This video, brought to you by Alan Cox and his afternoon radio show, illustrates perfectly why David loves living in Cleveland and it's not because of any Applebee's waitress. David loves it here because it is cheap. Of course, coming from Southern California anything would be cheaper. He tells everyone how much he loves Ohio because this state has helped him live his dream of being a homeowner and still have money left over for food. When I first arrived I would have gone back to California in an instant screaming, "Screw having food! I need sunshine!" but I'm here now and fully intend to "keep it classy in the CLE".
Friday, September 30, 2011
Friday, September 16, 2011
This Midwestern Life
The first time I saw spray paint out in the open for any dumb teenager to steal I froze mid-aisle and disbelief knocked my jaw open. It was a few cans of some horrid color displayed on a clearance end cap. Surely this was an oversight on the part of the big box store. A test to catch a thug. I thought as soon as I touched a can alarms would sound and I would be escorted out, subsequently banned and never able to purchase my suburban housewife accessories (Essie nail polish, Triscuits, and Magic Erasers) from this store ever again. I looked around for a camera or security guard and then reached for a can to merrily shake like a maraca. I shook the can for a few seconds, placed it back on the shelf and then went on to find David and report what I had just done. In a thrilled whisper I told him "Hey, I just touched a can of spray paint! It's not locked up here!" Where I come from (gang-infested Southern California) spray paint is kept under lock and key. But here in suburban Ohio the spray paint is out like an innocuous roll of paper towels.
There isn't much graffiti or "tagging" where we live. In our tiny hamlet it is mostly immature scribblings and crude drawings done by bored teenagers. I've even seen the "uplifting" kind too, such as, "Breathe!" Closer to Cleveland proper and in larger cities in our county there are probably more gang-related tags. I bet the spray paint is kept locked up in those communities but I wouldn't know because those communities are too far for me to drive to and probably don't have any good shopping anyway.
Monday, August 15, 2011
A Book Review: Fiction Ruined My Family
As a memoir about a family and its demons Jeanne Darst’s Fiction Ruined My Family falls short. How can this be a book about a family if the reader knows practically nothing about these sisters and their tragic parents? Darst barely touches on her parent’s Southern origins and legacies. This makes it difficult to understand any of the sisters motivations. How can we understand where this family is going if we don’t know where they came from? Even the author’s own pregnancy is a marginal story in a book that devotes a chapter to the comical irony of having pubic lice during Christmas.
Instead, it is about the author’s battle with alcoholism and living underneath her father’s mythical and fading literary shadow; about how children trying to ensure they do not become their parents end up doing so anyway. Darst explores the tendency for artists to seek dysfunction and destruction in order to create, mistakenly thinking true art can only be born from madness. These themes are explored in less than twenty stories; stories that were best the first time you heard them at that party one night in Brooklyn. Darst is a good storyteller even if she isn’t telling the best story.
Further Reading: Smashed Koren Zailckas; Drinking: A Love Story Caroline Knapp. Wishful Drinking Carrie Fisher; Dry Augusten Burroughs
Instead, it is about the author’s battle with alcoholism and living underneath her father’s mythical and fading literary shadow; about how children trying to ensure they do not become their parents end up doing so anyway. Darst explores the tendency for artists to seek dysfunction and destruction in order to create, mistakenly thinking true art can only be born from madness. These themes are explored in less than twenty stories; stories that were best the first time you heard them at that party one night in Brooklyn. Darst is a good storyteller even if she isn’t telling the best story.
Further Reading: Smashed Koren Zailckas; Drinking: A Love Story Caroline Knapp. Wishful Drinking Carrie Fisher; Dry Augusten Burroughs
Friday, July 15, 2011
Update
Usually when there is a large gap in my posting it is because there is nothing to blog about and rather than tell you things like: "Today I had four cups of coffee." or "Tomorrow it is suppose to rain." I just say nothing. But I've been really busy (lazy) and now I have an abundance of things to blog about and some of those things happened fast, like buying a house, I'll explain it all later after my head stops spinning.
Other things for me to tell you:
How awesome our house search was with a kick-ass realtor.
All about our visit with my informal editor, Tom.
When we put an offer on a house, how we felt when it was accepted and then Hell froze over.
My day trip with Amy to Lakeside at Marblehead.
Amy getting married.
More recently:
David and I went to California for two weeks and stayed for a week in a cabin (no Internet and no cell reception) with five or six of his siblings. The number of people varied from night to night.
We came home, our van broke.
I threatened to injure David as we moved into the new house.
So as you can clearly see I have a lot of catching up to do. I guess the easiest way for me to do this is to start at the beginning and when I get to the end stop. Starting tomorrow. I promise.
