Today I got called onto my first priority project for the boss. He asked me to work with one of the managers, who recruited another one from one of the other regions, and she set us to work compiling a massive store of emails and documents into a central, coherent piece.
In truth, it was tedious work best not charged to people whose time, you know, costs significantly more than mine does. But I was glad of the opportunity to demonstrate both alacrity and ability (tedium doesn't mean you don't have to pay attention, kids; that's an important secret of any job, not just secretarial work), and also to work with this manager. She's the first person who gave me a resource, before I had a computer, and she's also the first person who asked me to DO anything for her, also before I had a computer. I was grateful for that, too, because even if it was "just making labels" it was work, and there was no sense in these people having me around if I was only memorizing the supply catalogue. Give me labels, it's not something I feel a need to get snobby about, given the lack of resources!
Thing is, since getting said computer, my continued issues with certain access have led me to disappoint this manager a couple times, and it is frustrating. She doesn't get snippy about it, but it's definitely no more irksome to me to be unable to do my job than it is to her to be unable to depend on someone for things they ought to be empowered to do. Any (lack of) complaint about my onboarding aside, again - it's not as if this woman has overstepped some sort of bounds. She's asked for room reservations (it took me two days to manage) and stuff like that. You'd better believe it felt GOOD to have her ask me to step up on a deadline, and to deliver for her. Even if what I delivered was 241 pages of cutting-and-pasting. I was cutting and pasting on the way to a document my own boss is going to need. The manager wanted us to put together the makings of a rock star presentation.
Give me a the chance to be part of that, and dadgum skippy I will be your tedious cut-and-paster. Of COURSE I will. And demonstrably grateful for the opportunity.
I actually finished the collection of pieces before 3:00 this afternoon, which amazed me, because before the midpoint of the pile I had to go through it was looking like overtime. I expected to bring my laptop home tonight and work off network on this for much of the evening. So finishing at midafternoon felt pretty d*mned good. I was partying, and by the time she asked me for a cover with timelines to illustrate deliverables, that was just FUN - and steps two (culling/deleting/streamlining) and three (cosmetics/formatting) are the easier ones, too. Step one is often the worst of the lot, with special projects, particularly deadlined ones. I know my best way to work, I lit into this pile, and I managed to get THROUGH it. It felt simply amazing.
***
I said to E last night, the truth is, I really don't know how I could have gotten this job. He asked me if I had prayed, given myself to whatever would be the best thing for me. And of course I did do that. But whatever it was in my resume - in my AWKWARD interview on the phone, or the blase' one I gave in person, having come to the conclusion there was no way I was getting this gig, period - that got me in this gig, I sincerely cannot imagine. It is beyond me to understand what I could have ever done to deserve this fortune.
Mind you, I know my strengths, and they're formidable.
But this market ... I seriously do not know what made this happen. The possible "connection" I thought I had swears he wouldn't even have been in a position to say anything even if he had had the time to. The couple-hundred resumes I know must have joined mine in consideration absolutely contained some strong contenders; this town isn't big enough I don't LITERALLY know my own competition - and it's fierce. I was a dink on the telephone, and short of breath in person. I didn't come off idiotically, nor smell bad, but I was NOT stellar in my presentation nor even my person, and I know that very clearly.
So I'm feeling the need to make up for whatever my LUCK has been, and to do it justice.
***
I have been fortunate and blessed to have some unbelievably good jobs. My last position in insurance, I worked for one of the greatest bosses I've ever had - and I've had a number of good ones, lucky stinker that I am. My last position in the mainstream financial services industry - people HATED me, because I had the best boss. He'd walk out of the office at 2:00 on a Friday, look at me bewildered, and say, "what are you still doing here?" And he wasn't any pushover - he expected only the best. But he gave his team all he could, and "collegial" wasn't just some sort of cute corporate conceit coming from his mouth. He was one of the finest people I've ever worked with, and watching others around me, at all levels, coming to realize that too was incredibly gratifying, as he became a known quantity at that firm.
He also gave the most elegant, generous gifts. Just today I wore my Movado glass locket with the #1 in it he gave me as a parting present. As always happens, someone complimented it in the elevator. I have seen well to do women eyeing that and peering at me over it. I love that gift probably more for its giver even than its refinement and style. It is the very emblem of generosity.
***
So. Yeah. I've had some good jobs in my day. I've had high caliber, highly visible positions; my references are likely more powerful than my resume itself ... SVPs, CROs, Directors, Vice Presidents who worked with me in above-and-beyond capacities. I'm extremely fortunate in the people who somehow have found reason to give me their humbling, much esteemed respect. Apparently, I have a gift in my total lack of fear to network - even though I'm "just a secretary". I know my assets - ambition, confidence, and creativity in communication - and I use the devil out of them.
But this job ... It's either been so long since I felt so fully challenged, or I really am on a wholly different level in this place than I've ever been before (not stratospherically executive per se - but the nature of my employer is so absolutely unlike the mainstream profit-and-growth financial sector I spent so many years supporting) that my commitment is engaged in a whole new way.
Yes, that is it.
I forge very real commitments to, and loyalties to, my employers, if I possibly can. I find ways and reasons to invest myself in my living.
But ... this new employer ...
I am part of something literally bigger and more important than I have ever been part of before. I may be "just a secretary" - but I'm one whale of just a secretary when I want to be ... and, fella babies.
I want to be.
I am wowed by my own opportunity here - and I mean "here" - in my very own job. Not the opportunity to grow out of it, not the "possibility for advancement" - I work in a project, in a place, the like of which I've never been part of. And I have the chance to offer a level of support either satisfyingly adequate and charming, or genuinely value-added.
Guess which of those I find myself urging to go for.
I want to wow these people.
I want to give them the BEST, and accustom them completely to seamless support. I want them, actually, to become almost unaware of my work, because it is done unfailingly.
I'm reaching the point where my access is approaching the level I require to be able to do this. I've worked very hard not to whinge about what has gone slowly, and to fill in the gaps as much as I can where I still require others' help.
I've bought chocolate, and greased all the wheels I could with very real gratitude for all the help I have gotten.
I've begun to build the network of relationships I'll need to manage my work.
And even a person who may have some reason herself not to appreciate my presence says I am a fast learner, and doing very well.
Learning, interestingly, has been the very smallest part of my transition so far. (This was not the case at my previous position ...) I find my concentration at peak levels, because I am so fully ENGAGED, and I care so much about this job. This work.
Today, I had my first special project.
I'll sleep knowing I gave it a hell of a good go.
And hoping that this is how it looks to those who needed to put me on it.
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
The Eagles
"Life In the Fast Lane" is a vicious, teriffic song, man. I'd claim I had forgotten this, but the probable fact is it was so much a part of the furniture, I'd bet I never knew.
Genuinely excellent song, and not merely for the acutely wicked guitar hooks.
Genuinely excellent song, and not merely for the acutely wicked guitar hooks.
Monday, August 16, 2010
Chin-Comms
I remember talking with somoneone, once, about someone horribly, ridiculously intolerant, who asked about something or other in his house, and sneered that "that was made by the Chin Comms" ... the Chinese communists.
I remember, too, when China's communism began to burgeon into astounding capitalism, and how exciting that seemed at the time really.
There is a segment of my liberal thinking which subscribes to the idea that I shouldn't really care "who made it" - and certainly not show financial bias by refusing to buy "made in China" or the like.
There's a much bigger segment of my liberality which believes, and always has, in "spending locally" - eating locally, nurturing my neighbors with whatever money I might have to spend. I believe in accepting higher costs, sometimes, for higher quality - or at least for the worthwhile goal of SEEING the effect my money has in my world. Visiting my family in the Pacific Northwest was wonderful, for the abundance of locality on offer. Local fare, local craft - even indigenous teas, I believe they have now. Heh. It can be a powerful thing, and one can see the movement even in this most republican of towns. The desire for local economic benefit is wider spread as the economy goes on.
***
I also believe in staying out of the Big Boxes, and malls, and in silly clothing one won't find locally, and in eBay, and in shopping, when I'm not in Carytown or a farmer's market or restaurant, online rather than in giant retail.
I've been an eBayer for certainly over a decade now. Most of my clothing and jewelry, and an increasing proportion of even my shoes come from online shopping. I do Christmas (apart from Carytown!) without leaving my house to deal with crowded parking lots; have for a number of years - since before "the morning shows" discovered people could do this. Increasingly, with loved ones far away, it really is the only way to shop which makes sense. And most people who know me know I am the eBay queen.
Which is why it has for some time now grown increasingly depressing to see, even on eBay, actual human sellers - and even actual human (yes, American, frankly) eBay power sellers - increasingly displaced by Asian markets. Over the past year, and almost stunningly in the past six months, the pace to which Asian sellers are taking over auction markets is almost unbelievable.
To be sure, it's certainly easy to tell who's who - and, if you don't want to buy from Asia, to skip over, after you've clicked on the first few pictures in a list, and figured out which stock shots are being used by whom. It's even pretty easy to discern American sellers (and Australian ones; they're huge in this market now) whose stock is clearly originating from the same places.
More and more, too, it's certainly no guarantee that "Asian" equals cr*p ratings. Quite a few of these major marketers are increasing their service and quality quotients enough to make purchasing highly worthwhile. You find yourself marveling at detailed photos, saying, Okay, this one is obviously not some fly-by-night operation sucking down my money without any return for me in it. Some of these sellers really work hard, and you can't find yourself faulting them. I recently bought from an Oregon seller, and the item came - "Designed in the Pacific Northwest; made in China" - an interesting point to delineate. "Some of your money isn't going to Asia!"
And you know what, that's a point that matters to me. The advantage of Asian-manufacture prices, and some advantage, too, for the domestic economy.
But there are sellers out there, with the photos of models who look as if they are half starved, and some of them possibly plucked out of soap lands - with prices custom made to win the bids of people more dependent on price (below all) than I am at the moment - with Engrish in their headlines and descriptions, enough to make you wonder how good their service really is - whose auctions make me think twice. Hand-beaded wedding gowns for $130 ... ? You can get a little queasy, if you think about this stuff much. Even if only about those poor young models, tricked out in ludicrous fashions for the foreign market, and smiling self-consciously ... for how many dollars a week ... ?
I find myself more and more leery of these sellers. And, yes, I know it's not only the Chinese. But they do dominate the stripe. Hugely.
I find myself lighting on amateurish photos, clearly non-stock ones, with very real excitement now, when I peruse a list of search returns of much length, on eBay. "Wow, a seller who might have better than a 98% feedback rating - who might be from Peoria, rather than Pyongyang" ...
It's sad. It's dispiriting.
I look around me, and see how many people are still out of work (while I complained about THREE lousy MONTHS) ... and I think about the connection between my buying habits, and thousands of others' - and the facts of my country's economy.
I'm not pretending sophisticated analysis here. I'm making an emotional post, about my mixed feelings - about my mixed *experiences*, even this very month or so; with one dress a disappointment, and another a great success ... and both, I know, bought from somewhere in Guongdang or the neighborhood.
Yes, I can think, too, about whether my influence is any good in those neighborhoods. Or terrible.
I can stew myself silly over things like this. I'm a woman - and my mother's daughter. Fretting to no dessert is all too easy for me.
And then I want to serve some nice dessert to those terribly thin young women modeling clothes for my prosperous, yet stingy, American consumption.
*Sigh*
There was surely a point to this. But I have chosen to sink under the weight of self-indulgence in my response to these things. My apologies, kids. I'll try to write a better post next time.
I remember, too, when China's communism began to burgeon into astounding capitalism, and how exciting that seemed at the time really.
There is a segment of my liberal thinking which subscribes to the idea that I shouldn't really care "who made it" - and certainly not show financial bias by refusing to buy "made in China" or the like.
There's a much bigger segment of my liberality which believes, and always has, in "spending locally" - eating locally, nurturing my neighbors with whatever money I might have to spend. I believe in accepting higher costs, sometimes, for higher quality - or at least for the worthwhile goal of SEEING the effect my money has in my world. Visiting my family in the Pacific Northwest was wonderful, for the abundance of locality on offer. Local fare, local craft - even indigenous teas, I believe they have now. Heh. It can be a powerful thing, and one can see the movement even in this most republican of towns. The desire for local economic benefit is wider spread as the economy goes on.
***
I also believe in staying out of the Big Boxes, and malls, and in silly clothing one won't find locally, and in eBay, and in shopping, when I'm not in Carytown or a farmer's market or restaurant, online rather than in giant retail.
I've been an eBayer for certainly over a decade now. Most of my clothing and jewelry, and an increasing proportion of even my shoes come from online shopping. I do Christmas (apart from Carytown!) without leaving my house to deal with crowded parking lots; have for a number of years - since before "the morning shows" discovered people could do this. Increasingly, with loved ones far away, it really is the only way to shop which makes sense. And most people who know me know I am the eBay queen.
Which is why it has for some time now grown increasingly depressing to see, even on eBay, actual human sellers - and even actual human (yes, American, frankly) eBay power sellers - increasingly displaced by Asian markets. Over the past year, and almost stunningly in the past six months, the pace to which Asian sellers are taking over auction markets is almost unbelievable.
To be sure, it's certainly easy to tell who's who - and, if you don't want to buy from Asia, to skip over, after you've clicked on the first few pictures in a list, and figured out which stock shots are being used by whom. It's even pretty easy to discern American sellers (and Australian ones; they're huge in this market now) whose stock is clearly originating from the same places.
More and more, too, it's certainly no guarantee that "Asian" equals cr*p ratings. Quite a few of these major marketers are increasing their service and quality quotients enough to make purchasing highly worthwhile. You find yourself marveling at detailed photos, saying, Okay, this one is obviously not some fly-by-night operation sucking down my money without any return for me in it. Some of these sellers really work hard, and you can't find yourself faulting them. I recently bought from an Oregon seller, and the item came - "Designed in the Pacific Northwest; made in China" - an interesting point to delineate. "Some of your money isn't going to Asia!"
And you know what, that's a point that matters to me. The advantage of Asian-manufacture prices, and some advantage, too, for the domestic economy.
But there are sellers out there, with the photos of models who look as if they are half starved, and some of them possibly plucked out of soap lands - with prices custom made to win the bids of people more dependent on price (below all) than I am at the moment - with Engrish in their headlines and descriptions, enough to make you wonder how good their service really is - whose auctions make me think twice. Hand-beaded wedding gowns for $130 ... ? You can get a little queasy, if you think about this stuff much. Even if only about those poor young models, tricked out in ludicrous fashions for the foreign market, and smiling self-consciously ... for how many dollars a week ... ?
I find myself more and more leery of these sellers. And, yes, I know it's not only the Chinese. But they do dominate the stripe. Hugely.
I find myself lighting on amateurish photos, clearly non-stock ones, with very real excitement now, when I peruse a list of search returns of much length, on eBay. "Wow, a seller who might have better than a 98% feedback rating - who might be from Peoria, rather than Pyongyang" ...
It's sad. It's dispiriting.
I look around me, and see how many people are still out of work (while I complained about THREE lousy MONTHS) ... and I think about the connection between my buying habits, and thousands of others' - and the facts of my country's economy.
I'm not pretending sophisticated analysis here. I'm making an emotional post, about my mixed feelings - about my mixed *experiences*, even this very month or so; with one dress a disappointment, and another a great success ... and both, I know, bought from somewhere in Guongdang or the neighborhood.
Yes, I can think, too, about whether my influence is any good in those neighborhoods. Or terrible.
I can stew myself silly over things like this. I'm a woman - and my mother's daughter. Fretting to no dessert is all too easy for me.
And then I want to serve some nice dessert to those terribly thin young women modeling clothes for my prosperous, yet stingy, American consumption.
*Sigh*
There was surely a point to this. But I have chosen to sink under the weight of self-indulgence in my response to these things. My apologies, kids. I'll try to write a better post next time.
Casting
I could have lived my life happy never learning that Captain Kirk's career includes starring opposite Lindsay Lohan as her leading man.
Holy ...
See, now?
There are advantages to being a pop-culturally backward middle-aged white broad. AND to not being *quite* geek enough to read up on The Good Movies before they come out.
(In happier news? Pine's dad has, apart from his significant slice of CHiPs history, a bit of a Trek track record. Aw.)
Holy ...
See, now?
There are advantages to being a pop-culturally backward middle-aged white broad. AND to not being *quite* geek enough to read up on The Good Movies before they come out.
(In happier news? Pine's dad has, apart from his significant slice of CHiPs history, a bit of a Trek track record. Aw.)
Suppah-Suppah-SupperTIME!
