Nothing to see here...

....Move along and visit me here from now on.

Where PCs Go To Die

There are few things more terrifying to someone who's underemployed than being temporarily without a cell phone and without a reliable computer/Internet connection. Both happened to me last week and are to blame for my lack of recent posts. But as of today, I have no more excuses (except for an Internet connectivity problem that two visits from Comcast technicians have failed to fix).

After three fantastically crap experience with PC laptops, I took the plunge and bought a MacBook today, and I haven't looked back. This bite-sized wonder is about to transform me into the consumer Apple marketers have been targeting for years and I don't mind at all. And in the next few days I promise to come back and document the journey, but in the meantime I need to go and search my hard drive for Justin Long. He must be around here somewhere.

On “Turning Over a New Leaf” and Other Decade’s-end Clichés

For roughly the last nine years I have been clinging to the comforting promises my favorite English professor offered me whilst shopping for alcohol at a local grocery store. The summer between my junior and senior year of college, in 2001, found me interning at a publishing company in Des Moines and spending my spare time with a friend whose romantic life was far more interesting than mine. As fate would have it, she found herself unceremoniously broken-up with one weekend, and since I was newly 21, I was in charge of picking up some beer with which she could drown her sorrows.

I wasn’t in the booze aisle for long when I looked up and noticed the professor who had taught my short-fiction writing class walking towards me. Although I’m usually paralyzed with fear at the thought of having to write fiction, I adored my short-fiction class almost as much as I adored this professor. After she asked for my beer-buying advice (and I am far from an expert), I explained I was there picking out something for my lovelorn friend. She groaned sympathetically and wished me and my friend good luck in handling romantic disasters to come. I can’t remember for sure how our conversation went from mundane to memorable, but it eventually resulted in her telling me that life would get easier in general by the time I got to my 30s. “I promise you, it gets better. Your 20s are so much harder.”

It’s a good thing she told me this then, because things got a lot harder after that summer. A few short months later 9/11 happened, George W. Bush settled into office and my own physical health threw a giant wrench in my plans for the future. Things started to rebound in 2006-2008 with the success of my stimulator surgery and the landing of my best job to date. However, 2008-2010 has been a rollercoaster that I’ve documented pretty thoroughly in this space.

One of the benefits of being born at the tail end of 1979 is that every time the world marks the end/beginning of a new decade, I get a nice, even number to start the decade with too. For example, I turned 10 right before 1990, and turned 20 in time for the beginning of 2000. This year is no different – I turned 30 shortly before the dawn of 2010. Somehow this makes all the looking back at the last ten years -- and forward to the next -- all the more cathartic. And it’s for this reason that I so welcomed the age 30. Turning 30 is giving me a chance to “start a new chapter of my life.” [That sounds a lot less cheesy when I say it in my head].

If you’d asked me a few years ago, I probably would’ve admitted some dread about reaching the big 3-0, citing hubris such as lack of professional or romantic success and financial instability. I had one friend who celebrated her 29^th birthday two years in a row, and another who celebrated her Sweet Sixteen instead of age 31.

But for some reason, the opposite happened to me. At least six months before my 30th birthday, I began overusing the “But I’m almost 30” excuse to rationalize far too many decisions and actions: “I’m almost 30 – that’s too old to still own a futon. It’s time for a real couch,” or, “I’m almost 30, for crying out loud, applying for entry-level jobs is beneath me.”

So far, all signs are pointing to good things to come in this new decade and for my 30s. Nearly every birthday, Christmas or New Year well-wish I received this year contained a variation on a theme: “2010 will be your year,” or “I’m sure your 30^th year will be much better than your 29^th.” One pair of thoughtful friends went so far as to give me 30 gifts and 30 cupcakes. I can’t think of a better way to put a sugary spin on some rough years.

One of my closest friends, who also turned 30 two days after me, sent me a new journal as a gift. There's an inspirational block of text on the cover and on the back of the notebook that I'm briefly excerpting here:

"She's turning her life into something sacred: Each breath a new birth. Each moment, a new chance...It is here where she must begin to tell her story."

Fitting, huh?

I have been far from alone in enduring the trials and tribulations of this decade, but even Time magazine’s morose “Decade From Hell” article offered some glimmers of hope, and all things considered, I have many, many things to be grateful for. And some day I’ll try to look back at the last ten years and count all of the lessons learned and why it was imperative that I remember them. But until then, I’m gonna stuff those memories back down for a while, and party like it’s 1999 all over again.

A Word on Cheerleaders

Back in January, when the global economic crisis started to directly impact my own bank account, I figured I wouldn’t gain any meaningful insight until the end of my ordeal. I thought that once I finally landed a new job, I would be flooded with all sorts of wisdom, advice for others and tidy cautionary tales. But as this drags on, I realized it’s not too soon to be learning some lessons and finding silver linings. This huge, scary and seemingly intractable recession has provided more than enough surprises to keep my spirits up — most of the time.

