Jul 26, 2007

The Mystery Revealed?

Just a quick note here:

I was talking to my sister yesterday about where I should go to get my haircolor done.

[Tangent: Oh yes, I am a total Haircolor Whore. And I guess part of the reason I write so much about money on this blog, besides just being honest and talking about the things we're all probably thinking about but somehow not allowed to talk about, is because there are things that a girl requires. And she needs a little change to get her Tonics and Perfumes and Hair Dressings; her Gloves and her Fans and her Reticules; her Ribbons and her Crinolines and her Historically Accurate Sewing Patterns for Edwardian Under-Things. I am not even kidding.]

So my sister was recommending this salon in Milwaukee, and she said, "Okay, here's the number, so you can just call up and ask for Jackie."

And here's me:

"JACKIE?!?!?!?!"

Jul 23, 2007

Drive-By Truckers

Yeah. So. Above my desk there are these two sliding glass windows, just like the ones in some banks, or in those gas station kiosks where the customers can’t actually enter because they might rob the place. So pretty much all day long, I stare out of these two bullet-guard windows immediately in front of me. Immediately in front of the bullet-guard windows is the foyer (but if we pronounce it foy-YAY, it might take a little bit of the sketchy sting out of the gas-station glass), which is maybe six feet by six feet, and immediately in front of the foy-YAY is the glass door that leads out of the place (i.e. “to freedom”). On the other side of the glass door, there is some sweet parking lot action and a single evergreen tree, and beyond that, there is the rest of the industrial park. The sign at the entrance of the industrial park proclaims the area an “Executive Park,” but although admittedly, I don’t have much first-hand knowledge about whatever it is “executives” do, I don’t think it would require all the semi-trucks that are constantly coasting by my window.

[A quick tangent worthy of editor brackets[] instead of parentheses(): again, I don’t know exactly what “executives” do, but I do know that it involves wearing flashy ties and talking in these loud, booming voices all the time, even though everyone could hear them just fine if they used their “inside voices”. That, and for the ladies it involves a distinct lack of jewelry, while for the men it involves way, way too much jewelry. Oh, and it also seems to involve lots of *talking* about how much stuff has to get done, and lots of very quick physical movement—*grabbing* the pen instead of picking it up like a regular person, speed-walking to the toilet—as if the extra quarter of a second gained by grabbing the pen actually adds more time to the day. But, according to my observations, very little actual *doing* of stuff. Lots of blah, blah, I’m so busy, blah, blah, blah, I need a rush job, blah, blah, pressure I’m under, blah, without actually doing the thing and thus helping to alleviate the time crunch. Again, a totally limited understanding of these executive duties, but I’m pretty sure they don’t need semis just to talk too loud and speed-walk to the coffee maker.]

So despite the sign, I work in an industrial park. And often times, I find that I have completed the whole day’s tasks before lunch, or if I’m really unlucky, before my morning break. Then I have to figure out what to do with the rest of the day while I’m waiting for the phone to ring. Now normally I’d whip out a book, or at least a fashion magazine (see “Ya Get What Ya Pay For, Part the Second”), but as I have already indicated, the rules that apply to the rest of the work world don’t seem to apply to The Company, so I’m still a little tentative about everything I do. First I switched the radio station and then waited a couple of days. Nothing bad happened. Then I busted out the notebook and started writing. Nothing bad happened. But I’m holding off on the books and magazines as long as I can because once that cat’s out of the bag, it ain’t never going back in. So lots of the time I’m sitting there, trying to keep my mind active so it doesn’t atrophy like so much muscle. So I started keeping a list of the trucks that I see driving by my window each day. (I’m sorry to disappoint you if you actually thought this was going to be about the band Drive-By Truckers, who are decidedly more bad-ass than this blog. You can always check them out at http://www.drivebytruckers.com/.) I keep hoping that they—the trucks, not the band—will give me some insight into the nature of the universe, but so far all I’ve learned is that, for some reason, bread can ride in a semi, but Twinkies only come in a van. Here are the usual suspects:

Conway Freight

Plunkett Furniture

Roadway

Healthy Life Bread: “Bread Is The Answer!”
[Note: Is bread really the answer? Is that the secret I’ve been searching for all these years?]

