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.
Tuesday, July 6, 2010
Happy Hour Special
No shirt, no shoes, no problem
Chronic, crunk juice, purple drink-just a few of the popular elixirs to start off weekends or recoup losses from a long day. For my fellow job seekers short on cash, living at home (roughly 50 miles from friends), and potentially avoiding risky behavior while transitioning to their parents’ health care plan, I offer a healthier alternative: barefoot beach running. One part endorphin rush, two parts ocean view, and a splash of salt air, and suddenly you’re awash in euphoria. What’s more? It’s free.
Side effects may include but are not limited to shortness of breath, nausea, tiredness, chaffing, soreness, strained social encounters, and dehydration. Daily practice may also result in stronger legs, a sweet tan, and best of all, temporary relief from the functional depression induced by joblessness. For the happy hour of beach running, I’m not tortured by my lack of career, direction, or purpose. Instead, I’m preoccupied by the Atlantic, dwarfing my inner turmoil.
Dodging sand castles
Wait until the boogey board and diaper bag toting crew have dispersed and the waterfront is scattered with toppled castles and awkward adolescents stumbling along holding hands. No one is watching your plodding, tumbles into sandy sinkholes and labored breathing. Tune deaf howling along to an iPod is obliterated by the ocean breeze. The slope of the shore negates any regard for form.
In fact, beach running may be the least self-conscious act of physical expression you can enjoy in public. These runs are music-optional and always watch free, and they pass much more quickly than plodding on the local track. You lose yourself treading between tide lines and as toes sink into the forgiving shore you are absorbed into a dreamlike state.
Endorphin rush
In the midst of this reverie today I heard a boy grumble that this beach can’t compare to Cabo. Well duh, they’re not even bordering the same ocean. He was also dismayed by the sand collecting on his hands. Sand is endemic to a beach, perhaps he should pioneer a movement to get warning signs erected. But while I’d typically feel the urge to slap the ungrateful boy senseless and send him into the riptide of his inadequate beach for ruining my vibe, the calm of my run saved me from criminal assault charges.
Beach running is practically a religious experience, which I’m sure also explains Lil Wayne’s devotion to his infamous purple drink. If I don’t score legitimate employment by the fall, I’m at serious risk for seasonal depression. At this rate, I may have to start rooting for global warming to maintain the endorphin rush.
Happy running…
Chronic, crunk juice, purple drink-just a few of the popular elixirs to start off weekends or recoup losses from a long day. For my fellow job seekers short on cash, living at home (roughly 50 miles from friends), and potentially avoiding risky behavior while transitioning to their parents’ health care plan, I offer a healthier alternative: barefoot beach running. One part endorphin rush, two parts ocean view, and a splash of salt air, and suddenly you’re awash in euphoria. What’s more? It’s free.
Side effects may include but are not limited to shortness of breath, nausea, tiredness, chaffing, soreness, strained social encounters, and dehydration. Daily practice may also result in stronger legs, a sweet tan, and best of all, temporary relief from the functional depression induced by joblessness. For the happy hour of beach running, I’m not tortured by my lack of career, direction, or purpose. Instead, I’m preoccupied by the Atlantic, dwarfing my inner turmoil.
Dodging sand castles
Wait until the boogey board and diaper bag toting crew have dispersed and the waterfront is scattered with toppled castles and awkward adolescents stumbling along holding hands. No one is watching your plodding, tumbles into sandy sinkholes and labored breathing. Tune deaf howling along to an iPod is obliterated by the ocean breeze. The slope of the shore negates any regard for form.
In fact, beach running may be the least self-conscious act of physical expression you can enjoy in public. These runs are music-optional and always watch free, and they pass much more quickly than plodding on the local track. You lose yourself treading between tide lines and as toes sink into the forgiving shore you are absorbed into a dreamlike state.
Endorphin rush
In the midst of this reverie today I heard a boy grumble that this beach can’t compare to Cabo. Well duh, they’re not even bordering the same ocean. He was also dismayed by the sand collecting on his hands. Sand is endemic to a beach, perhaps he should pioneer a movement to get warning signs erected. But while I’d typically feel the urge to slap the ungrateful boy senseless and send him into the riptide of his inadequate beach for ruining my vibe, the calm of my run saved me from criminal assault charges.
Beach running is practically a religious experience, which I’m sure also explains Lil Wayne’s devotion to his infamous purple drink. If I don’t score legitimate employment by the fall, I’m at serious risk for seasonal depression. At this rate, I may have to start rooting for global warming to maintain the endorphin rush.
Happy running…
Friday, July 2, 2010
REMIX: Guest Blogger Friday
In order to more accurately depict the dire straights of under-employment, I'm recruiting submissions for Friday guest blog spots. Geographic diversity, crazy jobs, and humor are all a plus. That said, I've turned to my comic partner since high school to provide some insight about her conditions of under-employment in Boston.
A big thanks to my guest blogger below:
Overcoming Shame vs. Office Life
Just over a year after graduating from a very expensive school with a BS, I now have very many sources of pride. I have a waitressing job, enjoy daily rides on the bus with the homeless and a myriad of ethnic groups, and live in a small apartment with 4 other girls and one bathroom. Unavoidable cold showers are common between 8-9 a.m. after two of the roommates leave for work. I also tend to drink away my frustratingly hard-earned cash after work at Uno's with the Percocet-popping addicts I call my coworkers. This then results in me missing the bus and, consequently, I’m strapped with $20 cab rides home. Thank you, Quinnipiac.
