California Dreaming...on such a winter’s day

Winter arrives, S.A.D. sets in, I itch for an adventure. I am way too predictable.

-----

[on AIM]
Me: What’d you think of San Francisco?
Shannon: I loved it
Shannon: it’s beautiful
Shannon: a little windy
Shannon: but it really is a very beautiful city from what i remember, it was a while ago
Me: I'm going there
Shannon: when??
Me: maybe tomorrow
Me: interviews, you know
Shannon: oh haha cat ... are you leaving me again?

-----

It has always been a suppressed dream of mine to pick up and move out west. LA is too city – too much like New York. San Diego is too laid back – too many surfers doing nothing but partying. San Francisco… well San Fran’s much like Boston. Not that I’ve been there or anything.

But it was my dream destination, until I came home. Arriving back from France, I was relieved to melt into the country life of Mendon, being taken care of my family, catching up with old friends. I have nothing but debt. Living at home and finding a job in Boston – to which I could commute with my brother… and then go to the gym afterwards, which I was (surprisingly) almost looking forward to doing – would be the perfect opportunity to regroup, get back on my feet. I could do “that young professional thing” from the safety and comfort of my own home. And then, when I’m big & bad & 21, re-evaluate my life.

Unfortunately, it seemed the world had other plans for me. All the signs seemed to point to California since the day I arrived home. It was bizarre; no matter how many jobs I searched for in Boston, the best ones for me were all in San Francisco. I tediously searched craigslist for an affordable, dog friendly apartment, yet my only luck came when a friend called to invite me to be his new roomy – as of Dec. 1 – in his dog friendly, affordable apartment… in San Francisco. I said maybe, clinging on to that fading dream, but seriously pursued all local options. To this day, none have come through.

On the other hand, my application to my dream firm, which I will call "Company Anonymous", seemed to greased with fate, sliding down the fast track to success. Almost immediately after I sent my resume, a woman phoned me to say that she really was interested in me. I politely spoke with her, all the while thinking about the pricey plane ticket to California and how unlikely it would be that I even head out for an interview. That city’s just way too expensive; it’s not plausible. That is, until she told me she’d meet me here. Wherever I want. Whenever I want.

It was easiest for her to meet me the last week of November so I filled the days until then with local interviews. Most went well, some I’m confident will (eventually) lead to perfectly acceptable offers. Of course, none went as well as today’s. We just hit it off so well, this kind woman from San Francisco and I, and she was extremely enthusiastic about hiring me. The job she described sounded wonderful; an amazing opportunity that could start me on the career path in the firm and city of my dreams. If I wanted to, they could probably arrange for me to work from home or in the Boston office until I found an apartment out west. She even told me I’d be an excellent candidate for transfer to the Paris office in a few years. What more could I want?

And so suddenly I’m searching for that pricey plane ticket to Cali. Suddenly I’m devouring the pages of IKEA to see if I can actually afford a bed. Suddenly I’m taking my dear friend Kevin up on his offer of cheap board until I get on my feet. Suddenly I’m realized there’s a possibility I could be living in San Francisco before 2006.

I am an insomniac

and it sucks.


But at least while lying restlessly in bed I got to plan out my financial future and found these two really neat sites:

A Paycheck Calculator - to determine how muchcxz you'll actually bring home each check

Cost of Living Calculator - to determine how much you need to make in order to live happily in your dream city

Goooood morning!!!

I woke up far too early this morning and it felt like Christmas.

I couldn’t figure out why; maybe because I had been thinking about it yesterday afternoon. Maybe because Alex and I used to wake up ridiculously early to rush down the hall and see our beautiful Christmas tree standing proudly in the living room, surrounded by an uncountable amount of gifts. Maybe because I chose to sleep in my “Christmas pajamas” last night to save me from the cold (they’re big and red and fleece… don’t laugh!). Maybe it was because it is a holiday today. Or maybe because of reasons I would soon discover.

