Thursday, June 25, 2009
in layman's terms
I am reading a great book right now, wherein one character describes human interactions in math terms, "absolute value" being the one I remember best right now. This character is usually rather flippant, so when his companion stopped for a beat after this explanation, I expected her to respond about the unusual depth and understanding he showed. Instead, she was completely confused by the terms and application. I laughed at myself when I realized my misunderstanding. That passage was intended to be confusing! But then again, I think of life through economics vocabulary. Nora knows that my favorite phrase is "sunk costs are irrelevant." To me, it is a moral about foresight, against grudge-bearing, and in favor of change, among many others. So even if I am a little bit off from the average layman, I at least have sympathy with a flippant god of bravery. I like the book better now.
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
true dreams
My dreams are true in a sense that I am manifesting real anxiety. The embodiment happens to be a little twisted. My fear of powerlessness comes in the form of water in dreams. It is often rising or pouring in through cracks, and I know that eventually it will overwhelm me. But while the symbols are manifestations of ubiquitous fears, the structure of the dreams, the plot, do not mean anything, they are the product of my mind's attempt to make sense of random stimuli.
Sometimes I have true dreams, in that when I wake up I think, Ah! That meant something! I remember these in perfect detail for years. And I always know exactly what they mean.
Like the one about the fruit trees outside of my McKinney home. I still vividly recall that dream. There are three others that I recall as clearly, but have no desire to recount in detail. And I had two in the past seven days.
The first was a Co-op version of the Most Dangerous Game, struggles with coworkers and jungle-set fights to the death. Later, trapped in an elevator that was part of an elaborate death trap, I discovered that the Co-op president was orchestrating all of these death matches, and the only way to appease him and get out of the elevator was to offer him a sacrifice of chocolate. I refused to do so, and instead prostrated myself before him in mocking obeisance. I scorned him and antagonized him, all the while knowing that my death was in his hands.
When I got to work the next morning, the mood was tense. Each member of the staff was trying to blame another for a failure on the sales floor that the Co-op president had noticed. He didn't care that it was rectified, he wanted someone to pay for it, and so pitted the entire staff against each other. No, I'm not prescient: this happens a lot. And I have no respect for the president who divides the company so severely, causing nothing but inefficiency and poor communication. I don't play his games. I wonder how long I'll last.
And then last night I had this dream:
I was part of a group mountain climbing, anchored by ropes, using pickaxes for gripping. The purpose was not recreation; I was being pursued and trying to escape with my life. Many people died. Dad was in the rear, struggling through deep snow. Some had left the path, building caves in the ice for shelter against the storm. And I lit a cigarette, responding to intimated criticism by explaining, "death does this to me."
It was when I lit the cigarette that I began to notice the oddity in my situation. What I am about to describe, I had seen through the entire dream, but I had never doubted the occurrences of the dream were real. The cigarette I "smoked" was a yellow colored pencil held loosely between my lips. The pickax a combination back-scratcher and shoe horn. The rope anchors, neck ties. The ice caves, piles of blankets, and the steep mountainous terrain was a path winding around a bed in the middle of a normal room. And somehow that didn't change a thing: Dad was still stuck, others had died, I was fleeing an enemy while constantly expecting to freeze or fall to my death. Though I knew I was playing make-believe, the consequences were real, and I kept on pretending.
I'm not going to tell you what it means.
Sometimes I have true dreams, in that when I wake up I think, Ah! That meant something! I remember these in perfect detail for years. And I always know exactly what they mean.
Like the one about the fruit trees outside of my McKinney home. I still vividly recall that dream. There are three others that I recall as clearly, but have no desire to recount in detail. And I had two in the past seven days.
The first was a Co-op version of the Most Dangerous Game, struggles with coworkers and jungle-set fights to the death. Later, trapped in an elevator that was part of an elaborate death trap, I discovered that the Co-op president was orchestrating all of these death matches, and the only way to appease him and get out of the elevator was to offer him a sacrifice of chocolate. I refused to do so, and instead prostrated myself before him in mocking obeisance. I scorned him and antagonized him, all the while knowing that my death was in his hands.
