The Wife Speaks!

[Fargo Jones here. Today, I was a chauffeur for my wife as we got free dental x-rays at her school, then headed to a conference in downtown Minneapolis. I sat and applied to jobs while she went to breakout groups. She came to find me after one of them. "We have to go now." She was steaming mad. And not at me! As she told me about what happened, I said, you need to write about this. This is gold! Gold I tell ya! Below is her guest entry on my blog. I swear I didn't write a word of it, especially the nice things she says about me. She asked me to interject wherever I wanted, and when I do so, it'll be in brackets. Like this]

17 months ago, the dream of achieving a Ph.D. in literature at UND was ripped from my grasp.  The business of achieving Ph.D.'s in the humanities isn't like other fields.  Most medical doctors can practice medicine in life or death situations after 7 years of post-secondary education.  I completed 4 years for my bachelors, 2 years for my first Master's, 2 years for my second Master's, and 4 years towards my Ph.D., which, ladies and gentlemen equals a total of 12 years of post-secondary education.  12 MOTHER FUCKING YEARS to teach people how to write a sentence.  In most professions, you get to some point where industry standards exist.  Hair stylists, nail technicians, medical doctors, nurses, and auto mechanics all take board exams to practice their professions.  But, Ph.D.'s in the humanities do not have ANY industry standards.  Instead, every school can create the craziest, most unfair requirements, which they can change at a drop of a hat, to prevent people from achieving their dreams.  I gave up my life for this dream, only to be brought down by unfair, unachievable requirements and self-absorbed faculty members who collectively decided that I was NOT Ph.D. material.  They forced me out of the only world I knew, and my dream was shattered. 

Too many people use the cliché that time heals all wounds.  I resigned myself to screaming "That is FUCKING BULLSHIT! You should be wearing a HELMET!" at all people who say that to me.  While the wound isn't gaping, I still can't breathe several times a day because of the pain.  I was literally told that I didn't belong in this world, so I created a new dream, with my beautiful and talented husband in the Cities.  Followers of this blog are quite aware of our trials and tribulations.  But yes, the dream was shattered, followed by 8 months of unemployment, followed by 6.5 months of my husband's unemployment which leads us to today.

Today my current job forced me to attend the MNCUEW Conference.  I should have been excited to get away from a rather hectic week at work, which resulted in a new student visit record.  My stats say that I have increased student retention and visit rate by 1600%.  Yep, that number is right.  I'm married to the most amazing man, AND I wore the cutest dress ever.  I should have been ok.  But, walking right back into the trauma, all by myself, felt surreal.  The fact it was held at the Minnesota School of Art and Design, and I was surrounded by pictures of abstract vaginas didn't help.

The first and only session I attended today was titled: "Teaching Inside and Outside the Classroom" which was supposed to be a panel "composed of higher education professionals with graduate degrees in English. The panel addresses the multiple career paths, including careers in student life, academic support, and higher education administration, available for those with English backgrounds who elect not to teach." Turns out the panel consisted of two deans, who were clearly best friends, from a local community college.  Sadly, the session was not well attended, which indicates the worst 2 words known to man: audience participation.  MOTHER FUCK! 

When it was time for me to introduce myself and say what "my dream job was outside of teaching" it was if I was possessed.  Even now, some 8 hours later, I still wonder what came over me.  Did I get some sort of contact high from the art?  Was there something in the vegan lunch they served which was a bit too "organic?"  So I said my name, my two jobs, and the following: "I tried the PH.D., and I don't want to teach full time because contact with faculty makes me vomit in my mouth a little.  This week alone, I worked with 75 different students in 3 days, and I just don't know how much longer I can keep this pace up."  It was as if my filter had disappeared.  What the hell, "vomit in my mouth a little," that phrase is saved for my husband.  But, everyone laughed, as they always do when my insanity starts showing, and I became the negative, overwhelmed, underachiever in the back.   

The women believed the best way to tell us about our future was to brag about their perfect lives.  They handed out sheets of paper with their job trajectory and said such garbage as "I've never had a job I didn't love going to everyday," "My job title is Dean of Innovative Teaching & Learning.  Isn't that an exciting title?" and "I've never been without a job."  Was this included in the program? HELLS NO!

