The Trials and Tribs of the Grind

The transformation of my work place has been a gradual one, but over the last few months, the erosion of my job has hit the point of no return, and I now tread through an ominous Fire Swamp of work place politics. Rather than bush wacking as a sword-wielding pirate who eloquently accentuates a v-neck blouse with a well manicured pedophile mustache, and who slaughters Rats Of Unusual Size mere seconds after denying their existence, I am stumbling around as a swordless, pseudo-punk version who sports an ill-fitted, lesbian lumberjack coat, and instead of being accompanied by the moderately useless, albeit eternally classy, Princess Buttercup, I'm followed around by Snooki from Jersey Shore. And she's had too much to drink.

I continue to travel in circles, and every time I make another lap through the flame shooting muskeg, I think, fuck, maybe this is what my life is supposed to be-- a perpetual state of occupational adolescence. I begin looking at Snooki through rose colored lenses, like maybe she won't be such a putrid waste of skin once she sobers up, and I start reciting quotes from Westley, the original. "As you wish . . . as you wish .  . . as you wish," I mutter under my breath like some Fire Swamp whore, and when the frustration of lapping through the dens of mutant rats gets to be too much, I feverishly hiss the words, "LIFE IS PAIN, HIGHNESS. ANYONE WHO SAYS DIFFERENTLY IS SELLING SOMETHING."

I've been exploring my options, or lack there of, and a few weeks ago I found myself at a government sponsored work training office. When my counselor's admin support failed to tell him that I had arrived for my appointment, and I ended up sitting in the waiting room for 25 minutes because -- hold on a minute, let me pop my collar-- because they don't have someone like me running the front end of their office, I not only earned a parking ticket, but also read a great article (via my phone) that parallels rape and the oppression of the working class called, My body, my rules: a case for rape and domestic violence survivors becoming workplace organizers, a quick read that I highly recommend, particularly for blue collar workers.

Eventually my counselor, horrified at the realization that I had been left to rot in the waiting room, fetched me, and I quickly swooned him with my charm and the smile my middle class parents bought me as a pre-teen via two years in I Wish I Were Dead orthodontic braces. Like most of the career counselors I've had, he seemed surprised that employers shy away from me like I am the ultimate Herpes sore of a potential hire, which was reaffirming to my damaged self esteem, but of no help in regards to getting the fuck out of retail.

After the appointment, we continued the application process through email and phone, and I found myself applying all the crafty argumentative skills I learned from years of fighting with people on the internet when he married himself to the notion that the sphere I needed to be pursuing was journalism. And I was all like, "no." If he had been hording some sort unglamorously boring, yet stable writing job up his rectum, I would have chest bumped him, thrown devil signs in the air, and yelled, "HOOK A CRACKA UP," followed with a powerful "WOOO" that would have hit the gel in his hair like a ferocious hurricane. But the only tangible opportunity I could foresee was dedicating my life to writing grade eight level dribble about community events for the local newspaper (which I've already done), and living off moldy bread as I meander my way up to a full time position in an industry that will continue to chip away, if not die within a decade or two. And that doesn't seem like a destination worthy of a government sponsored "free pass." I explained the unique niche that my writing falls into (cats, Femi-Nazism, seething social criticism, jokes about fecal matter). He understood my obstacles, but urged me to keep with it, and I was like, "bitch, please, I'm on it."

I remained persistent that I need to develop a career separate from my writing and explained my goals. My employment counselor tossed questions as he attempted to build a strong case for me, and the last question was, what do employers who advertise for these positions require for formal training, and do you have that formal training? Here in blue collar, trades-town Alberta, most employers don't even ask for a degree in regards to professional positions, just 25+ years of solid experience doing exactly the same job they are aiming to fill, but those who do demand formal training have consistently requested an undergraduate degree in the social sciences. DAMN RIGHT I have an undergraduate in social sciences, I thought. I'm just lacking the practical, on-the-job experience, and that's what this government program for underemployed suckas is all about, right?!

I was feelin' good. "HOLLA HOLLA," I joyously yelled to my employment counselor over the phone. "All my niggaz thats ready to get (DOLLAZ DOLLAZ), bitches know who can get 'em a little (HOTTA HOTTA), come on, if you rollin' wit me (FOLLOW FOLLOW) . . . it's M-U-R-D-A! . . ."

