Well. That was a lovely unplanned hiatus. Real life became very, very real and I abandoned this poor blog after a mere four posts. Let's not do that again, shall we?
My last post discussed how happy I was to be working with my hands. Seven months after that post, I was hired full-time as a technical writer at the same company. My family and a few friends have stopped bitching about my lack of a, airquotes, "real job," which is good, because I was two comments away from going postal on the next person who said that. I've got a fantastic teammate, Bossman and I get lunch regularly, and I'm very happy with my work life. I wish everyone could be this lucky.
...yeah, that's all for now. I'm trying to slowly ease into this whole blogging thing again. I'll let you know how it goes. Or you can read it for yourself.
Thursday, April 11, 2013
Friday, February 3, 2012
Two masters degrees and I'm working with my hands...
...and it is satisfying.
Way back in 2006, I decided that I wanted to go to graduate school for archiving. I'd gotten a random internship at the National Archives Northeast Region facility in Waltham, MA, as the result of a class assignment to write a cover letter and resume for a job we'd like to have someday (story for another time, I promise). The more I look back on that decision, the more I realize I made it because I know I'm good at school, and I don't know if I'm good at working. (What? Stacking the deck in your favor is totally acceptable.) So I spent three more years in the realm of higher education, became as jaded with higher education as Jay-Z is with hos, and walked away with two masters degrees...right into an economy that had shit the bed.
Guess what? Two masters degrees don't mean shit when you don't have much practical experience and the majority of your field is dependent on donations or public funding. Money vanishes real damn fast when donors are seeing their 401Ks shrivel up like grapes in the Arizona desert. I applied for archiving jobs for six months while working a paid internship as a technical writer (Hallelujah, recruiting software company that hired me for three months and kept me for over three years!).
When nothing came through, I took a job as a technical writer for a financial software company. I had been trained as an undergrad and spent three years in the field, so I figured I could handle the job. And, y'know, I like eating food and sleeping indoors, so those bills had to get paid somehow. My mistake. Apparently being clueless about the financial sector is a bad thing when you combine it with a manager who can't train you and an I'm-overwhelmed-so-I-no-longer-give-a-shit attitude. I was laid off/fired from my first real job ever after eight months. Cue four-month depression spiral as I ate through my savings and wondered what the hell was wrong with me.
Two months ago, Bossman got me a job as a server assembler at the company he works for. I was (and am) excited. The pay was half-decent, I could start saving again, and I was contributing to society again. But - and for most of my family and several people I care about this is a big-ass but - I'm "wasting" my education, because I'm working with my hands.
Fuck all y'all.
My Dad is one of the smartest men I know, and he has spent his life building everything from model ships to houses. But he and my mom keep telling me that this job is temporary. They (and the rest of my family, and a few friends) ask if I'm still looking for work. Because using power drills and box cutters and vise grips is clearly beneath someone with a couple extra pieces of paper.
But I like working with my hands. Assembling servers is a series of discrete tasks that are easily completed and checked for quality. The servers I build are (mostly) going to the American military, to help soldiers' spot threats before they become issues. And I even get to do a tiny bit of software configuration, which I enjoy. Plus Bossman is fun to work with. So what if I have two advanced degrees? They'll make dandy placemats when I get around to laminating them.
Way back in 2006, I decided that I wanted to go to graduate school for archiving. I'd gotten a random internship at the National Archives Northeast Region facility in Waltham, MA, as the result of a class assignment to write a cover letter and resume for a job we'd like to have someday (story for another time, I promise). The more I look back on that decision, the more I realize I made it because I know I'm good at school, and I don't know if I'm good at working. (What? Stacking the deck in your favor is totally acceptable.) So I spent three more years in the realm of higher education, became as jaded with higher education as Jay-Z is with hos, and walked away with two masters degrees...right into an economy that had shit the bed.
Guess what? Two masters degrees don't mean shit when you don't have much practical experience and the majority of your field is dependent on donations or public funding. Money vanishes real damn fast when donors are seeing their 401Ks shrivel up like grapes in the Arizona desert. I applied for archiving jobs for six months while working a paid internship as a technical writer (Hallelujah, recruiting software company that hired me for three months and kept me for over three years!).
