Unemployment and Me: Perfect Together

Three months ago, when I was handed my pinkslip and sent on my merry way out into the world, I was all sunshine and roses about the prospect of having a few months off to clean the apartment, cook new and interesting things and spend my days tooling around NYC exploring all this city has to offer.

People warned me, "UnPlain, you're going to get bored very quickly." I had offers from everywhere to do lunch as a means of "getting me out of the apartment." People threw their Rolodexes at me in an effort to keep me busy. So afraid was I that I was going to end up eating ice cream all day every day counting the seconds until T walked in the door from work, that I started making endless lists of all the things I could do with my time. I re-upped my subscription to Time Out New York to ward off the evil monster called boredom and would even mark my Blackberry calendar with all the inane items I was going to do that day in effort to maintain a schedule.

6:30am Spin Class
8:00am Shower
9:15am Library
10:00am Saks
12:00pm Movie

You get the point.

Even better I thought, "I can write about all of the intersting things I'm going to do on UnPlain Jane!!" And I did: I walked the Brooklyn Bridge, I had Adventures in Vintage Shopping and so on. Then one morning, about a week into my unemployment, I woke up at 6am, started to get dressed for Spin Class and thought, "What in the hell am I doing?" I can either get up, go to spin early just so I have to time to force myself to do things I really don't feel like doing OR I can sleep in, eventually get up and spend two hours writing and checking email and THEN go to the gym.

That was the first day I hit snooze. And I've been hittin' that bad boy ever since. I've forgone the Blackberry calendar and now my days look something like this:

7:00am: Open Eyes
7:15am: Roll out of Bed
7:30am: Cook breakfast for husband and run down the list of things I'm going to do today for outloud for him (I do this out of self-imposed guilt that my weekly unemployment check really doesn't cut it)
8:00am: Eat breakfast and begin writing
11:00am: Gym followed by errands (duane reade, food shopping, whatevs)
2:00pm: Lunch! This is also the time I use to catch up on The Real Housewives, The City or whatever show I have to DVR because T won't watch it with me
3:00pm: Some more writing
4:00pm Oprah
5:00pm Cocktail Hour!

By the time cocktail hour is over, I've cooked dinner, set the table and T is home!

No, I didn't go to a museum or some gallery opening or meet anyone remotely interesting. Unless you count the non English-speaking greeter at CVS as interesting, which I sort of do being that it boggles my mind how this gentleman who does nothing but stand at the door all day greeting each customer with a nod, a strange, shy half-smile and mumbles a slurred together mix of Hello and Hola (hellola?) has a job and I don't.

What it comes down to is that no, I'm not bored and now that my days are peppered with recruiter-meetings, interviews, and mass emailing resumes, I'm frankly feeling at a little loss for time. I can't always go to the gym when I feel like it, I actually have to shower before I'm really ready some days and I find putting on clothes that have zippers and buttons and are not soft and snugly on the inside rather annoying. As I rode the bus home up First Ave after a job interview yesterday, I was preparing to email my husband, complaining that it was cold, the bus was taking forever and earn myself a little extra sympathy by mentioning how utterly exhausted I was from making the trip downtown.

That's when it hit me. When you have a job, you get on a bus, subway or take a long walk EVERY DAY. I quickly deleted the email realizing there'd be no sympathy for me and decided since it wouldn't come from anyone else, it was best to feel sorry for myself. Like the snow storm that slushed up the sidewalk, the prospect of employment slushed up my brain. With a job, I wouldn't be able to just go to the gym when I felt like it, I'd be tired EVERY day from just going to and from work (let alone the actual work I would do there) and I'd have to DVR Oprah knowing I'd never get the chance to watch it because it would lead to T throwing something at the TV forcing us to buy another.

Now, while most of my brain is rational and craves a job, and thus a paycheck, a small part of my brain craves a bigger chunk of the unemployment stash so I could stretch this run a little longer.
If not getting bored makes me boring, so be it, but I've found that just opening my mouth and saying whatever ridiculous thought I'm thinking to whoever is in closest proximity sparks enough entertainment to last me for a few days. Given the choice, I'd stick with that.

