I've only been here for about twenty days now and have yet to start my workaday job--which begins Monday--but everyone I talk to is curious about how things are down here. It's difficult to come up with a satisfying response--satisfying to me or the questioner. I've read so many forum posts from Northeasterners who have relocated here that were in love with Raleigh/North Carolina/the Southeast from the moment they touched ground and have nothing but praise to heap on their new homes. That's great, but it makes me wonder what truly did it for them. To be honest, it is a nice area with a lot of great things going on, but it's not the kind of place that wears its greatness on its sleeve, as I'm sure some people feel about New York City's excitement and bustle or Asheville NC's laid-back hipness. I really don't see Raleigh as the kind of place that you fall in love with at first sight. And I'm OK with that. But it doesn't seem to satisfy the inquiries I get. So I'll delve into some detail about what life is like here when you're not yet employed:
Hot enough for ya? Yeah, so of course everyone I've talked to since I decided to move South has been like, "you know, it gets hot down there! And the humidity!" Well, no shit. It has been hot, and humid even, too. In fact, it's been consistently about five degrees (oh no!) hotter here than back in Mass. at the same time--sometimes ten degrees, but not as often. Sometimes it's been hotter in Mass. than here. More often, hotter here than there. You know what? It's the middle of fucking summer. It's hot just about everywhere. It's outrageously hot in the Midwest right now. Relative to outrageous, it's actually quite comfortable here. And in winter? Yep, it gets cold here, for sure. You know what? It gets cold here for a month and a half. Not five months. And no one ever seems to joke and rib about "Cold enough for ya?" because cold isn't funny. Cold makes you lose toes. Heat makes you sweat. And maybe a layer or two of skin if you're not careful. So, if you want to think I'm a nut for moving into the heat, concentrate on the fact that the weather NEVER CHANGES here during the summer. In Mass., you can have three days of 90+, followed by a single day of 65 and drizzle, followed by two spectacular 75 degree days. If you like any of those scenarios, you'll be happy for a day or three out of a week. In Raleigh, it's 91 and sunny EVERY DAY, with a slight chance of afternoon thunderstorms EVERY DAY, with a low at night of 72 EVERY DAY. So if you don't like that, you're pretty screwed until fall comes. Personally, it's been ok with me so far, aside from the unbroken consistency. I'd like it to mix up a bit more. But down here, you step under a tree (shade) and it's the best. The power of shade is something I didn't realize. And when there's a breeze, it doesn't destroy the day like in Cambridge. It's pleasant but you can still read the paper on the porch without it blowing away. So that's what it's like right now. Hot, yes. Humid, pretty much. Consistent, very. Hard to bear, not at all. And I still have my windows open every night, comfortably.
So, what's it like... you know, doing anything besides watching TV? I have to admit, I haven't done much here yet. Without an income, I've been reticent to go out to eat or drink much or buy lots of stuff, though I have done that within limits. Most of my pre-job life here has been doing relocation "business" like dealing with the DMV, getting insurance, job interviews, meetings with people who will be important to my career/life here, shopping for necessities... none of that's been a particular hassel aside from what I've already written about (in fact, getting my car registered after I got my license took about three minutes... the bureaucrats taking a smoking break outside when I went in were still mid-cigarette when I strolled out with my new plates). I do acknowledge that, for the most part, things move slower here. There is not as much immediacy to getting things done, contacting people... the local cable TV hotline often has a busy signal(!!) often. And yet the local rush hour--and it is close to an hour, maybe a bit longer--is early, both morning and evening, compared to the hours-long rushes in Boston. So I think there's a higher value here on time spent doing stuff at home or at least not at work--maybe a slightly more European attitude towards priorities.
My outside-of-home life has largely been spent at the YMCA, which is a bit sad because that's only an hour a day, including the walk or drive down there (the walk, which I'll only be able to do on weekends from now on, is a highlight of my day because it's just the right length and a great neighborhood to stroll through). I played volleyball with the pick-up league on Tuesday night, which was great and hopefully a repeatable weekly activity. The YMCA building is brand new--still a phase under construction with a pool--and it is light years from ye olde Cambridge Y in terms of facilities, equipment, and activity amongst all ages and types of people. If it wasn't weird, I would hang out there more, but it is so I won't.
What about the city and the environs? To be honest, I've only been able to come up with reasons to go downtown a few times, mostly to interview or meet with people. I did go to the state natural science museum to see the Dead Sea Scrolls... but honestly, until/unless I work there, there isn't much reason to go to downtown proper--much like living near Boston. I mean, it's a great little city and bound to get better, but I get what I need between the two neighborhood centers where I live (on the west edge of downtown). The environs are... first, I haven't visited many other neighborhoods, which I plan to in weekends between now and deciding whether or not to stay. But that's all Inside the Belt Line (IBL). Outside, which I've had to visit to find a Walmart, Home Depot, etc., is quite hellish and I can't figure out its allure at all, aside from being close to Walmart, Home Depot, etc. And cheaper housing with land, I guess. Raleigh is assuredly like every other major metropolitan area, with crappy strip developments and subdivisions out to the horizon. So, as long as I live in Raleigh as opposed to Durham or Chapel Hill, I'll stay inside the belt line. It's nice and decent-looking (it's not as naturally "gifted" as say Portland Oregon, as historic as Cambridge, or as jazzy/exciting as pre-Katrina New Orleans) with hills and trees, older areas and newer areas; it has a lot of potential that is unrealized, putting it more in line with a Richmond or Worcester. It's unpretentious and comfortable but I could stand to see it take the next step and start spending some real $$ to make it look like a capital city with a little more care about its image.
So, that's what things are like so far. It's not a sweeping endorsement of moving here, I acknowledge, but also not a negative outlook. Like Raleigh itself, life in Raleigh is a middle-of-the-road experience. It's good. Not awesome, not horrible, and generally better than worse. I'll touch back in a week after I've commuted five days straight and we'll see if the needle is still pointing to "medium." I'll get to start spending money, going out, making work friends, but I'll also get road weary... so, like most of this, it's anybody's guess!