Since the rest of the house was sleeping, I occupied myself by playing a bit with Tequila and searching the internet for useless facts. While stumbling around to see when the next Harry Potter book comes out, I found myself on one of those online discussion forums. One particular posting caught my eye. It had nothing to do with Harry Potter – book or movie – but it was simply entitled: “OMG! It’s 7:14am here in Massachusetts and it’s snowing!!!” I checked the date beside the posting (maybe it was from last year?): November 24, 2005. I heard rumors of snow yesterday in western Mass, so I checked the date on my computer’s task bar: November 24, 2005. Really? It was snowing somewhere in Massachusetts just 45 minutes ago? Hmmmm… I wonder if it’s still snowing here…

And I dragged my fleecy self out from under the down comforter, pushed Tequila’s giant head aside, and crept cautiously to my window. Not expecting anything at all, I opened the blinds quickly. Boy, was I in for a surprise…


White EVERYWHERE! The sun reflected on the snow covered hills, literally blinding me! And through the thick gray haze, snowflakes fell toward the ground, adding further inches of white fluffiness to the already-burried landscape, shimmering with captured sunlight. It was beautiful.

Laughing out loud, I turned to my big, white dog from the south of France. “You ready girl?” her fur was so soft under my fingers; her sleepy eyes still blinking to wake up. “You’re about to see snow for the first time.”


That’s about when the little kid took over. Suddenly I was shoving my big winter boots over my bare feet, rushing into my parents’ room to wake them up, bursting into my brother’s room to get his camera (mine’s a little down & out at the moment). Less than five minutes later, Tequila, Cloey and I ran outside for a good morning romp around… me still in my pajamas.



Cloey, familiar with snow, didn’t seem so shocked. She tried to roll in it – as she always does, ran around a bit – snow seems to infuse excitement into living creatures, barked a lot – and I shuddered at the thought of what our neighbors might think.


Tequila, on the other hand, didn’t know what to make of it. She had a puppy crazy trying to figure it out, sprinting from one side of the yard to the other, trying desperately to play with Cloey who (rightfully so) is terrified of Tikki’s enormous size, strength and voice. It was adorable. I made snowballs to play fetch with, but Tequila couldn’t understand why the balls of white were disappearing in her mouth. I kicked snow up at her and she didn’t understand how to escape its rain. She kept trying to bite the snowflakes out of the sky, or even eat the ground.



Absolutely adorable.



Then I took my Christmas-card photo (or attempted to) with the girls and am currently waiting for a delicious breakfast of eggs & toast.


Happy Thanksgiving everyone!!!

Ladders, Bad Luck & *the dEviL*

I don’t consider myself an overly superstitious person, but I know that I am wary of these so-called “Old Wives’ Tales.” A black cat crossing your path can never be a good thing, spilling the salt should always be followed with an appropriate counter-measure, umbrellas ought to be opened outdoors only. However, I have broken a mirror within the past 7 years without consequently burying its pieces in the moonlight and I have not been plagued by bad luck. I also have put on a wedding gown before being engaged and still hope that someday I’ll be married. On the other hand, the only race Joyant didn’t win was the race I was invited to be on board, and we all blamed the loss on the bad luck women bring on boats.

One of the most infamous superstitions is that walking under a ladder brings nothing but bad luck. Due to my own personal past experiences, I’m now convinced that this is a load of shit. I’ve had nothing but good experiences after walking under ladders.

Of course, they say that walking under a ladder puts you in league with the devil, and maybe that’s my problem. Most people assume being in league with the devil brings you naught but bad things. What do they know? The devil is way more fun.

So maybe walking under a ladder without regret signs you up for some Faustian contract.

See, in late October Tony and I were walking around Martha’s Vineyard. Tony, being a boatman, is familiar in all sorts of superstitions and takes great care to avoid anything that may bring bad luck. We strolled down the shop-lined streets and, passing in front of a card store with toy sailboats on display, I stepped directly under a ladder… while someone was on top of it. The man on top looked down at me as I stood mid-motion below and I smiled back at him, literally pausing before my foot touched the ground.

In my head I thought of all the warning, of how much bad luck this was sure to bring. In that split second I seriously considered moving in reverse, directly changing my flow to put my foot back behind me and stop the passage through that sacred triangle.

But it was too late. I couldn’t stop my momentum. I walked directly under the ladder.

Tony screamed at me. I shuddered, told him I considered stopping mid-step. “You should have!!!” But I didn’t. So I smiled and shook my head, laughing it off without thinking too much about it. Later that day I found a much-needed $20 bill blowing around the parking lot. There was no one else around, no one I could even ask to see if someone had lost their money. I kept it. Maybe that was the devil – I gained from someone else’s loss.

