I Know Suicide

I’ve had two friends try to commit suicide and another one succeed. Once when I was seventeen, and twice within one month when I was twenty. These experiences are why I have zero tolerance for those feigning ignorance regarding suicide and mental illness, and why 1-800-273-8255 Your Life Matters might’ve sounded like a rant…

Two days ago I wanted to write this blog instead but chickened out because I didn’t want to come across as insensitive or bragging…I don’t know, my anxiety was telling me I’d fuck up the delivery and I didn’t want to disrespect anyone.

What’s changed? I believe understanding mental illness and all of its tangled branches is important to our growth as a population AND community. We need to do the work, together, and how does that happen? By talking about it.

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We were seventeen and extremely close. Every night after school we’d meet under the street light, sit on the curb and talk about our day, our future goals and what our parents did to piss us off.

After months and months of spending time together, we tried to date. It only lasted a week. It just didn’t feel right, we were SO close. The day after we broke up he skipped class and hung out with a mutual friend.

At the end of the day, that same friend came running to my house after dropping him off to ask, “what the fuck did you do? He said he wanted to try the 24 pills in the 24-hours thing, he’s been out of it all day and I don’t know how many, if any, he’s already taken.”

Before he could finish his sentence I had sprinted off towards his house in just my socks. My heart was pounding louder than I was pounding on his front door. His two sisters answered, the youngest one in tears begging me to not call the police (he was on probation for drugs).

He was laid up on the couch, unconscious. His face didn’t look normal and I freaked out, jumped on top of him and shook him while screaming his name until one of his eyes opened and then rolled to the back of his head.

I was shouting questions to keep him awake while his youngest sister was shouting, “please don’t call the cops, mom will be home soon. He can’t go back to juvie!”

So I didn’t.

Instead, I went back home and waited, and waited, and waited. Deep down I knew I should’ve called 911. I fucked up, he was going to die. I sat on the front porch waiting and waiting.

Finally, sirens came.

All I remember is running out to the front yard and losing it in the lawn. He spent two days in the hospital, got his stomach pumped and the story his mother told was, “she had hidden her muscle relaxers in her migraine medicine bottle. It was her fault he had taken the wrong pills.”

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We were closing together and it had been a long night. We both had gotten our ass kicked with the late dinner rush and per usual, I was behind the grill helping push tickets out. It was stressful but my coworker was feeling the pressure more so than me.

For the past couple of weeks, he had been living life medication free and not by choice. A problem with insurance refusing to cover its portion of the payment for his meds left him powerless and unable to afford his stabilizer.

He suffered from schizophrenia. When he was on his meds you’d never know, but when he was off them, you knew.

This night hadn’t been his night. He had lost his temper on an elder couple when they spilled their drink and demanded he clean it up and bring them another. Instead of letting it go he walked out with a child’s sippy cup and told them, “this might suit you better.”

The couple complained and he got reprimanded by the manager on duty. After the scolding, it went south fast. We got our ass kicked, food wasn’t coming out quick enough and when I jumped on the grill to help he lashed out.

“Where the fuck is my food!” he shouted while launching the stack of grill trays toward me on the other side. I responded with an equal amount of anger and chucked a plate in his direction.

He disappeared.

Me and one other server were stuck trying to play clean up and catch up.

I found him later mumbling in the breakroom, pacing and unable to sit still. All I remember is he kept repeating, “tell my mom I love her.” When I pushed for him to explain he bolted out of the breakroom.

He had been writing suicide notes and had only managed to grab two of three he had written. After finding and reading the note I brought it to my manager’s attention. My manager claimed, “he’s doing it for attention, forget about it and go home.”

I called the cops anyways.

They put him in holding, got him his meds and he now lives in South Florida.

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She didn’t have a stable schedule at work. She’d work for months and then I wouldn’t see her for weeks. Sometimes she was the life of the shift, made the hustle fun, had a joke for every moment and was full of life. 

Other times you couldn’t approach her. She was silent, deadpanned, and unresponsive no matter how hard you tried to make her smile.

“Not today Shannon,” my coworker (who had been around awhile and knew her the best) would tell me. “Today isn’t her day.”

She suffered from depression and bipolar. She was in her late forties, still lived with her mother and didn’t have any family of her own.

