A Worthy Cause

This evening, in light of the holiday season, a few people from work and I went to help serve dinner at a local soup kitchen.  We'd gathered up donations from our coworkers-- things like nonperishable food items, health & beauty items, blankets, clothing, children's toys, etc.-- to give to the Kalamazoo Gospel Mission, a local nonprofit organization that runs a homeless shelter, soup kitchen, rehabilitation center, and thrift store, among many other things.  Our group from Pfizer was scheduled to work there tonight, but we ended up not having enough volunteers.  When we arrived, however, we saw that another group had also been scheduled (accidentally) to work the same night, and they were lacking volunteers as well.  Once combined, our groups had the perfect number of workers to operate smoothly.  Funny how that works, isn't it?

I met so many interesting people-- volunteers from the other group, as well as permanent workers at the Mission.  Tyra, the food service manager, had come to the Mission a number of years ago, seeking help (he was a gang member in desperate need of food, shelter, and rehab for an addiction).  His life was successfully turned around due to the help he received at the Mission, and he now manages the entire food service area.  With his contagious energy, extraordinary zest for life, and endless stories, Tyra is the most entertaining person to work next to. 

If you know me at all, you know that I've participated in volunteer mission trips with my church from the time I was 14 years old.  For almost 10 years, I've been traveling to places like the Caribbean, Central America, and eastern Europe, working to help different groups of people who are all much less fortunate than me.  I'm the first to agree that it's most definitely an eye opener when you're working in a Third World country.  And I've seen some really disturbing things in disturbingly impoverished areas.  But unfortunately, you expect to see stuff like that in places like rural Nicaragua and post-Soviet states.  You don't expect to see it down the street from your apartment.

Today was the first time I experienced it in my own city. 

There were three dinner "shifts" that came through the Mission today.  The first was women/children and men who reside there.  The second shift was comprised of those enrolled in one of the Mission's rehab programs (they're there because of an addiction: gambling, alcohol, sex, drugs, etc.).  The third--and largest--group that came through was the actual homeless people.  People who live on the streets of Kalamazoo. 

I knew I would be serving food to homeless people, but I wasn't sure what to expect.  I'm ashamed to say that I was expecting to see cracked-out heroin addicts who reeked of cigarettes, or rude drunks who would ask me for my spare change.  Nothing--not even my 9 years of mission work--would have prepared me for what I experienced tonight.  I stood up at the salad bar and served tossed salad to those who had come to eat.  I made conversation with the most polite, friendly, respectful (and above all GRATEFUL) group of people I've ever encountered.  I smiled graciously as I accepted compliments from people who literally owned nothing but the clothes they were wearing.  I had fun.  And I wanted to cry. 

Throughout the entire meal, people were smiling as they walked by, carrying their winter coats, and all I could think was "It was 13 degrees when I woke up today.  I had to warm my car up for 15 minutes this morning, and I still froze for the first half of my drive to work."  I don't know for sure where these people woke up today, but my guess is that it wasn't in a bed with a heated blanket, in a 4-bedroom, 4-bathroom apartment.  I kept wondering--Where are their families?  Why am I so blessed to have an immediate family-- four different households-- that would gladly take me in if I had nowhere else to go?  It was difficult to stomach, seeing young mothers and young children who were forced to take up residence at the homeless shelter to get out of the freezing weather. 

I felt horrible for the stupid Christmas gifts I'd asked for (a 3-tiered cupcake stand?  really?).  I felt selfish, "American," gluttonous, spoiled.  I felt brokenhearted.  Sometimes I feel like my heart is just too big and I'm just too small to change the things that bother me most. 

So I propose that you help me.  It's just a suggestion, of course.  I can't force you to do anything.  This Christmas (and I know it's approaching quickly), consider this: take a few dollars you would normally spend on Christmas gifts, and instead buy things that your local homeless shelter can use.  I'm not saying that you should totally opt out from buying presents for your dear ones; I'm merely suggesting that you talk to the important people in your life and plan to do something together to help out an organization that offers assistance to the homeless in your area.  Believe me, I understand that not everyone is able to make a monetary donation or even an item donation.  So donate your time--it costs nothing.  Contact the volunteer coordinator at a local rescue mission and set up a time for you to spend a few hours helping out.  Every little bit adds up. 

So gather up some food or deodorant or toothbrushes or time, and put it to good use this holiday season.  Here's a list of the most needed items at the Kalamazoo Gospel Mission.  Even if you're not around the Kalamazoo area, it'll give you an excellent idea of what you can donate.  And if you're having trouble finding a local organization (and I doubt that it would be difficult to find, especially at this time of year), let me know and I'll do the research for you.  Christmas is a time of peace, joy, hope and love.  Everyone should be entitled to enjoy those four little pleasures, shouldn't they?  Let's make it a merry Christmas for everyone.

