The Choice is Yours.

When you lose your job, you're suddenly faced with a lot of choices. Some are bigger, more existential ones, such as "Why am I here?" "What should I do with my life?" "What's the greater lesson in all of this?"

Those are a few that I try not to ask myself too often- but in the dark, as I try to shuttle off to dreamland, there they are--hiding in my bed and farting under the covers. They were there before I lost my job, when I was working and feeling unfulfilled, struggling with tough bosses or stressful deadlines or writer's block or difficult clients-- or all of those things at once.

The questions that really get to me though, are the ones I never used to have to ask myself.

"If I save all of my money for the next two weeks, skip lunch every other day and clip coupons, should I use that money I can scrimp together to get myself a manicure OR a pedicure?"

"This Christmas, should I buy a Christmas tree, or should I save that money so that I can afford to buy gifts and put them where the tree would normally be?"

"Should I go to the doctor, or hope this sickness works itself out?"

"Can I afford a Metrocard this week, or should I just risk arrest and go under the turnstyle?"

Not exactly "Sophie's Choice," true. But the things I never had to wonder before, the choices I never had to make- that's what trips me up. I have to stop and think now about things that used to be automatic, no-brainer responses to simple, everyday conundrums. The more simple they were before, the more heartbreaking they are now.

Do I sound spoiled? That I get weepy over the fact that I can't afford a $17 (plus tip!) mani/pedi combo? Maybe. But as the holidays approach, the choices I have to make become more and more glaring. My family has agreed to not exchange gifts, but of course we'll buy for my niece and nephew. I scour the catalogs and find the perfect items for each of them-- for my musically gifted nephew James, I consider an instrument that I know he'll love. But I can't afford it. And so I just think about how much I want to give it to him, and I get a little sadder.

I've been through this before, of course. Not the last time I was unemployed, in 2001- when I was still waving around my various credit cards like they were the American flag. I went through it when I paid off my debt- when I made homemade gifts for my family, when I shopped sales and saved money and did everything I could to not let my financial dire straights and my $700 a month debt payment bring me down. There were lessons there, for sure. I got myself in that mess, I got myself out. But this time I did everything I was supposed to do. I worked hard. I stayed late. I did my best. And I lost my job anyway. My financial insecurity isn't because I overspent- it's because this is just the way the world is right now.

It's easy to feel resentful. Not towards you,the employed- because you can get a mani/pedi and hey, get your eyebrows waxed while you're at it. But at me: because I didn't save as much as I wanted when I was working, because I took my employment for granted, because I used to be able to not have to think about these things. And because I took that for granted.

As they say, resentment is like drinking poison and waiting for someone else to die. It gets me nowhere to be angry at myself. This isn't my fault, and I am doing the best I can. I once read that life is 10% what happens to us, and 90% how we react to it.

So now I have a new choice to make. Do I get down, do I allow self-pity to run riot through my apartment? Do I get under the blankets with the farty air and feel sad that there are no jobs, that rejection letters fly like confetti into my mailbox?

Or do I just tuck and roll? Muscle through this holiday season and know that this too shall pass, and that one day in the hopefully not-so-distant future, I'll get to look back on Christmas of 2009 and say, you know what, that was a tough one. Not as tough as 2007, not as easy as 2006. It was hard, but I got through it. Not because of what was happening, but because of how I reacted to it: with a positive attitude. With faith that things would turn around. With dignity, with grace, and with hope. That's the choice I want to make today. To live in the positive. To live in hope.

Happy holidays, everyone. I hope that they are merry and bright for you- no matter what you get-- or don't get.

Dress for Success.

On one of my favorite shows,TLC's What Not to Wear, stylist Stacy London often offers this advice to the pathetically dressed make-overees who come to New York to learn the basics of putting on clothes:

"Dress for the job you want, not the job you have."

It seems simple, but it's smart. During my days at Lucky magazine, I followed Stacy's advice and completely reworked my style of dress in the hopes that it would improve my professional standing. Gone were the khakis and cardigans of my early career days: now it was dresses, heels and pencil skirts.

And it worked! I swear that the confidence that dressing well gave me led me to succeed at work. In the two years that I was there, I went from being copy manager to copy director. And I looked cute doing it. Thank you, Stacy London!

Now, as you may have guessed by the name of my blog, I am unemployed. And I think it's safe to say that if I ran into Stacy on the street these days, she'd think I was an aspiring gym coach.

I made this realization about four weeks ago, as I headed off to a cardio class at my gym. That's what we unemployed people do: we wake up, sip coffee, read the paper, teeter around on the internet searching in vain for employment, then head off to the gym in order to maintain some feeling of productivity.

I digress. The weather had turned unseasonably cold, and I scratched my head at what I should wear. My favorite yoga pants had always been my thing before, but now, well-- they were out of the question. Why? Because they were the main- nay only- staple of my unemployed wardrobe. And I didn't want them to get dirty. Because then, what would I wear tomorrow? Lately, it's not about finding the energy to get dressed for success-- it's really just about finding the will to get dressed.

Every day that's dipped below 65 degrees since May 18, you've probably spotted me in my "unemployment ensemble." Black yoga pants, black tank, gray hooded sweatshirt. Flip flops when it's warm enough, sneakers when it's not. Every day, it's what I wear. I go back and forth between pajamas and comfy clothes. I am one polyester floral pattern away from surrendering to the house dress.

My dressing room is a sad retirement home for adorable things. Once I hit my goal weight and paid down my debt, I had set to work creating the style I always envisioned for myself.

It took years. And God- how I miss wearing it all. This afternoon, I was going through my closet looking for underworn things to give my little cousins at Thanksgiving (part of my new holiday tradition, which helps keep my clutter and shopping guilt to a minimum), I realized just how much I have and don't get to wear. The cute black and gray pinstripe dress I wore with my black boots. Oh, my black boots! How sad they look, like un-walked puppies making sad eyes on the closet floor. My wrap around cardigans, my black maryjane heels. Wide belts, sparkly accessories-- it's a cruel world that won't let you accessorize with sweats.

The last time I tried to wear heels, my feet hurt after two hours. They'd forgotten what it felt like to be dressed up, and it was as if they've given up. I can't say I blame them.

One of my best friends, Shanna, has an event company that does amazing work styling weddings, showers, all types of parties (SwoonEvents.com)... and they're hosting a charity "Wear It Again" party in the coming year. Brides will get to wear their wedding dresses one more time, sip cocktails and socialize, all for a good cause.

I'm thinking I should do the same. Invite all of my unemployed friends over and give them a reason to get dressed. Put on a tie and jacket, laid-off financiers; Put on some make-up, out-of-work marketers. Let's get together for some much-missed water-cooler talk about which Biggest Loser got sent home last night, and debate about where we should go to lunch.

Maybe it would make us feel normal again. Give us a reason to get up before noon. Make us feel less like we've got "reject" stamped on our heads. Remind us what a gift it was to feel needed everyday. To feel professionally dignified and respected.

Then again, maybe it wouldn't. Maybe we'd just get blisters on our feet.

Hope Springs Eternal

Now is the winter of our discontent. It seems to have come early this year, no?

Actually, that's not a correct usage at all. What Shakespeare meant when he wrote that in Richard III was not that it was winter and we were bummed, suffering under the blue cloud of our collective seasonal affective disorder-- but rather that our sadness was ending. Winter is the time when things die-- in this case discontentment-- and spring brings renewal. Hope. Of course what I mean is that a.) it's unseasonably freaking cold for October and b.) the cold gloominess suits my mood and c.) we never had a damn summer, we had monsoon season, so of course I am discontented.

