Mischief and Mayhem of the Moneyless

Hiatus & House of G

2009-03-30T15:59:00.000-07:00

The Mischief and Mayhem of the Moneyless authors are going on hiatus. However, GB will continue to blog on her own at House of G, or http://gb-houseofg.blogspot.com/. Please follow her over to her new house for new musings on music, and not on music.

May the force be with you.

My Diversified Portfolio Ain't Made Of Cash

2009-02-24T20:24:00.000-08:00

Sometimes there are times when we bear witness to moments of such acute beauty, and feel such a subsequent rapture (maybe it's quiet, maybe it's in technicolor) -- if only for a few potent seconds. These are unplanned moments that send us heaven-bound, briefly breaking the gravitational pull that keeps us vertical, feet firmly planted on Earth. When a rapturous moment really gets my attention it's like an imprisonment to just seal it up for myself. I want to share . . .

. . . The way it felt to float in water, just off a Greek beach, shocked by how it felt to be in a body with no tension; the nightly thunder+lightning storms in Puerto Vallarta, more thrilling than a prohibited motorcycle ride -- more intoxicating than a glass and another glass of inky red Malbec.

Lately, I've had a string of these rapturous moments. I'm still not sure what to call these episodes. Some last a few seconds, and some stretch on a bit longer. Are they teeny-tiny epiphanies? Little bursts of illumination? Are they the result of a brain chemistry lapsing from a lack of electrolytes, or an armada of neurons firing without cause?

On the surface, on paper, I might appear to be a down-on-her-luck victim of a world gone stupid broke -- a world that highly educated MBA graduates can no longer count on conquering with a mere flick of a resume, and a breezy, self-assured interview performance. But, I don’t feel like a pauper. Not in my mind and not in my heart.

The truth is that these days my distractions are few. I am free to fall down a well of introspection at will -- without the pounding of a 9 to 5 job, and the creeping fatigue of a workweek. The result: I’ve experienced a calm that had eluded me for some time. I’ve let it take me by the hand. It has shown me that the world around me is constantly offering up little lustrous pearls, little time-shaped anomalies, in cracked open shells – to anyone interested in looking.

These moments, these pearls, are what make up my diversified portfolio.

. . . The 24-second guitar riff that stops me cold, and then heats up the tops of my ears . . . and the auditory luster of it is so strong I don’t know if I should move, or cease breathing for stillness’ sake just to capture it and house part of it inside of me.

. . . The way little kids, unmarked by artifice, can speak remarkably candid truths, revealing their perspectives: unwarped, all love, all hope-filled.

How about this: On a walk, in my hometown, cars passing by, people walking their dogs, teens in Emo gear walking home from school, all on an ordinary afternoon, on what's been an ordinary day, when a mere glance westward reveals a motley blanket of clouds, and a fiercely orange orb languidly dispersing its diminishing rays through the gathered condensation. It casts an array of celestial pinks wide, wide across the sky. How does that not speak to you if you really stop to look at it? How does that not lift you outside of yourself – no pharmacology required?

This is when one finds the rules of physics grow momentarily cold, and Earth's grasp on you is momentarily less than it was . . .

. . . And every time I have a transfixion, even in my beat down Converse, and tangled hair, I am humbled. A resonant gratitude swells large in my heart . . . and it beams out to my fingertips, alighting the corners that surround me.

Open Letter To My Future Job

2009-02-09T19:54:00.000-08:00

Are you there Job? It's Me, Gabi.

I looked for you today.

I tried to find you on LinkedIn, and I thought I might have found you at Google, but I think it was a false alarm. I thought I was close to finding you on the UNICEF website, but if you were there you didn't make it very easy for me to find you. Then, I really thought I found you at d.light, but you can't be there because even though the job description fit me like a tight sweater making the most of what I have to offer, I don't speak Mandarin. Like, not even close. But you know, I would really go to Shenzhen, even though I don't like Chinese food. My friend Matt works in Shenzhen, and hates Chinese food, too. But, the fact that the local WalMart there carries "fine" red wines at reasonable prices more than makes up for his dislike of the local cuisine. I digress.

Just wanted to remind you that I am still looking for you.