FedEx Express

R&M Trucking Co.

Unlimited Graphix

Hostess Twinkies
[Again, technically a van, but the Twinkies still deserve a shout out.]

TopLine Furniture Wholesalers

Home City Ice

Dayton Freight

RPC Disposal

ViTran Express

Corporate Express

Bonnie Plant Farm

USF Holland

Yellow

Quast

WM Waste Management

Exide Technologies

JafRate

McLane Distribution

Keebler: “A Little Elfin Magic Goes A Long Way!”
[Word to ya motha, Keebs.]

Jul 11, 2007

Ya Get What Ya Pay For, Part the Second

Yeah, everyone knows that the market value of certain job skills are entirely dependent on the local economy. In A Town Near You, $11.50 an hour could get me significantly farther than it does in the Greater Chicagoland Area--although it still wouldn't help me make my student loan payments. So, given my current location, I thought I'd make a list of things you could reasonably expect me to do for $11.50 an hour:

1. Remove staple. Remove staple. Remove staple.

2. Insert staple. Insert staple. Insert staple.

3. I will competently file all manner of papers in alphabetical, numerical, chronological, or, if we're getting a little fancy, reverse chronological order.

4. I will answer phones--even multiple-line- switchboards--promptly and politely. I will answer basic questions. I will happily transfer you to the relevant party.

5. I will responsibly operate the paging system: "Chuckles, you have a call on Line 1. Chuckles--Line 1."

6. I will greet visitors with a smile, and I'll let you know they're here. I will even lie and say you're not here, when really you just. Cannot. Deal. With them. Right now.

7. I will stuff, post, and mail envelopes. (I secretly love operating the postage machine.) I will not, however, lick the envelopes to seal them. Side note: Once when I was temping, an office manager actually expected me to lick 574 envelopes for a mailing project. Never again, people. Never again.

8. I will participate in Office Craft Time. You know, I'll fill out the little Pendaflex folder tabs. I'll create your temporary signs--or "signage", as they maddeningly say in business. I'll make your Safety Star of the Week awards. Again, back in my temping days, I worked at a "solid-surface counter top" factory, and I was once asked to cut 100 4-inch diameter circles out of steel wool. I have no idea what they were used for, but I received endless compliments on how great they looked.

9. I will Solve Unexpected Problems As They Arise. I promise, I'll come up with something. I will not just sit there with dead eyes and a little bovine gum-smacking thrown in for good measure. The solution may be unusual or unnecessarily complicated or Not What You Want To Hear Right Now, but I'll figure something out. A solution you're delighted with? That costs extra.

10. I will respond promptly and calmly in the case of an emergency, including--but not limited to--the performance of the following actions: calling 911; applying direct pressure to excessively-bleeding wounds; keeping someone immobile in case of a potential bone fracture or spinal cord injury; treating shock; keeping someone calm and alert until the ambulance arrives; performing the Heimlich Maneuver. I will not perform CPR, as I've forgotten how, but if an employer wants to send me to a paid, two-day CPR course, I'll gladly go.

11. I will generally maintain a light, pleasant office atmosphere, which, let's face it, is the receptionist's highest (if unspoken) purpose. I'll laugh at your jokes, no matter how bad. I'll small talk the salespeople. I'll do the Non-Threatening Flirt with the delivery drivers. I'll basically try to make your day a little bit happier. Because really, why else am I there? Okay, besides the paycheck.

And for the extra $0.50 . . .

11.50 If pressed, I'll make coffee. But it's going to taste pretty bad because I never get the water-to-coffee ratio right .

Now of course, this list is not exactly representative of what I'm currently expected to do at The Company. As previously discussed, my dollars-to-duties is way, way off. So if you're only forking out a measly $11.50 an hour (in the G.C.L.A.), here's a list of what you can also expect from me:

1. I will not manage, snitch, hassle, or hustle. You want a little hustle? Then pony up, cheapskate. And no, you cannot pay me enough to snitch.

