Thanks for the Heads Up

A minute ago, an email popped up on my BlackBerry. It was from an organization that I interviewed with in early November. The email thanked me for recently interviewing with them.

Since they had told me at the time of my interview that second round interviews would take place in mid-November and then no one called me, I used my finely honed logic to deduce that I was not a finalist for the job. It wouldn't bother me if they had just sent an email two months later thanking me for coming in and informing me that I didn't get the job but for the fact that it said "recently." Two months ago - not recent. Either send a timely rejection, or don't bother. Yeesh.

Incidentally, I accepted my current job once I left that interview. All's well that ends well.

The Eyes Don't Have It

Decrepitude at the age of 33 (almost 34, and yes, I got my age right this time) is not good. In the few months that I was at my previous job earlier this year, vision in my left eye declined. It turns out that staring at a computer screen for hours a day made my eyeballs and their components really angry. The left eye went on partial strike.

My left eye continued to bother me after I left my hob, even though I no longer spent all day staring at a monitor. I had to get a stronger prescription lens. This fixed the situation. I could see! Hurray!

Now that I am staring at a computer screen all day again, my left eye has decided it is back to partial strike. I'm faster at responding to its demands, though. Lots of eye drops and a much more concerted attempt to look at other things every 15 minutes or so. And I bought computer glasses. Supposedly these will help because the coated lenses will reduce glare, and like reading glasses, they have a slight power. Unlike reading glasses (which made me ill when I tried them at my last job because they don't come in powers below 1.00), these new babies are only 0.25.

My fingers are crossed. I doubt disability insurance covers this type of problem...

Venting

The air circulation in my new office is not very good. For the two days I've been there, I've used my special ugly office sweater* in the morning, and sweltered in the afternoon. Weirdly, this was also how it was at the job I left in 2006. I was just cold all the time at other jobs.

The reason I was always cold at my various places of employment is because I am inevitably seated directly under or just to the side of the air condition vent. Today I was pleased to think about how this new job was different in that respect. Then I craned my head all the way back and looked at the ceiling. Yep, I'm under the vent. It's gonna be a cold summer. (And winter, if like at my other jobs, the building blasts the heat so high that each office runs the air condition to counter balance the inferno. Yeah, energy efficiency at its finest.)

*At every job I've ever had, I've left a cardigan on the back of my chair in case I get cold. Since the sweater lives at the office, I don't want to waste a nice one, so I bring the ugliest sweater I own. This job's ugly office sweater is the one I obtained for free at this summer's BlogHer conference. Hideous, especially in navy & "Aztec gold."

More Butt Humor, Butt (ha!) Not Gross

While Dr. P was in Vermont with her family, she noticed a product at a general store called "Anti-Monkey Butt Powder." We watched two hilarious ads on YouTube for this excellent product, which I thought I would share:

Anti-Monkey Butt Powder: The Jogger

Anti-Monkey Butt Powder: The Biker (as in motorcyclist, which is even better than bicyclist)

I hoped to embed the short videos in CUSS, but no codes for embedding were available. Boo. Well worth clicking on, and safe for work!

Speaking on work, my first day at my new job is tomorrow. I'm nervous, but excited. I wish I had not down enormous quantities of Indian food last night, though, as my stomach doth protest. I need to quash the rebellion ASAP if I want to continue to have a job after my first day. No one wants to work with a gas bag.

Third Time x Third Time = Triple the Charm

As a kid, I hated math. Hated, hated, hated it. I was often absent from school due to illness (in the early years, asthma; in the later years, depression), and so the lessons I missed created a big gap for me to overcome. My junior year of high school, I explained to my math teacher that "I'm going to be a lawyer, so I don't need math."

Fast forwarding to the day I dropped out of law school and decided to get a public policy degree... Shit, all the public service programs have stats and econ in their curricula. But I suck at math. Oy vey iz mir! Much hand wringing.

Fast forward to my second job after college, which required me to use Excel for lots of number crunching, which was something I rather liked during a college internship but dismissed...Math is fun!

