So given that any illness I've caught over the past half-year can be traced through the babies, I've been very careful lately, as there is a remote-remote-remote connection with a family friend who caught the H1N1 virus. I wash my hands even more than before, if that's possible, avoid touching my mouth, don't share food/utensils with the kids.
Tonight I was sitting on the floor watching Star Trek: Next Generation. Patrick Stewart had my guard down. I turned, and the boy planted a big, wet kiss right on my mouth.
He was very pleased.
Saturday, November 7, 2009
Thursday, November 5, 2009
Ladies of Lake Bluff
My recruiter sent me a job description. Doable, non-scary.
"But it's in Lake Bluff," she said.
I hit Google and discovered that Lake Bluff is way north, but not west, in the tony northern suburbs. I also saw that the Metra station in Lake Bluff was right across from the office, and that line was my local Metra line.
"Fine," I said.
I had my initial interviews at the company HQ, Downtown. The irony is that if the job were there, I could take a single bus door to door.
I met with the Managing Director and a woman in the Creative Department. I got the sense they were really looking for a personality fit.
"I can tell you that you will be going to the Lake Bluff office for second interviews," the woman said.
Well, go me.
The interview was at a time that didn't really work with the Metra schedule, so I planned to drive. In preparation, I took the car to Snappy Car Wash to have it cleaned. I love that place. You step out of your car, and a team of washers descends with brushes, hoses, soap. One group attacks the outside, another team hits the inside, another man does the tires, yet another removes the carpet and runs it through the special carpet machines. It's like a wet, soapy Mexican gymnastics event.
I had my Google directions, and left early because traffic always stinks; just getting through Skokie takes a third of the entire trip time. Driving through Lake Forest, I kept expecting to be pulled over for what my friend Joe calls "Driving While Working Class." Apparently the burgeoning rust on my old Honda did not set off the Hoi Polloi alarm, because the Taste Police were nowhere to be seen.
When you go to work in The Loop, you navigate through congested streets, panhandlers, pigeons, news vendors. Busses churn by, taxis weave and honk constantly, and trains screech overhead on the elevated tracks.
In Lake Bluff, a park with a gazebo faces the office, which itself looks like someone's house. It was a new, three-story building built along a row of new construction purposely built to look old and colonial and quaint. There is a bakery on the ground floor.
I met three of the women, and spent most of my time with the main account director and one of the account managers. I liked them. I like the company, I like the energy, and I like that women drive the business, which has proven rare here, and is completely different from my last job. It's a creative, progressive, high-energy environment.
I think it went well, but I don't know what the competition is like. They had a final interviewee today, so I should hear soon. If I don't get it it won't be the end of the world; after 8 months of job-hunting with few results, I'm used to rejection, but it would be so nice to have a job again.
"But it's in Lake Bluff," she said.
I hit Google and discovered that Lake Bluff is way north, but not west, in the tony northern suburbs. I also saw that the Metra station in Lake Bluff was right across from the office, and that line was my local Metra line.
"Fine," I said.
I had my initial interviews at the company HQ, Downtown. The irony is that if the job were there, I could take a single bus door to door.
I met with the Managing Director and a woman in the Creative Department. I got the sense they were really looking for a personality fit.
"I can tell you that you will be going to the Lake Bluff office for second interviews," the woman said.
Well, go me.
The interview was at a time that didn't really work with the Metra schedule, so I planned to drive. In preparation, I took the car to Snappy Car Wash to have it cleaned. I love that place. You step out of your car, and a team of washers descends with brushes, hoses, soap. One group attacks the outside, another team hits the inside, another man does the tires, yet another removes the carpet and runs it through the special carpet machines. It's like a wet, soapy Mexican gymnastics event.
I had my Google directions, and left early because traffic always stinks; just getting through Skokie takes a third of the entire trip time. Driving through Lake Forest, I kept expecting to be pulled over for what my friend Joe calls "Driving While Working Class." Apparently the burgeoning rust on my old Honda did not set off the Hoi Polloi alarm, because the Taste Police were nowhere to be seen.
