Tell Me Again That The Education System Is Fine And I’ll Knock Your Teeth Out

Well, if you kids follow me at all on the Twittah or the slightly more character-friendly Facebook, you’ve heard a bit about my recent employment saga and know that I’m kind of irritated.  And majorly disappointed.  And disillusioned.  And plain-old, fucking mad.

It’s official, as of today, that I have been completely passed over for a job that I really wanted.

“How badly did you want it?” you ask?

To put a finer point on it, let’s start by saying that I was happy making $10 an hour whilst performing its duties.  Maybe we’ll add that I religiously checked in on the process twice a week for the entirety of the summer and might have bordered on groveling.  And I’ll follow up by telling you that I don’t think I ever even once THOUGHT about complaining about having to GO.  And for someone who can find something to be snarky about in just about every situation, that’s fucking tops.

Was I underqualified?  No.  OVER qualified?  No.  Did I lack experience?  Absolutely not, considering I’d been doing the job for the second half of the school year last spring.  Did I have a record?  Piss someone off?  Were there people MORE qualified or better suited than me?  Had I not voiced my interest and enthusiasm clearly?  No, no, no and NO.  I met all requirements in spades, had a rapport with all staff members, knew the students and their individual challenges and found excitement in my chest instead of dread when waking up every morning to begin again.

I simply did not have enough SENIORITY.

And so, I was passed over, and not even given a chance to interview in favor of people who were already employed full-time in the district.

I was an unwitting participant in bureaucratic, union BULLSHIT.

I don’t expect to make any friends here for being anti-union, but that is now where I stand.

There were people considered who could not read AT the level of the students they were interviewing to HELP read.  Women I’d heard belittling the kids in the classes they’d be assisting: who vocally HATE their jobs and “the little shits” they “deal” with daily.

How is this possible?  How is it RIGHT?  How is this in the best interest of the kids who are having trouble learning?  Do you want YOUR children being taught by someone who has barely received their GED?  Pushed along by individuals who have no concern for quality of instruction or the job they’re doing past the paycheck?

I can’t wrap my head around it.  As a person who has always believed that there is always ONE MORE THING she can do to become successful or attain a goal or get her point across or simply have a productive day, I CANNOT FATHOM why I wasn’t even afforded an opportunity.  It galls me to have no control over a situation in the first place, let alone to be asked to believe that NOTHING THAT SHOULD HAVE MATTERED, DID.

I had no seniority.  Despite the fact that I’d worked in-district for a year and a half.  Despite my experience.  I was not a full-time staff member, and, as such, not in the union and not accruing ‘seniority’.  And to add insult, I cannot get a full-time position and accrue seniority without being a member of the union in a full-time position.

It just doesn’t add up.

So I will fill in as a substitute until the person hired wants to start (two weeks from now), and when she does, I will be paid $10/hour to train her on the job that I wasn’t considered for.  I will then go wherever the dispatch office sends me the next morning and continue to apply for jobs that I have no chance of getting.

Now tell me, why on earth would I want to spend money getting my Masters in Education?

Defense

Calling my mother is like playing Plinko on the Price Is Right.  A contestant places a wooden disk at the top of the board and watches it fall in a random pattern, bouncing haphazardly between the Love/Support and Batshit Crazy slots.  There is a whole manner of additional available prizes, but they generally fall in between those two categories.  The player’s heart leaps when the piece looks to be headed toward Maternal Warmth only to sink in dismay when it makes a last second detour to Sicilian Guilt.  The outcome waits to reveal itself even to the final moments, as she answers the phone the same way, no matter her mood.

Mother’s Day was no exception.

“HELLO?!” she accused into the phone, leaving me to guess at the direction our chat would take.   To judge by her tone, anyone would think that she couldn’t possibly be more annoyed, that even correcting the grammatical errors of the entire population of Facebook would be preferable to taking my call.  That’s not really the case…it’s just how she rolls.

