And speaking of brothers…

Do people ever really hear how they treat other people? My brother yells at my parents, constantly. I mean YELLS. He screams, belittles, intimidates, swears and practically threatens them. How does he live with himself? Why doesn’t some guilt mechanism come into play, whereby he realizes how horrible a douchebag he is and feels sorry for his behavior?  Who does he think he is?  Is it (as I suspect) his internal misery mechanism that kicks-in and makes him lash out at other people?

The other night, Bean and I tried to figure out what he’s all about.  She finds it fascinating, in a sickening sort of way, the psychology behind the actions. Would that I hadn’t been subjected to similar treatment for 40 years, I guess I’d find it interesting, too.

What I find most curious, though, is his wife.  Not just the fact he has one (and he yells at her just the same way) but that she stuck around! All the others split. Years later, I’d run into them at a bar or shopping or whatever, and they’d tell me how much they still loved. . .ME.  But that they hated my brother, and oh, by the way, was he still treating our parents like dirt?

This wife I’ve never gotten to know. He learned to keep us separated, and by now has filled her head with enough junk about me that she likely thinks I’m Satan incarnate.  Wanted to eliminate the chance that she might, in the end, still want to remain close to me while leaving him, like the others did.  Whatever. She has to live with him. Outwardly, she seems normal and nice enough. But something must be seriously wrong with her to stay with someone who treats her like garbage.  Seriously wrong.

Better her than me, though.  As for my parents,  I don’t know what to say. They put up with it for all these years – no way his tirades will stop now. He’s not self-aware enough to change who he is and how he behaves.  Not sure he’s even self-aware enough to care.

A fork in the road

It’s decision-making time.

On the one hand, after the AAA (my brother, the acronym stands for a – what you are when you drink all the time, b-how some people who drink all the time treat other people and the third a – everyone has one….) jumped my ass two nights ago and told me to “get a job!” as if they were being handed out down the street and I somehow missed getting one, I really don’t know about living at my parents’ house. He’ll always be there, yelling at everyone, bringing his own particular brand of misery to one and all.

On the other hand, Catharine has offered to let us move in with her in Rhode Island. It would mean Bean changing schools, which would be hard. I would have to look for (and find!) a job up there. Which, from what I can see, is just as bad a market as down here.

But I would be THERE. With her. Much happier without my brother treating me like shit.

If I can get Bean on board, I’m all for it.

Per tradition. . .

Every year since I’ve had a blog there’s been an annual Thanksgiving “What I’m Thankful For” post.  This year it’s a bit harder to write than usual, but you can’t buck tradition. So. . .

I’m thankful my mom is on the mend, having passed-out cold while walking outside the doctor’s office on Monday.  They don’t know exactly what caused it, and yes, her Alzheimer’s is getting more pronounced, but all things considered, she gets home from the hospital tomorrow. So, good news.

I’m thankful I was able to see Catharine today in Stow. Plans to head back to Rhode Island with her had to fall by the wayside due to the emergency with my mom, but just being in Catharine’s presence for a few hours is always a balm.  Often I indulge in the very guilty passtime of wondering what it would have been like to be raised by her.  I suspect it would be as great as it is just to know her, today.

I’m thankful I got to talk to Chris before her cell phone got shut off, and hopeful we’ll talk again soon, somehow, before my phone gets shut-off.  Maybe there’s truth to that whole apples never falling far from the tree cliche.

I’m eternally grateful for Rochelle, who spent an hour today reminding me what’s truly important. Would that she were in my head, rather than across a phone line. But, still. There’s nothing better than having a friend who has known you since you were eight, and is able to speak straight to both your strengths and weaknesses.

I’m thankful for all the friends I still hold dear, through the years. That includes the old and the new, like Darth, the Canadian cigarette supplier/northern light.

I’m thankful for Bean, who has a way of killing me with the truth but showing that she loves me, anyway.

