Wegmania!

On Sunday morning, I rose with the morning sun and headed to the grand opening of the Wegmans in the next town over from mine.  Wegmans is kinda like the Disneyland of supermarkets – it’s an experience to shop there.  Who wouldn’t want to have an experience when they’re grocery shopping?!   I was one of many in a line that eventually snaked around the building and down the street waiting for the doors to open.   Unfortunately, my #Wegmania hash tag didn’t catch on in the Twitterverse but that didn’t quell my excitement. 

One of my friends tweeted me and said she was guessing that I was one of Wegmans’ biggest fans. I responded with the truth – not really, I’m just into supermarket grand openings.  I wasn’t really there to shop.  I was just there to be there.  To say – “Yep, I was at the grand opening of the Wegmans.  I came.  I saw.   I was there.“

See, on a summer morning 14 years ago, I was on the other side of a similar set of doors looking out at a similar line snaking around a brand-spanking new supermarket.  It wasn’t a Wegmans.  Nope, my supermarket was Genuardi’s.  If you’re from the Philadelphia suburbs, you’ve heard of Genuardi’s.  Maybe you even shopped at one.  Customer service and quality goods were hallmarks of the Genuardi’s chain and for a long time they set the gold standard for grocery stores in Southeastern Pennsylvania – kinda like the Disneyland of supermarkets (ahem).       

On July 2, 1998, as the Genuardi family opened the doors to Roslyn Store #35 – after the family priest blessed the produce – I was at Register 3, at the ready to scan with gusto, punch in produce look-ups with abandon (4011, 4080,…), and ask the imperative question – “Paper or plastic?”   

It wasn’t my first job but it was the first job that pushed me out into the world.  The seeds of the person I am today were planted and nurtured at Genuardi’s…probably in the floral department where I spent many summer days watering and deadheading flowers.  We were a tight-knit staff – high school and college kids and actual grown-ups – who had fun while we were cashiering, baking, deli slicing, pizza tossing, meat grinding, and melon handling!  There were Halloween parties, Genuardi brothers sightings, picnics, Midnight Madness sales, and, once, we even had the Mummers strut their stuff in the center of our produce department!  For a girl who commuted to college, it was the closest thing I came to a collegiate experience.  And our school colors were black (pants), white (shirt), and green (apron).      

While I didn’t receive a degree from Genuardi’s, I did receive a much-needed education.  I learned that when people hear the word “snow” in the forecast, they will suddenly need more milk, bread, and toilet paper than they know what to do with; I learned how to use a helium tank (and you better believe that comes in handy!); I learned the difference between a geranium and a hydrangea; I learned the joys of the life known as “third shift;” I learned that for every nasty person in the world, there are ten more who are kind and generous; I learned that a manager who believes in you has the potential to change your life.  And I learned that all good things come to an end eventually.

A couple years into my employment, the Genuardi family sold their stores to a larger grocery chain.  That was the beginning of the end – or “21^st Century and decline” as it is referenced in the Genuardi’s Wikipedia article.  Eventually work wasn’t fun anymore.  Work became work.  And that's never a good thing.  Genuardi’s was never the same after that sale, even though it stayed on the supermarket scene.  But late last year, that grocery chain decided to close or sell off the Genuardi’s stores.  By the end of this summer, Genuardi’s will “cease to exist,” leaving behind a legacy of customer service, quality products, and, I imagine, quite a few aprons, and name tags.    

I thought about Genuardi’s a lot while I waited in line for the Wegmans grand opening.  I thought about how lucky I was to experience a grand opening on the other side of the doors.  To be able to say that I had been there.  When they finally take the Genuardi’s sign down at Roslyn Store #35, I hope to be there so I can say “I came.  I saw.  I’m so glad that I worked there.”      

Trunk Show

I’ve been feeling guilty because I haven’t posted anything in almost two weeks.  The truth of the matter is that I’ve been up to no good – I’ve been reading books.  Now that that’s out of my system, I can return to writing.  Why can’t I do both at the same time?  Well, there just aren’t enough hours in the day!  And, um, sometimes my brain can’t handle all the words. 

