Showing posts with label Curmudgeonly rant. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Curmudgeonly rant. Show all posts

Saturday, July 31, 2021

A Linguistic Rant

You know those grammatical errors that are like chalk on a black board?

Having typed that sentence, I realize that people younger than me don't know about chalk on a black board. Even I don't technically know about black boards, because in my day, chalk boards were green. But they still made the same screeching, teeth gritting sound if you rubbed the chalk on them just the wrong way.

As out-dated as that previous paragraph may be, I'm told that common grammatical errors, particularly those made while speaking, are now accepted as part of the lexicon. So, risking being called "outdated" (I'm 64 -- that ship has sailed), I insist on being the gatekeeper of the lexicon in certain circumstances.

Honestly, in normal conversation, I might use the occasional "ain't" when phrasing something colloquially. And goodness knows, the one contribution for which I thank the south is the phrase "y'all." Growing up in New Jersey, we had "yous" or "you(s) guys," but that just advanced the assumption that everyone in New Jersey is in the mafia.*

Breaking it down to "you all" sounds stuffy; but "y'all" -- perfect. Unless you go too far and insist on "All ya all" -- that's just over playing the down-homey trope.

So you see, I'm not a grammar purist.

However, if you are presenting yourself as a professional, at least acknowledge that the words with which you insist on assaulting my brain are wrong slang.

Keeping all the above in mind, I'm asking everyone to Stop. Using. The. Word. ANYWAYS.

Stop it. Now. There is no such word.

It's "anyway." Anyway. Why is this so hard?

I'll concede this: I listen to a lot of podcasts. You don't exactly have to be vetted in professional broadcasting to do a podcast. 

Doesn't matter. "Anyways" has infiltrated the slickest podcasts; it comes out of the mouth of people who should know better. You may as well utter the phrase, "I seen..." (I almost didn't refer to that most horrible of phrases. I know how hard it is to control the gag reflex when you hear it.)

There is even a larger problem here, though; and I shudder to mention it.

As alarming as it is to hear the word "anyways" used by a proficient announcer, there is this even more alarming evidence of the destruction of lingual integrity: an editor allowed the word in a book.

Before you defend this atrocity, I'm well aware that prose written from the viewpoint of a certain character will be written in said character's voice.

That wasn't the case. This was third person omniscient -- meaning, told by THE GUY WHO SHOULD KNOW THERE IS NO SUCH WORD AS "ANYWAYS."

I'm not going to reveal the book because, other than this abomination, it's a wonderful book. In the moment I viewed That Word, however, the book made a flying trip several feet across my bed, upsetting dog and cats and causing a brief "hmph" from Chuck (the same reaction he'd elicit were I being knifed to death two feet away).

So, stand with me, America! Let's not allow "anyways" to become an accepted part of our language! They've apparently dispensed with the whole "never end a sentence with a preposition" rule. I have seen sentences -- nay -- paragraphs -- beginning with "because" or "but" in respected publications.

Do not allow this word "anyways" to further erode the integrity of our linguistic foundation! Hold your fellow humans accountable for the utterance of this outrage! Stand with me and refuse to acknowledge the acceptance of this degradation of grammatically correct usage!

I feel so much better -- I know this is something that will unite us all.

Today, "anyways;" tomorrow, vaccinations!"

*This is not true, by the way. Very few New Jersey Italians are or were in the Mafia. Most of us are just working slobs like everyone else, only we cook better. That being said, after a lifetime of she and my father constantly plucking us out of the brink of poverty, my mother quipped that she should have caved to the stereotype by "just signing up" with the Mafia -- as though she was going to join  the fire department's ladies auxiliary. 


Sunday, July 18, 2021

Floating in a tin can

Why does Richard Branson taking a rocket jaunt into the fringes of space bug me?

It’s not like the millions spent for Branson’s 90-minute joyride was ever going to be spent on anything but the billionaire version of a road trip. It was never going to heal the planet or save an African village from contaminated water.

So, no -- I’m not disappointed that his money and the money burned away by the rest of “The Club” isn’t going toward more altruistic endeavors.

It certainly bothers me that it is possible for there to even be billionaires on this planet that is suffering on so many levels. But that’s not Branson’s or Gates’s or Bezos’s or Buffet’s problem; they just did whatever the
system allowed. And, if they lobbied to have the ladder pulled up after them, it’s only with our blessing they did it.

