The First Day I Knew...

I had a hunch, when I first accepted the job here at Badvertisers, that I wasn't going to be completely satisfied with my new endeavor.

For one thing, I am working for online advertisers, more or less; but its not an advertising agency that creates the ads--that would at least be somewhat interesting--it's an online intergration platform for in-stream advertisements, with audience targeting capabilities... whoa there, huh??? I think I recall getting a college degree in literature and poetry.

Ironically, my writing skills are exactly what got me here in the first place. This customer I knew from Cafe Gypsy, a funny guy named Istanbul, had read my unemployment blog and liked my style. Turns out he's the CEO co-brainchild of some internet start-up, and he was looking for an office manager (glorified secretary), someone who would eventually fufill the duties of a publicist. He contacted me, offered me the job, a steady salary, health insurance, and a cubicle.

After a bout of cold feet, I accepted, with the only reservation being that I will, at some point, be doing something creative--writing press releases and copyediting. As I mentioned before, I'm grossly unqualified for this job, so I was happy to take it slow, to start out as a secretary.

Well, here I am, Miss Secretary, taking it real slow and running the menial, intern-like task of throwing a birthday party. It's Istanbul's birthday, so I was directed, by my supervisor, to purchase a couple dozen cupcakes and a few bottles of champagne. After running around downtown Manhattan, acquiring these festive components, I set up a little surprise party in the conference room.

As for the aftermath of this party... well, there wasn't really much of an aftermath. A few people tried a cupcake; two women split one; most people had a sip of champagne, but didn't request a refill; 90% of the office went straight back to their computers.

And for the first time, I'm certain that working with Badvertisers isn't the place for me. Who are these people? Who doesn't like cupcakes? Who doesn't like champagne? More importantly, who likes cubicles more than cupcakes and champagne?

I don't know, maybe they just have real work to do.

I, on the other hand, just a lowly secretary, busy myself by putting the stray pen caps back on ball-point pens in the back corner of the office.

Nobody likes a quitter

Hmm… another month has gone by without a peep on my blog… but I, as always, have a perfectly legitimate excuse:

EMPLOYMENT.

That’s right folks, I have a job. Two, actually. In a time of personal discontent and national recession, little did I know that quitting my job at Café Gypsy would not, in fact, be a bad idea.

Before I even had a chance to settle into unemployment, potential employers came out of the woodwork; shot their flare guns at me, wrote me Petrarchan sonnets, poked holes in their condoms so that they would become pregnant with my baby…

Well, maybe I’m exaggerating a bit. But I certainly wasn’t looking for work. I was hoping to maintain a stable and healthy unemployment, living off my Café Gypsy savings, until at least September.

But I just couldn’t follow through. The temptation to be employed, especially without so much as having to raise a little finger to print out a résumé, proved too irresistible.

Needless to say, employment, for the most part, has led to my temporary demise: when I accepted the job with Badvertisers, I did a really bad thing; I quit this blog and everything else that I had gained from quitting Café Gypsy. It’s not that I haven’t had anything to write about; I just wasn’t sure if I should write about it. After all, my job could be at stake, even if I covered my tracks by conjuring up clever code names for characters in my stories.

And more importantly, I’ve wondered, a lot, if it makes me a bad person to accept a job offer from people I really like—not to mention, for a job I’m totally unqualified for—while naming their company “Badvertisers” for a silly blog. Would my disingenuousness as an employee reflect a deeper disingenuousness of my own character? Perhaps I am, at the core, a self-serving, egotistical bitch.

But I’ve weighed the consequences of making enemies, of getting fired from Badvertisers, weighed it against the consequences of being a quitter in my own right, of quitting my reckless ideals and quitting writing—and I just can’t seem to justify playing it safe.

For better or for worse, it’s a risky mission, but it has to be done.

The Allure of Sweets and Money

Tonight, I went to grab a coffee and dessert with my good friend, Lassie. Seems wholesome enough. But our little sweet stop was a sinister den of temptation, luring me toward employment.

Lassie and I strolled up to Ditmars Blvd. in our neighborhood of Astoria, headed toward a bakery she'd recently discovered. The streets were teeming with people, and though it was a Saturday night under a yolky-yellow full moon, I couldn't help but feeling something was up. 

