Musical Interlude: “These Boots Are Made for Walking”

From a February 8, 2009 cover letter. . .

Dear Sir or Madam:

Please accept my attached résumé in response to your search for . . .

Hold it! TWO YEARS???

Seriously, has it really been two years since I began my job search?

In February 2009, when I sent that first cover letter, I could barely breathe from the mental effort it took to hit the “send” button. Yet, it had to be done. It had become clear my much-loved, 12-year job would be eliminated when a new company took over. But, mentally, in looking for other employment, I felt as if I were cheating on the organization I’d given 100 percent loyalty to for so long.

At the time, I was emotionally devastated, feeling “kicked to the curb” like so much useless office debris.

Hurt.

Angry.

Anxious.

Scared.

Even, embarrassed as if I was the one doing wrong—which I was not.

But, things are better now.

True, it’s been a long, hard two years. There were times when I wanted to crawl under the bed covers on a rainy morning and just stay there, whining, “I give up. I just can’t do this any more.”

But, I didn’t.

I got up every day. Got out of my PJs. Put on my game face. Refused to watch daytime TV. Faced the world. Made networking calls. Improved myself with healthier eating and weight loss. Worked my contacts. Cleaned out closets. Attended meetings and community events. Did volunteer work. Developed a bare-bones budget. Developed new skills (such as website design and social media marketing). Met for coffee with anybody and everybody who had any connection anywhere no matter how small that connection. Took classes with an outplacement specialist. Reworked my résumé and reworked my résumé and then reworked my résumé. Joined a local job-search support group. Practiced interview questions. Applied for as many jobs as I could find each week. Made cold calls to companies that might have contract work for me.

Still, the economy and job market teamed up to fight me. No matter what I tried, I got . . . nothing.

But each time I got knocked down, I got up again and refined my efforts and intensified my focus.

Yes, I knew intellectually back in February 2009 it might take a long time to find a new job. But, emotionally, I didn’t think this could or would ever happen to me. Throughout high school and college and my work career, I had been the golden girl—the one who got chosen, promoted, praised. Whatever I wanted, somehow I made it happen.

Or, as my mother put it sometimes, “I’ve never seen anybody so good at pulling the rabbit out of the hat at just the right time.”

Truly, I am thankful that two years ago I did not know I’d still be doing the job hunt two years later. I’ve always been practical, but living through two long years like these turns you into a realist.

I did try to be proactive way back in February 2009 before things fell apart. I launched my search seven months before the job actually went away. My plan back then was a seamless, blissfully short transition to a new—better!—position. Why not? My life experience was that better things followed good things. I had no experience with nobody wanting me on any team for any position at any salary.

Yet, two years and hundreds of applications later, I sit in the same chair at the same desk in—thankfully!—the same house still scrolling through job listings for that still elusive full-time job that will pay the bills and offer some security.

Two years is a long time, but some things have changed for the better:

1. I’ve doo-wopped out of my “Nervous” phase. In early 2009, I worked 12+ hour days, freaked out with worry, unable to sleep, and terrified my boss would discover my job search and fire me on the spot. These day, although I haven’t morphed into some Pollyanna with no cares, I’ve made it emotionally intact through this on-the-dole journey so far and feel sure I’ll make it the rest of the way with my self confidence intact.

2. I’ve sock-hopped out of my “Teenager in Love” phase. Early on, I sent out applications and then constructed romantic scenarios in my head: Would I like this job? Were we a good match? Was there a future there? Could I forsake family and friends for a new life in Iowa or Alaska—or even the South Pole? (Yes, I actually applied for a job in Antarctica! I really did.) Today I still apply for jobs—any job, every job and in most states east of the Mississippi (and a few beyond), but I no longer daydream. I do a little research to see what the company does so that I can tailor my application to their needs. I hit the “send” button. No emotional investment. I can analyze possibilities if they call me.

3. I’ve quick-stepped out of my “Wishin’ and Hopin’” phase. In the beginning, I often pinned my hopes and dreams on exciting job opportunities. I’d look at area real estate ads. I’d picture living in the new location. I’d speculate about co-workers. I’d clean out closets in anticipation of a move. I daydreamed about what it would be like not to have to spend every spare moment searching for a job. I fantasized about buying new clothes and going out to dinner. I even dared to dream of replacing that broken-down clothes dryer. But, disappointment is too great when you’re rejected after so much Springfield-esque “wishin’ and hopin’”. In December, after losing out on a job that I really, really, really wanted—like so many other “close calls,” they discarded external finalists and hired from within, saving salary and relocation expenses—I decided  opportunities have to be mentally closeted in the waiting process. The key to not letting a really long job search weigh you down emotionally is to not pin your hopes on any one opportunity.

