Strongly Worded

So this retail thing ...

OK, now I have really been initiated as a Houseware Heaven employee. I worked a full day Saturday, 9-5:30. My whole body hurts.

The highlights:

• I felt somewhat useful. Among other retail triumphs, I hooked two different guys up with suitable canisters (one ended up with a big bad "Brio 18 oz", and the other with a 4-oz set of "Daisy 4 oz" cuties).
• I restocked some things. I am still horrified by the stock room, but I can navigate a tiny bit better than last week.
• I "mastered" the register. So if you want a gift card, I can hook you up. Want to pay cash? Bring it on. Does a check suit you better? I can do that too. For returns I need to have a manager--that's the rule.

The lowlights:

• For 8.5 hours of pretty hard work, I will be paid roughly the same amount as I would for two hours at my "real" job (sitting on my ass at my computer).
• At HH you don't get paid for lunch or breaks.
• Because the service concept is so extraordinarily customer-oriented, the managers really frown upon standing at or near the register. So the job entails pacing around the (relatively small) floor with two other associates, "greeting" customers without stalking them. This is hard.
  
• The managers tend to descend upon you the second that you lean against the counter or (gasp!), or use the wrong-sized wrapping paper for a package.
• One of the two girls I was working with was MEAN. "Anne" and "Beth" were all chatty-chatty talking, and actively excluding me (the kind of thing I haven't experienced since middle school--two people talking with their backs against the third person, actively resisting her participation in the conversation). I felt AWFUL. I had crying instincts. I thought: what did I do? Am I uncool in general? Did I break some unwritten rule of HH conduct? Am I not pulling my weight? Am I pulling too much weight and making them look bad? Why am I doing this when I could have a relaxing Saturday--and sitting down-- in the company of people who actually like me? Then I noticed that Beth was surly to customers, too. She did not do her greeting very nicely either. Nor did she stock one single product. So I realized that she was being mean to me. She is either just a mean person always, or having a horrible day. Phew.
• The management is all managerial. As I may have mentioned about sixteen billion times on this blog, in my "real" life, my job title is director. Oh, right, and I have an MBA, which included a course on operations. So I could tell these managers a thing or two about the hard-core bottlenecks in HH's stocking process. Bottom line: I do not take so kindly to all this "manager approval" stuff, or their unexpected floor monitoring, or to their lunch assignments. Associates have to wait until the manager declares it lunchtime (at fucking 1:30 or 2:00), and then (s)he decides who goes when.
  

I have not bought any housewares yet, other than a jar of olive tapenade, which, even with my employee discount, cost $5.25. My mom told me on the phone last night that a comparable product is sold at Trader Joe's for about $4 (which I never bought in the past because I considered it pricey).

There is some sick thing about the employee discount that makes it harder to spend money than it would otherwise. If I were not working at HH, I would have, while just randomly browsing as a non-employee, bought several of the peppy colorful cutting boards they're selling, as well as the slate cheese plate with the matching spreaders. But since I work there, even though I can get these things at 30% off, I still consider them in terms of hours worked at this job, not in terms of my general "real" salary. Is a cutting board worth a hellish hour in the stockroom? Should I spend my three hours of meager earnings on slate cheese plate when I already have two wooden ones?

Who knew cheese plates could be a source of existential angst?

Posted by Dori at 7:56 AM 0 comments

Visions of Placements Dancing in My Head

So I survived my official first night at Houseware Heaven. Having watched the training videos, and completed a whirlwind tour of the four-story store, I was ready to start working alongside my "buddy" (a very, very patient employee who taught me an incredible amount in four hours). Best part: I got my own adorable apron and an official nametag!

I was proud that I helped two different couples find errant napkins, placated an irate woman looking for discontinued candles, wrapped and boxed a whole bunch of "merch" (HH-speak for "merchandise"), and tried to fathom that someday I may know where to find things, since the store has EIGHT stock rooms, the contents of which do not necessarily correspond to the floor that they're on. So for example, if you're working the "mez" (that's HH-speak for "mezzanine floor"), and someone wants three pillows in goldenrod, the goldenrod pillows may be in either of the two "mez" stockrooms, or they may also be stocked two floors down, in "basics." There is just no way to know. Even within a stockroom, there is no logical ordering of "product", which is enraging, because the "Stellar" candlesticks may or may not be on the same shelf as the "Stellar" chargers.

