Defending my life

It is my belief that during a phone interview, the kiss of death at the end of the conversation is when the interviewer does not immediately secure an in-person interview with the interviewee.


We have a lot of candidates for this position; we will call you if you make it to the next round, might as well translate to: Sorry your phone interview skills blow. Better luck next time, sucker!


In my humble opinion, anyway.

This afternoon I had a quite unexpected phone interview with the recruiter from Aerospace Company S. Unexpected because I called him back 10 days ago. I had long since written off this job as even a possibility. This trumped up secretary position that I don't even want anyway. Nevertheless, I decided maybe it paid more than I was imagining; maybe I was selling this opportunity short. So when Lester called me today, I called him right back.

So ensued an hour of me defending every professional and personal decision I've made since my junior year of college. Lester wanted to know why I chose the major I chose, why I quit each job I had, how I got hired at my last job (as if I was so grossly under-qualified for the position), and finally, and most insulting to me, he questioned my choice to move to California. I might as well have told him I moved here for the waves and the weed.

Apparently wanting to move somewhere other than one's own home state and enjoying another state's weather is code for something more nefarious than I must be revealing. Lester does not see me as brave, adventurous, or daring for picking up and moving to the coast; he sees me as indecisive, like I'm just floating through my life moving in whichever way the wind blows.

By the time I got off the phone with Lester, I was thoroughly disgusted, offended, and completely put-off. You'd think I was applying for a rocket scientist position instead of an admin position that only requires two years of college, the way this man spoke to me.

I have news for you Lester: I am OVERqualified for this position. You can take your glorified secretary position and your judgments about my personal and professional decisions and shove them both up your @ss!

Moonlighting

It's official. Daniel starts his new job March 8. Today he let his boss know he was leaving and made the arrangements to finish his current projects before he leaves Aerospace Company X. That means that for a few weeks Daniel will be driving to Aerospace Company J in the mornings, working an eight-hour shift and then driving to Aerospace Company X for another eight-hour shift.

For a few weeks, Daniel will have two jobs to go to. I have none. Zero. Zip. Zilch.

I'm sitting here stewing. Trying not to feel like a big fat bitch for not being as happy as Daniel (who is so happy he's walking around his house whistling). Of course I'm happy for him. I've said that before. I want him to have a job. Two jobs even. Hell, if he wanted to work two jobs for awhile, that's cool. For some reason hearing Daniel say he's starting his new job March 8 and will be working two jobs for awhile, makes me want to cry. It upsets me. It's not jealousy. Not quite, I guess. I'm not sure what the feeling is. Abandonment? Failure? Depression? Anxiety? All of the above?

It would just be nice if I could find one job making half of what he makes (a seemingly impossibility in this market).

Elbow deep in shit

It took me a full eight months after I first moved to California before I succumbed to certain 'California' lifestyle realities, one of which was frequent car washing. It was only after a coworker who I had never talked to before confronted me in the parking lot one afternoon after work demanding that I get my car washed, that I finally gave in and took it in to get cleaned.

All it took was one cleaning for me to be hooked on washing my car. (Or rather, paying someone else to wash my car for me.) It was so shiny! It looked so good. So unlike the car I'd been riding around in for the past year. I was in love with my new clean car.

Of course it rained not two days later and my shiny wax job was speckled with dried acid rain drops, but no matter! I realized for $20 or less, I could have both the inside and outside of my car sparkling while I relaxed in the sun waiting for it to be towel-dried.

It's not like I became obsessive about washing my car. I didn't buy into any of the memberships the car wash place tried to sell me. But it was nice that I could wash my car whenever it needed to be washed. At the time $20 even $25 was nothing.

This morning I was packing up my car with all my stuff that I cart back and forth between my apartment and Daniel's condo. As I reached for the passenger side handle, I instantly recoiled my hand and screamed. There on the passenger side door was the biggest, white bird dump I had ever seen. It was so large and thick; it was offensive to me. Like the bird had done it on purpose. Quickly I looked over at my neighbor Erin's Jeep. (She parks next to me in the drive.) I expected to see dump splatter projected onto her driver's side door. (Luckily for Erin, there was no dump splatter.)

The thing is, this dump is so big and thick and crusty, it's not going to come off in any regular car wash. I can tell from looking at it that it's going to take major elbow grease to get it to disappear. Normally I'd just pay someone to do it for me. However, I'm unemployed. I can no longer afford such luxuries.