As we approached the bakery, noting its full outside section, we saw what had drawn the uncharacteristically energetic crowd--a giant street festival, rivaling any typical street festival in Little Italy. It was a mesmerizing three blocks of arches of lights, an olfactory cloud of factory meats, and the obligatory layer of festival rubbish underfoot. Needless to say, we requested to sit inside.

Before the hostess sat us at the bar indoors, Lassie pointed to a sign posted on the door. "Hey look. Experienced server wanted." I felt a pang of temptation. I looked on approvingly as servers hustled from table to table, taking orders, dropping drinks, transacting cash. I could do this, for sure. A few days a week, and I'd probably make enough to offset any anxiety I have about spending money on frivolous but desirable things (like gelato!). 

The hostess led us past well-lit and well-stocked cases of cakes, tarts, cookies, cupcakes, and other treats that shall remain nameless. This is the treasure trove to which I could gain access, as an employee; I would have the key to the glass refrigerators. I fantasized about coming home with paper bags full of goodies, dripping with syrups and jellies, with boxes of pies stacked high in our kitchen.

I ordered a strawberry-banana layer cake, the size of which was obscene, and eating it was a gratuitous twenty minutes. All the while--as I said we were sitting at the bar, the hub of activity--I couldn't help but blurt out that sitting here made me miss working in a restaurant. That good frantic energy, the crossroads of coworkers and customers, the food...

Employment here called to me, like the street festival called to the neighborhood with false promises of joy and lovable freaks. But I knew better. It would be the siren song of my undoing. The ugly truth would be another period of my life exhausted, lost in the clamor of easy money and society. Feeling guilty and confused, I pulled out a $50 bill, no doubt evidence of my days at Cafe Gypsy, where good money is a given. 

We left soon after paying. When we got outside, the tents were coming down. The arches of lights, charming before, now seemed gaudy and mocked the refuse littering the streets and sidewalks. The smells had addled, the crowd had dissipated, and the carnies were no longer paying us any mind. The delusion had passed.

I walked home at a brisk pace, unemployed, but not uninspired.

Free

A couple of free things happened to me today, supporting my conviction that I can spoil myself this summer, despite my income-free lifestyle.

Maybe it's the fact that I'm looking for free stuff, or that I'm noticing stuff that I would normally get for free and therefore appreciating it more, or maybe I've acquired special powers--like King Midas, only instead of turning stuff into gold, I'm turning it into... Free? Whatever the reason, Free abounds.

In the afternoon, I enjoyed an informative tour of the Met with Pat Pillar, personal guide extraordinaire. I got in for free, via his $60 membership. Pat seemed to know the layout of the museum as if it were his own mansion. Not only did he know the layout, but he also knew the detailed history of everything we encountered; clearly, the museum is a place where one can whiled away quite a bit of the summer, a haven for the person with too much time and too little to do. I plan on making the $60 investment there soon, which will last me the year (hopefully long after my unemployment).

Then, onto a show at the Music Hall of Williamsburg with Juju & friends, to see a fellow Kansan's band, Woods (I got in for free, via a serendipitous encounter on my flight from MCI to LGA this past Tuesday). Juju & friends, though they paid to get in, were offered free beer by beer promoters; I'd like to think I'm attracting Free to myself and the people around me.

Then again, in a cleaning rampage today, I did foolishly throw away a $20 metrocard I purchased a few rides ago. Maybe the universe is simply trying to restore order for my carelessness by rewarding me with an illusion of Free.

Cloistered

I was supposed to go to The Cloisters today with Pat Pillar. Supposed to be inspired, to be humbled... something enlightening like that. But instead, here I am, in my room, waiting and waiting... waiting for my landlord to come by with tools and articles of plumbing so that he can fix my bathroom.

The kitchen, without an air conditioner, is roasting in hot summer sun, blanched in humidity. The living room, with large, undressed windows, is a blinding hell. And, with no one home, not even the dog, there is no reason to speak, and I'm a veritable monk for a day.

Fortunately, my bedroom--the master bedroom I won in a coin toss--is a 170 square foot playhouse, with a piano and a keyboard, depending on how classy I'm feeling; a new batch of books I harvested from my trip to Kansas; a ceramic hen, a paper llama, and a pair of bronze alligators; and two jars of coins I may very well decide to organize and hand-count for the heck of it. This is no austere retreat.

