two days, thousands of papers, and one large migraine

Today marks the second day of the new job. That’s two days in which I have received about 16,000 sheets of paper which include several regulation manuals, an employee handbook, and hundreds of assorted forms, documents, forms which must be filled out in order to process these documents, and documents which must be signed in order to receive the form which must be filled out in order to process the attached document.

And the next two weeks look to be filled with more of the same, at the end of which my orientation will commence. There’s a strong possibility that my sanity will also commence at this point as well. And in between lengthy periods of reading these various manuals, I actually get to sit across from someone who attempts to expand even further on the information contained therein.

For example, as I sat across Doreen today, a lady who also works in the Financing and Billing department of the office supply manufacturing company that I now call my employer, she explained, “now, the pink A.C.K. form is used in tandem with the green U.G.H. report. In order to process the orders these will both need to be filled out in triplicate. This, naturally, doesn’t apply when a 1055A is amended to the pink A.C.K. form, however. Though this will be obvious because, in cases like this, the A.C.K. form will be replaced with the blue A.R.G. form. If the A.C.K. is mistakenly attached, you will immediately have to call Karen and file an amended B8099, and forward all corresponding documents to Judy in the Business Office. Are you getting all of this?”

The answer to her question, unfortunately, was no. Because it was around this time that my brain completely shut down. When this happens, I go into head nodding mode, agreeing with everything that is said, usually followed by an “Uh-huh” or an “I understand.”

And for some odd reason, I question just how prepared I’m going to be to actually DO the job once my training is over.

the vacation is over

I had a second interview with a company last Friday, and with my unemployment checks quickly reaching that point in time where they will stop magically appearing in my mailbox, I was forced to take extreme measures.

I sent a Thank You letter to my interviewer.

I know that you’re always supposed to send these little ‘thank you’ letters and that recruiters, career specialists, and human resources people alike all strenuously state the importance of thanking your interviewer by mail. But, generally speaking, I’ve never been real sure what, exactly, I’m thanking them for. By granting me an interview, they take away from my ‘sleeping in time’, my ‘daytime television watching’ time, and my ‘loafing around the house while leisurely enjoying my third cup of coffee’ time.

If anything, they should be sending me a thank you letter telling me just how thankful they are that I took time out of my busy schedule to come in and let them ask me questions. Maury Povich and Dr. Phil wait for nobody, and by going in for an interview there’s a good chance that I’ll miss the latest installment of ‘Cheaters Caught on Tape!’, and then I’ll be completely lost during the next ‘Updates’ episode.

However, desperate times call for desperate measures…so Thursday morning I quickly slapped together a thank you note (with the help of a monster.com specially made ‘thank you letter template’ which probably means that yet another thank you letter for helping me create a thank you letter is in order) and I dropped it off in the mail a good half an hour before the ten o’clock pick-up time in the hopes that the letter would make it into my interviewer’s hands by Friday afternoon.

But not even two hours after my manic mail drop, I got a call from the lady who interviewed me…the same lady I had just sent my thanks to...and she offered me the job. The job that promised to provide money that the government was so cruelly going to stop giving me at the end of July. The job that promised continued food, shelter, and cable television…all of which are essential to my survival, not so much the food and shelter, but no cable television?!? I would surely die.

But right after accepting the job, depression set in. Because, at the precise moment I said yes, my five month vacation ended. Five glorious months of nothing to do. Five beautiful months of no responsibility, no bosses, and no painstakingly tedious work. Five extraordinary months in which I was able to catch up with old friends…Regis and Kelly, Montel, and Bob Barker. By taking this job, I stirred up those same feelings that I had back in grade school when the final few days of August rolled around and all I could think of was, ‘oh crap, it’s over’. Because two days after summer officially began, mine was finished.