Saturday, July 26, 2008
Monday, July 21, 2008
What I Want: Home
Being out of work for several weeks has afforded me the opportunity to be more reflective about what I want out of life (because I'm only spending about fifteen minutes a day dealing with actual, immediate life-sustenance... what else is there to do besides watch TV?). So I've been allowing myself to develop a mental image of an idealized future life in all its components--home, work, relationships, lifestyle, etc. I can't say I've developed this fantasy in any great level of detail, or at least there's only so much I can keep in my head at once before some of it has to get written down. I'm a little reluctant to actually write any of it down, because an idealized life is a moving target... what tickles my armpit today may not tomorrow. Then again, maybe that's as good a reason as any to document it. Perhaps I can mock myself derisively at some future moment of unemployment. But certainly the point isn't to create a wish list or to-do list, but rather to start coloring the image in my mind. To the extent that it starts influencing my life decisions, it may not be a bad "planning" tool. Here goes the "What I Want: Home" segment of the fantasy:
- I want a house someday. How... American! Yuppie! Phony! Sure, but when I imagine the movie scene that is a representation of my everyday life, I see me in a small, kinda crummy old house. It's in a city--one of those old timey in-city neighborhoods that is neither ritzy nor squalid. The paint is peeling in places, but for the most part it's a neatly kept house with some charm. For whatever reason, I have gray hair, am wearing blue jean shorts with a hanky out the back, and appear a little crazy (like Christopher Lloyd, only a little heavier-set). I think I'm yelling to myself, or perhaps at someone in the house while I'm out in the driveway. I DO NOT wear blue jean shorts, so I guess some revolution must have to happen.
- There's a driveway. It must lead to a garage, because I'm sure I want a garage... not so much for a car (more on the later) but rather for a shop. I want a project shop. Not necessarily dedicated to woodworking, although I'm sure there would be a saw or something. Just a place to get inspired to make stuff and then quickly lose interest, thereby piling up strata of unfinished work. A place that is separate from the rest of the world, probably with big weedy bushes growing around it. And yet still a neatly kept place... hmm, something about neat today. Does strata negate neat?
- I'd have a car, and there would be a place for it in the garage, but it would always be covered with stuff that makes it inconvenient to move. That's my natural defense against overusing the car--keep it hidden in the garage under stuff, and that way I'll only use it when it has to be used. It looks like a black 2003 Hyundai, so I guess I never get a new car. Ever.
- I like modernish furniture--in keeping with the neat motif--but I don't see myself growing into middle age with "sleak" style. Dark woods and cubic stuff seems like it'd make sense right now, but in the future I think it'll be a mixed bag of worn-out furnishings. I can't really have nice things, because I never take good enough care of any of it. It's stuff. It holds up other stuff. How precious can it be?
- The house will need to be in a well-serviced neighborhood, that is, walkable to everything I need. Which will make this either a very rare situation or a very expensive one--back to paying a premium for crummy housing! A grocery store, pharmacy, library, restaurant, bar, post office--it all has to be around. I don't really care if it's a ye olde village or just a decent plaza that is at the end of a sidewalk. But it has to be comfortable with no pretentions. If I want a gin & tonic, I don't want funny looks when I come in in my jean shorts and hanky, probably with socks pulled up way too high. Just give me the damn drink, Mac.
- I want a comfortable outdoor patio or porch. I want things growing on it, giving me shade in the summer, and I want to use this space from St. Patrick's Day on to at least Veteran's Day. I want a comfy chair out there, a crossword puzzle I can't finish, and a cup of coffee if it's the morning or a glass of wine if it's afternoon. I want the fucking cat to sit out there without having to be leashed to it.
- I want a small yard that feels like a courtyard. Just big enough to have a slightly dangerous game of volleyball that can be observed from the patio or porch, with maybe one end of the net hung off the side of the garage.
- I want enough scraggy trees behind the garage that it feels like woods but isn't... like, if there's a child in this equation, they grow up thinking that they live next to some woods with a little trail or swamp, but then come home from college one day and realize that it's just a few trees and bushes. The old hike across the block to their friend's house? Mere steps through the trees to an adult.
- I want the house to be small, just big enough for what I need and that's it. Extra space bothers me, like a domestic black hole. It begs to be filled, but you know what? I have nothing more for you, black hole! You'll have to be empty!
- My house cannot be new, or at least not designed new for me. I need a project to lose interest in. I need several projects to lose interest in. I need a house that understands that it is imperfect and not ideally suited to me, but that we're going to break each other in. I'll fix you, you break my will, and that'll be good enough.
- I want a house that calms my restlessness. I want a house that cures boredom-induced pacing. When I feel like staying in, I want my home to make up reasons to keep me in so I don't feel like I'm wasting a nice outside day. Break a little, or creak funny, or come up with an odd smell to investigate. And when I actually feel like being outside, the house needs to give me a reason to be outside... the sound of rain and thunder over a metal porch roof? A perfect ray of sunshine on the patio in the emerging spring? Support my subconscious whims, house, and don't let me second guess them.
- I want real wood blinds. I am so sick of cheap plastic, metal, or bamboo shades, miniblinds, valences, etc. etc. Give me a nice light-stained, inch-and-a-half wide SLAT. I want it to sound like a fucking Jacobs Ladder when I pull them up. I never want another bent or broken blind that makes my home look abandoned (thanks, Fenway..). And closed miniblinds, unbent, are not much better. They say to the world "I would rather look at white plastic then let the world see into my home for even a second." Everywhere I look, it's like a wall of spite for the outdoors. At least make them wood so I don't have to see naked plastic.
- I want my home to be alright. I don't want a nice house, or a peculiar house, or an avant-garde house, or a period house, or a McMansion house. Nor do I want a hazard house or a haunted house or a mobile house. No ripped window screens, no broken windows. Just alright. How about this: a converted house? A house that used to be something else, but not something big or strange? A house that used to be an old-time fire station, but not one of those historic register things that's totally redone inside with period colors and fixtures, just something that's old, has some character, felt neglected... ready for a symbiotic relationship that won't bring back its glory but will keep it from total obscurity...
