Selling Myself

Times are tough. Money is tight. Yes, I have a job. But somehow, my paychecks keep sifting out of my bank account ever so effortlessly. Add to that eight months of unemployment and unexpected car repairs and I should have a brown paper bag to my mouth to calm my panicked breathing.

Well, tomorrow it's time to sell myself. For a job.

I'm going on a job interview and the nerves have already set in. While I was unemployed, I went on several interviews, many of which went on for a few rounds and ended without an offer. It was frustrating, nerve-wracking and time consuming. At my current job, I've played a role in many unsuccessful attempts to hire the firm an office manager/administrative assistant. Having been on both sides of the desk with interviews, I can honestly say the entire process needs an overhaul.

Since I've been at my job (a mere four months), they've hired and fired three people for that position and had four temps filling the gaps in between. What that tells me? Umm, no comment. But some of what it tells me is that no matter how many times you interview someone, or how many people you interview, you still won't really know what they're like until they've worked in that position for a couple of weeks. That said, I have no idea why some HR departments require elaborate screening and multiple interviews before selecting a candidate.

At the job I most recently held where I was laid off (jerks), they had the most ridiculously useless time suck of an interview process. I recall coming in three times. First to meet with my immediate supervisor. Next to meet with him again and the HR woman (think offspring of Satan and Jabba the Hutt...wait wouldn't that be Ursula from The Little Mermaid? Yes. OK, where was I). And lastly, to take a timed writing test and meet with the president of the association.

Oh, and I almost forgot. I had to take an online myers-briggs type test that ate up an hour or more of my life that I'll never get back. Still bitter. It was one of those personality tests that asks the same type of questions in each section but in a different way. I recall answering them all differently, which must've suggested I was at least bi-polar, if not a complete nut job.

Regardless, they hired me. I was excited...for a few months. Then as time waned on, I started to realize that the people working there could not be more different, personality-wise and sanity-wise, than a "normal" girl like me. I thought the point of that personality screening test was to assess whether the candidate was a good fit for the job demands and a good match with the rest of the employees. If so, then why was I working next to a vocally-militant anarchist? And, since when did talking to oneself at length become "in?" I could go on, but I digress.

Tomorrow is going to be tough. For one because I get ridiculously nervous in these situations. It's weird to have to brag about achievements and boast in a way to market myself as the best candidate for this position. That's just not my "thing." And, because I don't know what it will take to convince the interviewers to hire me. I hope I can improvise well enough and come up with some money answers on the spot.

But with my inanely selective memory, I might as well blow off the interview. Why is it that as hard as I try to prepare for this (which so far has consisted of printing my resume, posting pictures on Facebook and blogging), all that comes to mind is useless info that I've gleaned along the way. Maybe they'll ask me how to cream corn. I could DEF talk about that. Did you know there is no cream involved in creaming corn? I know! Craziness.

Sigh...time to continue preparing.

I've Got Rolls (and they ain't cinnamon or sticky)

I reminisce about the days about a year ago when I was in prime form. I was running regularly and in decent shape. Nowadays? It's more like prime-rib form.

It's a well-known fact that I like to eat. It's a lesser-known fact that the scale is my enemy. No, not because it displays astronomically high numbers, but because it drives me to complacency. This complacency has made my weight fluctuate much like Oprah's. While the amount of fluctuation doesn't hold a flame to what Oprah has accomplished over the years, it's still a fluctuation and it confuses the heck out of my wardrobe.

Anytime I hit the scale and see a number that is close to normal, I subconsciously ramp up my eating regimen. Especially if I have been working out more and eating healthier to shed a few, when I see a number that pleases me, I stop working out and resume eating as usual. I wish I knew why. I wish I would stop the vicious cycle.

Well lately, things have not been pretty. Half my work wardrobe is out of commission due to acute snuggness, yet I refuse to go up a size and waste money on new clothes that surely won't fit when I drop back down to my normal size. So, instead, I continue to spend money on large portions of food and rotate through the same four roomiest work outfits each week. I don't hop on the scale anymore. I don't work out regularly. I eat with reckless abandon. And, during my latest excursion to visit my childhood friend Laura in Boston, I gave the term "glutton" a whole new meaning.

But as my 10th year high school reunion looms ahead a mere month from now, I've decided to change things up a bit. No more watching The Biggest Loser while eating ice cream cake. No more eggplant parmesan for breakfast. And, no more sleeping through the alarm so I can't work out in the morning. It's time to downgrade to "like" handles.