Other things for me to tell you:
How awesome our house search was with a kick-ass realtor.
All about our visit with my informal editor, Tom.
When we put an offer on a house, how we felt when it was accepted and then Hell froze over.
My day trip with Amy to Lakeside at Marblehead.
Amy getting married.
More recently:
David and I went to California for two weeks and stayed for a week in a cabin (no Internet and no cell reception) with five or six of his siblings. The number of people varied from night to night.
We came home, our van broke.
I threatened to injure David as we moved into the new house.
So as you can clearly see I have a lot of catching up to do. I guess the easiest way for me to do this is to start at the beginning and when I get to the end stop. Starting tomorrow. I promise.
Friday, May 6, 2011
This Midwestern Life Rains on your Cinco de Mayo Parade
Cinco de Mayo, the day the Mexican Army defeated the French in the Battle of Puebla, is regionally celebrated in Mexico and widely celebrated in the USA. Mexican Americans spend the day celebrating and sharing their culture. Everyone spends the day drinking.
I normally abstain from drinking holidays and the public displays of drunkenness they encourage. David went out last night and came home, rather early, disturbed by the food that passes for Mexican 'round these here parts. David says he ordered a taco and they gave him a giant tortilla stuffed with nachos. I am sad that I did not join him in the festivities for I was unable to get a picture of this abomination to share with you. David also came home sporting a pair of Mardi Gras beads. Halloween colored and emblazoned with the prerequisite "Corona" and "Dos Equis" logos. He assured me they were free. I can't imagine anyone actually paying to wear such a misguided mish-mash of holiday crap. I don't know what to feel sorrier about, the hijacking of Halloween or Mardi Gras. Though you have to give credit to the bar employee when upon finding the box of beads said, "Hell, these beads have got Mexican words on them! Get rid of them on Cinco de Mayo; we need the room for booze."
Poor Cinco de Mayo, a marginal holiday absconded for the purpose of drinking, just like St. Patrick's Day. I'll never understand how some holidays get the booze wash and others don't. For instance today is the day the Battle of Chancellorsville ended with the withdrawal of Union forces....okay so maybe that is something only the die-hard South would want to celebrate. Or let's apply the same logic used against me when I say I don't celebrate Cinco de Mayo even though I have Mexican ancestry. David's ancestors spent some time in Pennsylvania and I don't see him running around in a Union soldier uniform binge drinking for 3 or 4 days in July on the anniversary of the Battle of Gettysburg.
I normally abstain from drinking holidays and the public displays of drunkenness they encourage. David went out last night and came home, rather early, disturbed by the food that passes for Mexican 'round these here parts. David says he ordered a taco and they gave him a giant tortilla stuffed with nachos. I am sad that I did not join him in the festivities for I was unable to get a picture of this abomination to share with you. David also came home sporting a pair of Mardi Gras beads. Halloween colored and emblazoned with the prerequisite "Corona" and "Dos Equis" logos. He assured me they were free. I can't imagine anyone actually paying to wear such a misguided mish-mash of holiday crap. I don't know what to feel sorrier about, the hijacking of Halloween or Mardi Gras. Though you have to give credit to the bar employee when upon finding the box of beads said, "Hell, these beads have got Mexican words on them! Get rid of them on Cinco de Mayo; we need the room for booze."
Poor Cinco de Mayo, a marginal holiday absconded for the purpose of drinking, just like St. Patrick's Day. I'll never understand how some holidays get the booze wash and others don't. For instance today is the day the Battle of Chancellorsville ended with the withdrawal of Union forces....okay so maybe that is something only the die-hard South would want to celebrate. Or let's apply the same logic used against me when I say I don't celebrate Cinco de Mayo even though I have Mexican ancestry. David's ancestors spent some time in Pennsylvania and I don't see him running around in a Union soldier uniform binge drinking for 3 or 4 days in July on the anniversary of the Battle of Gettysburg.
Wednesday, May 4, 2011
"Your Vote of Confidence is Overwhelming"
Yesterday, we voted for local levies in our county. I had the opportunity to call several of my peers to ask for support of a renewal of one of these levies. I didn't get suckered into doing this. I volunteered which was strange considering I have a deep understanding of human nature. This means I know that people hate to be cold-called even if it is for a good cause. And so I began my sociopolitical journey, or "Operation Cold-Call or Nothing: an Experiment in the Insane".
I volunteered to call 10 to 20 voters. Since I am unemployed I reasoned this would only take me about an hour. How hard could it be? It was extremely difficult and painful. My list of 10 to 20 turned into 120. I guess there wasn't an abundance of people willing to call complete strangers and awkwardly stutter out a script. Each page averaged about 25 voters. I figured it would take me about a week to call everyone on the list if I did a page a day.