Stomach tells me it's dinner time, so off I go. Next up: Work? Maybe...
- I want a house someday. How... American! Yuppie! Phony! Sure, but when I imagine the movie scene that is a representation of my everyday life, I see me in a small, kinda crummy old house. It's in a city--one of those old timey in-city neighborhoods that is neither ritzy nor squalid. The paint is peeling in places, but for the most part it's a neatly kept house with some charm. For whatever reason, I have gray hair, am wearing blue jean shorts with a hanky out the back, and appear a little crazy (like Christopher Lloyd, only a little heavier-set). I think I'm yelling to myself, or perhaps at someone in the house while I'm out in the driveway. I DO NOT wear blue jean shorts, so I guess some revolution must have to happen.
- There's a driveway. It must lead to a garage, because I'm sure I want a garage... not so much for a car (more on the later) but rather for a shop. I want a project shop. Not necessarily dedicated to woodworking, although I'm sure there would be a saw or something. Just a place to get inspired to make stuff and then quickly lose interest, thereby piling up strata of unfinished work. A place that is separate from the rest of the world, probably with big weedy bushes growing around it. And yet still a neatly kept place... hmm, something about neat today. Does strata negate neat?
- I'd have a car, and there would be a place for it in the garage, but it would always be covered with stuff that makes it inconvenient to move. That's my natural defense against overusing the car--keep it hidden in the garage under stuff, and that way I'll only use it when it has to be used. It looks like a black 2003 Hyundai, so I guess I never get a new car. Ever.
- I like modernish furniture--in keeping with the neat motif--but I don't see myself growing into middle age with "sleak" style. Dark woods and cubic stuff seems like it'd make sense right now, but in the future I think it'll be a mixed bag of worn-out furnishings. I can't really have nice things, because I never take good enough care of any of it. It's stuff. It holds up other stuff. How precious can it be?
- The house will need to be in a well-serviced neighborhood, that is, walkable to everything I need. Which will make this either a very rare situation or a very expensive one--back to paying a premium for crummy housing! A grocery store, pharmacy, library, restaurant, bar, post office--it all has to be around. I don't really care if it's a ye olde village or just a decent plaza that is at the end of a sidewalk. But it has to be comfortable with no pretentions. If I want a gin & tonic, I don't want funny looks when I come in in my jean shorts and hanky, probably with socks pulled up way too high. Just give me the damn drink, Mac.
- I want a comfortable outdoor patio or porch. I want things growing on it, giving me shade in the summer, and I want to use this space from St. Patrick's Day on to at least Veteran's Day. I want a comfy chair out there, a crossword puzzle I can't finish, and a cup of coffee if it's the morning or a glass of wine if it's afternoon. I want the fucking cat to sit out there without having to be leashed to it.
- I want a small yard that feels like a courtyard. Just big enough to have a slightly dangerous game of volleyball that can be observed from the patio or porch, with maybe one end of the net hung off the side of the garage.
- I want enough scraggy trees behind the garage that it feels like woods but isn't... like, if there's a child in this equation, they grow up thinking that they live next to some woods with a little trail or swamp, but then come home from college one day and realize that it's just a few trees and bushes. The old hike across the block to their friend's house? Mere steps through the trees to an adult.
- I want the house to be small, just big enough for what I need and that's it. Extra space bothers me, like a domestic black hole. It begs to be filled, but you know what? I have nothing more for you, black hole! You'll have to be empty!
- My house cannot be new, or at least not designed new for me. I need a project to lose interest in. I need several projects to lose interest in. I need a house that understands that it is imperfect and not ideally suited to me, but that we're going to break each other in. I'll fix you, you break my will, and that'll be good enough.
- I want a house that calms my restlessness. I want a house that cures boredom-induced pacing. When I feel like staying in, I want my home to make up reasons to keep me in so I don't feel like I'm wasting a nice outside day. Break a little, or creak funny, or come up with an odd smell to investigate. And when I actually feel like being outside, the house needs to give me a reason to be outside... the sound of rain and thunder over a metal porch roof? A perfect ray of sunshine on the patio in the emerging spring? Support my subconscious whims, house, and don't let me second guess them.
- I want real wood blinds. I am so sick of cheap plastic, metal, or bamboo shades, miniblinds, valences, etc. etc. Give me a nice light-stained, inch-and-a-half wide SLAT. I want it to sound like a fucking Jacobs Ladder when I pull them up. I never want another bent or broken blind that makes my home look abandoned (thanks, Fenway..). And closed miniblinds, unbent, are not much better. They say to the world "I would rather look at white plastic then let the world see into my home for even a second." Everywhere I look, it's like a wall of spite for the outdoors. At least make them wood so I don't have to see naked plastic.
- I want my home to be alright. I don't want a nice house, or a peculiar house, or an avant-garde house, or a period house, or a McMansion house. Nor do I want a hazard house or a haunted house or a mobile house. No ripped window screens, no broken windows. Just alright. How about this: a converted house? A house that used to be something else, but not something big or strange? A house that used to be an old-time fire station, but not one of those historic register things that's totally redone inside with period colors and fixtures, just something that's old, has some character, felt neglected... ready for a symbiotic relationship that won't bring back its glory but will keep it from total obscurity...
Stomach tells me it's dinner time, so off I go. Next up: Work? Maybe...
DVR Danger
Not a good combo: a DVR mixed with an unemployed yet goal-oriented obsessive-compulsive personality.
I MUST CHECK ITEMS OFF MY LIST!! Keep going until they're all gone... WAIT, THERE'S MORE!!
I MUST CHECK ITEMS OFF MY LIST!! Keep going until they're all gone... WAIT, THERE'S MORE!!
