Sure, I knew leaving my life in Los Angeles, then moving to Portland without any hint of a job, or even a place to live, was a risk. And I knew it would probably present its challenges. But this is getting ridiculous.
Last week, I applied to be a part-time custodian, because the job was located within walking distance of my apartment. But I guess I don't know enough about sawdust to fill that position, so mark another one off the list. And I have responded to dozens of different "office assistant needed" ads, all to no avail. Typing ~100 wpm is of no value to anyone? Really?
The real problem is likely my résumé. I suppose when one receives a million different responses to one open position, there's a weeding process that must occur right away. And I would imagine that if one is looking to fill a management position at, say, Target, one doesn't look at a résumé, see a job history of "Costume Production Assistant on The Last Samurai" and immediately assume the applicant is Target material.
So I write cover letters. Lots and lots of cover letters. Heartfelt, poignant, desperate (but not too desperate) cover letters. I explain myself and my situation. I list myriad reasons I'd be perfectly suited for the position.
And still nothing. I was not joking when I said that the only response I'd gotten so far was for a position at Home Depot, for part-time work at $8.80/hour. That was about a month ago. I suppose I should have taken it, huh? At least it would have been something.
This is a far cry from hanging out for six weeks in Venice. My life is so incredibly different than it was this time last year, or even six months ago. I have never been this stressed for this long. It is absolute torture.
But don't be confused -- I know I made the right decision. I didn't do everything the way I should have, and that part I regret. But despite all the crap that's raining down on me at the moment, I know this is where I'm supposed to be. I just need to get an employer to agree with me on that one, and start paying me to be here.
And just to add to the stress and make this all the more fun, the boy decided to get sick last week. Really sick. Like, Friday afternoon I took his temperature and the thermometer read 106. Katie and I haven't slept through the night since in almost a week. At urgent care last Thursday, the doctor said it was just some sort of virus, and the good news was that Merritt's ears looked fine. No antibiotics necessary. Just a regimen of Tylenol to keep the fever down. He said 100 mg every four hours, and I wrote it down; he also wrote it down on a card for us to take with us.
Later, after purchasing the Tylenol, I was a little confused, since a liquid medication is not measured in milligrams (now I know that there are 80 mg for ever ml of children's Tylenol). So I pulled out the card to see if the doctor had written down the same thing I had.
Katie looked over and said, "Oh, no. You were wrong. The dosage is '100 years every Thursday.'"
I miss my dog. It is a painful, awful feeling, because it's like she's dead, but I know she's not. I just don't get to see her ever again. So at some point I'm bound to forget what her belly feels like, or how it sounded when she really got going on the wood floor. But for now, even almost three months after I last saw her, I still expect to hear her following me every time I stand up to walk from one room to the other. When there is a loud noise, I brace myself for her bark. But it's not coming. She's well taken care of, but I'm just not the one doing it. And it sucks. This is not a face one gets over easily:
Oh well. I guess the depressed and the unemployed make up a large part of Oprah's audience, right? So it works out perfectly.