Another small snippet from Ch.8 in the upcoming book:
Life in Suburbia is like living in the twilight zone. Much like my environment at work, I often times end up feeling trapped and frustrated with my daily life in the suburbs. Of course, I realize it’s my choice to currently live in my parents’ house in exchange for saving a few dollars. I’m beginning to see a pattern of giving up my mental health and potential happiness in exchange for money – which is something I never wanted for myself.
Recently, I found myself outside of a Starbucks in the quaint and over-priced Potomac Village suburb of Washington, DC. This is where I live. And this is where many people choose to live. Everywhere you look, you’re surrounded by symbols of status and money and power – characteristics that are violently sought after by the modern-day family wanting to reach that perfect spot amongst others living the “American Dream”. As I sat outside the Starbucks with my friend Stephen, I noticed a sign posted above a lamp post. “Notice: Smoking is banned in this area by law of the Montgomery County Fire Marshall. Premises is patrolled and violators will be fined and convicted.” I began to wonder whose job it is to patrol the premises of this small village shopping center, searching for the riff raffs and hoodlums that dare light a cigarette in public. Surely the Fire Marshall was too busy saving kittens and rescuing old ladies that have fallen in the bathtub, so who was in charge? As I sipped my five dollar iced skim latte in the fresh outdoors, I looked over at Stephen, who happened to be lighting a cigarette.
“What are you doing? Doesn’t that sign say you can’t smoke here?” And as I spoke those words, I simultaneously realized I had fallen into the suburban trap. Obeying every rule and law and sign posted within a wide circumference of your surroundings. This is an understood rule of living in the suburbs. No arguments – just pure submission in exchange for an orderly life of freshly painted parking spots and expensive colorful landscaping.
“Yeah, that’s what it says. But I do it anyway. It’s an outdoor spot, wide open with fresh air. But it’s entertaining to see what happens when I do this.”
“What do you mean?” I said, with a slight look of confusion on my face.
I’ve known Stephen for 13 years, and I often times find myself confused when he speaks. He’s burly and moves with excess motion, swinging his arms and legs violently and taking charge of each sidewalk like a bull elephant in the wild. He’s always been someone with little regard for rules and regulations, so his behavior rarely astonishes me.
“You’ll see,” he replied, grinning mischievously.
And as he lit his cigarette and took the first puff, it became clear to me exactly who patrolled the vicinity.
“AHEM. Excuse me! The sign clearly says ‘NO SMOKING ALLOWED!’”
As I peered behind the lamp post, I noticed a middle-aged woman holding a small Yorkshire terrier. She was sitting on one of the wooden tables provided by the Starbucks for customers to enjoy their luxury lattes, but she had taken advantage of the complimentary seating to groom her dog and read the latest issue of Washingtonian Magazine. As she glared over, Stephen continued smoking.
“That lady sounded pissed.”
“Yeah she’s the same type. Different lady but same attitude – they feel like it’s their duty to enforce the stupidly placed rules because they spend their days shopping online and reading CNN.com so they can feel informed and accomplished. Fuck her,” said Stephen, as he blew a plume of smoke and made a perfectly shaped “O” in the air.
“SIR. EXCUSE ME! That’s VERY rude to partake in your disgusting habit in front of the rest of us,” she continued. I quickly pictured what this woman would have done had she been confronted with the site of a young male monkey masturbating in public directly next to the Starbucks. It concerned me to think she was the type of woman that would approach the monkey and, in her thick Jewish northeastern accent, demand that he stop touching himself in public, as it’s a disgusting habit.
We walked 5 feet past the sign towards the sidewalk to relieve ourselves from the incessant squawking that relentlessly flowed from this woman’s mouth. Mere seconds later, I noticed a father walking by with his young daughter. He was attractive and impeccably dressed, and I imagined him being a successful entrepreneur that married young and started a family with his high school sweetheart immediately following his graduation from an Ivey league university. As he walked by, he shot a dirty look and coughed incessantly. “Gross!” he announced, as he forcibly hacked up a lung and held his daughter slightly closer to his side. It was difficult for me to grasp the reality of what was happening. How could it be that I, along with my slightly demented friend, were the only ones that noticed the outlandish reactions by our fellow suburbanites. Had we exchanged the lit cigarette for a freshly used heroine needle and passed it around in a circle, the reactions would have remained exactly the same.
One by one, I witnessed multiple people pass by in disgust as Stephen puffed his cigarette and nonchalantly recited a story to me about the new type of bondage porn he’s recently been into.
“These people are robots. Did you notice that I could talk about anything I want and the only thing they notice is the cigarette in my hand? Next time I’m going to talk about my affinity towards bestiality, and I bet the only reaction I’ll get is a loud cough and angry demands to extinguish my cigarette”. He was right. It was as though someone had taken me out of the fishbowl and given me the opportunity to look from the outside in. So I took a cigarette and joined Stephen. And one by one, the angry suburbanites climbed into their over-sized SUV’s and drove past us, polluting the air with $100 worth of premium gasoline to get their kids to and from soccer practice. And as they drove past, Stephen and I waved our hands in front of our faces. Coughing incessantly.
Wednesday, August 24, 2011
Monday, August 22, 2011
Invitation to See Me in L.A.
Dear Stephanie Gwyneth Ruth Eugenia Baker,
I will be in L.A. from this Thursday morning until Monday morning. Please arrange accordingly for us to see each other - preferably topless. MOST preferably topless and slightly intoxicated. Also, I miss your breasts and have not seen the newly reduced ones, for which I'm anxious and a bit perturbed by. I would also like to share that I might have very little energy - because seeing as how no one in Hollywood really eats or does anything remotely strenuous with their lives, I've been living off of half a pack of tic-tacs for the last week - with the occasional acorn I steal from the very mean squirrel that lives outside my window. Seriously, she's a bitch. Regardless, I hope I look as delectably emaciated as Sarah Michelle Gellar and/or Lindsay Lohan (but without the wrinkles and crack cocaine look that seems to be popular with the youngsters these days).
I'm also kind of a celebrity now, so the paparazzi will be following me around to take glamouorr shots and I don't want a rumor spreading on Perez Hilton that my slight "baby bump" indicates a newfound preganancy while I shop with Sandra Bullock in Beverly Hills. That would be embarassing seeing as how I'm not dating anyone and I've had my ovaries removed and eggs frozen some years back. Also, bring cheese.
Xoxo,
Andres
***
Omg. You have NO idea how much I miss you. Sooo I am free Friday night and all day Saturday, but I do have to work Sunday (stupid students moving back into the bldg). What plans do you already have? I am about 35 miles east of LA (nothing you want to do here, I assure you unless you want to eat at an all vegan restaurant or take a tour of the Claremont colleges). Oh, have I told you I'm vegan now? I just thought I should give you a heads up as I can no longer eat gluttonous amounts of cheese with you. I assure you I am the same cynical, sarcastic yet oddly compassionate short girl just with slightly smaller breasts and fewer cravings for cheese.
What are your plans? I am happy to come meet you somewhere that's more LA-esque than suburban Claremont at a time that's good for you.
Xoxo,
♥♥ Slightly reduced titties
PS my haircut is asymmetrical now. I thought I should warn you of the dangers of grad school (being too poor to afford a haircut around the entire circumference of one's head). Just didn't want you to be too alarmed.
***
Dear Slightly Reduced Titties,
I'm saddened, but not very shocked, that you're now Vegan. It seems that California does this to people. You move to the West coast and either chain yourself to trees and animals or become a bulimic windsurfer. Either way, it seems like a fabulous life. However, how do you live without cheese? And Milkshakes? And anything else that comes from the lovely tit (pronounced 'Teet') of a female cow. Also, how will I be able to spot you upon arrival to our meeting spot (which will inevitably be somewhere glamorous like the urine soaked friendly streets of Venice beach)? Don't you drive a small hybrid like everyone else over there? I'm also wondering - do your newly reduced breasts mean there will be less milk produced? In addition, if your feeding milk from your body to a small infant and/or starving homeless man, does that still make you a vegan? After all, that IS dairy.
And no worries about the haircut - mine is asymmetrical as well but only because I got drunk and attempted to shave down my sideburns. You're in good company.
Still though, bring cheese.
Xoxo,
Andres
I will be in L.A. from this Thursday morning until Monday morning. Please arrange accordingly for us to see each other - preferably topless. MOST preferably topless and slightly intoxicated. Also, I miss your breasts and have not seen the newly reduced ones, for which I'm anxious and a bit perturbed by. I would also like to share that I might have very little energy - because seeing as how no one in Hollywood really eats or does anything remotely strenuous with their lives, I've been living off of half a pack of tic-tacs for the last week - with the occasional acorn I steal from the very mean squirrel that lives outside my window. Seriously, she's a bitch. Regardless, I hope I look as delectably emaciated as Sarah Michelle Gellar and/or Lindsay Lohan (but without the wrinkles and crack cocaine look that seems to be popular with the youngsters these days).
I'm also kind of a celebrity now, so the paparazzi will be following me around to take glamouorr shots and I don't want a rumor spreading on Perez Hilton that my slight "baby bump" indicates a newfound preganancy while I shop with Sandra Bullock in Beverly Hills. That would be embarassing seeing as how I'm not dating anyone and I've had my ovaries removed and eggs frozen some years back. Also, bring cheese.
Xoxo,
Andres
***
Omg. You have NO idea how much I miss you. Sooo I am free Friday night and all day Saturday, but I do have to work Sunday (stupid students moving back into the bldg). What plans do you already have? I am about 35 miles east of LA (nothing you want to do here, I assure you unless you want to eat at an all vegan restaurant or take a tour of the Claremont colleges). Oh, have I told you I'm vegan now? I just thought I should give you a heads up as I can no longer eat gluttonous amounts of cheese with you. I assure you I am the same cynical, sarcastic yet oddly compassionate short girl just with slightly smaller breasts and fewer cravings for cheese.
