Don't Mince Words

I wish I could say it’s hard to believe I’ve been out of work exactly a year today, but it’s true.  I mentally assumed, based on the economy, my age, and my salary expectations, that my job search would be long.  That’s why I immediately dubbed myself the “Layoff Lady of Leisure.”  My new “job” title was formulated to keep me in a positive mindset.  But let me tell you, I’ve worked my ass off in the last year.  My life would of been easier if I had been on the job.

I took a week off, like they tell you to do, before I hit the streets again.  Of course, my first week of freedom was overcast, so I didn’t get a tan, but I did manage to get drunk.  But drinking brought inspiration through my past experience in New York where, after the dot com crash, I went to a lot of pink slip happy hours.  This time around, I had an army of unemployed friends so we spent a lot of time finding “hardship” hours with reduced drinks and food.  So, in the last year, I’ve participated in an unknown number of happy hours where job interview stories were exchanged in between cocktails.  This got me out of the house more often and away from Tex, my dog and CSO (chief snack officer).

But a Layoff Lady of Leisure’s life isn’t all about boozing.  On average, I spent about six hours a day looking for jobs, calling about jobs, going to networking events, and other self-pimping activities.  I applied for approximately 727 jobs nationwide and had 44 interviews.  The interviews, like dating in Los Angeles, became a source of good material.  For instance, I actually got the “What do you see yourself doing in five years” question.  Yeah, novice interviewers are fun.  I refrained from saying “I see myself going through menopause.”  I had better interview questions when I auditioned for “The Apprentice.”

Most people, when they are laid off, secretly say “Now I finally have the time to do ____.”  My fill-in-the-blank was pretty predictable: “finally lose those last 20 pounds.”  In addition to continuing my gym routine, I started a running program.  That lasted about two weeks when my knees gave up in protest.  I then moved to P90X and had a remote workout buddy in New York.  That routine is a great way to work on all your body parts and it isn’t intimidating like lifting weights around the hottest gay guys on earth.  In addition to this, I was going to yoga twice a week and hiking.  After my birthday, I decided to try to be a vegan as a personal challenge.  Well, the kind of vegan that doesn’t throw her leather shoes out.  I thought for sure that change would shake more pounds loose.  I added daily hiking and still wasn’t losing weight.  Armed with months of caloric data, I went to my doctor and found out if I didn’t have a thyroid problem, I would of been at my goal weight months and months ago.  Yippee.  Without the time to do all this physical and food experimentation, I probably would not of known I had a problem.  Without the Obama COBRA subsidy, I would of been uninsured and never bothered with the doctor.  It’s funny how things work out.

The rest of my “free” time has been spent productively as well.  I moved my site to WordPress.  I painted my kitchen and living room.  I organized my Twitter lists.  I networked my way to more than 500 LinkedIn contacts.  When Tex got really tired of me, I fostered another dog for him.  I read, I wrote, and I caught up on NetFlix.  I also did some less desirable things:  I sold gold for cash and withdrew part of my 401k to keep the bill collectors away… and, because we know a girl’s gotta drink.

I don’t know many people who can be out of work a year and still maintain a good attitude like me.  I’ve been through this so many times, I know the routine.  With good friends and good drinks, I can weather just about any storm.  Let’s hope the tide is changing soon.  Your Layoff Lady of Leisure is ready for a new job title.

As the cranky old lady of the internet, social networking can be annoying.  Probably because I’ve done BBS.  I’ve played in chat rooms.  I’ve created avatars and connected with people in communities with full voice duplexing and text.  I’ve built web pages without a CMS.  But as I’ve said before, I’ve gotta stay hip with the kids.  And I’ll do anything if it gets me laid or gets me a job.

Hence my love of LinkedIn.  I no longer have to send a mass email to my network that says “does anyone know the CMO at X Corporation?  There’s a great job there.”  LinkedIn has produced screaming efficiencies in my business networking.  It makes me feel like a whore in sensible shoes at a convention.  That is, until you see an old john.

The dark side of social networking is the algorithm used to connect you with others.  Schools, employers, outbox scrapes, and friend-of-a-friend connections are some of the ways social nets continually find people to keep you engaged.  LinkedIn was doing a pretty good job at helping me build my network until it decided my ex-husband was someone I should know.  I uttered a backwards scream and a GTFO and immediately clicked on the link, because you know I had to.  I had not seen him since 1994 and the last time we chatted, it was hilariously tragic.  He didn’t remember my name.  In this instance, this was what we call in the business a “happy” click.  His thumbnail image showed thinning hair (probably the result of 90′s hair product abuse) and puffy cheeks.

With a smile on my face, I X-ed him off my list.  He wouldn’t be able to get me a job, but at least I know I now have better hair.

I’ve said it before.  Interviewing for a job is just like dating.  Do you have the same interests?  Do you like women?  Is there long-term potential?  The downside to interviewing is you can’t give a fake name or sneak out the back door when you see you’ve made a bad decision.

