Tag Archives: unemployment

Something Doesn’t Add Up Here

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Back in November, right after I started collecting unemployment, the state of Washington told me I had to go down to the local Work Source office and sit around a room for a couple of hours with other jobless people as part of an orientation. I said, at the time, that there’s nothing more depressing than spending a good chunk of your morning hanging out with jobless losers other people down on their luck (as I am).

Turns out I was wrong.

Hanging out in a room full of people who have been out of work so long they’re now receiving emergency unemployment compensation (such as I) is even more depressing, it turns out, as I discovered yesterday. That’s three hours of my life I’ll never get back again. (And yet, I feel oddly positive these days, like change is just around the corner. I’m hoping that’s a bit of psychic intuition and not just wishful thinking). I can’t really knock the Work Source office, anyway. They are staffed with people who genuinely seem to want to help those who are “between gigs” (again, moi)  find employment. The EUC meeting didn’t cover a lot of new ground for me personally, but then I already know how to draft a decent resume and cover letter and my computer skills are great. Therefore, when we had to choose a task to complete during the last hour, I opted to take an online skills assessment test. This was a six-part, several-hundred-questions test designed to gauge which career is best for you based on your answers, which are used to identify your transferable job skills.

The test started out innocently enough. Part 1 consisted of questions like “Do you enjoy selling products to people who are disinterested?” (I’d rather remove my own kidney) and “Do you believe that people are generally good by nature?” (Naively or not, I do). In the next section, you had to compare two situations and choose the one you’d prefer – “Would you rather rebuild a carburetor or write a book?” (Duh). I was sailing along, making great time, when I came face-to-face with my nemesis.

Math.

If I had been driving a car, you’d have seen me come to a screeching halt once I arrived at that particular (inter)section. Math and I do not get along. We have never seen eye to eye. I’m a creative type. An artist, if you will! What need do I have for numbers? Unless I’m listening to Kraftwerk, of course. (Cue the inevitable vague reference). I don’t just dislike arithmetic – I refuse to call it that because the name sounds so pretentious. It’s just math, dammit. Anything else I consider putting on airs. Math doesn’t like me, either. How else to explain the pummeling dished out to me by Geometry in high school? I still have bruises from that experience (not to mention a D, my worst grade ever – and that was based on a steep curve). I guess, my problem is, I’ve never exactly been an analytical thinker. Give me a paintbrush and I’ll color you a reasonable facsimile of a tree. Give me polynomial equations and I’ll end up with the dry heaves.

I heart math. (Courtesy of ms-abuboo.com)

These weren’t just basic 2+2 math questions, either. They were far more intricate than that, the little buggers. We’re talking -4 (7 x .5)² ÷ 3/8 (-6 + – (-4)). And, my favorite: “What is the next number in this series: 4, 12, 6, 12, 36, 18, 36″ (actual question – anybody got it)? I muttered, “Nobody told me there’d be math!” under my breath quietly enough so that the instructor wouldn’t hear me (because one of my traits is passive-aggressiveness). And then, a funny thing happened.

I found myself actually enjoying the math problems.

I have no idea why, but they were stimulating. Kind of like brain exercise. I hadn’t worked out math problems like this, by hand, with a pencil and scratch paper (no calculators allowed), in years. I found myself really getting off on the challenge. I took my time, worked everything through, and had a feeling I’d done pretty well on the math portion of the exam. Go figure. And then, I got the results back. A list of occupations that I am most qualified for. #1 turned out to be Librarian. I personally don’t think I’m sexy enough (nor do I wear glasses or have my hair tied back), but who can argue with an 88% job match on the Career Compatibility Chart? Certainly not I. It’s no surprise, given my love for books. But then my eyes skipped to #2 on my list, and I about fell out of my chair.

Mathematician.

Even now, as I am writing this post, I cannot believe that one. I guess I aced that portion of the exam, after all. But telling me I should become a mathematician is like suggesting the Pope convert to Judaism or that a vegan should cook hamburgers for a living. It’s just unthinkable. I mean, mathematician (83% job match) ranked higher than Creative Writer (77%) and Writer/Author (77%)!

Suddenly, it’s clear to me why my novel has never been published. All along, I’ve been toiling in the wrong field! I thought I enjoyed writing, but apparently I’m a numbers prodigy instead. Maybe I’m like Rain Man. There’s only one way to find out (hello, Vegas!).

It’s sort of empowering, being a math whiz. I feel like tackling complicated financial statements now, or maybe working on some of those long-unsolved mathematical equations that have bedeviled the likes of John Nash and others for eons. I might as well take a crack at them, now that I’m a certified numbers genius. Maybe I can figure out the Hodge Conjecture or the Riemann Hypothesis. I’d love to take a stab at that pesky Yang-Mills existence and mass gap.

And then write a killer paper about it.

Then again, before I get too big-headed, that same Career Compatibility Chart said I should also consider becoming a Horticulturist (81% match), and I don’t know squat about plants, so clearly something doesn’t add up here (pardon the pun).

In other news, I’m hitting the road a day earlier than planned! Turns out the kids are leaving on Wednesday, rather than Thursday. This works out perfectly because I was secretly hoping for an extra day in Ohio, as I’m tossing around the idea of hitting the Rock ‘n Roll Hall of Fame in Cleveland. I figure, when in my life will I ever be so close again? Probably never, seeing as how I haven’t revisited the Buckeye State in 31 years. So, I’m heading out tomorrow (!!) afternoon and won’t be returning until the 4th of July. Like I said, I’ll be blogging from the road. My goal is to write every day, but that’s largely dependent on free wi-fi connections, so we’ll see. At the least, I can update from my phone if necessary. I’ll probably fall behind on reading my favorite blogs, but I hope you’ll follow along on what I’m hoping turns out to be the journey of a lifetime. I’ve got about a million things to do and only about 30 more hours to do them in, so – until I reach my next destination – bon voyage! 

 

Money And Benefits? Eww.

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I’ve put up a bunch of posts the past week, but haven’t really talked about anything.

I could say I was busy playing with the various post formats, and sharing photos of volcanoes and British socialites, and recounting anecdotes about alcoholic beverages. All those things are true, but I also think I’ve been studiously avoiding reality. Because I learned early in the week I did not get the awesome job I interviewed for. Which, quite frankly, sucks.

