It's One of THOSE Days

Today has turned out to be one of "those" days.

One of "those" days when nothing quite seems to go right, yet it isn't so horrible that I can justify sitting down in the middle of the living room in a huff and crying.

It's tempting, but not justifiable.

Yet.

I had an appointment this morning at 10:30 with one of my legions of doctors, and since I typically show up in gym clothes (intending to proceed there immediately after my appointment), I decided I would dress nicely today: J. Crew blue-&-white striped shirt, skinny jeans, sandals, jewelry.

Casual, but nice.

My hair disagreed with my planned outfit, however.

I didn't wash it last night, and I didn't plan to wash it this morning, because if I wash it more frequently than every other day, my scalp mutinies, and I have to appease it with lots of Benadryl.

I hoped I'd be able to spray it with a little dry shampoo and get it to obey my will.

Nope.

By the time I realized my hair was a lost cause, it was too late to wash it and blow dry it and style it if I wanted to be able to eat breakfast before my appointment. I tried on a baseball cap with my planned outfit, but it just didn't work.


So the cute J. Crew shirt was jettisoned in favor of a chambray maxi dress, hoping I could pull it off with the baseball cap.

Chambray maxi dress had stains all down the front, that I apparently missed during the last laundry blitz, despite the fact that I specifically checked the dress for stains.

Finally, I tossed on one of my husband's cast-off T-shirts (which I've claimed, and wear more frequently than formerly due to my, um, well, my little belly. And love handles. Yay).

So now my doctor probably thinks I just run around in super-casual clothes all the time, rather than wearing more civilized, ladylike garb.

Sigh.

I ran a few errands, post-appointment, and came home. I took off my baseball cap.

My hair looked perfect.

Sigh.

Time to do laundry, bake, monitor the crock-pot, pay off the rest of the taxes the IRS claims we owe them, but that Turbo Tax said we didn't, and work on my Mystery Blog (with perfect hair).

Several items in the laundry needed stain treatment, so I applied Shout spray like a mad woman, and made sure to add OxyClean to the load, as well.

The load of lights finished washing, and I pulled out the clothes to toss them in the dryer, being sure to check each and every garment that was spot-treated before tossing it into the dryer.

All of the garments looked great, except - of course! - my favorite shirt, a white J. Crew button-down identical to today's intended blue-&-white shirt, which is the inspiration for my house-wife "uniform".

Of course, the spot on my favorite shirt - iced tea, a little tiny amount - was darker. And bigger.

What. THE. HELL?!?!?!?!?!?!

Lots of angry fuming, cursing, and stomping around the laundry room ensued (it's a huge laundry room, relative to the size of our house). I tried spraying more Shout on it and rubbing it with a white cloth.

No dice.

I rinsed out the Shout, and poured liquid OxyClean on it, waited 15 minutes, and then rubbed it with a white cloth.

Nada.

I poured a leeeeeeeeeeeeettle bit of full-strength bleach onto it and let it sit a few minutes, then rubbed it gently with a white cloth.

Nil.

So it's now sitting in a bucket filled with water and bleach, while I pray that my fairly expensive shirt isn't ruined forever.

I started working on my Mystery Blog, and was experimenting with different layouts/visual themes for the site. Unlike this personal blog, I want my Mystery Blog to be immaculately laid out and designed, because I intend to try to make money off of it, damn it.

I had one scheme I kind of liked, but wanted to look at another, so I wrote down what I thought was all the pertinent info, design-wise, and began monkeying with the font, text size, background color, etc.

At which point I realized I hadn't exactly written down all the pertinent info. Fortunately, I had taken a screen shot of the first design, so I was able to MacGuyver the information I needed, using PhotoShop and Apple Preview, but it was a tense few minutes, there, before I found the HTML color code converter I needed.

Sigh.

I also used a bit of Barkeeper's Friend to clean some rust of the washing machine interior (it's now going through its Clean Tub cycle to remove any residue), and I happened to get a tiny bit of the liquid cleanser on my thumb. No big deal. I rinsed it within 30 seconds.

But my skin doesn't care. My skin is angry. It is livid. Specifically, it is a livid shade of red, and it itches, because it's a primadonna.

And I haven't eaten lunch, yet.

So I'm going to go throw myself onto my sofa, now, with a slice of coconut-flour pound cake and a handful of cashews - which I'm calling "lunch" - and I'm going to watch Parks and Rec on Hulu while I finish my niece's Christmas stocking.

Because I'm obviously not meant to succeed at being a housewife today.

Unless that housewifeliness involves sabotaging my diet, because the pound cake turned out perfectly.

Not Off to a Good Start

How was your first day (back) at work, Ms. Strainedconsciousness?

So sweet of you to ask! It was...

Crap...

See, the thing is, my alarm didn't go off this morning. And I didn't fall asleep until about 3 a.m. because, despite the sleepless night Saturday, I had insomnia (again).

So I was 2 hours and 15 minutes late to my first day of work.

Yeah, so that's where the "crap" comes in.

I called the office, left them a message, ran into the bathroom while screaming obscenities (I probably sounded like a rhinoceros running around), and was dressed - in make-up! - in 20 minutes flat.

I didn't take a lunch break, so I ended up working about 7 hours, and everything was okay. The employers weren't upset, so that's all good.

But it was still embarrassing.

And now I'm trying to navigate the murky waters of health insurance for people who have pre-existing conditions.

It's not fun.

In order to apply to the State of Texas' Health Insurance Pool, I have to have at least one insurance company refuse to insure me. So I just spent the past two hours applying for health insurance for one company that will undoubtedly thumb their nose at me while blowing a raspberry.

They try to trip you up by asking questions about varying health conditions twice, so I just threw everything in there that I could think of that they could ever possibly want to know about, so if they found something out after I was diagnosed, they can't cancel it because I withheld information (a common ploy of individual plan insurers).