Saturday, July 19, 2008
Back to Work
I accepted a job offer yesterday! on July 28 I'll be working at The Freelon Group, a very highly-respected, design-focused architecture firm out in RTP (Research Triangle Park). Though I've never been a big fan of work, I am a big fan of not being bored and poor, so I'm eager to get back into it and start taking steps towards the primary objective this year--licensure. Practicing architecture and being surrounded by architects will certainly help.
To celebrate, I went out to eat at the Cameron Bar & Grill, which is one of the dozen restaurants at the shopping area Cameron Village down the road from my apartment. As usual, I decided to walk. I made it about a hundred feet from the apartment when the first outer swipe of the new tropical storm headed in from the south and just dumped water all over the place. I made it to the restaurant before the sky really opened up; it rained so hard that the satellite TV service in the bar shut down for five minutes. I was looking forward to dessert after my burger, but managed to misconvey to the bartender that I was done eating. I stopped back at Rite Aid on my way home and bought wine and a box of Fiddle Faddle to continue the celebration... not a good mix, by the way. Don't know why I didn't see that coming... so I saved the wine for this weekend and mowed the Fiddle Faddle watching The Simpsons. Quite a fitting celebration. Oh, by the way, the rain had stopped by the time I left the bar, so I didn't get any wetter.
I'm now two weeks into my life here in Raleigh, and although they are certain to be uncharacteristic weeks when viewed across my broader time here, I'm feeling optimistic about the potential there is to be happy here. I recently noted that, unlike in Cambridge, I am not always angry here. That anger ranged from pissiness at work, sidewalk rage, landlord/apartment-related anger, weather fatigue, etc. and was perhaps only lessened by the narcotic of TV. So far in Raleigh, that anger has been largely replaced by fear and apprehension... which most people would think is not a great swap, but for me, fear ebbs much quicker than anger does. Which means that the next few weeks and months have great potential to be... pleasant? After that, who knows if I'll slide back into my standard mode of finding things to be angry about. The fact that I'll be shocking my system with a series of professional exams over the next year makes me think I can keep the apprehension up long enough to forestall the anger. Baby steps!
To celebrate, I went out to eat at the Cameron Bar & Grill, which is one of the dozen restaurants at the shopping area Cameron Village down the road from my apartment. As usual, I decided to walk. I made it about a hundred feet from the apartment when the first outer swipe of the new tropical storm headed in from the south and just dumped water all over the place. I made it to the restaurant before the sky really opened up; it rained so hard that the satellite TV service in the bar shut down for five minutes. I was looking forward to dessert after my burger, but managed to misconvey to the bartender that I was done eating. I stopped back at Rite Aid on my way home and bought wine and a box of Fiddle Faddle to continue the celebration... not a good mix, by the way. Don't know why I didn't see that coming... so I saved the wine for this weekend and mowed the Fiddle Faddle watching The Simpsons. Quite a fitting celebration. Oh, by the way, the rain had stopped by the time I left the bar, so I didn't get any wetter.
I'm now two weeks into my life here in Raleigh, and although they are certain to be uncharacteristic weeks when viewed across my broader time here, I'm feeling optimistic about the potential there is to be happy here. I recently noted that, unlike in Cambridge, I am not always angry here. That anger ranged from pissiness at work, sidewalk rage, landlord/apartment-related anger, weather fatigue, etc. and was perhaps only lessened by the narcotic of TV. So far in Raleigh, that anger has been largely replaced by fear and apprehension... which most people would think is not a great swap, but for me, fear ebbs much quicker than anger does. Which means that the next few weeks and months have great potential to be... pleasant? After that, who knows if I'll slide back into my standard mode of finding things to be angry about. The fact that I'll be shocking my system with a series of professional exams over the next year makes me think I can keep the apprehension up long enough to forestall the anger. Baby steps!
Tuesday, July 15, 2008
Ways that Paul Sucks at Interviewing
by Paul's Inner Monologue, amidst an interview
Paul is not very good at interviewing. Allow me to point out key errors as we encounter them.
1. Witness Paul sitting in his car in the parking lot. Paul is a half hour early to his latest interview. Again. In the past, Paul would actually check in at the reception desk a half hour early, leaving him waiting uneasily for a long period of time for his inevitably late interviewer. Now Paul has the sense to wait in the car and not seem such a desperate soul in the waiting room... unless, that is, anyone on the staff notices the strange man in the parking lot. Even after waiting in the car, Paul still checks in fifteen minutes too early. Paul tends to creep out receptionists who are used to people showing up five minutes late to everything.
2. Paul has not practiced his talking points, as you can tell by the stony silence after his greetings with the interviewer. In fact, Paul has no talking points. He awaits prompting from his interviewer on everything, from introductory small talk to presenting his past work samples. Paul waits while his interviewer synthesizes a scattershot of information about past work, level of experience, and skill sets rather than explicitly stating how he can be of service to the hiring organization. When coupled with an underprepared and inexperienced interviewer, it's a wonder that any relevant information is being exchanged and contextualized throughout the interview.
3. Upon realizing that he is not being a proactive interviewee, Paul loses his facility with the English language as he attempts to fill silence with an abundance of words. All his skills become "I'm good at," his experiences become "I've done that," his goals become "I'd like to do that." You'll note the excessive repetition of simple turns of phrase, a slimming down in the level of detail of responses, and heavy breathing between run-on sentences.
4. Notice the contortion of facial expressions evident in the final half of the interview. At this point, Paul has attempted to smile continuously for nearly a half hour, even during his lengthy responses, and his facial muscles are beginning to strain and cramp. Worried that this may belie his normally flat countenance, Paul attempts to "jog" his facial muscles during the interview, resulting in a mosaic of unusual and uncomfortable-looking expressions. Paul's self-consciousness of his predicament causes him to begin frowning and squinting at just the moment of the interview where projecting confidence and optimism are most important. Notice how lava-lampesque facial contortions have set off subconscious reflective expressions on his interviewer's face.
