Tag Archives: millennials

Mastering the Art of Selling a Glass of Water to a Hipster

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Happy New Year, Smiley Faces, Tongues Hanging Out, Hearts For Eyes, and you all other round faced emoticons, especially you, Eyes Closed Cheeks Blushing ❤ (call me)

I know! Already over half January down the pipe so the new year is already yesterday’s news but I still feel like I’ve been frozen in time since I threw out my Christmas tree last weekend. That was a sad day because Freddy and his fish friend, Frankie, went back to school on the Greyhound that day. I hate it when he leaves because then I go into an existential funk. Also I have a very bad lingering cold so I haven’t been on Tinder either (my nasal passages are blocked!) so new stories to report but I have been on the job prowl (new year, new me, hahahahaha, same fucking shit, same old boring ass me) and I think you’ll groove to this interview I went on last week.

I found this job posting for a “start-up” company  which is in sales, I want to hone my pitchman skills. I think being able to sell is a great trait in all aspects of life no matter what kind of job you have, including dating and relationships, we’ll talk about that in the future.  Anyway this job is selling space to realtors on a website  that allows them to farm their chosen neighbourhood with free local business ads and sale promotions. The internet is chock full of website clickety click clackery and fuck knows what is smart and clever from what is funded by somebody’s dad and the cocaine dreams that only a millennial with a weed pop in his mouth could come up with when “adulting.”

And I put “start up” in italics because that was how they advertised themselves. “Start-up” always sounds genius and sexy no matter what. Exposed brick loft offices with a beer fridge and bean bag nap chairs and a low maintenance dog that mostly sleeps and wanders around occasionally for petting purposes. Team building parties where you get to throw axes. Loosey goosey time clocks. Sweat pants. Swearing. Probably even farting at some point.

I applied to the job and had phone interview with one of the two owners. She seemed nice and we role played me selling her something, anything, the first thing that comes to mind. I just parked the car so I ended up selling her the Green Parking phone app because now there’s no excuse for getting parking tickets. You just pay for street parking on your phone by punching in the meter’s code number.You want to stop for ramen after shopping and need an extra hour?  Easy peasy, you add more time on the phone app wherever you are, and when the parking gremlin punches in your license plate, it shows you’re golden even without having to put a ticket on your dashboard. Somehow we’ll be paying for the lost revenue in taxes or road tolls (!) but it really does feel good to renew your license and there’s no forgotten tickets on your annual fee. Sold! She said.

She invited me to the next step, a “mixer” which is like a group interview with food and booze. “To see if you fit in with the family.” As long as there’s booze I’ll fit in anywhere, pretty much. The family could be the Carleones or the Mansons and I would be cool with a cocktail. So I think.

The Glassdoor-dot-com employee reviews of this company are a mixed bag though. Raves: “Best place I’ve ever worked!””The only complaint I have is there’s no office dog!” Some of them are scathing: “Run, don’t walk!” “Slave drivers!” “They don’t pay you!” “Those good reviews are fake reviews!”

These are the red flags I ignore for you people, my readers, because I love you so. One day I’ll tell you about the massive red flag role playing Tinder date I had but I’m still recovering emotionally from it. Anyway, red flags =  blog fodder. I’m in. Also the pay is great, if they actually pay.

The job ad describes the website as being a cross between Yelp and Groupon which, when I peruse it, makes no sense at all. For one thing, it looks like a template of some website from the mid aughts, kind of corporate and confusing to navigate.  Basically the concept is to get realtors to purchase annually for $5000 his/her business card on the page of the neighbourhood you choose to click on. Only one realtor per neighbourhood. It is up to that realtor to go out and drum up local businesses to advertise (for free). Amazing right? The realtors pay a hunk of money for cyberspace but they also have to do all the goddamn grunt work. You know they can do this perfectly well on their own websites and farm all the neighbourhoods they want and prolly get a better optimization of search engines, even organically. Talk about modern day snake oil.

