How to be Unemployed

Going from having a steady paycheck to not having a steady paycheck is, generally, a pretty big blow to one’s self worth. Living comfortably in New York City is no easy feat as it is--this coming from the girl who left a small bedroom with two feet of space around her bed for a smaller bedroom with one foot of space and a window facing a brick wall--and living at all when you don’t have an income is just plain shitty.

I have been in this position exactly twice in my life: first, when I moved to the city and thought I could live off of the $4,000 I saved for as long as it would take me to find my dream job. Moving costs and apartment furnishing and realizing that the price of toothpaste is three times higher here than literally anywhere else led to that $4k lasting me about a month and half.

The second time was this past summer, basically right up until a couple weeks ago.

While I volunteered for being unemployed four years ago when I quit my job and moved to NYC to “live my dream” like some character out of a fucking broadway musical, I hadn’t planned for it this time around. Getting laid off wasn’t a shocker, necessarily, but I wasn’t, shall we say, “psyched.”

I’m happy to report that I’m a hot commodity and recently accepted an offer with a company that I could not be more excited about, but getting to this point was an interesting journey. I definitely don’t wish for anyone to lose their job, but should you find yourself in that position, I have 5 tips on how to be unemployed.

1. Add an F

You’ll be adding a lot of “F”’s to your lexicon (e.g. “Fuck paying rent,” “Fuck that girl and her trip to Portofino,” “Fuck health insurance”). The most important one, however, is Funemployment.

The stressful factors associated with not having a job notwithstanding, I’ve gotta give my old boss a high five for laying me off during the summer. Everything awesome happens in the summertime: Beach trips, weddings, bachelorette parties, tanning in Tompkins Square Park with homeless people, rooftop bar happy hours--it’s ideal. The gym is empty at noon because everyone else is at work and I can book cheaper flights for off-peak days because I have nowhere to be on Monday morning. Make Funemployment your bitch.

2. Appease the people

When people find out you don’t have a job, they expect two things:

1. You should be working feverishly to find one at all times of day or else you’re just a lazy asshole without professional drive
2. You should be getting tan constantly

So I have. I’ve gotten so fucking tan. You know when it’s hard to get tan? When you’re inside an office all day. It’s much easier when you’re a waste of space with no schedule who can “take a break” and go lay outside for two hours.

People really want you to get a new job, but they want you to take advantage of being worthless even more. Give the people what they want. Get tan.

3. Wear haus couture

I will not advise you to “invest” in a house dress/outfit, because you really shouldn’t be spending money right now. However, when you’re not out at coffee shops fixing your resume and applying to 69+ jobs a day between LinkedIn and AngelList, you should be home, not wearing real clothes.

My house outfits rotated between 16-year-old Soffe shorts and a ratty t-shirt, a black bathing suit cover up sans bathing suit underneath, and a plaid sleeveless dress for the days I was feeling fancy. Bras were entirely out of the question, as was makeup (I did shower every day, because I’m not a heathen). Ultimately, the name of the game should be comfort, wearing something non-binding that feels nothing like dress pants...or pants, in general.

4. Eat it all

Lunch in an office is just another way to measure your excellence against your peers’. I’ve had several co-workers over the years who enjoyed commenting on my homemade lunches, I guess thinking that my grilled chicken and roasted sweet potatoes somehow paled in comparison to their Baconator. Who knew that being healthy and actively avoiding a fupa was a sign of inferiority?

Meal prep completely goes out the window when you’re eating at home alone. You can also eat whatever the fuck you want without criticism.

Scrambled eggs and meatballs? Sounds delicious.  

An entire brick of cheddar with an entire sleeve of Ritz crackers? Legendary.

Raw cookie dough? Why not?

There are several negative aspects of being unemployed. Eating as healthy (or unhealthy) as your heart desires without Max in Accounting remarking, “That’s an interesting choice,” is not one of them.

