Be Afraid, Be Very Afraid
I should be. Right? I mean, I just used my last paycheck and my unused vacation day pay for rent. I only have $373 to my name. Period. That's it. Nothing more. And I have bills, cats and allergies (not allergies to cats-- that would make stupid). But Claritin D isn't cheap. Feeding my cats isn't cheap. And feeding me isn't either. But for some reason, I'm not scared. I mean, I even went to Whole Foods and made a salad. For $7.34! Maybe it's because I'm relieved. Or have post traumatic stress. Or maybe it's because even if I haven't taken care of myself in some ways-- like buying a house when I had the money in the bank or just saying no to bad guys (I mean he was an ex-convict, it's not like he was masquerading as Prince Charming), I did take care of myself when I walked out of my job.
Alot of people would argue otherwise. I mean, everyone knows you're not supposed to leave a job until you have a job. But when all your energy and time and self esteem are being sucked out of you at your current job, how are you supposed to get a new one? Osmosis? I suppose you could also argue that I should have waited until I had a nest egg. But at my salary, that would be um, never. And that idea of someone to fall back on? Well, technically, with my life plan intact, I would have been married, taking my second child to his play date and meeting with Universal about the movie I wrote or Simon & Schuster about the first draft of my novel. But again, um, no.
My mother wants me to move home. Sure, that would be the practical thing to do-- If you're in your 20s... okay, maybe in my situation, too. And being that I was born into that practical gene, and my mother has stood by me in these times of trouble, I went and met with a company that helps find work for personal assistants. After all, I didn't want her to have to worry. She's had a life filled with worry.
The first woman I met with wanted my entire job history and salary. Seriously. And details. So off I went. Telling all. And the more in depth I went, the more I started to feel nauseous. My salary would go up, my responsibilities would go up and I would get lost in relaying the memories like a high school quarterback who can't move past that winning touchdown and then...Down. Way down. To where I am now. At an all time low. So...
I got embarrassed. And a little nauseous again when she asked how much I wanted to make... as a minimum. I said I was making 40k and couldn't make ends meet. It needed to be at least 50k... with my skills and soul (I left the soul part out) 50k, at least. Although at 60k, I could function closer to my potential.... of 7 years ago. (I know I shouldn't live in the past. And I wasn't. Until that fateful meeting. Okay... well, sometimes!) Luckily, the woman said, "Well, 40k-- that's nothing. You've done that. A few times over." Okay, more nauseous. She wanted references then. Three references to talk about how great of an assistant I was. I wish their offices had been higher up, because I wanted to jump out the window. But with my luck, only injuries-- and I no longer have health insurance. So I hemmed and hawed and said that I would have to contact them first and let the references know I'd be having people call them. And then I thought, about actually calling the Executive Producer who gave me my first writing job and asking for a reference for an assistant job. And of calling my first boss who phoned me after I sent him my screenplay and how excited I was when he exclaimed, "she can write!". And then of calling my boss in this last job... and I knew I was in the wrong place at the wrong time.
Still, I smiled as the woman walked me over to her boss who took one look at my resume and said-- "Well, we don't get many jobs for people like you." I didn't know what that meant. "What's your ideal day?" she asked. I told her it required thinking. I would like to work for a creative person where I can contribute in some way intellectually to the process. "You want to use your brain?" she asked. "That's the idea," I said, "Although I am perfectly capable of doing all the mindless things they need, too." "What did you want to do when you were in college?" she asked. "Be a lawyer," I said. "Well, you're obviously smart," she said, "You should have gone to law school." But I didn't want to be a lawyer. "I hope we can help you," she said. "But I doubt it."
On that up note, I thanked her anyway. Thanked everybody. Got in my car. And I cried. What the hell was I doing there? I knew better than to apply for jobs like that. I've heard it before. Many times before. But there's the $373 part. Sure, I have a friend who has managed to squeak by for years. He always just makes it -- somehow. He'll get a writing assignment or a little green envelope (aka residual check from the WGA for past writing in four figure or five figure increments) from some random thing he wrote for some random company. But he had an agent still. And I didn't. And he was a writer. That's all he's ever been for quite awhile. And he's never told himself any different. He's never told anyone else anything different, either.
It's not that I expect to get paid to write tomorrow. I don't. I've been holding back a little. I have an idea for a company and some of my friends--- my very best friends believe in it and want to invest. And I'm so, so, so very happy. And no one, least of all me, has any doubts that it will succeed. But there's the surviving part in the interim. The fact that my mother called me tonight and made it perfectly clear she was angry at me for quitting my job because now she had to worry about me. And she also made it perfectly clear she was tired of my very bad financial situation (and it's been such a joy for me, I tell you). Because my sister, well she has a husband and someone else to worry about her. All of this, well it killed my happy mood. And I was happy when I got home. Why? Because today, I had two friends, one at Beige -- and another at Boscia (see both links on the side. Boscia is a retail site, so buy, buy, buy! And as for Beige-- go, go go!), offer to help, offer to let me work, to help me get by. And for a moment, I felt like it was okay to stop worrying. Because I've always worried. I've always been afraid. And I'm tired of it.
.