Once the store is closed, the sales associates comb through each floor and count the number of items that need to be restocked, (two "Stellar" candlesticks, four "8-oz Derby high-ball glasses" and so on) . Then they somehow go to the relevant stockrooms, find all the items among the millions of boxes of randomly organized merch, and then they go back to the floor and put all the items where they belong. Everyone was zipping around with their high-balls and napkin rings and I was wandering around, calling hopefully: "Carafe? Are there any "whimsy" carafes anywhere? Anywhere?" I was so deeply ashamed when I had to leave a whole list of things for the morning people to find.

This sucked SO MUCH. I hate finding and putting away stuff in my own home, where I generally know where things are and where they go. This is by far the most hellish task at Houseware Heaven.

I was completely exhausted when I got home, and spent the night dreaming about the "Vibrant" placemats.

Posted by Dori at 10:00 AM 0 comments

Smooth Moves

As I'm sure you've noticed, it is moving season in Greater Boston. It is the end of August, when, every year, an unsettled, transitory feeling pervades the city. On trash day, the sidewalks are crowded with cast-off furnishings, with things culled during the relocation process. You can troll through the streets, noticing the stained futons, rusted bathroom shelving, the other vestiges of former lives. Two of my friends are now in the throes of relocation, reminding me of last year, when I personally experienced the Great Migration of September First.

Last year, I reserved a U-Haul and learned that moving inspires a kind of war-story mentality. Friends and acquaintances described hard rain and back injury, squandered security deposits, and renters’ remorse. In particular, they discussed the horrors of U-Haul. I knew too many people who arrived at 6 a.m. on the day of their reservation, only to encounter a snaking queue and a dearth of vans.

Because of this, I cancelled my U-Haul reservation in favor of a 24-hour van rental. This meant compromising size in favor of certainty and time. I committed to moving all my earthly possessions in a vehicle National Car Rental described as a “Pontiac Montana or Similar.” I was terrified that “similar” would mean small or ill-equipped, or that the seats wouldn’t come out as indicated on the Pontiac Montana website. I was terrified that my bed wouldn’t fit inside, and that I would have to use the 8-foot bungee cords I bought at EMS just in case this happened. I was terrified that I would have to make multiple trips to the new apartment, and ask my brother to guard my possessions, cast out on the curb by the new tenants.

A week before the move, Mariko, my landlady called me, asking when exactly I was moving out. I replied “September first.” She knew this, because it was written into the lease, and we had discussed it earlier in the summer. Mariko asked whether the new tenants, who were evidently “really nice boys”, could possibly move in on August 31st. I said no.

Mariko played the “midnight on the 31st” card. “Technically,” she said in an imperious tone, “you have to be out of there by midnight on the 31st. So you’ll really be in their space. You’ve really got to be flexible about this.” This was a particularly enraging argument, because I definitely did not choose to move on the day the entire metro Boston housing stock changes hands, but my new apartment was occupied as well.

And yet Mariko had $785 of my money that I really wanted back, so we established that the “really nice boys” could move in some of their things and not their selves on the 31st. Satisfied, Mariko turned to the moving details. She told me to leave the keys on the kitchen counter on moving day, along with my forwarding address, for the return of my security deposit.

Is that it? I wondered. I’d spent four years in the apartment—and over $33,000 on rent—and she wanted me to leave the key on the counter? To slink out by dawn? To just disappear?

I realized I needed more closure than that. While I never had anything resembling a close relationship with Mariko, my apartment on Willow St. was my home during four very transformative years. During my occupancy, I lived with five different roommates, acquired three sets of dishes and as many sets of new friends, fell in love twice, held three different jobs, completed a master’s degree, and overcame a constellation of health issues. The apartment itself had transformed, too. The scratched linoleum kitchen floor was replaced by bright parquet. The sagging porch was restored to splendor. Brand new appliances were installed in the kitchen. And the bedroom, the bathroom, and the trim on the stairs were all painted (by me).

But as I was leaving, all was in chaos. I was cleaning and sorting through generations of occupancy. I unearthed things: frozen peas slated to expire in 1998, seven corkscrews, a malfunctioning VCR, four different containers of sage.

On the night before the move, I slept badly in my naked bedroom. Everything was packed, including the sheets, so I slept on the bare mattress. I awoke early, feeling nervous and emotional. Both coffee and cups had been packed, and no breakfast remained, either, so I drank water, ate a mozzarella stick, and proceeded to bring boxes down to the first floor.