I recognize that telling people what to do with their money is not only an infringement of their rights, but is downright rude. I can’t very well scold Charley on his collection of totally useless replicas of medieval armory; he’d only point to my growing collection of gnomes, blocks of clay, piles of fabric, containers of crystals...at which point I would remind him of the 124 hours of pain I endured giving him life and to just shut up about all that.

Meaning -- it’s a slippery slope to start inflicting guilt on people who are spending money they are convinced they worked for on something you aren’t personally interested in.

I can’t gig Bezos on planning to spend billions on his own joyride, using funds he chose to pocket instead of paying his employees a living wage or at least letting them go to the bathroom with dignity; when I, in fact, spent $58 at ThredUp for two Talbot’s blazers*, using funds from my paycheck which, I have to admit, I wouldn’t have if it weren’t for my invaluable assistant Tina and my volunteers, who never get paid but are permitted unlimited use of the bathroom.

One man’s space flight is another woman’s wardrobe score. 

So, no -- I don’t think my annoyance has anything to do with the money spent on Branson’s flight.

It’s the reaction to his little stunt that annoys me most of all. The media fawning is starting to tick me off. 

It’s not like this guy achieved something that hasn’t been achieved before; he only figured out a way to make it pay. The most obvious thing observers of his landing noticed was the great big Virgin Galactic logo emblazoned on the bottom of the ship.

Let’s not imbue this joyride with any noble purpose; it was a commercial, plain and simple.

So this whole adulation of a foray into space (more like the edge of space, but they got to experience weightlessness, so...weeeeeeee!) is hardly justified. This was an ad to mine the cash from other bored millionaires for whom nothing is enough anymore.

Branson’s crewmate and Virgin Galactic employee Sirisha Bandlha insisted that the trip was an advance for science: 

"So on this last flight, if you look at some of the footage you see me messing with this tube, I'm actually performing a science experiment in space."


“Messing with this tube.”

This was a baffling new scientific term.

So -- I actually found the “science experiment” Bandlha referred to. It was NASA-funded and had to do with horticulture. Oh -- and NASA had already performed it before. They just wanted to know if a regular schmo could manage to...ahem...mess with a tube.

Oh.  Okay. I get it. I’ve had to write grant proposals. (I’ll just leave this here for now.)

So no one, not even NASA, calls this stunt the commercial that it was. The focus continues to be either on the waste of money or on the major strides humanity had taken. Either way, it worked to Branson’s ultimate purpose of exposure of his brand.

It reminds me of a bit comedian Robert Klein used to do shortly after the first moon walk.

He pointed out that Neil Armstrong could have been an instant millionaire if instead of the famous words he uttered, he just shouted “Coca Cola!”

 *Yes! Two Talbots blazers for less than 60 bucks -- and they fit great even though I’m shaped like an Oompah Loompah! No affiliation, by the way; I was just so tickled to be able to afford investment pieces on my budget. 

Saturday, June 26, 2021

So who asked you?

Sixteen Years Ago
You don't have to read this -- but anyone can. Sixteen years ago, I started this blog. I was 48 and had spent a lifetime writing things no one ever saw. 

Oh, I'd spent over a decade working for newspapers -- dry, local politics where molehills turn into mountains and parking locations foster speeches quoting things like the Magna Carta and very specific translations of the Bible. I hated it because all my eye-rolling gave me a headache.

These days, no one is reading lengthy prose, so it's safe to come out of my writing cave.* But I'm just not cut out for Twitter -- too many people thinking they're delivering mike-drop jewels of glibness. It may be narcissistic to share this to Facebook, but I don't flatter myself that complex issues can be solved in a few sentences -- not that I'll attack complex issues. There's enough of that static cluttering the internet.

No. I write because of that static that has everyone believing the lie that we have more dividing us than we have in common. But I'll stick to my old format, thankyouverymuch.

Now, take a moment and observe that photo up there. While I admit I used it to lead this column because I'm pretty sure it's the last surviving photo of me as a vegetarian -- meaning I was probably as cute as I was ever going to get. (I also want you to notice the added drama of the fencing, which I thought gave me a sort of tough urban edge when actually it was taken by my husband at our son's little league game.) 

I found this while looking through our photo archives and considered using it to lead all my social media. Then everyone would say, "Wow! She looks pretty good for 64!"

I notice this is a trend among book authors and it annoys me. So, in the spirit of total honesty, I will stick with my usual photo.

