Liz Alterman's Blog, page 5

Zoom-nesia

“You own everything that happened to you. Tell your stories. If people wanted you to write warmly about them, they should have behaved better.”― Anne Lamott, Bird by Bird: Some Instructions on Writing and Life

It's often said that at a certain age—49, if you believe this article—women become invisible. Having hit that number in April, I'm realizing there's definitely some truth to it. 

But invisibility is not always a bad thing. For example, when I trip over a sidewalk and no one points and laughs, I call it a win. I can devour the chips and guacamole my son thinks he's effectively hidden in the back of the fridge, and I'm so unnoticeable, I won't even make the shortlist of suspects. So, there are definitely positives to going through life unseen.

Recently, however, I discovered that, in addition to becoming invisible, I'm also completely forgettable. Here's how I found out...

As I mentioned in my last post, I took myself out of the running for a full-time position. Here's a quick recap: After submitting to a lengthy interview with four people and a trial assignment that felt about as draining as explaining how to use Zoom to an elderly couple, the position I'd applied for was offered to another candidate. 

At that point, you'd think it's over, right? Not so fast. I was told I could still be considered for another role if I was willing to tackle a more laborious test assignment, which prompted me to say, "Thanks, but no thanks." 

Normally, I'm not this bold or decisive. But, again, I'm 49, and we're in a pandemic. If my days are numbered, I don't want to spend my final hours writing a tome on the suggested test topic: Real Estate Agents vs. Real Estate Attorneys: Similarities and Differences. (Not that this kind of knowledge wouldn't make me a huge hit at cocktail parties—if cocktail parties are ever held again.) 

And did I mention a chart of the U.S. (and its territories) illustrating those similarities and differences was also required? (I hope you're laughing because that was my reaction—along with a gentle, "Get the f*ck out of here!" when I saw that part of the assignment!)

Years ago, passing up the opportunity to try to get this position would plague me with self-doubt. Did I do the right thing? Shouldn't I have played along? What if there's nothing else out there??

But this time, I had no qualms about saying, "I'm pursuing other opportunities," even as all my other job applications have gone largely ignored. It's crickets out there and competition is fierce. Fortunately, my husband was supportive, noting that if the test assignments included statements like, "Shoot for 1,000 to 4,000 words. Use your best judgement!" what would each day entail working at this company?

I agreed and continued looking around, remaining oddly confident that I'd done the right thing. Here's how the universe confirmed my gut feeling...

Fast forward a few weeks, and a new message heralding yet another great opportunity popped up in my LinkedIn inbox. Because I seem to be a magnet for those sponsored messages that assure me I'm the perfect candidate to enroll in a computer science program or pursue my MBA in global supply chain, I didn't hold out much hope.

Still, I skimmed the message, which stated,"I think you'd be a great fit for our content strategist role." 

I was intrigued, but then I took a closer look at the headshot to the left of the message and thought, "Wait a second! This guy looks familiar!"

Michelle Tresemer on UnsplashThen I saw his name. It was the co-founder of the company that had passed me over. This guy had not only grilled me during a 90-minute video call, but also we'd exchanged emails afterward. 

I recognized him immediately, which wasn't difficult because he bears a striking resemblance to the least attractive Jonas brother. (Fact: Underemployment can make even an invisible woman mean.) 


Neither my name nor my face rang any bells for him. This made me wonder two things: 

1. Is it time for me to get a new LinkedIn photo?  

2. Should I quit job-searching altogether and turn to a life of crime as, apparently, I leave no impression whatsoever?

My first instinct was to write back, "Let me guess, you've got a trial assignment for me? What will it be this time? Re-shingling your roof? Assisting with a cross-country move? Installing a French drain system and then writing an SEO-rich haiku that also serves as a call to action?"

His message briefly described the role, which sounded exactly like the one that I'd decided not to pursue. Obviously, he was struggling to find someone willing to craft 4,000 words (that's an ebook, son!) on a dry topic for a shot at a spot at this start-up that's based on a concept that's not all that innovative. (In fact, it was attempted but failed a decade ago—something else this guy probably doesn't remember.) 

I wrote back and reminded him that we'd been in touch. I thanked him for reaching out, but let him know I was moving in another direction. (Hopefully, that move won't turn out to involve me living under a bridge with nothing but my pride and some tube socks). He didn't respond.

It's rare that you get the kind of closure I did that day. That "Girl, you dodged a bullet!" proof you did the right thing not putting your career in the hands of a man who can't recall meeting you just two weeks earlier.



I'm no stranger to being forgotten during the job-hunt process. In 2014, I trekked to the Metropolitan Museum of Art to discuss an opening for a digital editor position. After stuffing myself into Spanx on a 100-degree day and battling endless snarls of traffic, I arrived much to the surprise of my interviewer, who'd blanked on our meeting. 

