Nearly three years ago, I was fired from my job; a casualty of the post-9/11 economic downturn. After 18 months of looking for work without success, I sat down to write a book, entitled, "Blown Job: an unemployment odyssey." Here's an excerpt from Chapter Eight. (See "Past Posts of Note" for earlier chapters )
Chapter 8 - Check, Please
Have you ever wondered why insurance monoliths don’t offer employment insurance, in the same way that they push life insurance and health insurance and auto insurance and theft insurance? Pay a monthly premium and you’re guaranteed a job for life. They’ve already got us paying for the inevitability of death, illness, car crashes and home invasions. Why not protect us from the evil of unemployment? That’s one premium I wouldn’t have minded paying.
What we have in its stead is unemployment insurance. Though it comes with strings attached, the weekly financial benefit provided through employer tax dollars eases the transition between a earning a steady paycheck and “borrowing” from your kid’s college fund.
In order to collect, you have to prove that you’re worthy. You need to be ready, willing and able to work, every week that you collect. You had to have worked a certain number of quarters, prior to your firing. You can’t have been fired for cause. You need to appear at the unemployment office periodically. You have to check in weekly to maintain eligibility. You have to be looking for work. And you have to pay taxes on the unemployment insurance that you receive.
There isn’t one person I know who’s collected unemployment insurance who isn’t absolutely incredulous at this last little item. There seems to be something unethical, or at least immoral, about taxing unemployment insurance. Okay, I agree it’s income, but it’s only income because you’re not getting real income anymore. Am I right about this? Please, back me up here. To me, it’s the legislative equivalent of tithing (literally, because they soak you for 10 percent.)
*
I actually dressed in a business suit when I made my first visit to the unemployment office. I thought if I made a good impression that someone there might help me find a job. Don’t laugh. I now know how ridiculous that was, but that was back in the day when I believed in the power of networking. Most of my cohorts were in sweatsuits, and many had brought their toddlers along. They obviously didn’t overthink the situation like I did.
I filled out the requisite paperwork and swore an oath to look for work every week. I was instructed to telephone weekly to report my continued unemployment status.
I quickly fell in love with the automated telephone lady, whose voice became more familiar to me than my mother’s. In short order, I began to anticipate her questions and had my finger poised over the proper key before she finished her sentences (“Press 1 for yes, 2 for no.”) Each Thursday, she rewarded my labors, such as they were, with a brown envelope in my mailbox, which I took to the bank posthaste.
Twenty-six week passed thus, and then my president gifted me with 13 weeks of extended benefits, which almost made me sorry that I hadn’t voted for him.
At the end of 39 weeks, I was sad beyond belief. I had begun to rely on those little envelopes in much the same way as I assume an addict looks forward to his next fix. Gone was the faux compensation for labors rendered. At that moment, I really felt unemployed.
I still have the urge to call to call my automated telephone lady, though I know that she won’t speak to me anymore. Only an executive order can rekindle the relationship. But, with $87 billion likely headed overseas as I write these words, that doesn’t seem likely.
It was a nice ride while it lasted, but I would rather have been working. I’d rather be working right now.
Sunday, December 26, 2004
Wednesday, December 22, 2004
For My Fan
*
A legless diabetic in Britain was gifted with a pair of socks and a box of chocolates. Hey, it’s the thoughtlessness that counts.
*
In the new Harry Potter book out next July, our hero is in his sixth year at Hogwarts. This time out, Harry will learn wand repair, invent a carb-free Every-flavor bean, and dissect a Weasley.
*
A city in Mexico has banned indoor nudity. Cops are frantically vying for spots on the undercover task force.
A legless diabetic in Britain was gifted with a pair of socks and a box of chocolates. Hey, it’s the thoughtlessness that counts.
*
In the new Harry Potter book out next July, our hero is in his sixth year at Hogwarts. This time out, Harry will learn wand repair, invent a carb-free Every-flavor bean, and dissect a Weasley.
*
A city in Mexico has banned indoor nudity. Cops are frantically vying for spots on the undercover task force.
Monday, December 20, 2004
This Just In
*
China crowned its first "Miss Artificial Beauty" in a contest for women who have undergone plastic surgery. The winner received a dozen artificial roses and a cubic zirconia crown.
*
In Hawaii this week, Christmas trees are going for upwards of $200, due to a supply shortage. A few weeks ago, they only cost $80. I bet folks are sorry now that they didn't buy them on a "lei-away" plan.
*
A bank robber in Milwaukee handed a teller a note written on the back of his probation papers from a previous bank robbery. The only thing he forgot to do was draw a map of the route to his house.
China crowned its first "Miss Artificial Beauty" in a contest for women who have undergone plastic surgery. The winner received a dozen artificial roses and a cubic zirconia crown.
*
In Hawaii this week, Christmas trees are going for upwards of $200, due to a supply shortage. A few weeks ago, they only cost $80. I bet folks are sorry now that they didn't buy them on a "lei-away" plan.
*
A bank robber in Milwaukee handed a teller a note written on the back of his probation papers from a previous bank robbery. The only thing he forgot to do was draw a map of the route to his house.
Sunday, December 19, 2004
Book excerpt - Blown Job: Chapter 7, Part 2
Nearly three years ago, I was fired from my job; a casualty of the post-9/11 economic downturn. After 18 months of looking for work without success, I sat down to write a book, entitled, "Blown Job: an unemployment odyssey." I've been posting excerpts here. Since interviews took up such a big part of my life, and of the book, I've split Chapter Seven into two parts. Here's Part Two. (See "Past Posts of Note" for earlier chapters )
Chapter 7, Part 2 – Interviews, or, You Don’t Need Anyone, Do You
Three job interviews in six months' time; no offers. My next interview, two months later, was for a marketing coordinator position with an engineering consulting firm. Because it took place in the summer, I had to add a little something extra to my interview preparation, which I’ll call Phase 4.1, dressing for excess.
There are two seasons in New York, which are best characterized as ass-freezing and boiling hot. In the winter, which runs roughly from late October through mid-March, one needs to dress in layers to face the biting wind and bitter cold. In so doing, otherwise stylish women appear to have taken fashion advice from The Michelin Man. In summer, where the humidity is off the charts, you need to wear the least amount of clothing possible, while avoiding a charge of indecent exposure. If I put on a suit and stockings in summer, by the time I hit the subway platform, two levels below the street and one above Hell, my carefully made-up countenance instantly resembles that of the character in the Indiana Jones movie; the one whose face melted off when he touched the Holy Grail. So I went with Plan B.
As my interview fell on a day when the heat was utterly unbearable at 8:00 AM, I decided to be smart about dressing. Instead of donning my interview suit, I put on a sleeveless dress and sandals, and eighty-sixed my panty hose. I carried my interview outfit in an overnight bag, and when I arrived at the office, a half-hour before my interview, I asked the receptionist if I could use the ladies room. I changed into my outfit there. A bit unusual, I admit, but I’d been on too many interviews where the perfect look I was going for was ruined as soon as I locked my door. If I was worried that the receptionist might have been scandalized by such behavior, my fears were allayed when I came back out. She barely glanced up at me. If I was going to perspire at all, better it should be due to the interview taking a bad turn, and not because the streets of New York aren’t air-conditioned.
It turned out that I had a delightful meeting with my interviewer, a woman with whom I was very impressed. Not only was she an engineer and a senior partner in the firm, but also she was a writer. Most of the technical professionals who I had met over the years were not all that skillful in word manipulation. There seemed to be two disparate skill sets at play, both of which this woman appeared to have mastered.
I showed her my work samples and she showed me excerpts from her firm’s proposals, qualification statements, and brochures. She let it slip that, among the applicants, there were three who presently were working at rival firms. Though they probably stood a better chance than I did of winning this job, I felt confident that I had made a good showing.
I therefore was very pleased to be called back for a second interview. This time, I would be speaking to the marketing manager; the person to whom the position would report directly. The first woman I spoke to was her boss, and the only reason that I saw her first was that the marketing manager was on vacation when the initial interview was conducted.
I was not as impressed with her as I was with her boss. She was very retiring and spoke in such a tiny voice that it was difficult for me to hear her. She didn’t really seem to have much input in the hiring process, and deferred to her boss and her boss’s boss. She told me that the latter, who was the Vice President of Marketing, would be the one who made the final decision.
She gave me a writing assignment to complete while I was there. I was to prepare a résumé for a hypothetical engineer. It was easy and I believe that I did well.
You can bet that I was elated when I was called back for a third interview. The field was narrowing. I waited nearly an hour for the marketing VP to complete another interview. To pass the time, I perused an exhibit in the waiting area. It was a graphic display prepared in response to a Request for Proposal and concerned a project to beautify a neglected area of the city. It immediately struck me that this had absolutely nothing to do with the core business of the firm. They were involved with water- and waste management. I made a mental note to ask the VP about this.
When we finally sat down together, he was interested to know how well I would work with busy engineers who had precious little time to devote to writers. I told him that I had worked with hardware and software engineers in the past, who also were too busy to be bothered. I mentioned that this was in a job very early in my career, which did not appear on my résumé. I explained that I was tenacious in following up with technical personnel and that I often had to remind them that we had to work together if we had any hope of bringing new business into the company. He seemed satisfied with my answer and went on to ask a few related questions.
When it came to my turn, I uttered some remarks that made it clear that I understood the firm’s business from my reading of the annual report and the website. I then brought up the project displayed in Reception and I asked him about its relevance to the organization’s mission. He told me that it was a project about which the region’s engineers were very proud and which they had undertaken to submit on their own time. I agreed that it was very altruistic, but I wondered if it might confuse potential clients, who might expect to see, at their first point of contact in the reception area, a project that was more closely allied with the firm’s core business, water- and waste management.
I actually think that I insulted him. He mentioned, rather defensively, that such projects were displayed throughout the halls of the office, which I had noticed on my prior visits. Any one of those projects would have been a better fit in the reception area, as they had more to do with the company’s actual business. But I didn’t say that.
At the end of the interview, I asked him about the next step. He said that I was the last to be interviewed and that a decision would be made the following week. I asked if I would hear something either way, and he said yes.
Ten days passed. I decided to call the marketing manager. She told me that a decision had not been made. She didn’t offer anything further and I asked if I would be advised in any event. She said yes and rang off.
Nobody called. No one e-mailed, or faxed, or sent me a letter. Three interviews; three suits; three round-trip train fares; three lunches. And hours and hours of Phases I-IV. And they didn’t even have the decency to let me know that they had hired someone else. Even after I sent each of the three a thank-you letter after each interview.
What did me in this time? Was it my questioning of the VP about the lobby display? Was it that I mentioned a job that wasn’t on my résumé? If only he would have asked, I gladly would have explained that I had been advised to go back 15 years on my résumé and no further, but that all of my jobs appeared on my application. Did they finally decide to go with someone from one of the rival firms, who had more direct experience? As with all my other interviews, I’ll never know.
It’s very frustrating, when you’re forced to divulge all kinds of personal information to strangers, not to be treated with respect and candor. But, on the bright side, at least now I don’t have to know how solid waste is managed.
*
Now that I’ve had some time to reflect, I can only say that the business of looking for work is, at best, an imperfect process. In spite of all my preparation, I made a series of mistakes and missteps. As for the employers, they often acted cavalierly and insensitively. How do I make it better for the next time?
Well, for one thing, I’ve decided to put every single job back on my résumé. It was bad advice to eliminate the early positions, in the hope that I could shave a few years off of my age.
For another, I will be extra-special careful in regard to what questions I ask. I need to be more sensitive to hot-button issues.
My biggest worry is that I may never land a job again that includes a lunch hour, a 401K, health benefits, and an employee ID. The longer that I am out of work, the harder it is to find new work and the less attractive I am to employers. That is why I sat down to write this book.
God, I hope it sells 8,999,999 copies.
Chapter 7, Part 2 – Interviews, or, You Don’t Need Anyone, Do You
Interview Tip #4: Do establish a salary range:
You: I’m looking for a salary in the range of $45,000 to $50,000.
Interviewer: But this is a clerical job.
You: Yeah, and I’m the best damned clerical in the business.
Three job interviews in six months' time; no offers. My next interview, two months later, was for a marketing coordinator position with an engineering consulting firm. Because it took place in the summer, I had to add a little something extra to my interview preparation, which I’ll call Phase 4.1, dressing for excess.
There are two seasons in New York, which are best characterized as ass-freezing and boiling hot. In the winter, which runs roughly from late October through mid-March, one needs to dress in layers to face the biting wind and bitter cold. In so doing, otherwise stylish women appear to have taken fashion advice from The Michelin Man. In summer, where the humidity is off the charts, you need to wear the least amount of clothing possible, while avoiding a charge of indecent exposure. If I put on a suit and stockings in summer, by the time I hit the subway platform, two levels below the street and one above Hell, my carefully made-up countenance instantly resembles that of the character in the Indiana Jones movie; the one whose face melted off when he touched the Holy Grail. So I went with Plan B.
As my interview fell on a day when the heat was utterly unbearable at 8:00 AM, I decided to be smart about dressing. Instead of donning my interview suit, I put on a sleeveless dress and sandals, and eighty-sixed my panty hose. I carried my interview outfit in an overnight bag, and when I arrived at the office, a half-hour before my interview, I asked the receptionist if I could use the ladies room. I changed into my outfit there. A bit unusual, I admit, but I’d been on too many interviews where the perfect look I was going for was ruined as soon as I locked my door. If I was worried that the receptionist might have been scandalized by such behavior, my fears were allayed when I came back out. She barely glanced up at me. If I was going to perspire at all, better it should be due to the interview taking a bad turn, and not because the streets of New York aren’t air-conditioned.
It turned out that I had a delightful meeting with my interviewer, a woman with whom I was very impressed. Not only was she an engineer and a senior partner in the firm, but also she was a writer. Most of the technical professionals who I had met over the years were not all that skillful in word manipulation. There seemed to be two disparate skill sets at play, both of which this woman appeared to have mastered.
I showed her my work samples and she showed me excerpts from her firm’s proposals, qualification statements, and brochures. She let it slip that, among the applicants, there were three who presently were working at rival firms. Though they probably stood a better chance than I did of winning this job, I felt confident that I had made a good showing.
I therefore was very pleased to be called back for a second interview. This time, I would be speaking to the marketing manager; the person to whom the position would report directly. The first woman I spoke to was her boss, and the only reason that I saw her first was that the marketing manager was on vacation when the initial interview was conducted.
I was not as impressed with her as I was with her boss. She was very retiring and spoke in such a tiny voice that it was difficult for me to hear her. She didn’t really seem to have much input in the hiring process, and deferred to her boss and her boss’s boss. She told me that the latter, who was the Vice President of Marketing, would be the one who made the final decision.
She gave me a writing assignment to complete while I was there. I was to prepare a résumé for a hypothetical engineer. It was easy and I believe that I did well.
You can bet that I was elated when I was called back for a third interview. The field was narrowing. I waited nearly an hour for the marketing VP to complete another interview. To pass the time, I perused an exhibit in the waiting area. It was a graphic display prepared in response to a Request for Proposal and concerned a project to beautify a neglected area of the city. It immediately struck me that this had absolutely nothing to do with the core business of the firm. They were involved with water- and waste management. I made a mental note to ask the VP about this.
When we finally sat down together, he was interested to know how well I would work with busy engineers who had precious little time to devote to writers. I told him that I had worked with hardware and software engineers in the past, who also were too busy to be bothered. I mentioned that this was in a job very early in my career, which did not appear on my résumé. I explained that I was tenacious in following up with technical personnel and that I often had to remind them that we had to work together if we had any hope of bringing new business into the company. He seemed satisfied with my answer and went on to ask a few related questions.
When it came to my turn, I uttered some remarks that made it clear that I understood the firm’s business from my reading of the annual report and the website. I then brought up the project displayed in Reception and I asked him about its relevance to the organization’s mission. He told me that it was a project about which the region’s engineers were very proud and which they had undertaken to submit on their own time. I agreed that it was very altruistic, but I wondered if it might confuse potential clients, who might expect to see, at their first point of contact in the reception area, a project that was more closely allied with the firm’s core business, water- and waste management.
I actually think that I insulted him. He mentioned, rather defensively, that such projects were displayed throughout the halls of the office, which I had noticed on my prior visits. Any one of those projects would have been a better fit in the reception area, as they had more to do with the company’s actual business. But I didn’t say that.
At the end of the interview, I asked him about the next step. He said that I was the last to be interviewed and that a decision would be made the following week. I asked if I would hear something either way, and he said yes.
Ten days passed. I decided to call the marketing manager. She told me that a decision had not been made. She didn’t offer anything further and I asked if I would be advised in any event. She said yes and rang off.
Nobody called. No one e-mailed, or faxed, or sent me a letter. Three interviews; three suits; three round-trip train fares; three lunches. And hours and hours of Phases I-IV. And they didn’t even have the decency to let me know that they had hired someone else. Even after I sent each of the three a thank-you letter after each interview.
What did me in this time? Was it my questioning of the VP about the lobby display? Was it that I mentioned a job that wasn’t on my résumé? If only he would have asked, I gladly would have explained that I had been advised to go back 15 years on my résumé and no further, but that all of my jobs appeared on my application. Did they finally decide to go with someone from one of the rival firms, who had more direct experience? As with all my other interviews, I’ll never know.
It’s very frustrating, when you’re forced to divulge all kinds of personal information to strangers, not to be treated with respect and candor. But, on the bright side, at least now I don’t have to know how solid waste is managed.
*
Now that I’ve had some time to reflect, I can only say that the business of looking for work is, at best, an imperfect process. In spite of all my preparation, I made a series of mistakes and missteps. As for the employers, they often acted cavalierly and insensitively. How do I make it better for the next time?
Well, for one thing, I’ve decided to put every single job back on my résumé. It was bad advice to eliminate the early positions, in the hope that I could shave a few years off of my age.
For another, I will be extra-special careful in regard to what questions I ask. I need to be more sensitive to hot-button issues.
My biggest worry is that I may never land a job again that includes a lunch hour, a 401K, health benefits, and an employee ID. The longer that I am out of work, the harder it is to find new work and the less attractive I am to employers. That is why I sat down to write this book.
God, I hope it sells 8,999,999 copies.
Saturday, December 18, 2004
A Kid in a Candy Store
I love the Food Network. Where else can you learn how to make – well, anything you can think of and most things you never imagined? I especially love their competitions, during which, with typical shadenfreude (come on, admit it,) we all wait for the moment when someone drops his entry just as he's carrying it to the judges' table.
