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.
Will work for food signs on the off ramps often tug at my heartstrings. And those poor saps holding the festively designed Going-Out-of-Business, Everything-Must-Go signs outside Macy’s or Linens ‘N Things or Circuit City or Home Depot or Foot Locker or Domain or …. well, the list is way, way too long. Now I glare and lecture. Not to the poor dude (why always a guy?) holding the sign in
Update on my friendly neighborhood racist homophobe senior citizen, Vicki. (Biting My Tongue) Yes, it happened. She’d fallen and couldn’t get up. I visited at the hospital where they had no one there by that name. I went home, confirmed and called, insisting, I know she’s there. Nope. Not there. Of course, I thought she’d died, but this old pain-in-the-ass will live forever no doubt. Recuperating in a not-too-bad-smelling nursing
I, like everyone else with a pulse and empty wallet, am cruising craigslist for that great paying, local job that somehow passed by those more qualified than I. So far, not so good. As of late, I’ve been applying to many not even close to my qualifications, but perhaps, just maybe, I’m first in line for a job they haven’t considered needing yet. It’s a reach, but I’ve got plenty
This is my town where backyard finagling and barbecue lead to stacked teams while deserving athletes and families are left outside looking in. This is my town where police blotters are scoured for names of the afflicted, and sighs of relief echo when we escape another week unscathed. And this is my town where one terrible phone call alerts the gossip mill of a sick kid, a dead spouse, a tragic accident,