Dream Job

A few years ago, I worked at Online Computer Library Center (OCLC) in Dublin, OH. Built on several acres, OCLC was a sprawling campus equipped with an onsite cafeteria, nursing room, a free gymnasium, three sand volleyball courts and two baseball diamonds. And all of this was within walking distance of a small ravine and bubbly waterfall. OCLC was my dream job. So why would anyone leave a place like this?

They wouldn’t. I got the ax.

The first four weeks after the layoff I sat on the couch and watched marathon episodes of Spanish speaking soap operas. At first, my newfound interest in the Telemundo channel did not cause my roommate concern. Only when he found out that the only Spanish word I knew was, “Ola,” did he begin to worry. Determined to pull me from my depression, he suggested a field trip to the bookstore. If anything could pull me from my funk, it was a brand new book.

I blew my entire unemployment check on twelve books, a journal and a set of tapes called Awaken the Giant Within, by Tony Robbins. Tony promised that within a few short hours, he’d teach me how to take immediate control of my emotional, physical and financial destiny.

So during the day I watched Mariana De La Noche but at night, I listened to Tony talk about his ascent from janitor to motivational guru.

Tony’s Rules:
Dream Big
Write down your goals
Be the mistress of your universe!!

Pumped up on Tony, I went to Kroger that weekend and picked up a Sunday paper. Earlier in the week he suggested I write down the characteristics of my dream job. I narrowed them down to three essential things. I wanted great pay, good benefits, and bonus potential.

I sifted through the Weekender, the comics and then to the classifieds ads. Right there on page 3C in block paragraph was my new dream job.

Are you looking for great pay with bonus earning potential, travel, benefits, and flexible schedule?
Call (734) 525-5200

With an angelic chorus behind him singing in unison, I envisioned Tony, with his coiffed hair and capped teeth giving me the thumbs up. Bingo!

Monday morning at 8:32 am, I dialed the number from the ad.

Megan, of Vector Marketing, informed me that there was an open house that evening at 6pm. If I were qualified, I would interview that night.

I once went to an interview with knee high boots and a faux velvet skirt. I was escorted from the lobby before the interview even began. Since then, I follow the professional dress code of conduct to the letter. I pulled my only black suit from the back of my closet. Washed out my coffee colored, Brown Sugar pantyhose and shined my Payless heels with a hand towel and a dab of Vaseline.

As Megan instructed, I took the stairs to the second floor and hung a left. At the end of the hallway was an opened door with rock music blaring from it.  A girl stood in the doorway with curls so tightly bound to her head she looked like a Chia pet. She wore jeans and a monogrammed polo.

No way in hell this was the right place.

“Are you here for the open house?” she asked.

I nodded yes but by mind said, “Run. Right now. Get the hell out of here.”

But Tony interrupted and shouted, “Grab opportunity by the coattails. You are the mistress of your universe.”

Tony won.

In the large, single room, a fabric Vector Marketing sign was nailed onto the longest wall and gold plated trophies lined the floor. There was a long plastic table filled with trays of cubed cheese with hard pointy edges, crackers and stringy celery. We all nibbled, as not to be rude but we had wary eyes and wrinkled foreheads. The curly headed girl that ushered me in turned off the boom box.

“Everyone, take your seats,” she said.

I sat in one of the metal chairs near the back and balled my stale cheese into my napkin.

“Welcome to this awesome job opportunity. We’re happy to have you. We have a short slideshow for you to watch and then we’ll start talking about making money!”

As if cued with audience cards, a group of her cohorts, also donned polo shirts, cheered as if we’ve just won a sweepstakes. I felt grossly overdressed as the control top of my pantyhose dug into the underside of my thighs.

The slideshow began with an awful voice over that sounded like a 2 am infomercial selling time shares in Afghanistan. It flashed photos of young people laughing and excited. The video droned on as 15 minutes stretched to 45. At the end, the polo legion cheered again and since I still had no clue of what the job entailed, I was convinced that we were all going to be taken hostage by this cult. I pictured myself covered in purple satin sheets with off brand tennis shoes or possibly a standoff like David Koresh and ATF.

A polo girl introduced herself as Megan and asked, “Has anyone heard of CutCo?”

We all shook our heads, “no.”

“CutCo is an American company that has been in business since 1949. CutCo employs more than 800 people, earns millions in revenues each year and has never experienced layoffs.”

