Total Perspective Vortex
What really happened to Trillian? Theories abound, but you can see what she's really been up to on this blog. If you're looking for white mice, depressed robots, or the occasional Pan Galactic Gargleblaster you might be better served here: http://www.bbc.co.uk/cult/hitchhikers/guide/.
Don't just sit there angry and ranting, do something constructive.
In the words of Patti Smith (all hail Sister Patti): People have the power.
Contact your elected officials.
Don't be passive = get involved = make a difference.
Words are cool.
The English language is complex, stupid, illogical, confounding, brilliant, beautiful, and fascinating.
Every now and then a word presents itself that typifies all the maddeningly gorgeousness of language. They're the words that give you pause for thought. "Who came up with that word? That's an interesting string of letters." Their beauty doesn't lie in their definition (although that can play a role). It's also not in their onomatopoeia, though that, too, can play a role. Their beauty is in the way their letters combine - the visual poetry of words - and/or the way they sound when spoken. We talk a lot about music we like to hear and art we like to see, so let's all hail the unsung heroes of communication, poetry and life: Words.
Here are some I like. (Not because of their definition.)
Mamas, Don’t Let Your Babies Grow Up to be Smart Girls
(A Trillian de-composition, to the tune of Mamas, Don't Let Your Babies Grow Up to Be Cowboys)
Mama don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
Don’t let them do puzzles and read lots of books
Make ‘em be strippers and dancers and such
Mamas, don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
They’ll never find men and they’re always alone
Even though men claim they want brains
Smart girls ain’t easy to love and they’re above playing games
And they’d rather read a book than subvert themselves
Kafka, Beethoven and foreign movies
And each night alone with her cat
And they won’t understand her and she won’t die young
She’ll probably just wither away
Mama don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
Don’t let them do puzzles and read lots of books
Make ‘em be strippers and dancers and such
Mamas, don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
They’ll never find men and they’re always alone
Even though men claim they want brains
A smart girl loves creaky old libraries and lively debates
Exploring the world and art and witty reparteé
Men who don’t know her won’t like her and those who do
Sometimes won’t know how to take her
She’s rarely wrong but in desperation will play dumb
Because men hate that she’s always right
Mama don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
Don’t let them do puzzles and read lots of books
Make ‘em be strippers and dancers and such
Mamas, don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
They’ll never find men and they’re always alone
Even though men claim they want brains
Life(?) of Trillian
Single/Zero
Monday, August 31, 2009
Unemployment. Month 2.
Sheesh. Month 2. Month 2.
No closer, not one glimmer of hope closer, to being gainfully employed. Even the part time jobs I've applied to haven't panned out. Apparently the fucktard got the job instead of me.
I spent the last two days helping one of my neighbors pack for moving. She was laid off from the college where she taught for 12 years. She's been trying to find a job since May, had a few interviews, but no offers, yet. Her severance is running out and our property tax is due in October so she's doing a short sale on her condo and moving in with her dad. If the short sale doesn't happen she'll go into foreclosure. The movers arrived this morning and hauled away her hastily packed life.
She told me she regrets that she didn't put her condo on the market as soon as she was laid off. If she'd sold it in May or June she would have saved the money she spent on the mortgage. The end result would have been the same: Moving back home with her dad. All she did was spend money to prolong the inevitable.
In case you're keeping score that makes two empty condos on my floor. One in full foreclosure down the hall and now the one across the hall is empty.
Bleak. Things are bleak. I'm surrounded by bleakness. A neon sheriff's department foreclosure sticker plastered across a door greets me every time I use the elevator. And now my across the hall neighbor is gone, forced out of her home of 10 years.
I'm trying to take the advice of friends and family: Keep busy.
I'm determined to not fall into the clichés of unemployment. Some are easy to avoid. I've never liked soap operas or daytime television in general. I don't buy lottery tickets. I can't stand not brushing my teeth. Not guilty, not guilty, not guilty.
However. There are other clichés creeping into my life. I'm discovering why people adopt certain, erm, "behaviors" when they're unemployed.
Bras. If I'm not going out I don't like to wear one. This is a bad, bad, bad habit. My girls are full, ample, and I'm not getting any younger...a bra is not optional. And yet...it's so easy to just not wear one. Guilty.
Hoarding. I feel a need to hoard what I have, things I need when I'm working but can use sparingly, or not at all, when I'm not going to work. Make-up, for instance. Why use make-up when I'm not going to see anyone? I have to save every penny I can. So. I cannot afford to wear make-up. Guilty.
Hygiene. In that same vein, I find it scarily easy to not shower if I'm not leaving the house. I mean, why waste the soap and shampoo and conditioner? I know. I know how that sounds. I know. But. Every penny counts, every penny. Shampoo, soap, conditioner...they cost money. Every shower I don't take is a day of soap, shampoo and conditioner saved. Saved for when I really need it - should I ever really need it, that is. Guilty.
Booze. I haven't been drinking much. Can't afford it. Though. There's a local restaurant that has cheap pitchers of tasty sangria and an outdoor back garden. I confess I've spent a few afternoons alone with a book and a pitcher of sangria. I was starting to stink and needed a reason to justify spending the soap and taking a shower and get dressed. Guilty. But not very guilty - I'm not sitting around at home getting drunk and missing interview appointments because I'm drunk or hungover. And I'm not sitting around getting drunk and watching lame daytime television.
Television. I discovered Sponge Bob is on in the afternoon. Sponge Bob makes me laugh. People tell me to try to keep my spirits up. Sponge Bob lifts my spirits. One cool thing about being an unemployed insomniac is that I feel no concern or guilt about watching movies and television into the wee hours of the morning. When I was working I never allowed myself to watch movies or television when I couldn't sleep. Now I say what the heck? Why not watch Craig Ferguson? Why not watch 5000 Fingers of Dr. T until 2 AM? Why not indeed. Guilty.
