adventures in Brookings: the Nick's Hamburger edition.

A while ago, I wrote an article about my adventures in the Brookings WalMart. That was the first installment of my Brookings Adventure Series (yes, I’m making a series).

Brookings isn’t your average small city/large town. With a population around 22,000, Brookings is actually the fourth largest city in South Dakota (which doesn’t say a lot for my fair state). Brookings, though, has a lot more character than your typical Midwestern settlement. I would even go as far to say that Brookings has more to offer than Sioux Falls, my current home and the largest city in South Dakota. I attend more cultural events in Brookings than I ever have in Sioux Falls – since I moved back to the area, I’ve seen Lorie Line, The Rocky Horror Show as done by SDSU, Doc Severinsen, a full jazz ensemble at a restaurant called the Pheasant, and the US Air Force Band… all in Brookings. Sioux Falls has some culture of its own, but Brookings culture tends to be more up my alley. Don’t get me wrong: Sioux Falls is fine, but it’s the capital of chain restaurants and mini-malls. There’s not much to do in Sioux Falls that I can’t do in any other large city, but the same cannot be said for Brookings. If you’re looking for something light on the cookie-cutter feel and heavy on character, then Brookings is your place.

Case in point: Nick’s Hamburger Shop. Friends, this is my favorite place on earth. Nick’s has been gracing Main Street since 1929, and I have been gracing Nick’s since 1987. As you may have guessed from the name, Nick’s specializes in hamburgers. Heavenly, heavenly hamburgers.

For those of you who haven’t yet experienced the glory of Nick’s, allow me to explain why these burgers are so wonderful. Nick’s cooks their burgers using what’s called the “tank-fry” method: they basically submerge the burgers in a shallow pan of grease. This makes the burgers flavorful and delicious, and contrary to what you might think, they’re not all that greasy. Load it up with toppings and put it on one of the fresh buns, and you’ve got yourself a delightful burger. Nick burgers are rather small, so you’ll want to order them in multiples: their slogan is “buy ‘em by the bag!”

See the slogan?
See our pure joy?

I’ve been eating Nick burgers for as long as I can remember. I went there with my parents, both sets of grandparents, my aunts and uncles, cousins, friends: everybody loved Nick’s. Nick’s was always the first choice when we were thinking about dinner in Brookings.

When my sister came home for the first
time since joining the Air Force, our
first stop after the airport was Nick's.

For my Grandma Sheila's 80th birthday,
her kids and grandkids all convened
in SD. Of course, Nick's was a
top prioritiy.

A lot of the appeal of Nick’s lies in its atmosphere. Nick’s was remodeled a few years ago into the pleasant eatery it is today. You sit on bar stools, watch your burger being cooked, and eat off wax paper. If you go there around lunchtime, you’ll always find a crowd (except on Sundays – the one day Nick’s is closed). The restaurant is decorated in bright red, white, and black, and it has a pleasant vintage feel to it. You can even get homemade pie.

Nick’s has been through a few different owners over the years, but the lasted and greatest is a man named Dick. Dick is the friendliest guy you will ever meet, and he turned Nick’s into what it is today. If you stop by Nick’s for lunch, chances are you’ll find Dick there, and chances are even better that he’ll be happy to see you.

When Nick’s remodeled, the people of Brookings were worried that Nick burgers would not be available during the construction. Thankfully, this was not the case: Nick’s purchased a portable wagon that would temporarily house their grill. You would just walk up to the little window, order your burgers, and happily eat them at one of the picnic tables. After the remodeling was completed, the Nick’s wagon became available for events. This was the best thing ever.

Nick's wagon, circa May 2009.

My sister graduated from high school in 2009. My parents asked her what kind of food she wanted for the party, and Darrah only had one request: Nick burgers. So that’s what we did. The Nick’s wagon staked a claim in the yard, and the graduation guests just ordered at the window. We had a few volunteers who would even deliver the completed orders to the hungry party-goers. If memory serves me correctly, there were nearly 400 burgers eaten at our house that day. The number was nearly perfect – the Nick’s wagon was down to less than a dozen buns by the time we were done!

That very day, my brother Mitch reserved the Nick’s wagon for his high school graduation in 2011. It was just as wonderful as last time. For Mitch’s graduation, I brought a couple of college friends who had never experienced the glory of Nick burgers before. Haakon and Nate loved the burgers, and they REALLY loved the idea of a burger wagon that you can rent for parties. However, they made a rookie mistake: instead of pacing themselves for a whole afternoon of burgers, Haakon and Nate ate six or seven in one sitting. Needless to say, they spent much of the party sprawled on couches and bemoaning their gluttony. Meanwhile, the rest of us ate one or two at a time, leaving the afternoon wide open for socializing and more burgers.

Nick's wagon, circa May 2011.

I’ve lived away from the Brookings area for nearly seven years now, and I still find myself dreaming of Nick’s hamburgers. Living in Denver and New Orleans was especially tough – I went through a Nick’s drought. When I lived in Minneapolis, I managed to make it home about once a month, and most of those visits involved a trip to Nick’s. Now that I live a mere hour from Brookings, I can easily make the quick trip north to get my favorite food. That, my friends, is living.

So if you ever find yourself in Brookings with an empty stomach, stop by Nick’s Hamburgers. I promise you’ll be glad you did.

It doesn't get much better than this.

an 18th birthday story.

