False Signs of the Snowpocalypse

You might think that the scariest thing about moving to Cleveland would be the crime or living by myself or starving to death because I get lost every time I try to find the grocery store. However, the part about Cleveland that sends me into fits of terror is something I’ve been dealing with my whole life—weather. I grew up in Ohio and spent the past five years in Indiana, which are both places with hard winter and lake effect snow, but never before have I watched the morning news before hitting the road on a snowy day.

Just a month into my new job, and I’ve already started a routine. I wake up, flip on the TV and set the channel to WKYC, Cleveland’s NBC station. The anchor and meteorologist fill my morning with cheery banter surrounding stories about school board meetings and photos viewers sent in of their dogs. They gently tell me to wake up and gleefully instruct me to grab a cup o’ joe. Then, just when they’ve gained my trust, even my friendship, their jovial attitudes turn dark and the weather and traffic segments begin. The weather woman warns of the doom that surely awaits me as soon as I leave my apartment. She tells me the visibility is so low I will need bat sonar to navigate my way to work, that I will freeze to death if I can’t make it to my car in under two minutes, and that it will be even worse on my drive home. Then, she puts on her whitestrip-enhanced smile and tosses to the traffic guy, who has a grizzly beard and more bad news. He says that traffic is so heavy I need to leave an extra 15 minutes early, even though I’m already running 20 minutes late because I stayed in bed a little longer to watch their news story about teens raising awareness for puppy cuteness or something. The grim traffic man reports that there are already several accidents and some cars are sliding right off the road into deep ravines filled with sharks. He warns that I better get my butt moving or I’ll be next. Then, the morning news resumes its cheerful disposition and tells a story of a local cherry farmer who makes jewelry out of the pits.

Just after I’ve convinced myself that the weather can’t be all that bad—I mean, I looked out my window and there’s zero precipitation—the meteorologist steps back in front of her green screen to point at a bunch of arrows that are meaningless to me but she says indicate a blizzard or a plague of locusts. I look out my window again and start to doubt my vision. She is on TV. She has a clicker in her hand that makes a smoke-like graphic move across a map. Even though my eyes are sending my brain an image that says it is not snowing, the weather woman must be right, so I start to panic. Not only am I going to have to fight the 4 gods of winter—Snow, Ice, Wind, and Seasonal Depression—but I will have to do it partially blind! I scan the closings scrolling across the bottom of the screen, hoping my place of business has the compassion to protect its employees from the storm, but no such luck. I pack up my things and prepare to leave my apartment for what could be the last time. I bid farewell to my cat and put out extra food just in case the snow piles up past the 10th floor and no one is able to reach my apartment. I take one last look at my apartment, and head out toward my destiny. On the way down in the elevator, I try to think of the great life I have lived, but all I can picture is my tiny car careening off the road into Lake Erie. Then, I’m eaten by a polar bear.

I expect a snowpocalypse, but when I drive out of the parking deck, the world is not a whiteout—it’s perfectly fine. Cleveland is not breaking off from the rest of the state under the weight of the snow and floating away to become a Great Lakes iceberg. In fact, the roads are dry. There isn’t even any traffic. I briefly wonder if perhaps I am the only survivor of a terrible snowstorm that quickly melted and moved on. But then I realize that the people I trusted so much, those I considered friends and who I allowed into my home to start my day, had lied to me. The anchor and the meteorologist and the bearded traffic guy were all in cahoots to trick me and make me panic so they could have the roads all to themselves. Oh, they’re good. They really had me going. Then comes the part where I vow never to watch them or believe them again.

And the next day, the cycle repeats.

This is going to be a long winter.

Is Gelato the Cat Bipolar?

Is Gelato the Cat Bipolar?

