“I’m On My Way. . .”

Yep, you heard right.

I'm. On. My. Way.

Finally!

Well, at least I think so.

After six face-to-face interviews totaling more than sixteen hours of questions. I've been told I'm the "leading candidate" for a great job.

No, not the job I interviewed for in March. After three interviews and making it to the top two finalists, that nonprofit job went to a guy with manufacturing experience. Many executive jobs in manufacturing these days, all requiring manufacturing experience, and he just had to horn in on my field. Go figure that one out.

It's a different job.

A better job. A way, way, way better job.

A better commute.

A better company.

And, the reason, I'm being considered? Because I failed to get the other job.

Well, let's face it, if I had gotten the other job I wouldn't have even been available for this one. At the time, my friend the executive recruiter didn't even have a contract to do this search yet. But my performance in the interview for the job I failed to get landed me an interview for this one.

Is it really possible to score an awesome job by failing to get a just-OK job?

Apparently so.

Perhaps Denzel Washington was right when he recently stated to the Class of 2011 at the University of Pennsylvania:

…you will fail at some point in your life. Accept it. You will lose.  You will embarrass yourself. You will suck at something. There is no doubt about it. …I'm telling you—embrace it. …But do you have guts to fail? …If you don't fail… you're not even trying. …Sometimes it's the best way to figure out where you're going. Your life will never be a straight path. …Because the chances you take, the people you meet, the people you love, the faith that you have—that's what's going to define your life. …Never be discouraged. Never hold back. Give everything you've got.

And, a recent Nike commercial featuring NBA-great Michael Jordan recounts his many failures before stating, "I've failed over and over and over again in my life. And, that is why I succeed."

Because I tried so many times and so long and so hard, I've failed.

Because I've failed and picked myself up to try again, I will succeed.

People who never do anything, never fail, but they never succeed either.

And, while failure can be a great learning tool in itself, sometimes it places you on a different path that turns out to be a better path—the right path.

It's not over yet.

There's still much to be done before I cross that finish line.

I'm almost terrified to hope again. But my annoying, internal voice seems to be the eternal optimist. My head is saying "Don't get your hopes up again."

My heart is saying "This is it."

I don't know which one to listen to, but maybe I should listen to both.

I don't even know how to feel.

But, maybe that's the real in real life.

I'm excited.

I'm scared.

I feel like dancing.

I feel like going back to bed with the covers over my head.

And, with all those feelings, I wait for the news that may change my life or dash my dreams.

But, in spite of those nagging thoughts, I can't help singing "Tell everybody I'm on my way. . ."

#    #    #

Just for Fun: This song is just so happy that I can't help but smile when I hear it. Enjoy Phil Collins singing "I'm on My Way" from the Brother Bear movie soundtrack.

And, check out Michael Jordan's commercial.

Enjoy Denzel Washington's speech to the University of Pennsylvania's graduating class in 2011.

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Photo credits: Note: Ariel not pictured.

Raining Day: http://www.flickr.com/photos/henrie/5557814231/

Black Bean Soup:http://www.flickr.com/photos/lanuiop/3268900198/

Untitled: http://www.flickr.com/photos/rileyalexandra/3763114296/

 

Does Life on the Dole Make Me Look Fat?

It has now been seven months since I lost my job. Yep, seven long, comfy, cozy months in stretchy-waist sweat pants—the ones Dad disparagingly refers to as "no-class pants".

Gym membership and access to a treadmill at work: Gone.

Entertainment (hiking trips, swimming): Gone.

Daily restaurant lunches of slimming salad and/or lean meat: Gone.

Expensive home dinners (lean meat: steak, shrimp, chicken—on sale or not—and fresh veggies—some organic): Gone.

Name-brand diet cola and fancy bottled water: Gone.

In those pre-dole days I could tell instantly by the snugness of the fitted waistband on my dress slacks or by the ease of fastening buttons on my suit jacket if I had gained even a pound. Stretchy "no-class" sweat pants are much less telling.

The reality is, life on the dole can ambush a healthy lifestyle. My new fitness "regimen" is quite different:

Entertainment: Sedentary stuff such as TV, computer and books.

Beverages: Store-brand diet cola and tap water.

Clothing: Those stretchy-waist sweat pants that don't pinch until you gain the equivalent bulk of the Matterhorn.

Food: Whatever is on sale and within my food budget (I spend 10% of income for food while the USDA recommends spending 30% of income for food.)

