Sunday morning, I agreed to close the bar for JH on Wednesday so he could go to the Miss Gay Indiana pageant in Indianapolis, I think. He does a drag show and was trying to make some more contacts so he can start making money from this relatively new venture, and I was more than happy to work his nighttime bar shift for him. This story is not about that.
Wednesday evening, we really weren't that busy. I was trained as a bartendress (as I like to call myself) in March of this year, if I remember correctly. As far as bartending goes, I'm still quite new at this whole game, especially considering I am not a heavy drinker and had little to no familiarity with most of the liquors behind the bar before I started serving them. To work a nighttime bar shift, and have to balance both rail guests and servers' drinks from the well, is both overwhelming and an exciting challenge. I love moving quickly and attempting to make the drinks as fast as I can, while still building rapport with my guests so as to boost my tips. All in all, I was rather proud of my performance this particular evening.
Wednesday night, I was closing the bar, performing various cleaning tasks and whatnot, and I dragged my garbage can out to the back docks, where a few of the cooks were sitting on boxes and empty kegs taking a brief smoke break. One in particular, C, sports dark hair and a lip ring, and shares my sarcastic sense of humour to the point that we get along quite well. At least, as well as I can gather from the brief chats we've shared here and there during the times our shifts overlap. He's one of those co-workers I genuinely enjoy talking to, because he's funny, always kind to me, and never lashes out against the other cooks or the servers like so many back-of-house associates tend to do. I appreciate a strong yet controlled personality. We could use more of those at the 'bee's. Anyway, I dragged my garbage out back and C was out there smoking. Now, I don't smoke, and actually abhor the habit for a variety of reasons (I know people who have had emphysema/lung cancer as a result of being around heavy smokers, secondhand smoke gives me a horrid headache, etc.), but I do like to chat with people when I can, and unfortunately, a lot of the chatting and getting-to-know people happens when they bond over their cigarettes on the back dock. I chatted with C and the other cooks for a few minutes and C mentioned that he and D, one of the closing servers, were going out to get a drink after work, and invited me to join.
Wednesday night, I faced a quandary. I have been invited out multiple times by people I work with. One clique in particular has invited me to join them at various low-rate bars and/or clubs numerous time, but I have yet to join those particular shenanigans. I did accompany them to BW3's one night, which helped secure my "cool" status, but considering they don't really invite me out much anymore, I'm guessing I'm not enough of a drinker for them. Also, the conversation they pursued during our time out was both vulgar and somewhat out of my sheltered little comfort zone at times. Therefore, I am usually relatively wary when invited to chillax by 'bee's people. However, C seems like a nice guy, and D is a very pleasant sort as well, having been nothing but sweet to me, so I seriously considered it.
Wednesday night, I had almost decided not to join my co-workers, when D approached me in an excited frenzy (she's rather high-energy), shrieking that she heard I was going out with them and ohmygodthatissoawesomewearegoingtohavesomuchfun!!!!!111. "Self," I declared, "You really do need a drink. And you like these particular co-workers of yours. Let's do this."
Wednesday night, C and D and I went to a new-ish bar that C knew because it was a renovated version of an older place he used to go to regularly. To make a long story short, we three immediately bonded over the experience of attempting to defer the affections of two seriously creepy drunkards - one of which wanted me to leave the other two so he could tell me a secret, and the other which asked D to kiss him now multiple times. C was a splendid male companion to two young females (that made us sound really young or something; we're all pretty much the same age), refilling our drinks for us from the pitcher we split, telling the creepy guys that we were both his and he doesn't like to share, holding us one on each arm as we left so no one would get any ideas. After this somewhat unnerving experience, we went to a much friendlier pub and laughed about it over a bucket of beers. Normally I'm not a beer person, so C collaborated with the bartender at this pub (who he knows well) to pick a beer for me to sample. To my surprise, they were successful, and I enjoyed a rather tasty Honey Brown.
Wednesday night, I enjoyed myself enormously until three-thirty in the morning, talking and laughing and bonding with C and D. D had to go home relatively early, since she lives forty-five minutes away, so C and I continued chatting for awhile, played a game of pool, and called it a night. I got two new contacts in my phone from my new 'bee's friends, and realized that I miss having a variety of people to hang out with. Don't get me wrong, I love my roommate and my significant other very much. I haven't seen my roommate in two days and I have a number of stories to tell her. If I don't see my guy for a few days I actually miss him; which yes, sounds lame, but what can I say, I'm a passionate person. When I got in my car after the night o'random shenanigans with co-workers, I realized I had a huge grin on my face because I had so much fun and it was just so REFRESHING to know it's possible to have other friends. My roommate has a number of other people she makes plans with, and I'm not always invited because I don't really know her other friends very well and it's not like you have to be attached to someone at the hip just because you share an apartment. In a way, it's nice to know I might have a few friends of my own - REAL friends, not just random alcoholic buddies like the other clique at the 'bee's. We actually talked about ourselves and personal lives and real things, and they both told me multiple times that they really enjoyed hanging out with me and we are SO doing it again soon.
Thursday night, I was hanging out with JK, another co-worker, with whom I share a deep and loyal love of "The Office." We had made plans weeks ago to watch the season five premiere together, and began the evening with dinner at-where else?-Chili's. My sister joined us. The conversation evolved into JK sharing various tidbits of gossip she heard around the 'bee's (my sister is a hostess at the 'bee's, so she knew all the people JK was referring to), some of which was highly implausible. She shared one extremely far-fetched instance that she claimed involved C and D; I wisely refrained from mentioning I hung out with them the night before.
