Life after my layoff

Beauty tips from The Little House on the Prairie

  A few things about my personal aesthetic have changed since my layoff. Before, I blew half my paycheck on cheap, dangly earrings and tubes of lip gloss -- all tiny items I inevitably misplaced by the next pay period. I treated myself to pricey Kiehl's lotions and splurged on pots of "mineral make-up," whatever that is.

Nowadays, I stay away Sephora -- and I REALLY avoid Target (my personal crack pipe) unless I'm out of toilet paper. Most of my shopping is thank to a couple leftover holiday gift cards, Goodwill (which I've discovered can be quite a treasure trove) and my own ingenuity.

Every beauty and fashion rag is imploring women to ransack their closets, medicine cabinets and cupboards to use what they already own. Chances are, we already have a dozen new outfits, facial masks and other goodies lurking in our apartments already.

Take this brown concoction, for example. I know it looks like a stool sample swiped from a crime lab, but it's actually a cellulite-busting body scrub. You know, the kind celebrities use. The recipe couldn't be easier: granulated sugar, leftover coffee grounds and a touch of olive oil (don't worry about using the fancy extra virgin type for this). I heard about this homemade treatmentduring the E Channel's red carpet Oscar coverage (which I swear I had to watch for a freelance assignment).

I'm wondering if anyone else has cut corners in their beauty routine. Are you waiting longer to replace your razor cartridges? Slathering expired mayonnaise on your hair as an impromptu conditioner? Please share.

Wallowing in sickish misery

Readers, I apologize for my absence. I’ve been incredibly sick, thanks to a hacking cough coupled with a clogged nose and night sweats. I figure I somehow caught this cold from my old newsroom, because my boyfriend (who still works for the Florida Times-Union) had it, too. Trouble is, he’s all better. He had a mild nose tickle and a teensy tiny cough for a measly couple of days. I’ve wanted to smother myself with a pillow for nearly two weeks.

 

Typically, I don’t go to the doctor for a cold. I buy some Vitamin C tablets, guzzle some orange juice and stock up on tissues – and then I wait it out. But most colds aren’t like this one. No amount of nasal decongestants or cough suppressants seem to work. I’ve taken Dayquil capsules, Nyquil serum, Contac and a cornucopia of tablets and pills from the convenience store. NOTHING IS WORKING.

 

Today, I woke up feeling even worse, and I made a terrible conclusion: I need to see a doctor. But since my layoff, I don’t have any insurance. I’ve heard countless horror stories from my friends about doctors refusing uninsured patients – even if they could afford to pay for appointments upfront. So I’m starting to look into my uber-inexpensive healthcare options. I pulled out the Yellow pages and started looking for free clinics. And since I’m pretty sure I don’t have the common cold, I also turned to WebMD for some free self-diagnosis. (Funny story about WebMD: I once used it to diagnose a nagging stomach cramp, and it told me I had pancreatic cancer. So use it with caution, and don’t freak out when you see the C word.)

 

A former co-worker sent me an e-mail detailing some of my healthcare options.

 

“I really think you should do Cobra or the Cover Florida insurance or even something else in the ‘cheap catastrophic coverage’ realm,” she wrote. “If only to have protection from those God-forbid kind of things like broken legs or something like that. The last thing you want is to have 20 grand in medical debt from a broken ankle.”

 

Way to freak me out! But I know she’s right. At first, I balked at Cobra’s staggering cost. (It’s nearly triple what I previously paid when I worked at the Times-Union.) So far, I haven’t had to borrow money from my parents (or stop eating solid food) to pay my bills. But I’m worried that once I sign up for insurance, I’ll have to make some truly tough decisions. I know I’m not the only unemployed sickling out there. Does anyone else have some advice?

A "Black Wednesday" for the media industry

 It's been on a dark day for the media industry. Conde Nast shut down Domino, an interior design magazine aimed at an extinct affluent demographic. The Denver Post "improperly" borrowed $13 million to pay its newsroom payroll. And Starbucks announced it will close 300 stores, a move that is sure to leavecaffeine-addicted journalists writhing in withdrawl. But there's some good news. It looks like the my former employer, Florida Times-Union, IS hiring after all.

Morris Communications, the company that owns the Times-Union, just announced that it has retained two financial and legal firms. One, Lazard Freres & Co., specializes in mergers, acquisitions and corporate restructuring. The other, Neal, Gerber & Eisenberg, practices bankruptcy law.

