Nothing

Over the past few months, I've developed the capacity to sit for long amounts of time and do absolutely nothing. Not watch TV. Not listen to music. Not knit an afghan. Not plot my world domination. Absolutely nothing.

I don't know what I'm doing when I'm sitting and doing nothing, but I feel like I'm wasting my life.

Unemployment is sometimes annoying

I like* it when people ask me, "Well, where have you looked for a job?"

But let me clarify something. Most people don't ask as if they are actually concerned about my well-being.

Most people who have asked me that particular question, phrased in about that particular way, have been asking in the tone of voice that suggests they are about to catch me in a lie, and that all I've really been doing for three weeks is shuffling around my apartment in pajama pants and playing with my dog, all while expecting a job to magically rain down from the sky like heavenly paycheck manna. 

It's the tone of voice that suggests only idiots and lazy people can't find meaningful work** after a whole three weeks of job searching during the winter holidays, when Santa's arrival is nigh. They're waiting to see how long your list is, and it must include the following:  Northrop Grumman, school districts, municipalities/governments, Northrop Grumman, Chevron, and Northrop Grumman.

Secondly, it would be a pretty inefficient use of our time if I were to really go through the list of all the places I've at least looked for work. How about you just trust that I'm doing my part in the process and tell me if you have a quality suggestion, because your suggestion list is definitely going to be shorter than my job-seeking list. 

Thanks,

Your unemployed buddy

* Like = Hate

** meaningful work = something full time that pays more than $10 an hour. I have such high standards, I suppose.

Unemployment is still boring

I applied for a job as a library clerk today, and I discovered that anyone who can read is pretty much overqualified to be a library clerk. That's probably why it pays less about $10 an hour. 

The application process included a literacy/computer skills test that probably wouldn't baffle a 9-year-old. I had to answer 9 questions, type the answers out in a Microsoft Word document, bold each answer, save the document to the "My Documents" folder in Windows and then e-mail the document to someone using a Yahoo! account. We also had to print the document.

To answer the questions, you had to visit specific Web sites--the question sheet told you which ones to visit. (The library Web site, Wikipedia, the state's site, WebMD.) The URLs were still saved in the Internet Explorer browser history, so I didn't even have to type them out. The "My Documents" folder was the default save location for the file, so you'd have to be really special to screw that up.

We were given an hour to do this. I was finished in less than 20 minutes...and that was after I physically double-checked all my answers...and wrote all of my answers out on the "scratch" sheet of paper (I realized after I finished typing my answers that I didn't know if writing them down also was part of the test, so I didn't want to risk turning in a blank scratch piece of paper). 

I glanced over at the lady next to me who had started the test before I sat down to my computer. She hadn't typed out an answer yet, but I think she was filling out all the answers on her scratch sheet first.

I lingered for another 5 minutes before printing, just so I didn't seem too eager. My resume already shows I'm overqualified, and I know they won't want to hire someone likely to get bored and leave, although if the job is as challenging as the employment test, I'll scratch my eyeballs out after about four hours. Plus, there's the whole, "I can't really afford to live on $10 an hour" thing to deal with, too.

The second phase of the employment test measured my ability to arrange things in numerical and alphabetical order. I had two stacks of cards, one with titles and another with numbers. I was finished with both in 20 minutes, and that was after I double-checked both stacks. I was told there was "no time limit" for that test.

So, all in all, a fun day.

For reals?

I'm filling out a job application for a full time job that would pay $10,000 less than I was making before I got canned. It's a salaried position that, if you divide the salary by the number of hours per week, would pay just under $10 an hour.

Despite the very low pay, you have to provide an extensive work history, including the starting and ending salaries for your last four jobs, four references (that's one more than the typical three--and two of them must be professional and two must be personal), and AN ESSAY on "the major challenge(s) facing XYZ Industry." 

For reals? 

Seems a bit excessive for a job that pays about as much as working at Home Depot. And I know providing my previous salaries will likely bump me out of the running, since it'll be obvious I'm only interested in that job until I find one that pays more money.

And, really, when you get right down to it, the basic requirements of the job are literacy, basic knowledge of how to use a computer, and the ability to deal with annoying customers.

