Ok, seriously. It's fall here in the Midwest. Since I am from the St. Louis area, I have seen it all. St. Louis has THE WORST weather on the face of the planet. Sometimes, I look up the temperatures in Alaska and cross check it with the temperatures in St. Louis and I get jealous of Alaska. I should move to Alaska. It's sunshiny for days at a time, they pay you to live in their state and there is nature all around. That might actually be a downside for me. I do not do well with the outdoors, or machines. I think those two oddly go together. You have to fix your own shit when you live in the middle of nowhere. (Plus, sometimes it gets warmer than St. Louis). Anyway. I hate fall....everyone is sneezy, it rains like 5 out of 7 days a week, the temperature fluctuates from smoggy to frigid within an hour and a half. It's like wintertime, except with warmer temperatures and just replace the snow with more rain. Speaking of sneezy, I feel like the sneezes are contagious. Just like the mirror neurons used for contagious yawning....once someone sneezes, everyone in the whole room starts sneezing. It's so ridiculous too, when you're in a lecture and you're trying to concentrate and then....
Achooo.
ten seconds later....
Achoooooo.
Five Seconds late,
Achoo, Achoo.
And before you know it everyone has sneezed and is now sniffling.
Also, that's another problem. Summer is warm and flu free and once October rolls around, EVERYONE has the flu. Flus wouldn't be so bad if they didn't come with the sniffles. I think that sniffling is one of my petpeeves, but only upon occasion. Sniffling people in classrooms can definitely be annoying. I guess it isn't their fault. There is a tremendous amounts of Kleenex until you need a freakin Kleenex and then there is none to be found. In the summertime, you couldn't give it away, but in late October, the prices are inflated.....people are selling it in back alleys for an increased rate. I once THREW AWAY Kleenex..........blasphemy.
The nice thing about fall is.....you're looking forward to the Holidays. Once Halloween rolls around, then next thing you know it's Thanksgiving and then BAM....Christmas and then BAM.....a whole new year. I always get the hungries in the Fall though. Me and my nameless roommate were just chitchatting about this via the Facebook machine. I rarely get to see her, so Facebook's the best way to chitchat. Anyway, I can't stop eating. I like to think it's because I've used sooooo many calories with my walking to and from school and bicycling up and down the flat streets of my small town, but come on, that's not the reason.
I think I have the hungries in the Fall because my body knows what's coming, and it's preparing the best it can for the inclement conditions of winter by stocking up on carbohydrates. Ya know what I never considered doing? Cutting out carbs. I can kinda see cutting out candy and sweets (I would never give up Chips Ahoy Chunky, never, not ever), and I can kind of see cutting out dairy (I'm L.Intolerant, let's not telling anyone---I don't want to be bullied for my differences). But, CARBS? That is the meal of the Romans and the Greeks. And, I'm sure the Persians jumped on the carb bandwagon too. The meal of the middle class Egyptians who worked on the pyramids was rich, thick BREAD. Not, a veggie salad with a light vinaigrette. BREAD. If they could make the pyramids off of two slices of bread for lunch, that's good enough for me.
Thursday, October 29, 2009
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
Adventures in Minimum Wageland---The Grand Finale!
Dollar General.
D.G.
What a wonderful little place to work. My particular Dollar General was operated by two middle aged women and one middle aged man. I was the only youngster in the joint. (Yes, I called it a joint, because it was like prison---the temperature was hot, everyone smoked, I got paid very little, I was always working, and the only people who patroned the store were the underrepresented, oppressed minorities of society.)
Plus, in The Joint the workers made up an elite squad of gangsters. Kinda like a Chain Gang. It was cool. I felt at home; apart of something bigger than myself. That was when I knew I had to quit: If I felt at home in a DOLLAR GENERAL, it was time to go. But really, it was great. All I did was open boxes and scan people's small purchases. I hated being a cashier at the fake floral store, but I think it was the atmosphere and the quantity of goods purchased by the average customer. At D.G., the average shopping cart was stacked with batteries, t.p., tampons, $1 pregnancy tests (yes, one dollar) and candy. If I had more than 10 items for one patron, it was a 'busy day.' I got a funny story about a Latino man:
One time, when my manager was taking her bi-hourly smoke break, a couple of Mexican men came into the store. *This isn't me being racist; many people of Latin American descent shop at D.G.----it's close, cheap, accessible and small. They finished shopping: they bought beans, rice and batteries. One of the men left, the other man paid for his stuff and then......lingered. Yeah, he just hung out. In my mind, I thought, "What, did I mess up his order, do I need to translate something with my broken Spanglish?"
Then, he leaned in, hand still on his wallet and said, "You work here all the time?"
And I said, "Surprisingly, yes, all the time."
It got really quiet, and I hate awkward pauses, so I filled in with: "Do YOU work all the time, tambien?"
He ignored that (or took it as rhetorical) and then said with an eyebrow raised (like in a cheesy film), "You live around here?"
HOKAY, let's be frank here. I am a Midwesterner. I don't understand flirting. My idea of flirting is BLATANT. In fact, I had to be ostracized by one nameless roommate before I understood that my form of flirting is generally unacceptable by this country and the society I live in today. I, personally, have been hit on 0 to 1 times in my whole life. I do not comprehend how someone is/could be attracted to me. Weird.
So, I answered, "Si, yo vivo en the next town."
He then scanned my face, and his eyes traveled down my body, down my black shirt, down to my corduroy pants. He then said, "You live alone?"
