Please

Yesterday was probably our worst day. I wouldn't call it a fight, but definitely an argument (if you feel, like I do, that there is a difference)--something we've really never had to deal with before and something that made me feel like I was breaking in two.

I understand that it sounds insincere when I say I can't help it. That I can't control how needy I am these days, or my heightened expectations, or the reassurance I crave. I know I've always seemed stronger than this and I want to believe, as I'm often reminded, that I should be able to alter my flawed thinking in these situations and will myself to feel better.

But when you're stuck in a hole sometimes it's hard to see over the edge.

I'm depressed here. I have no friends and I have no job. I have no idea where anything is or what I like or where to go. I know it takes time to develop these things. I understand that and I expected it. But that doesn't make it any less frustrating. I hate that every trip out of the house has to be a pre-planned endeavour for me. I hate that when I know I should be taking a break from it all, collecting my thoughts and getting some outside insight, all I can do is phone a friend or type away at an email--there's no one else here for me to talk to.

So I need extra everything. Extra support and care. Extra comfort and confidence. I know it's a lot to ask. But I'm asking.

Let Down, Hanging Around

Five days ago I was ecstatic that I'd been asked to come in for an interview at one of the local urban lifestyle magazines here in Houston. In light of the overabundance of media in the city that seems only interested in rich people attending expensive parties for people with money, this rag certainly seems to reign supreme what with their interviews of bands I care about and features on areas and events I might try. "This has to be it," I figured, as I quietly tried not to get too excited and imagined how I might deal with the utter heartbreak were I to be passed over.

Yesterday I interviewed with the biggest douchebag I've ever encountered in upper management. I'm not just saying this because I didn't get the job (whoops, spoiler!), no this was my position immediately after the interrogation (cause really it was) as well.

The stage seemed set as I entered the business' suite in a surprisingly run-down building. For a magazine that prides itself on its glossy pages and cutting-edge fashion and design opinions, I was surprised to find the office housed in such a derelict building what with its stained carpet and scuffed walls. Upon arrival I saw one man sitting alone in a conference room, ibook poised (complete with oversized quicksilver sticker) and magazines strewn about him on the table. It was too perfect a scene and I suspect now that it was choreographed. This was not anyone's office and this guy was not getting any work done in there.

And he was the man in charge. I thought I'd be meeting with the female editor I'd emailed with, but it turns out I was meeting with her as well as another female editor and this "dude" in the conference room.

Oh what a dude he was. The laid back office atmosphere and nonexistent dress code certainly appealed to me, but I think this guy was a bit too old to sporting his designer t-shirt non-ironically. If not that, then definitely his buzz cut mohawk--better suited to someone ten, if not twenty, years his junior. But more glaring were the sunglasses. The blue, mirrored, fashion glasses he wore the.entire.time. ON HIS FACE.

The interview lasted all of twenty minutes and it seemed largely like an opportunity for the dude to talk about himself and his accomplishments and then briefly accuse me of something which I would either refute or explain. Rather than asking me questions about my capabilities, it seemed more like a test to see if I was up to their standards of 'cool.' And this guy's wearing mirrored glasses? Of course I pale in comparison. I obvisouly don't even know what cool is!

He was the type of guy I talk shit about unprovoked when I seem him across the room at a lounge-y bar that one of my friends has forced me to patronize. Sometimes I feel bad about the assumptions I make about unfamiliar people--people I've never met or spoken to but who I assume must be assholes based solely on appearances. But then every once in a while I actually do talk to one of these guys, and I'm confirmed in all my presumptions.

It wasn't just his nasty attitude or ridiculous attire. It was the two phone calls he took, both times while I was mid-sentence. It was the fact that he didn't mind in the slightest when one of the other editors present interrupted the discussion to announce an email she's just received. It was his complete and utter apparent lack of respect for me as a person and the way he projected an air of cockiness. An attitude I deem undeserved given that the nature of his magazine pretty much prevents it from having any new or groundbreaking content (unless you count what hats are hot this season as an example of such) and the fact that in a brief read-through of one issue I spotted three typos, and I'm not even the stellar proofreader I told him I was!

