Looking for a job in LA is a joke. Well, it's a joke if you happen to be 5 feet tall, weigh more than is socially acceptable, and have no sense of style. I have now applied at over 30 places. I have sat through open interviews, walked up and down streets filling out applications, and trolled craigslist for hours. My mother has now redone my resume 3 times, and she has made me two different versions: one administrative and one customer service. I have gotten precisly 3 phone calls so far. Two were for kiosks at Santa Monica College, which I though was too far away at the time, but now am regretting not pursuing. The other was for P.F. Chang's in Burbank - but sadly, that was when I was in Buffalo a few weeks ago, and they never called me back about rescheduling.
Last week, BRO and his friend let me tag along to an open interview at a restaurant outside of Universal Studios. The Saddle Ranch Chop House boasts 3 bars, a huge indoor/oudoor dining area, and not 1, but 2 bulls for guests to get thrown from while inebriated. I liked it immediately. The interview was crowded, but I was somewhat confident. I'm outgoing, friendly, and have loads of customer service experience. I even had an Oprah approved resume. (That's where my mother got the layout for my new and improved resume from.) We waited for over an hour before BRO and his friend were called. The manager interviewed them for 5 minutes, then moved on to the next group. I almost felt bad, because BRO only has about a year and a half of restaurant experience, and his friend had never had a job before. After another hour, my group was finally called. We were interviewed by the general manager, who was quite intimidating. However, I was confident in my answers to her questions. I thought I was charming and open, and my resume spoke for itself.
Cut to the next day: BRO and his friend got callbacks. I wasn't upset at first, but as the days went on and my phone mocked me silently, I began to wonder what I could have done wrong. Had I been too nervous and fidgety? Had one of my previous employers given me a bad reference? I couldn't put my finger on it. Then, it hit me. BRO had been dressed really trendy, with boots and a vest and other things that people find trendy that I have no idea about. His friend had worn a denim jumpsuit with sky high gladiator heels, her long flowing blonde hair curled just so. Me? I had on a summer dress from Forever 21 and flip flops, my hair styled into a flat, dried out look. I had the bare minimum of makeup on. That was my problem. That was what had gone wrong: I didn't have the right look. I wasn't pretty enough, trendy enough, thin enough, glamorous enough.
That was tough to swallow. I may suck at a lot of things, but waitressing isn't one of them. I'm damn good at it, and I defy anyone to prove otherwise. But I will admit that I don't try very hard in the clothes/look department. What made me think it was ok to wear flip flops to a job interview? How could I not have curled my hair? Why didn't I wear black, the color of trendiness? Lord knows I have enough of it in my closet. But while I was busy cutting myself down, I began to get angry. Why the hell didn't they give me a chance? I have the experience, I made the manager laugh a few times during the interview, I had all the answers to her questions...so they're not going to call me because I'm not tan enough? Bullshit.
But these are the things I have to deal with out here. That's why the deli down the street wants a headshot with your application. That's why the doctor's office across town won't respond to your email regarding a receptionist position unless you've included a photo. I suppose I was in denial when I first got out here. "Oh, once people meet me, they'll give me a chance. I'm charming! Funny! I have experience! Who cares that I have dark brown roots? Who cares than I'm 25 pounds overweight? They'll love me for ME." So naive, wasn't it?
So that's where it stands now. I've been powering through craigslist once again today, responding to any ad that looks remotely promising. I'm planning on a City Walk blitz at some point, and this time, I will wear heels and curl my hair and wear my best black outfit. But I'm telling you, if I don't have even a hint of a job before October 1st, I'm going to be in trouble. As I sit here, I have $11 in my bank account. I love LA, but this is getting ridiculous. It's so different from Buffalo.
Buffalo is the dorky, band geek friend who's always there for you, but who you know you can't go to the cool parties with. LA is the bitchy girl who empties your pockets of lunch money, hope, and determination every day - but you still want to sit with her at lunch. It's a vicious cycle.
