Sunday, September 30, 2007

Progress Report

So, the new job is going well. I work with a group of genuinely nice people. The work itself isn’t ungraspable. [Oh yes--and one of the kids in the produce department (hi, Bob ; ) is generous with the free samples. O happy, unexpected perk!]

When I have questions, everyone else in my department is helpful and even friendly about it--which is great because the pharmacy’s unofficial motto is a satisfied customer is a repeat customer. It’s a huge relief to know that if a customer has a problem that I can’t help them with, there are 6 other people behind me who will drop whatever they’re doing to be sure that we send the customer away satisfied.

My only serious difficulty with work so far has been the uniform.

I have my choice of wearing the company’s T-shirt, camp shirt or sweat shirt. They’re all nice quality and the colors are flattering on almost everyone.

The T-shirt is fine, but when they issued mine, they didn’t have my size. I’m not quite sure who my shirt was built for, but the size tag in the back says "UG." I’m pretty sure that translates to "Uber Ginormous." It will come in handy for those nights when I’m running through the town . . .
Rapping at the windows,
crying through the locks,
"Are the children in their beds?
Now it’s eight o’clock."

The camp shirt, in theory, would be great. But somehow it just doesn’t look right on me. I suspect that is because the original model that the shirt measurements were taken from was a standard issue packing box. My figure is just a skosh less square than that . . .

So I wear the sweatshirt. Which is fine because it’s a nice cut and color for me.

Near the end of my second day, I was asking Ever Patient Robin (the kind woman who was put in charge of training me) about the uniform requirements. Capri pants are allowed. That’s cool. As are shorts. And company issue ball caps. And then she mentioned that when we wear the sweatshirts we are supposed to wear a T-shirt underneath.

Now I could tell by her expression and the purposeful eye contact that she had been trying to find a way to tell me that for two days. Which I totally didn’t understand because I keep the zipper high enough that you can’t tell what, if anything, I’m wearing beneath the sweatshirt.

Truth be told, I hadn’t been wearing another layer beneath the sweatshirt because I do a lot of just-this-side-of-sprinting in my job and I personally don’t believe a red-faced, sweaty clerk projects the image the pharmacy is looking for.

It wasn’t until later when I stepped into the restroom that I understood why Ever Patient Robin took issue with my attire.

It seems that the mirror in the pharmacy restroom is differently proportioned than the mirror I use at home. Seeing myself from the waist up, rather than from the shoulders up, gave me an extra little insight as to why a T-shirt layered under the sweatshirt is a grand idea.

Evidently, in spite of the warm temperature of my environment, my nipples were being agressively friendly. I just can’t win . . .

Oh well, a satisfied customer is a repeat customer, right? Surely someone was satisfied?

Wednesday, September 26, 2007

The grass isn't always so green on the other side

Beautiful has a myspace account. It has provided hours of hilarious mockery for us. Okay, that’s maybe not fair. But we do have some fun with it.

The number of socially awkward and/or predatory and/or stoopid and/or desperate and/or dysfunctional and/or societally rejected guys who try to e-woo her is just plain sad. And scary. And, frankly, disheartening.

So I conducted my own experiment. You know, in the name of science.

Without logging on to myspace, it’s possible to use the "Browse" function. Just for a look-see, I filled out the browse fields, searching for single men anywhere in the U.S. between the ages of 32 and 45 (I know--32 is a bit young for me--but this is science, dammit!)

O.M.G. As Beautiful puts it, the single guys on myspace are rejects from legitimate on-line dating services.

On the first result page that popped up, the photograph my eyes were immediately drawn to--and shocked by--was a naked guy sitting on a stool, holding a cowboy hat over his important bits. Just guessing, I’d say he’s gay? Clicking on his photo took me to his page, revealing that yes, he’s gay. That’s when I realized the Browse function is critically flawed by not offering an "orientation" field in the search criteria.