To her credit, she interviewed me anyway, her eyes glazing over the way mine do when my kids try to explain their video games. 

Looking back, I believe she only agreed to meet with me as a favor to my neighbor, who worked there at the time and was later let go in one of the landmark's mass layoffs. 

Sometimes when things don't work out, it's for the best. Not having to wait years to discover that is even better. 

Thanks for reading and hope you are well.

Subscribe to On the Balls of Our A$$es

Knowing When to Drop Out of the Interview Process

In March, we lost singer/songwriter Kenny Rogers. When the country crooner cashed in his chips amid the height of the pandemic, it prompted a few people to note that "The Gambler" really did know when to hold 'em and when to fold 'em.

I recently found myself confronted with a situation that made me ponder the fine art of knowing when to bow out.

It began when I was contacted via LinkedIn by a guy from a startup looking to fill a writer/editor/public relations role. 

Initially, it sounded appealing. (Subtext: When the monthly cost of healthcare coverage for a family of five is more than the average U.S. mortgage payment, you can convince yourself that almost anything sounds good.) And, with many of my other gigs drying up, I agreed to an informal chat. 

This casual conversation felt more like a grilling as the interviewer asked dozens of questions about my background (the answers to most of these were evident from my LinkedIn profile, but "whatevs," as my teens are so fond of saying.) 

The call wrapped up with him requesting that I present him with  my  30-second elevator pitch for  his company. Despite wanting to scream, "Dude, you're the one who contacted me!" I played along because (a) I'd done my due diligence, and (b) I'm probably just two jelly beans away from needing a root canal. (And did I mention they'd promised dental (and vision!) coverage?) 

After this lengthy discussion, he asked me to complete an unpaid three-part, trial assignment. I was definitely losing enthusiasm at this point but took it on because I'd exhausted most of Netflix's and Amazon's free offerings. (The only other entertainment option on my bleak horizon was to begin work on a musical for my cat—one I've tentatively titled "My Fur Lady.")

After submitting the trial assignment, which wasn't challenging so much as it was tedious and time-consuming, I received an email inviting me to a 90-minute Zoom meeting with the initial interviewer, the startup's founders, and another employee.

Again, I agreed. I dressed professionally, put on the makeup I'd nearly forgotten how to apply, and gave myself a pep talk about good posture and limiting my eye rolling. 

The interview was nerve-wracking, as any hour-and-a-half Zoom call with strangers who have the power to save your family from financial ruin can be. 



These folks dug deep, practically inquiring about how my parents selected my preschool as well as any and all career highlights, accomplishments, challenges, and the old, "If we asked your former manager to rate you on a scale of 1-10, what would they say?" 

Here's where the reminder to minimize my penchant for eye rolling came in handy because, honestly, does anyone ever hesitate and then confess, "Um... a 2? I'm notorious for missing deadlines. I thrive on stealing other people's lunches from the community fridge. Also, I've been known to break wind in packed elevators and blame it on the emotional support skunk I keep in the Lululemon bag I pretend is a purse." 

Anyone with an ounce of sense is going 8 or higher, am I right? 

From there, we moved into the "hypotheticals" portion, in which I was presented with a scenario designed to test my wits, salesmanship, and problem-solving. Maybe it was because I'd showered before the call or that I'd shaken off the cobwebs during that decades-long stroll down memory lane, but I felt pleased with my responses. 

All seemed to go well, and I was asked to provide four references, which I did. Feels like we're approaching an offer, right? Reader, we're not even close. 

Though I heard from my gracious references, who all said they'd vouched for me and wished me well, the initial interviewer emailed to see if I'd be interested in applying for another position—one that focused more heavily on writing and editing. 

So, wait, did I not get the first position and this was his way of letting me down easy? Not quite. I was still being considered, I was told, but I might be a better fit for this other opening, which—wait for it—required yet another trial assignment. 




I thought some things I'd prefer not to put in print and then emailed back to say that because I was on a deadline, I couldn't make their tight turnaround. 

I asked if they'd consider my other trial assignment and offered to submit work samples that aligned with the type of pieces I'd write if hired. No, they wouldn't consider that. Instead, they'd give me additional time to tackle this multi-step written test, which ranged from 1,000-4,000 words (whatever I thought it warranted) and included a complicated chart. 

If my work was published, I'd be paid $225. If they deemed it unusable, I'd be compensated $100 for my time. Yeesh. Math may not be my strength, but I knew this added up to a great big "No, thank you." 

I responded by saying that after studying the scope of the work, I'd typically charge three times the higher rate. "If that's a dealbreaker that takes me out of the running, I understand," I wrote.

Eventually, and not surprisingly, I received an email that the initial position had gone to someone else BUT would I consider the second position if they shortened the trial assignment? 