Truth is, the cheapest food is starchy and full of carbohydrates: rice, potatoes, beans, bread, pasta. (Ever wonder why poor people are frequently overweight?) I haven't yet resorted to ramen noodle-based concoctions like another on-the-dole American blogger.

You have to wonder then, does life on the dole make people fat?

With trepidation, I step on the bathroom scales.

Seven pounds lost.

What? Wait? LOST?

Obviously an erroneous reading. 

I step off the scales and then back on again. Yep, lost.

To make sure I'm not imagining it, I take out a few business suits from my professional life. My favorite green jacket fits—ironically better than it did last fall. The brown pants? They fit, too. Daring to hope, I try on my rarely used interview suit (mostly phone interviews these days). Yes, it fits, my heart sings.

Seven pounds lost! How is this possible?

Why haven't I packed on pounds while on the dole? Some of my unemployed friends definitely have. Maybe it's because life on the dole requires creativity. When you are worried about bills and missing paychecks, it's hard to get creative. The other problem with creativity is it takes time—and that I have in abundance.

Exercise still matters. Therefore, in place of that pricey gym membership, I walk in my neighborhood. 

Mid-morning walks in the cool air take longer but are way more entertaining than a treadmill. I hear birds singing. I spy dogs, cats, snakes, turtles, brown thrashers, blue birds and cardinals along the way. A Swainson's Hawk (rare in this locale) lives in my neighborhood. I rarely saw these creatures while I was away at work. (And, as a bonus, those occasional snake sightings elevate my heart rate quicker than any speeding treadmill could.)

Rainy days find me indoors doing yoga, strength training or cardio with private trainers—free because the local library offers a wide selection of workout videos. Denise Austin and Jillian Michaels are my new personal fitness gurus. Even in my former employed life I could not have afforded these superstars.

These days, I cook real food. I've always loved from-scratch cooking, but never had time to do much of it. I especially enjoy meals made with natural whole food ingredients (and, no, I don't mean from the Whole Foods grocery store—I mean actual, real whole foods). In other words, slow food.

I have time to watch TV shows such as Jamie Oliver's Food Revolution. I read nutrition blogs. I care about healthy ingredients. I learn about the Slow Food movement, community-supported agriculture (CSAs) and local foods. I have time to visit nearby farmers' markets that are open only during hours I used to be at work.

I'm eating well. I'm exercising.

The irony: Life on the dole is making me healthier and slimmer. Scales don't lie (even if I sometimes wish they did). I actually feel better than I have in years.

No, life on the dole is not making me fat. Those stretchy, roomy sweat pants? I wear them for comfort, not for hiding fat. See, Dad, these pants are OK after all. Wearing them is not a fashion statement; it's only a comfy concession to life on the dole.

# # #

Just For Fun: Check Out My Favorite Food & Nutrition Blogs:

Fed Up With Lunch: The School Lunch Project

Brave New Lunch

Cheap Healthy Good

The Pioneer Woman

Food on the Dole

Joyful Abode

School Lunch: Subtract the Additives

Southern Foodways Alliance

Simple Good and Tasty

Eat at Home

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Want More: Check Out These Great Items:

 

 

 

 

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Photos Courtesy of:

Sumo Wrestler: http://bit.ly/bwQ016

Scales: http://www.flickr.com/photos/alancleaver/ / CC BY 2.0

Swainson's Hawk: http://www.flickr.com/photos/dobak/ / CC BY 2.0

Sweatpants: http://www.flickr.com/photos/simonk/ / CC BY-NC-ND 2.0

Fruits & Veggies: Pam Brophy / CC BY-SA 2.0

Cousin Itt: Alive and Well and Living in My House

Living on the dole brings me back to my roots. Adversity shows me my true colors. I am learning the lengths I to which I can go to survive.

The true color of my roots: grey

The lengths to which I will go: half-way down my back and heading south fast.

Indeed, what I see when I look in the mirror these days: visions of The Addams Family’s Cousin Itt.

That’s right—these days I’m actually drawing job-seeking inspiration from hairy Cousin Itt. (Remember the episode “Cousin Itt and the Vocational Counselor” where he/she/it found his/her/its appropriate career?)

My own hair (greying and inching toward my waist) is growing proof that I’m making it through tough times. Nevertheless, I like what I see in my long, grey locks: the outer reflection of my inner strength.

I had no hair until the age of three. My grandmother once taped pink foam curlers to my head when I begged her to fix my “hair” just like hers.

