6.29.2009

Just answer the question

The spring before they entered kindergarten, Pat and Ali went through the screening process required of all incoming kindergartners (accompanied by a parent) in our school district. Patrick took a dim view of both the process and the overly made-up, dripping-in-jewelry, older woman doing his assessment; during the interview portion of the testing, he sat with his back turned to her.

Then the assessor asked, "What do you do all day, Patrick?" at which point he lost all patience, whirled around in his little chair, and yelled, "I'm five years old. What do you THINK I do all day? I PLAY!"

There have been moments during recent job interviews when I've wished that I could answer as forthrightly as Patrick did.

What's the first thing you'll do on your first day of work?

Locate the coffee pot, and, fifteen minutes later, look for the ladies' room.

How do you handle criticism?

I dare you to try to make me cry.

What are the titles of the last four books you read?

The only thing I remember is that they all have "Dead" in the title.

Where do you see yourself in 15 years?

Living in the tent I just picked up at Goodwill.

Talk me through your career trajectory.

Right this minute? Headed for a crash landing.

6.27.2009

Shuffling back to the blogosphere

When I shuttered A Foothills Life four months ago, I wasn't certain that I'd ever blog again.

I didn't realize just how much I would miss the act of writing. Even in the midst of an annus horribilis—my inability to find a job in Colorado; Jim's job loss after 22 years with MWH; my ongoing musculoskeletal breakdowns and pain; and, last month, my father-in-law's death—a part of my brain kept stepping aside to editorialize on events and emotions.

Perhaps the urge to write is simply genetic: three of my grandparents majored in journalism in college, while Grandma Foley was an English major.

Perhaps writing is an attempt to make sense of how a middle-aged, middle-class (dare I say boring?) life became unglued so quickly. As Alice's White Queen reminds her consort,

"The horror of that moment," the King went on, "I shall never, NEVER forget!"

"You will, though," the Queen said, "if you don't make a memorandum of it."


Or perhaps, with apologies to Descartes, J'écris donc je suis.