Someone asked me recently why I did not try to make my blog more successful.
In retrospect, how or why I was not offended by this seemingly offensive inquiry is rather astonishing. Really, I hadn't time to be irked because my innner social scientist was focused on the fact that the question itself presupposes that "successful" has a universally accepted definition. An arguable fact, in my opinion.
But I see the point. At least, in our culture, "success" is often equated with that which is both lucrative and universally appealling. Given such a definition, my blog is quite the raging failure. However, I never expected to either make money nor reach a vast number of people by merely spouting my own ideas willy-nilly on a public space.
Wouldn't such an expectation make me delusional? Or would it just make me a really successful reality TV star? Well, six of one... as the saying goes.
The point of my blog is simply for me to have a space to write. It is a way to keep me accountable to myself and a way to share some of the nonsense that marinates in my mind with my few friends and family who actually read this thing. But I am not exactly teaching anyone anything or offering concise snippets in the bite-size quantities that statistics report are necessary for "successful" blog and website articles. So one might wonder: "What is the point?"
I suppose that question is not a bad one. But for so many of the writing assignments I complete, I have to condense prose to its barest bones. Often, I have to strip away a lot of what I love about writing because, in our "time-is-money" society, people do not have time to read all the fluff.
I don't particularly blame them. After all, I am a circuitous writer who favors flowery language rife with descriptive adjectives and complicated vocabularly words. Hemingway would have hated me (Though I would have had a bit of beef with his whole male macho deal too, so touche, Ernie). I recognize that my style is not appealling to many and is downright repellant for those looking to quickly scan web content, grab a sound bite of information, and be on their way to another site.
In a fast-food nation, I offer the three martini lunch version of blog entries.
Though let me just say that if you did have three martinis while you read, I guarantee you would find that my entries make much more sense than you soberly suspected. And they would be funnier too.
My point: how I fit in the blogosphere is a good question. But then again, so is how I fit into life in general. My ducks are still not in a row, as deviant as ever, if you will. Maybe someday I'll write 300-500 word entries with bullets and boxes and be as scannable as the average person's 30-second of blog reading time allows. Maybe I'll have a focused topic such as rating the cupcake frosting at bakeries across the United States, or reviewing celebrity memoirs.
Until I decide which hole in which to pigeon myself, I am afraid you are stuck with my meandering musings on whatever tickles my fancy--or irks my socks off--on any given day.
Now I realize why that initial remark/insult did not ruffle my feathers: success is subjective. And I just feel lucky to have a place to write what I like, when I like. That sounds pretty successful to me.
Tuesday, November 15, 2011
Sunday, October 23, 2011
Cars Coming Out My Ears
Recent personal epiphany: Apparently, I care about cars.
Never before in my life did I believe that the type of car I drove would be of personal significance or consequence. Evidence to that end: my father bought me a used Oldsmobile Cutlass Supreme in 1997. Implicitly, the Olds was neither cool nor particularly attractive; my friends called it the "rental car" because it was a Floridian-retirement-community shade of bright teal. Despite its lack of physical appeal, the functionality was excellent and I felt incredibly safe driving it. My supposition is that my subconscious decided at that point that a car was merely vehicle for transport, and not a statement about who I am, what my beliefs are, or how much money I have.
Such an admission might make one wonder if I was really born and raised in consumer-driven America. Shame on me for being so naive!
Post Oldsmobile, I have had a three other cars--very practical vehicles such as a second-hand Volvo wagon and a Subaru Outback. But since I am neither a soccer mom nor a lesbian (someone told me that Subarus are the offical cars of lesbians. I sort of thought they were the offical car of Vermonters, but I guess that is six of one, half dozen of the other). Perhaps the first inkling of actual interest in what would be taking me from point A to point B was revealed when we moved to Charleston in 2007 and I decided on a Mini. Was I cognizant of the possible statements such a selection made? I did not think I was, but who knows? At the time, I attributed my selection to the facts that I found it very easy to drive, even easier to park, and rather adorable in general. The only beef regarding my Mini was that my husband found it supremely lame.
But now that I am car-free, I have a new and profound understanding of the problems intrinsic with the paradox of choice. The myriad options, combined with my acute awareness of what a car says about the person behond the wheel, makes this task of finding a new vehicle rather challenging. Maybe that sounds insecure or weird (unsurprising as I can be either insecure or weird at various intervals on most days of the week), but the fact remains that first impressions do matter. And just like how I dress proffers a message about who I am (for example, I would not go out of my house bra-less and sweat-suit clad--except for the occasional late night dog walk--and nor would I ever go out in an Armani suit or mink coat), I also feel my car should be a reflection of who I am.
