February 18, 2014

I returned early to Mom's yesterday (I always struggle briefly when choosing whether to say "to Mom's" or "home." It is our home right now, but it seems sometimes that if I call it home, it somehow translates to defeat, as if I've given up the desire for our own home.  Silly, I'm certain. I have never given up - on anything - in my life. I am not a quitter. So, I guess I'll continue to struggle with the right words to use and leave it at that.) Harry is out of school for two weeks while Miss Margie and her husband vacation. I told him, one day, when driving to school, that Miss Margie was closing the school for two weeks and we wouldn't be going to her house again until she returned from vacation. He burst into tears! And I spent the rest of the drive, albeit a short one, consoling him.  "She's coming back, Sweetie, it's only for a short time.  Two weeks will go by really fast and you'll be back with Miss Margie." 

I am grateful that he enjoys his time with her and that she creatively stimulates him with lots of activities.  She is solely responsible for his obsession with the Nutcracker Ballet and for his coming home for weeks - even well after all the holidays - wanting to dance it for Grandma, Auntie Laura, Uncle Bruce and whoever else would sit while he spun, pirouetted, bounced, swayed and twirled around the living room wearing a construction paper crown. The first week of the Olympics, Miss Margie and his schoolmates made snowboards out of cardboard and pushed them on foot around the island in the kitchen to compete for medals. Harry came home with the snowboard and a gold medal. So wonderfully creative and a fun way to teach! He's very happy there and most days greets me at the door for the afternoon pickup with a big smile, talking excitedly - hardly pausing to breathe - about what they did that day.

Harry's snowboard and Gold Medal.

I'd forgotten Harry's pull-ups (as we are still struggling in the midst of potty training and have been for almost 2 years now) and when the pull-up was full, we were forced to cut our morning at the Public Library short and head back to Grandma's. (Harry's been in so many transitions, amidst so many stressors, involved in so much change, since my job was eliminated, it's resulted in an extra long period of potty training - a period for which I feel a little bit of a failure. Everyone is reassuring. "He's a boy. Boy's take longer." "He'll do it overnight, when he's ready." "He's just a little stubborn, you've got to keep trying." All reasonable advice, but frustrating none-the-less.)

While Harry played on the floor in the living room, I went outside to shovel and to check on the birds...again.  Before we'd left for the library, I'd filled the bird and squirrel feeders, and it was snowing quite heavily. In the course of a couple of hours - with quick breaks every 10 minutes or so, to peak my head in the door to check on Harry - I shoveled the sidewalks and paths and the driveway - all twice. I took the garbage to the compost pile and the food scraps to the deer. And I fed the birds and squirrels for a second time that day as well. The double-width driveway took the longest, shoveling from the garage to the road, but it was good exercise and kept my mind busy on task. Distractions like that are a welcome change.

Harry shoveled Grandma's front steps on Sunday.

I think the weatherman's predictions of 3-5 inches for our area fell well short of actual accumulation. Having shoveled it myself, multiple times, I'm certain that it was more in the 6-8 inch range. Today it's going to top out around 36 degrees before sunset, and be warmer yet tomorrow. But by Sunday, we'll be back in the teens, with a low of zero. Mother Nature is trying to figure out what to do next, it seems.

Trekking back from the compost pile.

I did go online yesterday briefly to check on my unemployment status. It was really unclear what that status actually was.  It was my understanding in the beginning that I would be eligible for benefit payments until the anniversary of my "job elimination," in July of this year.  I was wrong and that was confirmed in a conversation early this morning with a Massachusetts government employee.  I dialed the help number as soon as the clock struck 7:30 a.m. ET and went through all the prompts, then was directed to leave my name and call back number and was told that my call "would be returned in the order that it was received in 45 minutes or more."

And it was.

I got crystal clarity with someone named Tony. I identified myself, gave my social security number and we waited briefly while the system "located" me. And with the least amount of compassion possible, he said, "Your benefits are exhausted." "That's it, end of the line!" 

