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Way back in June, my friend Marty did a Tarot reading for me. I never went in for Tarot even when I was a practicing Wiccan, but he had new cards and wanted to use them, so I indulged him.

Marty predicted that there was a big change coming in my life, specifically to do with work. He said the perfect job was waiting for me, and that it was the opportunity I had been waiting for. I'd been going through some work angst, and it was just after we found out that John didn't get the job he wanted in Montreal. I was feeling pretty bleak, not only about my job, but the future in general. I had seen a possible move back to Montreal as a chance to get out of a city that has no real use for a not-quite-bilingual anglophone, and finally get meaningful work and out of this endless cycle of dead-end jobs that I've had since before I was married. So when Marty made his prediction, I filed it away as my best friend trying to cheer me up. And I promptly forgot about it.

Then early in the morning on September 12th, I was tooling around on the internet, and I found the a job posting for a project coordinator at an English community group here in Quebec City. It was in every way the perfect job. It involved doing pretty much what I do now-- events planning and PR-- only with more involvement with the Anglo community, plus  higher pay (and my own desk!) and a chance to get out of retail hell. I stayed up until almost three in the morning writing and re-writing a cover letter and polishing my resumé. On Monday of last week they called to schedule an interview, and I met with them on Thursday. I thought I did very well. Plus, it was my 33rd birthday. How could I possibly fail? Things were looking good. I found myself thinking about Marty and his Tarot cards.

They called me Friday while I was at work, but I had a book signing and didn't get the message until late Friday night. I spent the weekend wondering if two weeks from now I would be working somewhere new, or if they would tell me thanks but no thanks.

As soon as their offices were open this morning, I called, and I left a message for the person who interviewed me. I called back at lunch, and again just after. I finally spoke with the office manager. She broke the news to me: I didn't get the job.

So... thanks, but no thanks.

I've been in this position before. I have gone on countless job interviews in my day, and I've been rejected many, many more times than I've been accepted. There have been tons of jobs that I wanted and didn't get. But this wasn't just any job. This job was tailor-made for me. It's almost as if the job listing had said "XXX is looking for you, Heather!" I wanted this job. I needed this job. And I would have been so good at it.

The rational side of me knows that it was very close, and the person they picked got the job not because I suck, but because they're qualified. But part of me keeps wondering what I did to screw it up. Did I babble too much during the interview? Did I say something wrong? Did I fail to say something right? Is it because I took too long on the written portion? Is it my French? That nagging voice in my head keeps dwelling on this, because this job was so perfect for me, and I for it, that the only way I couldn't have gotten it is if I had done something monumentally stupid.

A few hours ago, the interviewer called and told me that it had come down to three final candidates, and that they had a hard time choosing between me and two other people. Finally, they had gone with someone else. It had nothing to do with me, but that the other person was very qualified for the job. And Rational Heather, she gets that. But Emotional Heather can't help but doubt. She can't help but ask, "What if?" Because it's not as though Quebec City is teeming with work for people like me, you know?

I want this to be all right. I want to feel as though I did my best, and that this was just a stumble on the road to something greater. But I can't help feel that Marty was right, that fate dealt me a hand and that the odds were stacked in my favour, that I had this amazing chance...

...and I blew it.

syzygy_dw: (Default)
Here are a few things you should know that would make your bookstore experience more enjoyable. Mainly because you will be able to leave the store with all your limbs, and I won't have to go to jail. See? We all win.

  • I am standing here at the cash register, holding my hand out for that book you'd like to buy.  Acknowledge my presence by handing me the book. Don't ignore my hand completely and slap the book down on the counter, while my hand hovers uselessly beside it.  Even worse, though, is when you dump your books three feet from where I am standing. Look up. I'm over here.
  • I am very sorry I don't have that book you're looking for. But if I offer to order the book for you, do not then say, "Twenty-one dollars! Well, I can get it on Amazon.com for sixteen!" Because, seriously? That's just rude. Yes, I know the on-line retailers are cheaper and faster. But I work at an independent bookstore, and they are killing us. I won't tell you not to shop there (because I understand wanting to save the money), but you don't have to throw the fact that you are in my face. A "No, thank you," will do just fine.
  • I know that you are a long-time customer, and it's neat how we have conversations about things other than books. But the follow-up question to "How is the new condo?" is not "So, when are you going to fill it up with babies?" And when I (stupidly, in retrospect) say that I'm not planning to have kids, do not then go on and on about how I would make a great mother, and I should really reconsider, and aren't kids wonderful, and they'll look after you when you're old, and bla bla BLA. Because you know what? A) I decided quite some time ago that I wasn't cut out for motherhood, so you harping on it isn't going to change that;  B) You don't know me well enough to say whether or not I'd be a good mother, for all you know I could be an axe-murderer when I'm not at the store; and C) My reproductive choices are none of your business, and I don't have to justify them to you. And when I try to end this fucking inane conversation by saying that my husband doesn't want kids either, you DO NOT get to suggest that I leave him. 
Thanks, and goodnight.

