In addition to sending out enormous amounts of resumes to random companies, I have been back at my old hustles...namely the old lady garment industry. For those of you new to this blog, I pride myself on finding strange, legal ways to get money. In the past, I've worked a traveling roadshow of 2-3 racks of clothes made of spandex, lycra-esque material outfits perfect for your Nana or prematurely aging mother or friend. Apparently the roadshow had made its rounds and came back to my town.
These fools called me up on a Tuesday night to work at 7:30 AM the following day, and like a dog in heat finding a mate unexpectedly, I quickly accepted and got suited up for the job.
I knew what I was getting into and rejoiced in obtaining some sort of income outside of my monthly allowance via my parents. I gotta do something to contribute to my eating and drinking habits, right? I like to feel like I'm at least 3% self sufficient with this moo-moo hustle; it is where it's at.
Unlike my previous roadshow experience, my second shift was marred by a random sleet storm. After consulting with my coworker, we both opted out on working that day. I called in, thought everything was cool and kept on keeping on. Though I admit it, I probably could have driven to work in my sedan, to make myself feel better I refused to get into any car that was not an SUV that day. If I didn't get into a normal car that drove fine on the roads, I could think that there was no way my Beefy Corolla could have taken that road... that's how I reason it, anyway.
I roll into work the next day and some chica is up in my biznaz tryna run my racks. At first, I was confused so I called my contact at the rando company. She apparently fired me and my other coworker who didn't come in that snowy day without telling us and apparently wasn't going to tell us. She hired some other bias via craigslist (only fueling my love-hate, mostly hate, relationship with craigslist) and they were all up on the schedule. She quickly said that since I showed up for my previously scheduled shift that day and only lived 10 minutes away that I could keep my hours. I was relieved mainly because I already bought my Christmas presents and spent more on them than the usual $10, thrift shop, hand-me down gifts I usually get for my family. So, I continued working.
Since I would now be working at the same time as these new chicks, I decided to get to know them and I thought I'd share with you the type of people you encounter while hustling random grinds around town.
The first girl, whom I will call Bsnooki (not to be confused with Snooki). Bsnooki was amiable and quick to tell me the facts of her life. Coming from a farm (she never said what the farm produced, so I assumed for myself what they grew), her dad was a pothead and her brother was in jail for selling the ganja. She herself was on probation for a DWI, being only 20. She moved out of her parents house at 15 (what, can people do that at that age?) and into a dude's house. Then she was in the army for a year, a year she apparently spent sleeping in her locker so as not to do work. She seemed reliable enough, though her boyfriend was apparently the jealous controlling type and they lived in the basement of his 109 year old grandmother's house. Bsnooki was a talker, and it kept me entertained. I played up my hoodrat roots living, saying I once lived in an apartment when I was young and had divorced parents. I tried to relate and thought I gave a pretty good impression of also being from a similar background. She talked of the rough life and paying bills, and I talked about how hard it was to decide which J Crew shirt to buy and which relative I would ask for money to make that purchase. It seemed a match made in heaven. The last time I saw her she was going to an audition for a dancer position from an ad she also found on craigslist. It's to be determined if this dancing took place on a pole or a stage, or a combo. More power to you, Bsnooki, you get through that probation!
The next lady was someone I'll call Belinda. She was a little older than the rest of us, but the pounds of make up she wore concealed her age...and quite honestly, her identity. She had a tranny glow about her, but she really was a sweetheart and her troubles were insane. She had high blood pressure, a heart murmur-type thing, her grandpa was about to die, and she seemed to live in an animal menagerie from what I understood about the amount of pets she had. Her thick Southern accent and odd colloquialisms (something "thicker than a cat's tail on Christmas day" is a good thing, right?) along with my Melly from the Block way of talking made communication difficult at times and I found myself nodding along as she listed what I assumed were her ailments. I became a little scared that she would pass out and I would not be able to do anything but rely on the sample-giver outers to CPR her back into working order. I don't think her health was helped by her cigarette habit, but she seemed okay with her way of life...well, aside from the fact that some medicine she was on would make her walk in her sleep at night and dig through drawers and boxes of cereal, or make and eat a peanut butter sandwich.
My favorite buddy was Bojangles. I don't mean that she was fat by using that name, but instead to imply that we bonded on our love of Bojangles biscuits. She was also a recent graduate from an accredited university and felt for my unemployed way of life. She hated being stuck in the Dash but also didn't know how to get out of it. We both had the same opinions about education, law, and sleep walking. In our 4 hour work shifts together, I got to know her real well and I felt like we were really sistas. Out of all the people I've met on the grind, she had to have been the only one I could have an intelligent conversation with and still laugh about the odd looking people that came into the store. Although we hugged as I left, Bojangles was the only person I did not get the number of upon my last day of work, thus dashing my hopes of having 3 friends in my hometown to hang out with.