I happened to tune in the other night right when they were talking about an old-time candy store in Manhattan that sells all of the nostalgia-tinged treats of my youth. The place is crammed floor to ceiling with chocolates, nuts, fruits, jellies, teas, and novelty items. I've lived in New York all of my life and I never even heard of this place. (That's not so unusual, however. There's a storefront for just about anything you can think of here, and most get by on word-of-mouth. New York is a mammoth city, made up of a million little neighborhoods.)
The store's "penny candy" section grabbed my attention. (A penny? Pul-eeze! Not in my lifetime.) I immediately was transported back to my youth. I spent an unholy amount of time at the corner candy store, which housed a counter filled to bursting with Sugar Daddies, dots, marshmallow twists, jelly rings, Mary Janes, and a thousand other teeth-destroyers. Is it any wonder that every tooth in my mouth has a filling?
I had see this place up close and personal, and today, I journeyed to Nirvana; otherwise known as Economy Candy on Rivington Street. This inconspicuous emporium is located in what is known as the Lower East Side of Manhattan, a neighborhood that time forgot. You won't find too many plush condos here. The streets are filled with ancient apartment buildings festooned with fire escapes. Any moment, I expected to see Toody and Muldoon roll by in Car 54.
I entered the shop and I immediately felt happy. There was so much to choose from, I didn't know where to start. M&Ms in all the colors of the rainbow. Pez dispensers with every cartoon character from the beginning of time. Wax lips. Chocolate cigarettes. Itty-bitty Mars bars, Mounds, Dove bars. Good and Plenty; O Henry, Junior Mints; Halvah. And my all-time favorite – chocolate Ice Cubes. This little bit of heaven is a square of chocolate with a cooling whoosh. I grabbed several handfuls and went back twice for more.
I walked around the store four times, just to make sure I didn't miss anything. My mission was to fill a tin for a friend with a sweet tooth. Mission accomplished.
I traveled two hours and I took four trains and I strained my back carrying it all home. But a bunch of my friends now are going to have a very sweet new year. And I rekindled a few happy childhood memories. I have to sign off now to make dinner – peanut-butter cups and jelly rings on a bed of M&Ms.
I happened to tune in the other night right when they were talking about an old-time candy store in Manhattan that sells all of the nostalgia-tinged treats of my youth. The place is crammed floor to ceiling with chocolates, nuts, fruits, jellies, teas, and novelty items. I've lived in New York all of my life and I never even heard of this place. (That's not so unusual, however. There's a storefront for just about anything you can think of here, and most get by on word-of-mouth. New York is a mammoth city, made up of a million little neighborhoods.)
The store's "penny candy" section grabbed my attention. (A penny? Pul-eeze! Not in my lifetime.) I immediately was transported back to my youth. I spent an unholy amount of time at the corner candy store, which housed a counter filled to bursting with Sugar Daddies, dots, marshmallow twists, jelly rings, Mary Janes, and a thousand other teeth-destroyers. Is it any wonder that every tooth in my mouth has a filling?
I had see this place up close and personal, and today, I journeyed to Nirvana; otherwise known as Economy Candy on Rivington Street. This inconspicuous emporium is located in what is known as the Lower East Side of Manhattan, a neighborhood that time forgot. You won't find too many plush condos here. The streets are filled with ancient apartment buildings festooned with fire escapes. Any moment, I expected to see Toody and Muldoon roll by in Car 54.
I entered the shop and I immediately felt happy. There was so much to choose from, I didn't know where to start. M&Ms in all the colors of the rainbow. Pez dispensers with every cartoon character from the beginning of time. Wax lips. Chocolate cigarettes. Itty-bitty Mars bars, Mounds, Dove bars. Good and Plenty; O Henry, Junior Mints; Halvah. And my all-time favorite – chocolate Ice Cubes. This little bit of heaven is a square of chocolate with a cooling whoosh. I grabbed several handfuls and went back twice for more.
I walked around the store four times, just to make sure I didn't miss anything. My mission was to fill a tin for a friend with a sweet tooth. Mission accomplished.
I traveled two hours and I took four trains and I strained my back carrying it all home. But a bunch of my friends now are going to have a very sweet new year. And I rekindled a few happy childhood memories. I have to sign off now to make dinner – peanut-butter cups and jelly rings on a bed of M&Ms.
Sunday, December 12, 2004
Book excerpt - Blown Job: Chapter 7, Part 1
Nearly three years ago, I was fired from my job; a casualty of the post-9/11 economic downturn. After 18 months of looking for work without success, I sat down to write a book, entitled, "Blown Job: an unemployment odyssey." I've been posting excerpts here. Since preparing for interviews took up such a big part of my life during that time, I've split Chapter Seven into two parts. Here's Part One. (See "Past Posts of Note" for earlier chapters )
Chapter 7, Part 1 - Interviews, or, You Don’t Need Anyone, Do You?
I certainly didn’t rely on networking alone to search for work. Remember that laundry list of job titles that I cataloged earlier, the ones that headlined employment ads on the ’Net? Well, these are just some of the companies and organizations whose ads I responded to:
Lexis/Nexis; The Foundation Center; Natural Resources Defense Council; Baruch College; FleetBoston Financial; Ernst & Young; Grubb & Ellis; Scholastic, Inc.; Trammell Crow; Sesame Workshop; Skadden Arps Slate Meagher & Flom; Lincoln Center; Parsons Brinckerhoff; UNICEF; CNN; Manhattan Theatre Club; Bloomingdale’s; AOL Time Warner;
Bates USA; PEN American Center; Thirteen/WNET; UBS Warburg; Pratt Institute; American Foundation for the Blind; Macy’s; Details Magazine; NBC; HarperCollins; CBS; The Learning Annex; The Ford Foundation; The Robin Hood Foundation; Random House; American Express; MTV; Rodale, Inc.;
Dress for Success; Con Edison; Brooklyn College; The New York Times; Women’s City Club of New York; The Doe Fund; Bloomberg, Inc.; Starlight Children’s Foundation; God’s Love We Deliver; A&E; Barnes & Noble; Sterling National Bank; Meredith Corporation; Bertelsmann.
The list is lots longer. I wrote to smaller firms. I responded to post office boxes, e-mail addresses, and fax numbers used by companies who wanted their names to remain confidential. I applied through the New York State Department of Labor. Each time, I composed a cover letter; tailored my résumé accordingly; included clips of my work, if required, and sent off the packages with fingers crossed and heart racing. And nearly every time, I met with disappointment.
Some of the firms were polite enough to send rejection letters:
And the closer, “best of luck in your career” never fails to irritate me. What they’re really saying is, “we don’t want you, but here’s hoping you'll find some hapless sucker who will.” If I had any luck at all, you would have called me, bitch. (In Human Resources, the bitches seem to vastly outnumber the bastards.)
Now, I don’t want you to think that I wasn’t able to garner a single interview in my 18 months of unemployment. I actually interviewed for four jobs. Not a fabulous ratio, but not that unusual, from what I’ve heard and read.
Going on an interview, for me, is akin to preparing for a trip to the moon. I want to be sure that I take everything that I will possibly need and I have to be prepared for every possible contingency. I’ve always been deadly serious about the subject of work – unlike a friend of mine, who, while still a young man and reluctant to join the choking mass of nine-to-fivers, would joke that he’d call companies and ask, “You don’t need anyone, do you?”
*
My preparation goes something like this. When I receive the much-anticipated call from a person in Human Resources, I immediately log on to the ’Net and read every page of the employer’s website. I print out the company’s newsletters for future reference. I focus on the firm’s buzzwords, acronyms, and mission statement. I read the Annual Report. I scan search engines for mentions of the firm and its top executives. I look at industry information on Hoover’s.
That’s Phase I. Phase II is to review the literature I’ve accumulated on interviewing techniques. I practice my two-minute pitch, which encapsulates my talents and strengths. I go over basic questions: the ones I might be asked and the ones that I should ask. I rehearse my answers. I think up new questions based on the particular firm.
Phase III is reviewing my portfolio of writing and graphics samples. I reorganize it, based on the particular job’s requirements. Are they interested in press releases, proposals, or newsletters? Will they want to see technical writing or letters or humor? Which graphic should I open the portfolio with? This is basically an exercise in masturbation, because I usually have to ask an interviewer if she wants to take a look. Most are probably bleary eyed from viewing portfolios, by the time I show up.
Phase IV is scoping out the territory. This means figuring out where the office is located and how I will get there – which train to take, what time to leave home, how far I have to walk. On interview day, I check out the neighborhood. Is there a Duane Reade drugstore nearby? This is priority one, and the answer is almost always in the affirmative, because the company’s expansion plans apparently call for a DR to be located on every city block in Manhattan. Next, where’s the nearest branch of my bank? How many fast food restaurants are nearby? Is there a good place for me to stand and have a smoke? Where are the nearest shoe repair shop, library, and post office? These may seem like trivial matters, but when you spend more than half of every day away from home, these things take on importance, on par with salary, benefits, and an office with real walls.
So now I’m ready. All I have to do is choke down the overwhelming nausea that consumes me before every interview. I come to each interview very well prepared and quite fearful that I will forget everything I reviewed over the past few days. Though I am well-dressed and make a good outward appearance, I worry that my stockings will rip, or the seams on my skirt will shift, or my lipstick will smear. I worry that I will smile inappropriately or not enough. I worry that I won’t be able to come up with the right small talk. I worry that I will not be able to remember the details on my résumé. I worry that I won’t be able to answer a question for which I am unprepared. I worry that I will perspire if it is too warm, or that my nipples will show through my blouse if it is too cold. Should I take my jacket off? Should I cross my legs? Can I lean back in my chair or should I sit forward?
None of this is covered in any of the employment guides. It’s probably best not to think too much about any of this and just hope that the work will speak for itself. But we all know that what you say with your body language and facial expressions counts heavily in any social interaction, which, for better or worse, is just what an interview is. You can intrigue an interviewer with your résumé, but you really sell her with your personality. In which case, I’m dead.
Chapter 7, Part 1 - Interviews, or, You Don’t Need Anyone, Do You?
Interview Tip #1: Remove your tongue stud before the interview, not during.
I certainly didn’t rely on networking alone to search for work. Remember that laundry list of job titles that I cataloged earlier, the ones that headlined employment ads on the ’Net? Well, these are just some of the companies and organizations whose ads I responded to:
Lexis/Nexis; The Foundation Center; Natural Resources Defense Council; Baruch College; FleetBoston Financial; Ernst & Young; Grubb & Ellis; Scholastic, Inc.; Trammell Crow; Sesame Workshop; Skadden Arps Slate Meagher & Flom; Lincoln Center; Parsons Brinckerhoff; UNICEF; CNN; Manhattan Theatre Club; Bloomingdale’s; AOL Time Warner;
Bates USA; PEN American Center; Thirteen/WNET; UBS Warburg; Pratt Institute; American Foundation for the Blind; Macy’s; Details Magazine; NBC; HarperCollins; CBS; The Learning Annex; The Ford Foundation; The Robin Hood Foundation; Random House; American Express; MTV; Rodale, Inc.;
Dress for Success; Con Edison; Brooklyn College; The New York Times; Women’s City Club of New York; The Doe Fund; Bloomberg, Inc.; Starlight Children’s Foundation; God’s Love We Deliver; A&E; Barnes & Noble; Sterling National Bank; Meredith Corporation; Bertelsmann.
The list is lots longer. I wrote to smaller firms. I responded to post office boxes, e-mail addresses, and fax numbers used by companies who wanted their names to remain confidential. I applied through the New York State Department of Labor. Each time, I composed a cover letter; tailored my résumé accordingly; included clips of my work, if required, and sent off the packages with fingers crossed and heart racing. And nearly every time, I met with disappointment.
Some of the firms were polite enough to send rejection letters:
Dear (Your Name Here),Has anyone out there ever been called within the six months that your résumé supposedly remains on file? This is one of those expressions that has about as much meaning as “the check is in the mail” or “that dress really makes your ass look smaller.” It’s a nice lie.
Thank you for your interest in the XYZ Corporation. While we were impressed with your credentials, we have decided to hire someone with more direct experience.
We will hold your résumé on file for six months, in the event that a position opens up that can best utilize your skills.
Again, thank you for writing, and best of luck in your career.
And the closer, “best of luck in your career” never fails to irritate me. What they’re really saying is, “we don’t want you, but here’s hoping you'll find some hapless sucker who will.” If I had any luck at all, you would have called me, bitch. (In Human Resources, the bitches seem to vastly outnumber the bastards.)
Interview Tip #2: When the interviewer asks if you’d like some coffee, don’t say, “No, thanks. What I really could go for is some moo shu.”
Now, I don’t want you to think that I wasn’t able to garner a single interview in my 18 months of unemployment. I actually interviewed for four jobs. Not a fabulous ratio, but not that unusual, from what I’ve heard and read.
Going on an interview, for me, is akin to preparing for a trip to the moon. I want to be sure that I take everything that I will possibly need and I have to be prepared for every possible contingency. I’ve always been deadly serious about the subject of work – unlike a friend of mine, who, while still a young man and reluctant to join the choking mass of nine-to-fivers, would joke that he’d call companies and ask, “You don’t need anyone, do you?”
*
My preparation goes something like this. When I receive the much-anticipated call from a person in Human Resources, I immediately log on to the ’Net and read every page of the employer’s website. I print out the company’s newsletters for future reference. I focus on the firm’s buzzwords, acronyms, and mission statement. I read the Annual Report. I scan search engines for mentions of the firm and its top executives. I look at industry information on Hoover’s.
That’s Phase I. Phase II is to review the literature I’ve accumulated on interviewing techniques. I practice my two-minute pitch, which encapsulates my talents and strengths. I go over basic questions: the ones I might be asked and the ones that I should ask. I rehearse my answers. I think up new questions based on the particular firm.
Phase III is reviewing my portfolio of writing and graphics samples. I reorganize it, based on the particular job’s requirements. Are they interested in press releases, proposals, or newsletters? Will they want to see technical writing or letters or humor? Which graphic should I open the portfolio with? This is basically an exercise in masturbation, because I usually have to ask an interviewer if she wants to take a look. Most are probably bleary eyed from viewing portfolios, by the time I show up.
Phase IV is scoping out the territory. This means figuring out where the office is located and how I will get there – which train to take, what time to leave home, how far I have to walk. On interview day, I check out the neighborhood. Is there a Duane Reade drugstore nearby? This is priority one, and the answer is almost always in the affirmative, because the company’s expansion plans apparently call for a DR to be located on every city block in Manhattan. Next, where’s the nearest branch of my bank? How many fast food restaurants are nearby? Is there a good place for me to stand and have a smoke? Where are the nearest shoe repair shop, library, and post office? These may seem like trivial matters, but when you spend more than half of every day away from home, these things take on importance, on par with salary, benefits, and an office with real walls.
Interview Tip #3: Don’t ask if you can smoke at your desk; if the ladies room has a condom dispenser; if Halloween is a paid holiday; if your kids can play under your desk after school.
So now I’m ready. All I have to do is choke down the overwhelming nausea that consumes me before every interview. I come to each interview very well prepared and quite fearful that I will forget everything I reviewed over the past few days. Though I am well-dressed and make a good outward appearance, I worry that my stockings will rip, or the seams on my skirt will shift, or my lipstick will smear. I worry that I will smile inappropriately or not enough. I worry that I won’t be able to come up with the right small talk. I worry that I will not be able to remember the details on my résumé. I worry that I won’t be able to answer a question for which I am unprepared. I worry that I will perspire if it is too warm, or that my nipples will show through my blouse if it is too cold. Should I take my jacket off? Should I cross my legs? Can I lean back in my chair or should I sit forward?
None of this is covered in any of the employment guides. It’s probably best not to think too much about any of this and just hope that the work will speak for itself. But we all know that what you say with your body language and facial expressions counts heavily in any social interaction, which, for better or worse, is just what an interview is. You can intrigue an interviewer with your résumé, but you really sell her with your personality. In which case, I’m dead.
Saturday, December 11, 2004
What the %#@*!
*
A teacher's aide fed dog food to preschoolers pretending to be puppies. As if that weren't bad enough, one kid misspelled "cat" and was whacked on the nose with a rolled-up newspaper.
*
A prisoner stabbed a fellow inmate with a sharpened pork chop bone. A subsequent toss of the cells turned up a chopped liver gun with caper bullets, a bow and arrow made of turkey gizzards, and a garrote made of Twizzlers.
*
A guy who was unhappy with his Subway sandwich threatened to kill the clerk. It just goes to show, the customer is always insane.
*
A man frustrated with having to memorize a growing list of computer passwords has suggested tattoos as the new alternative. I'm thinking of getting " Mo!*th!#er."
A teacher's aide fed dog food to preschoolers pretending to be puppies. As if that weren't bad enough, one kid misspelled "cat" and was whacked on the nose with a rolled-up newspaper.
*
A prisoner stabbed a fellow inmate with a sharpened pork chop bone. A subsequent toss of the cells turned up a chopped liver gun with caper bullets, a bow and arrow made of turkey gizzards, and a garrote made of Twizzlers.
*
A guy who was unhappy with his Subway sandwich threatened to kill the clerk. It just goes to show, the customer is always insane.
*
A man frustrated with having to memorize a growing list of computer passwords has suggested tattoos as the new alternative. I'm thinking of getting " Mo!*th!#er."
Wednesday, December 08, 2004
Cat-astrophe
*
An online diploma mill has been sued for, among other things, awarding an MBA degree to a cat. Rumor has it that the cat, who is said to be pursing his doctorate, was so distraught he attempted to neuter himself.
*
The woman who auctioned her father's ghost and his cane on eBay got $65,000 from the same folks who bought the fabled "Virgin Mary on a grilled cheese sandwich." I wonder if they'd be interested in my dust bunny collection.
*
Experts suggest we give ourselves a rest from technology every so often. No, not this min... .
An online diploma mill has been sued for, among other things, awarding an MBA degree to a cat. Rumor has it that the cat, who is said to be pursing his doctorate, was so distraught he attempted to neuter himself.
*
The woman who auctioned her father's ghost and his cane on eBay got $65,000 from the same folks who bought the fabled "Virgin Mary on a grilled cheese sandwich." I wonder if they'd be interested in my dust bunny collection.
*
Experts suggest we give ourselves a rest from technology every so often. No, not this min... .
Sunday, December 05, 2004
Book excerpt - Blown Job: Chapter 6
Nearly three years ago, I was fired from my job; a casualty of the post-9/11 economic downturn. After 18 months of looking for work without success, I sat down to write a book, entitled, "Blown Job: an unemployment odyssey." Here's an excerpt from Chapter Six. (See "Past Posts of Note" for earlier chapters. )
Chapter 6 - Networking, Or, How to Lose Friends and Influence No One
True story:
An unemployed nurse goes to her gynecologist for a checkup. While she’s in stirrups, the doctor asks her how she’s doing. She tells him she lost her job. He tells her there is (you should pardon the expression) an opening in his office, and asks if she’d be interested in working there. She responds enthusiastically and subsequently wins the job.
