In previous posts, I've mentioned that I work in a thrift store operated by a non-profit organization. Since the store's proceeds go to providing health services and housing to people living with HIV and AIDS, one would be inclined to think that the support of such a noble cause, would garner courteous and benevolent customers.
Sadly, one would be terribly, terribly wrong...
A few examples of the customer's activities over the past few weeks include: two grown men engaging in a fistfight over U2 albums, which was curtailed by six police officers hauling them off in handcuffs, a middle-aged woman who became so irate when she was unable to haggle down the price of a six-dollar pocketbook, that she verbally assaulted the store manager for fifteen minutes, and the piece de resistance...a white woman accused me of racial profiling because I was casually chatting with a neighborhood police officer, whom she assumed I summoned, "because there were black women in the store, and I'm aryan".
Perhaps there is some science fiction based explanation for this behavior...the shop was built over an ancient Indian burial ground, or an alien life form hides in the doorway and turns mild-mannered folk into materialistic barbarians upon entry. And maybe the only way to prevent these cosmic creatures from controlling our brains is donning tin foil hats and ingesting red Skittles.
Although these scenarios sound ridiculous, kooky customer incidents occur at least twice a day, if not more frequently, which compels me to wonder if I have unknowingly entered The Twilight Zone...
There is a fifth dimension beyond that which is known to man. It is a dimension as vast as space and as timeless as infinity, or between the hours of 11-7. It is the middle ground between vintage and slightly worn, between science and fashion, and it lies between the pit of man's fears and the Haagen Dazs next door. This is the dimension of plastic bric-a-brac and antique cloche hats. It is an area which we call the THE BROOKLYN THRIFT STORE...
Submitted for your approval, the three customers from Hell:
#3 Hipster Mommy
Currently residing in Park Slope, with her Creative Director husband and son Zeus Gatsby, her hobbies include quoting scripture, a.k.a Gwyneth Paltrow's website, dragging her emasculated husband away from his garage band jam-sessions for a four-hour excursion to Ikea on Sundays, and watching Jennifer Connolly films with her circle of Martyr Mom friends, or as they refer to themselves-"Mothership".
Pushing a Bugaboo stroller towards the register, mowing over all items or persons in her path, Hipster Mommy is an all-knowing entity. She doesn't feel the need to discipline lil' Zeusy, as that would be infringing on his "creative curiosity", even when he pulls a box of Christmas ornaments off of a shelf and watches them clamor to the floor, then toddles away.
She pays for her Belle and Sebastian CD, places it into her Trader Joe's canvas tote, and while her son is busy yanking a rack of skirts down from their hangers, she tells him it's time to go to class at Yoga Tots.
As they exit the store, her stroller topples a mannequin, but she continues on her way, content in her own world of self-satisfaction.
#2 The Stand-Up
Currently single and residing in Boerum Hill with his cat, Newman, The Stand Up's hobbies include being the third wheel with his married friends, masturbating, quoting Joey from Friends, masturbating while watching Friends, and perusing Match.com at his Finance job.
The Stand Up uses his special blend of comedy as an attempt to flirt with the female staff, whether he's doling out inane and unfunny observations about items in the store, "What's the deal with pink shirts for men, this isn't a golf course?" or suddenly finding comedic value in news stories that ceased to be relevant months prior, "So what's with Michael Jackson, he was like all into kids, right?".
Although I provide no encouragement or pity laughs to this bloke as he hurls his wanna-be witticisms in my direction, Stand Up never seems to conclude that his shtick is not endearing, no matter how many times I reply to his commentary with, "Sorry, we don't sell laugh tracks," or "please workshop your material at the Banana Republic down the street, sir, they're used to generic, tasteless garbage.
#1 Creepy Intense Guy
Current residence unknown, although ultimately his neighbors will describe him as "a clean and quiet guy who always kept to himself" once the authorities find a stash of human kneecaps and index fingers hidden under his floorboards.
Creepy Intense Guy's hobbies include leering, stalking, collecting human knee caps and index fingers, and watching Gilmore Girls reruns.
He's the clean-shaven, meticulously dressed male who stares at my every movement so fervently, it begs the question, "Can a woman become pregnant from eye rape?"
His attempts at small-talk are disturbing, and uttered in a spooky hushed tone, "I see you're drinking a coffee from the bakery, I also drink coffee from the bakery. We have a lot in common". And when he returns hours later, brandishing the same coffee cup in his hand, the interaction becomes even more bizarre, "When I saw you at the bakery, I noticed you added two sugars to your coffee, and stirred the coffee three times. You were talking to the cashier for a minute and twenty seconds, how well do you know him?"
Creepy Intense Guy elicits the use of a safety-word amongst the staff, which shall be used immediately should he express interest in the application of lotion onto skin or any activity involving a hose.
The previous list represents a mere sample of the neverending parade of psych-ward escapees and n'er do wells that frequent the store. Yes, there are friendly, nice people who visit the shop, but unfortunately, their good qualities are overshadowed by the staggering sense of entitlement and gross misconduct of the repeat offenders.
I'm no Polyanna, but my weariness and impatience grows daily, when I observe people who believe that whining, name-calling, and temper tantrums are not activities reserved exclusively for children in the schoolyard. I try to rationalize these poor attitudes as a "New York thing", and until I am ready to make a move to the Midwest, I can only speculate as to what the real answer may be.
In the meantime, I'll impart the words of wisdom passed down to me by an old woman in the shop a few days ago, "Jesus is coming, look busy".
Happy holidays!
