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Elizabeth Derby is a 2007 graduate of the College of William and Mary. She is currently enjoying her post-undergrad life while looking for a job. Subscribe to her RSS feed Current Blog | 2007 Archives
Thou Shalt Not Insult Former Job Offices BY ELIZABETH DERBY '07 December 10, 2007 Right, so where was I? Oh yes. The interview. Now I've been in situations like this before. Situations where, you know, I really want to make a good impression and potentially get hired. If you've kept up with me thus far, you realize the odds aren't exactly in my favor. Driving over to the corporate office that day, I felt so confident in my tailored suit and straightened hair. Only when I shook Champagne's hand did the familiar nervousness rise like hackles: tingly palms, a leaden tongue, the desperately metaphysical urge to pee. As I scuffled along behind my interviewer's perfect clicking heels, I willed my joints to hold me upright and conjured mental images of former personal conquests. For some reason, all I could think of was my unsuccessful application to Governor's School in 11th grade. After breezing through the written rounds, I'd faced an all-important circle of judges with four of my peers, ensuring that my first proper interview would be not only terrifying but humiliating as well. After smiling pointedly at every adult (and some competitors for good measure), I took my seat at the head of the classroom and tried to look artistic. "First, a test of your observational skills," announced the teacher directly before me. I noticed, for the first time, that his sport coat had elbow patches and his hairline was receding. I felt a twinge of fear. "On the blackboard behind you are a number of drawings." As I watched his face, I noticed a smile creep in at the corners of his mouth. Was that a smirk? Did adults even know how to smirk? "Make a list of as many of those drawings as you can, with color and location where applicable." As he grinned, my heart sank. The other students began worrying their papers, writing quickly, prolifically, as though I'd somehow entered an alternate realm where everyone else was O. Henry and I was illiterate. Great. By the time we reached Champagne's office, the voice in my head was babbling with fear. As I mentally psyched myself into appearing cool, calm, and somewhat competent, I called on lessons learned at that first interview and began scrutinizing the decor. Candles. As Champagne described the role of marketing assistant, I compartmentalized the details of my surroundings with an odd, dreamlike detachment. Candles on the bookshelf, two-layer candles, three-layer candles, traditional candles and soy wax candles. Tropical Passion Febreze and Baby's Breath Oust on the windowsill. Electric air fresheners and gel air fresheners. Hypo-allergenic and extra-strength. I began to think my potential employer had a problem. Underneath a mound of lilac-scented Odor Eaters I thought I saw a photo of her family. A little boy, maybe, or a dog. Hard to say. Suddenly I realized she was looking at me. I brightened, quickly. "That sounds great!" I chirruped. "It's so colorful!" "The position?" "Ah -- yes! Colorful, like, interesting!" I spluttered. "You know, most entry-level jobs are so mindless and boring, and this seems like it -- wouldn't be!" The shadow of a furrow flickered across her brow. Terrific. Not only did I break one of the (hundreds of) unspoken cardinal rules of job interviews*, I'd managed to exceed my exclamation mark quota for the next three years. "Of course," Champagne said, throwing me a lifeline, "we don't expect this person to have a degree in marketing. We just need someone who can act as an assistant with all the extra work around here." She leans in conspiratorially. "We just took on a rather demanding client, so there are a lot of presentations to get out before the new year. Frankly, I'm swamped, and I need help as soon as possible." "Well, then," I grinned, "this is quite fortuitous timing. My current employer can't keep me much longer, so I'm hoping to find new work as soon as possible." "So this sounds like something that would appeal to you?" Champagne coaxed. "Oh, absolutely. And I love candles," I gushed. She laughed. "That's great. I mean, it's helpful if you work in air care." Oh. So amid the hoopla I'd managed to forget I was applying to a company that manufactures fragrances. I doubt that hurt my chances, right? Later, I was blinded when I stepped back into the sun-soaked lobby. Staring at the wall, I had to blink for a full minute before I could focus again. Slowly a giant mural of a rose came into view. One marbled pink petal was at least as tall as I was. Intense. Bearings about me, I turned and pushed open the heavy front door, listening to a gentle inrush of air whisper 'moneymoneymoney'. "See ya!" I called to the receptionist, mentally adding 'Wouldn't want to be ya!' Man, I thought as I skipped to my car. Wouldn't it be great if that came true? And then it actually did!** * Namely, Thou Shalt Not Insult Former Job Offices Lest Ye Find Thyself Under Consideration for a Similarly Mindless, Boring Role For Which Ye Must Feign Enthusiasm. ** I know I said I had used up my exclamation mark quota. Apparently, I lied.
