My Year of Living Dangerously

Nothing to see here...

2010-10-09T22:37:00.002-05:00

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

Where PCs Go To Die

2010-01-14T14:33:00.002-06:00

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

2009-12-30T18:37:00.004-06:00

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

2009-12-17T09:04:00.001-06:00

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

2009-12-09T16:06:00.005-06:00

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

2009-11-10T13:38:00.004-06:00

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

2009-11-10T12:43:00.003-06:00

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

2009-07-07T17:29:00.004-05:00

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

2009-07-05T00:22:00.007-05:00

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

2009-06-11T22:54:00.011-05:00

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

2009-06-04T23:33:00.003-05:00

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

2009-05-27T10:46:00.005-05:00

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

2009-05-26T23:23:00.018-05:00

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

2009-05-12T18:07:00.003-05:00

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

2009-05-04T21:39:00.002-05:00

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

2009-04-23T13:14:00.002-05:00

Visit msnbc.com for Breaking News, World News, and News about the Economy

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

Unemployment According to Vogue

2009-04-21T23:50:00.007-05:00

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:

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.
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.
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.
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.
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.”
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!
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.”

2009-04-16T19:40:00.010-05:00

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:

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.
Potty training — good! Four-year-old diapers — very, very bad.
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.
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

2009-04-12T22:34:00.017-05:00

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!

The Cheese Stands Alone

2009-04-07T22:12:00.003-05:00

Last spring I wrote an essay for Telling Stories but wasn't able to be in Denver to read it myself. The theme for this particular Telling Stories show was "Table For One." When I was spring cleaning my hard drive this afternoon, I saw that it needed some cleaning up too and decided to post it here.

The Cheese Stands Alone

Whoever coined the phrase “God works in mysterious ways” didn’t know the half of it. My own connection to God, or any deity, is flimsy at best sometimes, so there’s a pretty good chance that I’ve missed a lot of the hints that the universe has been trying to send my way. In fact, it’s possible that I’ve become so closed off and so oblivious that one day God finally got sick of it and decreed: “Mary, I couldn’t possibly be more obvious – if you miss the symbolism this time, I’m sending you back to high school English.”

Life changing revelations, I’ve learned, don’t present themselves all at once. Rather, they are small and cumulative, and if examined individually, don’t amount to much. But sometimes they come on so fast, and so quickly, you almost miss them.

In October of 2005 I was 25 years old, living at home with my parents in my small, rural Illinois hometown. I had been there since I graduated from college -- with delays -- in 2002, and there were very few signs that this arrangement would be changing any time soon. Although living with one’s parents after college reeks of laziness in healthy people, for me it felt like anything but. When I lived by myself for my last year and a half in college, it took all the energy I had to make it to my classes on some days, so there was precious little leftover for basic cleaning and grocery shopping and multiple doctor’s office visits. Moving back in with my parents didn’t feel like defeat — it felt like a relief. A relief to not have to worry about getting everything done by myself. And it gave my parents some peace of mind too. Being a four-hour drive away took its toll on them, so they were more than happy to be able to keep tabs on me.

So by October of 2005, I had been trying for over a year to qualify for a very experimental surgery that offered some hope for helping the migraines that sidelined me. After a grueling screening process at the hands of a highly selective neurosurgeon, I had finally been given the green light from him, but then faced an even bigger monster: an insurance company that didn’t recognize pain management as “medically necessary.”

The months leading up to the insurance company’s refusal to comply had been so bleak that my parents thought it might perk me up to take me along on my dad’s business trip to San Diego. Even though migraines aren’t conducive to the unexpected hassles of air travel, or the invasions of privacy involved in sharing a small hotel room with one’s parents for five days, I relished the thought of a change of scenery. This would be my first trip to California, the west coast and the Pacific, and maybe a chance to experience the famously laidback culture in a way I could bring back with me.

Instead, what should have been a restorative, worry-free trip became just the opposite. I was too ill much of the time to enjoy or participate in any of the sightseeing, and when I wasn’t sick I moped, felt sorry for myself and burst into tears in restaurants, convention halls, gift shops, the San Diego Zoo, hotel lobbies. Two of my dad’s relatives from L.A. came down to meet us, and despite my protests that I would be a huge buzz kill for the rest of the afternoon, they convinced me to come along on a trip up the coast to La Jolla, a place I only associated with reruns of “My Super Sweet Sixteen.”

I did manage to take at least some joy in parts of the trip – the sun, sailors (it was San Diego’s Fleet Week after all), having mountains and foothills on one side of me and an ocean on the other; even the Santa Anna winds weren’t unbearable. But mostly, the trip just served as a reminder that I needed someone else’s help to get through something as easy and run of the mill as a vacation. My silly, self-pitying self wondered if I would’ve been able to navigate the airports, keep track of my boarding pass, negotiate transportation, make reservations — all the minutia that planning even something fun involves – on my own. How was I much different than those insufferable Sweet Sixteeners I scorned? But mostly, on that trip, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was a third wheel, and that what my parents really needed was a vacation from worrying about me. I had never been so anxious for a vacation to end, and I suspected my parents thought the same.

Flash forward about two and a half years.

It’s the second week of January 2008 and I was about to embark on a business trip. It’s been a year and a half since I finally procured the aforementioned experimental surgery. I still have migraines but am outfitted with a tiny titanium battery implanted in my lower back, attached to wires that snake all the way up my neck and back, to my head, where electrodes are attached to a nerve under my skin and held in place by some trusty scar tissue. The system isn’t perfect, but it’s much better.

In December my boss asked if I would mind attending the Winter Fancy Foods Show, which is put on twice a year by the National Association for the Specialty Food Trade. The show takes place in a massive convention center packed with 1,100 or so exhibitors showing off only the finest specialty/gourmet foods that, quite literally, the world has to offer. The show is usually held in San Francisco, but this year it was moved to San Diego.

When I started to make my travel arrangements I had no intention to plan a trip that so closely paralleled the one with my parents, so it was mostly a coincidence that I picked the same Holiday Inn I’d stayed at with them. It helped that I subsequently knew the lay of the land, and which direction the convention center was from the hotel; of course the show was in the same convention center that my dad’s had been.

