Employment – Page 2 – Yellow Brick Missives

June 10, 2013

A Real Job? What’s That?

I couldn’t quite pinpoint why I’d been feeling so off, especially since I’d just returned from what I felt was a solid job interview.

After all, I’d cobbled together a decent outfit.

Scuffed the bottoms of my new shoes to decrease the chance I’d slip and topple head-over-ass down the lobby stairs.

Acted professionally throughout the interview, fully answering 25 or so questions and providing ample examples for each.

And never once blurted out, “I CAN’T TRUST YOU!”

So, what was my deal?

Even in his post-work exhaustion following a day trip to San Diego to interview candidates, Andy weighed in.

“Well, you’ve never really had a good work experience. So you’re probably just reacting to getting back into employee mode, and feeling the only thing you associate with it: dread.”

Hot damn.

Reason #4,578 to couple with a Human Resources professional.

He was right.

Because when I tried to counter with the proverbial “But,” nothing followed.

***

Now, it’s not as though the two non-academic jobs I’ve had haven’t had good qualities. I’ve learned plenty in the past five years navigating through the job market.

Every lesson hasn’t exactly been glutted with rainbows and butterfly kisses, but I’ve been able to distill out enough goodness to keep the wheels turning.

But when I really stop to think about my time in the job market, I realize how many obstacles so many of us have (had) to overcome.

For starters, I entered the job market a month before The Great Recession (TGR) tore into the US economy, gutting it like bad Thai.

And while I was insanely lucky to snag a job at such a critical moment, it came with a string of conditions.

Condition 1: No social life. Performing physically rigorous archaeological fieldwork in random parts of the state left me isolated and exhausted. The day and a half I had for downtime before returning to far-flung field sites afforded me just enough time to take a shower in my crappy apartment, do laundry, and get some quality sleep.

Condition 2: No benefits. Despite the fact that there were employees at this particular office that did not have any anthropological education, they were still entitled to company benefits that were not extended to me, an MA-holding anthropologist. Combined with absolutely no paid leave, the job’s only attractive quality was a paycheck.

Condition 3: No certainty in compensation. When I would tell my parents “I don’t know what I’ll make this paycheck,” I wasn’t being purposefully vague. In the context of an economic downward spiral, management was doing its best to shuffle monies around to compensate everyone. But that meant that each paycheck was a crapshoot–an amalgam of billed projects, each of which had its own payment rate for differently-tiered employees. Which meant my paycheck would vary by hundreds of dollars each month. Which made budgeting nearly impossible. Which made having fun and spending money financially imprudent. (Refer to Condition 1.)

Soon enough, TGR’s all-consuming waters lapped at our office’s door. But right as most of the staffers got pink slips, I was able to jump ship.

But as I’ve written before, I jumped from the Lusitania to the Titanic. Because not only was my rescue ship doomed too, but it came with plenty of other conditions.

Condition 1: Paid time off, but no other benefits. Sure, I was given a slight step up from where I’d been, but having no benefits still put me at a disadvantage. Having experienced a bout of skin cancer immediately after graduate school, when I had no health insurance through my job, I realized the importance of some measure of insurance. So while I had health insurance, it was one more out-of-pocket expense.

Condition 2: Crazy-ass commute. Now, I didn’t have to have this commute. But living in a conservative area compounds the social isolation LGBT’s feel, and I wasn’t about to go down that road again. So, it was a nearly three-hour round trip commute every single day. (Which was still less than what Andy had to drive.)

Condition 3: Quarterly taxes. Because the educational institution through which my “fellowship” was directed refused to deduct taxes from my paychecks, I had to pay quarterly taxes. Now, that might seem like a deal. But it’s a trap. Not only did I have to pay out over a thousand dollars every quarter and still pay my bills, but I also got whacked with my income taxes because the tax code changed and no one bothered to inform quarterly taxpayers. So if, say, your car shit the bed and you had to use part of your lump-sum paycheck to cover it, you may not be able to pay quarterly taxes on time. Which would lead to penalties and debt. Or, to obviate late quarterly taxes, you pay for unexpected expenses with a credit card. Either way, you rack up debt quickly.

Condition 4. Crazy-ass coworkers. I love fun, crazy people. I do not love insane, hostile people. And after dealing with a slew of nuts, I couldn’t take anymore.

In the end, it came down to balancing emotional health and financial feasibility.

Was it easy? Hell no.

Because it meant that Andy had to keep going in a job that was equally as draining.

Most folks don’t have the luxury of having a partner whose income can float two people, and must continue on in jobs where they’re underemployed. Or they have to wait in the unemployment line.

Still, we kept going, working toward a larger goal while cutting our expenses tremendously.

And it’s paid off.

***

Now, though, I’m starting to realize how far I’d sunk into the dregs of the employment market. Just reading job descriptions, and getting callbacks from jobs that offer real benefits–that I’d actually have the chance at contributing to that elusive 401k thing I’ve heard so much about–gives me chills.

In many ways, TGR has reminded people what’s important–not riches or snagging a high-paying job that sucks the life out of you: it’s the things and people that make you happy. It’s that passion you’ve always had for cooking or sewing or writing making a resurgence and becoming something you’ve always wanted it to be.

And we feel less lost because of it.