One of the things that has surprised me the most is the abundance of people who — somewhat silently — are standing in my corner cheering me along, from utter strangers in the checkout aisle at Trader Joe’s, to church acquaintances, and even hiring managers. By far, the most touching display of encouragement in my job hunt has come from a woman who interviewed me twice for an editing position but ultimately offered the job to another candidate.

A little over a month ago I had an interview with an association magazine that more than fulfilled all my requirements for the perfect job. During my two interviews with the organization I felt that I hit it off with the executive director and the publishing director. In my eyes both women looked to be excellent mentors. And if there’s anything I want in a new job, it’s to find a great mentor. I felt confident about both interviews and was gratified to hear both women praise my past writing and my resume.

However, as a week passed after my second interview, I started to feel a sneaking suspicion that I didn’t get the job. With no immediate prospects on the horizon my heart sank. At the end of that week I got a call from the publishing director who told me what I had already guessed: they offered the job to another candidate although I made the decision very tough for them.

It was evident very early on in the call that it was not an easy one for her to make. She assured me that she and the executive director felt terrible about not being able to offer me the job. She wanted to let me know that she would do whatever she could to help me find another job. She even said “We’ve been asking ourselves ‘who can we tell about Mary?’” She told me that if I applied to any more association magazines in Chicagoland, to send her an email to see if she knows anyone at other organizations, promising to call that recruiter with her endorsement.

I have received several very kind rejections throughout this process, from “You are overqualified and we can’t pay you what you deserve,” to thoughtful phone calls and snail mail letters. But this one was different. I have the distinct feeling that the two women who interviewed me are walking around with an invisible set of pom-pons and a peppy little cheer at the ready. And this week, they have made good on their promise to help me out. I finally applied to a company where the publishing director has an acquaintance that might be able to help.

You expect your former bosses and past coworkers to speak well for you, but you don’t expect it from someone who offered the job to someone else. That someone in her position is willing and eager to go to bat for me has convinced me that good — even wonderful things — are possible in a deep recession such as this. My greatest hope is that I can continue to recognize this and keep plugging away.

George Clooney Can Fire Me Whenever He Wants

I reached a point this summer where I let my self-consciousness get to me and stopped blogging out of fear that I was branding myself as “that unemployed girl.” A similar phenomenon occurred when I blogged my stimulator process a few years ago. After all, I reasoned, both then and now, self-pity doesn’t exactly make for good reading — or writing.

But lately, I’ve been missing it. Not having a job hasn’t stopped me from gaining insight about myself and the millions of other people paddling this boat with me. And when I had the chance to catch a free screening of the new George Clooney movie “Up in the Air,” I got the itch to blog again after watching Clooney’s character fire dozens of unsuspecting (albeit fictional) workers.

Before I get into the movie I want to briefly touch on the awesomeness that is entertainment on a shoestring budget. My boyfriend is incredibly adept at scoring free tickets to movies, the theater and even concerts. In the short few months we’ve been dating we’ve had box seats to “Animal Crackers” at the Goodman Theater; two pairs of free tickets to see The Pixies at the Aragon Ballroom, and movie passes to “World’s Greatest Dad” (including a Q and A with the director); Jim Carrey’s “A Christmas Carol” in 3-D; “A Serious Man;” and “Up In The Air.” Everything is more fun when it’s free.

Anyway. The timing of the “Up In The Air” screening couldn’t have been more unfortunate. I had just completed three grueling job interviews in three days, received disappointing news from two of them and correctly suspected the third wasn’t meant to be either. I was also beginning to feel the pressure of the end of my COBRA subsidy and was battling worries about running down the clock on unemployment insurance payments.

Because the screening for the movie was a couple weeks before the major release of the movie, I hadn’t yet read many reviews. All I knew was that George Clooney’s character works for a company that downsizes employees whose own companies can’t be bothered with the dirty work. Imagine your boss hiring someone else to give you the news. Ouch. What I didn’t realize was the extent to which this scenario is played out in the movie.

To add to the realism, director Jason Reitman filmed the reactions of real people — in addition to actors — upon finding out they’ve been let go. These scenes are used throughout the movie so they couldn’t all be avoided by a well-timed bathroom break. I had thought I’d gotten past the trauma that is hearing the news for the first time, but the scenes were so eloquently and accurately portrayed that it was like reliving the experience over, and over and over again.

The saving grace here is that Clooney’s character, Ryan Bingham, stays respectful, sympathetic, professional and compassionate regardless of how an employee takes the news — be it threatening to jump off a bridge or bring a gun back to the office for revenge.

Bingham faces a challenge, however, when his boss informs him that to conserve costs, the company is considering using a technology along the lines of Skype that would allow them to fire people over the Internet. Bingham rightly insists that his responsibility is to provide a human touch at such a critical time. To prove this he takes the young business whiz that developed the Skype system on the road with him and teaches her the tricks of the trade. Watching the trainee, played beautifully by Anna Kendrick, crumble after firing her first worker face-to-face, is heartbreaking.

What’s not heartbreaking, however, is the skill and care with which Clooney’s character breaks the news and offers consolation to the recently terminated. His signature line of comfort, “Everyone that has ever conquered an empire or started a new corporation had to go through what you’re going through to get there,” sounds sincere whenever he says it. When recycled by other, lesser characters, it loses its ring.