So for research, I looked up my neighbourhood on Google to see where the website would come up (page 6! Much scrolling after Yelp and dozens of other actual realtor sites) so when I clicked on it, lo and behold, there was a picture of some hapless realtor on one side of the page and the other, a coffee shop was having a free refill for every muffin purchase. One fucking coffee shop. Whoa. A cross between Yelp and Groupon? More accurately like if Yelp and Groupon smoked crack all day and passed out on a park bench. The only thing to do here is to just scroll on by, you have no reason to look at that shit.

Anyway, a mixer! What fun. I’m sure to be the oldest bat there based on their youtube video their CEO made about work culture. So fucking fun! He F-bombs on camera as he passes all the employees sprawled out on the bean bag chairs I accurately imagined.

The mixer started at 5:30 in the twee neighbourhood of Liberty Village. For those who live in Toronto, you know what I’m talking about “twee” but if you don’t, the is  chunk of no man’s land west of the downtown core if Disney designed Hipsterland. Old warehouse buildings and brew pubs and cobblestone roads and the usual Stone Henge formation of condo high rises looming over, spoiling the view. It just tries too hard. Luckily I found parking at a Green P! So I used my app at the exact 2 hour mark that the mixer promised to last. If it went longer, I could add more money….see isn’t that clever?

I find the fucking place, I say that with annoyance because there were multiple entrances to the building and some of them led nowhere and even when I got to the right place I was sweaty and dry mouthed, this is my bronchitis witching hour. I’m pretty sure there’s not enough saliva in my mouth to form a hello.

So yeah, as I predicted, I was the oldest person there. And I’m using the word “person” loosely because this is precisely the kind of social anxiety riddled situation where I go out-of-body and become some kind of robotized version of a human lady. I walked in the office and everyone was already mixing, with beers in hand and name tags on. It was loud and people were already yelling. Most of the employees were there, 15 or so. Someone hands me a warm bottle of Stella for which I am grateful because my mouth just made glue. Glurgh.

We mingle for a few minutes. It’s a bro club, there are only 2 women, one of them is the owner, a haughty blond babe, the one I spoke to on the phone, and the other is an Asian girl. She stands out. More on her later. Everyone else is a white dude under 30. There are 8 of us, the potential recruits, 3 women including my old ass, and 5 bro-lings, 4 of them you could easily set free in that fish tank and they would fit in swimmingly. One of those dudes, not so much. He is awkward and talks a lot. He’s telling us about how lucky he was to have a pair of corduroys in his car for the interview because he lives 2 hours away. Oy, can you imagine having to commute 2 hours a day to get to work for 8 and leave at 7? Oh yes, those are the hours, it’s an 11 hour day. You might as well sleep on the park bench outside the building.

One of the women candidates is a tiny, pretty Indian woman, maybe mid-thirties. She’s talking the most and the loudest. She was a dancer and she let us all know it. “I’M A DANCER!” she said swirling around the room randomly. I’m not kidding, it actually happened.

So the CEO dude finally wrangled this mess into order and told us all we would be “speed dating” with the employees and himself. So each of us 8 folk would go from station to station and have 4 minutes to talk about whatever we wanted and then switch. You might think this is weird but I think it’s brilliant and I like one-on-one, not those circle jerks where one person hogs the floor, talking in tangents, and you know that Tiny Dancer had the attention whore qualities for type of shenanigan. There’s more employees than candidates so some of us will be doubled up, the CEO explains, and Tiny Dancer yells out: “I LOVE  THREESOMES!” Oy.

I breeze through the first 3 dudes and do most of the asking of questions because that’s how I’m wired. One guy is British! He’s on Tinder! But he has no time to actually date because he is always at work! Another dude loves working there and even goes in on the weekend! One guy is very good-looking and asks me the first three things I do when I wake up. I’m like whoa. Do you really want to know? We laugh and talk about my tattoo instead. I would totally date him.

The fourth speed date is the CEO, the F-bombing dude from the youtube video. I’m in total date mode by this time and he’s the kind of guy who thinks he’s cooler than he is in an ironic way, somehow, it’s tricky to explain, it’s almost like a snake eating its own tail. Prolly on his Tinder profile, he describes himself as a “geek” because some girl he wanted to smash lied to him in second year uni when he tried to lose his virginity and told him geeks are sexy but she has boyfriend (not really) so they didn’t actually do it because geeks aren’t that sexy (depends on the geek tho). Don’t cry for him, he got’er done finally in third year with her roommate. He really thinks of himself as a cocksmith. But he’s really a garden variety nerd/ hipster hybrid. You know that kind of dude? Not. My. Type.

