What Sarah did this Summer-Part 1: Job Searches in the New Age

 

Good morning!  We have a TON to unpack, so let's get going!

So, for those of you who don’t know. I lost my job last May. Well, I mean, lost is a

weird word. I know exactly where my job is. When the company got sold in October

of last year, the first thing the new owner did was fire the salesperson. And

not hire anyone to be the salesperson. Which means, by May, my job, and the

jobs of 1/3 of the company, were cut, dumped, dropped, blown away because Ding

Ding couldn’t connect the dots between sales and the viability of the company.

Officially, I wasn't fired, I was “laid off.” 

I grew up in the automotive world of SE Michigan. “Laid Off” was the term that indicated that,

 eventually, the person would be called back. Such was the understanding I had with Ding Ding. Well,

except the first thing Ding Ding did after laying me off was to make sure I

shipped the computer, printer, and all the supplies I had in my home office back

to him. (One wonders what he’s going with all the equipment he collected from

those of us he laid off.) But I’m not one to dwell. Well, sure I am, but we have

to move on in the story, otherwise this blog is going to be a thousand pages

long. 

Getting laid off in May didn’t seem like a problem. Everyone told me,

“everyone’s hiring, you’ll find the perfect job in NO TIME!” Hey, you know

what’s not true? That statement. Because, apparently, there is NO perfect job

open for a 54-year-old woman who needs 32 hours a week, working from home,

making $24 an hour. Oh wait, yeah, there was. And then Ding Ding fired the sales

person… 

So I spent the summer going through what I call the beauty pageant phase

of the job world. I applied for literally hundreds of jobs and went on more than

2 dozen interviews. Let’s talk about the interview process that is in place now

in 2022. It’s not about walking into a company, filing out an application, and

then meeting with the manager. Not anymore. It’s about uploading your resume to

the job boards and applying to companies with the click of a button. Sounds

super easy, right? 

Oh sure, that part is. 

But then comes the part where your resume is then spun through third and fourth party 

staffing company metrics and

spit out either into a heap in an HR person’s in box or dumped into a vast

wasteland of resumes that didn’t measure up. Unless you upload your resume to

Career Builder. DO NOT UPLOAD YOUR RESUME TO CAREER BUILDER. I cannot stress

that enough. All that will happen there is you’ll get 10,000 phone calls and

texts from people who clearly do not live anywhere near your neighborhood, and

by neighborhood I mean continent, who will promise you all kinds of perfect work

from home jobs…as long as you cash a massive check for them first. (don’t get me

started.) And don’t upload your resume to Ziprecruiter either. You’ll get

assigned a “person” (mine is Phil) who will email you ten times a day with the

PERFECT job…one that has NOTHING to do with ANY of the parameters you put into

Zip Recruiter. And you can’t just cut Ziprecruiter off by calling it spam. Nope.

I’m going to be getting notices from Phil until the day I die, and 90% of those

“perfect jobs” will be warehouse work for Amazon. That leaves Indeed. Indeed’s

process is the most user friendly. If you’re on Unemployment, it’s helpful to

apply through indeed, because indeed keeps track of your weekly applications.

Indeed doesn’t email or text you. The legitimate interviews I got were through

Indeed. 

Which brings us to the different types of interviews. 

The first type of interview is the

one way video interview. This. Is. Horrible. Exactly as the name implies, the

one-way video interview is you…logged into some website, answering prerecorded

questions while on camera. Ever try to be charming, witty, and collected while

talking to a computer screen? Yeah. That. To no one’s surprise, I did NOT get

either of the two jobs that required that kind of interview.

 The next method of

interviewing is the ever so popular ZOOM meeting. This is slightly better than

the one-way video…but only slightly. I had one such interview, and it was for a

job that the phone screener assured me was PERFECT FOR ME. So the interview was

a mere formality, right?

 That interview consisted of me facing a split screen with two

women, one of whom asked me questions that ranged from the normal, “Tell me what

you liked about your last job.” To the ridiculous, “Was there ever a time you

had trouble working with a manager and if so, what did you do?” (Um, DUH.

Everyone has had a hard time working with a manager from one time to another.

And we DEAL WITH IT.) Anyway, there was one woman who asked the questions and

another who said zero, nada, nothing. For half an hour I’m talking to both women

and one is just staring at me with dead eyes. She didn’t say hello or goodbye.

Just stared at me. I finished with that “formality” and guess what? NEVER HEARD

FROM THEM AGAIN. 

Which brings me to phone screeners. You think is a phone

interview. They call it a phone interview. But what it really is an appointment

during which you set an appointment for another interview. The phone screener

ACTS like an HR manager. Some even call themselves that. But, and this is

important, these people have ZERO power to hire you. In most cases, they aren’t

even in the same building as the people who do have that power. So, lest you

think you’re getting somewhere because Kimmy from HR at Company XYZ says you’re

a perfect fit for the job, you’re not. I just had to get that in there. I was

burned way too many times. 

Finally, the third kind of interview, the good, old

fashioned meat market that is the in person interview. While this is the most

tried and true method of meeting potential bosses, this is also the most

annoying. At least with the first two methods you didn’t have to put on pants or

get in the car. The in person interview involves getting tarted up, and it’s the

full deal. Hair, clothes, make up. I’ve been working at home for the past seven

years. I’ve also lost 35 pounds in the last year. Any office worthy clothes I

may have had are 1) too big, 2) too wrinkled from being crushed on the floor in

my closet or 3) way too out of style. Like not even close. While one doesn’t

need to have up to the minute fashion, one would like to look like one’s been to

a store in the last decade. So, realizing I was going to need some formal

adjacent clothing, I went to the one place a broke, out of work office gal can:

St. Vincent de Paul. And there, thank goodness for those 99 cent tag deals, I

was able to cobble together two appropriate head to two looks. I call them

“first interview” and “second interview.” I won’t bore you with the details of

all of my interviews. There are too many to put in any number of blog chapters.

But I will give you the highlights. 

Tomorrows chapter: The in person interviews and why I chose Stuff, Empowered.

Sarah almost dies. But then doesn't. And it's funny.

Hello everyone!

Guess what?  Now that I'm unemployed, my life is funny again because I have to leave my happy little cave in my house and go out and see things and do stuff.

Having a funny life, after what happened to me last night, is way overrated.  I like to call this story:  The time I also died on my Wedding Anniversary.

