"Write What You Know" - edit what you don't

             The theme of all of my writing has been my experiences. All my essays this semester center on what I see as huge aspects of my life; things that melded me into the person I am today and reflecting on who that person is. My writing is introspective just like the majority of my thoughts are. I wrote about a hard time with an ex-boyfriend that made me choose to be me. I wrote about taking care of myself and leaving those behind who weren’t giving as much as they were taking with that piece and “Hello Lauren, This is Your Father”. Then I wrote about how being in retail shaped my life from the “I” perspective initially and through editing getting it to be an “eye”. My last piece about my conversations with friends and family about whom we act like is also ridiculously introspective. My writing is just that – writing what I know and in the process learning more about myself.

            I enjoy writing and always have. I was writing before I could spell. I told my mother a story when I was little and made her type it up so I could keep it. I look at it sometimes and think of how much has changed. I notice how my language has advanced; using “SAT words” and colloquialisms, similes, metaphors, alliteration and cultural references. I notice myself putting hidden messages in my work and hoping people will get them (see my revised retail essay). I hope my audience sees that trick in my writing and I hope they think about themselves as they read my work. Anyone who has ever said “what if?” or values a lesson learned is someone I want to read my blog.

            While I write what I know, I tend to leave things out. Unnecessary things, likes people’s name, nationality, religion – whether it is to protect the identity of the innocent, to protect my retail job or to keep my piece from being biased. I know what I know about the people I write about but no one else needs to know what nationality my ex is. My mother doesn’t need to be mentioned at all in the essay about my father to either mitigate or add to the shortcomings of my father.  When I am focused on a topic only the things that surround it need to be mentioned and only if it is relevant. While sometimes I am unsure of an age I was, or a location I try to make it as accurate as possible.

            As I write I take all of this into account. I sit there with my initial spark of inspiration, engineering my basic points and adding flourish and fancy as I go along. I reflect back on my life envision it in my mind and write what I know – the experience, how it made me feel and other insights. I write what I know but I’ve recently learned to edit what I don’t.  I learned to distance myself from my writing this semester and think more about my audience. I learned to write from different perspective and my writing got better. A year ago I would never have edited anything! Editing has made me more proud of my pieces this semester and I am ridiculously happy about it. I wrote what I know but finally learned that I could get help with what I didn’t.

"I'm A Salesman, Selling You Hooks and Plans" - eye revised

I’m a Salesman, Selling You Hooks and Plans

Loyalty. Exclusivity. Membership. Merchandise. Ingenuity. Novelty. Gimmics. That’s what we sell. We have core markets. We want to expand markets. Lily Allen might have said it best “I am a weapon of massive consumption, it’s not my fault it’s how I’m programmed to function.” I’ve been working retail my entire working life. I’ve worked for 2 big corporations for over three years now. I’ve worked clothing and book. The merchandise may be different but the approach is the same. SELL! SELL! SELL! We’re given goals, whether on company made cards for the corporation, or on trackers made by managers. We are scheduled for shifts based on our productivity. There are expectations of employees and plans for the sales day. There are performance reviews and meetings. We are given pep talks and contests as incentives.            

            Most of all we are given rules. Core customer service behaviors.

            “We are booksellers, not book getters.” Says my store manager “We want to put the book in a customer’s hand – A customer is x more likely to make a purchase when the item is put in their hands.”

            “Remember when we’re getting a customer a fitting room we give them a bra tray, ask their name, and explain the call button. We want to be the customer’s friend whose helping them pick out an outfit.”

            We are expected to ring quickly while still offering the customer all the sales promotions appropriate for at the register. They have the statistics of how long it takes to ask all those questions while ringing naturally. They want us to open a certain amount of boxes at any given time. They have the numbers on how long it takes us to scan things when we’re doing stock work. They have percentages for everything.

