Train to Nowheresville

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?"

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.

And then, with one mighty whiff, my disillusion was shattered.

THESE people have jobs, and I don't?

Wait. I know that sounded judgmental.

THESE PEOPLE have jobs, and I don't??

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.*

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?

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.

And at least I don't have to ride the N train if I don't want to now. I can just nap instead.

*These 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.

Not that there's anything wrong with that.

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.

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.

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.

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 here and you could win an H&M shopping spree AND get featured in Lucky magazine. Got an opinion? Go vote.

Yes, yes. You're welcome. Now, be a dear and pass me a smoke.

Oh. You Again.

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:

“How are you so busy? You’re unemployed.”

And:

“What ever happened to that blog of yours?”

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?

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.

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.

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?

The Choice is Yours.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dress for Success.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hope Springs Eternal

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Way We Were

I’m a little cost sensitive these days.

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

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

Par for the course when you have no job.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So I am coming clean.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Honestly.

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




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

Sneaky Cinema Double Feature: Adventureland & Dear Zachary

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

It's the same with Adventureland.

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

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

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

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

SNEAK IT.


Good Grief: The Dear Zachary Review

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

SEE IT/SNEAK IT.

From the Reject Pile: Gimme Some Credit

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Deep breath. Here comes my big secret.

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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