My Life on the Dole

“I’m On My Way. . .”

2011-06-21T11:42:00.000-04:00

Yep, you heard right.

I'm. On. My. Way.

Finally!

Well, at least I think so.

After six face-to-face interviews totaling more than sixteen hours of questions. I've been told I'm the "leading candidate" for a great job.

No, not the job I interviewed for in March. After three interviews and making it to the top two finalists, that nonprofit job went to a guy with manufacturing experience. Many executive jobs in manufacturing these days, all requiring manufacturing experience, and he just had to horn in on my field. Go figure that one out.

It's a different job.

A better job. A way, way, way better job.

A better commute.

A better company.

And, the reason, I'm being considered? Because I failed to get the other job.

Well, let's face it, if I had gotten the other job I wouldn't have even been available for this one. At the time, my friend the executive recruiter didn't even have a contract to do this search yet. But my performance in the interview for the job I failed to get landed me an interview for this one.

Is it really possible to score an awesome job by failing to get a just-OK job?

Apparently so.

Perhaps Denzel Washington was right when he recently stated to the Class of 2011 at the University of Pennsylvania:

…you will fail at some point in your life. Accept it. You will lose. You will embarrass yourself. You will suck at something. There is no doubt about it. …I'm telling you—embrace it. …But do you have guts to fail? …If you don't fail… you're not even trying. …Sometimes it's the best way to figure out where you're going. Your life will never be a straight path. …Because the chances you take, the people you meet, the people you love, the faith that you have—that's what's going to define your life. …Never be discouraged. Never hold back. Give everything you've got.

And, a recent Nike commercial featuring NBA-great Michael Jordan recounts his many failures before stating, "I've failed over and over and over again in my life. And, that is why I succeed."

Because I tried so many times and so long and so hard, I've failed.

Because I've failed and picked myself up to try again, I will succeed.

People who never do anything, never fail, but they never succeed either.

And, while failure can be a great learning tool in itself, sometimes it places you on a different path that turns out to be a better path—the right path.

It's not over yet.

There's still much to be done before I cross that finish line.

I'm almost terrified to hope again. But my annoying, internal voice seems to be the eternal optimist. My head is saying "Don't get your hopes up again."

My heart is saying "This is it."

I don't know which one to listen to, but maybe I should listen to both.

I don't even know how to feel.

But, maybe that's the real in real life.

I'm excited.

I'm scared.

I feel like dancing.

I feel like going back to bed with the covers over my head.

And, with all those feelings, I wait for the news that may change my life or dash my dreams.

But, in spite of those nagging thoughts, I can't help singing "Tell everybody I'm on my way. . ."

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Just for Fun: This song is just so happy that I can't help but smile when I hear it. Enjoy Phil Collins singing "I'm on My Way" from the Brother Bear movie soundtrack.

And, check out Michael Jordan's commercial.

Enjoy Denzel Washington's speech to the University of Pennsylvania's graduating class in 2011.

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Photo credits: Note: Ariel not pictured.

Raining Day: http://www.flickr.com/photos/henrie/5557814231/

Black Bean Soup:http://www.flickr.com/photos/lanuiop/3268900198/

Untitled: http://www.flickr.com/photos/rileyalexandra/3763114296/

Gloom, Despair and Agony on Me

2011-03-29T13:11:00.000-04:00

I've hit a wall in my job search.

Really.

Hit. A. Wall.

Hard.

The two-year job search is finally taking its toll.

'Bout time, you say?

Uh-huh. You're probably right.

It's been 25 months of job search and 17 months on the dole.

I'm exhausted.

I'm sick of it.

I'm really annoyed with the whole process.

After hundreds of résumé submissions and job applications—thousands if you count all those generic e-blasts sent to recruiters—and countless hours of work and networking, I've reached the end of my energy.

As we say in the South:

I'm plum tuckered out;

Worn to a frazzle;

Slap-dab sick of the whole dang thing.

The irony? I'm starting to get interviews for the first time in ages.

Two weeks ago, I had a real in-person interview—only the fourth dress-up-and-go situation since this nightmare began. Sure, I've had numerous phone interviews, but can you believe that in 25 months this was only the fourth actual look-'em-in-the-eye event?

A lot of good it did to pull on that tummy-tucking-feels-like-cast-iron-even-though-it's-spandex thingie (dare I say "girdle"?), style the hair, drive out of town for hours and stay overnight. As usual, the lucky winner is not this girl. Instead, they chose two internal candidates to move forward in the process. I've lost to more internal candidates than I would like to think about.

We interrupt this blog post for a rant:

Why, time after time, do companies, post jobs, hire recruiters, get applicants' hopes up, when all the time the person who'll wind up with the job is already sitting in the company's office at the time of the posting?

Sometimes they think they can "do better" but, c'mon, how encouraging is that to the internal candidate who ultimately gets the job?

Most of the time, it's about money. They suddenly realized they can save thousands by not paying the recruiter (And if you think I'm ticked off you should hear what these recruiters have to say! They usually only get paid if the company hires their candidates). And, internal candidates play right into their hands—they're happy for a promotion and a raise (never realizing it was probably far less than they would've given an outside candidate). Besides, companies score financially, too, when they don't have to move anyone in from out of state.

Even if they hire an external candidate for the position vacated by the recently promoted employee, they have just pushed the real opening lower down the experience ladder and salary scale.

And, yeah, I've tried to get the lower position too. The response? Over-qualified.

I get it, you cheapskates, I get it. Really, I do.

But, in the name of all that is holy, must you disrupt the lives of innocent applicants who don't know this? Must you put us through the agony of going in for a job interview that we don't have a snowball's chance in you-know-where of getting? Really, MUST YOU?

I'd rather stay home in my sweatpants than take on the anxiety of a job interview when you had no intention of really considering me anyway.

And, now we resume our regularly scheduled programming.

But, I've got another interview scheduled. The job is almost identical to my previous position in a similar type of organization.

It's local too—a thought that makes me sigh with relief.

I'm realistic about moving if it comes to that, but I prefer not to if possible. I've built a life here. My family is here. I'll do whatever I have to do, but as nice as some other parts of the country are, I can't see myself shoveling snow or battening down the hatches for a hurricane.

It's just as well because most recruiters and hiring managers seem interested only in local candidates. I found a wonderful job at a great organization last week. I deployed a unique and creative marketing scheme, and it paid off—the recruiter seemed to love me. But, the position is out-of-state, and the recruiter said the client only wanted local candidates. I understand that, but I would have been perfect for them.

Really.

I would have.

(Mini-rant alert: Could they not have included that in their job post to save me from applying for something I would never even be allowed a shot at?)

But, I've got another interview coming up—a local one, remember?

Interviews can be exciting—for about the first ten minutes after you get off the phone from setting up the appointment.

You'd think nervousness would be the next emotion, but, no. Instead the emotion is gloom that descends faster than a San Francisco fog.

It feels as if the closer the interview date comes, the closer I am to hearing that particularly painful "no" yet again:

"The client has decided to go with an internal candidate."

"We have chosen another candidate who more closely fits our needs."

"We've decided to only interview local candidates".

Or, worse yet, deafening silence.

I want to send out an email that says: "Hello, anybody out there? Is this thing on? Is there a black hole at the end of my internet connection?"

You see, each time, at the end of the interview, I feel like a single woman out on that awkward first date that ends with the dreaded words: "I'll call you."

Still, you smile as you must, give him the number and know in your gut that he will never call.

The exhaustion has been difficult enough, but now panic has emerged.

My last day of insurance coverage is April 30.

At $464 per month, it's been expensive, but manageable with my ever-dwindling savings account.

I called my insurance carrier yesterday for rates on an individual policy.

It's bad.

Really bad.

$1,224-per-month bad.

But, then it got worse:

"Now, remember on this policy, there are no co-pays," the insurance representative chirped happily. "The plan does not cover anything until you meet your $2,500 deductible."

What the heck? You mean, nearly $15,000 per year buys me nothing?

"It's really more of a catastrophic plan," she continued, ever more cheerfully.

Catastrophic is right. It's the policy that's the catastrophe!

She went on to explain that after the deductible is met then the policy will pay a whopping 70% of medical bills.

"It does cover psychiatric care and counseling," she remarked. "If you need that sort of thing."

"I don't need that now, but give me a few months on that premium, and I just might," I quipped.

After 20 years of administering employee benefit plans, doing without coverage is just not an option for me. I know the really scary things that can happen to people without coverage. I have actually known people who died because they could not afford medical care.

And no, before you bring it up, I can't get the new government health coverage either. For the next few years, you have to be totally without coverage for at least six months to be eligible. Even then, the premiums are astronomical and cover almost nothing.

Accordingly, while I was out yesterday, I spoke to the manager of the drugstore down the street about a job and left the store with a job application.

Thereafter, in anticipation of expanding my job search to those offering minimum wage, I re-did my résumé. I can't tell you how much it pained me to remove my hard-earned master's degree, ninety percent of my previous job responsibilities and all of my significant accomplishments. In it, I no longer call myself an "executive". Supervisor or manager is the most I'll admit to now.

It's not that I'm too proud for a minimum-wage job. It's an honest way to make a living. I'm happy to do almost any job. But, what many folks don't seem to understand is that once you accept a job at that level, you're hard pressed to ever move back to your previous job (and salary level) ever again.

For those minimum-wage jobs, you work awfully hard. You stand on your feet. You work overtime to make an extra buck. You come home tired. You have at least 40 fewer hours per week to devote to the search for a job such as the one you previously had.

Plus, the lower the job level, the less scheduling flexibility a worker has. How would I ever get the head cashier to understand that I needed to swap shifts so I could go on a CEO or VP interview? The reality is that I wouldn't.

How would I choose between the "sure thing"—$7.25 per hour with benefits—and the opportunity to get my career back on track?

But, soon none of those concerns will matter anymore. In six weeks time, I'll get a monthly insurance bill that exceeds my entire monthly dole income. At this point, I no longer care about salary any more as long as the job has insurance benefits.

Fatigue.

Gloom.

Panic.

It's really starting to hit me now.

My inner optimist rails against the oppressive weight, but there is a rising, slightly nauseating feeling that's rolling in.

This cannot be the course of my life from now on.

Or is it?

And, despite the overwhelming feeling nipping at my heels, I trudge on. Next week, I'll put on my best suit and go to that interview. I'll smile as though I don't have a care in the world. I'll exude confidence, optimism and professionalism. I'll swallow hard and fight the queasy feeling in the pit of my stomach.

Because I am totally, completely out of options.

But, I WILL get that job. I WILL.

Because I have no other choices. Because this time I have to.

# # #

Just for Fun: This really cheered me up! Remember "Hee-Haw" the classic American TV show from the 1970s? Yeah, it was cheesy but also pretty fun. I watched this show every Saturday night when I was a little girl. Enjoy this clip from the show.

# # #

Photo Credits:
Note: Women pictured are not Ariel.

The Scream: Painting by Edvard Munch, painted 1893 http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:The_Scream.jpg

Depression: http://www.flickr.com/photos/canonsnapper/4241963210/

Worried Woman: http://www.flickr.com/photos/spaceodissey/2580085025/

Woman Yelling at Phone: http://www.flickr.com/photos/pollobarba/5037569606/

Job Application: http://www.flickr.com/photos/gtmcknight/202136435/sizes/z/in/photostream/

Job Interview: http://www.flickr.com/photos/jamelah/3043607815/

Musical Interlude: “These Boots Are Made for Walking”

2011-02-10T15:22:00.003-05:00

From a February 8, 2009 cover letter. . .

Dear Sir or Madam:

Please accept my attached résumé in response to your search for . . .

Hold it! TWO YEARS???

Seriously, has it really been two years since I began my job search?

In February 2009, when I sent that first cover letter, I could barely breathe from the mental effort it took to hit the “send” button. Yet, it had to be done. It had become clear my much-loved, 12-year job would be eliminated when a new company took over. But, mentally, in looking for other employment, I felt as if I were cheating on the organization I’d given 100 percent loyalty to for so long.

At the time, I was emotionally devastated, feeling “kicked to the curb” like so much useless office debris.

Hurt.

Angry.

Anxious.

Scared.

Even, embarrassed as if I was the one doing wrong—which I was not.

But, things are better now.

True, it’s been a long, hard two years. There were times when I wanted to crawl under the bed covers on a rainy morning and just stay there, whining, “I give up. I just can’t do this any more.”

But, I didn’t.

I got up every day. Got out of my PJs. Put on my game face. Refused to watch daytime TV. Faced the world. Made networking calls. Improved myself with healthier eating and weight loss. Worked my contacts. Cleaned out closets. Attended meetings and community events. Did volunteer work. Developed a bare-bones budget. Developed new skills (such as website design and social media marketing). Met for coffee with anybody and everybody who had any connection anywhere no matter how small that connection. Took classes with an outplacement specialist. Reworked my résumé and reworked my résumé and then reworked my résumé. Joined a local job-search support group. Practiced interview questions. Applied for as many jobs as I could find each week. Made cold calls to companies that might have contract work for me.

Still, the economy and job market teamed up to fight me. No matter what I tried, I got . . . nothing.

But each time I got knocked down, I got up again and refined my efforts and intensified my focus.

Yes, I knew intellectually back in February 2009 it might take a long time to find a new job. But, emotionally, I didn’t think this could or would ever happen to me. Throughout high school and college and my work career, I had been the golden girl—the one who got chosen, promoted, praised. Whatever I wanted, somehow I made it happen.

Or, as my mother put it sometimes, “I’ve never seen anybody so good at pulling the rabbit out of the hat at just the right time.”

Truly, I am thankful that two years ago I did not know I’d still be doing the job hunt two years later. I’ve always been practical, but living through two long years like these turns you into a realist.

I did try to be proactive way back in February 2009 before things fell apart. I launched my search seven months before the job actually went away. My plan back then was a seamless, blissfully short transition to a new—better!—position. Why not? My life experience was that better things followed good things. I had no experience with nobody wanting me on any team for any position at any salary.

Yet, two years and hundreds of applications later, I sit in the same chair at the same desk in—thankfully!—the same house still scrolling through job listings for that still elusive full-time job that will pay the bills and offer some security.

Two years is a long time, but some things have changed for the better:

1. I’ve doo-wopped out of my “Nervous” phase. In early 2009, I worked 12+ hour days, freaked out with worry, unable to sleep, and terrified my boss would discover my job search and fire me on the spot. These day, although I haven’t morphed into some Pollyanna with no cares, I’ve made it emotionally intact through this on-the-dole journey so far and feel sure I’ll make it the rest of the way with my self confidence intact.

2. I’ve sock-hopped out of my “Teenager in Love” phase. Early on, I sent out applications and then constructed romantic scenarios in my head: Would I like this job? Were we a good match? Was there a future there? Could I forsake family and friends for a new life in Iowa or Alaska—or even the South Pole? (Yes, I actually applied for a job in Antarctica! I really did.) Today I still apply for jobs—any job, every job and in most states east of the Mississippi (and a few beyond), but I no longer daydream. I do a little research to see what the company does so that I can tailor my application to their needs. I hit the “send” button. No emotional investment. I can analyze possibilities if they call me.

3. I’ve quick-stepped out of my “Wishin’ and Hopin’” phase. In the beginning, I often pinned my hopes and dreams on exciting job opportunities. I’d look at area real estate ads. I’d picture living in the new location. I’d speculate about co-workers. I’d clean out closets in anticipation of a move. I daydreamed about what it would be like not to have to spend every spare moment searching for a job. I fantasized about buying new clothes and going out to dinner. I even dared to dream of replacing that broken-down clothes dryer. But, disappointment is too great when you’re rejected after so much Springfield-esque “wishin’ and hopin’”. In December, after losing out on a job that I really, really, really wanted—like so many other “close calls,” they discarded external finalists and hired from within, saving salary and relocation expenses—I decided opportunities have to be mentally closeted in the waiting process. The key to not letting a really long job search weigh you down emotionally is to not pin your hopes on any one opportunity.

4. I’ve strolled out of my “Crying, Waiting, Hoping” phase. I’ve learned to wait without fretting. Companies take three to 12 months to make decisions. That is today’s reality. Worry does not make it go faster. Waiting is still not my preference, but tying myself in knots while doing so is nonproductive. These day, I calmly send the application in and then network and follow-up. And, mentally, I move to the next posting the same day the application goes out.

5. I’m now doing the go-go right on into my new “These Boots Are Made for Walking” reality. I’m creating opportunities. I’ve started a business, and I have clients now—yes, real paying clients—not every week, but some weeks. (On those weeks I do work, I am not eligible for the dole check.) I’m still not ready to say too much here about my “real” business just yet, but it’s progressing.

Meanwhile, I’m reaping dollars from all that closet-cleaning effort by launching an eBay business—“Aunt Ariel’s Attic”—in addition to my regular business. I sell my own treasures as well as a few pieces from other people. Apparently this is a great way to make a few extra dollars. Who knew? Well, I didn’t! But this is fun!

Neither business venture is full-time and neither offers those much-needed health benefits right now—something I’m seriously concerned about because my COBRA insurance ends in April—but I’m optimistic. I can keep a roof over my head and food on the table in the meantime.

I never expected to be where I am today. I never could have imagined that after two years of job searching and 16 months of unemployment, I’d still see no end in sight to my on-the-dole journey. The future looks very different than I originally imagined it.

Yes, it’s true that while in job search mode, you can never really shake the “wishin’ and hopin’’” feeling entirely, but, while I’m sending out applications, I’m also keeping “these boots” walking by planning and progressing. And, one day, when I’m employed again—and I will be—my new employer will benefit by getting a far better employee and person than I was two years ago.

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Just for Fun: Enjoy Nancy Sinatra’s performance of “These Boots Are Made for Walking”. And, after you enjoy this fun retro video, click on the links above for a hidden musical surprise.