But, when I got hair, I grew a lot of it. Fast growing. Beyond plentiful. Super thick. I burn out hair dryers, and break brushes, barrettes and ponytail holders.   

The good news is I inherited Mom’s thick tresses. The bad news is I inherited Dad’s prematurely grey hair gene. I have more grey on my head than my mother does on hers.

Five years ago I decided to cover that grey with blonde highlights in summer, and red ones in winter. A mixture in spring and fall. And I chose Salon 74, the hippest salon in town, to hide those pesky “self-highlighting” (i.e. grey) hairs. The prices: equally hip (translation: not cheap). While I was employed, it was mere pocket change. A small price to pay for a “good hair day,” I told myself.

The new on-the-dole reality: I don’t have that kind of money for a haircut anymore. My hair has not been cut—or  colored—in eight months. I can’t remember the last time it was this long—some time in my twenties, I think. 

Perhaps I should contact Locks of Love, a nonprofit organization that uses donated hair to make hair pieces for financially disadvantaged children who have long-term medical hair loss. Someone should benefit from my situation. But, they do not accept highlighted hair.

Over the years, Mom has frequently expressed her opinion on those expensive hair cuts at Salon 74. Too much to pay says my practical parent. She goes to one of those no-nonsense, no-appointment-necessary shops that charges $12 for a cut.

I could get my hair cut at her place, she tells me.

I don’t.

See, while I don’t have big bucks for a haircut—well, I don’t have $12 either.

Besides, ultimately her place would cost more because they charge $5 for a bangs trim. At my place, it’s complimentary. And those free trims extend the life of an expensive haircut for a long, long time. Just how long, I’m not sure. Ask me in another six months.

But, with a reunion coming up, Mom is suddenly stepping in as the style police, threatening to frog-march me to the pricey salon for a cut-and-color job at her expense.

“Unless you are leaning toward a career in country music, you need a haircut,” Mom  jokes. “Besides, your grey hair reflects poorly on me. You make me look old. How can I look young with a grey-haired daughter standing beside me?”

OK, maybe she has a point, but, as I walk away from my latest look in the mirror I am unfazed. What’s wrong with really, really long hair? It worked for Cousin Itt, didn’t it?

I begin to hum a nifty little ditty: “They’re creepy and they’re kooky . . .”

# # #
Just For Fun: Watch "Cousin Itt and the Vocational Counselor".

And for More Fun:

Cousin Itt photo courtesy of

http://www.flickr.com/photos/velma_dacron/ / CC BY-NC-SA 2.0

Oshima Island Girl photo courtesy of

http://www.flickr.com/photos/24443965@N08/ / CC BY-NC-SA 2.0

Mystery Date Redux?

Remember the Mystery Date board game?

Little girls loved playing Mystery Date. My mother, of course, wouldn't let me have the game. However, my neighbor, Joanie, an older teenager did have it, and at Joanie's house, I could—and did—sneak in a few rounds without Mom finding out.

The goal was simple: You always hoped to go on a date. You always hoped to get the handsome guy. You always hoped to not get the scary, sloppily-dressed date—the "dud".

That was then. This is now. Has my job search has turned into Mystery Date: Career Version?

Yep, that's right, folks! Decades years later, I find myself playing a real-life round of Mystery Date:

Phone rings.

It's Joe McSwain, a recruiter in Wyoming. (A long way from my Georgia town. I've never heard of him.)

Joe can't recall how he came by my resume. Perhaps from someone else who possibly got it off the CareerBuilder site, he thinks?

(Uh-oh. I've got a bad feeling about this.)

He knows nothing about the company, CEO, position or salary.

(Um, you don't know anything about any of the important stuff? You are the one doing the search, right?)

A start-up healthcare company is looking for somebody to head up HR. Nope, Joe doesn't know the title either.

"Overqualified," he says of me.

That's a bad word in my book. So why did he even call me?

"But," he hastily adds, "the company may give you part ownership 'to make-up for it.'"

(What "it" are they making up for—precious little money? I thought he didn't know the salary. Part owner? Part owner of what?)

"The company is ABC Healthcare, but don't try to Google it" Joe warns, "There's not much on the Internet about it or the CEO. The company is very new."

Is this guy for real, I wonder. The fastest growing scams these days target job seekers. I've had my share of suspicious job propositions, and one friend actually lost money to a job search scam.

I cautiously continue the conversation.

"The CEO," Joe states with certainty, "will call this afternoon."

I ask for a time frame; I do, after all, have other things to do, yet don't want to be tied up when the call comes.