The announcement was tucked away in a business sidebar today, but that hasn't halted all the chatter about what the announcement could mean. With all the bad news plaguing the media industry, every journalist is prepared for the worst. (Just check out Romenesko and The Media Is Dying for all the depressing news you can handle.)

Like anyone else, I am afraid of what all these announcements mean. I wonder if the legal and financial advisers can whip up a creative plan to keep the business afloat. I wonder if an entire industry can adopt a new business model to maximize profits from the Web.

Because even amidst this economic hurricane, I still want to work in journalism when it's all over. I just hope there will still be newspapers waiting to welcome me back.

Oh, and a final note: Now that Starbucks is sipping the bitter brew of recession, could they please lower their prices?

Fellow bloggers, we owe everything to zines

The first blog I ever read was about a woman who was obsessed with rabbits.

 

Bunnigrrrl wrote about her floppy-eared companions, Tigger, Sylvia and Milkshake, as if they were her litter box-trained children. Like kids, the bunnies warred for territory, cuddled together when frightened and destroyed a variety of home furnishings, including the dining room table and computer wires.

Then one day, Bunnigrrrl wrote that she was pregnant. With TWINS. That was more than 7 years ago, and I’ve watched her daughters grow and her cadre of bunnies multiply. Once in a while, we exchanged e-mails or blog comments. Sometimes, I even caught myself calling Bunnigrrrl “my friend” when I mention her stories in conversation.

But I didn’t discover Bunnigrrl’s charming blog with a Google search. It all started with a stack of Xeroxed paper.

 

Before there were blogs, there were zines: homemade magazines written, illustrated and distributed by anyone with something to say – and a stack of stamps to lick. Back in the 90s, you could find these grainy gems in grungy comic book stores, record shops and online boutiques dubbed “zine distros.”

Like blogs, zines offered a buffet of topics: navel gazing-missives, product reviews, party punch recipes. Nowadays, adequate blogs include embedded mp3s and YouTube clips. But the best zines included “soundtracks” on CDs and even vinyl records.

I adored zines so much, I wrote a Lifestyle centerpiece about them for the Miami Herald at age 15. My bookshelves are still stuffed with every zine I’ve ever.

 

Including my own. Den of Slack was my short-lived zine experiment, a swan song right before the zine world collapsed and folded into the still-nascent blogging community.

In my two issues, I wrote:

Book reviews: Ever loquacious, I called The Joy Luck Club “a great story” and dubbed Nora Ehpron a “downright bitchy novelist.”

Personal essays

: One gem is about my high school punk band called Def Chyrries (pronounced Deaf Cherries). I even created a band logo with an MS Paint program. It featured two cherries wearing earmuffs, a martini glass and the slogan, “We’re relaxing to listen to.”

 

Fashion advice: In this special section, I penned a how-to article about constructing a prom dress out of Saran Wrap. (Just keep wrapping until the stuff isn’t see-through anymore.)

Zines were the perfect blend of voyeurism and citizen journalism, but the movement was hindered with costly production and shipping costs – and the impossible task of finding devoted readers via snail mail.

 

Like the zinesters before them, the best bloggers force themselves to write, even when they can’t think of anything anyone could possibly want to read. Building a devoted fan base is a tricky thing. When the aforementioned Bunnigrrrl stopped mailing her zine, I clamored to find her elsewhere – and I’m glad the Internet’s made it so easy to read her political rants or view her Flickr photos. Every blogger owes a little thanks to the zine community.

 

Sometimes, I even wonder if anyone (other than my mother) reads this thing – and then I get an e-mail or a comment from a stranger.

 

So, let’s take a moment and salute the Xerox machine.

Music to get in the mood

Nowadays, it's not hard for me to get motivated. (Not having a steady paycheck does wonders for your work ethic.) But writing can be an exhausting exercise, just like spinning class or a 10k marathon. I listen to a lot of music when I'm writing -- especially when I'm buckling down to self-edit. Now that I'm trying to finish approximately 17 billion writing projects, a motivational playlist is more important than ever.

Gym bunnies claim they can't work out without their iPod buds squashed firmly in their ears. I can't write for an extended period of time without musical stimuli. Here are my secret weapons for productivity. Leave me your tunes in the comments -- I'll admit, these tunes can get stale after a few hours.