Unfortunately, though, my bathroom--the master bathroom--is out of commission until my landlord so chooses to show up. And until then, I wait in my room alone, apart from anything else.

An Oath

I'm having a hard time with the financial restraint involved with unemployment.

Since I stepped foot off the plane last night, I've blown many dollars on many unnecessary things. Take jalapeno margaritas, for example. Three of them. A wise man would have purchased a full bottle of tequila and infused it with jalapenos in the comfort of his own, frugal home. Isn't it more satisfying to get drunk off of your own infusion, anyway? 

Tonight, Pat Pillar, my mentor from the other side of the unemployed tracks, critiqued my purchase of a few scoops of gelato for a few friends. "Uh, shouldn't you not spend money... like that?" 

Old habits die hard, especially when it involves velvety, cold, flavorful Hola, Bonita gelato. But he was right. I was being foolish. I'm in exile from a land of ice cream truck songs and triple-scoop camaraderie, and I need to start spending like it. So from here on, I pledge an oath of gelato celibacy. No gelato for me; no gelato for anyone else around me, from me. But... please, give me a bite of yours. 

Pat Pillar, in the midst of an art history infatuation, told me about this museum up, way up there on the New York City map, called The Cloisters, an architecturally monastic museum. In light of my gelato oath, a trip there tomorrow would only be appropriate. 

Suggested donation: the money I would have otherwise spent on something delicious and insensible.

Parallel Unemployed Universe

Just under the 40th Parallel, in the posh suburbs of Kansas City, I'm in a parallel universe of unemployment.

Here, and elsewhere too, not having a job isn't necessarily a sign of laziness, discontent, or misfortune. Employment, in some universes, is inversely related to the quality of life. 

Take my life today, for example. 

I woke up, had a health-conscious peach-mango soy-protein smoothie--one packet out of a whole, expensive, diet-system of packets that my stepfather couldn't bring himself to enjoy, no matter the price. Then, I watched an episode of The Golden Girls while working out at an easy pace on the elliptical machine in the basement gym. There's also a Bowflex there that I'm too afraid to use, though I'm sure I could have flipped through the channels and found an instructive Bowflex infomercial. I certainly wasn't in a hurry to get anywhere.

After taking a shower and walking my mother's hyperactive shih tzu, Barley, I was driven to a spa about a 90-second car ride away for a facial appointment that my mother had scheduled and purchased for me. As my mother points out, there's no reason I shouldn't look as pretty as possible before going back to New York City--you just never know who you're going to meet! 

My facialist asked me what I did, and I told her I wasn't working, but that I had just traveled to Greece. She asked me, then, if I was married, or had a boyfriend maybe... 

Nope, not involved with a wealthy older man yet, if that's what she was really asking me--but I'm sure as hell living like it today, in this sweet, parallel unemployed universe.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to prepare myself for a dinner-date with an old girlfriend of mine.

The Worst Unemployed Person Ever

I'll be honest. So far, I've been a relatively unproductive unemployed person.

Let me explain.

I started out, with high hopes of hitting the ground running down the path of unemployment. I thought I would have to overcome the trials and tribulations of filling my vacuous days with meaningful activities. I thought I would be living ascetically, drenched in the sweat of knowing that there would only be an output, never an input, of funds for the next few months of my experiment. 

I thought I would be melodramatically wringing my hands, in full-on regret of quitting my time-consuming and lucrative job at Cafe Gypsy. But, I'm almost a month into real unemployment, and I haven't slept in my own bed since the 28th of May. (It's mostly been sofabeds, if you're curious.) I've been making my rounds visiting family all across the midwest, not to mention going on a Greek vacation... 

It's not that I haven't had anything to write about--I certainly have--but none of it has anything to do with my quest for gainful unemployment. I mean, what kind of unemployed person has so many people to visit and so much to do? I haven't been paying for much either. Poor me, all entertained and rich and shit.

I'm going to try to savor it while it lasts though, because on Tuesday, I get back to my own bed. On Tuesday, the misery that makes for good entertainment begins.

