The TV folks asked me to do another segment, this one on how to deal with people when they've been laid off. With fire tongs and a welding helmet, I was tempted to say.
But really, being laid off is different for everyone. Though I'm not buying billboard space to announce it, it doesn't bother me to say that I'm not working right now. Thousands, nay millions, are in the same boat right now, including a couple of the people who told me about six weeks ago that I was laid off. I hope their new year's resolution was to embrace irony.
If I had to make a list of tips for people who know people who've been laid off, it might be something like this:
1) Let them talk. If they don't want to talk about it, don't pester. If they mutter about bomb-making materials being tough to buy outside of the Internet, pester local authorities.
2) Don't barrage with cliches. "One door closes, another opens" is only applicable if they actually have some prospects and just aren't in the middle of a figurative Three Stooges routine.
3) While career changes might be in the offing, consider the person's background. A plumber who's just become unemployed is probably not interested in high finance, and might not appreciate a lecture on the joys of an MBA program.
4) Don't cut off contact. Though no studies have been done, unemployment checks do not transmit leprosy.
5) Don't whistle through the graveyard. Your friend or family member was laid off. They really don't need to hear you say, "Wow, I'm glad my job is safe." This is practically inviting a lightning bolt from human resources.
Mostly, though, I think people who are laid off just have a lot going on mentally. Obviously, they're worried about money, and they're worried about finding a new job. So saying things that will feed into their worry ("Do you think you'll have to sell the boat? How much might you sell it for?") might not be too helpful.
Instead, take your cues from them. If they want to vent, let them vent. If they want to curl up in a fetal position on the couch for awhile, make sure they have pillows.
And if they want to do karaoke to take their mind off it, that's okay too. Just be sure you're not going to an American Idol audition.
Friday, January 30, 2009
Thursday, January 29, 2009
Who's the Boss?
Ouch, bad title. Even worse show.
The ongoing journey of discovery that is unemployment comes with pitstops marked, "Now Who's Really in Charge?" and "Is This the Right Path?" It is coincidence that these pitstops sound like self-help books.
On that first one, I'm recognizing something that was even true before I got laid off, and is more true now: My spot in house pecking order is third.
This would be good if this were a home for wayward boys, third would probably be up there with the headmaster and the cook or something. Instead, in this house, it's dead last.
That my fiancee outranks me is understandable. She works, her name is on the mortgage, and even if all that weren't true, she'd outrank me just on the basis of the stuffed peppers she made awhile back.
Coming in also above me, though, is the cat.
Sassy is a generally good cat, if only slightly less vocal than a skipping CD of a boys' choir. If I knew cat, we'd have conversations worthy of university programming.
As it is, I've figured out that most of her cries at me can be translated in one of three ways:
1) Let me outside, so that I can wander the backyard and perhaps pick up an illness.
2) Feed me. Not that cat food garbage, give me some chicken.
3) Really, as humans go, you're pathetic, right? Scratch me behind the ears and show your subservience.
And I dutifully comply. Because like a good mother, Sassy uses the strategy that if it's worth saying once, it's worth saying to the point of insanity in all listeners.
Lately, we noticed -- more like my fiancee noticed, really -- that Sassy was sneezing a lot. So the blanket she sleeps on was washed, the rug was vacuumed again, shelves were dusted, and there was close examination of whether there was any perceived leakage from the eyes, like a Virgin Mary statue.
Eventually, the solution was determined: Punt and take her to the vet. A task that fell to the person who can only hit "refresh" so often on CNN.com anyhow: Me.
Getting Sassy to the vet was easy, but not without difficulty. Getting her first into the cat carrier and then out of it at the vet's office was a chore, and if she had front claws there probably would've been side trips to a blood bank, for pickup and/or delivery.
(And she was declawed before my fiancee got her, so bugger off, PETA.)
But she was surprisingly docile at the vet, lying placidly on the examining table, and giving me little headbutts of affection as I reassured her. These headbutts were a good way to remind me that her breath stinks.
The vet's diagnosis: Eh, maybe a cold. Here, give her some of this stuff. And don't let her outside.