In an especially moving scene with J.K. Simmons (aka Juno’s dad), Simmons’ character worries that he’s too old to start a new career or find a new job that can provide retirement benefits. Unbeknownst to him, Bingham has gone to the trouble of procuring the man’s resume and notes that before he accepted the job he was fired from 30 years later, he attended culinary school. Bingham explains that most people ditch pursuing their dream job in favor of a comfortable but not-quite-challenging career where they stay trapped for years. Being laid off, he rationalizes, gives them a second chance.

When this message is expressed with nuance, the being downsized experience almost becomes therapeutic — at least it was for me, almost 11 months after the fact. People always try to tell you this in subtle, tentative ways that make you immediately defensive.

In a lighter moment, Kendrick’s character asks Bingham if he ever does any follow-up with his clients, and he replies it’s usually not helpful. This made me feel sorry that I’ve had to contact my former HR person more times than I’ve wanted to regarding paperwork. I bet she thought the hard part was over too.

I was beginning to recover by the time the credits rolled on the movie, but Reitman uses the credits over which to dub more audio of real people talking about their layoffs. It even features a musician describing how he wrote his song, “Uncertainty,” about the experience, and soon he’s heard strumming his acoustic guitar. At that point I grabbed my boyfriend’s hand and insisted we get away from the theater before I ran out of dry tissues.

Although the experience of seeing “Up In The Air” was traumatic, I’m still glad I saw it, even though it dredged up some of the anger and shame I thought was gone. The movie never would’ve had the same resonance — in my humble opinion — if it’d been released when the national unemployment rate wasn’t 10 percent. Nothing makes an experience feel more universal than seeing it portrayed in an Oscar-bait film. I prefer to use movies as escapism these days and look to the nightly news and documentaries for my dose of realism. Even still, it’d be a thrill to get fired by George Clooney.

5 Easy Pieces

Although my job hunt is still a work in progress at this point, I've been getting a lot of help from the folks with Chicago Public Radio's Hard Working series. And today is no exception. I'm just the first job seeker in their blog's new recurring feature, aptly called, "Give Me a Job, Please." All I had to do was answer five fun questions and send them a photo. You'll have to click through here to see the photo in all its glory, but I'll re-post the questions and answers here:

LOOKING FOR WORK AS: a writer/editor/journalist

You sit down in an interview and the boss starts with: “Tell me why you want to work here.” You say:Hopefully something that belies my desperation and still comes across as sincere. I know I’ve interviewed for jobs that I didn’t really want – reporting on niche industries I have zero interest in. Recruiters can probably sniff that out pretty fast. It’s a hard line to walk though when you really need that job – or any job, really. My poker face needs a lot of work.

Please write a haiku about your dream job.
My boss: Ira Glass
Protected from recession
Huzzah, not retail!

Tell us about a time you were a real “team player”?
I had one job that required me to write 30 to 40 newsbrief abstracts between the hours of 6 a.m. and 11 a.m. under punishing deadlines. Even on weekends and evenings. The one good thing about it was that about at least 15 other writers and editors were in it withme, and their willingness to pitch in and help me was always gratifying. As was returning the favor.

When you made a bad choice while reading a “Choose Your Own Adventure Book” did you: A) Accept your fate B) Go back to the choice and choose again, pretending you didn’t make the first choice C) Mock the writer for not understanding how the real world works D) Other
I couldn’t be bothered to read a “Choose Your Own Adventure” book, as that requires too much effort. I prefer the kind of escapism where you realize you have no control over the outcome and thus have to accept it. I have enough anxiety over the future as it is. That said, B is pretty tempting….no, wait, I mean A! Can I still pick A? See what I mean?

What else should we know about you?
That I prefer a job in publishing but since the job market in that industry is so saturated right now, I’m entertaining a lot of different options. As long as it’s not retail! I’m rapidly approaching age 30, I live in Evanston, and am a semi-regular blogger and freelance writer.

Hey, stranger

After a long vacation from regular blogging (the reasons for which I plan to enumerate later), it's time for me to get back to it.

In the meantime, I wanted to post a link to the Chicago Public Radio story I was interviewed for this summer. If you've read this blog at all, you know that one of my pet topics isunemployment etiquette. A few months after that post. CPR's Hard Working series and American Public Media decided to tackle the issue too.

You can listen to -- or read -- the result, complete with advice from "Ask Amy" Dickinson herself.

My Recession Miracle

I’m probably not the best personal banker in the world — I don’t log on to check my checking account on a daily or even weekly basis. And since my expenses are fairly static and most of my deposits are direct deposits, I generally know how much I have. Since I still only use a bank in Princeton and make car payments through my parents, they can usually see my balance too.

As a result, I was really shocked today to get an email from my mom asking if I realized I had $X amount of dollars in my account. Without being specific about the amount, just know that $X was exactly 10 times the usual amount.

