Saturday, July 28, 2007
Tuesday, July 24, 2007
One A Days
As I mentioned yesterday, our new bedroom carpet was finally installed and Jeremy and I were tasked with moving all of our belongings back in to our room last night. It wasn't a huge project--we really don't have that much stuff--but there were some large items, the heaviest being an oversize bookcase we recently purchased from IKEA.
I couldn't carry the bookcase for more than a few feet at a time, so I put it down as soon as it was fully inside the room. A minute later, as we move the thing in to its final position, we noticed that the spot where it had just rested was now covered in an enormous black stain. On the new carpet. Huge stain. Brand new carpet.
After moving the bookcase back in to the hall, we immediately set about feverishly, yet ever so quietly, scrubbing the shit out of said stain. Our roommate is fairly particular and there was no way we were revealing this to him. After fifteen or twenty minutes the spot was sufficiently unnoticeable. We seem to have determined that it came from some mold that had started growing on the bottom of the bookcase as it sat in the humid garage for three weeks.
This morning the stain is gone, but the new carpet is noticeably worn. I've succeeded in hiding it from our roommate so far by placing various articles of clothing and reading materials over top in a seemingly absent-minded fashion the befits our still-disheveled bedroom.
Not that our roommate was sitting around all morning scrutinizing the new carpet. No, no, he was busy helping me since when I got up and looked outside today the first thing I noticed is that I had an entirely flat rear tire.
I couldn't carry the bookcase for more than a few feet at a time, so I put it down as soon as it was fully inside the room. A minute later, as we move the thing in to its final position, we noticed that the spot where it had just rested was now covered in an enormous black stain. On the new carpet. Huge stain. Brand new carpet.
After moving the bookcase back in to the hall, we immediately set about feverishly, yet ever so quietly, scrubbing the shit out of said stain. Our roommate is fairly particular and there was no way we were revealing this to him. After fifteen or twenty minutes the spot was sufficiently unnoticeable. We seem to have determined that it came from some mold that had started growing on the bottom of the bookcase as it sat in the humid garage for three weeks.
This morning the stain is gone, but the new carpet is noticeably worn. I've succeeded in hiding it from our roommate so far by placing various articles of clothing and reading materials over top in a seemingly absent-minded fashion the befits our still-disheveled bedroom.
Not that our roommate was sitting around all morning scrutinizing the new carpet. No, no, he was busy helping me since when I got up and looked outside today the first thing I noticed is that I had an entirely flat rear tire.
Monday, July 23, 2007
Wherein I Flood the House
I know I will look back on this catastrophe years from now and laugh--having learned a valuable lesson the hard way--but twenty days later it's certainly not funny yet.
After [yet another frustrating] day of job hunting, I'd had a great workout at the gym and was excited about the evening ahead and the prospect of having a free day with Jeremy mid-week in recognition of the Fourth. Before changing out of my workout attire I decided I would scrub out the cleaning products I'd left sitting in the tub that afternoon, and finish off cleaning our downstairs bathroom.
I was almost done with the whole elbow-grease part when in an instant there was water shooting violently out of the wall behind the toilet. In retrospect I must have knocked the pipe as I maneuvered around the tub, but it couldn't have been that hard--it's too tight a space for anything but careful motions--and it shouldn't have broken simply by my nudging alone.
But it did break. The PVC pipe broke at the wall, the toilet water shut-off valve now dangling uselessly from the commode. I think it took me a minute to process what was going on, after which I worthlessly attempted to shove the broken pipe back together, figuring, I suppose, that maybe the connection had just come loose and that the thing was still salvageable.
After a few strong shots of water to the face as a result of my fumbling, I determined there was no fixing this and that I needed to shut off the water. This is probably about the time when I frantically called Jeremy at work, proclaiming that I was having an emergency and needed to know how to shut the water off. He didn't know. Our roommate, the homeowner and Jeremy's co-worker, didn't know. I alternated between placing a trashcan against the bathroom wall to catch some of the torrent and dumping the filled bin in to the bathtub, and racing outside to look for any knob, valve, or lever that could have possibly saved me.
Water continued to rush out of the bathroom as I pulled as many items off the floor as possible. Luckily, the bathroom and foyer are tiled, but unfortunately our bedroom--bordering the bath--is fully carpeted. I threw towels down in the bedroom doorway and raced upstairs to call the home builder's plumbing company. The dispatcher was surprisingly unhelpful considering that I was practically crying, and suggested that since we were no longer covered by warranty, I call the home builder directly. No answer there, on account, I presume, of its being 4 p.m. the day before a national holiday, so my next best bet was 911 I figured.