When I got to work the next morning, the mood was tense. Each member of the staff was trying to blame another for a failure on the sales floor that the Co-op president had noticed. He didn't care that it was rectified, he wanted someone to pay for it, and so pitted the entire staff against each other. No, I'm not prescient: this happens a lot. And I have no respect for the president who divides the company so severely, causing nothing but inefficiency and poor communication. I don't play his games. I wonder how long I'll last.
And then last night I had this dream:
I was part of a group mountain climbing, anchored by ropes, using pickaxes for gripping. The purpose was not recreation; I was being pursued and trying to escape with my life. Many people died. Dad was in the rear, struggling through deep snow. Some had left the path, building caves in the ice for shelter against the storm. And I lit a cigarette, responding to intimated criticism by explaining, "death does this to me."
It was when I lit the cigarette that I began to notice the oddity in my situation. What I am about to describe, I had seen through the entire dream, but I had never doubted the occurrences of the dream were real. The cigarette I "smoked" was a yellow colored pencil held loosely between my lips. The pickax a combination back-scratcher and shoe horn. The rope anchors, neck ties. The ice caves, piles of blankets, and the steep mountainous terrain was a path winding around a bed in the middle of a normal room. And somehow that didn't change a thing: Dad was still stuck, others had died, I was fleeing an enemy while constantly expecting to freeze or fall to my death. Though I knew I was playing make-believe, the consequences were real, and I kept on pretending.
I'm not going to tell you what it means.
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
materialism
My very generous mother gave me three hundred dollars with which to buy clothes. Not just any clothes. Ann Taylor clothes, or the equivalent. She wanted me to blow the whole amount on one outfit. The motive, I'm sure, was to relieve me from the stress of calculations and penny-pinching. A secondary motive is that my mother wants me to dress better. She always has. (I remember the year I spent the Gap gift card on men's dress shirts. I just wasn't ready then to wear anything feminine.)
I did what she wanted...almost. I bought two outfits from Banana Republic and spent the entire three hundred dollars. I bought the clothes because they fit my body and they matched my mom's requirements, namely something I would never buy for myself. By the time I got on the bus to go home, I knew that I already hated the clothes and I would never wear them.
There were several problems with these clothes:
The first is that they are hand-wash only. Yeah right.
The second is that they are too recognizable. I could only wear them once every month or so, because they are not everyday wear. They are exactly what my mom wanted, outfits that I would not normally buy. Which means, something I would not wear.
I suppose that wearing them seldom means that they would last longer, because the third problem with them is that they are thin, flimsy things that will soon disintegrate from too much washing by hand.
But mostly, they are not my style. I would feel conspicuous wearing them, like the scene in Wild Hearts Can't Be Broken where Sonora goes to the clip 'n curl. (Did you know that Al, her dreamy co-star, makes hand crafted furniture for a living in small-town Pennsylvania?) I would be playing dress up. The clothes would be using me, instead of vice versa. I feel like I couldn't live up to their expectations for me.
This, by the way, is the reason that I dislike diamonds so much: they are stuffy and formal and come with a list of expectations. I like colorful gemstones, because they are accessible, while still being valuable and pretty. I told Kevin to buy me an emerald engagement ring, even though I could have a diamond, not because I am cheap, but because I want an emerald. I have known since I was ten years old that I want an emerald engagement ring. When I get it, it will be the culmination of a fourteen-year desire.
I am not above desiring material goods. I want an emerald because it is pretty, not because it is useful or durable or any other responsible adjective I can insert here. I have a list that I keep of things to buy when I have disposable income. Sometimes I find good deals and make a purchase and cross it off my list, feeling very satisfied. I had knee-high brown boots on my list for two years before I bought some. I found Fiddler on the Roof for five dollars and crossed off a five-year line item, and I even broke my budget to do so. I understand wanting to have things. I can go into a book store with a $50 gift card and come out with a $100 purchase, a stack of books I can barely carry. I get it.