For reasons I have yet to discover, I haven't found you yet. We have been like star-crossed lovers (I'm Juliet). Perhaps, if I meditated daily I would find some answers. Perhaps, if I dabbled elbow-deep in the black arts I would find some answers (but, to be clear, the idea of participating in a ritual involving the bloodletting of an animal, especially a cute one, is not something I can get behind).

If you could be so kind, please provide me a few clues as to your whereabouts. I don't know your name, company, or industry, but I know you are out there. And, I'm sure you are looking for me, too. Maybe you haven't broken up with your current employee? Maybe you don't exist yet due to delayed budget negotiations?

Well, I'm here. I'm writing you at the local Starbucks. I just saw a chick wearing a dark blazer, white shorts, and four-inch stilettos. It's about 47 degrees outside. WTF? As a sidenote, dear Job, I will dress appropriately for you. I will iron my shirts, and dry clean all wool items dutifully. And, wear pants. Regularly.

OK, well, have a great week, and if possible, could you appear to me in a dream tonight so I might receive some cryptic clues about how to narrow my search for you? All the best!

Affectionately,
Gabi

Why, hello 2009!

2009-02-05T00:02:00.000-08:00

It has been awhile since I’ve written for this blog. I’ve been too busy with Facebook [insert cutesy emoticon]. Not much has changed since the last posting. However, due to a few minor updates, I feel compelled to enlighten my readership (all five of you) of the latest haps. Let’s proceed.

• If you subscribe to Vedic astrology then you can appreciate that Jupiter – a benefic planet of good luck and fortune – is now on my side. Suck it, Saturn.

• I chucked my 11 a.m. wake up time for 8:30 a.m. I figure if I am to be receptive to golden job opportunities – even in the grim climate that is our economy on this February 5, 2009 – I need to be awake for more hours to maximize the time in which I can breathe my receptivity in and out. Thoughts are things and vibes travel. My vibes can travel further if I am *awake* longer to generate energy for them. I realize this sounds batshit crazy. But, if this works, I will only confirm that I’m not crazy, and I’ll have a job that doesn’t involve sweatshop editing (see below) or constantly granting permission to kids who want to sharpen their pencils (see below). [What is it with kids and sharpening their pencils?]

• I am now a part-time editor. Let’s not discuss the specifics, as they are not exciting and I almost quit today. I will offer up that it is tedious work. My friend Stephen, upon hearing the description of what I do, remarked: “Gabi, it’s a sweatshop!”. My description of what I do – in my head – includes some F-bombs, but “sweatshop”, in a word, is really the proper term. Anyhow, so I work for an editing sweatshop that employs MBAs and other highly educated people looking to make a few bones in this shitatious economy and [willing to take it up the ass] willing to put up with – and I’m going to use the most erudite word possible here – “sketchy” expectations, and a "sketchy" pay rate. At least I can work from home and mutter without stares.

I’m a meticulous editor; there are parts of the sweatshop experience I like. (Maybe this is like finding out that Pepsi ONE is available in the soda machine in the cockroach-infested employee kitchen.) The major drawback: I am slow. The company expects its editors to turn around error-free transcripts in three hours or less. It once took me almost nine hours to edit a shitatious raw transcript, in which the main speaker was a CEO from Taiwan. Her ability to speak English well on a scale of one to ten was a resounding three (and I’m being generous).

An editor who is capable of turning around an error-free product in three hours or less is one of three things:

a) A superhero worthy of a celebrated graphic novel.
b) A talented, quick-as-lightening master of editing who is a fucking dumbass for allowing such skillz to be exploited by a low-paying, spirit-sucking, sweatshop-promoting transcript company.

OR,
c) The very definition of a masochist – with a fetish for editing quarterly earnings call transcripts.

Moving on…

• I became a substitute teacher. I prefer only to speak on this subject when I’m either holding a drink, or drunk. That is not the case at this time, but I will say that there is no way that teachers get paid what they deserve.

I bow down to Kindergarten teachers. I’m not wired to deal with people that little. I find them challenging, but cute. Sometimes. I wonder if this is similar to training baby elephants for a circus show?

