Rejection. Frustration. Yet, I remain hopeful. What is wrong with me? Mr. President?

1 Feb

Ya know, I’ve been hit by numerous of bad “happenings” throughout my almost 25 years of living on this planet.  When I was younger, I could not deal with the “crap” as well as I do today.  I guess you could say that my “shell” has hardened over the years.  I have undergone bouts of painful,unpleasant illnesses (Lyme Disease x2, 2 ulcers, anemia, depression, anxiety, broken bones, botched spinal tap, etc.), dealt or dealing with a recovering alcoholic/narcotic addict brother (he was my best friend…lost in the substance), death of my high school/college “sweetheart” that I think about every day, and the shit keeps flying my way.

I keep picking myself up and moving on.  I guess that is one reason why I am a runner.  We never give up.  It may be impossible for me to give up this dream of mine: to be successful and happy.  Oh, wait, that’s your dream too?  Sarcasm, people.

So, this rage is mostly driven from my latest news:  rejection from a job I applied for.  I was interviewed, thought it went well, and waited as patiently as I could.  Today, while I was composing a follow-up email over the position, I was emailed by that company with the bad news.  No job for me.  Perfect timing, right?

I’m of course not mad at the company whatsoever.  I’m disappointed that I was not what they wanted.  Sure, I am quite familiar with rejection.  Come on now.  I’m in advertising.  I’m just upset that I got my hopes up.  I really liked the company and the team that interviewed me.  My reaction to the email was quite immature (to say the least).  I threw f-bombs like it was the only word I could pronounce.  I cried and moaned until I thought I would vomit up my afternoon coffee.  It wasn’t because I didn’t get a job at that particular company.  It was because I was back to the drawing board, back to square one, back to being a “prospective” employee.  I am exhausted.

After my tantrum, I called my more than supportive parents.  They answered the phone (both of them at once on different phones) to my shouting voice, “F***!  F***!  F***!  I can’t land a f***ing job ever!”  And so on…   My dad, completely unaware of what was going on, started to freak out as well.  This man is more stable than a concrete wall.  He never freaks out.  But when his youngest and only daughter shouts through a phone 1700 miles from the other end, Fred tends to freak.  He thought I was being attacked.  I reassured him that I was ok, but a complete failure because I could not get hired.  Anywhere.

My mom began to calm me as I shook more rampant than a paint shaker at Home Depot.  After the initial f-bombs, my dad proceeded to calm me as well with saying, “there will be something out there for you.”  Also, to email the company for suggestions on bettering my resume or interview skills.  I had to explain to them the reason why I was so upset over this one interview:  lack of money.  I have been trying to support myself as long as I can remember, but my parents are the true backbones to my financial stability.  I really just want to be able to DRIVE myself around (I don’t own a car) and be able to afford to go out.  I don’t go out to dinner or for drinks because I am broke.  Flat out broke.

After talking to my parents, I immediately applied to one of the most prestigious ad agencies out there and happen to be located in my backyard.  Crispin Porter + Bogusky.  My mentality was, “F*** it.  I’m used to rejection any way.”  I actually took classes there this time last year.  I’ve just been too scared to apply there.

Icing on the cake:  after applying to CP+B, I logged onto http://www.whitehouse.gov and wrote the president an email of my thoughts on job creation in the States.  Of course one of the dozens of interns at the White House would be sweeping through my well thought out letter.  I was just attempting to copy/paste what I had submitted to that site and well ya look at that!  I’m the idiot that didn’t copy what I wrote before I clicked the “submit” button.  Please call me, “dumby” from now on.  Wait, “unemployed dumby.”

The letter I submitted was scripted so adequately to my pleas and views on how young minds are being wasted today due to the horrid economy.  What do I expect out of my cry for help?  Eh, pat on the back.  Maybe they will FedEx a box of tissues to me to dry my tears resulting from my inability to land a job.

Pray for me people.  I need it.

I’ll add doodles later.  For now, I am going to fill myself with bowls of noodles.

Job Search. I was scammed. Lesson Learned.

15 Nov

October 8, 2010

I woke up at 4:00am to get ready, left my place by 5:00am, caught one of three buses I had to take by 5:24am, and arrived in Englewood by 7:45am.  I had to be there by 9:00am, so I figured earlier was better.  Around 8:30am, I waited in the office for my second interview along with two other candidates.  Both were female and around my age.  One had a sort of mohawk.  First bad sign.

