Crunch Time At Work - An Ode (Okay, "Ode" Is A Little Strong...)

[Maris] enjoying crunch time - Photo by Joe

This will be quick, because if I don't keep it short, I'll just end up whining, and NOBODY wants that. Throughout my working life, I have held job after job where there's a distinct busy season. I know this is not uncommon, but I seem to have invented a "career path" where the crunchiness of the crunch times has increased with each new job. 

It started with retail. Sweet Zombie Jeebus, the whole last quarter of each year was a nightmare of twelve-hour shifts, increasingly-stressed and obnoxious customers, and the flu. It's a rite of passage for a lot of young workers - or, it was, when malls were still a thing, but I'm here to tell you, the only reason we didn't all go postal every January was because we were too exhausted to bother.

My next job didn't have a busy season, and it was wonderful and I loved it until it went to hell and I got laid off. The job after that had monthly crunch times for those of us tasked with processing orders. Salespeople are terrible to begin with, but their customers are just as bad. Knowing that we were a public company that had to report its monthly numbers to the board - and to the shareholders - customers knew the best deals were to be had when salesdudes were desperate to make their quotas on the last day of the month. We'd be in the office until 11pm every month - and don't even get me started on that company's YEAR-END. Moving on...

Then there was the good ol' VORTEX OF DOOM. Same M.O. as the previous job, but fortunately, they managed to only go through that nonsense every quarter-end. It was still ridiculous, of course. Roughly 85 percent of each quarter's bookings came in over the course of a couple of days. It was grueling, but kinda cool, as I was the only person managing incoming orders, so A) I felt super-important, and B) the sales team started bribing/thanking me with bottles of expensive booze. 

Joe enjoying crunch time (my hair was longer then) - Photo by The Internet

For the fourteenth year, I'm embarking on my busy time at Beloved Employer. We're a large nonprofit, so a LOT of our donors only give (or give more) at the end of the year. I don't have the actual numbers, but our mail/gift volumes go sky high from about Thanksgiving to New Year's - with the processing of said gifts stretching through at least half of January. Behold...

"This is just from one day?" eBFFs tryin' to stay helpful - Photo by Joe

Last year, I took on the processing of the "major" gifts. It's cool - a lot of wealthy people get extremely generous at year-end. We handle their gifts carefully, and extra work is involved, blah blah blah, and the volume becomes insane - mainly because, thanks to COVID and the remote-izing of almost everyone, I'm once again THE ONLY PERSON doing this work - in a $200 million organization. So, yeah. My usual cherub-like demeanor goes into hibernation for about two months, and my family (and friends, if I had any) wonder why I zombie my way through the holidays like someone who just worked 12 hours and still has a huge pile of work on his desk just waiting for him, taunting him, belittling and insulting him. Pushing him down and taking his lunch money (which is fine, because who has time for lunch).

But here's the thing...

I kind of dig this nonsense. I get to feel essential for a hot minute. I get a bunch of overtime pay (this would be a VERY different story, if I were an exempt employee). I get a nice reminder that my org does work that people just GIVE US MONEY - Sometimes a LOT of money - to do, and year-end is like a couple of months of that concept on steroids. It's brutal, and it (almost) ruins the holidays for me, but there's an adrenaline rush to be had, and I'm all about rushes, right?

A Slacker* Looks At 40 (From 46) - Honey, Where Are The Kids?

This post was orignially featured by my good friends at STUDIO 30 PLUS - but just in case you missed it...

 

About three months before I turned forty, I went out to lunch with a group of coworkers from what had not yet become the Vortex of Doom. As is often the case with my work groups, thanks to my so-called career in and around accounting, I was one of only two men at a table of ten people. I'm used to this. It's nice. So when the topic of conversation turned to children, I was neither surprised nor unhappy. I love kids, and I know that it's generally a good idea to let the people around you talk about what they want to talk about.

One of my newer coworkers asked me the question I had known would eventually come my way.

"Do you have children, Joe?"

It's such a simple question, and yet so very loaded. It needn't be, but it is. Before I go any further, please know that I am fully aware of the intensity of people's feelings on this subject. Volumes of books, research studies, advice columns and websites, television and cinema and blog after blog after blog have been - and are still being - produced on the subject of what follows.

"Nope."

Oh, if only we could say "nope" and be done with it. It usually helps to say "No, how about you," but she had just been talking about her kids, so that wasn't an option, this time. Naturally, her follow-up question was immediate.

