More good news

Looks like our gal Shwea just needs to shed a few pounds (don't we all?) and toughen up a little (ditto). Well, her paws should be toughened by walking more sidewalks--that and a little weight loss might help reduce the Dramatic Cut Syndrome we go through each year. In sum: The vet thought her paw looked normal, and a biopsy and x-ray and so forth would show a whole lotta nothin' (my phrasing, not his). What a relief!

Oh, and as a friend of mine thought I should explain, Shwea is pronounced SHWEE-ah and is Arabic for "little bit" or "little." It's one of the few words I learned after living in Morocco for two years (yes, I should be ashamed of myself), for whenever anyone asked me if I spoke Arabic, my reply was typically, "Shwea." To break things up, I also replied, "Mashee bizeff" (MAH-she B'zeff), which means "not a lot," but that's no name for a dog.

Plus, look at that magnificent mutt--if she doesn't look like a Shwea, I don't know who does (and yes, I'd name an elephant "Tiny").

Success on The Comedy front!

Thank goddess, the show at The Comedy Studio went well--so well, in fact, I've been invited back to perform on a Saturday (July 30th, in case you're wondering). Happily, Rick Jenkins was much more affable in person than in e-mail, so a lot of my fears regarding last night were for naught.

So what else is new? Most, if not all, of my fears turn out to be for naught.

Not only that, I got a DVD of myself out of the deal, which I can send to comedy contests and such.

Last but not least, my comedy buddy Jennifer Myszkowski got herself a spot, too, on July 24th.

Let's hear it for the Western Mass Women Comics Association (no, there is no such thing)! Woo!

There's no way of knowing what, if anything, will come of all of this, but after all the professional rejection I've been up against lately, a little positive comedy feedback has been a tonic. I feel wonderful, even though I went to bed a little after 2:00 (to say that's past my bedtime is what they call a "masterpiece of understatement").

Today would have been perfect, if not for the horrible news out of London. My heart goes out to the people there, and I worry about my friends in NYC and other "target" cities. May goddess/God/HP/Whomever help us all.

Now, I must get back to work. There is a little matter of a deadline tomorrow, not to mention a dog with a disintegrating bandage who needs to see a vet in about an hour.

The show's the thing

It's been a day of taking care of business--show business, that is.

No, I've done "real" work, but I also sent a comedy calendar out to a small circle of friends and kind folks who expressed interest, then I ensured tonight's set is a tight five minutes. Last but not least, I washed the windows in my car, and filled up the window washer resevoir.

I'm ready as I'll ever be.

For Friday's deadline? Uh, well, we shall see. I also rescheduled the vet for Shwea, for I heard word of mouth on the vet I was planning to see put an end to that.

No "so-so" vets for my gal, no ma'am. We're seeing a highly-recommended vet tomorrow, and here's hoping this vet can get to the bottom of this paw business.

Last night, someone opined that Shwea might have to have her paw removed, and that possibility has been haunting me all day. Not that the person was a medical professional, but truth be told, I had a similar worst-case scenario fly into my brain once the word "biopsy" was suggested by the emergency vet.

Please let this just be me going into alarmist mode--I come from a long line of alarmists, and can't help myself. There is no situation so terrible that it can't be seen in an even worse light, at least that's been my training. Thanks, Mom.

We'll get a start on what's really going on tomorrow; until then, it's time to think comic thoughts, and perhaps put a little more work into what's left of my paying work.

And finish up that ice cream. I've never had stress that was immune to the restorative effect of ice cream, and I hope I never will.

The party? It was fabulous!

Almost forgot to note that despite spending five hours with distressed animals and their people, I had a fabulous time at the Fourth of July party my friends threw. They know a lot of warm, open people who have the rare gift of being able to talk to people they haven't known from birth.

Okay, that may be overstating it, but sometimes I find New England Hospitality a little on the chilly side.

Not yesterday, not at all. What a great way to end what had been a very distressing day.

Thank you Hilary and Amy!

The Magic 8 Ball called it....

This morning, I finally got the attention of a temp placement person (the woman I had been assigned to has been on vacation for two weeks--yes, my luck is remarkable on just about every front, isn't it?), and she got me all charged up about a temp possibility at Smith, the woman's college down the street. It sounded so very promising that I felt it was best not to get excited about it until it was definite. The rep said she'd call just as soon as she got the green light from the school to send me over. Glad I kept myself in check.

Not that I expected to be turned down, oh no--what in my recent experience would suggest that?

Actually, what kept me from celebrating the first good news I've had in a while was that I checked to see what the "Magic 8 Ball" that Linda gave me for my birthday thought. I asked, "Am I going to get the temp gig at Smith?" And it said, "All signs are NO."

Don't you smirk. The Magic 8 also called the Wimbledon final between Venus Williams and Lindsay Davenport for me (I couldn't take the stress of not knowing, nor could I bear watching the third set, so I asked the Ball). When I asked if Lindsay was going to win, it said "NO." And as any tennis fan would know, the Magic 8 was right.

Anyway, shortly after I asked the Ball what it thought, the temp placement person called me back, and her tone said it all: The student who had blown the job off was being given a second chance, so there went my sweet little summer gig, just as the Magic 8 called it.

Yes, I'm now turning to a toy for information. But seriously: Who could blame me, after getting almost no response to 50 job applications?

On other fronts, my dear dog Shwea wasn't able to see her vet today because he is in Germany. As I recall, he was in Jamaica the last time her paw sprung a leak, and I am beginning to see a pattern here. A pattern that has led me to make an appointment for tomorrow with another vet; here's hoping she'll be able to get to the bottom of what ails my dear first-born dog.

Otherwise, I'm slogging away on the work that's due on Friday, and trying not to worry about whether I'll get it done in time.

As is almost always the case, IT'S TOO SOON TO PANIC. Really.

Happy Fourth!?

I cannot believe what a day this has been. Happily, there's a lot more to go, and perhaps I can turn this day around before it's too late.

Shwea's paw began bleeding (yes, again) this morning--well, bleeding isn't quite descriptive enough. Her paw began spurting.

If I was one of those "faint when seeing blood" types, I'd have been out cold since about 10:00 this morning. Instead, I wrapped her up as best I could, hoping we could stop the bleeding with pressure and such. However, she bled through two gauze bandages and a baggie in no time, and when she continued to spurt after I put another big bandage on, we decided it was time for the emergency room.

Shwea and I have been to this emergency vet before--in fact, I had typed up directions taped to my file cabinet just in case I had to go there again. Good thing, for I was on the road with Shwea by about 10:30 or so.

My goddess, the place was busy. How busy? We arrived around 11:15 or so, and it's now a little after 4:00--and we've been home about 30 minutes.

Shwea needs to see her regular vet ASAP this week, for the ER vet just put in staples and said there obviously is something causing this paw to keep opening up, so it's time for a biopsy. And perhaps an x-ray. And without knowing what exactly was wrong, I'm already shy about $240.00.

All while I'm marginally-to-almost unemployed.

But you know, things could be worse. While we were waiting, three families got the worst news a pet person could get--and one of the dogs was a German shepherd, like our Linus. The shepherd was 16, had cancer, and had been hit by a car, for haven't sake--they wheeled her in on a gurney, and I couldn't look at her. I knew I would start crying and I likely wouldn't stop.

