The Fart Box

Professional. /prəˈfeSH(ə)n(ə)l/. Adjective. Relating to or connected with a profession. “Young professional people.” Synonyms: White Collar, executive. Nonmanual. “People in professional occupations.”

Professional. /prəˈfeSH(ə)n(ə)l/. Adjective. Relating to or connected with a profession. “Young professional people.” Synonyms: White Collar, executive. Nonmanual. “People in professional occupations.”

Pencil skirts.
Ties.
Briefcases.
Cubicles.
Desk phones with cords.
Laptops.
Branded coffee mugs.

And amongst these items, people are perfect, mature, professional adults collaborating and creating and succeeding.
“Why does it smell like a FART in here?”

Perfect, mature, professional adults.

Klarissa drops her bag in the doorway and sniffs the air. “It smells like fart in here!” She repeats, wrinkling her nose.
I chuckle and shake my head. “One dude snuck one out 3 weeks ago and it LINGERED.”
Klarissa sighs heavily and trudges toward her desk, bag dragging lazily on the ground. She flips her raven hair over her shoulder and collapses into her chair, glaring across the table.  We don’t have cubes up here in this mezzanine afterthought of an office. We are spread out along a giant table and share shoulder space. We have to suck it in when people squeeze by behind us, and we might as well just start walking on the tables to get to the exit.

If there’s ever a fire, we’re all dead.

“I can’t believe this,” Klarissa continues. “They took away our downtown office. They’re changing our logo. They’re shrinking this department.” She groans and drops her face into her hands. “I’m glad I am moving to Vietnam. I mean, I am just fresh out.” She checks her bag, rummages around. “Yep,” she confirms, “Fresh out of fucks.”
“There’s the name of our new podcast,” I announce, leaning back and spinning in my chair. “Farts and Fucks.”
We share a laugh that is quickly silenced when the door swings open.
“Oh, Tim,” I greet. “It’s just you. Hey buddy.”
“Hi!” Tim waves as he makes his way toward his desk beside mine. “How is everyone?” He asks, his signature wide smile stretching across his cheeks.
Before Klarissa and I can answer, more employees pile in to this claustrophobic prison where we long for a glimpse outside and slowly asphyxiate on methane. The three of us share a look, then simultaneously shift our eyes to our computers.

Tim 8:23 AM:
does anyone else think it smells like a giant fart again today?

Klarissa 8:23 AM:
ALWAYS. like wtf???

Kaitlin 8:23 AM:
I can’t keep it together if we keep talking about farts & fucks.

Klarissa 8:23 AM:
hahaha the name of our podcast. I’d listen to that.

Tim 8:23 AM:
should i stand up and say “who is shitting their pants?!”

Klarissa 8:23 AM:
HAHAHAH

Klarissa 8:24 AM:
I think we broke Kaitlin. She’s crying.

Klarissa 8:24 AM:
LOLOL i fucking can’t

Kaitlin 8:24 AM:
god i’m so mature. laughing at farts. #adult.

Tim 8:25 AM:
hahaha

Klarissa 8:25 AM:
dude no matter how old i am, farts are ALWAYS going to be funny

Kaitlin 8:25 AM:
so true. always.

Klarissa 8:25 AM:
i can be 92 and still laughing my ass off at my own farts

Tim 80:26 AM:
at 92 we probably won’t even know we are farting

Kaitlin 8:26 AM:
Fact.

Klarissa 8:28 AM:
I’m really sick of it smelling like farts up in here. This is not professional.

Too many of us spend our lives working because we must, rather than because we want to. I work here because I like to buy nice things and decided adulting means having a big house. Maybe one day the writing will pay the bills and passion will finally become profession. But in the meantime, coworkers like Klarissa and Tim make the office days tolerable. They bring joy to the monotony of desk work and the world of machinery. This was never the plan, working in this industry, but things tend to snowball, and I consider it all a part of the journey.

How many times along this journey should I have been fired for laughing to myself at my desk, tears streaming down the sides of my face?

Debatable.

Things could certainly be worse here. Indeed, we have it rather good, if you think of this fart box as more a penthouse in the sky with a world-class view of packaging machinery across a shop floor. I suppose in the grand scheme of things, an office reeking of flatulence isn’t that bad.

I once thought working in an office would completely capture the essence of adulting, but I am not certain that’s true. In the 2 office settings I’ve worked in, it was far from what I pictured. From shooting nerf darts across lines of cubicles to bitching about farts on skype, I learned that being an adult professional does not omit fun nor frustration. What makes the professional is how she manages these things.

Publicly.

I will bitch all day long to my friends on Skype, but when I address concerns with the boss, I am professionalism.

The difficulties of professionalism and adulting aside, there exists an unwritten rulebook of office etiquette, and far too many remain ignorant of its existence.

  1. Chew with your damn mouth closed. You’re disgusting.
  2. Do NOT fart in an enclosed and/or crowded area.
  3. Do NOT play sound from your laptop without earbuds when those around you are working.
  4. NEVER talk politics and religion at the office. You might think you and your homeboy Trump are right all day long, but you are offending the hell out of the liberal millennial across from you and annoying the shit out of the moderate temperamental writer sitting beside you. And I like Jesus as much as the next guy, but please do everyone a favor and keep the preaching at church, not in the office.
  5. Don’t even THINK about talking to me if my headphones are in. This is office language for DO NOT DISTURB.

Speaking of office language, as a professional, I have come to speak this dialect quite fluently and learned the translation of certain phrases. For example:

  • Per my last email = CAN YOU FUCKING READ?
  • I will prioritize my schedule = I don’t have time for this bullshit.
  • It may benefit the group if…= Here’s what we’re going to do to make this easier on me.
  • Copying the boss on an email = I’m telling on you, Carl. Do your job.
  • Let’s table that thought = your idea sucks, Susan.
  • As soon as I get through these emails = I’m scrolling Facebook, ask me later.
  • Want to do lunch? = Wait till you hear the hunk of juicy gossip I’ve got for you.
  • Can you offer some support? = I’m drowning, here, Janet, get off your ass and help me!
  • I’m experiencing some technical difficulties = This computer is a PILE, and if you tell me to turn it off and back on again, SO HELP ME GOD.,,

Thankfully, we have instant message systems like Skype for employees to speak English to one another throughout the work day and let go of that office language filter. But, let’s be honest. If this company ever decides to pull my Skype conversations, I am so fired.

Tim 11:38 AM:
what time do ya’ll want to go to lunch?

Kaitlin 11:38 AM:
now

Klarissa 11:40 AM:
right after i finish this script and go to the pee room

Tim 11:40 AM:
just pee in your chair. No one will know

Kaitlin 11:40 AM:
Me. I will know.

Tim 11:41 AM:
That’s why these chairs are mesh fabric

Klarissa 11:41 AM:
makes sense now

Tim 11:41 AM:
right

Klarissa 11:43 AM:
we are cogs in a machine. we aren’t allowed to eat and pee

Klarissa 11:43 AM:
solution? mesh chairs

Kaitlin 11:44 AM:
what about #2

Klarissa 11:44 AM:
hold it in until you die of shit

Tim 11:44 AM:
or let it out and then the fart box becomes a poop box

Kaitlin Staniulis 11:45 AM:
let it gooo, let it GOOO,,, can’t hold it in any moreeeeee

Tim 11:45 AM:
OMG

Klarissa 11:45 AM:
OMG I’m gonna put a picture of Elsa in the restroom stalls

Kaitlin 11:45 AM:
YES

Kaitlin 11:45 AM:
TAPE IT OVER THE ACTIVITIES COMMITTEE FLIERS

Klarissa 11:46 AM:
that’ll be my magnum opus and last contribution to this company

Klarissa 11:46 AM:
my wildfire moment

Tim 11:46 AM:
HAHA #Gameofthrones

Klarissa 11:47 AM:
Elsa with wildfire explosion behind her

Klarissa 11:47 AM:
i’d buy that

Kaitlin 11:47 AM:
COMIC CON GOLD

Klarissa 11:48 AM:
ya’ll better quit your jobs now, momma bout to get rich off nerds.

One day, dear friend.

Drawing and writing and living our passion like the adults we were meant to be.

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I’ve Been “Adulting” Since I was Two.

They say, “you’re only as old as you feel.” Well, sometimes I feel six, so…

At what moment do we enter adulthood? Is it the day we turn 18, that moment we blow out the candles and can legally vote and get into night clubs? Or is it when we suddenly realize we are, in fact, too old to go to said night clubs?  An 18-year-old may be a “legal” adult, but isn’t 18 technically still a teenager? I felt like more of an adult when I turned 20 than when I turned 18… but age is just a number. They say, “you’re only as old as you feel.”