            Look at the rings on your key chain or the contents of your wallet. I bet everyone has at least one plastic barcode on his or her key chain or in his or her wallet. Maybe you even have a sticker. Every retail place wants that jingle on your keychain to say, “you have a card for that store that saves you money, and you should shop there.” Every store wants your loyalty. And that’s exactly what they’re called; loyalty programs. They want you to remember that special little reward you’re going to get that keeps you coming back. They want you to spend that extra money so you can get that higher valued coupon so you can come back with it and spend more money. They even send you an email telling you how much more you need to spend to get to that higher coupon. Even if they can’t sign you up for that paid membership or credit card they will ask for your email and send you blurbs about all their special sales and promotions and they have tactics to make you sign up eventually. Like giving a coupon with a percentage off or dollar amount with a purchase. Sometimes the contents of the coupon are even a surprise, prompting you to browse more hoping you’ll get a big one, and then purchase more at the register because you decided you want it even though you only got the little coupon.

             They profit off of sales too. It takes way less money to produce that piece of clothing than the retail value. They profit on that very bottom clearance price at the end of the season and they send things back that don’t sell to be resold somewhere they will, like an outlet of the store or a place like Big Lots or Marshall’s or TJMax.

            Employees are given non-selling tasks too, for “down time.” Everything you see was done by someone with a name tag who is putting that book in your hand or finding your size for you. A lanyard was most likely swishing around their neck when they were putting up that sign telling you sometime is x% off. That girl giving you your change most likely shelved that book or put the sensor on and hung that shirt. Whether doors we’re opened or closed someone who works at that store put that item in it’s place and will put it back when you’re done with it. I know I never thought of that before I worked retail and I think to myself time and time again how many times must I have overlooked someone doing something task oriented in front of me while I was shopping before I worked in a store? 

             Those changes have their purpose though. To get new product out and get rid of what isn’t selling. Whole stores are flipped around based on percentages that tell them what the customer wants or where someone is more likely to buy something. Are customers confused by things being arranged in certain ways? Are they more likely to buy this particular item if it’s closer or farther from the door? Displays are rotated based on a plan devised by a marketing team that wants to keep things fresh to pique customer’s interest. Books are released on a certain date – no earlier- and sometimes discounted for the first week to up traffic in the store. Signs in windows say introducing our new awesome clothing item that will do this and this to your body so that you’ll want to walk in. New things are introduced periodically and the older, less successful models are discounted and then discontinued.

Nothing is left to chance. Promotions are rotated frequently and are most prevalent during certain times of the year. Especially during the holidays. Customers get snippier and more impatient as Christmas approaches and on Black Friday. Nothing can be done fast enough and “How can you not find what I need, I want to see a manager” it gets brutal but the more traffic we get the more we sell and that’s what retailers want.

“The more traffic we get the more we make, the more we make the more shifts we can give you and the more money you can make” this is what is said every time someone complains that the store is too busy. Hours extend certain days of the holiday season and retract on others. Malls are closed Thanksgiving and Christmas. Stores need special permission to close earlier than normal. There are four day sales and one day sales and purchases with a purchase “for a limited time only!” “While supplies last!”

But back to those hands taking down that sign. That sign is designed to tell you why you should purchase something. To be more attractive; “Bumps you up 2 cup sizes!” Because- “you can never have too many!” Because you should “Books Every Teen Should Read.”, “Stories Every Kid Should Own.” Because you can! “ Activities Every Kid Can Do!.”

            Then we make you think you’re getting something special “ONLINE EXCLUSIVE!”, “Limitied Quantity”, “Handmade, Every One Is A Little Special, Just Like You!” ,  and “Excusive Store Edition.” We even try to trick you into thinking something is cheaper. Every price ends in .50, .75, .99, .95.

But with every device that’s there to trick you I haven’t met someone who would be cruel and ruthless with sales. Everything is in place to trick you, but I’ve met some of the kindest people in the world while working in retail. Friends I still have today from my old job and sweet, caring people at my current job that I’m honored to work and be friends with. The thing everyone drives the hardest in sales are the companies charitable ventures, donating a dollar, a cookie, a book to local or national charities. These are what we fight for. I was never happier about anything being sold than when a giant expensive doll was donated to a children’s hospital. And the employees will donate too. So don’t be disheartened, that sweet girl who helped you pick out a sweater isn’t some sales driven devil. She most likely likes helping you as long as you aren’t being mean to her. That nice guy ringing you up isn’t a corporate machine – he just works for the “man.”

my writing and what kind of journal would like them

I edited my piece about my father - It became about how I do love him and note his flaws but also his strengths. It became about trying and trying again but realizing I'm better of stopping.

