eureka springs revisited

Ah ha!

Eureka!!

All is clear!!!

(If I keep writing things like this, this, and this, will I eventually stop searching for "clarity" and be content? Or at least, maybe I'll stop leaping out of my bathtub and running naked through the streets.)

***

You know what's funny?

(Sturge says: Jokes?

No.

Well, yes.

Hopefully, anyways.

But in this instance, no.)

What's funny is I wrote the first part of this yesterday and now I can't remember what I eureka'd.

Oh wait ...

***

The Five Stages of Grief

That's it!

Career-wise, I've been working my way through the five stages of professional grief!!

Here they are, adapted from Business Balls.

(???)

Stage 1: Denial
Denial is a conscious or unconscious refusal to accept facts, information, reality, etc., relating to the situation concerned.

In the Denial stage of our career, our job is mostly make believe. Or at least, we actually have the job but because it is intolerable to us, we pretend like it is make believe. We wear suits and take copious notes but we believe that when the sun goes down Mom will call us inside and feed us popsicles. We also have the other truly make believe job (or jobs) in our heads. The ones we really want to have which typically are some variation on "famous" or "influential."

Further wisdom from Business Balls: It's a defence mechanism and perfectly natural.

Thanks!

Stage 2: Anger
Anger can manifest in different ways. People dealing with emotional upset can be angry with themselves, and/or with others, especially those close to them. Knowing this helps keep detached and non-judgemental when experiencing the anger of someone who is very upset.

See the rest of this blog for examples, most recently this one.

Stage 3: Bargaining
Traditionally the bargaining stage for people facing death can involve attempting to bargain with whatever God the person believes in. People facing less serious trauma can bargain or seek to negotiate a compromise. For example "Can we still be friends?.." when facing a break-up. Bargaining rarely provides a sustainable solution, especially if it's a matter of life or death.

This is where we say to ourselves: "At least the money and benefits are good." or "At least the benefits are good." or "At least I have a job." Or "at least there are ten things I love about you."

Stage 4: Depression
Also referred to as preparatory grieving. In a way it's the dress rehearsal or the practice run for the 'aftermath' although this stage means different things depending on whom it involves. It's a sort of acceptance with emotional attachment.

Good ole Stage 4. Here I am. Despite the fact that I:

* Can barely bring myself to get out of bed in the morning
* Stare listlessly at the computer screen without understanding what's in front of me
* Don't hear half the words my co-workers say
* Panic at the thought of staying here for another six months much less the rest of my life

I'm glad to be in Stage 4 after all these years.

:)

Depression sucks, unless you can see your way around it to ...

Stage 5: Acceptance
Again this stage definitely varies according to the person's situation, although broadly it is an indication that there is some emotional detachment and objectivity.

Are you thinking: "Don't accept! Your life doesn't have to be like this!! You can have the job you really want!!! Don't detach!!!! There's nothing wrong with wanting more out of your career!!!!!"

If so, I love you for worrying about me.

(Although I love you even if you're not worried about me. I mean, if I already love you, that is.)

But don't. I'm OK.

And acceptance is not the same as complacency.

with a heavy heart

"Maybe working just sucks."

That's what a friend said to me as I was once again lamenting my employment situation. I had said something like "I hate my job but I'm pretty sure if I go somewhere else, I'll hate that job too."

Her answer is worth repeating:

"Maybe working just sucks."

Maybe.

At age 14, my first office job - temping for an accountant at an insurance agency - involved making copies of checks and filling out bank deposit slips. All day. My work table looked out over the highway so when I ran out of checks to copy, I'd watch the cars. Later on, by folding staples into tiny metal sculptures and attaching them to rubberbands, I designed an office supply-based jewelry collection. At least, I conceived of it and accumulated a large pile of folded staples. But I could never get close to finishing a piece before another pile of checks got dumped on my desk.

I don't remember being miserable. But I was 14 and had just escaped the clutches of a popcorn store where I couldn't really operate the equipment or the cash register. So maybe my perspective was warped.

Seven years passed before I found myself stuck at another desk.