Food. I try to stick to my regular diet, eat at my regular times. But. When you're home all day, and up most of the night, it messes with your stomach's clock. Plus. Now I know why people who are unemployed don't eat balanced meals. Right now is harvest time so fresh vegetables and fruit are relatively inexpensive. I'm buying all I can afford and freezing them. Yep. The hoarding thing again. And that's okay. For centuries people have celebrated the harvest by enjoying the bounty and storing up for the long, barren winter. But. Cereal and Mac and cheese are cheaper than fresh fruit and vegetables. Ditto peanut butter and bread. It's cheaper to eat high carb, high preserved food. Period. And meal times? Yeah. Not so regular. Guilty.
I try to be productive.
I try to have something to do, a reason to take a shower, put on a bra and get out of the house. Helping others, volunteering, is the obvious choice. More time at the animal shelter seems like a great way to put my unemployed days to good use. Guess what? I'm not the only one who's unemployed and looking for ways to make good use of my days. My offer of extra hours helping with the animals was met with, "Geeee, thanks, Trill, come by any time but we already have a full roster of volunteers...we don't really need you more than your regular volunteer hours." I went anyway, a few times, and even though there are more animals than ever arriving daily, there are more volunteers than ever, too. Sure, I like hanging out with the animals, but, what that makes me is a cliché. An unemployed loser hanging out at the animal shelter on days when she's not even scheduled to volunteer. And. Worse. I was kind of, um, in the way. *Sigh.* Even homeless cats and dogs don't need me.
I've been working on a book for several months. I know this "time off" could be a great time to focus on that book. And I'm trying. But the stress and anxiety of what's going on in my life make it difficult to write any words that aren't borne of my unemployment. My brain won't concentrate on anything that isn't job hunt or personal finance related. I try to paint and draw but so far I haven't tapped into a good vein. I find it difficult to get into that place. That place is elusive.
I can't let go and relax and let the creativity take over. Stress and anxiety. I don't feel like me. My job didn't define me, but...it was a big part of my life. It was my life, mainly. And I know that's sad, wrong. But. It wasn't my choice. I've wanted more to my life than work. But.
I'm single. No kids. I spent a lot of years pursuing education and experience in the pursuit of a career. It's what I like, what I do, my focus. It's the one area of my life where I have, and derive, confidence. I am good at what I do. I like what I do. I liked my job, my actual work. I didn't like my boss or many of my coworkers, but I liked my actual job. And it fueled me, inspired me. When I was firing on all cylinders at work the synapses fired and blasted other parts of my brain which gave me all sorts of ideas apart from work.
Now I'm kind of synapse-less. Uninspired.
I derived pleasure, satisfaction and confidence from it. It was the reason I got up in the morning, where I focused my creativity, my talents, my brain, pretty much everything. It was what I did with my brain, with my life. Without a significant other or children, my job was the focus of my life.*
No, this isn't some grand epiphany. I knew my life was kind of sad in that respect. When my love life tanked I consoled myself that I had a job, a career, and that men, a relationship, didn't define me. There was more to me, more to my life, than being in a relationship. Work was my purpose. Unfortunately, other than my parents it was pretty much my sole purpose. I wanted more balance in my life, a man, travel, hobbies...but no man wants me, and I couldn't afford to travel, and while I have activities, hobbies, they're now either cost prohibitive or just don't fill up enough hours in my days. So now I'm just pacing around like a nervous cat. Out of my element, in a situation I can't control, unable to relax, unable to be me.
That's the biggest cliché of all. Guilty of investing myself in my career.
*One of my (soon-to-be-former) friends chastised me for this, "I knew something like this would happen to you. You have no man and now you have no job. You have nothing, you're completely alone and you're going to lose your home. If you had a man, a partner, this wouldn't happen to you. You might still lose your job but you wouldn't end up alone and homeless."
I know. Huh? Lots of families, couples, are homeless. Having a partner doesn't guarantee a roof over your head.
But I get her point. It is easier to manage the financial aspects of life when there are two capable adults who can work to earn a paycheck to keep a roof over heads. And she's been chilly to me ever since I apparently insulted her by questioning her lack of a job even though her kids are in school full time. She swore she was going back to work when the youngest was in first grade. When she didn't go back to work I questioned her as to when she was going to put that masters degree of hers to good use and help her husband with their expenses. There's been a cool breeze blowing between us ever since.
And now here she was calling me to point out how wrong I was for not getting married and having children and that a career isn't everything. In fact, in my case, it's now nothing. And there she was without a career but with a beautiful home, a great husband, and two great kids. (In that order.) She pointed out that she has everything that matters and I have nothing, and that I better use this time to work on myself and get my priorities straight and find a man. (Yeah. That'll solve everything.)
I found out from a mutual friend that she was "worried" that I would want to stay with them after I lose my home. I'd sooner live in a dumpster than in her little McMansion on the prairie but I didn't tell her that. Didn't see the point.
I didn't tell her anything, actually, but word spread about my "situation." She found out via the grapevine and called me to give me her two cents about how I fucked up my life by not getting married "like everyone else." I haven't spoken to this woman in over a year and there was no "hi, I heard about your job, I'm so sorry" preface, she just launched into how she knew "something like this" would happen to me because I don't have a man. Like "everyone else." I mean, I know she's right, but it's not as if I chose to be single, it's not as if I haven't wanted a man, a solid, healthy relationship. It's not as if I haven't tried everything I possibly could to meet a man and form a good relationship - or any kind of a relationship for that matter. And the worst part of this cliché aspect is that I know she's right. She has everything that matters and look at me: I have nothing.
4:08 PM
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
"Good morning, Saddle Up and Spread 'Em obgyn, how can I help you?"
"I need to make an appointment for my yearly exam, please."
"Okaaaay, lessee, name?"
"Tricia McMillian."
"Okaaay, lessee, ah, yes, Dr. Snatch?"
"Yep."
"Okaaaay, lessee, how about 4PM, Wednesday, January 20?"
"January? 2010?"