He gave me the stamp of approval to get into a government funded, work co-op, and the peach fuzz on the curvature of my ass cheeks stood on end as I waited for the final verdict from the Government of Alberta.

And a week later I received the news that my application had been . . .  

REJECTED.

I'm not sure why I bought into the illusion that the government might accept me into a program that didn't involve me paying them. I'm a stable tax payer with a job, and I sit at the bottom of the totem pole of people the government wants to voluntarily help out.

The official response from the government was that I should go to Red Deer College, take a course that is not requested by employers pertaining to my chosen career path, and isn't offered at RDC even if it were. Last fall I enrolled in RDC to take a one-year Office Tech course, which would have equipped me with much more valuable (and transferable) skills than what the government suggested I take, and after spending $150 on my application, I was told that the already full course had wait listed me into oblivion. A month after classes started, I received a memo in the mail telling me that RDC and I would have to reschedule for, like, some other year . . . . . . mmmkay?

It is what it is, and now I'm back to the trials n' tribs of the grind, and the day to day struggle of smothering the fire in my soul so I don't lip off and/or throw inanimate objects at a superior, particularly the one who scowls every time he sees my face, yet throws a tantrum when I'm not around to hold shit down, and then demands that I bring him cookies and warm milk, and yells the words, "I HATE YOU!," followed by, "I WISH YOU WEREN'T EVEN ON OUR PAYROLL! . . . . Now come apply my diaper cream. Please?"

My mother (and possibly King Ralph) will be giving me shit for that last paragraph-- or who knows, maybe they'll be impressed with its comparative politeness. Either way, I hope you enjoyed it.

Stay tuned, as this episode will undoubtedly continue as a mini series.

A FML Moment

Part III of Detoxing From 31 Day Better Blogger Challenge: Life After Rehab

I grew up in a middle class, suburban home and experienced luxuries growing up that have leaked into my adult life. Like not carrying any student loan debt. Many of my peers did not have such luxuries, and for these blessings, this casual avoidance of major life hurdles, I am grateful. Oh, so very grateful.

My struggles have always seemed to revolve around where I fit among the landscape of. . . well. . . life. Granted, this is more of a "luxury problem" than anything, like enduring a rank 'bout of intestinal cramping after consuming a five star meal. Those who are simply struggling to survive are not typically in the head space to wallow over questions like, Who Am I?! No. Those kind of things are for people like me (and quite possibly you, too). Although there is a chance that if I hadn't grown up with overbearing parents who had high expectations of me, I might be sitting in a motel room right now shooting heroin and picking at open sores.

Just saying.

Strange Little Girl. Cute, but Strange.

Growing up I always had a bizarre fear of life. I mean people. In Kindergarten I spent what must have been an hour banging a bottle of liquid glue against a craft project because the pin my teacher had poked into the rubber head hadn't gone all the way through and no glue would come out. I spent the period stewing in terror as tears welled in my eyes and a lump sat in my throat. When the bell rang for recess, I finally mustered the courage to tell her that my glue bottle didn't work and I hadn't completed my project. She assured me that I needed to tell her when things like that happened. But for some unknown reason, that's just the way I was. I was strange. I was sensitive and intuitive-- a thinker-- which seems to be more of a hindrance in childhood than anything. According to my five year old self, my peers were obnoxious and evil, strange adults were exploitative and evil, and all I really wanted to do was go home and hang out with my Mom. And pet kitties. All. day. long.

An Awkward Fit.

My shyness and irrational fears followed me through most of my youth. When I hit puberty I began to revolt against my peer group as I developed some of my own critical perspectives. At this point staying true to myself meant rebelling against certain institutions and I chose non-conformity. But at the same time, I always yearned to belong, to find a place to fit and rest my head and subsequently thrive. This has been and probably always will be a life long struggle for me. Naturally, this struggle has transcended into my career life.

The Pull Between Passion and Practicality.

