chopped liver

Many years ago, two months before I started sixth grade, my family moved to a new town. As with any move, my old friends were left behind and inside jokes and secret handshakes were soon forgotten.

As the new kid in school, I sat helplessly and watched as the early fall birthdays rolled around. Invitations were passed around and I was excluded. Those little cards with the words “You’re Invited!” seemed like the golden ticket which simply remained out of reach…if only I were cooler, or funnier, or better looking. But I was not.

I was out at one of those trendy nightclubs (the kind that turn out to be much less trendy than you originally thought once you get there) with my friends Randy and Rick last night and realized that even now, years later, you never truly get to leave the sixth grade.

The pulsating bass from the near-deafening music that was being played makes this club one of the popular spots for bachelorette parties. The bridesmaids all surround the soon-to-be bride, who is clearly identifiable from the veil that she wears on her head, as their gaggle moves from one end of the club to the other.

I was standing with Rick while Randy was at the bar getting drinks, when a bridesmaid from the group left the pack and swooped down upon us. Her attention was focused on Rick and she giggled as she deftly handed him a little business card while moving in close to whisper something in his ear. As she talked, Rick smiled, set the card down upon a nearby table, and headed off across the dance floor with her.

Curious, I picked up the card and read that this was an invitation at a “last chance to dance” with the soon to be bride. And even though I was standing right next to Rick, the bridesmaid never even looked in my direction. I had unwittingly played the role of the invisible man…blending easily in with the tacky décor littering the wall behind me. Suddenly, I was back in sixth grade.

It’s not that I aspire to dance with brides, but that I’m not handsome enough, or rich enough, or powerful enough to be considered worthy a last dance. In a world full of Filet Mignon and T-Bone steaks, I remain Chopped Liver. As this bridesmaid scanned the potentials and carefully selected the best candidates, I wasn’t even given a second glance. Once again, I failed to make the cut.

I was left standing there feeling like the kid who wasn’t yet tall enough to ride the roller coaster at the amusement park…wondering if I would ever get the chance to experience the sudden rush from zipping downhill and through all those curving loops.

I’m beginning to fear that I may never get that ride.

downtown roadtrips

I loathe downtown interviews. And since all downtown parking garages charge by the half-hour, with the price increasing exponentially every 30 minutes, I’m well aware of how costly it is to go beyond the 30 minute mark. The last time I interviewed with a company that was located downtown, I tried hard to keep things speeding along at a respectable pace. My answers were clipped and straight to the point. If a ‘Yes’ or ‘No’ question was posed, this is the answer that it received…no explanation forthcoming.

Yet, despite my best efforts, this interview ended up lasting 34 minutes, which included a sprint out of the elevator and down two blocks to the parking garage. My penalty for those lost four minutes was $16, eight dollars more than if I had walked out of the interview just a few minutes earlier.

Yesterday, I had another downtown interview. I felt reasonably sure that gentle persuasion to meet at a neutral location, like the Starbucks right across the street from my apartment, would not be agreed to. So, because I desperately need a job, I agreed.

My friend Gwen had taken Monday off, and with ample persuasion I was able to convince her to drive me downtown. “Think of it as a mini-road trip,” I told her.

“Yeah, a mini-road trip that will cut into my Young and the Restless time and eat up gallons of gasoline from my tank,” she countered.

“But,” I continued, “this isn’t just an investment in my future, but in yours as well. Think of it as a human stock market, and you’re purchasing shares of me. As I succeed, you’ll get dividends.”

“So you’re telling me that I invested in a dog,” she said. “Because, though I’m not great at math, a percentage of zero still means that I’m getting screwed.”

In the end, she agreed to give me a lift. As I made my way around her car, I noticed a dead wasp sitting on her dashboard. This is the same wasp that has adorned her dash for two years now.

“Gwen, aren’t you ever going to throw that thing out?” I asked.

“I leave it there as a sign to the other wasps. A sign that says they’ll meet the same fate if they dare fly inside my vehicle.”

Knowing her fear of all things bug-like, I plucked the wasp from the dash and tossed it into the parking lot. Gwen responded by repeatedly stomping on the insect for several seconds.

“It’s been dead for two years,” I told her. “Extra death induced activities really aren’t going to increase its deadness.”

“Better safe than sorry,” she said. “The last thing I need is some zombie wasp coming back to life and deciding that it’s going to seek revenge and maybe eat my brain.”