He’s in his office, not a cubicle, and we say hi and then he says to me: “Sell me this glass of water and you have one minute.” First of all, what fucking glass of water? Oops, he pulls  it out from behind him and sets it on the table in front of me. Jesus Christ, is he really asking this? It’s sooooooooo cliche.

There’s a partially finished puzzle on the table. My Rain Man instincts are taking over and I just want to hunker down and put the pieces together. But first I want to set this hipster Glen Garry Glen Ross operation on fire and see how many glasses of water I can sell this Geek.

But I comply. I ask him how much water he drinks in a day? 2 litres (liar). Does he like filtered water? Yes, from a filtered system. OH! Snap! How much do you think you pay per glass? 2 cents. How about if my filter system can save you up to $200 a year? How so? Then I made up some math statistic that my water would come to .04  a glass. I blathered on as my outer-body self hovered over my human lady self and watched me do this and oh, how outer-body laughed. I  downed the last of my warm beer. My minute was up. Ugh.

Next. More bros. We talk about our favourite shows. I don’t have time to watch, one of them says, I’m always here working. But I really like it here, he assures me, why be at home when I can be at work. His nostrils twitch. Huh.

My last speed date is the Asian girl who is doubled up with a bro who is scrolling on his phone. This is extremely rude. So when she asks me a question, I answer her but look at him. He’s completely ignoring me, wearing a ball cap pulled down. I’d like to slap it off his head, go finish the puzzle, THEN burn the place down. The Asian girl is probably the dumbest person on the planet but she’s wearing glasses so she looks smart. This is how our conversation goes:

AG: If a month went by and you weren’t making any sales. What would you do?

Me: Well I understand that you can have off-days or a week now and again but I probably wouldn’t let it get to an entire month. I would want to ask for feedback and further training.

AG: But what would you do?

Me: I understand that you have sales training available her so I would look into it.

AG: (genuinely puzzled by my answer) But what would you do?

Omg. I answered the question did I not? Does she want me to pet her head? This was the point I realized they might not have an office dog but they have an office Asian girl who probably eats less than the average Labradoodle.

After speed dating, we had a group circle time. I almost slunk out but! Someone handed me another beer. These sorts of group discussions are my kryptonite. I am going to shut my pie hole and speak only when spoken to. The only thing I wish is that I Snap Chatted the whole thing because some of it was pure comedy gold, mostly thanks to Tiny Dancer. She’s a snowflake, that one.

CEO: What is your spirit animal?

We go around the room. Amazing that most people are woodland beasts: Bear, wolf, snake, coyote, even I picked an owl, wise and carnivorous. Good answers, good answers. We get to Tiny Dancer. She talks in caps at all times, so it goes like this:  GUYS, GUYS, I’M SORRY BUT I’M NOT JUST ONE ANIMAL. FUCK NO. I’M THREE! FIRST, I’M A BUNNY. (pause). I’M A HORSE (another pause) AAAAAAND I’M A WHITE TIGER! HOO HA! (I swear she said ‘hoo ha” like Al Pacino in “A Scent of a Woman.”)

Okay, at this point I’m looking around the room to find someone who’s eyes I catch so we can roll them together and maybe meet up afterward and have a real drink but no. The dude beside me, the twitchy-nosed employee who spends all his waking hours there, has a note pad, and I’m think he’s going to jot down what a fucking nut bar but no, he starts drawing a bunny, horse, tiger cartoon thing. LIKE HOW CAN YOU BE A WOODLAND, BARNYARD, AND JUNGLE BEAST ALL IN ONE? DOES NOT FUCKING COMPUTE. I can’t hate her for trying and everyone is all enthralled with the explanation of her answer as bunnies are cute, horses are strong, and white tigers are basically unicorns so why not just be cute and say a unicorn which is basically a horse with a horn?

