Silver Linings, or I Am Consciously Choosing to Dwell on the Amusing Highlights of My Last Temp Job

Temp Gig: Receptionist for an office building
Temp Gig in actuality: An ironic receptionist
(October 16-17, 2008)

Well, I’m not going to get paid $12 an hour while watching Oprah, or methodically shaping my eyebrows in the mirror while overhearing the latest set of conservative pundits on Fox News fill my Dad’s ears with panic at the thought of a Black president.* So, when the temp agency called and offered me a last minute 2-day receptionist gig a couple weeks ago at the above mentioned going rate, I responded affirmatively with a mild beat of pomp and circumstance. And so it was with uncharacteristic flourish that I ironed my business casual that afternoon and mentally prepared myself for a 6 a.m. wake up call the following morning.

Digression: This new assignment did in fact require a full half hour of mental toughening because I usually emerge, somnolent, from my cave between 10 and 11 a.m. (This is a wild improvement over 12 p.m., which my Mom always had extreme difficulty accepting, as if I had nonchalantly converted to Daoism despite orchestral familial objections that I would lose my monogrammed spot in the Catholic hereafter known as heaven). Fact: On days that I am forced to wake up unnaturally I’ve got to shotgun coffee or face a long cranky pants streak until I see that the sun’s angle signals that the day has slipped into afternoon.

Silver Lining #1: I admit that after donning my business casual the following morning and brushing my hair, instead of my usual workout clothes and conveniently forgetting the state of my hair, I felt good. The office building turned out to be one of the most confusing locations I have ever had to seek out so early in the morning, but I had just had my ears filled with upbeat tunes on the car ride over, I was nursing a caffeine buzz, and I was ready to work! After teaching myself the switchboard, I settled into my temporary receptionist chair, pulled into my temporary receptionist desk, and prepared to adopt a “Pleasant Receptionist Tone” at the first auditory signal of a ring. Between 8 a.m. and 5 p.m. the phone rang approximately 10 times. On that day I set a personal best for the amount of lists I’ve ever written in an 8-hour period. ("Top 10 Favorite Foods", "Top 10 Favorite Movies", "Top 10 Spells I Will Cast To Guard Against Future Boring Temp Assignments", "Top Ten Ways To Mutilate Myself So That No One Will Notice As I Sit Here At My Desk") The tenants in the building were mostly lonely creatures who barely spoke to me, and whom I suspect - due to their general lack of personality exhibited during my 2-day assignment – suffered from varying degrees of social ineptness.

Silver Lining #2: Except, that is, for the kind talent scout down the hall, whom I will now refer to as “The Messiah”**, and Nan the wealth management advisor whose business card advertised that her services are founded on “traditional values” (yikes). Into the sixth hour on the first day, ready to start pulling out the outer corner eyelashes of each eye in order to feel something – anything – to counter the death boredom of being perched over a phone that would not ring, The Messiah came out of his office to make some copies, observed my mannequin-like stillness, and casually mentioned that I could bring a book to read. For the next day. That it would make the hours go by faster. In one second blissful relief co-mingled with a long stretch of silent sailor curses – really creative ones – over the fact that no one, not one soul from the temp agency or the main office, mentioned this extremely significant fact.

Silver Lining #3: The next day went by much faster. The phone rang even less. I managed to avoid the 50-year-old financial analyst attempting to flirt by burying my head in One Hundred Years of Solitude. I read 150 pages. My eyelashes were spared. The Messiah had exhibited a kindness that proved an irrefutable fact: there is hope in the world! My faith in humanity was restored! Bottom line: I am not opposed to being paid to read.

Silver Lining #4: The second most enjoyable highlight of the last day was when Nan, in all her loquaciousness, spoke of her and her husband's pet project of re-building their house with old parts of old farm houses. From Pennsylvania. The kicker was her quaint theory on global warming, namely that it is a “hoax”. I giggled on the inside. After Nan went back to her office, trailing her barely repressed repugnance for left-wing ideologies behind her, I giggled out loud. I had to turn my face to the wall and muffle my mouth to snuff out the laughter, lest my cackling reach Nan's office.

Silver Lining #5: Nan gave me a revelation: My blood pressure can in fact remain stable under political provocation! This is a personal victory I did not expect to reach until my convalescent home years. I have become inured to outlandish far-right claims by living in my parents’ household. The paternal side of the household steadily watches Fox News (much to the consternation and despair of the maternal side), and I cannot help but pick up dribs and drabs of crazy theories and clownish claims that have come to warm my heart with their utter ridiculousness. Thank you, Nan.

Footnotes:
*I will be shaping my eyebrows elsewhere on Election Day, and the day after. My Dad will likely be very irritated that "socialists" have taken over the White House for approximately 48 hours, plus I will likely be cheerfully nursing a hangover in San Francisco.

**When I look back upon this particular temp job, and realize that the kind talent scout could have easily remained quiet about my bringing in reading material, I shudder. I could have easily lost eyelashes. That is why to me he was The Messiah on that fateful balmy day in mid-October. He resurrected a hope I have been carrying around: that I can actually get paid to do what I like. Granted, getting paid to read is a basic example, but I saw a kernel of possibility there. I have seriously thought about naming my future dog after him.

Gabi

And Now, It's Time For Some *Perspective*

When one does not have a job (and greatly desires one) one must be careful to monitor one's attitude so as not to become trapped in a sinkhole of grievous self-pity. Much like taking an ibuprofen at the onset of a potentially blistering headache, Perspective can be a valuable tool in heading off the pathetic drenchings of self-pity (it really does have an odor and a vibe, and I haven't come across any cultures - in my semi-extensive research - on our planet that value this characteristic or find it in any way attractive). I have been making my own Perspective Lists a bit more during the latter half of 2008 (or, in other words since I got back from Greece and started my job search in earnest in late June), and by golly it freaking works. Here's one I pulled from my treasure trove of Perspective Lists.

