Confessions of an FHE less-active

I feel terrible.

I was all set to go to FHE today, despite the fact that the activity was undisclosed and the location was way up at the church, which would have meant an entire hour of travel time both to FHE and back home.

FHE started at 7:30.

I remembered about it at 7:20. And groaned.

Also, I just found out that I have not one, but two more weeks of working much more than I thought I was going to this summer. Which is really, really, really ultra great for my ability to pay rent and go see the occasional movie and, like, pay for groceries and stuff, but not so great for my ability to run off and do crazy random things like visit Western Massachusetts and read lots of books and get that cross-stitch project finished and work on submitting short stories to magazines and sundry other projects and...

Good grief!

What has happened to my summer?!?

In other news, I have decided to join a nunnery. I saw a monk while wandering around in Boston the other day, and I just thought, "That's it. That's what my life should be." Hm. Except that instead of a cowl I'd wear a habit. Which is less cool.

Sigh. Maybe I'll stick with being just a regular ol' LDS single for now.

Um.

I guess that's it.

The End.

Now, er, Go To and stuff.

Seriously, folks.

I shoulda believed Murphy all along.

It would have been a firm belief in Murphy's Law that could have warned me that a few minutes after we were supposed to have closed the library (at 1:00am) the computer lab printer would have a major meltdown and would therefore make me late enough (as I scurried to print the student's document elsewhere and leave a note for the supervisor to look into the problem in the morning) to just barely miss my cab, which pulled away from the curb and left about 20 seconds before I was able to get outside, leaving me stranded, waiting for another cab for a good 15 minutes more, standing alone on a well-lit but emptyish street, fearing for my life every time a jogger came by.

If only I had listened to Murphy; I could have planned for such an event. Alas that I did not. For it is late. And I am more awearied than I would otherwise have been.

And one really teeny headache later...

Today I trained at my new job.

Now, job training is something that is peculiar to itself; I don't think there are many other instances when you're inundated with quite as much information in as short a span a time.

Fortunately, the people I'll be working with are patient and friendly and repeatedly assured me that I won't be required to have everything down pat right away.

Thank goodness.

However, despite feeling overwhelmed and a little short-circuited, I'm also feeling excited (really excited) about getting started in this job. Just being able to work in a library again is giving me a huge sense of coming-home-ed-ness, returning to what I really want to do with my life. And I'm sure starting classes in a couple of weeks will be just as overwhelming/enjoyable.

And not choking seems pretty good to me

Well, folks.

The interview went pretty well.

And by "pretty well," I mean that I managed not to make a babbling idiot of myself. I asked intelligent questions (or so I believed at the time) about the library and the position and answered the more difficult questions without getting horribly tongue-tied (although I did notice that my answers tended to be unfortunately rather vague).

And, thank goodness, the interviewer was possibly the most friendly and personable person I've interviewed with. Ever.

Which also means that I'm not sure if the interview went really well or if it just went well. Because she could have just been friendly and nice yet at the same time thinking: This gal is pretty much lame-o. Or, she might have been friendly and nice and thinking: This gal is pretty friendly and nice herself. I think we'll hire her.

Time will tell.

I'll find out for sure which it was at the end of this week or possibly early next week. And I'll let you know as soon as I can.

Because I'm pretty sure you're all rooting for me.

So thanks.

TONS.

The joy of (finally) being able to be nervous about something

I just got a call this morning for someone in a library very close to my school. She wanted to schedule me for an interview this Wednesday!

Huzzah!

And hooray!

And galdaleelooooooks!

I'm so happy, because this means I can bring to bear all my powerful charms such as speaking distinctly and smiling warmly and shaking hands firmly.

Which, really, is a huge step up from just being a piece of paper listing work accomplishments.

Wish me luck! (And pray hard.)

Outstretching

I must confess: I've been having a bit of a hard time.

I feel really bad admitting that, as though in confessing my problems I'm causing nothing but distress to pretty much everybody, including myself.

I hadn't even been thinking clearly about the reasons why I've been feeling a bit low until I talked to my mom this afternoon. Somehow, the conversation with her was a bit of a catalyst, pointing me to what I needed to realize about myself.

