I am now up to three jobs. However, Job 2 and Job 3 are related to things that I enjoy doing and am interested in. This is a very weird development.
As we all know (or I guess more accurately, as I theorize based on very little data and then presume everyone agrees with), our current economic model depends on despair to thrive. So jobs that many might find rewarding and engaging generally pay about a half a farthing and a crust of stale bread once every other fortnight.
This is why so few people I know seem able to actually make a living doing something they truly enjoy. We all seem to end up sort of doing the thing we are best able to tolerate without bludgeoning to death co-workers, customers/clients and managers.
I realize that this might seem like a pretty banal epiphany, but banal epiphanies are the sort I am best at: doing some stuff you like is like REALLY a lot better than doing stuff you can just tolerate. I realize that is not only a banal epiphany, it is essentially a tautology, but still. It's kind of news to me.
I guess at some level - even though I've been blindly fighting towards doing work I like - I think I still had a very deeply ingrained belief that...well, ALL work was WORK. "That's why they have to pay you to do it!" and all. I guess until I actually experienced doing some things I liked, I did not really truly realize and understand HOW MUCH BETTER LIFE IS that way. And not just while you are at work. You are like, just happier in general.
Again: banal, obvious, but I am sometimes like a space alien who has only recently landed on this planet and there is still a lot I am figuring out.
So this epiphany occurred because of this morning. Normally I have to work nearly every weekend on Job 1 - recruiting - primarily because I let myself get behind during the week because in between talking to The Crazies I have to take a lot of breaks to avoid losing my shit entirely with the next person. There is a lot of talking myself down in this current role.
And, normally, after getting through a weekend of work by numbing myself with refined sugars and having marathons of house-flipping shows on in the background (I find watching jobs that both have a beginning, middle and an end AND make things look very tidy and clean very satisfying which is why I could watch house-flipping shows all day every day), I usually start off Monday feeling close to as exhausted as I felt when I ended on Friday.
But after this weekend - which was no less filled with work than normal, just a different sort, I awoke this morning chipper and A-OK with things. I did not have to beat off the hovering black cloud of gloom as I trudged my way to the coffee maker. I did not have to give myself a pep talk and then escalate that to a stern talking-to to keep from returning to the warm comfort of my lovely bed. I was just all...fine and shit.
Who knows what effect this will have on this blog? Like the economy, it depends on despair to thrive. A cheerful Ill-Suit might be likely to post the below and call it a goshdarn day!
Showing posts with label You load up 16 tons and what do you get. Show all posts
Showing posts with label You load up 16 tons and what do you get. Show all posts
Monday, March 26, 2007
Thursday, March 22, 2007
Despair: Now in Real Time!
Normally I do try to buffer in some time between the day job happenings and my posts due to my totally unwarranted paranoia.
But today I am feeling ca ca enough to just go ahead and LIVE BLOG THE AWFULNESS.
I have phone screened a gajillion people this week and 90% of them have been:
AND WHAT IS WORSE:
It is THURSDAY! Not Friday! I mean, it's nearly Friday and that means it's nearly not a workday (although they are ALL workdays right now, but at least on Saturday and Sunday it's just me and the laptop and I don't have to talk to any people). But I have about four more hours of phone screening today and I do not know how I am going to get through it without losing it all over one of these people. Even the cheerful co-worker admitted yesterday that she was nearly yelling at a candidate.
Having to pay deep attention to complete strangers all day long sometimes feels like zombies are eating out my brain.
But today I am feeling ca ca enough to just go ahead and LIVE BLOG THE AWFULNESS.
I have phone screened a gajillion people this week and 90% of them have been:
- Unqualified despite what their resumes said. It stretches the boundaries of credulity, if you have only used a certain software once a month in a job you have held for a few months, to call yourself an "current expert user." Maybe so, but the hiring manager is going to think I am an idiot if I send you in for an interview. Now get off my phone. Thank you for wasting 15 minutes of my life with your fibs.
- Complete nutjobs. I know I am the Girl Who Cried Nutjobs, BUT this week I received independent confirmation from someone who is not a misanthrope (she is, in fact, a REGULAR and NORMAL person) that all of these candidates are, in fact, totes crazeeeeee.
- Argumentative and vaguely belligerent. I am not a person who goes looking for confrontation - the LAST thing I want is more interaction with humans - so I am usually eager to deflect and avoid. Nevertheless, I seem to have stumbled upon a group of candidates that is itching for trouble. I know I know I should show and not tell but I am too exhausted to give you some specific examples. It's just all oddly adversarial out there, which, to me, is not a word I would normally associate with recruiting. And again: independent confirmation from a cheerful, non-curmudgeonly co-worker.
AND WHAT IS WORSE:
It is THURSDAY! Not Friday! I mean, it's nearly Friday and that means it's nearly not a workday (although they are ALL workdays right now, but at least on Saturday and Sunday it's just me and the laptop and I don't have to talk to any people). But I have about four more hours of phone screening today and I do not know how I am going to get through it without losing it all over one of these people. Even the cheerful co-worker admitted yesterday that she was nearly yelling at a candidate.
