tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26368435685916584512024-03-13T21:07:47.385-07:00Funemployed.Being a deadbeat is a full time job.Julia Donahuehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00697016551933424908noreply@blogger.comBlogger31125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2636843568591658451.post-68346723311433742782011-01-29T22:27:00.000-08:002011-02-04T10:59:15.795-08:00Julia Donahue's Opus<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_BT3qUvfykSw/TUURVzwdFDI/AAAAAAAAAFU/6YHwldAVaLI/s1600/stanselmuniform.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 134px; height: 200px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_BT3qUvfykSw/TUURVzwdFDI/AAAAAAAAAFU/6YHwldAVaLI/s200/stanselmuniform.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5567875580681851954" /></a><br /><br />A week ago was Martin Luther King Jr. Day and it got me thinking: In history, leaders, heroes and trailblazers have earned their place by facing challenges, overcoming obstacles and declaring victory over lifelong struggles. They had something to overcome, and that task became their life's work. So I wondered, what was mine?<br /><br />What was the one thing I had been trying to overcome my whole life, the area in which I exerted the greatest effort in the face of probable failure? <br /><br />I realized, with some degree of horror and hilarity that my life's work has been to achieve my goal weight. <br /><br />Laugh if you will, roll your eyes... but it's true. <br /><br />In recent years it hasn't been just my focus, it's been my obsession. You see, I have seen the mountaintop. I have been there. And now I can't get it out of my head. Healthy or not, I want to go back. <br /><br />I was always a fat kid. If I wasn't fat, as some pictures attest, I thought I was. It wasn't like my parents ever pressured me to lose weight, in fact, my mother always insisted I was "perfect," which would upset me because I felt it was so far from the truth. I was always bigger than the kids around me, or at least I felt that way. Where other little girls were ballerinas, I felt like the bull in a china shop. <br /><br />And while I longed to be skinny, delicate like the other girls, and pretty instead of "jolly," I couldn't want it enough to put down the sweets or stick to a diet. Eventually, what you perceive becomes a reality, and I became the fat kid I always thought I was. And I hated myself for it. <br /><br />The first time I joined Weight Watchers, in the sixth grade, I weighed in at over 160lbs. That's honesty right there, folks. But I joined because wanted to lose weight. I was motivated. In fact, I always believed that eventually one day I would be thin. So I asked my mom to help me, and knowing that Weight Watchers was a healthy, reliable plan, she sent me along with my dad. He had just had his first of several heart attacks, and had been ordered by his doctors to lose weight. I dedicated myself. I lost 30lbs that first time. In subsequent years, I would join again, lose weight, and quit, only to gain again.<br /><br />My desire to lose weight wasn't because of the taunting I was getting from other kids, but the taunts certainly added to my motivation. Everyone has horror stories, here are some of mine: One day, on the bus home, an older kid named Seth Benkel and his friend Albert (whose last name escapes me, so let's just call him "Albert Fuckface") stopped me in the aisle on my way to my seat. <br /><br />"You should be a model," Seth Benkel said. I was cautiously flattered... a boy had never complimented me before. <br /><br />"For Porky Ham!" Albert Fuckface finished, and they laughed uproariously. For the remainder of the year, they taunted me, calling me Porky Pig and chanting while I kept my head down and said nothing, praying my stop would come sooner. The stress and anxiety of boarding the bus was pure torment. Eventually, my friend Corinne and I began walking home. To this day I can't look at one of those <a href="http://www.google.com/imgres?imgurl=http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_sOdvwGyffxI/R04oIqq28WI/AAAAAAAAAlA/hajPlQ2xBvw/s400/porky_truck.jpg&imgrefurl=http://brooklynometry.blogspot.com/2007_11_01_archive.html&usg=__hyGuKUT8d68WhPCiKcQRUQNwuB8=&h=300&w=400&sz=32&hl=en&start=0&zoom=1&tbnid=JE0KnjNFG60HOM:&tbnh=129&tbnw=192&ei=PBhFTe3SFIfDgQfBtJTIAQ&prev=/images%3Fq%3Dporky%2Btruck%26um%3D1%26hl%3Den%26client%3Dfirefox%26rls%3Dcom.yahoo:en-US:official%26biw%3D960%26bih%3D397%26tbs%3Disch:1&um=1&itbs=1&iact=hc&vpx=322&vpy=112&dur=4458&hovh=194&hovw=259&tx=117&ty=162&oei=PBhFTe3SFIfDgQfBtJTIAQ&esq=1&page=1&ndsp=8&ved=1t:429,r:5,s:0">Porky Ham 18 Wheelers</a> that drive around New York without thinking of those two sadistic seventh grade fucks. <br /><br />It should be said, neither of them were thin. In fact, Albert was actually fat. So maybe we could say it was his own insecurity that caused him to reduce me to tears every day, but frankly, I don't go for that. My insecurity didn't see me picking on the kid the next size up. Some people are just born assholes. <br /><br />I could go on. For example, I could tell you how, during my Confirmation in the seventh grade, the boys in the pew behind me, Vinny Mancino, Paul Rabaste and some weirdly Nordic kid I can only remember as "Eric" sat and hissed into my ears that I was fat, a whale, blubber and finally dubbed me "The White Whale," chanting it throughout the mercilessly long rehearsals and the ceremony itself. Models of Christianity. <br /><br />It's helpful to note that Paul grew into one of the most horrifyingly ugly adolescents you could ever imagine- a combination of <a href="http://www.google.com/images?q=Rocky+Dennis&oe=utf-8&rls=com.yahoo:en-US:official&client=firefox&um=1&ie=UTF-8&source=og&sa=N&hl=en&tab=wi&biw=960&bih=397">Rocky Dennis</a> and <a href="http://www.google.com/search?q=Dr.+Frank-N-Furter%2C&ie=utf-8&oe=utf-8&aq=t&rls=com.yahoo:en-US:official&client=firefox">Dr. Frank-n-Furter</a>- all distorted features and hormone-frizzed hair. In high school people--even his friends--viciously called him by his new nickname, "Handsome." Karma, my friends, will get you every time. <br /><br />I never told my parents about any of it. I was too ashamed-- like those boys and their cruelty were somehow my fault.<br /><br />In high school a growth spurt gave me a few brief months of thinness. The summer of 1991 was a perfect storm: I was 16, I hit puberty late but hard, skintight bodysuits were in vogue, and it seemed that my diet of potato salad and beer went straight to my chest. It was an amazing few months. In later years, once the weight had redistributed itself to my midsection and upper thighs, I would try again to recreate this diet and it's wondrous effects, and fail-- miserably. <br /><br />Throughout all of these years, the brief moments of manageability and the longer periods of self hatred and shame, I never once was able to freely enjoy a morsel of food. Unless it was a salad or something extremely dietetic that could convince me I was on the road to Skinnyville, Population Me, I would feel guilty as soon as I swallowed. <blockquote>Not one bite of even my own birthday cake-ever- has passed my lips without a chaser of remorse. </blockquote><br /><br />In June 2004, when I was 28, I decided that the day I always told myself was coming-- the day I'd be thin-- wasn't going to come to me. I had to set the date, and make it happen. Again, I joined Weight Watchers and, determined to do everything differently this time, I took off 40lbs in 10 months. In the years that followed, another 20lbs came off. <blockquote>I began to exercise, to run, and to treat my body like the machine I was realizing it could be. I was amazed at what it could do. It was like it had been waiting my whole life for this. It was let out of its cage. </blockquote><br /><br />In the fall of 2008, I was at my lowest weight. Maybe not my best weight- in fact, people liked to tell me that I was too thin, but when you're a fat kid in your head and in your heart, that still sounds like a compliment. I wasn't too thin, but an extra 5-10lbs wouldn't have hurt me. It was at that time that a friend told me she had stood up for me when gossips started saying I had an eating disorder. I was thrilled. It meant people were talking about me being thin--not fat.<br /><br />It wasn't just being thin that I loved, it was the confidence I got from losing weight. If I could do this, really- what couldn't I do? I applied myself at work and received professional kudos and bonuses. I went on dates, socialized, and approached anything and everything with an absolute expectation of success. I interviewed for jobs and got them. I flirted with guys, they flirted back. <br /><br />I wanted everyone to feel what I felt. When friends asked me how I lost weight, or said they wanted to try, I sincerely wanted to help. The concept that you have to "give it away to keep it" is a philosophy that Weight Watchers founder <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jean_Nidetch">Jean Nidetch </a>borrowed from Alcoholics Anonymous co-founder <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bill_W.">Bill Wilson</a>, and the principal of passing it on was something I wholeheartedly embraced. I don't preach, I don't bring it up-- but if people want to talk, hey-- pull up a chair. Need someone to go to a Weight Watchers meeting with you? I am there. Want to cook a healthy dinner? I am in. <br /><br />But the truth is, right now I am struggling. And my physical challenges have taken a tremendous mental toll- after all this time, I just can't separate the two. In 2008, after a series of unsettling experiences, I went on antidepressants and in the course of two years gained 20lbs. To anyone else, 20lbs is nothing to freak out about. Not great, but not life-altering, especially when you could have stood to gain 5-10 anyway. However to Ms.Porky Ham 1987, it's cause for panic. After experiencing other troubling side effects that only manifested over time, I came off the meds.