Back in Bridgeport

Do you know what KIPPERS are? It’s alright if you don’t know. This won’t be on the test.

Give up? Okay, I’ll tell you. KIPPERS is an acronym, not a lefty who pitched out of the bullpen for the Pittsburgh Pirates in the 90s (that’s Bob Kipper), that stands for “Kids in Parents’ Pockets Eroding Retirement Savings.”

This was news to me. I just read all about the term KIPPERS in the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette.

Yet another name for us. Add KIPPERS to the pile that includes “Boomerang Generation,” “Peter Pan Generation” and my favorite “Parasite Single.”

Photo by Monica's Dad via Flickr

Back in May when I began to set up shop in my new/old home I pulled out a pen and notebook and wrote down some goals for the summer. At the very top of that list I wrote the following “Find a full-time job before football season starts.”

Three months ago, I’d say that was a pretty safe bet. Today, it looks almost unlikely. Not impossible though.

Football season begins tonight, if you count college football, with 18 games on the schedule including my former hometown team — USC taking on Hawaii at 11 p.m.

When I wrote that goal down in my notebook I wasn’t considering the day that the college game kicked off. I was thinking of the pro football game, which kicks off next week. Unless, of course, you’re counting USC as pro football. That’s perfectly understandable. In that case, I’ve missed my goal.

I did not watch Miss Universe on Monday night. I can honestly say that I didn’t know it was on. If I did, I probably would’ve caught some portion of it; you know just to brush up on geography, of course.

While I was busy watching Matt Leinart not complete passes in the preseason edition of Monday Night Football, millions of viewers had the chance to see one of the finalists in the pageant claim that she has not made any “major major mistakes” in her 22 years of life. This finalist was Miss Philippines — Maria Venus Raj (in case you’re wondering, here’s a photo of Miss Raj). She came in fourth and that controversial answer may have had something to do with her not being crowned Miss Universe (Miss Mexico won. Once again, there were zero contestants representing any of the other planets in the universe. Earth owns this thing!).

This answer was a pretty big deal. The phrase “major major” was even a trending topic on Twitter.

I didn’t really put a whole lot of thought into Raj’s answer. It’s not like it was in the same league as Miss Teen South Carolina.

That was before I read this column by the Washington Post’s Alexandra Petri. Petri masterfully connects Miss Philippines’ answer to the New York Times’ description of the current state of us 20-somethings.

Petri writes: “We have no major major problems. We have no regrets because we have never really had to, well, do anything. Raj’s remark could become the manifesto of our so-called boomerang generation.”

I sure hope “No Major Major Mistakes” doesn’t become the manifesto of my generation, but it just might. Unlike Raj, I’d be happy to admit that I have made some major major mistakes. Actually, maybe I wouldn’t be happy to admit that but I would admit it.

I’m going to go put together a list of my major major mistakes. Maybe I’ll share it with you, but that might be another major major mistake.

It’d be a major major mistake if you didn’t read Petri’s column. Please do so.

Me, my late Grandmother and my brother Gary in a picture taken in 1994.

My grandmother’s passing last week brought together my very big family. How big you ask? We’re talking nine children, 26 grandchildren and 29 great grandchildren. Yeah, that big.

While sadness brought us all together, laughter could be heard throughout the events celebrating the life of my grandmother. That’s fitting, considering her knack for making all of us laugh.

The reason for much of the laughter was me, because like my family, I am also big. Actually, I should say I’m bigger, much bigger than I was the last time many of the people who were in attendance last saw me. It was many years and many pounds ago.

The newer bigger version of me, was the butt of several jokes. For reasons I’ve yet to figure out, people who knew you as a child feel like they can get away with saying things like “Wow! What have you been eating?” or “When did you get so fat?” They’re right though, they can get away with it. What can I do? Other than lose weight, of course.

I didn’t let it bother me too much. I like the sound of laughter, even if it is at my expense. In a setting like a wake or the after-funeral brunch, laughter can be a great medicine.

For me, it became sort of a social experiment to see how long it would take someone to make a comment. What I learned from this experiment is people who will make a comment, will do so immediately. The added pounds must be so shocking to people that they just can’t control themselves. They have to just spit out right away. It’s fun ice breaker, I guess.