Friday afternoon, I was once more working the 'bee's, and found myself in a conversation with M and A, both servers who are a bit younger than me, but have been part of the 'bee's culture for either as long as me or a bit longer. We discussed the insane gossip mill present in our workplace, and A remarked that she had been a victim of the rumour-mongering a few times in the past. In addition, she has told me numerous times about how she doesn't get along well with D, and a manager actually spoke to her about it, stating that D heard all kinds of stories about things A said about her. Can we say DRAMA?! Basically, the point of this entire long, drawn-out story I'm sketching for you, is that I am constantly astonished at the force and power of the gossip/rumour mill at the 'bee's. Is any other workplace like this? People's names are constantly dragged through the mud for various reasons. There's a never-ending cycle of whispers declaring who slept with who and who is secretly gay and who cheated on their boyfriend with that manager. It's impossible to keep up with and quite frankly, a rather tiring task I don't care to participate in. I didn't tell any of my co-workers for six months that I was seriously dating my guy because heaven knows what they would do with that information. And it's true - once they started finding out, I was teased a few times through inappropriate comments. Nothing mean-spirited, just not particularly in line with my moral system. It just astounds me that people are so immature to talk about people constantly behind their backs, to stoop to child-like methods of deceit and bickering, and that no one is exempt from this vicious game, not even managers or the youngest, most innocent of hostesses.
Saturday morning, I wrote a ridiculously long post about my recent workplace musings, and wondered whether other workplaces shared this madness.
27 September 2008
22 September 2008
treat me like you did the night before
I'm a common courtesy contradiction.
The other day I was leaving my apartment building, and was astounded by a simple action. I live on the third floor, so I have to descend a few flights of indoor stairs to get to the door that leads out to the parking lot. I locked my door and started down the steps, moving at my usual brisk pace. When I came around the final corner, I saw that an elderly gentleman was holding the door for me.
When I say elderly, I mean ELDERLY. Thinning silver hair, deep-set wrinkles, hunched shoulders, outdated-and-ill-fitting mustard yellow suit, leaning heavily on a scratched wooden cane. He was OLD and practically HANDICAPPED and he heard someone coming, so he held the door for them. I was the only one around at the time, so he wasn't just holding it for his wife or someone he saw coming in from the parking lot. He heard footsteps from upstairs, which can only mean a person descending to exit the building, so he held the door. It's practically melodramatic for me to be writing about such a small event, and I'm sure he thought nothing of it, but I was just thinking about common courtesy the other day, only to be blown away by this tiny old man who took the extra time to hold the door, when it was probably going to take him ten more minutes to hobble to his comfy armchair and put the cane down for the day.
Now, when I say I am a common courtesy contradiction, I believe I share the affliction of being a hypocrite with the vast majority of the population. I will hold doors for people, and make eye contact, and smile at strangers, and wait for people at crosswalks, and say "please" and "thank you" quite frequently when at a restaurant or somesuch. However, I also tend to tailgate if you're driving ten under the speed limit and I'm late for work, because lord knows that makes me personally want to speed up, when someone is so close it's like they're driving in my bloody trunk [this is when we all laugh and point fingers at Holly and say things like "FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, WOMAN, CONTROL YOUR ROAD RAGE!"].
I went to a friend's wedding this weekend, which was beautiful and perfect and basically gobs of fun. Upon leaving the reception, Daniel and I were walking out into the beautiful night - my feet were killing me, of course, from the fabulous peep-toe heels I was sporting all night - and we passed a woman talking loudly to someone in a van pulled up to the sidewalk. They were having some trouble coordinating how to load some boxes of glassware into the van when the cart kept trying to roll away on rickety wheels. I took in the situation in a glance and was all set to keep walking, when Daniel released his loose grip on my hand and immediately went over to the woman, asking if she needed assistance. It was quite apparent that this woman was taken aback by such a kind offer from a random stranger.
I never thought of myself as an inconsiderate person before. I always say "Oh, I'm sorry!" or "Excuse me, sir" if someone bumps into me in a public place - even if it was their fault, not mine. I cannot fathom those who just bump into others and say nothing or ignore people who serve them in such positions as drive-through fast food attendants, or waitresses, or bank tellers, and refuse to say thank you to those working such menial jobs. I became more and more aware of the overwhelming rudeness present in our society when I started waitressing. People who don't say those magic words you learn as a little kid, who just hold out their glass and give you a look when they want a refill, who leave ten percent tip or less because lord knows the person serving them doesn't have bills to pay or children to support whilst working eight hour shifts for $2.13 an hour. I'm not trying to turn this into a rant at all; I'm just wondering where the concept of common courtesy has gone. I had a table on Sunday consisting of parents and four kids, between the ages of about ten and fifteen, I would say, and they were the most well-mannered group of that age children I have ever waited on. They all spoke to me clearly when ordering or asking for refills, smiled genuinely, and thanked me sincerely. It was just so refreshing to see that some parents still attempt to instill such values in their offspring.
Don't lose hope in the manners of humanity yet. There are still random acts of kindness out there.
On that note, I shall now phone in an order of delicious sesame chicken to prepare for the season premiere of The Big Bang Theory tonight on CBS. If you haven't seen it and appreciate smart humour and dorky guys in awkward situations, then I highly recommend it.
The other day I was leaving my apartment building, and was astounded by a simple action. I live on the third floor, so I have to descend a few flights of indoor stairs to get to the door that leads out to the parking lot. I locked my door and started down the steps, moving at my usual brisk pace. When I came around the final corner, I saw that an elderly gentleman was holding the door for me.
When I say elderly, I mean ELDERLY. Thinning silver hair, deep-set wrinkles, hunched shoulders, outdated-and-ill-fitting mustard yellow suit, leaning heavily on a scratched wooden cane. He was OLD and practically HANDICAPPED and he heard someone coming, so he held the door for them. I was the only one around at the time, so he wasn't just holding it for his wife or someone he saw coming in from the parking lot. He heard footsteps from upstairs, which can only mean a person descending to exit the building, so he held the door. It's practically melodramatic for me to be writing about such a small event, and I'm sure he thought nothing of it, but I was just thinking about common courtesy the other day, only to be blown away by this tiny old man who took the extra time to hold the door, when it was probably going to take him ten more minutes to hobble to his comfy armchair and put the cane down for the day.