"He didn't say a time--just 'this afternoon'. Be available." Joe says.

Praying this is both legit and promising, I keep myself available and near the phone all afternoon.

I do not make networking phone calls; don't want to tie up the phone.

I do not clean out the garage; don't want to be up to my neck in junk and lose the phone.

I do not vacuum the house; don't want to be unable to hear the phone.

I do not start cooking dinner; don't want to burn food while being interviewed.

I do not clean the cats' litter box—oh, who am I kidding? I just plain don't want to do that.

I do nothing but sit near the phone. For hours. While it does not ring. Not even once. (Well, actually, I did do one thing: I went to the bathroom every 30 minutes. Didn't want to get caught in a long interview with a full bladder.)

The phone never rang. Yep, not only was my mystery date the "dud", he stood me up, too. This never used to happen in the board game.

Okay, I wasn't all that surprised. This--or something eerily similar--has happened several times before.

Let's review the facts: a mystery recruiter gets my resume in some mysterious way. He calls to screen me for a mystery job at a mystery company at some mysterious rate of pay. A mystery CEO will call me at a mystery time to interview me.

And he never calls.

Tomorrow is another day. Once again I'll play Mystery Date: Career Version. I'll roll the dice, draw another card, take another spin 'round the board, opening the door and my mind to career possibilities.

My dreamy Mystery Date career is still out there somewhere. I just have to keep opening doors until I finally find it.

# # #

Just For Fun: Watch the 1960s Mystery Date television commercial (I particularly enjoyed the groovy 1960s theme music!).


And, For More Fun: Check out the Mystery Date board game.

 

The Dance of the Unemployed

8:00 AM: Eyes open. How is it possible to awaken at the same time every day with no alarm? Maybe, because I get enough sleep. Who says there are no perks to life on the dole?

8:30 AM: Turn on TV. Turn off TV. Weather and traffic—not useful. Scrub face and teeth, dress in sweats. Tug a brush through really, really long hair that I cannot afford to have cut. Ready to commute.

8:31 AM: Commute downstairs. No traffic. Sip store-brand diet cola (brand cola is too pricey). Now, energized, ready to set the world on fire, I crank up the computer.

Today's the day to find my dream job!

8:40 AM: Great news! My Google Reader has delivered 53 job posts that fit my search criteria. Busy day ahead. I'm pretty sure several of these jobs are going to be just what I'm seeking.

Job Post One: Vice President - Human Resources. Anchorage, Alaska. Right job, wrong location.

Job Post Two: Chief Human Resources Officer. Los Angeles, California. Salary 20% below my previous job—in a city with a 74% higher cost of living than where I now live.

Job Post Three: Vice President - Human Resources. Washington, DC. "Local candidates only," it says.

Job Post Four: Chief Human Resources Officer. Birmingham, Alabama. Close to home. Good salary. But, wait, it says "Candidates without manufacturing experience will not be considered." Oops, not me.

Job Post Five: Vice President - Human Resources. Atlanta, Georgia. Finally! "Company seeks candidate with no previous executive experience."

Wait, did I read that right? "We seek a former Director ready to move up. Experienced VPs will not be considered."

Um, what? So, they want inexperienced candidates?

Translation: "We don't have enough money to pay someone with a clue." I guess that means that those with 19 years of experience starve in the streets, right?

Job Posts 6-53: Much the same.

10: 30 AM: A new e-mail message:

Ariel,

Thank you for submitting your résumé for our HR Business Partner position. We have finalized our candidate pool. We moved forward with the candidates that we did select, based on specific requirements from the client.

Enjoy your day!

Susan

Well, Susan, I might would have enjoyed my day a whole lot better without this e-mail.

I review the position Susan filled without me: mid-level HR position in Atlanta. I had tried to be open-minded about the job, not limiting myself only to management or executive positions even though that's my background. But, I have been turned down for every mid- or lower-level position for which I have applied.

"Overqualified" is the familiar refrain.

Translation: "We cannot afford you,"

Or,

"We don't think you will stay after the economy recovers."

At least Ol' Suze had the good graces not to say that.

11 AM: My mom calls.

"No, Mom, no good job postings today—and I got a turndown from that Atlanta one I told you about last week."

11:30 AM: E-mail from my friend, Kate. She's been terrific about checking in for updates.

"No, I haven't found a job yet."