I was torn after the interview. I know I probably won't get another opportunity like this in the near future. I would love to work for a magazine covering topics I'm interested in and I know that this experience, unlike any of my other jobs, would really start me on the path toward a career I could enjoy and be proud of. On the other hand, I can't imagine working for someone like him. I've considered that maybe he was just doing his best to scare me--acting his toughest to see how I'd react--but I'm not sure that's the case. And even if it is, I don't like what that says about the man.

We both had one chance to make an impression and I suppose we both failed to make a positive one. At least I don't have to fret over a decision, though. They did the hard work for me.

Things I Learned Last Week From The Seemingly Put-Together But Obviously Befuddled Gentleman I Encountered in the Continental Building's Lobby

You that button by the elevators with the fireman's hat on it? The one that you suspect would summon emergency help or sound an alarm were you to need it? Well if you press that button hard. Twice. Nothing happens. Just FYI. In case you're ever in trouble there or anything.

Redeemed

So maybe I haven't been quite fair to Houston here thus far. Indeed, last Friday was immeasurably better than the preceding day and I was practically euphoric for most of the weekend. Of course this change of attitude was precipitated largely by the call I got around noon on Friday asking me to procure a keg for the evenings activities--you knew things had to start looking up.

Particularly since getting a keg means a trip to Spec's which, aside from my boyfriend, is probably the best things about Houston so far. An expansive beer, wine, and liquor selection combined with a well-stocked fine foods market makes Spec's just about heaven for me. But wait, there's more! They have free samples all.the.time. Of EVERYTHING. In fact prior to moving here one of the events Jeremy had planned for us during one of our visits was a Saturday trip to Spec's to get drunk for free.

I arrived Friday to get the keg and grab some dinner ingredients, but not before sampling assorted tortilla chips and salsa, some cheese, red wine, olives, vodka, and a watered-down margarita. Not bad for 3:30 on a Friday. And for free. And it helped me realize that when things get real bad, and I can't stand to spend another minute hunting for a job, there's always one place I can go. It's not the Bistro, and they may not know my name, but they serve me free booze all the same.

So I Had A Bad Day

Yesterday was my first interview here in Houston and the first time I felt like I got a bit of a reality check on what life might be like here. And I HATED it.

I didn't know much about the position I was applying for, but from the get-go I was fairly convinced it was not a job I wanted. That said, in the days preceding the interview I started to think that "hey, maybe this could be better than I expect," and even consider that I might like the job.

Of course that wasn't the case at all. The position, as described to me by the supervisor, largely consisted of repetitious data entry and included a varied schedule with work weeks of either Sun-Thurs or Tues-Sat and arrival and departure times starting as early as eight and ending as late as ten. Oh and they were offering $10-15K less than I think I should be making.

In fact now I know I should be making as much. I was terribly overqualified for the job and frankly felt more competent than the assistant manager I spoke with. I explained to them that I was applying for this entry level position because, despite having a solid work background, I have yet to work in writing and editing specifically and none of the other jobs I'm applying for in that field consider my past experiences relevant. All true, but I know I'm capable of more than this sort of low level starting position and also can't bear the thought of taking yet another job that pays me just about as much, if not less, as I've gotten for the past three years.

Add to that the fact that it took me 55 minutes to get home (all 11.1 miles) in bumper to bumper traffic and I was a miserable mess by the time Jeremy returned from work. It's not just the job, or that job; I know there will be other opportunities and hope something I can enjoy will come around. But gah! the traffic. And the idiot drivers. And the fact that you have to get on the highway to go anywhere.

I knew I was spoiled in Charlottesville what with my three minute commute to work--ten if it was rush hour. And I knew I wasn't gonna find another job like my last one. But the combination of not having any appealing employment prospects on the horizon, with the realization that I might join the masses in wasting two or so hours daily on a commute, on top of the fact that I have not one (non-Jeremy-related) friend here kinda made me crumble.

