Stockholders:
Take note. There are security cameras everywhere, sometimes cleverly disguised as sci-fi lighting fixtures, sometimes right out there in the open with the words "Security Camera" printed in block letters along the side. Thank you, Captain Obvious.
I am not alarmed by this, seeing as how I have yet to break the rules at my current assigment. (or assigments, I should say, since it changes every freaking day.) But there is something disconcerting. Yes. Terribly disconcerting.

I am sick, friends. I got it from my six-week roomie. Of course. I tried desperately to avoid the plague that he seems to have contracted over the last few days. However, in an effort to not gross myself out anymore that I already am, I will be refraining from hacking up giant phlegm balls and spitting them into the nearest receptacle. I think it's vile and it makes me want to throw up when I think about it.

I have a really hard time with spit.
Really hard time.

Anycrap, I forgot to write last week. Well, not really forgot. I was preoccupied with an enormous project that I was working on outside of temping. And what better time to work on it than during the long, boring hours that make up my day here at temp-central.
I was in a different building last week, and much to my suprise, there were TWO of us at the desk. Not because it's busier. Oh no. But because the desk was built for two people and it would look bad if they didn'thave two people behind it.
INSANE.
However, there was a magical little feature to this desk that was different than the others that I have and will sit at as a floating receptionist. The button to let people in...is a FOOT PEDAL! Genius!!! Holy crap I miss that foot pedal today. As a temp, it is probably not appropriate to request a foot pedal this early in the game, but wow. My whole outlook on life changed with that foot pedal. I could open the door without using my hands. I didn't have to scrounge around under the lip of the desk in an attempt to locate the door button and instead hit the "Panic" button by mistake! Oh the joy. The wonder of it all.
Needless to say, I got cocky. I thought I could pay less attention to the door and work harder on my outside project, which involved a lot of meticulous planning and writing. Turns out, my supervisor showed up early on Friday morning to do her weekly spot check of all the receptionists, getting feedback from people on the floor. A phone call from her later in the afternoon informed me that my button skills were under par and that people felt neglected when the door wasn't opening automatically for them. I will be honest and say that there were maybe five times out of the three-hundred that I press that goddamn button that I may have been slightly late.
Poor neglected Financial Bastards. Is somebody not paying enough attention to you at home?
Do you need to be noticed when you come to the door? Get a grip. Be a grown-up and use your ID. That's why they took that stupid picture of you in the first place. So you can get IN and OUT of places in the building where you work. Have it out and ready at all times. And, if I like you, we'll challenge each other to see who can get the door open first. See? A little game.
Now buck up, little soldiers. It's a jungle in here.