He also gave her a shot, which seemed to perk up her demeanor markedly. By this I mean that she meowed even more than usual when we got home, and just to make me paranoid, did so in different keys.
Man, if I ever go back to working, she's going to be mad at me...
The ongoing journey of discovery that is unemployment comes with pitstops marked, "Now Who's Really in Charge?" and "Is This the Right Path?" It is coincidence that these pitstops sound like self-help books.
On that first one, I'm recognizing something that was even true before I got laid off, and is more true now: My spot in house pecking order is third.
This would be good if this were a home for wayward boys, third would probably be up there with the headmaster and the cook or something. Instead, in this house, it's dead last.
That my fiancee outranks me is understandable. She works, her name is on the mortgage, and even if all that weren't true, she'd outrank me just on the basis of the stuffed peppers she made awhile back.
Coming in also above me, though, is the cat.
Sassy is a generally good cat, if only slightly less vocal than a skipping CD of a boys' choir. If I knew cat, we'd have conversations worthy of university programming.
As it is, I've figured out that most of her cries at me can be translated in one of three ways:
1) Let me outside, so that I can wander the backyard and perhaps pick up an illness.
2) Feed me. Not that cat food garbage, give me some chicken.
3) Really, as humans go, you're pathetic, right? Scratch me behind the ears and show your subservience.
And I dutifully comply. Because like a good mother, Sassy uses the strategy that if it's worth saying once, it's worth saying to the point of insanity in all listeners.
Lately, we noticed -- more like my fiancee noticed, really -- that Sassy was sneezing a lot. So the blanket she sleeps on was washed, the rug was vacuumed again, shelves were dusted, and there was close examination of whether there was any perceived leakage from the eyes, like a Virgin Mary statue.
Eventually, the solution was determined: Punt and take her to the vet. A task that fell to the person who can only hit "refresh" so often on CNN.com anyhow: Me.
Getting Sassy to the vet was easy, but not without difficulty. Getting her first into the cat carrier and then out of it at the vet's office was a chore, and if she had front claws there probably would've been side trips to a blood bank, for pickup and/or delivery.
(And she was declawed before my fiancee got her, so bugger off, PETA.)
But she was surprisingly docile at the vet, lying placidly on the examining table, and giving me little headbutts of affection as I reassured her. These headbutts were a good way to remind me that her breath stinks.
The vet's diagnosis: Eh, maybe a cold. Here, give her some of this stuff. And don't let her outside.
He also gave her a shot, which seemed to perk up her demeanor markedly. By this I mean that she meowed even more than usual when we got home, and just to make me paranoid, did so in different keys.
Man, if I ever go back to working, she's going to be mad at me...
Friday, January 23, 2009
Today on the bus
There was an interview today, went well, I'll hear back in a week or so. Hopeful, hopeful.
That's not what I'm going to write about.
Instead, I'll write about the bus ride back home. Yes, I take the bus, for two reasons: 1) I'd rather not contribute to an environment where we'll be buying air tanks at Costco in a few years and 2) parking meters in downtown Sacramento use a method slightly less complicated than turning a redwood into a fleet of origami swans.
I clambered aboard said bus after standing outside under skies that were very overcast but thankfully not rainy. Why this was important is that the bus driver pulled up to the stop, then got out. Another driver got on, and then went through the following list of steps:
1) Check doors.
2) Move seat
3) Check ticket machine
4) Move seat again, this time side to side
5) Check that back door opens
6) Adjust rearview mirrors
7) Practice CPR 0n dummy (I think I saw him do this)
8) Seat? Adjust it to be sure
9) Hat could use adjusting too, now that I think of it
10) Remember side mirror. Adjust
11) Re-adjust rearview mirror to conform to side mirror
12) Inform bus HQ that per union rules, you are taking a 5-minute nap
13) Seat no good for sleeping, adjust again
To be honest, I sort of lost interest. Were I an impatient person, even rain wouldn't have bothered me because a bubble of righteous anger would've pushed the drops away.
Eventually, I got aboard. Soon behind me was a young man, with standard-issue earbud, droopy jeans, hoodie cap and, just to screw me up, a U.S. Navy lanyard coming out of his pocket.