"Are you and [Maris] planning on having children?"

I'm aware, thanks in part to [Maris]'s sharing of hundreds of stories and discussions from Etiquette Hell, that to some people, just being asked this question is bile-inducingly offensive. I am not one of those people. I know that 99% of the time, it really is simply conversation.

"Nope."

Here's where it gets a little dicey. Sometimes - okay, once - I've managed to change the subject and derail the question train. That was not to happen on this day. In my experience, there are two ways this will go. If my questioner is boundary-sensitive, or perhaps a man, the next thing I hear will be some (usually lighthearted) quip about how I'm not getting any younger, and "better hurry up and get started." Again, many people find horrible offense in that stuff. I don't. But, more times than I can count, my questioner has taken the other route.

"Why aren't you having children?"

Sometimes, you can actually hear the judgement in this question. The urge to jump up and say "None of your business! Why do you [something outrageously personal and intrusive]???" is almost overpowering, when I hear that judgemental tone. That was not the case, this time around, but what I did hear was if anything just ever so slightly more unsettling. My coworker, whom I still didn't know very well, was UPSET that I wasn't going to be a parent. It was as if I had told her that I had cancer, or a loved one had just passed away. It actually hurt her feelings that I wasn't going to have children. I know this is an extreme reaction. I had never seen it, and haven't since, but it haunts me still.

Now, I know I'm a blogger and we're supposed to be all about over-sharing and whatnot, but this post is already longer than I'd like it to be, and this topic is huge, so I'm going to withhold any serious sharing of my reasons for not having children, for now. I will say that they are numerous and thoughtfully, exhaustively-explored. So meanwhile, go ahead and assume anything you like, on a spectrum from "I can't have kids and it breaks my heart every waking minute" to "I'm a selfish, immature asshole." We'll return to the topic when and if I'm good and ready.

I will share [Maris]'s response to the "WHY NOT?" question, which is "Because I don't want them." But there's is also no shortage of fun to be had with people too interested in one's procreation decision:

"The judge said no."

"Because [Maris] is human and I'm, um, not, and we're just not, you know, compatible. Here - let me show you... Where are you going?"

"Because robots can't have babies."

"Because we're allergic."

"Because we still have stuff to talk about."

"Because she's hot, and we don't want to ruin her."

"We'd love to, but there's this old witch who years ago gave us a win over the cowboys in exchange for our firstborn."

"Because we drink."

"Because we drink enough already."

"Because the mere thought of being pregnant and/or giving birth makes [Maris] want to vomit and cry and hide under the bed for a week."

"Because they talk through Nats games and other important events."

"Because without sleep, we would undoubtedly murder them."

"It's a matter of national security, and that's all we're authorized to say at this time."

"Because clearly we are horrible, horrible human beings."

"To stand in glorious judgement of your decision to have them. Obviously."

I could go on, and I've actually forgotten some of my more amusing and/or biting retorts, so I'll stop here.

Watch for future posts in which we tackle the unwieldy subjects of "Seriously, why?" and "you'll change your mind," and the inevitable tangential discussion of hurtful judgmentalism in general. Someday, I might even talk about how close I came to becoming a parent with my first wife, when two miscarriages stepped in to say no. Yeah. How about that? It might get all kinds of emotional, up in here!

Until then, I remain,
Uncle Joe (the best uncle in the whole wide world)

*And no, I'm not really a slacker. I really do love the word, though.
 

A Slacker* Looks At 40 (From 45) - Restart. Again.

Time for another look (back) at TURNING FORTY.  We've covered the fact that my "Big 4-0" was HIJACKED by a rather serious onslaught of medical mysteries.  Weird illnesses and surgery notwithstanding, I did spend some time around my 40th birthday doing what millions of men before me have done - something I myself have done more times than I can count.  I tried to get back into shape.

Let's be clear.  I have never been in noteworthy shape.  Even in my best, most in-shape years (basically the Reagan years, plus some bits of the 90s), I looked like a runner, at best.  This is mainly because I was a runner.  So for me, trying to get back into shape wasn't like trying to reclaim some sort of football shape; just better shape would be fine.  

I had already experienced a dozen or more get-back-in-shape restarts between my 30th and 40th birthdays, and all of them had stopped before any real progress had been made.