Well, sometimes I feel six, so…

“You’ve been adulting since you were two,” my mother informs me as she washes the dishes, her eyes fixated on the plate in her soapy hands.

“What do you mean?” I ask. I reach for a towel to dry.

“You were holding the ladder for your dad before you could even walk straight,” she chuckles.

Indeed, I was. In reflection of this revelation, adulting = responsibility?  If this is the case, I have been adulting since I was two. From holding the ladder steady for my dad as he changed light bulbs, to guiding my aunt through Home Depot at age 3, to hording food behind the couch, just in case.

Because an adult is always prepared for the apocalypse.

One of my first words was “decoration.”

If this does not put my family into perspective for you, I’m not sure how else I can put this. There I was, barely two, yelling at my Granny as she touched a statue on the mantle.

“Granny! No touch. Decoration.”

At two-and-a-half, my sister arrived. This is my earliest memory…and I think that’s because it had such a profound impact upon my life. Everything shifted, and even at age two, I knew I was just given the most important job in the universe.

I remember my father coming through the front door one afternoon. I remember him asking if I wanted to go see her.

I said yeah.

I do not recall the car ride to the hospital. I can’t picture arriving nor walking through the antiseptic halls. But I do recollect stepping into that room. It was dim and quiet, and I could feel the air change as I waddled in. I don’t remember saying hi.

“Can I hold her?” I asked. I was set into the rocking chair and my tiny sister was placed into my toddler arms.

Sarah.

She had a mess of dark brown hair, and her ears were abnormally large. I think I remember this moment, toddler me, staring into my sister’s brown eyes for the first time, because that was the moment I was forever changed. Something altered inside me…clicked, maybe…

It wasn’t just “me” anymore.

It would forever be Sarah and me, and that made me an adult.

Until I got bored of her and decided I was adult enough for a pet.

The sun peeked out from behind the over-protective clouds, shining its smiling face upon Ohio. The wind blew gently, ruffling my curls as I stood impatiently in my driveway, waiting anxiously for a green car to turn my way. I sighed.

Where are they?

Soon my legs grew tired and I plopped upon the concrete, my arms stubbornly crossed over my chest. The wind whipped across the earth again, pushing my brown locks into my eyes. I agitatedly flicked them back; my view could not be obstructed.

The sound of singing grasshoppers echoed in my ears and the sweet smell of flowers and grass filled my nostrils. I began to fidget, and checked my imaginary watch, making noises of disgust at the time of day. My thoughts lingered from the driveway into my room, and I stood abruptly, hurrying through the garage door and into the house. I tore spastically up the stairs and burst into my pink room, bustling over to my dresser. A small wooden jewelry box sat dead center. I caught my breath, my cheeks rosy, and peaked inside. I smiled, content, and carefully resealed the box, double checking that nothing could escape.

The sound of my purple light-up sneakers hitting the driveway echoed off the garage door as I returned to my post outside in the warm summer air. I sat again and groaned. I flopped back, lying flat, and stared at the sky. It fascinated me; it seemed to go on forever. I smiled at the thought and wondered what would happen if God just peaked his head out of the white fluffy cloud that lazily floated by, careful not to cross the path of the sun. I imagined it happening, and absently waved above me.

I heard the rumble of a car’s engine and my large brown eyes widened in excitement and realization. I heard tires against pavement as the vehicle grew closer. I smelled gasoline and knew there was no mistaking.

They were finally here!

“There’s my princess!”

“Grandpa!” I cascaded into his arms and he gave me a big kiss on my cheek; it was prickly, and I giggled. His graying mustache had sat above his lips as long as I could remember.

“Hi Honey-Girl!”

“Hi Granny!” I leapt from Grandpa’s arms and ran to embrace Granny. I hugged her tightly and thought how wonderful and lucky it was to have both a Grandma and a Granny. I stared up at Granny’s face; pale but beautiful, and her make-up perfectly placed. Granny characteristically had a light brown, bouffant hair-do.

“How are you, Little Girl?” my grandparents asked as the rest of the family came to greet our visitors. Mom kissed them both, holding baby sister tightly in her arms, while Dad shook hands.

Conversation took off in the driveway, and I found impatience creeping into my skin once more. I tapped my foot and caught myself glancing at that imaginary watch again. I bit her lower lip. I tried to be patient and let the grown-ups talk, but anxiety filled me to the brim. I tugged on Granny’s rose-pink shirt.

“Granny!”

“What-y?” She looked down at me and smiled warmly.

My voice dropped to a whisper. “Come quick! There’s something I got to show you!” I stole a glance at my parents, hoping my secret was still safe. Once I was certain I was unheard, I hastily took Granny’s hand and pulled her inside. Then I broke into a gallop up the carpeted stairs.

“Hurry up, Granny! It’s important!” I made it into the room first and placed a hand protectively upon the wooden jewelry box. Granny soon joined me and stood next to me.

“It’s a secret, Granny. You can’t tell Mom and Dad. Promise?”

“I promise,” Granny replied, bending down to see my excited face. I slowly opened the jewelry box, glancing at the door to make sure we had not been followed. Then I stepped back so Granny could see my secret clearly. Inside, amongst the tangles of beads and stick-on earrings, sat a scarlet Ladybug. It was sweetly dotted with several black spots and did not move. Granny smiled to herself, and I now know that is because she realized the bug was dead. She gasped over-excitedly.

“Oooo,” she whispered, knowing this was a big deal for me.

“It’s my pet. But you can’t tell Mommy or Daddy, because they’ll make me get rid of it, okay?”

“I won’t tell,” Granny said, kissing my forehead. “This is an awfully big secret.”

Granny left the room, leaving me to carefully mind my pet. She rejoined the adults in the kitchen, where I heard her say in a hushed tone,

 “I think it’s time for a pet.”

First pets are a huge responsibility for a child, and it brings out a level of adult within them. Can a three-year-old with a ladybug or a six-year-old with a puppy adult? If you consider the super-complex equation adult = responsibility, then yes, I believe so.

When I turned six, my parents took me to the mall to get my ears pierced, and I’ve been the coolest thing since sliced bread from that moment on. I used to think the gold bulbs in my earlobes made me look so grown up, and I’d act the part. I was a six-year-old adult with pierced ears and a pet, strutting her stuff.

Fast forward twelve years and I’d be in a sketchy tattoo parlor in Grand Rapids getting my naval and tragus pierced simultaneously (the tragus hurt way more than my bellybutton). For some reason, so many of us feel as though tattoos and piercings are a rite of passage. Turning eighteen is the official entrance into legal adulthood, and if it’s not a voting year, the only other thing we can do as new adults is run and get something pierced!  The truth is, they didn’t make me feel like any more of an adult like I had hoped.

Just more of a badass.

Through the birth of a sibling, pets, and piercings, I think I turned out okay. My parents gave me a considerably solid idea of what an adult is, and now that I am officially in adulthood, I can take it and run (probably into a wall… and that wouldn’t be the first wall I’ve run into).

This is Why I’m Not Allowed Outside

I’m listening to the way my heels click confidently against the tile as I walk, and I wave casually at the receptionist before pushing through the double doors leading to the café at work.

Oh, God, someone I don’t really know is walking my way.

I keep walking, a little slower now, shifting my eyes from the floor to the space in front of me to the face of the man approaching me and back again.

Do I smile?

He’s getting closer.

Do I say hi?

Shit, he’s right here.

Maybe I don’t even look at him.

“Hi,” he says as our paths cross.
I sputter. “Good, you?”

Dammit.

That’s going to haunt me at 3 AM for the next 5 years.

We all go through an awkward stage growing up. Maybe it’s a bad hairdo. and you have  family photos showcasing that time you tried to cut your own bangs. It could be a poor fashion choice, and you’re looking back at those red pleather pants you just had to have in the 90’s. Perhaps it’s a combination of the two, and your high school yearbook forever has you in a powder-blue suit with a big-ass afro. (cough…Dad…cough…)

Thankfully, we all seem to grow out of that obligatory awkward stage and eventually burn all photographic evidence. But there are some forms of awkwardness we never really expel, even as we pretend to be semi-functioning adults. It stays with us, like an annoying extension of ourselves that just won’t take a hint and leave. We might move on from the chubby stage and our bangs might grow back, but we can never change the fact that when the movie ticket girl at the cinema told us to enjoy the show, we said, “You, too!”

