On Unemployment, Bathrobes and the Genius of Mr. Mom

Took a shower today...

Okay I know that for most of you, this is hardly earth-shaking, something that most of you perform once or in some cases, multiple times daily.

I used to be that way, until unemployment...

Lately, I've been rationalizing that 1.why do I need the bother of a shower when I'm not going anywhere 2. on the really bad days whether or not a bum such as myself deserves the consolation of hot water and fragrant soap.

Then today I got a 'whiff of myself. Heretofore, I believed that my natural scent was an amalgam of daisies, freesias, chamomile, and bergamot with a slight undertone of chocolate almond. It makes sense, being that these are all my favorite flavors and 'tastes'.

It's not.
It's, well...let's just say, it's not...good.

After finally ditching my paint spattered 'lounging trousers'  decrepit t-shirt and my ever-faithful Liz Claiborne, 'Spa' Robe, I had that moment when you are pulling your shirt over your head and are trapped for seconds in your own personal, shall we say...air...
And all of the sudden, it occurred to me why the cats weren't killing themselves to come over and jump in my lap anymore...where the bad scent I assumed was coming from some grapefruit that had passed their sell by date some weeks ago originated.

It's hard being unemployed...you can try to put whatever positive spin you want on it, it's hard...

It all starts out novel and new and you tell yourself this is just temporary. Then the reality sinks in and it's like the moment in Mr. Mom when Michael Keaton's character Jack Butler has grown corpulent, stopped shaving and is addicted to the Young and the Restless. In my case, it's the bathrobe, scummy t-shirt and binge watching 'Melissa and Joey' on Netflix.

I hit an all-time low the other day, reading that the ABC Family Channel had cancelled the show, I teared up and fired off an angry email to the network.

I've read all of the support literature, countless '9 Tips for Surviving Unemployment'. I know that I'm supposed to be staying positive, not taking all the rejection personally, finding something or someone to invest in. I've read the how-to books, I've revised my resume about 19 times.

I've deleted my Facebook presence so I won't obsess about others' being happy and getting promotions, etc. I've thrown everything into my LinkedIn profile and now obsess about how many times my profile has been viewed.

I guess part of me is still bewildered...the part of me that thinks I never chose unemployment and I didn't quit...so what I am I doing here in my bathrobe?

I guess some days taking a shower and raising my glass to Jack Butler are the best I can do ,
"Yeah. 220, 221 whatever it takes..."
"I understand that you little guys start out with your woobies and you think they're great...and they are, they are terrific. But pretty soon, a woobie isn't enough. You're out on the street trying to score an electric blanket or maybe a quilt. And the next thing you know, you're strung out on bedspreads Ken. That's serious."

Here's to ditching woobies and bathrobes and doing whatever it takes...

Mitigating My Damages

At the end of the movie Pretty Woman, prostitute Vivian (as portrayed by a youthful Julia Roberts) cleans up and is whisked away by Richard Gere where she will presumably marry or cohabit with him, but at the very least will no longer have to 'turn tricks' to earn her bread. Her roommate and fellow 'lady of the evening' inspired by her former 'co-worker' exhorts her new 'roommate' fellow 'lady of the evening' that she will have to charge her an increased rent owing to the fact that she too doesn't want to 'turn tricks' forever and may take night school classes, etc, because as she giddily states, "Ya gotta have a plan!" , "Do ya have a plan?" she exhorts her new minion.

Do you have a plan? Indeed.

I, in fact had (have) a plan. It's very simple. The plan has ALWAYS been to GET. A. JOB.
I've gone through all the usual suspects, Craigslist, Careerbuilder, Monster, HotJobs..Cold Jobs, Good Jobs, Indifferent Jobs, Mediocre Jobs...ok...you get the idea...
My resume has passed through more hands than a NY Subway token. Placement Agencies, Temporary Agents, Staffing Agents, (Casting Agents?). 

Since my plan hasn't been completely realized, contingencies WERE necessary, somewhat humiliating and degrading, but still necessary! Especially given the fact that I liked to eat and the bills WILL keep coming in spite of the fact that employment has not. So of course, I tapped on the great State of Florida's shoulder and said, "I'd like to have some of those tax dollars back that I and my former employer(s) paid into your unemployment coffers".  And at first the State of Florida obligingly complied.

