“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. . ."

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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/

 

Gloom, Despair and Agony on Me

I've hit a wall in my job search.

Really.

Hit. A. Wall.

Hard.

The two-year job search is finally taking its toll.

'Bout time, you say?

Uh-huh. You're probably right.

It's been 25 months of job search and 17 months on the dole.

I'm exhausted.

I'm sick of it.

I'm really annoyed with the whole process.

After hundreds of résumé submissions and job applications—thousands if you count all those generic e-blasts sent to recruiters—and countless hours of work and networking, I've reached the end of my energy.

As we say in the South:

I'm plum tuckered out;

Worn to a frazzle;

Slap-dab sick of the whole dang thing.

The irony? I'm starting to get interviews for the first time in ages.

Two weeks ago, I had a real in-person interview—only the fourth dress-up-and-go situation since this nightmare began. Sure, I've had numerous phone interviews, but can you believe that in 25 months this was only the fourth actual look-'em-in-the-eye event?

A lot of good it did to pull on that tummy-tucking-feels-like-cast-iron-even-though-it's-spandex thingie (dare I say "girdle"?), style the hair, drive out of town for hours and stay overnight. As usual, the lucky winner is not this girl. Instead, they chose two internal candidates to move forward in the process. I've lost to more internal candidates than I would like to think about.

We interrupt this blog post for a rant:

Why, time after time, do companies, post jobs, hire recruiters, get applicants' hopes up, when all the time the person who'll wind up with the job is already sitting in the company's office at the time of the posting?

Sometimes they think they can "do better" but, c'mon, how encouraging is that to the internal candidate who ultimately gets the job?

Most of the time, it's about money. They suddenly realized they can save thousands by not paying the recruiter (And if you think I'm ticked off you should hear what these recruiters have to say! They usually only get paid if the company hires their candidates). And, internal candidates play right into their hands—they're happy for a promotion and a raise (never realizing it was probably far less than they would've given an outside candidate). Besides, companies score financially, too, when they don't have to move anyone in from out of state.

Even if they hire an external candidate for the position vacated by the recently promoted employee, they have just pushed the real opening lower down the experience ladder and salary scale.

And, yeah, I've tried to get the lower position too. The response? Over-qualified.

I get it, you cheapskates, I get it. Really, I do.

But, in the name of all that is holy, must you disrupt the lives of innocent applicants who don't know this? Must you put us through the agony of going in for a job interview that we don't have a snowball's chance in you-know-where of getting? Really, MUST YOU?

I'd rather stay home in my sweatpants than take on the anxiety of a job interview when you had no intention of really considering me anyway.

And, now we resume our regularly scheduled programming.

But, I've got another interview scheduled. The job is almost identical to my previous position in a similar type of organization.

It's local too—a thought that makes me sigh with relief.

I'm realistic about moving if it comes to that, but I prefer not to if possible. I've built a life here. My family is here. I'll do whatever I have to do, but as nice as some other parts of the country are, I can't see myself shoveling snow or battening down the hatches for a hurricane.

It's just as well because most recruiters and hiring managers seem interested only in local candidates. I found a wonderful job at a great organization last week. I deployed a unique and creative marketing scheme, and it paid off—the recruiter seemed to love me. But, the position is out-of-state, and the recruiter said the client only wanted local candidates. I understand that, but I would have been perfect for them.

Really.

I would have.

(Mini-rant alert: Could they not have included that in their job post to save me from applying for something I would never even be allowed a shot at?)

But, I've got another interview coming up—a local one, remember?

Interviews can be exciting—for about the first ten minutes after you get off the phone from setting up the appointment.

You'd think nervousness would be the next emotion, but, no. Instead the emotion is gloom that descends faster than a San Francisco fog.

It feels as if the closer the interview date comes, the closer I am to hearing that particularly painful "no" yet again:

"The client has decided to go with an internal candidate."

"We have chosen another candidate who more closely fits our needs."

"We've decided to only interview local candidates".

Or, worse yet, deafening silence.

I want to send out an email that says: "Hello, anybody out there? Is this thing on? Is there a black hole at the end of my internet connection?"

