My friend had an epiphany about me the other day. As we rode in chummy conversation to an outing at the park with a bunch of other people our age, she began talking about a conversation she had with other friend recently. Armenia (the friend in the car, whose name obviously isn't Armenia, but it's what she talks about the most, so it seems a fitting blogonym) and Shummy (who refers to herself as Shummy and has called me K-VAN for as long as I can remember, because "It sounds so cool -- like the call sign for a radio station or something") spent long hours mulling over what book characters they most resemble. Armenia concluded she quite resembled Lizzy Bennet, while Shummy remains steadfastly certain she bears a distinct resemblance to Anne Shirley. (Despite, sadly, a lack of red hair--but she still shares a certain element of feistiness with the girl of Green Gables)
Armenia, in the course of the conversation, glanced at me. She admitted that they had tried to determine which book character I most resembled, but had suffered a dearth of adequate characters. Then, she suddenly exclaimed that she had a revelation: I was not a book character at all! Whereas she was definitely Lizzy Bennet and Shummy was, without question, Anne, I was Jane Austen, who knew how to sneakily and somewhat profitably make fun of every class of the society that I lived in. I take this as a sincere compliment, especially because I know she meant it to be. Still, I won't mention what I said when she asked why I hadn't written a novel . . . if you saw my every workday, you would know that it wasn't from a lack of things to mock; rather, it comes from a lack of oomph. Not motivation, oomph. They're quite different.
And oddly enough, my co-worker the financial analyst decided today that I was funny, but he couldn't express in words exactly what type of humor I employ. "It's biting," he said, "but in a genteel way. You could probably mock most people to their faces and they wouldn't realize it until some time much later. Lots of people probably wouldn't even realize it." He doesn't know it, but he more or less called me Jane Austen.
This ego boost will help me to float through at least two more workdays.
Tuesday, May 22, 2007
Friday, May 18, 2007
Self-Inflicted Sadism (Oh wait! There's a word for that . . .) ahem, Masochism
Nostalgia hurts. If you've got an emotional wound that you want to neatly seal itself at the edges and disappear with only a hint of scar--no infection, no gangrene, because we know that infection and gangrene are bad--live in the present. Stay firmly entrenched in the now. Dig yourself an at-this-minute foxhole and hunker down! It's the only way to stay safe.
Of course, this whole living-in-the-present thing does involve some tightrope acrobatics. Nothing too big--a little turn of the head to the past here, a nod to the future there. But you need to perform these maneuvers strictly from where you stand. In the present. With a nod of acknowledgement to the future, a glance back at the past . . . and that's all. You have to learn to let yourself glance.
It is unwise to pull out the photo albums for any more than twenty minutes at a time. In fact, twenty minutes is pushing it. You've got to know your boundaries. Exceptionally strong people can elbow their way through infrequent half hour intervals, but I don't recommend it. Slightly insane people attempt to write intervals. Those who succeed show the aftereffects. (I mean, come on, have you ever read A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius?) *Note: I'm not egging Eggers (pardon the pun, unless you liked it--then please, don't pardon it all), he just has a different sort of thought pattern than the rest of the world.
In fact, I admire memoirists. There has to be something cleansing about the experience, or else I think fewer people would do it. I mean, I know why I read memoir: Hey, Eggers is disenchanted with his life on occasion too. And sometimes his life sucks. I'm starting to feeling a little better about myself . . . wondering if I could make money off myself somehow . . . I won't go into the whole my stream-of-consciousness bit because I will lose you somewhere around the ophthalmologist office and myself somewhere around the pining for places that don't exist (oh Stars Hollow, would that you and your inhabitants were real).
Anyway, my ultimate conclusion (to save you the mental acrobatics I would otherwise make you endure) is that video CDs from my last semester of college are bad. Very, very bad.
Of course, this whole living-in-the-present thing does involve some tightrope acrobatics. Nothing too big--a little turn of the head to the past here, a nod to the future there. But you need to perform these maneuvers strictly from where you stand. In the present. With a nod of acknowledgement to the future, a glance back at the past . . . and that's all. You have to learn to let yourself glance.
It is unwise to pull out the photo albums for any more than twenty minutes at a time. In fact, twenty minutes is pushing it. You've got to know your boundaries. Exceptionally strong people can elbow their way through infrequent half hour intervals, but I don't recommend it. Slightly insane people attempt to write intervals. Those who succeed show the aftereffects. (I mean, come on, have you ever read A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius?) *Note: I'm not egging Eggers (pardon the pun, unless you liked it--then please, don't pardon it all), he just has a different sort of thought pattern than the rest of the world.