Knowing her tone is no indication of her mood, I chirped a cheerful Happy Mother’s Day  (!!) into the receiver and was rewarded with a couple of cold responses.  Under normal circumstances (and to save my own sanity) I will beat feet to the end of the conversation when I see it headed in this direction.  If I don’t, screaming matches occur; it’s better to live to fight another day than engage, logic has no place when her voice takes on a certain edge.  But, it WAS Mother’s Day, and as such (I felt), required a bit of extra effort on my part.

After some prying and coaxing (“Seriously, what’s the matter? Why do you sound so hateful today?”) I was rewarded with a solid dose of the truth.

Now, here I pause to tell you something else about my mother.  I’ve shared some shitty things about her on this blog.  Told a couple of horror stories.  Mostly because this seems to be where I work some crap out.  But, beyond those stories, it should also be known that she’s a woman dealing with her own shit.  A really smart fucking woman, dealing with her own shit.  I forget sometimes that she’s spent a considerably longer amount of time trying to figure herself out and get back to even than I have, and as such, has the benefit of experience.  Every once in a while, she pops out with something that sounds completely ridiculous, but turns out to be exactly what I needed to hear at that particular moment.  It’s those times that I know I’m just as Batshit as she is and that there will never be anyone out there who understands quite like she does.  This fact absolutely has TNT written all over it, but sometimes when it manifests, it’s the only thing in the world that helps me know I’m not alone.

This was one of those times.

“I’m not a goddamned business, Jennifer.”

Now, the layperson will read that line and wonder:  “What the fuck does that even mean?!”  But I’m no novice when it comes to my Mom.  I knew exactly what she was talking about.  I’d just spent the previous five-or-so minutes in a state of calm detachment, trying to figure out why she was upset.  My voice had been soft and clear, friendly even, but there was no warmth behind it.  I’d been giving her the fake customer service treatment, and she called me out.  I was instantly fighting back tears.  She knew, goddamn it.  She knew and saw right through.

I use my call center voice when I’m in danger of feeling something.  I use it when I’m perilously close to submitting to weakness.  When I’m so lonely for the touch of the person I’m speaking to that going another moment without it might drive me to desperation; the emptier my soul, the more cordial my voice.  Without that failsafe, that tone modulation, the outside world is in danger of falling victim to the dam breaking.  I’d just been using it on her and she failed to play along, instead, forcing me to recognize something about myself that had (has) become my entire world lately.

There I was, face-to-face with the truth of my coping mechanisms.

These days, I am detachment embodied.  I have shut myself down to only the bare minimum.  Essential systems only.  Reserve power.  Low lighting.  Martial law.  I have declared a  moratorium on the expression of, well, anything.  I live so teeteringly close to a breakdown that I must maintain a state of hyper-vigilance lest this wound opens only to bleed and bleed and bleed.

I have become so careful about how I express myself that I don’t express myself at all.  My closest relationships have withered off of once healthy vines.  My need and drive to write has dried up because in its honesty, it would be admitting to the lies I’ve been telling those around me.  I have no shortage of hands reaching toward me, but I’m afraid they have no idea what they’re offering; that once I give in and let go, allow myself to be comforted by those hands, that they’ll realize the extremity of my need and retreat, sorry at once that they’d offered any contact at all.

In truth, my inner world is a blustering chaos.  I don’t jest when I say that out loud.  It’s more than just a warning or humorous hyperbole.  As my skin screams out for contact, tenderness, soft words, I breathe those desires back inside.  Their ferocity isn’t to be meddled with, and I don’t trust the outstretched and open palms to know what they’re offering.  With certainty I know that once I open that door, that cut, there will be no stanching the flow.  And while I fully expect and understand that those offering aid will retract it once they see the truth in the outpouring, I also know that that abandonment is something I can never recover from.