"Yes. Dr. Snatch is very busy. That's why we encourage her patients to book a year ahead for their yearly exam. I see you didn't book your appointment when you were here last year. The soonest we can possibly see you is January 20. That's our first appointment. We have a wait list for cancellations, I can put you on the list but you're still going to have to wait several months, so I suggest taking that January 20 appointment."
"Errrrm, well, that's problematic for me..."
"Are you having a particular health issue?"
"No. Well. Yes, actually. I do have a health issue. I was laid off and my health insurance ends on October 3."
Click. Muszak.
Click.
"Okay, how's next Tuesday, 11:15 AM?"
"Works for me. Thanks. Did you bump me to the top of the cancellation list?"
"No. We have a few appointments for special patients. We value your reproductive health and don't want a lack of health insurance to come between you and your health."
"Thanks, from the bottom of my uterus, thanks."
Amazing how the end of the health insurance IV drip opens doors. "Time is running out! Get your piece of my health insurance now while they're still paying my claims!"
My gyno isn't the only one getting my insurance money while the gettin's good. My podiatrists, plural, have been trying all manner of treatments on my foot. Dextrose injections, sclerotherapy, physical therapy, nerve induction exams, you name it. Now, I'm all for this, I want to get this thing resolved, no stone unturned and all that, but..."we" have been doing much of this in order to avoid another surgery. Now that my health insurance has a sunset, a very real expiration date, you should see these people scurrying to get my foot "taken care of" by October 3. Suddenly the "avoid surgery" tactic has turned to "let's get in there and get this done while you still have insurance and some time off work."
Yes, I see the merits of "using" my time off and health insurance. But. I'm not on vacation. I'm not a lady of leisure. I'm unemployed and desperately trying to find a new job. Spending three weeks in bed and then in a surgery boot for another three weeks isn't exactly the best way for me to get a new job. But, hey, while I still have health insurance...
There's a doctor at the Mayo Clinic my podiatrist reveres. The guy is allegedly the Foot Whisperer. I wish I was joking. The Foot Whisperer has a year+ waiting list. And only sees patients who have exhausted every, and I mean every, treatment option and idea. Well, that is now me. And now that my insurance is about to expire, how interesting that the year+ waiting list isn't a big deal. "For you, little lady, we'll make an exception, we'll get you in before October 3."
Okay, I mean, I appreciate the favors. I do. Really. But. I'm starting to feel a little, um, what's the word? Oh yeah: Used.
I'm not calling them opportunistic. But. It is a little disconcerting that the threat of losing health insurance opens doors to expeditious health care.
I'm not sure I want to whisk off to the Mayo Clinic. That's a whole other blog. (Me? Mayo Clinic? Really??? I feel humbled and wary all at the same time.) But I'm caught up in the health insurance feeding frenzy. Who knows when I'll have health insurance again?
4:19 PM
Monday, August 24, 2009
Unemployment: Week Four commences.
Sunday night rolls around and I feel like I have to go to work in the morning. You know, Sunday Night Syndrome.
It feels like I’ve been on vacation and I have to return to work Monday morning. Complete with dread of my boss.
Yes. I have a phantom job. Like a phantom limb, it feels real, painfully real. It's not until I begin to make my mental to-do list for the week that I remember I don't actually have a job. It's a phantom job.
Making the whole thing weirder is that my paychecks are being deposited as if I’ve been at work. It gives me this odd sense of normalcy – getting a paycheck, paying bills…all very normal except that I’m not at work. This two months on the payroll thing is nice, I guess, but I think ultimately it contributes to denial. I want to feel disassociated from my job but I can't turn off that part of my brain. Like amputee victims feel like they still have their missing limb, I feel like I still have those job responsibilities. I feel like I should be helping my (former) clients. I feel part of that. I'm not, and I know I'm not...but...I feel like I am still there, that I still have those responsibilities. I feel like I'm just on vacation. My phantom job.
Not helping this matter is that many of my (former) clients have been in contact with me. They miss me. (Awwwww) They preface all their conversations or emails with, "I know it's not your job anymore and I shouldn't be bothering you with this...but I can't get an answer from (insert former coworker of your choice here) and I really need to know (insert work issue of your choice here). I understand if you can't or don't want to help me...but...transition...difficult...can't get used to you not being there...miss you...hate working with your (former) company now...I swear I won't bother you again...just this one last thing...."
I mean, it's nice to be missed, nice to know my (former) clients appreciate me and miss me and are mad at my company for letting me go. But. I was let go. And I need to let go. So do my (former) clients. Helping them is nice - they get the help they need, I feel useful, professional. But it's not real. It's a prosthetic. A fake job.
The problem is that I do care about my (former) clients and I do genuinely want to help them. But. It's not my job anymore. And there are legalities involved. My (former) clients have contracts with my (former) company. And I'm not officially a private gun for hire, yet. I'm still on the payroll...and yet...not working for them, either. It's a very, very, very weird and complicated place. My phantom job.
People keep telling me, “Enjoy this time off. You’ll be working in no time.”
"I can't believe they let you go, but, heh heh, their loss. Smart girl like you? You'll be working again in no time."
"You? Ha! What are you worried about? Good grief, you'll be working in no time. Enjoy the time off while you have it, you'll be back in the grind before you know it."
"You're a sharp cookie, you'll have employers beating down your door when they find out you're looking for work."
Either people are trying to make me feel better, or they have a lot more confidence in me and the job market than I do. Or they're in deep denial about how bad things really are "out here" in Unemployed Land of Unfortunate Laid-off Adults (ULULA, as I call it).
It's been years, and I mean years since I've been jobless. I wasn't brazen enough to think I'd never be unemployed again, but, until the past few months it wasn't something I thought about often. I concentrated on my work, my job responsibilities and didn't dwell on the existential aspects of work. I'm a responsible professional. Or, erm I was a responsible professional.