Birthdays have always been a huge deal for me. Whenever April 19^th rolls around, I have to suppress the desire to tell everyone I meet that it’s my birthday. It's the eve of my 25th birthday, and I still have to remind myself that it’s not very adult-like behavior.

The best birthdays were the milestone birthdays: at 16, when you can drive by yourself. 18 means you’re legally an adult, and 21 means that you can finally buy booze. Turning 25 will mean that I can rent a car, but that’s about it. From here on out, it’s just the big ones: 30, 40, 50. I think the “old person” jokes start around 30, but I could be wrong.

I’ve had some good birthdays in my day, that’s the truth. However, one birthday has been head and shoulders above all the rest, and that was the day I turned 18. It wasn’t because I could buy cigarettes (I don’t smoke) or lottery tickets (I’m too cheap). It certainly wasn’t because I wanted to be legal adult: who’s ready for that?! My 18^th birthday was my best birthday all because of Applebee’s.

Now, Applebee’s is not necessarily what you would call fine dining. However, it was the fanciest place in Brookings at the time, and it was the only place that would give you free dessert for your birthday. The decision was made.

My 18^th birthday was on a Tuesday, and it was wonderful. My brother and sister even sent me balloons. After school that day, my friends Sarah, Bob, Teresa, Rachel, and Dezarae caravanned to Brookings. School got out at 3.10pm, so we had a considerable amount of time to kill before supper time. We scouted movie options at the Brookings Cinema Five and wreaked havoc in WalMart. 

I do what I want on my birthday.

While we were out and about, we were struck with a brilliant idea: what if Bob and I pretended to be fraternal twins and scored an extra brownie? We were both thin blondes with fair skin; the idea of us as siblings wasn’t too far-fetched.

We didn’t want to straight-up lie to Applebee’s, so we had to find a subtle approach – nothing says subtle like the dollar store, right? We trooped into the local dollar store and bought two birthday hats: a pink one for me and a blue one for Bob (“Birthday Prince”). Bob and I donned our birthday gear and headed to Applebee’s to see if we could get them to draw their own conclusions.

We got our table at Applebee’s and ate our dinners. Towards the end of the meal, our waitress came over and said, “I see there’s a birthday!” Bob and I sat up tall in our birthday hats. The rest of my friends smiled broadly and said, “Yes! There IS a birthday!” The waitress returned shortly after, carrying two brownies and followed by a string of singing Applebee’s employees. Bob and I happily shared our brownies with the rest of our friends, incredibly proud of ourselves for getting two free desserts.

NAILED IT.

So that was my first birthday as a legal adult: I spent it with my friends, scamming Applebee’s out of a cheap brownie. And it was the best birthday ever.

a small-town prom story.

I grew up in a town called Arlington, South Dakota: a decidedly country-fried little place. We have a population of less than one thousand people, and we’re located right smack dab in the middle of farm country.

Like any other high school in the nation, prom is quite the big deal. In Arlington, it is usually held in mid-April, though it has been known to creep up towards the end of March. Why so early? Prom cannot interfere with planting season. Period. However, it’s not rare to see a fully decked-out prom couple arrive at prom in a tractor.

I went to four proms at Arlington High School: one as an “attendant,” two as a common attendee, and one as a last-minute pity date. Each one of these experiences was trashy in its own very special way, but none was more trashy than the year I was an attendant.

First of all, allow me to explain the position of a prom attendant. Each year, the two girls and the two guys from the sophomore class with the highest GPAs are selected to be prom attendants. What does this mean? All it means is that we got to walk out first at the grand march, dress up, and make sure the punch bowl was filled. We were the prom gophers (or interns).

In order to fully grasp the experience, I must also explain my sophomore self. This was in spring 2003, when I was still in the throes of my early high school awkwardness. I was asked to be an attendant, and boy, was I excited.

I began my journey as an attendant by picking out a dress from my unfortunate-looking closet: it was the dress I had worn to my cousin’s wedding the year before. According to my 16-year-old dork mentality, this dress was pretty risqué. It had – gasp – spaghetti straps! Now, spaghetti straps are a terrible fashion choice for me, as I am the proud owner of a pair of massively broad shoulders. As you probably know, spaghetti straps do nothing to diminish the size of said shoulders – they only draw attention to them. Itty bitty straps, huge man-shoulders. However, not realizing this at the time, I went ahead with my spaghetti straps. Now, for the shoes! I once again turned to my pathetic closet, and I surfaced with a lovely pair of chunky black shoes with the squarest heel you’ve ever seen.

Every good prom outfit requires makeup, as we well know. I, of course, attempted to do my own. At the time, I had not yet been introduced to the optical wonder of contact lenses. In order to do my makeup, I had to take off my glasses and attempt to see what I doing, which, as you may imagine, found me getting awfully close to the mirror. Picture obscene amounts of silver eyeshadow and poorly applied mascara. Check. The only good thing about my ensemble that year was my hair. My mom, refusing to allow me to completely fail at prom, gave me a very nice up-do that could almost cancel out the rest of my floundering outfit.

Calla, your outfit:
WOOF!

I also must explain the location of the 2003 Arlington High School prom. Our school was made up of an older half and a newer half. In years past, the prom had always been held in the smaller of our two gyms, which was located in the older half of the school. It was the perfect size for decorating and for dancing, which is why (of course) it had been used all those years. However, as luck would have it, that half of the school was condemned in fall 2002. Bummer! Where were the young prom-goers to go?

