Today I woke up very early (or, very early for the unemployed) to go to a job fair. It was for a call centre job of course, but I figured since the company has to hire 350 people, maybe one of them could be little old me. I also liked the fact that it would be over all at once--bring your resume and references, have a first interview, a second interview, and then take a computer test. Acutally, what I really liked was being able to use my brand-new resume and not having to write a cover letter. I'm really so sick of cover letters.
I was lucky enough to be in the first group of people who went in, and we watched a promotional video about the company. I'm sure you can picture it--some chick sitting at a computer pretending to be on a real call, then someone else, a "manager" probably, comes behind her and puts a hand on her shoulder, and the camera zooms in as they share a smile. I have to say, it looks like a great place to work!
So I had the first interview with a woman, let's call her Old Stoney, and she was totally stone-cold-ice-face with me the whole time. You know how when you talk and explain a situation, and the person you're talking to sometimes nods, smiles, or makes agreeable noises? Not Old Stoney. She just sat there staring at me, not saying a word. And anyone who knows me know that when someone does that, I just start blabbering on. So it didn't go well.
But the second interview brought something that I have never encountered in the countless interviews I have gone on in the last year: A man. Ah yes, men. Anyone who has read my previous entries will remember that I can charm a man into many things. This was no exception. To be frank, this guy LOVED me. We even had to do this role playing exercise where I have to try and sell him business cards, and I suck at sales, but he not only bought the cards, but he bought the more expensive ones. Let's just say if it was up to that guy, he would hire me and marry me.
Anyway, keep your fingers crossed for me. It's not like my dream job or anything, but it will definitely fulfill the dream of getting a paycheque, which is enough for now.
Some final notes:
1. Today my mother asked me if I was finished with the straightening iron. I said, "Yes, I turned it off." But you know what I forgot? To unplug it. So I said to her, "What is it that you think is going to happen if we don't unplug it? That it will turn itself on and burn down the house?" And she said yes. I think she's really got a point here. I know I hate it when those pesky appliances turn themselves back on. They should really invent some that don't have minds of their own.
2. Today on MSN Entertainment I read the best word, "Fracas" used in the best sentence: "Rapper Snoop Dogg and five associates were arrested after a fracas at Heathrow Airport." I'm pretty sure that's how Snoop himself put it.
3. Chris Rowe is back on the dating scene with a vengeance. Ladies, tell your friends. Mothers, lock up your daughters. Just kidding.
Charming my way into employment?
sbg
Why Oprah Exists, or, An Amendment to My Rant
I watched Oprah shortly after writing my elitist rant and was completely ashamed of myself (hmm... is that the real mission of the Angel Network?) I was confronted by young women in the world who have suffered horrors I scarcely encounter in my spoiled, suburban life; girls who have struggled beyond having to put jam on crackers or salsa on rice. And to increase my shame, they were smiling. Happy. Ebullient. Completely and totally the opposite of whiny, bratty me.
This is why I need cable--to make sure I don't turn into a complete asshole. Now just imagine how enlightened I could be if I had ALL the channels.
I never should have stopped reading my self-help book (I'm with you McKinder, bring on the healing! Haters be damned!). Or perhaps I shouldn't have blown off those scientology guys. Sure Tom Cruise is crazy, but he's also crazy-happy, so he must be doing something right. Vitamins and exercise... right Tom?
By the way, I turned down the Rogers job. And dodged their subsequent call regarding my unpaid bill.
All my clouds have silver linings,
sbg
This is why I need cable--to make sure I don't turn into a complete asshole. Now just imagine how enlightened I could be if I had ALL the channels.
I never should have stopped reading my self-help book (I'm with you McKinder, bring on the healing! Haters be damned!). Or perhaps I shouldn't have blown off those scientology guys. Sure Tom Cruise is crazy, but he's also crazy-happy, so he must be doing something right. Vitamins and exercise... right Tom?
By the way, I turned down the Rogers job. And dodged their subsequent call regarding my unpaid bill.