Now I'm not sure what I am. I'm applying for every job I can find and trying to keep a healthy, confident attitude about myself and what I have to offer potential employers. I am a sharp cookie. When it comes to my work, my skills, my talent, my knowledge, my experience, my education, my professionalism...I am confident. I don't doubt myself or my talents.
But.
I know there are loads of other talented, skilled, knowledgeable, experienced, educated professional people who are in my exact situation. Unemployed.
This recession is different. This recession is affecting white collar professionals like no other recession.
Once again I'm part of a trend, a statistic.
Funny how in real life I never quite fit in, but boy oh boy, when it comes to statistics I'm heaped in with loads of other people. Little Miss Popularity of the statistic world. Pick a label, any label, and affix it to me:
Somehow I don't find a lot of safety or comfort in my statistical popularity. That's probably the affect of disaffection attributed to my generation. Don't blame me for my disaffection and disassociation, blame my statistical demographic. Then blame society, my parents, the media, Reaganism, Thatcherism, Pufnstufism. (It always comes back to Jimmy and that damn flute, doesn't it? Want to blame someone for GenX and our issues? Look no further than Sid and Marty Kroft.)
I had to leave the safety and comfort of my parents' house. It was getting womb-like. I didn't want to leave and that made me realize I had to leave. I wasn't complacent, I was job searching and making lists and trying to formulate a plan and networking.
And losing sleep.
But I was sleeping better at my parents' house. A tell-tale sign that I was getting too comfortable. Oh sure, I still had trouble going to sleep, and didn't sleep more than a few uninterrupted hours. The night demons in my brain followed me to my parents' house and plagued me there, too. But, they weren't as noisy or as mean as usual. They were more forgiving and less intrusive. More like Where the Wild Things Are friendly but boisterous beasts than the sinister slimy fanged things who plague my nocturnal brain at my place.
The first night back at my place they threw a party. They kept me up most of the night. They saw that one of the condos down the hall from mine has a big florescent Sheriff's department foreclosure no trespassing sticker on the door. They seized upon that and danced around my room all night chanting, hissing through their slimy fangs, "That's gonna be you! That's gonna be your condo in a few months!!!" to the beat of Megadeth blaring from my neighbor's stereo.
Ahhhhh. All nice and stressful and agitated and anxiety driven. Just the way I need it. "What am I gonna do? What am I gonna do? What am I gonna do?"
In contrast to the pastoral calm of Grieg's Morning Suite No. 1 of Peer Gynt gently implied, always, at my parents' house. "It'll all work out. It'll all work out. It'll all work out. Mummy loves you. Mummy will take care of you." Too comfortable. Too cushy. Too relaxed. Too understanding. Too easy to forget my real life. Too easy to get caught up in helping my mother. Too easy to feel safe. Too easy, period.
I need the pressure and anxiety to push me, add an air of urgency and anxiety. This is bad, real bad. This is a bad situation. Avoiding my reality by returning to the womb isn't going to keep my stress level where it should be: At Code Red, SEVERE ALERT, highest risk. Megadeth. At my parents' my stress level was more in the orange and even, a few times, yellow zones. All very Grieg-like. In my situation, in ULULA, letting your stress level lapse to yellow isn't a good thing to do. You let down your guard when you're in the yellow zone, leaving yourself vulnerable to attack. That Morning Peer Gynt suite lulls you into a nice prozacky state of calm.
Code red, SEVERE ALERT, though, lends a nice air of fear and urgency. The incessant throbbing, pounding bass and yelling of Megadeth doesn't lull. It lobs grenades. Perfect background music for the soundtrack of my life.
Thursday, August 20, 2009
Since the phone wasn’t ringing non-stop with employers vying for my talent and experience I decided to spend some time with my mother. I was climbing the walls, almost literally, at home. My condo is tiny, and I knew that, but I didn’t realize how tiny until unemployment forced me to spend more than a few hours after work and sleeping there. Crimony. That place is tiny. Sheesh. What was I thinking when I bought it?
Oh yeah. It’s what I could afford. And in a few weeks I won’t be able to afford it
I hate being unemployed.
Two and half weeks into unemployment and I truly believe I am losing the little sanity I had left.
Why aren’t employers calling me? Why? Why??!!!! They have needs, they have vacant positions, and I have the skills, experience and ambition to help them fulfill those needs. And, I can start immediately. Now.
Done deal, right?
Apparently not.
Apparently it doesn’t work like that.
I’m not naive. I knew the bleakness of the job market. I didn’t just begin my job search when I was officially laid off. I’ve been hitting the employment circuit hard, and I mean hard for quite a while. I never really stopped looking for a job. It’s kind of a hobby for me. I’ve been so miserable at work for so long that I scour the “career” pages of company web sites the way eager single people scour dating sites for new dating profiles. (Oh yeah, I do that, too. Cripes. I am a loser. No job. No man. No money. Soon-to-be homeless…) But since December, when the financial picture at my (former) company took a turn for the worse, I increased the intensity of my search. More than just casually perusing the career sections of company websites and looking at the employment websites, I started, gasp, networking. Putting out feelers. Inquiring among people I trusted, “friends” in the industry, to see if there were any inside opportunities lurking out there.
There weren’t.
And so it came to pass that I was laid off.
And the full force of what that means hit me, hard. I was already looking for a job, already “out there” with my hat in the employment ring.
The difference, now, is that I really will do anything. I will take part time or free lance jobs. Short term consulting gigs. Questionable jobs for cash with questionable people. I’m really not above much of anything. I won’t kill anyone. I won’t steal anything. I won’t work with dead animals. (There are jobs in the meat packing industry so no, as someone pointed out to me, I can’t be truly desperate or I’d take a job in a meat packing plant) But other than that I’m open to almost anything. I’ll at least consider anything.