What are your plans? I am happy to come meet you somewhere that's more LA-esque than suburban Claremont at a time that's good for you.
Xoxo,
♥♥ Slightly reduced titties
PS my haircut is asymmetrical now. I thought I should warn you of the dangers of grad school (being too poor to afford a haircut around the entire circumference of one's head). Just didn't want you to be too alarmed.
***
Dear Slightly Reduced Titties,
I'm saddened, but not very shocked, that you're now Vegan. It seems that California does this to people. You move to the West coast and either chain yourself to trees and animals or become a bulimic windsurfer. Either way, it seems like a fabulous life. However, how do you live without cheese? And Milkshakes? And anything else that comes from the lovely tit (pronounced 'Teet') of a female cow. Also, how will I be able to spot you upon arrival to our meeting spot (which will inevitably be somewhere glamorous like the urine soaked friendly streets of Venice beach)? Don't you drive a small hybrid like everyone else over there? I'm also wondering - do your newly reduced breasts mean there will be less milk produced? In addition, if your feeding milk from your body to a small infant and/or starving homeless man, does that still make you a vegan? After all, that IS dairy.
And no worries about the haircut - mine is asymmetrical as well but only because I got drunk and attempted to shave down my sideburns. You're in good company.
Still though, bring cheese.
Xoxo,
Andres
Tuesday, August 16, 2011
Hunnay, wha you like today?!
It wasn't so long ago that I remember my mother taking me to Cartoon Cuts at Lakeforest Mall for my monthly haircuts. It was one of my favorite things because I was always intrigued by the transformations that came along with a haircut. She'd hand me over to the hairdresser who proceeded to plop me on top of a giant plastic elephant where I would remain until the haircut was over.
"Ok listen," I'd say with authority to the hairdresser. "I want to look just like Zack Morris on Saved By The Bell. I don't really care how you do it, but make me blond and make the mushroom cut a perfectly straight line. I don't care for AC Slater so please don't make me look anything like him."
Saved By The Bell was my favorite show in 4th grade, so obviously I had to look like my crush - Zack Morris. "Sure thing sweety. I'll see what I can do," she smiled, as though just to appease me. In reality though, she was doing the haircut to her taste because, as she presumed, what does a 9 year-old know? Of course, 30 minutes would pass and I would look nothing like Zack Morris. By the end of each haircut, I was furious.
"Mom, she didn't make me blond and the mushroom line in the back is not nearly visible enough! Why did you pay the lady?!"
"Andres, you're being rude. Stop the tantrums or no Burger King for you!" my mom would say, in her thick Spanish accent. Burger King was her solution to shutting me up, which in turn allowed her to shop for hours while I quietly scarfed down french fries and nuggets near the kids area with my 88 year-old grandmother. Although frustrating, the entire process of the haircut was relatively simple and worry-free for me. We'd come in, I'd make my demands on top of a plastic animal, and my mom would pay. Being a kid was so care-free in that respect.
In my older age, I've grown to fear haircuts. Not because of the actual act of cutting my hair, but because of the barbaric process of choosing a stylist. Over the years, I've bounced between salons and hairdressers the way one might shop around for the perfect home. My hair is very simple to cut and style, so the stress involved in choosing a stylist is beyond me. A few years ago, I wandered into the Hair Cuttery at Kentland's in a hurry. My normal stylist at Bubbles, Joy, was booked. I hate having to make an appointment for a haircut - something that takes ten minutes. It's not a root canal, and I'm more of a "Walk-ins welcomed" type of guy.
"Herro, how can I herp you?" said the nice Asian lady behind the counter. According to her black nametag, her name was Amy.
"Yes, I'd just like a simple haircut. I don't have an appointment."
"Ohhhh no probrem! I not busy I cut your hair very good! Ten minute!"
I had instantly fallen in love. Fast, cheap, and ethnic. Just the way I like it. For the next 3 years, I would visit Amy once a month every Friday for my haircut. I loved walking in and seeing her levels of excitement sky rocket. "Andrea! How are you!? Take seat I be with you in minute. Just finishing Fat Joe," she'd say, as the overweight balding man named Joe would stare back at himself warily in the mirror. I wondered if Joe was even his name. Judging by the look on his face, I'm certain that "Fat Joe" is not the official nickname he had presented himself with upon meeting Amy. Each haircut, Amy would ask me the same questions as though she had prepared a speech prior to my arrival.
"You go on vacation yet?"
"Yes I'm going to the beach next week."
"Oh my Godddddddddd you so lich!!!"
"No I'm not rich. I just like to throw away my money on cheap haircuts and travel."
"AAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAH You funny! I bet girlfriend love you!" she'd say. Amy always laughed at everything I said - no matter what. I could talk about a news story related to a dead baby that accidentally swallowed a bag of narcotics and she'd bust out in high-pitched hysterics. An evening spent with Amy was the perfect boost for the weekend every Friday.
Because of this, I was horrified one afternoon when I entered the Hair Cuttery and found that Amy was not around.
"Can I help you?" said the new Asian girl with far better English.
"Yes, I'm looking for Amy. Is she around?"
"Oh she just left. But I'm free. My name is Jodie, I'm the head stylist. I usually require appointments but my 7:00 canceled so I'm available."
How does one become a lead stylist at a Hair Cuttery? The fact that she requires appointments for a $14 haircut annoyed me, but since I was desperate I gave in.
The second I sat in her chair, I felt instantly guilty. Her station was directly next to Amy's station, and I couldn't help but feel as though I was having an affair. I found myself quietly mouthing the words, "I'm Sorry" to the pictures of Amy's small Asian children taped over the mirror of her booth.
"It's nice to meet you, Andres. Please sit back and relax. I will take care of you today" Said Jodie, as she massaged my temples. It was clear to me that this was now a huge predicament I was in, as my feelings for Jodie became more intense every second that passed. By the end of the flawlessly executed haircut, she handed me her business card with floating kittens sprinkled all over it.
"See you next month, and remember what I told you about the new product I gave you. Use it sparingly but dazzle your tips with it so as to stimulate the hair folicles. It will give more shine and volume to your look and accentuate your facial featuers."
Holy shit. This lady was the real deal - I felt as though I had just undergone some intense spa treatment and lazer lipo. All for only $14 plus tip.
A month later, I was nervous as I walked into the Hair Cuttery. I had scheduled an appointment with Jodie at 7pm on a Friday, and was hoping and wishing that Amy would have gone home for the day. As I walked in, I was greeted by Jodie and, directly behind her in my line of sight, was Amy.
"Oh herro Andrea! Take seat I be with you right when I finish with baby Jane!" yelled Amy, as a fully grown adolescent girl apparently named Jane sat uncomfortably confused in her chair. In moments like these, I become very awkward and terrified - leaving me often times speechless. "Ok I'll wait here," I replied. Why did I just lie? I know it makes things worse in the end, but I had no other reaction. It was like second nature.
Eventually, Jodie motioned me towards her chair and I reluctantly followed. Like a creepy serial killer, I leaned over to whisper in Amy's ear. "Amy I'm kind of in a hurry today and I know you're super busy because you're just the best stylist in here, but is it OK if Jodie takes care of me today?" With a confused look, Amy nodded her head and said, "Of course, Andrea. No probrem. You go on vacation?"
The next 25-30 minutes were the most uncomfortable of my life. As Jodie went further and further into the haircut, as though she were some sort of Asian trapeze artist with magical hands, I could see Amy's demeanor change. Like some desperate geisha, Amy would intermittently cut into our conversation. "Andrea, I know you rike vacation. I no see you in rong time! How is work? I bet you go away with your girlfriend to tropical paladise or Vegas. I rove Vegas I go with my husband to pray gambring games!" Jodie would uncomfortably smile and say, "Well, Andres, I'm glad you came to me before your vacation. You're going to look spectacular." I sat uncomfortably as the two Asian women battled for my love and affection. If only my real-life relationships were this glamorous.
By the end of the haircut, I walked hurriedly to the counter to pay. What I failed to also realize was how similar both Jodie and Amy looked. In my hasty attempt to leave the ambushed set-up of the Hair Cuttery, I accidentally tipped Amy instead of Jodie. The only way I realized what I had done was when Amy blushed and said, "Oh tank you Andrea! Come back so soon and see me ok?" Fuck. I had mixed up my Asians. Not only that, but I loved Jodie and was giving her an extra $15 as tip for an awesome haircut. I cursed myself as I walked over to the real Jodie and shelled out another $15 to make-up for my stupidity. Suddenly, my $14 haircut had resulted in $44. I don't even have $44 worth of hair to cut, but I exited quickly and vowed not to return again. I just couldn't bare the thought of choosing between my beloved Asian stylists. I learned long ago from many romantic comedies that if you love someone enough, you put their happiness before yours. This is exactly what I had to do with Amy and Jodie. I didn't want to break their hearts and cause Asian mafia wars within the walls of the Hair Cuttery, so I left and never returned.
A month later, I walked down the street from my office on 19th and Penn and stumbled upon "David's Hair Salon". As I walked in, David greeted me and pointed me towards an older Asian woman named "NaNa". Here, I received the actual BEST haircut of my life. NaNa even shaved my eyebrows and sculpted my neckline as meticulously as possible. I felt as though my own grandmother was lovingly cutting my hair. I paid $40 for that haircut (including tip), but I left happily knowing I now had a new Asian woman to mend my broken heart.
