What stage is this, again?

I've finally reached that point in my unemployment that they say comes to all. The stage where rationality is thrown to the wind and all that I embrace is pure, red-hot rage.

While job hunting, I've seen postings that better suited others from my company that I knew were suited to them, so I forwarded them. Whenever I've had a job, I've kept my an eye on openings for friends. So it just chaps my ass raw that people who struggled for months and who are now employed have just dropped off the face of the earth. While unemployed, they were so big on the networking; now that they have theirs, the rest of us can apparently go to hell.

I saw a posting at a nonprofit where a former coworker had gotten a job. IN HR. And sure enough, there was her very name as the contact person, so, thinking I'd caught a break, I sent her an email. Turns out the job had just been filled, but there was a seasonal temp position coming up; did I know Raiser's Edge?

No, I didn't, but as she knew, I pick up that stuff very easily.

Oh well, that's too bad; she'll keep an eye open for me anyway should anything else come up.

WHAT THE F*CK?!?!?

First of all, nonprofits pay crap, so they don't get experienced people, so their databases CANNOT be all that hard to pick up, especially something like Raiser's Edge,which is specifically designed for donor management. And SHE KNOWs the hellish software I had to learn at our old company. RUSSIAN would have been easier to learn than this awful, awful program, but I learned it. No stupid out-of-the-box nonprofit database product could be remotely as difficult to pick up.

If it had been me, I'd suggest she come in some day and play with the software, perhaps run a tutorial, get familiar with it, then I'd put her resume in for the job. But apparently she's too busy with her upcoming wedding plans to bother with something as, oh, HELPFUL as that. Not to mention that at our company I went to bat for her to help her move within our department. Un-frikkin'-believable.

On the bright side, a woman I worked with but had not been particularly close to has remained in touch - she just got a job and still wants to get together to catch up, so I guess not everyone is a complete waste. The best part is explaining to people that you will TAKE the cut. It seems impossible to get across to people that you HAVE NO JOB. That you are not in a position to be picky.

I'm just having a hard time believing that there is nobody out there who can help me, so it feels like nobody wants to. I know this can't be true, but for crying out loud.

Now I'm trying to prepare for a workshop I'm helping with next week, and today it became clear tat we are nowhere near having the tools we need to pull this off, and I'm cutting an ulcer over looming deadlines that I will have a hard time meeting. And I have three days of babysitting ahead of me and on Friday will be up probably until midnight bringing things to FedEx and getting them shipped. I feel like crying.

Local watering hole

Yesterday evening a couple of condo friends and I went to a local bar one of them had told me about -it's a couple of blocks away, tucked into the ground floor of a local residential building (the zoning laws have grandfathered it in).

Fortunately, the Bears game was over, and only a crusty crock pot and some limp cheese and lettuce remained of the "buffet" that had been set out in honor of the event.

The bar is small, cozy, and reminds me somewhat of a British local. It was slowish, and the bartender was a cute guy who paid us a lot of attention. One of my friends bought the drinks, which turned out to be beers and bourbon for them and ginger ale and a Sambuca shot for me. The bartender asked us where we were from, how long we'd lived in the neighborhood. I thought he was paying me particular attention, but then again I was face-numb with Sambuca. He mentioned an ex and some kids and took a couple of cigarette breaks, so the deal-breakers were front and center. Still, not bad flirting. If that was what I was doing, numb as I was. Could have been smiling; could have been grimacing.

We all laughed and chatted and talked about where we could take German lessons. I read the French phrase tattooed in script on the bartender's forearm. I ate some chips. Good, good times.

Blame it on Rio.

First of all, I am PSYCHED that Chicago has not been picked for the Olympic games. Not a single city has made money on this. It took Montreal 30 years to pay it off. Chicago, with its horrible financial crises and its corruption the defies belief does not deserve the Olympics. Put another way: I'm already paying for bogus TIFS, the leasing of our parking meters at a loss, trumped-up parking tickets, a 10% sales tax; the list goes on. I'm not about to have my taxes go up AGAIN to fund some sporting event on steroids.

What amazes me is how shocked Chicagoans are that the city wasn't selected. This is what happens when you''e the only game in town (pardon the pun) for most of your region. Oprah was a big Olympics booster; Oprah LOVES THIS CITY.

Oprah doesn't ride the El.

A public-transportation system that is for all practical purposes handicapped INaccessible is not suitable for a world event. The El, while extensive, is ancient and is all stairs and narrow platforms. Sure, we have extensive buses; have you ever ridden a bus when it has to stop and have the ramp lowered, and have the wheelchair secured, and the ramp retracted, and off you go? I never begrudge anyone who needs this, but on an Olympic scale, it would bring everything to a standstill. I once took the twins on the El, thinking I'd do some errands. I had to have people help me carry the kids in the carriage up the steps at our departure station, down at our arrival station (and back up again). I overshot our home station so that I could go one station further, which was new and had an elevator. Olympic visitors with kids, the elderly or the generally infirm would not survive. They'd have to rely on the African taxi drivers, which is like Russian Roulette with a meter.

