Something some of us always knew.

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Already I'm waiting for 2009 to be over.

I had a feeling about this year; I just did.

SP's dad just passed away rather unexpectedly, which is just so sad that there's really nothing more to say than I'm just so sad. And glad that I met him.

I, who have always had temp work within three days of signing up with an agency have had absolutely no assignments. None, for almost three weeks. I get the feeling when I talk to recruiters that they don't hold out much hope, and I wonder what I'm doing wrong, because I was always the golden girl who pleased all the clients and made everyone lots of money.

Not one response to the numerous responses I've sent for job postings. Not even an automated "we got your resume and will respond if we move forward."

My accountant sent a heads-up email that I have to pay taxes this year - I'd taken money out of my IRA to put a dent in the credit-card debt from my obscenely expensive dental work. *sigh.*

So today I went to the admissions office of Harold Washington College to sign up. In a couple of weeks I'll begin registering for classes toward and Associate's in Horticulture, because I have to get some technical training in something that I enjoy. Tomorrow I check out the online Financial Aid application' maybe being unemployed will help with this.

Still, as Rahm Emmanuel says, "Never waste a good crisis." Perhaps all of this will help give me clarity - I'm thinking along new lines, taking new chances, and that may be a good thing. Deep inside I have a sense that this may be an opportunity after all.

But right now I'm tired and going to bed.

An open letter to Employers.

Dear Sir/Madam:

I realize that the economy has hit everyone hard. I realize that with companies making less profit, we all have to tighten our belts. So I understand that your company can't offer the salary it used to. I understand that in order to survive you have had to cut costs, which includes pay.

But here's the thing: you need to wake the hell up.

If you advertise for an office worker at a decimated salary, you need to consider redefining what you are entitled to for your criminally low pay. See, what you don't seem to understand is that your former assistants didn't keep your calendar and make your travel arrangements and deal with the seventeen calls a day from your nanny/mistress/neurotic spouse and send out your Christmas cards and buy your kids' college textbooks because they enjoyed it; no, they did so because you were paying them seventy thousand dollars a year.

So when you are offering the offensively low pay of $12 per hour, you and the other five people that are used to being babysat need to develop a relationship with your computers, learn that the Internet can actually be used to book travel in addition to viewing Asian porn, and figure out how to decode the mind-blowing intricacies of a software calendaring system (hint: there are seven days in a week).

You need to learn how to listen to your own voicemail and answer your own e-mail. And if you insist that I have a B.A., the only excuse you have for putting "Get lunch" in the job description is if you are looking for someone who majored in Lunch Getting, because I graduated Magna cum Laude with a major in Communications and a minor in English, but after seeing enough of your BS job postings, I'm considering returning to school for an Associate's in Kiss My Ass.

Rite of Spring?

So today was a gloriously sunny day, hovering in the low 50s. I took my bike out (I'd successfully changed the tube on the rear tire, thank you Broadway Bicycle class of long ago), and hit the road. I actually had to stop to remove my jacket, so I zoomed around in my grey thermal shirt and baggy trousers.

First stop was to see Fred at the glass studio; I hadn't been in awhile and I missed him. He and his wife were there, and they were happy to see me. I hung out for a bit, caught up, and was sorry that I'd missed a big installation he'd done for a children's hospital. He offered me some pastries that the restaurant owner next door had brought over, and I munched on them, then he brought out the pickled veggies he'd made himself.

"Wow," I said, chewing. "Lemon cake, then cauliflower soaked in pickling spice, habaneros and garlic. Interesting combo here."

I'd packed my laptop, thinking I'd head to a cafe, but realized I'd forgotten my bike lock. Rats. I biked to the cafe and hung out a bit, hoping that perhaps someone else would bike up to lock their bike, and let me share. But no. So I walked the bike a bit, window shopped, then headed back home.

As I cruised the streets, I was aware of the coolness in the air, the sun on my back. I noticed I had a bit of a sniffle, but what the heck.

The sniffle increased. I was now gulping great big sniffs. At some point it dawned on me that I had a nosebleed. A big nosebleed.

I stopped, pulled over onto the sidewalk, and pressed my hand to my nose. I was wearing bike gloves, and if you've ever worn any kind of bike handgear, you know they all have a terrycloth patch that's billed as being for wiping sweat.

Yeah; we all know it's for snot. Biking can give you a runny nose, and the terry cloth is for that.

I was asking it to do overtime, as I pressed each terrycloth patch to my hemorrhaging nose. One hand, then the other, than back. I sensed I was reaching critical capacity. A woman walked by, and checked her bag for Kleenex, but she didn't have any.

"No worries," I said. "I'm wearing a play shirt." And I moved my sleeve up onto my face.

When I felt like I could chance it, I pulled my wrist away and wiped every part of my face I could, hoping to get it all. At an SUV I stopped and did a mirror check. Not bad; I decided to leave a little on to intimidate motorists.

Back home, I rinsed everything out. Tomorrow's supposed to be in the high 60's. tomorrow I'll remember the bike lock. And the hankies.

First we take Manhattan...

The other week I was downtown running errands, and I walked by the Chicago Theater.

And so began a war with myself over whether to go in or not. I shouldn't. I'd been laid off. I had no right to spend money.

And then I was at the ticket window.

"Has the second Leonard Cohen show sold out?" I asked.

"Yep," the man said.

And so I was spared the decision.

...
...

Damn.

Yay, WCIU!

Great ad.

Where's George?

Hint: You may have better luck if you PAWse to check.