Monday Monday -- I Like It Like That

My dark and woeful mood has lifted somewhat. I think it is the weekend that does me in. Seems to me that I've spent a lot of Saturdays over the past year or so sitting on the sofa and watching movies during the day. Maybe other people do that all the time, but me--no, except on these Saturdays when I can't think what else to do with myself.

Sunday is my Food Network Day. That's an allowable excursion into TV Land, mainly because I don't do it sitting on the sofa. Rather, I'm standing in the kitchen, cooking up my own Food Network show. Yesterday I did some conglomeration of bacon and pork and onions and greens. It was what I had in the refrigerator.

Please do not tell God that I had all that pork, because we're right smack in the middle of the Days of Awe. If God gets mad at me, he will not write me in the Book of Life for 5769 and consequently I WILL DIE.

So not only is the American Stock Market continuing to tank, but the rest of the world's as well. If I am not going to die this year, then I WILL NEED AN INCOME. Anybody out these hiring a good, marginally shop worn writer????

And what about them Cubs. Or was it the White Sox? Twitter is all a-tweet with the boys watching the game. Or maybe they're watching football. I'm not quite sure, because I haven't paid attention to boy-talk about sports, like ever. Even in high school, when I had to seem to listen, I'd really just perfected a round-eyed, rosebud mouth, "Oh really? Fascinating. Huh. That far." God knows what they were saying, because my ears were elsewhere, and you know something, no one ever called me on it. This is not a special talent that I had; it's one that most girls learned quite early. Think of it as the precurser to the "ahu hu hua ha hu hu eeeeeeeeeeee" in When Harry Met Sally. You know, the line that provoked the response, "I'll have what she's having."

It's The Economy, Stupid!

While I have been neglecting you, I have been attending to my house. Here's the story behind the headline (and oh, parenthetically, forgive me if I'm repeating myself...). My fact finding trip to LA revealed these two facts.

1. Regarding my career as a Marriage and Family Therapist: The internship in LA would/will be a fantastic opportunity and I am still jazzed about it. Basically, they train you and mentor you and guide you and etc. etc. you in creating a private practice. Bbuuuttttt, it doesn't pay for the first three months. And then it pays a portion of the fees you take in from your clients. And you pretty much have to find the clients, which is indeed a major part of building a practice and you get lots of support, etc. etc., but it takes time. And the current economy is not one in which people, even in LA, are lining up to see their therapists. "Let's see, shall I put gas in my car or pay my shrink?" So we're talking three months without any income and then however long with however limited income.
   
2. My foray into the rental market in LA revealed, as I've told you, the fact that I've passed the point in life where I'm willing to suck it up lifestyle-wise. That being the case, I would have to pay about twice what I could get for renting my house to lease a "do-able" place in LA. Ah, but you over the in the corner, waving your hand wildly: Why, you ask, don't I just sell my house? As Husband #1 used to say, "Good question, Batman." (Isn't it funny the things that stick with you decades after a relationship is over?) And the answer is that I live smack in the middle of the most depressed housing market in the United States. If I could sell my house, it would mean pricing it to compete with all the foreclosures, which (a) would mean a HUGE loss, and (b) wouldn't be enough to buy a place in LA.
   

So you do the math. No income plus major outlay for rent equals gross spending of capital--or as I have come to think of it, major money down the toilet.

Having done the math myself, I came to the conclusion that I must stay put until the market evens out. I have to be able to take enough out of my house to buy a condo in LA. That's not an unheard of exchange of real estate; I just need to have patience. And surprisingly, having made that decision, I am feeling quote hopeful--about, I dunno, my life or something. Which just goes to show you--something. Or not, as the case may be.

The Wayward Wind

PhatMommy has writer's block. Me two...or rather, too. All of the wonderful things, the pithiest of my normally pithy comments, have gone the way of the wind...and it's a restless wind, that's born to wander......

Ahem--in today's mail I got a Xeroxed notice from the Family Life Center. At first, I thought it was one of the many varieties of Christian churches that have come to minister to Elk Grove's needs. But no, t'was an Employment Opportunity, two of them actually. The first was for a "mature couple" willing to minister in a "highly respected residential treatment program" for adolescents in "the beautiful countryside of Petaluma." Indeed, Petaluma is quite lovely, and since the job came with "Housing in a beautifully furnished country home including utilities, food and household expenses," I was enticed. Alas, I am not part of a couple, so that job could not be mine. But wait, wait, on the other side of the marigold sheet was another Employment Opportunity, and this one was for a mature, caring MFT Intern. Doesn't that just sound like me. I'm mature. I'm caring. I'm definitely an MFT Intern.

I got quite excited--was the universe offering me something new? I've been of a mind to move to the Bay Area and, hey, I think Petaluma qualifies. Or near enough. Plus this position offered the same beautifully furnished country home and a "competitive salary." In return, I would provide a "nurturing, stable home environment for four male students." Yes, I would, because I was mature and caring AND an MFT-Intern AND I like boys (I actually prefer them to girls, who I find to be rather MEAN). My imagination took of like a tumbleweed along the Texarkana border.