Supporting Arguments:

• He sometimes sleeps curled up next to me. Other times, he wakes me up at 4:30 in the morning.
• Though he is relaxed and purring, Gelato will occasionally lash out while I am petting him and bite me.
• Gelato will cry at the top of the steps, seemingly waiting for me to come pet him or feed him. However, as soon as I get near him, he runs away.
• Gelato never plays with his anemone-shaped toy when I toss it to him or perform any other gesture inviting him to play. However, the anemone tends to change locations during the night.
• Gelato will usually eat tuna straight from the can, but on some occasions, he will unexpectedly turn his nose up at it, leaving me to find stale tuna hours later.
• Gelato find household items, like pens and shoelaces, very entertaining. However, store-bought toys have no appeal to him.

Defending Arguments:

• Gelato is a cat.
  

What Beats an Applebee's Steak Knife?

Some people are very easy to Christmas shop for. My parents are not these people. Dad never has any ideas except for “consumables”, but getting him candy is counterproductive to the healthy lifestyle he’s supposed to be living, and getting him golf balls when there’s a foot of snow on the ground just seems mean. My mom thinks she’s easy to shop for because there are so many things that she likes. The problem is, she goes ahead and buys all these things while she is Christmas shopping out of fear that no one will think to get them for her.

Giving a great Christmas gift is really important to me. I love to see the joy on a loved one’s face when they open something so unexpected, yet so absolutely perfect. It’s one of the ways I’ve maintained my status as the favorite child. Last year, Alex threw his old fedora and a stolen Applebee’s steak knife into a giant cardboard box without wrapping and gave it to Mom. This year, he plans on getting her a tattoo. With this kind of competition, it would seem I wouldn’t have to try very hard to give the better gift. However, since Alex is the baby, his thoughtless tradition of calling whatever item he grabbed from his bedroom floor that morning a present is considered adorable. With the kind of stuff Alex pulls off, I sometimes wonder what he could get away with if he were actually retarded. Despite Alex’s gift-giving misgivings, he has inspired my idea for the perfect Christmas gift for the parents this year—a lava lamp.

A couple months ago, Alex went shopping. Instead of buying clothes or things that might actually be useful, Alex traditionally blows all his cash at Spencers on things that make the basement look like a rave. This time, he bought a giant poster of a naked girl and a Bob Marley lava lamp (nevermind that Alex probably has no idea who Bob Marley is). He hung the poster in the basement and put the lava lamp below it as a sort of shrine to buyers’ remorse. While Alex was enjoying his new décor with a few friends, my Mom went down to the basement to get something and this is what happened:

Mom: Hey guys, how’s everyone doing?

Alex and Co.: Gooood (all awkwardly avoid eye contact because of giant naked poster)

Mom: This is new (Mom heads toward poster). Woah! Cool Bob Marley lava lamp! I love lava lamps!

Alex and Co.: (snickering, waiting for Mom to notice giant naked poster)

Mom: That’s awesome! You should take that to your dorm! Lava lamps are great! Ok bye!

Later, Dad came downstairs…

Dad: Hey guys, what’s going on?

Alex and Co.: Noooothing (all look bashful because of giant naked poster)

Dad: Hey, is that a lava lamp??? That is one cool Bob Marley lava lamp!!!

Alex and Co.: You think so?

Dad: Yeah! I love Bob Marley! Well, see ya!

Alex and Co.: (now wondering if the giant naked poster has parent invisibility powers)

It wasn’t until days later that Mom discovered the giant naked girl poster hanging directly above the lava lamp she so admired. I had no idea my parents were so smitten with lava lamps and Bob Marley that the combination of the two would send them into a sort of tunnel vision, but now I know exactly what I’m getting them for Christmas.

Winter Memories

The snow is falling, the Christmas lights are twinkling, and everyone is bundled up in hats and marshmallow coats. This time of year always reminds me of an event a few years back that still has me chuckling. Actually, I wasn’t laughing about it at first, which is probably why I haven’t blogged about it until now.