After a couple of years knowing her and honestly being pleasantly surprised each time my shift coincided with hers, one day she didn’t show up.

The next day we found out she had committed suicide, Mom found her. The hardest part was working the next week knowing when she was supposed to be there and having to pretend like it didn’t happen. Nobody wanted to talk about it, not the managers or a majority of coworkers.

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The first story I shared is mostly why I didn’t want to write this post. I carried guilt for many years, even despite the fact we were still friends for a while after this instance. It felt like his family and our mutual friends blamed me.

For the few who knew, his overdose was never mentioned without noting I had broken up with him.

I now know this wasn’t fair. He had been struggling for many months with hard drugs, pills and staying in school. Me breaking up with him wasn’t mean or “the ultimate friend zone” jab. The relationship didn’t feel right when after I was expected to kiss him, and I couldn’t pretend because it wouldn’t be fair to either one of us.

He was depressed and struggling to fit in at home. He had his own issues to sort out with no information or help from the adults in his life. Bottom line, he (and everyone else) is responsible for his own actions. He popped the pills.

The second story opened my eyes to the importance of having affordable access to medication and truly understanding a person with mental illness is powerless to their disease when left without meds.

He couldn’t help it how he acted off his meds. If he had a choice I’m sure he would’ve chosen to not manage life with schizophrenia.

And for the third story, I don’t think I ever grieved her death. Whenever her name got brought up it fell quiet, so we all pretended like it didn’t happen and never let ourselves go there. It’s like she never existed, and that makes me extremely sad because she was an incredible lady.

There’s a bit of information or understanding to be learned from all three narratives, and I hope it further drives home my point that mental health matters. You’re life matters and may we all remember, everyone is fighting their own daily secret battles, so be kind.

Now to keep up with my promise to practice gratitude to fight my tendency to forbode joy: Currently feeling gratitude for these three difficult life experiences that opened my eyes to a whole other (semi) understanding of the importance of mental health. What are you feeling grateful for?

Cultivate it.

I play better on Instagram than Facebook but regardless, come be my friend online. RamblinRandol is my personal journey about understanding myself more with the hopes it’ll help someone else in the twenty-something/pushing thirty struggles.

Shame. What Is It Good For? Absolutely​ Nothing.

Do you have shame? Apparently, we all do according to Brene Brown. Here’s what I learned after reading Brown’s chapter about shame and how to combat those nasty gremlins talkin’ nonsense inside your head. Sharing in case it helps one of you, too. 

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Do I have shame? “Well, I don’t know,” was my first thought after reading the question. On the surface level, I’m not ashamed of who I am, how I got here or where I want to go. There’s a chip on my shoulder I’m a bit proud of and have a deep inner strength that propels me to keep pushing forward–no matter what. All characteristics I’m proud to own.

Shannon in a nutshell; moved out at a young age and paid all her own bills without EVER having to ask for help, got herself through college and graduated with a Bachelor’s despite having to take a year and a half off to deal with the joys of being a Navy wife. It took longer than everyone else, but I paid my way through junior college and figured out how to manage University with loans, internships and a solid year with no day off to get me in the position I am now.

Point blank, nobody thought I could do it and nobody paid my damn rent or filled my refrigerator with groceries, or gave me daily pep talks to counter-act all the other shit that life was flinging at me in those years.

I did it, and then me and my man did it, together. And I’m proud of those years, proud to say we did it alone. The flame that burned deep in the pit of my gut kept me pushing, climbing and propelling myself to the finish line, is what I’m truly proud of about myself because not everyone gets the guts and glory.

But wait, one simple question breaks all that internal strength and leaves me fumbling for words. So, where’s your family? Boom. Instant shame. Well, instant shame mixed with anger, let me explain.

When people find out I’m not from around here (or wherever I’m living at the time) they immediately want to know how I got to the patch of grass we’re now sharing, which is great because I’ve gotten extremely good at giving the watered down ‘me in a nutshell’ version to people.

I’ll get to the end and without fail, the first question is, “so, where’s your family.” Cue anger. “Wtf do they have anything to do with this conversation,” is what I want to say, instead it’s, “oh, we’re spread out. Some live back in New York while others have planted in Florida.”