I've got all that. I don't need to write an essay to prove it to you.

A conversation with my mom

The phone rings. It's my mom. I cringe. I haven't told her that I was fired from my job last week, but I'm Facebook friends with her best friend and some people who attend her church, so it was only a matter of time before she found out.

"Hello."

"Hi, Amber. I was cleaning out some stuff, and I need to know if I can give this UNO game to Goodwill."

"Yeah, I guess so. I don't even know what you're talking about."

"It's UNO, and Jenga...and a doll."

"A doll?"

"It's a doll in a box."

"Keep the doll. I think Grandma gave that to me. She wanted to leave one for each of her granddaughters."

"OK, I'll keep the doll."

There's an awkward silence here. We both know this call isn't about some games. I think she's waiting for me to fess up about the job situation, but I'm not budging. She makes her move.

"Are you looking for a job?" 

"Yeah."

"Were you laid off?"

"Yeah." Lie. I was fired.

"When did it happen?

"A few days ago." If "a few days" = "a week."

"So it was just a layoff?"

"No. I was fired."

"Why? What did you do?"

"I didn't *do* anything. They just told me they didn't like the job I was doing and they fired me. I don't really--" I mean to say "I don't really want to talk about it," but I stop short. 

"That's it? They just told you they didn't like the work you were doing?" Translation:  "Why aren't you telling me the whole story?"

"Yeah, that's pretty much it." Translation:  "I don't owe you the whole story. You wouldn't understand."

"Are you going to stay there, or are you coming back this way?"

"I don't know! It's only been a few days."  Translation:  I'm doing everything I can to avoid "coming back this way," but I can't tell you that, because you wouldn't understand why.

"How long will you last in your apartment?"

"Probably through February." Possibly a lie. I won't know until I receive the rest of my pay, but probably not that long. I don't want her to freak out on my behalf. I do enough of that on my own.

"Well, let us know if you're coming back this way. I can try to clean out the bedroom..."

"OK."  

Another awkward silence. I think she's giving me one last chance to elaborate or explain myself or cry. I'm thinking of an exit strategy for this phone call when she breaks the silence. 

"I'm sorry."  

"Yeah, well, it's life."

"OK, well, I'll leave the doll here. You can look at it when you visit. Talk to you later."

"Bye."

"Bye."

Conundrum

This year I was supposed to be working on Christmas Day and the following weekend. I was going to have to stay here in Mississippi at least until Monday. I was going to miss being with my family on Christmas Eve and Christmas Day.

Well, getting canned from my job has suddenly freed up much of my schedule and it means it's certain I won't be working any holidays, unless I miraculously land a job before then that requires me to work those days.

And yet, because I was fired, I don't really *want* to go home for Christmas this year.

Discouraged.

On Saturday, I attended this event at church for ladies. I'm not usually a "lady," but I decided to go on a whim (and because a friend was going to be there).

My friend and I both won a prize for being the least excited about the holidays. 

Later, one of the ladies came up to me and asked if I was lacking holiday spirit because I was stressed out about being unemployed. I confirmed that was *part* of the reason.

"You aren't going to find a job before the new year, so you may as well enjoy the holidays," she replied.

Now, that thought has been in the back of my mind since I was fired, but I had never said it aloud or had anyone tell me that. 

I almost burst into tears right there.

I'm vanishing.

I weighed myself when I visited my parents' house in Lafayette last weekend, and the scale said I weighed about 88 pounds--four pounds fewer than I weighed in August when I saw the doctor.

I'm about 5'4" (I think? No shorter than 5'3", that's for sure), so that would give me a BMI of about 15.1.

Normally I'd have to *try* to stay this skinny, but nowadays, it just naturally happens. My pants fit looser and my tummy's flatter. I forget to eat meals. Don't ask me how.

I guess I'd be more concerned about this if I weren't trying to find a job during the worst economic slump since the Great Depression.

I was canned

It rained the day I got fired.

I know. That sounds *so* cliche, like watching a rainy funeral on a movie, realizing that the director only called for the rain to insert a too-obvious symbol. As if a funeral itself isn't sufficiently depressing.

