"Life Unemployed" becomes "Life on the Rocks"

So after much time and frustration, I have finally left unemployment behind...at least temporarily, just for the summer. As most of you already know, I managed to land a job as a bartender (albeit a seasonal one) and have been gainfully employed since May. So I’m bringing my blog back again, which has been briefly on hiatus these past several months (I’ve discovered that working full-time leaves so much less time for blogging). So now “Life Unemployed” will become, for the time being, “Life on the Rocks”, as I delve into tales of my adventures in bartending. Unfortunately, however, I’m afraid that the old “Life Unemployed” will most likely return once more come fall, when the season is over, and I again join the ranks of the jobless.

Many of you already know where I work, and for others it will be blatantly obvious in the context of this blog. Yet I dare not mention the establishment that employs me by name, as I’d very much like to keep them employing me.

I have been working here for four months already, and in that time I must have poured at least 2527 pints of Stella, opened 3000 or more bottles of beer, served some 953-plus glasses of wine, and shaken more than 875 margaritas. I have dumped easily 50 liters of strawberry daiquiri mix on my shoes, pried open at least 356 cans of pineapple juice, and broken more glasses than I can count. I’ve plucked enough fresh mint leaves to fill a swimming pool-full of mojitos, and it’s literally driving me out of my mint-picking mind! There are 54 new knicks and cuts on my hands and more are added daily. And though the season is already more than half over, this is still just the tip of the ice bucket. I have two more months’ worth of coconut rum-tinis and peach sangria ahead of me.

Allow me to set the scene for you. This is not one of those fancy schmancy “cocktail lounge” places where candles line the bar, the olives are stuffed with blue cheese and the martinis are $15. No, where I work, the counters are sticky, the fruit is slimy, and the juice is spoiled (on occasion). This bar is outdoors, which tends to make cleanliness even more lax. So, we dump things on the floor, stick our hands in the ice, and I can’t tell you how many bits of unidentifiable floating debris (rarely, formerly-living debris) I’ve picked out of the drinks with my fingers before serving them. We even dare to serve wine in— God forbid— stemless glassware, and people are actually petty enough to complain about this on a regular basis. One of my co-workers refers to it as “commando style bartending”. And yet, the martinis are still $15… and the draft beers are an unheard of 13 bucks a piece! (We can boast to customers of having the priciest beer in the city). Because location always trumps sophistication, and you simply can’t beat the location of this place.

They say it takes all kinds, and all kinds we get here. This bar definitely brings in a diverse crowd. Because of its famous location we get a huge amount of tourists, most of them foreign. But we also get out-of-towners from all over the country. One group from Florida gave me the profuse compliment of telling me I was among the top ten nicest New Yorkers they’d met since they’d been here. Awww, shucks! We get the post-theater crowd, and the post-work, happy hour, corporate suit crowd. There are shoppers who drag along their bags from Abercrombie & Fitch or American Girl Place (and then inevitably spread out their new purchases all across the bar to play with and admire, ultimately leaving a trail of empty bags and packaging behind them). Or families who drag their kids with them to sit at the bar, which is illegal. And lots of old folks who order nothing but coffee at the bar, which is just plain annoying (the coffee station is all the way inside and a trek to get to. And besides, who orders coffee at a bar??). And they come in every quantity and combination, from lone drinkers to large groups, and everything in between, including countless couples. This summer I’ve witnessed at least one proposal (very happily accepted, in case you’re wondering), several drunken make-out sessions, a few painfully obvious first dates, and, I can only assume, several break-ups as well.

Yes, since I’ve been working here, I’ve seen it all. And though I haven’t been blogging in ages, I’ve been taking notes, jotting down anecdotes and quotes and scenarios… saving them all up to share with you over the course of the various blog entries to come. Starting with the next one.

So goodbye for now. Talk to you soon. Until then, drink up!

Kathy.

In Check

I’m happy to report that I have had a few more temp jobs: a little bartending here, a little coat check there. This particular blog entry is another tale of a day spent as the Keeper of the Coats.

