Working Girl

After several hints and allegations here on the blog, I'm going to come right out and say it: I got a job. Somewhere among the six interviews and the 90-minute writing test, I impressed someone enough to make me an offer. Plus, I was wearing a shirt that, according to Eva, said, "Give me a job and then take me disco dancing."

I know I glossed over that writing test part until now. I confess, I lived in absolute fear that I would suffer the greatest humiliation of my life in holding an MFA and failing a potential employer's writing test. Although, I'll tell you kids, it wasn't anything to thumb your nose at. My disco shirt was wringing with sweat at the end of 90 minutes.

But I was offered The Job, I accepted The Job, and I start The Job on Monday. I'm still a little vague on what The Job is. And whether I can do it. But I prefer not to dwell on those things for now. For now, let's merely celebrate that I don't have to write any more heinous cover letters.

Going Coastal

As I write this, I'm downing a yogurt for breakfast and thinking about the last few things I need to throw in my bag. That's right - this little nomad is hitting the road once more. I'm squeezing in one last summer trip to Wilmywood, in part to surprise my boss at her surprise birthday party this evening. I was looking for an old beach postcard to post with this, but instead, I found this undated archival picture of the back of the house I used to live in on Grace Street. I'll definitely be driving by there just to give the house my love.

Also, I wanted to say to all of you who have been following my progress with the j-o-b, I received an Official Offer yesterday. I think I'm planning to accept it, but I've got six hours in the car to be sure. (And to listen to Continuum on repeat. Ah, John Mayer.) Soon, this freeloader may be back on the payroll. More on that upon my return.

If you're in NC, get ready. Here I come.

Alka Seltzer to the Rescue

On Thursday, I had an i-n-t-e-r-v-i-e-w in Atlanta that qualified as the most intense 4 1/2 hours in recent memory and included a quickly-eaten egg salad sandwich. For future reference, do not eat egg salad when nervous.

I felt fairly ill for the rest of the day, but marked it down to prolonged anxiety and tried to sleep it off. On Friday, the awful feeling resurged after dinner, but I dismissed it as the result of dwelling on all the things I said wrong in the i-n-t-e-r-v-i-e-w and the contemplation of possibly starting a new job, new life, etcetera and so forth, and on the other hand convincing myself that I'd flubbed the whole thing and would be back to square one. On Saturday, following dinner, the overwhelming nausea reared its ugly head.

I tried deep breathing and sitting upright while watching The Prestige, because I figured Christian Bale and Hugh Jackman would make me feel better. But the stomach pains and biting nausea refused to subside, and I started to worry that I was having a panic attack. After the movie, Justin and Eva asked me if I was okay. But I wasn't. I was positively green. And on top of that, my stomach was hard to the touch, which convinced me that an evil being was waiting to burst forth at any moment. Around midnight, Justin went to Walgreens to consult the all-night pharmacist.

The pharmacist figured that prolonged anxiety had caused me to brew a raging case of acid indigestion in my stomach that had gone unchecked for several days. Prescription? Two Pepcid AC chased by a double dose of Alka Seltzer. Ack. The remedy itself almost made me toss my cookies. But I am pleased to report that within ten minutes, my belly had deflated a bit to its normal gushy state and I didn't feel quite so sick. I'm pretty certain that if I were a superhero, my Achilles heel would be my stomach. With the nervousness and motion sickness, whatever my great powers were, all it would take to defeat me would be a series of speed interviews aboard a cruise ship.

Confessions of a Pottermaniac

If you've been reading this blog for any length of time, you'll probably think that this post isn't that much of a confession. And those of you who have been around me and subjected to my enthusiasm during peak periods of Pottermania (like the present) will no doubt nod your heads in agreement. But here is the full confession of a Pottermaniac, and the promise of posts to follow that will clearly establish that my obsession has reached monumental proportions.

I am nearly done rereading the full Potter cannon for the let's-not-even-try-to-count time. I very deliberately started out with Sorcerer's Stone about six weeks ago with the aim of finishing Half-Blood Prince fresh and ready for the midnight release of Deathly Hallows in 10 days' time. At present, I'm about 200 pages from accomplishing that goal. Others are rereading - I know Susan's a bit ahead of me. So is my brother - but he cheated and just reread Order of the Phoenix and Half-Blood Prince.

But I read carefully, painstakingly. And here's where the obsessive Pottermaniac confession comes in. I read with a notebook beside me and kept notes about questions and theories that arise from each book. I've run a number of them past Mom, and she's been kind enough to entertain and debate each of them in turn. And yesterday, we got totally out of control and bought Mugglenet's best-selling What Will Happen in Book 7? while at Wal-Mart.