When you go to work in The Loop, you navigate through congested streets, panhandlers, pigeons, news vendors. Busses churn by, taxis weave and honk constantly, and trains screech overhead on the elevated tracks.
In Lake Bluff, a park with a gazebo faces the office, which itself looks like someone's house. It was a new, three-story building built along a row of new construction purposely built to look old and colonial and quaint. There is a bakery on the ground floor.
I met three of the women, and spent most of my time with the main account director and one of the account managers. I liked them. I like the company, I like the energy, and I like that women drive the business, which has proven rare here, and is completely different from my last job. It's a creative, progressive, high-energy environment.
I think it went well, but I don't know what the competition is like. They had a final interviewee today, so I should hear soon. If I don't get it it won't be the end of the world; after 8 months of job-hunting with few results, I'm used to rejection, but it would be so nice to have a job again.
Sunday, November 1, 2009
Workers, Unite!
I realize I never mentioned the results of my Teamsters interview.
I drove to the office, which was a bit of a hike, and was greeted by a woman somewhat older than I who got me situated with an application form in a side room. it was small, older one-story building that reminded me of a VFW post: small rooms and paneling. The room I sat in had a table covered with union pamphlets and information. It felt kind of old-fashioned and cozy. The receptionist brought me some coffee. I was feeling optimistic.
After I'd turned in the application form, three people came out to meet me: a younger man who was the head of that office, another, middle-aged man, and a woman, "Marcie," whom I recognized as the woman I'd spoken to n the phone, the one who'd called me for the interview.
"Oh, yes; we spoke on the phone," I said. She just stared at me. I was not getting Good Vibrations.
We went into a large room with a big table. They sat on one side, I on the other.
"Kind of like a Congressional hearing," I joked. Then I remembered who this organization was, and prayed I hadn't hit a nerve.
The head man, John, gave a brief description of the office. It was a non-profit benefits-administration center for the Teamsters. He gave me some background on the group: it had actually predated the Teamsters but was absorbed when the Teamsters rose to power. I caught myself starting to say, "so they made you an offer you couldn't refuse," but bit my lip just in time. The Teamsters aren't known for their sense of humor. Also, I was getting a very odd vibe from this group, especially Marcie, who seemed to just be glaring at me from across the table.
"So because we operate as a nonprofit, the pay is in the range of $8-$12 an hour."
And folks, here is where I got mad. Because you see, in their job posting, they had asked applicants to submit a salary history and salary requirements. Which I did. And in my cover letter, which I'd labored over, I explained that I did not require the salary I used to make, but I did require x. And people, the number I gave was certainly not the crap they were dangling before me. So not only was this representative of a union whose job it is, among other things, to secure GOOD WAGES for its employees, asking me to work for garbage, he had clearly disregarded my resume and cover letter, and now here I was, after taking the time to get dressed for an interview and driving halfway across town, and filling out their tedious three-page application form for a job I would never be able to support myself on. For the pay they were offering, I could walk down the street and check out groceries.
But then I started to wonder: why was everyone acting so weird and distant and awkward? It was exactly like a blind date where you walk in and your date gets all stiff and formal and clearly is not interested but is making a polite show of getting through the evening. Only in this case everything they needed to judge me on had been given to them when I responded to the ad, so what the heck was up? On some level I realized that I had never been a candidate for this job, and I was tempted to ask how many candidates they were bringing in to satisfy some internal policy on going through the motions of interviewing external candidates so that they could hire someone's sister, which was the plan all along.
Then Middle-Aged Guy said, "I see you graduated college. When was that?"
"1985."
"But your resume starts at, like, 1997. What happened during all that time?" I stared at him. He was serious.