<br /><br />It's been five months, and the weight won't budge. My copious research on the choice tool of obsessives, the internet, has told me that most people have a very hard time losing the weight gained from SSRIs. It takes months-- even years-- to see results. And there are no guarantees. <br /><br />Not willing to accept time and persistence as a solution, I went on a cleanse and then, once I finished, decided to do my "own" diet, which meant a desperate and unhealthy cutting of calories that resulted in a severe nutrient deficiency and corresponding side effects. In other words, I just made matters worse. Instead of seeing the 40lbs that were still off of me, the weight loss I had maintained, I saw the 10 I needed to lose to be "happy," the 15 that would leave me "without a problem in the world." <br /><br />When I am feeling rational, I just need time, body acceptance, healthy eating and exercise--not to whittle away my body but to make it as happy as it once was. When I am not, every tight piece of clothing feels like failure, every too-short skirt just reinforces my helplessness. My boyfriend tells me I am beautiful, and I wish I could believe him, the same way I wish I had believed my mom when she said I was perfect.<br /><br />I look at the pictures from when I was a kid, and I know that what I felt like I looked like and what I actually looked like don't match up. I always thought I was fat, even when I wasn't. My perspective was wrong from the get go. <br /><br />What I've realized in writing this is that even though I've been working towards it for my entire life, I don't actually have a goal weight. I never had a number, I've just been struggling towards this blurry ideal for 30 years. It's almost laughable, if it wasn't so sad. My goal weight has always just been categorized as "less than what I am now," and yet I've let it determine my moods, my self worth, and in some cases my success. I've let it push me into unhealthy behaviors, and <blockquote>I have actually physically harmed myself in my unrelenting zeal to get "good enough." A lack of a clear definition of what it is I am striving for has rendered it completely unattainable. </blockquote><br /><br />And yet, how do you give up fighting when you've been in battle your entire life? I don't know. I guess you do the next right thing: you take care of yourself, and exercise and eat right, but you don't obsess. You ask God to fix your perspective because frankly, it's pretty fucked. You blog about it, and hope that some people won't read and the ones that do will identify or share something with you. And eventually, hopefully, it sinks in that real success and real self worth can't be measured by the pound.Julia Donahuehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00697016551933424908noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2636843568591658451.post-91462246841237589142010-12-20T11:17:00.000-08:002011-01-31T15:14:09.657-08:00My Mother Was Right: Work Blog<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_BT3qUvfykSw/TTnd5G-uLxI/AAAAAAAAAEs/KvP4UB0wuHg/s1600/images.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 143px; height: 200px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_BT3qUvfykSw/TTnd5G-uLxI/AAAAAAAAAEs/KvP4UB0wuHg/s200/images.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5564722787788926738" /></a><br />When I was a kid, I hung out with a Spanish girl, an Italian girl, a Puerto Rican girl and a mutt who was mixed Hungarian, Scottish, Irish and God knows what else-- but she was born with jaundice. See a pattern? They all had skin that would tan.<br /><br />I, of course, didn't. My mother would slather me with sunscreen, too thick to rub in, coating my portly thighs like a pig covered in Crisco. When I got old enough, I insisted on doing it myself, and in our first real power struggle, my mother would insist on squeezing the SPF into my hands. She would put about four cups of SPF 70 into my palms, telling me to "rub it in." I, of course, obeyed-- rubbing the lotion in... the back of my knees. <br /><br />My preteen years were filled with water blisters and 2nd degree burns, oatmeal baths and aloe. As a result, I now have freckles permanently seared onto my skin in the shape of a bathing suit. A thick strapped, 80s bathing suit. <br /><br />Anyway. It's one of my many regrets-- one of the many ways I regret treating my body. I am now a devotee of spray tans. On some level I still believe a tan makes you look thinner (this was part of my motivation as a kid, as opposed to say, dieting and playing sports)-- so while I am orange, I am still looking 10lbs lighter.<br /><a href="http://virtualstore.allure.com/blog/2010/12/show-some-skin/"><br />In this blog</a> that I wrote for work, I explore a few others-- common ways we damage our skin. Smoking, tanning, all the good stuff. Check it out if you're bored!Julia Donahuehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00697016551933424908noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2636843568591658451.post-14218095477713134692010-12-17T11:14:00.000-08:002011-01-21T11:16:44.332-08:00The Gift of Beauty: Work BlogI do all of my holiday shopping online, due to a paralyzing fear of bedbugs and a total lack of motivation. That said, it's safe to say that everything in <a href="http://virtualstore.allure.com/blog/2010/12/the-gift-of-beauty/">this blog </a>that I wrote for work is kind of made up. Enjoy!Julia Donahuehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00697016551933424908noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2636843568591658451.post-56545091333957038052010-12-08T11:09:00.000-08:002011-01-21T11:12:03.785-08:00Holiday Sparkle: Work BlogBack when the clock was about to ring in 2000 and we were all afraid of Y2K, I was at my second heaviest lifetime weight and had discovered a penchant for sparkling clothes, feathers, and glitter makeup--a style probably brought on by my excessive drinking and love of weed. <br /><br />Anyway, I had to channel that girl when I wrote <a href="http://virtualstore.allure.com/blog/2010/12/holiday-sparkle/">this work blog</a> about holiday attire, which, as it turns out, is always sparkly. I guess I was ahead of my time.Julia Donahuehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00697016551933424908noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2636843568591658451.post-60660201481033044792010-12-06T10:33:00.000-08:002011-01-21T11:38:46.949-08:00Seeing Red: Work BlogSometime around late November, I realized that while my work blog might not have a lot of traffic, it did have something I valued: a lack monitoring by any authority figure.<br /><br />It was a revelation. It meant that I could start writing more like myself-you know, poorly. <br /><a href="http://virtualstore.allure.com/blog/2010/12/seeing-red/"><br />Here's the first blog where I just started to be more me at work.</a> It was actually interesting to write-- based on a panel discussion on red lipstick and it's importance in the history of beauty.<br /><br />Here's something I learned in my research: did you know in WWII, when the allies liberated the Nazi death camp at Bergen-Belsen, supplies came in including food, water and vats of red lipstick. Soldiers thought it was so insane-- why would anyone send red lipstick?<br /><br />As days went on, the female prisoners gravitated to the makeup. Soldiers started seeing more and more women walking around with red lipstick.<br /><br />It had given them back their individuality-- their femininity. They went from being prisoners to women again-- it was their first step in being treated like individual, beautiful humans after years of atrocities. Here is an artistic rendering of the scene from my favorite guerrilla artist, Banksy.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_BT3qUvfykSw/TTnglt7mLYI/AAAAAAAAAE8/aOLtOQ6EtQg/s1600/1194645469_f.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 197px; height: 200px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_BT3qUvfykSw/TTnglt7mLYI/AAAAAAAAAE8/aOLtOQ6EtQg/s200/1194645469_f.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5564725753182301570" /></a><br /><br />Fascinating, right? Here's the excerpt from the diary of Lieutenant Colonel Mervin Willett Gonin DSO who was among the first British soldiers to liberate Bergen-Belsen in 1945.