To some degree I was worried that all the leftover bad karma from the first trip would contaminate the second — that the whole déjà vu feeling would trigger some sort of meltdown. It didn’t. I even kept my cool when I had to endure the full body pat down by the TSA agents in the airport, as I can’t go through metal detectors with my device. Actually, I suspect the agents were more uncomfortable than I was whenever they assured me that they were using the backs of their hands when they reached a “sensitive” area.

The room was almost identical to the one I shared with my parents, but I was almost giddy with the contentment of having it all to myself. I loved the foghorns, the tacky paint job on the Holiday Inn’s exterior, the rude concierge and the irritated Chinese delivery guy. I didn’t even care that the takeout was crap since I knew the next three days would make up for it.

It wasn’t until the next morning when I stepped out onto the room’s patio in an attempt to soak up some much needed California sun and fresh air that I started to sense that I didn’t need to worry about the rest of the trip being a repeater of the first one — that it might be possible to replace the bad memories with the better ones.

The rest of the day is a blur of high-end chocolate, champagne, gelato, fair trade tea, specialty cheese, and gourmet popcorn. I got over my fear of talking to all the exhibitors about their products, and in some cases invented ridiculous reasons to stop by some booths for more samples, even though I had already been by once that day.

For dinner that night, my dad’s relatives came down again from L.A. to see me, and I picked a spot in Little Italy that my parents and I had been obsessed with. When we found each other in the hotel lobby, we all immediately remarked on how different the reunions were and marveled about it the rest of the night.

The next day, my second day of the show, was much like the first except that I was attending a press trip to La Jolla, sponsored by a dairy industry association. The restaurant we were going to even had a startlingly similar name and was only a few doors down from the restaurant my parents and I had been to with our relatives.

When we got to the restaurant, I immediately gave away my newbie status when I tipsily wondered out loud if it would be tacky of me to pull out a notebook and write down everything I ate, and its price, so that I could remember later. Turns out, a month or two later, I still remember.

A few days ago at work I received two big hunks of suitably aged — and correspondingly smelly — Wisconsin cheese in the mail, courtesy of the association, who apologized by saying the cheese wasn’t at its prime when we sampled it in La Jolla. When I opened the Styrofoam cooler that held the cheese and ice packs, I got the feeling that the noxious fumes were another sign, or reminder from the universe — or whoever it is who’s in charge of dropping hints — that I’m more than capable of taking care of myself now. What’s even more absurd is that I ever doubted I could. On that trip, I was so content to fly solo that I almost regret that I never had the opportunity to ask for a table for one.

The Etiquette of Unemployment

2009-04-01T23:01:00.005-05:00

For the newly laid off, one of the coldest comforts is that in this economy being laid off doesn’t carry the stigma it used to. And chances are good that if you lost your job, you don’t have to look very hard to find someone else in your situation. In fact, if anyone were to ask me for advice on handling unemployment, I would tell them to immediately begin looking for a layoff buddy, whether that person is another victim from your company or industry, or even someone who’s currently employed but has been through it before. This is important for me partly because I can’t seem to find any clear cut etiquette guidelines for being unemployed. I keep hoping someone else will teach me the ropes.

Before this recession started to affect me and my friends and colleagues, I might have advised against discussing the layoff at length in public forums such as this blog. But since unemployment is cutting across so many income levels and tax brackets in this recession, talking openly about it seems like a win-win for everyone.

But this new openness has its drawbacks too. I was relieved to find out that another one of my friends has been struggling with the same etiquette-related conundrums I have been. One of our biggest bugaboos is trying to figure out how much whining and complaining is allowable and expected.

It’s only natural to react strongly to losing your job early on, as you figure out what you have to do to make ends meet and launch your new job hunt. But at what point, or after how long, does your worrying become excessive and wearying for others? The statistics seem to report that American workers are facing longer bouts of unemployment than in the past. It’s fine to confide your worries and frustrations to friends and family, but it’s hard not to feel guilty about dragging them as well. But, at the same time, like my friend said “I know I’m not exactly starving to death in Darfur, but I need to vent too!” There must be a socially acceptable happy medium.

And then there is the delicate issue of what to do with your social life when you lose a big chunk of your livelihood. Your friends — who most likely are facing economic worries of their own — aren’t going to be able to buy you drinks for the duration. And you shouldn’t want or expect them to. Sure, you can entertain at home more, but having the spare time to catch up with friends for lunch or drinks is one of the upsides to not having a 9-to-5 job anymore — at least in the beginning.

So, again, the layoff buddy comes in handy for these kinds of troubles. But the one area of unemployment that you kind of have to navigate on your own is the tricky business of figuring out what to do with the residual anger that latches on to you when you lose your job. After all, nothing is more impolite than walking around with a chip on your shoulder. Commiserating about the circumstances of your layoff ad nauseum won’t help you much in the long run, either. Doing this can lead to an “us-versus-them” mentality, which can sabotage your efforts to land a new job.

One of my tricks for combating this is by practicing what I call Therapy By Proxy. When money is tight you’re less likely to run out and hire a therapist to guide you through the recession. But that doesn’t mean you can’t listen to the advice your friend’s (who may or may not be your layoff buddy) therapist gives her! For example, a friend’s therapist advised her to journal all of her angry thoughts, telling her that once she gets them all out of her head, she’ll figure out what to do with them.

I decided to do something similar. Since I’m planning to be confirmed on Easter, one of the hurdles I had to clear was going to confession for the first time in many, many years. I thought that if I was able to vocalize to a priest all the anger I felt towards my company, I could be free from it. I kind of expected to experience a flood of relief after he assigned my penance, or that I would feel “shiny and new” as one friend put it. But it wasn’t that dramatic at all. I finally just realized sloughing off all the resentment is more of a process than I thought.

So I guess the moral of the story is this: don’t feel guilty for having a very emotional reaction to losing your job, and don’t feel like you must be a robot if you find yourself feeling kind of detached. Also, flood “Dear Prudence” and “Ask Amy” with emails begging them to write an etiquette guide for the newly unemployed. Someone’s got to do it.

*I wrote this for Hard Working too, hence all the layoff-related posts.