I had a funny feeling about this interview, but I went.  Let’s start with first impressions:  underweight emo in black skinny jeans with trying-to-be-hip sideburns.  He was old enough to be my child (if I were a whore in high school) and he had issues maintaining eye contact.  These things combined made it hard to believe he was an entrepreneur, which was how this kid was pitched to me.

The mutual “I’m just not that into you” interview was over in about the same amount of time it takes to drink a latte on a bad first date; however,  the experience made me realize I like my leaders like I like my men:  old and educated.

In the mail on Monday, I received one of those friendly reminders from the local Honda dealership telling me that it was probably time to change oil.  I realized I didn’t come close to hitting their high mileage estimate.

I have become the little old lady of West Hollywood.  Being laid off, there are days my car doesn’t move.  When it does, it is usually to drive to happy hour to met my other laid off friends, or to give Tex a courtesy ride.  I’m averaging 300 miles per month.  That’s just crazy low mileage in this town.  And it is empirical evidence that I don’t have much of a life.

I changed that immediately by adding the FourSquare app to my iPod.  I realize I’m a hypocrite for advising clients to get involved with geolocation apps and not participating myself.  What I didn’t anticipate is the motivation FourSquare can provide to get out of the apartment.  I’ve got check-in’s all over my neighborhood and I am now the Mayor of my apartment building and I’ve been awarded an Adventurer badge because I get out a lot.   I know it is all bullshit, but it is like a Weight Watcher’s weigh-in.  It’s all the motivation I need to feel like I’m making a change in my life.

Today is four square day (4×4 = 16).  It’s like Pi day except the math is so much easier and there’s drinking involved.  Check-ins at The Standard get two-for-one drinks.  The Viper Room has more FourSquare specials:  no cover, cheap drinks, and PBR swag.

I have said many times I don’t do anything unless it gets me a job or gets me laid.  Right now, getting out of the apartment is the first step.

Check-in.  Check me out.

The Betty Ford Center will soon open a wing in my honor – for those suffering from unromantic Valentine’s Day addiction.  My bender began in 1974.  Mrs. Kessenger, my third grade teacher, engineered a project to get our class excited about Valentine’s Day.  Or was it just her way of getting rid of the red construction paper left over from Christmas?

On February 13th, we were given brown paper bags and instructed to create mailboxes for the Valentines we would receive the next day.  I cut hearts, I colored, and I put my name on my bag.  I was ready.

When I got home, I realized I needed to buy Valentine cards to distribute to my classmates.  Mom and I jumped in our Rambler station wagon and drove to the drug store.  I found a large box of assorted Valentines with envelopes that would be perfect.  There was a bumblebee card that said, “Bee Mine,” a bear holding a jar of honey that said, “You’re sweet,” a tiger growling “Your Grrrrreat,” and several other equally sappy selections that were perfect for 8 year-olds.  I spent the evening meticulously signing my name to all the cards, reserving the generic “Happy Valentine’s Day” card for the classmates I didn’t know very well.  Everyone in my class was getting a card.

Love was in the air on the 14th.  My classmates and I played postman and walked around the room putting the Valentines in the customized brown bag mailboxes.  The morning bell rang and we assumed the position, dutifully holding our hands over our hearts while we recited the Pledge of Allegiance.  Afterwards, the PA box squawked and the principal wished the school a happy Valentine’s Day.  We ripped into our mailboxes and ate the cookies our homeroom mother brought.  I soon realized that Valentine’s Day wasn’t that special.  I may have been too young to understand it was a holiday designed to boost the first quarter economy through flower, card, and chocolate sales.  I could tell that it was a day to receive the same goddamn Valentines that I gave my classmates.  It appeared we all bought the same box of assorted Valentines.  I received six bee cards and three generic “Happy Valentines Day” cards in additional to other miscellaneous selections.

Since that day in third grade, all my Valentine Days have melted together into one homogeneous pot of low effort attempts.  Cards, flowers, and candy – the standard fare.  I lived each year to see if Valentine’s Day could get any worse than the last one.  I became addicted to bad Valentine’s days.  I suppose that is why I don’t remember any details of any Valentine’s day until 2001.  I was sitting in my office and I heard it – the “ooooohhhh’s and aaaahhhhhh’s” that are uttered when the flower delivery guy is on the floor.  I could see his arrangements and balloons bouncing along the walls above cube-ville like a puppet show. And then he appeared before me.

“Can I help you find someone?” I asked.

“Miss Marrrrrrrna, this is for you,” he said.

My mouth was still open when he put the box on my desk and turned away smiling.  I opened it and laughed.  It was perfect.  I read my pitch forked card and realized Kathy, my 52 year-old divorced coworker – someone who knew me for 28 business days, gave me the perfect Valentine:  a cactus garden with a mirror backdrop.  It was low maintenance and a thing of beauty.  My prickly valentine injected me with a dose of reality.  My cactus was untraditional, thoughtful, and unexpected.  It was a succulent botanical intervention. One day someone with equal creativity and thoughtfulness will top Kathy’s 2001 gift.

I’m hopeful like a third grader.