Now, when I say I am a common courtesy contradiction, I believe I share the affliction of being a hypocrite with the vast majority of the population. I will hold doors for people, and make eye contact, and smile at strangers, and wait for people at crosswalks, and say "please" and "thank you" quite frequently when at a restaurant or somesuch. However, I also tend to tailgate if you're driving ten under the speed limit and I'm late for work, because lord knows that makes me personally want to speed up, when someone is so close it's like they're driving in my bloody trunk [this is when we all laugh and point fingers at Holly and say things like "FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, WOMAN, CONTROL YOUR ROAD RAGE!"].
I went to a friend's wedding this weekend, which was beautiful and perfect and basically gobs of fun. Upon leaving the reception, Daniel and I were walking out into the beautiful night - my feet were killing me, of course, from the fabulous peep-toe heels I was sporting all night - and we passed a woman talking loudly to someone in a van pulled up to the sidewalk. They were having some trouble coordinating how to load some boxes of glassware into the van when the cart kept trying to roll away on rickety wheels. I took in the situation in a glance and was all set to keep walking, when Daniel released his loose grip on my hand and immediately went over to the woman, asking if she needed assistance. It was quite apparent that this woman was taken aback by such a kind offer from a random stranger.
I never thought of myself as an inconsiderate person before. I always say "Oh, I'm sorry!" or "Excuse me, sir" if someone bumps into me in a public place - even if it was their fault, not mine. I cannot fathom those who just bump into others and say nothing or ignore people who serve them in such positions as drive-through fast food attendants, or waitresses, or bank tellers, and refuse to say thank you to those working such menial jobs. I became more and more aware of the overwhelming rudeness present in our society when I started waitressing. People who don't say those magic words you learn as a little kid, who just hold out their glass and give you a look when they want a refill, who leave ten percent tip or less because lord knows the person serving them doesn't have bills to pay or children to support whilst working eight hour shifts for $2.13 an hour. I'm not trying to turn this into a rant at all; I'm just wondering where the concept of common courtesy has gone. I had a table on Sunday consisting of parents and four kids, between the ages of about ten and fifteen, I would say, and they were the most well-mannered group of that age children I have ever waited on. They all spoke to me clearly when ordering or asking for refills, smiled genuinely, and thanked me sincerely. It was just so refreshing to see that some parents still attempt to instill such values in their offspring.
Don't lose hope in the manners of humanity yet. There are still random acts of kindness out there.
On that note, I shall now phone in an order of delicious sesame chicken to prepare for the season premiere of The Big Bang Theory tonight on CBS. If you haven't seen it and appreciate smart humour and dorky guys in awkward situations, then I highly recommend it.
16 September 2008
I've tried to telephone, they said you were not home, that's a lie
Still no reply from the job hunt.
I plan on sending angry emails this week. Okay, irate emails. Fine, not even irate; polite inquiries, really. They can't get upset at me for politely inquiring how the process is going, right? RIGHT?
If I don't hear back from any of this most recent round of jobs, then I believe that clinches it. I'm moving away. I don't even know where yet. I do know that I will wait until after the holidays, since business is finally starting to pick up at the 'bee's, slowly yet surely, so once I make it through the madness that is the holiday rush, then I will have sufficient funding - or at the very least, just enough so I can move away and not die for a month or two. Wise advice has helped me see that that's all I need.
With that sort of ambition, maybe I'll make all my dreams come true at once and move to England.... yes...
Ahem. Moving on, I picked up another shift tonight. Carside again. I really don't mind it, as long as people tip me. Which, most of the time, they don't. But every now and then it's a nice change to work carside. Don't have to deal with the constant interaction of bartending, always playing the listener or the entertainer. Don't have to worry about harassing one's tables repeatedly with drink refills or pushy dessert inquiries. Nope, just answer the phone, take the order, and take it to the car when they arrive. If I'm lucky, they see me for a minute, minute and a half, tops, and maybe reward me with a dollar or two for my efforts.
On a completely unrelated note (my, aren't we scattered to-day, mentally speaking), I'm terrible at keeping in touch with people. Truly. I've moved and changed schools so many times in my life, I'm used to just leaving it all behind and picking up in a new place, meeting new people, creating a new routine. After college, it was so strange to move back to a city I knew, with familiar locations and faces and phone numbers that weren't long distance for once. For once, I don't want to forget the people I left behind, those who made my four years of college so much more than tolerable, yet I'm falling back into the same pattern of forgetfulness. My best and dearest friend to me in the world and I have lost touch. We used to be able to talk for hours, exchanging random stories and oh yeah that reminds me of this that happened but wait I was telling a story and if I don't finish I'll forget and then we'll get on another tangent that leads to four more stories and meanwhile we can't stop quoting movies/TV shows we love to watch together and have to take a break to laugh until we can't breathe. Now, we're lucky if we talk once a week. I understand that's how life works and people grow up and reach the point where they have luncheons every now and then to catch up with "old college buddies" or whatnot, but I've never been the sort of carry that kind of friendship off very well. And I miss my best friend.
Why is it that you break twenty-one years of age, and suddenly realize that adult life is very different than you always imagined it, back when you were writing short stories as if all that was troublesome in the world resolved itself at age twenty-four? If that were the case, apparently I'm due to have all my worries resolved in the next year. If only it worked like my twelve-year-old self always dreamed...
These ramblings don't seem to make a great deal of sense, even as I glance back through them. I probably shouldn't even post this, but sometimes it's helpful to purge the mind of all those disconnected thoughts, just for housecleaning's sake, I suppose. Who know, you might even understand a little bit of where I'm coming from.
I plan on sending angry emails this week. Okay, irate emails. Fine, not even irate; polite inquiries, really. They can't get upset at me for politely inquiring how the process is going, right? RIGHT?
If I don't hear back from any of this most recent round of jobs, then I believe that clinches it. I'm moving away. I don't even know where yet. I do know that I will wait until after the holidays, since business is finally starting to pick up at the 'bee's, slowly yet surely, so once I make it through the madness that is the holiday rush, then I will have sufficient funding - or at the very least, just enough so I can move away and not die for a month or two. Wise advice has helped me see that that's all I need.