Because I tend to overanalyze things worse than a neurotic Woody Allen character, I’ve figured out why I didn’t get the job. It’s not because I flubbed a question or lacked experience or had a coffee stain on my shirt. It’s because I broke a cardinal rule and decided I wanted the job midway through the interview.

There’s a secret to landing a job, you see. Sure, you should arrive on time armed with facts about the company, smile, maintain eye contact and execute a firm handshake. But I’m convinced the most important thing you can do is walk in there and not give a damn whether or not you get the job. Better still, work up half a dozen reasons why you flat out don’t want it. Maybe the commute is awful, or the pay is less than you’re aiming for. Perhaps the company is involved in a questionable endeavor, like manufacturing silencers for firearms or employing child laborers. Or maybe your ex-spouse works there. The more negatives you can come up with, the better, because when you walk through the front door all the pressure is gone and you can simply relax and be yourself. I would love to pull a stunt like Ray Romano’s character did on the season finale of The Office last week and grab a sandwich out of my briefcase mid-interview, but that takes huge cojones (and is a bit extreme – I’d settle for being quietly blase over the whole affair). Interviewers are like wild animals: they can smell fear, and when they do, their instinct is to pounce. On the other hand, a confident candidate will earn their respect (and quite possibly the job).

Magnifying glass

If you don't want the job in the first place, you'll never sweat the interview. (Courtesy of tipsinterview.com)

I knew this going in. Moments before leaving my car, I was on the phone with a friend, and she reminded me of this golden rule. “Remember, you don’t want the job!” she said discouragingly.

“Right,” I replied. “Who needs money and benefits? Eww. And I’d have to do some writing. Gag me with a spoon.”

OK, I didn’t really say those things. Mainly because A) This isn’t 1982, and B) I’m not a valley girl. But also because, you have to find some real reasons why you don’t want the job. In this case, the position required some public speaking. Not my strong suit. I didn’t know how much public speaking, of course, but I told myself I’d be giving speeches to auditoriums filled with 300 people twice a week. This mental argument was working really well for me, until I walked into the lobby and saw how awesome and modern and arty the office was. Nary a cubicle to be found. Damn. I was then greeted by a friendly (damn again) and cute (grr) receptionist who politely asked me to take a seat. While waiting, I thumbed through a beautiful coffee table book chock full of stunning photographs from around the Pacific Northwest. I hadn’t even met my potential boss yet, and I was already veering dangerously close to wanting the job. Clearly a course correction was needed, and fast. I imagined that she’d be a power-hungry cutthroat CEO type driven by greed and manipulation – sort of a cross between Donald Trump and Sue Sylvester from Glee - but as luck wouldn’t have it, she was cordial, nice, and smiled a lot. Still, I held the public speaking card in my back pocket, and quickly pulled it out. I asked her what that would entail exactly, and she said, “Oh, once or twice a year you’d meet with the board of directors for five minutes and discuss our marketing initiative.” That I could do. And that was the moment where everything unraveled, because suddenly I wanted the job, and the nerves kicked in while I tried to make the best impression possible. Don’t get me wrong, the interview went well, and I’m positive I was a finalist – but ultimately, maybe the lack of that devil-may-care attitude did me in.

So when the news came in the form of an e-mail delivered to my In Box bright and early Tuesday morning, I was pretty upset. Rarely do you find a job that you think sounds both intellectually stimulating and fun, and relies on your strengths and skills, and pays the salary you want, and is an easy commute from home. Naturally, this one had all of the above.

Fortunately, I had my parents to encourage me and cheer me up.

“No offense, but we don’t want you living under our roof again,” my mom said, nineteen years, seven months and some odd days since I left home for good.

“I think I’m more upset than you are,” my dad said, and then threw in for good measure, “If this keeps up you’re just going to have to take anything you can get.”

Gee, thanks, guys. So I turned to the couch for solace, and an afternoon of mind-numbing television followed by wine. That combination did the trick, and by the end of the day I was feeling better.

So, yeah. This sucks. The freelance writing assignments have mysteriously dried up, and my initial unemployment claim has just run out. I had to apply for an emergency extension which, hopefully, won’t take long to process (and approve) because they won’t send me any money before it’s OK’d, and I’ve got bills to pay. I’m really, really hoping something good comes along soon.

Err…I mean…not hoping.

What was I thinking there?!

Clarifying My Words

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Saturday, I had my parents over for dinner. In an ode to my Hawaiian roots, I cooked up an island-inspired feast of kalua pork and chicken long rice. I even whipped up Mai Tai‘s to wash everything down with, and fired up my “Aloha Mix” on the iPod. I’m nothing if not detail oriented (although, sadly, there were no hula girls to entertain us). The evening was a big hit…but then, my mom asked if she could critique the blog.

“Of course,” I said.

She – and my dad – are worried that I’m not portraying myself in the best possible light, what with the references to wearing pajama pants and drinking at odd hours of the day, not to mention my occasional corporate rant. They are worried that prospective employers may be reading, and that might be hurting my chances at finding a job.

I have, of course, considered this possibility before…and pretty much rejected it. If you Google my name, you’ll find my website/online portfolio, but that is purely professional. You’d have to do a very specific search to find this other stuff, and besides, I try to temper it all with humor, anyway. I think discussing my casual attire and sometimes portraying a slightly negative attitude is perfectly natural for somebody who is unemployed. I am not actually sitting around at 1 PM slurping Singapore Slings in my pajamas, unshowered and unshaven. That’d be a cry for help! I mean, come on…Singapore Slings aren’t very manly. I immediately went on the defensive, and loudly declared, “If anybody is offended by this, they’re not somebody I want to work for!” What can I say? I’m a Taurus, and we’re a stubborn lot.

They also thought I shouldn’t talk about any potential jobs before I receive an offer. The only reason I think this might be a decent idea is because I’d hate to jinx myself. This blog is a reflection of my life, and I want to A) be honest, and B) write about what’s going on so I’ll always remember. Being a writer, I bristle at the very idea of censorship of any sort. So I don’t plan on not writing about these events, but I suppose I could temper my tone slightly. After all, there is a link from my website to the blog, so anybody could potentially follow that. I think I’ll kill the link – I don’t really need it, and that’ll make the blog 98.7652% anonymous.

On the off chance that my folks are onto something…and, I guess in retrospect, they could be…I went back through a bunch of my old posts, and located a few passages that screamed for clarification. Because, ha-ha, turns out my words didn’t always convey my true thoughts. Oops! Sometimes you’ve gotta read between the lines. So, in the event that a would-be employer stumbled upon my blog earlier, I am here to clear the air!

