working days

A man in the building I am currently working in every day looks like Dilbert. I say hi to him whenever we pass in the hallway. He barely looks up when he mutters a hello in response, walking a way in a very busy, important sort of way. He makes me smile.

Today I am sitting in the office that faces the inner 'court yard' of the office building. We are on the 6th floor, so all I see is brick wall and windows and the glass elevator on the other side. I can look into other people's offices though, which proves entertaining occasionally. Usually the entertainment amounts to watching people pick their noses, however, which isn't a particularly pleasant way to pass time between reading accident reports. Ah well.

Some days I wonder if this could possibly be what anyone was created to do: taking the over-crowded train (in lieu of braving the crawling traffic and 3x the amount of travel time) to get to the office to spend the whole day sitting behind a computer screen drinking tea and snacking on things that will inevitably make one gain a few kilos no matter how healthy, only to rush back to the over-crowded train (or sit in slow traffic for more than an hour, either singing loudly or swearing more loudly) and make it home in time to make supper and crash on the couch, too mentally drained to be motivated to do anything other than watch South Park or Law and Order reruns all night.

Egh. It's not that bad. I'm getting used to it. And finding ways to avoid the demotivated slump to attempt to actually do something with the little free time I have over. Actually, I rarely spend an evening watching tv. It's a lucky week if Luuk and I have dinner together more than one evening. And once I decided to like my job and make the best of it, things actually got alot better. Or well, actually, nothing changed, 'cept I don't mind it as much. Which is less brain-draining.

Still not sure this is what I, or anyone else for that matter, was created to spend my precious hours doing, but till I figure that out, I will enjoy it any way I can.

Thank you Dilbert and nose-pickers. You make my day.

Got a job and fell of the face of the earth for a bit.

Wow, it's been a while.

What's happened in the last six months? Here's a quick review:

-Started my job.
- Super excited about my job.
-Spent the first two weeks reading stuff.
- Less excited about my job.
- Job feels like limbo.
-Was asked to write a report in Dutch, took me forever and came back from the secretary full of red marks and notes on the side (will be looking for a Dutch writing course as soon as I finish my coaching course, boss is paying). Haven't been asked to write much since...
-Called my boss a lucky bastard before I could catch myself, after he described his sunny vacation in Spain during Holland's rainiest wettest summer in decades. Still hoping he didn't hear it.
-Visited friends in England for a weekend, drank beer and ate pub grub as often as possible and enjoyed the rolling hills and quaint countryside. Played 'Ticket to Ride' for the first time in ages.
-Visited Prague for a weekend. Drank beer (half liter glasses!), ate lots of wholesome Czech food, admired the Czech men, took many many many pictures of gorgeous Czech architecture, enjoyed Czech jazz.
- Came home from work one day to find Kitty with one fat leg, possible reaction to a bee-sting, took her to the vet without her cage cause she hates it, met three dogs in the waiting room, went home with many scratches and a drugged up Kitty. She survived.
- Spent months working on the same project every day, 5 days a week, 8 hrs a day, reading and analyzing accident reports and clicking on the right boxes in a computer program that I hate.
- Less than excited about my job.
- Two close friends had miscarriages in the same week.
- Bought tickets for a Christmas visit to Iowa/Michigan!
- Was assigned to phase two of the same project, 5 days a week, 8hrs a day, reading and analyzing accident reports and clicking on the right boxes in a computer program that I hate.
- Determined to not let my job take over my life.
- Considering looking for new job.
- Asked my boss for a user-guide to said computer program. He told me to write one. Done with part 1 of 30.
- Renewed excitment about my job.
- Went to Romania with 64 other people from our church to build houses for the Roma gypsies living on the garbage dump just outside of Cluj Napoca. It was intense. I've seen extreme poverty before, but this was different. The affect on me was not what I expected. I'm still digesting.
- Came back from Romania. The world here looks different.
- Determined to waste less, work harder, enjoy more, share more, love more.
- Signed contract for another 6 months with current employer. Got a raise.
- Determined to learn to love my job.

And that's where I am right now.

Tomorrow I go to Winterberg in Germany for a weekend away with Luuk. Fall in the mountains, must be fantastic. Can't wait!