And so I've realized another one of the detriments of being unemployed: finding myself elbow deep in bird shit.

McDonalds' level jobs for the educated

When I was 26 I became a newspaper reporter for a small but well-known weekly publication. I was pursuing my writing dream and it felt great. Until I realized that in order to be a writer (my dream!), I had to take a pay cut from what I had been making in social services. I had not realized any other career actually paid less than social services until I became a reporter. My social services wage of $14.85 an hour was cut by more than $3 an hour down to a low $11 something an hour when I signed on as a reporter.

At 26 I literally became a starving artist.

It occurred to me at the time that the wage I was earning was less than what people make while working at McDonalds. To me, my pay was McDonalds level for the educated class. Needless to say, I didn't last long as a full time reporter - a scant six months. I saw the writing on the wall immediately. (No pun intended.) I saw how hard reporters worked and how little they got paid even when they had real experience (something I didn't have). When I handed in my resignation to my editor, she looked at me and said, Why are you doing this to me? I actually felt bad when she said that. It wasn't anything personal. But I could leave reporting to become a secretary at a law firm making $15 an hour. It was a no-brainer.

As it happens, times haven't changed all that much in four years which is somewhat depressing when I consider that cost of living has gone up, and that I live in California where cost of living is nearly double what it was for me when I lived in Wisconsin.

Perhaps my search elements need to be adjusted during my job searches? I can't even describe how many jobs I see posted with an egregious pay amount for any educated or non-educated Californian. Minimum wage in California is $8. There are many open positions offering the bonus pay of $2 to $4 an hour above minimum wage.

Are you kidding me? That's a ridiculous wage in the Midwest let alone in exorbitant-cost-of-living-land here on the West Coast. To be fair, I see a lot of jobs for $11 to $13 an hour or $12 to $15 an hour. Every once in awhile I might see a job for $15 to $20 an hour, but those jobs seem to require a Masters degree and/or 5 to 10 years of experience.

I feel like I'm in the Twilight Zone. I'm uncertain if all these jobs that offer such shoddy pay exist in normal economic conditions, or if companies can get away with low-balling prospective employees because harsh economic times at some point or another demand  (after so many months of living off unemployment) that people just take a job. Any job. A job that (after taxes) pays substantially less than what he or she was making on unemployment.

It's sickening.

I feel caught between a rock and hard place. Will I ever make the money I was making before? Or am I doomed to go back to the me at age 26, making $11 an hour, paying double for rent here in California of what I paid for rent in Wisconsin, and waitressing or bartending as my second job just to make ends meet? Is this the point where I go back to school and incur more debt and finish my Masters degree and hope to catapult my income through education? Or would I simply become an overly educated still unemployed person who has to default on paying back her school loans and spiral into greater debt? (I recently read a scary story on yahoo.com about a woman who became a physician's assistant and now owes $500,000 in student loans from ballooning interest on defaulted payments. No thanks! Not for me.)

Last night Daniel called. He has two potential jobs offers. The first would pay him $64.10 an hour and have great benefits. The second would pay him $74 an hour and have no benefits. No matter where he ends up, he will get a raise in pay from what he makes now at Aeorospace Company X. I am definitely happy for him. Of course I want him to get a job before his current job ends. Of course I don't want the both of us to be on unemployment.

I realize that he has 15 years of experience in the industry and I don't even have 15 months. But it seems slightly unfair to me that he (who still has a job) has two potential jobs lined up and will make even more money than he already does; while I (no longer have a job) have no potential jobs lined up and with the jobs available to me will likely get paid $20 or more less an hour than what I was making at Aerospace Company X.

At age 30, with seven years of professional experience, in this wonderful economic time, the best I can seem to do is $15 an hour, a wage I was making at 26 with 3 years of professional experience under my belt.

Someday I long to experience real professional success. That day is not today.

Bend over and take it?

I am irrationally angry lately. I blame this on unemployment.

This afternoon my dad and I went on a bike ride. Blue skies, sunny, high 70's, little breeze. We chugged up a hill that leads away from the beach on our one-gear cruiser bikes. At the top of the hill my dad stopped to press the button to stop traffic so we could cross Ocean Boulevard. The light turned green and I began pedaling across the street. On the opposite side of the street was a motorcyclist. The first few words from his mouth as I passed him were, hey you better watch it... I didn't hear the rest but could tell he was still talking and whatever he was saying was directed at my dad. Without delay I raised my right arm into the air and waved the middle finger at him yelling f*ck you at him.

