I'm doing a Fantasy Football league. Can I be Sporty Spice?

I recently agreed to participate in a Fantasy Football league for this upcoming season. We do a live draft one week from today to pick our players.

 

That means I have one week to research football players that cannot be read about in People magazine; seen on reality shows, such as the Kardashians and Dancing with the Stars; or those publicly shamed on TMZ, Perez Hilton, and the Ridiculist.

 

It is like homework!

 

There was actually a time when I knew a little bit about football. I used to have a bunch of football collector cards and for some reason I liked the Detroit Lions. (I really should look into who the hottest Detroit Lion player was circa 1990-1992).

 

I kinda followed the Raiders (thanks to my brother MH, as well as JY and MY) and once upon a time I was known to watch games every Sunday.

 

Then a lot happened.

 

I grew breasts.

 

Okay. That was all that happened.

 

I get bored by things where people just stand around. This is why I don't like lines, shopping, and midnight movie releases.

 

As for football, even though the players move up and down the field a lot, there are so many breaks in play due to infractions, time-outs, and injuries that I start to wish I had a book to read.

 

I've already read the Wikipedia page about fantasy football and I sort of thought about buying Fantasy Football for Dummies, but it only explains HOW the system works, it doesn't tell me who I want on my team.

 

The whole concept is very confusing. If you are a fantasy football player and you would like to offer me some inside advice, please do so.

 

I'm fully committed to playing out the season no matter how crappy I am at the whole thing.  BP is in charge and in addition to the inventory crew at work, he also recruited our FedEx and UPS delivery drivers.

 

I'm actually looking forward to fantasy football. Because:

 

1. Kinda like having a project. I like projects. Right now I'm growing my hair out, that was my summer project. Summer is almost over, time for a new project.

 

2. I'm super competitive. Very competitive. Kinda really competitive.

 

3. It will give me a reason to stay in touch with people from the store that I might not hear from after we close for good.

 

So just in case you don't hear from me much this fall, blame fantasy football. Or my unemployment. Probably just the football, though.

 

 

 

An actual conversation between a mother and daughter.

My mom will probably be perturbed by this, but I'm posting a text conversation we just carried out. This is the first text I received this morning.

Mom: All the other kids with the pumped up...what?

Me: Kicks.

Mom: Which are?

Me: Shoes.

Mom: I know this is the number 1 summer song but I am too old to decipher they lyrics and can only make out half the words so go ahead and LOL.

Me: i'm not laughing, very loud.

Mom: I thought those were keds...

Me: No, kicks are shoes.

Mom: So are keds.

Me: The songs is about a kid who finds his dad's gun and wants to shoot the kids with the pumped up kicks...the rich kids with nice shoes.

Me: And his dad comes home drunk, dinner is cold.

Mom: Maybe that's a horrible summer song.

Perfumania, Socks, and Beyond

We get new product in every day. We are not selling books so much as selling baby blankets and coffee mugs for desperate housewives.

Pillow pets. 

Piggy banks.

Dollar store not-so-Swiss Army knives.

Socks.

Fleece blankets.

And now...

...perfume. 

Two pallets of perfume arrived today. As soon as CPR unpacked the pallet, the warehouse smelled like a cheap hooker. 

I wanted us to take bets and start a pool to see how long it would take an asthmatic to have an attack, but that seemed a little mean. 

This isn't real perfume. This is $12.99 fragrance, mostly unknown brands. 

Yes, Yes.

Ed Hardy.
717.

Every time I see anything Ed Hardy related, I think of Jon Gosselin. Jon Gosselin, father of 8, ex of Kate. You know...

 

Do you want to smell like this douche bag? I can get you a deal, 30% off, just stop by the store.

The real gem of the fragrance shipment is a four-pack of designer imposter perfumes by the impostor perfumers J-Lo, Britney Spears, Hillary Duff, and Sarah Jessica Parker.

A cheaper version of some cheap celebrity scents.

We really are turning into a swap meet.

In addition to getting this product on the sales floor, we've been doing some other great team-building exercises. Like trying to see what small spaces we can make CPR squeeze into (note, she is very tiny) and running The Gauntlet.

The Gauntlet.

Start at one end of the store on floor 1, go up the escalator and back to the furthest wall on floor 2, turn around and come back to the first floor. Who can do it the fastest in a crowded store without running, just walking very fast?

Round 2.

Answer trivia questions until you get three in a row correct and then run The Gauntlet. Who has the fastest time?

A lot of shit talking occurs during these activities. It really brings us together as a team when one person is yelling at the other "You are a cheater!" or "I got stuck behind a family on the escalator, I would've won!"

