What I Want to be When I Grow Up

I have spent the last 365 days unemployed, clueless as to what to do about that, and searching my little crumpled-up brain for a solution to the problem. I have halfheartedly applied for jobs that I didn't really want. I interviewed for jobs that I knew I wouldn't get. I sat for days trying to think of a job that I could make up all on my own to pay the bills. Through all this, the only true revelation I've had is that the eight-year-old little girl who had her poem published in the Westwood Elementary School newsletter (that was mimeographed in purple ink and handed out to the student body) is still alive and well. I don't want to be a technical writer like my high school guidance counselor tried to convince me I should be for the job security and pay. I don't want to be a corporate shill writing copy for products that I don't like, don't care about, and don't match my writing style. I don't want to sit down and dread what I have to write about; I don't want to write listings for corporate housing, I don't want to describe solar panels or medical equipment, and I sure as hell don't want to be a beat reporter covering the county board meetings every other Wednesday night. I have come full circle to that first "A-ha!" moment when I wasn't even double digits yet: I want to be a writer, and I want to be myself.

I guess this is the hard thing about trying to marry your artistic self with your employment. I have only ever loved to write, and I thought the perfect plan was to make that my job. The problem therein is that what I want to write is not going to garner me a paycheck...at least not a traditional one. There is no office I can go to, write about whatever ridiculous crap pops into my brain, and then walk out at 5 pm with a pat on the back from the boss man who will enthusiastically sign his name on my compensation every two weeks. So, that leaves me with two options: Either get a "real" job and know that every day when I get up and go to work it will not be a palatable endeavor -- I will not feel overjoyed by my work, I will not feel fulfilled from 8 to 5, and I will not enjoy most of it. On the other hand, I can not get a job and sit here and write to no one, for no one except myself. That's far more rewarding (I mean, I don't mind writing for others but I realize that most people aren't going to enjoy my writing as I do). The problem with that scenario, while pleasing to me, will not keep the lights from dimming permanently and the roof from being removed from overhead. It's a conundrum, but not really when you look at it from a realistic viewpoint: I need a job. I just don't want one. And the ones I want I can't seem to find. And the ones I find I can't seem to get. And when I do get close, the whole "super-duper pregnant belly" tends to scare off prospective employers. And when I'm not pregnant anymore, those crappy jobs are not going to seem worth it when I have a little bundle of awesome to hang out with at home.

Can't Even Fit In on Halloween

Halloween is two weeks away. I'm sure you already knew that because, well, every store in the country has had masks and bags of far-too-easy-to-inhale funsize candy bars as soon as you walk in since the end of September. I think Halloween candy should be illegal to buy until the night before Halloween because, you know and I know, you're going to buy a few bags of little treats for the kids a week early under the false pretense of being prepared and it will never see the light of the jack-o-lantern. You should probably be ashamed of yourself, but I won't pass judgment because I just ate four Oreos with DQ Blizzard cream in the middle. (Yes, they make those. And yes, they are impossible to ignore. And no, I'm not sorry that I mentioned them and now you're going to go out and buy some and eat them all. If I have to suffer through this entire bag of deliciously evil chocolate sandwich cookies then so should you).

I love Halloween for two reasons. First, it's my mom's birthday (hi, mom!) and I like her a lot. Always have. Secondly, I really enjoy dressing up. I've only bought one costume that I can remember, and that was about four years ago when I was having a less-than-creative time in my life. Other than that, I've always been a DIY kind of girl. I don't do the "sexy" dress up costume stuff that seems to be the only kind of costumes they sell for women now. I mean, you can be a slut 365 days a year...why make Halloween just another hoochie day? Last year I made about 30 T-bone and ribeye steaks and strips of bacon out of red, brown, and white felt and made myself a meat dress, ala Lady Gaga. I went to a party and sadly no one had any idea who I was supposed to be...or even who I was. I guess that's what I get for going to a party in which I only knew two people. I thought it was clever (or cleaver?). I guess true artists like myself and Gaga just aren't fully appreciated in our time. Or I went to unimaginative party where a guy who bought his costume at the store won the prize for best costume, and that was my mistake.

A meaty costume you could really sink your teeth into.

The year before last, I went to what I thought was supposed to be a zombie-themed party at Alex's Bar in Long Beach. I was pumped. I decided to pull out all my crafty ability and make a zombie costume to end all other zombie costumes. I ran into two problems: once the costume was on, no one knew who I was, and all the other people at the bar disregarded the zombie theme. So, again, I just looked like some weirdo outcast...which happens on most days, not just Halloween. Anyway, I bought a foam bed pad, lots of felt (I do love me some felt) and some paint. I turned myself into ZombieBob DeadPants. I went to the bar full of WonderWomen and Sexy Kittens and walked sideways (I was too wide to fit through the aisle head-on) to the bar. I dug out as much cash from inside of my costume pocket as I could and told the bartender it was going to be a long, sweaty night for me and to keep the Captain Morgan and Coke coming. I had entire conversations with friends despite the fact they had no idea who I was. None. I stood outside on the sidewalk trying to cool down (it's so hot inside foam and felt) and got egged by a passing vehicle full of hooligans. I scared adults. I was a foam abomination, and I won no contests that night. Other than the "Who's the Weirdo  Dressed Up Like a Moldy Piece of Cheese?" Award, which they don't hand out prizes for FYI. But despite all that, I had plenty of fun.

I did not lay that egg.

Emily was Princess Leia (so adorable) and then there was me...with foam brains poking out of my costume.

I've even gone as far as dressing my car up in the past. My old Scion xB was a toaster on wheels, so for Halloween two years in a row I dressed it up quite literally as a toaster. On wheels.

Toast is ready! I parked in the handicapped spot...no one argued.

Light and Dark on the back window, so when I turned on the wiper blade it went between the two settings.

The following year, we stepped it up to Pop Tarts (frosted strawberry, of course).

With Halloween looming in the near distance, I haven't had much energy to think or work on a costume this year. First of all, I have no where to go anyway. Secondly, I am a hundred months pregnant (at least it feels that way), so my only real options are to either dress up as a beached whale or a penguin (I figure I have the waddle down, I might as well use it). Maybe inspiration will strike me a day before Halloween, when I'm good and hopped up on those funsize candy bars, and I'll get the energy to make a costume. I can roam the streets of the neighborhood and scare the children with my girth! That actually sounds like fun now...I should go buy some felt.

What the Hell?

Soooo...um, yeah. This number keeps showing up. Not only did this number present itself when I checked my blog (see the screen cap from two posts ago), but I checked my resume that I posted online and this is what came up. My writing, whether it be for pleasure or for job procurement, seems to draw the number of the beast. Any ideas on why? Anyone? Go ahead and try to make me feel better about this, please.