Waiting On The Call...

The last interview I had went well. So, of course, I didn't get the job. It's the way of the Unemployed Warrior, really. A week went by and the other interview was going to happen. I didn't have a good feeling about it, mostly because it was a phone interview. I hate phone interviews. I don't even like talking on the phone. I'd never even had a phone interview before and I knew before it even happened that I would hate being on a phone interview.

So it came. Five people who's names I tried to scribble down futilely were all talking to me on a speaker phone in some obviously drafty room. I couldn't make out words they were saying. They were asking me questions I couldn't understand. I went outside of typical job-hunter mentality and followed my previously stated edict: The Truth.

They thanked me for my time and that was that. "Fuck..." was what I said when I sat back in my chair following the call. The dog trotted in the room and I knew it was time to go hang out with her, or, let's be real here...she needed to go outside to relieve herself.

Let's just call it a day.

----

Three and a half weeks later. Phone rings. They ask for me. "Hi!" I said, "This is me..."

It's a lady who's name I don't catch. She's in Human Resources. They want to meet me in person.

"Wow, okay..."

She asks what time and day is good for me. She says they'll see me then and we both hang up.

"Fuuuuuuuuck...."

So I'm in a similar situation to before. I'm looking for things to wear. I realize that the people I will be meeting in person for my interview really have no link whatsoever to the people that interviewed me at the interview-that-went-really-well-but-didn't-pan-out-for-whatever-reason and that I can just wear the same thing I'd worn before.

I shaved off my beard. It still hurts to do it.

I go and meet them. I'm sticking to my plan. If I don't know something, I don't know it. If I do, I talk about it. They will like me for me or they won't like me for me, but they will have some opinion of me by the time this thing is over.

I stutter and stammer several times and make jokes at my own expense. They assure me I'm doing fine. The five person panel read from a set of questions that are slightly altered versions of the same questions and I quickly think of ways to answer the same questions in a slightly different manner.

I tell the main guy the building is really interesting on the way back to the elevators and we talk about that. He tells me it was really nice to meet me and that they'd be in touch.

I feel horrible about how it went. I sit in my car for ten minutes out in the parking lot and feel like I'm going to puke.

----

September 16th. Two days later.

Around 10:30 a.m., the phone rings. They want to talk to me.

It takes a second to figure out who it is, and I hear another voice on the line. I'm being conferenced in.

I realize that I want to talk to them, too.

"Hey, I've got some good news..."

I'm standing in the laundry room, looking out the back door at the propane tank..

"...We want to offer you the position, you know, ...if you want it..."

I can't talk.

"...You there?"

"Yes! Yes, I'm here... Yes, Yes, I am definitely, I mean, I definitely want the position. Yes, I'll take it. I do!"

They're laughing, I'm laughing.

I can't wipe the smile off my face.

My wife is sitting on the couch looking up at me with her eyebrows raised and a big stupid grin on her face. I have a big stupid grin on my face.

They tell me some stuff about how much I'll make and what the official title is and when I start and I go over all it with them one more time to make sure all of this is real.

They assure me it is. I assure them that I'm very excited and they assure me that they are as well.

We hang up.

My wife jumps up and hugs me and we jump up and down turning in a circle like we just won the World Series, Super Bowl, Family Double Dare, Donkey Kong Final Board and the fuckin' lottery all at once.

"I got a fucking job." is what I told my wife.

"I know!", she said.

"I got a fucking job!"

----

I got a fucking job.

Ringing In Your Ears

One thing the Unemployment experience teaches you is to be humble.

After a harrowing, near-death experience (from nerves, not actual real danger) buying clothes and getting, *ahem*, groomed for The Big Interview last week, I entered the period known as "Waiting For The Call" where all of your senses are heightened and any sound, from a bird chirping to a cat throwing up to the mailman pulling up to the mailbox all the way at the end of the driveway -- sound like your phone ringing.

But it's never really ringing until you go to take the dog outside.

During this stage of your Unemployment, you will occasionally think it's ringing when it's not (which is key to the whole experience) you will, if you are in any way high-strung, have what we call anxiety. Some of us who are little more high-strung than others have what can only be referred to as panic attacks. For those of you that aren't as perceptive of everything going wrong in your world, or just lucky enough not to be ridden with anxiety, I can best describe this with a quote from Chris Hardwick, who broke it down to it's brutal explanatory truth.

"A panic attack is like getting fucked in the HEART. "

You can beat these attacks.

The key to getting around this is to tell yourself you don't want a job.

It's not the end of the world if they don't call. (Yes, it is.)

