Be Careful What You Ask For, You Will Get It!

"It's funny when things change so much. It's all state of mind."
-Eddie Vedder, on the song "In Hiding"

I am aware that this is quickly becoming a forum to update the various phases of my unemployment, but I am not planning on changing the name of my blog. That just happens to be my perspective right now. Plus, some of you may be interested in the latest in this ongoing saga.

Speaking of perspective, I think it's an important part of this phase of the story. A lot of people feel a lot of different ways about life. But I think by and large people try to do the best they can with what life deals them, and they hope that hard work and good choices will lead to a quality life.

I'm learning to disagree.

I don't find that life deals me anything at all. I deal life to myself. I've known this on a deep level, but it's almost like I forgot. And when inexplicable things happen, it's hard to remember. I've believed this for some time, but now I'm starting to practice it. The results so far are subtle, but no less stunning to me.

I know, why would people choose to have a car accident or get attacked, etc. The short answer is, I don't know. But choices have after-effects, and that's the best I can say for someone else's decision. For myself, when something difficult happens it is for a reason. I'm starting to see it clearly. There's a lesson in everything, so getting emotionally resistant is of no use. Looking for the message is all that matters.

What am I talking about? Why the philosophy all of a sudden? The job situation, of course.

And I should say before moving on that it seemed terrible the way the Tin Woodsman thing happened. But the truth is that I was ready to move on - very ready - and getting let go allowed me to do that, collect money through unemployment, and spend quality time with Oliver (including potty training!).

But I forgot that leaving was what I wanted, and got very down. Then I got better, little by little, until I saw a movie that reminded me what I knew in my soul. Then I started making conscious choices, from what I want specifically to what kinds of emotions I will allow to enter my being. As I've mentioned, the change in me has been transformative.

Which is a long way of introducing what happened the last couple of days. As I was about to leave Kat's house (after working on building a stone wall) on Tuesday, I received a call from a company I applied with called Spirit Leatherworks. Oliver was grouchy because I just woke him up, I had an armful of stuff, and the girl on the other end wanted to give me a phone interview. Major shift of focus, to say the least!

I ambled through, not really remembering anything about the job I had applied for. I was sure I'd get an interview though. Because it's what I asked for. Literally.

Forty-five minutes later, I was called back to schedule an interview for Thursday. See what happens when you ask?

So I went to the interview, and although I wasn't sure if I wanted the job at all I was nervous. Nervousness is not something I can stop with logic alone, apparently. Anyhow, the guy I was going to interview with (Rob) was really busy, so I interviewed with two people underneath him instead. It really wasn't necessary, and I realize they did this just to be polite, but we all played our parts and went through with it. Near the end, Rob came in and said he wanted to interview me the next day - Friday.

I went home thinking little of it, although I knew the way everything happened was unusual. I honestly didn't really care. I'm not looking for usual.

When I went in on Friday, I wasn't nervous and I had questions. My main concern was getting offered a job I didn't like and not having the wisdom to make a clear decision. This time Rob came out of his office promptly and took me to another building. Once the door opened to the other building, I was intrigued. There were belts hanging on all the walls, it smelled wonderfully of leather, and people were sitting at tables talking about what they liked and didn't like about a certain design.

Soon after the door closed to the room I'd interview in, my concern grew. Rob was a dynamic guy, much to my surprise, and I knew that if he wanted me to have the job telling him "no" was going to be difficult.

And then it happened. I started liking him. Why? He wanted to know about my last job and he wanted to know the truth. He was adamant about it. And so I told him, and it felt good, and he understood! Then he told me that my resume was good, but I could make it better. The honesty was such that I didn't hear criticism at all. I heard a reasonable human being.

He went on to tell me that there were 250 applicants, 9 resumes stood out, 1 failed the phone interview, and then 3 were chosen for real interviews. Of those three, one girl was perfect, one person needed to (in his opinion) finish school first, and the other person was me.

He said he wouldn't hire me for this job because it was beneath me. I was so relieved that I wasn't disappointed at all. He said I'd be going crazy within 3 months.

Then he said he wanted me to work there. Huh?