More inane questions, like what would make you work through lunch? What? Mr. Corduroy Pants shut that down quick with his: “I’m on an eating schedule because I’m diabetic.” Good fucking answer, we all nod, then all of us claim to have blood sugar issues as well. But! Tiny Dancer pipes up that she is a foodie! She eats everything! Believe or not! She twirls around and reminds us she is a dancer in case we forgot. But! She will work through lunch so she can afford 3 lobsters instead of 1. Again, I look around the room for a comrade in eye roll and once again, nothing. I’m now dead inside.

The mixer wraps when CEO asks if we have questions. Mr. Corduroy asks what the future of the company is and CEO says expansion! More cities in North America, more countries, and Europe! Also! They are going to target dog walkers. I snort involuntarily. Nobody feels bad about bilking realtors because that commission cash tho….but why dog walkers? He says they are friendly and like to network in their community. Ha! Dog walkers hate people and proof of that is their willingness to pick up dog shit rather than work in a damn office like this one.

Tiny Dancer asks: WHICH ONE OF US ARE YOU GOING TO HIRE? Finally CEO gives her the look I was after, like what an incredulous crazy bitch, and  he hesitates and umms, but she’s persistent: COME ON, WE’RE ALL GROWN UPS, WHICH ONE? You had to love her lack of filter. And who knows, she may have actually been a contender but when she rephrased her question to what 3 qualities were important in a candidate, he said something like trainability, confidence, and drive but seriously folks, look around the room and the answer is under 30, white, and male. Why mess with a winning formula? Right, boys?

Finally, a twentysomething ginger boy asked the most important and pivotal question of the evening: Where is the bathroom? And that’s when I made my Irish exit. Slink right out the door and into the elevator and back in body, old as fuck but happy in my own skin.  So! If you’re looking for a dog walker, call me!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Mastering the Art of Millennialing 

Nobody loves Les Millennials more than I, but I’m getting seriously weary of them. Also, I have to constantly spellcheck how many L’s and N’s there are in “millennial” proves I am failing with age, so annoying.  Let’s just call them “Generation Entitled Bratz,” which would be more fitting, I think sometimes, and then I shut my pie hole because they are our future and I don’t want to be one of those old people who say “in my day” when “my day” wasn’t so long ago in the context of modern history. Seems like just yesterday that I blossomed into puberty at age 14 and eventually bloomed into the beautiful cactus flower I am now.  I can even remember my first tampon, it was made out of balled up synthetic Santa beard material with one of those sharp whale bone applicators that you had to worry about your fertility each time you used them, and then to be warned in the early 1980s about toxic shock but not so worried you would ever go back to a bulky-ass belted pad that would give you a big, bulging camel tongue in those high-waisted denim flares, remember those, my old bitches?  Oy, so wish we had Diva Cups back then, could have gone swimming in a white bikini AND gotten eaten out by the pool boy and no one would be the wiser.

When I’m fraternizing with Les Millz, I borrow their lingo. I don’t let them know that technically speaking, born in 1963, I’m the flying flea escaping the tail end of Baby Boomers, as I was way too young for all the cool LSD trips and groovy hippie festivals. But! I am loath to pretend to be a Generation X because I don’t get the appeal of honky “rap” that is the Beastie Boys AT ALL. I grew up losing my virginity and trying to grasp my sense of adult self whilst enjoying the musical stylings of The Talking Heads, The Cure, and The Smiths. I enjoyed the 90s and the early aughts of Quentin Tarrantino’s heyday until I went into a pop culture coma at some point after they cancelled the O.C. I missed many things and now I do not know who Ariana Grande is from Rita Ora and why is Taylor Swift even famous? Got reborn just recently because there are so many places to get ramen noodles these days, why slip away now. I can Instagram my noodles. I’m Generation Whatevs LOLCats, and if you’re reading this, you probably are too. Here in da clerb, we are all fam. Right? Don’t worry, my children, I would never say that phrase out loud EVER (maybe never).

