In A Relationship With _________

Smoking

I don’t smoke. I have smoked, but I don’t now. When I was in college I even tried to become addicted to cigarettes but either I wasn’t doing it right or I’m immune to cigarettes addictive qualities because it didn’t stick. Still on the rare occasion I get completely drunk with the wrong people I will have a cigarette or three and have no recollection of it the following day. Once I met a guy on an evening of extreme intoxication with a group of people who had cigarettes in their possession which turned into cigarettes in my possession and ultimately lips. The next time I encountered this guy he said “Want to go have a smoke?” to which I replied “I don’t smoke.” The rest of the conversation went something like this:

“Yes, you do.”

‘No, I don’t’

“Last time I saw you you were smoking”

‘Oh. You met drunk Christy. Drunk Christy smokes.’

“When does she show up?”

So I’m not a smoker and while I had a few friends in southern California who smoked. (Note: It’s important to state at this point that I am referring only to smoking cigarettes, not smoking weed or vaping.) But for the most part Southern Californians want to portray themselves as healthy and only smoke occasionally and are always in the process of quitting. My experience so far in the Massachusetts/Rhode Island area is that more people smoke. People like to interject that I see more people smoking because I work in the food service industry and it’s true, the percentage of people who work in restaurants who smoke is probably higher than the percentage who smoke in the greater population. The last restaurant I worked at in Providence almost the entire staff smoked. 75% of the staff would be outside at a single time, sometimes with customers. Each person easily took at least 6 smoke breaks per shift. Yet they all still bought cigarettes one pack at a time as if they were about to quit. Like people who buy toilet paper in packs of 4 rolls. Are you planning on spontaneously stopping shitting in the near future? Let’s face it, you’re full of shit, you aren’t going to stop smoking or shitting. Needless to say, the smoking by the staff and customers was excessive.

In addition to my work environment the hobby seems to extend to the greater population in this area, customers are taking smoke breaks during their meals. People don’t seem to care about smoking. It’s as if they haven’t been exposed to all of the information about the negative repercussions of smoking. They havent’t seen the TRUTH ads, or the commercials, or the movies, or even read the Surgeon General’s warning on the side of the carton. And it’s fine. It’s not illegal and they are adults. But when I see it I am so confused. Continuing to smoke despite all of the tests and studies and damning results seems stupid and sure, they’re addicted and I have no idea how hard it is to quit smoking (see above failure at getting addicted), but some of these kids (by kids I mean 18-24 year olds) started smoking well after this information was widely available to the public. My reaction to smoking in 2017 is the same as if we still had active, public slavery. Really? Still? In this day and age? Are you sure? You know it’s wrong, right? Are you sure you don’t want to stop? I mean, it’s a little embarrassing to still be owning slaves in 2017, isn’t it? It’s out-dated. Okay. Maybe smoking is more like fanny packs than slavery, but those are coming back in style.

Social media -or- How Instagram played a bigger role in my selection of a job than it should have.

I’m a millennial, it’s true, according to the internet. I just Googled “millennial” and my birth year falls within the parameters of “the early 1980s to late 1990s” so I’m a millennial. It’s Google official. The date range varies depending on the researcher, with start-years as early as 1976 and as late as 2004, but even the latest start year cut-off of 1984 still includes me, by 7 days. A week can change a lot of things. I’m a millennial because despite my 9-year-old self’s strong campaign for half-birthdays, I cannot change my birth date.

Since there are numerous similarities between job searching and mate searching (dating), it would make sense that I use some of the same tactics in both. When you find someone online you may consider dating, or even if you engage in the strange activity of meeting someone in real life, the first thing you do is check out his/her social media outlets: Facebook (if you’re an early era Millennial), Instagram, Snapchat (if you’re a later era ‘ennial). Understandably, I did the same thing when considering future employers. Most restaurants don’t have Snapchat or bitmojis, and Facebook pages remain seldom updated, so my main source of information was Instagram.  

One restaurant that offered me a job – my first official job offer – didn’t even have an Instagram. I’m not sure how that’s even possible in 2017. My friends’ moms have Instagram and they are from many generations before the ‘ennials. I know the restaurant has access to Millennials. I saw dozens of them working when I went in for an interview, and they all have smart phones that they were on instead of greeting customers, clearing tables or running food.  Somehow this restaurant couldn’t find its way onto the internet to post some incredibly close shots of food and as a result I didn’t find my way onto their payroll. Coupled with the location, the lack of Instagram page acted as a deciding factor in declining a job to work at this sport’s bar-esque restaurant that will remain nameless. I can’t even sneakily link you to their name because, well, they have no Instagram and definitely no Tumblr. Before anyone thinks my absurd reasoning is snobbish and horrible, I will say that the lack of “Insta” will not keep me from eating, drinking, and pretending to watch sports ball games at the establishment.