Having to pay deep attention to complete strangers all day long sometimes feels like zombies are eating out my brain.
Monday, January 08, 2007
Today's post has been outsourced...
...to Pablo Neruda:
Walking Around
It so happens I am sick of being a man.
And it happens that I walk into tailorshops and movie houses
dried up, waterproof, like a swan made of felt
steering my way in a water of wombs and ashes.
The smell of barbershops makes me break into hoarse sobs.
The only thing I want is to lie still like stones or wool.
The only thing I want is to see no more stores, no gardens,
no more goods, no spectacles, no elevators.
It so happens that I am sick of my feet and my nails
and my hair and my shadow.
It so happens I am sick of being a man.
Still it would be marvelous
to terrify a law clerk with a cut lily,
or kill a nun with a blow on the ear.
It would be great
to go through the streets with a green knife
letting out yells until I died of the cold.
I don't want to go on being a root in the dark,
insecure, stretched out, shivering with sleep,
going on down, into the moist guts of the earth,
taking in and thinking, eating every day.
I don't want so much misery.
I don't want to go on as a root and a tomb,
alone under the ground,
a warehouse with corpses,
half frozen, dying of grief.
That's why Monday, when it sees me coming
with my convict face, blazes up like gasoline,
and it howls on its way like a wounded wheel,
and leaves tracks full of warm blood leading toward the night.
And it pushes me into certain corners, into some moist houses,
into hospitals where the bones fly out the window,
into shoeshops that smell like vinegar,
and certain streets hideous as cracks in the skin.
There are sulphur-colored birds, and hideous intestines
hanging over the doors of houses that I hate,
and there are false teeth forgotten in a coffeepot,
there are mirrors
that ought to have wept from shame and terror,
there are umbrellas everywhere, and venoms, and umbilical cords.
I stroll along serenely, with my eyes, my shoes,
my rage, forgetting everything,
I walk by, going through office buildings and orthopedic shops,
and courtyards with washing hanging from the line:
underwear, towels and shirts from which slow
dirty tears are falling.
Translated by Robert Bly.
Walking Around
It so happens I am sick of being a man.
And it happens that I walk into tailorshops and movie houses
dried up, waterproof, like a swan made of felt
steering my way in a water of wombs and ashes.
The smell of barbershops makes me break into hoarse sobs.
The only thing I want is to lie still like stones or wool.
The only thing I want is to see no more stores, no gardens,
no more goods, no spectacles, no elevators.
It so happens that I am sick of my feet and my nails
and my hair and my shadow.
It so happens I am sick of being a man.
Still it would be marvelous
to terrify a law clerk with a cut lily,
or kill a nun with a blow on the ear.
It would be great
to go through the streets with a green knife
letting out yells until I died of the cold.
I don't want to go on being a root in the dark,
insecure, stretched out, shivering with sleep,
going on down, into the moist guts of the earth,
taking in and thinking, eating every day.
I don't want so much misery.
I don't want to go on as a root and a tomb,
alone under the ground,
a warehouse with corpses,
half frozen, dying of grief.
That's why Monday, when it sees me coming
with my convict face, blazes up like gasoline,
and it howls on its way like a wounded wheel,
and leaves tracks full of warm blood leading toward the night.
And it pushes me into certain corners, into some moist houses,
into hospitals where the bones fly out the window,
into shoeshops that smell like vinegar,
and certain streets hideous as cracks in the skin.
There are sulphur-colored birds, and hideous intestines
hanging over the doors of houses that I hate,
and there are false teeth forgotten in a coffeepot,
there are mirrors
that ought to have wept from shame and terror,
there are umbrellas everywhere, and venoms, and umbilical cords.
I stroll along serenely, with my eyes, my shoes,
my rage, forgetting everything,
I walk by, going through office buildings and orthopedic shops,
and courtyards with washing hanging from the line:
underwear, towels and shirts from which slow
dirty tears are falling.
Translated by Robert Bly.
Thursday, December 14, 2006
Zombification
So part of why I am so grumpy all the livelong day is because I haven’t had a real vacay in just about forever, and have a sort of job that much like a gas, expands to fit whatever container (i.e., my waking hours) it’s put into.
And to abruptly change metaphors, work is also like a toxin that builds up in your system. I think of it like gout: there are these work crystals building up under my skin and eventually I get so sensitive I cannot bear the weight of a sheet on my toe/phone call from innocent candidate.
BUT…although there is apparently a war on Xmas or something that people like me are somehow perpetrating by sending out cards that say “Happy Holidays” because we know/like some Jewish people and atheists and are too lazy/indifferent to send out different cards to every person based on what holiday they may or may not be celebrating, Xmas has nevertheless retained the strength to get me a (paid) day fricking off in a week and a half. (Thank you, Xmas!)
And I am going to finagle a few other days off in there and I am going to have five – count ‘em FIVE FIVE FIVE – days where I do not have to ask anyone to describe their current job duties or what their target salary is or how soon they would be available to begin if a position is offered. Five whole days in a row where I can spend all day talking with people about something other than their experience with SOX 404 or their skill level with Excel!
