The Wiff and I have lived in our house now for 11 years this month. That's a long time in my book. The longest I've lived in any one place was for 16 years (I still have dreams that take place at 70 Linwood St. It's always right there just under the surface). And so as you may have guessed, we've accumulated quite a bit of stuff. I used to like to remind the Wiff that when we moved in together all my worldly possessions fit into the back of my parents Hyundai Excel (including my bed which was strapped to the roof). Now if we were to move it would take a very large truck indeed. So what to do? It's time to purge some shit.
My mom used to go into fits of purging every now and then and just toss stuff out without really consulting anyone (like beloved stuffed animals or comic books). Our house was cluttered but always clean. We just seemed have a lot of stuff everywhere and then suddenly one day when everyone was out of the house, she'd flip a switch and throw stuff out. This is why I think I now have that tendency. It used to be much more prominant in my personality but I think but ever since the Wiff and I tried and failed to sell our house we kind of went into a, well I wouldn't call it a depression necessarily but perhaps a malaise? When we had the house up for sale we had to keep the place absolutely spotless at all times just in case the real estate broker called to let us know she was going to show it. We also had to strip it of any real personality so all our pictures and the more "funky" decorations had to be taken down. These all got boxed up and stored in the basement. I also took all my stupid little toys out of the little bedroom upstairs to make it look more presentable.
After it became apparent that no one wanted to buy our house, we had pulled it off the market but we didn't put all the stuff back right away. A lot of it still resides in those very same boxes in our basement. I'm talking 2 years now. Also since we didn't have to have the place looking like it was going to be in a photo shoot for Better Homes and Shitty Back Gardens it was allowed to revert to it's natural state of clean but cluttered. Plus there's all the stuff that we either aren't interested in anymore or just simply don't ever use in the basement and/or attic as well. If I'm honest about it, there's things there that I'm fairly certain we've actually NEVER used. We have boxes of old cassette and VHS tapes somewhere as well. It's just stuff. But since it's all (for the most part) neatly stacked away and out of sight, I was ok with it (as was the Wiff). Then we started watching the show "Hoarders".
Holy fuck. This show messed my shit up. Now I don't want to give the impression that we have a hoarding problem at all. I could not imagine the hell that these people on Hoarders live in. First of all, the subjects' obvious mental illness is really quite terrible but it was the very tangible physical evidence that I focused on. Meaning: there's piles of stuff everywhere. I literally wanted to become an instant Buddhist and just get renounce all worldly possessions (except my T.V. and maybe my PS3...I really like those. Oh, and maybe the cars..those were expensive. And I really like having the coffee maker. Hmm, maybe I don't need to renounce every everything). Watching this show awakened that dormant purge gene and all I could think about was organizing and minimizing the amount of thingies in the house.
On Saturday the Wiff and I started down the path by cleaning out the pantry cabinets. We're contemplating getting that room fixed up and I figured this would be a good way to promote my new "Let's throw shit out" agenda. Luckily the Wiff is smarter than me and suggested that we donate the stuff that's still good rather than renting a giant dumpster and just hurling everything into it. Fine. We'll do it your "sane" way or whatever. Hmph. The pantry is a pretty small space and there isn't much in the way of storage space but holy crap had we crammed a bunch of stuff in there. After all was said and done we ended up with 5 boxes for donation and only one that will be sent to the basement for storage (I know, I know...baby steps. Eventually we'll get the extra stuff to go away). The Wiff did a great job. It was harder for her than it was for me cuz for the most part the stuff in question were in her domain. I don't mean to make that sound like she "belongs in the kitchen" or any of that chauvinist bullshit, no I just mean that she's the chef of the house so these are all her tools. And goddamn if she didn't have a bunch of them.
Now all I can think about is what to tackle next. The coat closet? The back room in the basement? My tool area? The attic? There are plenty of places that need attention. The Great Post No-Sale of the House Depression has run its course. It's time to chuck shit into boxes and send 'em off to Salvation Army and/or Big Brother/Big Sister. Again, this is not to give the impression that our place is a mess. It simply isn't. But what we do have is a whole lot of shit that we don't need to keep around anymore. Especially if it's stuff that one of these charities can make some dough off of (mmmm, dangling preposition). "Why not have a yard sale then, Mark?" Oh silly reader. Don't you know by now that if you have a yard sale that people show up? I don't like people remember? This way is better me thinks.
Tuesday, September 8, 2009
Thursday, September 3, 2009
A Night Out with Mr. Crankbottom
Last night the Wiff and I went out to dinner. She had gone online and purchased a $100 gift certificate (half price too! Go get something for a restaurant you like at Project Half Price or at the WBZ site) for a little restaurant near our place that she's been wanting to try for a while now (I have to mention that when I went to check out the restaurant's website, the first thing I noticed was a spelling error. In the title of the site it reads "A New Tase on the North Short". Awesome job, website douche). We haven't gone out to dinner in a long time so it was supposed to be a nice night out to enjoy each others company and some good food. What we forgot to factor in is the humans that will inevitably throw a monkey wrench into the works and ruin the night.