When nothing came through, I took a job as a technical writer for a financial software company. I had been trained as an undergrad and spent three years in the field, so I figured I could handle the job. And, y'know, I like eating food and sleeping indoors, so those bills had to get paid somehow. My mistake. Apparently being clueless about the financial sector is a bad thing when you combine it with a manager who can't train you and an I'm-overwhelmed-so-I-no-longer-give-a-shit attitude. I was laid off/fired from my first real job ever after eight months. Cue four-month depression spiral as I ate through my savings and wondered what the hell was wrong with me.
Two months ago, Bossman got me a job as a server assembler at the company he works for. I was (and am) excited. The pay was half-decent, I could start saving again, and I was contributing to society again. But - and for most of my family and several people I care about this is a big-ass but - I'm "wasting" my education, because I'm working with my hands.
Fuck all y'all.
My Dad is one of the smartest men I know, and he has spent his life building everything from model ships to houses. But he and my mom keep telling me that this job is temporary. They (and the rest of my family, and a few friends) ask if I'm still looking for work. Because using power drills and box cutters and vise grips is clearly beneath someone with a couple extra pieces of paper.
But I like working with my hands. Assembling servers is a series of discrete tasks that are easily completed and checked for quality. The servers I build are (mostly) going to the American military, to help soldiers' spot threats before they become issues. And I even get to do a tiny bit of software configuration, which I enjoy. Plus Bossman is fun to work with. So what if I have two advanced degrees? They'll make dandy placemats when I get around to laminating them.
Thursday, February 2, 2012
Motherfucker
I just weighed myself on the accurate digital postal scale at work. It's the only scale I trust, since it gets recalibrated every month so that UPS and FedEx can't sodomize us (more than they all ready do, anyway) on shipping.
I weigh 187.6 pounds. Subtract the standard five pounds for clothing, and I weigh 182.6 pounds.
Motherfucker.
This is by far the heaviest I have been in my life. I am only five foot six, and while I'm carrying the weight fairly evenly, I have definitely developed a pooch, cellulose has colonized the back of my thighs, and stretch marks are dancing their way across my breasts and hips. As a childless twenty-something, this is neither healthy nor physically acceptable.
Now I know that, genetically, I'm designed to be an ample-hipped and slightly-under-endowed Irishwoman, and I'm okay with that. But I've eaten and couch-potatoed my way into a weight category that, when coupled with my borderline psychosis stress levels, is pushing me towards a stroke or heart attack faster than a jackass gets pushed in front of a bus. Shit be bad, yo.
So as of right now, I'm done pussy-footing around my healthier eating regime. Bossman - who is also a good friend - has lost fifteen pounds in a month by watching calories, cutting out soda, and walking 30 minutes at a moderate pace every day. And if he can do it, I can totally do it, too. I just need a willpower transfusion and a cease-and-desist letter to my depression for food consumption as a way to make me feel better. And I should probably start using that gym membership I pay $20/month for.
It's February 2. By Februrary 29, I'm going to weigh 172.6 pounds (or 177.6, with clothes on). By March 31, I'm going to weigh 162.6 pounds (167.6 with clothes on). By April 30, I'm going to weigh 152.6 pounds (you can do the math by now). And then I'll try to maintain that weight until the end of May, before I decide what to do. One glass of soda per week. Limiting the sugar in my tea. Drinking water before anything else. No more stupid dinners (read: ice cream pints). And exercising for 30 minutes a day.
I can do this, I swear. I mean, I quit biting my nails for no reason 2 months ago, and they look fabulous. If I can fit in a size 10 again by mid-April, I'll be thrilled.
I weigh 187.6 pounds. Subtract the standard five pounds for clothing, and I weigh 182.6 pounds.
Motherfucker.
This is by far the heaviest I have been in my life. I am only five foot six, and while I'm carrying the weight fairly evenly, I have definitely developed a pooch, cellulose has colonized the back of my thighs, and stretch marks are dancing their way across my breasts and hips. As a childless twenty-something, this is neither healthy nor physically acceptable.
Now I know that, genetically, I'm designed to be an ample-hipped and slightly-under-endowed Irishwoman, and I'm okay with that. But I've eaten and couch-potatoed my way into a weight category that, when coupled with my borderline psychosis stress levels, is pushing me towards a stroke or heart attack faster than a jackass gets pushed in front of a bus. Shit be bad, yo.