4. I’ve strolled out of my “Crying, Waiting, Hoping” phase. I’ve learned to wait without fretting. Companies take three to 12 months to make decisions. That is today’s reality. Worry does not make it go faster. Waiting is still not my preference, but tying myself in knots while doing so is nonproductive. These day, I calmly send the application in and then network and follow-up. And, mentally, I move to the next posting the same day the application goes out.

5. I’m now doing the go-go right on into my new “These Boots Are Made for Walking” reality. I’m creating opportunities. I’ve started a business, and I have clients now—yes, real paying clients—not every week, but some weeks. (On those weeks I do work, I am not eligible for the dole check.) I’m still not ready to say too much here about my “real” business just yet, but it’s progressing.

Meanwhile, I’m reaping dollars from all that closet-cleaning effort by launching an eBay business—“Aunt Ariel’s Attic”—in addition to my regular business. I sell my own treasures as well as a few pieces from other people. Apparently this is a great way to make a few extra dollars. Who knew? Well, I didn’t! But this is fun!

Neither business venture is full-time and neither offers those much-needed health benefits right now—something I’m seriously concerned about because my COBRA insurance ends in April—but I’m optimistic. I can keep a roof over my head and food on the table in the meantime.

I never expected to be where I am today. I never could have imagined that after two years of job searching and 16 months of unemployment, I’d still see no end in sight to my on-the-dole journey. The future looks very different than I originally imagined it.

Yes, it’s true that while in job search mode, you can never really shake the “wishin’ and hopin’’” feeling entirely, but, while I’m sending out applications, I’m also keeping “these boots” walking by planning and progressing. And, one day, when I’m employed again—and I will be—my new employer will benefit by getting a far better employee and person than I was two years ago.

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Just for Fun: Enjoy Nancy Sinatra’s performance of “These Boots Are Made for Walking”. And, after you enjoy this fun retro video, click on the links above for a hidden musical surprise.

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Photo Credits:

Boots: http://www.flickr.com/photos/naiadsspring/271629122/sizes/m/in/photostream/

Worried Woman: http://www.flickr.com/photos/pulpolux/116981263/

Dance: http://media.photobucket.com/image/1950s%20dance/marcarun/dance.jpg?o=6

1950s Magazine: http://media.photobucket.com/image/1950s/gbug1993/1950s_dress_debbie417x589b.jpg?o=504

1960s Style: http://www.flickr.com/photos/naiadsspring/271629122/sizes/m/in/photostream/

Break, Broke, Broken Revisited: This Time It’s Personal

“Did you hear something pop?” asked the paramedic.

“No,” I replied. “I couldn’t really hear much over the screaming.”

“Screaming?” he asked, looking all around. “Who screamed?”

“Me,” I admitted sheepishly.

These days I can’t seem to catch a break. Well, Okay, maybe this time I did. Sort of. You see, apparently appliances are not the only things that can break when times are tough financially.

Remember what I said in my August blog post, “Break, Broke, Broken”?: “Stuff may be broken, but I am not.” Well, just a month later, I almost was.

Confession time: I have a history of epic-level klutziness—the kind of stories you trot out at parties to make people laugh.

One incident involved a dark Halloween night, a winding country road, an Angus bull (2,000 pounds worth) and a totaled Toyota. The good news is, I didn’t get a scratch in the accident.

Another fiasco was a fall at the nursing home in front of no less than 100 onlookers—an event later requiring surgery and months of physical therapy. (Embarrassment trumped pain as I realized I, the young person, was on the ground being loaded onto a stretcher as the frail, elderly folks stood over me, watching solemnly.)

Thankfully, in my latest klutz attack, my foot and ankle did not get broken. Although, in all truthfulness, an actual break may have hurt less and healed faster than the torn ligaments I now have.

And, worst of all, I didn’t even get a good party story out of it. You’d think if a person has to clomp around for a month in a knee-high moonboot, it would be more interesting to relate a tall tale of being chased  by rhinos on a Serengeti safari. Or at minimum, a story of reckless Alpine snowboarding.

But, no, for me, it was that dang laundry again. Always that $@#&! laundry.

September 4^th, the Saturday before Labor Day was beautiful in Georgia. It was the kind of late-summer weekend that leads a woman to daydreams of beautifully weeded flower beds, immaculately cleaned living quarters and super-purged closets. It was the kind of day when accomplishing that mile-long to-do list seemed possible.

But, my first thought was, I’ll quickly get the laundry chugging so it’ll have plenty of time to line-dry. (Dryer’s still broken.)

