Public Displays of Talent

or PDT’s as they will be referred to henceforth, I hate them. PDT’s should probably be filed under pet peeves, but since I was subjected to one today, I figured I would share it with you all. As most of you know, I work in a thrift store, where all the items are donated. Occasionally we get musical instruments, like guitars or PIANOS. First of all, pianos are loud; there’s not really a way to test them out quietly–I wish there was, because second point, pianos are obnoxious. I used to play the piano, but I gave it up. I wish I had some heart wrenching story about how I gave up playing piano because of long departed lover who taught me how to play and now every time I go near a piano it is too much for me to bear–but I don’t. I quit because I hated my piano teacher. She was a wench who spent most of her time hocking Melaleuca (also; melaleuca) products to my family. These products all smelled like tea tree oil, a lot of it. She also had enormous bunions. She always made me uncomfortable when she took off her shoes, yet grateful, because my feet did/do not look like that. To make a long story short, I don’t like it when people play piano, unless they are performing in a recital, because then it is appropriate.

So today; and pretty much every time we have a piano(s) in the store; people are constantly testing it out. There are probably four different categories that I can put these people in. The first is the person who can’t play at all. They just come in, tap a few keys to see what it sounds like and goes on their way. They don’t produce any melody, just a few notes. I like these people, because they know when to stop.

The second; and you’ll notice that as the categories progress, my hatred grows; are what I like to call “chopsticks”…because that is all they play. They think it’s amusing, entertaining, and/or cute. It’s not. It’s annoying. Chopsticks is only funny if you are Tom Hanks at FAO Schwartz (oddly enough, FAO is not as magical in person as it is in that movie) playing on a giant floor keyboard, in the movie BIG. You are not impressing anyone. You are not making anyone laugh. And you are not making anyone, i.e. me, like you. At all.

The third are the people that have no musical talent, but insist that they do, by forging through some piece of music that they can’t play. The song ruiner. This happens countless times a day. It’s almost kind of sad. You can tell they are trying really hard, and really want to impress us with their musical know-how, but it’s not working. Because they don’t know how to play–and what they are playing isn’t real music. One man once butchered a song to the point that one of my coworkers said, “I used to really like that song, until he started trying to play it.” This is probably what category I would fit into, if I was stupid enough to play a piano in public. But I’m not.

The fourth and final, and frankly the most frustrating and annoying, are the people that have talent, and play the piano like they are performing at Carnegie Hall. Also, I don’t want to stereotype and generalize here, but it’s almost always people of Asian decent. And for some reason Asian children. They are good at a lot of things; for example and also, and this (I love gymnastics! It’s another thing I quit. I also love quiting things, but that’s a whole other story) too. I think it’s most annoying when it’s children playing the piano at a freakishly high skill level. It’s like their parents are forcing them to play, to put on a show, and let people know how good they are. Stage parents are creepy–and so are their children (ed. note: HA!). However, when a teenager, or an adult comes in, and starts playing Mozart’s Piano Sonata no. 14 in C minor, and a crowd starts forming, and then they start clapping! It makes me want to be like, “Oh, Really?! Are You Serious?!” Are these people so starved for attention that they have to come into a thrift store to SHOW OFF? It’s like the people who post pictures on MySpace or Facebook and have captions like, “OMG, I am so ugly! Why am I so ugly?”, so people will leave comments like, “you are so not ugly, I wish I looked like you! Seriously, you are so pretty, I wish I had your hair. I hate you! J/K! I love you. But seriously, I wish I had your hair.” They want people to go up to them and tell them how good they are so they can be modest (false modesty by the way) and keep receiving accolades. It makes my blood boil. It happens a lot where I work and it always irritates me. I’ve always been this irritated by it. We had a piano in our house, and when people would come over, they couldn’t resist playing it. Starved for attention. This is why, when people start playing the piano at work, I say, “You bought it.” It makes them stop. If they bought it, that would mean they would have to take it home and the general public wouldn’t be able to awestruck with how talented they are.

This PDT also includes dancing. Three college aged kids came into the store one day, and I am not sure what music was playing, but they started showing each other dance moves in the back–like they were the coolest people ever. It was one girl with a couple of guys, so of course she was trying extra hard to be cool in front of them, by making herself look like a jackass.

These people don’t get it. No one is thinking about how cool or talented they are. We; i.e. me; are only thinking about how lame they are, and how much we want a lighting fixture to fall on their stupid face.

Pet Peeves

I get peeved a lot. I’m not going to lie, I’m somewhat easily peeved–especially early in the morning or when I am tired. Now would be a poor time to try and back peddle and say that I am “easy-going; and let things roll off my back”, because I’ve already said that I get peeved easily. But those who know me, know that when I get peeved, I turn into a story, for all those around me to hear. I generally keep telling it, until everyone in my path has heard my story about how someone annoyed me on the subway, the sidewalk, work, or a store, etc. Most of the time, these stories are humorous, other times they fall short (we all have our off days, okay?!), and now I am about to share some of my pet peeves with all of you, my dear readers.

I was on the train yesterday, and there, across from me, were two things that bother me–all being done by one person. First of all, I don’t know who thought that these coats were a good idea; but they’re not. They’re terrible. They don’t flatter anyone, they are incredibly ugly, and I’m sure if I was ever unfortunate enough to get close to one, it would smell–like burnt rubber. Because that is what it looks like. It looks like someone has turned a tire into a jacket and then stamped in stupid designs–like an image of Scarface. Every time I see someone wearing one of these horrendous coats, it offends every sense that I have. It makes me hurt. It make me throw up in my mouth, at least 3 times. And this kid was wearing one. Not only was he wearing this jacket, but he was listening to music on his Sidekick, not only was he listening to music on his Sidekick, but so was I–because he wasn’t using headphones. Not everyone shares my taste in music, so I can only assume that not everyone shares his taste in music. The train is not your room, where you are free to play your music out in the open as loud as you would like–because there are other people around you! I don’t want to listen to R. Kelly on my way home from work, where I was just subjected to 8 hours of Madonna. Now you may be saying, “Why don’t you just listen to your own music?” and normally I would have put my Ipod on, but the battery was dead. That doesn’t make a difference to me, because I would still be annoyed even if I had my Ipod going. I would be annoyed for the people around me. The mere fact that I know that it’s going on, peeves me greatly, and that’s just the way it goes.

