Tomorrow begins what I will refer to as Orientation Week: Learning About the Campus Policies of Which I Am (Mostly) Aware. Having gone to undergrad here, I understand how to obtain a parking permit, where to print, how to purchase athletics tickets and so on. Most of tomorrow will be spent that way, with the exception of the afternoon, where I will register as a new employee and go through orientation for the Department of English. The rest of the week will be dedicated to training for my job this year as a tutor in the writing lab on campus, as part of my assistantship.
I have to admit that I am a bit nervous about diving in to this program, while at the same time I am elated to be a part of a program I know I will love. I have confessed this to my parents and T, who both told me I have nothign to worry about, and that I worked my ass off to be here and I deserve it, ergo, no nervousness needed. At the risk of sounding full of myself, yeah, I did work my ass off and I sure as hell deserve it. But what makes me uneasy is that I have a distant feeling I will be the only student who is right out of undergrad. I didn't take some time off between undergrad and grad school to enter the workforce, I have relatively no publishing experience and I question how I will be received.
My mom told me I have always been a bit ahead of my peers, and so my maturity level will be my saving grace in this instance, and I sure as hell hope so. I'm hoping the collaborative nature of graduate school, particuarly among writers, will play to my advantage. It's not cutthroat like law school for instance (sorry T), and I have been welcomed already by a few former TAs and professors into the creative brood. Still the anxiety persists.
"A little nervousness is good," my mom told me. "It means you care about what you're doing."
"Yeah, call us tomorrow and tell us how right we were about you belonging," added my father. I suppose they're right, and the advantage of being younger is that I still get some parenting, while others are already parenting their children. Not that I'm drowing and need that much guidance, but the fact my parents can come to my aid and give me a pep talk is comforting. Like when I go to my parent's and my mom makes me a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. Nothing better.
T does his fair share of calming as well. We both have a big week ahead and often take turns playing the parent, per se. He has 8 interviews with law firms this week for summer associate positions, in addition to reading for class, which starts in a week. This is the home of grad students. I think I need to stock up on coffee and red pens.
After today and the talks I've had with each of my parents and T, the one piece of advice--if you can even call it that--left resonating in my mind is from my father. It was the chorus of my pre-teen and teenaged years during soccer and volleyball seasons, and it popped up a few times in college as well. "Give 'em hell, sweetheart." Will do, Dad.
Off to skim, er...read for workshop training,
S
Sunday, August 14, 2011
Friday, August 12, 2011
Last Day at Kohl's
I thought I would have inundated the blog with posts of the wonders of retail. I haven't, obviously, and I think it's because I'd rather forget than relive them. But I can't leave this one alone.
The thing about retail is that it's a bear. I work for a corporate institution that hires many employees part-time in order to avoid worrying about giving anyone benefits. As a result, I am horribly underworked, and the store is understaffed. I answer pages to work as a back up cashier, then leave the floor, where customers find they are without help. For a store that supposedly values customer satisfaction above all else, this is an undeniably flawed system. It's quite literally all about the money.
The other thing about retail is the nature of the customers. While I understand it is my job to assist patrons to the best of my ability, there are those who I absolutely cannot stand. I am not your personal servant for the hour you peruse the store. This does not give you right to breate me over something that is far beyond my control, especially after my attempts to solve your problem. Let me explain.
The other day, I was working an 8 hour shift at Kohl's, which can be a test of endurance. I was paged to the register to assist a customer in his search for denim. Long story short, I was yelled at in front of other customers and coworkers after failing to find a pair of Levi jeans that do not exist, meaning, Levi's does not make this style of denim. I will never understand the idea of yelling at a perfect stranger. It's something about food and retail that brings out the animal in a human. While I would have rather told him to kindly suck it, I instead had to gather myself and attempt to find the nonexistant pair of jeans.
And today is my last day. Not because of the incident, which left me rattled, I might add. But because the job I have on campus is one I think I'll truly enjoy. Students needing assistance with a paper for class is far more pressing to me than say, a customer needing a top in a certain color, and by god if you don't get it to me now so help me. I'd like to think I'm working for a greater good. I'm not in it for the money, like a business would be. I'm more interested in helping a student learn to write concisely, clearly and effectively. For academic reasons. That's why I'm leaving Kohl's.
