 |
| Saturday, November 07, 2009 |
| Job Hunting. A Joy. |
Rising early, filling out applications, completing the resume, drinking coffee. Sounds pretty bleak. Also, it isn't really a proper sentence, nor is it a proper opening to a paragraph. But, since when have I ever cared what the rules were. Does anyone even really know what the rules are these days, anyway? I haven't seen nor read proper grammar or punctuation since the birth of text messaging.
Back on point. An arduous ride to the mall, where I am filled in with news of woe. I wondered for a few months at the prospect of changing the boundaries of an already flimsy relationship to one where power is ultimately transferred. So I was glad to hear I was not the chosen one. A friend was renting her home, and chose a different tenant, who was willing to pay more. I was truly happy for her, as it will absolutely relieve some burden she has been shouldering.
I missed the Friday movie date with my friends. Something we only just recently began to do. This time they were going to watch a flick that my boyfriend and I planned to see together. I decided not to go, because I promised him I wouldn't see it without him present. This had happened, regretfully, once before. Unfortunately, it was a movie based on a book that I really loved. Now the mere mention of the title leaves a rustic bitter taste in my mouth.
I went, instead to the Mall to turn in applications. I was thinking at my age, with my professional-ish back ground, I could land a job in any one of those little shops. I wandered in to one that features and focuses on women's clothing and accessories. I was excited and nervous. I had never worked in retail, and really thought I might find that it was something I would enjoy. The girl fidgeting with a sweater, trying to fold it in that boxy, organized, mall fashion.. lit up like a Christmas tree and welcomed me like I was the long lost sister she never had. Until I told her I was there to apply for work.
Then it was absolutely on. First, they were out of applications. This line was delivered in a sickly sweet dagger to the throat voice that sent chills up my spine. I just smiled, saying I already had an application, and resume, and could I speak to the manager of the store if she is in, please? She all but threw the sweater on the counter as she went into 'the back'. I thought I was going insane. Why on earth would this very seemingly nice normal person behave in such a way to a prospective peer?
Because. I was competition. I had just barely handed my application and resume to the manager, when she sized me up and said she absolutely would love to welcome me to her team. BUT. But, they would only pay minimum wage, hours were only guaranteed by my own will to compete with my co-associates, and it was temporary. Very Temporary. I think perhaps this was her way of intimidating young, floundering applicants that thought, way cool a job at the mall. Then I realized.
This job is so not for me. I need to feed myself and three kids. I could absolutely apply. I could absolutely compete. But I need guarantees. So I gingerly took the application back. Smiled at the vicious, seething, sweater folding lioness, and held my head high as I exited the building.
My head was so full of what to do at that point, I wandered to the transfer station and decided to wait for the bus. I really wasn't sure where I thought I might be going. I knew I wanted to head back north, maybe turn in my resume at some different spa's maybe a chiropractor's office.. I really didn't know. I sat on the concrete slab that resembled a bench and plugged my headphones into my head. There were people there, of coarse, waiting as well.
For some reason, the bus intimidates the hell out of me. I think maybe because when I went from Kindergarten to first grade, I thought I would be riding the early bus home with my siblings, so I ran and boarded it during last recess thinking everyone else was wrong. I didn't really know I had boarded the wrong bus, and couldn't figure out why no one was recognizable.. and big. The bus began pulling out by the time my six year old instinct told me I was on the wrong bus. I was too scared to say anything, because I thought the driver would yell at me. So I sat frozen. My teacher had come out before we could pull out on the highway. Apparently someone had radio'd all of the buses and described me. I was humiliated.
So, when the very first bus pulled up, all I noted was the number on the side. I didn't pay attention to the direction it was running. I had been palming my money with a sweaty hand for nearly fifteen minutes awaiting its arrival. When I stepped into the aisle, something hit my gut like a rotting tomato. I just knew, just knew for some reason, I had boarded the wrong bus. So I sat down. I looked around. Nothing on the inside tells you where you are going. I was alone, and didn't really want to bother the driver. So, I just sat as he pulled out, then began to panic when he turned the wrong direction. Hands shaking, face red as a beet, I pulled the 'rip' cord as soon as I realized. It was maybe a half a block from the mall.