  • What I Said

“I hereby resolve to make a living off my writing in 2011, or die trying (and by that I don’t mean literally, but rather, giving it all I’ve got and if it doesn’t work out succumbing to the steady paycheck of a Corporate America gig, which in many ways is kind of like a slow death anyway).”

  • What I Meant

“I hereby resolve to try to make a living off my writing in 2011, because it’s something I enjoy doing and am pretty good at (but if it doesn’t work out I will consider it an honor to find a corporate job where I would be assured of a steady paycheck and have the opportunity to show off my talents while contributing to the success of the organization before I die).”

  • What I Said

“Not that there’s anything wrong with sweats. They’re perfectly acceptable sitting-around-the-house attire. And in my case, driving-the-kids-to-school-and-back attire. As long as I don’t have to get out of the car, who cares what I’m wearing? Sweats and a t-shirt: the uniform of the unemployed.”

  • What I Meant

“It’s important to dress for success! While my closet is full of neatly ironed dress shirts and perfectly pressed slacks, occasionally in the privacy of my own home I will slip into a pair of sweats so I can feel comfortable, and focus all my attention on finding the perfect job! I especially miss wearing ties. Hopefully in the near future I can make use of my crisply professional wardrobe again.”

  • What I Said

“Working in the same building as my ex-wife is not something I would ever feel comfortable with. I can’t imagine running into her at the water cooler, or sitting across from her in a conference room, or bumping into one another on the way back from the mailroom. I would be on edge every minute of every day, waiting for the inevitable and regularly-occurring crossing of paths. That’s no way to live. Productivity would suffer, not to mention my mental state.”

  • What I Meant

“I am excited to have an opportunity to work for this dynamic company! I am even acquainted with somebody who works there, and it would be nice running into her at the water cooler occasionally. We could put our heads together and draw on our collective pasts and knowledge of one another’s abilities to figure out a way to boost sales for the company. What a great way to live. It would be a boon to productivity, for both of us!”

  • What I Said

“When I was working, on weekday mornings I was up at the crack of dawn. Even on my kid-free weeks, that meant a few minutes after 6:00. Although I’ve only been jobless for seven full days now, already that seems absurdly early to me. I shudder at the mere thought of getting out of bed anytime before 8:00. On the flip side, I’m staying up late – often until midnight now.”

  • What I Meant

“Early to bed and early to rise makes a man healthy, wealthy and wise. Those are words to live by! I shudder at the mere thought of getting out of bed anytime after 6:00. On the flip side, I tuck myself in well before midnight.”

  • What I Said

“I used to wait until 5:00 to pour myself a drink. Now, if 4 PM rolls around – or, I daresay, 3:45 – and I want a gin and tonic, then I’m heading straight for the liquor cabinet. And I’m probably wearing pajama pants, too.”

  • What I Meant

“I used to wait until 5:00 to pour myself a glass of water. Now, if 4 PM rolls around – or, I daresay, 3:45 – and I want water, or another beverage that is healthy and chock full of antioxidants, like green tea, then I’m heading straight for the fridge. And I’m probably dressed in my finest clothes, too, because if you want to be successful you must look successful.”

I have one more correction to make. I uploaded this photo when writing about my last interview. Unfortunately, it conveys the entirely wrong idea that I harbor some sort of prejudice against ties. This is not at all the case!

I was still adjusting my tie when the self-timer went off. Oops. Gave the wrong impression, didn't it?

Here’s the picture I meant to include, instead.

Ties are awesome! Thumbs up to ties! I was so excited to be able to wear one again, I couldn't decide which to choose!

Hopefully all grievous misconceptions have now been set straight, and any potential employer will see what an asset I’d be for their company.

Hire away, fellas!

Champagne Wishes on a Sparkling Water Budget

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With my finances suddenly dwindling, I’ve found myself cutting more corners lately. Gone are the extravagant weekly steak and lobster dinners. I no longer take the Maserati through the car wash, I scrub it with a bucket of soapy water and a sponge myself. Worst of all, I had to fire the maid (although really, she wasn’t doing that great a job – I caught her parked on the sofa watching “Days Of Our Lives” instead of washing the windows one day last week, and the writing has pretty much been on the wall since).

French maid

I had to let her go. Her dusting skills left much to be desired. (Courtesy of ideagrove.com).

And then you woke up, as a friend used to chide me whenever I’d veer off into Fairytaleland.

OK, fine, I don’t have those types of extravagances in my life. But I would if I could. I’ve always had expensive tastes and longed for the finer things in life. I like stuff. Mostly electronic or cutting-edge. It’s why I bought a DVD player when they first came out. Shelled out $500 for it, too. I cringe whenever I think about that now, but hey, at least I was the first person on my block to have one! I guess I was what you’d call an “early adopter” back then. I was also married, and there’s a lot to be said for two incomes. Not to mention high-paying jobs with nice bonus checks twice a year. My, how times have changed.

And in truth, I’ve changed, too. I joke around and say I’ve got champagne wishes and a sparkling water budget, but really…I don’t. When people ask me what my dream car is, I say a 1972 Volkswagen Bus. Which means either I’m a hippie at heart, or I’ve turned into Lester Burnham, and if the latter is the case, better lock up your daughters, I suppose. Seriously, even if I had money to spend, I wouldn’t bother with a fancy sports car or a Rolex or any of the other trappings of the rich and famous. Except the maid. She’d be a worthwhile investment. I like to think that I’ve mellowed with age and gotten more in touch with my blue-collar side.

Which is why I find myself making frequent trips to Value Village (a poor man’s Goodwill, if such a thing exists) and Grocery Outlet. I’ve been a connoisseur of garage sales for years, and no longer think twice about buying somebody else’s hand-me-downs. Half my townhouse is furnished with used goods. I had always drawn the line at clothes, however. There was something, umm, icky – for lack of a better word (and because “repulsive” sounds too crass) – about buying, and wearing, clothing that somebody else had worn previously. The last thing in the world I want is to wear a shirt that some fat guy sweated in. So imagine my surprise earlier today when my feet apparently developed a mind of their own and shuffled over to the clothing section of Value Village. I don’t know what possessed me to make my way over there, but suddenly I found myself browsing the racks and actually finding things I liked and wanted to wear. It didn’t matter that another human had once worn them and did god-knows-what in them, the $2.99 price tag on that green flannel shirt was too damn good to resist, so I quit trying and bought it.