Ain’t No Bugs on Me: Part III

2009-03-31T23:05:00.012-05:00

In the spirit of reconciliation and atonement — (last night was the first time I’ve been to confession since I was 13) — I was prepared to make peace with all of pigeonkind, including the nest above the doorway of an apartment two floors below me. The first time I saw the nest back in January, I contemplated calling Vasco again to see about removal. But, it was in the middle of a long winter and I didn’t want to render two proud pigeon parents childless yet again.

Besides, I had noticed that someone got rid of the initial nest, leaving the eggs unattended for what I thought was a fatal length of time. When I saw the nest had been re-built I was kind of touched to find the parents tending to it again. When I asked an uncle, a bird expert of sorts, about the eggs’ chances for survival, he said the odds were low that baby birds would result. The pigeon parents, however, would be just as likely to tend to marbles as they would viable eggs.

But no such luck. Before long, the eggs hatched. I couldn’t very well ask for the nest’s destruction at this point. That would mean committing avian infanticide. So I kept my mouth shut as long as I could. As the babies grew, the nest started to fall apart and scatter all over the landing. Also, four pigeons means four times the pigeon poo, which for a tiny space is a lot of poo. Getting the situation solved took three phone calls and a lot of psychosomatic itching. But at least it’s gone and I remain guilt-free.

So, back to last summer.

After three days of getting nowhere on the extermination and delousing front, I took up residence at a Fairfield Inn where the bed linens were gloriously white and free from the creepy crawlies. If there were any residual mites left on me or my clothing, I would surely find them on the spotless sheets and commence killing. After finding out that the skin infection I had, called impetigo, wasn’t contagious, I went back to work as usual.

Having not heard from my building’s management for days at this point, I started calling all the departments in Cook County and the city of Evanston that I thought might be able to intercede. After a couple calls, I was able to determine that this could easily be considered a public health issue and went from there. The kind man who answered my call at the Health Dept. said he’d call management and see that it got taken care of.

Within minutes the building manager got back to me after three days of missed calls, and agreed to pay for half of the time spent in the hotel; for a cleaning service to come in; the doctor and drug bills; the cost of cleaning supplies; the cost of laundering all of my clothing, bed linens, futon cover, throw rugs and blankets; as well as the cosmetics, toiletries and pillows that I had to replace.

After that, everything rapidly started to improve. Giddy with relief, I was able to find a nice cleaning service that could thoroughly remove all traces of dead mite exoskeletons and remnants my Raid foggers. Then my mom, God bless her, came up to Evanston to help me with the laundry nightmare that was stuffing every stitch of fabric in my apartment into a front-loading washing machine at my dilapidated neighborhood laundromat — a feat that cost $40 in quarters.

But before the professionals came in to clean, my mom and I donned masks and charged into my apartment to bag up my clothes and vacuum what we could with our Shop-Vac. We were chagrined to find that while the building engineer dutifully removed my two window A/C units for cleaning, he neglected to put up anything to cover the open window left behind, leaving god knows what to fly in and wreak bird havoc in my already ravaged apartment. I ended up taping a street map of Chicago over one empty window and a piece of cardboard over the other. Exhausted after our cleaning binge, we returned to the hotel and its pristine white sheets and retired for the night.

The next morning we got up early so we could let the cleaning service in and then resigned ourselves to the laundromat for what turned out to be about 14 loads of laundry. We ran a shockingly efficient operation, shuffling loads between the washers and dryers and making polite small talk with the homeless people that wander in and out of the facility all day. By noon, we were done with the laundry just in time to pay the cleaning service.

The hard part, now, was keeping my paranoia at bay while I got used to life without bugs.

I vacuumed every inch of my mattress and furniture and invested in a Dustbuster in case I ever had trouble telling the difference between lint and mites. Still traumatized, it took me three nights to work up the nerve to actually sleep in my bed. I was convinced that the mites had all laid eggs in the mattress and that hatching was imminent. Then, it was weeks before I could get into bed without giving my sheets a good once-over. I briefly considered buying a magnifying glass for this purpose.

In another exercise in paranoia, I asked the building manager to install pigeon spikes outside all of my windows. Through a little online research I learned that pigeons prefer to roost on ledges on a building’s top floor, and especially on ledges facing a courtyard, which mine did. Since I knew it could be a few days until the landlord got around to doing it, I bought what I can only describe as anti-pigeon goo. This concoction is designed to burn the feet of any pigeon that chooses to land on a surface covered with it. It only bothers me a little bit that I have no reservations about being this vigilant.

Thus far, my paranoia has paid off as my apartment has been spared from any further infestations. However, this is just the first step in my crusade against infestation. I will not rest until I see pigeon spikes on every ledge of my building. And my neighbors will thank me. Oh, how they will thank me.

On The Radio

2009-03-30T16:04:00.006-05:00

And now that I have that Regina Spektor song in my head...I will be making my first -- and hopefully not last -- appearance on Chicago Public Radio/WBEZ tomorrow morning on the program Eight Forty-Eight. I will be reading the essay I wrote about narrowly avoiding a speeding ticket while driving through Glencoe on my way to work last November. If they are able to connect, the producers hope to interview the police officer that gave me life/career advice instead of a ticket. Eight Forty-Eight airs in Chicago between 9:00 a.m. and 10:00 a.m. You can stream (click the 'Listen Now' button) the broadcast here. Or, you can read the text of the essay or listen to the podcast here. The incident was one of my primary inspirations for starting this blog, so I plan to publish the full-length version of the story here eventually, as the radio version is substantially shorter.

Why St. Teresa of Avila Is My Kind of Saint

2009-03-22T14:08:00.006-05:00

Long story short, I’m finally getting confirmed this Easter -- I know, imagine that! -- which means it’s time for me to pick my saint name. When I found out St. Teresa of Avila (1515-1582) was the patron saint of headaches, it was a no-brainer — although she did face stiff competition from St. Elmo, the patron saint of women in labor; St. Clare, the patron saint of television; and St. Isidore of Seville, the patron saint of the Internet.

I haven’t had time to read an actual book about St. Teresa since deciding on her, so I’ve been cobbling together interesting tidbits about her courtesy of Wikipedia and similar sources. The more I read, the more I like her.