So that bronchitis I had in 2001? Yup, it's on there.

The sinusitis from 2001? Yup, it's on there.

Whoever looks at my application will know more about my digestive system, my neurological functions, and my emotional state of health than they could ever need to know.

And then I had to pay $164 "in case" I'm accepted to their plan (it's refunded if/when I'm rejected with a slap to the face).

But it doesn't matter, because they'll refuse to cover me.

Because I'm "uninsurable."

Neat how the people who need insurance the most can't get it, isn't it?

And before anyone starts railing against the tax-payer funded health pool I'm going to apply to after my rejection: It's not tax-payer funded.

The people who pay the insurance premiums (which are high) foot the bill for the health plan, along with the insurance providers, who are required to pay a tax to the state government. And no, it isn't part of "Obamacare," it's been in place for several years.

Up All Night

Apparently, "Up All Night" is the name of a song by the singularly-named Drake, which doesn't quite have the same ring to it as Cher, or Madonna, or... um... Donovan.

You've probably never heard of Donovan, because he's old school. Sigh...

I've been up all night because my circadian rhythms are decidedly arrhythmic, and I couldn't go to sleep. Fortunately, I had a bit of creative writing to do, so that kept me company. Now, I just have to stay awake until about 9:00 pm tonight so I'll be able to get a good rest in before I start work tomorrow.

TOMORROW.

Tomorrow I will be employed again.

Kind of trips me out, to tell you the truth. I've spent almost 11 months out of the last 3 years in some unemployed state or another, and that's not counting the two months of unpaid leave I took for medical reasons.

And here I was all worried about feeling poor when I go to grad school. Pshaw. I've got this whole ohmyGodI'mpoormom&dadcanIhavesomemoney? thing down pat.

But Ms. StrainedConsciousness, you protest, about what were you writing?

Look at you with your correct sentence structure! No ending sentences with a preposition for you! I'm so proud!

But I digress.

I am writing about, um, fellas.

What sort of fellas? you respectfully inquire.

Um, ones I've dated. And some I haven't. But mostly ones I have.

(around the globe, my ex-boyfriends feel a chill wind on their neck and a sudden feeling of inexplicable panic, and they wonder why).

It all started with a creative writing assignment. I wrote about a middle-aged man (who I did not date) that I met at a restaurant, and we happened to be going to the same movie. We'd had a nice conversation apres dinner, so we sat together at the movie.

We saw Lost in Translation, which was kind of prophetic, because afterward, when he gave me his business card, I couldn't figure out if his interest was platonic, or if he had other intentions.

The creative writing assignment only had one dictate: Evoke a mood of your choosing.

I evoked extreme discomfort and uncertainty, and according to my classmates, I hit the nail on the head.

The story got me thinking about other fellas I could write about. (stupid end-of-sentence preposition) Just recently, I had a spate of creativity, and I've been hard at it for the past few weeks.

Each story involves at least one man who's left some sort of imprint on my life - ex-boyfriends, that guy I had to file a sexual harassment complaint against, etc... - and a few of the stories have multiple guys in them, either because one led to another, or because my experiences with them coincided or had an effect on how I viewed the other/s.

My mom thinks I should try to have them published, and I've thought about it. But then, do I really want my family and all my friends to know everything about my various relationships through the years?

That remains to be decided...

Good Things Come to Those Who Get Laid Off

I have some news that is absolutely faboosh!

Starting this coming Monday, I have a multi-week contract job! With the guys who laid me off back in 2008.

Sweet.

I'll be paid hourly, but that's A-OK, because, as a contractor, I can charge more per hour than I would make on salary, seeing as I have to take into account insurance premiums, parking, and all the other perks salaried employees get that this little contractor won't receive.

As always, this leaves me with a teeny tiny dilemma: clothes.

For the past 18 months, I've been able to wear jeans to work every day, because I couldn't always count on staying in the office all day. Sometimes I had to get myself out to the construction site, and a girl can't do that (successfully or safely) in a pencil skirt and heels.

So I bought a few things, today, to help me get in the mindset for the office: two pairs of shoes, both of which go with clothes I already have; a new fun cardigan (will also go with things I already have); and a new pair of trouser jeans. They will be taken to the tailor tomorrow so I can get them hemmed properly.

In other news: I applied a few months ago to graduate programs in architecture. I've received a couple of rejections, which didn't surprise me, because I didn't feel too great about my portfolio this time around.

I did receive an acceptance letter from the University of Houston, however, along with a scholarship! It's not a full ride, or near a full ride, but every little bit helps, right? Also, it's the program one of my favorite professors at UTA recommended most highly to me, so I feel better knowing that it's respected by other architecture academics.

Houston, here I come!

Unemployment and Being Airborn

My landlady is renovating the apartment complex in which I live. On Wednesday before last, everyone in my building received nice little notifications that contractors would begin Monday, March 6, on renovations.

The walkways that link all of the apartments on the 2nd and 3rd floors would be redone, the note said, and added that all those residents on the 2nd and 3rd floors would be required to vacate our apartments for 24 hours at the end of renovations. Residents would be given a $100 rent credit to make up for the cost of finding someplace else to stay.

Okay. No problemo.

And then, Monday, I awoke with a migraine. I've been having them more often, of late, because of the stress of unemployment, so the migraine was no surprise. The fact that there was no weather change accompanying the migraine was a surprise.

What caused the migraine?

Jackhammers. Loud ones. Starting at 9 a.m.

They ran all day, and so I spent the majority of the day in bed with a pillow clamped firmly over my ears.

The jackhammering finally stopped on Tuesday. Wednesday, I noticed that the walkways outside some of the apartments on the 2nd floor were completely missing. Haha! I thought. That would suck if someone needed to leave or come home!

Karma, baby. Karma.

Friday, I had physical therapy at 9:30, and left to return to my little home at 11:00 a.m.

