The Intern.

There are so many wonderful things I’ve taken from Seinfeld – hundreds and thousands of life lessons that I’ve internalized and incorporated in my day to day life. When I first started work, for example, I was getting slammed with stuff do. It seemed like every time I turned around, there were three new projects waiting for me at my desk. Reaching a breaking point late one evening, I tapped into the wisdom of George Costanza. I whipped off the chipper grin I had been forcing over my usual grumpy disposition, and started acting extremely irritated. When I knew others were looking at me, I would shake my head furiously and pull at my hair. My stride became rapid and arm movement frantic, even when just getting up to get a glass of water. When people asked me how I was doing, instead of responding I would just sigh and shake my head. And frankly, it worked like magic.

Soon my desk was empty. When coworkers would ask me to do something, they would always preface it with “I’m so sorry to do this to you, but…” Even the simplest tasks became “Oh, Chris, I’m so sorry, I know you’re super swamped, but, whenever you get a free second, could you move your chair off my purse?”

After a show stopping performance one afternoon, my boss asked me to come into her office. She pulled up a chair next to mine, put her hand on my shoulder and said “Are you doing okay? You seemed stressed out.”

I thought to myself, oh shit, maybe I’ve taken this too far. I responded “No, I’m really fine…”
My boss interrupted. “It’s okay Chris, you don’t have to pretend. I understand that we’ve given you too much work,”
“No, I mean, really...It’s…”
“I think we should get you some help in here. How about bringing on an intern?”
“No but….” and then it hit me. An intern? An intern would be AWESOME. It would be like having my own personal assistant, albeit an unpaid one. “…An intern would be a huge help, because I’m just so swamped.”

So, I began my search for an intern. I posted want ads on college websites and craigslist. My hopes were high, but the responses trickled in slowly. I waited, but after ten responses, it looked like no more were coming in. So with only ten resumes in my hand (one including the phrase “I read you…Now you READ ME!!!!!”), I started calling people in for interviews. And they were a motley crew for sure. In my head I had pictured a group of dewy eyed college students, with their little sweaters tied around their waist and their book bags hanging off one shoulder. What I got was a bunch of out-of-work fashionistas, who either misunderstood what I was looking for, or who frankly scared the shit out of me. Out of the ten resumes I received, only seven made appointments to come in for an interview. Of those seven, only five showed up, and of those five, three of them were older than me. Much older than me.

One of the interviewees was about thirty five. He was dressed in all black, and when he sat down, he handed me a revised resume which included “professional vampire” under experience. When I asked him about it, he responded “it’s really more lucrative than you would think.”

And that’s when I gave up.

It was obvious I wasn’t going to find an intern from this rubble of disaster. There were a few that were decent, but after they came in my co-workers said things like “Make sure you’re absolutely in love with the person before you hire them….” We would stare at each other for an awkward length of time, and then they would continue with “you know what I’m saying?”

I did know what they were saying…no girls in lavender jump suits.

So I let the intern thing fade away, hoping my boss would forget about it so that we could all move on with our lives. It worked for awhile too, until one day, while eating lunch, she stopped in mid sentence and said “WAIT, what happened with you getting an intern?”

“Oh…that” I shifted uncomfortably. “I didn’t really like any of the people I interviewed.”
“So you’re just going to give up? That’s it? One vampire and you’re calling it quits?”

Suddenly, what was supposed to be helpful became just another task. I sat down at my computer and decided that I was going to knock this intern shit out. I revised my want ad, inserting explosive adjectives and strings of explanation points. “AWESOME intern wanted at BREATH-TAKING artist management agency!!!!!”

The second time, the applications came pouring in. I had so many I didn’t know what to do with myself. I immediately started calling people in for interviews, and let me tell you, this group was leaps and bounds better than the first. I had found my dewy college students once and for all. Out of the first round of ten people I brought in, I found the one I wanted. She was perfect. Cute, funny, intelligent, not crazy...she seemed to have it all.

I called her so i could tell her she was hired, but she didn’t answer. I left a message, but didn’t get a response. I sent an email, just in case her phone had been acting funny. Two weeks later, and still nothing. My boss started asking me “so where’s this intern of yours…” I was getting nervous that I would have to start all over again, when finally she contacted me. “Sorry,” she said. “I’ve been in Australia.”

This initial ordeal should have been some sort of warning, but I decided that travel was an acceptable excuse for not returning my phone calls.

The night before she was to start, I tossed in bed all night, dreaming of things I was going to have my intern do. Maybe I would take up drinking coffee, just to make her go and get it. Maybe she could organize the post-its on my desk in a more pleasing fashion. Maybe I could make her walk to Brooklyn to get me cheesecake from Junior’s. The possibilities were endless.

