In Which the New York Times Prints News That Isn't News

Yesterday, the Times ran a story about people who had been laid off and never managed to get back to the place they were before the layoff.

Guess what? Most people who have been laid off never make it back to where they were.

I know this. I feel this acutely.

Hop in the Wayback Machine.

1989 - I am working for Mighty Citadel and work my way up to a salary of 3x. I've saved money and decide that now is the time to try writing full time.
1990 - Income: $0.
1991 - Income: $0.
1992 - Income: $240. I sold two short stories to Alfred Hitchock and Ellery Queen Mystery Magazines.
1993 - Income: $350. Alfred and Ellery to the rescue again.
1994 - Income: $0. Xman and I moved back to Jersey.
1995 - I go back to Mighty Citadel as a contractor. Income: 2x.
1997 - Evil Empire hires me. Income: 3x.
1999 - Xman and I go our separate ways.
2002 - At Evil Empire, I work second and third shifts and overtime. Income: 4x.
2002 - Evil Empire lays me off.
2003 - Income: $0, not including unemployment.
2004 - I temp at Big Insurance Co and Mighty Citadel. My first gig is for $9 / hr. Eventually I work my way up to 1x.
2004 - I get a job at Fezziwig Co. Income: 2x.
2005 - Laid off by Fezziwig Co. Go back to contracting at Mighty Citadel. I start at $18 / hr and work myself up to 2 1/2 x.
2006 - I get hired by Unnamed Co. Income: 3x.
2008 - I get laid off by Unnamed Co after reaching an income of 3 1/2 x.
2009 - Income: $0.

Now I see, too late no doubt, the cost of this. It's taken some time to realize the impact. Not only did I lose salary, but I decimated my savings not once but three times, wasn't able to build on a pension and wasn't able to contribute to 401Ks in most of that time. Whenever I could, I did.

Will I ever be able to hit 4x again? One hopes but one has one's doubts.

The Times got comments on the story. One commenter said he was now making less than half of his salary but "we learned to live differently. No cable tv, no week long vacations to exotic places." And he continued along in this vein and everything he said was familiar to me.

I'm still working on finding a job, of course. I heard from a temp agency that might have something for me - at 1 1/2 x. On my way up at Mighty Citadel in the 1980s, my starting salary was 1 1/2 x. In 1983.

Of course, I can't give up. But I know I have a lot less energy compared to 1983. Or even 2004. Hope has turned to wistfulness. I know better now.

When All Else Fails...

There's half.com.

Ebay.

The pawn shop.

And a lot of icy margaritas (booze purchased long ago) to sip in the backyard to ease the sting.

One of the things that I know has to go on eBay is the Tiny Tears doll I've had since I was about five or six. She's still in very good condition and could probably fetch about a hundred bucks.

Still lots of cleaning out to do. I need to start taking pix.

There's the doll that my father gave me. (In fact, other than my DNA, the only thing he gave me.) Should go for a nice chunk of change.

I'll start taking pix of the funky old jewelry I never wear. I wonder if I could get more than five bucks a pop for the old turquoise rings? Is it even legal to sell ivory beads?

But this doesn't address the larger questions of

1) Why I seem to refuse to live within my means and
2) Why I am scrounging around to pay for stuff when I'm making more money than I've made in four years. I think it's because I really and truly am tapped out. As much as I would go into hysterics about bills, I still had money in savings. Now I don't, except for my sad widdle 401K.

Honestly? I need a job that pays me about $30K a year more to be comfortable and I haven't the slightest idea how I'm going to do that.

The property tax for Ma Maisonette is now over $5K.

The car insurance for The Bullet is $1400.

I have no idea where or how I can get a job that pays me $30K a year more than I'm making now. I am ashamed to say that $10K a year more would only be a stop gap measure.

I'm shaking my head. I have no idea what else to do. I truly don't.

The security system is going. The land line is going. What's to steal, anyway?

The exterminator service is going. I can buy a pail of bug killer and spray it wantonly all over the outside of my house, too.

The cats don't know it but they're going down from three 5 oz cans of food a day to two (plus crunchies - trust me, they won't starve).

But all of this is a drop in the bucket, dear friends. A drop in the bucket.

Steamed

Oh, that Yentl.

I remember back in March when I was begging, pleading, cajoling, crying for dates and deliverables (I am project wallah and she 'owns' the product, but I do not report to her). I had been pleading for at least three months.

At one point, I was standing in the board room with only Yentl and Vendor Girl present, pounding my finger into the table saying, "I have to have dates. You don't give me dates, I can't give you a project delivery date" and was met with stony silence.

This is the last "summer day" Unnamed Co has. I had plans for my half summer day. In the past, I've only taken an hour off early here or there, but today was The Day.

Suddenly Yentl shows up on the phone and in email, demanding to know about situation A. WTF, Situation A? We dealt with that on Tuesday. The Mighty Hungarian took care of it.

This is how I think of The Mighty Hungarian, er, obviously with me on his back:


Anyway, Yentl rags on me for four solid f***ing hours, hours that were precious because Boy Wonder and Former True Boss are in the Land of the White Witch and Fireman Fred is on vay-cay. I had plans for this precious four hours.

And then....and then....when I've finally told her all I can tell her, when I have managed to not go medieval on her, she says.... she says....

Be sure to check your email this weekend.

WTF? I mean really, wtf?

If it were someone I liked...someone who had done me favors...someone who had come to my aid when I needed it instead of leaving me twisting in the wind, I would gladly do it.

But for Yentl?

Naddafingah!