At other points in my career, I've continued on with interviews and even jobs far longer than I should have, going against my instincts, for the experience or because, in the moment, it seemed easier than starting over. 

But with this, I just couldn't do it. I didn't want this job nor did I want to work with this crew, who called to mind the phrase "nibbled to death by ducks" at every turn. 

I thanked them for considering me but wrote that I intended to pursue other opportunities.

Despite longing for a steady paycheck and the promise of benefits, I knew that I'd probably be miserable in this role if it were someday offered to me—like after they asked me to write an e-book on flat fee real estate commissions as my final trial assignment. (Complete with blurb from Barbara Corcoran!)

As I've learned after being laid off twice in the not-so-distant past, if the thought of continuing a soul-destroying job search feels better than actually accepting the job, keep looking. If you seem to have gotten yourself caught up in a con in which you're suddenly agreeing to polish the founder's grandmother's memoir from the dank basement of her nursing home as proof you "know how to write," get out now. If you sense that the team you'd work with has no respect for your time or talent, save yourself the deodorant and skip the next half-dozen rounds of interviews.

Rather than view this experience as a colossal waste, I'm focusing on the fact that it reunited me with a former manager (one of my four references). I'd lost touch with him and dearly missed his wit and wisdom. We're now emailing each other weekly and sharing our creative writing projects, and that alone has made the whole endeavor worthwhile. 

This isn't the first time I decided to go with my gut and walk away from a potential opportunity. I'll never know if these are the right decisions. I can only choose to move forward, trusting that what lies ahead is better than what I've left behind. 

If the last few months have taught me anything, it's that life is short, precarious, and, most of all, too precious to waste. Of course, I say this now, talk to me when I'm staring down that root canal and selling pictures of my feet to perverts online to pay for it.

Until then, be well. 


Subscribe to On the Balls of Our A$$es

Knowing When to Drop Out of the Interview Process

In March, we lost singer/songwriter Kenny Rogers. When the country crooner cashed in his chips amid the height of the pandemic, it prompted a few people to note that "The Gambler" really did know when to hold 'em and when to fold 'em.

I recently found myself confronted with a situation that made me ponder the fine art of knowing when to bow out.

It began when I was contacted via LinkedIn by a guy from a startup looking to fill a writer/editor/public relations role. 

Initially, it sounded appealing. (Subtext: When the monthly cost of healthcare coverage for a family of five is more than the average U.S. mortgage payment, you can convince yourself that almost anything sounds good.) And, with many of my other gigs drying up, I agreed to an informal chat. 

This casual conversation felt more like a grilling as the interviewer asked dozens of questions about my background (the answers to most of these were evident from my LinkedIn profile, but "whatevs," as my teens are so fond of saying.) 

The call wrapped up with him requesting that I present him with  my  30-second elevator pitch for  his company. Despite wanting to scream, "Dude, you're the one who contacted me!" I played along because (a) I'd done my due diligence, and (b) I'm probably just two jelly beans away from needing a root canal. (And did I mention they'd promised dental (and vision!) coverage?) 

After this lengthy discussion, he asked me to complete an unpaid three-part, trial assignment. I was definitely losing enthusiasm at this point but took it on because I'd exhausted most of Netflix's and Amazon's free offerings. (The only other entertainment option on my bleak horizon was to begin work on a musical for my cat—one I've tentatively titled "My Fur Lady.")

After submitting the trial assignment, which wasn't challenging so much as it was tedious and time-consuming, I received an email inviting me to a 90-minute Zoom meeting with the initial interviewer, the startup's founders, and another employee.

Again, I agreed. I dressed professionally, put on the makeup I'd nearly forgotten how to apply, and gave myself a pep talk about good posture and limiting my eye rolling. 

The interview was nerve-wracking, as any hour-and-a-half Zoom call with strangers who have the power to save your family from financial ruin can be. 



These folks dug deep, practically inquiring about how my parents selected my preschool as well as any and all career highlights, accomplishments, challenges, and the old, "If we asked your former manager to rate you on a scale of 1-10, what would they say?" 

Here's where the reminder to minimize my penchant for eye rolling came in handy because, honestly, does anyone ever hesitate and then confess, "Um... a 2? I'm notorious for missing deadlines. I thrive on stealing other people's lunches from the community fridge. Also, I've been known to break wind in packed elevators and blame it on the emotional support skunk I keep in the Lululemon bag I pretend is a purse." 

Anyone with an ounce of sense is going 8 or higher, am I right? 

From there, we moved into the "hypotheticals" portion, in which I was presented with a scenario designed to test my wits, salesmanship, and problem-solving. Maybe it was because I'd showered before the call or that I'd shaken off the cobwebs during that decades-long stroll down memory lane, but I felt pleased with my responses. 

All seemed to go well, and I was asked to provide four references, which I did. Feels like we're approaching an offer, right? Reader, we're not even close. 