Now, it’s time to talk about the elephant in the room. 

He's got junk in his trunk!

It’s not just any elephant, see, it’s the Graduate Study Elephant.  It’s my Graduate Study Elephant.  What the heck’s a Graduate Study Elephant?  Stick around and I’ll tell you.

Way back at the beginning of grad school – at orientation, actually – they gave us a big packet of important papers.  You know the kind – a map of the campus, the course catalog, information about parking permits, instructions on how to use the copiers in the library, the school fight song, and a sheet of phone numbers for mental health professionals to contact when the rigors of grad school pushed you over the edge.  Tucked amongst all those important papers was the Graduate Study Elephant.  You were supposed to color it in as you finished each course – coloring in grad school one block at a time.

Now, I don’t know how many of my classmates actually colored in the Graduate Study Elephant but, me?  I ignored all the rest of the information in the packet and focused on that elephant.  Sure, I didn’t know how to operate the copiers in the library and I couldn’t find the financial aid building for a year and half but who cared about that?  I had my Graduate Study Elephant!

At the beginning of each semester, I wrote in the classes that I was taking in each of the little blocks.  1 semester = 3 classes = 3 blocks.  Except for that semester that I took four classes.  And the summer session that I took two classes. 

 

Looking at my Graduate Study Elephant now is like taking a walk down Graduate School Memory Lane.  There are the course codes that used to roll off my tongue like the alphabet.  There’s the Information Access class in which, upon meeting a girl named Laurel, I said, “Your name’s Laurel and I live in Laurel!”  Introductions are not my strong suit.  Luckily, she didn’t think I was crazy and we’re still friends today. For the record, I still live in Laurel and her name is still, well, Laurel.  Then's there's the Information Structure class – um, the catalog class – that I hated with a passion and for which I almost needed the phone numbers of those mental health professionals (and which now, I’m pretty sure is an example of irony at its best.)  And I can’t forget the management class in which I learned that giving small tokens – such as pens – to staff improves morale (and doesn’t that explain a lot!)  Sorry, I could go on and on…

Anyway, at the end of the semester, as soon as my grades were posted and I knew that I had passed, I diligently colored in the blocks.  After completing three semesters and a summer session, after jumping through the hoops that needed to be jumped through, my Graduate Study Elephant was completely colored in.  And I was an official Master of Library Science (but remember, don’t call me a librarian!)

But what happens when there are no more hoops to jump through?  What happens when there are no more blocks to color in? 

Sure, you end up with a feeling of accomplishment.  Not to mention a colorful elephant. 

Then what? 

I think I need to find something else to color in.    

Six Months

When I was 16, I was promoted to Library Page Extraordinaire and went to work in the library basement.  I guess they were so impressed with my ability to hide behind the shelves and read shelve books during my shift that they wanted me to do bigger and better things.  Upon my arrival in the basement, I became Junior Book Pocket Typist.  You remember the pockets at the back of library books with the cards that a sassy librarian would punch with the due date?  My job was to type (on an actual typewriter) the information on the cards and pockets – title, author, Dewey Decimal call number, all that catalog-y stuff – and then cover the books in those clear book covers that make a library book, a library book.

Here’s the thing – I wasn’t the greatest typist.  When I started, I made more typos than I could count, I could never get the lines to align, my pockets were crooked, and my covers weren’t the greatest.  For the first few weeks, I used to take home all the pockets that I messed up that day and throw them out.  I was scared of getting fired embarrassed at how many mistakes I was making.  So, every night I’d stuff my jeans pockets with my book pockets and wonder if I’d ever become a better Junior Book Pocket Typist.  Every night, my mom assured me the next day would be better.  I could only hope.

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Seven months ago, I knew exactly what I was doing when I arrived at work each day.  I was good at my job of “being an archivist,” I was a go to person, and I knew how to get things done.  Sure, I spazzed out every other day once in a while and I could be moody when I got annoyed but overall, things were good.  Besides, I was fun to have around. 