Serendipity, or How I Finally Got a Job that Doesn't Make Me Want to Poke My Eyes Out BY ELIZABETH DERBY '07 November 30, 2007 Mom and I were sitting around the computer a few weeks ago, performing important bead-related activities, when the telephone rang. I paused in my description of the week's latest bead acquisitions ("luminous," "dazzling," "a designer's delight" -- who says studying great literature and expository writing for four years isn't totally practical?) and waited for Caller ID to label the interested party. 'No name, no dice,' that's our motto, here in the oh-so-important Derby household. When the number of my temp agency appeared, Mom and I burst into the kind of laughter typically reserved for solicitors and overzealous ex-boyfriends. "Why do they even bother anymore?" she asked. "How many times can you possibly reject them before they get it?" We watched the phone ring and ring. "Are you going to answer it? I wouldn't bother," Mom said, turning back to her design table. "Ech. But if I don't answer now they'll just leave some cryptic message." I paused. "And then I'd have to call them back," I admitted, already dreading the temp agency rep turn-of-phrase, which usually sounds remarkably similar to a Publisher's Clearinghouse brochure. The phone surrendered a last, pitiful bleat. Well, on the off-chance that I MAY HAVE ALREADY WON $3,000,000 -- I picked up the phone. "Hello, Elizabeth," crooned the disembodied voice of my rep. "I'm calling because I have an incredible opportunity for you." Awesome. "It's a temp-to-perm position at a well-respected company, and they're looking to bring someone on board with full benefits by March. My daughter actually works there -- it's a great environment, with an office 20 minutes from your house. And it's an international company, so you'll get to travel if you stick with it." She went on to describe the marketing assistant position that just opened up, the generous hourly rate, the week off at Christmas. By the time she got to her customary "Does this sound like something you'd be interested in?" I was practically foaming at the mouth with excitement. "So you're telling me I wouldn't have to answer the phone? Or make photocopies? Someone else actually does those things?" She agreed to fax them my resume. I hung up and started dithering to Mom, who looked as hopeful as I felt. "Though I will definitely miss your help here," she said, "I guess it would be good for you to get out of the house." Ha-ha. "Well, I don't want to get ahead of myself. I'm not even sure I'll get an interview." I frowned. She waved away my concern with a flip of her hand and handed me a hank of pink and gold Venetians. "How would you describe these?" she asked. As I studied their gleaming contours in the late afternoon light, I did my best to conjure clarity via alliterative adjectives and forget, for once, about the ambiguity of my future. "Sure thing," I bellowed, swaggering to the door and flinging it open in my most masculine, sea-faring manner. "Trick or treat!" A dozen pre-K faces looked expectantly up at me, their pillowcases thrust in my general direction. I ushered eager palms to our wall of candy and saw parents watching me from the sidewalk, arms folded and tense in case I did anything suspicious, like proffer open razor blades, to their miniature Snow Whites and Supermans and chain-saw-wielding-psychopaths (yikes). The kids filled their sacks and toddled away, satisfied. As I hitched up my uniform pants, my sister pranced into the room, a spitting image of Keira Knightley in Pirates of the Caribbean. She twirled around, modeling. "Hey! I just realized -- we're both sailors!" I announced. "Though you look cuter than I do." She looked me up and down. "You're cute too. I think you need a mop, though." "Oh, right. Thanks. So I'm the one who has to swab the poop deck?" We stared at each other. "Poop deck," she repeated, and we giggled. The phone rang. As another gaggle of little monsters came up the driveway, I ducked into the office to answer, hoping it was my friend who I would get Halloween drinks with in NYC that night. It was the temp agency. "Elizabeth? Are you free tomorrow afternoon? They want an interview." "Uh, yes!" I began doing a little dance, mentally allotting myself an extra spirit (har) in celebration. "Great. You'll need to be there at two. Ask for Champagne." "What?" "Your interviewer. Champagne." * How appropriate, I snickered, as she filled me in on details. When I hung up, I was still dancing, as jazzed as if I'd eaten a whole bag of candy already. "Who was that?" my sister asked as I pumped my fists. "The temp agency," I beamed. "I might have a future after all!" "Aw, great." Patricia grinned. "I still think you need a mop, though." * No, that's not really her name. Her name IS a type of alcoholic beverage, but I want to protect the innocent here.
