Letter to Dole

Dear Dole,

I must say I am disappointed.

I used to feel nothing but confidence when eating your fruit products. Now, I am racked with doubt. My faith in you has been shaken to its apple core. What's happened to my adoration of you? Don't play dumb, you know what you did. No? Fine, let me explain.

The other morning, I was devouring one of your prepackaged fruit products for breakfast. I love fruit, and I loved Dole. Your products always tasted fresh and sweet—from your bananas down right down to your tiny, adorable cans of pineapple juice. I mean seriously, how cute are those things? Even without the vodka I put in mine, they taste pretty good. I like your bright packaging, your affordability, and even your logo—"Dole" spelled out with a sunburst coming out of the "o". Simple, cute, organic, and best of all—an American company. One of those precious few American companies I can feel good about buying products from. It's not that I feel American products are superior to imports—I simply like to support American businesses, workers, and prevent unnecessary wasted resources in shipping something that can be made locally.

While eating my Dole "Diced Apples in light syrup" I was reading the packaging. To my horror, I discovered the sad truth to your little fly-by-night operation. "APPLES FROM CHINA" caught my eye first. Then "Packed in Thailand." Followed by "Manufactured by Dole Packaged Foods, LLC. Westlake Village, CA."

Let me see if I understand you Dole—it takes 3 countries to produce diced apples in light syrup? Are Chinese apples somehow superior to those found all across America? Do the Thai people have an unrivaled knack for packing Chinese apples? And then what exactly happens in California if the apples have already been picked, packed, and shipped? What does "manufactured" mean? You pour some sugar water into the container and call it "light syrup" then ship it off to grocery stores? I could understand all this shipping rigamarole if we were talking about a tropical fruit not native to the U.S., but we're talking about apples. I live in Massachusetts—birthplace of Johnny Appleseed. He would roll in his grave if he knew you were importing foreign apples. That is, If he has a grave? He may have been cremated...or killed. How DID Johnny Appleseed die? Oh well, it doesn't matter, in any event I'm sure he'd be furious. Now where was I...? Oh, right, your faulty, underhanded business dealings.

I continued to read the product packaging and saw the green text box containing "For more than 100 years, Dole has been committed to our environment, our employees and the communities in which we operate. To learn how, please visit www.dole.com." And so I did.

Far from redeeming yourselves, you maddened me further. The first attempt to visit dole.com crashed my computer after trying to load your site's layers of php, javascript, actionscript, and who knows what else—perhaps a virus? Some spyware? The second time your website opened only to reveal a crazy-looking, irritating, talking woman holding a colander full of strawberries (no doubt  picked from Abu Dhabi, shipped from Turkey, manufactured in southern California, then shipped by airmail to northern California to your studio) and sipping on a strawberry smoothie (courtesy of Australia). I perused the entirety of your website. You certainly give yourselves a big pat on the back for how environmentally friendly and socially responsible you are. Page after page of praising your renewable farming practices, fair treatment of overseas employees, and giving back to your community. Which community are you giving back to exactly? The community that does the picking, the packing, the purchasing, the shipping, or the manufacturing?

Mayhaps you are the world's best company as your website claims—but you've made me a skeptic. How can I possibly eat the fruit of a company I can't trust? A bitter harvest indeed. There are other fish in sea, Dole. I'm sure Del Monte or Chiquita would be glad to have me. How do you like them apples?

Bad Michael

I spent most of my childhood naked.

Not for the typical reasons like those of other children who could just rip off their Sesame Street clothes and run around in the buff simply because they can get away with it—they are young and cute. I, however, was an unfortunate looking child. I was also mostly nude until the age of 4—far past the cute, naked cut-off. It didn't help that I was also awkward, painfully shy, a momma's boy, and was always sporting rainbow stickers, bracelets, and necklaces (my "pretties" I called them.)

My brother Brett, older than me by 2 years, was quite the opposite. Adorable kid, outgoing, confident, and with lots of friends. But, I guess he didn't have quite enough friends to suit him, so he invented one more—Bad Michael. Bad Michael started out fairly innocent. My parents would discover Brett alone in his room with a box of crayons dumped out onto the floor.

"Brett, pick up your mess and wash your hands for dinner," they'd say.

"But it's not my mess...it's Bad Michael's." And so it began.

This new development of my brother's was amusing and only mildly concerning at first. Lots of kids have imaginary friends—his just happened to be evil.