While I am not against public displays of sadness, it seemed inappropriate, especially as the owner of the dog was so matter of fact about the dog's need to be put down. She could have been ordering Chinese food with the emotion she put into this decision. Her kids were taking it hard, according to her, but she seemed so detached, I wondered: Does having kids leave you with no resources for anything or anybody else? Did she lose so many dear people/animals in her life, she's hardened to the experience? Am I the wacko for being much more sympathetic to the elderly woman who was crying because her dear dog had to be put down and she was heartbroken, for she felt as close to the dog as to her children? (Her adult children nodded when she said that--and they didn't seem to mind, bless their hearts.)

Whatever. It was a hell of a way to spend a holiday, and I am supposed to go to a Fourth of July party within the hour.

Gotta turn the mood around, people. (And no, I don't do substances.)

Wish me luck (and Shwea, too, if you don't mind).

Footloose and fancy free? I WISH!

I have some work to do, and am struggling with getting myself to buckle down and do it. Methinks it's residual animus from the Early Bird paycut my publisher inflicted on me last month, but it might just be pure, unmitigated sloth.

That's a family trait, can't do a thing about it. My mother was convinced we were a family of slugs, and even amused herself by coming up with a Podolske family motto that went something like this: "You can't wait till you feel like it." She even translated it into Latin, which went something like: "Non permissum est, vis faceri id."

(All Latin spellings and phrasings approximate--I've never studied Latin, and have had a lot of drinks/drugs since family mottos were a topic of regular discussion in my life, pardon me.)

So, here I sit, realizing I have lots to do, but absolutely no interest in doing any of it.

That said, I would really like a job to go to, and soon. During our vacation, I teased Linda for her need for structure (she can not just sit around and read, for example, she must have something to DO). It got so bad she announced that she was looking forward to going back to work.

Isn't that terrible?

Me, on the other hand, I love sitting around with nothing to do while on vacation, especially if a good book is handy. I am also content to pass out on the back screened-in porch, even if I wake up drooling to the sound of ice melting in my glass.

That's the mark of a successful holiday, say I.

But then, enough is enough. I've had my rest, had my lull, had my "free time," and now I want to work. I'd prefer to work somewhere nearby with nice people, but am beginning to think even somewhere far, far away with human barracuda would be preferable to this.

I know--I will regret thinking that, and am trying not to welcome that scenario. But I tried to do my visualization this morning, and the picture just wouldn't focus. Perhaps I'm visualizing the wrong thing--but please, dear goddess/God/Whomever, would you let me know what the right thing is, and soon?

Sadly, I need structure, too--thought I was more laissez-faire than all of that, but apparently I'm not.

Sometimes, I think middle age is designed primarily to ensure that all of one's youthful illusions are smashed to bits. Goddess knows I've have seen more than a few put out of their misery in recent months, and can't wait to see what little bit of disillusionment is coming up next. (And if you believe that....)

See, I need something to do, people, and I need it SOON!

Love that "Mad Hot Ballroom"!

Saw this wonderful film last night and was charmed to bits, even though any recollections of my dance classes in grade school bring on winces galore.

As I say in my standup routine, we NE Wisconsin types are not a sultry people--and this extends to our dancing (if one could really call it that--methinks our attempts at dance evoke "Dawn of the Dead" more than "Dirty Dancing"). Stiffs on parade, that was us!

Well, me, certainly. I still don't have the music in me, and I think the odds are good I never will. Oh well. Another cross to bear. (Pile 'em on! T'is the season, after all.)

The kids in the movie, on the other hand--many had crazy talent! And sweetness. Reading and watching the news these days, one could almost think childhood is a relic of an earlier time, but these kids were kids--and but for a few exceptions (some of the girls had to worry about drunken men in their buildings, for pity's sake), they were allowed to be kids by their families, teachers, and communities.

Add in some great music, inspired teachers, and you have a movie that is, as one teacher put it, "Fantastico." (I think that's how that's spelled--never studied Spanish, sorry.)

On other fronts, I gave someone a ride to chemo this morning, which certainly helps with the perspective part of the day. But please, dear Higher Power, don't let things get to the point where my sole source of comfort is, "I've got my health."

That would be sad, really and truly sad.

On brighter fronts, I wrote a scathing letter to my alumni magazine, On Wisconsin, for they reported that the University of Wisconsin system does not offer domestic partnership benefits to its employees. In fact, it's the only school in the Big Ten that doesn't do so--if that isn't appalling, what is?

What ever happened to "cool, hip" Madison, the liberal stronghold of the largely Republican Midwest??

I was stunned. I was outraged. I ripped the "Bucky" sticker off my car.

And then I wrote the magazine, and felt better. And now I'm going to write a letter to the service manager who made such a botch job of my car.

Oh, and since I apparently was too quiet about this (I was on holiday, after all), my birthday was on June 24th--my debut was in 1959, which is appalling to type, but that's the truth. And I was born late--10:35 p.m.--which explains a lot.

Now, I'm off to heap some righteous indignation on a deserving car dealership--woo!

Visualize whirled peas--no, wait, that's not it....

Started yesterday off on the wrong foot--forgot to do my visualization of the perfect job, not to mention meditation, so that I began the week in a wee, panicked frenzy (how can a frenzy be wee, you ask? A Midwesterner has it).

Today, I'm going to start the day right, in the hopes I will face the day with more calm. Calm would be a nice change of pace. Calm and dry would be nice, too (it's raining buckets out there today).

On other fronts, I was bemused by my brother, who sent me an ageist birthday card even though he is a whopping 12 years older than I am. What gall, eh? Mr. Way Past Middle Age thought he was being clever by making it look as if their Airedale, Harry, sent the card.

As if. If he can't chew it up and/or swallow it whole, Harry wants nothing to do with it.

So this is what it's come to--using one's innocent dog to do one's dirty deeds? My brother should be ashamed of himself.

That will never happen, this I know.

Time to go think happy thoughts about my future job/commute/colleagues/paycheck and beyond.

(Speaking of happy thoughts, how's about that Linus picture up there? He had just roamed through the woods of the Becket quarry, and that makes him feel like a natural canine, let me tell you!)

Back to, uh, work

Yes, I'm back from my week's vacation in the Berkshires, even though it wasn't exactly a week and it wasn't all spent in the Berkshires.

There were complications, and it appears that I am a veritable magnet for complications these days (semi-employment was only the beginning).

The first involved my brand-new car with the brand-new front tire. Well, the car is equipped with a warning light that denotes drastic tire pressure changes, and it kept lighting up on me last week. First, I called the dealer, and he suggested I simply reset the light.

That worked for about 20 miles, then the light went back on.

Call #2 forced a drive back to town, where the dealer then tried something else. He checked the air pressure on all four tires, and adjusted them so they all had the same pressure.

That worked for about 20 miles, then the light went on--yes, again.

The third time I drove in from my supposed vacation, they kept the car and gave me a loaner and promised this time they would fix the damn problem.

And they did. Know what it was? The new tire they put on was the wrong size.

As my brother (he who makes me look optimistic) observed, "Of course, one couldn't expect the dealer who SOLD YOU THE CAR to know what size tire belongs on it."