Monday, December 21, 2009
Monday, November 30, 2009
Doll House
I'm knee-deep in a landfill of relics from former dalliances, examining my dating history like an archaeologist, trying to decode the evolution of my relationship addiction. Upon further inspection of these memories, I realize that I must have been playing romantic Mad Libs, focusing on the words I wanted to hear to create the story, but unfortunately, allowing the crucial information to go unnoticed.
What I heard:
My friends love you...You're so much nicer than my previous girlfriend...I miss you.
What was actually said:
My friends love you, which is ironic, since I really don't care for you that much...You're so much nicer than my previous girlfriend, she was one of those super hot women who could get away with being a bitch...I miss you, but if I keep shooting this rifle, I'm bound to hit some vital artery of yours.
The further I fall down this rabbit-hole of introspection, the more I close off to the idea of a relationship, and truly embrace my spinster potential. The problem is, my new found aversion towards intimacy is causing me to appear more attractive to men because as Spock says, "Having is not such a pleasing a thing as wanting...", and it's refreshing to be presented with a challenge, especially in New York where a guy can't swing a credit card without hitting a woman who is looking for a boyfriend or marriage. My cold demeanor and harsh disparagement towards some guys serves as foreplay, while the blunt verbalization that I do not want to date, make out with, or even inhabit the same planet as certain males, generates more of an aphrodisiac than the finest Canadian porn the internet can provide.
I am seeking out friendships right now, and instead of the "Would I Fuck Him" mental checklist women usually tick off when they first meet a guy, I hold a "Could this be my new BFF" contest in my head, complete with bonus points for understanding Lord of the Rings jargon or the recognition of Spaceballs quotes. Ever since I ceased to live outside of the fantasy land of university, it has become nearly impossible to form quality friendships. Therefore, I don't want a revolving door of amigos, coming and going within the span of months because of disparate goals.
So what if there were some compromise one could find in the tug of war between dating vs. friendship? How can the awkward relationship talk be avoided or the dreaded drunken make-out attempt curtailed?
Real Doll Stand-In, that's how.
According to Abyss Creations, the fine folks who manufacture these creatures, Real Dolls are 'the state-of-the-art for life-like human body simulation', so should the uncomfortable friend predicament occur, you can excuse yourself to the bedroom, set up your doll and let the magic happen on its own. You don't even have to stay in the room while the action is going on, which is sometimes similar to the way lovemaking goes anyway.
Afterwards, your friend will believe the two of you slept together, and because you don't act any differently towards him, he can feel relieved that you don't want to have a relationship. Plus, now that his coital curiosity has been satisfied, and the conquest has been had, he may actually continue to be an attentive friend.
Sure, a Real Doll is expensive, but with a hooker stand-in, you run the risk of the guy catching an STD, awkwardly finding an adam's apple, or the call-girl being really good in bed. These stand-ins also work as a test to see if a guy is in lust vs. like with you, should you want an actual relationship. And in keeping eco-friendly, a Real Doll can be reused again and again for each suitor that won't last in ardor with you past the first expulsion of sperm.
Real Doll Stand-ins, so you can still have a friend after your friend has you.
What I heard:
My friends love you...You're so much nicer than my previous girlfriend...I miss you.
What was actually said:
My friends love you, which is ironic, since I really don't care for you that much...You're so much nicer than my previous girlfriend, she was one of those super hot women who could get away with being a bitch...I miss you, but if I keep shooting this rifle, I'm bound to hit some vital artery of yours.
The further I fall down this rabbit-hole of introspection, the more I close off to the idea of a relationship, and truly embrace my spinster potential. The problem is, my new found aversion towards intimacy is causing me to appear more attractive to men because as Spock says, "Having is not such a pleasing a thing as wanting...", and it's refreshing to be presented with a challenge, especially in New York where a guy can't swing a credit card without hitting a woman who is looking for a boyfriend or marriage. My cold demeanor and harsh disparagement towards some guys serves as foreplay, while the blunt verbalization that I do not want to date, make out with, or even inhabit the same planet as certain males, generates more of an aphrodisiac than the finest Canadian porn the internet can provide.
I am seeking out friendships right now, and instead of the "Would I Fuck Him" mental checklist women usually tick off when they first meet a guy, I hold a "Could this be my new BFF" contest in my head, complete with bonus points for understanding Lord of the Rings jargon or the recognition of Spaceballs quotes. Ever since I ceased to live outside of the fantasy land of university, it has become nearly impossible to form quality friendships. Therefore, I don't want a revolving door of amigos, coming and going within the span of months because of disparate goals.
So what if there were some compromise one could find in the tug of war between dating vs. friendship? How can the awkward relationship talk be avoided or the dreaded drunken make-out attempt curtailed?
Real Doll Stand-In, that's how.
According to Abyss Creations, the fine folks who manufacture these creatures, Real Dolls are 'the state-of-the-art for life-like human body simulation', so should the uncomfortable friend predicament occur, you can excuse yourself to the bedroom, set up your doll and let the magic happen on its own. You don't even have to stay in the room while the action is going on, which is sometimes similar to the way lovemaking goes anyway.
Afterwards, your friend will believe the two of you slept together, and because you don't act any differently towards him, he can feel relieved that you don't want to have a relationship. Plus, now that his coital curiosity has been satisfied, and the conquest has been had, he may actually continue to be an attentive friend.
Sure, a Real Doll is expensive, but with a hooker stand-in, you run the risk of the guy catching an STD, awkwardly finding an adam's apple, or the call-girl being really good in bed. These stand-ins also work as a test to see if a guy is in lust vs. like with you, should you want an actual relationship. And in keeping eco-friendly, a Real Doll can be reused again and again for each suitor that won't last in ardor with you past the first expulsion of sperm.