Well, the scapegoating of Bad Michael continued to grow, rather than dissipate as my parents had hoped. We had two geese in an enclosed pond in our backyard—Myra and Ira. I hated them. They scared me with their loud honking and they were very territorial of their little pen. Bad Michael caught wind of my fear and enjoyed locking me in their pen with them. Inside the house my parents couldn't hear my sobs of distress. Myra and Ira didn't like my intrusions and would chase me around the pond, honking at me and goosing my behind. To hurry things along, Bad Michael would have a handful of bread crumbs at the ready, to douse me with and work the geese up into a frenzy. They loved bread and if mauling a small child was the only way to get it—so be it. To further reward them for their attacks, Bad Michael would feed them some more bread by hand after they had sufficiently gored me.

Brett would lead me back inside the house to present to my parents, sniffling and sobbing. "The geese don't like Josh," Brett would say.

"What happened?! How did he get in?!" they'd demand.

"Bad Michael shut him in."

Now, I don't know what it was like to be a busy parent in the early 80's—whether imaginary friends were considered healthy or something to be stopped immediately, but my parents had already had enough nonsense and decided to tell it to my brother straight.

"Bad Michael isn't real," they said gently.

"He IS real! HE'S REAL!" Brett shouted, and proceeded to throw a tantrum the likes of which had never been seen in our house before.

My parents were taken aback. I was usually the cry-baby, not Brett. He hadn't cried much since he was an infant. It was too much to take and so they back-peddled.

"Well...maybe he is real...but maybe he could be Good Michael instead?" they encouraged.

With sobs fading, "I'll ask him about it."

Despite my brother's pleading with him, Bad Michael continued to be bad. Like Picasso's Blue Period, so began my Nude Period. Bad Michael developed a fondness for tearing my clothes off in the most public of places. As soon as my parents' backs were turned, my clothes came off. And as soon as my clothes came off, I'd go running off—primarily to get away from my psychotic brother. I was also a sucker for anything shiny—my brother merely had to point to something with sparkles and off I'd go in hot pursuit. My bare ass was seen running through malls, parking lots, grocery stores, restaurants, nursing homes, and down any given sidewalk of our small town. The locals began to know me as "the naked kid." My parents were, of course, horrified. At pretty much every family outing, an announcement would be heard over the store PA system or intercom, "Would the owner of a naked boy please come to customer service?" My brother would just topple over with laughter every time.

Some of the more embarrassing moments involved the police. On one of my Bad Michael-induced runs down our busy street, a squad car pulled over and apprehended me. Word had gotten around about "the naked kid" by then, and so they knew exactly where to deliver me. The sight of their 3-year old being delivered to their doorstep naked by the police was enough to make my parents snap. They doled out all sorts of punishments to my poor innocent brother as the unsuspecting emissary of Bad Michael. Spankings were administered, toys were taken away, the television was shut off, friends were exiled, and he was locked in his room for hours. I think this only had the adverse effect of giving him more time to plot with his new demonic playmate.

The first family road trip we had since Bad Michael's inception ended in tears all around. I don't even remember the destination, but I know it was supposed to be somewhere fun—like Story Land or Six Flags. This was long before the days of cell phones or GPS devices. We had a giant fold-out map of New England's major roads and that was it. Bless his heart, my father is a terrible driver. He doesn't pay attention to the road, signs, other cars, what lane he's in, or anything else besides NPR on the radio.

Of course halfway through our trip we were lost on the wrong highway and weren't even sure what state we were in. Suspecting something was amiss, my mother ordered my father to pull over so she could look at the map. As we were pulling over into the breakdown lane, Bad Michael snatched the road map from the backseat compartment and tossed it out the open window. Off it fluttered into a swamp. My parents charged out of the car after it, not realizing how wet and muddy the ground on the roadside was. Seizing his opportunity, Bad Michael undid my seatbelt, tore off my clothes, and shoved me outside onto the highway.

Down the highway I ran, not a care in the world. Shiny cars flew by me, swerving around me and honking like the geese I was so familiar with. I'm not sure what honking at a toddler is supposed to accomplish but it did at least alert my parents who turned around to see me jetting down I-95 with no clothes on. Abandoning their pursuit of the map, they chased me down the interstate, screaming and covered in mud. What onlookers of this family affair must have thought, I can't imagine. Probably, thank God that's not us. When we were safely back in the car and my parents caught their breath, the classic threat actually came to life—they did in fact turn the car around and drive home.

