Process and Procedures!!

So, I had to visit to the Unemployment Office today. It's a wonderful chance to see the wheels of bureaucracy at work. Inefficiency, incompetence, and waiting. Lots and lots of waiting.

The first time I visited the unemployment office, a few weeks after I was laid off, a short, pock-marked man ordered me to take a number at the door. It was late in the afternoon (rookie mistake), and my number was 264. I sat down in a cold plastic chair. In front of me was a whole row of cubicles designed for unemployment officials to meet with unemployed people like me. Unfortunately, out of 8 available cubicles, only two were occupied with helpful unemployment officials. "They should hire me to help out," i thought. "Heck, I need a job and they need someone to sit in one of those cubicles...."

Soon they called out the next number: "170!" the official yelled. I looked again at my number -- 264 -- and realized it was going to be a long afternoon. I had to wait for 96 people in front of me in line to meet with one of the two officials, one of whom kept taking breaks to go outside and smoke a cigarette. Unfortunately, I hadn't brought anything to read (another rookie mistake), and sat there, for 2 1/2 hours, while I watched the unemployed around me becoming more and more aggravated and desperate. It was actually bizarrely suspenseful -- would they get through all of the numbers before the 5:00 deadline? Would the crowd of frustrated unemployed people stage a revolt if the unemployment official took yet another break to smoke his Camels? Would the woman talking too loudly on her cell phone win her argument with her boyfriend? The drama, the drama....

Finally, at 4:45 a woman emerged from a back office and spoke with one of the unemployment officials. Apparently, she was in charge because suddenly, after a slow-moving afternoon, 15 minutes before closing time, things started to happen. Numbers were called. Extra workers came of of their offices to help out (what were they doing all afternoon?) And Before I knew it, I was being summoned over to talk to someone in one of the back offices. I was out of the unemployment office by 5:00. It was a bureaucratic miracle.

Well, today I had to make another visit because a few days ago I received an ominous letter in the mail saying I might be accused of fraud because I hadn't reported some freelance income a few weeks before. Yikes. I didn't know I was supposed to. My freelancing income was under the amount that would affect my weekly unemployment benefit (you can make up to half of your weekly benefit amount before they start decreasing your unemployment payment -- which means I can make up to $192.50 a week before they start decreasing my payment).

The problem is -- even if I make more freelance income, do I report it the week I actually work, or the week I get a check in the mail? Sometimes, it takes clients a month or more to send me a check.

So this time I went to the unemployment office in the morning (having learned my lesson). My number was 69. When I sat down in the plastic chair, I heard them call out "Number 50!" I was thrilled. I only had to wait for 16 people ahead of me to meet with someone.

Plus, this time, I brought two books, a soy latte, and some notes for a freelance project I'm working on. I was prepared!

Turns out this time I didn't need it, though. Within 15 minutes, I was approached by an official who asked me what I needed. I showed her the ominous letter.

Oh, yes, we've been getting lots of those lately. Here, I'll find someone to help you.

I was seated across the desk from a young lad about 27. He was fresh-faced and eager. But he was still learning the ropes. I told him my dilemma: I didn't know I was supposed to record my income because it was below my alloted amount. He understood. He said it was no problem. I wasn't going to be accused of fraud. Yay!

But then I explained my other dilemma: Often, even though I work during a certain week, I don't get paid until a month later. So I'd prefer to report my earnings the week I actually get my check, so I'm not left without unemployment or a paycheck. He thought that would be fine, he said, but he had to double-check with his boss. He was new, after all.....

So, he went off to talk to his boss. Soon, he returned with his boss, a short woman with permed hair. She was shaking her head. "No, you have to report your income the week you WORK, not the week you get PAID," she said. I started to protest, "But that will leave me weeks where I have no income at all -- no unemployment, no freelance income...."

"Doesn't matter," she said. "Process and procedures. Process and procedures! We have to stick to the process and procedures!"

"But it's not like I'm cheating the government. I'll still report the income -- just a few weeks later than when I actually did the work."

"Nope, then you're running the risk of committing fraud!" she said, "You have to stick to the process and procedures!"

So....David and I may be penniless in coming weeks. All due to PROCESS AND PROCEDURES.

Our wonderful, brilliant government at work....

A little break from job-hunting

I love Arizona. I've only been there during the winter, though, and my love affair might come to an abrupt end if I vacationed in Phoenix in August when it's two million degrees in the shade. But after an unbearably arctic winter in Chicago, I couldn't
resist a cheap flight to the Valley of the Sun. Mind you, this was a week before I got
laid off. I saw bargain basement prices for flights from Chicago to Phoenix, and I went for it. Since I could crash at my friend Sheri's house, I figured I couldn't beat a short long-weekend vacation with one of my best friends, and also see another good friend, Heather, while I was there.

Then I got laid off. "I can't go." I told David. "We can't afford it!" But I had already paid for the ticket and it was non-refundable. So I could either go for the weekend, or waste a ticket which we had already paid for. Plus, David practically forced me to go. I think he was tired of being around a wife suffering from season affective disorder.

