Friday, May 23, 2008
Things are looking up?
This is the way the world works. I filed the last blog entry. The phone rang. My sister said her company was interested in hiring me for a contract job. We'll see how that works out.
Wednesday, May 21, 2008
Beating the Pavement
So, here's how our little slice of America goes at the moment. A snapshot, if you will, of an average American family trying to get by. Keep in mind that the price of gasoline is up to $3.97 a gallon in some places (cheapest gas is $3.87).
Both Frank and I get up early. He usually beats me to the computer. We feverishly check emails for notifications from CareerBuilder. I wait, and have my coffee and start to craft some beaded earrings to sell at the local markets because they're quick, I have the materials (generously donated by my friend) and I can sell them for egg money. It's odd that the term "egg money" comes into play here because that's the depression-era generation's term, not mine. I'm from the generation that was supposed to benefit from all the postwar prosperity we kept getting promised in film strips while sitting in a darkened classroom somewhere in the 1960s.
Once Frank is done at the computer I check my CareerBuilder and Monster.com accounts. We both apply for everything we feel we are qualified or skilled at and we wait.
I make the mistake of watching the news. The news is not good. Unemployment is up. My ancestors wail from their graves, reminding me how they survived the lean years. I'm glad I listened to their stories when they were alive. I'm glad I paid attention to my great-grandfather when he showed me how to grow things and how to milk a cow. It might come to that.
I'm frightened and fairly sick with worry because we're in our 50s and beginning to feel like no one values us as employees. We begin to learn that perhaps we are experienced in the wrong areas for this global economy. I begin to second-guess every decision I have made in my life.
Friends assure me that this is tough for everyone and I remind myself that things would not have been much better had we stayed in Florida. But I am still fraught with fairly self-reducing if not destructive thoughts about how we may be living IN boxes soon instead of out of them.
On the more cheerful side, I have started a book for people who suffer from depression. Let's call it "darkly hilarious" because we depressed folk need as much humor as possible to stave off the dark days. This is oddly juxtaposed with my obsessive worry, of course, but it's my safety net.
I did consider not writing this post but if a blog is not for venting sometimes, then what is it for? Yes, yes, I know: I have seen the openings for professional bloggers. I have yet to be able to separate professional from personal. My profession and my personal life are fairly intertwined and while I can separate the two, I think this blog would be incredibly dry if I didn't stop for a moment to voice fears that perhaps all of us are having and that saves me from total despair: I am not alone.
Both Frank and I get up early. He usually beats me to the computer. We feverishly check emails for notifications from CareerBuilder. I wait, and have my coffee and start to craft some beaded earrings to sell at the local markets because they're quick, I have the materials (generously donated by my friend) and I can sell them for egg money. It's odd that the term "egg money" comes into play here because that's the depression-era generation's term, not mine. I'm from the generation that was supposed to benefit from all the postwar prosperity we kept getting promised in film strips while sitting in a darkened classroom somewhere in the 1960s.
Once Frank is done at the computer I check my CareerBuilder and Monster.com accounts. We both apply for everything we feel we are qualified or skilled at and we wait.
I make the mistake of watching the news. The news is not good. Unemployment is up. My ancestors wail from their graves, reminding me how they survived the lean years. I'm glad I listened to their stories when they were alive. I'm glad I paid attention to my great-grandfather when he showed me how to grow things and how to milk a cow. It might come to that.
I'm frightened and fairly sick with worry because we're in our 50s and beginning to feel like no one values us as employees. We begin to learn that perhaps we are experienced in the wrong areas for this global economy. I begin to second-guess every decision I have made in my life.
Friends assure me that this is tough for everyone and I remind myself that things would not have been much better had we stayed in Florida. But I am still fraught with fairly self-reducing if not destructive thoughts about how we may be living IN boxes soon instead of out of them.
On the more cheerful side, I have started a book for people who suffer from depression. Let's call it "darkly hilarious" because we depressed folk need as much humor as possible to stave off the dark days. This is oddly juxtaposed with my obsessive worry, of course, but it's my safety net.
I did consider not writing this post but if a blog is not for venting sometimes, then what is it for? Yes, yes, I know: I have seen the openings for professional bloggers. I have yet to be able to separate professional from personal. My profession and my personal life are fairly intertwined and while I can separate the two, I think this blog would be incredibly dry if I didn't stop for a moment to voice fears that perhaps all of us are having and that saves me from total despair: I am not alone.
Friday, May 16, 2008
Home is where the stomach is.
*Burp*Home food. Diner food. Good old grill in the back, hot turkey or meatloaf sandwich food.