I'm going edit my piece on retail soon - I want to compare and contrast clothing retail and book retail - talk about signs, selling tactics and loyalty programs.

I believe the type of journal that would like my first piece would be an emotional journal. one that examines the human condition. One that would like my retail piece, the way I see it going, would have to be a bit more liberal. I'm going to touch on how we push and some of the gimmicks and those who are conservative might not be able to deal with my views.

"Hello Lauren This Is Your Father" - complete

Braids have been untied as ribbons fall away

Three year old me comes barreling upstairs, Barbie doll in hand. Boisterous with bright blonde hair, no caution, no cares; I disregard the wiggly brown banister and gallop all the way into the living room.

“Daddy, Daddy, come look at Barbie’s new makeup!” My mom had come down to the basement earlier and crouched down to my red barn toy box to tell me she was going out to run some errands and get us all ice cream. She said she’d be back soon as I sat with my thick red marker giving Barbie lipstick and blush. She said, “Daddy is upstairs if you need him.” I looked around and didn’t hear anything. I tiptoed into my parent’s room because daddy liked naps. I hesitated “Daddy?” I said it again louder and louder still. He wasn’t there and I began to bawl. I looked in every room, tears staining my face. I sat down in the mahogany rocking chair brought my knees to my chest and put my head down. The front door squeaks and my mother puts down a plastic bag and a white paper one. I lift my head up when she rubs my shoulder. I tell her I can’t find Daddy. She gives me my ice cream and Dad comes back an hour later. This is my first memory.

My dad likes to tell this story about me when I was a baby. I believe this might have been his first memory of my personality. He lights up when he tells it and his hearty laugh fills any room. Supposedly right after I was old enough to walk and dance and smile I was hanging out in our basement with it’s brown and beige tiled floor and our cherry wood bar that my dad installed after a local bar burnt down. His friends were there too and they were having a couple beers and holding bending down to hold my little hands and dance with me to the oldies. Songs like “My Girl”, “Brown-eyed Girl” and “Bad To The Bone.” They put giant aviators on me and played ZZ-Top trying to get me to mimic the “ a haw haw haw haw.” Supposedly they looked away for a second and I had a beer in my hand. They looked at me scared of what I would do and I proceeded to dump the entire contents on my head then my dad said “NO! You’re supposed to drink that not shower with it!”

Every Sunday during the short time in my childhood that my father lived with us, before the divorce when I was seven, my father would go out on his motorcycle while my mom watched me and made dinner. It became mommy and daughter time. It should have been family time. My mother and I got into the habit of watching one of our favorite movies while he was out because we knew it would annoy him when he got back. My mother would put the VHS on at different points in the movie to avoid suspicion. The best part is that no matter what season it was we would be sitting there, watching Hocus Pocus, like it wasn't slightest bit odd. He would take off his helmet and his orange vest, revealing the Tweety bird t-shirt he would inevitably have underneath and roll his eyes as if to say "again?!" I admit it was a little passive aggressive, but his face was pretty funny too. I guess he believed that since Sunday was the only day his bicycle and lawnmower repair shop was closed that it was his "me time", but I resented it before I could understand the concept.

After a while the fighting between my parents became more obvious, they would wait until they thought I was asleep to yell at each other, but I heard every time. I used to wrap my pillow around my ears as tightly as I could but I could still hear their back and forth. One time I head a dish break.

One day there were no more illusions. I was sitting next to my mother on the living room couch when my father, larger than life to me at the time at 6'4", appeared out of the hallway and nonchalantly told my mother he wanted a divorce.

