Hi ho, hi ho, it's off to work I go

I’ve decided to take this time to report on what I don’t miss about the 8 to 5 grind.  Please keep in mind that I am NOT ungrateful for the new job, however, I have discovered that I have been spoiled for the past 3 years by being able to work from home and now that my new job requires me to physically go somewhere other than my recliner for 8 hours a day … I’ve have realized what I DON’T miss:

1)   The completely incompetent drivers at 7:30 in the morning.  Not the ones that simply speed by you to be first at the red light; but the ones (women) that feel they need to take up both lanes while texting, applying mascara and trying to shift gears all at the speed of 55.  I’m sorry, but I too, pay taxes and I’m entitled to my own lane thank you very much (insert sigh).

2)   The “snooze” button, I am convinced, was a mistake by who ever invented the alarm clock.  This button is supposed to allow one to sleep for an extra 5 minutes, but when the alarm clocks “off” button is right next to the “snooze” button it makes for a ridiculously hazardous morning. 

3)   If you are female, you can probably relate to picking out your outfit prior to going to work (e.g. before bed, before morning shower etc.).  However, if you are me, you are used to throwing on slippers and not worrying about your coordination efforts.  I did pick my outfit out last night and was quite proud of my choice given my poor selection to choose from.  After my shower, I was puffy and hot and decided at the last minute that the outfit I chose simply would not due and therefore spent an insane amount of time trying to find a shirt that didn’t portray ‘fat ass’.

4)   Morning coffee (if you are a coffee lover) is a must!  Again, spoiled by my 12-cup coffee maker at my beck and call, I could get my coffee fix at anytime throughout my day. This morning?  A half a cup because I spent my time playing dress-up rather than drinking my coffee. 

5)    Five o’clock traffic.  I only have one thing to say about that.  I have zero tolerance for stupid drivers.  The looky loos who think they are going to miss something hugely important if they don’t stop and evaluate the pulled over vehicle, rude people who won’t merge to the fast lane so you can get onto the freeway, and angry aggressive drivers who ride your bumper like a hemorrhoid because 5 miles over the designated speed limit isn’t fast enough for them.  Apparently these people don’t know who I am.

6)   Workout?  What workout?  By the time I got home, made dinner, drank a beer (in record time) and popped a couple of Advil, I had no energy.  I know, poor me (oy oy oy).

Overall, first day was fine.  The events leading up to and prior to my day need to be restructured. 

 

 

THAT just happened

My little promise, 4 or 5 blogs ago, to workout everyday hasn’t really panned out. Why? Well because, my slothfulness has surfaced again and I’m riding it out. You know, the calm before the storm? I figure this huge surge of energy is about to come and then I’ll be able to make up for wasted time. Anyhow, I am relatively happy to report that I will officially be back on the 8 to 5 grind come Monday (insert cheering crowd). I’m sorry, no more whiny rants about this economy being an Employer’s market (although I’m going to stand by that statement) since I settled for significantly less income than what I was used to making.

Yes, I now will be able to establish my importance on Facebook with my new job title. It’s the minor details that I get excited about. However, I did come to the harsh realization that I will no longer be overindulged by the luxury of working from home and spending time with my son. I somehow kept hanging on to the hope that all the Medicare contractors out there would be knocking down my door, begging me to audit their claims. I took a very large humble pill this morning and reality is sinking in.

The only closeness I came to today in regards to humiliation was my urine test that I had to take (I didn’t study and that in of itself made me nervous). This by the book gentleman was very specific in his instructions when I went in. He took my purse from me and locked it up, then insisted I watch his every move to ensure he wasn’t contaminating the evidence. He sent me in to do my business and while I was pleased with the result, I didn’t realize he was standing right outside of the door listening to everything that was going on – I should have yelled “That’s where I put that gold…I’ve been looking for that!” but I wasn’t on my witty retort game yet this morning. So I finished up, and just as I was going to flush the toilet he yelled through the door “Don’t flush!” Good God, he scared me so bad I tooted and this bathroom is huge and it echoes! I felt my face turn about 47 shades of red and stopped dead in my tracks; teeth clenched, eyes closed and held my breath. “Please God don’t let him have good hearing, please God don’t let him have good hearing.” I quietly walked towards the door and unlocked it – praying that I didn’t leave a scented present. I examined his expression and without missing a beat, he said “I tend to do that to a lot of people”. Oh for the love of Pete! You have got to be kidding me! He heard it and felt the need to comment! I fronted a fake smile and let him take in the freshness (if any).

