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...
