The Lisa Life

Rude

I've been looking for a job since April. 

I had planned on going back to school to get paralegal certification but for a variety of reasons, financially it's not going to happen right now.  I decided to try getting some on the job paralegal training.  I figured my nearly twenty years of clerical experience and the fact that I'm not stupid might open a door for me.  I wrote what I thought was a very compelling well-crafted cover letter outlining why I wanted to become a paralegal and my willingness to learn. I nitpicked my resume.  They both looked very good, I thought.  I sent this nice little package out to over twenty local attorneys.

I received one response.  That response wasn't to talk about employment or to tell me that it was a stupid way to go about finding a paralegal job.  It was instead to ask about a local case that remains unsolved.  I had referenced the case in the cover letter as something I had written about.

In the meantime, I have applied for hundreds of jobs.  If I am remotely qualified for it, I'll apply.  Most of the time, it's like sending my resume into an abyss.  I might as well put it in a bottle and toss it into one of the Great Lakes and expect a response.

The few interviews I have landed, I have not received any sort of follow up at all.  Phone calls I've made to see if the position has been filled and to express my continuing interest are not acknowledged, forget about a return call. 

Obviously, the task of interviewing me must be truly odious, painful and wretched in the extreme. The sheer act of will it would take to contact me and let me know that the position has been filled is overwhelming and far too brutal for a mid-level manager such as yourself to tackle. You're not that much of a company tool to stoop that low in the spirit of teamwork.

The few moments it would take to send out a mass email or a form letter via the post office to those who have applied and not been chosen would be far too time-consuming and take twenty minutes away from the crucial task of pimping whatever is your particular brand of schtick.  You have obiviously lost your telephone privilgages at work since you no longer answer your phone, ever, nor do you return phone calls, ever.  The only reason I think to blame that glaring lapse of ettiquite on would be the loss of said phone.

Also next time?  I'll be happy to take a physical and a drug test, when I am offered a job.  I'm not going to waste an afternoon just because you get to fill out a form and send someone to the local quickie clinic for a cursory once over and the joy of pissing in a cup with an audience.  Unless, of course, your time is equally as vaulable as mine and you plan on accompanying me and cooling your jets in a shabby waiting room somewhere with neither cell nor laptop.

Yet I still slap a smile on my face and sally forth with my best self prostrated in the hot seat.  I answer inane questions and take tests that have nothing to do with the job I would be performing.  I am careful to think before any response I give, I sit up straight, I make eye contact and I have a firm no-nonsense handshake.

Yet I can't get anyone I've interviewed with to even pick up the goddamn phone and tell me someone else got the job.

End Of An Era

So yesterday, the business I have worked at for the last year and a half closed. 

It had been around Livingston County in various incantations for over 20 years.

I have so many mixed emotions about it.  When I was hired, I was hired by Boss The Son.  Boss The Father was for all intents and purposes retired and only came in a few hours a week while he was in town.  Boss The Son tragically passed away after a freak stupid accident and Boss The Father took the helm again.  It became a very different work environment but one I adapted to. 

Since we supplied the new housing market, and the economy here is so in the toilet, business wasn't going so well.  I did the books, it was no surprise to me that continuing would be a crap shoot, one we were likely to lose.  I really liked my co-workers and it was a very laid-back work environment, but still, depressing, knowing we weren't going to succeed.

I have sent out dozens of resumes, been on some interviews, and on Monday, I will head to the wonderful Michigan Works! office to sign up for unemployment and post my resume on their totally worthless website, which no one will look at and certainly no employer will respond to.   When I asked one of the Michigan Works! employees how many people were actually hired from their website, she hemmed and hawed and wouldn't answer.

I know that Michigan Works! does place a lot of ex-cons at Taco Bell and McDonald's.  How do I know this?  Because going through the drive through of the local Taco Bell, the dude working the window, who takes your money before you get your order, which may or may not be what you originally planned on eating, when I responded to his "How you doing?" query, told me, "I'm so glad to be out of prison and working! I got my job from Michigan Works!"

Sometimes, even I don't know what to say.

A Rare Work Related Entry

I have made it a personal rule not to blog about work except in the most general of terms.  That whole Dooce thing, you know. 

This, however, is too funny not to share.

I work for a company with seven employees, myself included.  I like that.  I like where I work very much.  As I've said before, no one has thrown a Nextel at me while calling me an idiot.   I haven't  thrown up before work.  I actually enjoy going to work and like my job and the people I work with are not insane. We have fun and seem to like each other.

Okay, enough of the back story.

We use Quickbooks for accounting and there are things that are off.  I know Quickbooks fairly well and indeed, have a love/hate relationship with the application.  However, we needed some outside help with some things that were downright puzzling.

