It’s one of those things that I actually felt coming. I can’t describe it. A couple of months ago, I had high, high hopes for this thing happening, but after not hearing anything, and then not hearing anything, and then, finally, not hearing anything, my thoughts turned negative.
So now I can’t decide if my thoughts turned negative because I somehow knew it wasn’t going to happen, or if it didn’t happen because my thoughts turned negative.
Either way, the envelope was there, sitting on my kitchen counter this morning. (How it got to the counter and managed to sit all night without me knowing about it, I have yet to figure out.) But the envelope only confirmed my suspicions. Had things gone the way I wanted them to go, I would have gotten a phone call – not a nondescript, cold little envelope, the weight of which made it feel like I was holding a twenty pound dumbbell.
On my chest.
I opened it anyway, already knowing what it said – that, for some reason or another, I would not be donating bone marrow to my potential match. I would not be saving a life.
It turns out the reason is not because, after extensive blood testing, they determined I’m not a great match. It’s because the patient is no longer a candidate for receiving bone marrow. Which, I have to say, is news that likely bodes far worse for the patient than it does for me.
But I still feel bummed.
I wanted to help.
I wanted to do something worthwhile.
I wanted to do something that meant something to someone.
But I’m starting to realize… It’s not really about what I want, is it?
I’m going to stay on the Department of Defense Bone Marrow Donor list, for which I signed up when I worked for the Army a couple of years ago and promptly forgot about until they called me just before Christmas. If you’re not affiliated with the Department of Defense but still want to consider putting yourself on the National Marrow Donor list (at no commitment to you – there will always be a choice about whether or not you want to donate, right up until the end), check out their website, www.marrow.org.
Let me know if you have any questions.
*Title taken from lyrics to Celebrity Skin, by Hole.
1. I don’t really miss making money. Not that much. I miss being good at my job, and I miss many of my old co-workers (a fact that was only emphasized last night when I was able to spend some quality time with them).
But the money? Only when I have to do things I’d rather pay someone else to do. Like clip my dogs’ nails. Because while my dogs are really actually very good about letting me do it, that doesn’t change the fact that I’m still terrible with a nail file. And then things like this happen:
Okay. It doesn’t look that bad. But it’s really hard to set the aperture and shutter speed while picking a focal point all with one hand because you’re trying to take a picture of the underside of your other arm reflected in a mirror, all while trying not to make your typical, scrunchy “concentration face.” But it does look a tad more gnarly in person.
2. Check back this afternoon, because I’m going to be writing a post about Valentine’s Day. Because, you know – it’s like my favorite. Holiday. Ever. (Riiiiiight.) I don’t really want to do it. But if there’s one thing I’ve learned from the world of blogging this week, it’s that V-Day is not to be avoided. Especially when you have a story that involves tacky t-shirts, broken dreams, and Carmen Electra.
Well, the good news is that I woke up this morning to a second day of sunshine in a row.
The bad news is that I still woke up feeling like my body had been run through a meat grinder overnight and then pieced back together by little elves who must have misplaced the blueprints and forgot to oil the joints because I know my knee wasn’t quite this rickety yesterday and it can’t be from Jillian’s lunges and all those muscles she’s making me grow or the fact that I type while sitting with one or both legs tucked up under my butt, so it must be the elves.
Old, very UN-flattering (to both me and my then-unfinished living room) picture stolen from this post of yore.
Fortunately, it’s nothing a little ethereal coffee can’t fix (or at least temporarily make me forget about).
A cup of coffee like this is just one of many IMRs – Instant Mood Rectifiers – I have tucked away in my little metaphorical box of things that make me feel good.
(Hey! I said metaphorical – get your minds out of the gutter.)
Those of you who’ve been reading this for any amount of time probably know another one of my major IMRs is music – especially music that’s being performed live – right in front of my face with each strum of the guitar strings entering a direct line to my veins. But since I can’t keep Jack Johnson or the Avett Brothers tied up in my hand bag (but wouldn’t that be interesting?), pre-recorded music works too.
There’s a wide range of music that can improve my mood at any given time, but there really are two songs that come to the forefront of my mind when I feel like I need a pick-me-up.
*I’m sorry the playback is restricted on my web page – but just click the link inside the video and it will take you straight to YouTube where you can listen to your heart’s content.