I do believe you didn’t try

My father had been having an affair for a while and till this day he will insist it was an emotional one and that they didn't sleep together before my parent's divorce. But when my Dad moved out and into the apartment attached to the store his "friend" went with him. She would eventually be his second wife; a wedding that I was not invited to.

When I was first introduced to my future stepmother and stepbrother I had to warn my father. I was eight at the time and this boy, Albert, was in my summer camp. Albert was a bully. He would make fun of me relentlessly as well as picking on my friends Erika and Megan.

My father loved Albert. He would gush about how quickly he was picking up dirt biking, a hobby that he and I never shared. He would take me along on their off road trips where I would daydream and pick flowers. On one of these trips I found a very colorful assortment; Dandelions, and purple, blue and white wild flowers. I wrapped them with a particularly

long blade of grass around them and made a bouquet. I showed it to my father and got only feigned interest.

I spent a good chunk of my childhood in my father’s old shop. The smell of gasoline, the plexi glass counter that you had to step down to get behind and the tools, bikes and lawnmowers strewn everywhere. My dad would put on WCVS-FM and in between repairs he would teach me how to play darts behind the counter. Or he would check the air in the tires of my butterfly and rainbow banana seat bike and take me outside on the giant piece of land he owned along with the tiny store and he’d check the oil on his giant red ford pickup that was also emblazoned with Tweety bird. Those were the days before Albert started living with my Dad instead of his. He soon became part of our time together when my Dad’s new wife Joanne was at work.

Once a week and every other weekend was the time I got to spend with my Dad. Holidays were alternated. Every Tuesday I’d get picked up from school or camp by my Dad. It swiftly became pizza night. We would stop at the shop and I’d ride in the passenger seat back to the shop with the pizza on my lap. I’d tell Dad about my day without him asking and hope to hit every red light to have more alone time with him. We’d at the tiny table that barely fit in the kitchen and talk. I’d try to bond with my new stepmother and brother but I really wished I could just be with my Dad. At the end of the night My Dad would pull out the couch in the living room and my Dad and Joanne would go to their room and my stepbrother would go to his.

I don’t believe how you’ve thrown me away

As I got older the time spent with my father became more sporadic. I became busier with extra-curricular and I now had the option of opting out of our visits. He also moved to a bigger house in Bethlehem Pennsylvania so I only saw him when he was in Jersey. My days with him became the days I visited my Grandmother. My Grammie was possibly the kindest woman I had ever known. She was an ex-nun and reared 5 boys in the house my grandfather built with his bear hands. I looked forward to my father driving me down those winding roads to his childhood home and parking in front of the double garage. We would walk up the uneven, un-banistered stone steps and my father would drum his fingers along the glass of the door. Depending on the day either My Grammie, My Uncle Bob, My Uncle Dennis or My Uncle David would answer. Three of the five boys still lived there. Dad would joke with his brothers and we’d sit around the kitchen table for hours on end. I’d either have a book or the yellow cream filled shop-rite cookies that tried to be oreos. Grammie was at the head of the table closer to the entrance to the dining room with the giant tapestry of the last supper hanging on the wall. My Uncle Dennis would sit in the other head pushed far back against the window next to the old yellow radio. My Dad and Uncle Bob would sit closest to the door and I would sit next to Grammie in my special chair and put my hand on her cold hard nailed one with knuckles so swollen her wedding ring couldn’t come off.

These days are possibly the best I ever shared with my Father. He loved my Grammie to the bottom of his heart and cared for her until the day she died at the ripe old age of 93. While she didn’t always approve of his actions she loved him and her other sons whole heartedly. She loved everyone and no matter how aloof my father was to me he showed his true potential every time she was present.

When I became more and more distant to my father I could see the sadness in my Grammie’s eyes. I tried for years to make her happy. She would lean to me when we were alone and say she hoped we could resolve our issues. While I tried and tried it got consistently harder to be around him. And then he did the unthinkable. I was no longer allowed to come to his house in Pennsylvania. I didn’t get along with my stepbrother and since it was Joanne that was bringing home the bacon I was cast aside. She told him I was not welcome and invented reasons why it was better to see me when he came to Jersey for the store. I couldn’t take it anymore.