My first call was a disconnected number and that was either a good omen or bad - I'm still not sure which. I did my best to not mispronounce names and call at a reasonable hour. I frequently prayed to get a disconnected message or an answering machine so I wouldn't have to talk to a human. Most everyone I spoke with was pleasant or ambivalent. However, the task never got easier. Everyday, when I had a few people left to call it was like ripping off a band-aid. I just wanted to get it done.
Most of the calls were routine except for the cranky old man who informed he could vote anyway he damn well pleased. I agreed with him. After all I wasn't telling him to vote one way or another just asking if he might support the renewal. Other notable calls: Asking to speak to a voter and being informed by the person who answered the phone that the "voter" was ineligible as she was a nine-year old. Flipping through the list I wondered how many other children I was potentially calling. How many had I already called? Who compiled this list? I forged ahead but I really started to consider quitting when I called a voter and was told that she works at the institution that needed the levy to be passed. I called it a day even though I was only a quarter of the way finished with that day's list. I was now behind schedule. I wasn't sure if this was an efficient use of my time or anyone's time for that matter. Wasn't there someone else better suited to do this job? Well-behaved prisoners in a correctional facility? Juvenile delinquents looking to fulfill community service requirements?
While trying to not think critically about what I was doing and by just mindlessly dialing I was able to call every number on the list. I ignored the annoyance in a mother's voice as her child screamed in the background. The quiet and feeble voices of the elderly, as I no doubt dragged them from their comfy recliners to answer my call. I wondered about the disconnected numbers. Were these former landlines? What does the phone company do with the abandoned numbers as we move away from landlines and customers just have cell phones?
Now I understand why most committees favor mail-outs and recordings to do the canvassing. Cold-calling is truly a thankless task. The next time a solicitor calls me I am going to ask them how they manage to do their job everyday without sticking a chisel under their toenails. A paycheck must be their only motivation. My friend, Amy, offered to call some of the voters to ease my burden and I told her, "Calling these strangers is excruciating. It's a task I would not wish to my enemies. I don't want to force this on you and damage our friendship." I do, however, wish cold-calls at all meal times, Saturday mornings, and holidays on my worst enemies. Today, results showed that our levy passed. Next election time I will only volunteer to put a sign in my yard no matter what the annoying little civic-minded voice in my head says.
I volunteered to call 10 to 20 voters. Since I am unemployed I reasoned this would only take me about an hour. How hard could it be? It was extremely difficult and painful. My list of 10 to 20 turned into 120. I guess there wasn't an abundance of people willing to call complete strangers and awkwardly stutter out a script. Each page averaged about 25 voters. I figured it would take me about a week to call everyone on the list if I did a page a day.
My first call was a disconnected number and that was either a good omen or bad - I'm still not sure which. I did my best to not mispronounce names and call at a reasonable hour. I frequently prayed to get a disconnected message or an answering machine so I wouldn't have to talk to a human. Most everyone I spoke with was pleasant or ambivalent. However, the task never got easier. Everyday, when I had a few people left to call it was like ripping off a band-aid. I just wanted to get it done.
Most of the calls were routine except for the cranky old man who informed he could vote anyway he damn well pleased. I agreed with him. After all I wasn't telling him to vote one way or another just asking if he might support the renewal. Other notable calls: Asking to speak to a voter and being informed by the person who answered the phone that the "voter" was ineligible as she was a nine-year old. Flipping through the list I wondered how many other children I was potentially calling. How many had I already called? Who compiled this list? I forged ahead but I really started to consider quitting when I called a voter and was told that she works at the institution that needed the levy to be passed. I called it a day even though I was only a quarter of the way finished with that day's list. I was now behind schedule. I wasn't sure if this was an efficient use of my time or anyone's time for that matter. Wasn't there someone else better suited to do this job? Well-behaved prisoners in a correctional facility? Juvenile delinquents looking to fulfill community service requirements?
While trying to not think critically about what I was doing and by just mindlessly dialing I was able to call every number on the list. I ignored the annoyance in a mother's voice as her child screamed in the background. The quiet and feeble voices of the elderly, as I no doubt dragged them from their comfy recliners to answer my call. I wondered about the disconnected numbers. Were these former landlines? What does the phone company do with the abandoned numbers as we move away from landlines and customers just have cell phones?
