the ignorant warmth

Yes, dog of mine, now would be the perfect time for you to get some sort of skin ailment. No, I can’t afford to take my wife out to dinner, but sure, you go ahead and scratch yourself raw. I’ll just call the vet and schedule an appointment for you. Would you prefer morning or afternoon? Cash or charge? Will you need sedatives because you act like a gorilla on LSD whenever you’re in public? Sure, I’ll pick up some of those for you, too. Don’t worry about paying me back - I’ll put it all on a credit card and when the bill comes, I’ll fake my death and buy a new identity from one of those Mexican coyotes. You can get a new identity, too! How ‘bout we turn you into a dog that CAN GET A JOB AND PAY FOR YOUR OWN DAMN MEDICATION. But in the meantime, you just sit on the floor all doped up and we’ll watch the rash magically disappear over the course of the next few weeks. Hey, It’s time for Maury! You like Maury! Go ahead and lie down and watch TV. Can I get you anything? Milkbone? Rawhide? Punch in the Face? Some best friend you are. You did this to me on purpose.

Other than charging 300 smacks on a vet visit for a dog who likes to rub salt in my financial wound, I’ve been working the mall job and applying for employment like crazy. This week’s city of focus is Raleigh, North Cackalacky. Yes, scenic Raliegh, the City of Oaks (because of all the oak trees, I guess). The job listings in that city have been blowing up for the past few weeks and I want in on the economic boom. Know someone in Raleigh? Put me in touch with them and I’ll knock their socks off with my expertise, talent and ravishing charm.

The job I interviewed for last week may be slipping out of my grasp. I haven’t heard anything back yet and the job listing has been removed from the website. An email inquiring about the position has yet to be returned. What is the proper etiquette on a follow up phone call, anyway? Are people still doing that? How long am I supposed to wait? A week? A few days? I don’t want to seem too desperate, but I’ve already counted my chickens. They haven’t even hatched yet! By my count, I’ll have 7 chickens this time next week.

For now, I’m sticking to the game plan and sending out my credz and networking like a champ. Trying to remain positive, but it’s tough - especially when I see people around me getting all the things they deserve. Houses. Babies. Raises. Recognition. I’m not jealous. I’m not jealous. I’m not jealous. But my little sister is about to buy a house at 23. I’m 30 and can’t even afford a car payment. I’m very happy for her. But really, what did I do wrong? I can blame myself all day long (because my poor educational and financial choices have put me in this situation), but I’m trying to look at as a new beginning and the start of something great. I’m ready. My wife is ready. Let’s do this. I’m gonna get me a jobby-job that will allow me to live a somewhat normal life. Who’s with me?!?! Hello?

This is Day 76, folks. I’m poking my dog with a stick. He doesn’t even blink! He’s so doped up. This is great. More résumés to be sent. Get ready, future employer! You’re about to lose your socks.

First things first, I’ll tell you that Thursday’s interview went well. Nothing concrete came out of it as of yet, but I’m hoping to hear something Monday or Tuesday. The job has something to do with coordinating medical conferences and creating content for the marketing materials associated with them. Could I do it? Hells-to-the-Yeah, I could do it. I’m not sure how many candidates they’re interviewing, but I’m hoping none of them are as awesome, articulate and devastatingly handsome as I. If they offer me the job, I’m taking it. Okay, at this point, if Burger King offers me a job, I’m taking it.

The following has to do with Michael Jackson. Feel free to stop reading now if you’ve had enough MJ-talk.

Okay, so Michael Jackson died. Pretty big news, eh? I feel like part of my childhood died, too. The first memory I have of music is rolling around on the floor with cassette player listening to Thriller. I remember telling my great grandmother to “Beat It” when she came to the door for a visit (because I gave her such a hard time and I was a hilariously devilish child. I probably kicked her Alzheimer’s into high gear). Anyway, I kept being a fan of MJ all throughout my grade school and even high-school years - when it soooo wasn’t cool to be an MJ fan. But I made people laugh with my imitations and my dance routines. I even entered a MTV contest where I shot a video of me dancing in the hopes of winning a trip to Neverland Ranch. My mom still has the tape. We bust it out every couple of years so my siblings and wife can make fun of me. Good times. Looking back, I’m glad I didn’t win because of the whole Jesus Juice debacle, but still - saying I was a big fan is an understatement. In 1991, I bought MJ’s Dangerous and Pearl Jam’s Ten at the same time. The direction I went in musically was Pearl Jam, but I always respected what MJ could do on stage and what he did musically as a child and with Off the Wall and Thriller. Off the Wall is an amazing album - totally underrated in my opinion. But I digress…