5. Ruin yourself

I thrive off of routine. I am Skylar of the House Korby, the First of Her Name, Queen of the Anxious, Khaleesi of the Great Skin Regimen, Protector of the Highlights, Lady Stringent of the Seven Mini Meals a Day, Breaker of Fasts and Mother of Absolutely No One Thank God.

Since I was no longer waking up at 6:45-7, getting ready to be out the door by 8:00, answering emails and writing blog posts until lunch at 12:30, taking a 30-minute after-lunch walk, eating a snack at 3:30, eating another snack at 4:30, drinking pre-workout green tea at 5:30, leaving at 6:30, working out until 8:00, coming home to watch America’s Next Top Model until 10:30, popping a Zzzquil, and falling asleep by 11:30, I had to figure out how to live my life without a built-in regimen.

It takes 21 days to form a habit. It takes two straight days of sleeping in past 7 am to realize that a 9-5 schedule is horseshit.

Let your schedule go to to hell. Eat breakfast at 9 or 11 or not at all. Go to the gym at 2. Sit around feeling sorry for yourself for 45 minutes. Watch 23 videos in a row of French bulldog puppies. Feel guilty about not enjoying the nice weather, but don’t actually act on the guilt. Do literally whatever the fuck you want, because for the last five years you’ve begun every Monday morning saying, “I really just needed a couple of extra days after the weekend” and now you have them in abundance.

The routine will inevitably return, but the opportunity to attend a sample sale in the middle of the afternoon without conflict (but just to browse--again, you really shouldn’t be spending money right now) shouldn’t be passed up.

8 Ways to Have an Original NYC Holiday Experience

You decided to visit New York City for the holiday season!

Wow!

We’re really glad you’re here...as long as you don’t stop in the middle of the sidewalk to check Google maps for the nearest Sbarro or constantly clutch your purse for fear of getting mugged like it’s still 1986.  

New York is a fucking blast --- that’s why you came here for vacation instead of hitting up a tropical locale, which would’ve been considerably warmer but cost about the same. New York around the holidays is even more of a fucking blast, because everything is decorated and pretty and incredibly over-the-top.

If you’re visiting NYC around the holidays, you’re gonna have a good time. You’ll have an even better time if you follow these eight suggestions, which will ensure you don’t have the same New York holiday adventure as the 25, 047 other people who took a kissing pic in front of the #rockefellertree.

1. Don’t eat at Rolf’s

You’re here for one weekend and you want to waste 2 ½ hours of your day waiting to eat decent-at-best German Beef Stew with Spätzle?

Cool, never mind, carry on.

Rolf’s is famous for its Christmas decorations of epileptic proportions. And, to be fair, it’s pretty phenomenal to witness. But in the interest of doing cool things that actually matter, my advice is this: Walk in, look up, take a photo, add it to your Insta story, and bounce.

Or literally just look at pics online, your life will not be impacted significantly either way.

2. Keep your mouth shut

Surprise! New York is cold in December.

Surprise! You’re here at the literal busiest time of the year.

Surprise! We walk. A lot.

Let those three revelations wash over you like a $15 Vodka Cranberry and accept them as readily as you do a homeless man’s fake sob story on the 2 train.

If you’re complaining about how freezing you are while you shuffle through the line to look at Macy’s window display, go back to South Carolina. Seriously. You currently have free internet, so the ability to check the weather and read tourist guides on Thrillist was afforded to you long before you jumped off the plane at JFK and spoke too loudly and too slowly to the cabbie who was born and raised in Queens.

3. Skip ice skating at Rockefeller Center

If this is on your girlfriend’s bucket list then I literally cannot save you. However, should the opportunity to negotiate plans arise, mention that between peak-season admission and skate rentals, you’re looking at a $45-per-person special memory that you’ll be sharing with 150 other people.

The real kicker is that you can do the same activity cheaper at Wollman Rink in Central Park or at the Winter Village at Bryant Park. Or you can just watch people [try to] ice skate for free, because let’s be honest: neither of you actually know what the fuck you’re doing out there anyway.