Being a waitress has its ups and downs. Living in a neighborhood of young professionals, it does get embarrassing leaving the house in black pants and a men's dress shirt when I had envisioned cute dresses and heels heading to the office. This being said, I leave the house dressed as I have a professional job only to change into my server-attire in the employee bathroom. Who am I kidding?
Finding cute young men is a whole other obstacle. Initially going out in Boston, I would simply lie about where I lived but tell the truth about where I worked. Fast forward to several days later, when this strategy would invariably backfire. Cute guys I had met days before would want to meet up for a drink. Little did they know, I was texting them from my bed, in my parents house, in RI. I cannot tell you all the sugar daddies lost. Nowadays, I figure I could speak the truth seeing as, 1) I have a job in Boston 2) I live in Boston. Conversely, telling men you waitress and live with 4 other girls does not especially attract the lookers. My social life is a lose-lose situation thus far.
Lastly, being a waitress allows you free time during the week that office workers would usually cherish. After working a long weekend, I spend this cherished time hungover in bed or spending my money on trips to Six Flags that I think my hard working butt deserves. If I worked in a cubicle, at least I would spend this time on Craigslist applying for better jobs and reading blogs all day.
As much as I would miss this glamorous life I live, I admit that the 9-5 cubicle construct would undoubtedly suit me better at this stage. The emotional and social misfortune resulting from serving food to non-tipping Euro-trash and posh Newbury Street clientele is wearing thin. I hope you enjoyed my sob story- I am available for interviews Wed and Thurs each week. Thanks!
I can attest to the fact that she's good at what she does, so if anyone has any tips about graphic design, art, etc, this is your girl! Also when supplied with drinks, she also does stand-up at bars…for free.
Email me with your submission before next Friday to share your story!
A big thanks to my guest blogger below:
Overcoming Shame vs. Office Life
Just over a year after graduating from a very expensive school with a BS, I now have very many sources of pride. I have a waitressing job, enjoy daily rides on the bus with the homeless and a myriad of ethnic groups, and live in a small apartment with 4 other girls and one bathroom. Unavoidable cold showers are common between 8-9 a.m. after two of the roommates leave for work. I also tend to drink away my frustratingly hard-earned cash after work at Uno's with the Percocet-popping addicts I call my coworkers. This then results in me missing the bus and, consequently, I’m strapped with $20 cab rides home. Thank you, Quinnipiac.
Being a waitress has its ups and downs. Living in a neighborhood of young professionals, it does get embarrassing leaving the house in black pants and a men's dress shirt when I had envisioned cute dresses and heels heading to the office. This being said, I leave the house dressed as I have a professional job only to change into my server-attire in the employee bathroom. Who am I kidding?
Finding cute young men is a whole other obstacle. Initially going out in Boston, I would simply lie about where I lived but tell the truth about where I worked. Fast forward to several days later, when this strategy would invariably backfire. Cute guys I had met days before would want to meet up for a drink. Little did they know, I was texting them from my bed, in my parents house, in RI. I cannot tell you all the sugar daddies lost. Nowadays, I figure I could speak the truth seeing as, 1) I have a job in Boston 2) I live in Boston. Conversely, telling men you waitress and live with 4 other girls does not especially attract the lookers. My social life is a lose-lose situation thus far.
Lastly, being a waitress allows you free time during the week that office workers would usually cherish. After working a long weekend, I spend this cherished time hungover in bed or spending my money on trips to Six Flags that I think my hard working butt deserves. If I worked in a cubicle, at least I would spend this time on Craigslist applying for better jobs and reading blogs all day.
As much as I would miss this glamorous life I live, I admit that the 9-5 cubicle construct would undoubtedly suit me better at this stage. The emotional and social misfortune resulting from serving food to non-tipping Euro-trash and posh Newbury Street clientele is wearing thin. I hope you enjoyed my sob story- I am available for interviews Wed and Thurs each week. Thanks!
I can attest to the fact that she's good at what she does, so if anyone has any tips about graphic design, art, etc, this is your girl! Also when supplied with drinks, she also does stand-up at bars…for free.
Email me with your submission before next Friday to share your story!
Thursday, July 1, 2010
Building empires out of Silly Bandz
Laughing all the way to the bank
Illicitly checking my email at work as usual, I consulted my regular bank of America statement. Bank of America, I commend your commitment to reporting the activity of my ever-dwindling bank statement, but we both know the picture is grim. These emails are as damaging to my ego as they are to my financial prospects, and I could really do without the clutter in my inbox.
Compounding this assault on my psyche are the colorful amorphous rubber bands dangling from counter displays just beyond my register. Easily one out of every five customers grumbles the customary “why didn’t I think of that,” acknowledging the success of Silly Bandz. While I dismiss the product as stupid, the creator is laughing all the way to the bank lining his pockets with platinum Silly Bandz.