With that sort of ambition, maybe I'll make all my dreams come true at once and move to England.... yes...
Ahem. Moving on, I picked up another shift tonight. Carside again. I really don't mind it, as long as people tip me. Which, most of the time, they don't. But every now and then it's a nice change to work carside. Don't have to deal with the constant interaction of bartending, always playing the listener or the entertainer. Don't have to worry about harassing one's tables repeatedly with drink refills or pushy dessert inquiries. Nope, just answer the phone, take the order, and take it to the car when they arrive. If I'm lucky, they see me for a minute, minute and a half, tops, and maybe reward me with a dollar or two for my efforts.
On a completely unrelated note (my, aren't we scattered to-day, mentally speaking), I'm terrible at keeping in touch with people. Truly. I've moved and changed schools so many times in my life, I'm used to just leaving it all behind and picking up in a new place, meeting new people, creating a new routine. After college, it was so strange to move back to a city I knew, with familiar locations and faces and phone numbers that weren't long distance for once. For once, I don't want to forget the people I left behind, those who made my four years of college so much more than tolerable, yet I'm falling back into the same pattern of forgetfulness. My best and dearest friend to me in the world and I have lost touch. We used to be able to talk for hours, exchanging random stories and oh yeah that reminds me of this that happened but wait I was telling a story and if I don't finish I'll forget and then we'll get on another tangent that leads to four more stories and meanwhile we can't stop quoting movies/TV shows we love to watch together and have to take a break to laugh until we can't breathe. Now, we're lucky if we talk once a week. I understand that's how life works and people grow up and reach the point where they have luncheons every now and then to catch up with "old college buddies" or whatnot, but I've never been the sort of carry that kind of friendship off very well. And I miss my best friend.
Why is it that you break twenty-one years of age, and suddenly realize that adult life is very different than you always imagined it, back when you were writing short stories as if all that was troublesome in the world resolved itself at age twenty-four? If that were the case, apparently I'm due to have all my worries resolved in the next year. If only it worked like my twelve-year-old self always dreamed...
These ramblings don't seem to make a great deal of sense, even as I glance back through them. I probably shouldn't even post this, but sometimes it's helpful to purge the mind of all those disconnected thoughts, just for housecleaning's sake, I suppose. Who know, you might even understand a little bit of where I'm coming from.
11 September 2008
take these broken wings and learn to fly
I'm discouraged.
I've been trying really hard to not let this become a place for personal rants or whining or whatnot, and more an outlet for expressive depictions of both random thoughts and day-to-day anecdotes, but I have to be cathartic to-day, and for that I apologize. I also apologize for the length of that sentence; it definitely borders on run-on status.
I was just rejected for a job.
It's just a lovely way to wake up in the morning to your phone ringing, seeing an unknown number - which I kind of love, by the way; unknown numbers spell intrigue! adventure! etc! - making sure you answer in a semi-coherent way, and have a nice lady tell you that your availability just isn't going to work. Let's back up a minute so I can fully explain why one tiny rejection is making me so upset.
As previously stated on this blog, I work at an Applebee's, and I love it there. I do. I enjoy the people, the fast-paced nature, the job itself. I enjoy it thoroughly. That said, it's been a long, slow, summer, and unless things start picking up soon, I will have to give up eating food just so I can pay my bills and still save a little bit every month. I must. save. money. So I can move to a big city and pursue my dream of working in publishing.
Okay. So you know I work at the 'bee's. Unfortunately, that's a sporadic income. I never know how much I'm going to make from day to day, aside from the $2.13 an hour I make serving or the $3.25 an hour I make bartending. My second job has been at the local branch of a large midwestern university, as an administrative assistant, and then as the editor of the newsletter for one of the colleges. However, that has also turned out to be sporadic income, because the Dean of the college seems to find joy in putting off his tasks as long as humanly possible, thus delaying the project and preventing me from EVER LEAVING. Let's review: like Applebee's, sporadic income. Dislike college, but pays more, but has also become sporadic income. Can we say SUCKS.
I began a search for a new second job awhile ago. I applied everywhere, citing that I need decent wages. That's probably why I haven't gotten any calls. Limited availability and staunch refusal to work minimum wage. I have a freaking college degree and I just got rejected for a job at KOHL'S. The CLOTHING STORE. Because I'm not willing to work Friday nights, since I'm keeping Applebee's on those nights so I actually have a chance to make more than $20 a shift. The sad part? Out of all the places I applied, Kohl's was my BACKUP. The pretty-much-guaranteed-shoo-in job.
I just don't know what the hell I'm going to do. I've been sending out resumes to publishing groups and working so hard for the past year at these stupid menial jobs to save money so I can make my dream happen and I'm just looking in the mirror and seeing a life as a waitress in Fort Wayne. Having been a waitress, I can say that it's really hard work, and there's absolutely nothing wrong with being a waitress full-time to make ends meet, but I have such bigger aspirations. I just thought I was going to do something after graduation, and the real world has slapped me over and over as I attempt to climb out of this hole of the Midwest.
Final thoughts. Last night I went to my sister's back-to-school night, since my mum is out of town at a funeral and my dad wasn't feeling well. I played surrogate parent; which, admittedly, was kind of fun. I saw one of my old teachers, MA,whom I adored in high school, and we had a conversation that really prompted me to think about my job search. Her daughter is working in Chicago right now, and struggled just as I am with finding a position, especially from a distance as I am attempting to do (Chicago and New York aren't exactly a jaunt away. Well, Chicago isn't bad at all; New York is another story). My teacher told me that her daughter tried searching from afar and eventually just moved to the city jobless. Within six weeks, she had a position. Granted, she's not in publishing, she's in finance, but STILL. That REALLY makes me want to just pick up and move. REALLY. BADLY. I'm so tired of being rejected and not getting answers and being told that I'm not good enough to sell clothing to haggard soccer moms and run a register like I did for four years in high school and fold t-shirts like I've been doing since I was eight.
