http://www.newyorker.com/talk/financial/2009/10/12/091012ta_talk_surowiecki?
Read that. It's good.
But if you don't feel like reading it, it basically says that consumer spending is down. Go figure.
It also highlights that the two main areas that have seen decreases in spending are gasoline and cars.
But what else have you cut back on? Clothes? Eating out? Video games? Books? Please don't say books.
Have you cut back on anything?
Personally, I only go grocery shopping a couple times a month. I've taken to eating the canned goods and non-perishables that have been stocked up in my mother's kitchen for years. Fresh produce has unfortunately been cut out of my diet: it's just too expensive and a $2.50 avocado can't keep you full for very long.
And what will this mean for consumer culture? Are we going to become lifelong cheapskates like some of our elderly Depression-survivor relatives? Or will we simply go back to spending as much as we can?
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
Nothing Is O.k.
My linguistic gripe?
It may sound strange, but o.k. is the winner for me. Maybe I’m a little more impassioned than some people and just can’t stand something being only o.k, or maybe in the small area in which I was raised, even just the home perhaps, o.k. means something along the lines of “if I have to.” If I have to respond somehow, if I have to do what you ask me, if I have to agree with you even though I don’t want to.
Where the hell does o.k. come from? Who decided that those two letters should signify not something great nor something terrible, just something mediocre enough that it doesn’t deserve a full word?
Nothing is o.k. Not the crappy tuna salad sandwich I had for lunch, nor the test that I didn’t study for yesterday. It’s definitely not o.k. to respond to someone’s opinion with o.k. That may be the most insulting way to dismiss someone’s opinions.
Like other common phrases, o.k. means absolutely nothing. Nothing. And to the perpetually curious like me, it tells zero about what the speaker is thinking. What would you say about how you slept if not for those stupid letters? How about peacefully, sufficiently, or shittily? What are we hiding with o.k?
I annoyed my boyfriend a few weeks ago by responding to many of his texts and messages with “Sure.” To him, it seemed like a begrudging answer, and now I see what he means.
O.k. is only o.k. when simply accepting what the other person has just told you. I think Michael used it pretty well last night when I told him I was going to go outside to my car to look for the book I need to study for an exam tomorrow . What else could he say but o.k? Good luck or hope it turns up or put some shoes on, dumbass it’s thirty degrees outside are much better to me. But I was willing to walk away from that computer screen with only his acceptance and the o.k.
Who's with me? When is o.k. just o.k?
It may sound strange, but o.k. is the winner for me. Maybe I’m a little more impassioned than some people and just can’t stand something being only o.k, or maybe in the small area in which I was raised, even just the home perhaps, o.k. means something along the lines of “if I have to.” If I have to respond somehow, if I have to do what you ask me, if I have to agree with you even though I don’t want to.
Where the hell does o.k. come from? Who decided that those two letters should signify not something great nor something terrible, just something mediocre enough that it doesn’t deserve a full word?
Nothing is o.k. Not the crappy tuna salad sandwich I had for lunch, nor the test that I didn’t study for yesterday. It’s definitely not o.k. to respond to someone’s opinion with o.k. That may be the most insulting way to dismiss someone’s opinions.
Like other common phrases, o.k. means absolutely nothing. Nothing. And to the perpetually curious like me, it tells zero about what the speaker is thinking. What would you say about how you slept if not for those stupid letters? How about peacefully, sufficiently, or shittily? What are we hiding with o.k?
I annoyed my boyfriend a few weeks ago by responding to many of his texts and messages with “Sure.” To him, it seemed like a begrudging answer, and now I see what he means.
O.k. is only o.k. when simply accepting what the other person has just told you. I think Michael used it pretty well last night when I told him I was going to go outside to my car to look for the book I need to study for an exam tomorrow . What else could he say but o.k? Good luck or hope it turns up or put some shoes on, dumbass it’s thirty degrees outside are much better to me. But I was willing to walk away from that computer screen with only his acceptance and the o.k.
Who's with me? When is o.k. just o.k?