Silly Bandz is just the type of scheme I need to bolter my bank account, but I’ll tell you why you didn’t think of “that.” While easily to exploit financially, adolescents are finicky to a fault. Capitalizing on the whims of trend-obsessed teens is about as easy as capturing an erratic insect. Oscillating by the day, influenced by fickle pre-pubescent pop stars, and utterly irrational to most adults, Silly Bandz are the successor to Furbies and Tickle Me Elmo that flash in and out after amassing a fortune for their creator. Then they are promptly piled in the clearance pile to be disposed of in the annals of “remember those bracelets we all collected for roughly 3 months before realizing they were essentially colored rubber bands?” From hording and black market trading to a washed-up cultural icon, Silly Bandz are already losing steam without the incubation of classrooms to feed the trend.
Rubber band bail out
But say you did pinpoint an emerging trend and wanted to amass your own empire of Silly Bandz. Where would you even begin? I, for one, have no access to natural rubber caches, nor the dyes or factories to form the asinine shapes. Ok, so instead you hijack a trend from Asian distributors and bring it to the States with smooth marketing and product placement. I can’t even afford a train ticket to New York according to my most recent Bank of America mailing. Where would I get air fare to China, let alone have the connections to hob-knob with trend savvy distributors and transport the goods back to America?
But perhaps by some miracle your family happens to be taking a trip to China, so you tag along, bump into the merchandiser of your dreams, and are acquainted with next year’s equivalent of Silly Bandz. Plus, you brought an extra suitcase for this very reason so you breeze through customs with your collection of rubber-turned-gold. Now what? Inform the local convenience store owner that this is the “next big thing” and secure an order for millions? You’ll approach someone like me, who will promptly show you to the door. Slap it on your 3 year old niece and hope it catches on in her daycare? What if she develops a rash from the toxins and the other kids ridicule your new product. Dreams dashed to shreds. Plus, a lawsuit in the making that you clearly can’t afford.
Snap back to reality
So thank you, Bank of America, for demonstrating that I need an immediate injection of funds. And thank you, Silly Bandz, for demonstrating that capturing the disposable income of tweens and their parents (albeit briefly) remains possible. The next time I’m in China I will be on the lookout for the “next big thing.” Until then, I will continue to ring out rubber bracelets with a 500% markup for every 3-15 year old wandering into the convenience store.
Which reminds me…what ever happened to snap bracelets?
Illicitly checking my email at work as usual, I consulted my regular bank of America statement. Bank of America, I commend your commitment to reporting the activity of my ever-dwindling bank statement, but we both know the picture is grim. These emails are as damaging to my ego as they are to my financial prospects, and I could really do without the clutter in my inbox.
Compounding this assault on my psyche are the colorful amorphous rubber bands dangling from counter displays just beyond my register. Easily one out of every five customers grumbles the customary “why didn’t I think of that,” acknowledging the success of Silly Bandz. While I dismiss the product as stupid, the creator is laughing all the way to the bank lining his pockets with platinum Silly Bandz.
Silly Bandz is just the type of scheme I need to bolter my bank account, but I’ll tell you why you didn’t think of “that.” While easily to exploit financially, adolescents are finicky to a fault. Capitalizing on the whims of trend-obsessed teens is about as easy as capturing an erratic insect. Oscillating by the day, influenced by fickle pre-pubescent pop stars, and utterly irrational to most adults, Silly Bandz are the successor to Furbies and Tickle Me Elmo that flash in and out after amassing a fortune for their creator. Then they are promptly piled in the clearance pile to be disposed of in the annals of “remember those bracelets we all collected for roughly 3 months before realizing they were essentially colored rubber bands?” From hording and black market trading to a washed-up cultural icon, Silly Bandz are already losing steam without the incubation of classrooms to feed the trend.
Rubber band bail out
But say you did pinpoint an emerging trend and wanted to amass your own empire of Silly Bandz. Where would you even begin? I, for one, have no access to natural rubber caches, nor the dyes or factories to form the asinine shapes. Ok, so instead you hijack a trend from Asian distributors and bring it to the States with smooth marketing and product placement. I can’t even afford a train ticket to New York according to my most recent Bank of America mailing. Where would I get air fare to China, let alone have the connections to hob-knob with trend savvy distributors and transport the goods back to America?
But perhaps by some miracle your family happens to be taking a trip to China, so you tag along, bump into the merchandiser of your dreams, and are acquainted with next year’s equivalent of Silly Bandz. Plus, you brought an extra suitcase for this very reason so you breeze through customs with your collection of rubber-turned-gold. Now what? Inform the local convenience store owner that this is the “next big thing” and secure an order for millions? You’ll approach someone like me, who will promptly show you to the door. Slap it on your 3 year old niece and hope it catches on in her daycare? What if she develops a rash from the toxins and the other kids ridicule your new product. Dreams dashed to shreds. Plus, a lawsuit in the making that you clearly can’t afford.
Snap back to reality
So thank you, Bank of America, for demonstrating that I need an immediate injection of funds. And thank you, Silly Bandz, for demonstrating that capturing the disposable income of tweens and their parents (albeit briefly) remains possible. The next time I’m in China I will be on the lookout for the “next big thing.” Until then, I will continue to ring out rubber bracelets with a 500% markup for every 3-15 year old wandering into the convenience store.
Which reminds me…what ever happened to snap bracelets?
Wednesday, June 30, 2010
So sue me, I make $7.50/hr
America’s favorite pastime
In the most exciting turn of events to transpire in my otherwise menial shift, I experienced my first hardcore legal altercation last night. Litigation, America’s new favorite pastime, was an entity I fortuitously avoided in my 23 years. But last night, a shallow pool five inches in diameter spurned a throw down.