Ah, hope. It's been a catchy theme this year, hasn't it? Barack Obama showed up with a bucket load of it when we were all drowning in such despair that the only choice that seemed at all reasonable was to hitch our wagons to his rousing optimism. And trust me-- I am an optimist. I really believe I have to be, because I am capable of such immense disappointment that clearly I must be hopeful in order to get so shockingly let down time and time again. I've made an art form out of getting my hopes up, then dashed. Our president talked about the "audacity of hope." I hear that, for sure. Andy Dufresne called it "the best of things."


Lately I've come to think that hope is a bitch.

It's like a drug that we're addicted to- the more desperate we get, the more we hope. Think about the hope a gambling addict puts into their lives-- just one big win can solve all their problems. They'll even bet the mortgage on it. Think about the heroin addict or alcoholic who, having tasted that high once, chases after it repeatedly hoping in vain to get that same feeling again, no matter what damage it brings to them.

So it is with Americans these days. Nearly as soon as this recession started, people were predicting the end of it. "We're pulling out of the economic downslide!" The spin doctors insisted hopefully as families lost their homes and retirees found out they had to work until the day they died. If they could find a job, that is. "Job losses are down!" They cried. Well, frankly that's what happens when there's no one else left to lay off. Everyone reading this knows at least one person-- besides me-- who has lost their job, I am sure of it. I dare you to tell them that unemployment is down.

In a way, the false reports of an economic recovery were strategy. The government needed us to believe that things were better in order to get us to stop holding on to every penny and go shopping, dammit. Because we were all saving our money, we were crippling the economy, and they needed us to start spending again to get things moving-- as if going to the mall was like fiscal Metamucil. It's sort of how the Gap uses "vanity sizing," which means they put a size 10 label on size 12 pants, so that you feel skinnier and better about yourself and then boom-- only shop at the Gap. The economy needs us to feel skinny in order to thrive.

They need us to kid ourselves. Because there is no room for realism in optimism.

Just last week, my former employer Conde Nast closed three magazines-- Gourmet, Cookie and Modern Bride. But wait-- analysts tell me the bloodletting is over! Didn't anyone tell SI Newhouse? And after you talk to SI, maybe mention it to my Facebook page, where a number of unemployed friends have turned status updates into a virtual soup line. "Anyone need a freelance writer? Will work for Tasti-D-Lite," read one recent posting. Okay, that was mine, and I would work for ice cream. But the sentiment is there-- it's still ugly in the job market, and there's blood all over the newsfeed.

So here we are, winter once again. Just when we didn't need it most.

I respect Barack, and I voted for him (well, I thought I did, then later found out that the Board of Elections made an error and my vote didn't count! Boo!), but it's getting hard to hold out hope. With each job I go out for, with each dollar I work harder to hold on to I get a little more desperate. I had been hoping this would all work itself out. Look at where that got me.

In reality, it's not hope that will fix things, it's time. In time, this will pass. In time, America will be thriving again. Someday, I hope soon, I'll have a fulfilling job that I love. Maybe it's the optimist in me, or maybe it's the realist, or maybe I'm becoming a pessimist just enough to make me optimistic, because I don't think things can get much worse. Maybe I've been listening to too much Howard Jones lately, but I kind of feel like... well, things can only get better.

No money, no job, and no idea where my life will be six months from now-- it seems like hope is all I've got. Now let's hope it's enough.

The Way We Were

I’m a little cost sensitive these days.

This happens when you lose your job. From my experience, this is the sequence of events, in this order: You go into shock, you go to sleep, you wake up, you panic, you become aware of the cost of everything, you start comparing prices on items you buy, you start to lament that living life is too expensive.

“Wait—two ply toilet paper is 3 cents more than one ply. Clearly I have got to start stealing t.p. from public restrooms.”

Par for the course when you have no job.

That is why the experience of an unemployed international traveler is absolutely revelatory. You would not believe how ripped off we’re getting—only you’re too employed to notice.

This week, John and I set course for Canada to celebrate his 30th birthday with his family and friends. We went via the cheapest way possible: We got a ride from my brother Owen at 5am to the airport—our flight wasn’t until 8:50, but Owen had to get to work, and we saved $40 by not taking a car. The two hours we sat saved us cash, cause we’re poor.

Next, we flew to Buffalo on a puddle jumper, which of course brought back my fat-kid paranoia that I’d have to weigh in, the way they do it on small planes to make sure it’s balanced. Luckily, there was no scale, so no tears.

Finally, we rented the cheapest car possible, a Ford Focus, in Buffalo, and drove the 3 hours to Toronto. Now we have a rental car for a week, all cheaper than what it would have cost to fly directly to Toronto.

So sure—that’s cheaply done. But here’s where I get angry.

Delta charged us $15 each to check one bag, and an additional $5 each for not checking in online. How can we check-in online when we’re not even in yet?

Remember last year, when gas was really high and airlines started charging for “extra” baggage? Well, now, apparently they’re just charging for baggage.

And you HAVE to check bags now. I travel light enough that I could carry on—but I wear contact lenses, so the saline solution I have to bring can’t be carried on. So no matter what, these a-holes are securing an extra $20 from me, and if I had a second bag it would have been—wait for it—an extra $25 per additional bag.

All because of the cost of gas, which we were paying for since the dawn of air travel—I mean—what is the ticket covering? The seat and the meal they don’t even serve anymore? Who paid for fuel before?

Does it matter that gas prices are down? No. They’re taking advantage of “circumstances” to make greedy, forever-changes. And it got me thinking—when else has this happened?

Ever hear one of those travel commercials, where they talk about awesome deals like, “Fly to London for $1!” then say quickly at the end “Taxes, applicable charges and 9/11 security fee not included.”

Um- isn’t our safety included in the cost? Wasn’t it on 9/10/01? Just because you invoke the phrase “9/11,” are we supposed to just accept that?

And really—what security are we paying for? That disgruntled, fat, bitter TSA guard who makes us take our shoes off and put them in the gray bin? Let me be the one to say it- they’re not going to sneak in a shoe bomb again, so let’s give that one up. These crazy lunatics are one step ahead of us on bombing technology- they’ll probably have their teeth made of bombs. Making my socks despicably filthy isn’t keeping me “safe,” and we all know it.

Why are we paying to be extra secure, when we’re not really any safer, and the fact is they should have been keeping us safe all along? Does the fact that we didn’t drop an extra $50 a ticket before September 11, 2001 justify the fact that they let those hijackers on the plane with box cutters? Stop using my grief and fear to take advantage of me, okay? That’s Rudy Guiliani’s job.

Somewhere in the middle of Buffalo it occurred to me that this is the new reality of travel—and that the same thing has happened with the job market. Employers are taking advantage of the recession and the nation’s economy to cut costs, make less employees do more work for less money and yes, you guessed it, be grateful just to have their jobs, which are precariously placed under the ever swinging axe of budget cuts.

Six months before I was laid off, the brilliant and talented young copywriter who reported to me—we’ll call her Laura—lost her job in the first round of layoffs. I had no idea it was coming, which is strange given that she reported to me, but that’s a topic for another blog. As a result, I had to take on her job—and let me tell you, she did a lot, and she worked hard. It was no small task. I missed her desperately but I never complained- I worked longer hours with a smile on my face, rarely took lunch, and became anxious to prove my worth to my employers and keep my job safe. I was doing two jobs for the price of one, and the refrain in my head was always “Just be glad you still have a job.” Pathetic.