BY ELIZABETH DERBY '07 November 4, 2007 First of all, a huge round of applause to the busy bees at the Alumni Association for an AMAZING Homecoming 2007. Thanks to their momentous efforts, coming back to W&M felt just like coming home, albeit a remarkably well-manicured home with emphasis on public donations and tri-corner hats. Despite my fondness for potted plants and heavy hors d'oeuvres, however, my favorite pervasive aspect of Homecoming was small talk. I know, it's counterintuitive. I actually had a conversation with another '07 grad who I've met multiple times, both in the 'Burg and the Upper East Side, and whose name I can never remember, who begged me not to ask him the usual litany of questions. "Let's not do this," he said as we elbowed our way to one of Harrison Street's bajillions of tailgates on Saturday. "Let's not bother asking each other what we do, or what we majored in, or where we live. I'll just remember your name and that you're a nice person. If you do the same, we can leave it at that." "Sounds perfect," I said, promptly forgetting his name. But I know his face, and that's he's a nice person, and when you meet someone that's all you really care about. As the sun broke through the clouds above Frat Row, Indian summer warmth flooded the crush of joyful, chattering peers. Green and gold and feathered insignia abounded; sorority sisters were calling my name. I felt light years away from Manhattan and the bustle of professional networking, and I was happy to just be for an instant without any explanation of why or how. Thirty seconds later, of course, I was back to small talk. I could blame it on my interactions with underclassmen who seemed to regard me as a charming alien, touching down from a galaxy called the "real world" for just long enough to discuss the job search and intergalactic peace. I could claim the unseasonable heat and mass distribution of Natty Light rendered me incapable of any but the most mundane conversation. In truth, however, I relished the small talk. I've missed hearing the zany exploits of my comrades in caps and gowns, learning their dreams and achievements.* I'm curious and I care, and if that means asking "What do you do?" a hundred times in 20 minutes, I will. I count myself lucky to follow, however loosely, the course of each remarkable life. Plus I LOVE talking about unemployment with other thwarted, typically wry English majors. Take this typical Cheese Shop encounter:
So you see there are far worse things than unemployment. Being stuck in a job you hate, for example, just because you have to pay the rent or your field of interest requires 8,000 unpaid internships before HR will blink in your direction. Most mornings I really do feel like I'm living a dream -- I get to conceive marketing schemes and write creative newsletters to clients about pretty, colorful beads and take lunches on the company card with my very forgiving employer. And the benefits are great -- free room and board, free food, great housemates. I even have time to work on creative writing projects with other 20-something artists in the area, which is excellent fodder for cocktail parties:
Sigh. It just goes to show that you really can be anything you want to be, even if the day-to-day fact is a little less glamorous than rich, martini-laden foreigners assume. That's why I love this sort of small talk. In a world where it's hard (despite e-mail, and Facebook, and MySpace, and Google, and blah blah blah) to actually connect with one another, it's fantastic to be handed a tiny sliver of important facts about the people around you. Whether 20-second nutshell lives are fascinating, or shocking, or a total snooze-fest, their stories are never just what you expect. Especially at William and Mary. It's like being barred from the new Mataoka Amphitheater on the night of a Guster concert because the arena is 'at capacity', so you sneak through the woods with the help of some out-of-towners when they find you lost out and you're sitting on a log under the shifting moonlight, and together you make your way over ditches and bushes and follow the music until you stumble out into the front row and all your friends for a night and a feeling you'll never forget. Total magic. And completely unexpected. Not that I would know what that actually feels like, Campus Police, so put your batons away. * (For one rather amazing success story, visit The Back Porch Energy Initiative's Web site, http://www.backporchei.org/. They recently began their cross-country tour to promote sustainable energy use across the South. Seriously, take a look; I know you've missed knowing your classmates are saving the world.) ** http://stores.ebay.com/Great-Glass-Beads Go check out our beads. They're beautiful, totally perfect for creative designs, and best of all, they fund my existence.
Winning the "Lifetime Spent Shirking a First Job Award" BY ELIZABETH DERBY '07 September 28, 2007 Sorry for falling off the face of the earth for three weeks. If I was an anthropologist I would say I'd been busy in the field gathering information about a unique and terrifying culture*; as it stands, I'm merely an unemployed recent grad trying to get a job. But they amount to the same thing. It's hard work, living in the bush and eating cockroaches; similarly, applying for jobs and getting rejected takes up a lot of time. As I told a friend last week, when the Alumni Association asked me to write this blog they explained, they had no idea how perfect their choice of graduate-bumbling-through-a-bad-job-market-and-whinging would be. I've watched friends fret about unemployment and get hired; I've seen friends go overseas and get hired; I've witnessed friends who have not even graduated from high school get hired. I'm not saying I want these jobs; I merely note that the Alumni Association picked an awfully good candidate for the Lifetime Spent Shirking a First Job Award. Not that I mind. Just because my friends are in law school and med school and AmeriCorps and the Peace Corps and Teach for America and saving babies in