Worse still, I had sent a thank you letter. Had she called just two hours sooner, I could have saved myself 37 cents. And as my first point of business come Monday morning, I plan on filing a requisition form to be compensated for that 37 cents…the price of a stamp, and the price of my summer.

subterranean parking garage dwellers

I drove downtown last week and was faced with the whole parking dilemma that plagues most downtown areas. The ‘choice’ lots are always full, and you often find yourself reduced to parking in a cavernous hole underneath an aging building. This is where I ended up leaving my car. Miles underneath the ground, after carefully directing my car around looping curves that were barely the width of my car, I found a place to park.

As I got out of the car, I noticed a lady and her two young kids come out of a nearby stairwell. And even though she looked harmless enough, I double checked that my car doors were locked. For I all knew, those two little ‘kids’ were secretly midget henchmen for the Russian mob.

She caught sight of me and, looking rather frantic, called out, “Thank god I’ve found somebody! We’ve been wandering around in this parking garage for ten minutes and I can’t find a way out! Do you know how to get out of here?”

Little did the lady know that my sense of direction is terrible, and is based solely upon the little arrows that you find on every map. Thus, my direction logic states, whatever direction I’m heading toward is automatically North…because when you’re looking at a map, the arrow pointing forward is always North. Obviously, this means that to go South, one must either walk backwards or hold the map upside down, both of which are clearly stupid ideas. Therefore, I’m always heading North. If I make a right turn, while initially this means I’m going East, after going straight for a while, this direction also defaults into becoming North. Though, this rule of thumb is superceded by the sun. Driving into the sunset means West. But once the sun sets, you can pretty much guarantee that wherever I’m headed, it’s going to be North.

With no sun reaching inside of the parking garage, every direction seemed to be pointing North…but while my sense of direction stinks, my ability to read isn’t too bad. So when I noticed a sign that pointed to an underground walkway that promised to deliver us to the Fifth Avenue exit through the Hyatt hotel, I decided to put my trust in that little sign and gallantly led the way. Because that’s how heroes walk, ‘gallantly’. And I led this poor damsel and her children to safety, right through the Hyatt and out onto Fifth Avenue, just as the little sign had promised.

As I held the door open for her…because this is what heroes do…the lady’s little daughter looked up at her and asked, “Mom, are we ever going to be able to find our car again?” And in the split second it took her mom to reassure her, I noticed a fleeting look of fear flash across her face.

In that moment, I realized that I may have been witnessing the birth of a new race of people. A mother and children, doomed to live out their lives in an underground parking garage, surviving solely on forgotten French fries that have slipped between the seat cushions of mini-vans whose owners failed to lock the doors.

And perhaps, years later when a motorist pulled into space 5C, he would unknowingly be parking right above the skeletal remains of a family of three…a family whose car still sat, cold and probably with a dead battery at that point, somewhere far below the Earth.

Either way, I wasn’t feeling hero-ish enough to actually make sure that the lady got back to her car safely. One heroic act a day is more than enough to sustain me.

the problem with movies today

My mother called the other day. Generally speaking, my mom isn’t up to speed on pop culture issues. The whole Tom and Nicole thing, she missed. The whole Tom and Katie thing, she’s missing.

And because of this lack of pop culture reference points, I was taken by surprise when I answered the phone and the first thing out of my mom’s mouth was, “have you heard about this Brad Pitt and Angela Joile thing?”

“It’s Angelina mom, and yes I know about it. Brad and Jen broke up and the rumor has it that Angelina was the reason they split. It happened a while ago,” I told her.

“Jen who?” she asked. “What in heaven’s name are you talking about? I mean this new Smith movie that they’re in. Did you know that this movie is about assassins?”

“Yes mom, I did happen to hear that the movie was about assassins…”

“Well,” my mother continued, “I just can’t believe all the gratuitous violence that they’re putting into movies nowadays. And Brad Pitt, of all people! He seems like such a nice boy, why would he agree to make a movie with so much violence in it?”