It began innocently enough. Around 7:45pm a well-dressed albeit ornery retiree seeking out her favorite baked beans barged through the door and approached the counter. I directed her to the fateful aisle in the freezer section and returned to the line of customers when the “alleged incident” occurred.
Now my sister insisted that I wipe up the minor leakage from a nearby cooler, which I had done just an hour prior. While not large enough to elicit concern, the puddle was apparent enough to warrant a several inch detour. With evidently no time to spare (until the ensuing confrontation, which endured for nearly an hour), the patron waddled to the freezer “allegedly” without skirting the puddle. In hot pursuit of baked beans she “allegedly” couldn’t afford to skirt the puddle. However, according to her account, she DID NOT FALL. Being such a fine-tuned physical specimen, she evidently sensed the potential for hyper-extension in her knee and self-diagnosed several weeks of physical therapy. On the store, of course.
It’s all fun and games until someone files an accident report
Interestingly enough, when I was first summoned after the “alleged incident” she was ranting about the size of the bean containers. Perhaps that agitation aggravated her admittedly pre-existing “inner knee tendon issue.” I tried to stifle my snickers, especially when she demanded to author a statement illuminating the nature of the “alleged trauma” she endured. Still not grasping her perceived gravity, mistaking it for extreme melodrama, I passed her a discarded scrap of cardboard. No blood, no foul in my book. And, of course, I was being environmentally conscious using recycled cardboard as the vehicle for her note.
Finally, I relented and provided her with a pad on which she began to chronicle the odyssey that was her “alleged slide” down the aisle. In painfully deliberate cursive she detailed the note using her practiced lingo from “allegedly” years in the health care industry. This was clearly not her first “alleged” slip and slide and I expected that she has chased in on physical therapy on the dime of several merchants in Rhode Island.
To this contentious end, she informed me that she’s related to lawyers. Congratulations, lady, who isn’t? With this legal gesture she insisted that I sign her document, but I refused to provide my full name. I’m already suffering the ills of under-employment, I really can’t afford a legal altercation. Plus, she was threatening my livelihood, the store! As if I’d stand by and watch my nieces’ college funds be ransacked by a lunatic out for the thrills of physical therapy and litigation.
Dock my pay for gross negligence I guess
For fourteen tortuous minutes I drummed the counter waiting for my brother-in-law to arrive as she railed about our “alleged” gross negligence in the leak department and the potentially deadly consequences. I honestly didn’t anticipate any drowning in the puddle, let alone injuries. She fulminated about the therapy she would likely endure, though she managed to maneuver over to make her elaborate statement with ease. What about the therapy I will have to endure to recover from her insanity?
Through intimidation, yelling, and flat out obnoxious behavior she attempted to bully me into singing her outlandish and not legally binding statement. Instead I scrawled across the bottom that I did not witness the incident in bold capitals and printed my first name. At last my brother-in-law arrived, but she dismissed his presence as inconsequential to her as he is not a doctor. Upon his arrival she began to scribe a second interpretation of events, as if the first was not sufficiently thorough. No police report was filed but she made a photocopy of her statement about the “alleged incident” for both of our records. Thanks, I’m sure my brother-in-law will treasure it as a testament to human insanity.
The verdict
Oddly enough, the angriest party was her husband who was abandoned in the car for the duration of this “alleged incident,” and was also likely suffering the ills of several decades of marriage to this contentious beast. He stormed in and questioned her whereabouts for the past hour while he was idling in the car. She had previously mentioned they had an appointment but it was obviously not important enough to halt her quest to harangue free physical therapy.
On the plus side, none of us at the store were arrested for assault, though this woman had my fist twitching. During the proceedings, I had my sister on the phone so she could bear witness to the verbal onslaught while watching the wild gesticulations and my impatient shrugs from the surveillance camera. When the woman left, my sister admitted that despite the coverage of the cameras, the spot where the “alleged incident” occurred was actually in a blind spot, rendering no evidence in her favor.
I can’t wait for the incensed wannabe lawyer to hear that piece of evidence. I may only be a minimum wage cashier, as she pointed out, my testimony holds up as well as any other American citizen in a court of law. I was never much of a baseball fan, but I can really get into this litigation thing.
In the most exciting turn of events to transpire in my otherwise menial shift, I experienced my first hardcore legal altercation last night. Litigation, America’s new favorite pastime, was an entity I fortuitously avoided in my 23 years. But last night, a shallow pool five inches in diameter spurned a throw down.
It began innocently enough. Around 7:45pm a well-dressed albeit ornery retiree seeking out her favorite baked beans barged through the door and approached the counter. I directed her to the fateful aisle in the freezer section and returned to the line of customers when the “alleged incident” occurred.
Now my sister insisted that I wipe up the minor leakage from a nearby cooler, which I had done just an hour prior. While not large enough to elicit concern, the puddle was apparent enough to warrant a several inch detour. With evidently no time to spare (until the ensuing confrontation, which endured for nearly an hour), the patron waddled to the freezer “allegedly” without skirting the puddle. In hot pursuit of baked beans she “allegedly” couldn’t afford to skirt the puddle. However, according to her account, she DID NOT FALL. Being such a fine-tuned physical specimen, she evidently sensed the potential for hyper-extension in her knee and self-diagnosed several weeks of physical therapy. On the store, of course.