He explained to the bus driver that he'd paid for an earlier bus of the same line, but that it broke down, and then drove off when he got off (instantly odd, as some sort of mechanical issue would normally not allow a prompt departure, unless it's a self-healing bus I've never heard of).
So, as a result, he did not want to pay again. The $2.25 bus fare did not seem steep, but perhaps the sailor he mugged didn't have any more money, the cheapskate.
The driver dutifully called the bus HQ about the situation, and relayed to the dignified young gentleman (no doubt knocking off a bit early from his profession as a corporate attorney) that no, he still had to cough up the $2.25.
A spirited conversation ensued, with the driver insisting on a fare, and the future governor, nay president, insisting that, no, he wouldn't pay twice. Curiously, he did not invoke his (presumed) U.S. Navy credentials. "I didn't sit in a sub in the Persian Gulf to pay twice on your stupid bus!"
Other bus passengers began their own assessments of the situation, with at least one person pointing out that should the cops be summoned, they were unlikely to take the Mensa intern's side.
The idea that cops could show up interested me, as in my unemployed state, I've gained a new appreciation for COPS, the TV show. It used to be, I'd avoid the show because it felt brutish, and sort of tawdry. Since being unemployed, I've come to a new realization: My life may be bad, but at least I remember to put on a shirt before I start drinking.
After a few minutes of debate worthy of the ancient Greeks, the bus driver was informed by his HQ overlords that the situation wasn't worth escalating further, and allowed the enterprising fresh-faced stalwart to take his seat, amid a flood of muttering to himself.
As for me, I was just happy that the entire episode finished before another union-mandated bus driver nap.
That's not what I'm going to write about.
Instead, I'll write about the bus ride back home. Yes, I take the bus, for two reasons: 1) I'd rather not contribute to an environment where we'll be buying air tanks at Costco in a few years and 2) parking meters in downtown Sacramento use a method slightly less complicated than turning a redwood into a fleet of origami swans.
I clambered aboard said bus after standing outside under skies that were very overcast but thankfully not rainy. Why this was important is that the bus driver pulled up to the stop, then got out. Another driver got on, and then went through the following list of steps:
1) Check doors.
2) Move seat
3) Check ticket machine
4) Move seat again, this time side to side
5) Check that back door opens
6) Adjust rearview mirrors
7) Practice CPR 0n dummy (I think I saw him do this)
8) Seat? Adjust it to be sure
9) Hat could use adjusting too, now that I think of it
10) Remember side mirror. Adjust
11) Re-adjust rearview mirror to conform to side mirror
12) Inform bus HQ that per union rules, you are taking a 5-minute nap
13) Seat no good for sleeping, adjust again
To be honest, I sort of lost interest. Were I an impatient person, even rain wouldn't have bothered me because a bubble of righteous anger would've pushed the drops away.
Eventually, I got aboard. Soon behind me was a young man, with standard-issue earbud, droopy jeans, hoodie cap and, just to screw me up, a U.S. Navy lanyard coming out of his pocket.
He explained to the bus driver that he'd paid for an earlier bus of the same line, but that it broke down, and then drove off when he got off (instantly odd, as some sort of mechanical issue would normally not allow a prompt departure, unless it's a self-healing bus I've never heard of).
So, as a result, he did not want to pay again. The $2.25 bus fare did not seem steep, but perhaps the sailor he mugged didn't have any more money, the cheapskate.
The driver dutifully called the bus HQ about the situation, and relayed to the dignified young gentleman (no doubt knocking off a bit early from his profession as a corporate attorney) that no, he still had to cough up the $2.25.
A spirited conversation ensued, with the driver insisting on a fare, and the future governor, nay president, insisting that, no, he wouldn't pay twice. Curiously, he did not invoke his (presumed) U.S. Navy credentials. "I didn't sit in a sub in the Persian Gulf to pay twice on your stupid bus!"
Other bus passengers began their own assessments of the situation, with at least one person pointing out that should the cops be summoned, they were unlikely to take the Mensa intern's side.
The idea that cops could show up interested me, as in my unemployed state, I've gained a new appreciation for COPS, the TV show. It used to be, I'd avoid the show because it felt brutish, and sort of tawdry. Since being unemployed, I've come to a new realization: My life may be bad, but at least I remember to put on a shirt before I start drinking.