Hot dogs that split open when they're on a charcoal grill or in a frying pan. White hot dogs! Two hots with everything and a side of fries from Gitsis Texas Hots. Garbage plates. Country Sweet chicken and ribs.
Amish pancakes. Chicken soup with a matzoh ball as big as a child's fist. High Falls Brewery - a fancy name for Genesee "Jenny" Cream Ale.
Buffalo wings from Buffalo. Italian sausage with peppers and onions. Cheeseburgers with hot sauce, Abbott's chocolate almond soft-serve ice cream, Pontillos Pizza.
Friday fish fries: haddock dipped in beer batter and deep fried. Served up with coleslaw and a baked potato (French fries if you don't like the baked spud.)
The Public Market on a Saturday morning: steaming hot coffee in one hand, canvas bags in the other, nose and toes freezing equally while buying bulk cheese, home grown vegetables, donuts from the Greek guy, bunches of fresh basil to make pesto with and bargain Monk's Bread made at the Abbey of the Genesee by real monks.
Tom Wahl's root beer. Charlie Reidel's loganberry drink. Pop. Not whiney "soda" or snooty "tonic." Just pop.
Bless me. I need an Alka Seltzer.
Thursday, May 15, 2008
Lost Things
I am not sure how someone "loses" a mattress. (We have the box spring.)
Perhaps it was delivered to someone with no sense of ethics and who saw a pretty nice pillow top by Simmons and said "oh yes, this goes in the master bedroom," thinking "this will never be missed."
They claim it isn't in storage where it sat with my other things for a month.
I know for certain they did not leave it at my former abode because the buyer's agent was being a snot about every particle of anything that belonged to us being out of the house before they would do their walk-through.
So I leave it up to them. They are a national carrier with a big reputation and I am sure they will do the right thing. They say they have 45 days to work it out. If they don't I shall publish their name on this blog and then they'll be sorry. Muahahaha!!
Perhaps it was delivered to someone with no sense of ethics and who saw a pretty nice pillow top by Simmons and said "oh yes, this goes in the master bedroom," thinking "this will never be missed."
They claim it isn't in storage where it sat with my other things for a month.
I know for certain they did not leave it at my former abode because the buyer's agent was being a snot about every particle of anything that belonged to us being out of the house before they would do their walk-through.
So I leave it up to them. They are a national carrier with a big reputation and I am sure they will do the right thing. They say they have 45 days to work it out. If they don't I shall publish their name on this blog and then they'll be sorry. Muahahaha!!
Tuesday, May 13, 2008
Working in America
I know that one of these days, the perfect job will land in my lap. Either that or my perfect job (writing and editing from home) will start to pay.
Right now I am staring at what is left of my last paycheck, which would have been my last paycheck even if I had stayed in Tampa, my husband's last paycheck, and the ever-mounting pile of bills. I knew I had 30 days to secure work. It is Day 13 and work seems to be very far off on the horizon.
My problem is that I'm too brainy. I know it all and if I don't know how to do it, I will once someone shows me and then please leave me alone to do my thing. Don't hover.
But people can smell wiseass on me and so my application/resume/CV/cover letter go to the bottom of the pile. "We will hire her if we're desperate." Because the know they would be miserable and so would I.
But this is how the Universe watches out for me. In a moment of panic, I walked into the local diner (where I worked 9 years ago before I left for Florida) and inquired about the "Help Wanted" sign in the window. I had asked before and had been told they needed a cook and so I pondered the possibility for a week because as I said, we need more income and less outgo. I explained that I had 10 years of experience cooking at various fine dining establishments and that I had, indeed, worked for the previous owner of that very diner. The woman, whom I suspect is the owner's wife, blinked and stuttered a bit before she said "we-we've uh we've found someone."
I knew in my gut that no way was she hiring a fat, fiftyish woman to work in her kitchen.
I couldn't help myself. I gave the smarmiest smile I could, and said "well, if it doesn't work out, let me know," and I left. Getting into the van I gave the boy a look and said, "bullshit." He laughed and agreed. He and I have great bullshit detectors.
Today, almost a week later, the sign is still in the window. And I KNOW don't want to go back to short order cooking unless it's the next thing before prostitution. And so I narrowly avoided yet another job that would suck. The Universe will steer me again toward something better and I will work diligently at getting my own gig off the ground because I swear I was not meant to work for people. Here's an example of why:
Today, we spent an hour driving to Palmyra, home of the founder of the Mormon faith, so my husband could interview for an assistant manager's position with Subway. The interview took almost an hour and they told him the job pays $7.15 an hour.
. . .