While this is the ultimate in networking, between you and me, I wouldn’t want to share a lunchroom with someone who’s made a clinical study of my whatzis. But hey, a job’s a job.
Networking: making the most of your contacts in order to find employment. These days, it is absolutely necessary to make capital of every relationship you have, no matter how tenuous or strained the connection. Too many applicants for too few jobs means that you have no choice but to pull hard on the old school tie, flatter your mortal enemy, and call in every favor owed. Shrinking violets need not apply.
I used to be painfully shy, to the point where I made up illnesses to keep from attending social functions. I’ve had food poisoning, labyrinthitis, even gout to avoid everything from my class reunion to the funeral of my former best friend. But losing my job has forced me to adopt all kinds of postures that I never would have considered before (except the one in stirrups.) The choking off of income is a powerful stimulus.
And so, I began my adventure in networking by contacting colleagues from the job I just lost. Each of them also had left the organization, either on her own or through a previous purge. My first contact had become an independent consultant. When I called her, she spent the first few minutes of the conversation commiserating with me and bad-mouthing our former firm, about which she got no argument. She then complained about the high cost of doing business as an independent and said that she couldn’t even afford a cell phone. I proceeded to tell her about the terrific one that I used, which didn’t require monthly fees or background checks. She professed an interest in this and I gave her all of the information that I had.
At the end of the call, she told me she would keep me in mind, in case she needed any help with written communications to prospective clients. Of course, I never heard from her. All I can say is, if she bought a Tracfone, I hope the battery dies when her car breaks down on a rural highway in a snowstorm at midnight.
I next contacted a fellow writer who had landed a job writing grant proposals at a non-profit. I took her to lunch and, after the obligatory small talk, she told me about an upcoming conference for non-profit professionals, at which it might be possible to make some networking connections. I soon found out that this kind of support was the most I could hope for. In almost all my interactions, instead of finding out about actual jobs, the best I could do was to obtain more networking advice. And so the chase began.
I called a third colleague, who also was working at a non-profit agency. She passed me along to a colleague of hers, to whom I sent a letter and from whom I never heard.
Next, I hit on friends of mine, who dutifully took my résumés and distributed them within their organizations or on to business associates. My friends even enlisted their nieces, nephews and cousins in the hunt. It was like a pyramid scheme gone wild – you tell a friend, and she’ll tell a friend, and so on….
One good friend put me in touch with an associate at a major publishing firm, who, in turn, gave me the phone numbers of three people in her organization. All of them were very nice and very solicitous, and none of them were able to help.
This I found to be particularly distressing, because I knew that this firm was hiring. The first person I spoke to was kind enough to disclose to me the positions that were posted on her firm’s intranet. I also checked the firm’s website and found other postings there. But I couldn’t get a nibble from the people conducting the interviews.
This brings up two troubling issues. The first is, why, in spite of my having inside information, could I not get an interview? There were several possible answers – the positions may have been filled from within; interviews already may have been conducted by the time I found out about the jobs; applicants whose skills more closely matched the requirements were more likely candidates. Or, it simply could have been that I’m too old and untalented and fated to die on my cot in a homeless shelter, once I lose my apartment because I can’t pay the rent because I can’t find a job because I’m unhireable after working too many years. Uh oh, that’s loser talk. But, can you blame me? I didn’t just fall off the turnip truck. I should be accumulating a big fat pension now, instead of presenting myself, hat in hand, heart on my sleeve, and bile in my throat.
I’ll never know the reasons, and I’ll always wonder.
The second troubling thought is, what will the people who’ve been trying to help me think of me now? They already know that I’ve been fired from my job, and though I’ve told them it was a mass purge that eliminated my entire department, some of them must be thinking, what the hell is wrong with her? Wouldn’t they have kept her on, if she was any good? And worse, when my friends have gone out on a limb on my behalf with their friends and colleagues and I still can’t get an interview, will they be tarnished for associating with a loser like me?
No one, but no one, ever has done or said anything to make me feel this way, but I’m pretty damned sure that this must be what they’re thinking.
*
These are just some of the highlights of my adventures in networking. The bottom line is, I’ve contacted everyone I know and, in spite of their help, every single lead turned out to be a dead end.
Anyone who professes to know anything about careers will tell you that networking is the very best way to find a job. I believe that this is true, in good times. But in a bleak economic climate, innovation is key.
So, if your adventures in networking have been anything like mine, my advice to you is, light a candle; perform a Santería ritual; avoid cracks in the sidewalk; dress only in yellow; listen to pronouncements from your pet; and parse the messages in your fortune cookies. Reliance on these unconventional methods will assure you the same brilliant success you’ll get from jeopardizing formerly solid relationships.
I absolutely believe that each and every one of the nine million of us will find a job just as soon as nine million new jobs are created. I figure between the Gap and Starbucks, it shouldn’t be too long now.
Chapter 6 - Networking, Or, How to Lose Friends and Influence No One
True story:
An unemployed nurse goes to her gynecologist for a checkup. While she’s in stirrups, the doctor asks her how she’s doing. She tells him she lost her job. He tells her there is (you should pardon the expression) an opening in his office, and asks if she’d be interested in working there. She responds enthusiastically and subsequently wins the job.
While this is the ultimate in networking, between you and me, I wouldn’t want to share a lunchroom with someone who’s made a clinical study of my whatzis. But hey, a job’s a job.
Networking: making the most of your contacts in order to find employment. These days, it is absolutely necessary to make capital of every relationship you have, no matter how tenuous or strained the connection. Too many applicants for too few jobs means that you have no choice but to pull hard on the old school tie, flatter your mortal enemy, and call in every favor owed. Shrinking violets need not apply.
I used to be painfully shy, to the point where I made up illnesses to keep from attending social functions. I’ve had food poisoning, labyrinthitis, even gout to avoid everything from my class reunion to the funeral of my former best friend. But losing my job has forced me to adopt all kinds of postures that I never would have considered before (except the one in stirrups.) The choking off of income is a powerful stimulus.
And so, I began my adventure in networking by contacting colleagues from the job I just lost. Each of them also had left the organization, either on her own or through a previous purge. My first contact had become an independent consultant. When I called her, she spent the first few minutes of the conversation commiserating with me and bad-mouthing our former firm, about which she got no argument. She then complained about the high cost of doing business as an independent and said that she couldn’t even afford a cell phone. I proceeded to tell her about the terrific one that I used, which didn’t require monthly fees or background checks. She professed an interest in this and I gave her all of the information that I had.
At the end of the call, she told me she would keep me in mind, in case she needed any help with written communications to prospective clients. Of course, I never heard from her. All I can say is, if she bought a Tracfone, I hope the battery dies when her car breaks down on a rural highway in a snowstorm at midnight.
I next contacted a fellow writer who had landed a job writing grant proposals at a non-profit. I took her to lunch and, after the obligatory small talk, she told me about an upcoming conference for non-profit professionals, at which it might be possible to make some networking connections. I soon found out that this kind of support was the most I could hope for. In almost all my interactions, instead of finding out about actual jobs, the best I could do was to obtain more networking advice. And so the chase began.
I called a third colleague, who also was working at a non-profit agency. She passed me along to a colleague of hers, to whom I sent a letter and from whom I never heard.
Next, I hit on friends of mine, who dutifully took my résumés and distributed them within their organizations or on to business associates. My friends even enlisted their nieces, nephews and cousins in the hunt. It was like a pyramid scheme gone wild – you tell a friend, and she’ll tell a friend, and so on….
One good friend put me in touch with an associate at a major publishing firm, who, in turn, gave me the phone numbers of three people in her organization. All of them were very nice and very solicitous, and none of them were able to help.
This I found to be particularly distressing, because I knew that this firm was hiring. The first person I spoke to was kind enough to disclose to me the positions that were posted on her firm’s intranet. I also checked the firm’s website and found other postings there. But I couldn’t get a nibble from the people conducting the interviews.
This brings up two troubling issues. The first is, why, in spite of my having inside information, could I not get an interview? There were several possible answers – the positions may have been filled from within; interviews already may have been conducted by the time I found out about the jobs; applicants whose skills more closely matched the requirements were more likely candidates. Or, it simply could have been that I’m too old and untalented and fated to die on my cot in a homeless shelter, once I lose my apartment because I can’t pay the rent because I can’t find a job because I’m unhireable after working too many years. Uh oh, that’s loser talk. But, can you blame me? I didn’t just fall off the turnip truck. I should be accumulating a big fat pension now, instead of presenting myself, hat in hand, heart on my sleeve, and bile in my throat.
I’ll never know the reasons, and I’ll always wonder.
The second troubling thought is, what will the people who’ve been trying to help me think of me now? They already know that I’ve been fired from my job, and though I’ve told them it was a mass purge that eliminated my entire department, some of them must be thinking, what the hell is wrong with her? Wouldn’t they have kept her on, if she was any good? And worse, when my friends have gone out on a limb on my behalf with their friends and colleagues and I still can’t get an interview, will they be tarnished for associating with a loser like me?
No one, but no one, ever has done or said anything to make me feel this way, but I’m pretty damned sure that this must be what they’re thinking.
*
These are just some of the highlights of my adventures in networking. The bottom line is, I’ve contacted everyone I know and, in spite of their help, every single lead turned out to be a dead end.
Anyone who professes to know anything about careers will tell you that networking is the very best way to find a job. I believe that this is true, in good times. But in a bleak economic climate, innovation is key.
So, if your adventures in networking have been anything like mine, my advice to you is, light a candle; perform a Santería ritual; avoid cracks in the sidewalk; dress only in yellow; listen to pronouncements from your pet; and parse the messages in your fortune cookies. Reliance on these unconventional methods will assure you the same brilliant success you’ll get from jeopardizing formerly solid relationships.
I absolutely believe that each and every one of the nine million of us will find a job just as soon as nine million new jobs are created. I figure between the Gap and Starbucks, it shouldn’t be too long now.
Saturday, December 04, 2004
More Food for Thought
*
In New York, a martini with a loose diamond plunked in can set you back $10,000. Or $9,997.50 without the olive. Or $10,800 with the trip to the ER to extract the gem from your small intestine.
*
A woman is auctioning her father's ghost on eBay. How the hell do you figure the shipping charge on that? And what kind of people types the word "ghost" in the eBay Search box to begin with? The same ones, I suppose, who would enter "Virgin Mary" AND "grilled cheese sandwich."
*
The secretary of health and human services, Tommy Thompson, resigned the other day, with a parting shot – "For the life of me," he said, "I cannot understand why the terrorists have not attacked our food supply because it is so easy to do." Sounds like a case of sour grapes to me.
In New York, a martini with a loose diamond plunked in can set you back $10,000. Or $9,997.50 without the olive. Or $10,800 with the trip to the ER to extract the gem from your small intestine.
*
A woman is auctioning her father's ghost on eBay. How the hell do you figure the shipping charge on that? And what kind of people types the word "ghost" in the eBay Search box to begin with? The same ones, I suppose, who would enter "Virgin Mary" AND "grilled cheese sandwich."
*
The secretary of health and human services, Tommy Thompson, resigned the other day, with a parting shot – "For the life of me," he said, "I cannot understand why the terrorists have not attacked our food supply because it is so easy to do." Sounds like a case of sour grapes to me.
Thursday, December 02, 2004
Food for Thought
*
As the great Dave Barry says, "I'm not making this up." ABC Family Channel is readying a multiethnic sitcomedy extravaganza, "East of Normal, West of Weird," about a 13-year-old Chinese girl adopted by Caucasian New Yorkers; one Jewish and the other Protestant. I bet Emeril shows up to cook the family's favorite meal, moo shu pork with mayonnaise.
*
This whole rash of Spongebob thefts has made Patrick absolutely frantic. Rumor has it he's offering the thieves a reward of 10,000 clams.
*
A restaurant that serves only cereal opened in Philadelphia. I guess their big seller will be Cheesesteak Crispies.
As the great Dave Barry says, "I'm not making this up." ABC Family Channel is readying a multiethnic sitcomedy extravaganza, "East of Normal, West of Weird," about a 13-year-old Chinese girl adopted by Caucasian New Yorkers; one Jewish and the other Protestant. I bet Emeril shows up to cook the family's favorite meal, moo shu pork with mayonnaise.
*
This whole rash of Spongebob thefts has made Patrick absolutely frantic. Rumor has it he's offering the thieves a reward of 10,000 clams.
*
A restaurant that serves only cereal opened in Philadelphia. I guess their big seller will be Cheesesteak Crispies.
Saturday, November 27, 2004
Book excerpt - Blown Job: Chapter 5
Nearly three years ago, I was fired from my job; a casualty of the post-9/11 economic downturn. After 18 months of looking for work without success, I sat down to write a book, entitled, "Blown Job: an unemployment odyssey." Here's an excerpt from Chapter Five. (See "Past Posts of Note" for earlier chapters.)
Chapter 5 - The Boys of Winter
My most surreal unemployment experience came about because I was too broke to buy a computer.
During my first Unemployment Winter, on sub-freezing days, I simply couldn’t endure schlepping to the Career Center in Manhattan (two trains, a bus and a five-block walk.) I had to find a way to access the Internet closer to home. This proved to be a neat trick because, in the outer boroughs, where the population is 95% Luddite, computer access is hard to find.
One day, when I was window shopping on a main thoroughfare, I happened to look up and there it was, above a 99¢ store: Internet Terminals! Computer Games! Yu-Gi-Oh! While I wasn’t sure if that last one was a religious service, a type of vegetable, or a Nipponese curse, I understood the first term well enough. I climbed the rickety staircase, pushed open the door, and came upon what can best be described as uncontrolled prepubescent male mayhem.
Seated in front of 10 computer terminals and 5 large-screen TVs was a gaggle of boys; yelling, cursing, scratching, picking, punching, - did I say cursing? – and otherwise making a cacophony unheard since the detonation of Fat Man and Little Boy. Luckily for me, one terminal was available.
After I learned the terms of the arrangement – the hourly rate, and the charges for printing and faxing – I was good to go. I sat down between a sullen 16-year old and an amped-up kid of 12 or so. The 12-year old apparently was suffering from an advanced case of Tourette’s syndrome, because every other word out of his mouth was a variation of the F-word, which he managed to use spot-on, in all of its grammatical splendor.
To say that it was difficult to concentrate on my job search in the midst of this mayhem would not be an exaggeration. As I tried to mentally block out the noise, my peripheral vision was bombarded with stimuli impossible to ignore. It appeared that mothers' little darlings on either side of me were locked in a life-and-death battle; controlling their gun-toting avatars with furious mouse clicks and strong verbal encouragement. I couldn’t help but notice that people and things were being blown away in profusion, as invisible superheroes raced down alleys and around corners. It was all so utterly realistic that I feared the blood spatter and mangled viscera would leap off the screens and onto my forehead.
When it finally occurred to me that this distraction was costing me money as my computer time ticked away, I tried really hard to focus on my own screen. I actually was able to get some work done, but I knew that I would have been better off if I had hopped a train to the city.
This place was Nirvana for three groups of people – the mothers of these foul-mouthed brats, who were happy that their kids weren't on some street corner shooting up (little did they know!); the games manufacturers, who were adding steadily to their customer base; and the owners of this emporium, who were vacuuming allowance money right out of the kids’ wallets, not only on computer time, but also with the sale of medallions, collectible miniatures, and trading cards (ohhhh, Yu-Gi-Oh!)
The only one who didn’t fit into the equation was me. I pretty much decided after that day that I would not return. But, the next time it snowed six inches, I found myself making my way up the stairs once again; only this time, it was in the dark, as the 25-watt bulb that had lit the way previously had blown. This didn’t seem to deter my boys, who raced past me as I hung on to the banister for dear life, gingerly feeling for each broken step as I made my way up.
This time, I came prepared. I brought my Walkman to drown out the sound and I came before school let out. So, the place was home only to me, the kids who were cutting class, and a scattering of Comic Book Guys – unshaven, unwashed, and eternally unemployed.
There is nothing so incongruous as a serious female trying to work in a room full of young, rude, crude, smelly, loud, icky boys. I felt like I was back in Public School 238, except then I was pre-menstrual and now I’m peri-menopausal. Here I was -- Aunt Bea, just chillin’ with The Bowery Boys.
I came back about a half-dozen times throughout the winter, but I knew that I had had enough when I made the mistake of showing up on a school holiday. It was a Monday of a three-day weekend, and the fellows were bursting with way too much energy. One of the guys, who appeared to be the designated kibitzer, bounced from one terminal to the next, giving a play-by-play of every game, like a junior Marv Albert, if Marv began every sentence with the word “fuck.” Every few minutes, the proprietor would scream, “Shut up, Gary,” but the kid was in the moment and was thus undeterred. After a half-hour of this, the owner threatened to throw Gary out, but that proved to be toothless. I was getting ready to toss out ol’ Gar myself, when his mom called him on his cell and told him to come home. That was the last I saw of Gary, or, as I like to think of him, America’s future.
That was my final foray into computer games central. I cannot look at a young boy today without wanting to slap the crap out of him, just on principle. Forget about what drugs and guns and booze can do to young males. Put a joystick or a mouse in their hands and sonic booms in their speakers and be afraid. Be very afraid.
Chapter 5 - The Boys of Winter
My most surreal unemployment experience came about because I was too broke to buy a computer.
During my first Unemployment Winter, on sub-freezing days, I simply couldn’t endure schlepping to the Career Center in Manhattan (two trains, a bus and a five-block walk.) I had to find a way to access the Internet closer to home. This proved to be a neat trick because, in the outer boroughs, where the population is 95% Luddite, computer access is hard to find.
One day, when I was window shopping on a main thoroughfare, I happened to look up and there it was, above a 99¢ store: Internet Terminals! Computer Games! Yu-Gi-Oh! While I wasn’t sure if that last one was a religious service, a type of vegetable, or a Nipponese curse, I understood the first term well enough. I climbed the rickety staircase, pushed open the door, and came upon what can best be described as uncontrolled prepubescent male mayhem.
Seated in front of 10 computer terminals and 5 large-screen TVs was a gaggle of boys; yelling, cursing, scratching, picking, punching, - did I say cursing? – and otherwise making a cacophony unheard since the detonation of Fat Man and Little Boy. Luckily for me, one terminal was available.
After I learned the terms of the arrangement – the hourly rate, and the charges for printing and faxing – I was good to go. I sat down between a sullen 16-year old and an amped-up kid of 12 or so. The 12-year old apparently was suffering from an advanced case of Tourette’s syndrome, because every other word out of his mouth was a variation of the F-word, which he managed to use spot-on, in all of its grammatical splendor.
