Warning #3 came in the form of a career change.
The bank lists different "careers" that are available for each colleague to apply for.
The first job I applied for was a Training Specialist and something like a million salary grades higher than my first position with the bank (job title: Meager sales associate that needs second job in order to make ends meet).
So I apply for this job and because I was on Final Written Warning (FWW, cool bank term), I needed special approval to even post for the position. At this point, I think my manager was eager to get rid of me and my antics (I never hit goals and chatted with customers about personal stuff, not bank products).
So I'm called in for the first interview, then the second interview. Then I'm told to prepare a twenty minute presentation about some aspect about the bank, have a game included in the presentation and of course the people that I would present this to were the Who's Who of the bank in Pittsburgh.
I created the PowerPoint presentation of my life and put my all into this. For days, I tweaked my presentation, all in the hopes of getting out of the retail aspect of retail banking.
On the day of my presentation, I was super nervous, freezing cold and sweating like a pig. I never practiced my presentation, I just knew my topic like no one else. I was a friggin professional and I had the powersuit to match (and shoes, of course).
I come home after my presentation and discovered that I had a fever of 102 and found out the following day that I had pneumonia. On the third day, I heard that the bank decided to lay off the entire Training department. Thanks, Bank! Goodbye, career! You owe me $250 for the suit and shoes!
To this day, I have applied for 22 positions in the bank, have interviewed for ten of those positions, and everytime I get close to a career, the Bank lays off that entire department. If someone isn't trying to tell me something, I don't know what's going on.
About Me
- Holly Christine
- Writer. Reader. Collector of sunny days. Dreamer. A little weird. Funny. Addicted to Skittles, LOST and Kindle One Clicks. Owner of a poorly trained, but cutest ever Pomeranian. Dream Job: Journey Air Band Member. Pittsburgher. Coffee. Lots of coffee.
Saturday, August 1, 2009
Friday, July 17, 2009
Dead at 27: Warning #2
Warning #2 that I should not work in a retail bank came in the form of an actual warning, a Final Written Warning, in fact (or FWW in cool bank terms).
So we have all of these special secret ways of doing things in a bank and one of them is opening. They say that opening the bank is the most dangerous time for bankers. Well, I started out in this grocery store bank and this was when Britney Spears was pregenant for the first time and I was young and I cared. It was big time gossip.
So I'm standing outside of the bank (still in the grcoery store) and the banker that's opening the branch is suppossed to throw a newspaper on the floor to signal to me that the bank is open. But Britney Spears is pregnant and I can't stop reading People and Us Weekly to save my life. To me, at the time, that was the greatest part about working in a grocery store bank: free reading material and gossip. Loved it.
I was reading for about thirty minutes when I decided that I should just walk into the bank. The opening banker didn't toss the paper and I just assumed that she forgot. We all forget, right? It wasn't her fault.
"Dude, you didn't throw the paper."
Opening banker: "That's because you were being TESTED."
BUSTED! My first major screwup with the bank and they put me on Final Written Warning, meaning that if I messed everything up again, I was out the door: no more free gossip magazines for Holly. FWW meant that I didn't get an "incentive bonus"
"But I don't get one anyway..."
and I also couldn't post to other positions that opened in the bank
"Bullshit. You never told me that you would test me."
Now it was pretty clear that a career with the bank wouldn't go any further than the retail side of things. And yet I stayed. I stayed for the gossip magazines and the lovely PA announcements that we were forced to read over the grocery store speakers.
Attention shoppers! We've got, um, shit. Which one was I reading? No... that's the old one dumbass. Here you do it. No! I did it last time! Fine! You getting coffee? Here, take a five outta my wallet and grab me one, willya? (clear throat) Attention Shoppers! Hey... wait... gimme a Chai Tea Latte instead. Click.
So we have all of these special secret ways of doing things in a bank and one of them is opening. They say that opening the bank is the most dangerous time for bankers. Well, I started out in this grocery store bank and this was when Britney Spears was pregenant for the first time and I was young and I cared. It was big time gossip.
So I'm standing outside of the bank (still in the grcoery store) and the banker that's opening the branch is suppossed to throw a newspaper on the floor to signal to me that the bank is open. But Britney Spears is pregnant and I can't stop reading People and Us Weekly to save my life. To me, at the time, that was the greatest part about working in a grocery store bank: free reading material and gossip. Loved it.
