Here’s a job I won’t be getting. Mostly because I did not apply before the recent deadline. And maybe because of the punch line offered up in the ad itself.
The job in question, U.S. reporter for The London Times, sounds fantastic. “The successful candidate will be expected to cover a wide variety of news from within the United States, with particular emphasis on politics and business,” according o the posting, which I found earlier this month on the site for Columbia J-school grads. “He or she will have the capacity to write accurate and authoritative rolling news copy and leads, but also possess the imagination to pitch ideas to both the website and the newspaper.” There’s a re-launch of the U.S. blog coming, too, evidently.
Sounds great. And the job is based in Washington, D.C., a city where I went to college and where I would not mind spending some time.
What’s the problem? Well, the ad concludes with this little gem: “Given the breadth of talent within The Times, it is our intention to appoint from within.” Do we give these people points for honesty? Or do we go ahead and wonder aloud why the hell this ad was posted to begin with?
As if it’s not hard enough looking for a job in this economy without a fake-out like this. Thanks for nothing, London Times.
Monday, June 29, 2009
Tuesday, June 23, 2009
Times Team Talks
Richard Berke, the assistant managing editor of The New York Times, last night interviewed Bill Keller, the executive editor of The New York Times, and Jill Abramson, the managing editor of The New York Times.
That’s a lot of Times.
Thrilled at the idea of seeing three journalists I admire, and all with jobs in this economy, I headed over to The Times Center, the should-be-more-impressive venue in the still-relatively-new New York Times building across from the Port Authority.
Carol Day, also a Timesian, introduced Berke, saying he had “the toughest job in journalism: interviewing his bosses.” Then Berke kept hitting that theme throughout the night. I think he joked about it three times. At first I thought he was kidding; later I thought he was pretty serious, maybe so much so that there should have been another moderator. But Berke was good, displaying a particular interest in the personal work habits and experiences of Keller and Abramson. I thought Berke could have hit harder and earlier on the changing nature of the news business, but that could just be because I’m unemployed and fixated both on the switch to digital and whether anyone will ever make money on it.
These Timespeople take a lot of crap—one of my best pals sent me last week the Keller appearance on “The Daily Show.” He came off like a stuffy Times dude, from what I saw, but I stopped watching. I was not hungry to see the Times being insulted. If I want to see a journalist in trouble, I’ll look in the damn mirror.
In person, Keller is old-school elegant, with intelligent things to say about the Times and the world. He said he was suffering from jet lag, but that only made him more likably laconic. Back from Iran, where he wrote front-page news himself for the first time in 14 years (Berke counted), Keller admitted that one great thing about his most recent overseas trip was that nobody came up to him and asked, “How are you going to monetize the Web?” He was also good when explaining the simple but significant value of sending reporters around the world and around the city to gather information and see things firsthand. He talked about how “we’re there” and also insisted the Times has certain standards, but he was not egotistical about it. “Newspapers are put out by human beings,” he said, “so we don’t do any of this perfectly.”
Abramson and Keller painted themselves as a kind of odd-couple who work well together. Keller to Abramson: “I think you are the designated worrier.” Abramson to us: “I am in my family, too. It’s a terrible double-dose.” She called herself the “Department of Dark Worries” and said she’s the one who really hates when the Times gets scooped.
By evening’s end, I wanted to work for either or both of them. Okay, I’m lying—I have wanted for several years to work there. But I really did think they both handled well the tired criticisms of the Times’ coverage of the Middle East, with Keller refusing to concede a pro-Palestinian slant to the coverage. And they came off, especially when speaking of the recent escape of reporter and ex-hostage David Rohde, as though they understand how to manage a team of human beings. Abramson quoted Keller quoting Mandela: “You lead from behind.”
There were a lot of smart bits and pieces. I could almost believe, by evening’s end, that Keller and company would do what they said they were working on doing when it comes to the sustainability of the Times: “figure this out.”
Good luck with that. Really. In the meantime, I’m sending these people my resume.
That’s a lot of Times.
Thrilled at the idea of seeing three journalists I admire, and all with jobs in this economy, I headed over to The Times Center, the should-be-more-impressive venue in the still-relatively-new New York Times building across from the Port Authority.
