Between Jobs: The Blog

Between Jobs: A Novel is available now!

noreply@blogger.com (Pam Bellarose) — Mon, 26 Jul 2010 02:52:00 +0000

My book, Between Jobs: A Novel, is now available for purchase on Lulu.com! (click here!)

Here's a summary:

Fired from her first real job, Pam thinks it will be a piece of cake to find a new one. After all, she has a Masters Degree! She soon realizes, however, that she has a far greater task at hand. From committing massive conversational idiocy when first combating the question “So, what do you do?”, to contemplating her role in the world of work, to developing an acute case of “The Nasties,” Pam’s journey into this new phase of her life is never a dull one.

Based on the author’s experience as a budding young professional, Between Jobs: A Novel is a charming lemons-to-lemonade tale. Pam’s trials and tribulations, as well as her unique perspective and style, will leave you laughing long after you’ve put the book down.

If you would like to buy a copy (available in paperback and download), please visit my Lulu storefront. I hope you like it! If you do, tell your friends and/or send me a comment on my website.

Thanks for reading!

URLs for links embedded above:
Lulu Storefront: http://stores.lulu.com/store.php?fAcctID=23531672
My website: http://pambellarose.weebly.com/index.html

Heat Wave = Sleep Talking

noreply@blogger.com (Pam Bellarose) — Thu, 08 Jul 2010 01:32:00 +0000

So I've probably mentioned that I occasionally talk in my sleep. It's nothing like the Sleep Talkin' Man or anything, but it's there. And sometimes, it's a problem.

When it's over 90 during the day and over 75 at night, my sleep talking phenomenon is much, much worse. The other night, under said conditions, I may have given my wife a heart attack. She apparently took the sheet with her when she rolled over during the night, and then, quite suddenly, I pounced on her. I also said "NOOOO," gave her quite a look (through closed eyes, which is impressive), and attempted to steal the sheet back. Why I was upset baffles me because who would want to be covered by anything, even a sheet, in this heat? Anyway, she thought I was awake because of how coherent I sounded and seemed, so she was asking me logical questions like, "what, what's wrong?!" and "what do you want?!" Her heart was racing for at least another 25 minutes. I, however, was softly snoring within seconds. I don't remember any of this and was appalled to learn it the next morning.

Arguably worse, the night after that, I woke her up because I was yelling in a shrill, panicked voice, "HURRY NO HURRY NO HURRY NO" over and over again. She woke up and possibly turned on the light to see what was wrong. Was there a robber? Was our house on fire? Was someone going to win an Olympic medal if only they could HURRY but oh NO there was someone catching up? No. Just me, sleep talking over nothing. Sometimes, I wonder if there's something wrong with me.

You stored your blood and malaria in my house, next to my yogurt. Thanks for the memories.

noreply@blogger.com (Pam Bellarose) — Wed, 30 Jun 2010 01:42:00 +0000

Do you ever fail to process something fully until days or weeks later?

About 2 weeks ago, my best friend surprised us with a visit as she was passing through Boston on her way elsewhere. My best friend, it should be noted, is a scientist. She can tell you more about cyanobacteria, herpes, and now malaria than you will ever need or want to know. When she stopped by 2 weeks ago, she was on her way to TA for a parasitic biology course and she was carrying with her some materials for her lab. Some of these materials included not-yet-tainted blood and little vials of the malaria parasite. I'm not going to lie to you, I was worried that we would all catch malaria and die. Jess warned that it sounded much like the beginnings of a doomsday film, where a seemingly harmless and minuscule event leads to the mass extinction of the human race. Even the dogs were concerned when she brought her bags into our guest room/office/room full of stray crap: They sniffed the bag and snarfled loudly as they tried to nose their way closer to the blood and parasites, presumably to get a better idea for these new, fine-smelling house guests.

Of course, nothing happened. The malaria slept nicely through the night in the guest room with my best friend. They even had a nice "meal" at one point, when my friend fed them to keep them at their healthiest. The blood slept the night away in the fridge, next to our yogurt. All was well.

And then this morning, I was somehow reminded of these events (I don't know or remember how), and I thought: Wow. Now THAT was bizarre. I thought of sending a text message to my friend saying: "Thanks for storing your blood next to my yogurt. Glad the malaria slept well." But, it being 2 weeks later, I refrained.

Happy Father's Day! Love, your Recliner

noreply@blogger.com (Pam Bellarose) — Sun, 20 Jun 2010 11:52:00 +0000

My father's relationship with his recliner has always been intimate. For as far back as I can remember, we always had a recliner and it was never occupied by anyone but my father. Well, I shouldn't say never: When I had my wisdom teeth out and was woozy from the anesthesia, when I was sick and he wasn't home, and on other such joyous occasions for me, I was allowed to sit in the recliner. For me, the association between sitting in the recliner and feeling like absolute death was so potent that even when I felt fine and snuck a seating session, I started to feel mildly crappy within 5 minutes of sitting down.

My father, however, slept in that thing. Every night around 9pm, we would be gathered in the family room watching TV and I would notice a light snoring. Post-popcorn & soda snack and fully reclined, he would drift into a light sleep that lasted until he had to get up just to go to bed around 11:30pm. The recliner really had a hold on him, and sometimes he was very difficult to wake up. At first, my mother was in charge of this, but as it grew increasingly difficult, she gave up and appointed Sparki. Sparki, however, was easily influenced by The Popcorn Man, as I'm certain he must have thought of my dad. The two of them would sleep in the recliner until about 3am when Sparki could contain his urge to go outside no longer. My father, awakened by the Sparki shuffle, grumbled, took him out, and went to bed. This was their habit for a good eight years while I was in high school and college.

I keep referring to The Recliner as if it's a singular recliner, but I witnessed a string of about 4 recliners over the past 27 years of my life. Recliners, of course, have a finite lifespan, and in human years, my father's recliners were quite old by the time he dumped them. His last recliner (now he has multiple reclining sections in their new leather couch), was passed on to Jess and me.