I think I’ve mentioned this before, but when people come up to the cash register to pay and have their earphones in or are talking on their cell phones bother me on a personal and professional level. First of all, it’s disrespectful, if you are going to be interacting with another human being, regardless of what hat interaction is, you should take a minute to pause your music or pause your conversation. I especially hate it when I have to repeat myself, because they can’t hear me, and then after the fifth time that I’ve repeated myself, they take out their earphone or hang up their phone. Then by that time, I have no interest in being nice to them, so they get all offended when I get all attitude-y. I once had an encounter with a woman, who the whole time while I was talking to her, was listening to her Ipod and then had the audacity to get upset with me, when she hadn’t been hearing clearly what I had been explaining to her–like how our credit card machine wasn’t working, but I would hold the chairs that she wanted to purchase for an hour while she went to get cash–which she took to mean that the chairs were hers and she could come back in two days and get them when she wanted, WITHOUT PAYING. Which is ridiculous. Maybe if she had turned off her James Taylor, she wouldn’t have stalked off all angry.

Sometimes the trains are crowded and we are all crammed in there like Crayola’s in crayon box, but that’s not what this is about. This is about those special times, when the trains aren’t crowded…when there are plenty of seats available, yet someone comes over and and sits RIGHT NEXT TO YOU. This happened to me today, on my way to work. Practically the whole was empty and this lady sat right on top of me. I don’t get it. I really don’t. There is no logical explanation for it. Try to find an explanation for it, makes my mind hurt. Also, one time, I was sort of in a coma, on my way home work. I mean, completely peaced out (definition number 1). Then I hear this man saying excuse me, because he wanted to sit down. I guess the two people on either side of me had gotten off the train, so I was still in the middle seat. Well, I look up, and to try and put it nicely, was not the smallest person I have ever seen. He needed me to scoot over, so he could sit down comfortably. Now, I’m no twig, by any means, but I certainly don’t take up two seats on the subway–and I wouldn’t be waking anyone up for them to scoot over if I did. I hate it when people try to squeeze themselves in spaces where they won’t fit. I try to gauge whether or not I am going to be able to fit my decent sized ass in that seat between people–because frankly, I don’t want to be uncomfortable, sitting with my arms straight out in front of me to make more room. I have limits. Also, if anyone else gets irritated when someone brushes up against them during their morning commute, chock it up to being more sensitive to touch early in the morning. I can’t link you to anything, because I read it in Cosmo a while ago–and it had nothing to do with what I just mentioned, it was more along the lines of, “surprise your man with a hand-job in the morning because we are more sensitive to touch and he will be greatly aroused,” or something. Do that, and have a sore wrist to add to your list of things that will irritate you for the rest of the day. Thanks Cosmo.

Girls who wear stupid accessories. I saw a girl on my way to work this morning wearing a really stupid hat. It was tiny, and she was wearing it at the front of her head and to the side–a cocktail hat. Like she was at a jazz club in Paris in the 30’s. All she needed was to be smoking a cigarette through one of those holders. I mean come on! It’s not like today was Halloween and it was 11 in the morning on a Wednesday, so I doubt she was heading to a costume party, plus, her hat didn’t really match the rest of her ensemble. She looked like a jack ass. I wanted to punch her in the face. Her tiny hat peeved me to the extreme for some reason.

I have a lot more pet peeves than this, but it is getting late and I have to work tomorrow. Perhaps I should turn my “Pet Peeves” into a weekly or monthly special. Anyone up for that? or should I just let this be it and move on? bottle up all my pet peeves until they finally bottle rocket out of me?

Be Weary

This is a cautionary tale of the subways and the subway stations–and possibly any sort of place where homeless people in NYC might dwell or stop by; like Barnes and Noble in Union Square. Seriously, I think a few might live in there.

Last night; after a delightful dinner at a Thai restaurant with Victor; I was waiting for the D train at Bryant Park. I was sitting on one of those benches reading, when this homeless man (I’m assuming this because of his lack of hygiene, dirty attire, and massive amounts of possessions in plastic bags) comes bounding over and sits next to me. He had this giant black puffy coat that he was carrying and it invaded my personal space–I felt as though he was sitting on me, which is uncomfortable, given his smell. The B train had just pulled up and he was asking me how to get to Dekalb Avenue in Brooklyn. I was trying not to look at him, as I told you before, I know better than to make eye contact with the cray-crays. He smelled something awful and then started shouting to the subway conductor (is that even the correct term?) about how he needs to get to Dekalb Ave. So the conductor said, “well you better get on this train”, then smelly homeless man said something along the lines of, “aw, shit.” grabbed his plastic bag belongings and jogged towards the remaining open door. As he was doing this, I made the mistake of looking. And that’s when I saw it: his ass. His dirty, homeless ass. I don’t say this to be crude or malicious–but to be descriptive, to paint a picture for you, my dear readers. I want to you experience things as I have experienced things. You all must suffer with me.