Third Time's the Charm

If you've read my previous post about my lackage of fundage, you'll know that I was pursuing some additional employment. I mentioned that I'm tutoring and working at a local department store.  Tutoring is going well, but the department store is no more.  It just wasn't working out for me, so I stepped down from my position.  THANK GOODNESS.  Now I'm employed as a server at a local pub, and couldn't be happier.  A few months ago, my sister Amanda and her husband Matt came to visit Liz and me in Kalamazoo.  Matt wanted to go to Shakespeare's, a local pub (and one of my favorites), which was owned by his uncle.  While there, I decided to fill out an employment application.  I didn't hear back, and honestly I had forgotten about it.  Not long ago, though, I received a call from the manager, and we scheduled an interview for a server position.  I interviewed the next day and was hired on the spot.  It's a fun job, complete with wonderful management ("comfortably professional," I like to call it) and friendly/ helpful coworkers.  A welcome change from other places where I've recently worked/ considered working. 

My first "secondary" job prospect:

Hairless rat

I applied for a job listed on Kalamazoo Craigslist (I know, first clue, right?  But hear me out).  The job listed was for a sales associate at a local pet store, and it actually sounded completely legitimate (I've seen some very sketchy job postings out there).  "Must be comfortable handling all types of animals" was in the job description.  I thought "Okay... dogs, cats, rabbits, the occasional bird... I can handle that."  An interview was scheduled, and I was instructed to show up at Extreme Petz in Portage (second clue).  Though I'd never been to the actual store, I knew the general location-- in a nice area, very close to my sister's house.  I arrived, prepared for the typical interview questions.  However, the manager introduced me to John, who would introduce me to all the reptiles shown at this store.  We started at a tank containing a ball python.  For you reptile aficionados, you may be thinking "It's just a ball python..."  Keep in mind, however, that I'd never touched a reptile before in my life.  All I heard was "python," and I thought "There's no way you're getting me to touch that thing."  I told him we were going to have to start with something smaller, so he took me to a small boa constrictor.  I proceeded to hold my very first snake, facing my fears, and I felt like I might just pass out.  We moved on to a few more reptiles, and then I held the python, still feeling terrified.  The manger asked me how I felt about rodents.  I considered running to my car and driving away.  I said "I do NOT do rodents."  She pulled a hairless rat from behind her back (can you say shocking and CRUEL??)  and offered it to me.  I backed away, and very quickly the distance between us increased from 2 feet to 10 feet.  This rat looked like something out of a biological horror movie.  I don't do REGULAR rats... what makes this lady think I can do bald ones?  She asked me what scares me most about the rat-- is it the fact that it has no hair?  The teeth?  The tail?  The claws?  The beady eyes?  "CHECK, CHECK, CHECK, CHECK, CHECK.  All of the above, lady.  That thing you're holding is possibly the scariest thing I've ever seen in my entire life."  She assured me that this rat was harmless, and a popular pet for people with small children.  WHO BUYS VERMIN FOR THEIR CHILDREN TO PLAY WITH???  Visibly disturbed, I said "I could never hold that thing."  She said she understood that I don't do well with live rats, but then asked how I might do with frozen dead mice?  I felt like I want to cry (possibly the vegan in me rearing its anti-animal-cruelty head) and told her that not only could I never touch a live rodent, but there's absolutely no way that I could transport one to its death in the freezer.  Nor could I take a frozen mouse and feed it to a snake.  She told me that she'd love to hire me but it might not work if I can't handle the rodents (you think??).  I thanked her for her time, left the store as quickly as possible, drove home (shaking and crying on the phone to my mom the whole way), vented to my roommate Garrit, took 3 shots of vodka, and showered thrice.  Chalk up another Fear Factor day for Lanie.

