Today is my last day of government employment. After 30 years in library management and public service, I will be self-employed. I'm insomniac, scared, sick to my stomach and....relieved. I don't know what I'm going to do in the long term, and I don't know if the short-term plans are realistic, personally or financially; but I do know that I've been whinging about my job and my life for far too long. It's time to start acting on my dreams.
A few months ago I asked the Universe for the perfect house-sitting gig. A month ago, the Universe responded. I will be taking care of the 98-year-old mother of a musician friend of a friend. E-mom is in good health (no need for drugs, able to walk and read and make her own bed) but frail, and her short-term memory is shot. She needs to have someone around 24/7 to make sure that she doesn't wander off, leave stoves burning, or otherwise harm herself. E-daughter travels for her gigs, and is only home for 5-9 days a month. They recently moved to a musicians' cooperative in the Ortiz Mountains, near Cerrillos NM.
I spent the last 10 days of September scoping it out. I applied for a leave of absence, but didn't expect to have it okayed, since it's not my Mom and not my emergency need. And I found out yesterday that, indeed, they will not okay it. So...this is it. I'm truly moving on.
In those initial days, most of my time was spent working on my taxes and going through papers. And driving E-mom to the doctor, to church, to Great Clips; shopping for groceries, cooking meals, unpacking, getting to know the co-op members, beginning to love my new home. The stars, the sunsets, the hummingbirds, the ever-present view of mountains and clouds, the peace: if only there were an ocean, it would be the home of my dreams.
The pace is slow: I start out with 40 minutes of Tai Chi Chih, followed by the NYT crossword and a cup of coffee on the back patio (aka, portale.) Then I log E-mom into her gmail and help her through the process of finding new messages, reading them, and writing back. I do my own projects, bobbing up to help her find the correct delete key. I finally cover up the numpad with a piece of paper, but she peeks beneath it to get confused again by the fact that the delete key there doesn't work.
Lunch is usually a salad or fruit and cheese. "I only eat two meals a day you know." "Yes, this is just a snack." The afternoon is for errands or more sitting around the house, reading, writing, cleaning. I bake a cake, make some bread. I try to locate a backup caregiver so I'm not stuck here 24/7. This is one of the things that E-daughter was unable to take care of before she left, and it has the entire cooperative irritated. They do not want to be my backup (and they can't be: they work and are often gone themselves), nor do they want me to be stranded and burned out within in a month.
Dinner is technically not my concern: it's cooked by coop members in turn and eaten communally at the casita/main house. But, I'm here, I have time, and I like to cook. Or rather, bake. So, I'm involved in that as well. And I'm enjoying the people. They are friendly, talented, supportive. One of them recently bought a tenor viol and promised me the use of it, along with some lessons and consort playing. You can't get much better than that, although I'm a little trepidatious: these are professional musicians after all. But they are kind, too.
The day ends back at the "pod" for some reading. A hug goodnight, and it's bedtime.
If I didn't feel like I needed to remain connected to my ABQ friends and play in musical groups, it would be an ideal retreat and time for healing. But, I do need to remain connected (don't I?), and I do need some alone time, other than the time I spend asleep. So, the big recurring problem is daily personal time. How do I get my exercise? (I want to walk in these mountains.) How do I manage to attend rehearsals and concerts? (It's a 45 minute commute to Santa Fe for the choral group, and 90 minutes to Albquerque for the Orchestra. And a 2-3 hour rehearsal in between). When will I be able to spend time with my boyfriend? Will I ever get laid again? Will I ever meet a love of my life? Do I want to?
I have to be realistic about these questions. But right now, it seems like this is what I need: a quiet life, a few congenial companions, a beautiful place to live. Maybe I should just drop the musical groups and attempts to maintain my friendships. They don't really need me or miss me. Although G stopped by for an afternoon, it's not something I can ask of people regularly. So, perhaps this is just another moving on. I left my friends in PDX, now I'm leaving my life in ABQ.
I've been back in ABQ for a few days, finishing up at work. Today is my final walkthrough (you walk through City Hall with a piece of paper and various departments sign it and take away your keys and computer accounts and insurance benefits and city ID, and then you are not allowed to go back to your job site.) It feels unreal: I'm no longer at home in my partially dismantled casita, I no longer have projects to do at work. I am finished with this phase of my life. And although the Director came by yesterday to make sure I really want to do this, and to give me a hug, I don't feel like anyone will miss me. C'est fini.
Showing posts with label unemployment. Show all posts
Showing posts with label unemployment. Show all posts
Friday, October 4, 2013
Saturday, April 28, 2012
Walking the labyrinth
On Friday, April 20, I got up at 6:30 am. I had a busy day ahead of me, with lots of driving. I was going to Dallas, OR, the county seat of Polk County, 15 miles west of Salem, which is 45 miles south of Portland. According to Mapquest, I had at least an hour and 20 minutes of driving to get there, but that didn't count rush hour delays. Since I was going to an interview at 10:15 am, I wanted to give myself plenty of time.
I left around 7:30, and got there at 9:10. This was not all bad. I had a chance to walk around the town and find the coffee shop. I noted that, right next to the library, there was a Mexican drive-thru, with handmade tamales. I promised myself to get some for D, who is a tamale fiend. (Any time we are in a town with a Mexican population, he is drawn to the women with the coolers. Speaking no English, short, middle-aged, straight dark hair straggling from rubber bands and hair nets, they are not particularly sales savvy. In fact, I am wary of street corner food, especially when I can't see the kitchen where it was prepared. At least with a food cart you can look into the operation. But it didn't matter to him. If the sign says Tamales, he buys them. And so far his trust has been justified.)
I was in Dallas for an interview, the fifth one this month. The first week of April I had 2 phone interviews: UNM and OSU. UNM invited me back, but I haven't heard boo from OSU. They were deadly dull to talk with, so I'm not sorry. Phone interviews are nerve-wracking enough when you can't read the facial cues. But there is a lot you can do to ease that, and the UNM folks were courteous enough to laugh at my jokes and explain the pauses while they wrote. Sadly, I had to withdraw my application: the job was part time with a low hourly wage, and the town of Gallup didn't seem to have much in the way of jobs for D.
The second week of April I interviewed with the City of Albuquerque. Another phone interview, and this group was also friendly. The job itself is exactly what I did at MCL, with a 50% pay cut. Since cost of living is about 18% cheaper in Albuquerque, it's a pretty big drop in pay. But I truly am in love with New Mexico, which is why I was applying there in the first place. The big skies, adobe houses, ruins, pueblos, rocks, high desert climate, sopapillas with honey and green chili stews....I could be happy there, I know.
The third week started with a drive up to Sno-Isle for my fourth interview this month, and my fourth interview there. As usual, I was more than qualified for the job. (And as usual, they didn't want me. I called them yesterday to check on the process and was told that, out of 80 applications and 9 interviews, they did not find a match, so they are re-posting the job. Lord knows what they are looking for. Someone who can balance a pile of dishes while tap-dancing and reciting Gunga Din, no doubt.)
So....Friday. I talked with the dude from the city, two upper level library employees, and a volunteer/member of the Friends. The job title: City Librarian. My experience earned me a seat at the table, but my guess is that the job will go to someone with an MLS. The woman who was interviewed before me was half my age (and therefore has half my experience), a little overweight, dressed in an unfashionable skirt outfit. She seemed pleasant and very librarian-ish. Lord knows how I seemed. I had a lot of questions about governance, stability, town finances. Nothing earth-shaking there.
Afterwards, I checked out the library. They are a store-front location, with a Senior Center at the back. Lots of wood, lots of shelves. Big tables, a reasonable number of computers, nicely separated kids area. The back entrance off the parking lot dumps you into a lobby where the giveaway racks live, as well as doors to the restrooms and senior center. I followed a possibly-homeless guy in: he went straight to the rest room and I never saw him again. The front door off the main street takes you down a long aisle, lined with 6-ft high bulletin boards and more giveaway racks. The room opens out at the end: circulation desk in front, children's area to the left behind the bulletin boards, adult fiction to the right, with magazine racks in the storefront windows. Non-fiction and computers are in the area to the immediate left of the circ desk, and the teen/media area is squished between that area and the children's section. It's a messy maze of shelving, all overflowing with books: some serious weeding and collection development would be in my future, not to mention some reorganizing. But, I like the crowded-bookstore feel, so maybe not.
I stopped by the reference desk, which is nestled behind the circulation desk, and talked restaurants. The reference lady gave a thumbs up to the tamales, and also promised me a fabulous shake from Washington Street pub, catty corner to the tamale shop. I purchase both ToGo and drove a few miles back to Baskett Slough. There I watched the geese and ate one of the tamales: still piping hot, nicely spiced, wrapped in foil and corn husks. The shake was not fabulous, but was quite acceptable, and it lasted me to Amity. I took the scenic route home.
En route, I fielded calls from D and from N. N was looking for a third carpooler to the RE overnight retreat at Menucha. I offered my services, and there was a fair amount of phone tag for the rest of the day.
At 2:30, D had his fourth interview for a sales job: this one was at a hotel lobby near Lake Oswego, and the manager wanted a chance to Meet The Wife and answer any questions I might have. D found that to be a positive thing. I think it's a little creepy, but I did like the opportunity to check out the job for myself. So, I stopped there before going home, and then I finished baking cookies for the retreat.
While I was packing for the overnight, I got The Call: Albuquerque is unofficially offering me the job. This means that of the 5 people they interviewed, I ranked #1. They are recommending me to the City Fathers, who will take up to 3 weeks to make a final decision. Then, I get the official offer and negotiate a start time. Thus, no giving notice or planning the move yet. And then I have a 6-month probation.
Okay, so now I'm going to a UU retreat, to confabulate with my fellow RE teachers and set the course for the next year. And my brain is whirling: I don't know where I'll be next year, I don't know what I want to do next year, I don't know if I want D to come with me or stay home and mind the store. I don't know if we can pull together for such a big move. I don't know if I can even afford the move, but I know I cannot afford to reject a full time job with benefits. My unemployment will not last forever.
I can't stop to think about this right now: I have to finish packing and pick up my passenger, who teaches the 11:15 5th grade class. I teach the 9:15 class, when I am not singing, so I've talked with her before. But I don't know her well. Now I learn that she's in a scooter because of CP, and that she has two Master's degrees and is embarking upon a third. She has a lot to say about accessibility, LGBT, and minority issues. She talks about her past, present, and future. I listen, and I feel guilty for my own unhappiness and stress. This is a woman who has dealt with more problems than I can count, and she is positive and creative and forward thinking. I know you can't compare burdens, and that each of us has unique situations, and it's offensive to reduce my colleague to the status of Brave Handicapped Person Who Gave Me Perspective. But liberal guilt, with all its inherent smugness, is part of my make up. Offensive or not, that's what I find myself doing.