People are curious, I get it. But can I just control the conversation and only talk about what I want to talk about? Of course not, and this is where I begin to understand shame.

My family couldn’t pay for my college tuition, or give me the movie ‘going away to college’ experience. No dorms. No sororities. No college keggers. I had to pick (what I say in my mind) lower end schools because I couldn’t afford the fancy four-year state universities my friends got to attend. I had to work, pay bills AND try to finish school.

That’s shame.

It sounds silly to write down, but it’s true. The shame gremlins (what Brown calls the nasty voices in our heads) tell me I’m not smart or good enough because I didn’t go to a state university with a competitive football team, which leads to the circumstance of my parents not being able to provide that luxury.

On one hand I’m proud to have hoofed it myself, but on the other hand, I’m ashamed of why I had to hoof it. The reason I’m proud of myself for making it through is the same reason I’m ashamed, strange right?

I don’t want to be labeled, ‘less than’ because of circumstances out of my control i.e. finances. So when somebody asks me about my family after learning of my life’s journey, I assume it’s because they want to know where the hell my family has been through all of this and I instantly feel shame, not because I’m ashamed of them but because the person doing the asking is probably judging them for ‘not being around,’ and that makes me angry, too.

Brown says, “shame is universal and one of the most primitive human emotions we experience. The people who don’t have it lack the capacity for empathy and human connection. Here’s your choice: Fess up to experiencing shame or admit that you’re a sociopath. Quick note: This is the only time that shame seems like a good option.” 

Okay, Okay, I admit it, I have shame.

According to her definition, shame is the intensely painful feeling or experience of believing we are flawed and therefore unworthy of love and belonging, and that there are 12 shame categories that’ve emerged from her research.

  1. Appearance and body image
  2. Money and work
  3. Motherhood/fatherhood
  4. Family
  5. Parenting
  6. Mental and physical health
  7. Addiction
  8. Sex
  9. Aging
  10. religion
  11. Surviving trauma
  12. Being stereotyped or labeled

Sidebar: There’s a difference between shame and humiliation (yup, apparently they’re not the same thing even though they sound pretty mutually exclusive). Shame is thinking “I am bad” while humiliation or guilt is “I did something bad.”

Shame holds us back and keeps us from being our best self. My best guess is that because I think less of myself I limit myself to opportunities that seem “too grandiose,” and possibly in other ways I can’t even see because I’m still operating out of shame, fear, AND guilt. WOOF.

How do you combat shame? Talk about it. Give it a name. The more you talk about it the less control it has over your life.

Cheers to hoping that Texan Brene Brown is right, because my damn gremlins are telling me this whole post was a waste of time and it’s not helping anyone, and that I just want to bable about myself…

Cultivate it.

I play better on Instagram than Facebook but regardless, come be my friend online. 

10 Ways to Dare Greatly According to Brene Brown – How Many Are You Doing?

Hey, it’s Monday and my eyes and nose are so swollen I have to keep my eyebrows raised in order to see through my eyelids. No really. I tried this new face cream by Loreal and it blew my face up like a balloon. It has collagen in it and I don’t think you’re supposed to carelessly rub it all over your face, which I did because patience is not my strong suit.

Anyways, I hope everyone reading is having a good start to their week and if you’re not…at least you don’t look like this….

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Last night I started reading my first (and I’m assuming the first of many) Brene Brown book titled Daring Greatly and within the first damn page had me pegged. The fact she nailed down one of my biggest flaws regarding relationships almost sent me slamming the book shut out of pure stubbornness and refusal to believe some random stranger could know me. As if!

The line that got me was this, “keep people at a safe distance and always have an exit strategy,” and the first thing I thought was, “No! Other people do this, too? This isn’t a problem!”

For as long as I can remember, having an exit strategy has always been super important to my own mental survival and not just when it relates to relationships or connecting with others.

Whenever I’m surrounded by large crowds (parades, movie theaters, restaurants) I make sure to note where the exits are in case of an emergency. Even when I get stopped waiting for a train to pass, I leave a car length spot in front of me just in case I have to be able to maneuver out of the line of cars to safety.

Being trapped and not being able to get out is my number one fear. It’s what my nightmares depict, so it only makes sense I keep people at a safe distance paired with an equally safe (for me) exit strategy.