Bolivia, my decision to live at home and be choosy is no less legitimate. I'm in transition! Besides, I've been productive in my early retirement. I've gone for bike rides along the seashore and taken hikes in sun-shifting forests. I've pulled weeds from the garden and burrs from my flesh. I've learned how to make whipped cream (beat it too long and you get butter, yikes) and the fastest way to paddle a kayak. I had the time, for the first time in four years, to take stock of my personal relationships, to thank my stars for the good ones and get rid of the bad ones, posthaste. I actually sleep enough and read as much as I want to. All told, I've been grateful for this time to readjust, to find my pulse outside the W&M bubble. I was wandering along quite happily, collecting experiences like seashells and exploring this new world. Then the neighborhood went back to school. I can't say why this threw me, exactly; for some reason I just assumed that come September, I'd magically find a job. As though there was no way I'd make it to school time without steady work of my own. Yet here I am, overslept and under worked as leaves fall and the high school marching band beats from across town that old rah rah shish boom bah. Granted, I've been picky. After July's horrible interview for a sales assistant position and August's underwhelming meet-and-greet in the fashion closet at Marie Claire, I decided the machine-gun-resume technique wasn't cutting it. The real craziness began a few weeks ago, when I turned my job search into full-time networking. My head has been spinning ever since. Almost every day brings a new bit of advice, a tip-off about freelance work and unpaid internship positions, and I am so grateful to the people who have taken time to give career advice to a total stranger. But for every inbox my resume clutters, three more appear in the mists of cyberspace, and my tangle of contacts and resources and unpaid-yet-unattainable opportunities have left my mind in a jumble. I know I've reached a point where I'm no longer making sense to anyone, not even myself, groveling for positions I'd never accept and sending weepily desperate e-mails to HR departments with salutations that read "Hello Human Resources! Please hire me! I swear to God I'm a good kid who did good in college and can do ... good stuff ... for you ... PLEASE JUST HIRE ME OHMIGOD IpromiseyoumysweatandtearsandmyfirstbornandI'mstandingoutsideyourwindowdon'tturnaround. I've already made your coffee. Call me." So the job search has its ups and downs. One day I'm imagining myself as Editor-in-Chief of Newsweek, the next I'm contemplating bag-lady status and cursing my Virginia background because everyone who went to NYU has about 20 more internships than I do. Some people up here don't even know that William and Mary is a college. ("Oh yeah, it's an all girl's Catholic school, right?") Given the chance, though, I wouldn't change a thing. At the end of the day, I agree with the Alumni Association rep who said my future looks interesting. It still does. When my resume finally crosses the right desk at the right time, be it tomorrow or a year from now, I will be content. For now, the world is big and bright and waiting. After all these years of running from one given to the next, I nevear had time to learn about myself. Now as I settle into my skin, I find I can breathe more easily. After a desperately long hiatus, I have begun to write again. Something inside me thrills with rightness whenever I explain this. I am a writer by self-definition, by the deepest truth in my soul. No job was responsible for the discovery. I will work as a writer works, on the toil of who I am, regardless of circumstance, for this is the future I am eager to claim. It starts now, on this windy old laptop, with recycled language and a sticky keyboard. These words are my beginning. And I wouldn't have it any other way. * Yes, I blatantly stole this analogy from The Nanny Diaries. ScarJo and I have the exact same birthday, so we're basically twins. I feel this gives me the right to confiscate her movie-related voice-over themes. (In case you're wondering, no, I never compare myself to her and wonder why she has a job and a semi-serious career and I can't even land a cameo in a Justin Timberlake music video. Doesn't even cross my mind.)
BY ELIZABETH DERBY '07 September 4, 2007 Happy almost Labor Day! In case I haven't made this clear enough, I live where EVERYONE wants to be right now -- i.e. the Jersey shore -- so I hope everyone has as much fun as I will. Heh heh. So in celebration of the holiday and my love affair with the dwindling season (every year, but this year especially) I am going to tell a story. Grab your sparklers (or fireworks if you live in N.C.; I know how you Southerners are) and a slice of watermelon and get comfortable. Last week my cousins drove down from Brooklyn to stay at our beach house, and on Saturday night we all went to a nearby Fireman's Fair. For those of you who don't know, Fireman's Fairs are small-town affairs hosted by the local fire department that consist of games of chance, raffles, beer tents, and a Ferris Wheel. When Labor Day rolls around, the Fair is summer's final bastion, a beacon of ice cream and fried foods against autumn's chilly eclipse of long lazy days and gauzy beach weekends. This year was my first Fireman's Fair since I left mid-August for W&M four years ago. I re-discovered the magic of the Fair that night, not only because I went without the looming threat of classes and schoolwork* but because I could witness the next generation of high school students participating in an ancient, familiar ritual: the annual flirting, preening, and flaunting of coconut tans and midriff shirts, the devil-may-care hair tosses and surfer nonchalance that veil a dance to uncover next year's social hierarchy. Adults, failing to register or be registered by this complex world of emotional unrest and cutthroat rank establishment, sail through these humid summer nights in total oblivion, drinking lukewarm Bud and