You're Invited!

I'm having a pity party and you're invited to watch. Yeah, yeah, intellectually I know no one can find a job. And theoretically I know I wouldn't hire me if I had my choice of applicants. But emotionally, I'm a wreck. 

I no longer dream of forgetting to attend Physics and being denied my diploma at the podium on graduation day . . . naked. I know longer dream of leaving a 9-year-old on a field because I thought he was already in the car (oh yeah, not-a-dream). Now I dream that I actually do have a job; that I have remained on the payroll of my last full-time gig only I forgot to go to work for say, 10 years, and the paychecks are accruing but I'm afraid to go collect because they'll make me prove I'm proficient at Microsoft Office and Excel. So much for the typing tests of the 80s. I could so get hired back in the day.

I've applied for so many jobs: craigslist, mediabistro, monster, careerbuilder, indeed, ctjobs, yahoo, blahblahblah. Really, doesn't hitting send count for anything anymore? Part time, full time, overly qualified, laughably unqualified, just-for-fun -- no response whatsoever. I thought, perhaps all the "submit" buttons went to a big black rejection box, but I'm not even get rejected. 

Does anyone get rejected anymore? Even a form letter would be nice.

LIE! I did get rejected months ago. I applied for a PRO-BONO job only to be told thanks, but no thanks. Apparently they only wanted freebies from a certain geographical location — not mine.

This sucks. Sucks sucks sucks. A domino effect: can't find a job, can't get a job, not good at the job, find a new job. Can't find a new job. The ego is in the gutter and with miniscule town budgets, they're not even hiring lunch ladies anymore. 

Driving Miss Crazy

Spring break is wrapping up in my corner of the world and while those lucky bastards still venturing off to warmer clients, oblivious to the fact their 529s won't buy books, I took my soon to be 17-year-old daughter college hunting in the sort-of, kind-of, mid-west. Or rather, what Nor' Easterners call mid-west. Ohio and Pennsylvania.

According to Yahoo Maps, it was 21.45 hours of actual drive time, round trip. Not including traffic, Amish buggies, fog, speeding tickets or the actual college tours, hotels, bagels, pit stops and info sessions. Days, we're talking days, trapped in the car with a menopausal mom and hormonal teen. I'm here to tell you I survived. Her too. 

The tap-tap-texting was minimal, partly due to forgotten charger, and her ears were naked of the your-music-sucks plugs. Eye rolling kept to a minimum and only one, count 'em one, major blow up (embarrassed when tour guide bragged of past speaker Ann Coulter and upcoming visit from Karl Rove, and appalled, I asked what exactly is the student population's reaction, 'cuz we can cut this tour short right now.) We talked books, politics, music, drugs and sex. She answered questions. She asked few. 

She shared, ever so briefly, some teen angst, mean girl gossip, a crazy mom story, a mention of cute boy or two, and a little apprehension of traveling so far away. Priceless. Not only did we survive, I found myself wishing for traffic. I got glimpses of the kid she used to be and the woman she's becoming. 

Believe you me, that in the 3 days of one-on-one, all this introspection added up to a generous 13 and a half minutes, but I'll take it. I'm holding on tightly to these moments because before I know it, we'll be making that trip one-way with her, and the return trip alone.

Stay in School

Will work for food signs on the off ramps often tug at my heartstrings. And those poor saps holding the festively designed Going-Out-of-Business, Everything-Must-Go signs outside Macy's or Linens 'N Things or Circuit City or Home Depot or Foot Locker or Domain or .... well, the list is way, way too long.  

Now I glare and lecture. Not to the poor dude (why always a guy?) holding the sign in the rain, but the blood relations strapped in the back seat. "STAY IN SCHOOL and do well or you'll end up holding the sign. You want to hold the sign? Want that to be your job? Think he dreamt of doing that at 12?"

And I come down especially hard on the teens who are often being carted from one event to another. I use the quality car pool time, that one-on-one opportunity when the loving children are held hostage to those who can transport them near and far, to educate. Sex and drugs were easy; got that covered (literally, covered). Economy? Well, not so much. That's the hard stuff.

So I dumb it down the best I can, then shove it down their throats. Stay in school. It's your job. Do the best you can in the hardest classes you can manage. Learn and grow and know no job is beneath you. Listen more than you talk. Be patient. And kind. And this too shall pass. 

Victory Mary

Update on my friendly neighborhood racist homophobe senior citizen, Vicki. (Diary of an On-Ramper: Biting My Tongue)

Yes, it happened. She’d fallen and couldn’t get up.

I visited at the hospital where they had no one there by that name. I went home, confirmed and called, insisting, I know she’s there. Nope. Not there. Of course, I thought she’d died, but this old pain-in-the-ass will live forever no doubt.

Recuperating in a not-too-bad-smelling nursing home, I went and upon arriving, the receptionist said, ‘No Vicki here.’ I told her find all (last name) and I’ll visit those women.  I found her. Under Mary. Never ever heard mention of that name after years of listening to story after story, so quite frustrated, I asked, ‘Who exactly is Mary?’

She said to stop yelling at her, she’s blind not deaf, lower my voice and she’d tell me.

Vicki was born on Armistice Day, November 11, 1918, and while her mother was giving birth in the bedroom, her dad waiting patiently in the living room. Bells ringing, people cheering and town criers crying through the streets, “The war is over!”

The doctor emerged from the bedroom and said to her dad, “Do you hear that? The War has ended and you have a baby girl! It’s a double victory!”

And her dad said, “Then that’s her name – Victory!” And named her Victory Mary in celebration.

