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Showing posts with label Anxiety. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Anxiety. Show all posts

Thursday, September 8, 2011

Queen of Fakes and Imitators


Source: flickr.com via Lisa on Pinterest


Shoooeeeee. You guys. I went to Craigslist searching for a job working on a phone sex line and ended up applying for several freelance writing jobs. Yeah, I can see how the two are related. We'll see what happens with that. At this point my job search is pretty much in the spaghetti category. Fling it against the wall and hope something sticks.

Everything else gets scooped up and covered in sauce.

Anyway. Today's a day for some other kinds of research and for fulfilling promises made. Before I go, I must ask - Did you watch the comedy on MSNBC last night? Such a hot mess. More hair! Less brains! Execution applause lines!  Fuck y'all. What have we devolved back into? I didn't even watch the debate. MathMan was watching the Phillies play somebody and I was reading my Twitter feed and screaming with laughter. At one point Nate popped into the room to make sure I was okay.

And tonight? I'm fully prepared to be underwhelmed. It seems we're a nation incapable of big ideas, bold plans. Unless, of course, big ideas and bold plans include blowing the holy fuck out of brown people. Then we're aces.

Maybe if the phone sex thing doesn't work out, I'll consider the military. Specifically and more lucrative, a job with a military contractor. They need housekeepers, yes?

Oy, let's shift gears. The real world brings me down. Today is a day for art. You know, when everything else seems like it's sliding into the fuckpile (mmm fuckpile), at least we still have art. Thank somebody's god for that saving grace.

Right then. Here's where I will be when I'm not working on my own manuscript.

Book by Kevin Edwards
Poetry by Hafiz
Visuals for inspiration

This song by Gillian Welch (hell, her whole discography if I'm being straight with you) with David Rawlings who appears to be an  underappreciated guitar god. I know. I'm late to this one. Yow - Za.


You're welcome.

Where are you escaping to these days?

Thursday, August 25, 2011

The Long Month

This is one of those posts that I really hate to write. We've hit the financial wall (again). I know. Let's just not look at each other, okay, because I cannot make eye contact when I'm doing this. The last couple of days have been a carnival of anxieties and so I haven't written because it's hard to bring the funny when, well, you know. The good news is that in two days, I've run twenty miles. It's the only way to control the hamsters in the brain, wear them the hell out.

If you're thinking about a donation, this would be a good time.

Thank you, in advance, whether you give or not. Thank you for being here.

You know how I love you.

Lisa

Wednesday, July 13, 2011

Pushing. Really hard.

I just needed some Edward Gorey.

I've spent the worst part of today applying for more jobs and writing cover letters. Dreadful.

Writing cover letters has got to be one of the most painful things I do these days and lately painful has real, specific meaning. Just this week I've performed surgery on my own leg. That's painful in a different way. I don't know what that black thing was sticking out of my thigh - a stinger or some other part of an insect or arachnid, but some of it is still in my leg and now it's surrounded by a hard, red lump. It's gross. Shut up. This is not doctor visit stuff. This is stiff upper lip, put some antibiotic ointment on it stuff. If an earwig climbs out of the pit I've dug with a needle, well, so be it. Must not grumble. But cover your ears because I'll be screaming like the girl I once was.

So I know painful. But this business of writing cover letters? Fuck that. I know I play a writer on this blog, but dear lord, trying to sell myself concisely is like trying to push really hard and turn my clitoris into a cock.

Perhaps I should include that in my next cover letter. Bet that would get someone's attention.

Seriously, folks, being unemployed blows enough, looking and looking for a job and finding bupkiss blows harder. Jamming my fingers to the keys and attempting to make enough magic to compel some HR person to sit up and take notice and even deign to roll their eyeballs across my resume? Dreadful. I'd say it's soul sucking, but I remain on the fence vis a vis souls.

And shit, don't even get me started on my resume. Lie, don't lie? Does it even matter anymore, daddy?

When I lose steam, I go trolling for ideas. You want to know what's really frustrating? All the How to Find a Job advice comes from people who have a job. Yeah, try being unemployed, 45, having been a bit too high above your station and without a job in this economy. Then tell me again how networking and crafting a great resume and cover letter is the ticket to success. Even the Department of Labor counselors have suggested I whittle my resume. Fine, but then how do I explain the last twenty years? All these motherfucking online applications require you to click a box indicating that you're presenting yourself truthfully. Okaaaay.

And since I'm already in the ditch, is this how it's supposed to go? You follow the rules, go to school, get a job, move up the ladder, do more than put in your time, you take risks, have some success, push yourself, leave things in better shape than you found them just so you can what? Deny you did any of that stuff so you can find a job, any job?

American Dreams. American Screams. A lie. The old rules no longer apply. The unemployed need not apply.