All this to say, my Pottermania is reaching an absolute fever-pitch, with the release of the movie at midnight tonight (I'm planning a weekend viewing) and the conclusion of the whole series just days away. Prior to the Deathly Hallows release, I'll be posting the remaining questions raised during my reread of the books. And while the readership on the blog has sky-rocketed from searches for Deathly Hallows spoilers, I think the reality is, there's no such thing. We can theorize and conjecture, question, and keep our fingers crossed that Harry makes it out alive. But we won't really know - save the few and the proud at Scholastic and Bloomsbury - until the clock strikes midnight next week. Until then, I'm going to be preparing for the final installment like it's my job. After all, I don't have a real one yet.

Out There (or The Waiting Place)

As I've run into old friends and acquaintances (or their parents) and I relay the circumstances of this place in my life, I hear the following: "Don't you worry. (Fill in the blank) is out there for you. Just you wait and see."

And it's one of those things that people dash off, a ready-made phrase selected as easily as a cliche, a proverb, a line of Shakespeare. It's just what you say in these conversations. I'm not ungrateful for it. It is said in such a manner as to suggest that people aren't worried for me, that, in their minds, the future holds good things for me. It is a sort of glimmer of hope when they say these things and reminds me that this place isn't forever.

As for this place, I'm torn between two schools of thought about it. One stems from this kind of remark - this place is not forever and there is a next station on this train ride of life, and when I get there, I will laugh about my panic/insecurity/overt worrying. It is the thought that emphasizes that this is temporary, to be endured and to test patience. It is the place between here and there - a life layover. And like all layovers, I simply must make the best of it.

And the other school of thought comes from another place that tells me to be patient and enjoy. For me, it's swimming-upstream, beat against the current, a thought against the status quo to stop trying to "get past" this time and accept it. This voice is very, very quiet, because I'm not much given over to things like relaxing into a life without structure, without habits and plans and knowing.

Along with this school of thought comes the question, is there a reason I'm stuck here for longer than I anticipated? Maybe "out there" is just not out there yet, and so I'm here waiting for it to fall cosmically in line. And beyond that, maybe while I'm here, I'm not supposed to see the time as wasted on waiting. Instead of ticking off the time like so much sand through the hourglass, maybe I'm actually supposed to be doing something with this time - learning those things I need to know from Mom, like how to cook eggplant. Or maybe it's time to pick up with my writing. Or photography. Or something...something besides adding up the hours and days and weeks like a bean counter.

And so it's a fight to the death between these two schools of thought, hovering around me like the proverbial devil and angel. But in this case, it's more like a fight between Ferris Bueller and Cameron. And, like in most situations, I think the key is balance - pursuing the job search with a reasonable amount of intensity but not letting myself forget that I exist right now. Carpe diem.

Miscellany

* I don't know where I picked it up or why, but "clearly" is my new word of choice. I say it about 784 times a day. Clearly, this is a problem.

* I woke up this morning with two things in mind: popcorn and "Don't Take the Girl" by Tim McGraw. I don't know why I was thinking about either of them. (Side note: That song came the summer before 8th grade. And my friend Lizzy bought the tape single so we could listen to it out at her pool. That was the same summer Justin and I watched a lot of country music videos on the local channel WNGM 34. We really liked "Fancy.")

* I've started to use my cell phone as a sort of flashlight at night when I'm headed to bed so I don't have to turn on lights and potentially wake my parents. It makes me feel a little like MacGyver.

* I had a dream that one of the agencies whose site I had looked at called and offered me a job. I immediately sent them a resume this morning.

Today's Cover Letter

To Whom It May Concern:
I am looking for a job, and, while you are a place that could hire me, you may or may not have a job opening. If you do, it probably requires some skill or level of experience that I do not possess. For example, I am unable to properly draw or illustrate anything. For confirmation, please consult my reference, STGD. If you don't have an opening, you are probably annoyed that you received an email from someone you don't know who's looking for a job you don't have when you have other more important things to do. It's okay. I understand. I used to be a very busy and important person. Now, my only job is to feed the cats each night. I am very handy with the pop-tops on Fancy Feast catfood. For confirmation, please consult my reference, Kudzu.

If you are at all considering me, despite my lack of skill and your lack of openings, you should know that my confidence in the skills I actually have is plummeting at an alarming rate. Perhaps this indicates why today, I gave up in the midst of writing a more traditional cover letter and left my dutiful post at the computer to deliver my sister-in-law's vaccum cleaner to the repair shop. (A task I completed most satisfactorily, by the way, so perhaps if you have an errand-girl type position, I could handle it. For confirmation, please consult my vaccum-breaking sister-in-law.)

