It's doubtfully ethical to blog about work from work, but my boss just left the office after instructing me to finish assembling a zillion sheets of questionably organized, uncatagorized, misnamed, similar looking rubrics into binders, and then evaluate and fill out a sample application evaluation according to those 8,000 rubrics in preparation for our training session tomorrow. Simple tasks like this expose all of my childhood OCD tendencies, usually abandoned in favor of simplicity, practicality, efficiency, and fun, and as a result they take about five hours. And when I am done, I have a sense of pride that completely outweighs any kind of reinforcement or appreciation I will receive for the output. It's sort of a letdown. So I'm sitting in silence after making a pot of coffee JUST FOR MYSELF (!) and admiring the assembled binders. I have outrageous OCD repression.

we all have dreams

Day 29
You are looking at the successful completee of nearly 10 hours of database website informational training. And you thought that you learned a lot in college! Sometimes, I wonder why I even bothered to learn how to use the internet before this job, because I was clearly using it so inadequately. I never realized that every day, I was performing a small miracle as I used multiple-tab browsing while researching term papers and shopping online simultaneously. I’m kind of like the Albert Schweitzer of the internet.

The main thing I REALLY DON’T GET about online trainings is that in real life, it’s probably hard to use all the programs I’m learning to use, but the trainings never cover what to do when the search function stops working, but they are quite comprehensive on the myriad ways to search for someone named “Mary.” They don’t tell you what will happen after the website shuts down, but they make damn well sure that you know of about 80 different ways to find the “Home” page.

In other news, I’ve eaten a jar of salsa in two days, and I’m pretty sure my sink is clogged, but I’m approaching that in stages by using my bathroom sink to wash dishes. Each of these is a clear indication that the old me is not disappearing completely. I also had a dream about beer, kind of in the way that I used to dream about summer when I was in high school.

This evening, I prepared a Weight Watchers taco salad with black beans, vegetables, salsa, seasonings, and avocado, which I can’t classify on my own, but I do know that it is a serious food that people only use with purpose. This entire venture, which included following a simple recipe, quartering the recipe, chopping an array of vegetables, and opening two cans, took me about forty-five minutes. Now I’m eating the salsa with my fingers. Two steps forward, three steps back.

such a big deal

I just made a turkey burger. For myself. By myself. It wasn't hard! This is a turning point.

grow up

Last night, for a thrilling change of pace, I decided to drink too much, and I woke up hosting a four-ring circus in my body, which made me want to eat a gun, or at least a two-gallon carton of Taco Bell. I keep wondering when this activity will cease to seem like a sufficient way to spend an evening. I kind of mistakenly believed that once you graduated from college, you would magically only need Advil to treat headaches, symptoms of the common cold, and pain from injuries sustained while working on home improvement projects. Unfortunately for my liver, I still drink Advil down by the cupful more often than I count out the standard dosage and wash it down with a teaspoon of Evian. Even though I know exactly what is going to happen in six hours, the only ways in which I’ve learned to amend my behavior consist of shoveling a gallon of water into my stomach before I go to bed and sometimes, even medicating before I have to wake up to feel an angry family of four road-tripping from one side of my head to the other. I kind of believed that you turned in your alcohol tolerance and your taste for beers named after places and followed by descriptive adjectives for “cold,” with the keys to your senior year dorm room, so imagine my shock to learn that they sell Milwaukee’s Best in grocery stores that are nowhere near college towns.
I know that while I’m sniffing the cigarette smoke out of my hair on my couch, clutching an economy sized bag of chips in a flavor only drunk people eat, which can’t seem to make it into my mouth fast enough, other people my age are spending their Saturdays doing things that don’t involve byproducts of salt, like registering for wedding gifts or vacuuming their rugs. But I also know that God would not have invented Topper’s if He didn’t want us to get drunk and eat them. Maybe someday I will care.

my hair is real

The most vocal city I have ever been to was Appleton. In Appleton, people did not understand the separation between your life and their life. They did not understand that not everything that was your business was their business. They thought it was their right, probably actually their duty, to comment on every single thing about you that they could see, like your hair, your clothes, your general appearance, your bike - everything. Generally, they did this by whistling or making other repulsive noises at you. Once a police officer yelled at me to get off my bike, which caused me to fall off of it, so mission accomplished. The good thing about Appleton was that eventually I got to go back to Lawrence, where people didn't say things to me unless they knew me, and even though most of them did, they all understood that I didn't care. In Milwaukee, the there seems to be an endless stream of people who must think that there is some sort of sign taped to my back asking their opinion of me.

