By now, you should realize that I have turned into a craigslist junkie. By the way, through craigslist I finally picked up a very part-time gig helping a fascinating gentleman improve his English skills. My faith is renewed.
Munching on (OK, devouring the plentiful helpings of all that was left of) leftover potato salad and surfing the childcare area hoping to find occasional babysitting work, I ran across the following posting that brought back vivid memories.
Heading: Do not consider taking your child to Anderson’s Swim & Scuba School!
This is a private swimming school for all ages! And since it is private you would think as I was…..I am paying money so it will be good…..BUT
I took my son ( 3.5 years old ) to this school during 5 month and we only have the worse what could of happen.
The very first and the sadness of all is that now he afraid of water : - (
He did not learn how to swim! And the stuff was not helpful at any situation, not polite, and definitely not cared about what they are doing. There was not soul put into working with 3.5 years old child! If you need detailed information write back to me. But make sure you know it all before giving your child to someone’s hands for 30 minutes!!!
While the writing skills may be in need of a tune up, the message is quite clear. Anderson's Swim and Scuba School in Pacifica sucks ass! I know from personal experience.
Having grown up in the city, I didn't exactly frolic in the backyard pond. Our neighbors had a blow up pool that I'd sometimes play in, the couple of days a year when it wasn't too cold. So, when I was in the third grade, my parents decided I should learn to swim. Swimming, as well as many things requiring coordination, such as gymnastics or playing a shareware type version of Donkey Kong, came much more naturally for my little sister. I struggled, in large part because of my fear of death from drowning.
Rather than try to deal with my hysterics, my parents enrolled me at Anderson's school, having heard it was pretty good and seeing, like the well-intentioned craigslist poster, that it's a private center with expensive one-on-one teaching, so it must be good.
I hated my teacher, a woman I believe was married to the owner. She lacked patience and empathy. Her idea of personalized instruction was to guide me over to the deep end of the pool and leave me there, forcing me to swim to her in the more shallow end. I realize that many out there believe this is a great way to teach someone how to swim. Afterall, it works on dogs. Unfortunately, I don't have the instinctive ability of a dog, so I was scared to death. I was panicking, swallowing water, and, hating myself for failing at what seemed to be a simple skill that most people have mastered by the third grade, I was hoping that at least someone would miss my presence on this earth enough to show up to my funeral.
In the midst of my crisis at sea, the teacher's husband / boyfriend / lover came into the pool area. She swam to the side of the pool to have a chat with him, perhaps forgetting of my existence or perhaps just thinking, "Cool, I'm getting paid bank to teach this girl AND I can flirt with my man." Seeing her ignore my obvious struggles and fear infuriated me. Unfortunately, I couldn't channel my energies away from my fear of water because I was in absolute terror, and I really thought I was going to die at any moment. The "teacher" eventually swam over to me and let me grab hold so she could tow me back to the shallow part of the pool. My goggles were filled with tears. I could hardly breathe. My throat was swollen from screaming, and my nose was plugged because I had been crying for so long. I was still in the "element of death" and with white knuckles, I was grasping the side of the pool with all of my strength. I felt desperate and alone. I hated that woman for putting me in a situation that scared the shit out of me, yet I was thankful she eventually saved my life.
To this day, I can't stand the water. I will go into a hot tub. I love taking baths and showers. But, I avoid any depth of over 5 feet.
I commend the craigslist poster for taking the time to inform others about her son's experiences, and I hope he's eventually able to work through his fear, because it sucks to be viewed as a f***ed up oddity for not enjoying the "element of death."
I just completed a call to those who hold the unemployment insurance purse strings. I don't mean to disparage anyone receiving unemployment, for that would be calling the kettle black, but after speaking with this well intentioned individual, I have to wonder whether the UI office recruits its employees from its pool of recipients, choosing the ones who had the hardest time getting a private sector job, and rewarding them with a public sector one.
I was calling to determine when my benefits will expire, for I read online that the last date to file for an extension is May 26, and I knew I was going to deplete my benefit sometime around then and hopefully not on the 27th. The UI representative looked at my file, and the following conversation ensued.