Here's the thing; they're a young company and growing like crazy, and this guy is wise enough to know that successful businesses employ good people. Who knew? And he could tell I was a good person (fooled him, eh?!).

We had a great talk. I know he is busy, but I could've talked to him for a long time. I was very energized. It was a confirmation of what I always knew: if I work hard and carry myself with integrity then things will work out. Plus I've started choosing - very consciously - to make money doing something that is fulfilling at a place that understands that I'm talented.

The end of the story is that I will work there. Rob is talking to the owner today ("We're talking about a lot of things, and 10 minutes or less will be about you. But we will talk about Matthew Trent"). He wants to find something for me to do, be it financial, management or otherwise. He just wants me because he can tell that I have a fire inside.

AND HE'S RIGHT!!!

My fire is burning hot, on logs of intention.

Stay-at-home-rad!

Remember the name of my blog. It is important to know. Because I have a feeling that most readers will think that I'm either looking for sympathy or I will be told how easy I have it compared to (fill in personal story here). Back to sentence number one, please. This is simply a representation, a way to get life off my chest if you will.

What the heck am I talking about? My temporary life. Remember, faithful readers, that I am jobless. And childcare-less. This truly is as simple as one plus one, and it equals two of us at home. (My friend George has recently been paying me to do some work on his house, but what I'm talking about here is all the other days.)

Yes, stay-at-home-dad. Mr. Mom. Fortunately, those are the only nicknames I know for it. And also unfortunately, because I hear them a lot! For the record, I would rather work. I love Oliver - a ton. He doesn't drive me crazy when we're alone, teaching him things is fulfilling, playing with him is actually fun for me too, and I feel great about our time together. But I'm learning something that I have in common with babies:

In spite of every fiber of my being crying out otherwise, I NEED STRUCTURE!

You want to know how I know? Here's my current structure:

I wake up when Oliver wakes up. At first it wasn't this way, because I couldn't sleep through Nancy getting up in the morning. No more. And Oliver can sleep until 9. Sounds good you say? Nope!

Now I'm up. I read the paper while I feed/ignore Oliver and myself. This seems to wind down around 10. At which point I justify to myself that if I put him in front of a movie to job-hunt then it's OK. The movie starts, I put away breakfast dishes, which often means I unload the dishwasher, and while I'm at it I may as well put the dryer on for the last 15 minutes (don't ask, long story and sore subject) because by the time I'm done with the dishes the dryer will be done and I might as well move the clothes over from the washer and now that the washer is empty I can run another load and Holy Crap! I forgot about putting the chickens out and gathering the eggs and (expletive) those hungry (expletives) are out of food again!? so I get that taken care of and now the second load of laundry is wrapping up in the dryer and I fold and put those away (Nancy will be soooooo happy!) and the movie is over.

I have to admit that sometimes at this point movie number two will happen. Go ahead, call child services. I deserve it. But hey! Sometimes it is Sesame Street, and I learned a lot from Sesame Street. I still remember -tion (shon shon shon shon!), for example.

Anyway, when this happens I will then finally get on the computer. Check the email. Nothing. Check Facebook (because of all the job offers that happen there!). Boring. And now I'm also irritated because of all the freaking Yankee fans I'm friends with. Hey Yankee fans: DON'T POST ANOTHER RUN SCORING AS YOUR STATUS, ANY MORON WHO CARES ALREADY KNOWS! AND IT'S ANNOYING!

On a side note, I'm very happy for you that it took billions of dollars in payroll to get to the World Series again. Money well spent. The Iraq War called, it wants its waste of money back.

Anyway, now I go to Oregon Employment. Very exciting website designed by a 70-year-old in a web-design class. I click through the forty pages I need to go through until I can job search. Nothing. Something interesting is happening to me. I am qualified for most jobs that pay up to $10 per hour. I am definitely not qualified for any job over $17. And all those in between, I seem to be missing one key thing. Neato. And so I went to school to...do what I did before I moved to Eugene? Understandably, this is depressing. Cum Laude is Latin for "doesn't mean jack shii unless you go to grad school or are related to someone important." I hate Latin.

