Old Woman Needs Job

I get a speculation job on percentage of future sales for editing a book about suicide. This means that I have to be alive to collect reimbursement. There are signs everywhere.

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My son sees that I have saved one of my files under the title FU. He begins to laugh even though I assure him that it stands for Florida University. It doesn’t.

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I answer a job posting that requires an innovative writing sample on a specific topic. I win an interview, one of few granted out of thousands of applications, but when I arrive my interviewer is less than half my age. We get along famously; he asks me for ideas, writes vigorously, and tells me he plans to use my innovative suggestions. Then he remarks in his naiveté’ that he really had a “young technogeek guy” in mind for the position. I bid farewell to all of the twenty-somethings in the office. I should have asked for my interviewer’s arm, or perhaps a wheelchair assist to my car.

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Another interview – I know I can do this one. It pays an entry-level wage and is 40 miles from my home but I just need to get my foot in the door, I tell myself. The interviewer is the owner, over 70 (to be kind), and very unfriendly. The company publishes free apartment and condo guides—requires loads of creativity like listing how many bathrooms and describing the toilet fixtures. He won’t even look at my writing samples, published articles, or credentials. He keeps yelling, “Show me some sizzle!” ala the phrase coined--in what?--the early 1900s?

I’m still trying to get over the fact that I was so desperately polite to this man.

(I didn’t get the job.)

My Heart Attack

My wonderful Dad died some ten years ago of congestive heart failure after many, many arduous surgeries. Several years later, I had a heart scan done and discovered that I had some plaque in my arteries. This was followed by several EKGs, a brother-in-law who told me I would most likely die in my sleep, and soon (probably wishful thinking), and a thallium stress test. This is a test in which they inject a radioactive isotope into your veins, and then leave you alone in a room with a robot that scans your upper body. You can’t move as you lie there and watch this thing move around you, and I imagined that I had been abducted by aliens. The doctors told me that I couldn’t enter any government buildings for 24 hours after the isotope was injected or I would set off the alarm systems, which meant that I had to cancel my luncheon in the Oval Office.

Anyway, though I was instructed as every other person with a family of heart history is instructed−regular check ups, eat right, lower cholesterol, exercise−the whole thing has left me with a sense of paranoia. A few weeks ago in the middle of a regular day, the muscles between my shoulder blades began to go into what felt like a Charlie horse spasm. I took a few baby aspirin; I lay down on the floor; I used a heating pad. The pain wasn’t going away. I Googled “signs of heart attack” for the umpteenth time on the Internet. It said if upper back “discomfort” lasts for longer than 25 minutes to call 911. No way!

So then I decide to go and use the blood pressure machine at Publix. I’ve never used it before and the anticipation alone made my heart pound faster. My BP was slightly elevated, so I decided as long as I’m having a heart attack, I might as well pick up a few items. I reason that if I collapse people will call for help if nothing more than to keep me from blocking the aisles. I take the groceries home and put them away as the pain persists. I call husband Jack, “Is it an emergency hon?” he asks. “Sort of,” I answer. “Can I call you back?” he answers. Now I really feel sorry for myself. I try to call my doctor who is closed for the day, and it’s Friday. Then Jack calls back and tells me that our insurance will probably cover a nearby emergency center, but to check it out before I have anything done. Ooo-kaay.

I’M HAVING A HEART ATTACK DAMN IT!

My fear of doctors is now doing battle with my fear of dying. The fear of dying wins out. I circle an emergency medical center near our home. Nobody seems to be there. I circle again. I’m in my car by the way. I haven’t yet left my body. Finally, I get up the nerve to park and pull in. I don’t want to get emotional, so I stand up straight and say a little speech to the receptionist:

“Hello. My family has a history of heart problems. I’ve been having consistent pain between my shoulder blades for about an hour and a half now. The information on the Internet says that I may be having a heart attack, so I thought I should come and check it out. Do you take this insurance?” I hand her my card.