In fact, I admire memoirists. There has to be something cleansing about the experience, or else I think fewer people would do it. I mean, I know why I read memoir: Hey, Eggers is disenchanted with his life on occasion too. And sometimes his life sucks. I'm starting to feeling a little better about myself . . . wondering if I could make money off myself somehow . . . I won't go into the whole my stream-of-consciousness bit because I will lose you somewhere around the ophthalmologist office and myself somewhere around the pining for places that don't exist (oh Stars Hollow, would that you and your inhabitants were real).
Anyway, my ultimate conclusion (to save you the mental acrobatics I would otherwise make you endure) is that video CDs from my last semester of college are bad. Very, very bad.
Sunday, May 6, 2007
And My Job ALSO Includes
Babysitting my boss's tomato plants while she is in Cancun. Sounds relatively simple, right? No, I said babysit for a reason. In a bizarre twist of fate, the girl whose thumb could only be called black (certainly not green, unless perhaps it somehow got infected--giving my siblings another incident to talk about on my future birthdays) will for a week:
1. Fight the attack-killer twenty-five-plus-year-old miniblinds at work to let the sun shine upon the little darlings.
2. Water every other day--with a Dasani water bottle and at specific intervals over the course of twenty minutes.
3. And talk to the plants.
I kid you not. But at least my boss didn't request the same thing that, last year, she asked my co-worker to do: sing. Still--we're going to leave the radio on. Just in case.
1. Fight the attack-killer twenty-five-plus-year-old miniblinds at work to let the sun shine upon the little darlings.
2. Water every other day--with a Dasani water bottle and at specific intervals over the course of twenty minutes.
3. And talk to the plants.
I kid you not. But at least my boss didn't request the same thing that, last year, she asked my co-worker to do: sing. Still--we're going to leave the radio on. Just in case.
Wednesday, May 2, 2007
A More Accurate Job Description
As with so many of the other events in my life, I didn't know what I was getting into when I accepted my job. Human resources, I thought, sounded like a piece-of-cake profession. All it boiled down to was keeping people happy. I had no idea how many people I would need to keep happy: my boss, the current employees, the prospective employees, some of the past employees, "them" (those in the faraway HR department in the mother company--if anyone in my department says to give it to "them," I know exactly where to mail it . . . if only the same logic applied to the other omnipresent "them" people refer to outside of work) . . . not to mention the advertisers and the recruiters.
I am quite schizophrenic about my job at the moment: I either love, love, love it or loathe, loathe, loathe it. The middle ground, which I suppose would consist of me being rather impassive and noncommittal, remains untrodden. In the spirit of being forthcoming (though I don't know if anyone is actually reading my blog at the moment), I am trotting out how I would advertise for what my job actually entails. Here goes:
Company would like a talented, enthusiastic, optimistic, and tireless individual for the position of Human Resources assistant. This job entails keeping everyone within the company happy and completely informed of their insurance status at all times. Ideal candidates will have a working knowledge of HR, insurance, human nature, and the anatomy of the complaint. They will be happy in the face of surly coworkers, cheerful as they attempt to wrest past-due paperwork from un-obliging employees. They will happily enforce the rules without seeming to, and will feel genuine regret any time a person needs to be laid off. Unless, of course, nobody liked that particular employee. They will be prepared to talk to any member of the staff at any time of day for any given reason, including: offering fashion critiques, correcting spelling and grammar, answering all questions people pose, and listening to all decibel levels of moaning and groaning. They will finish and file all paperwork in a timely manner, respond to their e-mails as soon as they appear in the inbox, and will find time to help the receptionist when she is on break. Anyone who gets exhausted easily need not apply.
I am quite schizophrenic about my job at the moment: I either love, love, love it or loathe, loathe, loathe it. The middle ground, which I suppose would consist of me being rather impassive and noncommittal, remains untrodden. In the spirit of being forthcoming (though I don't know if anyone is actually reading my blog at the moment), I am trotting out how I would advertise for what my job actually entails. Here goes:
Company would like a talented, enthusiastic, optimistic, and tireless individual for the position of Human Resources assistant. This job entails keeping everyone within the company happy and completely informed of their insurance status at all times. Ideal candidates will have a working knowledge of HR, insurance, human nature, and the anatomy of the complaint. They will be happy in the face of surly coworkers, cheerful as they attempt to wrest past-due paperwork from un-obliging employees. They will happily enforce the rules without seeming to, and will feel genuine regret any time a person needs to be laid off. Unless, of course, nobody liked that particular employee. They will be prepared to talk to any member of the staff at any time of day for any given reason, including: offering fashion critiques, correcting spelling and grammar, answering all questions people pose, and listening to all decibel levels of moaning and groaning. They will finish and file all paperwork in a timely manner, respond to their e-mails as soon as they appear in the inbox, and will find time to help the receptionist when she is on break. Anyone who gets exhausted easily need not apply.