If you can show me a meal better than taziki, hummus, tabouli, peppers and lettuce in soft tortilla wraps, I will declare you have shown me a very miracle.
Ohh, dinner was so delicious tonight.
Ohh, dinner was so delicious tonight.
Okay, Okay - So - Mel Gibson
I try not to bore y'all with my take on pop culture, because - let's face it - I'm a forty-some year old suburban white woman, and cherish my right to extreme unhipness just as much as everyone with any trace of fad-and-fashion savvy chereishes their right to dismiss me as a hopeless fossil ...
But Mel Gibson and these tapes of disgusting voicemails he left for his chippie.
Am I the ONLY person who's been hearing these things who can hear the extreme level of bad acting going on?
The longer this foolishness goes on, the more absolutely astounded I am to hear NOBODY whatsoever commenting on the extraordinarily bad line readings on both parties' parts. I mean, unbelievably bad acting. Bend-at-the-waist, high-school first-timer, one-act-festival-at-the-community center bad acting. So. Hideously. Bad.
People have mentioned many times how interestingly strange the sound recording is.
But not once, not yet, have I heard even the most casual observation of this execrably poor quality of performance.
Ugh.
But Mel Gibson and these tapes of disgusting voicemails he left for his chippie.
Am I the ONLY person who's been hearing these things who can hear the extreme level of bad acting going on?
The longer this foolishness goes on, the more absolutely astounded I am to hear NOBODY whatsoever commenting on the extraordinarily bad line readings on both parties' parts. I mean, unbelievably bad acting. Bend-at-the-waist, high-school first-timer, one-act-festival-at-the-community center bad acting. So. Hideously. Bad.
People have mentioned many times how interestingly strange the sound recording is.
But not once, not yet, have I heard even the most casual observation of this execrably poor quality of performance.
Ugh.
Friday, August 13, 2010
GET Into the Groove! Boy, I've Got to PROVE--
Finishing out four weeks at the new job, I'm beginning to get a sense of the rhythms and realize urgencies. When you're new in a group, it can be easy to get ahead of your duties (note to employment candidates: it is always better to get ahead of your job when you're new than to let it get ahead of you), but this actually can be a disservice to yourself. Yesterday, I relished tearing into my accounts payable inbox, processing something like fifteen or so invoices for payment. The week's been busy, I've gotten enormous amounts of work done - even with a day off in the middle of it - and on top of priority matters, I've polished off a lot of new employee stuff as well. I finally enrolled in my health benefits etc. yesterday. I completed several training courses online. I gained directory access, and made important progress. One of my coworkers and I set plans to go over her job duties on Monday, pending some vacation time coming for her.
Today, I came in and found myself alone in our quadrant of the floor. Two others did show, but the white noise was the great companion of the day.
It did give me good time for MORE new employee stuff; but had I saved some of that training, rather than worrying about the email nasty-grams "reminding" me gently to get to it, the courses and modules would have taken much less time, and I certainly could have concentrated on them carefully. They would have been good occupation, too, for a quiet day. As it was, I put in a few messages on outstanding materials I seem not to have received; looked at Code of Conduct information, read the employee manual. This is the sort of thing I would have done anyway; I'm a reader of manuals, a follower of directions. I don't even mind these things. For me, reading even copy writing has certain points of interest. And it does beat slogging through twelve hundred lines in Excel, a sort of job I have had in the past and could never stand to acclimate myself to much. I like the quiet. And it's not like my first few days - memorizing that supply catalogue, in order to fend off sleep while I had no computer, and not enough work to keep me occupied (or useful).
It's something of a pleasure, a quiet Friday when you can survey your progress, and realize the rhythms which will work best.
Today, I came in and found myself alone in our quadrant of the floor. Two others did show, but the white noise was the great companion of the day.
It did give me good time for MORE new employee stuff; but had I saved some of that training, rather than worrying about the email nasty-grams "reminding" me gently to get to it, the courses and modules would have taken much less time, and I certainly could have concentrated on them carefully. They would have been good occupation, too, for a quiet day. As it was, I put in a few messages on outstanding materials I seem not to have received; looked at Code of Conduct information, read the employee manual. This is the sort of thing I would have done anyway; I'm a reader of manuals, a follower of directions. I don't even mind these things. For me, reading even copy writing has certain points of interest. And it does beat slogging through twelve hundred lines in Excel, a sort of job I have had in the past and could never stand to acclimate myself to much. I like the quiet. And it's not like my first few days - memorizing that supply catalogue, in order to fend off sleep while I had no computer, and not enough work to keep me occupied (or useful).
It's something of a pleasure, a quiet Friday when you can survey your progress, and realize the rhythms which will work best.
Thursday, August 12, 2010
"WORK-Work"
So I've mentioned the writing work. Now to mention the paycheck-inclusive work. The new job I haven't chosen to speak of much to this point; it seems premature to have opinions about a place this soon, and I've learned better over time. Still, it isn't reasonable not to think and compare at all.
It was three months, two days from layoff to new offer. I am ludicrously fortunate, and extremely aware of this. I pray in gratitude every day. Once I started in, came the usual confusion of what-is-what ... how-to-get-to-what ... and the beginnings of in-job networking. I have an acute capacity for finding resources, and the motivation here is impelling.
The motivation here is illuminating, too.
My last position - my last company ... I can't find much reason to whinge and badmouth them. But I have discovered my suspicion in-the-moment was exactly correct ... and I am vindicated in certain ideas. I felt I had taken a pay cut and a demotion - both indisputably true, if you watch the resume - but that the choice had been a strategy. I went to a company legendary for its security, and decided that losing bonuses and three grand in base income was necessary, and would pay off.
We've seen how this panned out. But I stand by my decision; in the end, it has still left me intact and undeterred.
The problem was that, while I believed in that security - and even if it had been genuine - the security was in exactly the job I had. There would be nowhere to go from where I sat. And, over time, and with some advantage of being able to see: I learned that, even if I could have "risen" to an executive admin position ... at this employer, I wouldn't have *wanted* one.
That was the sobering realization. That even if my original hope for advancement had become possible - what was available wasn't appealing to me.
I started looking for a job in the middle of the holidays. I had an interview in January. I applied heavily, and networked extensively. My contacts are peerless (literally - they're not secretaries, my references), and I've never had any fear of using them.
For the Communications job, I stepped up and called up my old buddy the SVP of Communications. I tugged on the sleeves of the VP at the charity I'd worked campaigns with for several years. She took me to lunch, and spoke with me several times. I called recruiter friends-of-friends, and pipes up with my last boss in an executive position. I have ambition, and I'm not afraid to use it.
No WONDER I never fit in with my last employer. This company was unable to comprehend that intelligence and administrative work could be compatible; and never knew what to do with me. I was bored out of my mind. I was not merely left unchallenged: I was forbidden to even try to rise above minimum clerical expectations. Over time, I was left out of staff meetings, told essentially pointblank I talked too much for a (mere) admin. Seriously! That actually got said to me - that I contributed TOO MUCH to group meetings and discussions, and that I wouldn't need to come to staff meetings anymore.
*Please insert stunned, semi-appalled silence here*
***
Okay. So, the new employer is pushing me already. And I am energized to have a job about which I find myself CARING so very much. I'd almost forgotten how that feels.
Not *quite* ... not really, not forgotten. But I had assimilated myself to the situation I had, and for survival ... and contentment ... I somewhat had to smother my ambition. Even my intelligence.
It's a shame for that company - but I was never more fortunate than the day they laid me off. That's the secret of my "attitude", thought to be so amazing, thought to be so good. It was simple math. What I had "lost" was no loss to me.
What I have now ... I am so very thankful for.
Time soon to go say prayers in gratitude. But I had to at least post about work once, early in my tenure ...
It was three months, two days from layoff to new offer. I am ludicrously fortunate, and extremely aware of this. I pray in gratitude every day. Once I started in, came the usual confusion of what-is-what ... how-to-get-to-what ... and the beginnings of in-job networking. I have an acute capacity for finding resources, and the motivation here is impelling.
The motivation here is illuminating, too.
My last position - my last company ... I can't find much reason to whinge and badmouth them. But I have discovered my suspicion in-the-moment was exactly correct ... and I am vindicated in certain ideas. I felt I had taken a pay cut and a demotion - both indisputably true, if you watch the resume - but that the choice had been a strategy. I went to a company legendary for its security, and decided that losing bonuses and three grand in base income was necessary, and would pay off.
We've seen how this panned out. But I stand by my decision; in the end, it has still left me intact and undeterred.
The problem was that, while I believed in that security - and even if it had been genuine - the security was in exactly the job I had. There would be nowhere to go from where I sat. And, over time, and with some advantage of being able to see: I learned that, even if I could have "risen" to an executive admin position ... at this employer, I wouldn't have *wanted* one.
That was the sobering realization. That even if my original hope for advancement had become possible - what was available wasn't appealing to me.
I started looking for a job in the middle of the holidays. I had an interview in January. I applied heavily, and networked extensively. My contacts are peerless (literally - they're not secretaries, my references), and I've never had any fear of using them.
For the Communications job, I stepped up and called up my old buddy the SVP of Communications. I tugged on the sleeves of the VP at the charity I'd worked campaigns with for several years. She took me to lunch, and spoke with me several times. I called recruiter friends-of-friends, and pipes up with my last boss in an executive position. I have ambition, and I'm not afraid to use it.
No WONDER I never fit in with my last employer. This company was unable to comprehend that intelligence and administrative work could be compatible; and never knew what to do with me. I was bored out of my mind. I was not merely left unchallenged: I was forbidden to even try to rise above minimum clerical expectations. Over time, I was left out of staff meetings, told essentially pointblank I talked too much for a (mere) admin. Seriously! That actually got said to me - that I contributed TOO MUCH to group meetings and discussions, and that I wouldn't need to come to staff meetings anymore.
*Please insert stunned, semi-appalled silence here*
***
Okay. So, the new employer is pushing me already. And I am energized to have a job about which I find myself CARING so very much. I'd almost forgotten how that feels.
Not *quite* ... not really, not forgotten. But I had assimilated myself to the situation I had, and for survival ... and contentment ... I somewhat had to smother my ambition. Even my intelligence.
It's a shame for that company - but I was never more fortunate than the day they laid me off. That's the secret of my "attitude", thought to be so amazing, thought to be so good. It was simple math. What I had "lost" was no loss to me.
What I have now ... I am so very thankful for.
Time soon to go say prayers in gratitude. But I had to at least post about work once, early in my tenure ...
Histfic
One of the most frustrating things about writing in my genre is that, when it comes time to shop and query, many of the authors whose agents I'd do best with, in terms of "matching" their catalogue, are located in Europe. I know I should just query; the world is growing smaller every day, electronically. It shouldn't be an obstacle.
But something in me protests, good grief - I should be able to do this domestically.
I think to myself, intrinsically, that doesn't necessarily have any meaning. If I get an agent in the U. K. - it's still getting myself an agent, isn't it? But I do fear the translation of a contract over borders, even if not across the miles themselves. (I'm long accustomed to having miles between myself and some object of interest ... but not actual international borders. Bless the US for being such gigantic country.)
I need to be *doing* - so, if I must yoo-hoo across the pond, that is still DOING, which is what counts. And so, on we go.
Even as I mentally try to compose my sweet note to the lovely Susann Cokal, asking her whether she thinks it might be worth quering her agent, too. Given my differences from Susann, I would imagine I'd not be a hot property. But it ought to be a question worth posing ... another DO for the list.
*Sigh*
But something in me protests, good grief - I should be able to do this domestically.
I think to myself, intrinsically, that doesn't necessarily have any meaning. If I get an agent in the U. K. - it's still getting myself an agent, isn't it? But I do fear the translation of a contract over borders, even if not across the miles themselves. (I'm long accustomed to having miles between myself and some object of interest ... but not actual international borders. Bless the US for being such gigantic country.)
I need to be *doing* - so, if I must yoo-hoo across the pond, that is still DOING, which is what counts. And so, on we go.
Even as I mentally try to compose my sweet note to the lovely Susann Cokal, asking her whether she thinks it might be worth quering her agent, too. Given my differences from Susann, I would imagine I'd not be a hot property. But it ought to be a question worth posing ... another DO for the list.
*Sigh*
Sunday, August 8, 2010
House Beautiful
Home is a peaceful place today, sweet-scented and relaxed. I got three loads of laundry washed last night; the last went into the dryer this morning, and sorting and putting-away has begun. I am the strange sort who actually likes folding laundry, so this being a Sunday pastime doesn't bother me. (Hate *vacuuming*, though - and Swiffing the hardwood, too. Ah, well.)
I've also done some small detail work around the house. Removing a few vestigial pieces of the old security system - probably state-of-the-art/1986, but after nine years' residence here, obviously never to be re-upped. Finalizing the homes for the plants. Taking down the new light fixture, which doesn't suit, and putting it back in its box to be returned, with its shade, so I can then turn around and buy something on the order of 25 new switch- and electrical plates, a nice big (bottom-heavy) urn for my biggest plant, and several other miscellaneous things. This doesn't even include a necessary grocery trip; but at least the stores are next to one another.
My energy's good, but motivation is lacking. I wish I could stay in the house, and just read and stay quiet. Or, I wish I could enlist some company for the trip. Unfortunately, mom's cell is off (!!!), and the next-door neighbor is deep in yard work.
It's nice to start a week with things in such good order, though. I suppose that should be motivation in itself, but of course I'm the type to find that motivation to stillness, not movement. There ya go.
I suspect I will get moving shortly, even if I can't find company. *Sigh*
But in the meantime, this is a very pleasant place to be ...
I've also done some small detail work around the house. Removing a few vestigial pieces of the old security system - probably state-of-the-art/1986, but after nine years' residence here, obviously never to be re-upped. Finalizing the homes for the plants. Taking down the new light fixture, which doesn't suit, and putting it back in its box to be returned, with its shade, so I can then turn around and buy something on the order of 25 new switch- and electrical plates, a nice big (bottom-heavy) urn for my biggest plant, and several other miscellaneous things. This doesn't even include a necessary grocery trip; but at least the stores are next to one another.
My energy's good, but motivation is lacking. I wish I could stay in the house, and just read and stay quiet. Or, I wish I could enlist some company for the trip. Unfortunately, mom's cell is off (!!!), and the next-door neighbor is deep in yard work.
It's nice to start a week with things in such good order, though. I suppose that should be motivation in itself, but of course I'm the type to find that motivation to stillness, not movement. There ya go.
I suspect I will get moving shortly, even if I can't find company. *Sigh*
But in the meantime, this is a very pleasant place to be ...
Saturday, August 7, 2010
Still A Good Day
Well, with the good offices of my mom and stepfather, the drain seems to be cleared. The broken-off bit of the snake we never removed; because the plastic pipes are sealant goo'ed up to the point of irremoveability (without breaking them basically), BUT I have to say I was rather astounded with the power of the compressed air can mom brought to clear the blockage. D held a plunger over one drain while she took the can to the other one, and dang if that stuff's not rocket powered. D thinks it blew the snake to kingdom come too - but if nothing else, the water's draining. We cleaned out the sink, and called it a night. No nightmares, no frustrations (no removal of the snake; which does worry me a bit). But for now, there's laundry to be done.
The shopping list grows longer, with drain-strainers and a nice big urn I want for one of my big indoor tree plants, but tomorrow should be pleasant; return two things, and buy a couple dozen small ones in return. Heh.
Time to finish CLEANING the house now - so I can finally clean my rather nasty self.
The shopping list grows longer, with drain-strainers and a nice big urn I want for one of my big indoor tree plants, but tomorrow should be pleasant; return two things, and buy a couple dozen small ones in return. Heh.
Time to finish CLEANING the house now - so I can finally clean my rather nasty self.
Saturday
Six plants repotted, and a seventh probably on tap as well. I've gotten an inventory started for a trip tomorrow, to return the kitchen light fixture and shade I bought which really aren't suitable, and measured a pot I want to get a decorative urn for as well.
It isn't much, really. But I'm enjoying a *slowly* productive Saturday afternoon. It'll all go on into the evening - finishing with that plumbing; and finally of course also getting to housecleaning - but at the end, I'll have some small, nicely refurbished new details to enjoy in my pretty and quiet, relaxed, clean house ...
A good day. Even with its stupid frustrations. Even knowing I can likely expect more, once it's time to take apart bits of the basement!
It isn't much, really. But I'm enjoying a *slowly* productive Saturday afternoon. It'll all go on into the evening - finishing with that plumbing; and finally of course also getting to housecleaning - but at the end, I'll have some small, nicely refurbished new details to enjoy in my pretty and quiet, relaxed, clean house ...
