There Ain't No Devil, It's Just God When He's Drunk

Okay, so maybe it's time for some reflection. The last time I was on here, I was writing with a vindictive vigour and slurping away on that half bottle of £2.99 wine left other from two nights before. Not good. Yes, I was irate about being asked not to return to a temping job (temping I tell you, temping!!), but in retrospect, it was no big deal. I say that now.

Friday was that verbal vom night (enhanced, as all things are, with booze). Saturday I pretended that I was fine, everything in my life was fine, and I got together with my SAfriend and N, (a friend from back in the UC days who is now doing a masters) to a delicious sushi meal and a few casual drinks after. We laughed about what happened (or at least I tried to), and it actually turned out to be a good night. Then Sunday rolls around. Sunday was a black day...a day of soul crushing, self-imposed loathing and utter self-inflicted revolt that I seem to put myself through 2 or 3 times a year. Apparently Sunday was time number 2.

Here's what happened: Scottie made the innocent request that I spend time with him a little that day rather than see SAfriend again since we had both been working all week (with me going to bed a few hours before him), and we only really had Sunday to be with each other. And for some reason, something in me broke. There really isn't any way to describe it, other then it was like my insides were caving down upon themselves and I suddenly felt like the biggest failure at life ever. All I wanted to do was crawl into bed and cry (which I did, and which later turned into hyperventilating). So I hid in bed for a few hours just crying my soul out over how I felt like such a worthless husk of space, how I couldn't do anything right, how I had no purpose in life...it was bad. And all the while, my poor boyfriend was doing everything he could to coax me out from under the covers and talk (from asking, to begging, to demanding, to tempting...), but I just felt like nothing I had to say was worthwhile. Eventually he physically grabbed me up and plonked me on the couch, threatening to call an ambulance if I didn't stop hyperventilating. If I know one thing, it's that I'm not worth an ambulance call, so I took out the bottle of Rescue Remedy that I'd hidden and managed to get my breathing back in order. After a cup of tea, I began to start feeling human again.

Now I don't want to sound like all of this crazy black mood stuff was due to being asked not to return to work- normally, while something like that would certainly bum me out, I would never go all ape crazy. Instead, I think I have to put it down to a whole mix of things; the sun setting at 5 (soon to be 4), my week of early rises, and my non adjusted mental clock, that I have been thinking a lot about careers, jobs, life, and that my monthly visitor is only a week away. So I guess this depression has been building up, and when mixed with anxiety, it coalesced into something big.

During all this, my boyfriend was absolutely wonderful. He kept telling me that I really shouldn't be worried. That the temp agency would call me on Monday and I would have a job again. That I was really unhappy at BG and that maybe this was all for the best after all. And I hate to admit it, but he was right. Sure enough, Monday comes along and I get a call at 9:00 asking me to do reception at an NHS office. I go there, and they LOVE ME. The head of HR even compliments me on my excellent phone manner. They give me a lot more responsibility and it's good for me because now I actually have something to do all day- booking taxis, booking rooms, booking computers...easy. I still don't want to do reception my whole life, but at least I am happier working at the NHS (the free nationalised heathcare service) than at the corperate conglomerate. Which just really goes to show that I am not cut out for the world of consumption and greed, but rather public service, where at least I feel that good is getting done.

So new week, new job, new attitude...and I even got to catch some sun as I walked home!

Okay, I know that a few days ago (quite possibly yesterday), I was going on about my loathing of reception work. Well, I have been doing that particular job for over a week, so now it's Friday. I finish up, get ready to leave, and notice that I have a missed call on my cell phone. Oh look, a voice mail. It's from the temp agency saying that my services at Baillie Gifford (yes, I'm saying it now) will no longer be needed. So the whole bus ride home I'm thinking in my head of what possibly went wrong. I know that they do in fact still need another receptionist for another two weeks. I thought I was doing well at the job- hell today I even made and ENTIRE list of ALL the employees and who their secretaries were so that I could connect the person on the line to someone else if the person they were after was busy. Was it because I was online all the time? No, the other secretaries were freaking buying jewellery on e-bay all the time and looking at pictures. I really couldn't figure it out.

Then I get home and read my email (since I am not allowed gmail access from Fascist I mean Baillie Gifford) to find an e-mail from the temp agency. Apparently, while they thought I was ‘lovely’, I was apparently ‘a bit too quiet for the role and lacked initiative.’

HOLD UP!

The quiet thing I can understand. True, I am not very vocally dominant and don’t talk to strangers in a loud, obnoxious, voice. Nor do I sit around all day talking in a voice that all the people waiting in the waiting room can hear, thus inviting them against their will into the conversation of how delicious your Marks and Spencers two for £10 meal was last night. Fine. I’m okay with being on the quiet side.