The restaurant is about a mile from our house over in Swampscott so getting there was easy enough. The place is right near the water (not quite within view of the ocean but you know it's there) and I got a parking space right in front. I chose to take this is a good sign and happily parked the car. We walked in and you know that feeling you get when you instantly don't like a place? Yea, I got that feeling right off the bat. Tacky is a good description. It's trying to be a high-end place but not quite pulling it off. But since I'm trying to be less anti-social (HA!), I dismissed it as just me being my usual cranky self and even though the place is decorated like a Long Island housewife's wet dream, I'm sure it'll be fine. We were greeted right away by a woman who looked like she just got out of the spray tan booth 5 minutes before showing up for work. The place was completely empty and she said that we could sit wherever we wanted. I kinda wanted to sit in the dark, back corner but I figured that would be overruled as too gloomy so we ended up sitting right at the front of the big windows that overlooked, well, our little diesel Jetta mostly.
The server (who I think must be an owner too or something...no proof of this but she gave that impression. Perhaps it was just the fake tan and giant painted nails) gave us menus and a cocktail menu (which was empty by the way. The Wiff opened the cocktail menu and there was nothing in there. It was just a blank, leatherette folder at this stage). After getting the real cocktail menu we were left alone to figure out what we wanted. Then this Porsche SUV pulled up outside and a this small family of 4 got out. I didn't really pay attention to them (other than noting the two kids were wearing those horrible Ed Hardy "fashion" T-shirts and that the woman was also overly spray tanned and had on I'm guessing 10 gold rings. Ok, I guess I did notice them a little. I think the situation was the Porsche-douche is dating the super-tanned lady and the Ed Hardy assholes are her kids) until they came into the restaurant itself. Now remember, the place is completely empty except for us two. So where do you think the waitress sat them? If you said DIRECTLY behind us (and right in my line of sight) then you'd be correct. I must have looked like I wanted to bail 'cuz the Wiff gave me that "Just let it go" look. But I can't just let it go can I? No, I can't. I'm a jackass remember?
All I wanted to do was to go to my instinct and either move our seats to the other side of the L-shaped space or just bolt and forget the whole thing. We hadn't ordered at this stage so we totally should have left. Now I know I sound like a high-maintainance jerk-o now (and I am) but honestly, why seat them right there? Oh, plus they were friends with the server/suspected owner-lady and the bartender guy. This I mention because our server wasn't that into being a server in the first place (my impression) and when you add people that she already knows into the mix, she's just gonna go hang out and talk to them instead of, oh I dunno, checking on us for instance. At this time is when I noticed that the music there was really loud italian "rock". As I tried to process that this shitty song was yes in fact louder than it should be and yes they are singing in Italian, I looked up and realized that I was sitting directly under a speaker. Niiiiiice. Where's my scotch?
Then the guy at the other table started coughing. It was a harsh, and perhaps (I'm hoping) painful cough that was quite loud. Louder even than the shitty italian rock music. I can't really blame the restaurant for the guy having a cough like that but I can certainly focus on it and allow it to mess up my dinner. This guy was sitting facing me and right over the Wiff's left shoulder. So I could see exactly when he was gearing up for the next burst of hacking. It was the opposite of awesome. It took some doing but I actually let it go. No, seriously, I was not "ok with it" but I was trying desperately to not let it ruin the evening. Then the food started to come out.
We had ordered a couple of apps which isn't normally something we'd do but since we had this lovely $100 gift certificate that we snagged for $50 we figured what the hell. The first app was a lobster and crab pancake thing that was just....meh. It was too oily for my taste. The Wiff seemed to like it. The other app was a potato gnocci that I swear to jeebus christmas tasted like Chef Boyardee made it. Except that the Chef doesn't charge $18 for his shit. Ok, so the apps aren't fantastic. Whatevs, let's just move on to the main course and try to enjoy ourselves. But I can't. Why? Cuz the douchebag with the cough is going on and on about how the younger of the two kids should get the Mercedes-something SUV and the other brother should totally get either the BMW or Land Rover. By now the Wiff has also noticed that this place is not really our cup of tea. And then the guy went into another coughing fit. Hooray! Swine flu for everyone!
The main course comes and it's good. I got the lemon chicken and since the Wiff loves nothing more than a tortured animal, she got the veal (I'm surprised she didn't get it with a side of foie gras and an assortment of kittens that she could punch). My meal was pretty good. But that's really the gist of the whole place right there: It was "pretty good" not "amazing" or "wicked pissah". By now the place is filling up with other patrons and so I do a quick glance over my shoulder to silently judge the rest of them as well. As I had expected it was chock full of assholes. God, I really don't like people at all. The waitress comes over with the check and I take a look-see. Now, I'm figuring that based on 1) where we are, Swampscott on the fucking Lynn border 2) what we had, Chef Boyardee apps and mediocre main courses and 3) there's only 2 of us that the check would be what? $75? Maybe $85? Nope. $124. Are you fucking kidding me? My scotch all by itself was $12. Holy shit. Good thing I only had one of those. This is not Boston you assholes. What the fuck? More swear words!