1. Daft Punk, Harder, Better, Faster, Stronger: Perfect for the initial push into a first draft. Doesn't get more energetic than this.

2. .T.I feat. Justin Timberlake, Dead and Gone: Once the adrenaline wears off, this pushes me toward the finish line.

3. Radiohead, Creep: I go for something slow, quiet and non-distracting while editing.

Nothing's ever private on Facebook

I joined Facebook much later than most of my friends, and that was only after months of pestering from my little sister. I didn't have a job. I didn't even have a car. I was just a University of Florida student trying to find that guy who sat next to me in Mrs. Benke’s fifth grade class.

 

I stalked reconnected with high school classmates. I traded worthless, virtual gifts with my friends. I posted photos of my Avril Lavigne and Kill Bill Halloween costumes. Facebook was nothing but a vacuous, delightful time-waster.

 

That was 2004.

 

I swam in a sea of Facebook anonymity for years – until I got my job at the Florida Times-Union more than two years later. My sources, essentially strangers, began pelting me with friends requests. Then I saw a trickle of requests from fellow journos, who were several years late to the party. Then came the onslaught of PR folks.

Now Facebook’s exploded into a monster. Journalists seized the site as a tool to sniff out personal details about subjects. Reporters can easily unearth unsavory wall posts, political allegiances and embarrassing status updates. But Facebook’s omniscience does not discriminate: Anyone with an ounce of Web savvy can retaliate – and ruin a journalist’s credibility.

 

Earlier today, I read a Poynter.org article exploring the ethics of journalists writing biased status updates about Obama’s election. The jubilant sentence fragments exposed the otherwise impartial journalists as left-leaning, or at least Obama supporters. It got me thinking.

 

Journalists are analytical writers who research, interview and explore for a living. It’s only natural that they are opinionated, just like everyone else. I’ve heard plenty of reporters and editors share their political leanings freely – within the newsroom walls.

 

My professors at UF didn't foresee how important social networking would become to the profession, so we had no warning that our Facebook profiles would become subject to scrutiny.

 

I've never posted anything too inappropriate. Even my college photos are fairly tame, so I never worried about it. But nowadays, I'm analyzing my entire Facebook profile, including the "archives" from several years ago. My profile is set to private, I've blocked half the people who ask to friend me, and I've set up detailed restrictions on photo albums.

 

But I get it. Facebook isn't private. My "friends" are the only ones who can see my profile’s contents, but that doesn't mean they can't save them to their computer and e-mail them to other people. Somehow, I'll have to find the time to sift through years and years of status updates, photos and wall posts to delete what's deemed "inappropriate." Now what’s the vacuous time-waster?

 

When Facebook came out, it was reserved for college students only, and a selfish (and unrealistic) part of me wishes they had just kept that business model.

 

After my layoff, I wondered if I could finally proclaim my political leanings online. I can’t. After writing a politically charged status update last November, I received an e-mail from a former co-worker, asking if I was crazy. I deleted the update, but felt depressed all the same.

 

There is no safe sanctuary.

It's always sunrise somewhere, even after a layoff

I’ve been thinking a lot about the sun lately. For one, it’s been pretty chilly lately, and the sun’s not picking up the slack. For the past week, my bedtime accessories have included a turtleneck, bootie slippers, five blankets and a heating pad.

 

Today’s so frigid, I’m wearing leggings tucked into legwarmers tucked into knee-high boots.

 

It is currently 66 degrees.

New Yorkers, refrain from writing me expletive-riddled hate mail about your city’s -20 degree wind chill. Hear me out.

 

Despite the sun’s laziness, I’ve also been pondering its metaphorical meaning. Sunrise and sunset: a day’s decay melting gently into darkness before a new glow. Wordsmiths have likened a sunrise to the chasm between confusion and lucidity. Poets imagined it as a miraculous respite after an eternity of darkness. Roosters just consider it an alarm clock.

 

I’ll admit that dawn is a rather obvious metaphor for renewal (well, except for that rooster thing). But since my layoff, I’ve searched for organic occurrences that echo my ascension as an energetic intern and the economy’s plunge behind the horizon.

 

So today, I woke up at 6:30 a.m. to watch the sunrise with a handful of other Jacksonville bloggers. The Southbank Sunrise event is just two weeks old, but I recommend the experience to any Jacksonville-area resident. The sun shimmered like an egg yolk, blanketing downtown in rose-gold. I’ve gotten up before dawn plenty of times in this town, but I’d never seen Jacksonville like this.

