Day 4 of Employment

So… I got a job.

After about 6 weeks of doing the bare minimum to stay alive (including netflix and cold brew) I’ve transitioned back into reality. Because I was so proud of myself for surviving my first day of employment, after work on my first day I bought myself an $80 candle and a $14 LIFE magazine issue about the secret life of spies (which has been thrilling thus far.)

And so it begins.

Today is my forth day on the job, Friday the 13th. I know literally nothing. None of the google docs I have opened make sense to me. My manager flew in from Austin to New York to train me for my first week and I’m a little terrified of disappointing him. But to be fair, he was well aware of the job I was doing previous to this and how it has very little correlation to my new job.

So we wait.

But since it is now 10 to four on Friday afternoon, I think I’m safe. The last few days have been be a whirlwind of note taking and brain explosions. I’m excited to know more about the company and my position but I’m still terrified of fucking up…

However, In an hour and 10 minutes it will not matter because I will have survived my first week at my new job!

Oh the excitement of being an adult.

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Day 6 of Unemployment

My mom keeps telling me to use this time to plan my wedding. So now I’m trying to actually care about it. Hopefully visiting venues and seeing what each has to offer will help me give a shit about the wedding. All I care about is the being married part. I’m excited to wake up next to him every morning, to get home at night and him be there. It’s the part that involves a priest is what I don’t care much for… wish me luck.

Day 2 of Unemployment

Today is the Friday before Labor Day weekend. I won’t lie, things could be worse.

Every year, at the end of summer, my grandparents make tomato sauce in their backyard. The entire block smells of boiling tomatoes and hard work. In their old age, they’ve moved into the summer home they’ve owned since 1978; a newly renovated beauty in a beach town that has the second highest concentration of Irish-Americans in the US, called Breezy Point, NY. They’ve always been the “odd man out” here, not truly understanding the Irish customs or traditions that their neighbors celebrate and vice versa. But, after emigrating to Brooklyn from a small southern Italian town in the ’60s, they’ve learned to keep their heads down and cause no problems.

Anyway, today was the day for sauce. I was the lucky one chosen to pick up the tomatoes this morning at 7:30 and make the traffic-filled trek out to Breezy Point with a pickup bed full of tomato bushels and a Nesquik in hand.

After MANY hours of work, we have finally added the finished jars to the heat to seal and preserve them. Today was full of annoying issues and difficult situations, but finally, all 20+ bushels are done and we can celebrate. As all 16 of us sit around the table for the first taste of our newly made sauce, it’s great to remember that I wouldn’t have been able to help today if I had a job, I wouldn’t have been able to carry on the tradition.

I guess we can consider that the silver lining.

Day 1 of Unemployment

Last night, at about 5:50pm in New York, I was asked to meet my managing director in a conference room to discuss a media plan I had been working on. I was already not thrilled to be at work, I knew today would be a “late day” and that I wouldn’t get home before 9pm. There was still much to be done and multiple media plans due the next day.

Instead, I was told not to worry about the plan. The company, as a whole, wasn’t doing well and no advertising money was coming in at the moment. As a Planner for the Sales Team I was well aware of their lack of incoming dollars, but stupidly assumed my job was safe; they needed both sales planners in order to handle the amount of proposals that were being created and distributed in order to combat this.

Apparently I was wrong.

Therefore, at 6:03pm last night, I gathered my snacks from out of my desk drawer, took my office sweater, and left without a word to anyone, never to return.

I can’t say I’m angry about how this went down. It was an unfortunate turn of events, especially because I have been discussing a new job with another company that won’t come to fruition until at least the end of September. But still, it’s a disappointing feeling knowing that you failed at something that takes up the majority of your time.

Slowly my team is sharing the news with the rest of the company. Last night as I was getting of the train I got my first “I’m sorry” text. I imagine it will be similar to when a family member dies, people will be awkward and tiptoe around the subject, afraid to be too direct and risk too much emotion at once.

But in reality, what am I to do?

Today is the Thursday before Labor Day weekend. If I would’ve known this would happen, I would have planned a trip. But that’s silly to say, since, if I would’ve known this would happen, things could have happened very differently.

So here I sit, with a shitty protein shake that I made this morning for breakfast, slowly trying to figure out what I want to do and where I want to go from here. Maybe a little traveling would be nice. All I know is that I have all the time in the world to write, so there goes that excuse.

I haven’t written in months, yet WordPress is still on my first page of used apps…

I can’t tell you the last time I felt something enough to actually write. My creativity has been draining from my head as if someone had started to siphon it out, only to be replaced with warm air and dirty thoughts. Writing used to be my outlet, my hiding place in the real world, my lover. Now it feels forced. Like I’ve been left behind in a cold, cruel world full of sneering glances and smug looks. I need to write again. But more importantly, I need to feel again. Self medicating is never the answer but I can’t even tell you how I did that. My body’s just shut down so that my brain has no real use. I’m constantly swimming in numbers and spreadsheets; my left brain growing stronger by the day while my right grows weak and useless. It’s not work’s fault; work pays the bills. My job gives me a chance to make it in the world on my own so that I won’t needs a partner to take care of me. But by subconsciously devoting the majority of my time and brain to the math behind the ads, I’ve started to accidentally kill all of the lovely words that used to live there. Words used to flow out of my hands like webs, sticking to things they found a emotional connection with. Now they hide in my brain under percents and behind fractions. Can there be a common ground? How do I find the no man’s land between them to bring them together? Where is the neutral area to eat Christmas dinner on?I’m starting to see writing as if it were a chore, one I try to avoid by focusing on the ceiling fan. I never wanted this. I just wanted to be free. Instead I’ve caged myself in an excel document.