Upon my arrival, I drop my sleeping bag on the single bed (no bunk beds for me) in the westernmost upstairs room in Ballard: this is my place of choice. It's furthest from the stairs, and you can hear the frogs in the pond. I realize I've left the toffee and cookies back home, and the D is probably gorging on them. Oh well. I grab a chip from treat table and make tracks to the labyrinth.
Menucha, in addition to having fabulous food and views, has this really wonderful labyrinth. The walk is flat basalt stone, lined with brick. The center flower is many-colored river rock, each color delineating parts of the petals, browns, blacks, pinks, greens, rusty reds. Rose bushes circle the space, with arched entrances to the east, west, north, south. Part of it is shaded by the surrounding trees, but the center is warm with sunshine.
A young woman is sitting cross-legged in the center, surrounded by papers and books, hunched forward over them, long brown hair hanging to the ground. She does not look up as I begin my walk, slowly circling back and forth and inward, thinking about Albuquerque, my newly renovated home, the difficult relationship with D, my exhaustion and depression, my commitments to people and projects and organizations, my finances. As I approach the center, the young woman deliberately gathers up her papers, stands, and walks off the labyrinth, due east, eschewing the winding path out, looking straight ahead. I am startled: I did not mean to drive her away. But I am grateful, for now I too can sit in the center and think.
I sit, I think, I empty my mind, I feel the sun, I listen to birds and the not-so-distance shouts of people and drones of yard equipment. I get up and walk out, still thinking. I bow to the labyrinth's center and say, "Namaste."
But I still don't know what I want to do. And, after 24 hours, much fun with my fellow UUs, and two more labyrinth walks, I still don't know. I don't think I ever will.
I left around 7:30, and got there at 9:10. This was not all bad. I had a chance to walk around the town and find the coffee shop. I noted that, right next to the library, there was a Mexican drive-thru, with handmade tamales. I promised myself to get some for D, who is a tamale fiend. (Any time we are in a town with a Mexican population, he is drawn to the women with the coolers. Speaking no English, short, middle-aged, straight dark hair straggling from rubber bands and hair nets, they are not particularly sales savvy. In fact, I am wary of street corner food, especially when I can't see the kitchen where it was prepared. At least with a food cart you can look into the operation. But it didn't matter to him. If the sign says Tamales, he buys them. And so far his trust has been justified.)
I was in Dallas for an interview, the fifth one this month. The first week of April I had 2 phone interviews: UNM and OSU. UNM invited me back, but I haven't heard boo from OSU. They were deadly dull to talk with, so I'm not sorry. Phone interviews are nerve-wracking enough when you can't read the facial cues. But there is a lot you can do to ease that, and the UNM folks were courteous enough to laugh at my jokes and explain the pauses while they wrote. Sadly, I had to withdraw my application: the job was part time with a low hourly wage, and the town of Gallup didn't seem to have much in the way of jobs for D.
The second week of April I interviewed with the City of Albuquerque. Another phone interview, and this group was also friendly. The job itself is exactly what I did at MCL, with a 50% pay cut. Since cost of living is about 18% cheaper in Albuquerque, it's a pretty big drop in pay. But I truly am in love with New Mexico, which is why I was applying there in the first place. The big skies, adobe houses, ruins, pueblos, rocks, high desert climate, sopapillas with honey and green chili stews....I could be happy there, I know.
The third week started with a drive up to Sno-Isle for my fourth interview this month, and my fourth interview there. As usual, I was more than qualified for the job. (And as usual, they didn't want me. I called them yesterday to check on the process and was told that, out of 80 applications and 9 interviews, they did not find a match, so they are re-posting the job. Lord knows what they are looking for. Someone who can balance a pile of dishes while tap-dancing and reciting Gunga Din, no doubt.)
So....Friday. I talked with the dude from the city, two upper level library employees, and a volunteer/member of the Friends. The job title: City Librarian. My experience earned me a seat at the table, but my guess is that the job will go to someone with an MLS. The woman who was interviewed before me was half my age (and therefore has half my experience), a little overweight, dressed in an unfashionable skirt outfit. She seemed pleasant and very librarian-ish. Lord knows how I seemed. I had a lot of questions about governance, stability, town finances. Nothing earth-shaking there.
Afterwards, I checked out the library. They are a store-front location, with a Senior Center at the back. Lots of wood, lots of shelves. Big tables, a reasonable number of computers, nicely separated kids area. The back entrance off the parking lot dumps you into a lobby where the giveaway racks live, as well as doors to the restrooms and senior center. I followed a possibly-homeless guy in: he went straight to the rest room and I never saw him again. The front door off the main street takes you down a long aisle, lined with 6-ft high bulletin boards and more giveaway racks. The room opens out at the end: circulation desk in front, children's area to the left behind the bulletin boards, adult fiction to the right, with magazine racks in the storefront windows. Non-fiction and computers are in the area to the immediate left of the circ desk, and the teen/media area is squished between that area and the children's section. It's a messy maze of shelving, all overflowing with books: some serious weeding and collection development would be in my future, not to mention some reorganizing. But, I like the crowded-bookstore feel, so maybe not.
I stopped by the reference desk, which is nestled behind the circulation desk, and talked restaurants. The reference lady gave a thumbs up to the tamales, and also promised me a fabulous shake from Washington Street pub, catty corner to the tamale shop. I purchase both ToGo and drove a few miles back to Baskett Slough. There I watched the geese and ate one of the tamales: still piping hot, nicely spiced, wrapped in foil and corn husks. The shake was not fabulous, but was quite acceptable, and it lasted me to Amity. I took the scenic route home.
En route, I fielded calls from D and from N. N was looking for a third carpooler to the RE overnight retreat at Menucha. I offered my services, and there was a fair amount of phone tag for the rest of the day.
At 2:30, D had his fourth interview for a sales job: this one was at a hotel lobby near Lake Oswego, and the manager wanted a chance to Meet The Wife and answer any questions I might have. D found that to be a positive thing. I think it's a little creepy, but I did like the opportunity to check out the job for myself. So, I stopped there before going home, and then I finished baking cookies for the retreat.
While I was packing for the overnight, I got The Call: Albuquerque is unofficially offering me the job. This means that of the 5 people they interviewed, I ranked #1. They are recommending me to the City Fathers, who will take up to 3 weeks to make a final decision. Then, I get the official offer and negotiate a start time. Thus, no giving notice or planning the move yet. And then I have a 6-month probation.
Okay, so now I'm going to a UU retreat, to confabulate with my fellow RE teachers and set the course for the next year. And my brain is whirling: I don't know where I'll be next year, I don't know what I want to do next year, I don't know if I want D to come with me or stay home and mind the store. I don't know if we can pull together for such a big move. I don't know if I can even afford the move, but I know I cannot afford to reject a full time job with benefits. My unemployment will not last forever.
I can't stop to think about this right now: I have to finish packing and pick up my passenger, who teaches the 11:15 5th grade class. I teach the 9:15 class, when I am not singing, so I've talked with her before. But I don't know her well. Now I learn that she's in a scooter because of CP, and that she has two Master's degrees and is embarking upon a third. She has a lot to say about accessibility, LGBT, and minority issues. She talks about her past, present, and future. I listen, and I feel guilty for my own unhappiness and stress. This is a woman who has dealt with more problems than I can count, and she is positive and creative and forward thinking. I know you can't compare burdens, and that each of us has unique situations, and it's offensive to reduce my colleague to the status of Brave Handicapped Person Who Gave Me Perspective. But liberal guilt, with all its inherent smugness, is part of my make up. Offensive or not, that's what I find myself doing.
Upon my arrival, I drop my sleeping bag on the single bed (no bunk beds for me) in the westernmost upstairs room in Ballard: this is my place of choice. It's furthest from the stairs, and you can hear the frogs in the pond. I realize I've left the toffee and cookies back home, and the D is probably gorging on them. Oh well. I grab a chip from treat table and make tracks to the labyrinth.
Menucha, in addition to having fabulous food and views, has this really wonderful labyrinth. The walk is flat basalt stone, lined with brick. The center flower is many-colored river rock, each color delineating parts of the petals, browns, blacks, pinks, greens, rusty reds. Rose bushes circle the space, with arched entrances to the east, west, north, south. Part of it is shaded by the surrounding trees, but the center is warm with sunshine.
A young woman is sitting cross-legged in the center, surrounded by papers and books, hunched forward over them, long brown hair hanging to the ground. She does not look up as I begin my walk, slowly circling back and forth and inward, thinking about Albuquerque, my newly renovated home, the difficult relationship with D, my exhaustion and depression, my commitments to people and projects and organizations, my finances. As I approach the center, the young woman deliberately gathers up her papers, stands, and walks off the labyrinth, due east, eschewing the winding path out, looking straight ahead. I am startled: I did not mean to drive her away. But I am grateful, for now I too can sit in the center and think.
I sit, I think, I empty my mind, I feel the sun, I listen to birds and the not-so-distance shouts of people and drones of yard equipment. I get up and walk out, still thinking. I bow to the labyrinth's center and say, "Namaste."
But I still don't know what I want to do. And, after 24 hours, much fun with my fellow UUs, and two more labyrinth walks, I still don't know. I don't think I ever will.
Wednesday, March 7, 2012
A sore throat is not poetic
I grow old, I grow old.
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.
Over 30 years ago, I read The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock, and the words have followed me around ever since. At the first reading, of course, I could not possibly understand what Eliot was going on about. I had not met commitment-phobes. I had not attended the empty cocktail parties, and I was at the beginning of my life's business of figuring out how to make a difference. While I never thought I would live a life of passionate meaning, I did not fear that my beautiful life would be a conglomeration of dreary moments. But now, I do fear. I count the meaningless, passionless accumulations, and I wonder how I can get those mermaids to sing to me.
I have measured out my life in coffee spoons.
In fact, my life is measured out in pixels, not coffee spoons. It's another age.
Today I woke up with an inflamed throat, an aching body, and a tottering step. I got up to feed Carbon and cancel on the Wednesday walk, but then D made me go back to bed and brought me coffee, toast, and the morning paper. The cat and dog joined me in their usual snuggly fashion. But I couldn't stay down.
Next thing you know, I'm staring at the iPad screen, checking out the e-mail, applying for jobs, tossing a losing word at Lexulous. Then I throw in the towel, put on a skirt, and join D downstairs. And for the next several hours, I sit with the laptop. Across the room, the 42" plasma TV screen is also going full blast. My home is a pixellated hell.
I check Craigslist for convection toaster ovens and cooktops. Troy and Brian check in: time to tile the downstairs shower and finish work on the French doors. The pilot light on the water heater has gone out AGAIN: Brian relights it, but the theory is that, at long last, it is giving up the ghost. Several weeks ago I was wondering which appliance was going to go next. Now I know.
In the rooms, the (workers) come and go, talking of....well, not of Michaelangelo.
D takes off for his Senior Forum for Collaborative Stories meeting. They are finding places to show I Am and facilitate discussions. He, at any rate, is trying to make a difference.
