No One Can Get to You Here

Hey Rainbow Groupies! It's a beautiful, sunny Sunday in Chi city, and seeing as how it's Labor Day weekend, and Obama's talking to us about jobs (or the lack thereof), I thought it was a good time to take another blast from the past.

I wrote this essay a little more than a year ago, right after moving back home to my dad's house. Nothing will kill a lady's self-esteem (and bank account) like not being able to find a job, and at the time when I wrote this, I was feeling pretty damn defeated. But at the same time, I was still clutching the last strings of hope. Barely, just barely. I also laid awake at night in my childhood bedroom, heart racing, worrying that I'd still be there when I was 40.

Maybe I'm still struggling to really be a "grownup," but I made it back to Chicago, and drove a new car here. I felt like total, complete shit when I got rejected from that job (and countless others). But the thing is, if I had gotten that job, I'd never have made it back to Chicago. Who knows what might have happened?

It's tough out there. But if I can do it, YOU can do it. uggh, that was cheesy, but whatever. I meant it from the bottom of my little heart.

So! Read this essay! (After the jump.)

A Change is Gonna Come

Winters in Chicago are long, and they’re rough. By the time spring finally starts to roll around, it’s like Chicago explodes. Where the hell did all these people come from, I ask myself each year. Were they hibernating for the last five months? Even if it’s just a tease, like today, when the sun is shining and bars start opening their patios—although really it’s only 54 degrees and not warm, exactly—I feel my spirits start to lift.

The sun is shining. Warm weather is coming! Longer days and music festivals and flip flops and sundresses and vodka lemonades!

These are the kind of wild ideas that torment and tease us all until it really warms up for good. You know, in June. But there’s something about that anticipation, that wait for spring and summer, that I think makes Chicago summers feel, well, just fucking magical. Believe me, I know. Last summer was during my brief stint back in Indiana, and having to stick out a winter in Chi without the gift of summer was akin to getting grounded the week before spring break, and sitting at your grandmother’s house while all your friends went to the beach and partied without you.

I was thinking about this as I sat in my favorite coffee shop working today. The door was propped open and the sun shone bright into the doorway, the breeze blowing in almost warmly, but not quite. It felt like spring. It almost looked like spring. But across the street, the trees and plants were still bare and brown.

Sometimes it feels like winter is never going to come to an end. Every year, I have to question: Okay, when exactly will there be green leaves on the trees again? When can I finally not be bundled up every time I step out of my apartment? But then, like magic, one day I walk outside and they’ve just appeared. And suddenly, it’s spring.

It’s hard to keep faith that change is coming sometimes. Last year at this time, I was about to start packing up my apartment to move back in with my dad. I’d been waiting tables, interning, and job searching for two years, and nothing had happened. I felt like I was driving repeatedly into a brick wall, then getting out of the car, and banging my head into the wall for good measure. I felt defeated. I was broke, and knew I had to go home. While I tried to put up a brave face, and I reminded myself over and over that not all people were fortunate enough to have a parent who would invite them to move back in, rent free, at the age of 26, I still felt like a big, fat, fucking failure. The first week back in my childhood bedroom, I laid awake in bed each night, my heart racing, wondering if I’d still be sleeping there in a year. In five years? IN TEN?

FINALLY! Someone Hired Me!

So, if you follow my life via the Interwebs at all, you already know my big news. And by the Interwebs of course I mean Facebook updates, tweets and twoots, and LinkedIn. And of course, if you're following my tweets, you know by now it's all a blatant ploy to bring you back to the Rainbow chronicles. That, and to quote Seinfeld, apparently.

WHAT IN THE HELL WAS I ACTUALLY TALKING ABOUT?

Oh, right. My big news!

This Tuesday, I started a job. A job that does not require I ask: "chips, fries, or veggies?" A job that is not, in fact, really just an unpaid internship. (For more on that dreadful experience, revisit this post, I implore you.) I am officially an associate writer for Groupon, which, go figure, is apparently the fastest growing company, ever. (Forbes said it, so it's gotta be true.)