"Well, it's generally not customary to list every job that isn't relevant to the one you're seeking, and it's also not customary to go back more than a certain number of years. And my resume would be fairly long if I were to include every job I've ever had since college. But I can tell you now, if you'd like."
"Sure." There was an air of challenge in the word, as though he were calling my bluff on some big lie.
"OK. Do you want me to start from college on or from the resume back?" While this guy was annoying, given that I knew I was never going to get the job and didn't want it anyway, I was now in Smartass Mode.
"College onward."
"Fine."
And I rapid-fired every job I could recall, which included domestic in Somerset, England, special instructor for the Profoundly Retarded, receptionist at a turnkey office in London, warehouse worker, museum staff, veterinary kennel tech, bagel server, catering waitress, hotel operator, shelter worker, etc. I've had lots of jobs. I took pleasure in watching this guy's face as I went on and on.
"So you see," I concluded, "I didn't think it was really necessary to include them all, as many aren't really relevant to this job, but yes, I did work between college and 1997."
He smirked and said I'd been very informative. I also sensed a newfound respect.
Needless to say, I did not hear from them. I hope Marcie's sister enjoys her new job.
I drove to the office, which was a bit of a hike, and was greeted by a woman somewhat older than I who got me situated with an application form in a side room. it was small, older one-story building that reminded me of a VFW post: small rooms and paneling. The room I sat in had a table covered with union pamphlets and information. It felt kind of old-fashioned and cozy. The receptionist brought me some coffee. I was feeling optimistic.
After I'd turned in the application form, three people came out to meet me: a younger man who was the head of that office, another, middle-aged man, and a woman, "Marcie," whom I recognized as the woman I'd spoken to n the phone, the one who'd called me for the interview.
"Oh, yes; we spoke on the phone," I said. She just stared at me. I was not getting Good Vibrations.
We went into a large room with a big table. They sat on one side, I on the other.
"Kind of like a Congressional hearing," I joked. Then I remembered who this organization was, and prayed I hadn't hit a nerve.
The head man, John, gave a brief description of the office. It was a non-profit benefits-administration center for the Teamsters. He gave me some background on the group: it had actually predated the Teamsters but was absorbed when the Teamsters rose to power. I caught myself starting to say, "so they made you an offer you couldn't refuse," but bit my lip just in time. The Teamsters aren't known for their sense of humor. Also, I was getting a very odd vibe from this group, especially Marcie, who seemed to just be glaring at me from across the table.
"So because we operate as a nonprofit, the pay is in the range of $8-$12 an hour."
And folks, here is where I got mad. Because you see, in their job posting, they had asked applicants to submit a salary history and salary requirements. Which I did. And in my cover letter, which I'd labored over, I explained that I did not require the salary I used to make, but I did require x. And people, the number I gave was certainly not the crap they were dangling before me. So not only was this representative of a union whose job it is, among other things, to secure GOOD WAGES for its employees, asking me to work for garbage, he had clearly disregarded my resume and cover letter, and now here I was, after taking the time to get dressed for an interview and driving halfway across town, and filling out their tedious three-page application form for a job I would never be able to support myself on. For the pay they were offering, I could walk down the street and check out groceries.
But then I started to wonder: why was everyone acting so weird and distant and awkward? It was exactly like a blind date where you walk in and your date gets all stiff and formal and clearly is not interested but is making a polite show of getting through the evening. Only in this case everything they needed to judge me on had been given to them when I responded to the ad, so what the heck was up? On some level I realized that I had never been a candidate for this job, and I was tempted to ask how many candidates they were bringing in to satisfy some internal policy on going through the motions of interviewing external candidates so that they could hire someone's sister, which was the plan all along.
Then Middle-Aged Guy said, "I see you graduated college. When was that?"
"1985."
"But your resume starts at, like, 1997. What happened during all that time?" I stared at him. He was serious.