Considering that stance, it has been quite revolutionary to discover that I must be having some sort of crisis of self because not only do I not have a particular model or make in mind, nor do I have a specific era, function, or even color in mind either. Thus far, I have looked at and seriously considered a number of options. My front-runners have been a 2008 blue Jeep Wrangler, a 1965 red Mustang, a 2007 black Cadillac CTS, a silver 1986 Alfa Romeo spider, and a 1999 black British-import mini (don't worry: my husband is on board with this Mini as it is the old model).
The kibosh was put on the first four listed for the following reasons: I am neither a surfer nor an avid off-roader, I am not a flashy adrenaline junkie, I am not a subtly wealthy, cashmere sweater-set wearing woman in her 70's, and I am not cool.
I hope my borderline-inexcusable stereotyping will be excused.
The old school Mini is still a contender despite that fact that someone recently told me that a Mini says: "Look at me; I'm cute!" The thought that I would be proclaiming such a self-satisfied little message to the world at large disgusted me, until I realized that such is actually my MO in life in general. Personal revelations can be quite humbling.
After further consideration, I actually think that the old Mini says: "Sure, I am a little bit cutesy, but more importantly, I have been around the block and yet I still happily buzz through life. Plus, I am a just a might bit cool, a tiny shade retro, and a smidgeon classic too." And, if that message is sorely misinterpreted, then the fact that the car is British will impart to people that I appreciate a good sense of sarcastic, sardonic humor.
I think I may have a winner.
But that could change in 3-5 minutes.
Really, this whole car selection process has provided a lot of insight as to why my resume implies I suffer from serious and serial vocational ADD: if I cannot even settle on a car, how can one expect me to settle on a career? Amazing how telling one aspect of life can be about another isn't it?
Never before in my life did I believe that the type of car I drove would be of personal significance or consequence. Evidence to that end: my father bought me a used Oldsmobile Cutlass Supreme in 1997. Implicitly, the Olds was neither cool nor particularly attractive; my friends called it the "rental car" because it was a Floridian-retirement-community shade of bright teal. Despite its lack of physical appeal, the functionality was excellent and I felt incredibly safe driving it. My supposition is that my subconscious decided at that point that a car was merely vehicle for transport, and not a statement about who I am, what my beliefs are, or how much money I have.
Such an admission might make one wonder if I was really born and raised in consumer-driven America. Shame on me for being so naive!
Post Oldsmobile, I have had a three other cars--very practical vehicles such as a second-hand Volvo wagon and a Subaru Outback. But since I am neither a soccer mom nor a lesbian (someone told me that Subarus are the offical cars of lesbians. I sort of thought they were the offical car of Vermonters, but I guess that is six of one, half dozen of the other). Perhaps the first inkling of actual interest in what would be taking me from point A to point B was revealed when we moved to Charleston in 2007 and I decided on a Mini. Was I cognizant of the possible statements such a selection made? I did not think I was, but who knows? At the time, I attributed my selection to the facts that I found it very easy to drive, even easier to park, and rather adorable in general. The only beef regarding my Mini was that my husband found it supremely lame.
But now that I am car-free, I have a new and profound understanding of the problems intrinsic with the paradox of choice. The myriad options, combined with my acute awareness of what a car says about the person behond the wheel, makes this task of finding a new vehicle rather challenging. Maybe that sounds insecure or weird (unsurprising as I can be either insecure or weird at various intervals on most days of the week), but the fact remains that first impressions do matter. And just like how I dress proffers a message about who I am (for example, I would not go out of my house bra-less and sweat-suit clad--except for the occasional late night dog walk--and nor would I ever go out in an Armani suit or mink coat), I also feel my car should be a reflection of who I am.
Considering that stance, it has been quite revolutionary to discover that I must be having some sort of crisis of self because not only do I not have a particular model or make in mind, nor do I have a specific era, function, or even color in mind either. Thus far, I have looked at and seriously considered a number of options. My front-runners have been a 2008 blue Jeep Wrangler, a 1965 red Mustang, a 2007 black Cadillac CTS, a silver 1986 Alfa Romeo spider, and a 1999 black British-import mini (don't worry: my husband is on board with this Mini as it is the old model).
The kibosh was put on the first four listed for the following reasons: I am neither a surfer nor an avid off-roader, I am not a flashy adrenaline junkie, I am not a subtly wealthy, cashmere sweater-set wearing woman in her 70's, and I am not cool.
I hope my borderline-inexcusable stereotyping will be excused.
The old school Mini is still a contender despite that fact that someone recently told me that a Mini says: "Look at me; I'm cute!" The thought that I would be proclaiming such a self-satisfied little message to the world at large disgusted me, until I realized that such is actually my MO in life in general. Personal revelations can be quite humbling.
After further consideration, I actually think that the old Mini says: "Sure, I am a little bit cutesy, but more importantly, I have been around the block and yet I still happily buzz through life. Plus, I am a just a might bit cool, a tiny shade retro, and a smidgeon classic too." And, if that message is sorely misinterpreted, then the fact that the car is British will impart to people that I appreciate a good sense of sarcastic, sardonic humor.
