No One Can Get to You Here

Hey Rainbow Groupies! It's a beautiful, sunny Sunday in Chi city, and seeing as how it's Labor Day weekend, and Obama's talking to us about jobs (or the lack thereof), I thought it was a good time to take another blast from the past.

I wrote this essay a little more than a year ago, right after moving back home to my dad's house. Nothing will kill a lady's self-esteem (and bank account) like not being able to find a job, and at the time when I wrote this, I was feeling pretty damn defeated. But at the same time, I was still clutching the last strings of hope. Barely, just barely. I also laid awake at night in my childhood bedroom, heart racing, worrying that I'd still be there when I was 40.

Maybe I'm still struggling to really be a "grownup," but I made it back to Chicago, and drove a new car here. I felt like total, complete shit when I got rejected from that job (and countless others). But the thing is, if I had gotten that job, I'd never have made it back to Chicago. Who knows what might have happened?

It's tough out there. But if I can do it, YOU can do it. uggh, that was cheesy, but whatever. I meant it from the bottom of my little heart.

So! Read this essay! (After the jump.)

FINALLY! Someone Hired Me!

So, if you follow my life via the Interwebs at all, you already know my big news. And by the Interwebs of course I mean Facebook updates, tweets and twoots, and LinkedIn. And of course, if you're following my tweets, you know by now it's all a blatant ploy to bring you back to the Rainbow chronicles. That, and to quote Seinfeld, apparently.

WHAT IN THE HELL WAS I ACTUALLY TALKING ABOUT?

Oh, right. My big news!

This Tuesday, I started a job. A job that does not require I ask: "chips, fries, or veggies?" A job that is not, in fact, really just an unpaid internship. (For more on that dreadful experience, revisit this post, I implore you.) I am officially an associate writer for Groupon, which, go figure, is apparently the fastest growing company, ever. (Forbes said it, so it's gotta be true.)

You can get a really good sense of the company from the Forbes article, so I'll just fill you in on a couple other highlights not mentioned in said article:

1. The number of computers/humans on the 6th floor is both terrifying and awesome. And that's comparing it to the editorial department, where I am, which is home to at least a couple hundred.

2. There is a never-ending supply of coffee, tea, and cocoa (fuck yeah! cocoa!) everywhere you turn. And Keurig coffee makers, which I'd never actually used, or in fact seen, in real life. Plus, today, I discovered free Diet Dr. Pepper and Gatorade. FREE. I'm going to be so fucking productive! (I might still be on a caffeine high.)

3. Everyone I've met so far is talented, smart, and friendly. And most of them are funny. No joke. It's like Wonderland for a geek like me.

I'll leave you with that. It's awesome. I've only been there three days, and I've already been writing, a lot.

When I found out I'd been hired last week, I was so overwhelmed and thrilled, I didn't know what to do with myself. It was the middle of the day, and I was alone, cause, you know, most other adults were at work. I couldn't stop grinning. I may or may not have told my cats the news.

Job Interviews

If today's job interview doesn't work out, in the future, I'm just gonna follow Loc Dogg's lead.

"I see your hobbies are drinking, smoking weed, and all types of ill shit."



At least he got hired.

The Art of Timing

The other day, for what might have been the first time in my life, I ran out of shampoo and conditioner at the exact same time. After I used the last of my shampoo, I grabbed the bottle of conditioner, expecting that, like usual, I would still have at least a fourth of the bottle left.

I held out my hand and squeezed the bottle. As the dollop of conditioner shot onto my palm, it made the kind of squirting noise that only happens when you’re squeezing something that’s almost empty—you know, that squirt! that tends to make people uncomfortable for some reason when you’re out to eat and the ketchup bottle does it. (I mean, is it really necessary to always make fart jokes when this happens? It makes me feel like I’m permanently in a high school cafeteria.)

I couldn’t believe it. I had used the last of my shampoo and conditioner at the exact same time. Do other people run out of these things at the same time, I wonder? Am I some kind of freak that this is an event? For me, it’s even more unlikely than it was to find a parking spot directly in front of my old apartment building in Chicago. Think about it: does anyone actually use the same amount of shampoo and conditioner each shower? I, for one, don’t keep measuring spoons in my shower. Because that would be weird.

Plus, sometimes maybe I don’t feel like conditioning. Or shampooing. Or maybe I want to use my deep conditioner that day. I don’t know. It just never happens. I stood in my shower and felt like something monumental had just occurred in my life.

After my shower, as I threw my empty Pantene bottles in the recycling bin, I felt so damn pleased with myself I wanted to celebrate. I had accomplished something. For once, I wouldn’t end up with two half-empty bottles of the same conditioner in my shower! When I normally run out of only shampoo, I still buy a bottle of shampoo and conditioner. I can’t stand to buy only the shampoo. They are a pair. A couple. Shampoo plus conditioner. You can’t just buy shampoo! It would be wrong. Who does that?

