Unemployment Diary: Dispatches from the New Middle Class

You can't swing a dead LOL cat in the internets without hitting some article about how to slash your spending.  Case in point via Google:

Search Term:  cut your family budget
Search Term:  cut your family spending
Search Term:  how to cut your spending

I admit I didn't read all those links, but I am ever so grateful for those articles that don't begin with the sage advice to give up your daily double mocha latte skim with low-fat whipped cream, chocolate shavings and a splash of vodka.

I mean, honestly.  When is the last time I could afford one of those?  And as for the Vodka?  Shit, how do you think I'm coping with all this painful budget cutting?

But while so many of those "helpful" tips appear to be written by people who've never experienced the joy and the pain of long-term unemployment, it's true that cutting cutting cutting is where it's at.  When I'm not slashing our spending or trying to raise cash, I'm cutting coupons.

Just call me Lisa Scissorhands.

Some items cannot, however, be cut.  Take auto insurance, for example.  By law we must have it here in Georgia.  So we did what we could - we upped our deductible and cut benefits.  We're losing our discount though because we've had to eliminate our renters' insurance and my life insurance policy.  And can I just tell you how losing that life insurance policy irritates me?  I can't even fall onto my fainting couch anymore and wail, "But I'm worth more dead than alive!"

On top of which, the fainting couch was sold at a yard sale six months ago so I'm truly at a loss for dramatic gestures when the going gets tough.

Anyway, I popped into the insurance office to make our payment on the very day our auto insurance would be cancelled.  It was there that I've had one of the most humiliating and frustrating conversations to date.

Young woman, gainfully employed by our insurance agent:  So you just want to pay your auto insurance?
Me, unemployed but showered and wearing lipstick:  Yes.  That's right.
Her:  But what about your other policies?
Me:  We're going to have to let them expire.  We can't afford them.
Her:  Why not?
Me:  Because I am one of those long-term unemployed people you hear about.  I've been out of work since last December.
Her:  And you still haven't found a job?
Me:  No.
Her:  Why not?
Awkward pause while I think about this.
Me:  I have my theories.  I've applied for all kinds of jobs - about six to ten jobs a week, at a minimum.
Her:  Wow.  And you still haven't found a job?
Me:  No.
She looked at me suspiciously and cleared her throat.
Me:  You don't know of any openings anywhere, do you?
Her:  No.

I left wishing I still had life insurance and that fucking fainting couch.

****************

The other thing that makes this period of financial difficulty more trying is the fact that our kids are still living out there in the world of expectations.  See, I can hide from it most of the time, but they're out there with their peers with the iPhones and the movie tickets and the Facebook statuses about going to Six Flags, the corn maze, haunted house and later out for Chinese and it's only Saturday! and the new clothes purchased not at Goodwill, but a real mall.

My chirping that this is all just a fun character building exercise only goes so far.

I didn't let Sophie try out for cheerleader because it's incredibly expensive.  When she asked to try out for basketball, I relented.  She got cut during the first round.  "It's because I'm short," she harrumphed.

"I'm sorry, sugar.  I'm really proud of you for trying though."

"I hate genetics."

"I should have married a taller man."

She looked at me, her face like thunder.  "Not funny, Mom."

I guess not.

A day later, she asked for money to buy a spirit shirt at school.  "They're only fifteen dollars."  She preemptively answered my question.

"I don't have any money."

"Can you write a check?  The t-shirt people are only going to be at the school today.  There won't be another chance."

I thought about this.  In the span of twenty seconds I visualized our bank account, consulted my mental calendar, fretted about the state of the economy, cursed the company making the shirts because they couldn't come to the school a couple of days later and closer to payday, felt guilty about marrying a short man so that my kid didn't make the basketball team, remembered that I'd already denied her a new band shirt (Nate's old one was fine), didn't buy class pictures, band pictures, or give her money for the book fair.  Finally I calculated the overall risks.

"Fine," I sighed.  "But this shirt better not end up costing me forty-eight dollars when I get hit with an overdraft fee."

"Huh?"

"Nothing," I replied and handed her the check with a silent wish that the t-shirt company would be slow about making their bank deposit.

A couple of days later, I was in the laundry room.  Sophie came in carrying her new t-shirt.  "Don't forget you have to turn this inside out to wash it," she reminded me.

I closed the washing machine lid and took the shirt from her outstretched hand.  "I won't forget."

"Okay.  Thanks.  You're sure you'll remember?"  She started for the door.

I opened the dryer and bent down.  "The shirt cost me almost fifty dollars.  I'm pretty sure I'll remember."  My voice was absorbed into the warm towels.

********

But it's not all bad.