BUT LACKED INITIATIVE??!?!?!?

I’m sorry that I haven’t failed enough at life to be a receptionist at Baillie Gifford for the past 16 years. I’m sorry that I don’t have all 600 employees memorised and know all their job titles, their team members, and who to direct an enquiry towards for personal pensions. But does that mean I lacked INITIATIVE?!?!
I asked questions about things I didn’t understand- did you hear me ever repeating a question? NO, because I learned from it the first time. I think that looks like initiative.

FOR G** Flipping Mother F***ing sake, I spent an hour TYPING UP ALL THE EMPLOYEES AND THEIR SECRETARIES so that I would know who to send a caller to in the event that the person they were after was in a meeting. INITIATIVE!

It’s not my fault that the computer system, logged in as a temp, won’t let me place room bookings or book taxis, but I still do all the work for it for YOU to enter into the computer system. Maybe you should FIX THE TEMP SETTINGS so that I could actually help out.

All this said and done, I think I did FREAKING GREAT my first week because I sent everyone to the people they asked for, learned how to use a switchboard within the hour, booked taxis even though I couldn’t enter them in the database, and only asked for help when I really needed it after not being able to find the information myself with the means I was given.

Baillie Gifford, I hope that this current financial crisis destroys your company, because obviously a company like yourselves should not be allowed to succeed when you fail to see the amount of initiative from your staff (AND TEMPS!!!)

Interesting facts here- yesterday I was railing on about my lack of career focus, how much I don't want to be doing reception, and how I silently long for lives experienced by more interesting people. Apparently I am not the only one. In the paper today, it is said that '... January 2008 found that almost seven million Britons in their twenties are deeply unhappy with their lives an duder intense pressure to succeed in jobs, finances and relationships.' Seven Million?!?!?! I had no idea Britan even had that many twentysomethings. So at least I'm not alone. Bad news is (since apparently I alway have to be the one who cynically sees things half empty) is that now I have to compete against SEVEN MILLION others for happy, successful jobs. Bah.

In other, happier news, IT'S FRIDAY!!! I managed to convince that man of mine (from here on named Scottie, like the dog) that he really wanted to treat me to a large sushi dinner. Proper sushi is pretty rare in Edinburgh, with an actual japanese restaurant opening up last year (note- not so delicious), and an AMAZING sushi restaurant opening close by to us just soon after. And it is AWESOME! Unlike the other place, they have rolls. Nothing as imaginative as the ones found in cali, but still, I take what I can get.

Then one of my best friends is coming in to town to visit. SAfriend (as she is from South Africa) is coming in Saturday night for (maybe more sushi), possibly a movie, and hopefully drinks, if I can convince her that she really isn't doing this not drinking thing.

Yay for weekend playtime!

I'm not sure if this happens to anyone else while either traveling or living abroad, but I find that I can't help being constantly reminded that I'm foreign. This normally isn't a problem when I'm traveling abroad because I'm obviously traveling- but when you've been living in a foreign city for more than a year (or two, or three), you can't help but want to fully acclimate yourself and sharpen the distinction between you and that obnoxious group of baseball cap, bin liner bag poncho wearing yanks over there who say embarrassingly loud things about the country and the people in the middle of the street. However, doing so has led me into sometimes uncomfortable spots that are completely my fault.

The accent: Now, I don't want to brag, but I can put on a pretty convincing accent, both English and Scottish, but English is by far easier. And it's something I tend to do only when speaking to other locals because let's face it, I sometimes get embarassed about my nationality. A lot. This seems to be fine when I'm dealing with the guy at the cafe or the woman in the shop- people I will never have to see again but for reasons unknown want to apprear local towards. Then there are those who I get thrust in a conversation with even though I know I will never see again. This is a bit more tricky, because if I use the accent, things go fine until the awkward moment where they ask where I'm from, and I have to either fess up or lie. When I fess up and say 'California', I get met with a surprised looked, almost always followed by 'Really? I couldn't place your accent, but I'd never guess American,' or ' Wow, you don't have a very strong accent, have you lived here long?' This again leads me to lie and say 'aye, about 4 years,' or come across as a weirdo who has only really be in the country for about two years and shouldn't have picked up the accent at all. Although honestly, there have been times, like when visiting the wee museum on Mull when I just lied and said I was from 'Edinburgh,' no questions asked.

I know, it's stupid, but I have to either continue the accent lie or get called out on it to wallow in embarrassment. But another factor is that I panic. Sometimes it's easier to lie when panicking than to just be honest. Take today for example.