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Photo Credits:

Boots: http://www.flickr.com/photos/naiadsspring/271629122/sizes/m/in/photostream/

Worried Woman: http://www.flickr.com/photos/pulpolux/116981263/

Dance: http://media.photobucket.com/image/1950s%20dance/marcarun/dance.jpg?o=6

1950s Magazine: http://media.photobucket.com/image/1950s/gbug1993/1950s_dress_debbie417x589b.jpg?o=504

1960s Style: http://www.flickr.com/photos/naiadsspring/271629122/sizes/m/in/photostream/

Christmas on the Dole

2010-12-21T21:31:00.001-05:00

This is it—the thing I thought never could happen: my second Christmas on the dole.

Last year, the whole experience was new. Instead of moping, I decided to savor that Christmas as a once-in-a-lifetime holiday month off work—something busy professionals never experience.

Enjoy every minute, I told myself. By Christmas 2010 you may be working in some far-flung locale—far removed from family and friends, maybe even having Christmas dinner alone. I determinedly decided to wring every drop of Christmas cheer out of the 2009 holiday season.

But Christmas 2009 got up-ended by illness, My body, exhausted after 11 months of unrelenting work stress that culminated in job elimination, could take no more.

Antibiotics put me on the right track for a beautiful Christmas until I sprouted golf-ball-sized lumps and the worse itching ever—an allergic reaction to the antibiotics.

No wonder I had little zest for Christmas after that. As I coughed my way through decorating the tree, I even found myself teary-eyed as I hung beautiful ornaments given to me by former co-workers.

Or, was my emotion just the reality of my then-fresh on-the-dole situation?

Unemployment was still a quirky novelty in December 2009—a sociological experiment to observe and dissect (Christmas presents had been purchased while I had a paycheck; lack of funds for gifts were not a real concern last year.)

Thankfully, I've been healthy this year. No nasty infections zapping my Christmas mood. Perhaps my wellness comes from getting adequate rest or maybe it is because I no longer mingle with germ-ridden co-workers. I haven't been sick once since last holiday's cough fest.

So, time to enjoy Christmas 2010.

But, when on the dole, what is "Santa" to do? Why joyfully give gifts of course!

How?

My Christmas on the dole is not that different from previous years. And, no, I am not talking about buying with plastic (an absolute no-no for those of us on the dole).

Several years ago, most of my friends and I stopped exchanging gifts. Because we all had good jobs then and could buy what we wanted or needed, we decided our gift to each other would be getting together over the holidays without stressing over a gift exchange.

On the home front, some Christmases ago while we were all three still employed, my parents and I, by choice, changed our gift-giving approach. In order to participate financially in some causes we believed in during the season, we set a price limit on our gift giving to each other. We so enjoyed the challenge of finding great gifts for little money, that each year we kept cutting the amount. About six years ago it finally got down to a mere $10 per person.

Does that sound dismal and cheap? It's not, really. It's more fun than you might imagine.

Here are the rules:

No more than $10 per person in actual money can be spent.
You may give away anything you already own without including its value in the $10 total. (Some call this re-gifting. I call it getting Great-Grandma's cut-glass bowl decades sooner than I expected.)
A "buy-one-get-one" deal at the store doesn't count as spending money if the giver actually needed the "buy-one" portion and simply gave away the "get one" part. (This works great on fancy food items.)
Homemade items (candy, spiced nuts, potholders, etc.) don't have to be counted in the dollar amount, although in the spirit of the law we refrain from giving each other gifts that require buying expensive components not already on hand in order to craft the gift.
Some pharmacies give away a gift card with a new prescription. (Target, for example, hands out a $10 gift card. Some stores give as much as $25.) Those gift cards can be used without being factored into the total cost.
Modest gifts "purchased" with credit card reward points are allowed without the cost being included, but common sense should prevail to stay within the accepted bounds.
Thrift-store shopping and garage-sale buying are encouraged but only if the item is useful or needed. No dust catchers or frou-frou just to be adding to the pile.

These days, the fun comes from our yearly contest to see who can give the most creative and appreciated gifts while spending the least money. Everybody agreed I won the year I gave my mother a gift certificate to her favorite charity thrift shop! Believe it or not, the store manager said it was the first time he'd ever been asked to do a gift certificate.

I have to admit my mother and I are pretty competitive. For instance, Mom called tonight pretending to be worried about her Christmas shopping, but we both knew she was gloating over her shrewd gift gathering: she and my father have 17 gifts wrapped and waiting for me; they purchased everything they thought I might want or need, but had only spent $20.14 total (Sometimes you can't hit it right on the button.)

I recently saw a news story about Queen Elizabeth's Christmas traditions. Surprisingly, royal family members buy small gifts to exchange. But, this year, in a cash-strapped economy, the queen will be celebrating what she calls her "credit-crunch Christmas," requesting no gifts for herself or Prince Philip. She's asked for all would-be gifts to be donated to charity instead.

Perhaps I'm not broke, I'm fashionable. I must be a trendsetter if the Queen and royals are following suit. (After all, the Queen lives off public funds herself.)

I've spent only ten dollars each, but my parents have 14 gift bags to open this year. Some bags even contain five or six items. And, there are even some expensive name-brand items among them.

This Santa has only spent twenty dollars for her entire gift-giving season!

I did make one Christmas-on-the-dole concession: not mailing Christmas cards. I dislike skipping this tradition, but postage cost me more than sixty dollars last time, and I can't justify that cost even when using stockpiled, discounted cards purchased two years ago at an after-Christmas sale. I'll be hand-delivering cards this year, which may be a nicer plan anyway since it means I'll be spending time with them, too.

The real irony?

I've celebrated a lot of past Christmases, but so far, 2010 is my favorite—yes, even rising to the top over many "perfect" childhood Christmases. Most holidays of my executive career have found me stressed out planning employee parties and desperately trying to finish some year-end work project so that I could take the actual day of the holiday off work. I remember one horrible Christmas in which I worked 90 hours in one week just to be able to take Christmas Day off. Many Christmases found me ill-tempered from fighting mall crowds to buy expensive not-well-thought-out gifts that ultimately got returned even before I could pay off the credit card bill.

And, I can't tell you how many Christmas cards have been addressed at 1 AM one stressed out night during Christmas week because I ran out of time.

But none of that for me this year.

As I looked through those Black Friday sale advertisements in the newspaper, I wondered if anyone really needed a cupcake maker or a fruit dehydrator and exactly how many sweaters, DVDs or PJs would be received before a person's closet overflowed? And, then I remembered, because of my life on the dole, I didn't have to get up at 3 AM to go to insane sales, and I'm able to drive past those long lines in the post office parking lot without a thought. Better yet, I don't have to worry about my credit card bill in January.

Like the rest of the world, I don't have a clue what 2011 holds. I don't know if I'll be working a traditional job or running my own successful business. I don't know if I'll be living in my own home or living with family. I don't even have a clue what geographic region of the country I might be in to celebrate Christmas 2011. (But, look on the bright side: I might live somewhere a white Christmas is at least a possibility—something I've never seen in my home state.) But, for now I am practicing carpe diem as I savor every moment of this delightfully, unstressed holiday season. I'm enjoying visits with family and friends. I'm keeping the reason for Christmas in my heart. And, this Christmas 2010 on the dole may be the best Christmas of all.

# # #

Just for Fun: Don't let the Dole be the Grinch that steals your Christmas! Remember, without presents or feasts, Christmas came to Who-ville just the same.

<p>Watch &amp;amp;lt;a href="http://www.fanpop.com/spots/christmas/videos/12925"&amp;amp;gt;How the Grinch Stole Christmas&amp;amp;lt;/a&amp;amp;gt; on &amp;amp;lt;a href="http://www.fanpop.com/"&amp;amp;gt;Fanpop&amp;amp;lt;/a&amp;amp;gt;</p>

One Year Later: Lessons Learned From My Life on the Dole

2010-11-21T19:32:00.002-05:00

It’s been a year.

A year of living on the dole.

A year with no job.

A year of doing without.

A year of learning.

It’s been a year.

In some ways it’s been the longest year of my life. Yet, in others, it seems to have flown by.

That frenzied, harried, stressed-out working woman who stared out from my mirror has been replaced. Sure, she had lovely, expensive, salon highlights in her hair, name-brand professional clothes and a well made-up face, but those workplace trappings did little to camouflage the stress lining her face.

Now, a new woman looks out from my mirror: A woman who is unashamed of her hair streaked with grey; a woman wearing sweats (more days than not), yet fresh faced from a full night’s sleep. Yes, this woman looks years younger than the other one. This woman cannot afford expensive tubes of trendy moisturizer, but there’s something better that comes from peace and rest, and no cosmeceutical company can quite replicate that look.

Yes, it has been a year.

And, while I don’t appear to be the same woman on the outside, I’d like to think I am not the same one at heart either.

Here are some of the life lessons I’ve learned:

Life’s too short to turn yourself into a stress hairball. Ironic, considering health insurance worries that dog me. (My premiums go to $400 a month in February and if—and that’s a big if—I can get insurance at all, it will become $1,200 in June). But, job stress and unemployment stress are two different beasts. Doing-without-stuff stress is not the same as stress associated with navigating office politics, hidden agendas and interpersonal minefields. I hope I never feel that way again. I want to work—I just don’t want to let job stress consume me anymore. I think I know a lot more now about work/life balance.

Lesson learned: Even though jobs are hard to come by, I’m going to try to choose wisely next time.

Life’s not about having (or buying) stuff. I’ve spent the past two weeks cleaning out closets. Simply put, I have too much stuff. Even though I haven’t purchased any nonessential for more than a year, I still have too much stuff. Consider: Ten half-used moisturizer tubes and 20 (or more) little hotel-type shampoo bottles. Fifty half-used lipstick tubes? Really? I don’t have enough lips to use that much in a lifetime.

And, let’s not even discuss clothes, shoes or purses. Too much. Too much. Too much.

Donating stuff to charity, trading at the used book store to earn credit for a friends’ son’s birthday gift and tossing the ratty-looking stuff is far more liberating than marching through stores grabbing up stuff.

Lesson learned: I am never going down that path of mindless consumerism again.

I’ll never have the same easy relationship with money ever again. I never was a spendthrift. Possessing some measure of frugality, I always worked to find the best deal even when buying something expensive, such as my car. (That car is now seven years old and if I got a fabulous job tomorrow, I’d still keep driving it.) Even in the old days when I overdid the eating out, at least I used coupons. But, there’s a huge difference between being frugal with a good income and paddling like a maniac to keep your head above water.

In the future, my nest egg will need to be double or triple what it is now to make me feel any measure of financial security. A huge mortgage even when I can afford it? No, I don’t think so. Every purchase will be thoroughly considered—not just the small ones. And, wastefulness? I hope it never again enters this house.

Lesson learned: I get it now. I mean I really, really get it now why those white-haired folks from the Depression Era never stopped being frugal and savings-conscious even after they had plenty.

I’m not sure I’ll ever feel 100% job security again. Sure, it was incredibly naïve to feel as secure as I did in my pre-dole days, and I was probably an oddity in my generation. Experts say Gen Xers never felt job security the way Baby Boomers did, claiming they were scarred from watching their company-loyal parents get downsized in the 1980s. But, my parents weren’t downsized—Mom was self-employed and Dad worked 35 years at his government job before retirement. I never felt, or even saw, insecurity. I worked hard. I worked for a large company. I got promotion after promotion until I reached the top. I felt my job would be around forever. I was wrong. Naïveté, I will miss you.

Lesson learned: Never, never again will I believe I am so bullet-proof it can’t happen to me.

True friendship is priceless. When you’re in an influential position and have money to socialize, it’s easy to attract new social acquaintances. But, are those folks true friends or the fair-weather variety? Worrying about whether I would lose my job, it never occurred to me to worry about losing people. While the fair-weather social acquaintances have fallen away, true friends stepped in to show me how priceless they are.

Lesson learned: Next time, I’ll figure out who the real friends are a lot sooner and I will treasure them more.

The joy of the treat is worth savoring. Whether it’s a much anticipated free haircut or a birthday dinner out with friends, everything is better when it’s a treat, a break from everyday routine. But, if it all comes a bit too easy, then nothing is special—nothing is a treat. There’s no anticipation.

I used to wonder why turn-of-the-century children got excited about a mere orange for a Christmas gift. But, in those days, oranges were rare and special—a treat meant to be savored. Not having everything your heart desires makes doing something special just that—special. There is an incredible joy that comes from savoring the moment—preserving the feeling so that it can be remembered long after the moment has passed.

Lesson learned: I’ll never again let treats become commonplace. I’ll keep some things as special things to be savored.

Life on the dole has been challenging for me but never horrible. While some unemployed friends are down to their last $10 and others do without health insurance and home heating, I’m not missing anything critical. Admittedly, being without a clothes dryer has no appeal, and cold showers while the water heater was out was not my favorite part of this adventure. And, it’s entirely possible I’ll be paying into the distant future tiny installments on the bills for the ER, casts and physical therapy for my tumble down the stairs. Sure, income is limited, but I’m not poor or even broke.

Occasionally, I wonder what happens when the dole checks end, but, channeling Miss Scarlett, I declare in my best Southern accent that “I’ll think about that tomorrow.”

Lesson learned: As my grandmother always said, “Remember there’s always somebody worse off than you are so just count your blessings and don’t complain.”

Money cannot buy life’s important things. It can’t buy time with Mom and Dad. It can’t replace their TLC while I was injured. It can’t buy a visit with a friend. It can’t buy a snuggle from my cat. Maybe I can’t go out to eat or to the movies with friends, but I can still visit with them in my own house or theirs. In fact, having a job used to limit severely my time with family and friends, making them complain they never saw me. Now I have time for those I love.

Lesson learned: The best things in life really are free.

I already have everything I need. I may no longer have everything I want, but I have everything I need (and then some). I have a warm home, good health, loving and supportive parents, loyal friends, healthy food and some money left in the bank. I have more than most people living on this planet. And, most importantly, I have a thankful heart.

Lesson learned: Money is just a tool that makes life more comfortable. Don’t make it more important than it has to be.

Yes, it’s been a year.

A rough year that often felt like an emotional rollercoaster.

A year that’s left me feeling refreshed and rejuvenated to begin again.

A year of lessons learned.

A year of transformation.

A year I would not trade for anything because it made me who I am today.

I have made it through the year. Yes, my life on the dole is still a work in progress. But, I like the woman I’ve become. And, I like the woman I’m still becoming.

And I still believe this story will have a happy ending.

# # #

Photo Credits:

Woman (Not Ariel): http://www.flickr.com/photos/zarajay/2321493140/sizes/z/in/photostream/

Desk Covered with Resumes: http://www.flickr.com/photos/25866546@N04/3146995298
Walk-in Closet (Note: Not Ariel's closet):
http://www.flickr.com/photos/hckyso/2810247806/sizes/o/in/photostream/
In God We Trust: http://www.flickr.com/photos/zanthia/2950288412/sizes/o/in/photostream/

Friends: Source Unknown

Depression-Era Laundry: http://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:REA_woman_works_washboard.gifDepression-Era Laundry

Thanksgiving Grace 1942: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Thanksgiving_grace_1942.jpg

Break, Broke, Broken Revisited: This Time It’s Personal

2010-09-30T13:43:00.003-04:00

“Did you hear something pop?” asked the paramedic.

“No,” I replied. “I couldn’t really hear much over the screaming.”

“Screaming?” he asked, looking all around. “Who screamed?”

“Me,” I admitted sheepishly.

These days I can’t seem to catch a break. Well, Okay, maybe this time I did. Sort of. You see, apparently appliances are not the only things that can break when times are tough financially.

Remember what I said in my August blog post, “Break, Broke, Broken”?: “Stuff may be broken, but I am not.” Well, just a month later, I almost was.

Confession time: I have a history of epic-level klutziness—the kind of stories you trot out at parties to make people laugh.

One incident involved a dark Halloween night, a winding country road, an Angus bull (2,000 pounds worth) and a totaled Toyota. The good news is, I didn’t get a scratch in the accident.

Another fiasco was a fall at the nursing home in front of no less than 100 onlookers—an event later requiring surgery and months of physical therapy. (Embarrassment trumped pain as I realized I, the young person, was on the ground being loaded onto a stretcher as the frail, elderly folks stood over me, watching solemnly.)

Thankfully, in my latest klutz attack, my foot and ankle did not get broken. Although, in all truthfulness, an actual break may have hurt less and healed faster than the torn ligaments I now have.

And, worst of all, I didn’t even get a good party story out of it. You’d think if a person has to clomp around for a month in a knee-high moonboot, it would be more interesting to relate a tall tale of being chased by rhinos on a Serengeti safari. Or at minimum, a story of reckless Alpine snowboarding.

But, no, for me, it was that dang laundry again. Always that $@#&! laundry.

September 4^th, the Saturday before Labor Day was beautiful in Georgia. It was the kind of late-summer weekend that leads a woman to daydreams of beautifully weeded flower beds, immaculately cleaned living quarters and super-purged closets. It was the kind of day when accomplishing that mile-long to-do list seemed possible.

But, my first thought was, I’ll quickly get the laundry chugging so it’ll have plenty of time to line-dry. (Dryer’s still broken.)

Apparently I wanted that laundry done a bit too quickly. As my mind focused far away on the to-do list, my body flew over the last step of the stairway.

It’s amazing how time slows in an accident. At some point in the endless freefall, I tossed the laundry hamper sideways, thus making room to land face down in the foyer as some woman screamed loudly very close to my ear.

My right foot lay at an odd angle beneath me as I sprawled less than a foot in front of my new water heater. (Okay, I love my new water heater, but falling down to kiss its feet is a bit much.)

Yep, klutzy is my middle name; I admit it.

As I rose carefully from the floor, I watched a big blue goose-egg emerge on the top of my foot.

This is not good, I thought, as I hobbled to the phone to call Mom and Dad (again).

“Call 911 this minute!” Mom instructed. “It’ll take us at least an hour to get there.”

“Is it gonna cost me if they come?” I asked, my on-the-dole persona flipping into instant alert.

“Just call them,” she snapped in that tone of voice only a mother is legally allowed to use—the kind of voice that instantly makes you feel 12-years old again and mentally adding the “or else” part even if she didn’t say it.