Sucks to be them? Hey – it was only $20!

Today I had an interview at the bar down the street. I need cash and I think this will be a good way to get some. I dressed up nice and made my way there, carefully reviewing drink-recipes in my head. As I passed through the door inside and walked toward the second floor where interviews were being held, I noticed – again, halfway through – that I was passing below a ladder.

I couldn’t let it deter me, though. I puckered my lipsticked lips and marched up the stairs emanating attitude. They were generally excited to see me. “Catherine!” they shouted across the room, reaching out hands and spitting out kind greetings. I was flattered they remembered me.

I took a seat across from them and noticed on the application I filled out however many weeks ago, written in the same pen they used to make a note that day, the big word of “HIRE!” Apparently I already got the job.

Maybe working as a cocktail waitress/bartender and promoting drunkenness and flirting is also in league with the devil. But it sure is fun.

After asking me what position I’d like and explaining how there’s a test for bartenders, the manager said to me: “You know, a girl like you would be an amazing bartender.” In his eyes – and the chef’s as well – I knew what they were thinking. Personal. Friendly. Quick. Big boobs. Perfect!

I declined the offer (for now) after hearing that they’ll be staffing four or five bartenders at night. There’s nothing worse than working an over-staffed bar. But we’ll see how it goes – they told me I can start with whatever position I want and change around as I so please. Either way they were psyched to have me join their team, watched me strut out of the bar with looks of content on their faces, and apparently walking under a ladder does nothing but bring you good things… I just wonder at what cost.


*“I’d rather laugh with the sinners than cry with the saints; the sinner’s are much more fun!”

Fine, Yea, I'm a snot...

I’m sitting in Starbuck’s near my favorite place in Boston having my favorite (and only) Starbuck’s snack: caramel macchiato and a slice of pumpkin bread. These are just warm, autumn flavors that always seem to bring me to peace and after yet another interview, that’s exactly what I need.

It would be perfect if I either had some patience of these two girls weren’t sitting across from me.

They’re from Tufts, as I heard them boast earlier, and in sorority, as I gathered from the Greek letters smeared across everything they owned. And they talked like your stereotypical sorority girl, too many “like”s and “as if”s and “whatever”s and “Oh My Gods!”s.

So I don’t really like girls. That’s old news. But I can still (usually) tolerate their existence and understand that just because I don’t apply make-up 8 times a coffee or obsess about my hair or clothes or boys or gossip doesn’t mean they’re wrong. It’s just different. Just don’t be a stupid girl and talk about something I love and know something about – like books. Like these girls are.

They were doing fine just talking about their lives. But they eventually shifted to homework to classroom texts and then to novels for pleasure reading. (I was half-surprised they even knew how to read.) After a good five-minute rant on why Harry Potter sucks, the girl facing me swallowed a bit of non-fat drink and said, “You know what like bothers me like so much though?” I gathered it was a rhetorical question; there was no space in her breath for a reply. “When like I’m on the train or whatever with all these commuter and stuff and like I see an adult like coming home from work and reading Harry Potter or whatever. Like, that’s a kid’s book or whatever.”

She continued bashing the book series for another moment or two and then obviously caught my absolute look of disgust and shocked hilarity as I was staring at her from across the table. (I’m not very good at being subtle.) She stumbled over her words and finished with, “I mean, not like I’ve read them or anything so like maybe I don’t know or whatever…”

And her little friend, whose back was to me, did a perfect flick of her long blond hair and replied, “Yea, but it’s like not as bad as when like one of these adults reads like Lord of the Rings or something. I mean that’s a story for little boys only, you know!” and then quickly added, “Yea, not like I’ve bothered to read them either though, you know.”


Apparently they weren’t clued into the fact that the Lord of the Rings stems greatly from Tolkien’s experience in World War I. Or maybe they did and just thought war stories weren’t meant for grown-ups.


But even if these “grown-ups” are reading “kids’” books, what’s so wrong with that? As children, we were the most free-spirited, open-minded, and optimistic that we’ll ever be, always trying to make the best out of this world. Children’s books cater to these attitudes. They are inspirational and enlightening, like Le Petit Prince or The Alchemist. Every “adult” should read these works now and then simply as a refresher, a reminder that life is beautiful.