Based on the fact that (1) they put the wrong tire on a brand of car they sell and (2) it took them three tries to figure that out and (3) they didn't seem to give a rat's ass that they were befouling my vacation, I'm thinking I should find a new place to get my car serviced. (You THINK?!) It's really irritating, for if they had done something to show they understood they were putting me out--say, washed my car and/or filled the gas tank--maybe I wouldn't be thinking such thoughts, but right now, THEY'RE GETTING THE BOOT. Linda thinks I was too nice to them on the phone--like it's my job to be such a bitch they understand they're screwing me over? I don't know about that--I told them I was on vacation, I had to appear at their shop many times, I told them I was getting tired of this, blah, blah. Are they SO STUPID they need me to point out that they're screwing up? Please.

(So, if you know any Pontiac-approved service places in Western Mass. that actually know what they're doing, please let me know.)

The other complication was that I got a call regarding freelance job possibilities last week, and though I had sworn I was not doing anything work-related last week, I broke my pledge to go interview at a temp agency in Hartford who handles "creative" folks such as myself. I was operating under the delusion that my other temp agency might have work for me this week, so wanted to keep my calendar clear.

Of course, there is no work for me as of yet this week, so I broke my pledge for naught.

But the last complications were good, for Linda and I had two parties this weekend, when we usually have one every six months or so. I drove a total of five hours on Saturday to attend Val and Joan's 10-year anniversary, then yesterday we returned home from the Berkshires to attend our friend Jennifer's 30th birthday party.

The only fly in the ointment was that it was hot, desperately, humidly hot during both of these parties, and while I can stand pretty much anything Mother Nature throws at me heat-wise (my thermostat got permanently fried in Morocco), Linda wilted big-time. Well, she made it through most of Val and Joan's party, but by the time we got to Jennifer's shin-dig, she was pretty much toast. So, we didn't stay very long, which I hope won't get us on anybody's "Bad Dykes" list or anything.

There's only so much you can do when your carcass turns on you--and when said carcass belongs to your partner, there's even less.

And oh--one more complication. I had insomnia last night, so am feeling rather tired. The good news is I don't have anything that I really MUST do today, so I can rest as needed.

The bad news is I don't have anything that I really MUST do today, so am a bit wracked with anxiety.

Oh, and I'm now 46. Does that number resonate with anyone? I can't quite grasp it.

So, what else is new?

Class act

So, answer me this: If you paid someone a lot less than you were supposed to, then sent them the missing money via wire transfer, would you think it was a good idea to charge this someone for the cost of said transfer?

The cost? $5.00.

Really.

You know, since I've been covering HR issues for eons now, I keep up on management trends. Lately, I've read a lot about how organizations have begun to worry about employee retention and the looming labor shortage. In spite of this, day in, day out I hear about (or get to experience personally) the gross stupidity of managers who don't think--or care--about what their actions signal to their employees.

Yesterday, for example, I heard about a group of managers in a huge corporation who decided to stop reimbursing employees in their department who have cable modem computer access at home. The key: This was not a financial decision--the organization had the money. The rationale? The managers didn't want to have to make the hard decisions necessary to develop a policy for such reimbursements, so they took the easy way out. The reimbursement policy? NOBODY GETS REIMBURSED.

The people with cable modems used to be reimbursed for this access because they needed to log in to the company's computers remotely, either when they were on call or when a colleague needed help with a project they've worked on.

So what do you think the people who used to get reimbursed are thinking right now?

A. "What a savvy group of managers! Talk about streamlined policy-setting!!'
B. "What lazy sons-o'-bitches! As soon as the economy picks up/I'm vested/something better comes along, I'm outta here....."
C. "I'm going back to dialup. If they complain about how long it takes for me to respond to their overnight 'emergencies,' I'll tell them to go stuff themselves."

Or?

I dunno. People deserve more than pettiness and lack of regard. People who make you money deserve even more.

Don't they? (Or is my naivete showing?)

I'm outta here myself. We're taking a week's vacation (anyone saying, "From what?" is no longer my friend), since Linda took next week off (we were supposed to go out to California for a business/pleasure trip, but there's no time/money for that now....besides, with all the seismic activity out there, I'm rather grateful to be homebound).

May be checking in, but I don't know--I only have dialup where I'm going, after all....

When all else fails....Give blood!

Perhaps I should be ashamed to admit it, but I was feeling down in the dumps (again) today until I met my friend Laura for coffee. She's also job-hunting, so we got together to commiserate and have a treat at a local coffee shop to lift our spirits.

Talking helped, but what really did the trick was waiting for us across the street--the bloodmobile was parked right on Main Street, and when Laura saw it, she said, "Let's go give blood!"

"Yes, let's!" was my reply, even though I don't think I've given blood since the 1980s. (I know, THAT is something to be ashamed about.)

It was easy, it was virtually painless (the pinprick test hurt more than the actual blood giving), and the nurses were wise-cracking hoots.

Plus you get juice and cookies and a coupon for a pint of ice cream.

Yes, FREE ice cream.

What's not to like?

So yes, I gave blood, and am feeling so much better about things. Maybe they got the blood with poor self-esteem out of me (my apologies to whomever gets it), maybe I just needed to lie still and do something productive (instead of sending resumes and cover letters into the void), maybe I just needed to get out of my office for a few hours.

Whatever, it worked, and I feel really good. Upbeat, even.

Well, let's not get carried away.....

On other fronts, I got my tire replaced today, and also put together the claims questionnaire and supporting documents to the city claims council and the mayor for the cost (Yes, red tape a-plenty, but I've worked for the government, they can't scare me.)

They might accept their responsibility, they might not, but at least I'm giving them the opportunity, right?

Yeah, right.

Murphy was an optimist, Round II

Well, the tire is a complete loss, but--happy day!--the guy at the dealership said I'd just have to replace it, not all four.

That constitutes good news today.

Unfortunately, I returned home to a "Thanks, but no thanks" letter from an organization that I would dearly love to work for--sadly, they don't share my feelings.

Guess I wasn't supposed to work there. At least not in that position. Good to know.

On other fronts, drove by the spot where my tire met its untimely end, camera in tow, and wouldn't you know it, but the workers were gone and they had completely cleaned the road. (It wasn't the rubble-strewn mess I drove through this morning.)

Should I be surprised?

OF COURSE NOT!

Oh dear--must work on my attitude. Linda's coming home in a few hours, and we must celebrate her birthday with all due joy.

Or a reasonable facsimile.

Murphy was an optimist, indeed

Feeling down? I submit that my day so far will have you counting your blessings in no time.

First, I'm driving back home with Linda and the dogs through Florence, and come across a city road crew who has left a load of concrete fragments on the road. Not surprisingly, I hit one, and by the time I got home, I had a flat tire.

Then, as today is tax day for us self-employed folks, I checked to make sure that my company deposited my fees for the past two-1/2 weeks. Well, they made a deposit, alright, but it was a couple of grand short--they, apparently, moved up my paycut a month.

To top it off, the nice man who came to change my tire said that the tire looks like a total loss, and since my car has AWD, I'll probably have to have all four tires replaced. On a car with 1700 miles on it.

Would anybody blame me if I went right back to bed?

But I can't, since I have to pay those taxes and so forth.

Yesterday was so fabulous, it's almost hard to believe I'm living the same life. I applied for a job at a local college, then remembered that a woman I took a writing group with worked there and thought I should ask her what she knows about the department and so forth. As luck (real luck) would have it, she turned out to work in the career center, and is such a generous soul she gave me a lot of wonderful advice and strategies, help, and a whole lot of hope. And lunch--did I mention she also bought me lunch?