I’m thankful for all the interviews I’ve been getting, even if they aren’t the ideal job or anything for which I ever trained. Yes, even the “Indian in the hut being chased by another Indian with a machete” interview, if only for its anecdotal/entertainment value.

Soon, for awhile anyway, Internet access will be a thing of the past.  I’m thankful to still have it, right now, in order to write this post.

Happy Thanksgiving to both of the people who read here.

Some unsurprising news…

Because this is the most painful experience I’ve ever had to endure, I googled “Suicide and Foreclosure” the other day and found an alarming trend: many people faced with losing their homes have either tried to kill themselves, killed themselves successfully or killed their entire families.  The enormity of that reality is staggering. I think that was why I tried to warn people years ago about the housing bubble, our impending economic doom (and trust me, this is going to be a Depression, not a recession, and it will rival the 1930’s). The human cost is the crux of this phenomenon, and right now, I totally understand it.

Maybe someday, when I get on the other side of this and maybe there are jobs in my field again, I’ll be able to look back at this time with some perspective.  Right now, it’s really difficult. I look at my dog and start crying, because I’ve let him down after his 8 years of loyalty.  I look at my daughter and feel worse. And worst of all, I look at my parents, who helped me get this house and are now going to stroll down the path of foreclosure hell with me — at 80something years old –and feel worst of all.

It’s enormous, this sense of loss. A lot like someone dying, and that’s not even taking into consideration the fears I have about after we leave here — what if I don’t find a job, at all? Where would we be without my elderly parents?  Where have all these displaced families GONE?

What makes me sick, or rather, sicker, is the fact that a lot of wealthy people are CHOOSING to walk away from their homes, because in the good years, they treated their equity like a personal ATM machine and now find their houses worth far less than what they owe. Not that they can’t continue paying – rather, that they choose to walk away, thereby making the market even worse for everyone else.

How, I wonder, could they willingly just toss their homes aside simply because they’ve depreciated as an asset? What a mockery they make of the rest of us, struggling not to lose our homes, heartbroken over the loss.

We really have become a disposable society, and I don’t get it. It’s hard for me to even give up my dog out of necessity, let alone the house and ten years of memories. I just don’t get America very much these days, if ever I did.

Shipping a dog to Canada

Today’s quandry: how much does it cost to ship a dog to Canada? My friend, the shining northern light cigarette supplier, the only person besides Catharine who has really kept me afloat through all this (to the tune of $1,400 worth of telephone calls), is open to taking Marlon in for me for awhile.  Awhile being however long it takes until I can get an apartment, or do whatever I’m going to do next.

So, hurray for the people who actually do live up to expectation and try to save the day.

The problem is getting him there – do I fly him? Ship him UPS? Drive him up myself?

Musings on Machete Man, and other tales

I’ve been alternating between fuming and laughing at the machete comment from yesterday, and other disheartening, demoralizing particulars from the interview with that Lakewood owner.  One thing that strikes me on many of the interviews I’ve been to is how, I dunno, condescending the comments can get.

Ok, so I have these awards and merits on my resume, right? Things I’ve been kind of proud of throughout my life, like being nominated to Who’s Who and being a member of Phi Theta Kappa. Not big, in the scheme of things, but little things that make me different.  Machete man kind of mocked my writing award, as well as my experience writing for About.  It occured to me for the fifth or sixth time while on these interviews that my qualities don’t align with business, under the best of circumstances. Under the current economic clime, they’re worlds apart.

So, I’ve started applying to home health and other residential treatment positions. If losing the house doesn’t spell economic ruin and no hope for student loans or grants, I’m going back to school for nursing or social work.

My job was never really integrated into my identity, except for when I worked at JC. Which is why I was so happy there – helping other people really made a difference in how much I identified with the job. It should have been clearer to me years ago that I belong in a job that’s not business oriented, but people oriented. Somewhere where I’m helping people and feel proud of the work I’ve done.

