My apologies for the recent lapse in posting. Without the PR entourage of Lebron, I've yet to stage a media circus surrounding my current employment status.
I have a job, commensurate with my ability level, that I am quite excited to pursue! It's not the dramatic relocation or 4-hr work week of my fantasy, but in about 3 weeks I will be free from the clutches of my parents' home. In fact, I will no longer be relegated to a cubicle nor obligatory weekend work.
Beginning this September, I will be teaching economics and history at a New England boarding school.
This blog was the cathartic distraction necessary to alleviate the distress of under-employment, and I would like to sincerely thank my readers. I'm still seeking a publishing opportunity, and am amenable to any suggestions for pursuant blog topics (as I'm trying not to risk this job...).
With my usual phobia of commitment, a 1-year contract has been enacted. Thus while I enjoy the remainder of this summer preparing for classes, 12 months from now remains a mystery.
Monday, August 2, 2010
Thursday, July 15, 2010
Guest Blogger- "I am supposed to be job hunting"
Thanks again to a continuing contributor for this gem of a story:
When you are out in the real world and don't have that serious, "real world" job, you tend to take nothing seriously and act like you are still a college kid. This also includes spending every dime you make and ignoring the call of long-overdue college loans around the corner. The question is, when is it NOT OK to be acting like this? Take my experiences this past weekend...
I hate my waitressing job, therefore I tell my boss I still have an internship every Wednesday and Thursday so I don't have to work. Knowing I had these two days off, I then I planned a trip to the Hamptons with my college girlfriends Friday through Monday. Now that's a solid week off of doing nothing but boozing and laying on my couch when I could be looking for better jobs. Priorities are obviously not in order.
We arrive in the Hamptons. The younger and middle-aged residents here live the life of working hardcore bartending or barbacking Thursday-Saturday night and make as much money most people make in two weeks. People get off their shift Saturday night and decide to go out because the bars are open till 4am. Sunday comes, and while most people are relaxing, everyone who's anyone knows its time to go to the Boardy Barn, an outdoor deck/tent that is only open 3-8 on Sundays. The theme of the barn is to make anyone who is a "first timer" chug beer, and put smiley face stickers on anyone you see. My girls and I obviously had to see what this was about. Seeing as no one cares about their jobs, taking Monday off was required. Any mature, 23 year old would figure that 4 hours of drinking on a Sunday seems fun and then we can just get to bed early. While I do remember the hour of 7pm/last call approaching, my next memory is nightfall and a bunch of us deciding to go swimming, in the ocean. We arrive at the beach and I drop my camera. Broken. No biggie- I'll just buy another one! I decide to go into the water with my zip-up sandals on. Bad idea. We arrive home and the sand has jammed up the zipper and I cannot get them off. My world is ending, I must sleep in my sandy beer soaked clothes, covered in stickers, with my soggy sandals glued to my feet.
While I had my own mini-tragedies, someone also had broken their cellphone, and lost a cellphone. These casualties did not even slightly impact the fun we had. I can concur that after a post-college weekend with your college friends, everyone decides their current lives and jobs are horrible, and they must all move into a house together and start their own company. The sad question is, when is this lifestyle no longer acceptable? And do we ever HAVE to grow up? Suggestions on how to avoid aging and maturity are most welcome!
When you are out in the real world and don't have that serious, "real world" job, you tend to take nothing seriously and act like you are still a college kid. This also includes spending every dime you make and ignoring the call of long-overdue college loans around the corner. The question is, when is it NOT OK to be acting like this? Take my experiences this past weekend...
I hate my waitressing job, therefore I tell my boss I still have an internship every Wednesday and Thursday so I don't have to work. Knowing I had these two days off, I then I planned a trip to the Hamptons with my college girlfriends Friday through Monday. Now that's a solid week off of doing nothing but boozing and laying on my couch when I could be looking for better jobs. Priorities are obviously not in order.