Ok, now that I am completely off topic, the point of my little subject line formula is to ponder whether the adage, "The third time's the charm," is truer if you multiply the third time by three. All of this comes up because, the 9th organization that interviewed me for a job offered me a position! And I accepted. So I'm very excited.

As long as I brought up numbers, here's the rest of my job search in digits:

• Number of resumes sent: over 60


• Number of organizations that interviewed me: 11 (12 if you count the place that called last night)


• Number of interviews: 15 (some were two step processes)


• Number of offers: 1


• Number of places that contacted me to request more info (like salary request or writing samples) and then never contacted me again: 2


• Number of times I freaked out and got a manicure: 1


• Amount of money spent on "respectable interview watch:" $40 at Filene's Basement
  Amount of money spent on lipstick: $1.99, when I realized that I forgot to put it in my bag and bring it with me, so ran to Duane Reade Pharmacy


• Level of anxiety about the whole situation: Immeasurable

So I'm very happy that I found a job in what I think will be a great place to work. My policy is to keep work out of my blog, so I'll just say that it is a position that requires writing and the organization works to increase economic and social justice in disenfranchised American communities. I'm psyched. Now I'm off to clean my bathroom...

Notes on the Economic "Recovery"

Several times in recent weeks, I read blurbs in newspapers about how the economy is recovering. It's not like economists are all gung-ho about it, but there are supposedly glimmers of a happy smiley sun peeking through the rain clouds of economic woe. Let's take a moment to sing:

Hey la, hey la Wall Street's back!
It's been gone for such a long time
Hey la, hey la Wall Street's back!
Now it's back and things'll be fine
Hey la, hey la Wall Street's back!

Didn't that feel good? No? Well, there's good reason for that. As the 99.9% of the time right on NY Times columnist Bob Herbert wrote last week, Wall Street may be be on the rise again, but so is unemployment.

When I resigned from my job at a nonprofit organization in May, I joined the ranks of jobseekers. I knew that the economy was bad when I decided to leave, but there were other considerations that were stronger. It was a scary and tough decision, but I noticed that the various places that advertised jobs in my field offered lots of interesting opportunities.

I saw many positions that interested me, and I cast my net far and wide. I went to interviews. I took consulting jobs. I worked on my thesis for my master's degree. It was difficult, but busy. Then mid-August hit. No one ever advertises on mid-August, so I only worried a little bit. Things did not pick up after Labor Day. I worried a lot. Classes started again, so I went to school and continued writing. I worried more.

I'm far luckier than most unemployed people - Husband works and we can live comfortably on his income. Still, I thought I'd contribute my anecdotal evidence that the overall economic situation is getting worse in some parts, not better.

Hey na, hey na - bring the job market back.

WWCRD: Salary Histories

Welcome to the latest edition of What Would CUSS Readers Do? Today, the royal we here at CUSS seek feedback on salary histories. The issue came up yesterday when I decided to apply for a job that required a salary history in order to consider the application complete.

My feeling (and Husband's) is that salary histories are bogus. An organization that seeks to hire someone has an idea of what the job is worth. If they find a candidate that they like, they should offer them that salary. What the person earned prior to that job is irrelevant, as they did not perform that job at that company. Further, it is no one's fucking business what I earned at other jobs. Until the search committee is prepared to tell me what they earn, I am not sure why it helps to know what I earned.

Yesterday, a friend argued with me, saying that she used the information to determine whether or not a person would even consider the job. Again, I think that is a strange way to determine one's interest in a job. Perhaps for a variety of reasons, a candidate would accept a different salary for doing a different job. How would a recruiter know that unless the candidate was asked directly? If a company does not want to waste their time with a candidate who would not be interested in the position based on salary, and they do not want to reveal in advance what that salary is, then why not just contact the person and ask, "Hey, what salary do you require?" instead of playing guessing games?

What do you think? Do salary histories help employer's find appropriate employees, or are they merely ways to (potentially under)pay people based on past jobs that may have no bearing on the job that is to be performed? (Yeah, loaded question, I know.)

So, What Do You Do?

"So, what do you do?"

