Yep. I'm a big kid. An official adult and stuff.
Why?
Because today is the day my insurance benefits really officially kick in.
That's right...I can break a leg, break my teeth, break my spirit and have it all fixed...and paid for.
While I don't have any plans on breaking any of the aforementioned, I guess today just gives me peace-of-mind (There's AngelVision speak for you) knowing that, in case something really crappy and painful does come my way -- say the lady who almost hit me during my run this morning hadn't finished applying her lipstick and actually turned into me instead of nearly into me -- I'm covered; good to go.
It's hard at this juncture to not want to go down the highway of political ranting but, considering I have a plethora of friends and loved ones who are my age, working their asses off without a safety net of health insurance, it's inevitable that my typically non-political posting is taking the on ramp at full speed.
A couple of weeks ago the New York Times T-Magazine ran an article about kids my age. The headline pretty much sums up the subject of the eleven page issue: "What Is It About 20-Somethings?" "Why," the subhead asks, "Are so many people in their 20s taking so long to grow up?" One of the reasons...healthcare. The other reason? The economy. It's awesome, really, that our president has allowed those of us no longer in college but without a job like mine to stay on our parents' health insurance plans until we're 26 but, at the same time, allowing us to keep suckling away on that parental teat just pushes us further and further away from real, live independence. It's a way of keeping us half-grown up as psuedo-adults who are almost...but not quite...there.
What pushes most of us down even further is the still-tanked and ever-tanking economy that's ripe only with un-and-underemployment. There are too many degree-bearing 20-somethings with stocks of creativity, passion, drive and talent who are working part-time, unfulfilling jobs (By the way, unfulfilling isn't actually a word. Good thing I've got an English degree and license to make up my own). And here in Portland (Okay, and Oregon in general where the unemployment level is still over 10 percent), the economy is nearly impossible.
It's not fair! It's not fair! It's not fair!
Wait...this post was about me being a grown up, right?
Anyway...
While I typically don't agree with Nancy Pelosi, I found a quotation from her on Friday while looking up quotations for a client.
(Sidebar for all of those in marketing...don't EVER promise a client you'll find a quotation for them. It takes for fucking ever. And yes...the F-word was indeed necessary. End Sidebar)
Pelosi said: "Think of an economy where people could be an artist or photographer or writer without worrying about keeping their day job in order to have health insurance."
Indeed...where is that economy? And where is the universal healthcare? Where? Where? Where?
Maybe we 20-somethings don't want to grow up just quite yet because there's not a whole lot of awesome to grow up to.
Hmm. I think I broke my spirit somewhere during that joyride.
And here I thought the start of September never looked so good.
Showing posts with label unemployment. Show all posts
Showing posts with label unemployment. Show all posts
Wednesday, September 1, 2010
Thursday, December 10, 2009
Rags or Riches?
Apparently I make too much money money to be considered 'in need.' That's right--I was denied, via snail mail, funds for food stamps today. My cupboards are beyond bare, my fridge is 'stocked' with two three-week-old apples, but my 10-cents-above-minimum-wage job is too beneficial for me to receive help from my state government.
Which I don't really get, especially when I read an article that describes a man "living in a $750,000 Southwest Portland home...owns two BMWs but is now unemployed and receives nearly $400 in food stamps a month after he lost his job." I live in an old school studio with a less-than-reliable heater and still-busted pipe, make $800 a month and have $695 of bills a month yet somehow, somehow don't qualify for food stamps.
Another article released yesterday revealed data that shows 36 percent of Oregonians are on food stamps. That's one in three Oregon residents, or 650,000 people, who use those little plastic Oregon Trail cards that I am now totally officially jealous of. I know I shouldn't think this -- and perhaps it's really only directed toward Mr. Two BMWs -- but man, what lucky bastards.
A Google search showed in 22 million results for "food stamps." Obviously our nation, not just our little West side hippie state, is having some hunger issues. It makes sense, considering that unemployment still hovers over 10 percent nationally and 11 percent in Oregon. Those numbers are depressing although perhaps not as depressing as the fact that those 90 percent who are employed and those 63 percent of Oregonians who don't have to (or can't I suppose in my case) be on food stamps are hesitant to help out those in need.