To say that it was difficult to concentrate on my job search in the midst of this mayhem would not be an exaggeration. As I tried to mentally block out the noise, my peripheral vision was bombarded with stimuli impossible to ignore. It appeared that mothers' little darlings on either side of me were locked in a life-and-death battle; controlling their gun-toting avatars with furious mouse clicks and strong verbal encouragement. I couldn’t help but notice that people and things were being blown away in profusion, as invisible superheroes raced down alleys and around corners. It was all so utterly realistic that I feared the blood spatter and mangled viscera would leap off the screens and onto my forehead.
When it finally occurred to me that this distraction was costing me money as my computer time ticked away, I tried really hard to focus on my own screen. I actually was able to get some work done, but I knew that I would have been better off if I had hopped a train to the city.
This place was Nirvana for three groups of people – the mothers of these foul-mouthed brats, who were happy that their kids weren't on some street corner shooting up (little did they know!); the games manufacturers, who were adding steadily to their customer base; and the owners of this emporium, who were vacuuming allowance money right out of the kids’ wallets, not only on computer time, but also with the sale of medallions, collectible miniatures, and trading cards (ohhhh, Yu-Gi-Oh!)
The only one who didn’t fit into the equation was me. I pretty much decided after that day that I would not return. But, the next time it snowed six inches, I found myself making my way up the stairs once again; only this time, it was in the dark, as the 25-watt bulb that had lit the way previously had blown. This didn’t seem to deter my boys, who raced past me as I hung on to the banister for dear life, gingerly feeling for each broken step as I made my way up.
This time, I came prepared. I brought my Walkman to drown out the sound and I came before school let out. So, the place was home only to me, the kids who were cutting class, and a scattering of Comic Book Guys – unshaven, unwashed, and eternally unemployed.
There is nothing so incongruous as a serious female trying to work in a room full of young, rude, crude, smelly, loud, icky boys. I felt like I was back in Public School 238, except then I was pre-menstrual and now I’m peri-menopausal. Here I was -- Aunt Bea, just chillin’ with The Bowery Boys.
I came back about a half-dozen times throughout the winter, but I knew that I had had enough when I made the mistake of showing up on a school holiday. It was a Monday of a three-day weekend, and the fellows were bursting with way too much energy. One of the guys, who appeared to be the designated kibitzer, bounced from one terminal to the next, giving a play-by-play of every game, like a junior Marv Albert, if Marv began every sentence with the word “fuck.” Every few minutes, the proprietor would scream, “Shut up, Gary,” but the kid was in the moment and was thus undeterred. After a half-hour of this, the owner threatened to throw Gary out, but that proved to be toothless. I was getting ready to toss out ol’ Gar myself, when his mom called him on his cell and told him to come home. That was the last I saw of Gary, or, as I like to think of him, America’s future.
That was my final foray into computer games central. I cannot look at a young boy today without wanting to slap the crap out of him, just on principle. Forget about what drugs and guns and booze can do to young males. Put a joystick or a mouse in their hands and sonic booms in their speakers and be afraid. Be very afraid.
Friday, November 26, 2004
High Sticking
*
Did you hear about the newscaster in Cleveland who stripped nude for a story? I'm just praying Ted Koppell doesn't get any ideas.
*
A hockey player in West Virginia was suspended for dropping his pants. I guess they got him for high sticking.
*
An armor-plated, supposedly theft-proof Mercedes Benz belonging to the company's CEO was broken into by thieves. Watch for their new ad campaign: "Mercedes Benz. We feel your pain."
*
A man stabbed several of his relatives because they criticized his table manners during Thanksgiving dinner. I guess he thought the holiday was all about giving shanks.
*
The newly reopened FAO Schwarz toy store in New York is selling miniature luxury $50,000 Ferraris and $30,000 Hummers. And that's without the optional Corinthian leather juice box holder and gold-plated Ritalin dispenser.
*
In Holland, homeless people are receiving free winter coats, as long as they're willing to have advertising displayed on them. Ben and Jerry's was the first to sign up; probably to promote their new flavors: Chocolate Bark-a Parka; Almond Joy Corduroy and Anorak CrackerJack.
Did you hear about the newscaster in Cleveland who stripped nude for a story? I'm just praying Ted Koppell doesn't get any ideas.
*
A hockey player in West Virginia was suspended for dropping his pants. I guess they got him for high sticking.
*
An armor-plated, supposedly theft-proof Mercedes Benz belonging to the company's CEO was broken into by thieves. Watch for their new ad campaign: "Mercedes Benz. We feel your pain."
*
A man stabbed several of his relatives because they criticized his table manners during Thanksgiving dinner. I guess he thought the holiday was all about giving shanks.
*
The newly reopened FAO Schwarz toy store in New York is selling miniature luxury $50,000 Ferraris and $30,000 Hummers. And that's without the optional Corinthian leather juice box holder and gold-plated Ritalin dispenser.
*
In Holland, homeless people are receiving free winter coats, as long as they're willing to have advertising displayed on them. Ben and Jerry's was the first to sign up; probably to promote their new flavors: Chocolate Bark-a Parka; Almond Joy Corduroy and Anorak CrackerJack.
Saturday, November 20, 2004
Book excerpt - Blown Job: Chapter 4
Nearly three years ago, I was fired from my job; a casualty of the post-9/11 economic downturn. After 18 months of looking for work without success, I sat down to write a book, entitled, "Blown Job: an unemployment odyssey." Here's an excerpt from Chapter Four. (See "Past Posts of Note" for earlier chapters. )
Chapter 4 - ’Net Work
From the moment I was axed to the present day, I have been looking for work. At the Career Center, before and after class, and up to an hour ago, I have spent part of every day doing some job-seeking activity. Those of you who might be unfamiliar with the current marketplace may wonder why, then, haven’t I been able to find a job in a year and a half? There are more of you, I’ll venture, who understand precisely why I’m still unemployed.
At the start, I networked among friends, colleagues, friends of colleagues, colleagues of friends, distant relations, neighbors, acquaintances, my pharmacist, my doctor, his receptionist, my hairdresser and people I sat next to on the bus. Networking has been such a complicated and wholly unproductive process that I’ll save the details of my experiences for a later chapter.
This is where I want to recount for you my adventures in ’Net working, or, searching for work on the Internet. The ’Net has made it easier than ever to find employment openings, but it’s also made it much harder to find actual work.
It may not surprise you to know that once upon a time I earned my living as a writer. I worked for corporations. I have experience in marketing and the non-profit sector. I’ve freelanced and worked as a consultant. I’ve written business communications and edited books. I am open to all writing, editing, (and now) desktop publishing opportunities.
And here is where the process gets complicated. Type the keywords “writer” or “editor” into a search engine and you come up with umpteen possibilities. You need to comb assiduously through them all to find the jobs that you actually can do.
As a result of many, many searches, these are but some of the jobs that I was qualified for and responded to:
Senior Writer/Editor; Grant Writer; Senior Strategic Communications Specialist; Editorial Assistant; Proposal Writer; Foundation Officer/Grants Manager; Marketing and Research Coordinator; Production Assistant; Media Analyst; Major Gifts Development Associate; Associate Director of Development for Corporations and Foundations; Communications/Public Relations Assistant; Manager, Client Development; Communications and Pursuit Strategist;
Editorial Assistant; Business Writer; Business Development Writer; Employee Communications Coordinator; Marketing Assistant; Marketing Associate; Marketing Administrator; Corporate Communications Specialist; Training Content Writer; Development Manager; Presentation Specialist; Associate, Capital Campaign and Government Relations; Publishing Manager; Publications Manager; Proposal Coordinator; Proofreader/Copyeditor; Associate Editor;
Advertising Copywriter; Fashion Copywriter; Copy Coordinator; Marketing/Promotions Manager; Graphic Designer; Investor Relations Writer; Education Writer; Project Manager; Associate Writer; Publicity Assistant; Program Coordinator; Communications Associate; Desk Assistant; Desktop Project Coordinator; Manager; Internal and External Communications; Grant and Donor Stewardship Manager; Executive Assistant; and, the only job title that everyone seems to recognize, Administrative Assistant.
You will note that these positions run the gamut from some kind of Assistant up through Associate Director. The titles are meaningless; it’s the job responsibilities and experience requirements that count. There are some Assistant jobs that are really Manager jobs in disguise, for the simple reason that employers can get away with paying assistant-level salaries to people with manager-level experience.
Most of these jobs, despite their highfalutin’ titles, had the same basic requirements: writing and computer skills, attention to detail, ability to work and play well with others.
Yet, there are lots of little landmines contained within the job descriptions, and only the savvy jobhunter will be able to navigate them without suffering abject disappointment and severe eyestrain. Here’s a sample of what appeared to me at first glance to be a perfect fit:
Marketing Coordinator/Writer/proposal preparation/public relations for consulting firm. Requires writing, editing and proofreading skills; an eye for color and design; sound judgment.
Sounds good.
Must be detail oriented, organized, and computer literate. Capable of handling deadline pressure. Occasional overtime.
I can deal with that.
Must speak Japanese.
D’oh!
This kind of thing happens all the time. You muddle through a job description only to find one requirement that you absolutely cannot fake. Wouldn’t it have been ever so helpful if the ad writer thought about it for a moment and used the phrase “’Japanese-speaking’ Marketing Coordinator” at the beginning of the ad, thus saving me and about 5,000 other people some precious time? Boy, I’d like to have that numbnut’s job. (I’ve probably applied for it already.)
Another thing that ticks me off like crazy is when employers require applicants to possess years of experience with a veritable smorgasbord of software programs. Beyond the holy trinity of Word, Excel, and PowerPoint, many employers expect the ideal applicant to have not merely “knowledge of,” but also “expertise in” such programs as Access, Page Maker, Word Perfect, Quark, Photoshop, Illustrator, Corel DRAW, HTML, Dreamweaver, and Flash. I’d like to meet the one person in America who has even 50% of such knowledge; that is, if his head hasn’t already exploded like one of Gallagher’s watermelons from too much information.
*
Some job descriptions seem like they will never end. The ’Net gives employers the freedom to prate on endlessly; a luxury they would not enjoy if they were paying by the column inch for ad space in a print publication. This is an actual ad that I answered. (I’ve deleted the name of the firm, to protect it from the teasing likely to ensue:)
QUALIFICATIONS: This is an entry-level account service position. An assistant account executive must possess good interpersonal and communication skills in order to work effectively with a variety of account service staff within a specific set of accounts. S/he must have excellent organizational skills and the ability to adapt to new conditions, assignments and deadlines. S/he must have solid knowledge of MS Office Suite. S/he must pass a writing test and demonstrate the ability to become a strong writer. The assistant account executive is expected to hold a bachelor's degree in a related field and have interest in pursing a career in public relations. Previous internship experience in the communications field is desirable.
RESPONSIBILITIES: The assistant account executive is responsible for supporting the account executives, senior account executives and account supervisors in day-to-day activities. Day-to-day responsibilities include: solid understanding of basic principles of PR; familiarity with key client contacts and clear understanding of clients' organizational structure; general account service administration; trafficking jobs and project coordination; preparation of client status reports; compilation of media coverage to client; read and identify media clips from clipping services and on-line resources; reactive and proactive media relations; press tour pitching, scheduling, and logistics; prepare press kits for distribution; schedule booth appointments at trade shows and ensure appropriate follow-up; understand clients' top-tier media and be able to identify appropriate trade and business editors for upcoming pitches; support product reviews process; initial speakers bureau research and coordination; call downs to Media for pitching; assist in writing press release or press kit pieces (fact sheet, tip sheet, bios, etc); participate in brainstorms; knowledge of AP style; write memos to vendors; write creative and accurate new releases and headlines; research, outline, write and edit media advisories, bios, conference reports, pitch letters and/or email pitches and product fact sheets; basic understanding of key client information, including general business strategy, industry issues, products and services, key customers and competitors in the marketplace; research brand information; understand research and media list building tools (Factiva, Edge, etc.); work with and oversee interns, particularly in the area of project management; work within established account budget parameters and notify supervisor of any potential cost overruns; compute timesheets and expense reports; live the firm’s values (quality, integrity, respect, entrepreneurial spirit, mutual benefit); demonstrate professional behaviors and pursuit of excellence in all operations.
I want to point out to you, in case you missed it, that the very first line of this ad explains that this is an entry-level position. Scary, isn’t it? Imagine what they’d require of someone with experience.
*
Deciphering the hieroglyphics in job ads means reading between the lines. For example, “occasional overtime required.” What does this really mean? Is it a few extra hours at the end of the month, before a report is due? Or is it midnight three times a week, after which you drag your butt home; fall asleep on the couch, too tired to remove your makeup and shoes; and haul ass back to the office after what can only be qualified as a nap?
How about this one: “Work for two Senior Vice Presidents.” Oh, that’s bound to be endless fun. Anyone who has ever worked for two people at the same time knows that you forever are engaged in a tug of war, forced to determine whose swinging you-know-what is bigger. Both execs are bound to give you work that is due the day before yesterday and each will hound you to your grave with the mandate that his project takes priority. Two words, folks: career suicide.
My favorite phrases are the banal expressions that have no real meaning at all, but are included by employers who likely feel that such buzzwords lend some legitimacy to their offerings: “be a self-starter,” “think outside the box,” “be proactive,” ”have (in no particular order) team spirit,” “a positive attitude,” “a sense of humor.”
In other words, don’t be a lazy, dour jackass. Got it.
*
Time is critical, especially for those who do not own a computer and who must rely on public access. At busy metropolitan libraries, one is usually allowed 30 minutes. That’s just enough time to sign in, open a job website, type in a keyword, find a raft of jobs, choose one, and start a cover letter; at which point the librarian yells, “Time!” and you’re forced to relinquish your spot to a 10 year-old who’s writing a paper on the natural wonders of Czechoslovakia.
Of course, you can go to a retail outlet that charges by the minute for computer usage. That won’t be too anxiety producing, waiting for your web pages to download as dollar after dollar is sucked into the abyss. Add to this the costs of printing and faxing, and you’ll be mesmerized as your unemployment check magically disappears.
*
I really hope that I haven’t discouraged you from using the ’Net in your quest to find a job. I’ve actually garnered some interviews as a result of this method (about which more later.)
In closing, I suggest to you what’s been suggested to me: the ’Net should be but one of several methods you use to search for work – the others being networking, nepotism, and, my personal favorite, parading down Broadway with a sandwich board reading, “Will think outside the box for food.”
Chapter 4 - ’Net Work
From the moment I was axed to the present day, I have been looking for work. At the Career Center, before and after class, and up to an hour ago, I have spent part of every day doing some job-seeking activity. Those of you who might be unfamiliar with the current marketplace may wonder why, then, haven’t I been able to find a job in a year and a half? There are more of you, I’ll venture, who understand precisely why I’m still unemployed.
At the start, I networked among friends, colleagues, friends of colleagues, colleagues of friends, distant relations, neighbors, acquaintances, my pharmacist, my doctor, his receptionist, my hairdresser and people I sat next to on the bus. Networking has been such a complicated and wholly unproductive process that I’ll save the details of my experiences for a later chapter.
This is where I want to recount for you my adventures in ’Net working, or, searching for work on the Internet. The ’Net has made it easier than ever to find employment openings, but it’s also made it much harder to find actual work.
It may not surprise you to know that once upon a time I earned my living as a writer. I worked for corporations. I have experience in marketing and the non-profit sector. I’ve freelanced and worked as a consultant. I’ve written business communications and edited books. I am open to all writing, editing, (and now) desktop publishing opportunities.
And here is where the process gets complicated. Type the keywords “writer” or “editor” into a search engine and you come up with umpteen possibilities. You need to comb assiduously through them all to find the jobs that you actually can do.
As a result of many, many searches, these are but some of the jobs that I was qualified for and responded to:
Senior Writer/Editor; Grant Writer; Senior Strategic Communications Specialist; Editorial Assistant; Proposal Writer; Foundation Officer/Grants Manager; Marketing and Research Coordinator; Production Assistant; Media Analyst; Major Gifts Development Associate; Associate Director of Development for Corporations and Foundations; Communications/Public Relations Assistant; Manager, Client Development; Communications and Pursuit Strategist;
Editorial Assistant; Business Writer; Business Development Writer; Employee Communications Coordinator; Marketing Assistant; Marketing Associate; Marketing Administrator; Corporate Communications Specialist; Training Content Writer; Development Manager; Presentation Specialist; Associate, Capital Campaign and Government Relations; Publishing Manager; Publications Manager; Proposal Coordinator; Proofreader/Copyeditor; Associate Editor;
Advertising Copywriter; Fashion Copywriter; Copy Coordinator; Marketing/Promotions Manager; Graphic Designer; Investor Relations Writer; Education Writer; Project Manager; Associate Writer; Publicity Assistant; Program Coordinator; Communications Associate; Desk Assistant; Desktop Project Coordinator; Manager; Internal and External Communications; Grant and Donor Stewardship Manager; Executive Assistant; and, the only job title that everyone seems to recognize, Administrative Assistant.
You will note that these positions run the gamut from some kind of Assistant up through Associate Director. The titles are meaningless; it’s the job responsibilities and experience requirements that count. There are some Assistant jobs that are really Manager jobs in disguise, for the simple reason that employers can get away with paying assistant-level salaries to people with manager-level experience.
Most of these jobs, despite their highfalutin’ titles, had the same basic requirements: writing and computer skills, attention to detail, ability to work and play well with others.
Yet, there are lots of little landmines contained within the job descriptions, and only the savvy jobhunter will be able to navigate them without suffering abject disappointment and severe eyestrain. Here’s a sample of what appeared to me at first glance to be a perfect fit:
Marketing Coordinator/Writer/proposal preparation/public relations for consulting firm. Requires writing, editing and proofreading skills; an eye for color and design; sound judgment.
Sounds good.
Must be detail oriented, organized, and computer literate. Capable of handling deadline pressure. Occasional overtime.
I can deal with that.
Must speak Japanese.
D’oh!
This kind of thing happens all the time. You muddle through a job description only to find one requirement that you absolutely cannot fake. Wouldn’t it have been ever so helpful if the ad writer thought about it for a moment and used the phrase “’Japanese-speaking’ Marketing Coordinator” at the beginning of the ad, thus saving me and about 5,000 other people some precious time? Boy, I’d like to have that numbnut’s job. (I’ve probably applied for it already.)
