Five O'Clock World

Up every mornin just to keep a job
I gotta fight my way through the hustling mob
Sounds of the city poundin in my brain
While another day goes down the drain

But its a five oclock world when the whistle blows
No one owns a piece of my time
And theres a five oclock me inside my clothes
Thinkin that the world looks fine, yeah
The Vogues, "Five O'Clock World"

Today is a holiday. You could have fooled me. While millions of Americans spent their day off, complaining about the bleak weather forecast, preparing their tots for the first day of school, or just blissfully enjoying a time away from the ball and chain (no, not their spouses, their cubicles), the only thing different about this day from the other 90 days this summer for me was the constant stream of movies on TNT and actually having a body next to mine as I emerge from my slumber. I wonder: How do you participate in a holiday for a mass of people that you are not a part of?

Apparently, I am not alone in my non-participation in this holiday.
http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/32723102/ns/business-careers/

I did not need the sub headline to tell me that there are six eager, pleading and desperate workers for each job available. I figured this out last night as I started running my job searches. I decided that I would spend the holiday glued to my computer, improving my resume (I am still looking for the magic words, folks), looking in every nook and cranny the interwebs has to offer, leaving no stone unturned. That lasted all of an hour. After a six county search for state jobs, I came up with fewer listings that before and none that I would qualify for. Let me correct that statement. I am perfectly capable of doing the jobs, but my age has restricted me from acquiring the necessary experiences to prove I can do them. Monster.com was an even bigger fail. Unless you have an RN license or CPA training, you are pretty much useless in the local job market. I forgot to mention that FU owns a a majority of the metropolitan area (no joke, their logo is plastered on nearly every building, street corner, streetlamp, street trashcan, cop car, bum, etc), so that banishes a large part of my hometown industry from my consideration.

"It's hard to maintain your focus that you're a valuable member of society when you go three months and nobody really wants to employ you," says David O'Bryan, 59, of Barre, Vt. The article goes on to read that he keeps a journal to jot down his unemployed thoughts about unemployment.

David, I feel your pain. I have lost count of the number of applications, resumes, inquiries I have sent out. I am going to say at least 70. I initially started throwing my net wider and further, optimistically. I would not be unemployed longer than a month, I surmised. But as the rejection letters became more frequent, each one blandly and coldy admonishing me by declaring that I was not even qualified to use alphabetical order for filing folders (clearly, a BA and 11 years in the workforce leaves you unprepared to handle the little joys of office management), my search little by little became less scrupulous and encompassing. Perhaps 70 applications, cover letters, resumes, list of references is meager if you really want a job in this market. Perhaps I have become a discouraged worker.

Discouraged worker. That's a misnomer. There is no work to make us 'a worker'.

"I'm finding the process of trying to get into schools both tedious and frustrating. I wish I could have some concrete feedback on why I'm not being hired. Overweight? No para-educator certificate in effect? No confidence in my ability to perform the job?"

Feedback would be nice. In fact, I think it should be federally mandated to provide an interviewed reject with blunt feedback as to why they are not being hired. I think if I take the time to buy pantyhose, drive 45 minutes into town, pay for parking, sweat in a suit while diplomatically answering uncomfortable questions, laugh at bad jokes and spend 44 cents to send a handwritten thank you note on fine stationary, the least you can do is pull a Simon Cowell and tell me why you didn't like me. Because frankly, I am a little confused. In the past, I turned down job offers instead of groveling for them. I am not certain what in my resume or demeanor has ostracized me to the Untouchable caste.

I am pretty thick-skinned when it comes to constructive criticism. In fact, the nastier, the better. I wish I had gotten some scathing feedback before my boss canned me instead of silently hating me. I even asked my frigid, battle axe supervisor exactly what was so offensive about my job performance that would compel her smile to my face everyday for nine months, even up to the minute thereof, and tell me that I was essentially useless, particularly when I was fulfilling my job duties as outlined. She was unable to render an answer, simply elaborating by saying she "couldn't put her finger on it." I resisted the temptation to tell her that was the "exact" response I was looking for as I signed my letter of resignation and just "exactly" where she could file that.

Labor Secretary Hilda Solis' advice to the unemployed: "I would tell those workers and families not to lose sight of hope."

Note to the Unemployed: Labor Secretary Hilda Solis has what all of you want. A job.