Oh, bitter. I should stop now. Here's what I'm settling on for my template cover letter.

Dear Prospective Employer:


Please hire me. I offer twenty years of progressively responsible administrative experience that can be bent and molded to fit your individual needs. I am a Libra, a middle child and woman. You can't find a more accommodating person than that. I come from a long line of hardworking people and as proof of my work ethic, I offer you a list of things I've done for little to no pay since having been laid off from my last job through no fault of my own. (please see attachment)


I am intelligent enough to do an excellent job, but not so intelligent to make you feel threatened. I have a good sense of humor and promise to use appropriately which means I'll laugh at only your jokes. I have no life and what little personal ambition I had has been sucked out of me. If you employ me, I give myself to you. I can start immediately and my salary needs are flexible like Nadia Comaneci.


I look forward to hearing from you to discuss the open position. Call me!

Best regards,


Lisa

Shit. That's no good. The Nadia Comaneci thing totally gives away my age. Back to the keyboard...

Monday, January 31, 2011

Silent Movie Reel

A hard to describe situation.
Filling that role. 
A long drive ahead of us.
But first a visit.
Details, please.
There and back, there and back.
Keeping a lid on it.
Tamping it down.
Don't light the fire.
You're good at that.
Washing, hanging, stretching, folding.
Writing under your breath.
You should make a note of that.
Mowing leaves in sunshine.
While Other People dig out.
Rap. Tango. Thrash. Grunge. Fast forward. Pause.
No time, no time, no time.
A chewed thumb nail.
Were the pork chops okay?
Nothing sucks. Broken boyfriend.
His belt won't stay up, his brush won't roll.
You need a new lover.
Sleep with dreams that made you
Angry and worried.
Fuck, that can't be true.
One is real. 
You know down in your knowing bone.
It doesn't matter. Hasn't for a long time.
The other cauchemar c'est impossible!
Impossible. Right?
Navy shower, find and edit. Don't drag your feet.
You always do.
Make a list.
Go, go, go.
Look for a fix. Hope it's quick and easy.
Oh, shit. See the signs.
He left with a cup of hot water.
More coffee for you.
Bonus jitters.

I know. It's not my typical offering. It's Monday after a busy weekend. It's gray. It's kindoftensearoundhererightnow. Look in your crystal ball. What do you see for the coming week?

Wednesday, September 29, 2010

Unemployment Diary: Welcome to Anxiety Central


My initial reaction was "Shut up, Michael Bloomberg!"

His offense?  Part of what he said this morning on Morning Joe (transcript 01:09:41):  "You wonder why jobs are going overseas?  There a are a lot unemployed people in America. There are a lot of jobs available. The skill sets don't match."

But it's not just Michael Bloomberg, as Paul Krugman points out:
Who are these wise heads I’m talking about? The most widely quoted figure is Narayana Kocherlakota, the president of the Federal Reserve Bank of Minneapolis, who has attracted a lot of attention by insisting that dealing with high unemployment isn’t a Fed responsibility: “Firms have jobs, but can’t find appropriate workers. The workers want to work, but can’t find appropriate jobs,” he asserts, concluding that “It is hard to see how the Fed can do much to cure this problem.”

Now, the Minneapolis Fed is known for its conservative outlook, and claims that unemployment is mainly structural do tend to come from the right of the political spectrum. But some people on the other side of the aisle say similar things. For example, former President Bill Clinton recently told an interviewer that unemployment remained high because “people don’t have the job skills for the jobs that are open.”
No matter what the Bloombergs and Clintons say, jobs have been outsourced because people in other countries will work for less than what Americans expect to earn for the same job.  Add to that the fact that the countries receiving our outsourced jobs have fewer worker protections and you've got a pretty simple reason for why jobs are leaving the U.S.  There's more profit to be made!

I'm going out on a limb here, but here's my example of why this is just more nonsense promulgated and promoted by those who think that corporations share no blame in our unemployment crisis.

Last week, I applied for a position with a company I once worked for.  The position is one that I could do, have done.  When I worked for this company, I started as a secretary (back when we still used that word).  By the time I left (in good standing), I'd risen to the position of assistant state rep for one of the larger states in the U.S.  During my five years with this company, I consistently received evaluations of Exceeded Standards.  I'm still sorry I left that job for what turned out to be really stupid reasons (another opportunity that turned out to be a nightmare), but I know this organization rehires people.  Or, at least, they used to.

I still haven't heard from them.  While I'll admit that it's been thirteen years since I left quit my last job with them, I think it's fair to say that I still understand the mission of the organization and its basic structures.  My skill set has improved and expanded in the thirteen years since I left.

This should be a cake walk, no?  So what's the problem, Michael Bloomberg?