We arrive in the Hamptons. The younger and middle-aged residents here live the life of working hardcore bartending or barbacking Thursday-Saturday night and make as much money most people make in two weeks. People get off their shift Saturday night and decide to go out because the bars are open till 4am. Sunday comes, and while most people are relaxing, everyone who's anyone knows its time to go to the Boardy Barn, an outdoor deck/tent that is only open 3-8 on Sundays. The theme of the barn is to make anyone who is a "first timer" chug beer, and put smiley face stickers on anyone you see. My girls and I obviously had to see what this was about. Seeing as no one cares about their jobs, taking Monday off was required. Any mature, 23 year old would figure that 4 hours of drinking on a Sunday seems fun and then we can just get to bed early. While I do remember the hour of 7pm/last call approaching, my next memory is nightfall and a bunch of us deciding to go swimming, in the ocean. We arrive at the beach and I drop my camera. Broken. No biggie- I'll just buy another one! I decide to go into the water with my zip-up sandals on. Bad idea. We arrive home and the sand has jammed up the zipper and I cannot get them off. My world is ending, I must sleep in my sandy beer soaked clothes, covered in stickers, with my soggy sandals glued to my feet.
While I had my own mini-tragedies, someone also had broken their cellphone, and lost a cellphone. These casualties did not even slightly impact the fun we had. I can concur that after a post-college weekend with your college friends, everyone decides their current lives and jobs are horrible, and they must all move into a house together and start their own company. The sad question is, when is this lifestyle no longer acceptable? And do we ever HAVE to grow up? Suggestions on how to avoid aging and maturity are most welcome!
Hot Pursuit
Civil Servant
I grumbled when my sister dragged me to Target before my shift at the store. It's just so demanding (not), and I pursue a routine of relaxation and mental preparation before attending to the masses. Not everyone can sweep a black rug free of lint and arrange the milks according to sale prices. Plus I was sporting a red shirt, and sure enough several elderly women demanded my assistance with inventory. Further, I was neglected by the actual staff when hauling hundreds of dollars of apartment furnishings in their under-sized cart.
Fortunately, the action in the parking lot vindicated the entire trip. Upon leaving, I witnessed two individuals assaulting each other in a car. One launched on the other with a furious barrage of fist pounding interspersed with attempted choking. As the women who nearly sued me once for the "alleged slip and slide incident" explained, to dismiss an incident of violence is to be as guilty as the culprit. Hence, I put my BlackBerry to the best use of its short career, hastily dialing 911, reconsidering for fear of being involved, then ultimately committing to the call. While dialing, one individual was tossed from the car, staggering before collapsing in front of the Target crosswalk.
Target justice
My sister frantically swerved around the parking lot to tail the driver who flagrantly blew through a red light (only to be stopped at the next one-karma). We notified the cops of the highway and direction of the vehicle with an explicit description, and they confirmed that the suspect was already wanted. Several minutes later we arrived to witness justice, the car surrounded by several detectives and a myriad of police cars.
Our theories abound about the motivation for the assault, but one thing is confirmed. I'm looking for a career that provides daily excitement, though hopefully not at the expense of a beating and an arrest. Now, off to the store...
I never would have witnessed this if I had a "real" job.
I grumbled when my sister dragged me to Target before my shift at the store. It's just so demanding (not), and I pursue a routine of relaxation and mental preparation before attending to the masses. Not everyone can sweep a black rug free of lint and arrange the milks according to sale prices. Plus I was sporting a red shirt, and sure enough several elderly women demanded my assistance with inventory. Further, I was neglected by the actual staff when hauling hundreds of dollars of apartment furnishings in their under-sized cart.
Fortunately, the action in the parking lot vindicated the entire trip. Upon leaving, I witnessed two individuals assaulting each other in a car. One launched on the other with a furious barrage of fist pounding interspersed with attempted choking. As the women who nearly sued me once for the "alleged slip and slide incident" explained, to dismiss an incident of violence is to be as guilty as the culprit. Hence, I put my BlackBerry to the best use of its short career, hastily dialing 911, reconsidering for fear of being involved, then ultimately committing to the call. While dialing, one individual was tossed from the car, staggering before collapsing in front of the Target crosswalk.