Therapy wasn't as mainstream in the mid 80s as it is today. I don't think it occurred to my parents to seek counseling for the Bad Michael dilemma. Time continued to pass and more stress was put on the family. Bad Michael began issuing demands.

"From now on, Bad Michael's not gonna eat anything unless its the right color," Brett declared one morning. "Today he wants everything green and says I can't eat stuff thats not the right color either."

"Fine," countered Mom, "Don't eat."

And he didn't. He didn't eat for three days until my parents caved in. We can't let him starve, and what's the harm in it really? We'll put food coloring in everything. 


So Bad Michael won again. The entire family had to suffer through red eggs, orange oatmeal, purple toast, yellow meatloaf, and pink potatoes. And, we had to wash it all down with blue milk. We went through food coloring like it was Easter year-round. We also went through babysitters at an unusually high rate. Kim, Stephanie, Mrs. Robins, Loise, and Andrea all lasted no longer than a few days each. Eventually our grandmother was the only one who would agree to watch us when my parents needed a break. Remarkably, Bad Michael never introduced himself to her. I think what finally made Bad Michael disappear was Santa Claus.

"You know Brett, Santa doesn't leave toys for bad boys and girls," Grandma would say from her rocking chair.

"I know Gramma, thats why I've been good this year," He'd say sweetly.

"But I hear you are friends with a bad boy—Bad Michael is it? Well I don't think Santa would be very happy to hear that, would you? I would stop playing with anyone who was naughty before I got a lump of coal in my stocking," she would whisper to him.

Bad Michael kept reappearing for the rest of the year, leading me into the woods naked and leaving me there to come home covered in bug bites and poison ivy, feeding nuts and bolts to the geese, riding his bike in the house, and only eating Dr. Seuss-like food.

On Christmas morning that year, when we ran out to the living room at 5:30 a.m. to check under the tree, Brett had nothing on his side, and my side was full of little trinkets and toys. He checked his stocking to find only a single lump of charcoal, where mine was filled with candy and scratch tickets—my favorite.

Bad Michael was gone before New Years. He vanished as quickly as he had appeared. My brother got his Christmas gifts after all, and we went back to our normal fighting—with no help from his imagination. I can't possibly tell you how good it felt to have Brett punch me in the face instead of Bad Michael. Everything was right with the world again.

To this day, Brett denies the existence of Bad Michael, but we know the truth. Of course, it's best not to press the subject too hard—you never know who is lurking behind those hazel eyes.

Dear Airline Industry

Dear Airline Industry,

You've got it all wrong. Let me fix it for you. Please enact my suggestions below:

1. First of all, I understand that Mr. and Mrs. Moniesworthington in first class need to board the plane first and not with the rest of us peasants, but why put them at the front of the plane? First class should be in the back of the plane. It's quieter, and out of the way of everyone else trying to board after them. Then, after Buffy and Muffy have their cosmo-tinis and are settled into their leather recliners with headphones and hot towels, board the rest of the plane from the back to the front. Do you see how that works? So that as people are boarding, there aren't people blocking them in the aisle, struggling to fit their 49.5 lb bags into an oversmall overhead bin because we are all trying to avoid your inane baggage fees, which brings us to point 2.
2. $25 per bag? Really? That's the best you could come up with to offset your Federal Defecit-like budget? $2 for peanuts? $5 for an old, smooshed pb&j sandwich? What spawn of imbreeding came up with your fiscal plan? Here's some pointers on charging fees.
• Sell drugs on the plane. Do you know how uncomfortable it is to fly? Of course you do. Sell us some vicodin for God's sakes. Lace it with percocet and xanax. Children's sizes too. Have us  passed out, mellowed out, and drugged out all the way to L.A. Your flight attendants will thank you for it.
• Sell Sleeping Kits. I would happily give you $5 for a REAL pillow, blanket, and earplugs. When I say real, I mean a blanket that isn't the standard issue  2' x 2' sandpaper tarp handed out at homeless shelters. And when I say real pillow I mean a standard size pillow, stuffed with soft material, not the ipod sized 'pillow' stuffed with mothballs and covered with a hospital gown that you're so fond of doling out. Lastly, non-recycled earplugs to block out little Bethany's tantrum after she drops her juice box and wants the whole plane to know that life isn't fair.
• Show good movies. Wild Hogs? Bridge to Terabithia? Ice Castles? Are you serious? Show something that wasn't made in Disney's sub-basement. Something not cramming family values down our throats. You're wasting your time. Most of us are drunk, high, plotting ways to brutally murder the child kicking our seat behind us, or in the midst of the mile high club to make the flight tolerable. How about something by Mel Brooks? Or something akin to Waiting for Guffman? What's wrong with Saw V? Some quality porn? No need for the kinky stuff since kids are around. Just an assortment of Debbie Does Dallas, Debbie Does Debbie, and Donnie Does Donnie. Personal lubricant anyone? Cha-ching!
3. Why in the name of all that is holy do you overbook for your flights? So that you can overcrowd the gate area with 50 people on standby and make us listen to repeated announcements asking us to give up our seats for a box of Cracker Jacks and some good karma? Get bent. There is nothing you could offer me that will make me stay in your hellish airport any longer than I have to. Maybe if the seats were comfortable, the price of everything wasn't exhorbitant, and there were some stores and restaurants of any interest. Another detriment is lugging suitcases and bags anywhere you go. Do you know how hard it is to use a urinal with a bag over your shoulder and holding onto a suitcase? Or cramming it all into a bathroom stall?
4. Those beeping golf carts full of old people in the airports have got to go. They are a menace. At least give them their own lane instead of plowing through pedestrians like some sick game of Red Rover.
5. There seems to be a problem with ground traffic. Instead of sitting on the runway for 30 minutes, maybe you should think about adding a 2nd runway.
6. What is this "Don't worry folks, despite our late departure we can 'make up time in the air'" business? If you can go faster, just go fast to start with! What could possibly be the reason for going slower in the air? Trying to sell an extra lunch box or two? Do you enjoy torturing your customers? Because that's what air travel is. It's dry, stuffy, cramped, loud, ear-popping, the temperature is never quite right, and it's impossible to sleep. I think that instead of having prisons, we should keep criminals on planes. They'll be out of the way, and constantly punished. There's nothing to do in a plane but think about what you've done. They can't smoke, recline, sleep, use electronic devices, have anything sharp or over 3 fluid ounces, or eat anything that wasn't made by Quaker, Kraft, or Capri-Sun. Prisoner not behaving? Throw them into the cargo bin below the plane. Prisoner wants something to read? Sky Mall Magazine. Prisoner feeling ill? Children's aspirin and a vomit bag. Prison break? Nowhere to go at 30,000 feet—bon voyage!

So, in closing, if you would simply sell prescription drugs on the plane, sleep-aids, adult entertainment, rent your planes to the Incarceration Industry, and improve every facet of your day to day operations, you just might stay in business.

Sincerely,

A recent passenger who managed to get through TSA with a bottle of mace on his keychain but had his snowglobe confiscated.

To the neighbors downstairs

Dear downstairs neighbors,

Did you enjoy my little show? Clearly you did because none of you will let me forget it. Every time I step out onto my porch and one of you is outside, I can see you chuckle. Well, I'd like the opportunity to explain my side of the events that took place that day. Here goes:

That morning before work I noticed several house flies in my kitchen. Harmless enough, they were buzzing around my screen door which opens out onto the porch—the very porch that overlooks your yard. There is a small hole in the screen and they must have flown in pursuing leftovers from last night. I tidied the kitchen up, swatted the flies I could see with a magazine, and went on my way to work.

It was a very hot, humid, July day. Walking home from the train station that evening, I worked up quite a sweat. After I got in the door, I went straight for the refrigerator to get a can of soda. Popping the can, I began to guzzle it down standing right in front of the fridge. Savoring the sweet chemical taste of my diet cherry Pepsi, it wasn't until I was almost finished with the can that I heard it. The sound of...a swarm of bees. A sound you might hear on National Geographic or on a horror film after the hero discovers a basement full of fly-ridden cadavers. Not a sound that should be in my kitchen. Slowly...so slowly...I turned around to face the rest of the room.

To my complete horror, hundreds of flies were amassed around every light source in the room—the screen door, the window screen, and the overhead light. Swarming, teeming, buzzing, big, fat, hairy house flies had completely taken over my kitchen. I dropped my soda on the floor, ran down the hallway to my room, and slammed the door behind me. In a panic I whipped out my cell phone and made a desperate call to my landlord. Voicemail. I left my Korean landlord who barely speaks english a 5 minute message about the state of my kitchen—comparing it to the Amityville Horror in between stifled sobs and sniffles. I doubted if he would understand one in 10 words.