Sophie:  Mom, they're doing a thing with 4H where you fill a shoe box with small gifts to give to a kid for Christmas.  I want to do it.
Me:  Okay.  But you realize that you might be one of those kids who doesn't get any gifts this year?
Sophie:  I know.  So what, I've gotten gifts every other year.  I'm going to go wrap that shoe box.  When can you take me to the Dollar store?

********

Nate and I drove through the Publix parking lot.  A middle-aged African American man sat on a bench near the Bruster's Ice Cream holding a hand-lettered sign that read "Please Help.  American Vet, homeless, hungry."

Me:  Heartbreaking.
Nate: I know.

We left the grocery store with our purchases.  I'd written a check for $25 over so I could buy some gas.

When we got the intersection by the Bruster's, the man was still on the bench.

Nate: Mom?
Me:  I know.

I stopped the car and fished the cash out of my pocket.  I gave Nate the $5 bill and he climbed out of the car, walked over to the man and handed it to him, then waited while the man wrote something down on a piece of lined notebook paper, handed it to him, shook his hand and thanked him.

Nate walked back to the car and stared out the window at the families sitting at the picnic tables eating their ice cream cones.  "Those people all just watched me like I was doing something wrong," he whispered.

"I know.  I saw."

We drove away and didn't say much for a while.

*****

People, be kind to one another.  Try to remember that whole walking in another's shoes thing.  Okay?

How Can You Miss Me If I Never Go Away?

On Saturday, Chloe and I went to the Friends of the Bartow County Library used book sale.  We had two goals in mind.  I wanted to score some of the long list of books I want to read.  She sought books she knew she'd have to read now that she's officially changed her major to English/History.  Don't ask.  I find it's better not to ask.

We left with an overflowing box and our collective wallets only $15 lighter and for a good cause.  We snagged things ranging from a paperback copy of Junot Diaz's The Brief Wonderous Life of Oscar Wao to the Cliff Notes of The Tempest.  We plucked several classics from the tables holding all those glorious books.  Shakespeare, Edith Wharton, more Jane Austen, Sartre, DeMaurier (can you believe I've never read Rebecca?), Tom Robbins, Steinbeck, Katherine Anne Porter, Joan Didion's The Year of Magical Thinking, Virginia Woolf's Mrs. Dalloway, Uncle Tom's Cabin, some Agatha Christie, The Portable Hawthorne (with which to torture MathMan) and a mess of southern literature.

Chloe has a southern lit class next semester.  She's been reading Eudora Welty already this summer.  And she's almost as big a fan of William Faulkner as I am.  Did I ever tell you that during our first year of marriage, MathMan and I were still in school?  I had to read several Faulkner short stories and moaned incessantly the entire time.  It got so bad that MathMan suggested I drop the class and pick up a nice Calculus class instead.  At least then he could help me.  And with those words began our first "domestic incident" involving crockery and footwear.


So in addition to the pile of books I've borrowed from the library (two Dorothy Sayers mysteries, some kid lit and some teen lit), I've now got an even larger pile of my own books to read.  Add to those the few left over from last year's book sale that I never got around to reading and well.....

Time.  I need more of it.  I tried to devise a time machine, but got stabby and gave up after I electrocuted myself for the third time.  Maybe a change in habits would free up some of my time.

"I wonder what would happen if I disconnected from the world for thirty days and just read and wrote."

What in the hell compels me to say such things out loud and to MathMan?  Instead of seeing this as a cry for help or attention, he saw it as a good thing.  "I think you should give it a try."  It was an evil grin spreading across his face, I don't care what he says in any future deposition.

I spent the next hour and a half wondering what his ulterior motive could be for wanting me away from the computer and especially the internets.  We did just recently purchase that life insurance policy for me.

I immediately started backpedaling.  "Oh, well, I mean, I'd still have to blog a couple of times a week.  And check the jobs worksite at least once a day.  And my email.  Lots of people get in touch with me that way."  By the time I'd finished, I'd concluded that what would be best would be if I simply put myself on a social media diet - 30 minutes a day for Twitter and Facebook.  Because it's on those two sites that I waste the most time.  I can sit down at 1:14 p.m. and next thing I know the cats are parading around my office carrying their food bowls in their tiny mouths and I have no idea where my family is as I gaze into the dark night.

And then I wonder, could I do it?  Am I capable of going offline for thirty days?  It's rather like forsaking sugar for this addict.  I might be able to do it if I know I have one day off per week.  In this case, though, it would be one day on.

Even the New York Times thinks it might be a good idea.  Not just for me, of course, but for all of us.  I hate you, NY Times.

