Ed. note: Welcome to “Notes from the Breadline,” a column by a laid-off lawyer in New York. Prior columns are collected here.

You can reach Roxana St. Thomas by email, follow her on Twitter, or find her on Facebook. You can also read more about her at www.notesfromthebreadline.net.

Dear Readers,

I hope this message finds you rested, relaxed, gainfully employed, or nursing your recession hangover with a fabulously expensive steak affixed to your forehead (or some combination thereof).

As you know, I have enjoyed your company here in the breadline for many (many) months. We have shared laughter, tears, the thrill of victory (assuming, arguendo, that ‘victory’ is defined as ‘avoiding non-flip-flop footwear’), and the agony of defeat, in its many and varied forms. Now, however, the time has come for an Interregnum from the Breadline. After today, Notes from the Breadline will be on hiatus, at least for a little while.

As a preliminary matter, I will address your (unposed) questions seriatim. No: I did not find a job. No: I did not get “laid off” from Above the Law. No: I am not taking a break so that “I can spend more time with my family” (or my cats), and no: there is no damning sex tape involving Partner Emeritus, Douche Patrol, Frat Stud, Fraternity Lothario, Glass Cock, Jack Bauer, Guest, or Arnold Schwarzenegger. Sometimes, dear readers, a hiatus is just a hiatus.

Ed. note: Welcome to the latest installment of “Notes from the Breadline,” a column by a laid-off lawyer in New York. Prior columns are collected here. You can reach Roxana St. Thomas by email (at roxanastthomas@gmail.com), follow her on Twitter, or find her on Facebook.

This column is a continuation from last week’s, which you should read first if you haven’t done so already.

After the group members have finished their elevator speeches and turned their attention to the fun meals before them, Rhonda comes over and sits beside me at the kids’ table. “So,” she says, leaning in, “have you made your one connection yet?” Her voice has the same solicitous tone one might use to ask a child whether she brushed her teeth like a good girl, or made wee-wee in the potty chair.

“Not yet!” I say, mustering perkiness, “but the night is young!”
“Well,” she says, undeterred, “I am so glad you could come. These meetings are such a great opportunity to network, even if the group members are not in your exact field. Don’t you think?”

I tell her that I, too, am glad I could come, that I am excited to meet people and do some networking, and that I am fairly certain that connections — especially those formed at networking events! — transcend professions. Although I feel like I am reading from a cue card, the group seems to have its own lexicon, and I realize that I am unconsciously translating conversational English into network parlance. Despite my efforts, however, I slip up a moment later, when I use the words “unemployed” and “laid off” in the same sentence. “Eh eh,” she says, cutting me off. “In transition.” She pronounces the words carefully, as if to ensure comprehension.

We are interrupted by Jason, a member of the group who is leaving early and has come over to say goodbye to Rhonda and Mitch (who is also seated at the kids’ table). Jason talks for a few minutes about some of the “great connections” he has made since the last networking event. “There are some great possible opportunities there,” he says hopefully. “So, we’ll see …” his voice trails off.

“How long have you been unem—in transition?” I ask tactlessly.

“Eight months,” he says, arranging a broad smile. His bravery sounds forced. “But I’m not worried about it. As long as I keep networking, coming to events like this one, staying active on Linked In … I’m sure something will come up.”

“Oh, definitely,” Rhonda and Mitch murmur in unison, nodding emphatically. With automaton-like precision, Jason moves into a sales pitch, pulling out a sheaf of brochures and business cards. He tells us that his wife has started a catering business to bring in extra money. “I’m not just saying this because she’s my wife, heh heh,” he announces sincerely, “but she does a terrific job.” He encourages us to turn to her for our catering needs, and to tell our friends and “contacts” about her. Alas, I find myself thinking: though I’m sure his wife does, in fact, do a terrific job, being “in transition” is so rarely a catered affair.

Ed. note: Welcome to the latest installment of “Notes from the Breadline,” a column by a laid-off lawyer in New York. Prior columns are collected here. You can reach Roxana St. Thomas by email (at roxanastthomas@gmail.com), follow her on Twitter, or find her on Facebook.

On an unseasonably chilly autumn day, Lat and I are sitting in his office, commiserating about the cold. “I’m freezing,” I say, rubbing my hands over the steam rising from the coffee fountain. “Shouldn’t we be enjoying Native American summer right now?”

“Yeah,” Lat responds absently, his eyes fixed on the computer screen in front of him. I wait for a proper response, but he seems absorbed in the task before him. After a few minutes, I get up and stand behind him, peering nosily over his shoulder.

He is downloading a virtual fireplace to his desktop. After a few minutes of virtual tending, it begins to crackle gaily. “Ah,” he says, relaxing visibly. “There’s nothing like a nice fire on a cold fall day … and virtual fires are much eco-friendlier than their wood-burning facsimiles!” He leans back in his chair and arranges his feet on his desk. “Did I mention that I’m watching my carbon footprint?”