Sadness comes and goes like a storm, but eventually, light spills over the horizon.

And just so I don’t end this entry in too corny a fashion, here’s a video of former Pres. Bill Clinton recently admiring President George W. Bush’s carpet in the Oval Office. What was emblazoned on this magestic rug?

 

The sun, of course. (Click the link for a good look.)

 

Childhood "dream" jobs can become nightmares

After a layoff, it’s natural to second-guess yourself to death: “Was my job a total waste of time? Was I even in the right profession?”

 

I wish these hazy times were melting away into a shiny future filled with plentiful jobs, flush 401k plans and dolphins serving ice cream in gold-plated waffle cones.

 

But they’re not.

 

My friends span all industries (from newspapers to Starbucks). They're all bracing for the next round of company layoffs – tentatively scheduled for when you least expect it, like when the mortgage is due.

 

During times of uncertainty, journalists seek solace, wondering if there’s a job out there that will financially reward their scoop-sniffing abilities. Is there an industry that appreciates a deftly constructed allegory tucked in a statistics-riddled paragraph?

 

We start cataloging all the things we THOUGHT we’d be doing by the age of 25. We dreamed we’d be helping the world while frolicking with our friends – not dreading a pile of bills.

 

Our childhood selves would be so ashamed right now.

 

It’s been two months since my layoff, but I know I picked the right profession. That’s because my childhood career dreams would have been far more disastrous than my short bout with journalism. Let’s take a look.

 

Police officer

I decided to be a cop in preschool, back when I mistakenly thought THEY were the ones who fished stray kittens out of trees. My reasoning was simple: Cops drive cool cars. They have shiny badges and lapel pins. And since I was a fast runner, I fancied the idea of chasing the bad guys – like a fast-paced game of tag, complete with pet German shepherds. Moreover, I just wanted to HELP PEOPLE.

 

When I unfolded my noble career plan at the dinner table, my mom was horrified. “That’s too dangerous, sweetie,” she said, spooning me an extra helping of mashed potatoes. I was miffed she didn’t think I was tough enough to battle the baddies.

 

I get it now. She was worried about the imminent danger – to myself. Since I abandoned my police plan nearly 20 years ago, I’ve killed two hamsters, destroyed seven cell phones and crashed one golf cart. Clearly, I should not own a gun.

 

Veterinarian

I’ve always loved animals, from the humble puppy to the majestic hedgehog. Like a bug-loving Mother Theresa, I never scorched insects with a magnifying glass. "And vets make a LOT of money," my mom pointed out.

But as I just mentioned, two hamsters have met their demise under my supervision. Let me explain.

 

One hamster leaped from my hands at the pet store. He landed on his head and was pronounced dead at the scene. Obviously, the hamster was suicidal. There was nothing I could do.

 

Then there was the other hamster. I was babysitting two little children who owned a litter of 10 baby hamsters. Each was an adorable ball of caramel-colored fuzz with glossy, pinprick eyes.  Delighted, I plucked one of the babies from the hamster wheel. Cooing ensued.

 

“Can I hold him?” asked one of my babysitting charges. I hesitated, wondering if the girl’s chubby hands could adequately cradle such preciousness. I demurred and handed over the tiny hamster to the girl.

 

She promptly dropped him.

 

The next five seconds are a blood-spattered blur. The hamster, now scurrying across the tile floor, caught the attention of the family cat. Fleeing for his newborn life, the baby hamster scurried underneath an enormous entertainment center. Desperate to save the brave newborn’s life, I began moving the entertainment system – slowly, because the TV was heavy.

 

Crunch. Chagrined, I peeked under the shelving unit. I had pinned the hamster against the wall.

 

I pulled out the lifeless hamster corpse and placed it on a dinner plate to put it in the fridge - far away from the hungry cat. Screaming ensued.

 

Princess

This is the de facto career choice for many young women – even at my age. A princess’ life seems glamorous yet deliciously lazy.

 

If she isn’t posing for a postage stamp portrait, she’s shopping for fluffy ball gowns or riding a unicorn around the castle grounds.

 

After all, a princess has no real political power and will likely never have to make a decision of any national importance. Bring on the cricket matches and polo games.

 

But nowadays, being a princess seems like an awful lot of work, considering you’ll never be the rightful heir to the crown jewels. A princess has only three birthrights: She shall have a jealous mother-in-law, a hidden food-related disorder and a potentially racist spouse.