I called 911.

Five minutes later: two paramedics, two EMTs, two firefighters and three shiny red trucks arrived. Must’ve been a really slow morning in my semi-rural community, I thought.

In the middle of the chaos, neighbor Lynn burst through the front door in time to hear a trip to the ER was necessary. Still worrying about money, I actually did put six highly-trained emergency personnel on hold while calling to have my mother check the insurance plan book to see if I could afford an ambulance trip. (We have the same carrier.)

I could not.

Yes, that’s right. In the midst of total chaos and excruciating pain, my chief concern was price. I am, after all, living on the dole, and I just paid for a water heater, too.

Fortunately, Lynn stepped in to offer to give up her Saturday morning to drive me to the ER so that I could save the ambulance fee. Where would I be in this dole adventure if it were not for family and friends, I asked myself for the thousandth time?

Still, trust me on this, you do not want to have an orthopedic accident on a Saturday morning of a three-day weekend when your orthopedist won’t be back in the office until Tuesday. Let me explain the effects of this long weekend succinctly: “Ouch! Ouch! OUCH!” (for 72 hours straight in spite of heavy-duty painkillers).

Still, I did “catch a break” this time—the foot was not broken, but, I badly tore the ligaments, necessitating weeks in a cast.

But Dr. Bones was not finished with his diagnosis. “See,” he said, “If you’d just get married, you could lie around with your foot on a pillow and not have to worry about starting up a business.”

Very funny, Doc. Wise cracks thrown in at no additional charge.

It’s a good thing that through my ongoing klutziness over the past 12 years, we’ve become friends or I might, in my pain and drug-fuzzed state have needed to hurt him for that one.

Oh, and just to make things interesting: Did I mention this foot in the cast is my driving foot? How am I supposed to get from Point A to Point B?

“Mom!”

(Again? Yes, again. Apparently, in her retirement years my mother has a new career: me.)

Oh, and as if driving me around like Miss Daisy is not enough, she also gets to cook my meals, scoop cat litter boxes, and push me in a wheelchair when I have a business appointment. Do you have any idea how embarrassing it is when your mommy has to help you in and out of the shower? (Thankfully, at least it is a hot shower—glad I got that water heater before this happened). Meanwhile, Dad waters plants, runs errands and takes on whatever else Major Mom assigns him to do—all while remembering not to complain about the haphazard schedule now going on at his house.

It has been nearly four weeks since my fall. My foot no longer looks quite as much like a purple football with five fat sausages attached. More importantly, the pain has lessened to the point where I can now focus on other things—such as money.

Since that plunge down the stairs, my medical bills so far now total more than $2,000. Thankfully, insurance covers a big chunk of that amount. Still, I’ll have to figure out how to pay the hefty co-pays and deductibles. I’m hoping there’s no need for surgery or physical therapy, but the fact that it’s still swollen and discolored three weeks later is discouraging. That unmet annual deductible looms large, but I’m trying hard not to think of that too much.

As I consider my own situation, I wonder how people without health insurance manage? How do they pay $2,000+ for emergency medical care? And, my bills are just for a badly torn ankle and foot. What if it was some life-threatening emergency?

Right now, my insurance is somewhat reasonable, but still a stretch on my teeny-tiny dole checks. But, in April, my monthly insurance cost will skyrocket to an amount larger than my monthly dole check.

In fact, at some point, the dole check will dry up entirely. I can only hope that the business I’m starting has taken off by then. I was making great progress on it until the fall, but a four-week setback at this point is not a good thing.

Yes, I still have financial worries but throughout my “broken” situation, whether it’s broken appliances, a broken bank account or even now my bruised-but-not-broken body, I’m learning what’s still whole in my life—my family and friends—and to be thankful for that with my whole heart.

# # #

Photos Courtesy of:

Cast & Crutch (not Ariel):

http://www.flickr.com/photos/westman/1121336077/in/photostream/

X-ray (not Ariel's X-ray): http://www.flickr.com/photos/akeg/

Crutches:http://www.flickr.com/photos/bru_camargo/

. . . And Then I Took a Cold Shower

2010-09-02T13:02:00.000-04:00

It's a dark and stormy night in Georgia.

Lightning flashes. Thunder explodes. The cat tries to become one with the carpet beneath his bed. I pull the covers over my head to muffle the house-rattling booms.

Then . . . total darkness.

When the power goes, it's amazing the sounds you don't hear. No air conditioner hum. No air purifier buzz. No ceiling fan swooshes.

I'm reminded of what else I'm not hearing: the sounds of the gas burner rattling on to crank up the water heater located just beneath my bedroom.

"Sir, I think we hit an iceberg."

Just yesterday, I discovered dampness on the closet floor next to the water heater. Not too surprising—at 23 years old, the ancient dinosaur was the last original appliance left in my house. There had been warnings, but each time I'd seen rusty water, I'd convinced my got-no-money self it was only the pipes.

Four AM: Sleep escapes me; I ponder my finances, the water heater floating to the top of my worry list.

Dang! It perks along just fine for 23 years, but decides to quit now—just when I have no spare funds for repairs?

"Super" Dad is right. Appliances sense when you have no money. That's their chance to break.

This month's earlier financial fiasco—air conditioning repair—has not even made it to my credit card statement yet, much less been paid.

Two major home repairs in one month? Are you kidding me?

It's 4:10 AM: I lie sleepless with nothing to do but think. And, the more I think, the more I just want to go kick something.

Previously on My Life on the Dole: Dryer is dead. Laundry now dries on a line in the garage.

And, today's there's a cold shower in my future.

Obviously, I have royally ticked off the appliance gods.

Okay, this isn't cute anymore. I've gone from a novel, mildly-annoying-yet-eco-friendly laundry experiment to what's shaking out to be a mega-annoying, primitive lifestyle. I've spent nearly a year maintaining my optimism while being jobless, but this is just too, too much. I didn't sign on for a pioneer gig.

Yesterday, when I saw the dampness and heard that insistent drip-drip-drip sound, I had (again!) phoned my dad. He talked me through checking this and that, but there's no getting around the reality of the coming watery tide on the closet floor if something isn't done.

I consider my migraine-inducing options.

But, really, there are no options. There's nothing to be done but to order a new water heater and pay for installation.

Thursday mid-morning: My stomach churns at the $900 price quoted by two different plumbing contractors as well as a home improvement store. No matter where you go or what brand you choose, the price comes out the same. But, hot water is a basic necessity. Hanging up wet laundry, I can do, but cold showers and stove-heated water for hand-washing dishes? I don't think so.

But, where does $900 come from? I can't find that much spare change in the sofa cushions or sell that many pints of blood.

Wait! The home improvement store offers a six-months-same-as-cash plan. (Just wondering: What kind of place gives a shiny new credit card with a $1,000 limit to a person on the dole? Yes, that's exactly how much they approved. It's September, and my year-to-date dole checks total less than I used to earn in a single month.)

Six-month-same-as-cash is good except . . . same scenario six months hence: spare change, sell blood, etc. I'm starting to feel like Miss Scarlett again. I'll think about that in six-month's worth of tomorrows.

"Would you like it installed today?" the store clerk asks cheerfully.

"Definitely," I reply.

The clerk glances at the oily, unwashed bangs glued to my forehead and says nothing. She dials plumbers and insists the job be done today.

Still, even without counting the financial concerns, as I drive home, I sense it is all a little too easy.

Surely you can't just waltz into a store, put a water heater on a brand-new, instantly-issued charge card and enjoy a hot shower by day's end.

No way. It doesn't work like that. I haven't covered this many fiascos during my life on the dole without learning there's a boatload of aggravation bobbing along behind every "simple" problem.

Hours later, the plumber arrives as promised, my new water heater on the truck . Then, as expected, Murphy's Law strikes: The new tank is damaged.

But, it gets worse: The plumber announces there can be no installation today anyhow. Apparently some dummy built my house around my water heater.

Yes, you heard right—the builder constructed this house around the water heater.

Old one won't come out of the closet. New one can't go in. Demolition work ahead.

"The company doesn't allow me to do demo work," the nice plumber explains sympathetically. "You'll have to get a handyman."

Or, he explains, I have another option: a tankless water heater in the garage. Oh, and that will cost around $2,700—new pipes, fittings, vents, widgets and hocus-pocus.

How can I possibly pay $2,700 when I can't imagine where I'm going to get the previously-quoted $900?

I watch forlornly as "my" water heater sails into the sunset, strapped to the retreating back of the plumber's truck.

I don't have a handyman. Even if I had money, isn't the handyman a mythical beast? Has anyone ever actually seen or hired one? Still, I do have my ever-reliable, always-on-call "Super" Dad, but it gets kind of embarrassing at my age to keep yelling for my father.

Still—what choice do I have? Once again, I make the call.

Now it's Friday: All plumbers charge extra for weekend installations; two more days of cold showers.

Saturday: Dad removes the closet door and door frame. I hold my breath as he measures. Yay! The old one will come out with a quarter inch to spare. But . . . the new, fatter one still won't go in.

Third day with no hot water: I get an e-mail from a family friend two miles away. She's inviting me to her house for showers. My spirits perk up. I don't go, but the invitation cheers me. Somebody cares!

Off we go (parents now joining this rolling circus) to the home improvement store to choose a taller (slimmer) tank that will fit through that narrow closet door.

It's now Monday: Cold showers and hand-washed dishes for nearly a week.

And . . . that "nice" plumber who came on Thursday now demands an additional $334, even after my father removed the closet door and drained the water heater. The bill leaps to $1,200. (More spare change? More selling blood? I'm starting to envision myself in a chicken suit waving discount coupons for fried nuggets at passing motorists.)

Couldn't this stuff wait until my business turns a profit in a few months? Right now, with start-up costs, I'm still drowning in red ink. Computers, business licenses and supplies aren't cheap.

When I likened starting a new business to taking a plunge in the icy waters of the North Atlantic sea, I had no idea that metaphor would come to life as a cold chill in my own bathtub.

When I dared to exclaim with good humor that I was on board with the eco-concept of line-dried laundry, I never dreamed that soon I would be hand-washing dishes, too.

And, "Romance on the Dole"? Seriously, people?

Forget the eligible bachelor everybody thinks I should find. You know, the one with the good job and health insurance?

Nope, one brawny-can-do-hunky-Carter-Oosterhouse variety for me, please! (Do these heroic creatures actually exist in the wild? Or, are they, like the so-called hireable handyman, merely a fantasy? And if they do exist, there's that whole issue of my current lack of hot water and allure—just two more reasons romance on the dole ain't gonna happen, folks. (Go ahead if you think differently; try shaving your legs when they're covered in goose bumps.)

Once more, my savings account leaks profusely. But, I remind myself how fortunate I am to still have savings. And, I'm thankful I even have a home to repair when so many hard-working folks have lost theirs.

Unexpectedly, I get a sudden break: my mother's Facebook friend whom she hasn't seen in 40 years and who lives five states away tells Mom about a plumber a mere five miles from my house. The plumber's wife is friends with the Facebook friend and knows my grandparents or something. I still haven't sorted out all the connections, but he's a highly-experienced professional with a better quality water heater he'd be happy to install today.

Yes, today!

Even better news: His website shows he's running a special on water heater installation at this minute.

Total cost: $600.

Even the expansion thingie the other guys quoted at $125, this plumber will install for only $35.

Then, my new hero repaired—for free—a little drip under the kitchen sink and told me not to worry about paying for 30 days. (Is it possible for plumbing repairs to make me as ecstatic as that blissful haircut from a few months ago?)

That's right, folks. After days of cold showers, I just saved $600 thanks to Mom's Facebook friend (whom I've only met in e-mails) and the world's most awesome plumber.

Life is not so bleak after all.

After sending a gushy thank-you e-mail to Mom's friend and posting an even gushier note on the plumber's Facebook page, I begin to wonder about the future. What happens next with my finances? Will my new business succeed? Will I ever again have a pay check to deposit? Will things eventually change for the better? And, just how long does "eventually" take?

Things aren't so bad after all, I decide. I have a roof over my head. I have food in the fridge. I have a Dad who loves me enough to demo a closet for me and some really great friends who consistently come through for me. Some way, somehow I will scrape up the money to pay for that water heater.

Sure, a few days of cold showers were a little primitive, but, as far as I know, goose bumps never actually killed anybody.

# # #

Just for Fun: Watch Tom Hanks and Shelley Long in "The Money Pit":

# # #
Photo Credits:

Shower Shot: http://www.flickr.com/photos/dieselbug2007/370557683/ (not Ariel)

Pioneers: Source Library of Congress
Credit Cards: http://www.flickr.com/photos/shoot-art/4536509717/
Piggy Bank: http://www.flickr.com/photos/nieve44/2346575422/

Plumber: http://www.flickr.com/photos/exalthim/2085149377/ (not Ariel's plumber)

Last Shower: http://www.flickr.com/photos/winterofdiscontent/3539751347/

Romance on the Dole?

2010-08-19T14:36:00.000-04:00

Our eyes meet across the crowded dining room of the fancy restaurant where I'm eating the priciest entrée on the menu. Like me, he's alone. He smiles. I smile.

He's awfully handsome. About my age. No wedding ring on his left hand either.

My mind wanders to the possibilities.

A companion. A romance. Even . . .

True love.

My friends would be thrilled. Since I lost my job last year, I can't tell you how many people have told me that I need to find a man and get married. (Well, maybe I could tell you, but it's starting to be a big number you might not believe.)

I am not kidding. People actually say this to me. Then, they reason, I would not have to worry about a job or health insurance.

Seriously, people? You call that helpful advice?

Skipping the fact that marriage-as-a-ticket-to-health-insurance is a really poor basis for a union (obviously!), the reality is that being unemployed is just about the most unromantic thing in the world. I'm not saying romance is not possible, but who in their right mind can focus on being alluring and fabulous when they have more worries than money?

I'm worried about piling up bills, dwindling savings and that %$@*&# broken clothes dryer. Oh, and let's not forget I am working about 12 to 14 hours a day, six days a week to get my new business off the ground. When would I even fit in this romance?

Truth is, right now I'm more concerned with how I can shave another $10 off the grocery bill than whether or not my legs need shaving to look good in some fabulous date dress I can't even afford to buy.

Life on the dole doesn't leave much time (or energy) for flirtation.

There's also the whole issue of access. You're not likely to meet eligible, gainfully-employed, fully-insured bachelors when you lack funds for social events. These days unless he's interviewing me for a job or bagging my groceries, I'm unlikely to meet an employed man.

And, let's not forget my own lack of marketability either. What man with a fabulous job and lots of assets would want to take up with an unemployed woman? (Maybe the kind that would require a pre-nup just to go on the first date?)

The irony? I'm meeting more men than ever because I attend a large job search group. This crummy job market has hit men over 40 much harder than women. Roughly 60% of my local group are men—all unemployed like me. But, about 99% are married. The other one percent are my dad's age.

True, the rare single man near my age might darken the door.

But, if he ever did, he'd be unemployed, too, now wouldn't he?

And, so am I, remember?

Even if Mr. Single-and-Wonderful-Yet-Unemployed walks in the door and locks eyes with me and the bells ring and the chemistry steams up the room, then what?

We could use my cents-off coupons to pack a picnic and head to the park or occasionally hit the $1 matinee at the already-cheap theatre, I guess.

But, many of those on the dole are in worse shape than I am. They may have totally depleted their savings, have never-ending bills or be out of health insurance.

Mom used to tell me, "You don't need a man to be poor with—you can be poor by yourself."

Now I get it.

Being unemployed and almost broke is no fun. Being unemployed, almost broke and taking on the task of bailing out someone else who may be in worse shape than I am could be an unmitigated disaster.

Did all those helpful people who suggested I marry for health insurance consider somebody might want to marry me because I still have a roof over my head and some savings? For those who have hit bottom, maybe where I'm standing looks pretty cushy.

My mind wanders back to that handsome fellow in the restaurant. We smile at each other again. Oh, he is obviously interested.

Ssssssccccccccrrrrrrreeeeeeeeeeeecccccchhhhh!

Reality intrudes.

There's no fancy restaurant, no pricey entrée, no interested bachelor.

It was a dream.

That's what I get for being half-asleep while sitting in my very-early-in-the-morning weekly job search group. I knew I should've gone to sleep last night instead of looking at job postings until 1 AM.

I force my mind back to the speaker's topic—job search tips. Then, I do what I always do after those meetings: I go home, do the laundry, empty the cat litter box and wonder when I'll be fully employed again.

Romance on the dole? I don't think so.

# # #

Photo Credits:

Romance in the Garden: http://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/gdsXvWlg-1fODf9UV64LEQ

Wedding Cake: http://www.flickr.com/photos/kenschafer/2235114416/

Picnic: http://www.flickr.com/photos/yourdon/2819393805/sizes/l/in/photostream/

Little Girl Doing Laundry: http://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Little_girl_playing--doing_laundry.png

Note: All photos are for illustrative purposes only--author is not pictured.

Break, Broke, Broken

2010-08-11T13:45:00.000-04:00

Could somebody explain one of life's great mysteries? How do appliances just know the least opportune moment to konk out?

Do manufacturers install some evil switch inside mechanical objects that program them to go ka-fluey the instant the household starts drifting toward financially broke?

Guess my dad has it figured out after all. Showing up with his handyman tools, he always jokes ,"Be sure never to mention in front of the appliances that you have no money. They'll break down for sure if they find out."

Current situation: The air-conditioner picked today to pitch a snit-fit.

I live in the Deep South. I mean, the really, really deep South. The magnolias-peaches-armadillos South. Yeah, that one. The one with months-long stretches of heat and humidity. Today's temperature: 96. (Down from the 100s last week.) Today's heat index: I don't know. Suffice it to say if I wanted to cool off, I could try some nice Southwestern desert area.

So . . .

For the third time this summer Old Faithful is not.

The good news? It only cost $85. If I'd waited, the motor would've have burned out the repair guy said. Approximate cost: $400. OK, so saving $315 makes me feel a little better. And, the repairman, who is also a friend, has been kind—his first repair was only $50; the second was free.