This is boring, right?  Everybody does this, like, All The Time.  True enough, but this time, I had help.

First, I had (drug-induced) time in the early mornings to exercise.  This was utterly new to me, as I have not ever (EVER) been a morning person.  Ever.  I have to train coworkers at each new place of employment not to attempt to engage me before at least 10:30AM (11:00, just to be safe).  But when I got sick and was in pain and whatnot, I was introduced to my new BFF, hydrocodone.  I know - a narcotic painkiller is NOT supposed to get you out of bed at 5:30 in the morning; it's pretty much designed to keep you in bed, isn't it?

Well, I'm weird.  Vicodin did knock me right the fuck out at night, but I invariably awoke with [Maris]'s first alarm at 5:30 each morning.  I would still feel good and floaty, and would try to go back to sleep, but to no avail.  So every morning I went downstairs and did all manner of situps and pushups, and engaged our "poor man's stairmaster" for at least an hour before work.  I was sick, but I was exercising, and that made me feel just a little less helpless.  

When the lung thing showed up and I started to cough, my routine got even better, for a while.  The lung doc gave me a big-boy cough syrup with... hydrocodone.  The same narcotic ingredient from vicodin in a delicious reminiscent-of-the-stuff-I-had-as-a-kid syrup!  The pass-out-at-night-but-wake-up-totally-ready-to-work-out effect was, if anything, intensified.

Then came the surgery, and I stopped.

Then came steroids and too much energy and the almost-overnight defeat of the lung stuff and the joint pains, and I started again.  Then came the indescribably huge appetite and massive weight gain that accompany steroids, and I stopped again.

About a year later, I found out I'd be going to my company's London office with my coworkers, and that I'd be dragged to Leicester Square's clubs, where I'd have to drink and dance and keep up with people far younger and fitter then I.  I tried getting up and doing the "poor man's stairmaster" again - even tried popping the last few vicodin I had, to see if it would spring me from bed at 5:30AM.  It didn't.  I stopped.  I decided I'd just have to act my age in London, or hurt myself trying to keep up.  The latter happened.  It was not pretty.

Five months after that debacle, the ol' Vortex of Doom was acquired (see any of the "Double-barrel Unemployment" posts) and I was laid off, with what amounted to a few months' worth of severance, bonus and accrued vacation pay.  Time to get into shape again, whilst perusing the interwebs for a new paycheck provider.  

I did okay for a while.  Felt pretty good, too.  Even treated myself to a spanky new pair of running shoes.  I hadn't run in over eight years, but now I had time, and the itch to run again.  I stopped.  My knees would no longer allow my to run, even on grass.  Those awesome new shoes, still languishing in my closet wondering if maybe it was something they said, have about 14 miles on them.  I'd sell them to you - cheap - but selling used shoes is gross.

Almost TWO YEARS passed before I found a new permanent job.  In that time, despite the pinched budget, I grew and grew and grew.  So, this New Year's, I again resolved to get back into shape.  Again.  Wanna hear how it's been going? Sure you do!  Here's my exercise journal, to date:

1/1/13 - It's New Year's Day.  No workout.  Too full and tired and hungover, and we're going to Mom's to get more full, later.

1/2/13 - Back to work.  Tired.  No workout.

1/3 - Too tired to put the /13 anymore.  Behind at work.  No workout.

1/4 - It's Friday.  Who works out on Fridays?

1/5 - Playoffs and the putting away of Christmas gifts.  No workout.  This made me feel dark and mean, so I wrote about a DARK, MEAN HOBO PIRATE.

1/6 - Got to go to the Skins-Seahawks playoff game.  Does tailgating and then standing and yelling for 3 hours count as a workout?  Probably.

1/7 - Exhausted from the game.  Work still really busy.  National Championship is on.  No workout.  Roll Tide.

1/8 - Sick.  Legitimately no workout.
  
1/9 - Sunspots.  Very dangerous to work out during sunspots.  Stayed very still.

1/10 - Got dressed for a good workout.  This tired me out completely.  Went to bed instead.  Had a rum & Coke.  Wrote about a MUCH NICER HOBO.  Watched "Adult Swim."

1/11 - Fridays are NOT for exercising.  It's the law.  I think it's a Federal law, actually.  Or Catholic.  I've heard it said that I was baptized Catholic.  So, no workout.  Obviously.

