Back in the Saddle

Yes, loyal readership, it has been several months since my last blog, and let's face it, you didn't miss me. But I forgive you. This whole blogging thing is very appealing to me on one level; however, being easily distracted and prone to introverted self-obsession, my thoughts rarely make it to this online journal.

Today was an interesting day. First, at work, my boss asked me to sit down and talk to her because one of our tellers had spoken to her about a pattern of my behavior that has been vexing him and the other tellers. It seems that when I step in to intervene when they are having issues with customers (usually because they are stubbornly adhering to policy instead of using common sense with our bitchy though loyal customers), they feel I undermine them and make the customer feel that their demands were justified and the teller incompetent. Just such a situation had just occurred involving this particular teller, and frankly, in this case, he was in the wrong and was barking up the wrong tree when he placed blame on me.

BUT, as I discussed candidly with my manager, this is my greatest challenge. I'm the type of person that can't stand closed-minded, black and white modes of thinking... it drives me crazy. Common sense, reason, logic, and, yes, instinct: these are my friends. To me rules are extremely important, indispensable really, but in the end, they were made to be bent and even broken.

The teller had picked up on one of my major character flaws, of which I am well aware. I like to be right. I like to do things my way: correctly. Moreover I would appreciate if everyone would do things my way: correctly. Oh, and if you're not willing, move over and I'll do it for you. I was always awful in school with team projects, and while I've gotten better through the years, I have never gotten over my desire to "just do it myself". Everything I'm involved in bears my name, and I'll be damned if any part of it is going to be shoddy. I have a hard time trusting others, afraid they might water down my vision of how things "should be". For what it's worth, my manager agreed with me on the situation at hand and thanked me for my candor.

That reminds me of one time in third grade. My brother had a writing assignment due in his first grade class. He had the same teacher I'd had, and after reading his assignment at his request, I knew it was a dismal failure. I had to do something. That night, I snuck into his room and re-wrote the story with genius flair. It was only after I had finished that I realized that I had done something terrible. I mean, who did I think I was kidding: not only would Mrs. Dolan clearly see that this was written in perfect penmanship instead of Brett's illegible scrawl but this was a work that smacked not of my brother's menial skill but of a literary prodigy. Seriously though, that was the first time I remember feeling like I was a bad person. And yeah, I got into trouble, but I think my mom and Mrs. Dolan thought I was trying to do something nice. Unfortunately, I knew that wasn't exactly the case.

Which brings me to my next point: Apparently I'm slow... Yeah, yeah, we knew that already, but let me 'splain:

Last week my parents' basement flooded, so my mother has been going through everything in the basement, which included a lot of elementary school artifacts. Among the art projects and spelling tests were items like a mind-boggling game called "Klop" that Gavin created when he was six or seven and an Amanda original: a short story on why Santa wears red that eerily involves a bleeding reindeer. I also found a stack of old report cards. They all said the same thing: Amanda is a very bright girl, but my is she slow! Apparently, I had a problem focusing and completing my assignments in a timely fashion. If I had gone through school even five years later (i.e. Gavin), they probably would have tried to pump me full of Ritalin, and for escaping that epidemic, I am truly grateful. However, it was hard to look at; mostly because it's still true.

In high school, I failed my two favorite subjects two quarters in a row because I couldn't finish my work. It wasn't hard, but I was so worried that it wouldn't be good enough that I didn't finish it. If I just didn't finish them, even if I failed, I could still see the projects perfectly laid out in my head without the disappointment of them falling short on paper. It's sick. And it's not about obsession with perfection, it's really about the most basic instinct: fear. In my mind's eye, I'm capable, smart, ready to handle anything that comes my way, but I'm deathly afraid that in doing, I may prove myself wrong.

As I go through the process of looking for a new job, I find myself in constant scrutiny of... well... me. Am I qualified for this? Can I see myself doing that? How will this prospective employer see me? Will my previous accomplishments be enough? What have I accomplished? While I'm trying to focus on my strengths, which are considerable, I can't help but being overwhelmed by what I view as inadequacies, be they mental, emotional, or psychological.

Better luck tomorrow, eh?