Top 7 Reasons My Life Could Be Worse
(Gabi, Late August, 2008)

• My parents could have refused to take me in, feed me, occasionally take me to lunch, fill up my gas tank, and field requests during weekly shopping trips to the supermarket and Costco. (“Um, Moooommm, I don’t see the low-fat chocolate chip cookies in the bag! Did you forget them again? Do you need me to call you while you are at the supermarket to remind you? How could you forget them? I wanted some right now! I can't believe this is happening to me!”)

• I could have no legs, challenging my ability/desire to go on long walks to keep my sanity in check.

• I could be sleeping on a couch, instead of having my own room and a sizeable portion of the right-hand wall in my parents’ garage, which I have stacked high with boxes of my crap…occasionally feeling the rolling lumps of guilt for contributing to the clutter in the garage, where the Christmas Manger box set looms high, on the lookout throughout the year, on top of a storage closet, which I just know my Mom is going to make me set up this Christmas, and I won’t be able to say “No” because I live in her house and she buys me low-fat chocolate chip cookies.

• I could be addicted to heroin, which would be problematic and expensive, and possibly career limiting.

• I could live in a ghetto, challenging my ability/desire to go on long walks to keep my sanity in check, due to the risk of being someone’s spontaneous target practice. Instead, I live within 15 walking minutes of a Starbucks. They totally know me.

• I could be without a car, forced to take the bus – in Salinas (heavens to Betsey!) – just to get contact lense solution, or just to escape the house and re-assert my pretend independence if only for an hour.

• I could be a poor widow, in a developing country, living in a desolate, parched region of the country, without ready access to running water and electricity, forced to collect firewood to sell in order to feed my five children (with another one on the way), while I worry about their futures and their health, and sink deeper into a morass of depression and hell on Earth as I grow more intimate with the unforgiving features and vise-like grip of poverty’s embrace.

Gabi

All Aboard!

What is it about this process that reminds me of a film noir nightmare? Why is Bogart walking by in his trench coat and hat? Did Hitchcock just signal to the conductor? Am I in a train station?

~Start Scene~

A shrill whistle pierces the station's layer of commotion. The stale air of the station is being strangled by humidity. Desperately, while you are choking for air, you pray that it rains, even inside the train. Finally, the suspense disappears and elation arrives as the Metro liner departs. Where is the train going? Good question.

Transitions are rarely easy and never stress free. The transition from a poor student to an employed adult is a bit like getting on a train ride. You know that one of the stops is yours, but you're not sure where your journey will end. You think you know the name of the stop. It begins with ‘P’ or ‘B’ or maybe it is a ‘D’ and the name of the stop is just out of reach and has a couple of syllables. But if you hear the name, it will come to you, and you will know where to stop, hopefully. The end point could be in 15 minutes or 15 hours, if only you could plan.

The stakes are high, not to put too much pressure on this situation. At whatever stop you disembark, that location will shape your daily thoughts, determine the people you meet, affect your career, and change your life. It is anxiety producing for sure. What will the destination be like, whenever you finally arrive? Will it be cold? Rainy? Metropolitan? Rural? Exhilarating? Due to the anticipation, you are torn between enjoying the scenic ride and worrying about of the unknown destination.

When boarding the train, you chose the first safe spot to sit and relax. The seat is fine, a little graffiti and grime but not too dirty and thankfully there is nothing sticky on the seat. A bit later, the seat becomes harder and shifting your weight makes it more tolerable. Yet, a rank smell is emanating from somewhere, source is unseen. The once highly anticipated journey is losing its luster and the tedium grows stronger.

The ride is a growing uncomfortable and long, if only you knew how long it was until the ride will be over. The low grind of the motor is growing irritatingly louder. There is the iPod but if you put it on, you might not hear the name of the stop. There is space in the back of the train that is spacious and has a window open for fresh air. The seat taunts you. If you moved you might be rude. Nice people surround, polite and helpful strangers, but it seems the fates are in charge of the destination.

So, today your fate is to sit on the train, enjoy the ride, and curse others who reach their destination. Not sure when it will arrive, be patience and wait. Next could be your stop.

~End Scene~

Soon, the nightmare will be taken over by Capra and Stewart will find his happy ending. Just make sure I am awake.

Julia

Gardeners are True Humanitarians

I know that faith is an ongoing conversation with the Universe. I just have never heard it respond so plainly to me.

Today, I asked Willie, the mailman, how his tomatoes were doing. He handed me a tomato and nourished my body and fed my soul. I realized:

Gardeners are true humanitarians.

If you plant something in the ground; you have faith. You believe God will send rain and sun. If you nurture a seed, the size of a pebble,with hopes of strength and value; you are invested in the land. If you plant a little extra for four legged friends; you engage in animal subsidies and rabbit welfare. If you share the fruits of your labor, you create community. If you partake in a slightly misshapen or less than beautiful vegetable; you know that value and worth come from internal substance and quality. Gardeners see into your soul. They are vested in their community, kind to everyone, steady and optimistic. They are believers in a higher power.

I only wish I had planted something this year.

So, take this as my thought for the day and know that at times I have not been a dedicated gardener/custodian of friendships, bestowed blessings, and innumerable gifts. But I will be a better gardener of my small but important treasures.

Thank you Willie, for sharing your tomato and teaching me some fundamental truth.

Julia