(PS: We "discouraged workers" are also fed up with the frequent headlines proclaiming that jobless claims are down and things are looking up. Obviously, not for many of us.)

Material Girl

Boys may come and boys may go
And that’s all right you see
Experience has made me rich
And now they’re after me, cause everybody’s

Living in a material world
And I am a material girl
You know that we are living in a material world
And I am a material girl.
Madonna, “Material Girl”

Dear Victoria’s Secret,

Since you are so busy with looking gorgeous, trying to coax anorexic models into plush-looking sex kittens with make-up and airbrushing, creating diamond studded bras (this is an oxymoron), and creating fashion shows that will be seen by millions of viewers, mostly distracted men pretending to cultivate an interest in clothing, I thought I would notify you and inform you that we are now in a recession.

Perhaps you already know this. Maybe you have even heard the word “recessionista” as you peddled your credit card on a customer whose defenses were already weakened with the temptation of pretty lingerie and the weight of a man on top of her. I am here to tell you that they are few and far between. Those of us lucky enough to have jobs are saving our pennies for that fateful day when the general public goes berserk over the latest animal flu and Wall Street registers a depression that will send the global economy back into mercantilism, thus prompting her boss to call the said devoted employee into his/her office to hand over a pink slip. For many of us, we have reluctantly discovered pink is the new black and bringing back the "grunge" look. Our panties are holey and we are making that the new “easy access” fad.

The problem is, while all of your peers are throwing sale bashes, you are smugly refraining from indulging your guests in discounts as though it is beneath you. Gone are the days where I could take what was left over of my paycheck, earned $8.00/hour at a time while earning my precious undergrad degree full-time, and purchase a silky frock for $32.00 or a seamless tee-shirt bra, the only one of its kind to prop up my girls properly, for $36.00. Now most of your negligees are nothing special- at best, they are tawdry and unoriginal but twice what I used to pay. I don’t even look at the price of the sexier items, the ones with complicated ropes and ribbons with fabric in weird places. Okay, I peeked once. Let’s just say the black market for premium cocaine is cheaper.

The more affordable options you offer are insufficient. Simply put, I do not want the word “pink” written across my ass. I am at a point in my life where I can dress classy enough to draw attention to that area without letters, adjectives and punctuation.

Another thing that irks me is your oversized portraits of half naked models. I guess some marketing intern came up with the idea that women will feel beautiful and sexy if surrounded my 19 year olds romping around in their underwear. These spring chicks are certainly inviting for men who feel intimidated and threatened when surrounded by thongs and push-up bras. However, it has the opposite effect on me. When I am sent a mailer to my house, I do not want to see a model who looks like Lolita trying to sell me overpriced undergarments. I suddenly hate her and your brand.

Don’t take this too hard. While most of your fellow retailers have caught on the current economic trends, there are a few like you who don’t get it. Gap, for example. For two consecutive Black Fridays in a row, Gap has offered no sale whatsoever for their merchandise. I guess they are unable to witness the line back up in New York and Company since it is on the opposite side of the mall. And your sister store, The Limited. While I admit their clearance items are tempting, I simply cannot fathom spending $80.00 on a dress right now unless I am going to eat it.

Assuming that you are recession proof because you sell sex and that is always in demand is dangerous. My boyfriend is on to you. He will only broach your store if I am visiting to redeem a coupon for free panties (kudos for that, by the way) stating if he wants sexy, he doesn’t want a garb in the way. He is one of the primitive males who firmly holds onto his hard-earned money and would get by on a loin cloth if it was legal and cheap, which is one of the things I love about him.

I hope this little friendly correspondence will remind you that your associates work on commission.

Sincerely,
Pink Lady

Don't Look Twice, It's Alright

I'm walkin' down that long, lonesome road
Where I'm bound, I can't tell
But goodbye's too good a word, gal
So I'll just say fare thee well.
I ain't sayin' you treated me unkind
You could have done better but I don't mind
You just kinda wasted my precious time
But don't think twice, it's all right.
Bob Dylan “Don’t Think Twice, It’s Alright”

There is a very distinct feeling when you know you’ve been replaced. It is a feeling of impending dread that starts in your core and spreads outwards. When you actually see it, the face, the words or the voice, it is like a eight pound rabbit kicking its hind-legs into your abdomen. That’s the best example I can come with; when I was a kid, we kept rabbits, and my mother used to constantly warn not to hold the sweet bunny too close or he would kick your intestines out or something.

