Morning Glory Read Online Free Page B

Bay . After I’d taken her very helpful suggestions, I’d gotten written rejections from the next few places I’d tried.
    Today, I was planning on following up with Eyewitness News in Tulsa and Action News in Pittsburgh. And if that didn’t work, I was going to nail down the folks in Phoenix once and for all.
    As soon as I was done at the Laundromat. Right now, my only clean shirt said I ACCEPT . Which was very much unacceptable attire, at least until I got a new job.
    While waiting for my whites to brighten in the industrial washers, I started making calls. The results were rather less than heartening.
    “…  So if you hear of anything …,” I said to one very apologetic HR staffer.
    “Sure, Ms. Fuller. But you know, in this economy, and with the Internet …”
    “Or, you know, if anyone you know hears of anything …,” I went on.
    “Have you considered starting a blog?” asked the dude from the evening show in New Haven. “We just hired this really excellent blogger. Or vlogger. Or something. New media is totally the wave of the future.”
    “Is it now?” I asked wearily. I didn’t think my laptop even had a webcam.
    “Yeah.” The guy lowered his voice. “In fact, I think I’m leaving for Gawker.”
    I wrote down Gawker on my list of possibilities. I was hip. I was with it. I could swing my smartphone with the best of them.
    Not that people necessarily appreciated it when I did. Don’t even get me started on my three rounds with American Morning . Oscar had used all his connections to get me a name to email my resume to, and then … I waited. And waited. And got tired of waiting, which is when I learned that not only do they not like smartphones at CNN, they don’t like persistence, either.
    Round One: “See,” I explained, “on my BlackBerry it shows you opened the email, so I just wondered. Yeah, it shows … hello? Well, no, I didn’t hack your system !”
    Round Two: “Hi there, Becky Fuller again. Yes, I called yesterday, but I updated my resume last night”—this was after the hints from Tampa—“and I thought you might want the latest—oh, okay. Cool, I’ll check with you some other time. How’s tomorrow sound?”
    Round Three: “When I called yesterday, your secretary was pretty sure you’d read the email. Yes, we resolved the whole issue with my BlackBerry notification. Well … oh. You filled the position? Oh. That’s … terrific. Congratulations.”
    So much for moving south.
    I bought books on finding jobs and tried to decipher metaphors about cheese and parachutes. I tried to adjust my circadian rhythms to a more diurnal schedule but gave up after two weeks of looking like a zombie and waking up at 1:30 A.M . no matter what I did. I reasoned with myself that it would be a waste of time anyway. As soon as I succeeded at resetting my internal clock, I’d get a new job and have to go back to my usual schedule. I thought a lot about a story I’d done two years ago on dealing with unemployment. I remembered the psychological expert talking about managing the fear and humiliation of being jobless during the job search, a time where you were supposed to project the most self-confidence.
    I could not, unfortunately, recall any of her proposed solutions.
    And then one afternoon, more than a month after my severance package with Channel 9 ran out, I was sitting on a park bench having my eighty-fifth pointless conversation with my eighty-fifth hiring manager. I’d exhausted every city with a broadcasting station in the United States and was probably paying roaming charges to chat with the polite and extremely apologetic employee of Wake Up, Manitoba .
    “And by any chance do you think any other positions might be available soon?” I asked.
    The guy laughed. “It’s pretty much me and the cameraman up here.”
    “Who does your weather?” I asked.
    “Local moose.”
    And just then, the call-waiting beeped. I checked the readout. A 212 number. Manhattan?
    I