Life on the Dole: Options A Through Z

Plan A:

Be hired for a full-time human resources executive job with a great salary and fabulous benefits, including health insurance.

(Well, duh!)

Plan B:

Consider a wide range of full-time job options that come with health insurance and a modest salary.

(Long as it’s legal, moral, and ethical and doesn’t involve a chicken costume, that is.)

Plan C:

Apply for work at the Department of Labor.

(Didn’t the unemployment office’s “She-beast” threaten to quit?)

Plan D:

Take on two or more part-time/contract/temp jobs—any field, any hours, any title, any pay, any location.

(The plan known in some circles as “delivering pizza in the evening for Domino’s while working half days as a Starbucks barista.” And, um, what about health insurance?)

Plan E:

Start my own business as a _____________________.

(Insert dream career here as soon as I figure it out. Wasn’t  human resources supposed to be my dream career?)

Plan F:

Go back to graduate school to earn a second master’s degree.

(Yeah, great plan; my first master’s degree is making me so desirable in the job market that a second degree should make me twice as desirable. Um, wait, two times nothing: still nothing.)

Plan G:

Go to beauty school.

(Hey, does that come with free haircuts?)

Plan H:

Sell the family heirlooms.

(Hmmm . . . so far I’ve inherited lace doilies from one grandmother and frilly aprons from the other. Anybody know what these valuables are fetching on the open market?)

Plan I:

Enroll in Ringling Brothers and Barnum Bailey’s Clown College.

(Are scholarships/ student loans/health insurance hidden somewhere inside that teeny-weeny car?)

Plan J:

Become a contestant on the TV show Survivor.

  

(All the things I love: Communing with nature. Eating fresh, raw, natural food. Losing a lot of weight in just a few weeks. Comes with shot at $1 million.)

Plan K:

Get chosen for The Amazing Race TV program.

(Cheap vacation; exotic locales; yet another shot at a cool $1 million. Bummer, have to share the big check with a teammate.)

Plan L:

Become a Big Brother house guest and live with TV cameras 24/7.

(Hey, a chance for free room and board. As long as I could get past conniving house mates stealing my toothbrush and blabbing my secrets.)

Plan M:

Perform on America’s Got Talent.

(I’m sure America will be entranced by my riveting impersonation of a HR manager. Has the line “You’re fired” been done yet?)

Plan N:

Get my own reality show.

(How about “Survivor: 101 Ways to Survive Without a Paycheck” or “The Real Unemployed”? I hear Emmy calling. Hope she’s bringing food.)

Plan O:

Win the lottery and never work again.

(Could somebody please lend me a dollar so I can do that?)

Plan P:

Enter the world of busking (street performing).

(Can I really stay quiet long enough to mime? Can I master the art of being a robot? Pretty sure people would pay me NOT to dance.)

Plan Q:

Make and sell unique handcrafted items.

(Genius idea! In this economy, crocheted pot holders or purses woven from soda cans will sell as fast as soybean hotcakes.)

Plan R:

Sell my hair.

(Since I have an abundant natural resource.)

Plan S:

Become a pork chop hijacker on the streets of Atlanta

(We at least know that job pays well.)

Plan T:

Stand on a street with cardboard sign: “Will consult for food.”

(Will someone offer me a burger or throw coins in my hat to see me perform instant HR on demand? Or, will people say to their friends, “Don’t give her any money. She won’t buy food; she’ll just blow it getting a caffeine fix.”)

Plan U:

Dress in a chicken suit and stand on a corner flapping my arms to advertise a restaurant.

(Bleck, darn feathers keep getting in my mouth!)

Plan V:

Explore a new career, Option One: Apply for a job at Tootie’s Poop Patrol.

(If 19 years in the business world doesn’t qualify me to shovel poo I don’t know what would.)

Plan W:

Explore a new career, Option Two: Here’s one I saw recently: “San Francisco: Nitpicker wanted. Looking for someone based in San Francisco to remove lice and eggs from people infected with lice. Qualified candidates should have valid driver’s license, great close-up eyesight, feel comfortable going into people’s homes, be personable, good with children, and extremely detailed oriented. Squeamish people need not apply. A good sense of humor a plus! . . . We will train qualified applicants . . . Candidates who apply out of sheer desperation will be strongly considered.”

(I especially like that last line.)

Well, I’m coming up dry. That’s all I can think of. But, not being one to leave any option unturned, I called my Mom. She’s usually an out-of-the-box thinker, and she does not disappoint me this time. Here’s what I got from her: 

Plan X:

Mom says, “Marry an alien.”

(Honestly, that woman NEVER misses a chance to campaign for grandchildren. Um, does she mean “alien” as in a person with no green card or does she mean “alien” as in a little green person? But . . . has she not seen a single episode of “V”?)

Plan Y:

Mom says, “Marry a 112-year old rich geezer.”

(Are we picking up on a theme here? Uh, Mom, about those potential grandchildren . . .)

Plan Z:

Mom says, “You can move in with us.”

(Nooooooooo. I’m not THAT out of options! Now, where DID I put my application for that nitpicker job?)

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But Seriously. . .Wondering About Your Own Options? Check Out What Color Is Your Parachute? 2010: A Practical Manual for Job-Hunters and Career-Changers by Richard N. Bolles

Author Richard N. Bolles has been the voice of solid career advice for 30+ years. Updated annually with job search advice current for today's job market, What Color Is Your Parachute? 2010: A Practical Manual for Job-Hunters and Career-Changers has sold more than 10 million copies and has been translated into 20 languages. Not only does Bolles offer solid job search tips in today’s difficult economic times but also tips for discovering your life’s passion. Readers will come away with solid job search skills and additional career options.

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Photo Credits:

Will Work for Food Sign:

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

Reality TV:

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

Pot Holders:

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

Chicken Suit:

http://www.flickr.com/photos/stevendepolo/ / CC BY 2.0

Wedding: Sherry Main from USA

Jobless Not Hopeless T-shirt:

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

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.