Friday, October 23, 2009
Thursday, October 22, 2009
What About It?
The warm weather made our cold blood flow easier and made everyone living in my mother's home more productive and alive than we have been in the last couple of cold October weeks. I walked my dog for an hour, all the way to the old fort that sits as a reminder of one of the first settlements west of the Allegheny Mountains. But this settlement is one of very few that didn't turn into anything. It's still surrounded by the forests that have always been there and some large, well-tended fields that are newer to the region.
Maybe it was the Native Americans who burned the fort to nothing that scared new settlers away, or maybe it was the long, cold winters and distance of fresh water sources. Whatever the cause, they left the area to be slowly settled until now, when only about 25 houses can be seen from the higher points in the hills around the fort. The thing that brought the most people to the area was a black deposit found underground around here: the coal that still comes up from the ground and sits in chunks among the rocks and soil in my yard.
That black stuff brought my family here, to live in the house that I grew up in and work 12 hours or more a day in the mines at the bottom of the hill and die of emphysema before the age of 60. And my mother wears a hard hat and steel-toed boots for 8 hours a day. My father played with fire in the steel mills for thirty years.
Every generation gets better: my brother is a teacher and my sister is being trained for management at a finance company. And I get to write about all of this.
After I walked home from the fort, having pissed off enough drivers for the day (who doesn't hate having to swerve for pedestrians on a rural road?), I retreated to my room and heard the sounds of my mother and sister taking advantage of the warmth to prepare our home for the winter we know is coming. They repotted plants to move inside, swept up leaves, and did whatever else I wasn't willing to help them with.
So they put me to work inside, where my mother told me to make dinner for everyone.
"Use that chicken before it goes bad."
So in this old house, I cooked chicken that was raised who knows where, stuffed with a French cheese and baked until delicious (and only slightly pink). And my sister, Josh and I sat at the kitchen table and talked money and work.
I've worked a few different jobs and certainly put my time in doing schoolwork and housework, hell I've even read Philip Levine's What Work Is, but I don't know if I'll ever understand the relationship between how I feel about work and the reality of it. I'm familiar with the cliche "Work to live; don't live to work," and I am tempted to say I can sum up my thoughts with it.
Meanwhile, I know that my ancestors and the early settlers of Hannastown alike would be asking me, "What is there to think about? You don't feel anything about work. You just need to eat."
Maybe it was the Native Americans who burned the fort to nothing that scared new settlers away, or maybe it was the long, cold winters and distance of fresh water sources. Whatever the cause, they left the area to be slowly settled until now, when only about 25 houses can be seen from the higher points in the hills around the fort. The thing that brought the most people to the area was a black deposit found underground around here: the coal that still comes up from the ground and sits in chunks among the rocks and soil in my yard.
That black stuff brought my family here, to live in the house that I grew up in and work 12 hours or more a day in the mines at the bottom of the hill and die of emphysema before the age of 60. And my mother wears a hard hat and steel-toed boots for 8 hours a day. My father played with fire in the steel mills for thirty years.
Every generation gets better: my brother is a teacher and my sister is being trained for management at a finance company. And I get to write about all of this.
After I walked home from the fort, having pissed off enough drivers for the day (who doesn't hate having to swerve for pedestrians on a rural road?), I retreated to my room and heard the sounds of my mother and sister taking advantage of the warmth to prepare our home for the winter we know is coming. They repotted plants to move inside, swept up leaves, and did whatever else I wasn't willing to help them with.
So they put me to work inside, where my mother told me to make dinner for everyone.
"Use that chicken before it goes bad."
So in this old house, I cooked chicken that was raised who knows where, stuffed with a French cheese and baked until delicious (and only slightly pink). And my sister, Josh and I sat at the kitchen table and talked money and work.
I've worked a few different jobs and certainly put my time in doing schoolwork and housework, hell I've even read Philip Levine's What Work Is, but I don't know if I'll ever understand the relationship between how I feel about work and the reality of it. I'm familiar with the cliche "Work to live; don't live to work," and I am tempted to say I can sum up my thoughts with it.