Another thing that ticks me off like crazy is when employers require applicants to possess years of experience with a veritable smorgasbord of software programs. Beyond the holy trinity of Word, Excel, and PowerPoint, many employers expect the ideal applicant to have not merely “knowledge of,” but also “expertise in” such programs as Access, Page Maker, Word Perfect, Quark, Photoshop, Illustrator, Corel DRAW, HTML, Dreamweaver, and Flash. I’d like to meet the one person in America who has even 50% of such knowledge; that is, if his head hasn’t already exploded like one of Gallagher’s watermelons from too much information.
*
Some job descriptions seem like they will never end. The ’Net gives employers the freedom to prate on endlessly; a luxury they would not enjoy if they were paying by the column inch for ad space in a print publication. This is an actual ad that I answered. (I’ve deleted the name of the firm, to protect it from the teasing likely to ensue:)
QUALIFICATIONS: This is an entry-level account service position. An assistant account executive must possess good interpersonal and communication skills in order to work effectively with a variety of account service staff within a specific set of accounts. S/he must have excellent organizational skills and the ability to adapt to new conditions, assignments and deadlines. S/he must have solid knowledge of MS Office Suite. S/he must pass a writing test and demonstrate the ability to become a strong writer. The assistant account executive is expected to hold a bachelor's degree in a related field and have interest in pursing a career in public relations. Previous internship experience in the communications field is desirable.
RESPONSIBILITIES: The assistant account executive is responsible for supporting the account executives, senior account executives and account supervisors in day-to-day activities. Day-to-day responsibilities include: solid understanding of basic principles of PR; familiarity with key client contacts and clear understanding of clients' organizational structure; general account service administration; trafficking jobs and project coordination; preparation of client status reports; compilation of media coverage to client; read and identify media clips from clipping services and on-line resources; reactive and proactive media relations; press tour pitching, scheduling, and logistics; prepare press kits for distribution; schedule booth appointments at trade shows and ensure appropriate follow-up; understand clients' top-tier media and be able to identify appropriate trade and business editors for upcoming pitches; support product reviews process; initial speakers bureau research and coordination; call downs to Media for pitching; assist in writing press release or press kit pieces (fact sheet, tip sheet, bios, etc); participate in brainstorms; knowledge of AP style; write memos to vendors; write creative and accurate new releases and headlines; research, outline, write and edit media advisories, bios, conference reports, pitch letters and/or email pitches and product fact sheets; basic understanding of key client information, including general business strategy, industry issues, products and services, key customers and competitors in the marketplace; research brand information; understand research and media list building tools (Factiva, Edge, etc.); work with and oversee interns, particularly in the area of project management; work within established account budget parameters and notify supervisor of any potential cost overruns; compute timesheets and expense reports; live the firm’s values (quality, integrity, respect, entrepreneurial spirit, mutual benefit); demonstrate professional behaviors and pursuit of excellence in all operations.
I want to point out to you, in case you missed it, that the very first line of this ad explains that this is an entry-level position. Scary, isn’t it? Imagine what they’d require of someone with experience.
*
Deciphering the hieroglyphics in job ads means reading between the lines. For example, “occasional overtime required.” What does this really mean? Is it a few extra hours at the end of the month, before a report is due? Or is it midnight three times a week, after which you drag your butt home; fall asleep on the couch, too tired to remove your makeup and shoes; and haul ass back to the office after what can only be qualified as a nap?
How about this one: “Work for two Senior Vice Presidents.” Oh, that’s bound to be endless fun. Anyone who has ever worked for two people at the same time knows that you forever are engaged in a tug of war, forced to determine whose swinging you-know-what is bigger. Both execs are bound to give you work that is due the day before yesterday and each will hound you to your grave with the mandate that his project takes priority. Two words, folks: career suicide.
My favorite phrases are the banal expressions that have no real meaning at all, but are included by employers who likely feel that such buzzwords lend some legitimacy to their offerings: “be a self-starter,” “think outside the box,” “be proactive,” ”have (in no particular order) team spirit,” “a positive attitude,” “a sense of humor.”
In other words, don’t be a lazy, dour jackass. Got it.
*
Time is critical, especially for those who do not own a computer and who must rely on public access. At busy metropolitan libraries, one is usually allowed 30 minutes. That’s just enough time to sign in, open a job website, type in a keyword, find a raft of jobs, choose one, and start a cover letter; at which point the librarian yells, “Time!” and you’re forced to relinquish your spot to a 10 year-old who’s writing a paper on the natural wonders of Czechoslovakia.
Of course, you can go to a retail outlet that charges by the minute for computer usage. That won’t be too anxiety producing, waiting for your web pages to download as dollar after dollar is sucked into the abyss. Add to this the costs of printing and faxing, and you’ll be mesmerized as your unemployment check magically disappears.
*
I really hope that I haven’t discouraged you from using the ’Net in your quest to find a job. I’ve actually garnered some interviews as a result of this method (about which more later.)
In closing, I suggest to you what’s been suggested to me: the ’Net should be but one of several methods you use to search for work – the others being networking, nepotism, and, my personal favorite, parading down Broadway with a sandwich board reading, “Will think outside the box for food.”
Saturday, November 13, 2004
Someone is Reading My Blog!
Oh, happy day. Someone is actually reading my blog.
Here's what a nice fellow named Dan had to say about one of my earlier posts:
http://getthatjob.blogspot.com/2004/11/job-search-humor-blog-and-success.html
Here's what a nice fellow named Dan had to say about one of my earlier posts:
http://getthatjob.blogspot.com/2004/11/job-search-humor-blog-and-success.html
Book excerpt - Blown Job: Chapter 3
Nearly three years ago, I was fired from my job; a casualty of the post-9/11 economic downturn. After 18 months of looking for work without success, I sat down to write a book, entitled, "Blown Job: an unemployment odyssey." Here's an excerpt from Chapter Three. (See "Past Posts of Note" for earlier chapters )
Chapter 3 - Look Ma, I Can Draw!
When I was a kid, I couldn’t wait to get out of school each day. The longest half-hour of my life was the one between 2:30 PM and 3:00 PM. I used to make myself nauseous, following the second-hand as it moved 1,800 times, Monday through Friday, September through June, kindergarten through college. And I was a good student, too. I was just restless.
As an adult, I took all sorts of continuing education classes, deluding myself that I could change careers based solely on one three-hour course taught by someone who was clearly so disgruntled with his own chosen field that he moonlighted to keep from going insane.
So, when I learned that I would be able to obtain up to $5,000 in grant money through the Career Center to attend classes to improve my skills and make myself more marketable, I was conflicted. This seemed like an offer too good to pass up, but in what direction should I point myself? And could I control my short attention span long enough to pass an adult version of a pop quiz? I decided that I’d be crazy not to try.
*
I’d long been curious about the field of desktop publishing. It seemed like a cool kind of a career; creating and printing newsletters, brochures, reports, ads, and all manner of publications right there on the desktop. Kind of like publishing Poor Richard’s Almanack on a Mac.
I did my research and found out that I could earn a certificate in computer graphics at one of the institutions approved by the program. I completed all of the necessary paperwork and was awarded my grant. Look out, Ben Franklin, here I come.
*
I signed up for QuarkXpress, a page layout program; Illustrator, a drawing program; and Photoshop, a photo manipulation program. If I could master these three courses, I would be well on my way to finding a job in the glamorous world of desktop publishing.
Each course consisted of six three-hour classes. I found out later that some schools offer each program over the length of an entire semester, or even two. And for good reason. The brochure neglected to mention that mastering the programs was analogous to learning Latin, Greek and Tagalog in three weeks. Each program had its own nomenclature, rules, and set of icons. A good sense of design is absolutely required to be a desktop publishing pro, though this was omitted from the course prerequisites.
This, I suppose is the nature of crash courses; to lure unsuspecting students with flashy brochures and the promise that they, too, will attain mastery of esoterica in no time at all. I gave it my best shot and I found that, though it was a struggle, I was able to absorb enough of the curriculum to actually enjoy putting my new-found knowledge into practice.
Once I got a handle on the icons and rules of page layout in QuarkXpress, it was on to Illustrator, with more icons and more rules. This is what I learned to do in Illustrator, after only three classes:
I'm a friggin' desktop Michelangelo!
It may not look like much to you, but I cannot begin to tell you how proud I was of myself for creating this. I was the kind of student who got my best friend to do all of my art projects in elementary school in exchange for me writing her term papers. I am the one you’ve heard so much about; the one who cannot draw a straight line with a ruler. I was an A student in everything except those classes that required some kind of manual dexterity, like art and cooking and sewing. (By the time I finished my 8th grade sewing project, a blouse, my bust had grown three sizes and the darts were up near my neck.)
So, when the instructor showed us this palm tree project, I nearly keeled over with the familiar fear I hadn’t felt in a hundred years. If he thinks I can do this, he’s crazy. But, once he broke it down for us, and showed us how to use the scissor tool and the knife tool and the swirl tool, and color it with gradients, and use the warp feature to make the flowers and the paintbrush for the butterflies, I was a frigging desktop Michelangelo.
I really fell in love with this program and labored far too long and unnecessarily on projects, because I went bananas over the zillion permutations of color and typography. All the while, I was thinking, am I ever going to get to use this in a job?
Illustrator was a kick, and then it was on to Photoshop, where fun went to die. I know there are lots of people who have wonderful and no doubt, well-paying jobs in digital imaging, but I will never be one of them. I just could not get the hang of it, though, believe me, I tried. I was not good at adjusting colors. I couldn’t crop photos without lopping off at least one important feature. I couldn’t outline an image. I’d forget step two of a procedure by the time we got to step five. I was working on a photo of Martha Stewart and I made her skin look like she’d been out of the sun for twenty years, which may have been a premonition, but at the time seemed to be merely an abject failure to grasp the fundamentals. The person sitting next to me, who seemed to be doing wonderfully well, confided that this was the second time she was taking the course. Somehow, I found this heartening.
I was able to practice what I learned in the school’s lab, which was outfitted with a half-dozen computers, a scanner and one printer. The lab was supervised by a boy genius, who seemed to know every single thing about every single program that was taught at the school. I was in awe of his knowledge, because I never once heard him lobbed a question that he couldn’t answer. Not only did he know everything about computer graphics, but also he was well-versed in Web design, video, and multimedia. While it was always necessary to endure his sarcasm whenever he answered a question, it was worth it in order to get through a sticky situation. The programs were anything but user-friendly. You’d be halfway through a procedure when you’d find that you didn’t have a clue as to what to do next. That’s when this fellow became your new best friend. Many was the time when I wanted to give him a big sloppy kiss for getting me out of a jam, but I didn’t want to traumatize him, Oedipus-wise.
I ran into difficulty with him when it came to the issue of printing. I like to print out my work, because when you’re working with lots of colors and fonts, what appears on the screen is not quite the same as what will appear on paper. As I didn’t own a Mac, I could either go to a commercial printer, where printing cost about a thousand dollars a page, or I could use the lab’s printer. Unfortunately, students were limited to printing four pages a session. (I didn’t understand the parsimonious attitude at the time, but I found out later that it was tied to the cost of color cartridges, which, for the price plus a little extra, you could buy a MINI Cooper.)
I changed my color and type combinations about 10 times a session, so the print limit didn’t work for me. Worse, I brought my own photo-quality paper to the lab, so it was obvious whenever I printed, because I had to walk over to the printer, feed the paper in manually, and stand there until the page printed. This seemed to eat at my lab maven. I’d try to print when he was busy with someone else, but the very last time I was there, he noticed that I had printed beyond my limit and cut me to the quick by sneering, “This isn’t Kinko’s, you know.”
*
I signed up for one last class, in prepress and production, because all of the foregoing would have been meaningless without it (though no one put me wise at the outset.) It means nothing to create newsletters, brochures, ads and the like if you don’t know how to print them. The course was very interesting and very involved and today, I remember very little about any of it.
And there is the miserable rub. I learned tons of things about hue, saturation and opacity; about gradients and layers and formats; about leading and tracking and trapping and overprinting and chokes and spreads; about calibrating and moirés and process colors, but, other than to amuse myself and my classmates, I haven’t been able to do a damned thing with any of it. Of course, I read the want ads with a religious fervor unseen since Mother Teresa. The problem is, there isn’t an employer alive who doesn’t want an applicant who already has years of desktop publishing experience by the time she walks through the door. I’d dearly love to meet a boss willing to take on a bright beginner. (Wouldn’t you?)
And so, I’m glad that I had the chance to acquire new skills and find out that I have some design talent. Going to class mitigated, for a while, the anguish of being out of work. And I absolutely know that my elementary school art teacher, Mrs. Barnett, is looking down on me from heaven (if she’s dead) (she’d be about 100 by now) with a mixture of surprise and pleasure.
Hey, if nothing happens soon, at least I can design my Last Will and Testament (but where, oh where, will I print it?)
Chapter 3 - Look Ma, I Can Draw!
When I was a kid, I couldn’t wait to get out of school each day. The longest half-hour of my life was the one between 2:30 PM and 3:00 PM. I used to make myself nauseous, following the second-hand as it moved 1,800 times, Monday through Friday, September through June, kindergarten through college. And I was a good student, too. I was just restless.
As an adult, I took all sorts of continuing education classes, deluding myself that I could change careers based solely on one three-hour course taught by someone who was clearly so disgruntled with his own chosen field that he moonlighted to keep from going insane.
So, when I learned that I would be able to obtain up to $5,000 in grant money through the Career Center to attend classes to improve my skills and make myself more marketable, I was conflicted. This seemed like an offer too good to pass up, but in what direction should I point myself? And could I control my short attention span long enough to pass an adult version of a pop quiz? I decided that I’d be crazy not to try.
*
I’d long been curious about the field of desktop publishing. It seemed like a cool kind of a career; creating and printing newsletters, brochures, reports, ads, and all manner of publications right there on the desktop. Kind of like publishing Poor Richard’s Almanack on a Mac.
I did my research and found out that I could earn a certificate in computer graphics at one of the institutions approved by the program. I completed all of the necessary paperwork and was awarded my grant. Look out, Ben Franklin, here I come.
*
I signed up for QuarkXpress, a page layout program; Illustrator, a drawing program; and Photoshop, a photo manipulation program. If I could master these three courses, I would be well on my way to finding a job in the glamorous world of desktop publishing.
Each course consisted of six three-hour classes. I found out later that some schools offer each program over the length of an entire semester, or even two. And for good reason. The brochure neglected to mention that mastering the programs was analogous to learning Latin, Greek and Tagalog in three weeks. Each program had its own nomenclature, rules, and set of icons. A good sense of design is absolutely required to be a desktop publishing pro, though this was omitted from the course prerequisites.
This, I suppose is the nature of crash courses; to lure unsuspecting students with flashy brochures and the promise that they, too, will attain mastery of esoterica in no time at all. I gave it my best shot and I found that, though it was a struggle, I was able to absorb enough of the curriculum to actually enjoy putting my new-found knowledge into practice.
Once I got a handle on the icons and rules of page layout in QuarkXpress, it was on to Illustrator, with more icons and more rules. This is what I learned to do in Illustrator, after only three classes:
I'm a friggin' desktop Michelangelo!
It may not look like much to you, but I cannot begin to tell you how proud I was of myself for creating this. I was the kind of student who got my best friend to do all of my art projects in elementary school in exchange for me writing her term papers. I am the one you’ve heard so much about; the one who cannot draw a straight line with a ruler. I was an A student in everything except those classes that required some kind of manual dexterity, like art and cooking and sewing. (By the time I finished my 8th grade sewing project, a blouse, my bust had grown three sizes and the darts were up near my neck.)
So, when the instructor showed us this palm tree project, I nearly keeled over with the familiar fear I hadn’t felt in a hundred years. If he thinks I can do this, he’s crazy. But, once he broke it down for us, and showed us how to use the scissor tool and the knife tool and the swirl tool, and color it with gradients, and use the warp feature to make the flowers and the paintbrush for the butterflies, I was a frigging desktop Michelangelo.
I really fell in love with this program and labored far too long and unnecessarily on projects, because I went bananas over the zillion permutations of color and typography. All the while, I was thinking, am I ever going to get to use this in a job?
Illustrator was a kick, and then it was on to Photoshop, where fun went to die. I know there are lots of people who have wonderful and no doubt, well-paying jobs in digital imaging, but I will never be one of them. I just could not get the hang of it, though, believe me, I tried. I was not good at adjusting colors. I couldn’t crop photos without lopping off at least one important feature. I couldn’t outline an image. I’d forget step two of a procedure by the time we got to step five. I was working on a photo of Martha Stewart and I made her skin look like she’d been out of the sun for twenty years, which may have been a premonition, but at the time seemed to be merely an abject failure to grasp the fundamentals. The person sitting next to me, who seemed to be doing wonderfully well, confided that this was the second time she was taking the course. Somehow, I found this heartening.
I was able to practice what I learned in the school’s lab, which was outfitted with a half-dozen computers, a scanner and one printer. The lab was supervised by a boy genius, who seemed to know every single thing about every single program that was taught at the school. I was in awe of his knowledge, because I never once heard him lobbed a question that he couldn’t answer. Not only did he know everything about computer graphics, but also he was well-versed in Web design, video, and multimedia. While it was always necessary to endure his sarcasm whenever he answered a question, it was worth it in order to get through a sticky situation. The programs were anything but user-friendly. You’d be halfway through a procedure when you’d find that you didn’t have a clue as to what to do next. That’s when this fellow became your new best friend. Many was the time when I wanted to give him a big sloppy kiss for getting me out of a jam, but I didn’t want to traumatize him, Oedipus-wise.
I ran into difficulty with him when it came to the issue of printing. I like to print out my work, because when you’re working with lots of colors and fonts, what appears on the screen is not quite the same as what will appear on paper. As I didn’t own a Mac, I could either go to a commercial printer, where printing cost about a thousand dollars a page, or I could use the lab’s printer. Unfortunately, students were limited to printing four pages a session. (I didn’t understand the parsimonious attitude at the time, but I found out later that it was tied to the cost of color cartridges, which, for the price plus a little extra, you could buy a MINI Cooper.)
I changed my color and type combinations about 10 times a session, so the print limit didn’t work for me. Worse, I brought my own photo-quality paper to the lab, so it was obvious whenever I printed, because I had to walk over to the printer, feed the paper in manually, and stand there until the page printed. This seemed to eat at my lab maven. I’d try to print when he was busy with someone else, but the very last time I was there, he noticed that I had printed beyond my limit and cut me to the quick by sneering, “This isn’t Kinko’s, you know.”
*
I signed up for one last class, in prepress and production, because all of the foregoing would have been meaningless without it (though no one put me wise at the outset.) It means nothing to create newsletters, brochures, ads and the like if you don’t know how to print them. The course was very interesting and very involved and today, I remember very little about any of it.