Six months ago, that all changed.  Good bye comfort zone, hello new job.  It’s definitely been a period of adjustment – both personally and professionally.  I’m over the "I don't fit in with these people and I’ll never make friends!!" pity party that I threw myself a few months ago because, quite frankly, who wouldn’t want to be my friend?  (I’m feeling a bit full of myself today!)

Professionally – well, that’s an altogether different matter.  Every day, I whisper the following three pieces of advice to myself –

1.      Courtesy of my friend M. K.  – give myself a year to get used to everything and feel like I know what I’m doing.

2.      Courtesy of my boss – everything’s reversible.*

3.      Courtesy of Pinterest – mistakes are proof that I'm trying. 

Some days it helps.  Some days it doesn’t.  The days that it doesn’t are the days that I treat myself to a great big chocolate cupcake. 

In my new position, I’m responsible for ensuring that all of the descriptions that go into our online catalog meet all of the agency descriptive standards.  One of my colleagues likes to compare our standards to the rules of the road.  Just like there are people who enforce the rules of the road, there are people who enforce the standards.  And I'm one of those people.  But I’m so much nicer than your average traffic cop.

It’s been quite a learning experience.  In addition to learning the ins and outs of the standards, I’ve had to learn to deal with the fact that some people are not going to like what I tell them.  And I've had to learn that although they might not like what I say, it doesn’t mean they don’t like me.  I don't exactly like it when people don't like me. 

There have been some unexpected surprises.  The part of my job that I thought I would hate the most…I actually kinda like.  I get to teach new describers about our standards.  Sure, I’m not over the moon about having to stand in front of people to speak but I have the opportunity to help people navigate the system and write solid descriptions.  I mean, I’m no Mother Theresa but I feel good knowing that I’m helping others.     

Six months in, I’ve had good days and cupcake days.  I’ve made mistakes, I’ve cursed out my computer, and I’ve seriously wondered if I brought a curse to my new office (I blame myself for every technological issue that crops up.  And then there was that East Coast earthquake that I think might’ve been my fault.)  I’ve doubted myself and my abilities and camethisclose to begging for my old comfort zone job back.  But then I remember a 16 year old girl who stuffed all her mistakes in her pockets when she first started a new job.  Her mom was right - the next day was better.  And eventually, that Junior Book Pocket Typist figured it all out.

Give me another six months and I'll let you know how it's going!   

The Postman Cometh, the Postman Go-eth

We are mothers and fathers. And sons and daughters. Who every day go about our lives with duty, honor and pride. And neither snow, nor rain, nor heat, nor gloom of night, nor the winds of change, nor a nation challenged, will stay us from the swift completion of our appointed rounds. Ever.

                                                                               -from a USPS tv commercial

People call it snail mail now.  In this age of instantaneous communication – texting, tweeting, Facebooking, Google Plus-ing – does anyone send a letter anymore?  When you can select online bill pay for every bill you have, do you write a check, put it in a envelope, lick stick a stamp in the right corner, drop it in a mailbox and go along your merry way?

I do.  But I am a mailman’s daughter. 

Mailman, postman, letter carrier, whatever you call them –  they are the men and women who deliver bills, holiday and birthday cards, wedding invitations, more bills, college acceptance letters, condolence cards, magazines, catalogs, and junk mail...oh so much junk mail.  And third class mail.  I know about third class mail because I am a mailman’s daughter.

The United States Postal Service (USPS) is going through some tough times.  It’s broke or getting there.  It’s closing post offices, cutting jobs, possibly cutting back to five day delivery.  The winds of change are blowing.  Oh, how they’re blowing.

My father has been a mailman for almost forty years – the last in a long line of mailmen in our family.  He is 67 years old and walks 8 miles, five days a week, carrying a 75 pound mailbag, to deliver the mail to his customers.  He’s a million mile man with the plaque to prove it.  Kevin Costner, eat your heart out, my dad is a stud.