Now I understand why most committees favor mail-outs and recordings to do the canvassing. Cold-calling is truly a thankless task. The next time a solicitor calls me I am going to ask them how they manage to do their job everyday without sticking a chisel under their toenails. A paycheck must be their only motivation. My friend, Amy, offered to call some of the voters to ease my burden and I told her, "Calling these strangers is excruciating. It's a task I would not wish to my enemies. I don't want to force this on you and damage our friendship." I do, however, wish cold-calls at all meal times, Saturday mornings, and holidays on my worst enemies. Today, results showed that our levy passed. Next election time I will only volunteer to put a sign in my yard no matter what the annoying little civic-minded voice in my head says.
Wednesday, March 16, 2011
Fantasy Snow
The snow has melted across our fair county in all but the most stubborn of spots like the bottoms of ditches and corners of yards. The robins are out picking through the gutters for nesting materials or food. We have had some sporadic sun and I would like to declare winter over and spring's arrival! We are all outside running around half-naked with flowers in our hair. The children are outside, half-naked as well, ripping out handfuls of verdant Ohio grass and joyfully throwing it in the air like confetti. I'm totally lying.
There have been, at least, two recent instances when the snow has melted and then we get hit by a storm that dumps half a foot of snow. Then we get flooded because Mother Nature royally effs up and decides to dump rain thus melting the snow and saturating the ground to the point where we have giant pools of water just sitting with nowhere to drain. So now it's muddy, gloomy, and still cold. I don't believe for a minute winter is over. We aren't safe from snow until May.
This is my proposal: instead of playing Fantasy Football we should play Fantasy Snow. We can bet on which month the snow starts, we can draft specific days or weeks when we think there will be consistent snowfall, we can bet on which month it ends. Will it snow on Thanksgiving, Christmas and Easter? I don't know. LET'S BET ON IT! We can guess the inches when a storm is forecasted. We can get the entire Midwest and East Coast together and pit our states or cities against each other during the Snowmaggedons. Governors would be forced to give a regional gift to the state with the most snow accumulation during moving stormfronts. It would totally change the way we think about snow. Instead of staring out the window cursing the snow we will stare out and throw our fists in the air screaming, "SNOW! KEEP SNOWING! I'VE GOT A HUNDRED BUCKS RIDING ON THIS STORM! TAKE THAT PENNSYLVANIA! YOUR FOOTBALL TEAMS SUCK TOO JUST LIKE YOUR SNOW!" Then the power goes out and you can't get online to check the bets and stats. I admit it's not the best idea in the world but it's got promise. There is some hope and luck involved when you play fantasy sports and that's exactly what you need when faced with a harsh winter.
see more funny videos
There have been, at least, two recent instances when the snow has melted and then we get hit by a storm that dumps half a foot of snow. Then we get flooded because Mother Nature royally effs up and decides to dump rain thus melting the snow and saturating the ground to the point where we have giant pools of water just sitting with nowhere to drain. So now it's muddy, gloomy, and still cold. I don't believe for a minute winter is over. We aren't safe from snow until May.
This is my proposal: instead of playing Fantasy Football we should play Fantasy Snow. We can bet on which month the snow starts, we can draft specific days or weeks when we think there will be consistent snowfall, we can bet on which month it ends. Will it snow on Thanksgiving, Christmas and Easter? I don't know. LET'S BET ON IT! We can guess the inches when a storm is forecasted. We can get the entire Midwest and East Coast together and pit our states or cities against each other during the Snowmaggedons. Governors would be forced to give a regional gift to the state with the most snow accumulation during moving stormfronts. It would totally change the way we think about snow. Instead of staring out the window cursing the snow we will stare out and throw our fists in the air screaming, "SNOW! KEEP SNOWING! I'VE GOT A HUNDRED BUCKS RIDING ON THIS STORM! TAKE THAT PENNSYLVANIA! YOUR FOOTBALL TEAMS SUCK TOO JUST LIKE YOUR SNOW!" Then the power goes out and you can't get online to check the bets and stats. I admit it's not the best idea in the world but it's got promise. There is some hope and luck involved when you play fantasy sports and that's exactly what you need when faced with a harsh winter.
see more funny videos
Friday, March 11, 2011
This Midwestern Life Eats a Pączki
On Fat Tuesday I ate my first pączki, a traditional Polish pastry. I don't remember pączki last year before Lent but I guess they are a big deal around these parts. There were even newspaper articles and pączki dances so naturally I had to see what these pączki were all about.
I was stopping by the grocery store for milk when I spotted a whole table piled with pączki. I warily circled the table trying to decide if I should bother buying a food David wouldn't touch with a ten foot pole then I went for it. Live to win! Buy the pączki! I carefully selected apple filled pączki hoping I would be able to force some on David and not have to consume all the pastries myself.
