There's No Place Like Home for the Holidays!

Here I sit on a Southwest plane, mid-flight, on my way from California to Chicago.

That time of year is upon us again:  the holiday season.  My absolute favorite time of the year.

But before I get into that, dear Blog-Friends, I must take a moment to apologize for my prolonged absence.   Many friends who have become unemployed recently had warned me as I began this adventure that within a month I would find that, suddenly, I was completely overwhelmed with things to do.  This is one of the big ironies of unemployment.  I have no idea how I got things like laundry and cleaning the bathroom done when I had a job, because I hardly have time to do them now.  I suppose for me, as a way to transition into this new way of being, I have over-structured and over-planned my days, weeks and months.  I definitely operate from a schedule, and strive to have concrete activities to complete every day, however mundane they may seem (organizing and labeling all my crafting supplies into a tower of tiny drawers, anyone?).  I’ve gotten a little wrapped up in all these varied tasks and have neglected this particular project.

And not only have I become obsessed with the minutiae of everyday life, I’ve also had the privilege and luxury to do some international travel and mull over the idea that I am part of a much larger world.  And I’ve begun to get my life as an actor in order.

But all that is for a different blog entry.  Tonight I am consumed with thoughts of home, and family, and snow, the ending of an interesting year, and the beginning of a new one.  I suppose it’s normal to take time for reflection this time of year, and I’m certainly no different.

Adam and I had a friend over for dinner the other night at our apartment in Los Angeles (I made really delicious pizza from scratch, but again that’s another blog entry), and he asked me what I was up to since we hadn’t seen each other in a few months.  Since I was in the throes of planning Christmas presents and travel itineraries and packing and all that, I remarked that I was getting myself ready to go home.

“You are home” he replied.

Which, really, brings up a question that I’ve never been able to successfully answer:  where is home?  For the last 17 years I’ve lived away from my family, sometimes thousands of miles.  And I notice that every time I visit the place where I grew up, where my whole family still lives, I tell people I am going “home”, and that when I tell people I am returning to wherever it is that I live, that I call it by the city name.  I rarely refer to my apartment as my home, unless I’m talking to local friends (as in “I’m sorry, I can’t have another margarita because we’re in the Valley and in order to get home, I have to drive on the 405 in the dark”).   Yet, by definition, I feel “home” is fundamentally where one lives, and I know that I can no longer imagine myself happily living in Indiana.  So why after half a lifetime away do I still call it “home”?

I just finished reading a quiet, lovely little book by Dominique Browning called “Slow Love:  How I Lost My Job, Put on My Pajamas, and Found Happiness”.  In it, she also reflects on this idea of home, and has rested on the idea that home is the place where you want to go to die, or to be buried.  Since my parents had the foresight to get cemetery plots for themselves, my brother and myself when I was five years old, I know that unless something drastic happens, my final resting place is in Calumet Park Cemetery in Schererville, Indiana, with the rest of the Armstrong clan, my mom’s side of the family.  So by that definition, I guess Indiana is home.

But I can’t shake the feeling that I’m missing something – or more appropriately, missing out on something.  I spend 95% of my time right now in Los Angeles, living with my boyfriend of 4 years, surrounded by wonderful friends who feel like family.  I want it to feel like home, but somehow all the satisfying parts don’t add up to a whole home.  Is it possible that I can’t feel a sense of home unless I have blood relatives living in close proximity?  I don’t feel any less connected to them, all of them, living so far away.  I don’t have the luxury of popping in on a moment’s notice to chat, or to have dinner together on a week night, or to attend every birthday celebration, anniversary, or, sadly, even funeral.  But I still feel like I’m a part of their lives and they are a part of mine.

But none of them has ever set foot in my apartment, or met my boyfriend’s kids who live with us part-time, or marveled with me at standing outside in shirt sleeves in February in that miraculous southern California weather.  I don’t get to share these things with them, things that have become part of my everyday life.

As 40 is no longer a far away concept, something that will come upon me naturally when I’m “older”, I’d like to feel like the place I’m living, the life I’m building, the relationships I’m nurturing, gives me a sense of being “home”.  But that feeling still eludes me.  And I don’t stop getting older.