I kept asking questions one after another, trying to take in what he had just told me. "What do you mean? What am I supposed to do now? There is nothing more you can do?" Then I just needed to talk a little and he let me.  "I've been working in not just a job, but a career for 30 years, my employers have paid into the system all those years. I have never gotten anything else from the government and that's all the help I get? 7 months? And then again, "What am I supposed to do now, I have a 4-year-old son?" And he said, "4, 6 or 13-year-old, that's it." And he followed that by saying, "That's all there is. Find a job. Put all your irons in the fire." 

I wished, at that moment, only to see his face. To see what kind of person could be so incredibly cold. "You must really enjoy your job, telling people things like that?" I admonished him. His reply? "That's just the way it is. What am I supposed to do?" 

And the truth is, there is nothing he can do. He is just delivering the message. I don't blame him for the position I'm in right now, but a tiny bit of human compassion goes a long way. And if he's the guy who communicates a message like he just did to me, to hundreds of normally hard working Americans every day, perhaps he could work on his delivery?

He did then explain that if the Federal Government votes - at some time in the future - for an extension of unemployment benefits, that I would be eligible to file another claim. If that ever happens. And from what I see, that has fallen way off the radar in D.C. 

Another challenge. No income...whatsoever. 

Mom gave me a hearty hug, a kiss on the cheek and said, "It's always darkest before the dawn." 

Or just gray.

Frozen web in the garage.

February 15, 2014

Clark Gable and Burt Lancaster are on a submarine trying to sink a Japanese sub.  It’s an old black and white movie, on public television, with some pretty economical special effects, making it oddly more dramatic at times. 

Honestly, I’ve felt a little lately as though I’ve been cast in a black and white (fairly dramatic at times) bad movie.

I came back from a very long 7 days at the University of Missouri early last week. The days were professionally invigorating; being involved again with colleagues and being so privileged to participate in judging the Pictures of the Year International, a premier visual competition in its 71^st year. It was wonderful to see the images from around the world, to participate in stimulating conversation and to debate the merits of one amazing image over another. But the days were long and exhausting; the travel even more so. Cancelled flights, hours upon hours stuck in airports. At the end of that long week, I just wanted to see Harry’s beautiful, smiling face and twinkling eyes and hug and squeeze him silly!  I missed him so much, called him twice a day most days, just to hear his little voice on the other side of the phone. Mom had told me that she had found him crying “for his Mommy” having gone upstairs to check on him a couple of nights an hour or so after putting him to bed. It had made me teary when she told me that, but also let me know that he missed me as much as I missed him. My little baby…

The Jury Panel for the 71st Annual Pictures of the Year International.

My Alma Mater, the Quad.

Easy return flight from St. Louis to Chicago.
Not so from Chicago to Madison.
I got the last seat in the last row
 on the last plane leaving Chicago for Madison.

I’d had a terrible headache on Tuesday, I’m assuming from sleep deprivation, so I laid down for a couple of hours and the day seemed to fly by. Wednesday, Thursday and Friday, I made the regular trek to the public library to continue my search for gainful employment and to work on collecting documents and things to send off to my CPA for my tax return.

Friday was when I fell into the bad black and white drama. I checked in with a contact I’d made when applying for a position with a very highly respected organization, one that I was certain I would be pursued for and one for which I had counted on being invited for an interview.  In my opinion, my skills matching exactly what the position had described and where I would excel. His reply was not what I had expected. I was no longer being considered. He wrote a very nice reply and managed to compliment me while giving me the bad news. When I read his words, all the color went out of the room.  I was suddenly plunged into gray…

Dear Ms. Nelson –

Thank you for contacting me regarding the status of your application. Please understand that due to the high volume of inquiries we receive, we are unable to respond individually to all applicants. As with many of our openings, we were fortunate to have a number of strong and qualified candidates to consider for this position. Given your background and the extent of your experience, any organization certainly would be fortunate to benefit from your talents.  However, as we assessed which applicants to pursue further, we selected those whose qualifications most closely meet the organization's needs at this time. In making this difficult decision, we have determined that your candidacy is no longer under active consideration for this position. We will, however, keep your résumé on file and should an opening become available that more closely matches your background and experience, we will be sure to contact you.