Anyways, perhaps a better comparison would be the feeling like when you run into your ex. It’s unexpected, it leaves you winded, and you feel like all the energy and matter put into such an intimate relationship has POOF! vanished.

And it always happens at the lowest point. For example, at the job I had before FU (oh, those were the days), my ex decided to stop by. It was literally one of those summers where I just stopped asking, “What else can go wrong?” because, trust me, it kept getting worse. The guy I had been seeing for 18 months literally disappeared into thin air, only to litter my in-box on with updates about his sperm count, I was utterly broke, flailed and failed to obtain adequate funding for The Greatest University Ever and was about to be jobless (since my boss thought I was going to The Greatest University Ever because I turned in my notice months before). And here he strolls in, the ex before David Copperfield, newly married, about to be a dad, brandishing a new car and a motorcycle license. The license particularly stung since he had promised to pay for motorcycle safety classes for my 24th birthday and forgot to do it. I did what any girl in my position would do: I went back to my boss’s office and threw up in his trashcan while looking like a million dollars.

Anyways, it was officially brought to my attention that I was indeed replaced by someone younger and more hip at FU. I always felt out of place, like a square peg in a round hole. Occasionally I tried to make small talk at the watering hole (aka, the coffee machine), but frankly, I just didn’t care that my boss walked his Persians on a leash or that my desk mate kept illegal farm animals in the city. Nor did ever think anybody would find my tap classes particularly interesting. When they talked about fine wines, organic vegetables and the romantic escapades of former gay professors, I just quietly looked down at my Whopper, plump with chemicals and trans fats, and pretended to listen. A colleague once remarked that I never said ‘hello’ in the morning, which is certainly true: I am not a fan of walking out of my way to another cubicle when there is work to be done just to greet someone who already knew I was there to begin with.

But no worries. I am sure that the new girl will be a much better fit. After all, her name sounded terribly familiar, and sure enough, I quickly gained access to the pictures that she put up on the interwebs, mostly drunken escapades with her super cool friends. I forgot to mention. I am not cool. I only drink socially, never have passed out or puked on someone’s shoes, never tried pot, and have been clubbing a total of three times my entire life. I do not like “Pissing In the Gene Pool” or The Killers. I do not wear vintage pieces rescued from the trash bins of the city. This girl is pretty open and honest too. No dirty secrets, like “I may look like a secretary, but I am really a future doctoral candidate.” She even admits in her posts that she sucks at her job. But I’m sure that the scrupulous bureaucrats at FU already know this.

Instead, it is time to focus on my own path. Somewhere, the breadcrumbs I dropped along the way have been plucked up.

Someone told me to smile. My boss probably thinks he is doing me a favor.

I replied that cutting me loose during a re-enactment of the Great Depression was no favor. I am only reassured that I get a chance at life to not end up like him.

Black Coffee

I’m talking to the shadows, 1 o’clock to 4
And lord, how slow the moments go when all I do is pour
Black coffee
Since the blues caught my eye
I’m hanging out on Monday
My Sunday dreams too dry

Now a man is born to go a lovin
A woman’s born to weep and fret
To stay at home and tend her oven
And drown her past regrets
In coffee and cigarettes
Ella Fitzgerald/Petula Clark

Unemployment is like:
A. Prison
B. Pergatory
C. Vacation
D. Hell
E. All of the above

It is 10 am on a Thursday, and while the rest of the working world has settled at their desks and about on their way for their first coffee break of the day, here I am writing this on a comfy, pillow-top bed watching the rain. In a disappointing twist, I have actually showered and dressed already, but this was to run an early morning errand.

Unemployment for me is like time-out. As a kid, I was no stranger to time-out. I was never bad, just merely curious. I was a hit amongst my preschool classmates when I saved them from dozing off at naptime or opened the gate and liberated them from the playground. And just how many times do you have to pull a black cat’s tail before she hisses? Failed flying adventures often led me to the time-out chair, where I was instructed to sit quietly and think about why I was there for however many minutes equaled my age. That was mom’s rule of thumb.

So, understandably, this bout of unemployment (and recent underemployment) is a bit inhumane.