After a few minutes of debate worthy of the ancient Greeks, the bus driver was informed by his HQ overlords that the situation wasn't worth escalating further, and allowed the enterprising fresh-faced stalwart to take his seat, amid a flood of muttering to himself.
As for me, I was just happy that the entire episode finished before another union-mandated bus driver nap.
Wednesday, January 21, 2009
I found a clue
The other day, I deposited an unemployment check.
Naturally, you don't do such things with relish. Though the EDD tries nicely by giving the check a rainbow palette motif favoring greens and yellows, they can't disguise the fact that this is money you get because no one will pay you to do something.
Still, if it made sense, I'd gladly see how that motif looks when set aflame. Alas, you can't buy matches, lighters, flamethrowers or any other incendiary device without money, so you have to use the check for its intended purpose rather than the deranged purpose you may have in mind.
The act of standing at the bank with an unemployment check is also sobering when you consider that most people these days rarely go into a bank for anything other than desperate pleading with a loan manager. Direct deposit, though not without flaws, is a nice thing, and that unemployment can't be done that way is a bit of class warfare, you might say.
But even with direct deposit, I'm old enough to remember how the old way to deposit a check, and so I dutifully filled out my deposit slip, signed the check, and gave it to the Helpful Bank Person, who was cheerful considering that her daylong view is of people in Safeway checkout lines.
This transaction being completed, she looked at her screen, then told me with some relish that according to my file, "You qualify for a low-interest credit card!"
In response, my blinks of surprise could've powered a space shuttle. "Ah, no thanks," I told her. "I dunno if you noticed, but my financial situation doesn't suggest that would be a good idea."
She seemed bemused (yes, that's the right way to use that word). I continued, "Did you see the type of check I was depositing."
Then she looked at it again, and gave a chuckle. "Oh," she said. "Well, for emergencies?" she tried, though she probably knew this fish was already well beyond the general vicinity of the hook.
"No," I replied, dropping my voice an octave to convey polite disinterest, though the alternative would've been to rip up the application in her face.
And then I left. And considered: The entire situation was a metaphor for what's gone wrong.
In dire straits financially? Here's some money you'll have to pay back? Trying to do things the right way? Sucker's game!
You can't blame the teller. She's doing her job. And it's also safe to say that there are thousands, nay millions, who may have gotten credit in such situations and had no troubles.
But there are also a lot of people like me who in such situations, saw "free money" and not "ticking time bomb."
And now those bombs have gone off.
Naturally, you don't do such things with relish. Though the EDD tries nicely by giving the check a rainbow palette motif favoring greens and yellows, they can't disguise the fact that this is money you get because no one will pay you to do something.
Still, if it made sense, I'd gladly see how that motif looks when set aflame. Alas, you can't buy matches, lighters, flamethrowers or any other incendiary device without money, so you have to use the check for its intended purpose rather than the deranged purpose you may have in mind.
The act of standing at the bank with an unemployment check is also sobering when you consider that most people these days rarely go into a bank for anything other than desperate pleading with a loan manager. Direct deposit, though not without flaws, is a nice thing, and that unemployment can't be done that way is a bit of class warfare, you might say.
But even with direct deposit, I'm old enough to remember how the old way to deposit a check, and so I dutifully filled out my deposit slip, signed the check, and gave it to the Helpful Bank Person, who was cheerful considering that her daylong view is of people in Safeway checkout lines.
This transaction being completed, she looked at her screen, then told me with some relish that according to my file, "You qualify for a low-interest credit card!"
In response, my blinks of surprise could've powered a space shuttle. "Ah, no thanks," I told her. "I dunno if you noticed, but my financial situation doesn't suggest that would be a good idea."
She seemed bemused (yes, that's the right way to use that word). I continued, "Did you see the type of check I was depositing."
Then she looked at it again, and gave a chuckle. "Oh," she said. "Well, for emergencies?" she tried, though she probably knew this fish was already well beyond the general vicinity of the hook.
"No," I replied, dropping my voice an octave to convey polite disinterest, though the alternative would've been to rip up the application in her face.
