You Betta (Find) Work!

by today's Urban Chameleon contributor
an exposé by DJXS

Terrence Howard would have you believe that its hard out here for a pimp, but its even harder for the unemployed fly 'n' fab. "Do tell?" --- why, I'd love to...

So here is the situation: I was employed for several years at a media company with great name recognition in a high profile department. It was a job that afforded me the enviable perks of rolling into the office at noon, traveling on someone else's dime, attending exclusive premieres, hobnobbing with the rich and famous as well as a host of other responsibilities so faboo that my friends quite frequently would curse me with that classic slur embraced by all haters, "You ain't got no REAL job." Oh, but I did have a real job as it provided a real paycheck. Was it my passion? Absolutely not. But it was a logical piece of the mosaic that is my life as an actor/dancer/writer/luxury connoisseur.

However, the good things came to a proverbial end when I became a casualty of the company's bloody layoff massacre right before Christmas ("you can stay yo' ass ho ho home" laughed the fat cat CEO at some point, I'm sure.) Yeah, I have some "follow your passion" side hustles, but for the first time in my adult life I had to deal with a sobering reality as former taunts became truth: "I ain't got no real job!"

As an admitted shopaholic, said media company gig was the wicked enabler that funded my impeccably styled descent into the twisted world of LV, Dior, Gucci, rare sneaker and vintage store binges and I wasn't sure I could just stop cold turkey. What's an urban chameleon to do when forced with trying to balance Jay-Z aspirations with a Chingy situation?

Well the income dilemma certainly had to be addressed as I couldn't live off of side hustles alone and cable bills don't pay themselves, don'tchaknow? The concept of "collecting unemployment" was so foreign to me but the time had come to power up the MacBook and familiarize myself with its customs.

Fast forward a couple of weeks and yours truly was begrudgingly up first thing in the morning for an orientation mandated by the Department of Labor who cleverly offered to supplement my income in exchange for my appearance at their poorly lit office. I showed up "dressin' recession" in an understated three quarter length Shearling coat and a pair of limited edition Japanese sneakers and patted myself on the back for having the wherewithal to leave the Louis at home --- c'mon, find the line and draw it, people!

I was eventually ushered into a room furnished with desk/chair combos I hadn't seen since 10th grade and commenced to filling out mundane paperwork with the rest of my unemployed brethren/sistren. The whole process was becoming increasingly annoying because I knew that although the Labor Department's efforts are meant to help people find work, I was sure that their listings for "fabulous cushy jobs" was... let's say "light."

My suspicions were confirmed when a sweaty bi-focaled gentleman entered the room and gleefully revealed that a Wal-Mart recruiter would be there the following week looking for stock room and night shift employees. This stunning announcement was followed with another --- that there were a few nursing positions opening in a couple of days and it was a triumph of willpower that kept me from blurting out, "Um... why the hell am I here?"

Now don't get me wrong, retail and nursing are perfectly fine career choices, they're just not "perfect" or "fine" for me. I'm an artist and sadiddy accusations be damned, price checking Snuggies all day would be sanity suicide and its certainly not conducive to my propensity for having poolside drinks at the Mondrian. I'm not adverse to working a "normal" job just as I don't have a problem rocking Kmart khakis and a mall-bought button down ---- I'd just rather really not.

However, I continued with this laughable dance of the ridiculous and sat down with an unemployment specialist who had the unenviable task of finding job opps comparable to what was listed on my resume... good luck with that, boo. We spoke for a few minutes and the gradual blanking of her facial expression was admittedly amusing as I explained the line of work that I was in; we both knew that there wasn't really much she could do for me. Apparently neither of us are quitters, so we soldiered on with the charade as she tapped away on her keyboard all efficient-like and consulted her computer monitor for some non-existant job matches. I sat there with a restrained expression that probably read "of course" and a buttoned coat that was very "can I go now?" when shocker! --- there wasn't anything in her database for me. She then delivered the Shawshank redeeming news that I was now eligible for unemployment benefits allowing me to return my Versace shades to their rightful place on my face and break the hell outta there with a Tiger-being-chased-by-a-golf-club-wielding-wifey swiftness.

So here I am, a struggling artist trying to David Blaine these unemployment checks and have them magically support both my genetic need to be fly and the monthly monetary demands of my landlord, among others. Am I looking for work? Yes. But in the meantime, the SoHo retail scene needs me, I've got photographers and graphic designers to compensate for their work on my web ventures, and there are mojitos from my favorite downtown spot that need sipping on... does the state really think I can accomplish all of this with what they're providing? I will continue ignoring the call of the stock room while in pursuit of artistic and personal fulfillment for as long as I can but if it gets to the point that I'm wearing a "May I Help You?" smock un-ironically, its gonna get ugly.