Yes, yes, I would apply for this job. I'm good with kids. Particularly wayward male kids. I would move to Petaluma and and and---.

I'd have to get up early, wouldn't I? And probably prepare three meals a day. And would I be keeping that beautifully furnished country home tidy? Oh no no no, that is so not me.

For I'm a wayward wind.....

Logging Hours...

I am logging my hours for the BBS so I can get them signed by past supervisors so that when I finally have 3000, I can take yet another impossible exam. You probably didn't understand any of that except for the last bit--unless you are a marriage & family therapist, counselor, clinician, whatever--take your pick. So let me translate: The BBS is the Board of Behavioral Sciences which is responsible for California therapists licenses (not psychologists, however, that's another board) In order to get licensed in California, one must have an MA in Psychology at least AND 3000 hours of various kinds of experience, training, etc. which must be supervised by a licensed BBS MFT supervisor. Or some such thing. I haven't paid all that much attention because it seems to me that by the time I have the 3000 hours, I'll be dead. Currently, I am pre-licensed, which, although it makes me sound like a used car, means I can do therapy under the supervision of a yadayadayada.

If you are still with me, it's probably because you're either bored at work or have a friend/family member who is going through the logging of hours business. In which case, you must send them to this nifty site, which offers, for a nominal fee, software so one can do the whole thing on the computer. Which is a vast improvement over doing it by hand, a task that always includes much stress over my post-aneurysm crappy handwriting ("She used to have such lovely handwriting...almost calligraphic in nature...sigh...").

This logging of hours means I am going back over my calendar for the past two years. And finding addresses. And phone numbers. And the license # of my supervisors. And lots of other shit that I should have done at the time. My friend Marlene has a spreadsheet of her own going. But then my friend Marlene is well-organized. Her friend Jane is not. Her friend Jane has bits and pieces all over the place, which I mean to file and sometimes I do file them but then I forget that I've filed them or where I've filed them. In LA, there were only certain places where this detritus of my life could be lurking, but here in Elk Grove--sheesh! all the world's a stage.

Job Search - 2007

I have been doing this since 1994. Then I was doing the official MLA Job Search. That is the Grand Inquisition of all job searches, as any of you who have or tried to have college teaching positions well know. The first year, I got one interview; the second, a job at East LA College, which I took. I thought that job would be my last, since it was supposed to go to a tenure track position, but the gods or my karma or just pissy department politics got involved, and I was burped out on the job market again. The years ensued and--geeze, haven't I gone into this a million times before? Suffice to say, I am, once again, doing a job search.

And loathing it. Okay, loathe is a bit strong, maybe. Distasteful better?

I am applying for two kinds of jobs, naturally, to match my two kinds of Master's degrees. The Marriage and Family Therapist Intern jobs, of which there are few to none, at least that aren't the same job that I just left. And, yes, the English Lit teaching jobs, which devolves to composition in its various guises.

I've been out of that job market for over ten years, so I'm somewhat queasy on details like, oh, recommendations from former colleagues or department chairs. This is why I find the task so distasteful. Why do I have to jump through all these hoops? Why can't they just look at my resume and see that I've taught a shit-load of comp classes of all levels (and speak so nicely, as well) and wave me over to the In pile?

Asleep at the Wheel, again...

This time I'll blame not only Molly and D, but DST. It is 7:49 am and I am dressed, fed, over-coffeeed and much too early to leave for the penultimate day. This feeling is so familiar--it's the way I felt after a night of dexs staying up to study for finals. This could--and maybe will--segue into a brief disquisition on Drugs I Have Taken.

Not a lot. Mainly uppers in college and uppers at work and uppers while writing and...you get the point. I had a massive, headbanging explosion on grass once that scared the bejesus out of me, so I never tried harder stuff. But I did drink. A lot. Does that count?

In Which I Correct Myself

I misspoke. This isn't my penultimate free Sunday. It is my penultimate Sunday that I go to bed saying, "oh, shit, I've got to get up and go to work tomorrow..." It is the penultimate Sunday before all of my days are free--once again.

I gave my notice two weeks ago. My final day is October 31. I lasted just over six months. This seems to be about average at my agency. In my letter of resignation, I carefully worded it thusly: "I cannot do the job in the way I believe it must be done without putting in considerable overtime, and that is something I'm unwilling to do." What I tell people is this: "The thing about working for a non-profit is that what you give up in pay, you get back in emotional rewards. This job can't be done in a way that would give me the requisite emotional rewards without putting in considerable overtime, and that is something...yadayadayada."

The reality is that the people in charge are clueless about how to engender loyality in their employees. They talk the talk but don't walk the walk. I wonder if they're even curious about why they keep training people who quit in a couple of months. My manager says, "It's a very hard job and a good fit for few people." Well, um, might you want to change that a wee bit? Because Sacramento doesn't have an endless pool of therapists and social workers--and, guys! you're quickly working your way through all of us.

So come November 1, I shall return to my former state of being, not much older, but a whole lot wiser about me and my place in my world.