Embarrassment surged, so I chose to walk it off. I called my father and spoke to him. He advised me to write a selling statement at the top of my resume, like an advertisement. He explained that this was a good way to draw interest for the reader, because the reader no doubt, is presented with hundreds of resumes for any given job. I told him about my bus debacle. He laughed. He said he was sure he didn't know anyone in this world that had more fun than me. This lifted my spirits considerably.
I crossed the street then crossed again. My boyfriend called to offer words of encouragement. I text him that I had got on the wrong bus. His bolstering, his understanding, gave me courage to try again. He cautioned me to catch the bus on the east side of the road. He said he loved me, that he didn't think me an idiot for catching the wrong transit.
Feeling loads better, and finally on the right bus, I formulate a plan. I will go to the school and visit with the ladies in career services about job opportunities. Along the way, I ran into my recruiter, who hugged me and told me I looked beautiful. Then I went in and picked up the job listings I had come for. The girls made such a fuss over me, my ego was boosted, and I felt ready to conquer the world. I love visiting my school.
I decide to just take the listings and map out a plan. To write proper cover letters, resumes geared to the job I am seeking, and hit the ground running Monday. I board the bus adding mapping out a bus route to the list.
Job hunting. A joy. |
posted by katmandusuekookachoo @ 7:43 PM  |
|
|
|
| Wednesday, November 04, 2009 |
| Gaaaaaaaaaarumph! Sigh. |
Gasping and twisting, tearing off her too warm covers.. she dumps herself with a thud off the side of the bed. She finds her knees, peaking up over the side, he still snores. She illuminates her cell phone. "Good Grady, six o'clock." There is a strange loud siren issuing from the kitchen. She half crawls to the door, pulling herself up by the handle. Halfway down the hall she knocks at her son's door.. he pops his head out from under the covers, blinded and swollen eyed."Is that your alarm?" He shuffles out the door to the kitchen. Its his cell phone. She scratches her head, turns and waddles down the hall, pausing to wake up the other two. She crawls back to bed, drifting, drifting, drifting... slipping off to sleep, her words following after. There is a shout outside her door, bringing her upright, and breaking her dreamy thought. She clambers once again (because clambering is what people do when they are in that state of half sleep) through the door and into the hallway. Her younger two boys are engaged in a wrestling match, interrupted, bulging eyes at the beast towering over them. "Sorry, mom," "Sorry." They both jump to resume readying for school. STOMP STOMP STOMP her feet carry her down the hall once again. She prepares coffee with one eye open, then frumpily slumps on the corner of the couch to wait. The boys are ready, they come and hug her about the neck on their merry way to school.
She pours the cream, noting its almost empty, adds a tibbit of sugar.. not much as she isn't big on the sweet, and dumps coffee into her mug. It splashes her robe a bit, but she doesn't take much notice.. a housecoat is a housecoat.. when else will it become dirty if not in the house where it is worn? She settles herself at the computer, checking email, catching up on the news of the weird, wild and furry. Then posts a bit. Information for clientele. Interesting information at that.
She enjoys her coffee while listening to soft bits of violin and piano issue from the speakers. She finds her spirits lifted and emboldened and lifted, thinking to herself how much she love love loves coffee. She pours another cup, contemplating her carpet. No one has vaccuumed in a bit. Apparently the vaccuum is broken. She would see about that vaccuum today. Looking around, its as if she is looking into the world of another being. She sees the big bruise on the lateral dorsal portion of her right foot and wonders.. what happened there... She sees beheaded action figures lying splayed on the couch cushions, the jenga pieces built castle high, the overflowing trash can, the crumbs idle on her countertops. It is all too embarrassing when someone arrives in a strange place to find it filthy and no longer wish to dine or have coffee, but to wake up in that place, realizing it is your own.. strange dose of reality.