Real Doll Stand-ins, so you can still have a friend after your friend has you.
Saturday, November 21, 2009
Jolly Green Giant
On days where I'm feeling particularly confident, I emanate my "flirtation glow". Similar to a taxicab availability sign, or an animated idea bulb a cartoon character displays over his head, this light signals my being open to friendly banter. These interactions occur mostly when I'm wearing something snazzy or my hair hasn't been overtaken by Jew-fro. I'll strut down the sidewalk to a theme song in my head like "Who's That Lady" by The Isley Brothers, chin up, meeting the eyes of the people I pass by.
An attractive guy may smile at me and strike up a conversation, and I'll respond with something witty. Since I have my little glow going, and look like a Keebler elf, I'll come off as darling and charming...my cheeks reddened and facial expression gradually building from smirk to full-monty grin.
Of course these coquettish exchanges never develop into anything serious. They serve no purpose other than an instant ego boost for both parties, ending with a wink or a sly smile.
Yesterday I wore my favorite blue dress, which garnered a lot of positive attention, and caused me to dare I say, feel slightly haughty. I was full of positive energy and five cups of coffee, and found myself lingering in conversation with some cute male customers, feeling self-assured and effervescent. I began to notice how people seemed dazzled by my new found confidence, maybe even intimidated, since a guy I normally flirt with couldn't even maintain eye-contact with me. I felt like a celebrity.
When break-time came around, I went to wash my hands in the bathroom sink. As I lathered up, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror and was immediately horrified.
There it was, in all its glory and splendor...a giant green snot stuck to the top of my nose.
This was no ordinary booger, or a small bat-in-the cave situation where someone needs to be looking up your nostril in order to see it. No, this mucus tumor was grotesque enough to play a villainous swamp monster in a Japanese horror film.
No wonder no one could make eye-contact with me, it looked like the Jolly Green Giant was fucking my nostril. And all the while I was strutting around the store as though it was a catwalk, yet it could have been a circus sideshow.
After a facial excavation, I returned to work, ego deflated like a punctured balloon.
Most days I hear how tired I look, or how I always have such a serious expression on my face and should smile more. How hard is it to say, "Hey Meredith, wipe your face!" Sheesh, people.
An attractive guy may smile at me and strike up a conversation, and I'll respond with something witty. Since I have my little glow going, and look like a Keebler elf, I'll come off as darling and charming...my cheeks reddened and facial expression gradually building from smirk to full-monty grin.
Of course these coquettish exchanges never develop into anything serious. They serve no purpose other than an instant ego boost for both parties, ending with a wink or a sly smile.
Yesterday I wore my favorite blue dress, which garnered a lot of positive attention, and caused me to dare I say, feel slightly haughty. I was full of positive energy and five cups of coffee, and found myself lingering in conversation with some cute male customers, feeling self-assured and effervescent. I began to notice how people seemed dazzled by my new found confidence, maybe even intimidated, since a guy I normally flirt with couldn't even maintain eye-contact with me. I felt like a celebrity.
When break-time came around, I went to wash my hands in the bathroom sink. As I lathered up, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror and was immediately horrified.
There it was, in all its glory and splendor...a giant green snot stuck to the top of my nose.
This was no ordinary booger, or a small bat-in-the cave situation where someone needs to be looking up your nostril in order to see it. No, this mucus tumor was grotesque enough to play a villainous swamp monster in a Japanese horror film.
No wonder no one could make eye-contact with me, it looked like the Jolly Green Giant was fucking my nostril. And all the while I was strutting around the store as though it was a catwalk, yet it could have been a circus sideshow.
After a facial excavation, I returned to work, ego deflated like a punctured balloon.
Most days I hear how tired I look, or how I always have such a serious expression on my face and should smile more. How hard is it to say, "Hey Meredith, wipe your face!" Sheesh, people.
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
Head Hunt
About a year ago, I left the quixotic world of Advertising for the luxurious world of working in a non-profit thrift store. The biggest adjustment has been my paycheck missing about $30,000 of the amount it used to contain, but at least the stress-level has tapered off, and at the end of the day, the store's cause is beneficial, which is more than I can say for writing ads for Smooth Away Hair-Off Mittens.
Occasionally, I receive a reminder of the old days, when a headhunter or staffing agency will email me, pitching a potential job opening in the field. When I worked in Advertising, these staffing companies were the gateway into most jobs. Unfortunately, the type of people who work as recruiters tend to have chosen staffing as a fourth or fifth career path, having tried their hand at Advertising themselves and left, or perhaps they are still hoping for the TV/VCR Repair Degree they earned online to come in the mail.
Similar to used car salesmen, and the workers at electronics stores who try to sell you a five-year warranty with your purchase of two AA batteries, these staffing agents would attempt to place me in whatever job opening they had, regardless of whether I was qualified, interested, or even available for it.
To be fair, there are a lot of well-established headhunters who thrive off of being knowledgeable on positions and people in the industry. Unfortunately, the staffers I dealt with were the ones who work at the equivalent of a Cathouse in Las Vegas. Young, attractive girls sitting in a sea of cubicles, giggling into the phones. Scantily dressed women clacking around aimlessly in stilettos, red lipstick-rimmed coffee cup in one hand, generic job description dialogue script in the other. With the power of bluetooth, and the magic of Stacker 2, they would call me, squeaking in a chipper cheerleader tone, as they used words such as "multi-tasker", "dynamo", and other stock phrases that have become nonsense through endless repetition.