As soon as my dad caught up I snarled at my dad. What was that guy's problem?!

I don't think he had a problem, my dad replied. Obviously he did, I practically spat. He told you to watch it. I should point out that this isn't the first time someone has honked at me and my dad or shaken their finger at us while passing us in their car as we glide down the street. My dad looked slightly uncomfortable as he said, yeah he told me to watch it because I had a beautiful lady on my tail.

That doesn't even make sense, I said. There wasn't anyone behind us.

I think he meant you, my dad said.

Last night I attempted to file my taxes on-line. Seeing the projected refund amount dwindle by $1000 when I added my second W-2 form into the equation quickly put me in a sour mood. Last year I paid $11,000 in federal taxes with the combined income from working at Aerospace Company X (March through December) and Restaurant C (January and February). Because I made such a little amount when I worked at Restaurant C, I was in a low tax bracket and only paid 10% of my income toward taxes. At Aerospace Company X my income was high enough to catapult me into the 25% tax bracket. That means I have to pay 15% of what I made the first two months of the year at Restaurant C to the government. That means a shitty, shitty tax return for someone who paid nearly $15,000 in taxes combined between state and federal income tax.

Daniel, who is getting 10 times the amount of what I'm getting back as a refund, is insistent I need to see an accountant (his accountant) before filing my taxes. Of course Daniel made more money than I did, paid more in taxes, owns his own house and a boat and has about a million other write-offs that maximize his return.

That's OK. Us single, childless, renters don't need our money. No, no, no! Please. Penalize me because I'm not married, don't have kids and don't have the money to buy a house. That's right! I don't deserve to get back as much money as someone that is married or has kids or owns a house. Thank you very much.

I am royally pissed off. I was depending on my income tax return to help me float a bit easier than I have been as of late. Every year since I've started working/paying taxes I've gotten a shitty ass return. I figured since I paid so much in taxes this year (and considering that when I worked overtime they took half of what I made toward taxes) that I would finally, finally see a decent tax return for once in my life.

Now I'm staring at my computer screen wondering if I should put the shitty ass return I'm supposed to be getting aside for next year's taxes. Or hope on a wing and a prayer that I find a job soon. So the government can continue to gouge me some more and take an enormous amount of my hard earned income for taxes.

These are the days when I don't feel guilty for living on unemployment. At least I'm finally benefitting from the thousands of dollars I've paid as a single, childless, renter in taxes over the years.

In the neighborhood

One of the benefits of unemployment is an overabundance of free time. The problem with all this free time is that most people I know work. Luckily for me my dad arrived in town Saturday night. Like me, he is also unemployed.

Those that I know who work (nearly everyone I know) sometimes look at me with wonder and awe and ask me what I do with all my free time. My guess is they can't imagine what it would be like to not be working. Truthfully, most the time I'm at Daniel's. Looking for a job, writing, blogging, etc. While my dad has been in town, however, I've been enjoying sleeping in my own bed.

My dad and I spend our days riding bikes along the ocean, going to the coffee shop five blocks from my house (he pays), taking walks, reading and lounging.

Today while biking along our usual route we decided to venture to an unfamiliar part of Long Beach: Second Street. I've lived in Long Beach for five months now. Because of my hectic schedule while working at Aerospace Company X, I never had the time or energy to do much exploring around the neighborhood. Second Street is roughly three miles away from where I live. Long enough to make a round-trip walk slightly unrealistic; short enough to feel guilty for driving. (I won't even mention the parking situation in that area.)

My dad wanted to stop at Polly's, a coffee shop on Second famous for roasting a wide variety of coffee beans. For Valentine's Day he wanted to send my sister a pound of locally roasted coffee.

Today was the second time in my life that I've been to Second Street, but I rarely remember the first. It was after a wedding, before I had moved to California. My ex-friend has a friend that bartends at Lucille's. All I remember about that night is driving a long way to get to Long Beach and having to stand in line to go to a bar that seriously had like five people in it. I had not been impressed with Long Beach or Second Street that night.