4. Realize that Macy’s Santa is a glorified mall Santa  

I have lovingly forced my boyfriend to see the Macy’s Santa with me for four straight years, because I’m obnoxious as fuck but incredibly cute. So I realize the hypocrisy that comes with this statement.

Admission aside, making your kids come all the way to New York to see Santa Claus at Macy’s is child abuse, straight up. That line is a three-hour-long human centipede of lost patience and abandoned family values. Santa is a stud, but no more so than the one at your local shopping center in Missouri.

5. Avoid Times Square

I recommend this at any and every time of year, but it’s especially true at Christmas.

No one that lives in New York likes Times Square.

Your friend that you’re visiting does not want to take you there.

The waitress at Olive Garden wishes you would have gone to a real Italian restaurant in Little Italy.

The other tourists who don’t know how to walk at a proper pace are annoyed that you’re bumping into them.

Dora the Explorer is going to take off her mascot head right in front of your 4-year-old niece, and she’s not going to give one quarter of a shit what you have to say about it.

In short, it sucks. Go anywhere else. Consider this tip my holiday gift to you.  

5. Keep your holiday market visits to one

Unlike American citizens, all holiday markets are, in fact, equal.

You will find the same knit scarves and Amish playthings at every market from Columbus Circle to Union Square to Bryant Park. If your boyfriend says he needs to taste the “unique fare” at each of the markets to really get in the holiday spirit, you need to return that J. Crew sweater and gift him a Planet Fitness membership instead.

If you want to visit cool shops with original artisans, take the L to Bedford Ave in Brooklyn and follow the nearest bearded modern pilgrim and/or hipster into any dimly-lit store.

6. Forget the frozen hot chocolate at Serendipity 3

 

Because it can’t be said enough: it’s cold. Why in God’s name do you want frozen hot chocolate?

Why are you waiting four hours for it?

Did you know you can buy a kit on Amazon to make it at home?

Did you know there are three Starbucks in a three block radius of Serendipity 3 where you can get a hot Salted Caramel Hot Chocolate?

Did you know Starbucks exists in every state?

Did you wait in line anyway and feel a judgement-filled eyebrow raise in your midst?

That was me.

7. Freeze your ass off for free, not at minus5 Ice Bar

Any bar that can also be visited in Las Vegas and Orlando has no place on your must-visit list.

You want me to don a rented parka and gloves while I drink out of ice glasses and sit on ice chairs and observe an LED light show set to Martin Garrix? And I’m not allowed to take photos on my own camera because you want me to look psyched for professional pics that I also have to buy because this experience wasn’t enough of a soul sucker? No thank you, please.

8. Be unique

Try to have an experience that is unique to you and your travel buddies.

The reason you can google “NYC holiday must-dos” and get 21,500,000 results that are all some version of, “IT’S NOT CHRISTMAS IF YA DON’T SEE THE ROCKETTES!” is because everyone who visits is too scared of figuring out the subway and getting yelled at by a local to actually branch out and do something cool.

This place is not your comfort zone.

It’s not anyone’s comfort zone.

It’s a clusterfuck of lights and cheap pizza and jaywalking. But if you choose the tiny Moroccan restaurant for Christmas dinner or ride the 6 up to East Harlem for no other reason than it’s not Midtown, you’ll have cooler stories than your neighbor who insisted you stop in at a little shop called Urban Outfitters because they’ve got “such rare vintage clothing.”

Skylar Gets Swindled

Things were going pretty uncharacteristically fabulous in my life, and then two days ago I was brought back to reality by the most bougie homeless man to ever exist. His dietary choices mixed with my staunch gullibility once again beg the question, “How do these things always happen to you?!” to which I reply, “Shoot me in the face.”

Here’s how my most recent interaction with a hobo friend went down:

I was walking to the gym after work, stopped to watch the game going down at the West 4^th Street Basketball Courts, didn’t get the opportunity to yell, “AND 1!”, got bored and kept going. All of a sudden a man comes up to me and asks, “Excuse me, do you have a dollar?”