I spent much of this weekend rolling the idea around in my noggin.  The kids are incredulous, MathMan is encouraging bordering on nagging, the cats are disdainful.  As usual.  The new friend I met at the Ross Diner lunch counter thought it would be a great idea especially if I meant I came to town and had lunch with him a few days a week.

I'm certain that I will require sedatives by Thursday.

But I'm going to do it.  I'm going to close my Twitter window and swear off Tweetdeck, turn off the sm - esses.  I'll have to figure out how to check the jobs websites and my email without straying, but it's not that difficult.

I think it's an experiment worth trying.  I want to read these books.  I want to write.  I know for a fact that when I have access to social networking open on my computer, my ability to focus suffers.

And yes, yes, we've been through this before - best laid plans and all that.  But this time I'm making my serious face. That's the difference right there.  The serious face.

Thirty days.  One day online per week to check in with you guys and my tweeting friends and Facebook.  I'll blog on Sundays.  I'll cry and throw things and chew holes through pillows the rest of the days of the week.

I know most of you have more self-control than I do so it's not such a big deal, but do you think you could do it?  Could you go thirty days offline?  Could you go six days at a stretch like I'm going to do?  And if you did, what would you do with that time?

See you Sunday,

Lisa 

She Walked Through the Corn Leading Down to The River

When I saw the movie Strictly Ballroom for the first time, I was pinned down in my seat by one line. This line, the key line of the movie, was so familiar to me and yet no one had ever actually uttered those words.

I realized this weekend why those words held such meaning for me.

But let me back up. The trip to my hometown was fun. Nate decided to join Sophie and me. He reminded me that we had to listen to XM Bluegrass Junction as we drove through Tennessee and Kentucky. And so we did. Did I ever tell you that my maternal great grandad was a fiddler? That music is part of my heritage so it was not only geographically appropriate, it was also a great segue for talking about my family to Nate while Sophia slept in the backseat. And if we hadn't tuned in, I might never have known that there's a bluegrass version of Fox on the Run.

It was great to see family and friends of my parents who I'd not seen since 1997 or before. I saw my first grade teacher Mrs. Brown and Mrs. Curry who used to babysit me and let me play with her fireplace tools in her pristine living room as long as I promised to leave the poker alone. I saw cousins I hadn't seen in ages and gave unsolicited advice about how to get labor started to the girlfriend of one of them. Come to think of it, I spent a week in Cincinnati in 1982 babysitting that father to be.....

Anyway, the anniversary party was very nice, just as I expected. Quiet, dignified, and a little self-conscious. I come from people who like to have a little fun. Not a whooping loud lot of fun. A little fun. They're skittish about letting people see them cut loose. And by cut loose, I mean drink soda pop, eat a good country buffet meal and sit around a pole shed catching up, telling stories, and laughing. These are not nor have they ever been cocktail partiers or chandelier swingers. They're just regular folks with no pretensions and don't accuse them otherwise. And as per usual, there was no alcohol served. And that's okay. They have their reasons.

My mother is the daughter of an alcoholic who died young. My father claims to have never liked alcohol, but the bigger reason, I suspect, is that he saw drinking and smoking as complete wastes of money and impediments to climbing the socio-economic ladder to the safe middle class.

So I had a root beer with my barbecue, cole slaw and delicious potato casserole. It didn't kill me.

On the way home, Nate and I chatted about what a nice weekend it had been. Now, Nathan was always an observant kid. Even when he was young, he'd pick up on my moods and ask "What's wrong?" So it was no surprise when he noticed the frequent use of a certain phrase during our short stay with my parents.

"Mom, have you noticed that they say 'I would have, but I was afraid' alot?"

I had noticed.

"What are they afraid of?"

It's a good question. I know that I'm more a risk taker than my parents are. Sometimes it works out well, sometimes it's a disaster. Most times it's just another moment in my life to be cataloged, categorized, dissected and done with. I can't say for sure what they were afraid of, but I could guess...Fear of failure? Fear of being judged?

It got me to thinking about how we kind of cover our mouths when we laugh. How we worry so damn much what people might think, or worse what people might say about us. That's part of life in a small town, of course, so I don't blame them. They sought and achieved security. They met their goal and they've had a pretty pleasant life. They probably look at MathMan and me and wonder how we manage with the constant uncertainty that underscores our lives. Knowing that family is far away from any potential embarrassment is a large factor in how I manage living in a small town these days. No one really knows us enough to care or gossip about us. And I like it that way.

I thought about that while I drove. Finally I said, "I hate to think about how much of their lives they didn't live because they were afraid."

Nate nodded. "I guess they're happy enough."

It's something I am learning to appreciate, but I wonder....was it best to always hold back? What might life have been like if they laughed out loud more, if they didn't worry so much about what people might think, if they stopped comparing themselves and simply just did what they wanted sometimes.