Melody, by Kate Earl:
and…
Build Me Up Buttercup, by the Foundations:
I realize this second one makes no sense – especially since it’s basically about a girl who continuously dicks a guy over (or a guy who continuously lets a girl dick him over, depending on how you look at it), but there is just something about that song – and I’m almost positive that it has nothing to do with the cruel lyrics – that makes me have to smile.
This is but a small sampling of things in my bucket o’ feel-goodery, but feel free to bookmark this page if you have a moment when you’re feeling especially crappy and you need a quick – and perfectly legal – mood-enhancing fix.
Okay. I’m pretty much having an awesome afternoon so far. It’s too bad it’s gotta be dampened by the fact that I’ll have to go to work later, but we won’t worry about that just yet.
Right now I’m sitting outside, wearing short sleeves, doing this:
And earlier, on my way home from getting Thai food for lunch, I opened my car windows.
That’s right – while much of the country is struggling to dig themselves out from under massive inches of snowfall, I was able, through some miracle of being in the right state at the right time, to finally air out the Tracker after months of soaking in the smells of sweaty clothes, hairy dog blankets, and leftover pad Thai.
It. Was. Awesome.
What’s that? You thought the good news ended there? ‘Fraid not, my friends. Just when I was about to give up on the radio and pop in a CD, I heard this:
Oh, yes. Windows down, crankin’ some power chick music of the late ’80’s. I cared not about the bemused stares of the surly truck drivers I passed while belting out, I’ve been a fool before – Wouldn’t like to get my love caught in the slammin’ door. How about some information – Pleeeeease?
Straight up, now tell me – are you really gonna love ME forever?
Oh. Oh. Oh.
Paula and me go way back, and you can’t make me feel bad about jammin’ with her.
And it doesn’t stop there.
After Paula, I switched stations. And who should greet me, but…
…wait for it…
HER!
Un. Be. Lievable. I’ve never had this kind of luck when it comes to ’80’s music on the car radio.
Children behaaaaave… that’s what they say when we’re together. And watch how you plaaaay…
It was so naughty for the times. Or maybe just the time in my life. You know what I mean.
If you’re anywhere close to my age and this doesn’t bring you to a smiley place in your memories, I don’t know what will.
When I got home, I went digging through the bowels of my closet looking for a cassette tape my older (and much cooler) cousin Kris made for me waaaay back in the day.
And I found it.
*If you don’t actually know what this picture depicts, you should probably remove yourself from this blog immediately.
**Just kidding. Don’t leave. Hold On and Hang Tough. I Need You because You’re My Favorite Girl. I’ll Be Loving You because Johnny’s Got the Inside Moves.
It was my favorite cassette tape ever. I’ll admit that disappointment got the better of me for a second when I realized I have no actual way of playing this tape.
My friend Matt over at Inside the Nice Guy posted a link to an interesting article a couple of days ago. Interesting, because it’s written by a man for a women’s magazine (aptly named Woman’s Day) and claims to debunk the 10 biggest myths [women believe] about men.
Now, you know me. I don’t tend to delve into relationship issues too often on this blog, for the main reason that I have no clue what I’m doing most of the time. And really, who am I to dispense with the unfounded wisdom? I tried it once, when I went on some extra caffeinated-induced rant about an article about romantic comedies. And it didn’t really make me feel better.
But now I’m trying again. Because apparently I can’t learn my lesson. But before you get all crazy on me, keep in mind this is all in fun. We all have our flaws – it’s just more fun analyzing the flaws of others.
Initially, there was something about this man myth article that rubbed me the wrong way. Maybe it’s the unspoken implication that women must think men are mindless, emotionless, inhuman robots, and thank god for articles like this that remind us that men are, in fact, people too. Or maybe it’s the way the author follows every explanation with a note of what women can do to play into these special male personality quirks like it’s our job to pull men out of their protective, emotionally unbalanced cocoons so they can emerge as the butterflies they were always meant to be.
Because women, why wouldn’t you always say yes to sex, even if you really do have a headache or a yeast infection or haven’t shaved your legs in 4 days?
And men, who doesn’t love a woman who continuously encourages you to reveal your true feelings because she understands that you’re not “fine” even though you say you are?
But eventually I got over my indignant self, and I came to understand the intent of the article. The author, Brendan Tapley, really is just trying to get women to understand why we [women] might have certain misconceptions about what’s going on inside the heads of our sexy-yet-irritatingly-stubborn counterparts.