2. I will spend a lot of time daydreaming. My most recent go-to daydreams are about:

2A. Throwing an old-school tea party, with Afternoon Dresses and lacquered trays and petit fours and sugar in little cubes and those crazy tri-level serving dishes where each level is a smaller circle than the one below it.

AND

2B. Standing down in the pit of a raucous concert and making out with some random, anonymous boy in front of the stage.

3. I will make liberal use of whatever distracting media is in the immediate area. If I have unrestricted, unmonitored access, I will surf the Inta-Nets and the Inter-Webs during any downtime, no matter how small. I will find a radio, and I will listen to it all day. I will not set the station to "the Lite" or "the Mix" or "the Lite Mix" or "the Mix Lite" or whatever the hell. I will sing along with all the songs I like, and if I really like a song, I will chair dance.

4. I will write paper letters to my friends. I will write notes for blog entries.

5. I will play helpless or plead newness (as in, "Sorry--I'm new here!") if customers try to get me to do something that is either vastly complicated or not my job, even if I figured out how to do it a couple of weeks ago. And no, I won't tell you where Jackie is: "Sorry--I'm new here!" There is no Jackie. Get off my jock.

6. I will play ignorant about office politics, conflicts, and pet peeves, even though I learned all about them my first week via SuperHuman Eavesdropping.

7. If you yell at me, or a customer yells at me, or anyone else in or around the office vicinity yells at me or otherwise expresses anger/vents frustrations/conveys displeasure in anything even approaching a yelling fashion, I will do one of two things:

7A. I will go blank. I will get that look of frozen shock on my face. I won't be able to respond for at least a full 60 seconds after you stop yelling, long enough for your shouty-shouty to hang on the dead air. And then, I'll only be able to respond in a simple sentence like "I don't know" or "I was at lunch" or "But I don't use the men's room". I will be completely incapable of any higher brain function, let alone address any of the content of your tirade.

OR

7B. I will cry. Right then. Right in front of you. I will not be a soldier. I will not run to the bathroom. I will not take it like a champ. I will cry giant, raindrop tears, complete with big, snotty sniffles. And if it makes you feel terrible or guilty or awkward or uncomfortable, then it serves you right for being such an ogre. For 40+K, I'll take it like a champ.

8. I will not come in early, and I will not stay late--unless, of course, I'm getting paid overtime. If, by some strange glitch in the rush hour universe, I happen to arrive at work 10 minutes early, I will sit in my car in the parking lot and put on makeup while listening to the stereo until it's time to punch the clock, or in the case of The Company, until it's time to stick my eyeball in the retina scanner. There will be no freebies.

9. When I run out of stuff to do--i.e. the envelopes are all posted and the phone isn't ringing--the I will read fashion magazines. And if it's really slow, I'll bust out a novel. Just like the Office Babysitter.

10. I will make lots of lists. Stuff to Do Tonight. Stuff to Do This Weekend. Stuff to Do Someday. Countdown to Quit Day!. CDs to Buy. Mix Tape Play Lists. Books to Read This Summer. Books to Read Before I'm Too Old To Remember Anything I've Read. Important Concert Dates. And so on, and so on.

11. I will conduct my personal business. I will write out my bills and make doctor appointments and make hair appointments. I will check my phone. I will text my friends. However, I will not check my personal e-mail because I KNOW YOU'RE WATCHING, YOU INTER-WEB-MONITORING BASTARD!!!!!

And for the extra $0.50 . . .

11.50 If I'm deprived of basic human rights, like unmonitored access to the Inta-Nets, and I've run out of everything else, I will sit and do absolutely nothing, seeing just how long I can remain perfectly still. Because really, you get what you pay for.

Jul 2, 2007

Ya Get What Ya Pay For, Part the First

Right. So, I know it’s totally gauche to talk about money, but you know I’m going to do it anyway.

When I was applying for the tide-me-over-until-later job, also known as the oh-crap-I-have-exactly-zero-dollars job, I was looking to make somewhere between $12 and $20 per hour. Depending on where you’re reading this blog, that may seem like wishful thinking, but in the Greater Chicagoland Area, that’s an entirely realistic range for your receptionists and general office support staff with a few years of experience (which I have). Receptionist-only gigs run near the bottom of the scale, while office support and “administrative assistant” gigs run closer to the top. Even the temporary office positions pay about $14-$20—no college degree needed, just a couple of years of office experience and the most basic of computer skills. Were talking “Experience with Microsoft Windows and Microsoft Office Suite a plus”. Now, this is not because Chicagoans have a greater appreciation for the contributions of office workers, but rather because it’s just so damn expensive to live here. Rent in my county is insane. Not San Francisco insane, but still.

