I thought about putting this off until tomorrow, but the idea that I might forget even one moment of this story is more than I can bear. I figure it's not everyday that something like this happens, and it is just too funny (way, way too funny) to go untold. You're welcome.
It all started with two sexy Mustangs and a touch of the road rage.
I find that I frequently enter that emotional state while driving within my apartment complex. You see, I live in a giant maze. There are too many buildings to count, but, all in all, the number of units is right around 3,000. Within the complex, the six phases (each one named after some kind of wood) are situated around a huge circular drive with unnamed side streets shooting off in every direction. It's almost impossible not to get lost here. And get this: When I enter through the security checkpoint (which includes a mechanical arm and a swinging, wrought-iron gate--as if that weren't overkill), I have to make four left turns to get to my parking space. And you'd better believe I've clocked it. It's a quarter of a mile!
Tonight, that quarter of a mile took an eternity to traverse. It was interminable. And all because of Big Red's evil twin, a lovely silver Mustang. If not for the ultra coolness of the vehicle, I would have automatically assumed I had been caught behind a half-blind, weak-legged grandpa. Our speed did not even register on my speedometer. I kid you not! The needle just sat there, two dots below the five mile-per-hour mark. Terrible!
Finally, about 20 minutes later, I saw the end in sight. My parking space was just ahead. And then, of course, grandpa pulled to a stop with the engine running. Right. In front. Of my space.
I honked.
I honked again.
Minutes later, the passenger door opened and a shady-looking character swaggered up to my window and started striking threatening poses like some sort of deranged supermodel. I locked the doors and grabbed my cell phone. We recently received notice that our complex hired a new security firm. And, since one hundred million people live here and half of them are rowdy and/or suspicious, I programmed the number into my phone immediately. Before I could get out more than two or three sentences, though, the officer told me he'd be right over. And then he hung up on me.
After a few more seconds of serial killer charades, I pointed to my parking spot, my tormentor got back in his car, and they pulled into a space a few cars down from mine. Whew!
I thought about waiting for the security officer, but my impatience got the better of me. I grabbed my laundry from the trunk (thanks, Mom!) and headed for my apartment, which happened to be several yards past what now had become two shady characters. And, as luck would have it, they were waiting outside of their still-running vehicle for me.
A bit of swearing and a few more tough-guy poses later (them, not me), I entered my apartment and locked the door. But then I got to thinking: What if those miscreants try to take out their delinquent urges on my innocent car? Better I should be beaten to a bloody pulp than one tiny scratch mar the beauty of Big Red. So, I called the security office a second time and asked them to take down the license plate number of the silver doppelganger.
Turns out, the officer had already made it to the scene of the crime (which is an inappropriately melodramatic description of what turned out to be nothing), and he was wandering around, very confused but with a look of great purpose.
"Is it this one? I bet it was this one!" he exclaimed, pointing to a black Mustang many years newer than mine.
"Uh, no. It definitely wasn't that one," I replied, "because, as I said on the phone, it was silver."
"Are you sure it wasn't this one? I think it was this one."
"I'm positive. It was pale silver."
"There are just so many Mustangs parked over here. I can't decide which one."
I looked around and noticed three Mustangs parked in the vicinity: two black and one red. No silver. They had obviously fled the scene.
"It's not any of these," I said. "They must have left already. I don't think they live here."
"Is it this one?" he asked, pointing to Big Red (which was parked in my space, the number of which I had given him over the phone mere moments before).
"Nope. That's my car."
"Oh. Well, I guess they must have left already. I'm sorry I was late getting here. I got lost," he explained. He looked quite dejected, so I tried to cheer him up.
"That's okay. It wasn't really that big a deal. It's just that, you know, when a couple of burly young men approach a lone woman in a dark parking lot and start swearing and making threatening gestures, it's a little worrisome. But no harm done."
"I'm really sorry, Ma'am. I swear I zoomed over here as soon as you called. I really did. I zoomed. But I went to Building 3," he said, pointing to Building 9, "and then I drove around some more until I found Building 5. It's really confusing around here."
"Yes," I agreed. "It's very confusing."
"Ma'am, maybe next time," (and there will be a next time--we both know that), "don't get out of your car if strange men are threatening you until I get here and tackle them." And, I swear to you, he made a tackling gesture when he said that. No joke. "If I hadn't have gotten lost, I totally would have tackled those guys!"
"Wow," I said, "that's really extreme. I appreciate it."
"You know, since this place is so hard to find, maybe next time you could say the street name instead of the building number. You could say, like, that it's right next to Capitol," he recommended, pointing to Snell.
"Oh, uh, I think that's Capitol over there," I said, pointing to the perpendicular street. "I think this one here is Snell."
For at least ten seconds, the earnest and seriously overzealous officer turned first to Snell and then to Capitol, whispering their names under his breath. "I think you're right," he finally decided.
"If this ever happens again," he went on to say, "you just call us. Do you have our magnet? And I will zoom right over here, and I will tackle them! I mean, I zoomed tonight, too, but I got lost. But anyway, just stay in your car until we can tackle them for you. That's the safest way."
Hmm. I don't know. All that tackling seems a little unsafe to me. In any case, this guy was obviously disappointed that he didn't get to rescue me. And I really did appreciate his extreme overreaction. So, I asked him for a business card.
"Oh, we don't have cards. But we do have a phone number." Yeah, I sort of got that, seeing as how I called twice this evening. But I didn't point that out, of course. Instead, I explained that I simply wanted to know his name so that I could praise him to his manager.
"That's really nice, but I am the supervisor around here." Of course, he is.
He did write down his name for me, though. Officer Santos. My hero!
B
Pet Peeve of the Day:
Ridiculous alarmists who have nothing better to do than freak people out for no reason. And by this, of course, I mean the HR department at my workplace and the media. It was supposed to "snow" in the Bay Area today. I heard the term "Snowpocalypse" bandied about quite a bit. So, on Thursday, the entire company got an email from HR detailing a contingency plan. You know, in case the drifts and ice-slicked roads should become too hazardous to travel. Come on! Last week, it was in the 70s. There is no possible way that snow could stick, considering the temperature of the soil. Plus, all weather sources predicted that it would be 46 degrees. Is it just me, or does that not make any sense? It did snow in some places. For about a minute. But not anywhere near my office or my home, which is 40 miles away. So, yeah. Thanks for the contingency plan, you fools!
Sunday, February 27, 2011
Wednesday, November 17, 2010
Old Red
Have I mentioned yet that I drive 80 miles to work each day? Well, I do: 40 up and 40 back. Five days a week. Good thing I've got Big Red! Someone once told me (or, come to think of it, several people have often told me ... and it might even appear in the Bible) that it's wrong to love an inanimate object. To those people, I say this: Mind your own goddamn business. Big Red and I will be celebrating our twelfth anniversary in February. Can you say the same?
Sure. We have our squabbles. Like, sometimes, Big Red spontaneously (and violently) flips on the windshield wipers just to scare the shit out of me. Or, on occasion, it inappropriately shifts gears, tossing me around in my seat like a rag doll, leaving me fearful that I will be stranded along the mostly deserted freeway in the middle of the night. And, yes, I'll admit it: I sometimes resort to name-calling. "Christine!" I shout, referencing Stephen King's evil-spirit-possessed Mustang, "I'm taking you to the junkyard if you don't knock it the hell off!"
But, honestly, it's nothing we can't work out.
I suspect that Big Red worries about a younger model catching my eye. But that's just not gonna happen. Those new-fangled, blue-tinted lasers they're calling headlights these days are the bane of my existence. They're downright counter-intuitive. That's what I say. The whole point of headlights is for the driver to have a better, clearer view. It's all about safety. But these lasers are positively (and I mean that negatively) blinding to other drivers. Tonight, in fact, I nearly ran off the road when a laser-equipped sedan sped up behind me in the fast lane. The reflection in my rear view mirror is now forever burned onto my retinas. At the same time, I can see (around the new dark spots in my field of vision) why people like to purchase cars with lights like these. Once I flipped my mirror down and could almost see again, the laser lights from the car behind me shone the way for what seemed like miles.
Big Red's lights are dim and clouded with age, much like an elderly person suffering from cataracts. I've started to think of it as Old Red. You know, like Old Yeller ... but without all the heartbreaking tragedy. That's the best thing about loving an object: The chances of it contracting rabies are slim to none. I'll never have to take a shotgun to my beloved Big Red to spare it the misery of an agonizing death. Yeah, that's a big plus.
Anyway, in case any of you were wondering what to get us, I understand that silk/linen is the traditional gift for the twelfth anniversary. Hmm. I'm thinkin' ... silk seat-covers? A linen window shade or floor mats? Really, you can be as creative as you want. It's the thought that counts.
Pet Peeve of the Day:
I was going to say those blue-tinted lasers that pass for headlights on new cars ... but never mind. Um. Oh! I know. Every one of my (admittedly awesome) co-workers seems to have some kind of negative opinion about my lunch-time Cup O'Noodles. Yes, I know they contain more sodium than the Dead Sea. Yes, I realize the potential dangers of Styrofoam chemicals. Yes, I'm feeling okay. But, people, 27 cents. Need I say more? On the bright side, these same opinionated co-workers are concerned enough about my health that they have started bringing me home-cooked meals that I can defrost on my desk all day and eat when I get home. Just this evening, I enjoyed a pot of minestrone soup made by Megan, one of our senior engineers. That girl is amazing! Not only can she cook like Martha Stewart, she's a whiz with code. Tomorrow night, I might go over to Angelica's house so that her husband can cook me a fabulous Japanese dinner. He might not speak a word of English, but that guy has a real passion for the culinary arts. Mere days ago, Scurvy and Rickets were a real threat. High-tech publishing has changed all that. Nothing warms the heart like co-workers who don't want you to die. Even so, I wish they'd stop criticizing my Cup O'Noodles.