What I don't understand is having to want things. I walked into Ann Taylor and then Banana Republic with the intention of buying something. Nothing in either of those stores has ever been on my list of things I want. I felt like I was fabricating desires as I rifled through racks looking for pants. This one is my size, could I want it? Having no innate desire to own pin stripe trousers, I found myself thinking about the classy women who wear them. Don't I want to be like those classy women?
That's right, I played commercial after commercial to myself in my head, pulling the same stupid stunts that advertisers do while messing with our minds. I'll be happy if I can just own this pair of $89 dollar trousers, like all the classy women do. I perpetuated socioeconomic fashion hierarchies. This is what rich people wear, so it must be what's best. I even found myself damning my body when the pants wouldn't fit. Sure, sometimes I may not like that I've put on weight, but I have never had real enmity between me and my body. My body is part of who I am, and I could no more hate it than I could hate my innermost self (she's fabulous, by the way).
My innermost self hates materialism. I hate thinking about money. My number one short-term goal is to pay off my debt (a result of early bouts of immediate gratification). Because of that I live off of beans and rice to pay more money down each month. My number two short-term goal is to write. I view myself as a starving artist. I sacrifice career goals for time in the evenings in which to imagine. A starving artist simply cannot wear preppy business attire. My innermost self likes getting presents for the anticipation, for the wrapping paper, but really likes memories better than things. I find more pleasure in a long-awaited pay off than in receiving something that comes easily. (Take my relationship with Kevin for example.)
That's why I hate the Banana Republic clothes. Those two outfits cost more than $300. They cost my entire list of clothes that I really want but can't afford. I want khakis. Not beige pin-stripe trousers. Khakis. With pockets. I want a tote bag that will fit all of my books that I carry around daily. I want new scriptures.
So, I've made a decision. I'm returning my two outfits and buying everything that I can from my list. I am buying what I want, what I really want. Things that are functional and durable and resilient and...pretty.
I'm going to the Gap.
I did what she wanted...almost. I bought two outfits from Banana Republic and spent the entire three hundred dollars. I bought the clothes because they fit my body and they matched my mom's requirements, namely something I would never buy for myself. By the time I got on the bus to go home, I knew that I already hated the clothes and I would never wear them.
There were several problems with these clothes:
The first is that they are hand-wash only. Yeah right.
The second is that they are too recognizable. I could only wear them once every month or so, because they are not everyday wear. They are exactly what my mom wanted, outfits that I would not normally buy. Which means, something I would not wear.
I suppose that wearing them seldom means that they would last longer, because the third problem with them is that they are thin, flimsy things that will soon disintegrate from too much washing by hand.
But mostly, they are not my style. I would feel conspicuous wearing them, like the scene in Wild Hearts Can't Be Broken where Sonora goes to the clip 'n curl. (Did you know that Al, her dreamy co-star, makes hand crafted furniture for a living in small-town Pennsylvania?) I would be playing dress up. The clothes would be using me, instead of vice versa. I feel like I couldn't live up to their expectations for me.
This, by the way, is the reason that I dislike diamonds so much: they are stuffy and formal and come with a list of expectations. I like colorful gemstones, because they are accessible, while still being valuable and pretty. I told Kevin to buy me an emerald engagement ring, even though I could have a diamond, not because I am cheap, but because I want an emerald. I have known since I was ten years old that I want an emerald engagement ring. When I get it, it will be the culmination of a fourteen-year desire.
I am not above desiring material goods. I want an emerald because it is pretty, not because it is useful or durable or any other responsible adjective I can insert here. I have a list that I keep of things to buy when I have disposable income. Sometimes I find good deals and make a purchase and cross it off my list, feeling very satisfied. I had knee-high brown boots on my list for two years before I bought some. I found Fiddler on the Roof for five dollars and crossed off a five-year line item, and I even broke my budget to do so. I understand wanting to have things. I can go into a book store with a $50 gift card and come out with a $100 purchase, a stack of books I can barely carry. I get it.