My second "secondary" job prospect:

I was hired on the spot as a seasonal associate in the fine jewelry department of a local department store.  Cookie-cutter corporate training went well, and I spent a day learning about gemstones and precious metals from the regional manager of the fine jewelry division.  This is a commission job, and as I was only seasonal, I was instructed to work in the watch/ "cheap" fine jewelry sections, so the regular full-time associates could sell their diamonds and gemstones.  My first (and only) two days on the floor at this job were terrible.  No one would train me in practical things, like where to find the tools to change watch batteries or how to add/ remove links from a watch.  On my second day, I was given keys to the jewelry cases and worked on the floor for an hour before I was instructed to go to the back and watch training videos on customer service (because that'll help me on Black Friday??) for three hours.  I completed the video training and realized my shift was almost over so I headed back to the jewelry counter to turn in my keys.  Upon handing over my keys, I was bombarded with questions. "Where did you get these keys?"  "Who gave these to you?"  "What was her name?"  I said that the manager had issued me the keys, but I wasn't sure of her name.  "Was her name Melanie?" they asked.  Confused, I said no, and turned in the keys.  They informed me that some girl named Melanie had signed those keys out, and no one could find Melanie.  They had even gotten every store manager involved, and they were scouring the premises for this Melanie girl who had "stolen" the keys.  They had been calling Melanie and couldn't get a hold of her, and no one knew where Melanie had gone.  It's true-- they didn't know my name, and had forgotten that one of their employees (the notorious "Melanie") was in the back watching training videos.  A quick flash of my nametag (MELANIE) and a roll of my eyes later, I handed off the keys, left the store (having received no apology), and checked my voicemail (to find the 3 angry messages from my coworkers about how I needed to return the keys).  A couple days later, I called to quit.  And after being on hold for 23 minutes and hung up on twice, Melanie was successful.  Mission accomplished.  Thanks for the opportunity, but no thanks.

My third "secondary" job prospect:
I'm working at the pub and loving it so far.  Third time's the charm.  Fact.

That's the Way the Cookie Crumbles: Part Deux

As promised in Part One, I am providing you with the basics of a well-thought-out nomenclature system for the Cookies in my world.  My young coworkers and I have taken the liberty of classifying each Cookie according to his physical characteristics.  Disclaimer #2: Any and all accusations of our being shallow/ superficial/ discriminatory will not be well-received, as the cookie-based terminology is used purely for entertainment purposes only. 


Cookie (formerly "Warm Cookie"): any young man who is strikingly handsome (and seemingly friendly... I can not stress it enough: an unpleasant demeanor does not a desirable Cookie make).

Fig Newtie (formerly "Fig Newton"): any young man who is slightly attractive and seemingly friendly. For example: a Nabisco Fig Newton is a cookie that I personally wouldn't turn down (because unfortunately, I've never met a cookie I didn't like), but I would probably never choose when there are other cookies available.

Pecan Sandy: a handsome older man. Pecan sandies are tasty cookies, yes, but generally more popular with the older generations.

The Bakery: the specific work location of a group of Cookies; any place where a group of Cookies gathers on a regular basis.

The following is a list of the specific Cookies we encounter on a daily (and semi-daily) basis. (Note: cookie-related nomenclature is given when applicable; however, many names are chosen simply because the appearance is not directly equatable to any baked good)

Green Hat (formerly known as Gray Hat): wears a green hat every day; once wore a hat of gray, now wears a green hat.  Creative.  I know. 

Beardie Boy (formerly known as Bearded Cookie): young man with a beard; very shy. 

The Mohican (formerly known as The Last of the Mohicans): strikingly handsome with dark hair and dark skin with very angular features-- similar in appearance to someone of Native American ancestry... which brings me to Disclaimer #3: This terminology is under no circumstances to be construed as racially discriminatory.

Fun Size Cookie: somewhat petite and very handsome.

Tattoos: slender, attractive, with tattoos along his arms (specifically the triceps).  [Note: missing since approx. 08/01/10]

Tattoos #2: tattoos along his arms and up the back of his neck; occasionally wears glasses with black plastic frames. 

Hot Tall Guy: dark skin and hair, slightly older; possibly of managerial ranking.

Hot Tall Guy #2: similar in appearance to Hot Tall Guy, with lighter skin; managerial status unknown.

Charlie Brownie:  shorter in stature, with a round face similar to that of popular cartoon character Charlie Brown; constant smile.

Dream Boy: "Pecan Sandy" status (see above); shorter in stature.  [Note: missing since approx. 11/08/10]

Prepackaged Cookie: very square in stature, reminiscent of the squares of cookie dough found in a Nestle Tollhouse prepackaged cookie dough bar.

Baker's Dozen: an unexpected new cookie.

Rocky Road: dark hair and slightly darker skin; similar in appearance to a young Sylvester Stallone.

Enable Your Cookies: noticeably enjoys sending/ receiving text messages (hence the technological name); similar in appearance to Robert Pattinson.  [Note: missing since approx. 12/02/10]

Galleta: a handsome young man of Hispanic heritage (galleta: Spanish for "cookie").

Thin Mint (AKA "Hi-hello-howareyou"): tall and slender; friendly, enjoys using several greetings at once; appears to be approx. 14 years younger than he actually is.