And THAT, Reader, is my Thursday’s Installment of Some Shit that I Am Happy About.
Until then, I am switching into Recruiter Zombie mode. I am still physically here, I am still carrying out my duties, but my brain/soul has already left my body and won’t return until Jan 1, 2007. Posts until then may consist of grunts and or zombie-typing which looks like this:
Ury swrt5giAE GIsrwgeghtu4tg9wtg4qgt wsrhgtegftwisgy gtwesi gts wrgtSWGtw5gthed5r hsuer huaqygtue5uijr4wtytg g yrdrtgtxqt4g5rgtswrwst8wt5ait6h4 GFV8swrG89OA5Y3JNER GIKUHDFGIURWTKIUJSETUHAERUIGHDKSJFNK.ISETHO8LEHT RWHTGKJLRNO;8TH4T.
And to abruptly change metaphors, work is also like a toxin that builds up in your system. I think of it like gout: there are these work crystals building up under my skin and eventually I get so sensitive I cannot bear the weight of a sheet on my toe/phone call from innocent candidate.
BUT…although there is apparently a war on Xmas or something that people like me are somehow perpetrating by sending out cards that say “Happy Holidays” because we know/like some Jewish people and atheists and are too lazy/indifferent to send out different cards to every person based on what holiday they may or may not be celebrating, Xmas has nevertheless retained the strength to get me a (paid) day fricking off in a week and a half. (Thank you, Xmas!)
And I am going to finagle a few other days off in there and I am going to have five – count ‘em FIVE FIVE FIVE – days where I do not have to ask anyone to describe their current job duties or what their target salary is or how soon they would be available to begin if a position is offered. Five whole days in a row where I can spend all day talking with people about something other than their experience with SOX 404 or their skill level with Excel!
And THAT, Reader, is my Thursday’s Installment of Some Shit that I Am Happy About.
Until then, I am switching into Recruiter Zombie mode. I am still physically here, I am still carrying out my duties, but my brain/soul has already left my body and won’t return until Jan 1, 2007. Posts until then may consist of grunts and or zombie-typing which looks like this:
Ury swrt5giAE GIsrwgeghtu4tg9wtg4qgt wsrhgtegftwisgy gtwesi gts wrgtSWGtw5gthed5r hsuer huaqygtue5uijr4wtytg g yrdrtgtxqt4g5rgtswrwst8wt5ait6h4 GFV8swrG89OA5Y3JNER GIKUHDFGIURWTKIUJSETUHAERUIGHDKSJFNK.ISETHO8LEHT RWHTGKJLRNO;8TH4T.
Wednesday, December 13, 2006
Job security feels a lot...
...like hot boiling agony.
I'm apparently on this project for the foreseeable future, folks, so...
Yeah.
I had a little escape route planned but the Ringwraiths of Upper Management sniffed it out and cut me off.
So, Hi, Reader! I'm here all night! All week! For-effing-ever!
(Placeholder for image to be added later of me disappearing into a hypno-swirl-thingy, with my tiny hand pitifully reached out towards the light! The LIGHT!!!!!)
I'm apparently on this project for the foreseeable future, folks, so...
Yeah.
I had a little escape route planned but the Ringwraiths of Upper Management sniffed it out and cut me off.
So, Hi, Reader! I'm here all night! All week! For-effing-ever!
(Placeholder for image to be added later of me disappearing into a hypno-swirl-thingy, with my tiny hand pitifully reached out towards the light! The LIGHT!!!!!)
Saturday, September 23, 2006
"Resume Headline: College grad wanting fun job that travels"
HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA
Ahhhhh, youth. [Wipes away tears of laughter.]
It's not that it can't happen. One of my friends from high school has gotten precisely that life for herself. By being entrepreneurially-minded. By making it happen herself.
Youth = the serene trusting optimism inherent in thinking that making that your resume headline on Monster will get you that life.
As though there are recruiters and hiring managers in a corporate conference room somewhere, exhausted, rumpled, surrounded by coffee cups and bottles of water, one of them saying:
"How on EARTH are we going to attract job seekers? How are we going to fill these positions? I mean, they're just FUN. And involve TRAVEL. Who on earth is going to do THAT? For a PAYCHECK? Can somebody go check Monster again?"
Sits down dejectedly, tossing down the flip chart marker.
Ahhhhh, youth. [Wipes away tears of laughter.]
It's not that it can't happen. One of my friends from high school has gotten precisely that life for herself. By being entrepreneurially-minded. By making it happen herself.
Youth = the serene trusting optimism inherent in thinking that making that your resume headline on Monster will get you that life.
As though there are recruiters and hiring managers in a corporate conference room somewhere, exhausted, rumpled, surrounded by coffee cups and bottles of water, one of them saying:
"How on EARTH are we going to attract job seekers? How are we going to fill these positions? I mean, they're just FUN. And involve TRAVEL. Who on earth is going to do THAT? For a PAYCHECK? Can somebody go check Monster again?"
Sits down dejectedly, tossing down the flip chart marker.
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