It’s 9:10-ish AM, and I’m working coat check at a big corporation for a conference of some sort. I’m very thankful to be here, gainfully employed even for just a few hours (twelve long ones, to be exact), but that unfortunately doesn’t stop me from being bored off my butt at present. Not much is going on now. Despite the rain and colder weather today after the beautiful, warm weekend—- which ought to bring out lots of coats and umbrellas to be checked-- there don’t seem to be too many takers on the ol’ coat check. But then again, most of the people haven’t even arrived yet.

I spent the early morning “traying pastries.” This means I was forced against my will to put all the muffins, croissants, danishes, and bagels out on platters to be served to hungry business folk, who are surely less weight-obsessed than I am. Ah, the irony of it. Of all the people to stick in that particular job, they torment me, the little Weight Watch-er girl (yes, I admit I’m an avid member of Weight Watchers) by forcing me to handle, smell, fondle… covet… a ton of baked goodies. I mean, I’ve got will power, but come on people, I’m only human! I felt like an alcoholic bartender or a sex addict in a strip joint. It was sheer torture trying to resist the temptation to devour eight of the fattening things on the spot.

Nevertheless, being one to take my work seriously, even the painful tasks, I tried to be very precise and organized with my pastry presentation. When it comes to food, appearance is naturally half the appeal, and I wanted these yummy treats to have the same mouth-watering effect on others as they did on me. They had to look good. Delectable. Artistic even. But after I'd been at it for awhile my supervisor came out and made an off-handed comment to me: “Okay, Picasso!” he said. This concerned me. Was I being too particular? Too artsy? Taking too long? Though I knew he was kidding, it brought back traumatic memories of a pastry-arranging incident from my younger days, a long time ago, when I was fired from Harrod’s in London. All the painful details came rushing back again: The mean boss lady yelling at me in her snooty English accent as she sent me packing. She was screaming, “I just couldn’t stand watching you put the carrot cake away so slowly!” Yes, it would seem that I must have some sort of a slight pastry-displaying handicap. But I wasn’t about to let it get the better of me twice. So after that recollection this morning, I picked up the pace. From then on the bagels simply flew onto the trays.

Next came breakfast time in the company’s in-house cafeteria, with a spread to rival the brunch buffet at the Four Seasons: scrambled eggs, scrambled egg whites, oatmeal, pancakes, fresh fruit galore, multiple types of bread, cold cuts, five types of cream cheese, you name it. I would get so fat if I worked here full-time. And that was just breakfast. Of course, lunch here is always just as fabulous: soup, salad bar, sandwiches (pre-made and make-your-own), tacos with all the fixings, sushi, an amazing-looking dessert buffet including cheesecake, brownies, cookies, and even mini cupcakes. And then, there’s dinner too... But enough about the food.

11:42 AM

Now that the initial rush of arriving guests has passed, there’s a big coat check lull. I’m sitting here in a nearly-empty reception area, almost alone with nothing but a giant 7-foot replica of an iPhone, and the collection of coats and bags under my guardianship. No one’s around, save the receptionist and the occasional businessman on a cell phone who has rushed out of a meeting to take a call, that was apparently too life-altering to miss. Must be nice to be so important.

Still over seven more hours to go.

Earlier today, there was a guy trapped in a conference room right behind me. Stuck there. The sliding door was slightly off its track and wouldn’t open, so he was locked inside and couldn’t get out. It took three burly men and two clever ones to free him.

4:38 PM. Just over two hours left.

I spent the very long, dreadfully slow afternoon reading The New Yorker while munching on mini bags of baby carrots from one of the countless kitchen areas in this giant office. These kitchens are stocked, by the way. (We’re talking at least five types of milk in the fridges, including the normal ones, plus soy and rice milk. There are bins of Clif Bars, granola bars, packs of gum and mints, and fruit chewy things. Crystal Lite packets by the water cooler. And snack dispensers full of candy, nuts, and cereal. They have a toaster, and beside it, not only individual containers of peanut butter, but almond butter as well. What a company! Can you imagine? Full benefits package and almond butter to boot). But anyway, I passed the time reading some depressing article in The New Yorker about happiness, which, ironically, I decided is my free pass to self-pity. It said:

“Job loss…has been shown to be singularly upsetting. According to one frequently cited study, as a downer it outranks divorce or separation. Even when workers find a new position at similar pay, they often fail to regain their earlier level of happiness”.