Soon, my then-boyfriend (and obliging moving partner), D., arrived with the van (which I was too afraid to drive). We couldn’t figure out how to remove the seats or even fold them down (great job, informative Pontiac website). But we soldiered on. We started with the mattress, which seemed relatively light and pliable, but which buckled and slithered as we wedged it through the narrow doorways, down the three flights of winding stairs. I lost my grip on the last flight, and the weight of the mattress, and the height of the steps, and the sudden loss of control knocked D. over. He was fine, but I lost it, and started crying from frustration, exhaustion, and panic.

D. ushered me into the van, soothing me until I regained control. And then we proceeded to fit a surprising amount into the vehicle, remarking on each one of the eight trips how beautiful the new apartment looked, how easy it was to move into the first floor.

Once it was finished, I returned to the old place and left the key on the counter as promised. I welcomed the new “nice” boys who were moving in with their adorable dog. D. and I drove back to my new home. It looked huge, inviting: each room an opportunity. We collapsed on the couch, amidst the boxes, and somehow extracted two plastic cups from one of them. We toasted the new place with plastic cups full of warm orange juice.

“Cheers,” D. said, “We did it. Welcome home!” And I started to cry again. It was finally over.

Before I moved, I worried that I’d wake up the first morning and feel disoriented, not knowing where I was. But from the very beginning, I loved my new place. There are some very aggravating aspects: the lack of counter space in the kitchen, the strange placement of the electrical outlets, the total absence of storage. And, even after a year, I am still not used to the fishbowl feeling of living on the first floor.

But the new place has a medicine cabinet—no more perching toiletries on the edge of the pedestal sink. And it has cute tiles and shining new floors. AND: all the space—and the food— in the refrigerator is MINE. I can buy large quantities of groceries, two different kinds of juice, if I want, and there’s room for it! I can stock up on 32-packs of waffles. I do not have to contend with roommates’ moldy leftovers, their banging in the bathroom, their boyfriends, their dishes in the sink. I revel in the act of watching trash on television—at any hour—without feeling in the least bit apologetic or defensive. I revel in the unlimited access to the bathroom, the kitchen, and the living room. I revel in the order, the cleanliness, the quiet.

Still, I haven’t abandoned my roots. I pass by the old apartment frequently; I point it out to new friends and acquaintances. When the house is lit in the evening, I can faintly see the reconfiguration of the living room; the new blinds on the windows of my old bedroom. I may have left my keys on the counter of “my old house on Willow St.”, but the space will always hold a place in my heart.

Posted by Dori at 9:53 PM 0 comments

So you think you know what shrinkage is?

You will be pleased to learn that yesterday was my first day at Houseware Heaven. You will also be pleased to know that I spoke too soon when I ranted about their low pay. The base pay is actually $7.50 (a full 25 cents more than I thought!). And "commission" is actually 1% of the day's sales, prorated by the length of the shift. Apparently this adds up.

The commission is a "team incentive". Unlike that annoying tactic they use at Express (and elsewhere) where they ask you at the register if anyone helped you during your shopping. And then you look around and try to remember which skinny/sluttily-attired staff member slung ill-fitting clothes over your dressing room door. When it's a woman of color, or a curvy woman, you feel fascist for saying "the black woman" or "the fat woman", so you try to remember her name and then default to describing her dress: "ummm ... she's the one with the pink tube top and the stilletos ..."

But I digress.

During my first day I filled out lots of paperwork, and then I watched four training videos. The first one was a mandatory safety presentation, which gave illuminating instructions like: "if you're carrying a box down the stairs, and you can't see the steps, you should reposition the box or ask for help." The video also stressed the importance of reporting on-the-job injuries. It showed footage of a pony-tailed employee falling off a stepladder and unconvincingly writhing in pain while calling for help. At which point her co-worker (representing the company's commitment to diversity) saves the day, and then they both debrief with the kindly HR director. There must be some production company somewhere that specializes in these videos, they must offer a template storyline, and then the content is adapted for the venue (plane safety spiel, store training, Red Cross intro, etc.)

The other videos included "Passion for Product" and "Commitment to Customers". I didn't get to "Wrapping: Quick and Neat" (I'm guessing it's reserved for the holiday season). Nor did I get to watch "Glassware for Fall 2005", but all the videos are available in the breakroom, so there's still time.

The employee manual was also very informative. I learned that "shrinkage" is a retail term for the difference between the merchandise that a store stocks and the merchandise that is actually sold. "Shrinkage" is a result of "internal loss" (employee theft) and "external loss" (shoplifting). It also accounts for breakage of items (I'm not clear whether that is internal or external).

