What are you looking at?

I Mean, Smart (But Still Tricky) Jesus

I have always said that it takes three weeks for things to "click" with a new job, whether you're passing out fries at McDonalds or putting out your first issue of a magazine. Well, I didn't post any Deep Thoughts yesterday about my Chicago update, not because I was drowning in depression but because things were finally clicking for me. I found my niche, fell into my rhythm. I found my place.

Maybe things would have been wonderful in Chicago. But you know what? They're going pretty darn well in Indianapolis. I receive constant feedback from my boss about the quality of my work and my value to this company. I have the power to start new projects and the authority to carry them out. I have a genuine interest in science for the first time in my life, and coming from someone who barely understands the H2O compound, that is quite a feat. And it's all happening in a city full of activity (not to mention great shopping malls) waiting for me to make it mine.

Don't get me wrong. I would have loved Chicago. But I would have loved it for different reasons. Chicago reasons. I love Indianapolis for Indianapolis reasons. One set is no better than the other. A choice is always as good as you make it to be.

Some people are afraid of choices. They are so enamored with their possibilities that they end up immobile, too afraid to "limit" themselves to one purpose. That's no way to live life.

I want a strong career. I want to explore other pockets of the world. But I also want to get married and have a baby before I'm thirty. Some say I can't do both. To that I say, maybe you can't. But just watch out for me.

How does this all come back to Jesus, who has managed to find his way into the title of my last two posts? I don't know. But I thank him for the path my life has taken, just the same.

Tricky Jesus

Back in January, when I had decided to begin looking for another job, I created a new Yahoo! account specifically for tracking resume responses. I mean, receiving correspondence about future employment at an address designed for current employer correspondence is not very classy. Neither is any address including the suffix "-baby." (For proof, refer to lower righthand section of sidebar.)

So. A new address. For new jobs. But I only got a whopping two e-mails the whole time, and one was from some crazy clown site that wanted me to buy a rubber nose and big fat Ronald McDonald shoes. (Well, not, really, but it was pretty pointless.) So I went from checking it once a day to once every two days to once a week to never. Until today. And now? I kind of want to kill myself, because on May 19th, I received an e-mail from this place about participating in a phone-screening interview for an associate editor/writer position. And another one on May 20. And a final follow-up on May 24th. These weren't automated messages, either. They said things like, "Good morning, Frema!" and gave an actual person's name and phone number and blood type and everything.

What did I do on May 19? Watch Melrose Place and dribble spinach dip on myself. The 20th? Post this entry about shopping for jelly beans. The 24th? Possibly wash sheets. Whatever it was, it sure wasn't tracking resume responses.

My body is juggling three different reactions. My brain is saying that I secured a job in April with a great boss and great pay and great room for growth in a great city that I now have the time to explore so FORGET ABOUT IT. My stomache is forming a softball-sized rock and telling me to make a run for the bathroom, and my lips are already practicing shouting the phrase, "I could have had a job in Chicago!" once they reach the safe confines of my rental. (Will I ever get my car back?!) Even if it's not 100 percent true.

Would Luke have had an easier time looking for jobs if I'd moved to Chicago? Would I have been happier being closer to my friends? Would I have been a bigger help to my sister, who is getting married in just two months? Would I have been a better pillar when Unspeakable Family Drama ensued?

Maybe. Maybe. Maybe. Maybe. There's no way to know.

I'm still thinking about all of this. Will have insightful words of wisdom tomorrow.

What You Could Have Looked At Today

Today at work, my boss provided Fazoli's catering for all 58 members of his staff, as a thank-you for some great specimen counts these last few weeks. While I was digging into my lasagna and breadsticks, he stopped by for a chat. Just chit-chat, no big deal. I walked back to my desk, full and content, made a bathroom stop, went to wash my hands, and then I saw it. It. An orange dot of sauce on my forehead. And not even a section disguised by a bouncy little curl. ON MY FOREHEAD.

Looking back, I can recall a quick splatter during the digging-in process, but I thought subtly and cleverly swiping at my nose had adequately solved the problem. I mean, who has to worry about doing a food-check on their damn FOREHEAD?

On a brighter note, I just finished my first pro-science article, one that addresses the benefits of therapeutic drug monitoring in pain-management clinics and delves into the pros and cons of blood vs. urine samples. But wait! The article will be published in a national magazine! Hurrah! Who'd have thought I'd brag about a national writing sample that talked about pee? Hell, who'd have thought I'd have a national sample? I don't even care that I only have joint custody of authorship, or that Practical Pain Management will never be found at Barnes and Noble. I am now Saucy Writing Genius. Will rule the world.

Almost Pomp and Circumstance

Elated parents? Check. Cap and gown? Check. Funny hood thing that one can't quite figure how to wear (hence the Flying Nun imitation)? Check. It really looks like I went to the commencement ceremony for my master's degree. It really does. But by now, you've probably figured out that I didn't.