So I went....

A trip to Arizona is more than just a warm-weather vacation for me. It's a chance to see a friend I've known since I was 12. And a chance to reconnect with my good friend, Heather, who was someone I hung out with a lot before she moved South and before I was married.

I hadn't seen her since my wedding, and I missed her.

The first thing I noticed when I landed in Arizona was the sun, of course, and the light. The light is so different there. It's more "yellow" than in Chicago. In Chicago, the sun casts a cool light. In Arizona, it's a warmer color. Why is that? And the smells! I would take a walk and smell the orange trees, and something that smelled like sage. In Chicago, I just smell smog.

Anyway, the weekend was wonderful. Heather and I spent time climbing Camelback Mountain (not all the way!), and hanging out at a cool cafe down the street from her condo. We hung out by the pool.

Then I spent a few days with Sheri, visiting the Phoenix Art Museum, and the Chihuly installation at the Desert Botanic Gardens. It was a perfect break from job hunting (although I did a small freelance project while I was there!). And seeing so much beauty was food for the soul....

Facebook, we have a problem....

Dear Facebook,

I don’t exactly know how to tell you this – so I’ll just say it.

I’m breaking up with you.

I know I owe you an explanation. It’s me. Really. It’s not you.

You see, at first I was enamored with you. You were my ticket to an exciting social life. Being an introvert, you gave me over 100 friends. Think of that. Me, a bookish middle-aged homebody collecting over 100 friends in just a few weeks! I finally felt popular, cool and hip.

I loved you for that.

Of course, most of the friends I collected were nieces, nephews, sisters, brother, my husband and old college friends I haven’t talked to in 20 years. But hey, it made me feel good that so many people “friended” me.

I loved spending hours with you. In our honeymoon phase, I couldn’t get enough of you. I wanted to know what my friends were doing every minute. I would read the latest update from that guy I barely knew in college, and see photos documenting my friends’ seemingly perfect lives. I stalked my friends’ walls to find out what was going on in their worlds. I no longer had to pick up the phone to find out. I just had to click on their wall, and I’d know how they were feeling, what they were doing, and what time they were going to bed.

In the first months of our love, I wrote and rewrote my status, trying to come up with something witty and smart. I carefully edited and cropped the photos I posted. I didn’t want anyone to see me at a bad angle. Maybe if I cropped the photos just right, I might bear a slight resemblance to Tea Leoni and acquaintances I hadn’t seen in years would think, “Hey, she’s really aged well! She looks happy and successful!’

I craved comments. They reminded me that people were noticing me. Little ol’ me! They were interested that I just had oatmeal for breakfast. And they cared that I had survived a hellish commute on the train. Never before had anyone been so interested in the mundane details of my life. It made me feel loved.

I thought about you constantly. Even at work. I logged on in-between projects, hoping none of my colleagues would notice I was updating my status instead of working. I couldn’t get you off of my mind.

But then everything changed.

I started feeling empty and bad whenever we were together. I realized that my friends seemed interested in my photos and status updates. But often, that was the extent of our friendship. It was my fault just as much as theirs. I was just as guilty of merely trading status updates instead of picking up the phone and asking someone to meet me for coffee. But still, I felt vaguely bad that our friendship didn’t go beyond our virtual walls.

And I realized I felt jealous. I started comparing the carefully selected photos of my friends with my own carefully cropped photos. And guess what – I didn’t measure up. I started feeling like I needed to be something more – more successful to impress that old college friend. More beautiful, so that I would get more comments (and the right kind of comments) on my photos. More witty in order to prompt people to react to my status updates. And more financially stable so I could post pictures of a wonderful beach vacation.

I just can’t do it anymore, Facebook. You’re slowing stealing my soul and making me dissatisfied with the life God has given me. Spending too much time with you caused me to want to be someone different than who God has created me to be.

I think I deserve to spend time with someone who likes me for who I am, and knows the real me. The me who is more complex that what could ever be expressed in a 10 word status update.

All of those hours I’ve spend browsing the photos of my 100+ friends, and reading their wall postings? Those are hours I could have been writing a novel, or spending time with my husband, or knitting or painting or having coffee with a friend getting to know them and all of their joys and struggles and disappointments – not their Facebook persona.

I’ve decided I’d rather have real, deep, meaningful friends than the kind you offer. I want real community. Not brief, status updates. I want real, live flesh and blood hugs, not a little icon placed on my virtual wall.

Don’t get me wrong. You’ve given me a lot. A chance to connect with old friends. A way to see photos of my nieces and nephews. A way to keep up to date on the latest news.

But I don’t think that’s enough to keep us in a long-term relationship. I will miss you, and remember the wonderful times we had together.

I need to find myself again. And find my community.

And you know, God doesn’t even have a profile on Facebook, so I have to log out in order to be friends with him. I think I owe him some status updates.

So, goodbye for now, Facebook.

Don’t try to contact me or send me status updates. I will be busy living my life.