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Distant Relative Treatment

First off, let me start by wishing you all a happy Easter. You all will be reading this in the evening after you had your mom’s dry turkey, so I hope you could enjoy the waste of meat while you chatted with your older cousin about her daughter’s play recital.

If you’re atheist or agnostic, I hoped you enjoyed a casual Sunday of credenza shopping at Ikea and nagging your boyfriend about not putting down the toilet seat after he dropped that quality weekend load.

Today’s post was in fact inspired by today’s proceedings. Born in a family with a strong Christian background, it’s no surprise that my parents, brother and I went to the morning Easter service at our home Lutheran church. Now, I have no qualms about going to church since I had been going my entire life until college hit.

No, a liberal, anti-religious college professor didn’t humiliate me in front of the class for believing in a “silly God,” causing me to start a long, liberal propaganda-filled life of bagging organized religion. To be honest, I was lazy, and I didn’t feel like walking to the local church on Sunday morning after a long night of binge drinking and UNFATHOMABLE SIN (sex).

Case and point, I have no problem with going to church. In fact, I want to start going consistently again.

I do have a problem conversing with former teachers and parents of people that I went to private grade school with, however.

Don’t get me wrong, these are the kind of people you would ask to be the godparents of your daughter, but because many have known me since I was finger painting, they give what I call the “distant relative treatment” every god damn time we chat.

The distant relative treatment is universal. We’ve all been victims of it. You know, when you’re at the family reunion working your jaw to death trying to pierce the hockey puck your Uncle Dan has the unmitigated gall to call a burger, and suddenly, a heavy-set, middle-aged woman walks up to you and claims to be your mother’s second cousin.

“You don’t remember me?” she replies in her half-enthusiastic, half-surprised tone.

Of course, you respond with the classic “No…no I don’t think so,” slowly while crossing your arms and attempting to give a smile and look of intense thought when in fact you’re only thinking about how many minutes of my life am I going to have to waste on this bullshit conversation.

She proceeds to tell you how she met you 18 years ago at your late Aunt Judy’s 80th birthday party.

“I remember when you were thiiisss big,” she pronounces proudly as she positions her sausage fingers parallel to the ground and slightly below her waste.

“You were quite the rascal back then!” she exclaims, provoking the classic go-to: the half-ass, passive aggressive grin.

Ah, such a classic mannerism.

Now, I don’t know about you guys, but at this point my annoyed meter is in the orange, but I haven’t reached the feeling of dread just yet. However, that is about to change.

Before you can respond with a corny response and a fake –– and I mean fuckin’ fake –- “It was nice seein’ ya!” she delivers the absolute death blow.

“So, what do you do for work?”

My friends, I went to school for journalism. I know how to talk to strangers pretty damn well. Moreover, I know how to navigate from small talk to a meaningful conversation seamlessly. The point is, I have no fear or problem talking to strangers.

However, when a middle-aged adult that has KNOWN me asks THIS question –– the omnipresent work question –– I feel like I want to crawl out of my own skin. I loathe it. I dread it. I honestly hate it.

Why? Because I know the middle-aged church member, parent of an acquaintance or distant relative is trying to accomplish two things with this question: sizing me up and comparing me to his or her kids, a topic he or she will most certainly attempt to transition to.

First off, I don’t base the quality of a person based on what he or she does for a living. If you do, your character is about as solid as Kevin Spacy’s reputation. My cousin Ryan (We’re not related but I call him my cousin. You know how it is.) is the manager of a pizza place. One of the nicest, most genuine guys you’ll ever meet, and he will forget more about cars than you’ll ever know. Smart guy, he just happens to throw nice Italian pies together for a living. Nothing wrong with that. He’s independent. If he’s happy, who the hell cares?

Point is, I don’t care what you think about my job and if you approve of it. I’ll be jusssstt finnnnee delivering food and collecting my weekly $700 momentarily.  

