Ata still does not have a job, despite a couple of promising interviews and one recruitment agent who hounded her for a week and then stopped returning calls after Ata actually gave in and went to an interview. How encouraging.
But anyway. Before I tell this story, can I please reassure everyone that I really am not a bitch, snob, or diva? Truly not. Really. I am forgiving of shortcomings. I am nice to annoying people. In fact, one of the people who will be referred to in this tale as "the writer" recently thanked me for my patience. She obviously misinterpreted my glazed what-have-I-gotten-into expression for simple calm.
A few weeks back (ummm... four, I think), Ata received an email from a friend. She had sent it to several people, not just Ata. It said, "I am in a play for the Fringe and someone has dropped out. Would you like to audition?" Or words to that effect, anyway.
Ata thought, well, I have not done any theatre for a very long time... let's see, the last time I did a full play was almost ten years ago. That is too long. I shall audition.
Ata contacted the director, and auditioned. The previous actor had, apparently, dropped out because she did not feel comfortable swearing on stage (?!). Ata was offered the part. Ata took the part.
Now, when Ata took the part, there were some things she knew. She knew that it was a re-telling of the working ministry part of Jesus' life. She knew that it was an all-female cast. She knew that it was set between the two World Wars. In short, she knew that it was to be... well, a little... interpretive, but she felt that the intent and purpose of the writer & director were solid.
As it turns out, there were some things Ata did not know, but found out at the first rehearsal. The script was not finished. Parts were not yet set in stone (mostly because the script was not finished). And - horror of horrors - they wanted performance in an accent. A French accent. Provencal, to be precise. For those who have not investigated the workings of learning an accent, it can take months to learn well. With a coach. Ata knows this, despite never having had to perform in an accent before - she is, after all, a lapsed Speech Pathologist.
Ata discovered the accent issue when one of the other actors began reading from the script in a voice that resembled a drunken fairground fortune-teller. Ata was glad that no-one was looking at her at that point. She was even more glad that no-one was looking at her when the actor finished her reading and everyone else praised her accent. The script issue also became apparent at that rehearsal. At the following rehearsal, however, we were informed that the whole script had been tossed and was being re-written. Ata feels partly responsible for this, as when she was asked for her opinion, she politely but honestly responded that she found it... well, a little confusing.
In all honesty, the new script seems to be much better. It is easier to follow, much brighter, and a little amusing. Yvette - Jesus' sister - has been written out, and Ata needs only play four characters. Two of them are practically the same character, even. Of course, it is still not finished - we are assured that, as the writer & director have finished two other plays they have recently been working on, we will have a complete script by Monday. After a little work, Ata even feels better about the accent. It is terrible, but she figures it does not need to be perfect - only better than the other actors. Today's rehearsal went reasonably well, with most actors putting scripts down. In fact, if this were the point we were at a month ago, Ata would feel quite good about the whole chaotic disaster. We do not yet have costumes, have not tried on makeup, and have yet to lay eyes on our performance space - but hey, there's bookings for the first night, so things can't be all bad - right?
Oh, of course. I have not told you that. Opening night - would you like to know when opening night is? March. March 21st. Yes, you read correctly. No costumes, no makeup, only half a script, accents to be learned - and we open in three weeks. Okay, three and a half.
Ata sighed to her brother in law, "I think I have realised what I don't like about theatre."
At 2AM, Ata was sleeping soundly on the couch (it was hot, alright? And Mr Ata doesn't like sleeping on the couch, so he had the airbed on the floor. Yes, correct, we still haven't had our house airconditioner repaired) when the phone rang. Ata's mobile phone.
Having entered a stage of life where one assumes that a phone call at an unusual hour is a family member calling to inform of the death of another family member (morbid, perhaps, but that's how it is), Ata leapt out of bed... er, couch... and raced down the hallway. Just as she lay a hand on the phone, it stopped ringing.
Somewhat disoriented from having gotten up so quickly and still unsure of what the time was, Ata glared at the "missed call" notification on her phone. The number started with 07 - that makes it a Queensland number. Before she had time to puzzle over this, the phone rang again. Ata picked it up.
"Hello?" she said.
"'Elllllooo!" said the Voice on the other end. "Lizzy?*"
At this point, some background knowledge is required. Ata's best friend is commonly called Lizzy- it being the standard affectionate abbreviation of her actual name.
"No," said Ata, "This is Ata."
There was a pause while the Voice processed this information.
"Who?" he ventured, slowly.
"I'm not who you're looking for," said Ata, very firmly but displaying admirable patience with a 2AM phone call that wasn't for her.
