Bouncing Back

It's been a very rough few weeks here. It began with our Biggles passing away. We had been hoping for more time with him and his presence is so sorely missed. I still have not been able to write about it, though I will eventually post a tribute to him, like I did for Frankie.

A week to the day later, we found out that someone had cloned one of our bank cards and drained one of our checking accounts. And then, because we weren't having enough fun, a week and a few days after that, I lost my job.

Losing my job came as a complete shock. I was in the middle of several ongoing projects. Everyone was happy with my work—and said so. To the best of my knowledge, my contract was going to be renewed and paperwork was underway.

It was the Tuesday following Labor Day. I was in up to my ears and having a very productive day when the phone rang. It was the consulting agency that signed my checks and my rep with the agency said, "we've just received a very strange email from the client. Today is your last day."

I'm in my forties. I've had my fair share of jobs. I've never lost a job like that. No warning. No explanation. It was three-thirty in the afternoon and in less than two hours, I was going to be unemployed.

To say I was in shock doesn't even begin to describe what I was feeling. I had no idea what we were going to do. I didn't even have a final week's worth of pay to look forward to, just my earnings for that Tuesday, minus the usual taxes and the cost of health insurance for two. (It didn't amount to much.)

It angered me to be dismissed with so little care—to know that my work could be deemed unnecessary and unwanted by someone I'd never met. I'm not surprised though. It's the way companies operate these days the people who do the work don't matter. (Job-providers my ass!)

Wookie and I thought this job was a new beginning for us. We were hoping to finally get climbing out of the morass of debt that my little family has been trapped in. It's amazing how quickly that hope was extinguished.

After the initial shock started to wear off I had another battle to fight. I could feel Depression looming. Suddenly, for the first time in many years, I was hitting the old lows that dominated my twenties. It wasn't just the emotional lows—being sad is a perfectly justifiable reaction to getting fired. Suddenly, I was saddled with the physical side of Depression. The aches and heaviness I had not felt in years.

I fought Depression in college and throughout my twenties. I know Depression lies. But it this time I had something tangible pushing me into the darkness. It did not help that when I applied for unemployment, I had to watch a video about resources "to help me find a job and and keep it." Insult added to injury because I had done nothing to earn my dismissal.

The ache of depression pushed my shoulders down and made my joints hurt. I steeled myself for battle. There was too much to do and I could not afford to be in that pit again. I had obligations to meet. While the day-job was over, I still had other work to do and more than that, I had Wookie.

In my darkest moments, Wookie was there. He brought me roses and told me how much he loves me and needs me. Wookie reminded me of the difference I make—Wookie, who has also been struggling to find work, but still gives back. He trains a search and rescue squad to help others in times of crisis and has never hesitated to help someone else in need. If giving back could pay the bills and keep a roof over our heads, we'd be set.—Wookie reminded me of the lives I touch as a Celebrant and teacher. Loss of the day-job had not changed that.

The Social Media course I teach my fellow Celebrants every summer was due to start that Thursday night. I had to pull myself together. I also had several weddings coming up that needed to be revised, written or officiated. My other professional life was still intact and this work—while it usually has to take the back-burner to the higher-pay and health insurance of the day job—was important.

The first session of my social media class was just one hour, but I felt immeasurably better afterwards. The heaviness and pains of Depression had faded. Was I still sad? Sure. Was I still afraid of what the future would bring? Absolutely! But I was reminded that I still had work with a purpose.

People tie so much of their identities to work. Take that away and you can hurt someone on more than a financial level. I think there are two kinds of work. The kind you do for the paycheck and the kind you do to make a contribution. If you're lucky, you get to do both at once. Sadly, I think many people don't ever look past the paycheck. Maybe they don't think they can.

My day job as a technical writer was a paycheck job. I enjoyed the people I worked with. I enjoyed the challenge and always worked to exceed expectations. I even enjoyed the products I was working on. But at the end of the day, I don't believe lives were touched or improved by what I worked on for 40-hours a week. When I walked away at the end of the day, I had money but little else. The same can be said for most of the 9-5 jobs I've had.