I've written about it before, the pull between developing my passions as a viable career and following an area that is more concrete and practical. I chose a middle ground when I earned my degree. Unfortunately, the working world is a sphere that demands expertise, not roundness. And despite thinking that I was taking a relatively safe route, I ended up in a not-so desirable position for employability.

Since I was seventeen years old, I have been on the look-out for more practical education that could prepare me for a tangible, hands on career that pays enough so I could sustain myself. I just never found a place where I thought my personality and skills would fit. And I still haven`t.

Successful people often say that if something isn't working for you, you need to try something different. That is the point I reached in my attempt to secure a professional job. Whether it was unreasonably low pay, blatant rejection, or interviewers who took one look at my youthful appearance and talked to me like I was an eighteen year old girl who had done Jello shots before the interview, it just wasn`t working for me. It got old. Really old. And severely fucked with my self esteem.

Cold Hearted Bitch. I mean The Working Sphere.

Recently my mom saw an ad for a career opportunity to work as a career counselor. "If only you had a little more education. . . ," she preached, "just a little more education."

"Like what?" I asked.

"Like a specialized course in career counseling."

The only course I know of that specializes in career counseling is an online course through Athabasca University and the classes are all wishy-washy theoretical ones, similar to the education I already have.

Like most career oriented jobs, this one asks for three to five years of experience that I don't have. Years ago I asked my own career counselor what I might do to try to get experience to work my way into such a position. She suggested trying a local organization that does career placement for disabled people.  It was a low pay position, and all around a little bit shitty, which was apparent by it's high turn over rate. I had also liaised with some of these employees when I hired disabled people while working my glorified HR/ recruiting job, and I know that many of them were disgruntled and stressed out. But whatever. They were constantly advertising online, so I gave it a shot. I sent them two resumes. Then I talked to them at a job fair, which, ironically, I was working at, again, for my recruiting job, and the women representing the organization wouldn't even look me in the face-- just told me to drop off a resume.

Career Counseling is one of those areas where my mom boasts, "but you'd be so good at it!" I know from my short lived career as a recruiter that it is something I'd be potentially good at-- I get along with people from all walks of life, have a counselor-esque style to my personality, and I've endured my own struggles with finding my place in the working world. Plus it's in line with my degree, but like employers care about that. I've learned the hard way that it doesn't really matter what position, I, as a person, may thrive in.  It's all about credentials, and years of experience, and, as my boyfriend often says, "who your father knows and who your mother blows." Even though the higher ups at my recruiting job thought I was the shit and did what they could to help me progress, no opportunities came up and eventually I went back to my night job so I could resume working full hours and earning a reasonable pay cheque. All in all, I've never come across one of those open door opportunities where I could apply myself and prove my capabilities. It just hasn't happened for me.

I look at a position like career counseling and I can't help but assume that I was/ would be competing with people who have HR backgrounds or educational backgrounds and are looking for a lighter alternative to years of working high responsibility, stress enducing jobs.  Or that employers will take one look at my youthful appearance, like the last horrible interview I had, and assume that I am unfit to play the part. Or am I wrong?

Am I taking my realistic approach and going too far with it? Or am I just being practical and saving myself the heartache of of following another murky path that is so heavily based on politics and luck? Are the compromises of pursuing something like this worth the opaque possibilities it may entail? Or am I second guessing myself and lacking perseverance? Have I become too bitter?

When it comes to a nine to five career, this is my constant, inner battle. I just don't know. And the costs seem high. Literally. All in all, digging into this sphere makes me feel like shit.

I've abandoned seeking work in the professional sphere due to these frustrations. But when my current job gets so mind numbingly stupid or politically smothering, like the two painful years I endured with a toxic Geny Y'er from hell who busied himself by playing mind games and doing everything he could to drive me crazy so I'd lose my shit and strangle him and get fired, my mind returns to ugh, maybe I should go back to school. Or when I start doubting the realism of developing my passions due to new hurdles, like the ones that have come to my attention via the 31 Day Better Blogger Challenge, I start freaking out and regressing back to the would of, should of, could of mind fuck of the nine to five, working world.

Trying to Find a Place to Thrive.

