Currently, I’m sitting in my apartment while two men work on my leaking toilet (lest you worry, it’s been leaking inside the tank, which is quite conscientious of it, but the noise has begun to drive me crazy).
Now I hear water flowing and the men laughing and am moderately concerned about the shape my bathroom will be in when they depart, yet…at least I don’t have to go to work.
Something like “waiting for the guy to come and fix my toilet,” would be a huge pain in the ass if I were employed at my previous job. I’d be impatient, cranky, and ready to go. I’d have promised to get there asap—it is, of course, a Monday. I’d already be late. Yet, one must repair one’s leaky toilet, no? If only for posterity?
Yesterday, a friend got in touch to recommend Bobby Womack’s “Nobody Wants You When You’re Down and Out” for YUD. “I find Bobby Womack to be blunt and always straight to the point,” he said.
Well, inspired by him, and in memory of our dearly (newly) departed Les Paul—who didn’t let things like a broken arm or occasional unemployment get him down, and who kept rocking until the ripe old age of 94—here’s YUD’s very own unemployment mix, which runs the gamut from oppressed worker to relieved lay-offee and confused job-hunter to unemployed person with possibilities.
When you’re at home all day “working” (i.e., attempting to tie up certain freelance assignments and cajole people into talking to you for others, taking the Myers-Briggs personality test (result: ENFJ), and posting on your delightful, humorous, oh-so-2009 unemployment blog) you experience things that you would not if you were instead ensconced on the 23rd floor of an office building with high-powered air conditioners and plush carpeting.
For example, this: A man died in my apartment building last night. I am not sure exactly who he was, as the guy who came (and failed) to remedy the leak in my toilet was rather tight-lipped about the whole thing, but I got, “Grey hair, with the bike. Victor. Third floor.”
It’s good to know that people are still coming up with ideas, theories, inventions even, ITE.
I went to Kushi Q, the Japanese place near my soon-to-be-completed freelance gig, for lunch on Friday. I enjoy the flexibility of choice offered at this dining establishment, and also the omega-3s.
YUD has long been a fan of Discovery Wines (conveniently located in her hood, carrier of her most favoritist summer Gruner) and, of course, emporiums of drinking deliciousness such as USQ and Astor Place when she’s venturing further afield. But imagine her surprise when she discovered this little gem en route to a dinner party somewhere west of Times Square!
Yes, the outside was no-nonsense, and featured one of YUD’s pet peeves: words spelled wrong on the billboard.
This delightful image is from the even more delightful farmer’s market at Dag Hammarskjold Plaza, which takes place year-round on Wednesdays on 47th and 2nd in midtown. This location, I admit, is very near my freelance place of occupation, else I would hardly be visiting midtown on a Wednesday.
A farmer’s market is a lovely place to go for the unemployed (as well as the recession-compromised employed), for it offers great bargains! I, for instance, purchased 4 kirby cucumbers and 4 small squashes for $3.15. (My purchase of two drinks and a tub of almonds at the nearby Amish market—which is not Amish at all, but that’s another story—was, by comparison, nearly $10. So you see.)
I hear that it’s Father’s Day. As it is, I’m having trouble keeping track of whether it’s Friday or Sunday – every day looks the same when you don’t leave your apartment – so this one kind of crept up on me. That doesn’t mean I’m not grateful.
I totally would have bought you a present, but, well, I’m unemployed. And cards are so bad for the environment. That’s why I snagged this photo of one that someone else sent their dad. It’s like recycling! (You like steak, right?)
You know how I only use you for “networking” and to keep in touch with my numerous important friends (386 and counting!) around the world? And for photo storage purposes, and so people can contact me easily about jobs, and as a means of getting out the word on certain important things, like voting for Obama, of course.
Well, now that I’m unemployed, things are a little different. I have come to realize that you offer more. So much more. For instance, if I want to check on that former boss who used to be employed by my former employer and hasn’t defriended me yet to see what she’s up to, I can do that. If I want to feel bad about how little I have in my jobless life, or if I want to feel good about how amazing my life is compared to those poor schmucks still working at TK-named company, you are there for me. If I need to find out who from Jon & Kate + 8 I would be, if I were a member of their family, you will tell me. If I need to take a bogus IQ test to confirm that indeed, there is a reason I am without a job, and that is because I am only passably intelligent, you will provide one for me. If I want to stalk an ex, you give me that freedom.
But I notice these days maybe you aren’t feeling so hot. You seem a little … sluggish. Face it, you’re slow. Are you hungover or something? Do you have swine flu? Cause I expect you to be on top of things. I expect you to at least load. I mean, who else is going to tell me that my former designer is now doing her laundry, or that that reporter slept 10 hours last night, or that that girl I went to high school with and was never really friends with at all but sometimes you need to beef your numbers so shoot me just had her annual OB/GYN exam, whoot! When I’m drinking at a friend’s house and we want to see photos of someone pre plastic surgery, we want to see them NOW!
In between visiting my parents in Florida and a trip to Jamaica for a friend’s wedding, I have three days back in NYC. (I know this strikes panic in the hearts of many. Not to worry, dear friends, I will be – at least attempting – to post from the rocky cliffs and sun-drenched shores of Jamaica. Apparently they have WiFi in their restaurant.)
Aside: This may be my tannest summer YET since I was a kid growing up waterskiing on the Tennessee River. Already my moon-toned visage has attracted a number of freckles and all the kayaking and biking has turned my arms and shoulders from white to a distinctly beige tone (something I’d never see, you know, if I was spending my time in a cubicle). Not that tanning is good, of course.
Last night I met up with a former coworker (there are so many!) for drinks and dinner on the Lower East Side. As is the norm for an evening preceding a morning when I have a flight to catch (why is that always the way?) I drank far too many glasses of white, rose, and red wine, and ate far too few French fries. Despite my own excesses and lack of carbs to temper, I think it’s safe to say I felt better than the guy who kicked this fire hydrant out of the ground last night for absolutely no reason at all. Except that I think he just got fired.
A lovely evening was had by all, if I remember correctly. We coerced a couple of fine young fellows into joining us apres dinner for some drinks at refined institution Donneybrooke (also known as the site of a certain former employer’s faux holiday party, also known as the night a certain former colleague smashed an ornament on my head, also known as the night we danced the dance formerly known as the “Whip” for certain religiously oriented former bargoers.) Oh, memories. Bittersweet, lazy day, unemployed memories. Sometimes they make the heart ache.