Typically, I don’t have much in common with mystic Carmelite nuns from Spain, but there’s an awful lot about St. Teresa that I can relate to, even though we live centuries apart. Here are a few examples:

1. When I was in second or third grade I went through a very pious phase and wanted to be a nun (likely inspired by the character Marie on “Just the Ten of Us”). Needless to say, that particular phase didn’t last long, but I can’t count the number of times I’ve heard myself or other frustrated daters say “I should just join a convent.” I was kind of comforted to read that St. Teresa had similar thoughts. She’s often described as a social butterfly and no stranger to love affairs. She first spent some time in a convent as a teenager in an attempt by her father to discipline her. That attempt was short-lived, and she returned to her home. Says one site:

Back at home, Teresa was once again faced with the choice: marriage to whoever could be found (and with each passing year her marriageability was lessening) or the convent. She finally decided on the convent, out of the certainty that otherwise she was bound to go to hell.”

Word.

2. You also could say that it was Catholic guilt that drove her, as a very young child, to attempt to turn herself over to the Moors who were carrying out the Spanish Inquisition. Her grandfather had been a Jew that converted to Christianity as a result of the Inquisition, leading St. Teresa to feel that she should become a martyr for the cause. Luckily, a relative found her before she could walk out of town.

3. The first thing, of course, that drew me to St. Teresa was the headache connection. And it looks like she suffered from a number of chronic conditions. However, it was this paragraph or two on one site that I identified with the most:

“…Yet instead of helping her spiritually, her sickness became an excuse to stop her prayer completely: she couldn't be alone enough, she wasn't healthy enough, and so forth…When she was 41, a priest convinced her to go back to her prayer, but she still found it difficult. "I was more anxious for the hour of prayer to be over than I was to remain there. I don't know what heavy penance I would not have gladly undertaken rather than practice prayer." She was distracted often: "This intelect is so wild that it doesn't seem to be anything else than a frantic madman no one can tie down."

She eventually was credited with a technique called “mental prayer” and wrote extensively on the subject, but this little bit about her echoed the reasons I’ve used to claim that I’m “bad at religion.” I’ve always felt like religion and faith seem to come more easily to other people — like it’s a skill or something that I have to train for. Like wind sprints. For instance, when I go to church, after I walk in and find a seat, I can only kneel and pray for one or two minutes before succumbing to distraction and giving up. It’s probably more like 30 seconds, actually. It must look to others like I’m either a super efficient prayer or have church-specific ADD.

4. St. Teresa is famous for a lot of her writing (she’s also the patron saint of Spanish writers) and advice, but this quote is one of my favorites: “I do not fear Satan half so much as I fear those who fear him.” I like this because it was relevant during her lifetime — with the Spanish Inquisition and other major upheavals in the Church — and during ours. It’s a useful antidote to the likes of Fred Phelps and other hate mongers that use their beliefs to justify bigotry. I guess some things never change.

Between a Rock and a Hard Place

2009-03-13T20:16:00.006-05:00

When I got laid off I felt, oddly enough, as if I had finally been given a solid return on my investment — because most often I worry endlessly about things that never come to pass. For once, the worst case scenario became a reality. But now, even though I don’t have a new job yet, I’m starting to think that unemployment is far from the worst case scenario.

Franklin Roosevelt was on to something when, during the great depression, he cautioned “The only thing we have to fear is fear itself.” I used to think it was a nice sentiment, but was never quite able to put it into use, nor did I comprehend why it was such useful advice at the time. But now I see examples of this daily, if not hourly. And nowhere is it more evident — at least to me — than in the workplace. Even if you no longer have one.

To me, the prospect of being trapped in a job where you endure daily attacks on your character, talents and abilities is worse than the alternative. Many people have told me that the day they were laid off was one of the best days of their lives, although that comes as cold comfort when you’re newly laid off. They told me that they started to see severance checks as an incentive or reward for getting away from their abusive boss or toxic work environment. Granted, they may be singing a different song if they have mouths to feed and a mortgage to pay. But as Reid McCormish pointed out, the recession has made people more afraid to stand up for themselves and confront the source of the problem out of fear of retribution. The squeaky wheel gets the grease, but it may also give your company a rationale for laying you off instead of your quieter but equally as qualified coworker.

And I’m no group psychologist, but it seems lately that the recession brings out the worst in people, from Bernie Madoff to gossipy office drones — especially if their industry has been hard hit, such as the real estate, publishing, construction or auto industries. As one friend put it to me recently, the workplace would be so much more humane if people reacted to financial uncertainties with love rather than fear.

For example, a friend of mine worked for a non-profit that she adored but had to deal with a boss who became increasingly insulting as finances there worsened. Instead of having a calm, straightforward discussion about the budget, my friend’s boss fostered a hostile work environment where nobody was happy. I suspect a lot of employers are in similar situations and are hesitant to spend the severance and unemployment contributions required to lay workers off. Instead, they find more subtle and insidious ways to make employees miserable enough to up and quit. That way they never have to publicly risk looking like the bad guy.

A quieter form of on-the-job and job-search misery comes in the form of incongruous ethical standards between employer and employee. In the face of potential layoffs and prolonged bouts of unemployment, current and would-be employees are stuck between a rock and a hard place when it comes to reconciling what their boss and what their conscience demands they do. The marketplace is full of conflicting interests, but nobody wants to seem fickle when they’ve been out of a job for six months.

A former professor from my alma mater graciously returns emails and dispenses advice to graduates dealing with professional upheavals. She shared with me a response she gives when asked about such conflicts:

I am seriously uneasy about anybody ever taking a job just because they need the work. I see that as a failure waiting to happen. Yes, the opportunities right now might seem highly limited, but look for the long term. Will this job help you get where you want when the sun again shines on the economy (and it will), or will it hinder you from achieving your ultimate goals?

Look at this as a marriage. Would you jump at marrying that jerk you met in a bar just because you’re tired of being single? I seriously hope not. Nor would you stay in an abusive relationship.

[It seems as if I’m not the only one to notice similarities between matters of the heart and a new job search].