I believe my work as a Life-Cycle Celebrant® makes the world a better place. It glorifies Love. It honors the individuals, couples, and families I serve. I tell their stories, because they are important enough to be heard. I respect and honor their wishes and help I them celebrate in ways that are unique, because each person's experience of life is unique.

When I walk away after a ceremony, I feel satisfied. I know I've made a difference. This may sound like just so much fluff, but I've been the client and I know how it touched my life to be heard and have my wishes honored. I've also had the honor of hearing from clients and their friends and family about what their ceremonies meant to them.

When I teach my fellow Celebrants, I know more lives will be touched by what they carry forward. It all ripples out like rings from a stone tossed in the water.

So here I am looking for a new day job and I know that there may come another day when an employer decides that my contribution is unimportant and lets me go.  Luckily for me, I know that my work as a Celebrant is important and always will be.

I'm never going to get rich as a Celebrant, though my hope remains to eventually make a full-time career of it. But for now, as some parts of our world come crashing in on us, I know that no matter where Wookie and I end up, we will always have each other and I will always have Celebrancy as away to contribute to the world. What I get back from Wookie and Celebrancy is a wealth that can't be measured.

A Single Shade of Grey: Sometimes a Thank You Means No Thank You

A few months ago I found myself in an unexpected position. I had to say no thank you without actually saying it.


After a very long dry spell I finally had a job interview. I prepared for days—researching the company, scraping together money to print new business cards and gathering appropriate writing samples. I had not been on a job interview in years and so I read all I could on questions to ask and answers to have. I prepared to present myself as exactly what they needed me to be.

Things were going very well. On paper, I was a great match for the position. My writing samples were a near perfect match for their own documentation. The people were nice and friendly. It wasn't going to be interesting work, but it was work I am good at and the company appeared to value the contributions of its writing staff.

I was getting ready to ramp up the charm for the final push. I had researched the company, I had my mental checklist of questions to ask about the position, and answers to questions like "where do you see yourself in five years?" It wasn't my ideal job, they were not big on telecommuting, but my little family needed the paycheck and I could make this work.

I had one more person to meet with and I was asked if I wanted a look around to see the workspace. I am so glad I said yes because that is when they lost me.

It was as if the office had been designed around my own personal list of depression triggers. High-walled grey cubes, the color of a rainy day in winter, sat in a field of matching grey carpet in a windowless area. The few people that were there were working in complete silence and, as I was taken through the office, I didn't see one personal item in any of the workspaces. It was sterile, uninspiring, and stifling.

I had already met with two people and those potential co-workers I had spoken with had been enthusiastic about the company but had described a typical work day as "heads down" and the office itself was in the middle of nowhere. So I could see there would be little in the way of conversation during the day and nowhere to escape to for lunch. I imagined what it would be like to work there in the winter, to go from the grey of early morning to 8 or 9 hours of silent grey on grey to the gloom of a commute that would have me home well after dark. It was not a good picture.

Between the dull work, the commute cutting into my time with Wookie and my Celebrant work (the two things that keep me sane and centered), and the incredibly dreary work environment, I realized that the worst case scenario would be if they offered me the job.

I'm sure this may sound ridiculous to a lot of people. I know some would say I should have sucked it up—that work is work—but having a job wasn't going to do me and Wookie any good if it pushed into the deep grey funk of Depression. I've been there and done that—I have no desire to go back if I can help it.

So I became a bit of a cold fish for the rest of the interview. I am sure the lead interviewer noted a drop in my enthusiasm even if she didn't know why. I wasn't in a position to refuse a job if it was offered to me, but I knew this job would not be good for me.

We entered the "Do you have any questions?" phase of the interview. I simply responded (repeatedly) that they had given me a lot to think about.

When I talked with Wookie after the interview, he was supportive. We discussed the possible ramifications on my unemployment should I actually be offered the position and then turn it down. We agreed that, while we needed the money, it would do us little good if my mental health wound up in the toilet as a result.

That was when the world's most non-committal thank you letter was born.

 Dear [People I Interviewed With]: 

Thank you for taking the time to meet with me yesterday about the [writer] position at Company X. I appreciate the opportunity to learn more about Company X and its [writing] department and to see your workspace. 