The Situation: dark hair (heavily gelled), wears a gold chain, walks with an unmistakable stride, similar in appearance and demeanor to Mike "The Situation" Sorrentino of Jersey Shore.  [Note: I am not a Jersey Shore fan.]

Ice Cream Cookie: employed at a local frozen custard shop.

Biscotti: employed at a local coffee shop.

Christmas Cookie: employed at a local Christmas tree farm.

That's the Way the Cookie Crumbles: Part One

"Open the door, my princess dear, Open the door to thy true love here!"  -- The Frog Prince, Brothers Grimm

My mom is always telling me "there's plenty of fish in the sea" and "sometimes we have to kiss a couple frogs before we find our prince."  That's pretty, Mom, but how many frogs will I have to meet? 

I was telling my dear friend Samiie about some of my recent "frogs," and some potential princes (whom I wouldn't classify as any sort of amphibian).  She was eager to hear me recount my adventures (and misadventures) in finding my prince, and together we decided that I should share my stories. 

Ah, but where to begin?  And how to begin?

I suppose I'll begin by painting a picture of my place of employment.  Bear in mind that it seems most people who work in my building are at least 35 years of age.  Young Lanie, at 23 years of age, has developed quite an eye for scoping out anyone who appears to be younger than 35 years of age. Disclaimer #1: 35 is not old. It's just that 35 > 23. You do the math. Naturally, I take note when I see someone (particularly a male) who appears to be close to my age.

Enter the young male contractors (the ones I referred to in an earlier post as "electrician contractors"). Upon actually talking to them (after 6-7 months of being too shy to approach them), I found out that they're actually both electrician AND carpentry contractors who work in my building.

My building boasts a few different dining options.  There is the main cafeteria (a very large cafeteria with many tables and plenty of options), as well as numerous "snack bars--" smaller cafeteria-like rooms-- scattered throughout the building.  I frequent Snack Bar 3 ("SB3")-- which offers some of the same options as the main cafeteria, but nowhere near as many.  One thing SB3 does offer that the cafeteria doesn't offer is the option of warm cookies.  That's right-- possibly the greatest thing ever known to mankind: the freshly-baked cookie.  Could there be anything sweeter (no pun intended) than a cookie straight out of the oven?  SB3 also happens to be the very same spot where our dear carpentry contractors choose to dine.  Given the combination of the freshly-baked cookies and the super-cute contractors, wouldn't you also choose SB3? 

Our coworkers wondered why we were suddenly choosing SB3 over the main cafeteria (the food there is definitely not as tasty as the food upstairs).  We told them we were going there for the warm cookies--not a total fabrication--but we were also going there to see the cute boys.  Eventually, we just began skipping past all the nonsense and just referring to the cute boys as "warm cookies."  I'm proud to say that we've turned the term "cookie" into something of a household name-- and not only at work.  My roommates, friends and family all know what I'm talking about when I refer to a Cookie.  (By the way-- to avoid any confusion, I'll capitalize the C in "cookie" when referring to cookie-boys in my blog.)

Cookies (of any kind) do make life a little sweeter, don't they?  I don't enjoy writing lengthy blogs, so I'll end this here and continue with the "Cookie terminology" in Part Deux.  Stay tuned, and be on the lookout for a Warm Cookie near you!  (Lucky you if you've got your own Cookie...)

Argyle Wednesdays!



As if it weren't obvious...
this is NOT a photo of Sarah, Ariane, and me.

 Argyle Wednesdays are a recent development (and one that's gaining quite a bit of interest, might I add) at my job.  It all started the Wednesday before Thanksgiving, when Sarah and I both wore argyle sweaters on the same day (by accident, I promise).  We were so tickled by the wardrobe phenomenon that we decided to make it a weekly event.  The next Wednesday, Sarah, Ariane, and I decided to all wear argyle sweaters (Ariane wasn't at work for the first celebration of argyle, and we wanted to include her in our happy matchy-matchy day). 

Unfortunately, that next Wednesday we got to work and not only were we all wearing argyle, but we were all sporting blue argyle sweaters with teal and green accents.  And gray pants to complete the ensemble.  Of course we looked rad-- that's the point!  Well... I thought we looked pretty rad.  Sarah and Ariane were horrified by the fact that we looked like three high school clique-ster girls walking down the hallway at work, so they each donned a jacket over their sweaters.  I'm happy to say that I wore my colors proudly-- flew my freak flag high that day. 

