How Condoms Landed Me a Job

I stopped updating because I got a job a little while back. As I’ve mentioned before, my arms are frequently upset with me, and that makes updating a blog hard since I’m a full-time writer. I'll do a bit here and there, but right now a post will come whenever I don't feel like my elbow will retaliate.

But you clicked over because I said that condoms got me a job. No, it wasn't sketchy. Yes, it was a little unplanned. And the condoms were probably only half of the decision.

Shortly after I started this blog I got a LinkedIn account. I thought I didn't need one but it turned out that I did, because that was where I found (and applied) for the job that I currently have.

But Erika, you say, get to the condoms.

Alright, alright. So I was frustrated at the lack of responses from the twenty something resumes that I had sent out, so I was thinking of ways to improve myself. I started brushing up on my German. I started learning code at Code Academy (still am, although less frequently). I got back to the webcomic. And I started learning about copywriting, because I figured, marketing might be the way to go.

Sometimes things just happen. So I started to work on a copywriting portfolio, which was actually just me thinking about working on the portfolio. Until one day I suddenly thought: condoms are not only safer, they're cheaper. So I went to Publix, bought a box, went home, and calculated how many condoms you could buy with the cost of a lifetime treatment for HIV/AIDS. (For the record, it's one condom a day for the next 1,982 years.)

I did a (poor) design and posted it to deviantart. Nothing else happened. I know now that I am not a designer.

So how did this get me a job? Well, I applied to the position via LinkedIn, which, might I add, I wasn't exactly qualified for. They responded with a writing test. I completed it and sent it back.

They sent me another test. I procrastinated a little, but I finished it within a week and sent it out. In this test, they asked me about how I search for information  and, on a whim, I included something about how the information isn't as important as the way you present it.

They called me the next day to set up an interview. It was very exciting and the girl who called was hyped up on caffeine  so I had a good feeling about this one. I had realized the morning of the interview that I had sent in a horribly edited test and was waiting for them to tear me apart over it, so I had brought two (fixed) copies of the test.  I went in Wednesday afternoon and met with two people who I would never see again in my life.

Not that it mattered, the guys had never seen my tests, they just interviewed me. As we talked, they were skimming over my answers. One of them said, "Man, I should have read this." But a few seconds later, they said, "Hey. This thing you wrote on condoms. This is exactly what we do here." The interview came to an end and they stepped outside to 'discuss' the next step.

And then they came back in, offered a contractual position for two weeks with the promise of a chance to become a full time employee at the end. "If we work, we'll sign you on," they said.

Of course, they both left the company the day I started working (which was the next day). So I was a contractor for three weeks. But it's okay, because I signed the papers and am now a full-time employee. Yay.

The things to take away from my experience are:

1. Apply, even if you're not fully qualified.
2. Even if you think you're overdue, don't give up. Submit it anyway.
3. Take things in stride.
4. Go above and beyond when they ask you questions. It may be the difference between you and the next candidate.

How to Barrel into RSI, Lose, and Recover

Step 1: Make your work your hobby. Be a writer in and outside of the classroom, and, when you get bored of that, go draw for a while. Do nothing else.

Step 2: Multitask. Start multiple novels alongside your writing-intensive schoolwork. Start a webcomic with your best friend. Agree to be the sole artist on a 2D game design team. Do an Independent Study that requires several stories and a lengthy paper. Work as an editor. Write a 50,000 word novel in thirty days. Volunteer for a club to do weekly art requests.

Step 3: DO NOTHING ELSE. Also, do not stretch, take breaks, or release that pencil. Notice pain but do nothing about it.

Step 4: When the pain is overwhelming, inadvertently take outdated pain medication. Ice your arm.

Step 5: Break down and go see the doctor. Remember that your arm is a muscle too, and even though typing and drawing is not exercise, it actually kind of is.

Step 6: Do nothing for two months. Attempt to become ambidextrous.

Step 7: Attend physical therapy. Learn what the Graston Technique is. Hate it. Liken it to a cheese grater under your skin. Make the therapist laugh.

Step 8: Get out of physical therapy early for good behavior. Work only in fifteen minute intervals.

Step 9: Get an ergonomic keyboard. Never work without a good desk and a chair.

