Call Me “Ishmael, The Unemployed”

It is Monday.  The first day of the second week of unemployment.

I went to my mailbox for the first time in days.  It was jammed with junk mail and bills.  When you’re unemployed, you tend to notice things—like the whiteness of the envelopes bills come in—it’s quite stark actually.    You don’t really notice that when you’re gainfully employed.  In fact, unemployment makes the whiteness so bright, it almost hurts the eyes.    Certainly their contents are painful.

I am hemorrhaging money in ways that when I was employed and $olvent, I didn’t notice.  Now, I see a penny on the ground and have a damn near orgasmic reaction.   Who knew copper was an aphrodisiac?    Well, it’s hardly that which a $100 bill would be, but well–diddle me this, Batman, right?

So, it’s Week #2 of unemployment and here I sit at my newly refurbished computer, now Chlamydia free!!  I’m applying for jobs left and right—corporate ones which require that I wear my big girl suit and the kinds where flip flops would be deemed formal.  I hate being jobless, but I should be so used to it by now.    This is my fourth go round with unemployment since November of 2000.   Sad, huh?  I’ve spent the majority of the new millennium looking for work.

But you get good at having it bad after a while.  I know about exercise and making use of your time.  Making sure you spread out the errands you have to run in order to keep busy and I would do that now, if I had a car.   For those of you wondering, my car…the Boss Taurus will be out of the body shop just in time for Thanksgiving.   It was my gift to her for her Bat Mitzvah–nose job, remember?

Otherwise, I continue to keep my vow of soap opera celibacy.  I will not get hooked ever again.  And unlike times before, I refuse to watch Oprah.  I feel the woman has become so arrogant that she repulses me and she’s also reached this sublime level of exclusivity.  She’s ridiculously out of touch with the common folk and the distance only increases.  To me, she seems to be an uptight elitist.    I would think now even her bowel movements have their own valets.

Additionally,  I’ve been listening to a lot of obscure music that’s become the soundtrack to my reading and I’m reading about the damnedest things lately.  I’m on an enlightenment kick and I’ve been reading about The Third Eye and the varying levels of the awakened state.    I know enough now to know I have been asleep for most of the last two years.

And if that’s not strange enough,  I’ve been flirting posthumously with H.L. Mencken.   I have a crush on his wit and love of satire.  He was brilliant!

Mencken died in late January, 1956. He’s buried in the Loudon Park Cemetery in his native Baltimore.  On his tombstone, you’ll find this epitaph:  “If, after I depart this vale, you ever remember me and have thought to please my ghost, forgive some sinner, and wink your eye at some homely girl.”

My God, what is it about me and my attraction to utter assholes?

I’ve also been ignoring creditors and answering a few e-mails.   And if you know me at all personally or even through this blog, you have a fairly decent sense of who I am and what I’m not and I am decidedly not an overtly “girly girl”.  I’ve never owned wooden art featuring ducks or geese wearing gingham bonnets.  I don’t wear ruffles and hair ribbons.   I wear jeans like a Teamster and can cuss like a stevedore and I laugh at rough, absurd mannish humor.  I can burp one minute, then be moved to tears by glory of God’s Technicolor at sunset and make no mistake,  I can and will defend myself, my integrity and that of my friends and kin to NO END,  but even as I verbally rip you a new vas deferens,  I still believe wholeheartedly in my power and strength as a feminine woman.

What’s with this build-up; this verbose preface, you ask?   Well, I’ll tell you.

I received an e-mail today from my friend who is, I swear to God, a Mage; a man of amazing magic who’s completely empathic with regard to how I’m feeling at any given moment.  He knows me well and  often sends me things that make me smile, make me think and mercifully don’t require that I forward it on to seven people–including him–or risk some inane malady like vaginal dryness for a fortnight.

This is entitled,  “You Are Special Indeed”.

Someone will always be prettier

Someone will always be smarter

Someone’s house will always be bigger.

Someone will drive a much nicer car.

Someone’s children will be better behaved and do better in school.

Someone’s husband will act kinder, more affectionate and be more willing to help around the house.

OK just let it go.   Make every attempt to love yourself and your circumstances…now and tomorrow.

Think about  this: the prettiest woman in the world can be battling a certain hell in her own heart and soul.

The most popular woman at work may not be able to have children.

The richest woman you know–the one with the house, the car, the clothes and  the live-in maid might be very lonely….and in a house full of people.

Every success story has known failure; every beaming, happy heart has known heartache.

So, love yourself.  Love who you are right this minute.    Love who you’ve been; love who you will be.

To the world you might be one person, but to one person, you might be the world.

You are to me

And then he signed it with his name, followed by “be happy you big, old bitch!!!!”

And with that, how can I not be?




  1. You know if you have too much time on your hands you can always spend a little of that time writing on my blog. But in no way think a paycheck comes along with the offer.

    That friend of yours sounds great. If he isn’t gay or otherwise taken, marry him. Any guy that can call you a big old bitch and you still like him, well he is a keeper. Besides you can’t legally hit him for saying such things till you are married.

  2. LOL @ Kati–I think she’s onto something!

    I’m sorry to hear you’re looking for work. A most unpleasant state, that. I hope something wonderful falls out of the sky for you soon. I’d say you’re due. Big hugs to you, m’dear!

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