Going back to my search results, I saw (to describe but a few)

  • A picture of a fairly attractive man with a broad smile. The smile was a terrific advertisement for the fact that he is missing some of his front teeth . . .
  • A man who had someone else take his photo. From a distance of about 10 yards. Looking directly into his prison cell . . .
  • A guy who chose as his profile picture--the photo by which single women form their first impressions--a picture of him pretending to lick a poster of a young woman bending over whilst wearing a pair of those teeny, tiny short shorts. Good strategy, dude!
  • Lots of gorgeous transvestites. And a few ugly ones.
  • SO MANY OTHER-SIDE-OF-40-STILL-HOPING-TO-MAKE-IT-AS-ROCK-STARS!
  • Oh--and guys, just so you know, if you’re past the age of, oh I don’t know, 18? You’re too old to be flipping off the camera. Seriously. SERIOUSLY!
  • The guys--guys who are single and are on myspace for ‘serious relationships’--whose profile photos are of themselves surrounded by women. Proving that they once were able to catch one (or more?) Who is that photo going to appeal to?
  • The guy who could be the love child of Brad Pitt and Ethan Hawke--who also happens to be a model/actor. Okay, so I don’t really have anything snarky to say about this guy. He’s kinda hot . . .

But if this had been a contest, the hands-down winner in the WTF category had to be Brian. Brian is a midget (or do I say little person? Not sure about the PC.) In his profile photo Brian is wearing a shiny black suit and a luxurious fur coat. We could see he lives in Las Vegas. Beautiful and I had a difference of opinion as to Brian’s occupation. Her guess was pimp. Mine was porn actor.

Clicking on his photo took us to his page which prominently features photos of Brian with young, beautiful, (and sometimes not-muchly-dressed) women. Plus, lots of photos of himself with famous (or semi-famous) people. Pimp? Porn actor? We were still undecided.

Checking out all of his bio material and going to his photo page told us that neither Beautiful nor I was quite right. Sometimes Brian is an actor (but there’s no evidence to corroborate my exact theory as to what kind of acting.) Sometimes Brian is a model? Sometimes spokesperson? And maybe emcee? Sometimes he appears in drag in Vegas shows. Brian, if nothing else, is interesting.

What was my point? I don’t remember. Oh--maybe it was that if you’re a single girl older than 22ish--myspace isn’t the place to look for a partner. Or maybe my point was if you need a chuckle, go do a quick myspace browse : ) Or maybe my point was if you’re a single guy and you’re looking for love on myspace--don’t be a loser about it. Or maybe my point was to remind myself that I am damn lucky!

Saturday, September 22, 2007

cornered

Some of my friends have homemaking blogs. I love homemaking blogs. Cozy and inviting. So many interesting ideas. One of the staples of homemaking blogs is "corners."

A "corner" isn’t literally a corner, but an area in the home that has been decorated in a certain way (could be seasonal, could be a vignette filled with items of a particular time period . . . ) Like this. And this. Lovely, no?

I decided I could try to keep up with the Jones’. So I have photographed a corner of my home to share with you.

Mine is literally a corner. And there’s nothing special about this corner that warranted sharing with y’all. Except that it was the most inviting corner I could photograph right at that moment without doing any heavy lifting. Or lifting a finger.

Like the way the unfolded laundry sorta compliments the colors in the upholstery and pillow? Oh--and in case you’re wondering why I didn’t just move the pile of laundry, it’s because it was conveniently hiding the stains on the upholstery.

Oh sure--I could clean the upholstery. I have special cleaner for that fabric. But I can’t find it. I know its general location is the linen closet down the hallway. But . . . well, the linen closet is kinda scary.

Oh sure--I could clean the linen closet, but . . . Honestly? I don’t like cleaning closets. Or upholstery. Or pretty much anything.

The linen closet has been an unthinkable tragedy for a long time. A few weeks back (when Number One Son was here for the summer--sharing a bedroom with his little brother) I noticed a Bad Sort of Smell every time I walked down that hallway. Naturally, I assumed it was the boys’ room. I instructed them to shovel out the goat pen and encouraged them [nagged til their ears fell off] to catch up on their laundry.

The boys complied. Well, you know, kinda. But the Bad Sort of Smell didn’t go away. In fact, it became a Worse Sort of Smell. I became suspicious that maybe the smell was coming from the linen closet. And I became suspicious that it might be up to me to take care of it.

I cleaned out the linen closet. Okay, I started cleaning out the linen closet. I got as far as moving the ironing board which reminded me of a project I was working on for my sewing basket which reminded me that the sewing machine was set up on the kitchen table anyway and . . .