No that's sort of a lie. I temped some one summer and actually spent three days in a windowless conference room assembling Albertson's bakery cookbooks with a girl who absolutely refused to speak to me. But that was tolerable because the end was in sight.

It wasn't until I was almost done with college that I got my first taste of the "real world" and it depressed the hell out of me. I interned at the Greater Austin Chamber of Commerce for the guy who actually spearheaded the campaign to bring the Dallas Cowboys training camp to Austin every summer. (This ended in disaster by the way.) I don't know why I took that internship, except that I needed something on my resume besides "babysitter" and "lifeguard." I got no window. I got no desk. No staples to bend. A lot of busy work. A lot of rubbing elbows with cheesy dudes who talked alot of jargony, business-related nonsense and sometimes shot you with their finger guns.

I used to park on the top floor of the parking garage under the blazing summer sun so that every morning and every afternoon I'd be overwhelmed by sky for at least a few minutes. Just to alleviate that cramped, hemmed-in feeling that weighed down on me every day. To replenish the vitamin D that was surely being sucked out of my pores by all those flourescent lights. And most importantly, to bake the life force back into me after spending so much time in the cryogenic chamber that is every office in Texas in summertime.

How does one successfully transition from a life of constant movement across a beautiful college campus and across of a field of academic study to the sedentary and repetitive existence of an office job?

With a heavy heart.

climate control for polar bears

Let's ask ourselves a real question, shall we?

Who cares whether our 10 year old selves approve of our jobs? (That's not the real question, by the way.) Ten year olds are dumb and clumsy. They shout too much. They just figured out Santa Claus isn't real.

The real question is whether that's a good criteria for evaluating our jobs.

Oh wait ... so this: "Who cares whether our 10 year old selves approve of our jobs?" was the real question after all.

Semantics ...

OK, anyways.

I don't appreciate it - this imaginary pre-pubescent creature looking askance at my profession. Who is she to judge? She doesn't have anything to worry about. Somebody else is putting food on her plate and clothes on her back. And rent? She doesn't even know what the word "rent" means. All she has to do is go to school, do her chores, and be a good girl. She shouldn't have any say in how I live my life.

And yet, I'm pretty sure, that long before H ever articulated this concept to me, I was asking for the approval of my 10 year old self. Most of the things I don't like about my job - poor management, lazy and/or crazy co-workers, being stuck inside all day, climate control for polar bears - are just as likely to recur in ANY profession I choose except maybe one that provides me with complete autonomy. I have a hard time remembering this, but when I do, it forces me to look at the content of this profession and evaluate it on its own merits ...

... from a 10 year old's perspective.

So ...

If I'm completely honest with myself, though I'll realize she hardly looks at all, askance or otherwise. She glances briefly, returns to her crayons, and forgets I'm even there. She's busy plotting her escape. With the $120 in the bank she's saved up from feeding neighbors' animals, she's figured she can live in the woods near her house for at least year - lunch meat is only 79 cents a pack - and she can walk to a bus stop that'll take her to another elementary school where nobody'll recognize her. She's drawn a picture nobody will ever see of herself and her brother sitting beside a camp fire, crying.

princesses and talking animals

Would your 10 year old self be impressed with what you do for a living?

This is the criteria that my husband uses to judge his job. He can answer emphatically: "YES!" He designs movie posters and making-of movie books for a living.

Me, not so much.

After an explanation of technical writing, my 10 year old self would probably scratch her head and say: "You write books though, right?"

Now Me: "mmm ... sort of."

10 Yr Me: "About princesses? And talking animals?"

Now Me: " ... "

10 Yr Me: "And magic cauldrons? And ... and crazy little boys? And ..."

Now Me: "uh ..."

10 Yr Me: "little girls in log cabins during long winter storms ..."

Now Me: "Yes."

(See because, it is OK to lie to children right? Because they're stupid anyways, right? And when my 10 year old self gets to be my age, could she be more dissappointed than I already am?)

When I was little, my mom would ask me what I wanted to do when I grew up. I always answered "Write." As long as I could remember, "write" was the first answer.