Apparently I wanted that laundry done a bit too quickly. As my mind focused far away on the to-do list, my body flew over the last step of the stairway.

It’s amazing how time slows in an accident. At some point in the endless freefall, I tossed the laundry hamper sideways, thus making room to land face down in the foyer as some woman screamed loudly very close to my ear.

My right foot lay at an odd angle beneath me as I sprawled less than a foot in front of my new water heater. (Okay, I love my new water heater, but falling down to kiss its feet is a bit much.)

Yep, klutzy is my middle name; I admit it.

As I rose carefully from the floor, I watched a big blue goose-egg emerge on the top of my foot.

This is not good, I thought, as I hobbled to the phone to call Mom and Dad (again).

“Call 911 this minute!” Mom instructed. “It’ll take us at least an hour to get there.”

“Is it gonna cost me if they come?” I asked, my on-the-dole persona flipping into instant alert.

“Just call them,” she snapped in that tone of voice only a mother is legally allowed to use—the kind of voice that instantly makes you feel 12-years old again and mentally adding the “or else” part even if she didn’t say it.

I called 911.

Five minutes later: two paramedics, two EMTs, two firefighters and three shiny red trucks arrived. Must’ve been a really slow morning in my semi-rural community, I thought.

In the middle of the chaos, neighbor Lynn burst through the front door in time to hear a trip to the ER was necessary. Still worrying about money, I actually did put six highly-trained emergency personnel on hold while calling to have my mother check the insurance plan book to see if I could afford an ambulance trip. (We have the same carrier.)

I could not.

Yes, that’s right. In the midst of total chaos and excruciating pain, my chief concern was price. I am, after all, living on the dole, and I just paid for a water heater, too.

Fortunately, Lynn stepped in to offer to give up her Saturday morning to drive me to the ER so that I could save the ambulance fee. Where would I be in this dole adventure if it were not for family and friends, I asked myself for the thousandth time?

Still, trust me on this, you do not want to have an orthopedic accident on a Saturday morning of a three-day weekend when your orthopedist won’t be back in the office until Tuesday. Let me explain the effects of this long weekend succinctly: “Ouch! Ouch! OUCH!” (for 72 hours straight in spite of heavy-duty painkillers).

Still, I did “catch a break” this time—the foot was not broken, but, I badly tore the ligaments, necessitating weeks in a cast.

But Dr. Bones was not finished with his diagnosis. “See,” he said, “If you’d just get married, you could lie around with your foot on a pillow and not have to worry about starting up a business.”

Very funny, Doc. Wise cracks thrown in at no additional charge.

It’s a good thing that through my ongoing klutziness over the past 12 years, we’ve become friends or I might, in my pain and drug-fuzzed state have needed to hurt him for that one.

Oh, and just to make things interesting: Did I mention this foot in the cast is my driving foot? How am I supposed to get from Point A to Point B?

“Mom!”

(Again? Yes, again. Apparently, in her retirement years my mother has a new career: me.)

Oh, and as if driving me around like Miss Daisy is not enough, she also gets to cook my meals, scoop cat litter boxes, and push me in a wheelchair when I have a business appointment. Do you have any idea how embarrassing it is when your mommy has to help you in and out of the shower? (Thankfully, at least it is a hot shower—glad I got that water heater before this happened). Meanwhile, Dad waters plants, runs errands and takes on whatever else Major Mom assigns him to do—all while remembering not to complain about the haphazard schedule now going on at his house.

It has been nearly four weeks since my fall. My foot no longer looks quite as much like a purple football with five fat sausages attached. More importantly, the pain has lessened to the point where I can now focus on other things—such as money.

Since that plunge down the stairs, my medical bills so far now total more than $2,000. Thankfully, insurance covers a big chunk of that amount. Still, I’ll have to figure out how to pay the hefty co-pays and deductibles. I’m hoping there’s no need for surgery or physical therapy, but the fact that it’s still swollen and discolored three weeks later is discouraging. That unmet annual deductible looms large, but I’m trying hard not to think of that too much.

As I consider my own situation, I wonder how people without health insurance manage? How do they pay $2,000+ for emergency medical care? And, my bills are just for a badly torn ankle and foot. What if it was some life-threatening emergency?

Right now, my insurance is somewhat reasonable, but still a stretch on my teeny-tiny dole checks. But, in April, my monthly insurance cost will skyrocket to an amount larger than my monthly dole check. 

In fact, at some point, the dole check will dry up entirely. I can only hope that the business I’m starting has taken off by then. I was making great progress on it until the fall, but a four-week setback at this point is not a good thing.