True disclosure: this photo is about a year old, but it's the most recent one without a mask. 


Take a selfie, you say.

I don't take selfies. I don't have anything against them (unless the only thing on your Facebook page is one selfie after another, in which case, find a hobby), it's just that my arms are too short and I end up looking like a Shar Pei.


Really -- there are no serious photos of me because it's just my husband and me around here these days and he only takes photos when I look ridiculous. So you get the above and this.



I suppose this is by way of re-introducing myself to what used to be called "the blogosphere," where crickets are chirping and me and my kind can roam free -- free of the nastiness of other social media forms.

...at least I don't have an aol e-mail address...



*Anyone wishing to cause mischief here has probably given up by now because this is way down at the end. If you haven't given up -- I've gone through bankruptcy, foreclosure, joblessness, poverty, and two heart attacks. You can't scare me. 

Monday, October 29, 2018

Toy Cars


File this under the category of Phrases that Make Me Cringe:
Under a photo of a car or truck: “Here’s my new toy!” 
Now, I get that when Baby Boomers began to realize that they were aging, it suddenly became A Thing to be perceived as a Child at Heart. Subsequent generations have followed suit and now we have a culture that really could benefit from the direction of a straight-laced nanny. There is a lot to be said for using your “indoor voice,” particularly when in public on your cell phone discussing your digestion problems with your healthcare provider.

However, I have come to accept that in order to convince ourselves we’re never going to die (I’M certainly NOT), we must do whatever it takes to deny the aging process. (Though, I must pass on to my fellow Women of a Certain Age – no one is fooled by those SnapChat filters. The Good Ship IngĂ©nue has sailed and good riddance!)

So, honestly, I have no problem if adults spend their spare time playing with doll houses, racing remote control cars or running their model trains on a tighter schedule than a subway in Tokyo while wearing a railroad engineer’s hat and blowing a wooden whistle (you know who you are). I, personally, have my gnomes and talking dogs.

If you want to embrace your inner eight-year-old, have at it. But here’s the thing – eight-year-olds break toys. They ram them into walls, leave them on stairways, or throw their sister’s Ken doll out a second storey window dressed in Barbie’s tutu. No big deal because they’re toys.

Two-and-a-half tons of steel and flammable liquid: not a toy. Not even remotely a toy. Leave your heart of an eight-year-old…12-year-old…hell – teenager…home. (It is my opinion that teenagers should only be able to drive 20-year-old Cavaliers with a blown-out transmission and a cassette player that doesn’t work*.)

When I encounter a 6,000 lb. Silverado on the Beltway, I want to know it’s being driven by a 40-something with a kid still in college, a mortgage and a sense of his or her own mortality. (It would also be nice if you could be driving a 3-ton truck because you actually need one, what with it being almost November and I’m still sleeping with the windows open and the fan running – but that’s another issue.)

I commute 10 hours a week at a minimum and I am constantly dodging drivers who grew up watching everything from Smokey and the Bandit to The Fast and the Furious, all – I assume – at a time in their young lives where they were unable to separate fact from fiction. Because it’s really not speed that is the issue; believe me, in that respect my driving habits would probably surprise…well, no, they probably wouldn’t surprise anyone who’s had to commute. Honestly, on a two mile-long straightaway on Va-231, when I’m late for work and no one is in front of me…I WOULD TOTALLY OBEY THE 55 MPH SPEED LIMIT, OFFICER.

Take that same straightaway, place in it a loaded 18-wheeler followed by a leaf-peeper in absolutely no hurry, a farm-use truck whose tailpipe emits noxious fumes every time he hits 40, a priest, a minister, and a rabbi…and me – and in my rear-view mirror I see a black Escalade, closing in fast. In the opposite lane are oncoming headlights. The Escalade pulls out and passes us all in one go and only makes it because the rest of us immediately brake. Though this would be an ideal opportunity to protect the gene pool in one fiery crash, no one wants Finster Baby to take the poor guy in the opposite lane with him. Besides, an accident would make us late.