I'm unhappy. I'm disappointed in myself. I feel like I've come out here expecting things to just kind of fall into my lap, unwilling to get off my bed and do the things that really need doing.

And it's not even that I haven't been trying; it's just that I haven't been trying in the right ways, I guess, or trying as hard as I should have. Because, surely, if I had been working hard enough things would have worked out by now? Maybe?

I'm anxious. I need work. I need to feel that I'm doing all I can to support myself out here. And I need to be able to not worry about money so much all the time.

But suddenly, typing this, it occurs to me that there's something to learn from this too. Maybe there's a purpose in waiting.

I don't think I'll ever know really what it's like to live in poverty. And I'm so grateful for that. But...

But isn't it important now and then to catch a glimpse of how people who are in devastating financial trouble live? To sense a little bit the kind of anxiety they experience all the time? Doesn't this just increase our compassion for them?

It makes me want to make a difference for them. And maybe, once I've figured out a way to get through the next couple of years out here and I've gotten my degree, maybe I can start with the kids in difficult circumstances, be one of the people who try to help them love learning through the books they read. Because I think that knowledge may be the only way to lift people out of circumstances like that.

Just the way serving others is the only way to lift you out of anxiety for yourself.

To Be Continued...

Well, I got a call from the job placement agency. As it turns out, there's a kind of administrative assistant/receptionist job open at the agency itself. So, my contact is going to pass along my resume in hopes that they'll be able to use me for the next month and a half before school starts.

I'm hoping for the best. (i.e. that I'll get the job. In case you were wondering.)

I'll keep you updated, of course. So check here for the latest news on Lizardbreath's search for work!

Why I HATE applying for jobs:

First of all, it's a pain. You have to redo your resume & cover letter every time you go about applying for one and, frankly, there are just a few more things I would like to do rather than dredging up that old document and fiddling with it. Again. Plus, it stinks.

Also, I feel that in order to make a good impression I have to be all pushy about my qualifications. I have to say, in no uncertain terms, that I am fabulous (which I don't really believe all that firmly) that I can be the bestest employee ever (which nobody would believe all that firmly) and that I have all the skills and qualifications necessary to provide a wonderful experience both in the interview and during job training and for the duration of my employment at such and such a place.

Good. Land.

However, having said all that, it's also pretty satisfying to have submitted a couple of applications already today. I feel like I'm accomplishing something at least, which is more than I can say for my general actions over the past week and a half.

So. Go me.

Fin.

It's the end.

Today was my last day at KMA, my last day at a job I've held for a little over two and a half years, which, now that I think about it, was both a really long and really short time.

I'm feeling mostly what Robert McCloskey describes in his picture book Time of Wonder (which, incidentally, is pretty much my favorite picture book ever): "A little bit sad about the place you are leaving, a little bit glad about a place you are going."

I feel wistful and happy and sad and relieved and (guiltily) rather glad to be getting away from customer service, at least customer service in a retail business. I also know that in a day or a week or six months, I'll feel some serious pangs of missing the wonderful, wonderful, wonderful people I've known there for the past couple of years.

I'll miss them.

Change is afoot.

Today I found out that I will be losing my job in 3 weeks.

Yep.

It'll be me out on those street corners, making everyone feel uncomfortable with that markered cardboard sign and crouching forlornly in all sorts of weather. (Actually, about that cardboard sign--I've always wondered--why do they always have to be on cardboard? I mean, couldn't someone find a discarded bit of posterboard or something? Ooh. Erm. I think I'm being callous.)

But losing my job is actually doing something strange to my brain. I'm suddenly thinking of options, and to my surprise, there are many of them.

I could stay here and get a temp job for three months before moving out to Boston. This is what the logical part of my brain is urging me to do.

However, the happy-go-lucky carefree part of my brain is saying, "Why not use this opportunity to get out to Boston even earlier? You could move out there and get a temp job, for instance. Or no job at all! Just live off of your savings and have a great grand ol' time! Or you could go somewhere completely different! You could move to Arkansas for a few months! (You know how much you've always wanted to move to Arkansas.)"