Now that’s encouraging. Though not nearly as upsetting as something else I read: According to Metro New York, a state assemblyman wants to ban salt in restaurants. Ouch.

Occasionally throughout the afternoon I would rearrange the hangers, just for kicks. And now, at long last, the event is winding down and people are coming to collect their belongings. They all get little party favors to take home, too—souvenir baseballs enclosed in clear plastic display cases. Knowing this company, they were probably autographed by Derek Jeter himself.

And so another day of coat sitting comes to an end. I made it through twelve hours of this, helped along by free snacks and mildly entertaining reading material. Not to mention there’s a slight thrill and natural high you get from knowing that you are selflessly risking life and limb to protect the world’s outerwear from the threat of danger, damage, or theft. And now I have a new skill to put on my unemployed resume: Coat check girl. That’s right, I can say it with pride. Because any potential employer should know, they couldn’t leave their coats in any better hands.

It's the Year of the Tiger, it's the Thrill of the Fight...

It’s been a few weeks since I've posted anything on this blog. But now that I’m back from vacation in New Orleans, and also finished with the hectic pre-travel activities (and post-voyage recovery) such a trip entails, I have another blog entry or two to post. They are only minimally out-dated.

One of my latest temp jobs was to work as a coat check girl at a fundraiser for a major New York college, held at a Chinese restaurant in Chinatown. When I wrote this, I was sitting next to a rack full of checked coats in a huge banquet room, watching plate after plate of egg rolls, dumplings, Kung Pao beef and chicken lo mein pass me by, as they were served to tables surrounded by potential generous benefactors.

It’s the year of the tiger, you know, so I spent the first part of the evening rolling up the event programs and tying little Chinese tiger ornaments around them for 220 different place settings. About an hour of that, and then the event kicked off, and I was put on coat duty.

“The Eye of the Tiger” wouldn’t stop playing in my head all night.

Actually, coat check really isn’t so bad, once you get over being slightly skeeved out by touching someone else’s dingy, stained jacket, and when you get past your aversion to all the white flake-covered collars and your fear of bringing home bedbugs. In fact, in some ways, coat check is kind of fun. Trying to match the ticket to the correct coat or bag when people come to retrieve their items is like a puzzle, or a fun little game. A treasure hunt. And it tips better than, say, passing hors d’oeuvres. Not to mention that working coat check allows you lots of downtime to do things like jot down notes for your blog in a notebook.

It helped that I had a partner to work with and talk to, a fellow temp-er and another starving artist. He’s an actor, and therefore obviously no stranger to the fruitless job search or the "open call". In fact, just to prove once again what a dog-eat-job seeker world it is out there, he told me that he had just landed a role in a play, where he was among 2000 actors fighting for a mere 20 roles! Wow. Impressive. And to think how proud of myself I had been a month or two ago, when I merely made the Top Eight out of 200 for a second interview. (Still didn’t get the job, though). Which reminds me, I went on two more open calls the day I wrote this. Unfortunately, it's really beginning to seem like something of a waste of time: drop off resume, talk to a total stranger just long enough for him to fulfill his obligations and follow protocol (the courtesy interview), then never hear from said stranger again. The other day I somehow ended up talking the interviewer's ear off about my love of swimming in odd, polluted bodies of water. Is that bad? Certainly not your usual interview topic, to be sure. But at least she didn’t ask me to tell a joke. I had a guy awhile back make me tell a joke as a required part of the interview. His response to my feeble joke-telling attempt? “I don’t get it.” Yeah, and neither did I. The job, I mean.

Anyway, back to coat check. A nice waiter took pity on us sitting by our coat rack and brought over a few stray dumplings, a couple bowls of wonton soup, and a plate of fruit to tide us over. Feed the help. Then the lady in charge asked us if we wouldn’t like some kosher food. Huh? Kosher Chinese food? This confused me. Is there a large Jewish population in China that I didn’t know about?

