Caterwauling

I’m so annoyed at my field today. Another good, senior, creative and ambitious worker got met with the same fate I did. I could just go back to sleep, in protest. (I do a lot of sleeping these days.)

And yet, quasi-competent people (who cost a lot less) are moving and grooving just fine. The hell?

When I was fresh out of school, no one wanted to take a chance on me. Of course, it was Pittsburgh, where people die at their desks because it costs less to keep ineffective people than to buy them out and inject some fresh blood.

My, how times have changed.

The reason I even know all the gossip today is because that’s what my mornings are dedicated to — finding out who’s doing what, and seeing if they can share some of the love. And I followed up on a lead only to find that my contact is sitting in the not-employed line, too, and it was a complete surprise as well.

(*humming “Where Does all the Talent Go?” to the tune of “Where Have all the Flowers Gone?”*)

I’m trying hard to not work, if that makes sense. To not get married to my next gig without at least living together first. And as I perused one of my favorite blogs (Evil HR Lady), I came across an article that reminded me of years ago, and made me cringe: Job Interview or Bake-off?.

In short, there are people who make you tap-dance your way through the interview process by asking you to DO THEIR WORK for them. Which, in my field, it’s not unheard-of to have to write a sample article or edit a sample piece. The more-ethical among us either use previously published works or stuff that will never see the light of day.

I remember, though, circa 2004, I applied for an editorial job with an engineering group. They sent me an article they were planning to use in their next magazine. I was given a half-day to turn it around.

Two and a half days later, I had shredded the shit out of that horrible piece — WHICH WAS 23 TYPED PAGES. The tracked changes looked like a wounded animal had died on my screen.

I had already gone through two interviews at this point and was a finalist. I have no fucking clue who could have beaten me in this editorial “contest.” Perhaps it was the fact that I spent far too much time with it that cost me my candidacy. Or maybe their widdle feelings were hurt that I basically took government cheese and whipped it into as tasty a fondue as I could manage.

I never did see the final printed version of that POS article. But I have often wondered whether they used my edit and didn’t pay me for it.

The woman was a hoo-ha anyway. She had fired the prior editor after a month, and wasn’t exactly pleasant in general. And the subject matter was God-bloody-awful. In truth, it was a blessing to be out of the running. But that’s also hard to accept when you’re willing to take any job just to prevent pending homelessness.

That being said, as yet another of my compadres is looking for the next rent payment, I do see the value in doing some dating before you jump into bed with a virtual stranger. Interviews are a joke. You sell the best version of yourself that fits their needs, and they sell you the non-crazy version of their dysfunctional family.

I mean, how many times did you walk into an interview with, say, a man and a woman, and you expected that this would be the team you’re on? How are you to know that some nameless, faceless entity in another state is going to have the say-so in your livelihood and that one of the people who sold you on the position (who you were really looking forward to working with) isn’t actually going to be there after you arrive?

In my friend’s case, it involved a very expensive, self-financed relocation. In my case, well, I kind of like where I ended up geographically, but I’d probably fare better on the employment front had I not left the nation’s best job market in the first place.

But maybe if more would-be employers would toss a sample (PAID) assignment to the candidate, I’ll bet that would do a lot to prevent bad career moves and even worse partings-of-ways.

I have to say, though, the most-aggravating interview process was at the job I loved the most. I spent DAYS with those people. I met EVERYONE. Even people who would only be peripheral to my day. I was even scratching my head, wondering whether they trotted out the most-offensive characters just for fun. (They did.)

The editing test blew me away, but after I’d spent days with the cast of characters — not to mention that horrible editing fiasco for the engineering company — I did a very simple, thorough line edit with my suggestions and questions in comment bubbles. I wanted that job badly enough, based on the people and the promised duties, that I was willing to deal with their wacky editorial. (Which was previously published and I got the raw version. Bonus points for the ethical approach!)

In any case, I realize the liability of taking on a new employee goes beyond financial considerations. You want them to be able to do the work, and to bring their creativity. The problem is, it’s easier for the candidate to bring it than for the new hire to keep it after they’ve gotten a whiff of the way things really work.

