It's been two years, seven months, and twenty-one days since I lay on my futon mattress without a frame, crying with tears of joy. A stranger looking in on me might wonder what could make this girl in her early twenties so happy.
Looking in from the outside, this girl had hit rock bottom. Newly divorced, up to her eyeballs in debt, the owner of a lovely black lab that had only one aspiration which was chewing the crotch out of every pair of pants she owned. A quick inventory of the drab one bedroom apartment and its cupboards would result in 2 mugs, a plate, a few pieces of silverware probably stolen from the restaurant which employed her, and a pot "borrowed" from her neighbor which she had accidentally and permanently burned beyond repair at an attempt to cook rice. The stained burber carpet was disintegrating with each step weighed upon it, the damages would surely be taken from her deposit at the end of her lease. The stained burber carpet was a perfect metaphor for her life at that time, life was falling apart with each heavy, exhausted step. And don't forget the futon mattress which acted as bed, dog bed, couch, and clean laundry spot.
Normally, when the phone rang it was a collector. Someone needing money immediately, money they deserved and money she didn't have. If you were a waitress that had to come up with $4,000 a month to keep the creditors happy, you'd have collectors calling you too. So that's why when the phone rang this time, it seemed as if I had finally gotten my break.
It was an employer calling to let me know I got the job despite all circumstances. I arrived at the interview late, sweaty, and smelling of sour milk. The sour milk was residuals from the second job I held at Starbucks. 80 hour work weeks were killing me and almost sabotaged my attempt get getting this new job; the job to end all jobs.
Three days prior to this phone call, a man sat at the other end of a table eyeing me skeptically. "Could this girl in her early twenties, flush cheeks from the hurried bike ride over, really keep it together in this office environment?" Then came the first inappropriate question, "Are you single?"
"Am I single??" From my previous management training at Starbucks I knew this interview question was perfectly illegal. I remember thinking, "it sure would be great if I had a recording device right now, because if I don't get this job, I can sue their asses for discrimination." Little did I know, that would not be the last time I wished I had a recording device in my pocket.
"I just need to know that you wont meet some guy in Iraq and get married in the next few years, I'm looking for someone long term." Again, this statement seemed highly inappropriate. But when you're desperate for the job to end all jobs you'll ignore all of that stuff.
Sadly, I was single, I had no time for a relationship. I used that to my advantage and somehow, despite all odds, the phone was ringing in my depressing apartment to let me know that I had landed the job. It was the perfect job. Monday-Friday; 8-5, salary plus commish, create my own schedule, no cold-calling, gas mileage paid, paid vacation, ahhhh the warm tears of joy were really flowing now.
Immediately I called Starbucks to put in my two weeks notice, no more 4:00am shifts for me, and the waitress job? Within a few months I would quit there too.
Little did I know that there were people here in the office we shall name "Hotel California" who were frantically trying to warn me. If only they had known my phone number, or my address, they would have told me not to check in, to look patiently for the next "vacancy" sign. But they were too late.
Don't worry though, for this story is not a tragedy. This story is a dark comedy. A story of a young girl who's found herself surrounded by people more than twice her age, all prisoners of the office, all victims of the camp of concentration. The movie, "Life is Beautiful" comes to mind, where the main character must use humor and imagination to protect his son in the concentration camps of the holocaust. Here, in the office, we too use humor and imagination, for it is the only way to survive.
The following entries are memoirs of the past 2.642 years delightfully paired with the coping skills I've learned from one of my favorite shows, "The Office." Without the help of characters like Jim Halpert, Michael Scott and even Dwight Shrute, I could not be writing this, for my arms would be strapped behind me in a straightjacket and the padded walls of my cell would not be a very reliable writing surface.
Looking in from the outside, this girl had hit rock bottom. Newly divorced, up to her eyeballs in debt, the owner of a lovely black lab that had only one aspiration which was chewing the crotch out of every pair of pants she owned. A quick inventory of the drab one bedroom apartment and its cupboards would result in 2 mugs, a plate, a few pieces of silverware probably stolen from the restaurant which employed her, and a pot "borrowed" from her neighbor which she had accidentally and permanently burned beyond repair at an attempt to cook rice. The stained burber carpet was disintegrating with each step weighed upon it, the damages would surely be taken from her deposit at the end of her lease. The stained burber carpet was a perfect metaphor for her life at that time, life was falling apart with each heavy, exhausted step. And don't forget the futon mattress which acted as bed, dog bed, couch, and clean laundry spot.
Normally, when the phone rang it was a collector. Someone needing money immediately, money they deserved and money she didn't have. If you were a waitress that had to come up with $4,000 a month to keep the creditors happy, you'd have collectors calling you too. So that's why when the phone rang this time, it seemed as if I had finally gotten my break.
It was an employer calling to let me know I got the job despite all circumstances. I arrived at the interview late, sweaty, and smelling of sour milk. The sour milk was residuals from the second job I held at Starbucks. 80 hour work weeks were killing me and almost sabotaged my attempt get getting this new job; the job to end all jobs.
Three days prior to this phone call, a man sat at the other end of a table eyeing me skeptically. "Could this girl in her early twenties, flush cheeks from the hurried bike ride over, really keep it together in this office environment?" Then came the first inappropriate question, "Are you single?"
"Am I single??" From my previous management training at Starbucks I knew this interview question was perfectly illegal. I remember thinking, "it sure would be great if I had a recording device right now, because if I don't get this job, I can sue their asses for discrimination." Little did I know, that would not be the last time I wished I had a recording device in my pocket.
"I just need to know that you wont meet some guy in Iraq and get married in the next few years, I'm looking for someone long term." Again, this statement seemed highly inappropriate. But when you're desperate for the job to end all jobs you'll ignore all of that stuff.
Sadly, I was single, I had no time for a relationship. I used that to my advantage and somehow, despite all odds, the phone was ringing in my depressing apartment to let me know that I had landed the job. It was the perfect job. Monday-Friday; 8-5, salary plus commish, create my own schedule, no cold-calling, gas mileage paid, paid vacation, ahhhh the warm tears of joy were really flowing now.
Immediately I called Starbucks to put in my two weeks notice, no more 4:00am shifts for me, and the waitress job? Within a few months I would quit there too.
Little did I know that there were people here in the office we shall name "Hotel California" who were frantically trying to warn me. If only they had known my phone number, or my address, they would have told me not to check in, to look patiently for the next "vacancy" sign. But they were too late.
Don't worry though, for this story is not a tragedy. This story is a dark comedy. A story of a young girl who's found herself surrounded by people more than twice her age, all prisoners of the office, all victims of the camp of concentration. The movie, "Life is Beautiful" comes to mind, where the main character must use humor and imagination to protect his son in the concentration camps of the holocaust. Here, in the office, we too use humor and imagination, for it is the only way to survive.
The following entries are memoirs of the past 2.642 years delightfully paired with the coping skills I've learned from one of my favorite shows, "The Office." Without the help of characters like Jim Halpert, Michael Scott and even Dwight Shrute, I could not be writing this, for my arms would be strapped behind me in a straightjacket and the padded walls of my cell would not be a very reliable writing surface.
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