Their suggestions for getting a dean job were the following:

"You could sell courses to online universities for 20-30 dollars a course."

"If you're feeling overwhelmed, take a sabbatical."  [This is what Deans said to a room full of adjuncts and staff workers. They don't get sabbaticals unless you count not hiring an adjunct for a semester a sabbatical.]

"Just market your skills a little differently, and you'll get the job of your dreams." (Notice how they didn't exactly give concrete suggestions about how to do that)

"I know there are other jobs out there, but I just don't know what they are." [Good thing you have this fucking session about other jobs for teaching backgrounds, you stupid fucks]

Intermixed with this incredibly unhelpful advice was verbal masturbation about their lives.  I felt like they were saying, "How great is it to be me. You should all want to be me."

But, the one thing, that pushed me over was the following comment: "You will NOT get a dean job without a Ph.D. in the metro area.  If you do not go back to school, you must move to greater MN. My suggestion to the woman in the back is to go finish your Ph.D." [Never mind that we tried greater MN, it didn't help. Also, wife's bosses have less education than she does.]

Seriously, if I could have picked the worst thing said to me ever, this would have hit the top of the list.  I mean my husband's mother told my husband, shortly after the wedding "I can't find anything to love about your wife" was less hurtful than this.  The thing about is, though, only one of the two women had her Ph.D. and the woman who said this to me was the one who didn't. 

Fortunately, when discussion time arose, one of my husband's friends from his Creative Writing Days, who just happened to be at the session announced, "Well, you made my decision clear.  Admin is not the way to go for me."  I could have hugged him.  Here we were, 12 overworked, underpaid, exhausted human beings searching for a way out, a ray of hope, an idea that we hadn't thought of before to get us out of our current predicament.  Instead, I received a spear to my heart, a re-opened wound from UND, and hatred of two women whom I will never see again. [I want to say thank you to that friend for verbally bitch slapping these two condescending bitches.]

To them I say, Fuck you, you do not matter.  I am grateful that I do not have to work with you two bitches every day.  And, to UND and my husband's mother I say, Fuck you, you do not matter.  In spite of this session, my husband and I will find a way off of this dark, dark path we are on and into the light.  By holding on to each other and our absolutely magical love, we will find a way.  And, I thank you, dear readers and followers of my husband's blog, for indulging me in this rant and for supporting him in his daily struggles as a Midwest writer.   

Good Problems

What a Friday.

I’m finishing week four of a 1-2 week job, inputting data, quality assurance stuff. Rather dull, but I’m still glad for the work. The supervisor asks me to come in on Tuesday, which will be my last day.

I’ve got a part-time job for 20 an hour writing for a legal company, but that won’t start for a couple weeks. But hey, even part time there will pay better than a week at Sears. Glad I didn't take that job.

Last week, I got tired of waiting for this creative talent staffing company to find me something, so I sent a somewhat snarky note. The last email I had gotten from them said they were working hard to find the best opportunity for me. I emailed back “You don’t need to work too hard, I’ll be happy with the second best opportunity.” For some reason, that got them looking for me after 4 months of not hearing from them, resulting in that part time gig.

Then Friday. I got a call from them to meet with a company on Monday that is looking for a temp to hire writing position for 22 an hour. Then I got a call from the other staffing place asking if I want to start Wednesday on a 1-2 month temp job for a legal office doing a lot of typing and Word stuff for 14.50 an hour. I said I could give them a firm answer on Monday, but the time commitment might be an issue. She seemed OK with that.

So after so long, I now have a part time gig, a temp gig, and a potential temp-to-hire gig all happening at the same damn time.

To top it off, I got home and in the mail was a late, but very very appreciated wedding gift that brought tears to wife's eyes and warmed my lumpy black heart and made me wish I could give the sender a big hug of thanks. 

I then started to update Wife on the phone calls I'd gotten since we last talked at noon.

Wife: Your life is ridiculous.

Me: You’re telling me.

Wife: I forbid you to keep talking about your latest phone call. It makes my brain hurt.

Me: gwaaahahahuuuu. Me brain hurt. Good problems.

That damn reuben sandwich!