Hubby and I have a new favorite show on Netflix.  It's "Somebody Feed Phil."  Phil is Phil Rosenthal, the former writer and producer for "Everybody Loves Raymond."  Nowadays Phil takes a camera crew out into the world, headed by his brother Richard, and he eats things and talks to people while the cameras roll.  Phil is awkward and goofy and we just love him, and the show.

Here's the thing:  Whenever we see something in a movie or on TV, we want it.  Well, we do have the money to really travel, and we don't have the money, time, or kitchen tools to cook half the stuff we see Phil eating on the show. However, we DO have the money and access for a very large emporium of spirts and whatnot.  

(And more will now mean "near death" for me.)

Total Wine is generally the place we go after we've watched any cooking or travel show that features local spirits or brew. This is why we have a couple dozen bottles of some very strange stuff in our cabinet.

So on the last episode of Phil, he went to Oaxaca, Mexico. And he ate amazing food made by amazing chefs and saw amazing sites.  Blah, blah, blah.  What caught our eyes, is that Oaxaca is the home for Mezcal, Tequila's smokier cousin.  

We at the Bradley house like tequila.  We really do.  And, I recall having mezcal many years ago, and not hating it, so there's that.  Thus it was that while out and about and doing things, we stopped at Total Wine and picked up a bottle of mezcal produced in Oaxaca.  

Making mezcal...getting ready to kill me.


That was Sunday we picked it up.  Yesterday, Wednesday, was our anniversary.   32 years. Thank you.

Here's our wedding party. That's me in the middle in the white dress. It was 1990, don't judge.

So last night we went out to Bonefish Grill.  It's where we go to celebrate our anniversaries, generally, and my birthday.  They have a cosmo there that's amazing and they only serve it in Winter, starting on my birthday, and, apparently, in July (because Christmas in July or whatever.)  So we had our dinner, and it was a weird dinner because I'm 100% positive our waiter, Todd, was stoned.  The tip offs were subtle: He moved at half the speed everyone in the building did.  He told us it was his first night, which it absolutely wasn't.  He said "That's my favorite" to everything we ordered.  Oh, and he brought us our bill before he brought us our food.  And he brought the other table their food before their appetizer.  And he was going to be the star of this blog...until we got home and I nearly died.

We got home, fired up the latest episode of "Better Call Saul" (Because what else would you watch on your 32nd anniversary?) and we decided to toast each other with a shot of our new mezcal.  Hubby opened the bottle and poured two shots in our special Tequila shot glasses (which, if you don't know, are about double the size of a regular shot glass) and we saluted each other.

I snapped my wrist to fire the mezcal down my throat, a move I've done once or twice, and something...happened.  I don't know if I missed my mouth completely and just poured 1.5 ounces of real Mexican mezcal up my nostrils or if I simply doused my face with it or if I hit my mouth and my taste buds rose up as one and revolted, but suddenly my face was on fire and I was spewing about ten times the amount of mezcal that was in the glass all over the kitchen.

By the time I turned the 90 degrees from the counter to the sink, all of the orifices of my face had swollen and filled with fluid.  My eyes were puffy and running with tears. I had great wads of phlegm in my throat. My lips were numb. And my nose...my poor, poor nose...was filled to swelling with snot.  My throat and nostrils and lips were also on fire.  Like jumping off the diving board at the local pool and hitting the water without plugging you nose and inhaling all the chlorine.  Except the chlorine in this case was ON FIRE and I couldn't get away from it because it was trapped and entombed in my head with gallons and gallons of bodily goo.

I blew my nose to get relief, but when I did that, I'd cough and my nose would fill up again.

Fun fact: I'm claustrophobic to the point that I don't like wearing masks or hoods.  And if I can't breathe through my nose, I tend to panic.  So, I walked up and down the hall gagging out "I can't BREATHE!"

So, there I was, my eyes puffy and red and runny. My face all red.  I'm coughing up gobs of phlegm and every time I cough my nasal passages close up 100% and that makes me panic which makes me pant which stirs up the gunk in my throat which makes me cough which closes up my nasal passages which makes me panic...oh yeah, and my throat is burning with the heat of a 1000 flames and that's making me nauseous which is making me cough which is...you get where I'm going with this.

This went on for over an hour.

OVER AN HOUR.

I caught a look at myself in the mirror at one point and thought, "Wow...this is sexy at its best."

To his credit, Hubby did not laugh, although he told me later it all started out funny when I was initially spewing mezcal out, because it looked funny. And also to his credit, he mopped up much of whatever viscousness came out of me that didn't hit the sink.  So that was nice.

The hellacious burning in my throat and nostrils didn't go away for more than 3 hours.  And, honestly, I still have flaming snot (band name?) clogging my nose and throat now, more than 12 hours later. My throat is scalded, my nose burns, my eyes are bugged out and painful and I have a raging headache. Oh, and I'm fairly certain my snot is corrosive.

AND I DIDN'T SWALLOW ONE DROP OF THE STUFF!

There's no wisdom anyone can glean from this, except maybe, if you're doing shots of anything...DON'T MISS!

How is no one talking about THIS?

 Before you read this, remember: I WRITE HUMOR.  If you are easily offended, have no sense of humor, or don't understand satire, you may want to avoid this post.  

YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED.

Good morning!

Okay, this has been a rough week here in the US. For those of you who may have missed it:  Roe V. Wade was overturned in the US Supreme Court which has sent the entire country into a fit of rage. I've not getting involved in that debate.  First of all, this isn't the forum for it and second of all, I'm not about to make any jokey jokes about Roe V. Wade.  I'm not getting either side riled up at ME.

However, everyone yelling about women's rights and how women are being marginalized got me to thinking:

There's another right, a much broader right, that's been taken away from women. It's an action that is designed to shame women and keep them from being out in society. It's a rule that's everywhere now and yet...no one is talking about it.  

It started with airports, but this removal of a woman's right has spread to theaters, professional sports, and concert halls across the US.  AND NO ONE IS TALKING ABOUT IT!

Of course, I'm talking about the absolutely insidious rules against purses in public places.

Oh, sure, they call it a lot of different things:  Bag policy.  Security rules.  Whatever.  But what we're really talking about here is a complete infringement on a woman's right to carry a handbag of her choosing.  