Feeling close to putting my head through a wall, I stop for lunch. Turn on the TV. While I chew, I reflect glumly that I'd really rather watch TVLand all day. Or take a nap. But as I clean up my lunch dishes, guilt heads off TV or sleep.

I return to my office. I must toil at this task to feel worthy to receive that precious dole check.

Noon: My father calls.

"No, Dad, no job today. Not even any good leads today. Yes, I checked all the job boards. Yes, I saw that one. They want union experience. I don't have that. It's a no-go."

12:30 PM: I need a jazzier market plan. All the experts say professional networking unlocks the "hidden job market"—jobs that never get posted. I compile a list of top-notch contacts.

I hate calling people to ask for favors. In my career, I've always been the one giving, not the one receiving. This is new for me and it makes me uncomfortable.

My career coach some times quotes from Feel the Fear and Do It Anyway. I'm not afraid, I just hate it. But I'll do it.

Back to my network list: At the top: Nina Smith, HR executive with lots of connections—this is my Grade A Prime contact; Tim Darren, head honcho with a prestigious executive search firm; Adam McNair from the outplacement firm; Jane. . .

Wait. A new e-mail. It's Nina. Great coincidence; she contacted me. Perfect excuse to network. Nina knows everybody who is anybody in HR in Atlanta.

Ariel,

Hope all is well. Since I last saw you, my position at Express Medical Equipment was made redundant when Ace Medical took over. My last day was four weeks ago. I am writing in hopes that you can provide advice or referrals. You know everybody in the local HR community so I'm confident you can help me! I am seeking a local HR executive opportunity. Would love to meet for coffee to discuss this further.

Nina

Uh-oh. Not good news. Nina out of work?

My network is now unemployed? How do I network if my network is also on the dole?

I squash the rising panic. I'll set-up that coffee meeting with Nina and then return to my networking plan. I will finish my list. I will make my calls. I will remain calm.

I can do this.

Tim offers to be a reference. Adam knows of nothing. Jane . . .

5 PM: After telling yet one more concerned friend "No, I haven't found a job yet" I review the day's results.

(1) I have two coffee appointments. How does a person who doesn't even drink coffee get two coffee appointments in one week?

(2) I have two résumé critique offers.

(3) Two others expressed regret that they "didn't know anyone." (How do you work in a career for twenty years and not know anyone?) And, one executive search consultant bemoaned the fact that his business was so slow.

7 PM: I work and rework my résumé until dinner. After I eat: TV. Maybe some mindless entertainment will help me unwind; it's about the only leisure activity still available on my limited dole budget.

8 PM: Dancing with the Stars is on. I used to dress up and attend charity galas. Not this year. Now, the only evening festivities I attend are vicariously through the DWTS cast. The only “dance” I do is in my job search. I pull a cat into my fleece-clad lap and snuggle into the sofa to watch.

Yet, my job search woes flit through my mind like Edyta Sliwinska
quick stepping across the dance floor.

For the rest of this evening, I will not think about the job search, I tell myself, as I blissfully lose myself in visions of sequins, spray tans, foxtrots and Argentine tangos.

Photo courtesy of Petr Novák, Wikipedia

Well, Shut My Mouth: A Survivor’s Story

Unemployment Office, One Last Time (I hope):

I settled into the molded plastic chair that fit about 70 percent of my backside. I’d brought a book, but felt conspicuous—too self-conscious—to read while those around me slept, stared into space, or, for all I knew, slipped into suspended animation prior to Mars blast-off.

Reading just seemed too active a pursuit for the time and place. Out of respect for those suffering a lingering death-by-plastic-chair, I refrained.

Plop!

A nicely dressed, middle-aged woman arranged most of her posterior into the neighboring chair and smiled warmly. (At who? Me? Me!)

Me (trying to rein in my intense gratitude for this small kindness): “Have you been here before?”

Smiler: “Yes. They make me come in every few weeks to show my application record.”

Me (struggling not to appear too needy): “Would you please explain this system to me? The woman at the information desk said she didn’t have time for questions.”

Smiler (rolling her eyes): “Yeah, I’ve experienced her before. She’s like that. Don’t let her get to you.”

My new buddy explained the drill: groups of 10 are periodically herded off to file claims. Ms. No-Information at the information desk notwithstanding, I was, after all, in the right place, doing the right thing—apparently just doing it 45 minutes early.

Relieved to understand the system—finally—I made small talk with my new best friend.

Me: “So, what did you do before you wound up here?”

Smiler: “I did medical billing for 23 years. That is, until I was required to train my replacement in India. What about you?”