In other words, don’t make decisions this important based on fear. Or, as my friend’s boyfriend put it when she was struggling with her beloved non-profit, “Don’t make any decisions while you’re still crying.”

One couldn't possibly go wrong in following such sound advice.

This post is mirrored here.

Ain’t No Bugs On Me: Part 2

2009-03-05T13:59:00.007-06:00

Just prior to penning the first installment of my pigeon problem, my pigeon paranoia resurfaced when I noticed that an apartment two floors below mine had a pigeon nest above the back door. All of the other units in my part of the building have a similar ledge above the door too, but the rest, except for this one unit’s, are screened off. This is prime pigeon real estate; it’s still facing a courtyard that pigeons love, but it’s out of the wind.

I first noticed it one day when I started climbing my stairs only to find mama and papa pigeon trading places, which involved flying right over my head in the narrow stairwell, as they tended to the nest and eggs. I’m pretty sure I hit the deck while they swooped in and out. A day or two later, the remnants of the nest were on the stairway, where it looked like someone, smartly, tried to get rid of it. But pigeons are nothing if not persistent, and the nest was reassembled a couple days later.

Ever since, every time I enter or leave the building I have to come face to face with a pigeon. And I know what they’re thinking: “That’s the girl that had our last nest destroyed. Home wrecker! Let’s dive bomb her!”

Their beedy little eyes are full of loathing. Of that I’m certain.

But back to the first pigeon crisis.

On that rainy Monday morning where we left off, I made a run to the local Ace store frantically in search of bug bombs. I got back home just as the building engineer, Vasco, got there. He helped me identify them vaguely as “bird mites.” I had to vacate for a few hours while the bug bombs took effect, so I called in for a personal day from work and rounded up some things and took refuge at my sister’s, where I finally was able to take a shower. I made sure the water was as hot as I could tolerate and scrubbed and shampooed until I felt bug and itch free.

Vasco had promised me he’d call an exterminator in case the bombs didn’t finish the job and get rid of the nest. Despite numerous calls to Vasco throughout the day, I was not able to get through to him to find out the status of the bug bombs or to find out if the exterminator had been there yet. At that point I started looking in the yellow pages for exterminators to see if I could find someone who could at least tell me what the protocol was — did I need to boil and wash all my bed linens, clothes, rugs, furniture? Would the chemicals from the bombs and exterminator be harmful? And then, how to deal with the millions of dead bug carcasses after the fogger kicked in? Nobody could tell me. And Vasco was nowhere to be found.

I eventually decided Monday night to go back to my apartment, gather up enough clothes and necessities for a couple days, and stay at my sister’s, or somewhere else, until I could get in and do a thorough cleaning.

I entered through the back door, which has an outer screen door, and another door with a window. Immediately I noticed broken glass on the steps and saw a big triangular corner knocked out of the window. Flabbergasted and more than a tad upset, I called Vasco again, and finally got ahold of him. He was very apologetic and apologized for accidentally breaking my window with a hammer when he’d been there earlier. Still livid, I did a walk-through to evaluate whether there were any bugs left that were moving.

For the most part, everything was pretty much dead, though one or two were still crawling here and there. I rounded up another batch of clothes, which I was instructed to put in the dryer. Supposedly, the heat of a dryer would kill anything left on the fabric.

A friend told me I could stay at her place with her roommates since she was out of town, so I packed for the next night or two and went over to her place. But in the process of carrying my clothes down to her washer and dryer in the basement, some sort of giant beetle attached itself to my tee-shirt without my knowing it (to get to the basement, I had to go outside). With my clothes safely dried, I parked myself on their couch in front of the TV to unwind. But shortly after I sat down I felt something stinging me, like a bee-sting, on my lower back. I jumped up and found that huge, grayish/brown beetle and screamed. I decided to flee again to my sister’s for the night.

I had never particularly bug phobic — I stayed in Girl Scouts until I was in high school for crying out loud — but that day did me in.

I stayed with my sister for two nights as I was again playing phone tag with Vasco. It had taken him 2-3 days to get an exterminator over to fog and spray the place, and I told them I wouldn’t be back until they got rid of the offending nest. This, I didn’t realize, is a little controversial in the exterminating world. Some exterminators said spraying the nest would kill any remnants of bugs. However, the act of throwing it away could result in throwing all the bug exoskeletons into the air, which could be harmful to asthmatics or people with breathing problems. I asked Vasco to have the exterminator call me so I could ask him how to clean thoroughly and to find out exactly what kinds of mites I was dealing with (nobody seemed to know for sure).

By the third or fourth day of not hearing back from Vasco, my mom told me to go stay in a hotel out of courtesy to my sister. At this point the red bumps on my legs developed into irritated sores so I started calling doctors. One doctor I reached told me that whatever I had could be extremely contagious and that I shouldn’t be at work and should cancel the business trip I was scheduled to go on. I opted to go to an urgent care facility for a diagnosis since I didn’t want to wait for an appointment. I learned that I just had a skin infection, which was not contagious. I did not, the verynice doctor promised, have the scabies-like infection I was afraid I had. Oral and topical antibiotics would take care of it.

I had given up on getting ahold of Vasco and started calling management instead. I wanted to make sure the nest was gone and that my window units would get a thorough cleaning. I also wanted compensation for the hotel, doctor’s visit and belongings I had to replace as a result of this mess.

However, nobody called me back…until I called the Evanston health department.

To be continued….

...Or Hardly Working?

2009-03-01T21:09:00.002-06:00

I keep meaning to add a link off to the left for WBEZ/Chicago Public Radio's excellent ongoing series about jobs and joblessness, called Hard Working. When I read on the blog dedicated to the series that they wanted to hear from college grads aged 20-35 being impacted by the recession, I sent them a little note. As a result, I will now be contributing to the blog by sharing some of what I write here with them, starting with this post.

Trend Story Idea: Pyramid Schemes (or Multi-Layer Marketing schemes) Flourish in Bad Economy

2009-02-25T21:27:00.007-06:00

If I could find — and I’m sure I could if I looked — just two more un- or under-employed people who’ve had a similar experience recently, I would have an honest to goodness trend on my hands. But since I don’t want to work that hard just for one blog post, I’ll just make an educated assumption: desperate times make people more desperate and more vulnerable to get-rich-quick schemes. This phenomenon, therefore, makes networking events a target-rich environment for peddlers of such traps. So, based on my somewhat limited anecdotal evidence, I present to you “Five Signs You Have a Pyramid-Shaped Target On Your Back.”

