Thursday afternoon I busted outta my Brit Lit class like they were beginning demolition on Damen Hall.
I was headed home, FINALLY, after a two month hiatus and just could not wait to get to Midway Airport and be on my way back to Minnesota.
I got to the airport, zipped through security, and scanned the tv screens to determine the gate number. Flight 1323, service to MPLS/STP, Gate B2... arrives at... 10:25 pm?? Uh oh. I tentatively made my way to gate B2, willing the inevitable to not be true.
Sadly, it was.
My flight was delayed four hours.
An hour long flight? Delayed four hours?? Why Minnesota, why?! Has the land of 10,000 lakes become allergic to planes? All those years I lived in that great state, struggling to get to school in -35 degree weather because apparently that isn't grounds enough for canceling school (Thanks District 623), and now they are shutting down runways for a little freezing rain? You picked a great time to be weather cautious Minnesota, thanks a lot.
So I sighed, called home and told them the news, and put myself on the standby list. Now I had never had a flight delayed and had never had to deal with the stress of trying to get on as a standby, but let me tell you- it is NOT fun. Moving walkways became my best friend as I hopped from Gate B2 to 18 to 20 to 6 to try to hear my name being screamed by an overworked, underpaid flight attendant who has been dealing with pissy travelers all day.
Its amazing how chummy people become when stuck together in an airport. I'm all for a friendly conversation to pass the time, but some people seem to believe that this experience bonds us closer than a Saturday in detention a la Breakfast Club. I was standing in line behind an extroverted couple trying to get to Denver via Minneapolis and had waited for four flights on standby already. At first the conversation was friendly enough, Wow I can't believe how long this is taking, I thought Southwest was supposed to be dependable, Apparently there is only one runway available at the Mpls/StP, Man I'm about to get a beer and some deep dish harharhar, and other little tidbits of socially acceptable conversation. As we overheard the flight attendant explain to another customer there would be another hour added to the four hour delay we were expecting, the guy exasperatingly said, "Okay so how far is the drive to St. Paul? 7 hours? I have a free car rental at Hertz, lets all just drive up there. It will be so much easier!" His girlfriend nodded her head enthusiastically as he turned to the other member of our conversation, a middle aged woman who had been waiting for the same flight as me, and said "You weren't supposed to leave until 10:25 right?" and turning to me said "And you too? Yea I'm sure we could do that, I have the Hertz number here I bet they have a terminal right here at Midway, if we can't get on this flight I'm calling them and we're all going to drive up to the Twin Cities together!" I trained my eye contact on the pillar 90 degrees away from the desperate traveler's hungry gaze in order to separate myself from agreeing to this horror movie scenario in the making and the woman behind me paused and said, "Well lets just wait to see what the attendant has to say first..." This breath of fresh rationality seemed to break the man's neurotic obsession with the rental car plan and he said, "Oh... yea, yea. Lets do that first." Would it be rude to refuse this man's offer? I feel like he was a regular normal man before pulling out the lets-spend-8-hours-in-a-car-when-we've-known-each-other-for-10-minutes card, but does that really give him the credentials for me to trust him? Or for him to trust me for that matter- I could be a sociopathic nympho with the habit of identity theft and a penchant for knife fights, but he is so desperate to get to the Twin Cities that he would share his Hertz rental with me sans background check? People gotta travel safer these days...
Speaking of violence, I ran into another lovely fellow waiting in a different standby line about 10 minutes later. I lost Desperate Car Rental Man + Girlfriend after they scurried to the 3220 flight and I went to try my luck at an earlier departure, and so I was standing in line behind a grizzly older man and his companion. Being nosy, bored, and too lazy not to listen, I tuned into their conversation. "The best way to smoke those Pak-iss-tan-ees outta thur caves isn't ta spend all that money on special agents and whatnot, but just get a bunch of them cinnamon bommbbs and that'll suck the oxygen right outta thur- suffocate them all! Or we can jist get a big'un in there and blast the tops off all them mountains, that'll get rid of it." Um, what? I stood, jaw literally dropped, my face completely lack of any emotion besides utter astonishment that there was a person out there who was so uninformed and out of touch that he could be saying these things without a hint of sarcasm or joke. He says it would be so simple to kill these people, KILL THESE PEOPLE. PEOPLE. Real human beings, being mentally suffocated by a compassionless, crotchety old man. And then to even insinuate that the problem could be solved by blowing off the tops of mountains, therefore killing a small percentage of people who have done anything wrong in the least, and a huge percent of the innocent civilians who have lived in those mountainous regions for hundreds of years, who haven't even attempted to rebel or cause harm to the world around them even though they are suffering from poverty, malnourishment, and a barrage of violence everyday because their government is too concerned with fixing a thousand year old conflict to assist or protect them? Are you serious? Yes, sir, they are obviously the ones to blame. But that wasn't the end to his tirade, he moved to domestic issues: "And those kids down at Fenger High? I'd go in there with 50 of my men, we would have them straightened up in two weeks." And that was when I stopped listening. I'm so glad that you think the best way to stop violence is with more violence. Let's ignore the fact that these kids are living in conditions paralleled only by third world countries, or the fact that their lives are dictated by the crack dealing gangs that rule the projects and low income neighborhoods of the South Side. Obviously, they are unruly because no one has given them a good beating in awhile. I'm so glad that I have your expertise on this subject.