I have found that Kindergarten and 7th grade are equally challenging. 7th graders are a pain in the ass. BUT, they are at a point in their formation as human beings where they haven’t totally left childhood in the dust, and they also haven’t yet taken on a wearying cynicism that high school sometimes engenders in full-blown teenagers. It is a fact that 7th graders are slaves to the nuclear explosion of hormones in their bodies. They can’t help it. They are frighteningly awkward, but can also be very, very funny (some have been very curious about me, and have asked if I have kids; I kept a poker face, but on the inside laughed uproariously). It is also weird to be on a campus with both kids who look like they just passed 4th grade, and almost full-grown-looking dudes who *must be* shaving every day.

The times I’ve subbed for junior high I’ve had flashbacks to the war zone of my own hell-on-Earth adolescence. I am guessing this is much like how war vets fall prey to their damaged psyches and involuntarily flashback to those blood-letting battalion days (for me the catty fights at recess), the smell of napalm (for me the smell of Aqua Net), the images of mangled body parts (for me the confusion and betrayal of a body I didn’t want to be in, and which seemed to operate without my consent), and the brutality of an innocence lost and scared shitless (for me the emerging consciousness of the end of childhood…and the tantalizing and appalling beginning of adulthood).

Where was I? Right. I’m a certified substitute teacher. Not my idea of a good time, but in a bad economy it's a gig that is easy to get and pays decently for the psychological torture involved. This is my update.

Coming soon…an open letter to Kanye West, my top 10 on Rod [Crazy] Blagojevich, and a personalized analysis of the Madonna/Whore paradigm.

Music Saves, like Jesus Saves*, Like Lip Balm Hydrates Lips, Like Quiet Reflection Recharges the Soul

2008-11-24T11:29:00.000-08:00

Some traits are just chalked up to genetics. I look like my Mom, I have scanty eyebrows like my Dad, I don’t believe in buying children designer jeans like my Mom, and I am obsessed with music like my Dad. A friend recently asked me if I had any tunes to recommend, which I am always delighted to provide. Most of the time my friends appreciate suggestions because they either don’t have time to troll for new music, or have things like jobs and families and relationships that take up the time I usurp for researching new and old music alike.

So my music-seeking friend, referred to as “Bedazzle” from hereon out (in retaliation for his denigrating treatment of my French recommendations), didn’t simply accept my list blindly and move on with his day. He was already familiar with some of my recommendations and felt inclined to comment on them. And even if he wasn’t, he commented anyway. It felt a bit like handing a little kid a piece of chocolate cake and being told: “But did you not get this cake at La Patisserie? No? I’ll try it but I don’t have to like it.” Bedazzle knows I say this all in love of course.

I had been meaning to post some of the tuneage that has provided the soundtrack to my recent spate of unemployment (otherwise known as the latter half of 2008, or the equivalent of two fiscal quarters) for friends interested in some (new to them) tracks. These are just a fraction of the tunes that have inspired, cheered, and successfully flipped the mood switch during those inevitable phases of gloom a job search engenders (kind of like forced bloodletting). Bedazzle has kindly allowed me to include some of his comments below (in blue), for those who are inclined to seek both sides of the story.

1. Imogen Heap - Goodnight and Go/Speeding Cars/Hide & Seek.
The ethereal music doesn't really resonate with me. I'll make exceptions for Portishead and Ryskopp, but not much else.

2. Donovan - Get Thy Bearings.
Wow. Just wow. I felt like such an old man when I bought Hurdy Gurdy Man. Get Thy Bearings is clearly the best song on the album. Great minds.

3. Muse – Starlight.
Catchy tune, but it always had a hint of Tears for Fears mixed with a touch of The Killers.

4. New Order – Ceremony.
Radiohead covers this song. You should really get into Joy Division. The one drawback is it is hard to find good re-mastered Joy Division music so it always sounds 'tin-y'.

5. Band of Horses - The Funeral.
Spectacular band, great song, see them live if you can. They were based in Seattle, toured a lot in SF, then moved to South Carolina and don't come as much. Get both their albums if you haven't already.

6. Feist - Feel it All.
Don't know much about her besides the iPod commercial. She did a great set on Letterman, you can find it on YouTube, with Grizzly Bear, the lead singer form The National, and a bunch of other great performers. Look it up.