Target justice
My sister frantically swerved around the parking lot to tail the driver who flagrantly blew through a red light (only to be stopped at the next one-karma). We notified the cops of the highway and direction of the vehicle with an explicit description, and they confirmed that the suspect was already wanted. Several minutes later we arrived to witness justice, the car surrounded by several detectives and a myriad of police cars.
Our theories abound about the motivation for the assault, but one thing is confirmed. I'm looking for a career that provides daily excitement, though hopefully not at the expense of a beating and an arrest. Now, off to the store...
I never would have witnessed this if I had a "real" job.
Wednesday, July 14, 2010
No IOU's to the HMO
Credit crunch
Let me break down the complicated state of my finances. I take out optimistically short-term loans from my local branch of the Bank of Dad. These loans are secured through an intricate process of excruciating talks about financial autonomy and are backed by my desire to not lose my new car. Essentially, I’m financing my life on margin, one of the contributing factors to the crash of 1929. The Bank of Dad has weathered my financial collapses in the past, however, and always steps up to bail me out.
I do have some collateral in the form of a meager bank account and material assets. Aside from my car, I have an aging laptop and a 2005 Specialized Allez Elite Triple that may boast more personal value than my car. Both of these items are critical to my well-being, as they support my sanity by enabling my writing and riding, respectively. Repossessing those items would cause more harm than good for the board members of the Bank of Dad, of that they can be certain. I also have several mismatched golf clubs from Ocean State Job Lot, and some vintage CD’s I discovered while cleaning out my old car. I’m not sure when scratched boy band CD’s will be worth their weight in gold, but I’m holding out just in case. Consider both of those items investments in precious metals. Ultimately, though, my lack of assets renders my credit line predictably weak.
Plus, despite the recession, credit at the Bank of Dad is tight. Evidently the board members are not Keynesian economists, restricting credit flow when what I really need are several major injections to my cash flow. Just this month, my application was denied for a plane ticket to Colorado and an upgrade to my cell phone. However, as long as I continue to pick up as many shifts as possible and pursue every conceivable job lead, the gravy train has yet to derail. Recently, however, said gravy train has confronted some maintenance issues.
Obama-care
As if I’m not enough of a leech on my parents’ generosity, the President’s extension of health care to all of us delinquents in our early 20’s puts the burden of my insurance back on the Bank of Dad. Now my parents support my food, shelter, and health care-the Bank of Dad is practically running a non-profit devoted to my well-being. For the majority of my life, the relationship between parasite and host has been a harmonious one. I fear Obama-care may tip this precarious balance as my needs make retirement increasingly distant.
My drug habit
As could be expected, I waited to make all of my doctor appointments until I returned home and was safely under the jurisdiction of my parents’ health insurance. I am as healthy as any 23 year old, but still need regular visits to the dentist, eye doctor, etc. Plus, I have semi-annual appointments with an ENT to treat my asthma and allergies. This additional expense translates into roughly $100/month in prescriptions and days when my pulmonary system sabotages my road races. Really, this problem can be attributed to my dad who suffers from the same symptoms, but I can’t accuse the CEO of the Bank of Dad without incurring further sanctions on my liberal credit line.
I don’t beg for designer clothes, but I do require brand-name prescriptions to treat my asthma. I’m not sure how I would support this drug habit without the backing of my parents to subsidize my doctor visits and prescriptions for frequent sinus infections resulting from my overactive allergies. I have to imagine that a lack of funds obligates most people my age have to deny the presence of certain chronic afflictions. Conversely, many afford to “self medicate” with recreational drug use. It’s a shortcoming of Obama-care that while I can transition the burden of my costs to my parents’ insurance, I still confront the extortionist prices of pharmaceutical companies.
Let me break down the complicated state of my finances. I take out optimistically short-term loans from my local branch of the Bank of Dad. These loans are secured through an intricate process of excruciating talks about financial autonomy and are backed by my desire to not lose my new car. Essentially, I’m financing my life on margin, one of the contributing factors to the crash of 1929. The Bank of Dad has weathered my financial collapses in the past, however, and always steps up to bail me out.
