Gadgets

My grandmother does not have the internet. She does not have a computer. She does not use a cell phone. She has a cell phone, but it's never been on and the one time she had it on by accident and it rang, she didn't know how to answer it. She calls all modern technology "gadgets." Laptop, phone, Blackberry, iPad...all gadgets. So when my grandmother came to me and said, "Danielle, I'm thinking of getting one of those gadgets," I wasn't completely sure what she meant.
"A computer?"
"No."
"A camera?"
"No."
"A new television?"
"No! A gadget, you know of those..." She started stabbing the air with her finger.
"A...light saber?"
"No no no no no no! They have buttons, you look things up..."
"A Blackberry?"
"Yes, like that, but not a Blackberry. I want an Android."
I could not for the life of me figure out what my grandmother, who refuses to use things like computers and cell phones, could possibly want with a Droid. As it turns out, what she wants is to have the internet with her at all times so that when she is at lunch or book club meetings with her friends and gets into an argument, she can PROVE HERSELF CORRECT with the power of the internet.

I let her choose a day on which we could go together to "the gadget store," and off we went. I expected to end up at a Verizon store, but instead we ended up at more or less the equivalent of RadioShack. I began to say to my grandmother, "Perhaps Verizon would be more..." to which I only got, "Quiet, Danielle."
Once in the gadget store, the employees informed my grandmother that they did not carry Androids or Blackberries or any of those things. The closest thing they had to what my grandmother wanted was an iPad but it was "TOO BIG!" to fit in her purse. The gadget store employees were all declared wildly incompetent, and we headed off to Verizon.
At Verizon, we ran into a new problem.
"What do you MEAN the Android is a phone? I don't want a phone. I want an internet."
Eventually the salesperson and I were able to convince my grandmother that there was nothing the salesperson could personally do about making the Android not a phone anymore, and after a lot of back and forth and general insanity we settled on a Galaxy Tablet which is actually quite neat.
Then the salesperson, instead of GETTING OUT QUICKLY, asked the terrible question, "Tell me about the service you use for your landline. How much are you paying? What? That much? Let me tell you about how you can save a lot of money!"
You all know about me and my penchant for buying absolutely anything and everything salespeople suggest I buy. Well guys, turns out I got it through genetics. My grandmother and I together in that store were the most pathetic victims the world has ever seen. We walked out of that store an hour and a half later with a Galaxy Tablet, a flashy new box to plug into the landline to make all the phones run through some wireless system, and a new plan for my grandmother's barely touched cell phone.
Before heading out, the salesperson asked for my grandmother's email address.
"I am NOT giving you my email address! That's how I get all of these emails about Viagra! And girls in Russia! And PENIS englargements. Do I look like I need a penis enlargement? I do not have a PENIS!"
The salesperson actually literally did a headdesk and needed to take a moment to himself before he stopped laughing to hard to ring her up.
The next day, every phone in my grandmother's house was knocked out. She called in Verizon to fix it. The following day, every phone in my grandmother's house plus her WebTV was knocked out.
My grandmother's phones and WebTV have been out for four days now, she's run over the minutes on her new cell phone plan, and she's angsty over not checking her email for a week.

On the bright side, she now knows how to answer her cell phone when it rings.

Starting Over

What makes a person quit their job, pack their things, and leave the life they've built behind?

Her name is Allie. She is rather small, but she is very persuasive.

I went to Israel because I was feeling restless and stuck and I thought traveling for ten days in far parts of the world would help make the feelings go away. While the trip was great, it definitely backfired because I came home feeling more restless and upset than I did before I left.
Allie and I met in Israel, and discussed how we both wanted to move to D.C. I didn't take her seriously though, because most people I meet are total flakes and don't mean most of what they say. Somehow though, things went from our hypothetical jobs and apartment and life in D.C. and the fun artwork we would hang on our theoretical walls to driving out to interview with a temp agency to leaving our respective houses and moving in with my grandmother.