It's a common question. I just no longer have a good answer for it. A few years ago, it was easy. I puffed up my chest and told people that I work at a nonprofit agency on public policy and programs.

Now I could also answer that I'm a writer, although I don't feel like a writer. Writers are people who write every day, whether or not they earn a living from it. Sometimes there are days when I don't write a word other than what is on my to do list. I was thinking about how much like a poser I feel when I tell people that I'm a writer, and then I realized that I was narrating what scene in my head. Maybe constantly thinking like a writer to qualifies me as a writer, even if I don't write daily?

The funny thing is that I still think of myself as a policy person even though I don't do anything policy related on a daily basis, either. But just as I narrate things in my head on an ongoing basis, I think about policy every day. I certainly don't feel like a pretentious douche (scent: Summer Rain) when I tell people that I'm currently unemployed and looking for a job in public policy or program management the way I do when I say, "I'm a writer."

The difference, I'm thinking now, is that being good at your job as a writer is a lot more subjective than as a policy person/program manager. In the latter, it is obvious if you understand what is going on in the world and whether you are good at it or not. Obviously, there's a baseline for writing, but it is a lot more subjective as to whether one is good at it.

Just thinking while suffering from insomnia for no discernible reason...

The Stressed Out Tante

Between the unexpected early arrival of my adorable nephew, school wrapping up for the year, and my job implosion, things have been rather hectic lately. While I am very happy that my nephew is here and healthy, the other things thrill me significantly less. I realized that the only thing worse than a job that goes awry is not having a job at all. I sort of figured this out last semester, but it is really hitting home now. I can't say that I like working in general, but I definitely enjoy being employed and feeling like a productive member of society. I forget how closely my sense of self-worth is tied to my work. Bah.

On a more positive note, I just love this picture of me and Marcus:


On Friday, I am flying into Chicago, seeing my friend, her partner, and their kids (an almost four year old and two month old twins), then my parents are picking me for for a roadtrip to Iowa with Bubbe. Fortunately, Dana's friend from high school will also be with us, so I think Bubbe will tone it down a bit.

The reason for the return trip to Iowa? Dana's baby shower is on Saturday, and Marcus will be the guest of honor. I can't wait!

Adoration and Resignation

Unexpectedly, I have an additional 35 hours a week that are now free since I left my job this week. (it wasn't a good fit for a variety of reasons.) The good news is that I already have an interview elsewhere on Monday, and I can use the time to fawn over photos of my nephew* now that I found our camera.

Here I am, the proud but exhausted tante (I only had a few hours of sleep the prior night), holding my nephew with the excited father behind me:


The happy grandparents holding their progeny's offspring:


Since Marcus was not due until June 9, my sister's co-workers had planned to hold a baby shower for her on May 16. Now Marcus will be the guest of honor! I already bought a plane ticket for the event, so I am pleased that I will get to see everyone again in less than two weeks. Of course, that assumes that I survive the four hour car ride from Chicago to Iowa with my parents and Bubbe. I think Bubbe will be on her best behavior, though, since my sister's friend will also be in the car with us.

Pictures from the Beaver Cam (aka My Blackberry)

As mentioned on Friday, I attended a conference at which Federal Reserve Chairman Ben Bernanke delivered the key note address. Although I was distracting from large portions of his speech by his security guard, who stood in the corner chomping gum in a way that made his '70s-style mustache fly up and down and mesmerized me, I followed the lead of my fellow conference attendees and tried to photograph Bernanke with my Blackberry. This blurry shot of his chest is the best I got:

If you squint, you can make out the podium, behind which is Bernanke's white shirt and blue tie.) None of my photos of the security guard came out at all, making me worry that I hallucinated his great 'stache.

After the conference, I had a terrible meeting on Capitol Hill. Then I stopped into the Postal Museum, which is run by the Smithsonian. It was awesome. I love mail. My Blackberry worked very well when I wanted to take a picture of what must be the coolest mailbox ever:


At the end of the day, Maria and I went to the National Zoo to see the beaver pond. This big, bushy beaver spread itself out on a rock for all to ogle, turning my Blackberry into a beaver cam:

The zoo also has a video camera pointed inside the beaver dam for live beaver action. I could not stop cracking up.