At 9:30am, I met the person that I was shadowing for the day, “Bob” (name removed for confidentiality).  My first impression of Bob was “frat boy” because of his long scruffy hair and beer belly dressed in a cheap suit.  We left the building and headed to our transportation for the day…his Jeep. Usually, the business or company wants to impress their prospective employees.  At least that is what I thought until I took a seat in Bob’s jeep.  It reeked of cigarette smoke and looked like it was his personal dumpster on wheels.

Bob told me we were going to Arvada, which is his territory for selling.  We stopped by a convenience store for snacks.  I purchased a diet coke, while Bob purchased a pack of cigarettes and two fried “somethings”.  As I walked toward the car, Bob started to light a cigarette and told me he had to smoke it before we left.  I said, “Ok”.

As we drove to Arvada, Bob proceeded to blast blue grass music, wore a baseball cap slanted, and texted on his cell phone while driving.  My take on professionalism at this point was basically close to none.  Once we arrived in Arvada, Bob told me he was going to meet with clients that he had closed the deal on.  The deal was that the business accepted to purchase office supplies from Q***, the company Bob was assigned to sell in Arvada.  Suddenly I realized I was working at Dunder Mifflin (the Office).  So we proceeded to meet with these clients.  Well, the first five clients were not in the office.  To sum up the morning:  we drove in loops around Arvada, listening to blue grass, me inhaling secondhand cigarette smoke, me gagging every time Bob hocked and spit a loogie, and walked into businesses where the clients were unavailable.  Blisters started to form on my heels.

Lunch time.  Bob took me to Smiling Moose and treated me to lunch.  Oh, how thoughtful.  We then discussed how I would be paid if I decided to join the company.  My choice was between salary or commission.  Bob recommended commission because salary did not meet his satisfaction.  He showed me the structure of the company.  It was separated into four categories formed into a pyramid structure.  You gradually work your way up the ladder earning more money as you go.  Once you are at the top, you are able to relocate to a different city, choose your clients to sell to other businesses, and hire  people to work for you.  May sound a tad confusing, but it screamed scam.  I asked Bob who created this business structure.  He didn’t know and didn’t care.

Once lunch was finished, Bob told me we were going to try to find new businesses to sell office supplies to.  Yippee.  We parked at one end of town and walked.  We stopped by every building that appeared to be a business that seemed to use a decent amount of office supplies (i.e., law firms, insurance agencies).  Every door we opened had a giant label reading, “NO SOLICITORS”.  I think Bob truely believed he was not a solicitor.  Oh geez.  Almost every business we entered turned Bob down.  The kicker: Bob would try to use ice breakers such as, “Hey guys, I heard it was happy hour here.  What are your drink specials?” or, “Hey, I’m here with the IRS and I need to collect.  Where is your accountant?”  It was like listening to nails on a chalkboard.  He said those lines with no enthusiasm and he thought that he was being clever or funny.  AHHHH!!!!  People do not want to hear that kind of stuff.  He maybe was able to get two businesses interested in buying office supplies from Q***.

Oh yea, the marketing company (not Q***) does not give out business cards.  Their theory, one of many idiotic theories, was to keep people in a state of fear.  If you don’t leave a business card, then the prospective business will think that they missed out.  No.  The business will completely forget about the offer and continue to buy their office supplies from Office Max or Office Depot.

Finally, I thought to myself, “I want to get the f*** out of here.”  I had enough and I was wasting my time.  It was about 3:00pm when I told Bob that I was not interested in this job.  I asked if I could leave.  He told me that his boss, “Sheila” (named removed for confidentiality), would like to talk to me at the end of the work day and there is some liability involved.  In my mind I was thinking, “Liability?  What liability?  I didn’t give them any of my information except my name and resume.”  I also didn’t want to burn any bridges, so I sucked it up and continued to follow Bob around as he continuously got rejected.  I kind of started to find amusement out of the whole experience.  This is what door to door salesman go through on a day to day basis.  How do they enjoy it???

We arrived back at the office by 5:00pm.  I took a seat and waited to speak with Sheila.  Two minutes later Bob comes out and tells me that I can leave.  What?!  I didn’t actually have to talk with Sheila.  Figures.  I darted out of the office and immediately called my Dad to vent.  Bless his heart.  He chuckled at my story, but reassured me that I did the right thing by going to check it out.  I guess he is right.