They stopped matching our 401K, our healthcare changed to a plan so crappy that I had a $75 copayment—COPAYMENT—for one of my medicines, and little by little our quality of life at work was tweaked until it was barely livable.

When I was laid off in May, my coworkers took on my sizable workload as well as Laura’s. As a result, they are doing three peoples’ jobs for the price of one. And chances are that during the late hours that they stay at work they wonder if it’s fair-- a thought that's quickly replaced with a reminder that they should smile, play the hand they’ve been dealt without complaint—and be grateful just to have a job.

How much of the recession can really be blamed? How many employers are adopting their business structure to match what the airlines have done? Make the b.s. changes when people are patient and understand that this is “temporary,” then never go back to the way it was.

Do I even want to ever be a copywriter again? To go back into an industry that would take advantage of a crappy situation to, well, profit frankly in the long run—even if it completely decimates my life, despite years of loyalty? If the economy turns around tomorrow, will that magazine ever "fully" staff up again, or will my former coworkers continue to absorb the jobs of the people who lost theirs?

The answer, frankly, is no. I don't want to be a copywriter again- not full time, and not at a magazine. This recession has done nothing except reinforce something I already knew: in corporate America, you’re expected to show incredible loyalty to your job, but when the chips are down it will never be loyal to you. Like the airlines, they'll never travel back to "normal." It is what it is—and it is the way it will always be.

If you don't have anything nice to say...

You may not know this about me, but I am--at the core of my being--a bitter, angry clown.

I spend most of my life trying to hide my true feelings from my friends and family, and my real thoughts from the general public. I offer a large, dimpled smile and give kiss-kiss hello (even though I am secretly afraid of what germ's you've got) and hope that you'll never find out the things I think inside this sick, over-sized head of mine. It's really exhausting.

So I am coming clean.

I've fretted for far too long about what you would think if you knew that I secretly judge others based on how they dress. That I see women in bars and determine the merits of their lives based on the denim-wash of their jeans. (Too light=something ain't right.) That I write narratives of strangers' lives in my head, based on what they're drinking, the music they listen to or how they look.

You see, for far too long, I've been afraid that you'll judge me for judging others. And in my mind, I actually believe that's unfair.

On some level, I think that any person in their uncensored form would be mind-blowing. As adults, we try to treat each other with respect and some degree of social grace. But imagine what life would be like if we were as honest as little kids are. Because let me be the one to just say it: those little shits are brutal.

Before I lost weight, I used to be scared of children-- you know, the way elephants are scared of little mice? That was me. Not because of their tiny size, or my fear that I might sit on them-- but because of their honesty.

"You're fat," they'd say sweetly, the same way they might observe "You have long hair," "Your shirt is blue," or "My mommy drinks purple juice and cries." Having recently mastered language and connected it to the things they see, they are enthralled with their newly found ability to observe and report-- and they are unstoppable at it. They're sincere, they're blunt, and they're completely unaware that they've just made me want to cram my fucking brownie down their sweet, smiling little faces.

Ah, honesty--that felt better. See what I mean? What kind of a barbarian talks about choking children with baked goods? And brownies at that! You should know I'd never waste a brownie. Honestly! I wouldn't! But I'd still want to whisper mean things to make little Sally cry when her parent's weren't looking. "Your mommy is going to sell you to the gypsies because you talk to much!" I might whisper. Or perhaps "Is that monster still living under your bed? No matter what you do, don't fall asleep!" See that's a good one because it punishes the parent, who will inevitably have to comfort their screaming offspring as they refuse to go to bed-- which is their payback for raising such a mouthy little punk.

I think we all get that honesty button beaten out of us in adolescence, when we learn rather quickly that when we say honest things to our peers, they say honest things right back-- and it sucks. "Your nose is big," we might casually observe to our Roman-nosed classmate, who in turn responds "You have b.o." Ah, body odor. No other reality check quite like that one-- and so we learn to keep our big yaps shut.

In my adulthood, I have had to learn "restraint of pen and tongue." When you grow up a fat kid with Mr. Magoo glasses, a buster-brown haircut, two older brothers and 29 first-cousins, you learn how to respond verbally and brutally to confrontation. As a born sissy, I might never raise a fist-- but I can cut you down and make you cry with the things I'll say in five seconds flat. It took me 20 years to learn how to master a comeback-- and 10 more to learn to rein it in.

In my professional life (back when I had one), I might have to smile calmly while a coworker attacked me personally or tried to provoke a fight. I've had to walk away from friends and family members in order to avoid saying the unforgivable things that float into my head when we disagree, and I've had to sit across the table from someone after a falling-out as I apologize for the ways I've wronged them and they, in turn, take no responsibility at all for their actions or the hurtful things they've done to me. I have had to resist the urge to set them straight, to make them listen to the way that I see things, to point out what an asshole they've been and yes, draw a diagram or use hand-puppets if necessary.

Instead, I have to find a peaceful place inside that keeps me from all of that and instead allows me to let it unfold, to trust that the Universe will take care of it in time, and that I just have to look after my own shit and keep moving.

In other words, I've learned the humility of the high road. Not for them, but for me. At the end of the day, here's the truth: I don't give a shit what happens to them. Right, wrong, indifferent-- I don't care if they ever grow from the experiences they have, I don't care if a future coworker ever sets them straight, or if they ever figure out the ways they've harmed me and take responsibility or whatever or if they ever grow from it. I don't care about them. I care about me-- about what I get from it, about how I can grow. I can't change them, but I can change me.

Honestly.

Judge me if you like-- chances are, if your jeans are too short or your hair is too high I'm judging you, too--but I'll keep it to myself. Because if you don't have anything nice to say you shouldn't say anything at all-- but you can rest assured you're not alone.




(Yes, this girl is actually judging your outfit.)

Sneaky Cinema Double Feature: Adventureland & Dear Zachary

Shoot the Freak: The Adventureland Review
Adventureland
Billed as a comedy and starring a dude who looks just like Michael Cera (of Juno and Superbad fame), Adventureland is a bit of a bait-and-switch, at least in the way it's marketed. Sure, there are funny moments-- but doesn't every movie have at least one or two of those? I never saw Schindler's List but would assume there was a chuckle or two written in, probably at the expense of the Nazis. But I wouldn't call it a comedy.

It's the same with Adventureland.

The overall summary is that James Brennan is a 23 year old virgin (really?) and recent college graduate with a fantastic white-man-afro who, after his family falls into some financial despair (I can relate!), has to work at an amusement park to save money for graduate school. Thus begins his summer of discovery, in the tradition of great movies like The Breakfast Club and Dazed and Confused, where he falls in love with the mysterious girl who works nearby him at the park, and gets advice from wise old sage Ryan Reynolds (again, really?) who, though married, has secretly been banging James' girlfriend in his mom's basement (okay, that part is believable).

Adventureland is a sweet story, and it has an excellent 80's-alternative soundtrack, and it could have been an awesome (though not comic) movie were it not for a few essential flaws in the story itself. First, this kid is a college-graduate virgin but he goes to work at the local amusement park and suddenly the ladies love him? And he plans to save money for graduate school tuition in one summer working at a minimum wage job?