UI man, "I don't understand. Why were you paid the exact same amount each quarter during your last 4 quarters of work?"
Me, "I was a salaried employee who worked for the same company for nearly 3 years and at the same rate of pay for over a year."
UI man, "I don't understand. Why was your pay the exact same amount in each quarter?"
Me, "I received a salary as compensation. I was not paid by the hour. I had a constant rate of pay for over 12 months."
UI man, "I still don't understand. Ma'am, what is it that you did?"
Me, "I was an executive at a software company."
UI man, "Oh. OK. That answers my question."
For someone who answers questions from unemployed people all day long, shouldn't he be familiar with the concept a salary versus an hourly wage? So the private sector doesn't feel neglected, I feel compelled to share this gem of a story that happened to me a few days ago.
In my spare time, I've been trying to teach myself to knit. I ordered a book aimed at teaching children, and I purchased a variety of yarns and other supplies. I completed my first project, a scarf knit for a good friend who was very understanding when I presented it to him in March...it was his Christmas gift and had taken that long for me to complete.
I thought I would try something more tricky - a hat. I purchased circular needles, more yarn, and a book with directions for a hat. The items joined a collection of unused and now uninteresting to me items, and after some honest self-reflection, I realized that I am not a knitter, or at least not a knitter of complex round objects. By this time, I had no idea what I had done with the receipt. The packages were unopened, and everything was in pristine condition. I decided to try to take the items back to the craft store.
I drove to JoAnn Fabrics, the store where I had purchased the knitting materials as well as many hundreds of dollars worth of other random supplies for successful hobby attempts. I found an interesting open package trim that was 90% off because it was damaged. I figured I could incorporate it into some do it yourself fashion project. I picked up a couple other little things and headed for the long line to check out.
When I finally reached the front of the line, the following dialogue transpired. I know it's long, but that's sort of the point.
Me, in an apologetic tone, "Hi. I'm very sorry, but I purchased these items a while ago and have decided that I am not a knitter. I can't find the receipt. Will you accept them for an exchange?"
Cashier, in a tone of voice that resembled a dog barking, "How long ago did you buy them?"
Me, shrugging, "It was a while. Long enough to realize I probably won't use them." I thought back to when I completed the scarf, which served as inspiration to begin a new project.
Cashier, demanding, "I NEED TO KNOW WHEN YOU PURCHASED THEM."
Me, again shrugging, "March?"
Cashier, in a tone as if someone had just criticized her mother, "No you did NOT! You did not purchase these in March. For you to say you just decided not to knit, you had to have these for a really long time just sittin round yo house. Shoot. Makin up some lie you bought it in March, that's not cool. Lyin to me." Then in a quieter, annoyed voice more to herself than to anyone else, "I don't understand you people buyin things sayin you're gonna knit then decidin you're not gonna knit then losin the receipt. Damn."
Me, admittedly annoyed but now more determined than ever to exchange these items, especially since I took a quick glance at the return policy during her rant and saw that I was within my right and would simply get the lowest selling price for the merchandise, "Well, do you still carry the items? I don't remember the date of purchase, and despite what you said, I think it was last month. And, they are brand new and sealed where it would be evident if I had attempted to use them."
Cashier, after scanning items and seeing that they are currently carried in the store and at full price, "I don't even know why I'm gonna allow you to do this. You's gots to keep your receipt, Ma'am. This is what you're buyin?"
Me, pleased that it seemed I would get my way, "Yes please."
She rings up the purchase and doesn't deduct the 90% from the trim.
Me, "Isn't that trim 90% off since it's open and is marked damaged? I found it in the 90% off bin."
Cashier, as if I had just claimed that grass is purple, the sky is orange, Elvis is alive, and Santa Claus really does exist, "This ain't 90% off and it ain't damaged."
Me, fighting to answer flatly without any head gyration, "Well, it's missing the wrapper and it's got a damaged label stuck to it and was in the damaged bin."