7. Brandi Carlile - The Story
Pass.

8. CSS - Music is my Hot Hot Sex.
Great title. Great song. Little known alternative title: Music for Eunuchs.

9. Greg Laswell - Sing, Theresa Says.
I'll be Switzerland on him. I like Sing, Theresa Says.

10. The National - Mistaken for Strangers.
Have all their albums. They have some amazingly textured and layered music. Saw them live and they were great. One guy played a violin.

11. The Notorious B.I.G. – Juicy.
RAP ATTACK! Do you realize I actually wore a red and black lumberjack in Alaska? Not ironically either.

12. Angels & Airwaves – Sirens.
Uh-oh. I've always felt they are the EMO version of Blink-182. I'm not sure if it is worse for you that I've compared them to Blink-182 or worse for me that I have a Blink-182 point of reference.

13. Carla Bruni - Quelqu'un M'a Dit.
Title seems French. And these colors don't run. FREEDOM FRIES OR DEATH!

14. Tinariwen - Matadjem Yinmixan.
I think your fingers were over one set of keys when you typed this. Did you mean Justin Timberlake - Sexy Back?

15. Magic System - 1er gaou.
I do like magic. But ultimately it is a Dark Science. And I'm not sure if '1' is an appropriate start to a word. Maybe a little hangover from the prior artist.

16. Easy All Stars & Citizen Cope - Karma Police.
I detest reggae. And I think Radiohead is the most important band to release music in the last 20 years. You can see where this is going.

17. The Toadies – Tyler.
Don't know them and I'm still a little steamed about that last entry.

18: Frou Frou - Only Got One.
See Imogen Heap.

19. Passion Pit – Sleepyhead.
Wasn't the Passion Pit the diner on Beverly Hills 90210?

20. Mark Farina & Sean Hayes - Dream Machine, my current favorite song. Love.
High praise. I'll give it a listen.

21. Modest Mouse - Truckers Atlas.
Lonesome Crowded West should be mandatory listening for every 13 year old child in America. Between this and Donovan, I'm convinced we share a soul. The James Brown kind of soul. Not the kind associated with St. Paul, or Peter, or whomever is at the Pearly Gates.

22. Yelle - Je Veux Te Voir/Tristesse Joie.
Sounds French...

*This is catholic blog with a lower case “C”, as in topics explored herein are liberal, broad-minded, wide-ranging, and universal in nature, if you please. Feel free to believe that JC (as in Jesus Christ, not Julia Collins the other author of this blog, although the latter is pretty freaking awesome in my opinion, much like Christians in general view the original JC – and I’m not trying to be flip here) saves, or doesn’t. It’s totally up to you. I’m just trying to make a point here by drawing upon my Catholic upbringing -- in a humorously irreverent way without being excommunicated, although since I don’t go to church anymore I probably already have been and just threw the notice away thinking it was junk mail. I am so not showing this post to my Mom.

Did you catch that?

2008-11-18T13:34:00.000-08:00

Shhhh! Listen, in the silence, did you hear that? Never mind. It is too loud in here. Wait, there it is again. Did you hear it? I hear a voice. I hear the voice. Everywhere. In May, the voice was the humming below the din of the noisy restaurant. In July, the voice was behind the laughter of kids jumping in the pool. In September, the voice was between the mutterings of the sputter of the motor. In October, the voice was among the wind as it rustled the leaves and trees. I hear the voice everywhere. There it is again. Did you catch it?

At first, I cannot make out what the voice is saying. That is not really true; at first I am ignoring the voice. And then I am fixated on it. I am trying to understand what the voice is saying. I wish silently that I could ignore it. I cannot figure out to whom the voice belongs, nor from where the voice is coming.

The voice just is.

And then I catch it. The voice is not slower, or louder, or more obvious. Nonetheless instant clarity, I understand completely. Could I not understand the voice because of my own internal thoughts? Were they arguing with the voice so loudly and for so long in hopes to distract me from the central message? Yet, once I hear the truth, I can no longer pretend. I catch it. I get it.

“You do not belong here!” And then again, “You do not belong here!”