We pulled out of the lot and I started to give Gwen directions. “Oh, yeah…I know exactly where that building is. We’ll take a short cut down Second Avenue,” she said with the confidence of a city street driving veteran. And while some people possess an internal sense of direction that would rival the best GPS system, it turns out that Gwen does not. Her knowledge of navigating the downtown area more closely resemble a torn map, shabbily taped together, with a wad of bubble gum cementing the whole East side of the city.

With my interview quickly approaching, Gwen had us lost somewhere in the Warehouse district of town, heading down the wrong way of a one way street.

“Let me just ask this guy for directions,” she said as she rolled down the window.

The wafting scent of raw fish from the market place we were (illegally) parked in front of drifted in through her window as she was told that the building we were searching for was on the other side of town. She got directions and, after two missed turns and running a red light, she dropped me off at the correct place.

Exactly 15 minutes late for my interview.

Needless to say, I’m not expecting a job offer from them anytime soon.

She picked me up in front of the building five short minutes later. “You know, this was really fun,” she told me. “We’re going to have to do this more often.”

And with my current luck at finding a job, she just might get her wish. But next time I’ll suggest that we leave two hours earlier.

breakfast of champions

Pop-Tarts have been a staple in my life for the past several years. These little packets of sugary goodness have proved to be my breakfast of choice since the Summer of 2002.

My relationship with food tends to be somewhat obsessive. When I find something I like, I eat it very often. Everyday, this new food that I’m enamored with ends up as my lunch or breakfast…sometimes being both lunch and breakfast. This isn’t a new development, however. When I was just a kid, I went through my grilled cheese phase. This lasted from age five through age eight. Later, between my freshman and junior years in college, I went through my Wendy’s Cesar Side Salad phase. And, for a three month period during 2003, I abandoned my Pop-Tart addiction for Panera bagels.

And I eat these new favorite foods of mine until I am completely and utterly sick of them. The grilled cheeses, Caesar side salads, and bagels have all fallen off the charts completely. I have no desire to rekindle my relationship with these foods. Sadly, this is quickly happening with Pop-Tarts as well.

Having no job, Pop-Tarts prove to be my sole reason for waking up in the morning. The thought of that toasty little taste sensation is what pulls me out of bed. Should I feast on the Frosted Cinnamon, Hot Fudge Sundae, or the new Chocolate Chip Cookie Dough variety is my biggest concern each morning. But now, these breakfast treats just aren’t doing the trick anymore, and I’m not enjoying them nearly as much.

This morning, as I forced my way through my morning Pop-Tart, I had to admit that it just didn’t have the same appeal as it once did. I no longer look forward to that morning Pop-Tart. Rather, I find myself staying in bed longer and longer each morning thinking, ‘not Pop-Tarts again!’ And I’m lost. What food should I now turn to? What food will I look forward to each morning? What food will help me get out of bed, ready to face yet another day?

Being unemployed, people expect me to drink more. With no job to worry about, I can drink in the evenings knowing that if I oversleep, no harm is done. I can drink during lunch, knowing that I’m not in violation of any office policies, so no harm is done. However, I won’t drink before noon, because this might imply that my hobby has become a ‘problem’.

Of course, I could always pour beer into my Frosted Flakes instead of milk...which would not only motivate me to wake up each morning, but proves to be the perfect loophole in the ‘no drinking before noon’ rule as well.

The mornings may soon become just a bit sunnier once again.

martyrs wanted - apply within

I had a second interview yesterday at a private school for a teaching position. And while I had promised myself that I was done teaching, the need for a job took precedence over actually choosing what the job would be. Who am I to dictate what I should do for a living? Pay me enough and I’ll gladly wear any job title you’d like to stick on me.

The first interview went well. I gave the right answers, asked the right questions, and nodded at the appropriate times. I played the role of ‘eager applicant’ very well. I was asked what my salary expectations were. And I gave what I felt was a reasonable answer. I know what it costs for me to live…and I’m familiar with living on very little.

I did a quick, mental calculation of bills, food, and the fact that gas increases by ten cents every week, then added a slim margin more on top of this. And by ‘slim’ I do mean slim. Not paper-thin, perhaps, but definitely no thicker than an individually wrapped slice of Kraft American Cheese. Enough money to account for minor emergencies, such as replacing a shoe lace if one would suddenly break but not nearly enough for anything more serious than this. And forget about actually stowing cash away in a savings account. Luckily, my savings account is quite used to deprivation.

I gave a number that I felt was small enough for a school to afford, yet large enough for me to survive on. “I think that is a reasonable request, one which we should be able to match,” I was told. I left the building with a time and date for a second interview.