This is not the first time that I have seen dirty, homeless ass. Once before I saw it on the downtown 6 train platform at Grand Central. He was sitting on one of those benches, with his pants halfway down his thighs, and he was scratching at his dry, patchy, dirty skin while letting his bare posterior touch the bench. People were willing sitting next to him, which I found somewhat disturbing, because he had some of his body parts out, and Xenu only knows what sort of subway vermin had attached itself to him. I have not sat on a bench on the 6 platform since. I will now, most likely never sit on a bench in on the downtown platform at Bryant Park.

The orange line (B/D/F/V) creates a nice straight (somewhat) line of stations where you don’t want to sit or touch anything. They all stop at 34th st Herald Square, which is gross in general, so I don’t really need to delve further. West 4th always has someone sitting on the stairs or holed up somewhere. My favorite is Broadyway/Lafayette. There is always the same homeless guy, sitting or laying out in the same spot. A few times I’ve thought he was dead. I’ve never really seen him do anything, like get up and walk around. He smell is permanently wafting along the platform. It’s always entertaining to see the people who want to see down, but the only seat left is sort of next to him, or behind him. His head is always tilted back, so he usually takes up about 4 available seats. I’ve seen his head actually touch the hair of some girls. I don’t think you can understand how skeeved out, I get from just seeing that. Days/weeks/months of grime are living in his hair. On a particularly hot, humid, smelly day I thought I was going to throw up in my mouth because every time a train would go by, his smell would fly all up in my nostrils.

Also, once in May of 2007, I was getting off the shuttle train at Times Square (the most heinous place on Earth), well, as I was stepping off the shuttle, I see a man with one hand up on the side of the subway car with his head down. I was a little out of sorts, because I had been up for over a day finishing a project, and I was like, “ugh, is this guy sick or something?” So I look down to what he is looking at. It was his PENIS. He was peeing on the subway car. From what I remember, his peen was small and diseased looking, he might have had an enlarged prostate–as he seemed to be having trouble relieving himself–and totally ruined the rest of my day. It almost made me cry, seriously.

I hope the next time any of you are in one of the places that I have mentioned, that you remember this cautionary blog post. I know, I know, plenty of other people sit or touch or pee on things all the time, and you can’t control who sat on or touched something before you. But it’s really in your best interest to not sit on a bench in either a Grand Central or Bryant Park subway station. Just trust me on this one.

Post Office

I had a delightful weekend, jam-packed with excitement: A friend’s apartment warming party–there was a drunk foreigner and a transgen; doesn’t get more warm than that! As a small side note, I have not yet revealed to all you readers how much I love the transgen community. I have a special name for them, but that will be an entirely separate post sometime in the near future. However, this particular Transgen, reminded me a little bit of James St. James, if James St. James had an ongoing meth addiction. Then on Saturday my old roomie from college came down for a visit. Unfortunately the weather was completely disastrous, which killed some of the fun. Although, we did go to Shake Shack (also). Let me tell you. I walk past this place pretty much every day. In the summer, that line was kickin’, and people would be lined up practically around the park at like 1pm–now I know why. I’ve been hearing people rave about this place and now I can rave about it too. I had the ‘Shroom Burger which is a portobello mushroom that is jam packed with muenster (my fav!) and cheddar cheeses…and…wait for it….FRIED TO PERFECTION! It was delicious. Try it. If you love cheese half as much as I do, you won’t be disappointed. Finally on Sunday, after work, my associate (power adjectives to describe coworkers is all the rage) and I, retreated to the Crocodile Lounge near Union Square. You get a free personal pizza with every drink you order. After that we went to the Donut Pub. The old Polish man running the joint agreed with me that deciding whether or not to buy a house is easier than choosing a donut. So that was my weekend–I just wanted to bring everyone up to speed. I was not neglecting you.

So the post office. Does anyone remember back in the late-80’s early-90’s when the term “Going Postal” was pretty much the funniest thing you could say besides, “I’m gonna go medieval on your ass!” Well, every time I go into the post office, I can understand why they were disgruntled. Frankly, working in customer service has made me somewhat empathetic to those who harbor feelings of going postal. Customers are lame! Coworkers can be annoying! Management is stupid! It can be stressful. It’s a challenge to not throw a pen at a customer’s face when ask you to double bag a used t-shirt, because they have to go on the subway. What does that have to do with anything?! These people are cray-cray.

There is a post office next to where I work, so occasionally, I will pop in there to buy a stamp to mail my rent, or mail my brother’s birthday gift 3 months late. Now that they have that automated shipping thing, it really cuts down on time spent in the post office, unless you are behind someone that is technologically challenged. I can say, that speaking from my personal experience in this post office, it is usually the customers who are causing the delays. It is almost as if they have never mailed anything before and they don’t know how the post office works. It takes them almost 10 minutes to figure out how to mail something Priority. As I have learned, or maybe I am only speaking for myself on this, the teller, the cashier, the postal worker, etc., is only as fast as their slowest customer. So if I am at the cash register and am ringing up some confused old biddy, and have a line of people, they are just going to have to wait while she digs around in her purse for exact change. Short of snatching the purse from her and getting the change myself, there is nothing I can do.

Since I work next to the post office, a lot of the postal workers come into the store on their break. There is this really nice lady that I see pretty much every day, and she said that if there was ever a line, and I had to mail something, just to come to her, because she knows how it is trying to run an errand on your break. So today, I finally scrounged up the change to mail my absentee ballot (Obama/Biden, in case you were wondering). However, as I carefully placed that $.42 stamp on that over sized envelope, I began to have doubts that that was going to be enough postage to carry my vote all the way to Alaska where it would (hopefully) be counted. The line was long, and I had somewhere to be, and it was just a quick question, I figured I would ask and then go carefully place another stamp on the envelope and be on my way. So I stood next to the long line of people, trying to make eye-contact with my postal lady, which I did, and she waved me over as her previous customer was leaving. The best thing that has ever happened to me in a post office is as follows:

Me: I just have a quick question, is this enough postage? I just want to make sure my vote gets there!