Theodore Dalrymple

From the man who wrote that 'the British youth are the most unpleasant and ugly that exist', a critique of modern British, if not all modernday western, culture:

http://www.spectator.co.uk/print/essays/7157308/its-fun-to-smash-things.thtml


"It is one of the tasks of civilisation to tame our inherent savagery. But who, contemplating contemporary British culture, would recognise in it any civilising influence, or rather fail to recognise its opposite? It is a constant call to and celebration of degradation, not only physical but spiritual and emotional. A culture in which Amy Winehouse, with her militant vulgarity and self-indulgent stupidity, combined with a very minor talent, could be so extravagantly admired and feted, is not one to put up strong barriers against our baser instincts, desires and urges. On the contrary, that culture has long been a celebration of those very urges. He who pays the savage never gets rid of the savagery; and this is only the beginning. "

This strikes a chord that I cannot help but appreciate. Perhaps he is one more of the many old farts muttering about how the youth of today is so much worse than before. Or maybe he is tainted by his years of working with the lowest parts of various existing societies. But his many papers, books and articles on society and culture are an interesting read, to say the least.

imposter

probably like any one starting something new and unfamiliar, i feel like the biggest newbie in the world. i'm just waiting for someone to finally realize that i have no idea what i am doing half the time and the other half of the time only think i know what i am doing and am constantly surprised when my work isn't sent back with red scribbles all over the page. but this isn't Prof. Dengler's classroom any more and i am no longer a student working my way through a neatly organized world of deadlines, papers, exams and clearly stated expectations. this is the world of consultants and large companies and ministries of government. this is the world of working professionals, where expections are not explained but must be met, in which one simply figures it out and gets it done, while making some profit for bureau.

i hate this phase. from this end, it looks like it stretches on forever. from my desk facing the window facing the inner courtyard of the grey block-and-glass ministry of social affairs and employment building, this phase of being the clueless, lost, inexperienced and slightly nerve-wracked beginner feels like it will never end.

i'm a freshman all over again, walking through the classroom building for the first time, wondering how the hell i am going to find my classrooms on time for the next four years in this huge and confusing maze of halls and stairs. i cannot imagine that four years from now, the short halls and few turns in this small building will be permantently imprinted in my mental map and i'll be able to find the proper classroom through the half-conscious haze resulting from all-nighters, workshift hours and/or hangovers with no effort beyond that required to put one foot in front of the other. at some point, i'll know what's expected of me without having to ask. i'll follow the discussions around me and understand the content. i'll feel confident enough to defend my point of view and discuss the fine points that come up. i'll not only get things done when asked but will manage to occasionally impress. i'll become an expert in my field, i'll grow and the world will grow with me.

at some point.

for now, i'll chew my nails, sweat a bit more than usual, and stick it out. this cannot last. it will not. i can make it through this. i have before. i'll survive and in a year i'll look back and smile.

What happened after the interview.

I got a job.

No one was more surprised than myself. The interview that I was fully convinced that I had bombed apparently was more favorably perceived by my interviewers.

They didn't hire me though.

They said I'd make a nice addition to the team and I seemed very enthusiastic and prepared (ha!), but that I didn't have enough experience and they didn't want to train me.

Fair enough, I responded, I have little to no experience, and I'd like to change that, so what do you think of an unpaid internship in which I follow people around and do their annoying little tasks and try to learn by observation and then we talk again in 4 months?

So, we met again to talk about the possibility of doing an unpaid internship for 3-4 months. They started by explaining that the real reason they didn't hire me was cause they didn't think the job was something I'd like, given my extensive experience taking care of people. This job doesn't involve taking care of people. But, they were impressed with my apparent very strong interest in working for them. Four months was too short, they said, so they offered me a six month contract.

Umm, a contract for a six month internship?

No. A job. With a salary. And after six months, we'll talk possible extension. And raise. Interested?

I have no idea how I maintained my composure, but I did. And I accepted the job. I waited till I got in the car, drove halfway home, called Luuk, told him the story, and then burst into tears.

I start Monday.