The happy-go-lucky carefree part of my brain is kind of stupid.

But its ideas are rather appealing. (Except for the Arkansas thing.)

So what do you all think? Should I stay here & temp or should I venture out into the wide world for a few months? Good heavens. The possibilities are numerous!

Seriously. If you have any thoughts, say so. Or any ideas. Should I write a novel, for instance? Try to make a sale that would earn me enough money to pay for my education? (Haha! Not likely.) Er...or...should I travel? To England? Even though I can't afford it?

OH, the options. Yes. Please tell me what you all think. Because I am in a quandary, and picking your brains is better than relying on mine alone.

Toppled

Okay.

You know those days when you're going along, feeling pretty good about yourself, saying, "Yeah. I'm pretty much okay. I don't try to steal money from little old ladies and hello! I am SO rocking this whole customer service thing!"

And then something comes along and clubs you upside the head and you realize that you really, really, really stink.

REALLY BAD.

And as much as you try, there's no way you can blame it on someone else, because it really is seriously your fault. You dropped the ball and you were stupid and you just kind of want to curl yourself into your stomach and swallow yourself whole (which really is a pretty nonsensical thing to try anatomically).

Ugh. I HATE days like that.

Yesterday was one of those days.

And I'm slowly approaching normal again, but I just keep remembering that...really angry email...and I just kind of get this ringing in my ears and I zone out for a few minutes remembering how much I really, really am no good. No, no. No good at all.

Of course, the temple helped yesterday evening (which is where I had planned to go anyway before something blew up on me; lucky coincidence). My sense of self-worth is definitely several points higher than it would otherwise have been. And, I'm sure that by Monday most of this will be safely padded on the inside of my head so it's not sharp and painful anymore.

But darn it, WHY CAN'T I JUST DO THINGS RIGHT? And then I wouldn't have those days. Those awful, awful, really bad days.

So why doesn't anyone set me up with her 40-year-old brother?

I love work conversations. No really--they're possibly the most entertaining part of being in the customer service realm.

Just yesterday, or maybe it was the day before, (it's hard to keep track of time in the customer service realm), a co-worker, who happens to be 27 and single, mentioned that her grandmother (just before passing away) had prayed that this co-worker of mine would find a nice man whose wife had died, leaving him two kids.

(Ew. Awkward sentence there.)

Anyway--another co-worker gasped and said, "That's my brother!"

So, everyone in the office immediately talked about strategies for getting this 27-year-old hooked up with my other co-worker's 39-year-old brother.

Okay. Now, as anyone who has read Jane Eyre knows, a gap of even as much as twenty years matters about as much as a spot of dust in your eye if the two people involved are kindred souls. However, for some reason, this 12-year gap made me grit my teeth a little (Is that why I woke up with a sore jaw the next morning?) and grimace behind the wall of my cubicle.

Then another co-worker piped in with information about her brother, who is divorced and is himself past 40. Amazingly, they both wanted to set this girl up with their brothers! Add this to the twice-divorced brother of yet another co-worker who had been deemed unworthy of my 27-year-old friend.

I began to wonder--what's wrong with me? Why doesn't anyone want to set me up with her 40-year-old brother?

Then I remembered. Of course! That's why! It's always why.

I had begged them not to set me up with anyone. Ever. In a million years.

I guess it's just easy to forget that when you're caught up with all the appealing brothers of your coworkers in the customer service realm.

Here's a tip--don't shock yourself.

My workplace is saturated with static electricity. It lives in the carpets; it lurks in doorknobs and in the metal corners of cubicles; it leaps from its hidey-holes in light-switches. And if you're unlucky enough to brush your unhappily conductive flesh against any one of these things, you're liable to get a nasty jolt.

So, I've taken to grounding myself at every opportunity. When I walk back to the copier, I brush my knuckles against the frame of the cubicle behind me, touch the metal bookcase midway down the room and tap my fingers against the light-switches next to the copier so that when I put that piece of paper face-down on the glass, I don't get a heart-stopping wallop to my electrical system. (Those are unpleasant.)