I know what goes into doing food service. I know what it is like to deal with employees who don't show up, don't do their jobs, are insubordinate, who tamper with people's food (you don't want to know) and who come in under the influence of alcohol or drugs. I know what it is like to deal with customers. What if the store is robbed? What if an employee injures him or herself? Seven dollars and fifteen cents to START? With no future? Eff that.
And it cost me $10 in gas just for the pleasure of waiting for poor Frank, who has over 20 years of experience in life and work, to be told that he is worth minimum wage to manage a crew of sandwich slingers. It would have cost about three dollars in gas back when I used to live here.
Oh well. At least something good happened today. I got a mattress and a box spring that won't go up the stairs and a rug for my dining room, courtesy of my mother and sister. (The movers lost my bed.) Life ebbs and flows.
Right now I am staring at what is left of my last paycheck, which would have been my last paycheck even if I had stayed in Tampa, my husband's last paycheck, and the ever-mounting pile of bills. I knew I had 30 days to secure work. It is Day 13 and work seems to be very far off on the horizon.
My problem is that I'm too brainy. I know it all and if I don't know how to do it, I will once someone shows me and then please leave me alone to do my thing. Don't hover.
But people can smell wiseass on me and so my application/resume/CV/cover letter go to the bottom of the pile. "We will hire her if we're desperate." Because the know they would be miserable and so would I.
But this is how the Universe watches out for me. In a moment of panic, I walked into the local diner (where I worked 9 years ago before I left for Florida) and inquired about the "Help Wanted" sign in the window. I had asked before and had been told they needed a cook and so I pondered the possibility for a week because as I said, we need more income and less outgo. I explained that I had 10 years of experience cooking at various fine dining establishments and that I had, indeed, worked for the previous owner of that very diner. The woman, whom I suspect is the owner's wife, blinked and stuttered a bit before she said "we-we've uh we've found someone."
I knew in my gut that no way was she hiring a fat, fiftyish woman to work in her kitchen.
I couldn't help myself. I gave the smarmiest smile I could, and said "well, if it doesn't work out, let me know," and I left. Getting into the van I gave the boy a look and said, "bullshit." He laughed and agreed. He and I have great bullshit detectors.
Today, almost a week later, the sign is still in the window. And I KNOW don't want to go back to short order cooking unless it's the next thing before prostitution. And so I narrowly avoided yet another job that would suck. The Universe will steer me again toward something better and I will work diligently at getting my own gig off the ground because I swear I was not meant to work for people. Here's an example of why:
Today, we spent an hour driving to Palmyra, home of the founder of the Mormon faith, so my husband could interview for an assistant manager's position with Subway. The interview took almost an hour and they told him the job pays $7.15 an hour.
. . .
I know what goes into doing food service. I know what it is like to deal with employees who don't show up, don't do their jobs, are insubordinate, who tamper with people's food (you don't want to know) and who come in under the influence of alcohol or drugs. I know what it is like to deal with customers. What if the store is robbed? What if an employee injures him or herself? Seven dollars and fifteen cents to START? With no future? Eff that.
And it cost me $10 in gas just for the pleasure of waiting for poor Frank, who has over 20 years of experience in life and work, to be told that he is worth minimum wage to manage a crew of sandwich slingers. It would have cost about three dollars in gas back when I used to live here.
Oh well. At least something good happened today. I got a mattress and a box spring that won't go up the stairs and a rug for my dining room, courtesy of my mother and sister. (The movers lost my bed.) Life ebbs and flows.
Sunday, May 11, 2008
Arrival
We are back home after eight years in Florida. Some things are different, most is the same. I am here at the perfect time, before the snow and gray sameness of winter months has me going batshit. I do not miss the South. Read my Yankee in a Red State blog to know why.
I am happy to be back among friends and family, where my northern habits do not surprise people, where my haste and noise blend in with others of my kind. I have figured out that I need periods of dormancy just like my beloved lilacs and spring tulips. I do not thrive in a tropical climate. The heat and humidity wear me out.
Here, the cold makes me get up and move around. I no longer sit, sluggish and sweating, surrounded by a cacophony of mosquito buzz and traffic snarl. Songbird voices replace the maternal calls of the alligator. The roar of the train passing with its cargo of precious poisons has been replaced by the near-silent passing of woodchuck, white tailed dear, black bear and wild boar (I am told that the boars come to gore the local Holstein kine).
I am off to the local flea market to see what the tschochke du jour is. I may pick up a home-baked pie at the Trading Post. In the meantime, there are pictures of my view taken with my ne'er do well camera phone.
Please send good digital photography equipment ASAP.
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