Observations on Unemployment

Or the active practice of the freelance lifestyle.

First, I need to double up on my toilet paper purchasing. A four pack used to last me what seemed like a month. I hadn't factored in the increase rate of pee at my last TP purchase. Upon observation, it has increased exponentially. I suppose I am left with only two options: invest in the 8-pack or wipe less often.

I hope the hundred-year old plumbing holds up with the corresponding increased rate of flush.

Second, increased consumption rate also applies to the heat. Once realized, I now walk around with a blanket draped over my shoulders at all times. Coupled with the pink fuzzy slippers and the constant din of the argument with the cat, I have now become the crazy neighbor. I must say, though, the view is much nicer from this side of the table--less judgmental and more free.

I shall sing on the top of my lungs while slow dancing with said kitty in rejoice.

Third, same consumption rate applies to food. Must now factor in three meals plus snacks when at grocery store. Must break free of my shopping habit to favor dinnertime foods. Besides, I have grown tired of eating seitan for breakfast. Must also remember this in future.

Fourth, the active practice of the freelance lifestyle is neat. Literally. My kitchen is rather spotless, dishes always done, and bed always made. Cleaning is such a productive form of procrastination.

Through the Living Room Wall

Every night around this time, I'm treated to a private concert through my living room wall. I sing along with them, swaying my shoulders to and fro. My eyes flutter shut. I imagine them slow dancing in their living room, a lover's bedtime ritual. Socked feet turn soft circles on the carpet; a threadbare pattern webs around the room. Head rests on a shoulder. Cheek rests on a bed of hair. Arms wrap across torsos, shielding one another from the outside world. Sighs escape lips as bodies release worries of the day. Tension leaks out, inking across the floor, retreating into corners to wait out the nighttime reprieve. Once light breaks, eyes are opened by piercing shrieks from the alarm clock, showers taken, and coffee cups emptied, tension will reattach itself on backs, leaching imperceptibly back into bodies as the hours tick on.

But until then, lungs expand and contract; sounds of contentment break through lips. From my side of the wall, the song fades to a close. My eyes open and my body halts mid-sway, brought back to the reality of my own empty living room. For a brief moment, my ears are flooded with the sound of my own breathing, the overpowering buzz of silence. I hear the creak of ancient floor boards as weight continues to shift from one foot to the other.

Then, without warning, the swell of a new song. The lover's dance continues. It is not yet bedtime. I close my eyes once more, returning to the couple's living room unperceived. I am a voyeur in my own mind's eye, a silent participant. Three strangers bound by one nightly ritual.

From time to time, one neighbour catches the other's eye, on the street corner outside our building, climbing out of the bus after an endless day. I look back knowingly, reveling in our shared secret. They, puzzled. I smile. 'See you tonight.' I say, under breath, with each real life rendez-vous. I am never treated to a response. I blame the bus charging down the street.

Mondays are Hard

There’s no way around it, no way out of it. I’ve spent the weekend surrounded and occupied, the music of laughter filling my ears and lifting my heart. I get lost in it, swept along, feeling as though it will last forever. Friday heaves me high up in the air, powered by anticipation. Monday drops me unceremoniously into the depths of reality. Everyone is off in their productive lives. I am left to sit home alone.

My phone rests silently on the coffee table. I check on him from time to time, to make sure that he is still alive and well. He is. I contemplate pulling the plug. His seems like such a wasted life; he would be better off simply off. I gaze at him apologetically.

Sorry you got stuck with such a dud. You deserve someone much more in demand than I. I hope you don't feel as useless as I imagine you to. I hope you understand. I promise to not drop you as much, hopefully that will make you feel better about being with me. Although, I doubt it.

I stare off into space, following the snowflakes as they drift towards the pavement below. I try to visualize a positive outcome to this whole mess. Truth be told, my heart’s really not in it. I troll the internet looking for the key to unlocking my destiny; only to end up depressed because, as it turns out, the key is for sale and I can’t afford it.

The Universe feels like a giant catch 22 today. What's one lowly unemployed person supposed to do? Wash my coffee cup, dry it, put it away. Breath in, breath out. This will all be worth it one day.

Repeat as needed.

I <3 Mtl

Walking down a narrow, barely-lit street in the Plateau one evening I happened to look up and was rewarded by baring witness to the perfect Montreal moment. I don't know what drew my eyes to that window--this being a frosty winter night, the windows were sealed shut. Maybe it was the light flicker from the television set, maybe it was simply divine chance. Either way, for a short time, I was utterly engrossed. I stood in the middle of the sidewalk, dumbstruck, shoulders sagging from the weight of my grocery bags and numbing fingertips.

And there he was, framed perfectly in the large window. Four feet tall with brown shaggy hair falling in his eyes and a red Canadiens shirt, jumping in the glow of the TV, arms raised overhead in rejoice, small hands clutching a miniature hockey stick. I could almost hear the muffled thumping of his socked feet, his breathless squealing, the sheer joy through the glass pane.

And there I was, grinning stupidly, alone, on a dark street with ripping grocery bags, staring into a stranger's window.

It was a Thursday night. The scene, with players both young and old, repeats in countless living rooms across the city.

Post Script

Due to recent comments, I thought I would clarify...yes, I know that I misspelled writing in the url. thewritingspot written correctly was taken.

Thanks for looking out for me, though.

What is this Writing Spot?

Having quit my job in fashion, I have been left with a gaping hole. What to do now?

Realization came (finally), decision made. Follow my heart. And it has led me here. To write, to share, and, hopefully one day, to find myself with a new, passion-filled career.





Also, I got tired of emailing my random thoughts to everyone. In this new economy, I thought it wise to consolidate.