So as I get wallet out I look at the Wiff and say "I'm never coming back here". And I think she agreed. We settled up and got the hell out of there. I guess this place decided that all you have to do to be considered "fine dining" was to have inflated prices. I wouldn't mind so much if the experience and food hadn't been such a let down. I had been looking forward to a night out too. Next time we'll just head over to The Blue Ox in downtown Lynn. At least there the waitstaff seem to actually care if you're enjoying yourself.
The restaurant is about a mile from our house over in Swampscott so getting there was easy enough. The place is right near the water (not quite within view of the ocean but you know it's there) and I got a parking space right in front. I chose to take this is a good sign and happily parked the car. We walked in and you know that feeling you get when you instantly don't like a place? Yea, I got that feeling right off the bat. Tacky is a good description. It's trying to be a high-end place but not quite pulling it off. But since I'm trying to be less anti-social (HA!), I dismissed it as just me being my usual cranky self and even though the place is decorated like a Long Island housewife's wet dream, I'm sure it'll be fine. We were greeted right away by a woman who looked like she just got out of the spray tan booth 5 minutes before showing up for work. The place was completely empty and she said that we could sit wherever we wanted. I kinda wanted to sit in the dark, back corner but I figured that would be overruled as too gloomy so we ended up sitting right at the front of the big windows that overlooked, well, our little diesel Jetta mostly.
The server (who I think must be an owner too or something...no proof of this but she gave that impression. Perhaps it was just the fake tan and giant painted nails) gave us menus and a cocktail menu (which was empty by the way. The Wiff opened the cocktail menu and there was nothing in there. It was just a blank, leatherette folder at this stage). After getting the real cocktail menu we were left alone to figure out what we wanted. Then this Porsche SUV pulled up outside and a this small family of 4 got out. I didn't really pay attention to them (other than noting the two kids were wearing those horrible Ed Hardy "fashion" T-shirts and that the woman was also overly spray tanned and had on I'm guessing 10 gold rings. Ok, I guess I did notice them a little. I think the situation was the Porsche-douche is dating the super-tanned lady and the Ed Hardy assholes are her kids) until they came into the restaurant itself. Now remember, the place is completely empty except for us two. So where do you think the waitress sat them? If you said DIRECTLY behind us (and right in my line of sight) then you'd be correct. I must have looked like I wanted to bail 'cuz the Wiff gave me that "Just let it go" look. But I can't just let it go can I? No, I can't. I'm a jackass remember?
All I wanted to do was to go to my instinct and either move our seats to the other side of the L-shaped space or just bolt and forget the whole thing. We hadn't ordered at this stage so we totally should have left. Now I know I sound like a high-maintainance jerk-o now (and I am) but honestly, why seat them right there? Oh, plus they were friends with the server/suspected owner-lady and the bartender guy. This I mention because our server wasn't that into being a server in the first place (my impression) and when you add people that she already knows into the mix, she's just gonna go hang out and talk to them instead of, oh I dunno, checking on us for instance. At this time is when I noticed that the music there was really loud italian "rock". As I tried to process that this shitty song was yes in fact louder than it should be and yes they are singing in Italian, I looked up and realized that I was sitting directly under a speaker. Niiiiiice. Where's my scotch?
Then the guy at the other table started coughing. It was a harsh, and perhaps (I'm hoping) painful cough that was quite loud. Louder even than the shitty italian rock music. I can't really blame the restaurant for the guy having a cough like that but I can certainly focus on it and allow it to mess up my dinner. This guy was sitting facing me and right over the Wiff's left shoulder. So I could see exactly when he was gearing up for the next burst of hacking. It was the opposite of awesome. It took some doing but I actually let it go. No, seriously, I was not "ok with it" but I was trying desperately to not let it ruin the evening. Then the food started to come out.
We had ordered a couple of apps which isn't normally something we'd do but since we had this lovely $100 gift certificate that we snagged for $50 we figured what the hell. The first app was a lobster and crab pancake thing that was just....meh. It was too oily for my taste. The Wiff seemed to like it. The other app was a potato gnocci that I swear to jeebus christmas tasted like Chef Boyardee made it. Except that the Chef doesn't charge $18 for his shit. Ok, so the apps aren't fantastic. Whatevs, let's just move on to the main course and try to enjoy ourselves. But I can't. Why? Cuz the douchebag with the cough is going on and on about how the younger of the two kids should get the Mercedes-something SUV and the other brother should totally get either the BMW or Land Rover. By now the Wiff has also noticed that this place is not really our cup of tea. And then the guy went into another coughing fit. Hooray! Swine flu for everyone!