I need to take action. Do something to combat this negativity and this discouragement. Stop whining to the internet and GET OUT THERE.
I've been trying really hard to not let this become a place for personal rants or whining or whatnot, and more an outlet for expressive depictions of both random thoughts and day-to-day anecdotes, but I have to be cathartic to-day, and for that I apologize. I also apologize for the length of that sentence; it definitely borders on run-on status.
I was just rejected for a job.
It's just a lovely way to wake up in the morning to your phone ringing, seeing an unknown number - which I kind of love, by the way; unknown numbers spell intrigue! adventure! etc! - making sure you answer in a semi-coherent way, and have a nice lady tell you that your availability just isn't going to work. Let's back up a minute so I can fully explain why one tiny rejection is making me so upset.
As previously stated on this blog, I work at an Applebee's, and I love it there. I do. I enjoy the people, the fast-paced nature, the job itself. I enjoy it thoroughly. That said, it's been a long, slow, summer, and unless things start picking up soon, I will have to give up eating food just so I can pay my bills and still save a little bit every month. I must. save. money. So I can move to a big city and pursue my dream of working in publishing.
Okay. So you know I work at the 'bee's. Unfortunately, that's a sporadic income. I never know how much I'm going to make from day to day, aside from the $2.13 an hour I make serving or the $3.25 an hour I make bartending. My second job has been at the local branch of a large midwestern university, as an administrative assistant, and then as the editor of the newsletter for one of the colleges. However, that has also turned out to be sporadic income, because the Dean of the college seems to find joy in putting off his tasks as long as humanly possible, thus delaying the project and preventing me from EVER LEAVING. Let's review: like Applebee's, sporadic income. Dislike college, but pays more, but has also become sporadic income. Can we say SUCKS.
I began a search for a new second job awhile ago. I applied everywhere, citing that I need decent wages. That's probably why I haven't gotten any calls. Limited availability and staunch refusal to work minimum wage. I have a freaking college degree and I just got rejected for a job at KOHL'S. The CLOTHING STORE. Because I'm not willing to work Friday nights, since I'm keeping Applebee's on those nights so I actually have a chance to make more than $20 a shift. The sad part? Out of all the places I applied, Kohl's was my BACKUP. The pretty-much-guaranteed-shoo-in job.
I just don't know what the hell I'm going to do. I've been sending out resumes to publishing groups and working so hard for the past year at these stupid menial jobs to save money so I can make my dream happen and I'm just looking in the mirror and seeing a life as a waitress in Fort Wayne. Having been a waitress, I can say that it's really hard work, and there's absolutely nothing wrong with being a waitress full-time to make ends meet, but I have such bigger aspirations. I just thought I was going to do something after graduation, and the real world has slapped me over and over as I attempt to climb out of this hole of the Midwest.
Final thoughts. Last night I went to my sister's back-to-school night, since my mum is out of town at a funeral and my dad wasn't feeling well. I played surrogate parent; which, admittedly, was kind of fun. I saw one of my old teachers, MA,whom I adored in high school, and we had a conversation that really prompted me to think about my job search. Her daughter is working in Chicago right now, and struggled just as I am with finding a position, especially from a distance as I am attempting to do (Chicago and New York aren't exactly a jaunt away. Well, Chicago isn't bad at all; New York is another story). My teacher told me that her daughter tried searching from afar and eventually just moved to the city jobless. Within six weeks, she had a position. Granted, she's not in publishing, she's in finance, but STILL. That REALLY makes me want to just pick up and move. REALLY. BADLY. I'm so tired of being rejected and not getting answers and being told that I'm not good enough to sell clothing to haggard soccer moms and run a register like I did for four years in high school and fold t-shirts like I've been doing since I was eight.
I need to take action. Do something to combat this negativity and this discouragement. Stop whining to the internet and GET OUT THERE.
29 August 2008
is there anybody going to listen to my story
A few weeks ago, I was taking a walk with the significant other around my apartment neighborhood, and it was rather muggy outside, and I was sporting an old college t-shirt and shorts with my $2 Old Navy flip-flops that I usually only wear when putzing around the apt. or after a long shift at the 'bee's. It was nearing dusk, and the street lamps were buzzing with an orange fluorescent glow. We were walking slowly, alternating between avid conversation and comfortable silence, fingers loosely linked, when I noticed him looking at me intently and I gave him a questioning glance. He answered by simply saying: "You're beautiful."
You may take this to be cliche, or trite, or even fake, but if you heard the way in which it was uttered, you would reconsider your cynical take. Normally such a simple compliment would not lead me to a contemplative discourse on intimacy, yet the utter sincerity with which he said it made it something entirely different from an offhand comment. Don't get me wrong, he has complimented me before, but this was so unexpected, especially when it was given in a moment when I felt at best rather tired and sweaty. I was, of course, not wearing any makeup, my hair was back in my typical sloppy ponytail, and yet he was looking at me so carefully, so delicately, as if to admire me was to break me in some way. He simply looked with an openness and honesty and told me very matter-of-factly that I was beautiful. He even admitted that he didn't know why, but just said that I "glowed."
He's good to me, that one.
On a related note, this is something I've been pondering for awhile. For the duration of my young life thus far, I have had an unnatural dislike for the term "boyfriend." Let me explain. "Girlfriend" is an entirely acceptable term. I have no problem with tossing it around. I rather enjoy it when Daniel refers to me as his girlfriend. However, once people see me with my gentleman and inquire, "Ohh, Holly, is that your BOYFRIEND?!" I get a strange feeling of discomfort. Don't get all Freudian on me and declare it simply must be related to my inability to commit and whatnot. I have had serious relationships in my life. I am a powerfully loyal individual. That said, what is up with my aversion to this term? Has anyone else had this issue? I think it might be related to my love for words and specific letters, and the way words look and sound when seen and uttered, respectively, and that I appreciate "girl" as a word better than "boy," thus leading to a strange preference for one term over the other. However, I can't help but wonder... fellow wordsmiths, do you copy? Anyone? Anyone? Bueller?