Yes, I still have financial worries but throughout my “broken” situation, whether it’s broken appliances, a broken bank account or even now my bruised-but-not-broken body, I’m learning what’s still whole in my life—my family and friends—and to be thankful for that with my whole heart.  

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Photos Courtesy of:

Cast & Crutch (not Ariel): 

http://www.flickr.com/photos/westman/1121336077/in/photostream/

X-ray (not Ariel's X-ray): http://www.flickr.com/photos/akeg/

Crutches:http://www.flickr.com/photos/bru_camargo/

Break, Broke, Broken

Could somebody explain one of life's great mysteries? How do appliances just know the least opportune moment to konk out?

Do manufacturers install some evil switch inside mechanical objects that program them to go ka-fluey the instant the household starts drifting toward financially broke?

Guess my dad has it figured out after all. Showing up with his handyman tools, he always jokes ,"Be sure never to mention in front of the appliances that you have no money. They'll break down for sure if they find out."

Current situation: The air-conditioner picked today to pitch a snit-fit.

I live in the Deep South. I mean, the really, really deep South. The magnolias-peaches-armadillos South. Yeah, that one. The one with months-long stretches of heat and humidity. Today's temperature: 96. (Down from the 100s last week.) Today's heat index: I don't know. Suffice it to say if I wanted to cool off, I could try some nice Southwestern desert area.

So . . .

For the third time this summer Old Faithful is not.

The good news? It only cost $85. If I'd waited, the motor would've have burned out the repair guy said. Approximate cost: $400. OK, so saving $315 makes me feel a little better. And, the repairman, who is also a friend, has been kind—his first repair was only $50; the second was free.

This month marks the eleventh month of my "work break" (AKA known as "life on the dole").

With every month that passes, my bank account dwindles a bit closer toward "broke" status.

And, not a month goes by without something in my house breaking down.

Break, broke, broken.

Yep, I am literally living the conjugation of a verb.

Remember when I told you my clothes dryer stopped working? "Super Dad" did his best, but after three days work, he declared it unfixable. No big deal. I strung up a clothes line in the garage and now I dry my clothes that way—a nice "green" alternative, with many positive benefits.

Line-dried towels? Yep, they're stiff as a board. Excellent for exfoliating the skin.

Waiting until the last minute to do laundry? No way, it takes three days to dry in this Southern humidity. I have learned to plan ahead.

Tumbling a shirt to get wrinkles out? Not possible. Ironing required. Lifting hand weights builds biceps, right? I hope no one notices that I'm only "ripped" on the right side.

True, in the beginning, there was a certain novelty about hanging up wet laundry—like getting back to nature, being "earth conscious" and all that good stuff.

However, eight months later, I can tell you the novelty has worn off—completely.

But, it's a new life experience. I've learned something along the way. That's got to be worth something.

Meanwhile, other things around the house have decided I need a few more life lessons:

The backyard water spigot leaks under my kitchen sink. I drag the hose from the front yard to water my patio tomatoes.

The toilet stopped flushing. Dad replaced the malfunctioning parts.

The bathroom faucet began dripping. Dad fixed it.

The ice maker stopped working. I repaired it myself. Yay, me!

The gutters need cleaning, but I'm not brave enough to climb a ladder against a two-story house (and I don't want Dad up there either).

The house needs to be pressure washed.

Even the car got in on the act, needing repairs totaling more than $300 in May.

"What? I thought you started your own business?" you ask. "Isn't it going well? Don't you have any money from that?"

Well, the answers are yes, yes and coming soon.

See, before you make a dime in a new venture you have to spend start-up money—all of which came from already depleted savings.

Choose one: Invest in a business that will be financially successful later on or "invest" in fixing stuff that breaks right now. The choice is obvious: right now, what Dad—or I—can't fix stays broken (unless it's a mandatory thing such as the car or air conditioning).

Indeed, I'm looking forward to the day my bank account loses its "broke" status. And, most of all I'll be glad when all the brokenness around my home can be speedily repaired.

But, in the midst of my break/broke/broken state, I still remember what's important.

I'm grateful for the break in my career that is allowing me to pursue a new path—one I've long wanted to take. Without the "opportunity" that being jobless created, I never would have taken the plunge.

I'm thankful my bank account is not truly "broke" even if it feels like it—there are still funds left for real emergencies.

But, most of all, I'm thankful that, while my house and appliances are on a breaking streak, my spirit hasn't succumbed to the same. I've never lost sight of the end game: I know that I'll eventually get my life back—and in better shape than it was before because this time I'll be my own boss.