To this day, I still rock out to the Jackson 5 or the old MJ albums every once in a while because, put simply, it’s just good music that brings a smile to my face. Hell, we were even introduced at our wedding reception to “Wanna Be Startin’ Something” and later on in the evening, there’s video of me moonwalking to “Billie Jean”. His music has been with me my entire life, and the influence those songs - those beats - those sometimes silly lyrics - had on me is enormous.

So, he was an odd fellow. No doubt about it. He destroyed himself, image-wise. I saw the Martin Brashear interview where Michael declared that he didn’t see anything wrong with sharing his bed with other people’s children. I’m sorry, what? Obviously, something was mentally wrong with this dude. On so many levels. I mean, really, really wrong. Really. But still, the music and how he performed it is phenomenal. You can’t deny that. I spent the past couple of days shuffling through my MJ collection and dancing around the house like a fool, just celebrating the music of my youth. That’s all.

This is Day 73, folks. Hoping to hear back from the folks who interviewed me the other day. I get the sense that the economy is starting to build itself up again. I hope so.

I took the advice from Dr. Dre and Snoop Dogg and have been chilling ‘til the next episode, and I think the next chapter of my unemployment is about to begin. The next episode is here, dear readers, and it’s freakin’ scary.

Truth: After our wedding, we compiled a small amount of savings to which we contributed if we ever had an extra few bones lying around after our fancy dinners at Mexican restaurants and our exotic and extravagant weekend jaunts to Buffalo. It wasn’t much, but it was a start to what I hoped would one day become a down-payment on a home or at least a super big TV. Whatever that money was destined to become, I’ll never know. Instead, it became rent, car payments, insurance payments, credit card payments and groceries. It’s almost gone. In about a week, it will ALL be gone. Nothing. Not a dime.

Truth: Some bills will not be paid this month. Sorry, but I can’t. I don’t have it. I would gladly offer you another form of payment, but last time I checked, you don’t accept a pillowcase full of dog hair. I have to decide which bills to pay and which ones to forego. I suppose I’ll skip the ones that will have the least negative impact on my credit. Like the electric bill. Heh… don’t turn me off just yet, Dominion Virginia Power. I need the internet so I can write blogs and apply to jobs. And speaking of the internet, I’m sorry to say, but that’s next on my cancellation list - which is hard for me to swallow because I use it for some freelance writing gigs (that obviously aren’t paying enough for me to keep the service).

Truth: My wife and I each have an iPhone, which was a stellar and affordable choice this time last year. However, I’m embarrassed to pull it out of my pocket now. I feel like one of those people who are buying their groceries with food stamps and claim to not have enough money to feed their babies, yet they have professionally manicured nails, designer clothes and drive an Escalade with big shiny rims. How the hell can I afford the service plan for our phones, but still risk having the power turned off? Well, I can’t afford it. But we’re under contract. I’m not sure if I can swap out our phones for a basic phone with a minimal plan, but I need to look into it. But, by golly, I’m going to miss this phone if I ever have to give it up. They’re gonna have to pry it out of my hands with a shoehorn and try to stifle my public screaming sobs.

Truth: I have an interview tomorrow morning. Yup, it’s true. I awoke to an email inbox that had a couple responses to some of the résumés I sent out recently. One of those responding companies offered me an interview. We set it up for tomorrow at 11am. So wish me luck. I would be lying if I said I wasn’t skeptical, though. In truth, most people who have been responding to my emails have represented some sort of scam or door-to-door sales job. Maybe it’s just me being cynical, but I approach all of these potential job opportunities with a high degree of caution. But at the same time, I need a damn job with a paycheck. So I’m gonna get all suity-suited up and put on big smile and find out what deal is with this company. Maybe it’ll be great. I hope it is. I’m telling myself it will be. It will be. Right? Cross your fingers for me.