Secondly, I don’t give damn about your kids’ lives. Let’s be honest, if they were to die in a car accident the next day, I probably wouldn’t shed a tear. Don’t get me wrong, it would sadden me to hear the news, and I’d attend the wake, I just don’t know them well, and I don’t care to know them well. Moreover, I don’t give a damn what they do for a living or how much they make. And I especially couldn’t care less about you bragging about them to me.

This probably sounds hostile, but when you’ve seen the condescending, disappointed look on dozens of people’s faces after you tell them your current situation, it gets to you after a while.

So, that is the reason why I feel uncomfortable going to church. The fear of the distant relative treatment and job question. Maybe I’m blowing this out of proportion. Maybe I’m over-analyzing reactions. Maybe I’m a cold-hearted bastard.

Whatever the case may be, I loathe small talk. Weather, kids, jobs –– Karen, you’re 46. Do better. Bring something more constructive and engaging to the table.

Anyways, I pray you all will never have to receive distant relative treatment for years to come.

At least until Herald’s retirement party. 

God Bless, happy Easter and keep it smooth as Tennessee whiskey.

[subtleastequila-blog]

Leave the Cannolis, Take the Gun

Ah yes, spring is here, which means your mother is probably spraying bleach in the bathroom, allergies are pissing everyone off, college girls are drinking their weight in cheap tequila and short-lived diets are more prevalent than STDs in Cabo.

Well, you’re all in luck, because today I’m talking about the latter. No, not the wonderful disease of chlamydia (which I thought I caught last summer, but that story is for another time), but rather my new diet I started today.

It is called the ketogenic diet, or “keto” diet if you’re a badass. Some of you may have heard of the hot fad by the legendary Joe Rogan on his podcast. If you have not, no worries, you just suck at life. Also, the diet and its purpose can be explained rather easily.

In short, the ketogenic diet’s goal is to change your body’s energy source from carbohydrates and sugars to fats. By avoiding glucose and sugar for 10 to 12 hours, your body will consequently break down fats into chemicals known as ketones to use as energy. When producing an increased number of ketones, your body is in a metabolic state known as ketosis.

This process is slowly accomplished by avoiding foods high in sugars and carbohydrates (breads, pasta, potatoes and rice) and eating foods high in fats (beef, cheese, avocados and nuts). To be specific, the proper macronutrient breakdown of a ketogenic diet is 70 percent fats, 25 percent proteins and 5 percent or less carbohydrates. In layman’s terms, if you intake fats, proteins and carbohydrates at those percentages daily, you are doing the diet correctly.

Now, being in a constant state of ketosis doesn’t happen an hour after you put the Little Debbie’s down. Since your body has been running off sugar and carbs for such a long time, it takes a while for your it to adjust, usually anywhere from three days to six weeks depending how much of a fat, lazy piece of shit you are.

This bodily transition process from carbs to fats can cause you to feel exhausted –– a phenomenon known as the “keto flu” –– because your body is learning how to break down and use a new energy source that it has rarely used. This doesn’t surprise me in the least, because like most physical changes to your body, it takes time for it adjust and react the way you want it to.

Think of it like a factory going from using coal to solar panels as an energy source. The factory has to first contact the solar panel factory and input an overpriced order. Then they have to remove the coal-burning machinery. Afterwards, the unqualified managers train their begrudging employees while they bitch and moan the entire time about how they should be paid more how to work the panels. Finally, right before delivery, two of the panels crack inside of the delivery truck on the way to the factory because the driver was lit off the OG Purple Kush his cousin gave him last week and felt too comfortable in the driver’s seat to get out and strap the panels down properly.

I think you get the point. Major changes require an adjustment period. Speaking of an adjustment period, this Sicilian is going to have to learn how to live without bread and pasta.

That’s like Robert De Niro trying to refrain himself from peaking at Halle Barry’s ass on the red carpet.

(If you didn’t get the joke, Bobby D likes black women. A lot.)