I also met some weird people that gave out samples. I feel like I don't really need to describe them because, well, if you've ever been to a bulk store, you know the samplers are just plain odd (except for Bantwone). They will give you extra samples if you work with them though, which can be nice when you don't want to buy a day old hotdog from the club restaurant.
After all that, I'd say I'd do it again. I like the samples, the stories, and the money.
Monday, December 27, 2010
Saturday, December 11, 2010
In a District of Columbia Non-State of Mind
Wow, how time has flown and yet nothing has really been done to remedy this unemployment predicament I am in! Jk jk, I'm on the job prowl and for that, I had to traverse out of my comfort zone and into the District. As for the delay in updating, I apologize. I know you four people have been patiently awaiting an update!
Anywho, it was to the good old Capitol town I went earlier this week. I've been there before, in fact, I had a wee bit of an obsession for most of my life and have gone at least once a year. Something about old statues and homeless people, along with the highest STD rate in the nation, just makes my heart skip a beat and I have to go back.
This trip was unlike my others because I was actually doing something productive by getting some interviews via my buddy Berica. In hard economic times like this, it helps to have friends who will pass your resume, and not your blog, to future employers. I had three set up for Tuesday and a Happy Hour with some real working girls afterward, aka the perfect day.
In post interview celebration and pre Happy Hour time, I headed to the subway to try and navigate my maybe future home. I took the long way to the metro stop and after an hour of walking, got on. Maybe not the best plan in 28 degree weather, but it worked. I looked at the metro map and figured I'd go to the Smithsonians since they were free.
As I got out of the stop, the wind had picked up and I realized I needed to get inside somewhere quick and immediately stumbled upon the Holocaust Museum. In an effort to get feeling back in my toes, set the mood for Happy Hour, and celebrate Hanukkah, it seemed like the perfect spot. It was free because it was the off season, so I ventured inside. I couldn't help but be reminded of a previous visit to the Holocaust Museum that I shared with my friend Bkelly.
I was visiting Bkelly as she spent the summer working for some non-profit. We couldn't think of anything to do, so we went to the Holocaust Museum's gift shop, naturally. We looked around at the menorahs, the Torahs, and the postcards to pass the time. We both spotted a tiny, ancient lady who seemed to straining to reach a book (at least I remember her playing up the damsel in distress bit) so we walked over to see if she needed help.
She motioned for us to follow her to the back of the store, and we did, thinking that something was just too high for her to reach in her Merrels. All of a sudden, a table appeared before us with a mound of books atop it and an empty chair behind it. The lady sat down and handed each of us a book. She explained that this was in fact her book about her experience in the Holocaust.
Moved by her words, I thumbed through it. There were pictures of her as a young girl and I genuinely was interested, but just not in buying it. As I looked through it, I tried to find the words of consolation for such an experience and also the words to say that I was just looking and not intending to spend $20 on her book, Bkelly sat the book down and walked away, leaving me looking like a putz.
Now, it's not that I didn't want to buy the book or didn't feel for the lady, but I was a college student with limited funding and limited time to read. Trying to politely get out of the conversation without purchasing the book, I proceeded to ask her to sign the book, thinking I could get her to sign it then walk away and leave it somewhere where she wouldn't see me put it down.
Unluckily, she informed me that I would have to pay for the book before she could write in it. This was a predicament indeed because there was just no easy out. I caved and put the book on my credit card then returned to the table and asked for it to be personalized. The lady did it with the biggest smile and quickest pen. I walked away feeling I had made this lady's day.
I met Bkelly outside, who was laughing at me for being a softie and buying the lady's memoir. I mean, how can you say "no" to a lady who has been through the Holocaust? It's just not right!
When I returned home after my trip, I opened the book, because I believed it deserved a read for both the lady and my $20. I never finished it because it was probably one of the most poorly written books I ever started. I felt like I should almost edit it then send a copy to her to republish. I read the back of it and got the jist.
I felt I did both her and I a favor by reading the synopsis, but I also remembered to not go into a museum's bookstore again unless I wanted a signed book or rock candy.
Anywho, it was to the good old Capitol town I went earlier this week. I've been there before, in fact, I had a wee bit of an obsession for most of my life and have gone at least once a year. Something about old statues and homeless people, along with the highest STD rate in the nation, just makes my heart skip a beat and I have to go back.
This trip was unlike my others because I was actually doing something productive by getting some interviews via my buddy Berica. In hard economic times like this, it helps to have friends who will pass your resume, and not your blog, to future employers. I had three set up for Tuesday and a Happy Hour with some real working girls afterward, aka the perfect day.
In post interview celebration and pre Happy Hour time, I headed to the subway to try and navigate my maybe future home. I took the long way to the metro stop and after an hour of walking, got on. Maybe not the best plan in 28 degree weather, but it worked. I looked at the metro map and figured I'd go to the Smithsonians since they were free.
