NOT COOL, ROBERT FROST.

Okay. Hi Internet. Been awhile. How ya been? Cool.

 

You know what’s not cool? Job insecurity. Job insecurity during a recession (potentially The Recession?). I interned for a whole year after graduating – I scraped and clawed and brown-nosed my way to a steady paycheck, and no one’s taking that away from me. You’ll have to pry it from my white, lifeless fingers, and then you’ll have to sprint away because my zombie body will come to life and chase after you for it, arms outstretched, yelling, “My paycheck…my paycheck…” Maybe I’ll be one of those sexy zombies. They seem to have fun. They make movies n such.

(Do I have a flair for the dramatic? Just a tad. Ask my friends about it sometime.)

Anywho.

I’m not saying I’m in imminent danger of losing my job. *smoothes hair into place and pastes on confident smile* I’m just saying that my department is experiencing some changes in the next few months, and those months do contain the very, very small chance that I might get laid off. Needless to say, I’m dusting off my CV and doing some quiet searching for new opportunities.

But the idea of being thrown back into unemployment terrifies me.

Part of it would be great – sweatpants, mac n cheese, and sleeping in – but really. That’ll get old after, like, a day. Then I’ll be bored, miserable, and discouraged.*

For some reason I always figured that doing the intern/whatever job/60-hr week thing was a one-time thing, a pattern for a stage of life that would not need repeating. But I guess that’s no guarantee. If I lose my job and can’t find a replacement in time, I’m gonna HAVE to pick something else up. Girl’s gotta make rent.

This gives me a lot of compassion for workers in retail, restaurants, etc, even the people on the sidewalk with cardboard signs who we all rush past and avoid eye contact with – it’s so easy to let ourselves judge based on appearances. But really, we don’t know anything. Maybe s/he had a great job and got laid off. Maybe a family member had crazy health problems and s/he went into debt. Maybe s/he just likes working in a restaurant.

Point is, anything can happen to anybody.

You all know that Robert Frost poem? Two roads diverged in a yellow wood… Yeah, my high school had the last few lines of that poem painted on a stairwell wall. I stared at it every day as I trudged to Biology, honors English, and honors government (yeah, we didn’t have AP, podunk small town that we were). Sometimes the words annoyed me, but most days they simultaneously inspired and vindicated me in my nerd-dom: "Yeah! I’m just over here taking the road less traveled!"

I’ve thought about those lines a lot since I’ve moved to DC. Two roads diverged in a wood, and I/I took the one less traveled by/And that has made all the difference.

They still assuage my troubled soul at times, but ya know what? Here, let me put it in words from our dear Kid President: “Two roads diverged in the woods…and I took the road less traveled…and it hurt, man! Really bad! ROCKS! THORNS! And GLASS! Not cool, Robert Frost!”

Available at
http://www.cafepress.com/kidpresident.776411657



Yeeeaaaahhh, dear ole Robbie forgot to mention that part. Rocks n thorns n glass n stuff. That’s what this whole “road less traveled” things is all about, huh?

Awesome. Lemme grab my hiking boots.


*[Editor's note: when I zapped this post over to The Sis for editing, she said, "haha, everytime you talk about job uncertainty, unemployment, being bored, miserable, discouraged, i [want you to] insert 'ie: my sister' *sad, slightly hysterical lawls*" Reprinted w permission, cuz there are no sissy fights here.]

The best Valentine’s Day ever. Note the heavy sarcasm.

As a young woman who’s been single all her life, Valentine’s Day usually comes and goes without too much concern from me. It’s just any ole regular day. With more candy.

This year, however, was different. Because The Sis brought our car with her when she moved out, I had to go to the DMV on Tuesday in order to get a parking permit.  I could have done this two, three, or even four weeks ago while we still had our temporary visitor permit, but I guess I procrastinated or something because suddenly we only had one day left on the temporary permit.  So I did my research, gathered all my relevant documents, and trekked out to the DMV on Valentine’s Day.  (But only after I went to the wrong location a day before.  Seriously, DMV website, could you be a little more specific?)

Here’s how I spent my Valentine’s Day:

Stood in long line at DMV. Talked to someone, stood in another line.