And then I left. And considered: The entire situation was a metaphor for what's gone wrong.
In dire straits financially? Here's some money you'll have to pay back? Trying to do things the right way? Sucker's game!
You can't blame the teller. She's doing her job. And it's also safe to say that there are thousands, nay millions, who may have gotten credit in such situations and had no troubles.
But there are also a lot of people like me who in such situations, saw "free money" and not "ticking time bomb."
And now those bombs have gone off.
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
The meta of blogging
Now there's some sort of term for this, but I don't know what it is. I think "meta" might be it.
As I write this, I'm being filmed. For a TV story about being unemployed. And, writing a blog about being an unemployed journalist.
It feels like going at some sort of space-time continum with a samurai sword. It reminds me of the time years ago when I wrote about a Miss America pageant contestant from a small town, and the media coverage that followed her around. I was in her backyard while a pageant camera crew filmed her, and our newspaper's photographer took shots of the camera crew. Her dad took pictures of everyone, and I got so dizzy from it all that I nearly fell in the swimming pool.
This is a little different, but then again, last time it wasn't about me. When you're trying to lure the cat into sitting on your lap while you have a laptop on your lap, because it would be a cute shot, you've gone into the realm of living in a media world of your own.
There is also the conundrum of sitting and looking like you're writing something when you're actually just trying to look busy. If I'd worked in government, I would've developed this skill long ago.
When they asked about starting the blog, I told them, "You can either get depressed, or you can try to be positive and stay engaged. And if someone reads the blog and says, 'He didn't get depressed, so I won't either', then all the better." Hah, get a load of me trying to pass this off as inspirational. May as well have a saying, "Today I will find a job, or at least watch my unwatched WWE wrestling on the DVR." Small goals being easier to reach, or something like that.
Job hunt update: Well, I'm still at it, and I've had one promising interview for a magazine writing/editing gig, with another interview in a few weeks. A pay cut could be part of it, but if it means I don't get to eat a Carl's Jr. Western Bacon Cheesburger (w/crisscut fries and Raspberry Iced Tea, big size) as often, well, at least I won't have keep buying bigger pants.
As I've been writing this, actually, I did get a phone call from a number I didn't recognize, which means two things: 1) Ooh, goodie, my dream job is calling! or 2) My factory warranty on my car has expired, for the 23rd time in the last two years, and for a mere $700 for six months I can restore it. They may not be aware that getting an extended warranty on a Toyota with a missing hubcap and pushing 200,000 miles is about like a billion-dollar bailout plan for banks that won't say what they're doing with the money.
Not that the latter would ever happen.
As I write this, I'm being filmed. For a TV story about being unemployed. And, writing a blog about being an unemployed journalist.
It feels like going at some sort of space-time continum with a samurai sword. It reminds me of the time years ago when I wrote about a Miss America pageant contestant from a small town, and the media coverage that followed her around. I was in her backyard while a pageant camera crew filmed her, and our newspaper's photographer took shots of the camera crew. Her dad took pictures of everyone, and I got so dizzy from it all that I nearly fell in the swimming pool.
This is a little different, but then again, last time it wasn't about me. When you're trying to lure the cat into sitting on your lap while you have a laptop on your lap, because it would be a cute shot, you've gone into the realm of living in a media world of your own.
There is also the conundrum of sitting and looking like you're writing something when you're actually just trying to look busy. If I'd worked in government, I would've developed this skill long ago.
When they asked about starting the blog, I told them, "You can either get depressed, or you can try to be positive and stay engaged. And if someone reads the blog and says, 'He didn't get depressed, so I won't either', then all the better." Hah, get a load of me trying to pass this off as inspirational. May as well have a saying, "Today I will find a job, or at least watch my unwatched WWE wrestling on the DVR." Small goals being easier to reach, or something like that.
Job hunt update: Well, I'm still at it, and I've had one promising interview for a magazine writing/editing gig, with another interview in a few weeks. A pay cut could be part of it, but if it means I don't get to eat a Carl's Jr. Western Bacon Cheesburger (w/crisscut fries and Raspberry Iced Tea, big size) as often, well, at least I won't have keep buying bigger pants.