Which is why I’m not keen on relocating. It’s one thing to move to paradise (where I live now) but if you tell me my dream job is on a potato farm in Idaho, I respectfully decline to hear more about the mere notion of it. That’s all anybody needs, to move to their own private hell and then lose the meal ticket that made it palatable in the first place.

Anywho, my prayers are with my friend today. That wind-knocked-out-of-you feeling is awful. I hope we can start something up ourselves and not even have to worry about moments like this ever again.

Adopt me!

Originally uploaded by dcwriterdawn

I made the mistake of going to the animal shelter yesterday. I am on a very casual quest for a canine companion. But the dog selection was sparse and I was drawn to the “Cattery,” as they call it.

OMG, I almost came home with six new pets.

There’s one in particular that I can’t get out of my mind. She’s a 2-year-old Calico — just like my beloved Maddie. I have photos of every pet I loved, and a dozen of her alone. (Pictured: A very lovable kitty who was desperate to be adopted. He was a little too energetic for me but I loved him, too.)

I have a cousin who is nervous that I went to the shelter to look into dropping Kadie off if I don’t get a job soon. So I guess it would be stupid to bring home a new pet when many of the dozens there were dropped off by owners who could no longer afford to keep them.

Sigh. What a horrible world.

More horrible still is that this is one of those places that kills pets that are there too long. There was a section for feral cats — each one cuter than the next — with a big “Not for Adoption” sign.

That’s the green mile for kitties, I guess. And since I inadvertently ushered a kitty to his sad little grave by sending him there, I wouldn’t mind saving another from certain death.

I’m so sad that I can’t save them all. That I’m really not in a position to save *any* of them. And that I’ll be lucky to keep the one I already have.

I’m not down in the dumps, per se, over the sad state of my life. I always try to stay positive because good attracts good. As soon as someone says something full of doom and gloom, it materializes. So I say things like I’m fine, it’ll get better and we won’t be living on the beach because the rent’s too high.

And I really try not to think about how much cheaper life would be if I weren’t supporting two humans. Because, really, aren’t we all in some sort of relationship that we didn’t ask for?

How many men got some poor girl knocked up … or some dumb girl got stuck with a man who seemed OK till she got knocked up by him … or someone sold their soul to their employer for the pension and not the spiritual fulfillment? How many couples have kids and parents to take care of … even long after the kids are in their 20s?

I figure, I never had kids or a deadbeat (ex) husband. Most of my family is dead. I have no in-laws to complain about. Shit, I have no bosses to complain about either. It’s like I hit the karmic lottery!

But, alas, the universe has to find innovative ways to torture me, to make sure I have my share. And when a job is the only thing it can take away from you, well apparently that’s what it does. And not even a job — no job is THAT great — it’s the INCOME loss that blows.

But that’s “all” it is, if I can be so brazen. It’s “security,” whatever the fuck THAT is. No one can take away my pride, my dreams, my integrity, my ethics. Christ, no. My temporary sanity, yes. And my apartment, maybe. But that’s it. I won’t surrender anything else.

But not to be “Miss Brightside” here, but the universe (and those who are currently in position to be masters of it) can also take away your stress. I’m not saying I don’t have my share. But by taking away my security, my stress also decreased. It’s hard as hell to make other people’s dreams come true. Sometimes, you just can’t. Even if you thought you could and actually WANTED to at some point.

Anyway, I guess I can see how people become “crazy cat ladies.” There’s no love out there in the world. But inside an animal shelter in the center of Florida, there are cages upon cages full of quirky little personalities — ready to love anyone who gives them the time of day.

My little Calico friend, my God. She was licking me and petting me through her cage. She kept touching her nose to mine and looking for me every time I visited another kitty. Every time I came back to her, she looked so joyful.

She cried when I left. I cried a little more than she did as I drove home.