So back to my day. It is now time for Oliver to sleep. I lovingly put him to bed, complete with reading stories, rocking, and snuggling. Take that child services! You cannot take my son! He loves the way I rock him and read! I do many excellent voices, and I am a source of endless entertainment for him!

Anyway, back to the computer I am growing to hate. Notice no writing lately? No? Well, I did. Not even much on the story, which is funny because one of my first thoughts when I was in that weird lay-off meeting was, "Well, at least now I can really work on the story." Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha! Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeee, no.

I now bog down on applying for one job that I don't think I really want but may pay me an OK wage or offer benefits or at least I need to dress kind of nice for. Sometimes I get through the application. Sometimes a crazy thing will happen like...complete this weird interactive quiz thing that will only take an hour. Since Oliver usually sleeps for two, I am game. Then about 45 minutes in, I will finish typing a two paragraph pile of crap about how I would upsell garbage, hit backspace which inexplicably takes me to the previous page, and spend the next two minutes resisting the urge to discus my laptop into the park across the street. I don't finish. I chalk it up to "it wasn't meant to be."

Then Nancy comes home. She hates seeing me like this, and wonders why I need to be crappy every day after work. I try to explain but I can't. Yes, Oliver watched a movie today. No we didn't go outside. Now I feel like a bad parent AND a useless part of civilization. I don't want to argue with her so I just stop talking. Inside the head is danger, and now I am starting to feel really down. Then I eat dinner. Then we watch a movie. Then I reflect on what I accomplished today. Then I am down.

I'll find a job tomorrow.

He's Gone

So I had a couple of things cooking for this next installment. Once I had the pictures, I was going to write about taking Oliver to Fenway Park. It was really fun. I also had a reunion with Dave Garrow while in Rhode Island, and got to meet his family. It was really good to see him again, and I am looking forward to doing some more catching up with him. I was really looking forward to writing about these things.

Then something funny happened.

I was "laid off."

I put that in quotes because it is far too open-ended to have much of a meaning. And I don't plan to explain its definition necessarily in this entry. You will have to put it together for yourselves.

Here comes a sharp turn, but trust me when I tell you we're coming back to the subject at hand.

How do you like your movies? Do you like the ones that have happy endings? Or at least endings that make sense and everything is tied together with a neat little bow?

If your answer is "yes," I'm afraid this entry will disappoint. This entry is going to be one of those movies with an ending that makes you wonder or think. It will not be neat.

I am SURE that there are many of you out there who would love me to go absolutely nuclear on this situation I now find myself in. Not a happy ending for sure, but at least highly satisfying. Trust me when I tell you that I could, but you are going to have to settle for disappointment if it is carnage you wish for.

There are two main reasons for this. First, I am seeking employment elsewhere and it wouldn't look very good to a prospective employer if they found a blog post from me annhilating my previous job. Second, I'm not a big believer in burning bridges. Plus I truly feel that everything happens for a reason, not that it is very apparent right now.

However, I can imagine that many of you are confused as to how this situation is even possible, and that is the real reason that I'm here writing this. So here goes something.

I started at the Tin Woodsman (or Crosby & Taylor) in 2002, one year after Nancy started. I was a regular production worker. Those of you who know me (100% of all my readers, presumably) know that I work my butt off, I am intelligent, and I care. Naturally, this is what I did at the TW. So I became Tim's (the Production Manager at the time) right-hand man of sorts. He saw that I was enthusiastic, normal, and trustworthy and fed me responsibility. Of course I took it.

Eventually Tim went into more of a designer's role, and that opened up a spot for me as Production Manager. At around the same time, I was starting to have a school schedule that interfered more with work, and I should say that the flexibility of the work schedule was always something I appreciated very much. I was allowed to work when I could, and I never took that for granted.