I’m curious if any of you wonderful readers have felt this sort of thing?  I know many of you have chosen a similar path to mine, which is to say the path of a creative person, a life a little off the beaten track.  Is there something endemic to this lifestyle that promotes this sort of restless yearning for a place to call “home”?  Or is it something bigger than that?  Something generational, perhaps?

I don’t anticipate solving this question over the coming week, but I’m certainly going to enjoy playing cards (Michigan Rummy), chatting with my dad over a cup of coffee while my mom is at work, skiing with my brother (apparently you can ski in the Midwest, who knew?), and in general reveling in the grand, messy splendor of my uniquely weird and lovable family.

Go Happy,

Amy

Home

Surviving the Rat Race

Last Sunday I ran my second half marathon.

If you've never run in an organized race before, I can tell you that you learn a helluvalot about yourself during those precisely measured miles - and the hundreds of miles of training leading up to the event.  I've learned that I am the following:  tenacious, disciplined, determined - and also irritable, complaining, bitchy, competitive and that in the "tortoise and the hare" scenario I'm definitely the slow-ass turtle.  Let's examine, shall we?

Tenacious, disciplined, determined:  there is something about distance running - and perhaps any sort of endurance event - that magnifies aspects of your personality.  I think I can confidently assert that I have drive and stamina.  Well, at least if I have a specific goal.  Let me make this absolutely clear:  I hate running.  I always have.  I joined the track team in 7th grade so that my BFF wouldn't have to go it alone.  The 100 meter was my event, and if memory serves I never even came close to winning a race.  The only thing I hated more than breaking a sweat at practice was actually running in front of people at the meets, showing the world that I look moronic, perhaps even slightly "challenged", when I run.  Not good for this nerd's already precarious social standing in those cruelly awkward adolescent years.  Needless to say the team (my BFF included) breathed a collective sigh of relief when I didn't  go out of the team the following year.

But I digress.

It's not running that I like so much as achieving something that is both physically and mentally difficult, in my case that is running 13.1 miles.  I like the challenge.  I don't don my running shoes at 6am and head out into the dark and smoggy LA morning because I'm an eager, thrill-seeking masochist. It's because if I don't I'm gonna regret it on race day, when at mile 6, huffing and snarling and sweating in sheets, the race chews me up and spits me out and I lay in the filthy LA streets next to the dog poo and used hypodermic needles until someone decides to come by and scrape me up.    So maybe it's the fear, or the latent Catholic guilt (I heard somewhere that God doesn't like quitters), that propels me out of bed at that dreary hour.  Whatever it is, it works.  And keeps me hurtling towards the finish line, arms and legs akimbo, come race day.

Irritable, complaining, bitchy,competitive:  is it telling that I can come up with more negative words than positive to describe how I am when I run?  It brings out the best - and the absolute worst - in me.  Just ask my boyfriend.  If he innocently decides to question whether or not I'll be heading out for a run that morning, he gets a three-minute expletive-peppered tirade about the minutiae of my schedule that usually ends with something like "and I don't see you out running today, old man!".  I get pretty touchy.  He's a saint.

And have I mentioned that running is perhaps the most boring exercise on the face of the planet?  On those dreaded days when I have to put in serious miles, I find myself compiling a laundry list of things to think about while I'm out running, such as "what outfit am I going to wear to dinner on Saturday?".  "What can I make for dinner this week?".  "What are some most-excellent comebacks I can craft to win any argument?".  "What will I be doing when I'm 40?  Do you suppose I'll still be in deferment on my student loans?" and so on and so forth. 

The funny thing about race day is that all of sudden this solitary endeavor becomes a huge social event.  Instead of passing another runner here and there, you are surrounded by 15,000. And I have to tell you, some of those people don't have the same ideas about personal space as I do.  Take, for example, the "speed walker" next to me whose arms, bent at right-angles,  furiously pumped at his sides, as though he'd still be able to cross the finish line if he found his legs suddenly stopped working.  Just try to pass this guy, you'll get clocked in the face.  And pass him I tried, but the fucker kept pace with me the entire race.  He could walk as fast as I could run!  It did not do wonders for my self-esteem.