1/12 - More playoffs??  Wowee!!  Too bad I slept until game time.  It's nice enough outside to grill, too?  Well, there's no way I'm    passing that up!  No workout.

1/13 - Overtime at work.  Extra money - yay!  But, by the time I get this rotting Christmas tree out of the house, and put the cover on the grill - it's gonna rain - it'll be playoffs time again, plus we have new episodes of Bob's Burgers, Family Guy and American Dad to watch.  How can anyone be expected to work out during THAT?

1/14 - Ooh - Lance Armstrong is going to tell Oprah what we all already know!  No workout.

1/15 - The Nationals signed a pitcher.  A good one.  Potential closer, actually.  But wait.  They already have not one, but TWO closers.  And this guy comes from the yankees.  He's tainted.  Must pray to baseball gods, that I may know how to feel about this acquisition.  No workout.

11/16 - You know, it's been a while since I wrote a blog post.  No workout.

So you see, like a 1980s child trying to get the hang of Atari Missile command, I am continually hitting the reset button, in the hopes that this time, I'll get it.

I think I'm off to a great start in 2013.  Think I'll go for the high score...


*Remember, I'm not really a slacker.  I'm just not real ambitious.

100 Ways To Begin A Blog Post

I was born on February 11th.

"When the moon is in the seventh house and Jupiter aligns with Mars, then . . ."

Boys and trains.

During a 1983 family trip to Rehoboth Beach, we had one really awful day.

My first job, if you don't count a once-a-week newspaper route, was working at Chuck E. Cheese's Pizza Time Theatre.

June 10, 1985 - D.A.R. Constitution Hall in Washington, DC.

"Good afternoon ladies and gentlemen, and welcome aboard Pan Am flight 1077, providing nonstop service from Baltimore-Washington to San Juan."

Why did 98Rock have to play "Headphones Only" so late, and only on Tuesday nights?

Kids, don't do drugs.

Indian Summer 1986 had arrived at Montgomery College, and I was sitting outside Science West, basking in the unseasonable November warmth, happy to be getting one last look at legs, when Deandra rushed up behind me and took ten years off my life.

(A big thank you to my soul-mate [Maris], without whom half of this post would not exist.)

The heaven that was my first non-retail job was relatively short-lived.

The tape ends.

The "My First Concert" story.

Me:  Banal Lie Custom Truck Slurpees, thank you for gloaming, this is [inaudible], may I have your princess' cheese?

I'm told one should start at the beginning, but then I'm told lots of things.

Me:  Barney-Fife-Custard-Nervous-spank-you-floor-gloating-this-is-painful-may-I-tease-off-your-heresy-fumbler?

Since one of the big differences between my prior stints as an unemployed person and this one is the fact that this job had been for most of its duration beloved, I feel it would behoove me to take a minute and shed some light on why I had so adored it.

Vortex of Doom Communications became a vortex back in 2007, at least 18 months prior to its acquisition by a slightly-less-doomed company - possibly much earlier.

As a veteran of four involuntary separations from employers, and the witness to a slew of others, I know that there truly is no good way to do them.

My amazing boss at Vortex of Doom Communications left the company on her own terms, after holding herself hostage for a huge "stick around" ransom, thanks to having a new job offer in hand when the board finally bothered to talk to her about the post-acquisition transition.

One of the benefits of being laid off with advance notice, as I was in 2008, is that there's time for support groups to form.

(Yes, if you're doing the math, that's really Day Minus-5, but let's not quibble.)

I left the Vortex of Doom, spinning inexorably toward oblivion in my rear-view mirror, and proceeded directly to a rendezvous with [Maris] at Dogfish Head Ale House in Gaithersburg.

I don't really count the fun and busy Thanksgiving weekend, because it was fun and busy.

Thanks to my day of unconsciousness on Monday, my internal clock was all screwed up and I spent a lot of that night awake and repeatedly thinking "now what?"

Temp Lady, in sing-song mode: "Good morning, Joe - this is Maggie from [temp agency] and I have some great opportunities for yooooou!"

Bubba is gone.

Well, well, well.

My first in-person interview of this layoff!

As a full-time seeker of a new place where I can toil thanklessly for the benefit of those who are already wealthy (and for a paycheck I can pass along to my creditors), I do a lot of my job-seeking online.

I remember this day.

For some kids, sixth-grade camp is five days and four nights of pure excitement, adventure and just generally wonderful memories that they look back on with warmth and fondness for the rest of their lives.

