Wednesday, October 31, 2007

I Have Decided to Become a Practicing Normal Person

These last few days, I’ve found being sick to be more unpleasant than usual. And not just because it hurts to breathe, blink, or use my neck muscles to support the weight of my skull. No, it’s because I don’t get to be sick and disgusting in the privacy of my own home. Instead I had to go and get sick while we’re staying with Kieran’s gran. A couple of days ago, I had to stay in bed all day. What I should have done is sleep. You know, the way people do when they’re sick–pop a Contac-C and submit to a series of mildly hallucinogenic naps. Instead, I lay there fretting, growing increasingly more anxious about my situation. I was holed up in a room in somebody else’s home! Suddenly a bunch of stuff was out of my control and I was in somebody else’s home! I was doing all the stuff I try to avoid in a house guest situation, like sleeping late, or shuffling around in my pajamas without showering for several days, or, worst of all, feeling headachey and anti-social.

I had no idea if any of those things bothered Kieran’s gran. Certainly, my own grandfather, a dyed in the wool curmudgeon, would have instantly become apoplectic if I shuffled into his kitchen in my pajamas at 11:00 in the morning. It wouldn’t have mattered if I had pneumonia and needed to be transported to the hospital. If I wanted a ride to the hospital, I should have set my alarm and gotten myself out of bed at a decent hour and maybe on the way to the hospital I should get a decent haircut so that I wouldn’t look like such a ragamuffin in the Emergency Room. Grandpa was constantly delivering speeches like this, his voice a rising crescendo of outrage, his true feelings belied only by the fact that he would be rushing to get his coat and car keys while still managing to gesticulate wildly with his cane. But Kieran’s gran? I had no idea how she felt about people sleeping in and all those things we people do when we’re sick. And it was driving me mad.

It’s the People Pleaser thing. I don’t know if I was born this way or if I became this way, but it’s a sickness unto itself. Being a People Pleaser is a pretty effecient way to drive yourself to exhaustion. Partly because of the neurotic exertions to which you’ll go while trying to appease the real, potential, or, hell, imaginary needs of the people around you. Because sometimes people have needs but they don’t SAY anything and, Oh God, the PRESSURE and you just start inventing things they might need so that you can cut them off at the pass. Like I said, it’s sick.

But the real problem with People Pleasers? We attract Vulture People. Vulture People feed off of People Pleasers, pecking and picking at them and watching them dance around to feed their own insecurities. Walk around mumbling apologies when someone else steps on your foot and the Vultures begin to circle. Next thing you know, you’re dancing around like a marionette on crystal meth while the Vulture on your left yanks the string of implied disapproval and the Vulture on your right yanks the string of backhanded comments. It’s just like dooce said here, if you allow certain people to exploit your good will, they totally fucking will.

I’ve gotten better over the years. Better at identifying the Vultures and giving them a wide berth, better at saying no to them, especially when their demands become too ridiculous. But every now and again I come across a sneaky Vulture who’s dressed up in normal people’s clothing and I get sucked in again. That’s what you get for being pathologically polite, suckah!

So as I writhed in a feverish mass, listening for sounds of disapproval from downstairs and repeatedly wondering if I should just get up and do something productive, just in case Kieran’s gran wasn’t delighted with my ability to remain in a near vegetative state for great lengths of time, it occurred to me that I’m not just sick of the Vulture People and their shit; I’m sick of my shit. I needed to sleep, not work myself into a lather over the fact that someone else may or may not be upset with me over a situation that’s out of my control. (Not to mention that the someone else in question is not even a Vulture! And if living in fear of encountering Vulture People isn’t sad enough, allowing that fear to bleed over into your healthy relationships certainly is.)

Heaven knows I can’t control the Vulture People of the world. The Vulture People wouldn’t be Vulture People if they had any sense of boundaries. So, while it’s useful to be aware of my boundaries in general, it’s a waste of energy to come up with creative new ways to outline my boundaries for the Vultures, and an even greater waste of energy to be frustrated when they don’t respond. What I can control is me. It’s possible that I may never be able to overcome my knee-jerk desire to grovel when someone else sighs heavily. And if it is possible to overcome my own nature, I’m not entirely sure how one does that. Since I don’t have some kind of Insta-Therapist on speed dial, the solution I came up with was to fake it until I make it. This strategy worked in my professional life, so why not in my personal life?

I’m embarrassed to admit it, but I had to force myself to stay in bed and lay there pretending to sleep. Because that’s what a normal person would do. I was like a toddler who didn’t want to stay in bed even though it was for her own good, only instead of playing with Megablocks, I wanted to go make sure everything was okay. So I stayed in bed all afternoon against my own wishes. And guess what? Nothing happened. If Kieran’s gran was annoyed, I’ll never know. And because I’ll never know, I’ll never have to care. Look how pleasant and simple it is to be normal!