The main course comes and it's good. I got the lemon chicken and since the Wiff loves nothing more than a tortured animal, she got the veal (I'm surprised she didn't get it with a side of foie gras and an assortment of kittens that she could punch). My meal was pretty good. But that's really the gist of the whole place right there: It was "pretty good" not "amazing" or "wicked pissah". By now the place is filling up with other patrons and so I do a quick glance over my shoulder to silently judge the rest of them as well. As I had expected it was chock full of assholes. God, I really don't like people at all. The waitress comes over with the check and I take a look-see. Now, I'm figuring that based on 1) where we are, Swampscott on the fucking Lynn border 2) what we had, Chef Boyardee apps and mediocre main courses and 3) there's only 2 of us that the check would be what? $75? Maybe $85? Nope. $124. Are you fucking kidding me? My scotch all by itself was $12. Holy shit. Good thing I only had one of those. This is not Boston you assholes. What the fuck? More swear words!
So as I get wallet out I look at the Wiff and say "I'm never coming back here". And I think she agreed. We settled up and got the hell out of there. I guess this place decided that all you have to do to be considered "fine dining" was to have inflated prices. I wouldn't mind so much if the experience and food hadn't been such a let down. I had been looking forward to a night out too. Next time we'll just head over to The Blue Ox in downtown Lynn. At least there the waitstaff seem to actually care if you're enjoying yourself.
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
Five Song Shuffle (a.k.a. "Beating a Dead Horse")
How can you tell when I don't have any ideas? Why it's when I post the next 5 songs that come up on my iPod of course! What an exciting time for you! Let's get right to it then shall we?
Let's do another 'kay? 'Kay. Nothing embarrassing came up that go 'round.
Bored now. BYE!
- Joe Jackson – Got the Time
- PJ Harvey – Water
- The Clash – The Magnificient Seven
- The Pogues – Summer in Siam
- The Bags – Frilly Underwear
Let's do another 'kay? 'Kay. Nothing embarrassing came up that go 'round.
Bored now. BYE!
Friday, August 21, 2009
Care for Some More Meat Gum?
I was IM'ing with my sister Mary and the subject of our mother's cooking came up (no pun intended). Our mom had a busy household what with four kids (all fussy eaters), my dad and her mother (good ol' Nana. My first roommate) all living in what was technically a 2-bedroom apartment. We had converted the dining room into another bedroom to give the illusion of having 3 bedrooms. In the 16 years that I lived in that apartment my bedroom was at one point or another located in every room except the bathroom and the kitchen. The bedrooms and the living room, which we called "the parlor" (although that summons an image of a pristine place that is only for "company" and off-limits to kids. This was not the case in our house), swapped locations several times during the time we rented the place. Often she would change the rooms while everyone else was at work and school. Mom would just decide that the front room was now a bedroom and the living room would now be located where the bedroom used to be.
This is ye olde homestead as it looks today. Our apartment
was on the first floor. Back then the house was green and
somewhat less dilapidated. There used to be a half-dead
tree in the little yard on the right too. Check out all the satellite dishes!
She tried her very best to make meals that were, at least in theory, edible. We were poor but, as evidenced by any pictures of us kids from back then, we didn't go hungry. The main obstacle in her way was the fact that no one had ever taught her how to cook properly so she made shit up with limited success. That sounds fairly harsh but honestly I didn't know any better until much later in life that the food I grew up on was ... let's just say "limiting". The first inkling that perhaps there was at the very least better tasting food out there was when I stayed over my Aunt Janie's place and she made lunch for me and my cousin David. She made macaroni and cheese and it was so goddamn CREAMY that I thought that there must be something terribly wrong. Mac and cheese at our house was usually clumped together and relatively dry. Y'see, my mom would take a gallon of milk (which she would send me to the corner store to buy every few days on my bike) and strrreeeeetch it out into 2.5 – 3 gallons of milk by using powdered milk. I thought that milk was supposed to be thin, semi-lumpy and sort of grayish. We had milk at every meal too. It didn't matter what the meal was, milk was going to be the beverage of choice. It seemed perfectly normal back then but now it seems bizarre to me. I haven't had a glass of milk in years. It doesn't appeal to me in the slightest.
There were other clues that maybe the culinary arts was not my mom's medium. Pork chops come to mind. In my mind to this very day pork chops are associated with sawdust-dry withered things that would wick all the moisture out of your mouth the instant you popped a piece in. Whenever The Wiff says that she is going to make pork chops she has to remind me that they will be delicious. I guess I make a face or something every single time. All vegetables were to be boiled until opaque. I remember the first time seeing what broccoli was supposed to look like and being totally shocked. Hey! This broccoli snapped when I bit it! How come it didn't just go away in my mouth like it's supposed to? And why is it so green? Fresh vegetables back then usually meant the can was opened that day. There are lots of square, canned veggies in my past. And wax beans. Jiminy Christmas the wax bean is not only a horrible name but it is the most revolting vegetable known to mankind. Or perhaps the lima bean is the most revolting? I'm guessing that it'll be a legume of some ilk.