The day she started was a little awkward, but fine. I overlooked the fact that she was 20 minutes late, and hopefully she overlooked the fact that my zipper was down. It was a busy morning, so instead of giving her a lengthy introduction, I just kind of threw her into it. And she did pretty well, considering.

The second day, I found a voice message waiting for me at my desk. It was the intern. “I’m so sorry, but I actually have a really bad cold and can’t leave my bed this morning. Very sorry. See you tomorrow.” I decided to tell no one, knowing fully well what they would say. “Your intern is sick on the second day of work? I don’t know Chris…doesn’t sound like you picked a winner.”

The third day she arrived, again 20 minutes late (and again my zipper was down). She settled down quickly and got to work. Around noon, she stood up and gathered up her stuff. “Do you mind if I run out for lunch?”
“Of course not,” I responded. “Go get some food.”

An hour later, my boss asked me “what happened to your intern?”
I responded “Oh, she went out for lunch.”
“How long ago” she asked.
“Uh…about…twenty minutes ago”
“You’re lying to me, aren’t you” my boss asked.
“No...” I said. “…maybe”

After an hour and half passed, my boss returned to my desk. “Still gone?” she asked. “She’s not coming back.”
“Maybe there was a long line. Maybe she’s having really terrible service.”

Around 4pm, I was ready to admit that my intern was not coming back. It was about this time when my coworkers and I started blaming each other for her departure.

My boss blamed me. “She probably hated it here because you didn’t feed her lunch on the first day!”
“Well, maybe if Ruby hadn’t played Cat Stevens all damn morning…” I responded.
“Don’t blame me!” Ruby joined. “I’m sure Nicole talking to her about American Idol for 20 minutes didn’t help.”
“I like American Idol…” Nicole trailed off.

I decided that it was time to let the intern go. I announced to the office that no matter who caused her to leave, she was done. Completely afraid of confrontation, I selected email as the best method. The problem was I forgot to email her before I left work on Friday. The whole weekend past, and it was Sunday night before I realized my error. I quickly signed onto my work account from home and sent her an email, hoping that she would get it before Monday morning.

Monday morning came, and the first thing my boss said was “so you fired your intern?”
“Yeah, I sent her an email” I said.

And then, for the first time since she started, my intern arrived right on time. She walked in, all smiles and sat down right in front of me. Nicole and Ruby both turned towards me with looks of wild amusement, and feeling my face turn bright red, I stared down at my desk. I felt panic run through me like a train. I hate confrontation more than anything. I reviewed my options in my head. I could just ignore the fact that I had, apparently unannounced to her, fired her. We could just act like everything was normal. Sure, it might be awkward when she gets the email and realizes that she was fired weeks before. But what about my boss? It was doubtful that she would be down with the whole charade. I had face up to the fact that there was only one option. I had to fire her then and there.

I pulled her aside into my boss’s office and sat her down. “So…what happened last Friday?” I asked her.
“Oh…” the intern looked around awkwardly. “Was I not supposed to leave? I thought you knew that I was leaving for the day. I’m sorry, was that bad?”
“Um…well, when you left, I assumed that you weren’t really serious about this whole internship. So, I kind of already fired you. In an email. Which you apparently haven’t gotten yet.”
“Oh…” my intern responded. “Wow, so this is awkward, isn’t it?”
“Yeah,” I said. I could hear my coworkers fighting laughter in the background.

So my intern and I had a long heart to heart. She apologized profusely, and I offered her a second chance if she promised me she was serious about it. When I was finished, my boss pulled me aside and told me she was proud of me. “You handled that really well,” she told me. “I was impressed.” And frankly, I was proud of myself too. I felt like my intern had really bonded. Sure, the first week had been rough. She hadn’t been the best intern, but I hadn’t exactly been the best boss either. No, we were both to blame, and a lack of communication was chief component. But there we were, just two weeks ago, in my boss’s office, hashing it out. At the end of our frank discussion, we both left feeling a little better about ourselves. We were a team, she and I, and together we could conquer anything.

And then last week, she called in sick. Twice.

The End

Waffle Must Die, Part III…

The Battle for the Bathroom

In the last installment, our brave warrior friends valiantly challenged the evil and mighty rodent gang that dwelled within their abode. The cohesive mouse-unit, in which they dubbed “Waffle”, evaded their many traps, leaving our friends weary and heavy-hearted. But just when they were ready to accept defeat, they faced Waffle one more time in the epic Conflict for the Countertops. They emerged victorious, mightily slaughtering three of the Waffle unit. But just when they thought the war was over…

It had been months since we had seen any of our mousey friends. Rumor in the building was that the landlord had finally caved and called an exterminator. Katy and I believed it, ignoring all logical signs that pointed to the contraire. Then, in one night, our delusion was yet again shattered. As I was getting ready for bed, I walked into the bathroom to brush my teeth. As soon as I opened the door, my eyes immediately fixed on a tiny black furball that ran across the floor. Needless to say, I screamed like a woman.