Sure enough, I logged into my account and saw that she was right. On June 24, somebody that wasn’t me deposited enough cash to help me breathe a LOT easier during this bout of unemployment. I looked at my balance and wanted to cry in relief, thinking “Wow, God really DOES work in mysterious ways.”

I started to imagine who my anonymous benefactor might be. Perhaps it was an undercover Robin Hood type, one who bears a striking resemblance to George Clooney, who stole money from my last employer’s coffers and used my direct deposit information to give me a cash infusion. Or maybe it was a merry band of guerilla do-gooders that infiltrate banks in the middle of the night to plump up the bank accounts of the recently terminated.

In my head I mentally started writing another essay I would inevitably send to Chicago Public Radio about my Recession Miracle. Other listeners would call in and share their stories of finding a bit too much money in their accounts. Eventually, word would leak that it really was the doing of the Obama administration’s secret Random Acts of Kindness provision in the stimulus package.

But, alas, this isn’t the kind of banking irregularity that can go unchecked. If someone out there had my account number, they could withdraw as easily as they could deposit. The more likely scenario was that my dad goofed while depositing money from the hardware store. So I called and told him to check his account balance, and sure enough he had deposited into the wrong account.

My hopes were crushed. The giant sigh of relief I had started to breathe deflated. My healthy, vital bank account would have to go back to being pathetic once the banking error was fixed. I thought of all the different ways my life would be different if I always had that much money in the piggy bank (for better or worse). So maybe it’s not an altogether good thing, but it sure was nice while it lasted.

Books, Bikes and My Brain

In case anyone was concerned by my complete lack of posts recently, no I haven’t had any bike-related injuries rendering me unable to type. Which is kind of a miracle in itself, really. I was completely expecting to have at least a couple “Mary Bites the Dust” stories by now, but so far, smooth sailing. I can scarcely believe it myself.

On my way home from a ride last night, I ran (not literally!) into a friend who was out for a walk. After I introduced her to Hildy, she told me she’d been holed up all day working on a spiritual memoir. More specifically, she said the memoir is about her search to figure out where God is during a trauma — in her case, a life-threatening childhood illness. The ensuing conversation reminded me that I hadn’t yet properly reviewed the migraine memoir “A Brain As Wide as the Sky” yet like I promised I would a few weeks ago. I realized the reason I hadn’t written the post yet is the same reason I haven’t written openly about my own migraines since immediately after my stimulator surgery: I had long given up on trying to derive any meaning from them.

I’m not sure how it happened, but somewhere along the way I had internalized the belief that constantly writing or thinking about how migraines impact me means I’m “dwelling” on it too much — and everyone knows that dwelling automatically leads to self pity. And people who indulge in self pity start to use their illness to get out of things and avoid responsibility. This is nonsense, of course, but it took me a long time to understand that.

I knew I would love this book when I saw an excerpt on Amazon where the author, Andrew Levy, compares having a migraine to “being punched in the face by God.” Shockingly, he doesn’t resent God for this — quite the opposite actually. He writes: “Look at what most appalls God: stiff-necked people, people with hardened hearts. As Elaine Scarry writes in an absolutely perfect phrase, God’s ‘forceful shattering of the reluctant human surface and repossession of the interior’ is where the Old Testament action really lies. God doesn’t have an agenda: He just wants us to be pliant, humble, cracks us open like eggshells because that, really, is all we are. And pain is the agent that makes this happen.”

As I mentioned, this book is the reason I decided to call my bike Hildegard, after the eleventh century migraine sufferer and saint, Hildegard Von Bingen. Levy opens one chapter with a passage from her writings: “But I, though I saw and heard these things, refused to write for a long time through doubt and bad opinion and the diversity of human words…until, laid low by the scourge of God, I fell upon a bed of sickness; then, compelled at last by many illnesses, I set my hand to the writing.”

Thankfully, Levy doesn’t spend the whole book talking about migraines through a Christian-only lens. He offers an equally fascinating take on chronic pain and its reasons for existing from Buddhist, Darwinian, Freudian and historical perspectives. For example, he says Buddha is the man for pain: “It seems to me that the migraines accomplish much of what Buddhist teachers hope to accomplish for their pupils with meditation. They clear the mind wonderfully. During a migraine (the worse the better, of course), you will not be thinking about food cravings, or sexual desire, or work anxiety, or all of those worldly matters that calm breathing practices are supposed to sweep from the mind. You will be thinking about the migraine, but even this, somehow, seems right: the Buddhist teachers often recommend focus on some single mantra, some process, some conundrum, some object.”

The historical perspective Levy uncovered was new to me also. I used to consider myself a bit of an expert on famous migraineurs, such as Elvis, but this book was eye opening in that I learned so many of my favorite artists and writers suffered too — no wonder their work has spoken to me for so long. Their ranks include Edward Hopper, Georgia O’Keefe, Van Gogh, Picasso, Dalí, Emily Dickinson, Virginia Woolf, Lewis Carroll, Thomas Jefferson, Charles Darwin, Sigmund Freud, Nietzche, Susan Sontag, Monica Seles, Oliver Sacks, Ulysses S. Grant, Chopin, Rudyard Kipling and lots of others. That these people, despite their level of disability, were still able to make such significant artistic and cultural contributions in their less painful moments is hugely encouraging. His discussion about how pain affects creativity is something I’ve missed in my attempts not to “dwell” on my own suffering.