This month marks the eleventh month of my "work break" (AKA known as "life on the dole").

With every month that passes, my bank account dwindles a bit closer toward "broke" status.

And, not a month goes by without something in my house breaking down.

Break, broke, broken.

Yep, I am literally living the conjugation of a verb.

Remember when I told you my clothes dryer stopped working? "Super Dad" did his best, but after three days work, he declared it unfixable. No big deal. I strung up a clothes line in the garage and now I dry my clothes that way—a nice "green" alternative, with many positive benefits.

Line-dried towels? Yep, they're stiff as a board. Excellent for exfoliating the skin.

Waiting until the last minute to do laundry? No way, it takes three days to dry in this Southern humidity. I have learned to plan ahead.

Tumbling a shirt to get wrinkles out? Not possible. Ironing required. Lifting hand weights builds biceps, right? I hope no one notices that I'm only "ripped" on the right side.

True, in the beginning, there was a certain novelty about hanging up wet laundry—like getting back to nature, being "earth conscious" and all that good stuff.

However, eight months later, I can tell you the novelty has worn off—completely.

But, it's a new life experience. I've learned something along the way. That's got to be worth something.

Meanwhile, other things around the house have decided I need a few more life lessons:

The backyard water spigot leaks under my kitchen sink. I drag the hose from the front yard to water my patio tomatoes.

The toilet stopped flushing. Dad replaced the malfunctioning parts.

The bathroom faucet began dripping. Dad fixed it.

The ice maker stopped working. I repaired it myself. Yay, me!

The gutters need cleaning, but I'm not brave enough to climb a ladder against a two-story house (and I don't want Dad up there either).

The house needs to be pressure washed.

Even the car got in on the act, needing repairs totaling more than $300 in May.

"What? I thought you started your own business?" you ask. "Isn't it going well? Don't you have any money from that?"

Well, the answers are yes, yes and coming soon.

See, before you make a dime in a new venture you have to spend start-up money—all of which came from already depleted savings.

Choose one: Invest in a business that will be financially successful later on or "invest" in fixing stuff that breaks right now. The choice is obvious: right now, what Dad—or I—can't fix stays broken (unless it's a mandatory thing such as the car or air conditioning).

Indeed, I'm looking forward to the day my bank account loses its "broke" status. And, most of all I'll be glad when all the brokenness around my home can be speedily repaired.

But, in the midst of my break/broke/broken state, I still remember what's important.

I'm grateful for the break in my career that is allowing me to pursue a new path—one I've long wanted to take. Without the "opportunity" that being jobless created, I never would have taken the plunge.

I'm thankful my bank account is not truly "broke" even if it feels like it—there are still funds left for real emergencies.

But, most of all, I'm thankful that, while my house and appliances are on a breaking streak, my spirit hasn't succumbed to the same. I've never lost sight of the end game: I know that I'll eventually get my life back—and in better shape than it was before because this time I'll be my own boss.

So what if I paddle with one oar through this a sea of brokenness? Land is in sight and of one thing I am very sure:

Stuff is broken, but I am not.

# # #
Photo Credits:

Sun/Heat: http://www.flickr.com/photos/10752790@N02/2344662226
Clothes on Line (Note: Woman in photo is not Ariel): http://www.flickr.com/photos/60849961@N00/2733658185
Broke: http://www.flickr.com/photos/mslivenletlive/490552618/sizes/z/in/photostream/

Rewriting Titanic: “I’m the King of the World”

2010-07-29T15:29:00.007-04:00

Remember Jack Dawson, Leonardo DiCaprio's character, in Titanic? Who can forget his iconic scene on the bow of the ship when he yells into the wind, "I'm the King of the World!"?

Now, I understand how Jack felt.

Why? Because big changes are happening rapidly in my life on the dole and rescue may be at hand. I'm ready to yell into the wind myself.

(Or, worst-case scenario, I might just be like Jack—some poor schmuck without a clue of how things end. But, I really, really, really don't think so.)

It has been pretty evident for the last 10 months, that my unemployment situation has the potential to turn into my own personal Titanic. The dole won't last forever and in spite of my all-out efforts, no lifesaving job offer is being tossed my way.

But, sometimes, when life throws a big, towering iceberg into your path, you have to trust yourself. Instead of sitting in a deck chair trusting that the S.O.S. signals will bring rescue, you take a leap of faith over the side of that sinking ship. Sure, flinging yourself into uncharted, unknown territory is full of trepidation, but passivity never saved anybody. It's better to jump clear of the disaster if you can and increase your chances of survival than to wait around to be sucked under by the behemoth on its way to the bottom of the sea.

Admittedly, you pray on the way overboard that your construction efforts have paid off; somewhere in the churning darkness below bobs that sturdy little lifeboat you've been quietly hammering away on.

Because, what we have here in this economy's big upheaval is a whole new paradigm. The old answers and solutions no longer work. There is no terra firma in sight. And, unless you take matters into your own hands, there never will be.

Let's rewind the past two months and let me tell you what I've been up to and why. While you've been reading blog posts about Mom's, Dad's and my friend's perspective about my life on the dole, I came to a decision. A tough decision, but a decision I feel great about.

But, first, a little background on the job search:

In February and early March, I experienced a tiny flurry of activity from recruiters and hiring companies, but all that activity led nowhere. Afterwards, all responses to my résumé and my networking activities totally screeched to a halt.

Nothing.

No activity whatsoever.

Not so much as one phone call.

I wanted to tap my modem and ask "Hello? Is this thing on? Is anybody out there?"

Still, I kept the faith by sending out résumés and networking, and I continued to attend a job-search group, meeting weekly with more than 100 highly-qualified job seekers like myself. I asked around. Everybody's experience was similar. While mid-level manufacturing candidates snagged a few jobs—mostly after being unemployed for a year or more—executives and management applicants had slammed into a job-search iceberg. The tallest and most massive one jarred the HR executives.

Everybody seemed to be in the same boat. (Titanic, anyone?)

Consider these stories:

I contacted my friend, Nina (remember, my well-connected HR executive friend?). Same story. No job. Trust me, if she's not getting a job with her experience, talent, personality and connections, nobody is getting a job.

I had lunch with my smart, talented, connected school friend, an out-of-work CEO. Same song, second verse.

A third desperate friend with four children and an unemployed wife found his formerly lucrative corporate career and his impressive talent could not even snag him a minimum-wage job.

I noticed an odd new trend. Yes, there were HR jobs, but all were for entry- and mid-level HR positions. Hundreds of job posts flooded the job boards: all for lower-level jobs at one-third to one-half my old salary. There were even a number of posts for unpaid HR internships.

What's this?

It appeared the executive management job market—HR or otherwise—was sinking fast.

Not one to let pride stand in the way, I immediately applied for any and all available jobs. Still, nary a nibble. Maybe application screeners figure I'll abandon ship when the economy improves. Or, maybe they look at my previous salary (a required field on many job applications), and it scares them away. Further, those jobs don't come with relocation packages and, at the proffered pay rates, I cannot afford to sell my home at a loss and move cross-country to any higher-cost-of-living area.

Meaning—at those rates, I can apply only for jobs in my area—but those remain few and far between. On any given week, I actually learn about (maybe) five HR jobs at any level in my area.

Then grim news from my professional association: there are 7,300 Georgia members who have registered their job searches with the association.

What?

And, that doesn't include Georgia HR professionals searching without registering with the association and those from other states willing to come to Georgia for work

There are 7,300+ vying for those lower-lever three to five jobs I see each week?

You don't have to be a Vegas bookie to see those are stinkin' odds, and the jobseeker is on the wrong side of the winning hand.

Then, out of nowhere: a more chilling pattern among my job-seeking friends: Those with 10 or more years of experience rarely get phone calls, losing out to less-experienced candidates.

Reality: Employers don't want those of us who might be expensive.

Then, the final iceberg crashed violently into my job search, whiplashing me into undeniable reality: I saw articles—three in a single week—about companies no longer considering unemployed applicants. Apparently, companies don't care if an applicant has been unemployed a year, six months, a week or 15 minutes—we unemployeds are "damaged goods."

The band may be playing merrily and the deck chairs arranged in perfect order, but the outcome is now clear: my job search ship is not going to make it to safe harbor.

Will I ever work again?

Will my job search last years instead of months?

What happens when my savings runs out?

As if the job market isn't depressing enough, the tiny dole checks that keep us "undesirables" afloat each week may soon be torpedoed as well. Every time Congress debates the issue, more lawmakers get testier about unemployment benefits. Now, Congress has extended the benefits until November. Ironically, benefits are set to expire again at election time.

Reality check: no job, no prospects and little hope those tiny dole checks will continue for the promised time periods.

I realize there are many things I cannot change right now:

I cannot change this rotten economy.

I cannot improve this job market.

I cannot make a hiring company realize my worth.

And, neither can my job-seeking friends.

And then I had my personal Invictus
moment: There is much I cannot change, but I'm still "the master of my fate: the captain of my soul." I will no longer sit quietly in the deck chair trusting in the rules and waiting for an unknown somebody to rescue me.

I'm ready to do now what it takes to rescue myself.

In the Depression, my grandfather fished and gigged frogs to supply a restaurant while my grandmother cooked for a boardinghouse and helped him gather Spanish moss to sell to a mattress company. I would just have to figure out the modern day equivalent of those down-and-out enterprises that kept them afloat.

Comments made to me before I left my previous job began to bob about in my mind:

"Why don't you start a business and hire us to work for you?" a co-worker suggested.

"I think you should start your own business," a business associate told me.

"When you get ready to start your own company, send me your business cards and I'll share them with my clients," another business associate offered.

"No, no," I replied each time it was suggested. "I need a 'real' job with benefits. I cannot let myself get distracted by thoughts of my own business. I need a regular full-time job."

Sure, I briefly thought about the self-employment possibility. It actually was Plan E on my list of options. I met with a CPA. I explored the possibilities. I networked with friends who own businesses. But, I wasn't serious about the idea, because I thought I couldn't afford to be.

It's not as if I am naïve about what goes into being a business owner. My parents have had their own businesses—three of them. I saw that for them it was an incredible amount of hard work and frequent stress. It's just not the easiest way to earn a living.

But, I've thought about it off and on for the last 20 years. I even took a entrepreneurial class in graduate school, but I put the dream behind me because—at that time—I didn't yet have the necessary business experience. It was an idea to save for the future.

I launched my traditional career. I had a good job with a great paycheck and benefits. You don't quit a good job to start your own business.

Wait!

What?

Right, you don't quit a job to start your own business.

But, what if the job quits you?

I realized it's now or never.

I made the decision. I will start my own business. That is the modern-day equivalent of my grandparents' Depression-era strategies.

What will it be?

How will I make it on my own?

Is there any way I can help my job-seeking friends at the same time?

Will it end in wild success or be a catastrophic disaster like Jack Dawson's Titanic experience?

I have no idea. I just know I'm committed to the idea and ready to make the sacrifices necessary to make it happen. Preparing for this in the last few weeks, I've worked harder than I've ever worked in my life while constructing my secret rescue vehicle. I have yet to receive a paycheck. But, thus far, I'm loving every minute.

This plan could indeed turn out to be my lifeboat—the one I'm building with my own two hands.

And, that's why, unlike poor, doomed Jack who never saw reality coming, I actually could turn out to be "King of the world."

# # #
Just for Fun: Revisit Titanic's "King of the World" moment:

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And for More Fun:

# # #

Photo credits:

King of the World: http://www.flickr.com/photos/wsh1266/2602898490/

Titanic's Lifeboat: http://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Titanic-lifeboat.gif

Titanic in Harbor: http://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Titanic.jpg

Iceberg: http://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/B1b8L6cjDxPsYWUPNKxq-A

Titanic Painting: http://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:St%C3%B6wer_Titanic.jpg

Titanic Survivors: http://bit.ly/aUS4wt

My Own Personal Invictus: Then and Now

2010-07-21T13:47:00.002-04:00

ONE YEAR AGO:

July 21, 2009 e-mail to friends: "It's finally official. I've been given the word I will no longer be employed after September 30 . . . In some ways, I'm relieved to be 'set free', but in other ways I do have concern about the future . . . Very mixed feelings . . . Quite frankly, it's a huge relief to just know what's going to happen. I have basically been in limbo since last November so just knowing—even if the news is not great—is better than limbo. Please keep me in your prayers as I figure out what's next in this adventure that is my life! It will be exciting . . . "

And, so went the e-mail sent to my closest friends one year ago today when I definitely knew my job was gone and my earnings—at least for the foreseeable future— would be the dole.

From November 2008, when I learned this outcome was likely, to the day the fateful news was finally delivered was torture. I was a wreck—a big ball of worry and stress—wondering if I would have a job and what the future held for me. All the while, as part of executive management, I was forced to plaster on a fake smile and play a key role in the operational transition I knew would lead to my own job loss.

Like my father, I've always been a planner.

Like my father, I don't like surprises.

Like my father, I like to know what will happen next.

In those hectic days when I had a career, my friends used to laugh when I penciled in "spontaneous times" on my daily planner. "We'll meet at 6 PM," I used to say. "And, we'll be spontaneous until 11 PM, and casual clothes will be required." (And, no, I'm not kidding. I have actually said this.)

I mean it when I say I am a planner. Seriously.

Being unemployed at all was not in my plan. No way.

Being unemployed for 10 months with no end in sight? Inconceivable.

It's been 10 long months since my final work day and—more importantly—my final paycheck.

At times the uncertainty has been overwhelming.

There've been bleak moments, too: when appliances died; when my 2009 tax return dictated paying twice as much in taxes as the entirety of my 2010 dole checks; and when I received rejection e-mails turning me down for jobs for which I knew I was a perfect fit.

But, bleakness has been the rare exception rather than the rule.

Before living on the dole, I prided myself on being a little cynical and slightly cranky. Of all the things that I've learned during this time, the thing that has surprised me the most is that—dare I say it?—I'm an optimist. Yes, after a lifetime of being told how like my father I am, I have discovered in myself that undeniable bit of my mother: optimism. Who would have thought it?

Could it be that I'm turning into the person I used to be in my pre-employment days? The pre-career days before I became a stressed-out mess trapped in an office prison and tasked with handling other people's problems, mismanagement and bad judgment?

And, the farther away I get from one of my biggest life crises to-date, I realize I'm daily becoming even more optimistic and excited about what my future may hold—in spite of all the job search futility, dole checks, broken appliances and frequent setbacks that have happened in the past 10 months.

With each passing day, I see a clearer reflection of the woman who emerged from the shadow of that stressed-out employee who received that bad news on July 21, 2009. I feel my "unconquerable soul" marching bravely—and, dare I say it, happily—into the unknown.

And, it actually feels these days as if I'm on the brink of reclaiming my life. Not the structured (and strictured) one I had before but a better one: a life purposely shaped by me instead of one shaped by others around me.

Yes, I have experienced my own personal Invictus, learning that, indeed, I must be "master of my own fate":

Invictus

Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.

In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.

Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds and shall find me unafraid.

It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll,
I am the master of my fate:
I am the captain of my soul.

—William Ernest Henley (1849–1903)

# # #

Photo credits:

Ship in Storm: http://bit.ly/9qq52w

Sea Storm: http://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Vernet,_Claude_Joseph_-_A_Seastorm_-_1752.jpg

Ship Captain: http://bit.ly/agTh38

That’s a Lovely Dress You’re Wearing, Miss Scarlett

2010-07-14T16:41:00.002-04:00

I have a hard time accepting help.

No, I mean, I really, really have a hard time accepting help.

Like Scarlett O’Hara, I’ll flounce grandly about in drapery dresses before letting anybody guess I need help.

All my life I’ve helped people. Maybe it’s in my DNA—a personality trait inherited from altruistic forebears. Once, I took a personality assessment and was nearly off the charts for helping others. It isn’t just what I do; it’s who I am.

My family was a strong influence. My grandfather worked multiple jobs during the Depression to support five families. My grandmother visited the sick and cooked for others even as she was dying of cancer. My parents are also givers and helpers.

Until I started living on the dole, I didn’t think much about my volunteerism or donations. I did for others because helping makes me happy.

Now, I’m on the dole. There’s not much to share. I can’t give money because I have none. In short, my charitable usefulness is diminished. Instead, I find myself—to my horror—on the receiving end of help—a peculiar situation indeed.

And, I still do not, repeat, do not, like it.

In recent weeks you’ve read my parents’ take on my situation. Here’s mine:

My “Super” Dad was always the first to look over broken stuff at my house, but in the old days when I had money, if it required more than a simple fix, I would tell him I would call the plumber, carpenter, electrician or other repairman. Mostly, he advised and I’d take it from there.

Yet, last December, it troubled me to watch my 68-year old father with bum knees and arthritic hips down on the cold garage floor trying to repair my dryer—for days. I wanted to say, “Don’t bother with it. I’ll call the repairman.” Instead, I bit back my words and let him work while I cooked him dinner. It wasn’t much, but it was all I could offer.

Since my late twenties, my parents and I have gone to dinner “Dutch treat.” However, now that I’m on the dole, they insist on paying. At first, we’d squabble about the bill; I told them I could still pay my way if we went out only occasionally.

More than once, Mom said, “Stop being silly. We want to see you, and we’re perfectly capable of paying. You can take us out when you get a job.”

Each time I accepted their generosity I was uncomfortable. Still, I reasoned I would have a new job soon; my freeloader status was only temporary.

But, the thing about parents is how wily they are. To avoid the who’s-paying hassle, Mom mostly suggests a restaurant farther away. She knows I’ll drive us in my fuel-efficient car, and I won’t make a fuss about the bill if I drive.

“We’ll get this,” she says as she grabs the check. “It makes up for the gas.”

I’ve figured out that trick. Now when we eat out, I don’t argue because I understand it’s important to them to do this. It makes them feel as if they’re doing something useful. Yet, I can’t help who I am; Mom told me yesterday that I still wince as though I’m about to be hit every time the server asks if it will separate bills or all on one.