Today was a little bittersweet. I'm hoping it was a fluke.

We received seven pallets of new product, three from our company's warehouse and four from the liquidators.

Of our three, barely any of the products were actual books.

This means it is possible there are no more books in the warehouse.

Which means we will cease to get more books and the end of the end is nearer than it has ever been. 

Your plucky heroine gets snark(ier).

A lot of customers at the store have been asking personal questions.

What are you going to do now?
Do you have a job?
Are you worried?
Do you have a backup plan?
Will you be able to live off unemployment?

They usually add a "The economy sucks, good luck!" for good measure before they leave the store with crap they are buying just because it is on sale.

I decided yesterday to start answering these questions like so:

"I'm not sure what I'll do next, but my parole office has some ideas."
"My blackjack career is really taking off."
"I'm looking into selling my eggs."
"Don't worry, you can find me on Craigslist, but I'll be selling something more expensive than books."

The same people who ask such terrible questions are the same people who would dare touch a pregnant stranger's belly. The kind of people who sample all the jelly beans before buying.

I fully believe the only appropriate time to ask "What are you doing next" is when they follow it up with "I have a job opportunity for you, one that doesn't involve a pyramid scheme."

Oh yes. The vultures are here to con the naive into taking jobs selling Amway or Prepaid Legal or calling cards.



Yesterday I took a call from a woman who was actually asking for EFB and when I explained EFB was not available, and no I wouldn't give out her schedule, she explained that she previously talked to EFB about hiring some of our employees. But she was really shady.

Lady: I'm looking to hire a smart and hard working person.

Me: Okay. We employee a lot of those types of people.

Lady: Can you give me a name? Or give them my name?
Me: What exactly is this business opportunity? It would be helpful if I could tell the employee what exactly it is they would be doing?

Lady: Well I can explain it to them.

Me: And I think they would want to know what they are calling about.

We had this circular conversation until she agreed to email me a flyer about the job opportunity, an email she never sent.

She may have been perfectly legit, but if you refuse to tell me what this job is you want to hire someone for, then I can only assume you are a serial killer, and a terrible serial killer at best.

If Criminal Minds has taught me nothing, it is that successful serial killers are charming and friendly. That's how they get their prey.

Hold me closer, tiny dancer.

Just got back from pub quiz at Tryon Creek Pub & Grill. It was fun times, we got second place. Or was it third? I don't know. Either way, we got bar credit.

During trivia, I asked AG and CPR what their first concert was and their answers were a perfect fit for their personalities.

AG went to Paul Simon on his Graceland tour and CPR to an Elliott Smith show.

Me?

ZZ Top. Seriously.

What a hobo first concert. It was awesome.

My mom bought the tickets and I went with my uncle, his girlfriend, my brother and his friend. I was dancing and repeatedly hit this dude in the head, an accident, I swear. He was in the row in front of me and I had teenage epilepsy.

My dancing ability is a combination of a generic feet shuffle, The Carlton, and jumping jacks. If anything, since the ZZ Top concert, I've only gotten worse.

This makes me sad. There are only two reality shows I would seriously consider competing on, Project Runway or The Amazing Race. I can't sew and I'm afraid my crippling fear of snakes and heights would be a detriment on Amazing Race.

But secretly, I wish I could dance and be on So You Think You Can Dance. Those people are ridiculously athletic and talented.  Me, not so much.

I'm in the midst of making some career choices. What do I want to do? I can't decide. Every time I've almost gotten a new job over the past year, I get a little panicky and stick with Borders. I didn't really want the jobs I've applied for, but I knew that financially I shouldn't stay at the bookstore.

Now I have no choice but to leave, they are kicking me out. Its last call and there are no road brews to-go.

What I really need is a lottery win or a reality TV show. It is my understanding those are the only two ways to get rich these days.

I'm too lazy and cheap to buy lottery tickets, and I'm too boring for a TV show. Would you watch an hour long show of a 30-year old girl who likes to read, knit, watch serial killer shows, and look at pictures of cats online?

B-O-R-I-N-G.

In the meantime, I'm cruising craigslist like no other. There are a lot of crappy jobs out there and I really want to avoid being forced to take one.

Let me leave you with this bit of advice, when you think someone is having a seizure, hold their head and let them seize, but if you see me dancing, get out the way.

Duncan makes me laugh.

This morning I went on a pseudo-date with a dude I've been pseudo-dating for a few months.

I say pseudo-dating because I've encouraged him to date on eHarmony and Match rather than actually dating me. We still hang out, as friends do, and flirt a lot, but that is about all that happens.

