Unemployment: Day 24

Last weekday of being unemployed. THANK THE LORD. Starting Monday I'll be a contributing member of society again. (happy dance)

end scene.

Unemployment: Day 9

First relaxed morning of being unemployed! High five! Ever since Day 1, when I endeavored to have a thoroughly lazy day spent exclusively in front of the television, but instead found myself attacking my apartment with all manner of cleaning equipment and chemicals for about six continuous hours, I haven't been able to relish the upside of joblessness. There are things to do and worry about and get in order, and my headache-inducing "to do" list outmuscles the urge to lounge at every turn. I start streaming LOST only to discover my former employers terminated my insurance before I even stopped working, and before I know it, I'm making six different phone calls, writing ten emails, and looking up everything from employee rights to how to get my birth control from Canada on the cheap (check out mycycle.org by the by).

But today, my first on the East Coast in a long time, my "do something!" energy submitted to a sleepy morning in bed reading David Sedaris's delightful Naked. Next, I meandered on facebook, looked through all the photos I've taken in the past ninety days, slowly sipped a cup of coffee, and decided to write a blog post. Los Angeles with its warmer weather and laid back lifestyle is supposed to promote relaxation, but I'm finding thirty degree temperatures and snow-sludge underfoot to be just what I need. Hell, it's almost noon, and I'm not even dressed yet.

***

Okay. So, I just looked up at my computer clock, which is still on California time, and realized it's not even 9am PST yet - the time zone I'm technically adjusted to - and I've been up for four hours already. I SHOULD still be sleeping; instead I've read half a book, answered a ton of emails, organized my photos, and contemplated cleaning my friend's apartment -- not because it needs cleaning, but because I'm apparently a CRAZY person. Awesome.

One day, I swear, I'll get this whole slovenly, sit-around-all-day, unshowered, unemployed thing, and then I'll know I've really done something with my time. Until then, thank you EST for making it at least appear like I'm capable of chilling out.

Unemployment: Day 1

Applied for unemployment benefits. I love me some cheese, especially the government kind.

Goal for today: compose a list of things to accomplish during Unemployment Staycation 2010. A small sampling of items to include -- CLEAN. Laundry. Clean more. Oil change. Fix car windshield. Write. GET JOB.

All fer now...

L.

'member me?

Dearest Darlingest Loyal Readers:

It is now January 2010, and I have not written you since a full year ago. I know that you worried about my safety, questioned my devotion, and wondered what you'd done to deserve such neglect. I know you told yourself the only reasonable, acceptable, nay--rational explanation was that I'd been a victim of some horrific accident which left me without the use of my typing fingers. And I know immediately after that thought you chastised yourself for wishing me harm; that you said, "No, no, let it not be that. But let it also not be that she has just abandoned us. Let it be something else. Something I can't quite imagine, maybe can't quite understand. Something beyond reprieve, beyond concern, beyond that which needs any explanation at all..."

And so I say, Hello. Happy New Year. I shall write you more awkward tales soon.

Much love,
L.

Two Things.

(This one goes out to Emily J.)

Hospital or parking garage.
Parking garage or DMV.

Laughing or singing.

Singing or dancing.
Books or internet.
Peanut butter or ice cream.
Elbow or knee.

Diapers or dentures.
Ice cream or coffee.
Obama or Bartlet.
Oklahoma or Denny's (the restaurant).

The Ebola Virus or Hitler.
Fork or spoon.
French accent or British accent.
British or Spanish.

Chess club or cheerleading.
Braces or acne.
Law school or clown school.
Television or telephone.

1 eye or 2 noses.
Green or orange.
Dictionary or thesaurus.
Scientology or Britney Spears.

Oak tree or maple tree.
Theater or movies.
Movies or music.
Aunt or uncle.
New York or Los Angeles.
You or me.

Sports or politics.
Veganism or celibacy.
Oral sex or cheese.

Alcohol or hand-eye coordination.

Limerick or Haiku.
Poetry or photographs.
Swing set or motorcycle.
Mountains or ocean.
Electricity or Europe.

Forgive or forget.
Beginnings or endings.
Fast or slow.
Aliens or mermaids.
The ability to yawn or sweatshirts.

Southwest Flight 3865

Dear God,

I do not know a real prayer for flying (is there one?), but I hope this will suffice. Please make sure we all arrive at our destinations safely and smoothly. Please, also, let there be no scary turbulence or screaming children. If for some reason it must be one or the other, I’d prefer turbulence to screaming children as long as it’s under control, and not that scary. Please take note.