Naturally, for the past 3 years with this thing, the time when it saw the most action were when my mom and dad would visit. My dad would resume his rightful position in the chair and ask us if we wanted him to make some popcorn (which usually meant "can you make me some popcorn?"). Then we'd put on a movie, usually a lively action movie at top volume, and he would promptly fall asleep. When my parents weren't visiting and it was just us newlyweds, Jess and I sat on the couch as the recliner stared back at us, unfulfilled. Jess avoided it because she wanted to sit with me. I wanted to sit with her too, but it was really out of habit and fear of impending nausea that I avoided it.

And so, after over a year of feeling uncomfortable sharing the living room with the recliner and intensely disliking the way it jutted out into the middle of the room the way it did, I decided to sell it on Craigslist. Perhaps this wasn't the best way to honor my father (and his relationship with The Recliner) on father's day. It felt akin to visiting Canada for Independence Day. So, as the buyer and her muscular friend took it out of our apartment (awkwardly and with much grunting), I played a mental taps for its final send off. I only hope it brings its new owner as much popcorn-related joy and good sleep as it did my father. Of course, with less nausea for anyone else in the house.

Big News

noreply@blogger.com (Pam Bellarose) — Wed, 16 Jun 2010 19:49:00 +0000

Big news: I have my own garbage can and recycle bin at my part time office job! These receptacles came with a bigger desk, too! Score! Wow, and it only took over 3 months. Maybe at this rate, in another 3 months I'll have my own key to get into the building. And then 3 months after that, maybe I'll have taxes taken out of my paycheck. Another 3 months after that, maybe I'll have paid sick days and health insurance tied to the old jobberoonie. 3 months after that, maybe I'll even have full time status and a 401k! Ok, that last part was pretty funny, as that's not likely to happen any time soon, but a girl can dream. Ok, end b*tching here.

I really am grateful for my garbage can and bigger desk. I'm in the same room (the suite preceding the executive offices), but now I have a totally different view. My back is no longer to the door (and my only remaining in-suite coworker), I can see when people enter, and my computer screen is not on display for the whole world to see. My new view really ties the room together; as much as something abstract like a vantage point can, anyway. I just hope a Chinaman* doesn't pee on it, but I suppose that goes without saying. Oh, and an added bonus to my new view: The floor where I sit is slanted and I have one of those mats that makes it easy for my chair to roll, so when I pick up my feet, I can travel to the left side of my desk with no effort whatsoever. That, and I feel drunk just sitting still. The potential minus, however, is that I feel like I'm developing spontaneous scoliosis the longer I sit there and try to resist the pull of the slant. But, despite the slant, I want you to know I'm trying to make lemonade out of my scoliosis-laden lemon that some Chinaman probably peed on when I wasn't looking. It's going swimmingly.

*The Chinaman isn't an issue - i.e. I'm not racist. It's from The Big Lebowski.

Bring a cleaver? Ohhh spring fever!

noreply@blogger.com (Pam Bellarose) — Wed, 19 May 2010 12:40:00 +0000

It's that time of year that so many folks are fond of: Spring. Light green, blossoming, fragrant, enlivening spring. They think of 70 degrees and sunny, children skipping and holding hands on the way to some lake, baseball, spring cleaning, eating ice cream, wearing khaki pants and pastels, and other such things of a springy nature. Lovely.

In the northeastern US, we don't always have a stereotypical spring. In fact, where I've lived (CT, NY, MA), we hardly ever have one. Starting in late April, it's rainy and 45-60 degrees out for about a month and a half, breaking only for Memorial day (which is always hot...but don't be fooled, more rain is around the corner) and other select weekends. Then, some time in mid-June, BAM! it's summer. Just like that. All of a sudden, your khakis won't do and you are forced into suddenly summer attire. You feel unprepared, especially when it comes to what others will wear in public (ahhhh the return of the daisy dukes), but you're grateful it's stopped raining and smelling like worms and mud.

It's been so long since we had the stereotypical spring that I'd almost forgotten what it's like. This year, however, we are having that ideal spring. We're actually transitioning from winter to summer and having full weeks where it's just 65 and sunny. Children are eating ice cream as they skip to a baseball game in their khakis. It doesn't always smell like rain and mud and worms. My galoshes feel remarkably left out as I don my sunglasses once again.

But something has happened in this lovely springtime, the intensity of which was unexpected. My allergies have been absolutely ferocious. The worst they've ever been. I mean, they're usually pretty bad, as spring for me mean tissues, claritin, zyrtec, neti pots, sudafed, and the like. But this year, it feels like I've been rolling in flowerbeds, taking deep breaths and shoving pollen up nose. Or like I've taken a bunch of budding trees and planted them in my face. Or like I've fashioned all of my clothes out of freshly cut grass accented with sprigs of ragweed. I do look good in green, after all.

I won't go into what it feels like too much because it's not a pretty picture, but it suffices to say that the inner workings of all that allows me to breathe, hear, and see are both itchy and malfunctioning due to blockage. Gross! I know. But apparently only 1 in 5 people in the US suffer from allergies, so I thought I'd put this out there in case you are one of the lucky ones who does not. It's not just a cute little sneeze and then relief. "Oh my silly allergies, ha ha." No sir. I believe it's this misconception that allergies are just silly sneezes that allows people to conclude someone suffering from allergies must have a cold, because in reality, the symptoms can be the same. People see me blow my nose on the T and then move to the other side of the train. I want to tell them "Don't worry, I'm not contagious, it's just my allergies," but if I did it would sound like "Don worry, Imb nod codtagious, ids juds my allergies."

Communicating in general has become difficult, and not only when speaking to someone. I have whole days where my ears go on strike. For example, once when Jess was reading, she told me she had 20 pages left. I thought she said "funny pinky sweat." Another time, my friend and I were at a mutual friend's house. She asked if there was something in her teeth. I said, "Can I get you some tea? Why are you asking me, I don't live here?" The other day I thought my coworker called me a "F***Tard," but she was actually pronouncing "Spaniard" incorrectly. Yesterday, I thought I overheard someone on the T say, "so, did you hear no-tooth Nicole is having another baby?" I want to guess and say that's not really what she said, but because it was on the T, I can't be sure.