Meanwhile, I finish the applications and sign into Spark: Lnet needs an extra body to do some virtual reference. As I try to help someone find a microfilm reader/printer, a window pops up. I have 15 seconds to accept or reject the question. It reads, simply, "help." I ignore it, and it goes away, to return more emphatically: "Desperately needing help with something." It's not compassion that makes me accept it, but the fact that I am no longer helping anyone else. But, the questioner has given up, moved on, or found the answer somewhere else. Not my problem any more.
Thinking of the vagaries of computer-generated help, I decide to set up the application for Mortgage Assistance. It's been 2 weeks since my last attempt, and I'm trying to not get my hopes up. They say there are more openings this time around, but I've heard that before.
Okay: all filled out, ready for me to hit the Submit button at zero hour. I return to Spark and set up another Judge Judy. Wow, this one features an earthquake! It's like an original Star Trek episode: the camera shakes up and down and people get up and start running for the doors while JJ dives under her desk. It doesn't seem real, but apparently it is.
Ooof! 10 minutes to go. I'm getting hungry, but nothing sounds good. My throat is still raspy.
Do I dare to eat a peach?
Here we go! 11:59. The tiny heartless window pops up, informing me that there are no more funds for my county. I expected it, since I'm early, and try again. This time there are no funds AND the passwords don't match. It's 12:00. Again, no funds. I am too exhausted to be furious. Doggedly I try again. And again. And again. And....I'm in!
Feverishly, I fill out everything I can, print up the 8 pages of information, checklists, official forms. There is more to do but....I'M IN!
I get up to make chicken soup and settle down to watch TV and knit. The workers continue to check in with me, and I hear the whine of table saws in the distance. D calls several times on his errands. I send more messages into the ether. I read the responses. My head still hurts. Carbon and Simone joust for my attention, and I pet them.
The next thing you know, it's 4:30, the light is waning, the workers are winding up, and my day is over. Finally, I turn off the TV and set aside the laptop. I am too tired to pick up and I am confused: where did this mess come from? I just sat in front of glowing screens. I made some soup and some toast, cut up an orange, peeled some garlic. I gathered up the compost and stacked the dishes. I brought in the mail. WHERE DID THIS MESS COME FROM?
D blames me. He is unhappy, because housework is his job, and I am finally holding him to it. He says he wouldn't mind doing the work if I would just pick up after myself. Sick or well, my natural environment is the barnyard. Says he.
No, I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be! Am an attendant lord...
We are both searching for something and not finding it, and the small victories emphasize this. Meanwhile, D finds consolation in the pixels that produce Hearts games, and I find consolation in my own pixels. This, for example, found posted on Facebook. Or this. Or this. There are some amazing things in the world.
Oy, now I have laryngitis. I think I'll take my cold to bed and hope for a more meaningful day tomorrow. Or, at any rate, for a less raw throat.
And indeed there will be time.
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.
Over 30 years ago, I read The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock, and the words have followed me around ever since. At the first reading, of course, I could not possibly understand what Eliot was going on about. I had not met commitment-phobes. I had not attended the empty cocktail parties, and I was at the beginning of my life's business of figuring out how to make a difference. While I never thought I would live a life of passionate meaning, I did not fear that my beautiful life would be a conglomeration of dreary moments. But now, I do fear. I count the meaningless, passionless accumulations, and I wonder how I can get those mermaids to sing to me.
I have measured out my life in coffee spoons.
In fact, my life is measured out in pixels, not coffee spoons. It's another age.
Today I woke up with an inflamed throat, an aching body, and a tottering step. I got up to feed Carbon and cancel on the Wednesday walk, but then D made me go back to bed and brought me coffee, toast, and the morning paper. The cat and dog joined me in their usual snuggly fashion. But I couldn't stay down.
Next thing you know, I'm staring at the iPad screen, checking out the e-mail, applying for jobs, tossing a losing word at Lexulous. Then I throw in the towel, put on a skirt, and join D downstairs. And for the next several hours, I sit with the laptop. Across the room, the 42" plasma TV screen is also going full blast. My home is a pixellated hell.
I check Craigslist for convection toaster ovens and cooktops. Troy and Brian check in: time to tile the downstairs shower and finish work on the French doors. The pilot light on the water heater has gone out AGAIN: Brian relights it, but the theory is that, at long last, it is giving up the ghost. Several weeks ago I was wondering which appliance was going to go next. Now I know.
In the rooms, the (workers) come and go, talking of....well, not of Michaelangelo.
D takes off for his Senior Forum for Collaborative Stories meeting. They are finding places to show I Am and facilitate discussions. He, at any rate, is trying to make a difference.
Meanwhile, I finish the applications and sign into Spark: Lnet needs an extra body to do some virtual reference. As I try to help someone find a microfilm reader/printer, a window pops up. I have 15 seconds to accept or reject the question. It reads, simply, "help." I ignore it, and it goes away, to return more emphatically: "Desperately needing help with something." It's not compassion that makes me accept it, but the fact that I am no longer helping anyone else. But, the questioner has given up, moved on, or found the answer somewhere else. Not my problem any more.
Thinking of the vagaries of computer-generated help, I decide to set up the application for Mortgage Assistance. It's been 2 weeks since my last attempt, and I'm trying to not get my hopes up. They say there are more openings this time around, but I've heard that before.
Okay: all filled out, ready for me to hit the Submit button at zero hour. I return to Spark and set up another Judge Judy. Wow, this one features an earthquake! It's like an original Star Trek episode: the camera shakes up and down and people get up and start running for the doors while JJ dives under her desk. It doesn't seem real, but apparently it is.
Ooof! 10 minutes to go. I'm getting hungry, but nothing sounds good. My throat is still raspy.
Do I dare to eat a peach?
Here we go! 11:59. The tiny heartless window pops up, informing me that there are no more funds for my county. I expected it, since I'm early, and try again. This time there are no funds AND the passwords don't match. It's 12:00. Again, no funds. I am too exhausted to be furious. Doggedly I try again. And again. And again. And....I'm in!
Feverishly, I fill out everything I can, print up the 8 pages of information, checklists, official forms. There is more to do but....I'M IN!
I get up to make chicken soup and settle down to watch TV and knit. The workers continue to check in with me, and I hear the whine of table saws in the distance. D calls several times on his errands. I send more messages into the ether. I read the responses. My head still hurts. Carbon and Simone joust for my attention, and I pet them.
The next thing you know, it's 4:30, the light is waning, the workers are winding up, and my day is over. Finally, I turn off the TV and set aside the laptop. I am too tired to pick up and I am confused: where did this mess come from? I just sat in front of glowing screens. I made some soup and some toast, cut up an orange, peeled some garlic. I gathered up the compost and stacked the dishes. I brought in the mail. WHERE DID THIS MESS COME FROM?
D blames me. He is unhappy, because housework is his job, and I am finally holding him to it. He says he wouldn't mind doing the work if I would just pick up after myself. Sick or well, my natural environment is the barnyard. Says he.
No, I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be! Am an attendant lord...
We are both searching for something and not finding it, and the small victories emphasize this. Meanwhile, D finds consolation in the pixels that produce Hearts games, and I find consolation in my own pixels. This, for example, found posted on Facebook. Or this. Or this. There are some amazing things in the world.
Oy, now I have laryngitis. I think I'll take my cold to bed and hope for a more meaningful day tomorrow. Or, at any rate, for a less raw throat.
And indeed there will be time.
Thursday, February 23, 2012
The Mortgage Assistance Boogie
Two weeks ago I talked to the folks at the Hope Hotline. (People keep pointing out articles about all the assistance that is out there for folks in imminent danger of foreclosure.) I didn't read the page carefully enough. It's a counseling service, and all they did was tell me what I already know: I cannot afford my mortgage payments. They gave me the scoop on foreclosure laws in Oregon and advised me to sell my home.
So I sent out the following cri du coeur:
I am sending this message to friends and acquaintances in an effort to cast as wide a net as possible. As most of you know, I was laid off last year. I have been receiving unemployment, renting out the studio that is attached to the house, working on call and using my savings to cover my mortgage. I am now tapped out. I am looking at the very real possibility of foreclosure.
This is, of course, a common story right now.
The next step in my unemployment saga: in a last-ditch effort to cover my mortgagepayments, we are planning to move into the studio and rent out the rest of the house. This means a major downsizing. I will be checking in with estate sale folks, but thought I'd let my friends and acquaintances know: lots of stuff is up for grabs. Antiques, tables, chairs, dishes, books, CDs, coffee tables, desks, chairs, rugs, TVs, shelving, linens, quilts (including a featherbed.) I will probably have a friends "pre-sale" open house in the next few weeks, but feel free to come by and look around, or ask me about specifics. If there is anything you have been coveting over the last 20 years, now's the time to ask!
Also, if you know of any possible tenants who don't mind living with the landlord next door, please send them my contact number. I would so much prefer someone with built-in references to the Craigslist thing. I'm thinking of a March 1 start date.
Now, as I was reaching out to my friends and acquaintances, I was still looking for government assistance. The place to go is apparently homeowerhelp.com. I have visited it at intervals since I was laid off in January 2011. The first time I applied for assistance, I was informed that, since I did a refinance in April 2009, I was not eligible. (The drop-dead date for a refi is January, 2009.) I looked at it again on Feb 6, after my cheery chat with the Hopeful folks. It has been an exercise in frustration from that moment forward.
Currently, they have a 2-week cycle for applying for assistance. I tried on Feb 8, and again yesterday. I've hovered, waiting for the noon start time to start my application. By 12:01, I've finished creating my account, I hit the submit button and BOOM! I get the window that says they are no longer accepting applications and I need to wait until the start of the next cycle. WTF?
I send a message to the help folks and they say, yeah, our funds get used up really quickly. Really? in 1 minute? Can anyone else type faster than me? Then they tell me to contact the HUD people. I do, but they don't get back to me.
I do still have unemployment, until July. That brings in about $2K a month. The airbnb brought in close to $21K last year, which is an average of $1,700 a month. It has gone down in recent months, however. Those two things cover mortgage. Then there is $600 for health insurance and about $2K for living expenses (utilities, food, phone, insurance, miscellaneous.) So I've covered that with the 401K, which is now kaput. I don't know what I'll do about taxes on all that. I'm only earning around $500 a month with the oncall work, and some of that reduces the UI benefit.
So, it's pretty bleak. Basically, my expenses need to be cut drastically. The utilities are a big chunk, and I have tried without success to reduce them. If I cut my expenses to $1K and get a job with benefits, I will still need rental income of at least $1200 a month.
