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 26, 2007
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.]
[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.
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.
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.
Jun 20, 2007
The Art of the Telephone
Here's a little tip for anyone who ever has an occasion to call a business establishment:
Be nice to the receptionist. Secretary. Operator/administrative assistant/office support staff.
Not just not-rude, but actively nice. And for the record, Smarmy Salesman Pseudo-Nice is only marginally better than not-rude. So really, nice. You don't have to kiss ass, just nice. If you've never called the place before, make like you're on a first date with someone who is not only hot, but also gently funny and kind to animals. Say hi, give your name, and act like a regular human being, if not because you actually are a regular human being, then because you recognize that the woman answering the phone Has What You Want. Remember, the secretary is The Gatekeeper.
And while I'm at it, let me chuck you another one.
Tip #2:
If you're told that party you've called for is currently on the phone, and would you like to leave a message in their voicemail?, never demand to speak to them "immediately". Because that ain't gonna work. And no matter how much you play on the windbag about how "it's really important", and no matter how many times you use words like "pressing" and "urgent", you're still going to hit a brick wall. Every time. The reason is two-fold and simple: 1.) If the secretary says the person is currently on the phone, then the person really is currently on the phone, and 2.) unless you own the business, sign the paychecks, or possibly fix the computers, no one is going to dump their current phone call for you.
Now, somewhere out there beyond the InterWebs, on the other side of a Compaq monitor from 1999, I hear a solitary, blustery "But . . . but . . . well, but I . . ." No dice, big fella. Not even for you.
Quick reality check: Dude, you're calling about acquiring Products. It's funnies. Or promotional pens. Or carpet samples. Or getting a Service. Photocopying. Back waxing. Whatever. No one's going to die in the two minutes it's going to take for So-and-So to call you back. I give you my word.
And since I'm on a roll, I won't even charge for Tip #3:
When the receptionist takes your call, all "This is The Company. How can I help you?", don't spoil the moment by demanding:
"IS THIS JACKIE?!?!?!?!"
or
"IS THIS KRISTA?!?!?!?!"
Chances are, you're wrong. And that makes it awkward. Then you have to get into, no, it's not Jackie. And it's definitely not Krista. And if you're all, hey, hey, but that's how I roll, then . . .
Tip #3b:
At lease nice it up with a "Hello there . . . IS THIS JACKIE?!?!?!?!"
And finally, Tip #3c:
Whatever you do, and in the name of all that's holy, do not follow it up with . . .
"WHERE'S JACKIE?!?!?!?!"
Dude, I have no idea.
Be nice to the receptionist. Secretary. Operator/administrative assistant/office support staff.
Not just not-rude, but actively nice. And for the record, Smarmy Salesman Pseudo-Nice is only marginally better than not-rude. So really, nice. You don't have to kiss ass, just nice. If you've never called the place before, make like you're on a first date with someone who is not only hot, but also gently funny and kind to animals. Say hi, give your name, and act like a regular human being, if not because you actually are a regular human being, then because you recognize that the woman answering the phone Has What You Want. Remember, the secretary is The Gatekeeper.
And while I'm at it, let me chuck you another one.
Tip #2:
If you're told that party you've called for is currently on the phone, and would you like to leave a message in their voicemail?, never demand to speak to them "immediately". Because that ain't gonna work. And no matter how much you play on the windbag about how "it's really important", and no matter how many times you use words like "pressing" and "urgent", you're still going to hit a brick wall. Every time. The reason is two-fold and simple: 1.) If the secretary says the person is currently on the phone, then the person really is currently on the phone, and 2.) unless you own the business, sign the paychecks, or possibly fix the computers, no one is going to dump their current phone call for you.
Now, somewhere out there beyond the InterWebs, on the other side of a Compaq monitor from 1999, I hear a solitary, blustery "But . . . but . . . well, but I . . ." No dice, big fella. Not even for you.
