Laid-off insurance agent learns that she lacks key skills

Laid off from her job at a Riverside insurance agency in December 2008, sales agent Deanne Schwarberg didn't worry.

An energetic woman who specialized in writing home and auto policies, she figured she'd take the holidays off and find something in the new year. She was so confident about landing a new job that she used part of her last paycheck to buy Christmas presents for her family.

"I was really good at selling myself. I thought, 'There's plenty of insurance companies here. I'm not going to have that hard of a time,'" she said.

Schwarberg soon found that she lacked the skills many local insurance agencies wanted: She didn't speak Spanish and wasn't licensed to sell life insurance.

Frustrated and struggling to make ends meet, she moved from her rented home in Moreno Valley to live with her 67-year-old mother in Garden Grove. The move helped her cut costs and put her closer to thousands of employers in Orange and Los Angeles counties.

She posted her resume on every employment website she could find. Each morning, she'd brew herself a cup of coffee, turn on the computer and start looking for work. Nothing. She applied at Borders, Sam's Club and Costco. Zilch.

"What a big reality check that was for me," she said.

Schwarberg's brother, Bill, who'd lost his job as a diesel mechanic, moved home too. Mom, an accountant, would head to work in the morning, leaving her two unemployed adult children at home. Schwarberg did the grocery shopping, cooking and cleaning. Each night, the reunited family ate dinner together. It wasn't easy.

"It's stressful. I don't want to be living with my mother. I love her, but she can be a pain," Schwarberg said, chuckling.

During her 21 months of unemployment, Schwarberg said, she has applied for hundreds of jobs all over the Southland. In addition to insurance companies and major retailers, she has sent her resume to a dentist's office, the local grocery store and an art gallery. Five employers brought her in for interviews. None offered a job.

"You start judging yourself. You think, 'Maybe it's my weight,' because I gained a few pounds. You start tearing yourself apart," she said, her eyes dampening. "I have never been out of work this long in my life. It's been a nightmare."

Schwarberg said she's been working steadily since she was a teenager. Over the years, she has framed art in Boca Raton, Fla., worked the sales floor at a Macys in Carlsbad, Calif., and cashiered at a gas station in Encinitas, Calif. Work is more than a paycheck for Schwarberg. She misses the camaraderie.

"At the insurance company, we were like a family. We ate lunch together every day. We'd go shopping together. A lot of times, after work we'd go out," she said. "It's the friendship and communicating with other people that I miss."

At one point, the isolation became so unbearable that Schwarberg started searching the Internet for friends. She connected with a woman who had recently moved to Southern California from Oregon. They met a few times, played cards and cooked dinner at Schwarberg's place.

With her unemployment benefits set to expire in November, Schwarberg has cut expenses to the bone. She rarely leaves home or eats out. She vigilantly flips off light switches, concerned about the monthly electricity bill. When she feels down, she cuddles her spoiled lap dog, Bucky, or floats on a raft in her mother's backyard pool.

At 9:30 each night, a thundering explosion reminds her of things she can't afford.

"Disneyland is around the corner. I hear the fireworks go off every single night, and I want to go so bad. But I can't afford" the $76 admission, she said.

Even in the face of loneliness and self-doubt, Schwarberg is working to make herself more marketable. She's listening to recorded Spanish lessons. And she has used part of her unemployment benefits to pay for classes to help her become certified to sell life insurance policies in California.

"Having that life license is going to help me get a job quicker," she said. "It better."

stuart.pfeifer@latimes.com