Fav Postal Lady: Oh no! It’s too big, let me check for you. (she goes to weigh my ballot to see how much more postage I need)

Cray-Cray Line Lady: Aren’t we all waiting in line?! (I didn’t turn around, because I know better than to make eye-contact with the cray-crays.)

FPL: Excuse me? (Read that as sassily as you can)

CCLL: I said aren’t we all waiting in line?

FPL: (Sassily) Yes. And you will be called. Okay, it need’s another $.41.

Me: (Handing her my change) Thank you so much! (I start to walk away)

FPL: Don’t forget your receipt, baby

Me: Thanks! See you Wednesday probably! (running away from angry line members)

I got special treatment at the post office. I got to the jump the queue! I made other people angry by feeling entitled to go directly to my favorite postal lady. My favorite postal lady encouraged it and hates the other customers because they don’t understand the way that I can understand.

I am an elitest east coaster, who jumped the line at the post office–a real american institution–to send my ballot back home to elect Obama! I doubt what those people were mailing was as important as that.

Strangers.

Every day, I encounter someone interesting, or gross, or weird, or smelly–but occasionally, some of these people have an interesting story to tell. Some have no story to tell you at all. Some ask you for a dollar. And some leave some pee for you to clean up at closing time while their ingrained stench offends your olfactory system. All of this can happen in the span of two days.

Yesterday, Wednesday: On my way to the train yesterday morning, a young girl, somewhat resembling Notorious B.I.G; weird eye included, was shouting on her phone to someone saying that she would call them when she got off the train. Then I hear her shout, “EXCUSE ME!”, so I turn around and she asks me where the subway is. So assume my role as good Samaritan, and tell Biggie Smalls that I’m on my way there now, so she can follow me if she wants. So I start on my way again, and she asks, “can you hold this, while I put on my coat. It’s cold out,” then hands me her purse, her cell phone, and her cell phone case. I must look trusting, because I would not be asking some random girl on the street to hold my purse. Bitches be all cray-cray! So as we are walking, the most conversation we really have is, “it’s so cold!”, because it was–and blustery–and I was ill prepared for such weather. Then, we are about a block away from the subway station, she asks, “Do have a dollar I could borrow?” Borrow?! Really?! Was she planning on getting my information to mail my dollar back to me? I really doubt it. I was like, “Um, I have no money. I’m broke.” I do not give handouts. Especially when I am in need of a handout of my own. She was less interested in me after that.

To end my day on Wednesday, there was an older homeless (I don’t actually know what his living situation was. Mole person maybe? Crazy, older eccentric? Hygienically challenged, most definitely.) gentlemen who came in to the store. He comes in very rarely, but the last time he came in, he fell asleep on a couch and my coworker had to wake him up–I thought he was dead–and the guy had a giant carbuncle (be thankful this is the image I chose. I threw up in my mouth at least 75 times researching, trying to find one that most resembled what ails this man) on his had. I think my coworker roused him gently by tapping him on the knee, using the very tip of his fingernail, which he then ripped off. Anyways, on Wednesday evening when he came in, to say his odor was offensive is an understatement. Every sense I had was accosted, harmed, DAMAGED. There are really no words that would be able to describe his odor in a way that could make you understand. He smelled worse than Times Square on a hot summer day. And his odor lingered. For an hour after he left. You know why? Because he piddled. Piddled on himself, and our floor. When I find when we were fixing up the store after we closed. Cleaning up hobo urine was not in my job description. I used a mop. Which came in handy for cleaning up my VOMIT. I feel bad for this old guy. I mean his suit is all wrinkled and stained and he ended up paying for a coat he couldn’t afford because I think he felt ashamed. It’s terrible. And I know making fun of a helpless, old man in a blog makes me terrible, but you know what, I feel somewhat justified, because I cleaned up his urine. Which didn’t smell like any urine I’ve ever expelled, which is also another sign of poor health, most likely, but I’m no doctor.

Today, Thursday: I was talking to my work BFF about Jocelyn Wildenstein and how she looks like a lion. I’m not sure how this really got started, but I think it had something to do with my work BFF pulling her face back with her hands and saying “plastic surgery” and from there I lept to Wildenstein–it’s not really that big of a leap, more like a shuffle over a crack in a sidewalk. Well, this middle aged gentleman; who I am assuming is a male gay because I don’t know that many male straights who care about Jocelyn Wildenstein; comes over to me and the conversation is as follows:

Presumed Male Gay: I heard you talking about Jocelyn Wildenstein, but I didn’t hear the last part. What were you saying about her?

Me: Oh, just that she looks like a lion.

PMG: I have a story about her. I was the 6 train going Uptown and she was sitting there reading a magazine. Well she wasn’t really reading it, but was pretending to read while everyone was staring at her. But everyone was staring at her because she had a wrap top on and she had her purse strap going across her chest, and it had moved the top so that her breast was exposed! Everyone was staring, but she didn’t notice. I guess she’s had so much plastic surgery that she couldn’t feel it. But there was a famous actor sitting down and we just looked at each other and were like, “oh my god, what the fuck?!”, it was really crazy!

Me: [laughing politely, would have laughed genuinely if hadn't tossed in that bit about a "famous actor"] That is crazy!

Pretty soon Jocelyn Wildenstein’s face is going to look like this. If I am going to have nightmares and choke on my own vomit, so is everyone who reads this.