All my clouds have silver linings,
sbg
An Elitist* Rant
In the harsh light of a particularly bad day, I've decided that I got a raw deal in the life department. No, not in terms of the healthy, able-bodied, good family, roof-over- my-head kind of way, but in the i-did-the-right-thing-and-this-is- where-it-got-me kind of way. Today I got offered a job going door to door to sell Rogers home phones, internet, and cable. Now, don't get me wrong, I think Rogers has been pretty good to me. I know I've complained in the past, but their constant phone calls do stop when I pay the bill. And they've only cut me off like 3 times. And I just upgraded my phone for free. But when I was considering taking this job, I realized the only reason I would take it was to have a job. Period. And I thought, what exactly did I do wrong that I am in the position where I have to take a job that I don't want just to have a job? Well, let's run through my life choices for a minute.
I did well in high school. I went to university. I double-majored, despite additional time and finances. I have a loan that I will be paying back for the rest of my natural life as a result of this education. I worked. I worked 2 jobs sometimes. I took extra classes. I volunteered. I struggled, was constantly broke, didn't buy an excessive amount of clothes, wasn't (overly) promiscuous, gave money to the homeless (and apologized when I couldn't), barely did drugs, maybe drank a tiny bit more than I should have but not enough to send me into a 12-step program, and basically tried to be a good, kind, responsible human being as often as possible. And after all of that, I get offered a job that when I asked what skills it required was told, "Well, you need to know how to talk." Okay, so let me get this straight: I need to know how to a) talk, and b) walk (door-to-door). Skills I just happened to have mastered at the age of about 5. So basically I could have been hammered every day, taken ecstacy, shrooms, acid, coke, and any other number of drugs I never did, had a litter of kids, blown off university, gone on more than 1 vacation, screwed my way around the world, had a wardrobe that didn't consist of sweaters I've owned for 10 years, and would still be able to come back to London to get this job.
So the morale of this rant is don't be too hard on yourself. And if you have kids, don't be too hard on them. Because no matter what they do, as long as Rogers exists they will always have a place in the world, right next to me.
"If you can walk and talk, you can get a job on my block"
-sbg
*I know I sound like an obnoxious snob, but it really stems from my crippling self-pity. Which is almost as attractive as elitism, I know.
I did well in high school. I went to university. I double-majored, despite additional time and finances. I have a loan that I will be paying back for the rest of my natural life as a result of this education. I worked. I worked 2 jobs sometimes. I took extra classes. I volunteered. I struggled, was constantly broke, didn't buy an excessive amount of clothes, wasn't (overly) promiscuous, gave money to the homeless (and apologized when I couldn't), barely did drugs, maybe drank a tiny bit more than I should have but not enough to send me into a 12-step program, and basically tried to be a good, kind, responsible human being as often as possible. And after all of that, I get offered a job that when I asked what skills it required was told, "Well, you need to know how to talk." Okay, so let me get this straight: I need to know how to a) talk, and b) walk (door-to-door). Skills I just happened to have mastered at the age of about 5. So basically I could have been hammered every day, taken ecstacy, shrooms, acid, coke, and any other number of drugs I never did, had a litter of kids, blown off university, gone on more than 1 vacation, screwed my way around the world, had a wardrobe that didn't consist of sweaters I've owned for 10 years, and would still be able to come back to London to get this job.
So the morale of this rant is don't be too hard on yourself. And if you have kids, don't be too hard on them. Because no matter what they do, as long as Rogers exists they will always have a place in the world, right next to me.
"If you can walk and talk, you can get a job on my block"
-sbg
*I know I sound like an obnoxious snob, but it really stems from my crippling self-pity. Which is almost as attractive as elitism, I know.
Being Unemployed is a Full-time Job
I've actually been too busy to write a new blog. How does that happen, you ask? I think it could be because I still think my weekends should be free of work or anything relating to work, and I just came back from a long weekend away. Yes, I felt I needed a vacation from my life of leisure.
