Strongly Worded

Seven Things That Are Not as Fun as They Seem

As I contemplate my last days at Houseware Heaven, and make a shopping list of things that I will get at 30% off, it occurs to me that selling housewares falls into the category of Things That Are Not as Fun as They Seem.

While sitting outside HH this weekend, I thought a bit about other items of this ilk.

1) Outdoor Folk Festivals. While no fiber of my being is outdoorsy, I very enthusiastically agreed to see my beloved Dar Williams perform at the Newport Folk Festival two years ago. I envisioned lounging alongside the water, and partaking in great music while eating vegetarian snacks. In fact, the whole day was long and hot (really, really hot). There was all this corporate sponsorship (this year, horribly, the main sponsor was Dunkin' Donuts). The snacks, while vegetarian, were expensive. There was no option of actually getting near the water. And Dar didn’t go on until the evening, after we had been sitting and waiting for approximately eight hours among liberal-but-sweaty fans. And there were some serious sound issues that compromised her brilliance.

2) Jamaica. I planned a trip to Jamaica with N., one of my best friends. We decided to forsake all-inclusive resorts and “get to know the culture” at a “locally-owned” hotel. The hotel did not meet expectations. They played reggae versions of “Three Blind Mice” and Celine Dion on a loop in the lobby. We couldn’t go anywhere without being hassled. We learned that Jamaica is second only to Haiti in its violent crime rate. And we realized that, as two non-pot-smoking, non- beach-loving, people, we had erred seriously in our choice of a vacation destination.

3) Decorating the common space of a nursing home (former work project). I had a $6,000 budget and was told to “go to town” in finding artwork, floor-covering, and furniture that would be suitably durable (my organization would reap the difference between the budget and the actual spending). As a huge fan of Trading Spaces and Design on a Dime, and an aspiring interior decorator, I thought this would be a dream project. In fact, it was horrible and stressful. I was paralyzed by indecision and stinginess. I agonized over the $60 fake plants vs. the $45 fake plants and ultimately bought neither. I looked woefully at Pier 1’s lamps. Table lamp? Floor lamp? How much ambient lighting? I bought three different rugs and returned two of them. And I would never, ever have purchased the main furnishings without my faithful friend D., who took charge of the situation at the furniture store. In a few hours we had $3,000 worth of merchandise and had earned the respect of Carolyn the sales associate.

4) Camp counseling. In college, I wanted to “give back” to the camp I attended as a teenager. I had visions of empowering the campers, having long trusting talks about sexuality and the virtues of women’s colleges. Instead, I lived in squalor with a bunch of whiny girls who eschewed me in favor of my cooler co-counselor who wore makeup and cool clothes. They were not interested in learning about the Man, rather, in procuring hickeys from the “men” in the boys’ cabins.

5) Dating a doctor. We’ve already been over this. Exhaustively.

6) Classes at the local Center for Adult Education. Somehow I always expect to have an illuminating experience and come away with new friends and perhaps a romantic prospect. To this end, I have taken “Masterworks of Cinema”, “Spanish Film and Conversation”, “Introduction to Classical Music”, “Financial Planning”, “Fundamentals of Graphic Design”, and a GRE preparation class. While some of the classes were somewhat illuminating, I came away with a total of zero (0) friends and zero (0) romantic prospects. For some reason, men don’t take adult education classes. The ones that do are “unique”, and I mean that charitably.

7) Cross-country skiing. It’s essentially walking, in the cold, with more effort.

Posted by Dori at 11:25 PM 0 comments

Do I look like a Mouseketeer?

So I experienced minor trauma yesterday morning when brushing my teeth and glimpsing, out of the corner of my eye, something grey under the shelving in my kitchen. It looked vaguely like a mouse, but I thought ... no way. Ha ha. It's something that looks like a mouse. But in fact, when I kneeled over, expecting to be relieved by the shapeliness of a dustbunny or some other gray object, I saw a twitching tail and a mouse that was clearly Not in a Good Place.