What I don't understand is having to want things. I walked into Ann Taylor and then Banana Republic with the intention of buying something. Nothing in either of those stores has ever been on my list of things I want. I felt like I was fabricating desires as I rifled through racks looking for pants. This one is my size, could I want it? Having no innate desire to own pin stripe trousers, I found myself thinking about the classy women who wear them. Don't I want to be like those classy women?
That's right, I played commercial after commercial to myself in my head, pulling the same stupid stunts that advertisers do while messing with our minds. I'll be happy if I can just own this pair of $89 dollar trousers, like all the classy women do. I perpetuated socioeconomic fashion hierarchies. This is what rich people wear, so it must be what's best. I even found myself damning my body when the pants wouldn't fit. Sure, sometimes I may not like that I've put on weight, but I have never had real enmity between me and my body. My body is part of who I am, and I could no more hate it than I could hate my innermost self (she's fabulous, by the way).
My innermost self hates materialism. I hate thinking about money. My number one short-term goal is to pay off my debt (a result of early bouts of immediate gratification). Because of that I live off of beans and rice to pay more money down each month. My number two short-term goal is to write. I view myself as a starving artist. I sacrifice career goals for time in the evenings in which to imagine. A starving artist simply cannot wear preppy business attire. My innermost self likes getting presents for the anticipation, for the wrapping paper, but really likes memories better than things. I find more pleasure in a long-awaited pay off than in receiving something that comes easily. (Take my relationship with Kevin for example.)
That's why I hate the Banana Republic clothes. Those two outfits cost more than $300. They cost my entire list of clothes that I really want but can't afford. I want khakis. Not beige pin-stripe trousers. Khakis. With pockets. I want a tote bag that will fit all of my books that I carry around daily. I want new scriptures.
So, I've made a decision. I'm returning my two outfits and buying everything that I can from my list. I am buying what I want, what I really want. Things that are functional and durable and resilient and...pretty.
I'm going to the Gap.
Sunday, May 10, 2009
mothers' day
Mothers' Day is a ridiculous holiday foundation for Sacrament Meeting. Is Arbor Day next? They are about equally religious and universal. Mothers' Day Sacrament Meeting is always a cry-fest of personal maternal nostalgia. I don't care about others' mothers, and I'm sure they don't care about mine. Motherhood is a worthy sacred subject, but individual mothers? Call me cynical--many have--but I'd rather do as my own Mom did (see, you're already bored) and skip church on Mothers' Day, even if that means I don't get the free flower.
Friday, April 17, 2009
talking to kevin
There are times when I enjoy being angry. The feeling is cathartic. Plus, I am often at my funniest, most dry and cynical, when I am angry. As someone who is generally not funny, I appreciate my own wit in the midst of a rant. Laughter and anger are amicable opponents.
What I never enjoy--unless it is accompanied by a suitable amount of pride-satisfying "i-told-you-so"--is disappointment. Hoping is hard. It makes one vulnerable, softens skin, weakens defenses. So disappointment hurts more.
But sometimes even disappointment has a sweet aftertaste. And sometimes anger leaves me feeling peaceful.
Talking to Kevin has always been one of my favorite things. He is funnier and more interesting than anyone else I know. But I didn't realize until this weekend (or perhaps I had known it but forgotten) how healing it is.
Last Saturday, work reached its ultimate low point, a hellish end to a hellish week. I had no patience with which to meet even small trials. When Kevin called to ask me for a walk, I took my anger out on him, and the stroll consisted of me venting frustrations and generally abusing the world. And Kevin listened, laughing at my more wry comments, pretending sympathy or calming me, as appropriate. By the end he had me laughing without any dark humor at all, just from genuine good will. We ended the evening sitting on my couch in half-light and talking quietly. I felt not just cheered but refreshed, serene. Just because he listened.