We have a wonderful little domestic situation going on. She gets up early for work at her internship and I get up to turn off the alarm and lock the door behind her before going to make breakfast and starting my day like an unemployed little housewife. My very first day I immediately went to the library for the internet (no internet at Grandma's...) and began a lengthy conversation with the library Manager. She wants me to help out around the library! There is a hiring freeze, so she cannot hire me :( but in the meantime she wants my help as a volunteer on their newest project, making the library more appealing to young people and finding grant money. Also facilitating book discussions for children and teens! I am quite excited over it.

Each day I go to the library and apply to at least two jobs, eat a sandwich, and then meet Allie for Adventures Downtown. So far we have had a Trivia Night, a Networking Night, a Shabbat Dinner, a Night Out in Adams Morgan, and watched part of a fabulous movie about Alyssa Milano's imaginary friend. We may be losing hope of ever finding employment ever, but there's not too much time to spend lamenting over it.

It's all very exciting.

Life Changing Decisions

I think it's time I re-took control of this blog. I don't know what Rachael is going to be doing, perhaps she will find the strength to post at the some point. But in the meantime, we will no longer wait for her.
I got far behind in posts myself because for awhile there, my life was working out okay. I had a job I adored, I was making new friends, developing new hobbies, traveling, even finding time to go out with new wonderful gentlemen callers. I was making Good Decisions. Yes, it was all coming together.

And then on Wednesday of last week I went in to work, told my boss I was quitting my job and leaving the city. I packed everything in four suitcases and drove away a few days later. Any of my friends not on Facebook don't even know that I've moved away. I should probably call them.

Yeah. That happened.

Bad decision? Time will tell. It was certainly rash, poorly thought out, and probably somewhat stupid.

In any case, I am going to begin to use this blog to track this decision, write about the life of the lonely, the unemployed, and the impoverished. At least for a little while. And time will tell whether or not this decision was a Poor one.

Guest blogger!

We have a guest blogger this week! It's all very exciting! And she comes all the way from Cleveland! She shares with us a traumatic tale...



Danielle recently invited me to share a poor decision that I've made. One coping mechanism that I have developed over the years in order to allow myself to go on living in spite of all the poor/embarrassing/mortifying decisions that I've made is to simply block certain things out. I've gotten quite efficient at blocking out bad memories. It was really hard to come up with something to write about because I've forgotten events prior to last Saturday. In fact I've become so efficient at shutting my brain off that I'm afraid the more vital brain functions are getting affected. Here is an example:

I am very strict about preventing shower curtain mildew. I try to enforce a stringent policy of always leaving the shower curtain closed and nice and spread out and airy so that it cannot collect mildew. Enter the main obstacle to my attainment of Shower Curtain Utopia: the Fiance, a creature whose main goal in the morning is to get to work on time which apparently prevents him from closing the shower curtain properly. On one particular weekend morning, (we are residing in Pittsburgh during this time), I slither into our bathroom like the sleepy slug that I am, ready to embark upon my morning routine. There I go, brushing my teeth, putting my toothbrush away neatly, my eyes are almost fully open at this time, here I am making sure I have a towel ready for after my shower, off I go to turn the shower on, I turn toward the bathtub---WHAT? the SHOWER CURTAIN IS OPEN? I am angry. I check the curtain for signs of mildew. Nothing there yet, I am momentarily placated. My shower ensues, it is relaxing. Lather, rinse, repeat. I am looking forward to the day ahead. I turn the water off. But...something is amiss. I thought I turned the water off, but then why do I hear water running?

My eyes quickly dart toward the sink, which is steadily overflowing. The faucet merrily runs like a babbling brook, onto the bathroom floor and into the carpeted hallway outside the bathroom. I step out of the bathtub onto the little red bath rug, even though it is completely underwater and it makes no difference whether had I stepped onto a bath rug or into a swimming pool.

Fiance and I spent the good part of the morning cleaning up. We exhausted all the absorbent materials in our home (1/2 roll of paper towels, a mop head) and set up a fan to dry the wet hallway (it took 4 days to dry). Even though I've lost my credibility as the guru of bathroom cleanliness, I still compulsively pull the shower curtain close whenever I get the chance.