You can get a really good sense of the company from the Forbes article, so I'll just fill you in on a couple other highlights not mentioned in said article:

1. The number of computers/humans on the 6th floor is both terrifying and awesome. And that's comparing it to the editorial department, where I am, which is home to at least a couple hundred.

2. There is a never-ending supply of coffee, tea, and cocoa (fuck yeah! cocoa!) everywhere you turn. And Keurig coffee makers, which I'd never actually used, or in fact seen, in real life. Plus, today, I discovered free Diet Dr. Pepper and Gatorade. FREE. I'm going to be so fucking productive! (I might still be on a caffeine high.)

3. Everyone I've met so far is talented, smart, and friendly. And most of them are funny. No joke. It's like Wonderland for a geek like me.

I'll leave you with that. It's awesome. I've only been there three days, and I've already been writing, a lot.

When I found out I'd been hired last week, I was so overwhelmed and thrilled, I didn't know what to do with myself. It was the middle of the day, and I was alone, cause, you know, most other adults were at work. I couldn't stop grinning. I may or may not have told my cats the news.

Job Interviews

If today's job interview doesn't work out, in the future, I'm just gonna follow Loc Dogg's lead.

"I see your hobbies are drinking, smoking weed, and all types of ill shit."



At least he got hired.

Homesick at Home

Today was the first time since I've been living back home that I actually started questioning the limits of my sanity.

Being home alone while my roommates, aka my dad and Deb, are at work, makes me feel useless and restless. AKA, like I'm going off my fucking rocker. I guess I shouldn't feel that way, since I'm midway through server training at a new place in Indianapolis, thanks to a friend of mine hooking me up with a job. (I'm at least qualified to wait tables at this point, wouldn't you agree?)

But, still. From the moment I woke up today I was missing Chicago (or more accurately, my life and the people there) like crazy. I tried to cheer myself up by watching the Modern Family season finale. That helped, for the 21 minutes of the show. I had no idea what to do next. So I sat on the couch and stared at Mufasa for a few minutes. That did not help.

I paced around the house for a couple minutes, trying to decide what to do with myself. I made my bed. I washed some towels. I wrote some e-mails. I tried to think of something funny to tweet. (Nothing came to me, clearly.) I did a workout video (you know how I love those! but alas, it was not Jane Fonda).

After the 45 minutes of exercise, considering my legs were starting to twitch and I had actually worked up a sweat, I felt like I had accomplished something. I took a shower, feeling considerably better. But the Chicago-sickness waves kept creeping back. It felt just like homesickness, except I was already as home as I could possibly be.

I had to do something. You might be thinking, "Um, Alison? You could have been applying for jobs this whole time you were moping around, feeling sorry for yourself. Maybe this is why you haven't found a good job in the first place!"

That's what I was thinking to myself, anyway. So, on a whim, I decided to see if I met the qualifications to teach English at a community college. Turns out, I might. Who knew?

I applied for the job. We'll see if maybe, just maybe, this time something might come out of it. At the very least, I can now say I've written a teaching philosophy. 

And don't worry, Rainbow groupies. I promise I'll cheer up soon.

If not, I guess I'm just going to get in really great shape.

I Dream Big. I am a Super Woman.

I just applied to be the head blogger for Alicia Keys' new website.

In case you were ever wondering, what's Alison's dream job? Well, this is it. Exactly.

Holy crap. Dear Alicia Keys, please hire me for this job, and change my life forever. Who cares that I've never been to NYC? Whatevs. For this job, I'd live on the North Pole.

And you know what? I would kick some serious ass as her head blogger. I know it. And no, not just because Alicia is my dream woman.

Check out the vision for the new site:

"IAAS.com (I Am A SuperWoman.com) will ignite super women with empowering content, delivering vibrant and optimistic news, opinion, and entertainment at a supersonic pace. IAAS (I Am A SuperWoman) will give powerhouses everywhere one source to connect with each other--and the world."

I am a Super Woman? I love it! Every little thing about it. Love. It.