Cashier, in an accusatory tone as if to press charges against me, "This ain't the right price." She began to peel the sticker off of the item, as if I would open the package and affix my own damaged sticker. I mean, I know I'm living on $297 a week, but that's a lot of effort to save $1.39.
For once, I decided to keep my mouth shut. This overweight cashier looked like she was about to have a heart attack. I could sense her blood pressure rising.
She waddled away to check the price, I suppose. She slowly waddled back, stating to no one in particular and yet everyone at the same time, "Damn people gots to keep their receipts. Shoot, damn people. Just decided not to knit and wants to buy this." Then she says directed to me, "Ma'am, you gots to keep your receipt. Do you have ID?"
Me, "Of course."
Cashier, strongly, "Now you gots to keep your receipt."
Me, firmly, "Yes. You've said that. I will."
Cashier, exasperated, "Fill this out with your name, address, and phone number." Then, talking to herself, "I don't know why I even took that old stuff back. I know you been keepin that round cuz you don't just decide not to knit in a month. That don't happen." When I handed her back the filled out form, she looked at the information and compared it to my driver's license. "This ain't the same address!"
Me, "That's correct. It isn't. I wrote the address where I currently reside."
Cashier, "Why does your license say a different address?"
Me, "I haven't changed my address with the DMV. But, I can still receive mail at that old address. Really, either one is fine."
Cashier, unfamiliar with the concept that it is possible, though in my case not quite accurate, that a person can have two places of residence, "Which one is your address?"
Me, attempting to simplify the situation so she would understand, "The one I wrote is where I sleep most nights, but my family still owns the property represented on my license, and I still receive mail at that address from time to time. You can write down whichever address you prefer."
Cashier, "Do you have proof from the Department of Motor Vehicles that the address you wrote down is where you live?"
Me, realizing the cashier was potentially unable and by now certainly unwilling to accept my explanation, "No."
Cashier, really about to explode, "Shoot. Damn people." She ripped the receipt from the register so hard, it tore in half. I damn near burst out with laughter realizing the irony. To herself, the cashier said, "Now I gots to tape it." To me, once again, "Keep your receipt Ma'am. You understand. Next time I won't be so nice."
Me, really wanting to ask her what behaviors she demonstrated when she wasn't nice, for perhaps I would like those better, but biting my tongue, as I had won the battle with the JoAnn Fabrics cashier and had what I wanted, so I said in an even, declarative tone, "Yes."
I thought about the incident during my drive home. In part, I was ticked and in part tickled. Her attitude pissed me off, but it made me laugh to think that she would probably allow our interaction to plague her while for me, it just makes for a funny ass blog story.
As has become customary nearly every morning before I drag myself into "work," I'm lying in bed surfing the web on my slow dial-up connection. I've become addicted to craigslist. I've applied for numerous jobs through craigslist and have yet to succeed in securing a position, whether it be as a $15 an hour discrimination researcher (apply for jobs and report a detailed account of what transpired), an author of a book on starting a business, a marcom / tradeshow coordinator, or an algebra, writing, and reading tutor. Perhaps what I consider to be a strong educational background and robust skill set are in fact weak and sickly. Feeling down about my inability to teech basik righting skilz, I was on the precipice of the self-doubt abyss I've been known to frequent, when craigslist pulled me back. I found an odd sense of self-acceptance after reading the following postings, for I did not post these messages and I don't (think I)know the people who did.
Posting 1:
Hi, I have a $300 Banana Republic gift card that I'm not going to use. You can buy it for $260. That's $40 for free! Also willing to trade for gift certificate to a sporting goods store that sells firearms. (I recall the classic econ 1 trade-off as guns for butter, not guns for khakis.)
Posting 2: Excerpts from a posting by a soon to be ex-girlfriend, by her choice, about her soon to be ex-boyfriend.
-I have to resist the urge to roll my eyes whenever I see him.
-(He said) "I hope you don't mind that I'm the type of guy who will beat the crap out of someone if they f*** with you." - When he said it, I thought it was really "cute" in that macho-insecure guy kind of way.