We have to interact with way too many adults on a day-to-day basis. Sometimes I wish I could call in sick simply because it’s too peopley out there. Names and faces can be so difficult to keep straight, especially when you work for a company that has many traveling employees. I am constantly seeing new faces that aren’t actually new, and it’s the source of so many awkward moments.
I enter the meeting with a laptop tucked under my arm and I close the door behind me. A man with a purple tie already sits at the table with a notepad and pencil.
“Hi, I’m Kaitlin,” I introduce, reaching to shake his hand.
“Yes, we’ve met, a few times,” he says, chuckling.

Dammit.

Lock me up. I shouldn’t be allowed outside.

Speaking of shaking hands, this is a pretty common social phenomenon. But I can’t be the only person who panics about this when meeting someone new. How am I supposed to know if you’re a handshaker, a fist bumper, or, God forbid, a hugger? Too many times have I gone in for the normal white girl handclasp only to be met with a closed fist, or to suddenly be engaged in some awkward grip-changing secret handshake that I feel like I’m supposed to know, but don’t. Should I shake again when I say goodbye? And damned if we don’t awkwardly walk in the same direction after saying bye, and I must stop and tie my shoe to put some reasonable distance between us.

Only to realize I’m not wearing laces today.

Work is not the only place we frequently experience awkward moments. A few years back, they changed the words to Catholic mass. Suddenly it wasn’t “And also with you,” but rather “And with your spirit.”
Last week:
Priest: The Lord be with you.
Everyone else: And with your spirit.
Me: AND ALSO WITH YOU!
And now people think I haven’t stepped foot in mass for ten years.

Awkward.

Let’s just skip over the fact that I thought the phrase “peace be with you” was “pleased to be with you” until I was eight.

In today’s world, it’s damn near impossible to get lost. In the age of Google Maps and even GPS, there really isn’t an excuse. In fact, it’s impressive if you manage to get lost. But what are the flippin’ odds the driveway I decide to use as a turn-around belongs to the car right behind me?! Here I am, awkwardly waving at you as I back out of your driveway. Wonderful. And people don’t really talk to each other anymore, so we don’t ask for directions…but if for some reason I have to, and you start using crazy words like “north” and “east…”

I’m fucked.

In psychology, they call the phenomenon in which people think they’re noticed way more than they actually are the “spotlight effect.” OF COURSE  we find ourselves infinitely more awkward than anyone else ever notices. That guy I awkwardly greeted at work is not up late thinking about how awkward I am.

He’s up late thinking about how awkward he is!

Adults cry, too, you know.

You feel furthest from a functioning adult when you find yourself hiding away in the bathroom of DeVos Place in downtown Grand Rapids bawling your eyes out.

Let’s back up to how I ended up in that bathroom stall, pathetically watching the mascara run down my face in the mirror.

It’s funny how things sort of

   tumble

                                                                                    into place

when it was never a part of the plan.

Somehow, I survived my first year of teaching. And the thought of returning in the Fall was almost nauseating.

I remember standing in the back lawn of the high school as kids hurriedly and excitedly boarded the busses for the final time that year. I forced a smile and waved at those I knew (but didn’t really like).
“One year down…. 30 to go…” and I clenched my fists to avoid groaning out loud.             “It’s going to get better, right?”

 “right?”

“right?”

 “RIGHT?!”

I held up send-off and well-wishes signs with the other teachers and cheered as the buses made a grand exit. My sign said “Read! :)”. But really, I wanted it to say “GTFO!”

I wasn’t a social butterfly with the other teachers, so I walked back to my room alone once silence flooded the school grounds and there was only the distant diesel hum of the buses from the next street over.
I counted the dusty steps as I ascended to the second floor, running my hand over the railing, my mind desperately searching my soul for an ounce of excitement about the career I chose.

 There wasn’t any.

            “Shit.”

I stood in the center of my room, taking in all the debris scattered across the floor and the awful scent of pubescent adolescents. At least I had all my Spanish 1 lesson plans… next year would be significantly less time consuming.

I plopped into my chair and fired up my Gmail.

An email from the head of the foreign language department. Subject: 2015-Next Year’s Assignments.

                                                            Huh?

I opened it.

Amy – Spanish 1

Ginger- Spanish 3 & 4

Kaitlin- Spanish 2.

                                                                                                                        Dammit.

Spanish 2? You’ve got to be kidding me.

More lesson planning. And worse? The same assholes in class.

I could have pulled my hair out.

                                                                                                I can’t do this….

Negative self-talk never got anyone anywhere, but I was feeling so utterly defeated and burnt out… after year one. How do people do this their whole lives?
To mask my frustrations and busy my mind, I hopped onto Glassdoor to search for paying summer internships to earn some experience toward my master’s degree. That was my only way out. Two years of studying while working full-time.  Hard work. #adulting.

Fate, luck, whatever, I found myself working the summer for a company called NHA.  I would work in their IT department making course revisions for their internal E-learning modules.

                                                                                                            It was temporary.

Until I met Cindy.

                                                                                                Here’s where the fate comes in.

Cindy’s associate resigned the same day Cindy and I met.

                                                                                    That’s just too spooky to be coincidence.

Half-way through my internship with NHA, I was assigned a project for the Director of Special Education for the entire organization (84 charter schools across 9 states at the time).  She needed 13 engaging e-learning modules created from a horrible lawyer presentation about Section 504, and that was up to me.

I walked into an empty conference room five minutes before our meeting. I didn’t know it yet, but Cindy was almost always late. I took a seat on the far side of the table and worked to hook my laptop up to the TV display at the end of the table.

She came in like wind, almost silently and quickly, seamlessly and confidently. She looked to be in her mid-fifties, blonde hair cut short with brilliant blue eyes. She wore an expensive orange blazer over a floral blouse. She sat in the chair adjacent to me with perfect poster, and I couldn’t help but notice her long pale pink nails and a massive marquise-shaped wedding diamond on her left finger. She smiled at me before confidently extending a hand across the table for me to take.

She introduced herself with pride. I took her hand and consciously shook it firmly. I gave her my name, forcing a smile to hide my nerves.

“So nice to meet you.” Cindy opened her laptop and set her iPhone aside. It was far enough from her to not be rude, yet close enough to remain in her peripheral vision, in case she was to get an imperative call or message.

This lady is important.

“How long have you been with us?” She asked, making small talk as I prepared to begin.

“Just over a month,” I responded, looking up at her. She was gazing right into my eyes fearlessly. Suddenly a wave of intimidation swept over me. What was I doing?

“And how long will you be with us?”

“Until the end of the summer. I’m a teacher,” I explained.

“Wonderful! In one of our NHA schools?”

“No,” I admitted, breaking eye contact to glance at my screen. “Public school.” I told her I taught Spanish.

“You’re bilingual! That’s amazing. Spanish sure comes in handy. My husband and I run an orphanage in Mexico. Do you like it? Teaching?”

There was something about her staring at me in that moment that told me it was okay to tell her the truth. “No.”

She nodded. “Shall we begin?”

I kicked off the meeting, pitching my ideas to her, showing her all the “fancy” things I had learned PowerPoint can do that summer.

I’ve always been a decent public speaker, ushering my “teacher” voice from somewhere deep within. But something about Cindy made me a little nervous that day. Maybe it was her stature, maybe her demeanor, maybe her title and reputation. Regardless, I was nervous as hell running a meeting with her. I tried my hardest to seem professional, but still felt like a child playing dress-up.

As I concluded, Cindy didn’t say much, but she seemed satisfied.

“I’m excited,” she finally said after processing a moment. “This has been a long time in the making, and I am so pleased to see these 13 learning modules are going to come to life.”

I blushed and began packing my things. “I can get started right away, and perhaps we can have weekly touch-bases for you to review the content and—”

“Are you looking for a job?” Cindy cut me off.

“I’m sorry?” I was caught off-guard… I would soon learn Cindy had a special way of doing that to me.

“Are you looking for a job?” She repeated, a slight smile playing across her thin pink lips.

“Um,” I hadn’t given it too much thought—I didn’t want to let myself believe this position at NHA could turn into anything permanent, granting me escape from the classroom much earlier than anticipated. “I mean,” I stammered, suddenly not sounding so professional nor confident. “I am always looking,” I finally spit out, though I instantly wanted to facepalm. I resisted. “Yeah…if I found something I could do and that paid well enough…”

“My girl just resigned.”

                                                                                                    …what just happened?