So this week, I decided to get back into a running routine in the morning and possibly do some other cross training. Well, Thursday night I almost got leveled by an SUV while running through a crosswalk. I'm not sure which was louder--my screams of horror or the screeching brakes. And, today, as fate may have it, I sprained my ankle and fell after stepping on a bulbous tree nut while running through the neighborhood.

Game over.

Time to come up with another plan to slim down. Or embrace my new form. Thank goodness I was only at my high school for two years, cause most people won't recognize me anyways!

Unwelcome Wagon

So my Mom decided to join Facebook several days ago after getting invites from old friends and giving into curiosity. She didn't tell me at first; I found out after noticing my younger brother had befriended her. Hmmm, I thought. I bet my brother created that page for her.

I decided to confront her the next time I paid a visit.

I casually broached the topic to learn that not only had she joined, but that she had created her own page, too. Who does she think she is?! Too good for me, eh?

"Well," Mom explained, "I didn't know if you'd want to be my friend. I didn't want to put you in an awkward position of having to say 'no.'" She added, "I don't want to intrude on your personal space."

Don't be ridiculous, Ma! I couldn't care less if you see what's on my page, in my pictures or what my friends post to my wall. I have nothing to hide. I did all I could possibly do wrong in college and the shock factor of any of my extracurricular activities has since waned. Plus, if I were to do anything outrageous, I wouldn't be posting pictures of it on FB anyways. For that matter, the most outrageous thing I've done lately is eat skewered chicken for breakfast.

Anyways, taking stupid pictures was what we did in college. Every incident had to be documented on our 35MM cameras. Especially those "hilarious" ones of us in compromising situations that quickly landed on some Terp Web site called "Terp Idiots" or something along those lines. I forget the name, but I will never forget the day my Mom stumbled across a link to a picture of me "passed out" near the boys bathroom entrance. Fully clothed, mind you. And, I can honestly say that I had fallen down after getting hit with a soccer ball after some aggressive dorm hallway game. My Mom still doesn't believe me to this day.

But, even if I were to be tagged in some strange photo like that on FB, it'd be current or prospective employers I'd be most worried about.

After getting back to my computer that day, I requested my Mom's friendship and she happily accepted. The next day, I asked her how she was liking it so far since and she said it was cool to connect with her college classmates on there, yet it was still a bit weird for some other reasons. Though she wasn't fazed after getting her friend request rejected by my cousin, and found it funny to see FB friend suggestions of my ex-boyfriend, getting repeated FB friend suggestions of my recently-deceased uncle didn't make for a satisfactory welcome package.

Well, at least Sebastian won't let her down. Though, I've seen some of his recently posted pictures. And let's just say the words "racy" and "unprecedented" come to mind.

That said, welcome to FB, Mom!

Goodbye Beer Highs

It all started more than a year ago.  I woke up in the middle of the night and saw someone near my bed.  A man in his 50s with a weird face.  He stared at me quizzically, silently while I laid there.  He started to approach me.  My mind was racing.  Was I awake? Was this a dream?  How'd he get in my room?  I was awake!  Help!

I sat up in full panic with a jolt and turned on my bedside lamp with my sweaty, shaky hands.  Gone.  He left.  Thank God, I thought, as my heart throttled back into my chest.  And, dear GOD, my head.  The circus wagon full of merciless monkeys was back.  Pounding their drums, shaking their tamborines. Trampling my alcohol-ridden body.

 

After having had this happen more than a handful of times, it finally clicked as to why.  The last time I hallucinated there was a strange old dude in my bedroom, I had gone to bed after a night of drinking.  That's when I swore I'd never let it happen again. 

I know, I know.  How many times have you heard people suffering the aftermath of boozing say "I'll never drink again"  only to bounce back into the saddle mere days later?  Well, not me...not this time.

Ever since I was little, my body has reacted strongly to substances.  Eating too many carrots as a toddler turned the palms of my hands and soles of my feet bright orange.  Consuming one caffeinated soda would keep me wired throughout the day and unable to sleep at night.  Pain killers made me feel wasted and dizzy.  Besides not having an interest in drugs, I never tried them simply because I was terrified of what the experience would be like.