“I did notice that your carbon footprint was looking particularly svelte,” I tell him. I stare out at the window, where the trees are being battered by a cold wind. A wave of melancholy, sudden and bracing, washes over me. “The weather has gone as cold as the scent for job leads,” I say glumly.

Lat strokes his chin thoughtfully for a moment, and then begins to dig through a stack of papers on his desk. It teeters dangerously and then cascades onto the floor. “Sorry,” he mumbles. “Paper avalanche.” After a moment, he extracts a creased copy of the New York Times, which he brandishes triumphantly.

“I was just reading about these job clubs, where people ‘meet to mingle, resumes in tow,’” he says. “And I was thinking: maybe you should try going to one. It could be an excellent networking opportunity!”

Another swell of melancholy builds, gathers into a frothy whitecap, and crashes around me. “That’s what you said about that speed-dating event we went to last year,” I say, trying not to sound peevish, “and that was a total waste of time, in six-minute increments. Besides, I just … I hate those things,” I tell him. “They feel so … forced.”

Lat responds with stony silence, then leans over and minimizes the fireplace. “Get going, sister,” he says sternly. “Find a networking event, and then you can come back and tell me all about it. Until then, no merrily crackling fire for you!”

I sulk for a few minutes, and then relent. In truth, my job search has stalled, and nothing I have done lately in an attempt to jump-start it seems to work. Why not? I figure, trying to muster optimism. At this point, I have nothing to lose.

Ed. note: Welcome to the latest installment of Notes from the Breadline, a column by a laid-off lawyer in New York. Prior columns are collected here. You can reach Roxana St. Thomas by email (at roxanastthomas@gmail.com), follow her on Twitter, or find her on Facebook.

Last week, we brought you Scenes from the Breadline, in the form of my very own photo essay on unemployment. You may recall that, in the communitarian spirit of all Homework Assignments from the Breadline, I also asked you to submit photographs, drawings, or other images that depicted, reminded you of, or documented your experience of life in the breadline.

First, I extend my heartfelt thanks to those who sent their own pictures from the breadline. For what it’s worth, my empirical research indicates that you are strict constructionists: you construed the assignment narrowly, and responded almost universally with photographs, rather than pictures scrawled in crayon, found art, or collages made from your unemployment check receipts and Ramen soup labels. (I mention this not as a criticism, but as a reminder that I welcome any and all of your creative efforts on an ongoing basis. I like to hang them up on my refrigerator, so that I can be reminded — while making soup- - of the excellent company I keep here in the breadline.)

Second, while I love you all the same, I must note that the New Yorkers amongst you responded in force. Perhaps it is because we are intransigent overachievers, and take homework assignments seriously (no matter who doles them out). Perhaps it is because signs of the recession are so visible here, and so ubiquitous. Either way: thanks, home team! And thank you, friends and readers from every outpost of the breadline. As always, you did a fantastic job.

Without further delay, we bring you (more) Scenes from the Breadline.

Ed. note: Welcome to the latest installment of “Notes from the Breadline,” a column by a laid-off lawyer in New York. Prior columns are collected here. You can reach Roxana St. Thomas by email (at roxanastthomas@gmail.com), follow her on Twitter, or find her on Facebook.

Many of us know (and some of us have described, at some length) what life in the breadline feels like. But what, exactly, does life in the breadline look like? What are the visual manifestations of uncertainty, general financial malaise, and persistent despair? Well, dear readers, sometimes life in the breadline looks like a laid-off associate in her pajamas and down coat, on the verge of ranting at strangers in the bank. Sometimes it looks like the very same associate staring at her inbox, certain that an encouraging email (offering something other than a chance to collect your designated award from the British Lottery) will appear momentarily. Other times, it can be seen in the world outside one’s cat-plagued home, where the indicia of economic apocalypse are ubiquitous.

This week, I am pleased to bring you my own photo essay from the breadline. (Take heart, TLDR crowd — something that doesn’t require actual reading!) I hope you enjoy these shots of street life, and I thank the kind photographer who helped to document my wanderings.

Of course, every life looks a little different … which is why it’s time for another Homework Assignment from the Breadline. Specifically, we want pictures — in the form and media of your choosing — of your life in the breadline. Send me the images that illustrate your experience, symbolize the moment, and document the good, the bad, and the ugly parts of your adventure / ordeal / journey. I look forward to viewing your responses! Please: no nudity, crush films, or dogfighting videos.

Without further ado, I present “Scenes from the Breadline.”

Ed. note: Welcome to the latest installment of “Notes from the Breadline,” a column by a laid-off lawyer in New York. Prior columns are collected here. You can reach Roxana St. Thomas by email (at roxanastthomas@gmail.com), follow her on Twitter, or find her on Facebook.

As many of you know, waiting is an integral part of life in the breadline. You send out résumés, and you wait. You make follow-up calls to prospective employers — and wait. You hear that the nation’s economic climate is improving, so (although you see no factual indicia that this is actually the case) you dust off your interview suits, submit applications … and wait. You vaguely remember what momentum feels like, and what it feels like to have a life that moves forward. You think about getting up and walking away, about leaving frustration and disappointment behind you. But instead, because you have no choice, you wait.