In Southern California pączki isn't a common pastry so I wasn't sure how to pronounce it. I asked the gentleman behind me in line who was carrying two boxes of pączki to my one. He told me it was pronounced "poochkey". I came home and consulted Wikipedia; there were some other pronunciations so I guess he wasn't wrong. Maybe he was using some regional pronunciation.
David was horrified by the box of glistening, iced pastries. He wouldn't touch them just as I suspected. He wasn't even dissuaded by the normalcy of the apples. Of course, I had at least three pączki and was sad I hadn't purchased cherry-filled or cream cheese-filled considering I was the only one inhaling them like I was sugar deprived. Finally, David broke down and tried one after I danced around with the box saying, "We are in Cleveland now! This is what Clevelanders eat! You have to try a little bit!" He said, "This is just a jelly donut." It's true they are similar to jelly donuts but they are made slightly different so they last a little longer than donuts. I should go back and get myself a box of cherry filled pączki. After all, I'm in Cleveland and I have to fit in, even if that means not fitting into my pants.
Friday, February 25, 2011
This Midwestern life goes to Pat Catan's
We love you! Take us with you! Our dead eyes will keep you awake at night!
Pat Catan's is the Michael's Arts & Crafts of Ohio. It is also a whole lot bigger and cheaper. I don't care how many stores Michael's operates, they pale in comparison to Pat Catan's. There is more random crap to delight the senses at Pat Catan's than even the best Michael's store can offer. I'm talking barn stars, mini-cornhole boards, and gigantic coffee mugs. Sure they have the basic crafting supplies like beads and glue but why get that boring stuff when you can get kissing salt & pepper shakers in the shape of chihuahuas!
I've stopped going to Michael's. Their pathetic 40% coupons that are never valid on the good stuff. Like this tub o' buttons I picked up the other day. I found it almost immediately at Pat Catan's and didn't have to ask some bored college kid for help. When I got home I set my precious tub o' buttons on the table and marveled at it. Then I shook it like a rattle, held it up to the light like a kaleidoscope, and as the buttons happily clicked against each other I wondered who is the person that decides what types of buttons go into a tub o' buttons? Is this person a button designer? What kind of quality control does this company have for their buttons? I shook my tub some more and said "Pat Catan's" repeatedly in an excited whisper because it has such a nice ring to it. Don't you think?
Monday, February 21, 2011
Eff you, Jack Frost
Today I "locked" myself out of the house. I say "locked" because I was stuck outside without the means to get back in. But really it was because we had an icy little storm last night that coated the push-button mechanism on the back screen door with rain that then froze rendering it inoperable. Normally, I don't even set foot past the porch step without my keys and cell phone but something told me that today was a great day to live dangerously.
I went out to drag in the trashcan that probably wasn't even collected because it was also frozen shut. (Oh great, here comes the trash truck having no trouble with the cans. Damn.) I gripped the icy metal bar of the trashcan, carefully picking my way up the driveway, almost slipping with every step. The warmth from my hand (I also went out without gloves like some idiot from California) was melting the ice and I feared it was going to stick to the bar faster than Flick's tongue to the flag pole after a triple-dog dare. After a successful haul with no sticking I went for the screen door and that's when I realized I was doomed. Doomed to stay out on that back porch step for all eternity. I frantically clawed at the door trying to wrap my tiny little hands around the handle to melt the ice. I fell to my knees and cursed the day I left my homeland for Hoth.
Actually, I popped over to the neighbor's for hot water to dump on the handle because that's the kind of thing Midwesterners do. If she hadn't been home I would have gone to the next house and if they weren't home I would have knocked on every door, even the people I don't know, to get water. No Buckeye worth their road salt would have turned me away because we are all in this winter together. If this was So-Cal they would have told me they "don't speak English" and tried to shut the door and then I would have cussed them out in Spanish.
The hot water did the trick so I handed the cup off and went in to the test the front door. It wasn't frozen so had I been in possession of my keys I would have been able to get in. The back door will probably freeze again so I might have to let David in when he gets home. He had a good laugh when I called him at work to warn him. Just like he laughed when the garage door froze to the garage floor, a few months ago, and I had to use a gardening trowel to un-stick it. Maybe I won't let him in when gets home. Let him frantically pound on the back door as the sweat slowly freezes to his body. Pfft. Who I am kidding? David has never sweated the small stuff. He'll calmly come in through the front, tracking snow all over the carpet and ask, "What's for dinner?" Must be nice. Real nice.