Some days later, sweet, patient, God-only-knows-why-he’s-still-married-to-me Mister needed a vacuum attachment. He braved the linen closet. He got further than the ironing board because, unlike me, he doesn’t suffer from a debilitating case of Easily Distractedosis Syndrome.

He sounded so perplexed when he asked the question, "So . . . who put a loaf of bread in the closet to rot? And why?"

Message in a Bottle

Thursday, September 20, 2007

We’ve already been over this, people!

I DON’T DO MORNINGS! I don’t like mornings. You can’t make me.

There is nothing in my posture, as I read my e-mail--freshly exhumed from my cocoon--that suggests I am feeling friendly or chatty or in any way whatsoever akin to human. In fact, just think of me as the troll from "Three Billy Goats Gruff." But with startlingly less charm and generosity.

And a few hours later? While I quietly peruse blogs during my "coffee break"? Same rules apply. Don’t touch me. Don’t be near me. Don’t chew, swallow, breathe or allow your heart to beat where I can hear it. And don’t talk to me. And maybe try not to even be in the house. I’m busy. And it’s technically still morning. I don’t like morning. I don’t like people. And I particularly don’t like people in the morning.

So if you’re my child and I’m in the desk chair with a blanket wrapped around me in a Dracula-esque fashion? Don’t tell me about your adventures with the neighbor kids. I don’t care. And I’ll barely pretend to. "Hang glider made out of garbage bags, sticks and bungee cords? Mmmm hmmm. Sounds fine. Testing the hang glider by jumping off the top of the neighbor’s van while she drives down the road? Sure, honey. Sounds nice. Run along and play now."

And if you’re my husband? Buy. A. Vowel. Haven’t you known me since, oh I don’t know, I was a child of 17? And have I ever enjoyed your company before noon? All the old rules still apply. Plus some new ones. Like if you stand near me while my face is turned toward the hypnotic glow of the monitor and you open mail and discuss its contents AND you insist on being envelope-challenged and mangling the mail like this . . .



. . . there exists a significant chance that without warning I may reach over and stab you in the thigh with a broken pencil. Please leave me alone before this occurs. We can’t afford the medical bills. Or attorney fees.

And on that note, I would like to accept my "Nice Award" from Kuckie! How sweet of you!! And thank you!!!



Note to family: I am NOT a bearish, bilious, cantankerous, disagreeable, dyspeptic, ill-humored, ill-natured, ill-tempered, ornery, surly, sensitive, sulky, thin-skinned, touchy, selfish, bitch. Kuckie, a woman who lives far away and has never met me, says I’m nice. And there you go. Suck on that, family!

Post Script: On a serious note, I totally nominate Mary, Cheek and Whitenoise for the Nice Award--if these folks aren't the very definition of the word supportive, then . . . . well, then the real definition sucks : )

Tuesday, September 18, 2007

Bean Blasphemy and other sins

While driving to the Wal-Mart the other day to stock up on blue eye shadow and summer clearance tube tops, Beautiful and I got to talking about our sneaking suspicion that our family exists on the ragged edge of the lumpenproletariat.

The result of that conversation?

Top 10 symptoms suggesting the diagnosis that our family suffers, en masse, from a severe and incurable case of Whitetrashiosis:

10. Once, while trying to discourage a young man's attentions, Beautiful brought up the subject of her mother--hoping that if he knew I was an integral [overbearing] part of her life, he would give up on her. Not to be deterred, her admirer coaxed, "I'm sure your mother is a fine lady." Beautiful countered, "My mom's no lady! She can belch the alphabet!"

That, however, is an outrageous lie. I can only make it to M.

9. Hubby and both boys make an annual pilgrimage to the monster truck rallies. This is not a joke. They actually do this. And not only do they voluntarily go, but the boys always return home with souvenir black monster truck T-shirts. Which they proudly wear. Oy.

8. Yes. We eat green bean casserole.

7. And yes, we shop at Wal-Mart. Though we really hate it and are morally and ethically opposed to it. But darn if it isn't just so convenient!