This interminable waiting, of anticipating an event that never materializes, can become so familiar that, after a while, it barely registers. It also becomes progressively harder to identify what, precisely, you are waiting for. Movement is suspended; growth is deferred. The only way to stave off inertia is by clinging to hope, no matter how vague or ephemeral it seems.

On that bright note, we bring you Notes from the Breadline Community Theater. Because adult professional life probably doesn’t leave you nearly enough time to reflect on life’s baffling futility through absurdist theater, our feature presentation is — you guessed it! — an adaptation of Samuel Beckett’s “Waiting for Godot.” Since you all did so well on your Homework Assignments from the Breadline, you can go ahead and cheat on this one. The SparkNotes summary is here, and you can refresh your recollection of the text, in all its glory, here and here.

Now, dear readers, without further delay (hush! The house lights are going down!), we bring you “Waiting for Bono.”

Ed. note: Welcome to the latest installment of “Notes from the Breadline,” a column by a laid-off lawyer in New York. Prior columns are collected here. You can reach Roxana St. Thomas by email (at roxanastthomas@gmail.com), follow her on Twitter, or find her on Facebook.

One time, early in my stint in the breadline, I interviewed for a position at a New York non-profit organization. The interview, with members of the organization’s steering committee, was held at the plush offices of a Wall Street law firm - a setting so genteel, so prim, that I immediately felt underdressed despite my perfectly respectable interview suit and conservative heels. All the women who passed through the reception area were wearing knee-length skirt suits and pantyhose; the men looked as though they had come from a photo shoot for Brooks Brothers. The walls were hung with portraits of stately, gray-haired firm elders, hunting scenes, and graceful horses who, I suspected, had pedigrees much more distinguished than my own. I was reading a tattered copy of the previous week’s New Yorker while I waited, and I remember feeling sheepishly self-conscious — both because I hadn’t gotten through a lengthy article about Iceland’s post-financial crash identity, and because I wasn’t reading something … weightier, like The Economist, or the Harvard Business Review.

How, you ask, did I have time to read, reflect, and observe a cross-section of the firm’s personnel? Well, friends: when you spend 45 minutes perched on an uncomfortable settee, waiting for your name to be called, there is little else to do. Eventually, of course, I did make it into the conference room where the interview was being held; once there, I was greeted by five lawyers, all of whom were talking at once. To each other. In fact, I found myself wondering, at various junctures, whether they were aware that I had joined them. One lawyer asked me a complicated question and then (without skipping a beat) answered his ringing cell phone and had a lengthy conversation. I tried to shift focus seamlessly by turning to address the others, but two of them were BlackBerrying while another listened to voicemail messages. When I finally stood up to say my goodbyes, they told me that they were impressed with my qualifications and hoped that I could come back to meet with the members of the steering committee who had been unable to make it to the interview that day. “That would be great!” I said enthusiastically. Perhaps, I mused, given the general level of attentiveness I had observed, they were hoping to organize a flag football scrimmage, and simply needed a few more people to work with (as well as a captive audience, or a referee).

As a new arrival to the breadline, this experience left me with a few thoughts. Among them were, “Are interviews always this suck-ass, or was this a freakish anomaly?” and “Is there a sliver lining in all of this?” Like a convoluted legal argument, the answer to the latter of these questions resolves the first inquiry as well. As I have discovered in the intervening months, there is not a single “silver lining” in all of this, but many, including: freedom from the oppressive sartorial conventions of the workplace, the luxury of dropping by Lat’s office for a mid-day drink from the coffee fountain, and the (admittedly mixed) blessing of life in a lower tax bracket. These perks, however, pale in comparison to one, particularly luminous reward, which I consider the most spangly of all silver linings.

And what might that be?

Ed. note: Welcome to the latest installment of “Notes from the Breadline,” a column by a laid-off lawyer in New York. Prior columns are collected here. You can reach Roxana St. Thomas by email (at roxanastthomas@gmail.com), follow her on Twitter, or find her on Facebook.

The news that filters down to the breadline these days can be confusing. “The recession is over!” some sources promise blithely. The recession may not be over, warn others, but “even stagnation would be better than recent history.” (Anecdotal evidence of stagnation — blessed, welcome stagnation — follow, substituting for tales of hope.)

In the legal press, though, the forecast is decidedly more circumspect. Bloodletting may have slowed at the nation’s law firms, but, between rumors of the billable hour’s demise and free-floating anxiety about the future of associate pay, the recession is far from receding into the distance in our collective rearview mirror.

I have been seeing a new recruiter, one in a string of casual liaisons which — like online dates — offer much promise initially, but usually stall after the second or third encounter. (Like the others, she was relentlessly positive and showered me with complements, and … well, I ended up showing her my résumé on the first date.) I decide to ask her whether she thinks the end of the recession has come to our corner of the professional world.