Now, everyone knows that the answer to this question is “No.” Not because you’re a bad person, or cheap, or a liar, but because homeless people run rampant and if I gave them all of my dollars I wouldn’t have anything left to impulse-buy Pretzel M&M’s with in my bi-weekly moments of weakness. At this time, I had nine single dollars in my wallet, which is a rarity, and as selfish as it may sound I was guarding them with my over-privileged life.

“No, I’m sorry,” I replied to the man who will now be known as Richie Rich.

“Would you mind buying me some food?”

Ugh, tug at my heartstrings, Richie. I literally don’t know what came over me, but I agreed.

“There’s a Morton Williams right around the corner.”

“Sure, let’s go.”

As we walk and chat about things like the warmer weather and allergies, I started to take stock of what exactly I was dealing with. Number one, he was wearing relatively new looking shoes. In my top 10 most recent homeless-guy experiences, 80% of them are wearing holey black Velcro New Balances with the pinky toe displayed prominently, so this was new. Second, he was wearing clean Adidas track pants and carrying a multi-pocketed Jansport that for the purposes of this story appeared much more high-tech than your standard shopping cart. Interesting, to say the least.

“I’m really trying to get my energy up,” Richie Rich said.

“That’s always a good plan.”

“Have you heard of Kombucha?”

Yes, Richie, I’m a white girl from the ‘burbs who befriends several health nuts, follows fitspo Instagram accounts, and pins quinoa recipes on Pinterest; of course I’ve heard of Kombucha.

“I really like the Multi-Green one. It’s a great detoxifier.”

WHAT WHAT WHAT.

“And I’m a vegetarian so it’s a great supplement to that type of diet.”

“Yeah, so I’ve heard.”

Everyone stop laughing immediately. I was already pretty keen to what was happening and it was not cool.

Richie continues to explain the different benefits of a variety of products typically found at Whole Foods and I just nodded in defeat. We arrive at the grocery store and still giving him some semblance of the benefit of the doubt, I think we’ll go straight to the prepared food section, he’ll grab a veggie sandwich and his fermented tea concoction, and we’ll be out.

Nope.

Richie grabs a fucking basket.

So there we are, the Odd Couple shopping for Tuesday Night Dinner. Richie throws Kombucha, premade samosas, two Vitamin Waters (Restore flavor), and a box of Boca burgers in his basket, along with a toothbrush and my trust. It crossed my mind several times to say, “Are you kidding me?” and dipset, but the small chance that this was maybe the only thing Richie would eat for the next couple of days coupled with me potentially being the girl who left a homeless man in the aisle of the grocery store with food he couldn’t pay for made me stay.

We get up to the checkout line and he tosses it all on the conveyer belt like he’s done this a few times before. The cashier looks at me out of pity and confusion, which is something I’m used to but was much more attentive to in this situation. I had let my conscience be my guide and now I was planning on speaking to her in my office the next morning and putting her on leave without pay, because she was an idiot.

Everything is rung up to a grand total of $52.11, which is more than I spend on groceries for myself for an entire week. I swiped with undetectable hesitation and kept the receipt to wipe off my shame later that night. Richie and I walk out of the store holding hands (jk) and I’m just about to launch into a full-on sprint when he says, “There’s a Duane Reade right down the street….”

Really? Really.

“Sorry dude, I’ve got to go.”

“Oh okay, thanks again then!”

“Ohhhh you are so welcome.”

If you think it ends there you clearly need to backtrack and read some more of my life tales because it most definitely does NOT, per usual.

The next night, I was walking with my boyfriend and another friend through the same area. I had just finished telling them this exact story, and they berated me for being naïve and oblivious, and I was agreeing but defending it all by saying, “Hey, at least my karma’s in check.”

We’re about to cross the street when a man rounds the corner.

“Excuse me, do you have a dollar?”

They both automatically say no and keep moving.

I start violently squeezing my boyfriend’s hand.

“THAT WAS HIMMMM!” I hissed.