I cannot tell you how horrified I was. I am not exaggerating when I say that my heart started pounding and I experienced strange, unreasonable terror and revulsion. I felt paralyzed by indecision. I didn't want to trap the mouse with a towel or any other aspect of my bathroom. If I "woke up" the mouse by trying to step out into the kitchen and find an implement with which to trap it, I might frighten it, and it would scurry away, and then I'd have to endure the knowledge of a loose, un-caught mouse in my environment. Plus, I could tell that the mouse was nearly dead already. It was lying belly-up, barely moving, clearly on its way to mousey heaven.

So after seemingly endless inner debate, I grabbed the toilet brush and whacked the mouse hard and fast. Then I ran--ran--into the hallway and summoned the landlady, who tried to muster up some courage and address the situation, even though it was very clear she was no more equipped to handle it than I was. We pronounced the mouse dead, and, with a dustpan and about seventeen plastic bags, managed to remove it. I then sprayed the area with half a can of Lysol, tried to relax, and left for work.

I stayed late at work, not wanting to go home. I avoided it as long as possible. Then I sucked up my courage, busted out the Pinesol, and cleaned every single surface. I was relieved not to find any other evidence of mice (no droppings anywhere), so I am cautiously optimistic that this mouse was a solitary pioneer and did not have plans to bring his friends and family along with him.

In any case, the landlady dropped off a big box of fresh mouse poison, much like the pellet that had been behind the stove and which the dying mouse had clearly ingested.

I felt (slightly) more secure knowing that every corner of my apartment is now a menace to mousekind. Still, despite this knowledge, I had nightmares about mice under my bed, and mice multiplying before my eyes. I really, really hope this is my last post on this topic.

Posted by Dori at 9:58 AM 1 comments

Houseware Hell

So this is not what you think. I'm not going to go off on any pithy, petty little retail story. This is no debacle with a placemat. This is no switcheroo with a receipt. This is major.

When I took the job at Houseware Heaven, my main concerns were:
1) Waiting on a higher-up from work, who would (justifiably) feel that I, as director, do not portray our organization in its best light if I am selling coasters for $7.50 an hour.

2) Waiting on this chick from middle school, who was impossibly brilliant, and who undoubtedly has about 16 Ph.D.s by now, and who would spread snooty rumors about me via classmates.com and make pitying remarks about what "potential" I had back then.

3) Waiting on people I know-but-am-not-friends-with who are registering for wedding gifts and who (I imagine in my most self-torturous mode) are going to leave the store and cluck-cluck about how pathetic I am selling housewares on a Friday night when they are going to go home and have sex.

I never even contemplated the heinous situation that occurred today. OK, so remember
the former object of my obsessive crush? The guy I obsessed over for a year and who led me on even while he was on-again, off-again with some secret love interest in New York?

Well, you probably don't remember him, because he doesn't even merit mention in this blog, other than the initial expose. I am very proud to say that I have completely cut off contact with the bastard. I am so damn empowered! Twice in the last six months or so, he has emailed me (one of the emails included a reference to his upcoming move-in with his girlfriend), and I just deleted the messages. Yep. Just hit "delete." No response. Nothing.

Even so, I was not prepared for aforementioned Former Object to stroll into HH this afternoon with a very cute chick on his arm, looking for placemats for their new place. They bought four asian-inspired "Panda" placemats, some very cute napkin rings (who the hell buys napkin rings?), and some fucking "Zen"napkins. "Oh,"I said, all faux-chipper, "Are you having a dinner party?" And they said no, "these are just for us." Subtext: we're all metrosexual and eat on Panda placemats and roll our cloth napkins in napkin rings every day just because our lives are so perfect. Oh, and then after we put the dishes away in the dishwasher before adjourning to the bedroom to have sex.

Apparently I handled this well. My fellow "sales associate" confirmed that I was collected and ultra-friendly and seemed genuinely happy to see that fucker. I'm proud of that.

Posted by Dori at 9:35 PM 1 comments

Two Weeks Notice

So I've given notice at Houseware Heaven. I can't take it anymore. I had this vision of myself selling housewares recreationally, but it turns out they require many more hours than I am available to work.