Shocking that my body has never tolerated alcohol that well. I'd have day-long hangovers, upset stomach, heart burn for a week, the works.   Since my post-kickball playing days where post-game consumption would rival fraternity initiation nights, I've toned down significantly.  I actually appreciate the taste of wine, beer and liquor as the perfect compliment to a meal rather than craving it for it's magical effect.

Yet, even with such minimal consumption, two glasses of beer or wine in one sitting give me a biting hangover the next day.  It's inescapable.  And, most recently, the few times that I have even just a few more drinks than usual in one night, the hallucinations appear, followed by fever and night sweats, a massive headache, feeling light-headed and woozy.  These hangovers are the ones where you wake up feeling fine but then gradually as the day grows longer, the hangover symptoms would appear and worsen.

Maybe I should go see a doctor? Or maybe I should just give up excessive alcohol consumption at the wee age of 28.  Done.

Many have seen how alcohol can destroy a person and families from alcoholism to drunk driving, and it's no joke.  And, many are in denial about how frequent alcohol consumption can damage their bodies.  Not everyone is made the same. And just because John Booze can slam down 30 beers in one night doesn't mean James Binge can do the same.  I recall hearing from a friend how his cousin was in the hospital at the young age of 24 due to severe liver damage from alcoholism.  24!  He was unable to finish college or hold a job, and now had severe medical limitations.  A life lost.

Well, I've had my wake-up call.  Who knows what's going on inside my head and body to cause these hallucinations. What I do know is that I'm not interested in having a visit from Crazy Peeping Tom anymore.  If only I had hallucinated Sawyer from Lost...

Now, the hallucinations are just one of the compelling reasons why I've decided not to get drunk anymore.  The other has to do with vertigo.  No, not the U2 song.  I can tolerate that. 

For those of you unfamiliar with vertigo, it's a disruption of equilibrium attributed to fluid in the ears, displaced crystals that maintain balance or other more serious items.  The result is constant dizziness, wooziness and light-headedness, which can be severe enough to make one vomit or unable to walk or sit up without the room spinning rapidly.  It sucks.  And, after having it for two months this past winter for reasons unknown, I hope it never comes back.

After my vertigo passed, I'd start to feel light-headed, woozy and dizzy any time I drank beyond a couple drinks.  The same horrible feeling I was viciously tried to get rid of.  Why would I do that to myself willingly?  The feeling of getting buzzed is just not fun anymore. 

Does that mean I'm no fun anymore? Um, no.  Does that mean I won't ever go out again? The jury's still out on that one.

Itching to Blog

It's been a while now since my last post. Feels like an eternity for me.  I just have been so busy in and outside of work.  The nice thing is, the days fly by.  The bad things is I am perpetually exhausted mentally.  I have had a lot on my mind lately regarding commuters, crazy bosses, white lies, and more.  I will begin my rant this weekend if not sooner.  Adieu...

Garden Envy

When I was unemployed, I decided to beautify the grounds of my domicile by planting flower beds and an array of vegetables. At one point when I was interviewing for a job that was located mere blocks from my house, I was most excited about the prospect of coming home on my lunch hour to water my crops. I didn't end up getting that job and the two months I spent regularly watering and fertilizing my crops seemed blissful. I was an urban farmer. Or farmeress?

Well, just as my crops were exploding in growth, my interest shockingly waned. My tomato plants were feet in height, the cucumber vine was starting to bear fruit, the pumpkin plants were amassing gigantic leaves and blossoms, my basil and cilantro were wildly outgrowing their pots and my canteloupe vine continued to wind through the grass. Overconfident that I was going to have a good harvest come July/August, that I had done all I could do, I stopped watering my plants. At this point in time, I used to visit my Mom and poke fun at her scraggly plants making her yearn for my excellent farming skills. Well the lack of water and an unfortunate lawn mower incident decimated my crops and leveled my hopes for being a champion urban farmer lady.

I spent the remaining weeks gazing longingly at the neighbors' planter boxes full of lush, fruit-bearing plants. I saw blueberries, eggplant, squash, tomatoes, peppers of all shapes and sizes and more. Even my Mom's garden had picked up. Her basil plants resembled bushes, her tomatoes were easily six feet tall and her pumpkin (that I had so graciously planted by seed for her) had a canteloupe-sized pumpkin growing.

