My job hunt has started in earnest. I had decided not to look for work immediately following the shitcanning because who wants to really be getting trained the month before Christmas? I got a “Work Search Record” from the Department of Labor that has spots to fill in where I’ve looked for work, and when, and who I spoke to. A lot of the stuff I’m applying for has online applications, and for some of those I haven’t received an email confirmation telling me that they got my applications. A couple of days ago I looked up the store directory for the local mall, because it’s close to home (eighteen minutes door to door). Among the usual suspects (B. Dalton Booksellers, The Gap, Build-a-Bear Workshop) there were some jewelry stores. Not just run-of-the-mill dreck, but two upscale stores, Littman and Whitehall. If there’s one thing I know besides rubber stamps, it’s jewelry. Back in the ’90s I worked for D.P. Paul Jewelers in Hampton, Virginia, and I was the assistant manager for Lord & Taylor’s fine jewelry department in Scarsdale. D.P. Paul used to be the middle sister between Zales and Bailey, Banks, and Biddle. I went in to ask for an application at Littman; its dark blue walls made it feel like a cave, the feeling to be reinforced by the troll guarding the goods. I walked in, stood in front of the older blonde woman sitting doing paperwork, and waited. She finally looked up and said, “Yes?” How welcoming! I asked for an application anyway, so I could put it on my sheet. “We’re not hiring,” she said, “but you could come in and talk to the manager, I guess.”
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