"NOPE, sure don't. Definitely not. Not alone. Nope."
"Who you live with?"--My future lover, clearly.
"My dad. And my mom, and my sister." Then, at that moment, he started the undressing-my-clothes-with-the-eyes routine, but as he got to my trousers, he turned his head to the right to find my boss with a hand on her hip, a 6 foot 2 inch frame, crazy dyed red hair and a cigarette in her hand giving my stalker the "look". He then left pretty quickly.
I will always remember him fondly.
I only worked D.G. for a little while, but during the next summer, I started work for this college Big Wig. I like to refer to her as Mrs. Big, like Sex and The City, or The Notorious B.I.G.wig.
Anyway, technically I worked for the NBW's secretary, (which made me feel like the bottom of the food chain), but still, close contact to the NBW. Actually there wasn't really a big issue with this job, just that the NBW was on a diet. I don't know why, but she had a shitton of small, prepackaged green bean containers. I had to help move offices (from one side of campus to the other) and I kept finding dusty green bean packages. I thought about stealing and eating one just to see what the fuss was about but I decided against it.
Also, the secretary was ridiculous. She liked HER college and talked trash about other colleges. Plus, I never knew what was expected of me and after the sixth day of asking, "Is there anything I can be doing?" I decided to stop asking. Then, (and here's the kicker) she complained that I never fulfilled my job duties. Ummmm, what job duties---asking questions about packaged greens and what I could be doing? I should have stolen a green bean package.
Lastly, I started working at the library. I quit the NBW and I got a lovely job working for the school library. It's great except for the late nights. The worst part is closing the library. I don't mind the late hours, but it's checking the men's bathrooms. We have to check each stall, so I hold my breath, kick open the bathroom door, like I'm Chuck Norris or Steven Seagal and rush into the bathroom and proceed to do the same to each stall. By the time I'm done checking, my face is blue because I have run out of breath and end up breathing deeply, inhaling what I was trying to avoid in the first place. By the way, why is it that the men's bathrooms are more heinous than most prosecutable crimes? It is an awful place to be.
What should I write on next? If you have any ideas, give me a shout out.
D.G.
What a wonderful little place to work. My particular Dollar General was operated by two middle aged women and one middle aged man. I was the only youngster in the joint. (Yes, I called it a joint, because it was like prison---the temperature was hot, everyone smoked, I got paid very little, I was always working, and the only people who patroned the store were the underrepresented, oppressed minorities of society.)
Plus, in The Joint the workers made up an elite squad of gangsters. Kinda like a Chain Gang. It was cool. I felt at home; apart of something bigger than myself. That was when I knew I had to quit: If I felt at home in a DOLLAR GENERAL, it was time to go. But really, it was great. All I did was open boxes and scan people's small purchases. I hated being a cashier at the fake floral store, but I think it was the atmosphere and the quantity of goods purchased by the average customer. At D.G., the average shopping cart was stacked with batteries, t.p., tampons, $1 pregnancy tests (yes, one dollar) and candy. If I had more than 10 items for one patron, it was a 'busy day.' I got a funny story about a Latino man:
One time, when my manager was taking her bi-hourly smoke break, a couple of Mexican men came into the store. *This isn't me being racist; many people of Latin American descent shop at D.G.----it's close, cheap, accessible and small. They finished shopping: they bought beans, rice and batteries. One of the men left, the other man paid for his stuff and then......lingered. Yeah, he just hung out. In my mind, I thought, "What, did I mess up his order, do I need to translate something with my broken Spanglish?"
Then, he leaned in, hand still on his wallet and said, "You work here all the time?"
And I said, "Surprisingly, yes, all the time."
It got really quiet, and I hate awkward pauses, so I filled in with: "Do YOU work all the time, tambien?"
He ignored that (or took it as rhetorical) and then said with an eyebrow raised (like in a cheesy film), "You live around here?"
HOKAY, let's be frank here. I am a Midwesterner. I don't understand flirting. My idea of flirting is BLATANT. In fact, I had to be ostracized by one nameless roommate before I understood that my form of flirting is generally unacceptable by this country and the society I live in today. I, personally, have been hit on 0 to 1 times in my whole life. I do not comprehend how someone is/could be attracted to me. Weird.
So, I answered, "Si, yo vivo en the next town."
He then scanned my face, and his eyes traveled down my body, down my black shirt, down to my corduroy pants. He then said, "You live alone?"
"NOPE, sure don't. Definitely not. Not alone. Nope."
"Who you live with?"--My future lover, clearly.
"My dad. And my mom, and my sister." Then, at that moment, he started the undressing-my-clothes-with-the-eyes routine, but as he got to my trousers, he turned his head to the right to find my boss with a hand on her hip, a 6 foot 2 inch frame, crazy dyed red hair and a cigarette in her hand giving my stalker the "look". He then left pretty quickly.
I will always remember him fondly.
I only worked D.G. for a little while, but during the next summer, I started work for this college Big Wig. I like to refer to her as Mrs. Big, like Sex and The City, or The Notorious B.I.G.wig.
Anyway, technically I worked for the NBW's secretary, (which made me feel like the bottom of the food chain), but still, close contact to the NBW. Actually there wasn't really a big issue with this job, just that the NBW was on a diet. I don't know why, but she had a shitton of small, prepackaged green bean containers. I had to help move offices (from one side of campus to the other) and I kept finding dusty green bean packages. I thought about stealing and eating one just to see what the fuss was about but I decided against it.