Meanwhile, I know that my ancestors and the early settlers of Hannastown alike would be asking me, "What is there to think about? You don't feel anything about work. You just need to eat."
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
Who Knew?
At the risk of embarassing myself, I'm going to tell you another secret.
Today when I got home from class, I microwaved what was probably my 286th bag of popcorn. It was a mini-bag, just for me, of Pop Secret brand kettle corn. As I was crunching away in front of the computer, I examined the bag and the instructions on it, giggling thinking of someone learning how to make microwave popcorn for the first time.
I would consider myself an expert- I've got the timing down just right so that I don't burn it but there are seldom more than 5 unpopped kernels remaining in the bottom of the bag. I get the most out of that thing. But my eyes lingered on the brand name, Pop Secret. What exactly is so secret about this popcorn? Are the manufacturers claiming that they know something about popcorn that I don't?
And then it hit me, like the last pop of a kernel in the microwave- the brand is a play on the phrase "top secret!" And for just a moment I felt so proud of myself for deciphering this tricky, secretive name that I had heard for most of my life but never gave any real thought to.
And following was the realization that I may have just cognitively caught up with 5th graders.
So what I really want to know is, who among you readers always knew why it was called Pop Secret? And don't play with me here, let's be honest.
There's no shame in acknowledging that you're still figuring things out, even if it is just a bag of microwave popcorn.
Today when I got home from class, I microwaved what was probably my 286th bag of popcorn. It was a mini-bag, just for me, of Pop Secret brand kettle corn. As I was crunching away in front of the computer, I examined the bag and the instructions on it, giggling thinking of someone learning how to make microwave popcorn for the first time.
I would consider myself an expert- I've got the timing down just right so that I don't burn it but there are seldom more than 5 unpopped kernels remaining in the bottom of the bag. I get the most out of that thing. But my eyes lingered on the brand name, Pop Secret. What exactly is so secret about this popcorn? Are the manufacturers claiming that they know something about popcorn that I don't?
And then it hit me, like the last pop of a kernel in the microwave- the brand is a play on the phrase "top secret!" And for just a moment I felt so proud of myself for deciphering this tricky, secretive name that I had heard for most of my life but never gave any real thought to.
And following was the realization that I may have just cognitively caught up with 5th graders.
So what I really want to know is, who among you readers always knew why it was called Pop Secret? And don't play with me here, let's be honest.
There's no shame in acknowledging that you're still figuring things out, even if it is just a bag of microwave popcorn.
Monday, October 19, 2009
Golden Car
Today, as I walked to class, shivering as the wind brought what felt like ice to the skin on my legs by blowing around the hem of my skirt, I noticed a car driving past me that was covered in gold leaves. The blue car looked like it belonged in the woods, and it had probably spent quite a few hours under the trees there on campus. It was one of Chevy's cheap model sedans from a few years ago, the kind of car that a lot of students drive around campus because they can afford them. But as the car almost hit me, I got a clear look at the driver and realized it was one of the most respected faculty members on campus. I wondered if he had to drive a car like that, or if he was just an old-fashioned stingy guy who drove a mediocre car and lived in a mediocre house and had a million dollars in his bank account.
But really, how many people live like that? It is the American way to pour all the money you possibly can into your material possessions, especially into the status symbol of the automobile. And while this man may be different, I at least know he is American.
So what the hell is he doing in Greensburg, PA? Did he grow up here and never lose his attachment to the area, subsequently taking a job to do something he loved in a place he loved even more? Is the car an example of the sacrifices he's made to do what he really wanted? To attain or maintain the peace of mind that he thrives on?
Or did he give up on a world that gave up on him? Did he put himself and his genius out there and not attain what he had been led to believe he could?
The car scared me, and not just because it almost knocked me right off my high heels on this cool October day. It scared me because I assumed that anyone as smart as that driver ought to have every luxury money can buy. What scares me even more, though, is that I was so deeply thrown into thoughts and fears about material accomplishments while severely underrating what that man who I don't know at all has accomplished outside the world of money.