To breathe (which will happen anyway, I assure you) and to focus on your breathing. (Oh God, I'm breathing...)

To keep your heart rate down and to avoid caffeine, if you can. I can't. (I won't.)

Or you can just be a real functioning human who doesn't think that not getting a call from someone who might give you a job will make your head explode like you're an extra in Scanners. Do whatever you think works best.

So I'm in "Waiting For The Call" mode and what do I get? My old friend Insomnia! You might remember Insomnia from earlier in the Unemployed Files, where he visited for several weeks. I quickly went from DayWalker to Bill from True Blood, burrowing into the ground at Sun Up and only peaking out once that damned fire orb goes back behind the trees and wherever it goes when I am amongst the living.

Of course, insomnia is no good when you're "Waiting For The Call." Mostly, because those that could potentially be making the call are awake, and outside, and wearing pants and are at an office and ostensibly, on the phone...

..and they're calling you while you're sleeping.

Of course, sleeping really doesn't happen either, since you're in "Waiting For The Call" hypersensitive senses mode where your reflexes are augmented by 315% and your needs for sustenance and rest are negated by the needs or wants of, well, what you think you need or want.

So every noise wakes you up. REM sleep is a thing of the past. Dreams are gone. Nightmares prevail. They adapt quickly, like a virus, learning to strike quickly in the short times you make an appearance in the Land of Nod. Tense muscles give way to body aches, and the sleeping positions that work for you also make you snore, and therefore, don't work for the wife, so you're forced into an uncomfortable position that makes you snore less and Oh, Why Not: Stop Breathing.

All this fun multipled by a few days of it plus the general uneasiness of being Unemployed in general leave you with a Unshaven, Grumpy, Surly, Un-rested, Jumpy, Skiddish, Ill-Mannered, Over-Tense, Heart-Fucked, Soulless, Panic-Ridden, Anxiety monkey waiting for a call from a potential employer.

I got one. I had the phone in my hand when it happened.

Remember the interview from my last dispatch that I killed at?

It was those guys.

Remember how I thought I killed at that interview?

I did.

They love me.

They think I'm incredible.

They're so impressed by my abilities and how I came across and were so happy to meet me.

And, that they offered someone else the job.

Well, there you go.

I was told they liked me a lot, and want to work with me in the future, and that they'll keep me in mind.

I said thanks for the opportunity and hung up the phone, and looked out the window. I saw a bird on a tree and the mail truck pulling up to the mailbox.

Suddenly they just didn't sound like the phone anymore.

Nothing does. Because the phone's not ringing.

It's hard not to take it personally, because every call that doesn't happen, and every call that does but includes a "I'm sorry to inform you..." is just another in a long line of the thing that most humans are allergic to called rejection.

It's become a theme this year, and the worst part is that I'm getting used to it.

I'm an Invisible Man walking through a society that's drudging on around me, pushing my way up and down the aisles of stores in slow motion while the manic hysteria of the working world goes on around me. I hear about The Unemployed on the news and in the papers and on the internet, but I never see any of them because I suspect they're all on odd-time schedules and have become recluses like I have.

It's hard not to feel like the only one living this reality.

It's even worse when you realize that you're not the only one.

The production world that I used to be a part of has been described many times as "A Lot of Hurry-Up-And-Wait" and I'm finding that's more true now, and appropriate for more situations than just that tiny block of the entertainment business.

Jobs come and go and opportunity comes knocking when you least expect it to. If you're wanting it too much, you might as well just kiss it goodbye.

You have to remind yourself that work doesn't define you and life is what you make it.

Sometimes you need some rejection to put that back in frame of focus for you.

Cursing In The Dressing Room

"Clean shirt, new shoes
And I dont know where I am goin to.
Silk suit, black tie,
I dont need a reason why.
They come runnin just as fast as they can
Coz every girl crazy bout a sharp dressed man."

— ZZ Top - Sharp Dressed Man

"Fuck. FUCK. FUUUUUUUUCK."

I hear the Dressing Room Lady outside the door.

"Everything okay in there?"

I sigh.

"No... Yes."

This is the third pair of pants I have tried on, and the fourth or fifth shirt.

It's right at Six O'Clock and the place closest to here that cuts hair on Mondays (because strangely most barber shops here are closed on Mondays) closes at 8 O'Clock.

I still have to shave this beard off.

I don't have shoes that will go with whatever I end up buying that I am currently trying on in this stupid dressing room at this stupid store that doesn't make freakin' clothes that actually fit my...I'm guessing, totally freakish and awkwardly built body.

Sorry, I've gone and got a little ahead of myself. I'm in the middle of the PRE-INTERVIEW JITTERS.