Economic Crisis Diet

So, times are tough. I say this phrase at least 5 times a day, to try and make it really sink in to those around me. Especially my employer, because it’s the most passive away to imply that one needs a raise. Which I do. Because I am poor.

I basically live paycheck to paycheck–the last one I get in the month always being the one that I use to pay my rent. That paycheck is barely enough to cover my rent, and my rent really isn’t that high. But once you tack on things like electric (which is killer in the summer if you are not a hot/humid weather type of person, i.e. ME) and gas–generally not that expensive because the stove is more like a conversation piece than something I actually use on a regular basis–things get tight. Then there is my student loan, credit card, etc. I have no chance to save any money, because basically, I go through it like toilet paper–and I go through a lot of that because we aren’t allowed to put toilet paper in our toilet. It’s a long story that involves plumbing that I don’t quite understand, but maybe Joe the Plumber would.

So I am stretched financially. And that means something has to fall to the wayside. I’ve already practically given up on fashion–I’m wearing bootcut jeans that I got at a thrift store! Who wears bootcut jeans?! I might as well be wearing flares! It’s all about the skinny jeans, people. Also, I’m still wearing tank tops. It’s pretty much like 50 degrees outside. But I can’t afford the luxury of a long sleeve shirt. Not in this economy. Mostly all of my clothing at this point comes from the thrift store where I work. Sometimes I will buy a t-shirt–from work. Tres Faconnable. Tres Chic. Tres Pauvres.

Now this economic crisis of mine has asked to me to give up something else that I love. Something that I love almost as much as fashion–sometimes, even more, when I’m depressed. Food. Yes. Food. When did groceries become so expensive? When did eating a normal meal become a luxury? No longer can I enjoy a Chipotle burrito; my lifeblood; or a sausage, egg, and cheese on a bagel on those dreadful Sunday mornings when I have to work. No more.

But I know I am not suffering alone. And I want to help others out there, that are in a similar situation as I. I’m going to give some tips, some recipes, some advice.

If you work in retail, or anything sort of customer service related, where you interact with people–sometimes the same people–on a daily basis, try to make friends with a few of them. They are going to be essential in getting you the nutrients or snacks you so desperately need. This past Sunday, when I had forgotten my lunch, one of my favorite customers came bearing gifts of delightful little pastries, from a reputable bakery. They satisfied my sweet tooth for 3 days. Also, don’t be selfish; offer some to your coworkers–at least the ones you like anyways. When someone comes in asking to borrow a pair of scissors, try your best to find a pair, because you never know when they are going to be violently trying to open up a bag of Starburst Jellybeans and offer you some. When a customer comes in bringing food for your boss, who is not there that day, don’t be afraid to split it amongst you and your coworkers. That food could go bad, better yet, that food could be poisoned, and you will have saved your boss’s life. It is a great way to supplement the pathetic lunch you have packed for yourself (I added a soup to my sandwich today! For free!) and save you the hassle paying for a drink at the deli–with regards to that, just buy a can of soda, it’s only a buck and not as bad for the environment as those $1.25/1.50 bottles of soda. Arizona teas in the can are also a great bargoon for $.99. Also, if you buy one, $1 bottle of water, you can keep refilling it for free, from your own tap! Water is pretty much included in most people’s rent–and a lot of work places have water coolers.

If someone offers you some free food take it. Don’t ask questions, just be grateful that you are getting something for free. Also, mention foods you like, because a coworker may have some foodstuffs in her house that she gets from the government for free, like peanut butter, but doesn’t like and can’t feed to her child because they are allergic to nuts–you can benefit from that. It’s nothing to be ashamed of.

Don’t be afraid of brands you have never heard of or the generic stuff. Tropical Fantasy Soda comes in a variety of, well, tropical flavors in a generously sized bottle for only $.65 (at least that’s how much it costs at the bodega by my apartment.)! Go for the $1.39 loaf of bread with a name you can’t remember–it tastes like Wonderbread, but better because it’s not $3. Also, generic pretzels, pretty much the same thing as Rold Gold, but CHEAPER. Hotel Bar butter? Bet you haven’t heard of it. It’s cheap, but it looks like butter, tastes like butter, and it fucking is butter–but it’s cheap, because their logo is a g.d. bellhop from 1957. And when you see a name brand cereal box touting a special price of $2.79, grab that mofo because that won’t last. And Froot Loops taste better when you aren’t being charged $4.39 for a box that is going to last you, in all honesty, like 3 days. We are adults, not small children. Our cereal intake is at a different level and just can’t be compared to that of a small child.

If you are going to order out, which I don’t recommend, unless your Father is paying for it, try to extend that takeout for as long as possible. That Chinese food I ordered on Saturday? Lasted me until Tuesday. I was having that stuff for lunch and dinner. It’s all about portion control. Don’t order from places like Papa Johns…my roommate makes this mistake all the time. A large pizza is like $23. That is too much. I can get a large pizza from Nick’s/Frank’s/Whatever-his-name-might-be for $14. At 8 slices in a large, that’s 4 meals if you eat two at each sitting. Everybody’s different, but 2 slices of pizza is a reasonable serving for someone who is grown and not binge eating because they are drunk. Also, Subway, $5 footlong–sure you may find a knife in your sandwich, but how can you beat $5 for a footlong?! That’s two six inch subs. That is lunch and dinner, or lunch and lunch. However you want to spread it out. I believe Quizno’s offers a similar deal–choose your poison.

Buy pasta. Buy the cheapest pasta you can find. It is all going to end up in the same place eventually (get what I’m saying?), so why splurge at this point? Cook it, put a little bit of your Hotel Bar Butter on it while it’s still hot, sprinkle a little salt, a little pepper–maybe some garlic powder if you have some–and there is dinner, every night of the week until you can find a new job that pays better or until someone does you a favor and puts you out of your misery.