It all started on a cold winter day in Columbus, Ohio. My mom and I had enjoyed a day of shopping at Easton mall, then we parted ways. Mom went to spend a night relaxing in a hotel room, and I left to spend some time with my dear friend Metzger, an OSU student at the time. Mom told me she would call me when she was on her way to pick me up at Metzger’s apartment the next morning, then Metzger and I headed out for the night.

The next morning is where the trouble/hilarity began. I had my phone on vibrate, so I didn’t hear my mother’s eight phone calls. What I did hear was a crazed woman outside Metzger’s apartment, yelling into a cell phone. I looked out the window to see my mother standing outside in the snow, wearing a beret, and asking passersby if they knew where Stephanie Metzger lived. I knew she would be angry, so I wasn’t sure if I should hurry up and get out there, or hide and come up with a good excuse. I looked at my phone and noticed the nearly dozen missed calls and voicemails, and decided to grab my stuff and run out of the apartment in my pajamas.

The progression of voicemails went something like this…

Voicemail 1:
“Hi Elise, it’s me. I’m just about ready to leave the hotel and come pick you up, so I just wanted to make sure you’re awake. I’ll call you again in a little bit! Bye!”

Voicemail 2:
“Hi Elise, it’s your mom. I’m on the road now and I don’t really know why you’re not answering, but I’ll be there shortly. Ok, bye.

Voicemail 3:
“Elise, why aren’t you answering your cell phone??? I think I’m on the right road, but I don’t know which apartment is Stephanie’s. This is really irresponsible. “

Voicemail 4:
“Ok, I don’t know where the hell you’re at, but this is ridiculous! The roads are getting terrible, it’s snowing like crazy, and we have to drive back to Stow so you better get your little ass out here now!”

Voicemail 5:
“Hi sweetie, it’s your dad. Mom’s pretty upset and I’m a little concerned about why you’re not answering your cell phone. I really hope you call Mom back soon because she’s really angry and taking this out on me. Ok. Bye”

That’s about when I woke up. My mom wasn’t kidding about the roads. What is usually a two-hour drive turned into a five-hour one because of, what my Mom dramatically calls, “the blizzard of the century”. Lucky for me, that blizzard saved me from taking on too much wrath because it was all directed at the snow. All I came away with was a wonderful memory of my mother standing outside of some OSU apartments in a beret, accosting undergrads.

I really hope it's OK to laugh about this now.

Song and Flashdance

Either this job search is making me crazy, or the questions potential employers are asking are getting ridiculous. It's probably a little bit of both.

Evidence to support that Elise is going crazy

Exhibit A:
One job application for a copywriter position asked the question "What is the best piece of copy you have ever written?" My response:

After years of toiling away at pages and prose, I finally completed what was sure to become the next great American novel. As I held my completed 4,224 page masterpiece, a plane full of babies crashed into a nearby field. I cast my life’s work aside and ran towards the flames, grabbing the first child I saw. I turned him over to see if there was still life in his eyes, but there was not. There never had been. This “child” and the hundreds of others scattered among the burning debris were nothing but plastic dolls. I knew right away that this was the work of my arch nemesis, Plaige Urism. I looked up just in time to see the evil woman grab my book, hop on her hovercraft and take off. My cry of despair rivaled the din of the weeping robot babes, but there was nothing I could do. After that, I wandered through life a shell of a person, my spirit gone with my novel. Years later while walking past a book store, I saw my story. It had been divided into seven volumes and was being sold to millions all over the world. My elation at finding my long-lost masterpiece quickly turned to despair when I saw the byline: J.K. Rowling, Plaige’s secret identity. Not only had she stolen the best piece of copy I have ever written, but she had also denied me fame and fortune. Now, there is nothing I can do but hope that one day, I can write a book to rival my own.

Honestly, I'm a little surprised I didn't get that job. Claiming to write the Harry Potter novels shows creativity and awesomeness, but perhaps it displays too much crazy.

Exhibit B:

In an in-office interview for a marketing job at a welding company, I was asked the following question:

"What experience do you have with welding or welding machines?"