And what’s so wrong if an adult, overwhelmed by important decisions and unfathomable stress and the burdens of the “real world” chooses to escape, to take an hour break each day, and read something silly or creative on the commute home? What’s so bad if Harry Potter takes this businessman or –woman off into his fictional, fantasyland where magic sores away with one’s imagination?


I have never exercised such strength as I am now, keeping my mouth shut and listening to these two blabber on about books, butchering some of the best novels ever written.

Fallen Leaves... and broken backs

It was almost as if I could forget the rest of the world was going on.

For one afternoon, for a couple of hours of back-breaking work, time was irrelevant. It might as well have not existed for the past six years. I totally forgot the job search, the unpaid bills, the cruelness of the real world and just enjoyed the not-so-fun chores warm weekend days require. It was the same for Alex; we both thought of nothing but the task before us. The same task we’d seen before. This afternoon I didn’t care about quelching my thirst for a new adventure; I cared only about getting all those damn leaves off the grass before the snow came.


So that’s what we did.


Alex and I woke up to the bellowing voice of my father screaming up that pancakes were ready. So, awake or not, we hurried downstairs to get our fill of bacon, sausage, fresh-pressed orange juice, and breakfast goodies. My dad was clearly buttering us up.

Mouth full of toast, smeared newspaper in hand, he broke the news: “I’m really going to need your help raking today.”

We responded with groans and the rolling of eyes.

Truth is, raking in this house is nothing like in our old neighborhood where we had two acres of forest-surrounded lawn to protect. But it doesn’t matter. It sucks. Raking and hauling leaves up and down our hilly driveway is painful and tedious work we’ve been putting off for weeks. Last weekend was the Pat’s game. The weekend before it was nice enough to golf. No excuses this time around.


But it’s got to be done. And watching the dogs frolic in wind-blown leaves, I thought of nothing else but how sore my muscles were and that this is what my family does every fall. This is what it’s like to have all four of us together again with two dogs, just as it was each autumn growing up. This is the same chore my brother and I hated late each fall, just as shoveling is the dreaded duty all winter. Since the last time the four of us woke up one weekend to rake, Alex and I have both graduated high school, successfully completed college, had and lost relationships, ventured off for unknown adventures, and gained several inches and pounds.

And then we gave in to nostalgia and took the dogs to our old neighborhood for a romp around with whatever other dogs happened to be out to play.

We may have grown up… but some things just never change.

Welcome to the Rat Race

There’s a stop on the red line in Boston’s intricate subway network that offers a glimpse of class divide.

“Downtown Crossing” to most is just another rutty station on the T. Exiting the subway car, the smells are the same. It reeks of urine and vomit, old newspapers, damp floors, freezing cold. Homeless sleep off booze on the benches using the Globe as a pillow, commuters are lost in their own world, passing each other without any acknowledgement, tiny white earphones screaming music into their brains. Like all the other underground stops, there are a dozen different ways out. Staircases climb up from the belly of the city and spit you out onto a myriad of corners in the beautiful streets of quaint downtown Boston, leaving you to walk to the block or so to wherever you may be going.

But there’s one that’s different, one that’s reserved. Along the nondescript gray tunnel walls of the subway station, between two MBTA staircases to the real world, there is a gold-rimmed glass door. Only businessmen and women can pass. Or should pass I ought to say; there’s no guard monitoring the situation, just an unwritten rule of respect. Decked out in my suit and perfectly styled hair, I thought I could pass through. Take the more refined transformation from underground into city.

Because that’s exactly what it is – a transformation. A purging process. After being pushed and wrestled, shoved up against perfect (and filthy) strangers in the subways, after experiencing the dreaded morning commute full of frustration and rage, the businessmen and women pass through those doors and enter their world. Corporate class, business-like serenity.

This portal from the subway to street level has no staircase. It has a beautifully cleaned escalator with shiny gold handrails. This portal lacks the muck-covered gray floors. It’s carpeted in a lush maroon oriental design. The walls are not smeared with God-knows-what, they’re aesthetically pleasing in coordinating designs of marble. The escalator leads not into the mean, cold streets of Boston, but instead to the luxurious lobby of one of the city’s finest office buildings.