Fear of Failure

I'm never going to get a job. Some people were granted the natural gift of interviewing - I was not. It's even worse than public speaking. My face gets warm, most likely red too, but I can't see it so I wouldn't know. My hands sweat, making the introductory handshake somewhat uncomfortable; not a good start. We sit down, I try to find a comfortable yet professional looking position, and end up sitting with my back straight and stiff, arms on the table in front of me in an attempt to look relaxed until I realize that I am nervously picking at the pages of the notebook I brought along to write notes in that will inevitably go home blank. I try to concentrate on what the Human Resources girl is saying but get distracted by my racing thoughts: "Stop fidgiting! Look natural! Focus! You're clicking the pen, put it down! Shit, what'd she just ask?" What kind of work do I see myself doing here? Blank stare. I practiced answering this question. I wrote it down so I would know what to say when it came up. I know what I want. Suddenly it sounds so silly in my head, compared to the work described at this company. Maybe I should say something else. No, it's not an exam, just tell her what you hope to do here. Not so hard. Why am I fumbling over my words? Did I just stutter??? My answer is full of 'um's' and hesitation. I hear myself speaking and can't believe how unprepared and stupid I just sounded. I try to fix it. I realize I'm rambling. I answer more questions, ask some of my own, throw in some friendly chitchat. At least I have managed to refrain from giggling. Fuck, I couldn't giggle if I wanted to. I have resorted to fake-laughing to the manager's jokes by this point.

"Alright, well thank you for coming. We'll think about this for a bit, you think about it, and we'll call you on Monday, ok?"

Maybe it wasn't as bad as I think it was. Maybe it's like my public speaking experiences; I hate every minute of it and am usually convinced it was a total failure and find out later that I did just great. Maybe it's like that. On Monday they'll call and tell me how impressed they were and could I please, please come work for them.

Maybe not.

sometimes waking up is disappointing.

I dreamt last night that I met the pope, who happened to be a forty/fifty-something-year-old Asian dude who looked like the guy in Inception... I was there to steal something from him. But he saw that my hands hurt (apparently they did, in my dream), and asked if he could heal them for me. So he pulled on my hands, leaning back with all his weight. My knuckles cracked and then smoke streamed out of my nails. The pope's face turned dark and crazy, and I felt the pain leave through the tips of my fingers.

Many other things happened in that dream, including me fighting off a group of ruggedly handsome ninjas and then kissing the only one who had a bit of a baby face and then getting chased by a giant black bull with a hump on his back and huuuuge horns and then 'tasting' food in the grocery store because we didn't have anything because of the apocalyptic weather that had destroyed everything we had.

It ended in Italy, where I've never been, walking down a tree lined road, enjoying the late afternoon sun.

It all, of course, made complete exhilarating sense until I woke up.

blow

I had my first personal encounter with Dutch police yesterday. I noticed a cop car following me and said aloud to my two passengers "Haha, it's silly but I can't get rid of this American fear of cops! Every time I see one, I immediately slow down 5km/hr and frantically start reviewing my driving over the past 10 min to find anything they might have caught me doing. So silly." And I kept driving.

Then I noticed that on top of the cop car was a sign flashing "Stop, Politie" in red.

Ah! Shnitty.

I pulled over and proceeded to roll down my window. The window, however, has a tendency to get stuck, so by the time the cop walked up to my door he found me giggling and snorting in my efforts to get it to move down to a decent talk-through level while trying to stay serious and look responsible to the approaching officer.

He smiled at me and said a typical Dutch thing which translates roughly to "Tough work".

I giggled (oh why does my giggly silly bit come out at the worst moments?).

"Did I do something wrong?" (smile, snicker).

"Nope. We're just on the look out for drunk drivers tonight; cars with several people in it, driving around at this hour, are likely to have come from a bar."

"Oh man, what a relief! I was freaking out thinking I did something wrong without knowing it! I was trying to figure out what you caught me at!"

The cop just smiled and put the breathalyzer in front of me. "Blow."

I should have taken a deaper breath, you have to breath long into that thing! Finally it beeped and I could stop.

And that was it.

"Have a good night ma'am."

I was almost disappointed.

God loves ugly puppies?

a few years ago, just around the date of our wedding, my parents' dog got mange or some skin disease of the sort. she's a pug-poodle mix, and apparently poodles are genetically predisposed to skin diseases, result of years of inbreeding. the vet said that there was nothing he could do and she would end up suffering for quite a while before dying of some infection resulting from the disease. he suggested putting her down before it got to that point.

my youngest sisters love this fugly little beast and were, of course, very upset. mom suggested waiting till after our wedding, using the three weeks spent in Holland as time to get used to being away from her so they would be more ready to say goodbye when they got back. but one wise little sister scoffed "Oh you of little faith!", and the two girls proceeded to pray every day that their ugly little mangy dog would be healed.

would you believe it if i told you that the dog actually got better? her sores disappeared, her hair grew back, and she has not had skin problems since.

not funny.