-He will burp and fart in front of you, without blinking an eye or excusing himself. His reasoning for this charming behavior is that your relationship transcends social mores (human decency?) and that you should be happy that he feels comfortable enough to be so primal in your company.
Posting 3: Gross!!! Maybe I should contact the poster to offer riting servises.
Models needed for erotic geared photography for tshirt designs. young models only. please only apply if you know youre cute. Amateur adult film artists incouraged but NOT necessary. The younger the better and amatuer models are encouraged to apply.
(And in a different posting by the same person, seeking the same type of "models," the poster clarifies...) No infants or toddlers please.
I've heard the saying, "It takes all kinds of people to make the world go round." Has anyone ever questioned whether a rotating globe is worth it?
"NO! AHHH! I'M GOING TO DIE!!! JUST LET ME DIE!!!" I silently screamed as the blunt edge of the rusty weapon fell repeatedly on my wrist, trying to sever my hand and free me from my shackles. It was no use to beg for mercy. I had to choose between dying at the hands of my captures or loosing my hand and at least attempting an escape. Should I bring the hand with me? Perhaps with the help of modern medicine, it can be reattached. Such was the quandary I was contemplating when I woke up early this morning covered in a thin layer of cold sweat.
It was dark and silent. Must still be the middle of the night. I will attempt to sleep some more.
"Beep! Beep!" the alarm sounded. I got up to take a shower, only to find that after many minutes of running the water, there was no warmth to be had. Rather than relive my South East Asia bathing experiences, I decided that my post-workout shower from the previous day could be stretched. I was running a little late in the morning, so I didn't rush for my normal train. I would simply catch the one following, not realizing that the train schedule had been changed significantly.
As I waited in the damp cold for 45 minutes, without my usual fashion magazine that miraculously makes the time pass without notice, I could either people watch or review my taxes and read articles about incorporating a business. I chose people watching.
A family of three approached the ticket booth. The father was a tall, slim Caucasian male with hair an interesting texture reminiscent of shag rugs from the 70s and color bringing to mind Sesame Street's endearing Mr. Snuffalufagus. His wife was a petite Chinese woman, and their toddler daughter Rebecca was cute and shy. The mother spoke to her daughter in Chinese, and the daughter seemed to understand perfectly. The father took out his wallet and said to the mother, "I will show you how to use. See? Here. See? Push button for Zone 2. Push button for 2 adults. Put money into machine. Train paper come out." Upon hearing his broken English, it took a great deal of internal fortitude to stop myself from rolling my eyes.
The father sought bonding moments with his daughter, who was entirely uninterested. "Rebecca. Big train come. We get on." Rebecca wanted to take a seat with her mom to wait for "big train." They chose to sit next to me.
The father approached. "Rebecca, when big hand on 3 and little hand on nine, then big train come." The mother sighed, rolled her eyes, and said in fine English, "The train is scheduled to arrive at 9:15." Rebecca looked at mom and understood just fine. Perhaps they were as confused as I was as to why this lumbering white man with interesting hair was speaking in such a pejorative fashion. I desperately wanted to ask the woman why she married this man and how she could stand being so blatantly disrespected, but acknowledging I had noticed her situation would only make it worse. It was clearly none of anyone's business but their own.
My attention then turned, briefly, to the man who was both collecting spare change and petitioning to do away with the H1B visas, stating that foreign competition was threatening our livelihood. Perhaps, like me, he had been laid off and, unlike me, decided to blame free trade. Regardless, I was in no mood to give change or a free market economics lesson while waiting for the delayed train.
Once on board, I settled in to my review of my taxes and reading material. I finished my taxes last week, but I had to have someone else print them for me because I have been too lazy to set up my own printer (I have 2 of them!) at home. I found a minor, yet apparent, oversight - my euphemism for error, red flag, mistake, big problem. I have that whole lacking a printer issue, so I have resolved to manually edit the otherwise beautifully typed documents. It's a judgment call as to what will alert the IRS more - a hand written yet correct return or a neatly printed one that contains an error. I will take my chances and favor accuracy.