The rest of the weekend was delightful. This week is likely to be the exact opposite, with too much going on for the third or fourth week in a row. I'll try and focus on the beaver cam to get through it.

Three Cheers for Maurice

Frankly, I'm in deep shit. I think that working full-time, attending a full-time master's program in creative writing, drafting two posts a week for BlogHer, serving on the Board of a nonprofit child care center that has real estate issues, attempting healthy-ish lifestyle through exercise, and continuing to have relationships with friends and family (which I am failing at miserably in some cases) is maybe more than I can handle. For the last two weeks, I've been exhausted constantly.

It's not just me who needs a break. Maurice, the hamster who runs on the wheel that powers my brain, is on strike. At first I was mad at his furry ass for not keeping up, thus resulting in me making big mistakes like handing in the same story twice (written in two different ways, since I didn't remember writing it in the first place) or smaller errors like when I called Oedipus Odysseus in yesterday's blog post. Now I realize that the little dude is just overworked.

Maurice and I used to take breaks to read friends' blogs or watch mindless TV. These days, I need to think for more hours, whether to learn about the nuances of Obama's foreclosure prevention plan or to answer questions about a book I read for class, and poor little Maurice runs nonstop from when I wake up until I go to sleep. That's a lot for any brain hamster, let alone a 33 year old one. So I want to thank him publicly for hanging in there. (Thanks Maurice!)

I need to take a hard look at everything that's on my plate. I know what I want to cut, but Husband is not on board with that plan. If only I could write a book and sell it for six-figures, like, say fucking Meghan McCain,* that would solve everything. Uh, right....

*Love Jossip's suggested title about Ann Coulter, as does Maurice.

On the Radio, Part II

I think I have a voice for silent movies, but whatever - I was very excited to do my first live radio interview yesterday! In the event that anyone has a fleeting interest in foreclosure prevention and New York City, I think this is the link to the podcast. I come on halfway through the two hour program, and my colleague and I engage in conversation for 50 minutes.

When I entered the studio and saw the microphones and headsets, I thought I might throw up. My heart battered my rib cage. Fortunately, the host was an excellent facilitator with great questions, and my colleague was a pro at live shows. I quickly relaxed and had fun. I like radio better than TV (not that I've been on TV), as I did not have to worry about how my hair appeared.

Of course, the first person to call into the show was a raving lunatic conspiracy theorist type. Somehow, that struck me as appropriate. The rest of the show was great, and afterward, the host invited me to come back and talk about my book! Very exciting!

What Would CUSS Readers Do?: Sloganeeringhat

Once again proving that by the time you read something in a mainstream newspaper, it's probably too late to be of use, today's New York Times has an article about people scamming troubled homeowners by charging money to "fix" the loans, then disappearing.* The Times notes this is a growing scam, but it has actually been a huge problem for at least a year now. (One deputy attorney general in California said that dealing with the swindlers has been all she's done, with 300 calls received in the past year.) Perhaps reporting on the issue six months ago may have alerted people to the scams and helped them avoid them, but whatever. The media just reports what's happening; it's not there to help people make informed decisions or anything. Bah.

Anyway, one of the things I've been tasked with at my new job is to come up with a clever marketing slogan to alert people to the presence of mortgage "fixing" scams and let them know that there is free, government-approved housing counseling available. The best I've come up with thus far is:

In trouble with your home loan?
Stop getting fucked up the ass!
FREE housing counseling is available.
Call blah blah blah and stop the bleeding.

Although it is to the point and accurate, this is probably not going to fly for a variety of reasons. If anyone has any other suggestions (legitimate or not), I'm all ears. I promise to give you credit if I use it.

*As a random side rant (or as my brother-in-law would say, rantom), the fact that people can go up to someone who is about to lose his or her home, promise her that they can save it, and then steal whatever cash that the homeowner may have used to actually save the home, blows my mind. How can the goniff sleep at night, knowing that they've made others homeless? Seriously, what the fuck is wrong with people? How did some manage to become such fucking assholes?