No layoffs? My ears perked up to that fact.

I raised my hand.

“Excuse me, but what does CutCo do.”

“I am soooo glad you asked,” she said as she clapped her hands over and over like a three year old.

Four people carried in a long, folding table covered with pale blue boxes of varying sizes. Slowly, she lifted one of the boxes open. Enshrined in a molded bed of grey velvet was a shiny, steel knife.

(And here is where the cult leader slices you open and drinks your blood…)

Megan continued, “CutCo makes special, restaurant quality cutlery. Here we have the santoku, pairing and boning knives. The knives have a lifetime warranty. They are unbreakable, do not rust and rarely need sharpening.”

She pulled out an unlabeled metal can, placed it on the table and carved through the center of it. Then with the same knife, she sliced through an over ripe tomato in one smooth chop. Her demonstration was followed by a low rumble of “oohs.”

“These knives are superior quality and are not sold in stores. You can only buy them from a certified CutCo retailer and that’s how YOU make money," she said, emphasizing the "you" part by pointing to an unsuspecting man in the audience.
"This knife set sells for $700 but we give you your first demonstration set for only $125.00 dollars! Use your knives in demonstrations like today with your family and friends. Those are your first referrals. Then you go door-to-door setting up demonstration appointments.”

Under my breath I vowed that if I ever made it home, I was going to kick Tony Robbin’s ass.

As Megan showed off a bank statement of how many hundreds she earned her first month, I tiptoed to the door where the curly haired cult member was standing guard.

“I have to use the bathroom,” I whispered. “I’ll be right back.” Her eyes narrowed as she decided if I was lying. I added, “Those knives were really something,”

“Hurry ok. I don’t want you to miss the best part,” she said as she twisted the knob reluctantly.

Before she could crack the door, I jerked it open and in my greasy shoes, ran full sprint down the hallway.

***
Don’t worry. Even without me, CutCo still makes high priced knives and Vector continues to sell them door-to-door. And in true ironic fashion, the next job I accepted was in that same building and whenever I heard music blaring or hands clapping I could never stop myself from thinking… RUN!

Uncommon Conversation

The other day my husband totally pissed me off. He lied. He’s an awful liar. So the fact that he even tried makes me even madder. I hole myself up in my bedroom and do what any angry lover does; I relegate him to the couch. But after several hours of stewing, I realize that I can’t stay angry forever. He’s my baby’s daddy, so I need to figure out a way we can talk this out. In an effort to get some perspective, I called my BFF, God.

*Phone ringing*

“Yes, Holli.” (He knows it’s me calling. He’s got the whole all-knowing thing down pat)

“He lied.” --me

“I know.” --God

“So what are you going to do about it?” --me

“What would you like for me to do?” --God

“At the very least, smote him!” --me

At this point, I remind him that I read the Bible A LOT and he’s smoted other people for far less.

He chuckles and tells me that he gave up a while back. He prefers talking it out these days. He also reminds me that violence doesn’t pay, either.

Super. The one time I need him to open up a can of whoop *ss for me, he goes all holier than thou, Billy bumper sticker on me.

“Holli,” he scolds me in that drawn out parental tone.

“Sorry for the potty mouth.”

“Forgiven,” he replies and coughs a little into the receiver.

“Hint, huh?”

He doesn’t respond but he doesn’t need to. I got the message.

But I'll keep this handy for next time...

For the Girls In the Balcony

My first boyfriend was a boy named Mickey. And before you even ask, no, he didn’t have any sort of affiliation with mice. In fact, I’m pretty sure he dealt in corner pharmaceuticals. Though at the time, I believed all those paper sack deliveries were rib bones from his father’s BBQ joint. Mickey wore an S-Curl shag like old school, Bobby Brown and sported solid gold teeth, long before Nelly made grills popular enough to sell on QVC.


Mickey was my first kiss. We were standing on the corner of 13th street, a half a block down from my house. I considered that far enough from our neighbor, nosey Miss Briscoe. All day long she sat in her porch rocker, eating fried pork skins and hot sauce. She knew everything about everyone and would promptly tell my grandmother if she saw me talking to a boy. Mickey held my sweaty, fingertips loosely in his palms. I dug my toes into the sole of my sandals as I tiptoed to meet his lips; this was exactly how it happened in all the Sweet Valley High books. Except in those stories, their mothers didn’t pull up in her yellow, Monte Carlo right in the middle of it.