Everyone keeps telling me to not get another cat, because I wanted a dog. And to not get a dog until I have an income again. But trying to get to sleep at night knowing that these loving and healthy cats are waiting for their owners — or, at least, their NEW owners — to come for them and that they’re going to go to kitty heaven otherwise, well, breaks my little heart.

Same goes with perfectly wonderful discarded workers. We just want a home. One that feeds us would be nice. Hell, we’ll just take a roof over our heads. Although it’s sad to say that euthanasia would be kinder than ending up on the streets. Hmmm. Wonder if I can schedule an appointment at the vet if I don’t get a job soon. …

I always blather on this page about the challenges (mostly the mistakes) of leadership. And when people ask me about when I got interested in the subject, I have one of two answers.

Usually, I make a flippant statement that I feel I’ve been mismanaged a great deal in my career and that I don’t want to make the same mistakes with the next generation of talent. Or else I talk about working in the mental-health field and being exposed to a fascinating segment called “organizational counseling.” In other words, figuring out how to change a dysfunctional culture from the top down.

But as financial TV is commemorating the loss of the Challenger crew back in 1986, I realize that my first exposure to a good example-setter was my homeroom teacher, Mr. Allison, back at good old Francis McClure Middle School.

It was in our sixth-grade science class that we watched with hope and wonder as Christa McAuliffe stepped into the shuttle as the first teacher to venture into space. And it was merely seconds later that we saw the Challenger erupt into a ball of fire and dust. We were humbled and horrified, and we hoped that our crappy television (without cable) on its rickety cart had simply short-circuited.

We moved through the rest of the day in a haze, and soon enough it was time for homeroom the next day.

I was never a huge fan of Mr. Allison. I don’t know why. I think I had a hard time discerning his sincerity. He taught language and spelling, areas in which I excelled, and I was always overly critical of English teachers in general.

But before our daily moment of silence (do schools still do that?), he revealed to us that he had applied to be the teacher sent into space. And that if the program opened up again, he would do it in a heartbeat.

As some of my peers snickered under their breath, no doubt wishing they could have herded all of their teachers into the Challenger, I was overcome with respect for this guy, on whom I had played my share of practical jokes just to get a rise out of his mostly stoic demeanor.

Now here he was, plain as day, saying he was that eager to do something for the sake of education that he would risk everything for the chance to bring back whatever it was that Christa McAuliffe would have learned in space. And that no deadly explosion would keep him away from the chance to be a part of the next historical journey.

I never told him how much his amazing attitude affected me. Twenty-five years later, I have no idea where he is or whether he’s still teaching or even alive for that matter. But he taught me so much in that moment … that the quiet ones have dreams too … that sacrifices in the name of education know no bounds … that the most-effective teaching moments don’t happen in the classroom … that I, too, could have been convinced to go on the space shuttle if I were following someone who believed wholeheartedly in the mission.

Later that day in our English class, he asked us to write essays on how we were impacted by what happened the prior day. I remember being so thrilled that I exchanged papers with the class heartthrob (Jimmy Skalican) and that my essay brought tears to his beautiful blue eyes. (*swoon*)

Can’t tell you exactly what I wrote, but I suspect Mr. Allison’s name was somewhere in there. In any case, I came out of that tragedy with a whole new outlook on the educators with whom I spent my days, and one in particular.

Needless to say, I stopped playing pranks on the guy and quietly absorbed everything else he had to teach me. And while I forget how to diagram a sentence properly and I couldn’t define a gerund if you held a gun to my head, I count Mr. Allison as one of the best educators in a questionable public school system.

Hat-tip to you, Mr. Allison, wherever you are. Thank you for being the first person to truly help to shape the person I turned out to be.

Wyland’s famous Key West sign

Originally uploaded by dcwriterdawn

I only wish I were in Key West. But 70 degrees in Palm Beach County ain’t so terrible either, especially when my northern friends are still digging out of their driveways at 11 a.m.!

I saw an interesting comment on Facebook today, that the truth is only the truth for as long as you want it to be. Someone was cheering on another with her weight-loss goals, and I wanted to adopt it as my mantra today.

