Self-appraisal. Verdict? Fuck you.

Date: July 21, 2011
Position Title: Copy editor/page designer

1. Position Description
a. What are your main job responsibilities?
Designing pages, which includes writing headlines, deckheads and lead-ins to cutlines.

b. Which job responsibilities do you view as most important? Why?
Meeting deadline because missing one throws things off down the line. Writing strong, accurate headlines because they catch the reader’s attention.

c. Have any new responsibilities been added or removed from your job this year? If so, what?
I’ve filled in as weekend editor more.


2. Accomplishments and Strengths
a. List your most significant accomplishments or contributions during the past year. How do these achievements align with the goals/objectives outlined in your last review?
None. Perfectly because I didn’t list any goals/objectives in the last review.

b. Since your last review, have you performed any new tasks or additional duties outside the scope of your regular responsibilities? If so, please specify.
How is this different from question 1.c? I’ve filled in as weekend editor more.

c. To which of the following factors would you attribute your professional development since last year: off-site seminars/classes, on-site training, peer training, on-the-job experience, better exposure to challenging projects, other. Please describe.
None. I don’t think I’ve developed any further professionally.


3. Areas for Attention and Future Improvement
a. What are your goals for next year and what action will you take to accomplish these goals?
None.


4. Career Interests
a. What are your career interests/objectives?
I’d like to be a presentation editor or chief copy editor at some point in the future.

b. What type of assignment/position would you like next?
Not sure.

c. Are you willing to relocate? Yes

Jump start

I don't believe in signs. I believe I have control over my life.

But they're there. They're small, but they're there, damn it.

Recent developments have made my days quieter and me more prone to introspection. Not a good thing. I've been feeling anxious and down for a while now, and to combat that, I've tried mixing up my routine to do things that might relax me and get my mind on better thoughts.

So I've been watching a lot of documentaries. They take me back to my childhood when the only movies my parents could afford to rent from the video store were the free educational films. My sister and I ate those up, and I'm happy to find that my appetite for them was suppressed but never eliminated. Huzzah!

One night I was watching a movie about a climber who got separated from his climbing partner in a storm, broke his leg and still managed to climb, crawl and hobble his way off the mountain and get back to his base camp. I didn't think anything of it at the time, but he said something in the interview that resonated with me later. He said that while he was stuck in this ice crevasse with a broken leg and no way, it seemed at the time, to get out, he remembered something he was told or had read or had heard before: The only way to survive is to keep making decisions.

Once you stop making decisions, even small ones, you're fucked.

Later it hit me. That's what I've been doing. I've been sitting and waiting for something to happen, for a perfect job to open up or for something crazy to happen to jar me from my complacency. I guess I'm surviving (I'm typing this afterall), but that's all I've been doing. I wake up. I make the decision to get ready for work. I make the decision to eat (sometimes). I make the decision to go to my shitty job. I make the decision to leave, go home and waste time before bed.

It's surviving but it's hardly living. I've stopped making the vital decisions, the dreaded "big" decisions, the ones that might change my life and make me happier.

I woke up one morning and put on my bikini. I was going to work in the yard. The weeds were choking out the lilies I planted last year and overtaking the paving stones on my tiny patio — more green was visible than stone. About 20 minutes into the task, after my usual early-morning worried thoughts subsided, I began to focus on the task at hand. I thought about what I was actually doing. I was killing plants, plants that have been decided through generations of gardeners to be undesirable. I was ripping the undesirables, the ones keeping the sun and water and nutrients from the desired plants, out of the ground by the roots and tossing them aside. Not only was I tossing them aside, I was gathering them together and dumping their limp bodies in the hot gravel next to my house.

I was clearing out the unwanted so the wanted, the intended could take root, gain strength and bloom.

Then there was the dream in which I was pregnant OH BOY. I have many dreams in which my sister is pregnant (something she never likes to hear, can't imagine why), but I've seldom had dreams in which I was the chosen vessel. A few days after the dream, while on the pot, I looked up its possible meaning in a dream journal I own. (I'm not a nut. I once wanted to be a psychologist. My best friend knew this so she got me several books on dreams, the journal and "Man and His Symbols" by Carl G. Jung and that's the reason for the journal so back the fuck off.) The book's limited, abbreviated glossary of dream symbols had three words to say about pregnancy: a new beginning.

So there. My signs: make decisions, clear out the bad and look for a new beginning.

I applied for a new job this week in a city far from this one. Fingers crossed.