<br /><br />Camp<br /><br />I can give no adequate description of the Horror Camp in which my men and myself were to spend the next month of our lives. It was just a barren wilderness, as bare as a chicken run. Corpses lay everywhere, some in huge piles, sometimes they lay singly or in pairs where they had fallen. It took a little time to get used to seeing men women and children collapse as you walked by them and to restrain oneself from going to their assistance. One had to get used early to the idea that the individual just did not count. One knew that five hundred a day were dying and that five hundred a day were going on dying for weeks before anything we could do would have the slightest effect. It was, however, not easy to watch a child choking to death from diptheria when you knew a tracheotomy and nursing would save it, one saw women drowning in their own vomit because they were too weak to turn over, and men eating worms as they clutched a half loaf of bread purely because they had to eat worms to live and now could scarcely tell the difference. Piles of corpses, naked and obscene, with a woman too weak to stand proping herself against them as she cooked the food we had given her over an open fire; men and women crouching down just anywhere in the open relieving themselves of the dysentary which was scouring their bowels, a woman standing stark naked washing herself with some issue soap in water from a tank in which the remains of a child floated. It was shortly after the British Red Cross arrived, though it may have no connection, that a very large quantity of lipstick arrived. This was not at all what we men wanted, we were screaming for hundreds and thousands of other things and I don’t know who asked for lipstick. I wish so much that I could discover who did it, it was the action of genius, sheer unadulterated brilliance. I believe nothing did more for these internees than the lipstick. Women lay in bed with no sheets and no nightie but with scarlet red lips, you saw them wandering about with nothing but a blanket over their shoulders, but with scarlet red lips. I saw a woman dead on the post mortem table and clutched in her hand was a piece of lipstick. At last someone had done something to make them individuals again, they were someone, no longer merely the number tatooed on the arm. At last they could take an interest in their appearance. That lipstick started to give them back their humanity.<br /><br />Source: Imperial War museum<br /><br />Anyway. I am anonymous on the blog, and you can't tell the difference from me and the old blogger except that she didn't include images in her posts-- but I'd like to think you can hear more of me starting in this blog and going forward.Julia Donahuehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00697016551933424908noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2636843568591658451.post-52162056396935537192010-11-27T19:11:00.000-08:002010-11-27T19:32:48.731-08:00Sick on a SaturdayI just reread my last post and realized I was sick when I wrote it. The sickness I have now makes that one look like a silly flu, a sissy virus, the lamest of the lame of germs. Late last night while indulging in some post-Thanksgiving movie watching (The Social Network, bootleg, natch) on Aunt Mary's couch, I started to feel a bit woozy. This morning, it was full blown: thick, scratchy throat, deep cough, head that feels like it's been put in the world's largest vice made specifically for big heads. <br /><br />It occurs to me that I never fully got better from my last illness. So. I've spent today sleeping, waking up to do shots of Tylenol and Robitussin dropped off by my sweet Florence Nightingale, my cousin Karen. In between I've sandwiched snippets of <span style="font-style:italic;"><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zIR8QtMv1W4">Uncle Buck</a></span>, the remaining episodes of <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=E46BhMIRujI&feature=channel">Glee </a>that I had to catch up on, and cleaned out the old DVR. It's like the day I always dreamed of, except I am too miserable to enjoy it. Even with ice cream. <br /><br />In my throbbing head, I keep thinking about the fact that I am still 10 years old when it comes to sick days. Why, oh why, dear God, am I sick on a weekend? When I have a list of things to do that I actually want to do? Like get a Christmas tree, or go to Connecticut to see <a href="http://www.comedianjohnmoses.com/">John Moses</a> headline at Comix at Foxwoods, where we could gamble and eat fudge for free? Or go to yoga, or go out to lunch? Whhhhy?<br /><br />I guess, since I complained last about having to work sick since I can't take sick days, the fact is that I just hate being sick. I hate it, even when <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NY4bUP48RE8">Elf</a> is on.Julia Donahuehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00697016551933424908noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2636843568591658451.post-39134552737348975912010-11-17T10:28:00.000-08:002011-01-21T10:33:15.427-08:00Pretty Awesome: Work BlogWhen you work in editorial, people are forever sending you products to try, in the hopes that you might write about them in your magazine.<br /><br />I don't work for editorial. I work in advertising, which means not only do editors consider me a bottom feeder, even advertisers don't care what I think. Usually.<br /><br />That said, every now and then you get an advertiser who recognizes your human characteristics, and wants you to try their product and maybe even write about them on your blog that no one reads. <br /><br />When it came to Elizabeth Arden Pretty, we had some product lying around from sweepstakes and gift bags we were fulfilling, and they wanted me to try the perfume. So I did, and I wrote about it <a href="http://virtualstore.allure.com/blog/2010/11/pretty-awesome/">here. </a><br /><br />Do I love it? You know, it's not bad. I generally wear less floral perfumes, but take my opinion for what it's worth... pretty much nothing. But hey, at least I am honest!Julia Donahuehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00697016551933424908noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2636843568591658451.post-35479479413130902232010-11-15T18:50:00.001-08:002010-11-15T19:04:34.017-08:00True FluOk so maybe it's not the flu but I am damn sick. My immune system-- usually the only strong part of my body thanks to years of drinking and enough stored alcohol to kill any germs that come within a seven foot radius-- is flustered, and I am sick. Beloved's been sick for a while, and my immune system pelted off his little germies for weeks before finally succumbing. I can pinpoint when it happened- after working until 10pm last Thursday, run down-- I had a wedding Friday, a trip to Massachusetts Saturday. That, coupled with Beloved's relentless germ spreading, did me in. In the car, my system gave out. I actually felt myself get sick as we crossed the New York border into Connecticut. At first I thought it was my aversion to the suburbs-- turned out it was actual illness.<br /><br />Of course I had to work today. Not because I am a go-getter, but because I am paid by the day. That's right: no sick days, no vacation days, just get paid as you go. It seems doubly insulting that the people with no health insurance-- the freelancers-- are also the people with no sick days. I could get all worked up about it but I don't have the energy. And even if I had insurance, I probably wouldn't go to the doctor. I HATE doctors. But what I would do, if I could, is take a day, lay on the couch, watch Maury Povich and relax. This would surely make me feel better. In fact, I was never sick when I was unemployed, largely because that was all I did!<br /><br />Anyway, it seems cruel that I took my couch for granted for so long. In fact, I had a rule- no TV in the daytime. Hello!? Stupid rule.<br /><br />I am going to bed.Julia Donahuehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00697016551933424908noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2636843568591658451.post-38501290465251951212010-11-11T10:26:00.000-08:002011-01-21T10:28:21.966-08:00Get Polished: Work BlogAnother one from the mind of your favorite copywriter...hey, it pays the bills!<br /><br /><a href="http://virtualstore.allure.com/blog/2010/11/get-polished/">Get Polished</a>Julia Donahuehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00697016551933424908noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2636843568591658451.post-36240153225698567632010-11-10T19:50:00.000-08:002010-11-11T17:33:07.647-08:00Product of My Environment<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_BT3qUvfykSw/TNtpkvhJdFI/AAAAAAAAAEg/ZsLCwHXOHHk/s1600/hockey.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 135px; height: 200px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_BT3qUvfykSw/TNtpkvhJdFI/AAAAAAAAAEg/ZsLCwHXOHHk/s200/hockey.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5538136246733861970" /></a><br /><br />I moonlight as Lady Gaga's stylist, as you may have guessed -------><br />____________________________________<br /><br />I was talking to an unemployed friend last night, and he said that he'd do anything to be working again. I would say that I remember that feeling, but I think if you know me you know that's not true. <br /><br />In fact, I was recently waxing poetic about my days of leisure. Sure, there was stress about rent and bills, but I am working now and I still have that stress. Now I just have other things to stress about, like...