Irony

Three examples of irony from my search for fame and fortune. Mostly fortune.

1. The profeader

A few months ago, I wrote a post about my plan to quit my job after cutie is born and try to do some work while he learns to bond with his pacifier. I received a lot of good wishes and good suggestions, the longest and probably the most earnest came from an email from Jennifer. She is a professional blogger who, among other places, writes here, so of course I meant to follow her advice. But I didn't, because I'm a smart ass (smart arse, for my English readers). Basically, it meant that instead of concentrating my efforts on a few good leads, I spent hours on those crappy freelance bidding sites until I couldn't deal with it any more and stopped looking. At least until I get motivated again.

But that's not the irony. This is:

2. Ethics

I found this place where you can write essays and get paid, so I started filling an application, and then I got to the "How do you feel about students paying others to write their term papers?" question. So I started talking about how important it was for my personal growth to actually try to learn as much as I could and get as much as I could out of my college experience, and all that, and then it clicked...

So I left that application and I moved on to the next site. This one claimed the buyer would use my essay only as a tool to write his own essay, but it was pretty much the same thing . Only more ironic:

3. Digg

I decided to try that whole domaining thing all the big boys were talking about. So I went on a GoDaddy shopping spree and bought politicartoons.com, and I forwarded it to a Blogger site, and I put a little AdSense. Now all I had to do was put some political cartoons, and I was set!

But I don't know anything about copyrights, and Honey was busy feeding the little guy, and I just wanted to put something on there, submit it to Digg to feel I've accomplished something, and get some sleep.

But I can't draw.

So I have a site about political cartoons, but I can't put others' cartoons there, and I can't draw, so what the hell am I supposed to do?

And then I thought I might as well just put a Hillary picture up, add some lines using Microsoft Paint (because I don't know how to use Photoshop), post the result on the site, and submit the image to Digg, including a little signature that will hopefully get some people to the site.

And how cute is that? Nine people Dugg it already (here). That's more than anything I've ever written on this site. I spill blood and guts trying to come up with meaningful stuff, and maybe one person will do me a favor and Digg it. But I use Paint to put some words over a picture, and all of a sudden I'm a cartoonist.

My New Job VI: New Year Edition

In mid-late 2003, I came up with what I thought was the funniest joke ever: At the time, the military in Iraq was giving out these cards with Saddam Hussein as the Ace of Spades to help catch him and the rest of them evil-doers, and then when they still couldn’t find him, the military put out these Wanted posters with Saddam's face all over Baghdad, but they still couldn’t find him. So I thought maybe to make it easier, what they needed next was to build a giant statue of Saddam in the center of the town.

That was it. I really thought it was the funniest thing I'd ever thought of. I remember thinking I should have given it to The Daily Show and they would use it with the footage from the toppling of Saddam's statue, but in reverse. Something like that. I would have left the details to them. Obviously this would have been only the beginning of my relationship with The Daily Show. Buzz on the street about my joke would have taken care of the rest.

Kinda missed the boat on that one, though. He got caught and my dreams were shattered. One day… One day I will come up with another joke, you’ll see.

In other news, I quit my job, effective today.

My New Job V + Inspirational Blog

Some more quotes from work:

“My boyfriend doesn’t want to stay at my mother’s house because she won’t let us sleep in the same room. I don’t know what’s wrong with him. Maybe he’s got ADHD or something.”

“He said he was going to stay at a hotel. I told him, ‘You can sleep in the car, I don’t care. You can sleep at my uncle house; he’s a faggy.’”

Answering the question, “Are you going to try to lower it?” she answers, “Hell, no. I’m gonna higher it.”

A printed sign next to the fridge: “Please reframe from placing any lunch bags in the refrigerator.”

For bonus points, what did he mean? I’m asking a guy if he has any source of income and he says, “A lead suitcase.”

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In other news, A while ago Jill gave me this fun award thingy. Sorry it took me such a long time to do it, Jill, and thank you.

As usual, if you're tagged, feel free to ignore this. In fact, don't think of this as a tag, but as a thank you, and just know you can do the same to thank others. That's all.

So, who inspired me recently?

• Ajooja's writing is always honest. Add to that the beautiful, simple design and you get a blog you can't help admiring.
• Shelli loves the world of blogging. She relies on her blogging friends when she's depressed and she's happiest when she gets to share moments of happiness. Again, an inspiration to anyone who treats a sidebar link as a living person and a friend.
  
