Soy un perderdor, baby

On April 2, I drove down to Coral Gables for a job interview. At the facility, I had four rounds of interviews with various employees -- my potential supervisor, people who would report to me, possible coworkers, the person I would succeed -- and each round lasted an hour, so we were all pretty invested in this whole process. I knew that I wasn't the only person being subjected to the inquisition (the fat stack of resumes still haunts me) and I was also aware of my two big weaknesses: limited fundraising experience and no graduate degree in botany. Still, I knew that finding someone who fit in with their team was important to them, and I got everyone to laugh during my time with them. I considered this a minor coup and it gave me hope.

At my first opportunity, I penned thoughtful thank you notes on cards bearing my initial in hand-calligraphy to the people who interviewed me, one for my potential supervisor and the other to the team who would report to me. I was only half-way home when I stopped at a Post Office to send my cards away, so high I was on this interview. I got a call the next day asking for my references (which I had given them during my interview, but whatever), and I emailed them within the hour. Then I waited.

As the days ensued, I had time to mentally replay my interview, over and over and over again. I came to terms with my weaknesses and knew that those would likely disqualify me. This is okay, I thought. I was a little surprised they even interviewed me given these weaknesses, but, hey, maybe I wowed them somewhere in my cover letter and who could blame them for finding me charming and irresistible? I have that effect on lots of people.

They had told me they would give notification in one or two weeks. After two weeks passed, I considered contacting someone, but I remembered that the decision-maker was leaving town for a week following my interview, so I gave them a bit more time. Then the three-week point rolled around and I was all, "Eff them! I'm not calling those emm-effers! They can contact me, if they have something to say!" (note: my internal monologue is never family-friendly; I am, though, making an effort not to swear so much, goddammit). I didn't think it was fair to have to chase them -- plus, I was busy preparing my insolent replies for whenever they finally did decide to call me.

That day came yesterday, one day short of the four-week mark. The woman I would replace called me, starting the conversation with, "I can't believe it took so long to get back to you." Yeah, no foolin'. It turns out that the team loved me, thought I would fit in really well, blah blah blah, but ultimately the supervisor wanted someone with more grant-writing experience, just as I expected. She asked if I would be interested in any other positions there and I said yes, though I know they will not have any other positions there -- she was just being polite and I was just being polite back. And then that was that. Rejection, after a four-hour interview and four weeks of waiting.

If I could do it all over again, I wouldn't change much. I knew from my initial application that the job was kind of a stretch. My only regret is using my nice notecards on them. I'm sure they didn't savor the hand-calligraphy as they should have.

How did I get here? Two theories squashed!

Now that I have gobs of time on my hands, I have the opportunity to do a lot of things: get in shape, read books, think of words to play in Scrabble, make up fake careers for myself, write cover letters that are never answered, fashion protective suits to fend off swine flu, lots of things. Mostly, though, I've been reflecting on what got me to this place in my life, this very unemployed place.

I started college as a journalism major; in fact, I chose my university for its journalism program. A semester and a half into it, though, I realized that journalism (or at least the way it was taught at UM) wasn't about the craft of writing at all, but about writing copy that can be chopped up to accomodate ad space. Ten years later, it gives me great comfort to receive notice after notice in the mail from failing magazine after magazine, letting me know that the magazine has folded (and that my subscription will be converted to Southern Living -- three magazines so far have given me that as a consolation. Is it a sign from above that I should be baking more pecan pies? I'm not sure yet). Widespread newspaper and magazine death makes me feel confident in my decisions: had I gone down J-school road, I'd probably be just as unemployed as I am now. So, I can cross second-guessing that major change off my list of causes for me to be 28 and living in my mom's sewing room. Awesome!

Another decision that has haunted me: dropping out of grad school. Wait, back that up -- I dropped out before I started, and that is just so much more respectable. I was supposed to start a Master in Teaching program in the fall of 2003; I thought that I wanted to be a teacher, but after six or seven months of working with teachers during my pre-grad school internship, I realized, "oh my god, I never want to be a teacher." Luckily, my internship site had a permanent position for me and I did end up staying there for a few years. Before that, though, I had to tell my graduate advisor thanks, but no thanks -- to which she said, and I quote: "Really? You're passing on this to stay in Florida? Hopefully you won't get blown away by any hurricanes." Yeeeeeaaaah...adios.

Sometimes, though, I wonder -- should I have gone into teaching? (alternately: why was that woman allowed to advise students?) I do like teaching -- I have been was working (ha ha, you have no job, Self! Straighten out your verbs) in informal education for about six years and I loved it. But could I work in a classroom in a bureaucratic and red-tapey school district? Philosophically, probably not. Realistically? I need only look to any one of those dying newspapers to get my answer to that -- 522 teachers laid off in Ocala, another 300+ in Sarasota, more than 500 laid off in Marion County, Treasure Coast retirees and laid-off teachers having a sad-off for who most deserves a minimum wage position at a sports bar...even my brother's high school is talking about furloughing teachers and replacing them with substitutes. (Ain't nothing like Florida schools! Really...there's nothing quite like them...). If I had earned my graduate degree and become a teacher, there's a good chance that I would not be working tomorrow; at the very least, my job would probably be in peril. Again, I feel good about this. I'm not currently in peril of not having a job because I don't have one, and it's not because I blew off grad school! Awesome squared!

