"Did I tell you my mom called first thing this morning?"

"No. What did she have to say?"

"I got the 'You have to do something' speech again. I told her about selling the car and my purses and coats, and then I read her the list of all the places I'd applied, yet she still wasn't satisfied. She kept repeating, 'You have to do something,' and I pictured her clutching her knees, rocking back and forth, all hot-water-burn-baby-like. I finally hung up on her because she was giving me an anxiety attack."

"Sometimes I can't believe she's a licensed therapist."

I shrug. "She's really good in a professional setting. But with me it's like 'The cobbler's children have no shoes.' Remember when she didn't hear from me for a few days, and she wanted to send Todd up to Chicago to look for me?"

"Weren't you traveling on business that week?"

"Yes, and that would have been any normal person's natural a.s.sumption. Instead, she thought I'd run away from home." Bob reappears. "Shh-it's on."

The next contestant wins a trip onstage by bidding $2 when the person before her bid $1. "That's dirty pool, missy!" I shout at the television.

"What just happened?" Apparently Fletch did not spend his childhood stalking Bob Barker, which probably contributed to why it was such an unhappy one.

"When the first few contestants bid an amount that seems too high, another contestant can choose to bid $1. Which is fine. It's almost a guaranteed win, and it's a good strategy when competing with morons who have no idea how much stuff costs. What's not fine is when a $1 bid is followed by a $2 bid, which totally screws the $1 person."

"Doesn't the $2 person generally win with that maneuver?"

"Yes, and that's why it's wrong. Look...see? That jacka.s.s just won the washer and dryer. Hmph. I hope she gets the putting challenge. No one ever wins the putting challenge."

Fletch yawns deeply. "Explain to me again why it was so important that I get out of bed to see this."

Before I can answer, the dogs start to go wild Vegas-style. I peer out the window and see a guy wearing a tool belt bending over our air-conditioning unit with a giant screwdriver. Unfortunately, it's not the kind of wild you'd hope for when a total stranger appears unannounced on your deck, holding a blunt instrument. It's more of a tail-wagging, dance-in-your-pants, could-this-be-the-happiest-momentin-all-of-canine-history? sort of wild. The dogs had this same exact reaction when the crackhead pulled a rubber knife on Fletch when we lived in Bucktown...utter and complete joy at the pleasure of making the vagrant's acquaintance.

"So much for their careers as guard dogs," I say.

Fletch goes outside to talk to the contractor while I watch the end of the show. The jacka.s.s makes it to the showdown and totally overbids on her showcase, which includes a new car and a boat. HA! Justice is served.

"You won't believe what the problem was."

"What?"

"No one hooked our unit up to an electric source after it was installed. Although we could get the fan to run because of the furnace, it wasn't connecting to the AC's compressor, which is chilled by freon, hence all the warm air. The contractor's putting in a fuse now so we should be up and running within the hour."

I mull over this information. "What you're telling me is the blowery thing worked fine but it never made the big whoosh full of cold, cold air so the pipes didn't get sweaty and the issue was a lack of access to the chilly-making juice. Which means I was right."

Fletch nods. "Too bad Bill doesn't speak gibberish, or this could have been resolved weeks ago."

I've feared this day for many months. But each time our savings dipped to the level where possibility turned to reality, some sort of miracle occurred such as the arrival of a long-lost commission check and I was able to stave off the inevitable. I consider myself lucky to have been able to hold out for a professional job as long as I have.

But the day has come.

It is time...to work retail.

I imagine the hiring process will be easier for a retail job. Instead of being asked about my five-year plan, I'll simply have to confirm I can work on Sat.u.r.days and can lift fifty pounds. To land the gig, there's a good chance I won't have to do a PowerPoint presentation about market segmentation because their potential customers will be the ones who walk through the door. Although I don't know that a retail job will be easy, I'm confident that the search parameters will be a lot less stringent.

I'm off.... Wish me luck.

To: Michigan Avenue Pottery Barn From: [email protected] Date: May 3, 2003 Subject: Sales a.s.sociate h.e.l.lo, Attached you'll find my resume sent in con sideration for open positions within Pottery Barn.

I'm an ideal candidate for employment because I paid my way through college by working retail.163 I have almost seven years of retail experience and became famous within my old company for creating the "Ten Commandments of Customer Service." I'm particularly proud of Commandment Seven-If a customer tells you to dance, strap on your tap shoes and ask if they'd prefer show tunes.

I seek retail work now because I've gotten off the corporate fast track. When I was laid off from an executive position back in 2001, I worked a variety of temporary a.s.signments 164while searching for a position commensurate with what I had. But in so doing, I discovered I had a pa.s.sion for writing and now getting published is my priority.165 However, I can't write all the time, so I seek a part-time retail position. Pottery Barn is the natural choice for me as it's my favorite store, not only for the merchandise, but also because of the service provided by its team members.166 And with my service background, I could never work for a store that didn't treat its customers well.167 I'd be delighted to discuss my qualifications in person, should any opportunities be available.

Best, Jennifer A. Lancaster

I haven't heard a peep from any of the stores where I applied last week. I think I may have gone in smacking of anxiety with a bit of crazy about the eyes. Today I'm changing my tactics. Maybe if I look like I don't need a job, my indifference will drive them MAD to hire me.

I stack all my jeweled bracelets on my wrists, make my hair big, and exchange my very average-sized wedding ring for the one Lagos ring I haven't yet sold. It's a large white topaz, and everyone a.s.sumes it's a gigantic diamond. I put on a cute-but-casual khaki skirt and the new sweater my mother got me last month-the only truly stylish-right-this-second item I own at the moment-and squirt myself with my few remaining drops of J'Adore Dior. (I hope it's enough to cover up the stink of desperation.) I sail out of a cab and into Barnes & n.o.ble on State Street. I chat up the information booth guy and, in what's supposed to look like an afterthought, ask for an application in my best bored-society-wife-looking-for-a-bit-of-a-diversion-and-if-this-doesn't-work-out-I'll-just-nail-the-gardener voice.

I turn in the application with a flourish, cursed Prada bag causally slung on my shoulder, an iced latte clutched in my freshly manicured (by me) hand. I a.s.sure the desk guy again what a jolly good lark this working thing would be for a restless, kept woman, before sauntering out the door.

Then I walk ten blocks to the bus stop so I won't have to pay an extra thirty cents for a transfer.

Faux casual didn't work either.

Now what?

"Why is someone calling us so late on a Wednesday? It must be after midnight." I glance at the caller ID.

"Who is it?" Fletch is half in the bag on a school night. I tolerate this solely because it's about the only time he smiles or laughs anymore.

"Dunno. We don't know anyone with a cell phone in the 630 area code, right?"

"Probably a wrong number. Let voice mail get it."

A minute after the phone rings, we hear the doorbell.

"What the h.e.l.l?" I ask. I look out the back window and see a couple of unfamiliar cars idling in our parking lot. "Fletch, what's going on?"

"I don't know. I'll go down and answer the door."

"Here, take this." I thrust a rolling pin at him.

"Do you want me to bake them a pie? I'll be fine." He heads downstairs to the front door.

I stand by the phone, ready to call the police. I see Fletch walk out to his SUV and talk to the small group of people gathered around it. One of the guys appears to have a badge. Exactly what is going on here? Did these guys catch someone trying to steal our car? Uh-oh, I hope our insurance is up-to-date. Fletch handles all our bills but I'm starting to wonder what kind of job he's been doing. Lately we've gotten calls from bill collectors, although Fletch swears it's by mistake.

I watch as he begins to take items out of the car. He makes a small pile of CDs and his emergency road repair kit. Then I see him take his keys out of his pocket and hand them to the man with the badge. Mr. Badge gets into the car and starts it, slowly backing out of our parking s.p.a.ce.

A couple of minutes later, Fletch returns.

"What is going on? Who were those people? Why did he have a badge? Where is he going with our car?"

Fletch silently goes to the fridge, gets out another beer, and lights the first cigarette I've ever seen him smoke inside the house. He sits down heavily on the couch and puts his face in his hands. I rush to his side.

"Fletch, what just happened to your car?"

Fletch puffs slowly and pensively on his cigarette, finally answering, "It was repossessed."

"I don't understand. We're current on the car payment."

"Jen, we're not current on anything."

"What do you mean?" I look at him, waiting for a reaction, but he sits motionless. "Wait. Are you saying the repossession wasn't a mistake? What do we have to do to get it back?"

"We have to pay off the loan in full."

"Which is how much?"

"$7000, which is approximately $6995 more than we have. The car is gone. We're not getting it back."

I sit quietly for a few minutes, absorbing the information. "But what are we going to do without a car? How are either of us going to get a job without a car?"

"I don't know."

"If you didn't pay the car note, then what about the rest of our bills? Are we still OK? You said we'd be OK on bills for a while."

"I lied. I haven't paid a lot of them in a couple of months. All the money we have has gone toward rent and utilities."

I walk into Fletch's office and find a stack of unopened letters marked Delinquent, Past Due, and Third Request. "Why didn't you open these?"

"I knew we couldn't pay them, so I didn't bother."

"Honey, why didn't you talk to me about any of this?"

"I didn't want to worry you." Fletch drops his cigarette in an empty beer bottle, where it fizzles for a couple of seconds.

"So what can I do now to help?"

"I don't know, Jen. I just don't know."

To: [email protected] From: David Date: June 12, 2003 Subject: Idiots with Jobs A year ago my wife and I got laid off from two different companies in the same week. Like you, the money runs thin eventually. So I am driving down Long Island wondering what I can do about it and I come upon a diner advertising for people. Well, s.h.i.t, I thought, I will give that a go.

Apparently not.

Apparently you can't get a job in a diner until you've had a number of years experience, or so the toothless wonder who ran the place informed me. "Oh no, you don't wait tables in a 3 million dollar diner straight off." So it would appear that while I was out there running 50 million dollar computer operations in Europe and the US, I was actually wasting my time. I should have been in Mamma's Greasy Poke Shoppe paying my dues for my future career.

I didn't get the job and I still don't have a job, nor does my wife, but I solved a problem that I know has been getting to you, Jen. Now we know why the idiots have all the jobs!!

David

To: David From: Date: June 13, 2003 Subject: RE: Idiots with Jobs David, I am infuriated for you, although I can't say I'm surprised. I hear this kind of story a lot lately. One of my doggie park buddies (ex-consulting firm employee) had an interview at Neiman Marcus and the interviewer didn't see how her previous experience controlling work flow, communicating with the client, supervising employees, and managing time and budget had properly prepared her to ring up scarves, key rings, and pantyhose.

It's completely insane out there-try to stay strong, Jen