This is the stop where the white-collar workers file respectably into their offices so they can run the world, leaving the bustling working-class to push and shove until their own demise, on their way to their mediocre-paying jobs where they do the dirty work for the higher-ups.

It reminds me of the all-boys private high school Johnnie’s I once knew, whose favorite taunt during athletic events was, “It’s alright, it’s ok, you’ll all work for us someday!” And they believed it. Of course, I knew even then that they were right. They’d go on to have amazing futures full of opportunities while their public-school rivals would be left to make a life with the options given to them.

It reminds me so much of the Ivy League snots who now have amazing jobs at the top of their company, at the ripe old age of 23. Who will never know what it’s like to work hard and worry that it still might not be enough.

It reminds me of the corporate lawyers and investment bankers, selling their lives to their firms in exchange for so much money they’ll never have any clue how to spend it. I once had a friend who told me banking, especially with real estate, was like playing real-life Monopoly.

Looking around that marble escalator climbing into the heaven of office buildings, I realized that that’s how all of these people think.

These are the prep-school students turned into Ivy League grads. They are the best of the best, graduating at the top of whatever college institution they attended. They are the ones who own our world, who make us the armless plastic toys inserted into tiny pegged cars while playing their giant game of Life.

Dressed in my suit on my way to a skyscraper office building down the street for an interview, I wondered if I too was going to turn myself into a corporate slut.

And then I wondered if that’s such a bad thing?

Boston

Been interviewing in town quite a bit... four different PR firms, only one of which I'm actually intersted in. Intriguing possibilities in Cambridge. It's cold, but Boston is still quite beautiful:

The Story of the Pineapples

Not too long ago I learned of this charming story. Call me ignorant or oblivious or whatever, but prior to hearing it, I had no idea that pineapples are a common symbol of hospitality and welcoming. Of course now that I know it is and I even know the history behind it, I see them everywhere a sign of welcoming ought to be. Maybe after this, you will too.


In wealthy homes – especially in the Newport mansions of the Gilded Age – dramatic social events dominated the culture and life was a competition for who could through the most extravagant party. The more money spent, the better – and each hostess wanted all of her guests to know that she spared no expense. Visitors would wait impatiently behind closed doors until the tables were set and the house properly decorated in a way best designed to boast affluence. And what better way to show of wealth and hospitality than topping all the food displays with the most exotic fruit of the time – a pineapple?

But the story does not end there. Newport is also a marina-town. They thrive on boats; boat building, Navy bases, fishing, sailors. During these crazy days of Gilded Age parties and exorbitant mansions, men would take to the sea for ages at a time. Women were left to spend their husbands’ money entertaining all by themselves. When the boys finally did come back, they were sure to bring back gifts from abroad – especially amazing, expensive, outlandish pineapples. A Newport woman, upon welcoming her man home, would put a single pineapple on the front stoop to tell the world that the house was full again. Then, after having some *private time*, she would place a second pineapple on the stairs to say, “He’s home! Come over and visit! Welcome!”

Seriously, keep an eye out for pineapples. They’re everywhere. Little fruits of welcoming hospitality, reaching out to invite you in. And now you know why.


I love little ridiculous bits of trivia.

Merde - n.- shit

I love Barnes & Noble – not because I’m huge into reading or anything… but because I’m big into knickknacks. And that store has so much stuff. Greeting cards, photo albums, board games, those cool little mini-kits and boxes of fun, and my favorite – empty journals. To me there’s something so beautiful, so inviting, about a blank page. My favorite is the leather ones; they even smell like writing. Every time I go I spend forever running my fingers over suede, leather, cardboard journals, wondering what adventures I could put inside of them, suddenly inspired to write my own book on those perfectly straight empty lines.

I also do love books. Since my experience of doing nothing in France, I’ve become an avid reader – breezing through novel after novel, bent on filling my brain with the intellect and/or hilarity of others. Kurt Vonnegut will always be my favorite author, but Harry Potter was fun to read – and Calvino and Sartre are defiantly intriguing. But that’s all beside the point.

While visiting a friend in Amherst, I spent a considerable amount of time browsing the Travel section of her local Barnes & Nobles. I had recently returned from France and I missed it. The books before me were shocking. Truth is, tons of people do what I did – pick up and go, make a life for themselves from scratch in other countries they have no clue about. Flipping through the pages of that section, I realized many move to France and loads specifically lost (and found) themselves in Provence, including all the tiny towns surrounding my Ramatuelle. As I sampled the pages of these novels I realized that these people wrote my book. My story is just like these.