It’s amazing how rare it is to time anything perfectly in life. Even when it’s something ridiculous, like using the last of your shampoo and conditioner at the same time. I tend to find that my timing in life never makes any sense. Like right now, for example. I’m 26, and I recently moved back in with my dad. Most of my friends from college moved back in with their parents right after graduation. Now, they’re out on their own, making money and being grownups. I, on the other hand, landed a job right after college and didn’t have to do that. My timing was great right then, I had thought. I remember thinking how lucky I was that I didn’t have to move back home. I never imagined that only two years after landing the job I had agonized over for months, I would quit, move to Chicago and, slowly but surely, run completely out of money as I waited tables, interned, and hoped and waited for the full-time job that never came.

The timing of my move to Chicago was ridiculous. It was July 2008, and there really weren’t any jobs to be had. So why, why, would any reasonable adult in her right mind quit a good job with fantastic benefits? WHY? Why not at least wait until she found a job in said city before quitting the good job?

Homesick at Home

Today was the first time since I've been living back home that I actually started questioning the limits of my sanity.

Being home alone while my roommates, aka my dad and Deb, are at work, makes me feel useless and restless. AKA, like I'm going off my fucking rocker. I guess I shouldn't feel that way, since I'm midway through server training at a new place in Indianapolis, thanks to a friend of mine hooking me up with a job. (I'm at least qualified to wait tables at this point, wouldn't you agree?)

But, still. From the moment I woke up today I was missing Chicago (or more accurately, my life and the people there) like crazy. I tried to cheer myself up by watching the Modern Family season finale. That helped, for the 21 minutes of the show. I had no idea what to do next. So I sat on the couch and stared at Mufasa for a few minutes. That did not help.

I paced around the house for a couple minutes, trying to decide what to do with myself. I made my bed. I washed some towels. I wrote some e-mails. I tried to think of something funny to tweet. (Nothing came to me, clearly.) I did a workout video (you know how I love those! but alas, it was not Jane Fonda).

After the 45 minutes of exercise, considering my legs were starting to twitch and I had actually worked up a sweat, I felt like I had accomplished something. I took a shower, feeling considerably better. But the Chicago-sickness waves kept creeping back. It felt just like homesickness, except I was already as home as I could possibly be.

I had to do something. You might be thinking, "Um, Alison? You could have been applying for jobs this whole time you were moping around, feeling sorry for yourself. Maybe this is why you haven't found a good job in the first place!"

That's what I was thinking to myself, anyway. So, on a whim, I decided to see if I met the qualifications to teach English at a community college. Turns out, I might. Who knew?

I applied for the job. We'll see if maybe, just maybe, this time something might come out of it. At the very least, I can now say I've written a teaching philosophy. 

And don't worry, Rainbow groupies. I promise I'll cheer up soon.

If not, I guess I'm just going to get in really great shape.

It's Official: I'm a Famous Broke Ass.

Well, sorta. Mostly so far I'm just the dweeb in the back of the group photo, not looking at the camera. Check me out.

But hey, it's something! Although in retrospect, probably should have run a comb through my hair after getting off the train and walking several blocks in the snow. Ahh well. Maybe looking frazzled gives me more Broke Ass cred.

Please check out the RedEye's Broke Ass Blog. Then tweet it, Facebook it, MySpace it, FaceSpace it, MyBook it, whatever you need to do. Maybe even get crazy and tell another human about it in a real conversation. The more people who see this, the more chances I have of ruling the world.

Err, getting a writing gig.

Love,
Broke Ass Alison

Yon Ti Moman. Only a Little While.

Times are tough up in Chicago. I'm broke, jobless, and it's GD EFFING freezing.

Yesterday I was feeling so panicked about money that, mid-job searching, I jumped up from my computer and started running around my apartment like a madwoman, collecting all my spare change. I dug through every purse, every bag, every coat. I picked up pennies off the floor. (Seriously, my whole life, there's always been change on my floor. When I was in high school, anytime my dad would walk in my room, he'd start picking up the change on the floor and lecturing me on the value of money. Maybe I should have paid more attention.)

I dumped all the change in a tupperware container, not including the $12 in quarters I found (laundry money!). I had another container full of change in the trunk of my car. So, clutching my tupperware jars of change like my life depended on it, I took my broke ass to Jewel and used the Coinstar machine. Some of my change got rejected because it was so dirty from being in my car for the last decade, but all in all, I had $52 in change.

Hallelujah! I'm pretty sure the cashier thought I was batshit crazy, because I handed her my voucher with a huge grin on my face. But you know what? I didn't care. I was 52 bucks richer. And right now, for me, that's really something.

Then today came. By mid-afternoon, I'd reached a pretty record low. I had no more change to collect. Rent's going to be due again soon. Damn, was I feeling sorry for myself. I headed toward the Loop to apply for a serving gig, because I needed to feel like I was really actively doing something. (Other than applying for the umpteenth job online, that is.)

