No Slater, I just want to be friends! (courtesy of www.almightydad.com)

Has it really been that long since high school? Am I really that old? I still kind of feel the same, at least after ten hours of sleep and a couple cups of coffee. I still look about the same, when I wear my mullet wig and sing Def Leppard songs into my hairbrush in the mirror. But it has been that long, and I am that old. That’s why I was in MD a few weeks back for my 20^th high school reunion.

That Saturday afternoon, I sat on my dad’s couch watching the Disney Channel and killing time before the the big event. Who could’ve guessed Saved By The Bell would spawn a whole network of beautiful teens running around sanitized, microcosmic worlds making bad jokes? Screech would be so proud, Mr. Belding too. In one episode, restaurant advertising mascots – a hot dog, salad bowl and baked potato, to be specific – have a “food fight.” Get it… food fight? They’re food, and they’re fighting. I stuck my finger in my eye, repeatedly, to stop the pain.

The episode also involves a ping-pong tournament at a school for wizards, located right in the heart of NYC. Given that television is always factually accurate, I was surprised to have never heard of this place. It must be one of those newfangled magnet schools, or magic’s answer to Bronx Science. Regardless, if you ever see a kid in funky glasses and a cloak getting into hijinks and ballyhoo near your apartment, discreetly walk the other way. That kid is a wizard in training. And he might cast a spell that forces you to go back inside and waste your Saturday afternoon.

Next up was the first Harry Potter movie, which had me saying “Harry Potter” to myself in a faux British accent for the next week. Wifey was lucky I wasn’t around enough for her to hear it; she might’ve lost her s**t. All the new Hogwarts students are wide-eyed at this enchanted world where staircases move, pictures talk, feasts appear on tables and magic is everywhere. Two decades ago, about to embark on our lives after high school, we were excited too. The sun is coming up behind the bleachers in my senior class picture, which someone posted on Facebook. We’re laughing and talking and posing. My eyes are closed.

My teen years don’t seem quite as absurd as those of these characters. We wore ridiculous clothes and hairstyles and attempted to woo members of the opposite sex. We told stupid jokes and laughed until tears dripped from our eyes and soda from our noses. We played sports and worked degrading after-school jobs in food service. But it all seemed pretty normal at the time. That’s what teenagers do, or did. And then the ’80s, and the next 20 years, disappeared. Now we’re all older than we ever imagined we could be. And teenagers are these strange, magical beings who are decidedly unfunny.

I carpooled to reunion with a good friend, who, unfortunately, is also unemployed. We’ve both had tenuous job situations these last couple years. He’s had more luck getting interviews; I’ve had more luck getting freelance work. We help each other out, critiquing resumes and websites, exchanging job leads and listening to complaints about how much this whole situation really sucks. Neither of us is where we want to be. But both of us are getting by.

He had a more positive outlook going in. Maybe he just knew that he could get loaded because I was driving. My feelings were a little mixed. Many people I like – or liked once upon a time – would be there, including some who remain good friends to this day. But I’d have to explain, over and over, who I am after 20 years of life. And I didn’t know what to say. Would the truth – or some version of the truth – cut it? Maybe a story of international intrigue and espionage was the way to go. A reunion elevator pitch that summed up things up in pithy little bullet points would’ve come in handy either way.

It didn’t matter anyway. No one seemed to care that much about the specifics; and those who did already knew my tale of woe. The music was so loud that involved conversation was near impossible anyway. My Norm spiel came to me two seconds into my first conversation. It included phrases such as “freelance marketing professional” and “billionaire playboy.” I sprinkled in a few names of current and former employers and exotic locations to add some flavor. Then I flashed a business card showing my face Photoshopped on the Monopoly guy’s body. And that was that. The conversation turned to my classmate, who is a real estate lawyer in Florida, a state hit hard by the economy. She deals with foreclosures day in and day out, which is depressing but also fascinating. My first reunion conversation, and I didn’t even have to feign interest. Personal human suffering caused by a floundering economy is a personal hobby of mine.

Subsequent conversations tended to be similar. Some lasted longer than others. Some meandered and explored a little more. But most were standard and perfunctory, progressing through the five basic stages of reunion discourse…

1. Pleasantries
2. My story
3. Their story
4. Awkward lull
5. Excuse to go talk to someone else

I remembered everyone’s name, except for one person’s; I didn’t know him that well. A stolen glance at his name tag saved me from obvious embarrassment. Everyone looked about the same, or at least recognizable. No one had lost a limb or gained 400 pounds. People didn’t even seem “puffy,” which is how wifey describes the look of someone moving into middle age. A few people have fancy jobs, but most have turned out kind of like me.

Life is hard, but I’m working through it. We all are. And things aren’t really that bad. Sometimes we just need the opportunity to step back and take stock. I’m lucky in many respects. The conversations I didn’t want to have that night seemed innocuous by the end. It would’ve been nice to pick up where we left off 20 years ago. But that wasn’t possible. We aren’t those people anymore. The jokes aren’t as funny now as they were then. We don’t wear those costumes anymore. The magic years are gone. But the present is where I want to be, even with all its difficulties.