"Well, it's generally not customary to list every job that isn't relevant to the one you're seeking, and it's also not customary to go back more than a certain number of years. And my resume would be fairly long if I were to include every job I've ever had since college. But I can tell you now, if you'd like."
"Sure." There was an air of challenge in the word, as though he were calling my bluff on some big lie.
"OK. Do you want me to start from college on or from the resume back?" While this guy was annoying, given that I knew I was never going to get the job and didn't want it anyway, I was now in Smartass Mode.
"College onward."
"Fine."
And I rapid-fired every job I could recall, which included domestic in Somerset, England, special instructor for the Profoundly Retarded, receptionist at a turnkey office in London, warehouse worker, museum staff, veterinary kennel tech, bagel server, catering waitress, hotel operator, shelter worker, etc. I've had lots of jobs. I took pleasure in watching this guy's face as I went on and on.
"So you see," I concluded, "I didn't think it was really necessary to include them all, as many aren't really relevant to this job, but yes, I did work between college and 1997."
He smirked and said I'd been very informative. I also sensed a newfound respect.
Needless to say, I did not hear from them. I hope Marcie's sister enjoys her new job.
Thursday, October 29, 2009
Internal Memo
TO: The Babies
FROM: The Management
RE: Bonding with Nature
The Management would like to remind its subordinates that while it approves of, and even encourages, running through wet leaves, digging in mud, handling all manner of sticks and rocks, and getting absolutely covered in dirt, it does maintain a strict zero-tolerance policy with regard to slurping up puddle water.
FROM: The Management
RE: Bonding with Nature
The Management would like to remind its subordinates that while it approves of, and even encourages, running through wet leaves, digging in mud, handling all manner of sticks and rocks, and getting absolutely covered in dirt, it does maintain a strict zero-tolerance policy with regard to slurping up puddle water.
Thursday, October 22, 2009
You just push it all down...
I am a pro at internalizing stress. Until of course the chest tightness and the palpitations and the nightmares start. Then I realize it's time to maybe review and re-prioritize.
The other night I woke from a nightmare, the only detail of which was that a woman with a face in some kind of pain or distress appeared at my door, and it scared me so much I woke up (yes, the symbolism is not deep; I said I was stressed, not imaginative). Anyway, I woke up in a panic, then felt the weight of my cat George as he slept against my foot. I was instantly calmed; my semi-awake mind felt safe with him there. (How an emaciated ancient cat with three teeth and a close resemblance to Anne Frank is supposed to defend me is unimportant; what matters is I went back to sleep.)
I did not go to the gym today; an unusually protracted heart-murmur/palpitation event at spin class Tuesday has me being a little cautious. Instead, I bench-pressed the kids and carried them up and down the stairs, which is usually a good workout. I paced my breaths by teaching them new words. The girl's verbal skills are remarkable, and her diction is precise; the boy, on the other hand, tends to point, grunt, and mash the few words he can get out. It's like pairing William F. Buckley with Scooby Doo.
"WalK. BaG. ShoeS. KeyS. Hel-LO!" says the girl.
"Ah-oo?" says the boy.
"You know she makes you look simple, right?" I say to him.
"OOooh," comes the reply.
But he understands everything perfectly and follows even complex commands, so I'm not all that worried. Plus he acts as my henchman at the park - when his sister starts to head off, I say, "Get her," and he drags her back; I never have to lave the bench. It's like having a Labrador Retriever. So we have brains and we have muscle. They'll take care of each other in school. In the meantime, they give me a great upper-body workout. And the boy now combs my hair. I'm working on foot rubs.
The other night I woke from a nightmare, the only detail of which was that a woman with a face in some kind of pain or distress appeared at my door, and it scared me so much I woke up (yes, the symbolism is not deep; I said I was stressed, not imaginative). Anyway, I woke up in a panic, then felt the weight of my cat George as he slept against my foot. I was instantly calmed; my semi-awake mind felt safe with him there. (How an emaciated ancient cat with three teeth and a close resemblance to Anne Frank is supposed to defend me is unimportant; what matters is I went back to sleep.)