However, despite my best efforts, I still sometimes get a good shock. Like today.

Today, as usual, I hit the back of my hand against the light-switch to disperse the electrical charge I'd built up during the past twenty or so steps. Unfortunately, the charge was so great that when I grounded myself the shock was even worse than usual. A couple of minutes later, the back of my hand started to itch, so I scratched it without really looking at it. When I finally glanced over, there was a little welt that looked like a mosquito bite smack dab in the center of my hand.

I was horrified (HORRIFIED, I tell you!) to realize that the welt must have come from the shock I got at the light-switch. ('Cause mosquitos are dead, man. Dead.)

"Holy Canoli!" I shouted (not really)! "That shock of static electricity totally burned me and raised a welt on my skin! Yowza!"

Actually, I just looked at the welt and thought of what a great blog-post that would be. (I just wished I had a camera at the time.)

And really, don't you agree?

Okay--I'm going boy-short.

We just found out on Friday that we're probably going to have to reduce employee hours where I work, so they asked to see if we'd be willing to take one day a week off and just work 4 out of the 5 weekdays. While I was a bit concerned about my subsequent smaller income, I realized that having an extra day off work will provide some definite advantages.

I can go get my hair cut without having to take time off work. There's this lady in my ward who runs a salon in her basement, but I'm rarely able to get a cut from her because she doesn't work on the weekends. But now... *Rubs hands together gleefully*

So, I'm going to go boy-short. Well, maybe not quite that short, but I'm going to get it cut at least to my chinny-chin-chin, and perhaps have it shaped or something around my face. Yeah. Okay, so it's still in the 'vague idea' stage. But, having my hair well past my shoulders is starting to be nothing more than a nuisance. I never give myself enough time in the morning to style it properly, so it's always pulled back, and it keeps coming out of my elastic hairband like a medusa-head impression. Cute.

Going short is (I believe) the only viable way to solve this problem. Also, I will get highlights, which I've never done before. My hair has always been completely au naturale, but I think it's time to make some changes & get some blondish highlights in. Hey, I'm not talking anything garish, people! I just want a natural looking lightening or something going on on top. Maybe it'll help my blah-ish locks be not-so-blah, at least a little.

So, yes. boy-short hair, and...lemme think what else....OH! I will also go to movies. (Dollar-theatre movies, of course. Heck, I'm not made of money, especially with these reduced hours, yo.) And.... maybe I'll go and sketch those horses that I drive past every day on the way to work! And.... maybe I'll also um... get manicures and junk like that. Oh, wait...That costs money too.

Or, maybe I'll just sit at home all day on my day off and think up entries for my blog. Yeah. That's what I'll do. And you'll like it, by golly.

I has a disease

Do you ever kind of say harsh things to yourself? Like, you're sitting in a room full of people, and someone says something funny, and you laugh, and then you say something that you think is funny, except that when you say it, everybody either looks away or gives a nervous chuckle, then coughs, then changes the subject, and then you spend the rest of the night kind of sitting with your arms crossed over your chest, calling yourself an idiot? Repeatedly?

Or you're at work, and you tell the shipping department that they totally don't need to work on this order, because even though the customer needed it by Friday, she wasn't willing to pay for 3rd-Day freight so that we could guarantee it would arrive by Friday, and then when the customer calls back to see if her order has shipped, you totally cave and say, "Yes, YES, we'll ship it today, only please, PLEASE don't hurt me!" And then you run down and tell the shipping department that, yes, they have to ship that order today, except now they only have one hour to get all the products together, get the order packaged, into the UPS system, invoiced, and on the pallet? And then they throw half-empty boxes at your head? Which you duck because you have pretty okay reflexes? And then you run upstairs to the safety of your cubicle, where you sit with your head in your hands and tell yourself that you're an idiot? Repeatedly?

You see, I think I call myself an idiot to make myself feel better. Isn't that sick? Aren't I ill? The truth is, I call myself an idiot, because I want to prove to myself (and other people, who, somehow, I think can read my thoughts) that even though I behave like an idiot, at least I KNOW I'm an idiot, so they (the other people) don't have to call me one themselves. So really, I'm just acting in self-defense. Sort of. Does this make any sense?