Katy shouted sassy from her room…something like “did you find another grey hair?” or “that’s Icyhot! The KY is in the 2nd drawer” –I don’t exactly remember what. I don’t really remember what I said either, but it was something along the lines of “MICE! THE MICE ARE BACK!” – not very clever, I know.

Katy and I were both beyond ourselves. The thought of more mouse traps littered across our apartment made me sick. I had had my fill of sweeping broken little mouse bodies into trash cans, and throwing mouse-halves out the window no longer amused me. My solution was to simply forget about it and continue on living in my delusional world.

The next afternoon, my friend Bryan and I were sitting in the living room while Katy showered down the hall. I thought I heard some funny noise come from the bathroom, much like two screams…followed by a third a few moments later. I asked Bryan, “Did you hear that? Was that Katy screaming?”

Bryan replied, “I’m pretty sure it was a car back firing.”

Seconds later I heard the pitter-patter of little wet feet coming rapidly towards me. Katy came running from the bathroom, sopping wet and partially wrapped in a towel that was much too small for her. With water pouring off her, she stopped next to the couch where we sat. I looked up at her and jumped back…on account of her resemblance to the little girl from the Ring, which was uncanny.

“You will never fucking believe what just happened.”

Now, I should say that Katy, unlike many women, usually can shower in ten minutes or less – except on Saturdays. On Saturday, Katy kicks back and takes her time, letting the time pass by as she dreams of Pete Wentz or any number of the Hansons. On this particular morning, she had just concluded one such Hanson shower. Feeling relaxed and rejuvenated, she threw back the shower curtain and grabbed her towel off the basket she had laid it upon. However, as she wrapped it around herself, she noticed a small dark object fall off it. Her first thought was “who the fuck shat on my towel?” but she quickly realized that no one shat on her towel. It was the mouse.

The thought of having a mouse burrowing into your towel must be upsetting enough. She quickly tossed her towel across the room, letting out two quick screams. Standing there, wet, frightened, and naked, she took a second to recollect herself. It was at this point when she realized that the mouse was standing there in the bathtub with her. Cue third scream.

Having not been there myself, I can only imagine it being like that shower scene from Psycho. I imagine that next, Katy made an ungraceful yet swift jump out of the tub. She most likely grabbed the first towel-like object she could find (in this case, an oversized hand towel), and ran straight to the couch where I was sitting.

She blurted out this story to us, and Bryan and I looked at each other in disbelief.

“Does that mean…” Bryan asked, “That the mouse is still in the tub?”

“Well yeah. He can’t get out.”

I, being a true hero, was the first to say “I call not killing him.”

Katy quickly put her finger to her nose. She and I looked at each other, and then our eyes turned to our guest. Bryan looked at me, and then at Katy, and then at the ground.

“Who are you people?” he asked.

I told Katy, "Thank God we have a real man in the house today."

With Bryan elected as our executioner, we then turned our attention to the weapon.

“Bleach?”
…next
“Frying pan?”
next
“Lighter fluid and matches?”
NEXT! Jesus!!

Then Bryan had a genius idea…the plunger. “I’ll put the plunger over him…push it down a couple times…sucking out all the air…causing him to suffocate.”

We all thought it was genius.

“…and if that doesn’t work I’ll just beat him with it.”

So Bryan marched bravely into the bathroom. With our plunger in hand, he set out to administer the sweet dose of murder. The mouse was right where Katy left him, chillen out in the bottom of our tub. Bryan looked away as he placed the plunger over him. He plunged and plunged and plunged, and when his arm was tired he stopped.

The mouse’s tail poked out from underneath our plunger, wiggled, and went back under again.

Leaving the mouse trapped underneath the plunger, the three of us reconvened in the kitchen.

“So the plunger didn’t work” Bryan told us. We thought long and hard, and finally the best solution came to us.

“Well he’s in the tub,” Bryan said. “Why don’t we just drown him?”

It was brilliantly simple. Our executioner returned to tub. He stopped it up and let the water run. When the tub was filled with about 3 inches of water, Bryan pushed the mouse under with the plunger. After a few moments, the mousey bastard joined those who went before him in Mousey Hell.

The idea of drowning a poor little mouse made me sad, until Bryan returned from discarding the body (yes…we made him throw it away too). I expressed to him how sad I thought it was, and he responded, “Do you know that when I filled the tub, that dirty fucker turned your water yellow. Yellow, Chris. Yellow.”

And suddenly it was okay. If something that small can turn 6 gallons of water yellow, frankly it deserves to die.

Since then, Katy and I have returned to our normal lives. We know that the war may very well not be over, but at least we won the battle. The battle for the bathroom.