Enter a local Quickbooks adviser, whom I'll call B.  B is about 70.  He's the sweetest guy, very personable and smart, but he's also 70.  He was just discovering the joys of Medicare Part B while I was going online for the first time.  He also is a bit hard of hearing, wears very discreet hearing aids.

After going through our Quickbooks issues for an hour or so, I suddenly morphed into Leslie.  He had been calling me Lisa but I became Leslie.

NOTE: Leslie?  What the fuck?

I couldn't look at Boss the Son, who was going over these things as well because I would have cracked up.  At one point, Boss the Son says very loudly, after B calls me Leslie for about the 35th time, "LISA" and B doesn't miss a beat, he calls me Leslie ten seconds later.

The door to Boss the Son's office was open so my co-workers could hear him calling me Leslie.

As soon as B left, the jokes started.  "Hey Leslie, you had a phone call!"  "Hey Leslie, I have an order for you!"  We were all laughing about it when B came rushing (as much as a 70 year old retired accountant can rush) back in the door.

He came rushing back in to apologize for calling me Leslie and said he knew my name was Lisa.  That was very nice of him to do that, but it doesn't give me great confidence in his Quickbook problem solving skills.

Not to mention, forevermore, I am Leslie at work.  The jokes abound.

In Which The Author Lands A Real Job

Yes, dear and gentle readers, you read that right.  I landed a real full time job today.  In keeping with the tradition of not getting dooced, I won't tell you where I am working other than in the most vague and general sort of way.  (NOTE: Dooce was featured in In Touch magazine with a full page photo in an article called Women Who Blog.  How cool is that?  She is the High Priestess of Blogdom, amen.)

I am working for a company that distributes windows and doors.  I will be doing bookkeeping and order co-ordination.

Am I excited?  HELL YES!  I think I will really enjoy this and I liked the boss type people very much.  And I even get to wear big girl grown up work clothes.  As in slacks.  And a blouse.  Or sweater.  And real shoes.  Not Red Wing work boots. 

I must stop typing now because I think I'm going to faint from sheer joy.

Speaking In Tongues

I had a call this afternoon about a job.  The gentleman who called apologized for calling on a Sunday afternoon during a holiday week-end but said he had been swamped at work and was using the time to get some work done without the normal week-day interruptions.  Fine with me, gave me a break from housework.

The job is for an all-around Gal Friday position for a contractor.  The gentleman I spoke with was the client's accountant and the position is being created on the advice of said accountant.  He said he received over 60 resumes and picked out five to call and do a little preliminary talking with.  I was one of the five and indeed, he said I was his first pick since I had experience in a small office working with a contractor.

This particular contractor is located in Whitmore Lake, very near the W.J. Maxey's Boys Training School (locals will find this fact humorous).  The contractor installs carpet for all of the stores in a very large nationwide bookstore chain. 

Since there are certain laws regarding what you can ask a job applicant and what a job applicant can reasonably ask, often these conversations are spoken in tongue, just as this one was.  Without actually asking me, and without me actually baldly stating it, the accountant and I managed to convey that I don't have a problem working with a lot of men in a frat like atmosphere, I can fit in and be "one of the boys", I've got a backbone, I have a family which indicates stability, I am organized and intelligent enough to run a small one or two person office with little to no supervision and keep things going smoothly and yes, I will say shit from time to time. 

After our little non-conversation, the accountant, who actually had a good sense of humor for a bean counter, asked me if I would be interested in the position and would I like to come in for an interview.  Of course I said yes,  so send happy thoughts this Friday at 2.

Another Day, Another Job

I interviewed today for a position as a New Home Model Hostess for a very fancy new sub.  I really liked the lady I interviewed with and was hopeful I would get the job because I think it would be something I would really like.  I would basically be showing potential home buyers through models and doing a bit of pre-qualifying.

Two hours after my interview, and after I applied at the the local pet cemetery, which really creeped me out, the model home lady called to offer me the job.  I may even get a tiny bit of commission off the deal.  The model home, which I looked through?  Was a bit freakishly perfect.  Lovely, but a bit freakish.  Reminded me a bit of that movie Kalifornia and the homes in the nuclear test zone.  This house really needed a family in it.  It was a bit sterile.  Like there were no Star magazines in a basket next to the throne nor a damp towel laying anywhere.  Heh, I guess that's why it's the model home.

YAY!  I now have two jobs.  The model home one runs Thursday through Sunday and I'll still do a couple shifts a week at the party place because the poor guy sounded so desperate and I warned him I'd be off like the blue suede shoe if I found a full time gig.

In Which The Author Looks Like A Dork Yet Still Lands A Job

So I had an interview today at Great Party.  Or was it Party America?  You know, the store right next to Staples and Home Depot.