Friday, August 13, 2010
Illegal Spelling at Legal Aid
I used to have the world's best downstairs neighbor. Were we friends? No. Acquaintances? Uh, nope. Did we ever speak even one word to each other? Certainly not. In fact, I couldn't pick this woman out of a lineup if my life depended on it. My one and only glimpse of her was of her back as she walked into her apartment in the dark. And I wouldn't recognize her voice because I never heard it. Not even once. She was completely silent -- all the time. That's why I loved her. That's why I currently miss her so desperately. Since she moved out (whenever that was), I've acquired a new downstairs neighbor -- or should I say eight new downstairs neighbors? Yes, that's right. Your eyes are not deceiving you. Three adults and five children have moved into the one-bedroom apartment just below mine ... and I definitely know they're there.
As I feverishly worked on a particularly difficult section of my client's thesis -- hoping to get it back to him by this evening -- one of the many children down below began to scream. Sure, I love my peace and quiet, but I'm actually pretty cool about the neighborhood kids screaming and running around in the courtyard during daylight hours. They're kids. They need to play. (I know. That's very magnanimous of me.) But this boy wasn't just screaming. He was screaming bloody murder. Over and over and over again. And he was about to get his wish, because the sound was enough to inspire bloody murder in me. He must have screamed like that for a good ten minutes. And for no particular reason, as far as I could tell. So, I walked outside and yelled at him from my balcony to stop screaming. But he couldn't hear me over his screaming. It took quite some time for me to gain his attention. And when he finally stopped to take a breath and heard me, he shut up ... because, as we all know, kids are scared of me. Hoorah! Colleen was afraid I wouldn't be able to stop him, since he doesn't appear to speak English, but I assured her that I can say "shut up" in Spanish just as well as I can say it in English. I may not be able to say anything else (like where's the bathroom, thank you, hello, or I like you), but I can say that. In any case, it worked. And Colleen was grateful ... as well as amused.
"You know," Colleen said, "there are eight people living down there now."
"Are you kidding me?!" I exclaimed. "In a one-bedroom?"
"Yeah. Five kids and three adults."
"Is that even legal?" I asked, sure there had to be a health code against it or something.
"I don't think so," she replied with a thoughtful look.
"Well, I'm going back inside. I have to get back to work."
But did I get back to work? What do you think? Instead, I typed "occupants of a one-bedroom apartment in santa clara county" into the Google search bar and found myself at the Legal Aid website. If these people continue to be disruptive, I want some leverage. Can you blame me?
And then I saw it.
Under the Housing / Fair Housing tab, in the Dos and Don'ts section: "Do wright down." No. Freakin'. Way. The fact that I once saw a similar error on my jury duty summons was bad enough. I could NOT let this pass.
What? You think I'm joking? Exaggerating? Well ... I can see how you would think that. I know me even better than you do. So, here's the proof: http://www.legalaidsociety.org/housing.html
Well, obviously, I went to the "Contact Us" link and wrote them a kind but firm email entitled "Embarrassing spelling error on your site." And I really hope they take it as seriously as they should. Grievous public spelling errors do not inspire confidence in clients or backers. I mean, really. Do you want legal advice from a person who can't spell the simplest of common words? I certainly don't. That's why I won't let my sister be my lawyer. Hee hee hee.
As I understand it, here in this great nation, any person can sue any other person for any reason. That's a lot of anys. That's a lot of freedom. So, I'm thinking about suing Legal Aid for illegal spelling. Then again, it would be just my luck if their knowledge of the law happened to surpass their knowledge of the basic rules of spelling. Not that I'm counting on that. The documentation they put together for the trial might be riddled with horrendous language errors, but it just might make some real legal sense. So, perhaps I'll hold off for now. If they ignore my email, however, I just might reconsider. And if Bridget can pass my spelling test, I just might allow her to represent me ... and the English language.
Meanwhile, on my way to Barnes and Noble after work this afternoon, while stopped at a red light, I observed an old ice cream truck emblazoned with blue and pink letters: "Popsicles, Banana Split, Nachos, Sundaes." Hmm... One of these things is not like the others. One of these things just doesn't belong. Apparently, here in lovely Santa Clara County, you can not only find your legal advice spelled illegally, you can also buy your nachos off an ice cream truck. It's no wonder we've got so much overcrowding. Who wouldn't want to live here?
I scream, you scream, we all scream for ice cream ... and nachos!
I'll keep you up-to-date on my blog posts via my Facebook status updates. Never fear. And be expecting to see more and more of said updates. I've started carrying a tiny notepad around with me so that I can jot down hilarious and/or disturbing events in my day-to-day life. This way, I don't forget all the funny stuff before I can write it out for you. I've got quite a list going already. And none of it is included in this post. You're welcome.
Stay tuned.
B
P.S. -- It's been a long time since I've read "The Boy Who Cried Wolf," but I do recall that he winds up dead in the end. It could have been a wolf, but I'd be willing to bet that kid was actually murdered by a disgruntled neighbor who was sick of his constant screaming. I think I might annonymously leave a Spanish copy of that story on my new neighbors' patio. Unless that seems threatening. Hmm.
Pet Peeve of the Day:
Minivans. 'Nuff said.
As I feverishly worked on a particularly difficult section of my client's thesis -- hoping to get it back to him by this evening -- one of the many children down below began to scream. Sure, I love my peace and quiet, but I'm actually pretty cool about the neighborhood kids screaming and running around in the courtyard during daylight hours. They're kids. They need to play. (I know. That's very magnanimous of me.) But this boy wasn't just screaming. He was screaming bloody murder. Over and over and over again. And he was about to get his wish, because the sound was enough to inspire bloody murder in me. He must have screamed like that for a good ten minutes. And for no particular reason, as far as I could tell. So, I walked outside and yelled at him from my balcony to stop screaming. But he couldn't hear me over his screaming. It took quite some time for me to gain his attention. And when he finally stopped to take a breath and heard me, he shut up ... because, as we all know, kids are scared of me. Hoorah! Colleen was afraid I wouldn't be able to stop him, since he doesn't appear to speak English, but I assured her that I can say "shut up" in Spanish just as well as I can say it in English. I may not be able to say anything else (like where's the bathroom, thank you, hello, or I like you), but I can say that. In any case, it worked. And Colleen was grateful ... as well as amused.
"You know," Colleen said, "there are eight people living down there now."
"Are you kidding me?!" I exclaimed. "In a one-bedroom?"
"Yeah. Five kids and three adults."
"Is that even legal?" I asked, sure there had to be a health code against it or something.
"I don't think so," she replied with a thoughtful look.
"Well, I'm going back inside. I have to get back to work."
But did I get back to work? What do you think? Instead, I typed "occupants of a one-bedroom apartment in santa clara county" into the Google search bar and found myself at the Legal Aid website. If these people continue to be disruptive, I want some leverage. Can you blame me?
And then I saw it.
Under the Housing / Fair Housing tab, in the Dos and Don'ts section: "Do wright down." No. Freakin'. Way. The fact that I once saw a similar error on my jury duty summons was bad enough. I could NOT let this pass.
What? You think I'm joking? Exaggerating? Well ... I can see how you would think that. I know me even better than you do. So, here's the proof: http://www.legalaidsociety.org/housing.html
Well, obviously, I went to the "Contact Us" link and wrote them a kind but firm email entitled "Embarrassing spelling error on your site." And I really hope they take it as seriously as they should. Grievous public spelling errors do not inspire confidence in clients or backers. I mean, really. Do you want legal advice from a person who can't spell the simplest of common words? I certainly don't. That's why I won't let my sister be my lawyer. Hee hee hee.
As I understand it, here in this great nation, any person can sue any other person for any reason. That's a lot of anys. That's a lot of freedom. So, I'm thinking about suing Legal Aid for illegal spelling. Then again, it would be just my luck if their knowledge of the law happened to surpass their knowledge of the basic rules of spelling. Not that I'm counting on that. The documentation they put together for the trial might be riddled with horrendous language errors, but it just might make some real legal sense. So, perhaps I'll hold off for now. If they ignore my email, however, I just might reconsider. And if Bridget can pass my spelling test, I just might allow her to represent me ... and the English language.
Meanwhile, on my way to Barnes and Noble after work this afternoon, while stopped at a red light, I observed an old ice cream truck emblazoned with blue and pink letters: "Popsicles, Banana Split, Nachos, Sundaes." Hmm... One of these things is not like the others. One of these things just doesn't belong. Apparently, here in lovely Santa Clara County, you can not only find your legal advice spelled illegally, you can also buy your nachos off an ice cream truck. It's no wonder we've got so much overcrowding. Who wouldn't want to live here?
I scream, you scream, we all scream for ice cream ... and nachos!
I'll keep you up-to-date on my blog posts via my Facebook status updates. Never fear. And be expecting to see more and more of said updates. I've started carrying a tiny notepad around with me so that I can jot down hilarious and/or disturbing events in my day-to-day life. This way, I don't forget all the funny stuff before I can write it out for you. I've got quite a list going already. And none of it is included in this post. You're welcome.
Stay tuned.
B
P.S. -- It's been a long time since I've read "The Boy Who Cried Wolf," but I do recall that he winds up dead in the end. It could have been a wolf, but I'd be willing to bet that kid was actually murdered by a disgruntled neighbor who was sick of his constant screaming. I think I might annonymously leave a Spanish copy of that story on my new neighbors' patio. Unless that seems threatening. Hmm.
Pet Peeve of the Day:
Minivans. 'Nuff said.
Saturday, July 10, 2010
Sincere and Humble Apologies
I know, I know. It's been so long since I've updated this blog that I had actually forgotten my password and had to go through a complicated song and dance to reset it. In other words, I've learned my lesson. I must update more frequently. And I do most humbly aplogize to those of you who have been checking for a new post. I suck ... and I know it.