I'm a pretty terrible date. I really have no interest in dating, but I do have an interest in hanging out, laughing, and being the object of someones affection.

This works out perfectly.

This morning we went to breakfast. A breakfast made sort of awkward by a 50-lb dog named Duncan.

I'm guessing Duncan's weight. I hope I don't give him a complex or cause an eating disorder.

Duncan, if you are reading this, I'm terrible at guessing things. My apologies. Maybe you only weigh 30 pounds. Please don't hate me. I think you are beautiful.

Anyways, Duncan is part Great Dane and a pretty solid piece of dog. Yesterday AM said he was "a horse in a dog costume," which is true.

Duncan belongs to KT. KT is in Bend learning stuff. Duncan needs a friend while KT is gone. I'm that friend.

I think he finds me boring. I mean, I take him for walks and I pet him and feed him, but I have a feeling KT does exciting things I don't know about. That is the only reason I can think of for why Duncan stares at me with a bored expression, as if to say, "Criminal Minds, again?"

He does listen to me. And he is a good boy. But he can do pretty funny stuff.

Like this morning.

So as soon as we sit down for breakfast, outside, Duncan goes right for B's crotch. This dog is a total crotch rocket. It doesn't matter - male, female, old, young, child, or animal - Duncan will smell your crotch.

It is like his handshake. How are ya? Nice to meat ya? BOOM! Nose to the crotch.

I apologize the first time. Three seconds later, he does it again.

I apologize a second time and pull Duncan's leash a bit closer to me.

"Oh no, he is fine, he is cute." B assures me.

I'm pretty sure ten minutes later, when Duncan is sitting under the table just staring at B's crotch, B thinks it is not so cute.

"Did you spill anything on your pants?" I ask.

"Uh, no."

Our food comes and we are sitting there chatting. Duncan has slowly inched over towards the edge of the table so that he can watch people walk by.

Another thing about Duncan, he is absolutely adorable. People stop all the time to pet him and ask his age, breed, and sexual orientation. Okay, kidding, they ask about his temperament. As if you would admit, while having a dog in public, that he is a beast. "Oh, is he just a sweetheart? I bet he is the nicest dog!"




So as we are eating our omelets, Duncan has been charming everyone who passes. Finally, he gets a hit.

Two woman are walking our way, glammed up in pretty sundresses, heels and over-sized sunglasses.

One stops.

"Oh my gosh! How old is he? Can I pet him?"

And Duncan, recognizing the impending shower of affection, wags his tale and bows his head as if to say "Yes, you can pet me. Yes, I am handsome."

Right as Glam Girl #1 crouches down to pet him, Duncan looks at Glam Girl #2 as she ignores Duncan and punches away on her IPhone.

Duncan doesn't cotton to being ignored. Because Glam Girl #1 was right there, I had loosened my grip on his leash just slightly enough for him to get petted, but apparently enough for Duncan to make his move.

He stands up and in a flash has his head under Glam Girl #2's skirt.

It takes her a second to figure out why her friend is laughing. GG #2 is wearing a poofy skirt and she is on her cell phone.

But once she realizes there is a dog head up her skirt, she starts screaming.

Almost as soon as Duncan stuck his head up her skirt, I start pulling on his leash. But he is determined and won't budge.

GG #2 is frozen in place.

I reach out and grab Duncan by his collar and yank him back to me.

GG #2 gives me a terrible glare.  GG #1 is laughing. They stroll away.

And I can't help it. I start laughing uncontrollably. My peals of laughter could be heard ten blocks away,  I'm sure.

"What a pervert," B says of Duncan.

And Duncan doesn't even have the decency to look apologetic. He lays down on this side and thumps his tail several times in row before closing his eyes and going to sleep.

Being an embarrassment is exhausting work.

In Memorium

Today I woke up, made a cup of coffee, grabbed my book and went out to the deck to watch the water and read. 

I'm currently on a hobo vacation, housesitting on Lake Oswego.  It's like being at a lake house, but you still have to go to work. 

I was trying to finish reading Outlander, a terribly trashy but fun read, something my aunt recommended I read when I was in Montana. 

But I cannot read. 

At all. 

I pick up a book, any book, and my mind starts to wander. Suddenly I realize I've looked at a succession of pages and have no memory of what I just read. 

It has been like this for two weeks now. Since the liquidation started. I can't even pick up a book. It just makes me incredibly sad.

For the past three years, it has been my job to know about books. To know what is new, to know where to find it and to guess what book a customer is talking about when they say "I'm looking for a book that has a blue cover but I don't remember the title or author but I saw it the last time I was here."