At this point, I was frustrated to say the least. Not only had I been invited on a road trip by complete strangers, forced to listen to the monologue of a warmonger, and eaten half of an overpriced, undercooked McDonald's burger, but I had been waiting two hours to get on a flight that was supposed to have delivered me to the Motherland Minnesota an hour previous. Finally, the flight attendant announced that she would be calling out the standbys for flight 303, and me and the 80 other frazzled, Minnesota-bound passengers crowded around the check in desk, hoping fervently that our name would be called next.
A typical middle aged midwestern man (windbreaker, baseball hat, architect glasses, nike athletic shoes) standing next to me (in typical middle aged midwestern man fashion) started a chummy conversation: "So you been waiting around long for your flight?" Me, being fresh out of my last two nightmare encounters with standby passengers, was a little short at first- who knows what this guys hidden creep trait is? But, (in typical nice wholesome midwestern girl fashion) I kept up my end of the conversation, even explaining that I went to school at Loyola and was a journalism major. As soon as I divulged those details, I felt like I may have overshared- not that my school and major are personal details but why would this guy really care? Most times when I tell people my major, they give me a small symphathetic smile and nod (insert quick montage of headlines screaming the demise of print media, while "Another One Bites The Dust" plays in the background) thinking how very noble I was to be strutting into an employment graveyard. But instead, the man suddenly seemed genuinely engaged. "Journalism? Well thats great to hear, I'm a Fellow at the Reynolds Journalism Institute at Mizzou." Ah! These are the times I wish I could pause time and look to the heavens and say "Really God? That easy? Thanks, I love when networking opportunities are literally handed to me." Unpause. We discussed schools and journalism, and he commended my choice in Loyola saying that "there is something to be said for studying journalism in the city". This, from one of the directors of one of the top undergrad journalism schools in the nation. Suggesting my school would give me an advantage over those Missouri grads. Just wonderful. He also asked my opinion on Loyola's new School of Communications facilities because they were planning a conference there for next summer, and then gave me his card saying I should contact him if I have any questions or will be around for the conference. Oh my goodness. I couldn't believe how lucky that I happened to run into this particular person at this time, and he happened to be so friendly and interested in discussing journalism- and this is why I love people from the midwest. Even when my day cannot seem to get worse, someone with a natural sense of friendliness and optimism in the world comes along, and instantly everything takes a turn for the better. Soon after he and his wife got called and boarded the plane, and I followed them fifteen minutes later.
Walking down the carpeted tunnel toward the plane my disposition was sittin' pretty. Yes, I would be getting into Minneapolis two hours late, yes, I almost became the next headline story on the local news, and yes, I think I may have discovered the next Polpot, but I was headed home and now had an in at Mizzou in case Loyola was bombed (probably by said crotchety old man) and I needed to transfer. We pulled out of the boarding area and were headed toward the runway when suddenly the plane stopped and the pilot came on the loudspeaker: "Sorry to delay your trip just a little longer folks, but it appears the secret service has shut down the Hubert Humphrey Terminal. We are waiting for clearance but it will likely be another 30 minutes." Seriously? The Secret Service? Is Minnesota so desperate to keep me out that they have employed the most powerful branch of security in the USA to delay my arrival further? Apparently Joe Biden was flying out of Minnesota, so they had shut everything in the airport down, including the ONE RUNWAY AVAILABLE. There's a great way to reach out to voters Vice Prez, trick them into thinking they are finally on their way home, then sadistically make them wait on the tarmac another 30 minutes while you Air Force One it back to Washington. Cool, executive branch, cool. However, a mere 10 minutes later, the pilot announced we were clear and finally, I was on my way home to a weekend of old friends and homecooked meals little thanks to Southwest Airlines, and no thanks to desperate traveling couples with a free Hertz rental, ornery old warmongers, and the Vice President of the United States.