Still a job hunter, but I've changed into flats

One year, five months and two jobs later — I'm back to square one.

I've been SO lucky in the past year and half. I've worked for two awesome newspapers, made some really, REALLY awesome friends and learned more than I can even begin to put into words. But I'm still just not where I want to be.

Many of you have noticed that I've been talking about movers and moving and leaving Hilton Head on Facebook and Twitter in the past few days, and have been asking where I'm going and what I'm doing.

Well, this is the best I can do right now:

My last day of work at The Island Packet is July 20. (Yes, I gave five-weeks notice.) While I totally love it here and can't imagine a paper where there is a better team of designers to learn from/work with, being 12 hours from my family has taken a lot more of a toll on me than expected. Right now, I am frantically applying for graphic design and/or communications jobs in St. Louis. In my perfect world, I would get a graphic design job and move straight there from Bluffton. If this does not work out, I will take English classes for the next two semesters and next summer begin a program to earn my teaching degree. At the end of this program I would be able to teach high school English and (I hope) yearbook.

I seriously don't know any more than that. It's scary and stressful, but I know it's what I need to do.

NOW, in related news ... My job is open! If you know someone who is a good designer AND copy editor AND who is willing to work hard (but be rewarded for it) send them to this link!

Well, y'all ... that's my update. It's been a long time, and no promises on regular posts, but this seemed like a pretty good way to let everyone know what was up :)

xo!

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.

Saboteur!

I was almost sabotaged tonight when I put the suggested head "The Brady grunch" on a sports story about a senior with the surname of Brady who had led his football team to victory this season.

"Grunch" didn't seem like a real word or valid sports slang to me, but I looked it up to double-check. I learn obscure words all the time - who knows, this might have been one of them. It was not. At least, it wasn't according to one of my favorite Web sites, Mirriam-Webster.com. (Drool. I go there about 15 times a night searching for shorter synonyms for headline words.) "Grunch" was, however, on another favorite site, Urban Dictionary.com.

My editor was the one who discovered this.

Quiet.

Quiet.

Burst of laughter from editor 1 and a genuine gag from editor 2.

Possible meanings of "grunch," according to the infallible Urban Dictionary:
1. To reply to an original post on a web forum without first reading the other replies.
Grunch ... I haven't read any of the other replies to your post, but I think you should do XYZ.

Quiet.

2. The hard crusty stuff that glues your eyelids shut in the morning. An indicator that your hangover is going to be so bad that you beg for a migrane instead.
Oh man, after those two (three?) bottles of tequila last night I woke up with some serious grunch in my eyes. Please, kill me now ...

Quiet.

3. The act of self fistation, fisting yourself in the anal cavity.
"Get your grunch on" - the act of a hearty night of "tearing yourself a new one." *may result in bleeding

Understandable burst of laughter from editor 1 and a genuine gag from editor 2.

So basically my headline was saying that this kid, Brady, had his own brand of self fistation.

Joke's on you, idiot sports editor who thought that was appropriate sports slang!

sad

Sorry, lovely readers — I had to delete "a dirty story with a clean moral" because I apparently could have gotten in trouble for it. Please don't hate me!

Recycling

My ID has been pasted to the top of an old ID … that seems to have been pasted on top of another ID. In my picture I look like I have huge shoulders, my white chest preoccupies the eye, and my cheeks are chubby, but look at me! Doesn’t that smile say, “Happy to Have a Fucking Job that Requires an ID”?

The players

Oct. 7, 2009

My handy dry-erase board.

The extensive notes I took on my co-workers after my first day at work. I will call my co-workers Ariel, Lily, Ron, Agatha, Aaron, Carl and John on subsequent references. Add in Martin (the new guy), C.T. (a female peer) and Maria.

Agatha does not love Aaron.

John is not a love interest. (He's married with a baby on the way.)

And yes, there will always be problems with the ad department, Christian.

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.

Killer feet

Let's count the ways in which this photo could have killed me.

1. I'm alone in the car.
2. That's the interstate.
3. That's my right foot (the one a person typically uses to drive).
4. I'm taking the photo.
5. The camera was on its manual setting.

I didn't die. I also didn't get the job. The reason for my foot like that in the first place? It was hour 5 or so and I still had 4 or so to go and my leg was bored ... and my mind curious. Could I rest my foot on the dash? I also had my leg stretched across the passenger seat at one point. Ah, the boredom of the open road.

This is not the most exciting blog entry I've ever written

I start subbing tomorrow.

It'll be nice to make some money.

I'll let you know how it goes!