Leading a normal life: 1; Neuroses: 0.

You can bet your ass the next time someone steps on my foot, I am going to give them with a feigned look of mild irritation and wait for them to apologize to me. The possibilities are endless here, people. God, I might even SLEEP the next time I’m bedridden.

———————————
*Aside: How many cherry Halls is too many? My mom always gave us Vicks instead of Halls, leading me to believe that perhaps Halls were too potent because of that medicinal burst of eucalyptus and that Mom was making a deliberate choice that was in our best interest. Like giving us real juice instead of Tang. I was going to read the package, but it got all ripped when I opened it. Am I killing myself with the Halls? Oh, God, why didn’t I just get Vicks? No, really. Feel free to bypass my little breakthrough, but somebody tell me the truth about Halls.

No, wait. Don’t tell me. Normal people don’t worry about this stuff.

Well…unless there’s a real chance of poisoning myself, in which case I want to know after all. Otherwise, let’s all pretend I didn’t just fret about abusing over the counter non-drugs.

Leading a Normal Life: 2; Neuroses: 0. HA!

Posted by jeci at 22:03:37 | Permalink | Comments (8)

Monday, October 29, 2007

Ugggghhhh–OW. Sigh–OW. Uggggghhh–OW.

I don’t know why being sick feels so inconvenient right now. The flu has had no bearing on my daily routine of wandering downstairs in my wilting pajamas to simultaneously surf the Internet and watch daytime television, occasionally interrupting myself to sigh heavily to express my wish that this whole job search process would hurry up. (Yeah. It turns out that leading the life of a housebound invalid is not all I’d dreamed it would be.) Except now my sighs remind me that my throat feels like it’s lined with shards of broken glass. And the fact that I’m sitting reminds me that I am not lying down.

Also? Being sick while on sabbatical means I don’t get the satisfaction of phoning my boss to let her know that my permeable immune system has earned me the right to sleep in. Because for me? Getting to croak into my boss’ voicemail that I would not be in the office and would therefore be ignoring the braying alarm that had just yanked me out of a sweaty, feverish sleep was pretty much the most job satisfaction I ever got. As I would click the alarm into the OFF position with smug finality, I would sigh with justifiable contentment because I had inadvertently found a way to beat the system: laryngitis. Now having laryngitis just means having laryngitis. Sigh. (Ow.)

Posted by jeci at 18:42:22 | Permalink | Comments (2)

Tuesday, October 23, 2007

Hiccup

How was that for a false start? Yeah, well. MY MACBOOK STARTED ON FIRE.

Okay, that’s an exaggeration. The MacBooK’s power cord spontaneously combusted. But, the MacBook is fine apart from the fact that the battery is dead and I’m unable to resuscitate it. We, however, barely survived the incident due to the fact that I was struck dumb by the whole thing. Not dumb as in mute, but dumb as in idiotic. We were sitting in bed, watching a download of Friday Night Lights when I noticed a very bad burning plastic smell, followed by a sinister popping sound. “The cord is on fire.” I said, mostly in awe.

“Unplug it. Unplug it. Unplug it. Unplug it.” At which point I reached for the smoldering end of the cord, about to grasp the tangle of exposed wires.

“FROM THE WALL. UNPLUG IT FROM THE WALL.”

So I managed not to electrocute myself or to start the bedspread on fire. So that’s good. What’s not good is that there are no power cords in all of Vancouver. They’ve been recalled. Funny that. So no blogging. No Scrabulous (Dav’s dying to beat me). Worse: Job search interrupted. For a few days. Until then, then.

PS I can’t seem to get carriage returns from the phone. Enjoy the uber paragraph. Sigh.

Posted by jeci at 00:17:45 | Permalink | Comments (6)

Wednesday, October 10, 2007

Saying Goodbye to The Man

The thing is, I don’t have a job right now. Well, technically, I do. I’m on leave from my old job while I see what the Vancouver job market has to offer, which gives me the odd luxury of being picky despite my encroaching poverty. For once, I’m assessing the job market in terms of what potential employers have to offer me. No benefits package? Pbbbfftt! I’m still covered by my old benefits, so I think I’ll pass. A significant cut in pay? Uh, let me think about that: NO. I must say, it feels rather grown up. Although, in the interest of honesty, it should be noted that I hadn’t thought of things this strategically when I arranged for the leave and instead did so in response to a debilitating bout of existential panic.

So, I’m looking for work. I’m checking out my options. And I won’t be bending over for The Man, thank you very much. So. In celebration of my new found unwillingness to bend over, I’ve made a list: Top Five Worst Jobs of My Life.