A good day. Even with its stupid frustrations. Even knowing I can likely expect more, once it's time to take apart bits of the basement!
WWID?
What do you do when the snake BREAKS OFF in the laundry sink which has been backed up for a few days, preventing fresh influxes of clean socks (and you're on your second-to-last pair), and providing habitat for cave crickets to sickeningly drown themselves, forming lint-and-gross-bug stew ... ?
You go upstairs, knowing perfectly well where the plumber's wrenches are, and you pick another project until the point in the day where you feel like becoming even more disgusting than you already are by dismantling the pipes beneath the sink to pull out the segment of steel coil you've broken for your stepfather.
You plant plants, and give dirt to others. You find homes for flotsamming artifacts in the office. And you turn on the Star Trek DS9 DVDs in the background, for company.
You also work fairly conscientiously not to think about the fact that the person who really ought to be sharing your frustrations is uncomfortably ensconsed four thousand miles, no doubt spreading alternative frustrations far too far across the globe.
Gah.
***
Nothing. NOTHING. Is ever straightforward or efficiently do-able.
Nine years I've been a homeowner (last month). It really is worth the spitting and cussing. Isn't it?
You go upstairs, knowing perfectly well where the plumber's wrenches are, and you pick another project until the point in the day where you feel like becoming even more disgusting than you already are by dismantling the pipes beneath the sink to pull out the segment of steel coil you've broken for your stepfather.
You plant plants, and give dirt to others. You find homes for flotsamming artifacts in the office. And you turn on the Star Trek DS9 DVDs in the background, for company.
You also work fairly conscientiously not to think about the fact that the person who really ought to be sharing your frustrations is uncomfortably ensconsed four thousand miles, no doubt spreading alternative frustrations far too far across the globe.
Gah.
***
Nothing. NOTHING. Is ever straightforward or efficiently do-able.
Nine years I've been a homeowner (last month). It really is worth the spitting and cussing. Isn't it?
Thursday, August 5, 2010
Pity
It happened today - tonight - just now ... the reason I needed to get to a post I've been thinking about lately. It won't be particularly good writing. It won't be deep nor inspiring. I'm not interested in thrilling you. This one is for me. Just a note to self.
Not long ago, I was PMS'ing - that thing women do, some of us, every four weeks.
I don't know what it was made me misty this time. Nothing important. But I chose, in the moment the hormones gave rise to a swell, to ride a wave of tender emotion.
We can choose that - especially those of us paying attention. Many milk their own volatility without realizing it; needing chocolate and a chick flick, or turning up the music when it's the right - or wrong - song at the right moment. I do it intentionally sometimes. I feel the rise begin, and decide to let it go - or actively squelch myself. Or perhaps I indulge. I reach for the thickness of my own feelings, and pull it around me, sink in - marinate.
***
I feel sorry for men, is the thing here. For all that word above - volatility - comes up: I know the truth of feminine emotion for what it is. Even the choices we're not conscious of ... are still choices, with us. And we can indulge or refine or minimize, which men cannot.
To be sure - some men know how to indulge emotions.
Unfortunately, though, you guys aren't that good at it - and often choose anger to indulge. To cede your control to.
Yeah, women do too. But oftentimes, at least, we control the option. We do it on purpose. (Yes, we are maddning. None would have us otherwise. Even those full of hatred.)
You guys, though - are subject to feelings, abused by them. Very melodramatically so, sometimes, if you'll pardon the observation. My stars, a man who's been hurt: he's the first person ever to've been so. He will ... Never Trust Again. He's amazing in his wilful blindness, and in the weakness in the face of pain. Ready to be mastered.
Women ... many capitulate, but that too is a decision. Often one trained into us by passive-aggressive gender roles. My the opera.
Women let the proportions go haywire.
But women have luxury men really can't understand.
I know men feel.
I know men endure powerful sadness.
But women ... have a menu. And a supersize button, in our hormonal cycles.
***
I cried recently. Don't remember why it was.
But I remember the tears in my eyes.
That's the point of crying.
Not long ago, I was PMS'ing - that thing women do, some of us, every four weeks.
I don't know what it was made me misty this time. Nothing important. But I chose, in the moment the hormones gave rise to a swell, to ride a wave of tender emotion.
We can choose that - especially those of us paying attention. Many milk their own volatility without realizing it; needing chocolate and a chick flick, or turning up the music when it's the right - or wrong - song at the right moment. I do it intentionally sometimes. I feel the rise begin, and decide to let it go - or actively squelch myself. Or perhaps I indulge. I reach for the thickness of my own feelings, and pull it around me, sink in - marinate.
***
I feel sorry for men, is the thing here. For all that word above - volatility - comes up: I know the truth of feminine emotion for what it is. Even the choices we're not conscious of ... are still choices, with us. And we can indulge or refine or minimize, which men cannot.
To be sure - some men know how to indulge emotions.
Unfortunately, though, you guys aren't that good at it - and often choose anger to indulge. To cede your control to.
Yeah, women do too. But oftentimes, at least, we control the option. We do it on purpose. (Yes, we are maddning. None would have us otherwise. Even those full of hatred.)
You guys, though - are subject to feelings, abused by them. Very melodramatically so, sometimes, if you'll pardon the observation. My stars, a man who's been hurt: he's the first person ever to've been so. He will ... Never Trust Again. He's amazing in his wilful blindness, and in the weakness in the face of pain. Ready to be mastered.
Women ... many capitulate, but that too is a decision. Often one trained into us by passive-aggressive gender roles. My the opera.
Women let the proportions go haywire.
But women have luxury men really can't understand.
I know men feel.
I know men endure powerful sadness.
But women ... have a menu. And a supersize button, in our hormonal cycles.
***
I cried recently. Don't remember why it was.
But I remember the tears in my eyes.
That's the point of crying.
Anniversary
Six years. One day.
Today, the heat inspired the insects to loud, low speechmaking in the quiet woods where my office is.
I remember the cicada sound - from back then. Sounded like a beach at the ocean. A train. Nature cycling.
Nothing has changed inside, except for the pain.
Much has changed outside. But I can fool most people. Few of them really see (few people see other human beings anyway).
August 4. And another anniversary, soon.
Today, the heat inspired the insects to loud, low speechmaking in the quiet woods where my office is.
I remember the cicada sound - from back then. Sounded like a beach at the ocean. A train. Nature cycling.
Nothing has changed inside, except for the pain.
Much has changed outside. But I can fool most people. Few of them really see (few people see other human beings anyway).
August 4. And another anniversary, soon.
Tuesday, August 3, 2010
Pup-Head
My cousin came down here with her daughter and boyfriend a few years back, and the guy bonded with my dog in between family movements. I liked that guy, but one thing he said actually became kind of oddly special to me.
He was commenting on the striking personality of Siddy, and scritching and being nice on her, and she was loving it. He looked at me and he said, "her head still smells like a puppy."
Sid was probably eight or so by then, if not more - and she is twelve now, bless her totally-ignorant-of-chronology bones. And her head still has the sweet-ish smell of a little baby dog.
I often say my dog's got good stink; and I do actually have an affection for the warm, grassy smell of her paws in summertime (well, some summertimes; this year has been too dry for her to pick up scents in her fur), the mellow musk around her neck. But her head is remarkable. Definitely sweet. She smells like a puppy to this day.
Lolly is not my first baby-scented beastie. Ex and my first cat, Gert, had chinchilla-soft fur and a pleasant fragrance. Our big old orange boy, Byshe, smelled inexplicably of baby powder all his life. He never got into my perfumes; as far as I could tell, the whiff was somehow innate to himself - little Smike didn't share it, though they were all but littermates. I don't even smell like baby powder, not like he did.
But Lol is a special case, not least because dogs are supposed to smell like dogs, for one - and because she does have a doggy smell about her ... but her cranium's pure sweet.
She's not allowed to kiss my face, but I'm often to be found up next to hers. The little patches where she used to have a mask, stretching up from her eyes to her ears. That flat, velvety spot where she's so warm, where the muscles stretched across her skull make a little square expanse on top of her head just made for scritching and resting your face quietly next to. (She has another muscular spot, between her front legs, the front of her chest, which is one of our favorite places for me to pet her - where the fur meets in four quarters to a tiny twist in the middle of her fur. This spot is the warmest, most reassuring place in the world to put your hand. And she likes it too.)
To go along with her puppy smell, Siddy has a best friend of only three or four years old; our esteemed next-dog neighbor, Scout. Scout often reminds me of my little canine niece, the middle/furry child, the one who was replicated a few years ago, blown up a little bit, and put in the house next door. Scout and the Lolly play like rambunctious three year olds together, rampaging like fuzzy little maniacs and then flatly (quite harmoniously) ignoring each other to death. They get along perfectly, and love each other to death.
Scout keeps Lolly running, and playing - more by far tha I ever could do for her - and as a result, the tiny little creaks she was developing before regular play dates have almost entirely disappeared. She had been on punitively expensive supplements she didn't like (but was so good about eating for me, bless her), but I haven't given her one in so long I can't even remember now. She'd tripped on the steps a time or two, and showed signs of not seeing well. Now she's every bit the thumping galumpher she ever was - and though she might not spy all the cats, she sees her breakfast in the morning -and Scout - and that's what counts. We're lucky in our neighbors, and overtly grateful.
***
My dog will be thirteen in six months to the very week now.
And her head still smells like a sweet little puppy dog. Seems only fitting. That's what she'll always be.
He was commenting on the striking personality of Siddy, and scritching and being nice on her, and she was loving it. He looked at me and he said, "her head still smells like a puppy."
Sid was probably eight or so by then, if not more - and she is twelve now, bless her totally-ignorant-of-chronology bones. And her head still has the sweet-ish smell of a little baby dog.
I often say my dog's got good stink; and I do actually have an affection for the warm, grassy smell of her paws in summertime (well, some summertimes; this year has been too dry for her to pick up scents in her fur), the mellow musk around her neck. But her head is remarkable. Definitely sweet. She smells like a puppy to this day.
Lolly is not my first baby-scented beastie. Ex and my first cat, Gert, had chinchilla-soft fur and a pleasant fragrance. Our big old orange boy, Byshe, smelled inexplicably of baby powder all his life. He never got into my perfumes; as far as I could tell, the whiff was somehow innate to himself - little Smike didn't share it, though they were all but littermates. I don't even smell like baby powder, not like he did.
But Lol is a special case, not least because dogs are supposed to smell like dogs, for one - and because she does have a doggy smell about her ... but her cranium's pure sweet.
She's not allowed to kiss my face, but I'm often to be found up next to hers. The little patches where she used to have a mask, stretching up from her eyes to her ears. That flat, velvety spot where she's so warm, where the muscles stretched across her skull make a little square expanse on top of her head just made for scritching and resting your face quietly next to. (She has another muscular spot, between her front legs, the front of her chest, which is one of our favorite places for me to pet her - where the fur meets in four quarters to a tiny twist in the middle of her fur. This spot is the warmest, most reassuring place in the world to put your hand. And she likes it too.)
To go along with her puppy smell, Siddy has a best friend of only three or four years old; our esteemed next-dog neighbor, Scout. Scout often reminds me of my little canine niece, the middle/furry child, the one who was replicated a few years ago, blown up a little bit, and put in the house next door. Scout and the Lolly play like rambunctious three year olds together, rampaging like fuzzy little maniacs and then flatly (quite harmoniously) ignoring each other to death. They get along perfectly, and love each other to death.
Scout keeps Lolly running, and playing - more by far tha I ever could do for her - and as a result, the tiny little creaks she was developing before regular play dates have almost entirely disappeared. She had been on punitively expensive supplements she didn't like (but was so good about eating for me, bless her), but I haven't given her one in so long I can't even remember now. She'd tripped on the steps a time or two, and showed signs of not seeing well. Now she's every bit the thumping galumpher she ever was - and though she might not spy all the cats, she sees her breakfast in the morning -and Scout - and that's what counts. We're lucky in our neighbors, and overtly grateful.
***
My dog will be thirteen in six months to the very week now.
And her head still smells like a sweet little puppy dog. Seems only fitting. That's what she'll always be.
Sunday, August 1, 2010
On Again
From the moment I received an offer, I was impressed at the amount of time I had to devote to getting into my new job. The stack of forms I'd completed and printed for HR before I even commenced work was about a quarter of an inch thick, and of course there is always more to do once in the door. Security has been a large part of the time commitment; the usual drug screening was the least of it. I went in for fingerprinting, and contributed a lot of info for the credit and background checking.
The first week was deadly, without a computer - but last week, once my laptop had been deployed, went frantically well, and I'm climbing on top of a big ball I'm going to have to stay on.
One of the results of all this activity is that a MONTH has gone by (!!) with no further querying. It's not that I'm "exhausted" when I come home, but I am concentrating so much on my job (and that is good stuff; I'm absorbing things remarkably well, even for me - I think!), when I come home I want to stop concentrating for a while.
Even with shorter workdays (I'm not on a flex schedule anymore - so I won't be working 7:30-5:30 ... but I also won't have Fridays off every other week!), the evenings are short enough they're going by with less thought to my OTHER career.
Today has been devoted to getting back on that ball. I've been rewriting the query, and reading a lot trying to regain some direction. As some may recall, when last we broached the subject, I'd completed my list of e-queries from Writers Market, and was about to begin the independent search. I can admit, some of the reluctance to "concentrate" comes from being a bit daunted. But not enough to quit.
My last rejections were from the agency for Sharon Kay Penman (a woman I will meet at the Conference this year; and who was very personal and gracious in her letdown), and the partial request I'd received early on. There are still a number of queries unresponded-to, but one must assume there's no iron on the fire, and commence to collecting more irons to try heating up.
Today has been good. Writing feels good - and by "writing" I have to include all the work that has nothing to do with composition. As with my day job, I find the business of my work interesting stuff. This is more personal; but I'm blessed and grateful to be able to say that each career is compelling.
Several more hours' work on this side. And now, time to get off this computer, relax for an hour or so, and get ready for tomorrow.
A good past month or so. I am a fortunate woman.
The first week was deadly, without a computer - but last week, once my laptop had been deployed, went frantically well, and I'm climbing on top of a big ball I'm going to have to stay on.
One of the results of all this activity is that a MONTH has gone by (!!) with no further querying. It's not that I'm "exhausted" when I come home, but I am concentrating so much on my job (and that is good stuff; I'm absorbing things remarkably well, even for me - I think!), when I come home I want to stop concentrating for a while.
Even with shorter workdays (I'm not on a flex schedule anymore - so I won't be working 7:30-5:30 ... but I also won't have Fridays off every other week!), the evenings are short enough they're going by with less thought to my OTHER career.
Today has been devoted to getting back on that ball. I've been rewriting the query, and reading a lot trying to regain some direction. As some may recall, when last we broached the subject, I'd completed my list of e-queries from Writers Market, and was about to begin the independent search. I can admit, some of the reluctance to "concentrate" comes from being a bit daunted. But not enough to quit.
My last rejections were from the agency for Sharon Kay Penman (a woman I will meet at the Conference this year; and who was very personal and gracious in her letdown), and the partial request I'd received early on. There are still a number of queries unresponded-to, but one must assume there's no iron on the fire, and commence to collecting more irons to try heating up.
Today has been good. Writing feels good - and by "writing" I have to include all the work that has nothing to do with composition. As with my day job, I find the business of my work interesting stuff. This is more personal; but I'm blessed and grateful to be able to say that each career is compelling.
Several more hours' work on this side. And now, time to get off this computer, relax for an hour or so, and get ready for tomorrow.
A good past month or so. I am a fortunate woman.
BELOVED Exes
My former husband just called me a little while ago. Sometimes we talk every week or two, sometimes we go a month or two without chatting but still email each other. Often he calls when he is (a) commuting home from work, (b) driving to or from a race (he drives NASCAR with his father), or (c) heading to or from the store on errands.
Tonight's special: socks and underwear from Target.
As he got off the phone, he said, "I've just been using you to entertain me while I drove. You're just conversation meat."
It's always good when exes can maintain amicability by clearly communicating their functions for each other.
Heh.
Tonight's special: socks and underwear from Target.
As he got off the phone, he said, "I've just been using you to entertain me while I drove. You're just conversation meat."
It's always good when exes can maintain amicability by clearly communicating their functions for each other.
Heh.
Thursday, July 29, 2010
Repeat
I've said all this before, but I think it was put better this time in this way - from a post today on a writig board, where someone asked what gives with people dismissing others' livings as "only a (fill-in-the-blank: stay at home mom, whatever the peon)":
It has a fair amount to do with culturally ingrained snobbery, and - not to be more strident than I usually am, but frankly - gender.