Though I heard from my gracious references, who all said they'd vouched for me and wished me well, the initial interviewer emailed to see if I'd be interested in applying for another position—one that focused more heavily on writing and editing. 

So, wait, did I not get the first position and this was his way of letting me down easy? Not quite. I was still being considered, I was told, but I might be a better fit for this other opening, which—wait for it—required yet another trial assignment. 




I thought some things I'd prefer not to put in print and then emailed back to say that because I was on a deadline, I couldn't make their tight turnaround. 

I asked if they'd consider my other trial assignment and offered to submit work samples that aligned with the type of pieces I'd write if hired. No, they wouldn't consider that. Instead, they'd give me additional time to tackle this multi-step written test, which ranged from 1,000-4,000 words (whatever I thought it warranted) and included a complicated chart. 

If my work was published, I'd be paid $225. If they deemed it unusable, I'd be compensated $100 for my time. Yeesh. Math may not be my strength, but I knew this added up to a great big "No, thank you." 

I responded by saying that after studying the scope of the work, I'd typically charge three times the higher rate. "If that's a dealbreaker that takes me out of the running, I understand," I wrote.

Eventually, and not surprisingly, I received an email that the initial position had gone to someone else BUT would I consider the second position if they shortened the trial assignment? 

At other points in my career, I've continued on with interviews and even jobs far longer than I should have, going against my instincts, for the experience or because, in the moment, it seemed easier than starting over. 

But with this, I just couldn't do it. I didn't want this job nor did I want to work with this crew, who called to mind the phrase "nibbled to death by ducks" at every turn. 

I thanked them for considering me but wrote that I intended to pursue other opportunities.

Despite longing for a steady paycheck and the promise of benefits, I knew that I'd probably be miserable in this role if it were someday offered to me—like after they asked me to write an e-book on flat fee real estate commissions as my final trial assignment. (Complete with blurb from Barbara Corcoran!)

As I've learned after being laid off twice in the not-so-distant past, if the thought of continuing a soul-destroying job search feels better than actually accepting the job, keep looking. If you seem to have gotten yourself caught up in a con in which you're suddenly agreeing to polish the founder's grandmother's memoir from the dank basement of her nursing home as proof you "know how to write," get out now. If you sense that the team you'd work with has no respect for your time or talent, save yourself the deodorant and skip the next half-dozen rounds of interviews.

Rather than view this experience as a colossal waste, I'm focusing on the fact that it reunited me with a former manager (one of my four references). I'd lost touch with him and dearly missed his wit and wisdom. We're now emailing each other weekly and sharing our creative writing projects, and that alone has made the whole endeavor worthwhile. 

This isn't the first time I decided to go with my gut and walk away from a potential opportunity. I'll never know if these are the right decisions. I can only choose to move forward, trusting that what lies ahead is better than what I've left behind. 

If the last few months have taught me anything, it's that life is short, precarious, and, most of all, too precious to waste. Of course, I say this now, talk to me when I'm staring down that root canal and selling pictures of my feet to perverts online to pay for it.

Until then, be well. 


Subscribe to On the Balls of Our A$$es

Here We Go Again!

Photo by Zdeněk Macháček on Unsplash
First things first: Hi! It's been a while. If you've made your way here, chances are you may be at a career crossroads (or you're related to me). Either way, welcome, thank you, and I truly hope you're doing okay in spite of everything 2020 has thrown our way. 

For a while back in March, which seems like a whole other millennium, I thought my husband and I might make it through this relatively unscathed work-wise. But if history has taught us anything it's that if you suspect you may lose your job, you probably will. 

Still, I mused, what were the odds that my husband could be laid off three times in less than seven years? Turns out, they were pretty damn good. 

In the weeks leading up to his most-recent dismissal, my husband had been busier than ever. I viewed this as a good sign—even as I noticed him bracing for the worst. After meals, I spotted him making lists of monthly expenses while frowning the way my mother does when my brother tells her he doesn't believe in coupons. 

Seeing him skulk from room to room with his debt vs. assets grids scribbled on napkins, I realized either he was preparing to leave me due to my inability to kick a Real Housewives of New York addiction or he assumed he was about to be let go.

Though I knew jobless claims were rising faster than demand for sourdough starter, I assured myself, "No, no, this can't happen again!"

When he told me emails he'd sent to colleagues bounced back because those employees had been let go without management notifying anyone, I still thought, "Yeah, but not you!" 

With his boss on maternity leave, he was working right up until the phone rang that mid-April afternoon letting him know his two-plus years at this healthcare startup had come to an abrupt end.