---Q

Cooking

My little sister just got her permit three days ago. This has made all of us nervous, particularly me and my father because it is our cars she is practicing on since my mother's is currently more or less in a coma. My father is even more nervous than I am because, well, he was the one who took my sister for her very first driving lesson. Yesterday afternoon I told my sister I would take her driving, so we went to inform my father we were going out. He immediately jumped up from his chair and said, "Oh no, no no no. I will go. Not you. No. Highly dangerous. You are not equipped. Your sister will kill both of you and your mother will kill me. Unacceptable." So I said, "Okay then. I guess you two will go and I can stay here and make myself food."
My father immediately sat down again and squinted at me accusingly. "Explain 'make yourself food."
"I was thinking I would cook some eggs."
"Oh no. No, no, no, no. You'll burn the house down. Kill yourself. No more house. Your mother will kill me. Now I can't leave you alone..."

My father now faced a terrible choice. Which was more potentially fatal? His teenage daughter's second attempt at driving, or his 24 year old daughter's attempt at cooking?

In the end the problem was solved when he forced me into the backseat of my own car while he taught my sister how to drive, effectively preventing me from touching a stove AND monitoring my sister's every move.

A good solution, clearly. But what stands out to me here is the fact that my father believed me making myself eggs was equally as or MORE dangerous than my sister's first attempts at driving. It's a problem that has plagued me all my life, that I have inherited from my mother. Between the two of us, we've set at least 7 fires in various places--stove, oven, toaster, microwave. On one notable occasion, I set a salami sandwich on fire.
Another time while making cupcakes I mixed up sugar with salt. That is a lot of salt.
Knowing my weakness, one time while baking a cake I tried laying out all the ingredients before even beginning, checking them off a list, making sure I had the correct amounts of the correct things all in a line on the counter. When I took my cake out of the oven awhile later, I discovered that it was completely flat. Completely. I was very puzzled, until I turned around and found that all of the flour was still sitting nicely on the counter, waiting to be added.
Pasta. Oh, pasta. I can't tell you how much pasta and how many pots have been burned and destroyed in this household, between my mother and myself. We have an attention problem. Set the temperature on high so the water boils faster, forget we are making pasta two minutes later, occasionally go so far as to leave the house, return and discover blackened bits and one livid father/husband threatening to beat our heads in with his beloved and dead cook ware.
I have lost so much blood over cutting carrots and tomatoes and chicken and yes, even opening a tin of biscuit dough. You know those easy open Pillsbury tubes? Not so easy open to everyone.

These days, I get much of my food by wandering downstairs whenever I am hungry and announcing loudly what I am going to cook for myself. Wherever my father is in the house, he will come running, shouting, "I'll do it! I'll do it for you! Get back into bed! Watch TV! Go to the mall! Come back and it shall be all done!"

As far as I'm concerned, this is a perfect system, because I hate cooking as much as it hates me.

This evening I was thinking about making something from a recipe I found that sounded good, but I realized what a TERRIBLE DECISION that would be, and figured it was much safer to write about cooking than actually attempt it.

I think I'll wave the recipe around my father and declare loudly how I am about to start trying it out.

Camp

I have had a lot of jobs over the last ten years, with quite a bit of variation. Assistant Gymnastics Instructor. Sales clerk. Babysitter. Software Tester. English Language Assistant. Coldstone...person. French teacher. Volunteer Coordinator. Caller at a calling center. English Language Assistant and Volunteer Coordinator top the list as my two favorite positions (with the lowest salaries), babysitter and and software tester are down at the bottom at least favorite (with the two highest salaries). The job at the calling center is the only one I have ever quit, after lasting only three days. I would have quit after the first fifteen minutes, but my supervisor was so damn attractive I tried to stick it out. I don't regret having any of these jobs. I can look back on each one and point to ways in which they helped me further my career, develop my interests, or at least help financially.
Except for one.
One job I look back on and think, Why, why, WHY did I ever do that to myself? It made me cry nearly ever day. It paid next to nothing during the time in my life I least needed money. It made me physically sick. I didn't like the people I worked for and few of the people I worked with.
Summer camp counselor.
Every day for eight weeks during the summer after my freshman year of college I got on a school bus at 7:45 in the morning and went on an hour long journey, gathering children who routinely vomited each and every morning before arriving at our destination. I have a phobia of
vomit. Even just knowing someone in the same building as I am is throwing up is enough to make me sick enough to do it myself. Obviously I did not fare well on these bus rides.
And this was before camp even BEGAN.
Once camp began I often had MORE children vomit throughout the day. Sometimes in the pool. I do not know WHAT parents were feeding their children during the summer of 2004.
It was either burning hot or raining. I had kids running off into the forest. I had girls shrieking over centipedes. I had boys sticking their butts on one another. I had food fights and naked children running about trying to pee on things and at least one girl per day who cried unintelligibly over something incomprehensible and three hypochondriacs and a lot of snot and blood and tears and parental notes and YOU try getting sunscreen on hyperactive 6 year olds with ADHD and a bizarre obsession with running around NAKED.
AND I had to get in the pool.
In a bathing suit.
It was the most horrific of all nightmares.
In the middle of it all, I had to sing this song repeatedly:

Beaver one beaver all let's all do the beaver call
Beaver two beaver three let's all climb the beaver tree
Beaver four beaver five let's all do the beaver jive
Beaver six beaver seven let's all go to beaver heaven
Beaver eight beaver nine CLAP CLAP it's BEAVER TIME!


But you know what the worst part is? The most ridiculous, awful,
insane part of the whole thing?
I went back the next summer.

Retail. Oh GOD, Retail.

Yet again, I begin an entry in this here blog with an apology. I am very aware that this entry is a couple of weeks late, but I am also aware that it is far more prompt than the last entry was. I take this as a positive sign. A few more months of haphazard shit, and we will have turned me into a regular blogging dynamo.

Apologies aside, this week's entry is about the magical world of retail.

Let me make something clear here. I don't have any particular problem with shopping. I approve of shopping, in a general sense, even if I myself am not as an avid a shopper as many of my friends. Working retail is another story altogether.

I work in a local independent lingerie store, neither Victoria's Secret, nor Fredrick's of Hollywood. It's a cute little place with an excellent selection of bras, panties, and cute little things, and in many ways it's not a bad job. I'm selling things I like in a store I approve of, for a boss I generally think is pretty awesome.

That said, retail is like high school. No matter how good your particular high school is, it is still high school, and therefore it is terrible. No matter how good your retail job is, it is still retail, and therefore it is terrible. It is also, for the most part, unavoidable. Yes, you could go into the service industry, or become a nanny, or just go straight for the gold and become a hooker, but for the most part, retail is simply what you do when you aren't qualified to do anything, and when you're poor. I am both of those things, so retail it is.

Retail is a poor decision for a variety of reasons. First and foremost, retail is a poor decision because it forces you to interact with other people. Now you may be thinking, “I don't get it, Rachael, I like people!” You are wrong. You may think you like people, but that is because you don't work retail. If you worked retail, you would realize that people are terrible. They are smelly, inconsiderate bastards who talk on the phone while you ring them up, thrusting their credit card in your face, and babbling away at whatever halfwit was stupid enough to have answered the phone when these inbred underwear buying hippos called.

People are also gross. Incredibly gross. A truly surprising amount of the time, they're not actually looking for underwear. They have wandered in off the street, taking a break from their evidently constant masturbation, hoping to find sex toys to shove in their every orifice to distract themselves from the emptiness of their broken, greasy lives. For the record, all of these disgusting, mutated examples of pseudo-humanity are male. They are also apparently incapable of distinguishing between Adult Mart and a high end, reputable, classy lingerie store. The presence of women not bearing the telltale signs of herpes should really be a dead giveaway.

People are also cheap. Really cheap. Women come into the store with bras that are literally falling apart on them. They complain about spending forty dollars on something that will actually separate their nipples from their belly buttons. They hang around for two hours, showing me far more of their pustule-encrusted wrinkled rolls of fat than I would EVER under ANY CIRCUMSTANCES like to see, and then only buy ONE FUCKING BRA. If I were on commission, I swear to you, you would have seen me on the news by now, wielding a bloody knife and growling.

IN SUMMATION: I didn't hate people until I started working to retail. I walked in there my first day, bright eyed and bushy tailed, innocent and sweet, and retail has killed all that love. Beaten it out of me. What a shitty decision. Ugh.