I myself am a secretary. That's the word I choose to use, though other people find it 'demeaning'. I say that secretary is an office which has been around for over half a millennium, and the word wasn't ruined until the past two generations, when jokes about lecherous bosses and brainless twinkies in heels became synonymous. Me, I find Administrative Assistant a fairly weak substitute, but at the end of the day I really don't care about my title. Give me my projects, I will manage them (that's really what it is, but I don't feel any need to be called a PM either), shut up and pay me.
My new title is Senior Administration Specialist, which simultaneously pleases and cracks me so completely up. I mean, wow, someone felt defensive. Heh.
People almost invariably marvel that I am "okay" with "just" being a secretary. I had to explain to one of my recent-ex coworkers, so horrified when our company laid me off that he was forwarding listings for Other Positions I Could Aspire To, that honey, I'm an admin, that's no accident, I've been at it 25 years, and thank you so much but that's not second best - and IT'S NOT AN ACCIDENT. It's not because I never knew I could "do better" and it's a decision, not incidentally, made by that very same intelligence this person was praising so fulsomely.
Not every company is like my previous employer, entirely unaware that a person can simultaneously be intelligent AND an Admin. Good grief, I'm even ambitious, though where it came from I can hardly tell you.
It has a fair amount to do with culturally ingrained snobbery, and - not to be more strident than I usually am, but frankly - gender.
I myself am a secretary. That's the word I choose to use, though other people find it 'demeaning'. I say that secretary is an office which has been around for over half a millennium, and the word wasn't ruined until the past two generations, when jokes about lecherous bosses and brainless twinkies in heels became synonymous. Me, I find Administrative Assistant a fairly weak substitute, but at the end of the day I really don't care about my title. Give me my projects, I will manage them (that's really what it is, but I don't feel any need to be called a PM either), shut up and pay me.
My new title is Senior Administration Specialist, which simultaneously pleases and cracks me so completely up. I mean, wow, someone felt defensive. Heh.
People almost invariably marvel that I am "okay" with "just" being a secretary. I had to explain to one of my recent-ex coworkers, so horrified when our company laid me off that he was forwarding listings for Other Positions I Could Aspire To, that honey, I'm an admin, that's no accident, I've been at it 25 years, and thank you so much but that's not second best - and IT'S NOT AN ACCIDENT. It's not because I never knew I could "do better" and it's a decision, not incidentally, made by that very same intelligence this person was praising so fulsomely.
Not every company is like my previous employer, entirely unaware that a person can simultaneously be intelligent AND an Admin. Good grief, I'm even ambitious, though where it came from I can hardly tell you.
Sunday, July 25, 2010
Promising Sky
An hour of this:
Beautiful, though. That is blessing enough (along with the wind, and the drop to 92 degrees!)
and not a drop of rain to show for it.
Beautiful, though. That is blessing enough (along with the wind, and the drop to 92 degrees!)
Saturday, July 24, 2010
Wave
Vehicle thermometer reading today: 109. I took a one-minute drive to the drugstore (even if I wanted to, it wouldn't have been a walking errand; there was too much to carry to save on gas), and the key, after being in the ignition for that period, was so hot it felt like it had been outside for an hour. The seatbelt tab and steering wheel were terribly hot. The air was so heavy in my throat it tempted my gag reflex.
Black leather seats are quite something, days like this.
Black leather seats are quite something, days like this.
Speaking of Blather
An age and vanity post is hardly overdue, but I did have an amusing moment at the new job day before yesterday.
At almost four days in the new office, I'm hardly a novelty anymore, but there is still a lot of getting-to-know-you stuff lying before us. One of the women in the group reminds me a good deal of a friend I had at my job in the mid-nineties; the requisite funny and brash woman in the office I have occasionally been myself. The one I knew before was right around my age, and filled my head with stock phrases such as "What is the DEAL, Pickle???" and "naked aborigine" (referring, actually only the one time - so not so much a stock phrase, as such - to her husband), and essentially being, you know - brash. And funny. She was D. So for ease of nonidentification, we can call the new girl D2.
D2 and I were talking briefly, when she said something about how young I was. I blinked for a moment and asked her how old she thinks I am, because she was clearly off; her response was somewhere in the twenties. I explained the truth of the matter, and she blew out a "no WAY" and commentary on how certainly *that* was not fair of me. "I never would have guessed!"
D2's buddy walked around the corner, and she paused long enough to get "How old do you think Diane is!?" This answer came in at a believable thirty-five. When corrected, she looked up at me sardonically and laughingly uttered the word for a feminine hound (not offensively).
I realize I've long played this game; since even my actual late twenties, people have found me younger-looking than I am. Because this began somewhat early, I have to say - cultural conditioning to the contrary, and years of unexamined amusement about it aside - I don't, as such, find the supposition of my youth in itself a point of flattery. I know it's meant as such; and the effect has become pronounced enough that I absolutely use it to my advantage (the game above? not my first time at the rodeo, by a long shot). I'm fairly certain that there is at least some cognitive dissonance between the resume I present and the face I have to go with it, at times. I'm also aware of the advantages certain aspects of my appearance confer, and I ruthlessly exploit that. My obsession with costuming and personal-appearance deployment doesn't fall short in the professional department. In periods of unemployment, it goes into overdrive.
In its own terms, though, and in myself, the fact of my pleasure in my own age, and the extent of effort it took me to gain its experience, render "you look young" a compliment only by virtue of the fact that it's meant as such rather than by its actual content. "You are beautiful" is something I take, from E or perhaps from my ex, with the full force and power intended. But not looking forty-two is more an accident than an end. I use it, but I didn't particularly make this happen. Yeah, I haven't been in the sun since 1986, as I joke - but that hasn't been the matter of "oh, I must preserve my youth!" so much as the function of a girl who doesn't like to go outside. Yeah, I'm conceited as can be - and I use the accident of my appearance - but I take little real credit for the causes, nor anything beyond clothing, makeup and hairstyling. Apart from covering my white hair until there comes to be enough of it I'll flaunt it fully, I don't style myself for "youth" so much as what I like - and feel is flattering. Extreme youth isn't a look I strive for, and in fact I stay away from things that might "really" signify me as part of a generation I'm not in. I don't adopt current fads and trends; in fact, I stay well away from anything which might appear as if I were trying to look young.
For that matter, I wasn't all that much into trends when I *was* young(er) - and that is probably some part of the supposed magic. The state of my skin is only one piece of the equation; anothe is the state of my style. Because I never got addicted to clue-catcher bangs and spiral perms, I don't bear some of the badges of my own generation, and THAT is a major factor in not looking my age, too. I'm not branded by the fashions of the eighties, and that is one signifier of age-appearance.
No small aspect of the "compliment" that a woman doesn't look her age (it's always women - isn't it?) lies in a woman's lack of shoulder pads, Swatch watches, pleated jeans, add-a-bead necklaces, and L. A. Gear sneakers with multiple neon shoe laces.
And so we have the secret: because I was un-hip back in the day, I'm not locked in that day. Nerdliness is next to youthfulness, or something of the kind.
Not caring about my apparent youth of course goes hand in hand with the conceit that I am fabulous no matter the number of years I've been so. And I do know I need to not play the silly game; it's insufferable, even to me. But it still does *interest* me - both the importance people ascribe to the disparity, and the virtue even I subscribe to in participating so in these compliments.
At almost four days in the new office, I'm hardly a novelty anymore, but there is still a lot of getting-to-know-you stuff lying before us. One of the women in the group reminds me a good deal of a friend I had at my job in the mid-nineties; the requisite funny and brash woman in the office I have occasionally been myself. The one I knew before was right around my age, and filled my head with stock phrases such as "What is the DEAL, Pickle???" and "naked aborigine" (referring, actually only the one time - so not so much a stock phrase, as such - to her husband), and essentially being, you know - brash. And funny. She was D. So for ease of nonidentification, we can call the new girl D2.
D2 and I were talking briefly, when she said something about how young I was. I blinked for a moment and asked her how old she thinks I am, because she was clearly off; her response was somewhere in the twenties. I explained the truth of the matter, and she blew out a "no WAY" and commentary on how certainly *that* was not fair of me. "I never would have guessed!"
D2's buddy walked around the corner, and she paused long enough to get "How old do you think Diane is!?" This answer came in at a believable thirty-five. When corrected, she looked up at me sardonically and laughingly uttered the word for a feminine hound (not offensively).
I realize I've long played this game; since even my actual late twenties, people have found me younger-looking than I am. Because this began somewhat early, I have to say - cultural conditioning to the contrary, and years of unexamined amusement about it aside - I don't, as such, find the supposition of my youth in itself a point of flattery. I know it's meant as such; and the effect has become pronounced enough that I absolutely use it to my advantage (the game above? not my first time at the rodeo, by a long shot). I'm fairly certain that there is at least some cognitive dissonance between the resume I present and the face I have to go with it, at times. I'm also aware of the advantages certain aspects of my appearance confer, and I ruthlessly exploit that. My obsession with costuming and personal-appearance deployment doesn't fall short in the professional department. In periods of unemployment, it goes into overdrive.
In its own terms, though, and in myself, the fact of my pleasure in my own age, and the extent of effort it took me to gain its experience, render "you look young" a compliment only by virtue of the fact that it's meant as such rather than by its actual content. "You are beautiful" is something I take, from E or perhaps from my ex, with the full force and power intended. But not looking forty-two is more an accident than an end. I use it, but I didn't particularly make this happen. Yeah, I haven't been in the sun since 1986, as I joke - but that hasn't been the matter of "oh, I must preserve my youth!" so much as the function of a girl who doesn't like to go outside. Yeah, I'm conceited as can be - and I use the accident of my appearance - but I take little real credit for the causes, nor anything beyond clothing, makeup and hairstyling. Apart from covering my white hair until there comes to be enough of it I'll flaunt it fully, I don't style myself for "youth" so much as what I like - and feel is flattering. Extreme youth isn't a look I strive for, and in fact I stay away from things that might "really" signify me as part of a generation I'm not in. I don't adopt current fads and trends; in fact, I stay well away from anything which might appear as if I were trying to look young.
For that matter, I wasn't all that much into trends when I *was* young(er) - and that is probably some part of the supposed magic. The state of my skin is only one piece of the equation; anothe is the state of my style. Because I never got addicted to clue-catcher bangs and spiral perms, I don't bear some of the badges of my own generation, and THAT is a major factor in not looking my age, too. I'm not branded by the fashions of the eighties, and that is one signifier of age-appearance.
No small aspect of the "compliment" that a woman doesn't look her age (it's always women - isn't it?) lies in a woman's lack of shoulder pads, Swatch watches, pleated jeans, add-a-bead necklaces, and L. A. Gear sneakers with multiple neon shoe laces.
And so we have the secret: because I was un-hip back in the day, I'm not locked in that day. Nerdliness is next to youthfulness, or something of the kind.
Not caring about my apparent youth of course goes hand in hand with the conceit that I am fabulous no matter the number of years I've been so. And I do know I need to not play the silly game; it's insufferable, even to me. But it still does *interest* me - both the importance people ascribe to the disparity, and the virtue even I subscribe to in participating so in these compliments.
Bro-My
When I was young, and far beyond its bearability for the recipient, I burdened my brother with my idolization.
We were a scrapping pair. He wrangled with me, I whined endlessly at him; by the time I began developing crushes on his friends, it was all too much - though he still took a few years before he told me to take my sibling-idealized worship and stuff it. A healthy thing, all told - and overdue for my naivete', probably. Hagiographizing someone makes for a poor relationship with them, and is not flattering nor a good service to give them.
Unfortunate for him, then, I've experienced a bit of a resurgence of the old "wow my big brother is *amazing*"-ness, reading his blog of late. The guy's a better writer than I am; evocative, intelligent, emotional, and powerful. I can tell a good story, but Bro can create such economical *effect*.
Economy: not my strong suit.
Also - ack, so jealous!
He writes of things that actually matter, too; in contrast to my mindless bibbling. As the fifth grade teacher we each had in succession would joke of her easily-distractable students ("hello, it's me"), I tend toward an awful lot of "LOOK! YON TREE!" I come up with a variety of good scraps, but I waste a lot of verbiage and unnecessary thought-dumping along the way.
Obviously, I'm not changing that tendency. Even here.
But it is such a pleasure to have a really great writer to read.
We were a scrapping pair. He wrangled with me, I whined endlessly at him; by the time I began developing crushes on his friends, it was all too much - though he still took a few years before he told me to take my sibling-idealized worship and stuff it. A healthy thing, all told - and overdue for my naivete', probably. Hagiographizing someone makes for a poor relationship with them, and is not flattering nor a good service to give them.
Unfortunate for him, then, I've experienced a bit of a resurgence of the old "wow my big brother is *amazing*"-ness, reading his blog of late. The guy's a better writer than I am; evocative, intelligent, emotional, and powerful. I can tell a good story, but Bro can create such economical *effect*.
Economy: not my strong suit.
Also - ack, so jealous!
He writes of things that actually matter, too; in contrast to my mindless bibbling. As the fifth grade teacher we each had in succession would joke of her easily-distractable students ("hello, it's me"), I tend toward an awful lot of "LOOK! YON TREE!" I come up with a variety of good scraps, but I waste a lot of verbiage and unnecessary thought-dumping along the way.
Obviously, I'm not changing that tendency. Even here.
But it is such a pleasure to have a really great writer to read.
Friday, July 23, 2010
Sprainiac
Almost two weeks since the injury, and that initial healing still holds, but I do find that elevation and the pressure bandage still provide great benefit.
Last night I had a dream in which I took off the latter, and my mom was with me. My foot was covered in fresh blood. She nodded knowingly, explaining the pressure bandage had caused the swelling to "vomit" a blood aneurysm from my ankle.
Yeah, my dreams are pretty weird stuff.
Foot's okay, though - even if I am perniciously headachey after my first week at the new job. I don't even have the "shin spints" thing going on anymore.
So ... yeah.
Last night I had a dream in which I took off the latter, and my mom was with me. My foot was covered in fresh blood. She nodded knowingly, explaining the pressure bandage had caused the swelling to "vomit" a blood aneurysm from my ankle.
Yeah, my dreams are pretty weird stuff.
Foot's okay, though - even if I am perniciously headachey after my first week at the new job. I don't even have the "shin spints" thing going on anymore.
So ... yeah.
Thursday, July 22, 2010
Leg
My ankle, healing so nicely while I was unemployed, has suffered just a little over the course of this week. Though there's no actual pain (I don't qualify anything I have to touch to make it hurt as pain; for that, the hurt has to express itself spontaneously), the tenderness is fairly strong stuff - and, of course, I haven't been able to elevate the thing. Yesterday when I left work, my ankles definitely didn't match, and today though the swelling isn't so bad, the touch is definitely a ginger sort of sore-thing.
Of course, I've been dressing for work, and before anyone goes all "women shouldn't have to wear heels, they are torture devices" and all that jazz, be it understood: I'm not wearing skyscrapers, here, and again the bones are a non-issue. The *soft* tissue would swell just as much in flats, with the lack of elevation and pressure bandaging.
Still, I do have the milder cousin of a sort of shin-splints situation, readjusting to dress shoes after four months in sandals and sneakers. As long as I've been a wearer of pumps, it's interesting to me how quickly my muscles apparently changed their relative length; and now the stretch to the altered posture is funny. Again, not painful, but one notices a sensation.
But at bottom, I'm glad to be back out of the house. Whatever the wardrobe, the job is promising (still not realizing; as I have yet to gain a computer! - but, with luck, tomorrow ...). It will be a pleasure to be able to actually provide the service I've been hired for, and to really begin learning, with the tools of the job in place.
Today began one piece of that process. I ordered computer, cube, and phone for a new employee-to-be. It's not a bad procedure, I understood it (more than many electronic "prossa-seez" have to say for themselves!), and there'll be seven more tomorrow. And so: practice begins.
Off and running.
And now off to go upstairs, and change out of my work clothes into better running shoes. Dogs still need walkin', after all. And the evening lies before me ...
Of course, I've been dressing for work, and before anyone goes all "women shouldn't have to wear heels, they are torture devices" and all that jazz, be it understood: I'm not wearing skyscrapers, here, and again the bones are a non-issue. The *soft* tissue would swell just as much in flats, with the lack of elevation and pressure bandaging.