I was impressed with what I learned about the company and how it operates. I was also pleased to see that its [writing] staff is a valued part of the organization. It’s nice to see how much you all enjoy working there. 

I am pleased to know that my past experience and writing samples are similar to what you already have in place. If you have any more questions about my experience or skills, please let me know. 

Sincerely, 

Me 

I never heard back from them.

While there was never a guarantee I'd get that job anyway, I'm glad I acted against getting it. A short while later I was hired for a better job, one where the work is interesting and I can telecommute.

It's the next best thing to being able to work solely for myself. I'm more productive on my own and I don't bother anyone with my need to read things aloud to work out just the right wording. My home office is full of the things that inspire me. My commute is a walk down the hall. When I'm done with the day job, I can take care of Celebrant business without dealing with an hour plus of traffic first and when I need a bit of conversation, there's always a Wookie or a cat to talk to.

The Funny Thing Is...

It's the end of another very hard year and I've been feeling rather down. There is a lot of uncertainty ahead. We're still out of work. I could list the problems that result from that, but that is fodder for another post.

Wookie always reminds me that it could be worse. His ability to keep his eye on the positive amazes me. He was the inspiration behind my lastest pieces at ceramics class. 

I carved words into the bowls to remind me of the good things in life. The things we have and the things we need make us happy and make life worth living. 

The funny thing is that it never occured to me to list money among those words.

The Passing of a Little Mischief in My Life

Prelude

Frankie

Sometime in the year before we were married, one of our roommates came to us asking if it would be alright for her to cat-sit a pair of kittens for a few days.  Her friend was moving, she said, and she was worried about the tiny kittens getting lost or hurt.

Paul and I laughed. Our roommate didn’t understand that she had just adopted two cats.

Time passed and the kittens stayed. The roommate would mention from time to time that it would just be a few more days. Paul and I would laugh because she still didn’t understand that she had adopted 2 cats.

Sometimes the roommate would leave for the weekend and we, I mean Paul, would feed the kittens. “Don’t get attached.” I’d say. But who was I kidding. At the time we already had four cats between us—we each came into the relationship with two. So obviously we are the type to become attached.

Time passed some more and the kittens, as they do, became young lady cats and went into heat. The roommate asked who our vet was so she could get them fixed. Paul and I laughed because once you pay for surgery, you have definitely adopted the cats.

Our wedding was fast approaching and the roommate announced she was moving out. She was going to put the cats in a shelter if she couldn’t find a home for them. Paul and I stopped laughing. We had just adopted two more cats.

Stress

It's been a long month.

I lost my job. Paul and I waited for weeks for an urgent package that seems to have vanished somewhere between Ireland and New Jersey.

Today, I found out that my Frankie is very sick and may have lymphoma, which the vet tells us is the most common form of cancer in cats. She's lost a lot of weight and has not been herself.

Most of today has revolved around a visit to the vet. I sat parked outside with Frankie before they even opened. I sat and waited while they took blood and x-rays and was sent home to wait while they arranged for an ultra sound and biopsy. I went back with Paul and we discussed options and I learned how to give Frankie IV fluids to keep her hydrated.

There was a lot of waiting and I kept glancing down at my phone and seeing this.

Its an app that's supposed to tell me the safety status of other apps I've downloaded to my phone, but today I hoped it was a personal assurance that "everything is OK."

“Most Women Wouldn’t be Prepared for This”

“Most Women Wouldn’t be Prepared for This” That’s what a woman said to me at the doctor’s office last week.

She was thanking me for offering my help. She had a flat tire and I offered to fill it for her so she could at least drive it back to the rental place. In the end it turned out she didn’t need my help. She was able to get it taken care of at a nearby garage.

But as I walked back to my car, I wondered…is it true that most women wouldn’t be prepared to fix a flat? And if so, why is that?

This was actually the second time this had come up this month. A few weeks ago, my husband and I were out to dinner and as we walked back to our car another car pulled into the lot making that telltale sound—wump! Wump! WUMP!—the unmistakable sound of a very flat tire.