Since I sent out my cri de désespoir, I have received gifts of money from friends and family, and that is going to pay off the medical debts and cover mortgage for about 2 months, as well as let me finish the shed for habitation. Friends also found a charming family to rent the upstairs, and today the workmen are busily sawing and hammering. We have begun winnowing our belongings, pending an estate sale in the near future. If necessary, I'll be in good shape to sell the house. It's not my first choice, but it's not the end of the world. And I am puddly with tears of gratitude for the friends and family who send up prayers, send me assistance and ideas, and generally let me know that, in their eyes, I matter.
Make sure you have reviewed our FAQ page and our Application Video to learn more about the program. If you still have questions about the MPA-U Application process, write us back and we will address them as soon as possible.
So I sent out the following cri du coeur:
I am sending this message to friends and acquaintances in an effort to cast as wide a net as possible. As most of you know, I was laid off last year. I have been receiving unemployment, renting out the studio that is attached to the house, working on call and using my savings to cover my mortgage. I am now tapped out. I am looking at the very real possibility of foreclosure.
This is, of course, a common story right now.
The next step in my unemployment saga: in a last-ditch effort to cover my mortgagepayments, we are planning to move into the studio and rent out the rest of the house. This means a major downsizing. I will be checking in with estate sale folks, but thought I'd let my friends and acquaintances know: lots of stuff is up for grabs. Antiques, tables, chairs, dishes, books, CDs, coffee tables, desks, chairs, rugs, TVs, shelving, linens, quilts (including a featherbed.) I will probably have a friends "pre-sale" open house in the next few weeks, but feel free to come by and look around, or ask me about specifics. If there is anything you have been coveting over the last 20 years, now's the time to ask!
Also, if you know of any possible tenants who don't mind living with the landlord next door, please send them my contact number. I would so much prefer someone with built-in references to the Craigslist thing. I'm thinking of a March 1 start date.
Now, as I was reaching out to my friends and acquaintances, I was still looking for government assistance. The place to go is apparently homeowerhelp.com. I have visited it at intervals since I was laid off in January 2011. The first time I applied for assistance, I was informed that, since I did a refinance in April 2009, I was not eligible. (The drop-dead date for a refi is January, 2009.) I looked at it again on Feb 6, after my cheery chat with the Hopeful folks. It has been an exercise in frustration from that moment forward.
Currently, they have a 2-week cycle for applying for assistance. I tried on Feb 8, and again yesterday. I've hovered, waiting for the noon start time to start my application. By 12:01, I've finished creating my account, I hit the submit button and BOOM! I get the window that says they are no longer accepting applications and I need to wait until the start of the next cycle. WTF?
I send a message to the help folks and they say, yeah, our funds get used up really quickly. Really? in 1 minute? Can anyone else type faster than me? Then they tell me to contact the HUD people. I do, but they don't get back to me.
I do still have unemployment, until July. That brings in about $2K a month. The airbnb brought in close to $21K last year, which is an average of $1,700 a month. It has gone down in recent months, however. Those two things cover mortgage. Then there is $600 for health insurance and about $2K for living expenses (utilities, food, phone, insurance, miscellaneous.) So I've covered that with the 401K, which is now kaput. I don't know what I'll do about taxes on all that. I'm only earning around $500 a month with the oncall work, and some of that reduces the UI benefit.
So, it's pretty bleak. Basically, my expenses need to be cut drastically. The utilities are a big chunk, and I have tried without success to reduce them. If I cut my expenses to $1K and get a job with benefits, I will still need rental income of at least $1200 a month.
Since I sent out my cri de désespoir, I have received gifts of money from friends and family, and that is going to pay off the medical debts and cover mortgage for about 2 months, as well as let me finish the shed for habitation. Friends also found a charming family to rent the upstairs, and today the workmen are busily sawing and hammering. We have begun winnowing our belongings, pending an estate sale in the near future. If necessary, I'll be in good shape to sell the house. It's not my first choice, but it's not the end of the world. And I am puddly with tears of gratitude for the friends and family who send up prayers, send me assistance and ideas, and generally let me know that, in their eyes, I matter.
What more could I want?
For those with strong nerves, I hereby present....The Mortgage Assistance Boogie:
Feb 6, 2012, from me to Homeownerhelp.com
Hi, I've been going through the website, and it appears that there are no funds for Multnomah County residents. Can you advise me as to the best way to apply for federal dollars to help me avoid foreclosure. I have been unemployed for a year now, and my income is insufficient to cover my expenses.
I hear a lot about programs of assistance, but I can't seem to find a way to apply for them.
yours in desperation
Feb 6, 2012, from homeownerhelp.com to me
Thank you for contacting our office. Multnomah still has assistance however the cycle’s available slots are filled. The next cycle is scheduled to open on Wednesday February 8th at noon. Please know that cycles will be opening every two weeks until funds are gone.
Feb 8, 2012, from me to homeownerhelp.com
I am trying to apply, and I keep getting a message that my county is not accepting applications. Did I get the date/time wrong?
Feb 8, 2012, from homeownerhelp.com
At this time, there are only limited opportunities for the MPA-U Program in your county. Due to the great demand in your area, available slots in your county were filled extremely quickly. Our program is working to increase the number of slots that become available in your county. We expect more than 300 statewide slots to be available per cycle in future months.
You will be able to attempt an application again on Wednesday February 22nd at noon. If you are in danger of foreclosure, contact a HUD Certified Counseling Agency in your area for help.
Make sure you have reviewed our FAQ page and our Application Video to learn more about the program. If you still have questions about the MPA-U Application process, write us back and we will address them as soon as possible.
Feb 8, 2012, from me to homeownerhelp
This is very frustrating. You and the web site both said the cycle began at noon today, and I logged in at 11:57 am and started applying. How was it possible for all the slots to be filled by the time I finished typing?
Should I have started at midnight? What can I do on 2/22 to catch that fleeting window of opportunity?
For those with strong nerves, I hereby present....The Mortgage Assistance Boogie:
Feb 6, 2012, from me to Homeownerhelp.com
Hi, I've been going through the website, and it appears that there are no funds for Multnomah County residents. Can you advise me as to the best way to apply for federal dollars to help me avoid foreclosure. I have been unemployed for a year now, and my income is insufficient to cover my expenses.
I hear a lot about programs of assistance, but I can't seem to find a way to apply for them.
yours in desperation
Feb 6, 2012, from homeownerhelp.com to me
Thank you for contacting our office. Multnomah still has assistance however the cycle’s available slots are filled. The next cycle is scheduled to open on Wednesday February 8th at noon. Please know that cycles will be opening every two weeks until funds are gone.
Feb 8, 2012, from me to homeownerhelp.com
I am trying to apply, and I keep getting a message that my county is not accepting applications. Did I get the date/time wrong?
Feb 8, 2012, from homeownerhelp.com
At this time, there are only limited opportunities for the MPA-U Program in your county. Due to the great demand in your area, available slots in your county were filled extremely quickly. Our program is working to increase the number of slots that become available in your county. We expect more than 300 statewide slots to be available per cycle in future months.
You will be able to attempt an application again on Wednesday February 22nd at noon. If you are in danger of foreclosure, contact a HUD Certified Counseling Agency in your area for help.
Make sure you have reviewed our FAQ page and our Application Video to learn more about the program. If you still have questions about the MPA-U Application process, write us back and we will address them as soon as possible.
Feb 8, 2012, from me to homeownerhelp
This is very frustrating. You and the web site both said the cycle began at noon today, and I logged in at 11:57 am and started applying. How was it possible for all the slots to be filled by the time I finished typing?
Should I have started at midnight? What can I do on 2/22 to catch that fleeting window of opportunity?
I am in imminent danger of losing my home of 20 years, and it rubs salt in the wound when people tell me there are programs to help me and then slam the door in my face and say, "just kidding."
I have searched the various websites and asked for assistance, and all it does is make me vulnerable to salesmen and scammers. I have worked since I was 14 and been a careful and responsible budgeter. And I find myself being treated like a lowlife and shuffled through insulting processes. I know you cannot help this, and I appreciate the prompt responses to my cries in the dark, but is there any way these systems can be less frustrating and soul-destroying? Is there anyone I can talk to?
Feb 8, 2012, from homeownershelp.com
We understand this is frustrating and we are working to increase slots available for your county. There is great demand not only in your county, but the state of Oregon. At this time there is no way of guaranteeing that you receive a spot as this process must be fair for all homeowners that need the assistance due to their unemployment hardship.
I would highly recommend contacting a HUD Certified Counselor as these are non-profits and approved by the Federal Government. Also you are welcome to contact our customer service phone number at 503-986-2025.
Feb 8, 2012 From me to HUD (no reply received)
I have been referred to this address by the OHSI contacts. I have been trying, in vain, to apply for Mortgage Assistance and for Mortgage reduction. I was told that the cycle for the former would open at noon today, and I was ready and applying at that time, only to be told by the website that the cycle had been closed. I must now wait until 2/22 for the start of the the next cycle, and there is no guarantee, or even hope, that the same thing won't happen.
Is there someone who can offer me concrete assistance? I keep hearing that aid is available for people in my situation, and that no one is applying for the aid and it is going begging for people who need it.
Well, I need it. I was laid off a year ago. Unemployment is providing less than half of my monthly expenses. I have only been able to find temporary jobs, despite my 27 years of continuous high-level employment and many skills. I have used up all my savings. I am paying $600 a month for minimal health insurance. I refinanced in April 2009, so I am not eligible for some of the assistance programs. Being unemployed, no one will consider another refinance. While the mortgage is my only debt, I cannot afford it, and am in the position of having to sell my home of 18 years or go into foreclosure.
Please. I know this is a common story, but I am not a statistic. I do not know where to turn or what to do. Can someone help, or am I just sending this despair into the ether?
Feb 22, 2012 From homeownerhelp to me, in response to a message to their site
Thank you for contacting our office. I am sorry about your situation and I am sure the funds are needed. We did open the cycle starting at 12pm today. These slots were taken in less than a minute today and that is why you received that message. At this time, there are only limited opportunities for the MPA-U Program in your county. Due to the great demand in your area, available slots in your county were filled extremely quickly. Our program is working to increase the number of slots that become available in your county. We expect more than 300 statewide slots to be available per cycle in future months.
You will be able to attempt an application again at the beginning of a new application cycle when one begins. If you are in danger of foreclosure, contact a HUD Certified Counseling Agency in your area for help.
Feb 8, 2012, from homeownershelp.com
We understand this is frustrating and we are working to increase slots available for your county. There is great demand not only in your county, but the state of Oregon. At this time there is no way of guaranteeing that you receive a spot as this process must be fair for all homeowners that need the assistance due to their unemployment hardship.
I would highly recommend contacting a HUD Certified Counselor as these are non-profits and approved by the Federal Government. Also you are welcome to contact our customer service phone number at 503-986-2025.
Feb 8, 2012 From me to HUD (no reply received)
I have been referred to this address by the OHSI contacts. I have been trying, in vain, to apply for Mortgage Assistance and for Mortgage reduction. I was told that the cycle for the former would open at noon today, and I was ready and applying at that time, only to be told by the website that the cycle had been closed. I must now wait until 2/22 for the start of the the next cycle, and there is no guarantee, or even hope, that the same thing won't happen.