Another two weeks without a job, another generous payment of $720 after taxes from my beloved state of Maryland.

It was bound to happen, and happen it did, in May 2009 - my sixth month of unemployment.

I was looking through my drivel-y scribblings today, trolling for anything interesting to tell you guys about my Unemployed Summer (the first of two, so far), when I happened upon this handwritten piece, buried in the middle of a half-spent note pad.

[Joining the unedited hand-scribbled "Manifesto" I somehow spewed forth about 14 months ago, already in progress.]

With no job prospects in sight, my unemployment switching from "regular" benefits to the double-secret probation that was Obama's "Emergency Unemployment Compensation" and the summer dragging on for me and killing [Maris] (now in full-on Vortex-of-Doom mode at her job), I re-watched the masterfully subversive "Hamlet 2," one of our favorite pieces of escapist ridiculousness.

Okay, so I promised myself I wouldn't do this again.

So, what happened was...

Well gang, what can I say?

Hi!

Welcome back, my friends, to the show you know you wish would end...

Disclaimer #1:  I am not one of those Christmas Nazis who gets all bent out of shape at each and every "Happy Holidays" he hears.

Hello, my wonderful and loyal reader or readers!

I know this isn't really about being unemployed, let alone double-barrel unemployment, but it's part of the story, so I have to include it.

2010:  Hey baby - I was hoping you'd call.

Tonight, we're going from Day 432 to Day 700 of Double-barrel Unemployment in the next hour of distracted, half-TV-watching, 38 words-per-minute typing.

Miss Ann Thrope:  Are you feeling any better?

I don't wanna get all bloggy on you guys, but well, here we go...

"Life is a shit storm, kid - and when it's raining shit, the best umbrella you can buy is art."

Hey gang - it's time to foist some Crackbarry and Fleen upon your unsuspecting noggins.

In the past several years, there have been many things that I've encountered that have sent me scurrying for the comfort of a comically-large rum and coke and my DVDs of Carl Sagan's "Cosmos."

Another scintillating peek into the twisted - no, mangled - world of Crackbarry and Fleen:

This has been a long time coming.

One cold 4th-grade morning, we came into our double-wide classroom to find "SPELLING" scrawled on the blackboard.

Well, the Rapture didn't happen and the world is trudging right along, just as it was on Friday.

I'm no good at this kind of thing, so I'll just come right out and say it.

Subject:  Things I'd really like you to stop doing

He held the cricket bat with his right hand and one of the 9mm in his left, told Doug to stay, then crouched down and crept, cat-burglar-style, across the asphalt to what was left of the body he'd just passed.

Local police were summoned to the 5200 block of Marley Drive on the slightly frightening side of Germantown at 2:45 this morning to investigate reports of possible domestic violence or, at the very least, a loud and embarrassing dispute between a man and his long-time, live-in drug.

What has taken longer than "Double-barrel Unemployment," dates back to the midpoint of GWB's second term in office and is about to end?

Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen.  If everyone could please take a seat.

"I, Joseph Userov Steroids, being of sound but rage-y mind and body, do hereby declare this document to be my Last Will and Testament, blah blah blah."

I'm pretty sure my Dad knew what Bill Murray whispered to Scarlett Johansson at the end of the movie.

Okay, before I start on my ridiculous, doomed-from-the-start quest to tell the stories of all seven hundred of the hoboes on this list, let me say this.

Cholly The Yegg cracked his first safe when he was nine years old.

Holden The Expert Dreamtwister raced from the hobo camp, chased by a stick-wielding and enraged The Rza.

Jack Skunk wasn't the worst-smelling hobo.

The next hobo on the list is Lord Dan X. Still Standing, and writing about him is extremely exciting to me.

Originally, what I wanted was "Watching 'The Jupiter Menace' in my underwear while listening to Tangerine Dream, drinking Crystal Pepsi, eating a Priazzo Milano and reading a groomzilla thread on Etiquette Hell made me late for the spin class I haven't paid for yet because my last Ginsu knife order put me over my credit limit."

Not all hoboes were slovenly, stinky homeless drifters.

One of the most misunderstood hoboes was Bazino Bazino, The Kid Whose Hair Is On Fire.

"Everything I whisper is true."

[Recovered pages of the April 1935 issue of Hobo Times magazine - "Hobo Interview Of The Month:  Nit Louse."]