Because it helps propel us forward, energizes us to take a chance and venture outside our comfort zones.

Apply for jobs we don’t think we’re qualified for.

Make contacts outside of our chosen fields.

Hone the skills that we possess, and shop them around as best as we can.

Not beat ourselves up over not getting that job we thought we’d be perfect for–because, in the end, it clearly wasn’t a good fit and we’re better off without it.

Because the only person who can land a real, fulfilling job–or at least one that’ll help make your life what you want it to be–is you.

And you can do it.

May 30, 2013

The Stay-at-Home Gay

Gays have a lot of hurdles to clear, some of which are planted in place by our Disunited Theocracy; others by A-gays; historically entrenched, ridiculous stereotypes; and Oprah.

Okay, maybe not Oprah.

Still, so many gays aspire to be “rich and ripped,” “beautiful and successful,” “popular and revered”–with a house in the Hamptons, a cottage in the Keys, and a second home in downtown San Francisco.

Adopting two dogs.

And wearing lots of cashmere for good measure.

Why gay men find themselves gravitating to these ideal types–as if they have something to prove–is anyone’s guess. And there’re probably about as many explanations as probable sources–being socially ostracized, having to remain closeted for one reason or another, being excessively fearful of abandonment, being a late bloomer, on and on ad nauseum.

So many of these factors make gay men more highly susceptible to experiences that eventually define stereotypes, which later confine gay men to a rigid, laughably ridiculous set of behavioral criteria. And while we’re all capable of free will, sometimes it’s easier to go with the crowd.

Buy the expensive things.

Wear the latest fashions.

Embrace a bit of body dysmorphic disorder.

Hell, I’ve tried all of the above, and did actually learn some things: (1) Credit card debt sucks, and makes you resent all of the pretty things surrounding you that contributed to it; (2) Even a Michael Kors $250 hoodie can give you man boobs in the most unflattering ways possible; and (3) Food tastes much better than bile.

But figuring out who you are, and how you’re going to deal with life’s ambiguity, requires a lot of self-reflection, tough love, and emotional restructuration. Most of the time, such introspection is triggered by unpacking heavy emotional baggage, which is rarely fun, and often requires a lot of chocolate.

Coming out, and all of the internal dialogue in the process, strengthened my resolve to deal with toxic situations; after all, reconciling a mentally- and physically- abusive relationship with yourself is one sure-fired way to realize how best to cope with all of life’s stressors and characters. Most people don’t ever have such deep, messy, and intense conversations with themselves. Because those are scary. But what’s even scarier is feeling like a fish out of water and not having the slightest clue how to deal with such overwhelming emotions.

Thankfully, I beached myself a while back and have plenty of tools in my kit–from flailing about and baking in the sun–to patch up bizarre or challenging situations.

All of which have come in handy as I’ve found myself becoming a stay-at-home gay–a StAHG. (Ba da bah! Yes, I’m lame.)

***

No one could’ve ever convinced me that I’d one day take on the role of homemaker.

Especially not the woman I met while contemplating the potential financial boon of donating plasma as an undergraduate, who turned to me with her wide, meth-rotted grin and said, “I do this fer a livin’!” (Bless her heart. And mouth.)

I always assumed I’d be employed, even if at a job I loathed.

But as y’all know, I’d played all my cards at my last job, and didn’t have the energy to reshuffle the deck in the hopes of a better hand. And was incredibly fortunate to have Andy agree, and support my decision.

Still, I felt like a big loser–a feeling most freshly unemployed folks experience. And after I waded through all sorts of emotional cesspools, I began to make peace with myself, and realize that as loser-like as I felt, I also felt sort of proud to have acknowledged that something was severely wrong–that I was severely unhappy–and to have done something about it.

But even with that knowledge informing my next steps, and Andy being nothing but supportive, I still felt pressure to right myself immediately–perform some Matrix-esque move mid-fall to swing into another saddle.

But, why?

***

Delving into the proverbial why can be dark and ugly. Because all sorts of unseemly, latent ideas or perspectives can be brought into sharp relief.

Like when I acknowledged that I’d long thought stay-at-home spouses were lucky because they didn’t have any real obligations–no set hours to bank, no project deadlines to make. They could just wake up late, lounge around, and throw something together for dinner. And if there were kids, then they had an even easier go of it. Because those poopy, drooly blobs of joy can be blamed for anything–late dinner, stained or frumpy clothes, unconditioned hair.

So imagine my surprise when I found myself pressed for time after running errands, making meals, scheduling appointments, cleaning house, managing finances, and conditioning my hair after waking up at 6:00 AM! And double shockaroo when I threw searching for apartments and handling cross-country move logistics into the mix; conditioning my hair just didn’t make the cut.

Worse still, I didn’t even have a poopy, drooly, furry, three-legged and wheeled blob to foist off some of the responsibility for not accomplishing everything I wanted!

How did I–an educated gay man–fall into this role?!

And that’s when I realized I was being a ridiculous, whining wretch.

So, as I deservedly cringed at each word of my horrid question, I began to unpack the three most problematic components of my complaint:

Educated. Like a lot of folks, I’ve come to expect a college education and MA to do the heavy-lifting, to beat all of those potential jobs out of the bushes. But these days, in this economy, that’s just not the case. For baby-boomers and millennials alike, times are tough. And I need to really acknowledge that, and not give up after not hearing back from jobs I applied for. Even those awesome jobs I was certain I’d snag. I’ve sung my millennial blues. Time to put my nose to the pulverizing stone and work it.