I had planned on going to the ceremony. I picked up the regalia on Monday and complained for a whole week about the anticipated FOUR-HOUR ceremony that didn't begin until 3:30 p.m. on a SUNDAY, for cripe's sake. I woke up that morning planning to attend; it wasn't until Luke and I were leaving from a quick breakfast in Merrillville that I thought, "Yeah. I'm just not gonna go." I was worried that everyone would be upset with me for waiting until the last minute to announce my new decision, but the family seemed fine. However, since I did have my blue suit of armor, it had to be returned, because I WASN'T fine about paying a $300- to $800-dollar price tag. So Luke, my sister Donna, and I suffered the drive to the Allstate Arena to return said suit, spending a total of two-and-a-half hours in the car. But when we came back, there was pizza, the bags game, and my family--three things there would have been no time to enjoy had I ended up going to the ceremony. I don't think I will ever regret my decision. As much as I loved my classes and my professors, graduate school was not the life-altering experience that undergrad was for me. As a commuter, I didn't participate in campus activities. I didn't live in a dorm. I was friendly with some students, but the number of long-lasting relationships? Maybe one. I never met the president, so it didn't seem worth it, sitting through a bunch of mumbo-jumbo just to shake his hand.

And now, once again, I'm in the real world. I started my new job as communications director for a toxicology laboratory on Monday, and already I've produced a draft outlining the benefits of therapeutic drug monitoring in pain-management clinics. Who'd have thought I'd ever be interviewing my boss/company CEO to get the skinny on urine screens? It feels good to be working again, though, and wearing clothes that can't double as pajamas. Except for today, as Luke and I both have the day off in order to party it up at the Indiana Dunes for a three-day camping trip. It will be my first camping trip. We'll see how I do.

Bench Pressing

That was the focus last Saturday, as I pressed my parents to make the hour-and-a-half drive from Chicago to Rensselaer under the guise of watching me receive an award for my generous benefactory (?) to Saint Joseph's College, though in reality I was mostly interested in them seeing the bee-u-tee-ful bench and engraved plaque I had purchased in their honor. The unveiling was interesting. My dad's first words: "Why did you do that?" My mom: "My ankle is killing me!" and proceeded to rest on said bench, which I suppose is what it's for. (To be fair, she sprained her ankle a few weeks ago and yet still wore heels for my big day. Plus, I saw tears. Always a plus when handing out gifts.) Halfway through lunch, she hobbled back to the bench to enjoy a cigarette with her new piece of property. When she returned, she said, "I hope I never have to drive back to this place again!" (Any drive longer than 15 minutes is one she'd prefer never to experience.) So, all in all, my parents. Loving the bench.

Since then, I've been trying to love my last week of freedom, as Monday marks the first day of my New and Fabulous Job. Gone are the days of vegging on the couch eating ice cream in shorts I've worn for two days. Transferring vegetation from my place to Luke's by eating Lays and watching episodes of Melrose Place while he was at work. Complaining that I have nothing to do. I'm excited. I've purchased my first "official" (aka "non-Payless") pair of heels, several expensive dress slacks, and enough button-ups to last...five days. Hopefully my new co-workers won't get bored of green, purple, pink, white, and blue too quickly. I have also adopted New and Fabulous Eating Habits, which include eating wheat bread, fresh fruit, fat-free pudding, and Capri-Sun drink packs during my Fabulous lunch hours. My one obstacle to Monday: Sunday, the day of my graduation from DePaul. I took my final exam for editing today, and it still hasn't registered that I'm done. No more homework. No more squeezing reading assignments into soap opera commercial breaks. No more school. Really. I don't even work for a college anymore. Done.

Samantha's wedding is kicking into high gear. The shower invitations have been mailed, my maid-of-honor dress has been purchased (strapless, so upper-body toning is a must), and centerpiece ideas have been discussed. The latest big news: the happy couple putting a security deposit on their very first apartment. The ball is rolling.

Though probably unnecessary, it's worth pointing out that my cup isn't flowing over with snap or sass, so this entry may have been a waste of your time. If only I had written about this morning's 7:30 a.m. test drive to work on less than half of a quarter tank of gas, when at one point I thought I would be stranded near an abandoned Village Pantry most likely held up by a baby's daddy in desparate need of crack in 1992. THAT would've been comedy.

Virgins for Everyone!

When you're not looking, your friends can do some pretty amazing things. Take my friend, Chris; he recently published his very first novel, a novel several years in the making, before his 28th birthday. In my mind, Chris is the perfect example of A Writer, always beginning something, working on something, perfecting something, because the need to create is woven into the fiber of his being. When I was kid, I dreamed of being that Writer. I wrote stories all the time. Made up stories based on the cover art of my favorite books. Kept a journal. Lots of journals. For years. Now, the only real writing I do is for this blog. Sometimes I wonder if my own desire to publish will ever be as strong as Chris's.

Maybe it's not my time yet. Maybe I'm not motivated enough to bring this dream to fruition. Either way, the one thing I can say proudly is that I write for a living. That may just be enough for me.