Of course, on some level, I knew it was only a matter of time. My own writing gigs were dominated by unnerving COVID-19-related pieces such as:
 Laid Off Due to Coronavirus? Here’s What You Can Do Now,How to lay an employee off compassionately if you have to do it remotely
Initially, I had a lot of work coming my way. Most of it was virus-related, which was sad and sobering, reminding me that health and safety proved a far more urgent worry than unemployment. (Though coughing up wads of cash for healthcare for a family of five is also alarming.) 

Over time, my assignments have slowed. One client suspended production, another folded, a few have slashed their budgets.

And so ... here we are again! Many like to point out that we're not alone. We certainly aren't. Dozens of job openings we've found on LinkedIn have hundreds of applicants within the first hours, reminding us that competition for these coveted slots is fierce.  

In the past, I've attempted to use humor to diffuse the multiple pain points caused by unemployment and all its terrible bedfellows: anxiety, insomnia, financial ruin, loss of identity, and dignity, etc. But amid a pandemic, it's hard to find levity.

If there's a bright spot in all this it's that, should we garner interviews in the future, hopefully the answer to the dreaded resume gap question will be self-evident, and something as straightforward as "I was trying to survive" will suffice.

I've had a few opportunities come my way over the past few weeks and they span the gamut between hilarious and horrifying. 

More on that next time. Until then, be well.

Subscribe to On the Balls of Our A$$es

A Reversal of Fortune

Step right up, folks, our ride is about to begin ... again. Unfortunately, shortly after celebrating his one-year anniversary with a new company, my husband was let go. (Cue the screaming.)

There had been some "restructuring" (why is that word often the death knell for so many?) which occurred mid-winter and while it wasn't without its challenges, he was trying to make the best of it.

We knew things weren't great when the much-ballyhooed holiday party was cancelled back in December without much notice. Next, a move to a nicer building was put on hold indefinitely. Then, little by little, colleagues started to slip away and my husband wasn't sure if their departures were voluntary. (Spoiler alert: They weren't.)  The cryptic emails that followed their abrupt disappearances went a little something like this:

"Dan is no longer with the company. Let's wish him well in all his future endeavors!" and were sent out only after Dan's cubicle was stripped of everything but a generic wall calendar and a mug of pens bearing the company's faded logo.

These signs obviously weren't encouraging, but we sort of fell into a "Lightening can't strike twice, right?" denial about it. Surely, he couldn’t have spent nearly a year looking for a job only to get one and lose it again in what felt like the length of an infomercial. Could he?

"No!" We shook our heads like children refusing to even consider trying Brussel sprouts. "No, no, no!!" Nothing like that could happen again — until it did.

During my rarely-taken lunch hour, I was on the phone interviewing a man for one of my multiple freelance assignments. (It would prove fortuitous that I didn't abandon any of the side gigs I'd taken on during our mutual unemployment). As this gentleman, a C-level exec for a major flooring company, described the eco-friendly benefits of building houses for purple martins (migratory birds) who eat mosquitoes that irritatingly found their way into the company’s product, my call-waiting clicked repeatedly. Next, my cell phone beside me began to vibrate, dancing its way across the radiator cover. Glancing at the number, I could see it was my husband. It wasn't seeing his cell number as opposed to his office number that concerned me, it was the urgency with which he was calling.

I wanted to believe that he was out on his lunch hour picking up new baseball cleats for the boys and needed a reminder of their sizes. I wanted to think maybe he’d spotted a succulent rotisserie chicken on sale and wanted to ask if he could bring it home for dinner. I wanted and needed to believe that he was calling to say anything but what he did, which was “Liz, I’ve been let go.”

We knew things hadn’t been going great, still, I felt blindsided ... again. Clients — the ones who were left — were happy with his work. How were we back here again so soon?  I could handle it better, I told myself, maybe five, maybe 10 years from now. But not today, not when I was just feeling confident that I could buy organic produce without a potential visit from a repo man. Yet here I was once again, abandoning plans for the indulgences I coveted: a cleaning lady, a couch that didn't bear the outline of my child's last stomach virus, and possibly some new underwear.

I've wanted to write this post for a while, but much like a homicide, we had to notify the next of kin first -- and, boy, was that unpleasant.

You see, during the 12 months when we were simultaneously employed, we took on a home renovation. This decision was spurred by concerns about our 16-year-old dilapidated deck and half- bathroom which was never properly insulted and was, therefore, like something straight out Frozen. (Our very own igloo in the suburbs of Jersey!) We decided to have a family room and full bathroom (complete with insulation!) built. As reckless as it sounds now, believe me, we didn't rush into this. We had plenty of time to weigh our options during the days we spent trying to warm up frozen pipes to prevent them from bursting behind our basement walls and destroying the small room we'd had finished back in 2013.

