The Week in Review (8)

Things I have learned:

Marriage requires sharing, even if you said your vows prior to the advent of the personal computer.

Walking in the cemetery can be an uplifting experience.

An interview suit would eliminate the need for closet-tornado clean up prior to professional meetings.

People want to help. It’s up to you to tell them how.

There are two ways to look at everything: You could say: “Of course now that I have productive job search meetings scheduled, the car would start belching steam.” Or you could say: “At least it is Saturday, the repair shop is open, and it looks like a hose not the radiator.” I’m going with the second scenario.

You Never do Know

As expected, the interview yesterday was informational but highlighted what “networking” is all about. On my last day at the company, having heeded the good advice of someone who lost her job before me, I remembered to print my Outlook Contacts and snagged a 20-year-old Rol-a-dex, hoping at job search time both tools would cover my network. There was, however, at least one name missing from both which floated in my brain one sleepless night several weeks ago, and then drifted into the fog of oblivion the following morning. However, during my conversation yesterday, the man I was meeting with asked me if I knew the person whose contact information I was missing. Ding dong—a big reminder to track her down, which, thank goodness was as easy as searching her on LinkedIn. My network just expanded by one.

In addition to that reconnection, an update if you please. I’ve scheduled coffee with a college roommate and am in the process of arranging another meeting with someone I’ve known longer then her. After a receptive email in response to mine from a former advertising vender from my earliest days as a recruiter; we will be getting together too. This is all under the guise of figuring out my next stage in life, but while everything is a networking opportunity, in an intriguing way, it feels a bit more like a reunion. Of course the goal is to find employment, but what seems more significant at this moment is communicating with all these old friends.

Prep Work

Now that I am moving forward in some regard related to my next career, I’ve arrived at the place I hate. All right—too strong a word--I’ve been delivered to the place in which a bit of angst develops. (Can’t you hear that sentence in a clipped, British accent?) With one appointment scheduled per week for the last two months, the rest of the time I’ve built my own agenda

Today, though, I have a real appointment at 12:30 and it demands preparation. There are no positions open, so it is informational only but requires up-front planning. The mental prep is complete. I’ve looked on the website, explored what an available position would entail and spoken to a former staff member who is currently in the role. I powered up LinkedIn and investigated the man that I’ll be meeting. The leather portfolio is stacked with a new pad of paper and my questions are scripted on the top sheet. The next step requires a trip to the closet. Ugh.

Here we go. How to outfit the outside so it matches the stellar attributes residing on the inside? That’s never been a talent of mine. To make it worse, it’s April. I have professed here in Middle Passages that I know nothing about fashion but I lied. After 23 years working for an apparel retailer, I know that April is transition month—the time when we slough off the itchy wools of winter and evolve the wardrobe into lighter, more breathable clothing. That’s as much as I can write because it is a progression I never managed to embrace. As I look out my window right now, the thermometer reads ugly, wet and 40. With my cold blooded propensities; anything less than wool, and I’ll be shivering through the interview and I promise you the shaking won’t be from nerves.

So after dropping my daughter at school today, I dragged my feet to the closet and peered in. Boiled wool jacket? Looks too wintry and not structured enough. Black flannel blazer? Nice on the hanger, but out of fashion on me. Pink no-iron blouse underneath a navy suit coat? I can’t move my arms. Long grey sweater over a white cotton top? It’s an interview—tradition dictates a blazer. I don’t profess to know fashion, but the former 40% discount spawned a certain, um, obligatation to keep trying, so it wasn't long before a tsunami of discards littered our bed. Just before a truckload of panic joined the clothes in the pile, I discovered a beige wool-blend blazer shoved in the back of the closet that will marry well with grey flannel pants. Done and done.

I’m ending here though. There is still an iron to heat up and about 20 pairs of shoes to try on.

Click

Talk about head in the sand. An unexpected visitor today, from out of town no less, informed me that my little dream coffee shop/restaurant/bakery or what ever it was going to be is under new management. After my aborted networking attempt there last month, I didn’t step back in, primarily because of the cost anticipated in both calories and dollars. I did look at it out of the corner of my eye yesterday, and from a distance it appeared full and busy. Today up close, it looks newly painted with a big sign on the door that says “Closed for Renovations.” Despite my apparent need to see an eye doctor, this holds minimal trauma. I wasn’t really considering the restaurant business, but it’s been a cheerful little dream for a long time, and now that vision belongs to someone else. On the positive side, it's a lot harder to work in a real restaurant than an imaginary one.

The topic did get me thinking along the lines of pulling a proverbial ”trigger” which I have been reluctant to do as it relates to a career search. The tools are finally there and all I need to do to begin networking is to—well begin. Dreaming about restaurants and looking at schools on line, attending writing workshops, writing blog entries and crafting essays to be published all delay the inevitable. That hit loud and clear yesterday as I left the outplacement office, even before I found out about the restaurant. Eventually, no matter how many things are spinning around in your brain, if you are going to get anywhere, you need to wiggle that little finger and press send.