I had a perfect T-dot day on Saturday. First, Red Room, Pad Thai and the Bean. An unbeatable combination. It was a gorgeous day so we went walking through Kensington (I almost went to a psychic, but frankly I was scared about what my future holds), and went 3/4 of the way into a zillion stores. We also hit 3 bookstores: #1, where we had Starbucks lattes and were potentially recruited for scientology (creepy guys, unexplained arm touching, lurking by the exits--what else could that be about?). #2, where we had to go to the (gasp) self-help section for the book we were looking for, and #3, where I bought a book for $1 (the good news is that I actually had a dollar).
Today was a banner day though: I actually worked. FOR MONEY. That's right, I made a whole 40 bucks today (before tax). I spent 4 hours calling people to tell them that they were getting a new financial representative. Out of the 170 calls I made, I talked to 45 people, got hung up on twice, and realized that all numbers in Chatham start with 354. So all in all I think it was a productive day. And despite my meager earnings, I've decided to look at this as the potential end of the volunteer curse. Keep your fingers crossed. And take the pins out of my voodoo doll, for God's sake.
Momma needs a new pair of shoes,
sbg
I had a perfect T-dot day on Saturday. First, Red Room, Pad Thai and the Bean. An unbeatable combination. It was a gorgeous day so we went walking through Kensington (I almost went to a psychic, but frankly I was scared about what my future holds), and went 3/4 of the way into a zillion stores. We also hit 3 bookstores: #1, where we had Starbucks lattes and were potentially recruited for scientology (creepy guys, unexplained arm touching, lurking by the exits--what else could that be about?). #2, where we had to go to the (gasp) self-help section for the book we were looking for, and #3, where I bought a book for $1 (the good news is that I actually had a dollar).
Today was a banner day though: I actually worked. FOR MONEY. That's right, I made a whole 40 bucks today (before tax). I spent 4 hours calling people to tell them that they were getting a new financial representative. Out of the 170 calls I made, I talked to 45 people, got hung up on twice, and realized that all numbers in Chatham start with 354. So all in all I think it was a productive day. And despite my meager earnings, I've decided to look at this as the potential end of the volunteer curse. Keep your fingers crossed. And take the pins out of my voodoo doll, for God's sake.
Momma needs a new pair of shoes,
sbg
10 Things I Hate About My "Life"
1. Having to explain what I'm doing in London everytime I meet someone new or run into someone I haven't talked to in a long time.
2. Having to look for sunglasses with my mother, who picks up a thousand different versions of the exact same pair and then dismisses them all for the exact same reason.
3. My dad coming home at 6 o'clock and upon seeing me in my robe saying, "Did you just wake up?"
4. Having to dial a million numbers whenever I make a long distance call because I have to use a calling card (to avoid a dad freak-out when he sees the phone bill).
5. Having nothing to say to Steve on the phone because neither one of us has a job or a life. And yet we still call each other 5 times a day.
6. The old-school fuse box in this house where you can't tell which fuse blew, and since they're not labelled, we have to unscrew and replace every single bloody one of them to find the problem.
7. The toaster oven in this house where the on/off switch and the toast button are both broken, so we have to plug it in, then we broil the bread, then unplug it. Every single time.
8. The BASIC cable. Do you realize that I can no longer complete the TV Guide crossword? I don't even know who I am anymore.
9. The radio station that seems to only play songs by Bone Thugs-N-Harmony. Or artists that sound like Bone Thugs-N-Harmony.
10. The fact that I start another volunteer position tomorrow. I'm tutoring Grade 3 & 4 students in math. Yes, I said math. God help them.
E=MC... what now?
sbg
2. Having to look for sunglasses with my mother, who picks up a thousand different versions of the exact same pair and then dismisses them all for the exact same reason.
3. My dad coming home at 6 o'clock and upon seeing me in my robe saying, "Did you just wake up?"
4. Having to dial a million numbers whenever I make a long distance call because I have to use a calling card (to avoid a dad freak-out when he sees the phone bill).
5. Having nothing to say to Steve on the phone because neither one of us has a job or a life. And yet we still call each other 5 times a day.
6. The old-school fuse box in this house where you can't tell which fuse blew, and since they're not labelled, we have to unscrew and replace every single bloody one of them to find the problem.
