Occurred to me recently that perhaps return-to-work moms reading this who didn’t wait until their oldest was 17 to get a J-O-B may not exactly know who Gumby is. Makes me want to gag, but apparently, Gumby is not a household word any longer, but someone forgot to tell me. See, I’m old. I wasn’t aware of it, regardless of constant reminding from teen-offspring who say I’m not nearly as
Cell phones, blackberries, iphones, ipods anything hand held will be bludgeoned with a rolling pin should you turn them on in my house this holiday season. If I can cook, clean, coerce, commune and condone loved ones during this forced festive time, the least the family can do is keep their frickin’ link to the universe in their car and be an active participant in reality. After lecturing my kids
Way back when, when actually thought I could get a job I applied for, I’d see a posting and think: do I really want to work there? Will I like it? Can I do it? Before even applying I honestly thought I’d be seriously considered for each and every employment opportunity. And I was as selective and scrutinizing as womanly possible: commute, pay, environment, ethics, education, skills, size, opportunity, benefits,
So I’m working. I’ve got the job and we’re emailing and teleconferencing and all is well in the world. Except for, um, the fee-for-service aspect. Where’s the moolah? I keep at it, and I’m working and loving it. Writing and thinking and bantering and learning to the tune of 15 hours a week. Been at it 6 weeks now, got paid for 2. Never was any good at math, but
I got a job. The kind where they pay you on a regular basis with a check that clears and a boss and an email and responsibilities and for christssake I may get a business card. I shit you not. Okay. So edit me. Censor me. I GOT A JOB! Can I tell you that since my last pity-party-posting, I have applied to 77 jobs I could do easily, and
When I tell you I apply for jobs, you don’t even know the half of it. I hit send, submit, email all day long. I apply for fancy full time jobs with real health benefits and 401ks. I apply for part-time, seasonal temp jobs that are this short of holding a sign off the exit ramp of your local freeway. I get nothing. I don’t get rejected. I don’t get
I’m having a pity party and you’re invited to watch. Yeah, yeah, intellectually I know no one can find a job. And theoretically I know I wouldn’t hire me if I had my choice of applicants. But emotionally, I’m a wreck. I no longer dream of forgetting to attend Physics and being denied my diploma at the podium on graduation day . . . naked. I know longer dream of
Spring break is wrapping up in my corner of the world and while those lucky bastards still venturing off to warmer clients, oblivious to the fact their 529s won’t buy books, I took my soon to be 17-year-old daughter college hunting in the sort-of, kind-of, mid-west. Or rather, what Nor’ Easterners call mid-west. Ohio and Pennsylvania. According to Yahoo Maps, it was 21.45 hours of actual drive time, round trip.