His work ethic is beyond the pale.  Neither snow, nor rain, nor heat, nor state emergencies keep him from going to work to deliver his mail.  In 1996, the East Coast experienced a fierce blizzard.  Pennsylvania declared a state of emergency – everything was shut down.  My dad walked from our house – through snow drifts – to his post office in the next town because he didn't believe my mother when she told him that everything was closed.  He didn't believe her because the post office, his post office, doesn't close; the mail always goes out, he always goes out.  Just not that day. 

A few years ago, while delivering mail, he tripped and fell on one of his customer's sidewalks.  The mail, along with him, went flying.  Later, he would find out that he broke several ribs.  But right then, after he lay on the ground for a few minutes in pain, he picked himself up and he picked up all those letters, cards, bills, and magazines so that they could get to their intended recipients.  Duty.  Honor.  Pride.  My dad has them in spades. 

He wasn’t the sort of dad who went to school events.  I don’t remember him going to concerts or teacher conferences or back-to-school nights.  But there was one thing he did every school year.  When the school telephone directories came out, he would flip through the pages and tell me which of my classmates lived on his route – Saulino, Herr, the Daniels twins, the Byrds, and on and on.  On more than one occasion, those very classmates came up to me to say, hey, your dad’s my mailman!  Joe the Mailman!  We love him! 

He loves his customers too.  As he walked those million miles, he saw the winds of change on his route.  He delivered the mail while his customers were experiencing vacations (he always held their mail until they returned), births, deaths, divorces, graduations, surgeries.  Whatever’s happening on his route, he usually knows about it. 

But times change.  Routes change.  And he…he is ready for change. 

This past week, my father came home and told my mom that he’s tired of walking.  Neither snow, nor rain, nor heat, nor gloom of night keeps my dad from delivering his mail.  But pain…pain has won out.  He is hurting – too many falls, too few visits to the doctor.  He’s tired of walking with the pain.  So, he’s going to walk away.

The retirement paperwork is being prepared.  There is a countdown.  Soon, Bent Road, Heacock Lane, Maple Avenue, Crescent Lane, Deaver Road, and Deaver Place will be but street names on a map.  Dinner conversations won’t include the words "pivots," "third class mail," "casing the route," or "the mail truck;" they will fade into memories and join names like Barry, Joe Davis, and the Sewerman brothers, along with the name of every single postmaster who has come and gone throughout my dad’s career - whether he could pronounce them or not.      

Joe the Mailman is retiring.  And his daughter could not be prouder. 

Now, go out, buy a book of stamps, and send a letter.  There’s a mailman waiting to deliver it.

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Check in with me in a few months to see how we’re surviving retirement.  Especially since Joe the Retired Mailman is under the crazy belief that he’s going to be spending a lot of time at my house.  

Confessions of the New Kid on the Block

I got some advice when I transferred from Old Unit to New Unit at work.  Just be yourself and you’ll be fine.  That’s not exactly sage advice for a dorky goofball who likes to have a healthy freak out every few days and enjoys random acts of dancing just for the heck of it.  I’m trying to make a good impression here, not frighten people away! 

The fact of the matter is, I’m still the new kid on the block and I don't exactly want people to think I'm a complete Looney Toon in my first month on the job.  As much of a dorky goofball as I am, I do take work seriously and I'm working hard on getting my responsibilites down.  There’s a lot to learn and it’s very different from what I’m used to.  But I’m learning and I’m adjusting.  So, that's fine.  The bigger adjustment I've had to make is to the culture of the New Unit.  It is so different from Old Unit that some days I feel like I wandered to the wrong side, a side where dorky goofballs don't work.   

The most striking difference between Old Unit and New Unit is the quietness.  Even the hallways are quiet.  Sometimes, when I go to the ladies room, I feel like I’m out of class without a hall pass.  On the other side of the building, where Old Unit is, the hallways bustle with life.  There was always someone on their way to some place, usually a stack to pull or process records.  There was always someone to wave to and say, hey, nice Crocs!  Office suites were the scenes of lively discourse about archival theory (original order is for hacks), lack of supplies (no legal folders again?!), or actual New Kid on the Block Jonathan Knight’s homosexuality (okay, that was just me…I was clueless!)  I don’t know where the discoursing is happening in New Unit.  Do they discourse?  Do they disco?  I don’t know!  No one’s in the hallway to ask!