You see, each time, at the end of the interview, I feel like a single woman out on that awkward first date that ends with the dreaded words: "I'll call you."

Still, you smile as you must, give him the number and know in your gut that he will never call.

The exhaustion has been difficult enough, but now panic has emerged.

My last day of insurance coverage is April 30.

At $464 per month, it's been expensive, but manageable with my ever-dwindling savings account.

I called my insurance carrier yesterday for rates on an individual policy.

It's bad.

Really bad.

$1,224-per-month bad.

But, then it got worse:

"Now, remember on this policy, there are no co-pays," the insurance representative chirped happily. "The plan does not cover anything until you meet your $2,500 deductible."

What the heck? You mean, nearly $15,000 per year buys me nothing?

"It's really more of a catastrophic plan," she continued, ever more cheerfully.

Catastrophic is right. It's the policy that's the catastrophe!

She went on to explain that after the deductible is met then the policy will pay a whopping 70% of medical bills.

"It does cover psychiatric care and counseling," she remarked. "If you need that sort of thing."

"I don't need that now, but give me a few months on that premium, and I just might," I quipped.

After 20 years of administering employee benefit plans, doing without coverage is just not an option for me. I know the really scary things that can happen to people without coverage. I have actually known people who died because they could not afford medical care.

And no, before you bring it up, I can't get the new government health coverage either. For the next few years, you have to be totally without coverage for at least six months to be eligible. Even then, the premiums are astronomical and cover almost nothing.

Accordingly, while I was out yesterday, I spoke to the manager of the drugstore down the street about a job and left the store with a job application.

Thereafter, in anticipation of expanding my job search to those offering minimum wage, I re-did my résumé. I can't tell you how much it pained me to remove my hard-earned master's degree, ninety percent of my previous job responsibilities and all of my significant accomplishments. In it, I no longer call myself an "executive". Supervisor or manager is the most I'll admit to now.

It's not that I'm too proud for a minimum-wage job. It's an honest way to make a living. I'm happy to do almost any job. But, what many folks don't seem to understand is that once you accept a job at that level, you're hard pressed to ever move back to your previous job (and salary level) ever again.

For those minimum-wage jobs, you work awfully hard. You stand on your feet. You work overtime to make an extra buck. You come home tired. You have at least 40 fewer hours per week to devote to the search for a job such as the one you previously had.

Plus, the lower the job level, the less scheduling flexibility a worker has. How would I ever get the head cashier to understand that I needed to swap shifts so I could go on a CEO or VP interview? The reality is that I wouldn't.

How would I choose between the "sure thing"—$7.25 per hour with benefits—and the opportunity to get my career back on track?

But, soon none of those concerns will matter anymore. In six weeks time, I'll get a monthly insurance bill that exceeds my entire monthly dole income. At this point, I no longer care about salary any more as long as the job has insurance benefits.

Fatigue.

Gloom.

Panic.

It's really starting to hit me now.

My inner optimist rails against the oppressive weight, but there is a rising, slightly nauseating feeling that's rolling in.

This cannot be the course of my life from now on.

Or is it?

And, despite the overwhelming feeling nipping at my heels, I trudge on. Next week, I'll put on my best suit and go to that interview. I'll smile as though I don't have a care in the world. I'll exude confidence, optimism and professionalism. I'll swallow hard and fight the queasy feeling in the pit of my stomach.

Because I am totally, completely out of options.

But, I WILL get that job. I WILL.

Because I have no other choices. Because this time I have to.

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Just for Fun: This really cheered me up! Remember "Hee-Haw" the classic American TV show from the 1970s? Yeah, it was cheesy but also pretty fun. I watched this show every Saturday night when I was a little girl. Enjoy this clip from the show.

 
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Photo Credits: 
Note: Women pictured are not Ariel.

The Scream: Painting by Edvard Munch, painted 1893 http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:The_Scream.jpg

Depression: http://www.flickr.com/photos/canonsnapper/4241963210/

Worried Woman: http://www.flickr.com/photos/spaceodissey/2580085025/

Woman Yelling at Phone: http://www.flickr.com/photos/pollobarba/5037569606/

Job Application: http://www.flickr.com/photos/gtmcknight/202136435/sizes/z/in/photostream/

Job Interview: http://www.flickr.com/photos/jamelah/3043607815/

 

Christmas on the Dole

This is it—the thing I thought never could happen: my second Christmas on the dole.

