Wednesday, November 18, 2009
one more for the resume...
Well, I did it again… quit a perfectly fine job in the midst of a terrible recession/depression/demoralization - or whatever the hell this economic mire is currently being called. After a mere 6 weeks, I’ve had it. Yes, the dress code debacle certainly played its role in my decision. I simply refuse to work at a place where my girls are not welcome. Of course, the messing up of my paychecks didn’t help my desire to stay there either… first they overpaid me 2 ½ hours, then, instead of deducting those 2 ½ hours from my second check, they added 2 ¾ hours (it’s still a mystery where that extra quarter hour came from), then once that little fiscal mishap was corrected, they underpaid me 15 hours. I had no idea punching a time clock and getting the salary accurate with the hours on said time clock could be such a complex and arduous undertaking. Additionally, my hours were changed and kept changing. Apparently the fluid nature of their needs dictated how long I was to spend each day on the 14th floor of that lovely office building in downtown Concord. Top it all off with a conversation I overheard my soon-to-be former boss telling one of the managers he wants me to be schooled in insurance. Is he serious? Do I look like I give a shit about insurance? I was hired to be an office clerk… all I wanted (and, p.s. was promised) was a dumb-dumb little office job I could work a few hours per day, collect an accurate paycheck, with the occasional hint of cleavage showing. I have exactly zero desire to have a career… and in insurance??? I might as well pursue pounding rocks as an occupation - at least I could wear jeans and work my upper body. So, anyway, I composed a carefully worded resignation letter, which truth-be-told seemed a little silly and overkill-ish as I was just a lowly office clerk with less than 2 months on the job. But still, the professional in me (yes, I’m joking) prompted me to do the right thing and give 2 weeks notice… well, not two weeks technically as I quit on the Tuesday before the week of Thanksgiving so it was really a 6 day notice, but still… They shocked me by offering to counter - which unless they change from being insurance brokers to running an animal shelter – it’s highly unlikely they could convince me to stay. My decision is final… I’m going back to teaching. Foolish? Maybe. Risky? Perhaps. Crazy? Most definitely! But what the hell! I’ll be making more money, can wear jeans, flip-flops, “short” skirts, and can give those chesticle covering chiffon scarves a break. Plus, I’ll be earning money toward my rapidly approaching retirement… which according to my latest statement from Social Security, I’ll be able to afford when I’m 108. Whatev, at least I can live the remainder of my years blissfully ignorant about the machinations of insurance. Whew!
Thursday, October 22, 2009
My next- ex-job
Well, my search is over… I’ve found a job… my next ex-job. I mean, who’s kidding who? I’m really not cut out to do anything other than take care of my little house, shop and look fabulous. I really would have been better served being a housewife in the 50’s but then again, shirt-waist dresses aren’t quite my style. So, after bombarding the free world with resumes, I got an interview.
“We’re on the 14th floor,” my perspective employer told me over the phone.
“Sure, I know right were you are!” I said, sounding all confident. “Right next to BART.” (For those of you non-Bay area residents, it’s the train.)
“Yes, Suite 1400. See you at 10:30 tomorrow,” he says.
“Yay!” I thought. The very next day, I put on my one and only “interview outfit” and go, leaving in PLENTY of time to get to the interview. The only thing is - I’m an idiot. Well, that’s not the only thing, but in this case it is. Somehow, even though I’ve been to the BART station a million times, what I failed to realize was the building I thought Mr. Possible Employer referred to is only 2 stories high. “Shit!” I thought. The street on which both the building I was headed and the BART station reside, snakes around and becomes one-way (and unfortunately for me, not MY way) at the exact point I needed to turn.
By some miracle, I brought the address and phone number with me. “I’m going to be late.” I told the kind woman who answered the phone, explaining my dilemma.
“No problem,” she laughed, “I’ll just tell him you’re looking for parking.”
“Thanks,” I said as I located the building. Pulling my giant truck into the parking garage, I realize, horrified that it’s a PAY garage, charging $1.00 for the first half hour. I took the little parking ticket offered at the gate, knowing full well I hadn’t: a) enough money in my wallet to pay for more than about 20 minutes; b) enough time to look for free parking; nor c) enough room to back my giant truck out of said parking garage even if I had both a) and b) covered. “Well, hopefully they validate or perhaps I look cute enough for the parking attendant to let me skate.”
Click, click, click, my high heels on the concrete walking on the garage floor. To the elevator and up, up, and away up to the 14th floor!
Mr. Possible Employer teases me for being late and says he may have to fine me, “Well,” I say, “I hope you will accept payment in cupcakes.” He laughs and we go into his office.
We go through the normal interview/interviewee routine as he looks over my (REAL) resume… my abbreviated resume. Had I listed EVERY job I’ve had since college, I’d have needed an industrial stapler to bind all the pages necessary to record such a number. “Have you held any other jobs not listed on your resume?” He asked. Oy! Not possessing a poker face, he must have seen the terror in my eyes as he gently coaxed, “Come on, no problem, it’s just confession time.”
“Well, yeah,” I squirmed, “I worked at Petsmart while we lived in Dublin but quit when we moved to Pleasant Hill. I mean, I wasn’t going to keep an $8.00 an hour job and have to drive all that way…” I said, trying to sound logical. (And contrary to what my husband or my friend Kim tell you, I did indeed quit, and did NOT get fired.)
“Of course!” He agreed.
“Then I worked briefly for an interior decorator, but I never really got paid so I don’t know if that even counts…” I’m on a roll with this baring my soul stuff.
“Anything else?” He asked.
“Oh, and I worked for XXXXX.” (name withheld in deference to not wanting a lawsuit on my hands, as the guy I worked for is a big enough prick to sue me.)
“What happened there?” He queried.
“I quit. My boss was REALLY mean! He yelled a lot!” So much for Rule #4 Don’t EVER Speak Badly of Former Employers, in the How Not to Screw Up a Job Interview.
“Any potential problems with a drug test or background check?” He asked, seemingly unphased by my tattling on my former boss.