When I returned to see her a month later, I was met once again with David, the owner. "You're looking for NaNa? She's not here today, but I'm free and would be happy to take you." Reluctantly, I agreed because I was leaving for a gay weekend in Rehoboth the following day, where it's startlingly tacky to show up with a lion's mane on your head. So David cut my hair, and did an AMAZING job. I paid him $43 dollars and, as I walked out the door, he said "See you in a month!"
I knew right then and there that I would never be back.
"Ok listen," I'd say with authority to the hairdresser. "I want to look just like Zack Morris on Saved By The Bell. I don't really care how you do it, but make me blond and make the mushroom cut a perfectly straight line. I don't care for AC Slater so please don't make me look anything like him."
Saved By The Bell was my favorite show in 4th grade, so obviously I had to look like my crush - Zack Morris. "Sure thing sweety. I'll see what I can do," she smiled, as though just to appease me. In reality though, she was doing the haircut to her taste because, as she presumed, what does a 9 year-old know? Of course, 30 minutes would pass and I would look nothing like Zack Morris. By the end of each haircut, I was furious.
"Mom, she didn't make me blond and the mushroom line in the back is not nearly visible enough! Why did you pay the lady?!"
"Andres, you're being rude. Stop the tantrums or no Burger King for you!" my mom would say, in her thick Spanish accent. Burger King was her solution to shutting me up, which in turn allowed her to shop for hours while I quietly scarfed down french fries and nuggets near the kids area with my 88 year-old grandmother. Although frustrating, the entire process of the haircut was relatively simple and worry-free for me. We'd come in, I'd make my demands on top of a plastic animal, and my mom would pay. Being a kid was so care-free in that respect.
In my older age, I've grown to fear haircuts. Not because of the actual act of cutting my hair, but because of the barbaric process of choosing a stylist. Over the years, I've bounced between salons and hairdressers the way one might shop around for the perfect home. My hair is very simple to cut and style, so the stress involved in choosing a stylist is beyond me. A few years ago, I wandered into the Hair Cuttery at Kentland's in a hurry. My normal stylist at Bubbles, Joy, was booked. I hate having to make an appointment for a haircut - something that takes ten minutes. It's not a root canal, and I'm more of a "Walk-ins welcomed" type of guy.
"Herro, how can I herp you?" said the nice Asian lady behind the counter. According to her black nametag, her name was Amy.
"Yes, I'd just like a simple haircut. I don't have an appointment."
"Ohhhh no probrem! I not busy I cut your hair very good! Ten minute!"
I had instantly fallen in love. Fast, cheap, and ethnic. Just the way I like it. For the next 3 years, I would visit Amy once a month every Friday for my haircut. I loved walking in and seeing her levels of excitement sky rocket. "Andrea! How are you!? Take seat I be with you in minute. Just finishing Fat Joe," she'd say, as the overweight balding man named Joe would stare back at himself warily in the mirror. I wondered if Joe was even his name. Judging by the look on his face, I'm certain that "Fat Joe" is not the official nickname he had presented himself with upon meeting Amy. Each haircut, Amy would ask me the same questions as though she had prepared a speech prior to my arrival.
"You go on vacation yet?"
"Yes I'm going to the beach next week."
"Oh my Godddddddddd you so lich!!!"
"No I'm not rich. I just like to throw away my money on cheap haircuts and travel."
"AAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAH You funny! I bet girlfriend love you!" she'd say. Amy always laughed at everything I said - no matter what. I could talk about a news story related to a dead baby that accidentally swallowed a bag of narcotics and she'd bust out in high-pitched hysterics. An evening spent with Amy was the perfect boost for the weekend every Friday.
Because of this, I was horrified one afternoon when I entered the Hair Cuttery and found that Amy was not around.
"Can I help you?" said the new Asian girl with far better English.
"Yes, I'm looking for Amy. Is she around?"
"Oh she just left. But I'm free. My name is Jodie, I'm the head stylist. I usually require appointments but my 7:00 canceled so I'm available."
How does one become a lead stylist at a Hair Cuttery? The fact that she requires appointments for a $14 haircut annoyed me, but since I was desperate I gave in.
The second I sat in her chair, I felt instantly guilty. Her station was directly next to Amy's station, and I couldn't help but feel as though I was having an affair. I found myself quietly mouthing the words, "I'm Sorry" to the pictures of Amy's small Asian children taped over the mirror of her booth.
"It's nice to meet you, Andres. Please sit back and relax. I will take care of you today" Said Jodie, as she massaged my temples. It was clear to me that this was now a huge predicament I was in, as my feelings for Jodie became more intense every second that passed. By the end of the flawlessly executed haircut, she handed me her business card with floating kittens sprinkled all over it.
"See you next month, and remember what I told you about the new product I gave you. Use it sparingly but dazzle your tips with it so as to stimulate the hair folicles. It will give more shine and volume to your look and accentuate your facial featuers."
Holy shit. This lady was the real deal - I felt as though I had just undergone some intense spa treatment and lazer lipo. All for only $14 plus tip.
A month later, I was nervous as I walked into the Hair Cuttery. I had scheduled an appointment with Jodie at 7pm on a Friday, and was hoping and wishing that Amy would have gone home for the day. As I walked in, I was greeted by Jodie and, directly behind her in my line of sight, was Amy.
"Oh herro Andrea! Take seat I be with you right when I finish with baby Jane!" yelled Amy, as a fully grown adolescent girl apparently named Jane sat uncomfortably confused in her chair. In moments like these, I become very awkward and terrified - leaving me often times speechless. "Ok I'll wait here," I replied. Why did I just lie? I know it makes things worse in the end, but I had no other reaction. It was like second nature.
Eventually, Jodie motioned me towards her chair and I reluctantly followed. Like a creepy serial killer, I leaned over to whisper in Amy's ear. "Amy I'm kind of in a hurry today and I know you're super busy because you're just the best stylist in here, but is it OK if Jodie takes care of me today?" With a confused look, Amy nodded her head and said, "Of course, Andrea. No probrem. You go on vacation?"
The next 25-30 minutes were the most uncomfortable of my life. As Jodie went further and further into the haircut, as though she were some sort of Asian trapeze artist with magical hands, I could see Amy's demeanor change. Like some desperate geisha, Amy would intermittently cut into our conversation. "Andrea, I know you rike vacation. I no see you in rong time! How is work? I bet you go away with your girlfriend to tropical paladise or Vegas. I rove Vegas I go with my husband to pray gambring games!" Jodie would uncomfortably smile and say, "Well, Andres, I'm glad you came to me before your vacation. You're going to look spectacular." I sat uncomfortably as the two Asian women battled for my love and affection. If only my real-life relationships were this glamorous.
By the end of the haircut, I walked hurriedly to the counter to pay. What I failed to also realize was how similar both Jodie and Amy looked. In my hasty attempt to leave the ambushed set-up of the Hair Cuttery, I accidentally tipped Amy instead of Jodie. The only way I realized what I had done was when Amy blushed and said, "Oh tank you Andrea! Come back so soon and see me ok?" Fuck. I had mixed up my Asians. Not only that, but I loved Jodie and was giving her an extra $15 as tip for an awesome haircut. I cursed myself as I walked over to the real Jodie and shelled out another $15 to make-up for my stupidity. Suddenly, my $14 haircut had resulted in $44. I don't even have $44 worth of hair to cut, but I exited quickly and vowed not to return again. I just couldn't bare the thought of choosing between my beloved Asian stylists. I learned long ago from many romantic comedies that if you love someone enough, you put their happiness before yours. This is exactly what I had to do with Amy and Jodie. I didn't want to break their hearts and cause Asian mafia wars within the walls of the Hair Cuttery, so I left and never returned.
A month later, I walked down the street from my office on 19th and Penn and stumbled upon "David's Hair Salon". As I walked in, David greeted me and pointed me towards an older Asian woman named "NaNa". Here, I received the actual BEST haircut of my life. NaNa even shaved my eyebrows and sculpted my neckline as meticulously as possible. I felt as though my own grandmother was lovingly cutting my hair. I paid $40 for that haircut (including tip), but I left happily knowing I now had a new Asian woman to mend my broken heart.
When I returned to see her a month later, I was met once again with David, the owner. "You're looking for NaNa? She's not here today, but I'm free and would be happy to take you." Reluctantly, I agreed because I was leaving for a gay weekend in Rehoboth the following day, where it's startlingly tacky to show up with a lion's mane on your head. So David cut my hair, and did an AMAZING job. I paid him $43 dollars and, as I walked out the door, he said "See you in a month!"
I knew right then and there that I would never be back.
Friday, August 12, 2011
What if?
I decided recently that the best way to go about promoting my book and my stories would be to really focus on this blog. Since most of my income goes towards plane tickets and the excessive consumption of cheese and alcohol, I can't really afford to hire someone to design a website and make my blogs more popular through a google search. I rely on my friends and their friends and my family to share my stories and essays if they happen to find them entertaining - and I'm ever grateful that I have such a loyal group of readers that enjoy coming back and being a part of my life. That being said, you guys seem just as sadistic and twisted as myself. I enjoy it.
Often times, people have no idea how to locate my blog or get to it. To make things easier for everyone, for the extravagant price of $9.99 I purchased a domain and called it www.22tolife.com
The meaning behind this is simple. We all share the same frustrations when it comes to life, jobs, relationships, and growing up. It can be really fucking hard, but I've learned that the more difficult things in life come with the greatest rewards. And the more I've written and discussed with people, the more I learn that we share so many more common experiences and fears than we can ever imagine. Success doesn't come easy - nothing does. But I've found that doing what you love and enjoying the things that fulfill you can be the most rewarding feeling on earth. And that's why I write.