Are you still reading? Well, let me just cut to the chase. At this point, I feel like we're on a bad date. I don't know if you want me to be funny or straightforward. Do you find me charming? Do you hate me before you've even met me? Just tell me what you want, because all this confusion? There are men for that. The silence following the delivery of this cover letter is likely to be almost deafening (if the others are any indication). All the same, for formality's sake, please find attached my resume listing out all my education (I can read) and my work experience (See? Someone else hired me).

If you would like to talk to me further, just call. Because I'll be here. I don't have anything else to do. Except take out the trash - you know, a girl's got to earn her keep.

Sincerely,
Ashley

Fears Du Jour

* That Dillon, now getting to the point of being able to recognize and distinguish people, will not like me because he will know that I am not good with children.

* That I am a terrible conversationalist. It seems that every time I talk to someone and then reiterate my conversation to my mother, she will ask a very obvious question that I don't know the answer to and didn't think to ask myself.

* That there is truth in the look that some people give me when I confirm that I am childless, unmarried, unemployed and living at home that indicates there is something wrong with me.

* That something will happen to my mother before I learn all the things I need to know. Being here all the time, I see the questions she gets about everything - cooking, shopping, sewing, childcare, health, happiness...she's like Dumbledore. And they both really love socks.

* That nothing, not even Secret Clinical Strength, can stem the flow of my sweaty, sweaty armpit. STGD, are you with me?

* That I am boring

* That I will be forced to take a job that I don't love

Gimme

I just sent out three cover letters and resumes. Somebody give me a cookie. Or a beer. I need a nap.

Taking the Long Way (or The UnPlan Plan)

Two questions most asked since my departure from Wilmywood:

1) Are you enjoying having some time off from work?
2) Have you found a job yet?

Please don't think these questions are mutually exclusive. I'm often asked them back to back.

Here's the thing: I have followed the plan to the nth letter since I was 12 years old. I choose 12, because that's when I decided to go to Berry. And major in Communication. When I was 14, I started high school on the college prep track. I joined clubs. I did extracurricular activities. When I was 15, I took the PSAT. When I was 16, I took the SAT. Took it again when I was 17 and took the ACT, too - just for good measure. At 17, I was accepted to Berry and awarded a scholarship. At 18, I went to college.

In those four years of college, I stayed in the major I declared as a 12-year-old, and added three minors to it. I got a second scholarship in theatre. I worked at Oak Hill and was made supervisor. I applied to grad school. I did an internship. I graduated and went to Wilmywood. I got a job. At 24, I earned my MFA. And I stayed in my job, working full-time.

I have followed The Plan so very carefully. And now, for a few weeks of my life since I was 12, I don't have a plan. And it's a national emergency. I know it's what people think to ask, but I wish they wouldn't ask it like they're panicked for me. Like the time is ticking and the bank account is growing smaller.

There's a plan for everything. Your cell phone. Your retirement. The possibility that your workplace comes under a terrorist attack. Perhaps it's time to be liberated from The Plan.

On the way home today, I wasn't paying attention and missed the interstate I was supposed to take and ended up taking another way home. A longer way that I probably haven't driven since college. I missed a bypass later and ended up driving through a quaint little downtown. A drive that should've taken me an hour and a half tops, crested to just over two hours. But you know what? It was okay.

Sometimes, you have to throw the map out the window. Sometimes you have to get lost. Sometimes you just have to keep driving even though you don't know where you're going. Sometimes, the future - that far off destination- is too far away. Sometimes, right now, with the windows down and Keane turned up, is enough. It's enough.

Here's to the UnPlan Plan.

Adventures in Babysitting

Yesterday morning, I left my sister's house in approximately the middle-of-nowhere and headed to my brother's house with three small dogs. Jake, almost 9, a pomeranian poodle mix, and Eli and Zeke, two small black schipperkes almost a year old. Some of you may remember that my sister lost her first schipperke, Ben, last summer. And that these dogs are the loves of her life.

So you can imagine how I felt, about forty-five minutes after arriving, when I realized that only one of the three dogs was in the house with Eva and me. She had come in from outside minutes before, setting the dogs to barking. We were trying to keep them quiet because Dillon was napping. I kept fussing at Zeke, as he seemed the most agitated. But then, I realized he was the only one barking.

The other two were gamboling about in the backyard - unleashed. Jake was no problem; he comes when called. But Eli is a runner. After about an hour of chasing him around the house with Eva and me acting the part of the Two Stooges and trying all sorts of useless plans to trap him, Eli made a run for it. And disappeared.

At roughly 12:30, I broke down and called my sister and told her that he was lost. At roughly 12:32, I called my mother and had a hysterical breakdown. All the while, Eva is tromping through backyards with Dillon strapped to her front in the Baby Bjorn, and I'm cruising the neighborhood calling. And calling. And calling.

