Month: July 2007

We don’t need no education.

Had a very short phone interview this afternoon. She called, we exchanged pleasantries. She asked if I had my degree (not sure why she didn’t ask that in email last week). I said not yet. She said they don’t consider anyone without a degree or diploma (corporate policy). I said thanks for letting me know. The end.

It’s been a while since I’ve come across that. KW is pretty tech-centric, and there’s a dearth of good tech folks, so it’s rarer and rarer for companies to have that policy. Granted, insurance tends to be in the last century.

I tend to wonder, when I hear of that, what the company’s workforce is actually like. Some of the most brilliant people I know and have worked with are no more formally educated than I am. And it makes me wonder if places like that possess any rockstars at all. (As Robyn also noted, it implies a corporate-wide inflexibility in thinking, too.)

Of course, I also know many, many people whose jobs have nothing to do with their degrees. At my last job, one of the managers had a degree in English/Anthropology, from Trent, no less. He worked in IT managing AS/400 applications development. Good thing he had that degree…

I’d like to finish my degree. I enjoy studying English. I imagine it would feel good as an accomplishment. And when life stops demanding as much of my time, energy, and money as I can spare, I have every intention of finishing up.

But let’s face it, everything on my resume that makes me valuable came from working. Seeing, doing, asking, learning in ways that don’t necessarily have anything to do with a book and a classroom full of 18-year-olds. And, of course, there are already jobs for which there were no curricula when I was in school, and I’m sure there are more and more coming down the pipe.

Don’t you need opposable thumbs to carry the scythe?

So being an animal-loving type, and having had my Grandpa (who had advanced Parkinson’s) die in a nursing home, I found this story rather fascinating: Oscar the cat predicts patients’ deaths.

I am in full agreement with tales and speculations that animals can sense and smell things long before we notice. They tend to be rather more in tune with their cycles of life and death and states of physical condition than people are.

However, then, Violet, God love ‘er, forwarded this, just for me, because she’s as sick as I am and knows of my great passion for lolcats: Friday Cat Blog, Human Flesh Is Yummy Edition.

Oh my. 🙂

This afternoon? Umm, sure!

Had a phone interview this morning that went very well. A recruiter I actually liked and enjoyed talking to. He seemed to like me, too (candidate-wise), and said more than once he thought I’d be a great fit (promising).

Then he said he’d like to bring me in for an interview. Then he sounded a bit sheepish and asked if I was available… this afternoon. Heh. Sure! I was booked to help Sherry with cleaning/moving stuffs, but I suspect she’d let me out for a bit. 🙂

I did tell him he wasn’t going to be making many friends within the company, booking interviews for 4pm on a Friday in July. He thought that was rather humorous. (Clearly he’s evil. Rawr.)

Anyway, bodes well, and the hiring manager shares my last name (no relation). I am quite looking forward to it. Though given that I’ve been losing weight, my interview pants aren’t going to stay on my hips much longer. Let’s hope the interview process (I have several more booked next week) goes by quickly!

Cross your fingers!

Books

Just finished A Dirty Job. Yeah, been on a bit of a Moore kick.

Oh man, that was the most fun I’ve had reading a book in some time. Serious repeated guffawings and snortings. Yes, even more fun than the huge shaved cat storyline in You Suck. 🙂

The main tragedy is that now there are no more Christopher Moore books left to be read. Or Harry Potter. The world is bereft.

Perhaps I will go do some dusting.

I do not need any more introspection right now.

How To Get Your Love On

I have made little secret of the fact that I love Mark Morford (like half the other women in the western hemisphere). This morning I hate him, though.

I have been angry lately, very angry. It’s not new; it’s happened before. I have tried other ways of dealing with it, which have not worked. There is one other option, which, I’m sure, my friends would tell you is the ONLY option, but I haven’t been able to do it. My life philosophy is kinda like potty training: it’ll happen when it’s going to happen, and forcing it makes everyone more miserable. It’s never yet felt like It’s Time.

I know my friends think I’m an idiot sometimes. (Hi friends!) They’re right.

Anyway, I can’t seem to turn the anger into a nice, hot hate. The kind that cleanses and destroys and lets your start over elsewhere from nothing. Intermittent hate, I have. Vascillating hate that swings back and forth between self-hate and someone else.

And then I read things like today’s Mark Morford column, and it makes me sad and tired and soggy. Hate can’t burn very well when you’re soggy, and it can’t get hotter when you don’t have the energy to feed it. And the introspection forces you to ponder what you’ve already pondered a million times, and don’t want to think about, or talk about… cuz you’re not done being an idiot yet.

So, yeah… it’s all Mark Morford’s fault. 🙂

I am Mennonite; hear me eat.

I’ve been having a hankerin’ for potato salad. I cannot, however, simply go purchase some from a deli counter. You see, I am a Mennonite, and all civilian potato salads are swill. Too mushy, too sweet, or, God forbid, containing mustard. Honestly.

And so, there was only one thing to be done. I had to make it.

However, I cannot simply whip up a batch of potato salad without a second thought. Potato salad (in the German style) is a family tradition. There is a recipe that is not a recipe that is how Grandma made it, and that is why I can go to any family gathering from spring to fall, and there will likely be half a dozen potato salads there, and they will taste identical. Anything less than matching that would be abject failure and a blot on the family name. (And really, I raise enough eyebrows amongst those people.)

I wrote down this sort of recipe years ago (sort of because there are no quantities and it has instructions that only get as specific as “equal parts” and “to thin”). However, I haven’t made it often. I don’t have to. Mom makes it often (I’m sure she could make it in her sleep), and I get my fix that way. (Though my parents like onions a lot more than I do…)

Aaaaaanyway, so it is time. I picked up potatoes and an onion, and, as luck would have it, my parents foisted eggs on me last weekend. Of course, Mom just uses plain, old cooking onions, and I, being a prima donna of delicate palate, bought a Vidalia onion, but whatever.

I boiled, I cooled, I peeled, I grated. I mixed and tasted and tweaked and tasted some more. And then I added it all to a big bowl and mixed. Then I scooped some out into a smaller bowl for supper, got a spoon, and tasted…

And my Mom could have made it. Rawk. I can eat it without shame. I can feed it to other people. I can hold my head up high and bring potato salad to the next reunion. (I so won’t, though, cuz it’s funny watching my relatives freak out when they taste caponata for the first time.)

Just don’t tell Mom I cheated and added a few crumbled strips of Super Bacon (uber-thick, double-smoked, makes your kitchen reek like a woodstove for days), cuz you’re only supposed to use that for hot potato salad or endive salad. 🙂