As I got out of the stop, the wind had picked up and I realized I needed to get inside somewhere quick and immediately stumbled upon the Holocaust Museum. In an effort to get feeling back in my toes, set the mood for Happy Hour, and celebrate Hanukkah, it seemed like the perfect spot. It was free because it was the off season, so I ventured inside. I couldn't help but be reminded of a previous visit to the Holocaust Museum that I shared with my friend Bkelly.
I was visiting Bkelly as she spent the summer working for some non-profit. We couldn't think of anything to do, so we went to the Holocaust Museum's gift shop, naturally. We looked around at the menorahs, the Torahs, and the postcards to pass the time. We both spotted a tiny, ancient lady who seemed to straining to reach a book (at least I remember her playing up the damsel in distress bit) so we walked over to see if she needed help.
She motioned for us to follow her to the back of the store, and we did, thinking that something was just too high for her to reach in her Merrels. All of a sudden, a table appeared before us with a mound of books atop it and an empty chair behind it. The lady sat down and handed each of us a book. She explained that this was in fact her book about her experience in the Holocaust.
Moved by her words, I thumbed through it. There were pictures of her as a young girl and I genuinely was interested, but just not in buying it. As I looked through it, I tried to find the words of consolation for such an experience and also the words to say that I was just looking and not intending to spend $20 on her book, Bkelly sat the book down and walked away, leaving me looking like a putz.
Now, it's not that I didn't want to buy the book or didn't feel for the lady, but I was a college student with limited funding and limited time to read. Trying to politely get out of the conversation without purchasing the book, I proceeded to ask her to sign the book, thinking I could get her to sign it then walk away and leave it somewhere where she wouldn't see me put it down.
Unluckily, she informed me that I would have to pay for the book before she could write in it. This was a predicament indeed because there was just no easy out. I caved and put the book on my credit card then returned to the table and asked for it to be personalized. The lady did it with the biggest smile and quickest pen. I walked away feeling I had made this lady's day.
I met Bkelly outside, who was laughing at me for being a softie and buying the lady's memoir. I mean, how can you say "no" to a lady who has been through the Holocaust? It's just not right!
When I returned home after my trip, I opened the book, because I believed it deserved a read for both the lady and my $20. I never finished it because it was probably one of the most poorly written books I ever started. I felt like I should almost edit it then send a copy to her to republish. I read the back of it and got the jist.
I felt I did both her and I a favor by reading the synopsis, but I also remembered to not go into a museum's bookstore again unless I wanted a signed book or rock candy.
Tuesday, November 23, 2010
Okay, Maybe Not
I did not and will not be going to Korea. It came down to a game-time decision. It was reminiscent of a game-time employment decision I made a mere 2 years ago...
To set the scene, imagine a young girl on the cusp of womanhood who only wants to make a ton of money to replace her crappy IBM with a brand new Mac. A young, Latino man offers her an opportunity. He was an elusive young chap with a penchant for sales, smoldering eyes, and a pitch she could not ignore... whoa, I may be reading too many trashy novels... The job was in sales, though the it required door-to-door sales of school books and not of her body as she does when she participate in research studies.
As I got more into the job, I realized this Latino had a novia and I wasn't going to be making money and dating him, but it was okay because the whole second semester of school, I fantasized about how much money I'd make and be throwing over my head like Richie Rich and wondered if Ben Frank or Ol' Washington would be better to wipe my face with after bathing in quarters. I was hyped, I was ready, I wanted that green staining my skin. Everyone was like, "Don't kids get school books... in school?" and "Aren't children in St. Louis illiterate?" but my thirst for book sales could not be satiated. I was going to St. Louis and that was that. I had prepared my housing for the duration of the trip, my car for the ride and my mind for a long, yet hugely monetarily satisfying summer. I was one suitcase short of out the door, when I decided to go out one night with Banna.
I was explaining my exciting new job as Banna's eyes and mouth grew open in anticipation of a rebuttal. As soon as I finished my elated explanation, Banna grabbed my arm and screamed "DON'T DO IT, DON'T DO IT, DON'T DO IT! I did it for a week and HATED it! I'm calling this dude who hired me and convinced me to quit right now to talk to you!" Granted it was at the end of the night and we were in Bski's, the speed with which she dialed a guy I'll call "Bernie" (mostly because I forgot his name), convinced me she meant business. She handed me the phone.
Bernie was pretty inebriated, as I detected in his slurred speech, but his message was clear. As I woofed down my AKski, I listened to this kid monologue me into the fear of leaving my house. He said the following:
"Imagine yourself in a city you've never been in, doing something you don't wanna do that no one even understands why you're doing it. You know no one and don't recognize anyone except the guy who drove by delivering pizza and you swear it's the Papa. You've just knocked on 50 doors, in 30 minutes, but no one has answered a single door or let you in. The temperature is rising and you're wearing a suit to appear legit, and you can't take off the coat. You find yourself sitting on the curb with cottonmouth from the night before when you drank away your sorrows and no water in sight. You're alone...utterly alone. Your dad told you to be a man and never cry, but you start balling anyway and snot's running down your nose. And this is only the first day, not even the first hour. You're alone, forever."