After a week and a half in my tiny condo, listening to my neighbor’s daily rafter shaking Megadeth and Gwar concerts, I had to get out, away. (Seriously. I have no idea what the guy does for money. I’ve lived next door to him for two years and he rarely leaves his one room studio. If the condo association rules would allow it he’d listen to Megadeth, Gwar and Metallica non-stop, every day and night, amps at 11. The neighbor on the other side of him finally “reported” his midnight – 3 AM bass laden yell fests and those have somewhat abated. I was thinking things were sort of manageable. Every couple of weeks he’d lapse and give us a 2 AM AC/DC wakeup call in the form of amps at 11 guitar solos, but every couple of weeks I can handle. I didn’t love it, but, the compromise was manageable. And then I started staying home in the days. For those about to rock, we salute you.)
The thing is, I don’t mind much of his music. It’s the volume and bass reverberating through the walls that’s annoying. And given my state of stress and anxiety, the angry bass laden yelling only made me more agitated.
Which is why I was almost literally climbing the walls.
I figured I could apply to jobs and wait for a call for interview at my mother’s as easily as in my tiny death-rock filled cave.
Plus my mother has a gazillion odd jobs she needs done so at least I’d be busy.
And in that respect it’s been good. I have been busy. Really busy.
Which is good.
Keeps my mind off things. And helps her. Win-win.
I’ve seeded the front lawn – seed, fertilizer and top soil, thank you very much. I made a lovely vignette of cedar mulch, ground cover and an evergreen tree where my mother’s rose garden used to reside. No. I do not share my parents’ love of gardening. I have to wear full body armor if I’m handling anything alive and green or else I break out in hives. And I get really sneezy and my eyes water when I breathe in pollen. And that’s with an allergy mouth and nose mask. Which helps prevent an asthma episode.
So yeah. I’m not really much of a gardener.
But it needs to be done and so I’m doing it.
We’re also cleaning out the basement and attic. Which I dread. I hate it more than the yardwork. In fact the yardwork is a pleasant diversion from cleaning out the basement and attic. Facing my parents’ entire marriage – and even before their marriage – is rough. Sorting through all that stuff, the stuff that was deemed important enough to keep all these years, is really difficult. I prefer the turf of the yard over the emotional turf in all those boxes stored in the basement and attic.
I make daily trips to the local library to use the wi-fi. I scour every employment site and company website I can find. I read the trade journals and newspapers.
After a few days of this ritual I noticed I wasn’t alone. Every day the same people show up to do exactly what I’m doing. These do not appear to be unemployable slackers. They appear to be displaced professionals. Like me.
We take over one side of the library, the computer and periodicals section, while hordes of pre-schoolers boisterously enjoy story hour with Miss Sally. The pre-schoolers’ mothers congregate in the fiction area sipping coffee and share gossip – more boisterously than their pre-school children. I thought libraries were supposed to be quiet sanctuaries for studying and reading. In this library, if you seek a quiet haven for reading or studying you sign up to use a study room, small conference type rooms with doors. This seems weird and abstract to me, but I’m a stuffy old fuddy duddy, apparently.
I’ve “befriended” a couple of the other job seeking regulars. Befriended as much as people looking for jobs at the local library can befriend each other. We all have the same expression, the same desperate zeal for the trade publications and job sites. We share that lust for work. Don’t get me wrong, it’s not convivial jocularity among us. I notice a lot of looking over shoulders and hiding laptop screens – no one wants to share a potential job with anyone else. When I let the cat out of the bag that I’m not looking for a local job the relief among the other job seekers was palpable. I was no longer a threat. And that’s when I was accepted, “befriended” among the job seeking library regulars.
When I’m not helping my mother around her house or at the library looking for a job, I have a new social circle.
The retirees in my tiny home town. Most of them are friends of my parents. I’ve known many of them for years. So it’s not totally weird. It’s a lot weird, but not totally weird.
It started innocently enough. Elmer had to have emergency pacemaker repair surgery so his ticket to senior night at the Tigers game was going to be wasted. Knowing I’m a baseball/Tigers fan, one of my dad’s friends rang my mother to see if I’d like to go. Next thing I knew I was on a bus with a bunch of senior citizens heading off to Comerica Park under the guise of “caregiver” to a few of the seniors. That ruse was concocted by the seniors so that I could use the senior ticket. A good time was had by all. The Tigers won.
The seniors seemed to like having me join them. They told me stories about my dad. I told them stories about my dad. They wanted to buy me all manner of stuff. A Tiger pennant, a Tiger cap (even though I was already wearing one), a Tiger shirt (even though I was already wearing one), a Tiger ball, a plush toy Tiger, popcorn, beer…if it’s sold at Generica, I mean Comerica Park, one of the seniors wanted to buy it for me. After I explained that I’m vegetarian no one offered to buy me a hot dog. I heard a lot about various internal ailments and medications that prevented my baseball companions from enjoying most of the food and beverage at the ball park. Leo isn’t supposed to eat hot dogs or Cracker Jacks, but since his wife wasn’t around and I was allowed into the inner circle of trust, he enjoyed not one but two hot dogs and a whole box of Cracker Jacks. I sat next to Leo on the bus ride home. I discovered why he’s not supposed to eat hot dogs and Cracker Jacks.
After that outing I’ve been invited to tag along on my mother’s outings with her friends as well as some invites “just for me.”
They know I'm unemployed, they think it's just awful that it happened to me. They all agree that my company is stupid for letting me go.
They want to help me. So they keep offering invites on their outings or, more usually, a trade for chores. Things I would happily do for free, and have done for free in the past. But now that I'm unemployed they want to help, they want to "pay" me.
“We saw what a lovely job Trillian did on your back garden. Do you suppose she’d help us re-seed a few bare spots in our yard?”
So, off I trot to sprinkle some grass seed and fertilizer on a senior citizen’s lawn. They want to pay me. When I won’t take their money they want to give me things. One of my mother’s friends wanted to give me a Mark the Bird Fydrich signed baseball for spreading some mulch around his oak trees and raking up falling crab apples.
Another tried to give me an art deco diamond necklace from the ‘30s, a real diamond necklace, for setting up her digital converter box to her ancient television.