Buy pancake mix, but be sure to read the box so that you are buy the “just add water kind”. I recommend Aunt Jemima–lady knows a pancake, okay? That can be breakfast and dinner until the box is gone. It will last a while (I’ve had my box for a good 5 or 6 months), unless you consume massive quantities of pancakes at each meal. Pace yourself. Also, Aunt Jemima syrup is delicious. You’ll want to have that around. Not only is it good on pancakes, but when you realize that you have no food in your apartment, except for a jar of Peter Pan peanut butter your roommate bought you to replace the one he ate while he was drunk, you can drizzle it on a spoonful of peanut butter. I can sense that you are judging me right now, and I am okay with that. Because when you try it, you will know what I am talking about. It’s the right blend of salty and sweet.

What started this whole thing for me, was that fact that, yesterday, in order to save myself some money, I bought Smuckers Goober Grape. For those of you elitist consumers out there, this is what real America is about. It is peanut butter and grape jelly combined. In one jar. For only $3.19 (at my bodega). Skippy peanut butter alone was $2.39 with jelly around the same price. I am saving practically half. It tastes okay. It wouldn’t be my first choice if I gobs of cash to be grocery shopping with. But it does the job. Slathered on some $1.39 no-name bread, served with some generic $1.19 pretzels and a $.65 Tropical Fantasy ( I recommend the Peach or Mango flavor) soda and you basically have a lunch for a little over a $1. That is true savings people!

Also, Halloween is coming up. You can either go trick-or-treating yourself and collect yourself some delicious candy bar meals, or you can steal the candy from children. It’s up to you. November is coming and if McCain wins, we could be facing even tougher times, and no amount of Goober Grape is going to be able to get us through it.

As with any diet, try and think of the end goal. With the amount of weight one will lose, from the lack of nutrition and food that is being eaten, when that new job comes, and one’s personal economic crisis is over, those brand new skinny jeans are going to look great!

Paper Bag or Plastic Bag?

It’s funny how such a simple question like, “Would you like a paper bag or a plastic bag?” would incite a small scale panic attack within a customer. Most of my day is spent at a cash register, ringing people up, explaining why I can’t sell something without a tag/price, explaining why I can’t sell it for cheaper/give them a discount, explaining why I can’t take something out of the auction case for them to look at, or reassuring them that we are not “closing this location”. In order to save myself some time, I generally like to ask people if they want a paper or plastic bag–only because I hate having already put something in a plastic bag and then they tell me they want paper or vice versa.

Just as a side note, our plastic bags are those of the lovely “I ‘heart’ NY” nature, and the paper are the inconspicuous brown kind that come in not one, but two different sizes; slightly less than medium and large. The paper bags aren’t the strongest, but we double them up for good measure for the heavier items. The “I ‘heart’ NY” bag is the Earth’s nemesis, but I think the actual plastic/carbon(?) content in those bags has gone down, because they seem awfully thin now as compared to when I started working at the thrift store back in February.

So back to me asking a customer if they want a paper or plastic bag. Almost every time I ask someone this question, their eyes sort of glaze over and their face slumps like they have bells palsy–I chose this image only because I enjoy the small illustration of him attempting to make a phone call. Also, they are the most trusted name in medical illustrations, who knew?! Their breathing becomes erratic, they start sweating, clutching their right arm, etc. It is as though I have asked them what the square root of 44937574 is; it’s 6703.549358362329, in case you were wondering; and if they don’t answer they will be forced to suffer a slow and painful death. I don’t understand why this question is so hard! Make a decision! Either you want a paper bag or you want a plastic bag, it is not that serious. Both are probably equally bad for the environment, unless the paper bags happen to be made from some percentage of post-consumer waste. Oddly enough, this is the reason why customers think I am asking them to choose. A good number of them always give a shameful laugh when they choose plastic and promise me that they will “reuse it”. Why they feel the need to tell me this, is beyond me. Don’t get me wrong, I love the Earth as much as the next person, but nothing about me screams “raging environmentalist”–except when I see someone litter I say, “I hope you get squashed litterbug”, because it seems appropro.

Another problem with the asking of this question, is invariably 3 out of 5 customers is going to say something along the lines of, “Ok.” “Sure, yes.” “Okay, bag.” “Hmmm, yes please.” This would all be well and good if the question was strictly, “Would you like a bag?”, but it’s not. I am giving them a choice! Let your voice be heard, people! Them saying, “Okay”, in response to me saying, “Would you like a paper or plastic bag?” gets us nowhere. NOWHERE. It only lengthens their stay in front of me. Which is not what I want at all. I want them out of my face. Because if they stay in front of me for 1 second longer, after they’ve asked 3.7 annoying questions, I will snap. I will put that plastic bag over their head and send them on their way. It just shows me that people don’t listen. They are either talking on their cell phone, or staring off into space. We as a society are not actively engaged in the present, in what is currently going on or what we are currently doing. It irritates me, because I have to repeat myself. Sometimes as often as 3 times. Which is pathetic.

Another favorite of mine in this little predicament, that I have unwittingly cooked up for myself at work is when when they ask if the paper bag has handles. Of course it has handles! I’m wondering if they ask this question at Whole Foods or Trader Joe’s. I doubt it. Or maybe they do. Because maybe they are that annoying.

