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Tuesday, June 28, 2005
two days, thousands of
papers, and one large migraine
Today marks the second day of the new job. That’s two days in which I
have received about 16,000 sheets of paper which include several
regulation manuals, an employee handbook, and hundreds of assorted
forms, documents, forms which must be filled out in order to process
these documents, and documents which must be signed in order to receive
the form which must be filled out in order to process the attached
document.
And the next two weeks look to be filled with more of the same, at the
end of which my orientation will commence. There’s a strong possibility
that my sanity will also commence at this point as well. And in between
lengthy periods of reading these various manuals, I actually get to sit
across from someone who attempted to expand even further on the
information contained therein.
For example, as I sat across Doreen today, a lady who also works in the
Financing and Billing department of the office supply manufacturing
company that I now call my employer, she explained, “now, the pink A.C.K.
form is used in tandem with the green U.G.H. report. In order to process
the orders these will both need to be filled out in triplicate. This,
naturally, doesn’t apply when a 1055A is amended to the pink A.C.K.
form, however. Though this will be obvious because, in cases like this,
the A.C.K. form will be replaced with the blue A.R.G. form. If the A.C.K.
is mistakenly attached, you will immediately have to call Karen and file
an amended B8099, and forward all corresponding documents to Judy in the
Business Office. Are you getting all of this?”
The answer to her question, unfortunately, was no. Because it was around
this time that my brain completely shut down. When this happens, I go
into head nodding mode, agreeing with everything that is said, usually
followed by an “Uh-huh” or an “I understand.”
And for some odd reason, I question just how prepared I’m going to be to
actually DO the job once my training is over.
Friday, June 24, 2005
the vacation is over
I had a second interview last Friday, and with my unemployment checks
quickly reaching that point in time where they will stop magically
appearing in my mailbox, I was forced to take extreme measures.
I sent a Thank You letter to my interviewer.
I know that you’re always supposed to send these little ‘thank you’
letters and that recruiters, career specialists, and human resources
people alike all strenuously state the importance of thanking your
interviewer by mail. But, generally speaking, I’ve never been real sure
what, exactly, I’m thanking them for. By granting me an interview, they
take away from my ‘sleeping in time’, my ‘daytime television watching’
time, and my ‘loafing around the house while leisurely enjoying my third
cup of coffee’ time.
If anything, they should be sending me a thank you letter telling me
just how thankful they are that I took time out of my busy schedule to
come in and let them ask me questions. Maury Povich and Dr. Phil wait
for nobody, and by going in for an interview there’s a good chance that
I’ll miss the latest installment of ‘Cheaters Caught on Tape!’, and then
I’ll be completely lost during the next ‘Updates’ episode.
However, desperate times call for desperate measures…so Thursday morning
I quickly slapped together a thank you note (with the help of a
monster.com specially made ‘thank you letter template’ which probably
means that yet another thank you letter for helping me create a thank
you letter is in order) and I dropped it off in the mail a good half an
hour before the ten o’clock pick-up time in the hopes that the letter
would make it into my interviewer’s hands by Friday afternoon.
But not even two hours after my manic mail drop, I got a call from the
lady who interviewed me…the same lady I had just sent my thanks to...and
she offered me the job. The job that promised to provide money that the
government was so cruelly going to stop giving me at the end of July.
The job that promised continued food, shelter, and cable television…all
of which are essential to my survival, not so much the food and shelter,
but no cable television?!? I would surely die.
But right after accepting the job, depression set in. Because, at the
precise moment I said yes, my five month vacation ended. Five glorious
months of nothing to do. Five beautiful months of no responsibility, no
bosses, and no painstakingly tedious work. Five extraordinary months in
which I was able to catch up with old friends…Regis and Kelly, Montel,
and Bob Barker. By taking this job, I stirred up those same feelings
that I had back in grade school when the final few days of August rolled
around and all I could think of was, ‘oh crap, it’s over’. Because two
days after summer officially began, mine was finished.
Worse still, I had sent a thank you letter. Had
she called just two hours sooner, I could have saved myself 37 cents.