Is there someone who can offer me concrete assistance? I keep hearing that aid is available for people in my situation, and that no one is applying for the aid and it is going begging for people who need it.
Well, I need it. I was laid off a year ago. Unemployment is providing less than half of my monthly expenses. I have only been able to find temporary jobs, despite my 27 years of continuous high-level employment and many skills. I have used up all my savings. I am paying $600 a month for minimal health insurance. I refinanced in April 2009, so I am not eligible for some of the assistance programs. Being unemployed, no one will consider another refinance. While the mortgage is my only debt, I cannot afford it, and am in the position of having to sell my home of 18 years or go into foreclosure.
Please. I know this is a common story, but I am not a statistic. I do not know where to turn or what to do. Can someone help, or am I just sending this despair into the ether?
Feb 22, 2012 From homeownerhelp to me, in response to a message to their site
Thank you for contacting our office. I am sorry about your situation and I am sure the funds are needed. We did open the cycle starting at 12pm today. These slots were taken in less than a minute today and that is why you received that message. At this time, there are only limited opportunities for the MPA-U Program in your county. Due to the great demand in your area, available slots in your county were filled extremely quickly. Our program is working to increase the number of slots that become available in your county. We expect more than 300 statewide slots to be available per cycle in future months.
You will be able to attempt an application again at the beginning of a new application cycle when one begins. If you are in danger of foreclosure, contact a HUD Certified Counseling Agency in your area for help.
Make sure you have reviewed our FAQ page and our Application Video to learn more about the program. If you still have questions about the MPA-U Application process, write us back and we will address them as soon as possible.
Wednesday, February 22, 2012
"You don't play the violin"
We were in my living room, practicing for the first time. We had been asked to provide background music for the church book sale, the Friday night "members-only" event. She had located the music, waltzes and reels bound into a spiral notebook format. Some simplified Strauss and Lehar, some American fiddle classics I recognized from music nights at A's. It was transcribed for cello and violin, both parts on the same page. I had looked through about half of it: easy stuff, I could sight-read it all, if not play up to tempo. I made a copy for myself, sent her a few pieces of my own music, and we set up the first rehearsal.
The night did not start out well. I've been in more of a funk than usual, fighting with D, making piles of clothes that no longer fit my fat body, planning the downsize and remodel, doing housework, lying on the couch knitting and watching Judge Judy, Leverage, and NCIS reruns. Yesterday I did get out for an early morning walk and meditation (more about that another time.) And I planted the bagged, bare-root natives I had picked up on Saturday, praying that the upcoming storm would water them back from the dead. The day was not a total loss, but I was still in a funk.
So, I was unprepared for the rehearsal I myself had set up. Looking through my e-mail, I came across hers: "Where's your address, oh there it is, see you in a few hours." Oy. I sent a quick reply: "Sounds good, give me a call when you get here and I'll come out to light your way." The path lights have been burned out for months, just one brave little bulb to fight the darkness and show the way. And, we have a guest in the front studio, which seems the obvious entry point.
Sure enough, she comes to the front door. I'm set up, practicing in the living room, and I hear a knock at the communicating door to the studio. Our guest calls to me that I have a visitor. I heave aside the second communicating door (soon to be attached properly), and am just in time to see K's back as she disappears out the front gate. Grabbing a flashlight, I scurry out front, calling her name. She is nowhere to be seen. I wait a bit, calling and looking.
I'm back in the living room, searching for her phone number, when I hear another knock. This time, I bow to the inevitable and let K in through the studio. Our guest is gracious (she is on her way out for the night.)
We get set up, and the first hint of trouble arises: she insists that I use her electric tuner for each string. I have never used a tuner. I usually get the A and then tune the strings to each other by ear. I wrestle with the tuner. It tells me I'm sharp when I think I'm just right. I work my way up and down the strings, trying to figure it out. Apparently the problem is that I am not bowing properly. I am given a little lesson in bowing.
We start playing. I am sight-reading, just wanting to get a sense of the piece, and I am missing notes and rhythms. She is interrupting to make me do it right, she is telling me how to bow, how to play, how to match her style. She asks if I know 3rd position or can find a way to not cross strings so much. This is all basic stuff. I feel like a fourth grader with an impatient teacher. I say, let's try one of the waltzes. Oy, this one has notes high up on the E string. I am missing them. We struggle through and she says, "This isn't going to work. You don't play the violin."
Now, I am not enjoying playing with her, so I don't understand what happens next. I feel a warm tingling pain deep at my core, like I've received a body blow without noticing it and am now dealing with the aftermath. I give a wobbly smile and say, "Okay, I understand." She goes on about how she likes me personally, but she's a performer and I am not. I mutter something about having played since 4th grade and mention my 30 years' experience playing in orchestras, and she waves that aside: she is a professional and cannot work with an obvious amateur. I say again, "I understand," and she says, "Are you going to cry when I leave?" I say, "Probably."
I am struggling with the awkwardness of getting this woman, whom I like, out of my house. She wants to regain a social footing. "Can I see your house? D is so proud of it." No, you cannot see my house, it's in disarray, we are packing for an estate sale and prepping to move out. She has forgotten about my unemployment and is shocked: "You read about this happening to people, I didn't realize you were One Of Them." The tears I have been forcing back break loose.
This is a nightmare.
But I still don't understand the visceral response. I haven't played violin for several years now, other than little get-togethers with friends. I've never pretended to be a professional. I've never, I thought, had my ego attached to being a musician: it's just something I do, something I love, something I am. I've always had talent enough to get through, and usually that's enough for me. Work at it? Not me. So why did her words strike at my core? Why did I spend the rest of the evening curled around the aching spot in my chest? Why am I crying this morning?
I think I am just tired of the body blows.
The night did not start out well. I've been in more of a funk than usual, fighting with D, making piles of clothes that no longer fit my fat body, planning the downsize and remodel, doing housework, lying on the couch knitting and watching Judge Judy, Leverage, and NCIS reruns. Yesterday I did get out for an early morning walk and meditation (more about that another time.) And I planted the bagged, bare-root natives I had picked up on Saturday, praying that the upcoming storm would water them back from the dead. The day was not a total loss, but I was still in a funk.
So, I was unprepared for the rehearsal I myself had set up. Looking through my e-mail, I came across hers: "Where's your address, oh there it is, see you in a few hours." Oy. I sent a quick reply: "Sounds good, give me a call when you get here and I'll come out to light your way." The path lights have been burned out for months, just one brave little bulb to fight the darkness and show the way. And, we have a guest in the front studio, which seems the obvious entry point.
Sure enough, she comes to the front door. I'm set up, practicing in the living room, and I hear a knock at the communicating door to the studio. Our guest calls to me that I have a visitor. I heave aside the second communicating door (soon to be attached properly), and am just in time to see K's back as she disappears out the front gate. Grabbing a flashlight, I scurry out front, calling her name. She is nowhere to be seen. I wait a bit, calling and looking.
I'm back in the living room, searching for her phone number, when I hear another knock. This time, I bow to the inevitable and let K in through the studio. Our guest is gracious (she is on her way out for the night.)
We get set up, and the first hint of trouble arises: she insists that I use her electric tuner for each string. I have never used a tuner. I usually get the A and then tune the strings to each other by ear. I wrestle with the tuner. It tells me I'm sharp when I think I'm just right. I work my way up and down the strings, trying to figure it out. Apparently the problem is that I am not bowing properly. I am given a little lesson in bowing.
We start playing. I am sight-reading, just wanting to get a sense of the piece, and I am missing notes and rhythms. She is interrupting to make me do it right, she is telling me how to bow, how to play, how to match her style. She asks if I know 3rd position or can find a way to not cross strings so much. This is all basic stuff. I feel like a fourth grader with an impatient teacher. I say, let's try one of the waltzes. Oy, this one has notes high up on the E string. I am missing them. We struggle through and she says, "This isn't going to work. You don't play the violin."
Now, I am not enjoying playing with her, so I don't understand what happens next. I feel a warm tingling pain deep at my core, like I've received a body blow without noticing it and am now dealing with the aftermath. I give a wobbly smile and say, "Okay, I understand." She goes on about how she likes me personally, but she's a performer and I am not. I mutter something about having played since 4th grade and mention my 30 years' experience playing in orchestras, and she waves that aside: she is a professional and cannot work with an obvious amateur. I say again, "I understand," and she says, "Are you going to cry when I leave?" I say, "Probably."
I am struggling with the awkwardness of getting this woman, whom I like, out of my house. She wants to regain a social footing. "Can I see your house? D is so proud of it." No, you cannot see my house, it's in disarray, we are packing for an estate sale and prepping to move out. She has forgotten about my unemployment and is shocked: "You read about this happening to people, I didn't realize you were One Of Them." The tears I have been forcing back break loose.
This is a nightmare.
But I still don't understand the visceral response. I haven't played violin for several years now, other than little get-togethers with friends. I've never pretended to be a professional. I've never, I thought, had my ego attached to being a musician: it's just something I do, something I love, something I am. I've always had talent enough to get through, and usually that's enough for me. Work at it? Not me. So why did her words strike at my core? Why did I spend the rest of the evening curled around the aching spot in my chest? Why am I crying this morning?
I think I am just tired of the body blows.
Monday, February 13, 2012
Locks and Dams
The river of steel, aka morning traffic, has slowed to a standstill. I can see a long way, from red light to red light, and clearly each little lock and dam is doing its job of back filling the slot, releasing, back filling, releasing. It is going to be a long commute.
Back in the day, we used to go for Sunday drives to Lock and Dam 18, near Oquawka on the Mississippi. We'd watch the barges drift into the lock. The first barge would bump against the far gate, and the near gate would close behind the last barge, river water swirling around the entry and spewing through the cracks in little waterfalls. The water would rise or fall, depending on the direction of travel, barges doing their vertical float until they were released at the new level. Other barges lined up on the river, awaiting their turn. We had picnics on the nearby beach and looked for geodes. We sang Barges, and White Coral Bells.
After I graduated from college and moved out west, I returned for biennial Christmas visits, and a trip to the River was de rigueur. Sometimes we went to watch the bald eagles soar above the river at the Keokuk dam. Sometimes we went to Nauvoo for bleu cheese and a visit to the Mormon blacksmith shop. Lock and Dam 18 was the usual goal, however. We could stop by L's health center and take her out for lunch, and we could check out the covered bridge at Gladstone (aka, Happy Rock.)
The sky was usually a white-grey. The segments of empty woods lining the river were black bare spikes, sometimes standing in pitted snow, sometimes standing in drifts of grey-brown leaves and writhing roots. The river was a cold iron grey, with chunks of river ice pushed up onto the banks. On good days, the chilly winter sun and pale blue sky added color and shadows to an otherwise bleak landscape. I was always reminded of the Wind in the Willows, where Mole makes his solo expedition to the Wild Wood. I too liked the earth, shorn of its leafy finery, the bones fine and strong and simple.