“Well,” says the recruiter (whose name, fortuitously, is Faith), “a lot of my clients are back to running ads and soliciting resumes. But they’re not necessarily hiring.” A long pause follows, and she adds, “Yet.”

“Are they interviewing?” I ask. She answers carefully, telling me brightly that, yes, “some people have gone on interviews, here and there!” In other words, I translate silently: no.

Ed. note: Welcome to the latest installment of “Notes from the Breadline,” a column by a laid-off lawyer in New York. Prior columns are collected here. You can reach Roxana St. Thomas by email (at roxanastthomas@gmail.com), follow her on Twitter, or find her on Facebook.

Welcome back from the long weekend, dear readers. I hope that, after what has been a hard year for many of us, everybody had a good time, everybody let their hair down, and everybody saw the sunshine. And anything else you can think of.

As a preliminary matter, I thank you wholeheartedly for your diligent attention to last week’s Homework Assignment from the Breadline. You answered the call with incredibly thoughtful, honest, and poignant responses to our questions about your experiences, for which I am extremely grateful. It’s good to see your faces a bit more clearly.

Well, my friends: without further ado, let’s put this thing together.

First, we wanted to hear about the experience of life in the breadline as an “older” member of the workforce, whether from readers who had been there themselves or from those who had seen a parent struggle with unemployment. Your responses reflected the particular indignities of being laid off and looking for work at a certain age, and described the sting of discovering that years of acquired wisdom and competence are, suddenly, of little consequence to the skeptical gatekeeper reviewing your résumé.

One reader, whom we’ll call “Mike,” got the phone call from human resources last July, just after his 58th birthday. “We were friendly,” he wrote, “so the ritual kiss from Al Pacino was brief and honest.” Mike was asked to sign a non-disclosure/non-disparagement agreement and given five weeks of severance in a lump sum. Of that, he said, “the USA and NY took 40%.”

So what has Mike been up to since hitting the breadline?

Ed. note: Welcome to the latest installment of “Notes from the Breadline,” a column by a laid-off lawyer in New York. Prior columns are collected here. You can reach Roxana St. Thomas by email (at roxanastthomas@gmail.com), follow her on Twitter, or find her on Facebook.

One evening after work, or at least the hours during which most people engage in employment-related activities, Lat and I sit in his office, contemplating an evening stroll. The office has the deserted feel that settles over most workplaces as the summer winds down, and I find myself waiting for a tumbleweed to blow by, rattling gently past the empty desks and rustling the leaves of the donut plant, which droop with late-season crullers. At some point, when we weren’t looking, August slipped away and turned to September, announcing its presence with cold evenings that jolted us from our summer reverie. Fall, I think, is like a cruel gym teacher, snapping our unguarded bums with a wet towel.

“How did this happen?” I wail plaintively, shivering. “I want a few more months of sunshine and warm weather.”

Lat strokes his chin thoughtfully. “Well,” he says absentmindedly, “I guess it has something to do with the tilting of the earth on its axis, relative to the sun. But I was an English major, so I’m just guessing.”

We spend a few minutes lamenting the advent of fall. No more seminude Hollister hotties, I remind Lat. No more flip-flops, he counters. Though the loss of these small luxuries is predictable, it is no less painful. We sigh glumly.

The end of summer is always wistful, like the day after Christmas or first love. One moment the world glitters with warmth and possibility, and even the air around you seems kinder. But when you look again, these pieces of ephemera — drooping stands of tinsel, the giddy thrill recorded in your diary — stare back, nothing more than frail relics of passing brightness. The most radiant instants slip away too fast, laying bare the impermanence of magic.

Usually, however, the sadness of summer’s end is offset by the renewed energy of fall. Fall is when things begin again: vacation ends, judges return from their summer travels, and cases resume. People have purpose! Having rested and loafed, they are ready to face the tasks at hand with renewed vigor, attired in new clothes. Perhaps this is why, this year, summer’s passing seems even crueler. This year, I have nothing to go back to.

Ed. note: Welcome to the latest installment of “Notes from the Breadline,” a column by a laid-off lawyer in New York. Prior columns are collected here. You can reach Roxana St. Thomas by email (at roxanastthomas@gmail.com), follow her on Twitter, or find her on Facebook.

Dear Lat,

Thank you so much for the back-to-school care package you sent when I started classes at Solo Practice University! I must ask: where did you find the Wonder Twins pencil box? I absolutely adore it, and I love the Trapper Keeper (and the puffy stickers with googly eyes!) you picked out. I am also crazy about the Dukes of Hazzard lunchbox, and the note you included was very thoughtful. (I’m not sure that “Knock ‘em dead!” is appropriate advice for a lawyer, but why split hairs?)