Best wishes for a successful job search and thank you for your interest in career opportunities with...

Warm regards,

Rejection doesn’t feel any better when it’s done politely.

Then I got an email from a former colleague (and friend) who said that after a recent talk with the boss, he was told that he would not be employed (with the same title) in the very near future, but might be able to stay with the company in some capacity. Not as dramatic as what happened to me, he said, nor in such an “out of the blue” manner, but the result – the same. More gray.

The proverbial clouds did not clear on Saturday either, after a rough night of almost no sleep at all, a situation that will require attention immediately. Harry and I are trading in the queen-size blow-up bed for two twins. We’ll be in the same room, but separated.  He sleeps almost motionless when I’m not in the bed, but tosses and rolls and flops and ends up with some part of his little body splayed over me in some fashion, waking me at every turn. I don’t sleep because I’m constantly repositioning him on the other side of the bed, trying to carve out what little space he’s left for me, turning his head back to the top of the bed – instead of his feet - and covering him so he doesn’t freeze overnight, left exposed out in the 64-degree air.

It will be even more reminiscent of my previous stay in that particular bedroom, when my sister and I shared the room as young girls. Twin beds with 70s floral print bedspreads, a bright lime green floor (I think that I’ve mentioned that some of that paint is exposed from under the drab beige that covers the painted floor boards now), bright yellow walls and posters of Bobby Sherman (“The Bluest Skies you’ve even seen are in Seattle,” … Google him) and The Jackson Five. Our walls instead display Harry’s Happy Birthday crown (with the words “Today, I am 4”), his paper plate snake (while studying the letter “j” for jungle), his foam goose with the bright orange beak and one white feather (while studying the letter “g”). And the green paint is covered with oodles and oodles of Harry’s books and a few oddly paired rugs to keep our feet warm while padding around up there.

We are both bound to benefit from the separation, sleeping more soundly and with far less motion.

Anyway, back to Saturday…I spent some of the day in tears. Tired, sad, frustrated and a little discouraged.

The thing is, I know that I’m still a very lucky person.  I have an amazing son, a wonderful family – all who love me very much and support me. It’s just a little tough right now. There is a brighter future out there, beyond the gray. I just have to be persistent and find it.  I will find it.  I don’t think I’d be human, if I didn’t have those kinds of days, some downs to balance the ups.  So, I just need to refocus…again, and get to work. And find work.

Harry repeated his mantra the other morning in the bathroom while brushing our teeth, emphasizing each word.  “Mommy, I want to go home.” “I know you do, Sweetie, I know you do.” And then he quickly added, “We can’t stay here forever!”

Boy, don’t I know it.

Shades of gray.

February 17, 2014

It’s snowing. 3-5 inches expected.

Gas prices went up 8 cents from yesterday.

The Post Office is closed so that I can't mail my tax return out to my CPA.

My unemployment benefits have run out.

It’s President’s Day, so there is no one working in the unemployment office to call…until tomorrow. I think I might be able to file a new claim, but it’s unclear from the website.

Everything’s still a bit gray at the moment.

February 4, 2014

Flying to St. Louis through Chicago today and then on to Columbia Missouri – The University of Missouri School of Journalism, the site of the judging of the 71^st annual POYi.

Slight hitch.

There’s a snowstorm enveloping the country and it’s already begun to wreak havoc with the arrivals of the 18 judges, well…at least with my arrival.

United, Madison WI to Chicago, O'Hare.

