Or Q day, as it were. Q as in Quit. Not sure if they covered that one on Sesame Street, but they should have because I could have used a step by step guide.
My friend Dani, who is in sales, offered me free quitting consultations where she indicated "less is more" and emphasized "the silent close". Which, loosely translated is (with the grain of salt that is my mind), "I've received a better offer, I'm giving you 3 weeks notice, and am happy to answer any questions you may have if you put them in writing." Scene.
I said loosely.
It was good to go in with this in the back of my mind because it kept me from jabbering, or revealing too much - for the most part. I mean who is worried about their bosses feelings? While they're quitting?
The conversation was followed up by a dot-pointed e-mail from my boss outlining the reasons I shouldn't leave. Awkward.
So in the new year I'll be back in the non-profit world which is really exciting. Yet another transition! Keep 'em coming I guess.
In other holiday news - my sisters and I recorded a Christmas album for my parents containing such smash hits as "Grandma Got Run Over By A Reindeer" and "Walkin' Round In Women's Underwear". It's a sad attempt for the most part, but the super raw/uncut version contains snippets of Jessica clearing her throat, me telling her to shut up, and Stephanie smashing peppermint in the background. Even GarageBand and autotune couldn't help us. I'll see if I can post something so you can get a taste of what it's like to be our parents. They were SO proud.
Last month there was a mini fire in the apartment next door to us, I think it was a stove fire or you know, an 'experiment' gone awry. In SF style about four fire trucks lit up our street and after peeking my head out the window, I made the executive decision to pull my room mate out of the shower. 'Put on a towel. Seriously you HAVE to come see this.' We stood out on the fire escape in the foggy night and watched the crazies file out of the building one by one like a clown car (one of them wasn't wearing shoes or a shirt - so the other neighbor took off his second layer of socks to gift his friend in need). None of this was surprising as Jenna can rarely catch a quiet nap due to the echoing conversations between our neighbor and his cat, Boizer.
While I was making lunch the other day, I overhead one such interaction and tried to capture it. **Turn up the volume, it's a rare moment of hilarity:
"I'll see you tomorrow
Love you Boizer!
Behave now ok?
Come up whenever you can ok?
Boizer if you wanna come up now you can come up...
You may know that I was recently in the wedding of a close childhood friend. The ceremony was held at the Trentadue Winery in Healdsburg and festivities spanned 4 crazy days. To summarize in a choppy fashion - wine tasting, hot tub, 15 women stuffed in one hotel room, brief moments of starvation, champagne, terror inducing speech (video, which exists, to be filed along with that of me falling down the stairs at my college graduation - I vow to never watch them), more wine/booze, HANGOVER. It was a blast. And I think this picture speaks to that well, and also to the fact that I did not meet my "no cleavage" challenge.
So I'm at my new job, maybe day 3 or 4, and I'm tasked with tracking down a balloon artist to sculpt a ginormous piece for the Salesforce.com event at Mascone later this year. I do some preliminary research - said artiste has traveled the world (a la www.wherethehellismatt.com) doing a sociology study on happiness meets balloon making for cute kids/people of varying nationalities. This is, by the way, my interpretation based on a 5 minute overview upon which jealousy overwhelmed me and I was forced to close the tab. Mr. Balloon Man calls me after I send through an inquiry and the conversation goes, loosely, as follows:
ME: "Hey, I was wondering if you would be available on blah date, for what cost, do the balloons last 3 days - blah details blah" Mr. Balloon Man: "I might be traveling, I'm involved in this TV show - what kind of event is it? What kind of people will they be? What kind of information will they be getting?" ME: "uhh...it's a Salesforce.com event, which is an online database.... SILENCE ...and the attendees will be their customers from all over the bay area and the world..." SILENCE Mr. Balloon Man: "Can I ask you a question?" Me: "OK". Mr. Balloon Man: "Do you like your job?"
Simple question. Awkward timing. No answer.
It was the right question at the wrong time as I had to think about the answer and simultaneously speak some formation of a lie. And although my boss is extremely intelligent and motivated - I've sold my soul again for another job that's not really advancing my career or my bank account.
But alas, I HAVE a job. I'll admit I like a schedule. And a paycheck - well many paychecks really. So complaining shall cease.