Predictable “NO WAY”’s and “Are you sure?”’s and “GO YELL AT HIM!”’s were thrown around but obviously did not occur. Richie might’ve been wearing a Rolex and applying a mud mask to his face when he passed on his way to a candle-lit hot yoga class, but who could be sure.

So I’m back and arguably better than ever, friends. For my sake, I hope my life will return to a state of boring normalcy. It won’t, though, and you’re all welcome for that. Raise a glass of brewed yeast and bacteria encased in cellulose to being young and dumb; I have like three more weeks of being able to get away with it!

x

Hobo Friends

Antonio. Donald. Q. Whistles (legal name).

These are just a few of the fine friends I've made over the past few years who just happen to live on the streets. Can I call them my homies if they don't technically have homes? I feel like that's not a cool question to ask.

For whatever reason, I seem to have a special connection with these people--it's probably the fact that I grew up in the white suburbs of Northern Virginia with four Panera's in a 10-mile radius, but who really knows. These relationships have come about largely because I don't know how to avert my eyes or resist responding to someone who calls me "Little Lady." Homeless people are people too! My kind of people:

Antonio - Antonio frequented the corner of the street near my magazine internship when I lived in Kentucky. He practiced the hollaback tactic, where he'd strike up random conversation with any and everyone and after a few solid minutes of talking would casually throw in that he needed five bucks. I was a poor college student so I typically told him, "Yeah man, same," and we'd laugh and laugh and then he'd ignore me, but there were a couple of times where I brought him a Starbucks Iced Coffee that secured me a spot on his good side. I never got to say good-bye to him when that internship finished up, but with Antonio and I, it was never going to be good-bye, just see you later.

Russ - Russ was the first of many homeless buddies I made when I worked in DC. Russ never asked for money or food, but was quick to dole out a compliment, usually in the spring or summer when it was skirt season. "Girl, the fire department know about dem legs? Because they makin' me HOT!" is a personal favorite. Russ always, always, always wanted a hug, but the closest I'd let him get was a fist bump or high five with an exaggeratedly extended arm because while I love new friends, I'm a far cry from Mother Theresa.

Q - Q is a frienemy. Every single morning for over a year, he was waiting at the top or bottom of the escalator at my Metro stop ready to harass me with his beatboxing or outbursts of pure gibberish. For the most part I could ignore him, but one fateful day I was just not having it, and when he lunged in front of me shouting nonsense, I looked him straight in his lazy eye and yelled, "CAN YOU FUCKING NOT?" I gained Q's respect that day. For the next 3 months, I could hear the "bm-ts bm k bm tkt bm" as I approached, but as soon as we crossed paths, he would go silent and we would exchange a head nod/eyebrow raise of friendship. I only learned of his deceitful ways when one day, I overheard him having a normal, gibberish-free conversation with a traffic cop. I quit my job three days later because I couldn't stand to face him ever again.

Tyrone - Tyrone has set the standard for NYC hobo friends. He's a musician (peep the business card), a comedian, a people person, and has 4 teeth. Tyrone posts himself up mid-platform at the Lexington Avenue-53rd Street subway station with a guitar, microphone, boom box, and duffel bag of tricks. There was recently another guy there trying to serenade the commuters with a lovely rendition of Fleetwood Mac's "Landslide," and Tyrone shut it down with a mostly-freestyled version of "Every Breath You Take" by The Police. Nice try, Stevie Nicks, this is Tyrone Territory. Every evening I see him there, we wave to each other, and he asks me when we're going to work out together (I sometimes have my gym bag). I never answer this question because I'm terrified I'm just being naïve and not getting the innuendo; however, I'd be more than happy to collaborate on a "More Than Words" duet whenever he asks.


I swear to God I have real friends too, but sometimes even they can't hold a candle to the likes of my hobros. When was the last time any of you gifted me a bracelet made of straw wrappers? Your impeccable hygiene and consistent income do not interest me--give me a wool blanket and some dingy fingernails any day of the week.

Like what you read? I'm this entertaining 24/7 on Twitter. Follow me @BTDubs_Skylar!