Trapped in my bedroom, I had to come up with a course of action. I refused to be quarantined. There was still dinner to be had. Alas, I had nothing to kill them with. Running around with a magazine swatting solitary flies simply wouldn't do. What if they gang up and attack me at once? I'd be completely overwhelmed. I pictured a cloud of flies swarming all over me, touching me with their hairy, prickly feet that had no doubt been sitting in dog shit the day before. I'd heard that when a house fly lands on a surface they immediately vomit...something about emptying their stomach contents to discern if something is edible or not. I don't know. Maybe it's true. Maybe its not. All I know is that I was not about to get ralphed on by hundreds of flies. I had to get them out of the house. I had to open the kitchen window and porch door and set them all free. But, I had to do it without them all touching me.

So, I did what any sane person would have done. I donned the comforter off of my bed, wrapped it tightly around myself in the middle of July, put on a pair of slippers and winter gloves, and prepared for battle. Ingenious. Feeling my way back out the bedroom door and down the hallway was easy. As I got closer, the humming got louder. My knees started to wobble, but I would not be deterred. I continued creeping towards the kitchen.

Window first. I steeled myself and edged towards the window sill. Gloved hands felt their way to the window screen. The buzzing and humming was so loud...I can still hear it today. Blindly I searched for the two push buttons that would unlock the screen and allow me to push it upwards. My thick winter gloves were detrimental to my dexterity. For what seemed like hours I fumbled with the screen. Oh God. I can't do this in gloves. Panic started to rise. I'll just have to open the screen door instead. Abandoning the window, I felt my way towards the screen door. Flies continued to dive bomb my head through the blanket. It felt like heavy rain drops. Suddenly my feet felt wet through my slippers. Jesus Christ what's wet? What could possibly be wet? Did flies get through a hole in my slippers? Is it fly guts? Are they vomiting all over my feet? Trepidation took over and I just bolted towards the screen door. All caution was abandoned entirely.

Out the door I burst with a huge bang, spilling out onto the porch wrapped in a disheveled blanket, gloves, and slippers. A horde of flies followed me, some escaping into the sky, some tangled in my blanket alongside me. I could feel them all over, making skin contact, and started shrieking, flailing, and weeping. Struggling for several minutes I threw my gloves off and kicked the fly-ridden blanket to the porch floor. Then I saw it.

Imagine my surprise to see you were having a family cook-out in your backyard. Parents, grandparents, children, and even your little dog Rusty were all staring up at me. Silent. Mouths agape. The only sound was my heavy breathing. The children were the first to laugh. Then you laughed. Then your parents laughed. Rusty seemed to howl with delight.

With quiet calm and dignity I picked up my belongings and retreated back inside. I proceeded to scrub my entire apartment floor to ceiling with bleach, including the spilled soda all over the floor (which was not in fact fly guts or vomit). Sure, all trace of flies would be gone, but the laughter and embarrassment remained.

Late into the night I scrubbed and cleaned. Around 11:00 I flopped into bed, exhausted and hoping that tomorrow this would all seem like a bad dream. At midnight my landlord showed up.

The next morning when I took a cup of tea outside onto my porch and started watering some potted plants, your children ran outside and started playing tag. When they saw me up above they immediately stopped and started wiggling and dancing around in circles, all the while shrieking and laughing. Indignant, I took my tea inside.

Days have gone by and both you and your children continue to mock me. If you were being savaged by flies, I think you would have had the same reaction, no? I just want to use my porch in peace and put this ugliness behind me.

The other day when I had a friend over, we sat outside for a bit. Then your kids came running out playing Captain Hook. Once again, as soon as they spotted me they stopped what they were doing and started flailing around and screaming again.

"What's wrong with them?" Asks my friend.

"Turrets." I reply, and usher him back inside.

So, as you can see, there is a perfectly good explanation why your crazy neighbor was out on his porch in a blanket and winter garb fighting with phantoms in July. If you continue to mock me in my own backyard...well...let's just say I know where you live. Pass the message onto your little darlings.

108 Bus

To the MBTA #108 bus driver,

You did more than simply whizz past me this morning as I was waiting at the bus stop—you started a war.

I could perhaps let it slide if you didn't see me standing there in the sweltering heat, melting on the sidewalk infront of you. But, you did see me. I saw you. I saw you see me. I saw your brain fail and decide to proceed ahead, directly to a red light. You didn't think I'd chase you to the intersection, did you? Hah! These chubby legs can fly when motivated, can't they? I was banging on your door before you could say 'soap' you filthy derelict.