Maybe it’s so shocking to them because I used to look like the guy you see in the picture above (that’s me in the Knicks t-shirt). I also used to be a 15 year-old kid with a full head of hair who played basketball in my driveway all day long. Things change. People get older and bigger (sometimes, much bigger). Not everyone handles seeing change the same. For some, this change is too drastic not to mention.

Now if you’ll excuse me I must go to the gym and not because a cousin of a cousin who hasn’t seen me in 20 years thinks so.

My father, Gary Hammill Sr. with his mother/my grandmother, Edna Hammill in a photo taken by me in November 2009.

This past Saturday I went to Bridgeport Hospital with my father to visit my grandmother, Edna Hammill. Unfortunately, on this visit she was not very responsive to us. She was understandably tired and weak as the last three months of trips in and out of the hospital had taken their toll on her.

After almost an hour standing by her bedside, we were about ready to head out when suddenly Grandma’s eyes opened. Edna spotted her son and grandson and somehow found the strength to give us the biggest smile I’ve ever seen. Moments later, she went back to sleep. We were there for nearly 60 minutes and Grandma was only awake for six seconds, but what an amazing six seconds it was.

Sadly, I found out early yesterday morning that this would be the last time I’d see Grandma smile.  Edna Hammill passed away. She was 86 years-old.

If I hadn’t decided to come back home, it’s very possible that I would’ve never had those six precious seconds. If I was still living in Los Angeles, there’s a good chance I would’ve missed this moment and many of the other memorable moments that occurred at Grandma’s bedside this summer.

For example: in late June, Grandma had given us an awful scare. She was in the emergency room lying in bed surrounded by many of her children and grandchildren. Grandma didn’t look good. We all stood in silence, worried that this might be the last time we’d have with her. The silence was finally broken when my cousin Carrie was able to wake her with a kiss on the forehead. Grandma opened her eyes and said “Hi. I love you” to those of us who were present. It was a much needed positive sign.

Edna continued to fight for her life. She also continued to give us memorable moments.

Shortly after the scare in late June, with a hospital room full of visitors Grandma put me on the spot when she shockingly asked, “Hey Tim, find a job yet?” The room erupted into laughter. That’s nothing to new to Edna. She had impeccable comedic timing with a Don Rickles-esque knack for delivering one-liners, even when she wasn’t feeling her best.

One last one-liner. One final smile. I’ve never been more sure about my decision to come home.

Goodbye Grandma. We’ll miss you.

I shouldn’t have left you. (Yes, I just went Rakim on you.) It really has been a long time since I last posted. Sorry. I’m sure some of you were worried sick about me, since the last post I wrote was about  my frustrations from the job search and that was well over two weeks ago. Fear not though, I’m still here. You can stop sending me those “Hope you’re still alive” emails. No need to send over the authorities to knock on my door. However, if you’d like to send over one of those fruit baskets though, feel free. They’re delicious.

There’s no real good excuse for my absence. I got nothing. I have been busy not finding a job. There was a job interview or two in the last week. I’ll keep you posted.

I’ve also been watching the Mets lose on a regular basis. I’m pretty sure that one is my fault. I wrote about how well they were playing since I moved back and they haven’t hit anything but a father-in-law’s face since.

There was some news from LA that caused me to go into a week-long exile from everything and everyone. That may or may not be an exaggeration. If you were a fanatic of Chick-Fil-A like me, willing to drive 25 minutes for a sandwich and then found out that they finally opened a location within a reasonable distance from you, except for the fact that you no longer live there, you’d be a tad bit crushed too. Right?

My campaign for a Chick-Fil-A in Connecticut begins. And when I’m not begging the makers of delicious chicken sandwiches to move to my home state, I’ll continue to be on the job hunt and will be here blogging all about it.

Every day I find myself searching for that ever-elusive job on the same eight or nine websites. I’ve got alerts set up, RSS readers, everything these job sites offer I’m into. If they decided to go old school with messenger pigeons or beeper pages I’d opt into those too.

Thus far, my search has proved to be fruitless. Despite the lack of success, I continue searching this same collection of websites every single day. It’s a lot like Groundhog Day minus Bill Murray, Andie MacDowell, Chris Elliot, the groundhog and the laughs.