The last time I drove home, I listened to this one song from her new album repeatedly. The message in it is exactly what I need in my life right now.

From "Through it All":

Don't think about the past, don't worry bout the future
Just live in the moment
Long as there's another day there will be another way
A chance to make it through

 Listen to it. If that doesn't inspire you, well...listen to it again, cause you weren't really listening.

Maybe she'll hire me. Probably, she won't. Either way, I'm still dreaming the big dream. I'm a super woman.

Poetry Slam Tuesdays: Birthday Edition

So, like I said in my previous post, today is my 26th birthday. I've been having a hard time blogging as of late, because, quite frankly, my brain is bogged down with a lot of personal and financial issues that I don't necessarily want to address on the Rainbow Chronicles.

Basically, my boss at my internship summed it up this morning when she looked at me and said, "You're really having a month or two."

Yeah. That is for damn sure. But while I have been going through a difficult time lately, I'd be remiss if I didn't mention how during this time, I've also had the unwavering support of some pretty kickass friends up here in Chicago. Without that support, I'd be pretty lost. I have some major decisions I need to make in the next month. My lease is ending, my job situation is beyond pathetic, and everyday is a constant battle against myself. By that I mean, I can really be my own worst enemy. Beating myself up for stupid decisions I've made (and I've made a lot of them, both financially and personally). Questioning myself. Doubting myself. Worrying about what everyone else thinks.

Enough is enough, I tell myself. Just. Stop.

It's hard to do that, though. And even harder to recognize all the wonderful things that have happened in the last couple years, in spite of—and because of—decisions I've made. Sometimes (okay, many times), I feel like a big fat failure because I've been waiting tables, barely scraping by, and interning for the last two years. But yesterday I caught myself giving a friend advice about whether or not to go to school, and I realized everything I was telling him, I also needed to tell myself. Things like: You're living your life. You're not a failure. Do what YOU want to do. Do it on your own terms.

I'm 26 today. It's about damn time I learned how to take my own advice before I dish it out to others. So tonight, when I'm out celebrating with some amazing friends, I'm not going to be sad. I'm not going to worry. I have quit jobs, and I've found new ones. I've been lonely, and I've been surrounded by friends.

Hey, customer! Try on my apron, and then complain.

Any one who has worked in the service industry gets it: It’s tough waiting tables. But if you have common sense, or any compassion, as a customer, you should realize that as well.

Not only do servers make minimum wage (and that’s minimum wage for servers, a whopping $4.85 here in Chicago), we don’t get benefits. We completely rely on gratuity.

I’ve heard people say that any idiot can wait on a table, but I’ve worked side-by-side with otherwise smart, competent people who can’t do it. They get overwhelmed. They forget who needed another Bud Light and who asked for a side of ranch. Or they crumble when an angry customer yells at them because his burger wasn’t cooked exactly right, or her vodka tonic doesn’t have an extra lime in it. And people do yell at you. People will be mean. They won’t say please or thank you. They won’t make eye contact with you. Even worse, they’ll look right through you.

As a server, I’ve been yelled at, cursed at, and treated like a complete piece of crap. I’ve had to jump out of the way of a drunken woman vomiting. I’ve been grabbed by a stranger and kissed on the mouth. (And those two incidents happened during the same shift.) I’ve been asked inappropriate questions, ogled, and hit on the ass. I’ve been warned to “be careful walking to my car” after my shift. I’ve mopped up a kid’s vomit without so much as a “thank you” from his parents.

And when many nights, you head home with your feet and back aching, and less than 100 bucks in your pocket, this is quite a lot to take. I think it would be a lot to take if I made $1,000 every night.

Yet, still, I work my ass off to keep a smile on my face, to say “thank you,” to get people’s food and drinks ordered correctly and quickly, and to bite my tongue when I’m insulted or mistreated. Don’t forget: the customer is always right.

So when I read an article like this one, a piece by David Sax in the New York Times, it makes me furious. An excerpt:

First Impressions.