Monday, April 30, 2007
A Game of Dress-Up
Most girls played at it when we were young: tiptoeing up to an old cedar trunk, peering in, and pulling out clothes several sizes too large. My sisters and I used to love walking around in dresses infinitesimally too large for our little bodies, clomping around in antiquated platform shoes. We were being our mom, our aunt, a movie star . . . anybody who struck as older and more sophisticated, really.
But something I've come to realize is that I, as a girl, have never stopped playing dress-up. I have always dressed to fit a part. In junior high, I dressed the part of the geeky girl with a cool older sister. The many hand-me-downs I received may have added to the look: someone who looked as though she was trying too hard. And it seems marginally laughable because most of those clothes were too big.
In high school, I was somewhat schizophrenic when it came to my clothing habits: I dearly loved my preppy polos, but I also had a penchant for tacky t-shirts with all sorts of sayings and cartoon characters on them: one particular red Curious George shirt I still lament ever buying as a junior in high school. It seemed so trendy then. And it might have been. But I look at those pictures now and think tacky, tacky, tacky. Calling it kitschy would be a little too kind.
Once I hit college, I grabbed the nearest t-shirt and pair of jeans. As long as they were clean. And, let's be honest, sometimes if they weren't. College became a practice in avoidance--how often I could not do my laundry and get away with it. I never looked terribly grungy, but I never exerted a lot of effort taking care of my physical appearance.
I started thinking of this because I picked up some more work clothes on Friday, and again was struck by how much I feel like I'm playing dress-up--transitioning myself from Confuzzled the Collegiate to Confuzzled the Professionally Put-Together Human Resources Assistant. People think I look very stylish at work. It's an odd feeling for me, because I have never felt "in style." Au contraire--I often felt anti-style, and I didn't care.
But here I am, playing dress up again. Wondering if anyone will notice the little girl hiding behind the pinstripes.
But something I've come to realize is that I, as a girl, have never stopped playing dress-up. I have always dressed to fit a part. In junior high, I dressed the part of the geeky girl with a cool older sister. The many hand-me-downs I received may have added to the look: someone who looked as though she was trying too hard. And it seems marginally laughable because most of those clothes were too big.
In high school, I was somewhat schizophrenic when it came to my clothing habits: I dearly loved my preppy polos, but I also had a penchant for tacky t-shirts with all sorts of sayings and cartoon characters on them: one particular red Curious George shirt I still lament ever buying as a junior in high school. It seemed so trendy then. And it might have been. But I look at those pictures now and think tacky, tacky, tacky. Calling it kitschy would be a little too kind.
Once I hit college, I grabbed the nearest t-shirt and pair of jeans. As long as they were clean. And, let's be honest, sometimes if they weren't. College became a practice in avoidance--how often I could not do my laundry and get away with it. I never looked terribly grungy, but I never exerted a lot of effort taking care of my physical appearance.
I started thinking of this because I picked up some more work clothes on Friday, and again was struck by how much I feel like I'm playing dress-up--transitioning myself from Confuzzled the Collegiate to Confuzzled the Professionally Put-Together Human Resources Assistant. People think I look very stylish at work. It's an odd feeling for me, because I have never felt "in style." Au contraire--I often felt anti-style, and I didn't care.
But here I am, playing dress up again. Wondering if anyone will notice the little girl hiding behind the pinstripes.
Saturday, April 14, 2007
Something I Need to Admit
I'm going to admit something, right now, that I've never actually concretely, succinctly admitted to anyone before. Don't ask me why, but I'm feeling just a little bit confessional today. Not so confessional, mind you, that reading this blog post will make you want to cover your eyes, plug your ears, or do anything except shake your head sadly. Anyway, last fall I did something I vowed I would never do:
I put much of my life--and some of my dreams--on hold because I was dating a boy.
If you're reading this, odds are you know me. And if you know me, you know who I'm talking about. But anyway, my feet are getting a little sore from kicking myself over it. The way it works, I figure, is this: when you're outside of a relationship, it's quite easy to say, "I will never stop achieving what I want to achieve because I'm dating someone." At that point, you're watching everyone else in their relationships--all of the wheeling and dealing, the compromising, the sacrificing that is going on--and you're pretty sure that you're watching a whole lot of insanity in action.
And let's be honest. Sometimes you are. But sometimes you aren't--because, after all, a working relationship always ends up being a compromise. People give up some of their individual goals to form new ones together and see if those work out. But I jumped the gun on this last one, and my decisions to put some of my dreams and ambitions on hold came because I thought I was riding an express train when I was really on a bus inching forward in the middle of rush hour traffic. No wonder I experienced the bigger jolt when he applied the brakes!