6. It's a legitimate question to ask my husband, "Does this gene pool make me look fat?"

5. Our back porch? There is no roof over it. So, since the move to this house 5 1/2 years ago was intended to be temporary anyway, hubby fixed the problem by--and there's no way I would have thought to make this up--affixing a motorhome awning outside the back door. It's still there 5 1/2 years later. And so are we. At least it's not a blue tarp?

4. Youngest thinks those hats with 2 beer cans and the tubes for straws are the best invention EVER!!! He wants one so he can drink 2 cans of root beer at the same time. While wearing his monster truck T-shirt. At Wal-Mart . . .

3. An actual conversation between myself and the man I love,
Me: "Hey, what if we painted the dining room a soft shade of raspberry?"
The Man I Love: "No way. That color would clash with the cobwebs."

2. Beautiful and I pulled into our driveway one day. "Mom?" she asked with that exasperated tone in her voice, "Why do we have so many cars in our driveway?" I gave her the only answer that could explain it: "Because we're crackers, honey. It's the law."

And the Number 1 telling sign that we cannot escape who we really are:

1. Once again, going back to 5 1/2 years ago when we temporarily moved into this house? While doing some major repairs to the teensy, tiny bathroom in which the washer and dryer were supposed to reside, my darling hubby decided it was a good idea to hook the washer up elsewhere so I could still manage the laundry. And by "elsewhere" I mean in the back yard. Seriously. And yet, we didn't get divorced . . .

Monday, September 17, 2007

Onward and upward!

EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!!
I got the job! Geggie was right : )

and

AAAAAAAAACCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCKKKKKKKKK!!!!!!!
They offered me the job . . .

It's great news for my family. And truly, I am happy and grateful. I am also full of trepidation and nerves! I haven't done this in such a long time!

You all have been so supportive--thank you!

Not sure if it was the green eyes (oh, Rick, Rick, Rick . . . ) or the matching sh*t (but seriously, Whitenoise? If I hadn't been all put together nicely, even a guy would have noticed ; ) or if it was my answer to the final interview question:

Interviewer: Tell us why we should hire you.
Me: Because I'm ME!
(Yes, I really did say that . . . *sigh* But I followed it up with a half decent reason : )

Sunday, September 16, 2007

The Second Interview

Several of you have been kind enough to give me advice about, or to ask after, "The Second Interview." So, since this is the all-about-me forum, I’ll just post about it. That way everyone can share in the details of my experience!

To begin with, Beautiful and I decided that I should wear the turquoise tank with the little rose-colored flowers embroidered on its sheer overlay. That hue and the square neckline are perfect with my skin tone (highlighting my warm summer tan) and the shape of my face.

Since a sleeveless blouse is a bit too casual for a business setting, we paired it with my lightweight chartreuse cardigan--which beautifully picks up the stem and leaf color of the embroidered flowers on the blouse.

Light, daytime make-up in an understated, natural palette. Finished off with Clinique’s barely glossy "Air Kiss" lip color.

Chic capris (this is a very casual company--their work uniform is jeans and T-shirts. Literally.) and open-toe sandals--displaying a hint of polished nails in a deep maroon shade (matching the embroidered flowers on my blouse, should one care to notice.)

I wore my hair down and straightened with a gentle curve in the long layers around my face--bringing the focus of my entire ensemble directly to my green eyes.

How could they not hire me, right?

Wednesday, September 12, 2007

Contrasts

The pharmacy where I had the interview last week has called me in for a second interview. Must mean they're really interested in me!

I have no idea what they'll be looking for in the second interview that we didn't cover in the first. I feel like I gave everything I had to give in the first interview and have nothing left . . . Oh, and I have nothing to wear : )

********

Earlier this week I had to serve a nasty eviction notice to a woman who is months behind on her rent. I felt about 2 inches tall handing her that paperwork and walking away--knowing that it would cause her pain and panic and make a horrible day for her.

But why should I feel badly when she's the one who lives in a house that isn't hers and appears to believe that paying us is an option that she will exercise (or not) at her pleasure and we shouldn't be bothering her about it. WTF???

********

My 13 year old nephew is coming to stay with us for a couple days while his parents are out of town. Hubby is thrilled because Nephew is in football (hubby used to be a college scholarship caliber football player.) Hubby will take Nephew to practice and will relive the glory times of his youth. It will be a nice distraction from the swirling crap storm we're living in.