5. Paul's constant and unpointed talking in addition to his facial gymnastics have left him too exhausted to put an important punctuation of the end of the interview. There is no discussion of next steps, timeframes, another meeting date, just a polite thank-you, a collecting of papers, and a speedy exit. Paul has failed to make a positive in-person impression.
6. Paul goes back to his car in the parking lot and immediately diagnoses the major errors in his performance. His final mistake: not writing down his diagnosis in the hopes it will improve his efforts at the next interview.
Paul is not very good at interviewing. Allow me to point out key errors as we encounter them.
1. Witness Paul sitting in his car in the parking lot. Paul is a half hour early to his latest interview. Again. In the past, Paul would actually check in at the reception desk a half hour early, leaving him waiting uneasily for a long period of time for his inevitably late interviewer. Now Paul has the sense to wait in the car and not seem such a desperate soul in the waiting room... unless, that is, anyone on the staff notices the strange man in the parking lot. Even after waiting in the car, Paul still checks in fifteen minutes too early. Paul tends to creep out receptionists who are used to people showing up five minutes late to everything.
2. Paul has not practiced his talking points, as you can tell by the stony silence after his greetings with the interviewer. In fact, Paul has no talking points. He awaits prompting from his interviewer on everything, from introductory small talk to presenting his past work samples. Paul waits while his interviewer synthesizes a scattershot of information about past work, level of experience, and skill sets rather than explicitly stating how he can be of service to the hiring organization. When coupled with an underprepared and inexperienced interviewer, it's a wonder that any relevant information is being exchanged and contextualized throughout the interview.
3. Upon realizing that he is not being a proactive interviewee, Paul loses his facility with the English language as he attempts to fill silence with an abundance of words. All his skills become "I'm good at," his experiences become "I've done that," his goals become "I'd like to do that." You'll note the excessive repetition of simple turns of phrase, a slimming down in the level of detail of responses, and heavy breathing between run-on sentences.
4. Notice the contortion of facial expressions evident in the final half of the interview. At this point, Paul has attempted to smile continuously for nearly a half hour, even during his lengthy responses, and his facial muscles are beginning to strain and cramp. Worried that this may belie his normally flat countenance, Paul attempts to "jog" his facial muscles during the interview, resulting in a mosaic of unusual and uncomfortable-looking expressions. Paul's self-consciousness of his predicament causes him to begin frowning and squinting at just the moment of the interview where projecting confidence and optimism are most important. Notice how lava-lampesque facial contortions have set off subconscious reflective expressions on his interviewer's face.
5. Paul's constant and unpointed talking in addition to his facial gymnastics have left him too exhausted to put an important punctuation of the end of the interview. There is no discussion of next steps, timeframes, another meeting date, just a polite thank-you, a collecting of papers, and a speedy exit. Paul has failed to make a positive in-person impression.
6. Paul goes back to his car in the parking lot and immediately diagnoses the major errors in his performance. His final mistake: not writing down his diagnosis in the hopes it will improve his efforts at the next interview.
Sunday, July 13, 2008
It's a shopping cart, folks. For groceries.
I've gotten over the stares I get for walking places. I get it; normal people here own and drive cars, it saves them time, it's more comfortable, they can listen to the radio. People walking on the sidewalk around here are poor or have had their license suspended, or both. Or are trying to get exercise (you can tell because everyone here has an outdoor exercise uniform that includes soccer shorts, a light-colored T-shirt, sneakers, and a hair scrunchie). But I rest assured that as gas gets more expensive, more jeans-wearing folk will accompany me on the sidewalks.
I still can't get over the expressions of bewilderment and novelty that I get when I take my bag-lady cart out to the supermarket, though. It's a shopping cart, folks. For groceries. I walk it down to the Harris Teeter (heh heh, teeter) from my apartment, load it up with groceries, and then walk it back up. I mean, I can understand if this is the first time you've seen this particular type of shopping cart, which stands upright and holds no more than a single's average week's consumption of food... but do you have to be so, so... surprised? Is it really that great a conceptual leap from, say, the much larger black wire-grate shopping cart YOU have here in the store? Or that roller-board suitcase you bring to the airport that is the EXACT SAME SIZE AND SHAPE? Yes, it has WHEELS! And I put STUFF in it!! And I take the stuff HOME in it! And it keeps my fingers from looking like RED LINK SAUSAGES from carrying ten plastic bags of food a mile back to my home! But it really is just too much for some people. They feel they must comment on it, as if I was wearing traditional ceremonial garb from a trip to Kenya or something. "My, isn't that something! Are you a 'moslem'?"
When the forces of the Northeast come to conquer and subdue this new land, this new colony, as we have already begun, small bag-lady shopping carts will be standard issue equipment. We will literally paralyze these locals with shock and awe. And save our fingers while we do it.
I still can't get over the expressions of bewilderment and novelty that I get when I take my bag-lady cart out to the supermarket, though. It's a shopping cart, folks. For groceries. I walk it down to the Harris Teeter (heh heh, teeter) from my apartment, load it up with groceries, and then walk it back up. I mean, I can understand if this is the first time you've seen this particular type of shopping cart, which stands upright and holds no more than a single's average week's consumption of food... but do you have to be so, so... surprised? Is it really that great a conceptual leap from, say, the much larger black wire-grate shopping cart YOU have here in the store? Or that roller-board suitcase you bring to the airport that is the EXACT SAME SIZE AND SHAPE? Yes, it has WHEELS! And I put STUFF in it!! And I take the stuff HOME in it! And it keeps my fingers from looking like RED LINK SAUSAGES from carrying ten plastic bags of food a mile back to my home! But it really is just too much for some people. They feel they must comment on it, as if I was wearing traditional ceremonial garb from a trip to Kenya or something. "My, isn't that something! Are you a 'moslem'?"
When the forces of the Northeast come to conquer and subdue this new land, this new colony, as we have already begun, small bag-lady shopping carts will be standard issue equipment. We will literally paralyze these locals with shock and awe. And save our fingers while we do it.