So I keep to the inside and play my grand role.  With abiding grace, I am thankful for the kindness of the people that reach out.  I am quietly awed by their intentions and charity.  But I must, at all costs, maintain this distance; a break in the ranks could mean a break in my tanks, the reserves, what’s left of this crumbling edifice.  It’s not enough to know that she sees me, my Mother.  Not enough to just be revealed.  All I am at that point is revealed, uncovered.  There is no protection in the open, and in the end, just being found out is not the same as being understood.

Job Search Cussery

I have very little patience for a post today.  The past 48 hours have been a lesson in irritation over the state of my professional life (or lack thereof).

I felt productive when I finished and uploaded my resume onto CareerBuilder and Monster.  I felt productive when I finished my profiles on each site to make myself more “searchable.”  I felt productive when I sent out two writing samples to online magazines in Spokane, WA.  That productivity plummeted when:

1.  Those writing samples were returned to me with a pleasant note saying that they required more experience.  (These are online publications, with pay based on the number of clicks..not exactly the NYT, you understand.)  I know that these are only the first of what are sure to be many more rejections, but they were a blow to the ego nonetheless.  I think that somewhere in a corner of my heart, I believed that whoever opened my application would feel an inexplicable draw to call me and shout into the phone:  ”We need you writing for us NOW!  When can you start?!”  I never said I wasn’t delusional.

2.  EVERY CUSSING JOB POSTING that I was interested in in the local paper is being run by an employment agency that charges $190 just to pass my resume on to prospective employers.  Worse still is that after I called this agency the first time, I was on the phone for 5 minutes with no new information about the job I was inquiring after, when it started to FEEL like a hard sell.  I stopped the girl and asked her: “What’s the catch?”  She dodged my question and continued with her spiel, only to get to the part about the 2 bills yet another 5 minutes later.  I politely declined, at which point she said (and I QUOTE):  ”Well, you obviously aren’t the type of person who we like to hire anyway.  Call back when you decide you’d like to work.”  ?!  Excuse me?  How about you piss into a light socket, you evil wench.  Three postings and quickly terminated phone calls later, it became evident that this same agency posted multiple listings under DIFFERENT NUMBERS, each answered by the same snotty admin.  Fuckery, on all accounts.

3.  I responded to two ads from Monster, only to be told:  ”Sorry, those responses are computer generated, we’re not hiring now.”  More fuckery.

4.  I responded to an ad in CareerBuilder only to be told: “Oh yeah!  Definitely!  We’d love to have you in.  Give this number a call and schedule the interview.”  That number was FOR, you guessed it, the same cussing employment agency.  Say it with me now:  FUCKERY.

5.  I began to sober up from my rose-colored New Years drunk, and realized that the odds of me finding something fulfilling and meaningful in Pasco, WA are slim to nil and I was some kind of blockhead for thinking otherwise.

Amazingly, it took me only two days  to shitcan the idealism and revert back to the sarcastic bitch I was before I resolved to greatness in the last month of 2010.

Viva la Snark!

Pine Needles and Want Ads

I took my Christmas tree down today.  By myself.  I really didn’t want to.  I quite love the smell of the thing as it sits in the corner, slowly dying, becoming more and more of a fire hazard as the minutes wear on.  I love the twinkle of the lights as they blink through the branches and I am comforted by the fact that though few, all of the ornaments are of my choosing.  Really, I adore my Christmas trees so much, that I could justify leaving them up through March.  But as my dog slipped off the couch and squeezed past browning branches this morning to bark at another dog out the window, I could hear the rainfall of hundreds of needles and knew it was time to give up the ghost on this years’ white fir.

I carefully removed all of the ornaments and laid them out on the two end tables that are currently serving as a coffee table in my living room (I have yet to buy my own furniture, and my Grandma Lou, rest her soul, would be happy to know that I’m getting such use out of her old living room muebles).  It’s my final goodbye until next year, this little inventory.  I lay them out and organize them, and then carefully wrap them into their respective boxes or acid-free tissue and then carefully organize each, jigsaw-style, into the various receptacles that add further protection from the coming year’s dangers of exile.