And as my first point of business come Monday morning, I plan on filing
a requisition form to be compensated for that 37 cents…the price of a
stamp, and the price of my summer.
Monday, June 20, 2005
subterranean parking
garage dwellers
I drove downtown last week and was faced with the whole parking dilemma
that plagues most downtown areas. The ‘choice’ lots are always full, and
you often find yourself reduced to parking in a cavernous hole
underneath an aging building. This is where I ended up leaving my car.
Miles underneath the ground, after carefully directing my car around
looping curves that were barely the width of my car, I found a place to
park.
As I got out of the car, I noticed a lady and her two young kids come
out of a nearby stairwell. And even though she looked harmless enough, I
double checked that my car doors were locked. For I all knew, those two
little ‘kids’ were secretly midget henchmen for the Russian mob.
She caught sight of me and, looking rather frantic, called out, “Thank
god I’ve found somebody! We’ve been wandering around in this parking
garage for ten minutes and I can’t find a way out! Do you know how to
get out of here?”
Little did the lady know that my sense of direction is terrible, and is
based solely upon the little arrows that you find on every map. Thus, my
direction logic states, whatever direction I’m heading toward is
automatically North…because when you’re looking at a map, the arrow
pointing forward is always North. Obviously, this means that to go
South, one must either walk backwards or hold the map upside down, both
of which are clearly stupid ideas. Therefore, I’m always heading North.
If I make a right turn, while initially this means I’m going East, after
going straight for a while, this direction also defaults into becoming
North. Though, this rule of thumb is superceded by the sun. Driving into
the sunset means West. But once the sun sets, you can pretty much
guarantee that wherever I’m headed, it’s going to be North.
With no sun reaching inside of the parking garage, every direction
seemed to be pointing North…but while my sense of direction stinks, my
ability to read isn’t too bad. So when I noticed a sign that pointed to
an underground walkway that promised to deliver us to the Fifth Avenue
exit through the Hyatt hotel, I decided to put my trust in that little
sign and gallantly led the way. Because that’s how heroes walk,
‘gallantly’. And I led this poor damsel and her children to safety,
right through the Hyatt and out onto Fifth Avenue, just as the little
sign had promised.
As I held the door open for her…because this is what heroes do…the
lady’s little daughter looked up at her and asked, “Mom, are we ever
going to be able to find our car again?” And in the split second it took
her mom to reassure her, I noticed a fleeting look of fear flash across
her face.
In that moment, I realized that I may have been witnessing the birth of
a new race of people. A mother and children, doomed to live out their
lives in an underground parking garage, surviving solely on forgotten
French fries that have slipped between the seat cushions of mini-vans
whose owners failed to lock the doors.
And perhaps, years later when a motorist pulled into space 5C, he would
unknowingly be parking right above the skeletal remains of a family of
three…a family whose car still sat, cold and probably with a dead
battery at that point, somewhere far below the Earth.
Either way, I wasn’t feeling hero-ish enough to actually make sure that
the lady got back to her car safely. One heroic act a day is more than
enough to sustain me.
Friday, June 17, 2005
the problem with movies today
My mother called the other day. Generally speaking, my mom isn’t up to
speed on pop culture issues. The whole Tom and Nicole thing, she missed.
The whole Tom and Katie thing, she’s missing.
And because of this lack of pop culture reference points, I was taken by
surprise when I answered the phone and the first thing out of my mom’s
mouth was, “have you heard about this Brad Pitt and Angela Joile thing?”
“It’s Angelina mom, and yes I know about it. Brad and Jen broke up and
the rumor has it that Angelina was the reason they split. It happened a
while ago,” I told her.
“Jen who?” she asked. “What in heaven’s name are you talking about? I
mean this new Smith movie that they’re in. Did you know that this movie
is about assassins?”
“Yes mom, I did happen to hear that the movie was about assassins…”
“Well,” my mother continued, “I just can’t believe all the gratuitous
violence that they’re putting into movies nowadays. And Brad Pitt, of
all people! He seems like such a nice boy, why would he agree to make a
movie with so much violence in it?”