Since my father and I have almost nothing in common my mother suggested one day when he said “I have no idea what to do with her” that we go see movies. At first my father would be engaging. We’d talk about the movie at lunch or dinner afterwards and then I would try to talk about our lives. My school work didn’t pique his interest. I tried to use my itrip and have him listen to the recordings of me singing in my voice lessons. I tried everything and one day I blew up at him. I cried, I told him he wasn’t trying. I told him he never showed he care, if he even did. I slammed the door to his truck in my driveway and stopped taking his phone calls after. One day he called and said he was getting another divorce. I saw him again shortly after, still longing to find a bit of him I could relate and connect to and vice versa.

Oh my permission to sin

High school started and I was still there, reaching. The time with him became at my discretion. We tried movies again and while sometimes that worked he started falling asleep in the middle of them. Then when it was time for me to start driving he became my teacher. I enjoyed the time with him spent behind the wheel of my grandma’s hand me down 1980 brown Chevy Malibu. We only went out together about 3 times but learning something from him gave us an activity that we could connect with, and that he was really great at.  

By this time he had another woman. They were living together and she would eventually become wife number three. I was in a relationship at the time too and my boyfriend would constantly tell me that my father was an asshole and wasn’t worth my time after I’d confide in him about these incidents and more. The last time I went out driving with my father the boyfriend was there too. It was my 17^th birthday party and I went off in my car with my father. My boyfriend stayed there and couldn’t believe that I kept seeking his approval. This realization along with peer pressure led to a year of my not speaking to him.

I broke up with the boyfriend and then my Grammie started getting sicker. I gave him another chance again for her and to try and see if maybe this time he would finally mature. It seemed to be working. We would sit in the living room and watch tv together while my Grammie fell asleep in her chair. He would help her go to the bathroom and tuck her into bed at night. When she died my world crumbled apart. I was at school when she was in the hospital and my father called. He told me it was almost time but he didn’t think seeing her like that would be good for me. He told me she looked really bad. I stayed with a guy I was seeing until late that night and he comforted me while I cried a little asking me if I needed anything. After the funeral I started seeing my father less and less. Without being shown love in a way you can understand and not being able to have a good time when I was with him there really became less and less reasons to see him.

When I look in your eyes I don’t see mine

Occasionally I would go to see my father at his new place in North Brunswick. He lives in a double wide in a nice trailer park with a community pool. I saw him more every summer because the pool was something we could do together. Swimming became our thing in common and tanning became my “me time” while I was there. I would sit there with my ipod or a book or both and think. Then I would go in the pool and laugh with him. I also saw him around my birthday, Christmas, father’s day, his birthday, family occasions like his wedding and my uncle’s and whenever I felt obligated or when I needed his help with my car.

When I didn’t have the pool as my buffer I would sit across the kitchen counter and try to talk to my dad. I told him how much I was enjoying my Shakespeare class and he would say he didn’t remember me reading much when I was a kid. I guess he didn’t remember that I was an English major and he was gone from my house too early to see all the novels scattered around my room. I tried to talk to him about the plays or any of the school work I was interested in but he didn’t seem interested. I asked his wife Geri about those things and she said she doesn’t like to read either. She likes cooking. And cleaning. And being the epitome of every gender role I constantly reject. When my dad brought up motorcycles for the umpteenth time I asked him if I could ride on the back of his one day and I did. I searched for things I could talk to him about. I found that, beer, movies and not much else. I wouldn’t stop being myself and I couldn’t grasp how I came from this man I seemed to share nothing with. A last name, some spindles of dna, a loud voice and laugh, a habit of sticking my tounge out a little when I concentrate, curly hair, a long lanky frame and a need for contacts or glasses. But these aren’t things you can build on. It’s a foundation of sand.

