Me: The Unemployed Venting Machine

Venting (again)

I'm trying to find a job. I go the interview prepared, bring a notepad along to take notes, etc. but it seems like no matter what I do I get absolutely no where. I call and follow up. If they have voicemail I leave messages..but they never call back.

The last job I went in for to interview, I was thrilled to get that far. Then I (and evidently the potential employer) noticed that I was the only person in the place over thirty. :( "Young and slim" are what companies aim for, because they apparently think the public doesn't want anyone else to serve them. :-/
Its just as well, the job was to answer calls from people who's pet just died and would be arranging to pick up their dead animal AND while in that process, try to sell them a plot in a "animal cemetery". I'll pass.

Oh yeah...and I don't speak Spanish.

I worked at the snack bar for awhile selling hot dogs to bowlers. Good honest work. But my knees couldn't take it. One friend suggested trying to work in a bar and that I would probably get in pretty easy. But who wants a fat, old bartender? Plus again, my knees can't take prolonged standing.

I know looks shouldn't matter but let's be honest, they do!

So, how do you get an interview on the spot when you aren't fun to look at? Some friends have suggested applying for jobs that don't require face-to-face interaction with customers.

I reached out to a lady I've been working with at an employment agency who is around my age about this. Since we coincidentally when to high school together, she felt comfortable to be candid with me. She said, "Listen, I'm hanging on to this job by my fingernails. From my vantage point I can tell you that now that even women that have multiple degrees and are well-qualified, companies are simply hiring whom they LIKE (rather than who's truly most qualified), and that's often the young and good-looking. If we're older or significantly aesthetically less appealing, I suppose we're supposed to do the polite thing and go off into the wilderness to die so we don't inconvenience the rest. I don't see a solution to this."

Pretty sad. I'm just looking for a little back office job using my clerical skills. Or maybe a job using my graphic arts skills. Who knows. Now that I am driving a tiny bit and have brand new ears, things are A LOT better.

I hear Amazon might be hiring. Wish me luck. *sigh

Comments

Bingo Across the Aisle

At Sunset Palms Assisted Living, peace used to sound like plastic bingo chips rattling in paper cups, peppermint tea sloshing in saucers, and someone asking, every forty seconds, whether the thermostat had been touched. Then came the North Lounge Incident. No one could later agree on what started it. Mr. Henderson said it was the remote control. Mrs. Gable said it was “the tone.” Dr. Aris insisted, with academic sorrow, that civilization had begun its decline when someone changed the channel during a documentary about Eleanor Roosevelt. By Thursday, Sunset Palms had split in two. The North Lounge became the Blue Room, filled with navy cardigans, reusable water bottles, and residents who nodded gravely at panel discussions. The South Lounge became the Red Room, heavy with scarlet vests, patriotic mugs, and people who said “common sense” as if it were a legal weapon. Management thought it was being clever. “We are creating emotional safety,” said Brenda, ...

The 7 Virtues of Creativity EP. 3 - NOBODY ASKED HER WHY

The conference room was climate-controlled to a degree that felt aggressive, a steady, humming chill that kept the air smelling faintly of ozone and expensive espresso. Wisdom sat at the polished mahogany table, her knuckles resting lightly against the grain. At sixty-five, she had learned how to occupy space deliberately, without apology or invitation. Across from her, the curator, a young man with a sharp haircut and a vest that cost more than Wisdom’s first car, gestured toward a projected slide of her latest series. He spoke with the rhythmic, practiced cadence of someone who had never had to worry about the cost of paint or the silence of a studio that lacked a heating bill. “What we’re really aiming for,” he said, smiling with a bright, professional warmth, “is a sense of creative empowerment. This exhibition isn’t just a display; it’s an immersive community experience. We want to uplift artistic voices and facilitate a dialogue centered on radical engagement.” Wisdom...

Citizen

At sixty-six, I had gotten very used to my life. Not in a bad way. In a relieved way. My husband Marc and I had a good life. A middle-class life. Predictable, routine, sometimes even boring, which at this age I had come to appreciate more than I ever did when I was younger. Coffee in the morning. Meals at regular times. Bills paid, more or less. A house that felt lived in. A husband who is kind, steady, and regimented in ways that used to amuse me and now mostly comfort me. Marc is seventy-three. He likes order. He likes things where they belong. He folds towels neatly, keeps track of what needs doing, fills the car with gas before it becomes urgent, and notices when I’m worried even before I say anything. There is something deeply loving in the way he moves through daily life. Not flashy love. Dependable love. The kind that makes a life feel held together. And I was happy. Or maybe content is the better word. Either way, I wasn’t looking for upheaval. But ...

Maria Scott Herndon: Fabric Of Being

Search This Blog