Had the writers (who I am too lazy to look up) bothered to ask me, I would have offered them some quick fixes. Make him a high school graduate, saving money for college. The awkwardness, the immaturity-- it just lent itself better to that age. The age gap just completely skews your vision of this kid.

Overall, a good movie, if you're looking for a harmless rental and there's nothing good on TV.

SNEAK IT.


Good Grief: The Dear Zachary Review

I first heard about this documentary when I worked at New York magazine, and the critic there gave it such incredible reviews that when I saw it in Blockbuster a year later (as in tonight), I still remembered it. So I picked it up.

First, let me say this. I am not quite sure what possessed me to rent a movie created by a man in honor of his recently deceased (murdered) best friend, and dedicated to said friend's unborn child who, at the time the movie was conceptualized, was still incubating in the womb of his father's murderer. Yes, that's right folks-- Zachary's mom Shirley killed his dad Andrew, and this film was created by dad's friend Kurt so that Zachary would know all about his father.

The intent of the movie was so sincere, I actually lost my shit a little within the first ten minutes. Or maybe I lost my shit a lot. Kurt describes the loss of a friend so poignantly and so accurately, that I wondered WTF I was thinking when I thought I could handle it. I think that when you're in the club Kurt and I are in, the "I Lost an Amazing Friend Far Too Young, Far Too Soon, About 60 Years Before I Thought I Would Club," there are certain feelings you think are yours alone, and then someone says something and you realize that your feelings aren't unique. We all have those awful, hollow regrets of all the things we never got to do.

"I'll never talk to him again," he says, "He won't dance at my wedding, I'll never get to see him at work. I missed all of the chances to do those things." Ugh, Kurt, ugh. I can identify. I lost my dear friend Maggie in 2007, and there isn't a day that passes that I don't think about her, and about the things I won't get to tell her. Or about the things that she won't tell me. She used to email us every day about what her kids wore to school that day. It's been almost two years since that kind of blessed minutiae filled my life. Her absence is everywhere. Maggie's death couldn't have been more different than Kurt's friend Andrew's, but it seems like grief has some universal qualities.

Kurt goes around the country, to England and to Newfoundland to meet all of the people Andrew touched, and to follow the custody battle for Zachary that is launched by Andrew's amazing parents, Kate and David. What starts out as a personal homage to his friend ends up a movie depiction of a man, a touching letter to his son, an awesome chronicle of his amazing parents and a remarkable profile of the justice system in Canada. They may know about health care, but when it comes to convicting murderers, we got them beat.

The movie box states that the movie takes a turn no one sees coming-- and about halfway through I started thinking that was a dramatic overselling. I was wrong... it does. And it's devastating. I won't give any spoilers, though you may be familiar with the true-life case this movie follows. But I'd advise you be more emotionally stable than me if you're going to rent it.

"Grief is the heart's inability to let go," says one of the grief counselors interviewed in the film, and I found myself crying at the very idea of it. That's exactly how I feel, and now my heart is aching for Kate and David's loss as well.

Dear Zachary is really an excellent film, but it is probably the most horrifyingly sad two hours I have spent in a very long time. In fact, I am up writing this review because I can't sleep. I am too upset by it. I cried and cried and cried for the last twenty minutes of this documentary. So, clearly it was well done, and it was effective. Should you rent it? Yes, but consider yourself warned, unless you have a brick of coal where your heart should be, it's a full-on-heaving-weeper, but worth seeing, especially if you like documentaries.

SEE IT/SNEAK IT.

From the Reject Pile: Gimme Some Credit

I love Jane Pratt. I always have, she's my editorial icon and she's adorable with glossy hair and cute glasses, and she was the object of my very first girl-crush the first time I saw her on "The Jane Pratt Show." She was also the editor of my favorite magazine, Jane.

Jane was like a riot grrrl bible, and while I didn't riot much, I did love the idea of it, and the magazine's real-girl tone. My favorite section of the magazine was called "It Happened to Me," where readers wrote in their real life stories about experiences that changed their lives.

I decided to submit a story to Jane about my credit card debt and my struggle to get back in the black. It was, sadly, rejected-- and a story about a woman who became addicted to self-tanner ran instead (complete with orange-faced photo). It turned out, I realized later, than my dear Jane Pratt had been sacked, and her namesake magazine was already being overhauled by the time I hit "send" on my story. I stopped reading Jane-- I just didn't enjoy it anymore. Shortly thereafter, it folded. It seemed Jane couldn't go on without Jane or Julia.

While it's not exactly new writing, it's new to you. So, thanks to Jane's rejection I have a new blog posting. Straight out of the reject pile, for your reading pleasure, is my 2006 submission to Jane magazine. It seemed a shame to me that it never got read, because as I say in the piece, my openness about my debt has enabled people to approach me and ask for advice about their own credit card nightmares. I am always willing to share my story because I think it's important to know that when you're drowning in debt it is scary, but you're not alone, and you can get out of it. So read, enjoy, and post your credit rating in the comments! Ha!

It Happened to Me: I spent $23,000 on Overalls.

“Just tell me, Julia-- just tell me how much. Is it $3,000? Is it 10? Oh, you’re scaring me.”

I couldn’t speak. As soon as I had hung up with my credit card company, it had been instinct to call my father, Fixer of All Things, and now partially out of denial and partially out of concern for his bad heart, I was regretting it.

Deep breath. Here comes my big secret.

“It’s $23,000 dollars, Dad. I have $23,000 in credit card debt.”

***

I wish that I could start this tale by itemizing the great things I’d bought with my credit cards. I’d love to list rich leather Marc Jacobs bags, piles of Manolo Blahniks and vacations on the shores of Greece. But I can’t. In fact, I can’t remember most of what that $23,000 went to-- some ill advised overalls--yes, overalls (in multiple colors)-- during college (it was the '90s), rounds of drinks for “friends” whose names I can’t recall, clothes I didn’t need or even really like that much but found on sale. That's about as much as I can remember.

As the bills grew, so did my denial. I’d look at a credit card statement and think, “Oh, $3,000 isn’t that bad,” without acknowledging of the five other cards in my wallet with charges at least that high. Then the snowball effect: I’d spend my paycheck on my credit card bills, trying to give each at least $20 over the minimum balance, then have no money leftover to live on until the next payday, and have to use the credit cards again. Tack on the finance charges and interest rates (some as high as 24.99%), and my debt was increasing by about $300 a month-- even if I didn’t spend a dime. I hid the mounting stress from my family and friends.

When I decided to consolidate (a bill with minimum payment of $980 broke my denial and made it an easy decision), my mother said, “You’ve decided to do something. You’re in the solution, and you're going to get out of this. You did the hard part, making the decision. Now it will get better.” And she was right. I even felt better-- the idea of being debt free one day motivated me and helped me get through the hard days ahead. In the weeks that followed, I was turned down for loans everywhere I went because my salary was too low, and my credit cards would only increase my limit by a few thousand dollars so I could keep spending, but I couldn’t consolidate with them. It was hard not to feel hopeless.

In that time, I learned that I was the ideal credit card customer: poorly educated in interest rates, paying only the minimum balance. I had been the student on campus who signed up for a card to get the freebies (pizza! T-shirts!) and never read the fine print about how those 0% interest rates can shoot up to 20% after six months.

While paying off my debt, I learned exactly how much I didn’t need. I went from having too much to realizing how little I needed or wanted. I checked prices, packed lunches, and, even after losing more than 40lbs, bought limited clothing, only on sale and only with cash.