And there is the miserable rub. I learned tons of things about hue, saturation and opacity; about gradients and layers and formats; about leading and tracking and trapping and overprinting and chokes and spreads; about calibrating and moirés and process colors, but, other than to amuse myself and my classmates, I haven’t been able to do a damned thing with any of it. Of course, I read the want ads with a religious fervor unseen since Mother Teresa. The problem is, there isn’t an employer alive who doesn’t want an applicant who already has years of desktop publishing experience by the time she walks through the door. I’d dearly love to meet a boss willing to take on a bright beginner. (Wouldn’t you?)
And so, I’m glad that I had the chance to acquire new skills and find out that I have some design talent. Going to class mitigated, for a while, the anguish of being out of work. And I absolutely know that my elementary school art teacher, Mrs. Barnett, is looking down on me from heaven (if she’s dead) (she’d be about 100 by now) with a mixture of surprise and pleasure.
Hey, if nothing happens soon, at least I can design my Last Will and Testament (but where, oh where, will I print it?)
Thursday, November 11, 2004
Nutkin Rules
*
A 57-year old woman gave birth to twins. I wonder if post-partum depression trumps menopause.
*
Ex-"Catwoman," Julie Newmar and Jim Belushi are feuding neighbors in California. Sound like the plot for a TV show? Well, it's true, and he's suing her for harassment. Watch for the new CBS series, "I'm Has-been, You're Hack, starring Eartha Kitt and Drew Carey.
*
A wild squirrel named Nutkin can live indoors with his owners, a judge ruled in an 11-page opinion. All the felons patiently awaiting trial gave Nutkin a thumbs-up as he darted victoriously from the courtroom.
A 57-year old woman gave birth to twins. I wonder if post-partum depression trumps menopause.
*
Ex-"Catwoman," Julie Newmar and Jim Belushi are feuding neighbors in California. Sound like the plot for a TV show? Well, it's true, and he's suing her for harassment. Watch for the new CBS series, "I'm Has-been, You're Hack, starring Eartha Kitt and Drew Carey.
*
A wild squirrel named Nutkin can live indoors with his owners, a judge ruled in an 11-page opinion. All the felons patiently awaiting trial gave Nutkin a thumbs-up as he darted victoriously from the courtroom.
Tuesday, November 09, 2004
Smart Cookies Don't Crumble
I don't feel so bad now that it took me almost three years to find a job. In Bulgaria, a woman with an IQ of 200 and five master's degrees is on the dole. She said, "In Bulgaria, employers don't want clever employees." Take it from me, lady, they're not so crazy about them in the U. S. of A., either.
A few months ago, I received in the mail a full-color brochure that touted the offerings of a big cable company. I was going to toss it immediately because at that point, I could barely afford dinner, let alone anything as frivolous as an entertainment package. However, something made me take a look. I was appalled by the sloppy writing within. There were typos, misspellings, tortured grammatical constructions, and factual errors. My immediate reaction was, someone's getting paid for this dreck. I could do it so much better; so much more professionally. I decided to take action.
Maybe, just maybe, I could create a job for myself. This has always been my hope. I've had little luck applying for jobs through Monster, Hot Jobs, and the like. Maybe this could be my chance.
Coincidentally, I had a contact at this company; someone whose name I had been given by a friend months before in my tortuous attempt at networking. I sat down and wrote this person a letter, tactfully explaining that the brochure was not up to the organization's usual high standards. I documented all of the problem areas and let this person know that I was available, if the firm needed a diligent copywriter. I ended my letter by saying I would be calling within the week.
Two days later, this person called me. She said that she and her colleague, the vice president of the department that produced the brochure, had a good laugh about the subject. This was more than a little surprising to me. I didn't think that this badly written brochure was anything to laugh about, but I went along. She said the production VP would be calling me. An hour later, she did. She seemed a little distant; a little put off about having to call. Nevertheless, she asked me to come in and see her, and I did.
At our meeting, she told me that the copywriter who wrote the brochure (rather than being fired) had just left for a job with a major advertising agency. There actually was a job opening here!! What fabulous timing! I was thinking this at the same time I was absorbing the fact that that talentless copywriter had landed another job. I bet he didn't show his new employer that piece-of-crap brochure!
You know that feeling you get when you realize that someone hates you before she even lays eyes on you? Well, welcome to my world. I knew from the moment I sat down that this woman hated my guts for pointing out to her colleague the failing of her department. I cannot imagine how this woman let a sloppy marketing piece be mailed out to thousands of customers, but she did, and now she was having it shoved under her nose by an upstart like me. I knew for sure that it was hopeless when I showed her my writing samples and she glanced at them for a minute before she handed them back to me. I said that she could keep them; that they were copies that I had made for her, but she said no. I might as well have walked out of the office at that moment, and saved myself a little time and a lot of aggravation.
Why was she telling me about the job when she seemed to show no interest in me? In retrospect, I think she had to see me; that the colleague who recommended me had put her in an awkward position. Refusing to see me would have cast her in a bad light; having to deny that the brochure was a problem. No one likes to have their failings brought to light, even if it's good for the company's reputation.
At the end of our discourse, I asked her what the next steps would be. She said she was just starting the interview process. I asked if I could call her for an update, and she was annoyed. Annoyed! That clinched it. I knew I'd never see her again. Another wonderful interview experience. I should have stayed home and watched Oprah.
In retrospect, I'm not sorry for what I did, and I'd do it again. I don't think anyone should get away with sloppy work. I thought I handled myself well. I was tactful and polite and I never said a negative word about the company, the writer, or the brochure. I presented myself as a positive alternative. In short, I wasted a lot of time.
As that smart cookie from Bulgaria said, "employers don't want clever employees." But that's not going to stop me. And, if you're looking for work, it shouldn't stop you, either. Somebody, somewhere has to appreciate smart cookies. To those of you who can appreciate this, I say, persevere, and don't crumble.
A few months ago, I received in the mail a full-color brochure that touted the offerings of a big cable company. I was going to toss it immediately because at that point, I could barely afford dinner, let alone anything as frivolous as an entertainment package. However, something made me take a look. I was appalled by the sloppy writing within. There were typos, misspellings, tortured grammatical constructions, and factual errors. My immediate reaction was, someone's getting paid for this dreck. I could do it so much better; so much more professionally. I decided to take action.
Maybe, just maybe, I could create a job for myself. This has always been my hope. I've had little luck applying for jobs through Monster, Hot Jobs, and the like. Maybe this could be my chance.
Coincidentally, I had a contact at this company; someone whose name I had been given by a friend months before in my tortuous attempt at networking. I sat down and wrote this person a letter, tactfully explaining that the brochure was not up to the organization's usual high standards. I documented all of the problem areas and let this person know that I was available, if the firm needed a diligent copywriter. I ended my letter by saying I would be calling within the week.
Two days later, this person called me. She said that she and her colleague, the vice president of the department that produced the brochure, had a good laugh about the subject. This was more than a little surprising to me. I didn't think that this badly written brochure was anything to laugh about, but I went along. She said the production VP would be calling me. An hour later, she did. She seemed a little distant; a little put off about having to call. Nevertheless, she asked me to come in and see her, and I did.
At our meeting, she told me that the copywriter who wrote the brochure (rather than being fired) had just left for a job with a major advertising agency. There actually was a job opening here!! What fabulous timing! I was thinking this at the same time I was absorbing the fact that that talentless copywriter had landed another job. I bet he didn't show his new employer that piece-of-crap brochure!
You know that feeling you get when you realize that someone hates you before she even lays eyes on you? Well, welcome to my world. I knew from the moment I sat down that this woman hated my guts for pointing out to her colleague the failing of her department. I cannot imagine how this woman let a sloppy marketing piece be mailed out to thousands of customers, but she did, and now she was having it shoved under her nose by an upstart like me. I knew for sure that it was hopeless when I showed her my writing samples and she glanced at them for a minute before she handed them back to me. I said that she could keep them; that they were copies that I had made for her, but she said no. I might as well have walked out of the office at that moment, and saved myself a little time and a lot of aggravation.
Why was she telling me about the job when she seemed to show no interest in me? In retrospect, I think she had to see me; that the colleague who recommended me had put her in an awkward position. Refusing to see me would have cast her in a bad light; having to deny that the brochure was a problem. No one likes to have their failings brought to light, even if it's good for the company's reputation.
At the end of our discourse, I asked her what the next steps would be. She said she was just starting the interview process. I asked if I could call her for an update, and she was annoyed. Annoyed! That clinched it. I knew I'd never see her again. Another wonderful interview experience. I should have stayed home and watched Oprah.
In retrospect, I'm not sorry for what I did, and I'd do it again. I don't think anyone should get away with sloppy work. I thought I handled myself well. I was tactful and polite and I never said a negative word about the company, the writer, or the brochure. I presented myself as a positive alternative. In short, I wasted a lot of time.
As that smart cookie from Bulgaria said, "employers don't want clever employees." But that's not going to stop me. And, if you're looking for work, it shouldn't stop you, either. Somebody, somewhere has to appreciate smart cookies. To those of you who can appreciate this, I say, persevere, and don't crumble.
Sunday, November 07, 2004
Book excerpt - Blown Job: Chapter 2
Nearly three years ago, I was fired from my job; a casualty of the post-9/11 economic downturn. After 18 months of looking for work without success, I sat down to write a book, entitled, "Blown Job: an unemployment odyssey." Here's an excerpt from Chapter Two. (See "Past Posts of Note" for earlier chapters )
Chapter 2 -Now What?
When you open your eyes on the Monday morning following the Friday you’ve been canned, for a millisecond, it doesn’t occur to you that anything has changed. Your alarm clock hasn’t even gone off; yet you awake at your usual time, because that’s what your mind has been programmed to do. You’re all set to leap out of bed; to shower and dress and grab your briefcase and a breakfast bar and dash to the train, when BAM, it hits you that you have nowhere to go. No more leaping and grabbing and dashing for you. Now, the best you can do at 6:30 in the morning is to watch the Powerpuff Girls or do yoga with Kiki or learn how you can earn $1,000,000 by buying real estate. You have the sense that nothing will ever be the same again.
It’s okay to spend the early hours of Unemployment Monday feeling abjectly sorry for yourself, but you can’t let that feeling overtake you or you’re lost. So, I showered and dressed and dashed, but this time I was headed off to a career center, about which I had been tipped off by a former co-worker at what I now can refer to as my last job.
*
It turned out that going to the career center day after day saved my life. The Center helped me to focus, it provided me with computer access, it offered me educational opportunities, and it put me together with like-minded professionals. If I hadn’t gone there, ultimately I would have been found on my couch by the police, buried under stacks of Burger King wrappers, packs of Salem Light 100s, and empty pints of Rocky Road, the remote still in my hand.
*
At orientation, I was surrounded by the walking wounded. Most of them had lost their jobs due to the aftereffects of 9/11. Each face wore a hollow expression, brought on by the double whammy of the shock of the tragedy and the experience of personal downfall. Everyone had a story to tell and all of the stories sounded pretty much the same. I was not a freak here.
We learned that once we were accepted into the program, we could access computers; talk to an assigned career counselor; apply for grant money for training; and take classes on networking, interviewing, and Internet job searching. There were no assurances that we would actually find work if we did all this, but on Day 1, it sure sounded good to me.
I took advantage of everything that was offered. Once I was accepted, I showed up every day to surf the ’Net. Every day, I looked at HotJobs and Monster and Career Builder and a half-dozen specialized job sites. Every day, I wrote cover letters and printed out résumés and envelopes and mailed, e-mailed, and faxed pages to potential employers. I took the classes and applied for the grant money. I went back to school. As you know by now, none of this has paid off, but you cannot say that I didn't try.
*
There was an interesting dynamic at play in all of this. I could see that the people who showed up at the Center day after day were going through their own stages of grief. The longer that they were out of work, the more their behaviors changed.
You could tell who the newly shafted were. They came into the computer room very businesslike. They were well-dressed and moved purposefully -- laying out their newspapers, pens, legal pads and diskettes at their computer stations; clicking on site after site, job offer after job offer; making copious notes. Others who had been there for awhile were more laid back, sauntering to the computer stations, dumping their backpacks on the floor, stretching out on their chairs, turning their baseball caps backwards, and checking their e-mails. Hard-timers, who had virtually given up on looking for work at all, used their terminals for purposes that were not intended – trolling for porn, playing solitaire, bidding on eBay, and searching for mail-order brides.
*
An unspoken camaraderie developed. Someone would yell out, “I’ve got to print an envelope,” and forty people would pause, forty fingers poised over forty PRINT keys until the envelope snaked through the communal printer.
At the same time, there was a palpable amount of tension in the air. Many of these people were absolutely desperate, already having spent down their resources and now hovering on the brink of financial disaster. For them, looking for work was a deadly serious proposition. This is why little fights broke out daily over such things as mistakenly removing someone else’s page from the print tray, overstaying by two minutes the allotted two hours at a computer, and talking too loudly to one’s neighbor. I heard more than one argument like this, among jobseeking clients and the computer room proctor:
Client #1: The guy next to me is printing 100 copies of his résumé.
Proctor: I’ll have to cancel that print job.
Client #2: (to Client #1) Bitch.
Client #1: (to Client #2) Asshole.
So it wasn’t all beer and skittles. But we managed to coexist, each in our private hell, not one of us able to help another. Of course, we did offer each other advice and encouragement, but the bottom line was that no one here was able to get anyone else a job. There were no hierarchies, simply a horizontal line of unemployed, desperate people.
*
I would still be attending the Center today, if their funding had not run out and if they had not unceremoniously closed me out as a client without informing me. I cannot complain, however, because for more than a year, going there kept my life going. I accomplished a lot. My interviewing skills improved. I discovered many new things about the ’Net, just by listening to others. I met lots of other unemployed people, which kept me from feeling alone. And I was able to go to school, to learn new skills.
Now all I have to do is find a job.
Chapter 2 -Now What?
When you open your eyes on the Monday morning following the Friday you’ve been canned, for a millisecond, it doesn’t occur to you that anything has changed. Your alarm clock hasn’t even gone off; yet you awake at your usual time, because that’s what your mind has been programmed to do. You’re all set to leap out of bed; to shower and dress and grab your briefcase and a breakfast bar and dash to the train, when BAM, it hits you that you have nowhere to go. No more leaping and grabbing and dashing for you. Now, the best you can do at 6:30 in the morning is to watch the Powerpuff Girls or do yoga with Kiki or learn how you can earn $1,000,000 by buying real estate. You have the sense that nothing will ever be the same again.
It’s okay to spend the early hours of Unemployment Monday feeling abjectly sorry for yourself, but you can’t let that feeling overtake you or you’re lost. So, I showered and dressed and dashed, but this time I was headed off to a career center, about which I had been tipped off by a former co-worker at what I now can refer to as my last job.
*
It turned out that going to the career center day after day saved my life. The Center helped me to focus, it provided me with computer access, it offered me educational opportunities, and it put me together with like-minded professionals. If I hadn’t gone there, ultimately I would have been found on my couch by the police, buried under stacks of Burger King wrappers, packs of Salem Light 100s, and empty pints of Rocky Road, the remote still in my hand.
*
At orientation, I was surrounded by the walking wounded. Most of them had lost their jobs due to the aftereffects of 9/11. Each face wore a hollow expression, brought on by the double whammy of the shock of the tragedy and the experience of personal downfall. Everyone had a story to tell and all of the stories sounded pretty much the same. I was not a freak here.
We learned that once we were accepted into the program, we could access computers; talk to an assigned career counselor; apply for grant money for training; and take classes on networking, interviewing, and Internet job searching. There were no assurances that we would actually find work if we did all this, but on Day 1, it sure sounded good to me.
I took advantage of everything that was offered. Once I was accepted, I showed up every day to surf the ’Net. Every day, I looked at HotJobs and Monster and Career Builder and a half-dozen specialized job sites. Every day, I wrote cover letters and printed out résumés and envelopes and mailed, e-mailed, and faxed pages to potential employers. I took the classes and applied for the grant money. I went back to school. As you know by now, none of this has paid off, but you cannot say that I didn't try.
*
There was an interesting dynamic at play in all of this. I could see that the people who showed up at the Center day after day were going through their own stages of grief. The longer that they were out of work, the more their behaviors changed.
You could tell who the newly shafted were. They came into the computer room very businesslike. They were well-dressed and moved purposefully -- laying out their newspapers, pens, legal pads and diskettes at their computer stations; clicking on site after site, job offer after job offer; making copious notes. Others who had been there for awhile were more laid back, sauntering to the computer stations, dumping their backpacks on the floor, stretching out on their chairs, turning their baseball caps backwards, and checking their e-mails. Hard-timers, who had virtually given up on looking for work at all, used their terminals for purposes that were not intended – trolling for porn, playing solitaire, bidding on eBay, and searching for mail-order brides.
*
An unspoken camaraderie developed. Someone would yell out, “I’ve got to print an envelope,” and forty people would pause, forty fingers poised over forty PRINT keys until the envelope snaked through the communal printer.
At the same time, there was a palpable amount of tension in the air. Many of these people were absolutely desperate, already having spent down their resources and now hovering on the brink of financial disaster. For them, looking for work was a deadly serious proposition. This is why little fights broke out daily over such things as mistakenly removing someone else’s page from the print tray, overstaying by two minutes the allotted two hours at a computer, and talking too loudly to one’s neighbor. I heard more than one argument like this, among jobseeking clients and the computer room proctor:
Client #1: The guy next to me is printing 100 copies of his résumé.
Proctor: I’ll have to cancel that print job.
Client #2: (to Client #1) Bitch.
Client #1: (to Client #2) Asshole.
So it wasn’t all beer and skittles. But we managed to coexist, each in our private hell, not one of us able to help another. Of course, we did offer each other advice and encouragement, but the bottom line was that no one here was able to get anyone else a job. There were no hierarchies, simply a horizontal line of unemployed, desperate people.
*
I would still be attending the Center today, if their funding had not run out and if they had not unceremoniously closed me out as a client without informing me. I cannot complain, however, because for more than a year, going there kept my life going. I accomplished a lot. My interviewing skills improved. I discovered many new things about the ’Net, just by listening to others. I met lots of other unemployed people, which kept me from feeling alone. And I was able to go to school, to learn new skills.
Now all I have to do is find a job.
Saturday, November 06, 2004
Art Bras
*
An F-16 fighter plane shot 25 rounds of ammunition into a New Jersey public school on Wednesday night. Casualties include eighteen frogs, three lab rats, and Corky the salamander, who is missing in action.
*
On the Left Coast, a supposed golf tournament turned out to be an excuse for men to hook up with hookers in tents on the green. I guess that's what they mean by "the California Open."
*
In Arkansas, a man escaped from jail twice in the same week. Is this what is meant by "revolving-door justice?"