But the voice is hospitable and says at the time, “relax, have fun, enjoy the day! Here is a great meal and a fine wine. But, remember your journey has not reached its conclusion. Of course if you are tired, you may stop for awhile and rest but don't get comfortable, you cannot stay.” Of course the voice can also be a cheerleader and says, “Keep going. You can do it and there is only one solution. You can do it!” But, the point is always the same.

“You do not belong here!”

And so, I keep searching. Repack the suitcase, reload the car, and start again. Not defeated, but relieved. I don't know if I would like to stay. I could make this version of a life work, but I am gleeful that it is unnecessary. And I gratefully continue the search.

Yet, I continue to listen. I agree, I do not belong here but I do not want to miss the change. I do not want to miss the moment when the voice’s message changes to the new message. When the voice says, “Welcome! This is where you belong. You are welcome to stay, as long as you need. This is where you need to be.” I will be listening. I will catch it, the first time. Shhhh.

~Julia

Reconciling The Urge To Nest With The Desire To Be A Kick-Ass Professional

2008-11-12T20:39:00.000-08:00

The urge to nest is a common compulsion, especially if you are a human of the female persuasion -- and pregnant. But the overwhelming urge to clean, organize, and decorate is not limited to pregnant women alone. I should know. I’ve felt it, and continue to feel it a couple times a year, despite never having been in a family way. And I rarely ever admit it. Many of my single and female friends, who themselves have never been expectant mothers, are overtaken by the nesting instinct in a powerful way, and more than just a mere week or two out of the year. Many of these women have jobs/careers, and possess strong desires for professional success. So how does one harmonize the desire for career advancement and the hankering for a cozy place to nurture, if not a child, one’s own dreams and goals?

Metaphor time. Have you ever walked by a Kentucky Fried Chicken on an empty stomach? (or a pizza place, or a Chinese restaurant, or a hot dog stand) and suddenly imagined holding a bucket of golden deliciousness with a side of mashed potatoes + gravy, and a few biscuits, and satiating yourself silly in solitude so that no one can hear the animal-like scarfing, or witness the smears of grease and loss of pride? And then being called back to reality upon hearing your stomach growl, so that you run home to make yourself dinner because a KFC meal does not align with your objective to fit into that dress you plan to wear for that New Year’s Eve occasion you don’t have scheduled yet, but you know you will? Imagine that once you’re home you find the fridge empty and the cupboards bare. So you settle for some leftover Halloween candy at the bottom of your bag and a stale bag of Sun chips -- for dinner. Unsatisfying. So what happens when nestiness sets in and you suddenly start thinking of painting borders in your bedroom, or get teary over the itty-bitty cuteness of the holiday toddler outfits at Target, and you don't do anything about it? This is why women go on chocolate binges and buy expensive handbags, purchase animal-shaped cookie cutters, engage in RomCom* marathons, go crazy buying up succulents in plant stores, and make ambitious proclamations about making homemade gnocchi.** They are trying to fill that empty nesting hole with either some form of domesticity or mask it with new slouch boots and a faux reptile clutch.

Fighting hormones is like fighting the Taliban in the peaks and crevices of Tora Bora: difficult. A friend of mine recently brought up that she is feeling nesty. She dismissed it with a figurative wave, and labeled the phase “stupid”. I can understand the instinct to apologize. Nesting instincts aren’t exactly encouraged in single women lest they be branded clean freaks for washing walls or just plain freaks for buying label makers. But, I say to women everywhere: give yourselves permission to feel your nesting instinct to the maximum! Explore the heart of it -- all the way to the outer reaches, without shame, without apology, and with the pride that your body can produce such a beautiful urge to build, protect, and nurture.

What follows is a bit of a stretch, but…

At the core of South African culture is the concept of Ubuntu. It's a bit tricky to explain, but the fundamental idea is that "I am because you are." In other words, I am OK if you are OK. If you don't have your good, I will provide. And, if I don't have enough, you will help me, because in doing so we help each other and our community...and by helping each other, by nurturing our communities, we make a better world. I think at the nucleus of the nesting instinct are some of the basic tenets of Umbutu – to nurture, to provide, to comfort, and to create a safe place. What if we all took spoonfuls of Ubuntu on a daily basis? If we subscribe to the idea that we hold in ourselves a microcosm that reflects the macrocosm, what a beautiful move it would be for us as women to lay out our nesting instincts proudly like a string of sacred blankets and offer up their warmth and comfort to the world.

