Unemployment 101

For the last ten years, I have always had at least one job. I've never been "between jobs," because before I moved cities or chose to relocate myself as an employee, I always waited until I'd found a replacement employer in order to avoid the stress of unemployment. Always, that is, until this summer. Six weeks ago, I left my full-time management position in Encinitas to join hands with my mom's tomato plants and sing happiness into the sunshine (while wearing two layers of SPF 50, of course). I had no plan, no idea, and relatively little stress about any of it. Fast forward to the present, and you'll find me wearing holey pajamas that I bartered off of a homeless bearded man for a fistful of blue jay feathers. Well, almost. Yeah, actually.

After the first week of joblessness, I bit off my hands and laughed maniacally to myself through a mouthful of bloody angst. I am used to working 40-80 hours a week (apparently), so to tell myself that my "job for now" is to paint and write and exercise feels something like telling myself to dance without making jerky neck movements and head swishes. Just not quite right. I promptly got on a train to Santa Barbara and started picking up shifts at my old restaurant. (My favorite part about this is that after eight months of being gone, when I showed up and started giving tickets to the kitchen, the chefs just took the paper slips from me and started cooking my orders without so much as an eyebrow-raise. The words "EPIC FAIL" flashed in front of my eyes when I realized they probably expected I'd crawl back someday to fake smile at tables for five dollars.)

Week number two was a good week. My mom and I had our first gallery show. My brother and his girlfriend came to help us set it all up, and all-in-all I'd say it was a success. Thanks to Sam and Sara, we were the only gallery in the Art After Dark loop known for "that bomb-ass soup!"; at one point we had almost twenty people crammed into our closet-sized space, murmuring pleased remarks about the art works through closed lips harboring the vegan summer squash stew and sweet potato hummus. For the first hour of the show, I went into no-nonsense-manager mode and silently covered the walls with all the artists' information for their individual pieces. When that was done, I looked down at my Homeless Outfit and decided I should go change into something nicer. Looking at pictures from the evening, I'm still not sure why that meant I should put on wool slippers, hippie tie-dye leggings, a baggy black sweater, and a thuggish black beanie. I was a walking upside-down funky mullet-- straight-up gangsta business on top, rainbow daisy party on bottom. Oh well. I don't think any of the people passing through even knew I was one of the two women running the show because I found out straight-away that I am not one for schmoozing. I spent the night fighting off old ladies for the last bit of soup, hiding behind tall people in shadows on the balcony, and finally, escaping for a 40 oz draft of beer from Chino's. Great success!

The third week marked my first job interview. I was VERY excited about it. The interview was for a coffee shop slash book bar slash art venue slash amazing fucking awesome establishment. I fell in love with it more and more every time I walked through the doors and saw at least fifteen pairs of black-rimmed emo glasses and a hundred different colors of flannel. On the morning of my interview, I awoke early to go for a Good Karma Run (oh okay, JOG). I gave myself plenty of time to cool down and shower and make myself presentable. The problem was that I underestimated the fatal combination of being severely out-of-shape AND being 99% albino. Two hours after my run, I was still sweating bullets, and the heat radiating off of my fuchsia face was causing my makeup to curdle.  I had no choice but to arrive at the interview with... well, with a sopping wet red face. As I shook the hands of the general manager and the owner, I don't think I even said my name. I just blurted out in a disturbingly loud voice an apology for the sheer amount of sweating that was going on, explaining that I'd gone for a run TWO HOURS BEFORE. They both nervously laughed, and I nervously sweated on their hands.

Then I blacked out.

Really. I don't remember what was said in that entire fifteen minutes. The only thing I DO remember is that they asked me questions regarding my working capabilities, and that instead of answering them I started laughing a lot and leaning back in my chair with my arms limply sprawled out to both sides, like a fat king in a royal bathtub. I laughed. I sweated. I wiped my hands obsessively over the slick surface of my face, grimacing at the handfuls of water I encountered with each swipe. Oh another question? Hey maybe instead of answering, I should just apologize for being sweaty again? Sounds like a plan to me!! And then I'll tell them that the last job I had was really easy. That's a good one, that'll help a lot. You GOT this, (singlewhitefemale). In da BAG!


When I regained consciousness I was sitting in my mom's house, staring at my phone, praying for the call that would end my vertigo and return me to anti-slip shoes and caked food on my forearms from carting around dirty plates for several hours a day. It never came. Since I had already chewed off my hands in week one, I hammered my feet into flat planks just to give myself something to do other than anything that could actually be helpful.

That weekend I returned to Santa Barbara to work yet again at my old restaurant. People started asking me why I didn't just move back. I started asking myself the same question.

In week four I got a phone call for an interview at a Greek/Mexican fusion cafe in San Luis, and I felt the blood coursing through me shake off the weight of anxiety and adrenal dread it had been dragging through my system. This interview went much, much better. I actually said some good things about myself, and I was only sweating a very minimal amount. Within two hours, I was employed, and I felt like Edward-Cullen-style sprint-running through a forest with heavenly sunlight reflecting on my diamond-sparkling white vampire chest. You know that feeling. C'mon.