As a resident of Northwest Portland, I observe -- and yes, participate -- daily in ignoring those who are in greater need than myself. Every time I walk to work I shift my glance away from the man who sits on the corner of Hoyt and 23rd asking for spare change. I deny the homeless men selling copies of Street Roots in front of Fred Meyer's and Trader Joe's because I know that spending that dollar means three less meals for myself (When I'm buying pasta, that is).
And it makes me wonder, while at work, if the customers who bark at me to find every single queen duvet cover in the store knew that their single purchase could cover my rent and groceries for a month, if they'd change their mind and help a girl out instead of yelling at her like I am their personal slave.
Considering I don't drop a dollar to a man who is forced to sleep outside in below freezing temperatures, probably not.
Once you take away that statistical numbers and data, it's easier to see the sad little world we live in.
Maybe if I buy a Beamer, my life will magically become better. Think the state would help me out with that?
I didn't think so either. Perhaps if I buy a volvo or subaru....you know how Portland loves it's hippie vehicles.
Which I don't really get, especially when I read an article that describes a man "living in a $750,000 Southwest Portland home...owns two BMWs but is now unemployed and receives nearly $400 in food stamps a month after he lost his job." I live in an old school studio with a less-than-reliable heater and still-busted pipe, make $800 a month and have $695 of bills a month yet somehow, somehow don't qualify for food stamps.
Another article released yesterday revealed data that shows 36 percent of Oregonians are on food stamps. That's one in three Oregon residents, or 650,000 people, who use those little plastic Oregon Trail cards that I am now totally officially jealous of. I know I shouldn't think this -- and perhaps it's really only directed toward Mr. Two BMWs -- but man, what lucky bastards.
A Google search showed in 22 million results for "food stamps." Obviously our nation, not just our little West side hippie state, is having some hunger issues. It makes sense, considering that unemployment still hovers over 10 percent nationally and 11 percent in Oregon. Those numbers are depressing although perhaps not as depressing as the fact that those 90 percent who are employed and those 63 percent of Oregonians who don't have to (or can't I suppose in my case) be on food stamps are hesitant to help out those in need.
As a resident of Northwest Portland, I observe -- and yes, participate -- daily in ignoring those who are in greater need than myself. Every time I walk to work I shift my glance away from the man who sits on the corner of Hoyt and 23rd asking for spare change. I deny the homeless men selling copies of Street Roots in front of Fred Meyer's and Trader Joe's because I know that spending that dollar means three less meals for myself (When I'm buying pasta, that is).
And it makes me wonder, while at work, if the customers who bark at me to find every single queen duvet cover in the store knew that their single purchase could cover my rent and groceries for a month, if they'd change their mind and help a girl out instead of yelling at her like I am their personal slave.
Considering I don't drop a dollar to a man who is forced to sleep outside in below freezing temperatures, probably not.
Once you take away that statistical numbers and data, it's easier to see the sad little world we live in.
Maybe if I buy a Beamer, my life will magically become better. Think the state would help me out with that?
I didn't think so either. Perhaps if I buy a volvo or subaru....you know how Portland loves it's hippie vehicles.
Friday, December 4, 2009
Thanks, MJ.
Let's begin today's therapy session with a few words from Michael Jackson. Please allow 5:45 for this masterpiece to really hit you because, trust me, you'll want to hear all his whoops! and ows! to really understand this blog (Feel free to raise your hands, close your eyes and let your feet thump to the power of MJ):
Now that the mood is set and we have that 1995 classic running through our minds, I can rightfully begin today's thoughts. Technically, my thoughts come from Wednesday while I was reading the front page of the Oregonian I picked up from a cafe. The day's largest headline, while not bannering the top of the page, screamed in blocky bold font: "New grads in record debt." Subhead: "Earning ability during a recession isn't enough to get ahead of college loans."
I am not alone, indeed. While I am lucky enough to have graduated from UP without student loans (Apparently 63 percent of the 2008 Pilot alumni are saddled with some form of student debt), I am, as the newspaper implies, "getting a tough reality check [with] the toughest job market in decades." In fact, the article cites that "national unemployment rates for college graduates ages 20 to 24 rose from 7.6 percent in 2008 to 10.6 percent his year," according to a report by The Project on Student Debt, part of the Berkeley-based Institute for College Access & Success.