What a sweetheart!

Yesterday I drove home with love and gratitude in my heart; today, my thoughts run along the lines of, "What the heck?!"

So, I've had me a real-live emotional roller coaster ride, and I'm okay about it. Truly, I haven't had a flat tire before, which is pretty remarkable for a 45-year-old. And I have documentation supporting the agreement I had with my employer, so odds are good they'll make good on what they owe me.

The tires, that I'm finding a little challenging to feel upbeat about, but then, I don't know for certain if I have to change them all or not. We'll have to cross that bridge and so forth.

And another thing: This is my Linda's 55th birthday. No matter what this day brings me, it once brought her on the scene, and for this all will be forgiven.

Eventually.

Believe it: There's no place like home.

Especially compared to Florida. Hot, sticky, Republican, over-crowded, strip-malled, big-bugged (and how) Florida.

The family part of this trip was uneventful, thank goddess. They all seemed to be on their best behavior, which was good (who cares what they say after we go home?). It was a hoot to see an alligator floating in the water with just his bumpy head and snout sticking out, just like in the comics. It was also wonderful to see egrets and pelicans and a number of birds I couldn't pick out of a lineup, but were cool nonetheless.

It wasn't cool to see so many Bush-Cheney bumperstickers. It wasn't cool to drive on four-lane highways that seemed to be crowded all the time. It wasn't cool to have no access to organic fruits or vegetables. (It also wasn't cool to come home to a rejection letter, but I digress.)

But otherwise, it was a very successful trip. We came, we saw, we got the hell outta there before state officials found out big dykes were in town.

Altogether now: Whew!

At least that went well...

Went to the temp agency this morning, and it wasn't the huge exercise in futility I had feared. While there aren't a lot of temp gigs around, there are enough to have some hope of something, and perhaps with an organization that has other jobs I may be able to weasel--uh, work--my way into eventually. One never knows.

Plus, I did well on the software tests they gave me and they already called my references (who said the rep sounded impressed with me), which makes me unreasonably happy (I needed a little ego boost, pathetic or not, okay?).

Must get back to the "vacation" prep--happy weekend to you!

It's all practice, right?

Am heading off to a local temp agency this morning, to see what, if anything, this gal can do while she waits for the employers of the world to wake up to the fact that Ann Podolske is available. (That's today's line, and I'm sticking to it.)

I've done temp work in-between real jobs before, and find it helpful to be doing something each day instead of waiting for the phone to ring/e-mail to appear. Besides, I think making a little money would help keep the financial insecurity goblins at bay.

Problem is, the rep I spoke to said that her agency, like most in the area, is primarily a temp-to-hire agency, meaning they don't do so much in the way of temp work as in permanent placements.

If they placed writers/editors, that wouldn't be bad, but they place a lot of administrative/secretarial type folks, and while my mother did that kind of work for a large part of her life, I am not interested in maintaining her tradition of doing work that doesn't pay/challenge just for security's sake. She's the Child of the Depression, not me.

(At least that's today's line, and I'm sticking to it.)

Of course, if the employers of the world realize I'm available and still do nothing to procure my fabulous self (okay, I don't boast, but I just got three letters of recommendations from former colleagues and am basking in their high opinion of me--it'll pass, believe me), then I'll consider following in Mother's footsteps.

Best go get in my corporate drag du jour....

Forty and counting....

Yes, sirree, I have 40 resumes out in circulation. Almost as many resumes as I have years on this earth, but am trying not to dwell.

And the response? Well, as I've noted already, not exactly encouraging.

Did revise my resume for each of the jobs I applied for this week, just to see if using a standard resume was working against me. Am also going to meet with a friend who works at a local college next week, to see what the possibilities are there. (As well as to get a sense of what salaries are like, not to mention the working environment and so on--there's one very expensive school in the area that's infamous fo paying absolute peanuts, so you can't be too careful.)

Yes, I'm networking. In a very low-key way. Low key in that I'm only "networking" (I call it "talking") with people I like.

Otherwise, I'm also trying to get geared up to clean the house. My inner hausfrau isn't exactly jumping up and shouting, "Let's go!" so it's been a struggle. It has to be done, however, for we're leaving the house and the herd to a petsitter this weekend, and I don't want her to think us complete slobs. (We can be, but we also have some pride.)

That we're heading down to Florida this weekend to visit Linda's parents is not exactly thrilling. But, if Linda can go to two funerals in Wisconsin in the dead of winter, I can head down to Florida during hurricane season. Right?

Boy, this is boring even me. Time to clean!

Anybody home?

I'm beginning to wonder if something is happening to my resumes/cover letters as they wend their way to prospective employers. Is "Dear Mr. [Hiring Manager's Name]" somehow being revised to read "Dear Mr. Snub-Nosed Sea Pig"?

Or is my list of particulars being similarly morphed into insults to myself or others? Does my ability to "conceive, edit, and write a broad array of management publications" become my ability to "fabricate, obfuscate, plagiarize, and toss together cheesy, useless products that nobody reads"?

What else could be going on here? My goddess, I have serious skills, people, and they're being ignored on a tragic (for me) scale.

Linda is sensing my despair. She sent me an e-mail today telling me basically to visualize a successful job hunt, as opposed to what I have been doing: Visualizing my descent into abject poverty. So here goes:

"I am sitting at my desk, looking at so many great job offers that I don't know which one to take. The reason being they are all great. Of course, I'll easily choose the one that is best for me.

"I am working with great colleagues and for a boss I really enjoy and with whom I like to work. I am doing work I love and am paid a salary that is beyond my wildest dreams. And I have a very short commute to and from work."

That about covers it, eh? Let's see if this helps....

Them that has, get....

I have to catch up with my bills AND clean the house--doesn't today, Monday, seem the perfect day for such things?

Not that I've done anything yet, mind you. Had to apply for a job that leapt out at me on this morning's e-mail first. It's at Harvard, so of course all of my state-school insecurities have been having a field day. Morning. I know, I know--I should really worry more about all of the brain cells I murdered while at that state school, rather than the school itself (which is a fine institution and I shouldn't be ashamed of it; my behavior while there, well that's another story....).

And I'm all better now (and, God willing, will remain so), so why worry?

No, I haven't a snowball's chance with that job, so why torture myself. It just seemed so perfect--it entailed research on business solutions to global poverty. Yes, I could apply all this business expertise I've been amassing all these many years to a humanitarian issue.

Humanitarianism and writing/research: Does it get much better than that??

Well, no, it doesn't. So I applied, even though I realize a job like that will likely draw 1,000s of resumes and while I am qualified, I got a report on my resume that this morning that said it stunk.

Problem is, it was also attached to an offer to "fix" said resume for $75.

I'm afraid I don't find that a Kosher combination, so am sticking with my stinky resume for now.

On other fronts, I spent part of the morning stewing about something I read in The Berkshire Eagle over breakfast. It was a front-page article on how Nantucket is becoming an island equivalent of a gated community for the super-nouveau riche of our age. What really got me was a quote from the guy who made his $500 million fortune from Yankee Candle (whose name I've forgotten in the hopes that it will vanish along with his story). He wasn't surprised that Nantucket was filling up with rich folks like himself, for "successful people like to be with successful people." Besides, there he can have a "nice" bottle of wine without having to worry about it, citing the fact that he could spend $300 for said bottle of wine while the guy at the next table would likely spend $400.