Where did all the white people go? (courtesy of Wikipedia)

I hate a lot of stuff, or at least it can appear that way to the reader passing through. My cousin suggested over dinner a few weeks back that I change the blog’s name to Hate Less and Less. The suggestion didn’t quite make sense; he’s not too bright. But the spirit of the comment resonated with me. Some vitriol comes through in these here pages from time to time.

I never thought of it as hate so much as annoyance. Things irk me. Hard as it is to believe, I’m not perfect… far from it. But I’m basically a nice guy with a positive outlook. I don’t walk the sidewalks scowling at old ladies and kicking small children. Nor do I lambaste random strangers and give them wedgies as they pass by. I could; the world is filled with easy targets and people wearing underwear. But I don’t.

A protracted job search would wear on most people. The daily grind of looking for something so elusive can be overwhelming. Just ask one of the millions who’ve seen their unemployment outlast their unemployment insurance. I’ve managed to supplement government help with freelance and temp work, when I can get it. That’s kept me going. All things considered, I’ve fared pretty well. But maintaining a good attitude is a struggle.

Life is hard for everyone sometimes. But I don’t hate anybody for my problems. What good would it do anyway? It’s not their fault. Besides, there’s already plenty of real hate to overshadow whatever inspires me to hold forth with precise and fluid prose in the hallowed pages of this irreverent and insightful blog. A quick scroll through the TV news channels reveals as much. It’s all talk of mosques and immigration… how foreigners are coming to take our freedoms and our jobs and make us worship Allah and speak Mexican. Election season promises to dial up the hate even more; what better way to show leadership potential than to trash the little guy? I can hardly wait.

A lot of this hate is aimed at my neighbors. Jackson Heights is one of the most diverse neighborhoods in the country, with 100+ different languages spoken, including English, thanks to Wifey and me. The array of cultures is amazing, with every continent represented, including Antarctica. My downstairs neighbors are penguins. I take credit for adding Wasp to this extensive and varied list. Most Saturdays find me strolling the shopping streets in crisp white boating pants, with a popped collar and an Izod sweater tied loosely around my neck, tossing dollar bills over my shoulder as I spew random stock market and nautical terms, such as Dow Jones, capital gains, starboard and, uh, sailboat. I’m proud of my heritage.

Not surprisingly, many of my neighbors are undocumented and/or practice Islam. I don’t know most of them personally. But I see them in line at the store and the bank. I sit next to them in restaurants. I stand behind them on the subway platform. I bump into them on the sidewalk. They’re pretty and ugly. They’re nice and mean. They’re rich and poor. They’re hardworking and lazy. They’re generous and stingy. Every adjective – positive and negative – applies on some level, as it does to every group of people. The people we hate are the same as us. They are us.

So why do we Americans hate ourselves? Where does this self-loathing come from? I wish I knew, so I could give the nation a giant lollipop to allay our national crying fit. There are so many real issues to address, such as the stagnant economy that keeps so many of us un- and under-employed. Instead we go on hating the new guy because he’s different, as we have since the birth of the nation. He threatens to upset the status quo, and slightly change our glorious way of life. And that scares us. We hate because we’re afraid.

I’m scared too. But rather than hate, let me put forth something that I like. I like my neighborhood – Jackson Heights. I like that it’s a true melting pot, in a country that embraces the term yet so rarely achieves the true meaning. I like that it offers an opportunity to people not afforded one before. I like that Jackson Heights is Ground Zero for the American Dream. People from all over the world come here for a chance, and they get it. To hate that is to hate America.

Taxes during Armageddon, as imagined by someone who just discovered Photoshop. (courtesy of http://wbtax.com)

I like doing my own taxes. And, no, I’m not insane, at least not like the drunk guy dressed as a female clown who rides his three-wheel bike around my neighborhood with a live parrot on his shoulder. My insanity – since that’s what it probably is – is more pedestrian and middle class. There’s something satisfying about sitting down with a pile of forms, statements and receipts, and ending up with a single number. This is what I owe the federal government or, preferably, this is what the federal government owes me.

Another number tells me a lot more about my life this past year. It sits near the bottom of page one of the 1040 – line 22 to be exact – after the words, “This is your total income.” That number sums up an entire year of working. It’s not a perfect measure. It lacks detail and nuance. It glosses over the personal and societal value of my accomplishments. It entirely ignores what I’ve learned and experienced. It does tell me one thing – how much money I earned. And that number was pretty damn small in 2009.

I’ve been doing my own taxes since the ripe old age of 15. That’s when I had my first real job – pumping gas at the local Amoco – and drew my first paycheck. Like many a suburban teenager, I’d mowed lawns, shoveled driveways and babysat kids. But people paid cash for those services. And as any waiter, bookie or financially savvy homeless person will tell you, cash is much harder for the tax people to track.

My taxes were much simpler then. There wasn’t much to report. All I had was a whopping $3.60/hour income, a bank account with a few hundred bucks and a mutual fund with another few hundred more. As a teenager, I rarely earned more than the standard deduction. So most of the taxes withheld the previous year came back to me. That day in May when the government sent me a nice fat check ranked right up there with my birthday and Christmas and the last day of school and, of course, Arbor Day, the granddaddy of all holidays. Tax refunds sure can buy lots of CDs and prepackaged Donettes from 7-Eleven.