The great emotional breakdown of 2012 started with a latke reuben from Rye Deli.

It had been months since wife and I had gone out to enjoy this city that we moved to six months ago with a job for her and dreams of continuing a career for me. Months of having to scrimp and save. Months of saying "Well, we can't go to this musician or comedian that we are hard core fans of, but once I get a job, things'll change."

Then on a tip from Andria, I started checking out the local library for free tickets to local places. The hope was to score tickets to the Minnesota Zoo and go there Thursday. Wife was taking her first paid vacation ever. I was working a temp job for three weeks and now had extra cash for gas money, and we had a plastic bin and bankers box full of books to sell to fund this excursion.

Unfortunately, the zoo tickets are a hot item at the library, only put out randomly, and they go fast. I've checked 4 times since last week, and never got lucky. We tried on Thursday and got nothing. I was determined to give wife a good day out though. We didn't know what we would do, but after selling the books, we had some money to do it.

Wife had read about Rye in pretty much every Twin Cities magazine, and ever since the New York honeymoon, she's wanted to visit. So we pulled in on Thursday afternoon, an empty time at Rye, and our eyes boggled at the menu, the fish on display, and promises of hand carved meats.

I ordered a brisket sandwich and poutine to share. Poutine at Rye is fries and cheese curds smothered in an onion-heavy gravy, and it makes you want to sell your unborn for the promise that you will have it again, soon.

Wife ordered a latke reuben, which is a reuben, but with latke instead of rye.

Her sandwich came out first. A pile of corned beef between two burned looking pieces of latke. She took a bite, and was instantly transported back to our honeymoon, wolfing down a pie tin full of corned beef from Carnegie Deli with a plastic fork in our hotel room across the street. She piled a fork full, carefully balancing the ingredients to give me the perfect bite. A bit scared, I put the fork in my mouth, and my eyes misted. The meat must have been soaking in angel blood and puppy dreams for a week. The latke was blackened, but tasted unburned, just perfectly crisp.

My sandwich was not as good. I'm not a fan of mustard, but it happens so seldom that a sandwich has mustard that I don't make sure to hold it every time.

But that reuben.

Damn.

Shit.

We sat there, I scraped mustard off my sandwich. Wife occasionally gave me more bites, which I took without hesitation.  I usually pick better than her, but this time it was her turn to share.

We then took in the Life Like exhibit at the Walker, which was fantastic. We could have gotten free tickets for this, but it was just one of those things where we didn't know we would be going until we were driving by it. The Life Like exhibit was one of those rare times where my background in modern lit and themes helped me to decode and understand the pieces on display, while still having a gut emotional reaction to them.

(not my picture)

We coasted through Friday, but I got a rejection from a job I sorely wanted and hadn't heard from for weeks. She was nice about it, but it still stung. With the temp job coming to a close, it started to feel like we were once again approaching that dark precipice of not knowing how to make it through another month.

On Saturday, I woke to check my email, and before I was gone 10 minutes, wife was calling for me. I was annoyed.

The off feeling didn't stop. I went to Cub to grab some groceries. Came home and cooked bacon and egg sandwiches. I rented two movies from a redbox. I know wife's tastes are different than mine, but I figured I had scored a good medium by getting two kids movies. Hugo and Tintin. I had to talk her into Hugo, which annoyed me, since I got it specifically for her. She had wanted to go out for St. Patties day, but we couldn't afford it. Instead, I made corned beef. But nothing seemed to be good enough. I was looking down the hole of joblessness once again, and I didn't know what was going to happen. The reuben had cracked the emotional wall on Thursday, and the art gallery had stuck a crowbar in that wall, but Saturday's fights with the wife took a bazooka to it.

We were lying in bed together at about 3, because we had had enough snipping, and nothing was going right between us, and the weight of everything just. Snapped.

And I started crying. Deep sobs. Like the kind a 13 year old girl would have if she came to the deep realization that Robert Pattinson was way too old for her and would never, ever, ever be interested and the best she could hope for was the scabby acne guy named Stan from fourth period. Holy shit did I break. And wife just jumped on, wrapping her arms around me, calling me back from the abyss. Telling me it would be all right. I cried like I couldn't breathe. I wore my way through eight Kleenix. I felt like I was doing sit ups, the deep stomach shit that was going on.