Oh - and what was so pressing for me to do at home? Why, I had to paint the ceiling of my new office/study, right after I did my finances.

Latest mystery, usurping that of why Yentl is allowed to live:

How de cah insurnce goan be paid? I sits and thinks. And nuthin hoppen.

Monday on a Tuesday

The Envelope Please....

Is it just my job PTSD acting up or am I in for some serious shite when I go in to work today? I don't know. I can't tell. Other than Science Boy's email to me on Thursday, I saw no other email flying back and forth. Which is probably because it went on in the stratosphere above my unworthy head.

Will I be back today sooner than my usual 5:30-ish, 6-ish? Time will tell.

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In the meantime, a rant

One of the supermarkets near me - which I don't go to, for this very reason - has something like "Mommy parking". These are choice spaces right out front. In Jersey, parking is an art, a science, and a blood sport, especially the closer you get to the Turnpike.

I first saw this about ten years ago and thought, why do I have to give up a choice parking spot just because Tony and Tina decided to let loose their spawn upon the world?

When I went to IKEA last week (which is literally right next to the Turnpike), I saw at least forty parking spaces marked "Family friendly!".

Look, the wheelieman spaces just make sense. These are intended for people who need them to get their business done without adding the additional burden of wheeling the half an acre through the parking lot.

No matter that the temptation has been very strong a couple of times (in the rain or slush, when I knew I would just be running in and out), I haven't used a wheelieman space.

But these family friendly things bug me. Should the ability to reproduce guarantee good parking? Does it make them somehow better and more worthy than me?

What about the guy I saw waiting in the pick-up area, where you wait for the stacks of boxes you ordered to be delivered to you, who was talking on the phone while his seven, yes, that's right, SEVEN brats were running wild? (And yes, they were literally running wild.) He was from an ethnic group that believes the care of children should be left to wives and his was absent. And when I did see him hug a child, it was one of the boys.

Hereby decided - I'm not observing the 'family friendly' stuff. Not no how, not no way. That fact that you are eight months pregnant and are holding two toddlers by the hand cuts no ice with me. It was your choice. Live with it.

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Welcome back to traffic hell

Because all the breeder have unleashed their spawn back into school (did you know it costs $10,000 a year to "educate" each kid in public school in New Jersey?), traffic will now become hell again.

Thanks.

And have a nice day.

The Easiest Way to Refinish Your Floors

I've been agonizing for months about refinishing the floor in my spare room / former rental room / the once and future office.

The room is nearly bare now and now would be the time to do it. The first issue was when I could find the time to do it and then recover from doing it.

I set in stone that I'll be taking off next Thursday and Friday.

I totted up the numbers to see about how much it would cost me to do it, renting the floor sander and the edger, buying the various grits of sandpaper, the polyurethane. It came out to about $150, but knowing that projects always go over budget, figured anywhere from $175 - $200.

Even with the Xtreme Thrift program in place (okay, dinner out Friday night was not free, but I'm not perfect, k?), I knew it would be cutting things close. I would forego this week's grocery trip. I've been making do with $20/week for gas for the car, which means I go to work and come home.

But yesterday, I got the quarterly bill from the Pleasantville Sewer Department for $100.

This is easy, then. I just move all my rickety office furniture back into the office and call it done.

There is no easier way to refinish your floors than not to refinish them.

So that's that, then, and that's done.

I Was Wondering Where I'd Put That

Doing a quick online banking glance, I was relieved to finally see a surplus. A float. This even after accounting for Gussy's imminent dental work and possible plastic surgery. This even after a new coat and a pair of shoes.

I know why I hate opening my mail. I know why I stick it in a big wire catch-all bin by the back door. Because inevitably, I stumble across something like this:

"We at Mighty Mortgage Co. just wanted to let you know that your escrow has been depleted by about five hundred smackers. Now we can incorporate that into your mortgage and you can end up paying $150,000 on a $500 debt. Or you can cough up the bucks now. Ever so sincerely, we love you, xxx, hugs and kisses, Mighty Mortgage Co. And PS, we'll probably continue to be just as bad at estimating your escrow in the future. Oh! But you paid FIVE CENTS in principal on your mortgage last month. Cool, huh? Mwaaa haaa haaa."

So I will dutifully write out the check tomorrow. I can't face it tonight.

Tomorrow I'll pull all the papers from the evil bin and will sort through them.

The weather this weekend has been bleak, grim, grey, and depressing beyond words. I don't care if it's 20F outside, if the sun is shining, there's a song in my heart. Three days of this just makes me want to stick my head in the oven.

Somehow, I have to rally by nine tonight. In preparation for Gussy's big visit with the vet, I have to take up all the food. I'm making everyone suffer while Gussy suffers. Tomorrow morning, I'll load him in a cat carrier and take him to Hunky Vet's office. There, Gussy will be treated sweetly but no doubt will be absolutely terrified until they get around to anesthetizing him and cleaning his teeth. I'll lay out the money but probably won't even get one glance at Hunky Vet.

We're having an outbreak of Itchy-Ear-itis at Ma Maisonette. Gussy shook and scratched his head until a blood vessel in one ear burst. It now looks like a tiny, heavy balloon attached to the side of his head.

The last time we had an incident like this here, the cat in question (Polly, dear Polly) had sutures put in to keep her ear from crumpling, but it didn't do that much good. $200 and not that much good. Hm. My handsome De Gustibus may have to go for a tougher look now that he's a mature cat of 13.

Add to this an increasing and virulent addiction to WEBoggle.

So much for the daily whine. Tomorrow is another day.