B
syzygy_dw: (Default)
Over the summer, I was planning our store's Harry Potter party. I did most of the work from home, and went into the store very occasionally. I usually rode my bike in if I had to go to the store at all.

On June 6th, I had to go in on short notice to fax some stuff, so I hopped on a bus, flashed my pass, and went to sit down. The bus driver grabbed my arm, and demanded to see my pass again. Confused, I showed it to him. It turns out, my pass had expired, and I had forgotten to buy a new one. Silly me.

In Montreal, had this happened, the bus driver would have kicked me off the bus and told me to get a new pass. But this is Quebec City, where everything has to be twice as complicated. So instead of letting me go buy a new pass, the driver closed the door. He confiscated my pass and my transit ID card (because in QC, you have to get a photo ID, even if you use a general pass). He gave me a lecture about proper bus fare and trying to scam the bus company, took my name, address and phone number, and told me I could call the city to get my pass back. He then gave me a gave me a piece of paper with the transit company's rules, a transfer that was good until the end of the day (so I could get home) and told me to go sit down.

When I got to the store, I verbally abused the bus driver with my co-workers, and later I went out and bought a bunch of bus tickets. I figured it was all over, save the inconvenience of trying to get my transit ID back. In the end, I never bothered, since the other one was about to expire anyway. I just got myself a new one and forgot the whole thing.

Until today, when a registered letter came for me in the mail. Nothing good ever comes by registered mail.

It turns out that for this little infraction (which in Montreal, as I said before, would amount to a bus driver telling me to get off the bus and get a new buss pass) I now owe the city $166.00.

I'm contesting it, of course. When this happened back in June, I tried to explain and offered to get off the bus and buy a new pass, but the driver wouldn't let me. I think he was a little overzealous about the whole thing, since I think it was obvious that I wasn't trying to pull a fast one. I honestly forgot, and while he was in his rights to fine me, I think it's a little harsh, seeing as he could have just refused me access to the bus.

Given that it's April Fools' Day, I wanted to believe it was all an elaborate prank, like the time my best friend called me up pretending to be from the library and told me that I owed $200.00 in late fees. If this is a joke, it's NOT FUNNY.
syzygy_dw: (Default)
Despite the fact that she was given to me by my brother for Christmas six years ago, Mojo is 100% devoted to my husband, and basically only tolerates me when he's not there. Or if I have food. At night, she will walk over me to snuggle with him. She is his cat, through and through, and has been since she was a wee kitten. I am very jealous of that.

Butterscotch is my cat. I've had her for almost 11 years, and she's usually somewhere in my general vicinity. (Right now, she's on the sofa behind me, absorbing solar rays.) She wants to keep an eye on me. She's not much of a cuddler, though, and never has been. Scotch is far too cool for cuddling. You will never find Scotch draped over me, or curled up on my feet. That's not her. But she'll usually hang out with me if I'm feeling down, and will even indulge me with a minute or two of cuddling if she senses I'm upset.

But last night, after I finally finished the worst day of the longest week ever, it wasn't my pal Scotch who came over to comfort me. It was Mo. She jumped in my lap and purred, and let me move her around so I was more comfy (usually, she bolts if I so much as breathe funny). She even permitted me to rub her belly, and didn't kick me once. She hung out with me when I took my bath (even though she's petrified of water). She even snuggled under the covers with me when I finally went to bed, and lulled me to sleep with her crazy loud purr. She stayed with me pretty much from the minute I got home.

You'd almost think Mo liked me, or something.

And where was my pal Scotch? She was nowhere to be seen.

Fucking OW

Feb. 5th, 2008 10:29 pm
syzygy_dw: (Default)
Oh, sweet Tin Vagabond Jeebus, the sinusitis is so bad tonight. It feels like somebody has punched me repeatedly in the face. My left eye hurts, my teeth on that side ache, and it feels like my nose is broken. Every time I breathe in, it feels like I'm inhaling powdered glass.

I've taken some Sinutab to depressurize my head, but it hasn't kicked in yet. I was a complete mess at work today because of this (decongestant high + pain + lack of oxygen to brain = CRAZY HEATHER), and it's gotten steadily worse since I've been home. This is the worst it's been in ages. I don't know how I'm going to get to sleep tonight.

WAH. I know. But seriously, this fucking hurts.

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