Last year, the whole experience was new. Instead of moping, I decided to savor that Christmas as a once-in-a-lifetime holiday month off work—something busy professionals never experience.

Enjoy every minute, I told myself. By Christmas 2010 you may be working in some far-flung locale—far removed from family and friends, maybe even having Christmas dinner alone. I determinedly decided to wring every drop of Christmas cheer out of the 2009 holiday season.

But Christmas 2009 got up-ended by illness, My body, exhausted after 11 months of unrelenting work stress that culminated in job elimination, could take no more.

Antibiotics put me on the right track for a beautiful Christmas until I sprouted golf-ball-sized lumps and the worse itching ever—an allergic reaction to the antibiotics.

No wonder I had little zest for Christmas after that. As I coughed my way through decorating the tree, I even found myself teary-eyed as I hung beautiful ornaments given to me by former co-workers.

Or, was my emotion just the reality of my then-fresh on-the-dole situation?

Unemployment was still a quirky novelty in December 2009—a sociological experiment to observe and dissect (Christmas presents had been purchased while I had a paycheck; lack of funds for gifts were not a real concern last year.)

Thankfully, I've been healthy this year. No nasty infections zapping my Christmas mood. Perhaps my wellness comes from getting adequate rest or maybe it is because I no longer mingle with germ-ridden co-workers. I haven't been sick once since last holiday's cough fest.

So, time to enjoy Christmas 2010.

But, when on the dole, what is "Santa" to do? Why joyfully give gifts of course!

How?

My Christmas on the dole is not that different from previous years. And, no, I am not talking about buying with plastic (an absolute no-no for those of us on the dole).

Several years ago, most of my friends and I stopped exchanging gifts. Because we all had good jobs then and could buy what we wanted or needed, we decided our gift to each other would be getting together over the holidays without stressing over a gift exchange.

On the home front, some Christmases ago while we were all three still employed, my parents and I, by choice, changed our gift-giving approach. In order to participate financially in some causes we believed in during the season, we set a price limit on our gift giving to each other. We so enjoyed the challenge of finding great gifts for little money, that each year we kept cutting the amount. About six years ago it finally got down to a mere $10 per person.

Does that sound dismal and cheap? It's not, really. It's more fun than you might imagine.

Here are the rules:

1. No more than $10 per person in actual money can be spent.
   
2. You may give away anything you already own without including its value in the $10 total. (Some call this re-gifting. I call it getting Great-Grandma's cut-glass bowl decades sooner than I expected.)
   
3. A "buy-one-get-one" deal at the store doesn't count as spending money if the giver actually needed the "buy-one" portion and simply gave away the "get one" part. (This works great on fancy food items.)
   
4. Homemade items (candy, spiced nuts, potholders, etc.) don't have to be counted in the dollar amount, although in the spirit of the law we refrain from giving each other gifts that require buying expensive components not already on hand in order to craft the gift.
   
5. Some pharmacies give away a gift card with a new prescription. (Target, for example, hands out a $10 gift card. Some stores give as much as $25.) Those gift cards can be used without being factored into the total cost.
   
6. Modest gifts "purchased" with credit card reward points are allowed without the cost being included, but common sense should prevail to stay within the accepted bounds.
   
7. Thrift-store shopping and garage-sale buying are encouraged but only if the item is useful or needed. No dust catchers or frou-frou just to be adding to the pile.
   

These days, the fun comes from our yearly contest to see who can give the most creative and appreciated gifts while spending the least money. Everybody agreed I won the year I gave my mother a gift certificate to her favorite charity thrift shop! Believe it or not, the store manager said it was the first time he'd ever been asked to do a gift certificate.

I have to admit my mother and I are pretty competitive. For instance, Mom called tonight pretending to be worried about her Christmas shopping, but we both knew she was gloating over her shrewd gift gathering: she and my father have 17 gifts wrapped and waiting for me; they purchased everything they thought I might want or need, but had only spent $20.14 total (Sometimes you can't hit it right on the button.)