Then Wednesday, he didn't call when he said he would, and I couldn't help feeling disappointed. To get out my feelings I wrote a four-page stream of consciousness, expressing dissatisfaction at insecure plans and impatience to be married. In a surly mood, I made him read it, while I hid my cowardly eyes. And when he had finished taking a beating, meeting with patience my lack, he leaned back and said, "I'm not going anywhere." There are times, quite frequently, when I fall in love with him all over again. This was one of the best. Maybe the best, but I hate to make that assertion at so emotional a time. Of four pages of bilge, he found the important point: not why I was disappointed, not why I was irritated, but why I was afraid. And he addressed that fear. I heard him say it and I felt amazed that he had heard what I didn't even know I had said. He really gets me. I felt stupid with relief. He held me a while longer, while I made other confessions (he has a way of getting me to confide things I never thought to tell), and I kept thinking, he's perfect.
He asked me out for tonight and tomorrow with specific plans, as though proving he heard me. I appreciate his alacrity, but I feel I need to give him a reprieve from my strictures. And I have to apologize for criticizing him with such vehemence. Beneath his sarcastic exterior, he is quite sensitive. Besides, apologizing gives me a chance to talk to him, and that is my all-time favorite thing.
What I never enjoy--unless it is accompanied by a suitable amount of pride-satisfying "i-told-you-so"--is disappointment. Hoping is hard. It makes one vulnerable, softens skin, weakens defenses. So disappointment hurts more.
But sometimes even disappointment has a sweet aftertaste. And sometimes anger leaves me feeling peaceful.
Talking to Kevin has always been one of my favorite things. He is funnier and more interesting than anyone else I know. But I didn't realize until this weekend (or perhaps I had known it but forgotten) how healing it is.
Last Saturday, work reached its ultimate low point, a hellish end to a hellish week. I had no patience with which to meet even small trials. When Kevin called to ask me for a walk, I took my anger out on him, and the stroll consisted of me venting frustrations and generally abusing the world. And Kevin listened, laughing at my more wry comments, pretending sympathy or calming me, as appropriate. By the end he had me laughing without any dark humor at all, just from genuine good will. We ended the evening sitting on my couch in half-light and talking quietly. I felt not just cheered but refreshed, serene. Just because he listened.
Then Wednesday, he didn't call when he said he would, and I couldn't help feeling disappointed. To get out my feelings I wrote a four-page stream of consciousness, expressing dissatisfaction at insecure plans and impatience to be married. In a surly mood, I made him read it, while I hid my cowardly eyes. And when he had finished taking a beating, meeting with patience my lack, he leaned back and said, "I'm not going anywhere." There are times, quite frequently, when I fall in love with him all over again. This was one of the best. Maybe the best, but I hate to make that assertion at so emotional a time. Of four pages of bilge, he found the important point: not why I was disappointed, not why I was irritated, but why I was afraid. And he addressed that fear. I heard him say it and I felt amazed that he had heard what I didn't even know I had said. He really gets me. I felt stupid with relief. He held me a while longer, while I made other confessions (he has a way of getting me to confide things I never thought to tell), and I kept thinking, he's perfect.
He asked me out for tonight and tomorrow with specific plans, as though proving he heard me. I appreciate his alacrity, but I feel I need to give him a reprieve from my strictures. And I have to apologize for criticizing him with such vehemence. Beneath his sarcastic exterior, he is quite sensitive. Besides, apologizing gives me a chance to talk to him, and that is my all-time favorite thing.
Monday, March 02, 2009
will marry for internet
I called my mom when I found out that I can't buy the laptop. It's not that I can't afford the computer, but it turns out that we don't have internet in my apartment, and I can't afford the monthly payment. I vented my frustration to my mother, telling her how disappointed I am. This is just another disappointment among many. My current job temping is another big one; in fact, it is the big one. It is the reason that my feet hurt, that I ride a bus two hours each day, that I cannot pay off my debt as quickly as I would like, and the reason that I cannot use the internet except once a week. I hate my job, but crappy pay is better than no pay. I thought buying a computer would be a viable solution to my frustrations. I could use the internet at night to check email, apply for jobs, etc. Well, that dream died.
