See, I’m Kasey, and one definition of that name is “brave” or, according to wikipedia, “vigilant in war.” I’m not that, either.
My parents might or might not have looked my name up in 1000 Baby Names or whatever it’s called; in the end all that mattered was the tribute to my great aunt KC. I’ve posted on this before, and mentioned that I really feel more like a Kate.
You could argue, though, that brave and fearless are not necessarily synonymous. In my head brave is filed under “being really freaking afraid of doing the thing, but doing it anyway because it needs or is worth doing.” I’m about 50/50 on that one. Sometimes I sit back and realize that the thing might need doing or be worth doing, but someone else can handle it because I am not equipped for that mess. Brave is finally telling my boss that no, I don’t want to go permanent at my job because I might very well be perfectly competent, but I’m just not satisfied enough to spend the next couple years plugging away at invoices just to keep my resume from looking like I drop jobs on a whim. Fearless is throwing caution to the wind and walking out at lunch like a coworker did a few months ago after a particularly passive-aggressive diatribe from our permanent coworker that was couched as constructive criticism; I was just as mad, but I’ve got bills and loans and a new(er) car to save for.
So maybe I’m not fearless. And maybe that’s a good thing. I do need to get on the bravery thing, though. My boss is waiting for an answer, after all.
Tomorrow’s my first day at my new job; technically, it’s my new temporary-indefinite-but-probably-permanent-unless-I’m-just-dreadful-at-it job that a very obliging staffing agency found me. I spent almost two months job hunting on my own, got exasperated—and slightly desperate when recruiters kept getting stuck on the fact that I have a master’s degree—and signed up at a staffing place that specializes in administrative/clerical placements and has pretty good reviews on multiple sites. Then BAM! Lucked into an assignment that seems like it’ll be a really good fit less than 24 hours after finishing a fuck ton of paperwork.
Basically, I get to double-check that computers have pulled the right information from invoices in the company’s A/P department so they can be sent on for payment. From the way they described it in my interview, it’ll be a chance to A) get away from customer service, which is a HUGE FUCKING PLUS and B) wallow in nitpicky little detail work eight hours a day. Plus, I now have a legitimate reason to make business cards with the following job title:
Empress of Invoices and Master Captcha Cracker
(I might or might not have actually browsed layouts for said business cards last night.) Plus, I get to wear my own clothes and work in a smaller department that has some fairly good prospects for moving up into the company itself. It also doesn’t hurt that I’ll be making three dollars an hour more than I was at the hotel. Seems like a pretty fair trade for not getting to wear my piercing at work anymore. I know it’ll get tedious, but I tend to thrive in tedium. See y’all on the flip side!
Guess who gets to move back to Arkansas because I brought home a grand total of $334 this week. That’s barely keeping me afloat when I’ve got all the overtime I could ask for—but when the hotel goes dead and I’m down to a maximum of 40 hours a week, I’ll bring home less than $250 after taxes (with no cushion to speak of after loans on autopay went into repayment earlier than I thought they would). Can’t live on that with rent going up and bills, bills, bills everywhere. My rent’s less than $450, so I’m not going to do better than that anywhere within a few hours’ drive. My utilities couldn’t get lower unless disconnected the three things that don’t get unplugged at night. I don’t go out or shop any more. I’ve cut every corner I can and it’s just not balancing out.
I’m luckier than a lot of people in this particular frying pan. My family’s arms are totally open and waiting, and my parents are juggling as frantically as they can to see if we can afford one of those POD things for what furniture/essentials I’m going to keep. Wish me luck trying to get even a ballpark quote on that, though; I might just have to bite the bullet and get a U-Haul. I’ll have to sell my car, since it’s held together with bandaids and prayers and absolutely won’t make it halfway across the country a second time.
So yeah. That’s it for this week.
EDIT: Might detour to Knoxville, TN for a few months to see if I can find a job there and maintain some semblance of independence (albeit temporarily living with my best friend and her husband and her little brother). Because their arms are as wide open as my family’s and happen to be a lot closer. Plus, that puts me that much closer to home if I do end up back in Arkansas.
Work is still insane, which is why I’ve been so heavy on the Wordless Wednesday posts rather than written content. Once things have calmed down a bit, I want to add another day .
Anywho, my boss finally managed to snag someone from front desk to be our fourth coordinator—my other coworker’s recovering from some really hardcore surgery and probably won’t be back ’til December at the very earliest. We both actually wanted someone bright-eyed and new to the hotel, but my boss is a thousand times busier than I am even when we’re not understaffed, so neither one of us would have the time to train anyone to use our complete clusterfuck of a system on top of learning how to do the job itself. Dunno how much the Powers That Be paid for this program, but it was too much.
I’ve worked with the girl she chose before, and she’s nice enough, but she’s also the only person about whom I’ve ever said, in genuine Southern style, “Bless her heart…” Cross your fingers she’ll shine and totally rock the house down once we get her settled in.
Completely unrelated but still awesome: there’s a little boy playing with his grandparents on the hill in front of my apartment building and he is clearly having the time of his life. I’ve not heard this much unbridled, belly-laughing joy in ages. Grinning ear-to-ear at the moment.
Because it is, and will continue to be. The hotel’s heading into one of its two busiest periods with tons of groups and events and reservations that need making. And I’m the only coordinator left in Group Reservations, besides my boss, until that poor woman can dig out a diamond in the rough from front desk to toss in the deep end as an extra pair of hands.
I grew up with one mantra in mind: Do What You Love. Damned if I haven’t tried, too. The problem is, I want to do everything—I bounced between nursing and translating and teaching and counseling before I got through middle school.
I got my undergraduate degree in Spanish—but translating for parent/teacher conferences in college a) gave me the worst headaches of my life, and b) proved that I am just not possessed of the rapid-fire brain patterns I would have needed to really be good at it. The problem: I didn’t realize that until it was really too late to change my major to something (slightly) less lucrative but might have suited better. So I had a very pretty but mostly decorative degree to display leaning against the wall of the converted garage my parents let me stay in rent-free after I graduated.
Remember the horrible, awful, no-good, very bad job market in 2009? I graduated with student loans—lower than average given that I went to a private school, thankfully—that year and didn’t really have the luxury of boundless job prospects even venturing an hour away from home to Little Rock. I lucked into a part-time retail job that paid minimum wage but at least brought in some income while I kept my eye open for something better (by which I mostly meant ANYTHING BUT TEACHING). Then I had the brilliant idea to pursue a master’s degree in History. That got me out of Arkansas, but added to my loan balance and ended up being an intellectually intriguing but ultimately not very useful endeavor, since I really needed a different concentration to move past unpaid volunteering with local museums; see, I love museums, and I love showing them to people. But I don’t have the fire-in-the-gut zeal to pursue yet another degree in a field that already has a glut of job-seekers who are exponentially better-qualified than I could ever be. So I now have two very pretty but mostly decorative degrees displayed in my apartment. And I’m stuck in a job that isn’t What I Love and isn’t necessarily something that even Needs Doing, which I’ve kept in the back of my head all along.
I called my mother a few days ago to vent about feeling like I’m spinning my wheels and wasting time and sliding down the cliff of turning into a ticking stress-ball like my dad was before he left the job he’d had since we moved to Arkansas and went back to school to get a degree in accounting. She kept asking me where my passion is leading and I finally had to answer that I just don’t know any more. The one thing I know I can consistently do, and well, is put words together. Maybe it’s time to try a direction I never even once considered and start putting words together—and eventually convince someone to pay me for doing it.