Why now? Well, it's quite simple, really. I have about 12 loads of laundry that absolutely must be washed today, a kitchen filled to overflowing with dirty dishes (to the point where I am literally eating out of tupperware containers), and a floor covered in confetti, courtesy of Hank and Ollie. You see, if I leave any paper within reach -- receipts, wrapping paper, a list of Excel instructions Tony wrote out for me, Netflix envelopes, or important student loan documents (yeah, that's my favorite, too) -- Hank and Ollie will, without fail, snatch them and shred them to pieces while I'm at work ... or the store ... or Colleen's place ... or, come to think of it, sitting on the couch. Man, those critters have no shame. Or fear. Anywho, that should be an hours-long vacuuming marathon. So, as you can see, I have many important chores to complete today. And you know me -- ever the procrastinator. Aren't you lucky?
But it's only Saturday. You're wondering, I'm sure, why I don't just put these chores off until tomorrow. Well, I will be getting up at the ungodly hour of 5:00am to take my mom on a surprise birthday trip with my dad, sisters, and brothers-in-law. I expect to spend the entire day with them and, therefore, not with my laundry and dishes. Hooray! And no, Mom, I will not provide my readers/cult members with any clues or hints as to the nature of said surprise trip ... because I know you're one of them. Nice try, though.
So, it's been about two months since I started my new job ... and I completely love it. I am so happy! My co-workers are amazing and super smart; my boss totally rocks; the casual environment is so much more casual than, say, the beach; the Nerf wars are frequent and fierce; and it's publishing. Come on, people, publishing! Oh, and Greg did get those neck tattoos he's been dreaming of for so long. They look pretty good, too. There are three in total: one behind each ear and one dead center on the back of his neck. Interestingly, the one behind his right ear is of a strange character he used to draw as a child. But I digress ...
Each Wednesday, we gather in the center of the room (yes, the whole company works in one huge room) for the weekly meeting. This past Wednesday, the head honcho said the following: "Things are weird right now, they've always been a little bit weird, and they're always going to be weird. Right?" And that pretty much sums it up. My company is extremely weird ... but in a good way.
Some things I've learned in the past two months:
- Flip-flops and tennis shoes are the norm around this place -- that is, when footwear is used at all. Feel free to walk around the office in your socks or even barefoot. Most people do.
- Combat participation in the daily Nerf wars (darts, dart guns, and dart cannons) is required. These wars take place throughout the day but are especially fierce around 4:30pm.
- At least one type of alcoholic beverage will be discussed (usually at great length) at each weekly Content Coordinator meeting.
- Everyone will be provided a free lunch once a month. Minimum.
- If you want to get on everyone's good side, bring in a treat and place it at the "Little Debbie Shrine." This shrine, decorated with many Little Debbie brand boxes and pictures, is located next to the copy machine.
- If you're cold, feel free to bring in your Snuggie and wear it around the office all day. You won't be the only one.
- What's with that giant, eight-foot-tall, inflatable totem pole 30 feet from my desk? I've never quite been able to figure that one out.
- The Content department eats lunch together (like a big, loving family) every Wednesday. Next week is a potluck at the only remaining picnic table in the back yard of the vacant building next door. We broke the other one three weeks ago. Oops! Good thing our company owns most of the buildings on the block.
- Sometimes, the Content Developers (writers) like to create original homework problems featuring YOU! I have seen my name in a problem already. WOO! Ah, to be famous.
- If you happen to work in the Support department (which I do not, thankfully), try not to leave your desk unattended for more than one or two days. If you do, don't be surprised if you come back and find that a toilet has replaced your desk chair ... or someone has turned your work space into a mock cemetery ... or some other outlandish prank. Those Support people are off the hook. Can't be trusted. But the customers love them!
- June is beard month. If you're a guy (or a very talented and hormonally-challenged girl), you may compete in a contest to grow the most interesting beard. Man, you should have seen all the shagginess going on last month. It was truly something to behold!
- It is not at all uncommon for employees to wander around the office passing out food to everyone. This week, I was offered cookies, peanut brittle, and popcorn.
- And the best thing of all: summer hours. If you work one extra hour Monday through Thursday, you can leave on Friday at 12:30pm. Boy, do I love summer hours!!! It's just like a long weekend every week. And I get to do this until September 3rd.
I know there are many, many more weird things that go on at my company, but I can't seem to think of any right now. When I do, though, I'll be sure to write all about them. You know, this place could have it's own sitcom. It totally could.
Meanwhile, my boss (Andy) spent a good 15 minutes of our weekly 30-minute meeting talking to me about his cat. Turns out she has the same exact intestinal disorder that Hank has! What a coincidence. She does not, however, have the bleeding eyes food allergy. Poor Hank. He's such a horror movie freak show. Anyway, Andy was really upset about it. He loves that cat. And now it looks like, on top of the Crohn's Disease, she has also come down with Diabetes. She's guzzling down water like it's going out of style and then peeing all over his house. At least I'm fortunate enough not to have pissers. Of course, the constant vomitting and occasional bleeding eyes aren't that great, either. But I'm still glad they're not pissers; that's worse.
It sure is nice to be surrounded by cat people!
For the 4th of July, we got a fully paid half day, a three-day weekend, and a table full of patriotic cupcakes with real whipped cream frosting. Patriotic, you ask? Yes, each cupcake had been decorated with red and blue star-shaped sprinkles and airbrushed with red and blue food coloring. At first, we were all really excited. After that first cupcake, though, we came to a startling realization. That food coloring appeared to have permanently dyed our hands and faces. Not that that stopped us. So, for the rest of the day, we all wandered around with blue lips and red fingers. Or vice versa. Looks like HR pulled a pratical joke on us. And I thought they only did that sort of thing in Support!
Dang, it's only been an hour. Well, I suppose I've tarried here long enough. It's now time for me to find yet another activity by which to avoid my chores. I'm positive I will regret it later, but, for now, I just want to relax and enjoy my weekend. Is that really too much to ask? Even if I have been doing it for the past two months?
Again, I'm sorry for the delay. I'll try really hard not to let it get so out of hand next time. I know, I know. Famous last words.
B
Pet Peeve of the Day:
People who write intensely personal messages in their Facebook status updates or elsewhere online. Fictional example: I just discovered my brother kissing my sister, and I feel like my whole world is ending. He was mine! This sort of thing (well, okay, not exactly this sort of thing, but ... similar things) make me extremely uncomfortable. This is what is meant by airing your dirty laundry in public. Is it really necessary for every friend and acquaintance to know your innermost personal issues? I, for one, don't want to know. Please stop forcing me to hide your updates. How about writing about your weekend plans? Your favorite TV show? Something funny that happened at work today? An oddball news story you recently read? Anything but how miserable your boyfriend/girlfriend makes you or what one of our mutual friends said to hurt your feelings. That sort of thing is just not cool. Who's with me?
Why now? Well, it's quite simple, really. I have about 12 loads of laundry that absolutely must be washed today, a kitchen filled to overflowing with dirty dishes (to the point where I am literally eating out of tupperware containers), and a floor covered in confetti, courtesy of Hank and Ollie. You see, if I leave any paper within reach -- receipts, wrapping paper, a list of Excel instructions Tony wrote out for me, Netflix envelopes, or important student loan documents (yeah, that's my favorite, too) -- Hank and Ollie will, without fail, snatch them and shred them to pieces while I'm at work ... or the store ... or Colleen's place ... or, come to think of it, sitting on the couch. Man, those critters have no shame. Or fear. Anywho, that should be an hours-long vacuuming marathon. So, as you can see, I have many important chores to complete today. And you know me -- ever the procrastinator. Aren't you lucky?
But it's only Saturday. You're wondering, I'm sure, why I don't just put these chores off until tomorrow. Well, I will be getting up at the ungodly hour of 5:00am to take my mom on a surprise birthday trip with my dad, sisters, and brothers-in-law. I expect to spend the entire day with them and, therefore, not with my laundry and dishes. Hooray! And no, Mom, I will not provide my readers/cult members with any clues or hints as to the nature of said surprise trip ... because I know you're one of them. Nice try, though.
So, it's been about two months since I started my new job ... and I completely love it. I am so happy! My co-workers are amazing and super smart; my boss totally rocks; the casual environment is so much more casual than, say, the beach; the Nerf wars are frequent and fierce; and it's publishing. Come on, people, publishing! Oh, and Greg did get those neck tattoos he's been dreaming of for so long. They look pretty good, too. There are three in total: one behind each ear and one dead center on the back of his neck. Interestingly, the one behind his right ear is of a strange character he used to draw as a child. But I digress ...
Each Wednesday, we gather in the center of the room (yes, the whole company works in one huge room) for the weekly meeting. This past Wednesday, the head honcho said the following: "Things are weird right now, they've always been a little bit weird, and they're always going to be weird. Right?" And that pretty much sums it up. My company is extremely weird ... but in a good way.
Some things I've learned in the past two months:
- Flip-flops and tennis shoes are the norm around this place -- that is, when footwear is used at all. Feel free to walk around the office in your socks or even barefoot. Most people do.
- Combat participation in the daily Nerf wars (darts, dart guns, and dart cannons) is required. These wars take place throughout the day but are especially fierce around 4:30pm.
- At least one type of alcoholic beverage will be discussed (usually at great length) at each weekly Content Coordinator meeting.
- Everyone will be provided a free lunch once a month. Minimum.
- If you want to get on everyone's good side, bring in a treat and place it at the "Little Debbie Shrine." This shrine, decorated with many Little Debbie brand boxes and pictures, is located next to the copy machine.
- If you're cold, feel free to bring in your Snuggie and wear it around the office all day. You won't be the only one.
- What's with that giant, eight-foot-tall, inflatable totem pole 30 feet from my desk? I've never quite been able to figure that one out.
- The Content department eats lunch together (like a big, loving family) every Wednesday. Next week is a potluck at the only remaining picnic table in the back yard of the vacant building next door. We broke the other one three weeks ago. Oops! Good thing our company owns most of the buildings on the block.
- Sometimes, the Content Developers (writers) like to create original homework problems featuring YOU! I have seen my name in a problem already. WOO! Ah, to be famous.