Well, as you can tell, it sounded miserable. I hung up the phone and shed a tear for the poor soul I had just spoken to. For a half second, I thought, "He must just be a really bad salesman, or ugly." But Banna was there to assure me that Bernie was hot and the job was really just that bad. She also told me that she had single-handedly convinced 10 other people to quit when she realized how bad it was, which made me wonder why she didn't stay and make boatloads of money if she was that good. In any case, I was convinced this was not for me and the next day canceled my plans and got a room in Banna's house for the summer.
That summer, I ended up working at a pool and spending a lovely two months with differently-abled individuals like M'Lady (who deserves her own book full of entries). Though I spent all the money I made on liquid food, it was better than sitting on a curb crying, alone...
Maybe this experience influenced my decision about Korea. The thought of sitting on a curb (does Korea even have curbs?) crying and being the tallest person in the city, though while fulfilling my fantasy of being an Amazon queen, really did not appeal to me anymore. I'm not knocking those who are there sticking to the teaching grind, more power to you, all I gotsta say is that it isn't for me, mainly because after reading my last entry, I REALLY do not wanna become Sister Bjoan...glass eye...ew.
To set the scene, imagine a young girl on the cusp of womanhood who only wants to make a ton of money to replace her crappy IBM with a brand new Mac. A young, Latino man offers her an opportunity. He was an elusive young chap with a penchant for sales, smoldering eyes, and a pitch she could not ignore... whoa, I may be reading too many trashy novels... The job was in sales, though the it required door-to-door sales of school books and not of her body as she does when she participate in research studies.
As I got more into the job, I realized this Latino had a novia and I wasn't going to be making money and dating him, but it was okay because the whole second semester of school, I fantasized about how much money I'd make and be throwing over my head like Richie Rich and wondered if Ben Frank or Ol' Washington would be better to wipe my face with after bathing in quarters. I was hyped, I was ready, I wanted that green staining my skin. Everyone was like, "Don't kids get school books... in school?" and "Aren't children in St. Louis illiterate?" but my thirst for book sales could not be satiated. I was going to St. Louis and that was that. I had prepared my housing for the duration of the trip, my car for the ride and my mind for a long, yet hugely monetarily satisfying summer. I was one suitcase short of out the door, when I decided to go out one night with Banna.
I was explaining my exciting new job as Banna's eyes and mouth grew open in anticipation of a rebuttal. As soon as I finished my elated explanation, Banna grabbed my arm and screamed "DON'T DO IT, DON'T DO IT, DON'T DO IT! I did it for a week and HATED it! I'm calling this dude who hired me and convinced me to quit right now to talk to you!" Granted it was at the end of the night and we were in Bski's, the speed with which she dialed a guy I'll call "Bernie" (mostly because I forgot his name), convinced me she meant business. She handed me the phone.
Bernie was pretty inebriated, as I detected in his slurred speech, but his message was clear. As I woofed down my AKski, I listened to this kid monologue me into the fear of leaving my house. He said the following:
"Imagine yourself in a city you've never been in, doing something you don't wanna do that no one even understands why you're doing it. You know no one and don't recognize anyone except the guy who drove by delivering pizza and you swear it's the Papa. You've just knocked on 50 doors, in 30 minutes, but no one has answered a single door or let you in. The temperature is rising and you're wearing a suit to appear legit, and you can't take off the coat. You find yourself sitting on the curb with cottonmouth from the night before when you drank away your sorrows and no water in sight. You're alone...utterly alone. Your dad told you to be a man and never cry, but you start balling anyway and snot's running down your nose. And this is only the first day, not even the first hour. You're alone, forever."
Well, as you can tell, it sounded miserable. I hung up the phone and shed a tear for the poor soul I had just spoken to. For a half second, I thought, "He must just be a really bad salesman, or ugly." But Banna was there to assure me that Bernie was hot and the job was really just that bad. She also told me that she had single-handedly convinced 10 other people to quit when she realized how bad it was, which made me wonder why she didn't stay and make boatloads of money if she was that good. In any case, I was convinced this was not for me and the next day canceled my plans and got a room in Banna's house for the summer.
That summer, I ended up working at a pool and spending a lovely two months with differently-abled individuals like M'Lady (who deserves her own book full of entries). Though I spent all the money I made on liquid food, it was better than sitting on a curb crying, alone...
Maybe this experience influenced my decision about Korea. The thought of sitting on a curb (does Korea even have curbs?) crying and being the tallest person in the city, though while fulfilling my fantasy of being an Amazon queen, really did not appeal to me anymore. I'm not knocking those who are there sticking to the teaching grind, more power to you, all I gotsta say is that it isn't for me, mainly because after reading my last entry, I REALLY do not wanna become Sister Bjoan...glass eye...ew.
Wednesday, November 10, 2010
Korea, There's An Idea
In an attempt to be witty, I may have actually not rhymed as I hoped in the title of this entry, but I still like it and therefore will use it (so THERE, Bmichelle!).
