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The Unemployment Diaries, Los Angeles, Part II: The Crushing Despair Kicks In

It’s now day 70 of your adventure.  You just missed another 3-day weekend because you don’t see the point in celebrating another day off from a job you do not have.  Plus, traffic.

Last week, on your way home from hiking, you saw a gas station advertising fuel for $1.45 a gallon and almost did a U-turn in the middle of the street to save a few dollars. Then you noticed that the 76 on Hollywood Boulevard was roped off for filming.  Probably a period piece set in the mid-90’s.  Oh the ‘90s! If only you weren’t stuck in school the whole time, not learning how to build a business model for a crap dot com that you could have sold before the bottom dropped out!  People would have been really interested in watching streaming videos of dogs playing on the beach, right?!  Kittens?

You’ve had a number of phone interviews, one in-person nightmare and one “audition.”  You learn that the one position that you would have consider relocating for was filled internally and are secretly relieved because their content sucked and who would want to work near the beach… especially in the summer.

The Diarist

You get a rejection email from your former place of employment after you sucked up your pride and actually applied for the recipe / coupons producer position.  Apparently, despite the fact that you know their content management system, there were more qualified applicants in the pool.  You scream “Fuck you” loud enough at your computer to reach North Hollywood.  Classy hand gestures are also made in their general direction, though you’re pretty sure the mountains are blocking *that* rage.

Nothing serious or honestly hopeful has taken place in these 70 days, minus the daily spam offering you an exciting opportunity to sell insurance and/or work in the field of hi-tech.  Opportunity. Hi-tech. Insurance. Do these concepts even exist anymore? Can you really make money with a company that deals exclusively in overused corporate jargon and catchphrases? And if so, what steps do you need to take to copyright your brand of depression, self-doubt and crushing despair?  The concept of making videos of puppies playing on the beach sounds more profitable. Too bad venture capitalists are as easy to find as a unicorn.

Your dad tells you to consider the ever-expanding world of home appliance repair and suggests you carry a gun for protection.  You’re honestly not sure if he’s making a joke.

You peruse Craigslist for under-the-table gigs that would help you make ends meet, only to learn that Carson Daly is no longer paying his audience members and your eggs would be worth up to $15,000 – if you were under 30. And Jewish.  Apparently the eggs of a naturally blonde writer with an exceptionally high IQ are worthless. (Unless they’re not… interested parties should email me at info@lizzwestman.com.) You’d look into the UCLA study on depression and/or weight loss, but worked in the news long enough to know better than to take experimental pills.

Your lawyer friend suggests that with your recent upgrade to “Shark” on Facebook’s Texas Hold ‘Em poker game, you should try the real tables.  Somehow the fact that you cannot afford to lose 50 cents – let alone $50 – has escaped him.  You’re also awesome at Lil’ Green Patch, but no one has suggested that you become a landscape architect.

You talk to your building manager about ways to lower your rent. He suggests talking to the owner, who laughs at your suggestion of $1200.  He counters with $1295 and a year-long lease.  If you signed, you’d save $15 a month.

Just for fun, you look at real estate in other cities.  Portland has a bevy of 1-bedrooms for less than $1,000. If you lived there you could sell your car and bike everywhere.  Meet literate boys that spend less time on hair than you and enjoy hiking for nature, not networking.  Drink microbrews at microbreweries.  Kayak.  Make rent AND car payments AND cable AND phone. Plus, you’ve been told you’d rank as a “9” there.  (No model-slash-actress-slash-personal trainers-slash-hookers to bring you down.) Oh, but they have one of the highest unemployment rates in the country.  And, if you were going to run, you should have done it straight away – not when you’re dwindling on your last dime.

You go back to the drawing board and pour yet another glass of wine.

–Lizz Westman

First GUM Article

The Unemployment Diaries: Los Angeles

Lizz Westman, Unemployment Diarist

It’s been 31 days, which is officially a month. You have officially been out of work for a month.

Yesterday, on Day 30, you had a half-assed day dream in which Morgan Spurlock showed up with video cameras and revealed that the lay-off had all been a reality experiment for F/X – put the stressed out writer/producer/editor/whatever out of work and see how she reacts… But you know what she does. She naps.  Then she hyperventilates. Then she sends out resumes and is joined by her friend, a bottle of sauvignon blanc.  Early in the morning you can see her hiking through Griffith Park with her dog. (Those are the days you manage to get out of bed before noon, mostly because you were up until 3 a.m. wondering just how long you can live on a cashed-out 401K and HOLY SHIT YOU FORGOT TO CANCEL HBO.)

You make up for lost time and pretend you’re on vacation.  Hell, you didn’t get one during the good times, so why not now?  You exercise every day and return phone calls and actually make a dinner instead of calling it in for takeout. You start knitting that patchwork blanket for your brother. You spend hours researching LOST theories in your pajamas. You make plans to go on day trips to get out of the city. But the panic looms just around the corner.

You meet with old friends for the first time since January, and everyone tells you how great you look, rested and tan.  Apparently this faux life of leisure looks good on you.  Your former coworkers feign envy at your newfound “freedom,” though you can tell from their manic giggles that they’re worried they may be next. Everyone offers a sympathetic ear or tells a tale of another talented, overworked writer/producer/editor/whatever going through the same thing.  “Great,” you think to yourself, “another fucking person who will be applying to that gig in Santa Monica.”  Of course, you don’t actually want to live in Santa Monica.  You don’t even want to go to brunch there.  You’re not even sure you want the position, but you definitely want the offer.

You start working on that script or novel or short story you’ve been putting off, only to realize you’re  really burned out after four years of writing pap.  Every word you put on the page looks pretentious and stiff. It becomes painful, like relearning how to ride a bike… no, like relearning how to do a sit up or an excruciating yoga pose.  It’s slow, it’s tedious, it’s not working.  Adaptation makes sense again.  Hmm, maybe you should go out for a muffin and coffee.

You cancel your weekend plans because you’re too terrified to use your savings for fun.  You consider taking up Internet dating if only for the free food.

You kick yourself for not applying to graduate school last fall.  You kick yourself for taking a new, “better” job with normal hours and the chance to watch sitcoms weeks before the air date.  You kick yourself for not joining the union or the guild when you had the cash to spare.  You start to worry your teeth will fall out as you have no dental insurance.  No really, you do. You consider buying a helmet and wrist protectors for when you go hiking in the mountains as both seem cheaper than health insurance. Why the hell don’t you have health insurance?!

You calm down a bit and continue sending out resumes. You expand the search to the Bay Area, then Portland, then Seattle.  Three more cities get you one, maybe two jobs to apply to, but you’ve seen those listings before. They were there when you were working 55 hours a week and fantasizing about leaving the city for someplace simpler, more bike-friendly and with more microbreweries per capita.  Then you remember the last time you committed career suicide, when you left New York.  You reconsider that job uploading coupons to a recipe site.  You reconsider applying to Mattel, even if the commute is three hours.

The looming panic overwhelms you, forcing you to collapse on your bed.  You check email from your laptop. You watch Auntie Mame on Netflix. You talk to your unemployed designer friend who reminds you that everyone’s fucked. You drive past a sign offering $3 haircuts. You take a deep breath, head to the kitchen and pour yourself a glass of wine.

–Lizz Westman