I immediately asked to be transferred to non-emergency, but at this point I was back downstairs and the sound of the rushing water was so loud that I couldn't hear the recorded message or menu options and had to hang up. In between calls back and forth with Jeremy and our roommate , I must have contacted five plumbing companies, none of whom had any idea where my water shut-off might be nor an available plumber.
(Jeremy, of course, was successfully assuming the role of My Better Half in all this, I must add. I wouldn't describe myself as 'calm' at any point during the disaster, but even I was surprised at how much his soothing helped. In addition to making his own calls to friends, plumbers, and the city, he also assured me that he was leaving work immediately and would be home as soon as possible. I assumed this meant forty minutes minimum given his commute and tendency to drive at Exactly The Speed Limit, but he was home before I knew it.)
Twenty to twenty-five minutes had elapsed by this point and I was beside myself. There was close to three inches of water in the foyer and it was pouring out of both the front door and the back door in to the garage. I'd seen a neighbor arrive home in the midst of this and attempted to knock on her door, but the gate was locked.
I eventually reached a plumber with a man in the area. He told me his guy would call me back ASAP to get a location, and just as I was hanging up I saw another neighbor arrive home. He had no idea where the water shut off was either but, after a brief, wet trek in to the bathroom to assess the damage, he quickly announced he'd be back shortly and went home to change.
"Shortly" meant something quite different to me than it apparently did to him at this point, but two or three minutes later he returned, water shoes and all, and promptly walked through the foliage in front of our house and yanked a lever (which, notably, was half-concealed under mulch). Immediately the water slowed util it was barely trickling from the pipe, and then finally stopped.
"How'd you know where that was?"
"I just guessed."
It was simultaneously a huge relief and a great disappointment that I hadn't managed to find the shut off in almost half an hour. But mainly a huge relief.
The house was a mess and I could already tell that the bedroom carpet was sopping. Looking in to the garage I noticed that my toothbrush, along with some socks and a flip-flop were now fifteen feet from the door, having been caught in the rush of water. I began sweeping the standing water out of the house when my neighbor, whose name I still hadn't caught, appeared with a shop vac and started the much more efficient clean-up effort.
Right around the time we got most of the obvious water up, Jeremy and our roommate arrived home. While it wasn't a pretty sight, I think my phone conversations with them up to this point had prepared them for much worse. I'm glad they didn't see the much worse point.
I thanked our still-vacuuming neighbor profusely and asked if we might borrow his shop vac for a few hours. He graciously agreed and we set about sucking at the carpet, hoping against hope that it might be salvageable. Jeremy went to Home Depot to buy some extra fans while our roommate called various insurers and plumbers, and generally let his home's situation sink in.
The carpet was lost. As it turns out, we wound up prying off all the trim too so we could fully dry the place out and guarantee no mold would grow. The dry wall that the water was directly shooting at--about six or so feet from the pipe itself-- was ruined, the paint stripped off by the force of the pressure. It was a pretty shitty way to spend an otherwise-free third of July evening, and an even crappier way to lose hundreds of dollars for no good reason.
As I write this, almost three weeks later, the new carpet is being installed downstairs. This evening Jeremy and I will finally be able to move our belongings back inside from the garage, and cease sleeping on either the futon in the living room or our mattress on the floor.
It's been an enormous pain in the ass and only added fuel to the recent "I feel shitty about myself" fire, but to be honest, every time something like this goes wrong for me I emerge with a renewed appreciation for everything I do have (and wind up thinking more reflective crap like that). I know I'm lucky that this is one of my bigger worries, and that I [will eventually] have the money to afford it. I'm also grateful that I have the support [financial and otherwise] of an awesome boyfriend, and that some people are still willing to help a nieghbor in need. Of course it hasn't change me that much--I still never bothered to get his name.
After [yet another frustrating] day of job hunting, I'd had a great workout at the gym and was excited about the evening ahead and the prospect of having a free day with Jeremy mid-week in recognition of the Fourth. Before changing out of my workout attire I decided I would scrub out the cleaning products I'd left sitting in the tub that afternoon, and finish off cleaning our downstairs bathroom.
I was almost done with the whole elbow-grease part when in an instant there was water shooting violently out of the wall behind the toilet. In retrospect I must have knocked the pipe as I maneuvered around the tub, but it couldn't have been that hard--it's too tight a space for anything but careful motions--and it shouldn't have broken simply by my nudging alone.