I don't wear what I call "dress-up clothes." I appreciate the whole Mad Men aesthetic of tailored suits and bespoke shirts, but I can't put it any more clearly that my ideal mode of dress is a t-shirt of some sort along with blue jeans or shorts. Original, I know, but it let's me put absolutely zero thought into what I'm wearing so that I can focus on what I'm doing.

Anyway, today I care. I'm trying on dress shirts.

I am attempting to find a proper pair of fucking khakis.

After nearly giving myself an anxiety ridden panic attack trying to find clothes for what, in my head, will essentially be a quick trip to a footstool covered in thumbtacks in front of a What's Your Line panel of people who hate me upon sight, I finally settle on a pair of proper light brown pants and a white and blue checked button-up.

I can't pay for it quick enough. My wife wanted to look at some things in the ladies section of the store but my interview is first thing in the morning and I have to get my hair cut so I am freaking. My stomach is in knots.

The kid checking us out has to call his manager because I have a coupon. Of course I have a coupon. Of course it doesn't work.

The manager takes care of it. I pay. We are going towards the car. "Don't run off on me!" my wife says. I look back and she's five feet behind me. I am unaware I have ran off towards the car in a power-walking sprint (of which, in the spirit of transparency, I am accused of often. What? I'm tall.) and have a mission. HAIR CUT.

Ten minutes later we're at the barber shop. I go inside and the girl at the counter asks me for my phone number. The last four digits. I give her what I think I gave them last time (I've changed numbers a few times for various reasons) and it pulls up nothing. I give another number, and it's the wrong name.

"That's not me." I say.

"Well who are you?" She says.

"Well...I'm me."

"What's your phone number?"

"Can't you just make a new person on there with my new number?"

"No, I don't want to. What's your phone number?"

At this point I want to scream "I hate you and I just want a motherfucking haircut, bitch." but instead of that I give her my full name and she pulls up a number I didn't even think about as my phone number.

I still am not really sure why I even have to give a phone number to give a haircut, but whatever.

A few minutes later I'm in the chair.

A few minutes after that I'm out the door with a lighter wallet and am off to Wal-Mart.

I point out that "That's a lot of gray hair on the floor."

The lady who cut my hair says "Everyone says that."

It was a lot of gray.


After Wal-Mart, my wife tells me it's all going to be okay. She's said this several times tonight but I am less than half a day from the thing I hate most. Being judged on who I am, in tiny cereal box form where they just see the cover and maybe read the ingredients, but don't really know what I am, or what I can do, or if I'm even crunchy in milk.

It will be okay, she says. I want to trust her.

We get home, and groceries are put away. Everything in it's right place. Food in the fridge and the pantry. Toiletries to the bathroom and all that. New clothes off the hangers and all put in their final resting place.

On me.

I actually look okay.

My wife tells me to come out and she sees me. "You look really good. I told you you would."

She then tells me I freak out too much. Guilty as charged.

A belt ties it all together. My dog is giving me that smile. She must be thirsty.

I go to bed early but not before setting every alarm in the house in staggered times so that I don't sleep in like I have the last few months.

Today I had my interview, and I feel pretty confident that I killed at it.

Everyone was laughing at my jokes, and giving eye contact, and seemed genuinely interested. Out of hundreds of applicants I was one of only a few they asked to come in.

Cross yer fingers. I want to be writing Employed Files sooner than later.

And if you're in the same situation, for the love of god: Don't Freak Out.

Pre-cursor audioblog I did yesterday

Drenched To The Bone

Come gather 'round people
Wherever you roam
And admit that the waters
Around you have grown
And accept it that soon
You'll be drenched to the bone.
If your time to you
Is worth savin'
Then you better start swimmin'
Or you'll sink like a stone
For the times they are a-changin'.

— Bob Dylan, The Times They Are A-Changin'

With enough distance it all makes sense.

You serve your meager purpose, and subject yourself and those close to you to your routine. You have your insecurities, and if you're secure enough about yourself to show them you ask questions. Or if you're insecure enough to need approval, you do the same.

It is a thankless world. For those that need recognition, morale boosting, friendship and camaraderie, work isn't the place for it. Not anymore. Not by any standard that could be considered realistic. Not by the needs of anyone who needs anything.

I will admit it. I'm a needy person. I put up walls. I played misdirection with the best of them. If a chink in my armor was to be made apparent, what better thing to do than bring up a weakness that someone else had. They don't know this. They can't do that. None of it mattered.