Step 10: Get Dragon Naturally Speaking. Attempt to rework your neurological pathways. Realize that while your writing is good, your eloquence is lacking. 

Step 11: Learn to hate Dragon. Go back to fifteen minute intervals.

Step 12: Actually figure out what Repetitive Stress Injury is. Learn preventative exercises. Exercise daily. Stretch before and after working. Remember to take breaks and to ice after a lengthy period. Start a strength training regimen for your arm.

Alternatively, you could skip steps 2-11. I highly recommend this. As for RSI exercises, here is a fantastic (albeit slightly unnerving) website. 

Moving and Dishes

I don't know how many moves you have made, but if you've made just one, you know how frustrating, confusing, and emotional they can be. I have moved (excuse me while I count this up) ten times. I am officially out of fingers.

As a kid, moving was a little like an adventure: one day, all of you stuff is gone! You sleep on the floor and get pizza for lunch and dinner. You take a long trip and you step outside and everything smells different. Then, it's like Christmas because you get to take your stuff out of boxes again. You find things that you had lost! You get a new room! And, when everything's unpacked, you get to make forts out of boxes! Or ride down the stairs in them! 

Older, not so much. I actually missed out on the last two big moves that my family did. The other moves between then and now were into a dorm, out of a dorm, and between two apartments. No big deal.

But this move was madness. 

First off, my parents have been together for roughly 23 years. My dad was military for 24. They have lived in two countries besides the US. And my mom is a shopper. Not a frequent shopper, like, shop every day or bust shopper, but one of those silent, scary ones that goes to Poland for a weekend and brings back a new set of polish pottery. Or fifteen. Or, say, goes to San Antonio for a week and comes back in a UHaul (true story). And her purchases are not frivolous, little nicnaks, they are either MONSTROUS, hilariously fragile, or stupidly heavy for their size. It's a triple threat. 

When my parents moved to Panama City, they got all of the stuff out of storage. At this point, my parents had three storage places, because my dad kept opting for overseas tours. This translates to a lot of crap. 

I know my mother has a dish problem. Or, at least, I thought I did. I believe the movers packed and delivered no less than NINE DISH PACKS. Do you know how heavy dish packs are? Do you know how big dish packs are? NINE. The guy who was packing the dishes, Mike, had a calf every time he opened up a cabinet because the dishes were almost never ending. And she hides them everywhere, so once he got the cabinets cleared out, my mom appeared with more dishes.

But what's worse is that, out in the garage, there are broken dishes. A shelving unit full of broken dishes. We have been lugging around broken dishes for nearly two decades. Why? Because my mother is an artist and she will make a collage out of them. So she says and has been saying since she started the collection. I have yet to see her glance twice at them. The perk is that instead of apologizing when you accidentally break a dish, you can say, "Hey look, art supplies!"

Sometimes, I wonder if I could actually get away with "inadvertently" destroying an entire set of dishes. If I said nothing, I probably could, because she wouldn't notice for another decade if I chose carefully. There are a lot of dishes. Maybe I'll count them someday. Either way, I can just imagine the glorious sound of pottery against concrete, almost like scoring a goal in air hockey, albeit louder and more vindictive.

I don't hate all the dishes that she has; they're tasteful and pretty. I have an issue with the Polish pottery, mostly because they're heavy enough to break toes. I do not exaggerate.

Overall, though, the move went well. We still have way too many dishes for the amount of cabinets in the house and we have an entire drawer dedicated to tiny teacups that I didn't know existed. I love teacups. 

My Body and I are not Friends.

My body and I are at war. I want to go about my life peacefully. My body does not. Here are some of the ways it wages battle against me:

1) When I sneeze, I sneeze violently. And not only do I sneeze violently, I sneeze multiple times (my family swears that five is the magic number-my dad does the same thing). I have hit my head on the steering wheel or dashboard several times thanks to particularly explosive sneezes. There is no discernible cause for them either, they just happen. But the weirdest thing of all is that, in the last couple of years, I have developed a yawn that follows every batch of sneezes. People who know me now wait for the yawn to say "Bless you." SO. STRANGE.

2) I am hilariously prone (again, for no apparent reason) to hiccups. They've been happening so much lately that I have received a steady stream of loving ridicule from my family for it. Because I don't just hiccup. Oh no. I squeak. It's like I'm an invisible dog's favorite squeaky toy. It just comes and gnaws on me and I start making these high-pitched mousy noises. Holding my breath doesn't work. Sugar doesn't work. Honey works once in a blue moon. THEY JUST KEEP COMING.

