Thanks?

One of the papers I applied to informed me today that they have decided not to fill the copy editor/page designer position for which I had applied. I think my last round of applications was sent out in September.

Thanks for the timely response, assholes.

Two paces off the starting block

Oct. 4, 2009

I’m telling myself the following: My current job is fine. It’s an excellent starter job in that there is little pressure, low to no standards, it’s not too far from home, etc. The actual look of the publications themselves is unimportant because right now it’s about getting my foot in that door and gaining experience at working with different styles.

When I go to look for my next job, I will choose newspapers that have designs I love because, as it turns out, that shit is important.

I got the feeling by the end of my first week that this job will give me the experience of how to create a carefully crafted turd. For instance, I finished my pages early one night — well, most every night that first week — so I was told to sit with my co-worker Lily* for a little bit. She printed a page and told me to look it over for errors. I’m still getting used to the design styles so I wasn’t much help there. Instead, I looked at AP style, spelling and grammar errors. I found one.

“Isn’t ‘Street’ supposed to be ‘St.’ because it’s with a specific address?”
"Ha ha! Look, guys! She’s actually copy editing!”

I’m not sure how long I’ll last. I know one year is my personal minimum. (May I mention for the hundredth time that moving is a bitch?) It would be ideal to stretch that to two years so I don’t look like a flighty fuck on my resume but …

The tradeoff for slowly killing pieces of my soul is that I get compliments from my chick supervisor, Agatha*: “You’re kicking ass! Here!! Two more pages!!!”

* * *

I spent my day going through the health insurance plans and 401(k) details. In one of the packets there was a list of all the newspapers this media group owns. I don’t think they meant for it to be a shopping list of potential employers but that’s how I interpreted it. I think I even applied to one of them, the one in Michigan.

I know three things about the boy who starts tomorrow: He graduated from a school in Michigan, his name is Martin* and he’s “nerdy-looking.”

I’ve now put together a fantasy future in which he is my married mate Martin from Michigan.

Martin and I hit it off because we’re new, and we don’t know anyone in this area because we were desperate for jobs. (My co-workers gave me blank WTF faces when I said I have no connections to the area, which means they probably don’t know how narrow the market is and how blood-thirsty college grads are getting.) Martin and I designed better pages for our respective college publications, we’re nerdy and horny (I could be projecting here) so we get closer while talking about these things. Fifty-odd weeks later, I pack up my stuff and the kids (Scurry* and Einstein,* cat and dog, respectively) and move north where he’ll follow when he has finished his 52-week stint. We’ll move into our first home together. It’s tiny but we’re in love. We’re happier now because he’s closer to home (he’s a family man, bless him) and I’ve finally landed back in Michigan, a land with a lake, pebbly shores and virgin forests. We’re transferred to the other company-owned newspaper here and we’re a wonder duo. Unstoppable. And so we remain until I grow sick of him, pack up my stuff and the kids (Scurry* and Einstein*) and head farther north because I’m a glutton for the cold — I’m more comfortable when the outside temperature matches that of my heart.

Now it’ll be even more interesting to meet him tomorrow.

*=Not their real names. I’ll get to that.

Surveying my humble garage

All but one box is unpacked and everything has its place.

My view isn’t the best I’ve seen in the last few months, in terms of people or landscape, but it’s great in its own way. This is my space, all my own again. There’s my damaged desk where I used to do homework. Now I’ll use it for keeping in touch, for paying bills, for the occasional sewing project and for collecting dust.

My bathroom, or showerroom as it might be more accurately called as it lacks a bathtub, where the only germs I have to concern myself with are my own.

My kitchen where I have more cabinet and floorspace than I know what to do with. (Side note: In TV shows and movies, young women will sometimes keep shoes and clothes in their ovens and kitchen drawers, the joke being they’re modern women who don’t have the time or skill to cook and therefore have the space. I have an extra cabinet in my kitchen. I’m considering using my extra cabinet for linens (yes, “linens”). Maybe then the sheets will smell like cinnamon for my guests. My guests! I get to have those again!)

There’s my fridge where I keep the pickles, the whiskey and skim milk.

My bedroom with the dark purple walls, which I again took as a sign I should take this place.

The animals seem content — the puppy in his pen and the cat at my feet. The bookshelves are still empty and that makes them sad-looking, but they’ll get there. Where I sit now is where I’ll crash after a walk, after work or after a night of going out. It’s where I’ll sit when I need a reminder that the terror, frustration, sadness and confusion that comes with transplanting to a strange place is worth it because it means one thing: I get to walk in the nude from the (shower)room to the bedroom.

I swear they're doing this on purpose

"Please send resume, work samples, copy of most recent performance evaluation and salary requirements ..."

Let's just play a little game called "I just graduated from COLLEGE and the only newspaper I've ever worked for did not do 'performance evaluations'"!

What the hell, future employers? What. The. Hell?

I would just like to know, do you sit around in your offices all day trying to think of ways to make it impossible for recent grads to get jobs? PERFORMANCE EVALUATION? So, I guess what I'll do is call one of my old bosses, who is in grad school, and ask her to take time out of her day to write some ridiculous letter saying what a great person/worker I am.

Why can't you just ask for references like everyone else?

Maybe I should just say F*** it. Is it worth the trouble? Who knows? Not me.

Answer our poll! (It's up there! To the right!)
Should Christian tell them to fuck off?

... and I'll never get those four hours back

A lot of things about job-hunting have frustrated me.

1. The hundreds of hours I've spent refreshing mediabistro.com
2. How every time I look at my resume I find something wrong
3. The answer I have to give to everyone who asks me what I'm doing now that I've graduated ("Oh, not too much, just looking for a job")
4. How I cannot think of ANYTHING ELSE
   

But, what I think has frustrated me the most is the only interview I've been on. They kept me there for four hours. I met every editor, reporter, designer and secretary. I went to their budget meeting. I charmed everyone in the building. I was almost late for my family picture at my dad's church. And I still did not get the job.

It's not that I'm upset that I didn't get the job, it's more that I don't understand what they want from me. I mean - I just graduated from college. No, I don't have much experience. I have more than a lot of my peers - but it's still not much.

What am I supposed to do, potential employers? Will you please stop skipping over my resume for 10 seconds and just give me some advice already? Cool, if you don't want to hire me, but I would like someone to eventually give me a chance - just let me in on the secret! Please!