We're never alone with our uncertainties, because everyone is afraid of the "What ifs". Sometimes it's easy to lose sight of the fact that the "What ifs" are what make life interesting and fun, and the more I've gotten sucked into the corporate world and adult life after college, the more I've lost myself in worrying about the "What ifs". Somehow, I've convinced myself that I have too much to lose when dealing with any major decision. Thus, I've become comfortably stagnant, like so many of us. And what if I leave that comfort zone?
"What if I leave my job that I dislike?" Well, you'll find another one. "What if I struggle?" You'll survive. Because you have to. Everyone has struggled at some point or another. "What if I click on 'complete purchase'on this travel website I'm booking my vacation on?" You'll feel a sense of satisfaction in being able to go wherever the hell your heart pleases.
I can't tell you the number of times people have told me, "I have no idea how you travel so much. I sit on the internet with a web page open for 3 days showing a flight I was about to purchase, only to find that when I muster enough courage to click 'Purchase ticket', the session has expired - and I end up going no where." Life passes by so quickly - and I realized this when I blinked my eyes and 3 years at my first job had gone by. When I first started, as a temp, I remember thinking "I'm taking this 6 month contract, saving my money, and moving to California." I remember after 6 months being offered a permanent position to replace a girl that had left. And I remember asking my then boss, "How long was the girl before me working here?" and laughing in my head when he replied, "2 years." - because I knew I would never last that long. That was 2 years ago this month. Life rarely goes as planned.
Let's be honest - working a 9-5 office job can suck. Rarely do we meet someone who is passionate and enthusiastic about sitting behind a desk reading emails all day and attending 10 different meetings for an asshole boss or client. Unfortunately in life, there's things that we have to put up with because whether we choose to acknowledge it or not, we learn something. The past few years out of college have been tough for me. It's been a constant battle of confusion, frustration, anger, sadness, loneliness, happiness, debauchery, and every other feeling or emotion that a human being can possibly have. Growing up, or rather being a grown up, does not come easy.
When I was entering the "real world" at 22, I remember feeling like I had been handed a prison sentence: 22 to life. I thought, "Is this all that's left? My desk, my cubicle, and the occasional happy hour that we all pretend is the highlight of our weeks as adults?" So I took off on adventures - weekend trips to wherever I could afford to go. And as I went, I learned that my life didn't have to be the prison sentence I thought it did. True, I needed to work because it's what was expected of me. You finish school, you get a job, and you support yourself. It's just expected of an upstanding adult. As a kid I had always had a sense of adventure and curiosity, and I loved looking up and seeing a plane fly by, wondering "I wonder where in the world that's going? And are the people in there excited to get there?"
My frustrations with the 9-5 corporate life grew, and the only venue I had to regain control of my life was my love for travel and adventure. This blog started as my coworker's way of keeping an account of my crazy and often times unbelievable stories and/or ramblings. Which in turn became a way of allowing myself to maintain a small perspective of who I really am without becoming lost. This, in turn, became a book. The stories will be new and different, but the underlying theme has remained the same: work to live, not live to work. And laugh as much as possible. Americans spend at least 40 hours a week at work, that's 2,000 hours a year (including 2 weeks vacation, for those of us lucky enough). That's a fuckload. Each of us, at one point or another, will find ourselves feeling trapped and imprisoned within the confines of our buildings or fast-paced life. We can complain (which I've done a lot of) but, more importantly, we can regain control of our lives and find what really makes us live
If what I've learned resonates with even one person, and what I've written in my blog and in my book reaches one person who can relate, and if I can transport someone away from their desk or overwhelming life and make them laugh if even for a few minutes, then I've found fulfillment in what I do. Yes, I'm still working at my job. Yes, I still feel frustrated and sad and happy like everyone else, depending on the day. But that person a few years back has come a long way in attempting to figure out life in your 20's. It took me years to find what I want to do and where I want to go - and I still really haven't. Just a vague outline of an idea. But in doing the things I dislike in my professional life; I stumbled upon something I love.
22toLife is up to each of us. It doesn't have to be a prison sentence, and nothing is ever permanent. If you find yourself wondering why it's taken 3 days to purchase a trip you've been thinking about for months or years, or debating the "What ifs" of your life decisions, then those 3 days will turn quickly into 3 years.
While I've been adventurous these past few years in terms of traveling and escaping my Monday-Friday life, I've also been reluctant to leave my comfort zone. I've sat around waiting for the "perfect opportunity" or "the right salary" that can take me to a whole new level. But my best friend said something that struck a chord in me a few days ago. He asked me, "How much is your happiness worth? 10k? 5k? If that's what's keeping you from moving to a place you've wanted to move, or breaking into an industry you've been wanting to try, or doing something completely new, then you've put a price on your happiness." Suddenly, my fears and doubts of the "What ifs" eased.
So if 22toLife is how you feel - how much is your happiness worth???
I hate feeling as though I'm preaching, because I'm the last person on earth who should be telling others how to live. I drink too much, I can be quite selfish, I'm completely inappropriate and often times offensive. So I'm certainly not a perfect role model for success and happiness-not all of us can be as glorious as Oprah. But if I can offer any insight or opinion on my personal experiences through stories and humor, along with my often times crude perspectives in my own journey on figuring out my own life, then hopefully my writing can be as much a venue for others as it has been for me. There's still those "What ifs", but hopefully I'm learning how to face them somewhat more valiantly.
And what if no one reads this? And what if I start over? And what if I have no friends in a new city? And what if I go broke? And what if I make it big? And what if I don't? And what if I make a mistake? And what if that mistake leads to something great? And what if I get lost? And what if I never look back?
And what if, what if, what if, what if...?
Often times, people have no idea how to locate my blog or get to it. To make things easier for everyone, for the extravagant price of $9.99 I purchased a domain and called it www.22tolife.com
The meaning behind this is simple. We all share the same frustrations when it comes to life, jobs, relationships, and growing up. It can be really fucking hard, but I've learned that the more difficult things in life come with the greatest rewards. And the more I've written and discussed with people, the more I learn that we share so many more common experiences and fears than we can ever imagine. Success doesn't come easy - nothing does. But I've found that doing what you love and enjoying the things that fulfill you can be the most rewarding feeling on earth. And that's why I write.
We're never alone with our uncertainties, because everyone is afraid of the "What ifs". Sometimes it's easy to lose sight of the fact that the "What ifs" are what make life interesting and fun, and the more I've gotten sucked into the corporate world and adult life after college, the more I've lost myself in worrying about the "What ifs". Somehow, I've convinced myself that I have too much to lose when dealing with any major decision. Thus, I've become comfortably stagnant, like so many of us. And what if I leave that comfort zone?
"What if I leave my job that I dislike?" Well, you'll find another one. "What if I struggle?" You'll survive. Because you have to. Everyone has struggled at some point or another. "What if I click on 'complete purchase'on this travel website I'm booking my vacation on?" You'll feel a sense of satisfaction in being able to go wherever the hell your heart pleases.
I can't tell you the number of times people have told me, "I have no idea how you travel so much. I sit on the internet with a web page open for 3 days showing a flight I was about to purchase, only to find that when I muster enough courage to click 'Purchase ticket', the session has expired - and I end up going no where." Life passes by so quickly - and I realized this when I blinked my eyes and 3 years at my first job had gone by. When I first started, as a temp, I remember thinking "I'm taking this 6 month contract, saving my money, and moving to California." I remember after 6 months being offered a permanent position to replace a girl that had left. And I remember asking my then boss, "How long was the girl before me working here?" and laughing in my head when he replied, "2 years." - because I knew I would never last that long. That was 2 years ago this month. Life rarely goes as planned.
Let's be honest - working a 9-5 office job can suck. Rarely do we meet someone who is passionate and enthusiastic about sitting behind a desk reading emails all day and attending 10 different meetings for an asshole boss or client. Unfortunately in life, there's things that we have to put up with because whether we choose to acknowledge it or not, we learn something. The past few years out of college have been tough for me. It's been a constant battle of confusion, frustration, anger, sadness, loneliness, happiness, debauchery, and every other feeling or emotion that a human being can possibly have. Growing up, or rather being a grown up, does not come easy.
When I was entering the "real world" at 22, I remember feeling like I had been handed a prison sentence: 22 to life. I thought, "Is this all that's left? My desk, my cubicle, and the occasional happy hour that we all pretend is the highlight of our weeks as adults?" So I took off on adventures - weekend trips to wherever I could afford to go. And as I went, I learned that my life didn't have to be the prison sentence I thought it did. True, I needed to work because it's what was expected of me. You finish school, you get a job, and you support yourself. It's just expected of an upstanding adult. As a kid I had always had a sense of adventure and curiosity, and I loved looking up and seeing a plane fly by, wondering "I wonder where in the world that's going? And are the people in there excited to get there?"
My frustrations with the 9-5 corporate life grew, and the only venue I had to regain control of my life was my love for travel and adventure. This blog started as my coworker's way of keeping an account of my crazy and often times unbelievable stories and/or ramblings. Which in turn became a way of allowing myself to maintain a small perspective of who I really am without becoming lost. This, in turn, became a book. The stories will be new and different, but the underlying theme has remained the same: work to live, not live to work. And laugh as much as possible. Americans spend at least 40 hours a week at work, that's 2,000 hours a year (including 2 weeks vacation, for those of us lucky enough). That's a fuckload. Each of us, at one point or another, will find ourselves feeling trapped and imprisoned within the confines of our buildings or fast-paced life. We can complain (which I've done a lot of) but, more importantly, we can regain control of our lives and find what really makes us live
If what I've learned resonates with even one person, and what I've written in my blog and in my book reaches one person who can relate, and if I can transport someone away from their desk or overwhelming life and make them laugh if even for a few minutes, then I've found fulfillment in what I do. Yes, I'm still working at my job. Yes, I still feel frustrated and sad and happy like everyone else, depending on the day. But that person a few years back has come a long way in attempting to figure out life in your 20's. It took me years to find what I want to do and where I want to go - and I still really haven't. Just a vague outline of an idea. But in doing the things I dislike in my professional life; I stumbled upon something I love.