Anyway. I officially start next week, and am going to learn the cash register and practice working on the floor. I'm not exactly sure what I will do "on the floor", since I don't know anything about Fall 2005 Glassware or any of the other "product", (they say "product" in the singular).

I will keep you all posted.

Posted by Dori at 8:19 AM

Supreme Irony

As you may recall, my former boyfriend would be an ideal candidate for Queer Eye for the Straight Guy. I used to actively wish for this: if only Carson could get him to stop tucking in his T-shirts; if only Thom could arrange his succulent apartment such that it would reflect a living being; if only Ted could convince him to cook/eat on a more regular basis; if only Jai could persuade him to actually pursue one of the hobbies he always talks about.

Alas, Queer Eye is only for people in New York, and (for many, many other reasons) my fantasy was just that.

However, if you recall my non-boyfriend, the Reality Show Contestant With Whom I Went Out on One Date? Well, he appeared on Queer Eye last night! And shed his overgrown bangs! And lost his polyester outfits!

The gods are cackling.

Posted by Dori at 8:09 AM 1 comments

Nickels, Dimes, and Place Settings

You'll be delighted to know that I was offered a job at "Houseware Heaven". I found the perky message on my machine last night.

Can you guess how much they pay?

Maybe $12 an hour, given that it's a pretty high-end store, and people have to have some knowledge and resourcefulness to the work there? (Apparently, customers routinely ask whether the furniture is made of new- or old-growth wood, and they come in just to see the pitcher designed exclusively for the store by an octogenarian sculptress.)

Or maybe they pay $10 an hour, since it's retail work, after all?

Not even. A HH sales associate gets $7.25 per hour, plus commission, and, I'm assuming, an employee discount.

Even though I am doing this just for fun, the pay scale gave me pause. It would mean that, if I worked an 8-hour shift some Saturday, I'd take home about $38 (after taxes). Maybe the commission would jack this up considerably, but still.

It raises all kinds of existential questions about the worth of one's time. I think it is just insulting to pay any adult living in Greater Boston that kind of money--it would amount to about $14,000 a year for someone working eight hours a day, seven days a week. If you've ever even glimpsed at the book Nickel and Dimed, you'll know it is virtually impossible to survive on that.

So is it kind of disgusting that I'm doing this recreationally, thereby "enabling" the store to be staffed by people who don't really need the work? I'm sure the pay increases over time, that commission money helps, and that full-time staff get some form of health/vacation benefits, but, fundamentally, $7.25 is $7.25 is $7.25. No way around that.

And if I'm doing this recreationally, why do I care what the job pays? Why would it feel more acceptable to me if the job paid $10 an hour? If I earned less at my current "day job", would I still work at HH?

My tentative answers:

1) I care what the job pays because I value my time. I would happily work for free for some worthy cause, knowing that my time and talent were going improving the greater good and not the company’s bottom line. Also, true “recreational work” is usually flexible and done on one's own terms. This is not the case at HH, which requires a set schedule and a minimum number of hours. I think that even if I were extremely wealthy, I would have a hard time getting paid $7.25 an hour, if it meant conforming to a regular schedule.

2) The job would feel more acceptable if I made $10/hr, because I have worked for $10/hr in the past (doing office work, years ago, as a temp. I also earned much, much less in college, when I washed dishes, cleaned dorms, and vacuumed dining rooms, but that doesn't count). It's still not a livable wage, but it's much further removed from the minimum wage.

3) If I earned less at my current job, I probably would not work at HH. I would find some kind of part-time consulting thing, or try to negotiate more hours. It goes back to the main idea: $7.25 is not enough pay if pay is the thing that matters.

I know you'll be surprised to learn that I plan to take the job. It sounds like fun. I think I could drum up a fair amount of business (thus getting commission). It makes me happy just to be in the store. And, not insignificantly, I think retail work will generate many of blog-worthy experiences.

Posted by Dori at 3:51 PM 1 comments

License and Registration?

On my way into work today, I got pulled over by a police officer. This is has never happened to me before. It was terrifying.

I was just driving along, minding my own business, when I saw the flicker of blue lights on a police car. It never even occurred to me that the flashing lights were for me, until I drove a little ways and noticed they were following along. I pulled over. I was going to get out of the car and ask the officer what the hell I did, but then I remembered virtually every movie I’ve ever seen, in which the police officer bellows: “stay in the car” when the hapless driver tries to get out. I stayed put, thinking that maybe one of my lights wasn’t working or something. I couldn’t fathom what else it could be.