In a bittersweet manner, it is comforting to know that there are others out there exactly like me: degree-toting superstars sitting -- gratuitously, of course -- in underemployed jobs, itching to do something meaningful with our lives (Sing it to me MJ!) but unable to find the person or company to let us or help us do it. It's sweet because, I am not alone but it's bitter for the same reason too. If my fellow alumni are anything like me, they're getting hungrier and hungrier (literally and metaphorically speaking) for something bigger and better and are stepping up their games in order to satiate that hunger.
Perhaps, in the long run, because of our youthful drives, my generation will wind up doing really fantastic things in the future. We don't have to be, like a business journal reported last week, the newest 'lost generation' that is going to be worse off than our parents' generation (Not that they're living sheisty lives or anything) in terms of financial stability and overall net earnings. We don't have to maintain these less-than-ideal lifestyles. We don't have to settle for underemployment. We don't have to settle, period.
But until that day of unsettling presents itself on my calendar, I have Michael to get me through those nights. It's too bad he was just so creepy looking in '95. Definitely not his hay-day (May he rest in peace).
Thursday, December 3, 2009
Debbie Downer? Try (uhhh) Ursula Upper!
First things first:
Major kudos and a big chocolate cookie goes out to anyone who can think of a better female name than Ursula. I'm rather embarrassed to have kept such an atrocious blog title but come on, I had to continue the polar opposite theme of blog posts I've been maintaining for the past few days.
Preface over. And so it begins.
It actually begins, probably ironically and deservedly so, with me waking up rather groggily and hungover this morning (Last night, in contrast to the past few nights, was happy drinking with friends at a birthday celebration at Chopsticks II, a questionable Chinese restaurant/karaoke dive bar on East Burnside. Even I -- beer and food snob extraordinaire -- won't say no to free PBR). It, of course, is my newly re-re-restored (Yes, I've had a lot of mentality and emotional restorations in the past few months. Deal with it...I have) optimistic spirit that was hiding cowardly either behind empty beer bottles and shots of whatever or underneath the heap of blankets I keep on my bed. It came back because, for the first time in the last ten or so days, I have hope again.
That's right; hope....that little flutter of nervous butterflies that gets you all excited and tingly and grade-school giddy for the happening of something absolutely wonderful...has caught up with me again. And let me tell you, it's a fantastic feeling, mainly because I worked hard to make it happen. I mean, sure I did my fair share of bitching, moaning, drinking and crying about how unfair life is, how poor I am, how frustrating everything is (Yes, you can insert the teacher's voice from Charlie Brown here and I won't be even remotely offended) but I've also been working my tushy off to gain some hope (Turn Charlie Brown teacher voice off here).
After having spent all of Monday applying to jobs (26 in all), I was able to go to sleep last night with one interview in the bag and will be able to curl up in bed (Hopefully not shivering in my 55 degree studio) tonight with a second interview on deck for this coming Monday. To sweeten the deal a bit more, I received a new writing assignment from one of my editors due in ten days (Which means, regardless of whether I land either potential job, I'll be in Portland through at least January. Woot woot!).
I also got my new phone (Hooray for free upgrades, right?), cleaned my apartment and am waiting to embark on a reunion with a good friend over cheap pizza.
Hope: Much nicer than a hangover.
I wonder if I could be a slogan writer...I mean heck, I could have made thousands working on Obama's campaign with my wit and ability to write to the "Average Joe."
...But seriously, I need help with that name.
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
Sobriety
I'm pretty sure that my Irish roots took hold of me over the past weekend (And by weekend I mean the entire last week) because I wasn't just living in an Irish drama, complete with the bread-winning sop (who of course wastes all hard-earned funds on a pint), female drama and cold, lonely nights; I was starring in one. My role? The bread-winning sop. My English professors must be so proud (I didn't learn nothing from college after all).
Whenever I read Irish dramas or novels or watched films about Irish life, I could never really sympathize with the male household figure because, in most films and novels, the Man of the House was the bad guy. He was the guy who had a dead-end job and starved his kids and cheated on his wife and sang sad war songs because he spent all of his money on what was promised to be just one (but often turned into four and five) pint.