I think I may have a winner.
But that could change in 3-5 minutes.
Really, this whole car selection process has provided a lot of insight as to why my resume implies I suffer from serious and serial vocational ADD: if I cannot even settle on a car, how can one expect me to settle on a career? Amazing how telling one aspect of life can be about another isn't it?
Wednesday, October 12, 2011
Inspiration: Not MIA
Someone asked me the other day if I have not been posting on my blog because I missed Paris so much and had nothing inspiring to say about the United States.
This comment is, in retrospect, a bit insulting--not only to the United States as a whole, but to me as a writer. While I love the romance and theoretical notion that Paris is where every writer MUST be in order to create melifluous prose on a regular basis, I am not actually only inspired by Paris. The cafe culture certainly ameliorates any efforts to put pen to paper (or finger to key). That much is not just a Hemingway myth, as I found it to be marvelously true. But a writer can write anywhere. I think.
I hope.
And I do definitely miss France; I miss the food, I miss the anonymity, I miss the feeling that the world was at my fingertips and that everyday was an intercultural lesson in and of itself.
But I live in Charleston, and this city is equally impressive and amazing. For one thing, the food is incredible here as well--not only the world-class restaurants that seem to draw James Beard accolades like moths to a flame--but also the commitment to local produce and seasonal ingredients. Charleston is a lot like Europe in those regards actually. The great news for the pastry afficionado in me is that Macaroons bakery makes a mighty fine, authentically French, croisssant. You can imagine how thrilled I am that the people around here definitely share my affinity for butter. And I just ate at a new resto this past weekend where the french fries outdid anything I consumed in Europe. Yes, Belgium I am talking to you. Please try les frites at The MacIntosh: scrummy beyond beyond. So it is hard to say I miss Parisian food when the culinary delights here are definitely up to par--bien sur!
Additionally, my intercultural needs are being met: as a native New Englander habitating in South Carolina, my life is actually rife with such opportunities. And at least here I can speak English whilst having gross misunderstandings about cultural codes with my neighbors. Rather, I can speak some semblance of English, depending on how deep the Southern drawl of my conversational counterpart.
Of course I miss Paris. But it was my preoccupation with other writing projects that rendered me "blog-less" for the past month, not the fact that I was uninspired by no longer having the city of light as my backyard. Charleston inspires me every day; I am excited to jump back in to life here. And, as the sun actually shines here, I believe I am going to enjoy being back in this city of light immensely.
This comment is, in retrospect, a bit insulting--not only to the United States as a whole, but to me as a writer. While I love the romance and theoretical notion that Paris is where every writer MUST be in order to create melifluous prose on a regular basis, I am not actually only inspired by Paris. The cafe culture certainly ameliorates any efforts to put pen to paper (or finger to key). That much is not just a Hemingway myth, as I found it to be marvelously true. But a writer can write anywhere. I think.
I hope.
And I do definitely miss France; I miss the food, I miss the anonymity, I miss the feeling that the world was at my fingertips and that everyday was an intercultural lesson in and of itself.
But I live in Charleston, and this city is equally impressive and amazing. For one thing, the food is incredible here as well--not only the world-class restaurants that seem to draw James Beard accolades like moths to a flame--but also the commitment to local produce and seasonal ingredients. Charleston is a lot like Europe in those regards actually. The great news for the pastry afficionado in me is that Macaroons bakery makes a mighty fine, authentically French, croisssant. You can imagine how thrilled I am that the people around here definitely share my affinity for butter. And I just ate at a new resto this past weekend where the french fries outdid anything I consumed in Europe. Yes, Belgium I am talking to you. Please try les frites at The MacIntosh: scrummy beyond beyond. So it is hard to say I miss Parisian food when the culinary delights here are definitely up to par--bien sur!
Additionally, my intercultural needs are being met: as a native New Englander habitating in South Carolina, my life is actually rife with such opportunities. And at least here I can speak English whilst having gross misunderstandings about cultural codes with my neighbors. Rather, I can speak some semblance of English, depending on how deep the Southern drawl of my conversational counterpart.
Of course I miss Paris. But it was my preoccupation with other writing projects that rendered me "blog-less" for the past month, not the fact that I was uninspired by no longer having the city of light as my backyard. Charleston inspires me every day; I am excited to jump back in to life here. And, as the sun actually shines here, I believe I am going to enjoy being back in this city of light immensely.
Monday, August 29, 2011
On-line Outdates
Applying to jobs on-line is a dismal business. I am so disenchanted with the process that I rarely actually apply to anything I find posted in cyberspace. My reasons against doing so are varied, but there are two front-runners I have personally identified which indicate that finding viable employment via the "click/send" method is suspect.