(Not entirely) incidentally, I suck at retail. I cried for three hours after my Saturday shift. I realized I am not an asset to the HH team. I've got the "helpful-but-not-stalker" customer service thing down. I genuinely enjoy chatting with customers about upcoming parties, weddings, dinners. It's super fun to discuss stemware and pretend I know the difference between a goblet, a "red wine glass" and a "balloon glass." And it's super, SUPER fun getting cheap "merch." On Monday night I got a cutting board, a "baguette set", and bud vases, for $5.73 total.

However, it is NOT fun to feel like a complete failure in the "retail skills" department. Namely:

1) I have no working memory. People ask me if I can get seven "Christina" goblets from the stockroom. By the time I get to the stemware section I've forgotten why I'm there.

2) I am not so detail oriented. Once I've located the Christina goblets, I may or may not match them up with the appropriate customer. And I may or may not mix in a few "Elena" balloon glasses if they happen to be nearby. On Saturday, a woman came in hours after her purchase. She got three of the wrong kind of glasses in her alleged set of six.

3) Math? Not so much. Are two 16-piece sets of silverware cheaper than one 32-piece set? Turns out they are. But who the hell knew?

4) Oh, and change? Was that $10.09 or $9.10? Oops!

5) Spatial relations? Umm, no. Will an "Audrey" vase fit into a small, medium, large, or oblong box? Can we fit some acrylic coasters in there? No way to know but try. Three or four times.

Alas, after two weeks I will no longer be an HH employee. So stop by while the getting is good--the time for discounts is winding down.

Posted by Dori at 12:22 PM 0 comments

Not My Finest Hours: Part II

So yesterday I had a big meeting with the eleven higher-ups at work, and I am not too happy with my performance. To be fair (to myself): the meeting is tough by definition. In this meeting, I report on my activities, the financials, goings-on, and so forth, and the higher-ups ask questions and give feedback and (sometimes) volunteer to do things.

One of my Cardinal Rules of Professional Conduct is to send out detailed and well-written reports BEFORE all big meetings, so that, presumably, people can read the report beforehand. The report speeds up the meeting, allows me to articulate exactly what message I want to get across, and allows me to rustle up exact numbers and figures (so I'm not floundering during the meeting). It is also my hope that by circulating the report well in advance, anyone who has questions will email or call me BEFOREHAND, so that I can find out the answers with dignity, and not blather cluelessly in public.

I know you'll be shocked to know that this rarely happens, and that even the ones who actually read the report in advance come to the meeting ready to RAKE ME OVER THE COALS with questions that make me feel dumb and defenseless (aka: "why did you write that we're losing $4,000 on this deal when we discussed ad nauseum that our investment would be protected? And why don't we have documentation of the terms of this agreement"?).

What I should have said: "Yes. I know we went back and forth on putting the terms in writing, and it still hasn't happened. We're not really going to lose $4,000. But I wanted to highlight how the project is over budget."

What I did say: "It's just math. Our investment is protected. And I tried really, really hard to get the agreement in writing. Really hard." [the last part I said shamefacedly, petulantly, because I had been trying for months to get this group to put the terms in writing and have given up].

Later: a long discussion about our presence at an upcoming community event. It's on a Saturday, and I don't want to go for many reasons, of which one is that I have to work at Houseware Heaven one whole weekend day, and I don't want to spend the other weekend day at my "real" job, sitting at a table under a tent and handing out pamphlets. None of the higher-ups wanted to go to this event either. One of them PUT ME ON THE SPOT and said: "you should really go to this event. It's a great way to get to know the community."

What I should have said: "I know, I really wish I could be there, but I have another commitment. I know you will do us all proud as our representative."

What I did say (defensively): "I can't go. I go to nine million other things for this job, and I can't go to this one."

I hate that after over a year of employment, these meetings still unhinge me, and I spend hours afterwards justifying and second-guessing what I said- and -- worse, worrying about why I didn't get the agreement in writing or whether I should agree to go to the event. I wish I was a lot more confident and could shrug off this ridiculousness.

I'll keep you posted on that. Maybe in my next report.

Posted by Dori at 7:19 AM 0 comments

Who Ever Said Life Was Fair?