<br /><br />- When do I have time to drop off my dry cleaning?<br />- How can I move my car for alternate side before work when I am already late? <br />- When can I possibly catch up on episodes of Cake Boss when I am not getting home until 8:30pm?<br /><br />I like my new gig- but I work hard. I am in at 9am, and I don't leave until about 6:45pm on average. I don't take lunch. Every minute of my day is filled with work- the days fly by, which is nice, but at the same time... holy shit. I get home, I eat dinner, I get ready for bed and then it's bedtime, and I am doing it all again. It reminds me of something...<br /><br /><object width="640" height="385"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/XGAVTwhsyOs?fs=1&hl=en_US"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/XGAVTwhsyOs?fs=1&hl=en_US" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="640" height="385"></embed></object><br /><br />Please, don't worry-- we all know I can't afford cocaine. Though it sure would make me skinny. <br /><br />It's not that I am complaining. I just think that maybe we should completely overhaul the work culture in the United States. Maybe I was born in the wrong era-- maybe I should have been Don Draper's dowdy copywriting assistant, in at 9, out by 5, drinking bourbons and chain smoking Luckys in between. Why can't we go back to that?<br /><br />Maybe it's my town. This week, the Daily News reported that New Yorkers are <a href="http://www.nydailynews.com/ny_local/2010/11/09/2010-11-09_stress_we_can_new_yorkers_the_most_on_edge_in_america_new_survey_reveals.html">more stressed out than other Americans. </a> I can sort of see why, between the <a href="http://www.mta.info/mta/news/releases/?agency=nyct&en=090213-NYCT24">shitty trains</a>(that were rated an enthusiastic C as opposed to last year's C- by riders), ridiculous <a href="http://www.rentistoodamnhigh.org/">rents</a>, and, of course, <a href="http://nymag.com/daily/fashion/2010/11/breaking_lone_bedbug_discovere.html">the scourge of the century,</a> who wouldn't be stressed? What's so great about this stupid city anyway?<br /><br />Or maybe it's just me. I tend to throw myself into my work-- I try to BECOME the thing I write about. If it's fashion or beauty, suddenly I am upping the ante on my shopping. If it's food, I am hungry. Very hungry. <br /><br />When I was unemployed, I became your typical unemployed person. I hit the gym, I relaxed, I laughed off the idea of the "Sunday Night Blues." I went out on a Tuesday night because I could. <br /><br />I guess the thing I am realizing is that I adapt to my environment, but not just that, I adapt to the WORST parts of my environment. I pick up all the vices everywhere I go-- never the good traits. Maybe I should work at Forbes, or some kind of budget magazine. If I worked at Oprah, maybe I'd end up saving the world. But more than likely, I'd just badmouth beef farmers, yo-yo diet and start saying Umm Hmmm a lot.Julia Donahuehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00697016551933424908noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2636843568591658451.post-89497955789490251342010-11-08T14:53:00.001-08:002010-11-08T15:58:30.965-08:00You're Semi-Hired!<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_BT3qUvfykSw/TNiLFeDdHLI/AAAAAAAAAEY/9IaZWYoKvAA/s1600/rainbowass.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_BT3qUvfykSw/TNiLFeDdHLI/AAAAAAAAAEY/9IaZWYoKvAA/s200/rainbowass.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5537328667935186098" /></a> <br /><br />(Hire me! I can make rainbows fly out of my butt!) <br />____________________________________<br /><br /><br /><br /><br />In the immortal words of the Talking Heads, I ask: "Wait... how did I get here?"<br /><br />Where's here? A desk- in an office, actually. A real, live office. My first ever. When I was at Former Fashion Magazine they kept me in a storage closet which, given my aversion to people, really worked out nicely for me. Not today, though. Today I have a desk in an office with a door that (blessedly) shuts. <br /><br />It's sort of like this-- as Renton told Spud, you can't try too hard, of you'll end up employed. You can't not try, or they'll know you're not trying. It was a fine line to walk, and I walked the wrong way. And ended up with a job. Sort of. <br /><br /><object width="480" height="385"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/apCtRg6mOVk?fs=1&hl=en_US"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/apCtRg6mOVk?fs=1&hl=en_US" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="480" height="385"></embed></object><br /><br />So, I guess I am employed. As Beloved has been pointing out, I've been fairly employed for a while. (Hence my lack of blogging. I felt like a Funemployed Fraud!) I have been taking any freelance I can, doing maternity fill-ins as a copy director and going to school so that I can continue towards my goal of becoming a high school English teacher. <br /><br />I am employed, but-- I am kind of barely so. The new-fangled job market in advertising means that I have been hired as a perma-lancer. What's that, you ask? It's a person with all of the responsibilities, less of the perks. At the New Fashion Magazine where I am semi-employed, I have an office, but no healthcare. I filed for that from the Freelancers Union who, it turns out, are kind of crooks, just like every other insurance based entity. I have a regular gig I can depend on, but no recourse if they decide one day they don't need me. Also, I have a fairly steady paycheck, but no vacation days... so if I do decide to take a day off for, say, Thanksgiving, I won't be paid for it. Of course, the office is closed on Thanksgiving or I'd probably come in, being the cheap bitch that I am. <br /><br />It's sort of crazy being back. I am thrust back into my same self-loathing, fueled by the matchsticks that ride the elevator and load up on lettuce leafs in the cafeteria at lunch. I realize my attention span in meetings has been drastically reduced by 18 months of unemployment and Maury Povich reruns. I can barely make it through a brainstorming without shouting <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SGtWssdauME">"You are NOT the FATHER!</a>" Yet at the same time, it comes back, like riding a bike. (I should probably mention I was hit by a car riding a bike in high school, so this isn't the best analogy, but you get the point.) In this part of my life I am responsible, and organized, and at the risk of sounding conceited, quite good at what I do, which is writing ad copy. There's an energy to it that I thrive on, and I missed that. I work hard at it and I nail it down and I deliver within deadlines-- just like I always did. It kind of makes me wonder what made me so expendable to begin with. <br /><br />So that's where I stand. Do I need to change the name of my blog? You tell me, but I don't think so. I think Semi-Employed doesn't convey the fun I have being barely employed at the lowest possible level. <br /><br />You'll hear a lot more out of me now, because after some time I have finally decided on the new direction for this blog. Just because I am semi-employed doesn't mean I am not a deadbeat, so we'll see where it goes, but honestly this blog was always just an outlet for me to write about what I wanted, what I saw, what was important to me, and it will continue to be the same thing. So expect lots of posts on inane things. Um, I didn't ask you to follow me, you got yourself into this shitheap yourself.Julia Donahuehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00697016551933424908noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2636843568591658451.post-82564078985799914912010-11-08T10:16:00.000-08:002011-01-21T10:25:36.567-08:00Credit Where Credit is Due: Plum Crazy (Work Blog)I realize I am not, by practice, your most diligent blogger. It could be weeks before I add a new post, and when I do I am often promising to do it more often.<br /><br />That said, you should know, this isn't my only blog. I actually now need to blog as part of my job at New Fashion/Beauty Magazine. I am not really a diligent blogger there, either-- but since I am my only reader and I am grossly overworked, I think it's okay. <br /><br />If you subscribe to this blog, you like the way I write. And if you like the way I write, you'll like my work blog. No one reads it except for me, so I have the liberty of being myself. Well, my more professional self. <br /><br />So, I've decided to start linking the two blogs. It might get me more traffic on that blog, and it will make me feel less like a slacker on this one. That said, I will ALWAYS label it a work blog when it is one--so you know any products I am promoting are advertisers for that magazine. Cool?