I was extremely fortunate to have a very supportive family. In the end, my parents took a risk by cosigning my loan, and I proudly tell you that I made tremendous payments every month, never missing one, never being late, and never asking them to cover it for me. My brothers, sister-in-law and nephew accepted homemade crafts for holidays. They never made me feel weird or badly about any of it-- they were proud of me, and they made me realize that I should be proud, too.

I’m writing this on the day before I make my final debt payment. With interest on the loan, I will have paid off $26,000 in almost three years. I can’t say it has been easy, but I can say that it feels very good-- and it has from the second I made the first payment. I dug myself out: I am debt free. My openness about my debt has led people to approach me about their similar (or worse) situations and ask for help. They feel like they’re drowning. I remember that feeling well. And I tell them to listen to my mother: You have decided to do something, and now you're in the solution. You will get out of this, and you will feel better.

Julia Donahue, 29, grew up in Brooklyn, New York, where she currently lives as a writer on a tight budget.

Running to Stand Still

Like Billy said, put bread in my jar. Please.

It seems that I may have underestimated the significance of being unemployed.

In four days, I mark four months of unemployment. This time has flown by quickly. Alarmingly quickly. And last night, as I watched the episode of It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia titled "Dennis and Dee Go on Welfare" that I realized something very important.(I told you I learn most of my most important lessons from TV here.) What I learned was that, simply put, I am screwed.

Like Dennis and Dee, I saw my lack of employment as a gift- I would collect unemployment and take time to figure out who I really was. I'd use that money to live while I went back to school for-- oh, who knows what! The world was my oyster. I could study to be a teacher, or a social worker, or a lion tamer or even a CSI! I always did love David Caruso, ever since Crime Story. Really, who gets such a great opportunity? To figure out their future and make a fresh start at 33?

The day I lost my job, I had called my family members and assured them, one by one, that I would be fine. I reminded them that the last time I had lost my job (in 2001) I had been in secret but serious credit card debt ($26 large- whut whut!) and that now, as an adult, I had saved as much as I could, had no debt (paid off in just three and a half brutal years all by myself!), and would work to make ends meet and collect unemployment and be FINE. JUST FINE. Then I hung up the phone, started to crap myself, and decided it would be better for everyone if I just didn't think about life for a few weeks.

Four months later, the reality of the situation is undeniable, and even I have to face it-- and I just don't face things. The fact is, you can not live on unemployment money. Those of you who are considering the life of leisure, let me just assure you of that. I can't even afford to buy bon bons to eat while I lay on my couch watching Oprah. After a horrifying budgeting session, I realized that I had more money going out in bills than I had coming in. If I had lost my job last summer, I would have had to pay $500 in health insurance bills a month, but thanks to President Obama I only have to pay $188 while New York magazine foots the bill for the rest. Haters can hate, but Barack did alright by me the day he did that.

It seems that unless starting fresh requires $0, I am in some deep doo-doo.

Recently, I have started taking on odd jobs- A Jackass of All Trades, if you will. Babysitting, gardening, errand running, whatever I can get to earn a dollar. And with those dollars I buy groceries. Store-brand, of course. Gone are the days when I strolled the aisles and picked up a jar of peanut butter without comparing prices-- JIF is for fat cats, and baby I'm just a scrawy, tawny street kitty.

And I am exhausted. I mean- I am just not cut out for hustling, unless it's hustling for the best seat on the couch, or this kind of hustle. I not only underestimated what it meant to be unemployed, it seems I've also underestimated what it means to be old.

Here's the saddest part! Oh, sad clown. Even with all of the hustling, I am still just treading water. I am, as Bono said, running to stand still.

I realize this blog is a bit more of a downer than you usually get from me (um, you did see my 9/11 post, right? This is far more cheery). The truth is though, I just wanted to give you a realistic portrayal of unemployment. It is not as awesome as I make it seem. I am not trying to fool you when I call it funemployment, I am trying to fool me.

So the next time you get annoyed on the N train and think about how the unemployed bums have the best lives ever, just remember that we don't. We sleep all day so that we don't get hungry, because we can't afford to eat! So go to your jobs, work hard, and spend some money so that we can get this economy moving again. And do it fast-- these unemployment checks are only coming for 48 more weeks.

http://www.imdb.com/video/screenplay/vi4159767321/

In Memoriam

Mutantur omnia nos et mutamur in illis.

Today is unseasonably cold, sweatshirt weather-- and probably for the best. It seems like beautiful days in September just break the hearts of New Yorkers.

Isn't it surreal, that eight years have passed? It feels like forever, and it feels like yesterday. If we only knew on September 10, 2001, that we were about to lose the world we loved-- that everything was about to change-- what would we have done?

I think about the sky outside my apartment on 77th street, a thick black tube of smoke cutting across the blue sky of a beautiful day. The sight of my father in the backyard of his house, watching fighter planes hurtle overhead towards Manhattan. The smell of burning in Bay Ridge, days later. Papers from desks that turned up on the streets of Brooklyn. Missing posters all over the city-- the news filled with people crying and holding pictures of their daughters, dads and best friends. I remember hoping against hope, with each story, that their family member would arrive home, covered in soot, and hug them, but knowing in my heart that they wouldn't-- and feeling numb. I think about how The Pile burned for months, and how the construction lights that were always on made it look like it was daytime downtown even in the middle of the night. I think about how it barely snowed that winter, and how I believed it was God's way of trying to make it easier for the people still searching. I remember the obituary pages were filled for months on end, and the people who stood at the approach to Ground Zero with signs that read "Thank you" and cheering for the rescue workers. I remember the day my brother came home after four days digging at The Pit, and how we sat in the backyard drinking beers and trying to laugh. We heard a loud rat-a-tat-tat on a car passing by and everyone panicked at the noise until Jimmy told us to relax, it was an American flag on the back of someone's car antennae, flapping in the wind.

I think about the days when I volunteered down at Pike's Slip, where the Army was organizing the donations that came in from across the country-- truckloads of food and clothing, medical supplies and water. I was opening boxes and sorting the goods, and found a jar of peanut butter from a grade school in the Midwest. A child had scrawled "We love you" across its yellow lid.

I think about when we just stood frozen, collectively, as a nation, watching helplessly.

I remember the rumors-- people convening at local bars to trade information about who had been seen at what hospital. Old classmates, friends and family-- no one wanted to believe they were gone, so we'd believe whatever else we could.

I think about the months after, when a sudden noise would stop our hearts, and we'd hold our breath, paralyzed with fear.

In the days after the attacks, David Letterman said "If you live to be 1,000 years old, will it ever make any sense?"

Eight years later, I can honestly say it won't. I still get angry, but my overwhelming feeling is sadness. I still feel so, so sad. I am filled with uncomprehending grief. It will never make sense. But I guess it's not for me to understand.

What I can say is that we-- together and as individuals-- have done what we can to face this with dignity. Our world changed that day, and we changed with it. Mutantur omnia nos et mutamur in illis. We didn't have a choice. But we can choose now to remember what happened on September 11, 2001, in all the detail we can muster. We can choose to bear witness to history, and to do what we can to honor and remember the people who lost their lives that day. We can choose to live in the unity and dignity and pride that we found that day, and we can choose hope, even in the face of unbearable despair.

I stretch lame hands of faith, and grope,

And gather dust and chaff, and call

To what I feel is Lord of all,

And faintly trust the larger hope.