Quick reality check: Dude, you're calling about acquiring Products. It's funnies. Or promotional pens. Or carpet samples. Or getting a Service. Photocopying. Back waxing. Whatever. No one's going to die in the two minutes it's going to take for So-and-So to call you back. I give you my word.
And since I'm on a roll, I won't even charge for Tip #3:
When the receptionist takes your call, all "This is The Company. How can I help you?", don't spoil the moment by demanding:
"IS THIS JACKIE?!?!?!?!"
or
"IS THIS KRISTA?!?!?!?!"
Chances are, you're wrong. And that makes it awkward. Then you have to get into, no, it's not Jackie. And it's definitely not Krista. And if you're all, hey, hey, but that's how I roll, then . . .
Tip #3b:
At lease nice it up with a "Hello there . . . IS THIS JACKIE?!?!?!?!"
And finally, Tip #3c:
Whatever you do, and in the name of all that's holy, do not follow it up with . . .
"WHERE'S JACKIE?!?!?!?!"
Dude, I have no idea.
Jun 13, 2007
Here Comes the Flood
So here’s how it goes:
I come home from The Company on Friday, all ready to slap on my Tiara of Truth and tell it like it is about the life of the working girl. (And that’s the working girl, not the “working girl”.) As soon as I walk through the front door of my parents’ house, my mother says, “Oh, the basement flooded last night, and a bunch of your boxes got wet. You might want to check them.”
Of course, I instantly go into denial, O’Brien Style. Because the basement can’t possibly have flooded when I had the foresight to call home from work to ask the Ps to go to the basement and check if the sump pump is working. And there’s just no way all of my worldly goods could be sitting in a puddle of water all day long, while I’m obliviously sitting at a desk, slinging invoices and flipping phone lines. How could that happen? It couldn’t happen. Because it just doesn’t make sense.
Unfortunately, my denial only lasts about 12 minutes. And then I start to sob like the world has come to an end. Curiously, Great Big Girl is silent during all of this. Could it be that her powers are neutralized by water? Or just that Irresistible Persuasion Beams cannot, in fact, persuade a flood away? Could floods be her kryptonite?
So I go down to survey the damage, and it is not pretty. And since I really wasn’t supposed to be living at home in the first place, all my stuff had been relegated to the basement, so all the stuff that got destroyed is mine. I know it’s totally gauche to talk money, but we’re talking some serious money. At press time, I’ve lost over a couple thousand dollars worth of books alone, and I’m still working on the mess.
I am devastated. Devastated. So I’m hauling stuff up from the basement and just bawling the big boo-hoo, trying to rescue things but trying even harder not to get more and more upset by each new item I find destroyed by the flood: My hand-written (and only) script for the original version of Body of Knowledge. Hard copies of all the gorgeous e-mails you sent me. The rough-draft scribblings of a poem I wrote for you during a union meeting. Everything I wrote before the age of 24, just a soaking mass of wood pulp and runny ink.
And really, the most important things in my life are all little scraps of paper: the pictures of us trimming the tree back when I was living at Tart Central. My souvenir from that time we went to House on the Rock—a little paper prediction from the Automaton Fortune Teller, warning me to stay away from a dark-haired man who wears a lot of jewelry. The opening-night card you gave me that’s really a 30th anniversary card. The flowchart I drew up to predict your behavior at my Prohibition Party—the one I never gave to you because I was afraid you’d think I was too nerdy and childish. The Queen of Hearts playing cards I randomly find on the ground—always in my immediate path, always the Queen of Hearts, like a sign from the Universe.
Gone.
So I call up Trudie. (Again, it’s really easy—it’s just like Trudy-with-a-y, only you use an “ie” instead.) And I leave an uber-casual message, like I always do when I ring someone up in a panic, only to get hugely embarrassed about my panic once I hit a voice mail recording. Trudie calls me back, and I give her the scoop, and she’s really good about it and lets me rant:
“I just need one Good Thing to happen—just one Good Thing to give me some kind of hope—between the Faculty Job Search and the Living at Home and the Living in the Suburbs and the Being Completely Broke and the Alleged Video Camera in the Ladies’ Toilets at The Company (yeah, more about that later) and now a FLOOD?!?! I just need. One. Good. Thing.”
