Your Unemployed Daughter

photo credit: digital_monkey

You know how yesterday I was all moans and groans about my freelance gig for the next two weeks? All, Woe to the weary freelancer! So tiring, being in an office all day long! So hard to fit in your blogging, your workouts, and your social time! How do the employed do it?

It does take some getting used to. I am working on a theory about this, but I think it’s because it’s unnatural. People were not meant to sit in tall, heavily air-conditioned buildings staring at computer screens and reading Gawker all day long, listening to loud, plummy-voiced fellows talking about how to get relationship dish from underaged, inexperienced actors at film screenings. People were meant to be active, and enjoy life, and make a difference—do something good for themselves, and each other.

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photo credit: Ana Santos

Ah, back from the beach. Yes, unemployed people do go to the beach. Where else are we to go? The sleeping accommodations, if sandy, are at least free, and the weather (thank you, thank you) has cleared so conveniently that I don’t need even to crawl inside my plastic poncho to avoid the downpours most nights.

It’s the simple life, where all one needs is some stretchy fabric to cover one’s “special” parts, liquid refreshment so as not to dehydrate – perhaps a large iced tea in a styrofoam cup – and spare change for the inevitable beers you must consume else the locals look at you funny. It’s all perfectly wondrous and cheap, but for one thing.

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Have a bite! (I hope you don't choke.)

All hail the humble meatball! A foodstuff more complex and multi-tasking than it seems at first glance, a meatball can be utilized as a protein-packed solo bite, a vehicle for a variety of sauce options, a topping for carbohydrates ranging from rice to noodles, even … a medium of vengeance.

According to the “Neighborhood Post,” a weekly section of my parents’ delightful daily paper, a recent domestic disturbance occurred that consisted of the following: Read the rest of this entry »

Here is one nice thing about work. When you are sitting in front of your computer, perhaps typing, mouse-scrolling, or even just staring thoughtfully at the monitor, people do not generally interrupt you with inquiries as to how much severance “they” would have to offer you for you to actually take it, or offer up their thoughts on how maybe people should just work ANYWHERE if they can’t get a job because isn’t it better to do SOMETHING than nothing, and, one last question, are there any good chick flicks out now that you’d recommend to a group of women?

None of those points of those discussion do I mind, by the way, in themselves, exactly. It’s just … GUYS! I’m trying to write a deeply meaningful, politically astute, culturally solvent post with satirical underpinnings – the one that I know my 3.5 readers have been waiting for since they devoured yesterday’s entry – and it’s really hard when I keep having to turn my thoughts to whether or not Star Trek counts as a chick flick if it has cute guys in it. (It doesn’t.)

However, I really am having a lovely time here in Florida. Today began with a kayak trip (and boy, are my arms tired!) through the mangroves, followed by grilled veggie and mozzarella sandwiches on the beach while observing some pretty dramatic pelican-diving (they dive straight down into the water, beak-first, much like the former employees of a certain company), followed by a leisurely return kayak voyage, a sit on the porch, a light snack…and we’re still beating the rain, though there’s thunder in the distance. So I have little to complain about, and in fact, some (including those in near proximity) would probably say that I am being a bit of a brat.

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shoes, aka, WMDs

Perhaps the worst thing about getting fired (ahem, laid off!) is the other (employed) people thinking the event has been so devastating that you’ve taken to your couch in tears, or worse, aren’t getting out of bed at all … that you are self-medicating (whiskey? Klonopin? Cutting yourself with the sharp edges of your severance agreement?) among pizza boxes and your own human detritus … that, in fact, you’ve suffered something so near death that they can only look at you with lowered, basset hound eyes, pat you on the shoulder, and whisper “Sorry” in low tones when you face them in the bar. (Aside: How many of these people have bought me a drink? Priorities, puhleaze! If I needed a therapist, I’d pay one.)

The worst fear in these well-meaning but misguided souls’ minds is that you, dear Unemployed Personage, will NEVER fully recover your lost earning potential and that you just might take matters into your own hands and be done with it all. Bullshit! Their worst fear, actually, is that they’ll be next. That’s why they have that hangdog expression when you get near, are prone to hugs and cliches, and leave the party early claiming “work the next day” under their breath. The truth: They’re not so sure they want to be associated with the taint of the unemployed. They can smell you (so can I – just cause you’re not working doesn’t mean you don’t need a little reg soap & water, hon).

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The message light is on, but no one is home.