The first con is ironically in direct opposition to the premise of the internet as I understand it, and it is that on-line postings are often quite outdated. One of the appealing aspects of the world wide web is that much of the content available on the internet is impressively available in a "real-time unfolding" manner. An obvious, and possibly controversial example, is that when friends post "status updates" I trust these snippets to be as current as three to five minutes ago, and likely not more than a day old when (and if) I read them. With on-line job postings, the freshness factor is decidedly dubious, and many listings seem to be as stale as last months baguette (not last months loaf of Pepperidge Farm, mind you, because unlike a fresh baguette, that pile of preservatives seemingly has a shelf life of years).
I have applied to a total of three jobs on-line. This seemingly paltry effort is actually not because I lack motivation or desire, but rather because I am selective. And by "selective" I mean I would like to garner employment that I actually enjoy and find to be a mutually beneficial situation. I know: picky, picky me. Of the three, two of them promptly responded to me (which was super nice, gracious, and sort of unexpected) within about two hours. One told me that they were in the process of interviewing finalists and that the application window had been already closed. Apparently, my stellar resume did not inspire them to re-open the proverbial window, but I won't overanalyze that issue lest I lose self-esteem at a time when having it in spades is crucial. A representative from the second job to which I applied reported that the position had been filled, and it sounded like the person who landed the gig was already enrolled in a 401K plan. The third job I only just applied to this morning, so the jury is still out.
Aside from the fact that I feel somewhat foolish sending applications to outdated postings, the second reason I dislike applying to job's on-line is because, much like with my marginal SAT scores, I just do not think people gain a full appreciation for me as a person and employee based on a sheet of paper. My resume and cover letters are fine, but what can anyone ever really tell about another person based on a quasi-formulaic list of euphemisms and creatively-used adjectives? The process is akin to dating; you do not know how well you will click with someone until you are face to face. And, just like dating, the people who are written off based on factual criteria may just be the person of your dreams.
I know this analogy to be true, because I used to be a professional matchmaker (as you might remember), so I am a bit of a subject matter expert. There is a lid for every pot, people.
What I really need to do is network, but long distance networking is sort of difficult, so that will have to wait until next week when I am back in the lowcountry. In the meantime, I would like to officially declare that I despise Monster.com because they grossly misunderstand who I am as a person and what intrinsically motivates me on a professional level: I will not be a sales representative for indeterminate items and no, you cannot lure me in just by promising me outlandish sums of money.
I told you I was picky.
The first con is ironically in direct opposition to the premise of the internet as I understand it, and it is that on-line postings are often quite outdated. One of the appealing aspects of the world wide web is that much of the content available on the internet is impressively available in a "real-time unfolding" manner. An obvious, and possibly controversial example, is that when friends post "status updates" I trust these snippets to be as current as three to five minutes ago, and likely not more than a day old when (and if) I read them. With on-line job postings, the freshness factor is decidedly dubious, and many listings seem to be as stale as last months baguette (not last months loaf of Pepperidge Farm, mind you, because unlike a fresh baguette, that pile of preservatives seemingly has a shelf life of years).
I have applied to a total of three jobs on-line. This seemingly paltry effort is actually not because I lack motivation or desire, but rather because I am selective. And by "selective" I mean I would like to garner employment that I actually enjoy and find to be a mutually beneficial situation. I know: picky, picky me. Of the three, two of them promptly responded to me (which was super nice, gracious, and sort of unexpected) within about two hours. One told me that they were in the process of interviewing finalists and that the application window had been already closed. Apparently, my stellar resume did not inspire them to re-open the proverbial window, but I won't overanalyze that issue lest I lose self-esteem at a time when having it in spades is crucial. A representative from the second job to which I applied reported that the position had been filled, and it sounded like the person who landed the gig was already enrolled in a 401K plan. The third job I only just applied to this morning, so the jury is still out.
Aside from the fact that I feel somewhat foolish sending applications to outdated postings, the second reason I dislike applying to job's on-line is because, much like with my marginal SAT scores, I just do not think people gain a full appreciation for me as a person and employee based on a sheet of paper. My resume and cover letters are fine, but what can anyone ever really tell about another person based on a quasi-formulaic list of euphemisms and creatively-used adjectives? The process is akin to dating; you do not know how well you will click with someone until you are face to face. And, just like dating, the people who are written off based on factual criteria may just be the person of your dreams.
I know this analogy to be true, because I used to be a professional matchmaker (as you might remember), so I am a bit of a subject matter expert. There is a lid for every pot, people.
What I really need to do is network, but long distance networking is sort of difficult, so that will have to wait until next week when I am back in the lowcountry. In the meantime, I would like to officially declare that I despise Monster.com because they grossly misunderstand who I am as a person and what intrinsically motivates me on a professional level: I will not be a sales representative for indeterminate items and no, you cannot lure me in just by promising me outlandish sums of money.
I told you I was picky.