Or maybe this whole thing is just doomed for anticlimax and I should just get a damn job.

Madrid

Here we are in Madrid, two rough and tumble Americans in girly pleated dresses, strapped into rough and tumble backpacks, inexplicably heavy with more girly pleated dresses. We're making the most of an eight-hour layover by taking a mini-pre-Grecian-vacation in Spain.

Mikki's been here before, so she leads the way to a restaurant that serves cheap and decent paella. Our waiter, an Argentinian with a gruff, movie-preview voice who we've named "Viggo", advises that an order of paella is splittable between the two of us girls. Girly pleated dresses and all, we suspect Viggo underestimates our rough and tumble appetite, so we keep a backup entree of oxtail stew in mind.

The paella, as suspected, is far from being enough for the two of us. We're charging the platter like angry toros, bucking saffron grains of rice all over the table. Consequently, we order and demolish the oxtail stew.

Viggo, impressed, brings over two shots of a mysterious licorice-flavored liquor. Not only are we not really "shot" girls, but I also hate licorice. But after the show we put on with our meal, we can't disappoint our fans.

As the shots set in, Viggo introduces us to a Spanish couple at a neighboring table who are en route to New York City. We implore them to go to Cafe Gypsy, scribbling the address and our names on a napkin. In return, they offer us mystery crackers spread with mystery pate; bursting at the pleats, we're praying for no more free and obligatory solids or liquids.

I don't know if the tranquilizer was in the shots or the pate, but I'm barely able to hold myself up. I'm a spectacle, stumbling for all to see. And we've got a plane to catch, to our real vacation. How we're going to get back to the airport, I don't know...

Unemployment Enjoyment

It's official. I'm now legitimately without employment. Kicking it all off with a trip to Greece.

What day is it???

I don't want to make excuses or anything... but I have a really good excuse.

How many days since the last entry? I don't know. The last few nights, I've gone to bed around three or four in the morning, and have woken up inexplicably four hours or less later. I get out of bed, I tool around a bit for things to do. I get back under the covers, but can't fall back asleep. And for the rest of the day, I'm the walking dead, motivated only to go back to bed, struggling to get and to stay asleep.

I think I will much prefer unemployment, the struggle to fill my days with non-sleep activities.

Day Eleven

Last night, I broke the unemployment news to my father... who is unemployed.

The last job he had was as a gas station attendant on the outskirts of Nashville. He quit because someone held-up the place at gunpoint.

Before working at the gas station, he was studying to be a massage therapist. He couldn't find work.

Before studying massage therapy, he was a very successful computer consultant for a major national company. He got laid off.

Before working in IT, he was a captain in the army, stationed in Seoul, Korea. He was honorably discharged.

When told my dad that I quit my management position at Cafe Gypsy, he shrugged and congratulated me for quitting a job that I didn't feel was right for me.

Then he moved on to the next topic of conversation; his cat just had an eye removed and is in a deep depression over the cone she has to wear. It's not going to be a comfortable period of time for her, but it's for her own good.

I can't help but draw significant parallels between my unemployed self and a one-eyed cat.

Day Eight

Mele, one of my favorite customers at Cafe Gypsy, was giving me a hard time tonight about skipping a few days of writing. He pointed out that the whole point of a blog is to post things on it.

I offered him no excuses, but I did offer him a glass of wine and a commitment to write something tonight before going to bed. 

He begged me not to let him down. After all, what else is a happily employed person supposed to do while at work but follow an unemployment blog?

In the meantime, Cafe Gypsy is struggling to employ enough staff to get them through the summer. Sympathetic to my coworkers' plight, I briefly toyed with the idea of working again after returning from Greece, if only to offset the cost of the trip.

It sounds like a responsible plan... but I've already committed to this unemployment thing, and I'm not one to break a commitment. 

Day Six

I've never had more people request my writing services than since last Tuesday, the day that I put in my notice with Duke.

I'm writing a letter of reference this week for a Portuguese soap star. I've just written some copy for Amouchka Nartin, an inimitable florist who lives up the stairs from Cafe Gypsy. I owe this film student named Mack a story, and he persists in calling me out on failing to deliver my end of the bargain. On separate occasions, both Pat Pillar and a fine gentleman from the Lane hotel mentioned very tangible opportunities involving children's literature.

