Yo. It's been a bit over a month now since the glorious emancipation, and I have to say I have enjoyed each and every day. Around week two of Lady-of-Laid-Off-Leisuredom I created this with the help of the lovely Gutsy Girl herself. I won't talk about how decrepit said terrarium looks now, but it was--at its peak--as lustrous and as gleaming as a Coming To America Jheri curl.
I spent some great good quality time with Mags, complete with Jomar fabric-hoarding runs which have resulted in the most ebullient, for-the-better mood-altering curtains I've ever imagined. I also got three new homemade, constructed-with-maternal-love frocks--all for the price of a few hugs and kisses. Being spoiled by one's mother will never ever get old.
I recall wondering during that first week whether I'd be bored with all this "extra" time, but as it turns out I have plenty to keep me occupied. There's budget monitoring, Dr. Oz adhering and the View; eating a hearty breakfast; re-organizing closets and drawers and craft supplies (oh my!); becoming a lady who lunches with zeal and savvy; toolin' along Kelly Drive; gchatting with wild abandon ...
There has (obvs) not been a lot of blogging time, but I'm rallying to change that.
My point is that my life has felt just as full and ironically stocked with an even greater sense of worth and purpose. I'm not entirely sure how, but the peace of mind I've achieved by way of cutting loose from an unfulfilling, exasperating, endlessly menial-feeling job is just ... beyond.
I have yet to lose substantial poundage and yet somehow I honestly feel a hundred pounds lighter. It's astonishing and invigorating. As unknown as my next chapter is, it already feels like the best is yet unwritten, and I can't ask for any more hope and promise than that.
But that's not why I'm writing.
I really just wanted to let you know that even though I'm fuheva standin' in the need of prayer, I'm certainly going to need some serious chanting, chakras and 'allelous goin' up at approximately 9 a.m. on 4/20/11.
While many dear souls will be puff, puff, givin' (or just bumpin' The Chronic on repeat), I'll be sanitizing, side-eyeing and remixin' some Hail Marys as I answer the call ...
...to the unemployment office.
I've always wished for luck and simultaneously never believed in it, and this is why. I can do everything "by the book" or guided by my admittedly cautious moral compass, and each and every time I'll get stopped at a roadside check or receive a letter that--I shitchu not--advises the following:
You have been selected to participate in ____'s Profile Reemployment Program. A review of the information you provided when filing for unemployment compensation has indicated that you may benefit from specialized reemployment services designed to help you obtain new employment. The services provided to you through ____ will be based on an assessment of your needs and may include, but not be limited to, job search workshops, job finding clubs, and job placement assistance.
...
[Here comes the best part.]
Please be PROMPT! (Nikki. Stop laughing.) Bring this letter and an INK PEN with you.
Okay, so the "prompt" is clearly an inside joke they don't know about given how I absolutely own CP time. But y'all ...
INK PEN.
That emphasis. Those caps? That's all them.
I want to frame this correspondence, so tickled am I at receiving instruction to bring an INK PEN. I read it six times in a row with eyeball expressions ranging from G.W. Bush huh-squints to Judge Judy eye roll to Ochocinco "Chile Please" to Bernie Mac and Him Downstairs.
INK PEN.
As if.
As if ... I don't even know. I can't even think of any other type of pen. I mean, are ink and pen not mutually exclusive already? Did the take a Ross 'n Rachel break? Has some non-radioactive periodic element taken the place of regular ol' Bic 'n Pilot filler?
What else I'm 'on bring?
What?
A number two pencil ain't worth nothin' anymore?
See, this kind of instruction is precisely how I can see why folk don't trust the government.
How you can't provide me with a pen to fill out this form you insist upon me filling out?! How you gonna waste all this paper and THEN insult my intelligence and ocular esteem by printing a government-sanctioned letter in 14-to-18 point Comic mutha-effin' Sans?!
I just ...
I'm going 'cause clearly it's me versus the Man now. I worked hard enough to shore up those four+ consecutive buckets of unemployment funds to which I am now wholly entitled through no fault of my own; especially since I ain't fidna have no social sucourity, too?! I, like Agador Spartacus himself, worked hard for that money ... eh eh. Eh eh.
So here I am, after midnight--after a carafe of cabernet + 3 martinis--lettin' it all hang down. Wondering and plotting about the hilarity of hittin' up the UC office hungover; short on common sense, but flourishing with book sense; wielding my comically sansed entry badge of a letter along with my mighty blue and/or black INK PEN for all seasons and Scantrons.
Is it any wonder I'm tired? Is there any other reason I just knelt to say the following prayer:
Now I lay me down to sleep,
I pray the Lord my soul to keep.
If I should die before I wake,
She ain't nothin' but a hoodrat, hoodrat hoochie mama anyway.