All for a one hour flight.
10.16.2009
9.28.2009
The Stacks
Here I am, 11:00 pm on a Monday night, out of breath, heart pounding, palms sweating.
Did I just get chased down by a mugger on Sheridan?
Was I threatened at knifepoint outside my dorm?
Was I followed home by a tall gaunt man in a menacing trench coat?
No.
I had my first experience getting a book in the Cudahy Library Stacks.
The night started innocently enough: I had a paper to write for British Literature on "Utopia" by Sir Thomas More. Procrastinating as usual, I came to the Information Commons at around 6:30 pm with the hopes of finding a quiet corner to concentrate and pound out my five page paper before 3 am.
After slaving away for four hours, brainstorming ideas, finding evidence, and outlining my body paragraphs I overheard a fellow student scoffing at a paper she was reading: "Really Tyler Hughes? Only two sources? This is college," she spat. I looked down at my lonely copy of "Utopia" and the sparknotes pulled up on my screen, and bashfully searched through the online library catalogue for outside references.
With four cryptically numbered titles in my hand, I headed from my safe, warm, brightly lit corner of the IC to the windowless tomb that is Cudahy.
As I traveled from the IC to the library, I began to notice that there were more and more students but the noise level got quieter and quieter. It was like walking into an zombie like society where the farther your nose is into a book the more entranced you are. I finally reached the first part of the stacks.
The silence was thick and tangible. I slowed my pace as I entered what I thought was the reference books section. The ceiling lowered about three feet and the walkway was pinched to two feet between where the zombie-like studiers dutifully read and the cages the books were enclosed. Yes cages. I remember touring through these on orientation week, but I couldn't remember how to get past the black wire that surrounded stacks upon stacks of reference material. Looking confused, disoriented, and fully like a freshman I tiptoed up three flights of stairs, fully circling these literary jail cells before I finally gave up and went to the reference desk for help.
Sitting behind the desk aways was this old man, with a bushy white beard (but no mustache) looking creepily prophetic. "What are the reference numbers to your books?" he asked. "PR, B7, HX, and DA," I replied. "Oh yess..." he paused-I got this strange feeling that he was going to whip out a wand and pull the books from thin air- "The second floor for PR, and third floor for the rest. Take the elevators behind you to get there." I turned around and noticed (for the first time) two decrepit old elevators hidden behind a huge janitor's trash receptacle. "Those elevators?" I gulped. He nodded. I turned around and pushed the up button. A second later the narrow doors violently creaked open, and I stepped in, the doors quickly shutting behind me.
I rattled up to the second floor and stepped out into a silent, endlesss maze of books. "PR99, PR99..." I thought as I searched the small signs at the end of each row. As I walked further and further into the depths of the stacks to the seemingly nonexistant PR99, I came across more and more students at every turn. The deeper I went, the more crazed, stressed, and zombielike they seemed to become. I nearly expected them to look up at me and have no pupils or be chained to their desk or be mouthless, but none of them even looked up to satisfy my curiosity. Finally, I found PR99.0. One book. Not Mine. Frustrated and getting more paranoid by the minute, I hurried out of the rows and pressed the up button to get to the third floor. As I waited for my rickety ride, I glanced to my right, and saw a long row of private stalls, encased in thick glass. The sign on the doors said: Graduate Student Corrals. My heart skipped a beat. Is this where I will end up? Sure as a freshman I start out in the bright and cheery information commons, but slowly over the course of four years I'll deeper and deeper into this pit of information until finally I set up camp, living like an animal with just my laptop, adderal, and reference books to sustain me? I started to panic and rushed into the opening elevator door, pounding on the level 3 button. The door screeched shut, echoing ominously into the second floor stacks.
