26.01.13- Scanners, Scratchcards and Slightly Hormonal Outbursts

Today is a Saturday which means a 6.15am alarm and growling over a double shot of caffeine in my work jacket. I've been there 3 and a half years and that Saturday alarm does not get any easier to deal with. Especially not when you're a hormonal woman. Which, sadly, I am.
At least this week I didn't accidentally remove half my eyebrow, which I am pleased to report is growing back well and won't have to be pencilled for very much longer.
There are 3 simple ways to tell whether you're dealing with a hormonal cat lady as opposed to a tired Nat:

1) Everything makes me cry. Have I run out of apples? Oh God. I simply must deal with this in the manner of a Trojan widow and tear off my clothes, beat my bare breasts and roll around on the floor weeping.
2) I don't care what my blood sugar reading is today. GIVE ME THE SODDING DAIRY MILK YOU WHORE.
3) Bump into my chest and I will make a noise like a shot elephant.

"Oh God, I can only find my blue sock and I felt like green ones today."

Today I woke up and had to pretend a piece of liquorice was chocolate. It didn't work and so I made myself another coffee and tried not to cry.
At 7.55am I stepped through the automatic doors of the supermarket where I work part-time. When this happens I have to leave my grumpiness outside and start smiling like Ronald McDonald on marijuana-laced chicken nuggets. It would be another 8 hours before I could claim back my inner grouch (though I did have a cheeky sigh or two on lunch break. I could have looked threatening had I not been slurping a pot of sugar-free Rowntree's jelly).
Work itself was fine. I love my customers. I love working with my colleagues. I love being in a small store where everybody knows everybody and you actually take an interest in each other's lives.
Most of all I love old people.

Old people are often more awesome than the average adolescent.

They get lonely and come to talk to the checkout people. They especially love complaining and talking about cats, which suits me down to the ground. I like complaining and I like cats. I like the way customers are genuinely appreciative if you go out of your way to help them or take an interest in them and have a laugh. Some of my best life advice has been from the elderly.
My most memorable was a quote from an old lady during one dull Sunday shift after I had a sneezing fit (by the way, I believe sneezing is one of the best things in life. Ever. Not sure about that claim that 8 sneezes feels like an orgasm however).

OLD LADY: "Oh lovey, are you coming down with something?"
ME: "Maybe, perhaps I'm going to get a cold."
OLD LADY: "Ah, that means you're lacking something. Vitamin C and sex."

The age-old cure for colds. Apparently.

So there you have it. Give up your Beechams and burn your Covonia, everyone just needs an orange juice and a shag.
Today I had no such advice unfortunately, but I was complimented a lot on my hair colour which was nice. I'm not sure how to take the comment from one old man that "you look like a bloody traffic light", but traffic lights are very useful I suppose so I'll take it as a compliment.
Every Saturday after my shift I buy myself a scratchcard. Working behind a kiosk, there are some who will spend up to £80 on the things and win nothing. I don't want to be a gambler. My name is not Jeremy Kyle plus I'm too tight anyway; those are my student funds for my coursebooks (ie, double Smirnoffs on a Thursday night).
Last week I won a tenner. A world of possibility opened up to me. I could buy a bottle of wine. I could buy a DVD. I could go to the cinema. I could buy a bouquet of flowers and surprise my Mum.
I actually spent it on a taxi and a packet of Wrigley's Extra.
This week, sadly I won nothing. This nearly made me cry. I got in my car. I started missing my ex-boyfriend of 2 and a half years and our mutual appreciation of tea and crackers in bed in our slippers last thing at night. This made me cry. The Titanic theme tune came on my iPod. I cried.

What I genuinely look like whilst watching "The Notebook"

Bloody hormones. And I've STILL had no chocolate. My Nan and my Mum made me laugh after work as usual though and I've decided to stay home tonight with my lovely dog. He has to make do instead of a cat, though he is about as graceful and feline as a breezeblock. I'm now bubble-bathed, caffeinated and over my scratchcard defeat. I do still miss people I shouldn't miss. I do still want chocolate.
People probably now think I'm strange. I don't want to be dolled up on Wind Street. I want to grab my dog, paint my nails, watch the Notebook and cry into a jar of beetroot.
But as my Nan says: "Bollocks to everyone else, do what YOU want to do."
Thanks, Nan.
Oh, God I've run out of beetroot.