If I could fly, I could have gotten up to my apartment without a problem. But I can't fly. And there was no walkway outside my apartment.

Hmmmmm...

A very nice construction worker saw my look of consternation and asked if I needed to get into my apartment. When I said that, yes, in fact, I did need to get into my apartment, he cheerfully brought a piece of 4'x8' plywood for me to walk across (the structure that supports the walkway was in place, just not the actual walkway itself).

Great!

Except... um... that piece of plywood stopped about 1'6" away from my door.

Have I ever mentioned that I'm afraid of heights? Because, I am. Terrified. Of heights.

The construction worker stood on one end to weigh it down, and another construction worker stood at the other, and I turned deathly pale and walked to the edge of the plywood to reach across to my door.

I have no doubt they thought I was an enormous wuss. It's okay. I am a wuss.

I'm not ashamed (lie).

As I was closing the door to my apartment and saying a little silent prayer that my apartment wouldn't catch on fire and leave me trapped with no method of egress, the construction worker asked me when I was going to need to get out.

"I'll be here all day," I replied.

Oof. No way was I going through that whole tightrope/plywood walking act again.

*********************************

In other news, someone sent me a message on the Texas Workforce Commission's website. They want me to come work for them in Houston.

For $12,000 less than I made before the recession.

But on the upside, I'd be a bureaucrat (working for their building code enforcement department), and it would be fun to be able to say, "What do I do for a living? I manufacture red tape. Hmmm? Yes, I'm a bureaucrat."

Surrounded by Chilluns

Friday evening and Saturday morning, I did a good deed, and I got paid for it.

I judged a National Forensic League Debate Tournament for high school students. I originally did it because I was promised $20 per round, which would have worked out to be about $160 for 10 hours of work if the rounds had stuck to schedule.

That's a big "IF."

I ended up only judging 5 rounds - I'd judged too many of the teams in the finals to be able to continue - and ended up earning only about $8 per hour - 12 hours for $100.

The reason for the enormous delays was that some of the judges (most of them about 19 years old) did not show up for their rounds in a timely manner, then proceeded to keep their rounds running later, took forever to turn in their judgments, etc...

So the tournament, on Friday evening, ended 2 hours late. I got home at midnight, and then could not fall asleep. I managed to scrounge 30 minutes of sleep before I got up, got dressed, and headed back to Plano East Senior High School to finish judging the two-day tournament.

Friday evening, I had the great fortune to meet another young woman - a year older than myself - who was judging the tournament. She was supposed to judge on Saturday, too, for which I was grateful, because I was the oldest judge under the age of 45.

She didn't show up on Saturday. I was left, all alone, in a sea of 19 year olds who mistook my youthful appearance as an indicator that I was their age.

I have never been hit on by so many 19 year olds in my life. Not even when I was 19.

Typical snippet of conversation:

Boy 1: "So, are y'all in school?"

Boy 2: "Yup. I'm at TCC."

Me: "No, I graduated a while back."

Boy 1: "Oh? When did you graduate?"

Me: "2006."

Boy 2: (doing math in his head) "When was the last time you debated, then?"

Me: "About 14 years ago."

Boy 1: (doing math in his head... this means I'm somewhere between 28 and 32 years old) "Huh. Wow. What are you doing after this?"

Me: (LYING) "Going to a bar. I need a drink after all this." (I went home and went to sleep, with migraine medicine instead of booze.)

End of discussion, as neither of the conversants were old enough to legally buy alcohol in the State of Texas.

I hadn't judged a debate tournament in several years, and it was kind of fun to do so again. It was, however, also slightly overwhelming, as I listened to 5 debates, all on the same subject, and all performed at a rapid-fire pace. By the end of each debate, I found that my heart was pounding, as if I was the one debating, and not the students.

The subject of the debate was, "North Korea poses a more serious threat to U.S. National Security than Iran." It was a doozy.

Most of the arguments for or against were the same: North Korea is desperate and has nothing to lose in attacking the U.S. and its allies; Iran is supplying weapons to terrorist organizations; Iran will attack Israel, and we'll have to step in to defend Israel, etc...

There was one argument for Iran being the more serious threat that stood out above all others, however.

Bear in mind, the debates are supposed to be founded on inarguable fact: Iran is supplying weapons to terrorists; North Korea has conducted two underground tests of nuclear weapons, etc. That's why the argument I'm about to share caught me off guard (as it did the other team).

This team of boys argued that, because Iran was once part of ancient Persia, and the Bible says that the apocalypse will begin in Persia, Iran is the more serious threat when compared to North Korea.

Not at all what I expected.

They lost the debate, of course, because they could not prove the four things required to justify their argument, nor did they even try. They were somewhat miffed when I gave my judgment and explained to them why they lost:

Within the course of the debate, they must:

1) Prove that God exists.

2) Prove that the correct deist text to follow, in light of the fact that God exists, is the Bible, as opposed to the Talmud, or the Koran, or the Baghavad Ghita, etc.

3) Prove that the entirety of the Bible is literal, and not metaphorical.

4) Prove that Iran is the most serious threat out of the other nations that were once part of Persia (Syria, Lebanon, etc.).

I pointed out to them that they had no way of knowing what kind of judge they would have, and if they were faced with a Muslim judge, or a Buddhist judge, or an atheist judge, or a devoutly Christian judge who holds parts of the Bible as metaphors, then their presented arguments were for nil because they had failed to prove all these things.

I pointed out to them that they could spend the rest of their lives debating the above-listed 4 points, and that they had only 36 minutes in which to prove their argument, so their approach was not particularly practical.

Needless to say, the opposing team spent the critique period trying desperately to stifle giggles. I'm lucky I had years of acting experience, myself, as it was difficult in the extreme to keep a straight face.

But I had to give them credit for gutsiness.