It wasn't raining when I was on my way to work Monday morning. I walked in about 9:15 a.m., and before I could check my backlog of e-mails that had accumulated over the weekend, I was summoned to the boss' office.

To make a very long story short, there was a fancier, more important boss sitting in my boss' office, and with one swoop of the axe, my services at the local newspaper were no longer needed. The firing itself involved a story about an inability to play the guitar and "you're a good person, really" and the review of documents and blah blah blah...but, in the end, I was fired.

Tell mom I didn't cry. (I didn't.) 

I walked out of the newsroom feeling numb. I fumbled around in my purse for my cell phone and slammed it on the desk without even saying goodbye. I was going to be back later that afternoon anyway. I got into my car and drove about two blocks to my attorney friend's office, so he could review documents before I signed anything.

By the way, here's some friendly advice from the recently unemployed--don't go to your attorney friend's office less than five minutes after being fired if you're a semi-depressed emotional baby like I am. 

I hadn't even had time to process what had happened, and there was a point in the brief meeting where the attorney friend was on the phone talking with another attorney, and I suddenly realized, "Oh, crap. People need money for food and shelter and doggie medicine and electricity and NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!"

So I cried, and he prayed the Holy Ghost down, and I left with my papers and some snotty Kleenex. 

I sat in my car for a minute, replying to fifty million texts asking me what had happened--less than an hour after it had happened. Word gets around fast in Pascagoula. I had parked under a tree, and my car's windshield was covered in yellow leaves. That's when it began to rain. I remember, because the windshield wipers swept the leaves away.

I forgot to get the attorney's office to notarize the papers, so instead of embarrassing myself, I drove to ANOTHER friend to get the papers notarized, but I had to wait an hour before he would be in his office, so I drove to the beach and sat in a parking lot and fielded phone calls from concerned friends. I thought about walking on the pier over the water and just jumping off, but it began to sprinkle, and I figured I would risk becoming a vegetable instead of a suicide victim. The height was not great enough, I concluded, "and, besides, it's sprinkling. I'll get wet."

Then I drove to the library and sat in a parking lot and fielded more phone calls from concerned friends. A train passed on the tracks in front of me. Rain poured down, like a cheesy metaphor of my life that day.

I eventually had my papers notarized. I felt kind of embarrassed, really, but I hid that feeling with a little too much cheer. It feels embarrassing to be unemployed.

Then, I drove back to my former office. I was going to get it all done today, I said. I wasn't ever going to step foot in that office again.

I worked in a small newsroom. My filing cabinet was in a room shared by four other people. They were all there to watch me fish out those things that were mine and listen to me make jokes about all the junk I was leaving behind for the company to clean up and all the stupid junk I thought was worth taking with me. The new intern who was using my desk when I arrived leav

I walked out with a bag and a box of stuff. A co-worker carried the box out for me. It wasn't raining anymore, but the skies were gray. Another co-worker followed. I shook hands with them and said goodbye and drove away.

I spent the night at the home of some friends. I ate a yummy pulled pork sandwich and watched children decorate a Christmas tree, so being unemployed didn't hit me until about 11 o'clock that night when I looked at the clock and--for a moment--told myself that I really needed to go to bed, because I had to get up early in the morning.

Obviously, I didn't have to get up early. I had no appointments the next day. No real plans. Nowhere to go and nothing I had to do. My life felt like my employment situation--nothing.

It hit me again the next morning about 10 a.m., when I realized that the work day had begun, but I had not begun with it. I was in my oversized hooded sweatshirt and track pants. My gainfully employed co-workers were wearing work clothes and being productive. I, on the other hand, had to look forward to busy work with no immediate payoff. Updating a resume, sending it out, scouring the web for jobs, calling friends to "network," convincing the apartment management to let me renew my lease for 3 months instead of 6--just in case I have to move away soon, confirming to fifty million people that, "Yes, I really was canned."

Now, a day later, I've made at least 34 jokes about being unemployed and said "I was canned" at least 20 times, but it's still weird to be sitting here at 7 p.m. with the realization that I have no reason to wake up tomorrow. If I didn't wake up tomorrow, nobody would notice except my dog, who depends on me for food and water and pee breaks.