The train took 97 minutes. By the time I arrived to work, it was nearly noon. In contrast to my Hell of a morning, I am hoping for a Heaven of an afternoon and evening.
I have no idea what the hell happened to the little pest who left three visible marks of his existence next to my bed, a place I have always considered a comforting safe haven of escape from the filth of the outside, rodent-infested world. As soon as I recognized that I had a problem, I gloved up and set 6 traps with enticing peanut butter. I listened, intently, throughout the following evenings, sweating with nervousness at the prospects of both catching and not catching "my little pet" as my mom likes to call it. I woke up at the slightest noise, usually sounds of the house settling. It's been some time now, and despite my odd obsession with finding new poops, if there are any, they have slyly escaped my coke-bottle assisted vision. The dilemma I face is when to remove the traps and live like a normal person.
Other completely unrelated queries have boggled me for some time now. For example, who in the world is reading my rantings, and how are you finding this blog? Mark kindly established this as a means for me to keep in touch with friends during my adventures in Asia. Yet, based on the few comments left by passers by, it seems that people I don't know have been more loyal in reading my whereabouts than those I do know. Odd. So, to those of you I don't know, why are you reading this? How did you find it? You all seem very nice, and my inquiring, bored, unemployed, mind is curious to learn who you are.
In keeping with the whole inquisitiveness theme, I have frequently wondered about two things and am hoping for outside input as validation of my wonderings or as confirmation of my craziness that I would even notice such behaviors.
Why is it that men feel entitled, even in a cramped space such as an economy class seat on an airplane or a seat on any form of public transportation, to spread their legs, encroaching on the limited and valuable legroom of his unfortunate, yet fortunately temporary, neighbor? I recently found myself smooshed between two leg spreaders. Despite my mom's descriptions of me as being "substantial," I'm not a particularly large woman. And, I've never thought I've had issues with clausterphobia, yet I certainly felt trapped and demeaned by the lack of courtesy... and the lack of that other "thing"... they were exhibiting. Men, why do you feel the need, no, the right to expose your crotches so freely? Don't even consider writing about the hardship of carting around your "third leg." Whatever the size of your appendage, you can certainly contain it so your neighbor can fit both of her "real" legs in her share of the space. Please be considerate and reserve the sparsely available legroom for legs that actually do some walking.
Another rant of the day involves Costco. I love Costco and think that it's a brilliant business. The Harvard Business School case on Costco contains some of the most valuable, interesting business lessons that two years and $100k can buy, or $5 if you just order that case. I have no complaints about the business of Costco; I have complaints about the customers of Costco. Dude, what's up with the pushing and shoving of seemingly well nourished people, all for a teaspoon full of Progresso chicken and rice soup, a sliver of strawberry tart, or a forth of a frozen and greasy chimichanga? The Costco leeches have one family member stand in line, shouting to their distant relatives to come get the samples when they are ready. They position their carts and bodies in such a way that blocks from passing even those uninterested in the free morsels. It's Vietnam streets, American discount shopper style.
In my state of unemployment, I have taken to scanning the job postings on craigslist quite regularly. I saw a posting for a Costco sampling position. Boy did I want to apply. For $10 an hour, I would have the power, albeit briefly since surely I would be fired, to dole out the orange sorbet as I saw fit, controlling the line, and keeping people in check. You want a sample, then you will form an orderly line with those waiting longest being served first. You have a large family, then each member must wait in line. I had visions of myself as Costco's orange sorbet Nazi, and I liked what I was imagining. My mom commented that if I were to follow through with my plan to apply, I probably shouldn't put that experience on my resume. Thanks for the advice, Mom. You don't think Goldman Sachs would value my sampling experience? In the end, I probably wouldn't have been selected anyway. I've been getting rejected for $15 an hour jobs and am hoping to soon make the talk show rounds promoting a new movie based on my life experiences titled, "Harvard to Homeless."