I reached the third floor and sprint/walked to all the numbers of my books. B7? Jewish social norms? NO! HX? Socialism? Okay closer... DA? "Divulging Utopia"! Finally success! I just had to cross the entirety of the floor to reach the stairs, but every step seemed harder and harder like the zombie studiers were reaching out to me and the stacks were pulling me in with an inhuman force, imploring me, seducing me to just take a seat, study some more, you'll never want to leave, you'll be safe in the depths of the stacks...Ah! My palm pushed open the cool metal of the stairwell doors, and as the door swung behind me, I could have sworn I heard a sob. I dizzily climbed down to the first floor and my tension began to ease as I moved into brighter and noisier rooms. I'm safe! I wanted to cry. The deadly lull of Cudahy didn't get me this time!
However, I have another paper to write next week...
Wish me luck.
(NOTE* The Cudahy Library basement recently caught on fire. This lends to my theory that it is the secret location of hell on earth.)
Did I just get chased down by a mugger on Sheridan?
Was I threatened at knifepoint outside my dorm?
Was I followed home by a tall gaunt man in a menacing trench coat?
No.
I had my first experience getting a book in the Cudahy Library Stacks.
The night started innocently enough: I had a paper to write for British Literature on "Utopia" by Sir Thomas More. Procrastinating as usual, I came to the Information Commons at around 6:30 pm with the hopes of finding a quiet corner to concentrate and pound out my five page paper before 3 am.
After slaving away for four hours, brainstorming ideas, finding evidence, and outlining my body paragraphs I overheard a fellow student scoffing at a paper she was reading: "Really Tyler Hughes? Only two sources? This is college," she spat. I looked down at my lonely copy of "Utopia" and the sparknotes pulled up on my screen, and bashfully searched through the online library catalogue for outside references.
With four cryptically numbered titles in my hand, I headed from my safe, warm, brightly lit corner of the IC to the windowless tomb that is Cudahy.
As I traveled from the IC to the library, I began to notice that there were more and more students but the noise level got quieter and quieter. It was like walking into an zombie like society where the farther your nose is into a book the more entranced you are. I finally reached the first part of the stacks.
The silence was thick and tangible. I slowed my pace as I entered what I thought was the reference books section. The ceiling lowered about three feet and the walkway was pinched to two feet between where the zombie-like studiers dutifully read and the cages the books were enclosed. Yes cages. I remember touring through these on orientation week, but I couldn't remember how to get past the black wire that surrounded stacks upon stacks of reference material. Looking confused, disoriented, and fully like a freshman I tiptoed up three flights of stairs, fully circling these literary jail cells before I finally gave up and went to the reference desk for help.
Sitting behind the desk aways was this old man, with a bushy white beard (but no mustache) looking creepily prophetic. "What are the reference numbers to your books?" he asked. "PR, B7, HX, and DA," I replied. "Oh yess..." he paused-I got this strange feeling that he was going to whip out a wand and pull the books from thin air- "The second floor for PR, and third floor for the rest. Take the elevators behind you to get there." I turned around and noticed (for the first time) two decrepit old elevators hidden behind a huge janitor's trash receptacle. "Those elevators?" I gulped. He nodded. I turned around and pushed the up button. A second later the narrow doors violently creaked open, and I stepped in, the doors quickly shutting behind me.
I rattled up to the second floor and stepped out into a silent, endlesss maze of books. "PR99, PR99..." I thought as I searched the small signs at the end of each row. As I walked further and further into the depths of the stacks to the seemingly nonexistant PR99, I came across more and more students at every turn. The deeper I went, the more crazed, stressed, and zombielike they seemed to become. I nearly expected them to look up at me and have no pupils or be chained to their desk or be mouthless, but none of them even looked up to satisfy my curiosity. Finally, I found PR99.0. One book. Not Mine. Frustrated and getting more paranoid by the minute, I hurried out of the rows and pressed the up button to get to the third floor. As I waited for my rickety ride, I glanced to my right, and saw a long row of private stalls, encased in thick glass. The sign on the doors said: Graduate Student Corrals. My heart skipped a beat. Is this where I will end up? Sure as a freshman I start out in the bright and cheery information commons, but slowly over the course of four years I'll deeper and deeper into this pit of information until finally I set up camp, living like an animal with just my laptop, adderal, and reference books to sustain me? I started to panic and rushed into the opening elevator door, pounding on the level 3 button. The door screeched shut, echoing ominously into the second floor stacks.