My response to the executive who had spent the past 30 years of his life with the company:

"Well, I've seen Flashdance....so....that's about it..."

I have yet to hear back from them.

Evidence to support that potential employers are asking ridiculous questions

Exhibit A:

In an online job application for a marketing position, I was given the following writing prompt:

"Writing in the first person, describe a turtle's greatest accomplishment"

My response to this inane, totally irrelevant, but kind of fun question:

It’s not easy carrying your house around with you everywhere you go. Imagine, every time you want to go to the grocery store or the movies or even just to visit a neighbor, you have to pick up your home and all your belongings and trudge on over to your destination. That’s why turtles are so slow, and that’s why simple things like crossing the street are so perilous. In my 72 years, I had never seen a single member of my family cross the street, but we always speculated about the other side. We could see that the grass was indeed greener, and we guessed that the worms were plumper, the ponds more inviting and the birds less threatening.

One not-so-special Tuesday morning, I decided I did not want to wonder anymore—I wanted to wander. I kissed my wife and eggs goodbye and slowly began the long journey across the road. Thankfully, the traffic was light and I made it an entire five feet without encountering a single vehicles. My luck would not last for long, and the rest of my journey was plagued with cars and trucks and mopeds whizzing by, threatening the home I bore on my back. I kept walking, focusing on each step, until I felt grass under my feet. I had made it, and the other side was just as wonderful as I had imagined. I looked back across the street to see my family celebrating my great accomplishment, or at least I assumed that’s what they were doing—I had forgotten my glasses at home.

I think that story is downright precious, so if I don't get this job, I'll at least have a great start to my collection of children's stories.

Exhibit B:

For another marketing job, I was asked to "choose any word and add, subtract or change a few letters to make up a new word and define it." After running through several manipulations of the words "eggplant", "giraffe", and "leotard", I settled on the following:

Fedorable (adj.) - adorable or charming while wearing a felt hat with a curved brim.


I'm not sure where this evidence leaves me--either crazy, or a victim of the ridiculous. Either way, finding a career is turning out to be a lot less professional and a lot more song and flashdance.

Librarian

I think I would really like to go back to school. The pursuit of knowledge thrills me. The idea of expanding my mind to its limits while furthering research in an academic field excites me. Moreover, if I hide out in school for a couple years, maybe the job market will be in an upswing when I come out.

I’ve been considering PhD programs in media studies for a while now, such as the University of Wisconsin’s Media and Cultural Studies program or Northwestern’s Screen Cultures program. However much the prospect of studying television sitcoms for the rest of my life entices me, it also gives me pause. Who would this help? Who cares? This kind of program truly would be research for the sake of academics in the field itself and no further. I’ve never been much of a do-gooder, but I’ve always thought that at some point I might do something meaningful. Plus, I don’t really like the idea of having “She watched sitcoms for a living” on my headstone.

I’m still going to apply for these programs (my chances of getting in are pretty slim anyway) but now I’m looking at shorter, more practical programs. Masters degrees seem to be the new bachelors degrees, with no one finding jobs and everyone having the same “let’s hide out in school” mentality as me. However, I’m not really sure what a masters degree is worth. Most jobs I’m looking at don’t require them and if a business wants you to have one they’ll usually pay for it, so it doesn’t make too much sense to go for one on your own. That is, unless you’re super passionate about a specific field. Oh, to have a passion….

After perusing through masters programs, one kept catching my eye: Library Sciences. It would keep me in academia without having to write a dissertation or actually become a professor. I’m good at being quiet. I can read. I wear glasses. As it turns out, these are not actually requirements to be a librarian (except literacy). According to the American Library Association, librarians should:

· Enjoy helping and serving others (I have never met a nice librarian so I believe this is more of a suggestion than a requirement)

· Interested in developing and providing services, resources and materials that inform and entertain, such as books, movies, music, storytelling, websites, local history, databases, and puppets (PUPPETS???? I’m picturing a puppeteer class in library science school)

· Believe strongly in First Amendment rights protecting the freedom of speech and of the press (Well, I’ve never not believed in this)

· Wish to contribute to the greater good of a literate society (as long as I don’t have to teach people to read)

· Believe all information resources provided by libraries should
be equitably accessible to all library users (Books for everyone!)

