Ziggy Zaggy Zoom Zoom

Four words. Four simple, nonsensical, pointless words. Ziggy. Zaggy. Zoom. Zoom. The four words that have continued to haunt me since 1979. The four words that made it known mistakes would not be tolerated, and any sense of normalcy or mediocrity or adequacy was simply not encouraged, accepted, or allowed.

In 1979, I was in kindergarten, and my crippling panic and anxiety was already well established and in full force (though it would be DECADES before it was actually acknowledged and successfully treated). Since I can remember, I experienced severe stomachaches, night sweats, day sweats, pounding heart, sweaty palms, debilitating insomnia, and fingernail biting on the daily. What a delight I was! The thing is, I hid it so well, no one ever knew because I didn’t want to be “different” or let anyone know I was suffering the way I was. Not only did I already know that trauma was exclusive to my mom (and her only), I was desperate for approval amongst my peers to fill the lack of it I received at home. I didn’t want to be singled out because I was constantly stressed, which only managed to stress me out even more.

I knew my role, and that role was to not make waves, make sure mom was appeased, and do whatever it takes to make other people happy. And I was really good at it! As troubling as people-pleasing can be, I know that, in this life, I have made the people I love (and even those I don’t know well!) feel special with sincerity, and have never gone out of my way to be mean to anyone for any reason, and that is something I will never be ashamed of. It also means I developed a stress ulcer by third grade, requiring nauseating medicine that tasted like chalk, which I had to take during the school day, thus singling me out for all the reasons I tried to keep secret. But I digress.

Ms. Chamberlain was the only teacher for the ‘gifted’ kindergartners and she’d been doing it forever by the time my class reached her. She did real estate on the side, which would quickly become her main focus throughout our school year, and her joy for teaching was clearly lacking by the time we entered her lair. It was clear she was burnt out (and look, I get it, and I don’t blame her. I was a teacher, and it’s not for the weak), but boy, was she mean. I taught middle school and high school and I don’t know if anyone knows this, but those ages are WILD, especially when it comes to school, and I still couldn’t imagine putting my beloved students through what she did us.

Every day, we would do your standard curriculum. Numbers, colors, shapes, etc. I remember one time, she asked the class what letter could also sound like ‘S.’ Always eager to please, I raised my hand, she called on me, and I said, “F?” She was visibly irritated. I agree, it didn’t make any sense, but I wanted to be involved! The letter was C, and none of us got it. Again, we were five!

It also didn’t help that I was left-handed. People are always shocked when I tell them that being left-handed in the late 70s and early 80s (and even today!) was super frowned upon, to the point the select few of us were singled out, given green rubber scissors (which were the absolute WORST! You could never actually cut anything, then the teacher would get mad because the paper was so choppy after every attempt), and dealt every eye roll known to man. When I was in fourth grade, I broke my left wrist. My teacher had no mercy and insisted I still participate in handwriting (today, known as cursive, but I don’t even think that’s a word students understand anymore), so I adapted and learned to write with my non-dominant hand. I am only ambidextrous out of necessity. But you should see my right-handed penmanship. It’s something to behold!

As was the standard at the time, part of our day was dedicated to coloring. Pictures of animals, buildings, autumnal scenes, sunshine, florals, etc. At recess, which is typically a time to take a break, regain steam, take a deep breath, and get ready for the rest of the day ahead, Ms. Chamberlain would instead give each of us a stick of chalk and instruct us to draw a circle on the playground. If said circle contained a ‘tail’ (meaning, if you drew a circle but finished with a mark inside or outside the circle upon completion), it was wrong, and you had to do it again.

When we returned to the classroom after being berated for failing to draw a perfect circle, we were given crayons and paints to make whatever pictures were in front of us perfect. And there was a song. To this day, I have to remind myself that it is okay to color outside the lines, and that those who do are typically the most mentally stable people walking among us.

But first.

One day (out of the five we were in her care), Ms. Chamberlain asked us, as a group, to hold up six fingers. As expected, the majority of my class held up their right hand with five fingers, and their left with their thumb. Well, I’d already failed at the ‘sounds like S’ test, but I refused to give up the good fight of proving I belonged in this ever-elite program.

I knew how to count to six, and I knew there was more than one way to hold up six fingers. So instead of going along with the rest of the class, I held up my index, middle, and ring fingers on each hand. One, two, three…four, five, six. It was six fingers and I was sure of it. When I tell you this did not go over well with Ms. Chamberlain. The look on her face would have you believe I had just clubbed a baby seal and wore its skin as a trophy. Her eyes became black, just like a shark, and her lips pursed so tight it looked like she had just eaten a lemon raw. She stopped the class, looked me square in the eye, and through gritted teeth and a tone I only ever recognized from my mother, said, “Do. It. RIGHT.” But, hadn’t I? She said to hold up six fingers, and I was holding up six fingers!

As I held back tears while the whole class stared, I retracted the three fingers on each hand and dutifully put up five on my right hand, and my thumb on my left. I felt so embarrassed at the time and I could feel my face burning as my tummy began to rumble. I cried myself to sleep that night, because I couldn’t figure out what I had done to make her so angry. Now? I remain furious on behalf of that little girl who did absolutely nothing wrong.