Waiting in Chicago O’Hare, concourse C, the water was shut down for some unexplained reason, so I ventured off from the gate to find an open Starbucks. I instead discovered a wine bar on my way and thought that a nice glass of Chardonnay sounded better than another bad cup of coffee.  I sat down and without looking at the wine list, ordered a Russian River Chardonnay.  It was really quite nice… crisp and dry with a fruity aftertaste. It is, though, only mid-afternoon, and it was a special treat, so one glass and I was done.  The bar tender handed me the charge slip to sign and returned my card. The balance read $19.30. I considered that for a minute.  I don’t think I’ve ever had one glass of wine for $19.30 and if I have, I don’t remember it. I hesitated for a minute and then briefly thought that the bartender may have put my bill together with the woman sitting next to me.  We had arrived at the same time and he had acted as though we were together when talking to us and when getting our orders. When he came to retrieve the signed receipt, I momentarily lost all my inhibitions (perhaps the result of drinking a glass of wine worth $19.30) and said, “That’s for one glass of wine, yes?” Realizing immediately that I had done nothing but embarrass myself among snobs…the snobbiest of all – the bar tender. His answer, “yes, Ma’am” (the dreaded Ma’am) “and that’s not even the most expensive.” Somehow, I already knew that.

$19.30 glass of Russian River Chardonnay.

The wine glass chandelier. 

 As I walked back to the gate, I re-checked the flight status board to be certain I was indeed at the right gate.  My flight was now listed as departing from Gate 3, instead of Gate 5, and “delayed” flashed on and off in bright orange. My departure time had changed from 2:43 p.m. to 3:57 p.m.; the result of the massive juggling going on in the skies to get everyone where they are going while Mother Nature wreaks havoc through the Midwest. Late arrival of “equipment” was the reason listed.

I sat down to call Rick, the coordinator of POYi, but before I could find his number in my contact list, my phone rang.  With so many people to gather in one place from all over the county and the world, he was also watching the flights with great interest. He explained that it was snowing there and to prevent everyone from being delayed, 2 other jury members would proceed with the original plan of a rental car and go on to Columbia – the rental that I was supposed to be in.  He went on to say that he didn’t want everyone to be in the same spot as victims of the snow and thought it best for the two of them to press on, leaving me to the regular shuttle between St. Louis and Columbia, for the two-hour drive. There are regular shuttles until 10 p.m. Argh.

Honestly, I hate buses and shuttles and when Rick said I should just get on board, settle in, relax and… I interrupted him and joked (sort of), “Pray?” He chuckled and then seriously went on to assure me that if I didn’t feel comfortable, they could arrange for a hotel in St. Louis and another shuttle booking early in the morning. He said he had learned, after holding this judging in February every year that every contingency had to be considered in order to pull it off. He was used to juggling. I think we’ll see what the snow looks like once I hit St. Louis. I would just like to get to the hotel and climb into bed early.

I already miss Harry.

Even though I had sat him on my lap yesterday to explain that I would be gone for a few days, this morning, he had asked, “Mommy, why are you bringing our luggage downstairs?” I quickly explained again that I was going away for a little while. I’m pretty certain that he doesn’t understand what’s really going on and won’t…until I am not there to pick him up from school and Grandma comes instead.  

Last night as we lay down to sleep, he snuggled up next to me, then one by one, collected his stuffed animals: the “always present” Bear and Baby Bear, Monkey, Santa Monkey (an addition at Christmas from Grandma), The Mouse King (also an addition at Christmas from Miss Margie, his teacher) and George (as in Curious George, for his birthday from his Auntie Laura.) He gathered them together on his chest, hugging them all tight, closed his eyes and drifted easily off to sleep, never loosening his grip on any of them.  I stared at him for a long time – as Mother’s are known to do – watching him breathe, soaking the image of him in, intending it to last in my memory for the long week.

When I picked him up from school yesterday, I told him that I had a surprise for him and asked him to guess what it might be. He quickly said that he couldn’t and demanded in his little voice that I tell him as soon as possible what the surprise was. I told him we were going into the city to get gas and then a surprise.

Car wash exit.