I was reading for about thirty minutes when I decided that I should just walk into the bank. The opening banker didn't toss the paper and I just assumed that she forgot. We all forget, right? It wasn't her fault.
"Dude, you didn't throw the paper."
Opening banker: "That's because you were being TESTED."
BUSTED! My first major screwup with the bank and they put me on Final Written Warning, meaning that if I messed everything up again, I was out the door: no more free gossip magazines for Holly. FWW meant that I didn't get an "incentive bonus"
"But I don't get one anyway..."
and I also couldn't post to other positions that opened in the bank
"Bullshit. You never told me that you would test me."
Now it was pretty clear that a career with the bank wouldn't go any further than the retail side of things. And yet I stayed. I stayed for the gossip magazines and the lovely PA announcements that we were forced to read over the grocery store speakers.
Attention shoppers! We've got, um, shit. Which one was I reading? No... that's the old one dumbass. Here you do it. No! I did it last time! Fine! You getting coffee? Here, take a five outta my wallet and grab me one, willya? (clear throat) Attention Shoppers! Hey... wait... gimme a Chai Tea Latte instead. Click.
Thursday, July 16, 2009
Dead at 27: Warning #1
Perhaps this book should be named Dead at 23, because I took up a “career” in banking at that age. I was right out of college and totally depressed because I couldn’t find a full-time job as a copyeditor or novelist.
There were warnings that I was making a mistake.
Warning #1
My third interview with the bank took place in a small office set inside of the grocery store. The manager was young, my age, and for the sake of being humorous and at the same time completely honest, I’ll call him Dick.
Dick: “So tell me a bit about yourself, Holly.”
So I told him what I was: a recent college grad.
Dick: “Just so you know” (here he looks at my resume because he can’t remember my name to save his life and really all that he knows is that his branch needs help and I look like help. He should have called me Help) “Holly, college graduates think they are worth a lot more money than they actually are.”
Hmph! Earth to Holly!
If I could go back, I would walk out of that office right at that moment.
But I didn’t. I stayed and by staying a part of me died in that office. I needed money. Soon enough, my old car would go and the student loans would start demanding money. I felt as if it was my only option, and this feeling of mine was probably the only reason why the bank hired me. I mean, I majored in English! I had no business dealing with numbers. They wanted me because they knew I needed a paycheck. They wanted me to fear.
Dick hated me from the start because I questioned everything he did. Actually, I corrected his language. He said IGNORANT all the time and I told him that by definition, he was ignorant in using ignorant the wrong way. When he said it (Them people are ignorant), the skin around my ear would shove itself into my ear drum. To this day, I can’t hear well. Even my body hated him.
There were warnings that I was making a mistake.
Warning #1
My third interview with the bank took place in a small office set inside of the grocery store. The manager was young, my age, and for the sake of being humorous and at the same time completely honest, I’ll call him Dick.
Dick: “So tell me a bit about yourself, Holly.”
So I told him what I was: a recent college grad.
Dick: “Just so you know” (here he looks at my resume because he can’t remember my name to save his life and really all that he knows is that his branch needs help and I look like help. He should have called me Help) “Holly, college graduates think they are worth a lot more money than they actually are.”
Hmph! Earth to Holly!
If I could go back, I would walk out of that office right at that moment.
But I didn’t. I stayed and by staying a part of me died in that office. I needed money. Soon enough, my old car would go and the student loans would start demanding money. I felt as if it was my only option, and this feeling of mine was probably the only reason why the bank hired me. I mean, I majored in English! I had no business dealing with numbers. They wanted me because they knew I needed a paycheck. They wanted me to fear.
Dick hated me from the start because I questioned everything he did. Actually, I corrected his language. He said IGNORANT all the time and I told him that by definition, he was ignorant in using ignorant the wrong way. When he said it (Them people are ignorant), the skin around my ear would shove itself into my ear drum. To this day, I can’t hear well. Even my body hated him.
Saturday, July 4, 2009
Country: Piano Lessons
My piano lessons started at the ripe age of four in my grandmother’s house on her Steinway. I learned the basics, but was still far from being a professional by the time we turned country.