My second job offer came from a place with an Instagram account, nothing spectacular, standard filter usage, but at least I could tag my friends in the comments section of pictures. Subconsciously with a considerable amount of leakage into the conscious, I took this job off more seriously than an offer from a restaurant without basic social media outlets. Looking back on it, I don’t even know why. It seems silly and foolish, but I thought it significant enough to weigh this detail more heavily than health insurance. I’m a millennial, for better or worse, and I need to be able to keep tabs on my friends, boyfriend and my employer. How am I supposed to do that without a frequently updated Instagram account? How?

Safe to assume I have an Instagram account but I don’t post on it every day or in any amount of frequency. I do scroll through other accounts pictures every day but I wouldn’t consider myself an active Instagram user. I’m fairly certain I’ve never used it to plan my week or even a night out based on the activities, deals, or menu-offerings of a restaurant (Whiskey Wednesday is any day I damn-well want it to be, thank you) but I do believe it keeps some restaurants and brands in the forefront of my mind - a place they would seldom be without the visual infiltration of Instagram. Whatever it is business, specifically restaurants, are trying to do with their Instagram accounts, it’s working.

The second restaurant had an Instagram page, no criminal record a simple Google search could produce, no face tattoos, and called me back, so I accepted it. But it’s one of those relationships you don’t rush to tell all of your friends and family about. You don’t change your Facebook status for this guy. You’re hesitant to tag him in photos and you flinch a little when he tags you in his. It doesn't matter what filter you put on a picture of a burger with American cheese on it, it’s still a picture of a burger with American cheese on it. #notrealcheese As with the first, the restaurant will remain nameless and this time link-less, and I will definitely eat and drink at this restaurant, as long as they don’t tag me in pictures, because I’m a millennial, not a monster, and maybe a bit of an alcoholic.

Up next, job offer three. You may think I’m bragging with talk of all these job offers, but I’m not, these are all average restaurant management jobs with average pay, nothing to write home about, and certainly nothing to post on Instagram about. The third restaurant has a well-curated Instagram account that is clearly operated by a millennial in full hipster uniform – chambray shirt, dark jeans, and Vans/Cons. Off-center pictures of dishes and craft cocktails? Check. Mason jars? Check. Picture frames framing nothing except the wall it’s hanging on? Check, check, check, check! (There are a lot of them). Vintage-looking décor sourced from Etsy and/or Home Goods? Check. This is the kind of Instagram account you link your friends to. This is the kind of Instagram account that brings in diners on looks alone. As an ‘ennial, I swooned a little. I may not adhere to the specifications of my astrological sign but if you ask me if I want my wood reclaimed, my cocktails from liquors unnamed, and my chickens free range, I will say yes. Put Brussels sprouts on every menu for no reason, call bacon pork belly, and make 10 different kinds of aiolis. If you also ask me if I want a 401K, health insurance and vacation time I will also say yes, but I’ll gladly accept less money than I’m worth and pretend I’m never going to get sick or have use for one of those doctor things.

So hashtag me #yolo and #hired because if I can’t proudly tag my employer on Instagram I don’t want to work in this world anymore (except I have mountains of debt so I totally still need to work in this world and this care-free ‘ennial attitude I’m trying to portray is really just a guise to mask my paralyzing depression, lack of a savings account and missing 5 year, let alone 2 year, plan.) Double tap this post for the secret to success and more followers.

Jobs - the commitment (accepting an offer)

I’ve had a job of some sort since my late teens, half of my life, so you’d think I would have the application, interview, and acquisition process down by now, but you would be incorrect, very incorrect, uncorrect even. I still don’t even know what kind of job I want, except that I would like to make a living wage, have a day or two off per week, and maybe not want to kill myself at the end of every day, that last part is optional though. I’ve managed a restaurant and I’ve baked. While my, as they call it in the industry, “front of house” and “back of house” skills make me a well-rounded potential employee, applying for both types of jobs confuses potential employers, “Which do you want to do?” “Both!” “Which do you enjoy more?” “Both!” “Where do you see yourself in five years?” “Both?” This best of both houses, hybrid job doesn’t exist. It’s time to pick a side. Front or back?