In the midst of a storm in early 2014, I spent three hours sitting under the deck in 10 degrees, snow falling gently through the slats of this once-lovely-but-now-crumbling amenity, so I had plenty of time to ponder home improvements. What was I doing under there aside from wondering how my life had ended up like a Tracy Chapman song? I was aiming a supped-up version of a blow-dryer at walls thinner than Pringles potato chips in the hope of averting disaster. It was during those long hours in which I lost feeling in my digits that I decided if we ever both held jobs at the same time again, some renovations needed to be undertaken.

After months of interviewing contractors and applying for permits, the room was underway. And, in case you've never tackled a project like this, those stats about construction taking twice as long and costing 20 percent more than you're quoted are spot-on! So, when I told my mom about this recent reversal of fortune, the first thing she said was, "Oh no, this is such awful timing with the new room being built!!"
(Thank you, Captain Obvious!)

And, don't worry, this isn't the part where I link to a GoFundMe page and ask you to help defray the cost of the area rugs from Target I've had my eye on. With his most recent experience under his belt and plenty of practice networking, my husband has had some solid leads.

Still, the frustration of the job search looms large. And if you walk past my house and the windows are open you may hear me shrieking things like, "Are the LinkedIn people asleep at the wheel because the Jobs page has been showing the same dozen listings for the past three weeks!?!" Or, "Damn you, JournalismJobs.com! When I click on New York, I do not want to see anything in Schenectady!" And, sadly, we're back to running to answer every phone call. (FYI, if you call my house and hang up, I will call you back and I will ask you to hire my husband -- even if it's just to plunge your toilet.)

Not that there’s ever a good time to be laid-off (unless you’re packing the winning Powerball ticket) but the summer is particularly tough. Seeing photos of friends traveling through Europe, lounging alongside the Caribbean, or tucking into Lobsters from the deck of a chartered yacht, well, it’s just too much. If you're going to post pics of your summer what I’d like to see is a snapshot of you in your outdated kitchen crying as you open your $400+Verizon Fios & wireless bill. This summer (my favorite season) has been marred by this new turn of events, and I barely have the strength to toast some S’mores in a terry cloth robe I’ve owned since two popes ago.

Though it's no consolation, we know plenty of others in the same situation. Even the man who scored me an interview with the HR rep who completely forgot about our meeting was let go in a mass downsizing. In a way, it worked out that things didn't progress beyond that lone dismal meeting or I'm sure I'd have been laid off too.

Recognizing that these things take time, we're sure things will work out eventually. In the meantime, we'll be crossing our fingers that we don't end up living with the purple martins.

Still Not Over It...

I write a lot about unemployment. (Did you just grumble, "No kidding!?" I heard that.) Not just here, but for The Muse and other sites as well. 
I draw on my personal experience but I also interview career coaches or other experts who offer their insight on a variety of work and unemployment-related topics. Frequently, my pieces are a combination of both.
Often, when I share content on Twitter or LinkedIn, I imagine readers groaning and thinking, "Jeez, would this woman get over it already?" 
And, yes, I hear you. It's been five years since my first layoff and about 18 months since my second. And, yes, I've moved on, and thankfully, we're in a much better place. I've picked up some new freelance clients, and my husband has a full-time job with health benefits — the holy grail. So, needless to say, we feel extremely fortunate.
But that said, after you've been "downsized," "right-sized," "impacted," "restructured," "offered an opportunity to go in a different direction" or whatever euphemism your company uses to tell you you're no longer valuable, the bad feelings linger. 
With media giants "releasing" large percentages of their workforce what feels like daily over the last few weeks, it brings it all back. 
While calling it "layoff PTSD" might sound a bit extreme, hearing about mass "reductions" makes me anxious — like, "Do we have wine and layer cake in the fridge?" anxious. 
It's not just hearing about others who are now faced with scrambling to reinvent themselves that makes me sweat like a high school wrestler. When my husband calls me from his cell phone at odd times of the day, I can feel my knees buckle and I have to grab my cat (the boring lady's version of that infamous emotional support peacock) to comfort me in case he says he's been let go and is on his way back home at 10 a.m. Because we've been there. Twice.
The other thing about layoffs is that whatever emotions you're experiencing — and as awful as they may feel at the time — they're fairly universal. 
Since starting this blog, I've received supportive emails from strangers who've lived through similar circumstances. I've gotten questions about how to address the gap in your resume after you've been out of work for a while. I've even gained new friends and clients — the silver lining in what once felt like a completely cloudy sky.
And I've been reminded of how sometimes commiserating and sharing your story can make it all seem like less of a disaster and more like destiny, part of a brighter, bolder future than you'd have ever dreamt of if you'd stayed penned in in your old cubicle. (More on this in a future blog.)

Recently, I had the pleasure of connecting with Michaella A. Thornton, a staff writer with Washington University in St. Louis' The Common Reader.

She reached out as she was working on an article about how unemployment is perceived and addressed differently for women vs. men. 