Leo's wife dropped off a quart of blueberries and five instant lottery tickets for me in payment for "putting up with Leo" at the Tiger game. She patted my hand and quietly said, "Leo was laid off once. It's difficult. I hope one of those tickets is a big winner."
When word got out that I have a laptop and the library has free wi-fi a new service was born. All those seniors who are not online aren’t afraid of the internet. They’re just cheap. They don’t want to buy a computer or pay for cable internet. But boy are they chomping at the bit to surf the net and, get this, buy stuff online. Almost daily, now, one of them shows up with a catalog, pages dogeared and notes scrawled out in senior citizen handwriting on the items they want me to order online. Since I’m in the inner circle of trust they’re quite happy to give me their credit card numbers along with their catalogs and internet shopping lists. Because they’re cheap – why pay postage and send a check to a company with their order when Trillian can just order it online for free?
Why indeed. So now I’m ordering products I didn’t even know existed. I’m getting email from companies I didn’t even know exist. I’d rather not know many of the products exist.
But it’s an education in geriatric marketing. And I’m helping them. Which is cool. Fine by me. They don’t have children or grandchildren around to help them. Young people, people not retired, have left the Detroit area, Michigan in general, in droves. Especially in my hometown. So a "tech savvy" and able bodied younger person with a laptop is quite a hot commodity. And hey, these are my parents' friends and neighbors. It’s the least I can do. And it keeps me busy.
My social life hasn’t been this active in years. I’m planning to head back to Chicago next week but the seniors are trying to convince me to stay an extra day so I can join them on the bus trip to the casino. I kid you not. Scarier than the invite, or the prospect of me on a bus with a bunch of senior citizens heading to a casino, is the fact that I'm tempted.
6:01 PM
Thursday, August 13, 2009
A week into unemployment and I’m already settled into two speeds: Wall-climbing antsy tenseness and immobilizing suicidal depression.
Occasionally I feel a wave of optimism. When I hear about a job and send my absolutely perfect credentials I am buoyed, momentarily, with hope that I’ll land on my feet and this will, as everyone keeps telling me, be the best thing that ever happened to me.
I’ve sent ~100 solicited job applications and another 50 unsolicited letters of inquiry. (yes - I've been busy, that's what happens when you don't sleep and don't go to work) I’ve stood in line waiting for my turn at hiring kiosks at major retailers and filled out paper applications at not-so-major retailers.* People tell me there’s a lot of part-time work “out there.” My name is on the freelancer lists in cities from coast-to-coast.
And still the phone doesn’t ring.
I know. I know. It’s only been a week. I can’t expect anything to happen in just a week.
Still. Something, anything, some indication of interest in my ability to perform skills and tasks in exchange for money would be, uh, nice.
I realize it’s way too soon to be immobilized with suicidal depression. And yet…running my worst case scenarios so I can figure out a contingency ends up in the same place: Try to sell my condo, now, make 0 profit on it, most likely at a loss. Or, wait it out and “just” go into foreclosure if I don’t have job in time to cover the mortgage. Either way I end up homeless.
The antsiness is understandable. I’m not used to free time. I’m not used to not spending 12 hours a day at the office. People say I should take advantage of the free time. But this isn’t a vacation. The clock is ticking, time is running out - fast. I’d rather be working.
Here’s my fear: We’re overqualified for these part-time jobs. We’re in a pool of hundreds or thousands of people applying for the few professional or management jobs “out there.” The competition for jobs appropriate to our skills, education and experience is fierce. And I mean fierce. But we’re overqualified, or, ironically, unqualified for the lower level jobs available.
Ever had to justify your employability to a 20 year old woman who has no college education and whose sole work experience is working her way up from stock person to soft-lines manager at Target? Not to discredit these people. Not at all.
But.
It’s a dismal experience to sit across from the woman, with your resume boasting advanced degrees, plural, and years of progressively higher responsibilities at big name companies justifying your ability to take packages of towels out of a box and put them on a shelf in hopes of maybe one day moving to the electronics department because I “know about cameras and stuff.”
Don’t get me wrong, it’s not about pride. I'm not humiliated, humbled or demoralized. I don’t think I’m too good to stock shelves and I don’t think I’m better than her. And I do/ “know about cameras and stuff” and if stocking towels and sheets is a step toward working in electronics, hey, s’all good.
It’s just a bizarre situation. Any other time, any other situation, I would be encouraging her to go back to school, finish her degree, get some experience outside of retail and watch her career grow. That advice is no longer valid. She would look at me and say, “That’s what you did. And now you’re sitting across from me applying for a job where I’ll be your boss. Why would I want to end up where you are? I have a full-time job managing a shift of people. I have two weeks vacation a year, a steady paycheck with overtime and health insurance. What do you have?”
And that’s what depresses me. I did everything “right.” So did most of the other people I know or have met who are unemployed. We’re well educated, motivated, hard working, professional people with impressive experience and references. We set goals and worked hard to meet them, challenged ourselves, worked hard, dedicated ourselves to our companies, clients and careers…and here we are hoping for a call for a part-time or temporary minimum wage job to keep us from becoming homeless. I’m lucky. I have some retail experience. Sure, it was years, and I mean years ago. But I have been on the non-consumer side of retail. Many of my unemployed peers have never “had” to work retail. Or bartend. Or wait tables. Or wear a smock and a name badge. Or don a hair net. And yes, I’m “spoiled.” I’ve worked retail but I never had to wear a smock or a name badge. Or a hair net. And let me tell you, the thought of donning a red shirt and name badge at this stage of my life doesn’t exactly fill me with hope and joy for my future.
Again, not that I think I’m too good or that I’m better than people who wear smocks and name badges and hair nets. The point is that I worked very hard in colleges and in my career so that I wouldn’t wear a smock and name badge. Or hair net.