Writes Levy: “They were all rebellious thinkers — although, sometimes, surprisingly reserved ones, often disabled by what liberated them…it is not enough to tough it out. When migraine doesn’t want you catatonic, it wants you making something new and won’t rest until you do.”

What I appreciated the most about this book though, is how Levy doesn’t sugarcoat the reality of chronic migraines. He doesn’t try to minimize it or spin it into lemonade. He talks about the resentment, the fear, the depression, the anger and the frustration it also inspires. He writes about the dark sides in a way I’ve never been able to fully recognize or articulate. He writes about it without fearing that others will see him as lazy or faking it. He acknowledges that migraine is often seen as a woman’s disease and thus, stigmatizing.

When I saw Andrew Levy speak at the Printer’s Row Book Fair earlier this summer, he and the discussion moderator, Paula Kamen, brought up a point I had never considered before: When you go through life constantly trying to cure your headaches, you’re really missing out on life. By waiting for so many years for my head to get better before making a go of it by myself, I had put my life on hold. Immediately, I was sad it took me 29 years to recognize this, but then I realized some people never figure it out.

In closing, I offer this paragraph from the book (which you should totally read, by the way):

“In the end, you cannot divide the headaches from the art they help produce (or suffocate in infancy). And the wild treatment, the headlong dive across Europe, one’s own skull as the canvas or the clay? In the end, you cannot divide the desperation to find a cure from the need to create, or from the intellectual desire that compels you to try and answer these damn questions, and not live with the question marks.”

Feet, Meet Pedals

What’s the fastest way to combine all of my biggest fears at once: seriously losing my balance in public; flying ass-over-teakettle over the top of a hastily opened car door; running over a small child; making ill-fated impulse transportation purchases; going through a well-intended, going through half-hearted but mostly inexpensive phase?

Turns out buying a 30-year-old bike on Craigslist accomplishes all of the above. After the Jetta-buying Fiasco of 2007, I vowed to wait longer than 24 hours before buying anything with wheels ever again, but a deal is a deal. Which is why I named said bike, a pretty sky-blue1973 Schwinn Suburban, after St. Hildegard, an11th century nun and severe migraine sufferer. A bike can’t go wrong if you give it a saint’s name immediately, right?

(I first read about Hildegard von Bingen in the excellent new migraine memoir “A Brain As Wide As the Sky,” by Andrew Levy. Incidentally, Levy signed my copy of the book at the Printer’s Row Book Fair last weekend, and I plan to post a much lengthier review of it in the very near future.)

The thing nobody realizes when they say something like “Don’t worry, you won’t forget, it’s just like riding a bike,” is that getting back on a bike after many, many years is really hard! If I lived in Princeton I’d haul the bike to a cemetery and re-teach myself the basics — you know — important things such as starting and stopping, making 90 degree turns, playing chicken with cars on narrow roads, and avoiding other potentially deadly hazards.

Instead, on my first jaunt today, I reminded myself of one of the cutest things I’ve ever seen. One day Katie, Ryan and I saw a father teaching his little girl how to ride her bike on a busy street in downtown Evanston. While we waited for a stoplight we overheard the dad ask the girl “Are you OK? Are you scared?” To which she said “Yeah, I’m scared!” Then her dad asked, “On a scale of 1 to 10, how scared are you? Really scared?” “Really scared, a 10,” she said.

Using the same scale, I was probably at a 6 on the relatively quiet residential streets I practiced on today. But I’m within riding distance of a couple big cemeteries, so stay tuned.

But, and this is key, the most important thing is having a patient teacher.

It’s Come To This

The train wreck that was my first real car purchase is a long story — and certainly much more expensive than the pigeon fiasco. I’ve only refrained from telling it on here because I’m still hoping for clearer hindsight. The title of that post, when I inevitably write it, will be “10 Stupid Things I Did In My 20s.” (Look for it in six more months when my 20s will be behind me.)

But since I’ve heard almost entirely bad news from everyone I know this week, I know I could use a little laugh. Even if it’s at my own expense. So what the hell.

With money tighter than usual, whenever the tiniest symptom of potential disaster presents itself, I react with maybe just a tad more urgency than usual. For instance, I emailed building management the second I saw a pigeon land on my windowsill (see post below). When Firefox or Chrome loaded too slowly one day, I rushed my computer to the Geek Squad and made several contingency plans in the event they had to send it out (they didn’t).

So when I got lost on my way to a nannying case last week, I froze when I heard my car make some ominous noises. My radio is almost always on, usually loudly, so I’m somewhat unaware of my car’s usual sounds. If my muffler someday started sounding a little loud, I would be the last one to know. But when I turned the radio down so I could call the family, I noticed a weird rumbly sound I’d never heard before. It seemed to happen whenever I braked, but not the usual squeaky-brakes squeal. Just rumbly. Sickeningly so. I had to be back with the same family the next day and determined I couldn’t take action for a couple days. So I cranked the radio back up so that I could put the scary noise out of my mind — or at least earshot.