“Oh no!” I declare. “Not now, anyway,” the cartoon ‘thought’ bubble reads above my head.
“Did you park in the garage downstairs?” He asked me.
“Yes, I did!” I say, hoping he can bestow upon me some parking validation or magic words to get out of the garage free.
“Do you have your ticket?”
“Yes, I do,” I replied pulling the ticket out of my interview slacks.
Stickers! Magic ½ hour free parking stickers! Two beautiful, yellow stickers insuring my safe and lawful exit form the bowels of the building. Yay!
Somehow, perhaps he took pity on me, I was hired. I know! It was a shock to me, too! Maybe he thought I was serious about those cupcakes… I dunno, but there ya go. The poor man clearly had no idea of what he’s in store for and I had no intention of cluing him in.
One caveat to employment on the 14th floor of the TALL building next to BART is a business casual dress code. Oooooooh! That’s gonna be a problem. In my last several jobs, the dress code consisted of: employees being dressed… in anything. Blue jeans were pretty much de rigueur. As a result, my closet consists of said blue jeans, the one interview outfit (which they’ve seen already) and a couple of bridesmaid dresses. Hmmmm, I didn’t notice anyone else in the office clad in chiffon and taffeta so I guess it’s shopping time for me. Off I went to purchase a few pairs of black slacks, some sweaters, one skirt and one dress, oh yeah, and a pair of kick-ass black boots. I’m all set… or so I thought.
Week one was spent engaged in the following:
learning how to properly answer the phone and transfer clients without disconnecting them;
getting in with the cool girls;
trying not to break a nail while filing copious amounts of manila folders, knowing full well nobody’s probably ever going to look at this shit again anyway;
typing letters AND emails from a Dictaphone (I’m not even making that up, my boss has me type his emails);
learning what the hell else I need to know to perform my job to the best of my ability for God and country… or something like that.
So here I am, day 9 of my new job and the boss is out of the office. Yay! He’s a nice guy but come on, in my one million, forty-seven thousand, nine hundred and thirty-eight jobs, it’s always more pleasant when the boss isn’t around… the one and only exception was my former employer Anna at the beauty shop… anyway, there on my desk is the now-expected little tape to pop into the Dictaphone. I took care of a couple of things first and after my break, inserted the little tape in the antiquated machine, rewound it, put my headphones on and got ready to type the next bit of really important correspondence. Imagine my angst when I heard the words, “Draft memo to all employees, RE: Office Attire,” coming through my headphones. Yikes!
It seems flip-flops are the cause of frequent office deaths and dismemberments… okay, he didn’t say THAT but said particular form of fun foot ware is not to be tolerated. Second on the list of wardrobe indiscretions was short skirts… hmmm, I wore a mid-thigh skirt earlier in the week… with hose… and boots… and 2 shirts. Apparently it was still too racy for more staid sensibilities. If he could see some of the skirts I opted NOT to wear, he’d understand why I don’t consider that one “short.” I guess the brand new skirt and dress I purchased a scant week ago – you remember, back when I was heady with the excitement of finding a job - will have to be worn elsewhere… like an audience with the Pope. Third on the list was, and again, I’m not even making this up: CLEAVAGE. That’s right, cleavage for chrissake! Who doesn’t like to see cleavage? I know, right? Besides, it’s not like we walk around with the girls just spilling out of our tops, nipples winking saucily. You know, I’d go back to the bridesmaid dresses, but they’re a little low in the bodice, too.
“We’re on the 14th floor,” my perspective employer told me over the phone.
“Sure, I know right were you are!” I said, sounding all confident. “Right next to BART.” (For those of you non-Bay area residents, it’s the train.)
“Yes, Suite 1400. See you at 10:30 tomorrow,” he says.
“Yay!” I thought. The very next day, I put on my one and only “interview outfit” and go, leaving in PLENTY of time to get to the interview. The only thing is - I’m an idiot. Well, that’s not the only thing, but in this case it is. Somehow, even though I’ve been to the BART station a million times, what I failed to realize was the building I thought Mr. Possible Employer referred to is only 2 stories high. “Shit!” I thought. The street on which both the building I was headed and the BART station reside, snakes around and becomes one-way (and unfortunately for me, not MY way) at the exact point I needed to turn.
By some miracle, I brought the address and phone number with me. “I’m going to be late.” I told the kind woman who answered the phone, explaining my dilemma.
“No problem,” she laughed, “I’ll just tell him you’re looking for parking.”
“Thanks,” I said as I located the building. Pulling my giant truck into the parking garage, I realize, horrified that it’s a PAY garage, charging $1.00 for the first half hour. I took the little parking ticket offered at the gate, knowing full well I hadn’t: a) enough money in my wallet to pay for more than about 20 minutes; b) enough time to look for free parking; nor c) enough room to back my giant truck out of said parking garage even if I had both a) and b) covered. “Well, hopefully they validate or perhaps I look cute enough for the parking attendant to let me skate.”
Click, click, click, my high heels on the concrete walking on the garage floor. To the elevator and up, up, and away up to the 14th floor!
Mr. Possible Employer teases me for being late and says he may have to fine me, “Well,” I say, “I hope you will accept payment in cupcakes.” He laughs and we go into his office.
We go through the normal interview/interviewee routine as he looks over my (REAL) resume… my abbreviated resume. Had I listed EVERY job I’ve had since college, I’d have needed an industrial stapler to bind all the pages necessary to record such a number. “Have you held any other jobs not listed on your resume?” He asked. Oy! Not possessing a poker face, he must have seen the terror in my eyes as he gently coaxed, “Come on, no problem, it’s just confession time.”
“Well, yeah,” I squirmed, “I worked at Petsmart while we lived in Dublin but quit when we moved to Pleasant Hill. I mean, I wasn’t going to keep an $8.00 an hour job and have to drive all that way…” I said, trying to sound logical. (And contrary to what my husband or my friend Kim tell you, I did indeed quit, and did NOT get fired.)
“Of course!” He agreed.
“Then I worked briefly for an interior decorator, but I never really got paid so I don’t know if that even counts…” I’m on a roll with this baring my soul stuff.