I think this was a breakthrough moment in my life. Now that I have crossed a line I never imagined I would, the sky’s the limit, I suppose. I foresee frequent future forays for flannel and other fashions, friends. There’s no going back. I shall peruse the used clothing aisles on every trip henceforth.

I still draw the line at underwear, though. {Shudder}.

I probably wouldn’t bother with used clothes if I were still gainfully employed, so in some perverse way I’m glad I’m not raking in the dough. Humbleness is a good lesson to learn. I feel more in touch with the common man. Err…because I am the common man…anyway. You get the point.

I have a few things simmering on the burner freelance-wise. I sure hope they come to fruition, because I’ve reached the stage where I could definitely use some money. I am still working through the application process with Groupon; I’ve gotten good feedback on my write-ups but they decided to give me a fourth sample article, which is due tomorrow, to ensure that I continue to display their “voice” and style in my writing. I have to say the whole thing has been arduous, but I’m glad for that – this is a company that cares about their image and demands top-quality writing from their freelancers, so if I make it through I’ll feel confident that I’ve joined a team of creative, dedicated and hard-working writers. They’re not just handing me the job on a silver platter but making me earn it, and that’s great. Well, it’s only great if I get it, but still. I’ve also applied for a couple of other gigs, one of which pays quite well and would allow me to tap into my love for Portland, so fingers crossed.

In addition, I decided to go for broke and start e-mailing queries to every last agent in my guidebook yesterday. My novel is my baby and I feel like I’ve been neglecting her. Well, no longer. I sent out 32 in a single day. One agent already responded with some pretty helpful feedback which, unfortunately, would mean making some changes to the first chapter or two. I haven’t decided if I’m going to do this yet or which angle to take, but it’s food for thought. My dream has always been to become a published author.

A published, used clothing-wearing author, apparently.

Breaking Up Is Hard To Do

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I broke up with somebody this morning.

We hadn’t been together long – just a couple of months – and I suppose our relationship was like so many others. It burned with a white-hot intensity and passion at first, but the novelty wore off quickly. Our 7 encounters a week dwindled to 4, and before long, even that felt like too many. Ours was no longer a mutually beneficial union. I put a lot of hard work and effort into our relationship, and while I know the other person was pleased with my performance, I myself began to dread the monotony. In fact, I started to feel used. Even though I was getting paid – hey, these talents ain’t free! – it wasn’t nearly enough to justify the time and effort I was putting into the relationship. I began to long for others, ones less demanding and more appreciative of my skills. I found another, through an ad on Craigslist, and began doing that one, too. And then I sought out a third.

No, this isn’t some sordid tale straight out of a trashy made-for-cable-television movie.

Unfortunately.

I’m referring to my freelance writing. Back in December, when I first embarked upon this adventure, I picked up a client who hired me to produce a batch of SEO articles every week. I was thrilled at first, and plunged into the work with gusto. Before long, however, it became tedious. I was responsible for seven articles a week, and that first month they all involved writing about car insurance. There are only so many different topics one can come up with relating to auto insurance, and believe me, I covered them all. Again and again. Just when I finally got used to that topic, they switched me over to kitchen cabinet doors. There are even fewer topics to write about for that subject. At that point they cut their writer’s assignments down to four a week, and I breathed a sigh of relief. I picked up a second client and found their how-to articles and topics considerably more interesting. For one thing, I got to choose the topics I’d write about. For another, they paid more. Still, I continued writing for my original client, out of a sense of duty and obligation, even though the return on my investment was minimal. And then, two weeks ago, they switched things up again and my new area of “expertise” became steel buildings.

Throwing it all away is tough to do! (Courtesy of mediabistro.com).

I couldn’t take it any longer. I found myself knocking out all four articles in a single day just to get them over with. Worse, they were eating into my valuable time, which could have been spent on the better-paying and more intellectually stimulating how-to articles instead. Factor in this opportunity with Groupon, and suddenly I knew it was time to cut my ties with them. So this morning I fired off a very polite e-mail, thanking them for the opportunity and letting them know that the experience was invaluable and I couldn’t have landed other clients without it, but I had to focus on other opportunities now since this is my sole source of income and blah, blah, blah. It was a very nice breakup letter, trust me. Their response?

Because you did not give us the required notice, you will not be eligible to work with us in the future.

Ouch. I had no idea there was any sort of notice required when severing ties – nothing was ever mentioned to me in the beginning. It appears somebody was taking this breakup rather poorly.

So help me, if I come home one afternoon and find a rabbit boiling away in a pot on my stove…

…well, I guess I won’t have to worry about dinner that night.

But also, I’ll be really freaked out and scared.

I wrote back and said I’d had no idea they liked to have a notice, and they told me two weeks was appreciated so they could reallocate their articles and continue to meet their client’s needs seamlessly, and I get that, I really do. I started to feel bad about the whole thing and almost volunteered to keep writing for another couple of weeks…but I just couldn’t bring myself to do it. These articles are that mind-numbingly soul-sucking.

I was chatting with a friend about this whole thing earlier today. She asked, Are you concerned about being ineligible to work with them again?

My response? No, not at all…but I am concerned with developing a professional image.

Which is true. As corny as it sounds, I want my name to mean something out there. I want it to stand not only for quality work, but also for dedication and commitment. The whole thing has turned into a bit of an uncomfortable and sticky little mess, but I’ll just have to deal with any potential fallout and move on. All the freelance books I’ve read say you’ve got to know how to best allocate your time and can’t be afraid to say “no” to people. Today was all about me, saying “no.”

As for Groupon, things continue to move forward. I submitted my third and final sample article today, and will have feedback on it tomorrow. Matt – the recruiter I’m dealing with – said “this is your last, best chance to shine before you are evaluated by the writing committee.” Err…there’s a writing committee that will be checking out my work and making a final decision?! Yikes. I’m more nervous than ever now. I think I’ve done enough to impress them – Matt’s reaction to my first two articles was positive – but without hearing back on the third yet, and knowing it’s up to a bunch of strangers now, who knows?