I just remembered another time I was the only one that thought something was hilarious.

This was before we got married, three years ago. We had just rented an apartment. It needed quite a bit of fixing up. We were basically living at Luuk's parents' place, about 20 min away. Every night we could, we'd drive to our little place in The Hague to ready it for moving in in the next couple of weeks. That night we were going to start putting in floor boards in preparation for the cheapest decent-looking carpet we could find. Luuk's dad went with us. So, Luuk, his dad, and I jump in the car, drive all the way to the house, get there and all stand waiting at the door for one of the others to pull out their key to open it. We each have our own set. And we each forgot to take it with us.

I thought this was pretty damn funny. And I laughed. Hard. For a couple of seconds. Before I realized that the other two were both not amused. Pissed, in fact.

Yes, we had to drive back to get the keys. Yes, it was a waste of a good hour, and yes, we didn't have a whole lot of time to waste to get the place ready before the wedding. Yes, gas is expensive. Yes, the unnecessary two way trip back to their house to pick up the keys was going to cost us. And, yes, we should have checked if at least one of us had a key before we left.

But come on! That's worth laughing at, right?!

Inevitable?

I'm debating calling the latest place I've applied to. I know I should; it gives the impression that I am proactive and interested, and it's more personal than black 'Times New Roman' size 12 on a white page. But, the longer I let it sit, the longer I can think my resume is actually doing something all by itself and the longer I can think I have a shot at the job I applied for. And the longer I can feel satisfied with myself for having tried.

But, then again, the longer I wait, the less involved, proactive, and interested I seem. And the less likely I am to make a good impression. Or any impression of any sort. And the less likely I am to get hired. Thus, the more likely I am to feel dissatisfied in the end. And disappointed, again.

I guess I'll call.

Homesick.

Yesterday I had the pleasure of filling in at the "multi-culti" activity room at the old folks home, serving coffee for an hour. It's not really multi-culti, it's Marokkan. Just ladies; the men come on a different day. They greeted each other affectionately, stretching their hands out to each other and holding each other's face before planting a kiss on the other's cheek or forehead; this to each other woman in the room. Two of them spoke a little bit of really broken and difficult for a Dutch-as-a-third-language speaker to understand. Occasionally they would break in their converstation to say something like "So sorry, we speak Dutch for you. You cannot understand Arabic, eh?" And I'd smile and say something like "Oh, don't worry! I enjoy hearing you talk to each other." Which was true. This group is very unlike the Dutch ladies. They talk loudly, constantly, in and over each other's words, and laugh after every-other burst of rapid tongue-rolling pieces of speech. I immediately felt at home and realized that this was something I had missed for years and didn't know it. If they took off their headscarves and suddenly started speaking in Spanish, I would be back in Yucatán, listening to a conversation about a hundred equally unimportant and hilarious little things in life.

For the first time, a difference in my background and the Dutch culture became clear to me. I remembered a Christmas a few years ago when we had just finished decorating the tree at my in-law's and the tree fell over. I burst out laughing, and then realized I was the only one. A few of the decorations had broken, some were expensive and some had history. Of course, the breaking of the Christmas tree decorations was not actually funny. I think I've possibly slightly offended people who've just told me something serious, by giggling. And Luuk is much less amused when I shrink his favorite sweater or get lost when driving somewhere than I seem to be. I used to think it was a nervous thing, this laughing. Now I think maybe it's the Mexican in me, to laugh at everything, even in the face of things less humorous. Or maybe I'd just like to think that.

My hour with the Marokkan ladies ended, and I went back to my Dutch folks. They were knitting and chatting away, quietly and contentedly, with an occasional chuckle here or there. Mrs. S. complained about the temperature and wished the weather was brighter, then smiled at me and went back to reading the newspaper. Mr. H. nodded off; he'd slept horribly the night before. Mrs. F. started a story about something back in the day when she was a little girl, talking loudly and expressively; the other ladies listened politely and occasionally responded, sometimes leaning toward each other to comment quietly so as not to interrupt. I knew that when they all headed to their homes, they'd wish each other a pleasant evening, maybe rest a hand on one person's shoulder before waving to the rest and walking out.

I went home with a smile on my face. I'd enjoyed the day. But I missed Mexico more than I have in a while.