Needless to say, I was on her shit list, and she made it no secret. Just another quick reminder here that we.were.five. FIVE! Wasn’t kindergarten supposed to be a joyous time where kids learn how to “do” school (none of us are born knowing what to do the moment we enter a classroom. We’re also learning to deal with separation anxiety, while trusting that our parents will, indeed, be back for us at the end of the day)? I mean geez lady, give us a break! My standardized (dare I say biased) tested IQ had nothing to do with being a sensitive little kid who just wanted to be liked and cared for!

An activity like coloring in those early elementary years should be fun and exploratory and free from scores or judgment. I firmly hold the belief you cannot grade creativity. Putting a letter on someone else’s attempt to express themselves is counterproductive at best, and soul-crushing at worst. Who cares if the whole picture was colored with aqua blue, or sunshine yellow, or even burnt sienna? This is the time to let the juices flow, be yourself, and spend some well-earned energy on less structured assignments. At least in my book. Certainly, learning to color within the lines has its place, and serves as more of a metaphor for things that present later in life, but drilling it over and over, to the point hands are shaking out of fear the scarlet red fruit might have a ‘tail’ seems excessive.

We sang this song while coloring. Over and over. (We also had to be sure to use only appropriate colors. Nothing drab or dull; everything had to POP!) Here’s how it went:

“Don’t Color Ziggy Zaggy Zoom Zoom

Don’t Color Ziggy Zaggy Zoom Zoom

But Color STRAIGHT!”

And when she said straight, she meant it. No sideways coloring. No different patterns. Total uniformity. The fact I still love to color is a wonder! Even though I sometimes find myself correcting “mistakes” or abandoning a picture because I actually colored in the wrong direction. But I’m working on it!

It’s bonkers the things that stick with us. This is a song I learned 47 years ago, and it still plays clear as day in my head. It goes to show you how much words really matter, and it’s our choice whether to put positive or negative ones out there. I will always choose positive. Regardless if it’s self-serving or not, making others feel good about themselves makes me feel good about myself. I don’t see that as a bad thing! I often wonder whether Ms. Chamberlain ever did any self-reflecting on her teaching style, or if, at the end of the day, she wrapped herself in her gold Century 21 realtor’s jacket and sold her methods elsewhere. I would assume she was wildly successful in sales. I would buy from her just to avoid her wrath.

Thankfully, for all the littles who came after, she retired from teaching after our school year. We were the last to serve under her regime. What I took away from that fateful year was never let anyone tell you how to put those six fingers up, and color as Ziggy, as Zaggy, and as Zoom Zoom as you want. Life is too short to stay within the lines.

The Interview

Job interview — Scene from the movie *Office Space;* image courtesy via *Alignmentality*

“My considerable lack of enthusiasm for this particular job?” That’s what I said when the LPE (Latest Potential Employer) asked me what I believed my greatest weakness was. It’s not that it wasn’t true, because it was. It was more that while my brain was doing its best to come up with a sorry-not-sorry weakness that would both charm and impress the interviewer, my mouth had already instinctively formed the words and released them like a warm fart in a crowded room.

I could almost see the answer lingering in the air, funking up the office for much longer than it should, knowing I couldn’t do the “it wasn’t me” look while not-so-subtly gesturing to wave away the smell. It’s safe to say he did not share my same sense of humor, given the look on his face.

TV character Elaine Benes; image courtesy via *A Norwegian Blog*

We both sat silent for what felt like a full day, which began to make me worry I would follow up my already brilliant answer with an actual fart, until he uttered a “Welp” and a sigh. At first, I wanted to kick my own ass for lacking the necessary filter mandatory to charm and impress in such a situation. I can’t count as high as the number of times I’ve wished I could have preemptively slapped my hand over my mouth to prevent it from acting like a muddy puddle in the street gutter someone drives through too fast, effectively soaking that one person filled with hope while dressed in Sunday’s best. Then I thought, “Who does THIS guy think he is?” He sighed. He shook his head. HE SAID WELP! As a Midwest transplant, there is no truer sign that it’s time to leave than when the host slaps their knees and says welp. It was official. I was cooked.

Plus, why did he even care? Was I the only unemployed, underpaid, over-educated person applying for this barely minimum-wage job I was far too qualified for? Even if that WAS the case, then why bother with the interview process at all? Why not just hand me the shitty job on a benefit-less platter, refer to me as “doll,” and call it a day?

The interview lasted for another equally cringe-worthy 20 minutes, until it came to an end with the proverbial, “Do you have any questions for me?” I did. I had a ton of them.

Like, “Why is there so much oil all over the stack of papers on your desk when this establishment does not deal in anything oil-related?”

“Do you really believe the pay you’re offering matches the seemingly ENDLESS (and quite honestly, RIDICULOUS) duties required of this position?”

“How long has that sandwich been on your desk?”

Lastly, “How in the Hell is anyone supposed to answer that ridiculous, lame-ass, filler fluff, ‘greatest weakness’ question?”