But I did manage to make it to the finish line with a time of 2:42:36.  Not as good as I had hoped, but I finished and without much injury (unlike the woman who took a face-dive while crossing the finish line moments before me, I hope she decides to buy one of her commemorative finish-line photos).

I think I'll be doing yoga for the rest of year.

don't let the smile fool you, I'm out for blood.

Go Happy!

Amy

In and Out

This morning I had my dreaded "Job Search Assistance" appointment with the Employment Development Department for the State of California.  Barf.

For the last two weeks I've had to record all the jobs I've applied for as well as upload my resume to the job search assistance website for California.  Double Barf.  I've also spent this time imagining the horror that awaited me - body pressed against sweaty, smelly body in a crowded flourescent-lighted city office as I and dozens more listened to an underpaid and overworked city official describe in excruciating detail how to conduct a job search online.  Having the same city official look at me with disdain in her eyes as she encourages me to apply for any job out there - hey, we have a receptionist position open in this office! - nevermind that I have a very expensive graduate degree that I have yet to pay for (8 years later and counting, groan...).

So it was with barely-contained anxiety that I dressed myself as professionally and cute as could be this morning, as if my clothes could shout "Hey, I don't need you to tell me how to find a job!  See how well-dressed I am?", while having visions of myself pulling a George Costanza with my petulant interviewer.

Imagine my surprise, then, as I pulled up to the office in Marina Del Rey with plentiful parking just steps from the office door, walked in and noticed that not only were there no other people waiting in line, but that there were only two chairs in the waiting room - as if they never expected anyone to wait.  Guess I didn't need to bring my book.  I sauntered up to the counter, vaguely confused by the situation, where a very cute man took down my name and asked me to hold on just a moment as he rounded up my interviewer.  Should I have a seat?  Oh no, that won't be necessary.  Why thank you.  Smile, smile, make eye contact with the Very Cute Man, bat the eyes a little.  Hey, if a little flirting is all it takes to make this process go faster, then I'm all for it.  I'm glad I decided to dress cute.

Just then, Darryl, my interviewer, appeared in all his big, black, boisterous glory.  He asked me for the paper I had filled out with my job search results, at the top of which I had written in big letters so I wouldn't forget - BRING SS CARD. 

"Can I see your Secret Service Card?"

"Huh?"

"You wrote up here to remember to bring your Secret Service Card."

Wow - there's even humor here!

"Yep, I brought it, it's gold-plated, you ever see one?"

"Ah, I'm just joshin' with ya'."

I immediately like Darryl. 

Darryl takes me back to his cubicle, where he reviews my passport (and my Secret Service Card, which was in my passport) and looks me up in the system.  He then proceeds to tell me that there are three things he needs to cover with me.  1) - that I am who I say I am, as evidenced by my passport.  2) - that I am capable and have been looking for work, as evidenced by my completed paperwork.  And 3) - that I have a resume posted on their job assistance website, as evidenced by my resume staring back at me from Darryl's computer screen.  Bing, bang, bong.  Looks like we're all covered.  Darryl then informs me he's looking forward to his blueberry muffin and that he must accompany me out the door because, hey, if Denzel Washington were in here they don't want him to be ambushed.  I'm not sure why Denzel Washington would be in the unemployment office in Marina Del Rey, but I went with it and also heard Darryl's story of meeting Denzel while working as an extra on a film set.  Only in Hollywood.  I got my parking validated by the Very Cute Man and I was outta there.  It took about 5 1/2 minutes total.  Awesome.

Speaking of in and out, I am completely absorbed by the story of the Chilean miners and will be glued to CNN all night watching for the moment that they extract the first miner from that Death Hole.  The Chilean government has gone to great lengths to make this a media-friendly event (they have a live satellite feed of the process) and yet they also seem to be doing a good job of keeping the men separated from the media vultures that will no doubt be immediately swarming them.  I am interested to see this story unfold over the next couple of days.  I'll be sure to have my box of tissues nearby.

All this talk of in and out, I think I need to go get a burger...