Now I'm starting to wonder how I find my way back to my dreams. And now, even worse, I'm wondering what exactly my dreams are; an insatiable wanderlust keeps eating at me, but I have no idea how to satisfy it. So in the meantime, on this spring Saturday, I am going to do the only thing that brings me much relief at the moment: I'm going to clean. Like there's no tomorrow.
I put much of my life--and some of my dreams--on hold because I was dating a boy.
If you're reading this, odds are you know me. And if you know me, you know who I'm talking about. But anyway, my feet are getting a little sore from kicking myself over it. The way it works, I figure, is this: when you're outside of a relationship, it's quite easy to say, "I will never stop achieving what I want to achieve because I'm dating someone." At that point, you're watching everyone else in their relationships--all of the wheeling and dealing, the compromising, the sacrificing that is going on--and you're pretty sure that you're watching a whole lot of insanity in action.
And let's be honest. Sometimes you are. But sometimes you aren't--because, after all, a working relationship always ends up being a compromise. People give up some of their individual goals to form new ones together and see if those work out. But I jumped the gun on this last one, and my decisions to put some of my dreams and ambitions on hold came because I thought I was riding an express train when I was really on a bus inching forward in the middle of rush hour traffic. No wonder I experienced the bigger jolt when he applied the brakes!
Now I'm starting to wonder how I find my way back to my dreams. And now, even worse, I'm wondering what exactly my dreams are; an insatiable wanderlust keeps eating at me, but I have no idea how to satisfy it. So in the meantime, on this spring Saturday, I am going to do the only thing that brings me much relief at the moment: I'm going to clean. Like there's no tomorrow.
Tuesday, April 3, 2007
An Ode to Stoplights (sort of)
I am a fan of the eclectic in almost all forms of entertainment I choose: books, movies, TV. Especially TV. A guy-of-passing-acquaintance (who might have become a friend, but he made this faux pas among others) had the nerve the other day to mock one of my favorite havens of eclecticism: Gilmore Girls. "It's clever, I grant," he grated. "But there's just no charm in something so eclectic. There's no uniformity to it. It's just so random. How dare it be so random?"
In later discussions with a good friend, we have come to decide that much of its charm does, indeed, lie in its eclecticism. And, I added, that borderline feeling I always get when I'm watching something that's quirky and good. Good, quirky TV (and movies and books, for that matter) always feels a little bit surreal, but not quite so surreal that it's unbelievable: scenarios and places that make me feel that, though they probably wouldn't happen, they most certainly could.
Take, for instance, the stoplight in Stars Hollow. It's one of my favorite quirks, located just a couple blocks away from Luke's (although it seems farther away after an all-night dance marathon, as well it should). Anyway, it has detailed, step-by-step instructions about how to push the button and wait for the hand to change to a white walking figure and how to cross the street. It has always cracked me up. Seemed quite ridiculous, really. And like a very charming, surrealistic quirk.
But it's real. Those instructions exist! They are on the posts I wait by to cross the street every day after work to get to my bus stop to catch the 63 back to the lovely land of Centerville. In Bountiful, Utah! There are posts with those directions. Proof that life is full of quirks, after all. And that even though I have to resort to subterfuge to watch the Gilmores in my parents' house (my mom believes that Lorelai and Rory teach me all the wrong ideas about male/female relationships and has locked them from the cable, despite believing I'm a more or less mature 23-year-old . . . she still needs some control, I guess), I can still have a small taste of Stars Hollow in the middle of my own mundane life. How about that?
In later discussions with a good friend, we have come to decide that much of its charm does, indeed, lie in its eclecticism. And, I added, that borderline feeling I always get when I'm watching something that's quirky and good. Good, quirky TV (and movies and books, for that matter) always feels a little bit surreal, but not quite so surreal that it's unbelievable: scenarios and places that make me feel that, though they probably wouldn't happen, they most certainly could.
Take, for instance, the stoplight in Stars Hollow. It's one of my favorite quirks, located just a couple blocks away from Luke's (although it seems farther away after an all-night dance marathon, as well it should). Anyway, it has detailed, step-by-step instructions about how to push the button and wait for the hand to change to a white walking figure and how to cross the street. It has always cracked me up. Seemed quite ridiculous, really. And like a very charming, surrealistic quirk.
But it's real. Those instructions exist! They are on the posts I wait by to cross the street every day after work to get to my bus stop to catch the 63 back to the lovely land of Centerville. In Bountiful, Utah! There are posts with those directions. Proof that life is full of quirks, after all. And that even though I have to resort to subterfuge to watch the Gilmores in my parents' house (my mom believes that Lorelai and Rory teach me all the wrong ideas about male/female relationships and has locked them from the cable, despite believing I'm a more or less mature 23-year-old . . . she still needs some control, I guess), I can still have a small taste of Stars Hollow in the middle of my own mundane life. How about that?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)