On a completely unrelated note, yesterday I went back to my old place of employment to visit with my former coworkers and friends. First time I’d been back since that fateful day in late October when I walked out the door for the last time. It was a little surreal, walking into the lobby and seeing a stranger – albeit a hot one – sitting behind the reception desk where Kristy belonged. “Oh, she’s up in customer service now,” I was told. I signed into the log book, was handed a visitor’s badge, and then – because it was obvious everybody knew me, judging by the greetings I was receiving from people walking by – the hot new receptionist gave me free reign of the building. I ended up staying two hours, and it was great seeing all those familiar faces again. I shook a bunch of hands, doled out a lot of hugs, and recounted my unemployment journey thus far ad nauseum. Walking around the place I’d worked for more than six years felt familiar and comfortable, and by the time I left, I was feeling more than a little nostalgic for the past.

But then, as soon as I got back home and walked through the door, I remembered how much I prefer being my own boss instead, and felt a lot better about things.

Please Don’t Buy Me a Star

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Last year, I subscribed to Groupon because I’d heard people talking about the really good deals you could find on there. I have to admit, there are some real bargains; I’ve purchased a couple of restaurant Groupons myself. But there are some real head-scratchers, too. Take yesterday’s Daily Deal for Portland: for $29 you can dedicate a star to somebody and name it after them (a $79 value, so you’re saving 63%). Just between you and me, I think this whole star-naming thing is a scam. Because really, is the International Astronomical Union going to refer to PSR J1302-6350 as “Sally Snugglepuss” if somebody coughs up the dough for those naming rights? I highly doubt it. It’s a romantic idea in theory, but when you get right down to brass tacks, not so much. You are basically comparing your loved one to a hot ball of gas, right? One whose midsection will keep expanding the older it gets until one day it explodes, raining fiery death down upon anybody unfortunate enough to be close by.

Oh, baby. How sweet of you.

Besides, how does a company “own” a star in the first place? That’d be like me selling individual grains of sand on a public beach. (Hmm…). Plus, there is more than one star-naming registry out there. How do we know that Sally’s star doesn’t already “belong” to Herbert in Idaho Falls or Trudy in Tallahassee? I can see fistfights breaking out over celestial property rights.

Naming Stars

"Look, honey - I picked that one out just for you!" (Courtesy of liveinternet.ru).

I don’t want a star named after me, even if the intentions are good. Because with my luck, that star would be home to some advanced alien race who decides to invade earth one day, and when they land, if the star charts show I’m the owner, those bug-eyed green monsters are going to come a-knockin’ on my door, just you watch. And they won’t be delivering a package.

So, if anybody is thinking about doing this for me, kind gesture aside – thanksbutnothanks. (I will, however, gladly take an iPad if you are still in a “giving” mood).

Hey, speaking of Groupon…

I love reading their daily deals. They are chock full of the wittiest prose this side of Orion’s belt (in keeping with the celestial theme). Their ads are creative, clever, and rely on bizarre imagery and wacky, unexpected metaphors to drive the point home. I daresay, they entertain, which is why I look forward to seeing them land in my In Box every morning. And also why, a few months ago, I had a conversation with my girlfriend regarding Groupon. “I’d love to write for them,” I said. “Their sense of humor is just like mine.”

So, when I opened a Groupon e-mail in the beginning of January and saw an ad for Freelance Writers, I eagerly clicked on the link. The application process involved writing a sample article for a sea kayak company in Georgia, submitting a cover letter and resume, and then waiting to hear back while they sifted through hundreds of applicants. I had nearly given up hope – after all, four weeks had gone by with nary a word – but I would occasionally check on the status of my application and as long as it read “In process” I figured I had a chance. Then, last Friday, I finally heard back from one of the Groupon editors. His e-mail was encouraging. I read your sample carefully and found a lot to like about it, and a number of elements that I think we can build on. I’d like to talk to you further about the humor and mechanics you displayed in your writeup, and how we can work together to make it adhere more closely to the Groupon voice.

Whoo-hoo! He set up a phone interview for yesterday afternoon, leaving me cautiously optimistic. We chatted for a few minutes about my freelance writing experience, how I came across the ad, and why I decided to apply. Then he critiqued my sample literally word for word, which was a bit humbling, but he was very positive about my writing. Said I “made an assertion and then delivered a classic 1-2-3 punch” in my opening paragraph while maintaining the trademark Groupon “absurdist, offbeat humor.” He told me I had a firm grasp of the mechanics of their writing style and had clearly given thought to the structure and voice they aim for. My sample wasn’t perfect – he warned me to avoid hyperbole and let the jokes come out of the humor rather than vice-versa – but overall he was pleased enough to invite me to continue through the application process. Which is rather stringent. I’ll have to prove myself through three additional sample articles, continuing to demonstrate the qualities and characteristics they are looking for while showing growth, and then they will make a decision. So it’s by no means a done deal, and I hope I’m not jinxing my chances by writing about it here, but I feel pretty confident in my abilities and will give these samples (for which they are paying me, so it’s a win-win no matter what happens) my complete focus. The first one is due by Friday morning, but I hope to have it back to them by the end of the day.

This is very exciting to me, because it’s the big freelance opportunity I have been waiting for – a chance to show off my creative skills for a well-known and fast-growing company who will pay me a much better per-article price than I’m earning anywhere else. Groupon freelancers can choose to write between ten and twenty articles a week, and he said each one takes the average writer about an hour to complete (pretty much the same amount of time I’m spending on my other articles). He asked what I thought my commitment would be, and I told him I’d be comfortable doing a full load of twenty. That’s a twenty-hour workweek, which gives me another twenty hours (if I’m thinking in terms of a “traditional” 8-5 job) to work on other projects. The Groupon gig alone would net me more than I’m earning through unemployment, so I would officially stop filing claims and wouldn’t have to worry about meeting Washington’s three-job-contacts-a-week requirement. Add in additional income from my other gigs, and suddenly I am earning the same amount I was from my last job at KNA, but doing it on my own terms and in the comfort of my own home.

Again, not counting my chickens before they’re hatched, but I can’t help feeling a little bit optimistic these days. Things seem to be looking up. While the company I interviewed with last week hasn’t called me back – thanks again, universe! – I did win my battle against the state and am free to work in self-employment and still earn benefits.

I’m just hoping I won’t need to do that much longer.

The Universe Has a #$%! Sense of Humor

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Eventually, it was bound to happen: I found myself on a job interview yesterday. First one since I joined the ranks of the unemployed a little over three months ago. I initially had mixed feelings over the whole thing. The opportunity sounded fantastic – a copywriting position with a local company close to home. There was one big drawback, however…my ex-wife works there.