- If you happen to work in the Support department (which I do not, thankfully), try not to leave your desk unattended for more than one or two days. If you do, don't be surprised if you come back and find that a toilet has replaced your desk chair ... or someone has turned your work space into a mock cemetery ... or some other outlandish prank. Those Support people are off the hook. Can't be trusted. But the customers love them!
- June is beard month. If you're a guy (or a very talented and hormonally-challenged girl), you may compete in a contest to grow the most interesting beard. Man, you should have seen all the shagginess going on last month. It was truly something to behold!
- It is not at all uncommon for employees to wander around the office passing out food to everyone. This week, I was offered cookies, peanut brittle, and popcorn.
- And the best thing of all: summer hours. If you work one extra hour Monday through Thursday, you can leave on Friday at 12:30pm. Boy, do I love summer hours!!! It's just like a long weekend every week. And I get to do this until September 3rd.
I know there are many, many more weird things that go on at my company, but I can't seem to think of any right now. When I do, though, I'll be sure to write all about them. You know, this place could have it's own sitcom. It totally could.
Meanwhile, my boss (Andy) spent a good 15 minutes of our weekly 30-minute meeting talking to me about his cat. Turns out she has the same exact intestinal disorder that Hank has! What a coincidence. She does not, however, have the bleeding eyes food allergy. Poor Hank. He's such a horror movie freak show. Anyway, Andy was really upset about it. He loves that cat. And now it looks like, on top of the Crohn's Disease, she has also come down with Diabetes. She's guzzling down water like it's going out of style and then peeing all over his house. At least I'm fortunate enough not to have pissers. Of course, the constant vomitting and occasional bleeding eyes aren't that great, either. But I'm still glad they're not pissers; that's worse.
It sure is nice to be surrounded by cat people!
For the 4th of July, we got a fully paid half day, a three-day weekend, and a table full of patriotic cupcakes with real whipped cream frosting. Patriotic, you ask? Yes, each cupcake had been decorated with red and blue star-shaped sprinkles and airbrushed with red and blue food coloring. At first, we were all really excited. After that first cupcake, though, we came to a startling realization. That food coloring appeared to have permanently dyed our hands and faces. Not that that stopped us. So, for the rest of the day, we all wandered around with blue lips and red fingers. Or vice versa. Looks like HR pulled a pratical joke on us. And I thought they only did that sort of thing in Support!
Dang, it's only been an hour. Well, I suppose I've tarried here long enough. It's now time for me to find yet another activity by which to avoid my chores. I'm positive I will regret it later, but, for now, I just want to relax and enjoy my weekend. Is that really too much to ask? Even if I have been doing it for the past two months?
Again, I'm sorry for the delay. I'll try really hard not to let it get so out of hand next time. I know, I know. Famous last words.
B
Pet Peeve of the Day:
People who write intensely personal messages in their Facebook status updates or elsewhere online. Fictional example: I just discovered my brother kissing my sister, and I feel like my whole world is ending. He was mine! This sort of thing (well, okay, not exactly this sort of thing, but ... similar things) make me extremely uncomfortable. This is what is meant by airing your dirty laundry in public. Is it really necessary for every friend and acquaintance to know your innermost personal issues? I, for one, don't want to know. Please stop forcing me to hide your updates. How about writing about your weekend plans? Your favorite TV show? Something funny that happened at work today? An oddball news story you recently read? Anything but how miserable your boyfriend/girlfriend makes you or what one of our mutual friends said to hurt your feelings. That sort of thing is just not cool. Who's with me?
Sunday, April 25, 2010
How are you with firearms?
Good news, everyone! After nearly a year of exhaustive searching, I have finally managed to land a job. It's not any old job, though. It just so happens that I have been hired for my dream career! And the company? Well, what can I say? It's perfect. It probably wouldn't be your idea of perfect, but, by the time you get to the end of this post, you'll see why it's mine.
A Little Background:
While trolling craigslist.org, I came across a listing for a Copy Editor position. It's pretty rare to find such a thing because most Copy Editors work freelance. In fact, I work freelance. Anyway, I read up on the company as per my usual routine, and I was very impressed by what I learned. So, I sent in my resume. And I waited. And waited. And waited. A couple of months later, I saw the same listing appear for a second time. I sent my resume in once again. And I waited. Again. But, as they say, the third time's the charm. Two months after my third attempt, I received an email on a Sunday night from an HR recruiter, asking if I would be willing to set up a phone interview for later in the week. Obviously, I jumped at the chance. She was super sweet, and she felt that I had potential. So, she set up a phone interview for me with the Quality Assurance Content Manager, Greg -- the person to whom the Copy Editor reports. He was literally the nicest person I have ever spoken with in my life. No offense. Several times, he complimented me on the answers I gave to his questions, and he also praised my resume. He clearly wanted to hire me.
But first, I had to pass a copy editing test. No, not just pass it ... get an A- on it. Have I mentioned yet that no one has ever gotten an A? But no pressure, right? This is what Greg had to say to me: "When I took the test, I almost had a stroke. In fact, I took it twice. Just for good measure. But, the second time, I had to down a glass of wine to relax. It's extremely difficult. Just do your best and take as long as you need. It's not uncommon for a candidate to take ten hours." Well, he was right. The test was so hard, it felt almost impossible. It took me six hours (and it was only three pages), and I scored a B+. So, no copy editing job for me. I was terribly disappointed. But Greg, being the incredibly nice person that he is, called me and went over, in great detail, all of the mistakes I had made. Man, I wanted to work for him! So ... I told him that I was aware of another open position within the company and asked if my score was high enough to apply. He assured me that it was more than high enough, and he encouraged me to go for it, stating that he knew I would fit in well there. Plus, I had a leg up on my competition. I had the HR recruiter's email address. So, we started the process all over again. Thankfully, though, I didn't have to retake the test. The Managing Editor, Paul, was not nearly as nice as Greg. It was pretty obvious to me, right from the start of our phone interview, that he didn't like me much. In fact, he led me to believe that I had no chance of progressing to the next phase of the interview process. But I think Greg must have said something to him because, the very next day, he wrote me an email, inviting me for an in-person interview. I was stoked!
The Interview:
First of all, let me just say that this was no ordinary interview. It was an all-day event: 10am to 3pm, including lunch ... with all ten of my interviewers. I spent half an hour each with nine people. And Paul.
When I arrived at 10am, I met with Paul. He took me to his office and gave me this stern warning: "Do not act in a businesslike or professional manner. If you do, you'll be shooting yourself in the foot. That's not what we're looking for around here. We want to see the real you. If you act like a professional, we'll think you're hiding something, and you won't get the job. So, don't treat this like an interview." Hmmm. Okay.
From there, I interviewed with two other Managing Editors (Marcie and Jenn), both of whom were very nice. At the end of the second one, Jenn told me that she was taking me to see Greg. Naturally, I was excited to hear that. I had been anxious to meet him in person after having spoken with him on the phone a few times and finding him to be so totally awesome. "Oh! Here he is now," said Jenn. And I literally couldn't believe my eyes. He was not at all as I had expected. Greg looks just like a pirate! He's got a shaved head, a giant gold hoop earring in one ear, and a long black beard dyed with red streaks. I was not, however, surprised to see that he was wearing cargo shorts and a hoodie ... as that seems to be the norm at this place. (Awesome!) I walked right up to him, extended my hand, and said, "Greg! My old friend. It's so nice to finally meet you in person." And he seemed equally delighted to see me. "Brooke, is that you? Oh, excellent! Let's go to my office and chat."
"Well, I've already interviewed you extensively, so I won't go over all that again. There's really just one more thing I need to know. How are you with firearms?"
"Firearms?" I choked, bug-eyed.
"Yeah. You know, guns. Are you a pretty good shot?"
"Umm ... is that part of the Editorial Assistant position, Greg?"
"Yeah, sort of. You see, we frequently like to shoot darts at each other periodically throughout the work day. In fact, we've got quite a rivalry going with the editorial department across the lobby. They like to pull the occasional sneak attack, and so do we. So, we're looking for somebody with good aim."
"Well," I said, "I've never actually shot at anything, but my dad's a sharpshooter, so I bet he could teach me. I think I'd be a good shot, anyway."
"Excellent! That's just what I was hoping to hear."
And just when I thought this interview couldn't get any stranger ...
"Our company has a very relaxed culture," Greg went on to explain. "You may have noticed that. You can wear whatever you want, come in whenever you want. I accidentally offended Paul the other day. I didn't mean to. You see, I've been thinking about getting a couple of neck tattoos, and I asked Paul how he thought that would go over at work. 'I can't believe you're asking me that,' he snapped. 'Of course it's okay if you get neck tattoos.' So, if you're ever thinking about getting a neck tattoo, don't worry about it being a problem here at work."
"Well, I might just hold off on that for now," I said (as if I would ever get a tattoo of any kind). "But it's good to know."
And then Greg took me out to the main room, opened up a desk drawer filled with dart guns, and proceeded to show me his favorites. I love that guy!
Pretty soon, it was time for lunch. And as if this interview weren't already enough of an x-file, the truly unbelievable happened. I sat at the long conference table and looked around at all ten of my interviewers -- four men and six women. Not a single one of those women was wearing even the slightest trace of makeup. What?! Now, everybody knows that I hate to wear makeup and I almost never do. But to be in a room with six other women not wearing makeup has to be a first! And then ... everyone started talking, all at once, about their cats! That's right. Every person there has a cat, and they love to tell wacky stories about said cats. I even chipped in with a cat story of my own ... and they really loved that. Especially since my story consisted of Hank and Ollie eating my copy editing test for their company. After twenty or so minutes of cat chat, Greg began to discuss Shakespeare ... and then Andy segued into Jane Austen. I swear, it was like sitting at a table full of Brooke clones. They are exactly like me! But wait. There's more.