As I've been writing this, actually, I did get a phone call from a number I didn't recognize, which means two things: 1) Ooh, goodie, my dream job is calling! or 2) My factory warranty on my car has expired, for the 23rd time in the last two years, and for a mere $700 for six months I can restore it. They may not be aware that getting an extended warranty on a Toyota with a missing hubcap and pushing 200,000 miles is about like a billion-dollar bailout plan for banks that won't say what they're doing with the money.
Not that the latter would ever happen.
Wednesday, January 7, 2009
An interview that led to questions
Today, I went on an interview.
Safe to say, it wasn't an interview that will lead to me ending this blog anytime soon.
First bad sign was the name of the company: Momentum, Inc. Innocuous enough, and it also conveniently sounds like it could be about absolutely anything but really about nothing.
Running that name through a Google search was the second bad sign. Lots of companies called Momentum came up, but none of them in Sacramento. None of them close to Sacramento, actually.
When I called to arrange an interview time, I had to inquire: What do you people do?
"Oh, we're a marketing and outreach company!" the perky young woman on the other end replied. From her voice, I suspected she was quite cute, and I was quite right.
You might have noticed, "marketing and outreach company" doesn't really tell you much either. I noticed that too.
So I went on the interview. First thing, I had to fill out a questionnaire, even though I'd given them my resume. Very odd. And all the questions on the questionnaire more or less would've been answered by the resume.
Next, I sat in a little interview area, in my suit. Other people sat in the interview area, not in suits. I take that back -- the ones in suits, mostly, were quite a bit older to me, and had very sad eyes.
From the conversation between some other people there who were on their second interview -- you may be interested to know, these people were definitely not in suits -- I learned the fascinating sales strategy that awaited me at Momentum:
1) Go to Home Depot, and look for people shopping. Approach them and ask about whether they'd like to buy cabinetry. Getting two to four names -- out of 120 inquiries -- was considered a good success rate.
Let me repeat that step: Go to Home Depot, go inside the store, and try to sell cabinets, and apparently this is okay with Home Depot.
Effing cabinets. In a time when a great many people would buy cabinets only if they could sleep in them. Fascinating.
2) Apparently, you start by selling, and then eventually you recruit other people to sell. You move up the pyramid the more you sell. A pyramid....hmmm....
Pretty much, that was it. The people who'd been on a previous interview said they'd gone with a salesperson on a second interview, to see what it was about. "I got to go to Jack in the Box!" one of them said.
As far as they could tell, the point of the second interview was to extensively buss the backside of the salesperson, so that he might recommend you over someone else for an exciting effing cabinetry sales job.
It was also explained to me that you could be making as much as $900 a paycheck. Great, in six months I could be making what I make now on unemployment. How enticing.
Needless to say, the interview itself was not all that encouraging. Had someone pulled out a picture of King Tut and said, "We endeavor to get you to the top of his house," I would've been little surprised.
In the end, my sentiments match those of a young man who came from the interview area while we were sitting waiting (in our suits or not suits).
He looked at us, then made a thumbs-down gesture. "TBBBBBTTTTT!!!" he commented.
Indeed.
Safe to say, it wasn't an interview that will lead to me ending this blog anytime soon.
First bad sign was the name of the company: Momentum, Inc. Innocuous enough, and it also conveniently sounds like it could be about absolutely anything but really about nothing.
Running that name through a Google search was the second bad sign. Lots of companies called Momentum came up, but none of them in Sacramento. None of them close to Sacramento, actually.
When I called to arrange an interview time, I had to inquire: What do you people do?
"Oh, we're a marketing and outreach company!" the perky young woman on the other end replied. From her voice, I suspected she was quite cute, and I was quite right.
You might have noticed, "marketing and outreach company" doesn't really tell you much either. I noticed that too.
So I went on the interview. First thing, I had to fill out a questionnaire, even though I'd given them my resume. Very odd. And all the questions on the questionnaire more or less would've been answered by the resume.
Next, I sat in a little interview area, in my suit. Other people sat in the interview area, not in suits. I take that back -- the ones in suits, mostly, were quite a bit older to me, and had very sad eyes.