I went out to drag in the trashcan that probably wasn't even collected because it was also frozen shut. (Oh great, here comes the trash truck having no trouble with the cans. Damn.) I gripped the icy metal bar of the trashcan, carefully picking my way up the driveway, almost slipping with every step. The warmth from my hand (I also went out without gloves like some idiot from California) was melting the ice and I feared it was going to stick to the bar faster than Flick's tongue to the flag pole after a triple-dog dare. After a successful haul with no sticking I went for the screen door and that's when I realized I was doomed. Doomed to stay out on that back porch step for all eternity. I frantically clawed at the door trying to wrap my tiny little hands around the handle to melt the ice. I fell to my knees and cursed the day I left my homeland for Hoth.
Actually, I popped over to the neighbor's for hot water to dump on the handle because that's the kind of thing Midwesterners do. If she hadn't been home I would have gone to the next house and if they weren't home I would have knocked on every door, even the people I don't know, to get water. No Buckeye worth their road salt would have turned me away because we are all in this winter together. If this was So-Cal they would have told me they "don't speak English" and tried to shut the door and then I would have cussed them out in Spanish.
The hot water did the trick so I handed the cup off and went in to the test the front door. It wasn't frozen so had I been in possession of my keys I would have been able to get in. The back door will probably freeze again so I might have to let David in when he gets home. He had a good laugh when I called him at work to warn him. Just like he laughed when the garage door froze to the garage floor, a few months ago, and I had to use a gardening trowel to un-stick it. Maybe I won't let him in when gets home. Let him frantically pound on the back door as the sweat slowly freezes to his body. Pfft. Who I am kidding? David has never sweated the small stuff. He'll calmly come in through the front, tracking snow all over the carpet and ask, "What's for dinner?" Must be nice. Real nice.
Friday, February 11, 2011
You Can't Sell Books Again
It has been two years since I've had a paying job. I've done a lot of poking around since then. Poking at getting another job, going to school, or just staying put as some sort of a housewife/bookworm/layabout. Friends often ask how David feels about my lack of employment. Honestly, he doesn't care if I work or not. He just wants me to do what I think is best. If only I could figure that out.
What kind of job can a person get when they have no real skills and everything they enjoy is antiquated? I think about my hobbies and abilities and I have two options:
1. Go back to retail
2. Go to school for a degree in...?
Option #1: Though it's been some time since I stood on my feet for eight hours assisting people who wasted my time, left trash everywhere, and destroyed my work everyday I could easily go back. A clothing store, department store, specialty shop or even back to Stables & Grand Booksellers. At least, I could have gone back to S&G before their core competencies shifted from actual books to e-readers. I know, in my heart, I can never work at S&G ever again. If I had really wanted to stay with them I would have moved up the management ladder when I had the chance instead of staying a glorified book waitress. So that leaves some other store.
I'm hesitant to apply to any store that upon seeing my retail experience will give me a managerial position. I never was a key holding, cash handling manager at S&G. That's what I loved about the job. I was simply a lead on the book floor. But let's talk about the real reason I haven't applied at any retail establishment since I moved: Retail sucks. Sure, it can have its merits: flexible schedule, good discounts, good for active/social types. But really, it sucks. At its best retail is tedious and unforgiving. Retail has become so unforgiving that some employers give an applicant an online personality test to screen them before granting an interview. On a whim, I applied for a job at a store (let's call it KDNickel) took their online personality test only to find myself failing it. I guess I wasn't "rah rah I love KDNickel!" enough for them. I guess having four years retail experience, being honest and hardworking isn't good enough for KDNickel. Nope, you might not be able to string a sentence together but if you shop exclusively at KDNickel you're in. I hate you retail.
Option #2: The thought of enrolling in any sort of institute of learning makes me want to scratch my eyes out. I don't want to do the paperwork, jump through the hoops, and part with the bags of cash. Furthermore, I don't want to graduate in 3 to 6 years with a degree that doesn't guarantee anything other than I can sit in a chair and turn assignments in on time. Yes, a degree might increase my chances of securing employment in a chosen field but it might not. Not to mention the fact that I don't even have a freakin' clue what to go to school to study. I'm not one of those people that can flit around campus trying this and trying that until I arrive at a major. When and if I go to school I am going to go, get it over with, and be done forever. I might be looking at school the wrong way. Maybe I should just suck it up and try it. You never know, I might like it. Or I might want to scream and hide in my house for a few years until I can mix with the general population without hissing.
There is still time for me to work it out. Soon we will start the costly and time consuming home searching/buying process. Not a search I want to start with a new job or full semester of school. Until then I will keep twiddling my thumbs and meditating on my next step.
