Your Unemployed Daughter

photo credit: Jeremy Brooks

Here’s an interesting piece, on Gawker today, about the fate of those print journalism types who haven’t been laid off. And while I don’t think it’s as dire as all that—things change, and people need (after their fair share of wallowing boozily, semi-conscious in private miseries) to hop on board and adapt or just go ahead and retire—it’s telling.

Who has it better? Maybe it’s actually us unemployeds.

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photo credit: Todd Mecklem

Hey guys!

Remember that old Unemployment Quiz, the one that I begged and pleaded with you to answer? Yeah, it was a while ago. At any rate, two of you have seen fit to respond, and I hate to punish two good test-takers just because the rest of you are out on the Vineyard or strung out on Quaker Chewy Bars or just too “busy” or whatever.

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shoes, aka, WMDs

Perhaps the worst thing about getting fired (ahem, laid off!) is the other (employed) people thinking the event has been so devastating that you’ve taken to your couch in tears, or worse, aren’t getting out of bed at all … that you are self-medicating (whiskey? Klonopin? Cutting yourself with the sharp edges of your severance agreement?) among pizza boxes and your own human detritus … that, in fact, you’ve suffered something so near death that they can only look at you with lowered, basset hound eyes, pat you on the shoulder, and whisper “Sorry” in low tones when you face them in the bar. (Aside: How many of these people have bought me a drink? Priorities, puhleaze! If I needed a therapist, I’d pay one.)

The worst fear in these well-meaning but misguided souls’ minds is that you, dear Unemployed Personage, will NEVER fully recover your lost earning potential and that you just might take matters into your own hands and be done with it all. Bullshit! Their worst fear, actually, is that they’ll be next. That’s why they have that hangdog expression when you get near, are prone to hugs and cliches, and leave the party early claiming “work the next day” under their breath. The truth: They’re not so sure they want to be associated with the taint of the unemployed. They can smell you (so can I – just cause you’re not working doesn’t mean you don’t need a little reg soap & water, hon).

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It has come to my attention that Your Unemployed Daughter has never fully explained the situation that has made her unemployed, or given any details/proof as to that fact. Part of this is because, dear reader(s), the two (dare I say, three?) of you looking at this know exactly what happened. The other more scandalous part is that for the past 10 days of my unemployment I have been pondering whether or not to sign my severance agreement, which promises a rather paltry sum (1 week’s pay) upon my agreeing to a detailed and extensive non-disclosure agreement.

One week’s pay. Before taxes, that’s something like the cost of these shoes. Which could be mine, all mine (or maybe I’d just pay my rent) if I sign away my right to write anything whatsoever – scribblings in a notebook, a letter to an old professor, a post-it on a car window, a BLOG – disclosing anything whatsoever, truthful or not, negative or positive, well-written or poorly crafted (please, give the copy editor some credit) about my former employer, my experience with my former employer, or anything I may have learned or experienced in any relation to my former employer. (In fact, in a delightful little piece by Jeff Bercovici, the legality of such an extensive NDA is questioned in itself.)

Your Unemployed Daughter has come to the conclusion that this is a cost too great, or a fee to small, at any rate. And those shoes aren’t really practical for the beach or the coffeeshop. So it is in this post that I break free from the shackles of NDAs everywhere and say, “Suck it, Corporate Entity.” I cannot be bought for less than a month’s severance.

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