Part Deux?

I got word over the weekend that the girl who took over for me at my last job has decided to quit to be a stay-at-home mom. 

To which I say, “kudos!”  Not many women have that option.  Some (me) don’t want that option. 

And I had a moment of “hey my old job is open” but that moment quickly passed. 

~sigh~ 

If I could have stepped back in and not have had to deal with the one woman who made the entire experience a living hell for me, then I might have approached my old boss about it.  But it would have been like remarrying an ex-husband — whatever it was that caused the problem to start with would have come around again once the honeymoon was over. 

And honeymoons in those circumstances are particularly short-lived. 

Onward.   

As part of the application process to become an instructor at the local technical college, I’ve had to request my college transcripts.  Funny, I remember myself as being a better student than what they indicate.  I mean, I was a solid B student.  Even within my major I was a B student.  I don’t remember trying particularly hard to be anything more than that.  Does that mean the college will pass me over in favor of a higher-achieving student?  Hard to say.  But the positions I am applying for are titled “Remedial Instructor” so I’m hoping a B average will pass muster. 

And so it goes. 

 

– Mox

Breathing.

After a morning spent unpleasantly being (wo)manhandled and manipulated and squished within an inch of my life, I am once again declared healthy of boob. 

So how come I don’t feel as if my load has been lightened? 

The possibility exists that my blahness is a result of not seeing the sun for the past three days.  Damn I hate winter in this part of the world. 

I tend to sink into a funk about this time every year.  I manage to recognize and participate in the things that bring me happiness, and those things are often as simple as playing a board game and eating warm chocolate chip cookies with Spawn.  While I don’t necessarily walk around with a black cloud hanging over me, I often feel as if I’m leapfrogging from one joyful moment to another, over a black abyss.  But this year it’s different, somehow. 

Even before my latest set of worries happened it felt different.  I can’t explain it other than it’s just “different.”  I feel like something is going to give, will have to give.  Just what, though, I don’t know. 

In the span of time between Monday night and this morning about 10am when I got the all clear, I’ve looked at things hard.  Obviously my job is a big issue, and my next step is a big issue.  Had I been staring down the barrel of physical illness, what would have I done about all of that? 

Don’t even get me started about the whole wife/mother deal.  While my husband is a (mostly) fine father, he would suck big time at being a mother. 

Midlife crisis?  Hard to say. 

 

 

– Mox

Obsessive without the compulsive.

My father is one of those people who, when he gets an idea into his head, he can’t quit until he’s seen it to completion.  This is great once you get him started on a project, because his mind just goes and goes and goes until he’s worked out all the angles and anticipated all the problems and fixed all the boo-boos.  It’s not so great if you have another project that needs to get done anytime soon. 

This is a trait I get from him, this need to focus intensely on the subject at hand, until all is complete.  I can function, sure, doing other things, but uppermost in my mind is the thing that I am thinking about.  So the other things I do, while I am thinking about The Thing, are things that get done in some sort of somnambulent state. 

My father does not rest until he’s finished with a project.  For a man 74 years old, blind in one eye, he’s very productive out in the workshop.  Imagine my impatience with a husband who begins and abandons projects with alarming regularity. 

Ahem.  Anyway. 

Where my father’s focus tends to be on the physical projects at hand, my brain, true to my female nature, more often than not can obsess about intangibles. 

When I arrived home Monday evening from a particularly soul-sucking day at work, there was a message on our answering machine from the mammogram place, asking me to call them.  No reason why, just call at my earliest convenience.  Since it was after 5pm, that meant my imagination had free rein to run wild all night long.  I called on Tuesday morning and learned that my mammogram showed an “irregularity” and that I would have to come in and have it redone.  The doctor felt it was probably some fibrous tissue but wanted a second look. 

Yeah.  Guess where my brain has been ever since. 

I have not mentioned any of this to my mother or my husband, because at this point there is no reason to alarm anyone besides myself, though I did share this info with my best friend, who (true to her patience-of-Job form) advised me to “breathe.”  Oh, she knows me so well. 

The upside of this is that once I get this second mammogram done, I’ll be able to wait around for the doctor to reexamine it and tell me what he thinks.  Then I’ll know if I’m finished with this project or not. 

 

 

– Mox

Transcripts.

Do they even offer transcripts of TV shows anymore? 

This is a random thought, I realize, but back in the stone ages, when I had time to actually sit down and watch television, I remember at the end of some programs there would be an offer for transcripts if anyone wanted one.  I don’t know why anyone would want one. 