The thing about retail is that it's a bear. I work for a corporate institution that hires many employees part-time in order to avoid worrying about giving anyone benefits. As a result, I am horribly underworked, and the store is understaffed. I answer pages to work as a back up cashier, then leave the floor, where customers find they are without help. For a store that supposedly values customer satisfaction above all else, this is an undeniably flawed system. It's quite literally all about the money.
The other thing about retail is the nature of the customers. While I understand it is my job to assist patrons to the best of my ability, there are those who I absolutely cannot stand. I am not your personal servant for the hour you peruse the store. This does not give you right to breate me over something that is far beyond my control, especially after my attempts to solve your problem. Let me explain.
The other day, I was working an 8 hour shift at Kohl's, which can be a test of endurance. I was paged to the register to assist a customer in his search for denim. Long story short, I was yelled at in front of other customers and coworkers after failing to find a pair of Levi jeans that do not exist, meaning, Levi's does not make this style of denim. I will never understand the idea of yelling at a perfect stranger. It's something about food and retail that brings out the animal in a human. While I would have rather told him to kindly suck it, I instead had to gather myself and attempt to find the nonexistant pair of jeans.
And today is my last day. Not because of the incident, which left me rattled, I might add. But because the job I have on campus is one I think I'll truly enjoy. Students needing assistance with a paper for class is far more pressing to me than say, a customer needing a top in a certain color, and by god if you don't get it to me now so help me. I'd like to think I'm working for a greater good. I'm not in it for the money, like a business would be. I'm more interested in helping a student learn to write concisely, clearly and effectively. For academic reasons. That's why I'm leaving Kohl's.
Thursday, August 4, 2011
Apologies for going AWOL
Greetings from my new fancy apartment!
I defend the lateness of this post, because I was swamped with prepping and moving not one, but two apartments. Yup, T and I took the dive! We are now situated in a pre-marriage co-inhabiting bliss, complete with some new furniture and pups. I can't qute express how excited I am to have ceiling fans, two floors, and a big ass kitchen. It's awesome. So I will now write to you from my humble abode. (We even have a covered parking spot. You'd think I'd have struck gold, I'm so happy.)
Promptly after hauling our worldy possessions and storing them haphazardly in our new place, we up'n left for Virginia for a week. Yeah, we drove. It was great though, we surprised my parents and brothers by showing up a day early. Wish I would have had a picture of my mom's face when she opened the door. They were all pretty happy, but my mom then immediately rushed to clean the bathroom and put sheets on the beds. It was a good mini-vacation though, we went to the beach (where I got probably the worst sunburn of my life), and Busch Gardens (where the worst sunburn of my life did not take the the heat too kindly), and lounged about at home. Worth the drive.
But now T and I are back at home, where we have put things in their place for the most part. Our living room is in good shape, complete with a brand new entertainment center (score!), new dishes (double score!) and even a vaccuum (I feel like a queen!). The dogs have slowly adapted, but the Little One doesn't like to be in a room by himself. He mostly follows me around until I'm settled in one spot, where he sleeps. The Pretty One is pretty much relaxed, even going upstairs. I was worried about her, but it's the little guy that is more freaked out than she is. They both barked at the door the other day. Probably the third time I've ever heard Pretty One bark, ever. Protective already of the new place.
We're also back to work. T works every day, same set hours. I am preparing for tax-free weekend at work, which feels a lot like gearing up for war. I have more hours this week than I ever have before, double what I normally work. It's not too bad, but it was hard getting back to work when all I want to do is get the rest of the apartment in order. And be with T, rather than leave for work right as he's getting home. That kind of sucks.
But money is money, and soon I'll be at work for the University. I put in my two weeks at work, since it's not doing me any good. I'll have a job and a stipend. Mama's a breadwinner for bein' smart.
Till next time, I'll bear news of the tax-free weekend front. Over and out.