She is on her feet, in her bedroom, pulling on brazier, pants, shirt and socks, she is pulling the vaccuum out of the water cupboard. She is unscrewing, unleashing, de-dusting, and emptying the dirtbunnies from its winding tubes, its wheels and cogs. She replaces the belt and washes the collector cup. She replaces its filter, once yellow, now dingy scary gray. She walks to the store picking multi purpose cleaner, coffee creamer, squishy body sponges, body wash and carpet freshener daintily off shelves, humming a bit as she goes. The air is crisp, clean, citrus, fresh cut watermelon. She is bouncing in her shoes. Inspiration upon her. She wants to hand flowers to people at random.. gerber daisies, roses, baby's breath. She wants to smile at the crotchety, the angry, maligned and miserable. It is decidedly beautiful, decidedly wonderful.. and the very air smells of it.
Home she arrives, and he is awake. She makes him coffee, carefully percolates it on the stove. He is in the shower when she delivers the first hot steaming cup. She draws her eyebrows, lines her eyes, moistens her lips and shakes out her hair. She selects an outfit, a little haphazard.. black shirt, blue jeans, hoodie, sneakers.. mismatched socks. One is the color of melon.. the other hot pink. They both say 'no boundaries' in gray across the toe, she assumes this is enough. Taking her wallet, loading her phone with music for the walk, she meets him at the door. They speedwalk to the bus stop. Speed walk for her, slow jaunt for him. They smoke and joke a bit. She is being contradictory, overly bubbly, and he is annoyed but doesnt let it show. They board the bus.
There is a man, so excited about the details of a game. Someone slam dunked over the top of someone else and it was really something when you think of the size of that guy. She sighs and looks out the window. There is a heater vent near her leg blowing hot relentless devils breath into her face. She likes the adventure, but the bus makes her anxious. Along they ride, quiet. Not really conversing so much. She points out some houses that have been up for rent for months. Houses she thinks they could find happiness in. Perhaps. If they dig.
They are at the bus stop. He tells her of the times he has to walk along the dirtpath when it is full of water. She feels upset about this, because she just really wants him to buy some good shoes, but he won't. He never will.
She walks with him all the way to his workplace. They chat. He has to clock in, they hug and kiss, then he is gone. She puts her giant head phones on. She listens to the happy strum of guitar, the sweet words of love, the tapping of the drum and smiles softly. She passes a woman wearing a tie died shirt, saturating the world with patchouli, cough. She sees a bent geriatric woman being gently extracted from a car by a bent geriatric fellow. They are both smiling and giggling. She sees a huge sea bird. A gull? It eats french fries from the parking lot next to Sonic. She shops and walks and walks and shops. There is an unexpected marsh. She has driven through here so many many times.. never having seen it. So she sits in the grass, watches the water sparkle along through the brambles, the weeds, the cat tails, her back to the wall of traffic the wall of humanity.
Her feet take her from shop to shop. There is a nice woman, wanting so badly for her to buy something. The woman suggests little jackets and courderoy pants, the woman suggests large print flower skirts, and shirts that flap funny about the armpit.
She smiles, turns, she wishes she were younger, fairer, richer, something.. something.. something else. Then she goes. She leaves it there, behind her. She doesn't need to compete.
Eventually her feet bring her home. She scrubs, she cleans, alongside her little men. She cooks them pear cinnamon pancakes, eggs and bacon for dinner. She tells them she is going back to work. She tells them she needs to find a job, that they are going to need to be more responsible. They listen seriously, then one begins to cry. He thinks she is going away. That she is not coming home ever again, she feels terrible, not really knowing how he came to such a deduction. She cradles his little bird-like body, cooing and shushing. Its okay little monkey its okay. She explains that her job will be for a certain number of hours a day, that it will mean she will not be home for those hours, but she will be home, she will be home, she will be home... every every day.