Gay. With as much bullshit as LGBT’s face, I figured I’d somehow receive some payout from the universe in the form of excessively disposable income, an even tan, and muscled calves. But being gay, or going through a lot of self-discovery, doesn’t translate to a handout or a break from reality. It just means you probably have the life-experience to deal with plenty of foolishness that’s thrown your way, and hopefully excessive empathy to share with others who don’t.

Man. It’s no newsflash: our androcentric, heteronormative society rewards straight white men; they are the golden children. Everyone else has to step it up to even receive a fraction of the entitlements they enjoy. So, just because I’m a white man doesn’t mean that I shouldn’t expect plenty of setbacks, unfairness, and hard times ahead–that I should never think I deserve anything more than anyone else. It’s time to grow up and grow a(nother) pair.

So after I chastised myself and quietly apologized to all of my friends who work intensely hard as stay-at-homes, I began to admit to myself that I shouldn’t be ashamed of being a homomaker (last one, I promise).

That everyone has their own problems, their own demons to wrestle. Yes, including the A-gays who don’t see themselves as good enough, even as they watch their housekeeper (for the Keys) brush their newly coiffed Jack Russells, Mad and Onna.

That we all have growing to do, and joys to love–whether the human, furry, or imaginary variety.

That as my D-gay self tries hard not to become a sad cliche, I can still be proud and work hard toward a more fulfilling, professional future.

That, regardless of how long it takes for any of us to realize our potential, we’ll all have to take our respective leaps of faith to new, exciting adventures.

To do our best to land with both feet on solid ground.

To be grateful for those who act as our rocks.

To act as rocks ourselves.

Even a foul-mouthed, excessively cracked one like me.

April 22, 2013

File Under “Risky Business”

Tom Cruise terrifies me.

Tom Cruise in underwear is an even more disturbing mental image.

So this isn’t about paying homage to that 1983 classic movie that I have no interest in ever seeing. (Which says a lot, because I love movies.)

But ol’ Tomkins doesn’t have a monopoly on doing risky things.

We all have a few moments in our past that we think back to and muse, “What in the f*ck was I thinking?!”

Oftentimes, without the asterisk.

But playing through those same mental frames are moments of sheer bliss, of taking risks and them paying off. Because, very occasionally, big risks have an even bigger payoff.

Ever since following our gay, man-infested destiny to the West Coast last December, we resolved to make our move to California a reality.

Which has proven harder than I thought.

It’s one thing to say, “Hey, I want to move to the other side of the country,” and another thing entirely to actually make it happen.

But nearly five months later, it’s actually going to happen.

***

I’ve just successfully ripped away the last remnant of re-used bubble wrap to coat a particularly cherished piece of pottery when Andy calls.

He’s been in an all-day training session with his manager, and I know he’s coming back earlier than usual. Which, after a long day of going back and forth with our prospective LA apartment manager and packing, is a very welcomed break in our routine.

“Hey! Are you leaving?”

“I just resigned.”

“WHAT?”

Now, it’s not like he wasn’t going to resign in two days anyway. But I’m still surprised.

He tells me how it came up in conversation, and how he’d told his manager that he’d put in his official two weeks’ notice on Friday.

But the best part for me is hearing how uplifted he sounds. It reminds me of the freeing effects I’d experienced after my sparkly departure from my toxic job.

We chat for a few minutes, taking in the moment and realizing that this is the last big step before the actual move.

Then, the unexpected happens.

“Oh my god.”

“What?”

“Honeywell is calling me.”

“OH, uh, SHIT, uh, GO!”

We hang up.

And I stand at the counter, where I’ve just pulled out vegetables and venison to make yet another cost-effective meal.

And wait.

And chop a bazillion carrots and broccoli crowns.

And start having my own conversation.

“What’s going on?!”

“It’s either a really good thing, or a really bad thing that it’s taking this long.”

I look at the clock. Two minutes have passed.

I haphazardly chop more vegetables.

Then, five minutes pass.

And the phone rings.

And I nearly cut off a finger.

I pick up.

“Hey?”

*Andy laughing hysterically*

“So?”

“I. Got. The. JOB!”

Kittens.

Let me just tell you.

After we both scream and talk and gush and scream and gush and hang up so he doesn’t buy it on I-40 Downtown Abbey style, I have an ugly, cathartic cry.

Like, slumping-against-and-inching-down-the-wall-into-a-sobby-heap-on-the-floor kind of cry.

Because, in that moment, all of his job-searching efforts over the past six months have paid off. Not only that, but barely ten minutes after putting in his notice at a job that’s sucked the life out of him, he hears from a job that’s already changed both of our lives.

A game-changing job.

A job that translates to so many more opportunities.

A job that means we’ll now have a much more solid base on which to build our lives in California.

A job where he is respected as an equal among his heterosexual coworkers, and reaps the same benefits.

A job that means all of the “eventually’s” may be in our near future rather than “one day.”

So, we celebrate. In our favorite way.

And reflect on this whole experience.

And smile.

***

This has been one of the most stressful processes of my entire life. And I know Andy feels the same way.