My country piano teacher was a little odd and very strict. She made weekly visits to our house to keep me up to date on my piano skills. Mom attempted to enroll Chuckie in piano lessons, but my teacher gave up on him on day one. Piano lessons on day one are simple, one-handers. Always a Multitasker, Chuckie played the lesson with one hand and kept the other hand in between a bag of chips and his mouth. The Piano Teacher didn’t like the Potato-chip-C,C,C move very much and the next week, she was back to one student. Throughout the years, I had one goal for the piano: Learn to play Beethoven’s Fur Elise then drop the lessons like a bad habit. I wasn’t interested in piano enough to become all dreamy and professional. I wanted one song.
I think I practiced Fur Elise to the point of violence. Not one member of my family can listen to the song without wincing: I played it that much.
On the next to the last day of my lessons, my teacher walked into the house with (quite literally) cherry red hair. When my mother asked about her new haircolor, my teacher replied that she read somewhere that Jello could be used to set your hair at night. She set her the night before with Cherry Jello, thus creating the whimsical red. Note: you can use Jello to set your hair, but don’t go picking a flavor, unless you desire to eat it or smell like that flavor for days. Go with unflavored. Or be different. Whatever.
On that same day, I played Fur Elise for my teacher like I never did before. It was a beautiful, magical moment and I knew right away that I didn’t want more. Finished. But for some reason, I didn’t share this breakthrough with anyone else.
The next week, my teacher showed up as scheduled and while I watched her car pull into the driveway, I quickly ran out into the field behind the house. This was, apparently, my way of making a statement. Crouching down behind the vast cover of grass, I watched and listened as my mother and teacher screamed for me. I turned my back and covered my ears, waiting, patiently and fearfully, for my teacher to leave forever.
She did leave forever and I was reprimanded heavily by my mother for the embarrassment and not listening to a damn thing. I think I was grounded for a week. But being grounded for a week really meant that night, with the threat of a week. I woke up and cleaned the house the next morning to guilt my way into an ungrounding. To this day, I can play Fur Elise by heart.
My country piano teacher was a little odd and very strict. She made weekly visits to our house to keep me up to date on my piano skills. Mom attempted to enroll Chuckie in piano lessons, but my teacher gave up on him on day one. Piano lessons on day one are simple, one-handers. Always a Multitasker, Chuckie played the lesson with one hand and kept the other hand in between a bag of chips and his mouth. The Piano Teacher didn’t like the Potato-chip-C,C,C move very much and the next week, she was back to one student. Throughout the years, I had one goal for the piano: Learn to play Beethoven’s Fur Elise then drop the lessons like a bad habit. I wasn’t interested in piano enough to become all dreamy and professional. I wanted one song.
I think I practiced Fur Elise to the point of violence. Not one member of my family can listen to the song without wincing: I played it that much.
On the next to the last day of my lessons, my teacher walked into the house with (quite literally) cherry red hair. When my mother asked about her new haircolor, my teacher replied that she read somewhere that Jello could be used to set your hair at night. She set her the night before with Cherry Jello, thus creating the whimsical red. Note: you can use Jello to set your hair, but don’t go picking a flavor, unless you desire to eat it or smell like that flavor for days. Go with unflavored. Or be different. Whatever.
On that same day, I played Fur Elise for my teacher like I never did before. It was a beautiful, magical moment and I knew right away that I didn’t want more. Finished. But for some reason, I didn’t share this breakthrough with anyone else.
The next week, my teacher showed up as scheduled and while I watched her car pull into the driveway, I quickly ran out into the field behind the house. This was, apparently, my way of making a statement. Crouching down behind the vast cover of grass, I watched and listened as my mother and teacher screamed for me. I turned my back and covered my ears, waiting, patiently and fearfully, for my teacher to leave forever.
She did leave forever and I was reprimanded heavily by my mother for the embarrassment and not listening to a damn thing. I think I was grounded for a week. But being grounded for a week really meant that night, with the threat of a week. I woke up and cleaned the house the next morning to guilt my way into an ungrounding. To this day, I can play Fur Elise by heart.
Sunday, June 28, 2009
Country: Death by Solar Cover
The fun thing about summer in the country was the pool. The scary thing about summer in the country was the pool. While Ann and I liked to pretend we were mermaids (neither one of us could name ourselves Ariel because it wasn’t fair to the other. Ariel was the best name. We settled for Aquina and Aquatra. It’s Latin for Holly and Ann, I think), there was a looming fear over all of us: the Solar Cover.