I’ll address, seriatim, the questions you posed in your enclosed letter. Regarding your first question (“What are you going to wear on your first day of class??”), I had a hard time deciding between the plaid skirt, button-down shirt, and penny loafers you helped me pick out when we went back-to-school shopping, and something a little more casual, like the Guns ‘n Roses t-shirt and holey jeans you turned your nose up at when I was modeling outfits. (I believe your exact words were “If you think you’re leaving the house dressed like that, young lady, think again,” and “If I put a 7-11 hot dog and a Slurpee in your hand, you’d look like Britney Spears - on a bad day.”)

But that, my fashion-forward friend, is the beauty of Solo Practice University: I don’t have to leave my house to go to class. Susan Cartier Liebel, the headmistress of Solo Practice University, calls it “carpet commuting,” but since, as you know, I live in true Manhattan-style squalor and thus do not have a carpet, I simply call it “convenient.” In any event (and because I also do not have an air conditioner), I opted for a tank top with a large coffee stain on the front, and shorts. Though I was certain my mother would pop out of the closet, smack me on the back of the head, and remind to “dress for the job you want,” she did not make an appearance. The cats, however, channeling her disapproval, looked at me with disdain.

As for your second question, things here at Solo Practice University, or “SPU,” as we call it on campus, are going well. The classes that SPU has to offer are - at this point - too numerous to list here, but as you know, they are divided four general areas: Substantive Law, Marketing and Management, Technology, and Work/Life Balance. In fact, the course content is so voluminous that I spent a few undignified minutes wringing my hands, uncertain about where to begin. (Again, the beauty of SPU is that no one can observe, firsthand, your minor meltdowns.)

No, Lat: there’s no need to start gathering piles of Zoloft for my next care package (although a little Valium never hurt anyone - let’s talk later). It turns out that my generalized anxieties, and the sense of being overwhelmed by the nuts and bolts of solo practice, were a valuable object lesson. Many people, Susan told me, are derailed by their fear of solo practice. One of her goals, therefore, was simply to “demystify” the reality of lawyering without a net. This led me to a minor, but useful, epiphany about one of my perceived barriers to solo practice: my fear of commitment.

Ed. note: Welcome to the latest installment of “Notes from the Breadline,” a column by a laid-off lawyer in New York. Prior columns are collected here. You can reach Roxana St. Thomas by email (at roxanastthomas@gmail.com), follow her on Twitter, or find her on Facebook.

After months of ceaseless rain, August descends languidly. As it wraps the city in its sweaty fist, the prevailing complaint of New Yorkers shifts seamlessly from “When will the sun come out?” to “I’m hot!” Tourists wrinkle their noses at the smell of ripening garbage on Broome Street, and my super takes up a shirtless vigil on the stoop outside our building. At night, the tables outside of neighborhood cafes fill with wilted hipsters, their carefully disheveled hair drooping damply.

“It’s 300 degrees outside,” my friend Bo announces one day on the phone. I am lying on the floor, watching the ceiling fan turn and thinking about the movie Casablanca, in which people managed to maintain their dignity despite heat and oppressive sartorial conventions. “It’s not so bad,” I say absently, watching the cat, who is attempting to drink out of his water dish without standing up. After a moment, he gives up and flops listlessly onto his side.

“Easy for you to say!” Bo snorts. “You don’t know what it’s like to have to dress up in a suit in 300-degree weather.”

I sit up, covered in cat hair, which has adhered itself to my sweaty clothes. I am like a human ice cream cone, I think, topped with particularly unappetizing sprinkles. It occurs to me that I have heard the sentiment that Bo is expressing - the assumption that I am unable to relate to the lives of working folk - several times since this heat wave started.

“Hmphf,” I say indignantly. “I remember exactly what it’s like to wear a suit to work when it’s 300 degrees out. Just because I’m not working right now, it doesn’t mean I can’t relate.”

Despite my protestations, however, I am secretly delighted. I have, I realize, discovered the silver lining in this storm cloud: I may be jobless and increasingly broke, but let’s face it — here in the breadline, every day is casual Friday.

I decide to pay a visit to Lat (who has been busily posting pictures of his sweaty visage on Facebook). I also suspect that his office is cooler than my apartment. At the very least, I can count on a chilly reception from the Fashionista staff, who regard my inelegance with mortified pity.

I arrive to find Lat stalking crabbily around the office with a watering can, looking harried. “What’s the matter?” I ask, flopping into a chair.

“Ugh,” Lat says irritably. “Elie went on vacation and left me to take care of his donut plant.” He pulls out a pair of pruning shears and begins to trim donut holes from its drooping branches. “I have a lot to do, and I’m really not in the mood to garden.”

“What can I do to help?” I ask, filling a cup from the burbling coffee fountain.

Ed. note: Welcome to the latest installment of “Notes from the Breadline,” a column by a laid-off lawyer in New York. Prior columns are collected here. You can reach Roxana St. Thomas by email (at roxanastthomas@gmail.com), follow her on Twitter, or find her on Facebook.

As the summer drifts by with no sign of viable employment prospects, I realize I am suffering from a pernicious affliction which, while common amongst lawyers, has reached epidemic proportions here in the breadline. In a word, the problem is this: slavery.