Blaspheming

Not that I'm a big U2 fan - in fact Bono and his good doing (not to mention chumminess with GW) make me peaked and his music gives me a headache - but since when is Mariah Carey the second coming of pop music? Her voice is a train wreck and has been ever since she left Tommy Mottola and took her career into self-directed self-destruction. This may be a very unpopular opinion, but I don't think the sound of straining one's voice into non-existence is a) pleasant or b) deserving of 8 grammys, as this e-article would have you believe. If you were to believe the author, Mariah was jilted a la Susan Lucci, taking home only 3 grammys. Tragic.
http://news.yahoo.com/fc/entertainment/grammy_awards

But let's face it: anymore, she sings in the same five note range, hoarsely, and occasionally muscles out a few higher notes, which inevitably sound like a well-amplified cat in heat. I realize that she sold a trillion albums, and I don't begrudge her fame and fortune, but 8 grammys??? As Mike LaFontaine famously said, "I don't think so!"

fan club

Thanks to all those who make it worth while. Here's a shout out to a few of my favorites!

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oy! chotchkies!

Is anyone elses mother turning into a chotchkie whore???

Every day between Thanksgiving and Christmas I have come home to a new trinket, wall hanging, stuffed animal, doll, candle, novelty soap, and/or ornament. And because my mother knows that my father is TOTALLY disinterested in (and slightly disapproving of) this hobby/habit/addiction, she turns to me for affirmation.

"Ooooh, Amanda, come see what I got from the store today! It's the cutest thing!"

(Lo and behold the "cutest thing" ever is not an Alpha Phi sorority sister but a snowman soap.)

"Ooh, nice Mom. That'll look great in the bathroom." (Attempt to back away slowly, smiling.)

"And see, I got these great red hand towels too."

"Nice." (smiling manically - must not let mother see inner pain/confusion/disdain)

Feeding my mother's late middle-age fixation is the fact that she works in a gift shop, a store rife with traps for the unwary hyper-decorator. Also contributing is a sense of competition with (and perhaps minute jealousy of) her younger sister, whose house looks like a holiday gift shop. My mother likes to say that if she had all the money my aunt used to buy Easter/Halloween/Christmas accutrements (not to mention holiday-appropriate hairbows for her shi-tzu), my mother would have been able to pay for each of my brothers' and my 4 years of college education with money to spare. For once, I don't think it's an exaggeration.

But all of this is well and good. My mother needs a hobby, and collecting holiday "stuff" seems to be very fulfilling for her. However, when this hobby starts to affect me, that's where I must draw the line...

When March of the Penguins came out this year, I admit I was eager to see it. Growing up, I had always loved penguins: I had a favorite book about penguins, and I did several "projects" on penguins in grade school. I guess you could say that the documentary rekindled some of my interest, and moreso, a certain nostalgia for my youthful passion in the subject. The movie was pretty good (although two toddlers sitting behind me seriously detracted from my enjoyment, as they screeched a barrage of questions to their parents, who (like many) were stubbornly convinced that this was a kid's movie) Between some positive feedback I shared with my mother and a few uncontrollable squeals at cute Discovery channel ads, my mother felt she had a Christmas wish hint. And I had only myself to blame.

It was with great glee that my mother gave me not only The March of the Penguins on DVD for Christmas... but a penguin stuffed animal as well. Then, my aunt gave me holiday penguin salad/dessert plates. Stuffed animals are nice, but what am I going to do with a stuffed penguin but put it on a shelf? And I can just imagine setting a plate with a quaint holiday-clad penguin design in front of one of my friends. Their disdain would be the same as mine would be in a similar situation. What the fuck is a 25 year-old doing with penguin plates??? But this is the whole idea, I guess - to display cute things that are completely non-utilitarian.