That didn’t, however, stop me from making just a few comments. Because I’m a girl. And that’s what we do. But bear with me, guys – I’m going to have a question for you at the end of this.
For example – myth #2, sex is what matters the most. Tapley thinks this myth exists because men rely on sex to achieve a “bonded feeling” of solidarity with their partners. In other words, sex makes the relationship real. It means we’re on the same team. The problem? Women usually need to be at least somewhat emotionally invested to get the most pleasure out of sex. And even if the emotion wasn’t there before the sex, it definitely tends to creep in after. In fact, some studies show that this is a physiological probability. We can’t help it.
So I’m not really buying Tapley’s argument. I mean, if sex made men feel bonded too, then it would be nearly impossible for them to have “meaningless” sex. And I’ve known enough women who never received the promised post-sex phone call to be fairly certain that many times to men, sex is just sex. I’m not saying that’s a bad thing. That’s just how it is.
“But honey, sex makes me feel like we’re truly bonded!”
Unless…
The first man myth addressed by the article is the myth that men are not emotional. Tapley counters this by explaining that not only are men emotional, but they might even be more emotional than women! Now thisI believe. Ladies, how many of you have said something you thought was completely innocuous to a guy and he just completely shut down? Turns out (at least according to Tapley) that this shutting down doesn’t reflect a lack of emotion as we lead ourselves to believe, but instead a complete emotion overload. But because he doesn’t know how to deal with said emotion, he just shuts off. Huh.
So maybe this explains the sex thing. He’s so overwrought with raw emotion after you have sex that he doesn’t know how to deal with it. And that’s why he doesn’t call.
Riiiight.
I think this ties in nicely with myth #6: guys don’t communicate. Well. Tapley doesn’t really have a good argument for this. He says that men do like to talk, but they often censor themselves from talking about anything deep or meaningful because they’re worried women might find them less masculine. Sooo… this really doesn’t debunk the myth. Men really don’t communicate.
And we all knows what happens now. A woman says something that ticks a man off. He experiences an emotional overload and shuts down, refusing to tell her what’s chapping his ass because doesn’t want to look like a crybaby pussy. So the woman gets frustrated because she’s a “fixer” and can’t fix a problem when she doesn’t know what’s wrong, so she ends up going into crazy bitch mode, constantly writing or calling or texting because she’s sure that if she just does what Tapley says and encourages the man to be open about his feelings, all will be right with the world.
So you can see that this is where I disagree with Tapley. And this is where I have a question for the men:
What’s a girl to do?? If we pester you about what’s wrong, we end up in crazy bitch mode. But if we back off and let you work it out yourself, we run the huge risk of you thinking we don’t care (which, I can assure you, we do), and worse, we never understand the heart of the problem and risk a repeat of the situation – something neither of us wants.
Unless you’re into the suspense and the drama and the (usually) fantastic make-up sex.
Some of you think I swear too much on this blog. You’re all like: I mean, people read this, you know. Decent people. What if your grandmother saw what you write?
Well rest assured, she does. She reads my blog regularly. And I get the swearing from her.
Hi, Grandma!!
I’m writing this post because it’s been a while since I’ve written anything, and I feel almost obligated to let you know how this whole employment situation is working out. But it’s important to me for you to know that I’m writing this under the influence of half a glass of wine (it doesn’t take much these days) and the cotton ball state of mind that stems from sheer emotional and physical exhaustion.
So try not to judge.
You think it’s tiring drinking at the bar until last call? Try staying at the bar for an hour after that to to wipe, sweep, mop, scrub, and basically clean up the mess you made while you were there, and oh yeah you’re doing this completely sober while getting paid $2.13 an hour if you’re lucky. We won’t even speak of those dimwitted enough to agree to do this under the table for tips only.
Although, that might be nice come 2012 tax season because I can already tell you that this job will be but a short blip on the radar. And I hate to admit it, but this really isn’t unusual for me. One year I filed taxes for 7 jobs in 3 different states. So really, I’m right on par with my record, discounting the past 3 years I spent in a cubicle-induced coma while attempting to be a grown-up.
But unfortunately, I’m also figuring out that I’m not a kid anymore. While the job is certainly fun, I’d forgotten what it was like to have sore feet, an aching back, and slamming your thumb in a cooler door. I forgot what it was like to give someone everything you have and they leave you a thirty-four cent tip like they’re doing you a favor.