I spent the majority of a career glad-handing to be in a position and the rest of it struggling, fighting, to stay in my spot. Did I earn where I was? Sure. I am talented, or a lot of people with no personal stake in how I feel wouldn't tell me so. Was I well liked? That's not really something I can accurately say given my predilection for deprecation. I am told occasionally that I am missed at my former place of employment. That it "just isn't the same" without my presence.

I suppose the same could be said of the communal stapler. Right?

In hindsight it is all a strategic game. Legitimacy is something you strive for. To be seen as a legitimate authentic relic of a time gone by when people had balls and could do what they said they would do. I would argue points I thought were valid. I would chastise those that were ignorant when I felt it was warranted. I would commiserate with my colleagues about those that were daft, and out of touch, and maybe useless, and probably getting paid more than the rest of us were for no apparent reason.

I was one of the grunts, the cast-offs, the worker-bee's. The Peons.

I would occasionally let my ill-advised (now) attempts at climbing the ladder up to the glass ceiling happen. When in the company of the higher-ups I would let slip carefully crafted half-truths to see what would happen. To see where it would take me. I remember fondly e-mailing a catchphrase spewing, corporate book devouring "company savior" that was formerly President of a major Cable TV network an e-mail vaguely pointing out how excited I was about "new procedures" that we had in place and how pumped I was about "our opportunities to discover new ways to strategize, synergize our teams" and "come to new ways to maximize ROI (return on investment) and to capitalize on what we already had in place. "

He e-mailed me a very positive reply a few days later saying that he would be very interested in sitting and talking with me as I had the right outlook that the company needed and that our company needed "more positive thinkers like me."

I was so very frustrated. I had e-mailed him the equivalent of verbal corporate catchprhase diarrhea and he'd eaten every drop up and probably licked his fingers clean before asking for seconds. I'd said nothing. Seriously. I could look back on it now and have no clue what I even was attempting to say, but I do remember laughing as I sent it, telling my wife "I'm either going to get a raise for this bullshit or I'm going to get fired."

Click. Send. Praise.

Shake your head and carry on. This is what you're dealing with now.

The last two years were a blur. All the inroads I had made in my years at my workplace were being squandered by the monkey business of the new regime in charge. I didn't know the new bosses and living many states away would rarely get the chance to meet them without the local higher-up rats sniveling about looking for a way to stay on the ship.

I made a decision shortly after I had a realization.

The quick ride to the top was over, and there is nothing to do but stay my ground.

Stay my ground and stare at the fork in the road. Weasel's way out or Legitimacy. For whatever Legitimacy is worth, anymore.

I saw and see what the weasel's of the world do. They might make more money, but they have more people wanting to meet them in a dark alley with the business end of a tire iron, too.

I can't live that way. I won't live that way. I couldn't live that way.

"Yes Men" get the raise and the pat on the back. Honest Men get told they are a budget cut that had to be taken.

I regret nothing. I am not ashamed of what I did while I was there. Part of my life under the roof of that job was self-preservation. The other, realer later half was, in hindsight, an act of retribution. Asking the hard questions, and standing for what I believed and not putting up with lies, and pettiness, and ignorance, and refusing to say "Yes" without actually meaning it.

I saw a good friend of mine who was highly praised for his dedication and skill at his profession derided for complaining and essentially treated like shit and pushed from his post for wanting to be treated like a human.

I saw another friend of mine, one of the more talented scribes I've ever had the chance to know personally told that his award winning work "just wasn't enough."

I took pride at a job that I wasn't particularly interested in, and gained skills in a part of my profession that I'd never wanted to be a part of, and made a stand for quality in the face of a "just get it over with, no one cares" attitude only to realize that the people in charge:

1. Don't know what quality is, and wouldn't if it hit them in the face.
2. Don't care about your attention to detail, because they don't have any attention to detail.
3. Couldn't care less what they're doing, as long as they make money. Period.
4. If you are talented at your work and actually make money, you will someday be pushed aside for a younger, less talented version of you -- but it doesn't matter to them because they can rest on their laurels (aka The Work You Did Long Ago) and save money.
   

Don't get me wrong, I like money. Partially.

But sometimes I sit back and wonder, why exactly no one seems to take real tangible pride in their work anymore. Why they don't spend the time, researching the past, seeing what worked and what didn't, no matter what their profession, and try their best to blend old and new, making something special, that hopefully someone in the future will see and go "This...this is the good stuff." I am addicted to the craft of essentially anything. I like to know why things work the way they do.

I don't expect to be famous. I'm not the best at anything. Not even close.

I'd just like one person, somewhere, to stumble across something I did, many years from now, and wonder who I was, what I was like, and how I ever came up with the things that I worked on.