My Afternoon at Unemployment Land: The Most Miserable Place on Earth

It came in the mail a week ago.  It was bright orange, as foreboding as a piece of paper can be and instructed me to report to the unemployment office for career counseling on Tuesday, December 2 at 2:30pm.  I believe my exact reaction was "F-ck", but I'm not 100% sure because I was immediately distracted by the questionnaire I had to fill out.

Do you have a resume?  Yes.

Do you need help obtaining a GED? No.

Is English your second language? No.

If these questions were any sort of precursor to the afternoon I was in for, surely this would not be time well spent.

Mustering up the most positive attitude I possibly could, I headed downtown thinking that I would at least have the exciting opportunity to watch our city's government at work.  When I entered the building and checked in at the visitor's desk, I started to feel a little down on myself. Maybe it was because as soon as I said I was going to the 7th Floor, the man behind the desk yelled, "Oh, You're Going to Your Unemployment Today!!".  Yes. Thank you sir and thank you for announcing it to all the well-dressed, good looking people who are getting off the elevator on 4, not 7.  Even the landscaper-esque man standing next to me, who I was sure was riding to the same floor as me, got off on 4.  So there I stood, the last man standing on an elevator headed to the saddest floor of any building I've ever been in.

When I got off the elevator, I was anything but alone and the jovial, Will-Smith-Circa-The-Fresh-Prince-of-Bel-Air-Wanna-Be security guard let me know it.  He cracked jokes, was louder than my mom and her sisters after a few glasses of wine, and commented to one of his colleagues about us, the unemployed, saying "if I don't keep them in line, they start fightin'!"   I'm sorry, I didn't know that I, the girl who oh so politely asked him if he could point me in the direction of the ladies room just a minute before that, posed the threat of violence as I took my place in line. At the first checkpoint, my ID was checked and I was herded onto another line a little further into the room.  This was my opportunity to finally get a look at the cast of characters who were now my peers.  I expected the crowd to resemble the crowd at my local OTB, but was greeted with a mixed bag of people that was mostly comprised of professionals.  In fact, it was fairly easy to discern who was unemployed vs. who worked at the unemployment office, because we, the unemployed, were dressed better and more full of life.

When I reached the second checkpoint, I was greeted by a man so old that not only shouldn't he be working, but he shouldn't have been alive.  He was less a man and more the tiny, pale skeleton of a man who has had the life sucked out of him by 100 years of working check-in on the unemployment line.  He used all the strength he had to staple my paperwork together and tell me to take a seat amongst the blank faces waiting behind him.  I took note of his outfit and would later find out that all of the employees in the office shared his fashion sense and wore what I've decided to call the "Unemployment Workers Uniform."  It consists of a hideous tweed jacket, a mock turtle neck that's seen the washing machine one too many times, a pair of pants that are too big and a large, ugly accessory (his was a pinky ring, others donned brooches, hats, and velvet flowers).  I'm just amazed that so many people could wake up in the morning, peek in their closet and think, "This is the Perfect Ensemble!".

After sitting for about five minutes, a Rosie Perez like voice shouted, "Will the two-thirty appointment please follow me!"  En mass, about 50 of us stood up, collected our things and were instructed to please move all the way down and fill in every seat.  When she shouted to the table next to me, "Will you gentlemens and the lady please move down one,"  I couldn't help but say to myself, "How is someone who yells across the room and uses the word 'gentlemens' going to help me get a job?"  

As I sat there, watching her instruct everyone to fill out the form that should have already been filled out before we got there, I took a look around the room.  One depressed face after the next greeted me, it was like the DMV on crack, no one wanted to be there and on top of that, everyone in this room had lost their job.  Although if I had to guess I would say that, like me, the other people in the room, young and old, were less distraught about losing their jobs and more annoyed that they had to be there.  What struck me most though was just how normal everyone was, and when a tall blonde walked in and plopped her Louis bag on the table next me I thought, "My sister."  

