Croix De Candlestick

It was March 1991, and Kristi and I were on the hunt for after school jobs. Our hometown was small and the competition for the finest of minimum wage jobs was fierce. I'm not sure which one of us received the tip the San Francisco Giants were hiring, but upon hearing the news, we drove out to Candlestick Park and got jobs as ushers.

It wasn’t glamorous work – one look at our uniforms of gray polyester slacks and scratchy orange wool sweaters could tell you that. Yet to this day, it's the one job I still pinch myself for landing. I mean, how often do you have a job where you're required to watch your favorite baseball team play?

I distinctly remember the Monday night home opener against the Dodgers, my first night game. I got the unfortunate assignment of Upper Reserve, sections 18-20. Those sections back up to where the fog would pour over the hill next to the stadium. Cold air blows off the bay and through the upper deck tunnels, whipping you with bone chilling misery. Ironically, the wind never stopped me from holding the record of tallest hair out at the 'Stick. Wind be damned…meet my friend, Aqua Net.

1991 employee ID badge and big hair victim:



1991 was an interesting year for the Giants. Will “The Thrill” Clark was first baseman and Dusty Baker was still the coach. Back then the stadium would chant URIBE (OOH – RRRRRIBBE!) as they do at AT & T Park today, but it was for Jose Uribe, second cousin to current Giant Juan Uribe.

The Giants placed in the middle of the pack that year. As a new usher, I was middle of the pack too. I was routinely stationed in different sections of the stadium as management determined what sort of usher I was. I also got the dreaded giveaway detail, where we’d have to hand out free promotional items to the guests of the game. It was here I learned that people will do and say pretty much anything for free crap. The uncertainty of what section I worked in always kept me on my toes as the clientele would inevitably vary accordingly to the price of the ticket.

Speaking of free crap, I wonder if this Giants Buck currency is still valid for use at the employee cafe?


When I returned for the 1992 season, I ended up in the usherette starting line-up, and given Lower Box, 1-2. This was particularly fun as my section was directly behind home plate and the wives and girlfriends of all the players sat here. Some of the baseball wives were incredibly nice, others managed to look through me as if I were invisible and hit me with their giant Gucci purses as they walked by.

I continued to work at the ‘Stick for four baseball seasons. Over those years I earned a significant amount of Croix De Candlestick* pins, took a pay cut when Barry Bonds joined the team in 1993, and even ran a successful scientific experiment proving our uniform of polyester pants were incapable of wrinkling. Unfortunately, I couldn’t survive the baseball strike in 1994. By the time the strike ended in April 1995, I was a month away from graduating from college and starting my new career as a journalist. My time as a San Francisco Giants employee was officially over.

While I’m no longer an usher, I still jump at the chance to find seats in a stadium, proclaiming myself as “Professional Usher, RET.” My love for the team and the time spent as an employee of the Giants has never wavered and it has been an utter blast watching this 2010 season. Can’t wait to see what the 2011 season brings us.

*The Croix De Candlestick pin was given to diehard Giants fans who endured extra inning games at Candlestick Park and stayed till the end.

Straight out of Epcot

The St. Paul Hotel in Montreal is one of those establishments that probably rocked the boutique hotel world when it opened a decade ago. With its white rooms and minimalistic design, it’s the kind of place that attracts young, professional, worldly and sharply dressed guests.

As our company preferred hotel and close to the office in Montreal, I am no stranger to staying here. It’s a place I don’t loathe but don’t love either. The rooms are sparse but clean, and I typically feel a bit intimidated staying there, mainly due to the type of clientele the place attracts.

All this changed last Monday when I walked into the breakfast room at the St. Paul. Normally, this room is full of multi-lingual, Prada-clad Europeans sipping on espresso, but today there were senior citizens and baby boomers. The crowd consisted of overweight men and women, going back for seconds, even thirds on the breakfast buffet. Women were clad in pastel Capri pants and Easy Spirit walking shoes. Men were wearing sea foam green polo shirts and pleated khaki shorts. I suddenly realized I was the sharpest dressed woman in the room. What had happened to the St. Paul I knew?

The mystery was solved immediately thanks to the parties sitting to either side of me. Unable to control the tone of their voices, their comments rose above the din of the room. I quickly learned over 18,000 Rotarians from 154 countries were in town to attend the 2010 Rotary International Convention in Montreal.