My husband immediately looked to where the car had gone and it took us two trips through the lot to find it. The driver was a young lady; she was out of breath, frightened, and crying on the phone to her father. She didn’t think she had a spare. It was clear that if she did, she didn’t know what to do with it. (I’ll give her this, her tire had blown and having been through that myself I know the sound of an exploding tire can be enough to startle anyone.)

We calmed her down, showed her where the spare was and changed the tire for her—both of us, Paul and I, taking turns because the nuts were very tight. We were done in minutes and sent the driver on her way with advice to replace more than just one the blown tire.

When I recounted the story to a friend later, she asked, “YOU know how to change a flat tire?”

I am surprised that this should be considered a rare pearl of knowledge for a woman to have. We raise our daughters to be independent, confident, and self-sufficient. But still, there seems to be some basic survival skills that some treat like the purview of men.

I don’t expect everyone to be as prepared as I try to be. I am well aware that my often over-preparedness is fueled by a bit of OCD and an over-developed sense of impending doom.

“The purse” (my ever present bag of holding) is well known in my circle for containing way more than most people (men or women) feel the need to carry and my car tends to be an extension of that. Right now, I’ve got a SCUBA cylinder in the trunk and a regulator with an extra hose and adapter for filling tires. It’s there because I had a flat and several weddings to get to and I wanted to be sure I could fill the tire if it went down again. Once it was in the trunk, it became part of my gear (At least till the Wookie needs the tank.)

I know my rig is overkill. But there are plenty of more conventional gadgets available to fill a flat. And even if one didn’t carry that, everyone should have a spare, know where it is, and know what to do with it. Even if you have roadside assistance, there are times and places where you might not be able to call or the wait might be too long. You might just have to change it yourself.

So why would a woman not be expected to know how to do this? I think most of the guys I know could change a flat.

Maybe it’s generational. I should keep in mind when I’m looking at my own generation, that so many of my friends’ parents are as old as my grandparents. Expectations were different when they grew up. So it’s possible that it never occurred to parents of that generation to teach their daughters to handle their own roadside emergencies.

Then again, if we never sought life-skills beyond what our parents taught us, we’d still be living in caves. There are some things that if the knowledge isn’t gifted to us, we should go out and learn for ourselves.

I don’t have kids of my own yet; we’re still working on that. But Wookie and I do talk about the things we want to make sure we teach our kids if we’re lucky enough to become parents—how to manage money, how to read a map, first aid, and CPR. I’m adding how to change a flat to that list. There are just some things that should be considered basic survival skills in our society.

Lesson of the Week--Knowing my Limits

I do plan on getting back to blogging about my San Francisco vacation. I have more memories and pictures to share about that amazing trip. But it's been a whirlwind since I got back and so I thought it a good idea to write about a lesson I learned this week — basically that sometimes, something's got to give.

There are two things I have learned from SCUBA diving and my first aid training (also related to diving) that I try to carry into every day life:

• A diver can cancel on a dive for any reason and it's fine.
• The first rule of rescue is that the rescuer take care of herself.

Both lessons came into play this week.

I came back from vacation to a series of deadlines at the day job, numerous wedding ceremonies to write/update/officiate, a social media course to update and teach again and EMT-B training. Believe it or not, the EMT-B training was to my recreational activity. It's not that I wasn't going to take it seriously--I take it very seriously and I was thrilled for a chance to expand on the skills I have acquired as an Emergency First Responder and EFR Instructor.

But the EMT-B course was also to be something I would do with my husband. We tend to spend all summer running around in opposite directions--he to his SCUBA students and me to my ceremonies. It's good to have some scheduled time where we're both engaged in something that gives us new things to talk about. EMT-B was going to be it for me. (For the Wookie, it's his first step to his goal of becoming a Hyperbaric EMT.)

I'll be the first to admit that I didn't know what the course would entail. I had the schedule. 2 nights a week from 6:45 to 10:00 PM. and some weekend days (either Saturday or Sunday) from 8:00 AM to 4:00 PM.  Magically the weekend dates fit into my schedule, as did all but one class and I could make that up by attending a later section. Perfect.

What I didn't anticipate working into my schedule were these.