The school’s solution? Have prom in the band room! I kid you not. The decoration committee covered the walls (which contained the cubby holes and the instruments) and floors with black garbage bags and some streamers. That’s it. That was the prom. A literally “trashy” night.

Of course, the music was just as trashy as one might expect of a rural Midwestern school. We heard all the classics: “Pour Some Sugar On Me,” the “YMCA,” “Sweet Home Alabama,” and the South Dakota classic “Fishin’ in the Dark.” This was the year we had karaoke as well, which was a completely new can of worms.

My subsequent proms weren’t quite as trashy, mostly because we transferred the dance from the band room into the larger gym (the uncondemned one). Also, I learned about now not to look like a complete idiot in a dress. But don’t worry – my other proms had the very same music.

Don’t get me wrong – I wouldn’t want to trade my trashy prom experience for a classier, more refined evening. After all, a trashy prom (or four) will always be a great story source. 

childhood obsessions: Titanic.

A while back, I wrote about movies from my childhood. If you recall, Titanic made the list as an obsession of mine. In honor of the 100^th anniversary of the sinking of the ship, let’s dive (pun intended) a little deeper into my pre-teen love for all things Titanic.

Lookin' good, Titanic.

Before Titanic came out, I was certainly familiar with the shipwreck. As a kid who spent the majority of her childhood buried in a book, I knew all sorts of little facts. I thought the Titanic was certainly interesting, but I didn’t harbor (pun intended again – I am on a ROLL) a great desire to learn more about it. That is, until the movie.

As I’m sure you know, Titanic came out in 1997, and I was ten years old. My parents offered to take me to the movie one weekend, and I accepted, having no better plans for my Saturday. I certainly didn’t go to Titanic because of the romantic plotline. To this very day, I couldn’t care less about cinematic love stories. I walked into the movie theatre, not knowing what to expect. It only took the first few seconds of the flashback to 1912 before I was totally sold. I fell in love with the characters, the close, and of course, the ship itself. Going in, I (like everyone else ever) knew how it would end: the ship sinks. DUH. However, I clutched the edge of my seat in anticipation, like I wasn’t sure how it would turn out. It was the most intense movie I had seen up to that point (for a ten year old, that’s not bad), and I was hooked.

You had me at "I'm flying, Jack."

I went to school the next day, eager to discuss this cinematic masterpiece. I found out that my friend Sarah had gone to the movie the very same weekend, and we bonded over our new obsession. We lived and breathed Titanic. We discussed our favorite lines, our favorite dresses, and our favorite characters: Sarah had a soft spot for Fabrizio, while I fancied Mr Andrews, the shipbuilder. Sarah and I even went so far as to cast the roles of Titanic using only members of our fourth grade class (I think I got to be the Unsinkable Molly Brown).

Over the next few days of constant Titanic talk, I decided I was in love with Leonardo DiCaprio. There was a book fair at school within a week of my realization, and they had one of those goofy “all about your crush” books, featuring Leonardo DiCaprio. 

Thanks, Scholastic.

I nonchalantly flipped through the book, finding all sorts of photographs showing off his boyish good looks, along with little fact sheets like “this is what Leo says is his perfect date.” I think there was even a poster. Of course, I had to have it. However, when you’re ten years old, it’s still socially unacceptable to have a crush on someone, so I had to do this stealthily. I waited until the very end of the day when the book fair was closing up. No one else was shopping for books, so now was my opportunity to strike. I tried not to blush as I paid for my book, and I hid it in my bookbag until I got home. I kept it under my bed, reading tidbits here and there. The only person I ever showed it to was Sarah, who then introduced me to What’s Eating Gilbert Grape.

I was also absorbed with the fashion in the movie. Sure, my ten-year-old Midwestern lifestyle had no place for giant hats and beaded gowns, but I wanted them all the same. I was also captivated by the jewelry – not just the Heart of the Ocean, mind you, but every last piece of it. Everything seemed so spidery and delicate; I had never seen anything like it. I wanted jewelry just like it. I was at Claire’s one day – Claire’s was (and likely still is) a mecca for anyone under twelve – when I saw two things: a tiny necklace with an antique-y charm and a tiny crystal…

Exhibit A.

...and a fake Heart of the Ocean. Oh, how I wanted them both. I had approximately five dollars to my name, and I remember very clearly that the fake Heart of the Ocean was $7.99. No dice. I bought the other necklace for $3.99, and believe it or not, I still wear it to this day.

I got the fake Heart of the Ocean
in my Christmas stocking next
year. Classy, wouldn't you say?

My fascination with the Titanic stretched beyond the movie and its actors. At that same book fair, I bought a book full of facts about the ship itself. I have since gotten rid of the Leonardo DiCaprio book, but I know I still have the Titanic fact book somewhere. I learned about how many dishes they had on board and how much it cost to buy a first-class ticket. The book covered everything from the conception of the ship to exploration of the shipwreck. I was simply astounded. I believe this is where my fascination with large ships began, only to be helped along by a tour of an aircraft carrier in Virginia, the New Orleans riverboat tour past the ships on the Mississippi, and trips to see the barges on Lake Superior.

Even so, I was still counting the days until I could own Titanic to watch whenever my little heart desired. My parents had put the soundtrack in my Easter basket, and I’d practically worn the tape out – as the movie’s release date drew closer, I listened to the tape more and more. I didn’t care about Celine Dion; I was more interested in the instrumental pieces (an early indication of my inescapable band dork-hood). When Titanic finally came out on video, I snatched it up immediately. It came with a giant movie poster, which I tacked on my wall straightaway. I have no idea how many times I watched Titanic in the days immediately following its purchase; even if I did know, I certainly wouldn’t want to admit it. Sarah and I watched it so often that we had the lines memorized in no time.