Two Big Accomplishments

First big accomplishment (okay, not that big):

I finished reading Shantaram.

READ IT...

SERIOUSLY.

It took me a while to get through, but it was worth it. And it only took me a few weeks because I got bogged down with the 15 design magazines I had not read in the past two months, and the needlepoint, and my own creative writing magicalness.

Magicalness: officially a word since... today.

Second big accomplishment:

I finished my income tax amendment forms and am now ready to ship them off to Austin, where some poor schmuck can... crud, I didn't sign them. Okay, time to rip open the envelope, address a new envelope, and then whisk them off to Austin.

Argh.

Okay, now they're signed and dated, and that Herculean task is finished. I swear, every year it gets harder and harder to file my taxes.

Granted, it's my own fault that they're hard to file, but I'm investing for my future, here, IRS! Give me a break! That whole "simplification of the tax code thing" the people on Capitol Hill keep talking about? I am right there with you! Please, simplify!

It makes the idea of hiring an accountant really attractive, right now. Except I'm unemployed, so I can't afford to hire an accountant.

Them's the breaks.

(SEE? It's so terrible that my grammar is breaking down. Seriously, they must be stopped!)

What the Heck

I just checked my bank statement to see if my unemployment benefits were paid out. Yes, they were, but not as much as I thought they would be.

Instead of being paid for two weeks of unemployment, I was paid for one week. The Workforce Commission has changed things up since the last time I played this game, and now you don't get that first week of benefits until you have been unemployed for four weeks.

So let's get this straight: I have been unemployed for two weeks, and was not given severance pay, and I didn't actually get paid for any of the weeks in January, but they're only giving me $415. To pay for all the bills I've accrued during the past two weeks, and whatever expenses come up during the next two weeks, I have $415.

This makes no sense to me. But then again, I'm not a bureaucrat, so...

So although I thought I'd have plenty of money to get me through the next two weeks (when I can reapply for my next payment), now I'm not so sure.

Gargh.

And I also have to figure out why my rent payment was credited back to my account. I paid it well before the first of the month, but now... It's all right back where it was, with a note that says "Payment Reversal" that must have been done by the property management company. Alas, no one is in the office, today, so I have no idea why there's an extra $775 in my account.

For once, I kind of agree with the "mo' money, mo' problems" thing: hopefully my "mo' money" won't get me evicted (haha).

I Haven't Had This Much Angst...

...since I was a teenager. I am trying to put it aside in order to concentrate on how cute I'll look tomorrow and how happy I will be to wear "work clothes" again.*

In lieu of moaning and groaning about how nervous I am and how certain I am that I'll be a complete and total failure for the rest of my life, I will cover Friday's Happy Hour, since I've been somewhat remiss in covering Happy Hour regularly.

The first part of Happy Hour took place at The Opening Bell, a coffee shop cum bar cum sandwich shop cum music lounge in the ground floor of the Mosaic Building in downtown Dallas. It is probably a much better coffee shop/sandwich place than it is a bar, since their beer selection is lacking. They served bottled Guinness, and not the good Extra Stout kind that is meant to be drunk from the bottle, but the Draught variety. And the widget in my bottle was broken, so it wasn't properly aerated. I switched to Shiner Bock, after the first bottle of Guinness proved to be a disaster. I have a hunch not many people go to the place to drink.

If you want to pretend to be classy, you can buy wine by the glass or by the bottle.

After being there for a beer or two, I decided that skipping dinner was not such a grand idea, after all, so I went to buy a brownie or a scone, which is all that I could see. It was at this point that the oh so helpful bearded cashier informed me that they serve sandwiches, too! The sandwich was fresh, made with yummy Romaine lettuce and juicy, flavorful tomatoes (I ordered the turkey and cheddar, in case you're wondering). The croissant was okay, but definitely not the worst I've had.

The reason we went to The Opening Bell - which bills itself as Coffee Music Stocks - was because of the music aspect. A friend of a friend was singing that night. So far as intimate venues go, it's a pretty good one. Sadly, the two female singers sounded almost exactly the same, and both had the same Indie Folk music sound. Even their first names were similar! As with many local/unknown musicians, most of the songs sounded the same.

About halfway through the second performer's set - okay, a sixth of the way through - we all sort of gave up on the "attentive audience" performance we were giving and quickly devolved into a bunch of gaggle of giggling yahoos.

* For the record, I will be wearing a short-sleeved white button-up blouse with an olive drab high-waisted pencil skirt, brown flats, and a wide brown belt. You know, just in case you care.

The image used is in the Public Domain, but was originally published as the cover of Classic Comics in December of 1943. The illustration is by Lilian Chesney. Thanks to Wikimedia Commons contributor Chordboard for scanning it!

As of Monday, June 8, 2009

I will no longer be "unemployed."  I will not even be an independent contractor.  I will, in fact, be working full-time for a venerable architecture firm in the Dallas area.

I'm excited, as you can imagine, but still scared to death.  After all, I haven't had a job in 6 months, now, and I'll have to get used to getting up at 7 so I can be in the office by 9, sitting in a desk, reporting to someone else.

Bonus: I will be full-time with benefits.  No more COBRA health care rigmarole to deal with, thankfully.  I won't have to worry about filing my income taxes quarterly, as I would if I was a contractor (the discussion at my first interview revolved around this concept.  I did some mental calculations, though, and they'd have to pay me more, actually, if I was independent than they would if I came on as a salaried employee).

Downside: my pay will be significantly less than it was at my last place of employment.  As in 20% less than at my previous job.  It's better than the annual max. $10,xxx the government gives to those of us on unemployment, but...  I had hoped that I would be able to find an apartment in my old neighborhood or near there, but at my new low salary, there's no way I can afford to live there.

UNLESS...