Interviewers (future bosses) ask me what I’m looking for as far as type of work, responsibilities, pay and benefits are concerned and I low-ball myself. After about six interviews I started doing it less, but I still do it. I am not good at talking myself up and asking for what I deserve. It’s the equivalent of spending hours filling out an online dating profile saying you are Christian, looking for a non-smoker who is motivated in his profession and wants children and you repeatedly agree to dates with an unemployed Atheist who smokes, has an estranged relationship with his three children from three previously relationships and doesn’t want any more. But isn’t it the dating site’s fault for matching you with him in the first place?

I’ve told businesses I would get back to them about the “$12/hr position” when in my head I’m shouting “Are you fucking kidding me?” because I was worried about letting them down and a little afraid it might be the best or only offer I receive. Maybe I should date that alcoholic afterall. Move in with him even. What’s the worst that could happen?

But the more you receive offers that insult you and enrage your inner voice, the more you question your desirability as an employee and second guess that ‘well-rounded’ appeal. Maybe I am only worth $16/hr. Interviewing for jobs has the potential to bruise your ego and fold your self-esteem in half like ‘just another resume’ printed on high gloss paper. You’re putting yourself out there as a candidate deserving extreme trust and commitment and receiving tempered uncertainty in return, or worse, silence.

It’s more acceptable to settle and date someone who might not be your ideal than it is to settle for a job that isn’t “the one”. You can just sleep with the guy and move on, but a job affects more of your life than a one night stand. It’s okay to break up with someone and be single for awhile. It’s less okay to quit a job and be unemployed for awhile. You need to get paid but, as much as I hate to admit it, you don’t need to get laid. Don’t sell yourself short. Because that’s what interviewing for jobs is, it’s selling yourself. And once you commit to a position, you’re sold.

Jobs - the search (dating)

You have to get a job, maybe you don’t, but I do, I have to get a job. It’s not really an option, at least not in the life I’ve ended up in. No wealth of, well, wealth to support me and my nap’n’stroll lifestyle. No husband in sight who will let me stay home to sweep and sleep all day. No incurable fatal disease providing a mournful but convenient escape plan. All arrows on the flow chart of my life point to JOB.

Jobs aren’t like college, dating, marriage, kids, or even bathing, those things are optional. Some may come highly recommended but still optional. Employment is mandatory. There’s no saying “I just don’t think a job is for me. It doesn’t really fit into the plan I have for my life.” or “I don’t think this work thing is going to work out.” (which is exactly what I say about working out)  As long as your life plan involves having a place indoors to sleep that isn’t a church-funded shelter, it also involves a job. You’ve got to do it and I’ve got to do it. It’s more like pooping in that sense than dating. Everybody poops, everybody jobs and almost every job is shit.

So here I am, unemployed and looking.

Age: 32.

Height: 5’6.

Body type: Average.

Drinks: Always.

Smokes: Never.

Experience: Enough.  

I’m putting on my finest cover letter, selecting knock-out fonts and practicing my first interview smile, giggle, and hair toss. I’ve been job-searching for a couple months now. I’ve been met with a fair amount of unresponded emails and unread applications. I’ve applied aggressively and generously, “Assistant to the head scooper at an ice creamery”? APPLY NOW. I’ve also applied consciously and selectively at times. “Line Cook at Chili’s”? Ask me again in a month. My phone rings an unoffensive number of times a day and I haven’t been stood up on an interview yet, so I’d say my job search is going a smidge better than my dating was. Unlike dating, I need a job. I never needed a date. Solo pantsless pizza party? Fine by me. Solo unemployed pizza party? Fine until I can’t afford pizza any more.

I’m not without prospects. I’ve had nine interviews so far, but an interview isn’t a job, although scheduling, dressing for and attending interviews is starting to feel like a job in itself. The way dating starts to feel like a full-fledged relationship after a couple months, except your boyfriend looks different every date and you can tell the same stories and jokes (doesn’t sound too bad actually). I’m starting to forget when I wore which outfit which is making second interviews trickier than simply trying to think of another scenario when you displayed “excellent leadership skills in a stressful situation”. The charm of going to a new restaurant or bakery everyday is fading fast, just know how I like my coffee by now.