So, these birds of a feather flock together so they can indulge themselves in peace, basically. No poor or even middle-class people around to ruin their fun. Awaken what's left of their conscience, if any.

While I don't begrudge anyone the occasional indulgence (one look at me, and you'd know I walk that talk), but when indulgence becomes a way of life, I find myself turning away. Doesn't help that another paper carried a headline about the starvation "epidemic" sweeping across Africa.

Problem is, I can't help but thinking about how much food $300 could buy, much less $400.

That's just the way I think, I suppose; learned that at my mother's knee. When she was a little girl (during the Depression, as I may have already told you), she asked her mother why the richest family in town did nothing to help all the people on breadlines. "They didn't get rich thinking that way," she replied.

Guess not. And they sure won't start thinking that way as long as they hide themselves away in swanky island ghettos, will they?

Oh my--now I am in a state. Time to hit the stack of bills on my desk. Woo!

Could my latest editorial nightmare finally be over?

Ahhhh. I finally finished my latest deadline for my soon-to-be-part-time publisher.

This represents the triumph of financial necessity over the desire to tell said publisher to, in so many words, stick it.

I know, I know--the world's full of companies cutting back on employees and I am but one of many being put to pasture. Bahhh! But my mind, without my consent, keeps returning to bone-headed moves said publisher and other top executives made to bring about this sorry state of affairs, and it's made for some disgruntlement.

Okay, a lot of disgruntlement.

It certainly doesn't help that the world isn't beating a path to my door, employment-wise. Fear that I have crossed the line between "well qualified" and "over qualified" somewhere along the way (funny--it seems not that long ago that I was being told I didn't have enough qualifications at all). My, time sure flies.....

But, wouldn't you know, these things take time. I'm an aging enigma wrapped in a connundrum, people, but then again, I don't turn into a pumpkin anytime soon. So, I will keep sending off resumes and cover letters and waiting for the phone to ring. Patiently, of course.

On other fronts, I had a so-so set last night at PACE. It's been a tough week for comic thoughts, and it showed--to me, anyway. Some new stuff re being unemployed went over well, so we're getting a little gold from all of this dross.

Must go tidy up and prepare for the weekend--oh happy Friday!

The calendar says it best

Today's entry, from the Zen Calendar and Jack Kornfield:

"If your compassion does not include yourself, it is incomplete."

I'm trying.....

A dastardly day

Oh my, am I ever out of sorts. Yesterday was a day for the dark side to shine, if indeed darkness can shine, and I am still unhappy about it. Received a terribly testy response to an inquiry to a gatekeeper of a comedy shop, a man who is reputed to be one of the "good ones," which, of course, led me to doubt my comic intentions/abilities and, while we're at it, my entire purpose for being (why stick to just comedy, when one's can call one's entire EXISTENCE into question?).

Then, to make matters worse, I realized that negative feedback had the exact same effect on Rory Gilmore on last night's repeats--my life is playing out like a WB drama, for heaven's sake! (That I also had a similar career-ending experience with a professor when I was an undergraduate wanna-be artist provides no comfort at all, none.)

To add to my dismay, I saw in the paper that one of the big winners of the weekend's soapbox derby is one of the kids who was being screamed at the loudest by his father--and he and his proud (if hoarse) papa got a big, "Ain't we grand?" photo in the paper. And no word of what happened to the girl in the pink cart.

Where is the justice in that?!

Then, I realized that I missed my favorite 12-step meeting (since I was too busy watching my life unfold on "The Gilmore Girls"), and that the PACE comedy open mic is this Thursday--tomorrow night! The problem? This means it has been a month--a month--since the last show, the show I missed because I had a job interview the next day.

And, of course, I haven't had a job interview since.

What is the matter with me?! Quite a lot, apparently.

This Chinese proverb, from Monday's Zen Calendar, offers a tad of solace:

"To be uncertain is to be uncomfortable, but to be certain is to be ridiculous."

Well, then--at least I'm not ridiculous. There's hope for me yet!

The usual emotional rollercoaster

Memorial Day, as usual, was fraught. Found myself tearing up at the aged WWII vets, my typical practice when confronted with anyone who looks like my dear departed father. The guy wearing the three-sizes-too large shirt really got me--my dad wore shirts that fit him 60 pounds ago till the end of his life. Was he frugal or in denial?

Trust me--he was in denial. Mother cornered the frugality market in our household. The Great Depression was a cataclysmic event for her--she went from relative luxury (well, Midwestern Calvinist style--still wearing a hairshirt, but it was of wonderful quality) to relative penury overnight. Made her distrust money almost as much as Republicans.

Dad's working-class family likely didn't see any change in their fortunes, Depression or no Depression--they muddled along on the same barely-making-it strata their entire working lives. As a result, Mother worried about money, Dad's experience taught him that no matter what crunch they found themselves in, it would somehow work out. To say they had different money styles would be, as the old saying goes, a "masterpiece of understatement."

As it turns out, Dad was right. Something to remember these soon-to-be jobless days of 2005.

While we're talking tears, I also cried when the marching band went by--I'm a former band geek, and there's something about a line of clarinets (one of my former instruments) that chokes me up almost as much as the WWII vets. Noted no one was marching with a tenor sax as my band director used to make me do--he didn't like me, that was plain, and I believe making me march with a big ol' sax was one way to make me pay (I was first chair and would not relinquish my throne to his pockmarked son for one good reason; certainly, considering my rocky adolescence, he had more reasons than that).

So yes, it was a Memorial Day--remembering dead dads, tyrannical teachers, and more. Woo!

It was not just a day of remembrance, it was a day of new experiences as well. Saw my first soap box derby, and while I think I wanted to do it as a kid, watching yesterday's spectacle of family strife and ambition play out on Locust Street certainly erased that "wish" from my list.

Not that every parent behaved badly--there was one dad who offered nothing but sweetness and support to his indifferent-yet-winning daughter (she had a pink car with flames--how cool is that?), but enough parents coached their kids into pre-race cowers and screamed from the sidelines to make me think, "There but for the grace of God...."

What a weekend! Am almost glad to be back in my office, facing my one remaining deadline.

Almost.

A little sunshine today....

Though it didn't last, I saw some sunshine this afternoon while running errands in beautiful downtown Florence. I was grateful to see it, for if our local weather mavens are to be believed, it will be the last sun I will see this month. (Maybe next month, too.)

Not to worry, I'm not going to lapse into a sarcastic commentary on the use of the term "spring" to describe this time of year, tempting though it may be. Instead, I'm going to note that I applied for another couple of jobs today, bringing my grand total somewhere near 30 (I've had a few outright rejections so far, so am not sure whether to count those). Today's favorite application was for a news reporter post at my hometown paper. It may pay less (okay--a lot less) than what I make now, but it may be interesting--which is a lot more than I can say for some of the work I've done lo these many years for my shrinking publisher. Also got a follow-up letter from a university development job, so there's a little hope there, too.

Ran across a riot of a job on a media jobs site that entailed following crazed people on a trek across the desert for four to six weeks--the "reporter" would follow along in his/her RV, posting two articles a day on such vital topics as local microbrews (in the desert?!) and mushrooms (I kid you not) and beyond.