Anyway, my months of being the ultimate bum are quickly coming to a close as I say bon voyage to myself while embarking on a new chapter in my blogger/real life, but first, a little background.
As an elementary student, day in and day out, I pledged my allegiance to quitting school when I was 16 and joining the circus as a gymnast whose only real talent was rolling around on the floor thinking I was doing a cartwheel (my talents are immortalized in my "MLC Reckless Tour" video which may some day go viral... thank God for my brother and his flare for theatrics). It sounded like a great plan and I believed it would make me money. Then, in third grade, freaking Mrs. Henderson (I think that was her name?) decided to make predictions about everyone in the class and their future careers. My friends got great predictions like model, doctor, geisha. I was eager to see mine.
Instead of recognizing my raw physical talent, Mrs. Henderson saw something in my stellar phonics scores and predicted that I'd be the principal of our Catholic elementary school in our podunk town. WTF? First of all, the principal at the time was a nun with a glass eye and drawing any correlation between me and this closeted lezzy was just wrong. I mean, I did have wide shoulders and maybe a tendency of wearing a habit, but seriously?
While I doubt anyone remembers this scarring prediction, I have fought it tooth and nail since I was 9. Yet, somehow, maybe through God and the grace of that dear Sister "Glasseye" Bjoan, I am entering the education field. But it's not a traditional, go to school to be a teacher type of job; it's teaching English in South Korea.
Now it seems crazy to some, but somehow highly logical to me. I mean, where are gymnasts born? ASIA. If I want to continue to pursue my aforementioned real dream career, I gotta learn from the best. Like I said, it's logical, right?
But on the real... I'm about to leave everyone I know and love while following the path I have tried to avoid my entire life: becoming a teacher. I know it's not Sister Bjoan-like to go to Asia to teach and it possibly won't put me back in Bmacon schooling chillans at my old elementary, but the similarities are becoming too eerie for me to handle. She was a teacher (or at least I am assuming she was...don't principals have to be teachers at some point?) and I'm becoming a teacher; if I keep mysteriously getting pink eye, I may lose an eye ball and gain a chunk of rolling glass; the only thing really missing is a large, mullety lady love with whom I go on "outings" to the local seafood restaurant. Too bad my mullety lover would be male and therefore unacceptable.
I guess the only real question is: when will I get thee to a nunnery? Do people even become nuns anymore? You just don't see 20 year old chicks romping around in a flying nun outfit with the lepers like you used to. At one point, I thought I could become a nun, but at another point I also thought that I may be the second coming of Christ. I mean really, if you're going to tell kids that anybody could be Jesus, how are they not supposed to think that they themselves can be Him and thus try to heal a scratch procured from the playground? The things Catholic school does to you.
Again, I lose my focus as I get wrapped up in my fear of the nunnery and being a principal. (Seriously, Mrs. Henderson, your predictions were both jarring and traumatic.) We shall see if South Korea either gives me an Asian, mullet-bearing manfriend or has already reserved a spot for me in the convent...
Anyway, my months of being the ultimate bum are quickly coming to a close as I say bon voyage to myself while embarking on a new chapter in my blogger/real life, but first, a little background.
As an elementary student, day in and day out, I pledged my allegiance to quitting school when I was 16 and joining the circus as a gymnast whose only real talent was rolling around on the floor thinking I was doing a cartwheel (my talents are immortalized in my "MLC Reckless Tour" video which may some day go viral... thank God for my brother and his flare for theatrics). It sounded like a great plan and I believed it would make me money. Then, in third grade, freaking Mrs. Henderson (I think that was her name?) decided to make predictions about everyone in the class and their future careers. My friends got great predictions like model, doctor, geisha. I was eager to see mine.
Instead of recognizing my raw physical talent, Mrs. Henderson saw something in my stellar phonics scores and predicted that I'd be the principal of our Catholic elementary school in our podunk town. WTF? First of all, the principal at the time was a nun with a glass eye and drawing any correlation between me and this closeted lezzy was just wrong. I mean, I did have wide shoulders and maybe a tendency of wearing a habit, but seriously?
While I doubt anyone remembers this scarring prediction, I have fought it tooth and nail since I was 9. Yet, somehow, maybe through God and the grace of that dear Sister "Glasseye" Bjoan, I am entering the education field. But it's not a traditional, go to school to be a teacher type of job; it's teaching English in South Korea.
Now it seems crazy to some, but somehow highly logical to me. I mean, where are gymnasts born? ASIA. If I want to continue to pursue my aforementioned real dream career, I gotta learn from the best. Like I said, it's logical, right?