It's been a week of first impressions.

Monday I started a new serving gig, which means the kitties and I will be able to continue to eat and have a roof over our heads. WHEW.

Then Tuesday I took my Broke Ass to the Tribune Tower to get my photo taken for the RedEye Broke Ass project. (Damn, that building is amazing.) Obviously this is all an effort to get my book deal/full-time editorial gig, but I felt a little guilty going in the day after my first training shift at the bar. (Not that guilty though.) The thing is, I've got enough perspective right now to appreciate this new serving gig for what it is—a JOB. That's more than many people have right now, so it would be ridiculous if I didn't value it. 

Today was my third shift at the bar. I was annoyed with myself the moment I woke up today, because I stayed out too late the night before, overslept, and felt (and looked) like crap. Not the best version of myself to go in to a new job. When am I going to learn? Not only am I the "new girl" in a still relatively foreign environment, I am the new girl who is a space cadet, and not a very friendly one at that, because I'm exhausted.

Uggh. I don't know what my fellow employees think of me at this point, but after the lunch shift was over and I took my break (I was working a double), I immediately went to Dunkin Donuts and gulped down a coffee. Hoorah for caffeine, because when I finally got to take tables during the dinner shift, I felt like a more accurate version of myself. (I smiled at people. Some of them smiled back.)

My first impressions of the new job are overall pretty positive, so I can only hope that I've made a halfway decent impression on all these co-workers and managers I've just acquired. If my last job taught me anything, it's that when I'm intimidated or nervous, it comes across to other people (ahem, like my managers) as me being snobby, conceited, or negative (insert other bad adjective here). And that blows. Because even though it shouldn't really matter, I still wish I could have somehow shown my previous boss that my "dirty looks" and "bad attitude" was really just me, intimidated, nervous, and sensitive as all hell. 

I want to make a good first impression this time. But I'm willing to make a good second (and third, or tenth) impression if that's what I have to do. I learned my lesson. If your boss doesn't like you—or thinks you don't like her, so in turn begins to loathe you—work can be pretty damn miserable. No thank you. I'm done with that portion of the Ali show.

It's a fresh start. And it's nervewracking and tough and wonderful.

It's Official: I'm a Famous Broke Ass.

Well, sorta. Mostly so far I'm just the dweeb in the back of the group photo, not looking at the camera. Check me out.

But hey, it's something! Although in retrospect, probably should have run a comb through my hair after getting off the train and walking several blocks in the snow. Ahh well. Maybe looking frazzled gives me more Broke Ass cred.

Please check out the RedEye's Broke Ass Blog. Then tweet it, Facebook it, MySpace it, FaceSpace it, MyBook it, whatever you need to do. Maybe even get crazy and tell another human about it in a real conversation. The more people who see this, the more chances I have of ruling the world.

Err, getting a writing gig.

Love,
Broke Ass Alison

Who's More of a Broke Ass Than Me?

No one, right? That's why I just emailed RedEye and told them to feature me in their upcoming project.

If you love me and are sick of hearing me whine about being a broke ass, it couldn't hurt to tell RedEye about me.

Pretty please? Seriously, right before I emailed RedEye, I applied for a deferment on my student loans with Sallie Mae. I need this.

Here's how they say to contact:

"Shoot an e-mail to redeyetalk@gmail.com (with "Broke-Ass" in the subject line), drop us a line on our Facebook fan page or get at us on Twitter. We're around."

Love,
Broke Ass Alison

When Enough is Enough. (But not quite the way you thought it would be.)

Yesterday I quit my job.

It’s something I’ve been thinking about, planning out, daydreaming for months and months. But as with so many things, quitting my job didn’t go quite the way I’d been thinking and planning and daydreaming.

Since I first started waiting tables last August, I’ve missed my job at Indiana University. I have applied for job after job at various universities in Chicago; at Borders; at random companies I wasn’t even sure I liked, but that would give me the title of “writer” or “editor” should I be hired. I’ve gone to interviews and waited for callbacks that never came. I’ve juggled my waitressing job with poorly paid or unpaid internships, waiting for that fantastic moment when that internship would turn into a full-time, paid position, and I could make a victorious phone call to my dad, to my grandma, to my brother, to anyone who would listen.