Anyway, Production Manager. Change is the name of the game in life. Change is the absolute rule at the TW. I was always fine-tuning systems to make things more efficient. Or creating new ones from scratch. I could do this because I was working very closely with the entire process, and could see how each change would affect all the other steps. Sometimes, however, panic would set in and the system would be taken away from me. Obviously, this hurt a lot. It meant I wasn't doing a good enough job, or that what I did do every day was taken for granted or viewed as meaningless. And at first I battled back, because I cared about the company. I didn't give a damn if the system was mine, her's, or the homeless guy's in the car out front - I just wanted it to work. And I KNEW that the new system didn't take everything into consideration and would cause more harm than good.

This happened a few times. Each time got easier, because each time I cared less. I figured out that my obedience was more important than my concern, and realized that a vibrant company cannot be run on such values. Plus, I was finishing school soon and what better time to start a career? So I left.

The career lasted a month-and-a-half. The job was, quite frankly, awful. It was an impossible situation and if you are a prospective employer reading this, I'll be more than happy to explain why in an interview. Otherwise, just know that it was very bad.

So I asked to come back, tail between my legs. I was graciously accepted, and even asked what I could offer the company that I learned in school! Egads! I was given a week to compile a portfolio of sorts, and I was looking forward to putting my schooling to use for the company (and people) I cared about.

So many long stories to make short here. The schooling I ended up using most was what I learned in two classes about Microsoft Excel. What I wanted to do was reduce the constant paranoia of the place by helping create this thing called a budget.

See, there were always spasms of money fears. These resulted in "spending freezes" or mass layoffs. I felt like since I went to school for Finance, graduated Cum Laude (while working full-time, buying a house, remodeling that house, planning and executing a great wedding, having a child), I had some things I could offer the TW.

In fairness, my wife and two brothers work there and perhaps me knowing too much about the finances would cause conflicts. I can understand this thinking, although it is fear-based. What should be known is this; I was once in the break room taking one of the many TW quizzes, when I noticed an unusual sheet at the bottom of the pile. It took two seconds for me to realize that it was a hand-written list of all the employees and what they had made for the previous year. It took me two more seconds to realize that I was getting paid nearly half of what the previous Production Manager made for doing the same job. And it took me two more seconds to destroy it and never talk to anyone about it. In retrospect, perhaps I should've brought this up sooner.

I didn't complain, I didn't slack, and as a matter of fact I was constantly put in a position where I tried to explain why raises weren't coming so often for others. Now you know.

The fact of the matter is I was the perfect person for the job, and yet it never happened. If I were a son, obviously I'd still work there. But more importantly, I am convinced the money troubles that caused my departure would be history. I'm not saying I'd increase sales. I'm saying that there's more to planning the financing of a business than having an accountant. By definition, an accountant counts what already happened. Finance projects. A budget and a Statement of Cash Flows are powerful tools.

I promised I wouldn't get bitter, and I'm sorry if there seemed to be sour grapes here. I want to convey that I am grateful for a lot of things, like the aforementioned flexibility, the opportunity to work with friends, the child-care for Oliver's first two-and-a-half years, the satisfaction of taking a mess and ending with a nicely packed order.

But what may seem like anger is not. It's disappointment. The reason that people stay at the TW is because it is almost perfect. Employees can see perfection on the horizon. They think they can help get there, wherever "there" may be. For me it was helping ease the financial worries.

So close.

My fear today is this - for the first time since I've worked there the crew is going to feel like the possibility of perfection is gone and it's never coming back. And I will say this for myself - I can motivate an demoralized crew. But I am gone. I got in the ship with perfection, and set sail. The place that has given me so much, has paid for my home and wedding and Oliver's healthcare and my car and vacations, it is in trouble. And I can't help it anymore.

By the time you read this, you will have gotten on with your lives. Most likely you are going to work, or school, or another day of retirement. The same as always.

But for me, right now, it is Sunday night. When I wake up tomorrow, I'm not going to work.

We Had It Our Way

Part 2 of a recurring series

This is the first of many disclaimers in this article. Brad Knopp and I were young when we had this job, and therefore did a lot of stupid things. The purpose of this is not to glorify immature behavior. It is simply a documentation of what happened, and most of the things worth writing about from this period are, well, pretty dumb. Are some of the things funny? Yes. Would I do it again? Unfortunately.