What's with all of this employment? This blog is not much of an employment blog when there's too much employment going on. Maybe I won't be unemployed. Maybe I'm looking for unemployment where there is none.

Day Four

I booked two tickets to Greece today for Mikki and me. What better way to christen a new era than by making rash decisions involving foreign countries and significant sums of money?

Ah, Greece, the perfect cocktail of culture, sex, and frugality--where better than the land of ancient ruins, thong bikinis, and a population as unemployed as I?

Day Three

My mother called me today and expressed her disappointment in my not valuing my intellectual capacity to the fullest, urging me toward graduate school or... a boob job--a biweekly harangue that she drips onto my forehead like Chinese water torture.

No matter what I tell my mother, she will not rest until I pursue an MBA or marry a rich man. On the regular, she cites specific episodes of Millionaire Matchmaker as examples for me to follow.

It's ridiculous, but the encouragement from my mother isn't totally deranged. I have been creatively impotent, and I've feared the whole "use it or lose it" adage applies. Which has something to do with why I quit Cafe Gypsy.

As far as her advice on seeking a rich man... well, refer to "Note One" entry. Maybe that Chinese water torture is getting to me.

I still haven't given my mother my notice yet...

Note One

It's amazing how supportive everyone is of my not being able to support myself financially. And I'm not even on Day Three yet.

Thank you all for this strange paradox.

Speaking of being supported, I would like to put it out there that while I'm unemployed, I will not be dating. I cannot afford to be more than single--only to play piano (free), write (free), and eat leftovers (seems free).

If you want to date me, you have to pay for everything. God speed with that.

Day Two

Woke up at the crack of dawn, but it's not what you think; today has been the most unproductive day yet. 

As a favor, I woke up to shake Mikki, my sleep-deprived roommate, out of bed for her morning shift at Cafe Gypsy. I lambasted her for hitting the snooze, for disregarding the fact that she knew she had things to do. Then I went back to sleep until noon. 

I ate organic banana chips and watched Glee. 

It's 1:00 now, and it's time for me to go pay the rent. I nervously recount my collection of cash tips organized on the floor of my room, hoping this will offer me some peace of mind. Instead, my stomach turns--probably a combination of apprehension and too many banana chips. The money, it's enough, but I know it's finite, and finding solace in my funds is not the point of all of this. 

I still have two hours to turn this day around, before working the evening shift at Cafe Gypsy. It's Cinco de Mayo, and the Lane Hotel Ballroom has been reopened. I anticipate dollar signs and misery.

Day One

I gave my official four-week notice today after Cafe Gypsy's staff meeting. The exchange with my boss, Duke Devy, was anticlimactic to the point of not needing any sort of narration.

I was neither forever banished from the Cafe, nor was there any futile pleading or counter-offering. Not even something so subtle as a sigh. Contrary to my expectations, Duke was cool about the whole thing. He was very cool, in fact. Maybe too cool... or maybe I'm just looking for a story where there is none.

I told Pat Pillar--the lovable but inscrutable scamp-customer of Cafe Gypsy--about having given my notice. He, too, reacted contrary to my expectations; shocked and inconsolable, he asked me what I was going to do with all of my time.

Suckled by a trust fund, he of all people knows the treachery of not having an occupation. My quitting was a mutation of a routine that he constructed to keep his days filled with things to do, a bird's nest of mundane activities: sleeping, eating, browsing the web, frequenting a restaurant filled with muses and beauties...

Because what really is there to do all day, everyday? This is the Grendel of unemployment, the manifestation of some deeper human deficiency that I will certainly encounter over the next few months of self-employment.

Or maybe I'm looking for some sort of purpose, a story in myself where there is none.

Day Zero

Maybe I'm having a quarter-life crisis. Maybe it's because Mercury is in retrograde under the sign of Taurus. Or maybe I'm just burnt out.

For the last two years of my life, I've been working at this restaurant in downtown Manhattan--let's call it Cafe Gypsy--where I've made good friends, good money, and have had the good fortune of just plain being employed. But in less than twelve hours, I'll be throwing it all away. I'm quitting.

This is a chronicle of my soon-to-be gainfully unemployed life.