I Might Be Too Old For This

Well, Stockholders, it's been a while, but I thought I'd sqeeze in one last entry in this dismal month of January. Since last we met, changes have taken place. The Wall Street Office found a Perm(anent, eable, you make the choice) gal for the front desk position, an "inside hire" as they like to say in the corporate world, and I was given the proverbial boot. This all happened mid-month and I was left high and dry. A quick hug from the gap-toothed blonde who trained me and I was out the door without a look back. Walking the streets again. Walking the Wall Streets. I spent the following week gleefully unemployed, managing the ongoing laundry situation at home, scouring the apartment, walking the dog at a reasonable hour of the morning. It was heaven. But even I get restless folks. After about 6 hours of this free time, I was starting to feel somewhat antsy. Good thing we had a trip to Disneyworld the following week. Nothing like a vacation to the Magic Kingdom to throw you back in the working-man's saddle. Seriously, it was an excellent time, but it is HARD LABOR down there. You're up at the ass-crack of dawn in an attempt to beat the crowds, you ride public transportation and often have to hang on to poles/straps because you give up your seat to little tykes, you pound the pavement, walking six or seven miles every day, you keep on a schedule with your fast-pass time slots and entertainment lineups, you wait in obscenely long lines with people who have never waited in lines in their life, you eat on the run, (except for dinner, which was always a fabulous time of the day) and you drink far too much considering: 1.) your own weight and 2.) the time that you have to get up the next day. It's a lot like living in New York. In fact, after this trip, I came home with a renewed sense of pride in New Yorkers. I believe we might be some of the best Disney guests, when you really think about it. We're used to all of that. However I cannot overlook some minor discrepancies between the two . Disney wins in the spanking-clean department. New York will never even be in the running. Disney never smells bad or has garbage issues. Also, the birds in Disney don't smoke crack or ask you if you want to buy crack. That's a big difference too.
Anycrap, vacation is over. Time to rest again.
And wait...what looms on the horizon? ANOTHER receptionist position, but in Midtown this time. Oh, sweet Jesus don't make me go to Midtown. I can now admit that Wall Street was a glorious commute. Short, uncrowded and I never had to change trains. This is Clutch when you can barely put your socks on without some sort of trauma that early in the morning. Midtown. Sucks. Ass. At least on Wall Street, there was the Seaport and some cobblestone-type street. It had character. The same cannot be said for Midtown. It is (and I am completely convinced of this) Hell on Earth. There I said it.
The other Hell on Earth aspect of this job is what my Temp Agency failed to inform me. I would be a....get ready for it...floater. I mean, really, the word already sounds like an old turd. Do we have to label the roaming receptionist a FLOATER? She undoubtedly already feels shitty enough about having to train on 31 different floors in each of 7 different buildings (all in Midtown, mind you,) and not knowing where she'll be from one day to the next. She already feels like her soul is being sucked out of her navel when she is forced to listen to all of the various methods her fellow receptionists use to manage their floors and she knows her soul has completely left her when she realizes that the only skill used by any and all of these women is the simple act of pressing a button to let people inside, even though they have ID cards and can just as easily let themselves in. The phone doesnt ring. No meetings are scheduled through them. No packages arrive. As long as we all don't hit the panic button by mistake (located precariously close to the entrance button) we have done a good job for the day.
I'm sorry, Stockholders, but I'm going to need a little more action than button pressing.
I think I mastered that one in Nursery School. Possibly earlier.
But here I am. 26th floor today. Who knows tomorrow?
My biggest challenge of each day will be to find the women's room, the pantry with its studpendous Flavia coffee machine, and the easiest way to exit the building. That's what I'm working on, folks.
Wish me luck.

I'm Not Listening To You, Tuesday.

Ah, Stockholders. It's Tuesday. My least favorite day of the week. Never have really been able to pin that one down, but it usually just sucks. While in grad school, Tuesdays became my nemesis because I had completely overscheduled myself. To remedy this, I would adorn my feet with a pair of pea-green socks decorated with cartoon monkeys. I fooled myself into thinking that these little gems would somehow shield me from the horror of Tuesdays. As long as I was wearing the monkey socks, nothing could get me down. In fact, it became such A THING, that my friend Joe would ask me every Tuesday, without fail, if I remembered to wear the monkey socks. The socks have been retired due to overwork on my large-ass size nine feet. Tuesdays, however, will never retire. They had been around long before I was born, and if I may be so bold, they will continue long after I'm dead. And so...while searching for a new pair of primates to get me through the tough times...I will just have to take valium on Tuesdays. Deal with it. And while we're on the subject, how much money would YOU give the monkeys? You know the answer. Don't be afraid. I learned the hard way, but I'm a better person for it.

What I Have Done For Money (And No, I Haven't Done THAT)

Happy New Year Stockholders.

I thought I'd start 2008 off right. Let's make a list of all the jobs that I've had since I was legally allowed to be employed. That'll make me feel...awesome. In no particular order, (though that would be a fun project in itself) here they are:

Short Order Cook 6
My specialty was the Reuben, the origins of which are widely disputed.I made it with rye bread, corned beef, russian dressing, swiss cheese and kraut. One tasty bit of info that I recently discovered about this gem is that you can still order an original Reuben from the Dundee Dell in Omaha, Nebraska. This restaurant, which I have actually been to, claims to have originated the sandwich. However, if you head to the Dell, do the Scotch tasting. At 40 bucks a pop, it's a fantastic way to try some killer singlemalts. If you still have a hankering for a meal after that, then I guess you could get the Reuben. I guess. I mean, if you want to ruin a perfectly decadent taste in your mouth.