Mickey never stopped running down the street, even as I yelled that my book bag he’d carried was still on his back. Mickey wasn’t afraid of getting a D in pre-algebra, gossiping Miss Briscoe or getting bust down by the police but apparently, he was deathly afraid of my mother.

My junior high crush was a boy named Dwayne Brownlow. He had a gumby hair cut and a wandering eye. I pined away an entire year for Dwayne. I slipped anonymous love notes in the slits of his locker. I looked his number up in the white pages and called his line. If he answered, I put the receiver against the speakers of my tape deck and played New Edition love songs until I heard him yell, “Hello! Hello!” then I’d promptly hang up. My girlfriends tried to convince me that there were plenty of school boys who would date me. I was smart, pretty and a popular cheerleader. Why was I wasting my time on a boy with a cock-eye?

Dwayne asked me out for homecoming. He bought me a three mum corsage with our names scribed in gold glitter down the black and yellow ribbons. I wore my mum in the homecoming parade. I refused to take it off while I cheered, even when I thought I’d bleed to death from the stick pins gouging holes in my chest. But if it weren’t for my girlfriend, Ne-Ne, coming to rescue, Dwayne’s ex would have scalped me bald in the high school bathroom. Apparently, my mum was the first time she heard that her and Dwayne weren’t an item anymore. Oops.

But no matter how sweet Mickey’s kiss or Dwayne’s flowers, my biggest crush, by far, was none other than Michael Jackson.

I fell in love with Michael during the Off the Wall album back when he rocked a long, nappy fro and sequin socks. After grandma heard me in the tub singing, “You need some lovin’ PYT, Pretty young thang….”she took my tape player for a week. Singing for Satan, wasn’t allowed in the house and Michael was considered devil music.

I couldn’t listen to Michael at home but my best friend, Lelia had a brother who was a DJ. June had pancake stacks of albums stored in black, plastic crates all over his bedroom floor. When he was away, we were allowed to play as many albums as we liked. I sifted through the stacks, one by one, and pulled out all the MJ albums.

Got to Be There (1972)
Ben (1972)
Music and Me (1973)
Forever, Michael (1975)
Off the Wall (1979) –still wrapped in crunchy, cellophane
And my absolute favorite, Thriller (1982)

I loved the albums that opened out like centerfolds. Those albums always had the lyrics to each song type printed across the art. For those albums, Lelia and I wore her brother’s oversized headphones while we listened. We cranked the music far past “deaf” on the volume control and sang off key into Lelia’s tape player. I sang as many MJ songs as I could belt out. In turn, Lelia sang O’Bryan. Don’t remember him? That’s ok, I’ll include a picture. Lelia insisted he was much sexier and more mature than boy-toy Michael.

I begged my grandmother for a Thriller jacket, a Michael Jackson doll, a sparkly winter glove … anything Michael. I wore ankle beaters, nearly put my eye out trying to hot curl a single spiral curl and on bended knee pleaded with my hairdresser to turn my “press and curl” into a jheri curl. In the end, I got nothing but for all the small perks grandma forbade, television wasn’t one of them.

In my room I had a color TV with two knobs for the channels and a single, circular rabbit ear on top. On February 28, 1984, the 26th Annual Grammy Awards were broadcast live on CBS and I was watching.

Michael won 8 awards, Album of the Year, Record of the Year, Best Performance R&B, Vocal and Song. There were accolades for the video, Thriller and thank you speeches to Barry Gordy, Quincy Jones and all his fans. But there was no better moment than when Michael stood on the podium and in his shy, quiet voice looked directly at me and said, “This is for the girls in the balcony!” as he removed his ever present sunglasses. I nearly peed my pants.

I got grounded the next day.

Apparently I had woken my grandmother screaming in the middle of the night. She believed that I had fallen out of my bed, had a nightmare or even worse, a burglar, but as she got closer she realized I wasn't yelling for help or screeching in pain. I was screaming “I love you, Michael,” ……. in my sleep.

My punishment – asking for prayer during altar call at church and no TV for a week!

As time went on my tastes changed, I fell in love with Prince, Al B. Sure and LL Cool J AND his abs but no one ever compares to your first love and Michael was definitely my first.
 