I do have some collateral in the form of a meager bank account and material assets. Aside from my car, I have an aging laptop and a 2005 Specialized Allez Elite Triple that may boast more personal value than my car. Both of these items are critical to my well-being, as they support my sanity by enabling my writing and riding, respectively. Repossessing those items would cause more harm than good for the board members of the Bank of Dad, of that they can be certain. I also have several mismatched golf clubs from Ocean State Job Lot, and some vintage CD’s I discovered while cleaning out my old car. I’m not sure when scratched boy band CD’s will be worth their weight in gold, but I’m holding out just in case. Consider both of those items investments in precious metals. Ultimately, though, my lack of assets renders my credit line predictably weak.
Plus, despite the recession, credit at the Bank of Dad is tight. Evidently the board members are not Keynesian economists, restricting credit flow when what I really need are several major injections to my cash flow. Just this month, my application was denied for a plane ticket to Colorado and an upgrade to my cell phone. However, as long as I continue to pick up as many shifts as possible and pursue every conceivable job lead, the gravy train has yet to derail. Recently, however, said gravy train has confronted some maintenance issues.
Obama-care
As if I’m not enough of a leech on my parents’ generosity, the President’s extension of health care to all of us delinquents in our early 20’s puts the burden of my insurance back on the Bank of Dad. Now my parents support my food, shelter, and health care-the Bank of Dad is practically running a non-profit devoted to my well-being. For the majority of my life, the relationship between parasite and host has been a harmonious one. I fear Obama-care may tip this precarious balance as my needs make retirement increasingly distant.
My drug habit
As could be expected, I waited to make all of my doctor appointments until I returned home and was safely under the jurisdiction of my parents’ health insurance. I am as healthy as any 23 year old, but still need regular visits to the dentist, eye doctor, etc. Plus, I have semi-annual appointments with an ENT to treat my asthma and allergies. This additional expense translates into roughly $100/month in prescriptions and days when my pulmonary system sabotages my road races. Really, this problem can be attributed to my dad who suffers from the same symptoms, but I can’t accuse the CEO of the Bank of Dad without incurring further sanctions on my liberal credit line.
I don’t beg for designer clothes, but I do require brand-name prescriptions to treat my asthma. I’m not sure how I would support this drug habit without the backing of my parents to subsidize my doctor visits and prescriptions for frequent sinus infections resulting from my overactive allergies. I have to imagine that a lack of funds obligates most people my age have to deny the presence of certain chronic afflictions. Conversely, many afford to “self medicate” with recreational drug use. It’s a shortcoming of Obama-care that while I can transition the burden of my costs to my parents’ insurance, I still confront the extortionist prices of pharmaceutical companies.
Monday, July 12, 2010
Adapting to Captivity
Temporary visa extended
Now that my departure date is uncertain and I’m settling into a home routine, the novelty of my presence has worn off and I’m taking some flak for my behavior. Interrogations have ensued. My mom demands to know if I’ve forgotten how to do the laundry since I returned home, but I thought I was just stealthily adding my clothes to the already mounting hamper. She pleads with me to clean my bathroom as I track beach sand into the living room. I can suffer days mopping the convenience store but agonize over chores at home.
It’s been about a month and my moving boxes still taunt me. I managed to pare through my clothes but the desk in my room remains cluttered with remnants of high school. Personally, I’m fine with a shrine to my glory days, and I don’t get a conniption if a stray hair escapes my brush to find the bathroom floor. I used to use temporary vagrant status as an excuse to avoid permanent cleaning habits, but now that the gypsy caravan has returned to my parents’ house I’m trapped in their domain. Hence, I have to abide the rules or be subjected to endless nagging.
It’s a jungle out there
The hardest part of adapting to captivity is sharing the peanut butter. My mom is appalled at my double dipping, knife wielding habits. She finds it more distressing than my odd-hour eating and sweaty running clothes. My manners have always been an element of contention, but my peanut butter habit is evolving into grounds for eviction.
Living solo I could hunker down with a jar of peanut butter and a knife to get my fix for the better part of an evening. In fact, peanut butter constituted the better part of my diet, and I was never chastised for it.
