Retirement!

I quit my job this past summer. I'm now retired! (party dance)

^ IT ME
Image from Hill's

The truth is, I had been restless and unhappy in the office for months. I'd even gone to my doctor because I felt so burned out. My days consisted of getting myself and the kids ready to go, hitting the office, picking the kids up, preparing dinner while one or both of them screams for my attention, cleaning up after them, putting them to bed...It was exhausting. Despite that, I missed them when I was at my desk, and the best part of my work day was rushing off to pick them up from daycare.

I realized that I could manage a job and one child, but two mini-mes changed the game.

A comedienne once described a committee that lives in everyone's head: a group composed of voices shouting negative and discouraging things. My committee was asking me why I couldn't be a superwoman, someone who had a glittering career and still took on most of the child caring responsibilities. And finally, I shouted back: I'm done! I'm being called to full-time motherhood, for the first time in my life! And I will! Answer!

Everyone was very supportive of my decision, foremost being Fragrant Husband and Fragrant Mother. My boss and coworkers understood. Not so helpful: the admin manager who warned me thusly: "If I see a gap in someone's resume, I don't hire them." OK, cool.

And so here I am, half a year into my, well, let's call it semi-retirement. I now exercise regularly, the house is reasonably clean, and meal prep is still dicey, but no longer breakdown-inducing. I've learned to play hits like "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star" and "The Itsy-Bitsy Spider" on the ukelele. When people ask me how my job is, I say the pay sucks, but I get great benefits. I'm happy. I'm content.

Spend my days adventuring with these cuties? YES PLEASE

What I'm trying to say, gentle readers, is that I'm retiring this blog. I've put in a solid decade of frequently pointless rambling on this site, and now I shall perhaps find a new creative outlet elsewhere. Hint: if you're on a movie or book or game review site and see the username fragrantelephant, it might be me?

TL;DR: Good night, and good luck. Fragrant Elephant out.

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This post brought to you by The Expanse! Read the books, watch the show, you inner you!

PSA: "Online Surveys for Money" Are A Waste of Time

I love taking surveys, and I love money, so last month I thought: surely the internet has combined the two? Indeed it did, and companies offering online surveys for cash or other rewards abound. So I did my due diligence, which as we all know is five minutes of reading the top two search results in Google (this and this), and signed up for the three sites I judged the least shady.

The first was Vindale Research, which I quit within 24 hours because of the terrible UX. Its mobile site was atrocious, its pay rates were dirt, it kept trying to make me sign up for other survey sites, and a questionnaire I took an hour to nearly complete threw up an error message and kicked me out. It was so irritating that I didn't bother trying to resume; I just logged in the the next day and cancelled my account.

But Vindale wasn't a complete loss--it led to Pinecone Research, an invite-only site. Score! Pinecone has fun stuff, and it's already sent me a check for three whole dollars! I am truly making it rain. But seriously, the Pinecone UX is great: I only get contacted when a likely survey emerges (i.e. I match their target demographic), the mobile site is functional, the points earned are reasonable, and I can trade in for cash or items. The time:compensation ratio is acceptable.

Alas, I can't say the same for Opinion Outpost. While this site was prolific in sending me survey opportunities, it also didn't bother to check them against my profile, with 19 "not a match" results out of 35 surveys sent in my 37 days of membership. Essentially, when I clicked on something from Opinion Outpost, I would answer basic questions (e.g. "What car do you own?" or "How many people live in your household?") and more than half of the time I would get the message: "You didn't qualify for this particular survey!"

But the worst part about Opinion Outpost was one survey that I did qualify for, that asked really probing questions about our personal finances. For example, it wanted me to break down our investments by category, among other things. I was skeeved out and just closed the browser...and then Opinion Outpost sent me the same survey again, this time with more reward points. That happened twice. Help, I don't feel safe!

I did finish 13 surveys and earned 107 points, which I traded for a $10 Amazon gift card. So on average it's almost $1 per survey, if I got one that matched. And surveys take anywhere from 15-30 minutes to complete. That time:compensation ratio is decidedly unacceptable. So I washed my hands of Opinion Outpost, too.

In conclusion, I'm sticking with Pinecone for now but I'm out as soon as a red flag pops up.

TL; DR: I wasted my time trying to earn money by taking surveys. Don't make the same mistake!

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This post brought to you by a tuna sandwich, I guess.

Train Adventures

The daily commute to and from the office is one of the helljoys™ of being gainfully employed. "Helljoy" is a term I just made up to describe the simultaneously delightful and agonizing experience that is riding the T during rush hour.

Let's start with a general overview of typical rider behavior. Basically, everyone has their eyes glued to something -- their phone, iPad, the Metro newspaper, whatever. We all cram together like sardines of various shapes and sizes. Pregnant ladies or the elderly get seats, as they should. So we riders keep ourselves busy, but often not to a douche level. 