And my parents aren’t the only ones accommodating my circumstances. When my college roommate (last week’s guest blogger), told me not to buy her eight-year-old son a Christmas present, I felt awful. Still, I appreciated her understanding . She’s been a supportive friend during my joblessness.

The list of those who have given to me goes on and on. Here are a few examples:

Mom’s longtime friend suggested that Mom and I join her and her daughter for a home-cooked lunch at her house.

A friend about to be married asked if, to avoid the expense of a bridesmaid gown, I’d prefer keeping the guest book. (I did.)

Another friend suggested dinner with a “buy-one-get-one-free” coupon. Then she grabbed the check, telling me she was the “buy one” and I was the “free one”.

A CPA friend bought my lunch—saying I could reciprocate when I found work—and put me in touch with other contacts I could call to try to network some contract work.

A business contact became a friend as she encouraged me, took me to networking events, offered free use of her copier and office space, and in general, made my job search easier.

I’m blessed with people who care. But, I’m still me, and I can’t shake that tendency to minimize my challenges by saying with a smile: “Well, it’s tough, but I’ll get through it.”

Maybe I really do suffer from Scarlett O’Hara Syndrome—the affliction that causes strong women to sew drapes into dresses just to appear to be keeping it all together in tough circumstances. Even if our bellies are filled with shriveled radishes, we maintain the illusion that all is well and thanks-so-much-but-I-don’t-need-any-help.

I’m not sure if I will ever be 100 percent comfortable receiving help. Hugs, encouragement and emotional support are easiest to accept. Work, money and restaurant meals are another matter. But I am learning. I really am.

I keep telling myself others need to help—just as I needed to help back when I had money.

When I won’t accept help, am I withholding myself from them?

Is it selfish to be unwilling to be emotionally vulnerable enough to accept help?

Is it arrogant?

Am I depriving them of the opportunity to feel good about themselves?

Is it just another way of saying, “I’m awesome. Let me be the strong one. Let me be your benefactor, but you can never be mine”?

I’m learning it’s important to receive the love, understanding, support and help that friends and family want to share. It makes me human. And, maybe that’s the hardest part of all.

Still, in the end, even tough Miss Scarlett knew where to go for help: “What is there to do? What is there that matters? . . . Home. I'll go home.”

And, even if it’s hard to accept help, home is what I want, too. Home is not a geographical place—it’s my family and friends. It’s their love. It’s where I keep everything that matters most to me.

# # #

Just for Fun: Check Out Miss Scarlett’s Drapery Dress in Gone With the Wind:

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And For Even More Fun: Check Out Carol Burnett in “Went with the Wind, Part 2”:

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And, a Bit More Fun:

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Photos courtesy of Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer (MGM) (public domain)

What Do You Say to a Friend?

2010-07-08T11:38:00.000-04:00

By Guest Blogger: "Martha," Ariel's college roommate and close friend

What do you say to a single friend you've known for more than 20 years when she has lost her job—her only source of income? What do you say to that same unemployed friend who has always been employed and has worked her way up to a great job? What do you tell that friend who had her foot poised on the next rung of the corporate ladder?

"It will be okay. . ."

"God has a plan. . ."

"It could be the best thing that ever happened to you. . ."

"God uses these times to test our faith and teach us. . ."

"Just think how God will help you grow through this experience. . ."

"Just be glad you knew in advance so that you could plan ahead for the change in income. . ."

After Ariel lost her job, I struggled with what to say that would ease the blow and help and support her as she faced uncertain days. All the phrases above sounded pretty cliché and didn't seem to be appropriate (even though I still said many of them, I'm ashamed to say).

Now, upon reflection, I realize that I should have handled things differently. After some pretty devastating personal events in my own life (not job related), I heard some of the same clichés from both friends and family.

I just wanted to scream at them and say, "NO IT WILL NOT BE OK!!! I DON'T CARE WHAT GOD IS TRYING TO TEACH ME!!! WHY ME?!?!? WHY AM I BEING PUNISHED?!? I HAVE ALWAYS TRIED TO DO THE RIGHT THING!!! WHY IS THIS HAPPENING?!?!?"

I wonder now if Ariel secretly wanted to yell any of those heart-wrenching words at me each time we hung up the phone. If so, I can only ask her forgiveness.

I wish I had just said, "No, it's not OK. It's hard. You'll have to struggle. I don't know what to do to help. But, I will be here for you."

Sometimes, I'm learning that simple honesty and a willingness to listen and be leaned on are the best ways to help a friend who needs you.

As the months have passed since Ariel's job loss, I have noticed some differences in our relationship. In the past, because of her busy work schedule, I had to make appointments just to talk with Ariel. (No, I'm not kidding). We would email several times to find a suitable time for both of us and finally connect by phone. And, always, as we were talking, Ariel was on her way to or from work, to or from meetings. Now, I can expect to find Ariel at home almost any time I call. I still have to be careful of my timing in case there is a phone interview on the calendar, but at least I know where she is.

It's also interesting how our topics of conversation have changed. We still share personal things (not to be mentioned here), but now, instead of talking about the latest trendy restaurants that Ariel has tried, she is sharing recipes with me and chattering excitedly about her herb garden and homegrown tomatoes that will be ready soon. It seems that in her efforts to save money during these lean financial times, Ariel has become quite a good cook and gardener.

Instead of visiting and heading to a pricey restaurant for lunch, we choose homemade pizza topped with herbs from Ariel's garden and fresh vegetables from a local farmer's market. My son had no complaints, by the way, and LOVED Ariel's pizza that she served when we last visited.

(Food has always been an important "ingredient" in my relationship with Ariel. When we first met, we bonded over homemade goodies sent to us by our moms during final exam week at college. All our friends were still studying, but finals were over for both of us. There we were with care packages filled with homemade pound cake, cookies, bread and other goodies. Ordered out of our rooms by our (then) roommates who had to study, we met in the hallway each holding our care packages, found a place to sit and began to dig in. And, now, more than 20 years later, we still enjoy being together and eating yummy food.)

Any friend who can stay friends with me for more than 20 years is someone worth keeping. Ariel is a friend like that. I fully expect our friendship to last many more years. So, Ariel, the best I can tell you is that this time in your life right now is hard. I know you are hurting and confused. But, God heals in HIS time, and works through events to make us more like Christ. This is often a very long and painful process. It's just plain hard when you're going through it. But, God is there. Trust that HE cares and that HE won't let you down.

And most of all . . .

I didn't say it in the beginning, but I want to say it now, "No, it's not OK. It's hard. You'll have to struggle. I don't know what to do to help. But, I will be here for you."

# # #

Photo Courtesy of: http://bit.ly/9KhcCK (Note: Not Ariel and Martha)

“Super” Dad to the Rescue

2010-07-01T16:03:00.001-04:00

By Guest Blogger: Ariel's Dad

Last time Ariel asked her mother to write about being a supportive parent to an out-of-work adult child. This time she's asked me to give the father's point of view.

As my wife said, parents want to fix things. Like most men, I prefer problem-solving action to hours chewing on a problem and analyzing it. I like things nailed down. Uncertainty is not happy territory for me. I like to know.

My career has always revolved around numbers. I like numbers. They're predictable, dependable, unchanging. You go to bed knowing that two plus two equals four; you get up in the morning and two plus two still equals four. Certainty: I like it.

Admittedly, when it comes to careers, I'm a dinosaur. I went to work for the federal government; 35 years later, I retired. I had different jobs and titles over those 35 years, but I got up every morning knowing I had a job. Now, every month when my retirement check arrives, it is further proof of all that was good about "the way things used to be."

In fact, after my federal government career, I took up a new one in county government. I've now worked 13 years in that capacity, with another retirement pension soon to come my way. Boring? Maybe to some people, but I like certainty.

Ironically, Ariel and I accepted our jobs at approximately the same time. Now, at age 68, I still have mine, and she is scrambling to find one. It just doesn't make sense to me.

These days people no longer have what I had: a secure job (two, in fact) with a pension—a job you can keep until retirement. Ariel, who knows all about human resources stuff, tells me that in the future most people will have multiple careers in their working lifetime—not multiple jobs, but totally new careers. I can't even imagine such a thing.

Accordingly, I had no idea how to help Ariel when she lost her job. At first, I searched job listings, but I soon learned two things. First, she is quite computer savvy and knew all about RSS feeds and how to have them delivered to her electronic inbox. No matter what I turned up, she had it first. Second, I didn't seem to do well at scouting job leads. Both Ariel and her mother have master's degrees in human resources and sometimes when I'd find what I thought was the perfect HR job, they'd patiently deconstruct the listing for me, explaining to me how it was for a completely different kind of job than what Ariel is qualified for or seeking even if the title sounded similar. Finally, in the interest of family harmony, I gave up sending her job listings.

For me, giving up that role as job listing provider meant relinquishing my role as the Daddy who fixed things. Now, I was just the guy who couldn't even understand the job market. To tell the truth, when, Ariel and her mother start slinging HR jargon back and forth during our daily phone conversations, I just quietly hang up the phone and go outside and listen to the birds. Their tweets and trills make about as much sense.

Then one day, Ariel's clothes dryer stopped working. Not having money to repair it, she called and asked if I could help. In December, I spent several hours lying on the cold concrete garage floor of her laundry area trying to repair it. I thought I had it fixed, only to find that it stopped again. I tried once more—more hours on the garage floor. It was definitely broken. She bought a clothesline and strung it up in her garage. That's all we could do.

As the months went by, more household items have broken. Each time Ariel calls and most of the time I've been able to help. I may not understand "HR-speak", but I know wrenches and shut-off valves and circuit breakers and car noises. I know a little about plumbing and air conditioning and mechanical things, and I can fix a leaky toilet as well as the next guy.

Consequently, when something jams or freezes up or breaks—which seems to be more often than I'd have thought possible—Ariel calls me, and I do what I can. When my wife answers the phone on these occasions, Ariel always says, "I need to speak to the 'Super'." By this, she means the building superintendent, or in other words: me.

It's like my wife told you last time: we encourage Ariel, support her, hug her, and do all that feel-good stuff, but sometimes when you're Daddy, you just actively need to do something. A man just feels more useful changing the outcome—and "saving the day". I leave the job hunts to them, but I keep my cordless drill and screwdriver charged and ready to go. This I can do.

Besides, there are some perks. When I arrive to repair something Ariel rewards me with a home-cooked meal. Of course, she invites her mother, too, who deserves rewards for her hard work as well. And, since Ariel has more time to shop for the freshest ingredients and to cook meals from scratch, this has turned into a pretty nice perk.

To be honest, I like taking an active role and knowing I can occasionally do things to make Ariel's life easier during this stressful time.

Besides, it's not half bad being the Dad whose grown-up daughter still calls him "Super".

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Photos Courtesy of:

Superman: http://bit.ly/aBeEWP

Man on Computer (note: not Ariel's Dad): http://bit.ly/bxgOrn

Tools: http://bit.ly/dyuCYY
Super Dad: http://bit.ly/cBZ2IX

“Danger, Will Robinson! Danger!”: Life on the Dole Jolts the Rest of the Family

2010-06-24T13:55:00.000-04:00

By Guest Blogger: Ariel's Mom

Parents fix things. It's what we do.

Remember when you were five and skinned your knee? Didn't you want Mom to make a big show of rustling up a truckload of antiseptics and bandages for your boo-boo? And, didn't you also want a tender kiss on your grimy little knee and the words, "Everything is going to be alright, Sweetie"? You didn't mind too much if Mom threw in a bear hug at no additional cost—as long as your friends weren't watching. And, thanks to Mom's "fixing" you soon ran back out to play happily, the injury totally forgotten.

Oh, if only the parental role could stay so simple. But, while children inevitably grow up, no parent ever gets old enough to give up the parental impulse to "make it all better" as my own father demonstrated to me some years ago.

When I was 35, I sprained an ankle. As I hobbled into the doctor's office, my ashen-faced, shaking father was already there, looking as if he were the accident victim. I was clearly old enough to manage my own sprained ankle, I thought. Why would my 65-year-old father leap into full parental mode, heeding his inner voice that said "Get there fast and do something, Dad!"?

Because, as parents, it's who we are, and it's what we do. We just can't help ourselves.

No matter how old the offspring, parents fix things—or at least attempt to do so. Still, I didn't really "get" my father's actions that day. Not until my daughter Ariel lost her job and put me in the same position he faced.

First, a little background: Ariel was a good kid. She made straight As, had great friends, never got into the usual teen vices, and she became self-supporting right out of college. Other than a few boyfriends I didn't like (and whom her own good judgment ultimately sent packing) and that garish purple eye shadow at age 15, her decisions have been sound and her achievements exemplary.

Actually it may even be that because Ariel never gave us any major worries as a child that I never got the experience I'd need at parenting-a-grown-daughter-through-big-scary-life-changes thing. I absolutely, positively do not know how to relate to a daughter experiencing a monstrous life challenge like job loss. The one thing I do know: no amount of hugs, kisses, antiseptics or bandages will fix this nasty old boo-boo.

From the moment, 11 months before it actually happened, when Ariel knew her job would be eliminated, she took the news well. She turned immediately to the job search, never slowing down to mourn or bewail her fate; seeing her "stiff upper lip", her father and I pretended to take it well, too. We said all the right things, but privately we were shaken. No doubt, all parents panic a little over an adult child's job loss, but with Ariel on her own, it's been especially scary.

Because, as Ariel calmly explained, "The national unemployment figures may look large, but at my house, it's an even higher number—it's 100%." That's right. No other salary to cushion the loss.

We were thankful she knew months ahead of time that her job might go away. It gave us time to accept the news, strategize, plan and organize.

It didn't help.

Because we are a close-knit family, the three of us spent hours on the phone, trying to accept this calamity and formulate a battle plan. But, it's been a long time since any of us had job searched. We had no clue where to start.

On-line applications? Are they different from paper ones?

Keyword searches? What's that?

LinkedIn? How's that supposed to help?

We soon realized we were total novices in the modern art of the job hunt. Ariel's father and I wanted to be understanding and supportive, but how did that translate into action when we had no clue how people find jobs these days?

Channeling my own father's actions from the day I sprained my ankle, my first impulse was to do something.

But what?

Offer encouragement? Of course.

Volunteer to proof-read the résumé? Absolutely.

Be a sounding board for Ariel's frustrations? Positively.

Tell her how to solve all her problems and point out her mistakes? Uh-oh.

"Danger, Will Robinson! Danger!"

For the first time in our parent-adult child relationship we were navigating uncharted territory. Nobody knew the contact protocol.

Sure, her father and I knew to offer the "good stuff": pep talks, sharing the emotional burden and listening to late-night worries. But, sometimes as worries creep into our own minds, our inner thoughts, when expressed, might come off sounding bossy, pushy or critical. No matter how well intentioned the remark, it has the potential to push the wrong button on the overly-exposed, frayed nerves of the on-the-dole jobseeker.

The problem? Just like the jobseeker, those of us who love them have ups and downs, good days and bad.

Some mornings I awaken full of optimism: the economy will pick up; the job market will rebound; Ariel will get a job even better than the last one. This may, in fact, be the best thing that ever happened to her.

But, on other days when Ariel phones to tell me of yet another rejection—this time from a company we thought would be a slam-dunk—I summon my energy and do the "rah-rah" cheerleader-mother thing once again. It works; by the time we hang up the phone, she feels better and returns optimistically to the job search, sending out more résumés.

Wonderful.

Except I lie awake until 2 AM thinking, wondering, praying, worrying and trying to figure out if we're missing something.

Does her résumé need tweaking?

Does the cover letter say too much or too little?

Is her previous high salary a turn-off to potential employees?

Is this bad economy going to last forever?

Because we're a small family—Ariel's our only child—we're a close family. Sunday dinner is a family reunion for us. Which means that, Ariel's job search is about our lives, too. While she may be the one out of work, her father and I have also felt the impact and will continue to do so—maybe for the rest of our lives.

Wherever Ariel goes, we'll need to go as well. That's not clingy—it's realistic. We're not as young as we used to be. I was an only child too. And, when my parents in their declining years took a notion to move 300 miles away, I panicked, wondering how I'd care for them. When I finally dissuaded them, I vowed right then I would never do that to my only daughter. One day—hopefully many years from now—Ariel may need to oversee our care. But, I know that because she's on her own, she'll always have to work, no matter what goes on with her old Mum and Dad. As parents, the least we can do is put ourselves in a convenient location for her.

But, can we, as future retirees, afford to live where destiny leads Ariel? She's had to rule out some locales based on the potential cost of living for us. Los Angeles, Boston and New York City are not places where people of modest means can stretch a retirement dollar.

Well, that is, if we can retire. Her father and I expected to be retired by now, but with Ariel out of work, we hesitate. True, she's managing well on her tiny dole check, but what happens if (when?) it runs out? I'm convinced she'd deliver pizzas or newspapers, wait tables or be a street mime before she'd take money from us, but we feel more secure holding on to our present income "just in case."

Right now, my husband and I do what parents find most difficult: we wait, try to be patient and trust Ariel's judgment and her fierce commitment to the job search. We fully understand there's nothing we can do or say to change this situation, and we struggle to learn how to be supportive of our daughter who's living on the dole.

Yes, it is the nature of parents to worry and to try to fix things. But, unemployment is not a problem fixed with antiseptics, bandages, hugs or even tons of love. Of course, we still provide the love and hugs—it makes us all feel better. And, if I thought antiseptics and bandages would help, I'd pack a cargo truck full and deliver them to Ariel's door this minute. But, sadly, that won't help at all. It isn't like when she was five years old and I really could make things "all better".

Meanwhile . . . we wait. We hope. We pray. Most of all, we love and support our daughter through the most difficult challenge she's faced in her adult life and try to think before we speak. It's all we can do. We hope it is enough.