In this, the second interview, I was to teach a sample lesson to some students of the school. And again, things went well. I was feeling confident that the job was a lock. Confident that I’d again have access to a steady paycheck, albeit a somewhat malnourished paycheck, but a paycheck none the less.

After the mock lesson, the director of the school led me back to her office. “I liked what you did with the students and I’m very pleased with everything I’ve seen. We do have a problem, however.”

Problem? I thought. What could possibly be the problem? Is it my khaki colored pants? I can just as easily wear blue. Did I park in another teacher’s spot? I’ll begin parking down the street. Do I clomp too loudly when walking up the stairs? I’ll tiptoe from now on. I was sure that no matter what the problem was, it could be easily remedied.

“You see,” she continued, “I know I had told you previously that I felt we could meet your salary demands, but I’ve decided that the teaching position will have a starting salary of $20,000. This is what I’m prepared to offer you. Keep in mind, however, that we all need to make sacrifices for the good of the students.”

Once again, a few quick mental calculations made it clear that with the salary they were offering, I would only be able to survive if a few cutbacks were made in my life style. Cutbacks that would include either food or rent. Possibly both.

Even more upsetting, was that she felt I should make a ‘sacrifice for the students’. Students that were not mine. Students that would never be mine for $20,000 a year. Students that surely weren’t worth sacrificing food and shelter for. Thus, the official job title was less ‘Teacher’ and more ‘Martyr’.

I declined. I stood. I left. And the job search continues.

brandi chastain knows sports

Once Gwen got her clock situation situated and set them ahead so that she was following the ‘correct’ time, as opposed to ‘Gwen-Time’ which she was set to last Sunday, we rescheduled for dinner. I met her and my friend Randy the other night where we started off with several appetizers of the liquid variety.

“You know,” Randy told us, “this was one of the lowest watched Olympics this past year.” Randy, by typical male conversation standards, keeps up with all things ‘sports’ simply so he’ll always have something to discuss. ‘Football, baseball, even lacrosse…this way, no matter where I go, I’ll be able to talk to anybody I meet.’

“There’s just no pizzazz to the Olympics,” I said. “Now, remember a few years ago during the summer Olympics when Brandi Chastain pulled off her shirt after scoring the winning goal in women’s soccer. That’s what we need more of in women’s sports. It’s pure marketing genius!”

“What? Pulling her shirt off is marketing genius?” Gwen asked. “You can’t be serious! This is what it’s going to take to get guys to take women’s sports seriously? We have to strip down to our sports bras?”

“That would get me watching more women play sports,” Randy replied. “If those ice skaters would pull off their tops when they nailed a triple axle, I would start paying closer attention.”

“Exactly,” I agreed. “A slam dunk in the WNBA and someone’s shirt comes off. A nice drive on the LPGA tour and another shirt comes off. A clean landing on the uneven bars and off comes another shirt. No bowling, though. As a country, I feel that we need to draw the line somewhere.”

“Absolutely,” Randy agreed. “Bowlers should definitely remain clothed whenever possible. Beach volleyball, on the other hand, is a completely different story.”

“You guys are nothing but pigs,” Gwen told us. “What about us women? Why can’t guys pull off their shirts when they do something like hit a homerun in baseball, huh?”

“Believe me,” Randy told her, “with all those steroids in baseball, it’s never going to happen.”

“Why?” Gwen asked. “I’d be happy to see a bunch of half-naked ball players.”

“Have you seen Barry Bonds lately? Those steroids have made his head so huge, it would take him half an inning to get it through the neck hole of his shirt.”

“Randy’s right,” I said to Gwen. “His head looks like a pumpkin nowadays. Compare pictures of him now and when he used to be a Pirate. Normal sized head then, enormous pumpkin head now.”

Gwen rolled her eyes. “Yeah, you guys have it so tough! Forget about us women and all the unrealistic standards for beauty that we’re held to. You’re biggest concern is about getting a large head from steroids!”

“And shrunken balls,” I added, “but I’m glad that you’re beginning to gain a better understanding of how hard it is being a guy.”

It was at this point that she threw an ice cube from her Long Island Iced Tea at my head. Yet another thing that us men have to endure at the hands of the female population.

what's my line?

Yesterday, I interviewed for an advertising sales position at a local soft rock radio station. This is a station which I rarely listen to, not being a large fan of the whole ‘soft rock’ genre. Generally, one Celine Dion song per year is more than enough to satisfy my soft rock quotient.