Sometimes I felt like a book detective. I would ask questions.

Where did you see it when you were in the store? Was it a hardback? Do you remember how much it cost? Were there pictures on the front? Was it fiction or non-fiction. And slowly, but surely, we would narrow it down and about half the time, figure out what it was they were looking for. 

About 75% of the time, you could ask me the title of a book and I would tell you where to find it on display in the store. I was usually the one to put it on that display. 

I knew the title, author, and plots of books that I had absolutely no interest in reading. 

I knew what was coming out this week, what was coming out next week, and books being published months in the future. 

Two weeks ago, that ended. 

I feel like I lost my superpower. 

A few winters ago, I would wear an ugly black cape jacket over a warmer fleece. I would tell people I was a literary superhero. 

Now my only superpower is the ability to hobo up anything. 

I will miss a lot of things. 

Coffee that cost $0.35 a cup. 

The feeling of being in an empty, organized store at 6am. 

Working with TD almost every Tuesday morning for two years. We would put out new books and talk about what we were reading. Back in the day, we would take a break and most of the morning crew would walk over to Peet's Coffee. 

Pulling books out of boxes. Always like unwrapping a present.

The employees. When you put fifty employees of varying personalities in close proximity, there is bound to be drama, frustration, and eye-rolling.  But for the most part, for me, there was laughter. Bookstores employ smart people and we were lucky to have funny people, too.

TS and his endless knowledge of anything Full House or Saved By the Bell. The entire cafe crew, who I am fairly certain wanted to kill each other most of the time. My sister-wife AM. EFB, former roommate, current boss, full on crazy-pants. JAO, a woman who rolled her eyes at everything I said but still told me she liked closing with me best (I think she told all the supervisors that). JK, a man that knows everything and I understand none of what he says.

If you asked me today, I would tell you everyone I work with is awesome. If you asked me three months ago, I would tell you I hate them all.

It has not always been peaches and cream. There were times I got so angry and disappointed that I applied for new jobs, went to interviews.

Times when I was frustrated with low pay, a terrible schedule, and an overwhelming work load.

But I stayed. I couldn't walk away. It was like that terribly unhealthy relationship where you love each other to destruction.

And now I mourn for my the store. I say goodbye to the way it was. I put it to rest. I can hear the faint, echoing sound of Taps being played out on a lonely, sad trumpet.

Day is done.
Gone the sun.

You Pay, No Pay, Someone Pays

We are about two weeks into the beginning of the end and we all have Stockholm syndrome.

I'm pretty sure I'm loving work right now. I'm also pretty sure I'm crazy.

This is my day now: get to work; read a bunch of emails about price changes, freight, and policy changes; open the store (if I am the first in), tills, deposits, and task management; go to the warehouse and unbox products, put them on the floor; take verbal abuse from angry customers, or condolences from sad customers; laugh at everything; eat some lunch, and get some coffee since we don't have a cafe; unbox more things; close the store (if I'm the last to leave).

Lather, Rinse, Repeat.

It hasn't been that bad. In fact today we were discussing how much better the last two weeks have been than the previous five months.

See, Stockholm Syndrome.

Speaking of bank robberies. Wait, we were not speaking of bank robberies. Okay. Take a deep breath. How do paragraph transitions work? Oh, yeah. Right.

See, Stockholm Syndrome. But the good news is we are identifying with liquidators and not the Symbionese Liberation Army, like Patty Hearst and her brief stint as a bank robber.

Speaking of bank robbers, last night I watched Point Break. Have I ever told you that Point Break is my favorite Keanu Reeves movie ever? And that it outranks Speed, a movie I watched one zillion times, which led to a terrible habit of saying "F**k Me" all the time?

It is also my second favorite Patrick Swayze movie (in case you are worried, my favorite Swayze movie is Dirty Dancing, not Ghost. I may be a spinster, but I don't have a wet clay fetish).

Because I watched Point Break last night, I spent most of today thinking about surfing. Thinking about surfing helped me pass the time as I hung about 1000 You Pay signs.

You Pay is my new noun. Fact: a you pay is a sign that lists the original price, then the discount and the new price that (altogether now) YOU (the customer) pay.

It is part of the new jargon.

You Pay - price signs
Freighters - what I call the booksellers now that they don't sell books, they put out freight
Yeller - a customer that is gonna yell at you, you can see it in their eyes
Under a Rock - as in, "How did you not know we were going out of business? Have you been hiding under a rock?"

This liquidation process is great. I'm learning new words, laughing all the time, walking around like I own the place, and I get to be bossy.

Tune in next week, when, I predict, I'm miserable, hate my job, and want to die.