Very clever of you to again pretend not to see me, banging and howling at your bus door. You countered this by donning a pair of headphones. Is that even legal while driving a bus? I don't know, but you damn well better be sure that I'm going to find out! A solid 30-seconds I must have been clawing at your door like a rabid spider monkey. You're damn lucky the light turned green and you were able to escape my fists of fury before I started throwing feces at your precious air-conditioned bus, you malcontent.

But ho! Another unexpected turn of events! A gaggle of elementery schoolers crossing infront of you, accompanied by an elderly, chain-smoking crossing guard! I didn't miss a beat before sprinting down the street after you. A starving greyhound with a porterhouse in sight. I saw you looking in your bulbous side-view mirrors at me. You thought I was coming to huff and puff at your door again, didn't you little pig?! Hah! With the cunning of a dolphin I sailed past your vagrant bus and all of its onlookers. I made it to the next crowded bus stop before you even arrived. Didn't count on that, did you? Stop and pick me up along with 10 other people, or leave us ALL behind. I could see the fear in your eyes as you screeched to a halt at the bus stop and saw me in the crowd.

I climbed aboard, chin held high, staring daggers down at your hateful, defeated face. Drinking in every detail of you, from your thinning hair to the coldsore on your lower lip. I took my sweet time swiping my Charlie Card across the scanner. Just look at you grumbling and shaking your head. My, how the mighty hath fallen. I've stormed your castle, boarded your ship, taken your virgin daughter to the prom, and there's nothing you can do about it. Sure, there may be other people on this bus, but really it's just you and me now. You, the captive, and I, the captor. You have to sit there and drive me all the way to the train station. My private chauffeur. My little pet. How does it feel? I bet you wish you'd stopped at the previously designated bus stop when you saw me standing there—sweating like a fetal pig—don't you? Oh look, you're the one starting to sweat now. I can see it on your untamed brow.

Maybe I won't get off at the train station. Maybe I'll just sit here for a while, right behind you, as you drive the same route all day. Keep you company. Continuously hit the 'Stop Request' button and make sure you stop at every god forsaken stop along your route. But no, that won't be necessary. I have a feeling we'll be seeing a lot more of each other.

Sweet dreams Kevin. I'll see you in the morning. 8:42am sharp.

New Years Resolutions

1. Blog more
2. Eat less
3. Exercise more
4. Talk louder
5. Mingle more
6. Hibernate less
7. Travel more
8. Make more
9. Spend less
10. Finish writing my silly book
    

Fired again

I've made a career out of being fired. I make it look easy. People are often amazed by the sheer amount of jobs I've occupied and been asked to vacate immediately. It's difficult to keep track of, so I thought I would compile a list of the firing highlights chronologically:

1) Wicks N Sticks candle store. Nashua NH. Cashier
Reason: My first job ever. I was let go shortly after Christmas being told that I was strictly seasonal help. Working there since June, I was unaware of this entirely.

2) KB Toys Store. Nashua, NH. Cashier.
Reason: Do you know how when you are on vacation you lose all track of the date? The time when you become entirely oblivious as to what time and day of the week it is? Once you stop adhering to a schedule, the concept of time ceases to be. As it was with me in the Spring of 1996 in which I worked at KB Toys. Priding myself on my responsibility, I started working early at the age of 16 as soon as I got my junior operator's driver's license. Over my school's April vacation I continued to work at this job located in a nearby mall. However, when not at work I mostly hibernated in my bed while watching Golden Girls reruns. Because of this, I was completely unaware of the little phenomenon that we archaically celebrate called "Daylight Savings Time." I strolled into work an hour late when I thought I was precisely on time. The manager greeted me with a scowl and asked to see me in the stockroom where she unspooled. I made her an hour late for a lunch appointment because I deigned not to show up for my shift on time and she couldn't leave the register. I was shocked at the accusation and pointed to my calculator watch—1:00 on the nose, what was she talking about?
"Daylight Savings Time was 4 days ago." She spat.
Oh. Why doesn't anyone tell me these things? I suppose I should have figured it out after my Golden Girls lineup seemed all out of wack.
"I'm writing you up." She barked.
"What does that mean?" I inquired
"It means we have something in writing stating that you were tardy and it goes to the corporate office on your permanent record. If you get another write-up you won't be eligible for promotions and after 3 write-ups you can be let go."
"I'm sorry I was late, I really didn't know that it was daylight savings."
"I don't believe you." She replied, scribbling furiously on a form letter. "And even if I did, this is the company's policy."
"I don't really care if you believe me or not. It's the truth. I've worked here for almost a year and never been late. Do you really think I would stroll in an hour late one day just because?"
Ignoring me, she passed the form and pen to me, "You need to sign at the bottom where it says 'reprimanded employee.'"
"I most certainly will not." I replied, refusing to take the pen.
"If you don't sign this, it is grounds for termination." Her voice, full of ice.
"I thought that wasn't until the third write-up." I said smugly.
"Ha ha. Sign it." She urged.
"No."
"You have to." She growled staring into my eyes.
"I don't." Returning her Medusa gaze.
"Then get out!" She shouted suddenly.
"Fine! I hope you NEVER get to eat your lunch!" I shrieked, plowing through the revolving Staff Only door and out into the store.
"Fuck YOU!" She screamed after me, her shout echoing throughout the Pokemon, parent, and child-filled aisles.
It's a shame nobody was there to write her crazy ass up.