Like all good things, Sarah’s and my Titanic mania eventually came to an end. When Titanic became more of a comedy than a drama, we knew it was over. The acting was so over-the-top, but we hadn’t realized it while in the throes of our all-encompassing love for the film. Sarah and I made the transition from complete adoration to outright mockery. We began substituting our own lines for the lines in the film: many of them made sense to no one but us, but we thought they were hilarious.

Yes, the initial magic of Titanic has worn off. I do look back fondly on my Titanic days; Sarah still remembers a good portion of our made-up movie lines. My friend Bob and I even resurrected the film for one of our famed high school movie nights.

We even attempted a re-enactment of the "toss the
Heart of the Ocean into the Atlantic" scene. Except it was
tossing my fake necklace into a bathtub. Good try, though.

And now, because of the 100^th anniversary of the shipwreck, the movie is being re-released in theatres. Honestly, I can’t wait. There’s nothing like the magic of the big screen, and I feel like a ten-year-old kid again. Maybe I’ll even wear my Heart of the Ocean necklace.

Just kidding.

…or am I?  

an April Fools' story.

DISCLAIMER: EVEN THOUGH I AM PUBLISHING THIS STORY ON APRIL FOOLS' DAY, I PROMISE THAT IT IS A TRUE STORY. I COULDN'T MAKE UP SOMETHING THIS AWESOME.

If you were to ask someone what the proudest moment of their life is, you’d most likely get a fairly predictable answer: the day they graduated from college, the birth of their first child, the time they got the Nobel Prize. If you were to ask me, I’d have a totally different answer: April Fools’ Day, 2007.

In 2007, I was a sophomore in college. If you recall from my radio story, at this time, I was dating a hipster art major that my parents weren’t at all fond of. I was starting to agree with them. The relationship had been deteriorating for months already; the spring semester thus far had been particularly taxing. Hipster Boyfriend tended to be depressed and needy, and I do not deal well with needy. Perhaps that was why I never worked as a babysitter.

In any case, during the early months of 2007, I had come close to breaking up with Hipster Boyfriend on multiple occasions. Why didn’t I, you ask? Well, the primary reason was that I chickened out. However, in February, I was struck with the best idea I had ever had (and probably will ever have). I needed to keep Hipster Boyfriend around long enough to play an April Fools’ Day joke on my dad.

In order to understand why this April Fools’ Day joke was destined for greatness, you need to understand my parents’ distaste for my boyfriend. It’s not that Hipster Boyfriend was rude or inconsiderate to my parents; not even close. He simply clammed up around them. My parents are friendly people, so the first time I brought Hipster Boyfriend around, they did their best to make polite conversation. Hipster Boyfriend, however, was not having it. My parents could barely get one-word answers out of him. Honestly, Mom and Dad are not scary people; Hipster Boyfriend simply had no people skills. Just like I have little patience for neediness, Mom and Dad have little patience for social ineptitude. Hipster Boyfriend also tended to follow me around like a lost puppy, which earned him zero respect points at my house. It didn’t take long before my parents more or less gave up on him. Honestly, I was about ready to give up as well.

It took a lot, but I managed to hang on. The promise of the April Fools’ Day joke to end ALL April Fools’ Day jokes was enough to convince me that a few more months of a bad relationship would ultimately be worth it. In March, when Hipster Boyfriend was in an uncharacteristically sunny mood, I pitched my April Fools’ idea: on April 1, I wanted him to call my dad and ask for permission to marry me.

Not surprisingly, Hipster Boyfriend balked at my idea. Fully aware of my dad’s distaste for him, Hipster Boyfriend didn’t want to fan the flame. “Oh, no,” I lied. “My dad will think it’s hilarious. He’ll probably like you BETTER because of it!” Hipster Boyfriend was still not convinced, so I resorted to pouting. I know it makes me sound like a spoiled ten year old, but Hipster Boyfriend could never withstand my deadly pouting/silent treatment combo. I believe the layman’s term for such an individual is “whipped.” Hipster Boyfriend reluctantly agreed, and I eagerly began to count the days until April 1.

The fateful day finally arrived. April 1^st landed on a Sunday that year, and Hipster Boyfriend and I had spent the weekend at his parents’ house near Minneapolis. I was a little less than thrilled that Hipster Boyfriend would be making this phone call within earshot of his humorless parents, but what do you do. Hipster Boyfriend’s dad spent the weekend trying to ruin my plans by making disapproving faces and suggesting lame alternatives. “Maybe YOU can call your dad!” Hipster Boyfriend’s dad hopefully suggested. “I bet it would still be funny.” I politely declined: it HAD to be Hipster Boyfriend. “But what will happen when he REALLY asks you to marry him?” Hipster Boyfriend’s dad asked. I didn’t have the heart to tell him that my intentions with his son were less than honorable – the thought of ACTUAL marriage made me queasy.

Since April Fools’ Day was on Sunday, the timing of the call had to be perfect. My parents would be back from church in the late morning, and I wanted to give them plenty of time to eat. If Hipster Boyfriend called and they didn’t answer the phone, I would’ve had a hard time convincing him to try it again. It was do or die. I decided that the best time to call would be mid-afternoon: my parents would almost certainly be lounging and available for phone calls.