<br /><br />Cool. <br /><br />Here's the first post I did for them, called <a href="http://virtualstore.allure.com/blog/2010/11/plum-crazy/">"Plum Crazy,"</a> wherein I try to pretend I know all about the plum makeup trend.Julia Donahuehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00697016551933424908noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2636843568591658451.post-50929413674039544402010-04-08T12:10:00.000-07:002010-04-09T09:30:20.885-07:00Things You Need When You're FunemployedIt's tough out there-- don't let the "falling unemployment claims" that our slick-haired politicians are touting fool you. What that means is that people are timing out of their unemployment benefits-- they've been unemployed so long that they're not able to claim any more. Look at me- I've been out of work 10.5 months already. Tempus fugit- or in my case, tempus fukkit--that's Latin for "time fucks you over." Americans everywhere are still losing their jobs-- but don't worry. When your boss drags to you HR kicking and screaming to hand you that delicate pink slip that's simultaneously the key to your personal freedom and your financial dependency, there's only one thing you can do. Ok- fine--AFTER you have a drink. Or ten. Whatever- I get it, do that first, and then get ready to do The Second Thing: consult my list of the must-have items that are essential for your pending unemployment. <br /><br />Take it from me, someone who has been there and is, in fact, still there: it can be traumatic, and you kind of forget everything the HR people tell you on your way out the door, so it's best to have someone recap. And that's why I am here. And also, I know much more than they do about the real essentials of unemployment. <br /><br />Not going to lose your job? Lucky you. But you can still help your unemployed friends out by getting them items on the list. And buy them a drink, you cheap, employed a-hole. <br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Things You Need When You're Funemployed</span><br /><br />1. This website: https://ui.labor.state.ny.us/UBC/home.do<br /><br />2. A notebook to write down jobs leads, phone numbers and important health insurance mumbo jumbo. Keep it solely dedicated to your job search, so you know where EVERYTHING is. I recommend stealing it from your former employer on the way out the door. They owe you. (*Addendum: If you can, SOME might recommend also hawking tape, a stapler, folders, scissors, a 3-hole punch and a lable-maker. But I can't say for sure that I am the one recommending that. Or that's what my lawyers told me.)<br /><br />3. Cable TV, or access to the Maury Povich Show<br /><br />4. Rich friends who offer free dinner<br /><br />5. A bathing suit and SPF, if it's May-September<br /><br />6. Wireless internet- job searching without it is a horrific nightmare from which you might never wake<br /><br />7. Gift certificates for manicures and pedicures. No one should have to <a href="http://funemployedblog.blogspot.com/2009/11/sophies-choices.html">choose.</a><br /><br />8. A gym membership. On days when we feel like sleeping in has lost its luster, it's good to go, work out and feel productive, and like we actually <span style="font-style:italic;">earned</span> our afternoon nap.<br /><br />9. Coupon cards for your local supermarket. Never signed up for your Pathmark card? Get it. And for those of you who go to Trader Joe's and Whole Foods... you better sign up for a Pathmark card, too. Couture grocery shopping is a luxury of the community of the gainfully employed- of which you are no longer a member. <br /><br />10. An account on the networking site of your choice. No, not Facebook you tool-friend me, by the way, if you didn't already!- I am talking about LinkedIn or whatever you use in your specific industry. <br /><br />11. A social plan: you'll be surprised at just how quickly you get isolated without a job to go to every day. Who will you discuss the latest episode of Gossip Girl with, if not your cube-neighbor? Ah, I miss you Annie an Derrica. Join a club, make a friend, volunteer- you need things to keep you actively speaking.<br /><br />12. A Facebook profile. It fills the void of actual human interaction when the "social plan" falls apart.<br /><br />13. Comfortable lounge clothes that can also double as outside clothes. I recommend yoga pants and have three pairs- my workout yoga pants, my lounge yoga pants and my dress-up yoga pants.<br /><br />14. A sad voice. Use it to call your cable and phone company, explain that you've lost your job and that you need your bill reduced. I got Time Warner to reduce mine by $60 a month AND give me free Showtime, just because I tried. They're just waiting for your call. Oh, and for you to threaten to switch to Fios. <br /><br />15. Friends. There are lots of ups and downs, emotionally and financially... you'll be fine one minute and the next you'll realize that you can't afford a cup of coffee. <br /><br />At the end of the day, you just have to remember that this is temporary. And it's an opportunity. I am back in school and changing careers-- that never would have happened if I was still making bank. Now, I am painfully poor and happy. I slept til noon today! and now I am going to work out and do some homework for class, then go meet some friends. There is opportunity here. And if you can't fight it, you might as well enjoy it until it's over. Right?Julia Donahuehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00697016551933424908noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2636843568591658451.post-48492690970501077272010-03-25T14:04:00.000-07:002010-03-25T15:09:40.511-07:00Train to Nowheresville<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_BT3qUvfykSw/S6vc2asQdKI/AAAAAAAAAD4/5x0u5_7kWb4/s1600/train.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_BT3qUvfykSw/S6vc2asQdKI/AAAAAAAAAD4/5x0u5_7kWb4/s200/train.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5452694601298113698" /></a><br />The day I started my freelance gig at Unnamed Fashion Magazine, I got myself dressed up in a cute little dress, polished my favorite black boots, put on my chic winter hat and coat and headed out, my proud expression silently proclaiming "Here I am, World! Did you miss me?" <br /><br />With eager anticipation, I hustled down to the subway, ready to board the N Train. The Success Express! I was ready to rub elbows with the Cream of the Crop- the Employed people of America! At last, I had returned. <br /><br />And then, with one mighty whiff, my disillusion was shattered. <br /><br />THESE people have jobs, and I don't?<br /><br />Wait. I know that sounded judgmental. <br /><br />THESE PEOPLE have jobs, and I don't??<br /><br />Let me explain the N train, for you out-of-towners/Express Bus Elitists. First there's the Nail Clippers, the Booger Pickers and the Smells-Like-Shitters. To our left we have the Disgruntled Elbow Jabbers and the Dirty Look Givers, and to our right you'll see the Ones Who Talk to Themselves cuddled up to The Ones Who Snore with Their Mouths Wide Open. And let's not forget the woman with a piece of Scotch tape placed across her forehead-- she's next to the guy who's shaving-- yes shaving-- directly in front of me.*<br /><br />How did it happen that a responsible, hard working and--I'll just say it-- mildly charming woman like myself finds herself on the breadline while the Weirdos of the world, (all of whom seem to ride the N train) go about their day, collect their paychecks, and go back to grooming themselves on public transportation?<br /><br />As my time at Unnamed Fashion Magazine draws to a close, and I ready to rejoin the ranks of the remarkably unproductive, I realize that you know what? There was nothing I could have done to keep from losing my job. I worked hard, I was professional, I even dressed nice. But in the end, times are tough. Some people will hold on to employment and others won't. It's not personal, it's business-- and there's no rhyme or reason to it. <br /><br />And at least I don't have to ride the N train if I don't want to now. I can just nap instead.<br /><br />*T<span style="font-style:italic;">hese are all based on actual train experiences. and people I have seen, though generally not at once. I am not even getting into the guy who was dressed like Dick Tracy in August, or the lady who filled her cheeks with sunflower seeds only to spit them all over herself when I looked at her. So let's just agree that this is all real, if unbelievable. </span>Julia Donahuehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00697016551933424908noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2636843568591658451.post-81187132917162915722010-03-25T08:45:00.000-07:002010-03-25T08:58:15.125-07:00Not that there's anything wrong with that.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_BT3qUvfykSw/S6uH6QAw31I/AAAAAAAAADw/_20D8LLckQ8/s1600/handm.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 195px; height: 200px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_BT3qUvfykSw/S6uH6QAw31I/AAAAAAAAADw/_20D8LLckQ8/s200/handm.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5452601208662450002" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_BT3qUvfykSw/S6uH6BHAGLI/AAAAAAAAADo/2gTv_BcQ_PU/s1600/joan_holloway.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 140px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_BT3qUvfykSw/S6uH6BHAGLI/AAAAAAAAADo/2gTv_BcQ_PU/s200/joan_holloway.