I'm not convinced I can't like it here. Frankly, living this fantasy life of unemployment is quite pleasant (surprise!). I like driving around the nearby downtown area on my way to the gym (no highways needed!) and the city strikes me as grit-ily attractive most of the time when I'm doing so.

But as it is, I only want to stay within the safe two mile area that surrounds our house. I want to go to bars I can walk to and get familiar with the clientele. I want to eat at restaurants right down the road and see my neighbors there. Hell I want to see a neighbor.

When I was living in Charlottesville I knew I needed to get out--to go to a bigger city with more people and places and things. But now I'm here and I'm lonely its vastness. But I guess that's just what happens when you put the small town girl in the city.

Tubing, Texas-Style

Houston is too fucking hot. I like the warm weather and all, but this is utterly ridiculous. Walking back to my car from the gym today, observing the various smokers outside, I was reminded that Houston used to carry the title of the fattest city in America. I can't even fathom experiencing this heat with an extra hundred pounds or two on my frame.

Of course this is not to say that I'd prefer it the other way, all bundled up in my winter wear trying endlessly to regain feeling in my fingertips. In fact, I really wouldn't mind the weather so much if I wasn't trying to be at my most presentable most of the time I go out.

Today, for example, I ventured to a nearby medical center in hopes of dropping off a resume. The whole trip, from home to medical center to gym, took no more than 30 minutes, 15 of which were spent in the air conditioned car, and by the time I stepped out of the cool and in to the gym's parking garage, I had sweat stains under both arms and all the way down my back, in addition to the unbecoming facial sheen and frizzy hair I've come to accept.

This past weekend our answer to the oppressive heat was a tubing trip outside of Austin. There are few things in this world I enjoy more than a good tubing trip and this one was no exception, despite falling short of the almost unattainable standard of awesome-ness that is tubing the James River in Virginia.

The natural river we had originally intended to float was closed due to high water so we headed instead to a nearby, man-made alternative that was ridiculously crowded due to, I'm sure, the awesome weather and fact that it was the only option that day. Unlike the pastoral scenery you experience on your way down the James though, this lazy river snaked through the less picturesque backyards of condominium complexes and public picnic spots.

It did, however, include a couple of shoots and a waterfall which added quite a bit of the right kind of excitement at the right point in the ride--two to three hours/four to five beers in. The James, on the other hand, has a couple of spots of rapids along the way, but they often succeed more in bruising your behind than providing any sort of momentary thrill.

The thrill was greater here for some than others, of course, as this river featured police officers throughout and, at one spot, a check point set up to arrest underage drinkers and those deemed drunk in public. Which of course we all were, since said check point was toward the latter half of the river. The police, formerly ignored upstream, were beset by boos and taunts as they arrested a slew of unsuspecting tubers. I can only begin to imagine how it feels to experience the stark contrast of tubing bliss and police detainment within minutes of one another.

But all in all the experience was stellar. Sure the river was swamped with people, but that just meant I got to talk to more strangers. Yeah I missed the natural aspects of tubing on the James, but I liked being able to stand without worrying too much about what was beneath me, or grab on to a dock to stop and drink an extra beer or two while still in the water.

Of course some things are always the same. In the James you're excited to see cows on the river banks, and even more entertained when you catch them cooling off in the water alongside you. Until you realize what else they must be doing in the water. And here it was no different, if, that is, you assume one cow's patties equals the piss of a thousand.

Hopeless That This Will Turn Out Better

It's hard to think about blog fodder when I spend all day thinking up possible employers to contact and about whether or not I am ever going to find a job I don't despise. I know it's only been a week proper and that, prior to my arrival here, I figured two months was a good goal to shoot for in terms of length of unemployment. But every day that passes is more and more defeating.