5. Canada Safeway Cashier: This job paid minimum wage, offered no benefits, and had a ridiculous company-wide policy of not giving staff more than 18 hours a week. This put my monthly salary at $360 before taxes and union fees. Yes, union fees. I don’t know what kind of union negotiates a maximum of 18 hours a week, but I’m guessing a union that’s failing miserably and/or corrupt. But the real sticking point with this job was how seriously they expected you to take your cashiering. We were asked to study the produce codes outside of work, to come into work half an hour early to tour the produce section, and randomly administered written exams on the codes every week. If you didn’t get at least 80% on that damn exam, you were taken aside and given a stern lecture and a warning to improve. We were all given a “Top Banana” pin that we were required to wear on our uniform (a POLYESTER DRESS with PUFFED SLEEVES). If you got 100% on your produce code exam, you got a fruit or vegetable charm to hang from your Top Banana pin. OH HAPPY DAY.

4. Dairy Queen Counter Girl: This job was like a scene out of Mean Girls. Part of the problem was that this wasn’t the Dairy Queen from my hometown, but was from a neighbouring town, so all the other girls knew each other and weren’t especially interested in making me feel included. Specifically, they took delight in excluding me. I once got locked in the walk-in freezer for over an hour and either no one noticed I was missing or cared that I was missing. I actually suspect they knew I was locked in the freezer and wanted to be cruel. Eventually, I gave up on knocking and yelling for help and dejectedly sat on a milk crate, shivering and refusing to cry while I waited to be released.

3. The Art Store Job: For this job, I answered phones and took catalogue orders for an art supply store. This entailed dealing with flaky artists over the phone all the livelong day: “Oh, hiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiieeeeeee. I’m doing this frog project? Papier maché frogs? It’s going to be, like, a FOREST of papier maché frogs. No. A CITY OF FROGS. It’s a STATEMENT. About society. And frogs. Purple frogs! PUCE FROGS! What do you have in a puce acrylic? No, oil! No, water colour! Wait, what kind of paint do you use with papier maché? Oh you know what? I just remembered I don’t have any money.”

2: Office Depot Cashier: Depressingly, I had my university degree at this point, which rubbed a certain amount of salt into my wounded idealism and naïve expectations of the world. Office Depot seemed to have a special breed of obnoxious, snotty customers who were quite insistent that you know how busy and important they were and that it was because of their incredible stature in the business world that they were buying a leather desk chair. I was informed of my stupidity on numerous occasions. Never when I had done anything stupid, mind you, but when some pompous ass wasn’t getting his/her own way. For example:

Customer: What’s taking so long?!? What are you, STUPID? Are you RETARDED? I MAKE $100 AN HOUR. I DON’T HAVE TIME TO WAIT FOR PEOPLE LIKE YOU.

Me: I make $7.50 an hour.

Customer: …SO?!?

Me: They don’t pay me enough to give a tiny rat’s ass about you.

Customer: [blinks]

I did get in trouble for this, although my manager was pretty forgiving due to the fact that I was one of the only people who could answer the phones AND ring in orders at the same time. See? I didn’t got to university for nothing!

1. Joey Tomatoes Waitress: Joey Tomatoes is the Italian cousin in the Earls chain of restaurants. Those from Western Canada will be familiar with the Earls franchise and its notoriety for exploiting underage girls by way of not quite officially requiring them to wear skimpy outfits. After my first day, my smarmy boss took me aside and urged me to wear a shirt that was more “formfitting.” (I ignored his suggestion.) He also liked to remind the girls pouring beers to “give good head.”

Beyond a willingness to be exploited for your looks (typically borne of a complete lack of other options), “Earlitude” was of the utmost importance. We all dashed around in our formfitting shirts, grinning like sharks and bleating “Hiiieee! It’s so great to SEE you! How are YOU today?” to anything that moved. In order to create the illusion of a fun-loving atmosphere, every time someone ordered the jambalaya, you had to yell “Jam-BA-LAAAAAAYYYYAAAAA!” for all the restaurant to hear. And all the other waitresses would roar back, “JAMBALAAAAAYYYAA!” This was generally terrifying for customers, and you would have to nervously twitter while you waited for them to stop clutching at their heart so you could take their drink order.

Customer birthdays were equally horrible. You would have to really ham it up before giving them their complimentary cake: “It’s your BIRTHDAY?!? Welllllll, you know what we do around here on BIRTHDAYS!” And then we’d all have to gather around in some happy-clappy circle and sing a song. In a fake Italian accent. “Whatsa madda you? [HEY!] You lost anodda year? [HEY!]” And so on.