No, friends: I’m not referring to the kind of involuntary servitude expressly prohibited by the Thirteenth Amendment (of which I am not, of course, making light). I’m talking about the unique bondage of the BlackBerry, which ensnares us with invisible, but often impermeable, shackles. Or, if you are infinitely cooler and have an iPhone, there’s probably an app for that.

Following this realization, I resolve to develop a more normal relationship with my BlackBerry. No one is calling or emailing to offer me a fantastic job, I remind myself. Being hyper-attuned to the blinking red light that would, in theory, alert me to new messages or missed calls has not, thus far, caused any new messages or missed calls to materialize. So, I decide, I will take the bold step of leaving my BlackBerry at home when I go out to do errands.

“Don’t worry,” I say to the device anxiously, as I prepare for a Berry-free outing. “I won’t be gone long.” In some cultures, offering reassurance to a phone might be considered … well, strange. But those cultures, I tell myself, are judgmental and parochial.

Alas, my leap of faith is rewarded with an email from a recruiter looking to fill a temporary position “ASAP!!,” and although I send him my resume as soon as I can, he writes back to tell me that the job has already been filled. Irritated, I notice that I have also missed a call. When I check my voicemail, there is a message from a former colleague. “You didn’t respond to the Evite, Roxana,” she says. “I hope you didn’t forget about our reunion dinner tomorrow night.”

The dinner she is referring to is a yearly gathering for alumni of a Big Law Firm where I once worked — which, in fact, I forgot about. But, while I usually look forward to the event, I find myself regarding it with dread. How many times will I have to announce that I was laid off? How many questions will I have to answer about my job search? What if I’m the only person there who is unemployed?

Ed. note: Welcome to the latest installment of “Notes from the Breadline,” a column by a laid-off lawyer in New York. Prior columns are collected here. You can reach Roxana St. Thomas by email (at roxanastthomas@gmail.com), follow her on Twitter, or find her on Facebook.

On a drizzly Thursday morning, my friend Giovanna calls to invite me to lunch. “I have a window between a meeting and a conference call,” she says, referring to concepts that are increasingly foreign to me. “Come and meet me.”

“I don’t know,” I say guiltily, tallying the lunches, dinners, and coffees to which she has treated me in the past few months, “you just bought me dinner.’

“Don’t be silly,” she says cheerfully. “Consider it a public service, since you’ll have to shower.”

“Whoa!” I tell her, “let’s not be rash.”

“Take a shower,” she says sternly. “I’ll meet you downstairs at one.”

A few hours later, we are sitting at a restaurant. Giovanna is dressed beautifully for work, her hair and makeup perfect. Although I have showered, I realize that I could easily be mistaken for her maid. We talk about her new colleagues, her most recent deposition, and my job search, before the conversation turns to what women invariably talk about when they talk to other women: men.

Sitting at the table — hands wrapped around our coffee cups, voices lowered conspiratorially — I am reminded of television commercials in which women confide sheepishly about unseemly problems, like occasional irregularity or embarrassing ring-around-the-collar. But, before a chipper paid spokesperson can appear, offering us laxative yogurt or assistance with our laundry woes, we identify the issue at hand: DWUI.

No, puzzled readers — not that DWUI. Without diminishing, in any way, the seriousness of operating a motor vehicle after tossing back too many suds or hitting the pipe, let’s be clear: we are talking about something entirely different. We’re talking about the insidious problem of Dating While on Unemployment Insurance.

Read about the perils of DWUI, after the jump.

Ed. note: Welcome to the latest installment of “Notes from the Breadline,” a column by a laid-off lawyer in New York. Prior columns are collected here. You can reach Roxana St. Thomas by email (at roxanastthomas@gmail.com), follow her on Twitter, or find her on Facebook.

Ah, the library. When was the last time you thought about it? When I started law school, I had a somewhat mystical notion of what the library would be like. Rays of afternoon sunlight would filter through tall windows, illuminating dust motes and spilling onto the pages of my neatly IRAC-ed briefs. I would sit at a long table, chewing thoughtfully on my pen before delving into an incisive analysis of Carolene Products, fn 4. A delicate lamp with a green glass shade would cast warm light on the law review article I was writing in longhand, with a fountain pen. I would meet a handsome stranger in the stacks and we would fall in love, like the Clintons.

In reality, the law library was devoid of such scholarly romanticism. It was either oppressively hot, resulting in all-girl study groups whose attire was more suggestive of a “Law Students Gone Wild” video than a chat session about conveyances, or cold enough to require indoor scarf-wearing. I spent more time asleep, with my face planted awkwardly on an open book, than I did actually reading. One of the bitchier members of our section patrolled the library with fierce determination, shushing us when we giggled about bizarre tort cases and classroom gunners. When it came time to study for the bar exam, I spent so much time in the library that, toward the end, I would wake up — in my own bed — feeling disoriented by the unfamiliar surroundings, groping anxiously for my highlighters. For years, I couldn’t pass by the building without experiencing the panicky sense that I had forgotten something important about commercial paper.