I recently saw a news story about Queen Elizabeth's Christmas traditions. Surprisingly, royal family members buy small gifts to exchange. But, this year, in a cash-strapped economy, the queen will be celebrating what she calls her "credit-crunch Christmas," requesting no gifts for herself or Prince Philip. She's asked for all would-be gifts to be donated to charity instead.

Perhaps I'm not broke, I'm fashionable. I must be a trendsetter if the Queen and royals are following suit. (After all, the Queen lives off public funds herself.)

I've spent only ten dollars each, but my parents have 14 gift bags to open this year. Some bags even contain five or six items. And, there are even some expensive name-brand items among them.

This Santa has only spent twenty dollars for her entire gift-giving season!

I did make one Christmas-on-the-dole concession: not mailing Christmas cards. I dislike skipping this tradition, but postage cost me more than sixty dollars last time, and I can't justify that cost even when using stockpiled, discounted cards purchased two years ago at an after-Christmas sale. I'll be hand-delivering cards this year, which may be a nicer plan anyway since it means I'll be spending time with them, too.

The real irony?

I've celebrated a lot of past Christmases, but so far, 2010 is my favorite—yes, even rising to the top over many "perfect" childhood Christmases. Most holidays of my executive career have found me stressed out planning employee parties and desperately trying to finish some year-end work project so that I could take the actual day of the holiday off work. I remember one horrible Christmas in which I worked 90 hours in one week just to be able to take Christmas Day off. Many Christmases found me ill-tempered from fighting mall crowds to buy expensive not-well-thought-out gifts that ultimately got returned even before I could pay off the credit card bill.

And, I can't tell you how many Christmas cards have been addressed at 1 AM one stressed out night during Christmas week because I ran out of time.

But none of that for me this year.

As I looked through those Black Friday sale advertisements in the newspaper, I wondered if anyone really needed a cupcake maker or a fruit dehydrator and exactly how many sweaters, DVDs or PJs would be received before a person's closet overflowed? And, then I remembered, because of my life on the dole, I didn't have to get up at 3 AM to go to insane sales, and I'm able to drive past those long lines in the post office parking lot without a thought. Better yet, I don't have to worry about my credit card bill in January.

Like the rest of the world, I don't have a clue what 2011 holds. I don't know if I'll be working a traditional job or running my own successful business. I don't know if I'll be living in my own home or living with family. I don't even have a clue what geographic region of the country I might be in to celebrate Christmas 2011. (But, look on the bright side: I might live somewhere a white Christmas is at least a possibility—something I've never seen in my home state.) But, for now I am practicing carpe diem as I savor every moment of this delightfully, unstressed holiday season. I'm enjoying visits with family and friends. I'm keeping the reason for Christmas in my heart. And, this Christmas 2010 on the dole may be the best Christmas of all.




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Just for Fun: Don't let the Dole be the Grinch that steals your Christmas! Remember, without presents or feasts, Christmas came to Who-ville just the same.

. . . And Then I Took a Cold Shower

It's a dark and stormy night in Georgia.

Lightning flashes. Thunder explodes. The cat tries to become one with the carpet beneath his bed. I pull the covers over my head to muffle the house-rattling booms.

Then . . . total darkness.

When the power goes, it's amazing the sounds you don't hear. No air conditioner hum. No air purifier buzz. No ceiling fan swooshes.

I'm reminded of what else I'm not hearing: the sounds of the gas burner rattling on to crank up the water heater located just beneath my bedroom.

"Sir, I think we hit an iceberg."

Just yesterday, I discovered dampness on the closet floor next to the water heater. Not too surprising—at 23 years old, the ancient dinosaur was the last original appliance left in my house. There had been warnings, but each time I'd seen rusty water, I'd convinced my got-no-money self it was only the pipes.

Four AM: Sleep escapes me; I ponder my finances, the water heater floating to the top of my worry list.

Dang! It perks along just fine for 23 years, but decides to quit now—just when I have no spare funds for repairs?