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Spending Wisely in a Recession...Can that Include Catching a Sale at Barneys?

by today's Urban Chameleon contributor

Yesterday my unemployment check came and you would think that first thing on my mind would be food, water, rent, and bills. No. I instead decided to go to the shoe department at Barneys and try on a pair of $769.00 Yves Saint Laurent shoes that were absolutely SICKALICIOUS. The fact that I was there trying to justify how two weeks of unemployment could pay for these shoes is a problem. It didn’t help that after trying them on a third time the sales person came over to tell me that everything was 33% off!!!
OH
MY
GOD!
33% off $769.00 is $253.77, which would bring my grand total to only $515.23. Only? I was able to do this math with in seconds so clearly I’m not dumb… but then why is my dumb ass trying to justify these shoes? Whenever I’m in these kinds of a predicament, which is not often (I’m not ridiculous) I think, “Sure I’ll just eat rice and beans for a month.” The problem is I can’t do it. Like shoes I’m obsessed with fine dining and the state of my mood is usually determined by what I’ve eaten for the day. If I bought these shoes I would have to be locked up in cave in Falluhja with no contact with the outside world, too hysterical from not tasting something savory, succulent and delicious. After pondering this for over 45min I finally put the shoes down and backed out of Barneys very slowly and went to this restaurant that serves a great Ossobuco.

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Fabulousity & Food Stamps

by today's Urban Chameleon contributor

Back in my days as a gainfully employed graphic designer at the ad agency, I enjoyed the fruits of my meaningless labor just as any other cosmopolitan 20 something woman would - by buying shoes. Ferragamo loafers, Mui Mui pumps, Coach boots. Not too extravagant, just fabulous enough for my tax bracket.

The shoes were nice. But the job. The job! It was killing my creative soul. My dreams of being the 21st century Black female Jackson Pollock, were slipping out between my well manicured French tip fingers nails. At home, my canvases remained bare while certain carmakers, snack companies and corn syrup manufacturers were reaping the benefits of my art school education.

It was time I fed my spirit. I quit my job. Traveled to New Zealand and came back renewed, optimistic - creative energy restored. My artwork poured out of me. Oils, pastels...I even experimented with mixed media. For the first time since graduating college, I was proud of the work I was producing. And galleries seemed pleased, too as I was booking group shows all about town.

I remember the day I opened my first solo show at that gallery in Dumbo. I felt like I was reaching new heights in my art career...if only the buyers would recognize this greatness. There was even a write-up about me in the New York Times! But I hadn't sold a single piece and my savings account was dwindling. Albeit seemingly successful, I saw myself falling under the category of starving artist. But miss thing can't starve. I'm already slim- I'd wilt away! Not to mention, I only eat organic!

One night while enjoying yet another delicious bowl of rice and beans, I decided it was time for me to swallow my pride and make that next step: I decided to apply for food stamps. Walking into the office was deep. Mostly mothers with young children - one woman walked in with a baby strapped to her front, and on her back was an oxygen tank that was hooked up to baby's nose! She really really needs food stamps I thought. I should just go get a job! I started gathering the latest bead art I was working on, preparing to leave that odd waiting room, when they called my number. It was arduous, humiliating and scary, but I bit the bullet and applied. The torn agony melted away when my card came in the mail. I hoped on the train to Whole Foods!

But first, I decided to make a stop at Coach to get a new box for my boots. The original shoebox got destroyed during my move from the East Village to Harlem and miss thing keeps her shoes intact. I got the box, then walked on down to whole foods, shopping with glee! Pecorino cheese - ener-G egg replacer - Vermont maple syrup, Moroccan mint pepper the works. There I was at the checkout counter, my big Coach box in a big Coach bag, my organic groceries and a smile. The sister at the checkout counter told me my total and I whipped out my brand spankin' new Food Stamp Benefit card. Sister girl paused, looked me in my eye - looked at the Coach bag, looked at my food - looked at my card, then raised her eyebrows and continued to bag my gourmet vegetarian kilbasa.

As I ascended the escalator out of Whole Foods, excuses ran through my head - it's just an empty box! I bought the boots back when I had money. If she saw my bank account, she wouldn't be so judgmental.

On the train ride home, I decided to dismiss the excuses. I am doing the best I can with my God given talents. People are moved by my work (if only they'd move to their wallets and make a damn purchase!). I need not make any excuses for my fabulousness. Yes, I eat organic, yes I wear designer shoes and yes, I am on the food stamps.

Get with it. And maybe I'll invite you over for dinner.

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Ivy League Degrees vs. Drug Dealer Degrees

by today's Urban Chameleon contributor

I sometimes wonder why I even bothered getting an education. All the late night studying, the massive amount of debt for both undergrad and grad that I’ve barely made a dent in only to work killer hours at a job where I hold a position a hair above an executive assistant. What brought on this rude awakening is the other night ridding home on the A train uptown, damn nearing falling asleep, feet so hurt I’m doing the broken walk down 125 I run into Darnell. Darnell and I grew up around the same way, never were really tight or hung out in fact the only time I would see him is when I went to the corner store where he would be standing in front of selling drugs. One of those types of dudes that your parents told you to stay away from. I heard he got locked up and I hadn’t seen him since I moved back to Harlem from school, so I was surprised when he recognized and acknowledged me first. Darnell was dress to the nine in some Rico Suave chocolate brown suite and indigo blue collar shirt with some cuff links and smooth shoes. The first thing I thought was that he’s clearly moved up in the drug game but no. Turns out GED earning Darnell now runs a legitimate restaurant business in Harlem, has two kids a wife and a house in Connecticut and working on some new investment opportunities after getting financially savvy from reading in jail. Had I known jail had a better return on investment than school I would have been done sold some crack.

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