One hour later.

Me: What the hell was that?

Wife: It was you letting go for once. You haven't done that since we moved.

Me: Holy shit.

Wife: It's nice to know you are still human. I was worried. No one should be able to do what you've done for six months without that happening.

Me: Thank you for being here.

Wife: Hey, it's my turn. Howabout we watch Tintin?

Me: OK.

Epilogue: Tintin is frackin awesome.  

I wrote this while in my boxers

So week three of the temp job is going along nicely. It’s late tonight, and I haven’t blogged in a while. Wife is sleeping, dreaming poorly if history is any indication. Lots of things going on, and I don’t know how to organize it all into a coherent blog from the heart.

Temping. I have to say that I have truly enjoyed the mind-numbing trudgery that is my temp job for the past 2 and a half weeks. Mostly, I spend my days cutting and pasting from one document to another. Sometimes, I go in and fix html code. Sometimes, I create excel documents on what information is missing. Sometimes, I read over pages and pages of numbers to make sure that they are all correct. But, I’m getting paid for the first time in a long time, and that’s nice. I got to work overtime last week by going in Saturday. Time and a half kicks ass.

Not to complain about getting hung with a new rope, but it hasn’t made hunting for a permanent position easier. I now spend my few hours not working and not trying to tackle the laundry or keeping connected with the wife by applying to jobs. I’m still up for a couple, that said they would call two weeks ago. I send emails every 6 days to see if they are progressing. Nothing.

On Thursday, I went in for an interview at Sears. The internet link led me to believe it was the first of two such interviews, but I was hired after 20 minutes. For $6 an hour plus commission.

I’ve never been a proud person. I’ve worked shit jobs for shit pay and had no problem doing it. I lived for 2 and a half years in a 2 room apartment that had a bathroom in the main hallway, and with no shower where I had to sit in a tub and pour water on my head with a bucket because the tub was too small. I’m pretty sure my neighbor was cooking meth every night too.

But there was no mention of benefits. There was almost an expectation on the interviewers part that I would say no. “Do you have any problems with what I’ve said so far?” was a common question.  Then I was told to get a drug test in the next two days, regardless of what my availability was. The drug testing place was only open 9-4, and on the other end of the metro area. I already had work scheduled for the temp job where I get more than twice what I would earn at Sears.

So now came one of those moments. Those decisions that will haunt you no matter which way you choose.

Left: a soul-sucking job that I woudn’t enjoy, that wouldn’t help with the bills that have already piled up, that would be a large step backward, keep me away from the wife, and horrible to be around when I was with her, and my job hunt would be curtailed for who knows how long.

Right: A soul-sucking joblessness that continues to eat what little remains of my self esteem and self worth. Temp work that isn’t reliable.

A long weekend and lots of soul searching and conversations led us to me not going in for the drug testing. I have an interview Friday to do a similar job to the caretaking thing I did for 8 months after grad school – watching people with disabilities to make sure they are OK. I didn’t mind the work then, and would be happy to do it again. It also pays a shitton better, if not as well as I got in Fargo.

Here’s what keeps me going, in all the darkness. I just need a yes.

One yes.

I’ve been asking for that yes for six months now. And wading through rejection after rejection.

But One. Just one and both wife and I will have full time jobs for the first time in our relationship. We dream of paying bills when they come in the mail, instead of waiting until the last possible day. It’s a small dream, but its ours.

One yes and we will be able to finally take part in some of the events that the Twin Cities has to offer.

One yes, and we can start the long road of recovery back to not having to raid the change jar to pay for gas to get to an interview. To not having to craigslist items to get by for another week.

One yes and our world changes.

That’s what I hang on to. 

The incredibly demeaning, pointless, soul sucking mindfuck that is job hunting

So it's been about 6 months now of job hunting. 250 jobs applied to, 2 job fairs, 2 networking events, and about 30 phone and in person interviews. That's 1 out of every ten applications that gets an interview. When you figure that most jobs have 90-200 applicants, I think those are pretty good numbers, yet I still have not converted into a job. The frustration is aggravating, demoralizing, and highly depressing. I've been sooooo close, and usually get told that I did absolutely nothing wrong. Wife says it's a miracle that I don't just lie in bed all day under the covers.