“Anything else?” He asked.
“Oh, and I worked for XXXXX.” (name withheld in deference to not wanting a lawsuit on my hands, as the guy I worked for is a big enough prick to sue me.)
“What happened there?” He queried.
“I quit. My boss was REALLY mean! He yelled a lot!” So much for Rule #4 Don’t EVER Speak Badly of Former Employers, in the How Not to Screw Up a Job Interview.
“Any potential problems with a drug test or background check?” He asked, seemingly unphased by my tattling on my former boss.
“Oh no!” I declare. “Not now, anyway,” the cartoon ‘thought’ bubble reads above my head.
“Did you park in the garage downstairs?” He asked me.
“Yes, I did!” I say, hoping he can bestow upon me some parking validation or magic words to get out of the garage free.
“Do you have your ticket?”
“Yes, I do,” I replied pulling the ticket out of my interview slacks.
Stickers! Magic ½ hour free parking stickers! Two beautiful, yellow stickers insuring my safe and lawful exit form the bowels of the building. Yay!
Somehow, perhaps he took pity on me, I was hired. I know! It was a shock to me, too! Maybe he thought I was serious about those cupcakes… I dunno, but there ya go. The poor man clearly had no idea of what he’s in store for and I had no intention of cluing him in.
One caveat to employment on the 14th floor of the TALL building next to BART is a business casual dress code. Oooooooh! That’s gonna be a problem. In my last several jobs, the dress code consisted of: employees being dressed… in anything. Blue jeans were pretty much de rigueur. As a result, my closet consists of said blue jeans, the one interview outfit (which they’ve seen already) and a couple of bridesmaid dresses. Hmmmm, I didn’t notice anyone else in the office clad in chiffon and taffeta so I guess it’s shopping time for me. Off I went to purchase a few pairs of black slacks, some sweaters, one skirt and one dress, oh yeah, and a pair of kick-ass black boots. I’m all set… or so I thought.
Week one was spent engaged in the following:
learning how to properly answer the phone and transfer clients without disconnecting them;
getting in with the cool girls;
trying not to break a nail while filing copious amounts of manila folders, knowing full well nobody’s probably ever going to look at this shit again anyway;
typing letters AND emails from a Dictaphone (I’m not even making that up, my boss has me type his emails);
learning what the hell else I need to know to perform my job to the best of my ability for God and country… or something like that.
So here I am, day 9 of my new job and the boss is out of the office. Yay! He’s a nice guy but come on, in my one million, forty-seven thousand, nine hundred and thirty-eight jobs, it’s always more pleasant when the boss isn’t around… the one and only exception was my former employer Anna at the beauty shop… anyway, there on my desk is the now-expected little tape to pop into the Dictaphone. I took care of a couple of things first and after my break, inserted the little tape in the antiquated machine, rewound it, put my headphones on and got ready to type the next bit of really important correspondence. Imagine my angst when I heard the words, “Draft memo to all employees, RE: Office Attire,” coming through my headphones. Yikes!
It seems flip-flops are the cause of frequent office deaths and dismemberments… okay, he didn’t say THAT but said particular form of fun foot ware is not to be tolerated. Second on the list of wardrobe indiscretions was short skirts… hmmm, I wore a mid-thigh skirt earlier in the week… with hose… and boots… and 2 shirts. Apparently it was still too racy for more staid sensibilities. If he could see some of the skirts I opted NOT to wear, he’d understand why I don’t consider that one “short.” I guess the brand new skirt and dress I purchased a scant week ago – you remember, back when I was heady with the excitement of finding a job - will have to be worn elsewhere… like an audience with the Pope. Third on the list was, and again, I’m not even making this up: CLEAVAGE. That’s right, cleavage for chrissake! Who doesn’t like to see cleavage? I know, right? Besides, it’s not like we walk around with the girls just spilling out of our tops, nipples winking saucily. You know, I’d go back to the bridesmaid dresses, but they’re a little low in the bodice, too.
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
If I die at TJ Maxx, drag my body to Neiman's.
Yes, today's quote is by me, not Dottie Parker. I looked, but there doesn’t seem to be any attributed to her about our topic: shopping. I love to shop. No, I mean I really LOVE to shop. I know it’s soooo stereotypical that women enjoy this pastime, but there is truth in stereotypes, otherwise how’d they get to be stereotypes? People get so defensive when you talk about stereotypes, as though it’s politically incorrect, like driving a Hummer… or being Republican… but come on! YOU people need to lighten up. And besides, I’m not ashamed of my love for shopping, I’m like a mighty huntress armed with my keen sense of style and my husband’s spectacular credit. You see, for me it’s more about the search than the sale, the pursuit rather than the purchase, the quest more than the coif.
I started looking for bargains out of necessity. I was poor. (Key violin music.) I had to work my way through college as my father died and my mother had enough to worry about keeping herself smartly dressed and supporting the local Merle Norman cosmetics store. So, I sought out thrift shops and their ilk as a way to supplement my wardrobe. Besides, when you’re in college you’re expected to dress funky and somewhat bohemian… I’m pretty sure it’s a law or something. Anyway, I remember paying 50 cents for this very cool black corduroy man’s blazer with leather patches on the elbows, worn green over the years. My sisters and I were attending some function at McCormick Place in Chicago where it cost $1.00 to check your coat. I turned to Mary and said, “No way I’m paying a buck to check this, it only cost 50 cents. I’ll stick it in a corner somewhere and if it’s not there when we get back, I’m only out the 50 cents, not a whole dollar!” She laughed and insisted on footing the bill for its safekeeping. Good thing, too because that’s the downside of items obtained at thrift stores, it’s not like I could have gone back there and found an identical very cool black corduroy man’s blazer with leather patches on the elbows, worn green over the years… pretty much, it’s one of a kind.