What did Mom do? Mom came back with, "OK. What are you going to do for money?"

So now I make money. Plenty of it.

And I write.

Sometimes.

seven ay em

7 A.M.

Ay Em.

It almost looks like "Amen!"

Which is what I really want to say because I decided last week that I'm definitely going to leave this job.

AMEN!

It might be in three months. It might be in six months. But I am going to leave and when I leave, I plan to kick up a trail of dust so thick noone will know which direction I'm headed.

What does 7 am have to do with anything?

Every morning for the next three months, I have a meeting at 7:30 in the morning. So, to gather my wits about me before hand - as if said wits were toddlers preparing for storytime - 7 AY EM is the time I have to arrive at work. Every morning for the next three months. While honestly that doesn't bother me too much because I'm a morning person and it means I can leave at 4 pm, it is a bad sign for the company.

Several months ago, a senior VP told us that they planned for the majority of developers to be based in India. This is a sign of that plan in action: 7:30 am to us is 7 pm to them.

In other words, it is more important to let them go home at a reasonable hour than it is to let the majority of us stay in bed until a reasonable hour.

First of all, can you imagine staying at an office job until 7, 8, or 9 at night? It would suck massively right? But imagine getting up at 5 or 6 am to get to work in time for a 7:30 meeting ...

I know you.

You're not a morning person.

(I know I'm a freak. I already get up at 5 am. )

You're horrified. Now imagine that has to happen every day for the next three months. Your blood is already running cold, isn't it? A sickly pallor has washed over your visage as you stumble toward the coffee pot ...

But coffee won't do anymore ...

You want brains! The brains of the senior executive team who has decided that India is more important than you.

Honestly, I have sympathy for those folks in India. It really would suck to have to stay at work until 9 pm.

But c'mon.

At least they're awake at 9 pm. Who, besides me, is awake at 5 or 6 am? You should see my bleary eyed teammates as we huddle over the speaker phone in that cramped meeting room. Worst of all, the phone connection is so poor that we can't even understand what the India folks are saying. They actually have to email their information to us BEFORE the meeting but they must still stay at work until 7 pm so we can strain our brains, necks, and ear drums craning across the two square inches of speaker on the phone in hopes of catching a comprehensible syllable.

We can't exactly give up on the possibility of understanding them, can we? We might have received a written transcript of what they're going to say, but if we're going to crowd around that phone at 7:30 am every work day for three months, can we really accept the futility of dialing in to an inscrutable conference call? Can we actually train ourselves to sit in that room and pretend to listen to garbled static just to justify our presence there at that hour of the morning?

I doubt it.

Well, I shouldn't speak for the rest of the team. I, for one, have already checked out. It is easy for me to pretend to listen because I don't give a shit anymore. I'm leaving!

Nota Bene: If you're my boss, I'm not really leaving. I just like to bitch.

LIAR!

I've been lying to you.

If it makes you feel any better, I've also been lying to myself.

I can't even drink decaf coffee. It is a gateway drug. Decaf coffee always leads to regular coffee. ALWAYS. You start off with a nice cup of decaf - black, hot, sharp, rich ...

ahem

sorry

I mean, you start off with good intentions. Naturally you pick one of the few places in town that serves good drip decaf - Jo's for example - and, still, within 45 minutes you're face up in the caffeine gutter spewing nonsense to passersby. Granted, sometimes it is not your fault. If the waittress happens to offer a warm-up and you fail to notice that she's holding the BROWN pot NOT the ORANGE one.

OK, am I lying to us again? Did I avert my eyes from the pot on purpose? Perhaps. At least I didn't whisper "Just a little squirt of the good stuff" and wink at her. Right? I mean, right?

It wasn't my fault!

Right?

OK, yes, I am face up in the caffeine gutter spewing nonsense to you.

I didn't mean for this post to be about my problem.

(oooh look at me ... the first step to recovery is admitting you have a problem.)

At least, I didn't mean for this post to be about THIS problem I have with coffee.

I think I've been lying to you about my JOB problem.