S
I defend the lateness of this post, because I was swamped with prepping and moving not one, but two apartments. Yup, T and I took the dive! We are now situated in a pre-marriage co-inhabiting bliss, complete with some new furniture and pups. I can't qute express how excited I am to have ceiling fans, two floors, and a big ass kitchen. It's awesome. So I will now write to you from my humble abode. (We even have a covered parking spot. You'd think I'd have struck gold, I'm so happy.)
Promptly after hauling our worldy possessions and storing them haphazardly in our new place, we up'n left for Virginia for a week. Yeah, we drove. It was great though, we surprised my parents and brothers by showing up a day early. Wish I would have had a picture of my mom's face when she opened the door. They were all pretty happy, but my mom then immediately rushed to clean the bathroom and put sheets on the beds. It was a good mini-vacation though, we went to the beach (where I got probably the worst sunburn of my life), and Busch Gardens (where the worst sunburn of my life did not take the the heat too kindly), and lounged about at home. Worth the drive.
But now T and I are back at home, where we have put things in their place for the most part. Our living room is in good shape, complete with a brand new entertainment center (score!), new dishes (double score!) and even a vaccuum (I feel like a queen!). The dogs have slowly adapted, but the Little One doesn't like to be in a room by himself. He mostly follows me around until I'm settled in one spot, where he sleeps. The Pretty One is pretty much relaxed, even going upstairs. I was worried about her, but it's the little guy that is more freaked out than she is. They both barked at the door the other day. Probably the third time I've ever heard Pretty One bark, ever. Protective already of the new place.
We're also back to work. T works every day, same set hours. I am preparing for tax-free weekend at work, which feels a lot like gearing up for war. I have more hours this week than I ever have before, double what I normally work. It's not too bad, but it was hard getting back to work when all I want to do is get the rest of the apartment in order. And be with T, rather than leave for work right as he's getting home. That kind of sucks.
But money is money, and soon I'll be at work for the University. I put in my two weeks at work, since it's not doing me any good. I'll have a job and a stipend. Mama's a breadwinner for bein' smart.
Till next time, I'll bear news of the tax-free weekend front. Over and out.
S
Thursday, June 23, 2011
The Cutoff
In my post from yesterday I promised to tell more tales from the retail world. I understand there are those who may have worked retail before, and so these are not new phenomenon I am discussing. But to me, whose work background is limited to food service and outdoor sports, either in YMCA camps or working as an official for the University rec center, these things are unbelieveably fascinating. And so, I bring you today's episode in Things I Think Are Batcrackers: Women in the Junior's Section.
I am no fashionista. I understand this. I shop and dress myself for comfort, regardless of the situation, and I think Stacy and Clinton would be appalled at my collection of T-shirts. I attempt to dress my age, at the very least, and sometimes I probably dress a bit too old. So, I understand that I am by no means allowed to pass judgment on what others are wearing, but...I'll go ahead anyway. I feel there are certain rules for women, regardless of age, body type, or clothing preference. They are as follows:
1. Your body will go through many changes from the time you are 12 until after menopause. Expect the unexpected. Don't expect to wear the same clothes you wore at 18 when you are 25. Unles you are stick-thin and your name is something like a supermodel.
2. Be aware of what sizes you are picking out. Try things on. Make friends with a brutally honest person, or, just assume everything will look terrible on you and don't buy it. Like me.
3. If you are above the age of 18--okay, fine, 20--you should not own any clothing with odd sizing. Which brings me to the women in the junior's section.
I was working last week in the Junior's section, where I am always blown away by what makes it onto the shelves and racks, when a woman stopped me. She was maybe 45, taller and thin, but had obviously had children. She had the baby-bearing hips of a woman who maybe shopped around in her daughter's closet. Or maybe she just had boys and needed to feel feminine. Whatever the case, she stopped and said, "Excuse me, do you have any tube tops?" Uh, what? You mean me personally? It of course is never my job to pass judgment, though it seems like a company pasttime, and so I directed her to the only tube tops I knew of: the Day-Glo pink and orange stretch tube tops that only came in the following sizes: Small/Medium, Large/X-Large. She was ecstatic.