My goal became to weed out the useless ones who would waste my time and energy, before having to set foot in their office, by attempting to gauge what kind of jobs they had, if they did indeed have any. The phone conversations and email interactions usually left me frustrated, appalled, but mostly jobless.
Ladies and gentlemen of the court, I give you Exhibit A, compiled from original email exchanges (obviously names have been changed)...
Hi Meredith,
My name is Randi and I saw you posted your resume in response to job#98798 PROJECT MANAGER/AD AGENCY on Jobbie.com. I have many exciting positions in Advertising I would like to discuss with you. Please email me your current job status and availability ASAP and we can get started on finding you a job!
Have a super day!
Randi
Randi Leighton
Beauregard Staffing
"Where Excellence and People converge to form Excellent People"
_____________________________________________________________
Hi Randi,
Thank you for your interest!
Currently I am working as a Freelance Project Manager, but I am looking for a full-time, permanent position in a Ad Agency. The Project Manager position I applied to on your website seems like a perfect fit for me. Could you tell me more about it?
I look forward to working with you!
-Meredith
____________________________________________________________
Hiya Meredith,
Could you please email me your resume in Word format or as a PDF?
We currently have many exciting positions available. When would you be available to come in and interview with me?
Have a great afternoon!
Randi
Randi Leighton
Beauregard Staffing
"Where Excellence and People converge to form Excellent People"
___________________________________________________________
Hi Randi.
Attached, please find my resume in Word format. Is the Project Manager position still available? Do you currently have similar positions?
Thanks again!
Meredith
___________________________________________________________
Aloha Meredith,
We have many positions available in Finance. Why don’t you come in and meet me on Wednesday at 1:00pm?
Have a great weekend!
Randi
Randi Leighton
Beauregard Staffing
"Where Excellence and People converge to form Excellent People"
_________________________________________________________
Randi,
Unfortunately I am not really looking to work in Finance, but I appreciate the offer. Would it be possible for you to tell me about the PROJECT MANAGER positions you have available at the moment?
Thanks,
Meredith
________________________________________________________
Shalom Meredith,
How does Tuesday at 3:00pm work for you? I forwarded your resume to a great company and they would love to have you come in and interview. I would just need to meet with you first.
Have a happy Monday!
Randi
Randi Leighton
Beauregard Staffing
"Where Excellence and People converge to form Excellent People
____________________________________________________________
Randi,
Is this for the Project Manager position at the Ad Agency? What company is it?
Thanks,
Meredith
_____________________________________________________________
Salam Aleichem, Meredith!
This is an exciting opportunity in a creative and dynamic environment. The company is looking for a multi-tasking, hard-working, go-getter - a real dynamo! The hours are 8:30am - 8:00pm, and there is no paid overtime, but it is a really fast-paced, artistic environment.
I think this is the perfect job for you!
Randi
Randi Leighton
Beauregard Staffing
"Where Excellence and People converge to form Excellent People"
_____________________________________________________________
Randi,
Great Randi, could you please tell me which ad agency this is for so I can do some background research on it?
Thanks,
Meredith
_____________________________________________________________
Hola Mereditha!
The company is not actually an ad agency per se, but there are so many perks to the company! The office is located in midtown, next to Port Authority, which makes commuting a snap. Not to mention the fast-paced atmosphere of a wheelchair factory!
So how about Thursday at 1:00pm, you can come in and fill out some paperwork, then we can send you straight down to the company for an interview.
Randi
Randi Leighton
Beauregard Staffing
"Where Excellence and People converge to form Excellent People"
_____________________________________________________________
Did you say the job is at a wheelchair factory? -M
_____________________________________________________________
Jambo Meredith,
Yes, a fantastic one too! I shouldn’t be telling you all of this since it’s such a high-profile job, but you’re like a sister to me so here goes...the position is reception/office manager/executive assistant to the president of Wheel Locks and Casters. It’s a great foot-in-the door position at a prestigious wheelchair co!
So how about Thursday then?
Randi
Randi Leighton
Beauregard Staffing
"Where Excellence and People converge to form Excellent People"
_____________________________________________________________
There's a place in hell for people like you, and it's called Beauregard Staffing.
_____________________________________________________________
Howdy Meredith,
I’m so glad you’ve decided to come in. Remember to bring proper ID for your forms!
Randi
Randi Leighton
Beauregard Staffing
"Where Excellence and People converge to form Excellent People"
I rest my case.
Occasionally, I receive a reminder of the old days, when a headhunter or staffing agency will email me, pitching a potential job opening in the field. When I worked in Advertising, these staffing companies were the gateway into most jobs. Unfortunately, the type of people who work as recruiters tend to have chosen staffing as a fourth or fifth career path, having tried their hand at Advertising themselves and left, or perhaps they are still hoping for the TV/VCR Repair Degree they earned online to come in the mail.
Similar to used car salesmen, and the workers at electronics stores who try to sell you a five-year warranty with your purchase of two AA batteries, these staffing agents would attempt to place me in whatever job opening they had, regardless of whether I was qualified, interested, or even available for it.
To be fair, there are a lot of well-established headhunters who thrive off of being knowledgeable on positions and people in the industry. Unfortunately, the staffers I dealt with were the ones who work at the equivalent of a Cathouse in Las Vegas. Young, attractive girls sitting in a sea of cubicles, giggling into the phones. Scantily dressed women clacking around aimlessly in stilettos, red lipstick-rimmed coffee cup in one hand, generic job description dialogue script in the other. With the power of bluetooth, and the magic of Stacker 2, they would call me, squeaking in a chipper cheerleader tone, as they used words such as "multi-tasker", "dynamo", and other stock phrases that have become nonsense through endless repetition.