Alot of people would argue otherwise. I mean, everyone knows you're not supposed to leave a job until you have a job. But when all your energy and time and self esteem are being sucked out of you at your current job, how are you supposed to get a new one? Osmosis? I suppose you could also argue that I should have waited until I had a nest egg. But at my salary, that would be um, never. And that idea of someone to fall back on? Well, technically, with my life plan intact, I would have been married, taking my second child to his play date and meeting with Universal about the movie I wrote or Simon & Schuster about the first draft of my novel. But again, um, no.
My mother wants me to move home. Sure, that would be the practical thing to do-- If you're in your 20s... okay, maybe in my situation, too. And being that I was born into that practical gene, and my mother has stood by me in these times of trouble, I went and met with a company that helps find work for personal assistants. After all, I didn't want her to have to worry. She's had a life filled with worry.
The first woman I met with wanted my entire job history and salary. Seriously. And details. So off I went. Telling all. And the more in depth I went, the more I started to feel nauseous. My salary would go up, my responsibilities would go up and I would get lost in relaying the memories like a high school quarterback who can't move past that winning touchdown and then...Down. Way down. To where I am now. At an all time low. So...
I got embarrassed. And a little nauseous again when she asked how much I wanted to make... as a minimum. I said I was making 40k and couldn't make ends meet. It needed to be at least 50k... with my skills and soul (I left the soul part out) 50k, at least. Although at 60k, I could function closer to my potential.... of 7 years ago. (I know I shouldn't live in the past. And I wasn't. Until that fateful meeting. Okay... well, sometimes!) Luckily, the woman said, "Well, 40k-- that's nothing. You've done that. A few times over." Okay, more nauseous. She wanted references then. Three references to talk about how great of an assistant I was. I wish their offices had been higher up, because I wanted to jump out the window. But with my luck, only injuries-- and I no longer have health insurance. So I hemmed and hawed and said that I would have to contact them first and let the references know I'd be having people call them. And then I thought, about actually calling the Executive Producer who gave me my first writing job and asking for a reference for an assistant job. And of calling my first boss who phoned me after I sent him my screenplay and how excited I was when he exclaimed, "she can write!". And then of calling my boss in this last job... and I knew I was in the wrong place at the wrong time.
Still, I smiled as the woman walked me over to her boss who took one look at my resume and said-- "Well, we don't get many jobs for people like you." I didn't know what that meant. "What's your ideal day?" she asked. I told her it required thinking. I would like to work for a creative person where I can contribute in some way intellectually to the process. "You want to use your brain?" she asked. "That's the idea," I said, "Although I am perfectly capable of doing all the mindless things they need, too." "What did you want to do when you were in college?" she asked. "Be a lawyer," I said. "Well, you're obviously smart," she said, "You should have gone to law school." But I didn't want to be a lawyer. "I hope we can help you," she said. "But I doubt it."
On that up note, I thanked her anyway. Thanked everybody. Got in my car. And I cried. What the hell was I doing there? I knew better than to apply for jobs like that. I've heard it before. Many times before. But there's the $373 part. Sure, I have a friend who has managed to squeak by for years. He always just makes it -- somehow. He'll get a writing assignment or a little green envelope (aka residual check from the WGA for past writing in four figure or five figure increments) from some random thing he wrote for some random company. But he had an agent still. And I didn't. And he was a writer. That's all he's ever been for quite awhile. And he's never told himself any different. He's never told anyone else anything different, either.
It's not that I expect to get paid to write tomorrow. I don't. I've been holding back a little. I have an idea for a company and some of my friends--- my very best friends believe in it and want to invest. And I'm so, so, so very happy. And no one, least of all me, has any doubts that it will succeed. But there's the surviving part in the interim. The fact that my mother called me tonight and made it perfectly clear she was angry at me for quitting my job because now she had to worry about me. And she also made it perfectly clear she was tired of my very bad financial situation (and it's been such a joy for me, I tell you). Because my sister, well she has a husband and someone else to worry about her. All of this, well it killed my happy mood. And I was happy when I got home. Why? Because today, I had two friends, one at Beige -- and another at Boscia (see both links on the side. Boscia is a retail site, so buy, buy, buy! And as for Beige-- go, go go!), offer to help, offer to let me work, to help me get by. And for a moment, I felt like it was okay to stop worrying. Because I've always worried. I've always been afraid. And I'm tired of it.
.
posted by jodypwrites | 8:58 PM
3 Comments:
Sure sign of poverty: thinking that feeding cats isn't cheap. But I suppose a $.31 can of food is extravagant if your net worth is less than $400.
So is a $7 salad. Guilt would have made me hurl the food back up if I had blown that much of my reserve on one meal.
Hang in there.
The thought occurs that you could be posting fiction here like Mr. Townshend. If so, I don't feel suckered at all for interacting, if that's what this is, with a fictional character. I read books all the time wanting to advise the people in the story. Maybe that's your niche. You write a story letting the readers shape it as it goes.
We all have a story... and, yes, TRUTH is stranger than fiction.
Anyone can tell that the person writing this blog is writing about a very real life... very real fears and very real pain... and exhibiting a very real courage that makes people jump out into life for no other reason than to try and savor every moment of it. The very same emotions that she invokes in her struggle against adversity remind me of the selfless acts of people who have the very least in life, but somehow always manage to give the most. I think whoever she is, she is a very special person.
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