It doesn't stop there, however. There are women who will pass off their unwanted merchandise to me in the fitting rooms, who are entirely too old to be wearing brands like Mudd (with two ds, by the way). It's no wonder they didn't fit, these clothes are made for ittty-bitty girls who have not yet gone through puberty. Or second puberty in college, when things just don't stay in shape like they did in college. It's called Freshman 15, or whatever name your school had for it (Ours was 22. Thanks, Midwest).
It's hard for me not to sound judgmental, and maybe it's because my mother is terrified of becoming the woman who dresses too young. Like it's a virus and she might catch it. This is far from the case, because my mother is very well acquainted with what is and is not appropriate attire for her age. I adopt this theory and mindset because well, it's better to be taken seriously because you dress older, than be assumed a dipshit because you're wearing a see-through lace top and sucking on a Ring Pop on your pinkie finger.
That's just gross.
Until next time,
S
I am no fashionista. I understand this. I shop and dress myself for comfort, regardless of the situation, and I think Stacy and Clinton would be appalled at my collection of T-shirts. I attempt to dress my age, at the very least, and sometimes I probably dress a bit too old. So, I understand that I am by no means allowed to pass judgment on what others are wearing, but...I'll go ahead anyway. I feel there are certain rules for women, regardless of age, body type, or clothing preference. They are as follows:
1. Your body will go through many changes from the time you are 12 until after menopause. Expect the unexpected. Don't expect to wear the same clothes you wore at 18 when you are 25. Unles you are stick-thin and your name is something like a supermodel.
2. Be aware of what sizes you are picking out. Try things on. Make friends with a brutally honest person, or, just assume everything will look terrible on you and don't buy it. Like me.
3. If you are above the age of 18--okay, fine, 20--you should not own any clothing with odd sizing. Which brings me to the women in the junior's section.
I was working last week in the Junior's section, where I am always blown away by what makes it onto the shelves and racks, when a woman stopped me. She was maybe 45, taller and thin, but had obviously had children. She had the baby-bearing hips of a woman who maybe shopped around in her daughter's closet. Or maybe she just had boys and needed to feel feminine. Whatever the case, she stopped and said, "Excuse me, do you have any tube tops?" Uh, what? You mean me personally? It of course is never my job to pass judgment, though it seems like a company pasttime, and so I directed her to the only tube tops I knew of: the Day-Glo pink and orange stretch tube tops that only came in the following sizes: Small/Medium, Large/X-Large. She was ecstatic.
It doesn't stop there, however. There are women who will pass off their unwanted merchandise to me in the fitting rooms, who are entirely too old to be wearing brands like Mudd (with two ds, by the way). It's no wonder they didn't fit, these clothes are made for ittty-bitty girls who have not yet gone through puberty. Or second puberty in college, when things just don't stay in shape like they did in college. It's called Freshman 15, or whatever name your school had for it (Ours was 22. Thanks, Midwest).
It's hard for me not to sound judgmental, and maybe it's because my mother is terrified of becoming the woman who dresses too young. Like it's a virus and she might catch it. This is far from the case, because my mother is very well acquainted with what is and is not appropriate attire for her age. I adopt this theory and mindset because well, it's better to be taken seriously because you dress older, than be assumed a dipshit because you're wearing a see-through lace top and sucking on a Ring Pop on your pinkie finger.
That's just gross.
Until next time,
S
Wednesday, June 22, 2011
Summer cleaning
So I've decided to abandon the style, if you can call it that, of my past blog entries. I've never been good at committing to writing down everything as it happens, so I tried the "stream of conciousness" style for a bit. It didn't work out too well. So instead, I will try to document the striking things that happen to me, and perfect those entries. I've changed some other things, namely the title of the blog, to be more appropriate for what I will be writing about--going to school at Mizzou, getting an MA in creative writing, my wedding planning and marriage to T, my dogs, and the things I find unbelievably interesting. Stay tuned.
I recently found a summer job, after many weeks of searching. I was employed at Chipotle for about a week until I heard back from Kohl's offering me an associate position. I'm not normally the type of person to bail so easily on jobs, but I had been there done that with Chipotle. I rolled burritos for about a year in high school, enduring crappy pay and brute supervisors. I still have scars from the tortilla press. So naturally when a job came about that did not require any sweat or potential for burns--from a tortilla press or the sun--I jumped on it. My week-long boss was not happy, but I have to look out for me, right? Kohl's is ridiculously close to my home, and let's face it, I'll save all I can in gas. So I left Chipotle, and forged my way into retail.