Oswego, New York
1993-1994
Booger King*

*For legal reasons, I will not mention the large corporation I worked for by its real name. Perhaps you can put it together yourself?

Strangely, the first job in this series did not involve Brad. Get used to him now. He will be a character that pops up from time to time (Six all together). This story starts with him because he preceded me at Booger King (henceforth BK for short, just thought that sounded good and has nothing to do with the other BK). He got me the job. Sweet Jesus, if only the moron in charge knew what they were getting themselves into! Sadly for said moron, they don't really get to choose from the cream of the crop, so they got Brad and me.

It is time for character development. When I started, I put frozen meat patties on the conveyor belt thing, and their corresponding buns on a lower belt. Yep, that's it. After about 12 seconds, I was ready to move on. I wasn't even particularly driven (I was 16), just not mentally handicapped. However, one person (let's call him John Nettles) was possibly challenged in some way. But he was a genius in school, so it couldn't have been mental. The thing is, he had been there a long time and NEVER moved past the very first job. And he would also call out "sending singles" every time he'd put single hamburgers on. Just in case we didn't see them coming out at 5 feet/hour one minute later. Or needed to warn someone because all of our motor functions suddenly dissipated.

Anyhow, Nettles was an interesting guy. He would talk to me in excruciating detail about the velociraptors from Jurassic Park, even though I told him I'd never seen the movie. It is also possible that we would mock his "sending singles" (his voice was...I can't think of a kind way to describe it - sorry, use your imagination). It is also possible that one time Brad and I teamed up to draw a smiley face in ketchup and mustard on the back of his shirt. He didn't know.

Here comes another disclaimer. One manager, let's call him Paul, was a really cool guy. He was older than us, but cool in his circles which included older brothers of our friends. I appreciate now that he was in a difficult position. He was cool and understood when things were funny, but he was also not 16 and trying to be semi-legitimate.

So it was probably his dilemma that caused him to come out of the office, yell "Knopp, Trent!," only to stifle heavy laughter as he returned to the office. Sorry Paul.

Character development part two. There was a very, very stupid person who worked there. Let's call him Jeff R. Poor Jeff was not smart. Brad convinced him that he was a devil worshiper, to the point of Jeff going out and purchasing some kind of Satanic Bible. Disclaimer: Brad is not particularly proud of this, but insists he was young. Somehow, Jeff was too dumb to balance on one foot. I know, I didn't think that balance and intelligence were related either, but if you knew Jeff you'd know that they are. His lack of balance kept him out of the military. Imagine being rejected by the military?

The best part about Jeff was his gullibility. After he had been at BK for a short period, he asked Brad one day what he was doing. Brad was doing inventory. Jeff wanted to help. Poor Jeff. Brad told him that he needed a count of the ice cubes in the ice cube maker. The mercy killing happened somewhere North of 800. Jeff was not bright.

Employees were not the only victims. Windy's (another burger joint with a similarly spelled name) was next door. They were consistently bombarded with rotten tomatoes. This was especially satisfying in the winter, as entire sheets of snow could be shaken loose, thus plummeting to the sidewalk. Legend also tells of a time that predated me, where an employee went on the roof with a BB gun, and deflated the giant blow-up Windy during Classic Weekend (much more on Classic Weekend later, perhaps even in this post).

And poor customers. There were two particular "favorites" that come to mind. 1. On a Whooper, smashing down the top bun material until it formed a bread bowl. Then filling said bowl with mayonnaise and scraping it level. 2. Injecting the mustard and ketchup bottle tips into the burger, and squeezing. And squeezing. And squeezing some more. Basically, squeezing until the patty itself rose considerably. For both methods, the burger would then be wrapped and served. Somehow, some way, nobody ever complained as far as we know. That is disgusting.

Despite our best efforts, BK was a food establishment. And so we ate there as well. Sometimes we even paid. Most other employees always paid, dearly. If they did not come back to the kitchen and prepare their food themselves, Brad or I would chop the burger, like a pizza, into somewhere between 8 and 32 pieces. Since that wasn't nearly annoying enough, we would then wrap the fragments between 8 and 100 times. We were not interested in reducing, reusing, or recycling at this point in our lives.