Go Happy, Blog-Friends!
Amy

Domestic Goddess

I started the morning with a good cry.

Don't worry, it wasn't over anything serious.  It was because I was watching Roseanne.  Well, maybe that is a reason for worry.

Being the domestic goddess that I am, I spent the early morning hours cleaning up the apartment and doing a few loads of laundry, and when I was done I sat down to eat the lovely egg white omelette with grilled peppers,sauted spinach, queso and habanero salsa I had made.  Normally I don't watch TV during the day, but today I decided to click it on and plant myself on the couch while eating my breakfast.  While flipping through the guide, I noticed my all-time favorite show about The Domestic Goddess was on, so I figured how apropos, perhaps I'll catch a few minutes and have a laugh or two.

Well, the particular episode that was airing was from the last season (the one where they won the lottery - not my favorite), but the scene that was playing was in the NICU at the hospital where Darlene's premature and seriously ill baby was being kept.  All the women of the Connor family were passing this tiny baby around and telling her how much they loved her and how much they wanted her to hang on and fight.  Jackie (Laurie Metcalfe, a terrifically talented actress) was telling the little baby about how she had almost fallen out of the car when she was 5, but how her mother had grabbed her by the hair at the last moment and saved her, and that if she (the little baby) felt like she was about the fall away that they would be there to grab her and let me tell you I LOST IT.  The baby gets passed around to everyone, more stories, everyone's crying, they keep cutting back to a shot of real, tiny baby, and I am on the couch, fork in hand, BLUBBERING.  I had to put my omelette down and go to the other room to grab a few tissues to wipe off the snot running down my face.

Now, there are lots of people out there, I'm sure, who don't understand how I can watch TV, let alone Roseanne, for three minutes and turn into a puddle of goo.  But that show - that show has always been able to reach out, grab right around my heart and give it a good squeeze.  It's the kind of show that makes me proud to be in show business.  I know there are lots of stories about how working with Roseanne and being on that show was difficult, but you never see that on the screen.  They all look and act like they really care about each other and the stories they are telling.  All I see is a real human story, with regular kinds of working-class people who have strong and complicated relationships with one another.  I feel like I'm watching my own life when I watch that show.  Whether it's funny or sad or ridiculous, I come away feeling, well, a little more connected to the world.  Like we're all having different variations of the same life experience.  Plus John Goodman really reminds me of my dad, so that certainly doesn't hurt.

I know, I know, it's just a TV show.  But it's a damn good TV show.

Okay, time to the do the dishes.

Go Happy!

Amy

Me Today, You Tomorrow

Yesterday I attended a funeral.

Now I promise to try not to get morbid or unduly sad on you, dear Blog-Friend, but I feel it warrants mentioning because it's often during these sorts of circumstances that one has moments of clarity.  The funeral was for a woman I had never met - she was the mother of a dear friend of Adam's - but I wanted to be there to show my support for the family.

The internment ceremony - held at the celebrated and oft-filmed Hollywood Forever Cemetery -  was attended by just of few members of the family and close friends and officiated by a comfortingly gregarious Irish priest (complete with brogue!).  It was short and simple, but not without depth of feeling.  She had been married for nearly 70 years (!) and her husband, our friend's father - was quite beside himself with the loss.  I had not anticipated having a strong emotional response myself, but seeing how much he (and everyone else) was missing her, I was moved to the point of needing a few tissues myself.  70 years with someone.  70 years.  Most of us will never know what it's like to even know someone for 70 years, let alone at that level of intimacy.  All the stories.  All of those life moments shared, both good and bad.  I felt privileged, in some way, to be there while they said goodbye to her.

All those in attendance spent the day together, and I had several opportunities to talk with my friend's father and share his memories not only of the times he spent with her, but of a lifetime totalling almost 90 years.  The Battle of Midway.  Traveling across China.  How downtown LA has changed in the last 60 years.  At one point towards the end of the night, he asked me "do you love yourself?".  A pause before answering, "I think so."  And encouragement to stay positive.

Other friends have had losses of loved ones recently, and it's in these moments that we realize, however cliched it may sound, that life is precious, and short, and the only thing fear and hesitation brings is regret.  How I hope to remember that lesson daily.

