Looking for a job is the pits. It really is. Last week, I sent out ten resumes. I heard back on one, but only so far as to say that they had received it and will contact me if I meet their requirements. So far, I haven't heard back from them. Which is a shame, because it was similar to what I had done before (copy editor/editorial manager), but maybe a half-step up. And the commute would be do-able. And really, no matter what you see on these pages, I really am good at what I do, and I really liked the idea of working for that place.
So today, I finally bit the bullet and registered with three local temp agencies. One of them is Manpower, and I registered with about seven local offices. How convenient that I could do it all online. I found my last job, which turned out to be exactly what I was looking for, through one of those temp agencies. Back then, I just registered with one as a walk-in. And now I've registered with nearly ten offices--and I didn't have to leave my bedroom.
Ideally, I'd like to have a work-at-home position. Telecommuting is way attractive to me right now, though I wouldn't count on getting one.
What would your ideal job be?
Friday, August 18, 2006
Thursday, August 17, 2006
What I didn't say...
What I didn't say when I said what I did last time about that one day...
Returning to the ren faire last week was special in more ways than just the run-in with the unrequited crush. The whole day had this magical aura for me, probably much as it did that summer fourteen years ago when I decided I would audition for the following season. And it was probably as magical for me as it is for many long-time faire-goers.
But I'm not really what one would call a Rennie, those people who go every weekend, dressed in garb of all sorts (and not always historically accurate), often without a real grasp of the era those at our faire try to recreate (the reign of Elizabeth I). When I worked there, I was a contracted musician. I had a job to do. Yes, I got to design my own costume and wear a corset under several layers of clothing, and indulge my love of Renaissance England and of the music of the time. But there is just an air about it that leaves me at peace. Perhaps it's the people... The core actors and musicians are still there after all these years. Or perhaps it just the distinct spirit of the place. I don't know. But I know I'm not the only person to feel that way.
People have asked me if I would ever go back there to perform. Maybe, I tell them. Maybe I would, if I had something worthwhile to offer after all these years, and probably not until after my son is older.
When I was there last week, all my fears and insecurities about being there were put to rest. Everyone I cared about recognized me. I didn't have to say, "Hey, it's me. Remember me?"
And everyone seemed as pleased to see me for the first time in eight years as I was to see them.
That was gratifying to an unparalleled degree.
I stayed there from opening gate, until closing gate. A solid ten hours. I packed my son into the car and slid into the driver's seat not a bit sleepy-eyed. My feet didn't even hurt! During the drive home, I followed my old route through northern Illinois and was filled with the most profound sense of peace and contentment. It was, truly, a perfect day. I wouldn't trade it for anything.
My husband is arriving in Chicago Monday afternoon. My weeks here without him have been largely peaceful (barring the spats we've had over the phone), and I'm really not looking forward to his arrival. I feel a little bad about that, considering he's giving up his life in Germany to raise our son here in the States. But I don't relish resuming the power struggles, especially here on my own turf where I've always been an independent thinker and doer. My husband will expect to resume all control over our family, and I don't want to go back to that way of life.
He expressed interest in seeing the faire, and I'll take him--probably next weekend. I don't expect him to understand the influence it had on me, or to acquire a deeper understanding of me as a person separate from him (he hates the idea of me being an entity separate from him). So I'm glad I had the opportunity to visit on my own, and to get in touch with an essential part of myself that got pushed into a dusty corner, so long ago. I will probably need to draw on that strength more than ever in the weeks and months, and even years, ahead.
What a gift that day is, in so many ways!
Returning to the ren faire last week was special in more ways than just the run-in with the unrequited crush. The whole day had this magical aura for me, probably much as it did that summer fourteen years ago when I decided I would audition for the following season. And it was probably as magical for me as it is for many long-time faire-goers.
But I'm not really what one would call a Rennie, those people who go every weekend, dressed in garb of all sorts (and not always historically accurate), often without a real grasp of the era those at our faire try to recreate (the reign of Elizabeth I). When I worked there, I was a contracted musician. I had a job to do. Yes, I got to design my own costume and wear a corset under several layers of clothing, and indulge my love of Renaissance England and of the music of the time. But there is just an air about it that leaves me at peace. Perhaps it's the people... The core actors and musicians are still there after all these years. Or perhaps it just the distinct spirit of the place. I don't know. But I know I'm not the only person to feel that way.