They load the dishwasher. They play Jenga. They shower and rest their heads.
She realizes suddenly she forgot about the flowers. She forgot the random people. She blew it off.
Gaaaaaaarumph! Sigh. |
| posted by katmandusuekookachoo @ 5:08 PM |
|
|
|
| Friday, September 25, 2009 |
| Yummy Goodness |
Chocolate cake mix Vanilla pudding (4 serving package) Two eggs 1/2 cup sour cream 4 oz. Neufchatel 1/3 less cream cheese (half a pack) 1/4 cup water 1/4 cup oil Mix all ingredients and bake in greased 13x9 cake pan at 350 degrees until toothpick inserted in middle comes out clean I liked it warm with coooooold milk. Super yummy goodness. |
| posted by katmandusuekookachoo @ 5:15 PM |
|
|
|
| Wednesday, September 23, 2009 |
| Yarn |
| Oh, the joy of yarn. I love the stuff. I don't have any skill with it, I will never be the masterful creator of scarf, sweater, afghan or beanie... (many have tried to teach me to knit or crochet, and many have failed miserably). I so admire those who have learned to loop, knot, and bring together creations of delight for people like me. I love knit sweaters, booties for big people, booties for little people, blankets, and shawls. I love that someone somewhere was so ingenious, to create yarn, then to pull a ball of it... one long strand, and make something as essential as a covering for the warmth of another. What an incredible thing. Everyone I know uses the skill as a form of stress therapy. Apparently the methodical click clicking of knitting needles, the counting, the sitting for hours watching the growth and development of a creation wrought by your own hands is incredible for the soul. I can just imagine the amount of pride one would feel every time their loved one cuddled under the 'woobie' or donned the sweater, the product of hours of care and devotion they created. I find that I am devoted to the substance because of what it does for me physically. I love the warmth it brings. I love the way it envelopes my body. I love the way it looks. Huge fan of yarn, this one. I love the romance behind it. I picture myself sitting before a big fireplace, a cup of hot coffee in hand, a lovely throw across my knees, a swarthy knit sweater pulled over my body, and a book so intriguing I can't take my eyes from it. I think of cuddling up on the couch with my boys, watching a movie.. toes happy in knit sweater socks.. I think of standing on top of a mountain covered in ice and snow, the full moon glancing and sparkling below, the view of a hundred tiny twinkling lights from windows of houses miles away, a warm knit beanie pulled down across my brow and over my ears, a scarf wrapped around my mouth and face. I love fall for its cool reminder of the beautiful creations stored in boxes, bags and hanging in the back of the closet. This truly is my time of year. |
| posted by katmandusuekookachoo @ 4:08 PM |
|
|
|
| Wednesday, September 16, 2009 |
| Perfecto! |
Strangely laced
Not at all like the other shoes
Is it that the wearer forgot an eyelet?
No.
All are accounted for
Hm.
Its ill-begotten
Uncomfortable to the uniform eye
Take it out
Start over
Something is still not quite...
What to do?
It isn't right
Can't be fixed
Is it the shoe? |
| posted by katmandusuekookachoo @ 4:05 PM |
|
|
|
|
| Gotcha! |
They walk around with headphones the size of ear muffs hanging across their necks.
The music issuing so loud it enters the room before they do.
Its fun to pretend, panther-like, walking on the balls of the feet, nary a sound in the movement...
Creep quietly, deftly, pouncing at just the right moment.
They never see it coming.
A loud inspiration- eyes bulge, lips curl, fists fly up ready for battle.