But the worst offender in my mom's arsenal was her steak. She would pop it in the broiler (yes, the broiler) sans any seasoning and leave it in there for hours. What would come out was a gray, shoe-leathery facsimile of a steak. To call it "well done" is an understatement. It was certainly "done". So tough was this meat that no amount of chewing could break it down. It would become what I called "Meat Gum". You could chew that fucking thing until your jaw hurt but it wasn't going anywhere. I've gagged on a number of pieces of rubbery steak in my time simply because I was tired of chewing it and I knew that trying to spit it out was forbidden. It was so bad that I was convinced that I hated steak. Back when The Wiff and I were dating, she invited me to her mom's place for dinner. When I asked her what they were going to serve she said "Steak". My heart sank. Oh god, not another fucking meat gum horror show!
But imagine my surprise when what was served to me was NOT an old piece of a shredded tire found on a highway somewhere but a juicy, beautiful, succulent cut of perfectly prepared meat. It blew my mind. I literally had no idea food could be this good. Plus, there were fresh vegetables that had flavor and color. Amazing. I have to say though that I still have to re-learn that steak can be great almost every time someone brings up the idea of having one. I have to think to myself "oh right...this will not be like gnawing on a demon's scrotum" and then I can order the steak.
I do have to give Mom her props though. She was a decent baker and could whip up a batch of french toast (using the whitest of white breads of course) like no one's business. Her soda bread ruled. She baked us a cake for every birthday too. Plus, I can't cook to save my life so I really shouldn't be mocking anyone's attempts let alone the woman who raised me. But all that stuff just makes me think about how much I miss her. I would gladly eat a plateful of her horrible cooking, meat gum and all, just to have a chance to talk to her again. And maybe even get in a game or two of Boggle or Yahtzee.
This is ye olde homestead as it looks today. Our apartment
was on the first floor. Back then the house was green and
somewhat less dilapidated. There used to be a half-dead
tree in the little yard on the right too. Check out all the satellite dishes!
She tried her very best to make meals that were, at least in theory, edible. We were poor but, as evidenced by any pictures of us kids from back then, we didn't go hungry. The main obstacle in her way was the fact that no one had ever taught her how to cook properly so she made shit up with limited success. That sounds fairly harsh but honestly I didn't know any better until much later in life that the food I grew up on was ... let's just say "limiting". The first inkling that perhaps there was at the very least better tasting food out there was when I stayed over my Aunt Janie's place and she made lunch for me and my cousin David. She made macaroni and cheese and it was so goddamn CREAMY that I thought that there must be something terribly wrong. Mac and cheese at our house was usually clumped together and relatively dry. Y'see, my mom would take a gallon of milk (which she would send me to the corner store to buy every few days on my bike) and strrreeeeetch it out into 2.5 – 3 gallons of milk by using powdered milk. I thought that milk was supposed to be thin, semi-lumpy and sort of grayish. We had milk at every meal too. It didn't matter what the meal was, milk was going to be the beverage of choice. It seemed perfectly normal back then but now it seems bizarre to me. I haven't had a glass of milk in years. It doesn't appeal to me in the slightest.
There were other clues that maybe the culinary arts was not my mom's medium. Pork chops come to mind. In my mind to this very day pork chops are associated with sawdust-dry withered things that would wick all the moisture out of your mouth the instant you popped a piece in. Whenever The Wiff says that she is going to make pork chops she has to remind me that they will be delicious. I guess I make a face or something every single time. All vegetables were to be boiled until opaque. I remember the first time seeing what broccoli was supposed to look like and being totally shocked. Hey! This broccoli snapped when I bit it! How come it didn't just go away in my mouth like it's supposed to? And why is it so green? Fresh vegetables back then usually meant the can was opened that day. There are lots of square, canned veggies in my past. And wax beans. Jiminy Christmas the wax bean is not only a horrible name but it is the most revolting vegetable known to mankind. Or perhaps the lima bean is the most revolting? I'm guessing that it'll be a legume of some ilk.
But the worst offender in my mom's arsenal was her steak. She would pop it in the broiler (yes, the broiler) sans any seasoning and leave it in there for hours. What would come out was a gray, shoe-leathery facsimile of a steak. To call it "well done" is an understatement. It was certainly "done". So tough was this meat that no amount of chewing could break it down. It would become what I called "Meat Gum". You could chew that fucking thing until your jaw hurt but it wasn't going anywhere. I've gagged on a number of pieces of rubbery steak in my time simply because I was tired of chewing it and I knew that trying to spit it out was forbidden. It was so bad that I was convinced that I hated steak. Back when The Wiff and I were dating, she invited me to her mom's place for dinner. When I asked her what they were going to serve she said "Steak". My heart sank. Oh god, not another fucking meat gum horror show!
But imagine my surprise when what was served to me was NOT an old piece of a shredded tire found on a highway somewhere but a juicy, beautiful, succulent cut of perfectly prepared meat. It blew my mind. I literally had no idea food could be this good. Plus, there were fresh vegetables that had flavor and color. Amazing. I have to say though that I still have to re-learn that steak can be great almost every time someone brings up the idea of having one. I have to think to myself "oh right...this will not be like gnawing on a demon's scrotum" and then I can order the steak.