-In Memoriam A.H.H., by Lord Tennyson

I Read Good: A Funemployed Book Review

People Who Live In Glass Houses Book: The Glass Castle
Author: Jeanette Walls

I used to read on my commute to work everyday. When your choices are to watch people pick their noses and eat their boogeys first thing in the morning on the N train or bury your own nose in a book, it seems like a no-brainer.

That's another thing about unemployment, though-- I don't have a commute, so my usual reading time is gone and replaced by sleeping in. That said, a book has got to be pretty good to get me to turn off Real Chance at Love 3 and read instead.
The Glass Castle had been sitting on my desk at work for weeks, lent to me by my adorable coworker Annie. She was about the seventieteenth person to recommend it to me, but she had even go so far as to lend me a copy (which, I sadly report, was ruined by a rogue wave at the beach one day this summer. It's still readable, but the pages are warped and wavy, and Annie, if you're reading this, it's not really...returnable. If you were a library, you'd probably charge me for it. But remember, friend, I am unemployed).

When it comes to memoirs, I am often skeptical. The first autobiography I read was about Beaverly Cleary, author of my beloved Ramona series, and I took every word as fact. But memoirs-- they're a horse of a different color. Technically fact that's muddied by the fiction of our memories, a memoir can never really be trusted. And somewhere along the way, fiction became passe- why imagine a world when you can just write about the one you lived in? Just remember to make it better than it actually was-- more compelling.

As expected, memoirs got more and more horrifying in order to sell, to become the next "amazing story." (Remember when Augusten Burroughs describes watching the family dog lick a three year old's erect penis? Really? You don't remember? Then you must not have read Running With Scissors because frankly if you had read something like that, you'd never forget it.) I never read A Million Little Pieces, but I think I love Oprah so much that I am mistrustful of memoirs now on her behalf.

I finally picked up The Glass Castle from my nightstand around week four of unemployment, when monsoon season in Brooklyn was in full swing, my apartment had been cleaned to within an inch of its life, and I was starting to look like I was juicing from going to the gym so much. Basically, I started reading again because I literally had nothing else to do.

Written by Jeanette Walls about her impoverished childhood spent traveling around the country in search of wealth/fleeing the authorities, this memoir is less about the horrors of her childhood (of which there are many) and more about the rich characters in her life-- namely her parents--and how the careless decisions they made dramatically shaped their childrens' lives. Her father, painted as a raging alcoholic with white-trash-Elvis charm actually comes off as lovable while at the same time infuriating. Her mother, who gets fatter on hidden chocolates as Jeanette and her siblings steal unfinished lunches from the trash at school to keep from starving, is equally maddening to the point where you just want to reach in the book and shake her. They were two incredibly fascinating characters who managed to not evolve even an iota throughout the story.

The opening scene involves an adult Jeanette seeing her mother on a New York City street diving in a dumpster, and while part of me didn't really care how she got there, I was fascinated by how Jeanette had gotten in the taxi that was passing her by. How had she grown up to not be like her parents? And how had she forgiven them enough to write a book about it?

Therein lies the real heart of the story for me. Where her parents lack any growth, Jeanette slowly realizes-- in the most heartbreaking way-- that her father's stories of impending riches and great inventions are all just pie-in-the-sky talk, and her mother is not a misunderstood artist but rather a self-centered and sick woman. This realization provokes Jeanette's own character evolution. When she and her brother dig out the foundation for the title's "glass castle"-- the solar-powered home their father has been promising to build to replace the ramshakle residences they move from and to-- her father instructs them to fill it with the family's trash, and overnight Jeanette realizes that she has to become the parents to her older and younger siblings, because the parents they have are pretty much useless. Lovable, but fucking useless. If you believe The Glass Castle as it's written, her siblings owe it to her own motivation for getting them out of coal country and to New York City, and essentially saving their lives.

As awful as Jeanette's parents are, I found myself really liking them. I think that's the real beauty of this book, and one reason I loved it. Walls acknowledges that things are not just black and white, people are not either good or bad, but shades of everything. There are no certainties, and no easy answers-- which means there's no one to blame, either. It is what it is, and life is what we choose to make of it.

Overall, an excellent book. And way better than Real Chance at Love 3.

Recommended in every category: commuter special, beach read and lazy Sundays on the couch.

PS- Want me to review a book? Tell me in the comments, and I'll put it on my list!

Sneaky Cinema

Here are three things that happened in my life recently:

1. I lost my job on May 18, so suddenly I had a lot of free time but not a lot of money
   
2. Mother Nature, that tricky bitch, handed us the rainiest summer ever-- meaning little of that free time was spent on the beach
3. I fell in crazy love with the whitest man ever, who hates the sun so much that he draws the shades and remains indoors should even the slightest ray shine through the clouds. As expected, someone who spends so much time indoors has easy access to bootleg movies

These three things combined to form a perfect storm, resulting in the Moviest Season of My Life. Between May 17 and today, I have seen more movies than I can count-- some even twice-- on DVD and in theaters.

I know what you're thinking-- movies are expensive! And the snacks- oy! How can someone so poor go to so many movies? And the answer is: I am very, very sneaky.

I learned to sneak into movies the summer of 2003 when my parents, who, after seeing Lindsay Lohan and Jamie Lee Curtis in Freaky Friday, hissed at me to "Keep up or meet us in the parking lot in two hours!" as they walked into Bend It Like Beckham after the first film ended. Two movies for the price of less than one-- my dad insisted on buying everyone, including me, a senior ticket. "These stupid kids don't look," he said when I asked him about it. "Here, put this candy in your pocket."

These are grown, respectful adults.

So, when I met John Moses, it seemed like kismet. Not only does he love the thrill of the movie sneak, but we encourage each other to try to achieve more with every subversive trip. After our initial outing to see Terminator Salvation followed by The Taking of Pelham 123, we needed more of a thrill. We snuck in lunch the next time, and the time after that we brought a banquet to last us through as many movies as our sore butts could handle. The pinnacle of our Sneaky Snack Subterfuge, the day we went to see Orphan and District 9, was when we snuck in the following:

1 20oz Diet Peach Snapple, 3 bottles of water, 1 Snapple, 1 homemade turkey wrap, 1 store bought roast beef and cheese sandwich on a kaiser roll, 2 meatballs with utensils, 1 pack dried mango, 1 bag Glenny's Soy Chips (cheddar flavor) and 6 homemade mini red velvet cupcakes.

With the aid of a large purse and John's baggy jeans, anything, it seemed, was possible. (See images.)






So now that I've had all the fun, I want to give a little back. I've done all the research to save you all of your precious time. Yes, you're welcome. Below, you'll find my reviews for some recent movies. SEE IT are movies that are good enough to actually buy a ticket for, SNEAK IT movies are okay for rental or sneaking into, and SKIP IT should be self explanatory. Keep up, here, I'm not going that fast.

Here's my disclaimer-- when it comes to movies, I'm no expert, but I'm definitely not short of opinions. Got your own? Leave it in the comments, people! You know I love to read that shit.


Julia's Sneaky Summer Movie List

Star Trek: I was never a Trekkie, but I did like Star Trek. Spock was cool, Bones was my favorite, and I really didn't give much of a crap about Captain Kirk. I thought this movie was well done-- you didn't have to be a die hard fan, but fans weren't disappointed. That said, John did have to use straws to illustrate the space-time continuum issue for me. SEE IT.