• Mr. Fab gives two reasons for inspiration. Actually, three: 1. No matter how popular his blog is, he keeps looking for more blogs to visit and comment on. 2. He shows that you can't just write about your favorite toothpaste and hope for the best--each of his post has something new and original. Having a good, successful blog requires effort. Damn. 3. Yes, he's a very funny man. Let me quote: "Number of fire ants I can insert into the hole in my penis before I realize I have made a horrible mistake? One."--Don't know about you, but I'm a better person for knowing that.

I Want a Blogjob

Anyway, they moved me from evening to morning shift, which has some advantages, one if which is that finally I get to be home on Sunday nights, stopping the friends who come over from playing Trivial Pursuit. Speaking of feeling stupid and inadequate (the only thing I do in TP is roll the dice. Never answered a question), we have all these pregnancy classes coming soon. I protested being dragged to breastfeeding class but Honey insisted.

What was I talking about?

If I survive being surrounded by all these boobies, it’s probably time I started looking for a new job. With the crazy cost of daycare we’ve decided the best thing will be for me to stay home. At least for a while.

I looked around a bit and saw some job notices for freelance writers. I’m going to start applying soon, but I'm not very optimistic. I find it hard to believe I would be able to stand out. Most of these notices look for someone who specializes in particular stuff. Not much demand for someone interested in nothing and everything and all that's in between.

I’ll keep looking, but if you see a good writing job anywhere feel free to put in a good word for me. I have a BA in creative writing, and I already stand out from that crowd because I’ve never used the phrase “nodded vigorously.”

Wish me luck.

My New Job IV

I read the other day about a woman who attended a meeting with social workers and stormed out, taking her one-year-old baby with her. When the social worker and the security guard followed her she stood in the middle of the road, held her baby with one arm and said, “If you come any closer I’m gonna kill the motherfucker.”

I meet the people who will die soon from overdose, or from a bullet to the back of the head, or from AIDS, or quietly in jail. They fall asleep while they talk to me because they just don’t give a damn. Society gave up on them a long time ago and they gave up on themselves even sooner. They laugh when I ask for their fathers’ names but at the same time they have six children they’ve never met and never will.

And legalizing all drugs will solve some of the problems. Addicts will not spend their lives in jail but will be treated and some will come out and see life for what it could be, the way they saw life when they were children rather than as something they need to endure between highs. And the drug dealers will be forced to find something else to do. And the police won’t spend all its resources staring at street corners but will actually work to make the streets safer from violent crime… I don’t know what I’m saying anymore. I love this city; don’t get me wrong, but going back to work after a two-day weekened takes away the illusion. Here I am with my unborn child and my Honey and my doggies and my house and my mortgage and should we take the carpet out in the guest room and what do I do about the poison ivy in the backyard and the drycleaner messed up the clothes again and Comcast costumer service department sucks. And here is a generation of people who won't live to see forty.

There’s an all-encompassing truth hidden there for me. Between all the filth and the fury there’s something begging to be understood. Maybe it’ll make me get out of my shell and devote my free time to volunteer work or to spread the message of drug-law reform or prison reform or public education reform. Maybe it’ll make me see the unity of the human race in its collective pain and beauty.

Or maybe I’ll eventually get a new job and forget about it all.

My IKEA Story

Last year, during my five months of unemployment, I went to a job interview for a call-center rep. position at IKEA. By then I had already been rejected by many places, which didn’t do much for my self esteem. I mean, you call Comcast costumer service and think, What kind of idiots are they hiring? Apparently, not this one.

During those five months I learned to readjust my values in order to play the game of employment-seeking. If on the first interview I thought they would obviously see my genius (can I use my mom as a reference?), by the time of my triple-digit interview I learned that I wasn’t fired from my last job, but that “The position ended.” I learned that I wasn’t simply a cashier in a store but a “Senior Sales Associate.” I learned I had people skills! Yes! And I bought a suit. I was ready.

So here I was in the hub of Swedish Minimalism, waiting for HR. I was sitting on a low sectional IKEA couch. Do I need to describe how ugly the couch was or can you already imagine it for yourselves? Good. Now, they had two items on the coffee table: Time Magazine and the IKEA catalog. “Is this a test?” I thought as I started leafing through the catalog of urban decay.

I repeated to myself: Inexpensive products for people who love designer furniture or It has everything for everyone or even the original Affordable solutions for better living—one of these mantras was getting into the interview. I was going to get this job.