"Oh," said the Voice. Another pause. "....Well, 's Lizzy there?"
"No, mate," said Ata. "You've got the wrong number."
"Oh," said the Voice. "Sorry."
And he hung up.
After getting off the phone, some connections began to fire in Ata's mind. Queensland. Queensland. Ata knows one person in Queensland... and, coincidentally, he and Lizzy were, once upon a time, an Item. In point of fact, she dropped him for her now-husband. Ata chewed this over. Ata has not spoken to the gentleman she's thinking of for... over a year. But even so, the likelihood of him making late-night drunken phonecalls - on a weeknight, no less - seems highly unlikely. Besides which, he would definately have realised his mistake when Ata told him her name... if it was the person Ata was thinking of, she and he were good friends for a number of years, through Highschool and University.
In the morning, Ata got out her phone book, and checked on the White Pages as well. The number the stranger had called from was different to the number of the potential suspect... it was with some relief that Ata decided it couldn't possibly have been him.
But the voice - although drunken and slurred - was very familiar...
*Yes, names have been changed. Because I damn well felt like it.
Ata has itchy feet. Where did she first learn that expression? Nevertheless, Ata recalls describing herself by it at different times over her entire life. A restlessness, an eagerness to be off and away and doing something new.
In part, it is the job search. Ata is a little picky about what she applies for - so over the last two and a half weeks, she has submitted a grand total of four applications. Two of which have come to nothing, one produced an interview but no job offer, and one... who knows. Still waiting. Anyway. It has, helpfully, resulted in Ata meeting a couple of recruitment agents, one of whom seems particularly eager to place Ata in SOMETHING (although I managed to slither out of the threat of becoming an insurance underwriter).
In other part... that doesn't sound right... other parts? The other part? Anyway. The other cause of the itchy feet is the prospect of going OS. Mr Ata, having decided that "if we're not having children then we'd better do something interesting so we've got things to talk about when we're 60", has finally come around to the idea of moving, although he still baulks at moving to Korea. Or Hong Kong. Or Kuala Lumpur. However, he is keen to go to the UK. AND - glee of glees - he is eligible for approval under the Highly Skilled Migrant Program, provided the application is submitted before his 32nd birthday. Mr Ata turns 32 in July, so we have a timetable. The application must be submitted in June at the latest, and takes 4-12 weeks for approval. After that, we have 6 months to apply for entry. So this would have us travelling in November (at the earliest - that is when Mr Ata's contract finishes) or March (at the very latest). Ata is suitably nervous about the prospect of arriving in the UK in the middle of winter, but - well, if it has to be, it has to be. Other people survive it. We will buy Very Warm Clothes. In the meantime, there are a number of decisions to be made. Do we sell the house? If so, when do we put it on the market? Houses in our area take around 5 weeks to sell, according to my research, but our house has a LOT of cracks - even for Adelaide, where cracks are expected. The roof needs repair, the bathroom is Crap, the airconditioner is broken. What things do we fix? The garden is now on a timetable - Ata has been approaching tasks with a mindset of putting it on the market in September/October, and stepping outside saying - what do I need to do to make this look nice in 8 months time? The backyard is still largely mounds of dirt. When the weather cools off a little (regular 40 degree days are no good for new plants), Ata will plant Things. What will grow sufficiently to make the garden look nice by September? What should we do with the stretch of garden bed by the driveway that has nothing in it? One of the hebes out the front is dying - can it be resurrected, or should I try to buy a suitably advanced plant to replace it with?
Indoors, the potential for movage has motivated Ata to begin emptying cupboards. The linen cupboard has never looked so tidy, the process of overhauling cupboard contents to remove Junk has begun, and plans for the purchase of a laptop to take with us are underway. Mostly this is a reaction to the fact that, for now, we are completely unable to do anything very useful - the application does not need to go in for several months, travel can't be arranged for nearly a year, there's no point engaging a real estate agent just yet... so Ata begins cleaning and tidying and gardening instead.
And, of course, closely examining Hobbling pictures of snow and trying to decide whether she can cope with it.
Our credit card provider is hiking their fees this year, so Ata and Mr Ata are getting new credit cards. As we pay off the whole balance every month, we don't care about interest rates - just yearly fees and the ability to access Frequent Flyer points. Mr Ata is a devoted bargain shopper when it comes to credit cards, and he selected the "Earth" card from Westpac.
Today the letters containing instructions for collecting the cards arrived. They are signed by a Ryan Dinsdale. Underneath the name & signature goes his position in the company, but instead of "Ryan Dinsdale - Credit Control Officer" or something similar, the signature reads:
"Ryan Dinsdale - Responsible for Earth"
Ata thinks this sounds like far too weighty a title for comfort, and hopes that Ryan Dinsdale is well paid.