It started after 9/11, every purse got searched.  Security guards at all ports of public entertainment and travel stuck wooden sticks in our purses to makes sure we weren't carrying weapons of mass destruction.  And we women, we allowed it, because, hey, public safety is worth giving up personal privacy, right?  

We got used to putting our more personal items (and here I'm talking about punctuation protection, of course) in those side pockets where the stick didn't poke.

Then, they started making us carry see through bags.  High schools, sporting events, we carry a bag in, but it had to be see-through.  

We got used to carrying our punctuation protection in flowery little extra carriers.  Not fooling anyone, but hey, at least it wasn't a giant neon sign advertising that we were experiencing our time of the monthly punctuation.  

NOW...well now, we women have two choices (I'm not even making this up) we can:

1) Not carrying anything at all, except what we can fit into our pockets, which will likely be required to be removed from our pockets and put in a basket for inspection (Not making that up...that's a rule at a certain MLB ballpark I attended recently.) 

OR

2) We can carry in a purse NO LARGER than 4"x6".

Friends, this is a clear and obvious war on women.  The powers that be know that we ladies don't want the world to know our most personal stuff, so they've made it almost impossible to go to large events without advertising whether or not we're experiencing a visit from the grammar matron.  (And BTW, I don't know about you, but I find it difficult to get through a four-hour baseball game without a change in punctuation protection. Given how women's pants are constructed...there just aren't enough pockets, or big enough pockets, to supply a gal for the long term. Which means, we're stuck either chancing some kind of embarrassing laundry situation OR we just stay home.

And as for those 4"x6" purses...you know what you can fit in a purse that size?

1 credit card. 1 drivers' license. 1 dollar bill. And maybe one punctuation protector, provided it's not too big.  4"x6" is the size of a snapshot.  

For those of you who don't know what a snapshot is:

Go ahead, ladies. Try to carry what you need for an evening out in this. No room for eyeliner, a little powder, a comb.  So, not only are we doomed to worrying whether or not one layer of feminine protection is going to stave off the Red Army, we also have no way to freshen up our look. Thanks to the bag rules, we ladies go from looking our best to looking like we just finished a shift shoveling coal in the engine room of the Titanic in the course of a date.  

And let's talk about general safety.  No room for pepper spray, keys, or a pen.  How on earth is a girl going to defend herself ala Carrie Underwood if she can't carry a set of keys in her bag?

Ladies, these bag laws have systematically removed our right to carry what we need to feel safe and comfortable in public situations. These laws are designed to force us to stay home.  (WHERE WE BELONG???????????????)

How long, my sisters, will we allow this to go on?

Oh, my lord, I hope you're all laughing...

Five for Friday! Deep Thoughts...by Sarah Bradley

 

Hello and happy Friday all! (Does anyone remember "Deep Thoughts" from Saturday Night Live?  I never completely understood why those were funny.  Maybe I'm not smart enough.)

It's been a minute, I know.  I had every intention of blogging more since work seemed to be less stressful and...oh wait...

There was a reason work was less stressful.  There was NO BUSINESS.  And that's bad...I guess.  And since there was no incoming business there were layoffs.

Anybody out there want to hire me, so I can work from home, 32 hours a week, Monday through Friday. I don't want to do anything really...I'd like to be paid to watch movies and eat.

Which is why I haven't blogged.  I've been in a sort of funk since it happened. I mean, who gets fired on a Friday?  Pretty much everyone, right?  But I...I got fired on a Friday the 13th.  So...there's that.

Anyway, I realized during my morning walk today, because I'm still forcing myself to get out of bed early and walk and make coffee and all that just as if I was still working and not freaking out about bills and whatnot while I slog through endless rabbit holes of endless job board, all which promise great work from home jobs (which is a MUST at the moment since gas is over $5 a gallon and hubby just had his job "adjusted" and is now 100% work at home, and that means he loses his company car so we're down to one car, the mighty Cube, and yes, it's a great car, but no, I don't feel the need to destroy it driving to a job...

Wow, that was a long sentence that went nowhere.

And oh yeah, I've been looking for a literary agent, because I'm just terrible at marketing my books and it wears me out, but the only people returning my calls are people who will gladly publish and market my books because, as they say, I'm a GENIUS AUTHOR! and they can't WAIT to SHARE MY BRILLIANCE" All I have to do is pony up $6200.00 

To put it another way, stuff at the Bradley house is, as always, in flux. Hubby is going to have to buy a car, which we are going to have to insure and fuel, something we haven't had to do in seven years.  And I have to find a job that's going to require me, most likely, to put half my paycheck into the gas tank, which is going to blow because any job I get now is going to be a pay cut from what I was making anyway.

Who wants to start a "go Fund me" for me? LOL

Where was I?  Oh right. So, during my walk today I realized I have some pretty random thoughts and, since it's been a long time since I've done a Five for Friday, I wanted to share those thought with you, my friends and readers.  

Again, these are thoughts that a college educated adult has during a morning walk.  

5) If the early bird catches the worm, does that mean that birds looking for worms in the afternoon are 'bird brained?' Or is that term reserved for the birds trying to locate worms under pavement?

4) Does a clementine taste better than an orange, or do I like them better because they are easier to peal and I'm seriously basing my taste on laziness?

3) Why do I still have my high school prom dress?  What do I think is going to happen in my life that I'm going to need it?

2) If a runner's high is so great, how come I never see anyone smiling while they're running?

1)  Am I the only one who has always confused Cyd Charice with Sid Caesar?  

And there you have it, friends.  My first, and likely not my last, unemployment era five for Friday.  

BTW, I went to the Theater for a Play this week and was accosted and mocked by old people. Stay tuned for that blog!

Five for Friday! "Fern" isn't the only F word I said!

 

Howdy everyone!  I know this is Sunday, and I'm two days late with this, so I'm going to just get right into it.

Last week Hubby and I went to the Northwoods of Wisconsin for a few days' R and R.  Because the town we go to is heavily reliant on summer touristry, much of the stores and what nots are closed until May 1.  No worries. We like the quiet.  Also, and this it typically Hubby's point, the State Parks never close.

As many of you know, about 11 months ago Hubby and I started the Noom program for weight loss.  Since then, I've lost 36 pounds. And yes, I'm currently in a plateau  (Darn it all) but I have to say, I definitely feel better and stronger.  Keep that in mind!