When I get to the garland and lights, I try not to think about the mess being made underneath, as I pull the sparkly boa off and listen to more and more needles dropping to carpet below.  (If I was smart–and next year, I will be–a plastic tarp would have gone underneath the stand and tree skirt to ease the forthcoming vacuum-induced headache).  They shush to the floor with a sound almost rainlike, and I wish for a moment that it could go on forever, a relaxing wash of fir-scented music.  But I’m done and the lights are in the box, and the top is going on, and it’s time to pull the regal thing from the stand and carry it down to the dumpster.

In one last torrent of needles, I pull the tree free and make for the door and then down the steps.  I’m glad that the complex hasn’t issued restrictions against placing trees by the dumpsters.  I’d be given away for sure, because, as I return to my apartment, I see that my tree has hemorrhaged a breadcrumb trail of needles–they lead from a substantial puddle on my doorstep, in an ever-diminishing path of brownish-green to the cold asphalt enclosure that holds the ashbins.

As I re-enter my apartment to survey the mess I must now clean up, the weight of the New Year hits me with force.  It’s the absence of the tree that does it.  Once it’s gone, the holidays are over and it’s back to real life.  No more carol bells or roast beast; gifts are memories, and its time to re-embark on my journey through this world.  The New Year has been my deadline for a number of things and today, it’s here, a-rap-rap-rapping at my door.  It’s time to give up my aimless wandering, and locate again some semblance of drive.  The vacation is over.

I bend down and scrape together fallen needles, making piles that would certainly outweigh my cat, I’m sure of it.  Then, when I’ve done my best on hands-and-knees, I begin with the vacuum cleaner.  As the remnants are sucked up by cyclonic action, so are the worries and dread of my past year.  I lose myself in this task, getting every single last blasted green dart, formulating a plan as I go.  ”I must quit smoking” I think, and then smile to myself as I reach under the couch with the vacuum extension.  I’ve already three days success on that endeavor.  ”I must find a job” I think, and then smile again, at the prospect of starting new and perhaps finding something completely different and important.  ”I must write more and record my ideas” I think, and then smile broadly, knowing that I’ve already begun and can be carried on the wings of what has thus far been accomplished.

As I come out of my reverie and turn off the Hoover, I survey my living space, now noticeable uncluttered and neat.  The lines on the carpet from the vacuum ease my OCD, and I breath a sigh, happy that this chore is done and has helped to formulate a plan.  I didn’t want to take my tree down, especially not by myself.  I’m glad, however, that I have.  In doing so, I began this year by NOT procrastinating.  I began it with a pleasant smell, some hard work and a feeling of accomplishment.  Today?  A Christmas tree.  Tomorrow?  The Want Ads.

Try

The Prompt:

What do you want to try next year? Is there something you wanted to try in 2010? What happened when you did / didn’t go for it? (Author: Kaileen Elise)

I don’t have anything witty for you today, dear reader.  The answer to this question is a straightforward one.  It’s something I’ve given a lot of thought to prior to reading today’s prompt, and it’s something that I think is high time I addressed in my life.  It’s the only possible answer I could have given today and it’s on constant repeat in my inner monologue.

I want to find a job that is personally fulfilling AND financially rewarding.

Look, I’m a smart cookie.  I’m business savvy and decently educated.  I’ve got two aptly named B.S.s; one in English Literature and one in Hotel/Restaurant Management.  I wasn’t long out of college, working in a hotel as a Director of Revenue Management when I discovered that the time I spent on that degree was totally wasted…because I hated it.  And so I turned to my English degree.  But what the hell do you do with a degree in English?!  So when the Navy moved my husband and I out to the PNW, I said “NEVER AGAIN” to hotels and signed on with a temp agency.