I know I'm a worthwhile person and a great employee, but when you get no reassurance on that from the outside world of potential employers, you start to wonder about it yourself. Deep down, I think I'm just terribly disappointed in myself. For being lazy, largely. I know I'm a good writer and that I would be an asset in that role to anyone that hired me, and yet I don't produce any written work. How the hell are these employers supposed to know that without proof? And the reason there isn't proof? Is because I didn't produce any. I always tell myself, "Well, if you had an actual assignment you would totally write something good." And this is true, I always have and I would. But then why haven't I taken a few hours here and a weekend or two there to give myself an 'actual assignment' and submit it for print? Because I am lazy.

Lazy and doubtful. I'm terrified of being rejected; of having this confidence in my abilities--confirmed largely by teachers and family members who have to say nice things--whittled away by hearing no after no after no. I worry that this would cause me to produce even less...but what is less than nothing?

Jeremy always says I have an excuse for everything and it's true. If I could find a position coming up with spur of the moment reasons not to things, I'd be golden. But of course I'd probably never get that job, so why try?

ISO A Great Job or Some Sympathy

I went to my first job fair today. It was less fun than any other fair I've been to.

I mean I wasn't really expecting to find any great leads there; I'd reviewed the companies attending and unless, unbeknownst to me, my future lies with the border patrol or that company that sells inflatable hot tubs, well then there wasn't too much to be had. In truth, I felt more like the recruiters than the job seekers--like I didn't fit in with the latter and should have instead been there in a professional role myself.

Which is not to say that the pool of job hunters was anything to scoff at. Sure there were the kids in either baggy street wear or too-tight club ensembles that really weren't getting much attention from anyone except the armed services, but I was amazed at the number of people who looked way more professional and experienced than I, be it their age or their attire or the air of confidence they projected.

I wanted to go up to all the twenty-somethings that looked like they could be friends and talk to them. I mean, I'm at home all day alone looking for job, are they too? I tend to do that, make up stories about the people I see in passing and what their lives and backgrounds must be like. In this case, I assumed most everyone I saw in my age group was in a totally similar boat and that they were just itching to get approached, make small talk about how lame this career fair was, and split for a beer and a half hour of sharing job-hunting horror stories.

But instead of talking to my cohorts I forced myself to speak with a few recruiters. Really the only ones I approached were the staffing agencies. I know AFLAC and Dreyers Ice Cream have positions I could enjoy--maybe writing their ad text or preparing website copy--I just suspect they weren't looking to fill those jobs today at the Reliant Center.

The staffing agencies didn't seem to have too much in my area either, but they certainly wanted to be helpful. One recruiter suggested I should try their agency since they have a lot of clerical positions for companies that promote from within. "After only a year, or maybe not even that long, you could transfer to something in your field!" I know I am a cry baby, but a year?! I couldn't cut that.

Good news is that the temp agencies seemed to find me totally employable, unlike any of the other companies I have applied to thus far. One recruiter wondered aloud whether I'd ever considered sales (me: nooooooo!) and then divulged that she was holding interviews tomorrow for potential candidates to join the staffing agency's own workforce and that she would call me if they hadn't found the right person by the day's end. The next recruiter not-so-subtly wrote "*hot*" at the top of my resume in her bubbly script.

So I know I can find a job, but I can't help but think my pickiness is a good thing. I know what it's like to dread getting up every morning and to count down the minutes until 5 pm on a clock that never seems to move. I also know what it's like to not mind working, sometimes, in fact, to even enjoy it. And to make friends at your job and to care about what you produce and the quality of your efforts simply because it matters personally to you.

So I'll meet with these agencies when they call and look in to what they have to offer, but I won't take a job that sounds like it'll have me ripping my hair out by the end of week two solely for the sake of being employed. I'll wait for something I don't have to convince myself I can care about, something I can wholeheartedly commit to.