And while I’m pitching my little fit, I’m also rifling through my rescue piles, and I reach into a bag of performance art supplies (no, really)—in this case, mainly packages of colored tissue paper that have somehow resisted the water. And out of the bag I pull a full-sized Almond Joy candy bar, completely dry and, judging by the date I bought the tissue paper, approximately eight months old.
And yes, I ate it.
Could it be that Hope has a creamy, coconut center?
I come home from The Company on Friday, all ready to slap on my Tiara of Truth and tell it like it is about the life of the working girl. (And that’s the working girl, not the “working girl”.) As soon as I walk through the front door of my parents’ house, my mother says, “Oh, the basement flooded last night, and a bunch of your boxes got wet. You might want to check them.”
Of course, I instantly go into denial, O’Brien Style. Because the basement can’t possibly have flooded when I had the foresight to call home from work to ask the Ps to go to the basement and check if the sump pump is working. And there’s just no way all of my worldly goods could be sitting in a puddle of water all day long, while I’m obliviously sitting at a desk, slinging invoices and flipping phone lines. How could that happen? It couldn’t happen. Because it just doesn’t make sense.
Unfortunately, my denial only lasts about 12 minutes. And then I start to sob like the world has come to an end. Curiously, Great Big Girl is silent during all of this. Could it be that her powers are neutralized by water? Or just that Irresistible Persuasion Beams cannot, in fact, persuade a flood away? Could floods be her kryptonite?
So I go down to survey the damage, and it is not pretty. And since I really wasn’t supposed to be living at home in the first place, all my stuff had been relegated to the basement, so all the stuff that got destroyed is mine. I know it’s totally gauche to talk money, but we’re talking some serious money. At press time, I’ve lost over a couple thousand dollars worth of books alone, and I’m still working on the mess.
I am devastated. Devastated. So I’m hauling stuff up from the basement and just bawling the big boo-hoo, trying to rescue things but trying even harder not to get more and more upset by each new item I find destroyed by the flood: My hand-written (and only) script for the original version of Body of Knowledge. Hard copies of all the gorgeous e-mails you sent me. The rough-draft scribblings of a poem I wrote for you during a union meeting. Everything I wrote before the age of 24, just a soaking mass of wood pulp and runny ink.
And really, the most important things in my life are all little scraps of paper: the pictures of us trimming the tree back when I was living at Tart Central. My souvenir from that time we went to House on the Rock—a little paper prediction from the Automaton Fortune Teller, warning me to stay away from a dark-haired man who wears a lot of jewelry. The opening-night card you gave me that’s really a 30th anniversary card. The flowchart I drew up to predict your behavior at my Prohibition Party—the one I never gave to you because I was afraid you’d think I was too nerdy and childish. The Queen of Hearts playing cards I randomly find on the ground—always in my immediate path, always the Queen of Hearts, like a sign from the Universe.
Gone.
So I call up Trudie. (Again, it’s really easy—it’s just like Trudy-with-a-y, only you use an “ie” instead.) And I leave an uber-casual message, like I always do when I ring someone up in a panic, only to get hugely embarrassed about my panic once I hit a voice mail recording. Trudie calls me back, and I give her the scoop, and she’s really good about it and lets me rant:
“I just need one Good Thing to happen—just one Good Thing to give me some kind of hope—between the Faculty Job Search and the Living at Home and the Living in the Suburbs and the Being Completely Broke and the Alleged Video Camera in the Ladies’ Toilets at The Company (yeah, more about that later) and now a FLOOD?!?! I just need. One. Good. Thing.”
And while I’m pitching my little fit, I’m also rifling through my rescue piles, and I reach into a bag of performance art supplies (no, really)—in this case, mainly packages of colored tissue paper that have somehow resisted the water. And out of the bag I pull a full-sized Almond Joy candy bar, completely dry and, judging by the date I bought the tissue paper, approximately eight months old.