It’s been fraught with minor triumphs and massive setbacks. It’s challenged us to change and adapt, and lean more heavily on one another.

It’s shown us that taking the road less traveled isn’t a skip through the woods. It’s a long, tiring, draining process that can wear your nerves raw.

But it can also teach you so much about yourself.

We’ve grown so much.

Scrimped and saved.

Overcome obstacles.

Cried.

Dreamed.

And learned to let go.

Now, as we find ourselves looking back, we know that taking big, terrifying risks in pursuit of a happier life can pay off.

That whatever hiccups we may experience along the way can be overcome.

As long as we believe in ourselves.

April 16, 2013

Space: The Final Hair-Pulling Frontier

Yes, I fully admit that I have some Trekkie in me.

And I’ve definitely been channeling Spockisms as Andy and I navigate the ever-exhausting process of relocating to LA.

You know, live long and prosper and Luke, I am your father.

Wait.

Lately, though, I’ve been mixing my frustrations with a wee bit of something else. Just to take the edge off.

No, not Grey Goose.

Positivity.

Positivity is abso-friggin-lutely crucial. Because, as we all know, negativity leads to Revolutionary Road endings.

*Shudders*

Regardless of the highs and lows of this emotional roller coaster ride, I’m so insanely excited to start a new chapter. And while it’s scary to move, the whole pill is easier to swallow with someone by your side.

After all, in this quest to embrace what really makes us happy and develop it into something sustainable, we’re going to go at it full-force–holding onto any jobs we’re able to land and use them as vehicles to get to the next phase of our lives together. And while naysayers or skeptics may think we’re irresponsible or unrealistic, I find myself not caring.

Because this journey is ours to take.

And I hardly think we could ruin our 20-some years of life by exploring a road to happiness.

Plus, we have to do this. Because, as a good friend advised, each of us has to assess how happy we are with three of the big things in life: (1) Partner; (2) Job; (3) Location. And, as she said, “If you’re unhappy with two of these three things, you need to try something else.”

As it just so happens, both of us are tired of the latter two. (Although I probably drive him to think about 1 every now and then. No? Good answer, babe.)

So why not try something new? Something we want to do?

***

While the past few weeks have been excessively exhausting, we’ve learned a lot, and have gotten closer. That’s what experiences do: test your resolve to keep going forward. And, to quote Susan Sarandon in Elizabethtown (again), “All forward motion counts.”

So, as I pull things out of closets, and we reassess how much we really like that chair, or decanter, or set of dishware, we’re becoming much more adept at identifying what it is that we want to define us: not stuff, per say; rather, experiences that bring us together and help us realize how little we need to be happy.

And realizing that, in a month’s time, we’re going to be back in California.

At this point, just getting there is a victory. Because we’re doing something important: we’re forging a path set out by no one but us. And, after all of our efforts, “the only real failure would be to stay.”

(Our friend is very wise.)

***

Speaking of being victorious by the mere fact of getting out to LA, let’s talk a bit about space–that nebulous thing that separates this dynamic duo from the West Coast.

Now, I’ve always been fascinated by space and our relation to it. (A fascination that was only fueled by MA thesis research, and reading books like Space and Place by Yi-Fu Tuan, and other lovely things by Tim Ingold.)

So, as we manage downsizing from our massive Raleigh apartment to an LA studio, I’m finding it interesting how we compartmentalize space, and the significance we map onto it once it’s bounded by four walls and a roof.

I mean, really, differences in space are slight, and may only be distinguishable by being coated with pollen or decorated with an Eames lounger.

It’s all about what we read into spaces, and how we relate to them. So if we interpret space as not ever being ours to bound and populate, then maybe the best way to respect it is to re-tune our materialistic consciousness away from overburdening space with stuff, and practicing austerity.

You know, keep it simple.

Which is why I’ve become more of a fan of modernist design.

Anyway, I just find it interesting how attached we become to space–something we can’t even touch, but can only describe through feelings we have while navigating through it.

And our responses to it being emptied–unshackled from all of the stuff we pack into it.

And acknowledging, like Andy, that leaving a space is “sort of like a mourning process.”

That, despite our excitement, we’re still mourning the loss of the space’s significance in our lives.

Like the balcony where I pretended to be casually sweeping while waiting for Andy to arrive for our first date.

Like the stairs where he hesitated before walking up to meet me.

Like the rooms he’d later pepper with Mid-Century Modern furniture–once we pinpointed his style aesthetic through antiquing excursions.

Like laying on our bed to share a quiet, reflective moment after we were accosted and called “faggots” by a group of bubbas.

This is the first place we’ve lived together.

The first place we’ve made our own.

The first place I will truly miss.

***

But then, there’re moments of clarity.

Like when I was sitting, running my fingers through Andy’s hair, and suddenly realized that the stuff and space we’d been trying to craft our move around shouldn’t be the foci.

We have to focus on living our lives.

Being true to our feelings.

Encouraging one another.

Learning.

Doing it all in a new space and enjoying the ride.

Knowing deep down that, as my dear friend Norman wrote, we “can work out most anything…even overcooked eggs.”

Knowing that we can always eat around the burned parts and still be nourished.

And keep going.

April 12, 2013

Dear North Carolina: It’s Not Us, It’s You.