And he wouldn’t tell me. The cop approached me and said, in an authoritative tone, “license and registration, please”, and I got all nervous, because I didn’t realize cops actually say this in real life.

“What did I do?” I asked.

“Give me your license and registration, and I’ll tell you exactly why I pulled you over.” He wasn’t mean, just brisk, and I got even more nervous. After the $400 of car-related expenses I’ve incurred recently, the last thing I need is a traffic citation.

I fumbled in the glove compartment. Retrieved the relevant documents.

He grilled me: “Are you a student?” No. “How long have you lived in Boston?” About five years. "Are you the owner of this car?” No. “Whose car is it?”

I thought he was going to bust me for stealing the car.

I got still more nervous, thinking how hard it would be to prove my response; the car belongs to a friend of a friend. I’m taking care of it for her while she’s in England.

“Is she a Massachusetts resident?”

No, she lives in New York.

“Well, she shouldn’t have California plates, then.”

Long pause.

“First thing,” he said. “There’s a $35 fine for driving while wearing headphones. You need to concentrate on the road, and you can’t do that while you’re listening to your walkman.”

I have to say, this is reasonable. I’ve been driving with my walkman for months, ever since the car’s battery died, thus “locking” the radio and tape player. I figured sooner or later this practice would catch up to me, although it’s hard to understand why wearing a walkman is more illegal than talking on a cell phone or blasting music on the speakers. Still, I was prepared to cough up the $35.

“I’m not going to give you a citation for that, though,” (YAY!). “The real problem is that the car’s registration expired in February. It’s illegal to have a vehicle on the road without a current registration. You can’t even park it on a street. It has to be off-street or in a driveway. Otherwise it could be towed at any time.”

The cop recommended that I head on into work and deal with this as quickly as possible. I will call the car’s owner today.

I had no idea fostering a car would be so complicated.

Posted by Dori at 2:18 PM 0 comments

Pearls of Wisdom

Last week, I asked my intern to complete a mundane task, and he did a half-assed job. It brought me back to my own days as an intern, when I thought such tasks were beneath me, and that my supervisor failed to tap into my brilliance. One time, he asked me to find the addresses for a long list of names, using the phone book. I did it, but I didn’t include zip codes, since they weren’t listed in the book. My boss looked at my work and said: “Dori, we can’t send out this mailing without the zip codes. Somebody, at some point, is going to have to find them. It might as well be you.”

I told my intern this same story, realizing it has stuck with me for the last eight years.

Some additional pearls of wisdom, that emerged upon reflection …

“Don’t wish any of your life away.” My friend A.K. used to say this to me, quoting his “hip grandmother”, in response to my repeated longings for the future ( “I can’t wait to have a better job”; “I can’t wait to be married”; “I can’t wait to have my own apartment”). I now realize it’s a common saying, but I still attribute it to “Gammy”.

“Life deals you a hand of cards. You play the hand. Regardless of how it turns out, you get another hand eventually.” This is the philosophy of a guy who lost his long-time girlfriend to cancer. The idea isn’t “you can’t control which single hand of cards you get”. I like to think, as he does, that life is a series of infinite possibilities, and not one single set.

“Your whole life doesn’t have to be magnificent. There are magnificent seasons, and ordinary seasons.” My friend N., assuring me that my current lack of professional magnificence is not necessarily permanent.

“Being part of a family, or a friendship, isn’t just about sharing good times,” said my mom when I bitched about how my long-anticipated family visit was ruined by the poorly-timed death of my uncle.

When I complained about how everyone else is married/happy at work/buying a house, an old roommate used to say “You don’t have the option of living anyone else’s life, so it’s pointless to make comparisons.”

“Anything worth doing is hard.” Also, “Anything worth doing is worth doing well.” I read both of these statements somewhere.

“A hot shower and a good meal makes almost any situation better”, says my dad, almost every time I go through some kind of crisis. I usually get annoyed when he says this (Don’t you see how serious this is?), but it’s true.

“Think of how fast a day goes by”, says my mom, when I’m dreading a one-time stressful event, like a test, meeting, or interview.