Cindy understood my expression and continued. “Right before I walked in here. And I just love her, she does such a great job. But it really blindsided me! I am so sad she is leaving in two weeks.”

 Fate?

 Fate.

“So, there’s an opening,” Cindy continued as she started to pack her things. “Think about it, Kaitlin. Maybe we can meet again to discuss the job further. Especially if you’re not all that thrilled with teaching.” And at that, she left, just as swiftly as she had come in.

                                                                                                What just HAPPENED?

She gave me a shot.  She even helped me write my letter of resignation to the school. Resigning from a job isn’t easy. Writing a letter to the principal and superintendent to announce you’ve basically found something better and doing it in a pleasant and professional way is certainly #adulting.

There was something about her the moment I met her, and it went deeper than the first impression of intimidation followed by “I think I like this human.”

                                                                                    “I think I connect with this human.”

Cindy, Director of Special Education.

                                                                                    AKA badass.

I often joked that I was in love with my boss and would marry her if I could. I was just so enamored by everything she did and could do. She was, in my opinion and perception, the perfect adult. She passionately ran an entire special education program for 84 charter schools across the United States. She never backed down for what she believed in, and by golly your fancy law degree scares her not. She built an orphanage in Mexico with her husband and to this day gives those kids the life they all deserve.

She is a mother and a grandmother.  She has history. She is the image of professionalism and still manages to maintain a sense of humor. She cared about her employees as people.

                                                                                    She cared about me.

Once I finally completed my master’s degree (#adulting!!!!!), the thought of searching for my next growth opportunity played in the back of my mind. I searched casually for jobs, more the “dream come true” type. Just in case. But I loved my job. I loved working for Cindy. We were the dream team, man! I was so good with her, I could predict what she needed before she even asked for it. I understood her brain and I respected the hell out of her.

The thought of leaving Cindy and the Special Education Team I came to love like family sort of made me want to barf.  So, I never looked for my next career all that hard. I just knew someday, somehow, I would need to spread my wings. Like we all must at some point… that inevitable leap of faith one must take before the comfort seeps too deep. But for the time being, my connection with Cindy, the Team, and NHA’s mission was enough for me.

Cindy’s resignation two years into our adventure altered my entire reality.

We were sitting in a small room at DeVos Place in Grand Rapids. Leadership Summit was the biggest event of the year for the organization, and the team was preparing Cindy for her big presentation.

Looking back… there were signs. She glanced at her phone frequently that morning…more frequently than usual. She was unusually worried about the whereabouts of her boss…And there was an awkwardly placed slide in her presentation entitled

“personal professional announcement”.

In a way, I wonder if she left that slide in there as a purposeful foreshadowing… just for me… as I edited her presentation for her.

But I didn’t pick up on it.

 Not then.

Not until she sighed at the end of her practice presentation.

And her boss stepped into the room.

Then I knew.

            “I need… to make an announcement…” she started.

Shit.

            “This is probably the hardest professional decision I’ve ever made.”

Shit. Shit. Shit.

            She teared up.  “I have made the decision…”

Shit!

            “…to leave NHA.”

Dammit.

I shattered.

I felt as though something was being stolen from me…but unsure what that was. My entire job stood before me announcing her resignation. My emotional attachment to her burned behind my eyes and I bit my lip, struggling to keep my shit together.

                                                                                                                        I couldn’t.
She was my professional everything.

“I need to seek greater work-life balance in my life. I can’t keep living the way I’m living… I can’t keep working this many hours and drowning in my work. I need to be with my grandkids… I need to be a part of my family’s life. I’ve accepted a position with Grand Valley State University as a professor of Educational Leadership.

I cried.  I wasn’t the only one. The entire room was a storm of saltwater.

“No,” Cindy demanded between her own tears. “You all have to keep going. We have worked too fucking hard to go back now!” She fired up, red-faced, passionate, fists clenching. I would expect nothing less of her. “We have helped so many kids. I have been so blessed to work with such a fine group of professionals in it for all the right reasons.”

                                                                        And I can’t remember the rest.

I can only remember the relentless tears rolling down my cheeks, and then….

                                                            then the inexplicable sudden wave of cold fear.

Like being slapped in the face with an ice block.

What does this mean for me?

 What happens to me?

What about me?

Me, me, me, me, ME, MEEEEEEH!

I had selfish feelings as I drowned in emotional silence. I didn’t feel much like an adult. An adult would be able to keep her shit together and stand up and applaud Cindy’s accomplishments and be happy for her.

And I was happy for her.

Somewhere deep, deep,

deeeeeep

down.

All of our experiences were flashing before my eyes, from the time I picked her up off the side of the road because her husband was too late to take her all the way to work, to the time she handed me her personal credit card and told me to go buy myself a pair of shorts that fit because I lost so much weight. There was so much more between us than just a boss-assistant relationship. And now I was faced with losing that connection, and just plain couldn’t freaking handle it.

We adjourned the meeting, and everyone rushed to hug her and congratulate her. I hung back and waited a moment, fighting for some composure, still struggling to understand why I felt the way I felt.

“I’m so pissed at you!” I said to Cindy as I embraced her. We cried together a moment, and I didn’t want to let her go. “But I really am happy for you,” I whispered.

I had a complete meltdown in the DeVos bathroom shortly after that moment.

And was caught.
“She’s my entire job,” I tried to explain.
So pathetic.
I stood beside Cindy just hours later as her audience filed in for the big presentation. I worked her laptop for her, preparing the presentation and ensuring all audio settings were perfect. I watched Cindy out of the corner of my eye with vague fascination. What must be going through her head? She was about to announce her resignation to over 100 people in person.

“Doing okay?” I asked, touching her arm.

“Oh yeah,” she said, forcing a smile across her face. “And you?”

“Not really,” I said honestly, also forcing a smile.

“You’re funny,” she said. She said this to me often.

“But it’s true,” I admitted.

“I know.”

Did she, though?

“You know,” she began, staring off into space. For a moment, I thought shit was about to get philosophical. “I forgot to wear a slip under my dress.”

I paused a moment to study her before laughing. She wore the same floral dress she had worn to my wedding a year prior.

“Well,” I offered, “the only one who knows that is you. …And me. Now I know. Totally judging you.”

She giggled with me and brushed her blonde hair behind her ear. “Okay. Ready?”

“Always.”

She was flawless. And when she announced her resignation to the entire room, I felt my emotions spiraling out all over again. The crowd gave her a standing ovation as she signed off, and she cried.

It’s amazing what a little liquid courage will do for you. I sat at the team dinner later that evening, my head slightly spinning. The bar tender asked what I was having.

“Whatever can take away the devastation of my boss’s resignation,” I said.

Still not really sure what he gave me.

“I’m gonna give a speech,” I thought to myself half-drunkenly somewhere after two drinks and before the arrival of the dinner plates (as a rule, an adult should never have two drinks before eating… especially at a corporate event. To think I would have learned my lesson at this point… but a corporate Christmas party a few years later sure knocked me on my ass. Literally.) I awkwardly stood, taking my beer and a knife in my hand.

I clinked my glass with the knife at the head of the long outdoor table for attention. Cindy sat at the head just beside where I stood.

“We need to acknowledge the woman of the hour,” I began, gripping my beer glass tighter to hide the shaking in my fingers. Cindy reached up and took the knife from my other hand, laughing and joking about fearing for her life.

“Don’t worry, I’m already passed the anger stage in the stages of grief!” I razzed. “I am so honored to be standing here with a team of amazing people. And we can all agree the most amazing of us all is Cindy.” There was a round of applause in agreement, and I realized other tables around us were now silent and listening to what I was saying. “We are so happy for you. We have this awkward mixture of excitement and devastation that makes us all want to barf, but we are happy for you.” I paused as the team laughed, and I relaxed a little. “Really, though, I have one question for you… Are you breaking up with me?” The team laughed again, Cindy too, and she shook her head. “Never!” she said. I smiled.

“You are on a new adventure and you will be terribly missed.” I looked up to address the team. “So, if you all are, like me, #teamshinsky4life, raise your glass! Cheers, Cindy!” And glasses clinked. I bent down and air-kissed Cindy’s cheek saying, “I love you.”

And I meant it.

I resigned two weeks later.

I told everyone, myself included, that my resignation wasn’t related to Cindy’s departure. But part of adulting is being honest with yourself. And to be honest, I did leave in part because Cindy resigned. It’s true I needed to grow and move up and really start my career… you cannot remain in an associate position if you want to be a leader… but I didn’t have any desire to go to that office every day if Cindy wasn’t going to be in it.