But it did break. The PVC pipe broke at the wall, the toilet water shut-off valve now dangling uselessly from the commode. I think it took me a minute to process what was going on, after which I worthlessly attempted to shove the broken pipe back together, figuring, I suppose, that maybe the connection had just come loose and that the thing was still salvageable.
After a few strong shots of water to the face as a result of my fumbling, I determined there was no fixing this and that I needed to shut off the water. This is probably about the time when I frantically called Jeremy at work, proclaiming that I was having an emergency and needed to know how to shut the water off. He didn't know. Our roommate, the homeowner and Jeremy's co-worker, didn't know. I alternated between placing a trashcan against the bathroom wall to catch some of the torrent and dumping the filled bin in to the bathtub, and racing outside to look for any knob, valve, or lever that could have possibly saved me.
Water continued to rush out of the bathroom as I pulled as many items off the floor as possible. Luckily, the bathroom and foyer are tiled, but unfortunately our bedroom--bordering the bath--is fully carpeted. I threw towels down in the bedroom doorway and raced upstairs to call the home builder's plumbing company. The dispatcher was surprisingly unhelpful considering that I was practically crying, and suggested that since we were no longer covered by warranty, I call the home builder directly. No answer there, on account, I presume, of its being 4 p.m. the day before a national holiday, so my next best bet was 911 I figured.
I immediately asked to be transferred to non-emergency, but at this point I was back downstairs and the sound of the rushing water was so loud that I couldn't hear the recorded message or menu options and had to hang up. In between calls back and forth with Jeremy and our roommate , I must have contacted five plumbing companies, none of whom had any idea where my water shut-off might be nor an available plumber.
(Jeremy, of course, was successfully assuming the role of My Better Half in all this, I must add. I wouldn't describe myself as 'calm' at any point during the disaster, but even I was surprised at how much his soothing helped. In addition to making his own calls to friends, plumbers, and the city, he also assured me that he was leaving work immediately and would be home as soon as possible. I assumed this meant forty minutes minimum given his commute and tendency to drive at Exactly The Speed Limit, but he was home before I knew it.)
Twenty to twenty-five minutes had elapsed by this point and I was beside myself. There was close to three inches of water in the foyer and it was pouring out of both the front door and the back door in to the garage. I'd seen a neighbor arrive home in the midst of this and attempted to knock on her door, but the gate was locked.
I eventually reached a plumber with a man in the area. He told me his guy would call me back ASAP to get a location, and just as I was hanging up I saw another neighbor arrive home. He had no idea where the water shut off was either but, after a brief, wet trek in to the bathroom to assess the damage, he quickly announced he'd be back shortly and went home to change.
"Shortly" meant something quite different to me than it apparently did to him at this point, but two or three minutes later he returned, water shoes and all, and promptly walked through the foliage in front of our house and yanked a lever (which, notably, was half-concealed under mulch). Immediately the water slowed util it was barely trickling from the pipe, and then finally stopped.
"How'd you know where that was?"
"I just guessed."
It was simultaneously a huge relief and a great disappointment that I hadn't managed to find the shut off in almost half an hour. But mainly a huge relief.
The house was a mess and I could already tell that the bedroom carpet was sopping. Looking in to the garage I noticed that my toothbrush, along with some socks and a flip-flop were now fifteen feet from the door, having been caught in the rush of water. I began sweeping the standing water out of the house when my neighbor, whose name I still hadn't caught, appeared with a shop vac and started the much more efficient clean-up effort.
Right around the time we got most of the obvious water up, Jeremy and our roommate arrived home. While it wasn't a pretty sight, I think my phone conversations with them up to this point had prepared them for much worse. I'm glad they didn't see the much worse point.
I thanked our still-vacuuming neighbor profusely and asked if we might borrow his shop vac for a few hours. He graciously agreed and we set about sucking at the carpet, hoping against hope that it might be salvageable. Jeremy went to Home Depot to buy some extra fans while our roommate called various insurers and plumbers, and generally let his home's situation sink in.
The carpet was lost. As it turns out, we wound up prying off all the trim too so we could fully dry the place out and guarantee no mold would grow. The dry wall that the water was directly shooting at--about six or so feet from the pipe itself-- was ruined, the paint stripped off by the force of the pressure. It was a pretty shitty way to spend an otherwise-free third of July evening, and an even crappier way to lose hundreds of dollars for no good reason.
As I write this, almost three weeks later, the new carpet is being installed downstairs. This evening Jeremy and I will finally be able to move our belongings back inside from the garage, and cease sleeping on either the futon in the living room or our mattress on the floor.