After lunch, I interviewed with yet another Managing Editor, Andy. I didn't know it at the time, but Andy is going to be my boss. Yay! I was afraid it was going to be Paul. Anyway, Andy didn't really know what to ask me. He was trying hard, but I could tell he hasn't interviewed many people. As I began to tell him about my experience with auto claims, he told me that, just a couple of weeks ago, a tree fell on his car out in the company parking lot. So, I gave him some advice and offered to look at his car at the end of the day. He was surprised by my offer, but he really seemed to appreciate it. Then he asked me this: "Do you ever use the Internet?" Duh! Of course I use the Internet. "What websites do you frequent? Like, Facebook?" Hmmm... well, I could tell him the standard stuff -- like Facebook. But I remembered what Paul told me about being myself. So, I decided to go balls out. I'm a nerd, and if anyone is going to appreciate that about me, I think it's gonna be these people.
So, I said, "Yeah, Facebook. And email, some shopping, the news. Plus, I belong to this X-Files fan forum where I chat with my friends pretty much every day."
"You mean, the show?" he asked, surprised.
"Yep. I'm an obsessive die-hard fan. I can quote several of the episodes, and I've got all nine seasons and two movies on DVD."
"And you just watch them over and over again?"
"Yep. I think it's the best show ever made."
"Me, too!" he exclaimed. WHAT?! Yeah. Apparently, Andy is a die-hard xphile, too. "I'm just about to start watching the whole series again on DVD, but I'm right in the middle of another show. What I really want to know is, what did you think of the second movie?"
How's that for an interview question, ladies and gentlemen? I think it totally rocks!Turns out we were both disappointed with the second movie for pretty much the same reasons. But we're still hoping for a third.
"Do you like any other TV shows?"
"I really love Dexter." I replied. "That's probably my second favorite show."
"Dexter is the show I'm watching now! I'm only about halfway through season one, but I really like it so far."
What are the chances, people? I mean really. I'm thinkin' my freakish X-Files nerdiness might just have gotten me the job!
After I finished up with Andy, I interviewed with a couple of other cool people, and then it was time to head back to Paul's office. The only person there who hadn't been ultra nice to me. And he was, as I expected, pretty jerky. Again.
"I just want you to know," he began, "that all ten of us have to agree before you can be hired. If even one of us doesn't like you, you're not getting the job. So, don't count on it. Andy is technically the hiring manager this time, since you would be working for him. So, he could override us. But he won't. That's never happened before, and it never will happen. So, if you hear back from the HR lady, it's good news. If you hear back from me, it's bad news. And if you don't hear back at all, it just means that I've probably forgotten your existence, so go ahead and email me."
Ah, nothing warms the heart like being told your very existence is forgettable. Oh, that Paul.
"I have to walk you out now," he grumbled. "It's company policy."
"Afraid I'm gonna steal your confidential information?" I quipped.
"It's highly unlikely that anyone would steal information while interviewing, but I still have to follow the policy."
"Say, do you think Andy could walk me out? I told him I'd look at his car damages. You know, from when that tree fell on his roof."
Andy was totally shocked that I wanted to see his car. I guess he thought I was being insincere, or maybe that I would have forgotten. But he was so excited that he jumped up from his desk right away, even though he had clearly been very busy with something.
"Let's take the ninja exit," he said. And, sure enough, on a support pillar in the middle of the room was sign that said, in big bold lettering, "NINJA EXIT" with an arrow. We followed the arrow and came to a door on which a sign said, "SHHH! Secret Door!" And, viola! We were outside. If we had gone the way I came in, we would have had to tromp through two lobbies and a flight of stairs. I can see why they call it the ninja exit.
That very same night, I got an email from the HR lady, asking if she could call me the next morning for a quick follow-up on my interview. Since she had done this for every other step of the interview process, I assumed nothing. But, when I spoke with her the next morning, she told me that she had already spoken with all of my interviewers and they all loved me. They were ready to extend me an offer!!! She was planning to call me with a formal offer on Monday, but she just couldn't make me wait all weekend to find out. Isn't that considerate? I love these people.
So, to make a short story long, I have landed the job of my dreams in the most nightmarish economy since the Great Depression. It's a miracle! And not only will I finally be working in an editorial capacity in the publishing world, just as I have always dreamed, but I will be surrounded by cool, casual people who love all the same things I love. It's paradise! I couldn't be happier.
Thanks so much to all of you who have been so supportive during the stressful and depressing time of my unemployment. I couldn't have gotten through it without you. Whenever I felt like giving up, I had so many great friends and family members cheering me on. And it just bolstered my determination. You guys are the best!
B
Pet Peeve of the Day:
It was hard for me to think of a pet peeve, believe it or not, because I'm in such a great mood. But then I thought of one. After all, even during the best of times, about a million things annoy the hell out of me. Here's one: people who say the word "like" repeatedly ... sometimes even in the same sentence. You like totally know what I'm like talking about. Like, people who can't seem to like say three or four words without like stopping to like say like. This is like especially irritating when it happens on like TV shows. Then again, I can like always turn those shows off or like just hit the mute button. But like when a person is like speaking to me like face to face, it like totally drives me like crazy. Sometimes, I even like want to shake that person until they stop like speaking like altogether. Do you like know what I mean? AHHH!!! When I taught that class on interviewing (because, I have to say, I rock at interviewing), I made a special point to tell those students to be sure not to say "like" or "you know" excessively. It's become so common that I couldn't take the chance that they would even recognize they were doing it without a warning. Now, I'm not trying to say that I don't say "like" sometimes, too. I am, after all, a California girl. But I certainly don't say it to excess. And if I hear you doing it, I'll be sure to let you know ... or shake you. One or the other.
A Little Background:
While trolling craigslist.org, I came across a listing for a Copy Editor position. It's pretty rare to find such a thing because most Copy Editors work freelance. In fact, I work freelance. Anyway, I read up on the company as per my usual routine, and I was very impressed by what I learned. So, I sent in my resume. And I waited. And waited. And waited. A couple of months later, I saw the same listing appear for a second time. I sent my resume in once again. And I waited. Again. But, as they say, the third time's the charm. Two months after my third attempt, I received an email on a Sunday night from an HR recruiter, asking if I would be willing to set up a phone interview for later in the week. Obviously, I jumped at the chance. She was super sweet, and she felt that I had potential. So, she set up a phone interview for me with the Quality Assurance Content Manager, Greg -- the person to whom the Copy Editor reports. He was literally the nicest person I have ever spoken with in my life. No offense. Several times, he complimented me on the answers I gave to his questions, and he also praised my resume. He clearly wanted to hire me.
But first, I had to pass a copy editing test. No, not just pass it ... get an A- on it. Have I mentioned yet that no one has ever gotten an A? But no pressure, right? This is what Greg had to say to me: "When I took the test, I almost had a stroke. In fact, I took it twice. Just for good measure. But, the second time, I had to down a glass of wine to relax. It's extremely difficult. Just do your best and take as long as you need. It's not uncommon for a candidate to take ten hours." Well, he was right. The test was so hard, it felt almost impossible. It took me six hours (and it was only three pages), and I scored a B+. So, no copy editing job for me. I was terribly disappointed. But Greg, being the incredibly nice person that he is, called me and went over, in great detail, all of the mistakes I had made. Man, I wanted to work for him! So ... I told him that I was aware of another open position within the company and asked if my score was high enough to apply. He assured me that it was more than high enough, and he encouraged me to go for it, stating that he knew I would fit in well there. Plus, I had a leg up on my competition. I had the HR recruiter's email address. So, we started the process all over again. Thankfully, though, I didn't have to retake the test. The Managing Editor, Paul, was not nearly as nice as Greg. It was pretty obvious to me, right from the start of our phone interview, that he didn't like me much. In fact, he led me to believe that I had no chance of progressing to the next phase of the interview process. But I think Greg must have said something to him because, the very next day, he wrote me an email, inviting me for an in-person interview. I was stoked!
The Interview:
First of all, let me just say that this was no ordinary interview. It was an all-day event: 10am to 3pm, including lunch ... with all ten of my interviewers. I spent half an hour each with nine people. And Paul.
When I arrived at 10am, I met with Paul. He took me to his office and gave me this stern warning: "Do not act in a businesslike or professional manner. If you do, you'll be shooting yourself in the foot. That's not what we're looking for around here. We want to see the real you. If you act like a professional, we'll think you're hiding something, and you won't get the job. So, don't treat this like an interview." Hmmm. Okay.
From there, I interviewed with two other Managing Editors (Marcie and Jenn), both of whom were very nice. At the end of the second one, Jenn told me that she was taking me to see Greg. Naturally, I was excited to hear that. I had been anxious to meet him in person after having spoken with him on the phone a few times and finding him to be so totally awesome. "Oh! Here he is now," said Jenn. And I literally couldn't believe my eyes. He was not at all as I had expected. Greg looks just like a pirate! He's got a shaved head, a giant gold hoop earring in one ear, and a long black beard dyed with red streaks. I was not, however, surprised to see that he was wearing cargo shorts and a hoodie ... as that seems to be the norm at this place. (Awesome!) I walked right up to him, extended my hand, and said, "Greg! My old friend. It's so nice to finally meet you in person." And he seemed equally delighted to see me. "Brooke, is that you? Oh, excellent! Let's go to my office and chat."
"Well, I've already interviewed you extensively, so I won't go over all that again. There's really just one more thing I need to know. How are you with firearms?"
"Firearms?" I choked, bug-eyed.
"Yeah. You know, guns. Are you a pretty good shot?"
"Umm ... is that part of the Editorial Assistant position, Greg?"
"Yeah, sort of. You see, we frequently like to shoot darts at each other periodically throughout the work day. In fact, we've got quite a rivalry going with the editorial department across the lobby. They like to pull the occasional sneak attack, and so do we. So, we're looking for somebody with good aim."
"Well," I said, "I've never actually shot at anything, but my dad's a sharpshooter, so I bet he could teach me. I think I'd be a good shot, anyway."
"Excellent! That's just what I was hoping to hear."