After reading more about becoming a librarian, it turns out you don’t always need a library science degree, which kind of defeats the point of becoming a librarian at all. That also brings to light that I might not actually want to be a librarian—I just want to go back to school.

According to the Bureau of Labor Statistics, the job outlook for librarians in the next decade looks good, since most librarians are old and probably retiring (though I just assumed they all died on the job since all librarians seem to be ancient). The median salary is about $53,000, but a lot higher if you work for the Federal Government

I think I could enjoy being a librarian. I could get a lot of reading done and rock the pencil-absentmindedly-stuck-in-my-hair look, but I’m not sure if it’s really what I’m supposed to do. If I did become a librarian, I would be sure to implement a “reading to dogs” program. This has been started at other libraries, and it involves dogs being told to sit and stay (and probably sedated) while little kids read to them. The point is that children who aren’t confident with their reading skills can get good practice reading out loud to dogs, since dogs won’t interrupt them or make fun of them. But I have a hunch that this is one big librarian prank so they can get a good laugh watching a first grader read to a golden retriever. Or maybe I’m just a sick, soulless person, in which case, library sciences is not for me.

Genetic Counselor

In high school biology, I always thought the subject of genetics was fascinating, and that’s not just because class project where we had to make a double helix out of gumdrops. Genetic counseling might seem like a totally off-the-wall career option, especially considering I didn’t take one science class in college, but in the spirit of getting back to the basics of what I enjoy (or what I’ve enjoyed in the past), it’s something I think I should explore.

According to genetichealth.com, a genetic counselor helps people understand their risk for genetic conditions (such as cystic fibrosis or cancer), educated people about these diseases, and assesses the risk of passing those diseases on to children. Now, it’s not too clear to me how a genetic counselor does this, but I’m assuming it goes beyond those cutesy little allele charts we made in high school.

Nope, that’s basically what they do, as you can see from this little example of a genetic counseling session, provided by the website.



Does that say rectal bleeding?? I would have to investigate a whole family’s history of rectal bleeding??? Maybe this isn’t the job for me. I can’t even talk about feet without getting grossed out.

But then again, genetic counseling does seem like the cushy side of the medical profession. No surgery. No open wounds. No staring into people’s mouths or looking at their urine. I just have to talk about rectal bleeding and Downs syndrome. I can manage that, especially for an average salary of $55,000 annually (after working in broadcast news, I’m easily impressed).

Becoming a genetic counselor might be a little difficult, since I haven’t taken a science class since I was 18. I would need a masters degree, and I would probably have to take a few undergraduate courses to make up for the lack of science in my past. But, I don’t mind being in school. It delays having to job hunt, which shouldn’t be too hard as a genetic counselor since it’s a growing field.

Now that I know what they do, do I really have what it takes to become a genetic counselor? According to medhunters.com, a genetic counselor should be:
• Calm and able to put people at ease: I’ve always thought I had a soothing voice
• Empathetic and sympathetic: I can fake that.
• Enjoy working with people: Umm….
• Able to impart complex information: Memories of unsuccessfully trying to teach my mother how to use the computer are flooding back to me.
• Non-judgmental and able to keep your opinions to yourself: Well, there goes that option
• Must be pro-choice: They’ll take one look at my Notre Dame education, assume I was one of the crazies who welcomed the president with blood-stained babies, and throw my resume away. Not to mention, I am Catholic, and I have no money for indulgences.

Well, it doesn’t look like I’m meant to be a genetic counselor. The healthcare industry is where it’s at as far as job growth, but maybe I should take a more communications approach to it. At least now I won’t have to talk to some stranger about their colon.