They won't know that after amassing a library of work that was praised by colleagues I respect and people I'll never meet that I was just a social security number that was taken off of a ledger by some anonymous accountant because my supervisor wouldn't take the time to think twice about what he was doing.

When I hear bad news about them, it pleases me. But it doesn't matter at the end of the day.

I'm where I am. They're where they are. Who's right? Who feels justified? Who knows.

Pride is a stupid thing, but sometimes it can be a very important thing.

I am proud of who I am and what I do. I am proud of the work I do. I am proud of my wife, and I am humbled that she gives me the time of day, much less loves me. I am proud I have made it as far as I have in this life. I am proud that the news from the day of my firing was that most of the people I'd worked with the last seven years were shocked and scared, because if "I was let go...anyone could be let go."

I hope they're not. I wouldn't wish the uncertainty I live in daily on anyone.

I am proud, however, that I am handling it like I am. I am fighting and I am trying and I will try to balance the scales of craft vs. work.

I will keep swimming until I sink like a stone.

Chairman of the Bored

"Countin' flowers on the wall
That don't bother me at all
Playin' solitaire till dawn with a deck of fifty-one
Smokin' cigarettes and watchin' Captain Kangaroo
Now don't tell me I've nothin' to do

— The Statler Brothers, "Flowers on the Wall"

After a few weeks, the novelty of being home all the time wears off. You break your old habits, and start forgetting things that don't matter anymore. You start asking yourself questions like "What the hell is a timesheet?" and wonder why anyone would waste time out of their productive day to do something as asinine as to tell someone else what they'd been working on all day. To me, that would seem counter-productive. You forget about that. It just doesn't make sense, so it's wiped from your memory banks.

The job hunt is going slow. You keep seeing contradictory reports on the news saying that unemployment is going down, or that it's going back up. That things will be okay by mid-year NEXT YEAR. You send in your requisite three resumes a week to satisfy your Unemployment requirements and sit waiting by the phone that just...doesn't...ring.

The dog, (remember her?) is now just kind of used to you being home all the time. It's not a big to-do anymore that requires her to have a smiling face or enough of a thing that she gets excited. When she smiles now, you know it's because she wants some water, or to go outside. The cats ignore you, but that's okay, because that's what cats do.


In this economic downturn, (both recession-wise and unemployment-wise) I've become a customer of our local dollar stores. Luckily, the part of town I live in has two. One has good deals on some things I need, and the other has bargains on other items I want. So I split my time between the two when I go out shopping and am friendly with the cashiers at both.

Who knows what they think of me coming in so often, and during the day no less. I'm sure they've noticed the deterioration. I've lost a few pounds since I lost my job. Probably due to not eating out at lunch every day. I've grown out my hair and my beard, just because I can and because it doesn't really make sense to go get a haircut when I'm not making money and I don't really see anyone except for my wife, and the two cashiers at the two local dollar stores.

Perhaps they think of me as a wealthy eccentric who roams the aisles of cheap establishments, constantly on the prowl for tchotchkes and trinkets and the recently faded trends of the last year.

I'll take "Low-rent Howard Hughes" all day long, for the record.

More than likely, I don't even get noticed. Or maybe they think I'm just another asshole that comes into their stupid little store and buys things and floats out into the customer ether or wherever all those people that pass by the register mosey off to.

I think about all of this (and everything else) too much, because I have entered the stage following "FREEDOM" called "BOREDOM."

Freedom is the best stage to be in because your optimism is at an all-time high. You are positive that what has happened is a good thing and that you have nothing to lose and nowhere to go but straight up to the top! It's all going to be okay and nothing can stop you! You get to sleep late, and stay up late, and do anything you want to do anytime you want to!

The dog used to "smile" at me because she was excited I'm home.

I'm fairly sure I saw her just roll her eyes at me today. Nothing like a sarcastic canine.

Things change. Deal with it and move on. This, too, shall pass.

Your freedom becomes a burden. You run out of ideas of things you can go do. Or you run out of things that are feasible for you to do, because, well, you're out of work and can't just go on vacation or fly somewhere.

Another downside of your "freedom" is that the work that conveniently got in the way of the things you didn't want to do around the house is no longer there as an excuse. Or, you can look at it as an chance to finally do all the things you have been needing to do forever. It's all in how you look at it, I suppose.

John Lennon once said that "Life is what happens to you when you're busy making other plans."

Sometimes life is what's happening while you don't have any plans.

And that's okay.