My last day of work was April 21, 2017. I have been out of work for nearly a month now. I had a decent job, but I left it. It didn’t leave me, because I’m an independent woman who knows what she wants; except when it comes to jobs, what to watch on Netflix, the future, and most basic life stuff. But if it’s about pizza, tacos, alcohol or puppies, I know. Check [  ] All of the Above. I left my old job right where I found it and consciously decided to turn and walk away. I didn’t misplace it. I didn’t lose it. The job lost me, and it better miss me.

I ended the employmentship, courteously, giving the job plenty of time to adjust. We both knew it wasn’t going to last. It was nice for awhile, but we had our differences from the beginning - the ones you overlook because the positives seem so great. He was unstructured and full of hollow promises. I showed up late and was looking out beyond the greasy windows to somewhere different. Eventually his paychecks bounced, then so did I. I’ll always look back fondly on that time in my life but nothing good lasts forever, without the proper funding. So I moved on, and literally moved to a different state.

Currently, I am voluntarily unemployed, which may sound like a nice position to be in but it really isn’t. It’s just as stressful as unexpected unemployment and the future is just as uncertain; except when you quit your job there’s a lot less sympathy. Luckily I moved so I had to leave my job which allows for a bit more sympathy but that doesn’t stretch very far. Humans are shallow wells of -pathy: sym-, em-, tele-, and the others. It’s like when you tell people you’re taking a year off dating but everyone just assumes no one is interested in you.

I was a baker and I loved it. I don’t regret leaving my job. I had to. A 3,000 mile commute is too long, even for a Southern Californian. But unlike a break-up where there’s a few month period of keeping tabs on each other sneakily through mutual friends and social media to see who moves on first, I know my job has moved on. It had to. My spot on the payroll was still warm when they hired my replacement. Hell, she was there before I even left. Classic case of a serial-employer.

Although I’m confident in the work I did I still feel oddly competitive towards my replacement and slightly jealous when I see their Instagram posts together. Are her cakes prettier than mine? Are her cakes prettier than ME? Do they talk about me? Is it cruel? Has he introduced her to regular customers? Or his parents? My normal post-job insecurities are only intensified by the fact that I haven’t moved on, and don’t know when I will. Sure, I’m trying. I’ve been applying for jobs since before I left the last one. Like I said, we both knew it was going to end.

Change

I moved recently.  A big move, from one coast to the other. Sure, same country, same language, but I assure you the people, and their accents, are different. Did you know there were multiple ways to say “Oregon” and “drawer”? What about that coffee actually has a ‘w’ sound in it? No? How about that not everyone says “the” in front of the interstate number? Also no? Well, you clearly haven’t been to the East Coast or “the least coast” my West Coast friends assure me. Verdict’s still out, I just got here. I moved from the West Coast (“the best coast”) to the East Coast. The southern region of California to the northern region of the East Coast - New England. Where the states are so small they had to band together to form a region just to get recognized and remembered. Not so far that you start coming back around the globe, but far enough. It’s a big change, and it turns out, I don’t like change.

I always knew I didn’t like change, but I was never as heavily confronted with it until this move. Most of the change I’ve dealt with in the past was pocket change or at best equivalent to some quarters, nickels and dimes (fuck pennies) in your wallet, not even enough to require a separate coin purse. But this change, this was like a gallon milk jug filled with coins, even some silver dollars in there, so filled the plastic is probably going to crack when you pick it up to take it to the bank. The kind of change you have to take to the CoinStar machine because stacking it in those little paper tubes from the bank all by yourself just isn’t worth it. I rolled a small glass jar full of coins and that wasn’t even worth it. I got $22.50 out of it but hindsight I should have just kept it in coin-form for parking meters.

I changed my entire life - quit my job, said goodbye to my friends (all three of them), moved out of my apartment, went from living alone to living with 2 guys and 2 dogs, and, keeping with the monetary theme, I even have to change banks. Chase...get it together. I need some consistency in my new life. I need you on the East Coast. Minutes after completing the very grown-up task of opening a savings account I was informed by the bank clerk who assisted me that “There are no Chase Banks in Rhode Island.” Add it to the change jar. Let’s fill it up. Impending changes I will have to soon make as a result of the big change “the silver dollar change” include: getting a new driver’s license, license plate, changing insurance (health and car) and how I buy my liquor. They can’t just sell it in the grocery store like normal states. At this rate, I’m lucky I get to keep my name.

1: take pics of dogs you see

2: send them to me

3: that's it