Most of the time, I'll ask for clarification in these scenarios. A simple "huh?" or "I'm sorry?" usually does it. But, if I can't make out what someone is saying after the third time or so, I just guess. If someone is telling me story, I do my best to mirror their facial expressions. I'm very good with appalled, astonished, excited, sympathetic. It's when they ask me questions that I get into trouble. Sometimes I'll say yes, hoping it was the right answer and in some cases, that it was a yes or no question at all.

In short, this allergy season, everyone around me has become James William Bottom Tooth.

Silent but funny

noreply@blogger.com (Pam Bellarose) — Fri, 07 May 2010 12:37:00 +0000

I work in an office in a room with 2 other people (and doors to 3 other offices, and a printer, and a postage machine, and now we're getting a little too descriptive). It's an open layout, so we have our own desks and work areas, but not so much our own cubes. Unless we are directly conversing, it's usually pretty quiet.

Some of the work I do can be mind-numbing (God bless my iPod). For example, there was a project for which I had to update contact information for folks by researching online. During this specific project, I came across several funny names, pictures, websites, and "professional" biographies.

One day, it was about hour seven of this nonsense and the room was absolutely silent. This was when I came across the man that changed our coworker dynamic forever: Attorney Gary Crapster. Yes, in my search, I found someone with the last name "Crapster." Immediately, I heard myself saying "Crapsteeeeeeer! What up?" in my head as if greeting Mr. Crapster, Esq. familiarly from across the room. Thoughts of crapster as slang cut through the silence and mapped themselves onto Gary personally, as if he himself were made from defective parts. I pictured him walking along rather mechanically as parts of his robot body fell off and clanged to the floor.

All of this happened in less than a second, during which I found myself trying to fight laughter, but, it being 4:30 and the room being invitingly silent, unable to do so. Laughter eeked out of my mouth slowly and in the form of that uncomfortable "kkkkkk" sound that happens at the back of your throat. I put my hand to my mouth, foolishly hoping that mere action could contain the inevitable. Finally, I let it out. I laughed into the silence.

I subsequently had to explain why I was laughing, and luckily, my coworkers found Attorney Crapster as funny as I did. (I mean, how could you not?!) Thus, the floodgates were open for moments of random laughing. Silence, as a result, became a deadly invitation for laughter. In fact, silence mocked me to the point where sometimes I find silence itself funny.

I'll be sitting there and, out of the blue, something that was funny five minutes (or days) ago will hit me again. Like the time my coworkers and I watched the SNL sketch of Justin Timberlake dressed up like an omelette at lunch. "Bring it on down to Omeletteville" will sometimes smack me in the face and dare me not to laugh.

Or I'll remember something funny that happened years ago. Like the time I cut up Jess's corduroy pants and made little outfits for Sparki and Emma. They looked absolutely ridiculous. And nothing would have prompted this thought specifically, but nevertheless, there I'd be, laughing uncontrollably.

Or I'll think of something that's neither happened nor is currently happening, but could happen. Like what if someone were to go into the bathroom (which is right next to our room) and start singing "The Star Spangled Banner" loud enough so that we could all hear it? Or better yet, Taylor Dane's "Don't Rush Me?" That's gold. Well, it would be gold, anyway.

Luckily, my coworkers are arguably just as quirky as I am and not only understand when these things happen to me, but often do it themselves, tripling the random entertainment throughout the day. The best part is, sometimes we explain why we're laughing, and sometimes we just don't. Leaving the laughter hanging there is enough to make the other 2 in the room laugh anyway, despite the fact that they aren't sure why their coworker cracked up. The way I look at it, whether the source of laughter is shared or not, it's a win-win and it makes the day go by a little faster.

A Violation of Unspoken Rules

noreply@blogger.com (Pam Bellarose) — Fri, 30 Apr 2010 01:57:00 +0000

In certain cultures, games, sports, and situations, there exist unspoken rules. Though unspoken, most folks tend to be aware of these rules and follow them. Granted, it does take newcomers a period of adjustment and assimilation during which they learn the unspoken rules, but after a while, they too tend to fit right in. At least, most of them do...

Take, for example, personal space bubbles (NOT a euphemism for farts). For Americans and other western cultures, the personal space bubble is loosely defined as an average of 24.5 inches (60 centimeters) on either side, 27.5 inches (70 centimeters) in front and 15.75 inches (40 centimeters) behind (internationalstudents.org). This is the space westerners like to keep between them and an every day conversation partner. It means we feel weird and slightly violated when the person we're talking with is inside that bubble.

Other cultures, however, have smaller personal space bubbles and feel dissed if they're not closer than that. So the close talker in Seinfeld could have been from a close talking culture, or they could have just been violating the unspoken rule for westerner's personal space bubbles. If I remember correctly, it was pretty clear the close talker was just a local oddball, but I like to give people the benefit of the doubt.

Now for a more personal, real life example of unspoken rules.

I play lead trumpet in the Brookline Community Band (a.k.a the First Corps of Cadets Band...long story). BCB rehearsals have unspoken rules that are common to every band I have personally been a member of in my lifetime. These rules generally address when it's ok to talk between playing, how to enter when you're late, and even music-related rules (but I won't drop the music nerd bomb on you because I still want you to like me). There is one member of the band, however, who hasn't picked up on one of our more subtle rules: 1. Don't turn around to stare at someone while they're playing a solo. This person seems like a nice enough guy and a good player, so I don't want to get down on him, but man, is it distracting!

The first time it happened, I was playing a solo and our then new band member turns around, I thought simply to identify who was playing, make some sort of mental note (perhaps "trumpet soloist has large eyeballs"), and turn back around to listen. Because after all, that is what music is all about: how it sounds, not how the person playing it looks. I mean, I'm not performing interpretive dance back here while I play my solo, just breathing and buzzing my lips. It's actually a little unattractive. So I took it in stride the first time, thinking, "oh he's just new," but it kept happening. And not just to me, to other soloists also. It wasn't stealth either, as each time he blatantly swiveled around in his seat, craned his neck, and adjusted his glasses as necessary to stare at the soloist for the solo in its entirety.