So when I went a little wild flinging my resume around on the monster.com, I kind of lost track of the places I sent them to. That, plus the fact that lots of companies go through third-party recruiters, and others sign up as “confidential companies,” although I can’t understand why, unless they have something to hide. So, companies would call me, and I’d have to pretend that I remembered sending my resume specifically to them, which was fine, but made me a little dizzy. When I did apply to an MRI clinic? Did I really apply to be a bookkeeper at Peterbilt? So when I was contacted by the human resources department at the Funny Factory, I was kind of confused, but it was for a straight-up receptionist gig, which I could do in my sleep, so I was excited for the interview. Plus, debtors’ prison was looking more and more like a reality, so I was pretty much ready to accept the first offer I got, provided it was above my absolute bottom-line, which was $10 an hour—although I couldn’t remember even applying for a job that paid $10 an hour.

The next day I went to the Funny Factory which, appropriately enough, was a Factory that made Funnies. Well, more like it personalized funnies. You know, you could get 10,000 glow bracelets with “Jackoff’s Family Reunion” printed on them, if you were so inclined. I aced the interview, and at the end of it, the human resources lady said, “Just so you know, the position starts at $11.50 per hour.” And I have to admit I was disappointed—it was the lowest-paying position I interviewed for—but I was also desperate, in the wallet area, anyways, so when I was offered the job the next day with a start date of the following Monday, I took it without hesitation. This girl needed a paycheck. Plus, I was only hired as reception—answering phones, transferring calls, greeting visitors. That’s it. So I figured it was okay money for the job.

When I showed up for work the following Monday, however, the story had changed. Recognizing my potential to do more than “just answer phones” or some such hooey, the Funny Factory had filled the receptionist internally, and my job? “Well, let’s not give you an official job title yet,” Human Resources told me. (I still don’t have one.)

The first couple of days I spent exclusively “doing paperwork,” as they called it, which sounds kind of advanced, but actually could have been done by a trained chimpanzee, or any vaguely simian animal, as opposable thumbs were the only real requirement for the task. Each day, I was given a knee-high stack of packets of paper stapled together. My job was to remove all the staples (usually three or four), separate the individual papers into piles (usually three or four), and then re-staple papers (in a new configuration). Remove staples. Separate. Re-staple. Lather. Rinse. Repeat. All day long, minus one half-hour (unpaid) lunch, and two (paid) 15-minute breaks.

I tried to make my task mythic by pretending I was Sisyphus, doomed by the gods to push the boulder up the hill only to have it roll right back down the other side. Remove staple. Remove staple. Remove staple. Insert staple. Insert staple. Insert staple. It didn’t really work, though. As much as I’d like it, nothing I do is ever really mythic. I once did a lingerie fashion show in the auditorium of a middle school (yes and yes, and yes I did) on the day that the US officially declared war on Osama Bin Laden—that got a little close to epic, but never anything near mythic.

After a couple of days of that, though, I guess my mad stapla skillz proved something or other, and the next thing I know, my days are split between a couple of The Owner’s businesses—half days at the Funny Factory, half days at The Company. At the Company, I became the Office Manager (but without the official title)—phones and greeting, yes, but also invoicing, shipping, order follow-up, ordering supplies. And back at the Funny factory, I was tracking down discrepancies on the monthly charge card reports, creating and sending proofs that “have to get to the client right now!!!!!”, and I was supposed to “hassle the salesmen” about getting their proofs to me on time. Totally manageable but, coming back to my original gauche point, far from the job I interviewed for and accepted, and far, far, far too much responsibility for $11.50 per hour. But by then I was kind of stuck—I needed the paycheck, but I knew I was totally getting taken for a ride. What's a girl to do?

If you’d like to talk to a chump, press 1 now.