trying to win live goldfish by knocking over milk cans. For once -- and I'm grateful -- I could lump myself in with the glassy-eyed old folk milling through dusty grass and empty ketchup wrappers. As a faceless part of the herd, I stared unabashedly at girls who definitely would have snubbed me in high school and realized a lot of that glitz was overwrought sparkle bronzer. I watched cliques separate by gender, except for the odd couple clinging to one another like soft Orbit to a flip-flop, and found myself saying things like "Look at the length of those shorts! What parent would let their twelve-year-old walk around with her butt hanging out?!" To which my sister would reply, "E, don't talk so loud. I know her. She's a senior at the high school." Fine, but I still think the short-shorts are pushing it. So maybe I've lost whatever cool genes I managed to cultivate pre-university -- I'm totally not pointing fingers, William & "Popular kids eat us for breakfast" Mary -- but I've got to admit: I kind of like it. It's freeing to realize how nerdy I've become. No more pretending to be something I'm not! No more caring whether glasses will ever be cool! (No.) YES, I read a lot of books, YES, I sing loudly and off-key with the radio when I drive, YES, I will talk to anyone and everyone and oftentimes just myself, in public, totally alone and frightening passersby. I'm just being me! As I stood before floodlights illuminating a talent show stage and 'tween dancers bouncing arrhythmically to "LoveStoned", I was suddenly overwhelmed with happiness. (Not because of the dancers -- that was something of an affront to my 15 years of classical training, actually.) It occurred to me then that I had the whole wide world in front of me. By refusing to compromise the truth of who I am, I can become my best and brightest self. I can learn and hold out for what makes me happy and fulfilled, in the realm of work and friendship and play. I can be and do anything. Enlightenment attained, I let out a whoop and decided to try some games of chance. My sister and I raced through the red-and-white striped awnings, dazzled by a flashing spectrum of lights and the immense promise of tickets clutched in our sweaty palms. She opted to throw ping-pong balls at fishbowls; I decided to chuck nickels at a frog pond. We both won, and I traded my success for the most fitting of prizes: a giant inflatable purple crayon, high as my shoulder and full of my breath. It was just the sort of thing that Harold (of Harold and the Purple Crayon children's books) would have used to draw new worlds around him. I couldn't help but imagine that I would do the same. *HAHAHA! I NEVER HAVE TO DO HOMEWORK AGAIN. That's all.
Call of the Civilized, Part II BY ELIZABETH DERBY '07 August 15, 2007 Over the last few months I have been privy to a lot of praise concerning the world of temping. "It's great administrative experience!" a recruiter chirps. "You'll get excellent exposure in the company," assures the agency rep. "You might even find the perfect job for you," adds an overly-enthusiastic relative. I myself have whistled a similar tune for many weeks now, especially when the prospect of a guaranteed paycheck is the only available kryptonite to my hulking health insurance bill. So when I woke up at 6:30 Monday morning to a threatening cloud-cover and sickly dawn, I decided not even the weather could rain on my parade. No doubt this was actually a good omen -- sometimes Friday the 13th and shattered mirrors are signs of a positive cosmic upswing, right? I didn't even let the fact that my would-be office was locked put a damper on my mood (though the now-insistent rain convinced my hair and business-casual attire otherwise). When I finally managed to get to my new co-workers, they flocked around me like concerned hens. "You poor thing," clucked a woman my mother's age. "Were you stuck out in the rain this whole time?" "Did Joe forget to post the phone number of the office on the front door?" squawked another. "You didn't see a number to call, deary?" "Uh, no," I admitted, realizing that my common sense at 8 a.m. had made such perceptive behavior impossible. I wouldn't let this bumpy start phase me, though. "It was really no problem," I grinned among the smoothing of feathers. "I'm ready to get started whenever you can use me." The morning was a standard litany of computer processing, sorting papers, and answering telephones. By noon I'd finished the pile of scanning and filing left by my predecessor and approached my neighboring cubicle. "What else can I do for you?" My co-worker blinked in surprise. "Wow, you finished that fast." I smiled awkwardly -- I hardly considered my work thus far to be first-rate--and waited as her brow knitted in contemplation. "I'll ask Marlene. We're moving offices soon, so maybe you can help with that." Sounds reasonable, I thought to myself. A quick e-mail check and furtive visit to gofugyourself.com later, I found myself straightening the massive cubicle, going so far as to sort paper clips by size. Though my neighbor seemed amazed that I did my work so fast, I was amazed that people can do it at all. It dawned on me then why ill-paid careers like journalism and professorship are still so sought-after: because they're intellectually stimulating. (Unless, of course, your idea of mental stimulation involves staple removal, in which case, I recommend become a temporary receptionist at a company with little client facing. More power to you.) Eventually the HR director came around with a box of papers, a paper shredder the size of a wastebasket, and a roll of industrial-sized garbage bags. "Thank you so much," she said as she deposited my charge. "I know it's kind of mindless, but people have a lot of papers to be shredded. We take our clients' privacy quite seriously." I nodded until she walked away and fed my first crunchy sheet into the hungry machine. At first it was fun -- efficient, easy, a nod to my inner neat freak. A steady supply of paper piled up at my side, eventually spreading from the desk to the