It has come to my attention that the title of my blog is misleading. This brazen unemployment label (a topical issue, thus one which should be alluded to frequently) was only accurate in its inception, those end-of-summer evenings of generous daylight which in turn maximized the time I spent fleeing in terror from big feathery birds at the park, all avian megalomaniacs, thick, manipulating beasts with unpigmented plumage and belligerent territorial obsessions.
But that that was September, and lest we forget, Midwest souls grow harder after Midwest winters. Returning to the park during an early spring thaw, I was delighted to note that I'm no longer intimidated by such Darwinian thugs. All such things between Lake Shore Drive and Lake Michigan — so recently adorned and decadent in appearance — now look emaciated and naked, like a plain bagel. And I am glad for this, finally able to see these birds for what they truly are: Diseased bands of fraudulent egg-layers; scatological maniacs drunk off their assumed white superiority and long sensuous necks.
Freed from this ornithological rage, I'm able to see how this "blog" needs a name change. I, too, am not person I once was.
**********
The word "blog" feels better in quotes. This might be because it will always be a nonsense word, a particular combination of consonants better suited to be the friendly monster in a children's book:
The Blog is gelatinous, like Jell-o, which is something I like to eat. It is also the color turquoise. Nana says this is because the Blog likes to blend in with her wallpaper, which is something the Blog does when it feels scared. The Number One thing the Blog is scared of is the vacuum cleaner, which I like, because it means I can pretend the Blog is scared when I don't feel like cleaning up. Papa jokes that the Blog is like Rufus, our dog, because they are always whining about being hungry and sometimes eat out of the garbage can.
"Blog" is a also scary word because it brings with it the constant aftershock of self-conscious scrutiny; I fall into a pattern when I post things online that goes something like: post. regret for no reason. feel stupid. glad no one reads. rewrite. pray for technology-deprived seclusion to free me from these impulses. In such moments of shame, I daydream at length about barren retreats worthy of only the most brilliant of Russian mathematicians.
************
Perhaps this blog should be called something like, "Journal of a Semi-regularly Employed Ex-English Major Who Occasionally Feels Ashamed of What Can Only be Called a Passing Negligent Attitude Toward Essential Career Networking." But meta-whining aside, the point of all these changing titles is that everything comes down surviving the rat race via the necessary hustling of Self. (This theory is predicated on the belief that rats are into competitive racing and—as suggested by a coffee mug I once saw—also like to wear tiny sneakers and sweatbands and tank tops. Additionally, this theory assumes that rats would actually feel like racing you. Maybe they just want to go home and take a nap. Furthermore, we'd have to suppose these rats are ethically minded. Otherwise, they might try to slip you a little somthin' under the table for a "job" well done — cash and favors you'd probably accept because you're just a human being, and you are deeply confused about why you have to race a rat wearing tiny jogging shorts. Then you are disqualified from the race. Do you know what I mean? [Because I don't].)
But when we talk about the hustling of Self, we mean to be talking about freelancing. The proper title for this position is sometimes "independent contractor." This usually means you work frenzied hours for an overburdened manager for a few days or weeks, procure a paycheck, and spend the rest of your time lounging around in a terrycloth robe eating crumbs from last year's Girl Scout Thin Mints, which you have triumphantly discovered behind a scary plastic jug of cheap vodka in your freezer and an even scarier bag of textureless and suspicious yellow cubes that are (cruelly? humorously?) labeled "Assorted Vegetables." Of these things you ponder: You so hungry. Also: Why is all your food yellow or brown? And finally: You should ask your mother to stop sending you Girl Scout cookies, because such shaving-sized remnants remind you of a real problem, which is such remnants are part of a wider and mildly annoying but somehow still socially acceptable pyramid scheme designed to sound "fun" to an adorable but badge-driven and disgustingly underage and exploitable labor force.
Also, with this bag of vegetables, you need to talk to someone about your obvious negligence in allowing such things to exist inside your apartment. As you'd been scavenging for these delicious—but now stigmatized!—cookie crumbles, you reason this: Nothing would get you to consider putting these —carrots? zucchini?—in your mouth. Besides, you get enough energy from eating those cookies, and enjoy exercising off your high-fructose hallucinations by singing opera and sighing dramatically while hanging one leg out of your bedroom window. This Edie Beales charade continues until your maintenance guy comes over and says you are a home! I have a drilla large hole-a in youra wall tomorrow! which is building code for "time to find another on-site gig, you disgusting excuse for a woman," and also, "Please put on a pair of pants," and "No, not those pants. Is it possible you own something without an elastic waist?"
When such moments occur, you like to remind yourself that you do own lots of pants, and wear those pants a lot. It's just that this general lifestyle of pantslessness helps one avoid both suits and smarminess, two of your greatest dislikes. Also, this lifestyle helps you not have to talk about work. When you freelance in an information-sensitive field, such as educational publishing, you typically accept jobs from various clients who all in competition with one another. This means that someone asks, "What are you working on?" the appropriate answer is actually, "I'm not at liberty to say."
To be safe, one should use a form of this response in every circumstance. Take Bob, for instance. Bob pretends to work in an office when he is bored and has just made up this dialogue for our benefit, which is kind of funny in a circular-logic sort of way because I just made up Bob:
BOB: [unwraps sandwich at desk]
JIM: [walks past Bob, making appreciative guttural sounds]: Man, Bob, I could smell that from over here. [Admires sandwich.] Where did you go? Glenn's Diner?
BOB: [casts eyes severely toward ceiling and sighs dramatically as he lowers the sandwich]: IF ONLY I COULD GIVE YOU THE ANSWER TO THAT QUESTION!!!
[Exit BOB]
[Fade light]
[SCENE]
[Director's note: Avoid spotlight on JIM at END SCENE. Central purpose of ACT I SCENE III is to highlight the overindulgent fantasy life of BOB and how coupling that with his frequent isolation aggravates him into behavior his daughter will call "increasingly infantile" in ACT II SCENE II.]
No comments:
Post a Comment