I do have to give Mom her props though. She was a decent baker and could whip up a batch of french toast (using the whitest of white breads of course) like no one's business. Her soda bread ruled. She baked us a cake for every birthday too. Plus, I can't cook to save my life so I really shouldn't be mocking anyone's attempts let alone the woman who raised me. But all that stuff just makes me think about how much I miss her. I would gladly eat a plateful of her horrible cooking, meat gum and all, just to have a chance to talk to her again. And maybe even get in a game or two of Boggle or Yahtzee.
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
Be Kind, Rewind Motherfucker
What's this? Another installment of "Vocational Errors by Your Host Mark"? Sure, why the hell not? I've got quite a few of them.
I'm trying to think of the time line on this and I think it must be the summer of 1988...just after high school graduation and going into the first semester of my tenure at Salem State College (more on that later). There was this video store that my mom would frequent since it was near church and she would talk to the owner all the time (I've just realized that my mom was instrumental in me getting 3 of my jobs. This is not a knock on her at all, she was simply trying to get me to understand that I was expected to actually support my own damn self one day and to stop being such a load. Sorry Mom, I'm a slow learner. I think it shows more of my character, or perhaps lack of character. I needed my mommy to pound the pavement for me and find my sorry ass a job).
One Sunday she came to me and told me that the video store was hiring and all I had to do is tell the guy that I was her son and the job was in the bag. So she drove me back to the video store and waited for me in the car at my request (a 1988 Hyundai Excel...whatta ride. This thing was such a frickin' heap. The interior, which was the same odd maroon color as the rest of the car, actually bleached in the sun and all the door handles, window levers, and vents turned light blue. My mom loved that car). I walked in and talked to the owner guy Tom something-or-other. I told him I was my Mommy's little boy and that he should totally hire me to be mean to his customers. He did.
The way the store worked was that the empty video boxes were out on the floor on their respective genre-themed shelves and all the actual videos themselves were on the shelves behind the counter with these stupidly narrow passages between each one. When it was busy, one person would ring in the customer while the other one went to the back and grabbed the movies. That sounds all efficient and shit but it was just this side of chaos when it got super busy. The main reason was that there was no decent filing system (and having worked at the Malden Public Library during high school I was all about filing systems), and so the person looking for the videos in the back would have a bitch of a time trying to find the goddamn tape. Plus, when the returns would come in they would be stacked in these teetering towers of plastic pandemonium until someone had a chance to put them away. So more often than not the tape you were looking for was actually being crushed at the very bottom of that Jenga pile. Good luck fishing it out (oh god, I just remembered when E.T. finally came out on video. The people were RABID for that tape. They wanted it no matter what the cost. The days leading up to its release were heralded with a flurry of "Is E.T. in yet?" questions. No, you illiterate buffoons. As the sign clearly states it will not be in until tomorrow. Now go away and let me watch The Sunshine Boys for the 100th time).
But, for the most part that job was about boredom. This was kind of the last hurrah of the neighborhood video store as the Blockbusters and Hollywood Videos were muscling in on their territories. One of them opened a few blocks away after I was hired and it siphoned more and more people away as time went on. This would make for loooong stretches of time where absolutely no one would come into the store. Perfect opportunity to reorganize the store and/or develop a better filing system for the tapes right? Yea maybe, but wouldn't you rather just watch Young Frankenstein again? Of course you would.
The videos that we would watch would, of course, depend on who was working that day. There was an older guy (I'm guessing he was in his early 40's) who had worked there from day one who was REALLY into Huey Lewis and The News. He would play their concert video every single time I worked with him. If I didn't hate that band before, I certainly do now. Another woman I worked with loved Van Halen and would play their concert video every single time too. And this wasn't even Diamond Dave era either, it was all Van Hagar. Bloody fucking hell that was torture. The owner dude Tom and I would just put on old comedies (he liked the silent era stuff like Buster Keaton and Charlie Chaplin and I would put on Mel Brooks or Neil Simon movies). Tom would make me call customers who's videos were overdue though so I didn't like working with him. Nobody else really cared whether you brought "Top Gun" back on time or not.
It was kind of a perfect little job for a while there because it didn't take much if any brain power (right up my alley there!) and since the bulk of the customers had stopped coming in, there were fewer and fewer humans to deal with. The problem being of course that this is not exactly a great business model and so Tom was forced to come to grip with reality and sell the business. I figured he'd have sold it to one of the bigger conglomerates but no. He sold it to this younger go-getter Type-A kinda guy named Marc (which, annoys me by the way. Spell the name with a "k". It looks better. "Marc" makes me read it with a soft "c" sound i.e. "Marce". Just sayin'). Marce (hee!) came in and had all kinds of ideas to improve the business and customer relations and promotions and holy shit dude...you DO know that this is a crappy video store in a shit hole city (no offense Malden but...damn) staffed entirely of people who sooo don't give a shit right? No? Ok.