What’s equally as interesting is that for the past two decades I have spent a good chunk of time getting myself out of sticky, tricky, and sometimes life-threatening situations. So how come I still fear it? Do I lack self-confidence in myself or am I paranoid?

I struggle with self-confidence but not in this aspect of the word, protecting myself and staying safe has consistently been my strong suit and it’s possible I’m too good at it. So much so that I know I don’t technically need anyone to help me make big decisions or guide me through life. I’ve proved it true numerous times, so it reinforces the thought “relationships are a burden.”

This safe distance blockade I’ve built was invisible to me up until a year ago. I didn’t even know I was doing it, or aware/curious that this might be why I struggle with every relationship I’ve ever tried to have, and recently realized my technique for protection didn’t avoid my marriage.

It sucks to have to write this sentence, but it’s true. I feel like we all know marriages these days don’t last, and while I love my husband like no other and would kill for him if need be, I still have an exit strategy just in case it doesn’t work out between us in the end, because I don’t want to be unprepared for the worst and depending on someone else to get me through.

The thought of asking for help is still widely unpopular with me. I’d rather have a couple root-canals and do leg day every day of the week than ask for help.

In short, reading this book is going to be interesting. There’s a part of me who’s really excited to see where this journey of self-discovery is going to lead, with a high hope me sharing will help someone else reading.

But I’m also afraid I might recognize a few traits I’ll need to alter that will be easier said than done.

Brene Brown also gives a list of guidelines to wholehearted living that I want you to ponder, as I’ve been mentally digesting it for 24-hours now and is also what Daring Greatly helps get its readers to do.

  1. Cultivating Authenticity: Letting Go of What People Think
  2. Cultivating Self-Compassion: Letting Go of Perfectionism
  3. Cultivating a Resilient Spirit: Letting Go of Numbing and Powerlessness
  4. Cultivating Gratitude and Joy: Letting Go of Scarcity and Fear of the Dark
  5. Cultivating intuition and trusting faith: Letting Go of the Need for Certainty
  6. Cultivating Creativity: Letting Go of Comparison
  7. Cultivating Play and Rest: Letting go of Exhaustion As A Status Symbol and Productivity As Self-Worth
  8. Cultivating Calm and Stillness: Letting Go of Anxiety As a Lifestyle
  9. Cultivating Meaningful Work: Letting Go of Self-Doubt and ‘Supposed To”
  10. Cultivating Laughter, Song, and Dance: Letting Go of Being Cool and ‘Always in Control”

How many are you actively doing? I can only say two or three, possibly. I’ve never struggled with perfectionism and exhaustion as a lifestyle doesn’t seem like a thing I do, who knows, I might get to that chapter and choke on my own words.

So, to all my ladies out there still reading this long ass post—download Audible and create an account if you don’t have one because you get one FREE book as a thank you for signing up, so go read this damn book and join in on the convo with me.

Cultivate it.

Hercules Is The Most Underrated Disney Movie Ever

Not even sure why this one got stuck in limbo…


Netflix has released a number of new Disney movies for the month of September and to celebrate I watched Hercules.

Hercules is the most underrated Disney movie ever didn’t smack me upside the head until Hercules meets Meg for the first time and tries to save his first D.I.D. – Damsel in Distress. 7 reasons Hercules is the most underrated Disney movie ever blog image

Meg is being held hostage by the River Monster and isn’t impressed by this stranger’s offer to help save her. She stay’s calm and cool while dismissing the need for any help and still manages to slip out a sarcastic response.

Hercules, River Monster and Meg

Cheers to Meg for emulating every woman in the history, ever. Ladies have been pretending to be okay for ions, despite looking down the belly of the beast. We always know how to keep our cool, solve the problem and keep the program moving.

THEN when Herc asks how she got mixed up with the likes of a River Monster, her answer was again SPOT on.

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Some men are plain stupid.

I’m a big tough girl. I can tie my own sandals and everything.”

big tough girl quote from Meg

Can I also say how impressed I am that a story about a young man finding his place in this world depicting all his struggles was told by Disney, too? Can I get an amen?

It’s easy to forget that Disney stories are based off the Grimm Brother’s Tales with a happier spin. Disney copyrighted the “happy ending” and Hercules is a tale from Greek mythology, but it’s still important.