Talked to someone else. Found out the car, currently registered in my father’s name, must definitely definitely no-exceptions-allowed MUST be registered in my name. Even though I had documentation proving I was a legal driver under my father’s insurance.

Left DMV. Texted Sis that we needed to go to Plan B. Called Mom with update. Mom wonders if our Montana DMV can fax DC DMV a statement saying the registration is transferred, but that the official doc can’t get there in time due to bureaucratic red tape.

Return to DMV to ask about faxing. Stand in line again. Answer is “yes, in your situation.” Call Mom again. Leave DC DMV while Mom goes to MT DMV to transfer the car registration. Text Sis that I’m working on Plan C. Browse around in the nearby shops in order to kill time. Find stunning outfit I want to buy but I can’t because a) I’m a poor intern and Georgetown clothing is outrageously expensive, and b) the aftermath from the whole robbery thing is still not resolved.

Return to DC DMV. Stand in line. Get ticket stub to stand in another line. Pray to God that this all works out, because the DMV is about to close and today is the last day on my temporary permit and I really really don’t want to pay several hundred dollars in potential parking fines.

Mom calls. MT DMV needs my signature on some stuff. “Forge it,” I tell her. “I did,” she tells me. Then they gave her more documents, but only after she mentioned I was in DC, so now the game is up in Montana. MT DMV needs a signed and notarized power-of-attorney document saying that my mother can sign documents for me.

Have small heart attack due to disbelief. Ask why my father, a lawyer, can’t just forge a power-of-attorney document for me.

Leave DMV. Find bathroom stall. Cry.

Catch bus to my office. Print and fill out appropriate documents. Update my boss as to my situation. Try not to cry again. Berate myself for being so unprofessional.

Go to bank across the street. Sign and notarize power-of-attorney document. Withdraw some money. Nice teller lady offers to fax the doc for me, even though it’s against policy.

Fax machine won’t work. Go to FedEx and fax document there instead.

Call Sis. Tell her about the failure of Plan C, but that Plan D is the same as Plan C but can’t be implemented for a few days. Put together Plan E for the car in the meantime.

Go to work. Plan E fails, kinda. Put together Plan F.

Feel better once at work. Buy nice bottle of wine. Go home and drink half of it while watching trashy TV.

_______

So, that was my Valentine’s Day. This holiday is meant for celebrating love and companionship, and I spent it standing in line, mumbling obscenities about the human race, and feeling sorry for myself.  Pretty pathetic.

Oh well. At least I had some nice wine, at least my friends at work perked me up, and at least *I think* we got it figured out. I think. In any case, there’s a FedEx package winging its way toward me with new car registration in my freaking name, new license plates, and a new insurance policy…because, ya know, nothing is ever simple.


As an aside, I am now an expert on registering vehicles in the District. So hit me up if you have questions.

On Success

Thanks to pophangover.com

I came home, and MY HOUSE WAS ON FIRE

Just so you know, when I say "fire," I mean it literally. This was not a "this party is so awesome, lets raise the roof [do people still say that?] and set this place on fire" type fire. Literal fire. The hot kind.

Okay, to be fair, my house wasn't exactly on fire -- that was a bit of a hook to reel you in, dear reader -- but I thought my house was on fire.

Story: After eating a scrumptious meal with out with friends (read: stuffing my face with mostly waffle fries), I was riding the bus back home. One of my best college buddies, who's in town for the week, accompanied me. As we pulled into my stop, we passed a cluster of firetrucks and policemen. Not unusual in the city -- there's always some yayhoo doin' somethin' stupid that requires firetrucks and police.

Like any good rubbernecker, I wanted the chance to shamelessly gawk without making it look like I was shamelessly gawking.  Fortunately for me the path home took me right up to the edge of the scene, so I could check things out while still being mostly out of the way.

Well, as I moved closer I discovered that my path home wasn't exactly "at the edge of the scene."


Oh, wow, these firetrucks are closer to my block than I realized, I thought, gradually transforming from trying-not-to-be-shameless gawker into concerned individual. Hmmm, they actually wrap around the corner and go onto my block...I wonder how far down the block -- OH SHIT THEY'RE ALL IN FRONT OF MY HOUSE. 


I went from concerned individual to slightly hysterical in about .3 seconds flat.