So what if I paddle with one oar through this a sea of brokenness? Land is in sight and of one thing I am very sure:

Stuff is broken, but I am not.


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Photo Credits:

Sun/Heat: http://www.flickr.com/photos/10752790@N02/2344662226
Clothes on Line (Note: Woman in photo is not Ariel): http://www.flickr.com/photos/60849961@N00/2733658185
Broke: http://www.flickr.com/photos/mslivenletlive/490552618/sizes/z/in/photostream/

My Own Personal Invictus: Then and Now

ONE YEAR AGO:

July 21, 2009 e-mail to friends: "It's finally official. I've been given the word I will no longer be employed after September 30 . . . In some ways, I'm relieved to be 'set free', but in other ways I do have concern about the future . . . Very mixed feelings . . . Quite frankly, it's a huge relief to just know what's going to happen. I have basically been in limbo since last November so just knowing—even if the news is not great—is better than limbo. Please keep me in your prayers as I figure out what's next in this adventure that is my life! It will be exciting . . . "

And, so went the e-mail sent to my closest friends one year ago today when I definitely knew my job was gone and my earnings—at least for the foreseeable future— would be the dole.

From November 2008, when I learned this outcome was likely, to the day the fateful news was finally delivered was torture. I was a wreck—a big ball of worry and stress—wondering if I would have a job and what the future held for me. All the while, as part of executive management, I was forced to plaster on a fake smile and play a key role in the operational transition I knew would lead to my own job loss.

Like my father, I've always been a planner.

Like my father, I don't like surprises.

Like my father, I like to know what will happen next.

In those hectic days when I had a career, my friends used to laugh when I penciled in "spontaneous times" on my daily planner. "We'll meet at 6 PM," I used to say. "And, we'll be spontaneous until 11 PM, and casual clothes will be required." (And, no, I'm not kidding. I have actually said this.)

I mean it when I say I am a planner. Seriously.

Being unemployed at all was not in my plan. No way.

 

Being unemployed for 10 months with no end in sight? Inconceivable.

It's been 10 long months since my final work day and—more importantly—my final paycheck.

At times the uncertainty has been overwhelming.

There've been bleak moments, too: when appliances died; when my 2009 tax return dictated paying twice as much in taxes as the entirety of my 2010 dole checks; and when I received rejection e-mails turning me down for jobs for which I knew I was a perfect fit.

But, bleakness has been the rare exception rather than the rule.

Before living on the dole, I prided myself on being a little cynical and slightly cranky. Of all the things that I've learned during this time, the thing that has surprised me the most is that—dare I say it?—I'm an optimist. Yes, after a lifetime of being told how like my father I am, I have discovered in myself that undeniable bit of my mother: optimism. Who would have thought it?

Could it be that I'm turning into the person I used to be in my pre-employment days? The pre-career days before I became a stressed-out mess trapped in an office prison and tasked with handling other people's problems, mismanagement and bad judgment?

And, the farther away I get from one of my biggest life crises to-date, I realize I'm daily becoming even more optimistic and excited about what my future may hold—in spite of all the job search futility, dole checks, broken appliances and frequent setbacks that have happened in the past 10 months.

With each passing day, I see a clearer reflection of the woman who emerged from the shadow of that stressed-out employee who received that bad news on July 21, 2009. I feel my "unconquerable soul" marching bravely—and, dare I say it, happily—into the unknown. 

And, it actually feels these days as if I'm on the brink of reclaiming my life. Not the structured (and strictured) one I had before but a better one: a life purposely shaped by me instead of one shaped by others around me.

Yes, I have experienced my own personal Invictus, learning that, indeed, I must be "master of my own fate":

Invictus

Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.

 

In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.

Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds and shall find me unafraid.

It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll,
I am the master of my fate:
I am the captain of my soul.

—William Ernest Henley (1849–1903)

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Photo credits:

Ship in Storm: http://bit.ly/9qq52w

Sea Storm: http://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Vernet,_Claude_Joseph_-_A_Seastorm_-_1752.jpg

Ship Captain: http://bit.ly/agTh38

Shear Joy: Sometimes It’s About More Than What You Take Off

Cousin Itt doesn't live here anymore.

I got a haircut.

I Got. A. Haircut.

Yep, you read that right.

Mom's salon was having a sale—only $9. And, with the impending reunion just weeks away Mom amped up the pressure. (Remember when she said my hair was making her look old?). Finally, in a move reminiscent of "Godfather Don", she upped the ante, making me an offer I couldn't refuse: $12 for a haircut and tip.

This haircut made me absurdly happy. I've never had a haircut quite like it. I, quite frankly, felt like a purring kitten rolling on her back afterwards.