I claimed my purse, signed a couple of papers and went on my merry way. It took about 20 minutes to calm down from the complete and udder mortification that I had endured. So, happy day. I’m employed and gas-free, I’d say that’s a pretty successful day on my part!

Warning: Doesn't Play Well With Others

I’m sure I’m not the only person who doesn’t like telemarketers. And I don’t want to hear any crap about how they are just working to make ends meet. Yes, telemarketers do provide companies the ability to pull in clients. However, give me a telemarketer that speaks English and is from the United States, and I might have more tolerance before I politely decline their offer.

It’s not even 10:30 a.m. yet (well it will be when I finish this post), and I’ve already received 2 phone calls this morning from India. Of course the caller ID doesn’t show India, per say, it will show ‘New Jersey’ or some BS like that, but when I answer it, it’s pretty apparent that it’s India. Why is India calling me? Well because someone thought it would be a good idea to give all the peeps in Delhi telemarketing jobs because they can make $8 an hour over there and live like kings! That’s great, I’m happy for them. Really. However, what I cannot stand is people, especially telemarketers named ‘Srikant’ trying to pull a fast one on me by telling me their name is ‘Brad’. Yeah, and I’m ‘Surhbi’.

First phone call: ‘Brad’ from The Idaho Statesman called wanting to know if I would like to renew my subscription. Again – caller ID said ‘New Jersey’ so I KNOW that New Jersey could give a shit less about our Idaho Statesman newspaper. Now mind you I’m assuming his name was ‘Brad’ because I couldn’t really understand him. In my mind it sounded like “Bread” or “Brud” so I asked him to repeat it. Then when I still couldn’t understand him, I asked him to spell it out. THAT was a mistake.

(Caller)“BEE-OAR-HAY-ZEE, and I’m calling to offer newspipper for limit time.”

HUH??

(Me) “No. I don’t want to renew. Because the last time I had this newspaper some punk teenagers set my paper box under my mailbox on fire in the middle of the night and scorched my mailbox and my newspaper. THEN when I tried to get someone out here to replace it – they just took the damn thing and never gave me my papers. So I paid $26 for 3 newspapers and burnt mailbox. So, Bread, I’m sorry, I’m not interested.”

(Caller) “Ok, plays hole for a minute why I take your card for information.”

(Me) tapping phone with finger - “Hello? Is this thing on? Bread? I don’t want to hole for a minute while you take my card, my card isn’t going anywhere. I-DO-NOT-WANT-YOU-CALLING-ME.”

I then hung up the phone. Again, why can’t someone FROM The Idaho Statesman call me? Do they really have to outsource? I’m sure the BIGGEST NEWSPAPER IN IDAHO knows about our economic state. This confuses me.

Second phone call:

(Me) “Hello?”
(Caller) “Hello? Is this Sahnd”?
(Me) “No, Sahnd isn’t here right now.”
(Caller) “Hello, is this Sahnd.”
(Me) “No, who is this?”
(Caller) “I’m sahddy, I’m calling for Sahnd”
(Me) “Sahnd is gone and she won’t be back, who is this?”
(Caller) “I’m Tina and I’m calling for Sahnd”

REALLY?? Tina??

(Me) “Ok, Tina? Sahnd isn’t available.”
(Caller) “I’m happy to offer special grahnt for being here.”

What the hell did this woman smoke this morning?

(Me) “For being where? I don’t want a grant. However if you are willing to give me my job back, I’m willing to listen.”
(Caller) fake laugh “Ooohhh, you dunt work?”
(Me) “I did! But a very big company in India took my job because apparently the people of India know more about American Citizens and their Medicare needs than we do, so now I’m unemployed. So I don’t need a grant, I need a job, and unless you know of someone who can do that for me, I’m not interested in talking to you anymore.”
(Caller) “Ohhkaa, I cannot offer job but you provide meh your checking account and grahnt will pay for the school.”
(Me) “No, no checking account information will be exchanged today, but I will give Sahnd a message and let her know that you called.”
(Caller) “I will thank you for calling.”

I hung up.

I should feel guilty for acting like such a bitch, but I’d be lying if I said I was sorry for acting so childish. I’m not into being scammed, and I’m not interested in giving anyone in India my services. I’m not prejudiced. But I do have a bad taste in my mouth and I am the last person to have any sympathy for their economy over there.

Today is one of those days. My ‘nice girl’ pants have been misplaced. I should probably find them before my family disowns me and makes me sit in timeout.

Swimsuit Shopping

Most of you may know where I’m about to go with this. However, for those of you who don’t experience: small breasts (not just average small, but two gingersnaps on a cookie sheet small), muffin tops and saddlebags, I’m about to enlighten you on what it’s like to try on swimsuits.