Thank you, Universe.

I mean, seriously. Out of all the companies in the Portland metro area, the first one interested in me – and, I might add, one of only a handful of jobs I’ve applied for that actually appealed to me – happens to be the same one where my ex works? What are the odds? Is somebody upstairs toying with me for fun?

I would never have applied for the position had I known it was with her employer. But, it was a blind posting through Craigslist, one of those anonymous ten-digit e-mail addresses you encounter quite frequently when replying to an ad. It wasn’t until they called and left a voicemail message stating they wanted to interview me that their true identity was revealed. What followed was one of those dramatic moments where I stared at the sky, arms stretched out and head tilted back, and screamed, “Whhhhyyyyy???”

OK, not really. But I was bummed out, and faced a dilemma. Do I return the call and schedule an interview, or pretend it never happened?

According to the state of Washington, I would be in danger of forfeiting my unemployment benefits if I didn’t set up an interview that was offered unless I had compelling reasons. I don’t think “awkwardness” applies. Here’s the thing: I don’t hate my ex. On the contrary, I have been the one who has constantly attempted to keep the lines of communication open and flowing. After a falling out, I extended the olive branch. I try to be positive, friendly, and level-headed despite the fact that she is now married to a man who is not only responsible for our ultimate demise, but doesn’t seem to like the idea of my existence very much. After all, we had a lot of good years together, and ended up with two kids to show for our troubles. Things weren’t exactly rosy that last year or two, but until then, we got along pretty well. High school sweethearts and all. (As romantic as that sounds, I don’t really recommend it to anybody – you simply are not the same person at 37 that you were at 17. Change is inevitable, and a slow but steady drifting apart seems to be the end result. I would rather meet somebody who is 40 39 38 37 a few years younger than me but still mature enough to know who they are and what they want and not suddenly turn into a completely different person one day. That’s the basis for a lasting relationship).

Anyway, the point is, even though we kind-of sort-of get along because of the kids, working in the same building as my ex-wife is not something I would ever feel comfortable with. I can’t imagine running into her at the water cooler, or sitting across from her in a conference room, or bumping into one another on the way back from the mailroom. I would be on edge every minute of every day, waiting for the inevitable and regularly-occurring crossing of paths. That’s no way to live. Productivity would suffer, not to mention my mental state.

However.

One positive thing about this company is, they’ve got eight different buildings spread out over a couple of locations. There was a chance, at least, that we might not end up working in the same office – or even the same city.

Dressing up for a job interview.

I despise wearing ties. Can you tell?

Plus, I am locked in a battle with the state of Washington currently over my freelance work. Back in December, before I set forth on this venture, I contacted the unemployment office to make sure that I would still be able to collect unemployment benefits while doing some freelance writing on the side. I felt it was crucial to have all my ducks lined up in a row, just in case. They replied that not only was it allowed, but it was encouraged. My weekly checks would simply be reduced by whatever amount I earned for the week, allowing my benefits to actually last longer, since I am drawing from a specific amount that was approved when I filed my claim. Win-win for everybody. But when I checked YES next to the question about earning income through self-employment when my first paycheck came in, all sorts of flags were automatically raised. I had to call them, answer a bunch of questions, and then they sent me a ten-page form asking all sorts of additional questions about my self-employment. How many hours I’m devoting to it, how much income I’m anticipating, the number of employees I have working for me, what I’d do if offered a job, yadda yadda. I filled everything out with a copy of the e-mail they sent to me stating that freelancing was just fine and dandy with them, and now have to wait 6-10 weeks (!) for a “decision.” In the meantime, they’re still paying me, but it’s considered “conditional” and I might possibly have to give it all back to them. Plus, every week when I file my claim, I am prompted to call in and talk to somebody and go over the whole song and dance. To say it’s frustrating is an understatement. I would love to be earning enough from my freelance writing to be able to drop the unemployment thing entirely, but I’m not there yet.

So I decided to go ahead and call these guys back to set up an interview. It was scheduled for yesterday afternoon.

Even though this was my first job interview in almost seven years, I didn’t feel the slightest bit nervous. Maybe because I felt I had nothing to lose? I figured, in a worst-case scenario I’d just delete this contact from my job search log. Erase its very existence and move on. I felt very uncomfortable dressing up and wearing a tie, but otherwise, I walked in there brimming with confidence. And then I saw my ex’s car parked in the lot and the butterflies came calling. I quickly dispelled them, and spent about twenty minutes with a person from their HR department, going over my qualifications and learning about the job opportunity. Turns out they are actually interviewing for two different positions, and while I was initially interested in the Copywriter job, their Social Media Specialist is actually a better fit for me. I’m seeing similar jobs posted quite often these days.

“What does a Social Media Specialist do?” I asked.

“He maintains our corporate presence online by frequently updating our Facebook accounts and sending Tweets,” she replied.

Sounds too good to be true, huh? I know a thing or two about social media. I have a blog (duh), a Twitter account, two Facebook accounts (one personal, one for my freelancing business), and I’m LinkedIn. I’m perfectly qualified for the position. Plus, the salary is exactly what I am looking for (a fair amount higher than what I was earning before). And, best of all, the position is located at their other office, meaning no uncomfortable vending machine chitchat with the ex.

Suddenly, I was intrigued. And glad I didn’t skip out on the interview. She said they’ll be making decisions on who to call back for second interviews within a week, so my fingers are crossed.

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Everybody Needs McLovin

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Through a series of unfortunate circumstances, I found myself alone on New Year’s Eve. And while being alone doesn’t bother me – I actually ended a relationship last year because I didn’t get any sort of alone time whatsoever and that drove me to the brink of insanity (and, okay, also because I was in love with somebody else) – I found myself slipping into a wistful sort of despair last night. Fortunately, I had a bottle of champagne “sparkling wine in the champagne style” to cheer me up! I’m so glad that alcohol is an anti-depressant!