We’re taking off now. Once again, and sorry to be repetitive, but please help us all get to our destinations safely and soundly. Thank you. I’m very fond of my life, and I don’t want to lose it, if that’s cool with you. By the way, thanks for all that life stuff, and the people in it, and all the joys and beauty in the world. I know I probably don’t say it enough. (That said, this war and killing stuff has got to go. Are You really working fulltime on that, or what?)

Since You’re listening, God, I have a few more things I’d like to go over with You. As mentioned I’m very grateful for all the wonderful people, experiences, comforts, yada yada in my life, but to be honest, everything is not as copasetic as it could be, You know. I mean, I’m thankful for the majority of it, but just a few hours ago when my roommate dropped me off at the airport and informed me that she’s moving out, and I have eleven days to find a new roommate before our lease expires and I’m fucked… I’m not really thankful for that. I suppose I should have faith that all things have some greater purpose, even this new roommate situation, but God, you know me well enough to know that whole "what's meant to be will be" song and dance doesn’t really jibe with me. You can make lemonade out of lemons, sure, but that doesn’t mean you wouldn’t have been better off with oranges in the first place, You get what I’m saying?

I know the only time You really hear from me these days is when I think that maybe I’m about to die, but please don’t hold that against me. If You can help me find a roommate who is not crazy, preferably before my lease runs out and I have to be all homeless, I would be most appreciative. Thanks.

Dear God, why is it all failed wannabe stand up comedians, once they realize they don’t have what it takes, decide to become flight attendants? It’s really not fair. We have no choice but to listen to them ramble on and on over that God-awful (sorry) intercom thing. There’s literally no escape. I can just imagine that thought process: “Well, I’ve been booed off every stage I’ve ever gone on, but I swear I have talent! I swear I am funny! If only there were some way to get a roomful of people together for a two-hour plus set, lock them up, suspend them in the air so they can't leave, and forbid them to get out of their seats. Aha! I’ve got it! Flight attendant school, here I come!” Not cool.

What else, G? I guess You have a pretty good sense of what I’m up to these days, with that whole all-powerful, omnipresent thing You have going on. Life is fairly good (minus that roommate shit). Job’s going really well. Please don’t fuck that up, okay? (That was more to me than You.) I still don’t have a boyfriend. Surprise, surprise. If this long period of solitude is somehow "meant to be" as well, fine, but You should know an active sex life can be just as meaningful. Really. Think about it.

Ok, we’re landing. Once again, please try not to kill us on the way down. Please please please please please please please….

Awesome. I’ve not died. Thanks, God.

Talk to you on the return flight.

Amen,
Lijah

The Great Food Strike of 2000

In the summer of 2000 when I was sixteen, several circumstances conspired against my father and step mom such that all four of their offspring - my brother, my step brother, my step sister, and I - were under their roof for a continuous number of months. My brother and I usually enjoyed one of the standard joint custody arrangements: every Wednesday and every other weekend we spent with our father; the rest of the week we spent with our mom. I never quite understood the schedule my step siblings had with their parents, but it seemed to be derived from some sort of family court algorithm, dependent on the tides and the waning of the moon and the number of car horns beeped in any given six day period. But that particular summer, their dad was incapacitated with knee surgery at the same time that my mom was mid-move into a house that had yet to be affixed with doors, or lighting fixtures, or even some sort of flooring, and so, for the first time, all six of us lived together under one roof for two consecutive months.

At first I think my dad and Shelley saw this as an opportunity -- a chance to bring the family together, a chance to bond and grow, without the intrusion of exes and school schedules and the constant back and forth lifestyle to which we'd become accustomed. But all too quickly the Brady Bunch utopia they'd envisioned faded away, leaving behind nothing but four growing teenagers, who were all very hungry.

Four mouths to feed was something our parents were not used to, and they didn't take the added expense all that well. If you met my dad and step mom, you would immediately conclude that they are both kindhearted, responsible, caring people. You would be right. Yet, somehow something short-circuited in their collective brains that summer. For whatever reason, their answer to the growing grocery bill was to just stop buying groceries.