Friday, July 11, 2008
An Irishman Tries to Sell Me Insurance
I was supposed to have a job interview this afternoon, but it was postponed... that's about how my job search is going now. My list of interesting job prospects is shrinking daily, so as you can imagine, I'm not quite as optimistic as when I convinced myself to move. I guess that's part of the game.
Instead of heading to the postponed interview, I was instead visited by an Irishman who wanted to sell me insurance. In the process of researching health insurance options over the past few days, I had inadvertently posted my contact information with a big "kick me" sign on its back amidst the Internet, and was contact by this guy with a notable accent who was an agent for an insurance provider I had never heard of before. Before I knew it, this guy had invited himself over to my apartment to show me some brochures and give me an insurance quote. Eh, I figured... it's not like anything else is going right, so why not?
The guy, who was either an Irishman or a subdued Scot, made note of the dogness of my cat and the bareness of my apartment, which should have offended me quite enough to send him away right off the bat. But, feeling residual desperation from my job search creep into my health insurance search, I gave him the benefit of pitching me his wares. Now, mind you, I have no experience buying health insurance; I've always worked somewhere where you have no choice and I just get what's given to me. So I've had to learn pretty quick what deductibles are about, what coinsurance is, why I would want or not want a copay, etc. etc. I'm sure this guy could see my green, and he was happy to put his fast-talking Irishman ways with language into full effect in order to sell me some insurance. He pointed here, and then there, and then at this brochure and then that page of the other one, saying how this all added up to the best fucking insurance deal anyone in Raleigh has ever seen.
Anyone who knows me knows I don't jump in the water without knowing its temparature, pH level, and carnivorous fauna first, so I started stalling.
"Oh, yes, well, I'll have to digest this some before I can sign up for anything," I meeped. But he pushed it.
"Aye, yea, well, lemme get ee calculator oot nay and help yee digest it, em then! Fridaye afternoon st a grand tyme ti make ae decision, then!" he countered. So I went for a more analytic tack.
"Why does your policy say I have to pay the deductible three times up before I get coverage? I don't think Blue Cross does that."
"Oooh, but that there's comparin' apples and ooranges, son. If ya don't wanna pay up thee deductible thrice before ya get cooverage, thah, you won' be wantin' this poolicy anywae!"
He used his laptop to calculate up a quote for the policy I wasn't interested in, and it turned out to be fairly expensive per month anyway. He must have seen my soul die a little more when he showed it and decided I was sunk, so he started packing up his brochures. I told him I'd be happy to look over the information in more detail after he left, but he'd have none of it.
"This poolicy ain't fah yee, I can tell 'lready, son. When I present, I usully see folks intrest'd in a few minutes, and I can tell yah ain't intrest'd. Are yah an engineer then, son? Yah seem very analytical..."
So I showed the Irishman out and immediately decided that I couldn't go wrong with buying the same insurance that 75% of my neighbors have, which is Blue Cross. In investigating the reviews that customers give local health insurers, Blue Cross has a solid 45% "greatly dissatisfied" rate--very predictablly poor, like the cable company. Of course, the company the Irishman represents has a far superior rating, but who the hell knows them anyway?
Instead of heading to the postponed interview, I was instead visited by an Irishman who wanted to sell me insurance. In the process of researching health insurance options over the past few days, I had inadvertently posted my contact information with a big "kick me" sign on its back amidst the Internet, and was contact by this guy with a notable accent who was an agent for an insurance provider I had never heard of before. Before I knew it, this guy had invited himself over to my apartment to show me some brochures and give me an insurance quote. Eh, I figured... it's not like anything else is going right, so why not?
The guy, who was either an Irishman or a subdued Scot, made note of the dogness of my cat and the bareness of my apartment, which should have offended me quite enough to send him away right off the bat. But, feeling residual desperation from my job search creep into my health insurance search, I gave him the benefit of pitching me his wares. Now, mind you, I have no experience buying health insurance; I've always worked somewhere where you have no choice and I just get what's given to me. So I've had to learn pretty quick what deductibles are about, what coinsurance is, why I would want or not want a copay, etc. etc. I'm sure this guy could see my green, and he was happy to put his fast-talking Irishman ways with language into full effect in order to sell me some insurance. He pointed here, and then there, and then at this brochure and then that page of the other one, saying how this all added up to the best fucking insurance deal anyone in Raleigh has ever seen.
Anyone who knows me knows I don't jump in the water without knowing its temparature, pH level, and carnivorous fauna first, so I started stalling.
"Oh, yes, well, I'll have to digest this some before I can sign up for anything," I meeped. But he pushed it.
"Aye, yea, well, lemme get ee calculator oot nay and help yee digest it, em then! Fridaye afternoon st a grand tyme ti make ae decision, then!" he countered. So I went for a more analytic tack.
"Why does your policy say I have to pay the deductible three times up before I get coverage? I don't think Blue Cross does that."
"Oooh, but that there's comparin' apples and ooranges, son. If ya don't wanna pay up thee deductible thrice before ya get cooverage, thah, you won' be wantin' this poolicy anywae!"
He used his laptop to calculate up a quote for the policy I wasn't interested in, and it turned out to be fairly expensive per month anyway. He must have seen my soul die a little more when he showed it and decided I was sunk, so he started packing up his brochures. I told him I'd be happy to look over the information in more detail after he left, but he'd have none of it.
"This poolicy ain't fah yee, I can tell 'lready, son. When I present, I usully see folks intrest'd in a few minutes, and I can tell yah ain't intrest'd. Are yah an engineer then, son? Yah seem very analytical..."
So I showed the Irishman out and immediately decided that I couldn't go wrong with buying the same insurance that 75% of my neighbors have, which is Blue Cross. In investigating the reviews that customers give local health insurers, Blue Cross has a solid 45% "greatly dissatisfied" rate--very predictablly poor, like the cable company. Of course, the company the Irishman represents has a far superior rating, but who the hell knows them anyway?