It's my life

Today, on the morn of my second interview, I received my fourth of eight resumes back in the mail. The first three apparently went to addresses that don't exist, though how I, with my journalistic address-finding skills, managed to accomplish this I'll never know. The last was a postcard informing me they only accept applications online and only when they are hiring. Hmm.

But two of those resumes (sent to different editors at the same place) resulted in today's interview.

For me, one of the hardest things about finding a job is not finding someone who is hiring who thinks I am spectacular enough to offer me her once-in-a-blue-moon position (not that that has been easy). No, the hardest thing for me has been deciding what I really want.

I moved to my fiance's college town in early June. Deciding to move here was difficult. I knew I wanted to be closer to him, and I knew I'd be happy if I did, but I wanted to make sure it was what I truly wanted. Not just what I felt was right, what was convenient or what he wanted. I could have moved home, waited until I found a job, and then move somewhere random, and he could follow me once he graduated. Problem is, he may not graduate before the wedding. Or maybe he will. Or maybe he won't be able to find a job where I am and I will work somewhere for 9 or 10 months and then quit and move elsewhere, which would probably grind on my conscience for years.

But in the end, I knew I would not be happy somewhere random, all on my own. I'm not really an all-on-my-ownsome kind of gal. And so here I am. I have fallen in love with this town and probably wouldn't mind staying here forever ... which is a long time.

Today I interviewed at the perfect place. I would be covering something I am interested in, in a community I love and I wouldn't have to move to middle-of-nowhere-you-are-allll-alone-ville. That's where I interviewed last week, and, after much thought, I have decided to stay put, in a place I love, in the hope that something will turn out in my favor.

Some people do not agree with this decision. Some have told me they think it is dumb and disappointing, if not always in so many words.

Saturday I went to my fiance's cousin's wedding. While they were cutting the cake, several people heckled the groom, asking why he wasn't going to shove the cake in his new bride's face. The groom replied, "You don't have to live with her."

While he was clearly making a joke, it is a good sentiment. Other people do not have to live with my decisions, and I do not have to live with the people who disagree with them, but I must live with my decisions and I must live with myself.

So I shall anxiously wait a couple of weeks, as the perfect job has said I must do, count my blessings, say my prayers, keep the faith that what is supposed to happen, will and know that I have made the right decision for myself, even if everyone else thinks I'm a crazy raving lunatic.

High pressure interview

Tomorrow afternoon I have an interview. It is only my third, but, by far, the job I want the most.

I feel too nervous to speak more of it now, and I fear jinxing it. But more to come soon!

Health insurance is totally in right now

This is an apology to everyone I served pizza to last week with a terrible cold. I wasn’t fooling anyone. I could see the cringe in my tables’ eyes when I croaked out the lunch specials. But irony of ironies: My restaurant requires a doctor’s note if you are out sick from work. And they don’t provide health insurance.

One severe cold and a sprained ankle later and I’m questioning my mortality.

In a nutshell, I am currently functioning with the idea that somehow death is a better option than financial ruin. My health takes a backseat when I begin to tabulate the cost of check-ups, the appointments, the tests, my god, the medication. One blown knee, one failed kidney, a removed tonsil or two and I become one of masses who mill the flea markets for gently worn muumuus.

My imagination shows me run down by speeding car and dusting it off with a cool, “$350 PLUS mileage for an ambulance ride?! No thank you sir, I’ll take my compound fracture home. I own an ace bandage.”

So now I find myself stepping carefully into the bathtub, shying away from the use of knives and saying things like, “ooh, careful” when I may be barreling a little too quickly down the stairs. I no longer hit the Ski and frosted animal crackers quite as hard either.

At least the knowledge that I’m uninsured quells my newfound proletariat temper. Every time I’m tempted to ram my car into someone’s Porsche I simply remember that my recovery would be almost as expensive as her new tires. Knowledge is power but this knowledge is depressing (but only the kind that doesn’t require Zoloft).

"your sister's not working, ask her to do it"

Before I begin this particular rant, I just want everyone to know, I love my family and DO NOT actually mind being my little sister's taxi. That is, until she gets her license.

However, this has become a serious problem. Thanks to unemployment, I actually have so little to do during the day that picking my 15-year-old sister up in the middle of the day so she does not have to ride with other high schoolers is an option. A.REAL.OPTION.
(She plays volleyball and they get out early on days they have out-of-town games so they can go to a local restaurant and eat as a team.)

What has my life become? The lack of response my job search has given me gets more and more depressing every day.