Of course after the first job offer it will be a lot harder for me to continue with the nightly complaints I've grown accustomed to, directed at any friend or family member who will listen, about how this is so hard! and how I will never find a job! and how I hate job hunting! I guess at that point I'll have to grit my teeth, swallow my pride, and go ask a stranger from a job fair to grab a beer.

My, My, How Far We've Flown

It's quite odd to go from pining over someone daily to being inundated with them daily. Everything is going perfectly between Jeremy and I thus far. I knew it would be a little difficult, and we talked over the potential problems months prior to my relocation.

I don't have any non-Jeremy-provided friends here yet and I'm still unemployed. I'm spending all my days job hunting, save for an hour or two at the gym where you would be totally out of line to even think about speaking to me, which means in the evenings, it's Jeremy and I. And on the weekends, it's Jeremy and I. Sometimes we throw in the roommate or a soon-to-be mutual friend, but by and large it's solely us two peas in our new Houston pod.

We haven't driven each other insane yet. Maybe irked one another now and again, but after eleven months of being apart and missing each other, I figure our tolerance is pretty high. But living together certainly changes things.

Most obviously to me is the feeling that we can never go back. I've never succeeded in backtracking in a relationship; that whole "let's slow down, let's go back to the way things were" conversation has never worked. So where do you go from here? I've always asked myself that, but now things are a little more immediate.

And I can't help but feel like some aspect of passion is lost when you go from seeing each other only on stolen weekends and special occasions to waiting around for your partner to return from work daily and dealing with all the realities and responsibilities together that you overlooked for two or three days when you were together in months past.

Everything seems a bit less urgent now; we'll wake up next to one another tomorrow and our next dinner won't be the last we share for the season. It was exciting and novel and overwhelming to feel that way last year. But the first morning he was gone, or the next dinner I ate alone, was crushing. It was a cloud that settled over me for days on end, a fog I couldn't emerge from for what seemed like ages.

So I may miss the feeling of greeting Jeremy at the arrivals gate or being held by him for the first time in months, but I love having a hand to hold and a listening ear (almost) any time I want it. We can't go back, but I'm perfectly happy with where we're at.

Five Alive

Day five and things are starting to make a little more sense. I'm starting to get vague notions about what streets lead where and how to get home, albeit circuitously, without inadvertently getting on the highway.

I've been working out at the downtown YMCA for the past 3 days after getting a week's free pass on Wednesday. It's not nearly as nice as the Charlottesville Gold's in terms of cleanliness and age of the machines, but they do have free towels and a heck of a lot more space than any gym I've ever seen so despite the fact that you have to pay for parking I think I will sign up.

If Jesus really loved me I'd get the job I applied for today that's located less than two blocks from the gym and less than a mile and a half from the house. How much would Jeremy hate me then? I don't want to get too excited since it's a bit dream job-ish and thus no easy feat to obtain I suspect, but I don't think I'll be the least qualified person that applies and if I got an interview I would feel damn fine about myself. Of course this is what I've said about every job I've applied for so far and well, still haven't tailored that suit yet in preparation for any big days.

In addition to the dream job, I managed to find the office of another organization I would be more than excited to work for. This required highway driving alas, but I managed well I think until, whoops, said organization just so happens to be housed in some ginormous stadium which I only at long last located an open entrance for. En route to the stadium, coincidentally I realized I had left the house without my phone and my wallet so when I reached the gates for the pay lot, I turned around. I plan on heading to a job fair at the same spot later this week so I hope I can sneak around and drop off my resume then.

Tomorrow's my birthday, for which Jeremy apparently has exciting plans, and tonight we're headed out to dinner and then to see the CD release party of a band he likes. Not that I don't have high hopes for this evening but it'll be hard to top last night's trip to the West Alabama Ice House, a largely outdoor bar with tons of picnic bench seating, live music, cheap beer, and free(!) horseshoes. What are the odds? The minute I think I'm sad about leaving Charlottesville and my backyard horseshoes, I find this. Now all I need is a cool job I like to round out the picture.