Just like many get upset that Disney told little girls to be saved by Princes, they did produce other sides.

Zero to Hero in a broad sense shows Hercules’ struggle to belong, and how a little determination and hard work can beat the odds with the help from those willing to go the distance for you.

Not everyone is a stepping stone in our careers, but the good ones are and that’s not a terrible message to tell kids. We hear millennials are nothing but dreamers and searching for their passions, but a large majority are working hard in an economy built against them … but I digress … anyways

Be a Jerk and Get Treated Like a Jerk

Nothing made me giggle more than when Phil gets smacked multiple times for being a womanizer or perv. As a kid you make the connection Phil wants love but is going about it in the wrong ways, so he get’s what is due to him. i.e. getting pushed into the water, multiple times.

Take Care Of Mom

Hercules loves his biological parents as well as his adoptive parents and makes a point to take care of Mom. After Hercules made his name as a Hero, he buys them a house next to the leaning tower of Pisa. How sweet is that? C’mon. So extra.

Meg Saves The Day

I think you might’ve missed what happened there at the end. If it weren’t for Meg, Hercules would’ve failed and never gotten to the pearly gates to make the choice to be with his family.

She dived to protect Herc and Hades’ curse was broken because he had promised she wouldn’t get hurt. Meg knew she could repair what she damaged by sacrificing herself. Talk about accountability!

What’s the old phrase? Behind every successful man is a strong woman? Meg is the original OG of Disney leading ladies. Get it, girl!


If there are any F.R.I.E.N.D.S fans reading, did you know Hercules is voiced by the guy Rachel was madly in love with at her personal styling gig? #TheMoreYouKnow 

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SMHS – Puppy Pistols

It’s Friday, so you know what time it is. Time for #SMHS – Sh*T My Husband Says!

There’s something special about being married and by special I mean hilarious. After a certain amount of time has passed you begin to get into the deep minutia of life and crazy metaphors, conversations, and ridiculousness get exchanged.

Here’s this week’s gem.

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I honestly can’t handle him some mornings, he’s way to awake and fiesty for me, and I get up an hour earlier to run with the dogs. 

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What’s Love Got To Do With It?

What’s love got to do, got to do with it
What’s love but a second hand emotion
What’s love got to do, got to do with it
Who needs a heart when a heart can be broken

Tina Turner said it best, what does love got to do with it? Apparently a lot, love has a lot to do with it.

Love is defined as an intense deep feeling or connection. Does that sentence make sense to you, do you grasp the concept of love based off that sentence? Well, I don’t.

When I read the definition of love, I feel a protective film of hazy fog fill up the spaces between my cognitive thinking and my heart. A few weeks ago I couldn’t understand what the haze was doing or recognize it was there, but now I understand.

The fog is protecting me, protecting me from feeling and absorbing love. The fog is confusion and it’s my defense.

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I’m lonely and my prayers for comfort fall on deaf ears. I don’t look into a mirror because if I catch my own eyes, they give me away and I’ll have to explain. Instead, the mirror is exclusively used to examine how far out my gut sits and help make mental notes on what to do at the gym.

It’s easier for me to digest the negative and hate than comprehend the love and compassion. This doesn’t mean I don’t have love or compassion for others, my heart is huge for others suffering.

I just can’t give it (grace) to myself.

A few weeks ago I was speaking to a youth pastor about God and why I’m not a believer. I explained it’s not religion that makes me uncomfortable, I find the stories of creation interesting (all of them). The psalms, prayers and big guy in the sky doesn’t scare me out of church. “It’s not even because I didn’t grow up in church,” I told him.

It’s the unconditional love from God that keeps me away. How can someone who doesn’t know you or have to love you, just give you love? “God loves all his children and died for you,” as the saying goes. I don’t get it.

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A dusty box that sat unnoticed for many years made its way back to the light a few months ago. It contained journals, diaries and notes from when I was 7-years-old all the way up to my Senior year of High school.

It seemed like a good time to relive old memories. My twenties have been tough and there’s still two years left of them. I had been feeling like I didn’t know who I was and could use reminding, so I popped them open and started the Dear Diary series, but I still avoided one box. Until yesterday …

That one box contained a handful of letters that were written to me by the first man who tried to love me.