Still, I do have the milder cousin of a sort of shin-splints situation, readjusting to dress shoes after four months in sandals and sneakers. As long as I've been a wearer of pumps, it's interesting to me how quickly my muscles apparently changed their relative length; and now the stretch to the altered posture is funny. Again, not painful, but one notices a sensation.
But at bottom, I'm glad to be back out of the house. Whatever the wardrobe, the job is promising (still not realizing; as I have yet to gain a computer! - but, with luck, tomorrow ...). It will be a pleasure to be able to actually provide the service I've been hired for, and to really begin learning, with the tools of the job in place.
Today began one piece of that process. I ordered computer, cube, and phone for a new employee-to-be. It's not a bad procedure, I understood it (more than many electronic "prossa-seez" have to say for themselves!), and there'll be seven more tomorrow. And so: practice begins.
Off and running.
And now off to go upstairs, and change out of my work clothes into better running shoes. Dogs still need walkin', after all. And the evening lies before me ...
Passes
Three new rejections this week remind me that I did indeed put querying on hold for a minute while I got ready for a new job, and now I am almost a full week into said job. Today's pass was from the second request for a partial, so one needs must light the fire once again.
Yesterday's was actually quite nice; I queried Sharon Kay Penman's agency, but they haven't picked up historicals for some time now (except for that one ... by the woman who *worked* for them for eight years!). The agent I contacted, though, was personal and generous, and is also going to be at the upcoming Conference I attend every year. She encouraged me to speak with her, which I appreciated - as much as a professional writer as as a person who prefers niceness over snobbitude.
I went to the Con website and asked them to change my ranking of preferences of agents/editors I'd like to try to get five minutes with to the editor instead.
And the editor's first noted area of focus is historical fiction.
As I thought in that time when I was asking for *more* rejections, so it has come to pass - I'm getting them, and finding it not disappointing but reassuring that at least I'm being seen at all. Not everyone likes my singing, but at least it's audible outside my ears.
Time to find the right audience, though. No more kitchen project; time to get seriously querying.
Yesterday's was actually quite nice; I queried Sharon Kay Penman's agency, but they haven't picked up historicals for some time now (except for that one ... by the woman who *worked* for them for eight years!). The agent I contacted, though, was personal and generous, and is also going to be at the upcoming Conference I attend every year. She encouraged me to speak with her, which I appreciated - as much as a professional writer as as a person who prefers niceness over snobbitude.
I went to the Con website and asked them to change my ranking of preferences of agents/editors I'd like to try to get five minutes with to the editor instead.
And the editor's first noted area of focus is historical fiction.
As I thought in that time when I was asking for *more* rejections, so it has come to pass - I'm getting them, and finding it not disappointing but reassuring that at least I'm being seen at all. Not everyone likes my singing, but at least it's audible outside my ears.
Time to find the right audience, though. No more kitchen project; time to get seriously querying.
Wednesday, July 21, 2010
Poor Edit
Above the floor buttons in the elevators at work is a plaque saying DO NOT PANIC, with some instructions regarding stuck eleveator syndrome. I feel I will spend my tenure in this building *tsk-tsk*'ing every day at this horrendous rewrite to one of Douglas Adams' most famous phrases.
Don't is a perfectly cromulent word. This version is a little authoritarian by comparison.
As would be no surprise: I like Adams so much better.
Good writing in elevators is so hard to find. Le sigh!
Don't is a perfectly cromulent word. This version is a little authoritarian by comparison.
As would be no surprise: I like Adams so much better.
Good writing in elevators is so hard to find. Le sigh!
Tuesday, July 20, 2010
Sunday, July 18, 2010
Reasons to Ignore Silly Internet "Tools"
Apparently, I write like William Shakespeare.
And now the tool I really need is a posterior smoke removal system. Sheesh.
And now the tool I really need is a posterior smoke removal system. Sheesh.
Saturday, July 17, 2010
Giggly As A Schoolgirl
I have finally scrubbed my kitchen and put away almost all the project supplies. My goodness, the place really does look pretty great. I still need to clean the stove, and the floors need Swiffing upstairs and down, but the house is shaping up - and that kitchen is looking GREAT!
The new light fixture turns out not to have a switch, and is not (at least currently ... pardon the pun ...) connected to the mystery switch on my wall. In looking at the old fixture, I should be able to install the old chain-pull, I think; but ideally I'd love to find a way to have this light speak with that switch which seems to have nothing to do. That might be a project for another day - and even the chain pull isn't going to pull my attention for a couple days yet. I've just had too much for now, and with work on Monday, I want to focus on something other than the refining details of this already overlong project!
It's lovely to have the house (getting) clean again, and in a couple hours both it and I will be pretty and fresh, and I can't wait. It will be such a lovely day tomorrow, to get up and have a bright, tidy house with a new kitchen to putter around in - and then Monday, I am just so excited to go off for my first day at the new job, then come home to such a wonderful place.
*Sigh*
My nerves have gone haywire, to be sure, over this past couple of days. But I am optimistic the weekend - and the new week - will at least be good times.
Even with the inevitable first-day-on-a-new-job sleep deprivation and migraine headache. I am thinking (especially for this job): worth every bit of the minor/pernicious discomforts.
Squee!
The new light fixture turns out not to have a switch, and is not (at least currently ... pardon the pun ...) connected to the mystery switch on my wall. In looking at the old fixture, I should be able to install the old chain-pull, I think; but ideally I'd love to find a way to have this light speak with that switch which seems to have nothing to do. That might be a project for another day - and even the chain pull isn't going to pull my attention for a couple days yet. I've just had too much for now, and with work on Monday, I want to focus on something other than the refining details of this already overlong project!
It's lovely to have the house (getting) clean again, and in a couple hours both it and I will be pretty and fresh, and I can't wait. It will be such a lovely day tomorrow, to get up and have a bright, tidy house with a new kitchen to putter around in - and then Monday, I am just so excited to go off for my first day at the new job, then come home to such a wonderful place.
*Sigh*
My nerves have gone haywire, to be sure, over this past couple of days. But I am optimistic the weekend - and the new week - will at least be good times.
Even with the inevitable first-day-on-a-new-job sleep deprivation and migraine headache. I am thinking (especially for this job): worth every bit of the minor/pernicious discomforts.
Squee!
Friday, July 16, 2010
Wow
Go me, I've completed the painting on the cabinets. Tomorrow, my next-door neighbor will hold the doors so I can screw them back on, and I will finally be able to CLEAN THIS HOUSE and really see what the new kitchen looks like - and ENJOY it Sunday, before going back to work.
I also got the old shelving brackets re-installed ... buying something new will have to wait, for now. I couldn't stand the bald wall anymore, and in any case I needed the shelf space and organization.
I had little motivation at eight o'clock, but I've gotten most of what I planned *done*, which is such a relief.
And now - Saturday, and massive housecleaning!
Um. Whee.
I also got the old shelving brackets re-installed ... buying something new will have to wait, for now. I couldn't stand the bald wall anymore, and in any case I needed the shelf space and organization.
I had little motivation at eight o'clock, but I've gotten most of what I planned *done*, which is such a relief.
And now - Saturday, and massive housecleaning!
Um. Whee.
Eight Days
G'lawd, I'm still working on this kitchen. The tear-down for priming began last THURSDAY, y'all. Holy smokes.
I put it off as long as I could today, but I am BACK in my painting clothes, and really getting tired of this whole kitchen painting business. Tonight, I have to do the bodies of the upper cabinets, and two of the four doors (first set - last night). Thing is, ultra-white over "dinge" requires multiple coats to cover very well (even still I am seeing brush-stroke-age; gaaaahhh). Golden yellow over dinge was a single-coat miracle; the color value was the same. (At night, it's actually hard to see a color at all between the two shades.) So I'm not ending on as easy a task as I'd have hoped. Figures.
Today was my last weekday of fake-ation before work begins, and I STILL have a rather great deal of work to do.
My bottom-line requirement is that I should be able to clean house tomorrow. In order to do that, the cabinets all need to have their doors, and the shelves need to be re-installed (and re-loaded). Add to this that I want to touch-up my hair, and it's a long evening I have before me.
Bleah.
Also, I hate myself for being one of those total toolboxes coming up with yet another permutation on the word vacation. To quote Daffy Duck:
"I demand that you shoot me now!"
Ack.
I put it off as long as I could today, but I am BACK in my painting clothes, and really getting tired of this whole kitchen painting business. Tonight, I have to do the bodies of the upper cabinets, and two of the four doors (first set - last night). Thing is, ultra-white over "dinge" requires multiple coats to cover very well (even still I am seeing brush-stroke-age; gaaaahhh). Golden yellow over dinge was a single-coat miracle; the color value was the same. (At night, it's actually hard to see a color at all between the two shades.) So I'm not ending on as easy a task as I'd have hoped. Figures.
Today was my last weekday of fake-ation before work begins, and I STILL have a rather great deal of work to do.
My bottom-line requirement is that I should be able to clean house tomorrow. In order to do that, the cabinets all need to have their doors, and the shelves need to be re-installed (and re-loaded). Add to this that I want to touch-up my hair, and it's a long evening I have before me.
Bleah.
Also, I hate myself for being one of those total toolboxes coming up with yet another permutation on the word vacation. To quote Daffy Duck:
"I demand that you shoot me now!"
Ack.
Detailing
Well, I'm finally getting to new switchplates and socket covers. Even with the six for $13 deal on the latter, I spent $70 on those and a pendant light fixture and its shade today. Then groceries. Then gas. Then lunch. Which I'm not even eating, though I have a headache and am exhausted. Sometimes, when you wait too long for a bite, you get to the point you no longer even want one, even when you've taken the trouble to get one. Life's funny.
Thursday, July 15, 2010
Fumey
Headache. I didn't know how much the paint was smelling up the joint until I actually left the house today for lunch, and came back home. YEESH.
In other news, I did a reconnaissance run through the office park where my new employer intends to keep me, and found the joint quite easily. Yay! I'll report to their downtown building first thing on Monday, but after HR is done with me, it's out to my new neck of the woods, and - yep - I am pretty excited.
Tomorrow's my last day of "vacation" - and I hope tonight will be my last night painting, apart from the little detail-y stuff my high standards won't allow to stay a dab messy. Laughably, I half wish I could do the job nekkid, rather than putting on those nasty old painting clothes again ... but, of course, exposed windows and bright lights inside would make that a bad idea (and the neighbors and passing traffic have done nothing to deserve such an assault!). Boo, hiss; but at least those clothes are seeing their last days of trudging re-use.
And for now, a short period to relax, a little nosh from the Mediterranean Bakery for dinner, and even some dessert: the macaroons finally called to me loudly enough I answered yes at long last.
Now off to love on my little Lolly and whirl a little in the paint fumes ..
In other news, I did a reconnaissance run through the office park where my new employer intends to keep me, and found the joint quite easily. Yay! I'll report to their downtown building first thing on Monday, but after HR is done with me, it's out to my new neck of the woods, and - yep - I am pretty excited.
Tomorrow's my last day of "vacation" - and I hope tonight will be my last night painting, apart from the little detail-y stuff my high standards won't allow to stay a dab messy. Laughably, I half wish I could do the job nekkid, rather than putting on those nasty old painting clothes again ... but, of course, exposed windows and bright lights inside would make that a bad idea (and the neighbors and passing traffic have done nothing to deserve such an assault!). Boo, hiss; but at least those clothes are seeing their last days of trudging re-use.
And for now, a short period to relax, a little nosh from the Mediterranean Bakery for dinner, and even some dessert: the macaroons finally called to me loudly enough I answered yes at long last.
Now off to love on my little Lolly and whirl a little in the paint fumes ..
Beloved
So I've mentioned my ex many times on here, and make a bit of an overwrought point of not being nasty about him, because indulging in vitriol toward somene once loved seems to me a very strange way to spend one's energy. I do *understand* it, mind you. But it's nothing I really participate in myself.
More to the point, Beloved Ex is a good man. The reasons we're not together are that we had no goals together, and truly, as trite as it is to say, love really isn't enough. I held tight to him because he was a good man, and those were no thicker on the ground in the 80s, when we met, than they are now. But that isn't enough either.
And I wasn't, myself, the most excellent of women when I was twenty-five. So there's that.
BE actually did say of me, once, "Every man should have an amazing car and an amazing woman. I figure the woman's been had" ... so he's for the car, of course. But it was a remarkable thing to say, all things considered.
One of the things I mention about BE from time to time is that he was a rockstar. To put a finer point on that: BE was perhaps the best front man I ever saw.
Yeah, a little bias - sure. But I'd put him up against any other performer and bet on his talents. He was an incredibly dynamic lead singer/guitarist/bass player. His voice was great, of course, but he also really knew how to work his band, his music, and his crowds.
This was a guy who, day-to-day, came off like a bit of a doofus. He was polite to girls, didn't curse much and often apologized if he did, wasn't a heavy drinker, didn't smoke, held doors for people, had a distinctive, wide-eyed "aw shucks" corn-fed midwestern boy way about him. Rudeness astounded him, and crudeness always left him confused. More than once, being the "groupie" for his band, he witnessed the behavior of other guys toward me when he wasn't right with me, and was always dismayed and surprised at people's behavior.
He made very silly jokes, and did horrible cartoon voices and occasional poor impressions of Sean Connery and Cornelius (from Planet of the Apes).
Then he would get on stage.
The commitment he showed on stage was like nothing I have ever seen. Our musician friends called him "The Opie-ola of Rock and Rolla" - and that was accurate. But the moment he was doing his job on stage, he was wildness in black pants. Urgent, super foxy, primal, incredibly passionate.
I remember knowing women who knew nothing of him but what they saw onstage, and assumed I must be, um, worn out twenty-four/seven by such a relentlessly foxy rock god.
I also remember knowing women who knew him through me, and who, when they did come to see him onstage, literally gaped in slack-jawed amazement that THAT GUY was ... this creature! This sweating, writhing, leaping, looming skin full of charisma and power! This guy, who could easily have given Robert Plant a run for his prodigious money.
In this way, BE and I were actually most alike. In BE's case, the transition was distinct and twofold, a brilliantly limned division of labor between "aw shucks" and the pounding force he was on stage. In my case, probably less formed back then, but definitely present, the shifting woman - one moment, a hair-in-the-eyes suburban hausfrau; another moment, a frustrated student; another moment, the girl with the band; and so on, and so on. I think my own permutations are wider ranging now, and perhaps more sophisticated, but it has always been my joy: I contain multitudes.
So did BE.
It wasn't for him, any more than it is for me, a matter of pretense or affectation. It's merely a sublime ability to suit one's context.
My dad raised his children, as his dad had before him, to be able to conduct ourselves with any person, in any situation. It fostered our facility to be engaged by all sorts of different people.
It fostered, for me, an ability to present myself in all sorts of different situations, too. Calibration. Modulation. Consideration. Deployment.
BE did the same, instinctively.
***
As "aw shucks" as he appeared, it must be said of BE that he has always embodied the concept of manliness in my mind. Apart from being a good looking one, he had a mellow disposition I think even my brother wouldn't argue at my comparing a bit to our dad. The essence of a "man", in my mind, is someone who first and foremost has control over himself and can handle what life has to give - or throw at - him. BE had this. He also just phsyically had those things I think of as quintessentially manly, big hands, a physical warmth, a solidity and reliablility. Good voice. Height. And natural generosity.
To this day, I can turn to BE and he not only is willing to "be there" for me no matter what, but his innate sympathy for people always comes through. He wanted to be able to honor my father at his memorial service, and he wanted to be there for me in that time of loss - but after he got on the road, his car handed him other plans. How many men would go to the funeral of their ex father-in-law, or care for their ex in such a loss?
He and I have shared mostly a friendship by phone and email, but the solidity of our relationship makes me forget it's been eight years now since I last saw his face. Distance and time aren't the point; the friendship is a living thing, and always there. We've talked about the people we've dated, we've talked about family and work, we've talked about frustration and fear and the economy, and it is a great honor to me that I seem to have as much to give him as he does me. If a fine man like that respects me, I must be something worthwhile. I feel this of all my friends.
I wish, sometimes, I could properly convey everything I really mean when I talk about my ex husband. So many of the people in my life don't know what he is; I feel just saying "my ex" is almost a disservice to the man.
More to the point, Beloved Ex is a good man. The reasons we're not together are that we had no goals together, and truly, as trite as it is to say, love really isn't enough. I held tight to him because he was a good man, and those were no thicker on the ground in the 80s, when we met, than they are now. But that isn't enough either.
And I wasn't, myself, the most excellent of women when I was twenty-five. So there's that.