But this particular station gets heavy air play in dentist offices throughout the city, having that ‘elevator music’ feel that is supposedly ‘soothing’ for those about to have their molars pulled. So I knew that there must be some demand for advertisers…if, for no other reason, so that toothpaste companies can alert people to new flavors and whitening factors associated with their brands.

I pulled into the parking lot, rode up the elevator to the third floor, and once entering the lobby, was instructed by the receptionist to fill out an in-house application. I sat on one of the threadbare chairs which were centered around a glass coffee table and began filling in the required information. While I sat, a Celine Dion song wafted through the lobby…thus fulfilling my soft rock requirements for the remainder of 2006.

Fifteen minutes later, I was sitting across from the sales manager. I have been on enough interviews that, not withstanding the occasional curveball, I can anticipate exactly what questions will be asked. Because, while I’m sure that the different sales managers I’ve interviewed with are all quite good at selling, they tend to be somewhat lazy in their interviewing techniques. Clearly, they have all read the same Interviewing 101 book.

And so the dance began. ‘Tell me about a time you had to deal with a difficult client,’ she asked. ‘Describe a time you went above and beyond the call of duty to ensure that a project deadline was met,’ she asked. ‘How do you go about organizing your day to make sure that nothing slips through the cracks,’ she asked. And, like an actor auditioning for a role, I had my lines memorized.

‘If I were sitting across from one of your co-workers, what are some adjectives they would use to describe you,’ she asked. My brain froze. The only co-worker that came to mind was Bettie Jo…and I knew exactly how Bettie Jo would describe me. Though these weren’t terms I cared to share during an interview.

The seconds ticked away in silence. I knew that a response was needed fast, yet I simply couldn’t think of any adjectives. Later, as I rode back down to the elevator to reach my car, words came to me in torrents. Responsible. Punctual. Hard-working. But at that moment, sitting in that corner office, nothing came to mind.

Finally, just to break the silence, I said the only word that I could think of “Fired. Oh, and asshole. Is that an adjective?”

“No,” the sales manager replied.

“Well then, asshole-ish,” I said. “Though, in my defense, I never really cared for most of my co-workers either.”

Staring at me from across her desk, she told me, “we’ll contact you if we’re interested in inviting you to the next round of interviews,” and then suddenly took a great interest in a sheet of paper upon her desk. No hand was offered for me to shake. No movement was made to open the door for me.

As I pulled out of the parking lot, telling myself that I really didn’t want to sell soft-rock advertising space in the first place, I decided that next time I would write down some impressive adjectives on my hand. Because this way, if I forgot my line, I would only have to fake a nose scratch and read my palm.

saving time

My friend Gwen invited me to brunch this past Sunday. I’m not a ‘brunch’ type of person and generally dislike Bloody Marys, or any mixture of alcohol with celery for that matter, but agreed to meet her at 11:30.

There are certain things that you come to accept about the friends that you choose. And I’ve long since come to terms with the fact that Gwen is flighty. She claims that this ‘flighty-ness’ is a sign of genius. “It’s like Albert Einstein,” she’s told me before, “he was, like, super-smart, but was sort of scatter-brained. Like me, you know?”

And, like Einstein, they each have their own theory of relativity. Einstein’s being that time is relative and slows down as you near the speed of light and Gwen’s being that time is relative in the sense that, if she tells you she’ll meet you at 11:30 this might mean 11:30, 11:45, or possibly even 11:50.

However, by 12:00, I felt that a phone call was needed to find out just how relative a concept time was going to be on this day. Gwen answered the phone and I asked her where she was.

“What are you talking about,” Gwen said, “it’s not 11:30 yet.”

“Gwen, it’s already after noon. Did you forget about Daylight savings time?”

“Of course I didn’t forget,” she told me. “I set my clock back before I went to bed.”

“Back? Gwen, you’re supposed to set your clock ahead one hour in the spring.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she replied. “It’s called Daylight Savings time, you know, because we save an hour. We get that hour back.”

“No, Gwen,” I said, “the ‘savings’ part of Daylight Savings time has nothing to do with getting an hour back.”

“Well this is the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard! Who’s the idiot that came up with this idea?” she asked. “Look, if we’re losing an hour, then it’s really more like Daylight Spending time, because I don’t see what we’re saving by doing this! And I set a fucking hair appointment an hour before we were supposed to meet! Now I’ve missed it! This totally sucks ass!”

It’s unfortunate that Einstein isn’t still alive to commiserate with Gwen. Geniuses need to stick together, you know?