Part 26 (1/2)
In a flash of inspiration, I pull open the pantry door and begin searching. I remember reading once vanilla extract could double as perfume. Aha! Here it is! I splash it all over myself and for good measure, run a fingerful of Crisco across my lips to compensate for being out of gloss.171 ”Well, how do I look?” I go back upstairs and twirl for Fletch.
”You look nice.” After I hug him, he has a puzzled look on his face. ”But why do you smell like cupcakes?”
It's the first day of my temp a.s.signment. Earlier, I found myself waiting at the bus stop, grinning like a Miss America contestant at the prospect of going to an actual JOB. (With my big, sun-bleached hair, savage tan, oily pink lips, and pastel outfit, I looked more like Barbie's older, fatter sister, but still, having a purpose made my smile large indeed.) Of course, when the bus didn't show up after two seconds, I freaked out and hailed a cab. Five minutes later, I was in front of my temporary office, which meant I had forty-five minutes to kill before I was due to start working. So I crossed the street to Starbucks.
Here I am with my half-caf latte, sitting at the faux-granite counter, taking in the scenery. It's strange, but if I look straight ahead, I can see the building where I'm about to temp. To the right of it is the insurance company where I worked when I was fresh out of college. And to the left, the building housing Midwest IR.172 Years ago, while at the HMO, I'd run over here for a sandwich and a hot tea before they closed because I knew I'd be working through dinner. Later in my career, my a.s.sistants would dash over to fetch my coffee. Yet today, it may be me who comes here on the coffee run. I sit and wonder how, no matter what my professional standing, I keep winding up at the same d.a.m.n Starbucks.
Weblog Entry 6/26/03 THE PROBLEM WITH HEATHER.
I'm presently temping in the Customer Relations.h.i.+p Management department of a very nice multinational corporation.
I know the company is nice because they've apologized profusely about the major yawn of a task they have me doing. I'm cleaning up their customer database. My job is to go through approximately one zillion emails that have stacked up since they fired their last temp for sleeping at her desk-when she wasn't busy surfing online dating sites-and make appropriate changes to their records.173 About 90% of what I deal with is bounced emails. If an email bounces, I go into the database and unsubscribe that customer. The bulk of my job is OPEN, COPY, DELETE, PASTE, QUERY, DESELECT, CLOSE, and then repeat approximately three times per minute.174 I live for the opportunity to read the 10% of the emails that are actual customer responses. Most of these are requests to be removed from the mailing list, and this is where the fun starts! People compose angry and profane notes to get off a mailing list that they signed up for voluntarily. One of my favorites was from a woman who sent a multi-paragraph missive about the nerve of the company sending her email to her work address when she was a busy professional that didn't have time for our foolishness and she could not understand why she had to make the effort to respond to us about something that blah, blah, blah. It must have taken her at least fifteen minutes to write this note on her company's time. Quelle dumb-a.s.s.
The angry letters are fun, but best email I've seen so far was from a girl named Heather. Apparently Heather is looking for an interns.h.i.+p with this company, so she made the very wise move to send an email to a generic customer service address and not, oh, say, Human Resources or perhaps a specific person.
I read her cover letter and I was appalled. Not only was it written in three different colors (fuchsia, turquoise, and black), it was also done in three separate type-fonts, making it obvious that she had cut and pasted the ”best parts” from other sources.
Oh, Heather, bad form.
And you know those formatted letters in Microsoft Word where you fill in your own information? You highlight the area that says ”street” and you fill in your own street information? Well, apparently Heather doesn't, so her cover letter says that she lives on Street, City, State ZIP. (I should mention here that one of her selling points was that she was (sic) ”detail orientated.”) Heather must be a busy girl because she sent this heinous cover letter/resume out in a blanket email. I know this because I could see all the other recipients in the ”To” line. More than 20 organizations' email addresses were listed. Oy.
But no one knows more than me how tough it is to get a job now, so I felt empathetic. I figured that she was a high school girl with big ambitions but not much training on job-finding protocol and I honestly wanted to help her.