Anyway, the whole subject of transcripts is due to the fact that I just sent off a request for official transcripts from my university.  The initial reason is, there are some instructor positions at the local technical school that I intend to apply for, and part of the process is to supply a copy of transcripts with the interview.  This is assuming they would want to interview me for any of these positions, but considering the positions are continually open (and have been posted since 2007) and titled “Remedial Instructor” I figure I’d at least get someone to talk to me. 

What?  These jobs pay 28 bucks an hour.  Oh hell yes. 

If nothing comes of this then at least I’ll have official transcripts for my files, in case I need them for something else.  And truthfully, I’ve forgotten what my transcripts say.  I remember my grades were fairly good, though I wasn’t dean’s list material. 

Perhaps I could snag one of these remedial instructorships and determine from there if I want to pursue a master’s degree.  I’m still toying with the idea.  To earn a faculty position I’d have to have at least a master’s degree, anyway. 

I recently sat down and did what I call a “Ben Franklin” on my current job and my last job.  A “Ben Franklin” is where you list all the pros on one side of the paper and all the cons on the other, and judge what you should do by the length and quality of each list.  I don’t know how I came to call it a “Ben Franklin” though I seem to remember someone telling me once that it was a tactic that ol’ Ben himself employed when faced with a decision.  At any rate, that’s what I call it. 

One of the things I listed as a “like” in my last job was talking to tour groups.  I had the knowledge and I was able to impart it, extemporaneously, and with a great deal of enjoyment.  I knew what it was I needed to get accomplished in the span of time alloted to me before the group departed on a historic walking tour.  It’s also something that I’ve listed as a “like” on my current job, that imparting of knowledge for a specific purpose. 

Now, I am not a teacher, and this I know.  But I am pretty good at being bossy.  And I apparently enjoy telling people what I think they need to know.  So hey, a remedial position teaching English or Communications or Literature?  Bring it. 

Nothing may come of it but at least it’s a movement off dead center, no? 

 

– Mox

Linkedy link link.

I’m a linker.  Ask my best friend, who can attest that on a slow day, I send out oodles and gobs of links for review.  It’s my version of sitting around with the newspaper and a cup of coffee, trading sections and commenting on stories.  We trade links back and forth, asking opinions and sharing ideas, connecting to one another all day long. 

In a world of quick and easy connection, it’s perhaps the least stressful way to keep a tenuous social connection alive. 

Recently, though, I have been inspired to link in a different way.  I’ve joined LinkedIn. 

The main reason for this is, I need a job.  Preferably, a job that pays actual, real money. 

My company, like so many around the country these days, has struggled in the face of recession.  Most anyone in business will tell you, when faced with budget issues, one of the first things that gets cut into is the advertising budget.  From this side of the fence, it’s a little like cutting off your nose to spite your face, for it’s advertising and marketing that drive business.  But advertising is for the most part something of an intangible, and because companies can’t hold it in their hands, it seems immediately expendable.  And when ad budgets get trimmed, agencies feel the pinch. 

I’ve been pinched so much this year I’ve got permanent bruises. 

Too, my boss has been talking retirement for the past couple of years.  He turned 65 this year, and his approaching desire to take it easy, combined with slow sales, has made it hard for us to meet expenses each month.  There have been pay periods that came and went in which I did not take home any pay.  This is not acceptable, but in this economic climate, I’m thankful to at least have a job.  I’ve been casting about for a new gig and there just aren’t any out there. 

I’ve been pondering Act II in my career, what I’ll do when this gig comes to an end, and frankly, I’ve got no idea.  Part of me thinks it would be a good idea to stay in this industry, since for the past 18 years it’s been what I’ve known and done.  Another part of me is tired of the whole thing, and would like to use my skill set in a different way.  Trouble is, in this little podunk market, I’ve no idea how or where to do just that. 

So I figured a good place to start getting feelers out would be LinkedIn, to at least make people I know aware that I’m out there and feeling about. 

And that has been my entire focus on this rainy, gloomy Monday.  We all know how I feel about rain, gloom, cold, and Mondays.  Yippee. 

 

– Mox

Code talking.

A gratuitous post about boobs. 

I had my annual mammogram yesterday, and as healthcare procedures go, it’s not the most awful thing you can endure, though it’s also not the most enjoyable.  But once one passes the threshold of 40, one must do what one must. 