On the other hand, my hungry, picky, moody, horny, full-of-disdain-for-all-that-is-not-within-his-myopic-little-world nephew will be staying with us for a couple days. Woo hoo for me.

********

My washing machine is broken and the parts won't be here for another few days. In the meantime, my in-laws are out of town so I have unlimited access to her laundry facilities.

No real contrast to this one. It's a pain in the ass. Period. Okay--I'm happy to have mom-in-law's house at my disposal. And while waiting for my clothes, I'm doing some gardening for her so she'll come home from her vacation to a tidy yard. It's all good : )

********

I got my hair cut yesterday. I don't know what kind of magic wand the hairdresser has, but when she was done, my tresses were shiny and soft and FABULOUS to behold!

Today I'm back to being on my own with the hair thing. So far, I've gotten syrup in it. Don't ask . . .

********

Sunday, September 9, 2007

You can dress me up, but . . .

Let this be a Public Service Announcement.

Things not to say (loudly) while tipsy at a neighborhood wedding.
OR
Why Countrymouse doesn't drink very often.
  • Whispering at the top of my lungs to hubby, "Tell me I don't look as old as all these mummified broads?"
  • Upon being introduced to Holly, who I haven't seen in over 20 years, "Omigosh--I remember you, Holly! You used to date Chase Jones! Do you remember that pathetic girl he was with for awhile? One night at a party she (what a loser!) sat outside Chase's bedroom door waiting for him while he screwed around with someone else. What was that pathetic girl's name . . . Polly? . . . Molly? . . . "
  • An intimate conversation with the 22 year old bartender:
    Him: "What can I get for you, young lady?"
    Me: Blushing, giggling, and requesting demurely, "Bring on the vodka, baby!"
  • Graciously thanking my husband for bringing me a refill on my drink, "Didn't I specifically say 'twist of lime'? Where's my twist of lime? Go get me a lime!"
  • Bride: "Kristin, I'd like you to meet Lisa, my matron of honor."
    Me: "Hi Lisa. Actually, I saw you this morning at the little market. You sure clean up nice!"
Okay, okay, okay--I didn't actually say all of these things out loud. Only 1 or 2 of them. Or 3. But if you're going to have an open bar at your wedding, you should expect a certain lack of decorum. Can I get a witness?!

Friday, September 7, 2007

Guilt and Anxiety

I'm standing on a crowded beach on a sunny, summer day. Knee deep in the water with my husband, talking. The tide is fairly high so there is only a small strip of sandy beach between the water and the low bank. We're looking at the new sand bulkhead at the base of the bank along the shore. Wondering how many truckloads of sand it took to build it.

We're looking far down the beach when we notice part of the bulkhead sloughing off. It's only sand, after all. But it's not just sloughing off. Something is very wrong. All the new construction on the land behind the bulkhead has caused pressure. And a massive buildup of run-off water. The bulkhead is forcefully--explosively--being pushed into the bay. And not just in that one spot. It's domino-ing all along the bulkhead.

I scream and begin to run. I'm calling for the boy. The 13 year old, dark haired boy. I don't see him anywhere. "Doug!" I yell to my husband, "where is Phil? Where is Phil? Where is Phil?! I don't see Phil!" Doug doesn't hear me. He's still standing in the same spot, mesmerized by the terrifying spectacle as it happens. "Doug! Doug! DOUG!" I scream at him. My voice finally registers in his ears. Stepping and turning to look at me, I see the 3 year old curly headed blonde boy standing beside my husband. I have been so worried about finding Phil--who is not our son, he is a troubled, orphaned boy we met and became attached to--that I have forgotten about my own child. I am consumed with guilt. And I still don't know where Phil is.

Ben, my beautiful 3 year old, sees the danger. He cries and screams and begins running towards me. He runs past me in the shallow surf. He runs toward the crowd of people who are beyond the bulkhead. I stop to wait for Doug, knowing that I'll find Ben in the crowd and that it's better for him to run ahead of me than to wait for us.

Doug catches up with me and we head toward the waiting crowd. On the way, I stop to warn some teenagers who don't seem to know anything is wrong. I finally convince them that they need to leave the beach and the danger. I have completely lost track of Phil.