I reached the third floor and sprint/walked to all the numbers of my books. B7? Jewish social norms? NO! HX? Socialism? Okay closer... DA? "Divulging Utopia"! Finally success! I just had to cross the entirety of the floor to reach the stairs, but every step seemed harder and harder like the zombie studiers were reaching out to me and the stacks were pulling me in with an inhuman force, imploring me, seducing me to just take a seat, study some more, you'll never want to leave, you'll be safe in the depths of the stacks...Ah! My palm pushed open the cool metal of the stairwell doors, and as the door swung behind me, I could have sworn I heard a sob. I dizzily climbed down to the first floor and my tension began to ease as I moved into brighter and noisier rooms. I'm safe! I wanted to cry. The deadly lull of Cudahy didn't get me this time!
However, I have another paper to write next week...
Wish me luck.
(NOTE* The Cudahy Library basement recently caught on fire. This lends to my theory that it is the secret location of hell on earth.)
9.20.2009
Repetez si-vous plait?
Anyone else feel like they're repeating themselves?
Throughout this first month of college (the official anniversary was the 19th) I feel like I have had the same conversation with the vast majority of people I've met. Most go something like this:
Karis: Hey nice to meet you.
(Random Other Student): Nice to meet you too! My name is (Lizzie/Colin/Frederick/etc).
Karis: My name is Karis.
ROS: What?
Karis: Karis
ROS: Kare-iss/Karissa?
Karis: No, Karis like Car (makes steering wheel motions) iss.
ROS: Ohh Kar-is. Got it.(Cocks head, pretends to be interested) How is that spelled?
Karis: K-A-R-I-S
ROS: Oh. Thats a very unique name. Is that from anywhere?
Karis: Its the greek word for grace.
ROS: (failing to notice my pale skin, blonde hair, blue eyes) Are you greek?
Karis: No not at all.
ROS: Ohhh okay haha cool. So where are you from?
Karis: Minnesota.
ROS: OOOHHHHH MinnesOOOOOOOta YAAAAHHH you betcha!
Karis: Ha ha.
ROS: Y'know I don't even think I know where Minnesota is.
Yes. I'm serious. I have literally met 4 people (who were admitted to college) who don't know a state 300 miles away. Did they miss all of second grade? Just coast through with what their coloring grade got them?
Its a bit embarassing. Not going to lie.
But I'll be honest some state stereotypes are true. For one, I do speak with long O's and I am from Minnesota. Also, people from Wisconsin really do enjoy cheese. And people from California actually wear Hollister!
Speaking of clothing stores and conversations that lower my IQ...
I recently had an interview at a certain prominent teen clothing store that may or may not have been mentioned above. And it was slightly frustrating.
First of all, I already know I'm qualified for the job (and thats not bragging). The position I'm applying for requires me to fold clothes according to rigid corporate standards and greet every customer that walks through the door, saying: "Hey, what's up?"
Its not rocket science.
However, they take this role very seriously. After going through the usual interview questions (why would you be successful here? what do you think our main goal is? why do you want to work here?) me and the other five job-hungry 17-21 year olds were asked to pretend our interviewer was a customer and we should greet them with the tagline "Hey, what's up?". We went down the line.
The first girl (bless her soul) was a high school senior, never had a job before. Flustered at being the first put on the spot, she began laughing and burst out a loud and exaggerated "HEYYY WHATS UP?!?!?!?!" that echoed awkaredly down the cavernous mall hallway. The interviewer paused, smiled tightly and turned to the next person. The next one illicited a simple "Hey, what's up?" with a smile. Classic, simple, not bad. I did the same, but better (at least I thought). I just hope that my radiant smile didn't somehow give away the screams of my mind: THIS IS STUPID. I ONLY HAVE10,000,000,000,000,000 NEURONS AND SYNAPSES. DON'T WASTE THEM ON THIS. But I simply continued to grin and look friendly while silently shoving my intelligence into a dark locked corner of my mind. The next three got all fancy: "Hey whats up? My name is Tony/Ramona/Freddy and if you need any help finding what you're lookin for or got questions about clothes, life or whatever, don't hesitate to give me a yell okay? Oh and be sure to check everything out we have these new jeans in and they are really great so don't miss them, and make sure you check out our bodycare it smells real good. Oh and welcome to our store." By the time they finished that greeting the angsty-too-cool-for-you teen would have sent them a firy stink eye and moved onto the clearance section. And that was the end of our interview.
Its slightly frustrating to me that that is a seriously considered question, like really? My employment status is dependent on how well I can say three words and smile at the same time? Of course it is important in retail to make the customer feel immediately welcomed but can't it just be assumed that I'm capable of this simple task?