It’s all fun and games until someone files an accident report
Interestingly enough, when I was first summoned after the “alleged incident” she was ranting about the size of the bean containers. Perhaps that agitation aggravated her admittedly pre-existing “inner knee tendon issue.” I tried to stifle my snickers, especially when she demanded to author a statement illuminating the nature of the “alleged trauma” she endured. Still not grasping her perceived gravity, mistaking it for extreme melodrama, I passed her a discarded scrap of cardboard. No blood, no foul in my book. And, of course, I was being environmentally conscious using recycled cardboard as the vehicle for her note.
Finally, I relented and provided her with a pad on which she began to chronicle the odyssey that was her “alleged slide” down the aisle. In painfully deliberate cursive she detailed the note using her practiced lingo from “allegedly” years in the health care industry. This was clearly not her first “alleged” slip and slide and I expected that she has chased in on physical therapy on the dime of several merchants in Rhode Island.
To this contentious end, she informed me that she’s related to lawyers. Congratulations, lady, who isn’t? With this legal gesture she insisted that I sign her document, but I refused to provide my full name. I’m already suffering the ills of under-employment, I really can’t afford a legal altercation. Plus, she was threatening my livelihood, the store! As if I’d stand by and watch my nieces’ college funds be ransacked by a lunatic out for the thrills of physical therapy and litigation.
Dock my pay for gross negligence I guess
For fourteen tortuous minutes I drummed the counter waiting for my brother-in-law to arrive as she railed about our “alleged” gross negligence in the leak department and the potentially deadly consequences. I honestly didn’t anticipate any drowning in the puddle, let alone injuries. She fulminated about the therapy she would likely endure, though she managed to maneuver over to make her elaborate statement with ease. What about the therapy I will have to endure to recover from her insanity?
Through intimidation, yelling, and flat out obnoxious behavior she attempted to bully me into singing her outlandish and not legally binding statement. Instead I scrawled across the bottom that I did not witness the incident in bold capitals and printed my first name. At last my brother-in-law arrived, but she dismissed his presence as inconsequential to her as he is not a doctor. Upon his arrival she began to scribe a second interpretation of events, as if the first was not sufficiently thorough. No police report was filed but she made a photocopy of her statement about the “alleged incident” for both of our records. Thanks, I’m sure my brother-in-law will treasure it as a testament to human insanity.
The verdict
Oddly enough, the angriest party was her husband who was abandoned in the car for the duration of this “alleged incident,” and was also likely suffering the ills of several decades of marriage to this contentious beast. He stormed in and questioned her whereabouts for the past hour while he was idling in the car. She had previously mentioned they had an appointment but it was obviously not important enough to halt her quest to harangue free physical therapy.
On the plus side, none of us at the store were arrested for assault, though this woman had my fist twitching. During the proceedings, I had my sister on the phone so she could bear witness to the verbal onslaught while watching the wild gesticulations and my impatient shrugs from the surveillance camera. When the woman left, my sister admitted that despite the coverage of the cameras, the spot where the “alleged incident” occurred was actually in a blind spot, rendering no evidence in her favor.
I can’t wait for the incensed wannabe lawyer to hear that piece of evidence. I may only be a minimum wage cashier, as she pointed out, my testimony holds up as well as any other American citizen in a court of law. I was never much of a baseball fan, but I can really get into this litigation thing.
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
I make stumbleupon.com look linear
Bush league performance
Today is a pretty big day. By my tally, the job application I just submitted marks 40 since I’ve arrived home. And I’m humiliated to say that I’ve heard back from exactly zero. Of course you get the customary email thanking you for your submission into the abyss, following by the glaring warning DO NOT REPLY BACK to this message. Evidently providing the status of an application is just too daunting a task for an HR department devoted to screening applicants. I did call on one occasion and was informed that a glorified secretarial position at a popular DC institute had received 400 applicants. So I guess I’m out of contention was her curt implication. I haven’t had an interview since April.
Batting 0-40 is usually grounds for being sent down to the minors, and I suppose my cashier job is the working world equivalent despite my college stats. Trying not to get discouraged, I constantly conceive of new strategies, new networking possibilities, and new career prospects.
D, all of the above
Most recently I’ve resorted to stalking my new neighbor under the suspicion that he has an eminent job at a national company headquartered in Rhode Island. Obviously (in my delusional mind) this particular company would be interested in hiring a female economics major and a product of the state public education system until college. Why am I pursuing this stranger so desperately? I don’t have any desire to remain in Rhode Island. Chalk it up to the thrill of the chase. Business, banking, writing, I can’t make up my mind and don’t have any offers even if I did.
This is a far cry from my pre-college dream of being a journalist, or an initial dalliance into anthropology that inspired me to become documentary film maker. Then I found economics, and was resigned to selling my soul to corporate, if only to cash out by 40. I tired of that route and considered teaching, then becoming a professor. When real internships were mandated by junior year, I circled back to the corporate world but tried consulting for its variety. That was acceptable for a summer, but restlessness in the cube thrust me into event-based marketing.