But even Finster Baby showed good judgement when compared to the perfect storm of idiocy I witnessed last week. In a construction zone in the pouring rain, with two lanes merging into one, I could see an ambulance was trying to make its way through traffic behind me. Most of us pulled over onto the shoulder, except for a farm tractor traveling 15 mph and a huge black truck that was behind me, but passed me when I pulled over to make way for the emergency vehicle. The ambulance was forced to pull into the opposite lane, where those kind souls actually were on the shoulder. Behind me, an SUV pulled out of the line of those who pulled over and passed everyone, only to encounter the black truck, which was now stuck behind the farm vehicle, still putt-putting away like he was in the middle of a barren hay field. With a screech, the SUV pulled over the double line in the wake of the ambulance, passed the black truck (who was now honking his horn at everything) and the farm vehicle. Not to be outdone, the black truck gunned into the oncoming lane, missing by inches the oncoming cars pulling back onto the road.

To what can we attribute such a perfect storm of assholery in one place? Immaturity.

Eight-year-olds live in their own world and everything that goes on around them is seen through the lens of their ego. It is age-appropriate and precisely the mindset you need when you’re very small, vulnerable and totally ignorant of the ways of the world. When it seeps into adulthood, the results are thinking that everything, including who get through traffic first, is a competition you need to win to feed that ego, now grown huge and hungry.

So, no, you do not have a “toy.” You don’t take out loans to buy PlayDough. No one is making a living fixing Cabbage Patch Dolls. When a piece of Monopoly is missing, you just need a dime or a thumbtack.

And when a pedal car tips over, no one gets hurt.

Unless, of course, it meets up with a black Escalade. In his world, we’re all just pedal cars on the VA-231 of life.



*
Yes, he still has this car. Good luck in December, Heir 2!

Sunday, January 01, 2017

A New Year's Post In Which I Manage to Not Invoke the Name of the President-Elect*

Dear 2017,
Image result for Baby New Year
It’s been a long time since I’ve felt the need to address the New Year. Things seemed to be progressing at a pretty normal pace. It seemed my input wasn’t necessary like it was for your siblings 2012 and 2014.

And then there was your sibling 2016 – the Hannibal Lechter of years. I realize now that, as New Years go, these little discussions are mandatory since evidently subjective and arbitrary timeframes have no respect for decency.

In the past, I’ll admit I’ve judged you and your siblings on the crap you flung at me, personally. It never occurred to me that, lacking my direction, you’d expand your systematic destruction to the world at large.

So…2017…we need to talk. Because evidently, like a pre-teen, you seem to think that if I don’t specifically tell you not to do something, it automatically means it’s okay to do. For instance – I never said to my kids, “don’t play Jousting Tournament on your bicycles.” I went for the simple “don’t be a moron,” assuming that would prevent them from careening at each other with the gas grill rotisserie shafts. I was wrong.

Indeed, I never specifically told your sibling, 2016, to not bring our entire civilization to its knees. At this time last year, such as statement was sort of like telling someone “don’t take any wooden nickels.” Such a phrase was outdated because any idiot would know the difference between a sanctioned, intricately-minted coin and a piece of worthless junk carved to look like something of value that can slip through a dysfunctional mechanism.

And so 2016 was the year that was so horrible, a bevy of celebrities opted to jump ship rather than endure even one more week of it. It was the year so horrible that even the people who got their way still seemed to be really mad at the people who didn’t. It was the year no one was happy.

What has made it even worse is that 2016 packed up and disappeared, but didn’t take its garbage with it. So here we are, drowning in the detritus of your sibling and you show up expecting some sort of celebration.

Well 2017, you’re going to have to prove yourself. Frankly, you don’t have a whole lot to work with and Kardashian mutations are still infesting every aspect of our culture (deep down I suspect this is the root of all the world’s problems).


So for now I’ll wait…and watch…and find a nice, safe place for my spare pair of glasses.

Warily,
Sisiggy

*Sort of.

Monday, November 23, 2015

10 Things That Really Bug Me A Lot More Than They Probably Should

1. People who talk about their sports team in terms of "we;" as in "WE really tore them up this week;" as if the speaker him- or her-self had been out on the field instead of parked on the sofa eating tortilla chips.

2. Using Facebook to say "Happy Birthday, "Happy Anniversary," "I love you," etc. to someone you live with...to someone you live with. For pete's sake, turn your head! There he or she is! Now speak the words. That's how we used to do it in the olden days.


3. (while we're on the subject of Facebook) Postings threatening me that if I don't "share" them, I don't love the poster, I don't love 'Murica, I don't respect veterans, I want people to die of cancer, will have something horrible happen to me.


4. Not just stinkbugs, but dive-bombing stinkbugs; dive-bombing stinkbugs IN THE DARK. They turn me into Tippi Hedren in The Birds when she for some inexplicable reason goes to the upstairs room, opens the door, sees big honkin' birds all over the place and then enters the room anyway.