Three weeks ago, I was in the running for a position at the MNCPA for basically the same job I've been doing for the past 5 years, even less demanding, in fact. I did something I hadn't done before, I was more myself than usual, rather than formulating answers based on advice learned from interview books and websites. I briefly hinted at this previously, but want to go into this more. At one point I mentioned how my last job writing and editing newsletters was everything I loved about journalism with nothing I hated. I usually don't use the hate word, and books would say this is a big no no. And when asked what I hated about the job, I answered with my heart rather than my head.

"Well, that's a big question with a rather complicated answer, but I think it comes down to honesty. Newspapers pretend to be objective, but, particularly in small towns, the newspaper is essentially a promotional tool for how wonderful the community is no matter what the story. I found that to be a sort of dishonesty that can eat at you over time. Newsletters, however, are up front about their purpose. Everyone involved is in on the production process. You write stories about people, and they have a chance to see it before it goes to print. I like that collaboration."

Ordinarily, I would follow advice and address such a question with this. It usually doesn't come up since I don't talk like that about former jobs to begin with.

Anyway, I came in second for the job. The interviewer was super nice and left a message for me that was hands down the best rejection I have ever received. She seemed very sad that she couldn't hire me, that they didn't have two jobs. "You did everything absolutely right," she said. If anything didn't work out with the other person, or if she heard of anything, she would let me know. It made me feel pretty good and hopeful for the future. Perhaps I had latched onto something.

Then, on Tuesday last week, the same MNCPA job was posted online. Perhaps it was a mistake? I emailed. No response. I called, no answer. I called again, and she picked up. It was a pleasant conversation. I asked about the position, indicated that I was still available and willing. She said they were starting the search from scratch, and that I would be in the mix, that the other person didn't work out for some vague reason, and they were going another direction (with the same exact job description). She didn't know how long the process would take, but I should call back to check in at some point. I wanted to throw up a bit. Was everything she said before a lie? Was I grasping on to such hopeful words after a long, brutal search for jobs, for nothing? I was on lunch at my temp job, so there were no blankets to crawl under.

Life goes on. More jobs applied to. I'm waiting to hear about one editing position after interviewing 10 days ago. I should hear in the next day or two. I have a phone interview on Wednesday for a proofreading job and an in-person interview on Thursday evening for a job at Sears that would be a desperate return to retail. Next week I have an interview to work for the state in a caretaking position.

All I have ever wanted to do was write, to work on the craft, to meet people and talk to them until I find out why they are incredible and to share their stories with others. I moved to the cities thinking 8 years of doing just that and doing it well -- and earning a master's degree -- would be enough to land any number of communications jobs only asking for 2-3 years of experience and a bachelor's degree. Turns out that it isn't.

After almost 6 months, I did manage to get a temp job last week entering data from an adobe document to a CMS system. It continues this week. Although there were two aggravating hiccups with the temp service.   On Wednesday, when the world was covered in ice, I woke in time to give myself an hour and a half to drive ten miles to work. What I didn't account for was the extra 30 miles that would be added to the trip when my wife needed me to drive her to work as well. I notified the temp service of this. When I got a call from them, she asked "did you leave early?" Like I was some lazy roustabout barely able to figure out this whole "work" thing. I let it slide. Much like my car on the way to work. Then, I found out about a potential full-time job interview that wanted to see me. I emailed the temp service to ask: "I have received a call about an interview on Friday. I have not asked about how you work around interviews for permanent positions. I have not returned the call for the interview yet, so don't know how flexible they are on time, but she requested a 2 p.m. interview. Let me know." The answer was illuminating.

"As for an interview on Friday – this is only a week to 2 week assignment so it does not look good to have an interview during this period.  I would think the company would accommodate you if they know you are working on contract and will schedule after hours."

First, thanks for assuming that anyone would stay late at their job to interview a potential employee. Second, thanks for putting my temporary position above a potential permanent placement.

Anyway, that's a lot of ranting for one blog post. It may not be exciting to read, but this one was more therapy than anything.