And yet: Here I am hoping for a call back about a job requiring a smock and name badge, the carrot dangled in front of me: An eventual move to electronics. The point is that it now seems that all that time, energy and money spent on college, and all the late nights, weekends and dedication to companies and clients were pointless. The end result is the same as if I barely graduated from highschool. The point is that my grade point averages, Girl Scout merit badges, professional jobs, professional awards and accolades, glowing references from high level executives at major international companies are meaningless. That 20 year old soft lines manager at Target isn’t even familiar with the names of those companies much less care about the impressive personal letters of recommendation from their top executives. The most impressive point of interest she found out about me is, to again quote her, “So, you know about cameras and stuff? That’ll be handy if we need help in electronics.” And right now she’s the one I want, need to impress enough to give me a chance. A chance at a minimum wage part-time job, where, if I work hard and prove myself worthy, in time I might be considered for a move into the electronics department because I “know about cameras and stuff.”
Why did my parents and I spend all that time, effort and money on college? Why did I dedicate myself to companies and clients – often sacrificing personal relationships and activities for the sake of the companies or clients? I still ended up unemployed struggling to keep a roof over my head.
Oh. And. I got a look at one of my competitors for this part-time minimum wage job. Waiting in the one-on-one interview holding area with me was a charming young lad. Tattoos of a flock of bats encircled his neck. “D- E-A-D” spelled across the knuckles of his left hand and “Fucktard” scrawled across his right hand. I couldn't tell if the fucktard was an actual tattoo courtesy of a Sharpie. The aroma of patchouli and pot emanated from his dirty jeans. He had a greasier, messier version of the stupid Pete Wentz haircut. Fucktard. I’m guessing the Fucktard tattoo (real or temporary) is supposed to be ironically funny. I’m guessing he’s a bright guy. Maybe even with intelligence, education, experience and a can-do attitude. Or he might actually be a fucktard. Hey, he said it, not me. In fact he tattooed or wrote it on his hand for the whole world to see. Ironically funny as it may be, intelligent, humorous and deep as you may be, why permanently and forever run the risk of removing all doubt? Or, write it on there the day you're appplying for a job? Label yourself a fucktard and my guess is that’s exactly what people will assume. Because only a fucktard would tattoo fucktard on the back of their right hand.
And yet, he’s one of my competitors for a job. A self proclaimed dead fucktard with dirty hair and smelly clothes.
Hence the immobilizing suicidal depression.
People, perhaps even you, scoff at this. “Aw, c’mon, Trill, you are overqualified for a job like that, you need to keep focusing on more appropriate, professional level jobs, something will turn up, you’re employable, just give it some time.”
Well, yeah, maybe. But I don’t have the luxury of time. Two months severance. I have until October 3 to get a job that will bring in enough money to pay the mortgage. I do get unemployment but in Illinois it’s very, very low. If I had a spouse I could get an extra $60/week. But I’m single with no kids so I’m in the lowest category.
I can’t live on unemployment. Even if I let go of my condo and find a small apartment in a not-so-great part of town. My single/zero status gives me the approximate “salary” of a minimum wage 35 hour work week. Do you know anyone who can live on 35 hours/week at minimum wage?
Yeah, me neither.
Hence the need to get a job, any job, ASAP.
I suppose I should be more “grateful” for “all” that I’ve been given.
I have forms and links for information on government programs for displaced and unemployed workers. I know. Government subsidized programs. Me. Of all people. Me. What the…??? It’s not about pride. It’s that I’m a giver, not a taker. And I’d rather work, thanks.
Extended unemployment benefits – a whole year of minimum wage instead of just six months. And yes, I know people who’ve been unemployed over a year and are not even getting that minimum wage unemployment check. I don’t mean to sound ungrateful. Yes. Things could be worse. But not much. And I’d rather not need unemployment. I’d rather work.
On the plus side my doctor told me how to apply for government subsidization of my COBRA. The mighty nice Feds are kicking in 2/3 of the cost of COBRA. And hey – I have COBRA. See? I’m lucky. I have no idea what it’s going to cost me, I still don’t have the final details of my dismissal – my HR department is a little behind what with 100+ of us laid off in the past week. Until I know the exact cost of COBRA I can’t make an informed decision about utilizing it. Even with 2/3 federal subsidization if my out of pocket expense is more than $30/month I can’t afford it. Yes. I’m lucky. I have the option. Things could be worse. A lot of people don’t even have COBRA. But I’d rather work.
I also found out if you’re unemployed you are eligible for free tuition for certain programs at certain colleges. We’re not talking top tier schools here, but hey, it’s something. I always maintain there’s no such thing as being overeducated unless you’re a professional student hiding in academia as a way to avoid living in the real world, holding down a job and paying rent. But. Other people have used that word to me lately. The conversations go like this: “You’re thinking about taking more classes? Um, Trill, do you think maybe you’re already a little overeducated? Maybe you have too much education. People might think you’re, you know, an overachieving poindexter.”
“I am an overachieving poindexter.”
“Yeah, but, you might not want to advertise that on your resume and job applications. It looks a little, you know, it’s a bit, um, much.”
“So I should like about my education?”
“Not lie. Just omit.”
“Isn’t it usually people who don’t have college degrees who lie about it on their resume?”
“It’s just that you risk looking like a professional student.”
“But I have loads of work experience. It’s clear I have not been hiding in school, cloistered away in an academic ivory tower. I’ve always worked professionally while going to school. That’s obvious in the work experience portion of my resume and applications.”
“Okay, but if you’re going to take more classes you probably don’t want to advertise that fact. Keep it on the down low.”
Again with the immobilizing suicidal depression. When did higher education, thirst for knowledge, lust for learning, using your brain, become a liability?
I’m guessing it happened about the time a GED became a carrot dangled in front of part time retail employees. “If you complete your GED we’ll bring you on full-time, give you a $1/hour raise, health insurance, maybe even promote you to soft-lines manager. Eventually we might even get you off the overnight shift and on days.” Woo hoo!! Man, I am going to get that GED no matter what it takes!!!! That $1/hour raise will put me closer to that fucktard tattoo I want to get on the back of my hand!
