Newest Muppet Wants Meaningful Job (Doesn’t Everybody?)

Sesame Street will introduce Brandeis today, a service dog in training. Which means Sesame Street will be schooling the first generation of television viewers who will not only know the many wondrous tasks service dogs perform daily but also know how to behave around these dogs (e.g., don’t let your pooch initiate playtime when the service dog is working).

Well done, Sesame Street. Good luck, Brandeis. You’re training for something grander than you imagined.

No Holiday for the Unemployed

It’s Labor Day 2012 and many of you are enjoying the day off. For those without jobs, however, it’s a bitter reminder of what they’ve lost or can’t have—hardly a cause for celebration.

In an effort to reach across the divide, here’s something everyone can enjoy: two generations sharing their responses to a job rejection letter. (If you’ve seen this already, pass it on to someone who could use a smile.)

The Failed Volunteer Awaits Her Fate

Two days passed after my volunteering debacle at the Humane Society. I knew they still needed help that week, and I knew I was only on the standby list, yet a sinking feeling continued to weigh me down—a feeling that I’d been deleted from the volunteer roster.

Then my phone rang—they needed me!—and I was off to the land of abandoned and lost pets.

I assumed I would be helping the staff catch up on the routine work left undone by fundraiser preparations; I assumed I would be folding letters and stuffing envelopes. But, of course, you’ve already guessed what confronted me upon my arrival: the dreaded paper cutter.

“Ten thousand hours is the magic number of greatness.”
—Malcolm Gladwell

This round of paper cutting was for a different fundraiser and this time I wasn’t The Fixer. This time I would be the first volunteer to muck up the job.

I tried to take a positive approach to my assignment. I thought of Malcolm Gladwell’s Outliers, his book about attaining expertise and success. Research shows that it takes about 10,000 hours of doing anything—playing chess, painting, boxing, composing, building, singing, drawing, editing, sculpting—before you can master it. Though I harbored no dreams about becoming a master paper cutter, I had every intention of improving my skill set.

I’ve 10 hours behind me, and I don’t know how many hours ahead…

Rock, Paper, Scissors: A Flustered Volunteer Spends a Day with Her Inadequate Self

For reasons I won’t go into, I’ve not been able to be on my feet. Which means I’ve not been able to walk the dogs at the Humane Society, which has plagued me with guilt lately. So when an opportunity arose this week to perform office tasks for the Humane Society, I jumped at the chance. In fact, I offered to spend the entire day there.


Preparing for Volunteering
My day started badly before it was even time for me to get out of bed. My neighbor was awake before the sun peeped out, already enjoying the company of her visiting relatives. I know this because the building we live in has paper-thin walls and flooring with no insulation. If I couldn’t sleep through the party, I had no choice but to start my day.

As I putzed around the kitchen, trying not to disturb my husband’s slumbers, my husband was suddenly at my side holding out my phone to me. Ah, yes. I’d put my phone in the living room when I got up, but I’d failed to turn off the ALARM feature. As quiet as I’d tried to be, I’d pestered my husband out of sleep anyway. Profuse apologies on my part as my husband padded back to the bedroom.

Plenty of time lay ahead of me before I had to leave, time enough to cook a hearty breakfast. This part of my morning went fine until our newly installed smoke detector sounded off.

“Fire! Fire!” cried the robotic female voice. “Emergency!”

Bloody Hell. Now everyone in the building was surely awake. I opened the windows and fanned the sensitive contraption with a broom.

Again, my poor husband emerged from the bedroom and said, “If you wanted me to eat breakfast with you, you could have just said something.” More apologies on my part.

Finally, it was time to go. Actually, very nearly past time. I was careful to pack a lunch, snacks, and anything else I might need over the course of the day. Made it as far as the car before I realized I’d forgotten the glue sticks. Had to return for them since I’d promised to bring my own. (The Humane Society glues envelopes closed and the kind of glue they had the last time I volunteered was messy. So I thought I’d use my own glue sticks for faster, neater work.)

Now I had to WALK (which I was not supposed to be doing) all the way back to the apartment to find the sticks, which naturally roused my dear husband from his dreams once more. Arrrgh.

I made it to the Humane Society in time. Despite the rain, and despite the driver of the impaired scooter who had traffic crawling the pike.

I settled into my “office space” (i.e., the kitchen) at the Humane Society and tried to ignore the equipment set out on the table. I assured myself, THAT’s not for me. I’m going to be folding and stuffing or sorting and filing. THAT thing is someone else’s project.

Of course, true to the tone already set for the day, the Volunteer Coordinator tells me the “thing” (a paper cutter) is, indeed, my tool for the entire day. I considered leaving right then.


Should I Stay or Should I Go?
I’m serious.

I felt stuck in that proverbial spot between the rock and the hard place. If I left, I would be letting down the organization. If I stayed, I would likely let down the organization. Memories of past battles with similar tools flooded my consciousness while I dithered about what to do.

For the record, I have a range of skills. Some I excel at and wish someone valued them enough to pay me handsomely for: reading, editing, proofreading, public speaking, creating and streamlining processes and procedures, trouble-shooting and problem-solving. Some of my skills I use only at home—they’re serviceable but not good enough to share: playing the piano, flute, and djembe, cooking, gardening. Then, there’s the list—by far the longest—of UNskills: the things I cannot, and should not, do. Among the infinite items on this list are using a paper cutter, using an X-ACTO knife, using scissors, drawing anything.


Displaying Team Colors and Humiliation
Eons ago I toiled as a proofreader and copy editor for a marketing agency. Sometimes, at the end of the day, one department or another was frantically putting the finishing touches on some project that FedEx was scheduled to pick up at any moment. To this cluster of activity I usually offered my assistance, which usually entailed copying, collating, sorting, or packaging. However, one evening, I offered assistance to the design department.

A graphic designer set me up with a cutting mat, a straightedge, and a knife—tools of his trade at the time. He instructed me to cut out the ads from the galleys. It was easy—no measuring necessary. I simply had to line up a ruler with the crop marks and then knife out the excess paper. I knew the routine. I’d watched my precise, architect father do such a thing thousands of times. But I also knew my limitations and asked the designer if there wasn’t some other way I could help.

I got that “look” from him—as if he couldn’t believe what he was hearing, as if I was insincere about wanting to help.

I caved. I said of course I would cut the ads. You see, I had garnered a certain amount of respect and admiration from my colleagues at the agency for my editing skills and my design savvy. I was held in esteem and I didn’t want to jeopardize my reputation.

With laser focus and a determination to excel, I began cutting. Cautiously. Too cautiously, probably. From the top crop mark to the bottom one, I removed the excess paper and turned the ad to make the next cut. At this point, I apparently lost all track of time. The graphic designer returned to my side, expecting to collect five finished ads from me yet seeing that I’d accomplished next to nothing.

He inspected my efforts. And he was kind. “Hmmm. Let me show you an easy way to do this.” He fixed my jagged edges and talked me through the next cut. I thanked him for the step-by-step instructions, and he stepped away.

He hadn’t told me anything I didn’t already know. But knowing and doing are two entirely different things, aren’t they? I could get from Point A to Point B easily enough, but the route was never the most direct. And the results were less than satisfactory, which I could easily discern. The curious part of this clumsiness is that I’m agile in other arenas: music, dance, theatre. Why, oh why did straight lines elude me?

When the graphic designer checked my progress the next time, his face lit with alarm and pity. “You really can’t cut straight, can you?” I shook my head in shame. No, I really can’t.


Doomed to Disappoint
Fast-forward to my day at the Humane Society. Not only was I expected to cut out HUNDREDS of small rectangles of paper (with NO crop marks as guides), but half of the rectangles had already been cut and mucked up by other volunteers. I was brought in as THE FIXER!

Oh My Dog! Could this be worse? I tried to explain my cutting track record, but was told to just do what I could. Which I did. But it was a miserable way to spend 7 hours.

The staff at the Humane Society is warm and friendly and appreciative of all volunteers. Each one thanked me for the tremendous work I was doing. Many of them remarked on the monotony of the job and what a trooper I was to put up with it.

Ha! Little did they know. Work can’t be monotonous when every moment of it challenges your skill sets and composure.

A couple of things kept my spirits up, though. First, two of the resident cats kept me company throughout the ordeal. And second, and more important, the paper rectangles I was cutting were slated for use at an upcoming fundraiser—the black-tie Beastie Ball—the Humane Society was throwing. My ego could withstand a hit or two on behalf of homeless pets.

I’ll recover my dignity soon enough. The question is: Will I ever again be asked to volunteer?

[All vintage art from The Graphics Fairy.]

Dinosaurs, Primates, and Thoroughbreds: Looking for My Dream Job

While reading Gregg Levoy’s Callings: Finding and Following an Authentic Life, I realized I’ve envisioned working with animals or on their behalf since I was first asked “What do you want to be when you grow up?” Hence my application for a position at a primate sanctuary recently.

I could hardly believe my luck when I saw the ad—“No experience necessary. Will train.”

So I researched the place, got to know the residents, and crafted the perfect cover letter.

Never heard from them.

It’s just as well, probably. I was a little terrified about the pending fight for hierarchy between two generations of chimpanzees. The organization has a no-intervention philosophy that might have been difficult to stomach once the young chimps realized their power over the older alpha male.

I continue to keep an eye out for animal jobs that I’m either qualified for (precious few since I’m neither a vet tech or a fundraiser) or that won’t have me sobbing every time a new rescue is brought in. Imagine my excitement when this headline popped up:
Need Someone to Help Babysit My Pet Dinosaur

Who wouldn’t want to work with a dinosaur? I clicked through to the job description to find this:
You didn't really think I had a pet dinosaur, did you?

If you’re smart enough to know better than that, you’re already ahead of my idiot staff. They just can’t seem to understand how to perform basic tasks and get to work on time. So I am going on a hiring/firing spree. I need competent individuals who know how and are willing to do their jobs. I will pay top dollar and full benefits after a 60-day probation period.

Pet dinosaur or not, who would want to work for this subhuman?

But yesterday I at last found my dream job: Exercise Rider. Here’s the ad:
Exercise rider needed to gallop Thoroughbred racehorses. Must be experienced galloping Thoroughbred racehorses and weigh less than 125 lbs.
The cover letter would be easy to write; the in-person proof-of-experience could be a harder sell:

1. I’ve never been on a Thoroughbred, but I spent many childhood hours with Quarter Horses, Appaloosas, and Arabians. I could fudge it.

2. It’s been 20 years since I weighed 125 pounds. Even if I could fool the stable manager, I couldn’t fool the horse.

3. I’m often gravity-challenged. That is, I fall off. I’ve never been afraid to get back on the horses and I’ve never blamed them for their participation (bucking, rearing, stepping on me once I’m down) in my embarrassment. But this might be the deal-breaker when competing for the position.

Sigh. Another perfect job slips away from me before I can even apply for it. But I’ll keep looking.

Maybe next week some multimillion-dollar stable here will need a “Horse Petter.” In fact, I’ll write my cover letter now so I’ll be ready.

Unemployed Laze About While Taking Money from Our Government

I've been noticing the number 6 lately in the news. It's the estimated number of people who apply for each job opening. And it riles me every time I see it. So I thought I'd address my concerns with a letter to one of the writers perpetuating this mythical number.


Dear Ms. Easton,

I'm not certain whether your recent article for Time magazine, "A Limit to Compassion," was meant to be commentary or a report. But for as many stats as you paraded along with their origins, there's one that stands out as highly suspect:
"With an estimated six people applying for every job available, there's plenty of merit to that argument."

I'm surprised you didn't use this estimate as proof that the unemployed aren't trying hard enough to get jobs. Heck, I had more competition in high school for my seat in the orchestra.

Though you don't say where this estimate comes from or how it was tabulated (and why don't you?), I suspect it's from Juju.com—a job board search engine that arrived at that number merely by dividing the number of unemployed with the number of job openings. The estimate has gotten a lot of mainstream press coverage.

A Reality Check
First, Americans should understand that job openings are open to everyone—not just to the unemployed. And Juju.com's estimate doesn't include the number of employed people who are applying for positions alongside their unemployed former colleagues.

Second, share that estimate with any unemployed person or HR staff member receiving résumés right now and I think you'd get a different story. Granted, some positions require such unusual skills that few people qualify to apply. And some positions are in locations that few people want to brave the weather or the distance or the local culture to take. But especially in industries that are hemorrhaging (e.g., publishing and car manufacturing), competition for jobs is fierce.

I don't doubt that lots of people (myself included) will run through all their unemployment benefits. But the economists tell only a partial tale.

The Story Behind the Story
While I'm on the dole, I'm looking for a job. And I'm applying for jobs—across the nation. And I know I'm not alone in this.

No, I've not applied to be the bagger at my local grocery store yet (though I have offered to give them a seminar on the art of bagging, something that clearly eludes the staff where I shop). No, I've not tried to get freelance work. That will be the first thing I do when my unemployment benefits run out. Actually, I'm gearing up for it already—making lists of contacts, software and equipment needed, organizations to join, seed money needed. But ideally I'd like a full-time job that uses the skills I have and offers some challenges to boot. Or just uses the skills I have. And here's where Juju.com's math gets wonky.

I applied to some job openings months and months ago that are STILL OPEN. Some employers have outrageous expectations of the skills candidates should have. That's their prerogative. But it doesn't get the positions filled. And then those positions remain in the job vacancy rate.

Unlike many job-seekers I know, I don't lie about my abilities. So if a job ad says I need to have extensive knowledge of astronomy, I bypass it. And I DO apply for jobs in my industry that are rungs and rungs beneath the height I'd reached. I don't have a problem with downward mobility, but many HR people do. They think I'll resent the low salary once on the job and become a problem employee, or that I'll not be able to take direction from anyone since I used to run the show, or that I'll not be able to accept a supervisor younger than myself, or that I'll want to move up too fast, or that I'll be too set in my ways to adapt to a new set of rules and processes. These are valid concerns. So I try to address them in my cover letters.

Yes, these are desperate times. But job-seekers have to be careful: The job needs to pay enough to live on (which is why I've abandoned hope for a job in NYC). And the job needs to be in a location that serves their family's needs (e.g., my husband requires medical care that's typically found only near large medical facilities and research universities).

There are thousands of people who could never meet the expectations of the jobs I'm applying for, but could be fine receptionists, accountants, or personal assistants. If I fill the receptionist opening, I will have reduced the options for those people. While I have unemployment benefits coming in, I'm choosing to avoid this scenario. Without unemployment benefits, I may have to acquiesce.

The Outlook on Job Reform
The job market needs more than new jobs. It needs a drastically transformed mindset on the part of managers, HR specialists, and recruiters. It needs application systems that work for the applicants as well as the companies. It needs internships and apprenticeships that are open to noncollege candidates. It needs CEOs who understand the value of training and the value of making every employee broadly employable rather than trained only for one niche in one company.

Ugh. I could go on. But time is precious and my job-hunting awaits. I will be applying for three positions this weekend, and I can assure you that I will have to best many, many more than 5 competitors for each one.

Respectfully,
Lill


[Art attributed to Gabriel Metsu.]

I'm No Dr. Dolittle

I was on the Huffington Post yesterday and noticed the debut of this little guy. Isn't he adorable (in that only-a-mother-could-love way)? Unfortunately, his mother proved herself as nonmaternal with his previous two siblings so he (nameless as yet) is being bottle-fed and cared for by two zookeepers.

Now there's a profession I considered at a very young age: zookeeper. When I was 5, my father drove our family on a cross-country road trip to the West. And one of the most memorable stops for me was the San Diego Children's Zoo.

Zookeepers there fed tiny lions, carried diapered primates, and played with a variety of nature's youngsters. What a noble and every-minute-filled-with-fun career, my 5-year-old self thought.

I still think about it, and have even perused some job sites for zoo personnel. But I don't have the credentials to be allowed to interact with creatures, and I think I'd be a short-timer in a position like Stall Cleaner.