I have been paying $40/month to Weight Watchers for the past three years, just in case I wanted to hit a meeting. I never really did, though. Yesterday, I downgraded to eTools (online-only) plan. It costs a lot less but means I have to read more. Oy vey. No wonder people in meetings out-lose the online set — there’s so much to learn and it’s all different from when I first joined!

Since I’ve been home, I’ve been consoling myself with food. Lord knows I can’t go shopping or restaurant-hopping like I used to. So yesterday, I decided to say fuck it and start tracking my food intake.

I’m annoyed, of course, because Mom just baked awesome cupcakes. But it feels good to be in control of something again.

In other news, I was talking to a professional cohort yesterday and learned that their business is really starting to take off. That gave me a lot of hope. What really made me do the Snoopy dance was that they enforce a strict “No Assholes” poilcy.

In other words, no working with assholes. That even though certain people have money to spend and influence to wield, there isn’t enough incentive in the world to take on the aggravation.

I like that. I am inspired that, even in this crap economy, one can choose their projects and colleagues. More workplaces would probably succeed if everyone got a chance to vote people off the island — maybe they’d get rid of the slacker or the dumbass or the ass-pain instead of the people they crap all over.

And really, it’s the human bidets who are accountable for managing the PITAs of the world. And when the talent fails to perform according to task, they aren’t the ones scouring the “Help Wanted” ads.

Speaking of the need to do a worldwide systemic overhaul of the corporate world, check out my buddy Bill Catlette’s new book, “Rebooting Leadership.” Download the first chapter FREE here! I told him I was nodding along like a kid at a headbangin’ concert.

Here’s a small excerpt that captured my interest:

“It means that shaping your career requires more (and better) strategy. Vertical organic career growth (i.e., upward movement within the same organization) is diminished as there are fewer layers of management, many roles are farmed out, and Boomers just won’t get out of the way. In that vein, it’s more important for you to find the right person to work for than the right organization.That person, if so inclined, can take a more immediate interest in your learning and development, provide important growth opportunities, insulate you when you make a mistake, and share credit.”

Read that part again: It’s more important for you to find the right person to work for than the right organization.

*chills*

I think that makes a lot of sense. We often joke in my circle about “getting the band back together.” In other words, when you invoke the “No Assholes” rule and only surround yourself with people you want to bust your ass for, it becomes more about helping the “family” to succeed than the faceless and emotionless “company.”

In any case, be sure to buy the Contented Cows’ new book. Tell ‘em Goddess sent ya. And prepare for a discussion group on these pages, because I can’t WAIT to reflect when my copy arrives straight from Cows headquarters!!!

Time keeps on slipping slipping slipping …

Originally uploaded by dcwriterdawn

What a good day.

I registered my business today. Which will look way better on a resume than, well, nothing.

Also, I’m in advanced talks with some key clients, and if I could just get my mother to stop talking at me constantly (and fucking me up every time I start writing) about the cat, the plants, places to eat and who’s hooking up with whom on “The Young and the Restless,” I may just have a viable business!

I’m not saying the next few months are going to be easy. If anything, they’re going to be the toughest of my life. But if I can put a muzzle on both the mother and the cat, and perhaps move the computer into my bedroom where I can shut the door, the rest will come naturally.

The good thing about my line of work is that it’s fairly easy to succeed in it. Making the party last is the real challenge. Accordingly, I’ve been kind of taking it easy (read: lazy) and getting my wits about me so that I’m ready to charge full-steam ahead.

I think I’m there. Almost, anyway. At least, I’m only going to sell my soul in chunks instead of signing it away in one lump.

One thing I’m promising myself is to make time for charitable work. All work and no play has made Goddess a very dull girl for too many years. I’m lucky to have everything I have, and I’m not going to wait “till things get settled” to do the things I love and want to do.

I know, right now I’m a lot of talk and no action. But it will come. The nice guys are tired of finishing last. Slow and steady is going to win this race. Mark my words.