I left that job in just under four and a half hours, with $12 in tips, a Chinese take-out container full of fresh fruit, and a handful of fortune cookies. My favorite fortune was: “You will soon find the job of your dreams”.

All in all, not a bad night.

The Quest for Green Beer and Greenbacks: Being Unemployed on St. Patrick's Day

Today’s post is a real, true, “day in the life of the unemployed”. Specifically, this is my day—yesterday-- as it actually happened. In mind-numbing detail. At the risk of boring you (and I apologize in advance if it does), I wanted to share some of the trials and tribulations of being unemployed: The oh-poor-me’s of it… or, the optimistic side, as in, at least I’m not stuck in a stuffy office and I get to enjoy the nice weather! In general, this is the bad and the sometimes good, and either way, it’s the still-able-to-laugh-at-myself, ups and downs of my wage-less existence. If you do find this tedious to read, consider yourself lucky… better to read it than to live it, right?

6:06 AM: Get up for 7 AM swim practice.
9:12 AM: Call from temp agency. Google assignment. Best news of the day. So far.
10:00 AM: Grocery store. Out of English muffins again.
10:30 AM: Home again. Fix breakfast. Watch end of recording of Biggest Loser. Procrastinate the dreaded job search for the day.
12:15 PM: Facebook, emails, anything but answering ads again. Hell, at least I’m on my computer… that counts as job searching, doesn’t it?
12:45 PM: Finally look at ads, play around with cover letters. Change two words on resume. Big progress.
1:00 PM: Phone call from fellow unemployed friend. Misery loves company.
2:15 PM: Lunch and start getting ready for Open Call for bartenders at a local bar/restaurant.
3:25 PM: Leave apartment and head to Open Call. Dodge countless drunken, green-enrobed revelers crowding the streets. Can barely walk. Almost get knocked down by a guy wearing a leprechaun hat, a fake green beard, and a T-shirt that says “I swear to drunk I’m not God!”
3:45 PM: Arrive at bar/restaurant for Open Call. For those of you not familiar with this process, this is a cattle call for those in the food and beverage service biz: One ad on Craigslist, a room full of potential bartenders all scrambling for the same job, and one or two interviewers calling people up, one at a time. It’s the same kind of thing as for actors at big auditions (think American Idol), except that we don’t have to sing. We just have to know the difference between sushi and sashimi, or the ingredients in a Dry Martini.
3:50 PM: Size up the competition, feel inferior. Wait to be called. Wait some more. Read restaurant’s menu. Try to overhear the questions being asked by the interviewer. Prepare answers. Study the menu again. Need to pee, but scared they’ll call me if I leave.
4:25 PM: Finally… my turn to be interviewed. Reading the menu pays off… I get the questions right! Note to future Open Callers: Don’t just sit there waiting your turn, with all that time to kill, reading “Us Weekly” or “Sports Illustrated“. Read the menu. In case they ask. And inevitably, they will.
4:26 PM: Interviewer berates the guy before me who didn’t study the menu, and therefore didn’t know the difference between sushi and sashimi.
4:30 PM: Leave bar. Head to another bar where I used to work to enquire about summer job. Dodge countless more drunken green people. Shamrock beads. Light-up Shamrock necklaces. Irish flags.
4:50 PM: Arrive at second bar. Not hiring till April. Pick up application. Leave.
4:55 PM: Swing by Starbuck’s to grab a stash of Splenda packets for my own home use. Can you blame me? I’m unemployed!
5:03 PM: Pass homeless man in street begging for money. Walk on by without my usual guilt for not giving him anything, because I have the best excuse in the book. I’m unemployed.
5:04 PM: Suddenly fear I may soon be joining homeless man in street begging for money.
5:17 PM: Walk by Tasti DLite. Figure I deserve an award for being slightly proactive today. No good flavors. Head home.
5:26 PM: Back in apartment. Listen to the sounds of laughter and beer-induced festivities coming from the bar next door. Feel like a big loser because I’m not taking part. Erin Go Blah.
6:00 PM: Start writing this here blog thingy when I should be sending out resumes and answering ads. (Mom made me do it!). Bagpipe music outside window.
6:46 PM: Announcement on the news that unemployment rate is 9.7%. Great, rub it in.
7:21 PM: Still writing. WAY too much time away from the ol’ job hunt grind. Almost time to call it a day. Besides, my show is on soon. Put off job searching till tomorrow.
9:00 PM: Still struggling with getting this blog set up on-line. Seemed so simple in theory.
9:15 PM: Get a call for a temp job tomorrow. Coat check girl again, darn it. Desperation prevails. Accept assignment.
10:00 PM: Chicken noodle soup. Broccoli. Ugly Betty.
10:45 PM: Check to see if anyone’s read my blog yet.
10:50 PM: Check again.
11:03 PM: Wash face. Break out in odd, random rash . Great. That’ll definitely improve my interview look.
11:14 PM: Check to see if anyone’s read my blog yet.
11:17 PM: Check to see if anyone’s read my blog yet.
12:20 AM: Lights out.