I am not going to fool you. The time-out chair is now a beautiful home on a lake about 45 minutes outside of the city. I am kept company by a naked quaker parrot who coos to Petula Clark and laughs at inopportune times (like when Julia Roberts is about to get raped in “Pretty Woman”, or when Julia Roberts goes into diabetic shock in “Steel Magnolias“, or anytime Julia Roberts is doing anything serious). When it is sunny, I like to sit on the deck in the summer heat and read, which has resulted in a couple of sunburns.

While this sounds just as tragic as Martha Stewart’s house arrest, I still have countless hours to recap how I ended up here. Let’s replay:

I accepted a job instead of going to graduate school. I worked in education. Anything with the word “education” in the organization title is like a promise to go to hell in a hand basket during an economic downturn. I knew being the newest employee and the one always last invited out for Friday cheers meant my head was on the chopping block, but I still stuck it in the sand.

Moral of the Story: When you see the writing on the wall, don’t walk. . . Run like you wrote it.

Anyways, there are several things others (read: employed-people) have a hard time understanding about The Unemployed. Sure, right now, unemployment is in fashion. If you have money, you go green. If you are poor, you lose your job. If you think you’re rich, you lose your job (unless you really are rich. I mean, you don’t hear Bill Gates or Donald Trump or George Bush complaining about the recession).

The others (read: employed-people), while comprehending the concept, fail to empathize that the loss of a job is indeed just that-- a loss. It comes with a grieving process I’m not sure where I fit in. Think about it: Since I was 16 years old, I have woken up every morning with a mission, a task, a chore. I sold my soul to it. Now POOF! I have what every working stiff wishes for: Free time.

Just what do The Unemployed do during their days? Well, that depends soley on the person and their walk in life. But if you young, semi-single and childless, it probably goes a little like this:

Wake up with employed boyfriend (yes, I am unemployed and shacking up with my boyfriend, which makes me a winner at family get-togethers). Try to convince him to play hookie. Go back to sleep when he leaves.

Try to wake up at 11 am. Fail. Try to wake up at noon. Fail. Finally force myself out of the wooly comfort of my bed around 1 pm because I either need to make lunch in a jiff or find spare change to order off of the Dollar Menu at McDonald’s.

Make friends with the neighbors by dancing around the house in my underwear to Madonna or Lady Gaga. I forget we don’t have curtains sometimes.

Experiment with hairstyles. I am master the “poof”. Expertly apply make-up.

Surprise the UPS guy by answering the door wearing nothing but a slinky robe. Or scare FedEx guy by answering the door with curlers and a glass of sherry while blasting lounge music from “The Graduate.”

Slut it up in outfits that are not tasteful to wear in the workplace. I only get to be unemployed once (hopefully).

Consider honing and perfecting the domestic arts to make myself useful. Decide against it for now.

Read great works of literature, like “The Secret” or “What Should I Do With My Life?” or “Who Are You and What Do You Want?” Public libraries are a great thing.

Freshen up before The Man comes home. Greet him with a long, sweet kiss that makes his knees buckle. I had hours to practice.

Cook dinner while watching “Jeopardy” and try to answer as much as I can correctly. I didn’t go to college and sign over my left kidney to student lenders for nothing.

Bake a cake. I’m getting really good at this. It’s as though the banking industry said to the masses “let them eat cake” and I am.

Catch the latest movies on Netflix. Catch the oldest movies on Netflix streaming.

Lay in bed until 3 am, trying not to let the misspelled rejection letters get to the ego I worked on inflating all day.

I hope this clarifies any misconceptions the others have of The Unemployed and our time usage (suckage). Don’t let the glibness fool you. I come from the Entitlement Generation. It didn’t take me long after graduation to realize that the “uniqueness” my mom touted for 23 years is actually a personality trait that my entire generation inherited. With that, I sought out enjoy the finer (read, cheap) things in life, look for riches of the heart. I started preparing for a life of humbleness and humility before the recession struck.

Trust me. No amount of “What Color Is Your Parachute” can prepare you to have your heart ripped out of your chest and served back to you on a plastic platter by your boss.

Even still, I am told again and again, that there is a silver lining. I will be okay. I’m sure my grandparents heard this same advice during the Great Depression.

After all of that, my grandmother still will say that those years were some of the best she had.

Perhaps, when I am that age, I will say the same.