I have an hour off to lunch and went up the road for a Quiznos sandwich. I've not had Quiznos since highschool and thought giving it a try in Scotland would interesting. I go up to the counter, order, pay, and sit down. Just as I'm finishing my ridiciously pricey meal ($10!!! For a sandwich?!?!), the man who made it came over to clean the surrounding tables and have a chat.
'Do you like your sandwich?'
'Yes, thank you.'
'Have you been to Quiznos before?'
Quick, what do you say? 'Yes, in the capitalistic country that invented chain stores and mass consumer culture', 'No, never.' Crap, pick one.
'Err, yes.'
'Oh, where?'
'London.' What? London? You've never had Quiznos in London! You're lying!
'Oh, are you from London?'
Crap, now you've done it. Don't mess it up, be truthful.
'No, California.'
'Oh, California. They have a lot of Quiznos over there.'
'Yeah.'
AHHHHHHHHH. I know that there is no shame in going into a place like Quiznos or Subway or Starbucks in the UK, but for some reason, I hate myself for doing it. It's as though these places exist to cater to the horde of American tourists who want a sense of the familiar in a far away local. I don't want to be discovered for what I really am in one of those corporate chain cancers, especially after trying to hard to distance myself from the image of the visitor.

It doesn't make it any easier when you leave the shop, only to be met with 'Oh look, Frank, they have Subway over here,' or 'Thank God, a Starbucks! I am totally craving a Frap!' from the bumbag/camera wearing tourist who has abruptly stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, obscuring foot traffic, and causing many hateful scowls from those trying to get by. Myself included.

So I met with the temp agency lady today, and voila! Instant job...working in a BIG SCARY CORPORATE OFFICE OF DEATH!!! EEEEEEK! I figure that I'll pick up the stuff like Microsoft Office easy enough (have a wee bit of experience with that), but this whole business of using a switchboard scares the crap out of me. I already failed 'How to use Phones with Buttons 101' so the idea of me working a switchboard is paralysing. But enough of all this scary being employed stuff (although thankfully it's only for 3 weeks), in other news, I have no hair anymore.

Do you every just wake up one day and go, 'Huh, I want a change...maybe cutting off all my hair would be a good idea'? No? Well then maybe you have more sense than me. I've been flipping this idea in my mind for about a week and phoned up on Monday for the soonest appointment. I've been letting my hair grown since August, aka the last time I was in a hairdressers and had them chop off what was then quite long into a mid-neck bob. This meant that my hair from top to end was about foot and 5 inches long.

I ran into the haridresser's after my interview with the temp agency with seconds to spare, but it naturally being Edinburgh, ended up waiting about 15 minutes. This gave me time to stroke my fingers through my hair for the last time...to think about that one time my friend braided it...and how I completely failed to be able to braid it myself. In fact, for having long hair a majority of my life, I am astonishingly bad at styling it. I drool in envy of those who have the ability to braid their own hair. Seeing someone being able to whip their hair up into an impromptu messy bun makes me want to kick a small child in frustration, and witnessing someone using chopsticks or even the humble pencil to pin their hair up sends me into a dark desire to use their chopstick/pencil/stick as an eye extraction tool if they don't reveal unto me the secrets of how such seemingly simple hair feats are done. If it's that easy, why can't I ever do it?!?! EVER!?!?!

But when you look around, the majority of girls here have long hair- hair they take time to style, to straighten, to curl, to fix with assorted products, and while I wish in my soul that I had the time and patience to play with my hair every day, the fact of the matter is that I would still fail, even if I had years to play around with it. So there I was, lost in thought about the pros and cons of hair and how long it would take for my hair to grow back after I had it cut, when the hairdresser called my name. I sat in the chair and showed her a picture of a short Katie Holmes bob- after she was brainwashed into the super straight bob with massive fringe, but way before she was talked into getting it suuuuuper short...

The hairdresser looked at me with a somewhat maniacal smile and said 'you're sure? That's like 8 inches...you're sure?' 'Yeah, yeah, I need a change. Chop it off.' And off it came. Now, I won't say it doesn't look anything like the picture, but I can't decide if I look a little too much like John Denver than any person in the 21st century should. I have to admit- it's short. And shows quite a lot of face. I can no longer hide behind my long tresses. I'm hoping that it will look better in the morning, but I just washed it and it's dry already...and not looking any better.

But hey, hair grows. In two months, it will be a perfect length and I'm sure I'll love it. In the mean time, I'll have to do my best to not look like an 15th century page boy (even though page boys probably had longer hair), and hopefully no one at the new corporate job office hell will mistake my sex.

xx

EDIT: Okay, I think I like my hair a little more now...It's taking a while to get used to, but I think I'm making it work.