That was fun for a while, and they placed me at the front desk of a parking company.  At the end of my contract with the temp agency, the company hired me on as an area manager in what I consider to be my first “big girl” job.  I spent four years with that company, discovering that I had an acuity for operations and problem solving.  I was outspoken and brash, and, to speak frankly, did the shit out of that job.  Unfortunately, running between 75 and 115 parking lots in Seattle WAS NOT rewarding in any capacity.  I loved the people I worked with, but hated the company.  And, even more importantly, hated the fact that parking, as an industry, is TOTALLY NOT IMPORTANT.  A lesson in capitalism? Absolutely.  A schooling on lead hunting, customer/landlord relations, expense management and firefighting/problem-solving? Definitely.  But food for the soul?  Intellectually stimulating?  Gee-I-Can’t-Wait-To-Go-To-Work-In-The-Morning fulfilling?  Not in the fucking least.

A two month hiatus over the summer and a number of consecutive months of return (doing nothing productive, mind you) have me HERE.  Or, as seems more fitting, NOWHERE.  I am unemployed, in the center of an area that humorously calls itself the Tri-Cities (we’re looking at a total population of about 250, 000–which is deceiving in itself because what you’re looking at is basically a sprawled out, suburban area with NO URBAN COUNTERPART) and have no earthly idea what the hell it is that I’m MEANT to do.  But, instead of seeing it as a cracked, half-empty glass of warm Coors Light, I’m taking a chance and seeing it through beer-goggles as a half poured pint of ice cold pale ale.

And so, in 2011, I’m going to radically change the way I usually do things.  I’m going to TRY some stuff out and walk away from it if it’s not what I was looking for.  I’m going to apply to anything and everything that strikes my fancy with an eye especially for those things that challenge me, make me a better person, and mean something to the world around me.  I’m going to try to use that English degree in some capacity.  I’m going to try to put myself on a path that, down the line, won’t mean I wasted years on a hateful slog.  I’m going to try and remember that the retirement fund that has driven me thus far won’t mean anything if I look back and realize that the money I worked for meant selling my soul.

What I’m going to do is try and be that smart-assed and successful bohemian girl I pictured as I was drinking celebratory beers with friends for college graduation.  I’m going to try and believe that it isn’t too late.

11 Things

The Prompt:

11 Things What are 11 things your life doesn’t need in 2011? How will you go about eliminating them? How will getting rid of these 11 things change your life? (Author: Sam Davidson)

1.  PUBIC HAIR (aside from a small landing strip so that I don’t look like a 9 year old girl)  Yes, I said pubic hair.  Because really, what’s the point?  It’s annoying, unsightly, and gets caught in the teeth.  I have been, for about the past year, saving money monthly by doing my own Brazilian waxes, or, as seems more fitting: Vagina Jihads.  Twat Fatwas.  Unlike eyebrows, which, if plucked too sparsely, will refuse to grow back, pubic hair is resilient, like crab grass.  It costs me money and pain, and I really could go without it.  Unfortunately, I think I’m stuck with it in 2011 as well as every ensuing year.  Electrolysis is cost prohibitive and laying the area ‘down there’ ablaze with a blow torch is quite out of the question.

2.  CIGARETTES.  I’m pained to say so, but I really think that it’s about that time.  In my twenties, I always said, “I’ll quite when I’m 30″.  It seemed so far away at that point.  When I hit 30, I pushed the semantic envelope by deciding that I would be 30 for a whole year.  By 31, I’d just plain stopped attempting to fool myself.  But it’s time.  My skin is showing visible effects and so are my hair and nails.  Who cares about lung cancer or emphysema with vanity to worry about?

3.  HANGOVERS.  Remember when you could drink until you blacked out and then wake up two hours later refreshed and ready to start again?  I do.  Not so anymore.  Where before my hangovers were limited to slight dehydration and bad breath cured by greasy breakfast and a 20 oz of Coke, they’re now raging, two day affairs requiring only a minimum amount of movement (if any!) and a dark room.  As much as I hate to admit it, I think it’s also time to start limiting the excess to which I partake of the devil’s nectar.  Lacking a live in EMT to administer a saline drip as soon as I stumble into my bed, it might be the only viable option.