Sunday, August 28, 2011
My Limbo has Become Literal
So now I have been back from Paris for about three weeks, and I remain is a serious state of confusion as to what my next professional step in life will be. It is possible that my ducks have never been less in a row than right now.
That said, the one good thing I have going for me is that the name of my blog remains astonishingly apt. So it is nice that there is one thing about which I need not worry.
Just to give some sense of my personal chaos: my husband is in Texas, and has been for the past two months because work took him to Houston. We do not live in Texas, nor will we ever live in Texas, so this separation is not the norm and is not fun. I am still in Cape Cod, though I no longer live in Massachusetts, so this too is not the norm. Technically, we "live" in Charleston, but our house in South Carolina is rented out and will remain rented out for another several months, so we don't really live there at all at the moment.
In case you are failing to read between the lines, or to read at all, I am basically a homeless person whose life and belongings are scattered amongst three states. I also currently have no steady job and no car. In fact, I do not even have a bicycle as I loaned it to the renters. I think I still have friends, but the jury is out on that one since I have yet to get a new portable phone since returning to the states and thus have been out of touch with the majority of mes amies.
My dogs seem to be cool with all of this, so that situation along with my blog title, is the second thing I currently have going for me.
My friend Dave told me yesterday that what I have right now is a wonderful amount of flexibility. Dave, by the way, is prone to euphemisms.
Really I am very much in limbo. And that situation itself is another of life's great ironies because my mother and I actually had to evacuate her house on Cape Cod due to the flooding brought on by Hurricane Irene. So we are now staying in a hotel uptown where I actually won the limbo contest in 7th grade at a friends Bat Mitzvah. Seriously, at this very hotel--I passed the "ballroom" where that crowning life achievement occurred yesterday on my way to the fitness room. Life laughs at you sometimes, doesn't it?
On the brighter side of things, I have been able to work on my book(s), and having the time and space to do so is a great thing. And another writing venture just turned up as well; I have now been enlisted to work on a project with my great friend who is an underwear specialist.
So I may be homeless, but at least I am not predictable.
That said, the one good thing I have going for me is that the name of my blog remains astonishingly apt. So it is nice that there is one thing about which I need not worry.
Just to give some sense of my personal chaos: my husband is in Texas, and has been for the past two months because work took him to Houston. We do not live in Texas, nor will we ever live in Texas, so this separation is not the norm and is not fun. I am still in Cape Cod, though I no longer live in Massachusetts, so this too is not the norm. Technically, we "live" in Charleston, but our house in South Carolina is rented out and will remain rented out for another several months, so we don't really live there at all at the moment.
In case you are failing to read between the lines, or to read at all, I am basically a homeless person whose life and belongings are scattered amongst three states. I also currently have no steady job and no car. In fact, I do not even have a bicycle as I loaned it to the renters. I think I still have friends, but the jury is out on that one since I have yet to get a new portable phone since returning to the states and thus have been out of touch with the majority of mes amies.
My dogs seem to be cool with all of this, so that situation along with my blog title, is the second thing I currently have going for me.
My friend Dave told me yesterday that what I have right now is a wonderful amount of flexibility. Dave, by the way, is prone to euphemisms.
Really I am very much in limbo. And that situation itself is another of life's great ironies because my mother and I actually had to evacuate her house on Cape Cod due to the flooding brought on by Hurricane Irene. So we are now staying in a hotel uptown where I actually won the limbo contest in 7th grade at a friends Bat Mitzvah. Seriously, at this very hotel--I passed the "ballroom" where that crowning life achievement occurred yesterday on my way to the fitness room. Life laughs at you sometimes, doesn't it?
On the brighter side of things, I have been able to work on my book(s), and having the time and space to do so is a great thing. And another writing venture just turned up as well; I have now been enlisted to work on a project with my great friend who is an underwear specialist.
So I may be homeless, but at least I am not predictable.
Monday, August 15, 2011
Paris...and then what?
I no longer live in Paris and I am therefore wondering if my general blog-worthiness has been reduced. Reading about the daily observations of an Americaine living in America seems pretty banal.
Especially since the American in question has been staying at her mom's house in Cape Cod for the past two weeks, with limited exposure to the cultural offerings of the world at large. Not to suggest that Cape Cod is lacking in any way; it is both diversely artsy and aesthetically captivating. But my relative isolation is rooted in the fact that, at the moment, I have no car, no phone, and no decent bread in the vicinity on which to comment at length. As I generally like to garner material from interactions with others, you can see why I am now in a bit of a tight spot. My dogs and I have actually had some pretty lively tete-a-tetes, but that seems like a subjective interpretation of a topic with limited mass-appeal.