I gave birth to two of these millians (that’s grammatically cool, right?) and they and all their friends are loads of fun to be around. The millians, also technically known as Generation Y according to Wikipedia are born in the 1980 to the early 2000s so most of them are Of Age now. Fair game, yo. As you know from reading this blog, I am unapologetic that I like to swipe right on “mature” millians (and sometimes their younger brothers) on Tinder so I have a range of millennial insight and understanding in the way their minds work. But! I’m still an interloper. There are so many things I admire because young people are awesome in their enthusiastic view of the world. However! Some things not so much.

For example, the old timey baby boomers who are bosses of  big companies are enamoured to the point of worship with the millennials, “Let’s hire them! They can do things on the computers that we can’t!” And true, many of them are Aspergery as a product of old man’s overripe sperm (pssssst: millians’ parents are Baby Boomers!  Mick Jagger is still spreading seed! Gross! Stop! Don’t get me started on this topic, just because you can, doesn’t mean you should). The hippie generation call their millian spawn “Indigo children” because of their otherworldly “blue aura” which is whatever, eye roll, I don’t judge but *whispers* autism spectrum, most likely. It’s cool though, we need hyper focussed people in society, nothing is more fun for them than cracking binary code. They are precious children who we love even though they can’t let the peas touch the carrots otherwise armageddon and a Big Pharma Ritalin situation ensues.

But the rest of them are just faking it. Geniuses they are not. Sure, they’re nimble with their fingers on their iPhones, all whip doodly, tap, tap, getting their Uber in seconds whilst my ancient gnarly hands try and fish in my purse to get my lipstick but all I can find is a broken tampon that I don’t even need under any type of moon configuration ever again. Tappity tap tap tap, they go, look at me with a puppy filter over my face lol. Jesus Snap-fucking-chat Christ. Why are you doing this?They’re as clueless as the rest of us. “Oh they’re so good at social media!” says Kevin O’Leary, that Canadian Trump wannabe from “Shark Tank.” Are they, Kevin, really? Can these youngsters even spell, let alone construct a sentence? Look up at that conversation I had with that young dude who was half-assedly trying to fulfill his bucket list. He couldn’t even say hi, he just sent me a question mark. I was so annoyed, I trolled him, I don’t feel bad about it at all, my haters. Then he disappeared without a fight. How un-hot. And he’s not a special unicorn or anything whose disappearance makes him seem magical, he’s a common insect. Here’s a typical conversation I have on a dating website on a daily basis:

He (at 9:04 am): Sup

Me, looking the dude’s profile pic over while I start my car and put it into reverse then put my phone down like a responsible driver and to go to (shhhhhhhhhhhh) McDonalds for the (shhhhhhhhhhhhh) breakfast Mc (shhhhhhhhhhh)Muffin where I eat it (shhhhhhhhhhhh) in two inhales in my car. This is the best moment of my day, by the way, and my guiltiest pleasure. I will proudly publicly talk about my ability to squirt now but this McSecret I am confessing is with the greatest of shame. I get the McMuffin with the sausage (shhhhhhh).  Anyway, I click back on the dude’s profile to possibly respond and I have already gotten this:

He (at 9;20 am): I guess not lol.

I GUESS NOT LOL.

I have not even had the chance to say “Whatsup” with an eggplant for a question mark back and I have already been dismissed.

Older men of any other generation, be it this lot: X, Flea, Boomer,  or even a World War 2 war vets, do not say “I guess not lol.” They sit and wait like gentleman. If you don’t respond to their first cockadoodledoo, they don’t take it personally, they keep you on a back burner while they fry a hot little egg on a front burner. They don’t care, they have all the patience in the world because they know meat is better when you brine it off to the side.

My mama just told me a cute story about how she started dating my dad. It was just after the war (WW2, the big one) She was working in a diner and he used to come in and order waffles. He always wore his uniform and was shy and quiet in contrast to my mother’s chatty nature. Ugh, this dude, she thought, why do I have to do all the work here? Hinting and making her interest known like a lady. Finally he asked her to the Saturday night dance and she hesitantly said yes but! She would meet him around the corner from the dance hall. Her fear was that because he was a farmer from the rural part of Manitoba, he would be dressed like a hick and she would stuck with him. So she approached him the other side of the street. If he looked like a hillbilly, she could bolt. But! When she saw him that night, he was wearing a suit and looked super handsome (“He had such a baby face!” I’m a sucker for those too, mama) and so she crossed the street. If these two young peeps in the late 1940s were living by modern times mating rituals, my dad would have sensed her apprehension, shrugged and said, probably under his breath because there was no Internet back then:”I guess not, 23 skidoo.”