Life is a little more complicated 8 (by which I mean 20+) years later. My expenses include more than music and convenience store food. I do my taxes on a computer using advanced (and awesome) tax software rather than on paper forms using No. 2 pencils with dried-out erasers. And if 2009 is any indication, my earning power has decreased.

If we ignore government unemployment insurance payouts, that total income number – line 22 – has decreased since 1987. I earned less as an experienced worker, with undergraduate and graduate degrees, than I did as a high school sophomore. The government paid my way this past year. And while I was entitled to the money, having been previously employed full-time, I didn’t earn it in 2009. I earned it in 2008 and 2007 and every other year I held down a staff position at a company that paid into the system. We can quibble over the meaning of “earn.” After all, I did spend hundreds, maybe thousands, of hours looking for work; and looking for work is most definitely work. But I wasn’t paid directly for it.

The realization of how little I earned didn’t sink in right away. Maybe I just didn’t want to think about it. And maybe I was too busy rushing to finish my taxes by the April 15 deadline. I always plan to do my taxes in March, and always fail. There’s always something more pressing to get done. This time the culprit was a freelance project that was and continues to sap all my time. Don’t read this as a complaint. I’m happy for the paying work, as is my bank account. It just leaves precious little time for everything else, like blogging, sleeping and filing taxes.

The bright side of all this is that 2010 won’t be a repeat of 2009. I will once again earn more money this year than I did as a high school sophomore. There are many parts of my youth that I’d like back. My income bracket isn’t one of them.

They told me the girls would like me more if I got in shape.

I hurt myself at the gym the other day. The exact moment is still fresh in my head. There I was, back flat against the weight bench, two 400-pound dumbbells poised above my head. Nickelback played through the speakers, angering me to the brink of insanity at the unfairness of life. My muscles twitched; sweat dripped off my brow. Four spotters stood at the ready. I brought the weights down to my chest and pushed them back up with a loud grunt. The assembled audience clapped and cheered in adoration. Bob Costas expressed his disbelief to the home audience, using words too big for sports. Only I heard the snap in my chest.

Okay, so maybe it didn’t happen exactly that way. Mike Adamle was doing the play-by-play. Or maybe it was just that creepy gym guy who says random things until he ropes someone into a conversation. And the dumbbells were only 300 pounds each, maybe 250, definitely no less than 200. Fine, I was doing push-ups… lots and lots of push-ups. Are you happy? There are two details I’m sure of: Nickelback playing and being pissed off about Nickelback playing.

I didn’t really feel the injury when it happened. The workout, though a bit more strenuous than normal, was like any other. My chest was sore the next day, and not in a good way. By that evening I couldn’t lift my arms without shooting pain. Sleeping was near impossible, as laying down was just excruciating. So I watched what seemed like a full season of “That ’70s Show” on Teen Nick. The next day, it hurt just to have my arms hang at my sides. I considered cutting them off at the shoulder. But lifting a machete was too painful. The only comfortable position was sitting upright with my arms on the table or armrests, relieving any pressure on the injury.

I’ve hurt myself before, many times. I’m a boy, have been all my life. And I played lots of sports that involve helmets. But this time was different. I’d rendered myself completely useless. Not only could I not find a full-time job, despite my repeated best efforts, I couldn’t even move. I was officially just taking up space. It was a really bad day, one of the worst of my unemployment.

Prolonged unemployment makes a person feel useless. Take it from someone who knows all too well. When a hundred resumes go out and your phone stays silent, it’s easy to get really down on yourself. I fight this feeling everyday. A lot of my fellow unemployed do too. Please correct me if I’m wrong, if you’ve interviewed all 14.8 million of us and found the vast majority to be confident and well adjusted. I’ll douse my computer in honey and eat it piece by piece, starting with the sharp parts. Mr. Jobs, your name will taunt me no more.

Going to the gym is my outlet, my shield against that overwhelming useless feeling. It gives me a sense of accomplishment. It helps me validate my existence. Look at me, world, err… Jackson Heights, err… other sweaty people in this ugly building on Queens Blvd., I’m good at something! That something is lifting inanimate objects twelve times using proper form. Working out makes me feel good about myself, or at least less bad. And hard work yields visible results, unlike submitting resumes. I’m in pretty good shape for someone who spends too much time at his computer and eats too many cookies. Take away my workouts, and my mental state goes downhill faster than Lindsey Vonn.

The injury, painful though it was, healed pretty quickly. There is some lingering discomfort from something that happened months ago, when I was doing dips with a Volkswagen strapped to my back. But I am otherwise fine. I returned to the gym yesterday and felt good after. I went again today and feel even better. All the soreness is good soreness.