It began somewhat gradually. The two of them would go out for dinner and tell the four of us to "fend for ourselves." The first time, they left us a twenty, and we ordered pizza. The second time, they forgot, so we pooled our money and ordered pizza. The third time, we simply consulted the fridge. Fairly soon, certain food items began to disappear. Deli meat, sandwich bread, and fresh fruit and vegetables would fail to be replaced upon the fine, white, ever-emptier shelves of our refrigerator. I admit, I was guilty of gobbling up some of the luxury item produce: I've never been able to resist a crisp green cucumber or a ripe, red, beefsteak tomato. Some parents would wish to be so lucky. Mine panicked. I recall quite vividly the day I looked upon the kitchen counter to discover a beautiful tomato wearing a post-it note that said "Do not eat."

About this time, I was fortunate enough to have a job waiting tables in a restaurant. Working a double shift guaranteed me the delight of an expertly-cooked, ample meal around 4 pm and scrapes and scraps of bread and cheesecake until midnight. At the end of the night, I would take home the extra slices of bread bound for the garbage. Leftover rice would get piled into empty mozzarella containers. Anything both transportable and edible was sneaked away to feed my brothers and sister. I should clarify that our parents hadn't left us to starve; there was always Smart Start and cottage cheese in the fridge. Not counting the heisted carbohydrates from Nata's Restaurant, cereal and cottage cheese was the bulk of our sustenance for two solid months.

I'm now coming to the point in the story where a lesson kicks in. This is the appropriate place to recount how I suddenly overheard that my dad had fallen on hard times while eavesdropping on a telephone conversation. Shelley and he used "dinner out" as code for "work a night shift as a telemarketer slash industrial laborer from six to eight pm." The night shift was at the local cereal company, which happened to produce Smart Start and, inexplicably, cottage cheese. All the puzzle pieces were coming together, and what was clearest of all was that they had, as parents aught, a plan, the grander scheme, the larger picture in mind.

The real truth was that my dad had grown up on a farm. He was the child of immigrants. He learned to speak Hungarian well before English, and he was forced to eat chicken fat sandwiches every single Thursday of his childhood. I'm not sure how these particular facts figure in, but they seem to be the type of idiosyncratic background information that explains idiosyncratic adulthood. If it does in this case, feel free to explain to me how so.

Theorize though I may, I'm pretty sure my dad and Shelley simply got lazy and decided they could stop being parents for a while. This wasn't a hindsight discovery; as the summer dragged on, my siblings and I began referring to the situation as the Great Food Strike. We were aware of the insanity in real time. It was one of the shining moments in the history of my childhood when I realized my parents, in actuality, had no greater plan than making it through the day. When my mother was little, her mother - my dear dear grandmother - once tied her to a tree for several hours as punishment for something so negligible I've forgotten the crime. On another occasion, my grandmother made my mom wear a sign that said "Don't Feed" because she periodically came home from various friends' houses with little appetite for dinner. Parents are too often enlarged versions of children, making it up as they go along or simply refusing to act, erratically subject to whims of selfishness, still wielding the battle cry of "I don't wanna." Parents, as most people find out in their twenties, are human. Perhaps my parents' problem was that they forgot to keep that secret under wraps.

In my current job, some days I'm a genius and some days I can't tell the difference between "know" "no" "now" and "shellfish." What if my "job" was caring for another human being? It's a scary thought that my days of ineptitude might affect whether a child is fed or flossed or tucked in tightly. If I am wise, but still inept, all of my grander mistakes will happen well before my child turns sixteen and knows better. Then again, while I have doubts about my parenting abilities, should having them become necessary, I'm confident that when the going gets tough and the grocery bill gets high, I might make a bad call or two, but I would never call it quits.

I'm lucky that my parents did enough right to right the wrongs -- and, what's more, I get to turn all their transgressions into anecdotal justification of my own adulthood inanity. Everything comes back around. Case in point: my poor father got sacked with a daughter who wants to be a writer of quirky family comedies. Talk about karma. It's not all bad - the stories, the memories, the fatherly example he set - but in the cosmic, karmic nature of things, all the stories worth sharing stir the dirt, point their grubby fingers, and lay the bittersweet, retroactive blame.

The most memorable part of the Great Food Strike, which ended as the fall began, was observing that post-it note tomato as it sat on the counter. I watched it go from plump and red, to slightly squishy, with wrinkled skin, to soft, discolored, and undesirable, to downright rotten and covered in mold. And still the yellow post-it read, "Do not eat." If there is a lesson in this parable - and frankly, there might not be - perhaps it's that a penny saved is sometimes a penny wasted. Perhaps it's that restaurant jobs can have timely, unexpected perks. Perhaps it's that all things must end -- food strikes, summer breaks, and - thank God - childhood.