Icing on the cake:  I was locked inside a fenced in area that I had mistakingly got myself trapped in while searching for the bus home.  There was no way out.  I had to climb the fence.  In flats.

So, here I am still on the hunt for a job.

Crash and Burn

15 Nov

Summer 1996 ?

For Christmas, my parents gave me a pair of interchangeable rollerblades.  Totally cool.  The bottoms of the rollerblades could be changed from ice skates, to trick skis, or to the traditional wheels for rollerblading.

My childhood best friend, Kari, and I decided to go to the top of my neighborhood’s hill so that I could rollerblade down.  Kari was rollerblade-less and held my dog, Daisy, by the leash as I attempted to ascend and descend the hill.  As a kid, everything appears to be bigger than it actually is, so I imagined the hill to be a mountain.

I was ready to rocket down that hill.  Kari and Daisy watched as I began my descent.  Halfway down the hill, I felt something funny under one of my feet.  I looked down.  The wheels were gone on one of my skates.

In less than a second, I thought to myself, “Just put your foot down and prepare for landing.”

Crash.  Topple.  Skip.  Scrape.  I had survived!  I stood up.  Kari and Daisy darted toward me.  Not one tear dropped out of my eyes.

I hobbled up my driveway.  My mom came rushing out.  She took those skates and immediately threw them in the trash.

Totally cool?  No.  Totally killer.

Adhere to the Warnings on the Drug Label

3 Nov

April 9, 2007

Plantar fasciitis had been crippling me for over a month and I had to dull the pain.  I was on Towson University’s Track and Field team, so injuries were overlooked.  No matter how much pain, you basically still had to run.  I chose to use copious amounts of ice and the anti-inflammatory drug, ibuprofen.

For weeks I had been popping two pills in the morning and about four before practice.  They helped, but never made the pain disappear.  I kept amping my dosage as the weeks passed.

On the day after Easter, I decided to go for a 12 mile run on the NCR trail.  As routine, I popped 6 pills into my mouth and washed it down with a cup of coffee on my way to the trail.  I ran the 12 miles and got back into my car.  My stomach began to growl, so I thought that I was hungry.  I scarfed down a Powerbar…well, if you know the consistency of those bars it was more like chewed for a good five minutes before swallowing.

About 2 miles into my drive back to my apartment, I felt like I had to use the restroom to go #2.  I pulled into the parking lot of Target and strolled inside.  The pain in my stomach grew.  I was used to stomach issues before.  I’m a runner.  It’s normal.  This was not normal though.  I went #2 and I looked down.  Blood.  All blood.  It looked like I had slaughtered something and tried to flush it.  Sorry if this is a little gross.

Panic struck.  What the hell is going on?  I called my Mom.  I told her what had happened.  She immediately told me to go to my apartment and that she was on her way (about a 45 minute drive to me).  My Mom also told me to find a tupperware container and try to collect any more of my stool for the hospital to sample.  She told me to place it in a brown bag and put it in the refrigerator.  I lived with three other girls, which would explain the brown bag.  I love my mom.

My mom arrived and we went to the hospital.  I have no idea why they call people waiting to see a doctor, “patients.”  It’s too similar to the word, “patience,” and that is the opposite of how we feel when waiting to seek medical attention.  Anyway, we’re waiting forever in the ER.  I’m losing my patience.  I kept thinking, “Why the hell am I bleeding out of my ass?  I would like to know NOW!”

I go into my designated room and they start to analyze my situation.  They told me that I would have to wait until morning for a colonoscopy.  I was not allowed to eat anything.  Instead, I had to drink Diet Ginger Ale mixed with a laxative in order to clear me out for the colonoscopy.  Oh goodie.  Every time I had to go to the bathroom I had to collect a “sample” in a “hat.”  Sparing details here.  Going to the bathroom was not as easy as you think either.  I was hooked to IV’s since I lost a ton of blood.  It was like an obstacle course every time I had to pee or poop.

My mom was at my side the whole time.  She held my hand and reassured me that nothing bad was going to happen.  I was turning 21 that year.  I still needed my Mommy.

As the night progressed and the laxative took full effect, I was hitting the bathroom almost every 30 minutes.  My mom attempted to help me every time I had to go, but by 3:00am she kind of said screw it because I was fine on my own.  The woman needed her rest.  I did too.