As if somehow connected, things have picked up on the job search front too. Some recruiters recently inquired about my resume and, even better, returned my calls. I have a few quality freelance opportunities, including an exciting month-long gig that starts tomorrow. I know deep down that I’m not useless. And it shouldn’t take a workout or some job search success to remind me. But I’ve been unemployed a long time. And keeping one’s confidence and spirits up is hard work in itself. A little validation helps once in awhile, no matter how it comes about.

This says "stats." If you had eyes, you'd know. (courtesy of http://www.recruitingblogs.com/)

Three recruiters contacted me last Thursday, all within about an hour of each other. The stars must have aligned just so, creating a world where my resume springs to the top of every job board search for “digital marketing professional.” Does this signal the end of the famine, or the beginning of the famine? I’ll let you know when I eat, or die. Maybe it just means I should buy a lottery ticket.

The first recruiter was filling an in-house search engine marketing position, but expressed concern about my extended unemployment. His clients – potential employers – think there’s a problem when a candidate’s unemployment stretches past six months, horrible job market notwithstanding. Skills deteriorate; people get lazy. The long-term unemployed guy, the thinking goes, must be spending all his free time watching “Roseanne” reruns and inhaling Little Debbie snack cakes by the the pallet. Why hire someone who can barely remember how to bathe himself?

But a job search takes a month for every $10,000 of expected income. If my second grade math skills hold up (it has been 30 years), anyone expecting to make over $60,000 a year (6 X 10,000) may want to reexamine their options. A lower salary may be preferable to perceived obsolescence. I understand the recruiter’s point. I don’t like it, but he’s probably right. The burden is on the job seeker to prove continued relevance in an ultra-competitive job market. It’s nice to know the job of finding a job is that much harder.

I wasn’t really qualified for the opening anyway. We both knew it. I tried to talk my way into a meeting anyway, because that’s what I have to do. He backpedaled away from any sort of firm commitment, like a juggler on a unicycle. Recruiters are good at that. The call ended with his promise to run my resume by the company. Even if he actually does, nothing will come of it.

The second email came from an HR person at a reputable company. I would happily work at this place; I’d even hang out in their cafeteria just to make people think I work there. My qualifications line up nicely with the company’s needs, upon first glance. I followed up by phone but couldn’t get through, not even to a voicemail. So I expressed my interest via email, twice. I’ve yet to hear back, though my fingers and toes are crossed, and crossed again. Typing is painful. I’ll follow up once more, by phone and email, before writing it off. It’s frustrating to fail before actually getting a chance.

The third recruiter left a voicemail message while I was cleaning the kitchen and blasting old Rush albums (Power Windows, Hold Your Fire and Moving Pictures, for those of you who were teenage boys in the 1980s). Following up on an email I never received, he invited me to interview for an account manager position. I don’t remember applying. Nor could I find any record in the vast Excel spreadsheet that tracks my job search exploits. Many open positions don’t include the company’s name or identifying information. So I didn’t think much of it. He left a phone number but no name.

I called back later that afternoon to inquire. A frazzled receptionist who only spoke in rapid fire confirmed the company was interviewing for an account manager. She asked a bunch of questions and then put me on hold. Upon picking up again, she had me repeat everything. She then put me on hold again, picked up again and asked for another recap. We eventually arranged an interview for 10:30 the next day. The company forwarded directions via email later that evening. The email stressed that I should “…dress professionally, and to bring a copy of your resume.” A call confirming the meeting came early the next morning.

The initial phone message and followup email both seemed weird at the time. What recruiter calls and doesn’t leave a name? And when does a company ever remind someone how to dress for an interview? The phone conversation soured me some, but didn’t seem that unusual. Having just wrapped up a stint answering phones, I know all to well that people can be distracted at work.

I researched the company as I always do, reading the website and Googling what I found there. Grammar mistakes and misspellings aside, the website was fine for what the company seemed to be – a small marketing agency. It only contained a few pages and didn’t say much of substance, but many are like that. The Flash elements on the site were pointless and annoying. All in all, though, I’ve seen much worse.

The lack of additional info beyond the website concerned me too. Besides a few online press releases, which anyone with a PRWeb account can post for free, there was nothing. Maybe I didn’t dig enough. But a search on any company name should yield tons of stuff. My name brings up pages and pages of results, not that I ever Google it. I especially don’t search for “Norm Elrod” in my pajamas, late at night, while listening to “Juke Box Hero” on repeat and pining for the fame and fortune I so desperately desire. That would be dysfunctional.

And I am anything but dysfunctional. I may have forgotten marketing and basic math, as far as recruiters are concerned. But I am not dysfunctional. I am desperate however. So I went through with the interview. As my next post will reveal, that was a complete waste of time.

Read Job interview, aka complete waste of time

Is that Norm, in a onesie? I'll never wash my eyes again! (courtesy of http://thekathleenshow.typepad.com)

Unemployment is an emotional roller coaster. One day (one hour even) I’m way up, and the next I’m way down. What triggers the peaks and valleys isn’t always obvious or logical. And even if it is, the level of emotion is rarely warranted. I used to be fairly even-tempered… strange and goofy, but even-tempered. So the huge swings present some cause for concern. My sense is that the highs and lows will level out when I’m employed and can get out of my own head a little. Here’s hoping I get to test my theory soon.