And I carefully tried to explain that the whole point of the movie was based on Brad and Angelina being assassins. That Brad and Angelina were, unbeknownst to the other, both assassins and that they were hired to kill the other one. I tried to explain that without this minor little detail, there would be no plot and no movie and that the violence wasn’t so much ‘gratuitously’ added in, but rather it was ‘extremely importantly’ added in.

My mom took a few seconds to mull this over before saying, “well, I still don’t understand why they both just couldn’t have been teachers…or something nice like that.”

I just shook my head and said, “yes, mom, that probably would have made for a much better movie.” And I couldn’t help but think that, if left to my mother, The Godfather would have been the epic saga of how a younger son rises to take over the family business…a pizza shop…run by the lovable Corleone family.

Hollywood doesn’t realize how lucky it is that my mother never decided to venture out West.

a long way to travel

I live on the eighth floor of an apartment building, and there are things that I’m just not used to seeing anymore. People walking by my window, for instance, and the presence of certain bugs. Long gone are the days when crickets would overrun my lower floored apartment, playing an insect version of Marco Polo as I desperately tried to find them based solely on their incessant chirping.

So when I saw one lone ant crawling up my wall the other day, it came as a surprise. I realize, of course, that ants can pretty much go anywhere…but the very fact that one would climb up eight stories, simply to visit me, caught me off guard.

Granted, I’m sure that there are little crumbs of Pop Tarts upon my kitchen floor, but is the prospect of obtaining a morsel of a cinnamon flavored breakfast snack reason enough to make the journey? Surely, in the seven floors and 70 apartments below me, someone also shares in my love for Pop Tarts and has left a few crumbs behind.

And as I sat watching this ant, I realized that I may be looking upon the Christopher Columbus of the ant world…an ant that kissed the missus and children ants goodbye, and decided to set off and explore the great unknown. An ant that was in search of a better world, perhaps one where the floors were all made of chocolate icing and where there were mountains of potato chips lying around just asking to be eaten. An ant that would be remembered by future generations of school aged ants, little ant biographies written about him, seeing brave new worlds, finding hidden treasure in each new apartment he ventured into, and establishing a better life for all ants that would come after him.

I stared, rather in awe, of this pioneering ant and the spirit of exploration that seems to pervade life. The need and desire to create our own destiny and make sense of the world around us. I actually respected this little ant.

And then I squashed him.

Because if there’s one thing this ant needed to learn it’s that innovation is a painful process. Besides, he really should have been using the buddy system.

the smudge

I was out last night with a lady friend who was quite over-active in the neck nibbling department. According to her, I left her with hickeys in the past. She was determined to reciprocate in this area.

Today, the family was meeting at my parent's house for my youngest brothers' birthday. And as we were sitting around the dining room table, it was pointed out that I had a 'smudge' on my neck. At this observation, the whole family needed to investigate further that, yes, it was indeed a smudge. My mother, who was sitting nearby, flew into mother mode...meaning that any smudge needed to be quickly vanquished…because, as everyone knows, rule #471.2 section A in the mothering handbook states that the presence of smudges whether they be on the face, neck, wall, or anywhere else, is a clear indication of poor mothering and could lead to the revoking of a mother’s mothering license.

It was soon established, however, that this was clearly not a smudge and was apparently some type of bruise. This led to a prompt inquiry as to how this bruise came to be.

"See," I explained, "I was at this bar last night, and it was really crowded...which is surprising, because generally this bar isn't one of the 'hot' spots in town. I tried to get up to the bar to get a drink but there was just too many people. I heard someone mention that there was a Gun Expo going on at a nearby convention center and being that I'm generally uneasy around gun fanatics who are also alcohol fanatics, I thought it would be best to not push my way through. So I circled around back near where the wait staff picked up their orders because usually you can squeeze in there. So in heading toward the back of the bar, I had to pass by the air hockey machines, and I noticed that there was an intense game going on between two guys. There were several empty shot glasses already lined up along side of the machine and I guess that this combination of alcohol and wagering on who bought the next round of shots had these two guys playing for blood. I noticed that the puck was really zipping back and forth and NASCAR speed and the next thing I knew, this hard little plastic puck came flying off the table and nailed me right in the neck. The guys were apologetic, though, and actually bought me a drink, but obviously this is how the mark got there."