Second Street looks a lot different during the day than it does at night. For one thing, my first impression was that Second Street is one bar right after the next. I was delighted to learn today that there is so much more. There were tons of restaurants with patrons lounging at sidewalk tables. There were coffee shops and pastry shops and creperies. There were brand name stores like Banana republic and non brand name fashion boutiques. There were nail and hair salons, high end food markets, and music stores. Best of all were the niche stores like the store that sells olive oil and its derivatives and Frosted the knock-off of Sprinkles cupcakes. All this in the first four blocks--the only blocks on Second Street where we wandered.

At Polly's we bought a pound of coffee for my sister, a cup of coffee for my dad and an Cappuccino Royale (espresso with steamed chocolate milk and whipped cream) for me. At the olive oil store my dad bought a bottle of California pressed olive oil. At Frosted we went slightly hog wild buying four cupcakes.

When we finally wheeled the bikes back into my apartment two and a half hours after we had set off on our journey, my dad looked at me and with a huge smile said, Today was fun. I laughed. That's because we spent money, I said.

I probably won't go back to Second Street all that often once my dad leaves town. Second Street is wonderful. Too wonderful in fact. I've never been a good window shopper, and right now window shopping is the only type of shopping I can afford to do. So instead of drooling over Frosted cupcakes from the other side of the window, I'll try to put their close proximity and their decadent, creamy frosting out of my mind. Until I find a job, that is!

Some loose ends

• This morning I stepped on the scale and sigh my weight remained the same. Actually I was a full half a pound heavier than the lightest I've been in ... well, years. Then I took off Daniel's oversized sweatshirt and my long sleeve shirt. Triumph! I was a full two pounds lighter. I contemplated how much lighter I would be if I took off my pants and underwear but was satisfied enough with the two-pound reduction to walk away from the scale and go make myself some hot chocolate made with whole milk and garnished with cool whip.

• Last night I was gloating to Daniel about how clear my face was looking. Verbatim this is what I said: I don't remember the last time I had a zit. His response? I know! Your face actually looks good!

• I will be enrolling Daniel in adult manners classes as soon as I can find them. Apparently he once told his sister-in-law that he could tell she had gained weight and that she actually looked good. The woman promptly burst into tears. To this day Daniel still does not know what was wrong with that statement and why she took it so badly. Maybe an adult manners course would be inappropriate. Maybe he needs a common courtesy course with the underlying theme of how not to insult a woman when talking to her? Oh. And I woke up this morning with a zit near my mouth.

• Daniel's friend at Aerospace Company S responded. Daniel's prediction was wrong. Darryl told Daniel to send him my resume and a good word because a good word from someone on the inside goes a long way.

• Last week I applied for two federal government positions of the same nature but different pay grades. While I was filling out the online forms and answering the job-related questionairres, I realized I was substatially less qualified for the higher pay grade job and decided to apply for both. Yesterday I got an email with my results and rank. High pay grade: 83. Lesser pay grade: 96. I'm hoping that my ranking number is out of 100 instead of, say, 200. If it is 83 and 96 out of 100, I'm hoping that my 96 and the fact that I'm a woman can carry me into the interview process. I would really be golden if I was ex-military and/or spoke another language. Damnit.

• Cody hasn't attempted to contact me since our big lunch blowout. I wonder if he's realizing he was an ass? Perhaps he thinks I was overreacting.

Scammed! Hook, line, and sinker

I just got off the phone with my bank having reported my check card lost/stolen and asked for a replacement card. My card is not lost or stolen. I cannot, however, say the same for my dignity.

Never before have I paid attention to internet ads claiming buku bucks can be made from the comfort of your own home. Until today. I stumbled upon an ad/story about a mother in the area who makes $6,000 a month working 10 or 13 hours a week from home. And I fell for it. I paid less than a dollar to have a start-up kit sent to my front door.

What can I say? I'm obviously desperate. When I first began looking for a job I thought people were crazy. There are tons of jobs out there! Because well... there are. I'm only now beginning to realize the magnitude of the unemployment situation. There may be jobs available, this is true. But there are so many people clamoring for a job that I don't even get a nod in my direction when I submit my resume to a job I'm completely overqualified for that pays less than the unemployment check I'm getting. So you can see the allure of the siren song promising $6,000 a month while working at home.

Needless to say, after I'd handed over my check card information to the web site, I began to get suspicious. The comment section at the bottom of the advertisement was oddly optimisitic. There wasn't a naysayer to be found. Then I noticed a clause at the bottom of the comment section that read: Sorry, the comment form is closed at this time.