What kind of job can a person get when they have no real skills and everything they enjoy is antiquated? I think about my hobbies and abilities and I have two options:
1. Go back to retail
2. Go to school for a degree in...?
Option #1: Though it's been some time since I stood on my feet for eight hours assisting people who wasted my time, left trash everywhere, and destroyed my work everyday I could easily go back. A clothing store, department store, specialty shop or even back to Stables & Grand Booksellers. At least, I could have gone back to S&G before their core competencies shifted from actual books to e-readers. I know, in my heart, I can never work at S&G ever again. If I had really wanted to stay with them I would have moved up the management ladder when I had the chance instead of staying a glorified book waitress. So that leaves some other store.
I'm hesitant to apply to any store that upon seeing my retail experience will give me a managerial position. I never was a key holding, cash handling manager at S&G. That's what I loved about the job. I was simply a lead on the book floor. But let's talk about the real reason I haven't applied at any retail establishment since I moved: Retail sucks. Sure, it can have its merits: flexible schedule, good discounts, good for active/social types. But really, it sucks. At its best retail is tedious and unforgiving. Retail has become so unforgiving that some employers give an applicant an online personality test to screen them before granting an interview. On a whim, I applied for a job at a store (let's call it KDNickel) took their online personality test only to find myself failing it. I guess I wasn't "rah rah I love KDNickel!" enough for them. I guess having four years retail experience, being honest and hardworking isn't good enough for KDNickel. Nope, you might not be able to string a sentence together but if you shop exclusively at KDNickel you're in. I hate you retail.
Option #2: The thought of enrolling in any sort of institute of learning makes me want to scratch my eyes out. I don't want to do the paperwork, jump through the hoops, and part with the bags of cash. Furthermore, I don't want to graduate in 3 to 6 years with a degree that doesn't guarantee anything other than I can sit in a chair and turn assignments in on time. Yes, a degree might increase my chances of securing employment in a chosen field but it might not. Not to mention the fact that I don't even have a freakin' clue what to go to school to study. I'm not one of those people that can flit around campus trying this and trying that until I arrive at a major. When and if I go to school I am going to go, get it over with, and be done forever. I might be looking at school the wrong way. Maybe I should just suck it up and try it. You never know, I might like it. Or I might want to scream and hide in my house for a few years until I can mix with the general population without hissing.
There is still time for me to work it out. Soon we will start the costly and time consuming home searching/buying process. Not a search I want to start with a new job or full semester of school. Until then I will keep twiddling my thumbs and meditating on my next step.
Wednesday, February 9, 2011
The Mothership
David's Bridal is the largest retail chain of bridal wear in the United States. Their stores pop up in strip malls like baby's breath in a bride's bouquet. When I was searching for a wedding dress, almost two years ago, David's Bridal was not an option. However, it's the number one stop on most brides' journey and it's where my friend, Amy, has decided to get her gown. I went with Amy, her mom, and her grandma on a preliminary dress shopping trip over the weekend in an awful snowstorm.
Amy is just beginning her bridal journey. She has a dress in mind, but being a bit of a tomboy with scant knowledge of the terminology made the process overwhelming and awkward. She is such a tomboy she doesn't even own a "little black dress". David's Bridal is set-up to trick the eye into seeing a boutique with racks of dresses to browse. Every gown is encased in plastic and basically the same color. Even a champion browser, like me, could not wrap my head around these dresses. They just hang limp like fish on a line. Shiny and delicious, but devoid of shape. When it comes time to try on dresses the brides are on display to each other. Other customers were constantly walking in front of us obscuring our view of Amy. It created a competitive and catty atmosphere.
One girl swept by as someone in her viewing party spotted Amy in her gown and said, "Oh, look at that dress! What about that one?" and Prissy Snobinson came to a dead stop turned up her little nose and said, "Oh no, that's awful, not for me." A rude, backhanded, and uncalled for aside. I stared open mouthed at the girl. In retrospect, I should have stuck my boot out and sent her sprawling to the floor. I should always carry a cup of scalding coffee specifically to throw at girls like her. But, in reality, the girl is a stranger and of no importance to us. She's a bridezilla and confronting her would be stooping to her level. No one wants to be featured on the local news after getting into a cat fight at a bridal shop. If Prissy Snobinson could look at Amy and not see that there was a real-live girl wearing the dress then we should ignore the monster parading in front us wearing a girl's skin. I heard at least three other people walk by Amy and say, "That's a pretty dress," because it was. It was simple and understated in a classic way.
Amy was a blank canvas and the consultants had fun bringing accessories for her to try. She experimented with veils, ostentatious floral headbands, and jewelery. As sweet and open-faced as a toddler learning to walk, Amy navigated the world of brides. At her next fitting she'll be stronger; having learned to walk before she ran. Then she can choose the dress that shall become her armor against the world. When a girl begins the transition to bride she must decide what's important to her, to her family and for the wedding. Judging from what I saw at David's Bridal, where brides from all walks of life merge, some brides have their priorities straight and others need to be reminded what this whole wedding tradition is truly about. Or walked down an aisle straight to a guillotine.