22toLife is up to each of us. It doesn't have to be a prison sentence, and nothing is ever permanent. If you find yourself wondering why it's taken 3 days to purchase a trip you've been thinking about for months or years, or debating the "What ifs" of your life decisions, then those 3 days will turn quickly into 3 years.
While I've been adventurous these past few years in terms of traveling and escaping my Monday-Friday life, I've also been reluctant to leave my comfort zone. I've sat around waiting for the "perfect opportunity" or "the right salary" that can take me to a whole new level. But my best friend said something that struck a chord in me a few days ago. He asked me, "How much is your happiness worth? 10k? 5k? If that's what's keeping you from moving to a place you've wanted to move, or breaking into an industry you've been wanting to try, or doing something completely new, then you've put a price on your happiness." Suddenly, my fears and doubts of the "What ifs" eased.
So if 22toLife is how you feel - how much is your happiness worth???
I hate feeling as though I'm preaching, because I'm the last person on earth who should be telling others how to live. I drink too much, I can be quite selfish, I'm completely inappropriate and often times offensive. So I'm certainly not a perfect role model for success and happiness-not all of us can be as glorious as Oprah. But if I can offer any insight or opinion on my personal experiences through stories and humor, along with my often times crude perspectives in my own journey on figuring out my own life, then hopefully my writing can be as much a venue for others as it has been for me. There's still those "What ifs", but hopefully I'm learning how to face them somewhat more valiantly.
And what if no one reads this? And what if I start over? And what if I have no friends in a new city? And what if I go broke? And what if I make it big? And what if I don't? And what if I make a mistake? And what if that mistake leads to something great? And what if I get lost? And what if I never look back?
And what if, what if, what if, what if...?
Thursday, August 11, 2011
Email Nation
Last weekend I ventured into Manhattan to purchase underwear.
In reality, though, the original intent was to interview for potential jobs. I had spent a better part of 2 weeks relentlessly contacting companies in an effort to schedule interviews for that particular Friday that I had planned on being in the city. When I say I was relentless, I truly mean that I came fairly close to having a restraining order placed against me by a handful of recruiters. Here's how I see it: If you ignore my emails, I will simply be forced to call you and practically recite my cover letter out loud over the phone. Not only do I find it idiotic that I'm required to write a cover letter, but I find it even more perplexing that the very people who asked for one don't even read it. I know this because they often times have no idea who I am. When I call, I can hear the fat fingers of Tim the recruiter typing furiously on his computer searching frantically for my resume, taking small pauses to sip his $7 Starbucks latte. Had he read it in the first place, I wouldn't be forced to stoop to such levels. I know we're all busy, but I feel 2-3 weeks is ample time to sort through applications and at least create a "Yes" and "No" pile.
Luckily, I'm quite shameless when it comes to competition and let's face it, applying for jobs in NYC puts me at quite a disadvantage, as I'm now helplessly competing against a plethora of overly educated, overachieving Jews and Asians. Honestly, how many 25 year old lawyers and executives named Adam Rosenberg does Manhattan really need? I'm far too complacent when it comes to furthering my education and seeking any degree or certification at the moment, so I commend them for their efforts. My approach, however, is far simpler - desperately claw my way to the top by forcing others into believing I'm competent. And if that doesn't work, I'll seduce a CEO.
My wishful thinking is that if everyone just stopped going back to school for more degrees, we can all be equally appreciated with nothing more than a Bachelor's. Much like the 60's and 70's. But since everyone has unanimously decided that higher education and enormous debt is the more intelligent route to pursue in exchange for real-world experience, our bachelor's degrees are now relatively worthless. Eventually, the Masters and PhD will be as well. Before you know it, we will all have 10 diplomas lining the walls of our cardboard box homes, because the only way to get a job will be to have some special talent that differentiates us - like playing the Cello or having no gag reflex.
So for two weeks I shuffled through a list of my most desired places to work that I had sent an application to. Included was a cover letter tailored specifically to the company I was applying to. In reality, though, all I did was change the name of the company. Because who has the time to sit and write cover letters for every job you're applying to? I'm a busy man and there's a lot of reality television on my DVR that needs catching up on. I pride myself on being able to discuss a plethora of different topics - from the state of the global economy to the repetitively obnoxious "on and off" relationship of Sammi "I'm a dumb desperate bitch" Sweetheart and Ronnie on the Jersey Shore. In my opinion, a sign of a truly intelligent person is one that is well-versed in both ends of the spectrum.
Why, then, is it so difficult to garner a response from a potential employer? All I was asking for was a chance to interview or even meet informally, but from the responses (or lack thereof) that I received, you would think I was going around asking for free handjobs or selling discounted coupons to a Mexican bestiality show.
The unfortunate reality is that the job market is competitive and cut-throat, and you learn that most companies rarely give a fuck about your resume and cover letter that sit lonely and untouched on the bottom of a massive pile. It's discouraging, but it's true and always has been. Therefore, I got creative. I Googled companies and found contact info for HR recruiters and CEO's, grew some rather large balls, and shot them emails. I even went as far as creating a Linked-In profile to send the CEO of one company an email asking him to meet with me. But no matter what I did, no response. Since I have a hard time accepting when someone ignores me, I became increasingly assertive and pushy. This annoys me because I end up feeling like a used car salesman, but it's really the only option you're left with.
In the days leading up to my Friday in Manhattan, I had managed to secure 3 interviews, both formal and informal, in an effort to make my time worthwhile for the day. That Thursday, I emailed one of the companies to confirm my meeting the following morning. To my complete and utter lack of shock, I received no response after 2 different emails politely asking where and when we would be meeting. Around 10 PM that same night, I received the following email from my second potential interviewers:
Andres,
Unfortunately we are not able to schedule the interview for you tomorrow as previously planned, the hiring managers are still reviewing resumes, however they do have stronger candidates with more of the type of experience that they are looking for. I will keep your resume actively on file.
Thanks,
Tim
Actively on file? What does that mean, Tim the recruiter? Is there a database that they keep, similar to a no-fly list? Earlier that week, I had completed some stupid assessment for this Tim person. After doing so, he filled me with promises of interviews and opportunities, which of course got my hopes up. Needless to say, I felt as though I had been stood up at the prom. At this point it was too late to change my plans, and I remained hopeful that the last person I would be meeting with "informally" at a Starbucks in midtown would be worthwhile.
The following day I arrived in Manhattan and checked into my hotel (as my 1 friend was out of town and my other friend had no A/C in her apt. If you've read my "Excessive Heat Warning" post, you will understand my reasoning for shelling out 144 bucks for a hotel room). I quickly emailed the guy I planned to meet to confirm our 4:30PM Starbucks meeting. Earlier in the week, it had been nearly impossible to garner any sort of response from this guy. This time, however, I received a response 2 minutes later:
Hey Andres,
As it happens, I'm pretty busy this afternoon. We could always try for sometime during the day Sunday or next week. Not sure when you are around until, but let me know.
- Steve
Fantastically enough, I was now left with 0 interviews and a $144 hotel bill. So I walked to Soho, shoved 2 enormous slices of Pepperoni and Sausage pizza down my gullet, and went shopping. I stumbled upon the notorious UNIQLO store, a Japanese version of H&M. Here, I purchased breathable undershirts (to control my sweating problems), breathable underwear (to protect against chub rub), and a $19 shirt that I could say "Oh, well I bought this in Manhattan" if someone chose to compliment me. The Japanese think of everything, from seafood flavored potato chips to breathable underwear. And for that, I am thankful.
As I walked around the city, I found myself in a fury of rage each time I passed a "young professional" chewing on their $14 salad on a park bench. Why did it seem that, for me, it's been increasingly difficult and degrading trying to even have someone sit down and interview me? It seemed so easy for these other people. You would think I'm attempting to land a job in Paris and apply for French citizenship. This is NYC, which is located in the U.S., which is a 3 hour train ride from my house, where I have full rights to work as an American citizen, and which is seemingly the most impossible city on earth to find a place that will pay me a mediocre salary so I can live in a shit hole shoebox of an apartment and eat Ramen noodles from a dented Styrofoam container. But to me, it's where I feel my next step is - maybe a place where I will finally come alive. And who knows, maybe I'll change my mind. But for now, I will sit at my desk in my comfortable Japanese underwear and freshly aired torso - sending emails with my resume and cover letter and waiting patiently for a response.
In reality, though, the original intent was to interview for potential jobs. I had spent a better part of 2 weeks relentlessly contacting companies in an effort to schedule interviews for that particular Friday that I had planned on being in the city. When I say I was relentless, I truly mean that I came fairly close to having a restraining order placed against me by a handful of recruiters. Here's how I see it: If you ignore my emails, I will simply be forced to call you and practically recite my cover letter out loud over the phone. Not only do I find it idiotic that I'm required to write a cover letter, but I find it even more perplexing that the very people who asked for one don't even read it. I know this because they often times have no idea who I am. When I call, I can hear the fat fingers of Tim the recruiter typing furiously on his computer searching frantically for my resume, taking small pauses to sip his $7 Starbucks latte. Had he read it in the first place, I wouldn't be forced to stoop to such levels. I know we're all busy, but I feel 2-3 weeks is ample time to sort through applications and at least create a "Yes" and "No" pile.