What I have going for me is the fact that I am currently unemployed. This seemingly unfortunate status may actually prove to be our mutual and proverbial goldmine because it screams of possibility. I could perchance start following some professonal path merely for the purpose of increasing the entertainment value of this blog. That POA probably sounds a bit ambitious ("ambitious" here being a euphemism for "ludicrous"), but I want you to know that I am dedicated to making dubious life decisions for the sake of garnering new material. Also, my resume says nothing if it does not say: "I have professional ADD". So whatever career path I next select will be in good company in the sense that it will be as nonsensical as all previous endeavors.
One of the personally irritating things about my past professional pursuits is that the majority of them are not really things I could viably go back to. Despite having tried about 15 different careers, I have no solid skill-set that could act as "Plan B" if times ever became tough. You know how people say things like: "Well, if my new handbag line does not work out, I can always go back to accounting" or "If I cannot make a go of this new bean-bag chair business, I can always go back to being a lawyer"? Well, I do not have one of those sentences.
We can just touch upon a smattering of my former positions to elucidate the point, and it seems self-flagellatingly appropriate to start with the one that no one ever thought I could do in the first place. That said, I cannot go back to being a woodworker. For one thing, I was never particularly talented at working with that particular material. For another, being knocked to the ground by a large 2-foot wide and 2-inch thick board, which flew off the blade of a table saw (maybe, probably, definitely due to my own mistake) made it pretty clear to me that the likelihood of my staying in that line of work and keeping all my extremities intact was low. I like my fingers, so we can permanently cross that one off the list of potentials.
I loved being a features writer and restaurant critic for a magazine, but going back to the position would be unfortunately futile since the magazine in question has now folded. I really liked my job as a matchmaker, but people always seemed to misinterpret the position and thought it was unseemly (it wasn't, for the record). I cannot very well go back to being a lifeguard since my crawl is abysmal, the only thing separating my skin from that of an albino is a smattering of freckles--and there is the not-unimportant factor that I am not a teenager. Going back to planning weddings is out of the question since I find the vast majority of brides insufferable, and returning to my post as a travel agent seems relatively useless and redundant given the prevalence of sophisticated apps and sites.
We almost have a light at the end of this tunnel of alarmingly non-useful career-decisions considering that going back to being an innkeeper is actually appealling to me on a personal level--especially since I am now decent at making homemade croissants and brioche, and could thus return to the field as an improved entity. However, such would be impossible on a practical level since the pay is paltry at best. Wish I could be more Oprah-esque about following my passion, but a girl needs to be able to put dog food on the table after all. Teaching English to French University students was pretty fun, especially since the job doubled as an opportunity to hone a stand-up comedian act, but such would be a difficult gig to find in a country where hardly anyone speaks French. Non?
Of the fields in which I have dabbled where potential exists: PR or Non-profit consulting are certainly options, but the difficulty with privacy issues within both careers might make them difficut to exploit on this blog. I am thinking of how we can all benefit, you see.
Regarding all of these positions and the reasons I have proffered as to why they are unsuitable/impossible for me: I would just like to offer a tardy and superfluous "no offense", if I have already offended you.
I sort of wish I was at the end of the laundry list that comprises the "Professional Experience" section of my resume, so I will just imagine such to be the case and cut us off here. Paris is sure a tough act to follow, and I know I have my work set out for me. That said, I have a hunch that the "Miscellaneous" page on Craigslist job postings might yield some promising possibilities for how I can best embark on another questionable vocational voyage. Will keep you posted.
Especially since the American in question has been staying at her mom's house in Cape Cod for the past two weeks, with limited exposure to the cultural offerings of the world at large. Not to suggest that Cape Cod is lacking in any way; it is both diversely artsy and aesthetically captivating. But my relative isolation is rooted in the fact that, at the moment, I have no car, no phone, and no decent bread in the vicinity on which to comment at length. As I generally like to garner material from interactions with others, you can see why I am now in a bit of a tight spot. My dogs and I have actually had some pretty lively tete-a-tetes, but that seems like a subjective interpretation of a topic with limited mass-appeal.
What I have going for me is the fact that I am currently unemployed. This seemingly unfortunate status may actually prove to be our mutual and proverbial goldmine because it screams of possibility. I could perchance start following some professonal path merely for the purpose of increasing the entertainment value of this blog. That POA probably sounds a bit ambitious ("ambitious" here being a euphemism for "ludicrous"), but I want you to know that I am dedicated to making dubious life decisions for the sake of garnering new material. Also, my resume says nothing if it does not say: "I have professional ADD". So whatever career path I next select will be in good company in the sense that it will be as nonsensical as all previous endeavors.
One of the personally irritating things about my past professional pursuits is that the majority of them are not really things I could viably go back to. Despite having tried about 15 different careers, I have no solid skill-set that could act as "Plan B" if times ever became tough. You know how people say things like: "Well, if my new handbag line does not work out, I can always go back to accounting" or "If I cannot make a go of this new bean-bag chair business, I can always go back to being a lawyer"? Well, I do not have one of those sentences.