A Miles Family Christmas

It seems like every family has their own quirky Christmas traditions. Some make gingerbread houses, go caroling, or hide pickle-shaped ornaments in their tree. I had a friend once who every year would put on a funny little beanie atop his head, light a bunch of candles, and spin a wooden top. Seemed like a pretty stupid way to celebrate the birth of Jesus Christ if you ask me, but to each his own.

In the Miles household, we are definitely no different. We have our own time honored traditions that date back as far as I can remember. In our house, there is always the annual Christmas tree hunt, long drives around decorated streets, and watching The Omen I on Christmas Eve. These are all swell, but they could never live up to our most cherished ritual – the one of ruining Christmas.

Ruining Christmas began in my early childhood. In those days it could have been anything. Calling each other names at the dinner table…breaking a well-loved ornament…suggesting that it would be more symbolic if they served jelly doughnuts instead of bread wafers at holy communion…any one of these could set my holiday-weary mother off. In a quick rage, she would turn around, look you dead in the eye, and scream “That’s IT! YOU RUINED CHRISTMAS!”

It happened so often that it became legendary. I could knock over a glass of lemonade in mid July, and my brother would whisper “you ruined Christmas.” I could be on the phone with my friend in March, and upon hearing yelling in the background, they might ask me “who just ruined Christmas?”

While the term is used pretty liberally, to actually ruin Christmas you have to abide by some strict guidelines. First I should note that my mother alone can decide who ruined Christmas. I should also note that my brothers and I could all potentially ruin Christmas any number of times during the holiday season. However, he who ruined it closest to Christmas morning was crowned victor.

As I mentioned above, ruining Christmas started off small, but as my brothers and I got older, we started finding bigger and better ways to destroy seasonal joy. None of us ever thought we could top last year’s winner. Working at Nordstrom over my winter break, my mom gave me a large wad of cash and asked me to pick some stuff after work. My brother Matt was to join me so that he and I could finish up the last bit of our holiday shopping. When he arrived, I noticed that something was a little off with his behavior. The rosy cheeks, the slurred speech, the high-fiving strangers - he was drunk. While he molested the mannequin in Hosiery, I quickly purchased the items my mother requested and called it an early night. As punishment for embarrassing me, I made Matt carry the bag to the car. As I got into my car, Matt yelled “Look at me!” All I could see was his exposed ass cheeks and piss spraying against my car. I screamed at him and he slowly pulled up his pants and got into the car.

When we returned home, my mother immediately asked me for the presents I had picked up for her. She had been anxious giving me the money, but I had assured it would be fine. I asked Matt if he had brought them in. He hadn’t. I looked in the car, and found nothing. To make a long story short – while relieving himself, Matt had put the bag on top of the car, but forgotten to take it off. $500 worth of Christmas presents riding on top of my moving vehicle, like of one of those assholes on Jackass. I returned to the parking lot to find a few packages still mildly intact, but most of it was gone. Needless to say, Matt ruined Christmas.

This year was my turn. My first night back, I decided to meet up with some friends at a nearby restaurant. It was dark and raining, and my mother asked me not to go. “It’s dangerous out, and you’re, well, you’re a terrible driver” she said. “Shut the fuck up!” I replied. “I’ll be fine”.

It was about ten minutes later when I plowed into unmarked van packed with Hispanic men.

In my defense, it wasn’t completely my fault. While, yes, the Mexicans were stopped in the proper lane at a red light…my breaks went out. Completely out. As I rounded the corner going full speed on wet asphalt, I pressed the breaks down again, and again, and again with no result. I did the only thing I could think to do…scream like a woman and prepare for impact. It felt like I was moving in slow motion as I ripped into the side of their car, but I swear to you that the only thought that went through my head….

I just ruined Christmas.

Thankfully no one was seriously hurt. I had smacked my face pretty hard and hurt my shoulder, but unfortunately it left no physical scars or bruises I could use to win some sympathy. To make matters worse, my dad had picked me up in that car that morning. Driving home he told me “My old Saturn just died. We’re on a real tight budget right now, so I don’t have enough money to fix it up. I’ve been using this car to get back and forth to work everyday, so let’s pray it holds up through the winter” To make matters even WORSE, Matt’s car died two days later. My entire family was reduced to owning one car.

My parents assured me that I did not ruin Christmas, and that they were just thankful I was okay – but looking at their faces as we all piled into the 4 seater, I knew they were lying. I secluded myself into my room, afraid that leaving my bed would cause me to crash something else. Occasionally, whenever I heard a loud bang or people yelling I would poke my head out and say “ruin Christmas?!?”

My dad would respond “No. No one ruined Christmas. That was just the TV.”

Ruining Christmas aside, the rest of my break was pretty solid. I do love the holidays, even when I destroy them. I just hope next year TJ does something really fucked up…because that my friends...

That’s what Christmas is all about.