"You know," my mom said, "if you just got married, all your problems would go away."
Yes, she meant it seriously.
"Really?" I asked her. "Getting married would make me more marketable?"
She didn't answer.
"So, getting married will make the job I hate go away? It will get me a new and better position?"
"Well, no; but being married, some expenses go down, you know. You'd be able to share rent."
"I share rent now," I answered.
"I know, but maybe you would worry less about money."
"I'm not worried about money. I hate my job, I hate the bus and I hate beans, but I'm not worried about money."
"But you could..."
"I could what? What would it fix?"
"You'd at least have access to the internet!" she concluded, triumphant.
"Yes, mom, if I got married I would have internet."
I ended the conversation then, because I was angry and I do not talk when I am angry. I felt angry at my mother's attitude. Firstly, since her divorce, she ought to have grown out of the idea that marriage solves problems. Secondly, she acts as though I were purposefully delaying marriage, like I'm not interested in it and I need a bribe to get me to take the plunge. Gee, mom, I've always thought I'd die celibate, but if you think I could get wi-fi... Fairy tales have nothing on my mom when it comes to romance. I can just picture Cinderella standing outside the castle with a cardboard sign: will marry for internet.
"You know," my mom said, "if you just got married, all your problems would go away."
Yes, she meant it seriously.
"Really?" I asked her. "Getting married would make me more marketable?"
She didn't answer.
"So, getting married will make the job I hate go away? It will get me a new and better position?"
"Well, no; but being married, some expenses go down, you know. You'd be able to share rent."
"I share rent now," I answered.
"I know, but maybe you would worry less about money."
"I'm not worried about money. I hate my job, I hate the bus and I hate beans, but I'm not worried about money."
"But you could..."
"I could what? What would it fix?"
"You'd at least have access to the internet!" she concluded, triumphant.
"Yes, mom, if I got married I would have internet."
I ended the conversation then, because I was angry and I do not talk when I am angry. I felt angry at my mother's attitude. Firstly, since her divorce, she ought to have grown out of the idea that marriage solves problems. Secondly, she acts as though I were purposefully delaying marriage, like I'm not interested in it and I need a bribe to get me to take the plunge. Gee, mom, I've always thought I'd die celibate, but if you think I could get wi-fi... Fairy tales have nothing on my mom when it comes to romance. I can just picture Cinderella standing outside the castle with a cardboard sign: will marry for internet.
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
at work
-A co-worker passed me at the cash register, and I asked her with an uninviting tone, "what do you want?" The rest of the day, she threw comments my way in passing: "World peace," "Jim, from The Office," "A job where I don't have to dress like this," "a nicer apartment." From my one thoughtless comment, I learned a lot about this girl.
-I met a girl named Owen and a boy named Jason Everett. Random.
-I was told by two managers that they would hire me in a second ("Half a second, even!") if they could. Flattering but, ultimately, not helpful.
-I met a girl named Owen and a boy named Jason Everett. Random.
-I was told by two managers that they would hire me in a second ("Half a second, even!") if they could. Flattering but, ultimately, not helpful.
job interview, take two
This was my good luck card from Nora. I got it before setting out for my interview this morning. I think it helped. I'll find out tonight.