My friend's father's place next to his wife in the mausoleum already bears his name and epitaph, taken from a phrase he saw at a convent in Italy:

Me Today, You Tomorrow

How true, how important to remember, and how difficult to comprehend. 

Go Happy
Amy

gravesite of Johnny Ramone at Hollywood Forever Cemetery

Not a Significant Source of Cholesterol

Hello Blog-Friends!

I don't know if I told you, but I'm in the middle of training for a half-marathon.  It's my second, and I can tell you, I never thought I'd be the type of person to willingly run in races.  But...I've found running to be an easy kind of workout (you can do it anywhere, for free, without spending too much on equipment).  Plus it's been an interesting challenge.  I joined the track team in 7th grade (only because my best friend, Kim, wanted to join the track team and we did everything together), and the only thing I can really take away from that experience is the fact that my mother told me I look funny when I run.  So there you have it.

Nonetheless, I am currently running 5 times a week, with a day of cross-training (bike-riding) thrown in there.  One of the things I enjoy about this daily run is the opporutnity it gives me to really check out my neighborhood.  I've run essentially the same path over and over for the last year and a half, but inevitably something new surprises me every time.  Today, instead of my usual morning run, I opted to go out at about 2pm (one of the luxuries of unemployment is the ability to workout at whatever time I want to, not necessarily the crack of dawn).   And it was definitely a different kind of experience.  Early in my run, I was joined by a pack of high-school kids, in the midst of their afternoon P.E. run.  I am proud to say I was able to keep up with them, although thankfully our paths did not converge for long (nothing like watching a teenager run effortlessly to make you feel old).  But the most amusing part happened when I rounded the corner to my street and was half a block from my apartment.  I live on a residential street, all apartment buildings, and it's pretty quiet for the most part.  Not alot of pedestrian traffic, mostly just neighbors walking their dogs (and the occassional crazy homeless person, but that's another blog).  As I rounded the corner, I was approached by an older man dressed nicely in a suit carrying an empty 2-liter Coca-Cola bottle.  He started to say something, and I had to remove my headphones in order to hear him.  He dramatically indicated the empty Coke bottle to me, and proceeded to ask me, in severly broken English, "Please tell, have cholesterol?".  I thought, what the hell is he asking me?  Is this some sort of ambush?  Is some guy gonna pop out of the bushes while I try to decipher what this guy is saying to me?  But no, he simply wanted to know if Coke contained cholesterol.  As he went on to explain "Me no cholesterol.  Say doctor", I understood that he wanted to know if this 2 liter he just sucked down was going to kill him or not, based on the recommendations from his doctor.  He and I both studied the label, which I tried to tell him said "not a significant source of cholesterol" but it took alot of hand gestures and figuring out different ways to say "no" (like nada, nothing, zip, zero) to get my point across.  I finally saw the light bulb go off, he smiled, seemed excited by my answer, and went on his merry way.  Why the fuck he was walking down the street asking strangers this question is beyond me, but hey, this is Los Angeles after all.

Go Happy,
Amy

Is That In the Schedule?

Well, hello there, Blog-Friends!  Long time, no see.  Is this turning into a weekly blog?  It kinda seems so, based on my behavior.  But do I really need to impose that sort of schedule on a blog?  Can I just write, you know, whenever I feel like it?  That's just so out of character for me.  For three years I have been the Keeper of the Schedule...not my own, really, but my boss's schedule (and let's face it, he was WAY busier than me).  So I think I've become programmed to schedule every day down to the half-hour.  Hey, at least it's not down to the minute.  Not yet, anyway.  Give me a few weeks.