I spoke to my dad Thursday afternoon, and he discussed with one of his business contacts my business idea (which was originally my dad's idea, but he gave it to me).  His BC told him that, if I'd set up the company and get it going, he could get me more business than I could shake a stick at.  So that's looking hopeful.  My one hope now for getting into a "place of my own" is the business.

If all goes well, it may allow me to move into a nicer place than I had before I lost my job and still save up money for that ever-elusive goal: graduate school.

(Creative Commons Licensed Image Courtesy of Wikimedia Commons user Aceplace.  The image can be found at http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:HPIM1041_edited-1.jpg)

Fraught Nerves And New Shoes

I bought a pair of shoes to wear Thursday morning with my follow-up salary-negotiation outfit.  It was not a superfluous purchase, because the shoes they replaced are so worn that the shoe repair guy shook his head and made clucking noises and shrugged his shoulders when I asked him if he could fix them.

"No, no.  No fixing of them," he said in his heavy Russian accent.    So now I have a new pair of shoes with heels even higher than their predecessors, which is almost always a good thing.

Wednesday evening, I was supposed to discuss a business strategy with my sister.  I have the idea for a potentially profitable side-business, and I need some help setting it up.  The name is already registered, and all that jazz, but I also have:

1.  No defined business plan

2.  No list of potential clients

3.  No list of trade organizations representing those clients

4.  No clear idea of where to begin.

I do, however, have a ton of receipts from purchases I've made relative to the start up, so I'd better get this thing in gear so I can put them to use on my taxes.

My brilliant older sister - who, you will remember, is also an incredibly gourmet cook - was supposed to talk to me tonight about business strategy.  However, her gourmet life was seriously inconvenienced when her not-so-gourmet refrigerator/freezer died, leaving her with enormous amounts of ruined free range meats and organic vegetables.

Oy.

I spoke to her on the phone, and tried to cheer her up by pointing out that she can now get one of those spiffy refrigerators with French doors that she's been coveting.

This tactic did not work.

I then launched into what I had hoped would be a stirring rendition of Monty Python's "Always Look on the Bright Side of Life" (dee do, di do do do di do).  When my (not-so-stirring) performance failed at brightening her outlook, I gave up.

If Monty Python can't do it, nobody can.

(Creative Commons Licensed Image courtesy of Wikimedia Commons)

Portfolio

I am about to embark - once again - on designing a portfolio for application to grad school.  Again.  After reviewing it with one of my former professors, we came to the conclusion that I need to reduce the amount of text in the portfolio, where possible, and to attempt to let the images speak for themselves.  Today, I begin that task.  I plan to high-tail it to a Starbucks in a very short while in order to drink some tea and mark up one of my old portfolios.  We'll see how this goes.

I intend to make the book of the portfolio myself.  Therefore, I have been looking into various bookbinding workshops offered here in the DFW area, and I also ordered a couple of books from Amazon.com.  After I read them, there will probably be some reviewing of the books here-abouts these parts.  Unfortunately, all of the workshops are either full, or they take place in the middle of the day (precluding me from taking them if I ever get a job) or both.

I've decided to change the layout of my portfolio completely - different sized pages, etc.  Fortunately, the text is all completed, and I have the images I used for my last go round saved and ready to be exhumed for use this time around.

I typically go through 2 or 3 different layouts before I'm satisfied with what I produce, but I know this time around which color I want to use to thematically link the projects, I know which type-face I want to use, I know the color of font I want to use.  Alas, the big expensive book I have that is the cornerstone of my portfolio design experience is tucked away in the back of a 10'x10' storage unit, behind towering metal bookshelves and wooden tables and a loveseat.  

Hopefully, since I've done this before, I won't require its presence again any time soon.  That's a daring rescue I'd rather not make.

Discouraged

I still haven't heard from the firm with whom I applied last week.  I mailed thank you notes yesterday - late, I know - so hopefully they'll arrive tomorrow to provide the "Oh, yeah, her" that I need for them to call me and HIRE ME.

I also sent an updated Curriculum Vitae to a headhunter with whom I registered back in November.  So far, I've heard absolutely nothing from them.  Back in November, they told me they could get me a job if I was willing to move to San Antonio.  I should have taken them up on the offer.

I have a feeling that part of what is keeping me from receiving positive feedback - in the form of interviews - is my lack of a Master of Architecture degree.  I understand that most people would see that I only have my B.S. Architecture and say, "Well, she hasn't finished her schooling, yet.  We don't want to hire her," but I was managing master planning projects at my former job, and managing people who had M. Arch. degrees, to boot!  It's difficult to convey that in the standard Internet submission required by most firms, these days.

So now, I'm starting the really nitty-gritty work of going through Internet databases of architecture firms, looking at their websites, and deciding if I'm going to submit my resume to them as a cold-call deal.

Scary.

Of course, if I the firm decides not to hire me, I still have that trick card up my sleeve, but the difficulty is that I might not be able to play that card for months.  I can always go to work for my dad's company as an employee, and I'm working on starting my own business, but those are kind of iffy, if you know what I mean.

* I am in no way supporting the book used for a graphic; I have not read it.  It's just a CC Licensed image I found online that doesn't require attribution.

"Nim Chimpsky" by Elizabeth Hess

The image on the cover of the book is adorable: a juvenile chimpanzee in a red T-shirt, gingerly reaching out to grasp the hand of an adult human.  Don't let the cover fool you.  There is very little cuteness to be found within the pages of Nim Chimpsky: The Chimp Who Would Be Human.

Nim Chimpsky (quasi-namesake of Noam Chompsky) was quite possibly the most famous research chimpanzee ever.  I remember watching clips of him on Sesame Street as a child as he put on his shoes and his jacket.  It was adorable, and as a child, I didn't stop to think about what had brought him to the attention of the Children's Television Workshop.