We can just touch upon a smattering of my former positions to elucidate the point, and it seems self-flagellatingly appropriate to start with the one that no one ever thought I could do in the first place. That said, I cannot go back to being a woodworker. For one thing, I was never particularly talented at working with that particular material. For another, being knocked to the ground by a large 2-foot wide and 2-inch thick board, which flew off the blade of a table saw (maybe, probably, definitely due to my own mistake) made it pretty clear to me that the likelihood of my staying in that line of work and keeping all my extremities intact was low. I like my fingers, so we can permanently cross that one off the list of potentials.
I loved being a features writer and restaurant critic for a magazine, but going back to the position would be unfortunately futile since the magazine in question has now folded. I really liked my job as a matchmaker, but people always seemed to misinterpret the position and thought it was unseemly (it wasn't, for the record). I cannot very well go back to being a lifeguard since my crawl is abysmal, the only thing separating my skin from that of an albino is a smattering of freckles--and there is the not-unimportant factor that I am not a teenager. Going back to planning weddings is out of the question since I find the vast majority of brides insufferable, and returning to my post as a travel agent seems relatively useless and redundant given the prevalence of sophisticated apps and sites.
We almost have a light at the end of this tunnel of alarmingly non-useful career-decisions considering that going back to being an innkeeper is actually appealling to me on a personal level--especially since I am now decent at making homemade croissants and brioche, and could thus return to the field as an improved entity. However, such would be impossible on a practical level since the pay is paltry at best. Wish I could be more Oprah-esque about following my passion, but a girl needs to be able to put dog food on the table after all. Teaching English to French University students was pretty fun, especially since the job doubled as an opportunity to hone a stand-up comedian act, but such would be a difficult gig to find in a country where hardly anyone speaks French. Non?
Of the fields in which I have dabbled where potential exists: PR or Non-profit consulting are certainly options, but the difficulty with privacy issues within both careers might make them difficut to exploit on this blog. I am thinking of how we can all benefit, you see.
Regarding all of these positions and the reasons I have proffered as to why they are unsuitable/impossible for me: I would just like to offer a tardy and superfluous "no offense", if I have already offended you.
I sort of wish I was at the end of the laundry list that comprises the "Professional Experience" section of my resume, so I will just imagine such to be the case and cut us off here. Paris is sure a tough act to follow, and I know I have my work set out for me. That said, I have a hunch that the "Miscellaneous" page on Craigslist job postings might yield some promising possibilities for how I can best embark on another questionable vocational voyage. Will keep you posted.
Thursday, July 28, 2011
Tallying up the Pros and Cons
A guy sitting next to me on the metro today was clipping his fingernails.
If I were a slick liar, I would never have shared that sentence with you since it obviously sounds completely fabricated.
Unfortunately, it was the sad truth of my mid-day metro ride. I have actually seen people do grosser things while on the metro (you can imagine the sort of human emissions to which I am alluding), but at least I could assume those people were very drunk, very sick, or very insane.
The nail-clipper's egregious behavior could not be excused so easily--he seemed to be sober, in good health, and competently functional as far as I could discern.
Well, I will tell you something, France: he was not a good guy for me to run into today. Since my year in Paris is now drawing to a close, many of my thoughts are devoted to the things I will miss about this city and this country. As is inevitable when compiling such lists, my mind also wanders to the antithesis. Thus, I have also been considering the components about living here which I will decidedly NOT miss, the aspects where America is the one who shines.
Pre-metro ride, I had eaten an especially delectable pastry made of croissant dough, slathered in pastry cream, and topped with fresh roasted figs. I thought: GOSH dang it, such a mouth treasure would be hard to come by in the states; how I will miss you, Paris! Then I walked out into the freezing cold, rainy, gray weather and thought: Well chalk one up for team U.S.A., because I defy the sun not to shine in Boston or Charleston for weeks at a time during the month of JULY.
Then I passed the clicheed-yet-true-to-reality numerous cafes where people were sipping cafes, perriers, and dainty glasses of wine, and I thought: Oh, well, you have me there, Paris. I love to just sit and look. Sit, and drink, and read, and look. Nothing better than just soaking up life and having a good think without being worried about being shooed away or harassed by waiters needing tips from actual consuming customers. But then I was practically trampled by the people shoving their way onto my metro car as I tried to exit it (you know the drill--I have written about that deplorable habit in full detail), and I thought: Oh, to be around American people who have manners again will be so nice!
In case you were not keeping score: the game was tied at this point.
So then I hopped/aggressively shoved myself onto the second metro car and sat down and peacefully read for a few stops. Then HE got on and sat next to me. At first he seemed innocuous and inconsequential--ideal qualities for stranger traveling mates to embody. Then, just when the car had become really crowded, the un-hygienic public personal hygiene activity started taking place.
And America wins by default in today's round of "Which Country is Better?"