So, when my out of town restaurant informant departed, I got to work. I now have two informational interviews scheduled and am going back and forth with a dear teacher friend to schedule a time to explore education as a career option. I also have a call out to a woman who used to be on my staff who is researching for an outplacement firm and I sent an email to my sister-in-law, who in my mind is brilliant and well connected. Next on the old agenda, I’ll release a few direct emails to additional folks I’d like to meet with, and a bulk memo to the rest of my network; educating them about my interests and asking them to keep me in mind. Off to the races, I guess.

Last month, I wrote about being brave. Words to live by. Let’s see if I can.

Dead Calm

Today I went to the cemetery. Before you grimace and assume that I attended a funeral or was in the throws of a depression, let me explain that it is situated near the library where I parked the car, and has the added advantage of sitting on a promontory overlooking what is called “Little Harbor.” Since the residents of this necropolis possess one of the most expansive views in town I laced up my sneakers and decided that today’s walk should include a detour there.

The area I explored is one of our community's oldest resting places. Weathered slate markers dating as far back as the 1700’s lean high above granite monoliths that grow and shrink in the tidal flats that pool below. Central Cemetery is carved out of grass tiers that step up from each other; leading to a beige stone Celtic cross towering at the top, erected in memory of immigrants from the brig St. John that foundered on ledge while carrying these pilgrims to a better life. Far below the cross coils a sheaf of shoreline etched with flattened marsh hay; the greening buds and tangled strands of sea heather. The sun heated the small gravestones edging the beach this morning; purple crocuses bloomed in bunches below veterans flags that lifted up on a hanging breeze. Today, the sea far beyond slept steel flat and cold and gusts blew damp, but spring erased the sting. Pebbles from the stone walk crunched as I wandered toward the road. On my way back to the library I swung my arms and eyeballed the forsythia preparing to burst in front of an antique cape along the way.

You may take issue with me strolling among the peaceful dead but the fact is that I did begin my walk low key in mood. The hike among them though--well, more than anything, it brought me back to life.

My Cubby over the Stairs

I find myself acting territorial now that I’ve been at home almost two months. As I mentioned, prior to the delivery of my pink slip, we finished redecorating the dining room which, along with a cherry table and bone china, also housed our computer. This was never a good thing when we hosted around 30 extended family members on Thanksgiving. Each year, during the fourth week of November, we’d have to unhook the cables, stuff the monitor under the dropped-leaf side table it rested on, and cover the whole tangled mess with a freshly ironed tablecloth.

Next Turkey Day will be easier now that tiny technology has allowed us to move the computer into its current cupboard location. For years, we’ve used the family room cabinet to store old record albums (yes, I said albums) and a collection of CD’s, VHS tapes and DVD’s. But the introduction of three I-pods into our house, all downloaded with expansive play lists, rendered our accumulation of audio/visual antiques redundant. Once we relocated an unused turntable, about 150 albums, stacks of DVD’s and among other things, VHS tapes holding every episode from the first Star Trek series, we had plenty of room. So having previously and involuntarily relinquished my laptop to my daughter, when I lost my job I moved in.

My cubby is actually three cupboards on top of each other, floor to ceiling, cut into 1950’s pine paneling. The computer and printer take up most of the middle cupboard, but I relocated a desk clock, calculator, stapler, and an adjustable lamp inside and manage. My feet tuck into the bottom cupboard, toasting warm next to the heat of the processor and a pink plastic storage container hosting two reams of paper. The top cupboard is out of my height range, and therefore of no interest to me.

I spend a major portion of Monday through Friday seated on a Hitchcock chair pulled up to this cozy nook. But when my husband is home on the weekends, he wants to use the computer too. Not that he isn’t a fair and equal partner but possession is nine tenths of the law as they say, and since I possess it during the week, shouldn’t the cubby be mine on weekends also? I know--not by a long shot.

To be honest and not to my credit, he doesn’t use it that often but when he’s there, I catch myself gazing at the laptop to see if it’s available in case I develop a compelling need to hop on-line. Then I worry that I have not saved the latest version of my open word document and that an errant mouse click may direct it to cyber oblivion. I busy myself elsewhere when he commandeers the corner but breathe an inaudible sigh of relief when he vacates the chair. I’m not proud of this little confession, after all I did learn to share in Kindergarten. And if that’s not enough, most time he’s there he’s finding favorite songs to replace all those old albums and I benefit from his play list too. Hence I’m struggling to get myself over it.

But there is more. Lately the cat has taken to hopping into my cubby to perch on top of printer. Sharing with Tim is one thing, my marriage vows require it--but cat hair in the keyboard? No thank you. There is no contract binding enough for that.

The Week in Review (7)

Things I have learned:

It’s more challenging to write when you are not a part of the story.

Being comfortable with habit is one thing, but the brain syntaxes fire when you shake things up a bit.

Work at it long enough and little dreams will come true.

Go to the library. There is plenty of education right there.

Law class field trips to the local police station get cut short when a prisoner requires booking, a gas leak evacuates the local supermarket, and “police activity” occurs in the downtown area. Who knew a tiny community could produce such excitement?

When providing transportation for another upcoming field trip, you cross your fingers and knock three times that it’s the only time in life you'll say the words: “I am driving my daughter to court.”