Nim was the subject of a psychological study during the 1970s aimed at discovering whether or not humans are the only animals to consciously use language.  At the time, no one - not even the researchers involved - had actually decided what constituted conscious use of language vs. mimicking the actions of humans.

It's kind of difficult, as the book shows, to decide whether a study is successful if no one has a concrete definition of the study's goal.

Although Nim Chimpsky includes some cuddly feel-good stories, it is also a chamber of horrors.  Physical mistreatment of chimps is depicted - mostly through their handlers ineptitude - in addition to the psychological abuse endured by chimps as they were reared by their human "families" and then abandoned after research was completed.

Although Nim Chimpsky has an ending that is more uplifting I expected, particularly given its unblinkered nature, it was still a sad look at misguided experiments in the name of science.  After reading it, I'm now much more opposed to the use of animals in scientific research than I could previously have imagined.  The fleeting glimpses into the realm of corporate laboratories are horrifying enough to put off the most callous of humans.

Ego Boost

I interviewed Tuesday with the boutique architecture firm.  I feel really good about the firm, and also about the interview.  If asked, I would probably say I have a 70% chance of getting the job, and that's just because I'm trying to reign in my rampaging optimism.

The day started off well: I didn't encounter jammed traffic.  In fact, the cars on the Dallas North Tollway zipped along at alarming rates of speed.  Ergo, I arrived at my destination 45 minutes early.  I drove around the design district for 20 minutes to kill time (and the Earth - sorry Gaia* ), then parked in the free parking lot outside the office building.  After reading the short news synopses in The Economist, I realized I - um - needed to use the facilities.

There were no public facilities.

Buzzkill.  Impending sense of doom.  I asked a young woman waiting for the elevator if she knew whether there was a public restroom in the lobby.

"No," she replied. "I think there are access codes for all the bathrooms."

"Oh." Duh-duh-dunn!  "I have an interview in 15 minutes-"

Young Woman's face brightened.  "I'll open the door to the ladies' room on my floor; you can use it, then go on to your interview!"  

NICEST GIRL EVER.  We chit-chatted about the field I'm in, the field she's in, and then she dropped me off outside the ladies' room.  Hooray for friendly people!

I was ushered into the small conference room and a few seconds later, in came my prospective boss, along with the fellow who suggested I apply at his firm.

"Well," said Prospective Boss, "You'd definitely be the most attractive person in the office if we hired you."  I thought the Suggester was going to melt, he was so embarrassed.  I laughed, thanked Prospective Boss - who appears to be 101 years old - and the interview commenced.

It was short.  30 minutes, tops.  I left a copy of my portfolio for them to peruse, and a copy of my resume ("ooooh, nice paper" - P.B.).

Again, trying not to get too excited too early.  In fact, in preparation for disaster, I'm still working on the business idea my Dad developed and passed off to me.  If I get the job, I'll open this business, anyways.  It will be a great way to save up money.  You know, just in case there's another recession...

* Gaia was the Greek goddess of the earth and mother of the Titans, but you probably knew that...

(Creative Commons Licensed Image courtesy of Flickr User Ventolin.  Image may be found at http://www.flickr.com/photos/ventolin/3474898919/).

Here's to Interviews and Insomnia

I interview today.  I'm scared.

I haven't slept well, the past couple of days, and I've been snippy as hell, I know, especially with my mom.  In addition to the resurgence of my chronic insomnia, I'm chafing at living at home.  I shut myself in my room more and more often, lately.  If the door is closed, it typically means "Do not bother me, please."  But there are some things that are so important that my solitude must be intruded upon.  Like my mom's friend sending her a pair of sunglasses in the mail. That is, apparently, an occurrence of earth-shattering importance.

So now I'm whining, I know.  I'm incredibly lucky to be able to live with family while I'm unemployed.  But at the same time, it's driving me crazy.  That's one of the reasons I want this job so badly: if I get a full-time gig, and get my side-business up and running, it will mean that I can move out, back down near Downtown Dallas and my friends.  I have not as yet succumbed to the siren song that is apartment websites, but that's only through sheer willpower.

Everything about the interview is freaking me out, such as "Did I buy the right color of pantyhose?"  This doesn't sound important to most people, I'm sure, but architecture is all about design.  Because I am slightly OCD about design, I coordinate EVERYTHING: my desk accessories must all be complimentary in texture and color; the objects in my purse must all coordinate in some way (they are all animal print with black patent leather trim); I carry 8 colors of lipstick in my purse so I'm sure to have one that will coordinate with my outfit.

This concern for my appearance causes me to obsess over little things, like the fit of a pair of pants that most people would consider acceptable, but that wrinkles in the wrong place in my estimation.  Into this category of Seemingly Unimportant Details goes the color of pantyhose I wear.

I have incredibly pale skin.  My Hispanic friends nicknamed me "Casper."  If I buy the color of hosiery that matches my skin, I look like I'm wearing white hosiery.  Seriously.

I always have to buy a darker color so the hosiery looks natural.  But then, I wonder, "Did I buy a pair that's too dark, or is this the right color?  Does one shade lighter look too light?"  I never can tell.

I have a million pairs of pantyhose in my closet, but I continually buy new ones, because I can't remember which color to buy, or I put them on and they're too shiny, or they have a tiny slub in them that is most likely noticeable only to myself, but then you never can tell.  I'm the sort of person to whom others say, "But nobody will notice."  Except I'm the person that always notices shortcomings of appearance, even on other people.

When I wear hosiery in the Winter (as dictated by the Southern Code of Conduct for Ladies), I usually wear knit-patterned tights or nude fishnets.  Yes, fishnets.  If they're not too thickly woven, or they're nude-colored, fishnets are quite tasteful, and they don't have to exactly match your skin.  But your skirt can't be too short.  If it is, then you just look like a cheap hussy.

(Creative Commons Licensed Image courtesy of Flickr User Bobster855.  Image may be found at http://www.flickr.com/photos/32912172@N00/3183277901/).