I am not saying that this inappropriate behavior was indicative of Parisians, or of behavior exhibited by the French. In fact, I am not even certain this fellow/troglodyte was French. But the affair did cloud my judgment and made me think: Oh, goodness, to be back in America, where people know better!
Also, I am excited to go "home" because then I can stop worrying that MY every activity is being scrutinized and branded as behavior indicative of my countryfolk. Like if I drink my water or wine too quickly: "Oh, you Americans! Always glug, glug, glug." Or if I smile at the baker and she glowers at me for being such an imbecile as to be smiling without a reason...smiling like a vacuous lil' American! Or when I make a silly error in simple conversation en Francais and then instantly panic that I am lending credence to stereotypes of American ethnocentrism. Or when I go to the gym in my gym clothes and worry that I am perpetuating the idea that all Americans are slobs who wear sweats 24/7.
It is exhausting being an unoffical, unappointed, and ineffectual ambassador for my country.
But I do wonder how many times I have done something mindless, silly, or just plain stupid and had someone walk away from me, making a gross generalization like: "Oh, those Americans! What nitwits!" based solely on my isolated behavior.
Kind of like when you exit a metro and think: "Ugh, you un-hygienic Frenchies. Keep it in your W.C., s'il vous plait."
Stay tuned for the next go-round in this exciting match.
If I were a slick liar, I would never have shared that sentence with you since it obviously sounds completely fabricated.
Unfortunately, it was the sad truth of my mid-day metro ride. I have actually seen people do grosser things while on the metro (you can imagine the sort of human emissions to which I am alluding), but at least I could assume those people were very drunk, very sick, or very insane.
The nail-clipper's egregious behavior could not be excused so easily--he seemed to be sober, in good health, and competently functional as far as I could discern.
Well, I will tell you something, France: he was not a good guy for me to run into today. Since my year in Paris is now drawing to a close, many of my thoughts are devoted to the things I will miss about this city and this country. As is inevitable when compiling such lists, my mind also wanders to the antithesis. Thus, I have also been considering the components about living here which I will decidedly NOT miss, the aspects where America is the one who shines.
Pre-metro ride, I had eaten an especially delectable pastry made of croissant dough, slathered in pastry cream, and topped with fresh roasted figs. I thought: GOSH dang it, such a mouth treasure would be hard to come by in the states; how I will miss you, Paris! Then I walked out into the freezing cold, rainy, gray weather and thought: Well chalk one up for team U.S.A., because I defy the sun not to shine in Boston or Charleston for weeks at a time during the month of JULY.
Then I passed the clicheed-yet-true-to-reality numerous cafes where people were sipping cafes, perriers, and dainty glasses of wine, and I thought: Oh, well, you have me there, Paris. I love to just sit and look. Sit, and drink, and read, and look. Nothing better than just soaking up life and having a good think without being worried about being shooed away or harassed by waiters needing tips from actual consuming customers. But then I was practically trampled by the people shoving their way onto my metro car as I tried to exit it (you know the drill--I have written about that deplorable habit in full detail), and I thought: Oh, to be around American people who have manners again will be so nice!
In case you were not keeping score: the game was tied at this point.
So then I hopped/aggressively shoved myself onto the second metro car and sat down and peacefully read for a few stops. Then HE got on and sat next to me. At first he seemed innocuous and inconsequential--ideal qualities for stranger traveling mates to embody. Then, just when the car had become really crowded, the un-hygienic public personal hygiene activity started taking place.
And America wins by default in today's round of "Which Country is Better?"
I am not saying that this inappropriate behavior was indicative of Parisians, or of behavior exhibited by the French. In fact, I am not even certain this fellow/troglodyte was French. But the affair did cloud my judgment and made me think: Oh, goodness, to be back in America, where people know better!
Also, I am excited to go "home" because then I can stop worrying that MY every activity is being scrutinized and branded as behavior indicative of my countryfolk. Like if I drink my water or wine too quickly: "Oh, you Americans! Always glug, glug, glug." Or if I smile at the baker and she glowers at me for being such an imbecile as to be smiling without a reason...smiling like a vacuous lil' American! Or when I make a silly error in simple conversation en Francais and then instantly panic that I am lending credence to stereotypes of American ethnocentrism. Or when I go to the gym in my gym clothes and worry that I am perpetuating the idea that all Americans are slobs who wear sweats 24/7.
It is exhausting being an unoffical, unappointed, and ineffectual ambassador for my country.
But I do wonder how many times I have done something mindless, silly, or just plain stupid and had someone walk away from me, making a gross generalization like: "Oh, those Americans! What nitwits!" based solely on my isolated behavior.
Kind of like when you exit a metro and think: "Ugh, you un-hygienic Frenchies. Keep it in your W.C., s'il vous plait."
Stay tuned for the next go-round in this exciting match.
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