I didn’t ask any of them, much as I wanted to. Instead, I stood up, shook his hand, thanked him for his time, and left. When I got in my car, I pulled out my notebook and made a little check mark on my to-do list next to “fail miserably at interview for job you didn’t want to begin with.” Nailed it.

I received a call two hours later with an exuberant offer to join “the team.” I actually took that job and worked it for a whole 10 days before I realized I’d rather pour warm bleach in my cereal bowl than be told what a “useless see-you-next-Tuesday” I was because I wasn’t able to dispatch a repairperson to fix a semi-leaky dishwasher within the next five minutes.

Tina_fey_eye_roll — TV character Liz Lemon from 30 Rock; image courtesy via dailykos

These days, I’m lucky to even be invited to interview for a job, much less one in my professional field. When I was younger and before I went to college, I would see a “help wanted” ad in the classified section of the newspaper (remember those?), walk myself in, and get the job. Every time. I don’t even think I had a resume at that time and if I did, it was most likely my community theater resume. While I had a good number of leading roles under my belt, I’m fairly certain “chorus member #3” was what really sold me. Team player. Supportive. Willing to work hard for very little recognition.

Now? I’m lucky to snag an interview for every 30-40 resumes I send out. Which, to be honest, doesn’t make sense. I have much more practiced experience, a solid (dare I say, impressive) college education wherein I graduated with honors, maintain a side of to-this-day monumental student loan debt, and a steadfast and prideful work ethic. But, for whatever reason, the phone just doesn’t ring. While I love being (and made the conscious decision to become) a freelancer, I’m beginning to question…is it me? (Don’t bother…I already know the answer.)

I can’t just sit around doing my best to look busy when I know I have so much more to offer, and I won’t work twice as hard for several thousand dollars less than I made 15 years ago. FIFTEEN YEARS! Trust me, I do not believe I am above anyone, anything or any job.

I once applied for a position at a world-renown hospital (which so happens to be five minutes from my house), transporting bodies to the morgue because it offered steady pay, a nice daily workout, and enviable benefits. I didn’t get the job because I had “too much experience and should look into applying for more jobs in my field, but thanks anyway! Good luck in your future job search!” Apparently, they didn’t realize I’d already done so at the very same hospital for every single opening that matched my qualifications, only to receive a variation of the same email six months after having applied for each position.

Which brings me back to those interview questions. Those asinine, non-relevant, what-do-you-want-me-to-say-and-I’ll-say-it questions potential employers never fail to ask. “Tell me about a time you (insert a problem you encountered on a job that somehow relates to the this one) and how did you solve it?” “How would you handle (insert potentially horrible situation you’ll probably encounter during your employment here) to yield the best results? “What do you consider to be your greatest strength (insert lying through your teeth with big words to prove how invaluable you would be to the company while maintaining complete and total humility)?” And my favorite…”What do you consider to be your greatest weakness?”

michael-bolton — Movie character Michael Bolton from *Office Space*; image courtesy via *Imgflip*

I’ve read all I can read about how to answer this question. I’ve asked friends, family, professionals, people who’ve gotten jobs after having been asked this same thing: I’ve done.my.research. I’ve answered it in countless ways. I’ve spun it to become a strength. I’ve done the, “Sometimes I can be hard on myself because I want the job done right.” “I’m often as enthusiastic about the small things as I am about the big, which leads me to work as hard on both, thus sacrificing personal time.” “Sometimes I put others’ successes above my own because I believe in the team as a whole.” I’m not saying these things aren’t true, but they’re garbage answers and provide zero insight into who I am and how I’ll fare in the position.

You know what else is true about my greatest weaknesses? I’m terrified of spiders to the point I’ll mow down anyone in front of me without regard for their safety to ensure my own, because spiders are proof that Satan exists on earth.

Not today — Wall hanging; image courtesy via *Etsy.com*

I’m also afraid of the dark, which results in a higher electric bill because I have to sleep with my TV on at night so the monsters under my bed will be too entertained to eat my ankles when I get up to go to the bathroom.

If I say I’m going to throw-up, MOVE, because I’m going to throw-up, which can happen at will if I’m nervous, overtired, or you look at me funny and I’ve been that way since I was a kid, so I don’t see it changing at this point.

I have a delayed reaction to fear, in that when I’m startled or caught by surprise, it takes a full three seconds to register, resulting in body spasms that begin at my toes and make their way to my very full head of red hair standing straight up, and ending with a sound that could only be described as a group of prepubescent boys warming up for a dreaded school choral concert.

Are these the kinds of answers I should be giving? I feel like they say a lot more about me than, “Sometimes I work too hard.” Maybe I should start answering like this (assuming I actually receive another invitation to interview.) Physics dictates for every action there is an equal and opposite reaction. Perhaps it’s the opposite action that would yield me the equal and best reaction.

TV character George Costanza; image courtesy via *Pinterest*

Of course at this point, it could be my complete and total apathy toward the application/potential interview process that’s the problem because it’s always the same job that is rarely (if ever) in my professional field. Maybe I should remove “Ready, willing, and able to sniff out the bullshit before it starts to stink” under the “Skills and Attributes” portion of my vitae.

Then again….