"Wow!" said Mr Ata, who avoids cooking at all costs, "How did you make them? Without even a bottle! And so quickly! Did you use the stabber mixer or the electric blender?"
Ata looked at him severely. "Neither. I used a wooden spoon," she said.
"No!" exclaimed Mr Ata, who seems to believe pancakes cannot be made without the use of a pre-packaged pancake mix in a shaker jug. "But it hardly took you any time!"
Ata made an exasperated face. "Have you really never made pancakes before?" she demanded. "How did you get to 32 without learning to make pancakes?"
"Oh, I made pancakes," he assured her, "Mum taught me. You mix the flour and stuff, and let it sit for two hours."
Ata, at this point, becomes suspicious. This sounds like a joke. "Two hours! Why did you have to let it sit for two hours?"
"So it didn't get lumps," explains Mr Ata.
"You don't have to let it sit. Why would you let it sit? It goes all black if you let pancake mix sit for too long. The flour goes black. You just mix it harder to get rid of the lumps. I've never heard ANYONE say to let it sit."
"Well," said Mr Ata. "My mum said to let it sit. You obviously don't know enough. I know lots of stuff."
"Yeah," mumbles Ata, "Most of it's wrong."
"Maybe," asserts Mr Ata cheerfully, "But at least my head's full. It doesn't matter what you know, as long as you're full."
Aww, da poor liddle baby kitty... first time I saw this, I thought, how can those nasty people just leave that poor little kitten in the box when it's lonely and hungry and sad? But it turned out salvation was on the way. So it's just cute instead.
It is because I typically brush my hair on the way to the bus/at the bus stop/while on the bus, because I am usually late or otherwise disorganised in the morning. On Monday I left my handbag-hairbrush at home altogether, and wound up frantically combing my hair with my fingers on the bus whilst thanking those lucky stars that I had not only washed but straightened my hair on Sunday, thus rendering it reasonably tidy on Monday. I think I got away with it.
Anyway. Today I was brushing my hair whilst walking between my car and the bus stop. A bus trundled by and pulled up to the stop, and I decided to catch it (at the stop I get on, buses come by every five minutes or so and I can catch any of them). I tucked my brush into my bag and commenced that ridiculous trot that one often sees female office workers performing - heeled shoes were not made for running in, although I swear I used to be better at it than I am now. I recall once running along a train platform to catch the attention of the driver so he would stop the train that was gathering speed as it pulled away from the platform - whilst wearing platforms that were four inches tall at the heel. And I was successful. But back to the brush.
As I was trotting along to the waiting bus, hoping that no-one was paying any great attention to me (except for the bus driver, that is), I heard the unmistakeable clatter of my hairbrush hitting concrete. It had slid out of my unfastened bag and bounced under the bus. I stopped and peered frantically at the gutter, but it was out of sight. Decided that the high-heel-trot was foolish enough and I wasn't going to get on my knees and try to fish a hairbrush out from under a bus that would shortly be moving, I boarded the bus.
The lost hairbrush was a bad omen. Because I dropped my brush, when I decided to tie my hair back into a ponytail I couldn't make it a neat and tidy 'do, and little wispy bits stuck out all over, as they do. By the end of the day, unless my hair is almost unbearably dirty, the short floaty bits have slid out of their confinement. Someone I worked with once described it as looking "all soft and lovely" - personally, I think it looks like I've crawled through a hedge backwards, hence me carrying a hairbrush at all times (I was also envious of her well-behaved hair, often worn in a slicked-back bun). If I stick it down with product, my hair looks either greasy as fried chicken, or like a helmet.
Sometimes I think that hair is an indicator for how effective a worker a person might be. Today, with my untidy hair, I filled out a cheque for $136,000. Which is what I was supposed to do, except I filled it out in the "$1000 and under" chequebook. Then I couldn't remember what to do with cancelled cheques. I wrote out a warrant for a settlement happening tomorrow (I should only do today), and I forgot to include the reference number whilst processing a batch of cheques for another settlement. Recalling that this presents problems for someone, somewhere, I sent an email to a person that I hoped was the right person, to tell them that on the account they would see a debit that didn't have a reference number so that they would know which settlement it was for. Shortly afterward, I received a terse email back from the person, pointing out that I had forgotten to include the reference number I was emailing to tell her about in the email I had sent!
Now, I realise this does not sound like a large number of mistakes. Should I point out that, today, I processed a whole three settlements? Four, if you include the one I was supposed to do tomorrow.