I don’t blame any of these websites for my lack of employment. It’s not their fault that my searches return bleak results each day. I don’t have any hatred towards the employees of these sites because the daily emails they’re sending me are as empty as my bank account. Plus, I don’t hate because I’m not a hater.

There is one website, however, that makes me angry on a daily basis. That website is Craigslist.

I’m a long-time supporter of Craigslist. I owe the website for finding me a roommate, a buyer for my collection of books and my first job while living in Los Angeles. The site often takes a hit in the media because it offers “Adult Services,” which is exactly what it sounds like, but all in all it’s a valuable resource that I check out every day.

Lately, though, I find myself increasingly frustrated with the ads I’m finding on Craigslist.

Every day I click on the writing jobs link on Craigslist and every day I find myself wanting to punch a hole through my computer monitor. A majority of the ads posted under the writing section read roughly like this:

“We’re starting the best website/blog/magazine ever created and we’re looking for a team of hungry writers … Must have experience … This is an unpaid job, but once some ad money starts rolling in your hard work will be rewarded.”

I left out the misspellings and grammar errors that are usually found in these ads. I wouldn’t want you to punch a hole through your monitor too.

Can you fathom seeing a plethora of ads like this every day in any other field? Imagine a brand new bar opening up and looking for talented bartenders to work for free until the bar starts making a profit.

I’ve written for free, actually I’m writing for free right now, and I’ve been able to gain some valuable experience from it but experience has me currently living in my parents’ house. What I really need this moment is some valuable cash money.

While my job search also takes me to other sites like MediaBistro.com and JournalismJobs.com that only post paid writing jobs, I continue to go back to Craigslist each day no matter how angry it makes me. At least the “Missed Connections” section on Craigslist is still entertaining. Have you read some of those? Kill an hour of your work day reading those things. Go ahead. You could probably make it two hours. Then, when you lose your job for wasting time on Craigslist, let me know so I can take that job from you. I’m just kidding. I don’t really want to see you get fired. Or do I?

Kolbe Cathedral's class of 1998, including yours truly, 12 years later.

Saturday night, Kolbe Cathedral’s classes of 1997 through 2002 got together at Angelo’s Pizza on Madison Ave. for a reunion. Since I’m a graduate of the class of ‘98, I was there too. But I almost didn’t make it.

I spent the three weeks leading up to the event trying to convince myself to go. Although I knew I’d have a great time seeing people I haven’t seen in a very long time, I was concerned about having to tell everyone that I’m now living at home and out of work.

Initially, I thought I’d only attend if I could find a job before Saturday. Unfortunately, that didn’t happen.

As I looked at the Facebook page for the event and saw the list of people attending growing by the day, I realized that this was going to be too good to pass up. Plus, a night of fun and awkward conversations with people I haven’t seen in twelve years sounded a lot more entertaining than my other option for Saturday night — Watching reruns of “Cops.” On the last day to buy a ticket, I jumped in. I successfully convinced myself to go.

I’m glad I didn’t let my fear of answering the “What have you been up to?” question get the best of me. Facebook is quite helpful with answering that question for you, if your friends pay attention to your status updates, that is. Not everyone does though, as some people thought I flew in all the way from Los Angeles to attend the reunion. I love you guys, but I don’t love you THAT much.

Many of the faces I ran into, however, already knew what I was up to. Surprisingly, several people told me that they read every story I post and even asked me about specific things I wrote, especially my encounter with Mike Tyson.

At least, I think that’s what I heard.

Prior to leaving for the party I injured my ear while cleaning it, causing me to have trouble hearing out of my right ear. Throw in some music courtesy of the Class of 98’s own D.J. Dice and you’ve got me answering my former classmates with “What?” or “Huh?” for the duration of the reunion. I was too embarrassed to tell anyone that I couldn’t hear because I jammed a q-tip down my ear.

I’m guessing my fellow classmates left the party thinking, “Tim, didn’t age well. He was yelling all night and he couldn’t hear a word we said.”

While I hope that’s not the case, I wouldn’t be surprised if that is the impression I left on everyone. I may have lost my hair and gained a bunch of weight, but my ears still work … most of the time.

Despite my difficulties with hearing and my fear of telling people that my life isn’t exactly going according to plan, this was the best night I’ve had since moving back to Bridgeport and I almost didn’t go.

Thank you Betsy, Jamie, Stephanie and Monica for organizing such a great event.