To my great surprise though, I found some weeks later that a former employer quite vociferously objected to my request for her portion of those aforementioned dollars and had viscously petitioned every department of the Florida State unemployment office up to and including Governor Scott himself to prevent me from doing so.

Her reasoning was that I wasn't mitigating my damages, simply put that I hadn't made the necessary effort to find a job. As she saw it, all these months, I've been sitting around in a feathered peignoir and slippers watching the soaps while gorging myself on bon-bons.

After I cried and screamed, then cried and screamed a little more, I did what any reactionary type A personality would do. First I burned with indignation, recalling every menial task I'd ever performed for her up to and including making her lunch, dropping off postage and buying stamps for which I was never reimbursed nor for the mileage it took for me to go and purchase them, petitioning members of my family to provide her with advertising products at cost for which they and the company never received one penny in profit, taking a part-time position at a substantially lower wage while she replaced me with someone else in order to avoid being altogether unemployed. The temporary assignment I took which paid me 50% less in wages than a similar position I'd held 4 years earlier, because I was so desperate NOT to be unemployed, to NOT have to take unemployment compensation.

Then I overdosed on job-hunting. It hasn't been uncommon for me to be scouring Craigslist or Careerbuilder at midnight on a Saturday double-checking, being sure that there wasn't something I'd missed earlier in the week. Then being panicked at finding something, only to find as I checked my list of sent resumes that I'd already contacted them.

 All of the interviews, kowtowing to every hiring manager, every receptionist, every single person who might have had the ability to make or break me.  Hearing so often the phrases I dread, "Well, we have a few more people to see this week." Or... "We are going to email you a personality evaluation and then we'll see where we are."  "We'll be in touch soon..."  And responding to my query, "Will I hear from you either way?"   "Oh sure, we'll definitely be in touch!" All of the ways people handle you, all of the ways they tell you without ever saying it, without ever giving you the chance to prove them wrong, that you are too old, too young, too ugly, too pretty, too thin, too fat, too blond, too not-blond, too not asian, too not hispanic, not spanish-speaking, too qualified, too underqualified for them to bother with being polite to or treating you like a human being.

And you go home and beg the phone to ring. Praying that they'll give you the chance to prove them wrong.

Trying so damn hard to mitigate my damages. To prove that I am not a bum, a burden on society, shiftless, lazy, good for nothing...not a failure.

Fast foward a few months and then, the other week,  Interview #...oh forget it, a guy, the owner in fact, shows up to interview me...in shorts. I try to overlook the fact that I am perspiring, SWEATING in hosiery, having sat up the night before swathed in blue clay to be sure my skin was supple, bleaching my teeth white using a device that is reminiscent of the mouthguard Rocky Balboa used while sparring with Apollo Creed, (come to think of it, it kind of makes me sound a bit like Rocky too..'Yo Adrian!'), the hours I spent that night researching interview questions, trying to be prepared for any eventuality.

But nothing could have prepared me for the question he posed 15 minutes into the interview when he says, "So unemployed for how many months...how come you haven't had any offers?" 

I blink hard to stop the rush of emotion, my throat raw with the sob that is never far from the surface. For a split second, I want to punch him square on the jaw. I want to break the windows. I want to scream, "Why indeed, your guess is as good as mine, you inconsiderate jerk?"

I think, 'I can't believe I have to answer the question of a man who five minutes ago stopped me mid-sentence to take a cell phone call from his wife about some matter relating to home improvement, and whose trousers are hanging on the door of his office, who IS WEARING SHORTS!'

I answer, of course, I answer. I know that I have as much chance of getting this job as my cat Jamie ever has of catching that moth on the other side of the sliding glass door.

But I answer...above all...my dignity doesn't matter, my pride doesn't even factor in, I have to mitigate my damages.

Love in a Plastic Bag

My last few posts have focused mainly on Generation X as a whole, on what's happening to us in the media, economically and sociologically.

This one gets a little personal, a little touchy-feely so if you are looking for another bitter diatribe against the press, et. al or society as a whole, I fear you will be disappointed.