I love being mom. |
| posted by katmandusuekookachoo @ 3:53 PM |
|
|
|
| Tuesday, August 25, 2009 |
| Arousing affect |
Stepping barefoot outdoors on a blood red shag carpet full of ashes flicked from cigarettes, she inhales deeply, and exhales into her favorite chair. She squints into the sun, her lips grimacing at the brightness of the day. Just over the hump of the nearby mountain she glimpses the dismembered wings of angels, hanging deftly with white puffy clouds against the backdrop of the blue blue sky. She is disappointed that she doesn't feel sorrow or remorse at the sight of their perfect shape. She is aware of the numbness of her soul, it dawns on her that perhaps it isn't numbness, nor apathy, but that she is too lazy to rouse the feelings of her heart. She watches quietly as her wings transform, become serpents, become wisps, become a question mark then nothing. She wonders if they were ever really there. Her reverie is interrupted by the shrieks of a little girl riding a tricycle along the sidewalk. The child's hair blows in her face as she turns to look behind her. A dirt-crusted tiny chubby hand impatiently pushes it from her eyes as she stops her little bike, turns, then completely abandons the thing to join a game of monsters. The woman on the balcony watches peacefully from her chair. She doesn't call out when another little girl takes up the lonely vehicle. She doesn't move at all.
She indulges herself, smelling the kitchens of her neighbors wafting up to her. She imagines pots banging, mothers shouting, children lined up at tables fastidiously studying their pencil lead while daydreaming about being dragon masters and magicians. She sips her coffee and remembers the faces of the people she travelled with on the bus the previous day. The woman whose features were soft under her snores, her neck bent precariously as she dreamed of simpler times, the man with the prosthetic leg, busily reading from documentation dated two years previous, the gentle man with a baby strapped to his belly a little girl holding his pinkie in tow, oh the sounds of that baby's laughter, such joy.
When she rose this morning, the world felt different somehow. But, she is beginning to recognize this deception. For months she has felt something different, something changing. Always in the morning, when the day is new, and she is sipping her coffee while listening to the news. When the day comes to a close, she remembers this manifestation as she closes her eyes to dream, she is reminded, and so again is disappointed. Perhaps the change is slow, perhaps it isn't something to be noticed immediately, perhaps it is a gradual thing. Like the growth of a child. Each day there are very prominent, very different features. The child learns a new word, is able to hold a spoon, can take a few steps, then suddenly one day he is nearly your height and defines words like prosecution at the dinner table.
She finds she is afraid at night. When she hears the muted sounds of the television belonging to the neighbor under her, the opening and closing of the apartment doors across the hall, the shuffling of feet on the concrete stairs outside her door. It is ridiculous. She is a full grown woman after all. But, still. Sometimes a car alarm will go off in the parking lot, ringing for what seems like hours. She always jumps from her bed, parting the blinds briefly to be sure it isn't her own, then scurries back under her covers to pull the blanket over her head. Silly. Sad. True.
She sits on her favorite chair on the balcony of her second story apartment. She watches through the vinyl slats as a man steps from his shiny red car. He carefully lifts a giant fountain cup in one fist as he slowly stands and tucks a book under his preoccupied arm. He teeters a little as he adjusts the waistband of his pants. She watches a hummingbird flit around the lanterns hanging on her eve, a brave one hovers just near her feet a few moments as if to express its annoyance at not finding a meal in their cloth flowers. She giggles.
She observes the sounds of her home. The sigh of the refrigerator door opening, the burble of the coffee pot, the music in the rooms of her children, the creak of the couch cushions as she lowers her body to read. She suddenly realizes that this quiet observation, this poignant simple taste of reality from moment to moment is what she has been missing. It has been reverberating around her all along, but for some reason, she stopped paying attention.