 

Oh, and photographers will also follow her into the gym.

 

Call me crazy, but I’ll take unemployment.

Attention Jacksonville-area readers

Just a quick note to let everyone know that I am hard at work writing the next blog post, as well as freelance work for WSJ.com, The Florida Times-Union and Folio Weekly -- among others.

But if you're in the Jacksonville area, do pick up this week's issue of Folio. The cover story, "Axed," features a handful of first-person stories about what it's like to be out of work "in the worst economy in decades." My story, which first appeared as a blog entry here, is on page 24. 

Every journalist wants to write a movie. Here's why.

Every journalist has three not-so-secret desires.

 

1. 1. To quit their low-paying, ruthless jobs and write The Great American Novel. The novel will be hand-written with a ballpoint pen in a non-Starbucks, fair trade coffee-serving establishment. (Revenge Fantasy 1: Journalists' former editors will wish they’d appreciated that lyrical writing more.)

2. 2. To marry a rich celebrity à la Sharon Stone and Phil Bronstein, the editor of the San Francisco Chronicle. Yes, a successful actor’s salary is worth an imminent divorce and Komodo dragon attack. (Revenge Fantasy 2: Former editors will be so jealous of all that TMZ.com coverage.)

3. 3. To move to Hollywood and write an Oscar-winning screenplay loosely based on a crime story their colleagues once covered. Think There Will Be Blood crossed with American Beauty – only more pretentious. (Revenge Fantasy 3: Former editors will beg to be your next coffee-fetching assistant. You will reject their applications.)

The third option has always been my personal favorite. I’ve concocted dozens of movies with my journalism colleagues, vowing to split the riches once we’ve sold the script. Even though we’re all talented journalists, I’ve come to realize we aren’t great at writing compelling films.

 

Konrad Marshall, an entertainment writer for the Indianapolis Star, once e-mailed me his concept for a horror movie. In the synopsis, a mysterious metal box “creatively” kills people. The box can read people’s minds, discovering its victims’ darkest secrets. Then, the box slowly crushes people to death after a few hours of psychic, mind-reading torture.

 

This may be the worst horror movie premise I’ve ever heard. Like, ever. (This is particularly disappointing because Konrad and I have long said we would become writing/producing partners. Now I just think he’s just trying to steal all my movie ideas – ones that don’t include a mind-reading BOX.)

 

Adam Aasen, the higher education reporter at the Florida Times-Union, also crafted several concepts. Adam wrote his scripts to appeal to big budget, blockbuster companies. He’s going after the youth demographic, writing films that require every elementary school-aged kid – and his/her parent or guardian – to come to the theater.

 

He’s penned The Brave Little iPod, a potential project for Pixar. Then there’s his live action version of Tom and Jerry – using a real cat and mouse. Adam’s already picked the cast for his next imaginary film. (Billy Bob Thorton, Nick Nolte and Gary Busey get drunk, crash cars, cause chaos and are sentenced to community service at an inner-city youth center.)

 

Then there’s my dream movie project: Zombie Jail. In my movie, a young, brunette, very Diana-like woman is arrested for something not too reprehensible – like stealing checks to pay for her Little Sister's groceries.

 

While in the county lock-up, the heroine (played by Rosario Dawson or similar), notices the corrections officers are even crueler than usual. They’re also drooling and bumping into walls. Slowly (within 30 minutes), our heroine realizes that her fellow inmates are also rejecting the jail food, talking in monotone and drinking water out of the toilet.

 

Then someone violently dies in the communal shower. (I’ve already got a Psycho homage planned.)

 

“They’re all ZOMBIES,” Rosario Dawson realizes in a mind-bending montage. (Of course, it's all a metaphor about materialism destroying the fabric of American society.)

 

Zombie Jail culminates in en epic showdown in which pepper spray, night sticks and lunch trays are used as weapons. Our heroine battles her own personal check-stealing demons while killing LITERAL demons.

 

I love this fake movie so much, it’s listed as my favorite film on my Facebook profile. But despite my affection for Zombie Jail, I realize it’s not the next American Beauty. It’s not even the next Pauly Shore vehicle. My beloved zombie movie is just another journalists’ dream of a big paycheck (and the chance to meet Rosario Dawson).

I still dream of ending up in Hollywood. But maybe the fastest way there is to marry Sharon Stone.