But now, in light of recent events of me being nearly broke and on a three week countdown until I possible move back home to Spokane with my parents, I'm starting to sympathize with the Irish novel's antagonist. True, I don't have kids to feed (Thank goodness!) but I do have myself to feed and, as of late, I've been choosing wine and beer over fruit and vegetables. My reasoning, which I like to assume is the same rationalizion process that my Irish male ancestors engaged in, is that I am still getting enough calories to be alive (Beer isn't calorie-friendly, people...my butt and hips can tell you so) and kicking and that the buzz of enough booze makes me oblivious to the fact that I'm broke, frustrated and struggling.
Drinking is a weird form of escapism. It's cheap and makes me feel cheap the next morning when I wake up and recall the empty bottles (usually three at most...I'm still a lightweight) with my groggy eyes and groggier head. The shame is more evident when I wake up alone since that infers that I was drinking alone and can't even recall good times from the night before.
I'd almost prefer my angry Irish wife and empty-bellied Irish lot to wake me up and ask me where breakfast is. But I don't have that. Instead, I have myself and I'm far scarier than even the scariest, shrillest and angriest Irish wife (Fictional or real, it doesn't matter).
Whenever I read Irish dramas or novels or watched films about Irish life, I could never really sympathize with the male household figure because, in most films and novels, the Man of the House was the bad guy. He was the guy who had a dead-end job and starved his kids and cheated on his wife and sang sad war songs because he spent all of his money on what was promised to be just one (but often turned into four and five) pint.
But now, in light of recent events of me being nearly broke and on a three week countdown until I possible move back home to Spokane with my parents, I'm starting to sympathize with the Irish novel's antagonist. True, I don't have kids to feed (Thank goodness!) but I do have myself to feed and, as of late, I've been choosing wine and beer over fruit and vegetables. My reasoning, which I like to assume is the same rationalizion process that my Irish male ancestors engaged in, is that I am still getting enough calories to be alive (Beer isn't calorie-friendly, people...my butt and hips can tell you so) and kicking and that the buzz of enough booze makes me oblivious to the fact that I'm broke, frustrated and struggling.
Drinking is a weird form of escapism. It's cheap and makes me feel cheap the next morning when I wake up and recall the empty bottles (usually three at most...I'm still a lightweight) with my groggy eyes and groggier head. The shame is more evident when I wake up alone since that infers that I was drinking alone and can't even recall good times from the night before.
I'd almost prefer my angry Irish wife and empty-bellied Irish lot to wake me up and ask me where breakfast is. But I don't have that. Instead, I have myself and I'm far scarier than even the scariest, shrillest and angriest Irish wife (Fictional or real, it doesn't matter).
Wednesday, November 25, 2009
Pessimism
Apparently it doesn't take me very long to have a complete upheaval in my emotional state of well being. I woke up this morning with the intent of going out to breakfast with a friend and her parents only to find out that I am, yet again, broke, thanks to the weekend's onslaught of bill paying and grocery buying.
Every ounce of the previous day's optimism vanquished from my body in such a raging fashion that I wasn't sure if my windows were fogging up from my 1920's steam heater or from me. Laying in bed, I cringed as I had to text my friend to let her know that I will indeed, not be making breakfast, because my bank account isn't going to let me.
And so, like I always do whenever I realize how poor I am, I go into a downward cycle of shame, guilt and frustration (Much like my friends did two nights ago). Pulling my covers over my head, I curled up in a ball and tried to figure out how the hell I got here. I graduated from a great school but don't have a real job. Heck, I held better jobs during the summers while I was in school. Now, I find myself applying for crap jobs like being a pet sitter or customer service representative because those are the only jobs I feel qualified to do, regardless of my degree from said great school. My fridge, much like my recent stores of hope and optimism, are empty and I simply do not have the funds to refill either of them.
How am I going to eat? How am I supposed to pay rent? These questions filter through the melee going on between my emotions and my logic while I try to figure out just how much longer I can hold out living here on my own in Portland with a 20-hour a week part time job.
The answer (sigh) is January, if I spend no more than $12 a day. It seems doable; it really does. But what if it isn't? What if I fail and have to move back home?