It was then I decided to Google 'black belt' and found links such as John's blog warning of the fine print:

http://needmoneyblog.blogspot.com/2010/01/need-money-scam-blackbelt-profit-system.html

"Let's read the Terms and Conditions for Blackbelt Proft and find out "how much" it really costs! Those free trials do cost something.

"When you sign up, you have to give a credit card for an activation fee:
"When you enroll in our membership program we will charge the card the card you provide an activation fee specified on the order checkout page.
"Then comes the big time charge:
"on the following business day, we will charge the same card you provided at enrollment the non-refundable one-year membership fee of $149.95.
"Then, buyers pay every month for the Blackbelt Profit System:
"we charge the Membership Fee to your card and every thirty (30) days thereafter, we will charge your card $4.97 for as long as choose to remain in the Program.
"Those fees are not refundable:
"The annual Membership Fee not refundable. Each Monthly Charge is not refundable.
"To cancel the Blackbelt Profit System, you must call this number: 866-445-4241"

In the comments section of John's blog, there were people that reported having signed up for the starter-kit (idiots such as myself who after having signed up decided to do research) that were unable to contact the company via telephone or e-mail to cancel their 'membership.'

I found another 'review' for the black belt profit system on the Rip-off Report web-page. It was then I decided to cancel my check card and suck up the $.99 loss.

The most egregious thing about this company, in my opinion, is that it's using completely false advertising and targeting people, such as myself, who do not have the money to lose. These people fall for the scam, because - like me - they cannot find a job and are desparate to be making money again. They are desperate to be able to feed themselves and their families. Some asshole who sold his soul to satan is getting rich off poor unemployed suckers such as myself. And we the poor unemployed suckers are digging deeper holes for ourselves trying to get rich quick. I take full responsibility for my idiotic actions that have caused me to lose $.99 plus unspecified costs in loss of dignity.

Bank shame

I miss direct deposit. Not that the act of going to the bank in and of itself is that big of a chore; I just wish I didn't have to look the teller in the eye as I handed her my unemployment check. I never felt particularly bad about cashing in my unemployment check until today. Today wasn't unlike most times I've deposited my check. I hadn't showered. My hair was in a ponytail. I wasn't wearing makeup. I was bundled up in one of Daniel's sweatshirts. (He thinks I like his zip-up hoodie in particular, but I prefer any of his sweatshirts to mine because they are men's size extra-large and therefore extra-comfy.) The only difference with today's trip to the bank is that I went to the bank near Daniel's house in Huntington as opposed to the bank near the In-N-Out in Torrance, where I usually go. I've noticed that traffic during the day in Huntington Beach is infinitely less busy than Long Beach, where I live, and Torrance, where I tend to run a lot of errands. The bank in Huntington Beach is no exception. I walked right up to the teller without delay.

Her name was Teresa and she was about half a foot taller than me with pale skin and a mole on her chin that looked like it was about to fall off her face. Her pale face was heavily caked with makeup, which made her look put together, at the very least; and she had a huge rock on her ring finger, at which I tried my best not to stare. Our conversation was minimal; the exchange probably lasted less than two minutes. But in my mind it lasted two hours. I swear Teresa looked at my check several more times than other checkers have, and I was positive that she was judging me for being unemployed. And not in the sympathetic whoa-is-her manner either. Teresa was jutting her chin out at me feeling better about herself from my mere presence and the fact that I had handed her an unemployment check. I could just feel it.

The petty side of me had to fight the urge to blurt out, well you're older than me (she looked older, but maybe it was just because she was taller and engaged), and you're just a bank teller. But I couldn't say a damn thing. Teresa may or may not be older than me. And she may just be a bank teller. But she can look at me smugly from behind the counter because she does have a job. And I don't.

The first meltdown

As I was saying, all things considered, I think I've been taking this unemployment thing in relative stride. I'm actually known to be a worrier and prone to anxiety. I also take things incredibly personally and although Daniel, who has been working in aerospace for 15 years, explained to me that as a contractor you can't take getting laid off personally (and he's right), the moment I heard I was getting laid off, it was hard for me to not take it personally. Then when I heard the reason I (along with another Admin gal) had been laid off, I was just plain pissed.