The cool change came through last night, at about 8 or 9. Ata stepped outside and the breeze was a kiss on her face. Glorious. Today is sunny and cool with clear skies, and everything looks less exhausted. Still, though, we want rain more than cool temperatures, and every night the news declares bleak prophecy of climate change and the end of Life as We Know It.
Ata must call a recruitment agent back. The recruitment agent wants to hear whether Ata is interested in a new career in the Glamorous World of Insurance Underwriting. Ata is not so sure - about the glamour OR the underwriting. Ata had an interview today for a Property Services Administration position, and yesterday morning ran into an enthusiastic chap in the staff kitchen at the Bank who tried to impress upon her how exciting it is to work in Business Banking - apparently they are seeking to fill a position in Settlements. Ata has so far enjoyed her time at the Bank (even if today consisted mostly of sketching things on notepaper in an effort to pass the time), and suspects that Settlements might be more her cup of commercial corporate world tea than Insurance Underwriting. While she is not sure that recruitment efforts are best conducted by shanghai-ing temps in the staff kitchen, she may just track down Tony later in the week for the promised tour of the Business Banking department.
According to the BOM, it is currently 40 degrees outside. According to our thermometer, it is 31 degrees inside. Our evaporative airconditioner has broken down, and the last time we had someone look at it (to see if the rusted support frame needed fixing) they said they wouldn't touch it for fear it would fall apart. We have sent requests for quotes to seven companies, and have had a response from one.
It is hot.
It is hot.
It is hot.
The reverse-cycle split system in the theatre room is our best decision of the last six months. We have retreated to the recliners and spent as much of today there as we could. If the door is left open, it even knocks a couple of degrees off the rest of the house - it's best if all the doors are shut except the bedroom, and that keeps at least the bedroom a liveable temperature.
The BOM site says this:
Forecast for Monday Hot at first with light northeast to northwest winds, ahead of a moderate southerly change late morning. Southerly winds freshening and becoming milder during the afternoon, strong at times near the coast. Cloud increasing with some light drizzle developing in the evening, mainly about the hills and southern suburbs.
Precis Milder change. Late evening drizzle. City: Min 22 Max 36 Elizabeth: Min 21 Max 38 Mount Barker: Min 18 Max 36 Noarlunga: Min 21 Max 32
UV Index: 10 [Very High] Fire Danger: Extreme (Mount Lofty Ranges Fire Ban District)
Tuesday Becoming fine early. Min 17 Max 26 Wednesday Fine. Partly cloudy. Min 16 Max 27 Thursday Fine. Mostly sunny. Min 15 Max 27 Friday Fine. Sunny. Min 15 Max 30 Saturday Fine. Sunny. Min 16 Max 34 Sunday Fine. Sunny. Min 18 Max 36
Last week the cool change was not expected until Wednesday - although it was also not forecast that it would be this hot on the weekend. Tuesday! Tuesday! There will be dancing on Tuesday.
I don't know what reminded me. Perhaps it was the chills thread that set me to thinking about the things that make my skin crawl. The memory came back to me as I was driving, a sense-memory so strong that I could think it to have been yesterday, but it was ten - no, ten and a half years ago.
Hospitals hold strong connotations of fear and sadness for many people, but I was never one of them. Even now I sometimes work in hospitals, and enjoy it, but a smell or a sound will strike me unexpected and make my skin crawl. Which is strange, because the smells and sounds never bothered me when I was actually in hospital. Perhaps it is the accompanying memory of helplessness and weakness that leaves me gazing at my hands in the hope that their strength and health will remind me that I am not ill. Spending time in hospital, you see yourself in the mirror so infrequently - snatched glimpses on the way to and from the bathroom, when your focus is on getting back to bed more than examining your reflection - you see the loss of health in your own hands rather than in your face.