Don’t get me wrong– Cindy wasn’t the only one I cared about at that office. I made some lifelong friends there. But between the hours of eight and five Monday through Friday, Cindy was my entire world. And if my entire world was going to shift, I might as well be moving up and out of it.

Loving and respecting another adult for what she’s done and how she handles herself is part of #adulting. Dealing with the hurt of my mentor moving on and making the decision to move on myself was #adulting.  As pathetically devastated as I was, this was a huge growth moment for me and pushed me toward success.

Don’t ever feel pathetic…the way I felt pathetic… when feeling emotion. It’s okay. You’re not the only one. Emotion is this annoying tag-along to our humanity, and it’s not always convenient and it is not always simple. But it’s always there, this glistening apparition trudging at our sides, something we always feel but can never touch. We drag it everywhere and we learn to cope, even when we don’t want to. Cope the best way you can, but don’t seal it up. Feel it, let it flow through your veins and remind yourself this is who you are,  and this is okay to feel.

To this day I still rely on Cindy for advice and comfort. Perhaps I use her as a sort of “crutch”, a small piece of comfort zone to retreat to… perhaps it would be more #adulting to let her go completely.

But I can’t.

She was key in my adult development, and I can’t picture life without her in it.

“I’m not sure that I love it as much as I loved NHA,” I wrote in an email to Cindy several weeks later, after we both moved on and began our new jobs. “But I am going to focus on moving up and being successful. I am going to focus on being the ‘Cindy’ to a team like ours one day.”

Cindy replied almost instantly. “You want to be the ‘Kaitlin’ to the team. Not me. You will pave your own way. You are strong. You are woman!”

Connect with a “Cindy”. Find someone who will always encourage you and push you forward as an adult and as a professional. Find your mentor. Find someone to coach you in adult situations when you are lost in the dark. Find someone.

A parent.

            A sibling.

                        A supervisor.

All of these and more.

#adulting doesn’t mean going at it alone.

A “Broad” Abroad

If you have the chance to travel,

take it.

“I need an adventure,” I said to myself as I sat alone on my double bed, rubbing a hand across the brown cotton comforter.  “A real adventure.” Then I opened the yellow booklet beside me, the scent of new paper engulfing me.  I scanned my eyes across the page, admiring the colors and words.

“Maybe a new hemisphere kind of adventure.”

I was trying to pull myself together after a bad breakup and after suffering significant career doubts. (Go figure… I was about to turn twenty and didn’t feel the same way I felt at eighteen. Who knew?!) I hoped perhaps a study abroad experience would ground me in a way… help me find myself and help me connect with my Spanish major in school. I needed something…anything… to help me connect with myself.

Feeling

unsettled

with yourself isn’t abnormal. As we journey into adulthood, sometimes we stumble. Losing your footing is okay. Treat it as a learning experience rather than a mistake.

Then I closed the book and set it aside, allowing my slender body to stretch out across the bed. My mind spun on its own accord as I stared unblinkingly at the white ceiling.

I thought of work… of school… of my friends, family, and exes. I thought of myself, stumbling through life, trying to find who I am and where I am.

I sat up then, inhaling deeply, looking at my face in the mirror.

“Where are you?”

It was time to find myself. Maybe my old self… maybe the self I hadn’t encountered yet.

“Maybe you’re in Salamanca,” I said. Then I grabbed the yellow booklet and trotted from the empty room.

Quiero encontrar a un lugar donde hay aventura… esperanza… vida… Quiero… mejorarme.

            Quiero…

            Quiero ser diferente.

            Quiero ser yo…una nueva yo.

            “Let’s do this thing,” I said to myself as I galloped toward airport security with my family behind me. I should have been nervous; international travel under the age of twenty without my mommy? Terrifying.

But I was ready.

            I was ready to experience a plane ride over the sea.

I was ready to submerge in a completely different culture.

I was ready to taste the food and drink the wine and take it all in.

I was… ready.

It wasn’t until my plane finally landed in Madrid that I panicked.

Like, really panicked.

I was so stressed out and had to force myself to breathe and read the Spanish signs to figure out where to go to be picked up by the study abroad program. To add to my stress, the wheel of my big-ass suitcase was damaged, and it wouldn’t roll. This may seem like a little thing that isn’t worth sweating, but I was sweating a lot.

A LOT.

Like, pit stains a lot.

It took me a solid 24 hours to finally get my shit together. But when I did, boy was it the experience of a lifetime. Not just for the Spanish language and all the amazing learning opportunities; I really grew as a person (and I’m not referring to the twenty extra pounds that came back with me). I learned what was really important, and the homesickness I felt halfway through was profound; you learn what you truly love and what really makes you happy.

I came home the same “me”, but sturdy. Settled. Something restless finally broke free of my soul on the other side of the planet and left me feeling prepared to tackle the next chapter in life. It even had me feeling better about my career selection

For maybe a few months.

Then I started my student teaching and had to start telling myself the big girl lies.

Here’s the thing. Travel. Have fun. But be safe and be smart. Don’t completely empty your bank account in Spain because you feel like you need to buy shoes and dresses and every single pastry you walk past for the “full experience”.

Your wallet (and your ass) will thank you.

Harrold Be Thy Name

The reality in which we pirouette as children is so much different than where we flail as adults. Kids dance in what is more like perception, until one day they fall through the glass, land in a chair labeled “grown-up,” and discover just what reality is.

Gross.

Becoming an adult brings a flood of realization. There are a lot of important epiphanies we have as we mature, some of which result in embarrassment.

I am specifically referring the embarrassment felt once you realize you have misheard, mispronounced, and/or misunderstood sayings, phrases, and lyrics for YEARS.

I was raised Catholic.

Many of my misheard and mispronounced phrases came from mass.

For example,

Actual: “…on the third day, He rose again…”

Me: “…on a Thursday He rose again!”

Actual: “Peace be with you.”

Me: “Pleased to be with you!”

Actual: “Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed by they name…”

Me: “HARROLD by thy name!”

Speaking of mass, when the priest sings “Let us praaaay”, does anyone else want to respond in song, “Okaaaayyy”?

Sixteen years of riding in the backseat with my mother driving and saying, “Should have gone!” when she missed an opportunity to turn. What was I hearing? “Shuddagong!”

And you can bet that’s the exact word I say now as I drive.

I can blame my father for this one: I grew up not referring to the delicious sausage as “Kielbasa,” but in fact as “Kabossy.” Imagine my embarrassment when I use the word as a professional adult only to get blank and confused stares from my coworkers.

Until recently, I was under the impression the phrase when negotiating a lower price was “Chew him down!” My husband was more than happy to point out the phrase, in fact, is “Jew him down.” I think my version is more politically correct, thanks very much.

Here’s another one for which I can place blame on my parent’s shoulders:

I grew up using the word “broom” as both a noun AND a verb. Yes. “I am brooming the floor.” I never heard the end of that one after I started working at KFC.

When I started working in an office, I quickly realized the term is not, in fact, Vanilla folder. It’s manila.  What the fuck is manila? I am damn certain that folder is the color of vanilla ice cream.

You know the furniture “chest of drawers?” Yeah. Chester drawers.  Total sense, right?

I can remember playing Barbies with my sister. Barbie would marry Ken (whom she would later leave for G.I. Joe) and our imaginary minister would say, “Do you, Ken, take Barbie to be your waffley wedded wife?”

I’m also noticing how much fun it is to go back and watch the kid shows and movies from back in the day, because as an adult, I am picking up on so much more.

Babe was an adorable movie. Remember how the farmer looks down at Babe in the end and says ,“That’ll do, pig, that’ll do”? What was I hearing?

“Daddle-doo, pig. Daddle-doo.”

Remember Hey Arnold? Helga’s mom was a total alcoholic! How sad is that? And Shaggy and Scooby Doo were definitely pot heads. How else can you explain their appetite? Nala and Simba were totally getting it on during Can You Feel the Love Tonight, I’m pretty sure Chicken Run is a metaphor for concentration camps, and it is way too obvious that Frollo in the Hunchback of Notre Dame just wants to bang Esmerelda.

Gross.

The point here (I think) is that becoming an adult brings all sorts of fun enlightenments, and it’s just best to enjoy the ride and laugh along the way. We’re all coming to these grand realizations (some huge, some just as insignificant as realizing what Timon and Pumbaa were really watching as they sang their song).

We’re growing older, growing wiser (I hope).

Enjoy.

Kentucky Fried Adulting

Nothing quite says #adulting like a teenager’s first job.