Here's my secret wisdom: there's plenty of space toward the very end of the trains. Why? Because distracted commuters walk through the doors and latch onto the closest handhold. Only trained ninjas like myself duck and weave past everyone, smiling sweetly and saying, "Pray excuse me!" so as not to get punched in the face with someone's handbag before eight in the morning. Then I claim a spacious corner of the train all to myself.

Since I have to go past three of the stations where most people get off at, I get to plump down in a seat halfway through the ride and think about how tired I am. If I have the energy, I will pull out my phone and read BBC. (I reserve my Jezebel reading for after lunch, so that my inevitable rage at something will wake me up from my post-meal stupor.) If all of my brain cells are working, I will remember that I have Final Fantasy II, and I would play that.

My afternoon commute is much easier than the morning one. I slip into a non-crowded train and get a seat. The only problem with that is it gets so full that I can't see which station we're at, and the conductors' accents are usually hard to understand. I usually just use telepathy to determine that I am at the right station.

My train ride back home tonight was different. It was blazing hot today. After I rushed past a fender bender across the street from my office, I somehow got confused about getting in past the gates and onto the platforms. I just walked right through, fully expecting the gates to open for me. It was after the second attempt, with a T worker staring at me, that I realized that one must pay to ride the train. So I sheepishly got out my wallet and made it give the card reader a little kiss. "Pip," it said, and let me in.

I got on the train and sat down next to a dude with a giant tablet. He was playing music so loudly through his earphones that I could hear it. He also smelled pretty funky. Like I said, it was hotter than a sauna today. I really should have mentally prepared for being in an enclosed metal tube with other sweaty humans.

Another dude came and sat down on the other side of me. He also gave off molecules that did not particularly appeal to my olfactory receptors. So there I was, sitting down at least, but stuck between two effluviums. Helljoy.

And then! The guy to my right got up to offer his seat to a middle-aged lady. She smelled nice. And I was like, "Girls smell better than boys!" because at five-thirty in the afternoon, I have the critical thinking skills of a drunk baboon.

A man was making a ruckus by the door when we pulled into the next station. "Take it easy," he kept saying loudly. I assumed he was displeased at being shoved into the train by fellow passengers anxious to get on board, which means he has never been to Japan, where people exist whose job it is to pack people tightly into trains. Nevertheless, he turned out to be a ninja, because he stomped to the end of the car -- where I also was, naturally. The aromatic gentleman who had offered his seat sidled up to him, and they discussed the very thing I shared with you, dear reader -- that people rarely move all the way into the train, thereby creating a pocket of space at the very ends of the car for the enterprising to conquer.

Now you know. May your train adventures be as fruitful and helljoyful as mine.

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. 

Where Is My Relax

On my last day at the office, during snack and coloring time, I am not kidding, two coworkers revealed that when they got laid off, it was "the best time" of their lives. They just relaxed and eventually found new jobs. I felt relieved when I heard that. I prepared to also enjoy my unexpected stay-cation.

Except I've mostly been cleaning, doing wedding planning, running errands, and then cleaning some more. Fiancé seems to think I spend my days playing Ni no Kuni. I wish.

Why do I clean so much? Well, I had a troubled childhood, so ordering my surroundings is my way of creating a sense of control over my own circumstances as an adult. Just kidding. I'm actually a superhero and organizing everything is my superpower.

But honestly, this is awesome. I no longer have to drag my unconscious self out of bed so that I can stuff myself into a ladies' monkey suit and march toward a building to spend eight hours in a six by six cubicle staring into a nineteen-inch monitor. Instead, I have a leisurely breakfast with my betrothed, and then plop down on a comfy couch and look for someone to pay me to do stuff. Or I track RSVPs and pick out songs for the nuptials. Showers occur when I have an upcoming face-to-face interview, or have to interact with other humans who do not intend to enter into a lifetime commitment with me.

On a side note, why why why are interviewers always late? Is it fashionable now?

My days are made brighter by a sweet little spot of furry sunshine, who bellow-meows to get my attention and then gives me pointed looks that say, "It's nap time and I need you. As a bed." I often have Sheba on my lap as I type, although that tends to backfire when she rests her head on my forearm and prevents me from reaching the keyboard.

So I guess, in answer to the question, "Where is my relax?" -- it's right here, right now. These are my softly glowing days of hope, promise, and comfort.

Tune in for the inevitable followup post: "Where is My Paycheck," wherein we all know that the answer is, "No job, no paycheck!"

Now if you'll excuse me, I have to talk to a person about a thing at a place. Phone interviews yeahhhhh

The Layoff Dirge

Bullshit, that travels 'round
Business too lame for song;
Hopeful dreams, quickly drowned
No cubicle to belong;
To the worker, a rejection,
Severance, a poor compensation,
This unwelcome vacation--
Wail, or play along?

