Don't Mince Words

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.

This is probably just me. My little problem, you know, because I was born before 1980. But when a help wanted/job ad says “profitable online startup,” that is not a positive selling point to me. It’s about as appealing as a partner telling me their Valtrex copay is only $5.

With my focus on my career, I’m sure you were worried that I’d never write about guys or dates again. Not to worry, this is Los Angeles, so there’s always going to be a story. I just haven’t had the time to write this one.

Houston (let’s call him that instead of nutless) and I met online in mid-July and began dating immediately. He was one of those Type A planners who would book three dates in a week. In fact, I mentioned to him that his frequency was outstanding and unlike the 1x/week LA guy mentality. “I know what I like and I go for it,” was his answer.

So, we went out to dinner, we played tennis, we saw movies and shows, we went to concerts and parties. We did stuff. He even took me and my dog to a four-star hotel weekend getaway. Somewhere in the middle of all this, I got laid off. We went out less. He called and emailed less. But I wasn’t really paying attention because I was focused on the job thing and getting out to network.

Our last date was a business dinner with some of his ad reps, one of whom commented on what a cute couple we were. I never heard from him after that night. The guy who pitched himself as the nicest guy I’d ever meet did the fade out on me. Had I been more alert, I would of seen this coming and beat him to the dump.

“Are you sure he didn’t have a medical emergency and just couldn’t call you? He was older, after all,” said a friend. “No, he’s alive because he posted a marketing job on craig’s list,” I explained. “Gosh, don’t you want to understand what happened?” she asked.

Not necessary, is it? He was under the 90-day LA trial relationship period. He demonstrated by his actions that he couldn’t nut up and dump me proper. That’s alright, he had republican tendencies and poor musical taste. All I can say is…. Celine Dion? Really? That’s my closure.

I love my friends and my network that alert me to jobs I might not normally find through my channels.

A writer girlfriend emailed me about a Twitter post she was following.  “They are going to announce a job,” she said. I immediately signed on and followed the Twit to find out what was going on.  They were hyping a marketing director job announcement.  “Follow us for news on how to apply,” they said.  How every exciting and almost contest-y.  Get people following a brand and get those brand loyal folks to apply for a job.

This is the essence of social media.  Imagine my disappointment when they Tweeted a street address and zip code to “mail” my cover letter and resume.  WTF?  It is not 1987, after all.  Who would use a new channel, like Twitter, to promote a job, but then gather the resumes through an old channel like USPS.  If you are going to do that, why not suggest pony express or hire a clown to courier it.  I guess they don’t have a green policy either.

I went to their website and emailed my information in order to reduce my carbon resume footprint.  Several hours later, their info@ responder told me I should mail my resume.  OMG.  Seriously?  I debated if this was a company I’d really want to work for.  No, but I did decide that it was a company full of chuckleheads I’d really like to meet to give them some free marketing ideas.

The resume is in the mail with a nice Betty Davis stamp on it.

This is going to be my last unemployment summary because not much changes from week-to-week.  I meet unemployed friends for drinks, I make calls, I send resumes, and I have interviews.

One thing that was reinforced this week was how much interviews are like dates.  And selecting a job is like choosing a husband – you really don’t want a beater.

I had an interview with a Fortune 200 company.  I had heard mixed reviews through the years from friends and acquaintances who have worked there.  I accepted the interview out of curiosity.  I had no idea it would be a source of material.

I realized was the last interview of the day.  Not a good position to be in when you find out it was a sausage factory interview process.  All my interviewers were tired.  Two out of three had not seen my resume before I handed it to them.

The HR bitch set me up.

Interviewer #1 had been on staff for three weeks.  He was from a similar background and took the job because he wanted a more stable environment and was tired of ad agencies.  He warned me about long hours and a lack of process.  He was still trying to figure out what the job was.

Interviewer #2 had a year on the first guy.  He spoke of long hours and couldn’t really describe the job except that he needed a sales brochure developed.

Interviewer #3 was tired and frustrated because it appeared the HR bitch didn’t describe the position to any of the applicants.  She went on to tell me there would be long hours, there were opportunities for process improvement, and there have been two people in this position in the last year.  In addition, when I asked if if there was head count to bring a designer on staff, she said, “No, and it doesn’t matter.  The economy is so bad that these contractors are thankful to be here.”