Probably not.

I'm feeling particularly gleeful this evening...

But not because of anything outrageously wonderful that I've done. No, no. My reason for rejoicing is this: it's Friday, the phones here at work are NOT ringing, and I've just gotten over 300 hits on my blog since I installed the counter on February 9th! Wahoo, frankly!

And you should all "Wahoo" with me. For behold, it is your hitting my blog so frequently that has risen the post count past the 300 mark. Thank you, for I am indeed grateful.

And also there's nothing to do at work. Sigh.

Historic Trees and Job Hunting

Well, it's official. I'm in the market. I'm looking for a new gig, a new place to hang my hat, a new way of lookin' at life. (Is that a song? If not, it should be. Someone get me a producer.)

In short, I am looking for a new job.

And, I really hope to heaven that my casual mention of this blog many months ago to my current coworkers went largely unnoticed by them, or I'll be apt to find a cold reception to my arrival at work tomorrow morning. But, it would actually really surprise me if they paid much attention to my blog, other than glancing politely at it when I said to them, "Hey, I have a blog. Go to this website and see." So they did, and they saw, never to return again.

It's not that I don't want my coworkers to read my blog, it's just that I don't really want to make them aware at this time that I'm looking for new employment.

Wow. "Looking for new employment." That sounds kinda harsh, like I'm doing something because I feel that the job I'm at now is somehow beneath me, which it isn't. Not really. In fact, there are quite a few aspects of my job that I find extremely enjoyable. The management is wonderful, my boss is a wonderful woman, and my coworkers are, without exception, amiable, kind and patient.

However, I just ain't getting paid enough.

So now I sound like a mercenary.

But the truth is, I need to move on, and thanks to some heart-to-heart conversations with (and wonderful counsel from) my bishop & my parents, I'm feeling a little more focused & driven than I have in the last few months. Of course, that's not saying much. What it is saying, I suppose, is that I spent a good 45 minutes today lying on my back, searching jobsites on my laptop. (Not really a go-get-'em type of picture, is it.) Oh, yes. And I have a hand-written to-do list tacked up on my wall next to my bedroom door just to remind me to do stuff. And actually, that 45-minute job-searching crosses of #2 quite nicely.

Do you ever get the feeling that you fill up most of your time with grown-up busywork? I do a lot of marginally-necessary things to make myself feel good about at least doing something, while still neglecting doing the wholly necessary things--the things that haven't even made it to my list yet, because I'm still so afraid of them.

But, maybe I do really just need to do baby steps at the moment. (I think I've mentioned those before.) I think my usual problem though is that I get so caught up in the baby steps that I fail to realize that I'm baby steppin' in a circle. Or over a cliff. Or into some doggy doo-doo. (Sorry, that was juvenile of me. *Muffles a giggle*)

In any case, at least I'm stepping again. And, I promise to keep my eyes open enough to avoid the crap on the street.

Oh! And about historic trees? Well, go here: http://www.utahcountyonline.org/CoInfo/Tree.asp. I never knew Utah County had an historic tree, but I do now. It makes me proud to be a citizen of this great valley.

Not even if my life depended on it.

I'm terrible at explaining things. Well actually, 'hopeless' is rather a better word for it, or maybe 'wretched,' or 'defective.' Okay, maybe not 'defective,' but still, it's a pretty darn bad situation.

That's why I'm standing here in front of this firing squad, actually.

Somebody asked me to explain exactly how you go about adding on to an order that has been sent down to shipping, boxed up & put into the UPS computer without having the shipping department hunt you down and pummel you in a dark alley. And, I said, "You know, you really don't want me to explain that to you. I'm terrible at explaining. Defective even. (Well, maybe not defective.) I probably couldn't explain it to you even if my life depended on it." Which it didn't of course, not at that point.