BE actually did say of me, once, "Every man should have an amazing car and an amazing woman. I figure the woman's been had" ... so he's for the car, of course. But it was a remarkable thing to say, all things considered.
One of the things I mention about BE from time to time is that he was a rockstar. To put a finer point on that: BE was perhaps the best front man I ever saw.
Yeah, a little bias - sure. But I'd put him up against any other performer and bet on his talents. He was an incredibly dynamic lead singer/guitarist/bass player. His voice was great, of course, but he also really knew how to work his band, his music, and his crowds.
This was a guy who, day-to-day, came off like a bit of a doofus. He was polite to girls, didn't curse much and often apologized if he did, wasn't a heavy drinker, didn't smoke, held doors for people, had a distinctive, wide-eyed "aw shucks" corn-fed midwestern boy way about him. Rudeness astounded him, and crudeness always left him confused. More than once, being the "groupie" for his band, he witnessed the behavior of other guys toward me when he wasn't right with me, and was always dismayed and surprised at people's behavior.
He made very silly jokes, and did horrible cartoon voices and occasional poor impressions of Sean Connery and Cornelius (from Planet of the Apes).
Then he would get on stage.
The commitment he showed on stage was like nothing I have ever seen. Our musician friends called him "The Opie-ola of Rock and Rolla" - and that was accurate. But the moment he was doing his job on stage, he was wildness in black pants. Urgent, super foxy, primal, incredibly passionate.
I remember knowing women who knew nothing of him but what they saw onstage, and assumed I must be, um, worn out twenty-four/seven by such a relentlessly foxy rock god.
I also remember knowing women who knew him through me, and who, when they did come to see him onstage, literally gaped in slack-jawed amazement that THAT GUY was ... this creature! This sweating, writhing, leaping, looming skin full of charisma and power! This guy, who could easily have given Robert Plant a run for his prodigious money.
In this way, BE and I were actually most alike. In BE's case, the transition was distinct and twofold, a brilliantly limned division of labor between "aw shucks" and the pounding force he was on stage. In my case, probably less formed back then, but definitely present, the shifting woman - one moment, a hair-in-the-eyes suburban hausfrau; another moment, a frustrated student; another moment, the girl with the band; and so on, and so on. I think my own permutations are wider ranging now, and perhaps more sophisticated, but it has always been my joy: I contain multitudes.
So did BE.
It wasn't for him, any more than it is for me, a matter of pretense or affectation. It's merely a sublime ability to suit one's context.
My dad raised his children, as his dad had before him, to be able to conduct ourselves with any person, in any situation. It fostered our facility to be engaged by all sorts of different people.
It fostered, for me, an ability to present myself in all sorts of different situations, too. Calibration. Modulation. Consideration. Deployment.
BE did the same, instinctively.
***
As "aw shucks" as he appeared, it must be said of BE that he has always embodied the concept of manliness in my mind. Apart from being a good looking one, he had a mellow disposition I think even my brother wouldn't argue at my comparing a bit to our dad. The essence of a "man", in my mind, is someone who first and foremost has control over himself and can handle what life has to give - or throw at - him. BE had this. He also just phsyically had those things I think of as quintessentially manly, big hands, a physical warmth, a solidity and reliablility. Good voice. Height. And natural generosity.
To this day, I can turn to BE and he not only is willing to "be there" for me no matter what, but his innate sympathy for people always comes through. He wanted to be able to honor my father at his memorial service, and he wanted to be there for me in that time of loss - but after he got on the road, his car handed him other plans. How many men would go to the funeral of their ex father-in-law, or care for their ex in such a loss?
He and I have shared mostly a friendship by phone and email, but the solidity of our relationship makes me forget it's been eight years now since I last saw his face. Distance and time aren't the point; the friendship is a living thing, and always there. We've talked about the people we've dated, we've talked about family and work, we've talked about frustration and fear and the economy, and it is a great honor to me that I seem to have as much to give him as he does me. If a fine man like that respects me, I must be something worthwhile. I feel this of all my friends.
I wish, sometimes, I could properly convey everything I really mean when I talk about my ex husband. So many of the people in my life don't know what he is; I feel just saying "my ex" is almost a disservice to the man.
Wednesday, July 14, 2010
Yellow Matter
Mom came by today to show my stepfather some of what we'd done, and to see what I'd gone on to do yesterday and this morning. She suggested at one point, I should do the golden color on the upper cabinets as well as the lower.
Having completed the lower cabinets: yeah - nope. I wasn't really considering adding more of it; it was meant as the minor key to the red/white. But having all the area done I'd originally planned, I look at the result, and think - doing the whole cabinet area with the gold would be TOO MUCH of it. I like the color, but it's possible to like within limited proportions of course. I like basil, but have learned that a pasta dish *entirely* based on pesto is far, far too much of an otherwise good thing. Likewise, the third part of my color scheme.
I won't be able to completely finish today, because of the drying time for oil paint alone. Until each door and drawer are dry, I can't put their hardware back on, nor restore them to their places. So there is NO SPACE to work, to do anything more right now!
Fortunately, the remainder consists of the three large upper cabinets. There are some details I want to go back and re-do (edging, and two spots on the wall where color has gotten on the white), but that is small stuff and less a part of the major project than a sideline refinement after the main work is completed.
So once the upper cabinets are painted, I'm treating myself to a trip through my local range of antique stores, and a trip to Lowe's. That pendant light fixture I saw the other day, and three electrical and switch covers in brushed nickel. I may also look at shelving for the stove-side wall, but that will all depend on mood and time.
By tomorrow, anyway, I should be able to clean up the kitchen. And - more importantly - clean up myself ... wear clean CLOTHES ... and enjoy a day not devoted to home improvement labor.
Whee!
Having completed the lower cabinets: yeah - nope. I wasn't really considering adding more of it; it was meant as the minor key to the red/white. But having all the area done I'd originally planned, I look at the result, and think - doing the whole cabinet area with the gold would be TOO MUCH of it. I like the color, but it's possible to like within limited proportions of course. I like basil, but have learned that a pasta dish *entirely* based on pesto is far, far too much of an otherwise good thing. Likewise, the third part of my color scheme.
I won't be able to completely finish today, because of the drying time for oil paint alone. Until each door and drawer are dry, I can't put their hardware back on, nor restore them to their places. So there is NO SPACE to work, to do anything more right now!
Fortunately, the remainder consists of the three large upper cabinets. There are some details I want to go back and re-do (edging, and two spots on the wall where color has gotten on the white), but that is small stuff and less a part of the major project than a sideline refinement after the main work is completed.
So once the upper cabinets are painted, I'm treating myself to a trip through my local range of antique stores, and a trip to Lowe's. That pendant light fixture I saw the other day, and three electrical and switch covers in brushed nickel. I may also look at shelving for the stove-side wall, but that will all depend on mood and time.
By tomorrow, anyway, I should be able to clean up the kitchen. And - more importantly - clean up myself ... wear clean CLOTHES ... and enjoy a day not devoted to home improvement labor.
Whee!
Painting
So the kitchen painting project begun last Friday continues (and continues ... and continues ...). Mom was able to give a couple hours help that day, and did come over for a good haul on Monday, but otherwise the work has been up to me.
The fact that I chose to use white and red slowed progress, as edging two such contrasting colors is of course pretty hard work, but even apart from that part of things (now largely over), the job just keeps multiplying on itself - and projects like this always go so slowly when you're doing them on your own. (Never mind how long it takes for oil paint to DRY. Yikes.)
In any case, the red and white are almost entirely done, and I've moved on to the color burst, the golden yellow color I'm painting the lover cabinets - i.e., the ones which would show the most dirt if I painted them white, and the ones which will thus take the most scrubbing; and which are thus getting oil instead of latex.
The red, white, and gold are really working; I couldn't be happier with the way the reality is bearing out, after long consideration of "what I'd do" if only I could redecorate. Better still, the oil is working with a single coat; I'm certainly delighted with that. Once this part is done, I think the rest will look much easier - and, of course, so much cleaner and more - mid-century! - modern.
Between the sprained ankle, and the wearing the SAME painting clothes for - what - five days on end now (ew, gross), the job is wearing thin. But at least the results are gratifying.
If I can finish the work by tomorrow, I'm definitely celebrating by dressing like a human on Friday, and taking myself out for something fun.
The fact that I chose to use white and red slowed progress, as edging two such contrasting colors is of course pretty hard work, but even apart from that part of things (now largely over), the job just keeps multiplying on itself - and projects like this always go so slowly when you're doing them on your own. (Never mind how long it takes for oil paint to DRY. Yikes.)
In any case, the red and white are almost entirely done, and I've moved on to the color burst, the golden yellow color I'm painting the lover cabinets - i.e., the ones which would show the most dirt if I painted them white, and the ones which will thus take the most scrubbing; and which are thus getting oil instead of latex.
The red, white, and gold are really working; I couldn't be happier with the way the reality is bearing out, after long consideration of "what I'd do" if only I could redecorate. Better still, the oil is working with a single coat; I'm certainly delighted with that. Once this part is done, I think the rest will look much easier - and, of course, so much cleaner and more - mid-century! - modern.
Between the sprained ankle, and the wearing the SAME painting clothes for - what - five days on end now (ew, gross), the job is wearing thin. But at least the results are gratifying.
If I can finish the work by tomorrow, I'm definitely celebrating by dressing like a human on Friday, and taking myself out for something fun.
Tuesday, July 13, 2010
Ow
Okay, I think the parallel lines here are actually two separate impact wounds - I had thought they showed the tread of a step, but I think it's actually *BAM! BAM!* two bounces on my way tumbling down the stairs.
Scariest thing about these photos - they actually washed-out the coloration of the bruising. In reality, it was BLACK last night when I took these. Far worse looking than the pictures have captured.
Yeek.
Monday, July 12, 2010
Ankle
So on Saturday night, I got myself cuted up and went down the stairs to sally forth and go see my friend V and her husband W to celebrate V's birthday. We'd decided to hit the retro diner for a nosh and a giggle, and so of course I took the dark blue bag (now stink-free) out on the town.
I got halfway down the steps via the usual mechanics. It was those last five steps - they were a lulu. My left heel caught on the tip of the tread, and that was it for me. It was a good way to fall, and the first rush was fairly intense pain, followed within thirty seconds or less by a more generalized numbness. I landed on my knee (and that was the second knee-bashing I've had this week ... for I am CLUMSY and graceless), but it was that left ankle that took the beating. (Not for the first time; it often seems to be my left foot I've kinked and knocked around!) My leg had folded up under me, so my ankle took the weight of my body right on the edge of a stair. I can see the outline of the step perfectly clearly.
I soldiered on for my friend, and was okay; not even limping. It was sore, but you deal, don't you.
Sunday, I was having to not-quite-limp but definitely favoring the thing, and spent a good long time at the paint shop with the super nice guys there, and then a somewhat shorter time at the grocery. Home again, and off and running with the red paint.
Ohh, it looks so fresh and great. The old red was a bit dull to begin with, and had aged significantly of course - so this is a shot of new, of energy, of vigor and - yes, I know this is a dorky word choice - promise. It's teasing me about how great everything will look once it comes together.
I've moved slowly with the first actual painting (three days IN to the "painting" project!), but I'm going to be happy. The ultra-white is so clean - I've done a little of that too - but the red is alive. And the ankle is actually hurting worse today than it did yesterday.
Oops. Yeah: no. I didn't keep it elevated. I didn't wrap it, no.
So I elevated and wrapped last night. This has harnessed the swelling pretty well, and in fact even reversed some bruising.
I'm back out of the pressure bandage today, but will try to be good and take breaks and at least lift the thing. We'll see how it goes. Because it hurts most to the *touch*.
Well, anyway. Mom's coming over in an hour or so, and we'll be back off to arguing fine points of detailing and process (she's *really* into primer; which is so thick and nasty to work with, it is leaving a surface about as smooth as STUCCO to paint on - which, for my money [literally] is a dadgum no go). But anyway. It should at least go faster, having someone to work with.
And she might even say "poor old Diane - how is your ankle?" and be my nice mommy. Hee.
I got halfway down the steps via the usual mechanics. It was those last five steps - they were a lulu. My left heel caught on the tip of the tread, and that was it for me. It was a good way to fall, and the first rush was fairly intense pain, followed within thirty seconds or less by a more generalized numbness. I landed on my knee (and that was the second knee-bashing I've had this week ... for I am CLUMSY and graceless), but it was that left ankle that took the beating. (Not for the first time; it often seems to be my left foot I've kinked and knocked around!) My leg had folded up under me, so my ankle took the weight of my body right on the edge of a stair. I can see the outline of the step perfectly clearly.
I soldiered on for my friend, and was okay; not even limping. It was sore, but you deal, don't you.
Sunday, I was having to not-quite-limp but definitely favoring the thing, and spent a good long time at the paint shop with the super nice guys there, and then a somewhat shorter time at the grocery. Home again, and off and running with the red paint.
Ohh, it looks so fresh and great. The old red was a bit dull to begin with, and had aged significantly of course - so this is a shot of new, of energy, of vigor and - yes, I know this is a dorky word choice - promise. It's teasing me about how great everything will look once it comes together.
I've moved slowly with the first actual painting (three days IN to the "painting" project!), but I'm going to be happy. The ultra-white is so clean - I've done a little of that too - but the red is alive. And the ankle is actually hurting worse today than it did yesterday.
Oops. Yeah: no. I didn't keep it elevated. I didn't wrap it, no.
So I elevated and wrapped last night. This has harnessed the swelling pretty well, and in fact even reversed some bruising.
I'm back out of the pressure bandage today, but will try to be good and take breaks and at least lift the thing. We'll see how it goes. Because it hurts most to the *touch*.
Well, anyway. Mom's coming over in an hour or so, and we'll be back off to arguing fine points of detailing and process (she's *really* into primer; which is so thick and nasty to work with, it is leaving a surface about as smooth as STUCCO to paint on - which, for my money [literally] is a dadgum no go). But anyway. It should at least go faster, having someone to work with.
And she might even say "poor old Diane - how is your ankle?" and be my nice mommy. Hee.
Saturday, July 10, 2010
Handbags
Okay, so I have spent most of my life in fear of the Mom Syndrome, wherein my mother has a purse for every season and many within each season for different types of outfits, purposes, and moods. She shifts things from bag to bag with such frequency and vigor that it's inevitable, spending time with my mom, to end up hearing "where IS that credit card" - or coupon, or antacid, or cell phone, or glasses, or what have you.
The constancy of the misplacement of necessities instilled in me a half-a-lifelong puzzlement at the peculiarity of changing purses in the first place. Why bother? Get a good bag in black, of enough style it can be used with a suit, and little enough detail, that it can go with jeans too, and you're in business. Periodically take out one credit card, a compact, and a comb to put in a teeny bag for Saturday nights out - and buy a cheap little one for that. You're set. Two purses for a lifetime.
Over a year ago, the current Target naugahide number began to suffer strap deterioration. The body of the bag was fine, in perfectly dandy condition - but the strap was beginning to crack, and at its moorings, a thread was betraying its non-genunine-leather composition. HORRORS, cried my mother, and mentioned it whenever I saw her.
Around December, I began looking at purses on eBay. I had taken to heart the state of the PVC, and felt, okay, maybe quality might be worth a buck for its relative duration of service.
I looked at literally thousands of bags. I looked for a long time. I knew my style preferences, but honed and refined them. I learned what I cared about in terms of shape and particulars. I'm currently on the unfashionable side of my affinities in appearance (I loathe "slouch", "hobo", "tote", and otherwise giant, short-strapped, or heavily be-chained and decorated purses). The (not actually all that current, but unfortunately still retail-dominant) trend for bags you can't put over your shoulder - and therefore must lose an arm to carrying, rendering you a crook-elbowed fashion monstrosity with a bumper constantly waggling and encumbering you and everyone near you leaves me speechless. The interest in advertising brands, and the gaudiness of brass accoutrements, likewise.
After about a month of shoping, I found a beatifully sleek Italian leather bag by - of all makers (their recent lines are about as ugly as all the descriptors above GET) - I Santi. It's trim, its strap is just long enough to make it a shoulder bag without the thing banging around on my behind all the time, it's got one single small silver detail, and it's black croc-embossed (genuine) leather. I got it for like $35 - quite the deal, considering the prices on purses, specifically on I Santis. It's large enough to carry my wallet, no small feat, and yet still slim and extremely chic. It has proven a practical tool, and I've been extremely happy with it. My sister-in-law, no slave to fads, even commented on how nice looking a purse it is. I figure, something that doesn't call attention to itself by way of gobs of goldtone chains, but still gets good notice like that - and which, as noted, is a useful and easy daily carryall - wins every cent of its purchase price.
