The Overworked; The Underworked

July 2, 2008

It’s only been a few days since our last post, but everything has turned topsy-turvy. In that report, we were both sitting pretty at the height of the Dublin Adventure, but we’ve since drifted to opposite ends of the spectrum, neither of which is particularly pleasant. Al finds herself a bit overworked and Mer is shocked to be unemployed.

We’ll start with Al’s story. Things at the Body Shop are going well. She’s learning more about eye cream and Vitamin E products than one could ever hope to know. Best of all, she is in a store that features a great soundtrack including sweet tracks from Estelle, Feist and Kanye. She gets “free samples,” but they’re a bit too puny to celebrate.

Waitressing at Dobbins is decent, as the friendships are blossoming and the work is consistent. Though the labor is good and the pay is pleasing, Al finds herself a bit overworked, putting in double shifts multiple times a week and getting few nights off. A 10-hour day yesterday paired with a 13-hour day today may prove to be a cramp on her style. Perhaps she’ll cut back at one Dobbins to free up some more evenings. (She certainly will have no trouble parting with the hideous man-tie and the uncomfortable ankle-length apron they make her wear.) What a joy to have the “burden” of too many job offers!

Then there’s Mer. Things at La Med were going splendidly… until it was time to get paid. Mer received a call for Goretti, the unpleasant Irish woman who takes care of the finances and is also married to the owner, a Frenchman. When Goretti discovered Mer was without a work permit, she flipped her viscous Irish lid and entered an angry rant about the EU, the Office of Immigration and the ignorance of Americans. When Mer tried to explain that a) The Irish Consulate in Chicago told her explicitly that Americans can work in Dublin sans permit for 3 months and that b) her friend was working two jobs and had not run into this problem, Goretti went berserk. It didn’t take too long for Mer to realize her defeat with this woman. She’d have to find a permit. Sigh.

The next day she trekked around the Irish bureaucracy. The Office of Immigration said she had to leave the country for 48 hours. They sent her to the Office of Industry and Trade who told her permits are only issued for careers of 6 months or more. The cab driver’s two cents was that restaurateurs should never require permits. The Office of Industry sent her back to the Department of Justice at which point it became obvious that the bureaucratic sectors in this country have not communicated since the Easter Rising in 1916.

Just when it seemed hope was lost, the Prodigal Son entered the scene in the form of a senior Northwestern, Kevin Carey. Mer and Kevin met for drinks and discovered that Kevin had just experienced the exact situation: misinformation from the US led him to enter the country with improper paperwork and his employer was at a loss. He told Mer the loophole: A magical place called USIT, an American-run haven who works around the bureaucracy to assist pathetic foreigners.

The next morning was spent at USIT, ordering transcripts from Northwestern and completing stacks of paperwork. These miracle-workers promised to produce the permit in two weeks, so Mer skipped over to La Med to tell Eric (the French dude, the husband of crazy Goretti) the good news.

Alas, Eric was unable to remove the large stick from his ass. Though he seemed pleased about the permit, he still refused to let Mer work until it came, by which time La Med may not even have a job for her. Was this really happening? Everything had seemed so set, and she had done the necessary work to appease Crazy Goretti, so what was the problem? Oi vey.

As it stands now, Mer is jobless until the permit comes through. Though the Frenchman seemed pessimistic, Javier, the manager, remained positive and indicated La Med will gladly take her back. Javier, a 5’3”, 30-year-old Spaniard who is in charge of the hiring at La Med has shown nothing but kindness, so Mer remains optimistic. After all, she always was better with the Latinos than with the French.

To put the icing on the cake, Al’s PPS number arrived in the mail. Upon calling the PPS office, Mer discovered hers had been lost in the mail. Lovely.

The whole mess is resulting in two outcomes. First, we are going to start a novel entitled, “Learning to be Irish: A guide to moving to Dublin.” It will include the ridiculous twists of the bureaucracy and lay out the truths that seem impossible to find online or in the States. Second, Mer is newly inspired to take advantage of this waiting period. Through the next ten days, we hope to do day trips to various seaports, attend a Hurling game courtesy of our Irish friend we met at the Foggy Dew, visit the James Joyce Museum and maybe even get some Euro-fabulous haircuts. As Al said, "I'm so over feeling bad for myself. Let's just go have fun."

We love to find the silver lining and even this week has some: We spent a lovely day in Merrion Square and St. Stephen’s Green, two luscious green parks, with our German friend Anne. In Merrion Square, we found a fascinating sculpture of Oscar Wilde that stood beside two marble pillars inscribed with his best-known quotes. Mer also meandered around the halls of the Irish Museum of Modern Art, finding exhibits that ranged from thought-provoking to just plain weird. And of course, we couldn’t be more excited about the nearing arrival of our guests: Mamma and Daddy Laitos come to Dublin Thursday! We can’t wait to show them around.

Paul Simon sang, “I should be depressed, my life’s mess, but I’m having a good time. I’m loving and loving and loving. I’m exhausted from loving so well. I should go to bed, but a voice in my head says, ‘What the hell. Have a good time.’”

Amen, Paul. Amen.