Wednesday, September 22, 2010
Thursday, September 16, 2010
For Mimi
In between fruitlessly searching for a job and getting used to living across the country from my friends and family, I got the email no one wants to get: My grandmother was getting worse by the day, and my family thought she may only have a few days left. When you're borderline broke and 3,000 miles away, news like this causes pure panic. I quickly called my mother, who booked me a flight for the next morning. I'm really not sure what I'd do without her.
Backing up a bit here - my grandmother was diagnosed with stage 3B lung cancer a little over a year ago. I wasn't completely shocked - Mimi was a smoker for over 30 years, but she had quit a while ago. Still, when I found this out, I was crushed. I sat on the phone with her, crying as she told me she was thinking about not pursuing any treatment. I begged her to at least try. She opted for chemotherapy, which took a lot out of her. She stopped treatment a few months later, then began it again on the advice of her doctor. Again, she became weaker as the weeks went on. She was only able to talk on the phone for a short time before becoming winded, and she was easily confused. My aunts were concerned, but they thought it could have been a lot of different things: The chemo, her medication, the fact that she wasn't really eating or drinking anything. No one wanted to admit what was really going on - that our Mimi was dying.
Wednesday, September 1st, Mimi was in her apartment trying to do a crossword puzzle. A few hours later, she was at my aunt's house because my family thought she shouldn't be alone. A few days later, she was admitted to Hospice. 2 days after that, she was gone. I still can't wrap my head around how quickly it went, and how grateful I am that I could be there. Seeing a loved one in Hospice is no picnic. Mimi was weak and barely coherent at times. That last day, she tried to communicate with us, but we couldn't understand most of what she was saying, and you could see the frustration in her eyes. We felt it too.
But even through the pain, sadness, and finality of it all, Mimi was still in there. There were moments where our Mimi shone through that shell of a person lying in the hospital bed. She would use my cousin's middle finger to flip us off. She loved watching Family Guy, which still makes me shake my head in disbelief. She would reach for my hand - as if to hold it for comfort - then use it to try to pull herself out of bed to escape. She didn't want to be at Hospice, but we had no other choice. My aunt was trying to take care of her at her home, but she just couldn't do it anymore. Between trips to the bathroom, hourly administering of medication, and the fact that Mimi couldn't be left alone for any extended amount of time meant that Aunt Kelly was getting zero sleep. And we all needed to rest and keep our strength and spirits up for Mimi.
I still don't think it has fully hit me that Mimi is gone. You see, my grandmother helped to raise me. I spent a ridiculous amount of time with her when I was a kid. She was always there for me - even in this last year when she could barely afford her co-pays or groceries, she still made sure to send me $20 for my birthday and a card apologizing for being unable to send me more. That was just her. Loving, generous, kind, and hilariously funny. Even when she was first diagnosed, she was cracking jokes about her mortality. She didn't want to be sad - she wanted to make us laugh. Some days, now that she's gone, it's hard to remember that. It's easy to say that Mimi would have wanted us to laugh and be happy, but she's not here - and there are a few hours every day when I just can't bring myself to remember the good times. All I can think of are those last few days when she was begging us to take her home, to please get her out of there.
But there are other times when I'll remember something she said and laugh, or look at a picture of her with that crazy poofy hair and can't stop myself from smiling. Mimi was a ball of energy and life during her 76 years, and for that I'm grateful. And while I'm angry that this had to happen, and that she won't be here to hear about my adventures in LA, or lecture me that California is unsafe, or be at my wedding someday - I'm glad that she's not suffering anymore.
Sometimes it felt like we were outsiders, like it was she and I against everyone else. And now there's a part of me that feels really alone, and that I'll always have this little hole in my heart. I've never experienced this type of heartbreak before - when my grandfather passed away, I was younger and more immature. And while I still miss him terribly too, this is different. Mimi was more than my grandmother - she was my friend.
The one good thing to come out of this is that I feel closer to my family than ever before. And for that, among a million other tiny things that she taught me throughout these past 28 years, I will always be grateful.