Being a Gemini I quickly delved into two contradictory thoughts. First: these people wrote and published my story, which clearly means that I could easily compose my own version and it would sell too. Second: these people wrote and published my story, which clearly means that they beat me to it and therefore took up the market for books about young, foolish people moving to another part of the world. So what did I do? I bought one. The book I chose, A Year in the Merde, was written by a young man who moved to Paris and had to endure all the crazy stereotypes of the French that are, in fact, quite true. His first few pages caused me to literally laugh out loud right there in the middle of the store. I think my writing style is alike his… and he sold his story…

I bought a bookmark to match (a nice golden one with Emerson’s quote, “Make the most of yourself, for that is all there is of you” inlaid in white) and jumped in. Of course, I’m now through chapter two and beginning to learn – through his eyes – what Paris is like in late November. The book’s really not that good. But it does take me back to a place I once was, not too long ago…


(sigh)

One Month Later

I've been back in this country for exactly one month and that calls for a moment of reflection.

Life is so different here, the culture so much less appealing than the Meditteranean, and yet I've been completely sucked back into the rat race and the American way of life. It's not the end of the world; I'm happy here. I was happy there, too.

I miss France.

desire

Last night I watched the bronzed and barefoot Bridgette Bardot in "And God Created Women" parade around the beautiful landscape and village of St. Tropez. I watched her sensual self lie out on Pamplonne, watched her dance on the table in the most seductive and sinful scene of that era, watched the camera pan away from the lustfull beach scenes and instead focus upon Cap Camarat and my lighthouse and my summer residence of le Chene en Croix.

It made me miss France.

So in protest of living in New England instead of the Cote d'Azure, today I ignored the cold wet weather and wore flip flops outside all day long. (And just take a minute to laugh at the name of those wishlisted shoes ; )

The Story of the Pens

I know my family's eccentric. We have little quirks and traditions that are totally lovable and adorable and endearing, but they're unusual none-the-less. One family tradition revolves around luxury pens.

Usually my mother or some member of the family presents a pen to another as a sign of congratulations: My father received a nice one for his last promotion years ago and then another when he got a new job; my brother received one when he entered his co-op and then was upgraded to a nicer one when he started his current job. Entry level positions deserve a respectably decent pen; senior level's require something super nice -- like the expensive Mont Blancs. You may think it's ridiculous to pay that much for a pen - something you doodle with - and you're mostly right... but with us it's a symbol of status -- like loafers. You can't wear leather loafers with little tassels into the office unless you command a certain amount of respect, boast a certain amount of influence. I'm not sure if everyone still pays attention to these kinds of details, but we do. Anyways -- despite all of my internships, my past employment in a PR firm, my field which focuses upon WRITING -- I have never received a pen. Ever.

So being the bratty youngest child that I am, I threw a little fit (all in jest, of course) at dinner the other night. Jokingly I argued that I'm obviously the unwanted child and this was just another example. We laughed about it, my parents asked if I wanted one for Christmas and I told them no -- I don't have a job nor is it something that should be prompted. Giving a gift of a pen is a way to say, "I'm proud of you" -- you can't ask for it. It would take all those warm fuzzy feelings away. But that was the end of it and I totally forgot about the whole discussion... for a few days, at least.

I was recently "hired" by the Professional Staffing Group. It's obviously not my dream job, but it's going to help me find a job and in the meantime I'll be doing some shitty office work/intern-like-stuff to earn a pay check. I left the interview psyched to have a job, health insurance, something to do. I called my whole family to spread the good news: "I'm going to be someone's office bitch for awhile." Sitting down for a late, long chinese dinner, my brother approached me with a little gift bag. "I got you a pen suited for the job you got."

My brother is such a nice guy.

I was so happy, so thankful. How sweet of him to remember and to think of me like this! He was proud of his little sister! I tore the bag apart, smiling ear to ear, waiting in anxious anticipation to see what status symbol he deemed me worthy to receive, and there -- at the bottom of the bag -- lay a white plastic BIC ball point pen.