Luckily, I'm quite shameless when it comes to competition and let's face it, applying for jobs in NYC puts me at quite a disadvantage, as I'm now helplessly competing against a plethora of overly educated, overachieving Jews and Asians. Honestly, how many 25 year old lawyers and executives named Adam Rosenberg does Manhattan really need? I'm far too complacent when it comes to furthering my education and seeking any degree or certification at the moment, so I commend them for their efforts. My approach, however, is far simpler - desperately claw my way to the top by forcing others into believing I'm competent. And if that doesn't work, I'll seduce a CEO.
My wishful thinking is that if everyone just stopped going back to school for more degrees, we can all be equally appreciated with nothing more than a Bachelor's. Much like the 60's and 70's. But since everyone has unanimously decided that higher education and enormous debt is the more intelligent route to pursue in exchange for real-world experience, our bachelor's degrees are now relatively worthless. Eventually, the Masters and PhD will be as well. Before you know it, we will all have 10 diplomas lining the walls of our cardboard box homes, because the only way to get a job will be to have some special talent that differentiates us - like playing the Cello or having no gag reflex.
So for two weeks I shuffled through a list of my most desired places to work that I had sent an application to. Included was a cover letter tailored specifically to the company I was applying to. In reality, though, all I did was change the name of the company. Because who has the time to sit and write cover letters for every job you're applying to? I'm a busy man and there's a lot of reality television on my DVR that needs catching up on. I pride myself on being able to discuss a plethora of different topics - from the state of the global economy to the repetitively obnoxious "on and off" relationship of Sammi "I'm a dumb desperate bitch" Sweetheart and Ronnie on the Jersey Shore. In my opinion, a sign of a truly intelligent person is one that is well-versed in both ends of the spectrum.
Why, then, is it so difficult to garner a response from a potential employer? All I was asking for was a chance to interview or even meet informally, but from the responses (or lack thereof) that I received, you would think I was going around asking for free handjobs or selling discounted coupons to a Mexican bestiality show.
The unfortunate reality is that the job market is competitive and cut-throat, and you learn that most companies rarely give a fuck about your resume and cover letter that sit lonely and untouched on the bottom of a massive pile. It's discouraging, but it's true and always has been. Therefore, I got creative. I Googled companies and found contact info for HR recruiters and CEO's, grew some rather large balls, and shot them emails. I even went as far as creating a Linked-In profile to send the CEO of one company an email asking him to meet with me. But no matter what I did, no response. Since I have a hard time accepting when someone ignores me, I became increasingly assertive and pushy. This annoys me because I end up feeling like a used car salesman, but it's really the only option you're left with.
In the days leading up to my Friday in Manhattan, I had managed to secure 3 interviews, both formal and informal, in an effort to make my time worthwhile for the day. That Thursday, I emailed one of the companies to confirm my meeting the following morning. To my complete and utter lack of shock, I received no response after 2 different emails politely asking where and when we would be meeting. Around 10 PM that same night, I received the following email from my second potential interviewers:
Andres,
Unfortunately we are not able to schedule the interview for you tomorrow as previously planned, the hiring managers are still reviewing resumes, however they do have stronger candidates with more of the type of experience that they are looking for. I will keep your resume actively on file.
Thanks,
Tim
Actively on file? What does that mean, Tim the recruiter? Is there a database that they keep, similar to a no-fly list? Earlier that week, I had completed some stupid assessment for this Tim person. After doing so, he filled me with promises of interviews and opportunities, which of course got my hopes up. Needless to say, I felt as though I had been stood up at the prom. At this point it was too late to change my plans, and I remained hopeful that the last person I would be meeting with "informally" at a Starbucks in midtown would be worthwhile.
The following day I arrived in Manhattan and checked into my hotel (as my 1 friend was out of town and my other friend had no A/C in her apt. If you've read my "Excessive Heat Warning" post, you will understand my reasoning for shelling out 144 bucks for a hotel room). I quickly emailed the guy I planned to meet to confirm our 4:30PM Starbucks meeting. Earlier in the week, it had been nearly impossible to garner any sort of response from this guy. This time, however, I received a response 2 minutes later:
Hey Andres,
As it happens, I'm pretty busy this afternoon. We could always try for sometime during the day Sunday or next week. Not sure when you are around until, but let me know.
- Steve
Fantastically enough, I was now left with 0 interviews and a $144 hotel bill. So I walked to Soho, shoved 2 enormous slices of Pepperoni and Sausage pizza down my gullet, and went shopping. I stumbled upon the notorious UNIQLO store, a Japanese version of H&M. Here, I purchased breathable undershirts (to control my sweating problems), breathable underwear (to protect against chub rub), and a $19 shirt that I could say "Oh, well I bought this in Manhattan" if someone chose to compliment me. The Japanese think of everything, from seafood flavored potato chips to breathable underwear. And for that, I am thankful.
As I walked around the city, I found myself in a fury of rage each time I passed a "young professional" chewing on their $14 salad on a park bench. Why did it seem that, for me, it's been increasingly difficult and degrading trying to even have someone sit down and interview me? It seemed so easy for these other people. You would think I'm attempting to land a job in Paris and apply for French citizenship. This is NYC, which is located in the U.S., which is a 3 hour train ride from my house, where I have full rights to work as an American citizen, and which is seemingly the most impossible city on earth to find a place that will pay me a mediocre salary so I can live in a shit hole shoebox of an apartment and eat Ramen noodles from a dented Styrofoam container. But to me, it's where I feel my next step is - maybe a place where I will finally come alive. And who knows, maybe I'll change my mind. But for now, I will sit at my desk in my comfortable Japanese underwear and freshly aired torso - sending emails with my resume and cover letter and waiting patiently for a response.
Tuesday, August 9, 2011
Richard
Below is a small excerpt from one of my book's upcoming chapters. Enjoy!
Have you ever met someone that is so painfully dumb, yet so incredibly genuine that you can't help but invite this person into your life? That's exactly how I would describe Richard, my grandmother’s housekeeper/handyman. Richard is 45 years old and comes in a very compact little frame. I can’t imagine he weighs much more than a kiwi. On any given day, Richard will adorn a different hair color that he proudly boasts was done professionally by him. Often times, he wears an old hat and an assortment of t-shirts, pants, and shoes that are at least 4 times his size. Adding to this his high-pitched voice, child-like character and goofy demeanor, Richard clearly sticks out no matter where he goes. He speaks fast and unintelligible, yet his facial expressions and hand gestures are what effectively communicate his ideas the most. Let me give you some background on Richard, who just so happens to be my purest source of entertainment each time I visit Paraguay. In all of my worldly travels and people that I’ve met, I am most intrigued by Richard.
Richard is officially retarded. Well, maybe not in the actual diagnosable sense, but I'm convinced that there's more than a few wires loose up there. Richard started his life in an orphanage where he grew up having little, if anything at all, to call his own. From what he has shared, he's told me he used to sleep in parks and perform odd jobs to survive his adolescent years. As a 45 year old adult now, he has the maturity level of a 13 year old girl at best. I say girl because Richard is a flaming homosexual. He'll never admit it, but one conversation with the man is like speaking with the gossiping neighborhood old lady. My great uncle Oscar doesn’t care much for Richard and openly harasses him due mostly to his homosexuality, but also because he’s just a grumpy old man with most likely a small and non-functioning penis. My grandmother and Richard, however, have a very interesting relationship. To me, it seems as though they are more like sisters rather than boss/employee.
My grandmother comes from a German background as a result of her grandparents emigrating from Germany to Paraguay in the late 1800’s. She’s stalky, fair-skinned and tall with red hair and a large bunion on her right foot. The bunion has been there for as long as I can remember, and I’ve come to consider it as part of the family. I often times wonder how she’s able to wear normal shoes given the size of this particular bunion, but she always seems to successfully mold each shoe to the peculiar shape of her foot. Physically, my grandmother and Richard are complete polar opposites. She also has a very stubborn and strong personality and enjoys running her household much like a German airport – clean, efficient, and orderly. There’s a staff of two housekeepers who cook and clean, an attractive gardener who comes once a week, and then there’s Richard, who basically does any leftover chores and provides entertainment for my grandmother on a regular basis. In short, Richard sweeps the sidewalk in front of her house, watches soap operas, and changes the occasional light bulb as his main job duties. While my grandmother puts on a tough front, she holds one of the kindest and warmest hearts underneath it all, and this becomes most evident around Richard.
Often times my grandmother and Richard get into arguments over which soap operas to watch. “Richard you have work to do and I want to find out who killed Rosario in this week’s episode of Amantes Diablos” she’ll scold. “But, Senora, I want to find out who is the whore that slept with Magdalena’s husband and aborted the bastard baby in Dos Amantes!” he’ll beg, using his hands to gesture his dramatic plea in a high-pitched voice while staring at her with eager eyes like a child begging for candy at the check-out counter. Of course, my grandmother has a soft spot for Richard and often gives in, but not without intelligently bartering first. “Fine Richard, you can watch the first 20 minutes, but then you need to trim the branches of the mango tree because one fell on Delia the other day and I’m tired of her blaming my house’s imbalanced energy field after every piece of fruit that falls on her head." Of course Richard will always reluctantly agree, but not without stating that her house and overall well-being would be a disaster if not for him. This is untrue for a number of reasons, as Richard is notoriously clumsy and unreliable.