Happy Hour etc...

Two of my friends and I opted out of the usual Happy Hour gathering, Friday, in favor of someplace with less expensive fare.  Where did we go?  Adair's, a rockin' little country dive-bar in Deep Ellum.

Adair's is all about atmosphere.  The walls are covered in permanent marker writings - as are portions of the ceiling (!) - executed by patrons over the years.  If you ask nicely, the bartender will hand you a marker for your own personal use.  Seeing as I am in the design profession, however, I always have writing utensils in my purse, and so I was not forced to beg for a felt-tip, like other patrons.

The burgers at Adair's are some of the best I've eaten.  Big, greasy, wonderful concoctions, cooked just how you want them.  If you order the Texas Fries, beware: they're a wee bit spicy, but still delicious.  I say "wee bit" because I'm a wuss when it comes to spiciness, so for the vast majority of Texans, they're probably downright bland, but I was gulping beer after every fry.  And they're big fries, too, not like sissy McDonald's fries.  They put other French Fries to shame.

As for beer listings, there's not a whole lot of choice, but we didn't go for the vast encyclopedic beer knowledge, we went for the cheap beer.  And boy, is it cheap.  If you order Lone Star, Lone Star Light, Pearl Light, or Pabst Blue Ribbon, your beer is less than $3.00.  If you're so snooty as to order something imported, the price goes up.  Regardless, though, bring your coozie, because the most of the beer is served in cans.  What I spent Friday night on food and drink is about what I typically spend just on beer at the normal Happy Hour haunts (of course, my PBR was about $2.50, and most places sell Guinness for $5-6 each, so...).

There's almost always a band playing at Adair's.  Friday night's wasn't particularly memorable, despite the concert posters proclaiming that it would be otherwise.  If you sit towards the front, where the stage is, you can count on watching a bunch of people country-western dance.  If you sit in the back, where I was, you can count on 50+ year-old men making passes at you and asking to take pictures of your feet.  Their requests were denied, needless to say.

Friday was awesome.  Saturday morning around 6 a.m. not so much.  See, I woke up at 6 with a rumbling stomach, fled to the guest bath at my friend's house, and proceeded to be violently ill.

At first, I figured it was food poisoning.  We'd finished "breakfast" around 3:15 a.m. (bacon, eggs, cinnamon toast, green tea, heaven!) and I'd gone to bed feeling a bit queasy, but chalking that up to too much grease in my diet, that day.  At 6 a.m., I got sick.  I still felt bad Saturday evening, and so subsisted off strawberry Jell-o, 7Up, and saltine crackers, which was difficult enough to keep down.  After discussing with my mother, we initially came up with the idea that the tea was what had made me ill.  But when my system was still a wreck 12 hours later, we decided I must be sick.  The fever and chills tended to lend evidence to this assumption.

I'm better, now, and successfully polished off a turkey meal from Boston Market a while ago with no foul repercussions thus far.  Hopefully, I'll be back to my chipper old self by 9 a.m. or so; I want to drive down to look for the potential employer's offices and to scope out the parking situation before the interview Tuesday.

Getting lost + being late = no job for Ms. StrainedConsciousness.

(Creative Commons Licensed Image courtesy of Flickr User Derrick Davis.  Image may be found at http://www.flickr.com/photos/ddphotography/3014143903/)

Get Ready, Get Set - IMPRESS

I feel like all I've done for the past two months is spend (and borrow) money.  It's nerve wracking since, as my Dad occasionally observes, I'm "tight with a buck" most of the time (clothes and computers not withstanding).

I bought a suit, tried it on with the sensible black shoes I own and was immediately depressed at the sight of myself, as I believe I mentioned yesterday.  The effect of me as frumpy librarian was probably partly due to the fact that I was wearing my funny architect glasses, but then I tried them on again today with my shoes, and I felt even frumpier, because the funny architect glasses give my appearance a bit of an outre edge.

I decided that the best thing to do in the situation would be to buy some sensible close-toed sky-high heels, and I accomplished that mission today.  Combined with a pair of nylons and a sensible yet stylish (and cheap) purse, I'm now ready for my interview, which will take place Tuesday morning.

Why did I feel the need to spend so much for this interview?  Because if I don't feel confident in what I'm wearing, my whole body language reflects that, as does my manner of speaking.  If I feel frumpy, I'll act all shy and want to crawl into a hole, and that's not going to impress an interviewer.  I need to project more of an attitude that lets people know, as my dad says, "I'm here to kick tail and take names."  My dad has a vivid way of expressing himself.

When I spoke to the fellow who owns the architecture firm, we'll call him Mr. Principal, he asked me if I knew a particular type of software.  Short answer: no.  This is the answer he received.  Long answer: no, but I will be downloading a trial version and working my tail off over the weekend to see if I can get the hang of it by Tuesday.  It's a Building Information Modeling software, which is something I need to learn anyways.

So I'm currently downloading ArchiCAD so I can shut myself in my room with my computer, listening to the new as-yet-unreleased Wilco album (streaming on the internet).  I will learn this software.  I will get this job.  I will be employed again, if only on a contract basis.  I want this job so much I can taste it.

It tastes kind of like copy-toner and Chart-Pak markers.  Sweet.

Good Excuse to Buy Some New Clothes

LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, I HAVE A JOB INTERVIEW!

The architect whose office I called yesterday called me back today and apologized for not getting back to me sooner.  It was all I could do to keep my voice from getting all shaky and ridiculous-sounding.  Apparently, he'd spoken to one of his employees (who suggested I apply to work for them) and so he knew a bit about me.  He asked me to refresh his memory about the type of architecture I'd been doing, where I went to school, etc...  

Then, he said the magic words: "We'd like to interview you."

To which I replied, in typical sauve Ms. Strainedconsciousness style, "Really?"  Oh, yeah, I'm smooth.