Carol Day, also a Timesian, introduced Berke, saying he had “the toughest job in journalism: interviewing his bosses.” Then Berke kept hitting that theme throughout the night. I think he joked about it three times. At first I thought he was kidding; later I thought he was pretty serious, maybe so much so that there should have been another moderator. But Berke was good, displaying a particular interest in the personal work habits and experiences of Keller and Abramson. I thought Berke could have hit harder and earlier on the changing nature of the news business, but that could just be because I’m unemployed and fixated both on the switch to digital and whether anyone will ever make money on it.
These Timespeople take a lot of crap—one of my best pals sent me last week the Keller appearance on “The Daily Show.” He came off like a stuffy Times dude, from what I saw, but I stopped watching. I was not hungry to see the Times being insulted. If I want to see a journalist in trouble, I’ll look in the damn mirror.
In person, Keller is old-school elegant, with intelligent things to say about the Times and the world. He said he was suffering from jet lag, but that only made him more likably laconic. Back from Iran, where he wrote front-page news himself for the first time in 14 years (Berke counted), Keller admitted that one great thing about his most recent overseas trip was that nobody came up to him and asked, “How are you going to monetize the Web?” He was also good when explaining the simple but significant value of sending reporters around the world and around the city to gather information and see things firsthand. He talked about how “we’re there” and also insisted the Times has certain standards, but he was not egotistical about it. “Newspapers are put out by human beings,” he said, “so we don’t do any of this perfectly.”
Abramson and Keller painted themselves as a kind of odd-couple who work well together. Keller to Abramson: “I think you are the designated worrier.” Abramson to us: “I am in my family, too. It’s a terrible double-dose.” She called herself the “Department of Dark Worries” and said she’s the one who really hates when the Times gets scooped.
By evening’s end, I wanted to work for either or both of them. Okay, I’m lying—I have wanted for several years to work there. But I really did think they both handled well the tired criticisms of the Times’ coverage of the Middle East, with Keller refusing to concede a pro-Palestinian slant to the coverage. And they came off, especially when speaking of the recent escape of reporter and ex-hostage David Rohde, as though they understand how to manage a team of human beings. Abramson quoted Keller quoting Mandela: “You lead from behind.”
There were a lot of smart bits and pieces. I could almost believe, by evening’s end, that Keller and company would do what they said they were working on doing when it comes to the sustainability of the Times: “figure this out.”
Good luck with that. Really. In the meantime, I’m sending these people my resume.
Monday, June 22, 2009
Why I Love Marci Alboher
Some meetings go better than others.
And, for better or for worse, right now it’s all about me getting out there and meeting people. Talking. Commiserating, given the state of things. Planning for the future, whether it’s short term (how much exactly is the cable bill each month?) or long term (what was it that I meant to do with the time between when “The View” ends and when I die?).
Had a dinner recently with a pal who is in public relations. Nice gal. Very generous of her to buy me dinner. But she told me more than once during that dinner that my partner and I should really be buying a weekend home. That way we would have space, at least during the weekend. Apparently we can get something nice with some land for less than $150K in Columbia County.
Only problem: I do not happen to give a damn about land. Oh, and one other thing: I have no money. So right at this moment I am wondering about how much it will cost to buy groceries between now and Labor Day.
So pardon me if I skim over the ads for weekend homes.
Jesus.
Some people, especially here in Manhattan, think that what I am going through is some sort of intellectual exercise. That this is all just an opportunity for personal growth. Well, maybe. I certainly hope so. But like the vast majority of people on our planet, I have been working over the past couple of decades not just for personal fulfillment. I was also eager to secure food and shelter.
Sometimes during the past few weeks, I have been by the occasional insensitivity upon which I stumble.
That said, more often than not my meetings are great. Take last Thursday afternoon, even with the rain. I met for coffee last week at the adorable Café Henri on the adorable Bedford Street with Marci Alboher, the queen of the slash. She introduced me to the idea of the slash, as in the punctuation used to indicate that one has more than one career. For instance, I could be an “editor/writer/teacher.” Alboher was ahead of the curve on this. Her book, “One Person/Multiple Careers” (another slash right there in the title!), was published by Warner Books in 2007. She is online with a great career blog called “Working the New Economy” at www.tinyurl.com/.