floor, and a mountain of garbage bags full of shreds slowly rose all around me. When I left the office that day, I felt good, pleased with the knowledge that I would have something to do tomorrow. Tuesday was OK. The tedium of eight hours of shredding paper could be worse, I rationalized. Hadn't I spent many a Saturday night in Swem Cafe, laboring under the flagrant misconception that I would one day be a Bio major? On Wednesday ("Hump Day") my cheery facade was getting weary around the edges. At first I protested inwardly: "Can't I just delegate this b-s to somebody else?" Then I realized whoops, I'm 22. I am the person who gets delegated to. So I kept shredding an allowed my brain to liquefy. By Thursday I realized there was no hope. I settled into my post-apocalyptic lifestyle, performing the motions of a life I'd already given up on. I would reclaim my personality on the weekend. For now I began to think of ways I could earn the same amount of money without really trying. Mystery shopping, maybe. If I had been in Williamsburg I would have sold midnight grilled cheese outside the Leafe. I considered the pros of selling blood plasma instead. Possibly a kidney. As closing time on Friday neared, I tried to rein in the mind that was floating far, far away from my body. As I zeroed my focus on the object of my imprisonment, stuffing more and more paper into the frothy mouth of the shredder, I felt a weird thrill clench in my heart. I began to genuinely enjoy mashing shreds of reconstituted trees into body-sized garbage bags. At the time I told myself the joy rocketing through my bloodstream was the sublimation of a desire to kill, quarter, and dispose of the corporate world at large. The truth, however, is far simpler: after five days of shredding paper in a cubicle, I had inhaled too much paper dust. On top of which, I never had to work as a temp agent again.
BY ELIZABETH DERBY '07 July 30, 2007 Well, I'm home safe and sound. You all can stop fretting now. The U.S. welcomed me back with open arms, by which I mean JFK didn't shut down due to major thunderstorms until the day after I got back. Phew. Sydney itself was less forgiving; I was stopped at every single checkpoint and alternate screening possible once I got through customs, as though they just weren't sure I wasn't a disheveled, teary-eyed college grad with a pound of coke stuffed down her coat. Or maybe they thought the smell of campfire radiating from said coat was not the result of some mundane activity like an outdoor BBQ but rather a sure sign that I was either a) homeless, living under a bridge, and operating on a stolen ticket, or b) fleeing the scene of some major terrorist disaster which I orchestrated. Incidental searches aside, my departure from Australia was bittersweet. I found myself wistful, full of regret at leaving my partner, excitement to see my family, general trepidation at confronting my decimated bank account. I prepped myself for a rough transition. But once I got over my first shocks of poverty and my sinus infection was being treated with antibiotics and I was able to fall asleep before 5 a.m., I felt great. The sun was shining, the air was warm, and the days were long. It was a perfect summer at the Jersey shore. Everything ensured that my return to the U.S. would be a smooth continuation of post-grad holiday. Until, of course, the temp agency called. It began innocuously enough. When I switched on my cell phone after a month-long hiatus, the agency l'd instructed to contact me after Friday left a message with an assignment for Wednesday and Thursday. OK, I'd just delete that sucker and deal with it when I woke up in 30 hours. My much-needed coma was fractured, however, by the telephone's frenzied chiming. The first time I was still mellowed out by the Tylenol PM; the second time, I shut off my phone and fell back asleep. When I finally joined the living around 4 p.m., my house phone was flashing with yet another message. I began to feel like a minor celebrity, albeit with better typing skills. I bustled about the kitchen and prepared a bowl of cereal while fantasizing about the manservants I could employ with my soon-to-exist fat paycheck. The spoon had not reached my lips when something deep in the bowels of my house let out a shrill, piercing cry. As the wailing rose and fell, over and over, I let my body slump across my bran flakes and accepted the inescapable truth. Responsibility had my number. It called for the fifth time that day with no sign of halting its merciless advance. Crikey.
BY ELIZABETH DERBY '07 July 20, 2007
If I have to get somewhere, my vote goes to the largest vehicle on the road, the one most likely to crush all obstacles in its path. Plus, bus rides allow me to cultivate my two most marketable skills, namely eavesdropping and people-watching. I even get to embarrass myself in front of strangers, as follows: ED: Hey! Isn't this "Born in the USA"? BF: Sounds like it. ED: Sweet! The Boss! [garbled noise as I sing along] BF: [looks around uncomfortably] ED: And the best part is, I am! You know? [There is an abrupt lull in conversation.] I actually was born in the USA! How great is that? [Several people turn around in the ensuing silence. The bus idles at a stoplight, and I sink shame-faced into my chair.] BF: Yeah, I think you're the only American in here. Whoops. Actually, I don't think Bruce Springsteen is a bad jumping-off point for foreign interaction -- I have met several Australians who only know where New Jersey is because of him. (And by the way, every Australian who has been to N.J. uses a host of complimentary adjectives to describe my home state, including terms like 'beautiful' and 'full of trees.' Take THAT, naysayers!) In fact, when we had a barbecue that night the song "Born to Run" definitely surfaced. So did Crowded House and Silverchair, but the music mix simply reminded me that no matter how far we travel, we're never that far from home. Especially if home encompasses a culture so insidious that daytime Australian television regularly airs Judge Judy.
