dith.er

I don't know which way to go. Any advice?

Posts Tagged ‘Annoyance

Oh, the Whismy

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Coinciding rather aptly with the release of Tim Burton’s version, I just read Lewis Carroll’s Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland  for school. The book is even more insane than Disney’s animated movie — the version that I grew up on — but awe-inspriring imagery aside, I found myself increasingly annoyed with Alice.  I’m sure it has much to do with my adult perspective — though I don’t remember thinking Alice was all that great when I as a child either, not in the way I related to Ariel of The Little Mermaid who actually had to make hard decisions* — but in reading, Alice struck me as pretty dim. Of course, Alice is a child, and she’s supposed to be naive and trusting and accepting and confused all at once, which is why I am so concerned that so many women seem to worship her. 

Alice is a child; if she weren’t a child, she’d be an idiot. So why oh why are grown women so enchanted by her?  The desire for fantasy, to be able to traipse, or at least dream so, through a wonderland where cats smile wildly and decks of card play croquet with flamingo mallets, I get. It’s the obsession with being the naive, whimsical, girl-woman, I can’t grasp. And I’m sick of it. I am tired of grown women being showcased and marketing themselves as lithe fairies with nothing to impart on the world but a sense of wonder and sweet giggles.

Take Garden State. In college this was one of my favorites — I actually own the DVD — but Natalie Portman’s character is just ridiculous. She’s just so darn interesting and crazy, but in a totally innocent way. Her flaws are so sickeningly sweet, she might as well be perfect. Except, you know, she’s not (if you count an unhealthy obsession with hamsters), which somehow makes her even more endearing. She never gets angry or irrational; she only gets sad and thoughtful. She collects tears in Dixie cups and perpetually lies, but for some reason, that’s cute, too. She’s just so damn adorable.

There is no grown woman that I know like this. Thank god.

Real women are complex. They live in the real world, which like Alice’s wonderland is filled with inexplicable characters and moments, yet unlike wonderland, the strangeness of real-life requires rational thought and a range of emotional responses, some of which are pretty ugly.  There are very few actual princesses. For the rest of us, it’s our imperfections that make us extraordinary, so can we stop pretending that they don’t exist now?

 Even Alice (whom Carroll based on the daughter of a neighbor with the same name) grew into an adult woman with adult problems.

*At six years old I cried my way through the end of that particular Disney movie because I was so disappointed that Ariel chose the Prince over her dad and her sea friends. Later, when I read the Hans Christian Andersen version, I felt secretly satisfied that she turned into sea foam.

Written by ditheringmiss

February 12, 2010 at 1:36 pm

Posted in Life

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Why I Loathe Phone Interviews, II

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I’ve written before about how much I detest phone interviews, and after just bombing one, I am more certain than ever that they should be banned, along with unpaid internships, dogs in strollers and spandex as pants. The phone interview is a guaranteed bust if the interviewer is on speaker phone, monotone or all business. I can’t work with these things. Can anyone?

It’s extremely difficult to insert your personality into a phone conversation with a person you’ve never met unless said person is warm and willing to actually have a conversation with you.  If this is the case, I can talk for hours, in articulate, well-formed sentences without looking at my cheat sheet. But usually, the interviewer is simply there to ask you, in a series of mundane questions, to repeat the resumé she has in front of her back to her. But you already know my work history?! Can’t you ask me what I could do to make your website more user-friendly? Or what I’ve accomplished in previous roles?

Also: The-what-makes-you-want-to-work-for-unspecified-company-question makes me want to poke wooden skewers through my eyeballs. Why do they even bother asking?

These days the answer is always the same: Frankly, I’m not sure I want to work for you, but I need a job! You may have noted the giant gap on my resume that coincided rather perfectly with ’08’s economic collapse. Do I need to spell this out for you? I’m desperate. Beggars can’t be choosers, so let’s not pretend that the reason I chose to apply to your business is even relevant.  PS: Regardless of whether I want to work for you or not, I will do a damn good job, because that’s what I do, which you would know if you took the time to a. ask me more intelligent questions, b. met me in person, or c. (and this is a wild thought, I know) asked for my references and then actually called them.