I've gotta tell you, I've applied for so many jobs, it's ridiculous.  In the old days, half of them would have been slam dunks.  The other half I never would have applied for in the first place because they are entry level or clearly not at the level at which I've worked for the last ten plus years.

And yet my phone does not ring.  I've had exactly one interview since December 2009.  One.

So I ask myself - is it my age?  My old salary level? The simple fact that I'm unemployed?  Am I expecting too much too soon?

You reach a point where you start to wonder if you really did all those things on your resume.  Was I really capable of running an organization once upon a time?  How did I become unemployable?

I guess I should ask the bigger question - just exactly what skill set is it that Americans need?  What's the secret, Misters Bloomberg and Clinton?  Because I haven't changed.  The job descriptions for the jobs to which I'm applying haven't changed.  The salaries seem to have been shaved and the duties expanded, but they are very much all the stuff I've done before.  I can still create an agenda, develop a database, write memos, make phone calls, read contracts, sit in meetings and worry about budgets.

If you're going to indict Americans for this unemployment crisis without questioning the corporations, then you'd better come up with specifics because more of us are slipping over the edge and if November turns out to be the political disaster we've heard it's going to be, the already straining safety nets are likely going to be shredded.

Meanwhile, I set aside the utter freak out about ever finding a job again and try to focus on writing.  Some days I can do it, other days I can't.  Those are the days when the house gets really clean and the cats cower under the bed afraid they'll get swept away in the frenzy.

Okay, I'm done whining.  I know have readers in NYC.  Will one of you go over to the Mayor's office and give him a punch in his nutsack for being such a dope?  Thanks.

Until next time.....

Friday, September 10, 2010

Are You There, Philip Roth? It's Me, Lisa

Okay, so I've left the manuscript alone for a month and a half.  While I let it sit, I started to have second thoughts.  Who did I think I was trying to write a novel?  What nerve, what chutzpah.  It's crap.  A total waste of time.

This blog is the kind of writing I do - directionless, off the cuff, goofy essays and hack short stories.

Negative self talk is super fun, right?

I picked up the work in progress and held it in my hands.  "Just how bad are you?"  I asked it.  It stared back at me, the black letters daring me to pick up the red pen. I lay it on my bed while I assembled the colored pens, highlighters, little sticky flags and notebook.

Stalling, stalling.

I put Stephen King's On Writing on top of the stack of papers and said a silent prayer to Philip Roth that some of King's wisdom would soak through osmosis into my story.  I reminded myself that this manuscript has already undergone a major rewrite after I took out a character and plot line.  I was in deeper than I really wanted to admit.

I put my hand on top of On Writing and applied just a little pressure.  "Please don't suck."  It's a simple wish.  Just don't suck.  I'm not asking for fabulous or Earth-shattering amazing.  I'm not hoping for a Twilight or a Harry Potter.  I just want to finish this novel and find an agent who doesn't have a horrible time selling this book.  Simple.

After employing another six billion and fifty-two procrastination techniques, I sat down and plunged in.  I read aloud and marked up changes for about an hour.  Okay, I could do this.  I am doing this.  More time went by.  Was it awful?

I thought about the nine thousand and twenty-two pieces of writing advice I've read over the last few months.

Kill the adverbs.  Choose the best adjectives.  Lose the dialogue tags.  Keep the dialogue tags.  Show, don't tell.  More detail, less detail.  Don't forget to let your own voice shine through. First person, second person, third?  Alternating perspectives?  Cut out the backstory. And don't forget to eradicate that word was as much as possible.  Is this piece lyrical? Literary?

And what about your query?  It doesn't matter how good your book is if you never put together a perfect query.

It was at about that point when my lawn chair that has now become a permanent fixture in our bedroom overturned and I crawled gasping from the room.  I think I tumbled down the stairs.  A cat or three stepped around me.  The bravest sniffed my face, signaled to the rest of them and they moved delicately away. They didn't even come back with their food bowls in their mouths demanding sustenance.

MathMan came home and found me in an empty bathtub with a half-consumed wine bottle and an Etch-a-Sketch.  I wore my wedding gown that no longer zips and a straw sunhat, my red pen held between my teeth like a rose.  The work in progress was stacked neatly on the edge of the tub.  I'd planted a lipstick kiss on the top page.

In his characteristically calm manner, he surveyed the scene and gave me a half smile.  "So you're making progress then?"

Something like that.
*******

I saw this at Rachelle Gardner's blog.  It's very apropos to what I'll be doing for the next couple of weeks.


You can bet I'll be paying close attention to the word click when I proofread. 
Because it's not that kind of a story.

Happy weekend.  While I'm staining my fingers with red ink, what will you be doing?