4.  GRAY HAIR.  For real.  Is it really necessary?  I don’t think think so.  The scientific reasoning is something having to do with the body’s inability to continue to make the proteins necessary to produce pigment.  I’m less concerned with the reasoning and more concerned with the fact that I can no longer yank out the errant grays that I see.  If I did that now, I’d have a sizable bald spot on my left temple.  I’ve always been happy with my hair color and I’m resistant to having to begin yet another beauty maintenance procedure that costs me money and time.

5.  DOG PUKE.  There aren’t really many things more disgusting than making your way to the bathroom in the dark at night only to walk through a wet and slimy puddle of dog bile.  My dog has a weak stomach.  EVERYTHING makes her vomit.  If we go somewhere new, or stay at home.  If she’s running around, or lazing on her bed.  New food.  Her regular food.  Dog treats.  Fireworks.  Balloons.  There’s no rhyme or reason.  Just a constant flow of bright yellow mess.  Methinks it’s time for an iron stomach transplant.

6.  THE LITTER BOX.  I never dreamed I’d own a cat.  I grew up with dogs.  When I was young, one of the first funny things my dad taught me to say, aside from “Disco Sucks” was that cats were good for one thing:  Boat anchors.  So when my girlfriend K (a vet tech) called me to give me a sob story about this tiny little kitten who had just lost its hind leg and needed a home, I was reluctant to accept.  But, being a sucker for a hard-luck story, I took the mewling thing in and we became cat owners.  I love my cat.  I hate her litter box.  I’ve inherited a slightly OCD need for cleanliness in my home, and that means the litter gets changed every day.  It’s a pain in my ass.  I hate it.  Unfortunately, on top of it being difficult to teach cats tricks, I think it might be life threatening to ask my three-legged cat to balance precariously above a toilet full of water in order to eliminate that disgusting box of cat waste.

7.  UNEMPLOYMENT.  It’s time for me to get a job.  Seriously.  This is the longest I’ve been without work since before I could work legally.  The break is over.  It’s been real, but I’m beginning to feel completely useless.  I’d make a terrible kept woman.

8.  FEELING GUILTY ABOUT THE FACT THAT I DON’T WANT CHILDREN.  This is an open note to those of you on the Stepford Mommy Track:  My vagina is not a clown car.  Not wanting kids does not make me a bad person.  Not having kids does not make my husband and I LESS of a family.  You may take your condescending, side-long glances and your “What’s Wrong With You, Don’t You Know That Your Life Isn’t Complete Without Babies” thought processes and shove them back into your uteruses where they belong.  I don’t want your Kool-Aid, thank you very much for offering.

9.  HAVING A BLACK THUMB.  I love plants.  Seriously.  Every space is better if it has a plant in it.  Unfortunately, if I even look at a plant sideways, it withers and dies.  I’m not lying.  You’re thinking about it now aren’t you?  I can hear it as sure as I’m sitting here.  You’re saying:  ”Well, you just never had a (insert the name of a plant that CAN’T die here)”.  I have.  And I’ve killed them.  I’d like to learn how not to do so.

10.  BAD ITALIAN FOOD.  I live in Washington State.  I don’t know how it’s possible, but apparently, the Italians never made it this far west.  You can’t find a good pizza, and when you ask for an Italian Mix at the deli, they look at you like you’ve asked for shit on a cracker.  I’m on a mission to find a good piccata, a halfway decent Diavolo and a passable almond cookie.  My kingdom for a cannoli!

11.  CRAPPING OUT AT THE LAST SECOND.  I’m doing it here, and I do it all the time in regular life.  I get excited about a project and then don’t finish it.  I shall, in 2011, finish what I start.

I can’t say how these things will change my life, other than they’ll make it considerably less annoying.  I’ve always known that I’d make an excellent, cranky old lady, but 31 is too early to start down that road.  I’m struggling toward a more zen me.  These things are just road blocks.