Especially when that job is fast food.

I suppose there was certain irony in the fact that I began the first pages of this section sitting in the lobby of a McDonald’s. At the time, I had intentions of drafting an entire book around my experiences at my first job. It was larger than life, and while some moments were pure immaturity, I was definitely #adulting as I made the climb from a simple crew member all the way up to an assistant manager.

Golly, I was cool.

            The search for my first legal employment was less than simple. The day I realized I couldn’t live on a non-existent allowance and the annual birthday bonus, I borrowed the Mom Mobile (my mother’s ice-blue Dodge Caravan) and set off at a questionable speed toward the isle of fast food: 17-mile Road in Cedar Springs, Michigan. It was the closest to my house in Rockford, 10 minutes south.

Subway was first. Oh Subway! So delicious with your five-dollar foot-longs and Sun chips! Then I journeyed across the street and placed an app at the McDonald’s (not the one I’m currently sitting in, stuffing my face with a hash brown that’s probably not real potatoes, but what the hell). Then there was Burger King (the BK Lounge, as Dane Cook fans often refer to it) Wendy’s (although the girl with the hair has always secretly given me nightmares) and finally, right behind Wendy’s, I placed an app at the local KFC/A&W. Yes, under one roof, ladies and gentlemen! Root beer floats AND fried chicken!

“I just placed an app at that KFC and A&W place,” I said to my mother over the phone as I sat in the Mom Mobile planning my next move. “I’ll totally work for A&W… but if it’s KFC I’m so not going for it.” I was 16 and disillusioned. KFC/A&W doesn’t employ separate restaurants. It’s all the same, like a giant, overwhelming, bipolar menu where you can eat a chicken leg, and then devour a hotdog.

“What does A&W stand for?” She asked me, curious.

“How should I know? I don’t work there. I hope one of these places calls me. But I would much rather do retail.”

“Might as well apply at the Big Boy across the street,” Mom mentioned, ignoring my desire to fold sweaters for a living.

“MOM. I’m not working anyplace that implies fatness in the NAME.”

And then the waiting game began.

It was weeks before I received the call. I started to lose hope of ever possessing a job to make money toward college. Not that I had any idea what I wanted to do at college. But it would have been nice to have been able to pay for whatever education I would pursue.

Danielle Inc. was on the caller ID. I looked at it with a sneer. “Who’s Daniel?” I murmured to myself before carelessly placing the phone on the cradle and waddling through the kitchen towards the fridge, high hopes of beef jerky bubbling within me (there was none).

The machine picked up the call (yes, this was back when we had landlines and answering machines).

“Hi, this is Monica from KFC/A&W and this message is for Kaitlin, we would like to set up an interview with you…”

I almost peed my pants. I spun around on my heel, my hands seizing the phone. In my haste, I tripped over myself and crashed to the laminate floor.

“Crap!” I jumped to my feet and immediately called them back. I had an interview the next day.

I’ve always been vaguely entertained by the questions one is asked during interviews. My personal favorite is “What are your hobbies?” Honestly, it doesn’t matter, because once I get this job I won’t have any hobbies anymore! And everyone knows the interviewee is going to answer how they’re “supposed” to answer, as opposed to the truth. Can you imagine what would happen if people told the truth?

“I enjoy counting the number of ingredients on packages and chewing gum.”

“I’m quite fond of masturbation.

“I smoke weed on the weekends.”

Instead, we get answers like “Reading. Running. Going to college.” And other bullshit.

I suppose what is even more depressing is that these were the answers I gave: Reading. Running. Writing. Singing.” And they were one-hundred percent true. Yep, I’m that boring.

Whatever the questions asked, and answers given, I was hired on the spot.

“Congratulations, you’ve just become a crew member at KFC/A&W.”

“…Shit…”

            And so, it began.

From the moment I started working, I longed to have the honor of holding employment at an institute which does not force you to wear a uniform that purposefully makes you as unattractive as you could ever possibly look. The first day I put on those black pants, the heinous black shirt, and the hat, I looked in the mirror and said to my pitiful reflection, “Damn, you’re a sexy winner.”

I was trained on front counter my first day, nervously watching as my trainer (who later quit to gallivant about Peru and do something real) pressed the buttons, filling the orders that came to her. The numerous meal combinations and burgers twisted in my head as I attempted to permanently stamp them into my mind. I had to fight not to roll my eyes as I heard for the millionth time that evening, “Would you like that in Original or Crispy?”

“Original.”

Or, what has become my personal favorite, “Would you like that Original or Crispy?”

“Yep.”

Seriously? Definitely wasn’t a yes or no question, guy.

I was nice back then. Patient. My smile alone welcomed even the meanest vegetarian into the store. But that was years ago. I was just getting started.

It’s not that I wasn’t fond of the sound of crackling grease and hot fryers and all the acne that goes with it. It’s not that I felt a sense of loathing for my coworkers. On the contrary, they were like a second family.

If you’ve ever worked fast food, you don’t even have to ask.

If you’ve never worked fast food…

You have no idea.

My shoes slid across the floor as I tore through the store, the glass door slamming behind me.

“Why am I always late?” I muttered to myself, placing the black cap upon my head and yanking my curly brown ponytail through the hole in the back. I bustled past the line of red booths in the lobby of Kentucky Fried Chicken & A&W (whatever that stands for), grabbing an abandoned food tray as I passed an overflowing trashcan. Silently I cursed the costumers for being so inconsiderate. IF the trash can is full, there’s another one RIGHT NEXT TO IT. I glided past the front counter where an elderly couple stood in front of Monica, my assistant manager. Monica is a spicy, (though never feed her spicy foods, please, God) raunchy woman who cannot control the words that unexpectedly fly out of her mouth.  I flashed her a smile and pushed through the employee door.

Immediately the scent of frying chicken embraced me. It overpowered every other scent in the store. I turned the corner and passed the enormous dishes sink. One would never think KFC generates a lot of dishes to be cleaned throughout the day, but that is a common misconception. I dropped my purse in the backroom beside bottles of chemicals such as degreaser and lime-away, then went to search for my timecard in the massive pile beside the office door.

“That’s not my name,” I sang out to the tune of the Ting Ting’s “That’s Not My Name” as I shuffled through the cards. “That’s not my name! That’s no—Op, that’s my name.”

“Alright, let’s have a 411!” Monica shouted, her voice harsh and nasal. She was a middle-aged woman with long graying hair pulled back into a bun beneath her hat. Like the crew, she wore black pants and slip-resistant shoes. But beneath her apron was a red shirt, as opposed to the black donned by the crew members. She shuffled to the back and stood beside the tower of Pepsi boxes.

“Alright, we’re gonna be busy tonight,” she began, looking at the half-bored crew standing around her fanning themselves with their time cards. “Cooks!”

“What?”

“Don’t run me out of chicken. I don’t want a repeat of last night!”

“Wasn’t my fault,” a cook whined. “The dude ordered like 50 pieces of chicken at once!”

Monica ignored him. “Alright, let’s punch in!”

“Happy Friday,” I muttered to Whitney, a nearly six-foot-tall chicken expert who became a dear friend and later introduced me to my husband. I slid my card into the time clock. 16:00.

And the fun began.

“Thank you for stopping at KFC and A&W, this is Kaitlin speaking, go ahead with your order whenever you’re ready!” The drive-thru introduction was mandatory and second nature. I pressed that headset button and rattled it off like nothing. After three years of practice, I could recite the intro while counting out change and filling a gallon of root beer at the same time.

“I’d like a Potato Bowl please,” the customer squawked all too loudly from the drive-through speaker. I adjusted the headset over my ear and vaguely wondered if people thought I was deaf, or that our speaker technology was really that primitive that they must resort to SQWAKING their order.

“Would you like an ice-cold Pepsi to go with that today?” I asked. Suggestive selling was part of my job. We want to squeeze every penny out of our customers who roll around to our squeaky drive through window, and we won’t go down without a fight, gosh darn it! You want apple turnovers for ninety-nine cents, and you’re gonna like it!

I took a second order and tried some suggestive selling.

“Would you like to try a Potato Bowl today?”

“No… I want a Famous Bowl.”

Facepalm.

Potato Bowls and Famous Bowls are the same thing, Lady.

“Can I get a pie with that?” The customer asked.

“Reese’s, Oreo, or Strawberry?”

“……………………………………………………ummmm………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………uh……………………………………………………………………………………………………………”

            Oh my God…

            “Reese’s.”

“Go ahead and pull forward and I’ll have your total at the window,” I muttered.