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GsN_kBy3ig4

Things I Learned At Grandma's House

My grandmother was a frugal lady. She saved twist ties from the Roman Meal, wheat bread. She collected Fingerhut stamps that I licked and pasted into towers of booklets. For my sticky fingers and tongue cuts, she allowed me to open the brown paper package when the postman delivered it on the porch steps. The contents were always a curio cabinet necessity, a porcelain black angel or a lead crystal bell. Every Easter Grandma splurged and ordered out of the Sears catalog. She always settled on a picture of white Jesus, his blonde hair curled under at his shoulders and his palms touching in prayer. I once got popped in the lip for asking if Jesus was asleep. I figured if he was the Father, Son and the Holy Ghost, like grandma said, who was he praying to?


Grandma’s Lesson: Sometimes Jesus talks to himself but it’s really rude to talk about it.

To save money, my grandmother made my clothes. I informed her that all the cool girls in school shopped at Macy’s in Memphis. We lived in West Memphis, which was across the suspended, steel bridge and west of the Mississippi river. Grandma said kids in her day walked 15 miles to school, got apples and oranges for Christmas and their Mamas made their clothes. But she did promise that if I saw something that another school girl was wearing and thought it was nice; she’d make it for me.

At the time, Jams were the latest fashion craze. I explained that Jams were colorful shorts with side leg pockets and stopped right above the knee. Grandma nodded quickly in recognition and told me she saw a pattern of something similar at Hancock Fabrics.

Before school one morning, grandma rushed into my room and laid what I thought was a new curtain down on the bed.

“What’s this,” I asked.

“James,” Grandma said. “Just like your girlfriends at school.”

Grandma’s Jams were a pair of pleated, polyester culottes that hung to my ankles. Seeing the scowl on my face, she explained that more than one color for short pants was wasteful and anything above the knee was for streetwalkers.

Grandma’s Lesson: Only streetwalkers wear Jams.

My grandmother was a devout Seventh Day Adventist. I considered it Jewish Light. We didn’t eat pork. We didn’t celebrate Christmas and Halloween. We couldn’t do anything from sundown Friday to Sundown Saturday. No cooking, cleaning or watching TV. We were allowed to listen to music but my grandmother only owned one album, “Rough Side of the Mountain.” On the album cover there was a man and woman in white suits walking up a craggy mountainside. I always wondered why in the world you would be dressed in your white, Sunday suit if you knew you were going mountain climbing.

But the Seventh Day Adventist rule I hated the most was that I could not wear jewelry, specifically earrings. One Saturday while I was sitting on the porch watching the other kids play I decided to find the passage in the Bible where it said, “no earrings.” After an entire afternoon of reading, I hadn’t found where Abraham, David, Sampson or Delilah said anything about not wearing earrings. Moses didn’t even say anything and he owned a stone copy of the Ten Commandments. At the next women’s bible study, I decided to voice my 8 year old opinion.

“I read the whole bible and I didn’t see anything about not wearing jewelry,” I snipped defiantly.

Dead silence.

“So why can’t I wear earrings?”

My grandmother smacked my leg with one of those green, plastic fly swatters and said,” Little girl, you save the jewelry for the streets of heaven. They are paved in silver and gold.”

Grandma’s Lesson: Don’t wear jewelry because it’s needed to pave heaven’s streets. Jesus is on a budget.

Over the years grandma taught me many more things, like:

1. Never processes a jheri curl on grey hair, it will turn green.

2. Too tight jelly sandals will give you bunions.

3. Government cheese and Velveeta are the exact same thing.

When I get to heaven I plan to tell her all the lessons I learned. Even the ones she thought I wasn’t listening to. I pray that she will remember me. I’m not 8 anymore and I don’t leave the house without my earrings on but just in case, I’ll be wearing my culottes.

The Things You Hear at Wal-Mart (A Short)

I recently read an article about a 16 year old boy who infiltrated Wal-Mart’s PA system. He said, “Attention Wal-Mart customers, all the black people leave the store now.”

Of course this comment caused instantaneous backlash from the African American patrons and prompted a media circus to descend upon the Jersey based store.

Since I’m African American, you’d think I’d immediately become angry, call up Al Sharpton and march potholes into the storefront pavement. But anger was not my initial reaction. My first thought was,

“You hear the damnest things at Wal-Mart.”