"SHIT!" I yelped, bounding forward, friend in tow. A policeman stopped us.

"Sorry, miss, but you can't go down this block."

"But that's my house!" I cried, peering around his shoulder to look at the knot of firemen on my stoop.

"I'm sorry," the officer repeated, "we can't let you go down this block. It's not safe." You must stand and watch as your life goes up in smoke.

I think I said something closely resembling "aaaarghsdnvolsnjkdhbvla!!!!" and then my friend and I moved to the other side of the street, where we had a better angle. There I finally realized -- THANK GOD -- my was house was not, in fact, on fire.

But my immediate neighbor's house was.

Or, at least, it had been. Black smoke was still flowing from the windows, which had all been smashed out by the firemen. Long ladders leaned against the brick face. The whine of a saw cutting through brick floated above the building. I could see shadows and flashlights moving around as the firemen worked inside. A bunch of them stood on my roof, another bunch on my stoop -- clearly using my place as an access point. Thus my initial and completely understandable confusion.

A little background: to be brutally honest, my neighbor's place has always been a little...janky.  (Read: sketchy. Apparently janky is a term DC-ers use.) Or as my roomie put it when I called her, "Oh, I'm not surprised it's that one." The people there have always been nice, and return my mail when the postman mis-delivers it. But...eh. The place still kinda says, There may or may not be hard drugs here. Wink. That's all I'll say for now.

So I was standing on a corner watching the place smolder, silently thinking, Oh, it *would be* that one.


"Do you know what's going on?" multiple gawkers asked us, of whom I was a little resentful at this point. Yes, I actually DO know what's going on -- see that house on fire? Yeah, I live right next door. 


Their responses, while very kind and truly concerned, usually boiled down to, OMG really?? Wow...sucks for you. Good luck with that.

(My proud moment of the evening: while I was explaining the situation to one person, another person leaned in and asked my friend, "Is she a journalist?" "An aspiring one," Friend responded. WIN.)

Seriously, though, some of these gawkers had missed the "try not to be shameless" directive -- when you pull out your Nikon camera and a digital recorder, it's time for you to leave.  Let the men do their job. Eventually a policeman found some POLICE LINE DO NOT CROSS tape and cordoned off the block.

I called my landlord and my roommate (all of whom were safe), and then I called my parents and The Sis. And then we chatted with a fireman, were told the block would likely be inaccessible for a few more hours, and walked a block to the local bar. Aftan needed something to calm her nerves.

But our adventurous evening didn't end there. Oh no.

Stay tuned for Part II.

The Back-up Plan

Since I am set to graduate in 6 short weeks and still cannot boast of any job prospects, I thought I would boast about something else: the back-up plan.

The back-up plan is a beautiful and fluid concept. Let me explain why.

1. It can morph to keep up with your continually changing interests.
I thought I wanted to be a children’s author – turns out children scare me! Backup plan: I’ll write romances instead, because they definitely don’t scare ANYONE.

2. It can grow more or less outlandish depending on the degree of hysteria with which you view your future. Back-up plan: Skydiving! Skydiving forever! (Wait, I have no money…New back-up plan…)

3. If you mix a certain amount of irresponsibility with an appropriate amount of fun with a healthy dose of money-making, it will result in a back-up plan that will simultaneously surprise/dismay your audience and make them slightly jealous.
You: I’m moving in with my cousin for a while, gonna enjoy life and waitress on the side.
Audience: [thinking]…..Ooooo, what a waste; she’s such a smart girl….
You: Yeah, my cousin lives in Hawaii. I was thinking I would also freelance for a newspaper there, and that could lead to a more official job.

If appropriately applied, this method will elicit an “Oh, wow, that sounds wonderful…I wish I had the courage to do that.”

4. Make your back-up plan sound funny, yet still contain a viable option for the future.
What you say: “Instead of graduating, I’m going to purposefully fail all my classes. Stick around for another few years, pick up those other two majors I wanted.”
What you mean: stay in school and avoid the job search. [That’s the easy way out, grad schoolers.]

5. Make your back-up plan just sound funny.
I’m going to make this blog FAMOUS and then I’ll turn it into a book and make lots of money selling it to other desperate grads! Lots of money = job not necessary!

Personally, right now I’m betting on #5.