The Haircut Double Entendre

I never thought about haircuts as anything but the things I get every two months that make me look extra dyke-y (or, when done well, like Jane Wiedlin). On Monday, I wrote about the latest brouhaha over women who get short haircuts on BlogHer. (It seems that some guy in London whose wife cut her hair short sparked a debate over whether that women with short hair are signaling that they are no longer interested in sex because they are making themselves unattractive through their new haircuts.) Then yesterday I learned that there is something called a haircut in the securities market.

My new favorite online dictionary,* Investopedia, explains that a haircut is:

1. The difference between prices at which a market maker can buy and sell a security.

2. The percentage by which an asset's market value is reduced for the purpose of calculating capital requirement, margin and collateral levels.

One could extrapolate and say that a man whose wife cuts her hair short has a reduced market value in the eyes of society, but that would be silly, wouldn't it?

*I still do love Urban Dictionary for all my slang research, though. It seems that a third definition of haircut there is:

a drinking act involving:
- two people
- alchohol
- energy drink or gatorade

one person tilts their head back and closes their throat. the other person then pours small amount of energy drink, large amount of alchohol, and small amount of energy drink in that order. the drinker then tilts their head up and swallows the drink simultaneously. this is done for two reasons: you dont feel it going down no matter the alchohol percent and it gets you very drunk very fast.

Now I feel complete before I go to off to work, which this post is making me late to. Hope it added to the educational value of your day as well.

The Grass is Always Greener When You're Born a Ramblin' Man

As usual, I'm behind. I promised people who submitted essays for the potential anthology COngratulations, You're a Woman Now! that they would hear back about their work by the end of 2008. I'm not even close to finished reading the submissions. (But I swear I will, and I apologize profusely.) I haven't read blogs in a few days, which makes me feel disconnected from the online community I so cherish. Yet I'm spazzing out about what to wear to work for the rest of the week, so I'm not going to make much progress on the things that I want to do. (And oh my god, I didn't realize how short my wardrobe falls for a 5 day a week job that requires more than cords and definitely is not jeans-friendly.... Panic.)

Of course, the last quarter of last year, I was pretty unhappy with my massively underemployed status. I felt useless, which made me anxious and depressed. Now that I'm overemployed (in the sense that I hoped to secure a 3 day per week job), I'm anxious and depressed because I'm worried about all the commitments I made and the things that I want to do that I no longer have time for. Argh! Is there no middle ground?

On another grass-related note, Husband and I are going to an Allman Brothers concert at the Beacon Theater this spring. Every year, the Allman Brothers plays approximately 15 dates at this smallish theater near my apartment. The streets fill with characters not usually seen on the streets of the Upper West Side, including hippies, trailer dwellers, and undercover cops poorly disguised as hippie trailer dwellers. Husband decided he wanted to see what the hoopla was all about, and I thought it would be fun to go along, although I fear the secondary high. (Yeah, I'm a big fucking nerd. I can't help it!)

I Made It!

This is probably the only time I'll write about work since I try hard to pretend that my "professional" life and my "writing" life are two very separate things, partly so that I may continue to have a "professional" life. Anyway, the first day was good, if a bit overwhelming. First days are always overwhelming, though.

The time flew (it helped that a co-worker's birthday was celebrated), and I learned many things and attempted to start many others. I only made two slightly inappropriate comments, and both were as we were leaving. (I said that I didn't care that a foundation that worked to preserve the "purity" of Judaism by discouraging interfaith marriages had to close its doors after Madoff - a Jew - scammed all their funds, then I made a nasty comment about the Hasidic people who own an electronic shop and refused to let my new co-worker return her brand new flat screen TV - still in the box - after she figured out that it was one inch too large for their entertainment unit.) The work will be very interesting once I really dig in. I'm excited. Still nervous and overwhelmed, but excited.