“Yes, but first fill out this paperwork,” she says, hardly looking up. Geez, I hope I can write fast and don’t have to look up any answers.

Well I see the doctor. I tell him about the stress, primarily financial, that I have been under for about four consecutive years. I have an EKG, a BP check, and I read an entire Time magazine and parts of a People waiting to find out if I’ll live. “Your EKG is very normal, no sign of a heart attack,” the doctor tells me. “Of course, you could have a normal EKG and then drop dead in the parking lot.”

“You’re not making me feel better.”

“Have you been picking up any small children?”

“Does a 20-pound pug count?”

“Yes. I believe that you are under stress and your muscles are already tense. Picking up something of that weight from the floor has caused you to pull out your back.”

Well, I’m relieved for the moment, even though I rush out to my car so that I don’t die as predicted in the parking lot. Wouldn’t that make him sorry!

I feel a twinge of guilt for lying to the good doctor though. My pug actually weighs about 25 pounds.

Middle-aged Meanies

My nephew’s baseball game had been rained out, so my sister Jennifer and I decided to run some errands together. As we pulled out of a strip mall and stopped in the turn lane waiting for traffic to clear, the sun emerged and she opened the sun roof. A waterfall that had collected in the window poured onto our heads, knocking my glasses off. Simultaneously, a confused teen started to turn straight into us to enter the strip mall. We only had time to scream. He realized his mistake and veered into the appropriate lane, but as he went past us, he gave us the finger.

“Why did he give us the finger? That really ticks me off!” said Jennifer.

“Me, too! What a little ass!” I reply. “We didn’t even do anything.”

“Should we go back and say something to him?”

“Yes,” I say, as I try to dry off my glasses.

“Really?”

“Hell, yes!”

We find the greasy-haired, low-riding-pants slacker as he’s about to cross the street to a pizza parlor. My sister rolls down her tinted, darkened automatic window and yells, “Hey, why did you shoot us the finger when you’re the one who almost hit us?”

His hormonal bravado has vanished since he left the protective shell of his automobile and he refuses to give us eye contact.

“Yeah, what a jerk!” I add as he walks behind the car (a wise move in case we were planning to run him over.)

“Youth of today!” Jennifer yells as he crosses.

“Youth of today? How old are we -- ninety?” I ask.

“I know. I probably shouldn’t have said that.”

“Probably?! Before, he could have only told his friends that two women called him a jerk and asked him a relevant question. Now he can laugh about two old bitches that yelled, ‘Youth of today.’”

“Well, I still had some air time.” Pause. “But you’re right, I blew it."

We nod in agreement and then go on to lunch, but not at the pizza parlor.

Undercover Butt-in-skee

I really needed to get out of the house. I'd hit the wall on an article I was writing, so I decided to run a few errands. On my way down a semi-rural road, I passed a landfill that a well-propertied county family had opened a few months back. Just as I passed it, I noticed a pickup truck pulled over to the side of a small road to the right. The driver looked like he was asleep, but as I drove past I thought, “I sure hope that man didn’t have a heart attack.” Well, I dismissed it because I tend to think the worst.

On my way back about an hour later, I noticed that the man was still there “asleep” behind the wheel. I pulled into the next gas station/quickie mart and told the store clerk about the man. I noted that the road was near a store that the same people who had started the landfill owned. I then persuaded him to call the people at the store and get them to go and check on, hopefully, Rip Van Winkle. As he dialed the phone, I left because I had to pick up my son from school.

Several weeks later, Jack and I stopped in at the gas station/quickie mart. When the store clerk saw me he said, “You know that man you told me about? He was an undercover agent trying to bust that family for illegal dumping. When they went out there and asked him for some I.D. he was completely pissed. He’d been working on that case for weeks and you blew his cover!”

“Well I guess he shouldn’t have been sleeping on the job!” I joked.

We got in the car and Jack said, “Hon, what the hell are you doing during the day?”