Posted by Dori at 2:31 PM

May they Rest in Peace

Today is trash day. And, on the curb, alongside the usual household garbage, are two plants bound for the Big Garden in the Sky. One is a year old, and I am tossing it because of "failure to thrive." I have nurtured it, and watered it, and changed its location three different times, but even so, it has never ceased looking pathetic and unhappy. For weeks, I have been trying to come to terms with this loss, but somehow I always "forget" to put it out on trash day, prolonging my suffering and that of the plant.

I've had the other plant for at least two years. It is big, and its leaves were once shiny and pliant, gracing both my last apartment and my current one. As of late, though, a mysterious gray film has appeared on the plant's base, and the most of the leaves have dropped off, such that it looks like an amputee. Again, my soft heart has kept the plant in my living room, and I watered it with equal parts resignation and pity.

Today, my two plants are wilting on the side of the curb. It will soon start to rain, and the big bad garbage truck with roar by, and the sanitation workers will heave the plants' green little bodies into it.

My uncle was an agronomist. He had the lushest houseplants in his home. Everyone remarked upon his green thumb. He openly explained that it wasn't that his plants were all so healthy, but that he readily chucked them (and replaced them) once they started to wither. So I feel (somewhat) secure in my decision, since it's uncle-endorsed.

To everything there is a season ...

Posted by Dori at 8:20 AM 0 comments

Torta Reform

So you may remember that this very blog was a holiday gift from my friend R.. She registered the domain name and set up the whole thing for me. And this, believe it or not, was my "unofficial" gift.

My official gift was a subscription to Cook's Illustrated, which brings me joy and mirth when it arrives every month. When it first came, I thought it was some sales promotion, because the magazine is black-and-white, unglossy, and has no photos on the cover. Also, my first issue included a refrigerator magnet. It seemed like something I would have gotten by virtue of being on some culinary mailing list.

However, I came to love the stodgy-looking mag. It is a hard-core monthly manual. It takes food very, very seriously. Unlike glossy food magazines that intersperse recipes with restaurant reviews, travel articles, and photos of beautiful famous people eating and entertaining--Cook's Illustrated tackles the down-and-dirty kitchen problems.

The "Notes from Readers" section solves vexing queries with assured, data-driven answers. Felicia, from Manalapan, New Jersey, confesses: "I hate to sift flour. Is it really necessary? Can I just use a whisk to remove lumps?"

After an explanation of sifting's aerating function, the editors sternly report: "when we tested equal weights of sifted versus whisked flour in recipes, we noticed that both methods delivered similar results. Cakes made with sifted flour were a tad taller, but the differences were quite small." But then the kicker: "If you are not going to weigh flour, you must pay special attention to the recipe directions regarding sifting." And then three paragraphs about how "1 cup of flour, sifted" differs from "1 cup sifted flour."

I love the "Quick Tips" section.

"Most kitchen garbage bags slip down inside the trash can, leaving an unpleasant mess to clean up later. Judith of North Truro, MA suggests securing the bags to the receptacle with a lightweight bungee cord. Just make sure you don't through out the cord with the trash!"

Elise of Greenwood Village, CO prepares vinaigrettes in her child's sippy cups. "The dressing is released slowly from the small spout, making it nearly impossible to waste vinaigrette or overdress a salad."

But it gets better! Every month, the editors tackle a different culinary disaster and work readers through its prevention. Last month the gourmet makeover involved Chicken Fajitas. "Dry, stringy chicken breasts and limp, tasteless vegetables desperately need a truckload of toppings. How about chicken fajitas that are great on their own?"

The editors tested dozens of recipes and found most to be disappointing. The results were deemed "impossible to eat and awfully bland" , "gritty and crunchy" or "thick and goopy." After this despairing commentary come four pages of explicit directions, leading the reader through "meat management", "grill work", and "it's a wrap."

Because I know you are salivating already, I won't divulge the secret to "the ultimate vegetable torta." Let's just say I now have the power to "turn bland and soggy piles of eggplant and zucchini into a rich, savory tart."

Posted by Dori at 11:53 AM 0 comments

Fate and Faith

Yesterday I heard an extremely intriguing story about how a friend met her boyfriend of five years. She was commuting from Cambridge to her home in the suburbs. One day, she stayed late at the library, took an evening train, and ended up chatting with her seatmate. As her stop approached, he told her: I know we'll see each other again. She scoffed. But a few days later, she took the same train and found him in the same seat. They exchanged information, fell in love, and stayed together for years.