But on the real... I'm about to leave everyone I know and love while following the path I have tried to avoid my entire life: becoming a teacher. I know it's not Sister Bjoan-like to go to Asia to teach and it possibly won't put me back in Bmacon schooling chillans at my old elementary, but the similarities are becoming too eerie for me to handle. She was a teacher (or at least I am assuming she was...don't principals have to be teachers at some point?) and I'm becoming a teacher; if I keep mysteriously getting pink eye, I may lose an eye ball and gain a chunk of rolling glass; the only thing really missing is a large, mullety lady love with whom I go on "outings" to the local seafood restaurant. Too bad my mullety lover would be male and therefore unacceptable.
I guess the only real question is: when will I get thee to a nunnery? Do people even become nuns anymore? You just don't see 20 year old chicks romping around in a flying nun outfit with the lepers like you used to. At one point, I thought I could become a nun, but at another point I also thought that I may be the second coming of Christ. I mean really, if you're going to tell kids that anybody could be Jesus, how are they not supposed to think that they themselves can be Him and thus try to heal a scratch procured from the playground? The things Catholic school does to you.
Again, I lose my focus as I get wrapped up in my fear of the nunnery and being a principal. (Seriously, Mrs. Henderson, your predictions were both jarring and traumatic.) We shall see if South Korea either gives me an Asian, mullet-bearing manfriend or has already reserved a spot for me in the convent...
Sunday, November 7, 2010
An Eyeful
I've heard that every anniversary has a different themed gift. Ranging from the paper anniversary, to the gold anniversary, to well, I think that's all I've heard of... But, I think these and other types of themes could also be applied to birthdays. Turning 21, it's the legal bar year. Turning 22, at least for me, it was the ghetto bar year complete with a Lil Wayne (yess he's free!) impersonator. And for my friend Banna, turning 24 was the strip bar year.
I made a trip away from home to visit my girl for her birthday celebrations, of which, at the time, I was not informed. As we ordered an obnoxious amount of food with way too many people at Ham's, I was let in on the game plan. We were going to go downtown and go to the strip club that Banna's sister managed, but maybe not in that order.
Now, my only experiences with strip clubs consisted of vague memories of seeing potted plants and then the gay strip club I went to in Key West. The only other time I've seen someone selling themselves was when I was in Amsterdam and dumbly strolled down the Red Light District during the day because it looked like a colorful street (true story). Needless to say, this experience was going to be different and all too memorable.
Though I generally feel sorry for strippers and can only think of what their mothers' think of their profession, I was curious about what the job really entailed, so Banna used this curiosity to get us all into the establishment, as well as the misleading statement that free drinks would be included when really the drinks were only free for her, the birthday girl.
The only people I knew at the celebratory events were Bmaddie and Banna, so I clung to Bmaddie as ventured inside the club. We sat back in a booth as Banna and her other friends sat around the stage. Bmaddie and myself debated the pros and cons of getting too close to strippers, and the possibility of contracting some sort of STD from sitting in a seat that close. I had told myself I wouldn't support the club other than the Shirley Temple I had just purchased, but when I saw Banna folding dollars into triangles, I couldn't help but wonder about the dollar's purpose. My curiosity trumped the possibility of contracting the siph.
Bmaddie and I went up to see what it was all about. Apparently, it's a common assumption that strippers can pick up dollars with their behinds; however, we learned it was based in the also false assumption that all strippers have ginormous butts. The triangular shape of the dollar was to incite an attempt at the clinch of the dollar, but instead these pretty unattractive and unfit ladies just plopped down and assumed something would happen. As I learned through the night, strip clubs are full of false assumptions and disappointing skills.
We never made it to another venue, and only one stripper successfully grabbed the dollar sans hands. We all ended up back at Banna's pad, nom-noming candy corn and watching "Golden Eye." I have now vowed to never go back because I was a little emotionally scarred not just from the poor life decisions those women had made that I had been witness to, but mostly from their lack of commitment to learning new skill sets to please customers.
I made a trip away from home to visit my girl for her birthday celebrations, of which, at the time, I was not informed. As we ordered an obnoxious amount of food with way too many people at Ham's, I was let in on the game plan. We were going to go downtown and go to the strip club that Banna's sister managed, but maybe not in that order.
Now, my only experiences with strip clubs consisted of vague memories of seeing potted plants and then the gay strip club I went to in Key West. The only other time I've seen someone selling themselves was when I was in Amsterdam and dumbly strolled down the Red Light District during the day because it looked like a colorful street (true story). Needless to say, this experience was going to be different and all too memorable.
Though I generally feel sorry for strippers and can only think of what their mothers' think of their profession, I was curious about what the job really entailed, so Banna used this curiosity to get us all into the establishment, as well as the misleading statement that free drinks would be included when really the drinks were only free for her, the birthday girl.
The only people I knew at the celebratory events were Bmaddie and Banna, so I clung to Bmaddie as ventured inside the club. We sat back in a booth as Banna and her other friends sat around the stage. Bmaddie and myself debated the pros and cons of getting too close to strippers, and the possibility of contracting some sort of STD from sitting in a seat that close. I had told myself I wouldn't support the club other than the Shirley Temple I had just purchased, but when I saw Banna folding dollars into triangles, I couldn't help but wonder about the dollar's purpose. My curiosity trumped the possibility of contracting the siph.