And, while I'm not trying to be ungrateful (they were very sweet, thoughtful gifts), I feel like any enjoyment of these gifts would be proof positive that my mind had been corrupted by Middle-Age Chotchkie Syndrome (or MACS, as I shall call it). I. will. not. give. in!!!

milestones

I still sometimes find myself rolling my eyes when I mention "my boyfriend." It's really a sign of immaturity, the way kids roll their eyes at anything they deem weird or uncool to them. But the phrase containing the words "my" and "boyfriend" in that order has been a foreign entity in my life thus far. And I realized that I have slowly built my identity over the years as "the single friend." I grew to relish that identity: no relationships meant less effort, less irritation, less compromise, not to mention no nasty break-ups, no heartache. I wasn't tied down by anything. Not that I was living a salacious or high-flying existence. But I could have.

As things have gotten more serious with Eddie, I've had to wean myself off of this "singledom" attachment. This weekend was Eddie's 34th birthday, but it also marked the end of our third month as a "couple" (yet another dirty word in my pre-Eddie vocabulary). I guess it's time to put my "Swingin' Singles" hat back in its hat box.

Die Angstbankerin

Okay, okay, I've been a little "high-strung" lately. I admit it, and freely so. I think it's just that sometimes I look at my life and I think, "I thought it would be different." In other words, I thought I would be different. I didn't think I'd be the practical but unimpressive college-grad with a 9 to 5 at a safe but equally unimpressive job that "pays the bills."

Who am I trying to impress, though? Well... me, for starters. For instance, I'm impressed (read: envious) when I hear about some of my customers' 20-something children. Like the one who couldn't wait for PeaceCorps to get their act together to send him to Azerbaijan, so joined a Save the Children team to give humanitarian aid to the poor of Bolivia. - Does he speak any Spanish?(me) - Oh, he speaks fluent Spanish and Portuguese.(proud mother) Naturally! Or my friend from Fairfield who always wanted to be an intelligence officer for the United States, and got recruited out of college to work for a government agency doing exactly that. She's been to Russia on missions twice, and spends her days deciphering codes, probably keeping terrorists from blowing us up. She's 24, and she almost explodes with joy when you ask her how work is going.

The question is: when will I have the guts to leave the doldrums behind and take a chance on something that makes me leap with joy just to think that I get to do it? The problem is: I'm petrified of failing, as if any sort of rejection would cement the truth that I just can't hack it. Instead I content myself on mediocrity and become increasingly frustrated and unhappy with what I'm doing and where I'm headed.

The answer is: I need to get over myself and do something.

Das viertes Reich

We just got our OfficeMax order in today. Instead of two $30 tape calculators I requested, we received two $26 (non-tape) calculators evidently meant for the legally blind tellers. I mean the thing's about as wide as my head, and I could probably read the display from across a smokey room. But don't worry, we still got the package of calculator tape rolls.
I then went back to the order form automatically sent to me via email to check the order number, and I found that my order was altered. I then tried to find the items I wanted online, but those items had been "blocked by administrator."

Well, I almost flew off the handle. I mean did I just mistakenly fall into a wormhole that took me to an alternate 2005, where dictatorship was the order of the land and if something was unacceptable it was systematically erased??? If they weren't before, my britches were a-burning at that point.

Maybe I'll fall into a wormhole, where on the other side, I will be a professional singer with a stimulating career working with brilliant people from across the world. And NO DAYJOB!!!

oh, for pete's sake!

I should give up on this blog thing... I feel like I'm going to confession, and I'm not even Catholic. "Bless me Father for I have sinned. It has been 3 months since my last blog." Perhaps I won't burn in blogatory for eternity after all.

Anywho, just thought I'd share that today, I spent a full five minutes arguing with some regional bigwig who a) speaks with an almost indecipherable Irish accent and b)whose last name is actually Mullarkey - as in, "That's a load of mullarkey!"
About what was our little spat, you ask? File folders, naturally! It seems that when I placed my order I selected an item that was "restricted". My branch manager requested the lavish purchase - a (piggish $42.22) set of 12 plastic folders with velcro flap fasteners meant to better organize the pending work for each of our branch members. The pity is that it actually got to me; in fact I was livid, my face meat red, veins in my neck pulsating.

In a month, I will have my 12-month review. A sobering thought to think that I have been with the bank a year. Good news: I'm vested and get to keep all the dollars the bank matched in my 401K. Bad news: my boiling point is getting lower and lower. Forget going postal. This chick may go banker!