So anyway, since the State Parks never close, Hubby and I decided some hiking was going to be in our future, as long as the temper mental spring Wisconsin weather didn't interfere. On Monday of last week we had a beautiful day; sunny, mid 40's, a bit breezy, but good otherwise. Full of optimism and new found energy, we set out on the FERN TRAIL.  And we stepped right into a nifty 5 for FRIDAY!

5 F words from our hike:

5)  FERN

The name of the trail we took.  

We actually started on the back side, on another trail. But it didn't matter, Hubby promised me a 2 mile loop. And if you notice...WHEELCHAIR ACCESSIBLE.  I mean, how hard could it be?

4) FRESH

Ah the fresh air. The Sunshine!  The crash of the waves off Lake Michigan!  Beautiful sand... all of the was very, very good!  I picked up a walking stick to, you know, look jaunty.  (Okay, it was to lean on because I don't have great balance and my arthritis acts up in the spring.)  

We even found this fun driftwood teepee!  See Hubby?  Isn't he cute?

That first hour of the hike was GREAT!  

3)  FLOODED

I was starting to get a little tired as we turned away from the shoreline and headed into the forest. Hubby said, "It's going to take longer if we just turn around than if we keep going forward."  And I said, because I've trusted him for more than 30 years, "Yes, that makes sense. Let's keep going."

Hour two: Funny thing about the forests in Wisconsin the spring, the snow melts and really doesn't drain away quickly. And if there's rain, like there has been, well, the forest floor gets spongy. Or, in our case, the FERN TRAIL gets...FLOODED.  This was a fact we didn't know when we turned off the first trail and started back to the car (we thought) on the Fern Trail which was, as you recall, wheelchair accessible.  (Therefore...EASY).  

Yeah...no.

After much walking through fairly squishy wooded terrain, we came to a spot that was flooded.  And I mean flooded.   We stood at the edge of the water, and I poked my walking stick around in it a little. I've seen people do that in the movies, you know.  And then, I turned and said to Hubby these words:  "I say we go for it. How back could it be?"

Hubby lead the way.  I followed. One step. Two steps. And then...SPOOSH!  Water, up to my knees pouring into my hiking boots.  And this isn't lovely sun warmed ocean water, nay nay. This was the icy cold of melted snow and early April rains. This was water that is as cold as water outside the Poles is bound to be.  And this was the water soaking through my boots, over the top of my boots, through my socks (both pairs) and through my jeans up to my knees. (Curse you, skinny ankle pants, for not rolling up over my chunky knees!)

Which brings me to my next word:

2) FREEZING

I'm no stranger to frost bite.  I got frost bite a lot as a kid. I got it so often, I would get grounded for getting frost bite.  It was kind of my mother's way of protecting me from the cold...I guess.  No TV for a week if my toes turned white.  I mean, I wasn't the one sending myself outside in the cold.  Not a point I brought up as a 7 year old, but you know, something I think about now and again.) Anyway, my feet were FREEZING!  My ankles and calves were FREEZING.

  I went through the first span of flooded trail, Hubby pressed on through the second. He was about 30 yards ahead of me.  I staggered up to a tree stump and surveyed that second pond crossing.  Nope. I was not subjecting myself to that frigidness again. Nope, nope, nope.

There was one other way. Next to the stump, which was sort of an island surround by cold forest water, was the fallen tree. A pretty good-sized fallen tree that reached from the stump to a higher bit of ground...a drier bit of ground.  Of course, all around it and under it was water.  Water deep enough that it would have gone well past my knees.

So, resolute that I was not going through the water again, and also fairly eager to prove my physical therapist wrong when she told me I had a lousy sense of balance, I got up on the log.  (With the help of my walking stick, of course.)

Hubby was skeptical.  "You know if you fall in you're going to be colder,  and wetter, right?"

 Also, we had no idea if we were five minutes from the car or an hour.

Spoiler alert.  We were more than an hour away from the car.

I didn't care. I wasn't going back in the water if I could help it. I had fresh socks and shoes (I learned from a previous hike that you always bring along fresh socks and shoes) in the car.  If I could get across the log and climb the hill then I knew, I just knew the car would be in site.

Okay, it took a minute.  And Hubby, well, he cheered me on, but I think he was prepped to see me fall in. I mean, if you know me, you know...well, yeah. Balance...not my strong suit.  

But I made it.

HAH!  Take THAT, physical therapist!  I have great balance, as long as I have a walking stick!

I'd like to say we celebrated by reaching the car shortly thereafter and warming up quickly. But would there be a blog if that happened?  No!

Several minutes of mushy hiking later, we came upon another flooded span on the trail. This time the span went in about every direction, and we couldn't see the end to it. And also, it looked a lot deeper than our previous pond of death.

Entering our third hour of hiking, I was water logged, freezing, and starting to get tired. I mean, losing 35 pounds can only take a 54 year old girl so far in her first big hike of the year.  We all knew I was going to get tired.  There was one thing we hadn't done, one thing we knew would work, although it would be pleasant.

We would have to leave the trail and go cross county back to the lake shore. We could hear the water and knew exactly which direction to go. We had no idea where we'd wind up, but we knew we could follow the shore back to the parking lot.

After all, we reasoned, we've been through the worst, this will be a little walking and then we'll be okay.

Has anyone else ever gone CROSS COUNTRY or OFF TRAIL in a state park?  

For those of you who haven't, let me share something with you...the state park people do NOT, repeat, DO NOT, trim ANYTHING off the trail.  Once you're off the trail, it's all scrub brush and deep leaves and rotting trees that don't hold your weight at all, and holes covered with leaves and teeny, tiny branches whose only goal in life is to slap you right in the face.

And that brings me to the number one word:

1) FREAKED.

Yep.  somewhere deep in the third hour of hiking, I had a moment. If you know me, you know I have two fears. The first is that something bad happens to my kids. The second is the one that's been with me since October 27, 1973, when episode 6 of season 3 of EMERGENCY aired. That's the episode entitled SNAKEBITE. 

I. AM. TERRIFIED. OF. SNAKES.

Thanks to that episode, I wore socks to bed for...um...20 years. I was convinced snakes couldn't bite through socks.

And all you snake lovers, don't tell me "Oh it's only a little garter snake" or "Not all snakes are poisonous." I don't care. Also, I don't believe you.