He wrote me poems, called me Angel Dove and would go into great detail about how much his love for me burned and loved to tell anyone who would listen how much he loved me. As of yesterday, I still couldn’t read his letters in their entirety.

It’s not hard to guess what happened next.

I broke his heart, shattered it. Told him he made me sick and that I never wanted to see him again. When he came back to town for the first time after I split it off, my yard got trashed, car got egged and my voicemail was filled with a few hurtful messages. But in a way I knew I deserved it, so I didn’t fight it or respond.

A number of years later I fell in love again and did everything in my power to fuck that up, too.

Love seems easy. You read about it all the time and plenty of movies depict the art of falling in love, so is it possible to not understand what unconditional love feels like when its all around you?

If it’s possible, is that why I feel so disconnected?

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What if love felt like it wasn’t supposed to be a feeling because those things were for pussies and love was only conditional and through actions, because actions speak louder than words? Can someone who can’t feel love figure out how to be loved?

Is any of this making any sense?

In a nutshell, life has been considered unstable in my book. Friends don’t exist because in a few years you’ll lose them when you move again and acquaintances can only be trusted as far as you can throw them. This is what I tell myself.

What’s the point? Nothing lasts forever so don’t get attached, have an out and wait for the bottom to fall out.

But I’ve been telling myself a lie and doing myself an injustice. I deserve love and it deserves to have me. I matter and I am enough. Ignorance may be bliss, but awareness is enlightening. My quarrels with love and loving myself can only get better if I recognize the problem.

I deserve to be the person I know I can be and so do you.

I will rise up, despite the ache.

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And That’s What It’s All About

Ever wonder how Ramblin Randol came about? Without any further ado, And That’s What It’s All About explains it all.

My attempt to switch it up to improve my blogging consistency. Sometimes I just want to talk, out loud and use my hands.

Welcome to my first vlog post, hopefully you don’t think I sound completely insane. I can’t tell because the voices in my head match, LOL.

I promise to post 1-2 videos each month …. be really mad at me if I don’t do it. Okay?

PS: Cheers to the freekin’ weekend, I’ll drink to that!

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Unemployment Diaries: California Edition Part IX

My follow up interview was at 3:30 Monday afternoon, and I did as much cleaning, exercising and organizing to settle my nerves.

I was meeting the rest of the team at the Marconi Automotive Museum, and to not test the jinx rule, I wouldn’t allow myself to get too excited just yet, and it was hard to keep my emotions level.

But I kept my chant of why not me going in the back of my head.

True to form I showed up early, but not as early as the previous interview. I still had a case of the nerves, and I felt more anxious than I had the Friday before. Probably due to the fact I knew I could possibly get the answer I had been waiting for, for the past 10 weeks since graduation.

I was potentially going to become a productive member of society, and I could almost taste the sweet nectar of victory.

An hour later, after meeting the rest of the Marconi squad, I was pleased with how comfortable I felt during this interview, too. They all seemed like motivated, successful and fun women to work with, and I was hopeful I would be added to their team.

As the interview began to wrap up …..

I WAS OFFERED THE JOB. 

Say hello to the new marketing coordinator for the Marconi Automotive Museum!

It’s a wonderful thing when the universe works in your favor. As my FIL would say, “when it happens, because it doesn’t happen often, it’s like you understand everything completely. The path you took now makes all the sense in the world.”

And it’s true. I think the universe knew I didn’t want to live in Texas for another tornado season. It knew I wasn’t made to be a Texan for life and that California living could be the place for me. But due to my stubbornness it also knew I had to feel like I had given it my best shot before exploring other options seemed plausible.

Why not me. 

I will hopefully never serve another cup of coffee or Thanksgiving dinner as a waitress. I was able to make my phone call home and scream “you’re moving to California, I got the job!” And I was able to jump up and down with my in-laws (still too early to be nerdy with the Marconi squad) singing I got the job, I got the job!

I can’t wait to learn and grow as a communicator and begin this new chapter in life. A special thanks to my husband for pulling the trigger and shipping me to California, because he knew I needed the change and helping push. To my in-laws for housing me and loving me like their own, and to my parents, thank you for the constant support. I am who I am today because of you.

Life is good.