Y’all know I love letters.

And love letters.

But this one is particularly apropos as I watch, horrified, as North Carolina backslides into history through daily leaps and bounds.

Dear North Carolina:

I have mixed feelings about leaving you.

Mostly because I held you so highly for so long.

You seemed like a place where a southern liberal could find compatriots and a bit of that southern-style flair and hospitality I so cherish.

And, for a while, I thought you provided exactly that.

I grew academically in Chapel Hill.

I did my share of wine-fueled porch-hopping in Sanford.

I met the love of my life in Raleigh.

But the short time since the Republican majority took hold of both the House and Senate–the first time in a 100 years–you’ve become a shade of that state I personally held as the Southeast’s liberal scion.

Now, though, you’re being driven into the ground by nonsensical legislation and a hyper-conservative government that attacks me, my family, and chosen family; other minorities–women, people of color, immigrants; individuals’ religious rights; and the environment. Just to name a few.

You’re becoming the laughing stock among your Deep South cohort. And, as a native Alabamian, you should know that some folks in my home state are whispering to their Georgia and South Carolina relatives, “Wow, is that cray-cray transferred by osmosis?”

So, North Carolina, I have a question for you.

Are you worth the fight?

Because the past few years I’ve done nothing but fight, march for equality, speak out against bigoted legislation like Amendment One, and rail against an apathetic majority. And, sure, there have been victories. But the severe degree to which you’re backsliding into history makes me wonder what the future holds.

I’m tired.

I’m done fighting for rights that other states, and countries, recognize as they should.

A life spent fighting doesn’t seem like a life I want to lead.

I want to focus on living.

Every single day over the past few weeks, my partner and I have been reminded why we’re leaving you for California.

Sure, Cali has her own problems. But at least with her there’s probably less likelihood that we’ll be accosted and called “faggots” for merely holding hands in our car while stopped at a traffic light; that we’ll be shadowed and stalked on the road by pickup trucks plastered with Confederate flags; that we’ll hear our legislators repeatedly legitimize unconstitutional, institutional violence and bigotry against us and other minorities.

Maybe I’m just sensitive. Or maybe I’m a slighted Millennial who’s experienced the recession’s pitfalls since its inception, and constantly sees my fellow generational cohort continually screwed through economic and legislative (in)action.

But my partner and I can only defend you so long before we acknowledge that your base does not deserve our economic contributions nor our innovative spirits.

We’re tired of reinforcing Battered Citizen Syndrome. We’re not going to come running back, defending you every single time you punch us, expecting everything to be roses and rainbows afterward.

We’ll do what we can to support our good friends who continue to fight. But know that they, too, are getting tired of your repeated blows. And it’s only a matter of time before your tactics to regulate citizens’ social lives in lieu of effecting positive, beneficial political change backfire–when you find yourself quickly sliding down that “Most Desirable” list, being abandoned by progressive companies seeking a home base.

So, my partner and I will move gaily forward with our lives. In California. And we’ll hope you’ll soon find a brain like Dorothy’s scarecrow, and actually realize that you’re aligning yourself with the wrong side of history. And that, very soon, you’ll know what it feels like to be a minority.

Bless your heart.

April 3, 2013

Recession Rubric for Recouped Rubels

Alright, so I absolutely adore alliteration.

Almost as much as I love coffee.

Speaking of coffee. As I was grinding a bag of coffee beans with my great-grandparents’ cast iron mortar and pestle this morning, I started thinking about all of the cost-saving measures Andy and I have implemented since my foray into unemployment.

(Like, say, salvaging the cast iron mortar and pestle instead of buying a new one.)

And since I’m a giver, I’ve decided to gift you with a short list of how you can cut costs, too. Even if you’re employed. (Show off.)

(1) Cull the Fat.

Y’all may remember that, immediately after our cross country road trip, we culled the bejesus out of our apartment.

(With a little help from Grey Goose.)

We ended up pulling out so much stuff that we devoted two weekends, and a few weekdays, to shedding it. But you know what? Having our apartment in complete disarray was worth the outcome: a lighter, brighter apartment. Which got its face-lift right before its second feature on Apartment Therapy.

(2) Cull More.

Right when you think you’ve gone through every closet, combed through all of your books, you realize that, while beautiful, you don’t really use that vase.

And those piles of books you’ve been wanting to read for years should go to people who will actually enjoy them. And yes, even though you like a drink on occasion, you don’t need all of those glasses. Keep it simple.

(3) The Great Pantry Cleanse.

No, this doesn’t involve copious amounts of paprika and prune juice. But I do recommend doing this while humming or playing Eminem’s “Cleanin’ Out My Closet.” Just because.

We all have that partially used bottle of soy sauce for that stir fry we made last year (what?), or those dried beans that should really be cooked instead of sitting in that cool pottery canister.

And don’t get me started on what’s in the freezer–the vegetables you couldn’t eat but refused to throw away, the 10 or so pounds of venison from Alabama. You know, the usual stuff.

Well, kittens. It’s time to get your creative juices flowing. Because it’ll surprise you how long you can last on what you have in your house. Sure, you may have to run to the store for one random ingredient. But you’ll be amazed at how awesome the stuff that’s been sitting around can taste with a bit more effort than what you usually cook.