Here's to you, balloon man. Maybe one day I too will get to ask people questions like that whilst I sit on my high horse of happiness and my own business. And if I'm lucky that high horse will actually be a unicorn made of balloons and I can fly into the rainbow sunset.
It's funny that 2 of the stereotypes of San Francisco are extremely high rent, and the inability to pay rent. I currently reside in the awkwardly shaped and uncomfortably cramped part of that venn diagram . Usually I have the confidence that "I'll figure it out no matter what" - I'm no stranger to canned-tuna poverty or being stranded in another country. But I won't lie this time I don't feel the drive to do whatever it takes. Seems like it was that mentality that got me into the job that wasn't right for me in the first place. What's the point of taking whatever arises amidst my desperation if it won't pay my bills or get me anywhere in my journey around the monopoly board? Or maybe I should have gone with Life as my pseudo reality in childhood game format.
Anyway. This month I'm pimping art. Not in any formal way, I'm sure my parents will be my primary customer base along with a few of my ever devoted friends. But at least I won't feel like I'm selling out - neither being a mid twenties nowhere-to-go townie living at home (not that there's anything wrong with that mom - you're great and feel free to cook for me anytime) nor taking another job working for a camel-toed troll. Yeah, picture that.
Is there a middle ground? Is it possible to find yourself or a passion that pays under the pressure of eviction? Stay tuned, T minus 30 days to find out.
In the meantime, peep my flickr and let me know if you can't live without one of my photos on your wall!
"When you have nothing nice to say, don't say anything." But where's the fun in that?
What I learned after getting fired: when all you want to do is wallow in self pity, booze, and bedding - the hardest thing to do is not.
And in a stroke of unfortunate coincidence it was also a mere day 2 of my diet I'm determined to stick to (I need to fit into the bridesmaid dress by September so as not too look too different than my size zero co-BM - I'm sure she'll like that name). So no sympathy drinks, no comissery ice cream. Aware that comissery isn't a word but it felt right. And hey, nothing like deep rooted hatefulness and simultaneous hopelessness to get you in a great work-out mood!
What you may be thinking is, "Don't you hate your job?" REGARDLESS. No one wants to be taken advantage of, or for "the man" to get the last word, or to be unemployed with San Francisco rent and student loans for baggage! And last I checked, being fired for being "unhappy" is not legitimate termination practice. I would know, I read all the HR policies that they don't follow.
Has anyone been applying for jobs lately? I hate to join the long line of whiners with much more to lose than I so I'll keep it short; is my only option to make $12/hr doing something I'm overqualified for? Truly I think the only solution is to start a business. Yes, I'm a control freak and what more perfect way than for me to get my way, all the time. I mean really.
Had much more to say - but it all feels blurry now. Off to 15-hour road trip to Arizona. I know.
Today's Cliche: I'm a little uninspired by my job(s) and listless direction.
How unfair is it that we spend the majority of the waking hours of each waking week of our waking lives doing things that are uninspiring? By 'we' I'm assuming that I correctly infer a majority, save a select few: like the guys on The Buried Life. They probably aren't included in that lot.
Yes, I did just allude to an MTV miniseries documentary that I've been unconventionally obsessed with. The simplest idea and a quote we've heard a million times, "Live each day as if it were your last" - And these guys are doing it. The result is kind of perfect: they meet new people, cross their goals off of a Bucket List one by one, and often times the process of getting what they dreamed of turns into a sucky full-time job. Yeah I wouldn't mind going to a party at the Playboy mansion, but waiting inside a wooden cake for 6 hours dressed as an oompa loompa is not my idea of a good time regardless of the outcome. Holler for perseverance. So as envious as I am in the 22 minute airtime of each show (more of their youthful drive and less Playboy bunnies), I realize if I truly did live every day as if it were my last, I would be homeless in a hot second. And perhaps have some broken bones....or an STD. I'm just saying!
Same goes for traveling I guess. And by same I mean wait for me to explain. Most everyone in my generation's radius is toting a BA degree in one hand, and a Euro/Latin American/study abroad Facebook photo album at their fingertips - many of us have more than one and I'm the guiltiest of them all. As easy as it is to be envious of those that are cruising the streets of Spain while you're sitting staring at [enter monotonous Microsoft Office program here], if you try very hard the subtle nuances of travel can make you appreciate your desk job. The ones you only hear about when you REALLY listen to someone's travel experience or sit around long enough for them to let out the whole truth. Long lines, getting lost, money stolen, great food which leads to prolonged toilet trips (pray you're not in India for that one), horrbile food too, more time spent with your travel companion(s) then the people who actually live in the country you're in, and inevitably one form of 'white guilt' or another.