Is it possible to get this much pleasure out of such a mundane activity as a haircut? You betcha. Shear joy: now showing at your local salon for a mere nine bucks.

Still, a cut at this salon took some effort. I made the mistake of going on a Saturday. It's one of those no-appointment-necessary-strip-mall salons. Translation: hordes of waiting masses—many of them young and squirmy.

I entered the salon with trepidation. I've gone to the same salon for over a decade. And to the same hairdresser since the previous one decided to be a fishing boat captain (but, that's a whole other story).

I. Do. Not. Like. Going. To. New. Hairdressers.

Scissors in the hands of a stranger standing behind my back make me nervous.

But . . . back to the salon. It was clean and neat, although not hip like the old one. They didn't offer me a beverage. There were straight-back benches instead of the old salon's comfy wicker chairs. And, there were three customers already waiting for Mom's stylist. It would be a long wait.

So what if I spent a little time waiting? It wasn't like I had double-booked a couple of power lunches. I had the time, and I could get five cuts here for what one cost at my old salon.

With a sign featuring Gilles Marini staring at me from above the styling products rack, I figured it just might be an enjoyable wait. My old salon didn't have that view.

Two hours later, Shakira had snipped through three head's worth of tresses and was ready to start my haircut.

"What do you want done?" she asked politely.

During the wait, I had learned the salon charges different prices according to what is done. The $9 cut includes only a spritz of water and the cut—no shampoo, no blow dry, no styling.

"Whatever comes on the $9 deal," I stated. Mom had given me only enough for a cut and a tip.

A little boy giggled and loudly parroted in a mocking voice, "Whatever comes on the $9 deal."

A quick trip to the ladies' room ensured no one else saw my red-faced embarrassment.

"I'm going to give you a complimentary shampoo and blow dry because you waited so long," Shakira told me when I returned.

Bless you, I thought. I'm going to love this woman. Mom had told her about my joblessness and that I was coming in for a cut. Shakira was sweet enough to give me something extra with this cut and, at the same time, kind enough not to make it feel like charity.

I sat down at the sink. The water gushed out. I don't know when I've felt anything as delicious as that water hitting my head. Why does it feel so good to have someone else wash your hair? It never feels this great when I wash it myself.

There was no scalp massage like at the old salon, but that water and shampoo made me feel like a new person. It seemed that every worry I had for the last eight months began to flow down that salon drain.

And Shakira even threw in the twelve-dollars-extra scalp treatment for free. You've made my all-time top ten list of favorite people, Shakira!

 
She had her work cut out for her in brushing out the long, wet tresses. In that chair, somehow they looked longer and more unruly than ever. After hearing I wanted five inches off she began to snip.

Is it possible to feel as if a burden has been lifted by a mere haircut?

That's exactly how it felt. As each wet, curling strand fell onto the cape and then to the floor below, I felt freer.

I felt new.

I felt the old slipping away.

And quite literally it was: the sodden hair hitting the floor had been with me since the last stressful year of the old job. It may have actually held within it the worry and panic that weighed on my mind during the transition that resulted in job loss. It held memories of a life I no longer had.

I was so giddy with this new feeling that I told Shakira to cut off another two inches. And she did. I was quite tempted to ask for a new short 'do, but decided I shouldn't get carried away.

And then she began to blow it dry. As I saw my fashionable coiffure return, I felt my confidence return also. Gone were the tired-looking tresses that made me feel frumpy and dumpy.

I cannot adequately describe the soul-filling joy I felt when I saw the completed style. Have I already said how much I now adore Shakira? I could've danced out of that salon. I wanted to break into song. Heck, I wanted to scream a little, too.

Feeling a bit giddy, I even threw in one of my own scarce dollar bills to plump up the tip. Shakira had more than earned that 44% tip.

Filled with excitement, I stopped by my parents' house to show off the new 'do. All the way home, I tossed my hair like some crazed shampoo-commercial model.

Why did this cut give me such ridiculous over-the-top delirious joy?

Once again, the Joy of The Treat had returned to douse me in a ray of light. I'd never given a haircut much thought before, but days later, I still recall this experience with pleasure. And, I still feel changed by it.

For the past eight months, I have hidden my greying, damaged, too-long hair in ponytails. But, something about this new cut changed me in ways I don't fully understand. Is it possible I've fallen in love with my grey? Gone is the excessive hairspray that plastered those much-too-long locks. I'm wearing my hair free and natural—and sometimes (dare I say it?)—even curly (translation: really natural).

