What NOT To Say When Someone Gets Laid Off

So by now most of you have seen the previous post in which I disclosed that I was losing my job and joining the ranks of the country's burgeoning class of unemployed workers. First, I want to thank everyone for their concern. Because this blog was always intended to be anonymous, there is a very short list of those who are alerted to new posts. Other passers-by in cyberspace may stop in and of course they are welcome but I'm still hopeful that they have no idea who I am. Basically, if you're on that list I'm fond of you. Got it?

But here's the thing. If someone tells you they've just been laid off, you're allowed to be shocked but I'm not sure it's helpful to register the extent of how stunned you are. Why? Because I am trying to stay calm, people! And when you freak the fuck out, it freaks me out even more. It's like when a toddler skins his knee, if you play it down, they get over it but if you scream bloody murder at the site of his blood, he may really lose his shit.

And so here, are the true responses some of my lovely friends sent. They have not been edited and if you recognize one as your own, know this. I ain't mad at ya, but your sensitivity chip may need some fine-tuning.

1. Are you going to look for another job??
(umm, no, I was planning on living under the Westside Highway, it's so lovely this time of year.)
2. So what's going on????
(were 4 question marks necessary? and the answer is in the blog entry.)
3. Are you going to be OK?
(You're supposed to TELL me that, not ask. Hello? I'm losing my job in the worst economic downturn since the Great Depression.)

I know. I'm a bitch but I'm bitter. I worked my ass of for a full year on a shift that deprived me of a social life because I was repeatedly told I was building something. And I'm grateful for the experience but I'm pissed that I was loyal to a job when I could have found a better one with better hours. But on a brighter note, I want to say that even my girls in the aforementioned list are very caring people and their questions, while rhetorical, redundant, or retarded.. not in that order, were well-intentioned.

I guess I'm catty. But that's why I'm very good at landing on my feet, just like a cat. And I'm also catty in the sense that I have nine lives. And now, I am going to go watch "The Wire" because McNulty is hot and he makes me forget that I'm about to be unemployed.

The Love Pariah Gives Way to the Recessionista

I have good news and bad news. I'm going to lead with the good news. You're looking at it. I'm reigniting the blog. The reason for that is the bad news. After months of covering the recession, I have officially become a victim of it. I'm surprisingly calm about the idea of being unemployed at a time when it's easier to find Manolo Blahniks on sale than a job. But when I found out several weeks ago, I was, well let's just say I wasn't so zen about it all.

Like millions of employees in workplaces across the country, I was summoned to my boss' office with an email that appeared to casually ask, "Can we chat?" I knew better. Instantly, I broke into a cold sweat. "Fuck," I said staring at my computer. "What?" my office mate asked with the same dread assuming that the story we were working on together had taken an ugly turn that would require him to cancel dinner plans with his wife.. again. I told him our boss wanted to chat. That can't be good, I noted, stating the obvious. My coworker smiled half-heartedly. "Not necessarily," he offered.

I really like my boss. He gets me. He gets that I'm a good writer and very protective of my scripts, and that I get bent out of shape and yell when shit goes wrong during the wee hours of the morning before the story goes to air. He likes that. And for the most part, even though my altercations with editors and graphics artists over the past year have probably given him a few more gray hairs, he likes me. But the ripple effect of Wall Street's indiscretions was spreading more like a dam bursting than a "trickle" and suddenly yours truly was forced to rethink that Tory Burch trench coat she was eyeing.

The irony was twofold. For weeks, while working Christmas eve, Christmas Day and New Year's Day, I had been saying aloud how lucky I was to have a job. Secondly, I had been doing at least two lead stories on the recession a week and shaking my head at the poor schmuck who got canned after starting a new wing on his home. And in case I wasn't completely freaked out, my superiors were insensitive enough (post-layoff announcement) to keep assigning me those stories. Over and over again, I heard tape of a laid off PR guy, "I felt so undervalued and dispensible" Or the internet ad maven, "I had no savings, what was I going to do?" WHAT THE FUCK WAS I GOING TO DO?!

Fortunately, my parents were in DC when this news came crashing down and came up to New York to see me. My dad attempted to alleviate my anxiety. "You can come work for me," he said. "I will pay you $2,000 a month," he announced proudly. The idea of having my income cut to a fraction of what it was coupled with going back to Texas made me cry harder and my mother asked my dad to stop making it worse. "Then she should just get married," my dad said in defeat. He wasn't done dispensing advice though. The next morning he told me that I could collect unemployment. "The government will pay you for staying home." I remembered my sister had said the same thing and I felt a surge of hope.

And that's kind of where I've stayed. That plane where hope and unemployment insurance intersect. I have four more days at my job and I keep hearing whispers that someone is going to pull a miracle out of a hat saving me from the uncertainty that awaits me. But at this point, I think that I might be disappointed if my job is rescued. I mean where's the glory in that? At least a spell of unemployment will enable me to have some empathy for my fellow American. A recessionista battling it out in the big, gritty city. Doing her own nails, blowing out her own hair and recycling last season's fashions. There's a certain nobility to it. And if my back's not against the wall, how will I be forced to do my next documentary short? GASP! Dear reader, I just had a surge of inspiration for my next film. Stay tuned...