I graduated college, thank you very much, and actually scored a good paying job. I was able to afford Marshall Field’s clothes instead of field marshal’s clothes from the army/navy surplus. I was heady with excitement over having disposable income for the first time in my life. Like the proverbial drunken sailor (I had the drunken part down) I went full steam ahead and disposed of it with abandon. The girls at the Lancome counter at Lord and Taylor knew me by name. I thought nothing of spending $100.00 on a pair of shoes, $45.00 on a scarf, $90.00 on a blouse… and this was in the mid-eighties when cigarettes cost 75 cents a pack (sigh) and the average home in California cost under a hundred thousand… hey, wait a minute… Anyway, you get the point … I spent, baby. I earned it and I blew it just as quickly, every last nickel. But boy, was my closet full!
Years passed, checking account balances rose and fell, I’ve changed jobs and husbands, (although not with the same frequency) but never quite shook the habit of occasionally haunting the thrift stores. One can obtain the strange and exotic at these little treasure troves. I found a fake leopard skin purse years before animal prints came back into vogue. My girlfriends used to be mortified to be seen with me and Spot (yes, I named it) but I didn’t care. I wanted to distinguish myself from the ordinary. As the youngest in my family, I’m a born show-off. I feel our clothing choices tell the world something. I fancy mine announces, “Look at me! Look at me! Aren’t I clever? Aren’t I quirky?” Which is really pathetic, but there you have it.
Good fortune smiled its benevolent beam on me when I met my current (read: final) and hand’s down best husband. Steve is very smart, has a good job, generous, and is most indulgent. Not a bad combination in a spouse if you ask me. He is a bit, um… how do I put this as he reads these articles… conventional (read: square). Oh sure, I’ve jazzed him up a bit since our betrothal - he’s got earrings, tattoos, a new haircut (something from the 1990’s at least), and replaced those horrid brown glasses he used to wear, but he’s still very much “New England” in his sensibilities. Simply put, he is sometimes embarrassed by my antics. Like that time we were at the Muir Beach Overlook and I was really hot so I took my clothes off. I mean, I wasn’t laying there naked or anything, I still had my bra and panties on. Mr. F. was all, “Put your clothes on for crying out loud! What’s the matter with you?” I know, right? What’s the big deal? It’s just like being in a bikini but Steve thought it was just this side of scandalous to disrobe in public. Isn’t he cute?
Another source of discomfort for my long-suffering husband is when people compliment something I’m wearing and I’m compelled to tell them where I bought it and how much I paid. “Cute skirt, Bon,” someone will say. “Thanks! I got it at a thrift shop and it only cost $3.00!” I’ll answer proudly. I can actually feel Steve’s eyes roll when I say this. He says that people will think he makes me shop at second-hand stores because he’s parsimonious ($10.00 word for ‘stingy’, but you dear readers deserve the best). “We can afford for you to shop at Nordstrom’s if you want to.” But that’s the thing… I don’t want to. I had a very wealthy great aunt who used to say, “Anyone can dress well if they spend a lot on their clothes but it really speaks of one’s good sense if they can look fashionable without spending a lot of money.” Bless you, Aunt Rose. Besides, after my little spree back when I got my first real job out of college, I came to appreciate the wisdom in her words. Sure, I could shop at Walmart or Kmart and outfit myself for a pittance, but I’d rather scout for a Michael Kor’s suit at Ross or better yet Anna’s Attic (my fave local thrift store) for the same amount of dough I’d spend at one of the ‘Marts. Just last year I got a Brooks Brother’s 100% camel hair blazer at Anna’s for $5.00. ‘Course it cost me 30 to have it cleaned, but still… It really is all about the thrill of the hunt. It’s like I’m putting one over on the man. I realize, of course, not everyone has the time and patience… or access to really amazing second-hand stores and frankly, I’m relieved. After all, I don’t want everyone’s clothes proclaiming, “Look at me! Look at me! Aren’t I clever? Aren’t I quirky?” There’s room enough for only so many of us show-offs.
I started looking for bargains out of necessity. I was poor. (Key violin music.) I had to work my way through college as my father died and my mother had enough to worry about keeping herself smartly dressed and supporting the local Merle Norman cosmetics store. So, I sought out thrift shops and their ilk as a way to supplement my wardrobe. Besides, when you’re in college you’re expected to dress funky and somewhat bohemian… I’m pretty sure it’s a law or something. Anyway, I remember paying 50 cents for this very cool black corduroy man’s blazer with leather patches on the elbows, worn green over the years. My sisters and I were attending some function at McCormick Place in Chicago where it cost $1.00 to check your coat. I turned to Mary and said, “No way I’m paying a buck to check this, it only cost 50 cents. I’ll stick it in a corner somewhere and if it’s not there when we get back, I’m only out the 50 cents, not a whole dollar!” She laughed and insisted on footing the bill for its safekeeping. Good thing, too because that’s the downside of items obtained at thrift stores, it’s not like I could have gone back there and found an identical very cool black corduroy man’s blazer with leather patches on the elbows, worn green over the years… pretty much, it’s one of a kind.
I graduated college, thank you very much, and actually scored a good paying job. I was able to afford Marshall Field’s clothes instead of field marshal’s clothes from the army/navy surplus. I was heady with excitement over having disposable income for the first time in my life. Like the proverbial drunken sailor (I had the drunken part down) I went full steam ahead and disposed of it with abandon. The girls at the Lancome counter at Lord and Taylor knew me by name. I thought nothing of spending $100.00 on a pair of shoes, $45.00 on a scarf, $90.00 on a blouse… and this was in the mid-eighties when cigarettes cost 75 cents a pack (sigh) and the average home in California cost under a hundred thousand… hey, wait a minute… Anyway, you get the point … I spent, baby. I earned it and I blew it just as quickly, every last nickel. But boy, was my closet full!
Years passed, checking account balances rose and fell, I’ve changed jobs and husbands, (although not with the same frequency) but never quite shook the habit of occasionally haunting the thrift stores. One can obtain the strange and exotic at these little treasure troves. I found a fake leopard skin purse years before animal prints came back into vogue. My girlfriends used to be mortified to be seen with me and Spot (yes, I named it) but I didn’t care. I wanted to distinguish myself from the ordinary. As the youngest in my family, I’m a born show-off. I feel our clothing choices tell the world something. I fancy mine announces, “Look at me! Look at me! Aren’t I clever? Aren’t I quirky?” Which is really pathetic, but there you have it.