While the conference and the efforts of Rotarians worldwide are commendable, as usual, I found myself surrounded by the best of the worst, stupid Americans. Unable to drown out their comments as they kept talking loudly over the others, I heard the following gems:

“While Old Montreal is charming, it sure could do with some modernization,” said an American woman, referring to the cobblestone streets in Vieux Montreal that almost made her trip. Apparently she was unaware that the term Old or Vieux was not accidental in referring to an area of town founded in the 17th century.

“I don’t normally do this when I go to a strange city, but I took the subway yesterday after the conference,” said another American. “It was very clean, and no one tried to mug me.”

The mean cobblestone streets of Old Montreal:



I pinched myself to see if I was dreaming. Yes, haven’t we all heard about the dangerous subways of Montreal? Move over New York, you’ve got nothing on these French Canadian hoodlums.

My favorite couple hailed from Texas. The husband kept talking about his visit to the “Notre DAM!” Cathedral the previous day. As I cringed over his pronunciation of Notre Dame, his wife took it to the next level with her comments.

“The church was beautiful and there was even a mass going on,” the woman said, pausing to look at her audience. “It was so frustrating though. The priest was speaking in French and I couldn’t understand a word he was saying.”

That’s right. You damn French Canadians, speaking your native language in your French-language province of Canada. What is wrong with you? Don’t you speak American?

I wanted to yell at these Rotarians. Educate them. At the very least, notify them that they were using their outside voices and that I could hear them. I looked around at the sea of pastel clothing and realized it was hopeless, so I slunk out of the room embarrassed of my fellow citizens.

The next evening I took a walk on the mean streets of Old Montreal, careful not to trip on the ever unmodern cobblestone streets. The Rotarians are out in full force. All the sidewalk cafes and bars were jammed full with them, so I decide to walk a few blocks in an attempt to escape the herd.

Rotarians of a certain age take on Old Montreal:



As predicted, the crowds begin to thin out as I move away from Rue St. Paul. I am rewarded with a Rotarian-free outdoor table smack in the middle of the Place d’Youville at La Gargote. As I am admiring the view and consuming one of the best gazpachos ever made, a party of six American Rotarians is seated across from me. At first they are quiet, and they even greet the waiter with proper and polite pleasantries in French. I give them the benefit of the doubt and continue eating my savory soup.

Just as my faith was starting to be restored with my fellow citizens, the trust is suddenly shattered. One Rotarian apparently overwhelmed with the experience of sitting in Place d’Youville exclaims loudly:

“Montreal is so beautiful. It looks like something straight out of Epcot Center!”

Sigh...Yes, of course, Epcot Center. Where you can see the beauty of foreign countries in just one day, without ever tripping on a cobblestone and where everyone speaks American.

Walkabout

I received a pink slip three weeks ago. My former employer calls it redeployment which confuses me. Did I lose my job or am I being shipped off to Afghanistan? Depending on whom you ask, my redeployment is either a great liberation or a Greek tragedy. My opinion lies somewhere in between.

Since then, I have endured a whirlwind of emotions. I literally lost my sense of humor for weeks. Lost and found my appetite. Faced some vicious nights with my old friend insomnia. Cried. Felt scared, bitter, and unappreciated. Even as new job offers roll in, I have been numb and unresponsive. My personal life and professional life were so tied together - do I even know who I am without this job? These factors have made it difficult to write a sincere cover letter, or even grasp what I want to do next careerwise.

In light of this personal and professional uncertainty, I did something highly unusual for me - I ran away. I’m currently on a ten day trip to Montreal and New York. If a layoff is a redeployment, this escape from reality and responsibility is now a walkabout.

It’s hard to paraphrase what the past eight days of my walkabout have done for me. I’ve spent a lot of time with former colleagues and friends who reminded me I am important, essential, and most of all, missed. They have filled me with hope and confidence that I will end up in a better place.

I spent time in two cities that were vital to my previous job and allowed myself to start the closure process. I know it is okay to experience all the emotions I’ve been going through. They’ll probably continue to surface for some time to come, and it's only natural. I have to mourn this and accept it wasn’t personal, it was just business.

Most importantly, I took time to work on rediscovering who I am and determining what my long term career goals are. I spent several days alone walking, taking photos, going to museums, writing, and most importantly laughing again. I’m relishing the free time I haven’t had in quite some time to reengage with what I love to do most. I feel ready to return home this week and begin the search for a new job. I suspect where I end up working next will be a direct result of clearing my head on this walkabout.

I truly loved the last three years of my professional life and while I won’t miss the PPT or the concalls much, I will miss the people dearly. I am so grateful for the opportunities and relationships my last job gave me. I don’t know what the future has in store for me, but I do know I don’t have to run away from it anymore. I’m ready.