So I attended my second homebuying class yesterday, and was amazed, as always, by the persistence of classroom dynamics. The same people who bitched and moaned in high school about what was or wasn't fair game on exams; who asked picky, self-serving questions; who complained about the uselessness of learning geometry (OK, I'll admit I was among them)--all these people have grown up, and they are populating graduate schools and adult education classes, and, let me tell you, they haven't changed much.

Last night's class was actually pretty lively. First we learned about lead poisoning. Guess what? Adults can get it too. In fact, the presenter told us a sad story about a 29-year-old woman who lost her reproductive capacity because she breathed in lead-infested air during the replacement of the steps in her Victorian home. I squelched my desire to wave my hand in the air and ask about the symptoms of lead poisoning and whether my old-but-newly-painted apartment might pose a threat to my health. See? I squelched.

Some of my other classmates, however, can't do that. They have made some poor or uninformed financial choices in their lives, and are now learning that these choices may limit their ability to Realize the Dream of Homeownership. So they lash out.

The instructor was talking about credit scores, which are determined by a complex formula. The formula incorporates (among other things) one's credit history, the number of credit cards, and the number of times creditors have "pulled" one's score. In essence, whenever you apply for any kind of credit (like a Gap card or a mortgage), the store or bank "pulls" your score to deem you worthy or not. If you're shopping for a mortgage, the different banks will pull your credit to assess how much they'll loan. Bottom line: your credit score will be (very slightly) lower if it's been pulled a whole lot. And yes, that is unfair if you're just a good comparison shopper. Being self-employed is also a big barrier in a number of ways, and yes, that is unfair to self-employed people.

Bummer. But can we just move on?

Of course not. Our self-employed classmate has made maybe 14 comments about how the cruel world is blocking her path to homeownership. Not just because she is self-employed, but because her stellar repayment of student loans will not show up on her credit history since it was repaid so many years ago. She also challenged the instructor about whether she can get a 30-year-mortgage at her age. Wouldn't the banks balk at that, since she'll be retired in 30 years? Won't they? Aren't they all mean? Isn't it all so unfair? Hmm?

In fact, as the instructor calmly explained, banks offer 30-year mortgages to anyone, of any age. This assuaged the rage to some extent. But Ms. Self-Employed, and others, were really aggravated by the credit score thing. They kept raising their hands and asking persnickety questions about their "soft pulls" and "hard pulls", and they asked many, many specific questions that basically boiled down to: "I am being hunted down by creditors, and I have spent way more money than I have, but shouldn't I be able to buy a house anyway? This whole process is so unfair."

Who ever said life was fair?

Posted by Dori at 12:58 PM 0 comments

Realizing the Dream of Homeownership

So Melinda over at Anything Said just waxed eloquent about the financial challenges we secure-but-not-rich-or-anywhere-close-to-rich twentysomethings face. Melinda, unlike me, balances her checkbook on a regular basis. I haven't balanced my checkbook since the fourth grade, when we did a banking unit in math class, and did a simulation with fake checks and checkbooks.

Now, when I write a check, I (usually--but not always) scrawl the check number and the expense on the back cover of the checkbook. When I make a deposit, I save the receipt and then stuff it into my wallet in moments of faux-fiscal-responsibility, until I do a purge and tear up the receipt along with grocery store coupons. I have a Roth IRA and some kind of mutual fund thing, but I recycle the statement every month and haven't got the faintest notion of how much--or whether--the funds are growing--or, perhaps--plummeting into the depths of wherever mutual funds plummet. I really have no idea. And yes, I have an MBA, and yes, by some miracle I got a B in Corporate Finance, but it was taught by a very inept professor and it was so mind-numbing that I didn't pay attention.

I do, however, have a point, which is that, despite my financial disorganization, I have a long-term asset-building goal, which is to Realize the Dream of Homeownership. I am taking a homebuying class, in order to work towards this goal and qualify for special first-time homebuyer financing. The class is inconveniently located, and lasts from 6-9:30 once a week, which is a long time to talk about PMI and Points, especially if you're working at Houseware Heaven two other nights a week and your "real" job is kicking your ass. I am still completely mystified by pretty much all the course content, even though I've attended the first class and other workshops, and even though my co-worker, who is a realtor, talks about homebuying all the time.