*Adapted from "A Dirge" by Percy Bysshe Shelley

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.

Bowling Sucks

My company just had its holiday party yesterday. We had a bowling tournament, and a lot of people signed up. I got out of joining by reminding the organizers that I was one of the few women who volunteered to play basketball when we had our summer office sport event. But the real reason I opted out is that I think bowling sucks.

Let's examine this activity. You fling a heavy ball onto a flat wooden surface with the goal of knocking down ten pins. You get two chances to knock down as many pins as you can, then it's someone else's turn. To be the bomb at bowling, you practice your ball release techniques, which are limited to a grand total of two. You can swing it straight and hope for the best, but the ball will usually gravitate to the gutter. Or you can do a fancy hook move, crossing one leg behind the other as you release. This makes you look like a penguin with a hip problem.

Then you need to master a delivery style. Wikipedia says there are three. Basically, it's these: fling it, spin it, or fling-spin it. Fiancé says he does a combination hook-spin, and I have no idea what he looks like when he does it, because I avert my eyes to preserve his dignity.

I see you shaking your head and thinking that I hate bowling because I suck at it. I do. But bowling sucked at me first. I've played enough of this travesty to know it's a waste of my time.

Why would you play a game with a ball that does not involve parabolas? That's just lazy. Basketball, football, ping-pong, heck, even badminton -- all these fabulous games require that you move to a spot and select an angle from which to launch a sweet, sweet parabolic strike that will destroy your foes. Soccer half-sucks because most of the time they kick it across the ground. Snore. The game gets exciting when someone kicks the ball at another player's head or chest, or when a player does that thing where he flips upside down to shin the ball into the goal. Now that is some delicious aerodynamics.

In short, the only way to lure me to a bowling alley is to promise me food and beer. Then I will eat and drink and cheer you on. I hope you understand that it's not you. It's bowling. Or to use its anagram: it's blowing. And not in a good way.

Let's just play pétanque, okay? Or better yet, let's just watch The Big Lebowski.

This rant is brought to you by Tequila Tuesdays.

My First World Problems, Let Me Share Them

Everyone in this great country has problems, and usually a bitch is one. But since I'm a bitch ("A little bitch," assured an ex), I have other issues. Namely, these:

1. Guys who spend endless minutes finding the perfect weight-lifting song on their iPhones.

Not only am I surrounded by enormous sweaty sausages at the gym (down, gays!), they have the gall to sit at the space, legs splayed apart like they have hernia, and go through their entire playlist before picking just the right Taylor Swift song to pump iron to. How do I know the artist? Because it's blasted through their earphones so loud I can hear it over the gym speakers.

Side story: Tonight, Husband-elect approached me after I secured a spot at the rowing machine, and I swept my arm grandly at our surroundings. "Behold," I proclaimed, "sausages!" Husband-elect smiled comfortingly and said, "Don't worry, I'm here," then thought about that for a bit before saying, "...to add to them." He then walked off briskly.

Guys: make your playlist before you hit the gym. Save time, and reduce the chances of my accidentally flinging a 10-lb weight at your knee!

2. Genetics

I scrub my face with exfoliant face wash, dab on astringent, and then slather on night lotion, whereas Husband-elect will go straight to bed after a day of sweating over manly engineer model things. Yet his face remains blemish-free, while I look like a pizza-faced teenager. Why? Whyyyyyy? Science, you have failed me!!!

3. Chips

Why are they so delicious when they're so awful for you? Technology, this is your fault!!!

4. Office Internet Filters

My office network immediately cockblocks all my attempts to watch kittens, puppies, and other wholesome streaming media. I can't even listen to internet radio! Although, this may not be an entirely bad thing, since I suck at muffling my laughter. I watched Obama's Anger Translator Respond to Clint Eastwood one time on my phone and everyone avoided me for fear of being fired by association. So okay, given the stuff I tend to watch online, I guess this one is more of a plus than a minus.

5. Super Expensive Cat Food

An 8-lb bag of special good-for-the-kidneys bag of kitty kibble costs over 50 bucks. That's more than P2,000 for my darling Filipino readers. And wouldn't you know it, both cats love K/D so much that they gobble it all down in a couple of weeks. Sure, they're seniors and need better food and care. But wow are they spoiled.

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There you have it. Wahhh, my life is sewwww hard.

Now get out of here! It's Friday! We're watching Skyfall tonight! Wooo!

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Could someone please remind me to write my review of Snow Crash? kthxbai

I Have Expired Medicine and I'm Not Afraid to Use It... On Other People

I'm seeing a doctor tomorrow for my Angelina Jolie Lips Syndrome. It's that thing where your lips swell to Angelina proportions, cause unknown, hence the doctor.

^ This, but unnatural and painful.