Right off the bat he banned the practice of munching on the candy that was on display at the counter. Damn. Gone were the employee-picked videos playing on the big ol' console T.V. (this is 1988 remember...no fancy flat panel T.V.'s then). He made us play Disney movies and ONLY Disney movies. He also put a plan into place to eliminate the porn section (this was always a creepy encounter...it was a horrible setup not only for us behind the counter but also for the poor perverts who just wanted a wank. Most video stores have that area in the back of the store where the X-rated stuff is sequestered right? Not this place. The movies were all listed alphabetically in 4 large 3-ring binders that we had behind the counter. So in order to get yerself a porno, you had to have the stones to not only ask one of us for the binder but then to stand there and flip through the binders looking for that special film. Jeebus Christmas. People did it though, we had plenty of regulars too). The pornos were more expensive to rent than a regular movie and Tom had aquired quite a collection of them. I personally think that eliminating this was the nail in the coffin for that store. But Marc wanted what Marc wanted.
Fine. No pornos. No good movies to watch when there's nothing else to do. No snacking behind the counter. Anything else Mr. Nofun? Oh right, he started adding me to the weekend schedule even when I wasn't supposed to be on. The way it worked in the good ol' days with Tom was that you'd work one weekend and then have the next one off, work two weekends and you could have two weekends off. Nice. Marc started putting me on the schedule without first checking with me to see if I was even available (I was available usually but he should have checked dammit). He did it a few times and then I just ended up deciding that I wasn't going to come in even though my name was on the schedule for that Saturday. I'm really mature y'see.
Saturday rolls around and I go about my business (which was probably sleeping until 10 and then watching cartoons while eating cereal...did I mention I was 18?). At about 11 the phone rings and it's Marc asking why I wasn't at work. "Oh, I wasn't scheduled to work because I worked last Saturday remember?", I offered. He countered with "That policy was in effect when Tom owned the business and it is now each employee's responsibility to check the work schedule (posted on the back wall of the shelves that hold video tapes)." Touche sir. Very well put. "So you are scheduled to work today so I expect you here shortly." he summed up. I countered his counter with "Yea, I think I quit. I'm not coming in today." and hung up the phone. He was livid. He called back immediately and chewed me out for about 5 minutes (he would have gone on longer but I hung up again). At the time it felt awesome. Now I just think I was a douche.
I say that it felt awesome at the time but even that feeling was fleeting. After the second phone call my mom asked me what was going on. When I told her I had just quit my job she, how do I say this? She lost her shit. Hoo-boy was she mad at me. With good reason I might add. I stood there in the kitchen and waited for her to finish pointing out how I now had no means of income and that she still wanted her $200 in room and board. Sigh. Stupid teenagers. But hey, at least I didn't have to watch any fucking Disney movies anymore!
I'm trying to think of the time line on this and I think it must be the summer of 1988...just after high school graduation and going into the first semester of my tenure at Salem State College (more on that later). There was this video store that my mom would frequent since it was near church and she would talk to the owner all the time (I've just realized that my mom was instrumental in me getting 3 of my jobs. This is not a knock on her at all, she was simply trying to get me to understand that I was expected to actually support my own damn self one day and to stop being such a load. Sorry Mom, I'm a slow learner. I think it shows more of my character, or perhaps lack of character. I needed my mommy to pound the pavement for me and find my sorry ass a job).
One Sunday she came to me and told me that the video store was hiring and all I had to do is tell the guy that I was her son and the job was in the bag. So she drove me back to the video store and waited for me in the car at my request (a 1988 Hyundai Excel...whatta ride. This thing was such a frickin' heap. The interior, which was the same odd maroon color as the rest of the car, actually bleached in the sun and all the door handles, window levers, and vents turned light blue. My mom loved that car). I walked in and talked to the owner guy Tom something-or-other. I told him I was my Mommy's little boy and that he should totally hire me to be mean to his customers. He did.
The way the store worked was that the empty video boxes were out on the floor on their respective genre-themed shelves and all the actual videos themselves were on the shelves behind the counter with these stupidly narrow passages between each one. When it was busy, one person would ring in the customer while the other one went to the back and grabbed the movies. That sounds all efficient and shit but it was just this side of chaos when it got super busy. The main reason was that there was no decent filing system (and having worked at the Malden Public Library during high school I was all about filing systems), and so the person looking for the videos in the back would have a bitch of a time trying to find the goddamn tape. Plus, when the returns would come in they would be stacked in these teetering towers of plastic pandemonium until someone had a chance to put them away. So more often than not the tape you were looking for was actually being crushed at the very bottom of that Jenga pile. Good luck fishing it out (oh god, I just remembered when E.T. finally came out on video. The people were RABID for that tape. They wanted it no matter what the cost. The days leading up to its release were heralded with a flurry of "Is E.T. in yet?" questions. No, you illiterate buffoons. As the sign clearly states it will not be in until tomorrow. Now go away and let me watch The Sunshine Boys for the 100th time).
