I Need a Job Already
I don’t enjoy job interviews. Does anyone? In the past I have found myself spazzy and nearly completely unable to think. Of course, I haven’t had to go through many interviews in my life. I’ve worked several jobs, and I suppose each of those came with an interview, but for the most part, when you interview for a retail job, the interviewer just wants to make sure you can speak in complete sentences while maintaining an appropriate amount of eye contact. And then they hire you on the spot.
In fact, I don’t think I’ve been to many interviews in which I didn’t get the job. When I was 15 or so I applied to work at the House of Music in Ala Moana. Is that still there? The manager at the time called me in for an interview (my first one, ever,) and proceeded to give me the impression that he liked me. Then he tried to tell me that my availability *might* not be something they could work with. But he never did say, “sorry, we are unable to hire you at this time.” He kind of gave me the runaround. Anyhow, after that I pretty much got every job I interviewed for.
I think I’ve sent out at least thirty resumes and cover letters. You know what sucks? They tell you over and over again in school to double, triple, quadrupal check your resume and cover letter, ensuring that there are NO TYPOS. It sucks when you send something off to a potential employer, applying for a job that you’re totally interested in – the kind with wonderful pay, super hours, and even a company gym – and after sending it, you realize that you sent off that stupid cover letter with a typo. Yes, this happened to me more than once. Of course I shouldn’t be admitting it here, where a future employer could see how careless and unfocused I am…
I’m getting the hang of it now. The problem was that most job applications are submitted online. Times sure have changed. So, if you’re submitting these things online, chances are you aren’t even printing off hard copies of these letters and resumes. You’re just reading and correcting them off the screen. I’ve learned that printing them off for the corrections is totally worth both the paper AND printer ink.
So of those thirty or so resumes, I’ve been called in for four interviews. Two of those jobs I lost to “more qualified” applicants. One was a “Placement Company” which I did work with for about a month, and one was an interview that I went to today. When you look at those numbers, 30 resumes, 4 interviews, 2 outright rejections, it’s a little discouraging. Jim reminds me that I’ve probably never been in this kind of economy. I’m also not willing to work for minimum wage anymore. Incidentally I did not get spazzy today, as the interviewer was very good and able to put me completely at ease. (There’s a second one tomorrow, so I’m thinking today went well.)
Filed under Uncategorized, money making | Comments OffNews on the Immigrations Front
Now that the process is nearly over I can quit being so scared to write about it.
Immigrating to Canada is hard.
My application was submitted in early November, 2004. A year ago. In order to submit that application, my husband and I had to answer millions of questions about our relationship and how we met. You know how telling people that you met your husband tends to get you this look, the one that says, “Oh, aNUTher one…” That look that says that no one actually believes that you met a man online and he somehow ended up being The One. The look that goes along with stories about how they hear that many people are turning to this sort of dating scheme “nowadays.”
I don’t bother explaining to most people that we didn’t meet on a dating site.
Anyhow, try explaining that on paper in a sincere, yet not overly-enthusiastic manner. Try getting that certain tone accross in your immigration application, communicating the fact that you aren’t as crazy as this story makes you out to seem. I can just hear the Immigration Officer reading the application to herself, “You met him WHEN? And got married HOW LONG AFTER!?!” Because, you know, surely I, an American girl from Hawaii, of all places, am marrying a canadian from the tundra in order to flee my oppressive country. Of COURSE that’s it!
In addition to the questions, I had to get police clearances from every state I’ve lived in since I was 18. And a medical clearance that included a chest xray. It’s quite thorough. I guess they want to make sure I’m not spreading Tuberculosis here or something.
The whole process is very lengthy and there are certain forms that certain people fill out for certain situations, so I’m not going to go into all that. What I am going to expound on today is that after a year of waiting and hoping and waiting, and breath-holding, I am now a landed immigrant. On Thursday, December 1, Jim took me down to the local Immigration office to finalize my paperwork to become a Permanent Resident. (We call it PR around here, not to be confused with Puerto Rican.)
Back in October I received authorization to work, so I’ve been working on and off since then. Shortly after that, we got a letter that asked us to report to my “Landing Appointment” on December 1. I gathered more photos (I swear they asked for like ten passport-like photos in different parts of the application,) and put on my respectable “landing outfit” in preparation for the appointment. The only thing I couldn’t find which was listed on the letter was my passport.
Yeah. Who loses their passport? I convinced Jim that we could do without it, as the letter technically said “Passport or other form of identification.” We soon found out that “Passport or other form of identification” actually means “Bring your damn passport, stupid American girl!” The woman was kind enough to tell us that if I could dig the passport up that day, she’d take us again.
We went home and tore the house up.
I gave up and collapsed in a depressed heap on the couch. Jim, however was not ready to give up. He was mad and upset and mad and wanted to have this whole landing thing over with. When we had looked in every corner of the house twice, overturned every stupid pile, when I had apologized more than enough for being the non-neat freak that I am, he finally looked over at the stereo and said to me, “Hey, what if it fell under there.”
I remained balled up on the couch, crying over how stupid I am for misplacing my passport, convinced that I had dropped it in a parking lot, or left it on a shopping counter. Jim walked over to the stereo, bent over, and said, “come here.” I said, “No,” and cried harder for no good reason. He pulled that damn passport out from under the stereo, and as soon as I could dry my silly tears, we were on our way like happy little immigrants. Well, a happy little immigrant and her husband.
So, all is well in immigration land. Now all I’m waiting for is my shiny new card that says that I can come and go to and from this country as I please. After over a year of waiting, it’s finally over.
Filed under Uncategorized | Comments (2)Christmasing, or, My Very Own PSA
In the spirit of online journaling for the sake of keeping one’s memories fresh, I hereby record the following fact: Last night my husband drank so much, and got so sick, that this morning he vowed (listen up, internet) to never drink again.
We went to his office’s annual Christmas, er, “Holiday” party and had a great time. I, the designated sober person, had an evening of fun and lemon-infused water, while watching the folks around me get rip-roaring drunk. The night went on longer than it should have, and I probably should have stopped my wonderful husband earlier than I did, (because you know, I did cut him off,) and before we knew it, he was leaning out of the car, begging the Good Lord to send some relief his way.
It took an hour to get home. Under normal circumstances it would have been a 20 minute drive.
Today he is okay. He survived the pains of mixing gin, beer, and tequila shots, but under no circumstances does he want to revisit what he went through.
Before I end this I want you all to notice the way I didn’t go into too much detail regarding the exact degree of sick that this man was in. I do this with mixed feelings. On one hand, it isn’t my story to tell, and although he probably remembers much less than I, sober mcsoberson do, it’s likely an overshare on my part to go into those gory specifics. On the other hand, though, I don’t want him, or anyone else to think that alcohol is a harmless drug that does not hurt anyone but yourself. When it’s cold and dark and you don’t quite know how you’re going to drive your husband home, it’s very, very clear to me that the drunk person is not the only one affected.
Merry Christmas, people. And remember that there is lots of fun to be had in this life without drugs or alcohol.
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