Because I like to give people the benefit of the doubt, however, for the next couple of months I reasoned away the weight of his eyeballs on me at solo time. Maybe he was just studying my embouchure or wanted to see how I breathed to prepare for a phrase. Maybe he's a visual person and looking at the soloist really enhances the experience. Maybe he thinks I'm pretty. (I later ruled out "maybe he thinks I'm pretty" based on the fact that playing the trumpet makes you visibly less attractive.) Maybe he used to sit in a place where you could see the soloists at all times in a previous band (and was therefore stealthier and less noticeable in his soloist staring) and, as a result, is used to being able to see the soloist easily. Now, at a bad angle, he has to swivel around in order to see and doesn't know there's an unspoken rule against that.

I stopped on the last part of that sentence and thought back to the close talker. The close talker didn't know they were a close talker. Maybe my band mate doesn't know they're a soloist starer and that gives people the "no" feeling?

In truth, I can only speak for myself when I say it gives ME the "no" feeling, but even so, how can I let him know? With a close talker, it's a little easier. Moving back a step, averting eye contact to show discomfort, turning to the side to avoid facing them, and other nonverbal signals and body language corrections might just send that desired signal, "please, you're in my bubble." But what can I do to gently signal my discomfort while reading music and playing a solo? I can't meet his gaze and make him feel awkward by holding it as long as possible because I have to read my music. I can't say anything (like, "I'm sorry, did you say something?" or "can I help you?" or "did you need something?") because I'm playing a wind instrument.

So, now four months into this, I find myself in an ongoing, not-quite fixable predicament. I mean, sure, I could address him directly after rehearsal, but I’m not quite sure what to lead with. "Please stop staring at me" seems too direct, and “would you mind facing front while others are playing?” sounds like a teacher’s reprimand. I suppose I should let it lie and get used to it. Maybe it’s character-building or something, despite the “no” feeling and the violation of unspoken rules.

Wait a minute. Do you think he might be trying to change the unspoken rules? Wouldn’t that be just crazy?! Picture it: Everyone in the band turns around to stare at you while you’re playing. Brrr, creepy! That’s a lot of eyeball pressure! I hope that doesn’t happen! I'm going to have nightmares now.

Memory Monday (except that it's Saturday): Random Childhood Flashback

noreply@blogger.com (Pam Bellarose) — Sat, 17 Apr 2010 15:09:00 +0000

I recently watched the Marriage Ref because, let's face it, I was curious. It was one of the earlier episodes, and highlighted in it was a fight over whether the wife should be allowed to keep her deceased first husband's urn and prosthetic leg in the house. Immediately, I was transported back in time to age 6...

As you may know by now, I grew up in CT as a part of a large, close-knit family. Our agreed-upon family policy on birthdays was to celebrate (with parties) the birthdays of my generation through age 16. Whenever we had birthday parties at my house (for me, obviously), all of my cousins would come over and we'd all play together. Usually, we were told to "go down in the basement" because there were so many of us that I'm sure the calm to chaos ratio was far from manageable. Down in the basement, the chaos was allowed to build on itself as we all ran around in the unfinished land of sporting equipment, canned goods, a furnace, antique farming tools, old furniture, and various home and yard products.

One of the games we would play (you know, when running around ceased to satisfy and our innate need for rules in play became apparent) was haunted house. There would be two teams. After the long and drawn out process of choosing sides and then finding the most perfect names for these teams, we were ready to play. Playing entailed one team (let's call them the Avengers, as that was a popular choice) waiting at the top of the stairs as the other (let's call them Wayne Power- inspired by Dwayne Wayne or Wayne Gretsky, I'm not sure, but both are equally likely) set up their haunted house. When team Wayne Power was ready, the Avengers would have to walk through the haunted house. After every member of the Avengers had been through it, the teams would switch. At the end, we'd loosely discuss whose haunted house was scarier.

Team Wayne Power usually won, as their scare tactics included not only the use of antique farm equipment and the old rocking chair with the hole in the seat, but also the use of my grandfather's first prosthetic leg. Avenger after Avenger would walk by the bag where we kept Poppy's leg and scream as it appeared to creep closer and closer. At the time, my grandfather, Poppy, was still alive and partying upstairs with the rest of the adults. Looking back on this event after his passing, however, makes it seem all the more ridiculous. Especially since we kept all of his prosthetics after he updated to newer, better models. I can't imagine the fear we would have felt for three legs creeping our way.

Flashing back to the episode of the Marriage Ref, I can understand why that woman would want to keep her deceased husband's legs; we did, after all, keep Poppy's for quite a while. That being said, it's still inherently creepy. What if her kids are playing haunted house with it?

I'm a Part Timer!

noreply@blogger.com (Pam Bellarose) — Sat, 13 Mar 2010 20:55:00 +0000

Hello?
Is someone else in here?

Oh hi! I didn't see you there!

It's been a while! I've missed you!

Why haven't I written in a while? Well, mostly because I didn't want to jinx my new part time job. Yeah, I got a part time job! I mean, it is only part time (for now...hah hah hah), I don't get benefits, taxes aren't taken out (I DREAD tax time next year), I don't get my own email, IM, phone, key, or garbage bin, and someone else has to sign me onto a computer. BUT I have a desk, a paycheck, and some pretty fun coworkers, so I'm hoping this goes well and lasts longer than the promised 3 months. Who knows, maybe if I continue to be awesome, they'll give me my own garbage bin. I have big dreams.

As a long time job hunter, I had lowered my standards quite a bit. I was willing to start anywhere and do anything (read: will pick up elephant dung for 5 cents and hour). I had gotten to a place where I was getting pretty excited about jobs that I had long since surpassed skill-wise. This just happens to be that sort of job. Well, at least to some degree. Right now, 25% of my work is learning the ropes of bookkeeping and creating invoices and things. This is something I have only dabbled in in the past, probably because I was thinking "eww accounting!" The more I get into accounting, however, the more I realize how very..."me" it seems to be. It's organized and methodical, but you need to think about everything with case by case specificity. It's not nearly as boring or daunting as I thought it would be, and so I find myself looking forward to my bookkeeper tasks. I know, you just threw up in your mouth a little. Sorry about that. Here's a napkin.