The morning and early afternoon passed slowly. At long last, it was time to make the call. Quivering with anticipation, I sat down on the couch with Hipster Boyfriend as he shakily dialed my parents’ number. I sat close to Hipster Boyfriend so I could hear the conversation; I didn’t dare listen in on another line for fear of Dad hearing my stifled giggles and realizing something was up.

Within two rings, Dad picked up the phone. Hipster Boyfriend was his nervous, awkward self: “Uh, Tim, do you have a minute for me to talk to you?” I heard my dad pause apprehensively. “Yes…?” he said. Hipster Boyfriend took a deep breath and went on: “I know I’ve only been dating Calla for ten months, but I’ve honestly never met anyone like her. She’s wonderful, and she means the world to me. I would like your permission to marry her.”

I held my breath: this was the moment of truth. Dad would: a.) realize what day it was and the jig would be up, or b.) panic. Luckily for me, he chose the latter. I heard my dad’s voice go up an octave as he said, “Have you talked to CALLA about this?!” My parents were fully aware of my relationship woes, so my poor dad didn’t know what to say. Hipster Boyfriend said that no, he hadn’t talked about it with me. In his entire life, my dad has never been rendered speechless… except for the afternoon of April 1, 2007. Famously diplomatic, Dad did his very best to let Hipster Boyfriend down easily. I heard him say “How are you going to support her with an art major?” and “It’s not that we don’t LIKE you; we just don’t KNOW you!”

Meanwhile, I was sitting on the couch, trying not to choke on my own laughter. I don’t recall how long the phone call was, but I’m sure Dad thought it lasted forever. But like all good things, this too had to end. Finally, I took the phone from Hipster Boyfriend. “Dad?” I said, suppressing my cackles. “What day is today?” Dad paused as he looked at the calendar. “It’s April 1^st,” he said. Then, it hit him. “It’s April 1^st. You little shit.” I dissolved in a fit of laughter of epic proportions; I could hardly breathe, and tears rolled down my face. Dad was not laughing (yet), but there was an audible sigh of relief. “I’ll call you back when my heart starts beating again,” Dad said, promptly hanging up.

I spent the rest of the day basking in the glow of my victory. Hipster Boyfriend was just glad that it was over. I later found out that Mom had been sitting right by Dad during this phone call, so she also spent a few minutes in horror. My prank was a two-fer.

News of my April Fools’ Day joke spread like wildfire in my hometown. I came home for Easter that year, and I was a minor celebrity. My parents’ friends all congratulated me on being a diabolical genius: Dad’s old band director was especially proud of me.

More than anything, I wish I could’ve seen Dad’s face during this phone call. “You know the scene in Raiders of the Lost Ark when the Nazis’ faces are melting?” Dad said. “I think it was a lot like that.”

Looks about right.

Out of all the stories I have to tell, this one is far and above my favorite. I tell it every chance I get, particularly around April Fools’ Day. Many people don’t even mind hearing it multiple times – especially if they know my dad! Dad, too, has come to accept the brilliance of my April Fools’ Day joke. He, too, enjoys retelling the tale of that fateful spring day. It’s been five years, and the story still hasn’t gotten old. However, ever since 2007, Dad and I no longer talk on April Fools’ Day. He has been known to call me at 12:01 on April 2^nd, but never again will we speak on April 1^st.

 You may be wondering: how long did I keep Hipster Boyfriend around after more or less forcing him to do my nefarious bidding? Did I swiftly kick him to the curb on April 2^nd? Actually, no.  Even after he totally ruined my birthday in mid April (which is a story for another time), it took me until June to work up the courage to break up with Hipster Boyfriend. Even then, it was short-lived: I felt guilty and took him back that same day. I broke up with Hipster Boyfriend for good in July: we had been dating for just over a year. It was the longest year of my life, but it was worth it just so I could give my dad a few more grey hairs.

a Russian Mary Kay story.

In the not-so-distant past, I lived in Minneapolis. I moved there for a number of reasons, the primary one being that I was too broke to stay in New Orleans. Relocating to Minneapolis would mean being closer to my family and friends, having affordable housing by moving in with James as he student-taught near the cities, and completing my third and final museum internship.

Upon my arrival in Minneapolis, I did have one job waiting for me: my incredibly handy clothing store job. Since I worked for a national chain, all I had to do was request a transfer from one store to the next. I had been hired in Denver and had transferred to New Orleans from there; then, from New Orleans to Minneapolis.

Unfortunately, my clothing store job in Minneapolis ended up being incredibly part-time. While in Denver, I had worked during back-to-school season; in New Orleans, it was Black Friday and Christmas shopping. However, it was January when I got to Minneapolis, and there were no big shopping events on the horizon. I was lucky to get one or two shifts a week. And let me tell you, one or two shifts a week on minimum wage just wasn’t going to cut it.

Feverishly, I searched for an additional job. This was a great deal harder than you might think: my internship required a minimum of twenty hours a week, so my new job had to be able to work around that. Most mainstream part-time jobs wouldn’t want to deal with that: jobs were scarce, and there were plenty of people with better availability than me. So I turned to the dark side.

And by the dark side, I mean Craigslist. Craigslist jobs tended to be a little on the odd side; not something you’d necessarily see in the Star Tribune classifieds. Frankly, that’s exactly what I needed: the more off-beat a job was, the more willing they would be to work with my schedule.