Also, the secretary was ridiculous. She liked HER college and talked trash about other colleges. Plus, I never knew what was expected of me and after the sixth day of asking, "Is there anything I can be doing?" I decided to stop asking. Then, (and here's the kicker) she complained that I never fulfilled my job duties. Ummmm, what job duties---asking questions about packaged greens and what I could be doing? I should have stolen a green bean package.
Lastly, I started working at the library. I quit the NBW and I got a lovely job working for the school library. It's great except for the late nights. The worst part is closing the library. I don't mind the late hours, but it's checking the men's bathrooms. We have to check each stall, so I hold my breath, kick open the bathroom door, like I'm Chuck Norris or Steven Seagal and rush into the bathroom and proceed to do the same to each stall. By the time I'm done checking, my face is blue because I have run out of breath and end up breathing deeply, inhaling what I was trying to avoid in the first place. By the way, why is it that the men's bathrooms are more heinous than most prosecutable crimes? It is an awful place to be.
What should I write on next? If you have any ideas, give me a shout out.
Sunday, October 18, 2009
My Adventures in Minimum Wageland part 3 of __
Up next: dorm desk, Dollar General, College Big wig, and my library love.
Ok, it's my Sophomore year at State U and I decided to make a couple bucks (literally a COUPLE of bucks---anything that's funded by the government is cheap) by working a hall desk. Job description: guarding UPS packages with my 5 foot 2 inch body, swiping student I.D. cards in exchange for ping pong balls (our dorm was the proud owner of a ping pong table). FYI: Ping pong has many many followers. In my college experience, if I had any free time, I would be spending it sleeping or watching bad television, NOT playing ping pong. Who are these people who have all of this free time? Underachievers, I'd like to think. Maybe, they are writing all of their papers about the art of ping pong and their playing is really just extensive research. Maybe.
Let me tell you guys, working the hall desk was so easy. I only worked like 5 to 10 hours a week and I literally just sat at the desk (had a computer though). The manager of the hall desk (yeah, we needed a manager) scheduled workers to work the hall desk on the weekends too. We were trying to be as convenient as possible for the students. The manager and the Dorm Coordinator ran the desk, and encouraged the workers to be as professional and serious about the job on and off duty. So, when I worked the lonely Saturday night, I decided to opt-out of the professionalism and pop a movie into the computer or download Youtube videos. One time it was: The Princess Bride, another time I watched like three episodes of the Office. Another time I played Saturday Night Live videos. ALL WHILE ON COMPANY TIME. Booyah. Another crucial fact about this story is the fact that the computer would play the episodes/movies/videos for ALL to hear. Imagine hearing The Office's theme song radiate in the corridors of a Saturday night. Yeah, I did it. Just a suggestion, kiddos, if you got a computer and the willpower to undermine your boss's authority, DO IT. The best part of the desk job was catching up on all the latest games. I never had any gaming systems as a kid. I had heard of Sega and Playstation, but I had never had the privilege to own one, or play one. So, when they invented computer games....and then four years later I heard about it....and then another several years before I played one myself... I knew this was the distraction for me! But, being in college is a timesuck. All I do is read, sleep, eat and write papers. I love writing papers (and sometimes reading), but that left little time for computer games. Anyway, this hall desk enabled me to catch up on the new games at addictinggames.com. Excelente! I actually only played four or five games (I just wanted to be the best at those games that I could be).
One time, when I was playing those games, it had something to do with a car. The controls were Space Bar to jump, use the arrows to move left, right, accelerate, etc. I got so into the game....it controlled me. I was the car that I controlled. I moved left....right.....faster and faster. All I could think about was the open road. But, just as soon as I thought I was winning, Bam! I slammed into another car on this virtual road on the Internet. If I had not been possessed by the information super highway, I could have handled the situation as if I had been playing a game. Instead, I handled the situation as if this was my only path in life. This road was my only mission. I could succeed at this game, or lose my life. So, after I hit the car, I screamed out: SON OF A BITCHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH -------------just in time to look up and see a loyal dormitory guest, holding a student I.D. card with the most absurd expression on his face. Under his wide-rimmed glasses, his eyes looked watery, half-closed, squinting back at me. His mouth held tightly pressed teeth. He was scared and confused. And I was the cause of that. NO. The gaming cult caused that face. I am just a member of that cult.
Next post: Dollar General, big wig and Library.
Ok, it's my Sophomore year at State U and I decided to make a couple bucks (literally a COUPLE of bucks---anything that's funded by the government is cheap) by working a hall desk. Job description: guarding UPS packages with my 5 foot 2 inch body, swiping student I.D. cards in exchange for ping pong balls (our dorm was the proud owner of a ping pong table). FYI: Ping pong has many many followers. In my college experience, if I had any free time, I would be spending it sleeping or watching bad television, NOT playing ping pong. Who are these people who have all of this free time? Underachievers, I'd like to think. Maybe, they are writing all of their papers about the art of ping pong and their playing is really just extensive research. Maybe.