(and myself. I've definitely been lying to myself)

You see, yesterday morning I had an 8 am meeting followed by a 9 am meeting and that totally fucked up my morning routine, providing further roof that my job sucks, right? So I wore my exercise clothes to work and went to the exceedingly lame gym downstairs at 10 am to do the Stair Master for half an hour. After which, I took a shower and discovered that I had forgotten my foundation garments (that's bra and panties for those of you who have never worked ladies retail).

There are women out there who can go commando in such circumstances but I am not one of them. Would that I were ...

No, I need foundation garments. Especially my upper half.

So as I button my blouse, I stare hard at my jog bra willing it to dry out and de-stink itself in the next few hours because I have a lunch meeting off site (where, by the way, I fell off the decaf wagon and into the caffeine gutter) that I cannot flop around at.

I think about reattaching that damp and reeking spandex sling to my chest and that's when I think:

"Why am I here? Why do I have to do this? Why can't I be at home doing whatever I want whenever I want. THIS ISN'T FAIR!?!"

And that's when I realize that I've been lying to you. And me.

I don't want a better job.

I want no job.

Duh.

she-ra

I remembered the story about the man after my father's biscuit (see the second entry) because, of course, I hate my job and would like to find another one.

More specifically though, I've been thinking about the possible similarities between a man hunt and a job hunt because, of course, I hate my job and would like to find another one.

And by "man hunt" I don't mean that the kind of hunt that ends with someone dead or in prison ... unless you consider marriage a prison.

As I said before , I have been doing this tech writing crap for a long time and I've hated pretty much the entire time. Fourteen years. That's a long time to do something you hate.

But I was in an awful relationship for 12 years. And after I left that awful relationship, I dated a series of clones of my ex for a couple of years before I finally snapped out of it.

See, there's one similarity already. Fourteen years.

(Hmmm. I broke two mirrors in one fell swoop once)

I can't think of any other similarities.

And yet I have done a spectacular job of hunting down a man. My man is fabulous. Nigh on perfection. So I'd like to think I might apply the same principles of man hunting to job hunting and find a paid job as spectacular as my sweetheart.

Except ... I didn't really hunt him.

I didn't dress like a slut and pretend to be interested in football.

That wouldn't have worked anyways. I also didn't dress like a hipster and pretend to be interested in the Hold Steady.

I didn't laugh at all his jokes.

Well, I did actually. Loudly and often.

But I'd get so freaked out by the possibility that he or anyone else would notice how hard I was laughing that I'd practically pinch myself trying to stop.

I didn't talk to him more than anyone else. If anything I'd keep a careful eye on how long we talked at parties and run away if it started to feel too intimate.

But one day we happened to be alone at the same place at the same time and that was the beginning of the beginning.

Can I try this with a job?

Just try to be happy with who I am?

Laugh alot?

Purposefully keep my distance because I don't want it to know how much I like it ... until one day our paths cross and we're drawn to each other irresistably and permanently?

headhunter

As a small child obsessed with Gilligan's Island, the Three Stooges, and Johnny Weismuller's Tarzan films, I once intercepted a phone call for my father that made my skin crawl.

The man identified himself as a headhunter.

I immediately envisioned my father's shriveled noggin swinging on a piece of twine from the roof of the caller's straw hut.

Horrified, I asked, "What do you want from him?"

His response pierced my heart like the icy blade of a spear:

"He called me, sweetheart."

"Why?" I whimpered.

"I guess he's not happy with his job."

Why on earth would a person with two small, relatively well-behaved, and pretty cute children voluntarily hand his head over to a complete stranger just because he didn't' like his job?!?

Perhaps because the man never once evinced other signs of savagery familiar to a seven year old anthropologist, like grunting "unga bunga" or pounding a bongo drum, or perhaps because some part of me refused to accept that my father was suicidal, I delivered the message to him.

I also did my best to eavesdrop on the conversation.

Later I asked, with the bravest face I could muster, "How come you called a headhunter, Poppie?"

"Well, little bubbie, I'm thinking about finding a new job."

"But why a headhunter?"

"That's just another name for a guy who helps people find jobs. Or helps companies find people."

"Oh."