And yes, I ate it.
Could it be that Hope has a creamy, coconut center?
Jun 6, 2007
The Origins of Great Big Girl
Here’s the secret:
I’m actually not always myself.
Whenever I got angry as a teenager, I’d close my eyes, and I could actually see an image of myself or whatever shooting straight out of my body and into the air like a missile, and once it reached its pinnacle, it would explode, but not into a million little sparks of color. Instead, it would explode into a vast, miles-wide version of me. And then, high highhigh in the air, tall as the sky and wide as the whole county, I’d bellow in a voice that vibrated the earth and shook the squirrels right out of the trees:
I. AM. SSSOOOOOOOOO AAAAAAANNNGGRRRRRRYYYYYYYYYYYYYY!!!!!!!!
And I could see the tiny little people on the ground, their faces tipped up to the sky, and I could see the understanding in their eyes: Damn, that big girl is pissed off.
It was really confusing for me as a teen because I saw that un-bottled-genie version of me every time I got angry, or pissed, or righteously indignant. Every time I felt wronged or saw someone else being wronged. There she was, bursting from my body, trumpeting the truth that my soft, human body couldn’t seem to manage. It wasn’t until I was a little bit older that I found out who she was—that she was the other me, the superhero me. That she was:
Great Big Girl: Feminine Avenger!
Great Big Girl: Pink-Collar Hero!
Now, I’m basically a good-natured girl. I’m reasonable, logical; I like to have a laugh. I like to think I handle most situations with effective, if somewhat unusual, methods and a goofy, bumbling charm. But then there are Those Times—you know, those times when you find yourself in the middle of one of those absolutely ridiculous, This-Is-Such-Crap-That-It-Must-Actually-Be-A-Movie-And-Not-My-Life situations. Those times that are specifically engineered to try to get a girl down. And as much as I hate to admit it, sometimes The Man gets me down—particularly when he has his big black boot on my pink-collared neck. That’s when I feel the transformation.
Great Big Girl: Feminine Avenger! First began her work in A Town Near You, when she used to roam the streets with her do-gooder cohorts in the Genius Patrol—most notably her superfriends known as The Love Handle and Little Sister: Champion of the Underdog!. They stayed out late and fought injustice, all while drinking cocktails and bantering wittily (and drinking more cocktails) in their fiercely accessorized costumes. At the time, nobody knew that Great Big Girl was also a Pink-Collar Hero, since I—Lulu O’Brien—was a mild-mannered graduate student and teaching assistant then, rather than a mild-mannered secretary. And as such, people assumed I had origins in the middle-class, rather than the truth—that I was the big pink baby of a blue-collar family. So instead, Great Big Girl was simply a Feminine Avenger. She fought for the ladies who were wronged in love or bullied by bosses or who, for one reason or another, simply needed a girl to get her back. She became notorious for her favored Shove-and-Run technique, in which she would locate the offender in a public setting, push him down, and then disappear, leaving said offender to be ridiculed by passers-by for having been pushed down by a big girl.
But Great Big Girl has grown up. She has honed her skills. In addition to a Pink-Collar Hero, she has officially become a Force To Be Reckoned With. Here's why:
Great Big Girl shoots Irresistible Persuasion Beams out of her magical push-up bra!
She hypnotizes her target with the swaying of her hips!
She scores all the secrets with her SuperHuman Eavesdropping!
She lulls aggressive scalawags to sleep with her Soothing Telephone Voice!
She neutralizes her enemies with her Surprisingly Disarming Smile!
And here’s what’s what:
Great Big Girl does not get flustered or upset. Great Big Girl does not get bullied. And Great Big Girl does not fall for your tricks.
Instead, Great Big Girl says, “Hey hey, slow down, big fella. Where’s the fire?”
She says, “Hey Chuckles--quit riding my jock. Can’t you see I’m working here?”
Listen, Great Big Girl’s not going to take any of your guff, ya see? So why don’t you just turn around and take the ShoeLeather Express right out a here, Buster.