Let me tell you guys, working the hall desk was so easy. I only worked like 5 to 10 hours a week and I literally just sat at the desk (had a computer though). The manager of the hall desk (yeah, we needed a manager) scheduled workers to work the hall desk on the weekends too. We were trying to be as convenient as possible for the students. The manager and the Dorm Coordinator ran the desk, and encouraged the workers to be as professional and serious about the job on and off duty. So, when I worked the lonely Saturday night, I decided to opt-out of the professionalism and pop a movie into the computer or download Youtube videos. One time it was: The Princess Bride, another time I watched like three episodes of the Office. Another time I played Saturday Night Live videos. ALL WHILE ON COMPANY TIME. Booyah. Another crucial fact about this story is the fact that the computer would play the episodes/movies/videos for ALL to hear. Imagine hearing The Office's theme song radiate in the corridors of a Saturday night. Yeah, I did it. Just a suggestion, kiddos, if you got a computer and the willpower to undermine your boss's authority, DO IT. The best part of the desk job was catching up on all the latest games. I never had any gaming systems as a kid. I had heard of Sega and Playstation, but I had never had the privilege to own one, or play one. So, when they invented computer games....and then four years later I heard about it....and then another several years before I played one myself... I knew this was the distraction for me! But, being in college is a timesuck. All I do is read, sleep, eat and write papers. I love writing papers (and sometimes reading), but that left little time for computer games. Anyway, this hall desk enabled me to catch up on the new games at addictinggames.com. Excelente! I actually only played four or five games (I just wanted to be the best at those games that I could be).
One time, when I was playing those games, it had something to do with a car. The controls were Space Bar to jump, use the arrows to move left, right, accelerate, etc. I got so into the game....it controlled me. I was the car that I controlled. I moved left....right.....faster and faster. All I could think about was the open road. But, just as soon as I thought I was winning, Bam! I slammed into another car on this virtual road on the Internet. If I had not been possessed by the information super highway, I could have handled the situation as if I had been playing a game. Instead, I handled the situation as if this was my only path in life. This road was my only mission. I could succeed at this game, or lose my life. So, after I hit the car, I screamed out: SON OF A BITCHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH -------------just in time to look up and see a loyal dormitory guest, holding a student I.D. card with the most absurd expression on his face. Under his wide-rimmed glasses, his eyes looked watery, half-closed, squinting back at me. His mouth held tightly pressed teeth. He was scared and confused. And I was the cause of that. NO. The gaming cult caused that face. I am just a member of that cult.
Next post: Dollar General, big wig and Library.
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
My Adventures in Minimum Wageland Part 2 of ___
Ok. So, my faithful readers have read about the Pondo, the P.H.co., the bistro, Whitey's and the fake floral store. But, that was only half of the excitement that is: my employment history.
6. During my time at the fake floral store, I also volunteered for an after-school program tutoring kids. Don't think I'm some self-sacrificing hero---I did it to get a scholarship. For one, I don't even like kids that much. I dry heave every time someone mentions breastfeeding. I have dreams about giving birth, and being revolted by my own milk-filled breasts.
I think infants are boring, too. They smell weird, I hate the smell of baby powder, they need like a Paris Hilton sized accessories closet and all they do is poop and scream. At all hours of the night. Infants are a lot like frat boys, in a nutshell.
Luckily, the kids I taught were trained and very nice. I Tutored reading and English for awhile and then I moved on to tutoring kids one-on-one at math. Ummmm. In case you don't know me, I am a HISTORY major. I don't do math. At this age, (18), I hadn't taken math for over a year. And, even then, I was only enrolled in a math course, I didn't really learn math. These eight-year-olds are depending on me to help them pass math? Hokay.
So, I roll into the classroom and the teacher points to a small boy in the back corner. Why is it that they always stick the mathematically-challenged people in the back corner? I was mathematically-challenged, and I was stuck in the back corner too. Immediately, I bonded with this kid.
So, as I was reading the problems and seeing his answers and the work he did to get the answers, I was stopped short:
He, and the kids in his class, were learning a new procedure for large arithmetic problems! In other words: I didn't know shit about what he was doing. So, instead of alerting the proper authorities on the situation, I decided the best thing was to just have him teach me the new procedure. Except, we were both in the dark about the procedure. Time well spent, I'd say.
7. After I quit the floral store and I went to college, I needed money to pay for stuff....so I picked up a job for breaks (especially over Christmas Break, the longest ass break that college students have). Why is the break so long? 5 to 6 weeks. It isn't healthy for me to sit around for five to six weeks while waiting for school to start, especially in the presence of cookies and candies and holiday treats under the scrutiny of my Baptist / Republican / nondrinking family. Thanks, State University. Pain in my ass. So, in need of cashmoney and to cure my boredom, I decided it was a good time to pick up a job at the mall: Victoria's Secret. I really heard good things about the company and its friendliness to the employees. They also had a good training system that had a lot of coverage in all areas of the store. V.S. is a bra place. They sell underwear and bras and some perfume. This seemed like the place for me.
The only weird part was the nudity. Women are much freer than I thought they would be in the real world. They are very willing to show, and have 19-year-old girls touch, their front areas, checking for bra inaccuracies and asking for advice. And, these women (yes, women, no one under the age of 30 does this) will COME OUT INTO THE STORE AND DRESSING AREA partially nude. I am an American. Americans like the second amendment, flags, misogyny, freedom and blowing shit up. Most Americans find nudity very shocking. I am one of those Americans. Breasts were EVERYWHERE.