Chicago is a great city; great restaurants, theater, art. It's incredibly clean, and it has a gorgeous lakefront. It's a gorgeous city. But it's not ready for the Olympics. And even if it were, frankly, we have enough aggravation and congestion without inviting the world to come in and add to it.

Lessons learned too well.

So now when I walk in the door the kids immediately pull up their shirts. I've assured their dad the behavior should be gone by the time they're ready for public school.

Dog and Cat fur. It's not complicated: Don't buy ANY fur.

"Hello, I'm the Skunk Woman."

This was how I got to introduce myself tonight.

I'd been downtown with my friend Gia, who'd gotten cheap Preview tickets to a Lookingglass production. I'd taken the express bus back, and got off at my street at about 11pm. As I walked up the sidewalk, I saw a skunk sitting in the grassy parkway strip between the sidewalk and the street. This is not unusual: we have a lot of urban wildlife: rabbits, raccoons; once, we had a duck hen make a nest by the entrance to one of our building doors. So a skunk wasn't unusual.

I made a little noise so it would see me, move along, and let me by. It looked in my direction, then began crossing the sidewalk. Slowly.

Really slowly.

I noticed it wasn't walking with that rolling skunk gait they have, and I edged closer.

It was moving slowly because its hind legs weren't working and it was dragging itself along by its front legs.

"Oh, crap," I whispered.

The skunk made its way under a hedge, and I went inside, put on some jeans and a sweatshirt, and grabbed a plastic storage tub from my basement. Back outside, I discovered the skunk had dragged itself into the parking lot next to our building. It had taken cover under a minivan, but then decided to backtrack to the grass. I walked up to it slowly, and put the tub over it, slipping the lid underneath until I had it securely inside the tub. I put the tub in my basement and started the phone calls. My vet friend didn't answer her phone (it was fairly late), and it was a wild animal, so I started with 911.

"You must be a real animal lover," the operator said, "but I have bad news. This would be Animal Care and Control, and they aren't open until the morning."

I called the nearest Veterinary 911, in Skokie. The conversation with the receptionist went like this:

"Hi, I found a very badly injured skunk. Its hindquarters are paralyzed, and it seems disoriented. I need to find someone who can euthanize it."

I was put on hold, then:

"I'm sorry, but we can't bring a skunk in here, we have other patients waiting..."

"This skunk cannot spray. It can't even move its hind legs - I'm pretty sure its back is broken. Trust me; I stood right over it. All you have to do is put it in a tank, sedate it with gas, and euthanize it."

"Ma'am, we have sick and injured animals to take care of here. Emergencies." Snark Factor of 10.

"So an animal with a broken back isn't considered injured? Or an emergency? All I want you to do is put it down."

Big sigh, back on hold, then:

"Ma'am? I just checked with the vet, and she's allergic to skunks. She's the only doctor on duty and she's allergic to them."

The lie stunk worse than my skunk.

"Well, that's convenient," I said, and asked for any references. They gave me a Chicago Emergency number. I called THAT clinic. They were very nice but told me they could not take it because it was wildlife, but gave me the name of a clinic that handles exotics and operated as an emergency clinic at night. SO I called THEM.

(Mind you, "exotics" usually means rabbits, birds, ferrets, reptiles. But I had to try.)

I called and explained that with the kind of luck I'd been having you'd have thought I was saying, "Hello, I have a concussed Nosferatu in my trunk; I wondered whether I could bring him in for a stake through the heart?"

They said they could euthanize injured wildlife, so I drove over. It was 14 miles. Skokie would have been less than 4. So I drove the poor skunk to the clinic, opening all of my car windows and getting a good headache from the skunky smell, and they took it in the side door so as to not stink up the lobby. They were indeed going to put it in a tank to sedate it, then euthanize it.

The girl came out and told me it looked like it had been hit by a car. "One leg looks badly dislocated." I'd not been able to get a good look in the dark, but I sensed the injury had not just happened. Who knows what the poor thing had gone through, or how hungry it had been. It was heartbreaking.

They refused to take any money. Would not let me give them a dime. Suck on THAT, Skokie.

Tomorrow I shall scrub out the tub with scented soap, and burn incense in my car.

Of Beads and Babies

The other day the father of the twins was getting ready to go, and he was playing with the kids.

"Show me your belly button!" he sang. They smiled broadly and looked at their stomachs.

"Show me your belly button!" Broader smiles, general pointing at their stomachs.

"Where's your belly button?" he asked encouragingly.

Watching this, I felt bad for him, so I called out, "MARDI GRAS!"

Instantly, the kids grinned, grabbed their shirts, and lifted them all the way up. The father looked at them, then at me.

"Um. We've been learning some tricks," I said.