Also, a question to you married folk out there. I know it's been asked by every prepubescent child that's ever had a crush, and by those my age who struggle to find their vocation in life, but I'll ask it again, just to see if anyone out there in the blogosphere cares to aid my internal quandary. How did you KNOW that the person you married was the one for you? If you don't have any advice beyond, "It was just a feeling, I just KNEW" - that's okay. I want as many opinions on this as possible. Being a twenty-something, I have so many friends getting married/already married/starting families that I can't help but wonder how people younger than me seemed to figure it out before I did, with "it" of course being the answer to that ultimate question posed above. What's a free-spirited, mostly-independent, happily-committed-to-a-sweet-gentleman twenty-something to do?
Don't fret, dear reader [s, if you do indeed exist in plural form]. I will not be tying the knot anytime soon. My current significant other has made it very clear he isn't even thinking about marriage (to anyone, not just in reference to me) until after he has his degree, which won't be until this May, so that's awhile yet. Also, I have so many career-and-general-adventure-oriented goals I wish to accomplish before settling down that I know I need many more years of singledom ahead of me before I'm ready for that step. I just... need to know. It's been a question on my heart a lot lately, and I would love for even the smallest bit of direction. If you or someone you know may have a few words of wisdom to impart, I would love to hear it. All contributions are welcome.
Finally, my apologies for my absence this past month. It's not exactly a triumphant return to blogging if I post for a few months and then take a month-long sabbatical, but there it is. I'm sure a post is coming that will address further what has been percolating in the mind and heart of your resident wordsmith.
You may take this to be cliche, or trite, or even fake, but if you heard the way in which it was uttered, you would reconsider your cynical take. Normally such a simple compliment would not lead me to a contemplative discourse on intimacy, yet the utter sincerity with which he said it made it something entirely different from an offhand comment. Don't get me wrong, he has complimented me before, but this was so unexpected, especially when it was given in a moment when I felt at best rather tired and sweaty. I was, of course, not wearing any makeup, my hair was back in my typical sloppy ponytail, and yet he was looking at me so carefully, so delicately, as if to admire me was to break me in some way. He simply looked with an openness and honesty and told me very matter-of-factly that I was beautiful. He even admitted that he didn't know why, but just said that I "glowed."
He's good to me, that one.
On a related note, this is something I've been pondering for awhile. For the duration of my young life thus far, I have had an unnatural dislike for the term "boyfriend." Let me explain. "Girlfriend" is an entirely acceptable term. I have no problem with tossing it around. I rather enjoy it when Daniel refers to me as his girlfriend. However, once people see me with my gentleman and inquire, "Ohh, Holly, is that your BOYFRIEND?!" I get a strange feeling of discomfort. Don't get all Freudian on me and declare it simply must be related to my inability to commit and whatnot. I have had serious relationships in my life. I am a powerfully loyal individual. That said, what is up with my aversion to this term? Has anyone else had this issue? I think it might be related to my love for words and specific letters, and the way words look and sound when seen and uttered, respectively, and that I appreciate "girl" as a word better than "boy," thus leading to a strange preference for one term over the other. However, I can't help but wonder... fellow wordsmiths, do you copy? Anyone? Anyone? Bueller?
Also, a question to you married folk out there. I know it's been asked by every prepubescent child that's ever had a crush, and by those my age who struggle to find their vocation in life, but I'll ask it again, just to see if anyone out there in the blogosphere cares to aid my internal quandary. How did you KNOW that the person you married was the one for you? If you don't have any advice beyond, "It was just a feeling, I just KNEW" - that's okay. I want as many opinions on this as possible. Being a twenty-something, I have so many friends getting married/already married/starting families that I can't help but wonder how people younger than me seemed to figure it out before I did, with "it" of course being the answer to that ultimate question posed above. What's a free-spirited, mostly-independent, happily-committed-to-a-sweet-gentleman twenty-something to do?
Don't fret, dear reader [s, if you do indeed exist in plural form]. I will not be tying the knot anytime soon. My current significant other has made it very clear he isn't even thinking about marriage (to anyone, not just in reference to me) until after he has his degree, which won't be until this May, so that's awhile yet. Also, I have so many career-and-general-adventure-oriented goals I wish to accomplish before settling down that I know I need many more years of singledom ahead of me before I'm ready for that step. I just... need to know. It's been a question on my heart a lot lately, and I would love for even the smallest bit of direction. If you or someone you know may have a few words of wisdom to impart, I would love to hear it. All contributions are welcome.
Finally, my apologies for my absence this past month. It's not exactly a triumphant return to blogging if I post for a few months and then take a month-long sabbatical, but there it is. I'm sure a post is coming that will address further what has been percolating in the mind and heart of your resident wordsmith.
31 July 2008
but I found a driver and that's a start
My impromptu trip to Chicago, in photographic form.
Let's start at the beginning, shall we?
[Apologies in advance for any bizarre spacing or formatting here. It's my first post involving extensive photographs on Blogger. I used to post pics on Xanga pretty regularly, but this site is slightly different to operate, as I'm sure some of you know. And when I say some of you, I mean my lone reader. Irrelevant tangent over: on with the show!]
Chillaxing in Fort Wayne "International" Airport. Blogging it up. Note how the hair actually looks decent at this early point in the day.
Reading all the hotel literature. I have to admit, I LOVE hotel amenities. I steal the pens and paper from every hotel room I've ever stayed in. And my family is really into traveling... so that rather makes for a lot of hotel pens. But they always write so well... [that makes it okay, says KleptoHolly. You all agree, right?]
What I love about my trip: I went with absolutely no idea what I was going to do upon my arrival in the city. I browsed some of the touristy literature available in the hotel lobby; that, combined with my memories of my fifth-grade field trip to Chi-town led to choose Navy Pier as my evening destination. The front desk clerk was extremely helpful and called a cab for me and everything. I adore people-watching.