After twenty minutes of collecting every one's paperwork, the lecture began.  A woman about the same age as my grandmother asked if anyone had ever heard of LinkedIn?  I almost responded by asking her if she had ever heard of the Internet, but thought it was best to just stay quiet. Shortly after that, she suggested we use "Faceplace" to network for our job search. No one attempted to correct her, but instead we all just rolled our eyes at each other.  I sarcastically thought to myself "Yes, Facebook, with my pictures of Vegas, status updates like 'Jane is 4 champagnes deep on a Sunday afternoon' and snarky comments from friends like, 'I can see your camel toe' is really going to help me make my next career move.  Perhaps I could become a hooker using my social network?  I would be hiding the truth if I didn't tell you that there was about five seconds, that I was half inspired to go out there and change my life, but as soon as the Powerpoint started it ended.

Luckily the presentation lasted about five minute and afterwards we were instructed to stay put. Some of us would be called in for a one on one meeting while others would be dismissed and that it was completely random.  We all shifted our eyes nervously as the first few people were called into their one on one's.  Then, an ancient relic of a woman entered the room with the stack of dismissals and took a good twenty minutes for her to get through calling the names. I began to get desolate.  She had finally gone through every name in the pile and mine was not one of them. There I sat, one of three people left out of the fifty or so that were in that room, knowing that not only did I get selected for a one on one, but worse, I had to wait for it.  

When the young, plump and possibly recently immigrated case worker called my name and led me to her desk, I did my absolute best to be as cheerful as possible.  "How's your job search going?" she asked.  I told her things were going great, that I was using my contacts to network, had a few interviews scheduled including a second round coming up and left out the part that I'd rather be a stay-at-home-anything than go back to work soon.  She looked surprised and said, "Well than I guess you don't need help with your resume since you're getting interviews."  Correct.  Then she continued, "Then let me show you the Internet."  No, I am not kidding. I am 100 percent serious that this is what she said to me just before she asked if I've ever heard of a Podcast.  I did my best to act appreciative and after each item she showed me on this mysterious interweb, I interjected and let her know that not only was I aware of it, but that she should let me show her another, better site/widget/whatever. 

Not a minute too soon, just before I broke down into a pile of hysterical laughter and/or tears she wished me luck and sent me on my way letting me know that should I ever end up back here, which in her opinion I likely would, there are many resources to help me.  Thanks.  

Luckily they only make you attend once and I'd be lying if I said I didn't learn anything.  I learned one lesson:  City Government is like Ellis Island.  It's where the tired, poor, huddled masses go to work and where the energetic, well dressed, but unemployed masses go to have the life sucked out of them for 2 hours on a Tuesday afternoon.  I do not plan on going back in either capacity.

That's What Unemployment's For

It's officially official, I am one of the 10.5 million Americans currently unemployed and it's kind of awesome.  Of course I would prefer to know where my income will be coming from going forward, but to be honest, it's not so bad.  It's kind of good.

There were hugs and tears and goodbyes and now I'm wondering if I'm going to grow up to be a serial killer because I was strangley unemotional and sort of up-beat.  I mean afterall,  I get the next two months off to finish planning my wedding, get married and go on my honeymoon.  I don't want to be overly excited, but like I said, it is kind of freaking awesome.  

I think that fact that we had some forewarning actually allowed me to go through 5 stages of grief at home (well 4 out of the 5 - I skipped Bargaining. Bargaining is played) and I ended up coming out OK in the end.  On Monday, I went through Denial.  Not me. I'm awesome.  I'll be Fine. I thought.  Tuesday was Anger in the form of comments like, "These mother f-ckers need to stop stringing us along."  Wednesday brought upon Depression.  I got home, pounded a glass of red wine, told myself I was going to be fat and unemployed and cried myself to sleep.  Then came yesterday, glorious yesterday, and with it Acceptance.  The hard part was waiting for the call, getting it was a sigh of relief. 