What’s that? I’ve got it backwards? Well, that explains so much…

Nevertheless, the bottle of Domaine Ste. Michelle was mine, all mine. I had an “emergency” frozen pizza in the freezer, because I typically avoid frozen and processed foods. Not just because of the chemicals and preservatives, but also, the taste – the food is usually bland, and I always think, “I could do a better job than that.” That’s the problem with being a decent cook – you have no excuses. There are exceptions, like frozen vegetables and Eggo waffles, but my experience with pizza has never been much to write home about. So I was pleasantly surprised when my Freschetta Naturally Rising Supreme pizza actually tasted good. The crust wasn’t the cardboard I expected, but rather, thick and chewy; the mozzarella tasted fresh and flavorful; and the pepperoni had a smoky bite to it. It was better than some of the take-out joints around town. Yes, Little Caesar, I am talking to you and your ragtag band of “pizza, pizza!” minions. I would definitely buy it again. In fact, let’s make that an Official Resolution: more Freschetta in 2011. Who says resolutions have to be difficult?!

So I had my pizza and fauxpagne (ooh! cool new word!) and I decided to raid my DVD collection and watch movies. I started with Lost In Translation (the Murraython continues), followed by Superbad (because everybody needs a little McLovin) and When Harry Met Sally (the quintessential New Year’s film). The movies were good – all funny and distracting – and yet, still, I found myself wallowing in a rather unbecoming fit of self-pity, and drained the bottle with ninety minutes to spare. Because, while I put on a brave face here and am generally an optimistic person, the truth is that 2010 was a challenging year. Losing my job was just the tip of the iceberg. I don’t think I’ve ever had a year filled with so much potential that ended up squandered. As the ball dropped on Times Square in glorious three-hour-tape-delayed fashion and “2011″ came ablaze amidst flashing lights, confetti, and a street-filled chorus of Auld Lang Syne, I just sat there, unsure of whether to cheer the passing year and welcome the unbridled virgin potential of a new one, or to mourn another unfulfilled 365 days and look forward not with jubilation but trepidation toward an uncertain future. In the end, I guess, I felt a mix of both. I am the type of person who always welcomes fresh starts and clean slates and believes that things will work out in the long run. Just once, though, I’d like to look back on a year and think, “Wow, that was a good one. I’m sorry to see it pass.” It’s been awhile since that happened.

McLovin is Super Bad!

Enough of the “woe is me” stuff, though. I’m feeling much better this morning. And while I don’t usually make resolutions (frozen pizza notwithstanding), I think I’ve got to this year. I can’t survive on a weekly batch of $15 articles, so I hereby resolve to make a living off my writing in 2011, or die trying (and by that I don’t mean literally, but rather, giving it all I’ve got and if it doesn’t work out succumbing to the steady paycheck of a Corporate America gig, which in many ways is kind of like a slow death anyway). I’m going to shoot for some magazine submissions. Enter a few short story contests with cash prizes. And most importantly of all, I am going to finish querying every last literary agent in the book, in an all-out effort to get my novel published. Sooner, rather than later; I want to have this finished by the end of January. This past week I came tantalizingly close when an agent requested the first two chapters of my manuscript, only the second request I’d gotten all year. I ended up spending ten days carefully rewriting the first chapter to ensure it was as good as it could possibly be, only to end up with the usual “thanks-but-no-thanks-this-project-is-not-right-for-me” form rejection. But that doesn’t matter, because the request reawakened the dream for me, and had me once again tasting the possibilities. One year after completing my novel and I still have dozens of unqueried agents – it’s time to finish my work there. If ever a year came to a close in which I’d become a published author, that would be one I’d look back on in fondness.

So, there we go. A few resolutions, a healthy enough dose of optimism, and a game plan. Can’t ask for much more than that.

Bring it, 2011.

Hope I Get Old Before I Die

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My hard work spent studying assisted living facilities paid off. They liked my sample article enough to welcome me aboard as an official Contract Writer! I will be assigned seven articles per week. If I feel comfortable enough to write more, I can increase that number to 14. Or 49. Or anything in increments of 7. My income potential is directly related to my work output; the more I write, the more money I’ll make. So this is what it’s like to be accountable to yourself! I have to say, I already like being my own boss.

But.

(Of course there is one).

As I’ve mentioned, the pay is pretty low. I certainly don’t feel like I’m suddenly “employed.” I could never survive off of what I’ll be making from these articles. Rather, it’s a foot in the door. I have landed my first official client – and that’s a pretty giddy feeling – but now I have to find a few more. Then, maybe I can think about supporting myself from my writing. In the meantime, the search for a “real” job continues. I have to, in order to keep the unemployment checks rolling in, and that is another issue on my plate. I need to know how freelancing will affect my unemployment benefits. Obviously, I’m assuming the small amount I’ll earn from my weekly articles will be deducted from my checks, and as long as that’s the case, I’ll be happy. (I mean, of course, if I didn’t have to report the income, I’d be even happier, but this company is legitimate and I have to fill out a W2 and everything. Too bad! Not that I’m trying to defraud the government or anything, of course). My only fear is that the state of Washington will say, “hey – you’ve got a job now!” and stop paying me. I don’t think that will be the case, based on my internet research, but every state is different and you just never know. I tried calling them, but got a recorded message stating that due to high call volume they weren’t accepting any more calls at this time (what?!) and was then hung up on. By a robot. Sheesh…story of my life! So I sent them an e-mail instead, asking them my question. I can expect to receive a response “in a few business days.” Good Lord.

So, I’ll hold off on any official celebrating until I hear back. No matter what, though, I’m already proud of myself. Lots of unemployed people sit around and languish while waiting for opportunity to come knocking. At least I am trying to be proactive, and I know now that I can earn money from my writing; it’s just a question of how much and how soon. I feel confident enough that I can eventually become self-supporting – I just need to make that happen before I end up in line at the nearest soup kitchen (although, if it’s clam chowder night, I can wait a little longer). In the meantime, I’ve applied for a couple more freelancing positions. One is good, a few more would be great. We’ll see.

I’ve gotta say, though, after researching assisted living facilities for my sample article, I’m actually a little jealous of the people who end up there.

Crazy talk? Hardly! My parents had a couple of brochures from local places when they were trying to get my grandmother to move out this way, and lent them to me for my research. Flipping through the pages, you’d think you were looking at an advertisement for the Ritz-Carlton or something. Both brochures were laden with pictures of smiling, happy seniors living the good life! The men all had perfectly coiffed, full heads of silver hair, while the women were dressed to the nines and bedecked with exquisite-looking jewelry. Everybody was smiling, and their teeth were perfectly straight and pearly white. There was nary a liver spot or bald head to be seen; no wrinkles or dentures or walkers in sight. There were pictures of couples dining by candlelight or dancing in front of a fireplace or gardening together. Even the single people looked to be having the time of their lives – there was a woman painting on an easel on the grassy front yard; a man fishing for trout in a bubbling brook; a woman relaxing on a hammock with an open book; a man holding his grandson by the arms, joyfully lifting him off the ground. There were people golfing and swimming and sketching in notebooks and looking like they were having the absolute time of their lives. I have never seen so many smiles before.

