So yesterday, I was sacked from my sketchy journalism job as editor of the Canadian edition of an international magazine.
The one that pays me in Euros.
When the publisher feels like it.
I saw the writing on the wall this month when I had trouble getting paid. When the cheques stop coming in the magazine business, ladies and germs, it spells trouble. It means the robber barons who own the brand aren't making money, so neither will you.
My sacking came at the fingers of a 20 Something Over Educated Spaniard who chided me for not picking up the phone so she could ruin my economic livelihood in person.
I thanked her and reminded her she owed me $2,000.
Then I sent out courtesy emails to all the organizations which supported our noble effort and suggested they might use my skills and knowledge of everything from Australian Tree Wets to ear hairs.
Then I put on the television, tuned into American Idol and got drunk.
Not stinking drunk like the old days. I don't do that anymore, but wasted enough so that my brain disconnected from my heart. This is how I've reacted to every single horrendous thing that has happened to me in the past. Breakups. Deaths. Sackings. Fights.
It still works pretty well.
Difference these days is I drink twelve gallons of water before I got to bed so I don't have a hangover.
This morning, I will eat a high protein breakfast and start the horrible task of looking for work.
I left my last magazine job in 2006. I didn't find another one until 2011. There aren't many magazines left, so I'm not even going to try to find a job in that field.
I guess I'll use the new skills I acquired at this job -- web writing, editing from afar -- and work my network. At least this job gave me a new network, one that doesn't get much attention.
My last job was is in mental health -- I'm chuckling just saying that given the middle aged crazies who work in the field -- and by the time I left it, everybody was on the mental health/mental illness bandwagon, so there was no room for someone like me amidst all the corporations piling on.
Not sure what I'll do.
Probably spend more time at the gym. Try to eat healthy. Maybe I'll play some tennis this summer.
I suspect mostly I'll just sit here staring at the job boards, thinking it's just not right for a 56-year-old person with useful skills to spend the rest of her life cruising Twitter and Facebook and contemplating a plunge into food preparation or customer service or whatever McJob I can land.
Something's gotta give.
Hopefully, it won't be me.