Thursday, July 10, 2008
Hell is Air Conditioned
Today, after my scrumptious bowl of Honey Bunches of Oats, I headed out to DMV headquarters to get my brand spanky new North Carolina drivers license. It was about 9:15ish AM, and the place seemed pretty quiet for a DMV, so I was optimistic about getting out of there fast. Boy, was I right! After I read a sign outside that said "No Licenses Are Issued At This Facility" and confirmed that fact inside, I was out of there in two minutes, tops. Probably my shortest DMV visit ever.
So instead I had to drive all the way to North Raleigh, which I guess is supposed to be close by local standards. The DMV has a storefront in an otherwise unremarkable shopping plaza, and as I joined the line inside the front door, I got my first in-person look at North Carolinian beaucratic machinations. Essentially, there are two groups here--those who have to wait at the door to get their deli ticket number, and those who have to sit in the plastic chairs holding their deli ticket numbers while they wait to get called upon. It was kinda a mix of pre-movie theater waiting (complete with repeating trivia questions scrolling across a marquee screen), an exceptionally long bank teller line, a deli with no food or beverage, and... well, a DMV, I guess. It had all the hallmarks of hell on earth, including screaming children, drug-addled wastoids, nervous teenagers, and DMV employees who seemed a little too happy to be there. But it was air conditioned.
I figured getting a new state's license would be a simple paperwork processing concern, with perhaps an eye exam. I almost failed the eye exam, by the way, even after I put the glasses on... apparently my face was not thrust far enough into the machine, so half the letters were literally not showing up. The nice large woman on the other side of the counter let it slide, but being sure I was not blind in my right eye, I took a second and third look and then realized I just wasn't being aggressive enough with the machine. I also failed to identify a round yellow sign with no writing on it as a RR XING sign. I didn't know I had to know stuff!! But she gave me the answer. Then she sent me to a testing seat!!!!
Ok, not a road test, although I think that may have been less stressful. It was a computerized multiple choice test, and I damn near didn't make it. I mean, there was zero warning that I would have to be more than conscious for this transaction, and now I'm answering questions about North Carolina road rules that I have no business knowing, much less abiding by. It came down to the wire--I had to get a full twenty of twenty-five questions right, and I cut it close. But I did make it, at which point they stripped me of my Massachusetts license, gave me a fresh NC license, and sent me on my way to continue ignoring all signs and rules I'm not familiar with.
And that was just for the license. I was too chicken shit to get my car registered at the same time, being a shaky mess after the test. So I go back tomorrow(?). I think I'll try the headquarters again--no sign that says "No Customer Services Offered At This Facility," so I figure I have a shot.
So instead I had to drive all the way to North Raleigh, which I guess is supposed to be close by local standards. The DMV has a storefront in an otherwise unremarkable shopping plaza, and as I joined the line inside the front door, I got my first in-person look at North Carolinian beaucratic machinations. Essentially, there are two groups here--those who have to wait at the door to get their deli ticket number, and those who have to sit in the plastic chairs holding their deli ticket numbers while they wait to get called upon. It was kinda a mix of pre-movie theater waiting (complete with repeating trivia questions scrolling across a marquee screen), an exceptionally long bank teller line, a deli with no food or beverage, and... well, a DMV, I guess. It had all the hallmarks of hell on earth, including screaming children, drug-addled wastoids, nervous teenagers, and DMV employees who seemed a little too happy to be there. But it was air conditioned.
I figured getting a new state's license would be a simple paperwork processing concern, with perhaps an eye exam. I almost failed the eye exam, by the way, even after I put the glasses on... apparently my face was not thrust far enough into the machine, so half the letters were literally not showing up. The nice large woman on the other side of the counter let it slide, but being sure I was not blind in my right eye, I took a second and third look and then realized I just wasn't being aggressive enough with the machine. I also failed to identify a round yellow sign with no writing on it as a RR XING sign. I didn't know I had to know stuff!! But she gave me the answer. Then she sent me to a testing seat!!!!
Ok, not a road test, although I think that may have been less stressful. It was a computerized multiple choice test, and I damn near didn't make it. I mean, there was zero warning that I would have to be more than conscious for this transaction, and now I'm answering questions about North Carolina road rules that I have no business knowing, much less abiding by. It came down to the wire--I had to get a full twenty of twenty-five questions right, and I cut it close. But I did make it, at which point they stripped me of my Massachusetts license, gave me a fresh NC license, and sent me on my way to continue ignoring all signs and rules I'm not familiar with.
And that was just for the license. I was too chicken shit to get my car registered at the same time, being a shaky mess after the test. So I go back tomorrow(?). I think I'll try the headquarters again--no sign that says "No Customer Services Offered At This Facility," so I figure I have a shot.
Wednesday, July 9, 2008
Breakfast in the New Colony
Today I had Honey Bunches of Oats cereal with skim milk for breakfast. Yesterday, same thing, and even the day before that. It's also what I had every single morning for breakfast for about the last two years. Never have a met a cereal I could tolerate every morning for more than a couple months at a time; those Honey Bunches of Oats people are fucking geniuses.
I've already devolved to writing about what I had for breakfast to introduce a theme that's been with me in the last couple weeks of moving, that is, the erosion and eventual stripping of all my day-to-day habits (for the most part). I stopped my near-daily exercising (no gym in the car). I stopped consuming caffeine with regularity (i.e., had coffee about once every two hours on the road, but not often at all while at rest). I stopped shaving every other day. I brushed my teeth when I damn well felt like it, which was probably still once a day but never at the same time!! I stopped checking my e-mail every ten minutes like an addict. I stopped eating fiber almost entirely, I think (including my awesome Honey Bunches of Oat supplement, sadly). I stopped going to bed at 10:30 sharp every night. I'm sure there are more things I stopped doing that, when summed up, describe what an outlandishly boring life I had, but you get the idea--things I did, whether good or bad, they all dried up in two weeks.