So I scored.
Since spending that much time immersed in the consideration of purses, and augmented with the memory of an adorable little red vintage bag an author friend of mine had at the last Writers' Conference, I have been considering my one-bag-except-for-Saturdays lifestyle position.
And I have bought three little vintage purses now.
One is another classic purse I will put into rotation with the black purse, for frequent use. It's a brown box purse, came today in the mail, and turns out to be in unbelievable condition. Apart from the smoke smell inside (currently remediating upstairs in the guestroom), it looks brand new. It will coordinate well with my brown and autumn-colored wardrobers, and I couldn't be more pleased (well, okay, except for the smell).
The other two are a suede-lined dark blue patent with one goldtone clasp ... and the princess of my new collection. The aqua grandma purse.
Turquoise patent, this box purse is very long, with short straps (yes, I considered and got one of those elbow-crooking purses!), and - again, as with both others - looks as if it has never ever been used. This one was flawless, odors included, and I got it because (a) I LOVE turquoise - or aqua, as seems almost like a vintage word to me, and is exactly the right name for this color - and (b) I wanted a COLOR purse, something to perk up spring and summer dresses, to go with my brighter shoes, to be a bit of a "statement" accessory.
I first carried this bag the other day, going to New Employer to pick up my drugscreen paperwork and get fingerprinted. Two people admired it.
I carried it today, going for a haircut. The senior stylist, a guy (who I think finds me intriguing, heh), complimented it immediately. The new stylist I was going to complimented it, and chatted about bags a little. The owner, they directed her to look at it when she came out from the back room.
My little new purse was every bit the Statement Handbag, even more than I'd ever suspected purse-dom might have in store. I really didn't know how people "get" about bags. Even having gotten this way about them myself, apparently!
So I have myself a spankin' new I-got-a-new-job celebratory wardrobe of purses, and mom couldn't be happier. I am hilariously amused, and a new kitchen's in the making too.
THIS is a fun pre-new-job vacation.
And now, thanks to a miserable night's (lack of) sleep - I must go briefly nap off all of this whirling excitement. Whew!
The constancy of the misplacement of necessities instilled in me a half-a-lifelong puzzlement at the peculiarity of changing purses in the first place. Why bother? Get a good bag in black, of enough style it can be used with a suit, and little enough detail, that it can go with jeans too, and you're in business. Periodically take out one credit card, a compact, and a comb to put in a teeny bag for Saturday nights out - and buy a cheap little one for that. You're set. Two purses for a lifetime.
Over a year ago, the current Target naugahide number began to suffer strap deterioration. The body of the bag was fine, in perfectly dandy condition - but the strap was beginning to crack, and at its moorings, a thread was betraying its non-genunine-leather composition. HORRORS, cried my mother, and mentioned it whenever I saw her.
Around December, I began looking at purses on eBay. I had taken to heart the state of the PVC, and felt, okay, maybe quality might be worth a buck for its relative duration of service.
I looked at literally thousands of bags. I looked for a long time. I knew my style preferences, but honed and refined them. I learned what I cared about in terms of shape and particulars. I'm currently on the unfashionable side of my affinities in appearance (I loathe "slouch", "hobo", "tote", and otherwise giant, short-strapped, or heavily be-chained and decorated purses). The (not actually all that current, but unfortunately still retail-dominant) trend for bags you can't put over your shoulder - and therefore must lose an arm to carrying, rendering you a crook-elbowed fashion monstrosity with a bumper constantly waggling and encumbering you and everyone near you leaves me speechless. The interest in advertising brands, and the gaudiness of brass accoutrements, likewise.
After about a month of shoping, I found a beatifully sleek Italian leather bag by - of all makers (their recent lines are about as ugly as all the descriptors above GET) - I Santi. It's trim, its strap is just long enough to make it a shoulder bag without the thing banging around on my behind all the time, it's got one single small silver detail, and it's black croc-embossed (genuine) leather. I got it for like $35 - quite the deal, considering the prices on purses, specifically on I Santis. It's large enough to carry my wallet, no small feat, and yet still slim and extremely chic. It has proven a practical tool, and I've been extremely happy with it. My sister-in-law, no slave to fads, even commented on how nice looking a purse it is. I figure, something that doesn't call attention to itself by way of gobs of goldtone chains, but still gets good notice like that - and which, as noted, is a useful and easy daily carryall - wins every cent of its purchase price.
So I scored.
Since spending that much time immersed in the consideration of purses, and augmented with the memory of an adorable little red vintage bag an author friend of mine had at the last Writers' Conference, I have been considering my one-bag-except-for-Saturdays lifestyle position.
And I have bought three little vintage purses now.
One is another classic purse I will put into rotation with the black purse, for frequent use. It's a brown box purse, came today in the mail, and turns out to be in unbelievable condition. Apart from the smoke smell inside (currently remediating upstairs in the guestroom), it looks brand new. It will coordinate well with my brown and autumn-colored wardrobers, and I couldn't be more pleased (well, okay, except for the smell).
The other two are a suede-lined dark blue patent with one goldtone clasp ... and the princess of my new collection. The aqua grandma purse.
Turquoise patent, this box purse is very long, with short straps (yes, I considered and got one of those elbow-crooking purses!), and - again, as with both others - looks as if it has never ever been used. This one was flawless, odors included, and I got it because (a) I LOVE turquoise - or aqua, as seems almost like a vintage word to me, and is exactly the right name for this color - and (b) I wanted a COLOR purse, something to perk up spring and summer dresses, to go with my brighter shoes, to be a bit of a "statement" accessory.
I first carried this bag the other day, going to New Employer to pick up my drugscreen paperwork and get fingerprinted. Two people admired it.
I carried it today, going for a haircut. The senior stylist, a guy (who I think finds me intriguing, heh), complimented it immediately. The new stylist I was going to complimented it, and chatted about bags a little. The owner, they directed her to look at it when she came out from the back room.
My little new purse was every bit the Statement Handbag, even more than I'd ever suspected purse-dom might have in store. I really didn't know how people "get" about bags. Even having gotten this way about them myself, apparently!
So I have myself a spankin' new I-got-a-new-job celebratory wardrobe of purses, and mom couldn't be happier. I am hilariously amused, and a new kitchen's in the making too.
THIS is a fun pre-new-job vacation.
And now, thanks to a miserable night's (lack of) sleep - I must go briefly nap off all of this whirling excitement. Whew!
Dead Ends
Time for a haircut in about 45 minutes. None too soon, either.
One more to-do before the first day on the new job. And on the way home: to shop for a little bit of paint and maybe some spackle.
Mmm. Spackle.
Heh.
One more to-do before the first day on the new job. And on the way home: to shop for a little bit of paint and maybe some spackle.
Mmm. Spackle.
Heh.
Friday, July 9, 2010
Private
I have two recent feedbacks on my eBay rating, which have the item I bought marked as PRIVATE. This kind of cracks me up, because of course most auctions are viewable, so it looks like I've bought some sort of deep, dark, secret thing.
I bought a pair of like eighteen and twelve dollar dresses from a seller. One was silver, to be sure, but even that is knee length, and certainly more disco than (morally) scandalous.
I can hear you sniggering, big brother. Shesh, you. I meant it's modest.
Heh.
Anyway - the thing is, the seller actually sells a lot of dresses to, as they term them, "CD gals". Cross dressers (and a variety of other nonchromosomally girlie girls).
If I can sell to my endearing "Pansy", I can buy where she might buy too.
I'm one of the lucky gals. It's no secret from anyone the chromosomes and hormones I'm sporting.
And, typing this post, I finally did what I've been meaning to do for a little while now, and looked up her eBay ID to see if she'd gone dormant. I was worried about her.
Still eBaying her little heart out. So a tiny cheer for my buddy Pansy. You GO girl!
I bought a pair of like eighteen and twelve dollar dresses from a seller. One was silver, to be sure, but even that is knee length, and certainly more disco than (morally) scandalous.
I can hear you sniggering, big brother. Shesh, you. I meant it's modest.
Heh.
Anyway - the thing is, the seller actually sells a lot of dresses to, as they term them, "CD gals". Cross dressers (and a variety of other nonchromosomally girlie girls).
If I can sell to my endearing "Pansy", I can buy where she might buy too.
I'm one of the lucky gals. It's no secret from anyone the chromosomes and hormones I'm sporting.
And, typing this post, I finally did what I've been meaning to do for a little while now, and looked up her eBay ID to see if she'd gone dormant. I was worried about her.
Still eBaying her little heart out. So a tiny cheer for my buddy Pansy. You GO girl!
Yeah, It's Not Every Day ...
... a middle-aged woman hears her (continent) mom say, "Hand me my diaper, will you?"
What ... ?? My mom saved the cloth diapers from when my bro and I were babies. They really do make remarkably good working rags. For painting kitchens, and things like that.
"So. Fumes getting to you there, Di?"
"Yeah, kinda'lilbitmaybe."
*Conk*
What ... ?? My mom saved the cloth diapers from when my bro and I were babies. They really do make remarkably good working rags. For painting kitchens, and things like that.
"So. Fumes getting to you there, Di?"
"Yeah, kinda'lilbitmaybe."
*Conk*
That Kitchen Is HUGE!
Well, the priming is done. It's only one step, but not bad for less'n three hours' work.
Mice and Me
I had planned to do some work this morning, but not get all grubby before it was time to go to the paint store with my mom.
She's still not here.
I've scrubbed the same portion of ceiling (about 25% of the entire job - ugh) five times now.
I am pretty gross.
Ah, well ...
She's still not here.
I've scrubbed the same portion of ceiling (about 25% of the entire job - ugh) five times now.
I am pretty gross.
Ah, well ...
Before
My kitchen, before the cleanup began:
(In the distance, in that second shot there: the back of Miles O'Brien's uniform. Heh.)
Advice to My Nieces
Make your heart a great gift to give, when you want to love someone.
Make sure they have as good a one, and give it back to you.
Make sure they have as good a one, and give it back to you.
And Here Begynneth ...
... the scraping of the windowsills.
Cleanup went well yesterday, scrubbing down dingy old walls and cabinets in prep to paint the kitchen. I even finally got behind the fridge and cleaned back there as well, and swabbed about two-thirds of the ceiling. This morning, of course, light of day mercilessly shows how poor a tool a Swiffer is for cleaning oil-based gloss ceilings, even with a dose of Spic and Span. Results make the untouched part of the job look practically pristine, with a smooth shellac of years of cooking-vapor nice and even across its expanse - while the "cleaned" portion is smeary and disappointing in the extreme.
Bleah.
But so it goes, and so it goeth.
Mom's been delayed, a trip to go buy a new grill with my stepfather (this task has been pending for months now, but apparently today suddenly it became The Urgent Business of the Day - so she has had to put *our* plans off ...). She called a few minutes ago, and they had not even left the house yet.
She has hopes to be over here around noon. I'm optimistically figuring one, at best.
And so on.
So I pulled out my paint supplies (goodly and plentiful, actually), and this tells me we have enough drop-cloth-ery to paint an entire house without moving one dropper ... but that, along with the paint we'll need to buy, some masking tape wouldn't go amiss.
In the meantime: my high-quality scraper I didn't even know I had. This thing is deluxe - and I was expecting putty knives. So finding *that* was a happy thing.
Ten-forty-four hours, and I'm dooping around the kitchen, listening to DS9 Season Two still. We're up to the Maquis. Good, fun stuff.
... and counting ...
Cleanup went well yesterday, scrubbing down dingy old walls and cabinets in prep to paint the kitchen. I even finally got behind the fridge and cleaned back there as well, and swabbed about two-thirds of the ceiling. This morning, of course, light of day mercilessly shows how poor a tool a Swiffer is for cleaning oil-based gloss ceilings, even with a dose of Spic and Span. Results make the untouched part of the job look practically pristine, with a smooth shellac of years of cooking-vapor nice and even across its expanse - while the "cleaned" portion is smeary and disappointing in the extreme.
Bleah.
But so it goes, and so it goeth.
Mom's been delayed, a trip to go buy a new grill with my stepfather (this task has been pending for months now, but apparently today suddenly it became The Urgent Business of the Day - so she has had to put *our* plans off ...). She called a few minutes ago, and they had not even left the house yet.
She has hopes to be over here around noon. I'm optimistically figuring one, at best.
And so on.
So I pulled out my paint supplies (goodly and plentiful, actually), and this tells me we have enough drop-cloth-ery to paint an entire house without moving one dropper ... but that, along with the paint we'll need to buy, some masking tape wouldn't go amiss.
In the meantime: my high-quality scraper I didn't even know I had. This thing is deluxe - and I was expecting putty knives. So finding *that* was a happy thing.
Ten-forty-four hours, and I'm dooping around the kitchen, listening to DS9 Season Two still. We're up to the Maquis. Good, fun stuff.
... and counting ...
Thursday, July 8, 2010
Cucina
Well, the rest of the kitchen is a disaster of appliances and displacements - but the WALLS are lookin' good.
Tomorrow: we paint. Woo!
Tomorrow: we paint. Woo!
Morbid ... ? Smarty-Pants? Who Cares?
So Mr. X joked with me today, that I've probably got my outfit already picked for the first day at work. Call that snarky, but the man does know a little about me anyway.
In fact, the one outfit I've thought of is probably going to be the winner. It's a stretchy navy dress which is very sleek looking (amazing with my giant gold necklaces), but comfortable.
And it's the dress I was feeling SO awfully flossy in the day they laid me off.
I figure, that dress deserves better.
And, from what I have seen at the downtown location of my new employer (this won't be my eventual home, but I'll report downtown day 1), it is appropriate.
Have I mentioned the surprising population of very nice looking young women I've noticed on my visits so far? I'm genuinely concerned they forgot their glasses the day they hired me; but maybe us middle-aged divas are located at the other office ...
In fact, the one outfit I've thought of is probably going to be the winner. It's a stretchy navy dress which is very sleek looking (amazing with my giant gold necklaces), but comfortable.
And it's the dress I was feeling SO awfully flossy in the day they laid me off.
I figure, that dress deserves better.
And, from what I have seen at the downtown location of my new employer (this won't be my eventual home, but I'll report downtown day 1), it is appropriate.
Have I mentioned the surprising population of very nice looking young women I've noticed on my visits so far? I'm genuinely concerned they forgot their glasses the day they hired me; but maybe us middle-aged divas are located at the other office ...
Better and Better
The rain has come. I have hope that this will be actual, real rain; I drove through it an hour ago, but found the homefront dry. There was wonderful thunder as I got out of the car, but it wasn't very dark yet, and there was no rain forthcoming for some time.
It has just started. Great gawps of noisy rain - not noisy wind and not even noisy thunder. The thunder has been low, steady - unobtrusive. But the rain is making itself heard, making the sky just a little bit greyer now. It ha come.
I hope it doesn't leave in the hurry it's been in for the few appearances we've seen in the past three months or so. We need the rain. This is welcome rain, too; it's not nasty, it's temperate. It's easy and streaky.
***
And in the time I've written this post, it's stopped once again already. I hope that's just a spell, just an ebb between the clouds.
The ground beneath the maples isn't even slick with water yet.
***
Please ...
It has just started. Great gawps of noisy rain - not noisy wind and not even noisy thunder. The thunder has been low, steady - unobtrusive. But the rain is making itself heard, making the sky just a little bit greyer now. It ha come.
I hope it doesn't leave in the hurry it's been in for the few appearances we've seen in the past three months or so. We need the rain. This is welcome rain, too; it's not nasty, it's temperate. It's easy and streaky.
***
And in the time I've written this post, it's stopped once again already. I hope that's just a spell, just an ebb between the clouds.
The ground beneath the maples isn't even slick with water yet.
***
Please ...
House and Home
Before I start the new job, mom and I are embarking on a project - to paint my kitchen at long, long last. This morning, I've started to redeploy a few objects in there. What furniture there is has to be moved, the cookbook-shelves emptied and taken down, the pictures on the walls removed, the things on top of the fridge and some other miscellany put out of the way. Later on, I'll go for the cleaning solution we'll use to scrub down the walls (the place has been cooked in for thirty or forty years since the last time it got redecorated!), and the paint.
I'm listening to Deep Space 9 DVDs and digging in to a new project. Very cool, and I'm excited to see the new kitchen. My body could use the labor, and my heart and brain welcome the diversion, the to-do's.
Time for a new coat of paint. It's a hard time, change being what it is - but a good one.