As you can see, I’m getting irate–and we are only now getting to my favorite part of this whole scenario. So picture this: I’m at the cash register, ringing someone up. I ask them if they want a paper or a plastic bag. They have their mini-stroke, and then finally decide on a paper bag, after I’ve listed their options and given them a visual. I put their items in a paper bag and hand it to them. They look at me, as if they know what they are doing–because they live to irritate–and say, “Wait, can I have a plastic bag instead, this I’m going to be walking around and it will be easier for me to carry.” That statement right their, is the bane of my working in retail existence. At this point, I start giving dirty looks and just toss a plastic bag at them, because really, after I bag it once and hand it to them, it’s left my jurisdiction–I no longer care about that customer. They are dead to me.

I honestly don’t know why I continue to ask. It’s because I enjoy being punished for trying to be a good person–for caring about the items that these people purchased at thrift store and then want treated as though they just bought the Hope Diamond.

How am I not Employee of the Month, Year, or Decade?!

Gritting His Teeth

I don’t hate my job. I don’t necessarily like it either–I’m not sure what the in-between of “hate” and “like” is. I guess in the in-between is that I still work there and it’s been almost 9 months. This isn’t to say that I haven’t been looking for other jobs. Oh, I’ve been looking for other jobs. I’ve even been on interviews. But I always get the “We’ve decided to go with someone else.” I think that’s the job-hunting equivalent to “he’s just not that into you”. So for now, I am still working in a thrift store as a sales associate; but as we all know, I tell future employers I’m an assistant manager. I’ve been doing it for so long, I actually believe it. The only thing that makes me feel slightly better about this job is that I can just tell people I work for a non-profit. Because I do. Just not in the capacity they are assuming that I do. It makes a good conversation starter, it usually goes something like this:

“Where do you work?”

“Oh, I work for a non-profit.”

“Cool, what do you do there?”

“Uh, I’m a sales associate at a thrift store.”

“Oh.”

Like, I said, it’s a good conversation starter.

Anyways, I have this terrible boss. I’m going to call him Jonbenet or JB for short. I’m only doing this to try and give you reader(s) some sort of perspective on how trashy this guy is. He once came up to me at work and said, “JB would be 18 today.” The look of horror and disgust on my face when I realized that he was referring to Jonbenet Ramsey must have been enough of a signal for him to realize I didn’t care or want to hear anymore–which is why I didn’t get to hear the Jonbenet menstrual cycle comment firsthand, and heard it through a co-worker who was just as disturbed as I was.

To say that JB and I have a strained relationship at work, is an understatement. He hates me and the feeling is rather mutual. However, when I am at work, I do my job; rather well might I add–I probably have the keenest grasp on customer service and merchandising that store has ever seen and will ever see. And to be honest, that store and the organization in general is not touting the “cream of the crop” for the majority of it’s staff by any means. When I was at orientation for this job, I was there with people who were going to be case managers–people who were going to be in charge of other people’s lives; their wellbeing–and these people could not grasp the concept of how paid time off is accrued. They didn’t know what “accrue” meant. I hate to say it, but the people they are managing the cases of, stand little to no chance of getting the help they really need. I also work with a woman, who, probably by any sort of medical definition would be considered “off her rocker”. She literally spends most of her day wilin out at work. She talks to herself, but it’s not like normal talking to one’s self–it’s some scary shit. She’ll be putting some books away and then she’ll start getting all cray cray, saying things, to no one in particular, “Well, if you’re gonna buy it, go ahead an buy it!” or “You don’t pay my bills, I pay my own bills motherfucker!” She also told me that the Jackson’s (yes, those Jackson’s), stole footage of her talking to her father from the moon. She told me she was a moon baby. I’m not even really sure what that means. All I know, is that when she starts telling me a story, I listen politely. Because bitch ain’t going to come after me when she snaps. Besides her being cray cray, she also does very little actual work–she takes hour and a half lunches, reads books on the sales floor, etc. But all of this goes untouched by management, because well, I guess they value their lives.

To get back on track–I feel like the above, was one, long, ill-placed footnote. I’ll try to work on that in the future. So my boss hates me. I think it’s because he knows that I see him as the uneducated, lying, trash that he is. Literally; and I have people who can back me up on this; he is a compulsive liar. And he has an entirely different set of standards for me than he does for the other employees; which he told me! during my 6 month review! which he held in a public place! during which he yelled at me! because he didn’t understand a point I was trying to make! And he would always say shitty things to me, or complain that I wasn’t doing enough when I would be trying to ring-up the 10 annoying customers who are in line, while also trying to show some old biddy some ugly jewelery.

So finally, after 6 months of putting up with JB’s unnecessary attitude, (I saw 6 months, because there was about 2 months that he did seem to like me somewhat), and 6 months of my friend and former co-worker telling me to go to HR, I did. And boy did I go to HR. I wrote a grievance letter and everything. I had lists of all the ways I had been wronged. And the VP of HR said, “Why did you wait so long to come see me?” Um, mainly because I need my job and don’t need to be losing it, if someone decides that I’m suddenly unfit to work as a sales associate (yes, I say sales associate as if I am spitting venom).

I went to HR when both JB and the Director of stores were on a vacation, so the VP of HR had to wait until the D. of Stores was back from vacation to talk to her about everything, and then she would have to talk to him. But luckily for me, the organization has a zero tolerance policy for retaliation. So if he were to get all trashy with me, I could get him fired. Which brings me to today and the title of this here little blog of mine. I was apparently supposed to go to the warehouse today and sort through discarded donations for vintage items. However, I was under the impression that I wasn’t going to be going once a week anymore, because JB wanted to do it all himself. Which is fine with me, because going from Brooklyn to LIC in the morning is a pain. So I got to work and my coworker said, “[JB] said you were supposed to be at the warehouse.” And I’m thinking, “great, now I am going have to put up with his b to the s,” because this happened once before and he got all mouthy with me. But when he saw me, and I told him how I had thought I wasn’t supposed to be going to the warehouse anymore, you could tell he was visibly pained in the fact that he had to be nice to me. He was practically gritting his teeth to tell me that it was okay, but to keep going to the warehouse on Monday. Someone must have had a little talk with him. HA! I love the fact that I can see it in his face that he hates having to be nice to me. I love it. Serves JB right. I’m a lot better at pretending to like him, than he is at pretending to like me. I have had years of practice at having to pretend to like people. It’s called high school. Maybe JB would have learned it there if he hadn’t of dropped out to “run away” to NYC to live like the movie Party Monster.