Every ounce of the previous day's optimism vanquished from my body in such a raging fashion that I wasn't sure if my windows were fogging up from my 1920's steam heater or from me. Laying in bed, I cringed as I had to text my friend to let her know that I will indeed, not be making breakfast, because my bank account isn't going to let me.
And so, like I always do whenever I realize how poor I am, I go into a downward cycle of shame, guilt and frustration (Much like my friends did two nights ago). Pulling my covers over my head, I curled up in a ball and tried to figure out how the hell I got here. I graduated from a great school but don't have a real job. Heck, I held better jobs during the summers while I was in school. Now, I find myself applying for crap jobs like being a pet sitter or customer service representative because those are the only jobs I feel qualified to do, regardless of my degree from said great school. My fridge, much like my recent stores of hope and optimism, are empty and I simply do not have the funds to refill either of them.
How am I going to eat? How am I supposed to pay rent? These questions filter through the melee going on between my emotions and my logic while I try to figure out just how much longer I can hold out living here on my own in Portland with a 20-hour a week part time job.
The answer (sigh) is January, if I spend no more than $12 a day. It seems doable; it really does. But what if it isn't? What if I fail and have to move back home?
My mom says this doubt and uncertainty is part of growing up and I am certain she is right. I just wish it didn't kick my ass so much.
And so, feeling completely defeated, I'm just going to curl up and watch more Grey's Anatomy. I guess there's some sort of relief in watching people save other people's lives, even if it is just on TV.
And so, feeling completely defeated, I'm just going to curl up and watch more Grey's Anatomy. I guess there's some sort of relief in watching people save other people's lives, even if it is just on TV.
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
Optimism
It's not often that I am the optimistic or overly-happy individual in a crowd. That's not to say that I am dark and twisty (I've been watching a lot of Grey's Anatomy as of late, so excuse the Meredith Grey descriptors) or that I'm some kind of sad, cup-half-empty vampiric fiend who sucks the happy and joy out of my golden-sunshiney comrades, because I'm not like that. I just tend to be a bit....more cynical.
But then last night happened. I was simply sitting in a car, driving around Northeast Portland with three of my friends who were, rightfully so, heavily complaining, ruing and cursing the recession. Plagued by money problems (Mo' Money, Mo' Problems is so beyond false that it, yet again, makes me question the integrity and value of rap and its lyrical contributions to society), it seemed that my friends had sort of admitted defeat.
"Do you think that this is as bad, right now, as the Great Depression was?"
"Totally."
"Probably."
I piped up; "No way." I could tell, by the silent response that my pseudo-optimistic comment received, that they weren't buying it.
"The Great Depression was far worse," I continued. And it was; unemployment was nearly doubled what it is today, food lines were blocks long and our stock market crash wasn't nearly as cliff-leaping as it was 70 years ago. Our economy, according to the President and his economic gurus, is picking up and eventually, (also according to our country's higher ups) we'll start picking up too.
And, despite my cynicism and typical disbelief in politicalese (That's my made-up word for political speak), I do believe that my life is starting to pick up. Sure, I'm not making any more money than I was a year ago or even three months ago (I'm sadly making much less) but my life is picking up because I am optimistic; even happy, if you will.
For so much of the last seven years of my life I have fought against being happy. Somehow I had managed to do the one thing that my father, a man of sometimes sage, sometimes not-so-sage wisdom, has told me not to do: I let someone or something else control my happy. Whether it was a loser boyfriend, a caustic friendship, an unhealthy relationship with food or an over obsession with running and fitness, I have always let other forces control how I felt. More often than not, I let those outside factors make me live saddled with negative emotions : sadness, guilt, shame, frustration, anger.
But now…now I am in control of my happy. I’m not entirely certain what has changed; there aren’t words to describe the sudden click in my brain that magically switched like binary code from a zero to a one (or vice versa) to make me in control of my happy. Yet something did. Perhaps, in retrospect, my decisions over the last few months – breaking up with my boyfriend of three years, moving out on my own, staying in Portland but not going to graduate school – have helped transform me into this less chaotic, neurotic, psychotic hermit I used to be into someone nearly normal.