I went to a new place this time around for the flattening of the mammaries, a very nice place, all feminine and cozy.  The designers wanted to suggest a spa-like atmosphere, and this would have been just fine by me if I were indeed at a spa.  A private changing room, with nice cherry cabinetry in which to store my clothing and purse, a soft, thick cotton robe to cover myself with, a softly quiet waiting area to sit with other berobed ladies, complete with gurgling fountain.  Very nice indeed.  Not at all distracting, however, from the sounds of the machine in the next room, wheeling and whirring into torturous positions. 

The rad tech was very nice, though her hands were cold.  This is not what you want when you have someone handling your boobs.  I’m just saying.  And after what seemed like the longest session of mammography known to (wo)man, I was given permission to get dressed to go. 

The rad tech told me about a new procedure being used to detect cancers on dense breast tissue, sonography.  Having had a sonogram before, I wasn’t too unnerved at the thought, though most insurance won’t pay for it at this point in time.  She mentioned it to me, in case my doctor wanted further information about my dense breast tissue and ordered this test. 

Ok, fine, whatever, can I go now? 

But it occurred to me later that evening — is the term “dense breast tissue” just code for “little boobies”? 

Hm. 

 

– Mox

WWYD?

I am easily amused today. 

 

– Mox

Lists checked twice.

I am happy to report that I have at least begun my Christmas shopping. 

Every year my goal is to be finished with Christmas shopping before Thanksgiving, so that I don’t have to fight the snatch-and-grab crowd at the mall, and I don’t have to deal with traffic, or parking, or generalized stupidity.  To this end, I have developed a strategy:  I buy one gift for each person on my list.  Santa brings three gifts to Spawn (we still believe here, so far).  I don’t mail gifts.  I make my husband do the heavy lifting on gifts for his family.  And I have a Christmas club account at the bank, and pay for everything with cash from that account. 

This keeps me from one-upping myself.  So many people get in the trap of being “equal” with their gifts, making sure everyone gets the same number of things to open.  I refuse to do this to myself.  I also set myself a limit per person to spend.  When I run out of cash, I stop. 

If I get down to my pre-imposed wire at Thanksgiving, I shop online.  And on Black Friday, while all the slightly crazy people are all camped out at Walmart’s doorstep at 4am, I am snug in my bed, snoring. 

Fortunately for me, I have a short list to buy for, since I have a small immediate family.  This helps more than you can imagine. 

And if I find myself at the mall at any point after Thanksgiving, I can at least enjoy myself without the specter of gift buying hanging over me. 

There are many forms for sanity to take.  This is mine. 

 

– Mox

Weekend wrap up.

I spent most of my lost weekend trying to install and configure a new wireless router at home.  This is not something for the faint of heart, nor is it a project for someone who can barely operate a light switch. 

And on that note, why is it that computers don’t operate like light switches?  When you turn a light switch on, it’s on.  When you turn it off, it’s off.  The bulb burns out, you screw a new one in, and everyone is illuminated anew.  I would very much like for computers to be this way.  Someone out there at Computer Headquarters, hop to it. 

But I digress.  The weekend unfolded, thus: 

First of all, if you’ve bought anything remotely technical these days, you’ve found that whatever it is you’ve purchased does not come with a physical, paper manual.  Oh, no.  The manual exists on a CD that comes packaged with the equipment, which would be all fine and dandy if you could get the CD to run.  And supposing you get the CD to run and are able to view the expansive PDF that contains said manual, there is a good chance that you are going to have to do something that either obscures the manual onscreen or, you know, shut down your computer. 

And hey, the customer support?  That’s available 24/7/365?  They have a website. 

Which you would love to be able to utilize if you could just get online. 

Or, hey, there’s an 800 number, which requires you sit on hold for 20+ minutes before you talk to a real live human being, if then.  You might just hang up in disgust way before that. 

You call the cable company.  They assure you that your modem is working properly.  So it’s back to wrangling the new equipment, because obviously the problem is there.

You spend an inordinate amount of time crawling around on the floor under the desk and are mildly appalled at the amount of cat hair under there.  So you get out the canned air and the vacuum. 

Amazingly, this doesn’t help the problem in any way, shape, or form, other than making you feel a tiny bit better, or at least marginally productive. 

Now that the floor is somewhat clean, you end up sitting halfway under the desk, staring up at the monitor, trying to install from there because it’s just easier than getting up and down constantly to hook/unhook everything a million times.   And really, there’s only one way to hook it up, even though you’ve tried various yoga poses, facial expressions, and chicken sacrifices, all in the name of unlocking the voodoo that will make the router work. 