So here comes this elderly lady, shaking my hand like she was a ghost, doing the ol’ “Did you have any problem finding this place?” (Another thing I learned: They don’t really care). And we go into a tiny room, and she slouches in her chair and asks me to tell her about my past experiences, so foolishly I start doing just that.

At the end of the interview she says, “Looks like you’ve lived an interesting life,” which in English (or Swedish) means You’re not what we’re looking for. So I ask, “What kind of person are you looking for?” and the elderly lady from IKEA raises herself slowly and lifts her finger to accentuate the last words of the interview. “We’re looking for someone who could sell, Sell, SELL.”

And that was it.

My New Job III

So when I finished my training period I moved to the new location, which is a surreal place in the middle of Baltimore. Most of the people who work there wear black, which clashes with the light-green walls. The smell is an odd mixture of stinky shoes and industrial cleaning materials. Fun.

The other day a guy was having a nervous breakdown so I quickly called one of the women in black. She asked him if he was okay. He said, "I'll be okay. I just need some fresh air." She said, "Sir, there's no fresh air here."

But the people I work with aren’t insanely retarded anymore, which is a vast improvement after my training period.

Still, here’s a conversation I heard in my first week in the new place:

A: I can’t explain my parents. They will have a problem with me dating a black guy, but the funny thing is, my sister married a Jewish guy and they don’t seem to care. And, you know, what’s the difference between a black man and a white man? It’s just different skin colors. But there are real differences between Christian and Jewish people.

B: You’re absolutely right. Jewish people go to church on Saturday.

A: That’s right.

B: And they peel their food.

My New Job II

So in my new job I have to wear a tie. You know this world exists, and you know some of your neighbors live in that world and follow its deranged logic, but until you step into this environment you have no idea what’s it really about. Apparently, ties have to match your clothes. Your shoes as well. Everything has to match.

It’s this whole new culture that exists under your nose, but unless you’re a part of it you simply have no idea what’s it about and how prevalent it is. You just live your own life as if it’s the only possible way to live, not thinking for a second there are others all around you who do heroin, or sharpen their teeth and dress like vampires, or practice voodoo, or have crazy orgies, or wear ties.

I get compliments on the ties Honey bought me. People ask me about brands and stuff. I search for a label.

“Nautica? Is that the brand? Nautica?”

“Ahh, Nautica is good,” they say.

One of the guys straightened my tie today. Apparently this thin piece of cloth has to be centered.

Personally, looking at tie patterns make me dizzy. I’m not even mentioning fun ties; that’s a whole new type of evil I’m too scared to get into. What’s going on here? Who randomly decided men can only look professional if their upper body is divided symmetrically by patterns? I would have loved to be in on that meeting.

My New Job

I have a new job. The girl who trains me says marijuana kills.
“It doesn’t… really…” I say.
“No. But if you’re high and you drive then you can kill someone. So marijuana kills.”

You can’t argue with great logic like that.

She shows me a picture of her trip to the Philippines.

“What do you see in the picture?” she asks.
“A mountain?”
“No.”
“It sure looks like a mountain. It’s not a volcano?”
“Yes,” she says. “It’s a volcano.”
“Then…”
“You said mountain.”
“But… A volcano is a mountain. It’s just got a hole in the middle.”
“Well, it’s a volcano, not a mountain.”

She shows me how to write my notes: “Just read my example and copy my notes.”

So I read Contract recieved and signed.

“Wait… ” Because I’m new, you see, and I’m not in a position to stand out as That Guy. But of course, I am that guy, and I can’t help myself, being an English Major and all… “I think in received the E comes before the I.”
“You’re sure?”
“I’m pretty sure.”
“I thought so too, but that’s how I’ve been told to write the notes, so…”
“But it’s a spelling mistake. I mean…”
“It’s not a big deal.”

No, it’s not.

I talked too much

The vixens at italk2much finally reviewed my site.

I got my ass kicked by the brunette with the robot, who gave me an even 0/5, but for now I'm triumphing in the comment section, where the orange hair cutie wrote "I like this," and the one with the purple hair loves Buddy and wants to give him puppy kisses. I don't know how he'll react to that. After all, he's not a puppy but a 13-year-old Pit Bull who's always struggled with his sexuality.

Anyway, it was fun. I haven't had so many girls look at me since I dreamed of going to school naked. Now I can go back to the regular writing. Next time, What is it like to work for the State? (Hint in the picture below)