I did not go to the gym today; an unusually protracted heart-murmur/palpitation event at spin class Tuesday has me being a little cautious. Instead, I bench-pressed the kids and carried them up and down the stairs, which is usually a good workout. I paced my breaths by teaching them new words. The girl's verbal skills are remarkable, and her diction is precise; the boy, on the other hand, tends to point, grunt, and mash the few words he can get out. It's like pairing William F. Buckley with Scooby Doo.
"WalK. BaG. ShoeS. KeyS. Hel-LO!" says the girl.
"Ah-oo?" says the boy.
"You know she makes you look simple, right?" I say to him.
"OOooh," comes the reply.
But he understands everything perfectly and follows even complex commands, so I'm not all that worried. Plus he acts as my henchman at the park - when his sister starts to head off, I say, "Get her," and he drags her back; I never have to lave the bench. It's like having a Labrador Retriever. So we have brains and we have muscle. They'll take care of each other in school. In the meantime, they give me a great upper-body workout. And the boy now combs my hair. I'm working on foot rubs.
Monday, October 12, 2009
Coffee Talk
After a frantic week, I'd set aside yesterday for a relaxing day at my favorite coffee shop to read my homework for horticulture class. I took the train to Lincoln Square armed with book, highlighter, and anticipation of a tasty bagel and good decaf.
I settled in to my table (a bench against the wall), got out my book, and began to read. My coffee and bagel were brought to me, and I settled into my task, undistracted by the projects at home that would have tempted me.
While I munched, slurped, and highlighted, a woman came in and asked whether she could share my table. Of course, I told her. She put down her laptop and went to the counter. After placing her order, she returned. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw her bobbing and weaving. I looked up to see her looking under the table at the area around my feet. Suddenly she was gone, and I felt her hands bumping against my feet. Then again. Then my calves.
"Hi, can I help you find the plug?" I asked.
"Oh, I have it," she said. I looked under the table, and the outlet she was shooting for was on the other side of my feet from her approach. It was getting awkward. Just as I was about to take the plug and put in into the wall for her, she socked it in. Great; fine. I returned to my homework, and began again to read about the properties of water.
"What do you think about Obama getting the Nobel Prize?"
Good Lord, no. No, no, no. Not now, and not in a coffee shop. Hey, let's start a politically-charged conversation that will be sure to intrude upon the people sitting right next to us. (Did I mention she did not seem to have an Indoor Voice?)
I replied as neutrally as possible, but I tend to get reeled into conversations easily, and before I knew it, we were having a discussion about it, which I really did not want to do. I did keep reading while I spoke, highlighting pertinent paragraphs, but she clearly did not read social cues and persisted in talking to me, asking me questions. I finally got a few minutes of silence while she looked at her laptop. Then:
"What's your favorite perfume?"
(groan)
I answered as neutrally as possible, trying not to lead in to further conversation, still clearly reading my book. I could tell she was lonely, so I did not want to be unkind -- but I really wanted to read. I desperately wanted to read. I wanted so badly to be inside my own head and not talking to anyone that I could taste it. She then pulled out a bottle of perfume she'd just bought and had me smell it. I told her it was really nice (it was). She then told me about the bargains she'd just gotten at Victoria's Secret (and thank goodness, did not pull out a sample).
"Hi, I'm not trying to be rude, really, but I'm way behind on this homework assignment, and I really need to get this read."
She understood; we settled back into silence.
"What do you think about this job market?"
(AAAAACK!)
Still obviously reading, I answered neutrally, not invitingly, and then she got up, grabbed a paper, and handed me an article to read.
"Look, no, I really need to read this book right now," I said, trying to say it kindly.
I got about five minutes after that, then she started up again. Clearly, she could not help herself, so while I engaged with her in this next leg of the conversation, I began putting on my jacket. It had been about 45 minutes, and I had not gotten nearly enough read.