Good fortune smiled its benevolent beam on me when I met my current (read: final) and hand’s down best husband. Steve is very smart, has a good job, generous, and is most indulgent. Not a bad combination in a spouse if you ask me. He is a bit, um… how do I put this as he reads these articles… conventional (read: square). Oh sure, I’ve jazzed him up a bit since our betrothal - he’s got earrings, tattoos, a new haircut (something from the 1990’s at least), and replaced those horrid brown glasses he used to wear, but he’s still very much “New England” in his sensibilities. Simply put, he is sometimes embarrassed by my antics. Like that time we were at the Muir Beach Overlook and I was really hot so I took my clothes off. I mean, I wasn’t laying there naked or anything, I still had my bra and panties on. Mr. F. was all, “Put your clothes on for crying out loud! What’s the matter with you?” I know, right? What’s the big deal? It’s just like being in a bikini but Steve thought it was just this side of scandalous to disrobe in public. Isn’t he cute?
Another source of discomfort for my long-suffering husband is when people compliment something I’m wearing and I’m compelled to tell them where I bought it and how much I paid. “Cute skirt, Bon,” someone will say. “Thanks! I got it at a thrift shop and it only cost $3.00!” I’ll answer proudly. I can actually feel Steve’s eyes roll when I say this. He says that people will think he makes me shop at second-hand stores because he’s parsimonious ($10.00 word for ‘stingy’, but you dear readers deserve the best). “We can afford for you to shop at Nordstrom’s if you want to.” But that’s the thing… I don’t want to. I had a very wealthy great aunt who used to say, “Anyone can dress well if they spend a lot on their clothes but it really speaks of one’s good sense if they can look fashionable without spending a lot of money.” Bless you, Aunt Rose. Besides, after my little spree back when I got my first real job out of college, I came to appreciate the wisdom in her words. Sure, I could shop at Walmart or Kmart and outfit myself for a pittance, but I’d rather scout for a Michael Kor’s suit at Ross or better yet Anna’s Attic (my fave local thrift store) for the same amount of dough I’d spend at one of the ‘Marts. Just last year I got a Brooks Brother’s 100% camel hair blazer at Anna’s for $5.00. ‘Course it cost me 30 to have it cleaned, but still… It really is all about the thrill of the hunt. It’s like I’m putting one over on the man. I realize, of course, not everyone has the time and patience… or access to really amazing second-hand stores and frankly, I’m relieved. After all, I don’t want everyone’s clothes proclaiming, “Look at me! Look at me! Aren’t I clever? Aren’t I quirky?” There’s room enough for only so many of us show-offs.
Friday, September 11, 2009
Not Dirty and Drunk but Hardly Clean and Sober
“I like to have a martini, two at the very most, after three I’m under the table, after four I’m under my host.” Dorothy Parker
I feel ya, sister! I used to drink, you know. I was actually quite good at it. Too good… so good in fact that for the past, let me see… um 18+ years I haven’t had to imbibe at all! There’re still probably bits of vodka and pimentos rolling around in my system somewhere. Do I miss it? Hell yeah! But I like waking up with a clear head. Well, maybe not clear exactly, but I still find it refreshing not seeing my bra peeking out of my purse or finding my car parked at a 45 degree angle in a parallel parking space. Like American Express, membership in the “Don’t Drink Alcohol Anymore Club” also has its privileges.
My decision to quit drinking came quite unexpectedly. I used to sit on the bar stool of the local pub and smugly point out all of the other alcoholics in the saloon, never for a moment realizing three of my fingers were pointing back at me. I distinctly remember telling my friend Kim that since I have a degree in psychology that I’d know by now if I was an alkie. I know! Hilarious, right!? Of course the fact that I regularly had blackouts wouldn’t have been a clue to self-righteous little 28 year old Bonnie. LOL! So, as I was saying, imagine my surprise, nay shock(!) when I literally woke up one morning, looked in the mirror and said, “Yikes! I’m an alcoholic!” Yes, I actually did say “yikes.”
What do I do now? I wondered. Hmmm, I seemed to recall one of my previous bosses was in AA, maybe he’ll have some advice. So, I called him up and our conversation went something like this:
Me: Hi Kevin, this is Bonnie. How are you?
Kevin: Good, Bon, how are you?
Me: Kevin, I think I’m an alcoholic.
Kevin: Well, I always wondered when you’d figure that out.
Me: Seriously, you knew???
Kevin: (laughing) I’ve caught some of your Monday morning stupors, remember?
Me: No, not so much… Anyway, what do I do now? Do I see a priest, call my mother, what?
Kevin: Well, the first thing you should do is find an AA meeting in your area.
Me: AA? Really? Well, maybe this isn’t such a good time to quit drinking, with the holidays coming up and all. Perhaps I should just wait ‘till after the first of the year.
Kevin: (more laughter) No, this is the perfect time of the year to quit.
And so I did. I got my hair done (I do have my priorities, after all) and found an AA meeting that met in the basement of the Catholic grammar school I had attended several years previous. I don’t know what I was expecting. I guess I figured they’d put my name in the church bulletin: “The St. Juliana Thursday Night Alcoholics Anonymous Group welcomes Class of 1975 alum Bonnie Galante!” Despite testing well, I’m not that bright… I didn’t figure that they took the second A in AA all that seriously. Anyway, I raised my hand when they asked if there were any first timers, said the obligatory “Hi, my name is Bonnie and I’m an alcoholic,” (Hi Bonnie!) and stood up and recited the Lord’s Prayer (or “Our Father” as my family always called it) with everyone at the end. Of course the other members of the group were on me like white on rice, inviting me to come back, talking about doing the “90 in 90” (90 meetings in your first 90 days, yeah right…), and flooding me with a deluge of AA platitudes. “Take it one day at a time,” “It’s the easier, softer way,” “Don’t drink and go to meetings!” Don’t drink… well, duh!