My goal became to weed out the useless ones who would waste my time and energy, before having to set foot in their office, by attempting to gauge what kind of jobs they had, if they did indeed have any. The phone conversations and email interactions usually left me frustrated, appalled, but mostly jobless.
Ladies and gentlemen of the court, I give you Exhibit A, compiled from original email exchanges (obviously names have been changed)...
Hi Meredith,
My name is Randi and I saw you posted your resume in response to job#98798 PROJECT MANAGER/AD AGENCY on Jobbie.com. I have many exciting positions in Advertising I would like to discuss with you. Please email me your current job status and availability ASAP and we can get started on finding you a job!
Have a super day!
Randi
Randi Leighton
Beauregard Staffing
"Where Excellence and People converge to form Excellent People"
_____________________________________________________________
Hi Randi,
Thank you for your interest!
Currently I am working as a Freelance Project Manager, but I am looking for a full-time, permanent position in a Ad Agency. The Project Manager position I applied to on your website seems like a perfect fit for me. Could you tell me more about it?
I look forward to working with you!
-Meredith
____________________________________________________________
Hiya Meredith,
Could you please email me your resume in Word format or as a PDF?
We currently have many exciting positions available. When would you be available to come in and interview with me?
Have a great afternoon!
Randi
Randi Leighton
Beauregard Staffing
"Where Excellence and People converge to form Excellent People"
___________________________________________________________
Hi Randi.
Attached, please find my resume in Word format. Is the Project Manager position still available? Do you currently have similar positions?
Thanks again!
Meredith
___________________________________________________________
Aloha Meredith,
We have many positions available in Finance. Why don’t you come in and meet me on Wednesday at 1:00pm?
Have a great weekend!
Randi
Randi Leighton
Beauregard Staffing
"Where Excellence and People converge to form Excellent People"
_________________________________________________________
Randi,
Unfortunately I am not really looking to work in Finance, but I appreciate the offer. Would it be possible for you to tell me about the PROJECT MANAGER positions you have available at the moment?
Thanks,
Meredith
________________________________________________________
Shalom Meredith,
How does Tuesday at 3:00pm work for you? I forwarded your resume to a great company and they would love to have you come in and interview. I would just need to meet with you first.
Have a happy Monday!
Randi
Randi Leighton
Beauregard Staffing
"Where Excellence and People converge to form Excellent People
____________________________________________________________
Randi,
Is this for the Project Manager position at the Ad Agency? What company is it?
Thanks,
Meredith
_____________________________________________________________
Salam Aleichem, Meredith!
This is an exciting opportunity in a creative and dynamic environment. The company is looking for a multi-tasking, hard-working, go-getter - a real dynamo! The hours are 8:30am - 8:00pm, and there is no paid overtime, but it is a really fast-paced, artistic environment.
I think this is the perfect job for you!
Randi
Randi Leighton
Beauregard Staffing
"Where Excellence and People converge to form Excellent People"
_____________________________________________________________
Randi,
Great Randi, could you please tell me which ad agency this is for so I can do some background research on it?
Thanks,
Meredith
_____________________________________________________________
Hola Mereditha!
The company is not actually an ad agency per se, but there are so many perks to the company! The office is located in midtown, next to Port Authority, which makes commuting a snap. Not to mention the fast-paced atmosphere of a wheelchair factory!
So how about Thursday at 1:00pm, you can come in and fill out some paperwork, then we can send you straight down to the company for an interview.
Randi
Randi Leighton
Beauregard Staffing
"Where Excellence and People converge to form Excellent People"
_____________________________________________________________
Did you say the job is at a wheelchair factory? -M
_____________________________________________________________
Jambo Meredith,
Yes, a fantastic one too! I shouldn’t be telling you all of this since it’s such a high-profile job, but you’re like a sister to me so here goes...the position is reception/office manager/executive assistant to the president of Wheel Locks and Casters. It’s a great foot-in-the door position at a prestigious wheelchair co!
So how about Thursday then?
Randi
Randi Leighton
Beauregard Staffing
"Where Excellence and People converge to form Excellent People"
_____________________________________________________________
There's a place in hell for people like you, and it's called Beauregard Staffing.
_____________________________________________________________
Howdy Meredith,
I’m so glad you’ve decided to come in. Remember to bring proper ID for your forms!
Randi
Randi Leighton
Beauregard Staffing
"Where Excellence and People converge to form Excellent People"
I rest my case.
Sunday, November 8, 2009
Quel Dommage
I had my first class at the Adult Education Center tonight.
Since the course is a basic 100-level class, I figured the students would be completely new to the language like myself, whose knowledge of French is comprised of "thank you" and "what a shame".
The instructor walked in and began to speak rapidly in French. I looked around the room, and to my dismay, all of the students seemed to understand what she was saying. They were laughing in unison at what I assume were jokes, while I sat there looking like the special needs kid whose Rainbow Bright mittens are pinned to her jacket year-round. I felt like I was watching an episode of Saturday Night Live, staring at the screen, hearing the laughter of the audience, but finding nothing funny about it.
While the teacher handed out some worksheets, she asked all eight students to go around the room, introduce ourselves, and talk a little bit about what brought us to the class.
A six-foot tall, gorgeous blonde answered first, "I model in Paris a few times a year so I could use French for that...oh and I have a French boyfriend." A peppy bald guy chimed in excitedly, "Me toooooo!".