So, while all of these women are in the nude, instead of playing it off and being calm and collected during the episode/peepshow, my face turns bright red, I start sweating a little, and my eyes are open wide. Like a deer in the headlights. I couldn't look away and yet, I couldn't look straight ahead. Wide eyed *not so bushy tailed, however. A little while after the incident, I got transferred to the lingerie section---I'm really good at lying and selling lingerie. I think I got transferred because they knew my addiction to the kink. I was probably the only kinky one (with selling skills) who worked there. One time, this man came to V.S. looking for some lingerie. It was around the holidays and he needed a gift for his lady. He came to me wearing construction boots, flannel and some heavy-duty pantalones. These pants looked THICK. Anyway, he came to me asking for some lingerie. I asked him the usual questions like, do you want a certain color, style, etc.
We narrowed it down to two choices. He picked up one that he really fancied and said, "Is this going to rip easily?"
Okay, I thought to myself, I need the sale (we don't work on commission, but I wanted to impress the bosslady)....what is going to make the sale?
So, I responded: "Not unless you want it to rip."
Sale made!
Next up: dorm desk, Dollar General, college big wig, and my current love: the library. Stay tuned!
6. During my time at the fake floral store, I also volunteered for an after-school program tutoring kids. Don't think I'm some self-sacrificing hero---I did it to get a scholarship. For one, I don't even like kids that much. I dry heave every time someone mentions breastfeeding. I have dreams about giving birth, and being revolted by my own milk-filled breasts.
I think infants are boring, too. They smell weird, I hate the smell of baby powder, they need like a Paris Hilton sized accessories closet and all they do is poop and scream. At all hours of the night. Infants are a lot like frat boys, in a nutshell.
Luckily, the kids I taught were trained and very nice. I Tutored reading and English for awhile and then I moved on to tutoring kids one-on-one at math. Ummmm. In case you don't know me, I am a HISTORY major. I don't do math. At this age, (18), I hadn't taken math for over a year. And, even then, I was only enrolled in a math course, I didn't really learn math. These eight-year-olds are depending on me to help them pass math? Hokay.
So, I roll into the classroom and the teacher points to a small boy in the back corner. Why is it that they always stick the mathematically-challenged people in the back corner? I was mathematically-challenged, and I was stuck in the back corner too. Immediately, I bonded with this kid.
So, as I was reading the problems and seeing his answers and the work he did to get the answers, I was stopped short:
He, and the kids in his class, were learning a new procedure for large arithmetic problems! In other words: I didn't know shit about what he was doing. So, instead of alerting the proper authorities on the situation, I decided the best thing was to just have him teach me the new procedure. Except, we were both in the dark about the procedure. Time well spent, I'd say.
7. After I quit the floral store and I went to college, I needed money to pay for stuff....so I picked up a job for breaks (especially over Christmas Break, the longest ass break that college students have). Why is the break so long? 5 to 6 weeks. It isn't healthy for me to sit around for five to six weeks while waiting for school to start, especially in the presence of cookies and candies and holiday treats under the scrutiny of my Baptist / Republican / nondrinking family. Thanks, State University. Pain in my ass. So, in need of cashmoney and to cure my boredom, I decided it was a good time to pick up a job at the mall: Victoria's Secret. I really heard good things about the company and its friendliness to the employees. They also had a good training system that had a lot of coverage in all areas of the store. V.S. is a bra place. They sell underwear and bras and some perfume. This seemed like the place for me.
The only weird part was the nudity. Women are much freer than I thought they would be in the real world. They are very willing to show, and have 19-year-old girls touch, their front areas, checking for bra inaccuracies and asking for advice. And, these women (yes, women, no one under the age of 30 does this) will COME OUT INTO THE STORE AND DRESSING AREA partially nude. I am an American. Americans like the second amendment, flags, misogyny, freedom and blowing shit up. Most Americans find nudity very shocking. I am one of those Americans. Breasts were EVERYWHERE.
So, while all of these women are in the nude, instead of playing it off and being calm and collected during the episode/peepshow, my face turns bright red, I start sweating a little, and my eyes are open wide. Like a deer in the headlights. I couldn't look away and yet, I couldn't look straight ahead. Wide eyed *not so bushy tailed, however. A little while after the incident, I got transferred to the lingerie section---I'm really good at lying and selling lingerie. I think I got transferred because they knew my addiction to the kink. I was probably the only kinky one (with selling skills) who worked there. One time, this man came to V.S. looking for some lingerie. It was around the holidays and he needed a gift for his lady. He came to me wearing construction boots, flannel and some heavy-duty pantalones. These pants looked THICK. Anyway, he came to me asking for some lingerie. I asked him the usual questions like, do you want a certain color, style, etc.
We narrowed it down to two choices. He picked up one that he really fancied and said, "Is this going to rip easily?"
Okay, I thought to myself, I need the sale (we don't work on commission, but I wanted to impress the bosslady)....what is going to make the sale?
So, I responded: "Not unless you want it to rip."
Sale made!
Next up: dorm desk, Dollar General, college big wig, and my current love: the library. Stay tuned!
Friday, October 9, 2009
My Adventures in Minimum Wageland. Part 1 of ____
Okay, let me start off by saying that college student life is not synonymous with glory. It isn't all well and good that I decided to spend 4 to however many years of my life in an institution far away from the people that love me and whom are legally and ethically bound to support me (and far from the place of my dreams *where there are no hard times *aka Nowhere Real). Well, I just HAD to get that special one-of-a-kind taste at freedom. Well, to go to college (and to put off a real job), one has to work the shittiest, most degrading jobs imaginable. I don't want to go all classist on you, but seriously: Being raised as a lower middle class daughter of a blue-collar worker doesn't exactly open you up to privileges of the higher classes. Just sayin'.