Somehow, a year into that job I was still languishing in the cube and reverted back to the aspiration of a PhD program and professorship. A few university tours later and I was back to sulking in my cube. My departure from corporate America and sudden evaporation of cash flow propelled me west, but a lack of opportunity still had me seeking adventure. I must have missed the press release that the new tag line for the military is “the few, the proud, the non-asthmatic” so my attempt to see the world and contribute to something significant was halted. This blog is a manifestation of my old journalistic tendencies, but my job applications are still filed for primarily analyst positions for banks I’ve never heard of in cities I’d rather not visit.
Casting call
My childhood dream of going to the Olympics still nags at me, and there are days when I want to abandon conventional society and live as a beach bum (until I realize I’d have to move to the South, immediately negating that prospect). I endeavor to go to London for graduate school but have no particular aim in doing so. It’s just a romanticized conception of becoming an ex-pat that soothes my disenchanted psyche.
Only a month into under-employment, I can’t afford to relent. I whip out my resume in public and unabashedly inform strangers that I’m seeking work to spark the realization that they need to hire a 2009 grad with a BA in economics and strong verbal skills. People get discovered for movie roles on the street, so why can’t the next person who walks through the convenience store door offer me a job commensurate with my abilities? That seems like a more likely plot than stardom. Otherwise, I will resort to trying my luck in L.A.
Today is a pretty big day. By my tally, the job application I just submitted marks 40 since I’ve arrived home. And I’m humiliated to say that I’ve heard back from exactly zero. Of course you get the customary email thanking you for your submission into the abyss, following by the glaring warning DO NOT REPLY BACK to this message. Evidently providing the status of an application is just too daunting a task for an HR department devoted to screening applicants. I did call on one occasion and was informed that a glorified secretarial position at a popular DC institute had received 400 applicants. So I guess I’m out of contention was her curt implication. I haven’t had an interview since April.
Batting 0-40 is usually grounds for being sent down to the minors, and I suppose my cashier job is the working world equivalent despite my college stats. Trying not to get discouraged, I constantly conceive of new strategies, new networking possibilities, and new career prospects.
D, all of the above
Most recently I’ve resorted to stalking my new neighbor under the suspicion that he has an eminent job at a national company headquartered in Rhode Island. Obviously (in my delusional mind) this particular company would be interested in hiring a female economics major and a product of the state public education system until college. Why am I pursuing this stranger so desperately? I don’t have any desire to remain in Rhode Island. Chalk it up to the thrill of the chase. Business, banking, writing, I can’t make up my mind and don’t have any offers even if I did.
This is a far cry from my pre-college dream of being a journalist, or an initial dalliance into anthropology that inspired me to become documentary film maker. Then I found economics, and was resigned to selling my soul to corporate, if only to cash out by 40. I tired of that route and considered teaching, then becoming a professor. When real internships were mandated by junior year, I circled back to the corporate world but tried consulting for its variety. That was acceptable for a summer, but restlessness in the cube thrust me into event-based marketing.
Somehow, a year into that job I was still languishing in the cube and reverted back to the aspiration of a PhD program and professorship. A few university tours later and I was back to sulking in my cube. My departure from corporate America and sudden evaporation of cash flow propelled me west, but a lack of opportunity still had me seeking adventure. I must have missed the press release that the new tag line for the military is “the few, the proud, the non-asthmatic” so my attempt to see the world and contribute to something significant was halted. This blog is a manifestation of my old journalistic tendencies, but my job applications are still filed for primarily analyst positions for banks I’ve never heard of in cities I’d rather not visit.
Casting call
My childhood dream of going to the Olympics still nags at me, and there are days when I want to abandon conventional society and live as a beach bum (until I realize I’d have to move to the South, immediately negating that prospect). I endeavor to go to London for graduate school but have no particular aim in doing so. It’s just a romanticized conception of becoming an ex-pat that soothes my disenchanted psyche.
Only a month into under-employment, I can’t afford to relent. I whip out my resume in public and unabashedly inform strangers that I’m seeking work to spark the realization that they need to hire a 2009 grad with a BA in economics and strong verbal skills. People get discovered for movie roles on the street, so why can’t the next person who walks through the convenience store door offer me a job commensurate with my abilities? That seems like a more likely plot than stardom. Otherwise, I will resort to trying my luck in L.A.
Monday, June 28, 2010
I'm a hustler
Hustling hard all day
In the interest of padding my minimum wage work week, I’ve been contracted out to my brother-in-law’s catering truck. Specialties include any variety of ways to induce a coronary, from $1.50 to $4.00.
My favorite transaction involves a guy squandering half of an hour’s pay on one energy drink fueling a placebo-effect high. When I wasn’t fading in and out of consciousness in advanced microeconomic theory, I learned that optimum social welfare is achieved by allowing individuals to allocate their own funds, instead of dictating spending through subsidies. Something tells me aggregate social welfare is not maximized when a warehouse full of men is hopped up on Monster and racing toward 5pm.
Who am I to judge? I’m picking up hours anyway I can with a car to support and the lingering hope that I’m going to have to put my savings toward moving expenses in the very near future. And if I need to be fueled by an over-priced energy drink to keep ringing up more of the same, so be it.