Take away my pain; I create my paradise

I began helping him learn the computer and his new GPS. I talked about work and my promotion to running 3 departments. When he knew I was full time at work he assumed I was part time at school. But I’m a workaholic, another thing that I don’t see in him. He saw his opportunity and filed papers to emancipate me from getting child support, something he is required to pay until I am out of school as long as I continue to go full time. He called my house to tell my mother that the papers were filed and the court date was set. In my mind this was the last straw. I’ve tried and I’ve tried but when trying only leads to you being knocked down or cast aside over and over again sometimes it’s better to cut someone off no matter how good their intentions may be. The next time he calls me and says "Hello Lauren, this is your father" I won’t know what to say. I don’t even know if I’ll answer, he’s had way more than three strikes. But I do know this much. He is my father, but he will never be my Dad. 

Creating a Cast of Characters; A Cultural Conundrum

The playground is filled with fifth graders and the same thing happens every recess – A pretend game is decided upon. When the group is younger it’s teachers and stude nts and the like. A power position and others relegated to being someone who is instructed and then when we get older it’s pretending based on books or television shows or movies. This recess begins like any other:

“Let’s play Buffy today!” The question is who gets to be the slayer? The compromise is coming quickly. Someone always gets to be Buffy; the one in the group who is the leader suggests her second be Willow. But the second won’t have it “If you get to be Buffy, I’m going to be Faith.” And then the other girls fight over Willow or Cordelia.

The same went with playing the Brady Bunch “Marcia, Marcia, Marcia” was a saying for a reason. We all have the desire to be the main character in the movie of our lives. Pop culture has become the cornerstone of our worlds.

            As we gain years it becomes more philosophical than playing pretend. We relate to characters and reference their lines or compare them to ourselves and to others. We reference lines to make it easier to say things; you wouldn’t like me when I’m angry, look at the big brain on Brad! , Of all the gin joints… Sometimes you even know you’re quoting a movie that you’ve never even seen because it’s so embedded in most people’s daily vernacular. We quote song lyrics in our face book and twitter statuses too.

            Walking down the street with my girlfriend she starts to tell me more about the guy she’s seeing and their pattern of back and forth and she moves into talking about her pattern of relationships. “My friends always compare me to Lorelei!” One of our favorite shows is the Gilmore Girls. She goes on to talk about her Max and her Jason and where is her Luke? My mother constantly compares my cousin to Charlotte from Sex and the City; her constant romanticizing and idealistic nature and her semi-prudish ways.

            I catch myself doing it too. I’ve compared myself to Robin in How I Met Your Mother and Miranda in SATC (without the kid and with better hair). I’ve had lengthily conversations with friends about TV shows relating them to our group. In South Park I’m Wendy and one of my friends is Butters, one is Stan and one could either be Kyle or Randy depending on the situation. This conversation started with “Stan” calling Chris “Butters” and lasted throughout all of lunch.

            Sometimes it’s easier to say something without saying it. It’s easier to compare yourself to a fictional character than to say what you’re really feeling or to compliment yourself. Its easier to describe your feelings for someone by comparing your relationship to a cast of characters or referencing a show. “Do you guys watch how I met your mother? Well they have this thing about envisioning the future and seeing your front porch and who you see being there with you. I’m just sitting here with you guys and thinking about that right now.”

            I sit here writing this texting “Kyle/Randy”. I’m telling him I’m writing an essay indirectly inspired by conversations him and our group have had and he asks “are you calling it breakfast 2.0? I wanna be the goth girl” and I proceed to tell him how “Stan” told me I was her the day we first met.  Comparisons say so much.

work v. other work

I walk in through the walnut doors of aerie with a bag of chipotle in hand and say “Hi Michelle.” Michelle was my old manager there. She was recently promoted to store manager almost a year after I quit. She is wearing a flowery tank top and jeggings, a luxury I no longer have at my current job at a book store. She asks me how I’m doing, and jokes about me coming back part time after I graduate. I’m deeply considering her offer while I look for a career. We go through the motions of our new relationship. We were much closer when I was her top seller. We even had each other’s face books. I found out after I quit that she deleted me. She asks me about my love life, I ask her about her boyfriend and her niece and then I shop. I come up to the counter and one of the sales associates starts ringing me up. I tell her before she even asks that I have an all access pass and an AE visa.