We reach the crowd and can't find Ben. Our beautiful, healthy, curly headed 3 year old son is not there. There is a temporary medical facility set up in what is normally a beach snack shop. We go inside but Ben is not there. There is a child, he resembles Ben, but he's much younger. He is a 9 month old baby. He is injured and swollen and lying in a hospital bassinet attached to all kinds of medical equipment.

He is alone and scared. He reaches out for me. He begs me with his scared, baby eyes to take care of him.
Please? He communicates wordlessly to me that he will heal much more quickly if he can come home with me rather than stay alone and scared in a makeshift medical snack shack. I hold him close and ask my husband if we can temporarily take this child home while his parents search for him. Doug agrees, as do the medical people, that the baby can come home with us. The doctor starts filling out the paperwork and I cry piteously. I cry for this child. I cry for Ben. I cry for Phil. The injured, swollen baby snuggles in my arms but is still restless.

I wake up sweating. And sobbing. I know "Ben" is fine, but I want to call him anyway. I am unsure where "Phil" is--and whether he is safe. And the image of that injured baby--who can't be cured by any amount of my love--won't dissipate.

Thursday, September 6, 2007

It's okay to lie in a job interview, right?

So. We all know my pathetic story. Hubby isn't working because of an injury. I have no education. No training. No skills.

We have no money.

I've been applying for positions at the local, family owned grocery store. Because the pay is decent and they have superlative benefits.

I had one interview. It was for a position I didn't really want. This store is great about getting in touch with interviewees to let them know one way or the other. I never heard back from them. Then again, my answering machine was malfunctioning.

That's right. Answering machine. Not voicemail. Because we're technotarded.

Whether or not I actually got hired for the position I really didn't want is a moot point. Because I immediately hurt my arm and wouldn't have been able to perform the required duties anyway. (Subconscious sabotage? You be the judge . . . )

Today I had another interview. It was for a position I wouldn't mind having. It's in the pharmacy.

I left the house a little later than I expected and then remembered about the heavy road construction. Great. How 'bout if I show up late for the interview?

I took the back roads and arrived early. But a little flustered.

The interview room is up 3 flights of stairs. So not only was I flustered and nervous, but after the stair climb with my heart already racing with anxiety, I started mildly hyperventilating. I mentioned to them, with a smile of course, that I was a bit nervous and and was having trouble calming down. They laughed with me and tried to be as relaxed and friendly as possible.

And then they fired off the first question and I started to panic.

And my face started to sweat.

Nice touch.

"Tell us about yourself and why you want to work in our pharmacy."

About myself? Ack! I don't want to tell you the truth about me! I'm shy and lazy and I hate people and I want to work in your department because I need the money and the benefits! Duh! Oh yes, and I assume this is a position where I'm not going to have to clean a bathroom.

"I see you used to be a medical transcriber and you have been homeschooling your kids. Those jobs were both in a home setting. Do you think you'd be comfortable working with lots and lots of different kinds of people?"

NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!! I'm going to treat this question like I treat a bad dream--tell myself again and again that it's not real . . . it's all fake . . . nothing can hurt me . . . this will go away . . . all I have to do is somehow get around this perilous situation. All I have to do is lie. A lot.

"I see you have done a lot of volunteering during the last 15 years. Did you work on solitary projects or did you work with teams of people?

Oh bless you for remembering--since my overheated brain took an unscheduled vacation--about my volunteer work!!!! Yes! Yes, I've worked with tons of people while volunteering. And I hated every minute of it. But I did it!

"Sometimes we get unhappy customers. Tell us how you would handle confrontation."

Cry and go home?

"On the morning shift we only have one pharmacist and one assistant. It can get very busy and very backed up. Are you okay under pressure with that many people waiting to be taken care of?"

Yes. Just as long as I have the option, if I'm overwhelmed, of crying and going home.

"Is there any kind of person you would have a difficult time working with or for?"

Are you telling me I can hand pick the people I will be comfortable working with and serving? This is going to work out just great!

"Tell us about a situation in your life when you made a mistake and how you resolved it or learned from it."