But, for the most part that job was about boredom. This was kind of the last hurrah of the neighborhood video store as the Blockbusters and Hollywood Videos were muscling in on their territories. One of them opened a few blocks away after I was hired and it siphoned more and more people away as time went on. This would make for loooong stretches of time where absolutely no one would come into the store. Perfect opportunity to reorganize the store and/or develop a better filing system for the tapes right? Yea maybe, but wouldn't you rather just watch Young Frankenstein again? Of course you would.
The videos that we would watch would, of course, depend on who was working that day. There was an older guy (I'm guessing he was in his early 40's) who had worked there from day one who was REALLY into Huey Lewis and The News. He would play their concert video every single time I worked with him. If I didn't hate that band before, I certainly do now. Another woman I worked with loved Van Halen and would play their concert video every single time too. And this wasn't even Diamond Dave era either, it was all Van Hagar. Bloody fucking hell that was torture. The owner dude Tom and I would just put on old comedies (he liked the silent era stuff like Buster Keaton and Charlie Chaplin and I would put on Mel Brooks or Neil Simon movies). Tom would make me call customers who's videos were overdue though so I didn't like working with him. Nobody else really cared whether you brought "Top Gun" back on time or not.
It was kind of a perfect little job for a while there because it didn't take much if any brain power (right up my alley there!) and since the bulk of the customers had stopped coming in, there were fewer and fewer humans to deal with. The problem being of course that this is not exactly a great business model and so Tom was forced to come to grip with reality and sell the business. I figured he'd have sold it to one of the bigger conglomerates but no. He sold it to this younger go-getter Type-A kinda guy named Marc (which, annoys me by the way. Spell the name with a "k". It looks better. "Marc" makes me read it with a soft "c" sound i.e. "Marce". Just sayin'). Marce (hee!) came in and had all kinds of ideas to improve the business and customer relations and promotions and holy shit dude...you DO know that this is a crappy video store in a shit hole city (no offense Malden but...damn) staffed entirely of people who sooo don't give a shit right? No? Ok.
Right off the bat he banned the practice of munching on the candy that was on display at the counter. Damn. Gone were the employee-picked videos playing on the big ol' console T.V. (this is 1988 remember...no fancy flat panel T.V.'s then). He made us play Disney movies and ONLY Disney movies. He also put a plan into place to eliminate the porn section (this was always a creepy encounter...it was a horrible setup not only for us behind the counter but also for the poor perverts who just wanted a wank. Most video stores have that area in the back of the store where the X-rated stuff is sequestered right? Not this place. The movies were all listed alphabetically in 4 large 3-ring binders that we had behind the counter. So in order to get yerself a porno, you had to have the stones to not only ask one of us for the binder but then to stand there and flip through the binders looking for that special film. Jeebus Christmas. People did it though, we had plenty of regulars too). The pornos were more expensive to rent than a regular movie and Tom had aquired quite a collection of them. I personally think that eliminating this was the nail in the coffin for that store. But Marc wanted what Marc wanted.
Fine. No pornos. No good movies to watch when there's nothing else to do. No snacking behind the counter. Anything else Mr. Nofun? Oh right, he started adding me to the weekend schedule even when I wasn't supposed to be on. The way it worked in the good ol' days with Tom was that you'd work one weekend and then have the next one off, work two weekends and you could have two weekends off. Nice. Marc started putting me on the schedule without first checking with me to see if I was even available (I was available usually but he should have checked dammit). He did it a few times and then I just ended up deciding that I wasn't going to come in even though my name was on the schedule for that Saturday. I'm really mature y'see.
Saturday rolls around and I go about my business (which was probably sleeping until 10 and then watching cartoons while eating cereal...did I mention I was 18?). At about 11 the phone rings and it's Marc asking why I wasn't at work. "Oh, I wasn't scheduled to work because I worked last Saturday remember?", I offered. He countered with "That policy was in effect when Tom owned the business and it is now each employee's responsibility to check the work schedule (posted on the back wall of the shelves that hold video tapes)." Touche sir. Very well put. "So you are scheduled to work today so I expect you here shortly." he summed up. I countered his counter with "Yea, I think I quit. I'm not coming in today." and hung up the phone. He was livid. He called back immediately and chewed me out for about 5 minutes (he would have gone on longer but I hung up again). At the time it felt awesome. Now I just think I was a douche.
I say that it felt awesome at the time but even that feeling was fleeting. After the second phone call my mom asked me what was going on. When I told her I had just quit my job she, how do I say this? She lost her shit. Hoo-boy was she mad at me. With good reason I might add. I stood there in the kitchen and waited for her to finish pointing out how I now had no means of income and that she still wanted her $200 in room and board. Sigh. Stupid teenagers. But hey, at least I didn't have to watch any fucking Disney movies anymore!
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