The thing that scared me the most about the 31 Day Better Blogger Challenge is realizing, as I already stated in Part I, that creating a successful blog isn't really about the art of writing, but is more about selling a commodity. This is why the most successful bloggers around are those who teach others how to make money at blogging. Or people who offer consulting services. Or offer advice about a commodious niche. All these areas are like a self serving machine. They feed themselves. And advertisers like that.

But what if you're doing it for the sake of mere expression, or art? Sure, some bloggers have made money at selling their personalities through their writing, but the days of the Heather Armstrongs seems to be over and done with and the experts don't seem to hide that fact. If you think you're going to achieve financial success simply selling your words on a website with nothing commodible attached to them, well, good luck, but it probably isn't going to happen.

Starving artists have been long criticized for their inability to market themselves and actually make money at what they do, and some of the hugely successful bloggers regularly discuss this. But none of those bloggers are artists, or true writers. They're business gurus who sell a product, usually revolved around self-help marketing techniques. They preach the importance of "meeting a consumer need" when establishing a blog with the intention of making money.  But the thing with art is that it doesn't really fill a need. Sure, it might be esthetically pleasing, or make us feel good, or make us think outside of the box, but we don't need it.

From a marketing perspective, the most obvious service I could offer with my writing is freelancing. So, what sets my writing apart from others?

According to some of the comments I've received, I write candidly and administer verbal body slams. And obviously I write from a bit of a sociological perspective. I also like to throw humor into the mix. I also like the word "douche".

Sounds like I have something there. Except not really. Because most of those characteristics are the antithesis of marketable. Clients typically want freelancers to help them sell something. Of course, I could always sell my writing as entertainment that may adhere to a certain style and reader demographic. It's plausible. But again, narrow. Like the little garage attached to my condo that resembles a straight man's prostate-exam-phobic anus.

I have so much to figure out.

And I haven't even mentioned the additionally complex angle of potentially bringing a hell spawn into the world, which, if all goes well, Bear and I would like to do before our genitals wrinkle and start spending afternoons at the Legion sharing stories about their failing functions.

I know in my heart that I need to tell my neurotic mind to be quiet. Like in my high school math class when the goth girl who was upgrading told the Paris Hilton of the class to shut up or she would sodomize her with a rake. I need to commit myself to perseverance and approach these hurdles like a mind ninja and sink into faith and absorb it until it flows through my blood. I've realize that when it comes to following my passions, I do need your help (you meaning my friends, acquaintances, and anyone who reads my blog, for that matter), so I graciously ask you for any input you can offer me, whether it be the topics I write about that you most enjoy, what you enjoy the least, what you would like to see more of, what you would like to see less of, or any other feedback regarding marketing, niche, or possible angles that I may not have considered.

If there is one thing I've learned in my adult life, it is that I am not special. I am not talking about my personality, or worth, or MIND BLOWING cat whispering skills. What I mean is that I am not special in the sense that I am not safe from pain, or numbing disappointments, or failure, or the uncertainties of the universe.  I do not blindly deserve anything just because. And maybe if I had come out of my debtless, university years and immediately fell into a satisfying, status snazzy entry level position equip with open doors and a comfortable reassurance that I was special, I would now be a total douche bag with only a fraction of the life experiences I have under my belt. In other words, my adult life, thus far, has been extremely humbling, and at the end of the day, it's the awkward challenges that I continue to navigate that have not only made me a more interesting, dynamic person, but a better one, too.

Detoxing From 31DBB Challenge: Part I

So I didn't complete Feel Good Week 2010. I have been too busy experiencing my 100th relapse into quarter-life crisis.

And all I can muster the energy to do is eat gummy sours and watch HGTV.

I blame the Sits Girls 31 Day Better Blogger Challenge, which wrapped up last week and left me with an uncomfortable case of creative constipation.

And a temporary sense of doom.

The challenge was based on a really positive premise: complete the 31 Day Better Blogger work book within a community of women with a focus on networking and supporting each other's blogs. It sounded really great, and for many women it was really great. Unfortunately the sign-up page should have noted to proceed with caution if you are not a stay-at-home mommy. Or Tipper Gore.

Here is some back story.