This is when you discover that your 40+-year-old body does not respond well to sitting on the floor, Indian-style, for more than five minutes. 

In the 10 minutes it takes you to unfold yourself, stiff, from your subjugated position at the altar of the PC, an idea begins to form in your head.  This idea, in a nutshell, is this:  give it up.  Call in the professionals. 

For five full minutes, at least until the feeling returns to your feet, you sit in the desk chair and stare, defeated, at the monitor.  Then you decide that you’d much rather make scrambled eggs for your offspring than spend one more minute fooling with this quantum-level frustration. 

Hear, with relief, that your spouse has taken up the gauntlet and has called the customer support number. 

Go about your merry business, until you’re told that it’s hooked up and working. 

Except, it’s not.  At least not on your computer.  So, two of the three computers are online, one wired in and one wirelessly, and you, of course are left standing in the cold, cybernetically speaking. 

Take another run at it, this time on your laptop, which is brand new and therefore should be able to do this without you having to shake chicken bones at it.  Get online, rejoice, go take a shower. 

Get out of the shower to find that whatever you’ve done to get yourself online has booted your spouse off, so the original issue is back — one of you is on, the other is off. 

Respond poorly to accusations.  Cry.  Curse a little. 

Ok, a lot. 

Then by some miracle, your spouse is able to get everybody online and running as they should be, all at the same time.  So you weep with relief and then go to bed. 

And then it’s Monday. 

 

– Mox

Learning to let go.

Beware the woman with an itch to scratch. 

Occasionally I get a bit disgusted and overwhelmed with the stuff I’ve talked myself into keeping, and my merest intent to get rid of a few things turns into a full-scale purge.  The seed of this is usually something pretty benign, such as the folding table that I set up in my basement, oh, six months ago, upon which I have piled a few boxes’ worth of stuff we don’t need any more.  My intention was to finally take those things to St. VdeP so that I could take the table down and make room for my front porch furniture, which needs to be stored for the winter. 

My mother showed up to help me, thinking I had way more to haul upstairs than what I had actually set aside, and I told her that I didn’t have much to take.  But heck, my mother has an SUV and I have an SUV, and the temptation to fill both of them to the gills was just too strong. 

And so, this is how I found myself carting stuff up the basement steps that I had always intended to get rid of, just never had before. 

Up went the five gallon humidifier.  Up went the six-piece luggage set I received for high school graduation.  Up went my mother-in-law’s electric typewriter, which my husband refused to part with even though she said she didn’t want it anymore.  Up, up, up, went bags and boxes of stuff that I finally admitted there was no point hanging on to.  It was a wholesale purge, whereupon I didn’t even bother looking in the boxes as I carted them upstairs.  I figured, if I hadn’t missed these things in all this time, then they were as good as gone, anyway, might was well make them completely gone. 

And I finally got rid of my grandmother’s basket of roses. 

For as long as I could remember, my grandmother had a huge basket of red silk roses sitting atop her gigantic console television.  Those roses were the envy of all the other little old ladies in the retirement village where she lived.  When she passed away 13 years ago, the basket of roses came home with me.  To me they were such a tangible part of her, like the ratty old brown sweater that belonged to my grandfather which she had taken to wearing after his death.  I brought the roses into my new house and set them up, where they stayed until Spawn came along.  Once Spawn was a mobile infant, the roses met with curious hands and became somewhat beheaded, so I took them downstairs to the basement. 

Over the past eight years, the basket sat downstairs, occasionally ravaged by a marauding feline.  Many of the roses were mere stalks, with the bud stuffed hastily into the basket for future reattachment.  As I looked at that basket of roses, I realized that I would never take the time to reunite the buds with the stems, that I would never rearrange the basket, and that I would never bring the basket upstairs again. 

And I was okay with that.  Thirteen years after her death, I was finally ready to part with something that I identified so strongly with her. 

In the process of hauling so much stuff up and out, wholesale, I kicked up a lot of cat hair and dust, and my poor, feline-allergic husband has been miserable ever since.  Come to think of it, my eyes have been stinging and burning quite a bit, too.  But I’ve been bitten by the purge bug, and there is more stuff in the basement that needs to be jettisoned. 

Then it’s on to the upstairs.  My first plan of attack is the coat closet.  I think that my grandmother’s ratty old brown sweater is in there. 

 

– Mox