I'm a Generation X'er certainly and I wear my day-glo badge with pride, I turn the radio up loud on 80's Friday nights, I'm a denzien of You Tube scouring the retro ads and TV shows of my youth. I remember exactly where I was when Challenger exploded on that frigid Florida morning in 1986, (Ms. Gilbreath's 6th grade math class)  when President Reagan admonished Mr. Gorbachev to "Tear down that wall!" and that miraculous night in 1990 when that wall ACTUALLY DID come down!  And in the last few months, I've also attained a new Gen X badge, my Gen X Unemployment badge. Yep, there, I've said it, I'm unemployed.

I am very aware that like so many of us, I'm just a statistic, another name on one of the thousands and thousands of resumes that whiz to and fro throughout cyberspace, resumes that carry our education, accomplishments, statistics and our hopes that maybe, just maybe, this will be THE ONE that defies the odds, lands us the job, and for the first time in a long time we can finally breathe. The ONE that will release us from the torment of haunting Craigslist, Careerbuilder, Monster, Hot Jobs, etc like Mr. Leroux's phantom prowling the dungeons under the Paris Opera House.

Every time the phone rings my heart leaps into my throat and like Pavlov's dog, my pupils dilate and my mouth waters with anticipation of what I'll say...what they'll say. Perhaps this time will be THE ONE, or at the very least I'll net an interview. Even an interview says that they kind of...want me.

After months of this process, interviews for positions that never materialize, the stress of analzying and scrutinizing every word I say, every word they say, worrying over things like "was there lint on my trousers ?", "did I sweat too much?" "is there any lipstick on my teeth?","did I answer that question properly?", am I too old, too young, underqualified, overqualified", I broke down. In a scary way. No, not suicidial or anything like that. I can't become an alcoholic, I can't afford to drink! Can't smoke, can't afford cigarettes (plus the smell of cigarette smoke makes me nauseous, there is that) In a way it became almost worse. The longest and most protracted period of depression I have ever known, in short depression has become a state of being for me. I never knew or could have imagined the hell that true depression really is.  The chronic insomnia (on the plus side I have greatly increased my knowledge of old movies, Time Life music offerings, and episodes of Married with Children), the weird almost flu-like body aches and pains, the total lack of appetite, lack of interest in anything.  Thinking back to how glibly I would toss off the phrase, "I am so depressed!" when faced with trivial things like a relationship not coming to fruition, a bad haircut or not finding a pair of shoes to match an outfit, makes me grimace in shame.

On this past weekend though, I had an opportunity to be the recipient of something so remarkable, a respite of sorts from the depressive state I live in, which came to me in the most unusual way. To celebrate the wedding anniversary of my mother and stepfather, members of our family took a day cruise. I have to admit, while wanting to be there for my parents, I equally DIDN'T want to be there. I wanted to be holed up in my cocoon, not facing the questioning stares of other family members, "does she have a job yet?", being irrationally angry at them for having jobs, having loving spouses, children, disposable income. I put on my happy face though and for a time I WAS actually happy enjoying the company of my family and their children.  My sadness though was never far from the surface no matter how hard I tried to ignore it. Something in me has been broken and I've been at a loss to discover how to 'fix the hole (whole)'.

The game changer came in the form of a green plastic bag. My mother throughout these weeks and months has been my lifeline, patiently listening to me as I poured out my fear, my worries, listening as I vented my spleen over the colossal unfairness of life, the abandonment I felt by the government, former employers, friends, and even God Himself. She listened and I selfishly thought, "She doesn't really get it... I mean she's got a job, she's not suffering like I am...". I cringe even I type these selfish thoughts.

Before I left the docks that day, my mother handed me a green plastic bag, the kind that newspapers come in, and as I waited for the car to cool down before driving home, I opened the sack. What I found there were weeks of newspaper articles covering every topic from depression to interviewing tips, books to encourage me, books that she'd picked up for me knowing the kinds of subjects I like to read about, a favorite movie on DVD. In short, love. Right there in a plastic newspaper sleeve. She WAS listening to me all the time. I cried, all the way home. In fact, I cried as I wrote this.

But, some tiny shoots appeared today in the barren sands of my heart. And today, for the first time in a long while, I remembered to eat breakfast...