I am obsessed with these kinds of stories. A family friend met her now-husband in an elevator (what if she had taken the stairs?). Another couple met at a party neither planned on attending--they're blissfully married now (what if they had given into their anti-social instincts?). Another friend had a summer job at a frame store. One day he waited on a cute girl; now they're fully married with two adorable kids, and they are going to Hilton Head this weekend. (What if she had never bought that poster? Or put it up with thumbtacks?)

I'm haunted by the fact that my husband is out there, somewhere, living his life, probably having sex with some girl who's utterly wrong for him (which I guess is a good thing, since he needs to get that out of his system, and hopefully she's helping him hone his relationship skills--although I'm hoping that process is thorough yet speedy) . Maybe we've crossed paths a million times on the subway. Maybe he's standing in line, as I write this, at the coffee shop I just left. Maybe he's working at one of the jobs I applied for but didn't get. Maybe he went to Tufts as an undergrad, and we would have met in English 200 had I gotten enough financial aid to go there.

This element of chance is as intriguing as it is vexing. There's the school of thought that says, if you're outgoing and lovely and charming enough, you'll find your soulmate. This school of thought requires going to parties, looking cute all the time, and actively dating. While this philosophy fills me with dread and fatigue, it is comforting in that it implies some sense of control over my fate. The school of "you'll meet him when you least expect it" is not comforting, although it lets me off the hook to some extent. It means I just have to live my life and have faith that he'll show up in some elevator/train/frame store. And faith is not one of my core competencies.

I guess this doesn't matter right now, because I am still healing. I still miss my former boyfriend. I still have his revolting Coke Zero in my fridge, and (OK, I'll admit it), I still haven't tossed his toothbrush. (I can't face my own brush looking all lonely by itself.) And I'm appalled by the idea that he had dinner with someone named Joyce last week. (I know, know, know that Joyce is not a Prospect, but why is he having dinner with any woman? I'm not having dinner with any man!)

But this is good, right? I'm healing while my husband breaks up with his chick, moves nearby, and prepares to woo me.

Posted by Dori at 10:47 AM 2 comments

I'm So Money ...

So I tried to appeal my $200 parking ticket, to no avail. I gave my spiel to the parking czar, and he flatly refused to dismiss or reduce the ticket, even while I was deferential, polite, and provided photographic evidence supporting my case.

"You can't park there," he said. "Not ever. Not even partially. That's why we give out $200 tickets." It sounded pretty definite.

Around the same time I got the ticket, some jerk ripped the moulding off the foster car, which cost $191 to replace. In the course of one week, I incurred $416 of expenses (if you include the $25 street cleaning ticket I got while I was bereft and heartbroken).

All this threw me completely off kilter. Although I have a healthy amount in my bank account, I couldn't get over the ultimate stupidity of these costs, and the fact that the money I'd pay would bring me absolutely no joy. I would (and did) happily spend well over $416 on a sleek new refrigerator, because that purchase enhances my life on a daily basis. Similarly, I would happily pay plenty of money for a vacation, or for something new and lovely. But paying $416 for no reason--to the heartless parking people who slink around my neighborhood and prey on the permit-less--paying money because of moulding thefts who just snatch what they need without any regard for my life--that is not OK.

I thought a lot about how I could come up with an extra $416--which comes out to be $4.60 a day for the next three months. I sold a book on Amazon and netted $12.56. I considered freezing my gym membership, which would save about $54 less the $15 "maintenance fee". I could actively eliminate restaurants and movies from my social life, in favor of coffee and Netflix. I could sell the teak end table that's been sitting in my basement for the last three years. I could give up my daily caffeine fix--saving $9.05 a week. I could do some focus groups at $65 a pop (there's one this weekend on women in my age range who spend more than ten hours a week on the Internet--but I don't qualify because I never play games online).

I kept thinking and thinking about this, obsessing about every cup of coffee and snack, seriously checking out opportunities to participate in paid medical experiments (for which I never qualify because of my seizure disorder).

Then CAR-ma suddenly changed. Remember how I pay for an off-street parking spot (and am too lazy too drive to it, thus incurring all these tickets)? Well, turns out that the guy who rents me the space moved away four months ago, unbeknownst to me. His roommates have been ripping up the checks ever since. Four times $85/month ... that's $340.

Now I'm rich! just saved $340! I went to the museum last night and "supported the arts" even though admission was free. Then I bought a poster. Today I am going to buy a hand-crafted bowl I've been coveting for months ... And if you factor in all the money I'm saving by not taking the bus to work ... I really could spring for new sheets ...

Posted by Dori at 11:58 AM 0 comments

Got Passion?