Tell me they aren't having the time of their lives! (Image courtesy of senior-fun.com)

Then there’s the amenities. Social and recreational activities aplenty. Housekeeping and laundry services. Free transportation. And the food – oh, the food! Three glorious meals a day, prepared by skilled chefs. A sample menu had been tucked into one of the brochures. What were the lucky residents dining on that particular week? Dishes like Northwest Hazelnut Chicken with sweet potatoes and green beans; Pot Roast with a vegetable medley; Carolina Pulled Pork with basil orzo pasta and corn; Chicken Waldorf Salad; and – wonder of wonders! – Prime Rib Roast with an asparagus and wild mushroom risotto. And to think that somebody else is there to clean up after them, too!

Lucky seniors. See why I’m jealous? They are living the dream! Why, I’d trade in this ol’ condominium for an assisted living center tomorrow if I could! No, scratch that. It’s not soon enough. I’d do it today!

You know that song by The Who, My Generation? That’s the one with the infamous refrain that goes, “hope I die before I get old.” With all due respect to Roger Daltrey and company, I think they got that backwards.

Me? I hope I get old before I die.

‘Cause I can’t wait to call an assisted living facility home…

I Could Be Plucking Chickens

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I’m midway through my 3rd week of unemployment and the reality is beginning to set in. Meaning I’m starting to actually feel jobless, as opposed to being on vacation or having a (really) long weekend. For one thing, the State of Washington keeps reminding me of this fact. Every time I check the mailbox there’s something new from them. Information about my claim. Seminars on finding work. I found out today I have to attend a mandatory 2-hour “Orientation to Re-employment Services” meeting next Tuesday at an ungodly early hour. Great – that’ll be fun, hanging out with a bunch of losers who can’t hold down a job! Err…wait a second…

Plus, the novelty of being home all the time is wearing off, and I’m beginning to miss human interaction. Sure, I see the kids before and after school on the weeks that I have them, but during the day it’s just me and Sydney The Cat. For the record, she loves that I’m home all the time now, because she gets a lot more attention than she ever did before – and also gets to sleep atop the down comforter on my bed when I’m working away at the computer – but once I’m too poor to afford the Friskies canned food that she is so fond of, I’m sure her enthusiasm will wane. I do see people if I happen to stop by the grocery store, but in the middle of the day they are either old folks, harried moms with crying babies and toddlers in tow, or other unemployed guys like me. No offense, but I don’t yearn for any of their company. So, when a former coworker stopped by the other evening to deliver a bunch of resumes he had kindly had printed up for me, is it any wonder I burst through the door the moment he pulled up and dashed outside to meet him? It was like a scene from one of those cheesy romantic comedies, in which soft music full of violins is playing while two long-lost lovers run in slow motion through a field of wildflowers toward each other. Only, of course, not at all like that. Because it’s November, and there are no flowers in bloom right now. And also, right, the fact that we are both in relationships with women. Details, details. But it was good to see somebody from my previous life again.

“Nothing has changed at work,” he said, and while I didn’t expect anything major to have happened in the half a month I have been gone, a small part of me was disappointed to hear that the company hadn’t completely imploded once I left. Not that I wish them trouble, but how rewarding would it be to hear that I was like the Ace holding together that particular house of cards, and the moment I was removed, the whole thing came tumbling down? Instead, I’m like the upside-down three in the bottom corner, I guess. I want life there to go on without me, maybe just not exactly smoothly, know what I mean? Let there be a minor hiccup or two along the way, just enough to give The Powers That Be a momentary pause and have them ponder, for a few seconds, the wisdom of letting ol’ Mark walk out the door without a fight.

Wow, have I got an ego today.

Lord, she had enough money to buy a Mercedes Benz. Or 50. (Image courtesy of markmuloski.com)

That’s okay. Maybe it’ll fire me up and give me the strength to fight harder for a Bigger, Better Gig. It’s kind of like how the kid who never amounted to much in high school wants to come back to his tenth reunion a huge success. Like Janis Joplin, who returned to Thomas Jefferson High School in Port Arthur, Texas for her 10th reunion a huge star. She showed up dressed from head to toe in her signature hippie-like attire – beads, bangles, sunglasses, a garish pink boa – “look at me now, suckers!”. Thumbing her nose at the establishment that had mocked her. I’ll hold off on the boa, but sure, I’d like to walk back through the doors of my former employer one day a successful writer.

Or, maybe I’ll be doing something else that I can’t even fathom right now. Odd jobs apparently run in the family. My parents, who have taken quite an interest in my blog, have been suggesting topics for me to write about. My mom e-mailed me a few days ago with an idea – writing about the unusual jobs my relatives have held over the years. I thought, hmm, yeah, sure, but how outlandish could those jobs be? Let’s just say I was surprised. The people from whom I am descended, it turns out, found some quite interesting ways to bring home the bacon! Who knew? Like, for instance…

  • My grandfather (mom’s side) was an arm hole presser in a coat factory. And he took a job washing milk bottles when he quit school at age 13.
  • My grandmother (mom’s side) assembled glove boxes for General Motors automobiles.
  • My grandfather (dad’s side) worked on the assembly line at Stokely-Van Camp taking hot bottles off the washing line before they were filled with ketchup.
  • My grandmother (dad’s side) worked on the life-jacket line in a parachute factory.
  • My great-grandfather (mom’s side) was a coal miner who developed Black Lung Disease.
  • My great-grandfather (dad’s side) assembled dolls in the Horseman Doll factory.
  • My dad’s cousin was a chicken plucker.

Interesting stuff, I have to admit! Makes me feel kind of pathetic, having been stuck inside a cubicle most of my working career. Sure, I worked some retail jobs in high school and college, but the most exciting thing my grandkids might hear is, Your grandfather sold overpriced luggage to people who had just stuffed their faces full of Hot Dog On A Stick in the mall. Not very bad-ass, is it? Not that I want to make dolls or rip the feathers off of chickens, but at least my relatives had stories to tell! By contrast, the stories I tell (my writing) are made-up and happen to other people.

But hey, at least I won’t die from some horrible lung disease, right?