In fact, he sends me daily e-alerts about homes for sale in my area. Most of the 1BR homes are going for around $300K, and the one take-home message from pretty much everything I've learned about homeownership is that it's really, really expensive.

I make a decent living. I have no credit-card or other debt. I live pretty simply. And yet there is no way--no way--that I can afford to buy even a crappy condo in the Cool Area where I reside. Even with special first time homebuyer financing, and a soft second mortgage, and even if some Swiss bank account materialized to fund a hard-core down payment, my monthly payments would still be obscene.

I have several friends who are homeowners, and a handful that are "looking to buy." I absolutely can't fathom how they manage ... until I consider that they, like everyone on the planet except me, are in committed relationships, and therefore have twice the buying power that I have. If I had met my husband already, and he earned as much or more than I do, we could swing a crappy condo in the Cool Area where I reside. Either way, it would be an obscene amount of money to spend on housing, because Boston's is the single most expensive housing market in the country.

But it would be possible, as are many good things that come with committed relationships, things that are out of reach for bitter-but-hopeful-and-wistful single people like me.

So they should just be real on the first day of the homebuying class. They should send home all the single people, or have a special class for them so they can meet each other, get married, and have a shot in hell at realizing the Dream.

Posted by Dori at 7:46 AM

All Aboard!

Today is my mother's 60th birthday. She did not want a big party, but she wanted to do something special and be (somewhat) surprised. So my dad, my brother, and me are taking her to Cape Cod. We will meet in Hyannis (my brother and I are taking the bus), and then depart on a three-hour "elegant dinner train" voyage. The train travels along the coast while a really fancy dinner is served. When I made the reservations, I was reminded that men need to wear "jackets or ties" and women need to wear "dresses or dress slacks."

My brother just graduated from college. He works in the music industry. He sure as hell doesn't own either a jacket or a tie. He was deeply annoyed when I told him about the dress code (admittedly, too late for him to go shopping). So my dad will bring one of his shirts and ties for him to wear. When we talked last night about the plans, he expressed my own thoughts: "I'm not sure if this is going to be fun."

Here's why. After the elegant dinner train, the four of us will be staying overnight on the Cape, and then spending Sunday morning doing Charming Cape Cod Things. I spent a considerable amount of time trying to find cute B&B-style accommodations online, and I found a place with a suite, in which all of us could comfortably stay, and partake in Cape Cod Charm. My dad nixed this idea in favor of an AAA and AARP-discounted chain hotel, since we're really just sleeping there and it costs roughly half as much. While I acknowledge his reasoning, the idea of spending a night with my family in a chain hotel isn't so appealing.

All four of us haven't taken a trip together in probably over a decade. While I traveled with my parents a few times in college, and accompanied them to Italy last winter, my brother with his ADD and my dad with his anxiety don't mesh so well. They are perfectly nice and polite and to each other, and genuinely affectionate, but the undercurrent of tension has made my brother (wisely, I think) decline to participate in participate in family trips. Whenever we are all together for meals or holidays, my mom and I try to dilute or ignore the tension, which is stressful in itself.

So this should be very interesting. All aboard!

Posted by Dori at 9:06 AM 2 comments

Sundry Musings

OK, so remember how not so long ago, I was lonely, depressed, and bored? And I had nothing to do but lie around and feel sad and read trashy books? Well, as I often do, I have streaked across the spectrum of life balance, and am now busy and overwhelmed as all hell. My real job has picked up, and I'm working on three events this month. Much of my work entails soothing and "helping" panicked and frustrated people on the brink of financial disaster. Well, all those people are now back from vacation (or something), because in the past week or so I've been inundated with more calls than I've gotten in July and August combined.

Then, there's the job at Houseware Heaven, which is great (I'm starting to really like it). One of the many good things about the job is that it puts me in contact with customers who are, for the most part, friendly and financially stable (unlike the "customers" in my "real" job). Another good thing about the HH job is that, because it puts me out in public, (potentially poised to meet my husband who might come in any day looking for coasters), I feel compelled to put effort into my appearance. (General sloppiness characterizes my "real job" apparel). At HH, I wear my contact lenses. I ensure that my hair looks flippy. I strive to wear clothing that offsets the adorable black apron we wear to convey the HH "friendly, accessible, professional" service concept. The overwhelming part of HH is that it's at least 12 hours of physical work every week. It's running up four flights of stairs, carrying boxes of heavy things, and standing for hours at a stretch. I didn't expect it would make me so tired.