An Open Letter to Mother Nature

Dear Mother Nature,

Cut it out.

For the past eight days you’ve brought us a lot of rain here in Northern California. Yes, it was sorely needed after three years of drought and don’t get me wrong, I’m grateful you’ve helped fill the local reservoirs a bit. The hills are definitely greener and I’m feeling less guilty for taking an extra minute or so in the shower on cold winter mornings now.

Still, the old adage “too much of a good thing” is really starting to apply here.

I have seen the sun for a total of five hours in the past 192 hours. My backyard is a swamp. I’ve sacrificed two umbrellas to rogue gusts of wind. Don’t even get me started on what all this moisture has done to my hair. It looks bad on the best of days…this humidity is like being a real-life version of a Chia Head.

So please, for the love of god, let up a bit. Come back in a few days with more (preferably not my weekend). Let us dry out a bit.

Thank you for your consideration,

-Kristen

STORM!!!

This could very well be the last communication you ever see from me. You see, California is at it again. In the past few weeks I’ve survived earthquakes, watched as large Pacific waves threaten to reclaim Pacific coastline as its own, and now the holy trinity of El Nino storms is upon us. As one of my coworkers casually suggested to me this morning, what’s next…locusts?

It seems like Mother Nature is trying to one-up herself with these storms. Three inches of rain in 24 hours, thunder and lightning, gale force winds, and hail. And this is only January. Our rainiest months are yet to come here in Northern CA.

Oddly, what I'm finding most impressive is not the spectacle of the actual weather patterns but the local media storm coverage. Each night, the lead story has been STORM!!! Man is that Doppler Radar milking its 15 minutes of fame. I tune into the evening news half interested, half amused as the coverage raises fear levels to places Homeland Security could only dream of. Floods! Downed power lines! Falling trees! Rising creeks! Car accidents! Mudslides! There is no end to possibilities of how this storm is going to get us. Apparently the worst of this storm trifecta is set to arrive tomorrow morning just in time for the morning commute. One station is even calling it "the big one." (Add ominous music for a more dramatic effect...)



While I don't doubt we'll get a serious lashing tomorrow, the unintentional comedy the media brings to an annual event (rain) is hard not to laugh at. After all, compared to other parts of the world, we just have it easy here, occasional nasty storms and all.

Try to stay dry and look out for "the big one."

Doubling Down on Twenty Ten

Dealer is showing a ten, I have 12 in my hand. Hit me.

It is only fitting that in the last remaining hours of 2009, I find myself sitting in a casino gambling. After all, I'd done nothing but gamble throughout the entire year that my finances and career could sustain the most challenging year ever.

A nine is dealt, giving me 21. Dealer has 16, then flips over a five. We push.

A man standing behind the table lights a cigarette, choking the air with thick smoke and giving me an instant headache. My mind begins to wander as I reflect on the year and situations that occurred where it felt hard to breathe and my head was ready to explode. The house flooding, along with the crushing financial burden it put on us to get it repaired, job insecurity, pay cuts, and constant changes. Every time I started to come out of one challenge, another would present itself. 2009 was a year of pushing and no matter what hand was dealt, I just couldn't seem to get ahead.

Dealer is showing a two. I hate the two. It forces me to gamble based on either odds or guts. I decide to go with odds, and they fail me. Dealer wins.

2009 started rocky and never quite recovered. I know I am not alone in this experience. So many friends went through something similar. It was a broken record. No matter how hard a worker you were, no matter how diligent you were at paying your bills on time, you were affected at least once at some point this year. Odds failed so many of us this year that most of us are only operating on our gut feelings now.

Dealer is showing a six and I have BLACKJACK! Dealer pays out.

Within three weeks of 2009 starting, I found a lump in my throat. At first I thought it was a swollen gland associated with a cold. It wasn't, and within weeks I was undergoing a double-biopsy for thyroid cancer. The diagnosis came back benign - the best possible outcome. This year may have been a steaming pile of crap in most ways, but at least I still have my health. Priorities are reset and life goes on.

Dealer is showing a six, and I have 11 in my hand. I raise my bet and double down.

There are no guarantees that 2010 is going to be any better than 2009, but I have no choice other than to gamble on it being better. I know I'm not alone in that sentiment and it is reassuring to me.

The risk of doubling down pays off. Dealer busts and I win with a 15.

I collect my winnings and cash in my chips. I'm only $25 richer as a result but after the year I had, the idea of saying goodbye to 2009 as a winner is something I absolutely have to do. Even if it was the result of a weak hand and a big gamble.

Happy 2010 to all and here's to a bright new outlook for all of us.