TGIM
Cobbling together all of these hours, weekends have become inconsequential to me. They once divided otherwise endless work weeks, signaled impending hangovers, and initiated poor decisions. Now I bum around with my middle aged roommates begging for a family drive or challenging my mom to Bananagrams. I may as well hang it up and head to the retirement home, and I would gladly do so were it not for the absence of the all-important nest egg. All my issues come back to a lack of stable employment…
What’s worse, the weekends render my job hunt useless. What’s the point of depositing an HR email in the inbox Saturday morning, only for my carefully crafted words to be buried by Monday? So I sit and mull restlessly about a lack of prospects and panic until Monday when I can again torture the hiring departments of every Fortune 500 company (and most of those that didn’t even make the list).
It’s not like I require additional rest over the weekend. In fact, I grapple with the other convenience store employees for possession of the vaunted time and a half Sunday shifts. I’m miserable anyway, may as well be miserable at close to $11/hour- that puts a little extra pep in my “would you like a bag?” Plus, the extra hours really sway my productivity-to-nothingness ratio for the better. I’m on the verge of a 40/60 differential. Just weeks ago, the ratio was somewhere around 10/90, with that ten corresponding to trips to get a drink or throw something away.
Leave it to Beaver lied
So many people operate on this unconventional work week that my Leave it to Beaver conception of the “real world” is imploding. Guys at the catering stops are clamoring for burgers at 8am and my closing at the store is the start of some of my customers’ day. Where have I been in the last 23 years that I’ve avoided this nocturnal crowd acknowledging the moon with a sun salutation and traipsing off to work on a Sunday without demanding overtime?
My sister called it- I’m a bubble child. But I’m learning, and while that’s not hedging against my car loan, I can take these examples to the proverbial bank. Probably get better interest than my current savings account, too.
As today is Monday, I will resume my deluge of resume dropping after distributing Monsters to the factory workers of Northern RI.
Friday, June 25, 2010
Employee Stimulus Envelope
More forceful than UN sanctions
Of late, I’m being admonished for the condition of the store after my closing shift. I follow the same parameters as every other closing cashier, but my particular performance has been singled out as unsatisfactory. Bold move from those depending on my sister’s employment to support their livelihoods, so my indiscretions must be blatant.
Sure, I spend a bit more time than most waving to my niece over the surveillance camera, reading the AP news wire, and jotting notes on my BlackBerry, but I’m pretty conscientious about my cleaning. Even my mom has remarked on my increased effectiveness on the home front. Being the czar of domestic cleanliness, I was feeling confident about my new found abilities with a broom and rag.
Want fries with that?
Being the newest addition to the store, I elected not to take offense to this comment. I instead took this as an opportunity to learn about corporate protocol. After all, what’s the value of a brand experience if not expected conditions and consistency. The golden arches may not promise a Capital Grille caliber meal, but you’re rarely surprised. The occasional rodent, heart attack, and recall notwithstanding, people take stock in the safety of stopping at a McDonald’s anywhere in the world. Why not mimic the characteristics of the world’s most prolific fast food chain? Maybe we could institute a short training session on the values of our store and corporate policy…
My sister shot me down immediately on the grounds of the overtime demanded by the additional meeting. Fine, we’re not aiming for McDonald’s status, I get it. And I guess those stock options I was offered were a joke. But let’s at least outline some proactive solutions.
The next day I’m confronted with a new list attached to my check in an all-encompassing “employee stimulus envelope” (clever managers). By new I mean the same scribbled list, just typed and attached to a clipboard, obligating closers to check off every task accomplished. This list is already huge obstacle to my goal of escaping as close to 10pm as possible every evening. The list also included several issues pertaining to protocol that reflect some insidious issues in the workplace.
Text message break-ups
Text message break-ups are universally recognized as the epitome of pathetic. The meaning is clear, you can’t be bothered. Your time is too precious or you’re just too fragile to withstand the emotional turmoil of separation. So an employee “resignation” via text was vehemently targeted on the new code of conduct. The menacing paper also further reprimanded my cell phone use at the register. It seems we also have to look presentable, which is going to add another 2 minutes to my pre-work preparations and really cut into my “doing nothing” time.
We must recycle cartons of cigarettes to use for signs, because evidently the pile of already destroyed trees in the form of notepads in the back is being horded for kindling. This mode of recycling is the equivalent of carbon offsets for cancer sticks, I suppose.
Personal phone calls are to be kept to a minimum. This poses a huge conflict in my otherwise harmonious work-family relationship. When my sister calls, should I treat her as the boss, and ignore those at the register to address urgent business matters? Or should I dutifully hang up on her, as I would my sister, to avoid violating company policy?
Working overtime
I’m not sure how my sister had the time to detail such an extensive list. Before heading to work yesterday, I stopped by her house then slowly backed away as I heard her cooing “please don’t throw up on me” to my four month old niece. The last time I heard that, it was uttered miserably in the after-hours of a killer party. Add that to my list of reasons never to have children, but not to the list of employee conduct, that’s sufficiently full.
The new checklist was sugar-coated with an array of gift cards to local businesses. I was excluded from the drawing, a shot of anti-nepotism that will keep me on my cell for the entire shift.