Take this whole unemployment thing.  I've basically arranged my weekdays to reflect that of your typical desk jockey:  wake up, work-out, shower, get ready, eat breakfast, "report" to work.  9am-1pm is for responding to emails, browsing for jobs, reading the latest industry and world news, and admittedly checking out my friends' Facebook pages (cuz, hey, I did that at my office job, too).  1pm-2pm is for lunch (longer if I have a lunch date, as you have to accommodate for transit times - I used to actually schedule "transit" in my boss's schedule - and it was always in blue).  2pm-6pm is for longer-range planning, strategizing, project implementation, more browsing for jobs, snack breaks, perhaps even an errand or two.  But now there's all kinds of other stuff coming up, and I think - where is that going to go in the schedule?  For example, I desperately need to learn some rudimentary Spanish for my upcoming trip to South America (I found through experience that it's pretty essential to be able to ask where the nearest bathroom is).  Does that fall into my "work" day?  Or is that for my "time off"?  If I study Spanish from, say, 3-4pm every day, does that count as goofing off?  Should I wait until I "clock out" at 6pm?  How about that etsy shop I want to open?  Does making upcycled handbags count as my primary work, or should it be relegated to the "moonlighting" position?  And why the hell am I even obsessing over this?  Is that OCD gene kicking in?  Or is it my middle-class guilt that I'm collecting a wage (unemployment) without really doing anything?  Good lord, sounds like I need a Valium.  I think I have a bad case of Calendar-related Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.  After so many years of living and dying by The Schedule, it's hard to let go.

Oh, it's 12pm PST.  Time for my regularly schedule bathroom break. 

Go Happy, my Blog-Friends!
Amy

Where the Hell Have You Been?

Hola, Blog-Friends!

It's shameful that a whole week has gone by without one post from me.  How did this happen?  I'm unemployed, for god's sake, shouldn't that mean I have unlimited time for silly pursuits like a daily blog?  Apparently not.  Friends who have also recently been laid off tried to warn me that after the first week of dithering around you suddenly and inexplicably get really busy.  But busy doing what, exactly?

Well, for starters, I filmed an episode of a reality tv show on Monday.  Before you groan and tell me that no matter what I may have said or how good my intentions were, they are going to edit the crap out of it to make me look like either an asshole or an idiot.  Which may be true (I may not even need their help with that!).  But I figured what the hell, right?  It's called Character Fantasy, and it airs on USA during the commercial breaks of the USA movie.  Basically, they show you living out some kind of fantasy for a day.  I was cast in the "fantasy spa day" episode because the producers liked my story of being recently laid off and needing a spa day to rejuvenate and refresh so that I could proceed with my job search with a "fresh, new face and attitude!".  So Monday was a gruelling day of....massages and hot stone reflexology and deep-cleansing facials.  Oh, and a plug for Betty Crocker "Warm Delights" (I got to go home with a case!).  So be on the lookout for me late October being "surprised" at my apartment and whisked away to a day spa for some full-on pampering.  Pretty cool.

What else?  Well, I ran a 10K on Sunday morning and finished with my best time ever - 1:01:02 - for the first time averaging less than a 10 minute mile.  It was pretty awesome, even though the event was poorly organized (I couldn't find the start line, they ran out of water at the finish line before I got there, they ran out of goody bags before I got the expo, etc, etc, etc...fuckers).  I still didn't beat the guys who were running barefoot (can you believe that shit?  Barefoot on the street in Santa Monica?  No thanks.), but I still beat the 80 year old lady and the guy on crutches, so I got that going for me.

Hmmmm....I also did a staged reading of a play I've been writing over the last year with my dear friend, Lita.  Thanks to all who came.  I don't write alot, and when I have I know how hard it is to finally put your stuff out there and get feedback on it.  In fact, I always try to remember that when I'm asked to give my thoughts on other people's projects (and having worked in development for the last three years, it was almost daily).  It takes alot of nerve to open yourself up like that, and I have enormous respect for those who do it much more frequently (and graciously) than I do it.  But Lita and I got some insightful notes that will help take the project to the next level.  Onwards and upwards!

Gosh, what else?  I got new headshots taken, now comes the process of narrowing 500 pictures down to 10 so that I can get some feedback on those.  I don't know about the rest of you who get headshots taken, but I find it kind of stressful and exhausting.  I generally take good pictures, but it's still nerve-wracking to wonder if you are getting the shots you want, especially knowing how much money and time you are investing into them.  I think my shots turned out pretty good.  It's funny, though, to compare them to the first ones I got ten years ago.  I can see the age in my face, although I think I still look pretty damn good. :-)




Is this a good commercial shot?