Anyway, so I have decided to go the "easy route" and work summers, breaks and holidays. This also includes the years I've spent before moving to East Jesus Nowhere--College Campus.
So: this blog post is about my previous employment history---which is probably as intimate as one could get. Sure, I can wax poetic about my sex life to just about any old joe, but when it comes to my employment history, I usually require a paid dinner and a bottle of wine before I give up the old job ghost.
1. My first job.
Ponderosa.
Yes. I served medium-rare meat to a lucky audience of truckers, ass-pinchers, d-bags and the garden-variety slime balls. Not to mention the people who seemed to have holey pants (because they never tipped).
Usually the Sunday crowd was a little more tolerable, but still. You never can tell about the churchy types. I am one of those types. Point made.
Best part: Hotties love to wait tables. Ladies know: we go to restaurants because hotties wait tables. Beautiful men, moving large tables and lifting trays full of good looking food. Yeah. nice.
The worst part about Ponderosa was the pies. Here's an secret from the industry: they cook the pies in the oven and to let them cool, they stick them on the top of the oven. Why? Beats me. There are many many empty tables free of pies. I am not even a pie person. Set. the. pies. on. the. open. tables. I am not one hundred feet tall. I am 5 foot 2. I cannot reach them, nor do I want to reach them. Who is even putting the pies on the ovens, that's what I'd like to know. Who are these 100 foot people setting pies nearest to the ceiling? It seems to me, they will always have jobs, because no one else can set pies in unreachable places like they can.
2. Second job. The second job was the worst job I have ever had. The Pasta House Co. It was basically the same as the first job, except more pretentious bitches. The curves on their noses were just blatant indicators of their unwarranted self-importance. The worst part: I am already THE most awkward person on the planet. Once I get around popular people, I am even more awkward. Especially around high school age: there are only two types of people: the winners and then the awkward kids. Philosophical fact: The awkward kids have more fun now, I have discovered. 16 years old wasn't the best years for popularity in my world.
3. A local coffee shop.
No one came into the store for hours---then I got laid off. Sometimes, I would think about making a sandwich board saying things like: "it's hot inside the cup, coffee has feelings" or "we welcome you and your beret." But, no such luck---no sandwich board and no business for the local bistro. Laid off.
4. It was a long time coming, but an out-of-work 17 year old girl had to make money somehow.
So, I decided to apply to......yes, the White Castle. Lesson learned: be nice to fast food workers.
First day: Clumsiest person ever born: Could not work the television which played tapes to ironically teach me how to work the machines. I'm not a machine person. If I can work the microwave, it has been a good day.
Next day: Broke a spatula. <----not my fault---it was only made of plastic and probably a prayer. Same day: I burned ALL TEN OF MY FINGERS.
Third day, I BURNED ALL TEN OF MY FINGERS AGAIN. Then, I got my retribution: with my fingers still throbbing, I told a coworker that I thought this job was only so-so. Long story short: the boss heard and told me I should rethink the W.C. I was upset, but only because it would be on my permanent job record that I worked for a place that burned its employees daily.
5. The regional craft, linen and fake floral store. "They have stores all throughout the Midwest!!"
This one actually suited me. I didn't care for fake garden flowers, and I didn't have time for crafts, so I assumed the cashier position: I was a cashier and then I got "promoted" to Customer Service, then to a supervisor position / counted money.
I hated cashiering. My fellow cashiers were great---I just hated the lines of eager, all shopped-out customers. As a cashier, I was a robot. Cashiers are robots. That doesn't really work for my personality or my patience.
I was especially cranky one day when this self-indulgent ho bag came into my line fussing about prices and crafts. You know you need to chill the hell down when you are fighting about small wooden craft projects. IT'S JUST CRAFTS, IT'S GOING TO BE OKAY. Then, she had a large item under her cart, and refused to pick it up. Here's where I knew that the class system existed. She had money, and I was the one who scanned her precious purchases wearing a collared orange t-shirt and a misspelled name tag. So, as a reactionary measure: I came around the cart and.......whipped her with my hand-held scanner cord.
Ftttchhhhhh!!
I did what I had to do: I whipped her in the head.
There was no damage physically. But, she'll think twice before jib jabbing about crafts to a 17 year old cranky cashier (especially when she is armed with a corded scan gun).
There is more to come:
I worked for an after-school program, Victoria's Secret, a dormitory desk, Dollar General, a college big-wig and the library (my current / fabulous job).
Anyway, so I have decided to go the "easy route" and work summers, breaks and holidays. This also includes the years I've spent before moving to East Jesus Nowhere--College Campus.
So: this blog post is about my previous employment history---which is probably as intimate as one could get. Sure, I can wax poetic about my sex life to just about any old joe, but when it comes to my employment history, I usually require a paid dinner and a bottle of wine before I give up the old job ghost.
1. My first job.
Ponderosa.
Yes. I served medium-rare meat to a lucky audience of truckers, ass-pinchers, d-bags and the garden-variety slime balls. Not to mention the people who seemed to have holey pants (because they never tipped).
Usually the Sunday crowd was a little more tolerable, but still. You never can tell about the churchy types. I am one of those types. Point made.
Best part: Hotties love to wait tables. Ladies know: we go to restaurants because hotties wait tables. Beautiful men, moving large tables and lifting trays full of good looking food. Yeah. nice.
The worst part about Ponderosa was the pies. Here's an secret from the industry: they cook the pies in the oven and to let them cool, they stick them on the top of the oven. Why? Beats me. There are many many empty tables free of pies. I am not even a pie person. Set. the. pies. on. the. open. tables. I am not one hundred feet tall. I am 5 foot 2. I cannot reach them, nor do I want to reach them. Who is even putting the pies on the ovens, that's what I'd like to know. Who are these 100 foot people setting pies nearest to the ceiling? It seems to me, they will always have jobs, because no one else can set pies in unreachable places like they can.
2. Second job. The second job was the worst job I have ever had. The Pasta House Co. It was basically the same as the first job, except more pretentious bitches. The curves on their noses were just blatant indicators of their unwarranted self-importance. The worst part: I am already THE most awkward person on the planet. Once I get around popular people, I am even more awkward. Especially around high school age: there are only two types of people: the winners and then the awkward kids. Philosophical fact: The awkward kids have more fun now, I have discovered. 16 years old wasn't the best years for popularity in my world.
3. A local coffee shop.
No one came into the store for hours---then I got laid off. Sometimes, I would think about making a sandwich board saying things like: "it's hot inside the cup, coffee has feelings" or "we welcome you and your beret." But, no such luck---no sandwich board and no business for the local bistro. Laid off.
4. It was a long time coming, but an out-of-work 17 year old girl had to make money somehow.
So, I decided to apply to......yes, the White Castle. Lesson learned: be nice to fast food workers.
First day: Clumsiest person ever born: Could not work the television which played tapes to ironically teach me how to work the machines. I'm not a machine person. If I can work the microwave, it has been a good day.
Next day: Broke a spatula. <----not my fault---it was only made of plastic and probably a prayer. Same day: I burned ALL TEN OF MY FINGERS.
Third day, I BURNED ALL TEN OF MY FINGERS AGAIN. Then, I got my retribution: with my fingers still throbbing, I told a coworker that I thought this job was only so-so. Long story short: the boss heard and told me I should rethink the W.C. I was upset, but only because it would be on my permanent job record that I worked for a place that burned its employees daily.
5. The regional craft, linen and fake floral store. "They have stores all throughout the Midwest!!"
This one actually suited me. I didn't care for fake garden flowers, and I didn't have time for crafts, so I assumed the cashier position: I was a cashier and then I got "promoted" to Customer Service, then to a supervisor position / counted money.
I hated cashiering. My fellow cashiers were great---I just hated the lines of eager, all shopped-out customers. As a cashier, I was a robot. Cashiers are robots. That doesn't really work for my personality or my patience.
I was especially cranky one day when this self-indulgent ho bag came into my line fussing about prices and crafts. You know you need to chill the hell down when you are fighting about small wooden craft projects. IT'S JUST CRAFTS, IT'S GOING TO BE OKAY. Then, she had a large item under her cart, and refused to pick it up. Here's where I knew that the class system existed. She had money, and I was the one who scanned her precious purchases wearing a collared orange t-shirt and a misspelled name tag. So, as a reactionary measure: I came around the cart and.......whipped her with my hand-held scanner cord.
Ftttchhhhhh!!
I did what I had to do: I whipped her in the head.
There was no damage physically. But, she'll think twice before jib jabbing about crafts to a 17 year old cranky cashier (especially when she is armed with a corded scan gun).
There is more to come:
I worked for an after-school program, Victoria's Secret, a dormitory desk, Dollar General, a college big-wig and the library (my current / fabulous job).
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
First Blog Post Ever
I have never really been a blogger. But, my dream is to write my own memoir, so I better start preparing!
People always ask me what I want to do with my life; what I want to accomplish in the near (but ever present) future. Ya know what I hate? Those questions. I blame the elderly. Yes. The elderly. For one, those are the main sources of those types of questions. Grandparents, old neighbors, cashiers at random grocery stores ALL ask those types of questions. Do you know who are also people with question rabies (rabies as in foaming from the mouth, but with questions)? People who don't give a shit about the answer. That's my biggest pet-peeve. A.D.D. question askers.
Anyway, back to the question: What I want to do with my life / the future. Listen old people. I love you. You are great at story telling, giving advice about some things, you are good listeners....BUT bad question-askers. For the last time grandma, I am still no pregnant. No, grandma, I'm still not getting married. No, I don't think the price of bread is criminal. No, grandma, I don't think that we should give up on Obama quite yet. Let's give him some time.
---Seriously though. Old people and inappropriate question askers need not ask dumb questions. If I was really into telling you about my future, I would have done so. If I knew myself what I was going to do for the rest of my life (the rest of my life until I win the lottery or become the inventor of the chocolate chip cookie blow up machine (sort of like a shrinking machine, the it makes the cookies expand to 1000 times its size-----it's still in the production phase), I would tell you what I would be doing.
Anyway, I've had many goals in my life. The earliest memory of my life goal was to be a ballerinafirefighter. One word. I would dance and then fight fires. A graceful hero. Well, as a twenty something woman of the world (the Midwest world, that is), I I can tell you that I am neither graceful or a hero---but in a good, average, safe sort of way). I used to want to be in business, like work for a company and make lots of money and have a 401K and all that comes with corporate life. But, then I realized that my worst fear realized is: cubicles.
Like that great movie Office Space, I don't want to be chained to a desk. I want to be free. But, I also want to be free from manual labor too. Such a quaint juxtaposition.