Argyle Wednesday sounds like it should be part of a high school spirit week, you say?  Perhaps.  But it's fun.  And it gives me something to look forward to on Wednesdays.  I don't care if it makes me look like I'm part of a group of 15-year-old girlfriends.  My job rocks.  And we have our own little argyle club on Wednesdays (to boost morale, I say).

My sister says that Pfizer changed when I arrived (apparently no one had theme days before...).  I brought the "high school" to Pfizer.  And you know what?  I'm proud of it.  Rah Rah Rah.

The Great Entertainer

"Not a shred of evidence exists  in favor of the idea that life is serious."  -- Brendan Gill


I have new bangs, and I'm none too pleased about them.  But hair grows.  And I've never been one to worry about the outcome of my hair (ask anyone who knew me in high school... yeah, I had a different hair color every week: pink, platinum blonde, black, whatever).  Thankfully, though, my current bangs look okay-- and people at work have been complimenting me on them.  Most often, I'll smile and say "thank you," but with my close friends I'll laugh and say "Thanks... but there's a story there."  (and there is a story...)

My coworker and good friend Estela mentioned them to me yesterday.  Because she's a close friend, I laughed and said "yeah, and it's a funny story."  Estela laughed as I told her, and she proceeded to tell me that I have a funny story for everything in life. 

It's true, though.  I do.  I love telling my stories (not obvious, is it?), and for some reason it seems that everything I do in life has a funny side-story to it.  And I wonder... do I make my life interesting, or am I just blessed enough to have a life that's funny enough for me to entertain others with?  I'm not offended-- I'll be the first to admit that some very strange things happen to me, and most of them (even if scary/ creepy/ whatever at first) are pretty funny when I recount them to others.  I love new and interesting experiences, and I love to entertain people.  Seems like my life is perfect, then, huh?   :)  

So do I just seek out the comedy in my daily routine?  Have I created my comical life, or did I just happen upon it?  Hmm...

The dawn will come, the sun will shine again, and I will be on my way.

"Despite the rejection, and in violation of all the rules, I came back year after year." --Joseph Barbera (of Hanna-Barbera Cartoons)
"I really wish I was less of a thinking man and more of a fool not afraid of rejection." --Billy Joel

If there were one universal truth in this unpredictable world, it would be this: no one enjoys rejection.  It's hard to dish out (unless you're stone-cold heartless), and it's difficult to hear.  Rejection can take on a number of forms:

• You apply for a job, and "after careful consideration, they've decided to pursue other candidates whose particular combination of education, skills and experience more closely fit the needs of this position."  (did I make it too obvious that I've received one or two of those emails?)
• Your boyfriend/ girlfriend/ husband/ wife/ crush/ gorgeous-coworker-who-probably-has-no-idea-you-exist decides to pursue someone else.  Ah, the classic "it's not you, it's me."
• You ask someone to go out on a date, and he/ she "has other plans." 
• You complete an essay/ test after working tirelessly on it, and your instructor's harsh comments go something like this: "Did you even read the book?"
• You submit a work of art to a gallery, and "it doesn't exactly fit their style."
• You're applying for mortgage approval with a certain financial services company, and you receive the letter that says "your employment length is not sufficient length to qualify."
• You attempt to use your credit card at the local coffee shop and "it's-rejected-do-you-have-another-form-of-payment?"  (again, that's never happened to me... or has it?)

No matter how they word it (and it seems like it's often riddled with flowery "nice" words to make it seem less harsh), rejection stings.  It never feels good.  I can't speak for everyone, but I hate to be the one rejecting another human for any reason.  "Yeah... that's nice/ flattering/ beautiful, but it's just not what I'm looking for right now."  Not cool.  Rejection sucks.  No matter which side you find yourself on.

My mom gave me a desk calendar for my birthday, and each page displays the date, a photo of Ireland, and a quote. 

November 14: "Failure, like the darkness of night, may slow me down.  But the dawn will come, the sun will shine again, and I will be on my way." 

It's easy to feel like a failure after you've been picked over.  Why are you afraid to do certain things?  You're likely afraid of rejection, which would inevitably be followed by feelings of failure. 

We only get one shot at life.  If we're rejected now and then, so what?  Success never shows up before the initial attempt.  You have to try something to see the result.  Failure doesn't mean that all hope is lost; it means that we've learned a lesson (whatever it may be) and we get a chance to try again... perhaps trying it slightly differently.  So get out there and face your fears.  Go to work wearing your new hot pink lipstick.  Talk to that cute guy (or gal).  Go skydiving.  Ride the elevator.  Hold a snake.  Look a clown in the eye.  Wait a second, daredevil... let's not get ahead of ourselves.  One step at a time.