5. When people write "Walla!" instead of "Voila!"

6. Owen Wilson. I don't know why -- might be his lips. He has Donald Trump lips (and I DO know why HE bugs me).

7. The fact that, in 28 years of marriage, Dirtman has not finished a single container of anything. He leaves approximately a tablespoon of product in any container -- whether it's shampoo, a box of cereal only he eats, or milk -- and then opens a new container. I guarantee, if I go into the kitchen right now, there is a bag of wheat squares on top of the fridge with precisely two squares in it. And, actually -- I think this bugs me precisely as much as it should.

...and yes, I've told him. I've gone on 10-minute rants about finding one freakin' cracker wrapped up in a big saltine box in a cabinet already crammed with a jar of Jif with a teaspoon of  peanut butter and a bottle of Log Cabin with a tiny pool of syrup at the bottom, along with almost-full opened versions of each product. I mean, how is that one freakin' cracker too much?

8. That there are people who will think I am overreacting to #7.

9. When my computer refuses to download something with the phrase "You are not connected." I take this personally and get really sad.

10. That every article you read these days is in the form of lists. It's a cheap trick to get people to read something absolutely inane.


Sunday, August 31, 2014

Back-to-school Shoes

Note: Ugly back-to-school shoes
Why haven't I bought my back-to-school shoes?

Why, at 57 years old, do I still at this time of year look forward to buying what were usually the ugliest shoes ever to come out of the mind of humans? Because, back when I got "back-to-school shoes," they had to be sturdy and functional; patent leather mary janes were for church and Keds (and PF Flyers) were for gym class. But school shoes were dark, leather and ugly and I got a new pair every fall.

And so, every Labor Day weekend in those moments just before dropping off to sleep or just waking up, my mind prepares itself for the first day of school. You know, back when the school supply list consisted of: a cigar box (seriously -- in first grade we asked the druggist for actual cigar boxes, which he nicely saved up throughout the year; in later years, you could get cigarbox-shaped boxes that were sold with school supplies), a pack of six crayons, a jar of paste and No. 2 pencils. In fourth grade I was excited that "ball point pens" were added to the list.

Was I the only one who insisted on wearing my new back-to-school clothes on the first day of school...and then sweated through the day because that's what you do when it's 89 degrees out and you're wearing corduroy and a sweater?

When I see kids board the bus these days, it seems so odd to me that there was a time where girls couldn't wear pants to school and boys couldn't wear jeans. No one was allowed to wear sneakers anywhere but in the gym. If you lived within a half mile of the school, you walked or rode your bike. If you rode a bus, you walked a block or so to the bus stop. Do they even have bike racks at schools anymore?

Side Note: This article from The Atlantic should be a must-read for all parents. I'm not saying we should allow our kids to ride their bikes behind the mosquito-spray truck (Umm...explains a lot, huh?) --  but playground equipment these days looks about a much fun as a handicap ramp at your grandmother's internist's office and, for God's sake, when did the school bus start this door-to-door service?

Autumn is bearing down on us and, while others are thinking in terms of apple-picking, raking leaves and pumpkins, I just remember the stress of that first day with all its dread and optimism, its jockeying for position in the classroom and its forming of hierarchies in the playground. And I remember getting home and feeling like I'd gotten something over with and now I could go back to my carefree summer life, only to realize I had to get up and do it all again the next day. And the day after that.

Mostly, though, I think of the new shoes...the ugly new shoes, glowing with cleanliness and not yet broken in, molding my feet to it's structure and eating away at my old worn socks.

Thursday, August 28, 2014

The ALS Bucket Challenge and Snarky Memes

The Lifespan of a Trend

First there are the accolades: "What a great idea! Hope it catches on!"

Then there is the excitement: "Let's all do it!"

Then there is the peak: "We're all doing it!"

The tapering off: "We're all doing it."

The trickling off: "Sorry I'm late with this, but now I (your grandmother) will now do this."

To ambivalence: "Are we still doing this?"

Denial: "I never felt the need to do this."

And, finally, the hate: "What sort of idiot does this?"

If you don't want to do the ALS Bucket Challenge, don't. If you don't want to give to ALS research, then don't.

Nobody cared about the California drought before this, including the many golf courses and green lawns found throughout that state. The ALS Bucket Challenge is not causing the California drought or threatening the water supply in Africa.