Then there's this enraging professional development thing I have to do, far away from my house, at night for the next month. The enraging part is that while I lobbied to do it in August, when I was bored and sad, I have to do it now for various sundry bureaucratic reasons.

Then there's this advisory board (also far from my house) on which I've agreed to serve.

And so on. All this was a lot, but I felt OK, in general, and I was kind of on my merry busy way until Monday night, when my Former Boyfriend called for the first time in weeks, and we made plans to see a concert. He said that he's been listening to a particular song over and over.

After we hung up, I listened to the song, and noticed for the first time that the gist of it is: I miss you, I have to find a way to let you go, you decided to end all this, and you're going to be fine, and I'm heartbroken.

It sounded like a direct message from my Former Boyfriend, and I played it about 18 times, got all agitated, and had to take a sleeping pill. When I woke up yesterday, I cried for about two hours, because I thought I was on my busy merry way, but in fact, am overcommitted and still deeply attached to this guy.

Before you even go there, I absolutely know how all this is completely and utterly trivial when you think about the wreckage caused by Katrina. I have deliberately not written anything about the hurricane because there is nothing I can say that would even begin to express any insight, and because my fellow bloggers at Quarter Life Crisis and Red Head Has Spoken (and others) have already (eloquently) captured that sentiment of "we're so lucky and this disaster sheds light on how small and silly our problems are."

Duly noted. But if I stayed in blog-blocked awe of the catastrophe, the blog would just wither away.

Posted by Dori at 8:57 AM 0 comments

Reunion!

So, last week my lovely high school friend C. came into town for another high school friend's wedding. She and I and K., (who also attended our high school) went out for Vietnamese food.

After a general discussion of love, life, work, and grad school, C. told us that our ten-year high school reunion is planned for Thanksgiving, and that Meaghan, our class president, is trying to virtually connect all the 250-some-odd members of the class of 1995.

Meaghan was actually a sort-of friend of mine. She had a long blond braid, was friendly to everyone, and exercised good high-school-presidential leadership. She went to Emory, I think. I've seen her once since we graduated, at the TJ Maxx in my hometown.

I was pleased with the idea of connecting with Meaghan, but horrified by the idea of milling around with my former classmates. Milling around with my high school classmates horrified me even while I was in high school. I hated high school. I have absolutely no nostalgia about it. I am in touch with C. and K., but nobody else. During holiday weekends in my hometown, I slink around, trying to avoid running into people I know. I hate that fake enthusiasm of "wow! so great to see you!", and I hate feeling insecure and knowing that whatever I report and whatever the other person reports isn't exactly the truth. There is so much judgment.

Thus, whenever I visit my parents, I strive to look very cute at all times, because the one thing people are noticeably impressed by, when I haven't seen them in years, is that I look much better than I did when I was miserable, poorly implementing '80s fashions, and struggling to contend with frizzy hair and a body with which I had not yet come to terms. (To be fair: I really, truly hated middle school. You could not pay me any amount of money to re-live middle school. High school was better. I did many "good kid" things like making costumes for plays and editing the newspaper. I was a wise-ass. I had some interesting romantic exploits (including the harboring of a colossal crush on a guy who spurned me after an intense summer make-out session. The making out was inspired by our private screening of Basic Instinct, the night before I left for camp. When I returned, he essentially ignored me, which I now completely understand, because he came out a few years after graduation.) And I had friends belonging to many social circles, which was nice, but I didn't have a social circle of my own, which is why the prospect of reunion fills with horror.)

But I digress. I am curious about where everyone ended up, and I would be very interested in seeing a website with little profiles of the graduates, where each person can post what (s)he's doing, and where. I suggested this to Meaghan, and she liked the idea. I like the idea of browsing through the site, and then shutting off the computer, and moving on with my life.

Posted by Dori at 9:24 AM 1 comments