A modern day Biff Loman--with boobs

I've become a stereotype. I'm sitting in a Starbuck's up on Clark Street in Andersonville, writing on my MacBook Pro and sipping a tepid green tea chai latte thingy-no foam. The only thing I'm not doing is writing a screenplay, but I think writing a blog is in the screenplay-poseur category, however. The reason I'm here is because the Internets are out at mi casa and I really didn't feel like, you know, reading a book or watching the cats barf up technicolor hairballs all the live long day. Plus, I had cabin fever due to the frickin' blizzard that blew through Chicago over the past 48 hours. I can only watch the snow fall and my neighbors dig out their cars (really who are they kidding? BUT, they probably have cabin fever too) for so long before I want to encase the contents of my apartment in jello. I had to get out. It was that simple. 

So, I've been trying to figure out what the fuck to do with this blog. It's been weighing heavy on my mind because I've been told over and over by friends and acquaintances that I should be putting my wit and whatever out there, for all to see. The thing is, there are so many blogs out there and maybe 10 percent are worth reading. Out of that 10 percent, maybe 2 percent are worth reading on a daily basis. So many blogs are filled with the same old song and dance--politics, self-discovery, overtired & self-important mommy bloggers, observations, arts, arts criticism, snarky shit, etc. It goes on and on and they're all wonderful cures for insomnia. I'm gonna try like hell to not have a blog like any of those. I may dip into those subjects from time to time, but most of my posts will be random and hopefully interesting.

Like this one. A few weeks ago, my part-time job was eliminated at the magazine I'd been at for two years.  After the initial shock, which immediately turned to anger and has now morphed into depression, I'm trying to get through each day without getting sized for a straight-jacket. That's it. I'm not using any ancient secrets or meditation (which to me is just a sitting-up nap), I'm just letting it all work it's way through me like bad gas. You see, I firmly believe that when one experiences loss, whether it's death, a break-up or some sort of event that shakes one's core, one needs to feel bad. You just do and there's no magic pill to help one through it all (meth/heroin/X don't count). All of the anger, hurt and bad feelings have to be respected, and it's best to not attempt to quash those feelings because the inevitable is being delayed. I figure it's crappy outside, I don't want to be among the living, so why not go through all the anger and all the hurt in the comfort of my own home? Hell, I've got cable, access to Internet porn and a phone--which I rarely answer--but it's nice to know it's available to me when I feel a bout of black-wire fever coming on.

During this time, I've been getting lots of attention from my friends/family because of my job-free situation. Their attention is all wonderful and so welcome, but the best are some of the emails I've received--especially ones that are about job possibilities and what I should really be "doing with my life." 


Then, there are the emails that give me pause. Like this one. And, fyi, the name of the publication has been changed to protect ... well, whatever.


"FancyPants Journal, a weekly bidness mag for smart folks, is seeking a part-time intern for its big city, downtown newsroom. Responsibilities include managing editorial content on the magazine's two websites, FancyPantsJournal.com and KnickersAGoGo.com. Specifically, the position will assist in the posting of the magazine content, both text and graphics, on the two websites. Position may also do some basic writing, reporting and editing. The successful candidate must have an interest in all things fancy and smart, superior technical skills, familiarity with HTML, some copy editing experience or training, and a passion for fancy online journalism. Internship pays $XX/hour for so many hours a week and blah de blahhhh. The position would last for 3 months with the possibility of it being extended for another 3 or so months. FANCY! Send a cover letter, samples and whatnot to .. Mr. Schmenky McSchmenkman EIC, some big street in a big city. 


I got this announcement via a listserv I'm a member of and when it arrived, admittedly, it upset me. The body was still warm, my shadow was still lingering on the office door when this was posted. Granted, it's different from my job there--I worked 3 days/week, all day and did more editorial work. And, I was paid more, but not by much. 


It hurt to see and it made me realize that I meant nothing to this place for two years. 


While I was taking this all in and experiencing what a mini-stroke feels like, this email was forwarded to me by a former grad school chum--someone I haven't spoken with since we handed in our final stories.

"Hi Jules! I hear you have health care reporting experience. This would be the PERFECT JOB FOR YOU! Go for it! YOU CAN DO IT!" 


I sat staring at this email for a long time--reading it over & over--mouth agape and drooling like a mastiff. I read it again, squeezed my eyes shut tight, shook my head, opened them with the hope that it was a mirage, a cruel joke if you will. 


Nope. No such luck.


I looked out my window, shook my head and started to laugh uncontrollably. What else could I do? Laughing about this just made more sense! After all, it just proves that I'm the universe's court jester, a female Biff Loman, its sad sack and it's hilarious. It just proves that 2011 is turning out to be uber-turdelicious, but what can I really do about it? Nothing, except laugh it off. That's really all I have at this point and that's something, isn't it?