"Super" Dad is right. Appliances sense when you have no money. That's their chance to break.

This month's earlier financial fiasco—air conditioning repair—has not even made it to my credit card statement yet, much less been paid.

Two major home repairs in one month? Are you kidding me?

It's 4:10 AM: I lie sleepless with nothing to do but think. And, the more I think, the more I just want to go kick something.

Previously on My Life on the Dole: Dryer is dead. Laundry now dries on a line in the garage.

And, today's there's a cold shower in my future.

Obviously, I have royally ticked off the appliance gods.

Okay, this isn't cute anymore. I've gone from a novel, mildly-annoying-yet-eco-friendly laundry experiment to what's shaking out to be a mega-annoying, primitive lifestyle. I've spent nearly a year maintaining my optimism while being jobless, but this is just too, too much. I didn't sign on for a pioneer gig.

Yesterday, when I saw the dampness and heard that insistent drip-drip-drip sound, I had (again!) phoned my dad. He talked me through checking this and that, but there's no getting around the reality of the coming watery tide on the closet floor if something isn't done.

I consider my migraine-inducing options.

But, really, there are no options. There's nothing to be done but to order a new water heater and pay for installation.

Thursday mid-morning: My stomach churns at the $900 price quoted by two different plumbing contractors as well as a home improvement store. No matter where you go or what brand you choose, the price comes out the same. But, hot water is a basic necessity. Hanging up wet laundry, I can do, but cold showers and stove-heated water for hand-washing dishes? I don't think so.

But, where does $900 come from? I can't find that much spare change in the sofa cushions or sell that many pints of blood.

Wait! The home improvement store offers a six-months-same-as-cash plan. (Just wondering: What kind of place gives a shiny new credit card with a $1,000 limit to a person on the dole? Yes, that's exactly how much they approved. It's September, and my year-to-date dole checks total less than I used to earn in a single month.)

Six-month-same-as-cash is good except . . . same scenario six months hence: spare change, sell blood, etc. I'm starting to feel like Miss Scarlett again. I'll think about that in six-month's worth of tomorrows.

"Would you like it installed today?" the store clerk asks cheerfully.

"Definitely," I reply.

The clerk glances at the oily, unwashed bangs glued to my forehead and says nothing. She dials plumbers and insists the job be done today.

Still, even without counting the financial concerns, as I drive home, I sense it is all a little too easy.

Surely you can't just waltz into a store, put a water heater on a brand-new, instantly-issued charge card and enjoy a hot shower by day's end.

No way. It doesn't work like that. I haven't covered this many fiascos during my life on the dole without learning there's a boatload of aggravation bobbing along behind every "simple" problem.

Hours later, the plumber arrives as promised, my new water heater on the truck . Then, as expected, Murphy's Law strikes: The new tank is damaged.

But, it gets worse: The plumber announces there can be no installation today anyhow. Apparently some dummy built my house around my water heater.

Yes, you heard right—the builder constructed this house around the water heater.

Old one won't come out of the closet. New one can't go in. Demolition work ahead.

"The company doesn't allow me to do demo work," the nice plumber explains sympathetically. "You'll have to get a handyman."

Or, he explains, I have another option: a tankless water heater in the garage. Oh, and that will cost around $2,700—new pipes, fittings, vents, widgets and hocus-pocus.

How can I possibly pay $2,700 when I can't imagine where I'm going to get the previously-quoted $900?

I watch forlornly as "my" water heater sails into the sunset, strapped to the retreating back of the plumber's truck.

I don't have a handyman. Even if I had money, isn't the handyman a mythical beast? Has anyone ever actually seen or hired one? Still, I do have my ever-reliable, always-on-call "Super" Dad, but it gets kind of embarrassing at my age to keep yelling for my father.

Still—what choice do I have? Once again, I make the call.

Now it's Friday: All plumbers charge extra for weekend installations; two more days of cold showers.

Saturday: Dad removes the closet door and door frame. I hold my breath as he measures. Yay! The old one will come out with a quarter inch to spare. But . . . the new, fatter one still won't go in.