Ooops. That sounds snobby. Cynical. Sarcastic. Bitter.
And really, I’m none of those things. Mainly I’m just confused. I don’t get it.
*”They” say things are looking up, we’ve bottomed out and there’s nowhere to go but up and improved. Wellllllll, tell that to me and the hundreds of people I’ve seen and met waiting in line to apply for part time minimum wage jobs. We’re not losers, uneducated or unskilled. We’re not slackers or unprofessional. The people I’ve seen applying for these part-time minimum wage jobs are professional, articulate, motivated, professional people with experience and leadership skills.
6:01 PM
Saturday, August 08, 2009
For those of you playing along at home, I landed on the "Go Back to Start" square of the game board.
I am officially unemployed. "Let go." Given a couple boxes and 30 minutes to pack my office and leave the building. Along with a bunch of other people.
Yeah. That sucks.
And no. The Bobs had nothing (or very little) to do with it. They hadn't even completed their consulting report and turned it over to management. This is kind of funny: The Bobs were "let go," too. Yes. My company hired a management consulting company to review, appraise and consult on the best way forward and fired them a couple weeks before the consultation report was to be submitted. I dunno. Really. I don't know. Not a clue. And since they chose to "let me go" I choose to not care.
It's surprising to me how easily I adopted apathy. I was so dedicated, loyal and enthusiastic about my company. As I packed my boxes (with HR supervision) and went through files and projects I was working on and worrying and wondering how they would be completed I said, "But what about..." The HR guy would put up his hand, interrupt and say, "Not your problem anymore." So, as I was escorted out of the building with The Others, and had a few last thoughts of concern about projects and clients, I replayed the HR guy's hand and "Not your problem anymore." By the time I got home I'd imagined it enough times that I was in a state of complete and utter apathy.
And so far, five days later, I've yet to summon even a trace of regard for my company.
And no, I'm not bitter, and no, I don't think I'm in denial. I have five sleepless nights, a day spent puking, a nervous tick in my right hand, gasping shortness of breath, hives and a mortgage payment to prove that I am very much not in denial.
I know I'm unemployed. I know the clock is ticking. (See above, like the addition? Thanks. I thought it would be handy for those of you playing along at home.)
I have two months to find a job. 60 days. The paychecks will continue for two months. As will the health insurance. After that there's no more money coming in on a bi-weekly basis.
On the plus side, apart from the financial worry (see above, sleepless nights et al) I feel pretty darned good. Relieved. At peace. Apathetic about my former employer.
Even, and I find this shocking, even happy. It's true - you don't realize how miserable you were until you're gone.
And I thought I realized I was pretty darned miserable.
So, to realize I was even more miserable than I realized is bad. Real bad. And that makes me sad. Because the reason I was so miserable is down to one person. My Twinkie eating, motivational seminar cliché lingo loving, credential faking, disrespecting, nincompoop of a boss. Former boss. I love that. Former boss.
I tried, oh how I tried to find a place of understanding, common ground, something with her. But try as I might I couldn't maintain significant respect for her. And that is a huge problem. Mutual disrespect.
So. Yeah. Apart from the financial aspect I'm happy to be gone.
Well.
And my clients. I really, really, really liked my clients. I liked the projects they presented me. I liked finding creative solutions for them. I enjoyed my work. I enjoyed working with them. Which is how I coped with my boss. It was a compromise: Problematic manager, fantastic work and clients.
So yeah, I'll miss them. Which does complicate the apathy.
There has been a large and sincere outpouring of outrage and support. Coworkers (from other departments), vendors and clients are all showering me with support and encouragement and job leads. I had lunch with a now former client. She called me the night I was "let go." Probably a breach of some contractual issue but we both decided to risk it. It was just lunch. We didn't talk too much about work, anyway, so, you know, I think we're "okay."
And who cares anyway? Not me.
"Wow. That's some kind of zen apathy you've got going there, Trill. Are you sure you're okay?"
Yep. Apart from the financial issues, and subsequent issues like losing my home and having to couch surf or move home with my mother I am really fine. Good. Happy, even.
And yes, oh yes, I am very, very painfully aware that the current average time between being laid off and finding a new job is 15 months. And yes, I am worried about that. I am not apathetic about the necessity of finding a new job and the reality of the abysmal job market.
I am very painfully aware that my unemployment pay will not cover my mortgage payment.
See above, sleepless nights et al.
But. My former company? Meh. Don't care. Don't even think about it unless someone else calls or emails and brings up the topic.
Sure, the financial worry helps force the apathy toward my former company. No doubt about it. They don't care about me, or my life, so no, I don't care about them.
But there's something else expediting the apathy. Something personal. Something painful.
I was dreading Monday. I dreaded last Monday for months. I even thought about taking the day off. No, I had no idea it would be my last day of employment.
But I was dreading it.
It was my dad's deathiversary.
I decided to not take the day off work because I didn't want to give the day "take a day off work" significance. I knew it wouldn't be just another day, but, I wanted it to be as close to just another day as possible. I'm not big on commemorating bad days. I mean, I know they're "important." But I'd rather remember my dad and be happy about him, remember the happy days, the good times. Not the ultimate bad one.
My plan for the day was that if/when thoughts of my dad's death crept up on me I would tell myself that a date on the calendar was of no significance. Just a date on the calendar. No significance.
I had some "moments" that day. A few random tears. I took deep breaths and reminded myself, "Just a date on the calendar. No significance." I thought I was doing quite well, all things considered. It wasn't easy and there were a few times I regretted not taking the day off. But I was glad the day was moving along pretty quickly and was looking forward to going to the gym and picking up a bottle of wine on the way home from work. I gave myself permission to have an evening with grief.
And then, toward the end of the day, in walked my boss and the HR people.
No significance my ass. Just a date on the calendar. Pfft.
Trillian's Uncanny Knack for Ironically Painful Timing strikes again.