Thursday, June 24, 2010
Cashing Out
What a difference a year makes
May 17, 2009: I was suffering the emotional assault of finals, senior week, and graduation with a smile. From my perch at the end of the alphabet of my graduating class, I was considering an elite private college as $200,000 well spent. It was 2009 and while the Dow continued to plummet my hopes were buoyed. Of course I would remain friends with my classmates for life. It was understood that after my first million I would donate a new wing to a building. If I could just endure the litany of platitudes from speakers neglecting the collective hangover of my class, I would happily retreat from the green to clean out my room and wish my friends well. After all, I had a JOB, the three-letter word that sent ‘09’ers racing to the career office in fits of hysteria. Of course, my employment was nothing glamorous. One tier above fetching coffee, I was hired on a limited basis but was optimistic about the prospects for advancement. “Limited term” was an issue of semantics. After a week’s reprieve from college, I raced off to my miniature studio apartment.
Magna cum laude to cashier-a slippery slope
I made new friends, travelled the country, gained access to events I’d only seen on TV, and secured the promotion to remain with my company. I also languished in a drab cubicle, underutilized- the plight of most entry-level positions. My intellectual property rights were hijacked to the point of an idea being patented without my knowledge. A mercenary to international marketing campaigns, I lived at hotels for weeks operating on minimal sleep. On the few weekends I was free from work, I hemorrhaged my meager wages in New York City. Among my friends, the fact that I boasted a “cool job” was the consensus, but it did little to pay the rent. After nearly a year, I considered grad school, begged for a transfer, and finally worked up the gumption to leave the job that marked the pinnacle of my college career. Of course a deluge of applicants immediately filled the ungrateful vacuum I vacated. Suddenly I was no longer on a trajectory to make Fortune 500 by 25. In fact, leaving my job represented first deviation in the great “plan” I engineered early in life to guarantee enormous success.
Graduation was almost frenetic with promise. Fast forward to 13 months later, and I’m skulking around my parents’ house demanding to know what “we” are doing for the day. There’s no need to ask, the schedule is rigid. I wake up with purpose, only to remember that business casual is not mandatory for the unemployed. I run on the same paths I prodded on in high school, do errands with my mom praying to avoid anyone who anticipated that I would be immediately successful, and devote the duration of the day to futile online job searches.
I’m 23. My “we” formerly consisted of a peer network in New York City and the freedom to explore everything at my disposal. I traded the world’s most cosmopolitan metropolis for suburbia in search of a new job and the hope for relocation to what I deemed the Promised Land: Colorado. Thankfully, my capable sister and her industrious husband recently acquired a convenience store and penciled me in the schedule as a cashier. That position seemed fairly commensurate with my qualifications as an economics major, and shockingly not a dramatic pay cut.
Training day
My sister obviously took not-so-secret pleasure in outfitting her formerly over-achieving sister with the awkward fitting red piqued polo and delineated the code of conduct. To date, my most frequent violation is undoubtedly texting on the job. The no-cell-on-the-register rule is in direct conflict with my compulsion to keep my BlackBerry visible at all times, like a signal of my perceived self-importance.
Duties must be fairly standard across these establishments. Politely make change for patrons and tidy up fastidiously when free. At the end of the night, ensure $100 of opening cash is in the register. Ostensibly I make sweeping an art form and use more Windex than the cast of My Big Fat Greek Wedding; in actuality I’m fantasizing about get-rich-quick schemes and if it’s truly too late to make an obscure Olympic team. I observe the patrons who shop at least once daily, blue collar individuals who subsist on the daily exchange of minimum wage for white bread and milk. I smile graciously when they discard change in the Take-a-Penny jar, even when my sister chides me that the coins are not a tip. The accumulation of spare change vindicates my shift and distracts me from sweeping curdled raw meet from the deli recesses.
Riding bikes and walking to work as I coast into the parking lot in a car I can hardly afford, my coworkers are among the most dedicated individuals I’ve ever encountered. Some are single parents; one has six children and two grandchildren monopolizing her resources. Obligated to work two jobs, often overnight, it’s not surprising that at 36 she has had a heart attack and has no financial recourse but to continue. They maintain a tenable pride in the community and their daily efforts to support local needs. I can’t afford to demonstrate disdain in my under-employment in the face of coworkers with such conviction.
Dwindling ROI
My parents call it paying your dues; I call it disillusionment and a poor return on investment of intellectual capital. Admittedly, I lived (and continue to enjoy) a charmed life. Suburban upbringing, encouraging family, private college, the trifecta for anticipated success. I always had part-time jobs growing up, from scoring basketball games to shelving books at the public library, through interning at various consulting firms during summer breaks from college. Yet somehow, sixteen years of high-achievement in school renders me grappling for shifts with people trying to feed their families on minimum wage. It doesn’t take my over-priced economics degree to realize that something has gone awry with the American financial system.
Granted, much of my dismay is self-inflicted. Perhaps my expectations were grossly misappropriated, and I did elect to leave my job. I mistakenly thought my credentials and improving economic conditions would result in a new job in a new city by the fall. Instead, my roughly 40 recently submitted resumes have yet to register a response from online databases, absorbing my qualifications into a black hole of unemployed oblivion.
I’m fortunate. My parents are generous and understanding, providing the support to continue searching. Most members of the class of 2009 are not as lucky, and are relegated to jobs that pay the rent instead of pursuing the increasingly elusive American Dream. I read years ago that our generation would be the first not to exceed the standard of living achieved by our parents. I’m certainly glad I savored my childhood, but refuse to abandon hope of one day becoming a mogul.
Can I get a "hell yeah" from all the econ majors of '09?
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