Yeah, not exactly a perfect job for a 45-year-old sober person (though I bet it wouldn't be hard to get people to sample beer for me), but it certainly was the most entertaining job prospect I've seen so far.

Elsewise, I've been kept busy going through all of the mail and other nonsense that accumulates on one's desk while away, and think I'm finally on top of it. Should be able to get back to work on my one remaining deadline next week. Altogether now: Woo!

Sorry. Didn't mean to let any sarcasm in this entry. Couldn't be helped.

Till next week, then.

It's cold, it's damp, it's WONDERFUL

It is wonderful indeed to be home in New England again, even if I got stuck in various airports on my way home from New Orleans (was supposed to fly through Dallas/Ft. Worth, but thanks to the weather yesterday, I flew through Miami--which, is aptly named "MIA" in airport code) and didn't get home until 2:00 this morning.

Yes, this morning.

So, I am not exactly the sharpest cheddar in the cheesehouse AND I'm sleepy--watch out world, here I come!!

The conference was worthwhile, for I picked up quite a few quotes, stats, and case studies that will help perk up future stories. It also helped reinforce some of my feelings regarding being a business journalist, for the organization hosting the show treated the press like pariahs--which, I suppose we are (who wants the truth, when the marketing people have so much happier news to share?).

In fact, the press were treated progressively worse by this organization. On day one, "we" had a room, but it didn't have any tables and chairs (for basis of comparison, I've been to conferences in the past where we not only had a room with tables and chairs, we also had Internet access and printers and fax machines at our disposal). But, on day two, the room itself was shut (it was now posted as being a "Quiet Room," whatever the heck that is), and there was a sign by a table (laden with press releases that had the news value of a candybar wrapper) reading simply, "Press Area."

So, we were to huddle by the table? And do what, exactly?

Maybe I'm just disappointed. I was supposed to introduce myself to the director of communications for this outfit in the hopes of landing one of the rare freelance gigs his association offers folks like me, but I didn't. Well, I did introduce myself, but only to say hello and thanks for the press pass. The problem was that I attended a session led by this man, and he distinguished himself as (1) having no sense of humor; (2) having an ego roughly the size of Texas, and (3) being the kind of guy that takes himself more seriously than Supreme Court justices do.

I've worked for people like that before, and you know--life is too damn short to court such people, too short by far.

But this I know: If things ever got so desperate on the financial front that it came down to: You butter up this guy or give your doggies away, I'd butter him up as only a Wisconsin gal can. In a heartbeat.
Where are my scruples? My principles?? Where my dear dogs are concerned, let's just say I agree with a post I saw on the wonderful Web site Dooce (http://www.dooce.com/archives/daily/05_23_2005.html) in which Heather Armstrong, the site's diva, was confronted with the illness of her dear dog Chuck. She and her husband had "the talk" about how much they would spend to save him, and they came to the conclusion that: "We'd sell our cars! We'd sell our house! We could start a meth lab in the basement! ANYTHING!"

I hear that, sister, loud and clear--where Linus and Shwea are concerned, money is no object. Neither is pride.

(But please, dear God, don't let it come to that!)

Beignets et cafe, here I come!

I'm off to New Orleans tomorrow for a business trip/beignet binge. Hope to amass enough editorial to see my sole remaining publication through the year--perhaps enough to write a few freelance ditties as well.

Am having a day of wonderment/worry over my situation. For a little while, I felt elated that I am going to be doing something new; a little while later I became fearful that this new thing isn't going to appear any time soon. Then an e-mail arrived from a friend with this command enclosed: "Enjoy the time off!"

But then, what if the "time off" is indefinite? I'd enjoy it if I knew in 1.5 months I would be shaking the hand of my future manager/director/editor, excited about the fabulous opportunity that awaits me--but what if that great glorious moment doesn't arrive for three months? Five?? A year?!! (Dare we say it: Never??!!)

Can't enjoy that much time off, at least not with two mortgages to feed, a new car--and, last but not least--a partner who has issues about supporting deadbeat girlfriends.

Not that she's ever supported me financially, mind you, but I know this was one of her biggest problems with past girlfriends (she asked me about my financial situation before she asked me on a date, for heaven's sake).

So, I'm torn, that's what I am--but not about going to N.O. My company has already paid for this trip, so I need to just show up and enjoy what might be my last "fun" trip for a while. (No, the upcoming trip to Florida does not qualify--that's a "duty calls" trip, if ever there was one. Linda made two trips to NE Wisconsin in the dead of winter; the least I can do is go to Florida in hurricane season.)

Won't be checking in for a while (don't think I'll want to pay what they charge for Internet access in the hotel, but one never knows)--I'll be back Thursday the 26th.

Till then, all good!

The "Smartest Guys in the Room?" I don't think so.

The "Slimiest Guys in the Room"--now that fits. Saw the documentary regarding the Enron debacle last night, and it held few surprises. Must say I was shocked at the attitude of the brokers who were manipulating power supplies in California to raise electricity prices--they didn't just not give a rat's ass about how they were hurting people in the process of lining their pockets, they seemed genuinely amused and gratified by it all.

Linda, she who has worked in brokerage firms many, many years, was not surprised by the brokers' attitudes. "They're all like that, to one degree or another," she told me.

Whoa--methinks "trader" and "pond scum" should be synonyms from here on in (though that may be an insult to pond scum).

On other fronts, I dusted off my bike, pumped up the tires, and actually drove the thing to the nearest P.O. this afternoon. Felt superior as all heck as I pulled up next to the post office boxes, where an enormous SUV was parked (I know, I know, I drive everywhere all the time--who am I kidding??).

Felt good to feign exercise, even of a minor sort. Though I must say, I seemed to have hit the bike path during the caterpillar rush hour--I was bobbing and weaving most of the trip (and no, they don't post "Caterpillar Crossing" signs, as well they should).

Might hop on the bike the next time I need to drop off another rash of resume attempts. I think my bike is okay for short dashes, but I'm not sure my tires are up to a long trip. Plus, all of the gears are not in working order, and all of the "chrome" is now, er, distressed. But then--what do I expect? I've had that bike since I lived in Brooklyn, which was sometime in the very late 1980s.

It's old and a wee bit rusty, but it gets the job done (yes, before you say it, it is a lot like your humble correspondent).

Speaking of getting the job done, I was pleasantly surprised by the local career center. They hooked me up with a fabulous Web site that has helped me find all sorts of interesting jobs--well, interesting in theory, anyway (nobody has the guts to mention salary, and that's rarely a good thing). The few jobs that did mention salary mentioned a number that I recall from a job I took in 1990--actually, it was $1,000 less than the job I took in 1990.

Last but not least, today is Lee and Jane's last day. They were my publisher and managing editor, respectively, for the past 10+ years, and I am going to miss working with them more than I can say. I know I'll have to lower my expectations regarding income if I'm to work in this part of the world--that I can do. But I think I'll also have to lower my expectations regarding my management and my colleagues, for Jane and Lee have been spectacular to work with and for--and I don't think a person gets that lucky twice.

Yet, one never does know....

My "inner hausfrau" has been unleashed!

My first day as our new cleaning lady was yesterday, and I must admit, the house sparkles. I don't really know what happened, but about a half-hour into the job I found myself cleaning like a woman possessed. Used to consider myself a "just tackle the most obvious piles of dirt" kind of gal, but not any more.