You can't deny, though, that this "stunt" raised plenty of money to combat a horrible disease. That is a good thing -- get it? Disease: Bad. Curing bad disease: Good.

Do you have some problem you want eradicated for which you need to raise money? Try just asking people. I guarantee you won't get far.

Involve them in the effort and you'd be surprised.

That's why people run 5Ks or walk around a track all night long for cancer research. That's why people walk 20 miles around their own town for environmental causes.

So, please, enough with the snarky memes on YouTube and Facebook. Certainly there are more constructive things to be angry at than caring citizens who are just having a little fun while doing a little good.

Besides, if I thought it would raise enough money for the farm, I'd be happy to dump a bucket of ice water over Dirtman's head!

Sunday, February 23, 2014

An Awesome Post About

My Awsome Endeavors to

Obtain an Awesome Job

If you are looking for a job, being in your 50s sucks.

There. I said it.

I know -- it's tough out there for anyone job hunting. But when your employment history pre-dates your interviewer's birthdate, there is an entire minefield of issues to overcome.

I really thought I had a handle on what to and not to say to an interviewer. I knew not to romanticize the way things used to be done or to throw in old war stories of how tough it was back in the day and how easy all these young whippersnappers have it with their newfangled computers. I knew not to be condescending to someone younger than me and by no means act like I knew more than they did. And -- though it took every ounce of self-control -- at no time did I mention all the misspellings and grammatical errors in every piece of professional employment correspondence I've ever received from an HR department.

Little did I know how sensitive a 30-something can be when interviewing someone who can't help but remind them of their mother -- and not in a good way. Usually, I'm not only defending my own employment history, but also the pre-conceived notions born of whatever messed-up mother-child relationship my interviewer is working through with their own mother. Your mother may be a critical hypochondriac, but I am not her. 

I've been on very few face-to-face interviews. I'm told that's step 2 these days. I have done numerous phone interviews, which I suspect are done because I fit a demographic they don't really want, but have to prove they're at least giving a chance to. Either way, it's so easy to say something innocuous, only to have it blow up in your face. I can usually point to the exact moment an interview fell apart.

For instance, there was the interview I did for a bank teller job. I know that these days a bank teller is expected to do more than process bank transactions; they are also the first line in selling more banking products. See? I did my homework. And I formed my answers as such.

So, even though I was't expected to do much selling back when I was a bank teller, I was prepared with an answer when the interviewer asked this question:

Interviewer: (obviously reading from a script): "Can you give me an instance from when you were a bank teller where you sold a customer a product or service?" (Note: She asked me. I was not offering an old war story.)

Me: Well, if I knew a customer had a heavy balance in their savings or money market, I would suggest a Certificate of Deposit.

Interviewer: But how would you sell it?

Me: Well, I have to admit, it wasn't too hard to sell when you told them the rates were over 10 percent.

Interviewer: (Icy edge to voice) You could get into a lot of trouble misquoting a CD rate. How would you sell it without exaggerating?

Me: (Clueless as to what she was saying) I didn't misquote the rate. It really was around 11 percent at the time.

(Can you feel it all falling a part? At this point, I could. I was getting sucked into telling a "back in the day" story.)

Interviewer: (chuckling) That kind of rate would never...

(I should have just backed off and made up some hard sell line about the wonderful virtues of a one percent return. But NO. Stupid me, I had to defend the fact that 11 percent wasn't hyperbole...and I had to do it without using the word "hyperbole," which I think would have made matters worse.)

Me: It was the Reagan era (shuddupshuddupshuddupshuddup) and interest rate were incredibly high. Look it up; it was a phenomenon. (STOP TALKING!!!!!!)

Sigh. It was all downhill after that.

Another bank teller interview:

Interviewer: What was your favorite part of being a bank teller?

Me: Well, we got to know most of our customers and it was nice and friendly. (Requisite "I'm a people person" answer required for any position involving contact with the public) But I also really enjoyed helping other tellers when they had trouble proving out their drawers. It was like a puzzle and I loved proving it down to the penny...

Interviewer: (interrupting) What services were you able to direct your customer to? Accuracy is all well and good, but...

(Wait. What? YOU'RE A BANK AND ACCURACY IS "ALL WELL AND GOOD?")

Interviewer: (continuing)...did you enjoy presenting new products and services to your customers?