I am a frustrated writer-- a true, rebellious creative type, with a job-market unfriendly arts degree and numerous years under my belt working the graveyard shift at my glorified retail warehouse job.  In retrospect, my education has made me a better writer, and my job is perfect for writing, and for those things I am grateful. Nonetheless, I don't exactly feel like I have reached my potential.

A few years back, after half a decade of failed attempts to score a professional career, I also abandoned the notion of getting more practical education, mostly because I couldn't clearly decipher an area I would excel in that would require low-committal upgrading and would be a positive, financial alternative to my current work situation. So I took it as a sign and decided that I would pursue my passion, which is something that has always played a dominant role in my life, anyway, and that passion is writing.

At this point I had already done casual freelance work for local newspapers, and I had no idealisms regarding a legit writing career. Writing about shit you don't care about just for the sake of writing sucks geriatric elephant balls. And you can't even write things like "geriatric elephant balls". WHAT'S THE POINT? I knew I would be happier putting energy into my own writing, even if it were only as a hobby, instead of writing piece after piece of mindless dribble for a wage that is on par with a monthly welfare cheque. Bottomline, I discovered that my desire to write is based on expressing myself through written word, not simply the act of writing itself.

Since I had already been blogging for years, I made the decision to treat blogging with more seriousness and to learn whatever I could in hopes that maybe someday I could use my blog as an entrepreneurial starting point for making money through my writing. The Sits Girls 31 Day Better Blogger Challenge was a huge learning experience for me, and strangely, the work book took a back seat to the lessons I learned from participating within the community. Unfortunately, the lessons I learned sucked.

When it comes to the blogosphere, networking is everything. And networking is largely dependent on belonging to a niche. The ability to network within a niche is also key to scoring advertisers and actually making money.

What's your niche?

Good question.

It became apparent to me that the majority of the women in this challenge had blogs based on pretty narrow, stereotypically feminine niches: motherhood, parenting, cooking, organization, crafting, home decor, fitness, nutrition, fertility, infertility, house wifery, etc., and the fuel behind their momentum were each other. Due to this challenge, my Twitter account has become Female Domestication Cyber-Hell, and I have about 250 people I need to delete before I can free my account of tweets marketed towards 1950s housewives and resume reading communications that are actually relevant to me. Those of us whose blogs did not adhere to specific, stereotypically feminine topics were left floundering on the forum posting threads like, "Help! I can't figure out what niche I belong to!"

It has been hard to accept the now obvious reality that successful blogging isn't based on attributes like quality, originality, or even interesting writing. Just like the real world, selling a blog has more to do with whoring a commodity or commodifiable lifestyle, or ideally to do both in conjunction. However, what has truly disturbed me is what is commodifiable among these women in the blogosphere, which is predominantly house wifery.

Unfortunately, I've been putting a lot of weight on this blogging stuff. And I've gone from feeling like I was ascending up a very steep hill in a wheelchair to battling Mount Everest without legs. While riding a skate board. And at this point, I don't have a plan B.

Over the next week I will be discussing my detox from the 31 Day Better Blogger Challenge in more detail with Part II: Overcoming the Urge to Douche My Vagina, and Part III: Life After Rehab.

No, I still don't understand modern day hiring practices.

Over the years I've come to terms with some uncomfortable realities, such as:

• My degree did not train me for a job. At all.
• 99.99999999999999% of employers want trained hirees.

But those are only a few common-sense factoids that I've generated from the cess pool of mind fuck that is the modern day job market. Recently I had the all-time biggest mind fuck of an interview-- an even bigger mind fuck than the interview I had with a local construction company where I was stood up for the first interview, and during the second interview one of the HR ladies texted on her phone and the other one, a no-nonsense twenty-something, arrogantly sat across from me while wearing a pair of Scooby Doo pajama pants.

I nailed the interview. I did not get the job.

The interview that I had recently was for a job that I really, really wanted. I researched the company and the details of the job title. I spent a couple hours reviewing common interview questions and mapped out how I would best sell my experience and characteristics for that particular position. I even picked up some new clothes that whispered I have my shit together. Don't get me wrong, I am not saying that preparing well for an interview automatically makes me worthy for the job, I am just pointing out that yes, I covered the basics, and I didn't go in wearing a pair of Scooby Doo pajama pants.

