Right now, I'm noticing a couple of my favorites talking about losing jobs.

So I thought I'd tell the story of the time I got laid off, or Jamie's leap from Midwestern Craptown, USA Resident to Island Girl.

I was a Broadcast Journalism major in college. The school was very television-focused, so when I graduated, I naturally thought I'd get a reporting job in TV. Um, except I'd partied my ass off in college, so my GPA was less than stellar, and I didn't have a very good resume tape.

So I move back home, and pick up bartending gig and an internship where I work in a newsroom with a group of the most uptight people I've ever met in my life. Seriously. I just kept my mouth shut and plugged along, living in fear that one day I'd slip and tell someone what I did over the weekend, triggering a heart attack and death after which the deceased's family members would sue me and take away the $1.61 that I possessed at that time.

Because of my poverty, I needed to defer my student loan payments. To do this, I have to apply to an employment agency. Although the type of job I was looking for never EVER hires through an agency, for some reason, they were able to match me up with an anchor/reporter gig at a radio station located in yet ANOTHER Midwestern Craptown. Marion, Ohio. Lord, that place was a dump. I'd go out for a beer a night, and you could just FEEL the despair and misery of the other bar patrons. Ugh.

So picture this: I'm 22 years old, and 6 months into my new job. I'm discovering that I have a flair for radio, and I'm soaking up information like mad. My news director and I make a great team. I'm getting good at this shit. Plus, I can grow my hair long. (Random fact: TV anchors usually have short hair because long hair breaks over shoulders and moves a lot, distracting the eye.)

One Friday, I get called into the station manager's office. Shit. Closed-door meeting, me+manager+program director. I'm sitting there racking my brains, desperately trying to figure out what I've done.

And I get laid off. Downsized. The company that owned the station informed them there was longer room in the budget for me. (Trust me, I was cheap. I once saw a sign in a BURGER KING that said they were hiring, and the advertised starting wage was the same thing I was making. I really wanted a camera at that moment.) So I'm sitting in this office, hearing this woman I never particularly liked tell me that I'm now unemployed, and I realize I'm about to cry. I rarely cry. So I excuse myself and book it to the newsroom, where I close the door. No one ever closed the door to that room. I just needed a moment to lose my shit and straighten up my brain.

A couple of minutes later, I hear this nervous knock. My poor program director was alarmed by the closed door, and checking on me. The guy probably thought I was trashing the joint.

I call Neal, and deduce that getting canned entitles me to an afternoon off. I go home. My psycho roommate (I'll get into this another day, but GOD, was she off her rocker) takes one look at my face and asks what's wrong. I'm like an open book, I guess.

Neal shows up. I'm feeling particularly restless and we decide to drive to Zanesville to see Maggie. She lends me Michael Moore's Downsize This! and gets me wasted. She rules.

Because I genuinely hadn't done anything wrong to be dismissed, everyone in the Marion station felt REALLY BAD and went the extra mile to help get me re-hired. I got glowing letters of recommendation, and my program director put in calls to anywhere I was particularly interested in working.

When I saw this news director position in the Keys, I didn't think I had a snowball's chance in South Florida. News Directors head up newsrooms, and therefore are generally hired from within. Plus, I only had 6 months of experience.

Little did I know, they wanted someone to CREATE a news department. From scratch.

They flew me down for an interview. I figured, Hell, even if I don't get the job, I get a week's vacation. But I got it.

And here I am.