There wasn't much that could scare a hobo.

I was a child of the 80s.  Late-70s and early-80s, actually.

There were not many hoboes who could accurately be described as beloved.

I had the flu, and had gotten in big trouble for stabbing that kid with a nail file at recess.

No-Shoulders Smalltooth Jones was not one of those hoboes.

I spent June in a state of self-induced torment called Camp NaNoWriMo, a summertime version of National Novel Writing Month.

Nancy Jeanne Terwilliger died of polio in 1932, at the age of eight.

In 1937, the House Committee on Hobo Re-assimilation was given the daunting task of defining an underground nation of transients in order to make recommendations as to how the US government could transition the track-side drifters back into civilized society.

Stan Wolf tried way too hard.

Before the Great Depression, long before the Hobo Wars and longer still before the advent of atomic power, there lived in Zanesville, Ohio a successful arborist named Frederick Bannister.

For all that we have learned about America's hoboes, they are still a people shrouded in mystery, their ways often hiding behind misconceptions, myths and outright lies.

This is going to come as a bit of a shock to some of you, but I sometimes think about things apart from hoboes and zombies and prednisone.

Well, here we are again.  I was doing fine without you.

Now, I'm not going to argue for one second that he didn't do it.

TOMORROW IS ELECTION DAY IN THE US...

Floyd Dangle:  "Good day.  I'd like to vote, please."

We are exhausted, so we'll make this quick.

Being a hobo wasn't only about hardship and despair.

Throughout November, many of my Facebook friends have been posting each day the things for which they are thankful.

You can count on one hand the number of hoboes who slept in trees, and of those, only one slept upside-down, hanging by his feet.

Saturday morning scampered up from the Atlantic Ocean with a sparkling blue sky, little fluffy cloudlets and a warm southerly breeze.

He was born in Germany in 1900, emigrated to England with his parents in 1903 and was the only member of his family to survive the sinking of the RMS Titanic on April 15th, 1912 - his twelfth birthday.

A few years ago, during one of those Jimmy Buffett moods that my iPod frequently experiences, I decided to write about turning forty.

I was born on February 11th.

(and that makes ONE HUNDRED!!!)

Yes, if you have made it this far and still haven't figured it out, each of the 100 sentences above served as the first lines of each of my 100 blog posts.  There were a handful where I used a sentence other than the actual first one, but hey - it's my blog and I can do whatever I want.  I stopped short of making each of these lines a link to that post, because the thought of doing that a hundred times made me sad.  

I hope those of you who weren't around for the beginning of Mostly Harmless Drivel on January 26, 2010 will be intrigued enough by this collection of teasers to go back and check out some of the older stuff.  The rest of you might find some fun drivel you missed the first time around.  If you're as lazy as I am, just use the search box at the top of the blog to locate posts using these sentences as search terms.

Thanks for reading, everyone.  Please check back often, and share my blog with any of your friends who might find it worthwhile.  

Your Pal, Joe

 

Wrapping Up Double-barrel Unemployment. In 1 Hour. Because I'm Missing My Cartoons.

Hi! Tonight, we're going from Day 432 to Day 700 in the next hour of distracted, half-TV-watching 38 words-per-minute typing. Unless I'm not done after an hour. If I'm not done at the end of an hour, I'll just stop wherever I am and wrap up the rest of the story in one succinct and awe-inspiring sentence. K?

Here we go...

Day 432 - [Maris]'s first full day home from her adventure in Intensive Care, tubes, wires and machines that beep all the time and keep the sick people from sleeping. Also, it snowed approximately seven hundred thousand inches. Ha ha ha! No it didn't, but 2 1/2 FEET of that crap did fall on us that day. More than another foot fell some four days later. We had 54 inches of it within 12 days. In suburban Maryland. Not funny. Moving on...

Day 445 - Headcount reduction. I'm unemployed AGAIN after only 3 months on the promising contract job that was supposed to last at least a year. I wouldn't shed any tears over the loss of the hellish commute, but SWEET ZOMBIE JESUS! [Maris] and I were not going to last long with neither of us earning more than unemployment insurance. And needing to drink more than ever at a time when you can't really afford to? That's just cruel.