"I've been traveling on a boat and a plane
In a car on a bike with a bus and a train
Traveling there, traveling here
Everywhere. in every gear

But, oh Lord, we pay the price
With the spin of the wheel, with the roll of the dice
Ah yeah, you pay your fare

And if you don't know where you're going
Any road will take you there"

— George Harrison "Any Road"

Reality Cheque

"And you may find yourself living in a shotgun shack
And you may find yourself in another part of the world
And you may find yourself behind the wheel of a large automobile
And you may find yourself in a beautiful house, with a beautiful
Wife
And you may ask yourself-well...how did I get here?"

— Talking Heads / Once in a Lifetime

The Alarm went off everyday at 7:00 a.m. on the dot. Well, it did until the cat threw up on it, but before that the clock was as regular as, well, its namesake. The cat's digestive issues might have been a blessing in disguise, because quite frankly it was getting to me. I wouldn't go through the motions enough to turn it off, or change it. It was just a constant reminder that the repetition that I lived by for the last seven years was no longer part of my routine.

No longer was I getting up at 7:00 a.m. and scrambling out of bed, turning the thing off as a pre-cursor to hitting the shower, putting on clothes, taking out the dog, getting in the car, listening to my obnoxious music that no one else seems to like, sitting in traffic, pulling into my office parking spot, sitting in the car for several minutes working up the strength to drag myself inside anymore...

No, now the routine was to wake up, scramble out of bed, and turn the thing off.

Then I'd stand there, take a deep breath, and wonder why I'd set the thing at all.

Fast-forward one week.

My internal clock is still a jerk. It wakes me up around 8 a.m., letting me know it's time to go do things, and the current thing is let my beard grow and to feel sorry for myself.

My wife, in an effort to make me feel better, let's me know that the dog sure is happy that I'm home more. I look over at the dog and her face tells me that she is happy. Or perhaps, hot and thirsty. I like to be an optimist but I go and fill her water dish just to be on the safe side.

Boom. Internal clock. 8:22 a.m.

Boom. Internal clock. 8:31 a.m.

Boom. Internal clock. 8:16 a.m.

"Letting the days go by/let the water hold me down
Letting the days go by/water flowing underground
Into the blue again/after the moneys gone
Once in a lifetime/water flowing underground."

— Talking Heads / Once in a Lifetime

Boom. Internal clock. 7:45 a.m.

Boom. Internal clock. 8:07 a.m.

Boom. Internal clock. 7:51 a.m.

The one thing going in my head every day that nothing is happening except me talking to others that do have jobs about how I feel that my having been let go is unfair, unjust, and just flat out bull shit is nothing.

I read about Ponzi schemes online and wonder where Bernie Madoff screwed up, and wonder how he did as much damage as he did without getting caught earlier. I forget what I was thinking about minutes later. I mentally make the perfect peanut butter, jelly and banana sandwich. I realistically find that I am short two of the four ingredients. I stare at the wall. I wonder who's idea it was to make a print of the wallpaper that is in my bathroom, which came with the house, and who okayed that, much less bought it.

I envision grandiose building projects in my house and remember shortly thereafter that I have none of the requisite skills or tools to even begin a fraction of what I'm imagining. (This is a continuing theme.)

I trade in a present that would have been great for whenever I went "on the road" for business for something that will be great for when I am sitting at home, looking for something to do besides read want ads that I am "Overqualified" for.

Several hours are spent with the object of my trading, exploring The Capital Wasteland of Fallout 3 trying to find my "father", and bottlecaps (the currency of the day), and violently painting the walls of buildings I have been inside in Washington D.C. in real life with the pixelated blood, and brains, and viscera of the large, green, not entirely domesticated "Super-Mutants" of my current virtual reality.

The dog will show up occasionally, and let me know she would like to go outdoors, and I defer, mostly because I love her, and partly because I understand muscular atrophy and would like to avoid it.

It is usually out in the elements that I come to tiny epiphanies that will take hold or will be as easily forgotten as they came to me. I'll be watching the dog, prancing around, making #1 with haste, but then...then comes the interesting part. She will go in circles. She will smell every tree, branch, flower, tire on a parked car, you name it. She must find the perfect place for her...deposit. Not just anywhere will do. Oh, no, sir. This is an art.

Eventually, a suitable location is found. A stake is claimed. Now, she owns it.

Again, getting the happy look on her face that could either be happiness or possible dehydration, she prances towards and then past me, and onto the steps of our home. I will let her inside and she will be very happy that she did exactly what she went out to do and that she didn't compromise on what she did or where and how she did it.

*Ding!* Epiphany.

Of sorts.

