A Different Kind of Mediocrity

Okay, so I suck, I haven't written, let's move on.

Things are different from how they were in February. I've finally (finally times infinity) landed a full time job. I've learned a lot; I speak a few more words of Spanish than I did, I can get through a meeting without wanting to crawl up into a ball of despair and I now mainline coffee like 98% of the rest of America every morning. I also have a full time boyfriend to match the full time job, which is wonderful and confusing and involves a different language all its own.

You know what I've noticed? I feel a lot of the same way that I did before I had these marvelous, life affirming things added to my Facebook profile. Sure, I love being able to grin and have an answer that I'm not ashamed of when I'm asked "what I do." And, side note, that question stinks. Think about it: somebody asks you what you do, and you answer with your job description. All this does is let people in on how much money you make and whether you have actual prospects. But let's be real here: it's not what you do. I'm not trying to be all meta here, but yeah. I go to work eight-ish hours a day. I talk to people on the phone a lot. I file papers. I alternatively protect and yell at the people I'm in charge of, depending on whether they're doing their jobs or not. I crack jokes with my co-worker. I'm deadly with a Google drive spreadsheet. But it's not what I do or who I am, and that's something I don't think I knew before now.

I thought having a job that I wasn't embarrassed of would somehow make me content with my lot in life as a worker bee. I've always liked being in the background. I never wanted to be the rock star; I wanted to be the background singer. You get all the best harmonies, you get paid to travel and wear gorgeous clothes, and the paparazzi leaves you alone. Really, it's the best gig I could imagine. Maybe that tells you something about my personality.

But somehow, I'm still not fulfilled. I'm proud of the job I do. I enjoy the new relationships it brings me. And I still feel like a Connect Four game without the pieces. That's why I'm writing here again. I need to write. I know that. It's an essential part of my anatomy. Even now, feeling my fingers fly across the keyboard, I feel soothed and maybe even a little powerful. I know that this isn't all I've been missing, but it's a piece. It helps.

Maybe with this piece back in place, I can work on finding the rest. I know that I need to get back in church. I'm not sure what my hang up is with that. I love God, I love to sing and worship Him, but organized religion freaks me out. I think some of it is the jargon with organized worship; to some degree, it always comes across like trite bullshit. I'm not embarrassed of my relationship with God, but I am ashamed of how some people might see me because of it. I feel this huge desire to separate myself and walk around with a sign that says, "I'm not THAT kind of Christian!!!!"

Where do you go with all this? I have no freakin' clue. I just know that right now, I don't want to stop writing. I want to keep vomiting my fears and humiliations and hopes all over the table of cyberspace like a fat kid at a picnic after a potato sack race. I want to weave words and metaphors and sarcasm until something unified is formed. Hopefully, that something is me.

Things NOT to Say to Someone Working Retail

Originally, this was going to be a long post about job interviews. Then I had to move the blog from Wordpress (ugh, they were TOTALLY cramping my style, rage against the establishment, blah blah blah) and that ate up the amount of time in the evening when I'm remotely coherent. Of course, you could wait around until sometime after 11 PM and then I get even less coherent, but possibly funnier. You know, in a hysterical, raving sort of way.

 All that being said, the topic of tonight's chat is going to be on the nature of that most wretched of beasts: retail. Music doesn't soothe it, so leave your magic harp at home, Snape.

 Retail: that point in jobs that's somewhere between "would you like fries with that?" and "good evening, madam, where may I drive you this evening?" (Although the chauffeur idea totally has merit. Right up until my employer made me turn down my Fallout Boy.) I've been working retail at a high end toy store for going on two years now, and while I enjoy my coworkers and the flexible hours, I'm getting to that point in my career where I have to restrain myself from stapling someone to the ceiling and throwing marshmallows at them every time I hear certain statements. Oh, look! Here are some now!

 Statement #1: This child is very advanced/precocious.
 If the number of children in the world are as advanced as their grandparents portray them to be is true, then "advanced" now means "average." Unless your three year old is spouting Greek and doing Euclidean geometry on their toes, I don't want to hear about it. They'll like paddle balls and bubbles just as much as the "dumb" kid down the street. For goodness' sake, stop shoving them further into this hell hole called adulthood and let them goof! Being "advanced" can wait until high school when people actually care about that sort of thing.