Third day with no hot water: I get an e-mail from a family friend two miles away. She's inviting me to her house for showers. My spirits perk up. I don't go, but the invitation cheers me. Somebody cares!

Off we go (parents now joining this rolling circus) to the home improvement store to choose a taller (slimmer) tank that will fit through that narrow closet door.

It's now Monday: Cold showers and hand-washed dishes for nearly a week.

And . . . that "nice" plumber who came on Thursday now demands an additional $334, even after my father removed the closet door and drained the water heater. The bill leaps to $1,200. (More spare change? More selling blood? I'm starting to envision myself in a chicken suit waving discount coupons for fried nuggets at passing motorists.)

Couldn't this stuff wait until my business turns a profit in a few months? Right now, with start-up costs, I'm still drowning in red ink. Computers, business licenses and supplies aren't cheap.

When I likened starting a new business to taking a plunge in the icy waters of the North Atlantic sea, I had no idea that metaphor would come to life as a cold chill in my own bathtub.

When I dared to exclaim with good humor that I was on board with the eco-concept of line-dried laundry, I never dreamed that soon I would be hand-washing dishes, too.

And, "Romance on the Dole"? Seriously, people?

Forget the eligible bachelor everybody thinks I should find. You know, the one with the good job and health insurance?

Nope, one brawny-can-do-hunky-Carter-Oosterhouse variety for me, please! (Do these heroic creatures actually exist in the wild? Or, are they, like the so-called hireable handyman, merely a fantasy? And if they do exist, there's that whole issue of my current lack of hot water and allure—just two more reasons romance on the dole ain't gonna happen, folks. (Go ahead if you think differently; try shaving your legs when they're covered in goose bumps.)

Once more, my savings account leaks profusely. But, I remind myself how fortunate I am to still have savings. And, I'm thankful I even have a home to repair when so many hard-working folks have lost theirs.

Unexpectedly, I get a sudden break: my mother's Facebook friend whom she hasn't seen in 40 years and who lives five states away tells Mom about a plumber a mere five miles from my house. The plumber's wife is friends with the Facebook friend and knows my grandparents or something. I still haven't sorted out all the connections, but he's a highly-experienced professional with a better quality water heater he'd be happy to install today.

Yes, today!

Even better news: His website shows he's running a special on water heater installation at this minute.

Total cost: $600.

Even the expansion thingie the other guys quoted at $125, this plumber will install for only $35.

Then, my new hero repaired—for free—a little drip under the kitchen sink and told me not to worry about paying for 30 days. (Is it possible for plumbing repairs to make me as ecstatic as that blissful haircut from a few months ago?)

That's right, folks. After days of cold showers, I just saved $600 thanks to Mom's Facebook friend (whom I've only met in e-mails) and the world's most awesome plumber.

Life is not so bleak after all.

After sending a gushy thank-you e-mail to Mom's friend and posting an even gushier note on the plumber's Facebook page, I begin to wonder about the future. What happens next with my finances? Will my new business succeed? Will I ever again have a pay check to deposit? Will things eventually change for the better? And, just how long does "eventually" take?

Things aren't so bad after all, I decide. I have a roof over my head. I have food in the fridge. I have a Dad who loves me enough to demo a closet for me and some really great friends who consistently come through for me. Some way, somehow I will scrape up the money to pay for that water heater.

Sure, a few days of cold showers were a little primitive, but, as far as I know, goose bumps never actually killed anybody.

 

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Just for Fun: Watch Tom Hanks and Shelley Long in "The Money Pit":

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Photo Credits:

Shower Shot: http://www.flickr.com/photos/dieselbug2007/370557683/ (not Ariel)

Pioneers: Source Library of Congress
Credit Cards: http://www.flickr.com/photos/shoot-art/4536509717/
Piggy Bank: http://www.flickr.com/photos/nieve44/2346575422/

Plumber: http://www.flickr.com/photos/exalthim/2085149377/ (not Ariel's plumber)

Last Shower: http://www.flickr.com/photos/winterofdiscontent/3539751347/

 

 

 

 

 

 

Romance on the Dole?