In my most recent visit to my grandmother's house in Paraguay, I found out that Richard had left and never returned. My grandma explained that she had embarked on her routine summer trip to see us in the U.S., leaving behind her cell phone for the housekeeper to charge while she was away. She had also left 2 weeks pay for Richard, on top of extra money for the tutor that she had hired for Richard's reading lessons. Again, Richard isn't actually retarded; he's just one of those people left behind by the educational system and society. So, my grandmother had made a deal with him that she would pay for a tutor if he promised to stick with it. Upon her return, my grandma found that her cell phone and all of the money intended for Richard and his tutor had disappeared. Presumably, it was Richard who had turned himself into a petty thief and stolen my grandmother's cell phone. It was strange to notice how my grandmother didn't actually care about the missing contents, but seemed to care more about the fact that Richard would leave her in such a way. Needless to say, I could sense some strain and tension in my grandma's relationship with Richard.
While I was at her house, I began to notice that every morning there would be a fresh batch of avocados in the kitchen. These particular avocados were hard and yellowish in color and sat on the kitchen counter like plastic ornaments that no one gave a second thought to. After a couple of days, I asked my grandmother why she had decided to buy so many avocados that weren't even ripe. "Oh I didn't buy these" she responded. "This is Richard's attempt at making up." It turns out that for the previous week, Richard would arrive every morning at 7am, ring the doorbell, and leave a bag of freshly picked Avocados at my grandmother's front door. The housekeeper, Rosa, had mentioned that she had witnessed Richard carefully approaching the house the way one would approach a bear in the wilderness, quietly look around, and place the bag of avocados by the front gate. After doing so, he would ring the doorbell and run like hell, flailing his arms like a rabid bat all the way down the street as he negotiated the cracks in the sidewalk with his oversized shoes. This had now become his morning ritual, where he had reasoned that a daily bag of avocados was the perfect way to make amends with someone you had stolen from. I begged Rosa to inform Richard that I was visiting and would love to have him stop by. She relayed my message and told me that Richard would like to stop by, but he is afraid of my grandmother yelling at him. My grandmother laughed as she cleared the space on top of the fridge for the 500 avocados, and instructed Rosa to tell him that she promised she would not yell. Richard then had Rosa inform us that he would be stopping by the house the following afternoon at 4pm sharp. I could see the look of subtle joy on my grandmother’s face at the thought of her sisterly confidant returning for an afternoon of entertainment.
The following morning, I awoke to find Rosa preparing an avocado salad for lunch and was quickly reminded of Richard’s afternoon visit.
“Don’t forget the 4pm visitor we are receiving today!” I exclaimed to my grandmother as she walked into the kitchen.
“4pm? Who’s coming at 4pm?”
“Richard! Remember? You promised not to yell at him”
“Oh, Richard is coming at 4? It had completely slipped my mind” she lied.
My grandmother made her way to the table, pulled out a chair, and slowly sat next to me. After a few moments of silence, she turned to me and said, “What the hell am I supposed to do with all of these avocados?"
She then proceeded to tell me numerous stories involving her history with Richard, all of them involving some sort of humorous outcome that she found entertaining. Apparently, there was one time that Richard had requested to borrow an umbrella to fight off the afternoon rainstorm on his way to the bus stop. “Go into the garage and there should be an umbrella in there for you, Richard” my grandmother told him. A few moments later, she heard him holler his usual “Bye Senora! See you tomorrow!” The door closed and my grandmother, along with Rosa, made their way to the living room window to watch Richard leave. Sure enough, the site they saw was not a letdown. Sashaying confidently down the street in his baggy pants and bright blue XXL Old Navy shirt was Richard, holding an enormously large blue pool umbrella that was gargantuan enough to house a family of 10 on a camping trip. A short time later, Richard returned to the house with a dazed and confused look on his face.
“Senora, I had to come back because my umbrella wouldn’t fit in the bus and everyone was staring at me! The ladies at the bus stop asked me why I was carrying an umbrella that is 3 times my size!”
My grandmother laughed and said, “Richard, that’s because that umbrella is from America and they haven’t seen anything as fashionable and useful here. They were probably just jealous. Here, take this small one and go catch your bus.”
When my grandmother retold the story, I couldn’t quite imagine the size of this umbrella without seeing it for myself. I had decided then and there that I would ask Richard to re-enact the scenario during his afternoon visit.
**Read more about Richard, along with pictures of his visit, when the book comes out later this fall!**
Have you ever met someone that is so painfully dumb, yet so incredibly genuine that you can't help but invite this person into your life? That's exactly how I would describe Richard, my grandmother’s housekeeper/handyman. Richard is 45 years old and comes in a very compact little frame. I can’t imagine he weighs much more than a kiwi. On any given day, Richard will adorn a different hair color that he proudly boasts was done professionally by him. Often times, he wears an old hat and an assortment of t-shirts, pants, and shoes that are at least 4 times his size. Adding to this his high-pitched voice, child-like character and goofy demeanor, Richard clearly sticks out no matter where he goes. He speaks fast and unintelligible, yet his facial expressions and hand gestures are what effectively communicate his ideas the most. Let me give you some background on Richard, who just so happens to be my purest source of entertainment each time I visit Paraguay. In all of my worldly travels and people that I’ve met, I am most intrigued by Richard.
Richard is officially retarded. Well, maybe not in the actual diagnosable sense, but I'm convinced that there's more than a few wires loose up there. Richard started his life in an orphanage where he grew up having little, if anything at all, to call his own. From what he has shared, he's told me he used to sleep in parks and perform odd jobs to survive his adolescent years. As a 45 year old adult now, he has the maturity level of a 13 year old girl at best. I say girl because Richard is a flaming homosexual. He'll never admit it, but one conversation with the man is like speaking with the gossiping neighborhood old lady. My great uncle Oscar doesn’t care much for Richard and openly harasses him due mostly to his homosexuality, but also because he’s just a grumpy old man with most likely a small and non-functioning penis. My grandmother and Richard, however, have a very interesting relationship. To me, it seems as though they are more like sisters rather than boss/employee.
My grandmother comes from a German background as a result of her grandparents emigrating from Germany to Paraguay in the late 1800’s. She’s stalky, fair-skinned and tall with red hair and a large bunion on her right foot. The bunion has been there for as long as I can remember, and I’ve come to consider it as part of the family. I often times wonder how she’s able to wear normal shoes given the size of this particular bunion, but she always seems to successfully mold each shoe to the peculiar shape of her foot. Physically, my grandmother and Richard are complete polar opposites. She also has a very stubborn and strong personality and enjoys running her household much like a German airport – clean, efficient, and orderly. There’s a staff of two housekeepers who cook and clean, an attractive gardener who comes once a week, and then there’s Richard, who basically does any leftover chores and provides entertainment for my grandmother on a regular basis. In short, Richard sweeps the sidewalk in front of her house, watches soap operas, and changes the occasional light bulb as his main job duties. While my grandmother puts on a tough front, she holds one of the kindest and warmest hearts underneath it all, and this becomes most evident around Richard.
Often times my grandmother and Richard get into arguments over which soap operas to watch. “Richard you have work to do and I want to find out who killed Rosario in this week’s episode of Amantes Diablos” she’ll scold. “But, Senora, I want to find out who is the whore that slept with Magdalena’s husband and aborted the bastard baby in Dos Amantes!” he’ll beg, using his hands to gesture his dramatic plea in a high-pitched voice while staring at her with eager eyes like a child begging for candy at the check-out counter. Of course, my grandmother has a soft spot for Richard and often gives in, but not without intelligently bartering first. “Fine Richard, you can watch the first 20 minutes, but then you need to trim the branches of the mango tree because one fell on Delia the other day and I’m tired of her blaming my house’s imbalanced energy field after every piece of fruit that falls on her head." Of course Richard will always reluctantly agree, but not without stating that her house and overall well-being would be a disaster if not for him. This is untrue for a number of reasons, as Richard is notoriously clumsy and unreliable.
In my most recent visit to my grandmother's house in Paraguay, I found out that Richard had left and never returned. My grandma explained that she had embarked on her routine summer trip to see us in the U.S., leaving behind her cell phone for the housekeeper to charge while she was away. She had also left 2 weeks pay for Richard, on top of extra money for the tutor that she had hired for Richard's reading lessons. Again, Richard isn't actually retarded; he's just one of those people left behind by the educational system and society. So, my grandmother had made a deal with him that she would pay for a tutor if he promised to stick with it. Upon her return, my grandma found that her cell phone and all of the money intended for Richard and his tutor had disappeared. Presumably, it was Richard who had turned himself into a petty thief and stolen my grandmother's cell phone. It was strange to notice how my grandmother didn't actually care about the missing contents, but seemed to care more about the fact that Richard would leave her in such a way. Needless to say, I could sense some strain and tension in my grandma's relationship with Richard.
While I was at her house, I began to notice that every morning there would be a fresh batch of avocados in the kitchen. These particular avocados were hard and yellowish in color and sat on the kitchen counter like plastic ornaments that no one gave a second thought to. After a couple of days, I asked my grandmother why she had decided to buy so many avocados that weren't even ripe. "Oh I didn't buy these" she responded. "This is Richard's attempt at making up." It turns out that for the previous week, Richard would arrive every morning at 7am, ring the doorbell, and leave a bag of freshly picked Avocados at my grandmother's front door. The housekeeper, Rosa, had mentioned that she had witnessed Richard carefully approaching the house the way one would approach a bear in the wilderness, quietly look around, and place the bag of avocados by the front gate. After doing so, he would ring the doorbell and run like hell, flailing his arms like a rabid bat all the way down the street as he negotiated the cracks in the sidewalk with his oversized shoes. This had now become his morning ritual, where he had reasoned that a daily bag of avocados was the perfect way to make amends with someone you had stolen from. I begged Rosa to inform Richard that I was visiting and would love to have him stop by. She relayed my message and told me that Richard would like to stop by, but he is afraid of my grandmother yelling at him. My grandmother laughed as she cleared the space on top of the fridge for the 500 avocados, and instructed Rosa to tell him that she promised she would not yell. Richard then had Rosa inform us that he would be stopping by the house the following afternoon at 4pm sharp. I could see the look of subtle joy on my grandmother’s face at the thought of her sisterly confidant returning for an afternoon of entertainment.