I took this for my dad. Well, my whole family, really. We're really into cycling as a sport; my family recorded every single day's full coverage of the Tour de France on Versus. My dad and sister created fantasy teams [it's a real contest online during the Tour, they're not just insane] to compare to the winners, and we made predictions each day. We've been doing it for years. The commentators are bloody brilliant. I did immediately think of my dad when taking this photograph though; this is a bike rental shop, and they have a veritable HORDE of Treks! Those are REALLY EXPENSIVE BIKES! No wonder renting them is pricey, too.
I found a place to eat at the rail of Charlie's Ale House, inside the Pavilion at Navy Pier. It was a small, but bustling restaurant (I think it had a much larger outside patio, but I didn't really look that closely, I must admit. Too much fodder for observation indoors). The bartenders were both Hispanic, and the one that waited on me in particular was Francisco and spoke at approximately ninety miles an hour. He moved about that quickly, too. Very thorough, though, and quite funny as well. I struck up a conversation with a woman who inquired what I was eating and ordered the same thing for takeaway. She informed me there were fireworks that night at nine-thirty; naturally, I had to stay for the show, mainly because I love fireworks. And also Strongbow. If you haven't had it before, it's hard cider from England, and is TASTY. Best on draft, second best in a bottle, worst in a can. Unfortunately, it's rather hard to come by here in the States. Trust me, though, it's worth the effort.
I realize it's blurry, but I have to admit, after staring at it for awhile, I realized this photograph is perfect the way it is. This is exactly what it was like on the Pier. I was strolling along, basically letting the crowd shunt me along as people flew by in all directions. I love how the woman in white in the left foreground looks like she's just flying. It's amazing how a place that's meant for entertainment and, presumably, a good time, turns into such an occasion for stress and hurry for some people. It's definitely enjoyable to watch the hustle and bustle whilst meandering along, letting the cool breeze off the lake play with my skirt. Beautiful.
Snarky self-portraint on my way out of the hotel the next morning. I have a really crappy camera and shiny skin, okay? Step off. Seriously, though, I've been meaning to get a new camera for years. Mine is ancient and bulky and slow. But I do desperately love that jacket I'm sporting. Mmm. Nice and cheap, too! I've had it for months and haven't really had an occasion to wear it, so I'm glad I finally got to.
[Apologies in advance for any bizarre spacing or formatting here. It's my first post involving extensive photographs on Blogger. I used to post pics on Xanga pretty regularly, but this site is slightly different to operate, as I'm sure some of you know. And when I say some of you, I mean my lone reader. Irrelevant tangent over: on with the show!]
Chillaxing in Fort Wayne "International" Airport. Blogging it up. Note how the hair actually looks decent at this early point in the day.
Reading all the hotel literature. I have to admit, I LOVE hotel amenities. I steal the pens and paper from every hotel room I've ever stayed in. And my family is really into traveling... so that rather makes for a lot of hotel pens. But they always write so well... [that makes it okay, says KleptoHolly. You all agree, right?]
What I love about my trip: I went with absolutely no idea what I was going to do upon my arrival in the city. I browsed some of the touristy literature available in the hotel lobby; that, combined with my memories of my fifth-grade field trip to Chi-town led to choose Navy Pier as my evening destination. The front desk clerk was extremely helpful and called a cab for me and everything. I adore people-watching.
I took this for my dad. Well, my whole family, really. We're really into cycling as a sport; my family recorded every single day's full coverage of the Tour de France on Versus. My dad and sister created fantasy teams [it's a real contest online during the Tour, they're not just insane] to compare to the winners, and we made predictions each day. We've been doing it for years. The commentators are bloody brilliant. I did immediately think of my dad when taking this photograph though; this is a bike rental shop, and they have a veritable HORDE of Treks! Those are REALLY EXPENSIVE BIKES! No wonder renting them is pricey, too.
I found a place to eat at the rail of Charlie's Ale House, inside the Pavilion at Navy Pier. It was a small, but bustling restaurant (I think it had a much larger outside patio, but I didn't really look that closely, I must admit. Too much fodder for observation indoors). The bartenders were both Hispanic, and the one that waited on me in particular was Francisco and spoke at approximately ninety miles an hour. He moved about that quickly, too. Very thorough, though, and quite funny as well. I struck up a conversation with a woman who inquired what I was eating and ordered the same thing for takeaway. She informed me there were fireworks that night at nine-thirty; naturally, I had to stay for the show, mainly because I love fireworks. And also Strongbow. If you haven't had it before, it's hard cider from England, and is TASTY. Best on draft, second best in a bottle, worst in a can. Unfortunately, it's rather hard to come by here in the States. Trust me, though, it's worth the effort.
I realize it's blurry, but I have to admit, after staring at it for awhile, I realized this photograph is perfect the way it is. This is exactly what it was like on the Pier. I was strolling along, basically letting the crowd shunt me along as people flew by in all directions. I love how the woman in white in the left foreground looks like she's just flying. It's amazing how a place that's meant for entertainment and, presumably, a good time, turns into such an occasion for stress and hurry for some people. It's definitely enjoyable to watch the hustle and bustle whilst meandering along, letting the cool breeze off the lake play with my skirt. Beautiful.
Snarky self-portraint on my way out of the hotel the next morning. I have a really crappy camera and shiny skin, okay? Step off. Seriously, though, I've been meaning to get a new camera for years. Mine is ancient and bulky and slow. But I do desperately love that jacket I'm sporting. Mmm. Nice and cheap, too! I've had it for months and haven't really had an occasion to wear it, so I'm glad I finally got to.I'm quite confident I have one more post coming out of this random adventure of mine, but I did want to experiment with posting a series of photos, so I'll go ahead and let this one end nicely. Also, I've been watching "Friends," and the disc ended, so I have to switch it out for a fresh one. I work a double tomorrow at the 'bee's, so that'll be a fun one. Oy. Back to the real world, I suppose.