The only other male in the class sat up in his chair, puffing his chest out proudly, and said, "Well as long as we're talking about significant others, I'm taking this class since my girlfriend went to school in France!"
I began to wonder if I had accidentally sat down in the wrong classroom. Maybe this was one of those romantic coupley courses that have ridiculous titles like "Pizza My Heart: Learn Italian!" or "A Wok To Remember: Chinese Love Lessons."
Two more students admitted to learning French for a boyfriend. I began to feel like the donut in the center of one big circle jerk for people with French-speaking significant others.
Finally, the brunette next to me shared her story, "Well, I work at a scientific research lab and the Director just came from France, so most of the staff speaks French." A wave of relief washed over me. I'm not the outcast for once, I thought to myself. I began to relax until she continued to speak..."And now that I'm dating the Director, it will come in handy to be fluent."
I sighed, feeling the impending doom of having to speak next. And what would I say, "I'm trying to spice up my love life and my right hand speaks English, but my crotch is a Francophile" or how about, "Two words, people, Celine Dion!"
Thankfully, before I could answer, the instructor called on me to read the first sentence on the worksheet aloud:
"Comment allez-vous?"
I stumbled through the sentence, massacring the pretty words as though my pronunciation was a giant pair of combat boots, stomping and squishing the letters until nothing was left but slime and guts. The teacher looked at me with the abject horror normally reserved for mass murderers or vegans.
Why couldn't this be like the movies where the instructor is some charming French gent who initially finds my buffoonish ways repellent, then grows to adore me through a sequence of whimsical events and soundtrack by Mew?
Fact is, the teacher is a woman who wears the sensible shoes of a janitor, and shares the same tone of voice and sexual predilection as Ellen DeGeneres. The class may be filled with beaus and better halves who are speaking the international language of love, but if they break up, French will be a bitter language to speak and to hear, and boy would that be painful.
I may not be fluent yet, but my right hand and I have a good thing going.
Since the course is a basic 100-level class, I figured the students would be completely new to the language like myself, whose knowledge of French is comprised of "thank you" and "what a shame".
The instructor walked in and began to speak rapidly in French. I looked around the room, and to my dismay, all of the students seemed to understand what she was saying. They were laughing in unison at what I assume were jokes, while I sat there looking like the special needs kid whose Rainbow Bright mittens are pinned to her jacket year-round. I felt like I was watching an episode of Saturday Night Live, staring at the screen, hearing the laughter of the audience, but finding nothing funny about it.
While the teacher handed out some worksheets, she asked all eight students to go around the room, introduce ourselves, and talk a little bit about what brought us to the class.
A six-foot tall, gorgeous blonde answered first, "I model in Paris a few times a year so I could use French for that...oh and I have a French boyfriend." A peppy bald guy chimed in excitedly, "Me toooooo!".
The only other male in the class sat up in his chair, puffing his chest out proudly, and said, "Well as long as we're talking about significant others, I'm taking this class since my girlfriend went to school in France!"
I began to wonder if I had accidentally sat down in the wrong classroom. Maybe this was one of those romantic coupley courses that have ridiculous titles like "Pizza My Heart: Learn Italian!" or "A Wok To Remember: Chinese Love Lessons."
Two more students admitted to learning French for a boyfriend. I began to feel like the donut in the center of one big circle jerk for people with French-speaking significant others.
Finally, the brunette next to me shared her story, "Well, I work at a scientific research lab and the Director just came from France, so most of the staff speaks French." A wave of relief washed over me. I'm not the outcast for once, I thought to myself. I began to relax until she continued to speak..."And now that I'm dating the Director, it will come in handy to be fluent."
I sighed, feeling the impending doom of having to speak next. And what would I say, "I'm trying to spice up my love life and my right hand speaks English, but my crotch is a Francophile" or how about, "Two words, people, Celine Dion!"
Thankfully, before I could answer, the instructor called on me to read the first sentence on the worksheet aloud:
"Comment allez-vous?"
I stumbled through the sentence, massacring the pretty words as though my pronunciation was a giant pair of combat boots, stomping and squishing the letters until nothing was left but slime and guts. The teacher looked at me with the abject horror normally reserved for mass murderers or vegans.
Why couldn't this be like the movies where the instructor is some charming French gent who initially finds my buffoonish ways repellent, then grows to adore me through a sequence of whimsical events and soundtrack by Mew?
Fact is, the teacher is a woman who wears the sensible shoes of a janitor, and shares the same tone of voice and sexual predilection as Ellen DeGeneres. The class may be filled with beaus and better halves who are speaking the international language of love, but if they break up, French will be a bitter language to speak and to hear, and boy would that be painful.
I may not be fluent yet, but my right hand and I have a good thing going.
Sunday, November 1, 2009
Break-Up Kits
My plan to start fresh is in effect. I registered for French class, purchased my textbooks, and even roped a co-worker into teaching me the basics of dance. First lesson - how to nod my head and move my feet rhythmically. Top teeth hanging over bottom lip a la White man's overbite, optional.
I feel as though I've just spent hours following a recipe, painstakingly adding each ingredient until finally the dish is ready to serve, but rather than digging in, all I can do is sit at the table and push the plate around with my fork.
Instead of excitement, I feel disheartened. I'm going through a withdrawal from the high I felt while being courted and pursued, and no matter how much glue I huff, I can't seem to catch the same kind of buzz.
After this recent love gaffe of mine, I keep wondering how the people I involve myself with are able to turn their feelings off so instantly, like the power button on a television remote. Brain switched from Feelings for Meredith ON to Feelings for Meredith OFF, in mere seconds.