So now that I'm offically home, waiting for the final check to clear, I'm setting lofty goals for what the next two months will hold.  I know I'm going to spend a lot of time in front of this computer, with Itunes blasting, singing loudly until my neighbors hate me.  But during this time I hope to accomplish the following:

1. Become Suzie-effing-home maker.  I'm talking ironed sheets, home cooked meals, red lips and perfect hair when my fiance (T)  gets home.  I plan on overdoing it so much so that when we're back from the honeymoon, he decides to get three more jobs so I never have to go back to work.
2. Write, write, write, write.  It's time to get this blog going, get my Twitter on, and pack as many sarcasm-filled comments as possible into every day.
3. Save money/Make Money/Shake my Money Maker.  Over the next few months I'm going to seek out the coolest free and cheap stuff to do in this city.  Maybe I'll just go down to Madison Square park and hang out and try to become besties with Uma Thurman at the playground.  Anyone have a kid I can borrow?  Of course these exploits are going to be the basis of what I'm going to write about, gain a following and generate some ad-revenue. Suggestions are welcome and tell your friends.
4. Do all the wedding-stuff I didn't have time to do before.
5. Get ripped.  I figure either the next two months is going to get me really fat or really ripped. Even though I'll probably the same because I'll be able to counteract my Bon-Bon eating, Oprah-watching afternoons with extra long workouts at 7am when the gym is least crowded.  (Did I mention I don't have to quit my beloved gym?!)

Mainly, I'm going to try not to let these two months fly by and have nothing to show for it.  Time to get my domestic-career-party-girl Diva on.

Recessionista

In the past, when I've taken the liberty of using one of my paid vacation/sick/mental health/personal days to go shopping, clean my apartment, run errands and get in an extra-long workout, I've marveled with insane jealousy at how many people in this city spend their everydays in the same way I spend my stolen 8 hours.

These are not the suited people who grouchily shuffle along side of me as I walk to work. They are not the building security guards who I beam, "Thank God It's Friday" to once a week at 8:27am. These are not even tourists (at least not in my east-side neighborhood anyway.) These are people who have the glorious luxury of not working, or working from home, or who work weird hours that allow them late nights and even later morning.

There is nothing greater than a weekday in Manhattan spent out of the office. This is something I've always aspired to. This is the reason that I will one day finish the novel that will get published, send me on a book tour and leave me working from home, whatever hours I want, on my next great literary achievement about (purses, shoes, insert accesory of choice here). All I've ever wanted was to have the hours of 9-5 on Monday-Friday to myself (so I can stay in on Saturday nights scoffing at the poor saps who only have 48 hours to live it up every week). Only I've dreamed about it on my terms. Either via the above-mentioned New York Times best-seller or by my fiance getting rich enough through his website to turn me into a lady-who-lunches (at Per Se).

It looks like my dream might come halfway true (in that I'm an HR meeting away from having my weekdays all to myself), but not on the terms I envisioned (in that I am going to have to spend my days between temp assignments and looking for a cheaper apartment). My consulting firm announced Monday that layoffs are coming and we're expecting the proverbial hammer to come down on Thursday. And while my co-workers and I whisper to each other, wondering like Heidi Klum, who is IN or OUT, I can fairly confidently say that I'm in danger of getting the axe since my group's billings have been down for sometime now.

While I generally prefer the high-drama approach of making a mountain out of a mole hill, I'm left with no choice, but to take lemons and make them into lemonade. I have my mind on my money and my money on my mind and if I lose what was never really my dream job, I better figure out a way to keep up my stiletto-wearing, martini drinking ways even as the economy flounders.

I don't know stocks and I don't know bonds, but I do know how to put a great belt on an old dress and turn it into something fabulous. So as I approach unemployment this is my attempt to make some money off what I do best (writing a brutally honest, somewhat inflated, account of my existence) and how to keep up with the Jones' (or at least that 23 year Dartmouth grad who's Daddy covers 96.5% of her rent) without spending a dime.

Stay tuned...