Crossing Over: This little ditty about illegal immigrants struggling in the US has an all-star cast, including Harrison Ford and Ashley Judd, whom I oddly love. I had no idea what to expect but was pretty riveted, and-- I know this sounds ridiculous-- but I really got a new perspective on immigration. One warning though- the part where Ray Liotta blackmails an aspiring Australian-born model and gets her to have anal sex with him is pretty freaking horrifying. SEE IT.

The Hangover: I think you've probably heard about this one. I saw it twice and definitely recommend it-- even seeing it again! There's a lot you miss the first time because you're trying not to wet your pants laughing. SEE IT.

The Proposal: John's Canadian, I love Ryan Reynolds and my dad loves Sandra Bullock so much that he calls her "Sandy," so I figured what the heck. It's cute but obviously ridiculously contrived, the whole thing would have been better if we weren't expected to believe this whole movie happened over one weekend. I wouldn't pay to see it again, and I'd only recommend renting it if you're insanely bored. SKIP IT.

Terminator Salvation: I loved the first Terminator, I think it should be something everyone sees. I know it's old and dated and girls always think it's a "guy" movie-- but it's not, it's just excellent. The second was lame-- why was Arnold now a "good" Terminator? Because he was more famous in the 1990s? It would have been better if he was bad. But Linda Hamilton had awesome arms and was totally inspiring, so I forgave it. I didn't even see the chick-Terminator installment of the series. That seemed like a desperate move. But this one, with Christian Bale, was really excellent. If anyone can do prequels, old verbally-abusive CB has proven with Batman Begins that he's your go-to guy. In this episode, we finally get to meet the adult John Connor and yeah, he's kind of a prick, but what do you expect when he's been told that he's going to save the world from psycho robots when he grows up? The dynamic of him meeting his dad is kind of insane, too. And the half Terminator guy- oh man, that was just awesome. I really liked it, and definitely recommend it if you're a fan. Even if you're not. It's just a good film. SEE IT.

The Taking of Pelham 123: The original is kind of funny and goofy and totally strange in that only Walter Matthau has to deal with this hostage situation in New York City, then investigate and solve it casually on his way home from work. This remake is definitely post-9/11, the city is at a standstill during the siege, and the characters are given more depth. John Travolta gets a motive, and Denzel gets to be a flawed hero. It was good, but I hate John Travolta and even though he makes a good crazy bastard, his teeth were too white. Whatever, it's my review, I can say what I want! SNEAK IT.

Tyson: This is the understated, most-quotable movie of the summer. I think John Moses must have said "I never touched that wretched swine" about 400 times after seeing this documentary on Iron Mike, but my favorite was when he said he'd eat Don King's children. I never realized how tragic Mike Tyson's life is-- and delivered with his "it-is-what-it-is" sincerity, the film makes him a fascinating and sympathetic person. Definitely worth watching. SEE IT.

The Wrestler: My dad, who is very to-the-point, said simply of this movie "That sucked." I had hopes for it, I thought it had artistic merit, and I thought Mickey Rourke was deserving in the credit he got. That said- I was pretty much bored as shit. SNEAK IT.

Bruno: Painful to watch, but funny-- meaning exactly what you'd expect and what you paid for. SNEAK IT.

Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince: I cried from remembering this book, even though the movie is far less emotional. And the fact that they changed and undervalued The Battle of Hogwarts was an outrage. I realize that last sentence was very nerdy. SEE IT.

The Reader: If anything could make me more depressed than Dumbledore checking out, it was this movie. Sweet Jesus! Who knew the Holocaust could get more depressing? They lure you in with all that Mrs. Robinson-teen boy lust, then hit you with some death camp horror stories. I recommend only if you love being miserable. Which I do, so that's good I guess. SKIP IT.

Sex and The City: About this movie, my dear friend Missy told me "I bawled my eyes out. Not because of Carrie or of any of that-- but because of the friendship these women had." That's why it took me so long to work up the courage to see it. Having lost our amazing friend Maggie nearly two years ago, it really hit us in a particular way- it's not about the shoes, it's about the women and their bond. It made me miss my friends. A+++++ SEE IT.

Orphan: This thriller reminded me of The Good Son (starring Macauley Culkin), but the twist at the end of this made it different and more of a "horror" movie than a "get-that-kid-in-therapy-pronto PSA." I was definitely tense watching it, it would make a good rental. SNEAK IT.

Funny People: Seeing a movie about a hard-working comic who lives on a couch with a hard-working comic who lives on a couch is fascinating, but even that can't change the fact that this movie became a different movie entirely after the first hour, and I wish it had stayed on course with the first plot. I don't know who edited that script, but-- boo. SKIP IT/SNEAK IT

Milk: I know, everyone else saw this a year ago. That said, it was still good, and Sean Penn did do a great job. But you already knew that, on account of the Oscar. SEE IT.

He's Just Not That Into You: This movie did the impossible-- it made me hate Scarlett Johannson even more than I did before I pressed "play." Don't watch it if you're anywhere near a break-up. SNEAK IT.

District 9: Definitely a unique movie. I had no idea what to expect, and can't honestly say I know what I saw. If you like alien movies with political undertones (and who doesn't!), check it out. But those "prawns" are so ugly they make it hard to eat all of your sneaky snacks. SEE IT/SNEAK IT.

Inglorious Basterds: It's like Quentin Tarantino said to himself "How can I make a really violent movie without anyone getting annoyed by all the violence? I know! I'll kill Nazis! Everyone hates them and loves to watch them die violently!" And so he did. It's definitely a good movie, and the first scene is so tense I thought my head was going to explode. SEE IT.

I Love You, Man: I had to beg John Moses to finish the DVD. It was painful to watch, and I expected it to keep getting better. But in the end, it got worse. What bride allows for a heartfelt man-love-monologue at the altar as she's getting married? Paul Rudd, you broke my heart with this one. SKIP IT.

The Unborn: A dumb horror movie that tries to seem really smart, this movie only scared me when I realized that I had lost two hours of my life that I would never get back. Poorly contrived with basically no scare-factor and starring the poor man's Megan Fox (who is the middle-class man's Angelina Jolie), there was nothing redeeming about it. SKIP IT.

That's it, for now. All the summer movies and snacks I could handle. Review your own in the comments, and... Roll credits!

Place Your Bets

It was a cold December day in 1975 when I came screaming into this world-- my parents had to take a treacherous trip from my Aunt Eileen's Christmas party in Bay Ridge along the icy Brooklyn streets to Kings County Hospital, where I was delivered by a midwife in the days before Christmas, on the cusp of the new sign. A Sagittarius. On the outside, I was seven and a half pounds of pink skin and dimples. On the inside, a fertile breeding ground for every single vice and addiction you could imagine. The seeds were planted, I just had to let them grow.

And grow they did. In my lifetime I have cultivated many addictions (ice cream! Where's the goddamn ice cream?) and vices, most of which I now abstain from, including: overeating, overspending, smoking, drinking, experimentation with unhealthy pastimes, Lifetime television, shopping, sugar and more. But there's one vice by which I was stung by so early, I realized I was powerless at my very first go: Gambling.

