The Importance of Rinsing Properly

I used to get in trouble with my host mom and dad in Japan because I didn't rinse dishes properly. "Karada ni wa dame ([Soap] isn't good for the body)," okaasan would say to me firmly. Duh, I would think.

But I never improved. Fragrant Husband has sighed in exasperation at my failures to completely remove soap residues from dishes and pans. "Meh," I would say. It was hardly a high-stakes operation. I blithely remained at the same level of awful when it came to washing out kitchen items. Just last week, my inability to use water properly directly led to gross-tasting tea in my office travel mug. Did I drink it anyway? You bet.

Then, not ten minutes ago, I was washing a mug that previously held hot chocolate when a VIP came over. As we chatted, it became clear that she wanted to use the sink, too. I tried to conscientiously rinse my soapy mug -- it was hard to tell how good a job I did, given the dim lighting -- and plopped it onto the dish rack.

To my horror, the VIP picked up the very mug and gave it a perfunctory wipe with some paper towels. Then she filled it with tea. I felt something shrivel and die inside of me.

If anyone wants me, I'll be praying to Poseidon to drown me in a puddle on my walk home today, if not sooner.

F***, F***, F***

As promised, the post with the title that reflects my current disposition.

I had a group interview at HBS yesterday. Let's start with the bad news. For funsies, we'll alternate with the good news.

Bad News #1: I had a bad case of the shakes owing to being barely on time for the interview. (Traffic.)

Good News #1: I got over it toward the middle.

Bad News #2: The person beside me brought her A-game right from the start. I was impressed.

Good News #2: I was the best dressed of the bunch.

Bad News #3: I got an email this morning informing me that they "didn't see the right fit" for me.

Good News #3: Now I can get my weekend started with the full certainty that I suck, rather than wondering about it for a week!

Now if you'll excuse me, my therapist, Dr. Meowsalot, will see me now. 

Happy International Women's Day! Now Get Out.

International Women's Day dawned dark and ominous. Snow and slush marred Boston's cityscape. My office opened late that day, but the announcement did not reach me in time. I trudged resolutely to my cubicle, prepared to face another day of writing or research, or at the very least, a lot of news reading.

Alas, 'twas not to be. My boss called me into her office and explained that my position would be eliminated at the end of the month. I sat in stunned, stoic silence. I had the presence of mind to murmur that I understood and wished the company well. I even added that I would miss having her as a supervisor. All true, dear readers.

And then, the walk of shame to HR. The contract saying I must be nice and not say nasty things about the company that both giveth and taketh away. The puppy dog eyes of Fiancé when I told him over lunch.

I went home and joined LinkedIn at Fiancé's suggestion. My word, is it ever so aggressive! It nagged me with three pages of names and faces. I checked my favorite humans, the ones I actually knew and interacted with in a non-shallow manner. Fiancé helped me take a profile photo so prospective employers could take one look at my hamster-cheeked visage and declare that I am The One...

...Who Ate All the Sandwiches. Also true.

Then I checked job listings and knocked off some applications. I crafted cover letters and adjusted my resume to match each individual position.

I slogged to my cubicle on Monday, utterly exhausted. I also felt the beginnings of resentment. I liked my job. I would cling like a barnacle to my desk if I could. Why did this happen?

Since everyone who knew carried on being so gosh darned nice, my fury turned inward. I lambasted myself for being a loser. Why, why, why did I suck so bad? If I sucked less, I could remain gainfully employed for years! Loser! Loser! Loser!

Fiancé saw that dark flame, grabbed it, and stomped it into the ground. He made sure to feed me well while I processed everything. He even ironed my work pants! That made me wonder -- did I get laid off to restore karmic balance?

So here I am, counting down the days. To freedom! To countless rejections! To being in my pajamas at eleven in the morning! And eventually, to a new beginning!

As my mom would say: "Haaay, buhay. Parang life." ("Oh, life. It's like life.")

Well, it's the only one I got. Bring it, world. This job hunt is SO ON.

Binge Drinking, Oscars Party Edition

I threw a small party to celebrate the Oscars on Sunday. The only person who didn't show up was the one who sincerely thought we were gathering for Oscar, the grouchy cat. Oh, well.

'Twas a fun evening, but it ended badly for me. Now that my brain is working again, here's a list of warning signs to stop. Mixing. Drinks. Just stahp. Stahp.