And just when I thought this interview couldn't get any stranger ...
"Our company has a very relaxed culture," Greg went on to explain. "You may have noticed that. You can wear whatever you want, come in whenever you want. I accidentally offended Paul the other day. I didn't mean to. You see, I've been thinking about getting a couple of neck tattoos, and I asked Paul how he thought that would go over at work. 'I can't believe you're asking me that,' he snapped. 'Of course it's okay if you get neck tattoos.' So, if you're ever thinking about getting a neck tattoo, don't worry about it being a problem here at work."
"Well, I might just hold off on that for now," I said (as if I would ever get a tattoo of any kind). "But it's good to know."
And then Greg took me out to the main room, opened up a desk drawer filled with dart guns, and proceeded to show me his favorites. I love that guy!
Pretty soon, it was time for lunch. And as if this interview weren't already enough of an x-file, the truly unbelievable happened. I sat at the long conference table and looked around at all ten of my interviewers -- four men and six women. Not a single one of those women was wearing even the slightest trace of makeup. What?! Now, everybody knows that I hate to wear makeup and I almost never do. But to be in a room with six other women not wearing makeup has to be a first! And then ... everyone started talking, all at once, about their cats! That's right. Every person there has a cat, and they love to tell wacky stories about said cats. I even chipped in with a cat story of my own ... and they really loved that. Especially since my story consisted of Hank and Ollie eating my copy editing test for their company. After twenty or so minutes of cat chat, Greg began to discuss Shakespeare ... and then Andy segued into Jane Austen. I swear, it was like sitting at a table full of Brooke clones. They are exactly like me! But wait. There's more.
After lunch, I interviewed with yet another Managing Editor, Andy. I didn't know it at the time, but Andy is going to be my boss. Yay! I was afraid it was going to be Paul. Anyway, Andy didn't really know what to ask me. He was trying hard, but I could tell he hasn't interviewed many people. As I began to tell him about my experience with auto claims, he told me that, just a couple of weeks ago, a tree fell on his car out in the company parking lot. So, I gave him some advice and offered to look at his car at the end of the day. He was surprised by my offer, but he really seemed to appreciate it. Then he asked me this: "Do you ever use the Internet?" Duh! Of course I use the Internet. "What websites do you frequent? Like, Facebook?" Hmmm... well, I could tell him the standard stuff -- like Facebook. But I remembered what Paul told me about being myself. So, I decided to go balls out. I'm a nerd, and if anyone is going to appreciate that about me, I think it's gonna be these people.
So, I said, "Yeah, Facebook. And email, some shopping, the news. Plus, I belong to this X-Files fan forum where I chat with my friends pretty much every day."
"You mean, the show?" he asked, surprised.
"Yep. I'm an obsessive die-hard fan. I can quote several of the episodes, and I've got all nine seasons and two movies on DVD."
"And you just watch them over and over again?"
"Yep. I think it's the best show ever made."
"Me, too!" he exclaimed. WHAT?! Yeah. Apparently, Andy is a die-hard xphile, too. "I'm just about to start watching the whole series again on DVD, but I'm right in the middle of another show. What I really want to know is, what did you think of the second movie?"
How's that for an interview question, ladies and gentlemen? I think it totally rocks!Turns out we were both disappointed with the second movie for pretty much the same reasons. But we're still hoping for a third.
"Do you like any other TV shows?"
"I really love Dexter." I replied. "That's probably my second favorite show."
"Dexter is the show I'm watching now! I'm only about halfway through season one, but I really like it so far."
What are the chances, people? I mean really. I'm thinkin' my freakish X-Files nerdiness might just have gotten me the job!
After I finished up with Andy, I interviewed with a couple of other cool people, and then it was time to head back to Paul's office. The only person there who hadn't been ultra nice to me. And he was, as I expected, pretty jerky. Again.
"I just want you to know," he began, "that all ten of us have to agree before you can be hired. If even one of us doesn't like you, you're not getting the job. So, don't count on it. Andy is technically the hiring manager this time, since you would be working for him. So, he could override us. But he won't. That's never happened before, and it never will happen. So, if you hear back from the HR lady, it's good news. If you hear back from me, it's bad news. And if you don't hear back at all, it just means that I've probably forgotten your existence, so go ahead and email me."
Ah, nothing warms the heart like being told your very existence is forgettable. Oh, that Paul.
"I have to walk you out now," he grumbled. "It's company policy."
"Afraid I'm gonna steal your confidential information?" I quipped.
"It's highly unlikely that anyone would steal information while interviewing, but I still have to follow the policy."
"Say, do you think Andy could walk me out? I told him I'd look at his car damages. You know, from when that tree fell on his roof."
Andy was totally shocked that I wanted to see his car. I guess he thought I was being insincere, or maybe that I would have forgotten. But he was so excited that he jumped up from his desk right away, even though he had clearly been very busy with something.
"Let's take the ninja exit," he said. And, sure enough, on a support pillar in the middle of the room was sign that said, in big bold lettering, "NINJA EXIT" with an arrow. We followed the arrow and came to a door on which a sign said, "SHHH! Secret Door!" And, viola! We were outside. If we had gone the way I came in, we would have had to tromp through two lobbies and a flight of stairs. I can see why they call it the ninja exit.
That very same night, I got an email from the HR lady, asking if she could call me the next morning for a quick follow-up on my interview. Since she had done this for every other step of the interview process, I assumed nothing. But, when I spoke with her the next morning, she told me that she had already spoken with all of my interviewers and they all loved me. They were ready to extend me an offer!!! She was planning to call me with a formal offer on Monday, but she just couldn't make me wait all weekend to find out. Isn't that considerate? I love these people.
So, to make a short story long, I have landed the job of my dreams in the most nightmarish economy since the Great Depression. It's a miracle! And not only will I finally be working in an editorial capacity in the publishing world, just as I have always dreamed, but I will be surrounded by cool, casual people who love all the same things I love. It's paradise! I couldn't be happier.
Thanks so much to all of you who have been so supportive during the stressful and depressing time of my unemployment. I couldn't have gotten through it without you. Whenever I felt like giving up, I had so many great friends and family members cheering me on. And it just bolstered my determination. You guys are the best!
B
Pet Peeve of the Day:
It was hard for me to think of a pet peeve, believe it or not, because I'm in such a great mood. But then I thought of one. After all, even during the best of times, about a million things annoy the hell out of me. Here's one: people who say the word "like" repeatedly ... sometimes even in the same sentence. You like totally know what I'm like talking about. Like, people who can't seem to like say three or four words without like stopping to like say like. This is like especially irritating when it happens on like TV shows. Then again, I can like always turn those shows off or like just hit the mute button. But like when a person is like speaking to me like face to face, it like totally drives me like crazy. Sometimes, I even like want to shake that person until they stop like speaking like altogether. Do you like know what I mean? AHHH!!! When I taught that class on interviewing (because, I have to say, I rock at interviewing), I made a special point to tell those students to be sure not to say "like" or "you know" excessively. It's become so common that I couldn't take the chance that they would even recognize they were doing it without a warning. Now, I'm not trying to say that I don't say "like" sometimes, too. I am, after all, a California girl. But I certainly don't say it to excess. And if I hear you doing it, I'll be sure to let you know ... or shake you. One or the other.
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
List of Frustrations
Sorry it's been so long since I've posted anything. I've been preoccupied with a list of frustrations about as long as my arm. No, it's probably even as long as Bridget's arm -- and we all know how freakishly long that girl's arms are. She's like a monkey. But don't tell her I said that. Let's see ...
First, I got a job and lost a job all in one day. While on the phone with the company I really, really want to work for, I got an email from a company I don't really want to work for. They wanted to let me know that they were hiring for online academic coaches and would like me to attend a group interview ... the next day at 1pm. I looked at the time display on my computer, and I was not impressed that they'd given me less than 24 hours notice. But what the hell? I went to the interview and suffered through over an hour of asinine questions (the answers to which no one bothered to record -- even though there were eight of us) and a test. And, naturally, the test was 50% math. I almost walked out, but I figured: I don't exactly have anything better to do. There were 18 math problems, and I had to leave six of them blank. Oh, and did I mention that they were elementary school level problems? Yeah. I failed. Several hours later -- at about 11:45pm -- I received an email from the interviewer (a woman who, though she tried, could not disguise her inherent bitchiness for even as long as it took to ask a few questions and proctor a test) welcoming me to the company. Hmm ... what kind of outfit hires a person to tutor math that she clearly cannot understand? Probably the same sort of place that hires a non-English-speaking woman to teach grammar. That should have tipped me off right away. Training was to begin the next afternoon. Ah, yet more last minute communication. Gotta love that! I emailed her back right away, asking her to call me the next day in order to answer a few questions and let me know what time to show up for training. Well, you guessed it. She didn't call me. Instead, she emailed me at 1:15pm to tell me that training was to begin at 2pm. Because this job is over a 30 minute drive away, I had to miss it. She also sent me a link filled with information on all the things I would have to pay for to work there. Maybe, if I completed 30 continuous days of employment, I would even be reimbursed. Yeah, right! I'm pretty desperate but not that desperate. I can't exactly afford to shell out any cash on a job right now. That's kinda the point of me wanting a job, actually. As I understand it, they pay you. Have I got that wrong?
For those of you who appreciate my Dad-isms, here is a pearl of wisdom from good old Dad regarding the shame of unemployment: "Don't worry about it. It's just a phase -- like being homeless or confined to a wheelchair. You'll get past it. Just keep looking." Yeah, I guess some people find homes, but I'm not so sure about wheelchair confinement. I think that's usually pretty permanent. Dad, on the other hand, is absolutely confident that it's just a "phase." You know how it is when you're going through a phase: dying your hair purple, smoking clove cigarettes, painting sad clowns in your free time, tooling around in your wheelchair. Oh, Dad.