But really, how many people live like that? It is the American way to pour all the money you possibly can into your material possessions, especially into the status symbol of the automobile. And while this man may be different, I at least know he is American.
So what the hell is he doing in Greensburg, PA? Did he grow up here and never lose his attachment to the area, subsequently taking a job to do something he loved in a place he loved even more? Is the car an example of the sacrifices he's made to do what he really wanted? To attain or maintain the peace of mind that he thrives on?
Or did he give up on a world that gave up on him? Did he put himself and his genius out there and not attain what he had been led to believe he could?
The car scared me, and not just because it almost knocked me right off my high heels on this cool October day. It scared me because I assumed that anyone as smart as that driver ought to have every luxury money can buy. What scares me even more, though, is that I was so deeply thrown into thoughts and fears about material accomplishments while severely underrating what that man who I don't know at all has accomplished outside the world of money.
Always Look On the Bright Side of Life
There are more positive aspects of unemployment than having the leisure time to watch Monty Python's entire body of work. And I don't mean quality, just quantity. Here are ten that I have enjoyed:
1. It's a great excuse to quit smoking. (I understand that cigarettes will not likely be the first expense to be eliminated, but try to wait a couple days after you run out next time and you'll get so attached to that extra 5 dollars that you won't be able to part with it.)
2. It's a great excuse to slow down, i.e. drink less.
3. If you don't want to go out less, it's a great excuse to make new friends so that they can buy you drinks. Since your old friends will likely be sick of buying you drinks...
4. If no one will buy you drinks, you'll still make new friends because you're everybody's new favorite D.D.
5. It's a great reason to learn how to cook, since you can't afford to eat out anymore. Not even McDonald's.
6. Your pets will be happier. The dog will get more walks, not to mention the table scraps of botched meals at home...
7. You'll have time to renovate... get out the gas mask and dive under that bed. Who knows, maybe you'll find an old resume you can work on tucked in there.
8. You'll rediscover the thrill of bargain shopping.
9. You can spend hours on Wikipedia. And when you get to an interview, you can blow your future boss away with everything you know about German Short-Haired Pointers.
10. You'll have an excuse to de-clutter. You can tell everyone that's why you're having the yard sale, and use the profits to buy one last pack of cigarettes...
1. It's a great excuse to quit smoking. (I understand that cigarettes will not likely be the first expense to be eliminated, but try to wait a couple days after you run out next time and you'll get so attached to that extra 5 dollars that you won't be able to part with it.)
2. It's a great excuse to slow down, i.e. drink less.
3. If you don't want to go out less, it's a great excuse to make new friends so that they can buy you drinks. Since your old friends will likely be sick of buying you drinks...
4. If no one will buy you drinks, you'll still make new friends because you're everybody's new favorite D.D.
5. It's a great reason to learn how to cook, since you can't afford to eat out anymore. Not even McDonald's.
6. Your pets will be happier. The dog will get more walks, not to mention the table scraps of botched meals at home...
7. You'll have time to renovate... get out the gas mask and dive under that bed. Who knows, maybe you'll find an old resume you can work on tucked in there.
8. You'll rediscover the thrill of bargain shopping.
9. You can spend hours on Wikipedia. And when you get to an interview, you can blow your future boss away with everything you know about German Short-Haired Pointers.
10. You'll have an excuse to de-clutter. You can tell everyone that's why you're having the yard sale, and use the profits to buy one last pack of cigarettes...
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
Party Like You're 22
When I got home from the airport tonight, there was a black gift bag on the kitchen table that said, "Party like a rock star," and had shiny ribbons and a greeting card with my name on it sticking out of the top. I was excited, and feeling strangely welcomed back to my mother's home with this gift that had to be from my sister. I hoped that she was still awake, as I would have felt bad opening it without her being there. But I would have opened it anyway.