The other 75% of my work involves copying and pasting as I create Excel databases of various shapes and sizes. This is the part of the job that is less than fun, but very familiar. I'm so familiar with data entry that I can tell you there are 3 main types:

The kind where you can just tune out completely and enter data brainlessly. This goes by quickly, mostly because mentally, you're in the Bahamas.
The kind where you have to really think about the stuff you're entering. Categorizing qualitative data (ex. deciding how to label someone's answer to an open-ended survey question) comes to mind. This type of data entry is the most pain-in-the ass, is mentally exhausting, and goes by very slowly because you are mentally present for the whole repetitive ride.
The kind that's a bit of a mix of the 2 above. Usually you have to make decisions about some things, but a large part of it is comprised of simple, non-thinking tasks. This is the kind of data entry I'm doing, and it goes by pretty fast now that I'm used to it.

I think it's because of my familiarity with data entry that I'm so efficient at/with it. I knew what to expect going in and buckled up for the long haul. My skills and speed have been noticed by folks at my new part time job, and I have to tell you, it's quite the self-esteem boost. I went from job hunter extraordinaire, fielding rejection left and right, to part timer receiving compliments from the CEO. Pretty sweet, even if it is only regarding a simple skill.

This has all led me to believe that lowering my standards in my job search was not a completely terrible idea. So if you're looking for a job and feeling bad that you have lowered YOUR standards, I guess all I'm trying to say is don't because you never know what will come of it. It could be a stepping stone to something greater-- or it could evolve into something great. You never know.

And also, being a part-timer is way better than being this guy:

note: since I know SNL will likely take this off YouTube at some point, just google "closet organizer guy snl" for a video of the above.

The kind of joke you tell your dentist

noreply@blogger.com (Pam Bellarose) — Thu, 07 Jan 2010 13:20:00 +0000

Last night at my community band rehearsal, a fellow trumpeter told me a joke.

fellow trumpeter: What's the difference between a tavern and an elephant breaking wind?
me: I don't know, what?
fellow trumpeter: One's a bar room, one's a bahROOM!
me (without hesitation): Ha! Now that's the kind of joke you tell your dentist.

Wait, wait. Let me explain.

The dentist I had when I was a kid was a joke junky. Every time I went in for a cleaning or filling or braces tune up (because yes, I was that gangly tall girl with glasses and braces at one point), I had to have a joke to tell him. I at least had to be prepared to make one up, because he never failed to ask me, "ya got any new jokes?" As a result, I had a stock pile of jokes ready for him. And, because he was my dentist and not my fellow gangly, awkward school girl, they were all clean...just like the tavern and elephant fart joke.

So...ya got any jokes? Pretend I'm your dentist.

A downer, then story time

noreply@blogger.com (Pam Bellarose) — Tue, 05 Jan 2010 17:41:00 +0000

I started to write a post about this CNN.com article "US job satisfaction hits 22 year low," but then I scrapped it. It was a complete downer. Basically, even through good economic times and improvements in the workplace environment over the last 20 years, job satisfaction has continued a downward trend. Now more than half of people lucky enough to have jobs are dissatisfied with their jobs.

Great, so even if and when I do get a job, I'm going to be unhappy with it? I never expected to fall in love with it or anything, but I hoped to at least like it a little bit. I mean, this might be kind of a reach for a metaphor, but employers are no longer proposing marriage to employees. They've taken the romance and the love and the snuggling by the fire right out of it. As a result, loyalty on the employee's part is gone. So what's left? Friendship. And I hope my future job and I can at least be friends.

Alright, so apparently, I didn't entirely scrap that post. And it ended up being a little bit of a downer. Dang.

I know: In an effort to end on a positive note, I'll tell you a story!

I was watching TV recently and saw a teenage girl throwing a tennis ball repeatedly against a garage or wall or something. Suddenly I remembered: I used to do that all the time! I would throw it against the garage for HOURS at a time. One day, though, my parents got worried that I would develop a bionic arm and the ball would explode through the door, the car behind the door, and into the laundry room. I assured them that wouldn't happen, that I would be careful. I guess I wasn't convincing enough, though, and the Rule was made that I was no longer allowed to throw the ball against the door. I was heart broken: throwing that ball was one of the most fun things I could do with my day. What to do!?

I played with my Legos, a form of middle school age meditation I now realize, and came up with a solution: I would lob it onto the roof above the garage! I tried it and for the first half hour, things were going swimmingly. The ball would bounce up onto the roof and then bounce right back down. It was fantastic, and even more fun than the garage door. About 45 minutes in, however, I got into a bit of a kerfuffle. I tossed the ball up, but it didn't bounce as much and so rolled down the roof....and right into the gutter. Pants! A trip to get my dad and a scolding session involving a ladder and several clumps of leaves later, my ball was down and I promised to be more careful. Thankfully, despite the scolding and the continuing evidence that I was in fact developing a bionic arm, a Rule wasn't made forbidding me to throw tennis balls onto the roof again. Realizing I had dodged a significant childhood bullet, I grew careful. I became skilled in the mechanics and physics of the Tennis Ball Roof Dancing. TBRD. That's what I called it. And there were guidelines for my friends if they ever came over to play TBRD with me. A points system even evolved. Yeah.

I'm sure you have a story just like that. i.e. when you were a kid, you probably became really knowledgeable about and skilled in something that you thought was just the bee's knees at the time and then made it a game with rules and points and such. You know what? Why don't you just go ahead and share those stories with me so I don't feel so weird.