And I wouldn’t have be born! And my mother would have tried to make it work out with her boy “friend” who hung out at the bathhouse at night and chased her because he liked the way she walked. “We didn’t know they were gay back then.” She might have had little beard babies. And I wouldn’t have been born! That’s so sad to think about.

As for the millennials in the work place, they seem to have the life span of those shadflies that crash and burn on your car in the spring when you’re driving near lakes and rivers. They move from job to job, they get bored easily, decide to travel and when they come back maybe apply to grad school but then decide it’s too expensive, so they get another job again where they splat again on the windshield.  And then replaced by the same thing. Their value might be a little over-rated and maybe there should be a little more age diversity considered when hiring people is all I’m trying to say. I’ve been keeping track of this one particular “young and hip” digital marketing company that posts regularly on the job boards for various positions, that I have been ignored for of course, and what’s interesting is to read the ratings and comments. Nobody gives them more than one star out of 5 and the comments are “run by kindergartners (sic)” “working here is like being in The Lord of Flies. Unorganized anarchy” and on and on.  Job boards are my porn and this particular company is my Sasha Grey, a great big anal prolapse waiting to happen.

 

Millians, I have noticed, are more sophisticated then any other generation before them. Their first apartments are in downtown highrises with recessed lighting and granite counters. They’ve done things like eaten raw oysters and visited Iceland that the rest of us took our sweet time doing or haven’t done at all.  In the olden days we used to go to “bases” when we dated. Not sure what base was which but a home run was basic starfish missionary for sure. Millians are playing baseball, football, and ancient Greek wrestling all in one night.

They also drink high end liquor. This is what I can’t ever wrap my mind around. They do the pre-drinking at home, yes, that’s what my fellow fleas did back in the 80s, smart hockey, so then you can ride your drunk while nursing a beer at the mosh pit. My mama told me at that Saturday night dance, they used to smuggle in a mickey of gin and pour it into an Orange Crush, even smarter hockey. But these little bitches go to the clerb and order bottle service!!!! What? Another thing, they drink the Grey Goose or Belvedere vodka and they mix it with Diet Coke!!! Are you kidding me. High end vodka, aside from being over-rated and eventually very expensive piss, needs to be sipped with a twist lemon on ice, and shitty regular ass vodka can be mixed with anything clear, soda or tonic, or a citrus or cranberry juice. But Diet Coke??? They probably dump their Hennessy in that shit too. This makes me cry real tears.

Millennial girls have been getting their nails professionally done since they were toddlers. I was pushing forty when I had my first pedicure but these young women are put together by a team of professionals like those bitches on Downton Abbey. One thing about every older generation will balk about is how the younger ones do their eyebrows. Girls of my generation used to pluck their brows with tweezers to a millimetre of their lives so that some never grew back. Our mothers, with their penciled-in Joan Crawford eyebrows, would yell at us. Thankfully I was never that stupid as my natural brows were my thing although occasionally I hear voices and shave them off completely but that’s another story. But what is happening with the millian eyebrows? They need mulitiple tools and 5 different products to craft those disturbing airbrushed looking caterpillars that they post on youtube.

Millians have coined the cute term “adulting.” Like when they do something on their own that seems grown up, they will post it on social media and say something like “Look at me adulting!” It’s a selfie of them at a farmers’ market holding up a bunch of kale. That kale is their storming Normandy and needs to be documented with a hundred hashtags and monitored by how many likes by their hundreds of followers. How does one unremarkable shadfly of a human being get so many followers I will never know, but there you go.

This is a good thing though ultimately. I think millians are way better at making food choices and when they Instagram their meals, it raises the bar a little. I am going have a kale smoothie one day too. Hahahahahahaha, not! Unless it’s called  McKale and it has sausage in it lol.  #eatlikeshit