This job came to an abrupt and fiery end and is the closest I’ve ever come to being fired. In fact, on the morning of my last day, I left believing that I had been fired. I mean, the smarmy manager had actually tried to fire me because of my “bad Earlitude.” You see, Skeezy McSmarmypants had “heard that I never went to any of the staff parties and after work get togethers” and “it just didn’t seem like I was a going to work out.” I was sick of him, sick of the restaurant and the stupid yelling and singing, and really just bone tired. I mean, I was working two other jobs in order to survive. I didn’t have time for after hours Earlitude. Something snapped and I just lit into his ass. Dude was stunned when I stood up to him and his jaw kind of slowly unhinged and we stood staring at each other for a long moment before he started stammering that he’d think about giving me a second chance. I turned on my heel and stormed out, mostly because I didn’t want Skeezy McSmarmypants to see that I was about to cry. Although my standing up to him was evidence of my developing backbone, the whole incident deeply upset my people pleaser nature. I went home, cried on my roommate’s bed for a while, then gathered my spirits and went out and got myself a new job: “Customer Service Representative” for Blockbuster Video. The future looked bright indeed.

 

Posted by jeci at 18:53:05 | Permalink | Comments (11)

Friday, October 5, 2007

Blue Yon Belly, Baby!

THAT’S RIGHT. Blue Yon Belly is back!

Wait. Back?

Yeah, well. Here’s the thing. I maybe had this blog before and didn’t bother telling anybody, partly because I didn’t know if it was gonna take, and partly because I didn’t know what I was doing, and mostly because I was shy. Eventually it did take, but then it seemed like this whole thing to be all, “Hey I have this partially completed, fairly random blog I didn’t tell you about for a year!” And by that time, there was a bunch of people I didn’t know who had stumbled across me in the ether who started popping by regularly (hey guys!) and in a way, things were just nice the way they were. I guess because the people in the ether weren’t obligated to read me in the way perhaps my family members or friends might feel obligated to read me, so there was no pressure on me to amuse. Which was exactly what I needed at the time because I was in this pressure cooker of a writing job with deadlines and turnaround times you wouldn’t believe. And while being very busy and important can have the heady effect of making you feel very busy and important, it can also make you feel like there’s all this PRESSURE to be this PERFECT WRITER. NOW. So I wanted a space to be an imperfect writer (and, while we’re at it, an imperfect wife/daughter/sister/friend) whenever I damn well felt like it. Then I went on sabbatical and biked across Canada, effectively taking the longest vacation of my entire life and decompressing a whole hell of a lot, and none of that seems relevant anymore. And here we are. We writer types are fickle, see?

So! Blue Yon Belly is back! It’s Blue Yon Belly 2.0! Those who’ve been here before will notice Blue Yon Belly has had a makeover. It’s kinda got a whole “1986/1987 School Year” feel. I call it “Nouveau Trapper Keeper.”

And, despite the makeover and its (possibly) wider audience, Blue Yon Belly’s fundamental purpose remains the same. Not only does blogging remind me I like to write, it reminds me to actually write. Something. On a page. That gets typed and saved and everything. I don’t know why, but unless I write something somewhere, I won’t write anything at all. But if I blog about something–anything–no matter how mundane, then I can write all kinds of things.

On a possibly related note, blogging also helps to cure my natural tendancy to mope unless distracted by something shiny. And, while I’m pretty good at laughing at myself, I’m even better at it when I try and get everyone else to laugh with me. So, all in all, blogging just keeps me in good spirits and reminds me of who I am.

Lots of people say things in their “About” pages regarding their expectations for respect and reserve their right to operate their blogs on their own terms. I’ve actually yet to receive any hate mail. I’ve long assumed this is because hardly anybody reads me. But, all the same, if you say disrespectful things in my comments, I don’t suppose you should be surprised a) when I delete you and b) when I don’t care what some immature and hateful stranger has to say. If you find yourself considering whether to stalk me, well…what the hell? SEEK PSYCHIATRIC CARE. Speaking of stalking, I know a lot of you know my name and life history and jeans size in real life, but I would like my blog to remain relatively anonymous. As in, I would really prefer if prospective stalkers and other folks suffering from psychiatric disorders that compel them to find and hurt me are not able to succeed in their endeavours (and for entirely different reasons, I would prefer that former and prospective employers stay out of Blue Yon Belly’s sometimes sloppily written backyard). I go by “jeci” round these here parts. Or Jay will do, if that’s more comfortable for you. But let’s shy away from birth names and last names and GPS coordinates and all the rest, shall we? However, feel free to broadcast my jeans size so long as you’re willing to lie. I mean, it’s not easy being a size 26, but if you want to rub that in to the whole world, YOU GO RIGHT AHEAD.

All righty then. On to the next chapter!

PS I wonder which family member will figure out my blog title first? Bonus points if you can provide the full sound byte and English translation (ever the family mystery, non?).

 

Posted by jeci at 22:58:40 | Permalink | Comments (8)