7:00am sharp the nurses rolled a stretcher in and I hopped on.  By the way, how many people below the age of 50 have had a colonoscopy?  Yea, I’m unique.

The docs and nurses sedated me and I underwent my very first colonoscopy.  Refreshing!

The procedure detected my problem.  I had two ulcers in my lower intestine.  The culprit:  ibuprofen.

Ibuprofen was not the only problem.  I weighed about 118 lbs (that’s pretty skinny for me), ran competitively, and had terrible eating habits.  I turned my life around from that point on.  I started to actually eat meals and not just an apple whenever I was hungry.  I went cold turkey on coffee.  I took a break from running, which I absolutely did not want to do, and gave my body a rest.  Within a month I was running again.  My plantar fasciitis disappeared as well.

The aftermath:  I’m anemic and I avoid ibuprofen.

 

Preakness: Take 2

3 Nov

May 2008

Cooler in hand, friends at my side, and anticipation for one of the greatest events ever invented by mankind:  Preakness.  It is the one day of the year that I look forward to flying beer cans, dudes hopping across roofs of Port-A-Pots, chicks peeing while wrapped in beer boxes, and a complete crowd of madness.  Ahh, Preakness.  Oh yea, its actually a horse race.  They have an infield where people can party.  Look it up if you want the actual details.

This was my second year going to the freakfest.  I was with my bud, Sammy G, and his two other friends.  Each of us had a cooler filled with fun.  We set up camp around 10:00am.  Started sippin’.

The whole experience of Preakness is watching the mayhem of a crowd of highly intoxicated young…adults.  College kids.

A couple hours of spectating passed along with several sips of 99 Apples.  Ugh.  Sammy G beckons me to a circle of approximately 50 Preakness infield participants.

“They’re mud wrestling!  You should do it!”  Sammy G is quite the instigator.

I jump in to the mud pit.  It has begun.  Hands up.  Legs locked.  I was ready.  Bring it!

Mud started to canvas my entire body.  Before I knew it my face was in the mud.  I couldn’t breath.  Is this really how I’m supposed to go?  In a mud pit?  Adrenaline pumping, I pushed that slightly overweight chick off my back and threw her on the ground.

Victory!  Applause and cheers roared around me.  Sure, it was a little degrading, but I had fun.

My mud masked body stumbled out of the circle and grabbed Sammy G.  As we walked back to our spot, I realized that it was only noon.  We had more than half the day left at Preakness and I was covered in mud.  Crap.  Sammy G and I ran around looking for a hose, buckets of water, or something to rinse me off.  Nothing.

A lightbulb went off in my head.  I lived less than 3 miles from the Preakness venue.  In a split second, I was out the gates hailing a cab.  My muddy hands open the cab door as the cabby gives me the look of death.  I’m surprised he even let me into his cab.

I arrive at my apartment.  Uh oh, no keys!  I had left my keys at the freakfest.  The office has keys!  I sprint to the office as mud flings in every direction around me.  I get to the desk.  Two girls are sitting there.  They did a double take on me.  Jaws drop.

“Uh, are you ok?”

“Yea.  Preakness.  Mud wrestling.  I’m locked out of my apartment.  I must get back to Preakness.  Please.”  Gasping for air.

The maintenance man follows me to my apartment, unlocks the door, and I scramble in to shower.  As I’m showering, I notice red in the puddle below me.  I’m bleeding, but from where??  Found it.  My right thumb.  It must have gotten sliced while I was kicking that chick’s butt.

Clean and mud free.  Now, how do I get back to Preakness?  My phone started to vibrate.  It was a kid I worked with, Matt.

“Hey.”

“Hey, do you want to take my shift on Sunday?”

“Yea, if you take me back to Preakness.”

“Uh, ok.  Where should I pick you up?”

Probably the best deal I’ve ever made.

Matt drives me back to Preakness.  I head towards the gates.

“Ma’am you cannot reenter.”

“What?!”

I call Sammy G.

“They won’t let me in!”

“Oh no!”

“Wait, I have an idea.  Just keep talking to me.  Keep talking.”

The guards become distracted by some drunken fools creating havoc on the other end of the gates.  Still on the phone, I slip by the guards and reenter heaven.  Hallelujah!  I reunite with my pals and enjoy the rest of the Preakness festivities.