Keep the change, honey. Wink.
Blech.
And let me tell you something you might not realize:
Drunk people are gross.
And since I often am the drunk people, I feel like I can say that.
They slur and slobber and act like you’re their best friend just because you keep bringing them more of what’s making them disgusting, and you might be okay with pretending that’s true for a bit, just to see if they tip you like you’re their best friend. Many times they don’t, but here’s the kicker – They think they did.
I’m not knocking drinking. That would pretty much make me the biggest hypocrite in the entire known universe, but I’m just sayin’ – slovenly drunkenness is best achieved in the comfort and safety of a small group of intimate friends, preferably at a personal apartment or home.
So right now I’m feeling like Britney Spears in that song that goes, I’m not a girl…. not yet a woman. Except I think she probably sang that when she was like 18 which only makes me a decade late on this whole thing. And I’m pretty convinced that I am, in fact, a woman by now. A woman stuck in a girl’s job. So maybe it’s not like that song at all.
But honestly? I’ve had fun. The people I work with are amazing. I’ve been out of the game for a while, but I’ve reaffirmed the fact that the restaurant/bar biz is pretty much the same anywhere you go. The surly cook, the angry waitress, the chill bartender – all the same characters, just with different faces and names. And I love them. I can honestly say that. It’s a camaraderie I’ve never experienced in any other type of job. But that, my friends, is because working in this business is a shitstorm unlike any you could imagine in any other type of job. Extreme highs, lows, punches and blows. It’ll make you happier than you’ve ever been and then send you a shot to the stomach that’ll knock the wind right out of you and then, because you kind of have to and you kind of want to, you go right back in for more.
It’s sick.
So, needless to say, I’m going to continue sprucing up the resume in case something a bit more… boring comes along.
The irony of all of this is that you need the least amount of education to work in the lowest paying, most challenging job I know. Because frankly, I’d be hard-pressed to believe anything else exists that demands a more exasperating combination of physical labor, personality, perseverance, and yes, brains, than working in a bar.
We have a love/hate relationship, the bar and me. And I’ve never been good at those.
But we’re content to use each other until something better comes along.
In fact, my interview tonight really wasn’t another interview. It was a chance to meet the other manager and pick up some menus to study (there are only four!!) and learn the dress code and find out that I’m shadowing someone tomorrow night and then I’m on my own starting Friday.
Seriously? Do they know me?! What about me screams ready-to-jump-into-the-fire-after-only-4-hours-of-practice?? I’m supposed to bedipping my toes, dammit!
And oh god, tomorrow morning I have to go out and buy waitress shoes. You know – those fugly black things that are comfortable but also attempt to be somewhat fashionable. And I’m not talking comfortable enough to walk around the mall for a bit – I’m talking comfortable enough to pound, fast-paced and confidently, back and forth across the floor of a busy bar for multiple hours without rest. I threw my old pair out a couple of years ago thinking I’d never need to own anything so hideous ever again, but turns out I was mistaken.
Not Katie’s actual shoes.
These boots, without a doubt, need to be made for walking – not for looking cute. And if I’m going to be honest, I don’t want them to look cute anyway because I don’t want to cry when I spill balsamic vinaigrette or a Sicilian Sunrise martini all over them and they get that distinct, gritty, restaurant smell.
If you’ve worked in food service, you know what I’m talking about.
So anyway. I’m nervous. When it comes to the technicalities – hand-writing the orders, counting the change, remembering which tables are mine – I’m really only so-so. Maybe not even that anymore.
But the people? That’s where I’m good. There will be live music, wine, a coffee bar… and did I mention live music? It’s exactly where I’d want to be if I weren’t… you know… working.
Katie’s actual new place of employment.
And that could be good or bad.
But hopefully good. At least for now. Needless to say, this won’t put me on the fast-track to becoming holiday letter-worthy. But it’s something. And that’s probably all I really need right now.
I don’t want to hold off celebrating until after I find out whether I got hired, because there’s a possibility that I didn’t get hired and then we’d feel weird drinking the champagne. Well, I wouldn’t feel weird – I hardly ever do. But you might feel awkward drinking a celebratory type drink around a failure of a human being, and I’d really like to spare you the embarrassment.
But you know, the fact that I made it through my first job interview since early 2008 without falling on my face or sporting massive pit stains really is a feat in itself. And I’ll tell you what – after over 6 years of holding salary positions and living in cubicle land, interviewing for a part-time waitress/bartending job was cake.