I received an email last week that gave me a huge boost, in a healthy way. The email thanked me for Jobless and Less, honestly and sincerely, calling it “…funny, interesting, appealing, witty and insightful.” The email’s author is enduring her own unemployment. She is intelligent, educated and experienced, and is currently weighing her temping options. This isn’t where she wants to be, but she understands that this is where she is. I understand the situation all too well. My job prospects aren’t looking up in the new year, despite news of economic growth and mixed reports of job growth. I’m seeking work wherever I can find it, including temp and freelance positions. My unemployment insurance will run out shortly. My bills won’t. And, frankly, the ongoing unemployment is really wearing on me.

Instead of getting manic from such praise, I felt my median temperament rise a little. And I’ve ridden that wave of good feeling ever since. Us unemployed take our wins however we can get them. And emails like this are definitely a big win. I know people read the blog, thanks to Google Analytics. I can even tell all kinds of things about them… geographic location, web browser, pages viewed, the naughty sites they visit after mine, what they’re wearing, what they had for dinner. But stats are impersonal and sometimes misleading. Actual feedback is much more meaningful to me. It tells me that real people out there are reading and understand. It tells me I’m not alone.

Here’s the email, with the author’s permission. I hope it provides a little comfort and solace to others in our situation. We may be sitting by ourselves at our own desks, looking at our own computers. But as my grandfather always says, “we’re all in this together.”

I stumbled across your blog when I was considering signing up for various temp agencies. I was looking for any advice on how best to do this or even whether or not it would be worthwhile, when I found your funny, interesting (though somewhat demoralizing) posts on temping. I know I can’t kid myself that temping will be a barrel of laughs or give me a truly fulfilling employment experience. But, like you, I have come to see that being unemployed feels like drowning and even though temping may feel like treading water, when I would rather be swimming – I can’t really afford the luxury of *not* being employed anymore, even if I end up doing horribly demeaning jobs that are somewhat beneath me – or the sort of work I could have done easily out of high school, without the benefit of a college degree or the years of work experience that I have.

I was very impressed by your blog though. I had started an unemployment blog myself, but I didn’t stick with it and I have to say that your blog is everything that I wished mine was: which is funny, interesting, appealing, witty and insightful. (I rather think I got discouraged with my blog – because I was mostly just complaining a lot! Also, I had no readership – and it was a bit of a drag and felt kind of pointless for me to post about my observations, when no one was reading them. So I stuck with journaling instead, which no one reads either, but at least I don’t kid myself in thinking that someone *will* read any of my journals!)

Anyway – I wanted to send you a note to let you know how much I appreciate your observations and what you’re doing with your blog. I also wanted to send some encouragement your way, especially after I read the notorious “Joe’s” comments and your response. It seems like there are always those out there who believe they have all the answers and are ready to pass down judgment to others. I get that all the time really. Those who haven’t experienced long-term unemployment can’t possibly understand what it’s like. And this economic downturn is very different than any we’ve ever experienced. I read a recent news article where a recruiter comments that it used to be that the difficult people to place were those who were ex-offenders or the homeless, but now it’s the chemists and engineers! In other words, many many people out there who are highly skilled, highly trained, highly educated and very qualified are nevertheless finding themselves unemployed for extended periods of time. It’s not a reflection on you – though I’m sure you know that by now. I’m still struggling with that myself really.

So thanks again and keep writing… And if you have any further advice for me on my way to the temp agencies, let me know!

[Note: I added the links to her email for context, and because links make me happy. Not as happy as super-nice emails, but happy still.]

Hello, is this the Kremlin? I have detained your cookies. I will eat one every ten minutes until you comply with my demands. That's right, I need spoons... lots of shiny silver spoons. (courtesy of www.ad-i.co.uk)

I will never temp again. I will never temp again. I will never temp again. That’s been my mantra after every temp assignment, dating back 12 years. And that’s what would run through my head during yoga class, were I to take yoga, or even own one of those mats everyone carries around with a smug look on their face. It’s not that every temp experience has been negative, though many have. It’s that a temp assignment feels like treading water, whereas a freelance project or full-time job feels like swimming. Both are better than unemployment, which feels like drowning.

I have another short-term temp assignment this holiday season, again courtesy of wifey’s employer. The full-time receptionist is on vacation, and I am filling in. This isn’t where I imagined myself after college, when I first manned a front desk, after grad school or even after my last layoff. But this is where I am. So I’m going with it, tail tucked firmly between my legs. If my dad can sell stereos with a PhD, I can answer phones with an MBA. Maybe my hypothetical future kid will repair Slurpee machines with an MD. Someone has to carry on the proud family tradition.

Getting up and getting out of the apartment made me feel like a normal person. Oh, how I missed the morning routine… waking to the talk radio voices on my 20-year-old clock radio, stumbling to the shower that doesn’t drain, racing for the subway in the frigid cold. Believe it or not, I couldn’t decide what to wear my first morning. All my work clothes were still in dry cleaner plastic from a year ago. Putting them on felt odd, like they didn’t fit right anymore.