This is Day 70, folks. I know I seem upbeat and hopeful and cheery and fun and silly and optimistic. For the most part, I am. That’s me. That’s my natural personality. But come visit me at 3AM when I’m laying in bed, staring up at the ceiling, wondering when our lives will get back on track.

Hey, here’s an idea!

Write a blog about not having health insurance and how terrified you are about injuring yourself because you don’t want to be financially ruined. Then, the following day, invite some friends over to your neighborhood pool for some good ol’ fashioned lounging, laughing and libations. Remember to ignore the stern “No running!” warnings that every lifeguard you’ve ever had the pleasure of meeting in your entire life commanded, and run - run like there’s no tomorrow and giggling like a school girl - around the perimeter of the pool before leaping, Mikhail Barishnikov-style, into the water.

And as you leave the ground, slip awkwardly and jam your big toe into the pool ledge, causing you to flail wildly in mid-air before splashing down on your friend Brandon (played by Telly Savalas), who originally intended to play the part of the jumped-over-guy, but now is playing the part of trying-to-protect-himself-from-your-flying-crotch-guy.

Other than the unfortunate and accidental manbits grabbing (which falls into the category of ‘Things We Don’t Speak Of’), you seem no worse for wear. A little embarrassed, sure. But no real damage done… until you climb out of the pool.

“You’re bleeding.”

“What? No I’m not.”

“Uh… look at your toe.”

[Looking at the bloody puddle you’re standing in] “Hmph… It appears I am.”

“You okay? Does it hurt?”

“What? Yeah, no. I’m fine. Just a little scrape.”

“You might wanna get some peroxide or a band-aid or something.”

“Don’t tell me what to do. Now… who wants cheese on their burger?”

Hours (and I mean HOURS) later, you realize you’re limping. Your toe is swollen and looks like a black and blue Megan Fox thumb. This can’t be good. But you don’t have health insurance - and really, what can they do for a broken toe? Tape some popsicle sticks around the biggest piggy and tell you to elevate your foot? No thanks, Doc. Sell your medical snakeoil to another sucker. You’ve got band-aids, a bag of ice and a freezer full of popsicles at home. It’s like your own personal free clinic - without all the gonorrhea and coughing.

After a couple of days, the swelling will subside and the pain will recede. It’s probably just a sprain, anyway, you big baby. The discoloration? Oh, that’s totally normal. You’ll know it’s gangrenous when it starts to stink like a burning raccoon. So cowboy up, Nancy. I challenge you to a game of horseshoes.

A game of horseshoes! Brandon?

This is Day 68, folks. Really - the toe is fine. I hope. It’s just God’s way of showing me he has a sense of humor… and reads my blog.

Talked to my buddy, and best man in my wedding last year, Thomas Jay (AKA Tom, TJ, T-45, TJ-Quick) last night. He is getting ready to tie the knot in October. His fiancé has been unemployed a little longer than I have, and recently suffered a nasty injury in which a horse knocked her down and stepped on her knee. That’s right. A horse. Stepped on her knee. With its hoof. A horse. Crushed it.

Medical bills? Oh yeah. It’s going to take months and months of rehabilitation, too. For someone who doesn’t have health insurance, you can’t even begin to imagine the amount of debt and financial strain you’ll be forced to endure. Now, luckily for her, she has the Cobra insurance coverage, whatever that is… something where you still can pay for your insurance for a while after you lose your job. So, good for her. She’ll be taken care of and will (hopefully) be able to get all the medical attention she needs.

But this whole situation got me a-thinkin’. What if a horse steps on my knee? I don’t have insurance right now. I’m not covered. My wife isn’t covered. Not right now. For the first time in my entire life, I don’t have some form of health insurance. I could be stepped on by Mr. Ed and have my whole financial future destroyed, not to mention having to settle for second-rate medical attention, if I’m even lucky to get ANY medical attention. Surgery? Yeah, you need it, but you can’t afford it, so… here are some crutches. Bye.