By the time I took stock of everything we had, I realized we were totally prepared in case of a zombie apocalypse. Sure, tangerine-chocolate-chip cake isn’t the healthiest alternative, but it’s better than the brains I’d crave after getting mauled by a zombified Harris Teeter cashier.

(4) Wear Your Heart (and Everything) In Your Favorite Sleeves.

Yes, this doesn’t really make sense. But you get the gist: wear what you love and get rid of the rest. I’ve read several articles about culling stuff, mostly because I find it fascinating how far we’ll go to justify what stays and what goes. Especially when it comes to clothes. (Especially bonafide or poseurish clubbin’ clothes. FYI, you’re too old for that shit.)

But one of the best articles detailed a month-long experiment that went something like this: after you wear an article of clothing, turn its hanger around; then, at the end of the month, get rid of everything on the un-turned hangers. (Unless it’s that really expensive job interview outfit.)

Rinse and repeat Steps 1-4 until desired results are achieved.

***

Now, this isn’t an exhaustive list. But as Andy and I figure out our next steps, and become increasingly envious of those who can move everything they have in a 14-foot rental truck, we’re glad to have these mad skills under our belts. Because, regardless of where we end up or how much money we make, we’re still going to implement these lessons.

Why not?

Sometimes a simpler life is the way to go.

Because as amazingly bright as our material possessions shine, they can never trump the glow we get from unshackling ourselves from the past to take steps toward a lighter future.

From realizing how little we need to carry on our journey.

March 24, 2013March 24, 2013

A New Chapter: Back There

Between intensely suggesting that my tax advisor reassess my taxes for the third time, and thinking about the conversation Andy and I had had the day before, I choked back tears.

But when my tax advisor came up with the same damningly high numbers that I owed in April, she and everyone in the office knew I was a little upset.

Still, she walked me through everything. Expressed her apologies.

And threw in a coupon.

But it made for a long walk home.

After all, I’d have to talk to Andy about this, and how it was going to affect what we’d decided to do.

***

After a horrible evening of talking things through, blankly staring at the television as The Office failed to make us laugh, we went to bed early with the weight of tax burdens coloring our formerly rose-colored outlook a dismal, impenetrable black.

But the next day, my parents reminded me why I’m so goddamned fortunate to have them.

And after I ugly cried and they told me not to freak out, Andy and I were able to breathe once again.

And shore up the crack that taxes had made in our resolve. And savings.

Soon enough, between family and friends offering their support and help, we were again reminded that we have a ridiculously amazing cheerleading squad. And can never express deeply enough how much “Go for it!” or “How can I help?” or “Here you go!” measures up when naysayers have plenty of negativity to direct at us.

So, we’ve decided to listen to our family and friends.

But, most importantly, to our hearts.

So.

We’re moving.

To Los Angeles.

***

Now.

Before you turn to your cubicle or cellmate and say, “They crazeh!” I’ll beat you to it and tell you, “You’re right!”

But if we’re not a little crazy or a little naive, we’ll never take the step. We’ll just languish in the “what ifs,” and will have to drink ourselves to sleep whenever we watch Revolutionary Road.

Speaking of which, we watched that amazingly good movie the night we decided to move. And you know what? It helped.

Because the next day when the tax shit hit the fan, there were lots of questions, lots of “Oh, we’re delusional. This will never happen.”

But before I whipped out a rubber hose and pump, and Andy started screaming, “She did it to herself! She did it to herself!” we kept the plan alive.

By laughing.

By crying.

By imagining that we’d still pursue it, even if we had a giant hurdle thrown in our way.

Because, throughout this process, tenacity is crucial.

Thankfully, we’re both ridiculously stubborn when it comes to folding under pressure.

Even though we know that starting over is absolutely, insanely difficult.

But we’ve each done it before.

And being doggedly determined to try rather than wonder can’t hurt.

***

So, it starts now.

Leaving toxic work environments in our wake.

Telling ourselves that we’re worth more, and can offer more, than the asshats think.

Living and pursuing lives we want.

Retracing our steps.

Learning from tumbles and tribulations.

Cherishing our victories.

And embracing our gay, man-infested destiny as we create a future.

All the way back there.

March 19, 2013

A Hand On the Wheel, A Head Under Water

Why is it that we have some of the best thoughts, experience the most crystal clear realizations while navigating a steel cage hurtling through space at 70 miles per hour?

Yes, I mean me in my Toyota Matrix.

Some of which is steel. Or aluminum.

I think.

(Except that plastic zip tie holding something to my bumper.)

Anyway.

***

Everyone experiences Inspiration While Driving (IWD).

This time, my IWD was courtesy of Girlyman.

No, not that guy.

One of my favorite bands. And one of their songs, “Easy Pearls.” Specifically, these lyrics:

We dive for easy pearls and leave the rest forgotten

We leave the best of worlds on the bottom

I know.

You’re like, “Well, what about that pearl necklace in my bureau? I didn’t leave that in the ocean.”

But I don’t have any such necklace, so you need to shut up and focus on the beauty of those two lines.

Why?

Because they basically sum up my entire life.

Alright, maybe not my entire life. But the last chunk of it.

***

The past few years haven’t really been great for anyone.

Jobs haven’t panned out. That bonus check never came. Joseph Gordon-Levitt didn’t fall into your cubicle.