I was actually a little nervous that morning too, and even the night before. What if I missed a call? What if I broke the phone system? What if I tripped over my own two feet (as I often do), spilling coffee on a computer, causing it to explode and burn down the entire building? This is my wife’s company, our household’s main source of income. Besides, what would failure say about job prospects in my field? How could I expect to find the right job if I couldn’t do this job? The question is ridiculous, of course. I’m not actively looking for receptionist work, so one has little bearing on the other. But that’s how the unemployed mind works sometimes.

Answering phones has changed a little in 15 years, but mostly in the details. People still call; I still answer. Some are friendly and chatty. Some don’t have time for anything, least of all pleasantries with a peon. Most fall in between, but closer to the friendly side. Here’s a typical exchange (receptionist humor)…

Me: Good morning, Company X

Caller: May I please speak to So and So?

Me: May I ask who’s calling?

Caller: Such and Such with Company Y

Me: One second please…

And then I transfer the call.

One difference is that people now call from cell phones, often while walking though a wind tunnel, conducting three meetings and ordering lunch. I sometimes have to wait for the caller to get around to talking to me. The calls come in waves. And when the waves of calls come, so do the messengers and visitors, ringing at the front entrance to be buzzed in. Each appears on a three-inch black-and-white security monitor next to me, looking like a perp in a police TV show. The security camera makes even old ladies and babies look like criminals, which serves them right. The busy times are late morning and mid-afternoon, usually on the hour or half hour.

The front desk is often quiet for 10 or 15 minutes at a time. This is likely because of the holidays. When not answering phones, signing for packages and pressing the door buzzer, I surf the Internet or mess around with my blog. I avoid job sites, because my monitor is out in the open and visible to passersby. We wouldn’t want visitors to get the wrong idea. When the internet gets boring, as it does when my go-to sites aren’t updating, I just stare out at the lobby. All the austere-looking marble reminds me of the lobby at a previous employer. That one is intimidating by design. This one is smaller and not at all intimidating. Sometimes wifey drops by to say hello.

Offices seem to be interconnected and interdependent. This office has its own internal patterns as well. People go to the bathroom, or at least pick up the key from the front desk, in waves. Busy times are generally around 11:00 and 3:00. (Bathroom key etiquette is complicated enough to deserve it’s own post.) I’ve settled into my own patterns. Video footage airs near the elevator banks, and I respond to the voices with random goofy comments every time I walk by. I’m strapped to a desk by a phone cord all day, so I take full advantage of my free time.

Admitting to thinking about bathroom patterns and answering random voices won’t help me find another full-time job. But it’s nice to know I’m still capable of an honest day’s work; all the unanswered job inquiries eat away at my confidence sometimes. If full-time work continues to elude me, temp work can put a little money in my pocket. It’s not ideal. It’s not a stepping stone to greatness. But it doesn’t have to be painful either, as proven these last few weeks. Treading water is much better than drowning, even if I’d rather be swimming.

I love burritos so much that I named my fantasy football team after them. That, my friends, is dedication. (courtesy of allwomenstalk.com)

[Read the holiday season job post, part 1 and part 2 so this post makes sense.]

Around 1:30, a full three hours after my arrival, an interviewer led me out of the horribly misnamed Turnover Room and into the interview room across the hall. Set up were two rows of five narrow tables, each with two pairs of chairs facing each other. She sat me at a middle table and took the chair opposite. Eight other interviews continued on amidst the general hustle and bustle of people coming and going.

She explained that the sales floor position I’d applied for only paid $8/hour, and the HR coordinator position had been filled earlier that day. I didn’t ask why they invited me in to interview for a position and left me waiting all morning while they filled it. I knew the answer… my time didn’t matter to them. Making that point wouldn’t help things. As luck would have it, my computer skills – meaning my ability to use the Internet – qualified me to be a proctor. The person in this position helps jobseekers complete online applications at the computer terminals out front. The job paid $10/hour for 40 hours/week until early January, when it could become full-time. I indicated my interest in interviewing for it.

The interviewer asked a few brief questions about my resume, nothing terribly probing. Do you have a resume? Tell me what you did at Company X. Why did you leave Company Y? I answered simply, and she passed my file on to a colleague and left. I waited, listening to the interview happening a few feet away and mentally fielding questions that seemed to stump the interviewee. Those questions would be coming my way in a few minutes.

The next interviewer dug a little deeper, meaning she actually asked questions that required some thought to answer.

Interviewer: Why is customer service important?

Me: So people will buy s**t and then come back later and buy more s**t.

Interviewer: What would you do if faced with an angry, frustrated applicant?

Me: I would slap them across the face with the keyboard then climb up on a desk and wreak havoc from above in the form of a flying elbow or, perhaps, a dropkick. It all depends on space and what I’m wearing. What do you think I would do? I’d help them. Because being unemployed is frustrating enough without having to contend with technology.