Imagine if all the capable, intelligent, hard-working unemployed were hired tomorrow based, not on phone interviews or resumes or cover letters or even an in-person interview, but actual dialogs, multiple conversations and reference checks.  Actually don’t bother; you’re brain might explode.

Written by ditheringmiss

February 10, 2010 at 12:38 pm

Metaphorically speaking . . .

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I took a stumble today. It seems to always happen just after I find my footing. I send my mom an email on Friday gloating about the happies of my little life, only to follow it up with a teary phone call on Sunday.

Me: Why does the world hate me so?

Mom: It’s nothing personal.

Me: So it does hate me?!?

This time it was about my car (if it’s not employment related, it’s the car, always). The long and short: I was towed. If you live in San Francisco with a car, then you know the terror that is getting towed. Not only is the fine obscene — you have to pay for both the ticket and a towing fee that at a minimum is probably around $400 — but the entire process is a total bitch. This lovely city is not known for her convenience.

Anyways, the whole thing was made more terrible by the fact that I knew it was coming. I woke up this morning with a feeling of utter dread, which always means something not-good is lurking. Sure enough, the car. Gone. I’d already been moping around and tearing up during a Fox Family showing of When Harry Met Sally, so when my mood was realized with the absence of the car, I sort of had a freak out moment. Mostly I cried; there were also expletives. And I may have said some ugly things about the Avon Walk for Life ladies whose event had led to the towing. Then I proceeded to feel sorry for myself. Hence, the phone call with my mom.

She says, you’ve had a bad run of things. But it’s the kind of stuff that goes in the “nuisance” category. No illnesses, deaths, major losses. Nothing you can’t recover from.

Nothing I can’t recover from.

It’s true. But that’s just it. I feel like I’ve been recovering. I’ve been shut down. I’ve had to reboot. And now . . . I’m at the point where you hear the machine whirring, but the screen’s blank, and it’s been blank just long enough that you’re not sure if your desktop will ever appear. And you’re wondering, did I lose everything? Why didn’t I backup?

Written by ditheringmiss

October 4, 2009 at 9:30 pm

Deranged Gal Seeks Body Guard

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You know what I hate? Being cat-called. It really pisses me off when I’m standing or walking or just minding my own business and some dude (typically lame, creepy, and/or scary) draws attention to me with some derogatory comment.

Wanna know what else I hate? When I complain about this and people say things like, “you should be flattered” or “well, that’s because you’re such a pretty girl.”

It’s not flattering, and it has nothing to do with being attractive (it’s all about the boobs as far as I can tell). It’s rude. And it makes me feel dirty, as if I’ve done something wrong. Yuck.

Sorry for the rant. I’m just really frickin’ tired of the nonsense.  This has been going on since puberty, and I think I’ve hit my tipping point. I’m about to cut a fool.

Does this type of thing make you feel gross, too?

Written by ditheringmiss

September 17, 2009 at 8:00 am

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Pinkie’s Out

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I’d be lying if I said that living in the marina came without judgment. It has the stigma of being yuppieville, or douchebag central, if you will. Okay, fine, there is a lot of that. Some of the bars are like glorified frat houses, only sadder, because everyone’s nearing thirty. But we’re not ALL like that.

I like living here because it’s sunny when everywhere else in the city is foggy, I don’t feel scared walking to and from my car at night, and it’s dang pretty. One of my favorite things: checking out the super rich houses along the water while I run.