Harry loves to help and insisted that I release him from his car seat so that he could take care of pumping the gas. “It’s too cold for you, Mommy. Why don’t you stay in the car and I’ll get the gas.” I explained to him why a 4-year-old isn’t able to pump gas no matter his interest in taking care of it for his Mommy. When the gas gauge registered full, we climbed back in and headed toward our surprise, the Culver’s next door. Culver’s has the richest, creamiest, frozen custard ever. We were bound on our way to use the two “get a free small cone” passes that Harry’s pediatrician had rewarded us with during his 4-year-old check-up. Although, as I recall, there was nothing of Harry’s behavior during that check-up that warranted rewarding. Let’s just say, he doesn’t like doctors…any doctor! I am convinced that it is a result of the Nurse Ratchet-like figure that gave him his 3-year-old vaccinations. She was evil. And should have never been associated with a practitioner of children’s medicine.

We ordered two “kid-sized” cones, which are larger than you can imagine anything could be and still be described as “kid-sized.” We also got a pint of vanilla custard to take home.  I figured that it couldn’t hurt for Grandma to have a little reward system for good behavior close at hand.  Harry is not easily bribed, however. Something Grandma is certain to learn quickly.

Frozen custard treat.

My flight is delayed…again. 4:17 p.m. departure.  Now, 4:25 p.m. and 5 p.m. It’s going to be a long night.

January 31, 2014.

I feel a little bit like Scarlett O’Hara, after making a gown from the green velvet drapery hung in the great room at Tara, right before she went to visit that scoundrel and traitor, Rhett Butler, in jail.

Remember…I said a little bit.

From Gone with the Wind, Chapter 34:

Scarlett puts on her new green dress and goes to visit Rhett in jail. He is impressed by how prosperous she looks when everyone else is dressed in rags. She tells him falsely that everything at Tara is fine, that she has made money by selling cotton, and that she has come to Atlanta to get some more dresses made so that she can attend balls. She pretends to be distressed about his plight, claiming that she would die if he were hanged. He is moved by her apparent care for him and kisses her hands, but as he does so, he notices that they are rough and calloused.

The jig was up when Rhett reached out to take Scarlett’s hands in his. Having felt the callouses, he knew she was lying to him about her current state of affairs. I don’t have callouses from working in the cotton fields, but my hands are more like sandpaper than skin, and my fingers, cracked and split from the extremely dry and cold Wisconsin winter.

Youtube clip from Gone with the Wind.

And that’s why I find myself sitting now at The Panache Academy of Beauty for a basic manicure. Jen, my student trainee, is more than a bit nervous I realize from her trembling hands.  I have to remind myself to breathe every few minutes and to unclench...my...jaw.  “You’re the first client of mine that I’ve made bleed,” she says apologetically. “Your cuticles are really tough.”  The cost of the manicure today is $5 and that old adage does apply, You do get what you pay for.  She’s a student in a 14-month beauty school program and I realize that everyone has to start somewhere, so I tip her 40 percent and leave.

After a cappuccino and a quick post earlier this morning, I had started my day at Total Design hair salon. My grays are extremely tenacious and my hair grows incredibly fast, so to maintain the somewhat fleeting illusion of youth, I went in for a quick color. All this personal maintenance is a prelude to traveling in a few days to my Alma Mater, where I will be surrounded by colleagues – old and new - as a member of the panel of judges for the 71^st annual POYi.

Goodbye, gray.

 After sitting under the dryer to speed the transfer of the color to my grays, I was reclined at the washbowl for a quick rinse and a shampoo.  There were three other clients in the chairs. One talking about some sort of family gathering where everyone was to “bring a dish to pass.” Another, talking about the Super Bowl…well, the commercials during the Super Bowl. Saying that she was thinking about taping the whole event so that she could watch the commercials later, as if that whole game thing was just a nuisance. The woman in the last chair was talking about a text her daughter got from a man. (I’m not certain what the relationship of the daughter to the man was…) The text demanded that she come over immediately to have sex or he was going to text another woman. The “sex on demand” text was followed by a photograph of him, she explained…”stark naked.”

There’s enough material in salons every day to write a book, trust me. And honestly, truth is often stranger than fiction.