Except when they sent in her paperwork, ‘those people’ in the offices said nobody in their right mind would name a baby that crazy name, and reversed it to Mary Victory.

Vicki never found out until her husband applied for passports. Vicki was 25 before she knew her legal name was Mary Victory, and her husband came home announcing, ‘Looks like I’ve been sleeping with two women all this time!’

After not so graciously throwing Vicki under the bus a few blogs back, I thought I’d share a little piece of her story. It’s why I like old people. They always have the best stories.

Craigslist SVU

I, like everyone else with a pulse and empty wallet, am cruising craigslist for that great paying, local job that somehow passed by those more qualified than I. So far, not so good.

As of late, I’ve been applying to many not even close to my qualifications, but perhaps, just maybe, I’m first in line for a job they haven’t considered needing yet. It’s a reach, but I’ve got plenty of time and nothing to lose. Or so I thought. 

I recently replied to a craigslist ad for a graphic designer. No can do, but I asked if they’d like a writer to go along with that designer, and low and behold, I got a hit! Ego boosting and hopeful yet again, I plan for the interview.

But Husband watches way, way too much tv and is convinced I’ll be tied, bound, mutilated never to be heard from again. The thought of driving kids and flying solo with two teenage girls, one moody pre-teen and The Boy is too much for him. He suggests I meet at a mutual location so perhaps I’ll make it back for Scouts.

I’m not a moron. I did my homework. This is a real shop, real creative director with real clients and a substantial history. I research the firm, clients, location, and am more than confident this is not a set up in the least. See ya.

Except…. 

The building is a nightmare. The entrance is blocked off with caution tape, the stairs just plain ol’ nasty, garbage, unpainted sheetrock, exposed lightbulbs and a long hall of doorways with nothing but sticky notes marking the suite numbers. And it smells. Think Alice in Ghettoland.

I hate it when he’s right. Husband. Shit. This is a set up and rather than be scared, I’m pissed. Really, really pissed.

Okay, so maybe I am a bit of a moron, because now I want to let creative dude know exactly what he’s dealing with and he will not get the better of me. Ignoring the pit-tingling, hair-on-the-back-of-your-neck caution signs, I open Post-in Note #215 . . . dumb dumb dumb.

But it’s gorgeous. A beautiful Manhattanesque office suite teeming with employees and black leather and iMacs and funky art and real people. Seems the complex had a fire a ways back and tenants are struggling with the condo association to fix the building, although the individual suites have all been rebuilt, obviously better than ever.

So this time, all’s good in the craigslist world. But I do realize that made-for-TV originated somewhere, and will take more precautions to make sure it’s not with me.

My Town

This is my town where backyard finagling and barbeque lead to stacked teams while deserving athletes and families are left outside looking in.

This is my town where police blotters are scoured for names of the afflicted, and sighs of relief echo when we escape another week unscathed.

And this is my town where one terrible phone call alerts the gossip mill of a sick kid, a dead spouse, a tragic accident, and immediately, all neighborhood scandals evaporate. The troops rally and the village takes over.

This is not an anomaly; it happens every time. Just when you want to throw up at the Hummer driving, cigar smoking, SAT comparing bullshit, a terrible rumor emerges and, unfortunately, is proven true.

A woman hit by a car. A house burned to the ground. A dad drops dead. Or a beloved 9-year-old with much more than a virus.

Before you know it, meals are made, car pools arranged, lawns mowed and laundry done. This is my town that holds and nurtures, not just our own family, but all our families. Any phone call could be the moment our own lives change forever, and everyone in my town is acutely aware of that.

So we do what we can when that phone rings. The hurting can heal without worry or consequence to the everyday work that must be done even if ... even when. No questions. No comments. No problem. Just done. This is my town. 

Doom & Gloom

Last year my goal was to make $20,000 as a part-time, freelance copywriter. I made less than five. Disappointed but not broken, this year I vowed to wow the industry and return triumphant after the childrearing hiatus I survived. Nearly four months in, and I’ve billed $145.00. One hundred, forty-five. That’s billed, not received.

Hmmmmm, apparently my return-to-work, I-am-woman-hear-me-roar work ethic has hit the economic tsunami, and while I pound the virtual pavement seeking to network, those far more connected than I easily plow me under.

It’s the ‘back of the line’ for me buster.  There’s no work out there, a ga-zillion of people looking for it, and return-to-work moms aren’t on the list.  

Don’t give me the “look at the glass half full” speech. I’m so flippin’ sick of the pollyannas that blame this mess on the news anchors and doomsday newspapers (those still publishing…), internet rumors, and cynics like me. Get your head out of the sand. It sucks out there and it’s real and it’s bad and it’s personal.

Out of work parents apply for free lunch at the schools. Kids pulled out of daycare and after-school programs. For sale signs pepper trailer parks and mansion row. Kids rosters short players, but plenty of out-of-work parents willing to coach. Community colleges burst with desperate kids and professionals looking to reinvent or complete an education. Corporate casualties bag groceries and wait tables and happy to do it. No one is immune.  

A telecommuting dad told me recently he panics when he hears the garage door open mid-day.  Or a cell phone call before dinner leaves you wondering if they’re carrying a box to their car, escorted.

A New York cop said the commute in is quick, because no one’s on the roads, and less pedestrian traffic on the streets once in. And he sadly adds the recession is job security, as theft and domestic violence calls are way, way up. Ugh.  

It’s dark and gloomy and I’m looking for funny, really I am, but nobody’s laughing.