Sticky stubbornness
The other day, I returned home to find a jar labeled explicitly for my parents, and no peanut butter for me. My after-work snack already ruined, I raced to the store to fetch a jar which I labeled in kind. With my consumption out-pacing the rest of the family dramatically, I was forced to transition to their jar or suffer withdrawals for a night. After all, it wasn’t quite time for my weekly jaunt to Wal-Mart, and a cashier can’t afford extravagances like Whole Foods peanut butter when trying to scrape together air fare for an unwarranted vacation. Gorging on the golden goodness, I came up for air to realize that I had unabashedly finished their jar of Skippy.
Now, unless I purchase my own jar, there’s a moratorium on peanut butter in my house. I’m not sure if my stubbornness can outlast the protein junkie in me, and I’m on the verge of severe withdrawal. I tried to plead that you can’t limit the availability of a commodity like peanut butter for fear of shortages and black market dealings, but my parents weren’t buying it.
If you need me, I’ll be at the store getting a jumbo tub of Skippy.
Now that my departure date is uncertain and I’m settling into a home routine, the novelty of my presence has worn off and I’m taking some flak for my behavior. Interrogations have ensued. My mom demands to know if I’ve forgotten how to do the laundry since I returned home, but I thought I was just stealthily adding my clothes to the already mounting hamper. She pleads with me to clean my bathroom as I track beach sand into the living room. I can suffer days mopping the convenience store but agonize over chores at home.
It’s been about a month and my moving boxes still taunt me. I managed to pare through my clothes but the desk in my room remains cluttered with remnants of high school. Personally, I’m fine with a shrine to my glory days, and I don’t get a conniption if a stray hair escapes my brush to find the bathroom floor. I used to use temporary vagrant status as an excuse to avoid permanent cleaning habits, but now that the gypsy caravan has returned to my parents’ house I’m trapped in their domain. Hence, I have to abide the rules or be subjected to endless nagging.
It’s a jungle out there
The hardest part of adapting to captivity is sharing the peanut butter. My mom is appalled at my double dipping, knife wielding habits. She finds it more distressing than my odd-hour eating and sweaty running clothes. My manners have always been an element of contention, but my peanut butter habit is evolving into grounds for eviction.
Living solo I could hunker down with a jar of peanut butter and a knife to get my fix for the better part of an evening. In fact, peanut butter constituted the better part of my diet, and I was never chastised for it.
Sticky stubbornness
The other day, I returned home to find a jar labeled explicitly for my parents, and no peanut butter for me. My after-work snack already ruined, I raced to the store to fetch a jar which I labeled in kind. With my consumption out-pacing the rest of the family dramatically, I was forced to transition to their jar or suffer withdrawals for a night. After all, it wasn’t quite time for my weekly jaunt to Wal-Mart, and a cashier can’t afford extravagances like Whole Foods peanut butter when trying to scrape together air fare for an unwarranted vacation. Gorging on the golden goodness, I came up for air to realize that I had unabashedly finished their jar of Skippy.
Now, unless I purchase my own jar, there’s a moratorium on peanut butter in my house. I’m not sure if my stubbornness can outlast the protein junkie in me, and I’m on the verge of severe withdrawal. I tried to plead that you can’t limit the availability of a commodity like peanut butter for fear of shortages and black market dealings, but my parents weren’t buying it.
If you need me, I’ll be at the store getting a jumbo tub of Skippy.
Friday, July 9, 2010
Guest Blog: Under-Employed as an Independent Contractor: I Can Do Anything Better Than You….
Thanks to an overachieving but under-employed classmate from Mpls for this hilarious post.
Have design work or seeking an art/English teacher? This is your girl! Help a sistah out. She's clearly a talented writer and I vouch for her work!