"Uh-huh," my brother responded, "and how, exactly, did you get that other bruise on the opposite side of your neck."

Having already committed to my story, I came up with the best explanation possible. "It ricocheted."

And in the uncomfortable pause that followed, I decided that next year I was going to skip the party and just send a card instead.

because of a bubble

My parents recently went to Bob Evans for dinner. The restaurants with the fancy and colorful alcoholic drinks are just too trendy for them. Bob Evans, with its country home cooking appeal is much more their speed.

My mom prefers the waffles with fruit on top and my dad has always been a biscuit and gravy fan. Once they were seated, their menus barely having been looked through since their orders have remained pretty stable for several years now, they waited for their server to come with the coffee and to take their waffle and biscuit order.

Their waiter for the evening, a young boy who was obviously new, approached their table. The boy only had two other tables, but was clearly lost in a major fog of confusion. One of his tables was speaking to the manager, pleading that he bring them the check that they had asked for over 15 minutes ago, and his other table was trying to flag down this same manager to ask for their two Diet Cokes because the boy had brought them cups of decaf coffee instead.

As the waiter stumbled over and pulled out his pad to write down my parents’ order, my mom noticed that the kid was sweating profusely…which, in and of itself, wasn’t too bad. Following closely behind the visible sweat sheen, though, was a wafting scent of body odor, which, as my mom later pointed out, wasn’t too conducive to country home cooked meals. Despite these major roadblocks in a pleasurable dining experience, my parents bravely proceeded…their love for Bob Evans being great enough to withstand the lingering aroma of B.O. and an extremely sweaty waiter.

And this love for all things Bob continued, right up until the moment that my parents both noticed that the kid was blowing major snot bubbles out of his left nostril every time he took a breath. Breathe out, snot bubble expanded. Breathe in, snot bubble retracted. The whole process looking very much like a frog with an inflated vocal sac ribbiting from inside this kid's nose. Over and over again, throughout the entire time it took him to write down their order.

It was the snot bubble that sealed the deal. Once the boy left their table, my parents stood up and quickly fled the restaurant. My mom later said that she had thought about talking to the manager…but between the table waiting for their check and the table waiting for their Diet Coke, she really didn’t feel like waiting in line to discuss snot bubbles with him.

It’s doubtful that my parents will ever eat at a Bob Evans again. Not because this boy will continue working at Bob Evans for several years to come and not because all Bob Evans servers are now required to blow snot bubbles. Instead, my dad’s favorite meal has now been ruined, forever tainted in his mind...because, as he later told me, ‘That boy’s snot bubble was the exact same color and consistency as the gravy that always comes with my biscuits…and how the hell am I supposed to enjoy them with that image stuck in my mind?!’

Sadly, my parents now have to find a new favorite restaurant. All because of one boy’s snot bubble.

another example of how my genius goes unrecognized

My sister has always had a flair for the dramatic. And while she has never actually expressed any interest in becoming a movie star or model, her whole personality changes whenever there’s a camera in the room. Like most family photos, ours are an assorted collection of self conscious smiles and pictures that were snapped when someone (usually my mom) was in mid-blink. To a stranger looking through our family albums, we probably look like the largest group of misfits around…a family that clearly came from a distant country, unfamiliar with the language or ways of this strange new place…because everyone looks just this uncomfortable.

Except for my sister.

The minute a camera came into the room, she absolutely glowed. Her radiant smile, carefully choreographed pose, and complete ease at having her picture taken were in stark contrast to the unease that clearly showed in the rest of us.

My sister is now about eight months pregnant, giving me about a month left before unclehood befalls me. She mentioned how she was going to a baseball game with her husband tonight, and thinking of her combined pregnant state and her love of the camera, I came upon a great idea.