So there we are, tramping along in deep leaves and twigs and whatnot and I step on a branch, a long branch.  A branch long enough that the end of it pops up about 6 feet behind me, making a rustling noise.  I jump into the air and yowled.  Yep.  I wasn't a fierce woman who'd been through a ton of stuff in my life and could face anything.  Nope.  the thought of a snake anywhere near me turned me into a leaping, yowling, shaking shred of kid.

Didn't help any that hubby, again several yards ahead of me, looked over his shoulder and asked, "Was that you?"

It should be noted, we hadn't seen another human person in the entire hike.

"YES!  That was me! I thought it was a snake!"

"Oh." And he continued walking.

The good news is we did finally find the shoreline, and we actually emerged from the woods not too far from the parking lot.

In the interest of full disclosure, and I'm not proud to admit this, the minute we reached dry trail again, and were hobbling back to the car with our water-sodden shoes, a jogger popped up behind us.  "On your left" he said, as if he wasn't looking at two people who'd faced a labyrinth through Hades and came out on the other side.

Well, okay, maybe that was a little strong. Still, the jogger just...jogging along like nothing...that annoyed me. So, as he bounced passed me, I saluted him...with two fingers. One on each hand.  (Don't tell Peaches and Skippy.  I always scold them and tell them such a salute is low class.)

Oh, and speaking of "low class"...who thought there would be a DIFFERENT F WORD on this list?  HAH!  Fooled ya!

We got back to the car, and I pulled off my boots and socks (both pairs) immediately. Hubby had a towel in the trunk (smart Hubby!) and we both had alternate shoes and socks.  I will tell you, I did not get any frost bite on my feet and ankles, although I think I got a patch or two on my calves. Don't tell my mom...she'll try and ground me from TV privileges again.  LOL

The rest of the time we tried to dry our boots and socks on the balcony of our hotel. I'm sure the hotel staff was amused, or annoyed or whatever, but since we were the only ones staying there those days, it's not like they were going to say anything!

So there you have it!  A couple days late, but that's my story of my giant hike.

(Yes, not all who wander are lost. But they're probably soaking wet and freezing!)

My Teaching Days: The Classroom Pet Distaster

It's been a while...if ever...that I've shared one of my teaching days stories here.

There's a reason for that.

Yes, at one point in my life, many, many years ago, the State of Michigan allowed me to be a classroom teacher in a small parochial school just outside of Detroit.  The ink on my B.S. degree was barely dry, but there I was, put in charge of 18 Kindergarten-3rd graders every day. 

Five days a week, parents dropped their kids off, assuming I was a fully in control, completely on top of it, really well qualified teacher.  Now, granted, I met all of these parents prior to the start of the school year and the vast majority of them...well, let's just say they wouldn't have won any awards for great parenting. And if they had...they wouldn't have gotten their crap together enough to actually collect the award.

Still, there I was, the pretty much lone person in charge of educating these wee ones in the important life skills: Reading, writing, basic math.  

Little did I know, I was also in charge of teaching things like: shoe tying, how to not wet your pants every single school day, and my favorite "this is what a breakfast looks like."  But those are stories for another day.

Today I'm going to tell you the story of our classroom pet. And if you've heard this before, well...oh well.  I'd almost forgotten it, becaus it's been more than 30 years, and honestly, I'm old and my brain is full of movie quotes now. But, thanks to a friend's facebook post about the death of her classroom critter, I was reminded of the late, great Chester.  (Yep, that's his real name.  It's the one name I'm not changing to protect the innocent because Chester doesn't care. Believe me.  That creature didn't care about anything.)

I was a fresh faced 21-year-old, put in charge of my own very classroom. The expectation was that I would teach the kids in my charge the basic building blocks and most vital skills they'd need to make it in this world. No pressure.  (Oh, and when I got the job, my father, also a teacher, said, "K-3?  That's not teaching. That's repeating the same thing 5000 times a day." VERY inspiring!)

I'd inherited from the previous teacher a classroom pet: Chester, and hamster/gerbil/small rodenty thing.  I'd never had a pet growing up. I didn't know much about the care of such a creature.  Of course, I didn't know much about teaching primary school kids who came to school without proper clothes or breakfast or lunch, or without a whole bunch of other stuff parents are supposed to provide...but again, stories for another day.

So I had Chester. Chester didn't do much, I think he was about 100 in hamster years.  Plus, he had these two big growths extending from his rear. Like he had a second butt or something.  They weren't gross, they were furry and blended with the rest of him. It was like he had extra dump in his truck or something.  Didn't seem to bother him. He ate, he pooped, and he slept. All the things you'd expect a geriatric classroom critter to do.

I liked Chester. His sawdust tank lining gave the room a clean-ish smell.  Overpowered the scent of urine, peanut butter, and dirt anyway.  He was quiet.  And, late at night, when I was putting up my 10,000th bulletin board of the month (in my teaching college they were SUPER BIG on doing bulletin boards.  As you all know, I'm terrible at arts and crafts. My boards were...less than inspiring.  But they were colorful and I only get screamed at once by the school administrator for something on them.  Again, a story for another day!) I didn't feel alone in the room because Chester was there.

Then came October. October is a favorite month in the education world for students. It's when the last two school days of the month are OFF for something called "teacher's conference." Honestly, until the actual moment I WAS a teacher, I had no idea what that meant.  But there I was, for the first time in my life, unable to enjoy those two beautiful days because I was now the teacher who had to go to the TEACHER'S CONFERENCE. The conference was held in a city some hours away from my school and I'd be staying in a hotel, as would the other teacher in my school. (Yes, a two room school. Very tiny!)  The other teacher, a third year veteran (Tiny school, young teachers) was eager to see all her pals from other schools in the district.  I wanted a four day nap.

Worse yet, I needed someone to take care of Chester while I was away for the four-day weekend.

Now, I don't know what other teachers do about classroom pets when they're gone. Few of my childhood classrooms had pets and the ones that did belonged to seasoned teachers who didn't feel honor bound to go to conferences.  My dad had a pair of white mice in his classroom one year, but he got them after conference and they died long before the next one!

I asked the parents (the ones that were sober and at least partially attentive to their kids, which was a very short list) who could take Chester for the weekend.  Only one volunteered.  