These memories, which conjure a queasy blend of academic stress, physical discomfort, and the feeling of being incarcerated in a cell made of CFR parts, resulted in a certain degree of library amnesia. Indeed, it hadn’t occurred to me to set foot in a law library for … well, years. Then, a few weeks ago, I received an email that read….

Ed. note: Welcome to the latest installment of “Notes from the Breadline,” a column by a laid-off lawyer in New York. Prior columns are collected here. You can reach Roxana St. Thomas by email (at roxanastthomas@gmail.com), follow her on Twitter, or find her on Facebook.The beauty of being unemployed in the summer is that, well, it’s summer. Rather than sitting in an office that is refrigerated to temperatures at which your summer crop of green beans could be flash frozen, you are free to roam about in flip-flops and attire that would make the most casual Friday blush modestly. But when it rains (as it has done consistently for approximately two months, here in New York), you have time to reflect on the fact that the seasons have changed, and you remain jobless.

During one recent rainy stretch, I was scowling at a half-written cover letter on my computer when the phone rang. It was Lat, who was off on an editorial boondoggle. He was someplace that sounded lovely; unlike home, he told me, the weather there was beautiful. I waited for him to tell me that people in this mythical place also had jobs, and that scones grew on trees.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“Eating Mentos,” I told him, cramming candy into my mouth, “wondering whether today is the day I’ll finally shower. You know; the usual.” As an afterthought, I added, “and I’m applying for jobs. As always.”

“Your job search is like an epic poem!” he said, laughing. There was a pause, and I sensed his next words forming in the empty space. Wait for it, I thought. Wait for it. I waited. A moment later, I was vindicated. “Hey,” he said thoughtfully, “have you ever thought of writing poetry?”

“No,” I told him. “The only thing worse than being unemployed would be a poem about being unemployed.” In the silence that followed, I felt his rebuttal forming.

“Okay,” he finally said. “Maybe an epic poem would be too … collegiate. But why don’t you just try it?” No, I told him. It’s out of the question.

He persisted. We argued. He made concessions (“it doesn’t have to rhyme!”); I objected. Finally, with an exasperated sigh, he pulled rank. “Just try it, Roxana,” he pleaded. “Do this for me.” I groaned. “Fine,” I said. “Can I do something more like haiku, less like Ovid?”

“Great!” he answered triumphantly. And, with that caveat, I direct all complaints to David Lat.

After the jump, Poems from the Breadline.

Ed. note: Welcome to the latest installment of “Notes from the Breadline,” a column by a laid-off lawyer in New York. Prior columns are collected here. You can reach Roxana St. Thomas by email (at roxanastthomas@gmail.com), follow her on Twitter, or find her on Facebook.

Searching for a job is often described as a marathon. “It’s not a sprint,” people will tell you knowingly, often adding that it “might take a few months.” When my own job search began, I heard this pearl of wisdom from countless recruiters, all of whom encouraged me to “be patient.” “Don’t worry,” they told me. “Something will come up.”

Several months on, I have determined that the marathon analogy may be a bit of an understatement. Sure: Giovanna found a job in short order, but for many of us, looking for work is more like an Iron Man, the Iditarod, a long ocean voyage, or a marathon followed by an extended push to the summit of a high peak. Carrying a heavy pack. I can imagine the captain’s log for such a journey. “Day 180,” it would read. “Morale is low. Rations are scarce. The cats are restless; I fear that a mutiny is not far off.”

Not long ago, I stopped by Lat’s office for a chat about this dismal state of affairs. “This isn’t getting any easier,” I said. “Does anyone find a job these days?”

“Think of it as a marathon, Roxana,” Lat said, stroking his chin wisely. He offered me a cup of coffee, which flows from a garden-sized fountain topped with a naked, burbling Cupid standing on one foot, in his office. Then he paused to consider my question. A moment later, it became clear to me that he could not think of anyone who had, in fact, found a job. “I get the picture,” I said glumly.

But a few days later, Lat delivered some encouraging news: he knew someone who had found a job. “It took a while,” he said of his acquaintance, “but he did it.” In fact, Lat explained, it had taken the acquaintance a remarkably long time to find work. Even more remarkable, however, was how long the man’s job search had taken, despite his impeccable credentials and extensive network of well-connected lawyers.

I decided to talk to the lucky fellow about his experience in - and getting out of - the breadline. Perhaps, I thought, he could inspire us, provide some insight, or (at the very least) make us feel better about our collective inability to find gainful employment. A few days later, I reached out to our new friend, who I’ll call “Max.” (He asked that his real name not be used.)

Read about Max’s job search, after the jump.

Ed. note: Welcome to the latest installment of “Notes from the Breadline,” a column by a laid-off lawyer in New York. Prior columns are collected here. You can reach Roxana St. Thomas by email (at roxanastthomas@gmail.com), follow her on Twitter, or find her on Facebook.