I laugh and tell her I used to work there and I know how annoying it is to constantly have to ask those questions. She laughs and takes my all access pass and finishes my transaction. I say goodbye to Michelle grab my things and go. While I am still in retail it is a very different environment at the book store. It is also very different being the seller and the consumer.

Aerie is a tiny store about the size of the department I run in my bookstore now. Every employee is bubbly and dressed (mostly) in clothes from the store and American Eagle. They are all also female. When the store is fully staffed for a weekend there are usually at least three girls and a manager. One is a greeter by the front, one womans the dressing rooms and one is a cashier. each has a swishing name tag with a goal card attached. You keep track of how many bras and credit cards you've sold and it tells you the promotions for that day. If you were the lucky one on the morning shift you got to make the goal cards. we had pretty colored markers to decorate them and we sometimes drew pictures, especially around holidays. I've had a christmas tree, a groundhog and a cupid on my old ones. 

At every job there are cliques, just like in high school certain employees got along better than others. So far there is a lot less animosity at the book store than there was for me at aerie. Some of the girls there were new faces and others I knew from high school. Grudges were held and alliances formed. My loner reputation in high school didn't gain me any in with the other girls. It didn't seem as though the new ones didn't like me and I got along well with most of them, in the beginning any way. 

Aerie was my first job and it took me a while to become the seller I'm remembered as by Michelle. After I learned the ropes and became more confident in my abilities the store started to have selling contests. whether it was bras or credit cards I tended to win. a lot. I noticed the girls who I wasn't friendly with didn't like it. I won an aerie fit towel, 2 bras, lotions etc. That was all fine for a while but when the bookstore called me for an interview and after Michelle's stellar recommendation I started working two jobs. The tide began to change. I started working at aerie less and the book store more. I stayed competitive and kept being told by the girls in a bitter tone that I was going to end up leaving. they were eventually right but unlike what they thought I didn't leave because I was burnt out. I left because my competitive nature was being taken advantage of and the girls started becoming bitter. 

The old store manager knew I was a workaholic. on days I would close she would ask me around 8 (the store closed at 930) if i could stay till 11 with her so she could make her 40 hours. i went along and became more tired. The girls noticed her doing this and were resentful when I was given keys when she needed to go to the back for a conference call. I guess it was apparent that I was the favorite and then a prank was made. during a floor change a gift card was put on the counter with my name on it and it said $100. Of course because I won a lot of contests recently I believed it was real and started picking stuff out. Only after I had a pile of clothes in my hand did my manager pull me aside and tell me to check the balance . I knew then that it was a prank and that's when I knew the book store would be my only job soon.

The people at my book store can be competitive. we're having a membership contest now but I never feel like I'm being pressured there. We use the same selling tactics and have similar policies but i feel so much more comfortable there. I enjoy coming in to work much more knowing now that no one is going to talk behind my back or gang up on me. Now that there are different people at aerie I am considering going back. I miss Michelle ( and my discount 0:) ). I hope that it will be different now that there are different people there but I'll only know if I try.

porcelin doll features covered by long wavy tufts the color of cherry wood, eyes covered in umber and an ebony line on the crease of the lashes. blue earrings dangle getting caught on a curl. shoulders are back, slouching and a big brown unlaced boot sits on a knee making a shape like a four. a truck driver's burp escapes unglossed, bitten lips. a yuengling is grasped by unmanicured bitten to the nub finger nails and dry cracking knuckles one of which has a rhinestoned bottle opener ring on it. a pink braided charm bracelet with a cupcake, a music note, a poinsetta, a pearl and a bunny dangling from it is on said wrist. a blue elastic band swoops up the wrist and onto the other hand which grasps the tufts and loops around them securing it while leaning back further and further in the chair. the chair falls to the ground and "fuck!" comes out of the lips. 2 sets of hands lift one set up and all the others guffaw. "Never sit on the rocking chair again" is said as a carmel colored liquid is poured into a tiny glass by the girl. she gulps it down walks into the bathroom, kicks the toilet seat down and yells after it crashes down "seriously, a lady is present."