So as of right now, I'm done pussy-footing around my healthier eating regime. Bossman - who is also a good friend - has lost fifteen pounds in a month by watching calories, cutting out soda, and walking 30 minutes at a moderate pace every day. And if he can do it, I can totally do it, too. I just need a willpower transfusion and a cease-and-desist letter to my depression for food consumption as a way to make me feel better. And I should probably start using that gym membership I pay $20/month for.
It's February 2. By Februrary 29, I'm going to weigh 172.6 pounds (or 177.6, with clothes on). By March 31, I'm going to weigh 162.6 pounds (167.6 with clothes on). By April 30, I'm going to weigh 152.6 pounds (you can do the math by now). And then I'll try to maintain that weight until the end of May, before I decide what to do. One glass of soda per week. Limiting the sugar in my tea. Drinking water before anything else. No more stupid dinners (read: ice cream pints). And exercising for 30 minutes a day.
I can do this, I swear. I mean, I quit biting my nails for no reason 2 months ago, and they look fabulous. If I can fit in a size 10 again by mid-April, I'll be thrilled.
Wednesday, February 1, 2012
Why can't I flip out before bedtime?
I have this unfortunate habit of going completely flipping insane over something fairly trivial right before I go to sleep. I don't do this every night - that would take far more mental energy than I have, thank you repetitive job and TV - but I do it often enough that my roommates just shake their heads and sigh the next morning, when I'm bleary-eyed and stumbling around the kitchen like a nine-month-old, because I just had to argue my point until stupid-o-clock.
There's never anything consistent that sets me off, either. Last week, I went spastic over how our house is never clean, even though there are ostensibly four adults who live there. Last night, I lost my shit at roommate Marvin over the way he phrased a comment about the causes of depression, which led to a two-hour over-the-phone argument, since he left for work right after he made the comment. For the record, the phrasing of the comment was something like, "There are studies out now in Europe that point to environment, mainly stress and self-image, as being the cause of the brain chemistry issues that cause depression," and it was said in a very slightly condescending tone and delivered at a slightly louder than normal volume, because that's how Marvin delivers factual information. And I got so angry that I triggered a cluster headache (hooray for feeling like someone is stabbing an ice pick into the back of my eye!) and called Marvin a lot of names (asshole, idiot, not human) and a lot of unfair adjectives (cruel, thoughtless).
Did I have a right to get mildly upset at his tone and volume? Yes. After six years, I finally sought help for what turned out to be clinical chemical depression at the beginning of January. Taking that first step to get help took all of my courage to overcome my fear of both the stigma of mental illness and my fear of disappointing my parents and close friends by, airquotes, "being broken." Marvin, who doesn't give a shit about what anyone else thinks, has difficulty understanding why this is such a big deal for me, but he was aware that it is a big deal and that I am extremely sensitive about the topic of depression right now. So I think I'm justified in feeling upset at his tone and volume.
Did I have a right to get angrier than a football fan on Testosterone Night after a drunken bender when his team loses and some asshole in the bar rooting for the other team laughs in his face? No. Mostly because I never explained to Marvin - or anyone else - why the information he gave me - that environment (stress and self-image) is the cause of the brain chemistry of depression - hurts me.
In my zany little brain, I've rationalized my need for treatment in a way that makes me capable of seeking treatment. That rationalization is along the lines of: "Well, my brain is fucked up because of nasty chemicals that are beyond my control. Therefore my depression isn't my fault, so no one can blame me for it, so anyone who tries is a complete fucking asshole and I can make them feel that way. Huzzah! It's not my environment, over which I have some control, like breathing exercises or meditation to reduce stress, so my depression isn't my fault. Go me!" So when Marvin said there was evidence that environmental factors can cause the brain chemistry, my ability to and reasons for seeking treatment were knocked down faster than a ballet dancer at the Running of the Brides. And that, my friends, is Not Good.
But after two hours of arguing and four hours of sleep, I've realized that I need to start thinking about the real reasons I'm upset before I flip my wig at someone who has made a fairly innocent fact-giving comment. And I really need to knock off the name-calling when someone doesn't immediately understand and agree with my viewpoint. I sound like Newt Gingrich when I do that.