Filling out an application turned into getting interviewed, and I actually left there with my hopes up. (Keep your fingers crossed for me!) So, I hop on the train to go back home, and start reading the latest New Yorker. I always read "The Talk of the Town" section first, so I flip there. 

The story I read first starts with this line: "My cousin Maxo has died." Immediately, I'm sucked in to this article (without even realizing until I finish that it's written by Edwidge Danticat). It turns out the author's cousin Maxo was killed in Haiti when his house collapsed on him during the quake. She continues, writing about Maxo and his life in Haiti. He sounded like a wonderful, unique person.

I'm so enthralled by this story that I'm pretty much oblivious to the fact that I'm still on the train. By the end, I'm teary eyed, holding back full fledged tears.

On Hitting the Wall, and Getting Back Up Again.

These days, it feels that I’m not just hitting a wall when it comes to finding a job. It feels like I am sprinting into the wall and body slamming it, over and over again. Each week I peel myself off the floor and get back up, ready to sprint. All this sprinting and slamming is getting pretty exhausting. (Almost as exhausting as all these metaphors.)

I keep daydreaming about when I can finally make that victorious phone call to my dad—“I got the job!”—but these days, I’m so disillusioned, I don’t even know what that job would be. I feel like I’m applying for anything and everything I find posted that has the word ‘writing’ or ‘editing’ in the description. Then, I wait. Then, I follow up with phone calls and e-mails.

If I’m lucky, I get a response.

The more time that passes, the more terrified I become that I’m going to be waiting tables until I’m 40.

Nothing hurts the very essence of my being more than that thought.

So what do I do after I body slam the job search wall yet again? I blog. I watch “Sex and the City” episodes. (Yes, “Sex and the City” episodes. I love it. Get off my back.)

Or, like yesterday afternoon, I force myself to walk away from my computer that holds all the jobs I’m not getting, and I go sit outside at Starbucks, drinking a $4 chai latte that I have no business drinking, and I read Anna Karenina. Why is it I feel like a more valuable person when people see me sitting and reading a book than I do when people see me serving food at my job? I need to get over myself. Nobody gives a shit. But the truth is, I sat there and hoped that people thought I was a grad student. Because for some reason, that makes me feel better than when I’m at the convenience store and a guy recognizes me and says, “You’re that Logan girl!” That happened Sunday.

The Art of the Cover Letter

As someone who loves to write, it’s depressing when I don’t actually enjoy writing something. I mean, I even enjoyed writing (most of) my papers in college. But there’s one writing task that hurts the very fiber of my soul, and that is writing a cover letter.

If I could write three paragraphs of pithy self-deprecation, I promise you I’d have gotten a job within a month of moving to Chicago. But nooo, I’m supposed to write a few concise paragraphs about why I’m great. Are you serious? Obviously I don’t feel too great—I’m writing a cover letter and essentially begging you to hire me. I am a hooker. [*Disclaimer* I am not a hooker. But this is how you make me feel, COVER LETTER! Damn you!]

The cover letter is the first of many painstaking steps to getting a potential job. Next, you check your email 65 times a day, or maybe an hour, hoping this potential employer has responded. You jump every time your phone rings, thinking that might finally be the call asking for an interview, only to discover it’s a message from Sprint telling you your payment’s overdue. Or…maybe that’s just me. But, in brief moments of blissful hope and possible employment, you land an interview! Then you get to sell yourself in person.

Oh, the interview.

What’s even better is when you have the interview that goes so well, you leave just knowing, deep in your gut, that tough times are over. In my case, that happened in November, when I interviewed for a job at Northwestern. Clearly my gut, as John Cusack would say, has shit for brains. I drove back to my apartment that day, smiling, daydreaming about buying the fam Northwestern shirts as Christmas gifts. Hmmph. Yeah, I’m not working for Northwestern. In fact, even though they assured me that, no matter what, I would hear from them about the position, let’s just say this: Not only am I not working for Northwestern, I’m still waiting on my rejection.

In this past year, I have gone on no more than five interviews. FIVE! Have you any idea how that compares to the number of cover letters I’ve written? Any idea?

Well, my math isn’t that great, but I’m pretty sure I’m doing something wrong.

So, tonight, as I was pondering how to master the art of the cover letter, once and for all, I had a breakthrough. What would Costanza do?



“I had so much promise. I was personable, I was bright, oh, maybe not academically speaking, but I was perceptive. I always know when someone’s uncomfortable at a party.”

I know exactly what you mean, George Costanza. And that’s why I wrote a cover letter tonight, and instead of ending with my tried and true line, “Thank you for your time, and I will follow up with you in the next week to see if I can provide you with any more information,” I wrote this:

“I'm sick of serving beers. I'm ready to use my talent. Please give me a call.”

This was the follow-up to my opening zinger, “I am a motivated, talented writer/editor, and my skills are being wasted while I serve beers and burgers at a Logan Square bar and grill.”

What do you think? Cover letter suicide? Or did I make Costanza proud?