I'm listening to Deep Space 9 DVDs and digging in to a new project. Very cool, and I'm excited to see the new kitchen. My body could use the labor, and my heart and brain welcome the diversion, the to-do's.
Time for a new coat of paint. It's a hard time, change being what it is - but a good one.
Wednesday, July 7, 2010
Yow
I keep having some "thing" in my knee which doesn't qualify as pain - but, as a twinge goes, it's unnecessarily assertive. Stop it, knee.
Stupid knee.
Stupid knee.
Klingon Poetry Jam
Suitable for my main character, this one ...
So honor the valiant who die 'neath your sword,
But pity the warrior who slays all his foes.
Too Rich for My BLOOD
Oh, this is very, very funny. A blogger breaks down the passion of the girl in Twilight for the vampire in Twilight, including his preternaturally sexy BREATH.
Very nicely done.
Very nicely done.
Working
I've reported for fingerprinting and drug screen paperwork, run some errands, done the drug screen itself, and returned home on a ludicrously hot afternoon. Start date should be the 19th, so mom and I are conspiring about kitchen painting.
Some bird keeps bumping (not terribly hard, but still) into my window. It must look nice and cool inside where the shade is. Poor, hot old birdbrain.
And now, to enjoy some more of my brand new Deep Space Nine season 2 DVDs. Season two is very enjoyable, and not *merely* because it features the lovely and talented (and delicious voice of) Mr. Frank Langella. It's entertaining in several other ways, too.
Not least of which is the delightfully creepy Mr. John Glover. Papa Luthor! Yay!
Some bird keeps bumping (not terribly hard, but still) into my window. It must look nice and cool inside where the shade is. Poor, hot old birdbrain.
And now, to enjoy some more of my brand new Deep Space Nine season 2 DVDs. Season two is very enjoyable, and not *merely* because it features the lovely and talented (and delicious voice of) Mr. Frank Langella. It's entertaining in several other ways, too.
Not least of which is the delightfully creepy Mr. John Glover. Papa Luthor! Yay!
Invincible Summer
Yesterday, it hit 105.6 degrees in the shade outside my mom and stepfather's house.
It's some HOT, y'all.
The title today comes from Camus ... In the depth of winter, I finally learned that within me there lay an invincible summer. --Albert Camus (1913-1960) While not precisely apropos, the phrase certainly has a resonance right now.
Anyone in doubt of global warming, please form a line to the left, where you are cordially invited to jump in a lake.
Of fire.
It's some HOT, y'all.
The title today comes from Camus ... In the depth of winter, I finally learned that within me there lay an invincible summer. --Albert Camus (1913-1960) While not precisely apropos, the phrase certainly has a resonance right now.
Anyone in doubt of global warming, please form a line to the left, where you are cordially invited to jump in a lake.
Of fire.
Tuesday, July 6, 2010
To the Nines
Was online today discussing with other writers what they would like to/think they "should" wear for a meeting with an agent. It was interesting how reverse-snobby some people are about those who might choose to treat a meeting of this sort as if it were (*GASP!*) a professional meeting. Not that agents actually care; but the sense from one or two, at least, was that anyone not prepared to wear their cowboy hat, or revolver, or schmoopy fairy outfit, or sclubby slob wear was somehow actually not quite right (serious!) as a writer. To which I say: it's possible to have more than one gear, people. Good grief.
Anyway - my contribution. I liked it enough to replicate it (yes, with edits - dur) here.
One of the things I have hated most about unemployment is the unending parade of "dog walking pants" I have been wearing every day. I worked for about a decade and a half in financial services and other executive offices, and I have missed the opportunity to dress professionally very much. Those who dismiss professional dress are entitled to their opinions, but ... not to determining *mine*. Wearing suits and good clothing doesn't diminish my writing, nor cheapen my intellect somehow as a sellout. I like them, but I am much more than professional clothes; nor does my writing doesn't require me to costume myself as if I were one of my own characters, or as "An Author", or anything else. If I had a formal meeting with an agent, I'd simply feel most comfortable in heels and hose. That's ME. But it doesn't make me some sort of empty-headed dilettante - nor does it make me self-conscious, more concerned with appearance than content, nor some kind of wannabe hoping a good blazer will do for me what my hard work and talent can't
For ME, a suit happens to have a sense of occasion about it. That feels good to ME.
Here's the thing. I loathe and despise the idea of dressing the same way all the time. The number of people who express the desire to do exactly that, and by those who simply DO it, flat-out floors me. Doesn't matter which type people go for; any type, with no variation at all, is a deadly bore. Women who are made up all the time, men who can't get out of the (way oversized) Dockers and golf shirts, goth kids who NEVER put down the eyeliner - I don't discriminate based on genre; I'm astounded at *any* of these people's dedication to genre dressing. I like to be a bit of a vixen on a Saturday night, a sleek professional on weekday mornings; I also revel in being the middle-aged suburban hausfrau I undeniably am in my down time, with my dog.
I'd be bored out of my mind being any one of those things ALL THE TIME, forever, amen. My consideration of dressing for any occasion - agent meetings or anything else - is born of how much more interesting it is not to be the same old visual bore all the time. I clean up well, as they say. So I like to do it.
More to the point, it really is amazing how much more comfortable those dog-walking pants are after I've spent my day out in the world with actual human people, working for a living, put together to the nines ... and finally getting to come home and peel off all the accoutrements of professional battle. At the same time, jeans or what have you just AREN'T that comfortable if you wear them all the time; no matter the venue, whatever the dress code is. I've worn jeans to work. I've been unemployed for even longer stretches than this most recent stint. I swear by my heels and business clothes. I have lived, lately, for the opportunity to dress for church.
For the record, all of my agent meetings so far have taken place at my annual Conference. For this two-full-day occasion, I generally wear slinky black pants and some sort of bold colored tee, and oxford shoes for comfort. I've gotten two requests for reads thus casually dressed (out of, I think, four agent meetings conducted there ... this doesn't count the agent my very first year who passed on to a colleague of hers a partial of something which was hardly even a WIP at the time, nor ever became one).
Anyway - the point is: I know a suit is not ALWAYS the thing. But dang if I wouldn't treat a potential "getting agented" for real meeting as a more professional situation. And bloody love it.
Anyway - my contribution. I liked it enough to replicate it (yes, with edits - dur) here.
One of the things I have hated most about unemployment is the unending parade of "dog walking pants" I have been wearing every day. I worked for about a decade and a half in financial services and other executive offices, and I have missed the opportunity to dress professionally very much. Those who dismiss professional dress are entitled to their opinions, but ... not to determining *mine*. Wearing suits and good clothing doesn't diminish my writing, nor cheapen my intellect somehow as a sellout. I like them, but I am much more than professional clothes; nor does my writing doesn't require me to costume myself as if I were one of my own characters, or as "An Author", or anything else. If I had a formal meeting with an agent, I'd simply feel most comfortable in heels and hose. That's ME. But it doesn't make me some sort of empty-headed dilettante - nor does it make me self-conscious, more concerned with appearance than content, nor some kind of wannabe hoping a good blazer will do for me what my hard work and talent can't
For ME, a suit happens to have a sense of occasion about it. That feels good to ME.
Here's the thing. I loathe and despise the idea of dressing the same way all the time. The number of people who express the desire to do exactly that, and by those who simply DO it, flat-out floors me. Doesn't matter which type people go for; any type, with no variation at all, is a deadly bore. Women who are made up all the time, men who can't get out of the (way oversized) Dockers and golf shirts, goth kids who NEVER put down the eyeliner - I don't discriminate based on genre; I'm astounded at *any* of these people's dedication to genre dressing. I like to be a bit of a vixen on a Saturday night, a sleek professional on weekday mornings; I also revel in being the middle-aged suburban hausfrau I undeniably am in my down time, with my dog.
I'd be bored out of my mind being any one of those things ALL THE TIME, forever, amen. My consideration of dressing for any occasion - agent meetings or anything else - is born of how much more interesting it is not to be the same old visual bore all the time. I clean up well, as they say. So I like to do it.
More to the point, it really is amazing how much more comfortable those dog-walking pants are after I've spent my day out in the world with actual human people, working for a living, put together to the nines ... and finally getting to come home and peel off all the accoutrements of professional battle. At the same time, jeans or what have you just AREN'T that comfortable if you wear them all the time; no matter the venue, whatever the dress code is. I've worn jeans to work. I've been unemployed for even longer stretches than this most recent stint. I swear by my heels and business clothes. I have lived, lately, for the opportunity to dress for church.
For the record, all of my agent meetings so far have taken place at my annual Conference. For this two-full-day occasion, I generally wear slinky black pants and some sort of bold colored tee, and oxford shoes for comfort. I've gotten two requests for reads thus casually dressed (out of, I think, four agent meetings conducted there ... this doesn't count the agent my very first year who passed on to a colleague of hers a partial of something which was hardly even a WIP at the time, nor ever became one).
Anyway - the point is: I know a suit is not ALWAYS the thing. But dang if I wouldn't treat a potential "getting agented" for real meeting as a more professional situation. And bloody love it.
Monday, July 5, 2010
Apropos of Nothing
I don't understand women who get into committed relationships based on their goals for themselves, rather than on the particular man they commit to. Yet this seems a terrifyingly common methodology.
Creepy.
Creepy.
Sunday, July 4, 2010
Dream Job - Literally?
The offer letter didn't come on Friday; the staffing manager was off for vacation (she actually called me from home, kids in the background, to give me the offer) - so I should not be worried, I'm sure. But until the thing is in front of me; until I have signed and returned it, I'm going to keep feeling this whole thing is just a cruel hallucination.
I feel like I am holding my breath. And if you've read much, that is not a positive sensation for me.
*On tenterhooks until Tuesday morning*
I feel like I am holding my breath. And if you've read much, that is not a positive sensation for me.
*On tenterhooks until Tuesday morning*
Draught
I'm having a sip of the wine of celebration. When I lost the last job, one of the people I worked with was stirred to come by one day with a goodbye present, they objected so to the layoffs. The present consisted of three bottles of rather lovely wine. I have shared, of course; as drinking wine all on one's own is (a) a little much - particularly for someone as prone to headaches as I get! - and (b) a little melancholy, at that. My neighbors have helped toast to my good hopes; and tonight, we toasted to my better luck; with my "unemployment wine". It seemed quite right.
And mellow and delicious.
*On the last glass*
The evening was very nice; five of us, and the three dogs between us (well behaved, no less, even with the holiday sounds here and there). We shared tender shredded barbeque, good talk, and a soft evening. I have great neighbors, and am grateful and blessed. They were so sweet and full of congratulations.
It may not have been explosive, but it has been a great Independence Day, nonetheless.
I always think of the one seven years ago, and still ache for how hard it was on someone I hold so dear. I remember that one, and the one after that, when we were together and did the whole big BANG-BANG Fourth of July thing, down by some big water. The first was painful. The second: we had no idea then it would be our last (for some time yet ...). The Fourth may be more fraught than Valentine's Day, in my heart. I pray every year.
And this year, I'll sip a silent sip in remembrance and other feelings.
And mellow and delicious.
*On the last glass*
The evening was very nice; five of us, and the three dogs between us (well behaved, no less, even with the holiday sounds here and there). We shared tender shredded barbeque, good talk, and a soft evening. I have great neighbors, and am grateful and blessed. They were so sweet and full of congratulations.
It may not have been explosive, but it has been a great Independence Day, nonetheless.
I always think of the one seven years ago, and still ache for how hard it was on someone I hold so dear. I remember that one, and the one after that, when we were together and did the whole big BANG-BANG Fourth of July thing, down by some big water. The first was painful. The second: we had no idea then it would be our last (for some time yet ...). The Fourth may be more fraught than Valentine's Day, in my heart. I pray every year.
And this year, I'll sip a silent sip in remembrance and other feelings.
Friday, July 2, 2010
Committed
Well, I may not quite believe in the offer ... BUT ... I certainly didn't do my job slog today. In fact, I had a happy little interlude, deleting all the bookmarks for job hunting from my Favorites list. So much cleaner looking.
I may yet go back to those sites where I've applied in the past, to delete my profiles and even withdraw outstanding apps less than, say, two weeks old.
But still, it was nice to finally be able to get to that little task.
Even if I STILL can't believe I got the call.
I may yet go back to those sites where I've applied in the past, to delete my profiles and even withdraw outstanding apps less than, say, two weeks old.
But still, it was nice to finally be able to get to that little task.
Even if I STILL can't believe I got the call.
Job
I still can't believe I got the offer, and the fact that I haven't got the offer letter in hand (well, in electronig inbox, anyway) doesn't dispel the sensation. But it seems to me like they called me today. It seems to me they made a nice offer - and then discussed some specific things about me the managers are specifically and particularly excited about. It seems to me that means I can start work with a confidence in the direction I need to take, and the apparent implication that I was actually the runaway favorite candidate for this.
It seems all very true, and all very good, and like a huge piece of good news on a gloriously beautiful day, on a holiday weekend.
It seems wonderful.
I still can't believe it, though.
It seems all very true, and all very good, and like a huge piece of good news on a gloriously beautiful day, on a holiday weekend.
It seems wonderful.
I still can't believe it, though.
Thursday, July 1, 2010
Mein Kopf Tut Mir Veh
So as I was doing that stuff you do between the phone interview at home, and the getting dressed to go interview in person, I puttered about the house a bit this morning. Amongst other puttering, I flossed my teeth. Squatted down to discard the floss under the sink, and found a small piece of trash next to the wastebasket; so reached over for that, and put it all in. Stood up.
Took a steel corner of the medicine cabinet to the forehead.
Well, that hurts.
I bled. Wah, wah, poor little baby girl me.
But it was a tongue-biter, one of those moments you just go "of COURSE, not that I had a job interview or anything today" and glare at the poor dog. You know, and dab for a while, daring the bleeding to just keep on one minute more. Gah.
As to that: it is true what they say. Head wounds do bleed, even little minor ones, more than you expect. Oiks.
Fortunately: bangs.
Unfortunately, though: I keep forgetting it's there, and touching the bruise accidentally.
Owie.
Took a steel corner of the medicine cabinet to the forehead.
Well, that hurts.
I bled. Wah, wah, poor little baby girl me.
But it was a tongue-biter, one of those moments you just go "of COURSE, not that I had a job interview or anything today" and glare at the poor dog. You know, and dab for a while, daring the bleeding to just keep on one minute more. Gah.
As to that: it is true what they say. Head wounds do bleed, even little minor ones, more than you expect. Oiks.
Fortunately: bangs.
Unfortunately, though: I keep forgetting it's there, and touching the bruise accidentally.
Owie.
Prognostication
If I'm honest, I don't think I'm going to get an offer. Not because I don't think I presented well today, or because my skill set isn't right on, or because there was any particular vibe either over the phone or once I went in for the site interviews. I just don't get a "lucky" sense here, for whatever reason. Not that I have that sort of thing generally, with interviews - or don't, that I can think of - but something about this speed I've been so impressed with seems to me almost "directed", if that makes any sense.
When the SVP told me this morning that I was the final candidate - and today it's only been two weeks since the LISTING even went up! - I just suddenly felt like a string was cut. Like my kite was let go. It just seems (a) too good to be true, and (b) far too "easy" to end in a get at this point.
I'm rightly confident in my abilities, my ability to present them in an interview, and my quality as an employee. I'm very interested in this potential employer. Maybe I'm more defeated than I realize.
But I don't think so.
I just don't believe this can possibly go as well as this would have to, for an offer to be a real likelihood here. I am good, but I'm not so d*mned good employers can detect it at this rate of speed, and act on it so fast.
No, it just seems to me that they did the legal requirement, with interviews, and someone else is in the wings for this role.
I will be disappointed, if I hear it's not mine.
But I would be positively stunned to hear that it could be.
*Sigh*
When the SVP told me this morning that I was the final candidate - and today it's only been two weeks since the LISTING even went up! - I just suddenly felt like a string was cut. Like my kite was let go. It just seems (a) too good to be true, and (b) far too "easy" to end in a get at this point.
I'm rightly confident in my abilities, my ability to present them in an interview, and my quality as an employee. I'm very interested in this potential employer. Maybe I'm more defeated than I realize.
But I don't think so.
I just don't believe this can possibly go as well as this would have to, for an offer to be a real likelihood here. I am good, but I'm not so d*mned good employers can detect it at this rate of speed, and act on it so fast.
No, it just seems to me that they did the legal requirement, with interviews, and someone else is in the wings for this role.
I will be disappointed, if I hear it's not mine.
But I would be positively stunned to hear that it could be.
*Sigh*
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