At the Big Law Firm where we used to work, my friend Giovanna was the kind of associate that every partner dreams of. She spent nights and weekends at the office. She took on the most tedious tasks without complaining. She did the work of three people. She was conscientious. Sometimes, the partner for whom she worked would call her late at night, at home, with a frantic last-minute request for something that probably could have been done earlier in the day; Giovanna would turn around and go back to work to get it done.

Giovanna survived working for this partner for four years, but she did not survive the round of layoffs that eventually trimmed the herd at the Big Law Firm. In the months before she was “let go,” she had been certain that the figurative guillotine was poised above her waiting head. So, when she was summoned to the managing partner’s office to hear her fate, she said later, she was shocked, but not particularly surprised. She cried when she got the news, but then she gave them a piece of her mind and cleaned out her desk. A few days later, she left without looking back.

For the first few weeks, Giovanna and commiserated about life in the breadline. “I’ll never find a job!” she wailed, and threatened to cash in her 401(k). “Don’t do it,” I told her repeatedly, picturing her out on a ledge, cell phone in hand, ready to take a financially unwise leap.

“This is infuriating,” she said at one point. “No matter how many times I explain that more than 6000 people were laid off from firms, I swear people still look at me and think, ‘You suck, and that’s why you were let go.’ But AT&T lays off 50 people and it makes the CNN scroll and everyone empathizes.” I complained that Cliff didn’t understand that lawyers had emerged as the lepers of the new job market. She complained that her boyfriend, Tony, kept telling her to get a job at the local diner.

But Giovanna is one of the lucky ones. After a few weeks of unemployment, which we spend planning our eventual relocation to the shantytown which, she insists, is bound to spring up in Central Park, a former colleague passes her resume along to a friend of a friend and … before we know it, she has a new job.

Read about Giovanna’s new gig, after the jump.

Ed. note: Welcome to the latest installment of “Notes from the Breadline,” a column by a laid-off lawyer in New York. Prior columns are collected here. You can reach Roxana St. Thomas by email (at roxanastthomas@gmail.com), follow her on Twitter, or find her on Facebook.

We’ve all heard the statistics about attorney layoffs, unemployment, and the sad state of the economy. But do the hard numbers tell the full story of life in the breadline? Inspired by the Harper’s Index, today I offer you the Notes from the Breadline Index.

More of Roxana by the numbers, after the jump.

Ed. note: Welcome to the latest installment of “Notes from the Breadline,” a column by a laid-off lawyer in New York. Prior columns are collected here. You can reach Roxana St. Thomas by email (at roxanastthomas@gmail.com), follow her on Twitter, or find her on Facebook.

After my 30 Rock-induced crying jag, sleep settles over me for a few precious hours. But in the middle of the night, I wake up suddenly, feeling deeply disoriented. It takes me a moment to realize that I am at T.J.’s, in his roommate’s bed, and when I do I am convinced that it is early December. I sit up, tangled in a cobweb of confusion and fighting the vaguely panicky sense that I have to do my Christmas shopping. After looking out the window, I spend a few baffled seconds wondering what happened to the blanket of snow I expected to see covering the ground.

As the fog of sleep clears, I piece together the evening and realize why I am so confused. The last time I stayed at T.J.’s was before Christmas, the weekend of a huge snowstorm. I remember waking up to find everything buried under cottony snow, the streets silent and empty. T.J. and I bundled up and, charmed by the novelty of playing mountaineer, trekked to the deli on our skis. When I close my eyes, it is December again, and I am immersed in the feeling of suspended reality, the simple pleasure of finding a familiar landscape transformed, and the childish delight of a snowy day. That was probably the last time I felt so carefree, I think sadly. That was before I lost my job.

I lie in bed, trying to hold on to the memory. Eventually, I doze off, dreaming that it is December, and that I will wake up to another snow day and the momentary relief from responsibility granted by awesome meteorological events. I will have no choice but to make snowballs and throw them at T.J., stopping only to eat dessert. Then I will go to work and bill lots of hours, and the managing partner will call me into his office to tell me to stop working so hard. “Roxana,” he says in my half-dream, “when do you have time to sleep? Listen: things are a little lean right now, but we think a ginormous bonus is in order.”

Unfortunately, reality intrudes on my dream. Perhaps even more unfortunately, reality seems to be adapted from of an episode of the old TV show “Land of the Lost,” in which the daughter, Holly, encounters her future self while trying to save her family from fearsome lizard people. But, while Holly’s future self comforts her, giving her enough courage to face the task ahead, future Roxana is decidedly cranky and unsupportive. She calls December Roxana (who is frolicking in the snow) inside, and then serves her a steaming bowl of acrid soup, which (I determine later) is an uninspired dream metaphor for disappointment. “Get used to it, Rox,” she says. “There’s more where that came from. And, by the way: you might want to scrap the snowman-building and focus on learning to make your own clothes.” The dream dissipates. I wanted to sleep until things got better, I think irritably. Why does future Roxie have to be such a downer?

More after the jump.