First off, I must inform you that the hodgepodge that I had to choose from wasn’t very promising. However knowing that most stores don’t carry suits for the spandex challenged, I went in with the frame of mind that my success might be very short lived. My focus was on a skirt/tank set. A skirt, so that my butt wouldn’t hang out and shock any innocent by-standers, and a tank so I could hide the permanent maze that I have etched onto my stomach (a.k.a. stretch marks).

The problem with having a small chest and a big butt (assuming your not 'J-Lo')? Nothing fits. I’m not being a pessimist; I’m only stating a fact. Because of my small bust and big butt, I’m forced to find tops that are teeny weenie around the chest and bottoms that are loose enough to let the cheeks breath. So here I am in the dressing room with 7 or 8 pieces to try on. I’m pretty excited because this might actually be the first time in 5 years that I could sport a bathing suit and feel “ok” about it. After a small struggle, I finally get the bottoms up and over my hips, pull the top down, adjust the skirt a bit, do a little turn to the 3-way mirror and phphphllllphfffbbb. Both the top and the skirt, in perfect sync, roll up like a window shade! The nice assistant, who gets paid to be up your ass, knocks on my door and says, “How is everything?” (Now what I want to say is) “Kiss off bitch, it doesn’t fit”. But I don’t. Instead I reply, “Uhm, I think I need a bigger size in both the top and bottom.” She says, “Let’s see.” What? “Let’s see”???!!! I’m not on parade lady just get me the damn Large! I politely decline and say “Well, I would show you, but then you would be traumatized and that wouldn’t be good for anyone, so could I just get a ‘Large’ in the blue and white Nike set?”

She kindly grabs the large, and throws it over the door. It was only by the grace of God that I was able to get the first suit off – I glanced in the mirror and carefully inspected all the red blotches that the evil suit left on me. I would like to not have signs of a struggle while trying on suits, that’s usually a dead give-away that something’s not right. I slipped on the large top – no problems at all, and then the large bottoms – again, smooth as butter. I did my little butt check in the mirror and realized that the back of the skirt was much higher than the front. Oh for shit’s sake – well I can deal with higher, just not tighter. I turned to the front to adjust my halter on the top and realized it was tied as tight as it would go. The stomach part fits perfect, the bottoms fit relatively ‘OK’, but somehow my chest got lost in the fabric. My desperation starts to set in. Can I not have a successful trip to the department store? Does everything have to be so damn difficult? I took the top off, stripped the bottoms off, threw on my clothes, adjusted my messy hair and flung open the door. There’s Susie Suck-Up standing there, “Well how’d you do?” I smiled my fake smile and said, “Ok, I think I’m going to pass on these, thanks for all of your help”. Without giving her an opportunity to say anything back, I woke my son up (yes he was sleeping in the dressing room) and we bailed.

On the way home I apologized to him for dragging him out to try on swimsuits. He says “That’s OK, why didn’t you like them? Were they too small for you?” I said, “Yeah honey they were. Mom doesn’t like a lot of her body showing and it is hard for me to find something where my bottom doesn’t hang out.” His intelligent comment back was “Is it because of your stretch marks?” (He knows this about me because I’ve broken the ‘Mom Law’ and have remarked about my flaws in front of him – he’s a sponge and according the Today show you shouldn't talk negatively about yourself around your children.) “Not really my stretch marks so much.” I lied. “But more just the fact that - well, yeah – my stretch marks and the fact that I’d like to be covered up a little more.” Again, fibbing. He says to me “Well, stretch marks are a part of life Mom, and you’re just going to have to get over it.”

How do you argue with that? I didn't. I just nodded and smiled and drove us home. I decided, I won’t be shopping for swimsuits until next year.

Brain Fart (formerly known as 'Writers Block')

When I started this blog, it originally was supposed to be a laundry list of daily rants. Mostly consisting of my little idiosyncrasies and, well, my irritations (which by the way are too many to list). However it’s turned out to be a flop since my life is so exhilarating (sarcasm people) all I have to bitch or write about is running (or lack thereof) and unemployment. Don’t get me wrong, if given the opportunity, I could easily find things to complain about: the over-cautious and sometimes erratic female drivers here in the town I live in, the local Wal-Mart where all shoppers apparently think they are in the Indianapolis 500 and bulldoze you out of the way if a free checker opens up, or the neighbors that live right across the street from me and can’t seem to keep their drool in their mouths whenever a female is spotted within 30 feet of them.