The following morning, I awoke to find Rosa preparing an avocado salad for lunch and was quickly reminded of Richard’s afternoon visit.
“Don’t forget the 4pm visitor we are receiving today!” I exclaimed to my grandmother as she walked into the kitchen.
“4pm? Who’s coming at 4pm?”
“Richard! Remember? You promised not to yell at him”
“Oh, Richard is coming at 4? It had completely slipped my mind” she lied.
My grandmother made her way to the table, pulled out a chair, and slowly sat next to me. After a few moments of silence, she turned to me and said, “What the hell am I supposed to do with all of these avocados?"
She then proceeded to tell me numerous stories involving her history with Richard, all of them involving some sort of humorous outcome that she found entertaining. Apparently, there was one time that Richard had requested to borrow an umbrella to fight off the afternoon rainstorm on his way to the bus stop. “Go into the garage and there should be an umbrella in there for you, Richard” my grandmother told him. A few moments later, she heard him holler his usual “Bye Senora! See you tomorrow!” The door closed and my grandmother, along with Rosa, made their way to the living room window to watch Richard leave. Sure enough, the site they saw was not a letdown. Sashaying confidently down the street in his baggy pants and bright blue XXL Old Navy shirt was Richard, holding an enormously large blue pool umbrella that was gargantuan enough to house a family of 10 on a camping trip. A short time later, Richard returned to the house with a dazed and confused look on his face.
“Senora, I had to come back because my umbrella wouldn’t fit in the bus and everyone was staring at me! The ladies at the bus stop asked me why I was carrying an umbrella that is 3 times my size!”
My grandmother laughed and said, “Richard, that’s because that umbrella is from America and they haven’t seen anything as fashionable and useful here. They were probably just jealous. Here, take this small one and go catch your bus.”
When my grandmother retold the story, I couldn’t quite imagine the size of this umbrella without seeing it for myself. I had decided then and there that I would ask Richard to re-enact the scenario during his afternoon visit.
**Read more about Richard, along with pictures of his visit, when the book comes out later this fall!**
Tuesday, August 2, 2011
Thanks College
I hate job hunting. It's my most hated thing in the world behind laundry, cleaning bathrooms, and adult kickball leagues. Honestly, as an adult I'd rather be drinking a beer at home watching re-runs of "King of Queens" than kicking a ball with other adults who think they're important because they have a $35K/ year job as an assistant on the hill to an obscure representative from Idaho. I've also found that if you start something off with "no offense", it basically clears you of any responsibility for the statements you make. As in, "No offense to my hill staffer friends who play adult kickball and work hard every day to change the library book rental laws of Ward 6 in Boise, Idaho".
When applying for jobs, though, I can't stand the actual process of degrading myself. What I mean is that it's an ugly reminder of just how mediocre life can feel when you're part of corporate America. You send a cover letter explaining how excited and honored you are for the mere opportunity to apply for this particular position, followed by the valient effort of having to sell yourself and your skills to a stranger in hopes of future compensation - much like a prostitute. Most of my time is spent having to sift through long and overly enthusiastic job descriptions on various websites falsely taunting me with advertisements like "Are you tired of commuting and long hours in the office? Well here's your chance to work from home PART-TIME in your pajamas and make up to $300K/year!!!!" Of course I'm tired of commuting and working long hours and wearing clothing or brushing my teeth for work. THAT IS WHY I'M HERE. These people know this and play into my already tainted view of how life in your 20's is a fucked up game of chasing the corporate carrot. We're always trying to move to the next level and improve ourselves to get that higher salary and that promotion, which is not entirely a bad thing. But what is frustrating is that we were never taught that hard work and intelligence don't guarantee you anything. In school, if you work hard and possess some semblance of a brain, you're guaranteed to move to the next level and eventually graduate with a diploma and a picture of you shaking hands with the Dean who just mispronounced your last name. In real life and at work, it's never that cut and dry.
I often times wonder why there wasn't a college course offered to help you handle the politics and realities and responsibilities that come with "the real world" after you graduate. The course should be called "How to not desperately claw your eyes out despite all the fucked up shit you see and hear on a daily basis at work for the next 40 years of your life." Every last person would be able to look back on that course and relate. Instead, we get Calculus, English 101, and false hope that we will find the perfect job with a great salary and live happily ever after as a reward for our 21 years of school. That's one hell of a $240,000 trick that us highly educated people fell into. But hey, at least I got to black out 3 times a week and take naps at 2pm.
So in my almost daily search for "The perfect job", or at least one that gives the illusion of perfection, I find myself feeling consistently inadequate and somewhat degraded. I can apply to 100 jobs and hear nothing back, leaving me to wonder if I'm doomed to walk through the doors of the same building for the rest of my life. But in the case that one employer does respond, I'm bombarded with questions about my experience, education, and knowledge/skills that they may or may not find useful for their company. And in the event I pass through those hurdles, I may be invited for an in-person interview where I'm forced to lie about "Where I want to be 5-10 years from now". 5-10 years from now I'd like to be retired and swimming nude in a desolate carribbean beach being massaged by a pygmy, but I've found that most employers frown upon that response. Therefore, the correct response is "5-10 years from now I'd like to be in a position where my experience and knowledge of emerging markets and global economic trends, along with my natural abilities to lead and motivate others in a cohesive environment, direct me towards opportunities in a managerial role that will foster overall growth and success for myself and this company." And after all the B.S., you shake hands and (if you're lucky) receive a call from Bill the Recruitment guy telling you that your interview went great and they'd like to hire you for a full-time position at a whopping $43k/Yr. Well geez, now I can afford that Hyundai Accent I've been dreaming about. (No offense to Hyundai drivers)
So for now, the search continues. But at the end of the day, I can be grateful that I have my framed college diploma as documented proof of my eligibility to successfully read a job description, click "Apply", and eagerly wait for a phone call that may or may not come. Meanwhile, Snookie has just shown her tits for a million dollars and Justin Bieber has auctioned off his first pubic hair on ebay for charity. Hard work really does pay off.
When applying for jobs, though, I can't stand the actual process of degrading myself. What I mean is that it's an ugly reminder of just how mediocre life can feel when you're part of corporate America. You send a cover letter explaining how excited and honored you are for the mere opportunity to apply for this particular position, followed by the valient effort of having to sell yourself and your skills to a stranger in hopes of future compensation - much like a prostitute. Most of my time is spent having to sift through long and overly enthusiastic job descriptions on various websites falsely taunting me with advertisements like "Are you tired of commuting and long hours in the office? Well here's your chance to work from home PART-TIME in your pajamas and make up to $300K/year!!!!" Of course I'm tired of commuting and working long hours and wearing clothing or brushing my teeth for work. THAT IS WHY I'M HERE. These people know this and play into my already tainted view of how life in your 20's is a fucked up game of chasing the corporate carrot. We're always trying to move to the next level and improve ourselves to get that higher salary and that promotion, which is not entirely a bad thing. But what is frustrating is that we were never taught that hard work and intelligence don't guarantee you anything. In school, if you work hard and possess some semblance of a brain, you're guaranteed to move to the next level and eventually graduate with a diploma and a picture of you shaking hands with the Dean who just mispronounced your last name. In real life and at work, it's never that cut and dry.
I often times wonder why there wasn't a college course offered to help you handle the politics and realities and responsibilities that come with "the real world" after you graduate. The course should be called "How to not desperately claw your eyes out despite all the fucked up shit you see and hear on a daily basis at work for the next 40 years of your life." Every last person would be able to look back on that course and relate. Instead, we get Calculus, English 101, and false hope that we will find the perfect job with a great salary and live happily ever after as a reward for our 21 years of school. That's one hell of a $240,000 trick that us highly educated people fell into. But hey, at least I got to black out 3 times a week and take naps at 2pm.
So in my almost daily search for "The perfect job", or at least one that gives the illusion of perfection, I find myself feeling consistently inadequate and somewhat degraded. I can apply to 100 jobs and hear nothing back, leaving me to wonder if I'm doomed to walk through the doors of the same building for the rest of my life. But in the case that one employer does respond, I'm bombarded with questions about my experience, education, and knowledge/skills that they may or may not find useful for their company. And in the event I pass through those hurdles, I may be invited for an in-person interview where I'm forced to lie about "Where I want to be 5-10 years from now". 5-10 years from now I'd like to be retired and swimming nude in a desolate carribbean beach being massaged by a pygmy, but I've found that most employers frown upon that response. Therefore, the correct response is "5-10 years from now I'd like to be in a position where my experience and knowledge of emerging markets and global economic trends, along with my natural abilities to lead and motivate others in a cohesive environment, direct me towards opportunities in a managerial role that will foster overall growth and success for myself and this company." And after all the B.S., you shake hands and (if you're lucky) receive a call from Bill the Recruitment guy telling you that your interview went great and they'd like to hire you for a full-time position at a whopping $43k/Yr. Well geez, now I can afford that Hyundai Accent I've been dreaming about. (No offense to Hyundai drivers)
So for now, the search continues. But at the end of the day, I can be grateful that I have my framed college diploma as documented proof of my eligibility to successfully read a job description, click "Apply", and eagerly wait for a phone call that may or may not come. Meanwhile, Snookie has just shown her tits for a million dollars and Justin Bieber has auctioned off his first pubic hair on ebay for charity. Hard work really does pay off.
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