More Random Rants

Reason to be thankful:

My ferret Mimi is very old and very ill. My vet recommends a specialist. I call for directions but genius that I am, (I drew a map to get to my high school classes), I get lost anyway. An hour later I’m on the expressway and dead on empty. Mimi continually escapes from her carry box and I fight to keep driving as she crosses over my neck and onto the floor of the vehicle. I frantically imagine squashing her under the brake peddle or even worse, meeting my death in an overturned car because the brake peddle won’t work due to ferret blockage. What would the police report say? I imagine the scene as they remove my body and a tiny furry carcass from the scene. Will we each have our own stretcher? I finally discover a gas station and coast in on the remaining fuel fumes in my tank, secure the ferret, pump the gas and say breathlessly to the attendant. “I’ve been riding around lost for over an hour with a sick ferret crawling all over me in the car!”

She drones without expression, “That will be five dollars.”

I think, “Geez! At least I’ve got a working brain stem!”

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And the sensitivity award goes to:

I tell my chronically well-off sister that as the Monday after Thanksgiving approaches I’m fighting deep depression, knowing that it will be another week of not knowing what to do next to secure a job. She replies, “I’m getting depressed too because I have so much to do. We’re breaking ground on another new building tomorrow and we have to close the deal on some more land! I’m so busy I don’t know how I’ll ever get the time to do all the Christmas shopping.”

Well that cheered me up!

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The commercial voiceover states: “There is only one Grand Canyon.”
“There is only one first kiss.”

Yes, but there is also only one first kiss in the Grand Canyon! So that blows that theory.

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A commercial for stomach antacid, Depends, or some such product shows two middle-aged married women saying good-bye to their loving families and going on a whitewater rafting girls’ weekend. The guides are young male hunks; camping is even involved, and they wait on the women hand and foot! “What the hell kind of married women’s vacation is that?!” shouts my husband from his lounge chair.

I don’t know, but I intend to investigate.

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I went to a luncheon of high achievers -- lawyers, painters, with children in medical school and the Peace Corp. I guess I was invited as the welfare guest. They speak of their homes in Argentina, summers in France, and a tour of Bangladesh. I, on the other hand, am about to lose my home and my son probably won’t graduate from high school this year! One of the women described her life and then said, “I actually envy myself!” At that point, my brain froze and I may have begun to drool. At least my temporary coma prevented me from committing a violent act.

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Crazy for Living With Me

I’ve come to the conclusion that spending a lot of time alone has not made me more introspective or productive; it just makes me a little crazier every day. After many years of spending most of my time in my home office or wandering around the house trying to avoid my home office, I’ve finally not only gotten to the point of talking out loud to myself; I can now tune myself out because I’m tired of listening. The other night my son and his girlfriend were over when I mumbled something about not taking the garbage out because I was in flip-flops and it was dark, would probably step on something appalling, have a heart attack, and they’d find me the next day, thus ruining the rest of the weekend. “What?!” she said.

“Did I say that out loud?”

I’ve worked primarily from home either fully or partially employed for the past 20 years and though most people say, “Oh that would be wonderful!” they obviously don’t understand the reality of it all. For one thing friends and family see you as the point person for every occasion and think that you don’t really work for a living. Employers can be pretty stupid in this respect as well, not realizing that studies show that most people who work from home are at least 20 percent more productive than people who have to get dressed, commute, and spend a good part of the day being interrupted by co-workers and managers who have nothing better to do than check on what everybody else is doing. We work-at-home people have to actually produce something. All that aside, I have noticed that working from home can encourage the odd tendency to converse with just about anybody about anything.

The UPS man waves to me when we pass on the road, which husband Jack, thinks is odd. UPS man and I came to know each other better when I became obsessed with ordering a carved lizard sculpture from Mexico (at sale price) from a catalog. Trouble was that every time I received a lizard, it was damaged (broken tail, broken toes, battered nose). I started showing this to the UPS man every time he delivered or picked up one of the reptiles. Finally after about a dozen or so episodes, he recognized my Jeep on a nearby road, waved me down, shoved a package at me and yelled, “Here’s your damn lizard!”