(Teacher friends, you are going to completely understand this!) I don't want any parents out there to get offended, but it's a common knowledge among teachers, and has been for generations, that there are parents and families that volunteer for stuff all the time and you, as the teacher, really kind of wish they didn't.  You know the family means well, but wowser, they just can't seem to get it right.  Even as a green first year teacher I knew those families existed.  It's just that the families in my classroom were all such a complete crap shoot, that actually getting anyone to volunteer for something was a miracle in an of itself. What's the old saying, "Don't look a gift horse in the mouth?"

The one and only parent that volunteered to take Chester was, let's call her Nancy, the mother of, let's call them Timmy and Sally.  Now, on the front of it, Nancy seemed to have it all together. They were a traditional family unit, which made them the unicorns of my class.  Nancy was a stay at home mom who was very involved in her kids and she was my biggest fan.  (No idea why.)

But that's kind of where the greatness stopped.  Nancy sent her kids in impossibly dressy clothes.  Every. Single. Day.  Sally was in some frothy little frock complete with velvet Mary Janes and tights.  Always, always white tights.  Those tights would be in shreds by noon.  But at least Sally, who was in kindergarten, was the tidier of the two children. While the tights never made it to the end of the day, she generally managed to keep her dresses intact and she never ate anything that wasn't human food.

And then there was Timmy.

Timmy, I'm sure, is somewhere in a very big room, either at NASA or GM (or he's working for the Chinese, who even knows?) creating something brilliant.  He might even have found the cure for some horrible disease that's killing children and he has six Nobel prizes and maybe he was even voted People Magazine's "sexiest scientist" (Nah, that always goes to Bill Nye, right?) at some point.  Timmy probably even invented the Internet.  

But, back when I was a teacher, some 30 years ago, Timmy was a pencil losing, crayon eating, paste painting, book chewing first grader who came in dressed like a college professor with tenure and left school looking like he'd escaped Jurassic Park.

I knew Timmy was highly intelligent. I also knew that if I let him keep his full pack of crayons and pencils in his desk, he'd be begging me for something to write with by 9:00. I kept his pencil box on my desk. Every morning I'd give him one pencil and one crayon. And I kid you not, within half an hour, he'd lost the pencil and eaten the crayon.  He always had a ring of waxy color around his mouth and his desk was ALWAYS covered in dry paste or glue.  How that happened, I have no idea.  Again, that was never in his desk.  

But the kid was smart. Like beyond super smart. He could out read anyone and he verbalized thoughts that were astounding, not just for a first grader, for someone getting out of high school.

Still, the kid could not keep a crayon out of his mouth. And he could not get through the day without multiple holes in his clothes.

But, since this was the only family that volunteered to take Chester for the weekend, they got him. Wednesday afternoon, Nancy picked up Chester at the end of the school day.  She got his food and his bedding and a sort of travel pen, because the glass aquarium was too heavy.

And thusly, I went to my first teacher's conference. And then, because that was kind of dull, I skipped out early on Friday, and went to see Boyfriend, (the guy you now know as Hubby) who was sitting through his own first Teacher's Conference, but in Wisconsin.

I returned to school Monday morning, tired, but cheerful. I greeted each student as they came in.  It was almost 8:30, and no sign of Nancy or the kids. I thought that was a little odd, but hey, maybe they got the flu or something.  I wouldn't have to clean paste off the floor for once.  SCORE!

And then...

Sally, much like a town crier of old, scampered into the classroom and shouted, "CHESTER DIED BECAUSE TIMMY KILLED HIM!"

Friends, there is NOTHING in teacher school that prepared me for this moment.

Sally was bouncing around the room, shouting, "Timmy killed Chester!" while Nancy walked in, all Chester's crap in one hand, and dragging Timmy in with the other.

Nancy marched her son up to my desk and said, "Now you tell Teacher what happened."

That boy could not have looked sadder.  There he was, all clean, and cute, and not smelling like dirt or paste or crayons. His sweater vest and dress pants didn't have any holes in them.  And he raises his giant, Disney sized, brown eyes up to me and says, "Mishush Schultsh.  Um.  Chester escaped from his cage so I had to chase him but then I tripped..."

Oh Lord.   

I looked at Nancy who was nodding.  "That's right. He was chasing Chester and he tripped and fell on him.  Crushed him."

"But I didn't mean to!" Timmy's big old eyes welled up.

All this to the back drop of Timmy's sister chanting, "TIMMY KILLED CHESTER!"

So, what's a girl to do?  what did I do?

Honestly, I don't remember. I'm sure I mumbled something like, "Well, it's okay. Chester was old.   he probably liked playing with you."  I'd like to think I did.

Somehow I got Nancy out of the room, and I got Sally to SHUT UP.  And weirdly, once he'd confessed, Timmy seemed pretty chill about the whole thing.  He sat down, put a blue crayon in his mouth and started his day like always.  

I'm sure I had a talk about Chester's death as a general way of calming everyone down.  And no, I didn't dispel anyone's hope that Chester was in Heaven.  These were kids who barely had the essentials of life. I wasn't going to add more despair to them.  Since we didn't have the body, we couldn't bury him, so we said a prayer that Jesus was having fun playing with Chester.

But to this day, I'll never, ever forget my one classroom pet, Chester.

Spoiler Alert! This story has a happy ending!

 

WARNING!  THIS BLOG POST DEALS WITH MEDICAL MATTERS OF A VERY SENSITIVE NATURE.  CHILDREN UNDER 16, AND SINGLE MEN IN GENERAL ARE NOT ENCOURAGED TO READ THIS POST.  MARRIED MEN, YOU SHOULD PROBABLY CHECK IT OUT BECAUSE YOU MAY NEED TO KNOW SOME OF THE INFORMATION HERE.  

THIS BLOG HAS, AND ALWAYS WILL, SERVE AS A PLACE WHERE THE INDIGNITIES AND FEARFUL SITUATIONS OF BEING A WOMAN ARE ADDRESSED AND MADE LESS SCARY...FOR WOMEN.  THIS POST IS MEANT TO ENTERTAIN AND PROVIDE A LAUGH AT THE WRITER'S EXPENSE.  THIS POST IN NO WAY IS MOCKING THE SERIOUSNESS OF BREAST CANCER OR BELITTLING THE SUFFERING OF THOSE WHO HAVE IT.

YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED.

 I've been writing this blog for enough years now for my readers to know that I'm here to examine the many, many trying things women have to deal with these days, and to make those things seem less scary through the use of humor.  