BAM it's the holidays

noreply@blogger.com (Pam Bellarose) — Tue, 22 Dec 2009 21:15:00 +0000

I'm so sad...my laptop has recently declared itself a Craptop. So in case you're wondering why I seem to be on sabbatical, it's not because I'm trapped under something heavy. In part, it's the craptop (blue screen of death, the whole nine). In, um, other part, it's the holiday season and to my amazement, I've found a way to be as busy as those fortunate enough to have jobs. And I don't even know with what I am busy...watching Dogs101 and SuperFetch? What happened to December? It was my birthday and Thanksgiving, there was a little cranberry sauce and a little turkey (ok, there were WEEKS of turkey), and then BAM! it's the week of Christmas. Somewhere in there were also trips to CT and Florida and NYC. There were birthdays and anniversaries and talks with relatives. I vaguely remember my aunt telling me she once took part in a drum circle.

It's all pretty fuzzy, but I do remember a wedding for which I was a second shooter (photography-like, not mafia-like). Sure, there was dancing and eating and drinking I could not take part in because I was taking pictures. But there were also unforgettable things, like the mother of the groom's veiny cleave, the dollar dance with rabies, the actual good shots I got, the awesome vendor meal, and of course the last song ("Proud To Be An American") and the circle of swaying hand-holders that came along with it. That was the moment I knew I'd be a second shooter again in a heartbeat!

In general, though, I feel like I blacked out somewhere. Or took a wrong turn at Albuquerque. And here we are. It's so good to see you again! I love your new sweater!

In any case, happy holidays to all -- and a new computer for me! Hooray!

Astrology

noreply@blogger.com (Pam Bellarose) — Sat, 21 Nov 2009 16:33:00 +0000

Sometime, when you have a lot of time on your hands, you should look up your astrology profile on something like cafeastrology.com or the like. Or just google "born on _____" (your birthday) like I did.

What comes up are usually sites that supposedly tell you what you are like. Mine, for example, says I'm optimistic and fun-loving, I love to travel, love adventure, am honest and straightforward, am charismatic, and other such gems.

Reading this, it made me wonder: Are there ever astrology messages that say "you're a terrible person and no one likes you"? I don't think there are, really. I'm not saying that the good messages are wrong - mine certainly wasn't. It just makes you go "hmm." It kind of perpetuates jerkdom, if you think about it, because some jerk, also born on my birthday, will read things like "you're charismatic and people like you" and think, "I'm doing something right by being a jerk!" The fact of the matter is, that's just not true.

It makes me wonder if we're all supposed to, on some level, embody some parts of our astrologically estimated personalities and the people who don't have had some bad stuff happen to them in life, or some moon was out of alignment in the year that they were born, or SOMETHING. Or if maybe astrology is all just purposefully vague so that anyone can apply themselves directly to any statement and say "yes, that sounds like me." Or if it's all just more complicated than that. I'll go with the gray area "it's more complicated than that" for 500.

Also, for what it's worth, every 7 years, my birthday falls on the same day people used to kill turkeys and eat them (now we pre-order, of course, and most of us don't own our own birds or livestock). I don't know what that means astrologically, but I call it my Birthgiving (cross between birthday and Thanksgiving, for those of you having trouble following along). And for the record, no, I have never given birth.

Mastering the art of putting plastic on your windows (I know- who has to even do that anymore?! ...me.)

noreply@blogger.com (Pam Bellarose) — Fri, 20 Nov 2009 03:51:00 +0000

Purchase the cheapest box of window sealer-upper plastic business you can find, because you're already angry that your windows are original (I'm sorry, authentic), 103 year old character-filled windows and you have to pay for heat and you don't want to pay any more than you have to. (Check Home Depot...in the aisle you wouldn't logically think to look the first 3 times).
Bring said box home and immediately realize that you don't have as much plastic business leftover from last fall/winter/spring (ok, non-summer) as you thought.
Return to Home Depot to purchase more plastic business, still not finding the correct aisle on the first try because in the time that you have gone home and returned, they've changed the location to an end-aisle display next to the air-conditioning units (?!).
At home, now adequately equipped with plastic window kits, begin cleaning the surface around the window to which you will stick the tape and plastic (because you learned that the hard way last time, even though it's true that cleaning crumbling wood can only go so far...but hey, we do our best).
Stick tape to outline of window.
Press down so the tape really really sticks.
Press down again.
Now do it again.
Ok, now you're ready. Remove the backing from the tape on the top of the window.
Place the plastic where you want it to go and start pressing down, fully prepared for it to go not at all where you want it to go and to get all bunched up despite your most careful preparations.
Repeat previous step with sides and bottom of window.
Get out your hairdryer and start the shrink-by-heat process, starting in the middle of the window.
Reach the edges of the window and watch in utter horror as the plastic, shrunk too much in the middle and now without give around the sides, pulls the tape right off your windows.
Curse the windows and remember that you have to start with the edges (where the tape is) when initiating the shrink-by-heat process.
Patch up window #1 with packing tape and move on to the next window, remembering to start with the edges when hair-dryer-ing it.
Reach the end of the process with window #2, only to once again, watch in horror as the plastic pulls away, seemingly inexplicably, from the window.
Curse the bottom of the window and remember that you have to put two layers of tape on the bottom, just because that's the way it's gotta be. Not that they tell you this in the directions, but you remember doing it last time.
Patch up window #2 with packing tape (it's an attractive decorating theme) and move on to the next window, remembering to start with the edges and to double up on the tape for the bottom layer.
Curse and patch up an entire room full of windows only to remember that you have to press down on the edges where the plastic meets the tape immediately after hair-dryer-ing each section, thus ensuring the desired, long-term stickage.
Finally, in a room that does not matter aesthetically because it is your bedroom and guests will not see it nor admire its lack of packing tape decor, complete your first error-free, completely sealed window.
Repeat for entire room full of windows.

Happy Plastic Season.

Happy Election Day

noreply@blogger.com (Pam Bellarose) — Tue, 03 Nov 2009 13:03:00 +0000

Happy election day everyone! Don't forget to go out and vote!

And for those of you who try to do your research before you vote, please, do take this campaign song into account:

Yes: this is a real campaign.
Yes: I may be voting for this man. For you out of staters: Don't you wish you lived here so you could vote for him too? Answer: Yes, yes you do.
Yes: You will have a better day with this song in your head for the entire day.