And you? Do you hold back? Take risks? Somewhere in the middle?

Amateur Writer

At Saturday's writing seminar, The Cracker Queen suggested I tie some of my blog's content to my manuscript. While this idea thrills me and makes it all seem so much more real, I'm a bit flummoxed as to where to start. I mean, will it be the fast cars, the loose men or the espionage? There's so much to choose from! Kinky sex, recipes for fabric softener, ritual burnings or the random dream sequence....

You're just dying to know more about this story, aren't you?

To be honest with you, this first book may never have its moment with the printing press. It might be the one I write and put away without ever having issued a single query to potential agents. Okay, I lie. I'm going to query the stink off this thing and then? Well, I have a box to keep it in, if necessary.

One of the story's underlying themes is coincidence. For a skeptic like me, the very idea is a conundrum. To even consider the notion feels hypocritical. That broad cliche that things happen for a reason, the concept of destiny or an invisible guide positioning us to be in the right place at the right time? They all seem absurd. And still....

I finished Chabon's book yesterday and it was that which got me to thinking again about coincidence. In one of his last chapters titled Amateur Family, Chabon, a self-proclaimed sci-fi fan(atic), touches on a segment of cultural geekdom that I know a few of you share. It involves Daleks and Cybermen and the planet Gallifrey. Chabon was writing about Dr. Who! And wouldn't you know it? After not having seen it for a couple of months, I just happened to have watched a couple of episodes on BBC America on Monday evening. Coincidence?

Of course, not, right? Completely random.

Anyway, there I was watching Dr. Who and thinking about character development. While movies, plays and television have the advantage of an actor to bring a character to life, it's my job as a writer to create characters that live multi-dimensionally in the reader's head. The idea of what makes a character "good" has as much to do with the reader as it does with the character development. Whether readers take to your characters has as much to do with their value systems and secret desires as it does with your character's background, habits and human frailties.

Of course there are mechanics to character development and all kinds of webpages and books devoted to telling writers how to do so, but it would be far too much trouble for me to actually google them. Google is for finding things like Dave Grohl's birthday so I can settle a bet with Nathan.

When I think about the Dr. Who characters, it's hard to separate them from the actors who play them, but actually, Dr. Who is a perfect example of a character who has outlasted, by design, the actors in the role. And I love him. I love him when he's Jon Pertwee with his lisp or when he's Tom Baker with his scarf or Peter Davison with his leading actor good looks. I was crazy for Dr. Who as played by Christopher Eccleston. I am crazy mad gaga for him in his David Tennant incarnation. Each actor makes him his own, and yet, there are many qualities to the character that thread through each casting.

I mean, I love The Doctor because he does the right thing because it's the right thing to do. He isn't motivated by reward and punishment. He's a Time Lord, for goodness sake. His planet has been destroyed and there is no one else like him (except The Master) and still he carries on, saving planets and sometimes the universe. I love how The Doctor loves we silly humans, even though we are so terribly unlovable at times. I love his inquisitiveness, his way with words and the fact that he seems to enjoy life, even as he carries the weight of all knowledge on his (currently) skinny shoulders. No matter who plays The Doctor, those traits remain constant.

Notice that I'm not inviting too much debate here. I'm going to stay away from the discussion of The Doctor's companions. I mean I like Martha, adore and still miss Rose Tyler, but I L*O*V*E Donna Noble. And her grandad. But I know that passions can ignite when discussing those companions so I'm moving on.

So the challenge for me is to write people without the help of the David Tennants or the Catherine Tates to make them real. My current manuscript is a bit like cheating. Some of the characters in it will be immediately recognized by anyone who has read this blog or my earlier blogs. There's a challenge there, too, in making sure that I'm giving these characters enough life to make them real. Just because I know them, doesn't mean that anyone else will know them if I don't do a good job with my writing.

Which brings me back to my original thought - this book may or may not ever be published. I'm working on it under the assumption that it will. (I have to assume or else why bother?) But it's important for me to recognize that I had to get through this story before I could write any other. I had to address some of my dreams and nightmares so that I can (hopefully) leave them behind and move on to some of the other stories I'm itching to write.

In fact, it might be safe to say that in writing this story of coincidence or random encounters, I'm writing the story of how I finally learned to call myself a writer. Maybe it wasn't an accident that brought me to this place in my life where I would finally cry uncle and admit that I write not for fun or for release or maybe it's for both those things? But ultimately, I write because I have to. It's what I do.

And as if that wasn't all just enough to twist my knickers into confused knots, I sit down at my computer to check my email and a song from the Rushmore Soundtrack comes up on my itunes shuffle. In one of his last chapters, Chabon mentioned the movie Rushmore.

Coincidence?