I opened her resume attachment to find her contact information with the intention of sending her a friendly and informative ”here's how your communication can be more effective” letter.
I glanced at her address and saw that she lived on a street in one of Chicago's richest suburbs where the home prices start in the seven-figure range. This surprised me because even the public schools up there are of higher quality than most of this country's private inst.i.tutions. Although she should have known better, I gave her the benefit of the doubt and decided that I would still be a Good Samaritan and help her in her quest.
And then I saw it.
Holy s.h.i.+t.
Heather is not in high school. Heather is in college. And not only does she have a BA in English from the University of Illinois, but she's also only a year away from having her MASTER'S degree in Education.
And she was sending out misspelled resumes in the laziest format possible.
From her parents' North Sh.o.r.e mansion.
While I slaved away for less than a hundred bucks a day in a grunt job in order to buy food and medication.
DELETE.
Evict This, Motherf*cker Weblog Entry 7/1/03 AMBER ALERT.
Missing: One sidewalk, approximately 30' in length and 3' in width. Color is industrial light gray.
Last seen leaving Westside neighborhood with members of the Russian Army. May also be in the company of two light gray cement stairs.
Reward if found.
If you get this job we're totally sending Mike a fruit basket.”
Fletch is back from a second interview out in the suburbs, arranged by one of his old colleagues. ”Overall, I feel good about it. I like the way the manager leads his team, plus the job's less technical than what I had before, so I'd have an advantage over the other sales engineers.”
”What about getting out there?”
”The commuter train practically stops in front of their building, so it was no problem.”
”And taking the bus to the station was fine?”
”Smooth sailing through calm seas.”
What a relief! I was worried he'd somehow miss his connections and wouldn't get to his interview, and then he'd be all b.u.mmed out again. Although the meds and therapy are working wonders, I'm still cautious about potential setbacks, and I'm doing everything in my power to prevent them, like not keeping any liquor in the house (even though Fletch's doctor says the drinking is a symptom, and not the main problem). I'm dealing with all the bills and bill collectors, so he doesn't have to worry about them. I've even started cooking dinner. Each night we have a meat, a vegetable, and a starch lovingly prepared by my own hands.175 And instead of spending the money I got from selling my coats on fresh highlights, I bought Fletch a couple of new dress s.h.i.+rts and ties to wear to his interviews, despite the fact that my hair is really scary at this point.
”I have a good idea. Since it's so beautiful out, let's take the guys for a walk and dissect your interview.”
”Let me get out of this suit and change into play clothes.”
While I wait, I watch the Russian Army. They've been working next door for months, yet they just got a Porta Pottie. I shudder to think of where they were going before. They've also procured a radio, and earlier today I heard a bunch of Slavic accents singing along to the Strokes. It was rather cute and made me hate them a bit less.
Fletch bounds down the stairs with the dogs. ”Ready, Freddie.”
”Let's locomote.”
”Wait. Grab the other set of keys because I want to go out the side door.” We generally use our back door because we only have to work one set of locks. ”The Army's got a huge pile of debris out there, and I don't want to have to maneuver the guys over it. The last thing we need is a trip to the emergency vet.”176 I lock the first door while Fletch and the dogs bound off ahead of me. At the foot of the stairs, he stops to check our mail while I unlock the main door. I'm dying to know more about the interview because it's the first solid lead Fletch has had in months. I'm afraid to get my hopes up, yet this one feels so promising.
”If they offered you a job, when would they want you to-AHHH!” Air whooshes past me as I free-fall for what feels like ten minutes before hitting the ground with a resounding thud. The impact throws up a huge cloud of dust and rattles every bone in my body.
”Jen! Are you OK?” Fletch asks, coughing and wiping grit out of his eyes.
From my spot in the dirt, I look up at Fletch standing in the doorway as I try to figure out exactly what just happened. ”What-why-how did I get down here?” I look in incomprehension at my skinned palms and filthy knees. ”What happened to the stairs? Where's the walkway?”
”They're gone. I guess that's what's in the pile out back.”