Next on my list of frustrations is the almost constant hassle I get from my apartment complex. We're turning off your water all day on Tuesday; You must clear everything off your patio by Thursday so that we can power wash; We're coming in to inspect your apartment on Monday, whether you like it or not. If you're not home, we'll let ourselves in; We're coming back on Wednesday to fix stuff in your apartment, whether that works with your schedule or not. And on and on and on. And no, I'm not making any of that up. That's pretty much what this week looks like. These people drive me freakin' crazy! Can I not have a moment's peace? Hank and Ollie are pretty aggravated, too. They hate having strangers tromping through their home. It means hours of hiding inside the sofa. And let me tell you, balancing on a tiny wooden shelf between cushions does not a happy cat make. How can you stretch out on your back that way? How can you run back and forth in the sink while your person is trying to do dishes? How can you roll around with your catnip carrot? How can you gleefully bat your water bowl off the counter and watch it either shatter into a million pieces or bounce around, splattering water all over everything? You just can't. Those damn apartment people! They're ruining our lives.
I have to say, though, that some of the maintenance people can be pretty entertaining sometimes. Only an hour or two ago, I looked out my window and saw one of them practicing his golf swing with a power-washing nozzle. It was funny as hell. He looked around, making sure no one was present in the courtyard, and then he just started swinging away. As his partner drove around the corner in his maintenance golf cart, the guy ran over and began attaching the nozzle to the hose, as if he weren't just pretending to compete in the Master's tournament. Haha!
There are other frustrations, of course, but who has the time to recount them all? I've gotta get editing ... and preparing for my interview ... and preparing for those damn maintenance people ... and job hunting ... etc. And it's time for Hank to sprawl out across my keyboard, which is hard for him to do when I'm typing. Not impossible, mind you, just hard.
Anyway, I'll try to be better about posting. I can hardly expect you to join my cult and then fail to indoctrinate you. I dropped the ball. It won't happen again. Hopefully.
B
Pet Peeve of the Day:
Alex Trebek. That man really gets my goat when he condescends to women contestants by constantly referring to them as "young lady." GRRR! I get mad every time he does that, which is on almost every episode. It also irritates the hell out of me when he pretends he knows the answer and the contestants are just a bunch of dumb asses. You just know he didn't have a clue about the population of Jakarta or the number of bones in an antelope's body. But he always has to smirk and say something like, "Oh, sorry (in his annoying Canadian accent), that's incorrect. The answer, of course, is ..." AH! Sometimes, I just wanna punch his lights out. If I ever make it onto that show, mark my words, my personal story is going to be this pet peeve. I will tell him to his face that he'd better not call me "young lady," or he's losing a limb. Why can't he just be nice to people? Like Pat Sajak.
First, I got a job and lost a job all in one day. While on the phone with the company I really, really want to work for, I got an email from a company I don't really want to work for. They wanted to let me know that they were hiring for online academic coaches and would like me to attend a group interview ... the next day at 1pm. I looked at the time display on my computer, and I was not impressed that they'd given me less than 24 hours notice. But what the hell? I went to the interview and suffered through over an hour of asinine questions (the answers to which no one bothered to record -- even though there were eight of us) and a test. And, naturally, the test was 50% math. I almost walked out, but I figured: I don't exactly have anything better to do. There were 18 math problems, and I had to leave six of them blank. Oh, and did I mention that they were elementary school level problems? Yeah. I failed. Several hours later -- at about 11:45pm -- I received an email from the interviewer (a woman who, though she tried, could not disguise her inherent bitchiness for even as long as it took to ask a few questions and proctor a test) welcoming me to the company. Hmm ... what kind of outfit hires a person to tutor math that she clearly cannot understand? Probably the same sort of place that hires a non-English-speaking woman to teach grammar. That should have tipped me off right away. Training was to begin the next afternoon. Ah, yet more last minute communication. Gotta love that! I emailed her back right away, asking her to call me the next day in order to answer a few questions and let me know what time to show up for training. Well, you guessed it. She didn't call me. Instead, she emailed me at 1:15pm to tell me that training was to begin at 2pm. Because this job is over a 30 minute drive away, I had to miss it. She also sent me a link filled with information on all the things I would have to pay for to work there. Maybe, if I completed 30 continuous days of employment, I would even be reimbursed. Yeah, right! I'm pretty desperate but not that desperate. I can't exactly afford to shell out any cash on a job right now. That's kinda the point of me wanting a job, actually. As I understand it, they pay you. Have I got that wrong?
For those of you who appreciate my Dad-isms, here is a pearl of wisdom from good old Dad regarding the shame of unemployment: "Don't worry about it. It's just a phase -- like being homeless or confined to a wheelchair. You'll get past it. Just keep looking." Yeah, I guess some people find homes, but I'm not so sure about wheelchair confinement. I think that's usually pretty permanent. Dad, on the other hand, is absolutely confident that it's just a "phase." You know how it is when you're going through a phase: dying your hair purple, smoking clove cigarettes, painting sad clowns in your free time, tooling around in your wheelchair. Oh, Dad.
Next on my list of frustrations is the almost constant hassle I get from my apartment complex. We're turning off your water all day on Tuesday; You must clear everything off your patio by Thursday so that we can power wash; We're coming in to inspect your apartment on Monday, whether you like it or not. If you're not home, we'll let ourselves in; We're coming back on Wednesday to fix stuff in your apartment, whether that works with your schedule or not. And on and on and on. And no, I'm not making any of that up. That's pretty much what this week looks like. These people drive me freakin' crazy! Can I not have a moment's peace? Hank and Ollie are pretty aggravated, too. They hate having strangers tromping through their home. It means hours of hiding inside the sofa. And let me tell you, balancing on a tiny wooden shelf between cushions does not a happy cat make. How can you stretch out on your back that way? How can you run back and forth in the sink while your person is trying to do dishes? How can you roll around with your catnip carrot? How can you gleefully bat your water bowl off the counter and watch it either shatter into a million pieces or bounce around, splattering water all over everything? You just can't. Those damn apartment people! They're ruining our lives.
I have to say, though, that some of the maintenance people can be pretty entertaining sometimes. Only an hour or two ago, I looked out my window and saw one of them practicing his golf swing with a power-washing nozzle. It was funny as hell. He looked around, making sure no one was present in the courtyard, and then he just started swinging away. As his partner drove around the corner in his maintenance golf cart, the guy ran over and began attaching the nozzle to the hose, as if he weren't just pretending to compete in the Master's tournament. Haha!
There are other frustrations, of course, but who has the time to recount them all? I've gotta get editing ... and preparing for my interview ... and preparing for those damn maintenance people ... and job hunting ... etc. And it's time for Hank to sprawl out across my keyboard, which is hard for him to do when I'm typing. Not impossible, mind you, just hard.
Anyway, I'll try to be better about posting. I can hardly expect you to join my cult and then fail to indoctrinate you. I dropped the ball. It won't happen again. Hopefully.
B
Pet Peeve of the Day:
Alex Trebek. That man really gets my goat when he condescends to women contestants by constantly referring to them as "young lady." GRRR! I get mad every time he does that, which is on almost every episode. It also irritates the hell out of me when he pretends he knows the answer and the contestants are just a bunch of dumb asses. You just know he didn't have a clue about the population of Jakarta or the number of bones in an antelope's body. But he always has to smirk and say something like, "Oh, sorry (in his annoying Canadian accent), that's incorrect. The answer, of course, is ..." AH! Sometimes, I just wanna punch his lights out. If I ever make it onto that show, mark my words, my personal story is going to be this pet peeve. I will tell him to his face that he'd better not call me "young lady," or he's losing a limb. Why can't he just be nice to people? Like Pat Sajak.
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
The Arch-Nemesis Returns
I wonder if the Monterey Highway Walmart carries thumb screws. An iron maiden? The rack? And which department? Lord knows I won't be able to find a clerk to direct me. These were my thoughts as I sat in the Ralston Hall parlor during Jackie's poetry reading on Monday and fought valiantly to ignore the long, grizzled ponytail adorned with gaudy, plastic tropical flower, the requisite "right on" head bobbing. In other words, Mary. Just when I thought we'd never meet again, lulled into a false sense of peace, listening to Jackie's amazing poetic compositions, I heard a commotion behind me ... and, somehow, I just knew. Was it the heavy stomping on ancient hardwood floors? The rustle of several large canvas bags slung over a meaty shoulder? The multitude of key chains tinkling against one another? Whatever it was, I recognized that commotion without ever turning around. And I froze in horror. God, if you can hear me, I prayed, please don't let that be Mary. But my prayers were in vain. Jackie, slightly irritated by the interruption, asked the late-comer to have a seat up front, and I could no longer deny what my heart knew to be true. And the worst part of all: Katie was nowhere to be found. I was left completely, utterly alone to face this human nightmare. Because Katie and I had agreed to meet and attend the reading together, I pondered medieval torture devices with which to punish her. Now that I think about it, thumb screws are too kind.
But, if I'm honest, I've never had all that much trouble avoiding Mary, even at events like this. Being trapped in a classroom with her, well, that's one thing. But this should have been a piece of cake. It should have been. A little more than halfway through the presentation, I looked behind me and spotted Katie sneaking in. Thank God! I caught her eye, squinted, curled my lip (Elvis-style), and nodded my head in my arch-nemesis's direction. She just raised her eyebrows and shrugged. Good Lord, Katie, how could you miss her? Especially when, as per her usual routine, her cellphone began to play the Beatles' "Imagine" at top volume? Jackie really appreciated that! But come on, she should have been expecting it. I was.
Jackie's performance was amazing, and it was certainly reason enough for me to travel 40 miles, risk a parking ticket, and navigate that steep switchback trail topped with a 90-step, vertical, rickety wooden staircase in the wilderness before emerging at the top -- completely out of breath with stinging leg muscles -- in the packed school parking lot. One long trek across campus brought me to the mansion and the parlor ... just in time to wait 25 minutes for Jackie to begin late. Where the hell was Katie?! I'll tell you where she was; she was in the wrong building. But I only learned that later. After the reading, I ran to Katie, we embraced, and I asked her (quite perplexed), "Where's Robin?" After all, even though I enjoyed seeing Jackie, my main reason for showing up was to meet Katie's fiance.