We did not pay often (this theme may pop up again at a later job). For example, Brad would build a triple Whooper just the way I liked it. He would then put it in the microwave. Coincidentally, I would happen upon that same microwave moments later. Seeing the ginormous burger inside, I would accidentally drop it down the front of my apron. This really made me have to pee. So I'd go to the bathroom, and while I was already there, I decided that I may as well eat. Another example would involve switching the names Matt and Brad in the above example.

We also quickly learned about shelf-life. Chichen Tenders (perhaps this is normally spelled differently also?) were only good for 2 hours. Hmm...this gave us an idea. If a customer ordered, say, a four-piece, what would happen if we put 50 in the deep-fryer? You guessed it! Forty-six would be "bad" in 2 hours. The rest of this story goes how you might think. Disclaimer: I actually don't feel real bad about this one. I mean, we did this a LOT and no one really noticed? Frankly, that's on management.

BK had microwaves that were not normal. Brad and I are pretty sure that one second of BK microwave equals one minute of any other microwave in the world. And do you know what happens to a burger when it's microwaved for 2 1/2 minutes in a BK microwave? The patty ends up the size of a half-dollar. I know this because I tried messing with the front-end girl by handing her a nuclear hamburger. Sadly for me, the trick didn't work. She must have touched it so briefly that she didn't feel it's burning-emberness, or else she simply deadened her nerve-endings. Either way, that burger went out! Thankfully, it was for a customer who was eating in. So I did the responsible thing and ran to the customer and took his burger away. It was then that the half-dollarness was discovered. Whew!

You must now be wondering how we could have possibly done all this without dying or killing someone else. Sorry to ruin the ending, but neither Brad nor I died. And besides accidentally elbowing a handicapped person in the face (Which instantly caused a yard sale. The items for sale included a hat, bow tie, glasses, burger wrappers, and whatever else she was carrying.), neither of us hurt anyone else, either. But...

When I started, we had a streak of one year without injury. Brad ended that. He was being slightly crazy, jumped up and hit his head on the hood over the oven, and needed to go to the ER for stitches. The next day, I decided to try and start a new streak, and so I sliced my finger half-off cutting a chicken sandwich. Disclaimer: Don't ever go to the Oswego hospital if you're injured. I waited so long that my finger healed before I could get stitches. The doctor even tried opening my cut back up (aggressively), but to no avail. The next day, the streak was extended. But this needs a little set-up.

Greg was our friend, and he was funny. Bud was the Head Manager, and he was lame. Primus had a song called "My Name is Mud" at this time. So of course we would walk around doing the bass part and singing things like: "My name is Bud. I'm the manager at Booger King and I'll be here the rest of my life my name is Bud." And so on. Well, on this fateful day, Greg was performing an especially inspired version of the song, complete with stage moves. Unfortunately for Greg, one of his stage moves was to jump with his "guitar." Remember the hood from Brad's injury? It got Greg, too. Only it knocked him out. Cold. The best part is that he landed propped up against the burger freezer, so he was essentially out sitting straight up. I'm pretty sure that a minute later he asked "what happened," but I was laughing to hard to say with certainty.

Final disclaimer: This is longer than I ever hope to write again. However, there is still more to be told. Brad will insist that I tell the rest. What I really want to know is, are you gonna go my way? No, that's not it. I mean, do you actually want to know more, or are you disgusted by our hi jinks? Let me know, and perhaps the next installment will be about Booger King, as well.

Otherwise, the next installment will be...Little Caesars!

What Have I Done?

Part 1 of a recurring series

Note: Since joining Facebook, I have realized that there is a main question people ask in order to catch up. It is: "What are you doing?" This is code for, "what is your job, are you a loser or not?" I have decided to answer this question one job at a time. Also, I realize there are people who haven't known me since I was 15, so I may as well go back to the beginning. Well, almost. I'll skip the paper routes, and start with my first hourly job.