We've had fun, right? Childbirth, gyno exams, mammograms, bra shopping. Nothing has been off limits.  Which is why, this week, I knew that I could not sweep my latest experience under the rug. I had to share it with you, my dear readers, if for no other reason than our shared experiences will bring us together and hopefully, we can battle our fears with laughter.

Reminder: This story has a happy ending!

So, two weeks ago it was time, once again, for my annual mammogram. We women know this is just THE MOST FUN THING ever.  Basically, for those of you who haven't had one, this is a medically mandated test every year where we strip down to our bare nothings from the waist up (always a great look for me, oh yeah!) and let a complete stranger assault our upper lady bits in the most rude and uncomfortable way.  Like, taking one of your more sensitive body parts, stretching it to its breaking point, and then flattening it in a vice grip. All while being told to "NOT MOVE" and "DON'T BREATHE!"

Every. Single. Year.

And, for me, for the last couple years, it's been twice a year. Because, well, I'm a winner.  I've won a trip to the mammo machine every six months because my upper lady bits are, as they say in the medical business, all full of calcifications and whatnot.

This year was no different. I went in. Stripped to the waist. Put on the super comfy robe that I always threaten to steal (And after this I might just) and then wait for the cheerleader of the year to lead me to a darkened room where she and a giant machine will roughly and rudely get to second base with me.

Oh she was a chipper one, this woman (and by woman, I mean girl younger than my daughter), who manhandled my upper lady bits all while chatting and smiling with teeth that should be on a commercial for teeth whitening.  I'm not saying they were Ross Gellar teeth whitening level, but they were close.  (If you get that joke, you get it, and you're laughing.  If not, well, start watching "Friends." This blog will make a ton more sense in the long run.)

I asked her what I ask all the techs who do the mammograms.  "How did you fall into this line of work? Did you wake up one morning and say, ' I think I'd like to make my living by stretching and squashing human mammary glands'?"

She laughed, she actually laughed, she was just that chipper. She told me no, and she told her story, which doesn't matter really except that it ended with, "I love doing my job because I can save a life, literally save a life, every single day."

Yeah, she was a lot.  Like the most rah-rah cheerleader I've had in quite some time. She was sooooooooooooo perky and so all about how great it was to save a life one image at a time.

After she was done with the smashing and pulling, I put the robe back on and Cheerleader told me to go wait while the radiologist (at some other site...) read my scans.

So, I sat in the waiting room watching DIY TV (Why is this on every television in Doctor's offices these days?  What, it is, I feel like crap, I have medical, tests, I need some kind of antibiotics, but oh look!  hey, I could totally redo my kitchen cabinets just like that!)  About five minutes later, Cheerleader came out, looking a tiny bit less cheery.  But just a tiny bit.  

"So, like, um the radiologist totally looked at your scans and they need a teeny bit more magnification on one of the pictures if that's cool?"

Okay, that's not what she said, but that's what it sounded like to me.

No biggie, I'm thinking. I've been down this road before. Couple years ago, Ms. Right needed a few extra pictures. I refer you back t0 my comments about having upper lady bits that are all full of calcification and whatnot. So we go back into the room.  "It's Ms. Right, right?"  I say, starting to slip my right arm out of the robe.

"No, it's actually the left."

(This is where I have to remind my readers and myself...this story has a happy ending!) 

At this point I wasn't concerned. I figured this was just one more step into the indignity that is being a woman over the age of 50.  

So we did more yanking, more smashing.  And Cheerleader sent me back to the waiting area where, now, there was another woman dressed in her jeans and that robe just like me.  This other woman was super chatty about how she works in a factory and was telling a female coworker that she had to go in for her annual boob smash before she realized a male coworker was there and overhearing her comments.  And she laughed and laughed.  

I laughed along because talking about mammograms in front of male coworkers is always hilarious. I guess.  

A couple minutes later, Cheerleader was back in the waiting room, this time wearing a less than cheerleaderly face.  "Can you come back here with me, please?"  She asked, opening a completely different door.

Something symbolic about that.

She ushered me to an exam room and had me sit on a chair. Then she started dialing a land line phone.  "The radiologist wants to talk to you," she said, trying, and failing, to keep that Pepsident smile on her face.  She must've made half a dozen calls trying to reach the radiologist who, apparently, wanted to socialize with me.  Not sure why it took so many calls since Cheerleader had been on the phone with this person five minutes before. Personally, I would have kept Radiologist on hold while I went to get me...but that's me.

Finally, after several attempts, (and honestly, it must have been super difficult to keep dialing and not getting a human person all while keeping that wonder smile pasted on her face) Cheerleader raised a human on the phone, which she passed over to me.

I'll be honest.  I really don't have a clear mammory (see what I did there...I made a funny!) of what the disembodied voice on the phone told me. Once you hear the word, "cancer" used in conjuction with your name, everything else becomes a blur of noise.  I know she talked about cells and calcifications and groupings, and then she said something about a biopsy and the hospital would be in touch.  I know I didn't say anything other than, "yes. yes. yes. yes."  Well, except when she asked if I had any other questions, I said, "no."

Then she hung up and I handed the phone to Cheerleader who, to her credit, had turned down the wattage on the smile and the volume on her chirp voice a couple ticks.  However, sympathy wasn't a natural fit for her, and I wound up saying something cheerful and comforting so she wouldn't feel bad.  "Oh well, you have just an awesome day!" was her last word to me as I returned to the waiting area, which was now empty, and then to the changing area.

Funny. Left didn't look a bit different than it did when I got dressed that morning.  

I got home and told Hubby, who is a prince in all matters and who hugged me hard.  This, like everything else in our marriage, was a challenge, a bump in the boob, so to speak (another funny!), and we would, with prayer, get through it.  About an hour later, I had an appointment scheduled for a biopsy.

That's a big word.  Biopsy.

In the ten days between the mammogram and the biopsy, I did what people do. I worked. I went to visit a friend.  I made dinner. I did laundry.  I washed the dishes and clipped my nails.

I also looked at myself in the mirror, wondering what I'd look like without one or both upper lady bits.

Oh, and I told no one.  Hubby and I didn't even talk about it much, and we certainly didn't use the word "biopsy."  

The day of the big test arrived.  I had to leave work early, something that wasn't a big deal.  I'm a woman in my 50's.  My boss is used to me having doctor's appointments, so I didn't have to elaborate.