Today’s Interview Roundup (People say the darndest things)

Today, I had a promising interview with a company in Lakewood. Entering their building, my spirits were buouyed more than they’ve been in awhile. There was pizza brought in for the workers’ lunches, everyone seemed happy and friendly. I felt, for the first time in a long time, like maybe I wouldn’t be on the outside looking-in. Like I could see myself working here.

The lady who interviewed me was very nice, and I did okay on the data entry test. And then, it came: the owner asked me if I’d stick around, given the difference in pay between this job and my previous jobs.  With a voice bordering on breaking, I explained that I really, really just wanted a job. That having time on my hands without work made it too easy to worry about my situation and troubles.

And he responded that problems were relative. That somewhere in India there was a guy right now being chased by another guy with a machete, and so losing a house to foreclosure in America was really not a big deal in the big scheme of things.

Boom. I was right back on the outside, looking in. Only this time, I think my look was one of incredulity. If this man was trying to make me feel better, it didn’t work.  After all, everyone knows people in India are not living in huts. They have most of our jobs, and are living in the same way we are, all things considered. If this man was trying to make me feel horrible, he succeeded.  I just wanted a chance to belong with other people again, to do a good job, find my niche, become a part of something larger than my little life. Which now was being compared to someone living in a hut being chased by a machete. Um, ok.  So he was telling me my loss is not a big deal. Of course, that is easy enough to say with a nice, safe home to return to in the evening and a job you can count on returning to, day in and day out.  Am not sure he’d echo those same sentiments, were he in my shoes. Or in a hut for that matter.

I’d started the day out discussing the fact my dog is too old to be adopted, and with my neighbor saying that I should put him down. That’s something I couldn’t do. I had someone lined-up to take him, someone who professed to like my dog a lot, but he gave me some equally boneheaded reason he won’t take the dog. It was on a par with the “Indian with the machete chasing another Indian” comment. Out of misguided respect for this person, I won’t even dignify his rationale. I will say that it made me see him in a whole, new light. A glaringly harsh light.

So, twice today, humanity really let me down, doing and saying things I would never do or say, no matter in whose shoes I tread.  And I tried — am trying — very hard to remember that not everyone is me, nor would they do what I would do, and that I should not expect so much -not from those I formerly considered to be close to me, nor strangers. Still, it doesn’t make things any easier. Sometimes, I wish people would just man-up, or shut-up. If they can’t help, don’t waste my time or their own.

Rather than ask me if I would leave for more money, the man interviewing me should have asked me to explain why I really wanted a job that paid so much less. I would have explained how much promise I saw, walking in, how much hope and dignity there is in just having a daily routine, a place to go where you belonged, where people would smile at you, give you work to do, and be happy you belonged with them. That makes all the difference, regardless of pay.

Relax…no, really.

Anyone who knows me even a little bit knows that “relax” is not in my vocabulary. I’m used to doing. I’m used to going out and getting the things I want. And, it appears, I’m learning that I am used to getting the things I want without having to put forth tons of effort.

But that was then and this is NOW.

So as my life begins more and more to resemble The Titanic after that sticky little ice collision, I’m really twisting in the wind about what to do. Obsessing. Losing faith. Losing hope. Eating a lot of beans. Swallowing a whole lotta crow.

The upside of this is Joplin’s oft-quoted phrase: freedom’s just another word for nothing left to lose.  It’s true.  When tax time comes, and this house is a memory, and life as I knew it is equally behind me, it’s time to start over in Rhode Island or Massachussets. I’ve been wanting to get out of Ohio for years, now. Maybe this is my chance.  Maybe, when I get there, I’ll see there’s nothing better, jobs-wise, then there was here. But at least it will be a much-needed change of scenery.

What do you mean, I don’t have enough experience?

What does it mean when one person tells you that you’re overqualified and the next says you don’t have enough experience?  Far as I can make out, it means you’re not going to get a job. Period.  In an employers’ market, they can and do ask for such things as drug tests, background screens, credit reports and the like for call center jobs that pay $10.50 an hour. And then they can tell you that you are overqualified. Same with cleaning jobs – although the Westlake cleaning company did offer me a job paying $8.50 an hour. Even though he said in the next breath: I know you’ll take off as soon as something better comes along, and you should.”