If you attend a networking event, regardless of how reputable the venue, chances are good that you’re in a room full of people who have at some point worked in sales. You aren’t being a cynical Debbie Downer if you suspect that someone might try to sell you something, either on the spot or once you’ve added them to your LinkedIn network a week later.
If the facilitator of such an event glosses over what he or she does for a living but mentions vaguely that they work from home and that they are available to talk later if anyone wants to know more. If they hesitate to explain their career publicly, there’s probably a good reason. Unless, of course, they work for the CIA or FBI. But in that case, what would they be doing at a networking event anyway?
If someone latches on to a health problem you mentioned in passing and aggressively asserts that they know of a product that could definitely help you, be wary. Be especially suspicious if such a product can cure every disease under the sun, from autism to herniated discs.
“There’s safety in numbers” is a good adage to live by, but if two people (particularly if one of them has questionable social skills) BOTH take a keen interest in your health and employment situation, don’t second guess your suspicion that they might have ulterior motives.
And finally, if you agree to meet up with these people at a Starbucks, and they whip out brochures, it’s completely safe to hear them out, even though the chances that their miracle nutritional shakes will cure you of your chronic condition are slim to none. If they then ask you to think of three people who might be interested in making an investment and running a business out of their home, you aren’t being a jerk to question this cure-all. However, if they start drawing a flow chart of your friends and family and the result is a pyramid-shaped chart, then excuse yourself and leave. And don’t feel like an even bigger jerk for not returning their calls and emails, because you have just escaped a lifetime of debt and self-delusion. Congratulations!

This post is mirrored here.

FYI

2009-02-22T09:31:00.003-06:00

Three years ago I started a blog. Two and a half years ago I deleted it from the Interwebs. I saved most of the posts in a Word document and decided this weekend to re-post some of them. For a much better explanation, click here.

Ain’t No Bugs On Me: Part 1

2009-02-20T22:38:00.010-06:00

It always starts with dead birds — in the movies that is — when a film foreshadows that a killer virus, radiation-poisoning or Erin Brokovich-level of toxic contamination is about to strike in human populations. But when I came home from work one Friday in July, and threw open the French windows in my bedroom for some fresh air, I didn’t really give the rotting baby bird on the window ledge a second thought beyond “oh my god how do I get rid of this smell?”

Getting rid of the smell was the easy part — I made someone else do it. I wasn’t sure how long my little feathered friend had been lying on the tiny little ledge, which served as an unstable balcony, outside the window. So I gave the friend, who had a stronger stomach than I, a broom and he pushed the little creature to its final resting place in the weeds/hedge three floors below. Problem solved. Or so I thought.

***

Prior to the dead bird incident, I had noticed one weekend when I laid down for nap that there was a bird’s nest in the little nook next to where the back end of my window unit stuck out. Since my apartment is too big for one air conditioner to do the job, I used the one in my bedroom at night, and the one in my living room if I was around in the daytime. Since I was only in my bedroom at night, when the old, old A/C unit rattled away, I was never able to hear the birds over that racket at night.

***

A couple weeks later when I came home from work on another Friday in July, I started to itch, all over my body, but wasn’t sure why. I had recently switched medications and sometimes in the past that has triggered itching, but there was never any signs of a rash. This time there was — lots of little red bumps. I frantically called my doctor’s after-hours physician to ask if it could be drug related. She said probably not. I called my mom next, and she suspected it was a heat rash since the itchiest spots were around waistbands and where clothing was the tightest. Take a cold shower, take some Benedryl, find some calamine or Benedryl lotion, she said, you’ll be fine.

And it was fine for the rest of the weekend — intermittently — although at one point Sunday night, I had to get off the phone with a friend for a serious itching jag. The red bumps were back and I suspected I was losing my mind. In all of the addiction and mental illness memoirs I had ever read, psychosomatic itching was usually the first symptom of a nervous breakdown. Or a bad reaction to a hallucinogen. In the memoirs, the episode usually ended in a thorazine drip.

I would’ve tried a shower again, but my building’s hot water went out over the weekend. A shower would have to wait. I slathered myself with as much anti-itch lotion as I could find and went to bed with the help of some more Benedryl.

***

I still can’t quite describe the horror I woke up to the next morning, a Monday. Still itching vigorously, I washed my hair in the kitchen sink, thanks to the lack of hot water. After I dried my hair I noticed something tiny — practically microscopic — crawling on my arms. And my ankles. And stomach. And I saw bigger, redder spots on my shins. And that’s when I decided to check my bed linens. I had managed to get through childhood without a lice outbreak, but I knew that sheets had to be all but boiled for de-lousing. Sure enough, I looked at my bed and teeny, tiny black, red and almost translucent flakes of black pepper were crawling on my off-white sheets. They were also on my towels in the bathroom and in my makeup bag.

(It’s a testament to my vanity that I still didn’t abstain from some bare-bones makeup application at this point.)

Half hysterical, I called my parents for advice.

Dad: Go to your Ace store and get the Raid bug bombs in the blue box.

Mom: We’re kind of in the middle of a tornado here in Princeton, Mary, can’t you get a grip. (She apologized profusely later. Hi, Mom!)

Then I sent some frantic emails and IMs to local friends for advice on who to call. Should I call animal control? Pest control? The City of Evanston? The health department? I had no idea.

One friend wrote back: “Here’s the number of my veterinarian, maybe they can help.”

It made perfect sense at the time. Vets deal with fleas and mites every day. At least maybe they could figure out whether what I had was fleas, mites, bed bugs or lice. They had to know.

They had to.

The nice person that answered the phone at the vet clinic said that she could relay my problem to one of the doctors, so I had to do my best to describe the situation without a) seeming like a drug addict in the midst of hallucinations or b) without sounding like I was living in squalor of my own making.