So that’s all there is for now (finally, right?). Happy (belated) St. Patty’s Day, and happy hunting for the job-deprived!

Life, Unemployed, Part 1

My last job ended on November 2nd. That was a long time ago. Admittedly, I took a couple months off for travel, holidays, and heartbreak recovery, but by early in the new year it was time to start the dreaded hunt for employment, one of the most overwhelming, demoralizing, and un-fun activities known to man (next to, perhaps, moving, or laser hair removal, both of which I’ve done far too much of). Since I began my job search, I have gone through various phases of motivation, procrastination, and depression. I’ve sent out countless resumes, had most of them ignored, been rejected for innumerable jobs, pounded miles worth of pavement, and even had one job offer that was later revoked. This last bit sent me first to the bar to console myself with frozen margaritas, and then sent me spiraling down into the depths of the pit of unemployed despair, and very abruptly and suddenly brought my job search to a week-long stand-still. But that can only last so long. I’m back now. Back at it again, back on Craigslist, back out in the big scary world of fellow desperate job seekers.

I have to say it hasn’t been all bad. I certainly enjoy the extra spare time (yes, all you income-earning laborers out there, this is the only point we have to hold over your gainfully employed heads, so forgive me if I milk it for all it’s worth). And I’ve kept busy. As most of us living off the State or our dwindling savings will agree, it’s amazing how we can still fill a day with countless activities (albeit not always productive ones), even when not actively seeking employment. I’ve spent my time seeing friends, swimming (hours a day), catching up on Grey’s Anatomy reruns and any other treasures my DVR might hold, painting flowers on my dresser, occasionally sleeping in too late or shopping (despite my lack of funds)... I also took a refresher course at my bartending school, took pole dancing classes, lost 14 pounds (the extra gym time an unemployed schedule allows pays off!). And I have picked up a few odd jobs here and there. I signed up with a temp agency which has given me the occasional miscellaneous work assignment here and there—such as serving hors d’oeuvres and clearing plates at a bat mitzvah, helping out at a Bordeaux wine tasting event (I got to speak a little French and taste a little wine myself. Bonus), and working as a bartender at a big corporate gathering at Google. Mind you, the Google office is now one of my favorite places in the world, and quite possibly one of THE best places to work. They get three free meals in their in-house cafeteria, countless snacks and treats at all hours; have Razor scooters to get around the office, and the best part—they get to play with Legos! I’m supposed to work a 12-hour shift there next week as-- of all things-- a coat check girl. Not my ideal job, but whatever, I get to hang out for the day at Google!

Now, as my sixth month of unemployment rapidly approaches, my mom finally convinced me that I should start a blog about the life of the unemployed. I certainly know there are enough of you out there in the same predicament who can relate, so hopefully someone might actually read this. And those of you with a regular paycheck may wish to have a look at it as well, so you can laugh and gloat and revel in your more fortunate circumstances. Either way, for my first entry, I thought I’d start out with what I did today. A day in the life of the unemployed. But that part will have to wait till tomorrow. I’m out of time and you are probably out of patience.

More tomorrow.