Alboher gave me tangible advice I can use. Like: 1. When talking to someone who wants to help in a career search, be sure to ask something specific from them. 2. “Let yourself be discouraged.” I thought this was simple and brilliant and have called it back to my brain again and again since Alboher said it. If I could follow this advice, I could save the time I waste fighting with myself over my mood. 3. “Career transition takes time.” Which means that one needs to find a way to pay for the transition period.
That’s one of the things I cherish about Alboher: she is inspiring but realistic. She understands that people have to pay mortgages and rents while they go through life changes.
I recommend her blog.
Oh, and is it okay to mention that she is strikingly beautiful? Every once in a while, during our hour-long chat, I would forget what we were talking about and think to myself: Lord, this woman looks good.
And, for better or for worse, right now it’s all about me getting out there and meeting people. Talking. Commiserating, given the state of things. Planning for the future, whether it’s short term (how much exactly is the cable bill each month?) or long term (what was it that I meant to do with the time between when “The View” ends and when I die?).
Had a dinner recently with a pal who is in public relations. Nice gal. Very generous of her to buy me dinner. But she told me more than once during that dinner that my partner and I should really be buying a weekend home. That way we would have space, at least during the weekend. Apparently we can get something nice with some land for less than $150K in Columbia County.
Only problem: I do not happen to give a damn about land. Oh, and one other thing: I have no money. So right at this moment I am wondering about how much it will cost to buy groceries between now and Labor Day.
So pardon me if I skim over the ads for weekend homes.
Jesus.
Some people, especially here in Manhattan, think that what I am going through is some sort of intellectual exercise. That this is all just an opportunity for personal growth. Well, maybe. I certainly hope so. But like the vast majority of people on our planet, I have been working over the past couple of decades not just for personal fulfillment. I was also eager to secure food and shelter.
Sometimes during the past few weeks, I have been by the occasional insensitivity upon which I stumble.
That said, more often than not my meetings are great. Take last Thursday afternoon, even with the rain. I met for coffee last week at the adorable Café Henri on the adorable Bedford Street with Marci Alboher, the queen of the slash. She introduced me to the idea of the slash, as in the punctuation used to indicate that one has more than one career. For instance, I could be an “editor/writer/teacher.” Alboher was ahead of the curve on this. Her book, “One Person/Multiple Careers” (another slash right there in the title!), was published by Warner Books in 2007. She is online with a great career blog called “Working the New Economy” at www.tinyurl.com/.
Alboher gave me tangible advice I can use. Like: 1. When talking to someone who wants to help in a career search, be sure to ask something specific from them. 2. “Let yourself be discouraged.” I thought this was simple and brilliant and have called it back to my brain again and again since Alboher said it. If I could follow this advice, I could save the time I waste fighting with myself over my mood. 3. “Career transition takes time.” Which means that one needs to find a way to pay for the transition period.
That’s one of the things I cherish about Alboher: she is inspiring but realistic. She understands that people have to pay mortgages and rents while they go through life changes.
I recommend her blog.
Oh, and is it okay to mention that she is strikingly beautiful? Every once in a while, during our hour-long chat, I would forget what we were talking about and think to myself: Lord, this woman looks good.
Friday, June 19, 2009
Anne Roiphe on the M5 Bus
Life is weird.
This morning I woke up thinking about Anne Roiphe, the author, most recently, of “Epilogue: A Memoir,” a powerful tale about living in the aftermath of the death of a spouse. I was thinking of sending a note to Roiphe. I had wanted to tell Roiphe two things: first and most importantly, I recently met a stranger on the subway who was reading “Epilogue” and we wound up having a fantastic conversation; second, I got laid off. I tell pretty much everybody about my getting laid off. So does my father. He managed to tell the waiter at Liebman’s Deli in Riverdale.
Anyway, back to Roiphe. I thought about her and then I saw her, about 30 minutes later, on my beloved M5 bus. I was out for my walk when I saw the bus coming. I figured this was the Lord’s way of telling me that I did not need to walk all the way down to the pier below West 72nd Street. I could ride. So I got on. A few blocks later, Roiphe got on.
We chatted about job losses in journalism. I told her about the stranger who liked her book. And when she was getting off, after already having said goodbye, Roiphe turned back and looked at me and said: “Good luck.” Complete with eye contact. I thought that was nice. I had better take my gifts where I can get them.
This morning I woke up thinking about Anne Roiphe, the author, most recently, of “Epilogue: A Memoir,” a powerful tale about living in the aftermath of the death of a spouse. I was thinking of sending a note to Roiphe. I had wanted to tell Roiphe two things: first and most importantly, I recently met a stranger on the subway who was reading “Epilogue” and we wound up having a fantastic conversation; second, I got laid off. I tell pretty much everybody about my getting laid off. So does my father. He managed to tell the waiter at Liebman’s Deli in Riverdale.
Anyway, back to Roiphe. I thought about her and then I saw her, about 30 minutes later, on my beloved M5 bus. I was out for my walk when I saw the bus coming. I figured this was the Lord’s way of telling me that I did not need to walk all the way down to the pier below West 72nd Street. I could ride. So I got on. A few blocks later, Roiphe got on.
We chatted about job losses in journalism. I told her about the stranger who liked her book. And when she was getting off, after already having said goodbye, Roiphe turned back and looked at me and said: “Good luck.” Complete with eye contact. I thought that was nice. I had better take my gifts where I can get them.
Monday, June 15, 2009
Free Entertainment
“Obama condoms,” the street salesman shouted at passersby, “get your Obama condoms—for those hard, hard times.”
This played out on Saturday afternoon in Times Square. I found it a refreshing reminder that Times Square is still unmistakably part of New York City. I mean, the Disneyfication only goes so far. They can put “Little Mermaid” on Broadway and remove the cars and have thousands of regular Americans pour into the neighborhood and then place lawn chairs next to the TKTS booth, but this town still has an edge. And thank God for that.
The next day, yesterday, I learned the same lesson all over again. I was walking downtown through Christopher Park, just past the lovely Gay Liberation Monument. I love this little history-making block. The sun was shining. Two guys were walking in front me. One white, one black, both fellows were heavyset (I always like it when I find someone more heavyset than myself) and very, well, regular-looking. Normal New York dudes, but with a nice gay twist. I saw one put his arm around the shoulder of the other. Nice gesture, so I tuned in. Then I heard one was reporting on what he characterized as the “huge” size of his penis to his friend. “I have a nice, f—ing big dick,” the guy says.
This is what we call free entertainment. And without a full-time job for the first time since the Clinton Administration, I find myself appreciating more than ever what is out there on the streets of the city. The last time I was looking this desperately for a job I was living in New Jersey. I think these days a good deal about that time, now that I am back in the same boat. And I wonder if it is better to be unemployed in New Jersey or in New York City.
For now, if only for the sake of the unending show available out there in the streets, I pick the city. Yes, when I feel lonely in New York, that horrible feeling can be extra-horrible because it comes amid all the hustle and bustle and the millions of people who do not give a damn about what happens to me. I get that, but most of the time I do not feel that way. Instead, I appreciate the activity that is out there beyond my apartment door. I feel lucky to be here (until the money runs out) and to be overhearing things and seeing people moving about. Even without a job, I get in my gut an appreciation for the energy of our big and messy town. It still works for me—even if I’m not actually working.
This played out on Saturday afternoon in Times Square. I found it a refreshing reminder that Times Square is still unmistakably part of New York City. I mean, the Disneyfication only goes so far. They can put “Little Mermaid” on Broadway and remove the cars and have thousands of regular Americans pour into the neighborhood and then place lawn chairs next to the TKTS booth, but this town still has an edge. And thank God for that.
The next day, yesterday, I learned the same lesson all over again. I was walking downtown through Christopher Park, just past the lovely Gay Liberation Monument. I love this little history-making block. The sun was shining. Two guys were walking in front me. One white, one black, both fellows were heavyset (I always like it when I find someone more heavyset than myself) and very, well, regular-looking. Normal New York dudes, but with a nice gay twist. I saw one put his arm around the shoulder of the other. Nice gesture, so I tuned in. Then I heard one was reporting on what he characterized as the “huge” size of his penis to his friend. “I have a nice, f—ing big dick,” the guy says.
This is what we call free entertainment. And without a full-time job for the first time since the Clinton Administration, I find myself appreciating more than ever what is out there on the streets of the city. The last time I was looking this desperately for a job I was living in New Jersey. I think these days a good deal about that time, now that I am back in the same boat. And I wonder if it is better to be unemployed in New Jersey or in New York City.
For now, if only for the sake of the unending show available out there in the streets, I pick the city. Yes, when I feel lonely in New York, that horrible feeling can be extra-horrible because it comes amid all the hustle and bustle and the millions of people who do not give a damn about what happens to me. I get that, but most of the time I do not feel that way. Instead, I appreciate the activity that is out there beyond my apartment door. I feel lucky to be here (until the money runs out) and to be overhearing things and seeing people moving about. Even without a job, I get in my gut an appreciation for the energy of our big and messy town. It still works for me—even if I’m not actually working.
Wednesday, June 10, 2009
My Printer Vs. Me
I spent much of the day yesterday fighting with my printer.
This was about as rewarding as it sounds.
Actually, I made a little bit of progress. I purchased a cartridge. And once home, I spent some time looking at the printer, which does a hesitant job of printing anything. The thing beeps “paper jam” at me, even though there never actually is a paper jam. It’s lying. Which is jarring.
But at least I am getting to know my printer. I even read a few sentences in the instruction manual (God, being unemployed is boring.) I never really thought before about how the printer can also be used as a fax. Does that mean that if I just put the phone jack in there that the thing will fax something? I think it might. Or do I need to get a dedicated fax line? Cause I am not doing that. I hate faxes. But there’s a certain Vanity Fair writer who told me to fax my resume so he can ignore it. The manual seems to indicate I can really use this as a fax. We shall see.
My home office is in my home, but it’s not much of an office. This never mattered until the ax fell, but now I have learned, speedily and dramatically, that what one needs in a living space changes dramatically when one does not have a work space. I am even getting tired of sitting my fat ass in my glorious red chair, where I have been living since being informed that my career is over.
I have unpacked the boxes and put the crap in the right space—generally speaking. But I need to go through now and throw most everything out. But can I do that when I am feeling poor? Isn’t that toss-it-away instinct a better bet when one has a job? I think so. Right now I would instinctively be afraid to toss out things. Even though it’s still probably not a bad notion.
I promise this: if someone hires me to do a full-time job at a full-time salary (they rarely go together any longer), then I will throw away the things I see right now that should go: the awards I’ve won, the Rolodex from the 1990s exclusively packed with names from New Jersey, the files with story ideas that are not worth pursuing. Probably would not be a bad idea to toss the damn printer, too.
This was about as rewarding as it sounds.
Actually, I made a little bit of progress. I purchased a cartridge. And once home, I spent some time looking at the printer, which does a hesitant job of printing anything. The thing beeps “paper jam” at me, even though there never actually is a paper jam. It’s lying. Which is jarring.
But at least I am getting to know my printer. I even read a few sentences in the instruction manual (God, being unemployed is boring.) I never really thought before about how the printer can also be used as a fax. Does that mean that if I just put the phone jack in there that the thing will fax something? I think it might. Or do I need to get a dedicated fax line? Cause I am not doing that. I hate faxes. But there’s a certain Vanity Fair writer who told me to fax my resume so he can ignore it. The manual seems to indicate I can really use this as a fax. We shall see.
My home office is in my home, but it’s not much of an office. This never mattered until the ax fell, but now I have learned, speedily and dramatically, that what one needs in a living space changes dramatically when one does not have a work space. I am even getting tired of sitting my fat ass in my glorious red chair, where I have been living since being informed that my career is over.
I have unpacked the boxes and put the crap in the right space—generally speaking. But I need to go through now and throw most everything out. But can I do that when I am feeling poor? Isn’t that toss-it-away instinct a better bet when one has a job? I think so. Right now I would instinctively be afraid to toss out things. Even though it’s still probably not a bad notion.
I promise this: if someone hires me to do a full-time job at a full-time salary (they rarely go together any longer), then I will throw away the things I see right now that should go: the awards I’ve won, the Rolodex from the 1990s exclusively packed with names from New Jersey, the files with story ideas that are not worth pursuing. Probably would not be a bad idea to toss the damn printer, too.
Monday, June 8, 2009
After Saying No
I decided against taking the part-time job. The one that seemed, at least for now, wrong. The one that would have precluded really examining my options.
So now I have time to go on the interviews for the jobs that do not actually exist. Which is weird. Is this an existential riddle or a job hunt?
Accepting the would-be, part-time, underpaid gig felt like selling myself short too soon. That’s one of the things about looking for work in the Post-W Depression: finding the wrong offers along the way. I am constantly measuring my levels of desperation against bad options. Sounds like dating, doesn’t it?
After saying no, I was talking about it with my unemployed neighbor—and by that I meant the unemployed neighbor to my left, not the unemployed neighbor to my right. Sometimes I wonder if anybody in this building has a job any longer. Anyway, when I mentioned the phrase “part-time job I did not take,” my neighbor’s eyes lit up. She had been there. She had recently said no to something, too. Her no went to a much better-paying, full-time assignment, but she knew it was the wrong thing for her.
I envy her certainty. Usually I am incredibly decisive, but now I constantly find myself questioning what the hell to do next. Part of being jobless is weighing how much time to invest in each would-be employer. At exactly this moment, should I be spending my time emailing someone in Fort Lauderdale to convince her that I have Web experience (and that I want to give up Manhattan for the Sunshine State, which I don’t), or should I be sending my clips to a weekly newspaper that is already tossing employees overboard? Or should I be out walking in Riverside Park, since I think fat people do not get hired?
For now, I will keep letting these questions roll around in my mind. Overall, though, I think I owe it to myself to take a month or six weeks (according to my stack of bills, there’s a difference between those two options) and really look for something right. Even in this awful economy. But since I read the newspapers (at least until I stop the subscriptions), I know that there’s not much chance of me actually finding a job. At least in the next month or six weeks. I am out to prove myself wrong. Or at least get out of the existential riddle.
So now I have time to go on the interviews for the jobs that do not actually exist. Which is weird. Is this an existential riddle or a job hunt?
Accepting the would-be, part-time, underpaid gig felt like selling myself short too soon. That’s one of the things about looking for work in the Post-W Depression: finding the wrong offers along the way. I am constantly measuring my levels of desperation against bad options. Sounds like dating, doesn’t it?
After saying no, I was talking about it with my unemployed neighbor—and by that I meant the unemployed neighbor to my left, not the unemployed neighbor to my right. Sometimes I wonder if anybody in this building has a job any longer. Anyway, when I mentioned the phrase “part-time job I did not take,” my neighbor’s eyes lit up. She had been there. She had recently said no to something, too. Her no went to a much better-paying, full-time assignment, but she knew it was the wrong thing for her.
I envy her certainty. Usually I am incredibly decisive, but now I constantly find myself questioning what the hell to do next. Part of being jobless is weighing how much time to invest in each would-be employer. At exactly this moment, should I be spending my time emailing someone in Fort Lauderdale to convince her that I have Web experience (and that I want to give up Manhattan for the Sunshine State, which I don’t), or should I be sending my clips to a weekly newspaper that is already tossing employees overboard? Or should I be out walking in Riverside Park, since I think fat people do not get hired?
For now, I will keep letting these questions roll around in my mind. Overall, though, I think I owe it to myself to take a month or six weeks (according to my stack of bills, there’s a difference between those two options) and really look for something right. Even in this awful economy. But since I read the newspapers (at least until I stop the subscriptions), I know that there’s not much chance of me actually finding a job. At least in the next month or six weeks. I am out to prove myself wrong. Or at least get out of the existential riddle.
Monday, June 1, 2009
A Door Closes
At midlife, I have finally managed to do something trendy: get fired.
Laid off is the term employed last week, when I became unemployed. Cause it’s not really about my performance. Apparently it’s about the lack of advertising revenue at the upscale magazine where I toiled. It turns out that Katie Couric was not kidding when she reported on all those job losses.
Yup, I had heard about the recession—the one that affects other people. This week it’s different. Now that I’m the one who was canned, I’ve got a pretty good sense of the stories behind the numbers. Certainly you’ve read about those numbers, like the ones reported in the Daily News on May 28. The number of people receiving unemployment benefits is now in its 17th record week in a row.
Since I had read about this happening to other people, I knew some of what to do. I had seen all those “when you get fired” feature stories in the newspapers. So I was ready, right there in the middle of my worst conversation ever, to ask for my severance package in writing. I felt like a champ then, like I had passed a little Life Test, but then later I forgot to pick up the piece of paper. I guess I will forgive myself: my brain has been swirling with worries, like how I was going to pay the mortgage and why I ever went into journalism in the first place.
Maybe I did not do such a hot job of hitting all the right notes, but neither did anybody else. It turns out that what we really need is a few feature stories on what the rest of you should and should not do when I get fired—or when it happens to someone you love, or even just like.
Here are my tips on how the un-fired should respond:
∙ Do not tell me it’s going to be better in the long run. You don’t know that, I don’t know that. Only God knows that—and she’s probably not focusing on my job search, what with so much of her time being spent on the Middle East.
∙ But do say something. The only people I hate this week are the ones who were silent; especially the upper-echelon folks I worked with for a long time (seemed longer than it was). They should have made a phone call or dropped by my office to say something, however inadequate or untruthful. Show some class, people.
∙ Don’t expect me to concentrate. I haven’t been this distracted since my romantic breakup of 2002. This time I got dumped by a media company instead of Mr. Wrong, but the physical shock is the same. I cannot concentrate on anything, which maybe is a good thing. I especially cannot concentrate on your whining about your job, cause I keep thinking how ungrateful you are that you still have one.
My mood goes back and forth. Sometimes I think that everything really will be okay, sometimes not. In a darker moment one night I told my mom that I was probably going to shoot myself. “I don’t really think you should do that,” she said. “I don’t think that’s the answer yet.”
I love my mom and I’m taking her advice, but the “yet” reminds me that these are tough times in a tough town.
Laid off is the term employed last week, when I became unemployed. Cause it’s not really about my performance. Apparently it’s about the lack of advertising revenue at the upscale magazine where I toiled. It turns out that Katie Couric was not kidding when she reported on all those job losses.
Yup, I had heard about the recession—the one that affects other people. This week it’s different. Now that I’m the one who was canned, I’ve got a pretty good sense of the stories behind the numbers. Certainly you’ve read about those numbers, like the ones reported in the Daily News on May 28. The number of people receiving unemployment benefits is now in its 17th record week in a row.
Since I had read about this happening to other people, I knew some of what to do. I had seen all those “when you get fired” feature stories in the newspapers. So I was ready, right there in the middle of my worst conversation ever, to ask for my severance package in writing. I felt like a champ then, like I had passed a little Life Test, but then later I forgot to pick up the piece of paper. I guess I will forgive myself: my brain has been swirling with worries, like how I was going to pay the mortgage and why I ever went into journalism in the first place.
Maybe I did not do such a hot job of hitting all the right notes, but neither did anybody else. It turns out that what we really need is a few feature stories on what the rest of you should and should not do when I get fired—or when it happens to someone you love, or even just like.
Here are my tips on how the un-fired should respond:
∙ Do not tell me it’s going to be better in the long run. You don’t know that, I don’t know that. Only God knows that—and she’s probably not focusing on my job search, what with so much of her time being spent on the Middle East.
∙ But do say something. The only people I hate this week are the ones who were silent; especially the upper-echelon folks I worked with for a long time (seemed longer than it was). They should have made a phone call or dropped by my office to say something, however inadequate or untruthful. Show some class, people.
∙ Don’t expect me to concentrate. I haven’t been this distracted since my romantic breakup of 2002. This time I got dumped by a media company instead of Mr. Wrong, but the physical shock is the same. I cannot concentrate on anything, which maybe is a good thing. I especially cannot concentrate on your whining about your job, cause I keep thinking how ungrateful you are that you still have one.
My mood goes back and forth. Sometimes I think that everything really will be okay, sometimes not. In a darker moment one night I told my mom that I was probably going to shoot myself. “I don’t really think you should do that,” she said. “I don’t think that’s the answer yet.”
I love my mom and I’m taking her advice, but the “yet” reminds me that these are tough times in a tough town.
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