She was laying on the couch with a blanket over her and my dog sleeping across her lap. She didn't say "Hi," just made a shh noise and pointed to the little animal. I said "Hey," not caring about the dog, and immediately asked her if I could open the gift.
She said, "Sure, but don't get too excited."
How could I not get excited? The woman knows how to wrap a present. It was everything you could hope for-- shiny, stylish, and most importantly, heavy. I lugged the bag into the living room, not really caring what was inside or how much it cost, and tore into the card first. While I wanted to throw the tissue paper into the air like Animal from the Muppets and see what was inside, I figured it would be rude to disregard the card. You can't disregard the card. It's a preface to the gift; it tells you what's to come and how the giver really feels about you. (Even if they don't tell you, their handwriting does. Another blog, another topic.)
Inside was written a command to enjoy being 22 and an affirmation of my sister's love for me... and then "Here's some goodies to enjoy!"
How could anyone not enjoy goodies? So I knew the gift would be things with expiration dates on them. And the card was accompanied by a Wal-Mart gift card, meaning don't expect too much more from the bag. This is your real gift.
And in the bag was a few of my favorite items to eat that my sister buys from Wal-Mart. It's really thoughtful, if you think about it. I mean, I must really be dying for Sun Chips and Cranberry Juice if I would go so far as to eat them when they're not mine.
That's one thing about living back with the family when you're an adult-- there's no sharing anymore. Around here, sharing only goes as far as the television, the germs, the heat, and the roof. We keep to ourselves maybe because we're adults, and we buy our own groceries and we go to our jobs or schools or social events on our own and we live our lives as though we were independent.
And that's the beauty of the American spirit, isn't it? Every man for himself?
Now excuse me, it's now after midnight on my 22nd birthday and I'm going to take my Sun Chips and Cranberry Juice and party like a rock star.
She was laying on the couch with a blanket over her and my dog sleeping across her lap. She didn't say "Hi," just made a shh noise and pointed to the little animal. I said "Hey," not caring about the dog, and immediately asked her if I could open the gift.
She said, "Sure, but don't get too excited."
How could I not get excited? The woman knows how to wrap a present. It was everything you could hope for-- shiny, stylish, and most importantly, heavy. I lugged the bag into the living room, not really caring what was inside or how much it cost, and tore into the card first. While I wanted to throw the tissue paper into the air like Animal from the Muppets and see what was inside, I figured it would be rude to disregard the card. You can't disregard the card. It's a preface to the gift; it tells you what's to come and how the giver really feels about you. (Even if they don't tell you, their handwriting does. Another blog, another topic.)
Inside was written a command to enjoy being 22 and an affirmation of my sister's love for me... and then "Here's some goodies to enjoy!"
How could anyone not enjoy goodies? So I knew the gift would be things with expiration dates on them. And the card was accompanied by a Wal-Mart gift card, meaning don't expect too much more from the bag. This is your real gift.
And in the bag was a few of my favorite items to eat that my sister buys from Wal-Mart. It's really thoughtful, if you think about it. I mean, I must really be dying for Sun Chips and Cranberry Juice if I would go so far as to eat them when they're not mine.
That's one thing about living back with the family when you're an adult-- there's no sharing anymore. Around here, sharing only goes as far as the television, the germs, the heat, and the roof. We keep to ourselves maybe because we're adults, and we buy our own groceries and we go to our jobs or schools or social events on our own and we live our lives as though we were independent.
And that's the beauty of the American spirit, isn't it? Every man for himself?
Now excuse me, it's now after midnight on my 22nd birthday and I'm going to take my Sun Chips and Cranberry Juice and party like a rock star.
Monday, October 5, 2009
Giving Trumps Taking
My sister and Josh came home from the beach just a couple days ago, and we're all getting along much better than we did when I first moved home from Costa Rica. Back then, they had accused me, not directly, but via friends of the family, of "interrupting their routine." Maybe they didn't fully believe that I would be moving my stuff out of my ex's house, that I would just fall back into my old life as if I had never left. Or maybe it was that I was home all the time, eating their food and drinking my sister's pop every day with no source of income and nothing to contribute.