Two days later I decided to get it looked at. But after consulting my usual panel of automotive advisors learned that I first needed to take my car for a spin with the radio off and the windows down to get a better sense of where the sounds was coming from.

The minute I got in the car I knew what the problem was: an errant partially full Nalgene-like water bottle. More specifically, my last bit of swag from Kettle Foods. It’d been rolling around on the floor of my backseat — in the company of a couple cans of tennis balls — for a while.

Sure enough, I moved the bottle to a secure location and heard nothing suspicious. I laughed like an idiot for a good three blocks and thanked God that I hadn’t gotten as far as my reliable Firestone. Moral of the story: listen to your dad when he tells you to occasionally turn the music down. And, for the love of God, don’t call “Car Talk.”

Say No To Bugs

A few minutes ago I heard the very, very worst sound in the world: the sound of pigeons cooing. It seems that two of them found a fun little hangout on my bedroom window ledge, just to the left of where their other feathered friends set up their quaint little home last year, on the other side of the window unit. The instant I heard their innocent-seeming noises, I took the pad of paper I was writing on and swatted the bejeezus out of my window until they stubbornly flew away. They were plotting against me, I just know it. Trying to figure out my daily schedule so that they can come back and build a new nest as soon as I'm gone. But I am thwarting their plan. I called the building manager and requested more pigeon spikes. When I get home from my nannying gig, I won't hesitate to get out the anti-pigeon goo and smear it on the ledge. This is war! That is, as soon as I stop itching.

Rumble at the Altar

One of the reasons I signed on to be an on-call nanny while I job hunt is that I have found that being around some kids — usually in direct proportion to their cuteness quotient and degree of crankiness — can give your mood an unexpected and always welcome boost. There were days when I was sick a lot and living at home — days that make unemployment seem like a cake walk — that visits from the kids next door were a godsend. They typically bopped on over, either one-by-one, all at once, or in pairs, unapologetically in search of candy and/or chocolate milk.

When I got better and moved to Evanston I missed their daily knocks on the door. Which is not to say they always knocked. Sometimes I didn’t even know there was anyone else in the house until they knocked on the bathroom door while I was getting out of the shower. But I always made sure I saw them on visits home. There were even some tearful  (theirs, not mine) partings when I inevitably had to leave Princeton.

Now, all of that kind of pales in comparison to the relationship my sister’s fiancé, Ryan, has with them. Their reaction to him can only be likened to Beatlemania. All of them, from the 10 year old to the toddler, can’t get enough of Ryan. And vice-versa. Ryan somehow has the stamina to give countless piggy-back rides and the ability to spark fights over who gets to sit on his lap and who gets to sit on his shoulders. When the kids are worn out from using Ryan as their own personal jungle gym, they curl up next to him and unwind for a while.

Watching Katie and Ryan and the kids interact is a sight to behold. So it was only fitting that they decided to include the girls in their wedding in October. And I, for one, can’t wait. If the ceremony is any reflection of my sister at all, it will be a most low-maintenance and relaxed affair. She is the bridal equivalent of Barack Obama — inviting of others’ opinions and open to suggestions. It’s telling that she was able to find The Dress off-the-rack without any need for alterations. (And sidenote, speaking of weddings, what's wrong with you, California?)

I’m 99.9 percent sure that the whole show will go on without incident. But it would be shortsighted of me not to consider the following scenario: that Garity and Hensley somehow decide that they can’t share Ryan with my sister and make their feelings known when the minister asks if anyone objects to this union. I believe there’s a very small chance that a scene straight out of The Graduate could ensue. Or, in the very least, Ryan may have to compromise and give them piggy-back rides on his and Katie’s way down the aisle. So what makes me concerned? I present some photographs as evidence.

Clearly, Katie and Ryan love each other. Their engagement pictures could warm the cockles of even the most cynical singleton's’ heart. 

See, Ryan obviously loves Katie:

And Katie definitely loves Ryan:

Looking at these pictures, it’s easy to see that Ryan’s adoration of these kids is reciprocated:

Look how Jacob, 10, lights up while he wishes Ryan a happy birthday over the phone:

And if you so much as say Ryan’s name to Garity, 5, you get this sweet little face in return:

Also, when Hensley, 7, turns on the charm, you’re kind of powerless against it.

In the end, though, romantic love will win out.

I mean, look at them.

(If you think this is schmaltzy, just wait till I write my toast for the reception).

Next Stop: The Killing Fields

Perhaps it’s telling that my idea of a pleasant afternoon these days involves making the short trek to Skokie to visit the new Illinois Holocaust Museum and Education Center, but that’s exactly what I did today. Back in April, when it opened, I had found out too late that Bill Clinton and Elie Wiesel were speaking at the grand opening, and missed my ticket-buying window. But due largely to a lull in nannying gigs and a Sarah Vowell reading binge, I decided today was the day I’d finally get over there.