I told her it had been nice sitting with her, wished her luck on her job hunt, and then walked a mile south past Irving Park to Stubbs Cafe where, to my delight, I discovered it had been taken over by new management and turned into a vegan cafe. I sat in the corner, ate a delicious Tofurky/veganaise/tomato sandwich on whole wheat, and sipped a decaf soy pumpkin-spice latte. An older lesbian at the next table kept giving me the eye, but kept her distance. I finished my lunch AND my chapter in blissful, uninterrupted peace.
I settled in to my table (a bench against the wall), got out my book, and began to read. My coffee and bagel were brought to me, and I settled into my task, undistracted by the projects at home that would have tempted me.
While I munched, slurped, and highlighted, a woman came in and asked whether she could share my table. Of course, I told her. She put down her laptop and went to the counter. After placing her order, she returned. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw her bobbing and weaving. I looked up to see her looking under the table at the area around my feet. Suddenly she was gone, and I felt her hands bumping against my feet. Then again. Then my calves.
"Hi, can I help you find the plug?" I asked.
"Oh, I have it," she said. I looked under the table, and the outlet she was shooting for was on the other side of my feet from her approach. It was getting awkward. Just as I was about to take the plug and put in into the wall for her, she socked it in. Great; fine. I returned to my homework, and began again to read about the properties of water.
"What do you think about Obama getting the Nobel Prize?"
Good Lord, no. No, no, no. Not now, and not in a coffee shop. Hey, let's start a politically-charged conversation that will be sure to intrude upon the people sitting right next to us. (Did I mention she did not seem to have an Indoor Voice?)
I replied as neutrally as possible, but I tend to get reeled into conversations easily, and before I knew it, we were having a discussion about it, which I really did not want to do. I did keep reading while I spoke, highlighting pertinent paragraphs, but she clearly did not read social cues and persisted in talking to me, asking me questions. I finally got a few minutes of silence while she looked at her laptop. Then:
"What's your favorite perfume?"
(groan)
I answered as neutrally as possible, trying not to lead in to further conversation, still clearly reading my book. I could tell she was lonely, so I did not want to be unkind -- but I really wanted to read. I desperately wanted to read. I wanted so badly to be inside my own head and not talking to anyone that I could taste it. She then pulled out a bottle of perfume she'd just bought and had me smell it. I told her it was really nice (it was). She then told me about the bargains she'd just gotten at Victoria's Secret (and thank goodness, did not pull out a sample).
"Hi, I'm not trying to be rude, really, but I'm way behind on this homework assignment, and I really need to get this read."
She understood; we settled back into silence.
"What do you think about this job market?"
(AAAAACK!)
Still obviously reading, I answered neutrally, not invitingly, and then she got up, grabbed a paper, and handed me an article to read.
"Look, no, I really need to read this book right now," I said, trying to say it kindly.
I got about five minutes after that, then she started up again. Clearly, she could not help herself, so while I engaged with her in this next leg of the conversation, I began putting on my jacket. It had been about 45 minutes, and I had not gotten nearly enough read.
I told her it had been nice sitting with her, wished her luck on her job hunt, and then walked a mile south past Irving Park to Stubbs Cafe where, to my delight, I discovered it had been taken over by new management and turned into a vegan cafe. I sat in the corner, ate a delicious Tofurky/veganaise/tomato sandwich on whole wheat, and sipped a decaf soy pumpkin-spice latte. An older lesbian at the next table kept giving me the eye, but kept her distance. I finished my lunch AND my chapter in blissful, uninterrupted peace.
Saturday, October 10, 2009
My liberation is nigh.
Gave notice today on the babysitting. I'll work through Thanksgiving week, and then I'm free. It's a financial risk, but my instinct tells me it's absolutely the right thing. I can't wait to be broke and free. Well, at least free.
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