I was nervous as I sat in the foyer and waited for the interviewer to fetch me, but I was more pumped than anything. I was going to shine, shine like Celine Dion in her A New Day Las Vegas show doing her infamous, Francophone power growl. And then Buddy came around the corner and stretched out his hand. Or maybe I stretched out my hand. Either way, our hands met, and BAM! It was instant awkward.

Why? I don't know, maybe it was the look he gave me and that subtle pause of hesitation that said, why did we bring her in? And then my following thought of, great, a perpetual nerd from planet Academia; help me Jesus.

Besides Buddy asking two or three questions that actually pertained to the job I was applying for, most of the questions asked were, well, annoying.

What is makeup artistry?

A little back story: as advised by my previous employment counselor, I have included miscellaneous achievements from over the years in my resume, even if they do not pertain to the particular job I am applying for. Since I have limited hands-on experience in the area in which I am pursuing, she insisted that this would help promote me as diverse and adaptive individual.

So yeah, what is makeup artistry? Sigh. Really? I mean, really. As I later relayed this to Bear, his reaction was, "Jesus [explicit] Christ. It is exactly what it [explicit] sounds like, [explicit]!" And that's coming from the man who responded to my use of the word "affirmation" by pointing to himself and saying "high school drop out", then pointed to me and said, "university graduate", then asked, "now what is affirmation? And can I buy it at Co-op?"

Another gooder:

What was your biggest challenge with selling Mary Kay?

Or,

What would make your current job more meaningful? How do you know that you're successful at your current job?

Or,

What newspapers did you do freelance writing for? If you could write full time, would you?

Don't get me wrong, I realize that Buddy may have had the intention to ask me off beat questions so he could divulge less censored answers from me. I get that. And when responding to these questions I did my best to twist the answers so they actually related to the position I was applying for, but at the end of the interview I walked out without ever really having the opportunity to sell myself or even discuss why I thought I was suitable for the job.

A few times throughout the interview I referred to working with young people and how I enjoyed acting as a mentor to them. Buddy later stopped me and pointed out how he thought it was funny that I referred to them as "young people", as I am so young myself. Then he went on to say that it is great that at my age I am in a supervisory position-- my employer must really see me as a leader.

This is the moment where I should have hit the pause button, ripped off my Celine Dion face and put on my Eminem mask. The moment where I should have stood on the chair and pointed to the dates on my resume with the toe of my boot while grabbing a fist full of hair and yelled, "I AM A WOMAN. I WILL TURN TWENTY-SEVEN THIS YEAR. YOU'RE WONDERING HOW I DIFFER FROM SEVENTEEN YEAR OLD BOYS IN HIGH SCHOOL? IT'S CALLED A MORTGAGE. IT'S CALLED GRADUATING FROM UNIVERSITY FIVE YEARS AGO. AND AS FAR AS YOU KNOW, I AM IN MY SECOND MARRIAGE, HAVE THREE KIDS, AND I AM SPORTING SOME WICKED C-SECTION SCARS. AND NO, BEING IN A SUPERVISORY POSITION AT MY AGE IS NOT IMPRESSIVE. PEOPLE MY AGE WHO HAVE BEEN AT THE SAME JOB FOR AN EXTENDED PERIOD OF TIME WHO ARE NOT IN A SUPERVISORY POSITION HAVE DEVELOPMENTAL ISSUES. AND BY THE WAY, WHO ARE YOU? DO YOU LIVE ON EARTH? AND NO, I DON'T HAVE ANY MARY KAY SAMPLES ON HAND.

But I missed the moment. It was one of those unexpected comments that left me stunned with a WTF thought bubble bouncing above my head instead of an assertive retort on the tip of my tongue. You know, the kind of moment that you wish you could go back in time and re-do. Dammit, I hate those moments.

My failure to progress to the next step in the hiring process was finalized on Friday when no one called me back. SURPRISE! But it wasn't much of a disappointment due to the interview being a patronizing mind fuck, which is why I am unabashedly ripping the experience apart on my public blog. I just don't care anymore. I don't think I will ever understand the social-political bullshit of the professional sphere. I am not sure I want to.

On that note, here is some uplifting words from my favorite deceased, overweight rapper: