So Long, See You Tomorrow

I’ve come to work this morning wearing a mysterious Frenchman’s shirt, yesterday’s eyeliner, and no underwear.

Somehow, sitting in an ergonomic office chair at 9am just doesn’t seem to do any justice to last night.

My Employment Spirit Animal

Just so I don't forget to mention it, I’ll be guest-waitressing tonight for Café Gypsy, at the Lame Hotel (I think I previously had given it the moniker the “Lane Hotel,” but for my own amusement am henceforth referring to it as the “Lame Hotel”).

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Today, yet another productive day at work, I decide to seek the identity of my employment spirit animal.

I press really hard on my LCD computer screen, watching the images gelatinize and throb into shape, using my seriously sleep-deprived trance to my advantage. What, oh, what will I see?

I am expecting to see a dolphin or Pembroke Welsh Corgi, or at least some sort of carbon-based organism—like a potato, for instance (I mean, I have tubers creeping and taking root all across downown Manhattan).

But from the crest of working 60+ hour weeks for a militant-hippie Frenchman (proving oxymorons do exist); to becoming gainfully unemployed; and now back to a nearly 60 hour workweek split between said militant-hippie Frenchman in the evening, ex-soviet-militant Ukrainians during the day, and a technicolor-hippie Indian on the weekends… my employment’s spirit animal is, disappointingly, a cosine wave.

Lame.

30-Minute Spiels, with Rachel Ray

Besides the Ukrainians, I’m always the last person to arrive and the first person to leave the Badvertiser office. It’s funny though; I essentially adhere to a 9 to 5 schedule, so everyone else’s hours are somewhat of a mystery to me. I’m starting to wonder if they ever even leave.

At 5, as far as I’m concerned, my time’s up. This is what happened the other night, when the clock struck 5:

I wash out my coffee mug, properly shut down my computer, add a few rubber bands to my meager rubber band ball. I am ready for a drink. I decide to visit my roommate Betha at her restaurant, Mexicana Papa, which is right up the street from the Badvertiser office.

I order a seriously overpriced margarita (no free drinks for friends here), and since I’m planning on wheedling a free dinner from Café Gypsy later, I order some chips and salsa to quell my grumbling stomach. I’m pretty bored; Betha can’t really talk to me while she’s working under the militant manager here tonight. Maybe I should have just gone straight to Café Gypsy for freebies.

Next thing I know, Rachel Ray (identity protection be damned for you, Rachel Ray!) is sitting next to me at the bar with her husband. Betha had once mentioned to me that Rachel Ray comes in once a week—lives up the block. Just my luck that I’m here at this moment, sitting by myself at the bar next to my cooking show nemesis.

Rachel Ray clearly desires being noticed, as she dramatically fawns over one of the salsas that she ordered. If she comes here once a week, I’m sure it’s not the first time she’s tasted it. Way to be an attention whore.

I, in spite, haven’t yet acknowledged her presence. I nurse my beverage to make it last, staring at the grout in the tiled counter.

It’s about 6:00pm now, and I am ready to eat some dinner. Free dinner. I ask for my bill, which somehow ended up being $22. But just as I’m about to pay, Rachel Ray accosts me. “Sweetie, is that all you’re eating tonight?”

After years of working at Café Gypsy, I’ve become a patient conversationalist, especially with people with whom I have no desire to carry a conversation. “No,” I explained to Rachel Ray, “I’m going somewhere else for dinner. My roommate works—”

“Oh thank god, I was thinking to myself, ‘That poor girl, if that’s all she can afford for dinner, I wish I would have known and I would have bought her a meal! Good lord!”

“No, it’s not that, I just was coming in to grab a drink and I thought I’d—”

“The food here is just delicious, I was thinking to myself, ‘That girl can’t possibly be just having chips and that incredible salsa for dinner! In a heartbeat I would have pulled out my wallet and…’”

Okay, seriously, it’s not like I’m dressed in camouflage, holding a makeshift cardboard sign explaining my plight, sitting next to a big, bandana-wearing German Shepherd covered in cigarette ashes. But every time I try to interject, she keeps interrupting me with some spiel about what she thought was happening and how she, without hesitation, would have saved the fucking day. Thanks Rachel Ray. Thanks for bestowing your charity and graceful presence upon me, a lowly peasant of the world.

I didn’t know it was possible, but I do hate her more.

No Wonder They're On Sale

Today was a rather interny day for me, wandering around town, dropping off mail, buying coffee beans, and the like. It was lovely out, so I didn't mind doing grunt work outdoors.

One of my errands was to go to Millennium 22 to buy some discount dishware for the office. There, I found some plates with this sort of modern curly-cue design on it, thinking they would match some mugs that we already have. They were super affordable, seemed made-to-last, and were microwave-safe (great for Hot Pockets and other such office lunch fare).

Here I am now, peeling off recalcitrant price stickers… and I start cracking up when I realize the curly-cue design looks a little, shall I say, pube-y?

I’m definitely not returning these. Pube plates are here to stay.

Happy Birthday to You, Mr. Bambino

Today is Lenny Bambino’s birthday.

Lenny embodies everything that is wrong with the Americans in this Ukrainian workplace—he has shiny white teeth and beady black pupils; a salesmanny voice which he uses loudly and often; a laughing-solely-at-your-expense sense of humor; and most abhorrently, a weird mustache.

But people seem to like him. Especially the other sales staff. They think he’s a really funny guy.

Let me recount the reasons why I am not one of these people.

Right after he first introduced himself to me, he asked me if I could refill the paper towels in the staff bathroom. This request in itself isn’t necessarily a reason to hate him; it’s just that the paper towel dispenser was actually full.

The second time he spoke to me, he said that the water that came out of the water cooler tasted like toilet water and that I should check the filter. Once again, a valid request… had the filter not just been changed.

The third time he spoke to me, we were in the elevator with two of the other sales executives. He asked me if I knew anything about what the company did. Amazingly, I rode out six more stories in that elevator without kicking him in his bambinos.

And Friday, when he left work, he went out of his way to say, “Good work, McQ.” Sarcasm, I’m sure, because I hadn’t even spoken to him on Friday. What. A. Jerk.

So today, as I said, is Lenny Bambino’s birthday. There was some talk about potential birthday treats amongst the sales staff (wait, you guys DON’T hate cupcakes and puppies and all that is good in this world?), but I suggested to my supervisor that if we start doing birthdays for one person, we then have to do birthdays for everyone. My supervisor agreed with me and vetoed the birthday treats for Lenny. Being Lenny's bitch isn't in my job description--though I suppose being a bitch to Lenny isn't in my job description either.

In any case, this is my birthday wish to you, Mr. Bambino! May frosting not glob up your weird mustache today! Happy fucking birthday!

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?