I may be confusing my words and thoughts at that moment. The border between Reality-ville and Imagination Land gets a little blurrier everyday. And neither side seems willing to cede victory in the battle of Norm’s Brain. Regardless, the interviewer accepted my answers and complimented my outfit and comport. Her implication was that not everyone she interviews is as well dressed and well spoken. She said she would recommend to the director that I be hired. The director – the last step in the interview assembly line – had to meet all potential hires personally and was unavailable at that moment. She would call me by the end of the week. I liked my chances and, in my head, started revising my calendar and my budget. Then I remembered what it’s like to punch out and take a lunch break.

I left the store around 2:00, after three hours of waiting and 30 minutes of interviewing, and bolted straight for Chipotle, Burrito Bucks in hand. My stomach was about to feed on a vital organ to keep the rest of my body alive, so time was short. The closest Chipotle sits on the ground floor of the Empire State Building, home of my last employer. The lunchtime rush had ended and the line moved quickly. I commandeered a window seat and ate my chicken burrito. Guys in red jackets tried to sell bus tours to tourists outside. Tourists resisted, as they often do when approached on the mean streets of midtown and asked for money. The rest of the world hurried by.

I feared running into someone from my old company and explaining why I was there, eating a burrito in a suit in the middle of the afternoon. Various, less-than-plausible answers came to mind involving high-profile espionage and intrigue. But in the end I opted for vagueness followed by a quick change of subject. Something like, “I had a job interview nearby. How’s work these days?” It’s this kind of deftness that got me here today. I wasn’t ashamed of my interview so much as my year of continued unemployment. Though, truth be known, I wasn’t exactly comfortable with my interview either. No one familiar happened by.

I strolled up Fifth Ave., inspired by the beautiful weather to try and think positive thoughts. Many successful business types get their start on the ground floor of a company. I could be next. Of course they usually walk through the door at the age of 22, not 37. The director’s call never came. But a friendly generic email rejecting my application did later that week. It invited me to apply again, presumably for another job I didn’t want. Spending more quality time in the Turnover Room was definitely tempting. I could bring along a pillow next time, maybe my PlayStation too. But I never followed up.

The holiday season job I didn’t want and didn’t get, part 1

The holiday season job I didn’t want and didn’t get, part 2

Why does Jerry look like he's about to rise up to heaven? (courtesy of http://binkis.wordpress.com/)

[Read the holiday season job post, part 1 so this post makes sense.]

A security woman sat at the front desk – really more of a maitre d’  stand with a stool nestled in a corner – and glared at me. She seemed to want to rip my head off or fall asleep. I couldn’t tell which; it’s a fine line sometimes. Maybe she wanted to rip my head off because I kept her from falling asleep. I signed in, because that’s what people do when entering an office. She continued to glare, because that’s what people do when they hate you. Only when I asked where to go for my job interview did she take my ID and point me down the hall.

An official-looking woman with a clipboard met me in the actual reception area. She seemed to be about 20 years old and playing grown up. Ah, to be young and employed again… I asked a couple questions and quickly realized she only knew what was on her piece of paper. She checked me off the list and shuffled me past banks of computers and people in various states of interview limbo into the “Turnover Room” to wait. Apparently the online application is the E-Z Pass of the hiring process.

The Turnover Room could hold 50 or 60 people. But the five people there were spread out as if everyone else were contagious. “Don’t get too close,” their placement suggested. “I don’t want to catch your unemployment too.” I can’t say I blame them. Each looked up when I entered and then returned their attention to a cellphone or the floor.

Feeling a little self-conscious, I took a seat on the far side, a few rows from the front and also nowhere near anyone else. The room – with its dingy drop ceilings, worn-down industrial carpet and windows not cleaned since smoking was outlawed in the workplace – was depressing. Corporate inspirational posters dotted the walls. The one closest to me titled, “I Commit To My Own Sales” was signed by those who presumably had. It reminded me of something high school cheerleaders would post outside the boys locker room before the big homecoming game, sans bubbly letters and heart-dotted i’s. A TV and VCR sat on a rolling metal AV cart near the front of the room, as if class that day would be a video. Sound from another TV drifted in from the next room over.

I read a magazine and tried to figure out what was on. If forced to guess, upon penalty of more bad television, I’d have gone with “Living Single,” the mid-’90s show about Black, urban 20-somethings in Brooklyn starring Queen Latifah, Tootie and the guy who voices the God Of War video games. I’ve seen more episodes on late-night cable than is probably healthy. I could probably even rap (badly) the theme song’s Hip-Hop interlude if asked. At any rate, whatever show it was, the laugh track thought it hilarious. And who am I to disagree?

Jerry Springer came on at 11:00. Chants of “Jerry” gave it away. I put away the magazine and played with my phone, texting anyone who might respond while contemplating how to join the talk show circuit. The attitude part would be easy. I’ve already mastered the key phrases…

• You don’t own me!
• I be who I want to be!
• Talk to the hand!

But I’d need a gimmick and some ill-fitting clothes, maybe a bad haircut and fewer teeth. But the gimmick would be key if I wanted to be a regular. Garden variety fat people and unfaithful spouses come and go in the talk show world. And they’re bush league besides. No good persona came to me, so I gave up trying. So much for that career path. Maybe I could be part of Jerry’s show security team.