It's been an enormous pain in the ass and only added fuel to the recent "I feel shitty about myself" fire, but to be honest, every time something like this goes wrong for me I emerge with a renewed appreciation for everything I do have (and wind up thinking more reflective crap like that). I know I'm lucky that this is one of my bigger worries, and that I [will eventually] have the money to afford it. I'm also grateful that I have the support [financial and otherwise] of an awesome boyfriend, and that some people are still willing to help a nieghbor in need. Of course it hasn't change me that much--I still never bothered to get his name.
Wednesday, July 18, 2007
You Take the Bad with the Bad
When Dooce's car was broken in to recently, and then Holly's, it never occurred to me that maybe I should start taking some precautions. In fact, I have actually thought to myself, on more than one occasion, that not taking my car stereo face plate off was justified given that we seem to live in a fine enough neighborhood and there usually are far nicer cars parked on the street than mine.
But last night it happened, and my car was robbed (again). Unlike the first time, they didn't break the window, instead opting to apparently jimmy the thing open through the insulating foam surrounding the glass. Last time I had my car broken in to (on a trip to DC for a 9:30 club show) we collectively lost various iPods, keys, Timbuk2s, clothing, and wallets, but no CDs (despite having two huge books available) and no stereo. This time I lost the stereo, the handy new cord that connected my iPod to said stereo, and about 15 CDs.
Luckily my CD books were safe at home, but I almost feel more violated given the fact that the burglar snatched every last disc from my visor CD holder (even the spillover that I hid behind it!) but not the visor itself, which would have been a much more efficient way to go. I suspect he didn't look at the discs as he grabbed them in the dark, since I doubt he would've wanted the [primarily burned indie rock] albums I had to offer.
I know it could've been worse. I can live (barely) without a stereo for a while, and had my window been broken it would've needed immediate replacement and added yet another hundred dollars or so to my skyrocketing credit card bill. Sometimes I forget to take my wallet out of my car, and I used to leave my iPod in there. Given that the thief removed every last piece of paper from my glove compartment, and every solitary pen (there must be 50+) from my center console, I know he would've grabbed anything else of value that was available.
Still, it sucks. It makes me feel like this city is out to get me, or that I'm doing, or did, something wrong. But maybe it's simpler than that. Maybe it's just kids whose mama's didn't bring them up right, and to them I couldn't have said it better: "FUCK YOU, YOU FUCKING FUCKERS."
UPDATE: You know what else they took? All my gum. WTF?
But last night it happened, and my car was robbed (again). Unlike the first time, they didn't break the window, instead opting to apparently jimmy the thing open through the insulating foam surrounding the glass. Last time I had my car broken in to (on a trip to DC for a 9:30 club show) we collectively lost various iPods, keys, Timbuk2s, clothing, and wallets, but no CDs (despite having two huge books available) and no stereo. This time I lost the stereo, the handy new cord that connected my iPod to said stereo, and about 15 CDs.
Luckily my CD books were safe at home, but I almost feel more violated given the fact that the burglar snatched every last disc from my visor CD holder (even the spillover that I hid behind it!) but not the visor itself, which would have been a much more efficient way to go. I suspect he didn't look at the discs as he grabbed them in the dark, since I doubt he would've wanted the [primarily burned indie rock] albums I had to offer.
I know it could've been worse. I can live (barely) without a stereo for a while, and had my window been broken it would've needed immediate replacement and added yet another hundred dollars or so to my skyrocketing credit card bill. Sometimes I forget to take my wallet out of my car, and I used to leave my iPod in there. Given that the thief removed every last piece of paper from my glove compartment, and every solitary pen (there must be 50+) from my center console, I know he would've grabbed anything else of value that was available.
Still, it sucks. It makes me feel like this city is out to get me, or that I'm doing, or did, something wrong. But maybe it's simpler than that. Maybe it's just kids whose mama's didn't bring them up right, and to them I couldn't have said it better: "FUCK YOU, YOU FUCKING FUCKERS."
UPDATE: You know what else they took? All my gum. WTF?
Thursday, July 12, 2007
Houston By/For the Ill-Informed
So maybe I've been giving this city a bit of a bum rap. Or maybe just giving my life one, from which one might infer that I am not yet convinced of the Lone Star State. But just because no one will hire [totally qualified, competent, and pleasant] me, doesn't mean that I've turned against the town entirely. I'm still getting quite a kick out of exploring its vastness/sprawl, and I love the new-ness of it all to me, particularly having come from a town where, on any given night, there were maybe ten potential establishments to patronize, all of which were way too familiar.