On partying as though it were 1999

Two weeks from today at approximately this time, I'll be putting myself to bed after attending my 10-year high school reunion. I will likely have imbibed some booze -- likely fancy wine in order to get my money's worth out of the $75 ticket -- and made small talk with a few dozen people I only marginally care about. I will have congratulated former classmates on their new babies and impending marriages, while silently contemplating my own childless (yay!), single (boo!) status. Given the kind of high school I went to, I will have no doubt been asked a hundred times, "So, what do you do?" And given the kind of high school I went to, my honest answer ("Nothing.") will spur certain judgements about me -- you know, the "huh, BPW is kind of a loser"-variety of judgements. I am not looking forward to these conversations; small talk is painful enough without the embarassment I'm anticipating.

Yeah, yeah, yeah, I know this is stupid. Why should I care about these people's opinions -- people about whom I've already stated I only marginally care? It sucks to be judged, that's why. I'm having a little crisis of self-confidence and knowing that other people may think I'm losery doesn't help. I feel like after ten years I should have more to show than "I had a good job, but I quit. Now I play Scrabble every day" ...that's going to be a total conversation killer.

However, I could have fun with this predicament of mine. I could make people feel incredibly awkward by answering their "what are you doing with your life" question with a simple blank stare accompanied by a long silence. Or instead of giving some sort of explanation, I could just chug my glass of wine and then look at the inquisitor wearily as a single tear streams down my cheek. Perhaps I could pretend not to hear the question at all, and loudly proceed to ask the questioner how they've recovered from all the herpes they had in high school. That'll learn them not to ask quasi-well-meaning questions.

I have, of course, considered lying to everyone about what I do -- and not just a George Costanza-esque "I'm an architect" lie, but a different lie to everyone who dare ask. I feel like this would give me the opportunity to really flex my creative muscles; there are supposed to be 120 people at this thing, so I would have a lot of fake occupations to prepare. I can be a casting director for an Amish reality dating show! I can be a giraffe whisperer! I can be a beekeeper and honey magnate! I can be a manager at a urinal cake factory! I can be a reader of 8th grade standardized writing tests! Wait, I really did that last one...whatever -- the point is that the possibilities are endless.

In reality, I know that I will likely spend the evening sitting with the few people that I do want to see, talking, laughing, listening to high school stories that I don't remember (really, I seemed to have killed a lot of brain cells in the last decade; I have little recollection of the events I took part in). To the people to whom I'm too embarassed to admit my professional status, I'll nod in their direction and probably smile weakly to acknowledge, "Yes, I see you, person who happened to be born in 1980/1981 and who also happened to live in the same town as me in the late 1990s. I am aware of your presence in this here pub. Salutations." I'll go back to my conversation and that person across the bar will go back to his -- and that's fine. Just because we graduated at the same time from the same place doesn't mean we have to force some kind of mutual interest in each other ten years later.

Nonetheless, I know some of these bitches will be nosy, and for these people, I will be totally prepared to discuss how Amy Poehler followed me for the past year to research her role for NBC's new program Parks and Recreation.

Not working in the Sunshine State

I used to do things. For example, I used to blog pretty frequently, but then I got sad and depressed, and unlike real writers, mental anguish didn't fuel any artistic fires for me. I don't understand people who write about their pain; I would much rather crack myself up with my dazzling wit than dwell on the things that keep me up at night. That stuff dazzles no one. I stopped writing altogether and that's right around the time when my job became the only thing I had going on -- and that's never good for mental health or personal relationships. So, after a few years of this non-happy-fun time, on February 26, 2009, I quit my job. Awesome timing, I know, what with the economy rocking as it does.

I was living overseas when I made this decision, so my housing options in the States (where it's much cheaper to be jobless than where I was) were limited to (1) a cardboard box and (2) my parent's house. Yes, every 28-year-old's dream: living at home. I did this to myself, so I can't really bitch about it too much, though I likely will.

What do I do now other than not work? Not a whole heck of a lot. I look for jobs like it's, well, my job, and I apply for those jobs. Oh so many jobs have I applied for. I've gotten a couple interviews over the last few weeks and I have not been rejected by either of those jobs yet, yay me! But I'm sure it's just a matter of time -- the silence is deafening. In the meantime, I go to my neighborhood YMCA every day and die a little when I realize that a lot of those 80-year-old ladies can outlift me (I live in Florida. Most people are 80). Nonetheless, it's something to do and is healthier than drinking a bottle of wine every day...like I often want to.