I didn’t drink, I went to meetings, and enjoyed buckets of coffee and smoked. Yes, (sigh) that was in the days when you could smoke just about anywhere. We used to go for pie or cake or something after meetings and sit in the coffee shops and smoke up a damn storm. It was wonderful! Anyway, I really joined figuring it would be a kooky little thing I’d do for a while, (you know, like when I became a manicurist) and then move on. I never dreamed I’d really quit drinking. I imagined my friends saying to each other, “Oh, that wacky Bon! What’s she into now? AA? That crazy kid!” And for all I know that’s exactly what they did say. I don’t know because just months after quitting AA, I left my husband and he got custody of all our friends… along with that beautiful French cookware I’m sure he never used. Bitter? Sure, a little.
So, I’ve stayed alcohol free ever since. I don’t go to meetings anymore. If there are any fellow “Friends of Bill W” out there I know what you’re doing. You’re shaking your heads sadly saying, “You’re on a slippery slope, kiddo.” Well, I’ve been on this slippery slope since about 1994ish when I went to my last meeting. I met my second husband at one of those meetings but that’s a subject for a different article, or perhaps a horror movie… or maybe a comedy, I haven’t decided yet. Anyway, ‘last I heard he was in prison… I’m just disappointed it’s not a Turkish prison. Bitter? Sure, a little.
Whatever, but now I’m thinking of quitting smoking. It’s scaring the (insert expletive here) out of me as I’ll be positively saintly if I don’t smoke either! I mean here I am, a former drinking, drugging, party-girl-of-dubious-morals who no longer drinks, drugs, runs around or smokes. I told my husband I may have to start boosting cars just to feel like there’s still a bit of the bad girl we all know (some of you in the Biblical sense) and love left in me. Not that grand theft auto was one of my previous vices but I’m clutching at straws here. What could I do that, while not illegal or bad for me, will make me feel as though I haven’t entirely smothered the little scamp Bonnie? Think, girl, think! Wear white after Labor Day? Too tame - besides my mother might come back from the grave and haunt me. Get a tattoo? ‘Done that 5 times. Pierce something? ‘Done that 5 times, too. Star in a reality show? Yuk! I’d rather eat boogers. Yeah, I got nothin’… wait a minute… something’s coming… A-Ha! ‘Got it! I’ll write this blog! Knowing that I’m making all of you the (unwilling?) recipients of my acerbic wit will just have to be enough to sustain me. What’s the matter? Are you bitter? Sure, a little… but just be glad I have found something else… otherwise I might be waking up with your car parked at a 45 degree angle in front of my house.
I feel ya, sister! I used to drink, you know. I was actually quite good at it. Too good… so good in fact that for the past, let me see… um 18+ years I haven’t had to imbibe at all! There’re still probably bits of vodka and pimentos rolling around in my system somewhere. Do I miss it? Hell yeah! But I like waking up with a clear head. Well, maybe not clear exactly, but I still find it refreshing not seeing my bra peeking out of my purse or finding my car parked at a 45 degree angle in a parallel parking space. Like American Express, membership in the “Don’t Drink Alcohol Anymore Club” also has its privileges.
My decision to quit drinking came quite unexpectedly. I used to sit on the bar stool of the local pub and smugly point out all of the other alcoholics in the saloon, never for a moment realizing three of my fingers were pointing back at me. I distinctly remember telling my friend Kim that since I have a degree in psychology that I’d know by now if I was an alkie. I know! Hilarious, right!? Of course the fact that I regularly had blackouts wouldn’t have been a clue to self-righteous little 28 year old Bonnie. LOL! So, as I was saying, imagine my surprise, nay shock(!) when I literally woke up one morning, looked in the mirror and said, “Yikes! I’m an alcoholic!” Yes, I actually did say “yikes.”
What do I do now? I wondered. Hmmm, I seemed to recall one of my previous bosses was in AA, maybe he’ll have some advice. So, I called him up and our conversation went something like this:
Me: Hi Kevin, this is Bonnie. How are you?
Kevin: Good, Bon, how are you?
Me: Kevin, I think I’m an alcoholic.
Kevin: Well, I always wondered when you’d figure that out.
Me: Seriously, you knew???
Kevin: (laughing) I’ve caught some of your Monday morning stupors, remember?
Me: No, not so much… Anyway, what do I do now? Do I see a priest, call my mother, what?
Kevin: Well, the first thing you should do is find an AA meeting in your area.
Me: AA? Really? Well, maybe this isn’t such a good time to quit drinking, with the holidays coming up and all. Perhaps I should just wait ‘till after the first of the year.
Kevin: (more laughter) No, this is the perfect time of the year to quit.
And so I did. I got my hair done (I do have my priorities, after all) and found an AA meeting that met in the basement of the Catholic grammar school I had attended several years previous. I don’t know what I was expecting. I guess I figured they’d put my name in the church bulletin: “The St. Juliana Thursday Night Alcoholics Anonymous Group welcomes Class of 1975 alum Bonnie Galante!” Despite testing well, I’m not that bright… I didn’t figure that they took the second A in AA all that seriously. Anyway, I raised my hand when they asked if there were any first timers, said the obligatory “Hi, my name is Bonnie and I’m an alcoholic,” (Hi Bonnie!) and stood up and recited the Lord’s Prayer (or “Our Father” as my family always called it) with everyone at the end. Of course the other members of the group were on me like white on rice, inviting me to come back, talking about doing the “90 in 90” (90 meetings in your first 90 days, yeah right…), and flooding me with a deluge of AA platitudes. “Take it one day at a time,” “It’s the easier, softer way,” “Don’t drink and go to meetings!” Don’t drink… well, duh!
I didn’t drink, I went to meetings, and enjoyed buckets of coffee and smoked. Yes, (sigh) that was in the days when you could smoke just about anywhere. We used to go for pie or cake or something after meetings and sit in the coffee shops and smoke up a damn storm. It was wonderful! Anyway, I really joined figuring it would be a kooky little thing I’d do for a while, (you know, like when I became a manicurist) and then move on. I never dreamed I’d really quit drinking. I imagined my friends saying to each other, “Oh, that wacky Bon! What’s she into now? AA? That crazy kid!” And for all I know that’s exactly what they did say. I don’t know because just months after quitting AA, I left my husband and he got custody of all our friends… along with that beautiful French cookware I’m sure he never used. Bitter? Sure, a little.