Despite having only been here a short while (and despite not venturing out during weekdays because I know I should be home looking for jobs and yes, I should be doing that now too BUT it's Friday, I'm over jobhunting for the week, and I figured blogging would be a good way to occupy the time while my cake bakes), I've already picked a couple favorite spots, laid out for you here in easy-to-read bullet form.
Despite having only been here a short while (and despite not venturing out during weekdays because I know I should be home looking for jobs and yes, I should be doing that now too BUT it's Friday, I'm over jobhunting for the week, and I figured blogging would be a good way to occupy the time while my cake bakes), I've already picked a couple favorite spots, laid out for you here in easy-to-read bullet form.
- Brother's Taco House - Located less than seven blocks from our house, our Saturday morning pilgrimage to this taco hut is one of my favorite weekend traditions ever. Their homemade tortillas and various scrambled egg-based fillings are a surprisingly stellar way to start the day. Add in the lightening-quick service and the fact that two tacos fill you up perfectly and cost less than $4, and I'm sold. Yeah, I'm always a little afraid of contracting eColi, but I squirrel away the change from my $5 bill and figure I'll just use all the money I saved to pay the insurance deductible.
- Central Market - Central Market might just be the greatest grocery store in history. It's like Whole Foods, meets Trader Joes, meets the kitchen of your friend from high school whose mom always stocked the cupboards and fridge with the best stuff you never got at home and welcomed you over to graze at your leisure. Sure the place is overpriced, but if you're wily (some might call it cheap) like my boyfriend, you devise a fool-proof method for saving yourself some cash by fudging the weights of all your purchases (they have you weigh and print your own barcodes for everything). Plus, with the overabundance of free samples offered (and not some bullshit free samples, I'm talking jambalaya and ice cream with hot fudge and these beer-flavored gourmet potato chips that are DELICIOUS) you can totally insert a trip to the store for a trip to get lunch, honest to goodness.
- Spec's - (I know, I know, more food/beverage purveyors, so sue me) Spec's is to beer/wine/liquor stores what Central Market is to grocery stores: everything looks great, they have a huge selection of totally obscure items, and again, TONS of free samples. I'd encountered the phenomenon that is liquor store tastings in Australia, but never here in America. Like Central Market, you can substitute a trip to Spec's for say, a mid-afternoon pint or two--admittedly I've only had wine and liquor there, but the level of intoxication achieved will be comparable. Plus, they've got a gourmet deli section with every random ingredient you need and can't find for that off the wall recipe you're making. Something about being able to grab imported mustard, fine chocolate, and morels along with a gallon of whiskey reminds me of heaven.
- Galveston - Fine, Galveston is kind of a shit hole, but it's the beach! Only 45 minutes away! Enough said.
- The Proletariat - I haven't been to nearly all of the major music venues here yet, but the Proletariat is already a favorite. It's just crappy enough--so-so sound, hipster bar staff with attitudes, but some great live acts--to remind me of home/the Black Cat. While they may have no clue what ginger ale is (wtf?), they do have a central bar accessible from three different areas/rooms, and a penchant for putting on great happy hour shows, where the venue's half empty and the drafts are $1 a piece. My roommate's disdain for the place stems from their apparent lack of A/C; I would beg to differ, but in the end I'm not sure the ultimate concert experience is achievable unless you leave the club soaking.
- The Flying Saucer/The Ginger Man - Neither of these spots is perfect (which is why the “best beer selection" title necessitates two candidates) and admittedly I've only visited each one once, but both bars have impressive draft and bottled beer lists. They each lose points for being chain establishments (the former more glaringly so than the latter) but the Flying Saucer has a ridiculously wide-ranging selection and a well-organized, informative beer menu, while the Ginger Man has that home-y feel you crave in a beer bar and just about the best juke box I've ever encountered (which is saying something for picky picky me). Unfortunately the Ginger Man, located in Rice Village, is awash with college and post-college twats, while the Flying Saucer downtown is full of, well, professional twats, but luckily they both offer enough tasty treats that before too long everyone starts blurring in to the background.
- Allen Parkway – Seems a bit ridiculous to include a stretch of road here, but this is Houston and given all the god awful highways encircling the city, it’s beautiful respite to have a visually appealing stretch of road that is seemingly never crowded and in fact useful in getting places. Plus they put this fountain along parkway, which is not only gorgeous, but oh-so-appealing when driving around the city in 95 degree weather in your boyfriend’s car with the broke-ass air conditioning.