But the truth is that the avoidance of explaining something is actually considered a crime in the small homey city where I work, and, to my chagrin, the person that I refused to explain the, er, above situation to, happened to be an undercover cop working to root out the explainingophobes among us, of which I, apparently, am one. *Reels from the dizziness of that last sentence*

So, here I stand, cigarette clenched firmly in my teeth. (I didn't ask for it. They just kind of stuck it there.)

Of course, I tried to explain to the police, and the jury, and the judge, that the reason why I didn't want to explain the tricky late add-on procedure was that I was really, really bad at explaining stuff, but of course, I couldn't really get them to see my point of view. As a matter of fact, by the time I was done with my explanation, I had so wrapped myself up in verbal mishmash that I had a hard time seeing my point of view myself.

I've decided I don't like the taste of cigarettes. Fortunately, the unnecessarily tight binding of my wrists together does not preclude me from spitting this cigarette as far from me as possible. Ah. If only I could spit myself away from those steely-eyed young men who face me & stare me down as though they had the power of life & death over me. Er, well... I suppose they do.

So, Why, you may ask, and ask it rightly. Why does she have to suffer capital punishment, by firing squad, no less, for the simple crime of refusing to explain something to somebody else? And who came up with that law, anyway?!? It's a stupid law. I've never heard of a law like that before in all my days. I just don't know what this world is coming to...

Well, the truth is, I would try to outline the reasons for you, but as I've mentioned before, I'm

*BANG*

(Pam, I'll get to calendars next post. That is, er, if I can staunch the bleeding...)

Customer Service is Making Me a Mean, Mean, Person

So I won't tell you how many times I swear under my breath when I'm at work. Nor will I tell you how often I roll my eyes, or groan before picking up a phone, or grind my teeth, or think of screaming. Nope. I'm not going to tell you any of that. And, I won't tell you how often, right before I walk into the office, I have to kind of square my shoulders and take a deep, deep breath before I can dive into my daily work routine.

It's not that my work is terribly difficult. I sit at a desk all day, take phone calls, print orders, and in between that try to take care of any issues that come up on our online forum. It's not even that the people I deal with every day are unpleasant. For the most part, they're usually quite nice. It's that I dread them. I dread dealing with them, and it's even gone so far that I now dislike them collectively (not individually). I don't want to talk to them, I don't want to take their orders, and I don't want to solve their problems.

In short, I have a bad attitude about customer service.

I wasn't always this way. I used to enjoy talking with customers. I was understanding and patient, and I wanted to help them get the right product, or a refund, or whatever the heck else they wanted. Now, I just freaking don't care. I just want all of those pesky, irritating people to leave me alone. It reminds me of a poster I saw at despair.com: "If We Don't Take Care of the Customer, Maybe They'll Stop Bugging Us." Classic. And oh, so true.

Still Twitching

Today was a little stressful at work. One of my coworkers is spending this week in California with a friend, so our already depleted workforce in customer service is dwindling down to nil. Fortunately, I didn't catch any unpleasant calls today, but there was still this sense of frantically trying to keep up. I'd be trying to finish up an order so that our shipping department would have something to do, only to be interrupted with a phonecall that got me involved with trying to fax something to someone else, and then I'd be brought some paperwork from our shipping department indicating that I needed to call someone about something, and then we'd get a return that I'd have to process, and I would remember that I hadn't checked posts on the forum in a while, and wait--had I checked my emails recently? And what did I do with that order that I was working on in the first place?

That was how the whole day went. And, I'm still twitching from it. (Look, you can see the tic in my eye going off right now...)

Now I don't want to give the impression that I hate work. I really don't. In fact, there's a kind of satisfaction with getting through a big pile of work. It's just a bit rough when the pile never seems to diminish.

Sigh. Poor me, I know.

However, despite the busy workday, I still managed to find this incredibly awesome site: http://www.despair.com. (Our email service has these little ads that display in the corner of the screen, so I clicked one during a rare moment of down-time.) Check it out, yo. (Well, you may have already seen this site. As I was sharing it with my family, they were all like, 'Oh yeah! I've seen that! It was soooo way totally funny.' Well, so maybe that was a paraphrase. But, if you've already seen it, go see it again. And laugh again. And have joy again.)