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Photos Courtesy of:

Lost in Space Robot: http://www.flickr.com/photos/drp/41370809/

1980s Girl: http://flickr.com/photos/89978611@N00/3347526575

Job Interview: http://www.flickr.com/photos/partsnpieces/2276665219/

Insomnia: http://www.flickr.com/photos/alyssafilmmaker/3628914665/

Moving Couple: http://bit.ly/bgF46C

Parent and Child: http://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/uqMTNYIqIjN4uafBur2udA

Shear Joy: Sometimes It’s About More Than What You Take Off

2010-06-14T14:06:00.000-04:00

Cousin Itt doesn't live here anymore.

I got a haircut.

I Got. A. Haircut.

Yep, you read that right.

Mom's salon was having a sale—only $9. And, with the impending reunion just weeks away Mom amped up the pressure. (Remember when she said my hair was making her look old?). Finally, in a move reminiscent of "Godfather Don", she upped the ante, making me an offer I couldn't refuse: $12 for a haircut and tip.

This haircut made me absurdly happy. I've never had a haircut quite like it. I, quite frankly, felt like a purring kitten rolling on her back afterwards.

Is it possible to get this much pleasure out of such a mundane activity as a haircut? You betcha. Shear joy: now showing at your local salon for a mere nine bucks.

Still, a cut at this salon took some effort. I made the mistake of going on a Saturday. It's one of those no-appointment-necessary-strip-mall salons. Translation: hordes of waiting masses—many of them young and squirmy.

I entered the salon with trepidation. I've gone to the same salon for over a decade. And to the same hairdresser since the previous one decided to be a fishing boat captain (but, that's a whole other story).

I. Do. Not. Like. Going. To. New. Hairdressers.

Scissors in the hands of a stranger standing behind my back make me nervous.

But . . . back to the salon. It was clean and neat, although not hip like the old one. They didn't offer me a beverage. There were straight-back benches instead of the old salon's comfy wicker chairs. And, there were three customers already waiting for Mom's stylist. It would be a long wait.

So what if I spent a little time waiting? It wasn't like I had double-booked a couple of power lunches. I had the time, and I could get five cuts here for what one cost at my old salon.

With a sign featuring Gilles Marini staring at me from above the styling products rack, I figured it just might be an enjoyable wait. My old salon didn't have that view.

Two hours later, Shakira had snipped through three head's worth of tresses and was ready to start my haircut.

"What do you want done?" she asked politely.

During the wait, I had learned the salon charges different prices according to what is done. The $9 cut includes only a spritz of water and the cut—no shampoo, no blow dry, no styling.

"Whatever comes on the $9 deal," I stated. Mom had given me only enough for a cut and a tip.

A little boy giggled and loudly parroted in a mocking voice, "Whatever comes on the $9 deal."

A quick trip to the ladies' room ensured no one else saw my red-faced embarrassment.

"I'm going to give you a complimentary shampoo and blow dry because you waited so long," Shakira told me when I returned.

Bless you, I thought. I'm going to love this woman. Mom had told her about my joblessness and that I was coming in for a cut. Shakira was sweet enough to give me something extra with this cut and, at the same time, kind enough not to make it feel like charity.

I sat down at the sink. The water gushed out. I don't know when I've felt anything as delicious as that water hitting my head. Why does it feel so good to have someone else wash your hair? It never feels this great when I wash it myself.

There was no scalp massage like at the old salon, but that water and shampoo made me feel like a new person. It seemed that every worry I had for the last eight months began to flow down that salon drain.

And Shakira even threw in the twelve-dollars-extra scalp treatment for free. You've made my all-time top ten list of favorite people, Shakira!

She had her work cut out for her in brushing out the long, wet tresses. In that chair, somehow they looked longer and more unruly than ever. After hearing I wanted five inches off she began to snip.

Is it possible to feel as if a burden has been lifted by a mere haircut?

That's exactly how it felt. As each wet, curling strand fell onto the cape and then to the floor below, I felt freer.

I felt new.

I felt the old slipping away.

And quite literally it was: the sodden hair hitting the floor had been with me since the last stressful year of the old job. It may have actually held within it the worry and panic that weighed on my mind during the transition that resulted in job loss. It held memories of a life I no longer had.

I was so giddy with this new feeling that I told Shakira to cut off another two inches. And she did. I was quite tempted to ask for a new short 'do, but decided I shouldn't get carried away.

And then she began to blow it dry. As I saw my fashionable coiffure return, I felt my confidence return also. Gone were the tired-looking tresses that made me feel frumpy and dumpy.

I cannot adequately describe the soul-filling joy I felt when I saw the completed style. Have I already said how much I now adore Shakira? I could've danced out of that salon. I wanted to break into song. Heck, I wanted to scream a little, too.

Feeling a bit giddy, I even threw in one of my own scarce dollar bills to plump up the tip. Shakira had more than earned that 44% tip.

Filled with excitement, I stopped by my parents' house to show off the new 'do. All the way home, I tossed my hair like some crazed shampoo-commercial model.

Why did this cut give me such ridiculous over-the-top delirious joy?

Once again, the Joy of The Treat had returned to douse me in a ray of light. I'd never given a haircut much thought before, but days later, I still recall this experience with pleasure. And, I still feel changed by it.

For the past eight months, I have hidden my greying, damaged, too-long hair in ponytails. But, something about this new cut changed me in ways I don't fully understand. Is it possible I've fallen in love with my grey? Gone is the excessive hairspray that plastered those much-too-long locks. I'm wearing my hair free and natural—and sometimes (dare I say it?)—even curly (translation: really natural).

That haircut was more than just a cut. With every passing day away from the old life, I'm becoming like my hair—freer and more natural—in touch with who I am and what I want for my new life. The old life had its perks—mostly material, I now realize—but my current on-the-dole situation may just be transforming me into the woman I was meant to be.

And, I think I like her a whole lot better.

# # #

Just for Fun: And, Speaking of The Joy of the Treat: Watch Gilles Marini Dance the Paso Doble on "Dancing with the Stars"

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Photos Courtesy of:

Long-haired Woman: http://bit.ly/d0RMct

Tabby Cat: flickr.com/photos/84949728@N00/3443387762

Hair Salon: http://flickr.com/photos/88687725@N00/2393497221

Child Shampoo: http://flickr.com/photos/40814689@N00/3688679868

Child Haircut: http://flickr.com/photos/7641646@N03/1074486675/

Hair: http://flickr.com/photos/eraphernalia_vintage/3932715217/

Child with Mirror: http://flickr.com/photos/luschei/1075353190/

Happy Child in Hair Salon: http://www.flickr.com/photos/ateofiel/742811563/in/set-201935/

Eating on the Dole Doesn’t Have to Be a Royal Pain

2010-06-02T16:47:00.000-04:00

Once upon a time in a land far away, there lived a fair princess named Ariel. She had a human resources job that kept her very busy. She worked hard and earned a good salary. Princess Ariel wasn't a spendthrift, but could spend money on whatever she wanted without worry. She never gave grocery shopping much thought. She planned her menus around what she wanted to eat. When shopping, Princess Ariel was never inconvenienced—she always frequented the closest store.

As Princess Ariel traipsed through the Fairy Land supermarket, she didn't have a care in the world.

I'll buy some organic fruits and veggies, she thought.

Ariel never considered how much she might need between grocery trips. She was interested in variety rather than whether the produce or meat would go bad before being eaten.

Portobello mushrooms, bagged pre-washed lettuce and cut-up fruit! Princess Ariel never washed or chopped anything that could be purchased prepared.

"I'll take some steak," she told the butcher "and some chicken breasts and shrimp, too." This princess never worried about meat prices.

She bought hummus, bruschetta and almond butter. Brand-name ice cream, yogurt and little pudding cups, too. Prepared sauces and some mixes rounded out her cart.

Princess Ariel never thought about whether these items tasted better than more mundane ones. She never considered making her own sauces or puddings from scratch or whether that might improve the taste. Princesses don't have to worry their pretty little heads over such things.

"Do you have any coupons?" the cashier politely asked.

"Uh, no. I don't do coupons," Princess Ariel replied. "They're kind of a pain."

And, through it all Princess Ariel never realized she was spending more than $400 per month on food for one person. She never had a clue that more than $500 in restaurant charges meant she was eating $1,000 per month.

Ssssssccccccccrrrrrrreeeeeeeeeeeecccccchhhhh!

What the heck was I thinking?

That was then. This is now.

Pantry: Empty.

Wallet: Likewise.

Hi, my name's Ariel, and I'm a recovering princess.

These days with more time than money, I work the supermarket ads, visit more than one store for the best deals, collect coupons, compare store-brand prices to couponed national brands and—most importantly—think, think, THINK while shopping. I buy whole foods and make recipes from scratch (ironically, it takes only minutes longer).

Food whims now match whatever is on sale. Well, I've at least learned to make them match.

No more packaged items in this princess-turned-Cinderella's cart. I'm eating high-quality food—fresh meats, fresh and frozen veggies and produce, dairy and eggs. If truth be told, I'm eating far better quality food than when I just pitched the easiest items into the cart.

With mere extra minutes of work, I wash and tear-up lettuce, cut up veggies and make pasta sauce and other items from scratch. My food tastes better and costs less.

Seriously, have you ever compared the taste of bagged lettuce to head lettuce? No comparison.

When I was a child, "treats" were reserved for rare occasions. Mom and I walked (yes, I said walked) to the local bakery for one strawberry cupcake—not a whole dozen. If I behaved while shopping (which didn't always happen), Mom bought us a small box of chocolate-covered peanuts to share. Ice cream, steak and sweets were only consumed on birthdays and national holidays. Soda was only available at Granny and Grandpa's house—and, even then in a tiny four-ounce glass. Eating out—a very rare treat.

Even while still working, I realized there were no special treats. I ate out almost daily. I bought any food (or anything else) that I wanted, whenever I wanted. Steak meant it was Wednesday, not Memorial Day. Ice cream meant it was 8 PM, not July Fourth. Soda meant I'm awake, not at Grandpa's house. Nothing was special in those days.

I've rediscovered the simple joy of The Treat again. Ice cream, nuts, portabella mushrooms and expensive cuts of meat are special (when on sale) again. There's one steak left in the freezer just waiting for a special occasion to make its long-awaited appearance.

Now that summer has arrived, this recovering-princess has a bit of dirt under my nails and sweat on my brow most days. I don't need store-bought lettuce or herbs anymore. And, soon I won't need those $2.99 per pound tomatoes either. I'm growing my own in containers on the patio.

Last night's dinner: Pizza and salad made from home-grown oregano and arugula.

Today's lunch: Chicken with homegrown rosemary and sage.

Both: Delicious!

I just made this season's first trip to the local farm's produce stand. I got two grocery bags full of produce for $10.

Last month's grocery bill: only $149.91. Eating out has become a rare treat—usually when Mom and Dad are buying.

Fruit tastes sweeter. Veggies are fresher. Food is healthier. I have even lost a few pounds.

This recovering princess has rediscovered the joy of The Treat.

Life on the dole may just be the best thing that ever happened to my wallet, waistline and maybe even my soul.

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Just for Fun: Enjoy Ariel's Easy Homemade Creamy Herbed Tomato Soup:

Creamy Herbed Tomato Soup

½ cup sliced onion

2T butter

Splenda to taste (I used a couple of Tablespoons. You could use sugar or other sweetener if you prefer but it would change the carb/calorie count.)

14 ½ oz. can of diced tomatoes

1 ½ cups of chicken broth

8 oz. can of tomato sauce

½ teaspoon dried basil (or try some fresh from your patio garden!)

¼ teaspoon dried thyme (or try some fresh from your patio garden!)

Dash pepper (I used fresh ground pepper)

¼ cup half-and-half

Shredded cheddar cheese (optional)

In large saucepan, cook onion in butter till tender but not brown. Add undrained canned tomatoes, broth, tomato sauce, Splenda, basil, thyme and pepper. Place mixture in blender and puree till smooth. Return mixture to saucepan. Bring to boiling; reduce heat. Cover & simmer for 20 minutes. Cool slightly. Add half-and-half. Heat through. If desired, garnish with shredded cheddar cheese. Makes about 5 side-dish servings.

Approximate Nutritional Analysis Per Serving:

Calories: 186

Fat: 11g

Saturated Fat: 7g

Trans Fat: 0g

Cholesterol: 28mg

Sodium: 500mg

Carbohydrates: 17g

Fiber: 3g

Sugars: 7g

Protein: 8g

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For More Fun: Meet Kristina Simms, Photographic Contributor

The food photos from today's blog are courtesy of my friend, Kristina Simms. Ms. Simms is an author, photographer, retired educator, grandmother, community volunteer and, in general, an energetic and creative force of nature! Ms. Simms lives in Perry, Georgia.

She has published two nonfiction books: Macon: Georgia's Central City, An Illustrated History (Windsor Press, 1989) and A Year at the Lake (Xlibris, 2003). She is the author of a poetry book, A Second Spring (iUniverse, 2006) and numerous newspaper and magazine articles. Her recent work, The Stradivarius in the Basement, is a collection of essays—some humorous, some serious—based on the author's 72 years of observing—and participating in—life on this wonderful but essentially puzzling planet.

More of Ms. Simms photography can be found her blog: www.tinasbloomsbirdsandbooks.blogspot.com and on her Flickr photostream at www.flickr.com/photos/tinasimms/.

Ms. Simms books can be purchased on www.amazon.com or downloaded on Kindle through the links below:

Macon, Georgia's Central City: An Illustrated History

A Year at the Lake

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Photo Credits:

Renaissance Princess: Courtesy of anoldent (http://www.google.com/imgres?imgurl=http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3067/2917963571_64fdaaef53.jpg%3Fv%3D0&imgrefurl=http://flickr.com/photos/8563790%40N08/2917963571&usg=__7E9x3LMzDUj1tZWSVETvj9s4w0Y=&h=500&w=500&sz=159&hl=en&start=11&um=1&itbs=1&tbnid=GbPS69NJSiFTIM:&tbnh=130&tbnw=130&prev=/images%3Fq%3Drenaissance%2Bprincess%26um%3D1%26hl%3Den%26client%3Dfirefox-a%26sa%3DN%26rls%3Dorg.mozilla:en-US:official%26as_st%3Dy%26ndsp%3D18%26tbs%3Disch:1,iur:fmc)

Food Photos: Courtesy of Kristina Simms (http://www.flickr.com/photos/tinasimms/sets/72157623597024387/)

Renaissance Serving Girl: Courtesy of anoldent (http://www.flickr.com/photos/anoldent/2914243150/in/set-72157602300989288/)

The Don: I’m Gonna Make You An Offer You Can’t Refuse

2010-05-18T16:12:00.001-04:00

The Godfather was on TV this weekend. How have I missed this classic until now?

The irony? It played like my job search. As I watched characters make requests to Don Corleone on his daughter's wedding day, I felt like one of those poor unsuspecting supplicants. Or, worse yet, the object of Godfather's coercive offers.

Case in point: a phone call in response to my résumé. A phone call guaranteed to put your average job seeker on edge, wondering when the dreaded bloody horse-head-on-the-bed is going to appear.

It started with a call to schedule an in-person interview.

Yes, sweet success! Somebody actually thinks I'm qualified to do an important job at a reputable company for an impressive salary.

Well, hold on. Not so fast.

I guess it's an important job. They really didn't say.

I guess it's a reputable company. They really didn't say.

I guess it's an impressive salary. They really didn't say.

This drama unfolded with a blind newspaper ad. You know the kind: "Local company seeks . . ." No company name. No company description. No industry listed. Very few details in the job description. No address—just a PO box.

Holly.

That's all I got from the call. The administrative assistant is named Holly. No, I don't know her last name. No, I'm not sure she's actually the administrative assistant.

Not much info you say?

This is all the solid info I gathered. Everything after Holly's name was vague. All details dried up from that point forward.

Caller: "Hi Ariel, I'm Holly. We received your résumé. I'm calling to schedule an interview with our CEO."

Me: "That sounds great. Which company you are with?"

Holly (hesitantly): "Um, we're a healthcare company. You responded to our newspaper ad."

Nope, doesn't ring a bell. I respond to lots of blind ads.

Alright, maybe I've not yet met my daily caffeine-intake quota for the day. I'm usually more attentive than this. Did she actually say the company name? No, I don't think so.

Me (trying again): "What is your company's name?"

Holly (lowers her voice to a near whisper as if afraid to be overheard): "Uh, it's XYZ Health Partners."

Hmmm . . . I've been in healthcare nearly 13 years, and I've never heard of these guys.

OK, there you have it—the informative part of the conversation. From there it just got weirder.

Holly couldn't talk about the position.

She didn't know the salary.

All she could say was I needed to meet "Don", the CEO, two days hence in a location three hours from my house. Don's phone number was an Alabama area code even though the company was supposedly in Georgia.

A cell phone maybe? They run the business with cell phones? Not usual, but probably not unheard of either.

Hmmm . . .why did she seem afraid to reveal the company name? Even when searches are posted confidentially it's common practice for reputable companies to disclose the company when arranging the interview.

How does one prepare for an interview with nothing to go on?

A quick Google search reveals no XYZ Health Partners at the listed address or any other information. Further investigation shows the location given to me as in a strip of store-front office buildings—with the indicated suite currently being unoccupied. Something is definitely off with this one. I'm also cautious about the abundance of job search scams that seem to lurk around every job board these days. But I'll reserve judgment until I speak with the mysterious Don.

I call the number. Here's how that went down:

Telephone Answering Person at XYZ Healthcare (Receptionist? Holly?): "Hello?"

What's up with that? A business number where they answer with "hello"? Where's the "XYZ Health Partners. How may I help you?" part of the greeting?

My imagination starting to run wild, I wonder: Is it safe to travel to this interview? Will I be coerced into the Family? Will I owe Don a favor if he hires me?

Don? This guy's name is actually Don?

I cannot seem to stop myself from thinking of him as "Godfather Don" at this point.

Holly promises to have Don call me later today.

Again I wonder how to prepare for this interview. How should I start my introduction? Perhaps I should take inspiration from Luca Brasi? Something like, "Don Corleone, I am honored and grateful that you have invited me to your deserted strip mall office suite on the hiring day for your HR position. May all your ventures by profitable ones."