My brother is also a dick.

The Solution to Unemployment

I’m sick of being unemployed. I’m feeling a sinus infections coming up – and that can’t be solved without health insurance. So I spent all this week throwing myself at corporations, submitting my resume to every possible search engine I could think of, calling up ancient contacts to improve networking possibilities. Nothing. Until today.

I went into Boston to visit PSG – the Professional Staffing Group – feeling quite ambiguous. Staffing groups throw you into whatever job they can find so they can collect their finders fee without caring what you’re interested in or what kind of job you’d be most happy in. That’s the stereotype. In reality, they’re quite different – or at least this one is.

I began with a ridiculous test to measure my WPMs and computer knowledge. Next came the interview, which went very well. Before I knew it, people were offering me job leads and interviews from all over the place, in all fields. PR department at Mass General Hospital. HR in some huge financial firm. General office work all over the place. I’m impressed. They promise not to rest until they’ve found my perfect job in the Boston area.

In the meantime I’ve settled on a fulltime, health-insurance-included opportunity through PSG called the Guaranteed Work Program. Basically I show up at their office every morning at 8am. From there, they’ll put me in some temp work at various offices all over the city until I find a company in which I am happy and they are also happy with me. Some days I can simply stay at PSG’s office and work on the job search on my own. All the while, people will be seeking for a match for me and my skills.

I was impressed. They’re offering me a steady paycheck and health insurance until my dream job shows up and they’re not going to charge me a thing for any of it. Granted I’ll be doing a lot of crappy office work too, but isn’t that expected from any entry-level job? They work with some really impressive firms in all industries, especially within the healthcare and financial sectors. I recommend something like this to anyone seeking a job – absolutely anyone. I asked them if they help find work with people with a master’s degree.

“Are you kidding?” my second recruiter laughed. “We help people who barely have a GED – or not even – up to people with doctorates.”

Hotness.

Welcome IKEA!

The golden pendulum of our grandfather clock has hardly finished chiming 9 p.m. and I'm snuggled in my pajamas, crawling into bed. My parents are shocked. It's awfully early for me to call it a night. But I have big plans tomorrow. IKEA’s opening.

There is something fantastic about that big blue box, something so amazing about that Swedish store that lures people in and transforms them into fanatics. I know; I’m one of those people – and all I did was PR for them! It’s more than a furniture store; it’s fun within a building that sells you – ridiculously inexpensively – absolutely anything you could ever need for your home. They make shopping a desirable experience. And they bring you attainable products by cutting corners without cutting quality – by flat packing all their goods to save on shipping and storage, therefore saving you money as well. It’s a great idea.

And I’m not the only one to think so. My mother and I watched the news to discover to her shock – though I completely expected it – that there will be over 30,000 people the tomorrow. Stoughton is practically in a state of emergency anticipating the pilgrimage; strict rules are being enforced, officers from all over are being imported to help with security and traffic flow, roads are being closed down, rerouted, freshly opened. People are even camping out in the parking lot as we speak, waiting for the doors to open.

“Who the hell camps out in this weather for a stupid furniture store?”

“See Mom,” I replied, turning the volume up, “that’s where you’re problem is. You’ll never understand if you continue to think of it as just a furniture store.”

Now I’ll slip off to sleep… passing the night with big blue & yellow dreams. Up and early and out, off on my own pilgrimage to IKEA.

Entry-Level & Over-qualified

They laughed at me. Seriously, just laughed. I went to LNT for my second interview and was shocked at the experience.

I know I don’t want to work there. I know I’m better suited for an enviroment full of intellectually stimulating people where motivation and ambition flourish and my passion for PR will be nourished. Linen’s and Things – as fun of a store as it may be – is not that kind of environment. But I need something and it’d be good enough for now. Except as good at BSing as I may be, the manager knew those were my thoughts exactly. This would be a job for right now and I have no intention of making it last.

I hurried up to wait. They sat me in the office until someone could interview me; the store manager tending to all sorts of disasters, asking the other assistant manager (not the one I met with just the other day) to conduct my second interview. He took me into the back room, introduced himself, slipped on his glasses and began to read through my resume – the one catered to customer service jobs.

He swallowed audibly. “I can’t interview you.” He sounded ashamed.