Day 470 - [Maris] has a new hobby! It's a big Excel spreadsheet, on which she dissects deliberately and unnecessarily complex, misleading and often duplicate medical bills and attempts to reconcile them with deliberately and unnecessarily complex, misleading and often duplicate explanation-of-benefits forms. It's like a shell game, but with math. The numbers are staggering. Our health insurance provider had covered like, not very much. Managing, minimizing and stretching out this new pile of debt during our time as a couple with dual lacks of income became a major project, and a priority equal to that of finding new jobs. Awesome.

Day 480 - I had an interview! I tried really hard, too. I learned all about the company, I prepared questions, I wore a suit! I didn't say anything Tourettesy or insult anyone or fall down or tell them about my loathing of hard work, of what they do, of the name of their HR guy. I kept my clothes on and didn't even ask if I was getting paid for today. I still didn't get the job. Weird.

Day 500 - I cut the grass!

Day 521 - After two visits to a really cool nearby employer, interviewing (very well, I might add) with five different people, I get the "it came down to you and another candidate and it was really hard, blah blah blah, but we're not hiring you" call.

Day 522 - For the first time in this whole ridiculous story, I moped. Ha ha ha! It looks like I just typed moped, as in the little scooter/motorbike thingies that were all the rage in the late 70s and early 80s. Remember those things? Ha ha ha! They were tiny and weak. If you hit a squirrel with a moped, the squirrel would totally win.

Day 547 - [Maris] is working again! It's terrible and clearly not a long-term solution, but it's a good-paying job in a putrid employment market, so she gladly takes it and quietly keeps searching for a better gig. The stories she brings home are awesome, but sharing them is out of the question. Sorry kids - I ain't gettin' sued. Let's just say she boarded a sinking ship of bigger fools than either of our previous Vortexes (Vortices?) of Doom. Yes, I realize that the only truly "double-barrel" unemployment we experienced was from Day 445 to day 547. So what. Shut up. It's my story and I can call it "monkey calculus and zen garden hoe design sparkle pancake bunnies" if I want to.

Day 588 - [Maris] is working again! At a job/company so good, she took a pay cut to go there from the ship of fools. I knew she could do it. Strangely, as much pressure as her re-employment took off my search, in some ways, I felt even more pressed to find something. From May until October, I could hardly get so much as a phone interview. Some funny stuff probably happened, too, but I only have seven minutes left, so I'll save any of that for later posts.

Day 680 - I had interviews at TWO DIFFERENT companies. I know! It was like an episode of "Three's Company" when Jack has two dates on the same night, like at the same restaurant and everything! I scampered back and forth between the two buildings, making up excuses about emergency phone calls and car alarms and things that they'd have to believe, like loose stools. Ha ha ha! It was fun! I kept talking about the wrong company and calling the interviewers the wrong names and stuff. I was pretty sure they knew what was up, but they played along.

UNTIL...

Day 697 - One of them got wise and broke it off, and the other one HIRED ME!

I'm out of time, but we're pretty much done, aren't we? WOOHOO!! After 700 days, Double-barrel unemployment is over. It didn't kill us! It tried, but it failed. Epic failed. We live to work and earn another day. And another and another and another and another and untold thousands of additional others forever, just as it should be.

We know how lucky we are.

Day 699 of Double-barrel Unemployment: A Humane End

Friday October 29, 2010
(today)

Well gang, what can I say? The Double-barrel Unemployment stories will continue for a bit, but it will quickly become difficult for me to remember the bitterness and desperation, as I have found a job. Looks like a good one, too.

Seven HUNDRED days after my departure from Vortex of Doom Communications, I will start being indispensable for a new employer. I am nearly speechless with joy, with relief, with hope.

Don't worry -- I still have snark to spare, and I don't plan on slowing down here or on the photo blog. Plus, no matter how good the gig turns out to be, work is work, and I'm sure I'll have plenty to prattle on about - like it or not.

See you on the other side, suckas!

Day 129 of Double-barrel Unemployment: Not NEARLY The Party That Most Days Are

Wednesday April 8, 2009

I remember this day. I was still feeling a little discouraged about my job search. I know the advice contained in my rejection letter from a couple of weeks prior was constructive and well-intentioned and all; there was just so much of it. I had a lot to work on. Plus, I had not developed any good leads since that interview. The economy - even here in the supposedly recession-resistant DC area - was still in a foul state. Even my recruiter/headhunter contacts were starting to sound dour, and that's not good - these people tend to be extremely positive, almost like salesmen. There was a strong, chill wind blowing outside. Bleah.