But I have to admit, sometimes those moments where the only place you want to be is home in bed, are the times you remember most and make you truly stonger: my 22-hour train ride to Beijing, the pouring rain (and beer) during Carnaval in Brazil, getting lost outside of Prague in the Czech Republic, staying on a boat hostel in Amsterdam, or sleeping in a questionable-at-best hotel in Tokyo. Granted I just moved back from Australia 6 months ago, but I'm already itching for an adventure, something to look forward to.
VIVACUBA!
Why do I want to go to Cuba?
To learn about and from the people, the history but also their daily lives. To see the country that is suspended in time (at least in my imagination) with its vintage cars and colonial architecture speckled with aged pealing paint. To experience the dancing, the Jazz, the rum - and I don't even like rum. And take pictures the whole time.
Cuba is a big challenge for me. It'll be the first trip I'm planning alone, saving for as a big girl while still paying for my apartment and bills etc. And there's the whole, it's kind of not allowed thing...But I've been reading up on it and its not a big enough threat to make me feel nervous. Hopefully Obama has my back. Cuba just feels somehow special.
And I want to be a more mature me when I go. There's so many photos I've missed out on because I didn't want to bother anyone with my camera, so many conversations I missed because I was self-conscious of my Spanish. I want to go and get it right. Even if 'right' means riddled with mistakes. Who's coming?
On a San Francisco Note: this city is amazing. Did a Saturday morning brunch and hike/jaunt through the Haight - Castro neighborhoods and Kristen, who is probably sick of being my model couture, led me to one of the most beautiful views I've seen in a long time. An adventure is always just around the corner in my dearest of cities.
Ended the arvo, nod to my Aussies, with some mimosas at Dolores Park along side the hipsters bubble blowers and obnoxiously small dogs. Afternoon delight in the highest order.
Yeah, she saw me.
To end on several awkward personal notes:
There is a mouse in my house. I'm not cool with it. And my landlord used my gourmet peanut butter that has thus far, only fed little mickey and not captured him. Unless he starts making ratatouille he has to go.
I'm writing this blog by the light of an amish candle. No you didn't miss anything, I'm dead serious.
I lost a friend this week. It blows, to simplify several teary nights. But I'm glad I'm finally cool with me. My biggest achievement, this week if not in 24 years, is being truly able to say, "I'm a good friend and person." and mean it despite what anyone says. Who knew that could be so hard?
One second you can be staring in a mirror with distaste at the ever-present zit that is so big it came right out of My So Called Life (aka the 90's when I should have started and stopped getting them), then you are going to the gym and grocery shopping and errand running like a good 24 year old should, and then, you get pulled back into a world where a stranger at the check out counter actually talks to you and asks how you are, even when you look like crap, and tells you to go to a pillow fight in the Embarcadero. I love San Francisco.
So you call up your good friend Kristen, who despite having a boyfriend of a lovely sort is willing to overlook the necessity to be with said lover for the entirety of the loverliest day of February, hop on a Muni at the corner of Dolores Park with the hipsters and pajama wearing pillow toting others, and make way to the water.
(I don't even know what tense I'm writing in at this point but it has to stop. Don't judge me).
When we walked the remaining block of Market, we were heading straight to the photographer/paparazzi line. Sometimes it feels less special to be just another lens in a sea of lenses.
I lifted to the tippiest top of my 8'5" tip toes and saw the blur of popcorning marshmellows as people slammed each other with pillows. Softness and acknowledged intention buffering what in any other circumstance would be such an awkward public blow. Part of me wanted to get right up close, like as if they were behind glass - and just see the slow motion impact of cotton to face. Talk about a way to get out aggression (I just remembered how to spell that word by reciting the cheer b-e-a-g-g-r-e-s-s-i-v-e in my head. Not a good look). Every few minutes feathers would explode upward into the air as if a dove had been shot, and then rain down like snow. At one point some firecrackers went off in the crowd. The urban people ducked. Yes I said urban - the thing about blogs is you never know who's reading.