Our eyes meet across the crowded dining room of the fancy restaurant where I'm eating the priciest entrée on the menu. Like me, he's alone. He smiles. I smile.

 

He's awfully handsome. About my age. No wedding ring on his left hand either.

 

My mind wanders to the possibilities.

 

A companion. A romance. Even . . .

 

True love.

 

My friends would be thrilled. Since I lost my job last year, I can't tell you how many people have told me that I need to find a man and get married. (Well, maybe I could tell you, but it's starting to be a big number you might not believe.)

I am not kidding. People actually say this to me. Then, they reason, I would not have to worry about a job or health insurance.

Seriously, people? You call that helpful advice?

 

Skipping the fact that marriage-as-a-ticket-to-health-insurance is a really poor basis for a union (obviously!), the reality is that being unemployed is just about the most unromantic thing in the world. I'm not saying romance is not possible, but who in their right mind can focus on being alluring and fabulous when they have more worries than money?

I'm worried about piling up bills, dwindling savings and that %$@*&# broken clothes dryer. Oh, and let's not forget I am working about 12 to 14 hours a day, six days a week to get my new business off the ground. When would I even fit in this romance?

Truth is, right now I'm more concerned with how I can shave another $10 off the grocery bill than whether or not my legs need shaving to look good in some fabulous date dress I can't even afford to buy.

Life on the dole doesn't leave much time (or energy) for flirtation.

There's also the whole issue of access. You're not likely to meet eligible, gainfully-employed, fully-insured bachelors when you lack funds for social events. These days unless he's interviewing me for a job or bagging my groceries, I'm unlikely to meet an employed man.

And, let's not forget my own lack of marketability either. What man with a fabulous job and lots of assets would want to take up with an unemployed woman? (Maybe the kind that would require a pre-nup just to go on the first date?)

The irony? I'm meeting more men than ever because I attend a large job search group. This crummy job market has hit men over 40 much harder than women. Roughly 60% of my local group are men—all unemployed like me. But, about 99% are married. The other one percent are my dad's age.

True, the rare single man near my age might darken the door.

But, if he ever did, he'd be unemployed, too, now wouldn't he?

 

And, so am I, remember?

Even if Mr. Single-and-Wonderful-Yet-Unemployed walks in the door and locks eyes with me and the bells ring and the chemistry steams up the room, then what?

We could use my cents-off coupons to pack a picnic and head to the park or occasionally hit the $1 matinee at the already-cheap theatre, I guess.

 

But, many of those on the dole are in worse shape than I am. They may have totally depleted their savings, have never-ending bills or be out of health insurance.

Mom used to tell me, "You don't need a man to be poor with—you can be poor by yourself."

Now I get it.

Being unemployed and almost broke is no fun. Being unemployed, almost broke and taking on the task of bailing out someone else who may be in worse shape than I am could be an unmitigated disaster.

Did all those helpful people who suggested I marry for health insurance consider somebody might want to marry me because I still have a roof over my head and some savings? For those who have hit bottom, maybe where I'm standing looks pretty cushy.

My mind wanders back to that handsome fellow in the restaurant. We smile at each other again. Oh, he is obviously interested.

Ssssssccccccccrrrrrrreeeeeeeeeeeecccccchhhhh!

Reality intrudes.

There's no fancy restaurant, no pricey entrée, no interested bachelor.

It was a dream.

That's what I get for being half-asleep while sitting in my very-early-in-the-morning weekly job search group. I knew I should've gone to sleep last night instead of looking at job postings until 1 AM.

I force my mind back to the speaker's topic—job search tips. Then, I do what I always do after those meetings: I go home, do the laundry, empty the cat litter box and wonder when I'll be fully employed again.

Romance on the dole? I don't think so. 





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Photo Credits:

Romance in the Garden: http://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/gdsXvWlg-1fODf9UV64LEQ

Wedding Cake: http://www.flickr.com/photos/kenschafer/2235114416/

Picnic: http://www.flickr.com/photos/yourdon/2819393805/sizes/l/in/photostream/

Little Girl Doing Laundry: http://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Little_girl_playing--doing_laundry.png

Note: All photos are for illustrative purposes only--author is not pictured.

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/