The solar cover was the plastic, bubbly thing that covered the pool while it wasn’t in use (that’s the important part) and warmed the water. Mom had us all convinced that if you swam in the pool with the solar cover partly covering the water, you would die. The solar cover has some sort of weird, magical power of sucking beings underneath it. The problem: as a child, when the solar cover is on the pool, it appears that you could (quite easily) walk across the water like Jesus. Not so. If you were to touch that solar cover with even one little toe, you would die.
Recently, our dog Clemenza decided to jump in the pool while the solar cover was on (apparently she has the same thought process as a child, or a Jesus-complex. Both are equally possible). I screamed in horror, watching her little paws tiptoe across the cover, the solar cover, in all its evil, waiting silently for its prey.
My husband Tristan jumps into the pool to save the dog, and in my mind, I’m thinking they are both dead. Tristan, calmly as ever (I’m screaming and crying), swoops Clemenza up to safety (with wet paws, nothing else) and then casually pulls himself out of the pool. Apparently the solar cover can choose its victims. And Clemenza proved to herself that walking on water was a breeze.
The solar cover was the plastic, bubbly thing that covered the pool while it wasn’t in use (that’s the important part) and warmed the water. Mom had us all convinced that if you swam in the pool with the solar cover partly covering the water, you would die. The solar cover has some sort of weird, magical power of sucking beings underneath it. The problem: as a child, when the solar cover is on the pool, it appears that you could (quite easily) walk across the water like Jesus. Not so. If you were to touch that solar cover with even one little toe, you would die.
Recently, our dog Clemenza decided to jump in the pool while the solar cover was on (apparently she has the same thought process as a child, or a Jesus-complex. Both are equally possible). I screamed in horror, watching her little paws tiptoe across the cover, the solar cover, in all its evil, waiting silently for its prey.
My husband Tristan jumps into the pool to save the dog, and in my mind, I’m thinking they are both dead. Tristan, calmly as ever (I’m screaming and crying), swoops Clemenza up to safety (with wet paws, nothing else) and then casually pulls himself out of the pool. Apparently the solar cover can choose its victims. And Clemenza proved to herself that walking on water was a breeze.
Monday, June 22, 2009
Country: Murder Mystery
Ann and I were obsessed with Nancy Drew mysteries. It's very possible that we have both read every single Nancy Drew book ever written. It started in her attic, where we found a big box of her mom's books. From there, it was a contest to see who could read more, and of course, who could read faster.
Nancy Drew inspired a side of myself that I had never known. Everything was a mystery. Broken glass behind the barn that we weren't allowed to enter? Diamonds. Hidden by a murdering bandit, making his way from Myrtle Beach (where Ann vacationed) to Boston (where my Aunt lived). We obviously weren't too interested in geography.
In the barn that we were not permitted to enter, we found stacks of old books, dating back well over a hundred years. They smelled like dirt and felt like dirt and even the boys stayed clear of these little wonders.
We had our first real life mystery. Who the hell left all of these books in this dirty old barn?
After much research and several coded letters that we wrote to each other in class, we discovered the family name that had lived on our property something like a billion years ago. And wouldn't you know that the name of that family was the same name of Ann's cousins. So now we had a personal stake in this mystery.
We made a home in the attic space above the garage and made lists, bought a map, and sat up there for hours attempting to decode the mystery. I don't know why it never occured to us that these people were just very old and had died. We attempted a family tree, but only had two names: Elizabeth and Phillip. They had to be lovers. And we were pretty sure that someone was murdered. Yes, someone was surely murdered. It was the butler, in the old barn, with the pitchfork that killed dear Elizabeth while she was practising ballet on the floor above.
During the Nancy Drew craze, I have a faint memory of walking around the yard, wearing raincoats and holding umbrellas, searching for clues.
It was not raining.
We found a few nice rocks, then decided that collecting pretty rocks was in. Murder Mystery out. Just like that. We didn't even have to change costumes.
Nancy Drew inspired a side of myself that I had never known. Everything was a mystery. Broken glass behind the barn that we weren't allowed to enter? Diamonds. Hidden by a murdering bandit, making his way from Myrtle Beach (where Ann vacationed) to Boston (where my Aunt lived). We obviously weren't too interested in geography.