So, I’ve stayed alcohol free ever since. I don’t go to meetings anymore. If there are any fellow “Friends of Bill W” out there I know what you’re doing. You’re shaking your heads sadly saying, “You’re on a slippery slope, kiddo.” Well, I’ve been on this slippery slope since about 1994ish when I went to my last meeting. I met my second husband at one of those meetings but that’s a subject for a different article, or perhaps a horror movie… or maybe a comedy, I haven’t decided yet. Anyway, ‘last I heard he was in prison… I’m just disappointed it’s not a Turkish prison. Bitter? Sure, a little.
Whatever, but now I’m thinking of quitting smoking. It’s scaring the (insert expletive here) out of me as I’ll be positively saintly if I don’t smoke either! I mean here I am, a former drinking, drugging, party-girl-of-dubious-morals who no longer drinks, drugs, runs around or smokes. I told my husband I may have to start boosting cars just to feel like there’s still a bit of the bad girl we all know (some of you in the Biblical sense) and love left in me. Not that grand theft auto was one of my previous vices but I’m clutching at straws here. What could I do that, while not illegal or bad for me, will make me feel as though I haven’t entirely smothered the little scamp Bonnie? Think, girl, think! Wear white after Labor Day? Too tame - besides my mother might come back from the grave and haunt me. Get a tattoo? ‘Done that 5 times. Pierce something? ‘Done that 5 times, too. Star in a reality show? Yuk! I’d rather eat boogers. Yeah, I got nothin’… wait a minute… something’s coming… A-Ha! ‘Got it! I’ll write this blog! Knowing that I’m making all of you the (unwilling?) recipients of my acerbic wit will just have to be enough to sustain me. What’s the matter? Are you bitter? Sure, a little… but just be glad I have found something else… otherwise I might be waking up with your car parked at a 45 degree angle in front of my house.
Thursday, September 10, 2009
i want a job... sort of...
“I’m never going to be famous. I don’t do anything, not one single thing. I used to bite my nails but I don’t even do that anymore.” Dorothy Parker
Well, that’s one thing I have in common with my hero, the sagacious Ms. Parker. I don’t do anything, not one single thing… and I did used to bite my nails but no longer practice the habit. Oh sure, I used to be a contributing member of society and our household budget but then back in January of this year (your read right, THIS year) I quit my job. I wasn’t laid off, down-sized, or even good old-fashioned fired, I quit! (Exclamation Point!) Not the brightest thing to do in the worst economy since Herbert Hoover was in office. (Look him up, kids, he was our nation’s president way back when.)
I smugly thought I’d be fine, I can go back to substitute teaching, another one of my many “careers”. I put the word careers in quotes because truth-be-told, I’ve had jobs - despite my college degree and amazing SAT scores, I’ve never actually had a “career.” I’ve been (deep breath) a secretary, sales clerk, manicurist, janitor, commodities employee, bank teller, customer service agent, cleaning lady, deli gal, auto parts salesperson, graphic artist, waitress (only one day but it still counts), grocery bagger, interior decorator’s assistant, pet store employee, and several others I’ve repressed in my memory… along with much of my second marriage… Anyway, so going back to substitute teaching sounded like the proverbial no-brainer, right? Sure, except as you may have heard, several of our state’s educators have been laid off and they’re getting first dibs on all the teaching gigs. Which really is fine by me - no really! I mean who in their right mind wants to teach (read: babysit) a bunch of middle-schoolers who think the best way to impress each other is to use the “F” word a half a dozen times before the first bell rings?
Obviously I’m not in my right mind or I’d never have quit my steady job in the first place, but, I digress. After months of scouring craigslist and other job sites, I’ve gotten rather discouraged as there are numerous really crappy jobs for which I’m allegedly not qualified. I mean I’d apply for these jobs, administrative assistant, customer service agent, whatever, read over the qualifications and think, “Yeah, yeah, ‘got that, ‘got that, have done that, can do that 65 wpm…” I’d send these companies my resume outlining just some of my previous employers, (I don’t like to scare them off) along with a pithy, yet carefully worded cover letter. You know what would happen? Nothing. Not a damn thing. And sometimes, like 2 weeks later, I’d see the exact same company with the exact same job posting! I know! Outrageous! I mean, come on, it’s ME! Who wouldn’t want to hire ME!?! I’ve experience doing practically everything except practice law or medicine and… wait a minute! I’m generating no interest with my real resume, so maybe if I author a FAKE resume saying I have been a doctor AND a lawyer, someone will hire me! So I whipped together the following:
MY (fake) RESUME Bonnie (Last name, Address, Phone # and email address not disclosed for fear of psychotics stalking me) ObjectiveTo obtain a satisfying position which best makes use of my varied experience, education, sense of humor and creativity, enabling me to make my boat payment and buy lots of shoes. ExperienceDunder-Mifflin Paper CompanyScranton, PANovember 2003 - PresentOffice Paper Salesperson*-helped implement “Dunder-Mifflin Infinity” website 2007-only person to attend the “Booze Cruise” and remain sober, 2006-voted “Best Costume” at the 2005 Halloween Party (Bride of Frankenstein) Vandallay IndustriesNew York, NYJanuary 1997-October 2003Latex Salesperson,* Architect,* Marine Biologist*-top latex sales person 1997-designed J. Peterman Memorial Building in Manhattan-rescued a beached whale by pulling a golf ball (a Titleist) out of its blowhole Crane, Poole, & SchmidtBoston, MA February 1988-January 1997Attorney*-represented big clients making the firm pot loads of money-dodged repeated advances from Denny Crane-argued brilliantly before judges leaving jurors and opposing council breathless General HospitalPort CharlesJanuary 1984-January 1988Doctor*, Hospital Siren-worked directly under (he wishes!) Chief of Surgery Dr. Alan Quartermaine -solved all sorts of medical mysteries, saving countless lives-strode purposefully down hospital corridors in high heels EducationNortheastern Illinois University, Chicago, IL, December 1983Ph.D. In Medicine* (capital M)Master of Arts-Architecture*Bachelor of Arts-Psychology *lie
And still do you know what happened? Right, nothing. Seriously, can you believe these people? If I was a hiring manager, I’d at least want to talk to the author of such an obvious work of fiction. It’s not like I was trying to pull one over on anyone… I asterisked everything that wasn’t true. Well screw ‘em! I don’t want to work for anyone that doesn’t get me! Which is all very well and good in principle - and if you have a big, fat trust fund, which sadly, I don’t - but that don’t “bring home the bacon” or make the boat payment. My husband is threatening to buy me a case of strawberries and stick my butt out on the corner. He’s kidding… I think…
Not one to be daunted that easily, (plus I really don’t want to sell produce) I keep hunting craigslist looking for my next ex-job. In the meantime, I'm posting to this blog in hopes of being discovered. Well, hell! Maybe I’ll become famous after all and that’ll be two things I share in common with Dorothy Parker.