“Hi, I don’t know quite how to explain this, but I’m itchy, have a rash and just found a bunch of what looks like fleas or lice all through my bed linens. I don’t know what to do. A client of yours gave me the number.”

I had a really hard time keeping the giggles at bay — and the person at the other end of the phone was clearly entertained but took me seriously.

“I mean, if you treat cats and dog with fleas, what do you tell their owners to do? Do they ever, um, spread to people?”

I wanted to ask her if I needed a flea dip, but decided to wait and pose that question to the person with a more advanced degree, who she promised would call me back shortly. In the meantime I made sure the local hardware store was open so that I could go get the bug bombs and call the building engineer, whom I was never lucky enough to catch on the first call. However, when you say, “I have bugs everywhere, in my bed, on my body and all over my bedroom,” people tend to call you back in a hurry.

An amused, yet apologetic veterinarian called me back a few minutes later.

“I’m terribly sorry,” she said, “but we only know how to treat dogs and cats for fleas — not humans. Have you been around a pet or any animals recently?”

I had not. I apologized meekly, laughing really hard at this point about the absurdity of the situation, and told her I’d continue with my bug bomb and exterminator plan. She was sympathetic and really did take me seriously, so I was grateful that she heard me out and didn’t accuse me of making a prank call.

Somewhere in the process of calling people I finally made the connection between the bird nest and the bugs. I didn’t realize yet that the birds in the nest were pigeons — known to exterminators, avian experts and Chicago landlords as “rats with wings” — notorious for their ability to spread disease and mites.

If there’s one thing I learned from this situation, at least in its early stages, it is this: do not, under any circumstances, do a Google image search for mites, fleas, bed bugs, scabies, lice or dermatological conditions. Don’t even think about it.

And, now that I’m starting to itch again just writing this all down, it is, from the blog post that inspired a million puns about birds and bugs, to be continued...

Who Wants to Eat?

2009-02-20T15:26:00.004-06:00

I was hoping with all the hoopla over "Slumdog Millionaire" and the Oscars, that someone would be able to dig up the video of the Christina Ricci-hosted episode of "Saturday Night Live" where she plays a contestant on a third-world country version of "Who Wants to be a Millionare?" called "Who Wants to Eat?"

I couldn't find the video but I did find a transcript of the sketch here. And here's an excerpt where Ricci's character is told she will win a whole goat for answering correctly -- she has already won a bag of wheat for her family:

Rajneesh Philbin: Alright. Here's your chance to eat a goat. "What is the name of the disease where people refuse to eat because of a pathological fear of gaining weight? Is it A. Bulimia, B. Dysentery, C. Cholera, or D. Anorexia?"

Sonja: Hold on.. people starve themselves on purpose?! I've never heard such things.

Rajneesh Philbin: This is for a goat. What's your answer?

Sonja: You mean, they have food.. but they don't eat it because they think they're fat?

Rajneesh Philbin: That's right.

Sonja: I've heard of Cholera.. and I have Dysentery - I know it's not that. I'll take a guess and say Bulimia.

Rajneesh Philbin: Bulimia? Is that your final answer?

Sonja: [ unsure ] Yes.

Rajneesh Philbin: [ pause ] I'm sorry, Sonja, but it's Anorexia.. you've lost it all!

Sonja: Can't I have the rice?

Rajneesh Philbin: No, I'm sorry. We're feeding it to the goat!

Sonja: Can't I just smell it?

Rajneesh Philbin: No! That's all the time we have. Join us next time for "Who Wants To Eat?"

Scout and Lucy

2009-02-17T00:27:00.004-06:00

When one determines that a trip to the brick-and-mortar unemployment office is in order, they would be well-advised to bring a stash of funny anecdotes that they can summon up to counter the much darker thoughts that accompany standing in the unemployment line. Fortunately, the office was closed for President’s Day, but here’s the amusing situation I planned to meditate on while standing in line.

A couple weeks before I was supposed to visit my friend Jennie in Denver, back in October, she asked if I would mind house-sitting with her in a mansion owned by a pair of wealthy philanthropists (I’m still not clear on their actual occupations). To sweeten the deal, she added that the house contained two little dogs that needed only to be walked, fed and loved. Who could say no?

The house itself was a dream, offering more bathrooms and guest rooms than I could count, at least as many original works of art as a mid-sized gallery, multiple floors, meticulous landscaping and home to as many gadgets as a Radio Shack. But without a doubt, the dogs were the best part.

Scout, a Cairn terrier, was the elder of the two, at least as old as Westminster winner, Stump (maybe 10 years old, I’m guessing). We learned at the end of our stay, from the cleaning lady, that Scout was a trooper, having been through a few surgeries and dermatological problems. Scout’s most prominent feature – which was most evident when we took him for a walk – was his derriere. An older dog, he definitely had a few pounds to spare, but Scout had a badonkadonk. That’s right, it can safely be said that Scout had a little junk in his trunk.

Then there was Lucy, the much younger Yorkie, the breed I grew up with. But unlike my Yorkies, Lucy was mellow, relaxed, seemingly happy and had floppy ears. Most Yorkies’ ears stand straight up, but not Lucy’s. She was also a dead-ringer for Natalie Portman’s dog.

But Jennie had come to suspect that Lucy harbored a dark secret – an eating disorder. When she fed both dogs, simultaneously, a curious thing happened. Scout scarfed down his cereal immediately, while Lucy circled her bowl. She would wait until Scout was done eating before she’d give hers a sniff. Finally, once Scout finished his and made a lunge for hers, she’d start eating. But only if Scout sat there and watched her. However, the rest of the week while I was there, Lucy usually ate all her kibble.

Now, Jennie’s house/dog-sitting for the family again and Lucy’s back to her old tricks – but she’s simply not eating at all. Rather than explain how she’s dealt with this, I’m just copy and pasting our GChat conversations (with editing and consolidating):

(I had seen via Facebook that Lucy was not eating)

me: will lucy eat if scout watches her?
Jennie: she just goes and sits by him!
me: awww. Any evidence of canine bulimia? Maybe she sneaks out the dog door outside to purge?
Jennie: aww. She did throw up. It was adorable. I think she might have a stomach thing
me: her puking was adorable!?
Jennie: well, i only saw the product: a tiny little poot of puke
me: can i use that as a header sometime? "a tiny little poot of puke"

Conversation ends, then resumes the next day.