Balloon Salesperson/Wedding Decorator 6
Now, what isn't classy about this kind of pink abomination? I ask you. Picture this setup with "banquet hall" ( a little further down this page. ) Sexy? I think so





WAITRESS (in the following venues):

---Tourist Town Restaurant

---Banquet Hall 6
Uh, I think the
"dusty rose" napkins really bring out the brown pleather of the chairs. Or maybe it's the navy blue plastic tablecloth that couldn't possibly be left out. Fortunately, the weddings were different every week. Unfortunately, the meals were not. I still can't look at an industrial-sized tray of shells and sauce without throwing up in my mouth a little. Menus like this are hateful and wrong. First of all, please spell pastry right. And if you look on the bottom in the General Information Section, it says "The Use of Confetti is NOT allowed." You know... if confetti is important enough to be capitalized, then it certainly is important enough to be thrown around in a crappy banquet hall. There. I said it.


---Outdoor Theatre Gala 6



Three words.
Catering Is Hot.
I mean, check this guy out.
He's wearing the uniform.
And look how hot he is, despite
fact that he is missing

• both his left arm and foot.
  Not bad.
  
  
  
  
  ---Health resort 6
  Yes, I actually worked in that mansion. It was the most stressful serving job. Ever. I had to wait on extremely wealthy people who spent their pre-meal time working out to lose a bunch of weight in a few days. So if their health-conscious, calorie-counted banana bread french toast didn't come out just right, it was sheer mayhem in the dining room. Someone actually threw a plate at me once. And I waited on Diana Ross.
  
  
  ---Irish Pub 6
  
  
  
  This is the only reason to work in an Irish Pub.
  Sweet Guiness.
  Why are you so lovely?
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ---Sushi Bar 6
  Sushi Haiku
  
  
  
  Oh slippery fish!
  
  
  A bed of sweet, sticky rice
  
  
  Awaits you. Please nap.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ---Pork-themed Cafe 6
  
  And this is what will have happened if I have decided to work in another restaurant again. That's right, Stockholders. Pigs Will Have Flown. If you are so inclined you can read all about why I don't feel the need to immerse myself in the food industry any longer. These are the kind of folks that I was surrounded by. In fact, I was "let go" two weeks prior to this shameful display because the boss had become wayward in his personal spending and needed to take over some of the waitstaff's lucrative shifts. Shifty. But Professor Karma came to the rescue.
  
  
  Telephone Surveyor
  Greenwich Village Halloween Parade Marcher
  Theatre House Manager
  Teacher in the following venues:
  ---Acting Camp
  ---Playwrighting Residency
  ---Third-Grade Sexual Education
  ---Middle School Substitute
  Theatre Box Office Associate
  Babysitter
  Hotel Front Desk Clerk
  Theatre Company Manager
  Bedding/Fine Linens Retail Associate
  Life Model
  Voice Over Artist
  High School Musical Choreographer
  Unemployment Collector
  Actor
  
  
  Now, notice that I have left the notoriously glam job of "Temptress" out. Oh, Stockholders...
  Temping is so special that it needs a section all to itself. Here are a few of the things I have done as a temp(tress):
  
• Answered Phones

While viewing the above website, be sure to pay attention to some interesting info offered by people who felt the need to comment EVEN MORE about proper phone etiquette. My personal favorite is:

"Stand If You Can - Standing while you are greeting someone makes it easier to be upbeat and you won't sound boring."

WHAT??? To all my fellow receptionists out there...If you feel the need to stand up every time you answer the phone in order to sound less bored, I guarantee you are heading for the edge. And if that doesn't do it, the weird looks that you'll get from your fellow employees will certainly send you there and over.

• Created spreadsheets
• Ordered breakfast
• Ordered lunch
• Ordered groceries.

Don't be afraid to play favorites here, stockholders. Fresh Direct is a Garden of Eden for the Hungry Phone Girl. If you're doin' the orderin', then you're doin' the eatin'. What Accounts Payable doesn't know won't hurt them. The Wild Rock Lobster Tails could TOTALLY have been lunch for the office one day. Or...they could have slipped into my portable cooler with removable ice packs by mistake. The case of Chalk Hill Pinot Noir was DEFINITELY for an impromptu 9th floor party. I didn't say WHICH cubicle. Or hey, start small. ORDER those double chunk chocolate and peanut butter granola bars and hide them in your drawer. No one will be the wiser and you have a sweet secret all to yourself. Shop on.