(I know, I know. I should have taken her advice and focused on how much I enjoy...cough, cough...foisting products on people...cough, cough. Instead, I jump on the "accuracy is all well and good, BUT" part of the conversation.)

Me: Well, you see, we really weren't expected to sell to customers (NO!NO!NO!NO!NO!NO!NO!) and in our annual reviews, our accuracy is really what my manager was concerned with.

...And there it went.

Then there was the interview panel I went before for one very diverse office job. Part of the job was running a cash register, an exact copy of one I've used before. On the panel was the current employee (being "promoted") who had devised this elaborate system of "cashing out" that required adding up handwritten receipts, separately adding up sales tax,  and subtracting refunds from both. I innocently (honest -- I wasn't trying to be sarcastic) asked if the register was broken that it couldn't run the report automatically, to which there was an awkward silence since apparently no one realized the register had that capability.

Stupid me -- I thought, Aha! They were trying to see if I had the chutzpah to point this out. Failing that, I thought it would certainly be a good reason to hire me -- that I knew a piece of equipment better than they did.

It wasn't until after the fact I realized they could never hire me -- I'd embarrassed them.

I've had my resume evaluated and gone through mock interviews with a consultant. We've gone over wardrobe and how to use the proper slang (I was actually encouraged to over-use the word "awesome" -- not, I might add, a synonym for "awesome," -- but the actual word "awesome" over and over and over again). I can't tell you how this grates on my brain.

Really, my interview skills turned out to be not all that bad. So said one consultant around my age, who was offering her consults for free. She confided in me that she was offering these consults in order to launch her own business because, after a year and a half of searching, she couldn't get hired either.

Actually, interview skills are a tiny portion of the problem. Just getting a response from an application is a practice in futility; and, believe me, I will apply for anything. They won't even let me dress as Lady Liberty and flip a sign outside a tax prep office (though, I can see their point -- an old lady out in the freezing cold flipping a sign is just...well...sad.).

Still, I soldier on. This week I applied for a job as an insurance adjuster, newspaper reporter, convenience store clerk, administrative assistant and a dog bather. I can't tell you how very, very AWESOME I feel about my chances.

Saturday, September 03, 2011

Only the women can relate to this...

Who thought up the name "menopause?"

It should be "meno-STOP."

Complete with the capital letters.

Friday, July 15, 2011

Excuse me, I believe you have my stapler...*

Yahoo! recently asked its readers to submit their stories of being unemployed. For some reason, they were "surprised" at the number of responses they received -- hundreds of thousands -- and at the rawness of the responses.

There is no mistaking -- it's an employers' market out there and, if you have a job, hang on tight and don't give your employer any reason to even think about replacing you. This seems like common sense to me.

Then tell me, please, why, when I go into a department store, grocery or restaurant, I am waited on by some half-witted bachagaloop who acts like he's doing me a favor pausing his texting long enough to wait on me? Why am I reading current novels that have glaring grammatical, spelling and typo errors rampant throughout the book? Why was my order wrong in three out of three visits I made to a fast food place since the first of the year? Why did I read a piece about Lady Gaga being bashed for a routine where she dresses as a mermaid and rolls on stage in a wheelchair, yet there was no reference to the fact that this stunt was a staple in Bette Midler's show twenty years ago -- and no one was offended?

And, while I'm asking, how do I get a job where the bar is set so low?

Just so you know this is not just the ranting of a curmudgeonly 54-year-old, consider this: a friend of mine daily relates his frustration with his fellow workers who continually fail to show up for their shift, come in late for their shifts, are the recipients of not one, but several, customer complaints, show up for work high, leave in the middle of a shift and continually defy governmental regulations protecting the public health.

Then, there is the story of a friend's son who was "rewarded" for doing what he should have been doing anyway. But "just doing his job" was so rare to this particular supervisor, that he felt it warranted a reward. Before you heap accolades on the supervisor, though: the "reward" was a bag of pot.

You would think, with the job market such as it is, only the best workers would be employed. But, it seems, even management is lazy.

It did occur to me, though, these entitled-worker behaviors are the precise traits of the upper corporate management that caused this economic bust in the first place -- laziness, deceit, smug security of position, and an overall lack of integrity.

And that is the ranting of a curmudgeonly 54-year-old who, incidentally, knows the difference between "there," "their," and "they're" and that, in a sentence, the tense of the subject and predicate should agree, even if a there is a prepositional phrase after the subject.

*Office Space -- as if you didn't know.