I loved the idea of exploring how navigating job loss as a woman presents its own set of challenges with Kella, who survived her own unexpected layoff — with a 9-month-old daughter at home. Here's her illuminating piece:

Pink Slips How layoffs create double jeopardy for working mothers.Illustration by Maddy CushmanI'd also recommend checking out Kella's other work, because she is a bubbly and über-bright tour de force.

As always, thanks for reading!


Subscribe to On the Balls of Our A$$es

Still Not Over It...

I write a lot about unemployment. (Did you just grumble, "No kidding!?" I heard that.) Not just here, but for The Muse and other sites as well. 
I draw on my personal experience but I also interview career coaches or other experts who offer their insight on a variety of work and unemployment-related topics. Frequently, my pieces are a combination of both.
Often, when I share content on Twitter or LinkedIn, I imagine readers groaning and thinking, "Jeez, would this woman get over it already?" 
And, yes, I hear you. It's been five years since my first layoff and about 18 months since my second. And, yes, I've moved on, and thankfully, we're in a much better place. I've picked up some new freelance clients, and my husband has a full-time job with health benefits — the holy grail. So, needless to say, we feel extremely fortunate.
But that said, after you've been "downsized," "right-sized," "impacted," "restructured," "offered an opportunity to go in a different direction" or whatever euphemism your company uses to tell you you're no longer valuable, the bad feelings linger. 
With media giants "releasing" large percentages of their workforce what feels like daily over the last few weeks, it brings it all back. 
While calling it "layoff PTSD" might sound a bit extreme, hearing about mass "reductions" makes me anxious — like, "Do we have wine and layer cake in the fridge?" anxious. 
It's not just hearing about others who are now faced with scrambling to reinvent themselves that makes me sweat like a high school wrestler. When my husband calls me from his cell phone at odd times of the day, I can feel my knees buckle and I have to grab my cat (the boring lady's version of that infamous emotional support peacock) to comfort me in case he says he's been let go and is on his way back home at 10 a.m. Because we've been there. Twice.
The other thing about layoffs is that whatever emotions you're experiencing — and as awful as they may feel at the time — they're fairly universal. 
Since starting this blog, I've received supportive emails from strangers who've lived through similar circumstances. I've gotten questions about how to address the gap in your resume after you've been out of work for a while. I've even gained new friends and clients — the silver lining in what once felt like a completely cloudy sky.
And I've been reminded of how sometimes commiserating and sharing your story can make it all seem like less of a disaster and more like destiny, part of a brighter, bolder future than you'd have ever dreamt of if you'd stayed penned in in your old cubicle. (More on this in a future blog.)

Recently, I had the pleasure of connecting with Michaella A. Thornton, a staff writer with Washington University in St. Louis' The Common Reader.

She reached out as she was working on an article about how unemployment is perceived and addressed differently for women vs. men. 

I loved the idea of exploring how navigating job loss as a woman presents its own set of challenges with Kella, who survived her own unexpected layoff — with a 9-month-old daughter at home. Here's her illuminating piece:

Pink Slips How layoffs create double jeopardy for working mothers.Illustration by Maddy CushmanI'd also recommend checking out Kella's other work, because she is a bubbly and über-bright tour de force.

As always, thanks for reading!


Subscribe to On the Balls of Our A$$es

Ciao!

Arrivederci! 

After much deliberation, consternation, and clearing up a few misunderstandings, I decided to attend the writing conference in Italy that I wrote about back in April. (It turned out there were rooms still available at the hotel where the workshop is being held, and there will be group transportation from Rome to Recanati, so I can stop worrying about pitching a tent on a hillside or ending up in Sicily.) 



I've taken on a lot of additional freelance work to avoid having to start a GoFundMe campaign (but thank you, Rose, for supporting that idea!), which is why it's taken me a while to write this post.

Plus, maybe it's that notorious old spoilsport known as "mom guilt," but it feels wildly self-indulgent to leave the country during the summer and jet off in an attempt to recapture the kind of creativity that goes beyond trying a new taco recipe. 

When I tell people I'm going, I hear that imaginary record scratch, like, "Wait, really? Alone?" and I feel like a 47-year-old runaway.

And yet, last year, I attended more wakes and funerals than I'd care to remember. In almost every case – aunt, cousin, longtime family friend, childhood neighbor, usher in our wedding, college roommate's mom – the deceased had so much life left in them, so much living yet to do. 

And so, each time I'd pull a black dress from my closet, buy a sympathy or mass card, and extend my condolences, I was hit with an overwhelming sense of how short life is. How you only go around once. How sometimes you don't get another chance to pursue a goal or follow a dream. Every cliche about seizing the day circled through my mind and I kept having the same feeling: I want to go to Italy. Random, I know, but there it was.