It didn’t take long before I got not one, not two, but THREE interviews for jobs I’d applied for on Craigslist. The first interview was at a facility that hosted consumer panels, and I was offered the job on the spot. They were not sure how many hours a week I would be working, so I forged ahead with the two other interviews. The second interview was at an interpreting agency where I would help recruit medical interpreters. I got this job as well (and would stay with this company for a year and a half). Even with three jobs and an internship, I thought that there may be room for one more. You can always use more money, right? That brings me to my final Craigslist interview (and what this story is ultimately about).

The first two job interviews had been in actual office buildings, which began to restore my faith in Craigslist after my New Orleans Craigslist landlord disaster. However, this last interview was a step backwards, to say the least. The title of the position was something like “customer service assistant,” and the Russian woman I spoke with on the phone was fairly vague about what the job actually was. The interview was on a Friday in February; there was a music educators’ convention that same weekend, so James and I going to head downtown immediately after my interview to meet our music teacher friends.

As James and I looked for this mysterious address, we found ourselves in the middle of residential suburbia: not a good sign. “Are you SURE you got the address right?” said James, wondering if he’d ever see me alive again. I was pretty sure I’d written it down correctly. We came to a stop in front of a shabby little house that matched the address on my scrap of paper. “What if you just skipped the interview?” said James hopefully. “You have three jobs already!” No, I had to go. It would be rude to stand the Russian lady up, after all. I had no idea how long the interview would last, so James said he’d come back in twenty minutes. “If you’re not out of that house in one hour, I’m coming in,” said James valiantly.

With that, I ascended the cracked concrete stairs up to the front door. Apprehensively, I rang the doorbell. Almost immediately, the door opened, and I was greeted by a heavily made-up Russian woman named Tatiana. She enthusiastically invited me into her house, which was incredibly warm and smelled of stew meat. Tatiana sat me down on her striped couch, and she propped her slippered feet up on the coffee table.  “Tell me all about yourself,” Tatiana directed in her heavy accent. I gave her a quick run-through of my education and my customer service-related work history. “Ok, ok,” she said impatiently. “Now tell me this: do you like makeup?” Do I like makeup? What kind of question was that for a job interview? I hesitantly answered, “Yes… ?” Tatiana looked pleased. “Good,” she said. After she went on for a while about the “transformative powers of makeup,” Tatiana said abruptly, “How much do you know about Mary Kay?”

It took nearly everything I have in me not to get up and leave right then. There was no way that I was going to sell Mary Kay. I’m sure the products are great, but I’ve never been an independent sales kind of gal. I told Tatiana that I’d never tried any Mary Kay products, nor had I ever sold any. Tatiana then launched into an epic tale about how she has a PhD in physics, but she was never TRULY happy until she quit her job as a professor and began selling Mary Kay.

That was all lovely, but finally, I had to ask: what exactly would my job BE? Tatiana explained that she had a list of brides-to-be, and I was to call them and tell them that they had “won” a facial and – lucky them! – they could bring as many friends as they would like. I quickly realized that it was just a thinly-veiled plot to scrape up some Mary Kay customers.

That was the end of part one of my interview. Yes: it was a two-parter. Tatiana asked me to meet her at a nursing home next week: she was hosting a Mary Kay get-together, and she would like to give me a “makeover” so I would know just what it was that I was pitching to the unsuspecting brides. Apparently, I had to “pass” the makeover to get the job. I didn’t particularly WANT the job, but without question, could make good use of the extra money. I agreed to get made-over the following week.

I informed James and my parents of my interview, and all of them were fairly certain that I was about to be sold into white slavery. I assured them that it was nothing like that; I was just helping out a busy Mary Kay woman. It would be fine.

The next week, I went to the nursing home to get my makeover. I was greeted by a very enthusiastic Tatiana, who sat me down and had me watch a video about Mary Kay herself. Let me tell you, it was captivating (insert sarcasm). When the video was over, I found that several other women had arrived. It turned out that Tatiana was the leader of some sort of sales team, and these women were the sales representatives. The arrival of these women heralded the beginning of my makeover, which mostly consisted of them squirting moisturizer on a paper plate and having me pick out eyeshadow samples. Believe it or not, the best was yet to come: Mary Kay trivia. Tatiana and her sales reps quizzed me on factoids from the documentary, and for every question I got right, I got a letter: if I got enough letters to spell “beautiful,” I won a fabulous prize. I lost the game (can you blame me?), but I still got a handful of consolation prizes: body spray, a makeup bag, and gold eyeliner. Classy.

Tatiana spent the rest of the evening trying to convince me to ditch this customer service job and become a member of the sales representative team instead. For just the cost of a sales starter kit, I could be well on my way to fame and fortune – and that elusive pink Cadillac. 

Tempting.

I politely declined, saying that I’d rather have the customer service job. Tatiana promptly asked me when I could start (but instructed me to keep the possibility of being a sales representative in mind).

So I had the job. All the work would be performed at her house, I learned on my first day. Tatiana asked me to work from 6pm to 9pm on my first day. I had to come straight from an eight-hour day at the museum, so I distinctly remember trying not to starve during this initial “shift.” This first shift was to be a training session, and I would find out exactly how shady this whole operation was.

Tatiana appeared with a multi-page spreadsheet of names, phone numbers, and locations. The names were of all the brides-to-be. I had to wonder where she had gotten all these names. Tatiana must’ve read my mind: all these brides had signed up on some sort of bridal registry, like David’s Bridal. Apparently, on the registration form, there’s some fine print that says the bride consents to be contacted by outside vendors if she does NOT check a certain box.