When I arrived back at my castle (ha ha) after slaving away all day, I was dismayed to see that the super was still in the process of soliciting bids to fix the hole in the wall in the bathroom. Fortunately, the shower was fixed, so it is now possible to bathe in relative comfort, with both cold and hot water in a pleasing combination that is more than a trickle. I shall prepare for work tomorrow (I'm still adjusting to the idea that I will go to a job five days this week, and next week, and on and on) by washing my hair with the ridiculously fancy mint oil shampoo that I absconded with from the ridiculously fancy hotel in San Francisco.

I Want to Wake Up in a City that Never Sleeps

While I very much loved my trip and all the fabulous people that I saw that I want to see more often, I am glad to be home. The (free) luxury hotels (and yurt)were nice, but sinking my head into my deformed pillow when I arrived at my apartment this morning was like snuggling up with an old friend. Plus, speaking of old friends, sleeping with Theo (my teddy bear) only reminded me how merely adequate my well intentioned travel stuffed dog companion is.

Still, being home is not all rainbows and butterflies. I brought back an unintentional souvenir of a cold. There is a long line of gutted tile running along my bathroom wall, and everything that was in the bathroom is now cluttering the dining room. The shower is supposed to work, but doesn't. The workmen are coming back to patch things up tomorrow, and thankfully Rebecca will be here to remind them that they didn't really fix the shower.

Where will I be tomorrow? Downtown, starting my new job. I'm scared shitless. At least the toilet flushes better than it has in years.

Today in Review

Between being offered a job and straining my right calf muscle while killing a roach, I forgot to blog today. Lame, I know, but there was a lot of excitement and squealing in my apartment, so I forgive myself.

First, the job. I was offered the position that I interviewed for back in October. Any confusion is understandable, as my blog post regarding that first interview covered the hot chocolate dilemma that the potential job posed. (Quick review: the shop on the ground floor of the building in which the office is located sells hot chocolate made from Leonidas chocolates melted in hot milk. This is a potential dangerous addiction, both in terms of the effect of my wallet and my waistline, which is sadly the reverse of what I would like to happen because my wallet will be thinner and my waistline thicker.) I am very excited to work again, although very nervous that working full time will not leave enough time for school. But it's a cool job, and worth the risk.

Onto the injury. I saw a six legged beast on its back, legs kicking in the air, next to a crack between the wall and the kitchen sink. Of course, I screamed. Then I attempted to squash it, but not too hard, as I did not want its guts smooshing out onto the sole of my slipper. In attempting to strike the proper balance, I managed to strain my calf muscle. What can I say? This is possibly the most pathetic way to injure a muscle known to humankind. It could be worse. At least the evil six legged critter is dead.

Hot (Chocolate) Job!

When I stepped out of the subway station for my job interview yesterday morning, I felt a rush of excitement. The job is located downtown, which is easy to get to, and full of interesting places to grab a bite. One of the things I miss about my last job is being downtown. (OK, this is the only thing that I miss except for the people.)

Hence I already was tingling when I noticed the cafe next door to the potential job's office building. I stopped. "Oh, I can't take this job no matter what," I sighed. A sandwich board announced that hot chocolate made with Leonidas Belgian chocolates is the house specialty. To make it, they pour steamed milk over the chocolates in the "traditional" manner. Several flavors, like chocolate mint, chocolate orange peel, cinnamon, and chocolate raspberry, are on the menu. At $4.50 for a small, and god knows how many calories (as if melted chocolate in whole milk is not unhealthy enough, each purchase comes with a piece of chocolate, perhaps to help people justify the price to themselves), I can't afford to deal with such temptation four or five days per week.

Gathering my resolve, I went upstairs and had what I think was a good interview. As I left, I mentioned that I might treat myself to a hot chocolate downstairs. "Oh, those are amazing," the receptionist swooned. "Expensive, but worth it as a treat." She had tried the plain chocolate, but was curious about the chocolate mint. I said I would try it, and promised to email her with my thoughts. Minutes later, I was $4.88 poorer and burning my tongue on the creamiest, mintiest hot chocolate that I'd ever ingested.

Oh, I so hope that I get this job.