I thought, and I hoped, that the day I quit this job, it would be because of a new opportunity.

Instead, I’ve quit my job, yet again, without a real idea of what’s to come in the future. Only this time I’m not moving to a new city. Here I am. Now what?

Magical Moments Waiting Tables: The 6 out of 10 Edition

Thank God for the absolutely ridiculous customers at Logan. If it weren’t for them, I might have to go another day oblivious that I’m a 6 out of 10.

Yes, this is what the middle aged man I was waiting on this evening informed me after we had the following interaction:

“What’s up with these fingers, Alison?” (By that he meant the chicken fingers. Obviously.)

“Umm, I’m not sure…uhh, what?”

“They’re weird. Look at them. They’re weird.”

“Well, we use a black bean breading for them, so they’re a little different from standard chicken fingers.”

“You should have told me that! Why wouldn’t you tell someone that? It’s not on the menu!”

At this point, his friend says, “Actually, it was on the menu.” But this doesn’t stop him.

“Alison, what are you going to do about this? I cannot eat these. You should have told me. What do you think this will do to your tip? What am I gonna do about this?"

The Art of the Cover Letter

As someone who loves to write, it’s depressing when I don’t actually enjoy writing something. I mean, I even enjoyed writing (most of) my papers in college. But there’s one writing task that hurts the very fiber of my soul, and that is writing a cover letter.

If I could write three paragraphs of pithy self-deprecation, I promise you I’d have gotten a job within a month of moving to Chicago. But nooo, I’m supposed to write a few concise paragraphs about why I’m great. Are you serious? Obviously I don’t feel too great—I’m writing a cover letter and essentially begging you to hire me. I am a hooker. [*Disclaimer* I am not a hooker. But this is how you make me feel, COVER LETTER! Damn you!]

The cover letter is the first of many painstaking steps to getting a potential job. Next, you check your email 65 times a day, or maybe an hour, hoping this potential employer has responded. You jump every time your phone rings, thinking that might finally be the call asking for an interview, only to discover it’s a message from Sprint telling you your payment’s overdue. Or…maybe that’s just me. But, in brief moments of blissful hope and possible employment, you land an interview! Then you get to sell yourself in person.

Oh, the interview.

What’s even better is when you have the interview that goes so well, you leave just knowing, deep in your gut, that tough times are over. In my case, that happened in November, when I interviewed for a job at Northwestern. Clearly my gut, as John Cusack would say, has shit for brains. I drove back to my apartment that day, smiling, daydreaming about buying the fam Northwestern shirts as Christmas gifts. Hmmph. Yeah, I’m not working for Northwestern. In fact, even though they assured me that, no matter what, I would hear from them about the position, let’s just say this: Not only am I not working for Northwestern, I’m still waiting on my rejection.

In this past year, I have gone on no more than five interviews. FIVE! Have you any idea how that compares to the number of cover letters I’ve written? Any idea?

Well, my math isn’t that great, but I’m pretty sure I’m doing something wrong.

So, tonight, as I was pondering how to master the art of the cover letter, once and for all, I had a breakthrough. What would Costanza do?



“I had so much promise. I was personable, I was bright, oh, maybe not academically speaking, but I was perceptive. I always know when someone’s uncomfortable at a party.”

I know exactly what you mean, George Costanza. And that’s why I wrote a cover letter tonight, and instead of ending with my tried and true line, “Thank you for your time, and I will follow up with you in the next week to see if I can provide you with any more information,” I wrote this:

“I'm sick of serving beers. I'm ready to use my talent. Please give me a call.”

This was the follow-up to my opening zinger, “I am a motivated, talented writer/editor, and my skills are being wasted while I serve beers and burgers at a Logan Square bar and grill.”

What do you think? Cover letter suicide? Or did I make Costanza proud?