Now, sadly, you can't go to the locks on the river. Since 9/11, they have been declared off-limits, as potential sites for terrorist activity.
Years later, I discovered the Ballard Locks, north of Seattle. They were much more interesting. They had a fish ladder, a park, and a wide assortment of vessels. As the conduit between Lake Union and Puget sound, they hosted ocean-bound vessels, fishing boats, and pleasure craft. To get to the fish ladder, you walked along the top of the gate as the lock filled. Once on the other side, you had the dam to your left and the lower waters to your right. There the seals bobbed, looking for salmon. Unlike the seals at the beach, they were all business, totally uninterested in the people on the walkway. No floating with the current, sleek heads turned toward you, bright eyes curiously watching, puppy-like. The fish ladder was usually empty when I visited, the water bubbling and swirling bits of seaweed and dirt. Once in awhile I lucked out and saw a fish or two, hunkered down out of range of the crashing water, resting, waiting for the next attempt up the ladder. I never saw one leap.
Now I am inching along Powell Blvd, and there is nothing interesting about the progress. No bald eagles soaring above, no floating seals, leaping salmon, graceful sailboats, bulky barges. Just a bunch of impatient or resigned commuters, solitary in their steel cages, talking on cell phones, listening to radios, or staring ahead, thinking blank thoughts. I am listening to the radio, allclassical.org, but my mind swirls with thoughts of unemployment, financial misdeeds, marital strife. I am tearful and worried, and I cannot find the joy in the moment.
I think through my To Do list, and I realize I never returned E's call. I know family and friends are worried about me. I have reached out for help finding room-mates, jobs, clarity. The responses have been loving and kind and deserving of a return, but I'm in such a funk so much of the time, I don't take the time to send reassurance. Really, I know I'm fine, and I'll be fine, and in the end things may even be better. Really.
I pull out the phone during one of the many stationary moments, and catch E at a Florida farmer's market with Mom and D. We chat a bit, I get a bit teary-eyed, and I seek about for a neutral ending topic.
"So, I'm driving towards Tualatin to take a test to determine if I am qualified to be a clerk in a public library..." Gales of laughter from E. Yes, it is funny.
Back in the day, we used to go for Sunday drives to Lock and Dam 18, near Oquawka on the Mississippi. We'd watch the barges drift into the lock. The first barge would bump against the far gate, and the near gate would close behind the last barge, river water swirling around the entry and spewing through the cracks in little waterfalls. The water would rise or fall, depending on the direction of travel, barges doing their vertical float until they were released at the new level. Other barges lined up on the river, awaiting their turn. We had picnics on the nearby beach and looked for geodes. We sang Barges, and White Coral Bells.
After I graduated from college and moved out west, I returned for biennial Christmas visits, and a trip to the River was de rigueur. Sometimes we went to watch the bald eagles soar above the river at the Keokuk dam. Sometimes we went to Nauvoo for bleu cheese and a visit to the Mormon blacksmith shop. Lock and Dam 18 was the usual goal, however. We could stop by L's health center and take her out for lunch, and we could check out the covered bridge at Gladstone (aka, Happy Rock.)
Now, sadly, you can't go to the locks on the river. Since 9/11, they have been declared off-limits, as potential sites for terrorist activity.
Years later, I discovered the Ballard Locks, north of Seattle. They were much more interesting. They had a fish ladder, a park, and a wide assortment of vessels. As the conduit between Lake Union and Puget sound, they hosted ocean-bound vessels, fishing boats, and pleasure craft. To get to the fish ladder, you walked along the top of the gate as the lock filled. Once on the other side, you had the dam to your left and the lower waters to your right. There the seals bobbed, looking for salmon. Unlike the seals at the beach, they were all business, totally uninterested in the people on the walkway. No floating with the current, sleek heads turned toward you, bright eyes curiously watching, puppy-like. The fish ladder was usually empty when I visited, the water bubbling and swirling bits of seaweed and dirt. Once in awhile I lucked out and saw a fish or two, hunkered down out of range of the crashing water, resting, waiting for the next attempt up the ladder. I never saw one leap.
Now I am inching along Powell Blvd, and there is nothing interesting about the progress. No bald eagles soaring above, no floating seals, leaping salmon, graceful sailboats, bulky barges. Just a bunch of impatient or resigned commuters, solitary in their steel cages, talking on cell phones, listening to radios, or staring ahead, thinking blank thoughts. I am listening to the radio, allclassical.org, but my mind swirls with thoughts of unemployment, financial misdeeds, marital strife. I am tearful and worried, and I cannot find the joy in the moment.
I think through my To Do list, and I realize I never returned E's call. I know family and friends are worried about me. I have reached out for help finding room-mates, jobs, clarity. The responses have been loving and kind and deserving of a return, but I'm in such a funk so much of the time, I don't take the time to send reassurance. Really, I know I'm fine, and I'll be fine, and in the end things may even be better. Really.
I pull out the phone during one of the many stationary moments, and catch E at a Florida farmer's market with Mom and D. We chat a bit, I get a bit teary-eyed, and I seek about for a neutral ending topic.
"So, I'm driving towards Tualatin to take a test to determine if I am qualified to be a clerk in a public library..." Gales of laughter from E. Yes, it is funny.
Monday, February 6, 2012
Procrastination
I sit on hold, while
He watches The Big Valley:
A wasted morning.
This actually was a nice morning until now. I slept in a reasonable amount, took a nice long shower, had quality time with the pets, cleaned up the kitchen, did the laundry, read a few e-mails, did the crossword. Nothing earth-shattering, but the moments were happy, and the results pleasing.
"We are currently experiencing a high call volume....you may remain on hold or you may wish to call back another time."
Um, what about a third option: You stop messing up my claim so I don't have to make this call in the first place.
In a self-flagellating spirit, I make lists of things that I could be doing while I wait:
In fact, the only things I can't do right now is Skype with my family or call Project Hope. So why am I sitting here?
In The Artist's Way, Julie Cameron talks about how to fit her writing into the odd minutes of the day: waiting to pick up her kid at school, for example. I've tried that sort of thing, of course. But I've found that I can't do anything that requires focus if interruptions are imminent or if background noise involves voices. In college, my roommate could study to the TV. I can't even carry on a conversation if the TV is on. Even muting doesn't work for me. There's something about it that disrupts my thought processes.
However, much of that list up there doesn't really involve thinking. The tasks are, in fact, eminently interruptible. In addition, I have plenty of other ways to spend my time. I carry squares of paper so I can do origami while I sit at the traffic light. I bring knitting for bus rides or meetings. Why can't I do that sort of thing now?
The hold music drones on, with the occasional message to reassure me that I am not in limbo. Except, I am. I start thinking about the lost minutes of my day. It's such gorgeous weather. Shouldn't I be out in it?
The other day I overheard a teacher say to a principal, "No I don't want to talk about it. I've already give 2 hours of my life to it." Yes. I think we allow too much of our beautiful lives to be swallowed up. And too much of our energy goes to finding reasons for not doing something about it.
Enough.
He watches The Big Valley:
A wasted morning.
This actually was a nice morning until now. I slept in a reasonable amount, took a nice long shower, had quality time with the pets, cleaned up the kitchen, did the laundry, read a few e-mails, did the crossword. Nothing earth-shattering, but the moments were happy, and the results pleasing.
"We are currently experiencing a high call volume....you may remain on hold or you may wish to call back another time."
Um, what about a third option: You stop messing up my claim so I don't have to make this call in the first place.
In a self-flagellating spirit, I make lists of things that I could be doing while I wait:
- Painting the shed
- Going for a walk
- Going through my papers
- Applying for jobs
- Gathering up supplies for the Library craft event
- Writing a letter
- Crafting
- Practicing violin or gamba
- Balancing my budget
- Baking bread
- Practicing tai chi chuh
- Stacking wood
In fact, the only things I can't do right now is Skype with my family or call Project Hope. So why am I sitting here?
In The Artist's Way, Julie Cameron talks about how to fit her writing into the odd minutes of the day: waiting to pick up her kid at school, for example. I've tried that sort of thing, of course. But I've found that I can't do anything that requires focus if interruptions are imminent or if background noise involves voices. In college, my roommate could study to the TV. I can't even carry on a conversation if the TV is on. Even muting doesn't work for me. There's something about it that disrupts my thought processes.
However, much of that list up there doesn't really involve thinking. The tasks are, in fact, eminently interruptible. In addition, I have plenty of other ways to spend my time. I carry squares of paper so I can do origami while I sit at the traffic light. I bring knitting for bus rides or meetings. Why can't I do that sort of thing now?
The hold music drones on, with the occasional message to reassure me that I am not in limbo. Except, I am. I start thinking about the lost minutes of my day. It's such gorgeous weather. Shouldn't I be out in it?
The other day I overheard a teacher say to a principal, "No I don't want to talk about it. I've already give 2 hours of my life to it." Yes. I think we allow too much of our beautiful lives to be swallowed up. And too much of our energy goes to finding reasons for not doing something about it.
Enough.
Wednesday, January 18, 2012
The Shoemaker's Elves, revisited
Things have not been going well in the refgoddess universe. Savings are dwindling, jobs ditto. We are trying to downsize in every sense of the word, and the strain on the marriage is intense. However, I see definite signs of an upturn.....
Electronic Elves
On December 28, we drove out to Yakima to pick up my cousin and his girlfriend, do some wine-tasting, and have some good talk before they flew back to London. The plan was to stay at a Yakima motel and then hang with the folks on the 29th. However, it was dark before we got to Hood River, the rain was puddling on the highway, and the semis were spraying water up to the car roof. We stopped to feed ourselves and the car and to switch drivers. But even D was nervous, so we bailed at The Dalles. As I worked with the motel office, D started unloading the car, and he dropped the iPad in the parking lot. When I sat down to play Lexulous, I discovered that the background graphics were all catywampus, letters flickering, colours a wavering fluorescent green and pink. Most unsettling. A few weeks later, D took it in to Apple. Their solution: trade in for a refurbished one, for a mere $300. So, I resigned myself to using a less functional iPad, but it added one more thing to the list of Things Not Going Right.
Two mornings ago, I lay on the couch with my coffee and the iPad. I was wandering about the blogosphere, when I suddenly realized I was looking at pix that were clear and bright. I went back to the main icon screen: the background picture of Mahaulepu Beach was sparkling. The graphics were great, the usual icons were in place, but the screen protector was gone.
D swears he did not replace the iPad, and there was no time or money to do so. Also, he doesn't know how to synch it or replace the icons. So all I can think is that the Electronic Elves have taken pity on my distress.