Another huge difference is that many colleagues in New Unit have children.  In Old Unit, you were the exception if you had kids (I can count the number of parents on one hand).  In New Unit, it seems like you’re the exception if you don’t have kids.  I was kinda half-worried that I’d transfer units and all of a sudden a kid would pop out.  So far, so good…but I’ll let you know in about nine months.  Now, my colleagues aren’t talking about their kids all the time but they do occasionally, and well, it’s hard to relate.  I guess I could share stories about my cat.  Because everyone wants to hear cat stories.  Actually, maybe it’s not that hard to relate.  Yesterday, someone was talking about their kid being cranky if she doesn’t take a nap.  I know EXACTLY how that little girl feels!  I need my naps too.  For the record, I’m not adverse to children, I’m just not comfortable around them - I’m always worried that I’ll drop one.  My aunt dropped me when I was a baby; well, that actually explains a lot.          

A difference that I really like is that New Unit has parties!  In the three weeks that I’ve been there, they’ve had two!  That never happened in my old unit!  At yesterday’s party (for two graduating coworkers), they had Georgetown Cupcakes.  How awesome is that?  And there’s gonna be another party later in the month for people with birthdays in May.  Fun, right?!

While I enjoyed the party yesterday, my feelings of new kid on the blockness made me sad.  Not because I was feeling left out or anything.  No, it was because something was said that made me want to dance.  "Krazy Kabob."  Doesn’t that just make you giggly and happy and dancey?  And it’s alliteration which just makes you need to dance more!  So, there I was, listening to a conversation about Krazy Kabob and all my nerve endings were tingling with the desire to jump up and do a little jig or at least to wave some Sassy Hands.  In Old Unit, if someone like TopChef said that within my earshot, I would’ve, for sure, done a little two-step, maybe a hip thrust, or even a little shimmy swivel if I was feeling daring.  People would’ve looked at me like I was a dorky goofball (or a goofy dork) and it would’ve been okay because well, that’s who I am.

Yesterday, I suppressed the urge to dance because I'm the new kid on the block and I didn't want people to think I was a dorky goofball.  And that's not who I really am.     

I can’t wait for the new kid on the block feeling to go away.  Because I really like to dance like a dorky goofball. 

On the Feel Good Side of Leaving

I love reading my horoscope but ever since they downgraded Pluto’s planetary status, Jupiter moved into retrograde, and they redid the astrological star chart, I can’t figure out what my sign is so I just read all of them and pick the one that sounds best.  Given all that, maybe I should just stick with Chinese fortune cookies.

A couple of years ago, after finishing one of my first major projects at work, I kept mulling over what I could’ve or should’ve done better or differently.  I happened to order some Chinese food one night and this is the fortune I got in my cookie:

I’ve had it hanging up in my cubicle ever since to remind me that I can learn something new every day and use those experiences to encourage me to do better or become a better whatever (but not a better bed wetter!) 

Today was my last day at my (old) job.  The past couple of weeks have been a little crazy and a little bittersweet but tonight, in the words of Hootie’s gone-country Darius Rucker, I’m on the feel good side of leaving (and I swear it has nothing to do with the margarita!)  I start my new job on Monday.   

When I wrote my post about accepting my new position, my mom told me that she was a little concerned because I ended it with “I think I’m ready.”  She said it didn’t sound like I was sure of my decision.  It sounded fine to me but when you start blogging about your life, your mom apparently gets to give you editorial feedback.  So, Mom and everyone else…while I’m a little sad, a lot excited, and somewhat nervous, I’m most definitely ready.  And the Chinese fortune cookie gods must think so too.  A few nights after accepting my job offer, I got this fortune:

     

Yeah, I think so too.  But the GPS is in the car just in case! 

