleep on my day off, Wednesday, would help out, but turned out I was wrong. Thursday came and I was far sicker than my boyfriend had been on Sunday. I had to run to the bathroom to shout a rainbow about every ten minutes. My father, bless him, drove me to work because I didn't think I could handle the bus, and I knew I couldn't call off again. As soon as I got to work, I was on autopilot, turning things on and getting everything ready whilst fighting back the urge to lie down on the floor and die. Bestie was driving, and as soon as she got there, she was alarmed. Apparently I was extremely pale and looked like I was about to become best mates with the Grim Reaper.
It was at that time that the toilet broke. Well, the flusher broke anyway. Nothing was going right at all that day. I tried to soldier on, though, knowing that the next day I was going to New York for Christmas for a few glorious days, and I could rest and relax in the clean, fresh air of my hometown. So I flushed the toilet with buckets of water. The lunch rush hit and Bestie and the kitchen staff jumped to my aid. I tried not to breathe on anyone's food whilst ringing them up, and many customers looked concerned as I handed them their money.
After the twelfth time in the bathroom that hour, I made the executive decision to call the boss and let him know that I couldn't continue. He'd understand, I thought. As it turned out, no, he would not.
He got there, glared at me, then immediately went into his office. My father had arrived by that time to take me home, so I made it out of the door and into the car. Halfway from downtown to my house, my cell phone rang. Bestie informed me that Rude needed to see me RIGHT NOW. I informed her that I was a good ten minutes away and on the verge of changing the colour of the interior of my dad's car, but she told me that I really needed to come back. Rude was angry.
So my father pulled over to the side of the road, I vomited, then we went back to Pit. I walked into Rude's office, and he told me he was firing me, and he needed my key back immediately. At this point, I was on the verge of passing out, so I gave him my keyring. He then followed me out of the office, yelling that I obviously didn't care about him or his business, and that I deserved to be unemployed, blah blah blah.
It was very inconsiderate of me to be ill, Rude. Next time I'll check your schedule and have a stomach flu at a time more convenient for you. Also, thanks for firing me three days before Christmas. Mighty jolly of you.
Anyway, I'm out of a job. I'm considering going for unemployment; the job market here is miserable, and money is growing ever tighter, especially since I need to save up for my move in April downtown. Do you guys have any advice?
Love, kisses, and what the fuck am I going to do now?