Mystery #2
Earlier the same morning, I was dozing, cuddling with Carbon, trying to avoid the day. D came stomping in, asking where the camera was. I mumbled, "It's not by the kitchen door?" and he went into the usual diatribe: "a place for everything and everything in it's place...." and after some more fussing went off again to take pix with the iPhone (which does a better job and is easier to download anyway.) I gave up my ostrich attempt and went into carpe diem mode. As I was working in the kitchen, I noticed the camera hanging on the nail by the kitchen door, just where it should have been. D came in and I said, "you found the camera, huh?" He said, "You're kidding me!" Apparently he had found it, but not through searching. After he returned to his breakfast, there it was, on arm of his lounging couch in the living room. He assumed I had put it there, and, muttering to himself, had put it in the kitchen where it belonged.
Again, he swears he didn't find it and forget about it. So, again, it must have been Elves. Carbon and Simone refuse to get involved in our filing wars, and they were the only other beings in the house.
Good things come in threes, or, all things come to those who whine
Back before Christmas, a Missouri visitor to our town got lost driving down our street. She pulled into the driveway across from us and backed into our car, just as we were coming out to see the Christmas ships with G&W. Fortunately, we had already planned to use their car. Unfortunately, the insurance company is in Missouri. D has spent many frustrating hours talking to insurance, repair, and car rental businesses.
However, the stars finally aligned on Monday. We picked up the rental and dropped the Honda at the repair shop. Being ten blocks from the appliance store that L recommended (after reading my whine about Planned Obsolescence), we stopped by on the way home. It was a hole-in the wall, with two nice women in their 30s taking care of sales. It was busy, so there was time to wander about. Lots of white, lots of washers and fridges and ranges, very few wall ovens. We were enchanted by an ancient refrigerator with rounded corners, pull-up handles, and a round condenser unit attached to the top. Not for sale, though. They were also unable to supply us with what we needed (a 27" wall oven), but referred us to another store in NE Portland. D started phone negotiations while I went to work.
Yesterday we checked out Appliance City. D had picked up a phone call just as we arrived, so I went into door number one. I was met by a toothless elderly man who wasn't sure about inventory but was quite happy to walk me around. The place was crammed with appliances, but only saw one wall oven, dented on the top and too large to boot. So, we went back outside and walked down the street. They have taken over the entire block of shops but have not yet combined them inside. The outside is painted green and rustic red, and looks very clean and retro with its brickwork and large windows. The inside is dusty and grimy, appliances stacked in various stages of repair, dim fluorescents shedding a gloomy light.
Another toothless ancient came out from the back to assist us. They both agreed that we should check in with Michael, and I wanted to find D, so we went back to the first shop and found them both. Michael was the guy D had been talking with. He was middle-aged, with a round body, round balding head, and a matter-of-fact demeanor. We chatted about the models he had found for us and went with the Frigidaire, complete with convection oven, 90-day warranty, free delivery and haul away service. It costs what it would cost to repair the old one and is about the same age. It's also white, not black (a definite downside.) After I signed the paperwork I said, "Okay, now I'd like your opinion....does it make sense to buy a used appliance that is the same age as the old one?" I was harking back to the Planned Obsolescence rant. He seemed to think it was a wash, but since I was getting a better appliance that had also been tested in all areas, it might be a slighter better deal.
But, anyway, we have a new oven. Just needs to be delivered and installed.
So, we are climbing back into the light. We no longer see through a glass darkly. What once was lost, now is found. And, while I can't find a platitude for the oven and car, it will be nice to have those up and running soon. (Always look on the bright side of life.)
Electronic Elves
On December 28, we drove out to Yakima to pick up my cousin and his girlfriend, do some wine-tasting, and have some good talk before they flew back to London. The plan was to stay at a Yakima motel and then hang with the folks on the 29th. However, it was dark before we got to Hood River, the rain was puddling on the highway, and the semis were spraying water up to the car roof. We stopped to feed ourselves and the car and to switch drivers. But even D was nervous, so we bailed at The Dalles. As I worked with the motel office, D started unloading the car, and he dropped the iPad in the parking lot. When I sat down to play Lexulous, I discovered that the background graphics were all catywampus, letters flickering, colours a wavering fluorescent green and pink. Most unsettling. A few weeks later, D took it in to Apple. Their solution: trade in for a refurbished one, for a mere $300. So, I resigned myself to using a less functional iPad, but it added one more thing to the list of Things Not Going Right.
Two mornings ago, I lay on the couch with my coffee and the iPad. I was wandering about the blogosphere, when I suddenly realized I was looking at pix that were clear and bright. I went back to the main icon screen: the background picture of Mahaulepu Beach was sparkling. The graphics were great, the usual icons were in place, but the screen protector was gone.
Mystery #2
Earlier the same morning, I was dozing, cuddling with Carbon, trying to avoid the day. D came stomping in, asking where the camera was. I mumbled, "It's not by the kitchen door?" and he went into the usual diatribe: "a place for everything and everything in it's place...." and after some more fussing went off again to take pix with the iPhone (which does a better job and is easier to download anyway.) I gave up my ostrich attempt and went into carpe diem mode. As I was working in the kitchen, I noticed the camera hanging on the nail by the kitchen door, just where it should have been. D came in and I said, "you found the camera, huh?" He said, "You're kidding me!" Apparently he had found it, but not through searching. After he returned to his breakfast, there it was, on arm of his lounging couch in the living room. He assumed I had put it there, and, muttering to himself, had put it in the kitchen where it belonged.
Again, he swears he didn't find it and forget about it. So, again, it must have been Elves. Carbon and Simone refuse to get involved in our filing wars, and they were the only other beings in the house.
Good things come in threes, or, all things come to those who whine
Back before Christmas, a Missouri visitor to our town got lost driving down our street. She pulled into the driveway across from us and backed into our car, just as we were coming out to see the Christmas ships with G&W. Fortunately, we had already planned to use their car. Unfortunately, the insurance company is in Missouri. D has spent many frustrating hours talking to insurance, repair, and car rental businesses.
However, the stars finally aligned on Monday. We picked up the rental and dropped the Honda at the repair shop. Being ten blocks from the appliance store that L recommended (after reading my whine about Planned Obsolescence), we stopped by on the way home. It was a hole-in the wall, with two nice women in their 30s taking care of sales. It was busy, so there was time to wander about. Lots of white, lots of washers and fridges and ranges, very few wall ovens. We were enchanted by an ancient refrigerator with rounded corners, pull-up handles, and a round condenser unit attached to the top. Not for sale, though. They were also unable to supply us with what we needed (a 27" wall oven), but referred us to another store in NE Portland. D started phone negotiations while I went to work.
Yesterday we checked out Appliance City. D had picked up a phone call just as we arrived, so I went into door number one. I was met by a toothless elderly man who wasn't sure about inventory but was quite happy to walk me around. The place was crammed with appliances, but only saw one wall oven, dented on the top and too large to boot. So, we went back outside and walked down the street. They have taken over the entire block of shops but have not yet combined them inside. The outside is painted green and rustic red, and looks very clean and retro with its brickwork and large windows. The inside is dusty and grimy, appliances stacked in various stages of repair, dim fluorescents shedding a gloomy light.
Another toothless ancient came out from the back to assist us. They both agreed that we should check in with Michael, and I wanted to find D, so we went back to the first shop and found them both. Michael was the guy D had been talking with. He was middle-aged, with a round body, round balding head, and a matter-of-fact demeanor. We chatted about the models he had found for us and went with the Frigidaire, complete with convection oven, 90-day warranty, free delivery and haul away service. It costs what it would cost to repair the old one and is about the same age. It's also white, not black (a definite downside.) After I signed the paperwork I said, "Okay, now I'd like your opinion....does it make sense to buy a used appliance that is the same age as the old one?" I was harking back to the Planned Obsolescence rant. He seemed to think it was a wash, but since I was getting a better appliance that had also been tested in all areas, it might be a slighter better deal.
But, anyway, we have a new oven. Just needs to be delivered and installed.
So, we are climbing back into the light. We no longer see through a glass darkly. What once was lost, now is found. And, while I can't find a platitude for the oven and car, it will be nice to have those up and running soon. (Always look on the bright side of life.)
Thursday, January 5, 2012
Domestic Routines as Distraction
Recently I have been thinking of two books I re-read often in my dewey youth. I actually downloaded one of them: Rose in Bloom, by Louisa May Alcott (she who ruined me for life, taking the impressionable young creative and turning her into one who finds more value in serving others than serving her art, a la Jo March.) The other is Little Town on the Prairie, by Laura Ingalls Wilder (she whose family embodies all the pioneer traditions, from self-reliance to genocide.)
Today I figured out what they have in common. Besides depicting an idealized (i.e. simplified) version of family and society (and the female's place in it,) they also provide a blueprint for dealing with the pressures and trials of living in a less-than-ideal world. The technique is, in a word: distraction. And not just any distraction, but distraction via the domestic virtues.
Hence, when Laura's Ma and Pa take Mary off to college for the blind, leaving Laura in charge, she marshals her baby sisters into a week of spring cleaning. "It was amazing how dirty they got, cleaning a house that had seemed perfectly clean." When Rose's Uncle Alec is finally through the woods after his bout with malignant fever (and just what is that?), she and her aunts also fall into a spring cleaning frenzy, which leaves them afraid to move for fear of messing the shining order they have created. (Actually, it was probably the maids. But let's not quibble.)
So what is my problem? I got laid off a year ago. It was the perfect time to dive into de-cluttering activity, especially since it's something I have talked about for over 10 years. It would be useful: I need a space to work from home, I can't function in a mess, I want to create more spaces for airbnb rentals. It would be a distraction: I get tired of job-hunting routines, I get overwhelmed by financial woes, I get exhausted by emotional crises.
But, I am not made of the stern stuff of our fictional forebears. I can neither face nor focus on the large domestic activities. Instead, I putter in the kitchen, baking bread and pies and granola, spreading flour far and wide. I knit and watch Judge Judy, losing needles in the sofa cushions and piling balls of yarn in bowls and on surfaces. When I decide to organize the mountain of papers and books on my desk, I start folding boxes out of old calendars. Instead of de-cluttering, I am re-cluttering.
Perhaps it's because, deep-down, I resent those role models and the effect they have had on my psyche? In that case, it's time to emulate Jane Eyre, whose tale I have re-read more than the others combined. When she learns of her accession to fortune, she steals Hannah away from St. John to clean down Moor House. Hannah is charmed to see how jovial she can be in a house turned topsy-turvey, and it is delightful to see, after a few days, how order is restored to the chaos they have created. (St. John stays away in horror.)
Of course, it would be easier if I had a sudden accession to fortune.
Today I figured out what they have in common. Besides depicting an idealized (i.e. simplified) version of family and society (and the female's place in it,) they also provide a blueprint for dealing with the pressures and trials of living in a less-than-ideal world. The technique is, in a word: distraction. And not just any distraction, but distraction via the domestic virtues.