Because I've been cutting back, I really haven't been hanging out with anyone except Daniel. As luck would have it, my car needs a new clutch which will cost anywhere from $800 to $1600. That is certainly money I don't need to be spending right now. An ex-coworker contacted me Friday and asked if I wanted to get together this weekend. I knew Cody was aware of my unemployment status. In the past when dining out with Cody, he and I have either split the bill or alternated picking up the bill. The last time we went out we split the bill. But I paid our bar tab before we got to the table (4 drinks = $60 with tip) and then for the movie we went to after dinner. I probably shouldn't have assumed he'd pay for lunch, but I guess I really did. I was prepared to pay my half however, in the event he didn't offer to pick up the tab.

At lunch we gossiped about what's going on at Aerospace Company X and it felt good to hear that people in Cody's department were upset to learn that I and the other Admin gal were let go and that because we are no longer there, it's making parts of their job difficult to accomplish. Hearing that enforced what I knew to be true; that The Talking Head was an idiot and had made a very uninformed decision when eliminating two Admin positions and leaving one guy to do all the work.

At the end of the meal the waitress dropped off the bill - it was $30. Cody grabbed the check presenter (thank God!) and then proceeded to put cash inside and hand it over to me. (Damn.) I opened the check presenter to a $10 bill inside. Are you kidding? I blurted out before I could stop myself. No, that's all the cash I have. You're going to have to cover the rest, he said. Are you kidding? I repeated. Because surely he was just playing a joke. He couldn't expect me to slap down $30 for lunch. I'm unemployed. He shook his head in response to my second 'are you kidding?'. I'm f-ing unemployed, I said. I'll get you next time, he said with a shrug. Like it was no big deal. Like I hadn't bought the last time we'd been out. Like I had the money to pay for both of us! Gimme a break, he added. My girlfriend was just out for two weeks and I spent a lot of money while she was here. I was livid. How is that my problem? I asked.

With more anger than I've had in a long time, I hastily pulled the last $40 cash I had from my purse and put it in the check presenter removing the ten-dollar bill he'd put in. He could see rage in my eyes and mumbled something about needing to go to an ATM. There's one inside the restaurant, I practically spat. Then he offered to put the whole thing on his card and I could give him cash, but at this point I was so f-ing pissed by his insensitivity to my financial situation and his lack of planning and his utter and blatant abuse of our friendship that I didn't want his f-ing money and I didn't want him f-ing paying for anything. I could not believe he would meet me for lunch expecting me to cover his half. Not now. Not while I'm unemployed.

In the end, we walked home in complete silence. We happened by a Bank of America and he got cash and gave me $20. He tried giving me $40, but I was so angry and proud, I refused. Outside my apartment the meltdown began. Before I knew it I was standing on the sidewalk crying explaining to him as nicely as possible how I don't enjoy disputing $8 with a friend. Explaining to him as nicely as possible how I don't have money to buy cotton balls right now let alone pay $18 for lunch, let alone pick up his half of the bill. He understood to a degree. I don't think he understood that what he did was completely insensitive and idiotic. He did say it was completely unfair that I, of all people at Aerospace Company X, lost my job. And he was right about that.

When I got inside I continued crying over my financial woes and over the circumstances in which I lost my job. For the first time since I was laid off, I was visibly upset and I couldn't shake my mood. I texted my friend Clare and told her what happened. Isn't he the guy that used to have a crush on you? she asked. What a way to impress someone that at one time you were clamoring to date.

In the middle of my meltdown I called my mom, which is unusual for me because she and I are not particularly close. Normally my dad would be the first person I'd dial during a meltdown. That's a man for you, she said, not unsympathetically, when I described to her my lunch nightmare and my breakdown over the $8.

Later that night my dad called and I replayed the meltdown for him, too. Honey, your friend is an ass, he said. Everyone knows you don't meet someone at a restaurant without money to cover your half of the bill. He could have put it on his bank card. He blatantly used you.

Gone are the days when I could walk into a grocery store and buy a $4 pint of Ben and Jerry's ice cream just because I wanted it. Unless I really need something at the grocery store (and one does someone really need something in these hostile economic times), I don't buy it unless it's under $2 or on sale. Gone are the days when I could go out to any restaurant and not even look at the prices or not even blink an eye to put my check card down and pick up the tab without looking at the bill, without needing to know how much money was in my checking account.

Maybe it's because Cody is young, he's 25, or maybe my dad's right and he is just an ass. (I don't personally believe it's my duty to point out to anyone that social norms dictate that you don't expect a friend who is unemployed to pick up your half of the bill while out for lunch.) Or maybe he just thinks like I did when I was 25. Just put it on a credit card. It's no big deal.