"Oh, I left him out on the grass with the puppy," she said. "I was afraid he might make some noise and get us kicked out." (The puppy, not Robin). Hmm ... I wish Mary had been as considerate. But poor Robin, exiled to the yard with only a infantile canine for companionship.
"But I thought he's the kind of dog that can't bark," I replied, confused.
"He is, but he sometimes makes other weird noises. Let's go get Robin." And we ran outside into the sunshine to drag him back to the mansion.
No sooner had we re-entered the parlor than Mary cornered me. Desperately, I looked for escape or rescue, but Katie and Robin were occupied introducing the new puppy to a group of friends. And he was, indeed, making some very weird noises. I was on my own.
"Hey, Brooke!" Mary exclaimed, trundling over to me with a huge smile ... and, believe it or not, a lazy eye.
"Hi, Mary," I mumbled in reply, eyes downcast, defeated.
"Where are you working these days?" God, does this woman have no control over the volume of her voice?
"Um ... I'm not working. I'm unemployed, unfortunately."
"You're unemployed?!" she screamed. "Wow! That's too bad. But don't worry; things will pick up. You'll find something." Thanks a bunch, Mary. Naturally, every eye in the room was pointed in my direction at that point, and I'm praying for a hole in the floor to swallow me up. Katie and Robin were seated a few feet away, watching this spectacle with rapt attention. I felt like I was acting out a particularly raunchy sex scene in a soap opera or something. Super uncomfortable, embarrassing as all hell, but I have to play my part.
You know what happened next. I don't even need to tell you. But I will. She started in with the "teenage daughter" stories, the very stories that compromised my sanity for so much of my grad school career. In case you're wondering, said teenage daughter just turned eighteen, and get this: she has a job. That made me feel all warm and fuzzy inside. Mary and her drug-addicted, promiscuous teenage daughter are both gainfully employed while I am one step away from the shelter. It's times like this that I want to drive up to the city and throw myself from the Golden Gate. But, with my luck, I'd be one of the few who get blown under the bridge and into the safety net. Or I'd land on a garbage barge or something. Sigh.
Finally, after (I kid you not) at least 15 minutes of torture, Katie finally came to my rescue. She explained to Mary that we were headed off to lunch. And we darted outside to freedom.
Robin asked about my rather strong reaction to Mary. "You don't understand," I explained. "I despise that woman more than anything on Earth. I would rather stick pins in my eyes than even look in her direction."
"You couldn't even tell, though," Katie said. "You seemed like you were having a regular conversation."
"Well, that's good, I guess. Where are we going for lunch?"
"Hola's, of course" she answered. Ah, Katie! You know me too well. The only remedy for a Mary encounter is a large dose of Hola margarita. Or, as was the case so many times in grad school, the effects of two or more Hola margaritas make a future encounter with Mary almost bearable. Class is more fun that way, too! So, one margarita and a plate of nachos later, the rage began to subside. Thank you, Katie!
I like to consider myself a fair person, so, to be fair, I will say that Mary has lost at least 75 pounds since I last saw her. I may hate her guts, but it's nice to see that she has less of them. That couldn't have been easy. And imagine the heartache she must have suffered when she outgrew her collection of tie-dyed t-shirts. At least, she'll always be able to fit into her peace sign Converse sneakers and her long, dangly dream-catcher earrings. And let's not forget that orange and yellow tropical flower hair pin.
Honestly, though, Katie is probably my biggest fan. She's certainly one of my most supportive friends. She's tried, and continues to try, to get me a teaching job at her school -- even though we would technically be competing. She wrote me the most complimentary letter of recommendation you could imagine. It brought a tear to my eye. I suppose I can forgive her for abandoning me to my arch-nemesis for 15 interminable minutes. Just as long as it never happens again. Got it?
B
Pet Peeve of the Day:
People who "forget" to wear green on St. Patrick's Day. What is wrong with you people?! I happen to be wearing seven shades of green today. Yes, all at once. I've got my shiny green shamrock earrings, a lime green shirt, my sparkly green best friends ring from Seattle, a jeweled two-tone green bracelet, green-eyed cat socks, and a flashing green button that says, "Everyone loves an Irish girl." If I can manage all that, what's your excuse? If you're one of these crazy rule-breakers (Katie), consider yourself pinched.
But, if I'm honest, I've never had all that much trouble avoiding Mary, even at events like this. Being trapped in a classroom with her, well, that's one thing. But this should have been a piece of cake. It should have been. A little more than halfway through the presentation, I looked behind me and spotted Katie sneaking in. Thank God! I caught her eye, squinted, curled my lip (Elvis-style), and nodded my head in my arch-nemesis's direction. She just raised her eyebrows and shrugged. Good Lord, Katie, how could you miss her? Especially when, as per her usual routine, her cellphone began to play the Beatles' "Imagine" at top volume? Jackie really appreciated that! But come on, she should have been expecting it. I was.
Jackie's performance was amazing, and it was certainly reason enough for me to travel 40 miles, risk a parking ticket, and navigate that steep switchback trail topped with a 90-step, vertical, rickety wooden staircase in the wilderness before emerging at the top -- completely out of breath with stinging leg muscles -- in the packed school parking lot. One long trek across campus brought me to the mansion and the parlor ... just in time to wait 25 minutes for Jackie to begin late. Where the hell was Katie?! I'll tell you where she was; she was in the wrong building. But I only learned that later. After the reading, I ran to Katie, we embraced, and I asked her (quite perplexed), "Where's Robin?" After all, even though I enjoyed seeing Jackie, my main reason for showing up was to meet Katie's fiance.
"Oh, I left him out on the grass with the puppy," she said. "I was afraid he might make some noise and get us kicked out." (The puppy, not Robin). Hmm ... I wish Mary had been as considerate. But poor Robin, exiled to the yard with only a infantile canine for companionship.
"But I thought he's the kind of dog that can't bark," I replied, confused.
"He is, but he sometimes makes other weird noises. Let's go get Robin." And we ran outside into the sunshine to drag him back to the mansion.
No sooner had we re-entered the parlor than Mary cornered me. Desperately, I looked for escape or rescue, but Katie and Robin were occupied introducing the new puppy to a group of friends. And he was, indeed, making some very weird noises. I was on my own.
"Hey, Brooke!" Mary exclaimed, trundling over to me with a huge smile ... and, believe it or not, a lazy eye.
"Hi, Mary," I mumbled in reply, eyes downcast, defeated.
"Where are you working these days?" God, does this woman have no control over the volume of her voice?
"Um ... I'm not working. I'm unemployed, unfortunately."
"You're unemployed?!" she screamed. "Wow! That's too bad. But don't worry; things will pick up. You'll find something." Thanks a bunch, Mary. Naturally, every eye in the room was pointed in my direction at that point, and I'm praying for a hole in the floor to swallow me up. Katie and Robin were seated a few feet away, watching this spectacle with rapt attention. I felt like I was acting out a particularly raunchy sex scene in a soap opera or something. Super uncomfortable, embarrassing as all hell, but I have to play my part.
You know what happened next. I don't even need to tell you. But I will. She started in with the "teenage daughter" stories, the very stories that compromised my sanity for so much of my grad school career. In case you're wondering, said teenage daughter just turned eighteen, and get this: she has a job. That made me feel all warm and fuzzy inside. Mary and her drug-addicted, promiscuous teenage daughter are both gainfully employed while I am one step away from the shelter. It's times like this that I want to drive up to the city and throw myself from the Golden Gate. But, with my luck, I'd be one of the few who get blown under the bridge and into the safety net. Or I'd land on a garbage barge or something. Sigh.
Finally, after (I kid you not) at least 15 minutes of torture, Katie finally came to my rescue. She explained to Mary that we were headed off to lunch. And we darted outside to freedom.
Robin asked about my rather strong reaction to Mary. "You don't understand," I explained. "I despise that woman more than anything on Earth. I would rather stick pins in my eyes than even look in her direction."
"You couldn't even tell, though," Katie said. "You seemed like you were having a regular conversation."
"Well, that's good, I guess. Where are we going for lunch?"
"Hola's, of course" she answered. Ah, Katie! You know me too well. The only remedy for a Mary encounter is a large dose of Hola margarita. Or, as was the case so many times in grad school, the effects of two or more Hola margaritas make a future encounter with Mary almost bearable. Class is more fun that way, too! So, one margarita and a plate of nachos later, the rage began to subside. Thank you, Katie!
I like to consider myself a fair person, so, to be fair, I will say that Mary has lost at least 75 pounds since I last saw her. I may hate her guts, but it's nice to see that she has less of them. That couldn't have been easy. And imagine the heartache she must have suffered when she outgrew her collection of tie-dyed t-shirts. At least, she'll always be able to fit into her peace sign Converse sneakers and her long, dangly dream-catcher earrings. And let's not forget that orange and yellow tropical flower hair pin.
Honestly, though, Katie is probably my biggest fan. She's certainly one of my most supportive friends. She's tried, and continues to try, to get me a teaching job at her school -- even though we would technically be competing. She wrote me the most complimentary letter of recommendation you could imagine. It brought a tear to my eye. I suppose I can forgive her for abandoning me to my arch-nemesis for 15 interminable minutes. Just as long as it never happens again. Got it?
B
Pet Peeve of the Day:
People who "forget" to wear green on St. Patrick's Day. What is wrong with you people?! I happen to be wearing seven shades of green today. Yes, all at once. I've got my shiny green shamrock earrings, a lime green shirt, my sparkly green best friends ring from Seattle, a jeweled two-tone green bracelet, green-eyed cat socks, and a flashing green button that says, "Everyone loves an Irish girl." If I can manage all that, what's your excuse? If you're one of these crazy rule-breakers (Katie), consider yourself pinched.
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