At eight months, her stomach is extremely round and large, so I suggested that she paint her belly white, add red stitching so that her stomach resembles a baseball, and then paint the words ‘FUTURE FAN!’ in big letters right across her midsection.

“Why let men corner the market on insane fandom?” I asked her. “For ages, we’ve been painting our bald heads to resemble football helmets and plastering large letters on our chests. It’s time to make strides for the women’s movement in this area!”

I felt confident that she could easily get television time from something like this, like a five second mention on Sportscenter or maybe even a guest spot on Oprah or Late Night with David Letterman.

She just gave me a very odd look and said, “You know, you may have just answered the evolutionary question as to why women give birth instead of men.”

reasons to keep driving

Last week, on my way to meet a friend at the movies, my brakes suddenly stopped working. By suddenly, I mean that when I left my apartment they worked fine but by the time I got to the movie theater, the car wouldn’t stop. Granted, the little brake light had gone off a week prior, so the suddenness was more the actual inability to stop rather than a complete lack of any clues. But so many little lights go off on my car’s dashboard anymore that I need to be selective in which ones I take to mean ‘emergency’. For the past six months, the little ‘door open’ light has been on when I know for a fact that all the doors are securely shut. Thus, when the ‘brake’ light came on, the very fact that the brakes worked seemed to indicate that this was simply another little quirk which my car had developed.

Luckily, there happened to be a Pep Boys near the theater. And though my car wouldn’t stop, by pressing the brake pedal down to the floor, I was able to coax it into slowing down. And for the mere price of two vital organs, those perky little Pep Boys resuscitated my brakes which, as it turned out, stopped working because all of the brake fluid had drained from its veins. Which, as it further turned out, happened because the brake lines were badly rusted through. Which, as it even furthered turned out, was a result of my car’s underside having ‘severe rust problems’. Sadly, my car is on its deathbed.

I was able to finagle a ride home out of my friend, though the following day I had an interview about an hour out of town. This friend is an ‘I’ll drive you home’ friend but not an ‘I’ll drive you to an interview an hour away and then back again’ friend, thus I was forced to enlist the help of my parents in the lending of a vehicle.

The interview was at an AM radio station. I didn’t remember applying there nor did I have any recollection of what position I might have been interested in, but the very fact that they called was reason enough to go. Upon arriving, I realized what position I must have unwittingly sent a resume in for, because taped to the window was a sign that read ‘MAKE MONEY! JOIN OUR SALES TEAM!’

I’m not a professional human resources person, but I feel quite certain that ‘decent’ jobs…job openings which promise to pay over the minimum wage…aren’t taped to windows. And I bet that Michael Eisner wasn’t wandering through Disneyland when he saw a sign taped up on Epcot center that read ‘MAKE MONEY! JOIN OUR CEO TEAM!’

So with hope quickly fading, I trudged inside and met Sheila, a miserable woman who also turned out to be the lady interviewing me.

Needless to say, the interview was a train wreck. Luckily, it only lasted about two minutes. The highpoint being when Sheila glared at me and, in the tone of teacher reprimanding a naughty student, she asked, “and why, exactly, did you fail to bring any references for me when I specifically told you to?”

The truth was that I was not going to subject any of my references to the likes of Sheila. But instead of telling her this, I gave a brief summary of my loss of brakes, evening spent at a place not my own, and how I was therefore unable to bring the printed sheet containing the names and numbers of people who could assure her that yes, I could sell stuff and should be hired.

And after explaining all of this, briefly I might add, Sheila coldly looked at me and said, “I really didn’t want to hear the whole story.”

As I was leaving a few seconds later, gritting my teeth as I walked out the door, I couldn’t help but think that it would have been nice to have driven my brakeless car to the interview. Because without brakes, I wouldn’t have been able to stop, thus giving me the perfect excuse to keep driving…right past the radio station with Sheila waiting inside.