Amy is just beginning her bridal journey. She has a dress in mind, but being a bit of a tomboy with scant knowledge of the terminology made the process overwhelming and awkward. She is such a tomboy she doesn't even own a "little black dress". David's Bridal is set-up to trick the eye into seeing a boutique with racks of dresses to browse. Every gown is encased in plastic and basically the same color. Even a champion browser, like me, could not wrap my head around these dresses. They just hang limp like fish on a line. Shiny and delicious, but devoid of shape. When it comes time to try on dresses the brides are on display to each other. Other customers were constantly walking in front of us obscuring our view of Amy. It created a competitive and catty atmosphere.
One girl swept by as someone in her viewing party spotted Amy in her gown and said, "Oh, look at that dress! What about that one?" and Prissy Snobinson came to a dead stop turned up her little nose and said, "Oh no, that's awful, not for me." A rude, backhanded, and uncalled for aside. I stared open mouthed at the girl. In retrospect, I should have stuck my boot out and sent her sprawling to the floor. I should always carry a cup of scalding coffee specifically to throw at girls like her. But, in reality, the girl is a stranger and of no importance to us. She's a bridezilla and confronting her would be stooping to her level. No one wants to be featured on the local news after getting into a cat fight at a bridal shop. If Prissy Snobinson could look at Amy and not see that there was a real-live girl wearing the dress then we should ignore the monster parading in front us wearing a girl's skin. I heard at least three other people walk by Amy and say, "That's a pretty dress," because it was. It was simple and understated in a classic way.
Amy was a blank canvas and the consultants had fun bringing accessories for her to try. She experimented with veils, ostentatious floral headbands, and jewelery. As sweet and open-faced as a toddler learning to walk, Amy navigated the world of brides. At her next fitting she'll be stronger; having learned to walk before she ran. Then she can choose the dress that shall become her armor against the world. When a girl begins the transition to bride she must decide what's important to her, to her family and for the wedding. Judging from what I saw at David's Bridal, where brides from all walks of life merge, some brides have their priorities straight and others need to be reminded what this whole wedding tradition is truly about. Or walked down an aisle straight to a guillotine.
Friday, January 7, 2011
This Midwestern Life
Happy New Year! I'd throw some confetti but that !$#@ gets stuck in the carpet and the corners of bookshelves. Then I'd get all OCD and have to bust out the vacuum to suck up all the evil. Then before you know it I'm vacuuming the stovetop, and duvet. Anyway, the New Year means making resolutions we can't keep for more than a month or so. Which is why I'm going to try and keep up with "This Midwestern Life" Friday postings.
This week I had the pleasure of being driven past the post office of Homerville, Ohio (pop: tire).
There it is in all its country glory. It looks like a shed or See's Candy. I imagine Homerville is like the town of LaGrange (pop: two tires) which doesn't have an actual postal truck, just a dude in a station wagon with a car topper that says "POSTAL SERVICE".
There isn't much out there in those portions of the county, just dairy farms and the Amish. We passed by three Amish buggies and the people driving them looked cold. I can't imagine living without electricity and heat during the winter in the middle of nowhere. I commented, "I think I could live out here. If I had books I'm sure I could live anywhere". Not even five minutes later I was screaming, "UGH, how do people live out here!?"
An even bigger question is what was an Amish buggy doing sitting in the parking lot of a Dollar General. We sped by so fast I barely had time to register what I was seeing. I tried to figure out what they might be buying at the dollar store; your guess is a good as mine. Maybe they sell butter churners.
This week I had the pleasure of being driven past the post office of Homerville, Ohio (pop: tire).
There it is in all its country glory. It looks like a shed or See's Candy. I imagine Homerville is like the town of LaGrange (pop: two tires) which doesn't have an actual postal truck, just a dude in a station wagon with a car topper that says "POSTAL SERVICE".
There isn't much out there in those portions of the county, just dairy farms and the Amish. We passed by three Amish buggies and the people driving them looked cold. I can't imagine living without electricity and heat during the winter in the middle of nowhere. I commented, "I think I could live out here. If I had books I'm sure I could live anywhere". Not even five minutes later I was screaming, "UGH, how do people live out here!?"
An even bigger question is what was an Amish buggy doing sitting in the parking lot of a Dollar General. We sped by so fast I barely had time to register what I was seeing. I tried to figure out what they might be buying at the dollar store; your guess is a good as mine. Maybe they sell butter churners.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)
Subscribe To
Posts
All Comments