I've never worked retail before and so I find the mundane things about my new job incredibly interesting. I'll try to explain the best I can in later segments, but for now, I would like to focus on the customer, who Kohl's always refers to as "she" or "her."
As I sat through training with other new hires, I found myself struck by the videos that continually referred to the Kohl's customer as female. As a feminist and one to gets up in arms fairly easily (ask T), I tried to find a way in which this was sexist. Are the women supposed to be the ones shopping for their fat, lazy husbands because of forced gender roles? Why can't men buy their own socks? Blah blah blah. But then I realized that yes, women do the majority of the shopping, at least at Kohl's, evidenced by the large section of women's clothing. This was all very apparent to me when I found myself working in the MJM: misses', junior's, and men's departments.
Women intimidate me. Especially the ones that will drop $200 in clothing, accessories and housewares like it's nothing. Perhaps it's because I have no money, at least until the school loans come in, and that fact that women like that exist makes me a bit sad. I hope to have that amount of money some day, where I can buy a $400 vacuum, but until then, I pine. Women are also pushy. They want to know why the Nike socks are more expensive than the Croft and Barrow. They want their size in the fitting room and they want it NOW. The behavior of these women is cutthroat; I imagine these are the same women who clad themselves in armor with their daughters so they can fight crowds on Black Friday, or those days when the fancy bridal salons have $99 sales. I just don't get it.
So the customers are intimidating. Thankfully I have been working in men's lately, but more on that later.
Off to nurse my retail bruises,
S
I recently found a summer job, after many weeks of searching. I was employed at Chipotle for about a week until I heard back from Kohl's offering me an associate position. I'm not normally the type of person to bail so easily on jobs, but I had been there done that with Chipotle. I rolled burritos for about a year in high school, enduring crappy pay and brute supervisors. I still have scars from the tortilla press. So naturally when a job came about that did not require any sweat or potential for burns--from a tortilla press or the sun--I jumped on it. My week-long boss was not happy, but I have to look out for me, right? Kohl's is ridiculously close to my home, and let's face it, I'll save all I can in gas. So I left Chipotle, and forged my way into retail.
I've never worked retail before and so I find the mundane things about my new job incredibly interesting. I'll try to explain the best I can in later segments, but for now, I would like to focus on the customer, who Kohl's always refers to as "she" or "her."
As I sat through training with other new hires, I found myself struck by the videos that continually referred to the Kohl's customer as female. As a feminist and one to gets up in arms fairly easily (ask T), I tried to find a way in which this was sexist. Are the women supposed to be the ones shopping for their fat, lazy husbands because of forced gender roles? Why can't men buy their own socks? Blah blah blah. But then I realized that yes, women do the majority of the shopping, at least at Kohl's, evidenced by the large section of women's clothing. This was all very apparent to me when I found myself working in the MJM: misses', junior's, and men's departments.
Women intimidate me. Especially the ones that will drop $200 in clothing, accessories and housewares like it's nothing. Perhaps it's because I have no money, at least until the school loans come in, and that fact that women like that exist makes me a bit sad. I hope to have that amount of money some day, where I can buy a $400 vacuum, but until then, I pine. Women are also pushy. They want to know why the Nike socks are more expensive than the Croft and Barrow. They want their size in the fitting room and they want it NOW. The behavior of these women is cutthroat; I imagine these are the same women who clad themselves in armor with their daughters so they can fight crowds on Black Friday, or those days when the fancy bridal salons have $99 sales. I just don't get it.
So the customers are intimidating. Thankfully I have been working in men's lately, but more on that later.
Off to nurse my retail bruises,
S
Tuesday, March 22, 2011
Bleh
I'm shit at blogging. I really am. I think if it were all I had to do, I would do it more. So expect more this summer when I'm bored shitless.