Feeling a little cocky about my own Holocaust knowledgebase and past visit to the mother of all Holocaust museums in Washington, I wasn’t expecting to come out feeling significantly more informed. However, I think that because of this museum’s much smaller footprint, I got a better sense of the enormity of the Holocaust itself. Also, the it’s the fact that it’s in Skokie, and not in a city packed to the gills with overwhelming museums, that brought the experience home. Knowing that plenty of Holocaust survivors and their families live in the area makes it more tangible than looking around and seeing hordes of tourists exiting tour buses.

The most jarring part, initially, was actually entering the museum. The reviews I read correctly reported that the main entrance is difficult to find. Though to be fair, one docent did apologize for the signage throughout not being so great yet. However, there was one museum employee that looked as if he walked the perimeter of the building expressly to find wayward patrons like me and direct them in.

The fact that today may have been the sunniest day of the year so far added to the shock of finally gaining entrance. The box office area is almost completely dark — so much so that it took at least 10 seconds for my eyes to adjust and recognize the faces of the people in the ticket booth and security checkpoints.

When you see the museum from the Edens expressway, you can see that half of the building’s exterior is black and the other half is white, so that you enter in darkness and leave in a much brighter and sunnier part of the building. It’s symbolic for many reasons, which I’ll let the architecture critics and journalists explain more succinctly. But the desired effect works.

It’s been so many years ago that I visited the D.C. museum, so it may very well be that it has a sizable collection of genocide-inspired works of art, but for me, I appreciated that element of the Skokie museum the most. The works of art on display paid homage to other genocides before and since the Holocaust in places such as Rwanda, Cambodia, Bosnia, Darfur, Armenia, Ukraine, Russia and others. And since I’m as inept at describing art as I am describing fragrances, I’ll just say that you should see it in person to get the full effect.

So, in conclusion: definitely visit the museum yourself. And spend the time watching all of the great film snippets throughout the exhibits — since the museum is small you can watch them all and still see everything in a few hours or so. And be sure to plan a less somber activity after you leave. You may need to decompress even after leaving from the white wing.

Monday Night Medical Experiments with Mary

As any parent, pre-school or elementary school teacher can tell you, one of the occupational hazards of spending eight hours a day with little rugrats is acquiring every cold or flu bug that comes around. I should have known I was in for it when I attempted to wipe the nose of a three year old I was babysitting last week. She wouldn’t let me near her with a tissue in my hand, insisting “I’ll just lick it.” I’m trying to learn to pick my battles in the nannying realm, so, “OK, suit yourself,” was all I could do.

 As soon as my cold symptoms started to present themselves yesterday I started reading up on swine flu — err, H1N1 — and determined I wasn’t patient zero. But, in the interest of getting over this cold quickly, or faster than Sudafed could accomplish, I decided to experiment with a neti pot based on the rave reviews of everyone I know who has ever used one — despite warnings that the treatment is often likened to self-waterboarding. After taking a brief poll of 120 of my closest Facebook friends, all of whom endorsed the practice, I bought a $15 neti pot kit at my friendly neighborhood Jewel-Osco.

First, I watched a few YouTube tutorials to study up on technique. It looked straightforward enough. (This guy looks like a pro – maybe he trained at Gitmo?) I did as the instructions directed: lowered my head parallel to the sink, turned my head to the right and poured the water in. However, instead of exiting out the other nostril like it was supposed to, I ended up swallowing the salt water concoction instead. It tasted much like I would expect the Dead Sea to taste. Yum. I tried the other nostril and got the same result. My conclusion, then, is that I acted too late. It would take nasal-grade dynamite to irrigate my sinuses.

So, neti pot FAIL. I guess it’s back to Sudafed, tea and Purell for prevention. The last time I was sick, this happened. It could be worse, I suppose.

The Etiquette of Unemployment Revisited

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For the fourth hour of the Today Show, this is shockingly informative! And it kind of complements my prior musings.

Unemployment According to Vogue

As a general rule, I try to avoid buying magazines that will inspire only rage — such as any issue of Maxim — but the May issue of Vogue called out to me from its impulse-purchase post in the grocery check-out aisle. It was the coverline reading “You’re Fired! Surviving and Thriving After the Pink Slip” that got me.

I thought that maybe I’d kind of be able to relate to the article’s author, a recently laid off Village Voice reporter/editor. But either alternative dailies pay a LOT better than I would’ve thought, or this woman has some other huge source of income that she isn’t disclosing. I can’t figure out if Vogue thought it was providing service journalism or material for a future chick lit novel with this article, but it definitely did not succeed on either front since I could not a) relate to the author or b) feel even the least bit bad for her. Here’s why:

1. For starters, it’s poor form that she even mentions her former company by name. I may not live in Manhattan, but I know the New York media world is small and most people can’t afford to burn bridges like that.
2. The author probably thought she was humbling herself when she said “After the shock wore off I realized I was in much better shape than a lot of other Americans,” and then goes on to admit that she already has a flourishing freelance career. But if that’s the case, why is this article even worth publishing? Finances can’t be that bad if she doesn’t even have to file for unemployment.
3. The author reveals that her low point was the day a fashion designer advised her to attempt to live only off of her freelance income and have her severance payments direct deposited. “I hated this idea. Previously I had kept the money in one big lump and just bought whatever I wanted.” She then suffered the indignity of being told by a banker that after considering fixed expenses, such as her mortgage, maintenance, cable, etc., she should endeavor to spend only $50 a day for everything else.
4. Because she’s a mathematical genius, her BlackBerry’s calculator indicates that she needs to earn a minimum of $92,000 annually to survive. Her attempts at economizing include not spending $900 for a sweater, and buying a stamp pad to make her own business cards instead of having them done at Tiffany like all her friends suggested. She also opts for a $118 silk blouse from Anthrpologie instead of a $1,000 designer version.
5. For an alternative newspaper reporter, this woman is shockingly out of touch with the price of things, especially considering her self-professed shopping addiction. She expresses such sticker shock whilst shopping for home-office supplies: “So we were at Staples, where to my amazement I learned that a combination printer/copier cost only $99, or far less than the cheapest Marc Jacobs T-shirt.”
6. Another pearl of wisdom: “I finally abandoned the budget business entirely. Instead, I concentrated on getting assignments. I stopped being snobby about writing for the Internet.” Oh, the horror!
7.  Finally, Vogue readers are supposed feel uplifted by the author’s moment of clarity by way of the First Lady’s fashion sense: [ed. note: I’m sorry you got dragged into this, Michelle] “On January 20, when Michelle Obama turned up in her glorious Isabel Toledo ensemble, it was impossible to be depressed. If Toledo, the consummate downtown designer who’s had plenty of ups and downs herself, can triumph, I thought, then maybe so can I.” Empowered, she runs back to reclaim an antique sapphire and diamond ring she had to return to the dealer after she was laid off.

Wow, thanks, Vogue. I feel a bit better about myself already!

Read here too.

She Had Me At “I want to be a neurologist when I grow up.”

For the past few weeks now I’ve been working as an on-call babysitter for a nannying agency to tide me over until I find a shiny new full-time job. It may lack benefits, financial security and predictable hours, BUT it’s flexible, doesn’t involve cubicles and always manages to get my mind off of myself. And while I still waffle between “Yeah, I love hanging with the shorties” and “I’m getting my tubes tied immediately,” I have managed to learn a few things:

1. Rocking a baby or toddler to sleep is incredibly soothing -- when you're not the one being rocked -- even if it means leaving someone’s home wearing a cardigan covered with white, crusty baby drool.
2. Potty training — good! Four-year-old diapers — very, very bad.
3. It’s still so funny to me that the same five year old who uses the phrase “Like the pot calling the kettle black,” and says she wants to be a neurologist (and offer a good description of what a neurologist studies) when she grows up still dissolves into tears within seconds of having a Barbie snatched from her lap.
4. I’ve decided my childhood could have been at least 20 percent more fun if I had one of these to ride when I was 5 or 6 (and it's still pretty fun at age 29) instead of Big Wheels: 

5. Child care is exhausting; being an editor is not.

A Day in the Life

As I’ve mentioned in previous posts this Easter weekend I was finally confirmed in the Catholic Church, after many years of procrastination, skepticism and doubt. And as I’ve also mentioned, I decided to use St. Teresa of Avila as my saint name. Saint Teresa is a popular figure at St. Nick’s, and now I can see why. She’s the patron saint of headaches and writers, and is one fiery little woman. As a confirmation gift, my sponsor, Mary, gave me a St. Teresa doll, fashioned by a company that will make any doll if someone sends them a picture of the character they want created.

So, it only seemed appropriate to bring St. Teresa along for my first day as a fully initiated Catholic.

Teresa started her day with a little quiet prayer and reflection. 

Next, Teresa decided that since she had such a long night at the Easter vigil service, she would need a little jolt of caffeine to get through the first part of her day.

Unfortunately, because of the busy weekend and lack of sleep she endured, Teresa developed a migraine, which is fitting considering that headaches were a big part of her life. As she wrote:

No sooner does our head ache than we stop
going to [prayer], which won’t kill us either.
We stay away one day because our head ached,
another because it was just now aching, and
three more so it won’t ache again.

Teresa was also a voracious reader. To my surprise, Teresa and I have a lot of the same books on our shelves!:

Here, my two favorite ladies chit-chat about their shared history of headaches and love of writing.

Teresa approves of this book too (even though it's on loan).

Teresa likes to read up on modern nuns (especially the Carmelites) in the book Unveiled: The Hidden Lives of Nuns.

However, Teresa has one interest that I don’t share, and that is her taste in music.

After a busy morning of chatting about books and drinking coffee, it was time for me and my parents to go to Ryan’s dad’s house for dinner. Teresa kept us safe on our drive up to Lake Forest from her post on the dashboard.

Here, Teresa displays her notable appreciation for fun and whimsy.

For desert, Ryan’s grandfather made his famous whiskey cake. And guess what? Teresa liked it too!

Finally, Teresa and I brought our long day to a close.

Happy Easter!