I had on black slacks and a white blouse and because I was nervous and didn't want to smoke, I chewed a piece of gum on the way there.  I *thought* I threw the gum out the window.  It was Dentene Tango flavor gum, bright pink and berry flavored.

So I had the interview at Great Party or Party America or whatever it's called and landed at least a part time gig.  The child interviewing me, Dave, said he likes hiring "people who aren't teen-agers" as he put it because we tend to actually care if stuff gets done versus just wanting to wear the Elvis sunglasses and goof off.

Walking out of the store, I happened to notice, the gum I thought I threw out the window in a clear violation of the littering law?

It was stuck smack dab in the middle of my thigh on my pants in the front in all it's pink glory.

I am so cool.

Guess I better learn the name of the place as well, if I'm going to work there at least briefly.  Blowing up balloons sounds like fun, although Dave assured me it really sucks after a while.

A Rare Work Related Post, Subtitled, Job Searching Hints

I don't generally post about work since I was outted as a blogger on our local radio station.  I post once in a while on generic things and that's okay.  But I have to share this.  It's just too funny not to.

For those of you who haven't been keeping up, I work for an excavation company.

We lost two of our laborers this late last month when they went back to college.  One goes to Lawrence Tech, which is local, so he still works on Tuesdays (his day with no classes) and Saturdays.  The other went to Central, so he's stuck in a dorm up there and we won't see him til  Thanksgiving, although he emails me jokes and reads my blog.  (NOTE: SCARY PART.  He caught me reading my blog one morning in the office while he was emptying the trash and now he's all hooked.  HI JOE!  STEP AWAY FROM THE KEG, OKAY?)

Anyway.  We've run an ad in the paper for general laborers.  Goes something like this: General Laborer for excavation company wanted.  Experience helpful but not necessary.  Apply at (insert address and phone number here.)  Since we are out in BFE, we've given out a lot of directions and have had quite a parade of applicants come in.

We're not Wall Street.  You don't need to wear your best suit.  Heck, we're happy if you show up in shorts that don't look like you picked them out of the hamper and a decent tee-shirt that doesn't advertise Jack Daniels or a Nascar race from 6 years ago. 

Shaving is nice.  So is not wearing a baseball cap (particularly annoying when worn backwards to conceal the pot leaf embroidered on the front).  Brushing your teeth so I don't smell the beer from last night will always get you a smile from me and the pen that works really well to use to fill out the app.  I'll even let you sit at the empty desk instead of standing at the counter.

There is a part on the application that asks if you have ever been bonded.  The wrong answer would be to ask me or my co-worker and friend Michelle, "Well, my mom actually posted the bond, it wasn't me, should I put that down?"

There is another part of the application that states very clearly, "Have you ever been convicted of a felony?  If yes, please explain in detail.  Use another sheet if necessary."  Okay,  WHAT PART OF THAT DON'T YOU UNDERSTAND?  Don't write, "I'll tell you."  Don't write, "Assault."  Don't write, "I think so." 

The same goes for your driver record.  Don't even bother to fudge because with two clicks of my mouse, I have all that information staring me in the face on my computer screen, while I recoil in horror.

Some examples?

Convicted of a felony:

"I was convicted of cocaine.  I been clean three years."  Hello, Dolly. How do you get convicted of cocaine?  Is that like a charge?  What exactly did he do with the cocaine?  Of special note, this is the same one who's mom bonded him out.  I run his record, he's been convicted of trafficking and for selling marijuana.  Three times.  And served time. 

"I'll explain."  Okay, so explain why you have no license yet drove here and earnestly tell Boss the Son you drive all the time. (Our insurer will be thrilled to have him in a service truck, no doubt.)  Then explain the fleeing and eluding charge, the reckless endangerment charge (your son was in the car seat in back while you were pretending you were in a Starsky & Hutch episode) and then explain the three domestic violence convictions that you neglected to mention.  Uh huh.  Buh bye.

I'm not a terribly judgmental person.  Really, I'm not.  I'm all about second chances and third chances in a lot of cases.  Let's face it, I wouldn't have such a terrible track record with men if I didn't have a big heart. 

But please, if you are applying for a job, just make the effort of taking  a shower, putting on your nice jeans or shorts and a clean shirt, don't wear a ball cap or get shitfaced the night before and if you have "issues" in your past, be up front and spill it and tell us, you want a chance and you want to work.

Oh, I forgot the best one.  Convicted of a felony, assault.  Yeah, I checked you out buddy, with your blood shot eyes and heavy gold chain link bracelet and your weird resume.  Assault with intent to murder.  That's a whole other story. That goes beyond a stupid bar fight.  That means you messed someone up good.  Looking a little closer, I find out you have no license (although you too drove yourself) and you are fresh out on parole.  Your college classes on your resume were taken while you were incarcerated, as was your "chef" experience.  I can add and subtract based on your time served.  Which you neglected to point out.  HELLO, ten years in the joint. 