Excuse me. I have to go throw up over the image of me as that slimy, history-distorting, amoral bastard.
There's never anything consistent that sets me off, either. Last week, I went spastic over how our house is never clean, even though there are ostensibly four adults who live there. Last night, I lost my shit at roommate Marvin over the way he phrased a comment about the causes of depression, which led to a two-hour over-the-phone argument, since he left for work right after he made the comment. For the record, the phrasing of the comment was something like, "There are studies out now in Europe that point to environment, mainly stress and self-image, as being the cause of the brain chemistry issues that cause depression," and it was said in a very slightly condescending tone and delivered at a slightly louder than normal volume, because that's how Marvin delivers factual information. And I got so angry that I triggered a cluster headache (hooray for feeling like someone is stabbing an ice pick into the back of my eye!) and called Marvin a lot of names (asshole, idiot, not human) and a lot of unfair adjectives (cruel, thoughtless).
Did I have a right to get mildly upset at his tone and volume? Yes. After six years, I finally sought help for what turned out to be clinical chemical depression at the beginning of January. Taking that first step to get help took all of my courage to overcome my fear of both the stigma of mental illness and my fear of disappointing my parents and close friends by, airquotes, "being broken." Marvin, who doesn't give a shit about what anyone else thinks, has difficulty understanding why this is such a big deal for me, but he was aware that it is a big deal and that I am extremely sensitive about the topic of depression right now. So I think I'm justified in feeling upset at his tone and volume.
Did I have a right to get angrier than a football fan on Testosterone Night after a drunken bender when his team loses and some asshole in the bar rooting for the other team laughs in his face? No. Mostly because I never explained to Marvin - or anyone else - why the information he gave me - that environment (stress and self-image) is the cause of the brain chemistry of depression - hurts me.
In my zany little brain, I've rationalized my need for treatment in a way that makes me capable of seeking treatment. That rationalization is along the lines of: "Well, my brain is fucked up because of nasty chemicals that are beyond my control. Therefore my depression isn't my fault, so no one can blame me for it, so anyone who tries is a complete fucking asshole and I can make them feel that way. Huzzah! It's not my environment, over which I have some control, like breathing exercises or meditation to reduce stress, so my depression isn't my fault. Go me!" So when Marvin said there was evidence that environmental factors can cause the brain chemistry, my ability to and reasons for seeking treatment were knocked down faster than a ballet dancer at the Running of the Brides. And that, my friends, is Not Good.
But after two hours of arguing and four hours of sleep, I've realized that I need to start thinking about the real reasons I'm upset before I flip my wig at someone who has made a fairly innocent fact-giving comment. And I really need to knock off the name-calling when someone doesn't immediately understand and agree with my viewpoint. I sound like Newt Gingrich when I do that.
Excuse me. I have to go throw up over the image of me as that slimy, history-distorting, amoral bastard.
Monday, January 30, 2012
Self-aggrandizement, ahoy!
Why the hell do people start blogs, anyway? Most of the blogs I read involve everyday events, filtered through a brain hyped up on caffeine, or a love of taxidermy, or general insanity. They are wonderful, weird, and occasionally inspirational. And with (almost) every post, I'm thankful that the author found place to share their lives and, in doing so, wrote in such an entertaining way that it makes me laugh out loud (or sob, depending on the entry).
Well, this is MY little corner of the Internet, so I'm going to do something amazing with it. I'll be hysterically funny and a good source of stress relief, which means I'll be lowering blood-pressures all over the place. That heart attack you didn't just have? Yeah. I'll look for the thank-you in the comments.
Or maybe this blog will turn into the ravings of a thwarted megalomaniac. Hopefully at some point we'll figure it out.
Well, this is MY little corner of the Internet, so I'm going to do something amazing with it. I'll be hysterically funny and a good source of stress relief, which means I'll be lowering blood-pressures all over the place. That heart attack you didn't just have? Yeah. I'll look for the thank-you in the comments.
Or maybe this blog will turn into the ravings of a thwarted megalomaniac. Hopefully at some point we'll figure it out.
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