For legal jobs these days, I’m apparently underqualified. Not sure when that happened, exactly. Somewhere along the same time as lawyers started getting 8,000 resumes for one job opening. Ugh. The job search right now is demoralizing. I’ve been turned down more times than my father has by available women. (Badum-bum, as he would say.)  They say rejection stings, but it feels more like a bulldozer when you’ve pasted on a happy face and gotten all dressed up and ready for a job that pays far less than what you’d need to make in order to not live in a box.  And it feels like a meteor crushing down when you realize that you probably won’t get the job, anyway.

So maybe I’m lucky to have experienced nearly one interview per day since getting laid-off, almost a month ago.  The net result is that I’ve not had much time to get my stuff together to get the heck out of here, and I get to accumulate one more rejection for being under or overqualified.

I used to say (and meant it) that I’d work at McDonald’s to make ends meet.  Well, guess what? I tried applying there.  They are not hiring right now. And even if they were, I’m overqualified.

Outliving usefulness

I went to Walmart today to get containers for my christmas tree. The box is broken, so no way of transporting it without extra containers.  Anyway, I think this has to be the worst time of the year to have your entire life fall apart. Mostly because of the musical backdrop – happy Christmas tunes. Besides it feeling entirely more phony this year than ever before, there’s just something so disheartening about people strolling around Walmart, consuming. I never did understand the consumer culture, and I get it even less, now.  The only reason I went to Walmart, of all places, was because it was open before 8:30 a.m.  Very little is, on Sunday. So, I’m buying my two containers, tears streaming down my face, wondering if they sell hose that can run from your exhaust pipe through your car window.  Good luck reselling that car, Nissan.

Why, might you ask, do I feel like giving up? It’s not just losing the house. It’s the timing for everything. I’ve nothing to throw myself into to make this somehow more bearable. I’m too old to believe in Santa. Too tired for reinvention. Too alienated from everyone, from understanding this world, to even care much about it anymore. Really, I’m just tired: tired of making the best of things, tired of accepting life the way it is, tired of struggling, and too smart to not recognize this experience is changing me for the worse, and forever.

And when I try to see what’s next, I draw a blank. It’s the first time in my life I’ve not had any picture of tomorrow, and that’s frightening me, or maybe it’s just very telling in its own way.

If it were a few years later, maybe I could join the Benedictine Monastery as previously planned, or do a stint in the Peace Corps, like I always wanted when I was young. Instead, I have to learn to relive in one of the most oppressive environments ever experienced, and go to work for. . .I don’t know what for. Not to make enough money to create a new life. To eat, maybe. To subsist.

And already the recriminations are coming from my own family and what’s left of my friends for the choices I’ve made, for the life I’ve led. Because when you’re doing well, nobody seems to care how you got there. But when you fall, everyone’s a critic.  Well, everyone who is left, anyway.  Screw ‘em. I’d like to have seen them do much better than I did with what I had to work with.  Who are they to judge, and where are they when I need them? When they needed me, I was always there.  Strange how that worked.

I think what’s bothering me most of all is this: when I was little, I always thought about growing up and living somewhere with steel walls and a big vault door (complete with a huge, turning combination lock handle).  Never occured to me why that was my favorite daydream, until lately. From that time, I was always searching for security, somewhere that was safe.  I finally realize that nowhere is safe. Safety is an illusion, only as thick as the wall separating you from the snowy outdoors. It’s not even really your wall. And the consumerism rampant in America is just another way of fortifying that illusion – buying stuff to separate you from the have-nots, to reinforce your solid place in this world as someone who means something because he has something.  But it’s not real. None of it is real, and in a moment, it can all be stripped away, turning you into just another Emperor with no clothes.

They say what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. Right now, I wish I cared enough to find out if this is true. I suspect it’s just another lie we tell ourselves.