Finally, at 1:30, I spot him, thanks to a tip from a landscaper. He's crossed the main road and sitting in a yard in the adjacent neighborhood. At first, I'm not sure whether I should believe my eyes. I hadn't had anything to eat or drink all day. But there he was, sitting calmly in the yard, like it was his own. As slowly and calmly as I could, I got out of the Rav and approached him. And he ran. Ran like the devil was after him and vanishes around the corner.

I search another neighborhood. It is 90 degrees. My sister has left work and is on her way. I am nearing an absolute meltdown. Eva calls me and says that the dogs are barking at the front of her neighborhood. I drive back that way, and I see him. He's by a fence on the opposite side of the road. Now, when I was first shopping for the Rav, one of the salesman insisted on demonstrating its turning radius. I was fascinated at the time. But yesterday, I slammed the brakes, turned on a dime, and parked it in the ditch.

Eli chose that moment to go under the fence, but luckily, he took shelter in a fenced in backyard. Moments later my sister arrived. Moments after that, I was wiping the hysterical tears from my grimy face. In my defense, he ran from her a bit when she arrived. Bad dog. Very, very, very bad dog.

Moral of the story: The Dog Whisperer, I am not. I will be striking dog-sitting from my resume and subsequent job search.

Done & Undone

Done:
* Stoned kitty sleeping by cat-nipped scratcher near the kitchen
* Filmed various important Wilmywood locations: first office, first apartment, Morton Hall, beach
* Sushi
* Long bath
* Palm Sunday service
* Watching She's the Man (twice)
* Identifying Amanda Bynes ' next teen movie project and duly notifying Penelope
* Almost entire bag of Skittles
* Afternoon nap
* Marathon procrastination
* Agreeing to tap dance at Kim Shable's wedding

Undone:
* Dishes
* Taking the trash out
* Sending out resumes
* Unfinishable proposal I'm writing for work
* Packing
* Bank deposit
* iPod loading
* General life planning
* Learning to tap dance

In Sheep's Clothing

Now that I've declared my independence, announced my plans to depart, and given my notice at work, I'm a mere month away from being an unemployed waif. I've sent out a couple of resumes, but I admit that my heart hasn't been in it. It's not because I don't want a job or because I don't think that jobs are out there. It's more a sudden inescapable feeling that I am...well, a fraud. I know on some rational level that it would be silly to think I could've kept my job for almost six years without having some skill. But it's one thing to succeed in the known arena, and another thing entirely to go back out into the marketplace to peddle your wares.

Yesterday, I interviewed someone who might replace me. Someone more than 15 years more senior than I am, and I felt a bit foolish asking her to describe her work experience. As if, at 27, I could possibly compete with her body of work, much less question her competence for the position. I actually confessed to her on the phone that I wasn't quite qualified for the position I hold. I just blurted it out before I had time to consider the context and the inappropriateness of telling an interview candidate that I have very little business conducting the interview.

She asked me if I felt like I had a good portfolio as I head out into the world to find another job. And I said yes. Yes, because I am proud of what I've accomplished. And I think that my work is good. But what if what I think doesn't hold water in the outside world? I can make all the pronouncements I want about my pride in my job and how I think it's good...but at this point, it's ultimately someone else's opinion that's going to matter. And I do know enough about this industry to know that it has the potential to be cutthroat and catty and condescending.

I keep imagining myself across from some unbearably hip executive who is making dismissive noises paging through my portfolio. I see the doors closing behind me; feel the impending sense of failure knowing that I will not get a call back. It all reminds me of a one-act play called The Actor's Nightmare. In it, a bewildered actor bounces from scene to scene, not knowing the words or the context and inevitably muddling everything. I feel quite like that now, like I've fallen into a performance where I should know the words because I've studied the script, but in the end, that great big hook is going to come out from behind the curtain and yank my incompetent self off the stage.

Job Wanted

Seeking job with the following attributes:
* Great salary (i.e. my beloved Rav4 will not be repossessed; can make rent each month)
* Great benefits (i.e. when I get sick, I can go to the doctor)
* Great boss (i.e. do not get yelled at for things that are not my fault; congratulated on jobs well done; offered criticism with tact and insight)
* Great company (i.e. not advocating the exploitation of children and old people)
* Great hours (i.e. between 9 and 5 most days; not 7 to 7 most days - I like sunlight)

Skills offered to potential employer:
* Excellent with witty repartee, puns, and inappropriate jokes
* Fashionably and endearingly late
* Can drink my weight in coffee
* Highly developed negotiation skills with irrational clients, peevish vendors, and ridiculous coworkers
* Patience...carefully, painfully honed patience
* Will work for food