 Statement #2: You will remember to take the price tag off, right?
 Answer: No. No, I'm going to leave it on there before I wrap it. That way the parents of this child will know EXACTLY how cheap you are and give you the stink eye every Christmas and birthday from now until eternity. By the way, love the patronizing tone. It'll definitely make me want to take a few extra seconds and do a really pretty bow. Not.

 Statement #3: Are you SURE you don't have it? It's not in the back? Well, can you check? Are you sure?
 I'm positive. I unloaded all the boxes that the merchandise came in, then reorganized the display to show all the items to their maximum potential. I even got sweaty, see? Smell my armpit. Plus, I was in the back room five minutes ago and whatever you're looking for wasn't there. Please try Knowledge Tree or Target. Preferably as soon as possible. Like, now.

 Statement #4: Um, my son had an accident over there. *points*
What I want to say: Here are some paper towels and here's some Clorox. PUT YOUR BACK INTO IT! 
What I actually say: Oh, don't worry about it, ma'am. Happens all the time. We'll take care of it in a jiffy. 

Then I turn around and barf. But, you know. With class.

 Statement #5: Why is this so expensive?
Usually, items are priced by either the distributor or the owner of the store. Don't come crying to me when you don't like a price. I literally have NO power in this place. If I were a power ranger, I would be clear. (Well, it makes sense to me.) You wanted an expensive toy, you walked in here, and you got it, baby. Want me to leave the price tag so everyone can see how much you love this kid?

That wraps up this evening's rant. Tomorrow's subject:  the belated job interview post. Having had two days to think on it, no doubt it'll be impressively witty. And now I've put more pressure on myself. Awesome.

And So It Begins

A couple of days ago, my mom (being my mom) started bugging me about writing again. I haven’t really been able to write since a catastrophic break up about four years ago, and it’s made me grumpy. Ergo, it was in my mother’s best interest to get me writing again before she got a call from the cops saying I was writing quatrains in spray paint on interstate bridges while dangling from a scarf with my teeth. (Yes. In my world, this is a likely scenario.)

 I grunted like a cavewoman and waved her off, but in typical annoying mother advice fashion, it got me to thinking. My problem with writing is that I don’t really seem to have anything worth writing ABOUT at this point in my life. I mean, I’m basically spectacular-less. I’m not living in a foreign country or writing a dissertation. I’m 26 years old and I still live at home. My last relationship stood me up on Valentine’s Day. My degree is apparently worthless and right now the most thrilling thing in my life is mainlining five seasons of Leverage on Hulu Plus and figuring out how to cycle a ten gallon fish tank. This does not Pulitzer Prize material make.

 Then this delightful lady walked in to the toy store where I work, and somehow we got to talking. Turns out she didn’t get married until she was 39, and she had some great perspectives on what it meant to be single. We chatted about how people viewed women who were still single in their late twenties and thirties and how success isn’t necessarily as it is defined in today’s world. It was really a bright spot in my day, meeting someone who had been where I am now and was able to say, “Screw ‘em. There’s nothing wrong with you.” She had even been a bridesmaid more times than me! (I’m waaaaaay past the “three times a bridesmaid, never a bride” thing.) Basically, she assured me that there is no specific guidemap to happiness and personal contentment. Just because one is expected to do something at a certain age doesn't mean that one should.

 I was driving home, and it came to me: I do have something to write about. I am this rare and intriguing thing — a modern day spinster without a sparkling career to match. I am exceptional in my lack of outward accomplishments. Surely there are other people in this same place? Other post undergrads whose shiny degrees basically mean crap and are hoping that the economy picks up at some point so that they can build careers and have what the world views as a prosperous life?

 So here it is: my blog on what it means to be unexceptional, my foray into the world of bland, boring and broke. I’m going to talk about whatever I feel like talking about: religion, politics, and the Great Pumpkin. You may not agree with me; that’s okay. A lot of times I don’t agree with me. My hope is to start a dialogue, a community of “losers.” We’re here. We’re not as pathetic as we seem. We don’t have diverse portfolios or sexy business woman shoes, and somehow we continue to breathe in and out. It’s time for me to stop being ashamed of where I am in my life, and to start taking pride in my mediocrity.

 Let’s get started.