And I carefully tried to explain that the whole point of the movie was
based on Brad and Angelina being assassins. That Brad and Angelina were,
unbeknownst to the other, both assassins and that they were hired to
kill the other one. I tried to explain that without this minor little
detail, there would be no plot and no movie and that the violence wasn’t
so much ‘gratuitously’ added in, but rather it was ‘extremely
importantly’ added in.
My mom took a few seconds to mull this over before saying, “well, I
still don’t understand why they both just couldn’t have been teachers…or
something nice like that.”
I just shook my head and said, “yes, mom, that probably would have made
for a much better movie.” And I couldn’t help but think that, if left to
my mother, The Godfather would have been the epic saga of how a younger
son rises to take over the family business…a pizza shop…run by the
lovable Corleone family.
Hollywood doesn’t realize how lucky it is that my mother never decided
to venture out West.
Wednesday, June 15, 2005
a long way to travel
I live on the eighth floor of an apartment building, and there are
things that I’m just not used to seeing anymore. People walking by my
window, for instance, and the presence of certain bugs. Long gone are
the days when crickets would overrun my lower floored apartment, playing
an insect version of Marco Polo as I desperately tried to find them
based solely on their incessant chirping.
So when I saw one lone ant crawling up my wall the other day, it came as
a surprise. I realize, of course, that ants can pretty much go
anywhere…but the very fact that one would climb up eight stories, simply
to visit me, caught me off guard.
Granted, I’m sure that there are little crumbs of Pop Tarts upon my
kitchen floor, but is the prospect of obtaining a morsel of a cinnamon
flavored breakfast snack reason enough to make the journey? Surely, in
the seven floors and 70 apartments below me, someone also shares in my
love for Pop Tarts and has left a few crumbs behind.
And as I sat watching this ant, I realized that I may be looking upon
the Christopher Columbus of the ant world…an ant that kissed the missus
and children ants goodbye, and decided to set off and explore the great
unknown. An ant that was in search of a better world, perhaps one where
the floors were all made of chocolate icing and where there were
mountains of potato chips lying around just asking to be eaten. An ant
that would be remembered by future generations of school aged ants,
little ant biographies written about him, seeing brave new worlds,
finding hidden treasure in each new apartment he ventured into, and
establishing a better life for all ants that would come after him.
I stared, rather in awe, of this pioneering ant and the spirit of
exploration that seems to pervade life. The need and desire to create
our own destiny and make sense of the world around us. I actually
respected this little ant.
And then I squashed him.
Because if there’s one thing this ant needed to learn it’s that
innovation is a painful process. Besides, he really should have been
using the buddy system.
Monday, June 13, 2005
the smudge
I was out last night with Brenda, a girl I've been dating for the past
few months. She told me that I had left her with a hickey on Friday
night and that she was determined to reciprocate in this area. A
goal that she successfully accomplish.
Today, the family was meeting at my parent's house for my brother's birthday. And as we were sitting around the dining room table,
it was pointed out that I had a 'smudge' on my neck. At this
observation, the whole family needed to investigate further that, yes,
it was indeed a smudge. My mother, who was sitting nearby, flew into
mother mode...meaning that any smudge needed to be quickly vanquished…
because, as everyone knows, rule #471.2 section A in the mothering
handbook states that the presence of smudges whether they be on the
face, neck, wall, or anywhere else, is a clear indication of poor
mothering and could lead to the revoking of a mother’s mothering
license.
It was soon established, however, that this was clearly not a smudge and
was apparently some type of bruise. This led to a prompt inquiry as to
how this bruise came to be.
"See," I explained, "I was at a bar last night, and it was really
crowded...which is surprising, because generally this bar isn't one of
the 'hot' spots in town. I tried to squeeze my way up to the bar to get
a drink but there was just too many people. I heard someone mention that
there was a Gun Expo going on at a nearby convention center and being
that I'm generally uneasy around gun fanatics who are also alcohol
fanatics, I thought it would be best to not push my way through. So I
circled around back near where the wait staff pick up their orders because usually
you can find an open spot there. So in heading toward the back of the bar, I
had to pass by the air hockey machines, and I noticed that there was an
intense game going on between two guys. There were several empty shot
glasses already lined up along side of the machine and I guess that this
combination of alcohol and wagering on who bought the next round of
shots had these two guys playing for blood. I noticed that the puck was
really zipping back and forth at NASCAR speeds and the next thing I
knew, this hard little plastic puck came flying off the table and nailed
me right in the neck. The guys were apologetic, though, and actually
bought me a drink, but obviously this is how the mark got there."
"Uh-huh," my brother responded, "and how, exactly, did you get that
other bruise on the opposite side of your neck."
Having already committed to my story, I came up with the best
explanation possible. "It ricocheted."
And in the uncomfortable pause that followed, I decided that next year I
was going to skip the party and just send a card instead.
Tuesday, June 7, 2005
because of a bubble
My parents recently went to Bob Evans for dinner. The restaurants with
the fancy and colorful alcoholic drinks are just too trendy for them.
Bob Evans, with its country home cooking appeal is much more their
speed.
My mom prefers the waffles with fruit on top and my dad has always been
a biscuit and gravy fan. Once they were seated, their menus having been barely
looked through since their orders have remained pretty stable for
several years now, they waited for their server to come with the coffee
and to take their waffle and biscuit order.
Their waiter for the evening, a young boy who was obviously new,
approached their table. The boy only had two other tables, but was
clearly lost in a major fog of confusion. One of his tables was speaking
to the manager, pleading that he bring them the check that they had
asked for over 15 minutes ago, and his other table was trying to flag
down this same manager to ask for their two Diet Cokes because the boy
had brought them cups of decaf coffee instead.
As the waiter stumbled over and pulled out his pad to write down my
parents’ order, my mom noticed that the kid was sweating
profusely…which, in and of itself, wasn’t too bad. Following closely
behind the visible sweat sheen, though, was a wafting scent of body
odor, which, as my mom later pointed out, wasn’t too conducive to
country home cooked meals.
Despite these major roadblocks in a pleasurable dining experience, my
parents bravely proceeded…their love for Bob Evans being great enough to
withstand the lingering aroma of B.O. and an extremely sweaty waiter.
And this love for all things Bob
continued, right up until the moment that my parents both noticed that
the kid was blowing major snot bubbles out of his left nostril every
time he took a breath. Breathe out, snot bubble expanded. Breathe in,
snot bubble retracted. The whole process looking very much like a
frog with an inflated vocal sac ribbiting from inside this kid's nose.
Over and over again, throughout the entire time it took him to write
down their order.
It was the snot bubble that sealed the deal. Once the boy left their
table, my parents stood up and quickly fled the restaurant. My mom later
said that she had thought about talking to the manager…but between the
table waiting for their check and the table waiting for their Diet Coke,
she really didn’t feel like waiting in line to discuss snot bubbles with
him.
It’s doubtful that my parents will ever eat at a Bob Evans again. Not
because this boy will continue working at Bob Evans for several years to
come and not because all Bob Evans servers are now required to blow snot
bubbles. Instead, my dad’s favorite meal has now been ruined, forever
tainted in his mind...because, as he later told me, ‘That boy’s snot
bubble was the exact same color and consistency as the gravy that always
comes with my biscuits…and how the hell am I supposed to enjoy them with
that image stuck in my mind?!’
Sadly, my parents now have to find a new favorite restaurant. All
because of one boy’s snot bubble.
Friday, June 03, 2005
biological blessings
My sister has always had a flair for the dramatic. And while she has
never actually expressed any interest in becoming a movie star or model,
her whole personality changes whenever there’s a camera in the room.
Like most family photos, ours are an assorted collection of self
conscious smiles and pictures that were snapped when someone (usually my
mom) was in mid-blink. To a stranger looking through our family albums,
we probably look like the largest group of misfits around…a family that
clearly came from a distant country, unfamiliar with the language or
ways of this strange new place…because everyone looks just this
uncomfortable.
Except for my sister.
Her
radiant smile, carefully choreographed pose, and complete ease at having
her picture taken were in stark contrast to the unease that clearly
showed in the rest of us.
My sister is now about eight months pregnant, giving me about a month
left before unclehood befalls me. She mentioned how she was going to a
baseball game with her husband later in the week, and thinking of her combined
pregnant state and her love of the camera, I came upon a great idea.