Hearing nothing from Godfather Don by nearly 5 PM the next day, I call his office again.

If they want me for an interview tomorrow, don't they have to tell me when and where they want to meet me? And will I need back-up? To be safe, I should probably take somebody with me. But, wait, everybody I know has a job. Well, except for my mother. (Yeah, that should strike cold fear in the Don's heart: me showing up with a little old lady in tennis shoes.)

Feeling more and more uneasy, I make some calls. People in the industry actually do know "the Don". The consensus: "he's different" but "probably" not dangerous.

This time, Holly explains she can't transfer me and asks me to call Don's cell phone. Several rings later, the infamous Don answers.

Don (sounding annoyed): "Look, I don't have much time. Holly says you have questions. I'll answer some, but can't tell you much because your last job was with our competitor."

Ah, well, now maybe that explains some of the weirdness.

But wait, that competitor RIF-ed my job. Why would I rush to them with Don's corporate secrets?

Nevertheless, I listen carefully as Don's explains the job.

I don't know why they called me for this one. It's not even remotely similar to the job posting. I don't remotely have the skills for this job. Eventually, Don figures it out, too.

"I don't think this sounds like a fit," Don tells me with finality.

With my head still spinning, I wonder what happened and how my hopes for an interview evaporated this quickly. Well, at least, we got to the answer without delay. See, I'm a bit like ol' Don Corleone myself—I am one who "insists on hearing bad news immediately."

The good news is, I'm not "sleeping with the fishes". No horse heads under my sheets this morning either. I'm relieved there was no offer that I couldn't refuse. As I push thoughts of "Godfather Don" from my mind, I focus again on my job search.

These mysterious jobs at mysterious companies with mysterious people are becoming the rule rather than the exception. Actually, I think I'm getting the hang of them. No time to dwell on this one. There are other mysterious job postings at other mysterious companies with yet more mysterious people for which I must submit my résumé.

# # #

Just for Fun: Watch The Godfather Movie Trailer:

# # #

And for More Fun: Check Out:

# # #

Photo Credits:

Don Corleone and Cat: <div xmlns:cc="http://creativecommons.org/ns#" about="http://www.flickr.com/photos/beatles/3429398512/"><a rel="cc:attributionURL" href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/beatles/">http://www.flickr.com/photos/beatles/</a> / <a rel="license" href="http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/2.0/">CC BY-SA 2.0</a></div>

Job Less Newspaper Ad:

http://www.flickr.com/photos/khalilshah/ / CC BY-NC 2.0

Luca Brasi: http://godfather.wikia.com/wiki/File:Vlcsnap-2010-02-24-19h32m59s164.png

Don Corleone: http://godfather.wikia.com/wiki/File:Vito_Corleone.jpg

An Offer He Can't Refuse: <div xmlns:cc="http://creativecommons.org/ns#" about="http://www.flickr.com/photos/beatles/3429441886/in/set-72157616496731255/"><a rel="cc:attributionURL" href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/beatles/">http://www.flickr.com/photos/beatles/</a> / <a rel="license" href="http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/2.0/">CC BY-SA 2.0</a></div>

Life on the Dole: Options A Through Z

2010-05-12T18:48:00.001-04:00

Plan A:

Be hired for a full-time human resources executive job with a great salary and fabulous benefits, including health insurance.

(Well, duh!)

Plan B:

Consider a wide range of full-time job options that come with health insurance and a modest salary.

(Long as it’s legal, moral, and ethical and doesn’t involve a chicken costume, that is.)

Plan C:

Apply for work at the Department of Labor.

(Didn’t the unemployment office’s “She-beast” threaten to quit?)

Plan D:

Take on two or more part-time/contract/temp jobs—any field, any hours, any title, any pay, any location.

(The plan known in some circles as “delivering pizza in the evening for Domino’s while working half days as a Starbucks barista.” And, um, what about health insurance?)

Plan E:

Start my own business as a _____________________.

(Insert dream career here as soon as I figure it out. Wasn’t human resources supposed to be my dream career?)

Plan F:

Go back to graduate school to earn a second master’s degree.

(Yeah, great plan; my first master’s degree is making me so desirable in the job market that a second degree should make me twice as desirable. Um, wait, two times nothing: still nothing.)

Plan G:

Go to beauty school.

(Hey, does that come with free haircuts?)

Plan H:

Sell the family heirlooms.

(Hmmm . . . so far I’ve inherited lace doilies from one grandmother and frilly aprons from the other. Anybody know what these valuables are fetching on the open market?)

Plan I:

Enroll in Ringling Brothers and Barnum Bailey’s Clown College.

(Are scholarships/ student loans/health insurance hidden somewhere inside that teeny-weeny car?)

Plan J:

Become a contestant on the TV show Survivor.

(All the things I love: Communing with nature. Eating fresh, raw, natural food. Losing a lot of weight in just a few weeks. Comes with shot at $1 million.)

Plan K:

Get chosen for The Amazing Race TV program.

(Cheap vacation; exotic locales; yet another shot at a cool $1 million. Bummer, have to share the big check with a teammate.)

Plan L:

Become a Big Brother house guest and live with TV cameras 24/7.

(Hey, a chance for free room and board. As long as I could get past conniving house mates stealing my toothbrush and blabbing my secrets.)

Plan M:

Perform on America’s Got Talent.

(I’m sure America will be entranced by my riveting impersonation of a HR manager. Has the line “You’re fired” been done yet?)

Plan N:

Get my own reality show.

(How about “Survivor: 101 Ways to Survive Without a Paycheck” or “The Real Unemployed”? I hear Emmy calling. Hope she’s bringing food.)

Plan O:

Win the lottery and never work again.

(Could somebody please lend me a dollar so I can do that?)

Plan P:

Enter the world of busking (street performing).

(Can I really stay quiet long enough to mime? Can I master the art of being a robot? Pretty sure people would pay me NOT to dance.)

Plan Q:

Make and sell unique handcrafted items.

(Genius idea! In this economy, crocheted pot holders or purses woven from soda cans will sell as fast as soybean hotcakes.)

Plan R:

Sell my hair.

(Since I have an abundant natural resource.)

Plan S:

Become a pork chop hijacker on the streets of Atlanta

(We at least know that job pays well.)

Plan T:

Stand on a street with cardboard sign: “Will consult for food.”

(Will someone offer me a burger or throw coins in my hat to see me perform instant HR on demand? Or, will people say to their friends, “Don’t give her any money. She won’t buy food; she’ll just blow it getting a caffeine fix.”)

Plan U:

Dress in a chicken suit and stand on a corner flapping my arms to advertise a restaurant.

(Bleck, darn feathers keep getting in my mouth!)

Plan V:

Explore a new career, Option One: Apply for a job at Tootie’s Poop Patrol.

(If 19 years in the business world doesn’t qualify me to shovel poo I don’t know what would.)

Plan W:

Explore a new career, Option Two: Here’s one I saw recently: “San Francisco: Nitpicker wanted. Looking for someone based in San Francisco to remove lice and eggs from people infected with lice. Qualified candidates should have valid driver’s license, great close-up eyesight, feel comfortable going into people’s homes, be personable, good with children, and extremely detailed oriented. Squeamish people need not apply. A good sense of humor a plus! . . . We will train qualified applicants . . . Candidates who apply out of sheer desperation will be strongly considered.”

(I especially like that last line.)

Well, I’m coming up dry. That’s all I can think of. But, not being one to leave any option unturned, I called my Mom. She’s usually an out-of-the-box thinker, and she does not disappoint me this time. Here’s what I got from her:

Plan X:

Mom says, “Marry an alien.”

(Honestly, that woman NEVER misses a chance to campaign for grandchildren. Um, does she mean “alien” as in a person with no green card or does she mean “alien” as in a little green person? But . . . has she not seen a single episode of “V”?)

Plan Y:

Mom says, “Marry a 112-year old rich geezer.”

(Are we picking up on a theme here? Uh, Mom, about those potential grandchildren . . .)

Plan Z:

Mom says, “You can move in with us.”

(Nooooooooo. I’m not THAT out of options! Now, where DID I put my application for that nitpicker job?)

# # #

But Seriously. . .Wondering About Your Own Options? Check Out What Color Is Your Parachute? 2010: A Practical Manual for Job-Hunters and Career-Changers by Richard N. Bolles

Author Richard N. Bolles has been the voice of solid career advice for 30+ years. Updated annually with job search advice current for today's job market, What Color Is Your Parachute? 2010: A Practical Manual for Job-Hunters and Career-Changers has sold more than 10 million copies and has been translated into 20 languages. Not only does Bolles offer solid job search tips in today’s difficult economic times but also tips for discovering your life’s passion. Readers will come away with solid job search skills and additional career options.

# # #

Photo Credits:

Will Work for Food Sign:

http://www.flickr.com/photos/twicepix/ / CC BY-SA 2.0

Reality TV:

http://www.flickr.com/photos/wolfhound/ / CC BY-NC 2.0

Pot Holders:

http://www.flickr.com/photos/etothem/ / CC BY-NC-SA 2.0

Chicken Suit:

http://www.flickr.com/photos/stevendepolo/ / CC BY 2.0

Wedding: Sherry Main from USA

Jobless Not Hopeless T-shirt:

http://www.flickr.com/photos/ari/ / CC BY-NC-SA 2.0

Does Life on the Dole Make Me Look Fat?

2010-05-04T17:46:00.000-04:00

It has now been seven months since I lost my job. Yep, seven long, comfy, cozy months in stretchy-waist sweat pants—the ones Dad disparagingly refers to as "no-class pants".

Gym membership and access to a treadmill at work: Gone.

Entertainment (hiking trips, swimming): Gone.

Daily restaurant lunches of slimming salad and/or lean meat: Gone.

Expensive home dinners (lean meat: steak, shrimp, chicken—on sale or not—and fresh veggies—some organic): Gone.

Name-brand diet cola and fancy bottled water: Gone.

In those pre-dole days I could tell instantly by the snugness of the fitted waistband on my dress slacks or by the ease of fastening buttons on my suit jacket if I had gained even a pound. Stretchy "no-class" sweat pants are much less telling.

The reality is, life on the dole can ambush a healthy lifestyle. My new fitness "regimen" is quite different:

Entertainment: Sedentary stuff such as TV, computer and books.

Beverages: Store-brand diet cola and tap water.

Clothing: Those stretchy-waist sweat pants that don't pinch until you gain the equivalent bulk of the Matterhorn.

Food: Whatever is on sale and within my food budget (I spend 10% of income for food while the USDA recommends spending 30% of income for food.)

Truth is, the cheapest food is starchy and full of carbohydrates: rice, potatoes, beans, bread, pasta. (Ever wonder why poor people are frequently overweight?) I haven't yet resorted to ramen noodle-based concoctions like another on-the-dole American blogger.

You have to wonder then, does life on the dole make people fat?

With trepidation, I step on the bathroom scales.

Seven pounds lost.

What? Wait? LOST?

Obviously an erroneous reading.

I step off the scales and then back on again. Yep, lost.

To make sure I'm not imagining it, I take out a few business suits from my professional life. My favorite green jacket fits—ironically better than it did last fall. The brown pants? They fit, too. Daring to hope, I try on my rarely used interview suit (mostly phone interviews these days). Yes, it fits, my heart sings.

Seven pounds lost! How is this possible?

Why haven't I packed on pounds while on the dole? Some of my unemployed friends definitely have. Maybe it's because life on the dole requires creativity. When you are worried about bills and missing paychecks, it's hard to get creative. The other problem with creativity is it takes time—and that I have in abundance.

Exercise still matters. Therefore, in place of that pricey gym membership, I walk in my neighborhood.

Mid-morning walks in the cool air take longer but are way more entertaining than a treadmill. I hear birds singing. I spy dogs, cats, snakes, turtles, brown thrashers, blue birds and cardinals along the way. A Swainson's Hawk (rare in this locale) lives in my neighborhood. I rarely saw these creatures while I was away at work. (And, as a bonus, those occasional snake sightings elevate my heart rate quicker than any speeding treadmill could.)

Rainy days find me indoors doing yoga, strength training or cardio with private trainers—free because the local library offers a wide selection of workout videos. Denise Austin and Jillian Michaels are my new personal fitness gurus. Even in my former employed life I could not have afforded these superstars.

These days, I cook real food. I've always loved from-scratch cooking, but never had time to do much of it. I especially enjoy meals made with natural whole food ingredients (and, no, I don't mean from the Whole Foods grocery store—I mean actual, real whole foods). In other words, slow food.

I have time to watch TV shows such as Jamie Oliver's Food Revolution. I read nutrition blogs. I care about healthy ingredients. I learn about the Slow Food movement, community-supported agriculture (CSAs) and local foods. I have time to visit nearby farmers' markets that are open only during hours I used to be at work.

I'm eating well. I'm exercising.

The irony: Life on the dole is making me healthier and slimmer. Scales don't lie (even if I sometimes wish they did). I actually feel better than I have in years.

No, life on the dole is not making me fat. Those stretchy, roomy sweat pants? I wear them for comfort, not for hiding fat. See, Dad, these pants are OK after all. Wearing them is not a fashion statement; it's only a comfy concession to life on the dole.

# # #

Just For Fun: Check Out My Favorite Food & Nutrition Blogs:

Fed Up With Lunch: The School Lunch Project

School Lunch: Subtract the Additives

Southern Foodways Alliance

Simple Good and Tasty

Eat at Home

# # #

Want More: Check Out These Great Items:

# # #

Photos Courtesy of:

Sumo Wrestler: http://bit.ly/bwQ016

Scales: http://www.flickr.com/photos/alancleaver/ / CC BY 2.0

Swainson's Hawk: http://www.flickr.com/photos/dobak/ / CC BY 2.0

Sweatpants: http://www.flickr.com/photos/simonk/ / CC BY-NC-ND 2.0

Fruits & Veggies: Pam Brophy / CC BY-SA 2.0

Cousin Itt: Alive and Well and Living in My House

2010-04-29T12:46:00.006-04:00

Living on the dole brings me back to my roots. Adversity shows me my true colors. I am learning the lengths I to which I can go to survive.

The true color of my roots: grey

The lengths to which I will go: half-way down my back and heading south fast.

Indeed, what I see when I look in the mirror these days: visions of The Addams Family’s Cousin Itt.

That’s right—these days I’m actually drawing job-seeking inspiration from hairy Cousin Itt. (Remember the episode “Cousin Itt and the Vocational Counselor” where he/she/it found his/her/its appropriate career?)

My own hair (greying and inching toward my waist) is growing proof that I’m making it through tough times. Nevertheless, I like what I see in my long, grey locks: the outer reflection of my inner strength.

I had no hair until the age of three. My grandmother once taped pink foam curlers to my head when I begged her to fix my “hair” just like hers.

But, when I got hair, I grew a lot of it. Fast growing. Beyond plentiful. Super thick. I burn out hair dryers, and break brushes, barrettes and ponytail holders.

The good news is I inherited Mom’s thick tresses. The bad news is I inherited Dad’s prematurely grey hair gene. I have more grey on my head than my mother does on hers.

Five years ago I decided to cover that grey with blonde highlights in summer, and red ones in winter. A mixture in spring and fall. And I chose Salon 74, the hippest salon in town, to hide those pesky “self-highlighting” (i.e. grey) hairs. The prices: equally hip (translation: not cheap). While I was employed, it was mere pocket change. A small price to pay for a “good hair day,” I told myself.

The new on-the-dole reality: I don’t have that kind of money for a haircut anymore. My hair has not been cut—or colored—in eight months. I can’t remember the last time it was this long—some time in my twenties, I think.

Perhaps I should contact Locks of Love, a nonprofit organization that uses donated hair to make hair pieces for financially disadvantaged children who have long-term medical hair loss. Someone should benefit from my situation. But, they do not accept highlighted hair.

Over the years, Mom has frequently expressed her opinion on those expensive hair cuts at Salon 74. Too much to pay says my practical parent. She goes to one of those no-nonsense, no-appointment-necessary shops that charges $12 for a cut.

I could get my hair cut at her place, she tells me.

I don’t.

See, while I don’t have big bucks for a haircut—well, I don’t have $12 either.

Besides, ultimately her place would cost more because they charge $5 for a bangs trim. At my place, it’s complimentary. And those free trims extend the life of an expensive haircut for a long, long time. Just how long, I’m not sure. Ask me in another six months.

But, with a reunion coming up, Mom is suddenly stepping in as the style police, threatening to frog-march me to the pricey salon for a cut-and-color job at her expense.

“Unless you are leaning toward a career in country music, you need a haircut,” Mom jokes. “Besides, your grey hair reflects poorly on me. You make me look old. How can I look young with a grey-haired daughter standing beside me?”

OK, maybe she has a point, but, as I walk away from my latest look in the mirror I am unfazed. What’s wrong with really, really long hair? It worked for Cousin Itt, didn’t it?

I begin to hum a nifty little ditty: “They’re creepy and they’re kooky . . .”

# # #
Just For Fun: Watch "Cousin Itt and the Vocational Counselor".

And for More Fun:

Cousin Itt photo courtesy of

http://www.flickr.com/photos/velma_dacron/ / CC BY-NC-SA 2.0

Oshima Island Girl photo courtesy of

http://www.flickr.com/photos/24443965@N08/ / CC BY-NC-SA 2.0

Mystery Date Redux?

2010-04-26T11:26:00.001-04:00

Remember the Mystery Date board game?

Little girls loved playing Mystery Date. My mother, of course, wouldn't let me have the game. However, my neighbor, Joanie, an older teenager did have it, and at Joanie's house, I could—and did—sneak in a few rounds without Mom finding out.

The goal was simple: You always hoped to go on a date. You always hoped to get the handsome guy. You always hoped to not get the scary, sloppily-dressed date—the "dud".

That was then. This is now. Has my job search has turned into Mystery Date: Career Version?

Yep, that's right, folks! Decades years later, I find myself playing a real-life round of Mystery Date:

Phone rings.

It's Joe McSwain, a recruiter in Wyoming. (A long way from my Georgia town. I've never heard of him.)

