“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/

 

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/

. . . 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/

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Danger, Will Robinson! Danger!”: Life on the Dole Jolts the Rest of the Family

By Guest Blogger: Ariel's Mom

Parents fix things. It's what we do.

Remember when you were five and skinned your knee? Didn't you want Mom to make a big show of rustling up a truckload of antiseptics and bandages for your boo-boo? And, didn't you also want a tender kiss on your grimy little knee and the words, "Everything is going to be alright, Sweetie"? You didn't mind too much if Mom threw in a bear hug at no additional cost—as long as your friends weren't watching. And, thanks to Mom's "fixing" you soon ran back out to play happily, the injury totally forgotten.

Oh, if only the parental role could stay so simple. But, while children inevitably grow up, no parent ever gets old enough to give up the parental impulse to "make it all better" as my own father demonstrated to me some years ago.

When I was 35, I sprained an ankle. As I hobbled into the doctor's office, my ashen-faced, shaking father was already there, looking as if he were the accident victim. I was clearly old enough to manage my own sprained ankle, I thought. Why would my 65-year-old father leap into full parental mode, heeding his inner voice that said "Get there fast and do something, Dad!"?

Because, as parents, it's who we are, and it's what we do. We just can't help ourselves.

No matter how old the offspring, parents fix things—or at least attempt to do so. Still, I didn't really "get" my father's actions that day. Not until my daughter Ariel lost her job and put me in the same position he faced.

First, a little background: Ariel was a good kid. She made straight As, had great friends, never got into the usual teen vices, and she became self-supporting right out of college. Other than a few boyfriends I didn't like (and whom her own good judgment ultimately sent packing) and that garish purple eye shadow at age 15, her decisions have been sound and her achievements exemplary.

Actually it may even be that because Ariel never gave us any major worries as a child that I never got the experience I'd need at parenting-a-grown-daughter-through-big-scary-life-changes thing. I absolutely, positively do not know how to relate to a daughter experiencing a monstrous life challenge like job loss. The one thing I do know: no amount of hugs, kisses, antiseptics or bandages will fix this nasty old boo-boo.

From the moment, 11 months before it actually happened, when Ariel knew her job would be eliminated, she took the news well. She turned immediately to the job search, never slowing down to mourn or bewail her fate; seeing her "stiff upper lip", her father and I pretended to take it well, too. We said all the right things, but privately we were shaken. No doubt, all parents panic a little over an adult child's job loss, but with Ariel on her own, it's been especially scary.

Because, as Ariel calmly explained, "The national unemployment figures may look large, but at my house, it's an even higher number—it's 100%." That's right. No other salary to cushion the loss.

We were thankful she knew months ahead of time that her job might go away. It gave us time to accept the news, strategize, plan and organize.

It didn't help.

Because we are a close-knit family, the three of us spent hours on the phone, trying to accept this calamity and formulate a battle plan. But, it's been a long time since any of us had job searched. We had no clue where to start.

On-line applications? Are they different from paper ones?

Keyword searches? What's that?

LinkedIn? How's that supposed to help?

We soon realized we were total novices in the modern art of the job hunt. Ariel's father and I wanted to be understanding and supportive, but how did that translate into action when we had no clue how people find jobs these days?

Channeling my own father's actions from the day I sprained my ankle, my first impulse was to do something.

But what?

Offer encouragement? Of course.

Volunteer to proof-read the résumé? Absolutely.

Be a sounding board for Ariel's frustrations? Positively.

Tell her how to solve all her problems and point out her mistakes? Uh-oh.

"Danger, Will Robinson! Danger!"

For the first time in our parent-adult child relationship we were navigating uncharted territory. Nobody knew the contact protocol.

Sure, her father and I knew to offer the "good stuff": pep talks, sharing the emotional burden and listening to late-night worries. But, sometimes as worries creep into our own minds, our inner thoughts, when expressed, might come off sounding bossy, pushy or critical. No matter how well intentioned the remark, it has the potential to push the wrong button on the overly-exposed, frayed nerves of the on-the-dole jobseeker.

The problem? Just like the jobseeker, those of us who love them have ups and downs, good days and bad.

Some mornings I awaken full of optimism: the economy will pick up; the job market will rebound; Ariel will get a job even better than the last one. This may, in fact, be the best thing that ever happened to her.

But, on other days when Ariel phones to tell me of yet another rejection—this time from a company we thought would be a slam-dunk—I summon my energy and do the "rah-rah" cheerleader-mother thing once again. It works; by the time we hang up the phone, she feels better and returns optimistically to the job search, sending out more résumés.

Wonderful.

Except I lie awake until 2 AM thinking, wondering, praying, worrying and trying to figure out if we're missing something.

Does her résumé need tweaking?

Does the cover letter say too much or too little?

Is her previous high salary a turn-off to potential employees?

Is this bad economy going to last forever?

Because we're a small family—Ariel's our only child—we're a close family. Sunday dinner is a family reunion for us. Which means that, Ariel's job search is about our lives, too. While she may be the one out of work, her father and I have also felt the impact and will continue to do so—maybe for the rest of our lives.

Wherever Ariel goes, we'll need to go as well. That's not clingy—it's realistic. We're not as young as we used to be. I was an only child too. And, when my parents in their declining years took a notion to move 300 miles away, I panicked, wondering how I'd care for them. When I finally dissuaded them, I vowed right then I would never do that to my only daughter. One day—hopefully many years from now—Ariel may need to oversee our care. But, I know that because she's on her own, she'll always have to work, no matter what goes on with her old Mum and Dad. As parents, the least we can do is put ourselves in a convenient location for her.

But, can we, as future retirees, afford to live where destiny leads Ariel? She's had to rule out some locales based on the potential cost of living for us. Los Angeles, Boston and New York City are not places where people of modest means can stretch a retirement dollar.

Well, that is, if we can retire. Her father and I expected to be retired by now, but with Ariel out of work, we hesitate. True, she's managing well on her tiny dole check, but what happens if (when?) it runs out? I'm convinced she'd deliver pizzas or newspapers, wait tables or be a street mime before she'd take money from us, but we feel more secure holding on to our present income "just in case."

Right now, my husband and I do what parents find most difficult: we wait, try to be patient and trust Ariel's judgment and her fierce commitment to the job search. We fully understand there's nothing we can do or say to change this situation, and we struggle to learn how to be supportive of our daughter who's living on the dole.

Yes, it is the nature of parents to worry and to try to fix things. But, unemployment is not a problem fixed with antiseptics, bandages, hugs or even tons of love. Of course, we still provide the love and hugs—it makes us all feel better. And, if I thought antiseptics and bandages would help, I'd pack a cargo truck full and deliver them to Ariel's door this minute. But, sadly, that won't help at all. It isn't like when she was five years old and I really could make things "all better".

Meanwhile . . . we wait. We hope. We pray. Most of all, we love and support our daughter through the most difficult challenge she's faced in her adult life and try to think before we speak. It's all we can do. We hope it is enough.

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Photos Courtesy of:

Lost in Space Robot: http://www.flickr.com/photos/drp/41370809/

1980s Girl: http://flickr.com/photos/89978611@N00/3347526575

Job Interview: http://www.flickr.com/photos/partsnpieces/2276665219/

Insomnia: http://www.flickr.com/photos/alyssafilmmaker/3628914665/

Moving Couple: http://bit.ly/bgF46C

Parent and Child: http://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/uqMTNYIqIjN4uafBur2udA