At eight months, her stomach is extremely round and large, so I
suggested that she paint her belly white, add red stitching so that her
stomach would resemble a baseball, and then paint the words ‘FUTURE FAN!’ in
big letters right across her midsection.
“Why let men corner the market on insane fandom?” I asked her. “For
ages, we’ve been painting our bald heads to resemble football helmets
and plastering large letters on our chests. It’s time to make strides
for the women’s movement in this area!”
I felt confident that she could easily get television time from
something like this...perhaps a five second mention on Sportscenter or a
local news station.
She just gave me a very odd look and said, “You know, I now understand
why it was such a biological blessing that women give birth instead of
men.”
Wednesday, June 01, 2005
reasons to keep driving
Last week, on my way to meet a friend at the movies, my brakes suddenly
stopped working. By suddenly, I mean that when I left my apartment they
worked fine but by the time I got to the movie theater, the car wouldn’t
stop. Granted, the little brake light had gone off a week prior, so the
suddenness was more the actual inability to stop rather than a complete
lack of any clues. But so many little lights go off on my car’s
dashboard anymore that I need to be selective in which ones I take to
mean ‘emergency’. For the past six months, the little ‘door open’ light
has been on when I know for a fact that all the doors are securely shut.
Thus, when the ‘brake’ light came on, the very fact that the brakes
worked seemed to indicate that this was simply another little quirk
which my car had developed.
Luckily, there happened to be a Pep Boys near the theater. And though my
car wouldn’t stop, by pressing the brake pedal down to the floor, I was
able to coax it into slowing down. And for the mere price of two vital
organs, those perky little Pep Boys resuscitated my brakes which, as it
turned out, stopped working because all of the brake fluid had drained
from its veins. Which, as it further turned out, happened because the
brake lines were badly rusted through. Which, as it even furthered
turned out, was a result of my car’s underside having ‘severe rust
problems’. Sadly, my car is on its deathbed.
I was able to finagle a ride home out of my friend, though the following
day I had an interview about an hour out of town. This friend is an
‘I’ll drive you home’ friend but not an ‘I’ll drive you to an interview
an hour away and then back again’ friend, thus I was forced to enlist
the help of my parents in the lending of a vehicle.
The interview was at an AM radio station. I didn’t remember applying
there nor did I have any recollection of what position I might have been
interested in, but the very fact that they called was reason enough to
go. Upon arriving, I realized what position I must have unwittingly sent
a resume in for, because taped to the window was a sign that read ‘MAKE
MONEY! JOIN OUR SALES TEAM!’
I’m not a professional human resources person, but I feel quite certain
that ‘decent’ jobs…job openings which promise to pay over the minimum
wage…aren’t taped to windows. And I bet that Michael Eisner didn't get
his job when, wandering through Disneyland one day, he saw a sign taped up on Epcot
center that read ‘MAKE MONEY! JOIN OUR CEO TEAM!’
So with hope quickly
fading, I trudged inside and met Sheila, a miserable woman who also
turned out to be the lady interviewing me.
Needless to say, the interview was a train wreck. Luckily, it only
lasted about two minutes. The highpoint being when Sheila glared at me
and, in the tone of teacher reprimanding a naughty student, asked,
“and why, exactly, did you fail to bring any references for me when I
specifically told you to?”
The truth was that I was not going to subject any of my references to
the likes of Sheila. But instead of telling her the true reason, I gave a brief summary of my loss of
brakes, evening spent at a place not my own, and how I was therefore
unable to bring the printed sheet containing the names and numbers of
people who could assure her that yes, I could sell stuff and should be
hired.
And after explaining all of this, briefly I might add, Sheila coldly
looked at me and said, “I really didn’t want to hear the whole story.”
As I was leaving a few seconds later, gritting my teeth as I walked out
the door, I couldn’t help but think that it would have been nice to have
driven my brakeless car to the interview. Because without brakes, I
wouldn’t have been able to stop, thus giving me the perfect excuse to
keep driving…right past the radio station with Sheila waiting inside.
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