How to Tell When You've Had Too Much to Drink at Your Oscars Party

1. You keep using the word "amazing" to describe everything.
2. You're so loud that the loudest person in the room keeps looking at you.
3. You take a sip of sweet wine, briefly pause to consider that you hate sweet wine, then down the entire glass.
4. You only vaguely remember what happened in between Octavia Spencer announcing Best Supporting Actor and Meryl Streep walking onstage.
5. You upchuck the contents of your stomach when everyone leaves, like you're still in college. Gahd.
6. You wake up the next morning and want to die immediately.

Anyway, my shambling corpse managed to roll out of bed at 11 am. I felt much better after being fed milk, crackers, and aspirin by the doting betrothed before he left for work. It's like I never learn my lesson. The next thing you know, I'll be chugging white wine, when the worst hangover of my entire life happened as a direct result of exactly that activity. "White wine has fewer congeners," hah!

Naturally, Fragrant Mother cackled with glee when I confessed my sins and swore never to touch alcohol again. "Lasenggera (alcoholic)!" she declared. Well, it would be impolite to prove a mother wrong, non?

In other news, there's a rumor going around my office that I lost weight. It must be from being a moron, somehow.

...I'll take it. In the meantime, I hope everyone enjoys/enjoyed their Hump Day!

Rejection: How I Dish It, How I Take It

     I.  DISHING IT

Lifehacker posted "Nine Practices to Help You Say No Without Feeling Like a Jerk" yesterday. I initially ignored it, because I have no problem saying no, and even HALE NO when warranted.

I developed this ability by working at a nonprofit for three years. Nonprofits tend to be chronically underfunded and filled with clueless eager beavers. After being sent to the Armpit of Asia twice to be a mobile Staples, I gave a hard pass when offered yet another chance to get a skin infection/ be followed by strange men/ find fire ants in my bed/ not sleep for a month. Soon after that, I gave my job the ultimate NO by scarpering to a for-profit.

My say-no-ability, which we shall call my NObility, became part of my established style of answering questions and/or explaining, which goes like this: MAIN IDEA > MAJOR DETAILS > MINOR DETAILS. I learned this technique while teaching reading comprehension to kids with special needs/learning difficulties in Philly. We would read a short passage, then they had to tell me what the main idea was, and recall the other details I asked about. Prioritizing the gestalt in this way influenced my methods of communication.

For instance, if Fiancé asks me if I want to play a board game I don't care for, I immediately say, "No. I don't want to. That game is too needlessly complicated." Parsed, that answer gives the rejection first, followed by what I consider the more important bit, namely my lack of desire to participate. Then, because I am generous, I add the secondary reason: the lameness factor.

By the same token, I get annoyed when I ask a "yes/no" question, and don't get the "yes" or the "no" as the first part of the answer. An example of such a question would be, "Do you want to volunteer for a charitable organization?" Folks, that is a "yes/no" question, and the answer is "HALE NO," thank you for asking, I am a spawn of evil and volunteering is against my nature.

NObility must be used after thoughtful consideration. I never say no in my current office, because I like it here, and, more importantly, I never get asked to do anything ridiculous or wildly beyond my job description. But in my personal life, I use my NObility freely, because Me Time calls dibs on everything. I do consider what I would be missing by saying no, like it says on #8 on the Lifehacker article, but nap time/mealtime/video game time will always weigh heavier in my cost-benefit analyses.

Also, I am a sucker for reviewing and editing grad school personal statements, so fear not! -- my NObility will gladly take a break so that I may read about your horrible childhood experience that led you to your shining academic career. Did I mention I'm a spawn of evil?

     II.  TAKING IT

Throughout my life, various people and events seemed to point to my becoming a fiction writer. First, my family encouraged my growth as a bookworm. My dad read The Hobbit and Watership Down to me, and contributed funds to my girlhood comic book collection (mostly X-Men and X-Factor). My mom allowed me to fill my closets with Sweet Valley books instead of clothes. My grandmother introduced me to the mammoth Wheel of Time series. My siblings actually read this blog. (!)

Later in life, my friends and Fiancé encouraged me to write and try to get my stuff published. With my solid experience as a bookish nerd growing up, and my current official job title as "Proposal Writer" (proposals for government contracts, not marriage), I thought I'd give it a go. I started in 2011 with a piece called "The Marshmallow Test." I submitted it to Funny Women on The Rumpus. Reeeee-jected!

I tried again last year. I thought I'd start with short stories, so I looked at the stuff on tor.com, McSweeney's, and Flash Fiction Online. I wrote something for each site. Rejected, rejected, and also: rejected! It burned because I admired the stories on those websites. Being rejected meant I sucked, or my fictions didn't fit their publishing themes. Or both.

