Sitting at Home, IS my Job

Finding a job is one of the more depressing things in life. It's demoralizing, humiliating and difficult. Difficult on the level of locating the proverbial needle in a haystack. What's more, is the trouble with deciding what you really want to do in your life. There are people in the world, ambitious people, who are born with the inherent knowledge that they want to be a doctor, a lawyer or an NBA star, (aren't all kids, at one point or another, going to be an NBA star? I was going to be the first female NBA player, but then I actually played team ball and hated the whole teamwork thing, especially when some jerk would set a pick and I'd run right into the damn thing) and I can't stand these people.

They see their goal like a distant, hazy tower. But it's there, you know, and they plow forward, toppling goals like they're sand castles on the beach. They make it look easy and you know they'll get there, leaving you behind in the process, staring at your hands and feet, sort of grunting, wondering what these limbs do, swinging them slightly, trying to get the hang of it so you, too, can topple sand castle-goals.

Anyway, that's me. Still trying to get the hang of my limbs. Still unsure of how to topple goals. To put it more accurately, trying to figure out which goals are the ones that will take me where I want to go. That's tough, because I have no idea where I really want to go. That's why I got my M.A. I didn't know what to do after I got my B.S. and so I thought, "Well, I like studying folklore . . . so I'll just stay on, here, and get my master's in folklore." Now that I have it, I have no idea what to do with the rest of it (get a PhD? Or gamble and finish my book first and become a hot-shot, rich author ala John Grisham and Danielle Steel? It's the quandary of the century).

But I should be glad I'm not an entertainer, or something. You know, a girl waiting to get her lucky break in Hollywood, willing to do most anything, clammering to be on the screen, to be in the limelight, to be noticed, please, just notice me. You might argue with me on that because I have a blog and I'm writing so you'll notice me. But it's different. I write this and you come to me.

In Hollywood, the producer or director sits in their little chair with one leg over his knee, drinking a latte and smirking at the crowds of hopeful, big stars. And you know all of them want to be a star, even the set guys, building things and the mic guys, holding boom mics and the key-grip guys, handling the lights. They all want to be stars. They're all hoping for some twist of fate, say a twisted ankle, yeah, the lead guy falls and twists his ankle. The director, on a whim tells key-grip Ted to do the lead guy's lines and since Ted has studied acting at such notable places as Riverdale High School, he completely wows the director. "Ted, you're in, Bill, with the sprained ankle, is out. Wow, what a lucky twist of fate, eh?" And Ted, who had his beginnings as a humble key-grip man, is on his way to being the next Brad Pitt (because it just so happens they're also all very handsome, the set workers and caterers). It's a beautiful story. Someone should make a movie out of it.

Most importantly, it's more depressing than my situation. Why is it more depressing? Because it's depressing to think of all those foolish people in Hollywood, desperate to be noticed. And then when one of them makes it, all the rest of us look at them with respect and awe. And that's depressing too. What have they done that's truly respectable? They've wanted to be noticed. They've wanted acclaim. It's like they never got past elementary school.

Well anyway. It's not that I don't like to watch movies, because I do and I have my favorite actresses and actors and directors and all that (Minnie Driver, John Cusack, Woody Allen, yes Woody Allen, don't argue with me). But while a part of me watches and loves it, another part of me looks on in revulsion and loathes it. I'm constantly torn. That's me, that's my entire life in a nutshell. Constantly torn. It makes for a difficult existence.

And that's why I'm dying without a job. A part of me likes the freedom and wants to simply write. Stay at home, write, take little coffee breaks to go watch the world go by at a coffee shop (but not for the coffee, for the entertainment of it all and to get ideas, you know), finish my book, try to make it as a freelancer (what a beautiful word: freelance. I think it's more beautiful than any other word, even the famed cellar door). But this other part of me, the frightened practical part is like, "Get out there. GET A JOB! Get benefits. Somethings going to happen, oh no oh no oh no! You've got to do something. You need money and benefits, the shit's going to hit the fan." It's a very frantic, scared voice. And I'm torn. And I'm humbled. And I don't even know what kind of job I want to have.

The good news is that Stoker got a job. He started yesterday. I'm quite sure I married the best man in the world. I'm not quite sure about his choice, however.