3) Sweets From Heaven candy store. Nashua, NH. Cashier.
Reason: The store was taken over by a Pakistani family and they didn't think I was a good fit, so they "hired" their 12-year old boy to cashier instead.

4) Lily's on the Pond Restaurant. Rindge, NH. Waiter.
Reason: Got into it with the bartender/co-owner one night when she was PMSing. We had a very rocky relationship from day one when I came in for my first waitstaff shift and she told me my dinosaur tie was inappropriate for a fine dining restaurant. I told her it was inappropriate to refer to the place as a fine dining restaurant since people wore full body aprons and sneakers. Our relationship continued to decline when I started taking smoke breaks like everybody else did, even though I have never smoked in my life. When I needed a break, I would just step outside and pretend to smoke. I carried a lighter and an empty pack of cigarettes in case anybody needed proof. If they needed a light, I gave them my lighter. If they needed a cigarette, oh sorry, I just smoked the last one. Empty. See? A heavy smoker, we would often cross paths outside and she would watch me like a hawk. I'd pretend to get a phone call or chew gum or anything else to get out of actually smoking a cigarette. Sometimes she would even offer me one and I'd have to come up with an excuse to refuse. One day she caught on and confronted me.

"You really shouldnt pretend to smoke just to take a break. It's not fair to the other employees." She said, taking a drag from her cigarette.
"You really shouldn't smoke when you're trying to have a baby." I replied, knowing she and her husband had been trying for 6 months now and everyday I got to hear about their exploits.
"I'm going to quit before the first trimester." She said defensively. "Besides it's none of your business."
"You make it my business when you tell everyone, including me, all about it."
"Fine. It saves me the chore of having to talk to you." She quipped.

After our chat, we didnt wind up on the schedule for any shifts together for a few months. The next time I saw her was because we were both called in to work a wedding reception. She was starting to show, and moodier than ever. I congratulated her and was met with a stare and silence. Taking the hint, I went about my work. Towards the end of the evening I went to the bar to grab a tray of drinks I had ordered and as I was walking away with the tray, she leaned over the bar and grabbed the back of my shirt, causing my to drop the entire tray onto the floor. Broken glass and wet clothing abound.
"What the hell is your problem?" I yelled.
"You didn't stab your drink slip." She yelled back.
"So?"
"If it doesn't get stabbed, then it just sits there and I accidentally make the order again."
"Then stab it. my hands were full!"
"Your hands aren't full now."
"I'll stab something alright!" I growled, and walked away to wash up.

I was let go promptly after the wedding.

5) NK Graphics, Keene, NH. Design Intern
Reason: A mandatory graphic design internship brought me to this place, and a mandatory internship would be the only thing to get me back there. Dull, drab, and dreary the office felt like a mausoleum, especially during the night shift when I worked because of my class schedule. I stuck out the 280 hours required of me, even after at about hour 200, my 40-something supervisor asked me to dinner in a hushed whisper. Dumb struck, I just stared blankly ahead with my mouth open. He told me not to worry, that even if I had hemorrhoids, they were just pleasurable speed bumps. Enough said.

6) Staples, Inc. Framingham, MA. Graphic Designer
Reason: Was told that personality-wise, I was a great fit, however my creativity was too much for the Staples brand to handle.

7) Whistling Swan Restaurant. Sturbridge, MA. Host
Reason: Asked for a raise up to $10/hour from my $8/hour. Was denied and promptly released from their employ.