It took me a few years of online dating to figure out some of the code in people’s ads.  Now I know when a decades-established company advertises for someone with a start-up background, that means the division is unorganized and probably in need of better operational management.  In addition, when interviewers really can’t sell you on the company or the position, it probably isn’t going to be a good long-term relationship.  I don’t really need that and a job with no career path.  That recipe will never provide me with success and results.

I sent the HR bitch a thank you email and continued my search.

As I continue to network and build my LinkedIn empire, there is an undercurrent of panic. I know I have about 45 days to find a job before everything stalls until 1Q10.

I had four dates with my Outtie friends this week. Three of them aren’t even looking. They are enjoying their sabbatical away from tools, underachievers, fakers, and other corporate frustrations. I understand that, but I guess I’m so used to getting laid off that I tolerate and even embrace my workplace (hello characters for writing material), no matter how awful, because odds are I won’t be there long or the business won’t last.

While checking in with a headhunter, I asked her to give me her brutal opinion of the marketplace. “Honestly, for people like you with an advertising or marcom background, it is no different than the dotcom crash or 9/11. It’s just not that bad. People are talking because what we live with all the time other industries are now experiencing,” she said. I think I have to agree with her. I’m finding jobs, even at my level, and I’m getting calls, and this week I had another phone screen. Hell, I even had an acquaintance re-emerge via LinkedIn requesting ghostwriting services.

IMHO, things are looking up. Who knows, maybe I’ll have a job by Halloween. That didn’t stop me this week from telling the bartender at the Daily Pint I’d work under the table for him. Girl’s gotta have a backup plan, even if it involves IPA.

So, while my friends continue to take it easy, I’m still operating under the assumption that looking for a job is a full-time job. I’m working hard to get out of the apartment so that Tex can resume his regularly scheduled programming: full-time, uninterrupted napping.

OK, where has the time gone? It has really been a month since I’ve lost my job? Really. If I were to describe this week I’d have to say “socially bananas.”

It was Labor Day week, so there were a few cookouts. In between all that, the boyfriend decided to infuse some music in my life. I can honestly say in one week’s time, I have seen Cheap Trick, Poison, Def Leppard, AC/DC, Fishbone, The Donnas, The Pricks, Shiny Toy Guns, Korn, and Nico Vega. It is the distraction from reality I need to get through the week.

Of course the week ended on 9/11. I went with a fellow Outtie to Pepperdine to see the flags they put out for all the victims. It was a spectacular site up against the Pacific Ocean. It almost felt like the rows and rows of white tombstones you see at Arlington National Cemetery. Afterwards, my friend and I recounted our downtown/Brooklyn memories and the months of aftermath. I got a sweet email request from a girlfriend who now teaches high school. She read my 9/11 account to her class as an example of personal essay. Very flattering and hopefully it puts a first person perspective on an event high school kids barely understand. We finished the day with drinks at Dukes because it seemed like the right thing to do. Early in the evening I had a PTSD-induced scare when the Space Shuttle re-entered the atmosphere and created a sonic boom. Tex barked and I was sure a plane had hit somewhere nearby.

On the professional side, I had a nice interview with a pr agency downtown. On the drive home, I got slightly depressed when I realized I’ve had one interview in a month. One. I was averaging better than that first quarter. What can I do? Nothing but cash my first unemployment check which finally arrived.

I have to get a job soon, if only to rest. My availability is creating severe social distractions while my tan fades.

My week started out of town. The boyfriend took Tex and I to Vegas and then up to UT to check on a condo he’s trying to sell. My excitement was centered around Tex’ first real road trip. Vegas baby. We stayed in a four-star, dog-friendly hotel where the dood was treated like a king.

When I got back, I had accomplished my short-term goal of getting my LinkedIn contacts to surpass my Facebook friends. Not only that, I reconnected with a recruiter and scheduled and interview. So, hooray for the power of social networking.