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
scared in the dark
I had to force myself awake last night, and, as I lay panting in bed, I could swear I still heard screaming. My heart pounded so loudly that I knew that wherever he hid (probably under my bed), he could hear it. The face in my dreams terrified me, and I tried to keep myself from blinking in case I fell asleep again. I couldn't move, though my bladder ached for relief. I haven't been afraid of putting my feet over my bed in ages, but last night I reverted to my four-year-old self. I wept in bed for an hour before I managed to run to the bathroom, my heart skipping a beat in the dark, while I fumbled frantically for the light switch. I tried to remain awake as long as possible, covering my ears against the imagined shrieks of fear and pain, afraid even to turn my back to the wall for protection, because he had come through the wall in the nightmare. I am still shaken this morning, not only from lack of sleep, but also from the dark and evil images that won't leave me. That face, the arm coming at me through the wall, the eye peering in from behind a darkened window screen, the silent feet walking beneath the false floor, the shadow hiding in the closet. The screaming. I'm pretty sure I won't sleep for a week.
Thursday, February 19, 2009
billy joel
I thought walking to Petsmart would help me, but when I saw the puppies and kittens I burst into tears in the middle of the store, right in front of employees and other customers. So, I crossed the parking lot to Chick-fil-A for ice cream and coke. I sat in a corner licking an enormous pile of soft serve and talking to Joyce, both of which helped immensely. Then She's Always a Woman came on. I love Billy Joel. I have a soft spot for him in my heart right next to Rascal Flatts and Phantom of the Opera (so....ten o'clock?). Nostalgia made me smile, and I thought I would get through the rest of today without any more crying, but that was a serious underestimation of my reaction to nostalgia. Now I can't decide why I'm crying. I think it's because Target didn't have the Billy Joel CD that I wanted.
job offer
I was offered a job yesterday. And I don't want it. The responsible thing would be to accept it, which I did, not because I'm responsible, but because I was blind-sided by the offer. I was walking through the Co-op to pick up my check, when the front manager asked me if I'd be interested in 35 hours a week running the outlet. Strictly speaking, I'd still be a temp, but I'd have guaranteed hours. I believe I stammered when I said I would be interested (notice I did not say "am") and he told me to come in for training next week and walked off. I never got to think about it.
If I had thought about it, I would have been annoyed at how cheap the Co-op is. They fired the outlet employee, because she was getting benefits and higher pay than a temp. I would work nearly full-time at eight dollars an hour. Sure, that's all I've been getting there up until now, but as a temp there is a certain trade-off. No responsibility, lower pay. Now they want me to run their satellite store for the same low pay. It's an insult. I would rather earn more per hour and work fewer hours. It's not how much money I bring home, but how much my time is valued. And right now, it's being valued less than before I received my damned degree. At 35 hours a week, I'll earn enough to pay bills and debt every month, but I'll also have no time to apply for a better job or to have hobbies or friends. 35 hours at the Co-op is five days a week, Tuesday through Saturday. Add the hour plus on the bus each way, and I will become effectively cloistered in that small, cheap life.
Boring too. There is nothing to do there, and I am tired of how blank my life is. The slowest, emptiest days are those when I work at the Co-op. Yes, I receive money, but no, I do not earn it. I am much more productive staying home. Even on the days when all I accomplish in the afternoon is a mini-marathon of Gilmore Girls. At least I spend every morning applying for jobs. I've applied for more than eighty, I'm quite certain. And this, this, is the best I can get.
I came home and cried.
If I had thought about it, I would have been annoyed at how cheap the Co-op is. They fired the outlet employee, because she was getting benefits and higher pay than a temp. I would work nearly full-time at eight dollars an hour. Sure, that's all I've been getting there up until now, but as a temp there is a certain trade-off. No responsibility, lower pay. Now they want me to run their satellite store for the same low pay. It's an insult. I would rather earn more per hour and work fewer hours. It's not how much money I bring home, but how much my time is valued. And right now, it's being valued less than before I received my damned degree. At 35 hours a week, I'll earn enough to pay bills and debt every month, but I'll also have no time to apply for a better job or to have hobbies or friends. 35 hours at the Co-op is five days a week, Tuesday through Saturday. Add the hour plus on the bus each way, and I will become effectively cloistered in that small, cheap life.