When my husband and I visited Rome and Florence 17 years ago, we were on a tour and we were by far the youngest people in the group. Unfortunately, our traveling companions were falling down like bowling pins, breaking bones, and getting pickpocketed, all while blaming the cobblestone streets, red wine, and inferior lighting. Over a frothy cappuccino, I vowed that we should see the world while we were still physically able. But, alas, many things – children, home repairs, financial concerns – have taken priority or gotten in the way, and the place I visit most now is my local ShopRite. On a good day, I also travel to my nearby library. 

So, when I saw the application for this conference, I felt, as wacky as it sounds, that the universe was sending me an invitation. How could I decline? 

I'm extremely fortunate in that my husband has been very supportive (or maybe he's just sick of me forcing him to discuss the disaster that is this season of "The Affair"), and has agreed to hold down the fort while I'm out of town. He's eager and ready, he says. (Talk to him next Wednesday by which time he'll have probably booked a one-way ticket to Nome, Alaska to avoid all talk of Fortnite and requests for more ice cream.) My mother, too, has encouraged me to go, reminding me that in life it's the things you don't do that you often regret more than the ones you've done. (Of course, she's never tried hot yoga or karaoke, but still...) She will also step up and see to it that every once in a while someone eats a vegetable or lifts up a toilet seat, and I'm beyond grateful. 

Of course, I still have my concerns:  Will I experience killer jet lag, fall asleep on the Leonardo Express train to downtown Rome, and wake up having been robbed of everything but my Old Navy underpants? When removed from the distractions of home, will I be as productive as I hope, or is the sound of my children chasing each other (and our cat) around the house actually the white noise that has become my secret sauce? Time will tell. 

This morning, the instructor who will lead the workshop sent us a piece to read before we arrive, and this quote from an interview with novelist Robert Olen Butler really captures the essence of what I'm trying to articulate. 

"There needs to be a seeking out of life experience. Art comes from life and the intense ravenous experience of life." 

So here's to art, life, and experience – and to not having my passport stolen at The Colosseum!

Is It Time to Hit the Restart Button On Your Career?

As I mentioned in my last post, sometimes you can meet some real losers through the Internet. (I'm sure this comes as no revelation to anyone who's tried online dating.) But, on the flip side, every once in a while an interesting opportunity arrives in your inbox via cyberspace.
A few weeks ago, I was contacted by the assistant to Kristin Hiemstra, M.Ed, ELI-MP, founder and president of The Art of Potential, about participating in an upcoming Career Seekers Summit she's hosting.
Much like when Elise Runde Voss, chief executive officer of UpScored called me a "thought leader" and asked me to write about the game-changing career platform she'd developed, I once again experienced a looking-over-each-shoulder "Who, me?" moment. 
Of course, I enjoy writing career features for The Muse and hope that some of the hard-won wisdom I've acquired after losing two jobs within four years helps others. Yet, especially after pondering that "losing two jobs within four years," I had to ask myself, "Am I qualified to dispense career advice to anyone other than my cat?" 
Now you're probably nodding in agreement and thinking, "Liz, wasn't it just two weeks ago that you were complaining you couldn't even get rodeo clowns to return your calls? And aren't you currently being paid in wine for one of your gigs? What could you possibly have to share?" 
Well, yes, and yes, but just listen. Because I'm a sucker for flattery, I responded to Kristin's assistant as I was eager to learn more about this summit. She set up a call with Kristin and it went really well. Together, we decided my expertise fell squarely in the "staying positive during a job search" category. 
In prepping for the video segment we recorded, I realized I had learned several things in the past four years. Topping the list would be the importance of acceptance and the power of resilience. In other words, so much is beyond your control, but how you react to it is well within your grasp. 
Kristin and I also talked about how unemployment gives you plenty of perspective (you can also thank it for gray hair and insomnia), and I shared some ways to keep your spirits up while job hunting. 
(I didn't mention always keeping some form of beer or wine chilling in your fridge's crisper, but that's key as well. )
At the end of our initial call, Kristin asked me if I knew any career experts who'd be interested in being featured among a group of relatable and talented career coaches and I was thrilled to recommend the always-delightful Susan RoAne, who not only lights up a room, but also knows how to work one. The self-proclaimed "Mingling Maven" shares her insightful and inspiring networking strategies as part of the summit, which will be free for 24 hours during the week of July 16-20.
If you could benefit from a bit of advice when it comes to everything from polishing up your LinkedIn profile and attracting recruiters to setting yourself apart during the interview process and negotiating the salary you deserve, check it out.
As we're spreading the word about the summit, we were sent promotional graphics to share. This is the one that pretty much sums up my career until about a year ago. 

 But this one reminds me of my niece, so please enjoy both.

If find yourself longing for a career change (or on vacation during a rainy day wanting to hide out from family or friends), please visit  Career Seekers Summit. 


Subscribe to On the Balls of Our A$$es