I will be the first to admit that occasionally, one of the many people who are giving me advice, be it solicited or unsolicited, will bring up a potential job solution that I scrunch my nose at and think "No way! I'm too good for that." I will admit that I feel like a complete asshole for even thinking that. I am humble creature. Lately, more often than not. But I also understand what I can bring to the table, and what I can do on any sort of project that I work on. With that being said, with my skill set, and how long I've been doing it, I still react badly to the suggestion that I do something entry-level.

I look back on my previous occupation and I can see it with some objectivity now in the rearview mirror. I liked most of the people I worked with. I liked the perks that came with it occasionally. I had fun many, many times. But was I happy?

In a word: No.

I liked the paycheck. Period.

Now that that's gone, I look at what I was doing and think to myself... there is no way I would do any of that now. It doesn't make me happy. I look at the dog, and her reaction to befouling my backyard and she is more than content. She is mere inches from blissful. She did exactly what she wanted.

Myself, on the other hand. I'm not anywhere closer to figuring out the job situation for the future, but I am much closer to figuring out what makes me happy now.

I'm away from people that stressed me out through terrible communication. I'm long gone from situations that made my hair turn grey before I was 30. I don't have to sit in useless meetings with people not fit to run useless meetings. I'm nowhere close to a "Yes Man." My wife will say "No" just to let me remember that.

I realize it is not wise to work for other people. Other people will do nothing to make you happy. It's not their job. Their job is "really important" but when life is over, and the gravestones are etched it's not going to say "DID THE MOST PAPERWORK." or "FILLED OUT HIS TIMESHEET PROMPTLY."

So, I am no longer working for people. People, who have screwed me over more times than not. People, who aren't concerned about the big picture, only petty details that will be long forgotten years from now.

I don't work for people. I work for money.

I am waking up every day around 8:00 a.m. It is later than I used to rise, and I like that.

The musician Warren Zevon, in the weeks leading up to his death from cancer, was asked for any advice he had for those of us staying on this good Earth, and he said "Enjoy every sandwich."

I'm enjoying every sandwich, and the pets that make me laugh and most importantly, the love of my Wife. She just gets me.

I will find my spot soon enough.

"Same as it ever was...same as it ever was...same as it ever was...
Same as it ever was...same as it ever was...same as it ever was...
Same as it ever was...same as it ever was..."

— Talking Heads / Once in a Lifetime

Overqualified

In The Land Of The Unemployed, "Overqualified" Is A Four-Lettered Word.

"You just know too much."

Well, you know too little.

"You're just overqualified, and I'm afraid you'd get bored."

I'd get bored regardless, eventually. Try me.

"We just need someone more 'entry-level.'"

Well, I just need a paycheck.

A common refrain from many employers is that if you're not straight out of college is that you are "overqualified" for whatever job that they currently have available. This isn't so much an issue when you're selecting your own doctor, or someone to tutor your kids in long division, but when rigidly inserted into the world of owning and running your own business, it's tantamount to blasphemy to go and take the time and commitment to hire someone that is fully aware of what it is he or she is doing.

If you get through the HR muck enough to be told by someone high enough in the hiring hierarchy that you're "overqualified" then you have done an admirable job of making yourself about as close as you can be to a position without having actually received it. The opposite end of the hiring spectrum is that you apply for an open position along with 300 other people who are just as qualified as you, more under-qualified as you, and irredeemably overqualified than you. They're the ones getting told they're too good for it this time. You don't get told anything at all, and someone down on the bottom who is still wearing velcro shoes because of...well, just because, actually gets the position because they won't need to be paid much and can learn on the job.

So there you are, sitting at home. Going over what has gone on the last few days since you've lost your position at your former employment. No doubt you will go through myriad mood swings. Soaring highs and crushing lows. You're reaching the third stage of being "One of Them." Wait a second, you seem to say...What are the first two stages? You don't know?! Well! Let me be your guide. Come along now, little trooper.

The Stages:

The first stage is Shock. You were called in, and told that budget cuts were happening, and that you are, indeed, one of the budgets they are cutting. They don't ask you for anything now, oh no, they will wait until you are getting over this, and they will strike then asking you for things you thought you'd never be doing again, but that's another story for another time. But you are in fact, sitting smack dab in the middle of a thing called Shock, and deep down you know it.

Your finger and toes are numb, almost asleep, with that tingly ethereal sensation you get before you faint, or right before you're about to throw up. They're similar for a reason. You cull through the pile of crap that was really important on your desk and suddenly realize that your Far Side calendar snippets suddenly aren't so funny, and that your basketball card holder really doesn't serve a purpose if you don't have any business cards to put in it.