In the barn that we were not permitted to enter, we found stacks of old books, dating back well over a hundred years. They smelled like dirt and felt like dirt and even the boys stayed clear of these little wonders.
We had our first real life mystery. Who the hell left all of these books in this dirty old barn?
After much research and several coded letters that we wrote to each other in class, we discovered the family name that had lived on our property something like a billion years ago. And wouldn't you know that the name of that family was the same name of Ann's cousins. So now we had a personal stake in this mystery.
We made a home in the attic space above the garage and made lists, bought a map, and sat up there for hours attempting to decode the mystery. I don't know why it never occured to us that these people were just very old and had died. We attempted a family tree, but only had two names: Elizabeth and Phillip. They had to be lovers. And we were pretty sure that someone was murdered. Yes, someone was surely murdered. It was the butler, in the old barn, with the pitchfork that killed dear Elizabeth while she was practising ballet on the floor above.
During the Nancy Drew craze, I have a faint memory of walking around the yard, wearing raincoats and holding umbrellas, searching for clues.
It was not raining.
We found a few nice rocks, then decided that collecting pretty rocks was in. Murder Mystery out. Just like that. We didn't even have to change costumes.
Saturday, June 20, 2009
Country: The Burn Pile
I never before realized a unique privilege of country life: burn piles.
In the country, if you have an old sofa, pet bed, or pool solar cover that needs trashed, you simply lug it out to the burn pile and light a match. Sure, you probably shouldn’t be burning plastic, but it sure is fun to watch a plastic cover that once heated the pool shrivel up into a tiny ball of nothing, crackling and popping all along the way.
Got a new refrigerator and think it sucks that you have to wait a week to pitch the box? Burn it.
I think my family became addicted to this feeling, this urge, simply knowing that we didn’t need to keep garbage. In fact, the garbage collectors encourage burning. If you have more than a couple of bags by the curb/mailbox (I think I should put quotations around both of those words), they charge you more. In addition to that, you must plan ahead. So if your dishwasher stopped working on Tuesday, forcing you to purchase a new one Wednesday, the same day of garbage collection, you are totally screwed. Those collectors won’t even touch the box that your dishwasher came in. In fact, they might get so pissed at the sight of extra-unexpected garbage, they throw it in the middle of the road. Now your neighbors are pissed at you too.
We burned everything. Once, while opening the pool years and years ago in May, my Mom watched with utter confusion as my Dad threw the pool pump into the burning burn pile. They later realized he had torched the new pool pump, not the old one. Really, shame on the pool pump manufacturers for making the pumps identical. And shame on the county, because we never burned a thing before we moved here.
Burning whatever you want in the country is completely acceptable. It’s your property, so spark it up and say a prayer, those flames will die down soon, or at the very latest tomorrow morning.
In the country, if you have an old sofa, pet bed, or pool solar cover that needs trashed, you simply lug it out to the burn pile and light a match. Sure, you probably shouldn’t be burning plastic, but it sure is fun to watch a plastic cover that once heated the pool shrivel up into a tiny ball of nothing, crackling and popping all along the way.
Got a new refrigerator and think it sucks that you have to wait a week to pitch the box? Burn it.
I think my family became addicted to this feeling, this urge, simply knowing that we didn’t need to keep garbage. In fact, the garbage collectors encourage burning. If you have more than a couple of bags by the curb/mailbox (I think I should put quotations around both of those words), they charge you more. In addition to that, you must plan ahead. So if your dishwasher stopped working on Tuesday, forcing you to purchase a new one Wednesday, the same day of garbage collection, you are totally screwed. Those collectors won’t even touch the box that your dishwasher came in. In fact, they might get so pissed at the sight of extra-unexpected garbage, they throw it in the middle of the road. Now your neighbors are pissed at you too.
We burned everything. Once, while opening the pool years and years ago in May, my Mom watched with utter confusion as my Dad threw the pool pump into the burning burn pile. They later realized he had torched the new pool pump, not the old one. Really, shame on the pool pump manufacturers for making the pumps identical. And shame on the county, because we never burned a thing before we moved here.
Burning whatever you want in the country is completely acceptable. It’s your property, so spark it up and say a prayer, those flames will die down soon, or at the very latest tomorrow morning.
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