well, you're in the wrong place.

One of the Project Managers in my office is leaving us to work with another company. As a farewell gesture, we all went to a German “restaurant” down on Venice boardwalk to have lunch and wish our co-worker all the best. (I put restaurant in quotes because no one really goes down there for the cuisine.)

For those of you who don’t know, Venice Boardwalk is the place to go when you want to see “crazy.” All kinds of people are there, from your beach bums to your zoned-out stoner. Add in a mix of out-of-state tourists, and you’ve got the population that walked back and forth in front of us as we sat in the patio area. It was the perfect setting for an oceanside lunch, even if the marine layer was still hovering over our heads.

Suddenly, the PM sitting to my left grabbed a couple of napkins and started wiping the side of his shirt.

“Did a bird just shit on you?” I asked.

“I’m not sure,” he replied.

He pulled up the napkin for inspection, but the stain didn’t even look like bird poop. If anything, it looked like he may have gotten peed on.

Fast forward about thirty minutes: the food has arrived and we’re all digging in. The PM next to me suddenly blurts out, “I think it was a chicken wing.”

I didn’t know what to say except for, “What was a chicken wing?”

“I think someone threw a chicken wing at me.”

Venice Boardwalk has its eclectic mix of characters, but I didn’t think that any of them would stoop so low as to start throwing food at others.

And then we realized the wing probably came from the table of Eastern European tourists sitting behind us. They’d been drinking pitchers of beer, smoking, and ordering numerous plates of appetizers. Further inspection lead us to discover a couple of stray bones in the potted bushes right at the front of the restaurant.

So the next time you find yourself having a meal down by Venice Beach, heed my warning and beware the flying chicken wing.

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I rarely ever watch movies while they’re playing in the theater. With the benefit of being a Netflix member, I just have to wait a few months longer before the movie comes out in DVD form. Which is what I’m doing with the films that were nominated for the Oscars this year.

Bearing this in mind, I’m glad I waited to see “Up in the Air”.

Ryan Bingham stays at a lot of Hilton and Hilton-brand hotels during the film. These are the hotels who provide a place for him to stay after he’s fired dozens of people as he crosses over the globe.

If I had seen this movie while I was unemployed, I think I would have lost it.

Before I was laid off, I worked for Hilton. My company had the courtesy not to hire a third party to announce my termination to my face, but I had complete empathy for the people who were fired. I’m sure my face looked like a third of those who got laid off: disbelief, followed by the emotional breakdown.

Mind you, I’m employed now. I’m still in the probation period, and with the economy being what it is, I’m not 100% confident that I can stay employed and I will not be back in a relationship with the EDD. But I’m in a better place. I can pay my bills. I go outside a little bit more. I’m learning how to socialize with non-internet based people again.

But I’ll be honest. Watching this film was like rubbing the salt ‘n’ sand paper a little bit harder in the wound.

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One of my former co-workers will occasionally send me emails to help me pass the time. More often than not, the contents are about what kind of food was served in the employee cafeteria.

Today’s email read as follows:
dateThu, Feb 4, 2010 at 1:18 PM
subject:lunch
mailed-by:[former servitude].com

Was utterly disgusting! It was roasted chicken and that manoodle – that stomach lining thing. Gross! Ew!

I had to think a few seconds before I realized she was talking about menudo. Had she not mentioned “that stomach lining thing,” I probably would have thought she was talking about the cafeteria’s version of chow mein.

Her response when I corrected her: Menudle, menoodle, man-noodle…whatever! LOL.

Man-noodle. Ew.

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I work less than a quarter of a mile away from LAX. Security (although half-assed by my standards) is pretty tight around here: everyone from managers to the valet drivers have been trained on what to do in case someone or something looks even vaguely suspicious.

TSA used to hold orientation and training sessions for new recruits at my place of employment. (I say used to because their contract expired at the end of last month.) Dozens of people would show up in their street clothing at the start of the week and be in full uniform a week or two later. I wish I could say I felt safer having them in the building, but nothing could be further from the truth.

For one thing, a lot of the people who came for training looked like the people that work at the DMV. For another, they added their own “flair” to their uniformed appearance: cornrows, brightly bleached hair with dark one inch roots, bright lipstick, big pieces of bling, or their bluetooth earpiece wedged in at all times.

Would these people risk their lives to protect us? Or would they hesitate because their chains might set off the metal detector?

The icing on the cake was hearing someone say, “I failed the hand detector test” as I passed by the room. *cough* That is the last thing I ever want to hear come out of a uniformed security person who works in one of the largest international airports in the world.

I should have turned around, saluted that speaker, and said with complete sincerity, “Thank you for keeping us safe.”

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Back in my retail days, my only saving grace was when my manager, Dave, would send me out on a coffee run. That would allow me momentary freedom from being trapped in the store with annoyed customers, anal supervisors, and grumbling sales associates.

Dave would send me to the Coffee Bean on the Farmer’s Market side. There were two Starbucks locations within the vicinity of the store, but most of us would opt to go to the other major coffee chain instead: the coffee was cheaper, it didn’t taste like it had been cremated, and the people behind the counter were friendlier. Add a 10% discount (I think that was to be applied towards FM people, but they’d hook up Grove peeps), and you bet your ass we were there all the time.

I knew it was time for coffee when he’d come by with a five dollar bill. (If we had just been paid, he’d slip in another few bucks so I could get a cup as well.) As he checked me out/watched me do “jazz hands,” Dave would ask for his usual.

“Large drip with four Sugars In The Raw and make it the color of a paper bag.”

I used to laugh at his request for cream, but it proved to be helpful later on.

Once I climbed the ranks of Corporate America to my current position, I found that I had more mundane tasks to complete, coffee runs being one of them. Often times my bosses would request cream in their coffee but would use the terms “a lot” or “just a little bit.” Problem is, one person’s “little bit” is another person’s “a lot.” In order to make a good impression (having just been promoted to the Executive Office), I used Dave’s terminology.

“Would you like your coffee the color of a paper bag?”

My bosses, as well as any other manager within earshot, would look at me with a puzzled expression. Semi-exasperated (my bosses had the fate of 600+ employees in their hands and color references confuse them?!), I’d repeat my statement. As soon as the penny dropped, they would tell me what color they take their coffee.

And here I thought my time spent in retail wouldn’t amount to anything. :p

So thank you, Dave, for providing me with the skill of getting cream and coffee mixes correct. You have prepped me well for my venture into Corporate America.

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