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5452601204662081714" /></a><br />I've said it before and I will say it again: I have a crush on Joan Halloway Harris. You know- the secretary from Mad Men. And yes, I know she's not real, but I love her! I love her style and her sass and the way the two things go together-- and I love that she's curvy and she rocks it. I can finally embrace my hips again. Bite me, Gisele! If only she didn't make me want to smoke cigarettes and drink Scotch and eat red meat. Ok, eat more red meat. <br /><br />So today, I am at work wearing my Joan Halloway best: a pencil skirt, big belt, cap sleeved top and round-toe pumps, complete with a bow. Yes, I want to BE her. <br /><br />I see a lot of women on the street that I want to be. I like to dissect outfits and find what would and what would not work on me. Sometimes, I'll even snap a pic. <br /><br />So now, dear reader, I do you a service: you can do the same, and you can win a shopping spree at H&M! They're running the H&M Style Eye Sweepstakes, all via Facebook. Stop playing Bejeweled for a second, then take a picture of the women who you think have the look you love, even if it's you. Post it online <a href="http://apps.facebook.com/styleeye/app.php?start=prize">here </a> and you could win an H&M shopping spree AND get featured in Lucky magazine. Got an opinion? Go vote. <br /><br />Yes, yes. You're welcome. Now, be a dear and pass me a smoke.Julia Donahuehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00697016551933424908noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2636843568591658451.post-47867630944124444692010-03-22T14:01:00.000-07:002010-03-22T14:04:28.343-07:00Oh. You Again.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_BT3qUvfykSw/S6fbPWg3lmI/AAAAAAAAADQ/GzhJ_b3nW8E/s1600-h/1957TypingPool2.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_BT3qUvfykSw/S6fbPWg3lmI/AAAAAAAAADQ/GzhJ_b3nW8E/s200/1957TypingPool2.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5451566930743236194" /></a><br />The thing about being unemployed is that you spend most of your time figuring out how to be un-unemployed, and then you’re so busy that suddenly you’re busier than a one-legged man in an ass kicking race, and everyone in your life starts saying things like:<br /><br />“How are you so busy? You’re unemployed.” <br /><br />And:<br /><br />“What ever happened to that blog of yours?”<br /><br />I think honestly that there are two reasons I haven’t written. The first is that I am, by nature, a self-saboteur. I found this blog to be an outlet, I received positive feedback and thus… I had to stop working on it. Why wait to fail when you can speed up the process?<br /><br />Secondly, I have been engaged in said ass-kicking contest. The real thrill of being unemployed is not the freedom to watch paternity test after paternity test on Maury Povich, or to nap when it rains or loll about reading the classics on your stoop as spring makes it’s long-awaited debut. No—the real excitement is the adreneline rush that comes with the very real fear that the bottom is about to fall out. <br /><br />Since I last blogged, I’ve been hustling. Not real pimp-and-ho hustling, and not pool shark hustling- but I’ve been moving. I’ve been, frankly, trying to make money and sock it away so that I don’t end up homeless. A silly fear, maybe- but not completely implausible. In the meantime I am working towards a future: I am back in school, studying to get certified to teach. High school English. Can you imagine? AND I took on a freelance position two days a week, and I get to feel employed for a little while. On the days I am not there, I am substitute teaching, where I live in fear that every day the kids will catch on that a.) I am clueless and b.) they outnumber me. <br /><br />So now that I’ve gotten this “Where have you BEEN?” blog posting out of the way, let’s get back to the fun stuff, shall we?Julia Donahuehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00697016551933424908noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2636843568591658451.post-34076766154893590902009-11-28T21:47:00.000-08:002009-11-30T08:45:26.296-08:00The 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?"<br /><br />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. <br /><br />The questions that really get to me though, are the ones I never used to have to ask myself. <br /><br />"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?"<br /><br />"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?"<br /><br />"Should I go to the doctor, or hope this sickness works itself out?"<br /><br />"Can I afford a Metrocard this week, or should I just risk arrest and go under the turnstyle?" <br /><br />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. <br /><br />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. <br /><br />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. <br /><br />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.<br /><br />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. <br /><br />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? <br /><br />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. <br /><br />Happy holidays, everyone. I hope that they are merry and bright for you- no matter what you get-- or don't get.<br /><br /><object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/U0fVQ3i90zg&hl=en_US&fs=1&"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/U0fVQ3i90zg&hl=en_US&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object>Julia Donahuehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00697016551933424908noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2636843568591658451.post-48457953725470405742009-10-19T19:59:00.000-07:002009-11-17T18:58:58.304-08:00Dress for Success.On one of my favorite shows,TLC's <span style="font-style:italic;">What Not to Wear</span>, stylist Stacy London often offers this <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qn43SPcG7kk">advice</a> to the pathetically dressed make-overees who come to New York to learn the basics of putting on clothes: <br /><br />"Dress for the job you want, not the job you have."<br /><br />It seems simple, but it's smart. During my days at <span style="font-style:italic;">Lucky</span> 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. <br /><br />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!<br /><br />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. <br /><br />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.<br /><br />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 <span style="font-style:italic;">dressed</span>.<br /><br />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. <br /><br />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 <a href="http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3042/2687109149_2de56edaf0_o.jpg">the style I always envisioned for myself. </a> <br /><br />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.<br /><br />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. <br /><br />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. <br /><br />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 <span style="font-style:italic;">Biggest Loser</span> got sent home last night, and debate about where we should go to lunch.<br /><br />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. <br /><br />Then again, maybe it wouldn't. Maybe we'd just get blisters on our feet.Julia Donahuehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00697016551933424908noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2636843568591658451.post-51344235075665133502009-10-18T20:32:00.000-07:002009-10-19T10:46:19.077-07:00Hope Springs EternalNow is the winter of our discontent. It seems to have come early this year, no? <br /><br />Actually, that's not a correct usage at all. What Shakespeare meant when he wrote that in <span style="font-style:italic;">Richard III</span> 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. <span style="font-style:italic;">Hope.</span> Of course what<span style="font-style:italic;"> I</span> 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. <br /><br />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 <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9K30e9O3Nng">best of things</a>." <br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_BT3qUvfykSw/StvldTIpaRI/AAAAAAAAADI/ow8sB1MwGW8/s1600-h/fairey-obama-paper_13.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 133px; height: 200px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_BT3qUvfykSw/StvldTIpaRI/AAAAAAAAADI/ow8sB1MwGW8/s200/fairey-obama-paper_13.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5394157270221809938" /></a><br /><br />Lately I've come to think that hope is a bitch. <br /><br />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. <br /><br />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.<br /><br />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. <br /><br />They need us to kid ourselves. Because there is no room for realism in optimism. <br /><br />Just last week, my former employer Conde Nast closed three magazines-- <span style="font-style:italic;">Gourmet</span>, <span style="font-style:italic;">Cookie</span> and <span style="font-style:italic;">Modern Bride</span>. 