All-around rough.

So, as a natural default, I started grabbing at whatever was within arm’s length.

Which was usually an antique. Or food. Or a bottle of scotch.

But listening to the music, and thinking about the conversation I’d had with a friend earlier that day, I was reminded why that quick fix–that easy pearl–is never quite what I need.

***

My friend and I had spent the afternoon catching up and talking about unemployed life, and the horrible place we both used to work.

And we talked about the future. The uncertainties. How each of us is going to try our respective hands at making a go at things ourselves.

How we almost have to get super innovative in an economy where baby-boomers (BB’s) are holding onto their jobs longer because of losses they took during the recession. How we’ve both had our fill of the rifts that occur in the workplace when BB’s collide with Gen Xers, Gen Yers, and Millennials, because the inherent power dynamics end up ripping everyone apart Lord of the Flies style.

But we also talked about the good side of things going to shit.

How we’ve learned to streamline. To embrace practicality.

To acknowledge that things won’t be the way they were, and that it’s for the best.

All of these things were tumbling around in my head when those two lyrics broke through my stream of consciousness.

And when I stood on my brakes and slowed behind a massive blue Le Sabre.

Whether it was my mind searching for some thematic thread for my discombobulated thoughts, or my eyes boring into the Le Sabre, I started analogizing my time in North Carolina to a road trip.

So, buckle up, kittens.

***

Early on in my professional career, I’d set a Point B on my life’s TomTom: Professorship.

Nothing was going to get in my way. I’d have a PhD by the time I was 30, a house, a husband, and a three-legged, diabetes-afflicted Corgi rescue named Chunk.

But after undergrad was over, I merged back into academia too soon, and got redirected into a cesspool of angst and anxiety with academics ill-equipped to deal with other people who didn’t fit a particular mold.

And floundered.

And gave up listening to the drone of “recalculating, recalculating, recalculating” echoing in my noggin.

And just kept going, pedal-to-floor, until I ran out of gas.

***

After a tune up and complete rebuild, professorship was a distant dot in my rear view. And I found myself traveling bumpy roads to make things work in rough economic times.

Everywhere I looked, people were stalled out. No one had the necessary parts they needed. Everyone was running past empty.

So, I made do with the little I had, and channeled The Little Engine That Could.

Then, when that “Maintenance Needed” light interrupted my “I think I can, I think I can” chanting, I had an out. Which a lot of people didn’t.

And I took it, because it was that oh-so-welcomed gas station in the middle of a desert.

But then, I got trapped there.

Stuck in some sort of bizarre mirage where everyone acknowledged that it was an absurd illusion full of delusional people. But no one left.

Until we had to.

***

Get lost in all of that?

Yeah, I sort of did, too. But you get my gist.

As every driver knows, it’s only a matter of time before someone cuts you off, or you get behind a wide load.

And things slow down. Sometimes, you idle. Sometimes, it’s stop and go, stop and go, stop and go until you want to pull out your hair.

Sometimes, there’s a break in the logjam, and you blow through, cutting off time and covering a lot of ground. Inevitably, though, you come to a screeching halt.

Or swerve off the road.

Or have an accident.

And things stop.

And you think, “How did this happen? I was being so careful.”

And sometimes, we’re just coasting along on cruise control, listening to our life play on like a record, and we don’t even notice that we’re slowing down for that big rig. And it’s not until others start blowing past that we realize, “Damn, I’ve been going ten miles under the speed limit for the past 55 miles.”

Or you hit a pothole and are jarred back to reality.

Back to the fact that roads can be easily traveled. But that everyone has to go their own speed. And that sometimes we’re all stuck in the same traffic jam.

That there will always be stretches where we can speed, and stretches where obstacles lie around every turn.

But vigilant drivers can avoid a pile up by recognizing the warning signs.

And can motor on.

***

I guess the reason why those lyrics switched me into uber reflective mode was that I realized that I’ve just been going for what’s easy. What’s familiar.

I haven’t taken a leap into murky water.

I haven’t gone deep.

I’ve just barely gotten my head wet.

So, whether I have to come up for air a few times before going for it, I’m planning to reach for what’s just beyond my grasp.

Stretch myself a little bit more.

Just to prove to myself that I can reach that treasure at the bottom of it all.

March 14, 2013March 14, 2013

An Honest Cover Letter

We’ve all had horrible bosses.

Experienced horrible workplaces.

Tried to subvert our desires to burn the building down, the glowing embers illuminating a shadowed form clutching their precious red stapler.

***

Rarely do we actually get to tell our bosses exactly what we think without the threat of being fired, being blacklisted by other potential employers, or being denied the oh-so-coveted recommendation letter.

Oddly enough, I was able to do exactly that, and still eek out a recommendation. Guilty conscience on his part, I presume.

Anywho.

Even though it’s great to always have a handful of recommendation letters–or contacts able to pen a quick one–at your disposal, I’ve always wondered if they carry much weight.

The same can be said for cover letters.

I mean, how many employers glance over said piece of paper (which took hours to write) before tossing it into a shredder and never bothering to inform said applicant that they were denied, leaving them to flounder in a pool of expectations clouded by ambiguity?

Not that I’ve ever experienced such distasteful, unprofessional behavior on countless occasions.