Hell, you're halfway home before you realize that you actually were just let go. It's okay. It happens to all of us. Enjoy the last few minutes of Shock, which is generally with you for around a day or so, give or take.

(Take a deep breath....look around...get in comfortable chair...because it is about time to...)

FREAK THE FUCK OUT! That's right, buster! The second Stage is full-blown, shit your pants, oh-my-God-I-am-freaking-the-fuck-out-how-am-I-going-to-pay-my-mortgage-or-my-car-or-my-bills-or-my-uh-oh-crap-what-do-I-have-to-pay-forAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH PANIC.

It's okay. It will all be okay. This is the stage I'd like to help people with the most. Because a few of the things --at least for me -- that I've found come with your first couple of days as your own person, is that you:

1. Learn who your friends are.
2. Learn who loves you.
3. Learn to cut negative people that don't support you out of your life.

I was freaking out. Bad. Panic attack freaking out. Couldn't sleep all night because I was afraid someone was going to take my bed and everything else that made me me in my life kind of paranoia. The Panic luckily didn't last long with me. I had people I rarely if ever talked to come out of the woodwork and help my psyche out. Friends let me complain and bitch about my situation. Family let me whine and kvetch and let all the bad air out and just say what I wanted to say.

Some of the people that talked to me on the phone had really stupid and trite cliched advice and some people had really good thoughtful sincere advice, and in those moments you can really, truly tell who is just calling out of obligation and would like to get back to whatever they're doing and who really just wanted to touch base and see how you were and what they could do to help.

Some family told me on both my wife's side and on my side that if things got terrible, we'd have a place to stay. That lifted a huge Monty Python 16-ton weight off of my head. Other folks talked me through different scenarios. One friend helped me immediately by giving me a project to work on that got my mind off of my issues and threw a few bucks in my pocket to stash away, and for that I will be forever indebted to him. He was the MVP of one of the worst weeks I've ever had. Being a heroic figure, however small you might think what you did is, especially in the worst of the really low points makes you a better person than just about anyone else. I appreciate him like no one realizes.

So, basically, Panic was short-lived. In my situation, at least. If you're going through the same scenario, get with the people who know you best, and who you trust and hopefully if you can come up with some sort of contingency, your mind will be somewhat more at ease, as well.

Now, you're coming up on the Third Stage. (Remember when we got into all of this Stage nonsense?)

Before we get too deep into this, I must make clear one of the "rules" of "The Stages."

1. They can overlap.
2. Maybe, in extreme circumstances, they can all be happening at the same time.
3. Every case is different

Stage Three is Reality. Last week you were "THIS PERSON" and now you are just "Some Person." The realistic approach to this is that you are the same person that you were last week. Sure, your business cards aren't accurate, so just throw the things in the trash. You don't have the same routine anymore, so just get out of it. Immediately. If you're like me, you're having trouble sleeping, so just stay up all night until you can't stay awake anymore and you'll find that the bad dreams don't happen because you're sleeping so hard that you don't get proper REM sleep. (This also, is slightly bad since REM sleep is truly restful sleep, but you're breaking habits. I found that earlier this year when I quit a 10+ year cigarette habit Cold Turkey that shocking the system was my best way to get out of things. )

So you're still the same person. Just believe it. Your job does not make you who you are. Sure, it might have given you some nice perks in certain situation if you had a position similar to mine, but once you're out of that work scenario, you start to learn that a lot of what you had, that you had perceived came from your position was really just you doing what you do, but with confidence. With the backing of your employ you were capable of doing great things, but really it was just you doing it because you were doing it for someone else.

Fuck that. You are capable of great things. You, yourself. Your mother and father's kid, can do just about anything you put your mind to.

Don't go thinking you can jump out of a high-rise window and fly or that suddenly barrel-rolling through traffic is a good idea, because anything you put your mind to is a bit much, but if you did it before, or were close to doing something before, you can still do it. Except now you can probably do it better because you don't have the parameters and rules and laws of your former workplace shackling you in, either creatively, figuratively, or literally.

You're your own person, and you can do what you need to do to make things work for yourself and all it takes is brushing yourself off, looking around, realizing there's a whole huge world out there full of experiences you weren't taking because you were too busy working, and go take advantage of it.

Your job doesn't define you. Your career is just something you write down under your name on a business card, which you'll find aren't even really necessary in the days and weeks to come.

So if your job doesn't define you, what does?

The actions you do. The company you keep. The friends you make, and the bonds that you forge. The love of your family, and the trust and care you give to those that love you most.

You define you. The best part about your life's hiring process is that you're never too overqualified to just be yourself.

The job hunt can wait until tomorrow. Today I'm working on me.