People have asked me if I would ever go back there to perform. Maybe, I tell them. Maybe I would, if I had something worthwhile to offer after all these years, and probably not until after my son is older.
When I was there last week, all my fears and insecurities about being there were put to rest. Everyone I cared about recognized me. I didn't have to say, "Hey, it's me. Remember me?"
And everyone seemed as pleased to see me for the first time in eight years as I was to see them.
That was gratifying to an unparalleled degree.
I stayed there from opening gate, until closing gate. A solid ten hours. I packed my son into the car and slid into the driver's seat not a bit sleepy-eyed. My feet didn't even hurt! During the drive home, I followed my old route through northern Illinois and was filled with the most profound sense of peace and contentment. It was, truly, a perfect day. I wouldn't trade it for anything.
My husband is arriving in Chicago Monday afternoon. My weeks here without him have been largely peaceful (barring the spats we've had over the phone), and I'm really not looking forward to his arrival. I feel a little bad about that, considering he's giving up his life in Germany to raise our son here in the States. But I don't relish resuming the power struggles, especially here on my own turf where I've always been an independent thinker and doer. My husband will expect to resume all control over our family, and I don't want to go back to that way of life.
He expressed interest in seeing the faire, and I'll take him--probably next weekend. I don't expect him to understand the influence it had on me, or to acquire a deeper understanding of me as a person separate from him (he hates the idea of me being an entity separate from him). So I'm glad I had the opportunity to visit on my own, and to get in touch with an essential part of myself that got pushed into a dusty corner, so long ago. I will probably need to draw on that strength more than ever in the weeks and months, and even years, ahead.
What a gift that day is, in so many ways!
Tuesday, August 8, 2006
Home-coming. It's nice to be here. But nicer not to have to go back.
I've been back home in Chicago for two weeks, now. If you're a subscriber to the view that good things are worth a little effort, then the flight over would be right up your alley. Our plane had been delayed three hours because of a medical emergency between Newark and Frankfurt.
That meant I had to change my connecting flight from Newark to Chicago. By the time we landed in Newark and I had claimed my baggage and gotten in line to check it in again, I had missed that connecting flight, and had to catch another one... to Midway, instead of O'hare. And
I had only a few minutes to catch that plane, two terminals away.
We made it, though, and even managed to squeeze in a quick call to my dad. "I missed my flight. We'll be at Midway at 10, not O'hare." So, 29 hours after our journey had begun, my son and I were finally snug in bed in my parents' home, air conditioning humming softly in the background.
My son handled it all brilliantly. He is the perfect traveller--better than most adults. Scratch that, he is the perfect child.
In the meantime, my husband is still in Germany, tying up loose ends. We don't know when he'll be here, but the target is by the end of the month. That may or may not happen.
I've been taking things slow. The first thing I did was register my lovel boy for first grade.
Then, last Sunday, my parents threw a Welcome Home/Birthday Party for me (36 years old). It was supposed to be a surprise, but I suppose the effort of keeping it that way was too much to handle, so my mom spilled the beans just a day or two after our arrival. It was a wonderful party, with family and my best friend, J. My husband managed to put a damper on the festivities by overreacting to a conversation he'd had with my mom the day before (about behaving nicely to her daughter while he's here), and called just as we were sitting down to eat to order me to pack up and come home.
He was irrational and after calmly telling him this wasn't the time to discuss it several times, I hung up on him. I told my mom what had happened, desperately trying to control my tears and outrage. She told my father, and seconds later the phone rang again. My dad answered it, chewed out my husband, told him to shape up, and about ten minutes later was off the phone again.
Later on, my dad told me to give my husband a call. He thought things had been worked out. So, when I had a moment of privacy a couple of hours later, I called (though I didn't want to) and my husband was humble and sweet and said he'd misunderstood the purpose of my mother's call. There was no apology, however. And none was expected. The damage was done. He'd managed to sabotage my birthday party (I hadn't wanted to tell him about it, but our son had leaked the information to him that morning), which, way deep down, was probably very satisfactory for him.