Jess passed the bar!

noreply@blogger.com (Pam Bellemare) — Thu, 29 Oct 2009 01:59:00 +0000

Jess passed the bar! Oh, you can read and you saw that in the title? Great, well, good for you! Shoot, you must have passed the bar too, with brains like that.

It's no small feat to pass the Massachusetts bar exam, but she did it on the first attempt and now she's a lawyer!

Hopefully, this will be the key that unlocks the ultimate job potential for her, because she definitely deserves it.

And I'm still job speed dating.

Let me back up my train of thought for you...
Jess passed the BAR. And we're celebrating with champagne and such...almost like we're at a BAR...and we're both looking for jobs...imagine if looking for a job was like going out at a bar or club to meet someone?! That would be ridiculous, and yet on top of being relieved that job searches aren't actually like that, why am I also somewhat dismayed...disappointed, even? I'll tell you why: Because deep down, we all know that sitting across the table from a potential employer, discussing your likes and dislikes and what is important to you in an employment relationship, OVER HOT TODDYS, would be fun. Maybe now I understand what it was like trying to get a job in the '60's (as a dude of course), Don Draper style, with all the drinking and socializing in what appears to be a relatively workless environment. Or maybe I watch too much Mad Men.

The JP Lantern Parade

noreply@blogger.com (Pam Bellemare) — Tue, 27 Oct 2009 15:26:00 +0000

We attended the Lantern Parade at Jamaica Pond this past weekend. Apparently, it's something that was started in 1984 by Spontaneous Celebrations. It has roots in both Japanese and Dutch traditions of lantern making and general autumn merriment. I would also venture a guess that it has something to do with the general Celtic and/or pagan symbolism of collectively and individually taking the light of summer into the darkness of winter. They used bonfires for such activity, but that's just not safe in a city, and certainly not kid-friendly (which the lantern parade is...whether it's adult friendly is still up for debate as my ovaries shriveled up several times).

But, nevertheless, the sunset and the lanterns were beautiful, as always, and the apple cider was delicious! Oh! And Jess found $10! NO, really!

And now, appropriately, I am going to watch Halloween 3. I can already tell it's going to be a masterpiece, but I'm willing to endure scads of incorrect information and a few low-budget special effects and bad acting just because it's that time of year. And because I have my Baby Ruths.

Funny Stuff to Read While Bored at Work

noreply@blogger.com (Pam Bellemare) — Wed, 21 Oct 2009 21:10:00 +0000

Hey, check out the top right of the blog.
Cool. Didn't know if you saw it on your own, so I thought I'd help you out. It's funny stuff to read while you're bored at work, the "blog" where I post short stories that I've written! Comments and feedback are welcome! Also, I plan on posting my funny novel on there at some point, too, so be on the lookout!

Disclaimer: If you're caught laughing (which you will be), blame it on the K cups.

We're on our honeymoon. And so are you.

noreply@blogger.com (Pam Bellemare) — Wed, 21 Oct 2009 01:37:00 +0000

When Jess and I were on our honeymoon, any thoughts or feelings related to our unemployment were completely drowned by the deliciousness of Sonoma Valley wines and left at the bottom of one of the many San Francisco hills. Instead, we were rightfully and blissfully focused on being honeymooners.

At each winery we went to, we tasted amazing wines. I took about a thousand pictures and made Jess take a video with our new Flip camera. I couldn't take pictures and videos simultaneously, so Jess was the obvious candidate for H-moon Videographer. Plus, the one time I did take a video myself, it was at a gas station. Jess was cleaning up the gas she spilled on her toe, and I wanted to point out the horses that were across the parking lot. I went on about the horses...and you couldn't even see them on the video. Then I almost got hit by a MAC truck, so there was running and a lot of out-of-focus-ery that made for a good ol' queasy time.

(Side note: To anyone considering buying a Flip: Files are in mp4 format and you can't burn your own DVDs. Screw you, Flip people! Why can't I have the rights to something I filmed myself? Why do I have to pay $20 for you to burn me a DVD? Please tell me that comes with a side of fries at least! I will have you know, however, that the Flip was fun during the honeymoon, and it was cool to hook it up to a high def TV and watch the videos post-H moon.)

As the trip progressed, Jess grew tired of me always saying "ooo! take a veeedeo!" and pulling on her sleeve. Especially when I did it every time our food came when we were out to eat. I ask her to take a video and as she did, I would eat. There are a lot of videos of me eating. What a jerk.

Anyway, at each winery, we soon discovered that telling folks we were on our honeymoon often resulted in generously waived tasting fees, and in one case at Cline Cellars, a good-hearted gift of a free bottle of zinfandel. It was spectacular. It got to the point where, towards the end of the trip, we were at a winery (I won't name any names...*Ravenswood* cough cough), told them we were on our honeymoon, they didn't give us the H-moon discount, and we were disappointed.

My point is this: If you're unemployed and you have a friend, there is a chance that you too can benefit from the H-moon discount. If you were recently married, that's an added bonus, but if not, grab that friend and head to the store or the circus or the fair or a car dealership or somewhere! Why? Because you're on your honeymoon. And you should get a discount. Unless you're at Ravenswood.

September Poll Results are in...

noreply@blogger.com (Pam Bellemare) — Tue, 13 Oct 2009 15:05:00 +0000

...and the verdict is: You hate most of these songs. Good for you! Way to break free!

I developed a complicated (not really) scale and awesome (to me) scoring system where all the "love its" got 4 points, the "tolerate its" got 3, the "hate its" got 2 points, and the "never heard its" got 1 point each. Then I added up each song's "score." Then based on the scale I developed for what each score means (I can't tell you how I did it...it's magic...magic that makes you fall asleep), I determined that you, as a collective:

Hate the Chicken Dance, Cha Cha Slide, Cotton-Eyed Joe, Macarena, and the Hokey Pokey
Tolerate the Electric Slide and the YMCA
Don't know Strokin' (neither do I ....thanks "The Knot" for putting a totally made up song on your "must play" list)

The one song that had incredibly interesting results: the YMCA. You all know the song, and 2 of you tolerate it. The rest of you are almost equally split between love it and hate it. Clearly a love/hate relationship going on there. Makes me wonder if those of you who hate it really do love it deep down. I know I couldn't decide, and I knew the answer wasn't going to be tolerate it. Huh.