Since I have moved to Milwaukee, I have had three people ask me variations of a question about the authenticity of my hair. I mean, they have asked me if my hair is real. Or if it is a weave. Or where I "got it." Or what I am going to "do with all of it." I don't really know what compels people to feel the need to ask this question, or to believe that it is appropriate in any way. I can't really imagine feeling the need to confirm the authenticity of anyone else's body parts, unless our relationship was in stages to become more intimate, and the knowledge could become beneficial or at least useful. I suppose it could be worse - there are a host of body parts they could call in to question, and I guess some that aren't so real at this point. But STILL. My hair is like the nicest part of me; are you saying you don't really believe it's possible for me to have something this nice? Probably not because you are homeless. (To be fair, only one of the people who asked me this was homeless. The other was on his way to the courthouse, and not to work, and the other probably didn't mean it.)

I also have heard a fair number of people loudly refer to me as "Lil Mama" as I bike past, which is something I have very consciously done my best to prevent becoming in recent years, and as a result, I would really appreciate if they refrained from calling me that.

twelve-letter phrase for "tough"

had a minor breakdown. went home for a couple of days. enticed my mother to buy a new blouse for me. as a result, my laundry has started to develop its own fragrance, and i've learned that i can't flush tampons down my apartment's toilet. cool.

it would probably be easier if we did this a different way, but...

I have a migraine. It is possible that this is a side-effect from the chemical on the licking strip of all the envelopes I licked today. Regardless of the cause, it feels like someone is driving an ice pick through the top part of my temple into the area behind my right eye, and then slowly pulling it up and drilling it back in again.

When my family implored me to start writing a blog about my year spent "in service of America," and the transition from college to "real life," I, perhaps ignorantly, assumed that I would have more interesting updates to report other than the toll that envelope-licking has been taking on my body and my sanity and my ability to persevere in the face of yet another Mail Merge disaster. But I am an intrepid office worker, and if these minor setbacks are what's required to spend a year in service of my country, then that is what I will do. Some are solving the financial crisis, others are mentoring low-income students, still others are building houses, practicing sustainable farming, or working in food pantries. I am mastering the art of Microsoft Excel, and paying dearly, I might add.

I have a computer but I still do not have a desk. Really, there is nothing in my apartment that could be classified as a "table" in a furniture store without being misleading. I've never been a fan of the laptop being used in the literal sense - sitting on one's lap. It makes me feel lazy, like a person who can't sit up straight or wear anything other than sweatpants. I take my shoes off at work sometimes and it makes me feel the same way.

post-work snack

Day 16

When I was younger, my dad told my brother and me that he gave us "strong names" that could hold up professionally so that we had a chance of doing that too. Now that I'm older, I realize that this was probably just another way of covering all his parental bases and developing an excuse for giving us some uncool, boring names. Really all that determines your professional success, especially at an entry level, is your standard for rejecting bullshit, and your ability to perform bullshit tasks without questioning your IQ. Turns out, I don't really have this ability.

You'd think people about my age would excel in this area, after spending four years affixing foam hands to their own real hands, dressing up in theme wear, and considering this an excuse to get tanked before eleven in the morning, or taking shots of beer every minute for sixty minutes and considering this a thrilling, effective way of spending an evening. But, nope, apparently I'm lacking the ability to pack boxes, envelopes, and internet databases without once wondering why my college degree made me any more appealing than the next candidate. Until recently, I had been operating under the delusion that I would be helping children almost daily, that my mere presence would turn their lives around. Lots of idealistic college democrats probably share this delusion. Instead, I have to be satisfied with the fact that my ability to Fed-Ex check request forms will some day help some kid get into college. Maybe. Until I see some proof, I plan on enjoying many more post-work snacks.