Right off the bat, this gave me sort of a bad feeling. My feeling worsened when I heard Tatiana go through the first call. She gave me an elaborate script so I could follow along. The whole thing was just disgusting. Tatiana’s written introduction went like this: “Have you ever won anything in your life?” Yes, I was supposed to ask this and be totally serious. Then, “How would you feel if I told you that you won a FREE BRIDAL FACIAL?!” At this point, most of the brides hung up (and I don’t blame them for a second). Every now and again, though, someone took the bait. If she did, it was up to me to schedule an appointment in Tatiana’s giant Mary Kay appointment book.

I spent those first three hours listening to Tatiana sweet talk potential customers. She didn’t book very many appointments, but I got the gist of it. During my next shift, Tatiana listened in on my phone calls to brides. I don’t remember if I got any appointments or not, but Tatiana was very pleased with my “phone personality.” She only listened in for an hour or so, and then she left me to myself. I flipped through the spreadsheet, making sure that there was no one I knew on the list. I was supposed to keep track of what day and what time I called and if I got a voicemail. If I spoke to a person, I needed to note what they said and if they were hostile. Tatiana had several other women doing the same tasks as me, and there were several notes saying things mostly along the lines of “called me a bitch and told me never to call again.” This was clearly a dream job.

Slowly, I made the calls, and I hated every second of it. By the time my next shift rolled around, I had already begun to leave fake voicemails (aka not actually call the person, but go through the voicemail script aloud to myself) and skim through large chunks of the page. On my first day, Tatiana had made it sound like I would be doing more than just phone calls: I’d help with inventory, mailings, and whatever else needed to be done. Unfortunately, it became clear that I would be doing phone calls, phone calls, and more phone calls. During my short tenure, there was one day when Tatiana had me spend half an hour rearranging her lipstick cabinet. I was almost enjoying myself when she screeched, “Enough! Time to get back to the phone.”

It took me about two shifts to decide that I needed to quit this job. I felt like such a slimeball trying to convince these women that they’d “won” something. Many of them reacted with mild confusion: “I never entered a drawing for anything.” I did have some swear at me, and I did book an appointment or two – but I definitely didn’t feel good about it. I know, it’s just Mary Kay: you actually can go to one of those facials and not have to buy anything. Even so, attempting to coerce unsuspecting women into the hands of Tatiana was not worth the eight dollars an hour.

I don’t remember how many shifts I completed for Tatiana: it couldn’t have been more than four. At the end of the week, she asked me when I could come in again. I told her I had a busy schedule (which was true) and that I’d get back to her. I never did. I know that it would’ve been the grown-up thing to just quit right then and there, but she was a lot bigger and scarier than me. If you were trapped in the house of a terrifying Russian woman with a temper (I often would hear her screaming at her husband while I made my phone calls), you’d cop out, too.

So that’s the story of my short-lived job as a Mary Kay cold-caller. I hope you gathered two things from this story: 1.) if you’re getting married, read the fine print, and 2.) never trust Craigslist. One of these times, I’ll tell you about my other two Minneapolis Craigslist jobs. In the meantime, if someone calls you and tells you you’ve won a free facial, hang up immediately.

top ten Tuesday: ten songs for ten situations.

I don’t know about you, but I get a ton of songs stuck in my head. Every single morning, I wake up with some tune rattling around in my brain, and the only way to get rid of it is NPR.

It’s not just the mornings, though. I have songs stuck in my head all day, every day. I feel like a defective radio station. Many of these songs get stuck in my head at random; I haven’t heard some of them for years. Out of the blue, I’ll wake up one morning with some N’Sync song floating through my head. Who knows where that came from (frankly, in cases like that, I don’t WANT to know). However, there are a number of songs that pop up more often than others, and always in specific situations. Call them the Billboard Top 40 of my subconscious. These ten are the most frequent, probably because I find myself in triggering situations more often. Good luck not getting them stuck in YOUR head, as well.

The Rolling Stones: “She’s So Cold”

situation: when I get hit on at work

This is my favorite Rolling Stones song of all time: it’s so upbeat, and the lyrics are really funny. It’s about a man who is in love with a woman, but she won’t give him the time of day. My current job (and the job before it) is in public service. As a young, decent-looking person, I hear all sorts of comments. I’ve been asked for my phone number, told that my shoes were “hot,” and I’ve heard remarks like “I like your eyes.” Keep in mind, this is ALL in a professional setting, so it’s wildly inappropriate. So what am I supposed to do? Almost always, I simply ignore the commentator and go about my day, and “She’s So Cold” immediately pops into my head. Sure, I’m being cold, but it’s really the best thing to do. I don’t always ignore the statements, though: one time, I was actually asked on a date. I answered with a flat “no.” Stone, stone cold.

The Animaniacs: “50 States and Their Capitals”

Situation: traveling through state capitals

I honestly would not know all my state capitals if it were not for this song.  It’s sung to the tune of “Turkey in the Straw,” so it’s not only educational, but catchy as well. The Animaniacs are clearly genius. Every time I get near a state capital, I can’t help but think of this song. I once spent a week in Hartford once, and I couldn’t help think “Hartford in Connecticut, so pretty in the fall,” as that is the line in the song. Other state capitals that I have visited include Baton Rouge, Pierre, St Paul, Denver, Phoenix, Washington DC, and Jackson, and each and every time I visited one, I couldn’t help but think of The Animaniacs.