Scary stuff, people. I chopped a tomato this afternoon (for one of my exta-spectacular sandwich creations, The Kimmie Gibler™, which consists of Tuna, American cheese, dill relish, onions and secret seasonings) and consciously tried to NOT CUT OFF MY FINGER. The fact is, I’m terrified of doing anything that has the potential to cause injury. Driving to the mall job? I’m like a little old lady out there on the roads. Really. I have to drive down a busy interstate in my Saturn Ion while all the suburban moms who can’t see over the steering wheel of their gigantic SUVs come barreling towards me and I think to myself, Dear Sweet Baby Jesus, please get me to the mall safely so I can sell these rich people khakis.

It’s like that with anything I do, and it’s getting worse. I’m even afraid to take the dog for a run because the last time I did, he jerked me awkwardly and twisted my back all funky. I’m fine - it only hurt for a little while, but back injuries are nasty - and costly. I don’t want to become a shut-in, but I really don’t want to risk becoming sick or injured. Maybe investing in bubble wrap and one of those Swine Flu masks would be cheaper in the long run. Or someone can hire me and these paranoid delusions of contracting Small Pox from the neighborhood pool will go away.

This is Day 65, folks. Staying away from horses. Wearing a face mask. Still making sandwiches named after second-banana sitcom characters.

I would totally move to Atlanta, just so you know. I mean, I know nothing about Atlanta. I don’t like the Falcons or the Braves. I’m really scared of anything more “southern” than Virginia. But I would still move there.

There are a lot of jobs opportunities in this sprawling urban mecca of business and media. I’m talkin’ real jobs that are modern and seem profitable. Social Media Coordinator?  Duh. I could totally do that. What I’m doing right now? This blog? It’s called coordinating my social media-ness. Communications Journalist? Again - what do you think I do all day long? I communicate and I jounalisticate. Lead Online Marketing Manager? Puh-leeze. With. My. Eyes. Closed.

Digital Media Director? Web Content Editor? Viral Marketing Manager? Yes, yes and yes. All these and more, in the fine city of Atlanta.

So why aren’t these companies calling me back? Is there a certain keyword I’m missing on my résumé? Are they put off by the Virginia address? I guess I just don’t know what else I can do to make my résumé stand out, other than include a cover sheet of a shirtless Carrot Top lifting weights.

The main point I’m trying to make here is that I will move to Atlanta for the right job. I have no problems packing up my life and moving it across the country. Not just Atlanta, either. I’m talking to you, Chicago, Los Angeles, San Diego, Portland, New York, Tampa, Phoenix and Denver. I’m talking to all of you. Offer me a great job, and you’ll receive a great employee. My wife, on the other hand, may take some time to get used to the new surroundings. But she’ll be fine. Don’t worry about her.

In the meantime, I’m off to the mall job to sling cargo shorts and button-down shirts down the throat of well-to-do shoppers who have real jobs and can afford them. True story: the other day I had a male customer say to me, “Aren’t you a little old to be working here?” I replied by explaining to him how I need extra money and am doing whatever I can to get by until I find a job. Mid-sentence, he cuts me off and shoves a pair of chinos at my chest and says, “Whatever. I need to try these on.”

This is Day 63, folks. Also just updated my iPhone to 3.0. Should come in handy for the next few weeks before it gets disconnected because I can’t afford to pay the bill.

You could not even begin to believe how pumped up and motivated I was when I jumped out of bed this morning. I did one of those OPEN EYES, SIT STRAIGHT UP, PUT ON SHORTS, BRUSH TEETH - all in the span of about 30 seconds. It’s like someone gave me a shot of adrenaline straight to my heart while I soundly slept in my comfy bed in the wee hours of the morning.  And I was whistling, too. Because you can’t jump out of bed, high-steppin’, without whistling a happy tune. By the way, that is totally unlike me. I’m usually not a pleasant person to be around in the morning.

So there I am, the new day’s first cup of fresh coffee barely touching my lips, sitting down at my computer ready to grab Monday by the round ones and pound out some articles and send out some job applications, when I hear what I thought was thunder (it was raining at the time). Just as I glance out my window, I’m blinded by an enormous blue flash, accompanied by a sound that I would imagine an alien spacecraft sounds like when it is generating the power to send out a laser-blaster-death-ray. The power lines behind my house are shaking violently. The power goes off. The computer goes black. The dog jumps into my lap.