Meaghan: 1, JB: ZERO.

Fortune Cookie.

I eat a lot of Chinese takeout. Not all at one sitting (although there have been those depressing occasions), but what seems to be almost weekly. The main reason; they put something in it, that makes me want to keep ordering it. I can’t seem to live without those delicious cheese wantons. I never even had cheese wantons until I came to New York. New York has a very different style of Chinese takeout than, Alaska (where I am from). Back home it’s not as greasy. Not as deliciously unhealthy (although the menu here says in bold: NO MSG!)–No calories or pounds of fat would be better, but I guess I’ll settle for the “NO MSG!”.

As for other more likely reasons as to why I eat Chinese food so alarmingly often is that the grocery store seems to be so far away! I mean both grocery stores are like 5 blocks away–and honestly, the last thing I want to do when I get home from my crap job is to make a delicious home cooked meal. It is far easier for me to text message my dear old dad requesting his credit card number, so that his beloved daughter can eat. I know that’s pathetic. But it makes him feel like he is helping. And who am I turn to down free food in these uncertain times?

I always order from the same place, even though the people that answer the phone sometimes yell at me if they can’t understand me. As with every Chinese restaurant, I always get a fortune cookie with my meal–sometimes I get three, probably because they think I am feeding a family–shows what they know. More often than not, the fortunes are crap. Complete crap. They aren’t even fortunes. They are, a lot of the time, bad advice written down on a small strip of paper crammed in a somewhat tasty cookie. And since I am a hoarder of many things, including small strips of paper, I can share with you the misery that are my fortune cookies.

1. “You’re transforming yourself into someone who is certain to succeed.” I don’t know who they thought this fortune cookie was going to, but they obviously wouldn’t have sent it to me if they did. The only thing I am transforming is that part of my resume where it says “Assistant Manager” when it should say “Sales Associate”.

2. “Your skill will accomplish what the force of many cannot” Really, fortune cookie? Really? What skill are we referring to? I don’t even know what this means. I want specifics.

3. “God of Fortune is beckoning you.” I must have not been paying attention when that was happening. Although, they didn’t say what type of fortune this God is in charge of. My guess, poor fortune. It would make the most sense.

4. “You form passionate relationships without compromising your independence.” This one I get. This is like the only fortune I have ever gotten, that really made sense at the time that I cracked open that cookie. They got one right this time. But it’s easy to not compromise your independence when they want nothing to do with you! Can I get a, what what?!?!

5. “Curiosity is life.” No shit, Sherlock. Curiosity also killed the cat. Curiosity is also to blame for long, painful, and uncomfortable conversations with weird and/or creepy people you meet in a bar or on a train.

6. “Success will not attack you. You must attack it.” Great, one more thing I have to be actively involved in achieving. Does sending out my falsified resume count as me “attacking success”?

7. “It’s time you asked that special someone out on a date.” Okay. I think if I am calling them “that special someone”, I am way past the point of having to ask them out on a date. Thanks for reminding me of how alone I am, fortune cookie. You’ll get yours, when I eat you.

8. “A way out of a financial mess is discovered as if by magic!” Kind of like a $700 billion bailout, right?! Right again cookie! I guess I should stop paying my credit card bills and wait for Harry Potter to come figure out a way to get me out this mess.

Another interesting thing about those fortune cookies, is that usually on the back of the fortune, they have a “learn Chinese” portion. Not only are they someone delicious, they are educational. However, I still can’t string together a sentence that makes any sense. The most I can say is, “zuò kè pián yì chéng zi.” Which I guess would mean, “be invited cheap orange.” Which probably won’t make me any friends.

Someday I hope to end my dependency on (delicious)foreign foods of the take-out variety. Until then, it’s all the cheese wantons I can stomach.

And So It Begins

Well, I’ve gone against my better judgment and decided to start a blog. This is probably my most terrible idea ever. More terrible than that time a year ago, when I quit my paying job to take an internship that I thought was going to be a great opportunity. I think we all know that internships never lead to anything. Trust me. I have had more internships in the past 3 or so years than I would care to count…and look where I am. At home, on a Saturday night, writing my first blog post.

This blog is loosely based on a conversation I had with a friend over dinner. It’s a running joke between the two of us, about how miserable I am (sounds worse now that I type it!). I don’t know if my misery can be attributed to bad luck, karma, or a higher power, I don’t necessarily believe in, hating me. On all levels, I believe I am a genuinely good person–I just have a nasty habit of finding the negative in almost everything, mostly in relation to myself. I am marvelously positive for my friends.

Anywhoo, he said that I should write a memoir because people love funny memoirs. I’m only 23. I doubt anyone wants to hear about how I wore a bright yellow polar fleece vest in middle school and thought I was stylish. Maybe they do, it was a fairly heinous vest and it matched a camouflage t-shirt I had. Don’t ask. It was an awkward time for fashion and being alive.

Basically, with this blog, I’m hoping to have enough misery related moments to turn into a book one day. And trust me, from just where I work, there is a backlog of misery just waiting to get out. But all of this is supposed to be funny, because humor is supposed to heal…or at least make you feel less miserable. Because if you can laugh at it, it doesn’t seem that bad. Just like that yellow polar fleece.