“How are the piano lessons going?” I asked.

As the UPS man drove off I turned to Jack and said, “He’s always wanted to take piano lessons and now he’s finally doing it. Isn’t that great?”

Jack didn’t reply.

My bookshelves are lined with home cures for every malady and disease known to man, because when a person is constantly alone, they seem to become open to suggestions that they may be dying of, well, there are a myriad of possibilities. Of course, I don’t want to go to a doctor because this would require me to be among…the others. One day I read that constantly working at a computer screen could degenerate one’s pupils, so I found a pair of old sunglasses with only one earpiece. I was doing some repetitive research work so I cranked up Pink Floyd on the stereo, when lo and behold, the Jehovah’s Witnesses came to the door. I answered and despite the blaring music and my odd eyewear they asked me if I wanted to pray. “Sure!” I replied. It must have been the shortest prayer in the history of door-to-door religion.

Most strangers who contact me at home are trying to either save my soul or bury my body. One funeral plot salesman (FPS) called and we had the following conversation:

FPS: Have you prepared for the inevitability of your death?
Me: And how do you suggest I do that?
FPS: Have you purchased a grave plot to spare your loved ones the grief and trouble of doing so?
Me: No, because I’m going to be cremated.
FPS: Well, that requires planning and expense as well, you know.
Me: I have it all planned. We’re going to have a big party, a funeral pyre like the Indians used to do, and they’re just going to light me up in the back yard.
FPS: (Pause) That would be illegal.
Me: What do I care? I’ll be dead.

He hung up, not realizing that backyard funeral pyres could be a very lucrative future fad.

"Don't Write" Advice

Possibly the worst advice that counselors and recruiters give to people is, “Do what you love.” As far as people who decide to become writers are concerned (with of course the rare exception of best-selling authors) this advice sucks! Most people who go into professions that involve writing do so (in their hopeful youth) with the belief that one day they may actually become the rare beast mentioned above. By the time we realize that ain’t gonna happen, we’re not only burnt out, we’ve learned to hate what we once loved. Now we not only hate what we can’t make diddly doing, we no longer enjoy writing as a hobby.

So headhunters and career experts, please at least make an exception for wannabe writers when doling out this useless advice. Tell people if they love writing to do so on the side and then go get a job doing something they hate. This saves a great deal of time and will probably give the people a better chance of keeping a roof over their heads and food on the table. Believe me, a higher education and years of experience doesn’t count in the writing field. Why? Because every person out there who wisely chose another profession thinks that if they only had the time they too could be writers. For most of the population that’s an incredible misperception, but it explains the miserable fees that they offer for “professional” writing services. This fact holds true for corporate and freelance work. Here are some amusing, actual offers from an online freelance site:

Title: Travel Articles Ghostwriter Needed Category: Writing / Editing / Translation Description: Ghostwriter needed for 10 articles on Travel Articles. I will provide the keywords for the 10 articles after I award the bid to someone. Willing to pay $50 for ten well-written articles. Specifications: 1. 10 keyword optimized articles. 2. Optimized for search engines for the keywords. 3. Articles must be unique and not be found by searching at Google on any "particular phrase" from a well-provided article. 4. Articles must be well written, informative and on topic. 5. Price must include research. 6. You must be willing to do unlimited revisions in order to satisfy my requirements.

Oh my gosh! What an opportunity! This person, who not only requires unlimited revisions, is also offering a grand total of 50 U.S. dollars for 10 well-written, researched articles. What a deal! Or maybe I could just go and mow two yards at $25-$30 a pop in half the time. Moron.

Here’s another great offer (with spelling unaltered):

I am looking for a creative writer with an interest or background in weight lifting, weight training, bodybuilding, or power lifting. I am in need of a ghost writer to create articles that I can publish at my discretion using my name and web site name. It is a weight lifting informational web site. Articles related to increasing your bench press, powerlifting, weight lifting, strength training, and or bodybuilding are needed. The length of the articles should be approximatelly 1100 words. Pictures are not needed. [Thank God for that perk!] The project pays $10 per article and I'm looking for 10 articles a month on a continous basis. [$100 a month! Be still my beating heart.] Here are samples of my writings so that you can get a feel for my writing style and sense of humor.