Unemployment Diaries: California Edition Part VIII

My interview with the Marconi Automotive Museum was scheduled for 1 p.m. on Friday. After the fiasco on Wednesday with a previous company, I was hopeful I couldn’t have two wonky interviews in a row. Plus, my family is filled with gear heads. Wouldn’t that be perfect?

My Hubs is attending UTI (an automotive school) and is currently in the top percentage of his class. And to brag a little because I’m super proud and excited for him, he’s been receiving offers from top manufacturers to attend their additional training courses after he gradates. Ironically, a majority are located in Southern California.

My father-in-law eats, breathes and dreams about rebuilding old American muscle cars, and has an ’07 Shelby getting a facelift in his garage as we speak. Him and my Hubs spent some time rebuilding a Chevy Impala when the Hubby was in high school. Not to mention, my FIL’s garage is what man dreams are made of …

My pops has always had a love for motorcycles. He wasn’t ever a fan of the sporty bikes, but enjoyed the classics that are meant for cruisin’. And his father, my grandfather, had a hobby of rebuilding cars when my pops was a kid.

Almost to good to be true, right?

I didn’t want to jinx it and get my hopes too high. I’m a believer of the jinx, and partially because I’ve been a Buffalo Bills fan for the entirety of my life, rightfully so, the Bills have annually managed to break my heart.

I arrived to the interview an hour early. I was able to drive my in-laws ’06 Mustang and I think the beaut gave me an extra pep in my step and shot of confidence. The front of the building was all glass and after 10-15 minutes I realized I didn’t want to look like a creeper. So I went in 40 minutes early. No such thing as being too early, right?

I told the receptionist I was here for an interview and that I was much too early because traffic wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be. She offered to let me walk around the museum and would have my interviewer, Missy, come get me when I was ready.

The warehouse is huge and it’s filled with fast rare cars. Mr. Marconi was definitely a fan of the Lamborghinis. I had checked out its Facebook, Twitter, Instagram and WordPress pages. And I felt like I got a good understanding of what the company was about; No weird California laws prohibited its openness (see previous post about wonky interview).

The company was everything I hoped I could land after graduation. It’s a nonprofit that gives its proceeds to a hearty amount of charities for children. The space is used as a venue to host events such as: weddings, birthdays, office Christmas parties, etc. And the job description was almost a mirror image of my resume.

Is this real life?

Many people will warn you throughout the higher education path that you’ll most likely not land a position in your desired field, because it’s difficult and companies are looking for somebody with more than entry level experience. This common conversation pushed myself to gain as much real world experience as I could before I’d walk across a stage (for the last time) and receive my diploma.

I was determined to land a job I would enjoy. This doesn’t mean I was arrogant to jobs I wasn’t too thrilled about. I applied to as many communication, writing and planning jobs I came across, because ultimately my goal was to get out of the food industry. I promised myself I wouldn’t work another Thanksgiving this year, and I had a few months to meet my deadline upon graduating.

I anxiously awaited for my interview to begin as I strolled through the impressive warehouse. I started to get a bit too excited and began imagining all the possibilities I could do if hired as the marketing coordinator. And before I could get way to excited, my interview began.

After an hour and a half of speaking with the Marconi ladies, I was asked to come back the following Monday for an additional interview. And yes, it was hard not to leap for joy into their arms and jump up and down with them in unison. Thankfully, I understand that would be awkward and probably a tad bit unprofessional.

I felt at ease during the conversation. It felt like I was catching up with two friends whom I hadn’t seen in some time. I didn’t have to search for the answers to their questions, I just knew them. And I wasn’t anxious, fidgety or afraid of saying the wrong thing. I couldn’t imagine it going any better.

I could hardly wait to tell my husband and family how well it went. As soon as I left on the train a few Mondays ago, I hoped I would be able to call the Hubs and scream I got a job and we’re officially moving to California, pack your bags!

Earlier that morning, before my interview, my FIL stopped at the bottom of the stairs (my bedroom / Hubs former bedroom is at the top of the stairs) and said a silent prayer for me to have a wonderful interview and to have all the right words.

My MIL anxiously waited for 1 o’clock to strike before bowing her head at her desk and prayed for the exact same thing.

Call it coincidence, karma or divine intervention; I had the best interview of my life. Now, I just need to make it through the weekend.