Lately I am all about work work work. With this new blog project on the horizon I am excited that my second job is ending pretty shortly after the holidays. At first I was berating myself for being so freaking tired all the time, but I realized there is a difference between last year at this time and this year. This year I am working forty hours doing techy stuff and creative-ish writing (well, original, anyway. Until it is poems about unicorns and corndogs I feel I will not have achieved my dreams), plus I am working 10-15 hours a week doing sales. Last year I was cobbling together forty or so hours a week working this same holiday job, coffee, and doing a little writing on the side. My schedule was odd then–I often wasn’t expected in until eleven or later, so I could run after getting the girls off to school in the morning. I miss that. Now I leave in the dark and get home in the dark, sometimes eleven or later.
Someone asked me recently why I was doing this and I wonder. I replied it was because I need a steady exposure to degenerates and weirdos or else I feel like my brain is stagnating. Yet with all this work I barely have time or energy to write about the degenerates and weirdos, so I tell myself I am going through one of those phases where I am collecting ideas, people, and stories again. I also tell myself I am making a little extra holiday money, and getting a discount on products I like and things my friends like. This is partly true.
There is another little slice, though. I have this nagging voice in the back of my head that chimes in with “lazy, lazy, lazy” when I am only working one job at a max of forty hours. I was raised by a workaholic with a job and a side business who worked sixty hours a week without complaint (we were the ones who complained since this schedule made him borderline psychotic). Is he happy now? Does he sit on his pile of money and celebrate? No, apparently he is miserably unhappy and in terrible, foolish debt. My stepfather is not the most self-analytical person I have ever met, to say the least, so I wonder what he was thinking. His father did it too, and was also miserable. Why live like this? I get tastes of this life and ask myself that. Pride. The illusion of getting ahead, though life is just as short if you take weekends off or not. Ultimately, what else is there to do with yourself, if not stay busy? Why is it so hard for me to be happy when I’m happy?
I am thinking about this today because I am transitioning out of my current temporary job, though I don’t know when, exactly. On Monday my replacement came on and now I am back to looking for work in case they decide to cut me abruptly, because you never know.
P. and I were talking resumes. He is an excellent second person to look at mine most of the time. He brought up the fact that he usually drops the “library” from his “library and information science” degree on his resume now. We argued about this one a bit. I felt as if he was implying I should drop it too. Some people say leaving the l-word on hurts your chances of getting employed in a tech capacity. Others say that people recognize that librarians receive a considerable amount of tech training anyway, and the field is attracting people who have the skills and interest coming in.
It stung a little, and I wasn’t sure why. I am always careful to tell people that while I am a librarian by training, I have never worked as one. Why is it so easy for him to drop it, and not me? I offended him back by saying I was not ready to let go of the idea that I had a professional degree, which lead to more discussion about what IS an information scientist, and could you tell that to people and they would just get it? No. People have a picture of what a librarian is. The profession is almost as old as books. There are professional organizations and guilds for librarians, OK, I countered. He rattled off a bunch of organizations that are specifically for IS folks.
We did not come to any real conclusions except to say that librarianship is gold leaf you can lay over your tech skills, I guess, and some people hate that Rococo shit. Where is librarianship? Is it stuck in a crack in Plato’s cave somewhere?