We stood chucks deep in feathers watching the weary emerge red faced, panting, and aged by white fluff. It only took one stray feather fighter molting in our direction to send us on our way. Luckily the fight followed beyond the battlefield as anyone walking down market with a pillow was automatically entered into a duel with a miniskirted, shrieking girl. Fiercer than you might imagine but just as annoying.
Then atop a 39th floor hotel with a cocktail view of our dearest city, Kristen and I discussed boxes. How intense the world would be if you had to think of every detail of every little thing from the table you're sitting at, to the person you're talking to, to the universe you're in. Like when you pass a homeless person and you wonder, what is your life like? Who were your parents and what crazy stories to do you have? What normal stories do you have. And when you take the time to let someone out of the careful box you packed them into, they always surprise you, in some way. You surprise yourself sometimes.
Ended the night with some Castro queenies, a Hot Cookie, well several, and an awkward phone call.
But you know how some days you just feel like you have a clean slate? Nothing really holding you back but you? I felt like that.
So it's 2010, I'm going to be 25 years old soon. Consequently, sharing a bed with my 17 year old sister, closet with my mom, and couch with my dad was not what I foresaw as the way I wanted to begin the new decade. Thus initiated the apartment hunt in San Francisco allowing me to stay in the bay area (which after 24 countries of travel I still find to be the best place in the world), while situating a modest red bridge between me and my 'past'. Accessible, but a $6 toll.
Saw a few places and the noteworthy commentary is as follows:
Sutter/Pac Heights: We wanted it, and so did 30 others. Nice view, small, newish. Into it.
Polk St: A barrage of color on every wall. "Vaulted ceilings" = unfinished architecture with collections of old cleaning supplies and god-knows-what on the top of the faux walls. An eclectic sketch of a centaur playing the flute (literally a penciled sketch on the wall), saturated sleeping pads on the floors, duct taped windows, mounds of dishes in the sink, and my personal favorite - a friendly vine growing INSIDE through the vent. As Jenna so aptly put, "The listing needs a scratch and sniff sticker" to account for the smells de Asia emanating through the walls and the bathrooms you have to pass in the hallways. No wonder they duct taped the windows...
Pine St: First location, great on paper with a yard and dishwasher and washer/dryer in the apartment. But had the feeling of a psych ward and all its associated charm. Second Pine locale was reaching our list of perfect, but one room was MASSIVE, and the other the size of a closet. This is getting frustrating.
Lombard/Marina: 3 bedroom for 2 grand, don't mind if I do. Tell me more please. Changes up the living situation a bit but totally worth it! Hardword floors and big windows, close to the Presidio. Read some reviews on the crackhead broker who warned us about all the trouble they have with homeless people in that location - and Citibrokers were aptly labeled "Slumlords" on Yelp. Said 'nay' to the apartment but it wasn't for naught as 'Slumlord' is my new favorite word.
Also found our IDEAL situation that was literally too good to be true. A young, 'nice Jewish boy', as my dad would say, showed us a two bedroom apt, deck on top of the roof with a view of the golden gate, adorable 50's style bathroom, utlities and cable/dsl included...Catch-No kitchen. Sorry what? I didn't realize I even needed to specify that as a requirement! And that turns out to be the only catch that would stop us from living there. The current tenants seemed to be making do using the bath tub, but after a slice and a beer from Pizza Orgasmica, yes, even I needed a beer after that disappointment, Jenna and I decided that the backlog of food leftovers and subsequent environmental damage we would be doing with our disposable goods - would be a deal breaker.
Western Edition: We found our place! Hard wood floors, near Divis, backyard area, closet space, big kitchen. Signed the lease yesterday on my lunch break and technically can move in tomorrow!
Currently facing the soul-searching dilemma of - What is my style? Never really had to think about it before, but I have some RANDOM shit. And Craiglist is a sespool of furniture, seriously not only will I not take that couch for free, you couldn't pay me to sit on it. But maybe that's the Marin in me coming out. You can take the girl out of the county...
Reality: I AM MOVING OUT! An exhausting process but I am SO excited. Now to procure a moving team.
I am a traveler at heart, photographer on my better days, do-gooder in effort, and of a generally friendly/smiley sort. You should know me, I'm good people.