Bmaddie and I went up to see what it was all about. Apparently, it's a common assumption that strippers can pick up dollars with their behinds; however, we learned it was based in the also false assumption that all strippers have ginormous butts. The triangular shape of the dollar was to incite an attempt at the clinch of the dollar, but instead these pretty unattractive and unfit ladies just plopped down and assumed something would happen. As I learned through the night, strip clubs are full of false assumptions and disappointing skills.
We never made it to another venue, and only one stripper successfully grabbed the dollar sans hands. We all ended up back at Banna's pad, nom-noming candy corn and watching "Golden Eye." I have now vowed to never go back because I was a little emotionally scarred not just from the poor life decisions those women had made that I had been witness to, but mostly from their lack of commitment to learning new skill sets to please customers.
Sunday, October 31, 2010
Normal is Never Enough
October is my favorite month for a variety of reasons. Mainly my birthday, but also Halloween is my all time favorite holiday. Not only do we get to pretend to be people we aren't, we also get to dress up and gallivant around while eating candy from strangers, which is hardly ever acceptable.
This Halloween was certainly no disappointment. I decided to be my newest idol, Nicki Minaj, or so I thought. My outfit consisted of a pink wig, a set of glasses fully bedazzled so vision was completely impaired, my black shiny driving jacket and a tight black dress that I may or may not have actually worn to an event or two last year. Everyone thought I was Gaga. I think my lack of badonk was the cause of confusion, but I was willing to be confused for my previous idol, so I went with it.
Bmichelle, Bkristen and I rolled up to a party packed with graduated frat stars and expired beer. Apparently we inadvertently stumbled upon a frat house in the middle of Myers Park, but we were game because they had chili and pigs in a blanket.
A few hours later, we ended up at a bar/club downtown. I ended up ditching the wig because it was affecting my game and had a certain tussled, "drag queen" quality that I wasn't feeling anymore. It was time to hit the dance floor. Since I had recently become the 5th wheel to a 4 person party, I decided to mack on the most guido dude in view, who called himself "Lucas."
He seemed cute enough, maybe a little wrinkly, but his abs were intact and I was interested.
As we danced, I shouted my life story but when I asked for deets on his life, he declined. I asked him what he did for a living to which he replied "You know, I really don't want to talk about it, it's not exactly kosher"; when asked about his age he replied "You know, I thought we weren't going to talk about it"; when asked if I could go to the bathroom, he replied "Really? Are you still trying to talk about this?" Maybe he didn't actually hear me.
When we finally made it off the dance floor, I asked him again what he did for a living and told him that I wouldn't tell any narcs. He said, "I know you want to know, but I just don't think it's important. And don't worry, narcs don't deal with this kind of business." The only possible conclusion I came up with: he was a male gigolo, just like Deuce. Sick.
I quickly grabbed Bkristen and insisted on a swift departure, which luckily occurred. Though I had taken a bite from a stranger's hot dog on the street earlier in the night, I couldn't have been more grossed out by my choice of dance partner. There was not enough soap in the world to clean the gigolo's scent off my driving jacket, something between Axe and Abercrombie and Fitch's cologne. Ew.
This Halloween was certainly no disappointment. I decided to be my newest idol, Nicki Minaj, or so I thought. My outfit consisted of a pink wig, a set of glasses fully bedazzled so vision was completely impaired, my black shiny driving jacket and a tight black dress that I may or may not have actually worn to an event or two last year. Everyone thought I was Gaga. I think my lack of badonk was the cause of confusion, but I was willing to be confused for my previous idol, so I went with it.
Bmichelle, Bkristen and I rolled up to a party packed with graduated frat stars and expired beer. Apparently we inadvertently stumbled upon a frat house in the middle of Myers Park, but we were game because they had chili and pigs in a blanket.
A few hours later, we ended up at a bar/club downtown. I ended up ditching the wig because it was affecting my game and had a certain tussled, "drag queen" quality that I wasn't feeling anymore. It was time to hit the dance floor. Since I had recently become the 5th wheel to a 4 person party, I decided to mack on the most guido dude in view, who called himself "Lucas."
He seemed cute enough, maybe a little wrinkly, but his abs were intact and I was interested.
As we danced, I shouted my life story but when I asked for deets on his life, he declined. I asked him what he did for a living to which he replied "You know, I really don't want to talk about it, it's not exactly kosher"; when asked about his age he replied "You know, I thought we weren't going to talk about it"; when asked if I could go to the bathroom, he replied "Really? Are you still trying to talk about this?" Maybe he didn't actually hear me.
When we finally made it off the dance floor, I asked him again what he did for a living and told him that I wouldn't tell any narcs. He said, "I know you want to know, but I just don't think it's important. And don't worry, narcs don't deal with this kind of business." The only possible conclusion I came up with: he was a male gigolo, just like Deuce. Sick.