My first thought? DRINK THE REST OF THE COFFEE BEFORE IT GETS COLD. Which I did. Almost the whole pot. I figured I might as well be caffeinated when the power returns. But the power did not return. Long story short, I took the laptop to a coffee shop and got a few things written. When I returned a few hours later, my house was still powerless. Nap? On a Monday afternoon? Yes, indeed. Jealous? Finally, it was restored about an hour ago. I’m almost saddened that I don’t have to drink the beer in my fridge before it went skunky.

So the job-front… not looking too good right now. Monday might be the day when companies send out their rejection emails because I received 4 of them today. Disheartening, to say the least. I do appreciate being responded to, though. If anything, it tells me that companies have received my emails and my hours of sending résumés are not entirely in vain. Somebody is reading it, right? Even if they stamp a big REJECTION label on it.

This is Day 61, folks. Early on, around Day 10, someone told me “talk to me when you get to day 60-something.” Well, I’m talking to you now. Still unemployed. Still trying. Still freelancing. Still hungry.

My boy Justin (AKA StickyFingers, from our flag football days) has a sweet gig up in DC where he catches bad guys by blowin’ up their spot on the TeeVee. He dropped me a line the other day to tell me about an opportunity at his company doing some Graphic Design work… to which I replied, “Um… Yes.” So I sent off my résumé and a short demo reel to the creative manager, escorted by the good word of my friend StickyIcky.

I haven’t been concentrating on finding a graphic artist job because I’d like to take my career in a different direction. But I’ve been advised that now isn’t the time to be trying to switch careers, especially since my last job was a graphic artist position. What’s the first thing under “Experience” on my résumé? Graphic Artist. That’s what people see. That’s what people expect. It’s tough to switch careers during a thriving economy, and we’re certainly not in a thriving economy.

A few years back, I was sitting around a bonfire with some friends talking about how hard our jobs sucked. Somebody asked me what I truly wanted to do and what would make me happy. I immediately blurted out, “I wanna write,” which surprised the hell out of me, because although I always had that notion swimming around my mind, I’d never said it out loud. This, coming from a guy who has never quite grasped proper grammar and punctuation and never really paid attention in high school English. But many of my teachers, way back then, advised me to write and study english or become a teacher. They saw something in me then that I think I was too uninterested to cultivate - at the time. I took some great English and creative writing courses in college, and I did surprisingly well, but I never thought about writing as a career. It just seemed like a time-consuming hobby that makes my brain hurt. I had one professor (and I can’t remember his name to save my life, but I can see his face plain as day) who told me that I need to be writing more and that I was one of his most talented students. I was only taking the class to fulfill the language requirement! I really can’t remember his name, and he was one of the most inspiring teachers I’ve ever had. Probably because I didn’t feel inspired until years later.

Am I a good writer now? Technically, no. I’m sure there are grammatical errors and apostrophes in the wrong place. But I’m learning. I sorta just write how I think. And when I think, I think the word “sorta”. I really don’t know what an adverb is, either. If any of my former English teachers are dead, they’re rolling over in their graves.

So where does that bring me now? Obviously, I can’t just say, “Hey, look at me! I’m a writer! Hire me and pay me!” I have to fall back on the experiences I’ve had since leaving college almost 10 years ago. Television. Broadcasting. Media. Sure, I’ve picked up some freelance writing gigs, and I have some things in the pipeline that could prove to be lucrative sometime in the future, but they’re not going to get the rent paid this month. I have to be able to balance this brain-hurting hobby of mine with a vigorous and realistic job search. So if you know of any jobs out there, let me know - because I’ll apply to them. And if I get hired, I’ll give it my all and do great work. When I get home and it’s my personal downtime, I’m going to finish writing this book.

This is Day 58, folks. Feeling inspired. Need an outlet that pays.

Internet people can drink. Did you know that? They can totally drink. I saw them last night. They were drinking and smoking and listening to panel discussions and arguing about how awesome Rush Limbaugh is (what?) and they were social networking. In real life. It’s like if twitter and facebook were a brick and mortar building. It was totally like that. Especially with all the poking and nudging.