I saw two friends this week who told me that unemployment was agreeing with me – I appeared very relaxed and refreshed. Makes me wonder what I’ll “look” like when I go back to work. I continued to discover more hardship hours with my Outties and was reminded by a writer friend that I’m making more money on unemployment than she is with three published books – so I should continue the quest for another day job.

My first unemployment claim form FINALLY arrived, a week late. Let’s see if the check is in the mail soon. I’m considering reviving the concept of pink slip parties like we used to have in NY after the dotbomb. With all the cheap happy hours I’m finding, it seems like sensible idea to connect Outties with booze and networking. Of course, all of this is selfish. It just gets me out of the house so Tex can nap in peace.

I don’t envy phone customer service reps in any business. It is a thankless job. But it has to be especially painful if you are working the phones for the Employment Development Department for the State of California.

My claim form hasn’t arrived, so another Outtie friend supplied me with a way to bypass the system and get a rep on the phone faster. I waited seven minutes for a human to answer the phone and this is what transpired:

EDD Woman: …(seven seconds of garble followed by) “How may I help you.”

Marna: “I guess you need my social security number to start with?”

EDD Woman: “No, I have that, it is tied to your phone number.”

Marna: “Oh, good. Well, I have received my Insurance Award notification letter, my Claim Filed letter, and the Notice of Requirement to Register for Work. But I’m in week three and I still haven’t received my first claim form.”

EDD Woman: “What is your Social Security Number?”

Marna: “I thought you said you had that.”

EDD Woman: “Please verify for me.”

Marna: I repeated the number for her.

EDD Woman: I hear clicking on a keyboard followed by, “Are you serious. For real? He can’t be?” There was laughter and it sounded like my phone rep was chatting with the woman on the other side of her cubicle wall.

Marna: After three minutes of listening to this woman talk to her friend, I broke in with “So, are you looking for my claim form status?”

EDD Woman: “What’s your address?”

Marna: “XXXX North Spaulding Avenue” blah blah blah.

EDD Woman: “Like the basketball?”

Marna: It was becoming apparent she didn’t have my record pulled up. “S-p-a-u-l-d-i-n-g”

EDD Woman: After holding with an open mic for another three minutes she said, “OK, we’re going to mail another claim for out to you tomorrow. Fill it out as best as you can.”

Marna: “Thank you.”

I’m sure I can fill that form out better than she can manage her phone manners. Seriously. For reals.

Since my first week of unemployment was unseasonably cloudy, I gave myself permission to extend my slackness into a second week. I was on a mission to be less white as well as to socialize with my other out of work friends (outties).

I was very excited on Monday when it was hot and sunny, I just forgot to check the beach forecast. Ten miles west, it was overcast, but I was armed with a book and podcasts. I had enough to entertain myself until margaritas at hardship hour with my outtie.

Tuesday I went to an outtie’s house to float in the pool. We talked about educational marketing, social networking, boys, and job leads. She reminded me to reconnect with a mutual HR friend we know at an agency. Glad I did – his digital agency is hiring.

Wednesday a former coworker, who shared the same last day with me, and I went to the movies, catching an 11 a.m. screening of District 9. I’m not much of a sci-fi girl, but this was a good movie. Once finished, we got our popcorn lunch and strolled into Julie & Julia. The senior living facility must of purchased a block of tickets because this was the first matinee I’ve ever attended where the adult diapers and walkers outnumbered the strollers and pacifiers. The Julia Child portion of the story was great. Julie you’ll hate. Just another whiny 20-something with no career direction. But if you can see it for free, it’s tolerable. I wrapped my day with two martinis at Lola’s hardship hour followed by a hilarious game of tennis with the boyfriend. My backhand never looked so good.

I got down to business on Thursday and decided to clear out piles of old business cards in my desk. I wanted to build my network on LinkedIn so that my contacts outnumbered my Facebook friends. I also defriended former coworkers. Most of them aren’t “friends”. Seriously. But the ones that matter and I care about I added to LinkedIn. Friday I continued to look for jobs and respond to LinkedIn requests.

My unemployment claim form still hasn’t arrived. Oh, sweet broke California, do not disappoint me. Not now when I have tan lines to maintain.