Everybody loves money. How could one NOT love money? Part of #adulting is having money. It gets you stuff, makes you happy, and through a complicated and corrupt supply and demand system, the world keeps going around because of it.

Given my employment, I encountered a lot of money (and I mean specific amounts of individual bills as opposed to the total valued amount). Let’s face it: Bill Gates has contact with more money in a single hour than I will in my entire life.  Apart from my increased risk of disease and drug contact, and of course how easy it was to collect all the quarters on my collector’s map, I’ve noticed certain things about people and their money.

First, I must admit the biggest pet peeve I possessed was when I opened the window, announced the somewhat over-priced total, outstretched my hand for the cash, and my hand was snubbed, the money instead slapped on the window ledge. Thanks, Guy, I was definitely holding my hand out to catch the breeze, not to collect your payment or anything.

Also, when one’s order is over three dollars, one should consider it utterly rude to pay in change.

“Hi, $7.98 please,” I’d say with my signature smile. Then it’s wiped clean off my face as a handful of change is dumped upon my windowsill. Daily Double! Two pet peeves in one. This must be my lucky day. I never worked on an honors system. When it came to the accuracy of my drawer, I took it quite personal. I WILL be counting your handful of change, and I won’t be giving you a break if it’s short!

I greatly appreciated a costumer having their payment ready and willing as I opened the window. The last thing I wanted to see was a customer’s increasingly large rear-end as they bent over in their seat in search of their purse which had so conveniently slipped off the passenger seat and landed on the floor. As if that wasn’t terrible enough, the same customer would sit and count out exact change to top it off. Don’t get me wrong, I loved exact change. It cut my cash-out time in half. But I wasn’t much for a peepshow of the customer’s backside as they searched for said change.

I found myself involuntarily judging a person based on the physical condition of their chosen method of payment.  I was always appreciative toward the simple, single crisp twenty that was handed to me and cashed in seconds. The newer bills kept my drawer looking organized. These people, I presumed, were efficient and responsible adults. They knew how to ensure the safety of Andrew Jackson during his journey from the bank to KFC/A&W. They were often very similar to the folks who simply handed me a credit card. A quick swipe and push of a few buttons, and they were ready to go. The problem with credit cards, however, was that we required a signature. It was much quicker for me to give change than it was to wait for the guy at my window to remember how to spell his unusually lengthy name.  Honestly, nobody looks at those things. Just draw an “X” and move on for Sander’s sake.

There was the money folded around the change deal. I understand you don’t want the cashier to drop the coins, but I often didn’t even realize you placed coins inside the inconveniently folded bills. Therefore, not only did I take the time to unfold the money, I also had to search for the coins once they cascaded to the ground. These people, I think, tried too hard to be efficient and therefor were counter-productive.

And how could I ever forget the careless spaz who shoved wrinkled, scrunched up bills into my hand. I guess I just assumed these people hadn’t the slightest clue what a straight line was and carelessly shoved their cash into their pockets where it may be forgotten for weeks at a time. Although I love a forgotten random dollar as much as the next guy, I prefer neatly placing it into my wallet. Not to mention wrinkled cash didn’t lay flat in my drawer and made it look terrible.

Though it’s not right, I found myself making strong, negative assumptions about the girl who handed me $23.00 in ones. All ones. I stared at the stack of cash for a moment, really hoping they hadn’t been placed into her G-string the night before.

Once, someone had folded his dollar bill into an origami sailboat. Don’t get me wrong; I love origami. I’m the origami queen! I can make cranes, butterflies, boxes, flowers, and if given some real time, I can pull off a half-way-decent inflatable frog that hops on a good day. But when it came to origami money on a busy afternoon at KFC/A&W, I’m afraid I just plain didn’t have the time to appreciate such an unexpected, germ-covered work of art, and found myself only annoyed with the extra time it took to unfold the masterpiece and place it in the drawer with all the other normal, crease-free bills.

I took another order. “That’ll be $5.69, thank you and please pull forward,”

“WOO-HOO!” Monica howled at the price. “69!”

I’ve warned you before of the certain dirty mind-ness Monica seems to possess and in turn exploit across the brains of the staff. One does not work at KFC for longer than a few months and NOT pick up some of these… tendencies. I remember how shocked I was the first time I heard Monica drop the F bomb at work.

“I’ll have a cup of coffee,” an old man muttered to me as he dug through his fading leather wallet for a bill.

“I’m sorry, we don’t carry coffee,” I informed him. It was my first summer at KFC/A&W and I tried my best to keep my temper despite the heat.

“You don’t have coffee?!” The man exclaimed. “That’s just ridiculous.” And he left.

I stood in silence, watching him leave, not really caring, yet baffled anyone could care about a cup of coffee this much (this, obviously, is before I discovered McDonald’s Hot Caramel Mocha).

Monica came up behind me and put a hand on my shoulder. “It’s 99 fucking degrees outside and he’s asking for a fucking cup of coffee.”

Well then!

I don’t know why I was surprised; if only I knew what was to come.

“She clogged the fucking sink!”

“Come on, you fuckers, let’s GO!”

“What the HELL is wrong with you?”

“Well. That just looks like shit, now, doesn’t it?”

“Requests for time off are just that: requests. Stop BITCHING.”

“Shut up, you hunsuckers!” (Still have no idea what that last one even MEANS).

Expanding my vocabulary and arsenal of insults certainly made me feel like more of an adult.

I took another order as Whitney prepared to pack it. We made such a great team.

“Can I help you find something?” I asked after a long moment.

“Just thinking,” the customer responded. Silence again. For several minutes.

“Somebody put a garage over this car!” Whitney finally shouted, tongs flailing in the air.

“Can I get the, uh… three… three col… colonial strips meal?”

Facepalm. Colonel. COLONEL. Like, “KER -NAL”. Not colonial.

“Yep, I can get that colonel strip meal for you,” I said, forcing a smile onto my face. “Will that complete your order?”

“I need some cheese with that,” the customer added.

“Like, melted cheese?” I clarified, slightly confused.

“No,” the customer said, almost annoyed. “Liquid.”

Facepalm again.

Whitney rolled her eyes but obliged.

“I need strips down!” She yelled back at the cooks, taking the last of them from the window and tenderly (tenders! Get it?! HA!) placing them in a box.

“You want me to STRIP DOWN??” Monica called.

“God, yes.”

“I also need two breasts,” the customer in my ear added.

I stifled a giggle. “Original or Crispy?”

“Original.”

“Do we have two Original breasts?” I asked Whitney, lifting the headset off my ear so I could better hear her response.

“Oh, yes, my breasts are very original,” Whit smirked.

I laughed. “But really?”

“We’re good.”

I sold them.

I opened the window as the car sluggishly approached. I had the misfortune of glancing beyond the driver at the passenger… who was clipping her toenails.

            Ew.

Suppressing a gag, I took the man’s money, gave him his original breasts, walked away.

“You know,” Whitney started as she grabbed a broom to sweep particles of crispy breading from the greasy floor. “I think you would really like my brother’s friend. You should meet him.”

Monica shuffled by to withdraw money from my till. “Are you fixing Kaitlin up with a boy? Remember what I always taught you girls. You gotta get the bling bling on your fing fing before you get that ding ding.” She looked at Whit, who was still sweeping. “Make sure you pull out them buns,” she advised, referencing the carts of sandwich buns rolled underneath the sandwich station.

“You’ve got nice buns,” Whit said as she obliged.

“Honey,” Monica snorted, “them ain’t buns. Them are the entire loaf!”

I shook my head as I started the rest of my cleaning responsibilities.

“Excuse me, Lady, I have a bone to pick!” I heard a gravely voice behind me. I turned on my heel to see a man with graying hair and an unkempt beard. He held a crinkled fast food bag in his hand and his bushy eyebrows were malevolently slanted over his eyes.

“Can I help you?” I asked, approaching the counter.

“Damn straight,” he began.  “You guys screwed up my fucking order. I can’t believe this. Every Goddamned time. I just want a fucking burger! How hard is that! You all must be stupid.”

He continued like that for a while. I checked out somewhere in the middle, waiting for him to take a breath so I could sneak in a very hilarious observation.

“Sir,” I finally sighed, trying to suppress the smile twitching at the corners of my lips. “That’s a Wendy’s bag. You’re at KFC.”

That’s when the crowd around him erupted in laughter. I’m not typically a supporter of public humiliation, but that guy had it coming. You can’t be that disrespectful and not receive a visit from karma. Red in the face, he left the store in a hurry, tightly clutching his Wendy’s bag. I wish I would have called Wendy’s to warn them. They would have at least had a laugh before being insulted.