Don't get me wrong, I've been sloppy with the emotions of others before, and now that I'm older and fear a rim job from karma, I try to be more responsible. Unfortunately, I've become one of those people who wears her heart on her sleeve so outwardly, that it may as well be diced and skewered with tiny toothpicks for people to sample in a mall food court. Mmmm, she's extra sensitive today, delicious!
So where is the happy medium if there is such a thing? What is the secret to disentangling oneself from a relationship with all the messy unrequited feelings and the arduous process of getting over them? How does one brush herself off so nice and tidy, feeling refreshed as if just having had a cat nap?
Maybe Hallmark should start manufacturing break-up kits, a pre-packaged tool set which helps you effortlessly snip someone out of your life.
Break Up Kits: Because it's the human thing to do.
For ages 12 and up
Contents include:
-A "You deserve better..." checklist, with reasons such as, "I know we just had sex, but I'm gay now" or "You should be with someone who sees all the good qualities you supposedly have, that I just listed, but don't want for some reason."
It's recyclable, so next time you're dumping someone, you don't have to scramble and come up with these reasons on the spot. Just make sure you've thoroughly wiped down the dry-erase "Her name here" section, because calling her by the wrong name would be downright rude.
-Pictures and messages from hot women posted on your Facebook or MySpace page to make it look like you've already moved on. Sure, you've dumped her, but just in case she ever thinks there may be a chance for reconciliation, she will see all the new prospective sexy ladies that are after you. And let's just admit it, it is a contest of who wound up better off. And baby, it's you.
-A penknife to help etch yet another notch in the ol' bedpost...You stud, you.
-A case of Jagermeister and a bendy straw. Sobriety can cause guilt and other negative feelings from the way you behaved to creep up and cause discomfort. Think of alcohol as a Snuggie for your conscience.
Also available "Sorry I Made You Pregnant Kit", each sold separately.
In reality, there is no quick-fix for me right now, and I'll have to wait for time to work it's slow, dragging magic, or at least hope for the fugue to kick in. In the meantime, I'll bide my time by watching Golden Girls reruns and listening to Blonde Redhead. If you'll excuse me, my half gallon of mint chip isn't going to finish itself.
I feel as though I've just spent hours following a recipe, painstakingly adding each ingredient until finally the dish is ready to serve, but rather than digging in, all I can do is sit at the table and push the plate around with my fork.
Instead of excitement, I feel disheartened. I'm going through a withdrawal from the high I felt while being courted and pursued, and no matter how much glue I huff, I can't seem to catch the same kind of buzz.
After this recent love gaffe of mine, I keep wondering how the people I involve myself with are able to turn their feelings off so instantly, like the power button on a television remote. Brain switched from Feelings for Meredith ON to Feelings for Meredith OFF, in mere seconds.
Don't get me wrong, I've been sloppy with the emotions of others before, and now that I'm older and fear a rim job from karma, I try to be more responsible. Unfortunately, I've become one of those people who wears her heart on her sleeve so outwardly, that it may as well be diced and skewered with tiny toothpicks for people to sample in a mall food court. Mmmm, she's extra sensitive today, delicious!
So where is the happy medium if there is such a thing? What is the secret to disentangling oneself from a relationship with all the messy unrequited feelings and the arduous process of getting over them? How does one brush herself off so nice and tidy, feeling refreshed as if just having had a cat nap?
Maybe Hallmark should start manufacturing break-up kits, a pre-packaged tool set which helps you effortlessly snip someone out of your life.
Break Up Kits: Because it's the human thing to do.
For ages 12 and up
Contents include:
-A "You deserve better..." checklist, with reasons such as, "I know we just had sex, but I'm gay now" or "You should be with someone who sees all the good qualities you supposedly have, that I just listed, but don't want for some reason."
It's recyclable, so next time you're dumping someone, you don't have to scramble and come up with these reasons on the spot. Just make sure you've thoroughly wiped down the dry-erase "Her name here" section, because calling her by the wrong name would be downright rude.
-Pictures and messages from hot women posted on your Facebook or MySpace page to make it look like you've already moved on. Sure, you've dumped her, but just in case she ever thinks there may be a chance for reconciliation, she will see all the new prospective sexy ladies that are after you. And let's just admit it, it is a contest of who wound up better off. And baby, it's you.
-A penknife to help etch yet another notch in the ol' bedpost...You stud, you.
-A case of Jagermeister and a bendy straw. Sobriety can cause guilt and other negative feelings from the way you behaved to creep up and cause discomfort. Think of alcohol as a Snuggie for your conscience.
Also available "Sorry I Made You Pregnant Kit", each sold separately.
In reality, there is no quick-fix for me right now, and I'll have to wait for time to work it's slow, dragging magic, or at least hope for the fugue to kick in. In the meantime, I'll bide my time by watching Golden Girls reruns and listening to Blonde Redhead. If you'll excuse me, my half gallon of mint chip isn't going to finish itself.
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
Another failed attempt at finding love has left me both despondent and embittered. After spending a couple of months being courted by a Southern gentleman, I decided to spend my vacation week visiting him, since it seemed like the natural progression. It was a romantic time - I met and charmed all of his friends, we held hands and kissed as we walked around the city, proudly sickening passersby with our outward affection. Finally he told me six special words, two hours before my flight home departed..."I don't know what I want."
After replaying the week's events in my head, wondering how his sentiments went from "I can't wait to see you" to "I can't wait to see you leave", I came to the realization that I was living a real life version of the opening montage of a romantic-comedy film. The heroine is down on her luck when it comes to love, she keeps choosing the wrong man, and hilarity ensues. Unfortunately my story never progresses past the disastrous first phase, and Hugh Grant has yet to propose, nor do I get to get down with Clive Owen.