Worried that I've become allergic to him, Boyfriend insisted that I make the appointment. Then he took two steps backward by extracting, from a stained Ziploc bag plumbed from the depths of the bathroom cabinet, a topical painkiller... that expired in 2006. He earnestly offered it to me, to ease my suffering. Let's see what a doctor has to say about that:

All drugs have unique formulations consisting of active and inactive ingredients geared to treat specific diseases. Once a drug is developed, manufacturers determine the length of time a drug will last without deteriorating; this is known as the drug's shelf-life. If a medication is used within its shelf-life, maximal efficacy and safety of the drug is expected. [...] The safety of expired medications should also be considered. Medications may change their chemical and physical properties, as is evident when tablets disintegrate and liquids separate into layers, or even change color within the dispensed bottle.

I rejected the medication and made him throw it out.

Now I'm thinking -- heck, if I have Angelina Jolie Lips Syndrome, maybe I could get Angelina Jolie Face Syndrome! Wouldn't that be terrific! Here's the plan: I gather all expired meds lying around the house, apply it to someone's face, and watch the magic happen! Any volunteers?

Seek and I Shall Whine

Looking for comics? Go here!

Alas, the spirit did not move me to blog this week because...I wrote a short story! Insert sparkles here. Or I should say, I wrote another short story, but that first attempt was so weird that I am confident it will explode as soon as an editor lays eyes on it.

Anyway, I sent my manuscript to Boyfriend, who, full disclosure, is ferociously intelligent and not at all shy about ripping anything idiotic to shreds. Will I have the graciousness to accept constructive criticism? Stay tuned!

The best part about finishing the story was doing a Google search for literary agents, and coming up with the true, magnificent events of 2005, when a group of sci-fi writers created the worst book ever, called Atlanta Nights, under the pen name Travis Tea (say it fast). They were out to get a deceitful publisher, PublishAmerica, which purported to be a real publisher but actually did POD (publish-on-demand, meaning their writers' works didn't make it to bookstore shelves). Read about it here.

An excerpt from their fake opus: Mmm-hmm. Come and get this big Afros and indescribably tender. His hands moved surely.  Recover for a mess.  She'd have noticed if it had so impetuously across the pelting Georgia Girl Grill. This came from a chapter generated entirely by computer. Nice.

The result: PublishAmerica sent an acceptance letter for the horrendous manuscript, proving that they didn't even bother to read the stinker! Hoist by their own petard! By the way, their website made my good taste cry. Yes, they're still in business!

Dear readers, I got my grubby paws on a full copy of Atlanta Nights, and ohmyLord, I had to stop reading because I was getting eye strain from the awfulness. But I shall slog through it, because I have the sinking feeling that my own work will mirror a lot of the deliberately horrible writing in here. The best potholes are the ones you can see because you chucked in some flares beforehand, amirite?

And so, in conclusion: happy Friday!

Someone Please Slap Me

"Happy Monday!" I chirruped on gchat.

"blaaargh mondays are never happy," came the disgruntled reply from CatLadyHijab, not her real name, I just made that up, aren't I clever.

Basically the story this morning is that I came into my cute new sun-drenched office with its adorable dark blue wall and proximity to the kitchen and bathroom, which, of course, is what the ideal office should be, and I. Didn't. Want. To. Leave. "Oh noes!" I thought, "I would be abandoning my colleagues!" Not only that, I would be walking away from a picture-perfect commute -- a 10-minute stroll through pretty neighborhoods -- and a position where everyone up top is so overworked that I get no supervision, and can post random stuff like this!

Someone please slap me.

Fortunately, one of said colleagues walked in to chat, and I immediately 'fessed up to feeling mildly bad about leaving the new office. She gave me a dry look and said, "It's only the place that changed."

Ladies and gentlemen, the truth is like a slap in the face, or in this case, like a gentle tap between the eyes. You see, appearances are deceiving. While it looks like BOOBS is growing because of the current hiring frenzy... oh, hey, I should probably stop before someone evil finds this and sues me for everything in my bank account! You'll never get my money! Because I don't have any! Mwa-ha-haaaaa!!!

I am pleased to say that I'm leaving on a positive note (knock on wood, hope this lasts until Thursday!). My coworkers, having for some reason found out that I love cats because I gush about Sheba every single day, got me cat-themed goodbye stuff -- like this card ("You reign supreme", it says); and a tiny cat calendar! Wouldn't it be awesome if I owned a cat that small? I could put it in my pocket! Oh, wait, those things are called hamsters and they smell bad and they bite. Wow, they're almost like cats! Just add self-centered craftiness.

Brief weekend update: IT SNOWED. Boyfriend and I sloshed through icy water on the streets last Saturday, ugh. I should've worn my winter boots. Sunday was better -- sunny, but damn cold. Now it's not as bad.

Well, back to the grind -- not. Kweheheheheheh!!!!!