Undaunted, I moved on to writing contests in late 2012. I entered the ones that cost money (for judges' reading fees and prizes, I'm told). They didn't break my bank; the highest entry fee was 20 bucks. I tried Boston Review, Women on Writing, New Millenium Writings, Columbia Journal, and Literary Juice. I haven't heard back from any of them yet. But I like to prep for the worst possible scenario, so in in the "Result" column in the spreadsheet where I track my writing submissions, I already wrote "rejected" in bold. That way, I get my depression and self-loathing out of the way in advance!

By the way, I discourage anyone from submitting to the Columbia Journal, because their payment portal blows extremely hard. It looks like they don't have their own dedicated portal, so they piggybacked off the one that takes payments for university events. So if you find yourself confused about why you're paying for a performance with a different date from the writing contest deadline -- I WARNED YOU.

     III.  IN CONCLUSION

I readily dish out rejections in my personal life, and also in office settings when appropriate.

I get rejected a lot.

I guess that evens it out.

     IV.  THIS POST BROUGHT TO YOU BY

A green balloon on my desk. Don't ask.

Harvard Shame

More like Harvard Fail. As in, I had an Epic Fail while I was at Harvard. But not when I was a student there. Nay, my life as a an MA candidate was uneventful, and I did indeed receive the coveted, oversized Latin diploma that I proudly keep in its giant red envelope under my cat's scratch lounge. Clearly, the sight of Sheba sharpening her claws in a cute little rhythm on the cardboard will deter diploma thieves. But I digress.

"What's that? You want this diploma under my scratch lounge?

Come and get it!"

A couple of years ago, I was invited to come back to campus and be part of a panel about careers that my old program, Regional Studies, was running. I was totally stoked but pretended to not care. I'd just come back from a summer stint in Bangladesh, and I figured I'd chat casually about what I do. As a result, I - DID - NOT - PREPARE. What a HUGE mistake!!!

The big day came, and I scooted excitedly to the CGIS (Center for Government and International Studies) building, where I used to take classes. I saw some folks that I'd had drinks with. Cool, cool. The other two panelists were women, like myself (honest! I'm a woman!), and once they started talking I knew I was dealing with quintessential Harvard Achievers. Worse, I was in a panel with them! One talked about knowing exactly what she wanted to do while she was in the program, and then going ahead to the Middle East and doing just that, rising to a high position rapidly through her determination and competence. The other woman was in the freaking CIA and had brought recruitment fliers. WAH! WAH!

So when my turn came, I awkwardly told the room the truth: that I had no idea what I wanted to do at all, ever, in life; that I just fell into my job; that I'd just been abroad; blah blah. Then I even more awkwardly tried to compensate by saying that school networks help out, citing my Middlebury Alumni Network (which I knew College Boyfriend used like a crazy person in his ruthless quest to become an investment banker), and the fact that a fellow Harvard alum helped me get my job. So, uh, people, um, if you ever, like, don't know what to do in life, I mean, in terms of careers, someone will help out. Don't have a plan or anything. You don't even need to, like, think about it. Someone will step in. Your connections will guarantee you placement in an office somewhere. It worked for me, right? Right?

(crickets) (unblinking Harvard students and program coordinators)

So in conclusion, I fled the room as soon as the panel finished taking questions (mostly they asked the CIA analyst about her flyers). I comforted myself later by saying that the people in my program were mostly foreign nationals already employed by their governments anyway, why did they need the career panel? My humiliation was further compounded when, in a fit of politeness, I thanked the panel moderator for the opportunity to speak -- and she didn't bother replying, she was that disgusted with my lameness.

I'm not exaggerating here. I went out for a drink with one of the people who went to the talk, and he said my job sounded "flaky" and I was switching jobs, right? I wish.

THE SHAME! THE SHAAAAAAAAAAME!!!

On the bright side: I did switch jobs! Two whole years later! And I learned two valuable lessons: one, be prepared, and two, if you're not, the world did not end, get over yourself already. Geez.

The end.

Suck at Life

Paraphrased from http://www.urbandictionary.com/define.php?term=suck+at+life

To suck at life means:

1. (v.) To fail at every attempt to contribute to society, or any attempts at talent.
2. (n.) A phrase used when someone does something terribly wrong that frustrates another.
3. (adj.) To be naturally unlucky. To suffer constant misfortune.
4. (v.) To make a decision which seems to be innocent, but actually leads to undesired consequences and often catastrophic misfortune.
5. (n.) To be completely without people skills.
6. (n.) Totally lacking in every single aspect of life.
7. (n.) To be completely oblivious to the actions, thoughts, and behavior of others as well as themselves.

I think I'm numbers 1, 2, and 3. What about you?