Well, that’s one thing I have in common with my hero, the sagacious Ms. Parker. I don’t do anything, not one single thing… and I did used to bite my nails but no longer practice the habit. Oh sure, I used to be a contributing member of society and our household budget but then back in January of this year (your read right, THIS year) I quit my job. I wasn’t laid off, down-sized, or even good old-fashioned fired, I quit! (Exclamation Point!) Not the brightest thing to do in the worst economy since Herbert Hoover was in office. (Look him up, kids, he was our nation’s president way back when.)
I smugly thought I’d be fine, I can go back to substitute teaching, another one of my many “careers”. I put the word careers in quotes because truth-be-told, I’ve had jobs - despite my college degree and amazing SAT scores, I’ve never actually had a “career.” I’ve been (deep breath) a secretary, sales clerk, manicurist, janitor, commodities employee, bank teller, customer service agent, cleaning lady, deli gal, auto parts salesperson, graphic artist, waitress (only one day but it still counts), grocery bagger, interior decorator’s assistant, pet store employee, and several others I’ve repressed in my memory… along with much of my second marriage… Anyway, so going back to substitute teaching sounded like the proverbial no-brainer, right? Sure, except as you may have heard, several of our state’s educators have been laid off and they’re getting first dibs on all the teaching gigs. Which really is fine by me - no really! I mean who in their right mind wants to teach (read: babysit) a bunch of middle-schoolers who think the best way to impress each other is to use the “F” word a half a dozen times before the first bell rings?
Obviously I’m not in my right mind or I’d never have quit my steady job in the first place, but, I digress. After months of scouring craigslist and other job sites, I’ve gotten rather discouraged as there are numerous really crappy jobs for which I’m allegedly not qualified. I mean I’d apply for these jobs, administrative assistant, customer service agent, whatever, read over the qualifications and think, “Yeah, yeah, ‘got that, ‘got that, have done that, can do that 65 wpm…” I’d send these companies my resume outlining just some of my previous employers, (I don’t like to scare them off) along with a pithy, yet carefully worded cover letter. You know what would happen? Nothing. Not a damn thing. And sometimes, like 2 weeks later, I’d see the exact same company with the exact same job posting! I know! Outrageous! I mean, come on, it’s ME! Who wouldn’t want to hire ME!?! I’ve experience doing practically everything except practice law or medicine and… wait a minute! I’m generating no interest with my real resume, so maybe if I author a FAKE resume saying I have been a doctor AND a lawyer, someone will hire me! So I whipped together the following:
MY (fake) RESUME Bonnie (Last name, Address, Phone # and email address not disclosed for fear of psychotics stalking me) ObjectiveTo obtain a satisfying position which best makes use of my varied experience, education, sense of humor and creativity, enabling me to make my boat payment and buy lots of shoes. ExperienceDunder-Mifflin Paper CompanyScranton, PANovember 2003 - PresentOffice Paper Salesperson*-helped implement “Dunder-Mifflin Infinity” website 2007-only person to attend the “Booze Cruise” and remain sober, 2006-voted “Best Costume” at the 2005 Halloween Party (Bride of Frankenstein) Vandallay IndustriesNew York, NYJanuary 1997-October 2003Latex Salesperson,* Architect,* Marine Biologist*-top latex sales person 1997-designed J. Peterman Memorial Building in Manhattan-rescued a beached whale by pulling a golf ball (a Titleist) out of its blowhole Crane, Poole, & SchmidtBoston, MA February 1988-January 1997Attorney*-represented big clients making the firm pot loads of money-dodged repeated advances from Denny Crane-argued brilliantly before judges leaving jurors and opposing council breathless General HospitalPort CharlesJanuary 1984-January 1988Doctor*, Hospital Siren-worked directly under (he wishes!) Chief of Surgery Dr. Alan Quartermaine -solved all sorts of medical mysteries, saving countless lives-strode purposefully down hospital corridors in high heels EducationNortheastern Illinois University, Chicago, IL, December 1983Ph.D. In Medicine* (capital M)Master of Arts-Architecture*Bachelor of Arts-Psychology *lie
And still do you know what happened? Right, nothing. Seriously, can you believe these people? If I was a hiring manager, I’d at least want to talk to the author of such an obvious work of fiction. It’s not like I was trying to pull one over on anyone… I asterisked everything that wasn’t true. Well screw ‘em! I don’t want to work for anyone that doesn’t get me! Which is all very well and good in principle - and if you have a big, fat trust fund, which sadly, I don’t - but that don’t “bring home the bacon” or make the boat payment. My husband is threatening to buy me a case of strawberries and stick my butt out on the corner. He’s kidding… I think…
Not one to be daunted that easily, (plus I really don’t want to sell produce) I keep hunting craigslist looking for my next ex-job. In the meantime, I'm posting to this blog in hopes of being discovered. Well, hell! Maybe I’ll become famous after all and that’ll be two things I share in common with Dorothy Parker.
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