My co-worker, Bob, just got back from a weekend with his friends. Their whole crew meets up every summer at the Saratoga Springs racetrack. They're all 50ish couples, including some divorcees and some "other men"/"other women" (people having affairs). Among them are Bob (realtor/construction expert), his wife (higher education maven), a computer guy, a police officer, a manager of a cement factory ... and others pursuing a whole range of professions.

One night, someone posed the question to their group: what is your life's passion? Bob reported that only two people responded. One was his wife, an extraordinarily successful woman, whose passion is golf. Her dreams of playing professionally were dashed when she injured her shoulder in college. Years ago, she tried to launch her own golf course/club, but it never took off. She loves her work in academia, but identifies golf as her true passion. The other passionate person was the cop. He'd always dreamed of working in law enforcement, and he loves it.

I found it very sad that only two of the ten people could identify a passion, and that only one of them focused on it professionally.

Recently, a bunch of my girlfriends contemplated a related question: What do you feel passion about, just in general? What would you do if you could do just anything? I was so surprised by the answers. K. would become a Forest Ranger. Melinda would revive VH1's "Pop Up Video" and be its archivist. I would become a food/travel writer, or else I would contribute to the inner workings of a housewares manufacturer.

While I was mulling all this over, I kept thinking of my Former Boyfriend, who has probably the most singular professional and personal purpose of anyone I know. He has devoted pretty much all of his adult life to healing people and treating cancer. He has sacrificed enormously to do what he's doing. And yet, when I recently shared all these musings with him, he got really quiet.

"I don't know if it's my passion," he said. "I think about that all the time."

This was stunning. We were together for almost five months and this comes out now?

I asked: "So what would you do if you could do anything?"

And get this: he said he'd be the General Manager of a football team.

I got to thinking about the difference passion about a thing (like golf, or football, or VH1) or a cause (like health care), and being passionate about the actual work associated with it. For example, our deplorable health care system appalls me to no end. But spending my professional life untangling the mess of managed care, HMOs, and insurance? No way. Loving football on TV (OK, and the radio, and the Internet) is one thing. But managing a team? Running a golf course, day to day? Pop-Up, 9 to 5?

According to Martin Luther King, "if you don't have a cause you're willing to die for, then you have no reason to live." While I think this is a little extreme, there is some truth to it. And as wise friends have pointed out, the trick is to find some combination of what you're passionate about and what you're passionate about doing.

For the lucky police officer, it's one and the same. For the rest of us, it's a holy grail of sorts.

Posted by Dori at 9:00 PM 0 comments

Sweet Dreams Are Made of This

OK, so you know how I've been perkier lately? Well, I went to see my parents this weekend, which is always super blissful. Because my life is sucking right now, and because I haven't seen my parents in almost two months (they went on a glam vacation to Thailand, Singapore, and Hong Kong--and if I hadn't made vague and ultimately fruitless vacation plans with the Former Boyfriend, I could have gone too), they were extra, extra kind to me. They brought me lovely gifts from Asia (including an ivory necklace made in a workshop supervised by Thailand's queen, in which crafts are made out of ivory from elephants who certifiably die of natural causes) and my mom made all my favorite foods, and we saw two movies, including The March of the Penguins, which was stunning.

Alas, even the goodness of home could not change the State of my Soul, and I had horrible dreams every night. Lately, I have been waking up approximately every hour, startled by variations of the same nightmares. While some people's nightmares involve monsters and disasters, mine generally consist of one of three situations.

Interpret as you will:

1) I have to be somewhere, usually a travel destination or an important event, and I have nothing to wear. I rip through my closet and find that each and every garment is either ill-fitting, inappropriate, or stained. I am late for wherever important place I have to be, and the more I hurry, the worse it gets.

2) I am in school, and I have to complete an assignment, and there is some scheduling disaster, such that I am completely unprepared for the imminent deadline. On Saturday night, I dreamt that I was supposed to write one "finished" essay and three "unfinished" essays for Ann Boutelle, the demanding and brilliant professor of Advanced Essay Writing (a real, life-changing course I took in college).

3) The same old boring dream of having to perform in a play and not knowing the lines.

Last night I had a new one: I was trying to sell an unwanted and poorly marketed product (a service for buying children's toys, of all things), and failing to meet my sales goals. And the dream was the kind that locks you in: I'd wake up, horrified, and go back to sleep, only to face a new unwilling customer.

Posted by Dori at 12:19 PM 0 comments