• Put away groceries
• Copied
• Typed
• Distributed mail
• Reorganized mail room
• Cleaned
• Dusted
• Labeled

ODE TO THE LABELMAKER

Oh, Labelmaker.

How I have loved you.

Watched your magic unfold before me.

I type in my request and slowly, silently

(save for a soothing hum)

you put forth your pure-white adhesive-backed offering,

and on it, in perfect plain print,

is my very thought.

I want to label the world with you.

Come, we'll create together in battery-operated bliss.

• Addressed envelopes
• Wore a hard hat and a tool belt and pointed conference attendees in the right direction.
• Video conferenced
• Made signs
• Made award certificates
• Made coffee
• Wrapped other people's Christmas presents
  
  
  
  The list. It's endless.
  I'm spent.
  
  
  
  
  
  

The Last Day

Good Afternoon Stockholders.

It is New Year's Eve, 2007. The Wall Street Office is empty. Everyone has taken the day off. And everyone who doesn't work on Wall Street seems to be roaming this particular neighborhood. You know of whom I speak. Tourists. With their new winter wear, their pocket travel guides, their mini fold-up subway maps. Worst of all, they seem to be completely oblivious of their fellow creatures who actually have to work down here and navigate the human traffic jams. Their necks are craned, the weave in and out, holding hands, slipping into side streets, crowding up the coffee spots. Ugh.

Even my superior didn't show up today. Which means, technically, that I could slip out of here early without repercussion. The life of a Temptress often comes to these odd moments, when you feel like you might be the only one alive. When you feel that your temping duties go unnoticed by a single soul. When the phone hasn't rung more than 7 times in as many hours.

A moment ago, I pawed around in the pantry fridge for something to entertain me, namely a large bottle of Pinot Grigio, but it seems they have confiscated all naughty beverages. Shoot. It's just as well. I have a hard enough time staying awake on the train lately. A few nips from a bottle of wine might just send me carreening to Coney Island for a surprise nap and subsequent mugging.

Everybody's Getting Drunk...

Inspired by the somewhat positive feedback about my recent holiday newsletter, I have decided to record my musings from the Tumultuous World of Temping in a blog. Hey, shut up. Everybody's doing it.



Currently, I am in my seventh week as the Unnecessary Receptionist for a Large Company on Wall Street. This assignment was only supposed to last two weeks, at the most. I must be popular. And irreplaceable. I think it's my intercom voice that has kept me on the books, though. Smooth, sexy and oozing with that special commercial voice-over charm. "May I have your attention please. The Big Meeting with the Free Lunch is taking place in the Middle Conference Room right now. If you're hungry and don't want to spend your own money on crappy Wall Street Catering, get your asses in there. Thank you." People here can't get enough. I have a feeling I'll be with this company through the new year. The best case scenario would be letting me play the Phone Girl until the end of January, just long enough to pay off that pesky American Express Card that has been smoking in my wallet.



Today, promptly at 4:30pm commences the Office Holiday Party. Let us not confuse this with the Office Holiday Brunch or the Company Holiday Bash from last week. From the sounds I can hear floating up from the eighth floor pantry, it is evident that they have begun the gift exchange. I sit here, drinking my confiscated white wine out of a opaque coffee cup, thanking GOD that I must be chained to the desk, answering phones. Nothing like trying to mingle in a group of people who have worked together for years, while all of you are thinking the same thing. "Well...what's-her-name won't be here for much longer. Why start any kind of awkward conversation?" Plus, my commute will be a lovely ride with a solid wine buzz about my person. Why ruin it beforehand with an attempt to explain WHY I am a temp(tress). That will only beg questions about my acting career and why I'm not in anything that they've seen before. I could even be so lucky as to attract the gentleman who has endless tips for auditioning. "Yeah, I guess that IS a good idea. Why did I never think of watching the trailer for that movie on Netflix and COPY what the actor is doing?" Suits have all the good auditioning tips. They oughta get together and write a book for actors. Best Loved Monologues from Wall Street. I'd buy it. Merry Christmas Stockholders.