I think it's my Swiss ancestry coming to the fore--those folks are tidy as tidy can be, aren't they?

Also, it took forever. Maura, our former cleaning lady, usually took about two hours to clean our house. Me, I took four hours, and could have kept going ("I could have cleaned all day, I could have cleaned all day, and still come back for more!"). Crazy.

And though I like to think I'm in some sort of physical condition, I woke up aching this morning--from cleaning the house! A little three-bedroom ranch, for heaven's sake!!

The best part? I don't have to do it again for two weeks. Color me happy.

Still haven't heard back from 96% of the 24 organizations I've applied to--either they're all taking their sweet time, they're not the sorts to keep people posted (which speaks volumes), and/or I am barking up the wrong trees. Am heading to the local jobs center today with a friend, in the hopes that they'll have some resources that may help boost my effectiveness somehow. Ordered a couple of books yesterday on writing/communications careers, in the hopes I've somehow missed some tremendous possibilities due to ignorance. Also ordered Edith Wharton's autobiography, for I applied for a job at her "cottage" in the Berkshires, and what I've read of her intrigues me.

So, if I can't find work, I can at least learn something, eh? (And not just how to clean houses, please God.)

I know, I know--this career business takes time. I don't want to find myself in the occupational equivalent of a "marry in haste, repent at leisure" scenario--I want to find work that I really want to do, for a purpose that I can endorse (not just endure), and for a salary that reflects my worth.

Or a reasonable facsimile.

Does unemployment show?

Went to the vacuum cleaner store today to buy more vacuum bags for my debut tomorrow as our official cleaning lady (all aflutter, that's me), and the woman running the store asked me if I needed a job.

How the heck did she know?

That's the ticket--I'll start selling home filtration systems just after I finish my career as a "Financial Advisor."

On that topic, I received a request in the mail from a national financial services company over the weekend to consider careers in the insurance industry.

This company, too, has Web sites galore devoted to detailing the dirty deeds it has done to consumers (and agents).

With opportunities like these, why worry?

A good show does a comic good....

Must say, last night's show at Jimmy Tingle's Off-Broadway was a winner--there was a fairly large, ready-to-laugh audience, (most of) the comics were in top form, and yours truly only hit a few dead spots in her set. (And what few dead spots I hit were more than compensated for by the response to my "keeper" bits, I'm happy to report).

Not only that, four friends--four friends indeed--made the drive from Western Mass to see the show. That was perhaps the best part of the evening, though dinner at the Indian restaurant across the street before the show was pretty darn phenomenal, I must say.

It sure as hell is a drive, going to/from Boston--I was one pooped puppy on the way home last night, grateful as grateful can be I wasn't driving (thank you, Jennifer, she who definitely killed last night).

Today, however, the adrenaline of last night's show is long gone, replaced by a growing anxiety that I am not going to find a job any time soon. To fight that, I'm going to apply to three more jobs today, go to the local state jobs/career center Wednesday, and start a comedy/writing class, too.

If I don't find work, it's not for lack of trying, this I know.

On other fronts, I learned that I'm a candidate for oral surgery this morning. (Yes, I scheduled a dentist appointment for first thing Monday. No, I don't know what I was thinking.) The root canal was badly done, or so it seems--glad somebody is finally willing to opine on how this happened.

Whatever. The result is that I am probably going to pay an oral surgeon to save my molar instead of going to Las Vegas for my Peace Corps reunion. The times being what they are, I need to make such decisions.

And tomorrow, I get to start my side career as our cleaning lady. And then Thursday, my beloved boss is officially out of his job, along with my favorite managing editor/Buddhist.

Yeah, this is not an easy week to keep my sunny side up. But I'm trying....

New England hospitality?

I dunno. Last night's show at a lovely coffee house, Cafe Koko in Greenfield, wasn't really a hit. There were people there, they were paying attention, but they just didn't seem to be in the mood for laughter. Bemused expressions, the occasional head shake, yes--but laugh out loud? Not this bunch.

Too bad, for I love the place and think its owners are great people (and not just because they're former Peace Corps Vols, though that doesn't hurt).

Tomorrow, Jennifer, Holly, and I are off to Boston/Somerville, for the Women In Comedy show. Here's hoping the folks over there are ready to laugh.

I know I'm ready to laugh--with the job hunt weighing eternally on my mind, I am looking forward to a nice night of distraction.

On other fronts, had a lovely lunch chez Holly's with Jennifer, too. It was supposed to be a "let's figure out our set lists" lunch, but since we didn't know how much time we're going to have, it was near impossible to do that. So we talked/listened instead. Good times, for the most part.

When I got back from lunch, I had to book our trip to visit Linda's parents in Florida. In June. Yes, it's going to be all sorts of fun, and I'm just hoping we all get through this with the least amount of trauma possible.

Let's just say her parents failed Parenting 101, especially the part where you protect your child from harm. So, visiting them is more fraught than even the usual lesbian couple visiting straight family visit. (Much more.)

They are getting old--teetering on the brink of oblivion, actually--so Linda thought she should visit.

Here's hoping (and praying) we both don't regret this trip.

Odd "opportunities"

Seems that once you post your resume on the Web (I think I'm on five job boards as of today), you become fair game for desperate recruiters.

I say "desperate," for today I was approached by an international financial services firm to become a "Financial Advisor." Me, a financial advisor?! Surely, you jest!

Just because I have been taught by (often painful) experience to never say never (I am a lesbian who was convinced she was heterosexual for 30 years, after all), I checked out the "opportunity." I didn't just look at the clever and catchy recruiting materials on the firm's Web site, I also Googled the company and came across a site that served to nip this budding financial advisor's career in the bud.

The firm is being sued for deceptive sales practices, and from what I could discern, "advisors" are truly glorified sales agents who are pressured to sell unsuspecting clients the firm's over-priced, not-terribly-rewarding products.

In other words: Forgetaboutit. I read somewhere once that a survey of professions and their rewards found that certified financial planners are a content lot, but I think those that find the career rewarding likely inform people about their many alternatives while suggesting only products/services that are truly in their best interests.

Yes, I am an idealistic soul--hopelessly naive, if you insist. And though I do avoid major declarative sentences where my future is concerned, I think you could safely bet I am not going to become a Financial Advisor any time soon.

On happier fronts, yesterday I sent out my first query letter, even though it took forever and a day to get it to land where I wanted it to (the publisher's firewall kept bouncing my attempts back). Chasing down freelance writing gigs always seemed too fraught and frustrating to me back in my full employment days, but these days, in my "never say never" frame of mind, I am willing to give it a try. Yesterday's attempt is the first of many--I'll see what, if anything, comes of it all, then decide whether or not this is an option for my future care and feeding. Can't hurt, right? Besides, it forces me to focus on what I really, truly know--and can write about with assurance. A good thing, indeed.

Well, today my last update for my managing customer service guide is due, so work I must. It's a bittersweet thing, a final deadline. I've always admired the organizations that do customer service well, and have enjoyed doing my little bit to help more people become good customer service providers. May be stating the obvious, but it's a dying art....

Every silver lining has a cloud....

No, I can't take credit for that "silver lining" bit, that comes from a friend who has cornered the glass-half-empty market, bless her heart.

