There
was some weirdness going on with my most recent unemployment payment, and
because I was worried about October, I had to talk to someone in the unemployment office. I’d made a number of financial promises, and
we had plans in anticipation of having a third check when usually there are
only two. October just turned out that
way, giving us a chance to catch up with a few things. So, I spent the last two
days dialing 1-800-300-5616 (dial 1 for English, dial 2 for Spanish, dial 3 to
toss your cell phone in the garbage disposal and watch with glee as it’s torn
to shreds). I finally got through to
someone this morning at about 8:50 a.m.
After
explaining my problem, I was advised that I had zero dollars left to my
claim. I even have something in writing
from the EDD indicating I was good to go until the end of December, but no. 0 + 0 = 0 … you could drive a truck between
the vague loopholes in communication from the EDD. I’m a smart woman, and still I missed the
difference between having an open claim and having a fully funded claim. I was advised of this by a completely
apathetic woman, and even as I began to tear up in frustration and feel a
little hysterical (no act there), I thought why hadn’t anyone mentioned
this? I’d talked with someone about my
problem two times previously with two separate people over the last couple of
days and NO ONE bothered to mention “Hey, are you aware that you are down to
your last $450?”
My
head exploded. I mean, really. It flew apart into a million pieces. How would I pay the mortgage? Never mind all
the other bills. Screw all that. How will we pay the mortgage was all I could
think of. Hearing all this from where
she was in the living room, I could hear Leslie’s heartbeat start racing like a
runaway train. She had no chest pain, of
course, but I knew the stress would be hard to bear. How many times had we talked about how lucky we were that we had enough money to cover the mortgage even though I wasn't working? A day ago, I thought my benefits would expire
the end of December, and having a few irons in the fire, I was prepared to do
so temp work if necessary. Now, temp
work is urgent. My next thought was how do we tell Elizabeth?
She’s already so good about all this, but now she has to worry about losing her
home? There is no family to call for
help. It’s just the three of us and has been for years. So, it’s up to us to make it work. She knows this.
After
the initial shock, and after cleaning my exploded grey matter off the walls, I
started writing, networking, to everyone I could think of who might have a tip
on a job, and every temp agency I’ve ever done business with. The opportunity at Redwood Shores ironically
gained some traction today becoming a job I am uniquely qualified for. I have a
phone interview in the morning. And I’ve got an appointment in the afternoon
with a temp agency so I can get some income happening. Then, we had to go to an eye doctor's appointment that took forever to get and Leslie really needed to take. I waited for her in the lobby for over an hour, and it was the longest hour of my life. You know how it feels when you need to be doing something, anything, and all you can do is sit?
When
Elizabeth got home, we explained what happened, and she asked questions
like “Do I have to worry about being homeless?” and “Do I have to be afraid?” I explained the difference
between sending in resumes over the internet for a permanent job and hearing
nothing, versus getting temp work with an agency when you need it. She understood I would get something soon.
She teared up a little, but recovered quickly.
As I exclaimed about what a stressful day it was, she said, “But you’re
not being mean.” That sort of stopped me in my tracks. She explained that
when dealing with the stress of the last job, I was mean at home. Her words really opened my eyes. I realized how stressed out that place, my last
place of permanent employment, had really made me; how difficult the enduring
uncertainty and tension there, the nastiness of people’s behavior, had worn me
down. It was so bad that I was angry and upset virtually all the time. My fifteen year old opened my eyes to
this in a way that hadn't occurred previously. I told her I wouldn’t let that
happen again. I'd had plenty of time to rest and bounce back from all that stress, and I told her I was sorry. She answered, "It's okay, Nana. Can we study my French now?" Kids.
They
say it’ll be alright in the end, and if it’s not alright, it’s not the
end. Well, it’s about 10:30 p.m., and I
feel like I’ve been whacked about the head hard with a reality stick. And when the cosmic joker was done with me, he
started whacking Leslie. We were both
feeling stunned, but we stuck together like glue. Now we’re just tired.
I
need to work. I don’t care what it is. If I’m capable of doing it and it’s
enough to cover the bills, I’ll do it. I
have current secretarial skills, I’m a good manager, and I’m a good leader with
a strong facilities background. My
resume is strong, and I have years of experience.
I’m
sending out my need and desire into the ether like it’s a palpable thing. Right
now it is. I send it on Raven’s wings
and dragon’s flight, and I know my intent will find its destination … and soon.
It
as to.
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