The main reason why I’m doing keto is NOT to lose weight (although that is a plus) but to increase my energy level and quicken my brain function, which keto experts say are consequences the diet brings. For years, I have felt like my brain has not been firing on all cylinders and that my energy levels are significantly lower than my peers, despite my appropriate amount of sleep. It always annoyed me, but I never thought to change my eating habits because I believed I was in shape and healthy. But, like they say, don’t judge a book by its cover. Just because I look like a Greek god doesn’t mean I am healthy and am functioning at a high capacity like Achilles.

Anyways, the journey will be difficult at times. It’s not easy for an Italian to in fact take the gun and leave the Cannolis. The Godfather told us to do it the other way around. Nevertheless, it will be rewarding.

If you have any questions regarding the diet, feel free to hit ya boy’s DMs (this especially goes out to all the lovely ladyyyyyyyssss;))

God Bless, and as always, keep it smooth … as Tennessee whiskey.

[subtleastequila-blog]

Life’s a Garden, Dig it

I quit my job Saturday.

For the past two months, I was a life insurance salesman for a company that provided “permanent benefits” for union members: truck drivers, firefighters, auto workers, brick layers. You know, the guys with calloused hands that give a depressing sigh every time they sit down. The all-American blue collar workers, if you will.

I put “permanent benefits” in quotes because that’s what we agents, or “benefits specialists,” were taught to tell our clients what we were providing, NOT life insurance (even though we were).

Why play word games? Because the average plumber cringes when he hears insurance. You see, Joe Schmo already feels cucked by State Farm doing a rear-naked choke to his checking account for his home and auto, so the last thing he wants to hear about after a shitty day at work is how he’s going to die some day and needs to cough over more bacon for life insurance, especially from a young, slick-talking punk that hasn’t turned a wrench in his life.

The company knew this, which is exactly why the words “life insurance” are not present on the four-page script, or presentation if you will, that they require all their employees to memorize. 

Consequently, the clientele’s prejudiced distaste for the product is already enough to make the job a bitch-and-a-half, but of course, there are two other bitches I haven’t touched on yet.

For one, you are paid by commission. No salary, no hourly wage. If you don’t make a sale, you don’t have enough change for a McChicken.

Secondly, you are required to work at least 10 hours a day, every day. Even Sundays. If you do the math, we’re talking a healthy 70 hours a week, or 49 hours in which you are awake and not working.

Out of those seven days, usually two are reserved for “call days”: days in which each agent calls through a list of about 100 to 150 designated “leads” –– sheets listing a union member’s name, address, phone number and union –– for eight hours with a quick, 10-minute break at the end of each hour. 

Just enough for a piss and a chat.

Now these leads consist of union members that had requested a small, free accidental death insurance policy (usually between $2,000 and $4,000) by filling out a 3x5 reply card that they had received in the mail. Many of these cards had been filled out years ago, making it highly possible that pipe-fitter John Dingle from Waterford had completely forgotten about the damn thing.

What made matters worse is that new agents, received crappy, old leads, meaning that many of the members in the pack had already been contacted by another agent within the past two years and had either declined to buy the “option B benefits” after he or she got their free stuff or had been uninterested in the no-cost benefits after finding out that an agent had to “drop them off” at their home to receive them. 

As you can imagine, most of these calls are ignored. Many that are received end up in hang-ups or an insistence in disinterest. Every once in a while you’ll get a guy who’ll drop a string of fucks, and rarely will you get an appointment set.

To be specific, you’re lucky to get 10 appointments set after 150 calls. 

After a call day, I’d usually get home from the office at about 10:30 p.m., exhausted and demotivated enough to make Eor sound like Tony Robbins.

In less than 12 hours, I would be out in the “field,” handing out some no-cost benefits and trying to persuade them into buying their permanent option B benefits (life insurance) as the script would say.

I didn’t count, but more than half of the appointments I set would no-show me, meaning they would either try to ignore your knock on the door thinking you would assume no one is home even though there were two cars sitting in the driveway, or they simply were gone and had completely forgotten about the appointment (even though I told them on the phone to write down when I’d be there).

It's bad enough that I must use my own gas and drive 25 minutes to your home just so you can give me piss-poor attitude while not making enough change to fall through a car seat. At least respect my time enough to be present at your own home and say no to my face.