Yes, I can see that this person has a great sense of humor if not only for suggesting that so many writers are out there who also happen to be body builders and who are willing to stop power lifting to earn ten whole dollars for probably about at least five hours worth of work. Yes, I think $2 per hour is well worth the effort and fulfillment of giving you not only good content, but the byline as well, you colossal ass.

The sad part is that writers who have been advised to do what they love actually take this kind of work!

I’m also always amazed that people have no concept that writers can actually write about different subject matter after interviewing the appropriate people and doing research. (That’s what we do!) Hence, the plethora of jobs descriptions that say things such as “Looking for content writer for site about loving dogs. Must have experience and writing samples regarding a mixed-breed terrier with one spot on hindquarters named Dewey. Otherwise, you need not apply! Willing to pay one cent for every 5,000 words.”

Or, “Want to write my life story. Unless you have lived in a parallel universe and have experienced everything that I have, please do not apply. This includes saving the life of an Orca whale while being a double amputee.”

Corporate offers aren’t much better:

Must oversee all corporate communications and communications staff; be adept at Adobe, Excel, and Photoshop. Minimum 10 years of experience is required; master’s degree or higher. Excellent writing skills and samples in sales, advertising, small novellas, and large historical novels. Willing to cook meals for overtime employees while writing all correspondence, proposals, books, and articles for 5000 self-absorbed Ph.D.s. Must supply published writing samples re: a man named Ross Huffenfeffer—a strict requirement for consideration.

Salary: Up to $14, 500 (Or we’ll just let the mailroom clerk do it in his spare time.)

You know, there are a lot of words out there, and a lot of poorly paid schmucks (such as me) writing them. Whenever fresh-faced, happy kids come to me and say they want to write for a living, I truly don’t want to burst their bubbles. The best advice I can give is, “Make a fortune doing something you hate and/or are truly ashamed of. [Sentence ended with a preposition!] Then write a best-seller about it.

More Random Rants

More entries in my Out of Work (OOW) journal:

Sadly, I’ve become addicted to a reality show about women trying to start their lives over. It’s one step away from “watching my stories.” One young beautiful woman is worried about having a perfect wedding – oh cry me a river! (Actually, in some parts, I do cry a river.) I consider applying for the show but then realize that even I can’t stand to hear myself talk that much.

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The tornados are ravaging Florida and high winds hit Georgia. I’m in the shower when I hear a loud crashing sound. My first thought is that someone has broken into the house and that they are coming to get me. Running from the shower in a towel, I consider yelling “I’m here! I’m here!” in an effort to speed my demise. Then I discover that a large oak branch has fallen on the deck, barely missing the house. I call my husband at work and tell him of the fact that I thought someone had broken in. He states with some alarm, “Sweetie, it’s really dangerous out there right now with those high winds. [My heart soars at his concern for me.] Could you go out and pull the grill closer to the house?”

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Searching the Internet for jobs on a Saturday morning, I see something fly past outside. I look out to see a beautiful three-foot tall crane standing in the back yard, a sight very unusual for this hilly, water-isolated part of Georgia. “Come out and look,” I yell to my husband. “There’s a beautiful crane in our back yard.”

“Oh, I’ve seen a crane before,” he remarks, never moving from his chair.

Well, hell, I’ve seen a giraffe before but if one is in my back yard, I’m going to get up to look at the damn thing!

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Look, I’ve never been a fashion queen, but I just purchased women’s socks at the grocery store!

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My teenaged son yelled at our pug for barking. I told him to stop being a bully. He replied, “Shut up and give me your lunch money!”

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People, people, people! Can’t we all just get along before I kick somebody’s ass?

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