My plants had given up. The two cucumbers never turned green, they were a whitish yellow. I picked one to try it and the insides tasted vinegary. Almost like a pickle. Later that particular week, I saw that a squirrel had picked the other cucumber, taken a bite and then left it in the alley to rot. The pumpkin plant never regrew. The cilantro died from lack of water. The tomatoes were repeatedly eaten by animals and the canteloupe never bore fruit. Or so I thought.
A baseball-sized green lump! A canteloupe! I did it! The next few weeks, I continued to monitor my baby, my prized canteloupe to see if it would grow. It never did. Nor did I ever water it. And, yesterday as I was mowing the lawn where the vines were growing, I mowed over my baby's lifeline. Idiot. At least the canteloupe was OK. I decided to take it to my parents for some show-and-tell and then sliced it open to see if it was edible. I tried some, it was kind of hard, yet sweet. Bummer. It looked pretty good, though!
So for now, I will go back to longing for the garden that never was. I'll probably watch my neighbors reap their harvest. I might hope that my canteloupe magically ripens in my fridge. But, I will not under any circumstance watch my Mom carve her pumpkin.

Old Dog, No Tricks

Gee, I didn't think the life of a domestic animal was really that bad.  But hey, at least my dog has good taste.  Imagine the horror of seeing him passed out amidst a sea of Natural Light cans.

I've started to envy Sebastian's simple life whenever I have a bad day. He didn't have to deal with layoffs. He's never experienced heartache.  He always has food on the table.  Granted, he has more bad hair days than any woman could tolerate, but he's too simple minded to care.

Ahh, what I would give for a day in the life of a dog.  But, not just any dog.  My dog.  My deaf, ten-year-old Cavalier King Charles Spaniel who just doesn't give a crap anymore.

I'd wake in the morning to the pangs of hunger, eat breakfast, lap up some stagnant water, head outside to take care of business and then head back to bed. The remainder of the day, I'd move from bed to bed, snoop for trash, bask in the sun, sit on laps and eat again. 

Sounds relaxing, eh?

When Sebastian was younger, his life was much more "exciting."  He had boundless energy, went to the door every time he heard a doorbell ring (even if it was on TV), was excited about sitting on people's laps, vigorously opposed baths, inhaled his food like a champ, demanded endless amounts of play time and sprinted around the house like a crazy man.  As he's gotten older, his playful puppy filter has slowly disappeared. Sure, here and there we will catch glimpses of his former love-ball self, but nowadays he's truly an old dog.  But we still love him to death. If he were human, I know he'd be wearing lots of thin, pastel-colored outfits.  But, instead he just acts like the cranky senior citizen he is. 

He farts. A lot.  He doesn't like walks.  He sleeps 18 hours a day.  He doesn't like children.  He growls persistently when he wants something.  His diet is soft, canned food.  He doesn't ask to sit on the couch anymore, he just does. He takes heart burn medicine.  He disregards every command we ever taught him.  He drives 20 miles under the speed limit. Wait, no. That's my Dad.  And, God forbid you alter his daily routine, you will hear about it. Which takes us to the picture.  

This past Friday, Jeff had people over to celebrate the end of summer.  The mud room, where we keep one of Sebastian's beds, was used to store cold beer.  We moved the bed into my Mom's study so that Sebastian wouldn't totally freak.  Well, Sunday rolls around and the empty beer bottles are still in the mud room.  And the bed? Still in the study.  Part of Sebastian's morning routine is to rise from his bed in the family room, eat a Pepcid AC, then move to the bed in the mud room while he rests and waits for his breakfast.  My Mom says if she is too busy to get his food right away, he gets up and peeks around the corner to stare at her in his passive aggressive way of saying (in his best Will Ferrell impression), "Ma! The meatloaf!"

Now, word on the street tells me that on Sunday, an enraged Sebastian could not tolerate one more day of this displaced bed nonsense and exploded into a fury of barking early in the morning.  Definitely a code red.  My Mom took action and grabbed his bed from the study and squeezed it back into the mud room amidst the six packs of empty beer bottles.  Order restored, Sebastian hopped into the bed and went back to sleep.  

Then she took his picture and sent it to all of us. Here's how I imagine her mindset at the time.  "You disrupt my early morning? Fine, I'll make you look like a drunk." When Sebastian woke up, rumor has it he growled something that resembled, "Touche, Anne. Touche."

The reality of an aging dog bites.  Maybe it's finally time to exchange his royal blue harness for a pastel purple one.