However, even if every member committed to their appointment, this job would still be akin to putting bamboo under your fingernails, which is why 70 percent of a manager’s job is to motivate his agents, sometimes in the most annoying ways possible. For example, they required us to post messages at least once every 30 minutes on our Group Me –– a messaging board app –– log jamming it with motivational quotes, corny pictures, annoying GIFs and encouragement. Usually, this was done after someone had posted they had made a sale, added an appointment to their schedule, collected a referral, or were door knocking a member’s home.

Since roughly 11 agents comprised the Group Me board, the notifications were non-stop for the entire day you were in your car or in a home. Each minute I would hear my phone buzz, only receive a picture of a Lion leaping out of a pond with the words “rise and grind” placed in the lower-third.

Ah yes. Truly inspirational. Nothing fills my balls with testosterone more than a Lion leaping for a salmon.

No surprise, it didn’t take long to realize this gig wasn’t my cup of Joe. This past week was my first week alone in the field, and I quite Saturday at around 4 p.m. Now, my trial and error period with the company could have been completely avoided if the hiring superiors would have told me the hours, day-to-day tasks and commitments the position required.. But think about it from the company’s perspective. Why would you be completely transparent to candidates about a job that takes 100 of your time and pays out only when you’re making sales?

If they told everyone the ins and outs at the jump, they’d be lucky to hire 5 percent of their candidates. Moreover, many of their promising candidates – which I’ll be cocky enough to say I was one of them – would have turned down the offer on site.

Nevertheless, life is simply a collection of experiences, and with every new experience we learn something about ourselves, whether good or bad, so I refuse to act regretful or remorseful for trying something new. I learned that selling insurance doesn’t bring me pleasure, and moreover, I don’t have the salesman gene. That lesson itself was worth the experience, but that was far from the greatest part.

The people.

The individuals I met in that company were some of the kindest, friendliest, smartest, motivated and driven ladies and gents I had ever had the pleasure speaking to, especially my managers George and Brandon. Listening and working side-by-side with some of them made me learn not only about insurance but also work ethic, discipline, business and human nature in general. Moreover, I made relationships that will hopefully continue long after.

Yet and still, even great people won’t make a great job, which is why I decided to quit. The reason for this post isn’t to bitch about a job, it’s to say that you should never be afraid to quit a job that is not for you. I don’t care if you have $50,000 in college debt and you live with your parents, if you dread waking up every Monday to go to work, you’ll never find motivation to become better at your craft.

Let me be clear. I am NOT going to be cliché and say you should only do a job you love. I don’t believe in that shit. Work is a blessing, but nobody truly loves work. If somebody tells you they love working, slap them in the face and say they’re lying. Even your dream job will give you multiple days of stress, frustration, anger and sadness. No shit. This is life. I’m simply saying that you should find something you can stand doing for the next 30 years that allows you to have balance in your life and compensates you well enough that you don’t have to worry about how you’re going to pay your mortgage.

Unfortunately, these seemingly realistic job standards are hard to come by in 2018, which is what us Millennials are slowly starting to understand and why the job-search process will be much longer and more difficult than that of the generations before us.

This is part of the reason why I say it is good to quit in certain situations. Our entire lives we’re told to never quit. Losers quit. Lazy people quit. You should feel guilt and shame if you quit. Some of those clichés do hold water, but what your mom and dad didn’t tell you is to not waste your time trying to fit a square peg in a round whole.

You all have certain God-given talents, but you also must realize you are shitty at a multitude of things and have no business doing them. I suck at thousands of things. I can’t draw a crooked line straight. I blow ass at golf.

My point?

Just as you should know what you’re good at, you should also know what you suck at, which is often found through experience and is exactly why I don’t feel any shame in knowing I suck ass at selling insurance.

Just keep trying to find your purpose. Keep trying. Take risks. Take chances. Try something new if you haven’t found your niche, just don’t stop looking for your square hole, and learn from your experiences on the way.

If you keep trying, you can’t be a quitter.

God Bless, and keep it smooth as Tennessee Whiskey.