So, I thought about it and thought about it. And then I settled on: being a lobbyist. That life goal lasted until I realized that I only wanted to be a lobbyist because I was sorta interested in politics and I was somewhat keen on spending time with my BFF Mrs. President. Mrs. President is one of those girls who will be the best person in the future. I never knew that class / caste systems existed until I met her---but in a good way. She is just my role model. She gets shit done. Being a lobbyist would never fly because I'm not THAT politically motivated (I lean far left, but I am only passionate about said topics until the fire dies out and I get bored), plus I never watch the news, CNN, or anything political. I think I once read a book about Jay Leno, Conan and Colbert and their effect on the political leanings of everyday Americans, but really, that was it.
Then, one day, I said. Ya know what: I want to be a professor. Everyday from late August to early May, I would see 4 or 5 professors teach me some junk that I could have read out of the books they gave me. Yes! Finally, a career for me! I mean, how hard could it be. Go to 4 to 6 years of graduate school for a certain field and then BAM---career made. Plus, I always saw my professors leaving early, not working too hard....But, as I started researching grad schools, and the Secret Lives of Professors, I understood what made those quirky professors tick. Professors work for years and years about one grand subject. It's like Dustin Hoffman's character in Rain Man, except without the over exaggerated stigmatism on disability. These professors work hard. For years they have worked hard---and continue to do so. Who knew?
Well, that career couldn't fly. I get bored. Plus, I need human contact (not human-to-book contact).
So, finally, I decided that I wanted to write a book of humorous stories about my life. But, as a non-published author (not published yet, anyway), I need to get my name out there! The only way to do that is to become a writer. Then, I decided that I want to work (and gain access to healthcare or an HMO). So: the dream is to go to grad school for Journalism and then work on a newspaper. I would love my own column, and then maybe, down the road, I would love to write a memoir about my humorous life (believe me: Boy, have I got some stories, too).
People always ask me what I want to do with my life; what I want to accomplish in the near (but ever present) future. Ya know what I hate? Those questions. I blame the elderly. Yes. The elderly. For one, those are the main sources of those types of questions. Grandparents, old neighbors, cashiers at random grocery stores ALL ask those types of questions. Do you know who are also people with question rabies (rabies as in foaming from the mouth, but with questions)? People who don't give a shit about the answer. That's my biggest pet-peeve. A.D.D. question askers.
Anyway, back to the question: What I want to do with my life / the future. Listen old people. I love you. You are great at story telling, giving advice about some things, you are good listeners....BUT bad question-askers. For the last time grandma, I am still no pregnant. No, grandma, I'm still not getting married. No, I don't think the price of bread is criminal. No, grandma, I don't think that we should give up on Obama quite yet. Let's give him some time.
---Seriously though. Old people and inappropriate question askers need not ask dumb questions. If I was really into telling you about my future, I would have done so. If I knew myself what I was going to do for the rest of my life (the rest of my life until I win the lottery or become the inventor of the chocolate chip cookie blow up machine (sort of like a shrinking machine, the it makes the cookies expand to 1000 times its size-----it's still in the production phase), I would tell you what I would be doing.
Anyway, I've had many goals in my life. The earliest memory of my life goal was to be a ballerinafirefighter. One word. I would dance and then fight fires. A graceful hero. Well, as a twenty something woman of the world (the Midwest world, that is), I I can tell you that I am neither graceful or a hero---but in a good, average, safe sort of way). I used to want to be in business, like work for a company and make lots of money and have a 401K and all that comes with corporate life. But, then I realized that my worst fear realized is: cubicles.
Like that great movie Office Space, I don't want to be chained to a desk. I want to be free. But, I also want to be free from manual labor too. Such a quaint juxtaposition.
So, I thought about it and thought about it. And then I settled on: being a lobbyist. That life goal lasted until I realized that I only wanted to be a lobbyist because I was sorta interested in politics and I was somewhat keen on spending time with my BFF Mrs. President. Mrs. President is one of those girls who will be the best person in the future. I never knew that class / caste systems existed until I met her---but in a good way. She is just my role model. She gets shit done. Being a lobbyist would never fly because I'm not THAT politically motivated (I lean far left, but I am only passionate about said topics until the fire dies out and I get bored), plus I never watch the news, CNN, or anything political. I think I once read a book about Jay Leno, Conan and Colbert and their effect on the political leanings of everyday Americans, but really, that was it.
Then, one day, I said. Ya know what: I want to be a professor. Everyday from late August to early May, I would see 4 or 5 professors teach me some junk that I could have read out of the books they gave me. Yes! Finally, a career for me! I mean, how hard could it be. Go to 4 to 6 years of graduate school for a certain field and then BAM---career made. Plus, I always saw my professors leaving early, not working too hard....But, as I started researching grad schools, and the Secret Lives of Professors, I understood what made those quirky professors tick. Professors work for years and years about one grand subject. It's like Dustin Hoffman's character in Rain Man, except without the over exaggerated stigmatism on disability. These professors work hard. For years they have worked hard---and continue to do so. Who knew?
Well, that career couldn't fly. I get bored. Plus, I need human contact (not human-to-book contact).
So, finally, I decided that I wanted to write a book of humorous stories about my life. But, as a non-published author (not published yet, anyway), I need to get my name out there! The only way to do that is to become a writer. Then, I decided that I want to work (and gain access to healthcare or an HMO). So: the dream is to go to grad school for Journalism and then work on a newspaper. I would love my own column, and then maybe, down the road, I would love to write a memoir about my humorous life (believe me: Boy, have I got some stories, too).
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