Last week, week five, I started at my new job. The owner had me come in for three days and basically stand around and be a big waste of space. The only skill I perfected was saying "behind you!" whenever I realized I was blocking a hurried worker's route to a table with an armful of plated food. I clocked out each day after only a couple of hours, and I realized that the other skill I had perfected was giving myself a big worried crease between my eyebrows from all the fretting I was doing about not actually making any money. I was appointed two weekly shifts: Tuesday and Thursday lunches. **deepening of said Worry Crease**

I got a call for a job interview at a healthy-ish cafe practically next-door to the one where I'd just been hired. You know, it's funny how trying to find a job in this shitbag economy has changed my perspective so much. I used to always think that since I'm someone who works hard, I'd never have any trouble getting a job. Dude. Being unemployed mind-fucks you. I don't even know WHAT I believe anymore. As I was getting ready for this interview, I found myself staring at my reflection in the mirror. It was one of those moments where if you're a heroin addict in a TV show, you shoot up while your baby's crying in the next room and you look deep into your dark-circled eyes and grasp the bathroom sink to steady yourself in a room slowly slipping into a shaky oblivion. True introspection time. I gazed objectively at the thirty bright-colored beaded necklaces I'd roped around my neck, dangling upon a yellow floral blouse tucked into a super-girly high-waisted black skirt with pockets. My feet sweated in glittery silver flats. Bright pink lipstick. Curly ringlets in varying stages of faded hair-dye bouncing around my head. I looked like the most chipper fucking person on the planet. I felt utterly no connection to the person looking back at me for approval.

The owner of this cafe was a sharply dressed man (the uber-femme scarf lazing about his neckline reeked of sophistication) with cutting eyes and a smile that dared you to call it out on its insincerity. He exuded all cold energy. Which was weird, because he was flashing a handsome grin the entire time and seemed to be saying only nice things.... At least his chilly aura cooled my sweat glands for the duration of my time with him. I guess maybe I should've thought about what questions I might have to answer in these interviews before I was actually sitting there faced with them. Even though everything he asked me was completely standard material for a person seeking employment as a server, the questions were knocking me off my feet with profundity.

What would your coworkers say about you if I were to ask them what you're like?


I think my eyebrows got lost up in my bangs. Hm. Huh. My coworkers, eh? Hey, I miss those guys! I used to have friends!! I wonder what they WOULD say about me! They're so nice. I wish Santa Barbara and Encinitas would just move to San Luis already. I'm tired of not having friends here. Poor, poor me.... Oh. Fuck. The guy is looking at me. I need to give him an answer. Oh shit. Wait, where am I? How long have I been sitting here?!!

I finally heard my mouth say something along the lines of, "I think they would say I'm a hard worker. And that I am usually smiling... so... very, uhh, positive. They were... sad to see me go? I think? And that's... yeah... that's... yeah... the answer." I ended every response with some statement of finality, announcing the temporary end to my rambling because there was no meat to any of my statements and I could tell that that the useless bit of information I'd just shared needed to be wrapped up with a bow for him to recognize it as something tangible. As I left the restaurant after my interview, I instantly felt like the cheery necklaces at my throat were constricting my airway with their heavy optimism. I went home and changed into pajamas in all shades of gray.

The thing I never knew about unemployment was how much it fucks with your head. You're supposed to go out there and present yourself to the world as this desirable marketable object, when inwardly you're experiencing the biggest bout of self-doubt and uncertainty of your life. Hearing myself try to SELL myself to these strangers, I start freaking out behind the words coming out of my mouth. Should I even be hired? Would I hire me??? Who the fuck AM I??? Where do I fit?!! The vultures of insecurity start circling my head and dive-bombing my consciousness with jabs of discontent. And all of a sudden, I don't want to be going through the motions of all these formalities. I just want to look the interviewer in the face of his heart and say with a big sigh, "Look, I am feeling really lost right now because I just moved here and it would really help if you could give me a job so that I can calm down and feel enough stability to allow me to make some art because right now I am FREAKING THE FUCK OUT and it's really hard to be creative when my mind is on red alert with the stress of being jobless and penniless in a new town. Aight?"

But... you can't say that. You have puff up your chest, putting on airs of confidence and self-worth, praying that you possess the most potent pheromones and that your feathers will shine brighter than your competitors' so that you can be the lucky chosen one to serve food to pretentious tourists for minimum wage plus tips.

Week six. I have lost myself in The Sons of Anarchy. I spend entirely too much of my jobless time fantasizing about motorcycle clubs and mad amounts of ink, yo, and sexy muscular men shooting bad guys while simultaneously ashing their cigarettes. Mentally this week I became Jax Teller's "old lady" and was crowned princess of the SamCro clan. In reality I guess I picked up an extra shift at my new job and actually made a little bit of money. And I am leaving tomorrow (AGAIN) for Santa Barbara (AGAIN) to work for the weekend (AGAIN) so that I won't get arrested for not paying any of my bills. Maybe it's good to get away for a couple of days. As much as I love Santa Barbara, being there reminds me that I've already milked it for all that it has to offer me. (Wow, what a gross, un-veganly sentence. A sincere apology goes out to Santa Barbara's non-consenting teats.) It's nice to return to SLO with a fresh set of go-get-'em eyes and a mouth foaming with eagerness for new opportunities, though.

Well. Here's to week lucky number seven. As for now? I've gotta go. I have a date with Jax to watch season 4 episode 3 of his show.

We're kind of in love.

You're jealous.

Bitch.