Boring too. There is nothing to do there, and I am tired of how blank my life is. The slowest, emptiest days are those when I work at the Co-op. Yes, I receive money, but no, I do not earn it. I am much more productive staying home. Even on the days when all I accomplish in the afternoon is a mini-marathon of Gilmore Girls. At least I spend every morning applying for jobs. I've applied for more than eighty, I'm quite certain. And this, this, is the best I can get.
I came home and cried.
Saturday, February 14, 2009
Friday, February 13, 2009
Thursday, February 12, 2009
job interview
I had a job interview today. The first in this round of job hunting. I hope that it went well. I'd feel better about it if a button on my blouse, which has shown no tendency for this in the past, hadn't popped open mid-interview. I will find out tonight for better or for worse. The next time you hear from me, I will either be horribly and irrevocably crushed, or I will be planning how to spend my first paycheck.
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
sick day
I called in sick this morning to work. And by work, I mean the lack of work that I do while temping at the Co-op. I don't know how sick I really am. I haven't coughed since I woke up, but I felt an uncomfortable tightness in my throat. It even kind of itches. Mostly, I didn't want to stand behind a cash register, staring stupidly at the Disney Channel, waiting in vain to be useful. So I took the day. Partly because I wanted to make sure this tickle in my throat doesn't become something more. I have a job interview tomorrow, and I would rather not have to clear my throat every few seconds. It makes a bad impression. I also wanted to use the Internet, which is available to me only during business hours, in order to plan my route to the aforementioned interview. I also plan to find a lost sweater, write some fiction and watch a movie. Maybe I'll even eat some soup so that I feel better about being sick.
Monday, January 19, 2009
burned
I had a dream a few weeks ago that my apartment burned down. I lost everything, despite my attempts to run back into the building. Afterward, as I stood in my ball gown (I don't know why I was in formal wear) next to Kevin, looking at the ruins of my building, I felt a hollow place inside me. I did not mind the loss of my clothes, long since reduced to ash. I mourned my books, and I felt real grief for the loss of my USB device, complete with all of my writing. It was for this last thing that I had been willing to brave the flames. I wept over that loss. Yet, that was not the worst pain of the night. The hardest part was discovering that I owned nothing more than the clothes on my back, a brown hoodie in the mailbox, and the furniture that I had in my mom's storage. I felt so small, knowing that I had nothing to offer to anybody. I don't remember telling Kevin about my furniture, but I remember him telling me that he didn't like it and he didn't want it. The only thing that I had to give him and he didn't want it! I felt crushed, devastated. I knew then that I couldn't marry him because I had nothing to offer. I took off his suit coat, which he had gallantly lent me, and stumbled to my mailbox, where I retrieved my fleece hoodie. I think the dream ended very Incredible Hulk-esque, with me walking off alone, but without the theme music. I kept crying all day as images bombarded my waking mind. This nightmare, though less violent than many, pierced all of my insecurities. The fire in the dream just made more apparent that which is. I fear that someday others will see what I saw in the flames there: that I have nothing to give in return for all that is given to me.
Thursday, December 11, 2008
finals nightmare
My finals nightmare took a different twist than usual. I showed up for a test, and I kept calling a girl from my class by the wrong name. I first called her Jody, then Josey and finally Judy. Her name is Erin. Jody and Josey are also in that class. The dream made me afraid that I really hadn't learned anything in there, not even Erin's name.
Wednesday, December 10, 2008
at the end of my rope
I am going to SCREAM!
First, my house was taken over by velcro-pulling, cane-thumping, alarm-setting, mess-making loud mouth cattle.
And NOW the damned cleaning crew in the library are THUMPING! Over and over and never in any sort of rhythm.
I. am. losing. my. sanity...
First, my house was taken over by velcro-pulling, cane-thumping, alarm-setting, mess-making loud mouth cattle.
And NOW the damned cleaning crew in the library are THUMPING! Over and over and never in any sort of rhythm.
I. am. losing. my. sanity...
Wednesday, December 03, 2008
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