The crowd was diverse. Well, not ethnically. Lotsa whiteys. But each person had reasons for attending. Mine, of course, was to shmooze it up with people whom I could hypnotize into paying me buckets of money. I’m not sure I succeeded, but I did hand out a shload of business cards and have developed carpal tunnel from all the vigorous hand-shaking. Some folks were there to promote their business. Some came to find business. Some were genuinely interested in the panel discussion about social media and it’s impact on journalism (I was). Some came hoping to figure out the identity of TheCheckoutGirl. Some just wanted to hang out and socialize with the spectacular River City online community.

I met a lot of these folks at last month’s event, but this one had almost double the attendees, so I had some meetin’ & greetin’ to do. You know what was cool? I got recognized, like TWICE. They were all, “Hi, Matt! How’s the job search?” and I was all “What?! Are you the one in the black car outside my house with the sunglasses and the ear-piece? Because I am not too proud to wear a tinfoil hat in public.” Then I remembered I have this blog and there might be a few people who read it. Okay, a COUPLE people who read it.

Then I was told by one of my twitterfriends that my blog may be hurting my chances of finding a job. I think she felt bad for telling me that, but I appreciate her honesty. Basically, what she was trying to say is that SHE wouldn’t hire me because she thinks I’m a jerk. That kind of hurt, because seriously, I’ve toned down a lot of what I say and really have tried to make these unemployment updates readable and funny without being vulgar. Which is really hard to do, because I’m a Vulgar McVulgartin in real life.

I was walking a delicate line of trying not to be TOO social (you know, trying to find a job and all) and still having fun with the troublemakers and cool kids. I think I handled myself in a professional and respectable manner. Until the after party.

Sticky Rice. Love that place. The troublemakers I mentioned? They were at Sticky Rice. It was Tuesday karaoke night to boot, so you know I gave a little Sister Christian. (My staple, Bust A Move, never made it into the rotation for some reason. I think the DJ was mad at me for screaming into the mic the first time ‘round). Anywhoo, it was a great time hanging out with the awesome folks that may or may not have included the Richmond Blogging and Alternative Journalism Elite. You know who you are - and nights like last night are the reason why you need to hire me. Because I can throw down with you guys like a pro. Or I’ll just blog about all the crazy stuff you did, blackmail-style. I’m not above that. Desperate times call for blahblahblah. Also, I got to hang out with the Jessica Rabbit of tech and PR blogs, who is a sorta-famous writer/videographer/critiquer for a nationally recognized website (among other things). Very happy to have chatted with her about industry-stuff. Or about aliens and robots. I can’t really remember. It’s all kind of hazy.

Will a job come out of this? Maybe. Okay, probably not. But it’s good to get to know the people in the community who have the pull to put me in touch with someone who may need my talent and expertise and charm and wit and MOTORIN’ screaming ability.

This is Day 56, folks. SMCRVA? Let’s do this again next month. Yeah. Next month. My hangover should be gone by then.

It’s Tuesday, so you know what that means: I’m sitting in my office staring at a plate that contains the remnants of some sort of taco-ish foodstuffs, waiting for my phone to vibrate me out of my coma of boredom. If I really focus, I can telepathically convince some hiring manager that they need to call me RIGHT NOW and offer me a job. Sort of like I used to do in Jr. High with girls I liked. ‘Memba that, ladies? When you’d all of a sudden get the urge to ring me up and invite me over for dinner with your family and maybe afterwards we could hang out in your room and listen to your Bel Biv Divoe cassette? Then make out a little bit. Do you remember that? Sorry for invading your mindspace.

Tonight is the big SMCRVA event. This one will have almost double the attendance as the event last month. It’s a nice opportunity to hand out some cards and so some networking with the big-dogs in the Richmond business scene. Plus, $15 for an open bar and food? When I’m not shoving my face I’ll be schmoozin’ it up with some people who’ll want to hire me purely based on my wit, talent and charm. Or based on how many cocktail weenies I can put down in one sitting. A lot.