Commander Cody: “Hot Rod Lincoln”

Situation: riding in my parents’ Lincoln

“Hot Rod Lincoln” is about, you guessed it, a hot rod Lincoln. The guy races a Cadillac and wins, but ends up in jail for his efforts. My parents drive a Lincoln – it’s no hot rod, but it does ok. Whenever dad passes someone, he’ll hear the engine rev and say, “Come on, Lincoln!” (He has said this to all his cars; this is his first Lincoln, so it was usually “come on, Ford!”) That causes me to think immediately of the opening line of the song (especially if Dad is speeding): “You’re going to drive me to drinkin if you don’t stop driving that hot rod Lincoln.” I think I just enjoy being able to rhyme “drinkin” with “Lincoln.”

Queen: “Bicycle Race”

Situation: riding my bike or wearing my bicycle necklace

Spring is just around the corner, so that means it’s time to pump up my bike tires and hit the streets of Sioux Falls. I rarely rode my bike in Minneapolis; my neighborhood had incredibly narrow streets and no bike lanes. Riding on the sidewalks is illegal, so you were doomed to the street, which meant you were pretty much asking to get run over. Minneapolis did have some wonderful bike trails; I will give it that. My new Sioux Falls neighborhood has wider streets, and the bike trails aren’t too far away. Riding my bike is always accompanied by “Bicycle Race” stuck in my head. I get this same song in my head whenever I wear my penny-farthing necklace (which, by the way, is awesome).

Depeche Mode: “Enjoy the Silence”

Situation: left alone in my office

This is a fairly new situation, since I have never before worked somewhere that can get so quiet. Every now and again, I end up being the only one in my office area. As I work in a library, things are characteristically quiet already. When I’m left alone in the office, the silence is almost deafening. The phones rarely ring, and I’m far enough away from the rest of the offices that their noise doesn’t carry over. The only sounds are the quiet hum of the computers and my own typing. Though I don’t particularly enjoy the silence, this song gets into my head just the same. If only I could turn on the radio.

Elvis Presley: “Cold Kentucky Rain”

Situation: rainy road trips through small towns

Though I have never been to Kentucky, I have been in the cold rain. I’ll forever remember the day my friend Sarah introduced me to this song. We were sitting on the porch at my house, eating white chocolate pudding (yes, that is a thing), and it began to rain. Sarah started to sing the chorus of this sing, and she was stunned when I said I’d never heard it. We looked it up on the internet, and sure enough, it was a great song. I now think of it every time I’m driving through small towns in the rain (which, when I lived in Minneapolis and would drive home to visit my parents, was quite often).

Rubberbandits: “Horse Outside”

Situation: seeing a Honda Civic

This song is HILARIOUS. No, really. It’s about a guy who wants to hook up with a bridesmaid at a wedding, and she has a number of other offers from guys with mediocre cars: a Mitsubishi, a Honda, and a Subaru. When she asks our hero why she should go with him instead of the guys with the cars, he sings, “F**k your Honda Civic, I’ve a horse outside.” The song itself is wonderful, but it’s really the video that makes it great. I don’t know why the singers have plastic bags over their heads, but no matter: just watch the goofy dances they do. If you don’t mind a little profanity, I highly recommend you watch this video. So now, every time I see a Honda Civic, I think of that particular line in the song… especially if said Honda Civic cuts me off.

Kelly (aka some guy named Liam): “Shoes”

Situation: buying shoes (I bet you never would’ve guessed)

I don’t remember when I first heard this song, but I thought it was hysterical. The guy in the wig, the nasally voice, the absurd shoe lyrics… it all adds up to Internet gold. I don’t even have to be shopping for shoes, and I’ll get this song in my head. Just walking past a Payless is enough to get it started. It gets even better when I’m in a shoe store with someone who knows the song. We can go through the rows, stating, “These shoes rule. These shoes SUCK.” And really, is there a better way to classify shoes? I don’t think so.

Ritchie Valens: “Come On, Let’s Go”

Situation: on the verge of being late

I have never been the most punctual person in the world. I’m not usually late, but I’m not usually early, either. I have my morning schedule timed to near perfection. I know exactly how long it will take me to get ready in the morning, so I don’t get up a minute earlier. Every now and again, though, something won’t go quite right: there’s no hot water, my outfit looks dorky, or there’s a traffic jam on the way to work. A wrench is thrown into my plans, and I am no longer timed to the minute. Whenever this happens, Ritchie Valens comes sneaking into my head. This song is not about being late, but to me, it always will be.

The Rolling Stones: “Start Me Up”

Situation: starting my car in the winter

Winter can be a trying time here in the Midwest. We’re usually stuck with six months of snow and ice, and that means scraping windows and trying to persuade your car to start in negative temperatures. We got lucky this year; there was hardly any snow, and it seems like spring has arrived early. However, we’re normally wading through mounds of snow, trying to chip the half-inch of solid ice off of our windshields. And of course, to avoid completely destroying your car (and to expedite the ice removal process), you need to let it warm up for a bit. Whenever I’d have to start my car in the mornings, I would inevitably get “Start Me Up” stuck in my head. Thankfully, my car was always willing to start up on cold winter mornings. I can’t say as much for me.

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So those are the top ten songs I get stuck in my head (and the specific situations that go with them). And to think, I didn’t even go into the name songs (example: “Gloria” by the Doors… of course, I think of it every time I encounter someone named Gloria). Stay tuned (pun intended) for next week’s exhilarating story!