I don't like IV's. I feel like I can't use the hand they're in, and it becomes stiff and swollen. I don't like them, but on the whole, they're not too bad. They're no good for nutrition, though - the feed is too thick, it needs a larger port. Which is why I had the central line put in. They changed it weekly, but only the first insertion was done under a local anaesthetic - after that it was a general, which I was glad of because I didn't have to be awake for the x-rays down afterward to check positioning - i hated the x-rays the most at the time, because it was hard and tiring to sit upright and painful to lie flat on my back. But remembering back, it is the insertion of the central venous line that makes me feel crawly and teary. It didn't hurt. Two men came up from Intensive Care to insert it. One held my arm down, taking my hand as if to reassure me but really pulling my arm down to give a good angle in my collarbones, I guess. The other numbed the skin and pushed the line in. I couldn't see it. I had to have my head turned away so as to give him room. I hate not being able to see what's being done to me. It was uncomfortable, and there was a grnding sensation - as if the needle were rubbing against the underside of my collarbone. Then he removed the needle, leaving the line in place, and stitched the port to my skin to hold it in place. I was shocked, once, to see a surgeon casually stitch a drape to the skin of the patient he was working on so as to prevent it getting in the way - but then I remembered the ports being stitched down to my own skin. A central line can have several ports, so you don't need to have a seperate IV for medication - blessedly, they can sometimes also take blood through it, instead of from a vein in your arm. But the tubes coming out are heavy, so a couple of stitches on each side stops it from pulling. And then I went back to my room. Not so bad. The nurse showed it to me when she took it out a week later in preparation for having the new one put in - it didn't look very thick, but it was long - long enough to run all the way to my heart. I noted the length of the tube and the traces of blood with mild interest, looking forward to the few hours of unconsciousness offered by the promised general anaesthetic.
But sometimes, still - even ten and a half years later - the memory of that grinding sensation, deep under my collarbone and in the top of my ribcage, will spring upon me from nowhere. And I am, suddenly, weak and tearful and clutching the steering wheel for the reassurance of feeling strength in my hands.
Last night - feeling terribly 'underground' - Ata went to a screening of an assortment of short films. Adelaide is ramping up for the Fringe Festival - a fairly major performing arts festival that used to be held every two years, but has now been upped to every year. A great many associated artsy events happen at around the same time. Ata likes it when the Fringe is on - there are quality street performers in the Mall pretty much all day every day, and everyone is going, plans to go, or has been to see SOMETHING. Well, admittedly Ata usually only goes to see the street performers. But anyway - where was I? Ah, yes, the proverb.
One of the short films being screened was a thoroughly funny, spoofy 70's style sci-fi show. Very silly, but very entertaining, complete with clumsy animation of a giant space squid and slightly out-of-time dubbing. It featured Buck Casanova and his sidekick, Jerome - apparently on an interstellar quest to recover something improbable from someone unpronouncable. Buck offers advice, at one point, to Jerome - "Ah, Jerome. Let me tell you a proverb. Once there was a space farmer, who lived on a moon rock and had a space cow. Another space farmer wished to buy the space cow from the first farmer. And the first space farmer sold it to him for a reasonable price." Buck pointed his finger and inclined his head solemnly. "And that's a true story."
It is proving to be something of a new experience. On reflection the other day, Ata realised that she has only ever held one job that was not casual, and that one was applied for & offered in the same week. Casual jobs are usually begun with similar speed. So the process of write an application - send an application - wait to hear about it is very unfamiliar.
Then there is the fact that, despite being reasonably qualified and definately capable of doing most things, Ata has a very patchy employment history. This makes it difficult to say, look, this is what I have done before. Errrr... I was a receptionist for two weeks, I ran a computerised switchboard for an afternoon, I was a database specialist for a couple of months... Fortunately, Ata's University training taught her to identify the skills and abilities inside tasks. So at least I have something to write in applications.
So, let's see. I have applied for two HR administration positions, one sales analyst position, and one as a finance assessor. The last sounds boring, but Ata thinks it would have been quite interesting - it was analysing financial statements and the like to determine eligibility for drought relief. Ata discovered - during the course of her TAFE studies the other year - that the analysis of financial documents is more interesting than she would have expected.
At any rate, the only one I have heard back from has been the finance position - and I didn't have the background they were looking for. Nevermind. Other things await. Mr Ata wants me to apply to work with him - one of the girls in the support department is going on maternity leave. I have sent my resume to a couple of recruitment agencies (neither of which have acknowledged receipt). And tomorrow I start a week-long assignment in a bank, where I will apparently be spending the day writing cheques. Sadly, I don't expect that any of them will be for me.
It is an odd thing, looking for work. Ata detests the routine of regular day jobs as much as she likes earning money and having a sense of responsibility. Temp work fulfils the part of her that likes variety and changes, but there is a kind of thin-ness to it, in that one goes into a workplace knowing that one's time there is short. There is no opportunity to build on skills. There is no chance to contribute anything lasting. If a system is disorganised or inefficient, there is no opening to revise it and make it work. But... if you don't like working there, it doesn't matter. They're always pleased to see you, because you're filling in an immediate need. And you won't be there long enough to get involved in politics or blamed for anything serious. And if you want time off, you just tell your agency that you won't be available. Easy!
Oh well. With any luck, I will find a job where I get to wear jeans to work. At least then I won't have to go buy new office clothes.