Oswego, New York
1991?
Grass cutter

Although I'm not sure the exact year, I know I was young. How do I know this? Well, I was paid $3.80 per hour. Yeah, I know, a long time ago. Not as long as one might think, however. See, the minimum wage was $4.25. $3.80 < $4.25. Since this equation is true, therefore I must have been a child laborer. If I was working as a child laborer, I must have been young. (Remember logic proofs, anyone? Clearly they weren't pointless after all.).

I was not deterred by the fact that I was working (perhaps) illegally. I had a job! I got to be outside in the summer, and I was going to cut grass! How tough could it be? This was 1991(?), after all. We had things like lawn mowers. They looked like this:



And for those tough to reach places, borders, or grass against the wall, we had things called weed whackers. They looked like this:



So life is good. I arrive at the city building to be picked up be my crew leader. As I wait, I realize that other people on my crew are actually some of the cooler kids in school. What a great opportunity for me to learn how to be cool! All while cutting grass. Then another cool kid shows up, and it turns out his dad is our leader. This is going to be great.

But alas, as I pile in to the station wagon, I feel a have a strong sense of foreboding. I can't help but notice some strange tools in the back with me. I can't even find pictures of these tools on the internet, but the closest thing I can think of to describe them is like a sickle with teeth, on a broom handle. My suspicion is confirmed when we arrive at the job site and there is no lawn mower, or weed whacker awaiting any of us. But there are plenty of sickles to go around. Hooray!

So what exactly am I doing for $3.80 per hour? Either going to random places along the road with long grass, or back yards of extremely old people, and hacking away until the grass looks very similar to the way it started. It was like cutting hair with a butter knife. In all honesty, I would've had better luck getting down on all fours with a long spool of weed whacker string, and whipping away for 8 hours. On the bright side we were provided with gloves. Sadly, they were the same thin cloth gloves that old ladies use in the garden to keep their hands clean. But at least I didn't have gigantic blisters until 30 minutes in to my shift. And the crappy gloves kept those blisters from bursting until (sometimes) midday! So that was neat.

On the bright side, we did have some adventures. Like the ancient lady's backyard. Apparently this woman hadn't mowed her lawn in 15 years. Plus, she had the worst collection of neighbors possible, since no one either noticed or cared enough to help out. And why would they, when the city was eventually going to send in a bunch of people who were in utero the last time the old bat made it to the backyard? And do so for wages that Third-World children would scoff at.



So here we are, in this inner, inner city, inner city wilderness (Flight of the Conchords people. Trust me, this is funny. And if you don't believe me, Kira will confirm it in the comment section. Which, by the way, I encourage all of you to take part in. While your at it, become a follower. All you have to do is put in your email address and password. You won't even get emails unless you tell me so!). We have been whacking away for most of the day, and have succeeded in actually knocking some of the taller grass over. And so down a pathway of beat up grass, I see commotion near a fence. A crew member has discovered a toad! You know how 20 Questions always starts with, "Is it bigger than a bread box?" Well, if the answer was this toad, then I would have to say "I don't know." Besides, is there a standard bread box size? Is there a federation who has determined that it is 18x10x8? If so, then I still don't know. What I do know is that when Jeremy picked it up, it took a leak on him that could fill any size bread box. It was amazing.

Sadly, I could not bask in this glory for too much longer. Within minutes, other members of the crew working near the house disturbed a colony of bees. I think they were my age, since they hadn't been disturbed in so long. For some reason, one of these giant teenage bees decided to make its way across the "lawn," land directly between my eyes, and sting me into sleepiness. I went home. Thank you bee.

My favorite adventure was when we were at a park, and knocking over an area underneath some trees. This was very close to Lake Ontario, a place where some people may have partied over the years. And had many, many cheap and disgusting beers confiscated by the police. However, Lady Luck was on our side this day. We unearthed and ancient beer specimen with our (not even close to sharp) sickles. Only the top was above ground. Again, good eye Jeremy! After some frantic digging, the prize was held aloft. It was dirty, and very old, but it was BEER! (We were still 15). So Jeremy did the sensible thing and chugged it.

Stay tuned for the second installment, the Burger King year...