3) Most seriously, annoyingly and probably the source of all my body's displeasure with me is my right arm. I am a writer and an artist and nothing else. This means that my work is also my hobby. So, last year I had the most fantastic realization that I could not just write and draw whenever I wanted. My arm is a muscle too. It needs rest. So while I was an editor, full time Creative Writing/English student, video-game artist, comic artist, and writer all at the same time, my arm decided that it had enough and it was just going to check out for a while. I was in agony. I went to the doctor, who sent me to a physical therapist. He told me, "You are like a marathon runner who never walks." Essentially, I had destroyed every major tendon group in my arm. They couldn't even put a brace on it because any one brace would aggravate other parts of the arm. They told me not to use it until they let me. I had to become left handed. Sad to say, I am not ambidextrous.

And they prescribed physical therapy. I will explain that torture at a later date. Of all the things that I have done to my body, getting punished with physical therapy was the worst. >XC

Right now, as far as the arm is concerned, we are having peace talks in the form of daily RSI exercises. It's going well.

That Awkward Moment When...

This is one of the moments that I am reminded that people are not privy to my thoughts. And that I should learn to put my mind in gear before running my mouth.

So... I was at dinner with my family: Mom, Dad, Thing 1, and Thing 2. I had just started reading Game of Thrones. The table was quiet, which is strange for us. I sat, deep in thought about what had just happened in the story (I give no spoilers). The more I concentrated on the theory that I was forming, the more I felt this uncontrollable need to fill the silence of our dinner table. So I turned to my brother, who was next in line for the book, and said:

"I'm sad to say, I foresee incest in the future."

If I had given some more thought to that statement, I wouldn't have said it. But I did. My dad stopped eating and said, "Excuse me?" which my mother parroted and Thing 2 (the other brother) started laughing.

It's been three weeks and they still haven't let me live it down.

Looking for a Job is Depressing

Now that I have finished my career as an English major and have begun my career trying to find a job as a professional bum, I am in the process of moving down to Tampa. Looking for a job is a test of will, different for each job seeker. For me, it's how long I can stand looking at jobs that I'm unqualified for before I start hating myself.

My younger brother, who is here with me, is supposedly starting his "job" tomorrow. He's a sophomore in college who is gunning for an actual degree: Electrical and Mechanical Engineering. Just barely, he snagged a job at a firm, but it's like a part part part part part time job, so he's only supposed to be working two days a week. (It's better than nothing, alright?) Anyway, I call it his "job" because he is being completely trolled by these people. He was actually supposed to start yesterday. Now he's supposed to start tomorrow. He didn't even know exactly when he was going to start until last Thursday and they said Wednesday but didn't specify a time. On Tuesday, they told him to come in at 10am. They called him at about 830am on Wednesday and said come in Thursday because Debbie flooded a chunk of the West Florida Coast, which included the somewhat local area. 


I believe that they will call him tomorrow morning and stall him again. But that's just me. 


In the last three days, when I get terribly depressed about looking for a job, my brother and I get in the car and go off on a magical adventure. Unfortunately, Tampa is not London (from which I have recently returned), so our adventures are not so magical. Actually, they're kind of boring. Yesterday, we went to the mall. Neither of us like clothes, shoes, or shiny things, so that cut out most of the stores. We wandered aimlessly, talking about I don't know what. We then decided to go walk outside, so of course it started raining. We gave up.

If we were in London, we would've gone to somewhere awesome, like... I don't know... Ben's Cookies or Parliament or Covent Garden. The Wobbly Bridge. Something. I miss Ben's Cookies.

Today, we decided we were going to try the walk thing again, so we walked up and down Bay Shore Boulevard, which frankly stank more than it distracted me from the whole not employed issue. I mean, like fish. We did see a brief glimpse of dolphins. The heat chased us indoors, so I decided to start this blog. Why the hell not. 


Here I go adjusting to not-college, not-foreign life. Whoopeee. 


The jobs I have applied to so far:
Proofreader, Clerical Desk Job, Internship, Photography Assistant, Marketing Assistant.