I feel like I’ve got my finger in many pies right now, but none of them are money pies. I was talking to a friend yesterday about about the things that I really enjoy doing, and how I wish that there were some way for my hobbies to pay off. Because, as superficial and materialistic as it sounds, money is one of the most important things to me at this point in my life. Let’s face it - I’m 30, married, renting a house and unemployed. I’d like to be 31, married, kid(s), the owner of a home and gainfully employed. And have super strength. Or invisibility. Or both. Yeah, both.

Hey, I’m working towards my goals. This is just a bump in the road, right? I may have to put the kids and the home and the super powers off for a while until I find a job that will allow me to have those things, but I’ll get there. And when I do, I’m still going to have a blog that talks about cocktail weenies and finger-pies.

This is Day 55, folks. Makin’ out to Bel Biv Divoe’s Poison. Getting ready for tonight’s networking event after I sit, invisibly, in the neighbors’ house and watch them quietly eat dinner then argue about how he never does the dishes or vacuums.

I recently updated my résumé to make it more modern-looking and I edited some of the text to better fit into a marketing/PR/writing job. I’m a perfectionist (or maybe more of a nitpick), so I every day I open the file and change a word or add a skill so it can stand out amongst the many other résumés that employers are receiving. Maybe I’m trying to convince myself that the way my résumé comes across is the reason I can’t find a job, not the crappy economy. Either way, it keeps me occupied during my down time between job searches. I will have the most refined and downright flawless list of credentials that you will want to hire me to write yours.

I’ve been working the mall job for the past few days. That’s going well. Shifts are only 4-5 hours long, which is perfect for me because my face starts to hurt from smiling somewhere around 3 1/2 hours in. Still haven’t made back the money I had to spend on their clothes (to wear while I’m working). Maybe in a few months. I can say that the job is the easiest work I’ve ever done. And I’ve done some easy stuff. All you have to do is offer to help people find clothes. Most of the time they tell you to mind your damn business and leave them the hell alone. So it works out for me just fine. I did experience my first confusing situation today, however. A sweet older Asian lady came in looking for some pants. I couldn’t understand a word she said, God bless her. Something about, “My daughter… why she wear so biiiggg? Better get bigger size. She so biiiigggg. I tell her she too fat.” I helped her find some pants for herself and for her fatty daughter.

Hung out with my boy Brandon on Friday night while the ladies had a “girls night.” Saw a little person wearing pleated pants. Looked like he had stuffed some potatoes in there. The girls met us out at the end of the night, blitzed and cock-eyed. Knocking over drinks. Screaming. Dancing. Somebody made out with a guy who looked like Edward from Twilight, apparently. They were all a flutter over that. No, it wasn’t my wife. I hope.

Other than that, there hasn’t been much going on in my boring life. I might head down to the pool this evening while wifey is babysitting. But first, I’m gonna house this frozen pizza like cookie monster goes after cookies. That’ll help out my poolside physique.

This is Day 53, folks. Nitpicking my résumé. Helping old Asian ladies buy clothes for their whale of a daughter. Frozen pizza = a tubby gut that doubles as a floatation device.

Am I being too picky with my job search? I don’t think so, but one of the job search agents I’m following on twitter asked what kind of job I would like to have. I replied, “I’m looking for something awesome & creative & social & fun & lucrative & challenging & done within normal business hours.”

She told me that based on my expansive requirements, I should start my own business. Which is fine, and I understand that. And I would LOVE to have my own business, but I still need to make money while I get this imaginary business off the ground.

In fairness, she asked what kind of job I would like to have. I would like it if I had a job that met all the criteria listed above, but I’m a realist. I know those jobs are rare. It got me thinking about whether I’m snubbing potential opportunities because they don’t seem fun, challenging or creative enough. Am I holding out for that perfect job? Am I purposely putting myself through this financial strain because I’m banking on the possibility of having a kick-ass job like you see in the movies? You know the ones - where they drive the fancy cars and live in big mountainside houses and have summer vacation homes and they never have to go to work if they don’t want to because they fell in love with Meg Ryan or smooshie-faced Renée Zellweger so they spend all their time on zany adventures and on bike rides and on boats and kissing in the rain? Movies lie.