Then there are days where I feel like I’m supposed to be documenting anything and everything, because that’s what “good bloggers” do for their fans right? Well I have 4, yes, 4 fans (whom I think were paid by family members to read my attempts at journaling); and I’m beginning to feel guilty because I’ve been so completely obsessed lately with this whole running thing.

I think I might have more success at blogging if I were to talk about something noteworthy like Twitter and the weather, but for 1) Twitter is an overrated website designed to make less-significant peons (like me) feel good about knowing that Brooke Burke just had a latte and is getting her hair done at her favorite boutique; and 2) there isn’t much to say about the weather – it’s July and it’s HOT! And in 4 months it will be November and COLD!

I’m also not one of these bloggers that can go on and on about “Johnny” and his new tooth. I have a son, yes, and I too am a proud Mom, but some things aren’t fascinating and I don’t foresee any of my 4 fans wanting to know how many times my son chewed before swallowing.

So I guess for now, I’m stuck writing about what I do know, this is an employer’s market and they don’t like me; and I require a helmet when I run.

Hey a new week is starting, maybe I’ll fall into a canal and we can all have a good laugh. (That was a joke people!)

Keep moving ... nothing to see here

I keep thinking that I’ll have something intelligent and witty to write about in this silly blog, but my humiliating moments keep getting the best of me.  For once, I would love to have a day where I didn’t put myself on the “Hard to look cool” list. 

I’m beginning to think that my sole purpose in life is to complete any and every embarrassing task possible.  I used to think it was because the common sense factor wasn’t fully developed, but since I’m over the age of 30, I can’t really use that excuse anymore.  Quite frankly, I don’t have an excuse.  It just happens.  I’m that gifted!

I’ve learned so much while experiencing embarrassing moments, like it’s very easy to stick your foot through a cat door when the door is still shut, and you forget to open it, but your body keeps moving forward anyway.  And Wal-Mart parking lots are equally as dangerous when you aren’t watching where you’re walking.  Especially the walkways where you have to step up.  Luckily there was a car full of kids right in my fall down path and I was able to break my fall on their hood.  That was fun.  And of course there was the time (just 2 weeks ago) that I was getting into my fiancés truck.  While in the process of this, my next door neighbor was standing in her driveway with her two kids and me, being the social bug that I am, yelled out “Your son is getting so big…how old is he now?” Then before she could answer… WHAP!  The truck door didn’t stay open and I decided to catch it with my face.  My bruised ego and me politely ended the conversation as I crawled into the truck and begged my fiancé to drive away.

Most recently, during my run/walk today I was on the home stretch (about 200 meters from my driveway) when I noticed a Qwest truck driving down the road.  My son got all excited and waved to the unsuspecting man driving the truck.  Just as the man waved back a bee flew into my ear.  I immediately shook my head vigorously, which caused me to lose my balance and I ran straight into my neighbor’s mailbox.  I pretended that I wasn’t the least bit phased by it, until I realized it was his mailbox that I practically tore off.

Hopefully now that I’ve laid it all out in the open, some good Karma will start my way.

That’s all for now.

Boy, was I wrong

Through all of my bitching and complaining about this running nonsense, today I managed to jog a full ½ mile.  Please, hold your applause.  I said HALF.  I brought my trusty sidekick with me for a walk/run (my son) and told him that if he wanted to get in shape for football, he should start joining me in my efforts to make my butt look less enormous.  So off we went for a 1-mile warm-up.  I explained to him that it was my goal to learn to run because I wanted to be healthier, and because it’s a task that I haven’t yet been able to accomplish.

I informed him that when we hit the ½ mile mark, we were going to jog at a slow pace back to our house.  I felt the need to prep him because he is 9, and the poor boy inherited his fathers short legs and I just knew that he wouldn’t be able to keep up with my stride.  However I comforted him and encouraged him to run at his own pace and that I wouldn’t lose site of him.  I’m such a good Mom (patting self on back).

We hit our halfway point and I said “Ok, are you ready?  We’re going to start running now.”  He says to me “Yep, I’m ready when you are.”  And off we went.  He kept looking up at me and wanting to chat as I’m focusing on my 2-2 breathing efforts.  [Let me just clarify something, I don’t multi-task when attempting to run.  This is dangerous and can cause over-exertion on my part when trying to think, run and talk at the same time.]  When he noticed I wasn’t paying attention, he bailed.  No, he didn’t stop running; he flat out took off – gone!  I thought “Oh how cute, he thinks he can out run me”.  I mustered up enough breath to yell out “Don’t go too fast, you’ll tucker out – pace yourself!”  Then, he turns around and starts running backwards and says, “C’mon Mom, you can do it!  I’ll back-pedal the whole way if you want!”  Are you serious?  Did my son just dis me?  Oh hell no.  I kicked it in to 2^nd gear (that’s as fast as I can go at the moment) and caught up to him, and he pulled away again.  I yelled, “It’s not a race!”  He says back “I’m not racing, I’m pacing myself”.  Whatever!  The little shit is trying to out-run me.  So I focus even harder on my breathing, spit flying everywhere, heavy panting, and feet flopping on the ground.  It was at this moment that I realized, I wasn’t running to push myself, I was running to prove that my 9-year old son couldn’t beat me! 