So close to spring break. T-Rev and I are going home with my momma, dad and Jared. Jared's moving back to Virginia and we're helping. No, it's not a beach, but there will be booze, because my parents can afford that stuff.
Trev and I will be driving back in my brand new car (To be said in Bob Barker's voice)! Momsy and Popsicle bought me a Honda Fit. I feel like a brat. But then again, this is the first and only car I've ever had. Brainstorm names. Fitness. Fit-ster. Quite Fit. On and on.
I gotta go deliver meals to my poor law school fiance. We have a frozen dinner date, followed by a film screening I have to go to for class. Cheap date 101, folks. Take notes.
S
Monday, February 21, 2011
Blog, is that you?
Terribly sorry for the absence. I get so caught up in well, everything else that I forget I even have a blog. Promise to do better. Cross my heart. So on and so forth.
While I should feel inspired at the moment to write, I don't. It's a terrible thing to go through--especially now. I got news last week that I got accepted into Mizzou's creative nonfiction MA program, allowing many things to fall into place. Trever and I will now graduate at the same time, married, and then can move on to...whatever. We can live together. No more commuting and passing 2 pooches off between apartments. Relief.
I'm on a path to be a writer, which admittedly is a late-to-the-game career path for me. My undergrad degree is just literature, no writing in sight. I'm nervous. My workshop teacher this semester was on the admissions board and I'm the last to be workshopped. Fu--
What the hell am I going to write about? That's the real problem--maybe I can write that? Shit. This is supposed to be easy. I mean it's easy in that I love writing, I love being creative and subjects and predicates get me off, but damn if this isn't hard. I told Trever that the next 2 years I would be an angsty writer, and that he should prepare himself. All I got in reply was "As opposed to...?"
I mean, I'm elated to actually have a vague outline of a life plan fall in to place, but I can't help from feeling like I'm in way over my head. I could ask all the romantic comedy questions like "Can I do this?" and after some slight trouble, I overcome all obstacles and achieve more than I ever thought I was capable of. Ugh. Life is not like that. Right now, I'm happy I can live with my fiance, stay in Columbia, be at the school of my dreams (really) and start my life as a big girl.
But I'm also scared shitless. Writing isn't easy. I love it and hate it at the same time. Apart from only liking one piece I've ever written, I wonder about my abilities. I wish I could have a job and do exactly what I'm doing right now. Postal Service, no bra, elastic pants, in bed, dog laying across my legs and another on the floor beside me.
Universe: IS THAT TOO MUCH TO ASK?
S
While I should feel inspired at the moment to write, I don't. It's a terrible thing to go through--especially now. I got news last week that I got accepted into Mizzou's creative nonfiction MA program, allowing many things to fall into place. Trever and I will now graduate at the same time, married, and then can move on to...whatever. We can live together. No more commuting and passing 2 pooches off between apartments. Relief.
I'm on a path to be a writer, which admittedly is a late-to-the-game career path for me. My undergrad degree is just literature, no writing in sight. I'm nervous. My workshop teacher this semester was on the admissions board and I'm the last to be workshopped. Fu--
What the hell am I going to write about? That's the real problem--maybe I can write that? Shit. This is supposed to be easy. I mean it's easy in that I love writing, I love being creative and subjects and predicates get me off, but damn if this isn't hard. I told Trever that the next 2 years I would be an angsty writer, and that he should prepare himself. All I got in reply was "As opposed to...?"
I mean, I'm elated to actually have a vague outline of a life plan fall in to place, but I can't help from feeling like I'm in way over my head. I could ask all the romantic comedy questions like "Can I do this?" and after some slight trouble, I overcome all obstacles and achieve more than I ever thought I was capable of. Ugh. Life is not like that. Right now, I'm happy I can live with my fiance, stay in Columbia, be at the school of my dreams (really) and start my life as a big girl.
But I'm also scared shitless. Writing isn't easy. I love it and hate it at the same time. Apart from only liking one piece I've ever written, I wonder about my abilities. I wish I could have a job and do exactly what I'm doing right now. Postal Service, no bra, elastic pants, in bed, dog laying across my legs and another on the floor beside me.
Universe: IS THAT TOO MUCH TO ASK?
S
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