That haircut was more than just a cut. With every passing day away from the old life, I'm becoming like my hair—freer and more natural—in touch with who I am and what I want for my new life. The old life had its perks—mostly material, I now realize—but my current on-the-dole situation may just be transforming me into the woman I was meant to be.

And, I think I like her a whole lot better. 

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Just for Fun: And, Speaking of The Joy of the Treat: Watch Gilles Marini Dance the Paso Doble on "Dancing with the Stars"

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Photos Courtesy of:

Long-haired Woman: http://bit.ly/d0RMct

Tabby Cat: flickr.com/photos/84949728@N00/3443387762

Hair Salon: http://flickr.com/photos/88687725@N00/2393497221

Child Shampoo: http://flickr.com/photos/40814689@N00/3688679868

Child Haircut: http://flickr.com/photos/7641646@N03/1074486675/

Hair: http://flickr.com/photos/eraphernalia_vintage/3932715217/

Child with Mirror: http://flickr.com/photos/luschei/1075353190/

Happy Child in Hair Salon: http://www.flickr.com/photos/ateofiel/742811563/in/set-201935/

Eating on the Dole Doesn’t Have to Be a Royal Pain

Once upon a time in a land far away, there lived a fair princess named Ariel. She had a human resources job that kept her very busy. She worked hard and earned a good salary. Princess Ariel wasn't a spendthrift, but could spend money on whatever she wanted without worry. She never gave grocery shopping much thought. She planned her menus around what she wanted to eat. When shopping, Princess Ariel was never inconvenienced—she always frequented the closest store.

As Princess Ariel traipsed through the Fairy Land supermarket, she didn't have a care in the world.

I'll buy some organic fruits and veggies, she thought.

Ariel never considered how much she might need between grocery trips. She was interested in variety rather than whether the produce or meat would go bad before being eaten.

Portobello mushrooms, bagged pre-washed lettuce and cut-up fruit! Princess Ariel never washed or chopped anything that could be purchased prepared.

"I'll take some steak," she told the butcher "and some chicken breasts and shrimp, too." This princess never worried about meat prices.

She bought hummus, bruschetta and almond butter. Brand-name ice cream, yogurt and little pudding cups, too. Prepared sauces and some mixes rounded out her cart.

Princess Ariel never thought about whether these items tasted better than more mundane ones. She never considered making her own sauces or puddings from scratch or whether that might improve the taste. Princesses don't have to worry their pretty little heads over such things.

"Do you have any coupons?" the cashier politely asked.

"Uh, no. I don't do coupons," Princess Ariel replied. "They're kind of a pain."

And, through it all Princess Ariel never realized she was spending more than $400 per month on food for one person. She never had a clue that more than $500 in restaurant charges meant she was eating $1,000 per month.

Ssssssccccccccrrrrrrreeeeeeeeeeeecccccchhhhh!

What the heck was I thinking?

That was then. This is now.

Pantry: Empty.

Wallet: Likewise.

Hi, my name's Ariel, and I'm a recovering princess.

These days with more time than money, I work the supermarket ads, visit more than one store for the best deals, collect coupons, compare store-brand prices to couponed national brands and—most importantly—think, think, THINK while shopping. I buy whole foods and make recipes from scratch (ironically, it takes only minutes longer).

Food whims now match whatever is on sale. Well, I've at least learned to make them match.

No more packaged items in this princess-turned-Cinderella's cart. I'm eating high-quality food—fresh meats, fresh and frozen veggies and produce, dairy and eggs. If truth be told, I'm eating far better quality food than when I just pitched the easiest items into the cart.

With mere extra minutes of work, I wash and tear-up lettuce, cut up veggies and make pasta sauce and other items from scratch. My food tastes better and costs less.

Seriously, have you ever compared the taste of bagged lettuce to head lettuce? No comparison.

When I was a child, "treats" were reserved for rare occasions. Mom and I walked (yes, I said walked) to the local bakery for one strawberry cupcake—not a whole dozen. If I behaved while shopping (which didn't always happen), Mom bought us a small box of chocolate-covered peanuts to share. Ice cream, steak and sweets were only consumed on birthdays and national holidays. Soda was only available at Granny and Grandpa's house—and, even then in a tiny four-ounce glass. Eating out—a very rare treat.

Even while still working, I realized there were no special treats. I ate out almost daily. I bought any food (or anything else) that I wanted, whenever I wanted. Steak meant it was Wednesday, not Memorial Day. Ice cream meant it was 8 PM, not July Fourth. Soda meant I'm awake, not at Grandpa's house. Nothing was special in those days.

I've rediscovered the simple joy of The Treat again. Ice cream, nuts, portabella mushrooms and expensive cuts of meat are special (when on sale) again. There's one steak left in the freezer just waiting for a special occasion to make its long-awaited appearance.