I laugh (I’ve been told it’s infectious) more often and I cry less frequently. I go on dates to dive bars and coffee houses, relishing in the quirky joints nestled in the tired parts of the city. I have make-up and baking dates with real, live girls who are quickly becoming my best friends. I run less and am finally in love with my body. I think I’m in love with myself which, in a totally non-narcissistic fashion, makes me the happiest.
We returned to my friend's house to make dinner and relax. While my friends continued their much-needed and therapeutic venting, I started chopping up an aromatic storm in the kitchen, thinking of the words to one of my favorite songs by Regina Spektor (Whose lyrical contribution to society could sometimes be questioned -- the line "Do you remember the time when I only ate boxes of tangerines?" is a good example -- but the following possess solid contributory power), "On the Radio," because they just seemed so damned fitting:
"No this is how it works
You peer inside yourself
And take the things you like
And try to love the things you took
And then you take the love you made
And stick it into some
Someone else's heart
Pumping someone else's blood."
Indeed.
But then last night happened. I was simply sitting in a car, driving around Northeast Portland with three of my friends who were, rightfully so, heavily complaining, ruing and cursing the recession. Plagued by money problems (Mo' Money, Mo' Problems is so beyond false that it, yet again, makes me question the integrity and value of rap and its lyrical contributions to society), it seemed that my friends had sort of admitted defeat.
"Do you think that this is as bad, right now, as the Great Depression was?"
"Totally."
"Probably."
I piped up; "No way." I could tell, by the silent response that my pseudo-optimistic comment received, that they weren't buying it.
"The Great Depression was far worse," I continued. And it was; unemployment was nearly doubled what it is today, food lines were blocks long and our stock market crash wasn't nearly as cliff-leaping as it was 70 years ago. Our economy, according to the President and his economic gurus, is picking up and eventually, (also according to our country's higher ups) we'll start picking up too.
And, despite my cynicism and typical disbelief in politicalese (That's my made-up word for political speak), I do believe that my life is starting to pick up. Sure, I'm not making any more money than I was a year ago or even three months ago (I'm sadly making much less) but my life is picking up because I am optimistic; even happy, if you will.
For so much of the last seven years of my life I have fought against being happy. Somehow I had managed to do the one thing that my father, a man of sometimes sage, sometimes not-so-sage wisdom, has told me not to do: I let someone or something else control my happy. Whether it was a loser boyfriend, a caustic friendship, an unhealthy relationship with food or an over obsession with running and fitness, I have always let other forces control how I felt. More often than not, I let those outside factors make me live saddled with negative emotions : sadness, guilt, shame, frustration, anger.
But now…now I am in control of my happy. I’m not entirely certain what has changed; there aren’t words to describe the sudden click in my brain that magically switched like binary code from a zero to a one (or vice versa) to make me in control of my happy. Yet something did. Perhaps, in retrospect, my decisions over the last few months – breaking up with my boyfriend of three years, moving out on my own, staying in Portland but not going to graduate school – have helped transform me into this less chaotic, neurotic, psychotic hermit I used to be into someone nearly normal.
I laugh (I’ve been told it’s infectious) more often and I cry less frequently. I go on dates to dive bars and coffee houses, relishing in the quirky joints nestled in the tired parts of the city. I have make-up and baking dates with real, live girls who are quickly becoming my best friends. I run less and am finally in love with my body. I think I’m in love with myself which, in a totally non-narcissistic fashion, makes me the happiest.
We returned to my friend's house to make dinner and relax. While my friends continued their much-needed and therapeutic venting, I started chopping up an aromatic storm in the kitchen, thinking of the words to one of my favorite songs by Regina Spektor (Whose lyrical contribution to society could sometimes be questioned -- the line "Do you remember the time when I only ate boxes of tangerines?" is a good example -- but the following possess solid contributory power), "On the Radio," because they just seemed so damned fitting:
"No this is how it works
You peer inside yourself
And take the things you like
And try to love the things you took
And then you take the love you made
And stick it into some
Someone else's heart
Pumping someone else's blood."
Indeed.
Monday, November 9, 2009
The Next David Sedaris?
I did a really, really, really bad thing yesterday.