I don't like to have to search for these things when I look for someone to hire.  Tell me, and we can go from there based on second chances but bullshitting, well. 

Buh bye.

It's been an interesting week and I've been a total bitch but I'm real tired of job applicants.

My First Real Job

I've probably had a lot of jobs that could be considered my first real job, but the one I consider my first real job was the one I landed at Computer Resources in Allentown, PA.  I was in college and was looking for a part time job that would let me attend classes in either the mornings or afternoons.

I was hired at Computer Resources as a receptionist working from noon until six p.m.  Great gig for me, all I did was answer the phone and take messages (this was long before voice mail) and I could smoke at my desk and study and type my homework on computers, which were still a novelty then. 

Eventually, Mr. Jordan, the owner of the company, took me a bit under his wing since I was from Michigan and living in Pennsylvania.  I was a long way from home and Mr. J became my everyday sort of father.  He helped me escape the hell of being a resident assistant in a dorm at Lehigh.  He invited me to his family gatherings on holidays when I didn't have a long enough time or enough money to make it home. 

He even tried to find suitable dates for me. 

I loved that guy. 

I have to say, voice mail at workplaces is a good thing, but talking to a real live person is even better.  I talk to customers all the time at my job now and although I am hating my current job, I know people like to talk to a real live person.  I like to think I have sold jobs. 

Anyway.

Mr. J really liked me and eventually promoted me to a customer service rep and I was pretty good at that.   I already knew all the customers and it got to the point where they wouldn't talk to other customer service reps to order things, and well, some of my co-workers hated me but I still to this day remember some of the account numbers and HP ribbon numbers and I may not remember where I parked my car in the Kroger parking lot  these days without hitting the panic button to make the alarm go off, but I remember 51645A as an Hewlett Packard ribbon number that Air Products ordered in the hundreds.

Mr. J decided I should help him bid on the PA state contract for computer supplies and  equipment.  PA had had a 12 year freeze on buying office equipment (They were still on typewriters and carbon paper)   so it was a huge undertaking and Mr. J walked me right through it and we went to meetings together and we got the contract, although it was mostly for supplies like ribbons and paper and back up discs, but a few hardware products.   It was a wonderful opportunity for both the company and me personally, rides on puddle jumpers notwithstanding, since PA is a big state and I tended to puke a lot after the puddle jumper rides to Greenport, PA and the like.

My fondest memories of Mr. J were when we had to go to bid meetings in Harrisburg and he always insisted on driving and he was totally capable of scaring the shit out of me because he was so distracted.  He had a mid 80s Cadillac Birratz, you know, the one with the spoke wheels, the fake convertible top and the mounted spare tire on the trunk.  My mom had one, too.  Mr. J's was black and my mom's was beige.  You think I would be comforted by that but I wasn't. Mr J. would be speeding along Route 78 at about 80 miles an hour while he had his McDonald's coffee gripped in his hand out the rolled down window to cool it off and sort of steering while all the time, he was talking to me and swerving all over the road.

He helped me find my first apartment, in a row home a friend of his owned:  he rented me my first flat in a house  he owned, and he taught me a lot about wearing a nice suit and selling myself as well as a product and most of all, he gave me a hug and a kiss on holiday when I wasn't able to be with my family.  I was employee but I was also a person.  A lost concept these days, it seems.

He had more money than he could probably count but if he couldn't make it home to spend time with Mrs. J. for lunch, he had a baloney sandwich from the WaWa across the street because it was cheap.  He came to a party my roommate and I had for MusikFest in Bethlehem and drank our cheap wine and laughed with me.

He showed me you can be big business and still have a heart.  I loved Mr. J and I wonder if he is still alive and remembers me.

Good News And Bad News

The good news is although I only dry heaved a little bit this morning getting ready for work while I was ironing my shorts, I didn't cry at all today. (NOTE TO SELF: It's only 8:57 p.m., you have a couple hours to go yet.)

I  asked my dear friend Michelle to edit my resume, and she did, she tweaked it all up and channeled out all of the anger I had in it, yet still let my personality show.  Thanks, Shell.

The other good news is that I was able to do some serious deck sitting and downed two glasses of mediocre Pinot Grigio (it was really really cold so that made up for it's mediocrity) in quick succession and even got a bit of the late afternoon sun on myself.  Sun always makes me happy, even if it is like 98 degrees here.

The bad news is that I still really want to find another job and it's rough going out there and I am nervous about any interview I might have because I am essentially a love me or hate me type person. 

I'm overall just very glad I haven't cried yet today.  You know it's time to change jobs when the best you can come up with after your workday is "I'm really glad I didn't cry today!"

Please also note, dear friends and random readers, I am not a weepy type of person.