And no, none of these were played at my and Jess's wedding. In fact, they were all on the "do not play" list (except for the YMCA. We had a special agreement with the DJ that if people kept on requesting this type of song, then she could play the YMCA as a sort of concession. Why the Y? Because it's the one we dislike the least -- AND because we were once the Village People for Halloween with some friends:

As you can see, I was the construction worker. My hat, which was made of the most flimsy hat-able material known to man, was labeled "hard hat." How do you top that? [see this month's poll].
Anyway, it didn't matter because much like you guys, no one requested these songs, which was just fantastic for us).

Mid-Month Puzzle: Be the Iguana

noreply@blogger.com (Pam Bellemare) — Fri, 18 Sep 2009 14:51:00 +0000

I just realized how unbelievably overdue we are for a mid-month puzzle!

Things have been stressful here at wedding planning central, and so for this month's puzzle, I chose a sort of "serenity now" image. Imagine you are this iguana, basking in the sun near the beach on Isla Mujeres, Mexico. You hear the surf pounding onto the shore, then receding in rhythmic tides. There are no clouds, but the sun is not oppressively warm. There is a light ocean breeze. You are full from your lunch and feel the light effects of the margarita you stole from some poor tourist that was only trying to take a picture of you. You smile your tiny little iguana smile, remembering how they jumped. Sighing, you sink into more of an iguana stillness and drift into a trance-like state where you are half asleep, half awake. Life is good, and today is a beautiful day.

Shades of Badness

noreply@blogger.com (Pam Bellemare) — Sat, 12 Sep 2009 03:41:00 +0000

My fiancee and I just watched "Shades of Darkness."

Before you view the trailer, please, read the reviews here or here. Do rent it on Netflix or, more likely, from your local run down video store in upstate NY, where the movie was filmed. It's definitely worth it. Without further delay, the trailer:

This horror movie, that Jess was actually in (sort of, but not really--she's on the cutting room floor, dressed as not a "zombie," but a "person filled with hate"...but her friends are in it, and so is her dance teacher[as the main character]), was so bad that it was good. By that I mean that I laughed so hard at the special effects and such that it became more like Mystery Science Theatre 3000 (here's an example) than an actual movie of its own merits. I loved it. It brought me back to the reason I started making fun of low-budge horror movies in the first place.

But then, in the haze of a post-laughter sigh, I started thinking: If this movie was actually made, the director/writer/producer/whatever had to have thought it was good. It had to have passed the screen of his family and close friends, who all told him it was wonderful. He had to have still thought it was good (or, at the very least, passable) through the making of the movie and through the special showing at "some random theater in Endicott, NY" (according to my fiancee). Through it all, there were people by his side saying, "yeah man, I'd wanna buy this DVD" and the like.

Such comments make a person actually believe their work is great. Then I wondered -- if for just the briefest of the boxer briefy moments -- if my writing, my book, was actually any good. If I would someday self-publish the novel equivalent of "Shades of Darkness." I shuddered.

Then I looked at the trailer again.

My non-marketable skills

noreply@blogger.com (Pam Bellemare) — Thu, 10 Sep 2009 03:21:00 +0000

I was just hanging out with some friends, eating a delicious Moosewood recipe pound cake, when I realized I make a lot of sound effects. This was brought to my attention by one of my friends with the 'just observing' statement, "you're always ready with the sound effects." I have always secretly wished that I could market my sound effects skills. I could attend your family gathering, and, as someone asks you to pass the gravy, I could either give the play by play ("the gravy is crossing the middle of the table, and OOP! Aunt Cathy spilled a little!") or I could just add some nice, ambient, interpretive sounds (insert airplane noises or futuristic space zooming noise). Somewhere out there, there is someone who will pay for this. And I'm a top notch sound effects-ian, so I will accept no less than $20/hr. I'm worth it!

Another skill this made me think of that I wish was worth some money: My ability to communicate via nonverbals, such as the nod, the slight head cock, the puzzled look, the look of complete astonishment - I've got them all mastered. In college, my roommate and I would be eating dinner (often I would be eating one of my three rotating dishes- pasta, grilled chicken, or steak- and she would be dining on the disgusting mac and cheese with ketchup. I swear, you can tell a lot about a person by their culinary plans for ketchup... I digress). We'd be eating dinner and she would be telling me about her day or her most recent crew practice or what have you, and I would be interacting with her completely...in nonverbals. The best part? She would understand me! Never did she ask me for clarification on my look of complete outrage or my famous look that signaled, "tell me more about that." There are people that communicate in words that can't guarantee that kind of understanding! Someone out there would purchase this skill. Maybe I could teach a class on it or something. "How to communicate without saying anything in words but by using your face." I like it. $20/hr please. I'm giving you a look right now that says, "fork it over!" in a nice, non-threatening but meaningful kind of way. You'd know this if you took my class.

Box Head

noreply@blogger.com (Pam Bellemare) — Fri, 04 Sep 2009 22:05:00 +0000

Pretty sure I overheard Jess say to her sister over the phone last night: "Remember when we painted the basement purple?" I've been searching all day for such a memory. It troubles me that I wasn't naughtier. I was an only child, though, so if I had been more disobedient, I wouldn't have been able to blame anyone else. Plus, even if I did remember some mischievous deed of yesteryear, to whom would I turn and say, "remember when?"; my stuffed animals?

So instead, I remembered all the strange little things I used to do to amuse myself (and the occasional others). My favorite one that I conjured up from the past? Box Head. One of my more famous deeds, I would put an empty happy meal box on my head and prance around with a baton announcing that I was Box Head. Supplement your visual with the fact that I would usually only wear my blue Mickey Mouse crew neck sweatshirt, white socks, and underpants. Nope, no pants. You're welcome.