I quickly grabbed Bkristen and insisted on a swift departure, which luckily occurred. Though I had taken a bite from a stranger's hot dog on the street earlier in the night, I couldn't have been more grossed out by my choice of dance partner. There was not enough soap in the world to clean the gigolo's scent off my driving jacket, something between Axe and Abercrombie and Fitch's cologne. Ew.
Saturday, October 16, 2010
My Life Lately
I feel I offer my readers (all 3 of you), an explanation as to the recent decline in postings. Well, the title of my blog is not as accurate as it once was in that I am currently employed... though at a local Halloween store... and have been putting it to the grind for over a week now. In a constant effort to make some sort of money, I have demoted myself to true townie status as I don my orange smock.
Don't get me wrong, the people I'm working with are not that bad, though I do question my future as I'm only almost 23 and these people are 30+ and we have way too much in common. I'd much rather work at the local Banana Republic, they however, did not ever call me back... it makes me wonder what employers really think... Yet, there are some perks to working at a Halloween store. The main attraction to this job was to see what people are thinking when they buy horrendous costumes, and believe me, I have not been disappointed, especially while working the dressing rooms.
The fact that people are donning leotards and tutus in full intention of wearing it in public just cracks me up. I myself have worn some atrocious items in the past for shits and giggles, but the things these people say in the dressing room takes the cake. "I mean, if it's too short, just wear underwear" and "I really wanted to be the Candy Corn Witch to match with my daughter, but I know that after I start drinking, that outfit will not give in the belly" and similar comments keep me laughing on the inside all day long. I've found myself saying ridiculous things to people just to get them to buy that adult wizard costume and I don't even work on commission. It's just funny to see what people say in response.
Take this situation the other day. About 30 or more people come in and try 6+ outfits and don't buy a thing, so I got used to returning discarded items and listening to dressing room gossip. These two chicks, one of which was a spitting image of Snooki and the other who looked like a Nicole Ritchie wannabe came in and gathered 20 costumes each to try on. This turned into a fashion show that the fathers in the store were all too keen to enjoy while the more liberal mothers told them they needed to show more cleavage.
After 2 hours of walking around in the slutty nurse costumes, they didn't buy a thing and my male manager had to excuse himself for a "cigarette break." I felt ashamed but slightly sad that my 30% discount hasn't started yet and I therefore couldn't purchase anything yet either.
I feel like this job should supply me with more funny stories, but most of them just make me sad. You get some people that'll drop $100 for a single costume, then you get the down-and-out of luck ladies who can't buy their little boy a $5 vampire cape. It's a tangled web we weave as we prepare for a one day celebration of which decorations and costumes will tossed the following day.
My main observation has been that while millions complain of unemployment, I boast that you can be employed... if you're willing to do anything, even if it means telling the plus size chicas that their rippling rolls do not show in the medium size Perky Pin-Up costume.
Don't get me wrong, the people I'm working with are not that bad, though I do question my future as I'm only almost 23 and these people are 30+ and we have way too much in common. I'd much rather work at the local Banana Republic, they however, did not ever call me back... it makes me wonder what employers really think... Yet, there are some perks to working at a Halloween store. The main attraction to this job was to see what people are thinking when they buy horrendous costumes, and believe me, I have not been disappointed, especially while working the dressing rooms.
The fact that people are donning leotards and tutus in full intention of wearing it in public just cracks me up. I myself have worn some atrocious items in the past for shits and giggles, but the things these people say in the dressing room takes the cake. "I mean, if it's too short, just wear underwear" and "I really wanted to be the Candy Corn Witch to match with my daughter, but I know that after I start drinking, that outfit will not give in the belly" and similar comments keep me laughing on the inside all day long. I've found myself saying ridiculous things to people just to get them to buy that adult wizard costume and I don't even work on commission. It's just funny to see what people say in response.
Take this situation the other day. About 30 or more people come in and try 6+ outfits and don't buy a thing, so I got used to returning discarded items and listening to dressing room gossip. These two chicks, one of which was a spitting image of Snooki and the other who looked like a Nicole Ritchie wannabe came in and gathered 20 costumes each to try on. This turned into a fashion show that the fathers in the store were all too keen to enjoy while the more liberal mothers told them they needed to show more cleavage.
After 2 hours of walking around in the slutty nurse costumes, they didn't buy a thing and my male manager had to excuse himself for a "cigarette break." I felt ashamed but slightly sad that my 30% discount hasn't started yet and I therefore couldn't purchase anything yet either.
I feel like this job should supply me with more funny stories, but most of them just make me sad. You get some people that'll drop $100 for a single costume, then you get the down-and-out of luck ladies who can't buy their little boy a $5 vampire cape. It's a tangled web we weave as we prepare for a one day celebration of which decorations and costumes will tossed the following day.
My main observation has been that while millions complain of unemployment, I boast that you can be employed... if you're willing to do anything, even if it means telling the plus size chicas that their rippling rolls do not show in the medium size Perky Pin-Up costume.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)