In hopes of breaking this pattern, and rebuilding myself bionic woman style, I have decided to forgo any and all attempts at dating, fucking, panhandling for cuddles, or any type of romantic relationship until I have completed the following tasks:
1) Learn a new language.
I've chosen French. According to the French Institute Alliance Francais, "Speaking French can help you to gain a competitive edge professionally." And since there's no job more cosmopolitan than working at a thrift store in Brooklyn, it will be useful for me to say things in French such as, "Please remove the porcelain cat figurine from your pants, sir," or "When your 'little princess' mashes her hands into the keys of the piano for sale, I wouldn't exactly use the word talent"
2) Learn the choreography to, and then perform the dance John Travolta does in Saturday Night Fever (the one to You Should Be Dancing by the Bee Gees), complete with pelvic thrusting and tight pants.
I should mention that I have no rhythm or coordination. Epileptic kids who have seizures after playing video games have better moves than me, and the act of moving my hips without looking like I'm about to take a massive shit is a feat I have yet to accomplish, so this will take some time.
3) Document past dating/relationship stories in a blog.
Everyone has baggage and their own experiences...blah blah blah, yes. I've noticed in the beginning of some of my relationships, there's an implicit competition of who has had the more negative relationship history since sympathy can usually win you more affection, your choice of sexual position, or an extra topping at pinkberry. However, the guys I've dated have a recollection of the past that seems to change as our relationship progresses. One day he runs into the villainous, psycho ex who broke his heart when she slept with an entire baseball team, and suddenly it wasn't really the entire baseball team, it was just the shortstop...and that actually happened when they were on a break and he was shtupping a barmaid anyway, so let's all grab a drink sometime!
Unfortunately, I'm not exaggerating my tales of woe, I've had some soap opera script-worthy experiences. So I figure, why not document them, if not just to entertain others, then to serve as cautionary tales and reminders to myself, to stay away from the opposite sex...or the same sex depending on how the mood should strike.
The point of all these tasks are to make being alone and single something that I cannot avoid. I am a serial relationship addict, and that has proven to be more damaging to my skin and hair than all the UV rays poking through the ozone.
There's only so many times I can call a friend at 3am, sobbing so hard into the phone I am barely understandable, even though the only thing I'm saying is, "How could I be so dumb/naive/stupid...".
And because my friends always know that the older/narcissistic/younger/insecure/bartender/painter/fill in the blank is wrong for me, they can only repeat the same sentiment, just as all the times before...exhaling with pity...Oh Meredith!
After replaying the week's events in my head, wondering how his sentiments went from "I can't wait to see you" to "I can't wait to see you leave", I came to the realization that I was living a real life version of the opening montage of a romantic-comedy film. The heroine is down on her luck when it comes to love, she keeps choosing the wrong man, and hilarity ensues. Unfortunately my story never progresses past the disastrous first phase, and Hugh Grant has yet to propose, nor do I get to get down with Clive Owen.
In hopes of breaking this pattern, and rebuilding myself bionic woman style, I have decided to forgo any and all attempts at dating, fucking, panhandling for cuddles, or any type of romantic relationship until I have completed the following tasks:
1) Learn a new language.
I've chosen French. According to the French Institute Alliance Francais, "Speaking French can help you to gain a competitive edge professionally." And since there's no job more cosmopolitan than working at a thrift store in Brooklyn, it will be useful for me to say things in French such as, "Please remove the porcelain cat figurine from your pants, sir," or "When your 'little princess' mashes her hands into the keys of the piano for sale, I wouldn't exactly use the word talent"
2) Learn the choreography to, and then perform the dance John Travolta does in Saturday Night Fever (the one to You Should Be Dancing by the Bee Gees), complete with pelvic thrusting and tight pants.
I should mention that I have no rhythm or coordination. Epileptic kids who have seizures after playing video games have better moves than me, and the act of moving my hips without looking like I'm about to take a massive shit is a feat I have yet to accomplish, so this will take some time.
3) Document past dating/relationship stories in a blog.
Everyone has baggage and their own experiences...blah blah blah, yes. I've noticed in the beginning of some of my relationships, there's an implicit competition of who has had the more negative relationship history since sympathy can usually win you more affection, your choice of sexual position, or an extra topping at pinkberry. However, the guys I've dated have a recollection of the past that seems to change as our relationship progresses. One day he runs into the villainous, psycho ex who broke his heart when she slept with an entire baseball team, and suddenly it wasn't really the entire baseball team, it was just the shortstop...and that actually happened when they were on a break and he was shtupping a barmaid anyway, so let's all grab a drink sometime!
Unfortunately, I'm not exaggerating my tales of woe, I've had some soap opera script-worthy experiences. So I figure, why not document them, if not just to entertain others, then to serve as cautionary tales and reminders to myself, to stay away from the opposite sex...or the same sex depending on how the mood should strike.
The point of all these tasks are to make being alone and single something that I cannot avoid. I am a serial relationship addict, and that has proven to be more damaging to my skin and hair than all the UV rays poking through the ozone.
There's only so many times I can call a friend at 3am, sobbing so hard into the phone I am barely understandable, even though the only thing I'm saying is, "How could I be so dumb/naive/stupid...".
And because my friends always know that the older/narcissistic/younger/insecure/bartender/painter/fill in the blank is wrong for me, they can only repeat the same sentiment, just as all the times before...exhaling with pity...Oh Meredith!
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