However, I really can't complain. I can lampoon and satirize this company as much as I want but they are the ones holding my future paycheck just out of my desperate reach. So hopefully my greeting was good enough to impress their Mighty Corporateness and the job requirement doesn't require knowing where Minnesota is. Oh wait. I would be fine, but I know some people who would be out of a job...
(NOTE* I got the job)
Throughout this first month of college (the official anniversary was the 19th) I feel like I have had the same conversation with the vast majority of people I've met. Most go something like this:
Karis: Hey nice to meet you.
(Random Other Student): Nice to meet you too! My name is (Lizzie/Colin/Frederick/etc).
Karis: My name is Karis.
ROS: What?
Karis: Karis
ROS: Kare-iss/Karissa?
Karis: No, Karis like Car (makes steering wheel motions) iss.
ROS: Ohh Kar-is. Got it.(Cocks head, pretends to be interested) How is that spelled?
Karis: K-A-R-I-S
ROS: Oh. Thats a very unique name. Is that from anywhere?
Karis: Its the greek word for grace.
ROS: (failing to notice my pale skin, blonde hair, blue eyes) Are you greek?
Karis: No not at all.
ROS: Ohhh okay haha cool. So where are you from?
Karis: Minnesota.
ROS: OOOHHHHH MinnesOOOOOOOta YAAAAHHH you betcha!
Karis: Ha ha.
ROS: Y'know I don't even think I know where Minnesota is.
Yes. I'm serious. I have literally met 4 people (who were admitted to college) who don't know a state 300 miles away. Did they miss all of second grade? Just coast through with what their coloring grade got them?
Its a bit embarassing. Not going to lie.
But I'll be honest some state stereotypes are true. For one, I do speak with long O's and I am from Minnesota. Also, people from Wisconsin really do enjoy cheese. And people from California actually wear Hollister!
Speaking of clothing stores and conversations that lower my IQ...
I recently had an interview at a certain prominent teen clothing store that may or may not have been mentioned above. And it was slightly frustrating.
First of all, I already know I'm qualified for the job (and thats not bragging). The position I'm applying for requires me to fold clothes according to rigid corporate standards and greet every customer that walks through the door, saying: "Hey, what's up?"
Its not rocket science.
However, they take this role very seriously. After going through the usual interview questions (why would you be successful here? what do you think our main goal is? why do you want to work here?) me and the other five job-hungry 17-21 year olds were asked to pretend our interviewer was a customer and we should greet them with the tagline "Hey, what's up?". We went down the line.
The first girl (bless her soul) was a high school senior, never had a job before. Flustered at being the first put on the spot, she began laughing and burst out a loud and exaggerated "HEYYY WHATS UP?!?!?!?!" that echoed awkaredly down the cavernous mall hallway. The interviewer paused, smiled tightly and turned to the next person. The next one illicited a simple "Hey, what's up?" with a smile. Classic, simple, not bad. I did the same, but better (at least I thought). I just hope that my radiant smile didn't somehow give away the screams of my mind: THIS IS STUPID. I ONLY HAVE10,000,000,000,000,000 NEURONS AND SYNAPSES. DON'T WASTE THEM ON THIS. But I simply continued to grin and look friendly while silently shoving my intelligence into a dark locked corner of my mind. The next three got all fancy: "Hey whats up? My name is Tony/Ramona/Freddy and if you need any help finding what you're lookin for or got questions about clothes, life or whatever, don't hesitate to give me a yell okay? Oh and be sure to check everything out we have these new jeans in and they are really great so don't miss them, and make sure you check out our bodycare it smells real good. Oh and welcome to our store." By the time they finished that greeting the angsty-too-cool-for-you teen would have sent them a firy stink eye and moved onto the clearance section. And that was the end of our interview.
Its slightly frustrating to me that that is a seriously considered question, like really? My employment status is dependent on how well I can say three words and smile at the same time? Of course it is important in retail to make the customer feel immediately welcomed but can't it just be assumed that I'm capable of this simple task?
However, I really can't complain. I can lampoon and satirize this company as much as I want but they are the ones holding my future paycheck just out of my desperate reach. So hopefully my greeting was good enough to impress their Mighty Corporateness and the job requirement doesn't require knowing where Minnesota is. Oh wait. I would be fine, but I know some people who would be out of a job...
(NOTE* I got the job)
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