I don't think I'll ever be able to watch an episode of Family Guy again without thinking of her. I don't think I'll ever be able to delete her number out of my phone. I think I will miss her forever.
Backing up a bit here - my grandmother was diagnosed with stage 3B lung cancer a little over a year ago. I wasn't completely shocked - Mimi was a smoker for over 30 years, but she had quit a while ago. Still, when I found this out, I was crushed. I sat on the phone with her, crying as she told me she was thinking about not pursuing any treatment. I begged her to at least try. She opted for chemotherapy, which took a lot out of her. She stopped treatment a few months later, then began it again on the advice of her doctor. Again, she became weaker as the weeks went on. She was only able to talk on the phone for a short time before becoming winded, and she was easily confused. My aunts were concerned, but they thought it could have been a lot of different things: The chemo, her medication, the fact that she wasn't really eating or drinking anything. No one wanted to admit what was really going on - that our Mimi was dying.
Wednesday, September 1st, Mimi was in her apartment trying to do a crossword puzzle. A few hours later, she was at my aunt's house because my family thought she shouldn't be alone. A few days later, she was admitted to Hospice. 2 days after that, she was gone. I still can't wrap my head around how quickly it went, and how grateful I am that I could be there. Seeing a loved one in Hospice is no picnic. Mimi was weak and barely coherent at times. That last day, she tried to communicate with us, but we couldn't understand most of what she was saying, and you could see the frustration in her eyes. We felt it too.
But even through the pain, sadness, and finality of it all, Mimi was still in there. There were moments where our Mimi shone through that shell of a person lying in the hospital bed. She would use my cousin's middle finger to flip us off. She loved watching Family Guy, which still makes me shake my head in disbelief. She would reach for my hand - as if to hold it for comfort - then use it to try to pull herself out of bed to escape. She didn't want to be at Hospice, but we had no other choice. My aunt was trying to take care of her at her home, but she just couldn't do it anymore. Between trips to the bathroom, hourly administering of medication, and the fact that Mimi couldn't be left alone for any extended amount of time meant that Aunt Kelly was getting zero sleep. And we all needed to rest and keep our strength and spirits up for Mimi.
I still don't think it has fully hit me that Mimi is gone. You see, my grandmother helped to raise me. I spent a ridiculous amount of time with her when I was a kid. She was always there for me - even in this last year when she could barely afford her co-pays or groceries, she still made sure to send me $20 for my birthday and a card apologizing for being unable to send me more. That was just her. Loving, generous, kind, and hilariously funny. Even when she was first diagnosed, she was cracking jokes about her mortality. She didn't want to be sad - she wanted to make us laugh. Some days, now that she's gone, it's hard to remember that. It's easy to say that Mimi would have wanted us to laugh and be happy, but she's not here - and there are a few hours every day when I just can't bring myself to remember the good times. All I can think of are those last few days when she was begging us to take her home, to please get her out of there.
But there are other times when I'll remember something she said and laugh, or look at a picture of her with that crazy poofy hair and can't stop myself from smiling. Mimi was a ball of energy and life during her 76 years, and for that I'm grateful. And while I'm angry that this had to happen, and that she won't be here to hear about my adventures in LA, or lecture me that California is unsafe, or be at my wedding someday - I'm glad that she's not suffering anymore.
Sometimes it felt like we were outsiders, like it was she and I against everyone else. And now there's a part of me that feels really alone, and that I'll always have this little hole in my heart. I've never experienced this type of heartbreak before - when my grandfather passed away, I was younger and more immature. And while I still miss him terribly too, this is different. Mimi was more than my grandmother - she was my friend.
The one good thing to come out of this is that I feel closer to my family than ever before. And for that, among a million other tiny things that she taught me throughout these past 28 years, I will always be grateful.
I don't think I'll ever be able to watch an episode of Family Guy again without thinking of her. I don't think I'll ever be able to delete her number out of my phone. I think I will miss her forever.
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