*
A woman cut off her boyfriend's penis and got rid of it. She won't say where. I'm guessing eBay.
*
A man tried to rob a bank that was still being built. He had a gun, which was said to be loaded with six handkerchiefs labeled "Bang."
*
A tanker truck spilled 45,000 pounds of liquid chocolate on a highway, which then hardened. Watch for Mars' new promotion: M&M's –now with gravel!
*
In North Dakota, women are decorating bras and displaying them at an art center. The D cups have their own wing.
An F-16 fighter plane shot 25 rounds of ammunition into a New Jersey public school on Wednesday night. Casualties include eighteen frogs, three lab rats, and Corky the salamander, who is missing in action.
*
On the Left Coast, a supposed golf tournament turned out to be an excuse for men to hook up with hookers in tents on the green. I guess that's what they mean by "the California Open."
*
In Arkansas, a man escaped from jail twice in the same week. Is this what is meant by "revolving-door justice?"
*
A woman cut off her boyfriend's penis and got rid of it. She won't say where. I'm guessing eBay.
*
A man tried to rob a bank that was still being built. He had a gun, which was said to be loaded with six handkerchiefs labeled "Bang."
*
A tanker truck spilled 45,000 pounds of liquid chocolate on a highway, which then hardened. Watch for Mars' new promotion: M&M's –now with gravel!
*
In North Dakota, women are decorating bras and displaying them at an art center. The D cups have their own wing.
Thursday, November 04, 2004
Sore Feet, Bleary Eyes, and a Big Fat Smile
I am pleased to announce to the world, that after two and a half excruciating years, I finally found a job. I have been working four days and I am ready to take a vacation. I forgot what it's like to stand on the train for an hour and take my meal break when somebody tells me to and stifle a yawn while my boss is giving me directions. But it's wonderful! I have a boss! I have a place to be! I'm bleary-eyed from working, not because I stayed up late to watch Letterman!
Next week, I'm going to see something I thought I'd never see again – a paycheck! I've already spent a piece of it on a new pair of shoes, and for the first time in ages, I don't feel guilty about buying something for myself.
If anyone reading this knows the feeling of desperation that comes from receiving endless rejection, I encourage you to hang in there. I was thisclose to calling it quits, when nothing short of a miracle happened. I didn't think it was possible.
It all came about through a temporary job. I would encourage anyone who is out of work to pursue temporary employment. It's the best way for an employer to get to know you, and it doesn't carry anywhere near the heavy baggage that a permanent job interview does.
I have to go to sleep now. I have somewhere to be tomorrow!
Next week, I'm going to see something I thought I'd never see again – a paycheck! I've already spent a piece of it on a new pair of shoes, and for the first time in ages, I don't feel guilty about buying something for myself.
If anyone reading this knows the feeling of desperation that comes from receiving endless rejection, I encourage you to hang in there. I was thisclose to calling it quits, when nothing short of a miracle happened. I didn't think it was possible.
It all came about through a temporary job. I would encourage anyone who is out of work to pursue temporary employment. It's the best way for an employer to get to know you, and it doesn't carry anywhere near the heavy baggage that a permanent job interview does.
I have to go to sleep now. I have somewhere to be tomorrow!
Tuesday, November 02, 2004
Today's Monologue
*
A man with the surname "Murders" was arrested for (guess what) attempted murder! Talk about a self-fulfilling prophecy. That's why I'm always after my friend, Betty Burninhell, to change her name.
*
Don't you just love dumb criminals? A guy walked into a bank with a ski mask over his face and was busted before he could make a grab for the cash. He didn't even get a chance to unfurl his 6-foot long, "THIS IS A HOLD-UP!" banner.
*
A pollution control worker tried to kill his boss by poisoning his coffee, just because the boss forbade coffee-drinking at workstations. Imagine if the boss took away his parking spot. SPLAT!
*
A guy bought a Porsche with a $91,000 personal check. Problem was, he only had $900 in the bank. Then he bought a house and a boat – before he got caught. Is this what they mean by "worry-free checking?"
*
The woman who won big bucks from Bill O'Reilly in that sexual harassment suit complained about the cost of a cup of Starbucks coffee. The barista's lucky she didn't sue him for extortion.
A man with the surname "Murders" was arrested for (guess what) attempted murder! Talk about a self-fulfilling prophecy. That's why I'm always after my friend, Betty Burninhell, to change her name.
*
Don't you just love dumb criminals? A guy walked into a bank with a ski mask over his face and was busted before he could make a grab for the cash. He didn't even get a chance to unfurl his 6-foot long, "THIS IS A HOLD-UP!" banner.
*
A pollution control worker tried to kill his boss by poisoning his coffee, just because the boss forbade coffee-drinking at workstations. Imagine if the boss took away his parking spot. SPLAT!
*
A guy bought a Porsche with a $91,000 personal check. Problem was, he only had $900 in the bank. Then he bought a house and a boat – before he got caught. Is this what they mean by "worry-free checking?"
*
The woman who won big bucks from Bill O'Reilly in that sexual harassment suit complained about the cost of a cup of Starbucks coffee. The barista's lucky she didn't sue him for extortion.
Sunday, October 31, 2004
Blown Job: Chapter 1 excerpt
Nearly three years ago, I was fired from my job; a casualty of the post-9/11 economic downturn. After 18 months of looking for work without success, I sat down to write a book, entitled, "Blown Job: an unemployment odyssey." Here's an excerpt from Chapter One.
Chapter 1 - Are You Still Here?
You know those moments that you’ll never forget –your first kiss; the day your favorite celebrity died; the introduction of the blue M&M? You can remember exactly where you were that day; what you were doing; who you were with. Every detail is memory-fresh. All someone has to do is say a trigger word, and back you go in time.
Well, that’s not how I recall the day I got fired. The whole experience is a blur. I can remember that I felt like I was drowning – water rushing around my head; unable to breathe, knickers in a twist. That’s how I felt as the designated ax wielder mumbled into his beard about 9/11 and a weak economy and belt-tightening and union negotiations and severance and accrued vacation and a bunch of other stuff that I didn’t catch.
I do recall my immediate reaction as I came up for air: don’t blame this on 9/11, you dickhead. We’re 60 blocks uptown and this is four months later. Blaming my job cut on 9/11 was like saying there is no Santa Claus because my parents went to Barbados for Christmas and all I got was this lousy T-shirt. How far can the ripple effect of 9/11 be stretched in order to explain away ill-conceived business decisions?
Okay, I’m fired. But wait. Is this guy asking me to stay on? Damned right, he is. Stay a month, he says, possibly two. Right after he fires me, he asks me to stay on.
Me: So I’m fired, is that what you’re saying?
Him: (into beard) Uh-hmm.
Me: But you want me to stay?
Him: (into beard) Uh-hmm.
Me: So I’m not fired yet?
Him: (into beard) You’re fired, but not for two months.
Me: Kind of like a death sentence, isn’t it?
Him: (into beard) Uh-hmm.
Well, of course, at that moment I had to spit in his eye, pull his bushy beard, tell him to take shove the job so far up his ass that it won’t be out before Arbor Day, and storm out, leaving a trail of parfum by which to be remembered. Yeah, that’s what I should have done.
What I did do was stay the extra two months, enduring the awkward silences and furtive stares and tactless questions of those lucky enough to be spared the unkindest cut of all. Now who’s the dickhead?
*********
After the initial shock wore off, my first order of business was to bring home all of the stuff I had accumulated in my office over the years. Gee, you wouldn’t think a little cubicle could hold so much. But damned if I didn’t have the motliest collection of umbrellas and books and shoes and CDs and tapes and magazines and pictures and tchotchkes. I kid you not: every day for the next two months I carried some of this crap home and it was only by sheer luck that I took it all by the last day. I felt like Steve McQueen in The Great Escape, dispersing bits of dirt in the yard in order to excavate a tunnel.
*********
Once I got my priorities straight, I was ready to do my assigned work until my departure date. Problem was, I didn’t anticipate the reactions I was receiving from my co-workers, who were now grouped into three categories: the honest ones, who came by to say that they were sorry about what happened and were sad to see me go; the cowards, who studied the cheap industrial carpeting whenever they passed me in the hall; and the self-absorbed, who addressed me as though nothing had changed. As one month bled into another, I noticed a look of incredulity in their eyes, which, late in the game, was articulated by one of my more tactful colleagues. “Are you still here?,” she said as she passed me on the stairs. Gosh, that made me feel good.
To a person, though, they shared one obvious sentiment: Thank God it wasn’t me. Management had cut a dozen people from the payroll. By the second month of my extended stay, I was the only one of the dozen still around. I think that my presence discomfited everyone. I was an unpleasant reminder of the purge that they had dodged, and certainly, the sooner my visage disappeared from their retinas, the better it would be for everyone.
*********
My secretary, who also was canned and was asked to stay on a month, promptly stopped working five minutes after she was axed. Oh, she showed up every day, but she ignored every request that I made and let the incoming work pile up and talked on the phone to her family and friends from 9:05:03 AM to 4:59 PM. I tried to motivate her, but, frankly, my heart wasn’t in it.
Me: Have you run last night’s report?
Her: No.
Me: Will you please do it now?
Her: (nothing)
Me: Okay, then!
My supervisor, who had adopted a laissez faire policy regarding my department on the very day she inherited it, stopped speaking to me several days after my excision. I really should have known something was up weeks before, because I had been calling her almost daily to sit down and discuss my performance review.
Me: Can we sit down to discuss my review?
Her: I have too many meetings this week.
Me: Well, can we do it next week?
Her: (nothing)
Me: Okay, then!
In reality, she made every conceivable excuse for why she couldn’t sit down with me. I initially chalked it up to her indifference, but I put the pieces together once I had been canned. She actually told me that she had no idea that I was going to be fired, but I think you will agree with me when I say that she was incontrovertibly full of shit.
**********
And so, the day finally came when I walked out of the double glass doors for the last time. No one came to say good-bye or to wish me luck. There were no balloons or cake or flowers or cards that said, “We’ll miss you THIS MUCH!” No one came to help me carry out the last of my junk. Nobody asked for my address so that we could keep in touch. The saddest thing of all was that the guy at the sandwich shop next door finally had learned to make my morning iced coffee just the way I liked it and for what? For what, I ask you.
I didn’t care about any of it. I was already thinking about the next phase of my brilliant career. Before I left, I made an appointment for the following week at a career counseling center that offered lots of free services to schmucks like me; hardworking, unlucky dopes who were now unemployed.
As I stepped onto the pavement, I was hit by a wave of feelings: freedom; a sense of possibility; a release of pressure; a sense of doom. I had no idea of the long, strange trip upon which I was about to embark. All I knew at that moment was that I never had to go back there again, and I was glad.
In retrospect, I only wish that I had stolen more office supplies.
Chapter 1 - Are You Still Here?
You know those moments that you’ll never forget –your first kiss; the day your favorite celebrity died; the introduction of the blue M&M? You can remember exactly where you were that day; what you were doing; who you were with. Every detail is memory-fresh. All someone has to do is say a trigger word, and back you go in time.
Well, that’s not how I recall the day I got fired. The whole experience is a blur. I can remember that I felt like I was drowning – water rushing around my head; unable to breathe, knickers in a twist. That’s how I felt as the designated ax wielder mumbled into his beard about 9/11 and a weak economy and belt-tightening and union negotiations and severance and accrued vacation and a bunch of other stuff that I didn’t catch.
I do recall my immediate reaction as I came up for air: don’t blame this on 9/11, you dickhead. We’re 60 blocks uptown and this is four months later. Blaming my job cut on 9/11 was like saying there is no Santa Claus because my parents went to Barbados for Christmas and all I got was this lousy T-shirt. How far can the ripple effect of 9/11 be stretched in order to explain away ill-conceived business decisions?
Okay, I’m fired. But wait. Is this guy asking me to stay on? Damned right, he is. Stay a month, he says, possibly two. Right after he fires me, he asks me to stay on.
Me: So I’m fired, is that what you’re saying?
Him: (into beard) Uh-hmm.
Me: But you want me to stay?
Him: (into beard) Uh-hmm.
Me: So I’m not fired yet?
Him: (into beard) You’re fired, but not for two months.
Me: Kind of like a death sentence, isn’t it?
Him: (into beard) Uh-hmm.
Well, of course, at that moment I had to spit in his eye, pull his bushy beard, tell him to take shove the job so far up his ass that it won’t be out before Arbor Day, and storm out, leaving a trail of parfum by which to be remembered. Yeah, that’s what I should have done.
What I did do was stay the extra two months, enduring the awkward silences and furtive stares and tactless questions of those lucky enough to be spared the unkindest cut of all. Now who’s the dickhead?
*********
After the initial shock wore off, my first order of business was to bring home all of the stuff I had accumulated in my office over the years. Gee, you wouldn’t think a little cubicle could hold so much. But damned if I didn’t have the motliest collection of umbrellas and books and shoes and CDs and tapes and magazines and pictures and tchotchkes. I kid you not: every day for the next two months I carried some of this crap home and it was only by sheer luck that I took it all by the last day. I felt like Steve McQueen in The Great Escape, dispersing bits of dirt in the yard in order to excavate a tunnel.
*********
Once I got my priorities straight, I was ready to do my assigned work until my departure date. Problem was, I didn’t anticipate the reactions I was receiving from my co-workers, who were now grouped into three categories: the honest ones, who came by to say that they were sorry about what happened and were sad to see me go; the cowards, who studied the cheap industrial carpeting whenever they passed me in the hall; and the self-absorbed, who addressed me as though nothing had changed. As one month bled into another, I noticed a look of incredulity in their eyes, which, late in the game, was articulated by one of my more tactful colleagues. “Are you still here?,” she said as she passed me on the stairs. Gosh, that made me feel good.
To a person, though, they shared one obvious sentiment: Thank God it wasn’t me. Management had cut a dozen people from the payroll. By the second month of my extended stay, I was the only one of the dozen still around. I think that my presence discomfited everyone. I was an unpleasant reminder of the purge that they had dodged, and certainly, the sooner my visage disappeared from their retinas, the better it would be for everyone.
*********
My secretary, who also was canned and was asked to stay on a month, promptly stopped working five minutes after she was axed. Oh, she showed up every day, but she ignored every request that I made and let the incoming work pile up and talked on the phone to her family and friends from 9:05:03 AM to 4:59 PM. I tried to motivate her, but, frankly, my heart wasn’t in it.
Me: Have you run last night’s report?
Her: No.
Me: Will you please do it now?
Her: (nothing)
Me: Okay, then!
My supervisor, who had adopted a laissez faire policy regarding my department on the very day she inherited it, stopped speaking to me several days after my excision. I really should have known something was up weeks before, because I had been calling her almost daily to sit down and discuss my performance review.
Me: Can we sit down to discuss my review?
Her: I have too many meetings this week.
Me: Well, can we do it next week?
Her: (nothing)
Me: Okay, then!
In reality, she made every conceivable excuse for why she couldn’t sit down with me. I initially chalked it up to her indifference, but I put the pieces together once I had been canned. She actually told me that she had no idea that I was going to be fired, but I think you will agree with me when I say that she was incontrovertibly full of shit.
**********
And so, the day finally came when I walked out of the double glass doors for the last time. No one came to say good-bye or to wish me luck. There were no balloons or cake or flowers or cards that said, “We’ll miss you THIS MUCH!” No one came to help me carry out the last of my junk. Nobody asked for my address so that we could keep in touch. The saddest thing of all was that the guy at the sandwich shop next door finally had learned to make my morning iced coffee just the way I liked it and for what? For what, I ask you.
I didn’t care about any of it. I was already thinking about the next phase of my brilliant career. Before I left, I made an appointment for the following week at a career counseling center that offered lots of free services to schmucks like me; hardworking, unlucky dopes who were now unemployed.
As I stepped onto the pavement, I was hit by a wave of feelings: freedom; a sense of possibility; a release of pressure; a sense of doom. I had no idea of the long, strange trip upon which I was about to embark. All I knew at that moment was that I never had to go back there again, and I was glad.
In retrospect, I only wish that I had stolen more office supplies.
Friday, October 29, 2004
Emerald Nuts
*
Scientists have found that stress makes you forget. That certainly explains a lot. Just today, I read that scientists have found that stress makes you forget. That certainly explains a lot.
*
Marketers are pitching deodorant to 10-year-old boys. Maybe it makes sense to mask the pungent whiff of playground, but I ask you, what will they be pitching next?: MacIntosh-B'Gosh? Viagraham crackers? Just for Men for Boys?
*
Have you heard of a new snack called "Emerald Nuts?" Their ads better be clever, or else people will think it's the new name for The Green Party.
****
Those of you who have been with me since Blog #1 know that I said I wouldn't do any political humor. But can you blame me? Emerald Nuts. I mean, come on. It's a name begging for a joke. Here's a meme: write your own!
Stay tuned this weekend for a Chapter One excerpt from my unread (but not unreadable) manuscript, "Blown Job: an unemployment odyssey." See the excerpt from the Introduction below.
Scientists have found that stress makes you forget. That certainly explains a lot. Just today, I read that scientists have found that stress makes you forget. That certainly explains a lot.
*
Marketers are pitching deodorant to 10-year-old boys. Maybe it makes sense to mask the pungent whiff of playground, but I ask you, what will they be pitching next?: MacIntosh-B'Gosh? Viagraham crackers? Just for Men for Boys?
*
Have you heard of a new snack called "Emerald Nuts?" Their ads better be clever, or else people will think it's the new name for The Green Party.
****
Those of you who have been with me since Blog #1 know that I said I wouldn't do any political humor. But can you blame me? Emerald Nuts. I mean, come on. It's a name begging for a joke. Here's a meme: write your own!
Stay tuned this weekend for a Chapter One excerpt from my unread (but not unreadable) manuscript, "Blown Job: an unemployment odyssey." See the excerpt from the Introduction below.
Thursday, October 28, 2004
Today's Monologue
*
A man tossed a live wire into his wife's bath just to "scare" her. That's nothing—for her birthday, he's planning a surprise trip to the Falluja Hilton.
*
God bless Californians. A guy in Sacramento is using vegetable oil to power his car. Wanna bet this is the start of a trend? By next year, we'll all be driving the new Mitsubishi Mazola.
*
A new book about the country of Bhutan weighs 133 pounds and contains enough paper to cover a football field. The funeral for the reviewer will take place on Thursday.
*
In Holland, coffee made from beans taken from cat droppings costs $25.00 an ounce. Watch for Starbucks to get in on the act. Look for their new offering, a " tall Tabby Frappucchino."
*
In London, an artist has constructed the world's tallest origami penis, almost 11 feet tall. That comes as something of a relief to David Beckham, who's no longer considered to be the biggest dick in England.