Here’s the thing. We are all human. Humans make mistakes. There is no reason to be a douchebag about a mistake. Be polite. The restaurant will gladly fix it for you.

Just saying… you don’t fuck with the people who handle your food.

Are you nuts?

Shortly after, Monica called me into her office.

Well shit.

“What did I do?” I asked as I walked into the office and removed my hat.

“Nothing, gosh!” she said. “I just want to know if you think you might be able to run the store next Wednesday.”

“What?”

“We have a manager’s meeting up in Big Rapids. Us managers need someone to run the store while we are gone. I should be back to help close and count the drawers, but the shift would be all yours.”

I couldn’t help the smile that was slowly creeping across my chapped lips. Manager? Me? It sounded so… official… so… important… so… grown up. #adulting.

“Yeah,” I finally managed to breathe. “I can do it. No prob.”

And that’s how it started. I would run a shift here and there when the managers needed someone as back up. But eventually I was named an official manager at KFC/A&W.

I spent a total of six years there.  Lots of blood, sweat, and tears went into that job. And grease. Lots and lots of grease. And I’m not just talking about the elbow kind.

This job was fundamental in developing my stellar adult personality.

And I was inches away from choosing Wendy’s for employment instead.

Who would I be now?

When analyzing the experience overall, without my experience at KFC, I would never have met Whitney… and she introduced me to my husband. I would never have gotten the management experience that led me to pursue a master’s degree in Strategic Communication Management.  I would never have built my vocabulary of sexual innuendos (so important) and wouldn’t have been motivated to be better than just the chicken girl. KFC was a solid foundation for the adult I would someday become.

Still working on becoming one, but I know I’ll be good.

Does Adulting mean Becoming your Parents??

Does adulting mean becoming your parents?

Sometimes something flies out of my mouth and I have to race to the mirror to make sure I haven’t turned into my mother.

…or my father.

Does adulting mean I need a specific table cloth for every holiday? Do I need to buy fancy Christmas china and gold color silverware? Or is that just my parents?

Should I model after my dad and have every single appliance known to man, including the little buzzing spider that stirs your gravy for you? Am I supposed to play Enya on repeat every time I have guests?

Should I obsess over everyone else’s garbage and make dumpster suggestions like my mother?

Should I spend my weekends considering how to bring up the value of my home, or futzing with my stereo for the optimal sound experience?

Do I start using words like “futz” and talk with my hands like my Italian father?

Do I begin shopping at Costco and buying gross “Pub” snackies in bulk?

Am I supposed to deep-clean my house and pick up dog poop twice a week like my mom? (Probably. That would probably be a good life choice.)

What I’m getting at here is that I don’t think I have to approach adulting the same way my parents approach adulting. I’ve already covered that they’ve been really good at pretending they know what they’re doing. So, I guess, if they’re good at pretending, then that doesn’t mean I can’t be just as good at pretending. But I don’t have to do it the same way they are.

I’m me.

You’re you.

And that’s pretty badass.

The Dum Dum Dilemma

You know how restaurants sometimes have those mints you can grab as you walk out the door?  As a kid, I thought it was cool. Free candy, you know? Now that I’m an adult, I understand exactly what they are there for.

Lunch meetings.

And you’re the poor sap that ordered something with garlic or onion, and now have a very serious problem.

Gross.

Good luck with that sales pitch with fumes eking out of your mouth like an episode of SpongeBob.

Thus, restaurants provide mints.

What about when said restaurant does not have mints, but in fact has Dum Dums?

This realization hit me like a truck one day as I left a Mexican restaurant with my colleagues to walk back to the office.

Adulting is putting thought into which Dum Dum flavor you pick.

  • Is it going to turn my mouth blue?
  • Is it going to make my breath stink?
  • I still want it to taste good; does “Mystery Flavor” mean no color on my lips or shitty flavor?
  • Do I have any meetings today?
  • Do I need to get more than one to share?
  • How many calories are in a Dum Dum?
  • Wait, are these just for kids?
  • Do I look like I can pass for a kid?

Had I been an eleven-year-old spaz, I wouldn’t have thought twice; I would have grabbed a random handful of Dum Dums and merrily skipped out as I stuffed them in my pockets (Aren’t pockets great? My wedding dress had pockets. Many asked why I needed a dress with pockets. My response? “Wouldn’t you want a place to keep all your shit?”).

But I’m an adult now, and I had a very serious decision to make. And the reality was that there was no good selection. I was screwed either way. I’m either stuck with nasty flavor, with a blue or green mouth, or I get nothing and gas out my team with my mouth smells.

I settled on cherry.

Because at least a bright red tongue is more natural-looking than an alien blue tongue.

Or, I could just BUY A FRICKING PACK OF GUM because adults DON’T EAT DUM DUMS!

…do they?

More on adulting here!

“It’ll be fun,” they said.

Grow up and become an adult, they said. It’ll be fun, they said.

False. Where’s my blankey?
I’ll be in my fort.
Coloring.

Let’s talk about all those things “expert” adults never told us.
No one told me I would never again write in cursive apart from signing my
name. Nor did anyone say signing my name would become such a big deal… And I certainly wasn’t prepared for how many times I would sign it to purchase a home.
Actually, I’m not sure why it was so important for me to buy a house. It was like this giant
check off my “becoming an adult bucket list.” It’s not just me; when my parents decided to get married, my mom lived in a condo and my dad in an apartment. My mom insisted upon purchasing a house, because her perception of adulthood and marriage included a house. She just assumed that’s what people do. She didn’t realize some people live in an apartment for years and are perfectly functioning adults. No one said becoming a successful adult doesn’t mean becoming the stereotypical adult.

No one mentioned how utterly USELESS everything I learned in math class
would be. I can tell you the Pythagorean Theorem, but I can’t fucking balance a
checkbook. I think we really need to reevaluate our curriculum.

No one told me there wasn’t a magical “Pantry Fairy” that comes and fills your
cupboards with snackies every week.

There is no similar fairy for cleaning.

No one said that your house gets dirty even when there’s no one home.
I thought I was just going to mystically “like” doing laundry as soon as I entered
adulthood.

Nope. Still hate it.

AND SOMEBODY TELL ME HOW TO FOLD THE FUCKING FITTED BED SHEET!!
I finally gave up and started shoving all the sheets inside the corresponding pillowcase.

I’ve been under the impression that knowing how to perfectly wrap presents
was just an adult thing. Now I’m convinced it must just be a parent thing.

No one explained how much making plans would change. As an adult, the idea
of plans is so much better than executing the plan the day of.

“Yeah, dude, we should totally hit the club on Friday!”
On Friday: “Dammit.”

Nobody mentioned I would be responsible for making my own doctor
appointments. Apparently, my mom no longer reminds me when I have a teeth
cleaning and subsequently does not drive me there.
Also, answering the doctor when he asks you about your medical history. #adulting.

They said there’d be bills…
But
there’s
so
many
bills.

No one told me the can of Sloppy Joe does not, in fact, include the meat.
Imagine my surprise when I dumped that can of just SAUCE in my frying pan.

No one told me my furnace would quit in my second week of home ownership.

Or my fridge three months later.

No one told me I would one day have no problem sitting at a public table and
eating alone.

In fact, I prefer it. Don’t sit next to me.

No one told me the world would start to take a dump and I would feel so
helpless in fixing it.
I was shocked to discover how expensive it is to shop healthy. It’s much cheaper
to live on pasta and pizza rolls, but my ass does not much appreciate it.

No one warned me I would be so much like my father.
No one said anything about everyone else not knowing what they’re doing,
either.
The thing is, the

deeper

I dive into this adulting experience, the more I realize everyone else is just winging it,
too, and doesn’t know what the hell they’re doing.

Even my parents didn’t know what
they were doing. They were still trying to figure it out when they had me! Two kids
rushed into the hospital to have their first child, only to break the water and it come
out green.
Yes, ladies and gents, I took a shit in the womb.
And suddenly the pleasant delivery experience turned into an emergency situation
resulting in a C-section.
I can appreciate that terror now that I’m an adult.
They had no idea what to expect.
But they made it work.
They winged it.

Like we all sort of wing it as life takes us through unexpected turns and onto bumpy
roads.
Life is messy.
Everyone is different.
And everyone figures it out at their own pace.

Maybe I’ll finally have my shit together by the time I’m thirty.

More posts about adulting