***

Several years ago, Val and I rented a U-Haul and spent an entire Saturday moving into our new, two bedroom townhome. We were young, energetic and ecstatic to be out of his parent’s home. By 2 am we unloaded the last cardboard box.

Covered in a sticky film of sweat, dust and exhaustion, Val said, “Babe, I need a shower.”

“Me too, but we don’t have a shower curtain,” I replied.

We decided there was only one place you can buy a shower curtain at 2 am. Wal-Mart.

Besides a few men buffing the linoleum and a couple of blue smocked employees, the store was fairly empty.

We passed the glass jewelry case and the laundry baskets. I held Val’s hand and steered him away from the kitchen appliance aisle. (Val was obsessed with infomercials and had pleaded his case for a Vidalia onion slicer) when suddenly above our heads we heard the buzz of the intercom system. There was a long pause before the man spoke in a panicked, Southern drawl,

--I need a CSM to the warehouse please.

--Need a CSM to the warehouse!

--Forklift is on fire!

When the PA system buzzes on, you expect to hear, “clean up on aisle 8, license plate XYZ, you left your lights on,” never do you expect to hear the word “FIRE” in the middle of deciding between skirt steak or lamb chops.

So Wal-Mart shoppers, beware. You never know what you’re going to hear.

By the way, anyone got Sharpton’s phone number?

Gratitude

Today is my birthday. I am 34 years old today and I am ecstatic. I am an unabashed birthday fanatic! Usually, I make a list of 1000 things that I make Val troll the city in search of. One year it was a silver watch with a blue face, lol. Oh! don't feel sorry for him. We don't exchange gifts on any other holiday, not even our wedding anniversary. We screwed that up on the first pass by completely forgetting and spending the day watching Scarface. Totally romantic, I know. Don't be jealous. 

Anyway, there is no list this year. I am simply grateful to be here.

Thanks Mom!

Letter for St. James

Occasionally, I come across a situation where I’d like to say something. Oftentimes what I’d like to talk about though, is really none of my business. For example, you see a woman and your mind says,

“Girl, why on earth are you wearing orange, Spandex to the grocery store?”

But honestly, that’s really none of your business. Mine either. So, in those situations, I write letters. Wait, wait. Now before you get your crayons and scratch paper out. Let me qualify that by saying, I don’t mail the letters. I just write.

This week’s letter:

Dear St. James Catholic School,

Each morning between taking my son to daycare and arriving at my job, I pass by your school. First let me commend you on the stone, bell steeple. I believe bells are always a nice, traditional touch at religious institutions. I also adore the well manicured school grounds, which are always teeming with smiling children, dressed in plaid, knee socks and wearing their backpacks like turtle shells. I often over hear them yelling niceties to their friends. They are not playing the dozens, as I was at their age, which suggests that your school is probably a fine teaching establishment. All of which brings me to the point of my letter, your school name, St. James, the Less.

Saint James was nicknamed, “Less” so he would not be confused with the other, more famous James. That James, happens to have his own book in the Bible and I’m sure he didn’t want anyone confusing the two and messing up his rep. Understandable.

But in my opinion, unless we’re talking about drugs, drama or acne, less is not all that good. So why in the world would you name your school after the lesser James? Don’t you teach the children to strive for the top? Be the best they can be?

Why didn’t you go full throttle and name the school after Big Daddy St. James?

No one would have blamed you.

Now, I’m a bit rusty on my Catholic history and I haven’t spent a single day in CCD but I do believe Catholics and ONLY Catholics canonize people as saints. So I’m pretty sure that you all, not necessarily you Mr. Principal, canonized St. James, the Less with that moniker.

Can you imagine what that did to that man’s self esteem?

Just in case you were unaware, let me share this with you.

St. James (the Less) was a virgin, never shaved or cut his hair, never drank any wine or other strong liquor (that means no Mad Dog, no Boones Farm, not even Bud Light). Even more importantly, he never took a bath.

Mr. Principal, this does not sound like a happy man?

I hope this proves to you and the saint naming crew that you cannot get a girl, a job or one ounce of street credit if your name is followed by “the Less.”

So in the future, I hope that you will use more care in naming both your school and your saints.

Sincerely,

Holli McCall Gordon
http://www.stjames.cdeducation.org/