- Houston Museum of Natural Sciences - Houston has a surprisingly awesome museum scene, and this is definitely my favorite so far. Someone more familiar with the oil industry (see: everyone in this city) might not be quite as entralled by the enormous exhibit on drilling, and I did feel a bit guilty over the fact that these companies have obviously funded pretty much the entire collection, but hello, that oil drilling probe simulator is awesome! It's the most modern, interactive museum I've ever been to, almost making up for the $12 I wasted seeing Night at the Musuem on the IMAX screen.
- Our Couch – In some ways my life has changed very little since moving to Houston, and indeed, I still spend an inordinate amount of time on the living room couch. This version has yet to develop the well-worn butt divot of our sofa in Charlottesville (it’s coming!), but it’s also newer so I never have that fleeting thought about all the possible substances that have likely been ground in to the fabric over the years that I used to get after multiple hours of sedentary-ness on Ray’s couch. Then again, if I spill something on this one I am totally in trouble, or at least expected to flip the cushion.
So in looking at this list I guess it seems like all I do is sit around and eat and drink. And that would be a largely accurate observation. My gym is decidedly absent from the list given the fact that it is enormous and I get lost in it (honestly, I only know where one lone toilet is, I can never find any more although they were definitely pointed out to me on my initial tour. Oh and also their ceiling leaks poo-water all over the place. And I have to pay $1 for parking). Also missing would be my job (surprise! don’t have one yet), and my horseback riding barn (see: no job). So see, there is some actual activity in my life, or at least there will be in the future, but as long as I'm well-fed and well-drunk, well then I'm pretty happy.
Wednesday, July 11, 2007
Here's Your Update
Yes, yes the story of my flooding the house is forthcoming. I think I've been hesitant to post it because I realize that despite 1)barely leaving home all day, 2)having no friends, and 3)being unemployed, I have still managed to accumulate an interesting tale of sorts. And yet the account of events I've worked up so far is so...boring?
In light of the fact that I spend hours each day applying to jobs where I promise potential employers that I am creative! and full of ideas! a font of never before thought-of thoughts! that is, in fact, a total crock. (Similarly, I've assured each and every one of these people of my detail-oriented nature and pressed my love for proofreading on many of them. In retrospect, having re-read my letters and resumes, I suspect 30-40% of them received documents containing one or more typos.)
During one of my interviews last week I revealed that I was ultimately aiming for a job heavy on the writing and editing, despite the fact that this position pertained more to my event planning experience. The interviewer assured me there would be ample opportunity for me to flex my English-major skills, "just maybe not in the way you imagine." And I admitted to her then that I don't think I'm actually cut out for the glamorous positions I imagine. Sure it'd be nice to work at one of the publications I love, writing on topics I actually care about, but I can barely come up with something to post on this blog weekly, much less a story idea or two to pitch daily. Rather, I'm feeling increasingly resigned to the knowledge that more mundane, precisely-directed writing assignments are better suited to my skills, although in my heart of hearts I hate to admit that.
So I've been expanding the job hunt, checking the PR/Marketing box on my Monster search despite always saying I was adamantly anti-marketing. I think it would still take a special job to get me to head that route, but then again, I owe $1900 for flooding the house.
In light of the fact that I spend hours each day applying to jobs where I promise potential employers that I am creative! and full of ideas! a font of never before thought-of thoughts! that is, in fact, a total crock. (Similarly, I've assured each and every one of these people of my detail-oriented nature and pressed my love for proofreading on many of them. In retrospect, having re-read my letters and resumes, I suspect 30-40% of them received documents containing one or more typos.)
During one of my interviews last week I revealed that I was ultimately aiming for a job heavy on the writing and editing, despite the fact that this position pertained more to my event planning experience. The interviewer assured me there would be ample opportunity for me to flex my English-major skills, "just maybe not in the way you imagine." And I admitted to her then that I don't think I'm actually cut out for the glamorous positions I imagine. Sure it'd be nice to work at one of the publications I love, writing on topics I actually care about, but I can barely come up with something to post on this blog weekly, much less a story idea or two to pitch daily. Rather, I'm feeling increasingly resigned to the knowledge that more mundane, precisely-directed writing assignments are better suited to my skills, although in my heart of hearts I hate to admit that.
So I've been expanding the job hunt, checking the PR/Marketing box on my Monster search despite always saying I was adamantly anti-marketing. I think it would still take a special job to get me to head that route, but then again, I owe $1900 for flooding the house.
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