From the conversation between some other people there who were on their second interview -- you may be interested to know, these people were definitely not in suits -- I learned the fascinating sales strategy that awaited me at Momentum:
1) Go to Home Depot, and look for people shopping. Approach them and ask about whether they'd like to buy cabinetry. Getting two to four names -- out of 120 inquiries -- was considered a good success rate.
Let me repeat that step: Go to Home Depot, go inside the store, and try to sell cabinets, and apparently this is okay with Home Depot.
Effing cabinets. In a time when a great many people would buy cabinets only if they could sleep in them. Fascinating.
2) Apparently, you start by selling, and then eventually you recruit other people to sell. You move up the pyramid the more you sell. A pyramid....hmmm....
Pretty much, that was it. The people who'd been on a previous interview said they'd gone with a salesperson on a second interview, to see what it was about. "I got to go to Jack in the Box!" one of them said.
As far as they could tell, the point of the second interview was to extensively buss the backside of the salesperson, so that he might recommend you over someone else for an exciting effing cabinetry sales job.
It was also explained to me that you could be making as much as $900 a paycheck. Great, in six months I could be making what I make now on unemployment. How enticing.
Needless to say, the interview itself was not all that encouraging. Had someone pulled out a picture of King Tut and said, "We endeavor to get you to the top of his house," I would've been little surprised.
In the end, my sentiments match those of a young man who came from the interview area while we were sitting waiting (in our suits or not suits).
He looked at us, then made a thumbs-down gesture. "TBBBBBTTTTT!!!" he commented.
Indeed.
Monday, January 5, 2009
A bit of detail
Time to reveal a little more about myself, I think.
When I first posted the blog, I noticed that it had "LLJ" as the author. Fine enough, those are my fiancee's initials (and this is her computer, written as I'm sitting on her chair, drinking coffee from her coffee machine, in her house. As you might imagine, I'm very indebted to her).
But my initials are not LLJ, and thankfully, the person with those initials is employed.
My name is Ben, and I'm a laid-off journalist (The room, collectively: Hi, Ben!).
For most of the last 10 years, I worked in newspapers.
It was great. Pay was frustrating, but the job never ceased to be entertaining.
More recently, I branched out into something that wasn't a newspaper, and well, it went fine for about six months. And then it nosedived like the stock market, probably not coincidentally at the same time.
Which brings me to creating this blog after that job ended, and now three weeks on, still working at getting out of blog writing and back into writing that pays.
More than that, probably not too germane at the moment. Fairly big family, though I don't have any pets, though my fiancee's cat has pretty well adopted me, in that she considers herself my original laptop. I kinda look like Nicholas Cage, which is weird because I'm half Dutch and not Italian at all. I'm in my 30s.
And oh yeah, I like to write. I have to push myself to do it, but once I do, I usually have a hard time stopping before people have lost interest (a problem plauging my entire journalism career, I'd say).
So there you go.
When I first posted the blog, I noticed that it had "LLJ" as the author. Fine enough, those are my fiancee's initials (and this is her computer, written as I'm sitting on her chair, drinking coffee from her coffee machine, in her house. As you might imagine, I'm very indebted to her).
But my initials are not LLJ, and thankfully, the person with those initials is employed.
My name is Ben, and I'm a laid-off journalist (The room, collectively: Hi, Ben!).
For most of the last 10 years, I worked in newspapers.
It was great. Pay was frustrating, but the job never ceased to be entertaining.
More recently, I branched out into something that wasn't a newspaper, and well, it went fine for about six months. And then it nosedived like the stock market, probably not coincidentally at the same time.
Which brings me to creating this blog after that job ended, and now three weeks on, still working at getting out of blog writing and back into writing that pays.
More than that, probably not too germane at the moment. Fairly big family, though I don't have any pets, though my fiancee's cat has pretty well adopted me, in that she considers herself my original laptop. I kinda look like Nicholas Cage, which is weird because I'm half Dutch and not Italian at all. I'm in my 30s.
And oh yeah, I like to write. I have to push myself to do it, but once I do, I usually have a hard time stopping before people have lost interest (a problem plauging my entire journalism career, I'd say).
So there you go.
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