After I made sure the phone was completely hung up, I proceeded t scream at the top of my lungs.  My dog, who was sunning his poor arthritic bones in the backyard, heard my shrieks, and came loping inside to see if I was okay.  When he discovered that I was not being attacked or bleeding, he shifted his attention from me - by now crying with joy and trying to call my mom - to the closet where we keep his Milkbones.  He'd done his duty as protector, after all, and so I rewarded the poor old feller.

I got through to my mom, who then had to listen to me shriek and cry some more, and by the end of the conversation, we'd gotten down to the real meat of the issue, "What are you going to wear to the interview?"

As you may have noticed, I'm a teensy bit obsessive about my appearance, particularly my wardrobe.  The only real suit I possessed at the time of the mom convo was a heavy grey wool suit that is only suitable for winter wear.  I wore it when I interviewed for my last job, got the job, quit snacking all day and drinking as much beer as I had when in college, dropped 5 lbs, and now the jacket's too big for me.  So even if it was the correct season, my tailor couldn't have made the alterations in time for the interview (serious reconstruction on the jacket: it's got enough seams and darts in it for a platoon of suits).

Granted, I wasn't too sad about not having a suit to wear, because that just meant I got to buy another suit.  My mom came home from work, and we jetted off to Northpark Mall to explore the BCBG store (50% off!), Banana Republic, which used to be my own personal Cheers, and wherever else the fancy struck.  I struck out at BCBG, but found a suit at BR from their Monogram line.  Oooh.  Fancy.

And then, the fatal issue: no blouse.  The blouses at BR didn't work especially well with the suit, so we ping-ponged back and forth between Club Monaco, J. Crew, BCBG (again), Dillard's, White House/Black Market, Ann Taylor, Ted Baker, you get the idea.  You probably got the idea after the third store, but I'm slightly OCD about listing things and counting things, and really OCD about my appearance, so I'm bound to get carried away when confronted with the prospect of listing things relating to my appearance.

My mom and I were about to abandon ship, leaving me to pick up the scent Thursday, when she asked if we could go into J. Jill.  There was a shirt she wanted online, but they were out of her size.  We zipped into the store and she tried on a shirt, but it was too big.  Whatever, the important thing is that I found the perfect shirt whilst browsing the racks, waiting for her to emerge.  I tried it on with the suit, and it was amazing.  Not what I'd intended to buy, not by a longshot, but maybe even better than what I'd hoped to find.

Now I just need to find some killer stilettos, screw the interview-tip website's advice to keep it below a 2" heel.  Honey, I don't do less than 3-1/2".

(Creative Commons licensed picture courtesy of Markusram's Flickr Stream, found at http://www.flickr.com/photos/markusram/3273368539/)

Goes Another Round

If you're a Foo Fighters fan, then hum the melody along with the song title for me.  If not, that's your loss.

Happy Hour Friday was at The Gingerman.  I like the bar, even if some of the Happy Hour Gang holds a grudge against it for its location in Uptown - horrors!  Whatever shall we do, surrounded by professionals who - gasp! - like people!  Quick, get me to a misanthropic dive bar!  Stat!  And put James Brown's "Sex Machine" on the juke box, or we'll all go into shock!

Anyways, the Gingerman serves a mean pint of Guinness, or Ace Pear, or Wyder's Peach, or whatever your poison is, and an even meaner turkey sandwich with a side of heaven.  Supposedly the roast beef sandwich is pretty good, too, but I'm a creature of habit, so I stick with the turkey.

If you can "deal" with the attractive young denizens at The Gingerman and you like a bar that serves GOOD beer with a cheerful atmosphere, knock yourself out.

The real news, however, is that I received a job reference.  One of the fellows from HH was laid off from his job around the same time that I was downsized, albeit at a different firm.  He asked me if I had found a job, yet, and I said that I hadn't, but that I was considering starting my own business.  He then suggested I apply at his place of employment.  He works for an AWESOME small architecture firm in Downtown Dallas, which means - if I got the job - I would have an excuse to move back down to Dallas!

So now, I have to work up the nerve to cold-call the firm's principal (that's architecture speak for "owner" or "partner").  Hopefully, he'll say, "Well of course, if so-and-so suggested you come in for an interview, I'd love to meet you," or something equally encouraging, and then it could all be a matter of mere formalities before I'm employed, once again.

The thing is, I'm scared to death.  Just like I was last time I applied for a job.

I've never cold-called someone about a job, before.  Part of me says, "Oh, just email him," but that seems chicken-livered.  The other jobs for which I've applied were all as a result of my emailing a resume through some automated system, or having a former employer call up a guy and say "Hey, you're hiring this girl because she's the best damn designer you'll ever find" (no, I'm not exaggerating on that one, but aforementioned former boss had ulterior motives in trying to flatter me, so...).

How do I do it?  I don't know.  My mom was supposed to give me her friend's phone number, because her friend pretty much helps people do this for a living.  Unfortunately, we didn't get home from our Mother's Day dinner until around 9:30, and I wasn't about to call the woman at 10:00 at night to start asking her questions about how to interview, and all of that.

Part of me says, "Ok, call her friend Monday after she gets home from work, and then call the firm on Tuesday."  And that same part thinks that's a great idea.  Another part thinks that plan is just a chicken-livered way of just putting things off.  And another part of me is just running in circles screaming "Oh crap!  Oh crap!  Oh crappity-crap-crap-crap!" with a busted-up shopping bag from Banana Republic over its head.  I'm listening to this last part a wee bit too much, but that's also the part that told me to go get the last of the coconut gelato out of my parents' fridge, so I kind of like that part at the same time.

So by Wednesday morning, you'll know what plan of attack I adopted, and hopefully I'll have good results from that plan and the inevitable merciless slaughter.  Hopefully, the battle's outcome will be for the better.