The Job I Didn’t Get and the One I Didn’t Take

I tutored a student from Korea once and she told me that in Korea, unlike in America, “13” is a lucky number.  “13” has always held special significance for me…my first apartment was #13, my bank account ends in 13, there are 13 Denises at my work, and there are 13 in a baker’s dozen and who doesn’t love an extra cookie now and then?  A couple of weeks ago, I interviewed for a new position at the federal agency where I work.  It’s a position that involves increased responsibilities, challenging and exciting projects, and, oh yeah, it’s a 13.  That’s a grade level in the government’s GS system.  In my agency, a 13 is like the brass ring, it puts you on the road to “management,” not to mention a cubicle with a window, or at least a cubicle where you can get cell phone reception.  I threw my hat into the ring so that I could get practice interviewing.  Friday morning, my phone rang. 

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I started working at my federal agency while I was a student in grad school.  It was where I wanted to work and I didn’t care that my job was as low on the professional hierarchy as you could get…I was in.  I didn't even have a cubicle when I started and when I finally got one, it was the tiniest one you could imagine.  And I had to share it! 

I eventually applied for a permanent position, not much higher than the temporary position I had as a student but it was a step closer to my chosen career.  Everyone was sure that I would get it.  But I didn’t.  And I was devastated.  Think of the worse break-up you’ve ever had and multiply it by 100.  I went home and sobbed and then called my mom and sobbed some more.  That experience taught me a valuable lesson:  never get yourself excited about a job, especially if your fate lies in the hands of someone in St. Louis.  (I don’t have anything against St. Louis, that’s just where our HR department is located.)  It turns out - not getting that job was the best thing that ever happened to me.  I ended up getting another position that ultimately led to the job…the career…that I have now. 

A couple of years ago, I applied for another job in a different part of our agency (the Presidential Libraries part…for the newest library in Texas.)  I interviewed with a scary formidable lady who was half-deaf and who kept asking me to speak up.  I kept silently telling her that she should turn her hearing aid up (note – hearing aid humor is totally acceptable if one, in fact, wears a hearing aid oneself.)  A few weeks later, I received a job offer.  I pretty much knew during the interview that the job wasn’t right for me.  But there was a part of me that thought, if I move to Texas, my life will change, everything will be awesome, and my cubicle will be huge (everything's bigger in Texas, right?) 

When I talked to my then-supervisor, SuperJ, about taking the job, he said to me, “You think you’re going to get off that plane and there’s going to be a cowboy waiting for you with a sign that says here I am, welcome to your new life.”  It’s a testament to how well SuperJ knows me that he knew a) I would expect a cowboy to be waiting for me and b) I would expect that cowboy to be holding a sign.    

And he knew what my gut was telling me the whole time.  Moving to Texas was less about taking a job and more about changing my life.  But just because you change your location doesn’t mean you change your life.  I didn’t take that job.  And that was one of the greatest decisions I’ve ever made.  I’ve grown up and grown more as a person, I’ve gotten better at what I do, I’m braver when faced with challenges, and I’m not expecting any sign-holding cowboys to change my life for me anymore. 

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Friday morning, my phone rang.  I was offered that lucky 13 position.  My friends/coworkers/therapists may not have believed me, but I was truly shocked.  I never expected to get a job offer.  Now, I had a big decision to make.  Keep doing the work that I'm passionate about or strike out and do something new.  It is the year of adventurous Denise after all.  I promised myself I'd always tell you (my loyal readership) the truth, so I’ll admit it, I totally freaked out (the Valley Girl homage is totally for you, SuperJ).  There might was some hand flailing and panicking.  I received advice, solicited and otherwise, from trusted colleagues, including Respected Pal Who Knew Me When I Was in a Tiny Cubicle.  He went through all of my options with me and then gave me the best advice of all, take the weekend to mull things over and think about what I really wanted.  So, that’s what I did.  I went home and tuned out all the other voices and opinions and I listened to the one voice that I need to listen to more often.  My own. 

And while I did not wallow (as instructed by TopChef), I did develop one helluva case of stress pee.