Journalism in the land Down Under BY ELIZABETH DERBY '07 July 10, 2007 Lately I've been thinking about the things that make people happy. This derives almost directly from the fact that I've been spending all my time with a man whom I adore and rarely see. I've been in Australia for nearly two weeks now, and I'm going all-out in holiday mode, i.e. sleeping, eating, consuming books with startling rapidity, and entertaining thoughts of the future purely as abstractions. This doesn't mean that I haven't thought about work -- every person I meet asks what I do -- but I'm realizing it's a lot easier to lie to the taxicab driver and tell him you're a freelance journalism and creative writer than it is to explain to him that no, you're not a student and no, you don't have a job and no, you don't have anything in the works yet but - well -- nevermind, just let me out here, please. I guess I have a high opinion of people from the Southern Hemisphere and don't want to muddy my name down here by telling them I'm a slacker. Contrary to my expectations, however, many of the Aussies I've told about my yet-to-be-determined plans are uber-supportive. (Most of them are my boyfriend's friends, so I guess they have to be, but still.) Unlike cab drivers they a) don't have to chauffeur my unemployed bum around and b) think it's great that I'm 'taking time to look at my options.' Most of these Aussies are 30-somethings who are just getting into the groove of their own careers, not to mention making big decisions about their personal lives, and they seem to regard one's twenties as a time to have fun and sift through opportunities as the hands of fate deal their cards and lead you to where you will ultimately wind up. Or, to quote, "you have the rest of your life to work. Work will always be there, believe me, and you won't always have the chance to consider your options." Well, phew. In between my marathon walks around the city and visits to cafes, museums, harbors, seaside towns, theatres, bookstores (are you jealous yet?), beaches, bars, universities, etc., I have been lucky enough to meet people whose careers I find especially impressive, people whose sole employment comes from the arts. Few people in my experience, short of tabloid stars and gazillionaire designers and jet-setters, are able to earn their living through arts and entertainment. Here I've been fortunate to see such lifestyles in action. Though many of the artists that I've met have secondary jobs -- with the government, in education, traipsing through school districts and teaching kids sustainable living and how to grow worm farms -- all of these creative individuals live for their art. One man works are writer, director and actor in his own set of comic plays; he just toured through China with his latest work. Another fellow writes his own arts blog, is a freelance theatre critic, works as a director for Arts Hub Australia and recently agreed to write for the Sydney Morning Herald -- for free. This highlights my biggest angst as a writer and greatest trepidation when considering a career as a journalism: one job is rarely enough, especially because people no longer read paper news when they can get it online for free. I have met actors whose work strings from one commercial to the next, whose hope for the next year's employment rides on a gig with the circus. William and Mary Law School this is not, though I understand why most people with an English or general Arts degree bailed for the Peace Corps, for grad school, for a law degree. This is a scary world for people who value philosophical and creative endeavor. Sydney knows this as well as any city; the glitz and soaring towers over some of the most beautiful--and densely packed--coastline in the world mean that everyone here is fighting for a space at the top. No wonder so many people envy college students. Academia may be a last refuge for those for whom money is not the driving force behind a career, for those for whom independence and creativity claim top priority in personal happiness. I still believe there are many paths to success, and they may include impromptu post-grad trips to other hemispheres. But it is also clear that a love of writing, much like long-distance romantic love, can easily break your heart. Fortunately for me I have found a niche where I can relax and appreciate both, where I can revel in my version of happiness without having to explain myself. I had to come to the other side of the world to find it, and I know it won't last, but I'm enjoying every second of it. Check back weekly for new installments from Elizabeth's journey...