Joe can't recall how he came by my resume. Perhaps from someone else who possibly got it off the CareerBuilder site, he thinks?

(Uh-oh. I've got a bad feeling about this.)

He knows nothing about the company, CEO, position or salary.

(Um, you don't know anything about any of the important stuff? You are the one doing the search, right?)

A start-up healthcare company is looking for somebody to head up HR. Nope, Joe doesn't know the title either.

"Overqualified," he says of me.

That's a bad word in my book. So why did he even call me?

"But," he hastily adds, "the company may give you part ownership 'to make-up for it.'"

(What "it" are they making up for—precious little money? I thought he didn't know the salary. Part owner? Part owner of what?)

"The company is ABC Healthcare, but don't try to Google it" Joe warns, "There's not much on the Internet about it or the CEO. The company is very new."

Is this guy for real, I wonder. The fastest growing scams these days target job seekers. I've had my share of suspicious job propositions, and one friend actually lost money to a job search scam.

I cautiously continue the conversation.

"The CEO," Joe states with certainty, "will call this afternoon."

I ask for a time frame; I do, after all, have other things to do, yet don't want to be tied up when the call comes.

"He didn't say a time--just 'this afternoon'. Be available." Joe says.

Praying this is both legit and promising, I keep myself available and near the phone all afternoon.

I do not make networking phone calls; don't want to tie up the phone.

I do not clean out the garage; don't want to be up to my neck in junk and lose the phone.

I do not vacuum the house; don't want to be unable to hear the phone.

I do not start cooking dinner; don't want to burn food while being interviewed.

I do not clean the cats' litter box—oh, who am I kidding? I just plain don't want to do that.

I do nothing but sit near the phone. For hours. While it does not ring. Not even once. (Well, actually, I did do one thing: I went to the bathroom every 30 minutes. Didn't want to get caught in a long interview with a full bladder.)

The phone never rang. Yep, not only was my mystery date the "dud", he stood me up, too. This never used to happen in the board game.

Okay, I wasn't all that surprised. This--or something eerily similar--has happened several times before.

Let's review the facts: a mystery recruiter gets my resume in some mysterious way. He calls to screen me for a mystery job at a mystery company at some mysterious rate of pay. A mystery CEO will call me at a mystery time to interview me.

And he never calls.

Tomorrow is another day. Once again I'll play Mystery Date: Career Version. I'll roll the dice, draw another card, take another spin 'round the board, opening the door and my mind to career possibilities.

My dreamy Mystery Date career is still out there somewhere. I just have to keep opening doors until I finally find it.

# # #

Just For Fun: Watch the 1960s Mystery Date television commercial (I particularly enjoyed the groovy 1960s theme music!).

And, For More Fun: Check out the Mystery Date board game.

The Tale of Two Women and the Pork Chop Shakedown

2010-04-20T12:07:00.003-04:00

When I respond to friends' invitations with "I don't have money for that," do they believe me? They're all comfortably middle class, just like I used to be. This new financial situation of mine is not an experience they can identify with, I think. But, I'm serious; on the dole, I do not have any money for fun.

Therefore, when a favorite author lectured in Atlanta, I was overjoyed at the price: free. Yeah, that's in my budget. I rounded up a willing friend—also out of work—and made the trek into the city. (What about the price of gas, you ask. Fortunately, I have a paid-for, fuel-efficient Honda.)

I needed a break. I'd toiled for nearly three weeks on a complicated federal government job application. Trust me, executive-position federal applications are not for the faint-hearted: 27 single-spaced pages of supplemental materials.

This night out: my reward for completing and submitting that beast.

Just this once, Pat and I decided to splurge; after the lecture we'd enjoy dinner at Mary Mac's Tea Room.

This restaurant serves generous portions at what I used to call moderate prices. Yet, while not extravagantly expensive, a trip to Mary Mac's would still put a significant dent in my monthly food budget. But, I decided to allow myself this one treat, figuring I could compensate later at the grocery store. (Scrambled eggs for dinner, anyone?)

My order came: three tender, gorgeous, delectable, boneless, center-cut chops fried to a crisp golden brown. Yummmm. Heavenly. Meal and tip: just under $17.

There was a time when I considered $17 mere pocket change. Not now. In my circumstances this is big money. But, I did leave with two untouched pork chops. l'd eat twice more from those glorious leftovers. Three meals equal $5.67/meal. Not too bad.

I clutched my pork chop package proudly as we exited, congratulating myself on having eaten well and carting off additional meals, too. A pretty good deal while "on the dole."

We rounded the corner. A skinny, dirty, homeless woman approached.

Woman (aggressively): "Do you have any money?"

(Yikes! Is she mugging us or asking for a handout? I wondered, trying not to panic.)

Woman (not waiting for our reply): "Do you have any spare change? I'm hong-ry."

Me (cautiously): "Um. . . no, I don't have any money."

(I could only think, she truly has no clue how accurate this statement is.)

Woman (pointing at my bag): "Are those leftovers?"

I nodded, dreading what I knew was coming.

Woman: "Can I have them?"

I truly believe in feeding the hungry, both human and animal, but oh, Lord, I thought, why tonight? Yet, how could I deny this woman my leftovers? Truth is, I could not, and both of us knew it. This was not hunger in the abstract—the kind for which you write a check to the Salvation Army. This was hunger here and now and in my face.

I can't bear for any human or creature to be hungry. Especially not when I have a full belly myself. In my more affluent former life, I used to make soup for my church's homeless mission. I've served food to the hungry in soup kitchens, too.

I'd like to tell you I instantly, willingly and altruistically handed over those pork chops—just one human gladly helping another with nary a selfish thought. That's what I'd like to tell you. But, I can't. The plain truth is my first reaction was that it genuinely ticked me off to part with those two precious pieces of pork.

The only way I'd justified spending $17 for one meal was by making two more meals from the leftovers.

The reality is, at that moment, I wasn't moved by the woman's hunger. What I was thinking was: That's $11 worth of pork chops in that bag—a giveaway I could ill afford in my own circumstances.

But, then the thought raced through my brain: "There but for the grace of God, go I." True, some people become homeless through their own poor decisions. Others land there because of mental illness or addiction. But others are homeless because they—just like educated, middle-class me—lost jobs through no fault of their own, resulting in a downward spiral from which they never recovered. Some, unlike me, may not have family or friends to circumvent that slide into poverty and homelessness.

I still have savings. I have a house. I still have an income albeit limited. I never go to bed hungry.

Probably two-thirds of the people in the world would label me "wealthy" right this minute, even in current circumstances. True, I can't shop or go to movies, but unlike so many in third-world countries, I have plenty to eat, a nearly paid-for roof over my head, a dependable car, a full wardrobe, air conditioning and heat and family and friends in a position to help if I need it. I have much for which to be thankful.

I knew what had to be done.

"Sure," I said, after that first hesitation. I handed the bag to her, and hoped my smile was convincing. "It's two pork chops. They're really good. I hope you enjoy them."

Pulling out of the parking lot, I knew I'd done the right thing even though I still longed for those pork chops. Then it occurred to me that even minus the extra meals I was still the winner in that encounter. I would go home to a nice house, full pantry and refrigerator and a materially blessed life—not one of which the homeless woman would ever likely have or even dare to aspire to have.

That night, all some nameless hungry woman on a dark Atlanta street corner got was two cold second-hand pork chops; I got a new handle on just how blessed my life is even "on the dole."
Photo courtesy of

http://www.flickr.com/photos/haleysuzanne/ / CC BY-NC-SA 2.0

Additional Reading: How Starbucks Saved My Life by Michael Gates Gill.

Michael Gates Gill was a well-paid advertising executive in a major New York City firm. He was born not just with a silver spoon in his mouth, but with a whole service for eight. Yet this affluent, Yale-educated, well-traveled, arrogant, pompous "family" man loses his job and his self-esteem leading him to make a series of poor personal choices that will hurt those he loves and send him spiraling into dire straits. While the author's personal choices do not qualify him for sainthood, he is brutally honest about his actions and their subsequent consequences. Gill embarks on a journey of self-discovery—all through hourly employment at Starbucks. Proving that those who give a second chances to those who deserve it the least can—both literally and figuratively—save a life.

The Dance of the Unemployed

2010-04-15T09:01:00.002-04:00

8:00 AM: Eyes open. How is it possible to awaken at the same time every day with no alarm? Maybe, because I get enough sleep. Who says there are no perks to life on the dole?

8:30 AM: Turn on TV. Turn off TV. Weather and traffic—not useful. Scrub face and teeth, dress in sweats. Tug a brush through really, really long hair that I cannot afford to have cut. Ready to commute.

8:31 AM: Commute downstairs. No traffic. Sip store-brand diet cola (brand cola is too pricey). Now, energized, ready to set the world on fire, I crank up the computer.

Today's the day to find my dream job!

8:40 AM: Great news! My Google Reader has delivered 53 job posts that fit my search criteria. Busy day ahead. I'm pretty sure several of these jobs are going to be just what I'm seeking.

Job Post One: Vice President - Human Resources. Anchorage, Alaska. Right job, wrong location.

Job Post Two: Chief Human Resources Officer. Los Angeles, California. Salary 20% below my previous job—in a city with a 74% higher cost of living than where I now live.

Job Post Three: Vice President - Human Resources. Washington, DC. "Local candidates only," it says.

Job Post Four: Chief Human Resources Officer. Birmingham, Alabama. Close to home. Good salary. But, wait, it says "Candidates without manufacturing experience will not be considered." Oops, not me.

Job Post Five: Vice President - Human Resources. Atlanta, Georgia. Finally! "Company seeks candidate with no previous executive experience."

Wait, did I read that right? "We seek a former Director ready to move up. Experienced VPs will not be considered."

Um, what? So, they want inexperienced candidates?

Translation: "We don't have enough money to pay someone with a clue." I guess that means that those with 19 years of experience starve in the streets, right?

Job Posts 6-53: Much the same.

10: 30 AM: A new e-mail message:

Ariel,

Thank you for submitting your résumé for our HR Business Partner position. We have finalized our candidate pool. We moved forward with the candidates that we did select, based on specific requirements from the client.

Enjoy your day!

Susan

Well, Susan, I might would have enjoyed my day a whole lot better without this e-mail.

I review the position Susan filled without me: mid-level HR position in Atlanta. I had tried to be open-minded about the job, not limiting myself only to management or executive positions even though that's my background. But, I have been turned down for every mid- or lower-level position for which I have applied.

"Overqualified" is the familiar refrain.

Translation: "We cannot afford you,"

Or,

"We don't think you will stay after the economy recovers."

At least Ol' Suze had the good graces not to say that.

11 AM: My mom calls.

"No, Mom, no good job postings today—and I got a turndown from that Atlanta one I told you about last week."

11:30 AM: E-mail from my friend, Kate. She's been terrific about checking in for updates.

"No, I haven't found a job yet."

Feeling close to putting my head through a wall, I stop for lunch. Turn on the TV. While I chew, I reflect glumly that I'd really rather watch TVLand all day. Or take a nap. But as I clean up my lunch dishes, guilt heads off TV or sleep.

I return to my office. I must toil at this task to feel worthy to receive that precious dole check.

Noon: My father calls.

"No, Dad, no job today. Not even any good leads today. Yes, I checked all the job boards. Yes, I saw that one. They want union experience. I don't have that. It's a no-go."

12:30 PM: I need a jazzier market plan. All the experts say professional networking unlocks the "hidden job market"—jobs that never get posted. I compile a list of top-notch contacts.

I hate calling people to ask for favors. In my career, I've always been the one giving, not the one receiving. This is new for me and it makes me uncomfortable.

My career coach some times quotes from Feel the Fear and Do It Anyway. I'm not afraid, I just hate it. But I'll do it.

Back to my network list: At the top: Nina Smith, HR executive with lots of connections—this is my Grade A Prime contact; Tim Darren, head honcho with a prestigious executive search firm; Adam McNair from the outplacement firm; Jane. . .

Wait. A new e-mail. It's Nina. Great coincidence; she contacted me. Perfect excuse to network. Nina knows everybody who is anybody in HR in Atlanta.

Ariel,

Hope all is well. Since I last saw you, my position at Express Medical Equipment was made redundant when Ace Medical took over. My last day was four weeks ago. I am writing in hopes that you can provide advice or referrals. You know everybody in the local HR community so I'm confident you can help me! I am seeking a local HR executive opportunity. Would love to meet for coffee to discuss this further.

Nina

Uh-oh. Not good news. Nina out of work?

My network is now unemployed? How do I network if my network is also on the dole?

I squash the rising panic. I'll set-up that coffee meeting with Nina and then return to my networking plan. I will finish my list. I will make my calls. I will remain calm.

I can do this.

Tim offers to be a reference. Adam knows of nothing. Jane . . .

5 PM: After telling yet one more concerned friend "No, I haven't found a job yet" I review the day's results.

(1) I have two coffee appointments. How does a person who doesn't even drink coffee get two coffee appointments in one week?

(2) I have two résumé critique offers.

(3) Two others expressed regret that they "didn't know anyone." (How do you work in a career for twenty years and not know anyone?) And, one executive search consultant bemoaned the fact that his business was so slow.

7 PM: I work and rework my résumé until dinner. After I eat: TV. Maybe some mindless entertainment will help me unwind; it's about the only leisure activity still available on my limited dole budget.

8 PM: Dancing with the Stars is on. I used to dress up and attend charity galas. Not this year. Now, the only evening festivities I attend are vicariously through the DWTS cast. The only “dance” I do is in my job search. I pull a cat into my fleece-clad lap and snuggle into the sofa to watch.

Yet, my job search woes flit through my mind like Edyta Sliwinska
quick stepping across the dance floor.

For the rest of this evening, I will not think about the job search, I tell myself, as I blissfully lose myself in visions of sequins, spray tans, foxtrots and Argentine tangos.

Photo courtesy of Petr Novák, Wikipedia

Uniquely Qualified to be Poor

2010-04-12T08:35:00.002-04:00

As I crept out the unemployment office, minus the earlier optimism, I pondered surviving on my meager new “salary”. The monthly dole amount? Equivalent to three days at my old job.

Reality check: Just how does one cut 90 percent from the budget? Ninety percent!

This situation would require a lot more gumption than just giving up restaurant meals or skipping massage appointments. Extreme measures must be taken immediately.

New mantra: I can do this. I can do this.

My mind reeled, but I remembered: my life hasn’t always included domestic help, European vacations, restaurants and mindless shopping . In fact, most of my life included none of these.

And, then it hit me: I really can do this. In fact, I may be uniquely qualified to be poor. I have the genes, background and experience for it.

My grandparents married in the Depression. With little education, Grandpa quickly learned that “smarts” are the key to survival. Even without formal education, he was one of the smartest people I’ve ever known. With education, I’m sure he’d have rivaled Bill Gates or Warren Buffett.

While others couldn’t find one job, he worked three, supporting his family and three others. He held lowly jobs: sharecropping; saw milling; fishing. Granny cooked for a boarding house; Grandpa gigged frogs for a fancy restaurant featuring fried frog legs and, in his spare time, gathered and sold moss to a mattress company. One harvest year, while sharecropping they earned only enough to have cash left to buy two small items: a tiny pouch of tobacco for Grandpa; a small jar of peanut butter for Granny.

Grandpa felt strongly about three things that he tirelessly reiterated to me: get an education; buy property; save money. He left behind a daughter with a master’s degree, a granddaughter in graduate school, a paid-for home, no debts and money in the bank.

His other legacy was a daughter with his no-nonsense monetary values. In the 1960s when my parents married, Baby Boomers were opting out of rampant consumerism and living “green” before it got labeled green. They were into organic before most people knew what it meant. They were on board with compost making, herbal teas, canning and preserving, baking bread, home sewing, and most of all, not buying.

Life choices determined where family money went. My parents invested in what mattered to them: mostly me. While “women’s libbers” stormed off to work, my mom gave up a promising banking career to stay home with me. She ran various home-based businesses long before it was “cool”. We certainly weren’t rich, but our family gave money to causes we believed in while paying bills on time and buying a house (a FHA repo they bought for a mere $12,000 long before most people even knew you could do such a thing).

I didn’t actually know we had less money than most of my friends. When I needed something, I got it. We had yearly vacations just like everybody else. True, our vacations were only to Florida. Also true: my mother carried an electric skillet in the trunk of the car. She actually cooked our vacation breakfasts right there in our room.

I learned early on that one sure way to rile up my mother was to mention the unholy trinity: Izod, Jordache or Reebok—all her sworn enemies. We did not wear brand names on our buttocks or our feet.

“They can splash their names on our chests or rear ends when they pay me for the privilege,” she told me firmly when I even dared express a wish for such things.

As an adult, I tried to follow my parents’ example. (Okay, I’ve fallen off the wagon from time to time and been seen in public sporting a famous logo or two, but I’m too much my mother’s daughter to enjoy it).

As an adult, I, too, lived below my means, turning down bank offers of a heftier mortgage and paying extra principle each month (against the advice of my friends). While acquaintances racked up debt (bigger homes and ever-larger luxury SUVs), I paid my credit card balance each month, drove an older car and set my sights on burning my mortgage by age 45. And, while I enjoyed nice vacations and employed a maid (mainly because I was at work too much to clean), I also donated to causes and charities and, most of all, my own savings account.

Lurking always in my brain was the thought that anybody’s lifestyle—including mine—could change dramatically with job loss. While I was, according to economic experts, employed in the “most stable” industry (healthcare), I woke up one day and my job was gone.

As I exited the Department of Labor parking lot, determination overrode the discouraging afternoon I’d endured. I knew--not in a silly Pollyanna way but with realistic certainty--that I have the skills to succeed in my new role as a (relatively) poor person.

My life’s résumé proves I’m uniquely qualified to be poor. But, more importantly, I’m uniquely qualified, just like my grandparents, to work my way out to the other side of poor.

And, then it occurs to me: I am The Little Engine That Could: I think I can. I think I can. I think I can.

I know I will.