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 <span style="font-style:italic;">would</span> 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. <br /><br />So here we are, winter once again. Just when we didn't need it most. <br /><br />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. <br /><br />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, <a href="http://vodpod.com/watch/68822-howard-jones-things-can-only-get-better">things can only get better. </a><br /><br />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.Julia Donahuehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00697016551933424908noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2636843568591658451.post-49849171012754293322009-10-03T17:26:00.001-07:002009-10-03T17:45:35.756-07:00The Way We Were<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_BT3qUvfykSw/SsfvGAE1VWI/AAAAAAAAADA/m0z2GhhLW_g/s1600-h/IMG_0678.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_BT3qUvfykSw/SsfvGAE1VWI/AAAAAAAAADA/m0z2GhhLW_g/s200/IMG_0678.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5388538365550613858" /></a><br />I’m a little cost sensitive these days.<br /><br />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. <br /><br />“Wait—two ply toilet paper is 3 cents more than one ply. Clearly I have got to start stealing t.p. from public restrooms.”<br /><br />Par for the course when you have no job.<br /><br />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. <br /><br />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. <br /><br />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.<br /><br />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. <br /><br />So sure—that’s cheaply done. But here’s where I get angry.<br /><br />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? <br /><br />Remember last year, when gas was really high and airlines started charging for “extra” baggage? Well, now, apparently they’re just charging <span style="font-style:italic;">for baggage</span>. <br /><br />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. <br /><br />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?<br /><br />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? <br /><br />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.”<br /><br />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?<br /><br />And really—what security <span style="font-style:italic;">are</span> 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. <br /><br />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. <br /><br />Somewhere in the middle of Buffalo it occurred to me that this is the new reality of travel—and that the <span style="font-style:italic;">same thing</span> 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 <span style="font-style:italic;">just</span> to have their jobs, which are precariously placed under the ever swinging axe of budget cuts. <br /><br />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. <br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />How much of the recession can <span style="font-style:italic;">really</span> 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. <br /><br />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? <br /><br />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.Julia Donahuehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00697016551933424908noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2636843568591658451.post-47202229026661889542009-09-24T10:20:00.000-07:002009-09-28T07:16:21.513-07:00If 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.<br /><br />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. <br /><br />So I am coming clean.<br /><br />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. <br /><br />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.<br /><br />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. <br /><br />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. <br /><br />"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. <br /><br />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. <br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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. <br /><br />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. <br /><br />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. <br /><br />Honestly. <br /><br />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.<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_BT3qUvfykSw/SsBajiu5KBI/AAAAAAAAAC4/1thJa5H5n_k/s1600-h/First+Day+of+School.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 136px; height: 200px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_BT3qUvfykSw/SsBajiu5KBI/AAAAAAAAAC4/1thJa5H5n_k/s200/First+Day+of+School.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5386404721000523794" /></a><br /><br />(Yes, this girl is actually judging <span style="font-style:italic;">your </span>outfit.)Julia Donahuehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00697016551933424908noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2636843568591658451.post-9942220573851164282009-09-21T23:09:00.000-07:002009-09-21T23:55:36.171-07:00Sneaky Cinema Double Feature: Adventureland & Dear ZacharyShoot the Freak: The <span style="font-style:italic;">Adventureland</span> Review <br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Adventureland</span><br />Billed as a comedy and starring a dude who looks just like Michael Cera (of <span style="font-style:italic;">Juno</span> and <span style="font-style:italic;">Superbad</span> fame), <span style="font-style:italic;">Adventureland</span> 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 <span style="font-style:italic;">Schindler's List </span>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.<br /><br />It's the same with <span style="font-style:italic;">Adventureland</span>. <br /><br />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 <span style="font-style:italic;">The Breakfast Club</span> and <span style="font-style:italic;">Dazed and Confused</span>, 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).<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Adventureland </span>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?<br /><br />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. <br /><br />Overall, a good movie, if you're looking for a harmless rental and there's nothing good on TV.<br /><br />SNEAK IT. <br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;"><br />Good Grief: The Dear Zachary Review</span><br /><br />I first heard about this documentary when I worked at <span style="font-style:italic;">New York</span> 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. <br /><br />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.<br /><br />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. <br /><br />"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. <br /><br />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. <br /><br />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. <br /><br />"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. <br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Dear Zachary</span> 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. <br /><br />SEE IT/SNEAK IT.Julia Donahuehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00697016551933424908noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2636843568591658451.post-24357042308681367902009-09-16T22:32:00.000-07:002009-09-16T23:15:28.307-07:00From the Reject Pile: Gimme Some Credit<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_BT3qUvfykSw/SrHRm4djLfI/AAAAAAAAACg/tvfiNQ5tYqg/s1600-h/IMG_0042.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_BT3qUvfykSw/SrHRm4djLfI/AAAAAAAAACg/tvfiNQ5tYqg/s200/IMG_0042.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5382313495606013426" border="0" /></a>
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<br />I love Jane Pratt<a href="http://images.google.com/images?q=jane+pratt&oe=utf-8&rls=org.mozilla:en-US:official&client=firefox-a&um=1&ie=UTF-8&ei=adOxSuitCMuttgfdw7ClCA&sa=X&oi=image_result_group&ct=title&resnum=4"></a>. 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, <span style="font-style: italic;">Jane</span>.
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<br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Jane </span>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.
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<br />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 <span style="font-style: italic;">Jane</span>-- I just didn't enjoy it anymore. Shortly thereafter, it folded. It seemed <span style="font-style: italic;">Jane</span> couldn't go on without Jane or Julia.
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<br />While it's not exactly new writing, it's new to you. So, thanks to <span style="font-style: italic;">Jane</span>'s rejection I have a new blog posting. Straight out of the reject pile, for your reading pleasure, is my 2006 submission to <span style="font-style: italic;">Jane</span> 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!