She closes her eyes. She listens intently. She breathes deeply. She places her cheek on the velvety soft pillow of the couch. She observes quietly, recording every tick, step, clang, bang, and aroma. It visits. Happy. Happy. |
| posted by katmandusuekookachoo @ 9:35 PM |
|
|
|
| Friday, July 24, 2009 |
| Nostalgia |
Driving along in my car yesterday, I thought about my boys summer. I wondered what kind of memories they were going to have, reiterate for friends, tell the women they love... I imagine them saying they grew up in a single parent household with their crazy mom that would jump on the furniture and feed them cookies for breakfast. I imagine they would talk about how mom really didn't know everything they did, and the walls they climbed, and the watermelons they sent soaring off the balconies of the neighbors apartments to see them burst upon impact, spilling it's meat and black seeds all over the sidewalk. I wonder if they will exploit their adventures building a shop to overcharge the patrons of the swimming pool for candies you can buy at the local market for twenty five cents. I wonder if they would say mom only had two rules when friends came over, one: you must have fun, and two: you must raid the kitchen when a snack attack is impending. I wonder if they will speak of the long hours of chore doing and laundry folding. I wonder, I wonder.
When I was a little girl there was a big machine gun sort of apparition in the park a half a block from my house. My sister, friends, and I used to walk over there and pretend we were blowing huge holes in cars and trucks as they passed along Main street. We would wave spasmodically at diesels, chucking our arms in the air to be rewarded with long hoots from their horns. There was a little convenience store not far from there where you could refill your 'mug' with soda for ten cents, across the street you could get a brown paper grab bag full of assorted candy and an occasional free popcorn for a quarter. On long summer nights, my brothers and sisters and I would walk to the movie theater, an old beautiful building.. historical I believe, to catch a movie. I loved the way the place smelled, old wood, plaster and butter.. velvet red seats and a floor that wasn't quite even no matter where you were standing. It had a huge velvet curtain that would part when the movie began, to signal everyone to be quiet and pay attention. There was also a stage, but I don't think it was used for anything. Behind our house there was a mound of dirt we claimed for our own. We called it Greenburg Hill. Back then it seemed to be miles away and as big as a mountain. We caught jack rabbits, snakes, lizards.. mostly my brother and I.. then we would chase my sisters with them. That actually makes me giggle. We used to play with skeeters in the irrigation ditch, catching guppies to bring home to an over filled fish tank, climb the pear tree in the horse pasture and eat until we were incredibly sick. There was a rock wall separating our house from the neighbors house that I loved leaning against when it was really hot in the summer, its stone edifice was craggy, but it was always cool, the perfect spot to read. We also had two gigantic trees in the side yard, one was an olive tree, the other birch I think. I loved the olive tree, its bark was kind of loose, so you could peel it off in long strips. One of its branches was really long and sturdy, perfect for a little girl to lay lazy and day dream about being a really important woman some day. Under the shade of that particular tree grew milkweed that was always pregnant with fuzzy caterpillars. We would put them in jars with leaves, feeding them full of all the milkweed they could eat, they would cocoon and transform right before our eyes. My sister shared the miracle of this when I was practically a tot. I remember being worried because the caterpillar disappeared from the jar and all that was left was a big ugly looking sack. Two blocks down the road there was an old house all the neighborhood kids swore was occupied by a witch. The garden of this house always seemed to thrive without attendance, no one ever came or went, there wasn't a car in the drive, and the occupant didn't attend church. One day I schemed to make some money, so I went around knocking doors to see if people would pay me to clean, weed, you know, the stuff people don't like doing, but must be done anyway. I went to her house. She had an impressive collection of glass toppers for electric poles, a couple of pieces of petrified wood, some really cool fossils and yes, a black cat. As far as I could see, she was just a really old, kind of lonely lady. I vacuumed her floor for a quarter.
Now I have small wrinkles appearing at the corners of my eyes and mouth. I have age spots, aches and pains, and a head full of worry. However, I still on occasion, puddle jump when it rains, run fully clothed through the neighbors sprinklers, eat junk and stay up all night telling stories... perhaps the kid residing inside wants to leave an impression for the children the adult in me is responsible for. I hope their fondest memories, most abundant memories are of laughing, dancing, playing, singing and sharing with their mom. |
| posted by katmandusuekookachoo @ 2:16 PM |
|
|
|
|
| |
|
|