I just plopped myself down at the bar, filled out the application, and had a quick chat with the manager. Nope, no 3 hour interviews here!
(Though I’d be lying if I said she didn’t express a tiny bit of disbelief when she read my past three employers were Plexus Logistics International, CDM, and the Civil Engineer Squadron at Moody Air Force Base. I told her she could call any of them – our breakups were amicable. So Jason, if you’re reading this, please be nice to Nancy or Danielle if one of them calls. Oh, and please don’t tell them about this blog!)
I was so relieved on my walk back to the car, awed by the difference between this experience and an interview for a job I had back in 2007. We had just moved to North Carolina, and I was eager to work in a real office building with a lobby and an elevator and key card access and clacking heels and pencil skirts and people bustling through the halls with rolled up maps and plans.
It seemed so grown up.
A couple of days before the highly anticipated interview, I noticed a small, unobtrusive-yet-slightly-odd bump on the back of my leg just below my bum. Don’t ask how I noticed it. I just did. I didn’t think about it again until the next day when it was distinctively larger and sore. It had an elliptical red shape surrounding it, and all I could think after living in this strange and exotic land of the Sandhills for only a couple of months, was this. is. not. right.
Not at all.
So I did what any American 20-something with a computer and internet access would do. I Googled it. And the results were terrifying.
I found myself inundated with photos of spider bites. More specifically, spider bites of the Brown Recluse. I will spare you the photos here, but if you haven’t heard of the Brown Recluse, do yourself a favor and forget I ever mentioned it. Do not, under any circumstances, Google it. You have been warned.
Of course I ran off for an emergency visit to my doctor who, after his idiotic intern who should have spent more time studying her med books and less time applying lipstick determined it was a pimple, verified that it was, in fact, a spider bite but NOT that of the recluse. He wrote me a prescription, told me it was going to get worse before it got better, and sent me on my merry way.
The day of the interview arrived. Sitting in a conference room for 3 hours while a different person comes in each hour to grill you about your education, experience and interest in the company is not a comfortable situation. Now imagine sitting in a conference room for 3 hours while a different person comes in each hour to grill you about your education, experience, and interest in the company when sitting is the most profoundly physically painful thing anyone has ever asked you to do.
Ever.
Oh, and you just spent an hour-and-a-half driving to get to the interview.
My bum was on fire. And I was afraid to stand to relieve it between interviewers lest I burst into tears and run crying from the building and for ever after be remembered as the candidate who cried because her butt hurt. Oh no. I was stronger than that.
So why was I telling this story?
Oh yeah. The interview yesterday was easy. Too easy. I’m a little worried. But I’m going back tonight to meet with the other manager. Apparently a second opinion is in order.
I can’t say I blame them because I am a sketchy character.
Here’s hoping they don’t figure that out until after I’m hired.
Today I’ve committed myself. And no, I’m not currently surrounded by men in clean white coats who are coming to take me away.
I’ve committed myself to applying for a job. Not a job job, but just a job. You know, something that will get me out of the house and interacting with creatures who walk on less than 4 legs and don’t lick my face by way of greeting.
It’s the kind of job I’ve done before – back when I was still going to school and thought I was working towards something better.
Turns out that “better” is a state of mind.
If only I’d known that before all those student loans, huh?
There are several things I plan on doing before I muster the nerve to go out and let someone tell me whether or not I’m good enough. I still need to finish this blog post, work out, shower, start some laundry, and make myself somewhat presentable for immersion in the outside world. It’s been awhile, but I’m pretty sure I remember that the outside world doesn’t appreciate bare feet, outdated glasses, and dog hair covered peacoats. So these things I need to remedy before I leave.
And while I’m doing these things, I know the fear will start to creep into my system. I’m a fairly confident person. I’m not easily shaken. But what if – what if – this is the time when they finally tell me to grow up? They don’t want me for this job? I have too much experience? Why on earth would you want to come back to this when you’ve had some of that?
I won’t know what to say. Maybe for the first time ever.
And that scares the hell out of me.
So please wish me luck. For the sake of mulligans. Do-overs. New beginnings. Whatever you want to call it. This isn’t something I want to do forever. I’m just dipping my toes. But apparently I’m dipping them with my socks on because, like I said, the outside world – especially the food service industry – doesn’t appreciate bare feet.