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<br /><meta name="Title" content=""> <meta name="Keywords" content=""> <meta equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=utf-8"> <meta name="ProgId" content="Word.Document"> <meta name="Generator" content="Microsoft Word 2008"> <meta name="Originator" content="Microsoft Word 2008"> <link rel="File-List" href="file://localhost/Users/julia/Library/Caches/TemporaryItems/msoclip/0clip_filelist.xml"> <!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <o:documentproperties> <o:template>Normal.dotm</o:Template> <o:revision>0</o:Revision> <o:totaltime>0</o:TotalTime> <o:pages>1</o:Pages> <o:words>562</o:Words> <o:characters>3206</o:Characters> <o:company>NEW YORK</o:Company> <o:lines>26</o:Lines> <o:paragraphs>6</o:Paragraphs> <o:characterswithspaces>3937</o:CharactersWithSpaces> <o:version>12.0</o:Version> </o:DocumentProperties> <o:officedocumentsettings> <o:allowpng/> </o:OfficeDocumentSettings> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:trackmoves>false</w:TrackMoves> <w:trackformatting/> <w:punctuationkerning/> <w:drawinggridhorizontalspacing>18 pt</w:DrawingGridHorizontalSpacing> <w:drawinggridverticalspacing>18 pt</w:DrawingGridVerticalSpacing> <w:displayhorizontaldrawinggridevery>0</w:DisplayHorizontalDrawingGridEvery> <w:displayverticaldrawinggridevery>0</w:DisplayVerticalDrawingGridEvery> <w:validateagainstschemas/> <w:saveifxmlinvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:ignoremixedcontent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:alwaysshowplaceholdertext>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:compatibility> <w:breakwrappedtables/> <w:dontgrowautofit/> <w:dontautofitconstrainedtables/> <w:dontvertalignintxbx/> </w:Compatibility> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:latentstyles deflockedstate="false" latentstylecount="276"> </w:LatentStyles> </xml><![endif]--> <style> <!-- /* Font Definitions */ @font-face {font-family:Times; panose-1:2 0 5 0 0 0 0 0 0 0; mso-font-charset:0; mso-generic-font-family:auto; mso-font-pitch:variable; mso-font-signature:3 0 0 0 1 0;} /* Style Definitions */ p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal {mso-style-parent:""; margin:0in; margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size:10.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ascii-font-family:Times; mso-fareast-font-family:Times; mso-hansi-font-family:Times; mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman";} @page Section1 {size:8.5in 11.0in; margin:1.0in 1.25in 1.0in 1.25in; mso-header-margin:.5in; mso-footer-margin:.5in; mso-paper-source:0;} div.Section1 {page:Section1;} --> </style> <!--[if gte mso 10]> <style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ascii-font-family:Cambria; mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-fareast; mso-hansi-font-family:Cambria; mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font:minor-bidi;} </style> <![endif]--> <!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal"><b style="">It Happened to Me: I spent $23,000 on Overalls. <o:p></o:p></b></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“Just tell me, Julia-- just tell me how much. Is it $3,000? Is it 10?<span style=""> Oh, y</span>ou’re scaring me.”</p><p class="MsoNormal">
<br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">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.
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<br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Deep breath. Here comes my big secret. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“It’s $23,000 dollars, Dad. I have $23,000 in credit card debt.”
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<br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal">***</p> <p class="MsoNormal">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 <span style="font-style: italic;">was </span>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.</p><p class="MsoNormal">
<br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">As the bills grew, so did my denial. I’d look at a credit card statement and think, “Oh, $3,000 isn’t <i style="">that</i> 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.</p><p class="MsoNormal">
<br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">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.
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<br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">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.</p><p class="MsoNormal">
<br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">While paying off my debt, I learned exactly how much I <i style="">didn’t</i> 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. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">
<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">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.
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<br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">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 <i style="">will</i> feel better. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><i style="">
<br /></i></p><p class="MsoNormal"><i style="">Julia Donahue, 29, grew up in Brooklyn, New York, where she currently lives as a writer on a tight budget.<o:p></o:p></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <!--EndFragment-->
<br />Julia Donahuehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00697016551933424908noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2636843568591658451.post-24906042424243720642009-09-14T18:51:00.000-07:002009-09-14T20:49:06.874-07:00Running to Stand Still<div style="text-align: right;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_BT3qUvfykSw/Sq76BjpgixI/AAAAAAAAACQ/Vd9dDnQ_W_o/s1600-h/IMG_0567.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_BT3qUvfykSw/Sq76BjpgixI/AAAAAAAAACQ/Vd9dDnQ_W_o/s200/IMG_0567.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5381513509410474770" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-size:78%;"><br />Like Billy said, put bread in my jar. Please.<br /><br /><br /></span></div>It seems that I may have underestimated the significance of being unemployed.<br /><br />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 <span style="font-style: italic;">It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia </span>titled<a href="http://www.imdb.com/video/screenplay/vi4159767321/"> "Dennis and Dee Go on Welfare" </a>that I realized something very important.(I told you I learn most of my most important lessons from TV <a href="http://funemployedblog.blogspot.com/2009/08/as-seen-on-tv.html">here</a>.) What I learned was that, simply put, I am screwed.<br /><br />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 <span style="font-style: italic;">was.</span> I'd use that money to live while I went back to school for-- oh, who knows what! The <span style="font-style: italic;">world</span> was my <span style="font-style: italic;">oyster.</span> 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 <span style="font-style: italic;">Crime Story</span>. Really, who gets such a great opportunity? To figure out their future and make a fresh start at 33?<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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 <span style="font-style: italic;">Oprah</span>. 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 <span style="font-style: italic;">New York magazine</span> foots the bill for the rest. Haters can hate, but Barack did alright by me the day he did that.<br /><br />It seems that unless starting fresh requires $0, I am in some deep doo-doo.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />And I am <span style="font-style: italic;">exhausted</span>. 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 <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7TsRdkrxl4g">hustle.</a> I not only underestimated what it meant to be unemployed, it seems I've also underestimated what it means to be old.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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 <span style="font-style: italic;">me.</span><br /><br />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.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: right;"><span style="font-size:78%;"><span style="font-family:arial;"></span></span><br /></div><br /><br /><a href="http://www.imdb.com/video/screenplay/vi4159767321/">http://www.imdb.com/video/screenplay/vi4159767321/</a>Julia Donahuehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00697016551933424908noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2636843568591658451.post-42633815851938057002009-09-10T22:01:00.000-07:002009-09-11T06:35:19.910-07:00In Memoriam<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_BT3qUvfykSw/SqnobNtr_SI/AAAAAAAAACI/CcNRDc_u_ME/s1600-h/1730293-Brooklyn-Bridge-at-night-with-Manhattan-skyline-behind-0.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_BT3qUvfykSw/SqnobNtr_SI/AAAAAAAAACI/CcNRDc_u_ME/s200/1730293-Brooklyn-Bridge-at-night-with-Manhattan-skyline-behind-0.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5380086784106167586" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(192, 192, 192);">Mutantur omnia nos et mutamur in illis.</span><br /><br />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.<br /><br />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?<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />I think about when we just stood frozen, collectively, as a nation, watching helplessly.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />I think about the months after, when a sudden noise would stop our hearts, and we'd hold our breath, paralyzed with fear.<br /><br />In the days after the attacks, David Letterman said "If you live to be 1,000 years old, will it ever make any sense?"<br /><br />Eight years later, I can honestly say it won't. I still get angry, but my overwhelming feeling is sadness. I still feel so, <span style="font-style: italic;">so</span> sad. I am filled with uncomprehending grief. It will never make sense. But I guess it's not for me to understand.<br /><br />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. <span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-style: italic;">Mutantur omnia nos et mutamur in illis. </span>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.<br /><dl style="text-align: center;"><dd><i>I stretch lame hands of faith, and grope,</i></dd><dd><i>And gather dust and chaff, and call</i></dd><dd><i>To what I feel is Lord of all,</i></dd><dd><i>And faintly trust the larger hope.</i></dd><dt> -In Memoriam A.H.H., by Lord Tennyson</dt></dl><object height="364" width="445"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/RRMz8fKkG2g&hl=en&fs=1&color1=0xcc2550&color2=0xe87a9f&border=1"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/RRMz8fKkG2g&hl=en&fs=1&color1=0xcc2550&color2=0xe87a9f&border=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" height="364" width="445"></embed></object>Julia Donahuehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00697016551933424908noreply@blogger.com1