I have a scar on my thumb from that day.

The Cry of the Hawk

3 Nov

Fall 2002 – Fall 2003

I was my high school’s mascot.  A giant, artificial furred, hawk.  And I am darn proud of my mascoting days.  My best friend, Sue, was my body guard.  No one was supposed to know that I was the person underneath the costume.  Sue is a bit of a blabber mouth, but I didn’t actually care if everyone knew it was me.

Every Friday night I would have to put that heavy hawk outfit on and run around the stadium.  Even on 30 degree nights, I felt like I was in Mexico while wearing that thing.

On game day, I had to lug the costume to school in two giant duffle bags.  I always put the bags in the shower stalls of the women’s locker room where we kept our clothes for cross country practice.  Sue, Ash, and I claimed the shower stalls because they hadn’t been used in about 20 years and  it was spacious.

After school, I went to the locker room to get ready for cross country practice.  The football game didn’t start until 7:00pm.  As I was heading closer and closer to the locker room, I could overhear people talking about a sewage leak.  I brushed off the chatter and continued toward my destination.  The smell of disgustingness entered my nostrils.  The stench grew as I walked closer toward the locker room.

I walked in to the locker room and went straight for the shower stalls.  There they were floating in human waste…the two bags stuffed with my mascot uniform.

I grabbed the bags out of the sewage puddle.  Practice was skipped that day.  I drove home and  started to hose off the hawk.  My mom walked behind me and said, “What the heck is that smell?”

“Poo.”

“Let me get the Pine Sol.”

We doused that thing.  I swear when you have two Borleis women cleaning, you better watch out.  I think the hawk was more clean after we finished with it.

Later that night, I proceeded with my duty as the hawk.  I was wet and spelled of Pine Sol.

Hopefully the person that took over my position has a bad sense of smell.

I Like it in the Baltimore City Postal Office

3 Nov

Summer 2008

I am notorious for leaving my personal belongings somewhere other than my arm, pockets, or with one of my sidekicks for the evening.  On several occasions I have left my cellular device in a taxi cab while out in Baltimore City or its neighboring city, Towson.  I have even left it in a Royal Farms convenience store.  I consider my cell phone another organ of my body, so when it goes missing I am determined to get it back.  I make it my mission.

On one particular occasion, I was out with some gal pals in Towson.  As usual, I packed my cell phone, debit card, and ID into my favorite green purse.  A couple of drinks later, I regrettably lose my beloved purse.  I knew the drill by then:  go to sleep and complete the purse search in the morning.

Next morning, I awake and start calling bars, taxi companies, and pizza parlors in the surrounding area.  No luck.  My heart starts to beat a little faster.  I proceed with the next step of the drill:  call my bank to reissue a new debit card.  Hours pass and still no luck with the purse.

Days pass.  Still no luck.

My father calls.  I pick up.

“Hey, Dad.”

“Kathleen, why is the Baltimore City Post Office calling me?”

I think to myself, “Did I apply there for a job?”  I was currently in search of another job.

“Uh, I don’t know, Dad.”

“I just spoke to a woman named, Judy.  She has your purse.”

Crap.  Ok, so my friends know what happens when we go out, but my parents…well, every kid tries to hide some things from their parental units.

“Oh, yea.”  I was speechless.  I had no clever story to cover the truth this time.  Crap.  I’m an idiot.

“Judy said you can pick up your belongings from the Baltimore City Post Office as soon as you can.”

“Thanks, Dad.”

Click.

I get in my car and head straight for the post office.  Thoughts race in my head.  “How did they get my purse?  Why did they call my dad?”

I get to the post office and ask to meet with Judy.  A couple of minutes later, a gloved Judy walked out with my trooper of a purse locked away in a plastic bag.

“We didn’t know who to call, so we looked up your address on your driver’s license and called the number matching that location.”

Ohhhhh.  That makes sense.

I hugged Judy and left.  I called my Dad to let him know what had happened.  Apparently someone found my purse and dropped it into a mailbox.  I opened the plastic bag and my purse was wet.  Little gross.  As I unzipped my purse, I noticed that my cash was missing, but my ID and debit card were there.  Yay!

So, thank you whoever found a green purse on a night in the Summer of 2008.

I still want my five bucks back.

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