Hence, when Laura's Ma and Pa take Mary off to college for the blind, leaving Laura in charge, she marshals her baby sisters into a week of spring cleaning. "It was amazing how dirty they got, cleaning a house that had seemed perfectly clean." When Rose's Uncle Alec is finally through the woods after his bout with malignant fever (and just what is that?), she and her aunts also fall into a spring cleaning frenzy, which leaves them afraid to move for fear of messing the shining order they have created. (Actually, it was probably the maids. But let's not quibble.)
So what is my problem? I got laid off a year ago. It was the perfect time to dive into de-cluttering activity, especially since it's something I have talked about for over 10 years. It would be useful: I need a space to work from home, I can't function in a mess, I want to create more spaces for airbnb rentals. It would be a distraction: I get tired of job-hunting routines, I get overwhelmed by financial woes, I get exhausted by emotional crises.
But, I am not made of the stern stuff of our fictional forebears. I can neither face nor focus on the large domestic activities. Instead, I putter in the kitchen, baking bread and pies and granola, spreading flour far and wide. I knit and watch Judge Judy, losing needles in the sofa cushions and piling balls of yarn in bowls and on surfaces. When I decide to organize the mountain of papers and books on my desk, I start folding boxes out of old calendars. Instead of de-cluttering, I am re-cluttering.
Perhaps it's because, deep-down, I resent those role models and the effect they have had on my psyche? In that case, it's time to emulate Jane Eyre, whose tale I have re-read more than the others combined. When she learns of her accession to fortune, she steals Hannah away from St. John to clean down Moor House. Hannah is charmed to see how jovial she can be in a house turned topsy-turvey, and it is delightful to see, after a few days, how order is restored to the chaos they have created. (St. John stays away in horror.)
Of course, it would be easier if I had a sudden accession to fortune.
Friday, November 11, 2011
Do I have a Personality?
D and I both took the Stanton Survey this week. This is an extremely bizarre set of questions, designed to measure one's integrity. It consists of a number of belief statements that are a variation on this theme: "true or false: most people are dishonest." When I handed it in yesterday, I said, well, this either proves I'm incredibly naive or I'm a liar. Because I basically said, over and over, "My real name is Pollyanna, and I believe there is good in EVeryone, I invented the Glad Game and I am so glad glad glad to have the opportunity to work a low-paying job." We have yet to know if D passed it, but apparently I did: I go in for training next week.
Of course, I've taken numerous personality tests over the years. The Keirsey is bizarre, too. Sometimes I am an introvert, sometimes an extrovert; sometimes Sensing, sometimes Feeling, sometimes Judging, sometimes....you get the picture. In 2006, I saved one of the tests: it said my temperament is that of an "idealist." Er, really? Perhaps only an idealist could have passed the Stanton Survey.
I have taken a number of joke personality tests which seem to have just as much validity as these pseudo-scientific ones. I have discovered which Jane Austen and Middle Earth characters I am, for example. (Not that I can remember them; I think I was Elizabeth Bennett, but I also think I loaded the dice for that one. Lord knows I didn't want to be Fanny Price.) And then there's this smiley face made up of words: the first four words you notice describe you. I am lovely, honest, lazy, and dramatic. Well, yes.
But really, what is it about these tests that is so seductive? Just as interviews are a poor substitute for working with someone, the tests are a poor substitute for a good interview process. While I understand the need for an interview (you can't work with everyone before you hire them,) I'm not clear that there is a need for the test. The theory seems to be that no one can be trusted to figure out another person. This is a skill mankind should have honed through the ages, a basic survival tactic. What happened to it? And, why do we trust these random tests over a one-on-one interaction? Why do we take the tests for our own amusement and bemusement? Are we really such strangers to ourselves that we need someone else to interpret our behaviors?
In To Kill A Mockingbird, Scout describes the shorthand the adults use to interpret each other. All Bufords Walk Like That, The Truth is Not In the Merryweathers, etc etc. There, generations of observations are coming into play. But in our overcrowded cities, we don't have that tool. We have networks instead, and those operate on a very superficial level. Maybe that's why we feel so insecure in our people-judging skills, and are desperate to find someone else to do the job for us.
The Stanton Survey was devised in 1964, when I was 5 years old. That's close to 50 years of experience with weeding out potential problems. It's hard to believe that it really works, but surely a company wouldn't fork over the money if it didn't have positive results. After all, it passed me, and we all know I'm a monster of integrity.
Except when it comes to answering personality quizzes.
Of course, I've taken numerous personality tests over the years. The Keirsey is bizarre, too. Sometimes I am an introvert, sometimes an extrovert; sometimes Sensing, sometimes Feeling, sometimes Judging, sometimes....you get the picture. In 2006, I saved one of the tests: it said my temperament is that of an "idealist." Er, really? Perhaps only an idealist could have passed the Stanton Survey.
I have taken a number of joke personality tests which seem to have just as much validity as these pseudo-scientific ones. I have discovered which Jane Austen and Middle Earth characters I am, for example. (Not that I can remember them; I think I was Elizabeth Bennett, but I also think I loaded the dice for that one. Lord knows I didn't want to be Fanny Price.) And then there's this smiley face made up of words: the first four words you notice describe you. I am lovely, honest, lazy, and dramatic. Well, yes.
But really, what is it about these tests that is so seductive? Just as interviews are a poor substitute for working with someone, the tests are a poor substitute for a good interview process. While I understand the need for an interview (you can't work with everyone before you hire them,) I'm not clear that there is a need for the test. The theory seems to be that no one can be trusted to figure out another person. This is a skill mankind should have honed through the ages, a basic survival tactic. What happened to it? And, why do we trust these random tests over a one-on-one interaction? Why do we take the tests for our own amusement and bemusement? Are we really such strangers to ourselves that we need someone else to interpret our behaviors?
In To Kill A Mockingbird, Scout describes the shorthand the adults use to interpret each other. All Bufords Walk Like That, The Truth is Not In the Merryweathers, etc etc. There, generations of observations are coming into play. But in our overcrowded cities, we don't have that tool. We have networks instead, and those operate on a very superficial level. Maybe that's why we feel so insecure in our people-judging skills, and are desperate to find someone else to do the job for us.
The Stanton Survey was devised in 1964, when I was 5 years old. That's close to 50 years of experience with weeding out potential problems. It's hard to believe that it really works, but surely a company wouldn't fork over the money if it didn't have positive results. After all, it passed me, and we all know I'm a monster of integrity.
Except when it comes to answering personality quizzes.
Tuesday, November 8, 2011
Peeing in a cup, and other indignities
I was standing at the kitchen sink, watching the water stream over the dishes, trying to live in the moment. Suddenly I heard my voice say, "I'm going to be working in a mall during Christmas season." From behind me, D's voice rose over the sound of frying sausage. "The reality just hit you, huh?"
Can you really use the word "reality" to describe one of the most surreal rituals of the year? For years I have avoided the malls, the stores, the frenzy. I make my gifts, I wrap presents sans tape because one year I ran out of tape and refused to go to the store for more. Now I take an extra 10 minutes per package, folding paper carefully and securing the ends with carefully wound ribbons. I love the season for the lights, the decorations, the smell of ginger and cinnamon and baked butter and sugar. But the frenzy of the mall is unbearable to me. At the best of times, I find myself overstimulated and enervated after 15 minutes in a mall. And now, for $9.36/hr and a 40% employee discount, I am deliberately planning to spend my weekends in a mall. During the Christmas season.
Not only that, I am, for the 2nd time in two months, going to be peeing in a cup. I went in yesterday after my interview, but I couldn't find my ODL. I couldn't find it today either, but I was sure that my City employee ID would work for me. Nope, has to be a state issued ID, or a passport. I don't get why some governments are better than others. Nor do I get why the store can't use the City's paperwork. How many cups must I pee in before I am finally employed as a regular non-temp employee? Do they really think I could become a drug addict and felon in less than a month?
It's a humiliating process. You sign in, they check your ID. You sit with your papers until they call your name. You can't drink more than 12 oz of water ahead of time, or your pee will be diluted. You go into a dingy lab area, and you lock your purse into small box. You wash your hands with water only. You remove all possible clothing that could be hiding a sample. A young man in a white coat hands you the cup. You go into a room, and they magnanimously let you shut the door while you pee. But, you can't flush the toilet, and you can't wash your hands until they bag and tag your sample and you sign the label.
I'll be doing that tomorrow, because I finally found my ID (it was in my purse, having snuck into the folds of some papers.) Then, in 2 weeks, if PPS calls me back, I'll probably get to do it again, as well as pay for fingerprinting. Again, for a temporary on call job.
Yet, somehow I am happy. Despite the various indignities, I find myself absorbed by the process of finding work and learning new ways of existing. I like having an irregular schedule. I feel like I am in control of this bizarre adventure called unemployment.
But I still don't want to pee in a cup.
Can you really use the word "reality" to describe one of the most surreal rituals of the year? For years I have avoided the malls, the stores, the frenzy. I make my gifts, I wrap presents sans tape because one year I ran out of tape and refused to go to the store for more. Now I take an extra 10 minutes per package, folding paper carefully and securing the ends with carefully wound ribbons. I love the season for the lights, the decorations, the smell of ginger and cinnamon and baked butter and sugar. But the frenzy of the mall is unbearable to me. At the best of times, I find myself overstimulated and enervated after 15 minutes in a mall. And now, for $9.36/hr and a 40% employee discount, I am deliberately planning to spend my weekends in a mall. During the Christmas season.
Not only that, I am, for the 2nd time in two months, going to be peeing in a cup. I went in yesterday after my interview, but I couldn't find my ODL. I couldn't find it today either, but I was sure that my City employee ID would work for me. Nope, has to be a state issued ID, or a passport. I don't get why some governments are better than others. Nor do I get why the store can't use the City's paperwork. How many cups must I pee in before I am finally employed as a regular non-temp employee? Do they really think I could become a drug addict and felon in less than a month?
It's a humiliating process. You sign in, they check your ID. You sit with your papers until they call your name. You can't drink more than 12 oz of water ahead of time, or your pee will be diluted. You go into a dingy lab area, and you lock your purse into small box. You wash your hands with water only. You remove all possible clothing that could be hiding a sample. A young man in a white coat hands you the cup. You go into a room, and they magnanimously let you shut the door while you pee. But, you can't flush the toilet, and you can't wash your hands until they bag and tag your sample and you sign the label.
I'll be doing that tomorrow, because I finally found my ID (it was in my purse, having snuck into the folds of some papers.) Then, in 2 weeks, if PPS calls me back, I'll probably get to do it again, as well as pay for fingerprinting. Again, for a temporary on call job.
Yet, somehow I am happy. Despite the various indignities, I find myself absorbed by the process of finding work and learning new ways of existing. I like having an irregular schedule. I feel like I am in control of this bizarre adventure called unemployment.
But I still don't want to pee in a cup.
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