*Romantic Comedies

**Don’t do it. What a m+&^%$f@@@ing nightmare.

Silver Linings, Or Why At Times I Think This Job Search Maybe Isn't So Bad & I Lose The Feeling of Overwhelming Impotence

2008-11-08T11:43:00.000-08:00

My aversion to cover letters is gone. The aversion started as a thorny little seedling. But as my job search progressed it grew and started to loom over me, a large, dark gray specter with a scaly coat of violet-y iridescence. As I gained the confidence to meet its direct gaze I dropped my intention to battle it, and then to negotiate with it, and I saw that it began to shrink, and shrink, until it was small enough to put it my back pocket until I could dispose of it in the nearest black hole. Actually, that's not true. I probably won't be able to cease cover letter writing for an estimated 15 to 20 years. So, until then I've accepted the aversion into my life. I've allowed it to sit right beside me in harmonious diplomacy. Now, we be tight.

I am very well rested these days.

I finally enjoy preparing a meal: breakfast. The days of quickly slamming a Slim-Fast and mainlining coffee are over. For now. It is with anticipation that I throw off the covers in the morning and throw on workout clothes to greet a brand new day in the kitchen. I almost sound like a converted morning person. Ha ha. All I need to consult is the whim of my mood. Shall it be a spinach omelette today? A mushroom frittata? Chilaquiles? Potatoes, or toast, or get all crazy with the Cheese Whiz* and prepare both? Green peppers? Red? Oh glorious breakfast! How I look forward to greeting you in the morning!

Sanity walks** at any hour of the day.

A thriving, intimate, and satisfying relationship with Facebook.

Have you ever learned how to speed read? To latch onto key words to catch the gist of the text? I can do that now with job descriptions. And I've gotten so good that I actually get a little rumble in my gut if it's an appropriate job to apply to. I've unwittingly downloaded job speak lingo onto my mental hard drive, which has allowed me to compose cover letters that read like nothing I would have ever written just five months ago. Got any cover letters for me to write? $10 a pop.

Unfettered reading. This has led to a quiet obsession with Gabriel Garcia Marquez, a headlong immersion into all matters foreign-affairs related, additions to my own personal self-help library, and warmly embraced detective thrillers about killers and sadists...which...lead me back to the self-help library.

The ability to sip a mocha at a local cafe, at any hour of the day, stationed if possible in a sun spot like a cat, pondering the inane and the not so inane, and allowing myself to be open to tiny epiphanic moments about the past, present, and future.

A stark understanding that the underpinning of true independence, and the contentedness that it brings, is financial security. But really, truly, absorbing this epiphanic thought and allowing it to make it's way from my frontal lobe so that it seeps into my DNA for some re-wiring. As the famous poet Carl Sandburg once said:
"Money is power, freedom, a cushion, the root of all evil, the sum of blessings."

*From the Urban Dictionary: "a phrase that describes the extremely crazy or eager antics of a person. Or how into the topic or action a person is."

**Sanity walks: walks taken to deliberately remove excess stress and tension from one's person, and stimulate breathing so as to flow much-needed oxygen to the brain (resulting at times in zen-like reveries) and reverting said person to a state of mental stability.

Gabi

The Chain of a Dark Thought Process in a Born Optimist

2008-11-07T20:28:00.000-08:00

Fact: I am unemployed.

Feeling: As though I were enmeshed in a small, tightly-woven, intractable net of stasis.

Fact: Definition of stasis - state of inactivity; stagnation.

Feeling: Fog of darkness settles in the frontal lobe, resulting in the deliberate act of spooning several heaps of ice cream into a large bowl, topped with a generous dollop of whipped cream, several liquid lines of chocolate syrup, and 1/4 cup of finely chopped walnuts.

Fact: Walnuts are a great source of Omega-3 fatty acids. They also contain manganese, copper, and tryptophan.

Feeling: Blissful satiation followed by bloated fullness followed by drowsy introspection.