A few days after my mother had new windows that she can't afford installed in this old old house, my sister was painting the trim around the windows in the kitchen to match the new white of the fiberglass frames. She didn't look up when I walked past, a bag of her pretzels in my hand on my way to living room. She remained croutching with her fragile hands holding the paintbrush as steady as she could. When I walked back into the kitchen, I saw her talking to Josh, her face looking like it was ripe with tears. And they both got silent when I entered the room. How inconspicuous.
I asked Mel what was wrong, preparing myself for some sort of attack. She told me through tears, "You drank all of my rum."
I will admit, while she was on a bit of a drinking hiatus, I drank perhaps half of her bottle of rum over the course of a weekend or two. Every time I made a drink with it, of course, I thought, "She's never going to notice one more shot is gone." Until the plastic bottle of cheap rum became much lighter.
And then I stopped; I had realized I had taken advantage of my sister's finances a little too much then. But did I concede and beg her forgiveness? Hell no. Yes, we are family, but we are still women. And we absolutely have it out for each other most of the time. So I argued, my main point being that "It's not like there's a rum shortage in the world."
No, she didn't like that, but took the argument instead in the direction of principle. She makes the money to buy those things, she is not my mother and is not sharing shit with me, she wanted to start this particular weekend with a full bottle of rum.
"As soon as I start getting paid in a couple weeks I'll buy you like four handles of rum." She didn't like that, either, as I'm sure she didn't like me very much during the entire 4-month period between when I got home from Costa Rica and when I started school and tutoring again.
Tonight, as she sat on the other side of the sectional couch and sustained control of the remote despite my pleas, she pointed to the end table on my end of the sofa. "That's for you."
And there, neatly folded and with the tag still on, lied a white t-shirt that said in big, angular black letters "OBX."
I didn't mean to seem like a bitch, I really didn't, but I casually looked the shirt over and set it right back on the table. "Thank you," was all I said before we went back to fighting over what to watch on TV.
A few days after my mother had new windows that she can't afford installed in this old old house, my sister was painting the trim around the windows in the kitchen to match the new white of the fiberglass frames. She didn't look up when I walked past, a bag of her pretzels in my hand on my way to living room. She remained croutching with her fragile hands holding the paintbrush as steady as she could. When I walked back into the kitchen, I saw her talking to Josh, her face looking like it was ripe with tears. And they both got silent when I entered the room. How inconspicuous.
I asked Mel what was wrong, preparing myself for some sort of attack. She told me through tears, "You drank all of my rum."
I will admit, while she was on a bit of a drinking hiatus, I drank perhaps half of her bottle of rum over the course of a weekend or two. Every time I made a drink with it, of course, I thought, "She's never going to notice one more shot is gone." Until the plastic bottle of cheap rum became much lighter.
And then I stopped; I had realized I had taken advantage of my sister's finances a little too much then. But did I concede and beg her forgiveness? Hell no. Yes, we are family, but we are still women. And we absolutely have it out for each other most of the time. So I argued, my main point being that "It's not like there's a rum shortage in the world."
No, she didn't like that, but took the argument instead in the direction of principle. She makes the money to buy those things, she is not my mother and is not sharing shit with me, she wanted to start this particular weekend with a full bottle of rum.
"As soon as I start getting paid in a couple weeks I'll buy you like four handles of rum." She didn't like that, either, as I'm sure she didn't like me very much during the entire 4-month period between when I got home from Costa Rica and when I started school and tutoring again.
Tonight, as she sat on the other side of the sectional couch and sustained control of the remote despite my pleas, she pointed to the end table on my end of the sofa. "That's for you."
And there, neatly folded and with the tag still on, lied a white t-shirt that said in big, angular black letters "OBX."
I didn't mean to seem like a bitch, I really didn't, but I casually looked the shirt over and set it right back on the table. "Thank you," was all I said before we went back to fighting over what to watch on TV.