However, I did realize there was a bright spot to the recent "restructuring" of my work--we will be around for our friends' 10-year anniversary in late June. We were originally going to be at a conference followed by a vacation in California, but since I really don't need to go to the conference for work, and we don't really need to be spending big money on a holiday in these uncertain times, we decided to skip the whole thing. As a result, we get to celebrate with Val and Joan. And the week we were going to spend in California is now going to be spent in the Berkshires.

Silver lining, indeed.

On the other hand, a college friend who lives in Wisconsin told us about an opportunity to volunteer in June for a Frank Lloyd Wright weekend in Milwaukee that sounded fabulous--and would be, if we could spend money on a flight to the old sod (again, in these uncertain times). I would need to find a job/freelance gig really soon to make that possible; in other words, it ain't gonna happen.

I know, I know--atrocious grammar for a supposedly educated person, but sometimes, "ain't" fits. For example: "I ain't what I oughta be, and I ain't what I'm going to be. But I ain't what I was!" (From a sign over a western bar--surprised?--noted in Transitions: Strategies for coping with the difficult, painful, and confusing times in your life, by William Bridges.)

And it looks like I'm going to have to pass on this year's Peace Corps reunion in July, too. Kind of a drag--but I've missed them before and lived, so am choosing not to dwell.

At least for today.

(It probably didn't hurt that we saw "Off the Map" last night--definitely a movie that gives one a vision of making do with very little. Now, if only I looked more like Joan Allen....)

What to make of it all?

The job hunt continues--three more resumes/cover letters are out into the ether, making a total of 20 tries to date. Only one response so far, but who's counting? (Okay, I am--can't help myself.)

Also got a "Thanks, but no thanks" letter from a job I forgot I applied for--that shows how invested I was in that prospect, eh?

It's still exciting, contemplating the many ways my years of pounding a keyboard may be applied "out there." Of course, I also allow myself to contemplate the possibility that no one will find my skills the least bit compelling, but then again, how could that be?

(One must buck oneself up when job-hunting--you can see I'm doing a stellar job, no?)

Well, the animals are getting restless--it's feeding time somewhere, dammit--so close I must.

Don't want to burst anyone's bubble, but...

Early this morning, my partner Linda emerged from the basement with an armload of laundry. She appeared to be annoyed, and asked me in all seriousness, "How often do you do laundry?! What is it--every week?"

She capped this with a revelation that one might think only a heterosexual male could come to, but here it is: "It's, like, never-ending!"

I haven't laughed that hard in weeks.

So, dear readers, if you've been laboring under the illusion that women in same-sex couples do not struggle with the utter cluelessness of their spouses where housework is concerned, think again.

On other fronts, I have not cornered the sharp-as-a-tack market, so am truly in no position to judge. In fact, if I had a place to bring my brain in for a tune-up, I would. The problem? I have been scrambling to finish a project I thought was due last Friday, but, it turns out, it isn't due until the 1st of June.

Though it's disconcerting to be so far off the beam, this discovery has lightened my load. Now, I can concentrate my efforts on The Comedy and The Job Hunt, not necessarily in that order. Happy Day!

Wracked with ambivalence....

Well, it's been a while since I've checked in, largely because I spent most of last week out at the cottage, where the fastest dialup speed is somewhere near that of paint drying. Let's see, what's been happening?

First: The interview. I cannot say for certain how the interview went, though there are a lot of reasons why the job would be cool and a lot of reasons why it would sap the life force out of me in a matter of weeks. The cool: Varied, challenging work; chance to learn about magazine production; nice offices; and only two business trips a year. The worrisome: One-and-a-half hours' commute (each way--yes, three hours/day in the car); cubicle/workstation, not real office; 40-hour work week; time sheets; and very little autonomy (they call it "collaborative," some may call it "control freaks with red ink"). The unknown: Salary and benefits (they are among Fortune's 100 best places to work and have a lot of cool benefits on their Web site; that said, I learned in the interview that one of these cool benefits--telecommuting--is not available for this position. One wonders what else is/isn't available, you know what I mean?).

Sign from God or sign of mental instability? While waiting for the managing editor who was going to interview me (yes, I got there way early), I sat in a reception area that was next to a huge fish tank. In the tank, at the bottom, was a bright yellow tropical fish on its side, breathing its last. It stared at me the whole time I waited, and I had a hard time not staring back, thinking it was saying, "Don't do it! This could be you!!"

Second: The dentist. I entered the dentist thinking I was going to find out why my root canal has gone bad after only four years. Instead, I left the dentist with an appointment for another root canal and a nagging feeling I have been sold a bill of goods by a guy with no neck. Here's the thing: My original dentist sent me to this place, I thought, to learn why my root canal failed; instead, they took x-rays and came back to tell me I needed my root canal redone--no word on why. When I asked, they gave me the standard "These things happen" line, even though the literature in their waiting room said that root canals are supposed to last the life of the tooth. That, and the fact that the hygenist chided me for not being happy to be there (even saying that if my attitude didn't improve, she was going to send me outside and make me come back in until I got it right--as if I would come back in if she sent me outside, for pity's sake) and the dentist looked like a steroid-abusing Arnold wanna-be, set what was left of my teeth on edge.

The rub? I have been getting increasingly miffed about this, for the lame excuses and evasions peddled in that endonontics office were very similar to those I've heard in the past from contractors doing (shoddy) work on our house. In fact, it was so similar, I found an analogy leaping to mind (Linda's the analogy czar around here, usually). Here it is: If I put 30-year shingles on my roof and they failed after four years, I would call the contractor. If he sent another contractor who looked at the roof and said, "Yes, you need a new roof--that will be $[Insert an obscene sum here]," that would be about the scenario I encountered Friday.

I would be the lamest consumer in the world if I just said, "Okay, put on a new roof," right? What of the manufacturer's liability for selling 30-year shingles that last just four? What of the original contractor's role in their performance?? Well, that's the way I feel about this root canal business and I've got a call into my dentist to tell him I was not impressed by the place he sent me, or how my failed root canal is being handled.

Being Midwestern, Catholic, and the youngest in my family, I find being assertive as comfortable as a hair shirt, but happily, I find the prospect of rolling over for Dr. No-Neck and his pesky hygenist even more discomforting, so here goes....

That's enough for now, don't you think? Am looking at a very busy workweek, but it ends with comedy--so there's hope!

A job interview?!

Yes, a little over two weeks into my job hunt, and I've got me a real, live job interview. My first, but goddess willing, certainly not my last. To get this opportunity, I sent my resume in over one of those online job boards a little over a week ago (which isn't nearly as satisfying as putting together a cover letter-resume combo and slipping them into the mail as we used to do back in the days when I last job-hunted/before the Internet, but I digress), then today acing the phone (weed out the wackos) interview phase.

Friday morning, 10:30 a.m., I meet with a managing editor. For an hour. Yikes! If I somehow pass this stage, I then get interviewed by a panel--a panel--of editors. Oh, and take an editing test.

Am getting a wee bit wracked with anxiety just typing this, but I guess that's to be expected.

Job hunting IS nerve-wracking, no?

But having an interview will be good practice, regardless of how it comes out--and it will be at the end of the week, so I can start fresh next week (if it all goes to heck in a handbasket, or something).

Friday is going to be a beaut, let me tell you--job interview in the morning, dentist appointment in the afternoon. Yes, besides job hunting, I get to deal with an abscessed tooth. And there's the little matter of a deadline on Friday, too, but that is more than I can contemplate right now. EEEK!

Ah life!