So, I wrote this really clever post a minute ago, but it got wiped out, so if this post sucks, just think of how cool the deleted post must have been.
Anyhoo, my dad and me are not speaking. That is not what this post is about, but it will complicate my proposal to let a friend crash this weekend for a night...
This post is about my last day "in training" at work. I am now... um... a ... not in training.... canvasser... Yeah! =D
So, I walked in yesterday, took a quick glance at the whiteboard expecting to see my name chilling somewhere with just a "(D10)" written next to it... but no. There was another word!
"Haha! She just walks in here and goes, 'Maps?!' Someone tell Kerry what's going on." -Shanelle, the office manager
"It means you are the navi-guesser." -Chris
So, the navi-guesser, it was explained, has many important jobs like:
1) Getting us to our turf (navi-guessing)
2) Filling out the master map
3) Riding shotgun
"You get to use lots of colored markers and sit in the front seat. ...Just don't get us lost."
Sitting in the front seat comes with responsibilities. You have to control the heat/AC, you have to get change ready for the Parkway, and you have to (!) work the radio! I love controlling the radio! But I always get worried when setting the tunes for a whole van of people whose musical tastes I am less than familiar with. (Do they like this U2 song? Should I turn up Weezer?) Fortunately, much as Chris essentially took the guesswork out of navi-guessing by telling me exactly what directions I should relay to David, the driver, David took the guesswork out of working the radio by offering commentary on all the stations I flipped through. ("What the hell *is* this?" "Maybe we'll hear the new Interpol song.")
My actual canvass day was fairly uneventful. Most of my turf was supposedly this expensive condo complex which Chris suggested I save for later. I had a couple streets of McMansions to hit, so I went there first. A rich lady told me that, "She had already heard all about our schemes." I had not heard, but I'll take her word for it.
After an hour or so of getting rejected, I marched back to the condos, confident that I'd have another great Mahwah night. Unfortunately, funny story, it turns out no one actually took a very good look at the "condos". They were, in fact, tiny apartments... dare I say, a housing project. Whoops... So instead of rampaging through the upper-class, collecting checks like Robin Hood, I was fighting for every 5 dollar contribution from people with little expendable income. In Spanish. No, I don't speak Spanish, BUT I *did* watch Sesame Street which taught me how to count to 10, how to say water, and how to say thank you. That's really all you need, eh? So, armed with the numbers 1-10, I had extensive conversations that went something like this (translated):
Me: (points at clipboard) "Water. Donations. 10."
Me: "Thanks a lot!"
Unfortunately, I could not ask for more than 10, because I could not count any higher. Luckily, most people who did not speak English just politely told me to buzz off. Which, really, made a lot more sense. I was pretty proud of my Spanish, though. =D
So, I had a decent enough time wandering through the apartments... Oh, until I acquired these two boys who started following me around, offering me encouragement.
"Haha! No one will talk to you! Everyone hates you!" Jerks.
I did meet an incredibly cool young couple in the apartments who invited me up, gave me 60 bucks, wrote 2 letters to the mayor, and were generally extremely cool and hip and young. I made standard by the seat of my pants. Werd.
I navi-guessed everyone back home. Blasted the Clash on the radio. Got my second paycheck. Went out and had a beer.
Now if only I wasn't on a disaster course with my dad....