Sunday, October 4, 2009
A Mutual Break-Up (It's not you; it's me, labor force...)
While laying in bed today, enjoying not having to be at school, I read an article in the San Francisco Chronicle that focused on September's rise in unemployment. (http://www.sfgate.com/cgi-bin/article.cgi?f=/c/a/2009/10/02/MNE91A0AHE.DTL&type=business) Yes, shockingly, the rate rose from 9.7% to 9.8%. So .1% more of the United States' labor force has ended September and begun autumn with no job. How many people is that, exactly? How can we humanize that?
To break it down for you, the government's census bureau selects about 60,000 households from across the country that they believe will represent the ginormous population of the entire United States. And they ask them questions about their employment once a month. They usually do this around the 12th of the month, and BAM! By the end of the month, the results are in and the entire nation gets to panic together about how terribly we are doing.
So, the government estimates that the United States' labor force is about 153.1 million workers strong, including the unemployed. If the statistics are accurate, (and the government insists that the chances are 90% that they are within 290,000 people of the actual numbers) then roughly 15 million Americans are without jobs right now. September's .1% rise in unemployment means, then, that approximately153,000 more Americans lost their jobs last month.
But what struck me most about what I read in the Chronicle was that now about 600,000 Americans have given up on finding employment. They've given up on working and are no longer part of the labor force. That's more than the entire population of a forward-thinking and -moving city like Seattle, just giving up on finding work.
I would assume, although it is just an awful thing to do, that these labor force dropouts have done so because they can. Maybe these people are the 16-year-olds across the nation that just feel bad for taking McJobs away from older people that have been laid off and booted from their cubicle with no means to feed their 14-year-olds. Or maybe they're wives or husbands with young children at home who would love to take the opportunity to get to know their families more.
While knowing that I had a very part-time job to come back to once school was back in session made me feel a little less pressure to find a job over the summer, I also knew that my competition was stronger and had much more experience than I have in the work force. I've never had to compete with people in my parents' generation for jobs. And should they have to compete with teenagers that don't need to be home at a certain time to pick their children up from day care? In this land of plenty?
P.S.- big ups to the government for making information about their data-gathering methods available to anyone with an internet connection. Or a blog to write. Check it out for yourselves. http://www.bls.gov/cps/cps_htgm.pdf
To break it down for you, the government's census bureau selects about 60,000 households from across the country that they believe will represent the ginormous population of the entire United States. And they ask them questions about their employment once a month. They usually do this around the 12th of the month, and BAM! By the end of the month, the results are in and the entire nation gets to panic together about how terribly we are doing.
So, the government estimates that the United States' labor force is about 153.1 million workers strong, including the unemployed. If the statistics are accurate, (and the government insists that the chances are 90% that they are within 290,000 people of the actual numbers) then roughly 15 million Americans are without jobs right now. September's .1% rise in unemployment means, then, that approximately153,000 more Americans lost their jobs last month.
But what struck me most about what I read in the Chronicle was that now about 600,000 Americans have given up on finding employment. They've given up on working and are no longer part of the labor force. That's more than the entire population of a forward-thinking and -moving city like Seattle, just giving up on finding work.
I would assume, although it is just an awful thing to do, that these labor force dropouts have done so because they can. Maybe these people are the 16-year-olds across the nation that just feel bad for taking McJobs away from older people that have been laid off and booted from their cubicle with no means to feed their 14-year-olds. Or maybe they're wives or husbands with young children at home who would love to take the opportunity to get to know their families more.
While knowing that I had a very part-time job to come back to once school was back in session made me feel a little less pressure to find a job over the summer, I also knew that my competition was stronger and had much more experience than I have in the work force. I've never had to compete with people in my parents' generation for jobs. And should they have to compete with teenagers that don't need to be home at a certain time to pick their children up from day care? In this land of plenty?
P.S.- big ups to the government for making information about their data-gathering methods available to anyone with an internet connection. Or a blog to write. Check it out for yourselves. http://www.bls.gov/cps/cps_htgm.pdf
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