Pride and Intern Prejudice…
So when I’ve been asked what I’m doing now, I respond, “Well, I’m a substitute teacher, but for the summer I’m a nanny.” And they smirk and say, “So why did you get dressed up for work?” “Ok, well right now I’m working at XXXXX, I swear, I’m not lying.” In the future I will say, “I am an independent contractor,” but there really is no other way around it than launching into this unnecessary story about how the mother of the child (Boy) I’m nannying, over booked Boy’s summer – signing him up for religion camp as well as French camp, in addition to hiring me for the summer- hmph, privileged indeed! Being the intelligent, high powered feminist that she is, and me being the resourceful-college-graduate-desperate-jobseeker that I am, who had sent her my most recently updated resume, this woman took pity on my underemployment and additionally hired me as an intern at the non-profit organization for which she is the executive director.
So a year out of my overly expensive private education (for which I am currently struggling to make minimum payments for) all I have to say for myself is that I am a nanny (slam to my pride since it’s not considered a legitimate occupation) and the independent contractor (aka pitied nanny and fake intern- double slam to my now pretty bruised ego). And thanks to the woman at the front desk/accountant/office Nazi.. I mean office manager, all the other interns now down with the 411 since I’m technically contracted and not on payroll and she opened her big mouth at the water cooler (hence I am now enduring intern prejudice until Boy returns from camp number one and will face it once again when he leaves me to enjoy camp number two). The law school interns are snobby to the undergrad interns and the undergrad interns have solidified themselves into a clique in the back corner and I am left ostracized from the rest of the office, set up on my temporary desk in the conference room… sad.
Anything You Can Do I Can Do Better….
My resolution to my situation, you ask? I am the best damn nanny and most efficient intern this woman has ever seen. Since I am not completely computer illiterate, I can thankfully print labels, mail merge (if you don’t know, don’t ask) and file alphabetically and reverse chronologically like nobody’s business. And thank whoever sits in skies above, and of course my single mom, that I went to EVERY summer day camp in the metro area as well as many sleep away camps so that I have deep first-hand experience of what there is to do and what activities exist that could possibly be fun and/or time consuming that can fill my days with Boy. (Seeing as I am up against most probably the future Stalin of the metro area and greater Midwest)
I’ll give you a taste of Boy from rainy day number 3 in a row:
(Power Mom and Power Dad left me a note and their family membership cards to 4 different museums in the area -more of an instruction than a recommendation, as well as an explanation that Boy really enjoys these activities)
Me: So Boy, would you like to go to a museum today?
Boy: No! I hate museums, they are really boring and I always go with my parents.
Me: Well Boy, it’s raining and I think it would be best if we got out of the house for a while today since we chose to play every board game in the house 3 times through.
Boy: Well I think I’d rather not go.
(Boy does not like going to movies, or going to check out toys or cool gadgets at malls or hit baseballs or make play dates with any of his “friends.”)
Me: Boy, I don’t know if this relationship we have is really the democracy you think it is. I think it is supposed to be more of a dictatorship.
Boy: You’re right! It is supposed to be a dictatorship. I am the dictator, and you are my adviser.
Me: (mentally kicking and swearing at myself for taking this job caring for this upper middle class privileged ******… I mean child.)
Things are not looking up in my office life either. I recently finished the project that was expected to fill up 3 of my 4 weeks here in 6 business days. And I cut the other interns’ time of projects down by pitching in on their mountains of arts and crafts projects (stuffing/addressing/stamping mailings). With all mailings up to date and all benefit invitations and fundraiser reminders sent out already, everyone is begging for work. And since I am the only intern here five days out of the week, I get to snag all the other random pop up projects. Muahahahhaa, ok not really, but I do get to beg two more days than anyone else.. I mean, I market myself very well.
And have I mentioned anything about my social life? Oh yea, I live at home and don’t have one. Thank you for listening to me b****, and by that, I mean thank you for reading.
Have design work or seeking an art/English teacher? This is your girl! Help a sistah out. She's clearly a talented writer and I vouch for her work!
