My Thought of the Day

My bedroom is probably one of my favorite places to be.

One reason is obvious: it’s the spot where my bed is. Bed equals sleep. Sleep equals a relatively happy and peppy Leah. This is the Leah people want to hang around with.

It isn’t a big room, but it is shaped like a backwards L, which is what I’ve always liked.

The walls used to be a soft lilac purple (back from my princess obsession days), but now they scream a vibrant electric lime-green. I chose that color back before I went into high school, because… well… actually, I don’t remember why I chose that color specifically, but I do remember I liked it – and I still do! Though if I had a choice, I would have these really cool walls that would automatically change color with the seasons – bright lime-green for Summer, Pumpkin-orange for Fall, a soft Evergreen-green for Winter, and Lilac-purple for Spring. Of course, there isn’t such an invention yet, but hey, a girl can dream.

It’s also one of the only rooms with the giant lilac bush right underneath it, so when the flowers bloom, my room is filled with the relaxing sweet smell of springtime and purple. (In case you were wondering, the other room is the laundry room.)

But there’s one thing about my room I don’t like: the windows.

Let me explain.

The windows themselves are relatively new, with neat window panes that fold out so I can clean both sides of the glass, and locks that never stick or get rusted. One window – the one closest to the foot of my bed – has a screen on it. It’s great, because not only does it keep out the bugs that like to feast upon my blood in the dead of night, but it also allows my cat Spooky to sit on the sill without fear of falling out and landing hard on the deck railing below.

The other window does not have this screen. It’s supposed to, but my dad decided he would take it out so he could sneak in, gently open the pane, and aim his gun at the grey squirrels and the occasional raccoon who seem to think the bird feeders were made for them.

There was one occasion where I did not know this window had no screen – Binx (bless his grumpy old man soul), let me know when he leaped onto the sill, missed, and landed on his poor little belly, hanging halfway out the window like a rag doll and screaming like a miniature banshee. He was fine shortly after though. He quickly scrambled back inside and mewed at me with his rusty Mrrrrawwwh, as if to say, “Ma! What happened to the screen?!”

Now let me fill you in on a certain little tidbit: the birds around my parents’ house aren’t always the brightest. One species that comes to mind are the chickadees. They are certainly the bravest, (measuring their courage to how close they come to us humans, of course) but their mentality to windows remind me of mosquitos to bug-zappers.

One day, it was hotter than an egg on a sidewalk outside, and I just wanted to have as much of the tiny breeze meandering outside in my room as possible. So, I opened both windows. Not five minutes later, I was regretting my mistake.

One of the chickadees must have seen the screenless window open and thought, “oooh, a new place for me to explore!”

Next thing I knew, the sounds of furious flapping and high shrilled squawking filled my room. I turned just in time to see one of the little black, grey and white daredevils zipping about my room, slamming against walls, and trying so hard to get back out.

I didn’t have any nets, and I’m pretty sure one of the cats had heard him.

Thankfully, this is not the first time I’ve had to catch a bird bare-handed. I’m sure the situation must have looked comical, me jumping and crashing into my furniture and crap-filled boxes, waving my arms hysterically around my head, herding a tiny little critter into a corner so I could catch him. But at the time, I was more worried about one of the cats making a snack out of him.

I couldn’t tell you how long it took to catch the dumb bird. I can tell you, however, what it feels like to have your fingers pecked at and bitten when you finally close your hand around the damned thing. Imagine having a small pair of needle-nosed pliers gently squeezing the skin between your fingers and tapping your knuckle – it doesn’t draw any blood, but boy is it annoying!

The bird’s fine if you’re wondering. He flew right to the lilac tree and proceeded to yell at me for a few minutes. He flew away eventually once he had his fill of yelling. I like to imagine he was swearing at me and threatening to call the manager for unnecessary feather ruffling and lack of seeds.

It would be obvious for me to say job hunting is hard.

No one would argue with me there. If anyone did, I would personally like to meet this person and ask them to tell me how it’s properly done. And not tell me in generalist terms, either. I want to know the nitty-gritty, pinpoint, down to the last nanosecond detail as to how they found a job so easily.

I’ve had plenty of interviews, both good and bad. I’ve had interviewers tell me they were impressed with my resume and my skills, and yet, I haven’t gotten a solid “we’re willing to hire you because we’re so impressed with you!”

Most of the time, I can pinpoint right when I’ve lost them – my current location.

In the last four or five interviews, the person sitting before me has never heard of the little town of Vassalboro. It’s fine, of course. I’m used to explaining where exactly Vassalboro is – Roughly 20-25 minutes north-northeast of Augusta, our state capital. Sometimes I have to fight the urge to say, “second star to the right, and straight on till morning.”

Don’t worry, I never say that.

It’s that very moment where I finish explaining where I live, when I can see the light of hope leave the interviewer’s eyes.