7. The toaster oven in this house where the on/off switch and the toast button are both broken, so we have to plug it in, then we broil the bread, then unplug it. Every single time.
8. The BASIC cable. Do you realize that I can no longer complete the TV Guide crossword? I don't even know who I am anymore.
9. The radio station that seems to only play songs by Bone Thugs-N-Harmony. Or artists that sound like Bone Thugs-N-Harmony.
10. The fact that I start another volunteer position tomorrow. I'm tutoring Grade 3 & 4 students in math. Yes, I said math. God help them.
E=MC... what now?
sbg
Volunteer Extraordineer
I'm typing this from the computer lab at Fanshawe college where I am waiting for Lori to get her school work so we can go to her house and do it. Anyone who knows Lori will not be surprised that:
a) she was supposed to do this BEFORE she came to get me
b) she said it was only going to take 15 minutes (45 minutes ago)
c) she doesn't know what she's doing
So I'm on the computer msn-ing with my 11-year-old cousin who told me, when I said I was still looking for a job, that she has one. That's really fantastic. Between my cousin and Jenny's boyfriend, all the jobs all over the world should be gone by next week. The good news is that my volunteer career is really starting to take off. I have so much volunteer work I don't even have time to get paid. If I was in Toronto, I would be living in a cardboard box by now. But on the plus side, I would be ALONE in that cardboard box.
Life with my parents continues to amaze me. I don't think that writing the conversations we have would even do them justice. It's a special blend of crazy and ridiculous that just doesn't translate into the written word. Just know that I've taken to smoking in the basement again. I think I'm actually helping them because if I wasn't picking up a cigarette, I might be picking up a blunt object.
Back to my cousin: apparently, she has a website too. I told her she should write a blog on her website and everyone could log on and read about her life. It seems like she has a lot more going on than me. She'll probably get married before me. I'll probably have to ask her to bear my children because my eggs will dry up while I'm waiting to be able to afford to have a baby.
Lori's finally ready to go do her homework. By tomorrow, I will be an expert on Salvador Dali. Maybe I can get a volunteer job at a museum or something.
I'm poor but I'm kind,
sbg
a) she was supposed to do this BEFORE she came to get me
b) she said it was only going to take 15 minutes (45 minutes ago)
c) she doesn't know what she's doing
So I'm on the computer msn-ing with my 11-year-old cousin who told me, when I said I was still looking for a job, that she has one. That's really fantastic. Between my cousin and Jenny's boyfriend, all the jobs all over the world should be gone by next week. The good news is that my volunteer career is really starting to take off. I have so much volunteer work I don't even have time to get paid. If I was in Toronto, I would be living in a cardboard box by now. But on the plus side, I would be ALONE in that cardboard box.
Life with my parents continues to amaze me. I don't think that writing the conversations we have would even do them justice. It's a special blend of crazy and ridiculous that just doesn't translate into the written word. Just know that I've taken to smoking in the basement again. I think I'm actually helping them because if I wasn't picking up a cigarette, I might be picking up a blunt object.
Back to my cousin: apparently, she has a website too. I told her she should write a blog on her website and everyone could log on and read about her life. It seems like she has a lot more going on than me. She'll probably get married before me. I'll probably have to ask her to bear my children because my eggs will dry up while I'm waiting to be able to afford to have a baby.
Lori's finally ready to go do her homework. By tomorrow, I will be an expert on Salvador Dali. Maybe I can get a volunteer job at a museum or something.
I'm poor but I'm kind,
sbg
the shower scene
On Saturday night the girls and I went to Robinson Hall, a club that boasts two of my favourite things about London: no cover and $4.50 drinks. Given that I'm still unemployed(!), drinks only seemed cheap for so long. After four gin & tonics (read: a half hour) I decided to use my considerable charm to score free drinks. Luckily, this club also had plenty of my third favourite thing about London: drunk white guys with cash. Needless to say, it wasn't long before I was sipping a beer. Then I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned around to see none other than my old shower pal from high school. A little older, surprisingly cuter, and strangely body-hair-less. Turns out he's a male model now. Here's the history: we were good friends in grade 9 and 10, and one day when he came over I suggested we take a shower together. To this day I'm not really sure why I said it, but it was a very illicit suggestion to two 15-year-olds, and it was fraught with a lot of heavy "necking" (that's for you, reen).