In short, Great Big Girl has the skills to Get By.
And girls, she’s got your back.
I’m actually not always myself.
Whenever I got angry as a teenager, I’d close my eyes, and I could actually see an image of myself or whatever shooting straight out of my body and into the air like a missile, and once it reached its pinnacle, it would explode, but not into a million little sparks of color. Instead, it would explode into a vast, miles-wide version of me. And then, high highhigh in the air, tall as the sky and wide as the whole county, I’d bellow in a voice that vibrated the earth and shook the squirrels right out of the trees:
I. AM. SSSOOOOOOOOO AAAAAAANNNGGRRRRRRYYYYYYYYYYYYYY!!!!!!!!
And I could see the tiny little people on the ground, their faces tipped up to the sky, and I could see the understanding in their eyes: Damn, that big girl is pissed off.
It was really confusing for me as a teen because I saw that un-bottled-genie version of me every time I got angry, or pissed, or righteously indignant. Every time I felt wronged or saw someone else being wronged. There she was, bursting from my body, trumpeting the truth that my soft, human body couldn’t seem to manage. It wasn’t until I was a little bit older that I found out who she was—that she was the other me, the superhero me. That she was:
Great Big Girl: Feminine Avenger!
Great Big Girl: Pink-Collar Hero!
Now, I’m basically a good-natured girl. I’m reasonable, logical; I like to have a laugh. I like to think I handle most situations with effective, if somewhat unusual, methods and a goofy, bumbling charm. But then there are Those Times—you know, those times when you find yourself in the middle of one of those absolutely ridiculous, This-Is-Such-Crap-That-It-Must-Actually-Be-A-Movie-And-Not-My-Life situations. Those times that are specifically engineered to try to get a girl down. And as much as I hate to admit it, sometimes The Man gets me down—particularly when he has his big black boot on my pink-collared neck. That’s when I feel the transformation.
Great Big Girl: Feminine Avenger! First began her work in A Town Near You, when she used to roam the streets with her do-gooder cohorts in the Genius Patrol—most notably her superfriends known as The Love Handle and Little Sister: Champion of the Underdog!. They stayed out late and fought injustice, all while drinking cocktails and bantering wittily (and drinking more cocktails) in their fiercely accessorized costumes. At the time, nobody knew that Great Big Girl was also a Pink-Collar Hero, since I—Lulu O’Brien—was a mild-mannered graduate student and teaching assistant then, rather than a mild-mannered secretary. And as such, people assumed I had origins in the middle-class, rather than the truth—that I was the big pink baby of a blue-collar family. So instead, Great Big Girl was simply a Feminine Avenger. She fought for the ladies who were wronged in love or bullied by bosses or who, for one reason or another, simply needed a girl to get her back. She became notorious for her favored Shove-and-Run technique, in which she would locate the offender in a public setting, push him down, and then disappear, leaving said offender to be ridiculed by passers-by for having been pushed down by a big girl.
But Great Big Girl has grown up. She has honed her skills. In addition to a Pink-Collar Hero, she has officially become a Force To Be Reckoned With. Here's why:
Great Big Girl shoots Irresistible Persuasion Beams out of her magical push-up bra!
She hypnotizes her target with the swaying of her hips!
She scores all the secrets with her SuperHuman Eavesdropping!
She lulls aggressive scalawags to sleep with her Soothing Telephone Voice!
She neutralizes her enemies with her Surprisingly Disarming Smile!
And here’s what’s what:
Great Big Girl does not get flustered or upset. Great Big Girl does not get bullied. And Great Big Girl does not fall for your tricks.
Instead, Great Big Girl says, “Hey hey, slow down, big fella. Where’s the fire?”
She says, “Hey Chuckles--quit riding my jock. Can’t you see I’m working here?”
Listen, Great Big Girl’s not going to take any of your guff, ya see? So why don’t you just turn around and take the ShoeLeather Express right out a here, Buster.
In short, Great Big Girl has the skills to Get By.
And girls, she’s got your back.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