Me: “I was a senior HR executive for a healthcare company.”

Suddenly, Smiler wasn’t smiling anymore. She dropped her forehead despondently into her hand.

“Oh, God,” she exclaimed in a voice of total despair. “Don’t tell me you’re here, too. You are the kind of person I’m trying to get into see. If people like you are here, what does that mean for the rest of us who are trying to get jobs?”

Frankly, I didn’t know what it meant either except that apparently, it wasn’t only my world that had tilted. I was now able to suck other innocent souls into this parallel universe with me.

There didn’t seem to be anything else to say. Awkwardly, we sat silently in the painful unity known only to those in adjacent too-small plastic chairs while the wall clock ticked away the next 44 minutes.

Ultimately, an armed security guard ushered me into the black hole that was the claims room. Yes, that’s right, an armed guard. What is this place, I wondered—not for the first time.

“Fill out those forms as best you can, but don’t mess them up,” the guard said, “She won’t like it if you get them wrong. She’ll be here in a minute.”

OK, so who is this mysterious She-Beast and just exactly what would She do to us if we get them wrong, I wondered as I started on my forms.

Ten minutes later, She—the employee assigned to “help” the group file claims—entered the room.

“I swear I hate this place!” She exclaimed loudly to the room in general. “I’m quitting tomorrow! I’m just going to come in and put in my notice and walk out. I just cannot take this anymore.”

Fighting the overwhelming desire to raise my hand and ask if I could have her job if she no longer wanted it, I wondered how many others in this room felt the same urge. Apparently, in this parallel universe, those with jobs and paychecks are allowed to gripe freely about their jobs to those without.

With the question still burning on my lips, I closed my half-opened mouth. No good could come of that silly question.

How to shut up—that’s what I had learned in the last two hours. I’ve always thought myself rather bright, but I have to admit that skill took a while to penetrate my brain today.

Yep, I was catching on, albeit not as quickly as the average pound puppy learns to sit or stay. Mouth firmly shut, I grasped my pen and obediently filled out forms as my crazy, tilted world spun on its mixed-up axis in this tiny parallel universe known as the Unemployment Office.

Sitting Down: Lessons Learned at the Unemployment Office

As I finally progressed from line to desk at the unemployment office, the employee manning it gave me a blank stare. No “May I help you?” would ever fall from those lips.

Me (cheerfully): “I’m here to file for unemployment.”

Blank-faced Employee (bored): “Sit down. They’ll call you.”

Me: “They’ll call me?”

“Blank-faced Employee (with a sigh): “Yes.”

Me (puzzled): “Do I sign in or anything?”

Blank-faced Employee (wearily): “No, just sit. They’ll call you.”

Me (more puzzled): “How will they know I’m here?”

Blank-faced Employee: “They’ll call you.”

I sat.

Following long minutes of contemplation, I deduced something was clearly not right. I knew from my HR experience that some people would be there for interviews, others for classes, some to write résumés and others for appeal hearings. “They’ll call you” did not seem reasonable to me.

I noticed people signing a clipboard at the information desk. Convinced I had done something wrong, I decided to brave the “information” officer again. She was smiling and chatting with someone who was clearly a personal acquaintance. That is until her eyes landed on me. Her expression returned to default setting: supreme annoyance.

“Information” Officer (scolding): “I thought I told you to get in that line.”

Me: “Yes, but, I have a question . . .”

“Information” Officer (more annoyed): “I don’t have time for questions. Just get in line.” 

She had time to talk with a friend, but no time for questions? Despite getting paid to provide information, she had no time for questions? Despite the huge “Information” sign over her desk, she had NO TIME FOR QUESTIONS?

Deep breath. Repeat to self: I will not get annoyed. I will not get annoyed. I will not get annoyed.

I. WILL. NOT. GET. ANNOYED.

I would get in line again to check back with my old “they’ll-call-you” nemesis.

Me: “I’m not sure what to do. I’m here to file for unemployment. I’m supposed to sit in the waiting area here until I’m called, right?”

Blank-faced Employee: “Yes.”

Me: “How will they know what I’m here for?”

“Blank-faced Employee: “They just will. They’ll call you.”

Scanning the room I could see that everybody else seemed to know the drill. Clearly, it must be just me. Apparently, when I lost my job, I lost my good sense, too.

Meekly, my self-esteem at zero and my spirits at twenty below that, I sat down as commanded—again.

And, I had to wonder if I—or my situation—would ever rise again.