BY ELIZABETH DERBY '07 July 2, 2007 As the recipient of several generous graduation gifts this May, one of my first decisions regarding "real life" was what to do with my newfound wealth. Should I invest half and blow the rest on drinks and clothes? Should I chuck it all in savings? Should I put a down payment on an apartment in the city of my choice in preparation for a soon-to-be-fabulous career? I weighed my options carefully, metered out the eventual gains and costs of each, and generally acted like a responsible adult. Then I hit upon the perfect decision: spend it on a plane ticket to Australia. BUAHAHAHAHA! Take that, fiscal responsibility! Take that, intelligent use of funds! Siyonara, adulthood; Sydney, here I come! Actually, this trip Down Undah is less random than it might appear to someone who, say, plans massive international trips more than two weeks in advance. When I studied abroad in Sydney at the University of New South Wales in 2005, I fell in love with the place. Trips to all six states (and two territories) meant that I got a sampling of the incredible natural beauty and rampant crocs/kangaroos/wallabies/Tazmanian devils/Steve Irwins ( R.I.P.) for which the nation is appropriately known. I went surfing, bungee jumping hang-gliding, scuba diving on the Great Barrier Reef, and hiking through tropical and temperate rain forests. I threw shrimps (technically prawns) on barbies, went to clubs and markets, and generally tore it up with the best Aussies out there. I also managed to date someone who, improbably enough, wasn't ready to say goodbye when the semester ended. We've kept in touch and even managed a visit or two, so on this, my triumphant return to the land of Vegemite and boomerangs, he is acting as my personal guide through the city I love so much. We will visit places both heart-stoppingly familiar and spectacularly foreign; I will roam backstreets like an old hand and snap photos at the Opera House like a tourist. I am so excited to acclimatize to the freezing winter rain and general backward nature of the Southern Hemisphere. (Even their cars are on the wrong side of the roads!) I am so excited to poke fun at Australian stereotypes and celebrate the 4th of July in the most obnoxious way possible. I am so excited to be here, I don't think I could be any happier. Unless, of course, I was asleep. Because jet lag is miserable no matter where you plane lands.
BY ELIZABETH DERBY '07 June 20, 2007 This week I reached a new pinnacle in my twenty-two year career as a Jersey girl: I got a job at the mall. Granted, it was only for four days, but the memories cling to me like some pleasant yet inescapable odor. Not the typically mall-ish girly-'tweens-in-tight-jeans-and-glitter-body-spray smell, either; this experience managed to incorporate both couture and masculinity in one whiff. I am referring, of course, to several shifts in the men's fragrances department of Lord & Taylor. I was hired because a friend inadvertently dropped my name in the pool of potentials to fill the position of Chanel cosmetics girl. When I explained that I was looking for full-time work in other industries, the L&T higher-ups suggested I pick up the slack in colognes over Father's Day weekend to get a feel for the company. All in all, it was a great experience — I am now very opinionated about masculine scent, for one thing. I have also received infinite pleasure from my friends who comment that not only does my smell "go perfectly with your manly swagger" but "if my eyes were closed, I'd think you were a hot guy." Though I still doubt the place of Chanel's soft-light makeovers and $98 mascara in my life, I certainly enjoyed my bout of retail. Where else would I have learned which potential Father's Day gift horrifies women enough to exclaim "That smells like Eau de Hooker!"?
BY ELIZABETH DERBY '07 June 10, 2007 I framed my diploma and hung it above my desk today. Yikes. If I ever needed an additional reminder why it is high time I get my act together and find a job, parchment scripted in Latin, stamped with the great Seal of William and Mary and framed in deep mahogany will do the trick. Right now I'm waiting to hear if I got an interview with an online creative writing publication, but that's looking less and less likely every day. On Friday I decided I had to stop obsessively checking Gmail to confirm, over and over, that no-one wants to hire me right now, so I went into New York City to celebrate my broke independence instead. I saw my big sister from my sorority, who I haven't seen in two years, and knocked around the MoMA and Central Park before meeting up with some W&M kids in midtown. We put on party dresses and spent the rest of the night dancing to '80s music and getting free drinks. Sweet life. Now that I'm back in New Jersey, the job search needs to commence in earnest ... as soon as I have spent a few hours at the beach.
BY ELIZABETH DERBY '07 June 10, 2007 I am PUMPED about this blog. Normally I find them unappealing, but I am grateful for this opportunity because it validates me. If you graduated from W&M, you understand my underlying psychological complex: now that I've stopped writing essays and taking tests (score), I have to learn to evaluate myself by something other than high marks. For a lot of people, the golden post-grad standard is money. Unlike many of my more practical friends, I believe that methods of self-measurement, the 'real world' terms of success, can be anything. I want a diversified stock portfolio and the ability to invest in real estate as much as those Mason kids, but I know those things won't make me happy. I am too free-spirited and artistically driven for that. So I am aiming to have adventures instead. I plan to enjoy intrigues and romance and comedies, and not just the kind provided by Netflix. My new 4.0 is loaded with these kinds of dreams, ones that I will never find in the benefits section of any job description. This makes my job search harder, to be sure. "But if the life will not be easy," JFK told us, "it will be rich and satisfying." So cheers to the life after college that gets off to a bumpy start, to the English majors who opt out of Peace Corps and grad school. I hope this proves to be interesting. And if we never meet (in cyberspace or elsewhere) let me thank you now for your company. I am scared by my crazy idealistic unplanned future, and it is really, really comforting to know that someone out there is listening. |
I love riding the bus in Sydney. Maybe it's because I'm on holiday and prefer to be driven everywhere, thus avoiding exercise at all costs; maybe it's because I am terrified by cars and taxis where the driver is on the wrong side of the road and hurtling at 110km/hour, whatever that means, along streets that are theoretically two-way but narrower than your average electrical outlet.|
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