Well, perhaps bad isn't the correct word. Shameful or pitiful might be more accurate describers of the act that I pulled off after walking home after a seven hour shift at Pottery Barn last night. You see, during my lunch break, I checked my email at my favorite local coffee shop, Fat Straw, only to find out that the great personal assistant job that I landed just three weeks ago had been taken away from me, thanks to an MBA-wielding smarty pants who can apparently do his and my job with ease. Needless to say, I wasn't feeling all that great about myself after my break and spent the final three hours of my shift indulging in major self-loathing and moping (Not even my manager's attempts at playing cupid were helping lift my spirits). The self-loathing continued as I passed by the Plaid Pantry, picked up a six pack of Full Sail IPA ($5.98 for a six pack = the city's cheapest prices), a box of Mike and Ikes and headed home to peruse Craigslist, yet again.
And this is when the really, really, really bad/shameful thing happened. Even though I have a degree and have a lot to offer the world outside of retail, I still found myself scrolling down the pages of open retail positions. One caught my eye in an almost ironically sardonic fashion:
Macy's Santaland in Downtown Portland is hiring!
Macy's Santaland in Downtown Portland is hiring!
Full and Part Time Seasonal positions available immediately!
Greeter, Photographer, Cashier and PC Computer Operator positions for seasonal Christmas employment. Santaland work hours begin during the week of Nov 16 thru Dec 24. Must have a neat appearance, pleasant personality and enjoy working with the public. No prior experience necessary...we will train all staff. However, being handy on a PC computer is extremely handy!
We offer flexible scheduling, full and part time hours and a wage/bonus of $9.50 DOE. Must be able to pass a background test and drug test prior to employment.
Please reply with the email above or at MacysSantaland.com Please list the position of interest, resume/prior experience, and availability during the season.
We have lots of fun!
While downing the last ounces of my IPA, the nasally voice of David Sedaris, one of my favorite authors, entered my head. The author became famous after writing and reading on This American Life, Santaland Diaries, essays about his experience as a Macy's Christmas elf. Maybe I could do the same?
Cracking open my second beer and washing away almost all self-respect, I totally applied. For nearly 500 words I gushed about how much I adore little kids, how much I love the holiday season and how I am more than capable -- excellent, actually -- at keeping my cool during crazy and hectic situations (Can you figure out the one truth in that list?). I've been promised to be contacted in two business days. Expect an update soon.
First Entry
So here it is. A blog; a real, live, virtual record of my life after I graduated college some six months ago in an economy that houses, as the newspapers report, an unemployment rate higher than the recession of the 1980s. Born in 1986, I obviously was oblivious to the stress and gloomy world in which my parents were raising three kids. Twenty-three years later, here I am, living in a somewhat spacious studio in Northwest Portland where my certificate of graduation with an English degree hangs proudly on the wall, fully aware of the consequences of decisions made and promises lost by higher ups who, for the sake of my knowledge, know me only as a statistic.
Fortunately, I am not one of the city's 11.5 percent unemployed inhabitants. A month after graduating from the University of Portland, I was lucky enough to land a part time retail job at Pottery Barn in my neighborhood while keeping three freelance writing gigs that I held through college. While my hours at Pottery Barn have indeed increased, my writing gigs have come and gone: Two companies have folded and my short stint at two of Portland metro area's local community newspapers have passed as well. Thus, with a part-time, barely-above-minimum-wage paying job coupled with the ever pending cycle of bills and rent (as well as an attempt to have a social life...a single girl living in the city has to get herself out there every now and then), I am forced to put my creative skills into profitable endeavors.
This blog, which I will use as record for the ups and downs that are sure to continue to crop up, is just for fun.
Fortunately, I am not one of the city's 11.5 percent unemployed inhabitants. A month after graduating from the University of Portland, I was lucky enough to land a part time retail job at Pottery Barn in my neighborhood while keeping three freelance writing gigs that I held through college. While my hours at Pottery Barn have indeed increased, my writing gigs have come and gone: Two companies have folded and my short stint at two of Portland metro area's local community newspapers have passed as well. Thus, with a part-time, barely-above-minimum-wage paying job coupled with the ever pending cycle of bills and rent (as well as an attempt to have a social life...a single girl living in the city has to get herself out there every now and then), I am forced to put my creative skills into profitable endeavors.
This blog, which I will use as record for the ups and downs that are sure to continue to crop up, is just for fun.
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