I was so excited to see him (read: drunk), threw my arms around him, and promptly forgot about the boy whose drink I took (much to his chagrin, but whatevs). We started talking and soon he brought up the shower, just as I knew he would. And then, just as I knew he would, he brought up the one thing that makes the shower far less illicit then you might think: I wore my bathing suit. Now, let me explain. I was a fifteen-year-old virgin. I was going to have a shower with a boy I had never even kissed. And my boyfriend had just broken up with me because I was "square". Need I say more?
I tried to justify it ("I looked hot in that bikini") and he laughed. I tried to rationalize it ("I let you take the top off!") and he agreed. Then I pulled my trump card ("Right after that you dissed me for Ang DiVincenzo"). And he bought me a drink.
And that my friends, is how we do it in the L-dot.
Charming my way into a nice buzz,
sbg
I was so excited to see him (read: drunk), threw my arms around him, and promptly forgot about the boy whose drink I took (much to his chagrin, but whatevs). We started talking and soon he brought up the shower, just as I knew he would. And then, just as I knew he would, he brought up the one thing that makes the shower far less illicit then you might think: I wore my bathing suit. Now, let me explain. I was a fifteen-year-old virgin. I was going to have a shower with a boy I had never even kissed. And my boyfriend had just broken up with me because I was "square". Need I say more?
I tried to justify it ("I looked hot in that bikini") and he laughed. I tried to rationalize it ("I let you take the top off!") and he agreed. Then I pulled my trump card ("Right after that you dissed me for Ang DiVincenzo"). And he bought me a drink.
And that my friends, is how we do it in the L-dot.
Charming my way into a nice buzz,
sbg
Electricity is a privilege, not a right
Ten years away from home made me forget a few of my parents' quirks regarding electricity and other privileges in this house. I had forgotten that in this house, we don't flush the toilet EVERY time (sorry Jenny, I know you hate my toilet talk). Apparently, flushing is a practice saved for "the deuce". Or if I'm in the living room and happen to wander upstairs for something, I may return to find that the television and/or lights have been shut off. It's the new 5-second rule: Leaving something "on" for any longer is just wasting power. And even if you think you're being frugal by turning an appliance off, what you really need to do is completely REMOVE the cord from the outlet. That's the ticket, folks. I knew I would find a get-rich-quick scheme somewhere if I moved back to London. Did anyone know how much electricity ironing uses? Ask my dad. From now on, I'm just going to lay my clothes underneath my mattress at night. Wake up and they're warm AND pressed.
But through all the adjustments, I had one thing that kept me sane--I could smoke in the basement. Maxine and I have many fond memories of lighting up in this house, and that alone made the move to London just a little bit easier. Until this morning:
MOTHER: I couldn't breathe last night with all that smoke.
ME: [frozen silence]
MOTHER: I think it's coming through the vents or something.
ME: [almost imperceptible nod]
MOTHER: I think I must be allergic to the duMaurier.
ME: [reluctantly] Well, I can smoke outside if you want.
MOTHER: Yeah okay, if you want.
Another parental quirk I forgot: It's not her idea, it's mine. Tricky mo'fo.
Chillin' by the (gasp!) portable heater,
sbg
But through all the adjustments, I had one thing that kept me sane--I could smoke in the basement. Maxine and I have many fond memories of lighting up in this house, and that alone made the move to London just a little bit easier. Until this morning:
MOTHER: I couldn't breathe last night with all that smoke.
ME: [frozen silence]
MOTHER: I think it's coming through the vents or something.
ME: [almost imperceptible nod]
MOTHER: I think I must be allergic to the duMaurier.
ME: [reluctantly] Well, I can smoke outside if you want.
MOTHER: Yeah okay, if you want.
Another parental quirk I forgot: It's not her idea, it's mine. Tricky mo'fo.
Chillin' by the (gasp!) portable heater,
sbg