You see, there aren’t a whole lot of jobs within a 20-mile radius who are willing to pay starting wages above $15. I don’t blame them for it – there may be a large population here in Central Maine, but it pales in comparison to the Southern part, including Portland, Saco, and Biddeford to name a few.

So, logically, I’ve been applying to positions in those areas, hopping someone will be willing to pay enough to allow paying for student loans, rent, and utilities, and leave enough room to pay for things like food and internet.

And that, my friends, is where I enter into the Paradox.

Thing is, Portland, which is the closest city I’ve applied to, is roughly 1 hour away from Augusta. Add 20 minutes to include where I live, and you’re looking at an almost 3-hour drive round-trip.

It isn’t a problem for me, though! I’ve done the drive before every day with Cross. Frankly, I enjoy the drive – it allows me to think and have time to prep myself for the day ahead.

However, judging by their eyes bulging slightly and their mouths drawing into a tight ‘oh’, it doesn’t seem a lot of interviewers are okay with the drive.

It brings up the debate I’ve been having with myself for some time: Should I wait to have a job before I move, or should I just move in the hopes of a job to follow?

I have a friend who did the latter – according to her, the move to Tennessee was the best decision she ever made. She was able to find a retail job within the first week, with a more college-degree centered position to come. She’s currently the happiest I’ve ever seen her.

That being said, every situation is different. My friend was able to make the move because she only had a small amount of student loans compared to mine, and she was able to put aside enough to actually make the move, whereas my purse strings have been so tight, I’ve had to replace them several times.

That was a few years ago. The purse strings are still tight, but there might be enough wriggle room to make such a move, providing Lady Luck is on my side.

Unfortunately, she rarely is. There’s a saying my family has: When it rains, it pours.

Then again, the few times I’ve taken large enough risks, things always seemed to work out in my favor. One example in mind is when I drove through a snow storm for an interview with Cross. That was a risk that paid off.

So, what do I do? Should I stay, play it safe, and continue applying with the hopes someone will see my earnestness and give me a chance?

Or should I take the big leap, make the move, and apply to any and all jobs I can find within the area? It would mean taking the Customer Service/Retail jobs at a huge cut in pay (I’m talking at least a $4 cut here), and pray I find a position closer to the writing vest I’ve studied for seven years?

It’s been one week (officially 1 1/2 weeks, but who’s counting?) since I was laid off.

For the most part, I’m doing okay. I’m certainly doing better than the last time I was between jobs. Back then, I had less than one, maybe two, paychecks set aside to help me – whether it be moving, paying my phone bill, or taking care of gas. Student loans took all but $100, give or take $50, each paycheck. But if it meant I would continue staying on their good graces, then I was…tolerant. Yeah, that’s a good word.

To put it bluntly, I wasn’t sitting pretty then. It had to be the sheer graces of the heavens (and I’m willing to bet several fantastic reviews from past bosses) when I accepted the job with Cross Insurance.

Now, however, I’m in a better position. Yes, I’m still without a job, and that is bad no matter how you look at it, but at least I am a little bit smarter, wiser, and more resourceful in what I need to do. I’m in a better boat to move closer to a new job. Whether that is back in Portland, farther out to Boston, or even D.C. (a city I will always love – even with its political turmoil) I have enough set aside to help me land on more solid ground.

I had a dream some time ago; it wasn’t like most dreams – it was vivid, bright, and so filled with hope, I couldn’t help but remember the details the following morning. I think this happened a couple years ago, but I still remember it as if it happened last night.

In this dream, I was walking around this neighborhood. It wasn’t a place I recognized, but it felt so calming, so relaxed, it was as if I had grown up there. Strong brick buildings stood side-by-side-by-side like soldiers, all dressed in rustic red suits with charcoal grey linings. The sidewalks were cobblestone – uneven, yet flowed like gritty rivers along the earth. Kids played catch in the street and scattered whenever a car chugged through. It was the peak of fall; all of the trees were vibrant hues of red, orange, and yellow. I remember wrapping my purple scarf more around my head. I walked into a small mom-and-pop thrift store – I wanted something to commemorate the move into the neighborhood. I don’t remember what I had bought in the dream, only that it was something that felt smooth to the touch, like glass.

The dream was so mundane – so ordinary – compared to all the other dreams I usually had. And yet, this dream has stuck with me for years. Why? Because I was somewhere in my own apartment, doing my own things, following my own path. It felt right to me. It felt as though that place, wherever it was, was the place I needed to return to.

I was starting my way on that path when the virus took control of this world. Unfortunately, this is something I can’t control. None of us can. That being said, this little hiccup in my life won’t stop me from getting back to that dream neighborhood. At this point, I don’t care if that exact street doesn’t exist. There are places on this Earth that come pretty darned close.

I am still hopeful I will get there. I know I will get there. I need to. I also have a hope for all who read this: think of a place – just like the one I have from my dream. Focus on that place. If you want it to be a person, then okay, it’s a person. Focus on getting yourself to that place or person, no matter what. That’s how I’m keeping my hope. I pray it helps you keep your hope too