Hubby, my prince, took a half day and drove with me to the clinic, a couple miles from our house. I've had a number of female tests done at this place, and I'll tell you, it's not what you'd call a man-friendly waiting room.  But, he's a trooper. He brought a book. of course, the book had a VERY unfortunate title.

Honestly, I can't make stuff like this up.

So, he was settled in with his book and they called me in for a conference. Well, first they asked me to, once again, take everything off above the waist and put on a robe.  (One of these days I'm going to come home with one of those robes stuff in my purse. They are so comfy. they make me look like a pregnant manatee wrapped in waffles, but they're comfy.

So now, at a very decided disadvantage clothing-wise, it was time to meet the doctor.

For those of you who have never had this done, get ready for a ride.  I mean it.

The first thing they do, once they've stripped you away from your carefully chosen wardrobe, is sit you in a small office with a nurse who lights up a picture of your mammogram. 

Mammogram. (Not mine.)

Death Star. (Also, not mine.)

SAME THING!

The nurse explains why I'm sitting there, freezing and flop sweating simultaneously. She points out the little conclave of calcification. She explains what the concerns are.  

Then the doctor comes in.  Now, okay, this name is an alias, Doctor Devin Richards, but the initials are the same. I know this because he wrote his initials on Left in purple marker and commented how he had "unfortunate initials for a doctor."  (DR made a funny!)

Then DR explains what he's going to do with this needle and that poky thing and a clip he's going to pop into Left as a marker for future explorers of this territory.  he also tells me not to worry. This clip marker thing won't be a problem in airport security.

Right. Because that's what this world traveler who hasn't been outside of Wisconsin since July is worried about.

AT this point, DR leaves the room to go, prepare for the procedure. What's he got to prepare for?  Does he need to study up on something?  What doesn't he know?  Do I really want someone who is NOT prepared at this point sticking several poky things into Left to draw out calcifications?  It's that just calicium?  Isn't calcium good for me?

All of these thoughts are running through my head as the nurse ushers me to the room with the table.

Now, I don't know exactly what I expected when they told me there would be a table with a hole in it. Maybe like a massage table, but instead of the hole being right there by the face, it was several inches down.  You know, right about boob height.  But still, a flat table.

Instead, I got this: 

Now what you probably can't appreciate from this picture at this the middle of this table is shaped sort of like a funnel.  Which means, while lying on my stomach, my legs would 1) be dangling about 3 feet beyond the end of the table and 2) be raised upwards. Basically I'd be in a soft V shape.  

But the fun positioning doesn't end there. Note the step stool.  Yes, I was required to hoist my girth up a couple steps and the crawl onto the table to position myself just right over the hole and then extend my legs out into mid air.

And I was every bit as graceful and lovely getting into that position as you think I would have been.

THEN, the nurse says to me, "Now, put your left arm flat against your side. And extend your right arm over your head."

This is a joke, right?

here's my checklist:  

Legs stretched out in mid air, unsupported from the knee down.

Left dangling through the hole.

Left arm at my side. Right arm over my head.

Hair completely covering the one eye that isn't crushed against the rubber "pillow" they jammed under my head so that my neck was bent at a very comfortable 49 degree angle.

And then the nurse says, "I'm going to raise the table now."

Worst...amusement...ride...ever.

"Would you like a warm blanket?  A cooling compress on your head? A well sugared cup of tea?"

Okay, that last one is a joke. I've been watching A LOT of "Call the Midwife" lately.

The nurse popped a warm blanket on me, mostly to absorb the flop sweat, I'm sure.  And then DR enters the room. I mean, I can't see him because I'm facing the other way, my left eye is crushed closed against the table and my right eye is full of hair.  But I hear him come in and tell me he's going to numb the area.

It's at this point I wonder if this is how dairy cows feel when they're being attached to a milk machine. At least they aren't forced to lie in the world's most uncomfortable position, but still.  I can't get the image out of my head.

I wonder if he's sitting on a traditional milk maid's stool. You know, a three legged one?

 After numbing the area with what I assume is the world's longest and hottest needle.  (I'm saying it stung like a beast.)  BR flicks me a couple times (or some other test to see if I'm numb.)  Then he inserts his light saber into Left a few times. I hear all manner of mechanical battle sounds as he retrieves tissue and plants his flag...I mean inserts the marker clip.

The nurse, meanwhile, under the guise of rubbing my back in a comforting manner, is actually pushing me downward into a deeper V position.  That hurts, you know, because I'm over 50, overweight, and have a lot A LOT of lower back pain. So yeah, pushing my body further into this table funnel...not fun.

DR, ready to get those calcifications!

This is an artist's rendering of me, in my robe, standing in front of my mammogram image. Don't I look great?

And then, with a final zap, it was over.  The nurse stopped pushing on my back and took off the warm blanket.  They lowered the table, and I crawled off of it, even more gracefully than I'd gotten on because now I was trying to unbend from all different directions.

They got me off the table, and sent me back to get dressed. After a few minutes, the nurse popped in to give me some post procedure instructions (none of which I heard or followed) and then told me they'd call me as soon as they had results, probably the next day. She cautioned me NOT to check my Ichart because I'd get the results as soon as they did and I might freak out reading the results and not understanding them.

Oh, honey.  I just did a yoga pose with Left stuck in a hole for the last fifteen minutes. We are well beyond freaking out at this point.  

That night I went home.  I was a little sore, and a lot tired.  Peaches came over for dinner. Skippy was there and Skippy's GF, who will are going to call Ginger for now, was too. Hubby and I agreed not to say anything until we had the results, so we didn't tell the kids anything that night.

Okay, I did promise you a happy ending, and here it is. The next morning the nurse called me and gave me the all clear. I have to go in for another yank and squish with the Cheerleader in 6 months, but other than that, everything is FINE!

And hopefully, by making light of some of this, I've made the whole experience of a biopsy a little less horrible.  At the very least, my friends, understand that it's pretty vital to get your mamms ogrammed every year.  It's dumb, and annoying, and most of the time you're going to want to slap the  super chipper tech.  But do it. Get it done.  And if you need someone to hold your hand, give me a call!

Oh, and one other thing: We told the kids, but...,my mom doesn't know about this and if you could, you know, NOT tell her, that would be REALLY great.  I'm not quite ready to deal with her crying. I mean, we just got passed Christmas.  

Thanks, I really appreciate it!