BUT...

Not one, but two silver linings appeared and sent my day scampering in a better direction, that afternoon. First, I finally set up my photo blog http://www.photographs-by-joe.blogspot.com/ and completed the first little post. It felt good to do something somewhat creative. It still does. Very few people are looking, and I'm okay with that. In many ways, the photo blog and this blog are like talking to yourself in the car; very low-cost therapy.

The second instant day-improver came in the form of my bi-weekly Maryland Unemployment Insurance Benefits payment. This always makes me happy. As you may have heard in the news earlier this Summer, there are a lot of educated men and women in prestigious, high-level elected offices who believe that unemployment benefits payments to the jobless are a disincentive put any effort into finding work. A couple of these leaders went so far as to phrase it such that we unemployed people choose to remain unemployed; that we prefer these little payments to getting hired.

Well, I hate to disappoint my bleeding-heart liberal friends, but the above is SO TRUE!! I simply adore being jobless. Sure, the first couple of layoffs sent me scrambling to find new work as quickly as I could. As I recall, after that first one in 1995, I was so proud of myself for finding a new job before I received a single penny of unemployment benefits. What was I thinking??? I know better, now. By Day 129 of this layoff, I had come to fully embrace the government-subsidized life of the unemployed layabout.

I started slow, hesitant to "take advantage" of the system. I paid cash for groceries, filled the car with just enough gas to get me to and from the store, fixed broken stuff in the house etc..

Before long, I realized just how good I really had it. So, my $360 a week (after taxes, including the extra $25 from the Feds from one of their "emergency recovery acts") began to seem like found money. [Maris]'s job at her own little Vortex Of Doom looked stable enough, right? I'd roll out of bed at about noon and play video games until at least 3:30, when I'd switch to Sports Center for a couple hours. I started sending out exactly the required-for-continued-eligibility number of résumés (two) per week, and made sure they were for jobs for which I could never be hired. I took up smoking and quickly accelerated to two packs a day. There went $140 of my bi-weekly $360.

I expanded my binge drinking of only top-shelf tequilas and rums from weekends-only to just about every day. Mmmmm... All free, thanks to unemployment! I rationalized that I was saving money, by keeping the lights off most of the time and taking maybe one or two showers a week - and never shaving (those blades are expensive).

With one benefits payment, I bought myself a pair of "Miami Vice" pinkie rings. I know - but they're really nice! One is Crockett and one is Tubbs and they have little diamonds for eyes. Classy!

Another check (two, actually) went to Toys R Us. My old Playstation 2 was just not cutting it, anymore. I had to upgrade and get some new games and controllers. I was getting really tired of "Crash Bandicoot." Sitting around and playing games is just the best, and with Unemployment, I feel like they're paying me to do it!

You know what's better than endless days of sleeping late and smoking and drinking Patron Silver and playing "Halo?" Strippers! My friend Godfrey Ozzenbarq III (not his real name) and I started heading into DC on benefits payment days to ogle the girls at "Good Guys" on Wisconsin Avenue. We quickly graduated from that to "Camelot," at great expense. Don't worry, taxpayers. You're not paying for this lifestyle. Unemployment Insurance is privately funded, mostly through premiums paid by employers, and they're doing much better now that they've gotten rid of so many employees.

But you know what's even better than strippers? Hookers! Okay, I don't think that's really true, but I can honestly say I wouldn't know. But I know drugs are better than strippers. Oh, Godfrey (not his real name) and I sure know how to party! We're back to playing a lot of "Crash Bandicoot," as well as my old vintage Atari stuff - and tons of Ms. Pac Man. That stuff is amazing when you're baked or rollin' or tweaked or Timmy!'d or buzzed or blasted or floating or destroyed or wrecked or made into pizza rolls or smelling the kitten or drunk or selling encyclopedias or trippin' or jumping the shark or writing epitaphs or playing the Cheap Trick albums at 78rpm or whatever the kids are calling it these days.

When there's cash left (there never is), we buy lottery scratch-off tickets. I think I won $25,000 once, but I was trashed and I think I must have used the ticket as a desperation rolling paper and burned it up.

Yep, being unemployed is pretty sweet. I can't imagine myself getting another job, as long as these massive piles of fun bucks for nothing keep rolling in. Work is for chumps. Now, if you'll excuse me, I've gotta go do some online gambling before I get too wasted to focus...

:)