8) Blue Water Grill Restaurant. New York, NY. Host
Reason: After my training was completed, was told I was a good employee and that their sister restaurant, Ocean Grill needed me more then they did.

9) Ocean Grill. New York, NY. Host
Reason: Was fired for not serving alcohol to a minor who happened to be a celebrity. Celebrities are exempt from our silly little laws you see.

10) Serendipity. New York, NY. Host
Reason: Perhaps my favorite firing because it caused the biggest scene. Let me give you some background information about this place. It is run by this wretched old shrew, Xandra. The first shift I shared with Xandra, she told me not to speak unless absolutely necessary because my Boston accent was off-putting. I could have lambasted her for this alone, but I held my tongue. Next shift she told me my pants were too baggy and that I should go home and change. I looked at her wrinkled blouse and windblown gray hair barely contained beneath a faded Yankees hat. "This isn't the East Village. This is Midtown." She said. I replied that I didn't know what the hell she was talking about. She scowled and said I didn't fit in and should go back to New Hampshire. Again, I held my tongue. Our Third shift together, shit got real.

A normal restaurant will number all of their tables. Serendipity thinks giving each of their 117 tables a name is the way to go. Table 11 is not Table 11. Table 11 is Marilyn. Why? Because Marilyn Monroe once sat there. Table 29 is Rose. Why? The owner likes roses. Excellent.

Lunch rush hit. There was a 45-minute wait, and the phone was ringing off the hook. I wasn't allowed to answer it lest my accent be discovered. Xandra flings some menus at me and instructs me to seat the next party of 4 at Steven. I nod, motion mutely for the people to follow me, and lead them to Steven. I come back and lead the next party to Crystal. Then Naomi. Tori. Vincent. No sooner do I seat Vincent when Xandra comes storming up to me in her frumpy skirt, bra-less shirt, sequened sandals, and a Yankees cap.

"Why did you seat a party of 4 at Steven?!" She barks—not even attempting decorum in the middle of the packed restaurant.

"Am I permitted to respond, your highness?" I ask sweetly.

"Steven is reserved for the President of 20th Century Fox! Now we have to seat him somewhere else!"

"You told me to seat the next party of 4 at Steven. That's what I did."

"No I said Kevin!" She yells—turning more and more heads in our direction. "You're not very bright are you? Do you even want to work here?"

"Is that a trick question?" I ask.

"That's it! You're out!" She stomps over to a cash register, thumbs through some twenty dollar bills and throws them at me. "Take your money and leave!"

"I will!" I shout, scrounging around on the floor, picking up my hard-earned sheckles while everyone in the restaurant looks on. A customer leans down and hands me a bill from under his table.

In a Carrie-like blood rage I stomp towards Xandra, and the exit, foaming at the mouth. She sees the fury in my eyes and backs up a step. Not far enough. I reach out, snatch her Yankees hat off her head and throw it down on the floor with extreme prejudice. "YANKEES FUCKING SUCK!!!" I shriek and stomp on it.

"GET OUT! You're BANNED! BANNED!" She screams at my back as I run to the exit.

"You couldn't PAY me to come back to this dump!" I turn around and face everyone seated at their tables, staring open-mouthed. "THEY PICK THE BROWN AND BLACK BITS OFF THEIR SALAD GREENS!" I warn and exit the restaurant forever.

I wonder if there's a job waiting for me at 20th Century Fox.

11) The Big Cup coffee shop. New York, NY. Barista.
Reason: I lasted 3 weeks at Manhattan's gay premeire coffee shop in Chelsea. I was fired for being too slow in making a customer's double-espresso half-caf macchioato-chino. The only real surpise here is that I wasn't fired sooner. Not being a coffee drinker or a particularly good listener, when people ordered extravaggant menu items such as this or maybe a soy chai latte-chino I would usually give them a cup of coffee with a whole milk foam on top.

12) Pink Pages. Boston, MA. Graphic Designer.
Reason: Mary, the beast of a lesbian owner, didn't like me from the start. But her designer quit suddenly and I was the only person who would work for $10/hour. She made it clear that I worked too slowly, dressed too nicely, my hair was too long, and was too friendly with my coworkers.

"Coworkers are a distraction. I'm paying you to work, not pick up tricks." She used to grunt, implying that not only was I not doing my job, but that I was also a whore.

Needless to say, I let my mouth fly back at her at every opportunity and got myself fired after 6 months. We are now currently feuding over my unemployment claim.