It's simple enough. Already a hard-core sugar addict by the age of eight, I tagged along with my parents and all of my BINGO-loving relatives to a card party fundraiser at my brother Jimmy's high school (LaSalle Academy for future juvenile delinquents, I think it was called). I was in search of cake, and every fat kid knows that where there are old ladies, there's cake. I followed at my father's heels pestering him for sweets, until finally he gave me a quarter and pointed me to the direction of the Over/Under table. The crowd parted, music played, and like Woody Woodpecker getting drawn in by the scent of a pie cooling on a windowsill, I waddled over to the table and placed my bet. 25 cents, Under. All in.

It was a wild ride. I was up, I was down, the adrenaline was pumping, my heart dropping with each loss and bursting with excitement at each win. Other kids cheered me on. The Lasallian brother behind the table barked out the wins while a crowd gathered to see the excitement. Before long, I had turned that one, lonely, shiny quarter into seven dollars in shiny quarters. I was the queen of the table.

And then. Then Lady Luck took her leave. She abandoned me, went out for the proverbial pack of cigarettes and never came back. I've never seen her since, actually, now that I think about it. I lost every penny. Every one. I lumbered back to my father and begged him-- just one more quarter, that was all I needed, dammit, just one more f-ing quarter old man! He just patted my head and said "Looks like someone learned an important lesson tonight."

In fact I had. I learned that people are born with luck, and I wasn't one of those people. All I had was optimism, and that wasn't enough. Thinking you were going to win wasn't going to make it so.

I come from a line of gamblers. My maternal grandmother, Rita, would push you down the stairs for a stack of scratch-off Lotto tickets. "Oh no! So-and-so is in the hospital?" she'd say,"What room? I gotta play the numbers." My cousin Karen inherited her itch, and some luck as well. She wins when she plays, but always a moderator, she knows not to do it often. This is a concept I can't quite wrap my head around.

Me, I know I can't control myself. I rarely gamble- money isn't something I ever have, how can I just give it away? But when I start, it's hard to stop. I'll go to the bodega and try to buy one Lotto ticket and end up with ten dollars worth. (Ever the optimist, I'll keep them for years after, even though I haven't won, hoping there was a computer error.) And I'd tell you about an ill-fated night at the dog track in Dublin, but I was still drinking then, so details are fuzzy. My vices, it seems, play well together.

So when my beloved John Moses told me he had a show at the Turning Stone Casino in beautiful Syracuse, New York, I was hesitant. A comped room, he said, meal vouchers and a paid gig-- it would be like a mini vacation, a great getaway after a difficult summer. "Fantastic!" I said with a smile plastered to my face, while inside I was filled with dread: my two mortal enemies in one place-- slot machines and an all-you-can-eat buffet.

It should be said that Syracuse in early September is really stunning. Lush foliage about to turn, with villages set into the valleys of majestic mountains. The casino itself is breathtaking, all carved stone and glass, and owned by the Oneida Indians-- a tribe from which John Moses can actually trace his heritage, though he seemed to disagree with my assertion that it meant he actually owned part of the casino. It was pristine but not overdone, with big rooms, comfortable (and clean!) beds and a lobby strewn with glowing waterfalls and the hypnotizing sparkle of blinking of ATM machines.

But let's face it: you only see the lobby for ten minutes. For the 24 hours after that, all you see are incredibly overweight men on scooters and old ladies balancing four inch ashes on the Pall Malls that dangle from their cracked lips while they push the buttons on the slot machines. There are scrunchies and mullets at every turn, complimenting a bevy of Big Johnston T-shirts and NASCAR hats.

It seemed to me that the Indians kept nature for themselves by luring the white man into voluntary captivity. Payback.

In we went.

John's show was, of course, great (comedianjohnmoses.com). I was afraid that the old ladies in the front row wouldn't take to his particular brand of filthy jokes, but they loved it. In fact, the filthier, the better-- I am sure Mr. Moses set the mood for some geriatric loving later that night, and a lot of old men are thanking him today.

After making the grown men who worked at the buffet weep with fear, John and I headed to the slots. We made an agreement-- $20 each, we walk away either up or out that twenty, but there would be no more money after that to lose.

If I was a gambling woman, I'd bet I couldn't do it.

We sat amid the smoking old ladies-- the real hard core gamblers-- they must know where the good machines are, right? The ones that did look up only gave us a once-over. The rest just kept pressing buttons, their eyes glazing over.

We started our games. Time after time John's machine jingled as his booty added up-- $20, then $29, then back down to $22. Calmly he watched the numbers rise and fall, while the spirits of his native brothers cheered him on. In my corner, I watched as my $20 was drained away on a 5 cent slot called Lucky Sevens. Lucky for who?, I thought bitterly as visions of Indian tribesmen walked by me laughing and counting my nickles. Delirious, tired and reeking of some old mummy's cigarette smoke, I came to a sad realization: Lady Luck, it seemed, was not to come back to me. Not even after all these years.

I gave up. With $10.20 left, I pulled my card from it's slot and stood up. That tricky bitch wouldn't get me this time.

Resigned, I sat down at a machine next to John and waited for him to finish.

And then it happened. My Addict-Voice spoke to me. You know, the one with all of the awesome ideas. The one that whispers "You deserve that ice cream!" and "Who cares about rent when you can buy that over-sized snakeskin clutch?" and "You're a better dancer when you're drunk!" The one that has conversations with me everyday, talking incessantly, even though I constantly, calmly but firmly ask her to shut the fuck up.

This time, she seemed to be making perfect sense, though. What she said was, "You've still got $10 and twenty cents left."

And just like that, my card was in to The Enchanted Kingdom, a game whose rules or point system I am still not sure of, except that occasionally a fairy woman with large breasts and Staten Island hair would appear on screen and add more money to my total as long as I just kept pressing that big, round, glowing button.

Suddenly, I was up. I had nearly doubled my money. That's right-- I had $39.75 in my booty bin.

"I should quit." I said to myself.

"No, you shouldn't-- think of how much you can win if you keep going!" Addict-Voice countered.

"But I'll lose it all!" I said.

"This could be your lucky day!" She said back.

"OK, OK." Let's compromise." I said.

"Here we go." She said in a voice that was the verbal equivalent of an eye-roll.

"No, really. Hear me out," I pleaded. "What if I keep going until I have $35, but then I stop?"

"Why not $30?" She countered.

"When I get to $35," I said, knowing I was asking for trouble, "we can negotiate again."

"Fine." She huffed.

And so I went. $39.75 became $39.70, then $39.65-- a slow and steady march to $0.

"Just keep going!" Addict-Voice suggested with a sparkle in her tone. "What's the worst that could happen?"

And then someone else spoke. Sober-Voice. The rational, kind-hearted inner voice that Addict-Voice and I usually pointed and laughed at, calling her "lame."

"But Julia," Sober-Voice said. "Right now you're a winner. You've almost doubled your money! You could go out on top, just end this now! Stop the insanity!"

"Don't listen to her!" Addict-Voice cried. "She has no idea what fun is, and she dresses like she's Amish. Just keep going!"

I stopped and looked at the screen. Staten Island Boobies Lady blinked seductively. I still had $39. Next to me, an old lady's long string of ash fell from her cigarette to her lap, and she didn't even blink. In the casino, bells clanged and whistles blew, but nothing felt quite as festive as it was probably meant to.

I pulled out my card. $19 richer than when I put it in. John Moses looked at me. "Wanna go?" he said, "I'm up $5, let's quit while we're ahead." I stood up, took one last look at Staten Island Boobies Lady, and turned away.

It only took me 25 years, but I finally learned how to walk away a winner.

In Retrospect, You'll Think The Service Was Great!