But the one way I always hear about making your cover letter, your resume, your plea for a fucking job stand out is to be you.

To be, *cough-gag*, unique.

Whether it’s by choosing a fun, yet professional font, selecting a wider margin, grouping your work achievements in annotated bullet form, we all seek to set ourselves apart in the most seemingly unique ways.

And yet, it’s bullshit.

It’s not who you are.

Who you are is the person wanting a job and frustrated as hell that you can’t get anything.

So.

In an effort to put myself at ease, knowing that I put nothing but the truth out there, I’d love to send the most truthful letter possible to any prospective employers.

***

Dear Prospective Employer (PE):

I’d usually start out with my name. But you’re not interested in that. You want the bare bones–the gravy, the good stuff that sets me apart from the rest of the applicants’ cover letters lodged in that manila file folder on your desk.

So, I’ll be brutally honest.

You may notice from my resume that I have an MA in Anthropology. What can anthropology do for you? Well, I’m not sure. It hasn’t done a lot for me lately, either. Except forcing me to work with the tragic dregs of said profession.

But, what it has done is teach me how to tolerate stress, manage exceedingly overbearing workloads, and delegate responsibilities among peers. It also taught me a lot about people. I people watch as a profession. I glean bits of personal histories from the slightest reactions and exchanges, like judging whether it’s prudent to align myself with Coworker X, or join the rest who think she’s absolutely cray-cray.

I’ve had a smattering of teaching experiences, and can manage a high student volume, and remember most of their names. The names aren’t so important, but it scares them enough when I call them by name that they respect me a little bit more, or take me a tad more seriously.

I’ve worked with a diverse array of coworkers, and can get along with pretty much anyone. Other than bigots. Because I will stand my ground, and won’t back down until something is done to redress the situation (please contact my last employer if you require verification).

As someone with more interests outside of work, I like to think I can use those skills to my advantage, and perhaps yours.

I like to photograph interiors, and I have a profound love for interior design. I have no formal training with either, but I think I have more than a layperson’s ability to pull a room together. With a background in art, I can frame things in particular ways, or know what’ll look best with X, Y, and Z in this room, and play off the accents in an adjoining room. Coming at design with a background in the history of artistic and style movements helps me cobble together things in ways that are fun, functional, and accessible. I don’t strive to make everything perfect, because we’re not perfect people. People like to be able to live where they rest. I think I have an eye for helping people love a space, while not overwhelming them with a decor backstory.

Writing is a lot of fun, and is probably my number one hobby. I don’t really think of it as a hobby because I do it all the time. Even when I’m not actually writing anything. Every situation I experience gets translated into conversational snippets, and I enjoy recalling them to create a cohesive story line. I’m fairly good at editing, but don’t try to over-edit, because I’d prefer someone reinvent something they’ve written themselves–with me giving them a helping nudge in the right direction–rather than me red inking everything. Because, again, I have no formal background in writing, so who am I to judge?

I can organize events, cook a ton of stuff, get people to come, and pull everything off fairly seamlessly on a regular basis. As someone who likes to talk, I can network fairly well, and can talk to pretty much anyone. I like people to feel as though they can talk to me, and that when they do, what they say won’t end up being whispered to someone else. It’s all about team-building and networking, right? No one can just suddenly be something without some sort of support. I like to think that I offer a bit of that kind of support for some people.

So, there you have it. I may have two pieces of paper qualifying me for certain jobs, but I don’t want those kinds of jobs. Quite honestly, I feel as though I’ve learned more having traversed a tumultuous economy outside of academia, and have no desire to go back to an institutional organization. I’m glad to start off with a clean slate, at the bottom of the totem pole. I learn exceedingly quickly.

I want to help people. I want to create. I want to make people feel good about themselves through what I do. Those concepts are what I’d like PE’s like yourself to know.

Because all I need is a chance. I think you’ll be surprised.

And pleasantly so.

Best regards,

Matt

March 6, 2013March 6, 2013

Cold Reality

Sometimes, we all just need a day.

So I let my hair default to Chia Pet, blasted Silversun Pickups through defunct iPod earbuds, and ventured into a hand-numbingly cold, blustery day.

Because, sometimes, we just have to walk it out.

***

Reconciling unemployment with everything I’ve been conditioned to think about success has been harder than I thought.

Even though I thought I knew better, I’ve realized my default definition of success has involved a 9 to 5, 8 to 4–whatever. You know, the American way: working yourself to the bone, even if you hate what you do, because that’s just how it’s done.

Because you’re told to keep your head down, your nose to the grindstone.

Because your parents did it. And their parents. And their parents’ parents.

Because that’s just how you derive from life the things that make it worthwhile.

***

Life throws shit at you. And you step in it. And you drag it around with you, stinking up everything.

But there comes a time when you have to scrape it off your shoes with as much grace as possible and move on.

Because the people who matter know better. They remind you that you’re not useless. That your contributions don’t have a price tag, and don’t come with a pay stub. And they never have.

***

Self-worth in our society has long been measured by bank statements, rather than by the degree to which what we do impacts others.

That’s what really matters. Not who contributes what or how much.

These relatively simple realizations smacked me across the face with more punch than the freezing wind and snow flurries as I walked around Raleigh today.

As I looked for answers in battered facades.