“What?!” After waiting a half hour already for a shit, seasonal job, I wanted to be asked my little questions and be on my way. “Why not?”

“Because…” he put my resume down and stared at me over the rims of his wire-rimmed glasses. “You’re more qualified than I am.”

I blushed.

“Seriously, with your college degree and this kind of experience… well, we ought to hire you as an assistant manager – which is what I am and so I can’t interview you. You’re way too overqualified to be an associate. I’m sorry. I’ll go get the manager.”

I went back to waiting.

She came in an explosion of papers, frantic with other – in her mind more important – things that she’d clearly rather be doing. But she was nice enough to sit down and read through my resume aloud, asking about all of my different experiences. When we had both reached the bottom of my one-paged piece of my life, she looked me in the eyes: “And you want to work in retail… why?”

The question to which I had no answer.

But I’m in PR – I think quick. “Well, I hear what a wonderful company LNT is to work for and I know that even if I started here in a lower-management position, there’s plenty of room to grow.” I smiled innocently, unable to tell if she was buying it or not. “Plus, (and then I lied:) I don’t know what I want to do (but I really do) and I love home decorating and remodeling and I think this is a fantastic store.”

She carefully considered my answer and we talked some more. I did well; interviews always seem pretty easy to me. “I’ll talk to my coworkers and get back to you next week.” Her cold, hard eyes bore into my soul, studying my intentions deeply. “We’re looking for a merchandise manager, which is slightly lower than an assistant manager, and we want him or her to be around for a long time.” Clearly she didn’t think I met either of those requirements. “But there is room to grow and you could have a future with this company.” I knew that wasn’t true. “I’ll get back to you next week.” We’ll see.

When all else fails…

I have a degree from one of the best schools in my field. I have impressive experience. I have a solid GPA, a talent for communications, an impressive resume. But I can’t find a job for the life of me.

Three weeks after returning from France, I’m sick of doing nothing without a job – especially now that my summer photo album is full and my bedroom redone. Mendon doesn’t offer a lot for employment – there are no PR or marketing firms nor any upscale restaurants where I could earn a decent wage. Desperate times call for desperate measures. I thought back to when I lived at home in high school; I wasted one miserable winter season working at the Gap in Bellingham, 20 minutes away, and the best part about it was that EVERYONE in my family got Gap gifts for Christmas. I’d never do that again… but there are other opportunities there.

Linens and Things is hiring. I marched in with my “customer service” resume and application, landed an interview. Of course, as I returned to the store to meet with the manager, my insides cringed. Me? Work at LNT? Retail again? After a B.S. and tons of experiences? I couldn’t bear the thought. Reminding myself how much I needed a job – any job – was all that got me into that office… 10 minutes late.

The interview went fine. The entire time I was slightly panicked (not severely – for what do I care if she laughs me out of the interview for not being prepared?) that she’d ask me why I wanted to work at LNT. Truth is, I didn’t. So what would I say?

Luckily, the question never came up. And as I prepared to leave, she startled me with an opportunity I couldn’t deny considering: “We’re actually looking for managers right now too; maybe you’d prefer a management position instead of an on-the-floor associate?”

Ok, so being a manager at LNT isn’t exactly my ideal first job out of college. But with hundreds of dollars monthly in student loans, who can turn it down?

Me. I’m a snot. I said I’d think about it, meet with the regional manager Saturday. In the meantime – there’s an upscale bar going in right down the street.

So I stopped in. Walked in with attitude and my “hospitality” resume – deeply lined eyes and dark lipstick. I play the part of bartender well. Apparently, the managers thought so too. They were tasting wine and loved my recommendations and we had a laugh talking about Europe and Boston – and how Mendon is nothing in comparison. Then I met the chef.

Turns out he’s good friends with Pino, my old boss and friend at Restaurant L. It was fun to reminisce about that crazy character, tease about Boston restaurants and dream about how amazing this place will be – with an 80 foot dark wooden bar, swanky leather chairs, 12 high-class billiards tables. This are is in desperate need for a bar/restaurant like this. “I’m excited for you to work with us here,” he said.

“Me too.”

They don’t open until November, but at least I’ve got some options… so don’t worry guys, you’ll still get Christmas presents. ; )

And I’m almost employed again! Yea!


Got to get ready for my French discussion tonight... can't wait to speak it again