These houses are worth millions upon millions of dollars, and I find myself fascinated by their going-ons. But it’s not just fascinating; it’s all sorts of enlightening. So I give you, the things I’ve learned from rich people recently:

you should always be having work done to your home. always. regardless of how noisy or inconvenient it may be for those in need of the sidewalk, it is imperative that there is a white truck or large van blocking your driveway.

don’t stop there. even if you don’t have any necessary home repairs on the horizon (and really that’s impossible), you’re 3×4 ft lawn and two gardenia bushes must be maintained daily. on that note, do cut down the beautiful and shade providing branches of the one tree lining your street. it was blocking the view of your mailbox.

people will come to your house to detail your car. i know, but it’s true. i’ve seen it.

you must head to an overpriced avante-garde gallery stat. pick the first life size sculpture you can find and place it in the entryway window of your home. the uglier, the better.

no entryway window? then, opt for the more demure tabletop sculpture to be displayed in your front second story window. sure, it blocks your view. but it’s a small price to pay to for privilege.

finally, under no circumstances ever be seen entering, exiting, or enjoying your home. it’s just gauche.

extra credit: use the word gauche everytime you’re on your blue tooth

I kidd. Just the ramblings of a bitter person with a hankering for fortune. Yes, I know: material wealth be damned. Real riches come from within . Or is that beauty? How do I get to this “within” place anyways?

Written by ditheringmiss

September 2, 2009 at 4:30 pm

Why I Loathe Phone Interviews . . .

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. . .

they are often filled with awkward pauses

or I end up talking over the other person

I forget to listen; I get caught up in what I should say next

they do not allow my personality to shine

also, I suck at them

Are you bad at the phone, too?

via

Written by ditheringmiss

August 31, 2009 at 2:44 pm

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World 163, Me 0

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In response to my previous two posts, the world has decided to smite me.

I was going to write this post last night, and that’s how it was going to start. Then, I was going to tell you how cheesed I was about crappy things. But ultimately, I decided it wasn’t worth the effort. So instead, I’ve decided to laugh it off.

Last night I headed to my final class of the week, a graduate intro to women studies course. I wasn’t super excited about the class, but every creative writing student has to pick a concentration of sorts and this was going to be mine.

So I get there. It’s a very small room, with one very small table and about eight other women. As I take a seat the instructor turns to me.

Teacher:  Are you a women’s studies student?

Me: Um, no. Creative writing actually.

Teacher: Uh oh. Did you get my email?

Me {in my head}: Well let’s see, I’m sitting here right now and I think you’re about to tell me that I shouldn’t be, so, no, I probably didn’t get your freaking email because then I wouldn’t have wasted an hour driving here and two dollars on parking, now would I?!?!? Not to mention I wouldn’t have wasted this slot on this class and be missing an opportunity to crash other classes, right?!? BECAUSE THAT WOULDN’T MAKE ANY SENSE!

Me: No, I didn’t. What email?

Teacher: Shoot, well, they just closed off this class to anyone but women’s studies students.

Me: Are there any exceptions? Can I appeal?

Teacher: I’ll go confirm with Professor Surely Will Screw You Over.

Teacher exits. I sit there fuming.

Girl 1 {reaching into her bag}: I have a really smelly sandwich. If it bothers anyone let me know and I’ll eat it outside.

Girl 2 {sitting across the table from Girl 1 w/total bitch face}: Does it have nuts in it?

Girl 1: blank stare

Girl 2: I’m allergic to nuts.

Girl 1: It’s hummus. That’s beans, I think. I better not eat it. I’ll just go outside.

Girl 2 {pulls out an inhaler and acts completely put out}: It’s fine.

Girl 3: Wow, you can have an attack from that far away. How do you know the person in the seat before you didn’t eat nuts? Don’t you need an epi pen?

Me {in my head}: Everyone is crazy.

Teacher returns.

Teacher: Yea, you can’t take the class. I guess you better go. Sorry.

So I leave allergy girl, and smelly sandwich girl, and the girl who echoed my very own thoughts behind and head home.

Still angry.

Also, a wee bit grateful that I won’t be spending the semester with them.

Written by ditheringmiss

August 28, 2009 at 10:07 am

Posted in School

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