Pride and Intern Prejudice…
So when I’ve been asked what I’m doing now, I respond, “Well, I’m a substitute teacher, but for the summer I’m a nanny.” And they smirk and say, “So why did you get dressed up for work?” “Ok, well right now I’m working at XXXXX, I swear, I’m not lying.” In the future I will say, “I am an independent contractor,” but there really is no other way around it than launching into this unnecessary story about how the mother of the child (Boy) I’m nannying, over booked Boy’s summer – signing him up for religion camp as well as French camp, in addition to hiring me for the summer- hmph, privileged indeed! Being the intelligent, high powered feminist that she is, and me being the resourceful-college-graduate-desperate-jobseeker that I am, who had sent her my most recently updated resume, this woman took pity on my underemployment and additionally hired me as an intern at the non-profit organization for which she is the executive director.
So a year out of my overly expensive private education (for which I am currently struggling to make minimum payments for) all I have to say for myself is that I am a nanny (slam to my pride since it’s not considered a legitimate occupation) and the independent contractor (aka pitied nanny and fake intern- double slam to my now pretty bruised ego). And thanks to the woman at the front desk/accountant/office Nazi.. I mean office manager, all the other interns now down with the 411 since I’m technically contracted and not on payroll and she opened her big mouth at the water cooler (hence I am now enduring intern prejudice until Boy returns from camp number one and will face it once again when he leaves me to enjoy camp number two). The law school interns are snobby to the undergrad interns and the undergrad interns have solidified themselves into a clique in the back corner and I am left ostracized from the rest of the office, set up on my temporary desk in the conference room… sad.
Anything You Can Do I Can Do Better….
My resolution to my situation, you ask? I am the best damn nanny and most efficient intern this woman has ever seen. Since I am not completely computer illiterate, I can thankfully print labels, mail merge (if you don’t know, don’t ask) and file alphabetically and reverse chronologically like nobody’s business. And thank whoever sits in skies above, and of course my single mom, that I went to EVERY summer day camp in the metro area as well as many sleep away camps so that I have deep first-hand experience of what there is to do and what activities exist that could possibly be fun and/or time consuming that can fill my days with Boy. (Seeing as I am up against most probably the future Stalin of the metro area and greater Midwest)
I’ll give you a taste of Boy from rainy day number 3 in a row:
(Power Mom and Power Dad left me a note and their family membership cards to 4 different museums in the area -more of an instruction than a recommendation, as well as an explanation that Boy really enjoys these activities)
Me: So Boy, would you like to go to a museum today?
Boy: No! I hate museums, they are really boring and I always go with my parents.
Me: Well Boy, it’s raining and I think it would be best if we got out of the house for a while today since we chose to play every board game in the house 3 times through.
Boy: Well I think I’d rather not go.
(Boy does not like going to movies, or going to check out toys or cool gadgets at malls or hit baseballs or make play dates with any of his “friends.”)
Me: Boy, I don’t know if this relationship we have is really the democracy you think it is. I think it is supposed to be more of a dictatorship.
Boy: You’re right! It is supposed to be a dictatorship. I am the dictator, and you are my adviser.
Me: (mentally kicking and swearing at myself for taking this job caring for this upper middle class privileged ******… I mean child.)
Things are not looking up in my office life either. I recently finished the project that was expected to fill up 3 of my 4 weeks here in 6 business days. And I cut the other interns’ time of projects down by pitching in on their mountains of arts and crafts projects (stuffing/addressing/stamping mailings). With all mailings up to date and all benefit invitations and fundraiser reminders sent out already, everyone is begging for work. And since I am the only intern here five days out of the week, I get to snag all the other random pop up projects. Muahahahhaa, ok not really, but I do get to beg two more days than anyone else.. I mean, I market myself very well.
And have I mentioned anything about my social life? Oh yea, I live at home and don’t have one. Thank you for listening to me b****, and by that, I mean thank you for reading.
Wednesday, July 7, 2010
Slushie Certification
Put that in your resume and smoke it
So I strip off my piqued polo with the boldly stitched emblem as I walk out of the store. It’s unflattering, and its connotation mocks the value of everything I hoped to achieve by now. But truly what’s the virtue in entering spreadsheet data all day when you can be catering to the needs of a community? A friendly smile can’t be conveyed over data entry, and I can muster a few of those throughout my shift. I’m interacting with a unique crowd every day and managing large sums of money. Honestly, those over-reaching resume adjectives apply more to this job than respectable office employment.