Fact: Rumination over the word stagnation. Rumination over stagnation's antonyms, such as development, advancement, and progress.

Feeling: Approaching alertness.

Fact: Generally, as the digestion process winds down, blood flow to the brain improves and restores mental agility.

Moment of A-ha! Illumination: Considering Newton's laws of physics, and specifically the third law (for every action there is a reaction), it follows that it would be scientifically impossible for me to remain in my state of stasis forever, i.e., unemployment. Thus, following the logic of the third law, and given my heavy investment in writing cover letters, scouring job boards, and networking with everyone around me including the elderly lady walking her dog along the trail by the creek near my house, at a yet to be determined moment in time I will receive the Holy Grail of job seekers everywhere: a job offer.

Post moment of A-Ha! Illumination feeling: Hope springs eternal in the cockles of my heart! And suddenly the feeling of wanting to run over pedestrians, pre-ice cream binge, is gone.

Gabi

How My Life Could be Worse, Part II

2008-11-07T18:14:00.000-08:00

Let me start with the obvious: McCain/Palin could have been elected.

I could be responsible for conducting the audit on Sara Palin's estimated $150K+ high-end wardrobe (more than Joe the Plumber's house, by the way), and then coordinating the subsequent "auction" to recoup a sliver of the costs. This would require me to go to Alaska. Ew.

I could be dealing with a potentially infected gallbladder, threatening to burst, right by my liver, poisoning my bloodstream and causing my death within minutes. Dear Tim, I hope the gallbladder issue clears up for you, and thanks for some perspective. In the meantime, just say no to fried food until you're able to see the GI specialist next month. Hugs!

I could be a Congolese from Kiwanga, fleeing my village because rebel forces have ignored the fragile cease-fire and have wrestled control from the pro-government militia, murdering all suspected government sympathizers. I could be running, running, with nothing but the clothes on my back to seek safety and shelter in an overcrowded, squalid, understaffed Kibati refugee camp, encaged with fellow compatriots, malnourished, terrified, and lost to family and friends.

I could be Dmitry Medvedev. Let's face it: he's methodically clearing the way for Putin to run again as president. How good do you think it makes Medvedev feel to hold a job that on paper seems an impressive feat: President of Russia (never holding an elected office until this year)...but in reality is Putin's Puppet du Jour. How much do you think Medvedev has benefitted financially from this quaint little arrangement? What kinds of perks are involved? Swiss bank account? Super models? Tricked out luxury vehicles? A yacht with gold-plated everything? All to be a megalomaniac's stooge on a string? Medvedev, do you have a conscience?

I could be a past my bloom Playboy Bunny, with starting to sag breasts, and crows feet beginning to striate the outer corners of my eyes, although still maintaining my size 2 figure, because after 20 years of denying myself needless and necessary carbohydtrates, I am used to and comforted by a feeling of starvation. I could be clinically depressed by my utter loss at how to make a living, barely a high school graduate, and never a college graduate, skilled only at posing for girly mags, opening bottles of champagne, and finally working as a trade show model at auto shows along the rust belt. Hooters would be such a cliché.

Gabi

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

2008-10-29T21:09:00.000-07:00

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

2008-10-29T19:22:00.000-07:00

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!

2008-10-27T19:41:00.000-07:00

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

2008-10-24T21:56:00.000-07:00

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

About Us

2008-09-25T11:16:00.000-07:00

And there we were, professionals, earning a paycheck (which we later learned in accounting can be referred to as positive cash flow), handing off projects at work, procuring boxes anywhere we could find them, selling furniture, and facing the reality of packing up a life and shifting on to a new adventure. Mostly, though, we were imagining our new lives as graduate students.

And now here we are, graduated, with an MBA tucked in our back pockets, and looking...for...a...job. (On positive days we might say we are searching for careers, but let's face it: in a tough economy we just want to be able to pay for our lives).

This is a rather unique time in our lives, what with just having completed a very fulfilling, arduous at times, extremely social MBA program, and re-focusing on entering the professional world knowing more about how the business world works and our roles in it (right now, considering the possible bailout and general fragile state of the economy, as Julia says: We know a little too much about what this means...). So there are good days, and there are bad days. And we are here to document them.

Happy reading!