So I get here to Raleigh and have a golden opportunity to start all new habits... and I start eating Honey Bunches of Oats again. Well, that I don't regret too much, that shit is tasty. I was conscious of this new "power," though, so I thought I'd try to introduce some good habits I'd been holding back on in the past. Flossing is always a tough one to get going, so I'm working on that. I guess Windexing my bathroom mirror nightly is going to have to follow, lest it begin to look like a starfield screensaver. Shaving every morning is another, and I've had to fight to do that a mere three days running. Making food at home--oh, chore--so far, not bad, though it's Wednesday night and I've already run low on groceries. You get the idea. New, good habits.
So what would you do? Given the opportunity to completely destabilize your life for a couple weeks, how would you pick up the pieces? What would you go back to? Mind you, as I don't have a job yet, keeping a consistent schedule has not been important. When I do find a job, well... so long flossing, perhaps? I mean, that's two minutes I could be doing... work. Or eating Honey Bunches of Oats. That shit is just unreal, like a crunchy, six and a half minute, low-level orgasm. Can you imagine if I ate it with whole milk? Talk about a habit.
I've already devolved to writing about what I had for breakfast to introduce a theme that's been with me in the last couple weeks of moving, that is, the erosion and eventual stripping of all my day-to-day habits (for the most part). I stopped my near-daily exercising (no gym in the car). I stopped consuming caffeine with regularity (i.e., had coffee about once every two hours on the road, but not often at all while at rest). I stopped shaving every other day. I brushed my teeth when I damn well felt like it, which was probably still once a day but never at the same time!! I stopped checking my e-mail every ten minutes like an addict. I stopped eating fiber almost entirely, I think (including my awesome Honey Bunches of Oat supplement, sadly). I stopped going to bed at 10:30 sharp every night. I'm sure there are more things I stopped doing that, when summed up, describe what an outlandishly boring life I had, but you get the idea--things I did, whether good or bad, they all dried up in two weeks.
So I get here to Raleigh and have a golden opportunity to start all new habits... and I start eating Honey Bunches of Oats again. Well, that I don't regret too much, that shit is tasty. I was conscious of this new "power," though, so I thought I'd try to introduce some good habits I'd been holding back on in the past. Flossing is always a tough one to get going, so I'm working on that. I guess Windexing my bathroom mirror nightly is going to have to follow, lest it begin to look like a starfield screensaver. Shaving every morning is another, and I've had to fight to do that a mere three days running. Making food at home--oh, chore--so far, not bad, though it's Wednesday night and I've already run low on groceries. You get the idea. New, good habits.
So what would you do? Given the opportunity to completely destabilize your life for a couple weeks, how would you pick up the pieces? What would you go back to? Mind you, as I don't have a job yet, keeping a consistent schedule has not been important. When I do find a job, well... so long flossing, perhaps? I mean, that's two minutes I could be doing... work. Or eating Honey Bunches of Oats. That shit is just unreal, like a crunchy, six and a half minute, low-level orgasm. Can you imagine if I ate it with whole milk? Talk about a habit.
A New Colony Begins
I'm drawn to writing this blog first because I have some inexplicable romantic notion about leaving "home" and being off in some strange place all alone, second, because the idea of documenting this romantic notion and its inevitable plummet to the real world comes with its own romantic notion; and third, because it saves me having to e-mail everyone I know with the same damn stories.
I could have started writing more than a week ago. Actually, forget that; Time Warner cable was not cooperative on that, and although I like the Cameron Village branch of the Raleigh Library, I wasn't about to deplete my latop battery blogging from outside home. Certainly, though, I could have started writing several days ago and have often planned to but found other, less reflective passtimes, such as watching TV (Time Warner thwarts my blog again!), going to sleep early, angsting about getting a job, Facebooking, etc. etc. These are all excuses, though. I think what keeps me from writing is that I feel the need to blog profoundly. After all, who the hell would read about what I ate for breakfast? Especially if it's the same thing I had yesterday, and the same thing I had every day in Cambridge? Either I'm caught up in my own minutia, in which case I would rather spare myself and everyone else a full documentation, or something important is happening and I'm not sitting at my desk recording it. I guess that means that unless something amazing happens while I'm at my computer, this is going to be one very unwritten blog.
OH MY GOD! BIG BIRD JUST CRASHED THROUGH MY LIVING ROOM WINDOW!! Ok, no.
It's time to part with this notion of blogging/writing profoundly. If you choose to come back and stay with me here, profundity may make an appearance now and then, but it won't be standard operating procedure. Time for all of us to get wrapped up in the dumb life minutia of some 30-year-old guy who moved from Boston to Raleigh because he thought life might be better for it. Hey! I stopped referring to myself as a kid! I'm a guy now! Huh...
I could have started writing more than a week ago. Actually, forget that; Time Warner cable was not cooperative on that, and although I like the Cameron Village branch of the Raleigh Library, I wasn't about to deplete my latop battery blogging from outside home. Certainly, though, I could have started writing several days ago and have often planned to but found other, less reflective passtimes, such as watching TV (Time Warner thwarts my blog again!), going to sleep early, angsting about getting a job, Facebooking, etc. etc. These are all excuses, though. I think what keeps me from writing is that I feel the need to blog profoundly. After all, who the hell would read about what I ate for breakfast? Especially if it's the same thing I had yesterday, and the same thing I had every day in Cambridge? Either I'm caught up in my own minutia, in which case I would rather spare myself and everyone else a full documentation, or something important is happening and I'm not sitting at my desk recording it. I guess that means that unless something amazing happens while I'm at my computer, this is going to be one very unwritten blog.
OH MY GOD! BIG BIRD JUST CRASHED THROUGH MY LIVING ROOM WINDOW!! Ok, no.
It's time to part with this notion of blogging/writing profoundly. If you choose to come back and stay with me here, profundity may make an appearance now and then, but it won't be standard operating procedure. Time for all of us to get wrapped up in the dumb life minutia of some 30-year-old guy who moved from Boston to Raleigh because he thought life might be better for it. Hey! I stopped referring to myself as a kid! I'm a guy now! Huh...
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