Are you out of your f***ing gourd??????? Which of my millions of daily mistakes do I choose from? I wasn't prepared for this! What kind of twisted psychologically probing question is this? Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!!!!!

And the answer that came to my mind first? The answer that came flying out of my mouth before I had a chance to decide whether it was appropriate to say it? I told them that it was a mistake for me to try to tell my daughter not to marry the man she was engaged to . . . They were both silent for a moment. And then laughed nervously.

Trying to salvage what I could, I went on to say that I learned not to react like a mom to every situation. I learned to step back, look at the big picture and then make a decision as to the best way to help. All while riding on a glittery, flying, pink unicorn . . .

The real truth is that I've learned next to nothing and still plow on forward when all signs indicate caution. But I'm pretty sure that's not what they were going for . . .

"The responsibilities for this position, aside from customer service, will be filing, organizing and vacuuming. And cleaning the pharmacy bathroom."

NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!! Not the bathroom!!!!! I wanted this position so I would never have to clean a bathroom!!!

"In all your previous experiences, has there been any aspect of your work that you particularly disliked?"

Yes!!! Cleaning the *&^%( #@!$%~ &^($#_@ BATHROOM!!!!!

"And finally, is there anything specific you would like us to remember about you?"

Oh--now I get why there are two interviewers instead of me being in a room alone with Mr. Pharmacy Manager. Because if we were alone, if it meant you'd hire me, I'd give you something to remember me by, baby!

Wednesday, September 5, 2007

self absorption

Yet another "borrowed" item from Blackbird. I just love her blog. She's so darn clever with the everyday things that would, in most other folks' hands, be mundane.

I had a dream a few nights ago that Blackbird died. I was seriously concerned for her three boys. In this dream I asked one of my friends if she thought Blackbird's husband would post on her blog every once in awhile just so we'd all know that their kids were okay.

Do I have dreams about other bloggers? Yes. It's my worrying nature. Although the one about Rick wasn't about worry, it was brought on by his questions regarding his life's direction. I dreamt that he was the helicopter traffic reporter in his city. In order to protect his family, he didn't use his real name. His "radio name" was Rick Springfield.

So, in addition to being insecure and not quite truly agoraphobic and intensely uncomfortable around people, I am also a mother hen. And that is something that seems so anti-me. Because doesn't being a mother hen presume a genuine affinity for people?

On with the pinched goods:

How did you start blogging?

All my friends were doing it . . . Actually, as alluded to in my very first post, I started because I was suffering dire emotional pain and needed a way to get outside of my own worries.


Did you intend to be a blog w/a following? If so, how did you go about it?

Nope. I was a blogging baby. I only knew about a few blogs that belonged to my friends and a few other "famous" blogs. I didn't know regular people could have blog "followings."


What do you hope to achieve or accomplish with your blog? Have you been successful? If not, do you have a plan to achieve those goals?

I hoped to achieve a different frame of mind. I hoped to have a respite from everything horrible happening that I couldn't control. I think writing for the sake of writing was a good way to shift focus.


Has the focus of your blog changed since you started blogging? How?

Hmmmm. I think yes. I think in the beginning I wrote about more subjects. Also, I think I write differently now that I know people are reading. I like my older posts better . . .


What do you know now that you wish you'd known when you started?

I now know that people (a few : ) actually read what I write. There are some subjects I don't explore as fully as I would if this were a private journal. I'm sure some of you are wondering what in all of creation I could feel uncomfortable about fully exploring since I've been in-depthly open about some fairly intimate subjects : )


Do you make money with your blog?

Good heavens no! And I wouldn't want to because:
1) it would become work instead of fun, and
2) I would be terrified of letting people down.


Does your immediate or extended family know about your blog? If so, do they read it? If not, why?

Hubby and kids know about it. They only read occasionally when I purposely show them something. Mister and Number One Son don't read it on their own because this isn't the kind of reading material they normally seek. Beautiful doesn't read regularly because she knows I talk about some subjects she doesn't want to connect with her mother : ) Mom, Dad, Brother and the rest of my family don't really know much about it. And I wouldn't want them to because I'd never be able to be me.


What two pieces of advice would you give to a new blogger?

Write absolutely whatsoever you feel like writing. And don't worry too much about why you're blogging--if you feel compelled to do it, just do it.