A man tossed a live wire into his wife's bath just to "scare" her. That's nothing—for her birthday, he's planning a surprise trip to the Falluja Hilton.
*
God bless Californians. A guy in Sacramento is using vegetable oil to power his car. Wanna bet this is the start of a trend? By next year, we'll all be driving the new Mitsubishi Mazola.
*
A new book about the country of Bhutan weighs 133 pounds and contains enough paper to cover a football field. The funeral for the reviewer will take place on Thursday.
*
In Holland, coffee made from beans taken from cat droppings costs $25.00 an ounce. Watch for Starbucks to get in on the act. Look for their new offering, a " tall Tabby Frappucchino."
*
In London, an artist has constructed the world's tallest origami penis, almost 11 feet tall. That comes as something of a relief to David Beckham, who's no longer considered to be the biggest dick in England.
Wednesday, October 27, 2004
Blog-grrr!
I know I have too much time on my hands when I spend three hours just trying to get into my blog. Apparently, the folks at Blogger.com are having a bad day. I've been trying to build an audience and I just hope no one tried to visit while the website was down.
Here's a brief one-topic monologue:
*
Have you heard that McDonald's is now being served in hospital cafeterias? Some people think this is a mistake, but I say, if your arteries clog, what better place to be?
*
I suppose there's some kind of quid pro quo required in this merger, but I just think it's wrong to name Ronald McDonald as Chief of Pediatrics.
*
Speaking of quid pro quo, the new name for gastric bypass surgery will now be the "Macdectomy."
Here's a brief one-topic monologue:
*
Have you heard that McDonald's is now being served in hospital cafeterias? Some people think this is a mistake, but I say, if your arteries clog, what better place to be?
*
I suppose there's some kind of quid pro quo required in this merger, but I just think it's wrong to name Ronald McDonald as Chief of Pediatrics.
*
Speaking of quid pro quo, the new name for gastric bypass surgery will now be the "Macdectomy."
Tuesday, October 26, 2004
META Madness
I would have posted yesterday, but I spent 3 hours I'll never get back trying to format my blog. First, I mastered the intricacies of site meter data. Then, I tried, in vain, to align my links. Then, I read up on META tags for site engine optimization.
The Blogger Help file really explains META well for the uninitiated:
Blog Meta Data - inserts all blog metadata via one tag. here's sample output:
rr33lklkrSPLATklkrlkr3
33lktl;rkw394oieotiopi
343k//''kBLAM3434JQ
343L4KL2-34344W4''T
34YOWZAKK34JK<33
RE34WEEWEEWEE:33
3433K2598ZZTOP034O;
4355J2BOING3JKJII3I
33699[ER23OYVEY335
Well, that's what it looks like to me. (That's not what it really says. When I tried to copy the real code, the blog recognized it as HTML and gave me a hell of a time when I tried to publish. I just wasted another 45 minutes trying to get it right, and when I published it, my entire blog page became misaligned. So this gibberish will have to illustrate my frustration with HTML.)
If the META tag inserts all blog metadata, then where do I insert the META tags with unique information about my blog? I'm sure the other 3 million bloggers have figured this out, so once again, I'm the only one who isn't in on the joke.
Truly, a little knowledge is a dangerous thing. I knew a bit about HTML and a bit about META before I started this blog, but together, that isn't even worth two bits. I was thrilled with how easy Blogger makes it to create a page and post it, but I realize now that to make a blog look special, I have to go back to college and get an advanced degree in computer science.
And as for META, good luck to the search engines in finding me.
The Blogger Help file really explains META well for the uninitiated:
Blog Meta Data - inserts all blog metadata via one tag. here's sample output:
rr33lklkrSPLATklkrlkr3
33lktl;rkw394oieotiopi
343k//''kBLAM3434JQ
343L4KL2-34344W4''T
34YOWZAKK34JK<33
RE34WEEWEEWEE:33
3433K2598ZZTOP034O;
4355J2BOING3JKJII3I
33699[ER23OYVEY335
Well, that's what it looks like to me. (That's not what it really says. When I tried to copy the real code, the blog recognized it as HTML and gave me a hell of a time when I tried to publish. I just wasted another 45 minutes trying to get it right, and when I published it, my entire blog page became misaligned. So this gibberish will have to illustrate my frustration with HTML.)
If the META tag inserts all blog metadata, then where do I insert the META tags with unique information about my blog? I'm sure the other 3 million bloggers have figured this out, so once again, I'm the only one who isn't in on the joke.
Truly, a little knowledge is a dangerous thing. I knew a bit about HTML and a bit about META before I started this blog, but together, that isn't even worth two bits. I was thrilled with how easy Blogger makes it to create a page and post it, but I realize now that to make a blog look special, I have to go back to college and get an advanced degree in computer science.
And as for META, good luck to the search engines in finding me.
Sunday, October 24, 2004
Book excerpt - Blown Job : Introduction
Two years and seven months ago, I was fired from my job; a casualty of the post-9/11 economic downturn. After 18 months of looking for work without success, I sat down to write a book, entitled, "Blown Job: an unemployment odyssey," my comic, sardonic take on a desperate situation. Turns out I had as much success tantalizing agents as I did Human Resources directors. Rather than consign it to obscurity, I've decided to share my book with you, dear reader, in a series of excerpts, the first of which you will find below.
INTRODUCTION
On January 31, 2002, I was let go from a job I hated and probably would have died in, so I guess the bastards did me a favor. But it really doesn’t seem like that now, because I’ve been out of work for 18 months and my unemployment insurance is but a distant memory, and my savings have been vastly depleted and my COBRA health insurance is about to terminate and I haven’t had an interview in I can’t remember when and lately I’ve been thinking of doing myself in, though I need to do it cheaply because I’m on a budget.
But enough about me. I’ve written this book for you, one of the 9 million (and counting) unemployed Americans who share my pain. We’re a mighty big club without a clubhouse. We don’t have the clout of AARP, the aura of PETA, or the chutzpah of ACTUP. We’re men and women without a country, cast adrift in a world that used to make sense, with skills and experience that now lie dormant. We spend our days chasing a dream that used to be a right; the right to work in the land of opportunity. We’ve been forced to do things that humiliate us and set us back ten years in our careers and cause us to fight with our loved ones and embarrass our friends. We take what crumbs we can get and we feel grateful. Is this what we sat through Accounting 101 and read “What Color is Your Parachute” and watched “The Graduate” for? I don’t think so.
Are you as pissed off as I am about the way things have turned out? Of course you are. Well then, come with me, as I recount for you the odyssey of one unemployed woman in America in the 21st century. This story has all the elements of the Great American Novel – the flawed protagonist, the journey fraught with perils, the angst and pathos and bathos and quite a few other words that I don’t know the meaning of – without the happy ending. I invite you to laugh at the absurdity of my situation to ease the pain and bitterness and frustration of your own. And, if you’re reading this introduction, it means that I’m actually making some money now and all I have to worry about is that I can sell enough books to make back my fabulously generous advance. [ed. note: that's back when I thought this would be a trade paperback.] (Remember, though, as I’m writing these words, I’ve been unemployed for 18 months and my COBRA insurance is running out and my savings are vastly depleted, and you know the rest.)
Come along as I recount the embarrassment of working for two months at a job from which I’ve already been fired. Share with me the experience of going back into the classroom after decades away from attendance-taking and hand-raising. Chuckle at the humiliation of being interviewed by someone who wasn’t born until after “Rhoda” went off the air. Learn how looking for work can be your whole new career.
And – this is really important – at the end of the last chapter, if you find that you like this book, I want you to do something for me. Write one of your own. Everybody who is unemployed in America should write a book and everyone else who is unemployed should buy it and read it. Look, we nine million have to support each other; we who are the charter members of the newest mega-association in the country. Let’s get organized, people. I’ll start us out by giving our group a name: FEDUP, for Forced to Entertain DUmb Employment Possibilities. Okay, not so great, but we can work on it. Hey, it will give us something to do.
We’ll meet on Thursdays. You bring the Krispy Kremes.
INTRODUCTION
On January 31, 2002, I was let go from a job I hated and probably would have died in, so I guess the bastards did me a favor. But it really doesn’t seem like that now, because I’ve been out of work for 18 months and my unemployment insurance is but a distant memory, and my savings have been vastly depleted and my COBRA health insurance is about to terminate and I haven’t had an interview in I can’t remember when and lately I’ve been thinking of doing myself in, though I need to do it cheaply because I’m on a budget.
But enough about me. I’ve written this book for you, one of the 9 million (and counting) unemployed Americans who share my pain. We’re a mighty big club without a clubhouse. We don’t have the clout of AARP, the aura of PETA, or the chutzpah of ACTUP. We’re men and women without a country, cast adrift in a world that used to make sense, with skills and experience that now lie dormant. We spend our days chasing a dream that used to be a right; the right to work in the land of opportunity. We’ve been forced to do things that humiliate us and set us back ten years in our careers and cause us to fight with our loved ones and embarrass our friends. We take what crumbs we can get and we feel grateful. Is this what we sat through Accounting 101 and read “What Color is Your Parachute” and watched “The Graduate” for? I don’t think so.
Are you as pissed off as I am about the way things have turned out? Of course you are. Well then, come with me, as I recount for you the odyssey of one unemployed woman in America in the 21st century. This story has all the elements of the Great American Novel – the flawed protagonist, the journey fraught with perils, the angst and pathos and bathos and quite a few other words that I don’t know the meaning of – without the happy ending. I invite you to laugh at the absurdity of my situation to ease the pain and bitterness and frustration of your own. And, if you’re reading this introduction, it means that I’m actually making some money now and all I have to worry about is that I can sell enough books to make back my fabulously generous advance. [ed. note: that's back when I thought this would be a trade paperback.] (Remember, though, as I’m writing these words, I’ve been unemployed for 18 months and my COBRA insurance is running out and my savings are vastly depleted, and you know the rest.)
Come along as I recount the embarrassment of working for two months at a job from which I’ve already been fired. Share with me the experience of going back into the classroom after decades away from attendance-taking and hand-raising. Chuckle at the humiliation of being interviewed by someone who wasn’t born until after “Rhoda” went off the air. Learn how looking for work can be your whole new career.
And – this is really important – at the end of the last chapter, if you find that you like this book, I want you to do something for me. Write one of your own. Everybody who is unemployed in America should write a book and everyone else who is unemployed should buy it and read it. Look, we nine million have to support each other; we who are the charter members of the newest mega-association in the country. Let’s get organized, people. I’ll start us out by giving our group a name: FEDUP, for Forced to Entertain DUmb Employment Possibilities. Okay, not so great, but we can work on it. Hey, it will give us something to do.
We’ll meet on Thursdays. You bring the Krispy Kremes.
Saturday, October 23, 2004
A Brief Monologue
*
A couple in California broke into a shoe store and had sex in the display window. When they were interrupted, they ran. Cops were told to be on the lookout for a man sporting a 10 EEE.
*
In Georgia, a woman returned from vacation to find that a stranger had moved into her home, ripped out the carpeting, and repainted. The moral?—in the words of the great Karl Malden, don't leave home.
*
A woman smuggled pot to her jailed husband inside a Bible. I believe it was the Rick James version.
*
Bullfighting is a sport in China now, but the bulls aren't killed – they're only taunted and pricked. Wrestling may come next, but the combatants are none too crazy about having to tickle their opponents into submission.
A couple in California broke into a shoe store and had sex in the display window. When they were interrupted, they ran. Cops were told to be on the lookout for a man sporting a 10 EEE.
*
In Georgia, a woman returned from vacation to find that a stranger had moved into her home, ripped out the carpeting, and repainted. The moral?—in the words of the great Karl Malden, don't leave home.
*
A woman smuggled pot to her jailed husband inside a Bible. I believe it was the Rick James version.
*
Bullfighting is a sport in China now, but the bulls aren't killed – they're only taunted and pricked. Wrestling may come next, but the combatants are none too crazy about having to tickle their opponents into submission.
Friday, October 22, 2004
The Three-Brad Pile
The television station Bravo ran a contest last month in conjunction with an upcoming reality series entitled "Situation: Comedy." Contestants were invited to submit half-hour sitcom scripts. Fifty finalists will be winnowed down to two, whose scripts will be developed into fifteen-minute presentations to be broadcast and voted upon by viewers. The winner will receive $25,000 and a year's worth of agency representation and the process will be filmed by Bravo for a ten-episode series.
I bit. My script, entitled, "We Hate TeddyBot," is about a woman whose job it is to answer letters from children who are rabid fans of a popular half-Teddy, half robot toy. One day, the boss calls her up to his office to inform her she's fired. The episode takes her through the initial shock; the act of stealing as many office supplies as she can cram into her handbag; and the reactions of her weepy co-worker, her needy roommate, and her solicitous ex-husband. Along the way, she meets a boozy, chronically unemployed accountant, whose cynicism shakes her. At episode's end, she stiffens her resolve and prepares to face her future. Think "Mary Tyler Moore" meets "The Apprentice."
I procrastinated for five weeks before I sat down on the Monday before the Saturday deadline and wrote like a demon for five days. (Note to aspiring writers: bad idea.) I pulled the script together an hour before the Post Office closed on Saturday afternoon.
I felt a great sense of relief as I handed my package to the postal worker. Even if I wasn't chosen, I felt good about submitting a well-written script, on deadline. As I was leaving the P.O., I passed a woman who was stamping an envelope that bore the "Situation: Comedy" contest address. For a moment, I felt smugly superior because my entry was already mailed, albeit five minutes prior. Then, the absurdity hit me. What are the odds of two people mailing their entries at the same post office, 3,000 miles from the contest site, minutes before the deadline? What if the same scenario was being played out in every post office in every town across America? And what about all the entries that already had been mailed over the past six weeks? I felt nauseous at the thought of all the competition.
By the time I got home, I was over it. In the weeks to come, I checked my e-mail daily, awaiting the missive from Bravo that informed me of my finalist status. I also visited the Bravo website, hoping for a contest update. By the third week, I was antsy, so I Googled "Situation: Comedy" to see if I could find some like-minded individuals. Sure enough, someone had created a blog to ask if anyone had heard anything.
I actually could hear hearts breaking when I came to the post in which a writer said he had been contacted and had made it to Round 1. Those who hadn't heard from Bravo were instantly doubtful and they implied that the poster was lying. Then another poster advised that he, too, was a finalist, and a third pointed us to a website of a stand-up comic who also had been notified.
Some posters were happy for their fellow writers and wished them well. Others could not transcend denial and flamed the finalists. Others flamed the flamers. Most were simply pissed at Bravo for not informing contestants that selections had been made. I was simpatico with the last group.
A number of writers offered to share their product and I read some of the scripts. It appears the next big thing in sitcoms is aliens. Vomiting aliens. In bars, in apartments, in offices. Aliens. Vomiting. What was I thinking, writing about people? My bad.
Though I had studied scriptwriting and had written several spec scripts, I did some research to confirm that I had covered all of my bases. I was pleased to see that I had. I did learn something troubling, however. Apparently, it is the mark of the rank amateur to submit a script that is held together by three metal brad fasteners. The industry preference is for two brads. Two brads. My bad.
So now I know – my script wasn't rejected because it was not funny. It wasn't rejected because the network received 30,000+ entries that had to be read in two weeks. It wasn't rejected because they didn't have time to read all the scripts. "We Hate TeddyBot" was rejected because it was held together by three brads – and also because it was encased in an orange cover (Black is de rigueur.)
In the end, it turns out that I'm not a failure as a writer. I'm a failure as an office-supply buyer. Good to know.
I bit. My script, entitled, "We Hate TeddyBot," is about a woman whose job it is to answer letters from children who are rabid fans of a popular half-Teddy, half robot toy. One day, the boss calls her up to his office to inform her she's fired. The episode takes her through the initial shock; the act of stealing as many office supplies as she can cram into her handbag; and the reactions of her weepy co-worker, her needy roommate, and her solicitous ex-husband. Along the way, she meets a boozy, chronically unemployed accountant, whose cynicism shakes her. At episode's end, she stiffens her resolve and prepares to face her future. Think "Mary Tyler Moore" meets "The Apprentice."
I procrastinated for five weeks before I sat down on the Monday before the Saturday deadline and wrote like a demon for five days. (Note to aspiring writers: bad idea.) I pulled the script together an hour before the Post Office closed on Saturday afternoon.
I felt a great sense of relief as I handed my package to the postal worker. Even if I wasn't chosen, I felt good about submitting a well-written script, on deadline. As I was leaving the P.O., I passed a woman who was stamping an envelope that bore the "Situation: Comedy" contest address. For a moment, I felt smugly superior because my entry was already mailed, albeit five minutes prior. Then, the absurdity hit me. What are the odds of two people mailing their entries at the same post office, 3,000 miles from the contest site, minutes before the deadline? What if the same scenario was being played out in every post office in every town across America? And what about all the entries that already had been mailed over the past six weeks? I felt nauseous at the thought of all the competition.
By the time I got home, I was over it. In the weeks to come, I checked my e-mail daily, awaiting the missive from Bravo that informed me of my finalist status. I also visited the Bravo website, hoping for a contest update. By the third week, I was antsy, so I Googled "Situation: Comedy" to see if I could find some like-minded individuals. Sure enough, someone had created a blog to ask if anyone had heard anything.
I actually could hear hearts breaking when I came to the post in which a writer said he had been contacted and had made it to Round 1. Those who hadn't heard from Bravo were instantly doubtful and they implied that the poster was lying. Then another poster advised that he, too, was a finalist, and a third pointed us to a website of a stand-up comic who also had been notified.
Some posters were happy for their fellow writers and wished them well. Others could not transcend denial and flamed the finalists. Others flamed the flamers. Most were simply pissed at Bravo for not informing contestants that selections had been made. I was simpatico with the last group.
A number of writers offered to share their product and I read some of the scripts. It appears the next big thing in sitcoms is aliens. Vomiting aliens. In bars, in apartments, in offices. Aliens. Vomiting. What was I thinking, writing about people? My bad.
Though I had studied scriptwriting and had written several spec scripts, I did some research to confirm that I had covered all of my bases. I was pleased to see that I had. I did learn something troubling, however. Apparently, it is the mark of the rank amateur to submit a script that is held together by three metal brad fasteners. The industry preference is for two brads. Two brads. My bad.
So now I know – my script wasn't rejected because it was not funny. It wasn't rejected because the network received 30,000+ entries that had to be read in two weeks. It wasn't rejected because they didn't have time to read all the scripts. "We Hate TeddyBot" was rejected because it was held together by three brads – and also because it was encased in an orange cover (Black is de rigueur.)
In the end, it turns out that I'm not a failure as a writer. I'm a failure as an office-supply buyer. Good to know.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)