Jennie: she's holding out on eating – it’s driving me bananas
me: we're talking about Lucy, right?
Jennie: yes, ha
me: hmmm, how long is the family gone for?
Jennie: they are back on friday
me: is she still sick?
Jennie: she's not sick. super energetic. and she's drinking water. i'm stumped!
me: even when scout watches?
Jennie: yeah! she goes and sits by him
me: and they stare at the food bowl together?
Jennie: yeah, then Scout tries to go get some. Lucy gets pissed but then won't eat any
me: hahahaha. maybe leave the food out all day, if you can figure out how to keep scout from eating it
Jennie: yeah, that's impossible. scout already got two bowls of her food and he's supposed to be on a diet, ha!
me: right…cuz of the badonkadonk

This conversation ends, but the next day I see on Jennie’s away message that she’s taking Lucy to the vet, so I check back in.

me: are you taking lucy to a vet shrink, to address her anorexia?
Jennie: hahahha. actually, her owner called. i'm going to get a rotisserie chicken on the way home. apparently, that cut up will do the trick.
me: no way! free-range chicken to boot, huh?
Jennie: hahahahahahaha. yes
me: so she's done this before?
Jennie: yes she said, don't worry, this happens with our other dogsitter too. and i felt one million times better. apparently lucy, upon seeing them return pees on the rug to show them her dissatisfaction
me: it reminds me of the crazy girl in Girl, Interrupted who hordes chicken carcasses under her bed. also, that's usuaully what we call "excitement piddling" at the gustafson casa
Jennie: oh yeah! hahahahahaha
me: rotisserie chicken. huh. rosemary or barbecue?
Jennie: ooh. i didn't realize there were options.

Problem solved.

So I got laid….off

2009-02-14T11:49:00.003-06:00

In honor of Valentine’s Day — a holiday scorned by cynics and romantics alike — I thought it was time to break out my analogy about how being laid off and the process of finding a new job is a lot like dating. Here me out.

Regardless of whether you were happy and fulfilled with your job/relationship prior to getting the axe, the official act of being told “You are no longer needed here” stings. And I’m convinced that the grieving process associated with being laid off is very similar to the grief experienced after losing a significant other — even one you weren’t particularly attached to.

(There is one place where the scenarios diverge: after being laid off you’re expected to bounce back and do things like “Hit the ground running,” “Pound the pavement,” “Dust yourself off,” or “Pull yourself up by your bootstraps.” After the end of a relationship, however, a period of inaction is acceptable and encouraged — to an extent.)

But once one has “landed back on their feet” the real work begins: finding someone/something new. In dating-speak this is known as a “rebound.” In human resources-speak, this is known as “finding gainful employment,” and each process is fraught, what with the heartbreak of the last relationship/job still fresh.

For the newly unemployed, applying for a new job comes with a series of landmines. Do you mention the layoff on your cover letter, or do you let the dates of your employment history tell the story on your resume? How do you put a positive spin on your streak of bad luck? Do you lie or cop to an outlook you hope one day to embrace and say “Being laid off was the best thing that ever happened to me. It finally gave me an excuse to go find a job I’m passionate about,” nevermind the fact that in this economy, you’re lucky if you find one that pays your rent and your Netflix account?

The dating equivalent here is the exciting and sadistic world of online dating. Upon your well-meaning friends’ suggestion, you create an online profile that masks your status as a recent dumpee and try to paint a picture of yourself that isn’t needy and insecure, but rather breezy and devil may care. In both cases it’s advised that you hide your baggage and make light of — or even deny altogether — the fact that it (the ending of your previous job/relationship) still hurts.

The next step (with luck) is the first in-person job interview — or the dreaded first date in the dating world. Good references come in handy in both situations. Obviously, career-wise, it’s always nice if you can make a list of people willing to say good things about your abilities and work ethic. Likewise, my friend Jennie insists that even new paramours should be willing to provide references, even if it’s just a couple of friends or exes that can vouch for this person’s integrity and tendency not to become a stalker after one missed phone call.

Since I have yet to get this far this time around, I’ll end my analogy here. The last person I shared this metaphor with suggested that clinching that new job can be likened to a second marriage (if the first one went awry). I hope that’s the case.

This post is mirrored here.

A word on living dangerously

2009-02-14T00:27:00.001-06:00

Sometimes the events in my life are so illustrative I can only shake my head incredulously. Case in point: after an hour or two of studiously setting up this shiny new blog, whilst cross-legged on the couch, I stood up unaware that my foot was asleep. I heard a snap, bit the dust, let out a stream of expletives and sat on the floor until I worked up the nerve to stand up and hobble to the kitchen. A few hours it’s still sore and hardly a big deal, but it’s a perfect example of my life for the last couple years.

Other people claim to be chronically klutzy or admit to being slightly disaster prone, but those folks have nothing on me. This year a friend gave me a holiday card with a handwritten message reading: “I hope 2009 will be a less dangerous year for you. Merry Christmas!”

In a little over a year and a half, this friend has been witness to myriad mini-catastrophes: my car breaking down on the expressway because of water damage; a botched Volkswagen purchase; getting rear-ended in a rental car as a result of the purchase; the acquisition of my company by a competitor leading to the dissolution of my first magazine; a pigeon mite infestation; a bloody dish washing accident resulting in a cauterized blood vessel and bandages for three weeks; the most awesome avoidance of a speeding ticket ever; an actual speeding ticket; a chunk of my bedroom ceiling falling in after a big storm; being rear-ended again; and finally, most recently the loss of my job.

I had hoped to end my year of living dangerously on Dec. 31, 2008, but now it seems I have to have to extend it. But there’s a silver lining here, folks! I never bothered to blog or even write down (save for Gmail and gChat) this unfortunate series of events, giving me material ripe for the blogging.

And since blogging is less self-indulgent than writing a memoir, I’ve decided to take my tales online. I plan to share my mistakes and misfortunes past and present – to re-tell the old ones and document the (inevitable) new ones. Your entertainment and gratification is my therapy. Enjoy!