30 July 2008
nothing you can do but you can learn how to be you in time
I woke up this morning dissatisfied with my lot in life, and by the time I got Starbucks, had decided to leave town for twenty-four hours. That's right, this self-declared spontaneous gypsy is finally living up to her name. I felt a strong pull to get out, to just up and leave, pack a small bag and hit the road. I've felt restless before, but never in such a tangible way. It suddenly occurred to me that I can really do this. It's Wednesday morning and I don't have to be at work at the 'bee's until Friday morning, and the work I have to do for the office can be done in a hotel room or on a plane or wherever the hell I want, and the possibility of just up and leaving like I so desperately desire to do is a VERY REAL ONE.
So I did it.
I'm writing this in the Fort Wayne International Airport, which is kind of hilarious for those from around this area, simply because "international" refers to a flight to Canada that's available approximately once every few weeks. There are only eight gates; four downstairs, next to the single convenience store/deli/bar, and four upstairs, near the "museum" consisting of about twelve framed photographs stuck on mobile display cases. When you fly in to Fort Wayne and head to the baggage claim, a trio of old ladies greets you with individually wrapped sugar cookies. When you depart, you are probably the only person in line for security, and the employee who helps you find your ring after you drop it [apparently the metal detectors are so sensitive these days, a freaking underwire bra might set them off. That could get awkward.] strikes up a conversation about how women should remove bracelets when going through the metal detectors, but rings are usually okay, because he wears his wedding ring every day when he goes through and is almost always fine.
I can't believe I did it.
After I got Starbucks, I returned to my apartment and immediately started texting the BFF, who, in true KM fashion, encouraged me wholeheartedly to DO IT, JUST GO. I decided on Chicago as a destination rather quickly, due to proximity/travel time/excitement and whatnot, and immediately started Googling like a fiend - hotels near the airport, flights out of Fort Wayne, the balance of my bank account. I have to admit, after the initial rush of ohmygosh this could actually happen, doubts settled in, as they are wont to do. However, justification crept in right afterward... my roommate is out of town... she won't be fretting about me [she lives to fret]... the bf [look for another post in the future regarding why I hate the term "boyfriend," but that's what he is, bless his heart] is seriously sleep-deprived/working really hard on multiple projects/seemed kind of put off that I wanted to hang out with him so much last night that I went over to his place at bloody twelve-thirty in the morning/and therefore could probably use a break from such an insane girlfriend. It's perfect timing.
For the past few years I have felt a call to travel. I spontaneously decided to study abroad in London, and I loved it. It was exactly what I needed at the time; although I was also using it as an excuse to run away from all that was troubling me at that time. As a result, it helped, but it didn't. Paradoxical, I know. In the end, it was an incredible, worthwhile, culturally enriching experience, but only served to increase my thirst for travel and adventure and spontaneity. Ever since then, I have claimed to love spontaneity, to be a gypsy at heart, to live for the thrill of the chase of adventure - but I have done nothing to live up to those titles. Last fall, a friend I was getting close to at the time constantly retorted that I couldn't be random at heart, as I insisted I was - I didn't do anything but work, and go home, and read, and consume the occasional glass of wine. He declared that he was more random than I, due mostly to his impulsive desire to learn a musical instrument, upon which he purchased a ridiculously expensive bass and proceeded to teach himself a song way out of his talent margin.
Who's random now, bitch?
I'll keep you posted on my adventures. I hear my hotel has free internet tonight... gotta love this technologically savvy world we live - and travel - in these days.
So I did it.
I'm writing this in the Fort Wayne International Airport, which is kind of hilarious for those from around this area, simply because "international" refers to a flight to Canada that's available approximately once every few weeks. There are only eight gates; four downstairs, next to the single convenience store/deli/bar, and four upstairs, near the "museum" consisting of about twelve framed photographs stuck on mobile display cases. When you fly in to Fort Wayne and head to the baggage claim, a trio of old ladies greets you with individually wrapped sugar cookies. When you depart, you are probably the only person in line for security, and the employee who helps you find your ring after you drop it [apparently the metal detectors are so sensitive these days, a freaking underwire bra might set them off. That could get awkward.] strikes up a conversation about how women should remove bracelets when going through the metal detectors, but rings are usually okay, because he wears his wedding ring every day when he goes through and is almost always fine.
I can't believe I did it.
After I got Starbucks, I returned to my apartment and immediately started texting the BFF, who, in true KM fashion, encouraged me wholeheartedly to DO IT, JUST GO. I decided on Chicago as a destination rather quickly, due to proximity/travel time/excitement and whatnot, and immediately started Googling like a fiend - hotels near the airport, flights out of Fort Wayne, the balance of my bank account. I have to admit, after the initial rush of ohmygosh this could actually happen, doubts settled in, as they are wont to do. However, justification crept in right afterward... my roommate is out of town... she won't be fretting about me [she lives to fret]... the bf [look for another post in the future regarding why I hate the term "boyfriend," but that's what he is, bless his heart] is seriously sleep-deprived/working really hard on multiple projects/seemed kind of put off that I wanted to hang out with him so much last night that I went over to his place at bloody twelve-thirty in the morning/and therefore could probably use a break from such an insane girlfriend. It's perfect timing.
For the past few years I have felt a call to travel. I spontaneously decided to study abroad in London, and I loved it. It was exactly what I needed at the time; although I was also using it as an excuse to run away from all that was troubling me at that time. As a result, it helped, but it didn't. Paradoxical, I know. In the end, it was an incredible, worthwhile, culturally enriching experience, but only served to increase my thirst for travel and adventure and spontaneity. Ever since then, I have claimed to love spontaneity, to be a gypsy at heart, to live for the thrill of the chase of adventure - but I have done nothing to live up to those titles. Last fall, a friend I was getting close to at the time constantly retorted that I couldn't be random at heart, as I insisted I was - I didn't do anything but work, and go home, and read, and consume the occasional glass of wine. He declared that he was more random than I, due mostly to his impulsive desire to learn a musical instrument, upon which he purchased a ridiculously expensive bass and proceeded to teach himself a song way out of his talent margin.
Who's random now, bitch?
I'll keep you posted on my adventures. I hear my hotel has free internet tonight... gotta love this technologically savvy world we live - and travel - in these days.
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