He won.  But I ran my first ½ mile without stopping and he later told me “I now know how you feel after all these months.  Apparently this is hard for you.”  His words of encouragement have now made me even more determined to meet my goal.

 

 

Tenny Runners

My memory is a little sketchy when it comes to my childhood.  I think it started when my older sister tried to convince me to slide down the laundry shoot at the ripe old age of 4.  Apparently I had worn out my welcome.  Any how … or it could be when she fed me my Mom’s face cream promising that it was whipped cream … ok sorry – off track.  Circling back around for a second go.  And...begin.  My memory is a little sketchy when it comes to my childhood – however I think most kids can remember their very first pair of tennis shoes that they got to pick out all on their own.  Mine?  Oh, yeah mine were the pink  ‘Miss Piggy’ with Velcro!  Yep, I had “cool” written all over me! 

I’m sure I am not the only person who thought new shoes made you run faster either.  You can act like you aren’t nodding and agreeing with me right now, but it’s a fact.  It’s some code written in kid gibberish somewhere.  “All new shoes make you run faster and jump farther”.  However, this tends to not be the case as an adult.  There is some part of that little kid in me that wants to believe that new shoes will not only make my butt look smaller, but they will also make me less accident prone and miraculously allow me to run f-a-s-t-e-r (or at least keep a decent pace).  My point is, I recently received a shiny new pair of shoes for my birthday and they are, quite possibly, the most comfortable things I’ve ever worn.   There is a downside.  I still can’t run.  My knees are benefiting quite well, however my speed, form and ego are seeing no immediate results.

I realize I am not going to be a runner overnight. I also understand and expected there to be some growing time – you know, become one with the shoes, pavement and shin splints.  Although it would be nice if I could manage to do a full mile in a run and not have to stop drop and pass out every 30 seconds.  I will add that, what really bothers me is when most people say they have started running and complain that they can only run a mile in 12 minutes.  ‘Ahem’ I’m sorry, but I’d give my left ear to run a mile in 12 minutes.  The only productive thing I’ve done in 12 minutes time is poop!  Oops, off track again.

I guess I’m stuck in my childhood thinking that new shoes are going to “fix” the problem.  However, the real problem is the fact that I’m 33, overweight, prone to falling down a lot and on special requests only – popping my hip out.  I was secretly wishing that my new shoes would spread some of that “Miss Piggy” magic that was so effective when I was 4. 

 

 

I'm unemployed, not incompetent...

Again…if you are unemployed, and you are sick of reading employment ads that require you to hold a degree in some form or another just so you can answer a telephone and write down a message, I’ve taken the liberty of drafting a cover letter for you.  This is the “dumb it down” cover letter that lets all potential employers know that you can be the one dumb ass that they’ve been looking for: 

Dear Hiring Manager,

 

I was excited to see your job posting on Craigslist for the Entry Level position and would like to learn more about this opportunity. 

 

I currently hold [enter # here] years of professional experience in the operations of photocopiers and fax machines and I would like to apply the knowledge and insight gained throughout my various experiences so I may work for just above minimum wage.   

 

I offer much diversity in various skill sets including, but not limited to: taking insults, ordering lunch, cleaning the break room microwave and being a personal “bitch” to anyone who is above me.   I have enjoyed the opportunity to sharpen my organizational skills, research and problem solving ideas, as well as my ability to run circles around my peers and not get acknowledged for it.  In my past and current positions I have gained a plethora of knowledge in writing, aesthetics, designing and presenting high-impact visual aides, all while someone else takes the credit; as well as analytical problem solving and exemplary coffee making skills.  I believe that with my work ethic and range of experience, you will have a well-rounded employee that can not only place stamps appropriately on envelopes, but can bring entrepreneurial spirit and value added vision to this exhilarating position.

 

Thank you for your time and consideration. I look forward to receiving your computer-generated “We’re sorry, but we found someone better” email. 

I get that the economy is bad.  I get that people are struggling.  However, what I fail to conform to is employers asking for Pulitzer Prize winners and MBA holders, just to greet clients and lick glue – all while paying barely above minimum wage.