We all know those resume-specific words are disguises for delegated tasks that take moments but are stretched into an eternity, re-formatted, then submitted again. Probably printed several times, bound nicely, and shipped to clients only to be recycled as scrap paper. These tasks comprise a to-do list, checked off with no tangible accomplishment registered. Clients’ needs are placated; upper management is satisfied with lip service.
As a cashier, or “conduit for capitalism,” I’m having a more tenable impact these days than moments in the cube when I mastered Text Twist, or the day that Google featured Pac Man. Plus, I can make a mean cherry slushie.
Cashier turned financier, it’s possible
Lately I’ve been trying to take pride in every task, from customer exchanges to replacing the slushy mix. Last night, however, I reached a breaking point and nearly erupted with disdain for my current station. In noticing Lords of Finance by the register, a couple remarked that my reading selection must be for school. Informing them that it’s in fact a throwback to my academic interest, they exchanged nervous glances and conceded that their nephew has an important job at a reputable multinational bank. My piqued curiosity obvious, the wife sneered, “Well, what would we tell him? The lady at the convenience store wants a job?”
The lady at the convenience store is a phi beta kappa. The lady at the convenience store graduated summa cum laude. The lady at the convenience store won several departmental academic awards. The lady at the convenience store has legitimate qualifications…
Be cool, stay in school
Mere moments after my mental tirade against the stereotypes propagated by middle America subsided, I recognized an awful truth. I’ve been guilty of the same gross generalizations my whole life, compounded by the elitism cultivated by a privileged life and a private college education. I’ve been silently discriminating those behind the counter before I could see over it.
Now I’m the object of parental warnings to stay in school and avoid drugs. Well, kids, stay in school and you too could be making minimum wage. Don’t do drugs and you might get 30 hours/week at a convenience store. How ironic.
So I strip off my piqued polo with the boldly stitched emblem as I walk out of the store. It’s unflattering, and its connotation mocks the value of everything I hoped to achieve by now. But truly what’s the virtue in entering spreadsheet data all day when you can be catering to the needs of a community? A friendly smile can’t be conveyed over data entry, and I can muster a few of those throughout my shift. I’m interacting with a unique crowd every day and managing large sums of money. Honestly, those over-reaching resume adjectives apply more to this job than respectable office employment.
We all know those resume-specific words are disguises for delegated tasks that take moments but are stretched into an eternity, re-formatted, then submitted again. Probably printed several times, bound nicely, and shipped to clients only to be recycled as scrap paper. These tasks comprise a to-do list, checked off with no tangible accomplishment registered. Clients’ needs are placated; upper management is satisfied with lip service.
As a cashier, or “conduit for capitalism,” I’m having a more tenable impact these days than moments in the cube when I mastered Text Twist, or the day that Google featured Pac Man. Plus, I can make a mean cherry slushie.
Cashier turned financier, it’s possible
Lately I’ve been trying to take pride in every task, from customer exchanges to replacing the slushy mix. Last night, however, I reached a breaking point and nearly erupted with disdain for my current station. In noticing Lords of Finance by the register, a couple remarked that my reading selection must be for school. Informing them that it’s in fact a throwback to my academic interest, they exchanged nervous glances and conceded that their nephew has an important job at a reputable multinational bank. My piqued curiosity obvious, the wife sneered, “Well, what would we tell him? The lady at the convenience store wants a job?”
The lady at the convenience store is a phi beta kappa. The lady at the convenience store graduated summa cum laude. The lady at the convenience store won several departmental academic awards. The lady at the convenience store has legitimate qualifications…
Be cool, stay in school
Mere moments after my mental tirade against the stereotypes propagated by middle America subsided, I recognized an awful truth. I’ve been guilty of the same gross generalizations my whole life, compounded by the elitism cultivated by a privileged life and a private college education. I’ve been silently discriminating those behind the counter before I could see over it.
Now I’m the object of parental warnings to stay in school and avoid drugs. Well, kids, stay in school and you too could be making minimum wage. Don’t do drugs and you might get 30 hours/week at a convenience store. How ironic.
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