The Turnover Room started to fill up with applicants, but not so many that anyone sat next to anyone else. Every few minutes another job candidate wandered in, causing everyone to look up, sigh and return to their distraction of choice. Less often an HR rep hurried in and pulled someone out to interview. A clear sense of purpose distinguished the employed from those seeking employment.

The other obvious difference was level of dress. HR people wore corporate business attire; heals and pinstripes predominated. Applicants opted for what might seem like business attire to someone who didn’t know any better. Or they simply didn’t care. I was one of two applicants dressed in a suit. The other punctuated his outfit with a sideways baseball hat. A few people managed a shirt and tie or a nice blouse. The rest wore jeans and t-shirts. The longer I sat there, the more I doubted my choice of outfit.

By 11:30 people who had entered the Turnover Room after me were being called to interview. I felt forgotten (and a little stupid for wearing a suit), but figured my turn would come shortly. Causing trouble and making waves wouldn’t get me hired as a small, cheap cog in a giant machine. I grew restless and even more bored. I’d finished my magazine and texted everyone. The stale air was drying out my throat and making me a little ill; anybody who’s attended a business conference and spent hours breathing canned hotel or convention center air knows the feeling. I was thirsty and needed to use the bathroom, which was two floors down on the other side of the store. And I wanted to take off my tie.

By a little after noon I didn’t care anymore. Waiting an hour and a half to interview for a seasonal job seemed ridiculous. I asked the clipboard lady and another staffer when my interview might occur, trying my best to be deferential. They guided me into an office full of temps and left again. I waited there and then back in the Turnover Room while the situation was resolved. As it turned out, they really had forgotten me and were re-slotting me in the queue. I was finally called to interview 40 minutes later.

The holiday season job I didn’t want and didn’t get, part 1

The holiday season job I didn’t want and didn’t get, part 3

Ever feel like the blue robot to the world's red robot? (courtesy of http://coolrain44.wordpress.com/)

What better time to find a job than the holidays? The whole retail industry staffs up to meet the demands of the year’s busiest shopping season. More eager shoppers require more overworked sales people to serve them while wishing they could just go home. It’s a holiday maxim, as accepted as Black Friday and mall Santas and spending money you don’t have. These jobs aren’t perfect, or even desired. And they pay significantly less than my unemployment insurance. But a job is a job, if you get one. I didn’t.

My unemployment insurance will run out soon. At least I thought it would until Congress passed that extension; now I don’t know what the hell is going on. But my plan at the time was to delay the inevitable with a seasonal job at one of New York City’s many fine department stores. They’re all hiring. And seeing the throngs of shoppers up and down Fifth Ave. the other day, I can see why. Working during the holiday season – when work is available – would push back my day of unemployment reckoning. It would save me from having to find work in the dead of January.

I applied for a few seasonal positions – sales and back office – at a department store you’ve definitely heard of. They have locations all over the country, including the flagship store in Manhattan where tourists line up to look at display windows and relive scenes from movies. The smaller stores in Queens are the same as those in suburban Maryland or, presumably, anywhere. The pay would suck, but the employee discount would save me a few dollars on Christmas presents. And I’d get to experience the Christmas Season madness from the front lines. It could make for an interesting experience, provided I don’t get trampled by some present-hungry horde in search of a half-off sale. Maybe I’d even meet the real Santa Claus. I definitely have some questions for that fat hairy bastard… like why he never brought me those Rock ‘Em Sock ‘Em Robots. I mean really, Santa, WTF?

I applied for three different positions – HR coordinator and salesperson at the main Manhattan store and salesperson at a Queens store. The online application took about 40 minutes to complete and included a lengthy multiple-choice personality test. The questions attempted to gauge my suitability for dealing with the public. And here I thought one only needed a pulse. The appropriate answers were obvious and, conveniently enough, the answers I would’ve chosen anyway. Apparently I have the right stuff for retail and am not a threat to steal things or shoot up the place (file those under “good to know”). A few days later, the store invited me to interview. I was actually a little excited.

Like any good job candidate, I arrived early at the Manhattan location for my 10:30 appointment. It was unseasonably warm that day. My wool suit, which had magically shrunk since my last interview, was a little toasty. The main floor wasn’t yet decorated for the season; customers were few and far between. Having only ever visited as a shopper, and then only evenings and weekends, I was surprised to see the store so calm.

The staff elevator whisked me away to the upper reaches of the store, where the human resources email had instructed me to go. Standing among various employees, I became keenly aware of my reason for being there. With 15 years of work experience and an undergraduate and graduate degree, I was about to interview for a seasonal job in a department store that probably paid less than some of my summer jobs. My stomach dropped, and a lump formed in my throat. My career had come to this.

I exited into the bridal registry section and wandered among the plates and salad tongs and wine buckets not finding anything HR-related. A couple of salespeople chatted by a register; nobody shopped. After about ten minutes, I felt sufficiently stupid and asked for directions. Any trace of superiority or entitlement I arrived with were now officially gone. I started to wonder if I were even qualified to work in retail.

The holiday season job I didn’t want and didn’t get, part 2

The holiday season job I didn’t want and didn’t get, part 3