The following Saturday, just a few days ago, I met J and her man at the renaissance faire I used to work at as a musician. That experience deserves its own post, so I'll write more on that later. It was a really wonderful time. I couldn't have asked for a better day.
Yesterday, I applied for five proofreading jobs. I didn't find them in Sunday's paper. Rather, I found them on CareerBuilder.com. I have no idea if anything will come of them. Most of them are rather far away, close to Chicago. Since I'd like to stay in the area we're in now, that could be a problem. But I'll cross that bridge IF I come to it. Ideally, I'd like a proofreading/copy editing job that isn't high pressure and tight deadlines. Been there, done that. It's fine when you're single and working long hours doesn't affect much more than your sleep. A very big part of me would like a desk job that's dull and predictable, but gets me home at the same time every day feeling sane, and with enough energy to fit in some classes to earn my teaching certificate. Like data entry. Any data entry jobs out there that pay between $30-40,000 per year? Didn't think so.
Today, I'm visiting an old high school friend of mine. I have to wake up my son so we can be on our way.
...Oh! And how cool is it that I'm actually writing within three time zones of most readers here?
Wow. I'm really here...
That meant I had to change my connecting flight from Newark to Chicago. By the time we landed in Newark and I had claimed my baggage and gotten in line to check it in again, I had missed that connecting flight, and had to catch another one... to Midway, instead of O'hare. And
I had only a few minutes to catch that plane, two terminals away.
We made it, though, and even managed to squeeze in a quick call to my dad. "I missed my flight. We'll be at Midway at 10, not O'hare." So, 29 hours after our journey had begun, my son and I were finally snug in bed in my parents' home, air conditioning humming softly in the background.
My son handled it all brilliantly. He is the perfect traveller--better than most adults. Scratch that, he is the perfect child.
In the meantime, my husband is still in Germany, tying up loose ends. We don't know when he'll be here, but the target is by the end of the month. That may or may not happen.
I've been taking things slow. The first thing I did was register my lovel boy for first grade.
Then, last Sunday, my parents threw a Welcome Home/Birthday Party for me (36 years old). It was supposed to be a surprise, but I suppose the effort of keeping it that way was too much to handle, so my mom spilled the beans just a day or two after our arrival. It was a wonderful party, with family and my best friend, J. My husband managed to put a damper on the festivities by overreacting to a conversation he'd had with my mom the day before (about behaving nicely to her daughter while he's here), and called just as we were sitting down to eat to order me to pack up and come home.
He was irrational and after calmly telling him this wasn't the time to discuss it several times, I hung up on him. I told my mom what had happened, desperately trying to control my tears and outrage. She told my father, and seconds later the phone rang again. My dad answered it, chewed out my husband, told him to shape up, and about ten minutes later was off the phone again.
Later on, my dad told me to give my husband a call. He thought things had been worked out. So, when I had a moment of privacy a couple of hours later, I called (though I didn't want to) and my husband was humble and sweet and said he'd misunderstood the purpose of my mother's call. There was no apology, however. And none was expected. The damage was done. He'd managed to sabotage my birthday party (I hadn't wanted to tell him about it, but our son had leaked the information to him that morning), which, way deep down, was probably very satisfactory for him.
The following Saturday, just a few days ago, I met J and her man at the renaissance faire I used to work at as a musician. That experience deserves its own post, so I'll write more on that later. It was a really wonderful time. I couldn't have asked for a better day.
Yesterday, I applied for five proofreading jobs. I didn't find them in Sunday's paper. Rather, I found them on CareerBuilder.com. I have no idea if anything will come of them. Most of them are rather far away, close to Chicago. Since I'd like to stay in the area we're in now, that could be a problem. But I'll cross that bridge IF I come to it. Ideally, I'd like a proofreading/copy editing job that isn't high pressure and tight deadlines. Been there, done that. It's fine when you're single and working long hours doesn't affect much more than your sleep. A very big part of me would like a desk job that's dull and predictable, but gets me home at the same time every day feeling sane, and with enough energy to fit in some classes to earn my teaching certificate. Like data entry. Any data entry jobs out there that pay between $30-40,000 per year? Didn't think so.
Today, I'm visiting an old high school friend of mine. I have to wake up my son so we can be on our way.
...Oh! And how cool is it that I'm actually writing within three time zones of most readers here?
Wow. I'm really here...
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