Truthfully, I have been telling myself that being unemployed is a blessing in disguise because it will allow me to find my passion and come away with a job that is better suited for my talents and will not make me want to kick my dog when I get home. Realistically, I’m doubtful that will happen.

I’ve always had a little leprechaun voice in my head, telling me that I’m destined for better things. Bigger things. Nicer things. Greatness err… at least not mediocrity. It’s high-time I steal his lucky charms and tell him to shut it so I can set my dreams aside and take what I can get.

Remember that insurance sales job I turned down a month ago because it meant I’d have to give up my creativity and effectively nullify any accomplishments on my resumé? Should’ve taken it. Stupid leprechaun.

This is Day 51, folks. That voice inside you? The one that drives you and motivates you and steers you in the right direction? He may be lying to you.

Get thee behind me, Craigslist. No longer shall I fall victim to your promises of employment and decent compensation. All too often, I craft a finely worded email, geared specifically to the job posted, and receive a response asking me to fill out online surveys instead. I’m done with you. I’m done with your lies and your endless deceit. At least for today.

I’ve been sitting in my office for the past three hours applying for jobs, rewriting my resumé and eating popsicles. All the while wearing my bathing suit. I’d really like to go down to the pool, but every time I get up to leave the sky darkens and I hear thunder rumbling faintly in the distance. Then I sit back down and the sun comes back out. Mother Nature is playing a childish game with me, and I’m going to tell on her. Or maybe just pinch her really hard.

I’ve had the past couple days off from the mall job, which is probably why I’m feeling restless and bored. As pointless as that job is, it serves a purpose - it gets me out of the house and passes time. I’ll be back there for the next few days. Folding. Selling. Smiling. Cash Registering.

I had a dream last night that I was offered a job in California. Or Chicago. I don’t remember. Point is, it was far away and they flew me out there. I was wearing a fancy gray suit. And I looked like Owen Wilson, which was kind of weird because I look nothing like Owen Wilson and I don’t own a gray suit, so I may have been dreaming about a movie I saw once. Anyway… In the dream I (or Owen) was touring some facility where they made some widgets. My job would be to make people want to buy these widgets - especially people in Tokyo. I specifically remember the Tokyo part. The dream ended with me shaking hands with a bunch of Japanese business men and getting on a plane headed back to Richmond to tell my wife (played by the incomparable Jennifer Garner) that we were moving to Chicago. Or California. Or maybe it was Seattle. Who knows. I’m really not that into Jennifer Garner, either. Again, this dream made no sense. Also, I think Billy Corgan was in there somewhere. Maybe on the plane. I’m more confused now than I was when I woke up this morning. Bizarre.

I think the sun is out for good, now. I’m going to finish this popsicle and walk, towel around my neck, down to the neighborhood pool.

This is Day 49, folks. Why Owen Wilson? Couldn’t I have been someone with a straighter nose? Oh, great. Here comes the thunder.

Being unemployed sucks only because of the whole money thing. Do you know what I’ve done so far today? I took my dog on a long, brisk walk. I listened to my 1967 Sgt. Pepper album thrice (happy 42nd birthday, Sgt). I wrote another page to the story I’ve been working on - I still don’t know where it’s going. I chatted online to a new (and awesomely awesome) friend. I made a sandwich that could be sold in a fancy deli under the moniker The Clubber Lang™ which consisted of fine deli meats, dill relish, provolone, jalapeños, and spanish olives (really, I have whole business venture swirling through my head because of this sandwich. You may not steal this sandwich name like I stole Mr. T’s character’s name from Rocky III. Investors welcome). I played my bass like I knew how. I swam a few laps in the neighborhood pool. I made fun of some people on Twitter. I ate some pizza rolls. I’m drinking a beer. I’ll be grilling a big ol’ steak for dinner with my sweetie.

I’m guessing you had to work today. Okay, so you made some scratch. I didn’t make a dime. Of course, I’d rather be making money. But let’s just say if I won the lottery, I wouldn’t get bored. Some people just end up looking like hobos, but seriously, I can rock off the unemployed persona like it’s my job.

This is Day 47, folks. Productive day, if you consider stacking deli meats on wheat bread an accomplishment.