 

Now that summer has arrived, this recovering-princess has a bit of dirt under my nails and sweat on my brow most days. I don't need store-bought lettuce or herbs anymore. And, soon I won't need those $2.99 per pound tomatoes either. I'm growing my own in containers on the patio.

Last night's dinner: Pizza and salad made from home-grown oregano and arugula.

Today's lunch: Chicken with homegrown rosemary and sage.

Both: Delicious!

I just made this season's first trip to the local farm's produce stand. I got two grocery bags full of produce for $10.

Last month's grocery bill: only $149.91. Eating out has become a rare treat—usually when Mom and Dad are buying.

Fruit tastes sweeter. Veggies are fresher. Food is healthier. I have even lost a few pounds.

This recovering princess has rediscovered the joy of The Treat.

Life on the dole may just be the best thing that ever happened to my wallet, waistline and maybe even my soul.

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Just for Fun: Enjoy Ariel's Easy Homemade Creamy Herbed Tomato Soup:

Creamy Herbed Tomato Soup

 

½ cup sliced onion

2T butter

Splenda to taste (I used a couple of Tablespoons. You could use sugar or other sweetener if you prefer but it would change the carb/calorie count.)

14 ½ oz. can of diced tomatoes

1 ½ cups of chicken broth

8 oz. can of tomato sauce

½ teaspoon dried basil (or try some fresh from your patio garden!)

¼ teaspoon dried thyme (or try some fresh from your patio garden!)

Dash pepper (I used fresh ground pepper)

¼ cup half-and-half

Shredded cheddar cheese (optional)

In large saucepan, cook onion in butter till tender but not brown. Add undrained canned tomatoes, broth, tomato sauce, Splenda, basil, thyme and pepper. Place mixture in blender and puree till smooth. Return mixture to saucepan. Bring to boiling; reduce heat. Cover & simmer for 20 minutes. Cool slightly. Add half-and-half. Heat through. If desired, garnish with shredded cheddar cheese. Makes about 5 side-dish servings.

Approximate Nutritional Analysis Per Serving:

Calories:             186

Fat:                      11g

Saturated Fat:       7g

    Trans Fat:         0g

Cholesterol:        28mg

Sodium:            500mg

Carbohydrates:  17g

    Fiber:              3g

    Sugars:           7g

Protein:               8g

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For More Fun: Meet Kristina Simms, Photographic Contributor

The food photos from today's blog are courtesy of my friend, Kristina Simms. Ms. Simms is an author, photographer, retired educator, grandmother, community volunteer and, in general, an energetic and creative force of nature! Ms. Simms lives in Perry, Georgia.

She has published two nonfiction books: Macon: Georgia's Central City, An Illustrated History (Windsor Press, 1989) and A Year at the Lake (Xlibris, 2003). She is the author of a poetry book, A Second Spring (iUniverse, 2006) and numerous newspaper and magazine articles. Her recent work, The Stradivarius in the Basement, is a collection of essays—some humorous, some serious—based on the author's 72 years of observing—and participating in—life on this wonderful but essentially puzzling planet.

More of Ms. Simms photography can be found her blog: www.tinasbloomsbirdsandbooks.blogspot.com and on her Flickr photostream at www.flickr.com/photos/tinasimms/.

Ms. Simms books can be purchased on www.amazon.com or downloaded on Kindle through the links below: 

 

 

 

Macon, Georgia's Central City: An Illustrated History 

A Year at the Lake

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Photo Credits:

Renaissance Princess: Courtesy of anoldent (http://www.google.com/imgres?imgurl=http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3067/2917963571_64fdaaef53.jpg%3Fv%3D0&imgrefurl=http://flickr.com/photos/8563790%40N08/2917963571&usg=__7E9x3LMzDUj1tZWSVETvj9s4w0Y=&h=500&w=500&sz=159&hl=en&start=11&um=1&itbs=1&tbnid=GbPS69NJSiFTIM:&tbnh=130&tbnw=130&prev=/images%3Fq%3Drenaissance%2Bprincess%26um%3D1%26hl%3Den%26client%3Dfirefox-a%26sa%3DN%26rls%3Dorg.mozilla:en-US:official%26as_st%3Dy%26ndsp%3D18%26tbs%3Disch:1,iur:fmc)

Food Photos: Courtesy of Kristina Simms (http://www.flickr.com/photos/tinasimms/sets/72157623597024387/)

Renaissance Serving Girl: Courtesy of anoldent (http://www.flickr.com/photos/anoldent/2914243150/in/set-72157602300989288/)