Oh, and one of the things I have been looking forward to in my unemployment is finally having the chance to sample all the food trucks around LA (since, hell, I can spend the afternoon driving around looking for them).  Lucky for me, I hit the motherload of food trucks, and only about a half mile from my apartment!  Apparently they like to congregate behind the MTV building in Santa Monica at lunchtime...

The Greasy Weiner


Frankly, the "Greasy Weiner" truck sounds more like hangover food to me, so I opted to sample the tasty fare at India Jones.  I had a delicious paneer "Frankie" - you might call it an indian burrito with fried paneer and mango chutney wrapped in a grilled tortilla.  I sat on the grass next to my car and watched all the Viacom execs and production crews walking by with their baggies of trendy fast food.  It's nice to view them in their native habitat like this.

What's in store for later?  Why, dollar tacos and margaritas at Don Antonio's of course!

Go Happy,
Amy

COBRA and Other Venomous Specimens

I have officially made it through one week of unemployment.  I'll admit, though I've made endless "to do" lists and have had a flurry of energy, I had moments of feeling at loose ends.  Moments where I felt that all my glorious planning about What To Do Next had done nothing but create a mountain of not-yet-started projects that, at times, felt insurmountable.

I felt a bit like that today.  Dealing with anything related to health insurance makes me want to jump off the Santa Monica bluffs on my next morning run, so I've been putting off looking at the big packet that recently came in the post containing everything I ever wanted to know, or not know, about COBRA.  For my dear Blog-Friends who may be reading this in Canada (or some other country lucky enough to have socialized medicine) and are super-confused about why I may be receiving poisonous snakes in the mail, COBRA stands for the Consolidated Omnibus Budget Reconstruction Act.  Quite a mouthful, no?  Basically, it means that I can elect to pay the premium so that I can continue to have health insurance coverage.  So that if I were to, say, be bitten by a cobra I could actually go to the hospital for it.  Ain't America great?  However, I swear you have to have a doctoral degree to understand the minutiae of this literature they send to you.  But I think I have it figured out.  If I am summarizing the information correctly, it goes something like this:  pay us an obscene amount of money, and we'll try to do our best to make sure you don't die.  Or something like that.

So while I might dream at night of being bitten by venomous snakes and have moments of ambiguity during my days, for the most part this unemployment thing is pretty awesome.  That being the case, I find it amusing that when I tell people of my recent lay-off, the first thing they want to do is console me.  I'm not quite sure why this is, since usually my admission is complemented by a huge smile or a shout of "Yahoo!".  I don't need to be consoled.  I needed the consolation when I was employed.  THAT was dreadful.  This...this ain't so bad.

Go Happy,
Amy

Sweet Dreams...

Get Outta Here!

One of the things I have always lamented while employed is that I never had enough vacation time to really travel.  So, one would deduce that being unemployed would allow ample time for one to travel.  And one would be right!

For the last few years, Adam has made it a tradition to travel to an island for his birthday.  Recent trips have included England, Jamaica, Indonesia and Hawaii.  This year he has decided to continue this tradition, and I am excited to report that we are going somewhere far more Darwinian:

The Galapagos Islands!  We'll also be spending time on mainland Ecuador.  I suspect this is because a large part of our travel itinerary involves eating local cuisine, and Adam is especially anxious to sample the local Ecuadorian specialty:

Cuy!  Translation:  guinea pig.  Yes, I will be eating what in another country would be considered a household pet, but in Ecuador is a tasty, tasty lunch. 

To celebrate this upcoming island adventure, today I did my own little local "tour of the island".  Adam and I are down to one car since he's relinquished his Honda Accord to his 16 year old son.  Since so much of my day-to-day travel is now local, I decided it was time to give my bike a much-needed tune-up.  After perusing the reviews on Yelp, I settled on a great little bike shop in Santa Monica called Bicycle Ambulance, owned by a guy obviously from the Carribbean (but which island, I dunno, my ear isn't that good).  After dropping off my bike and discovering it wouldn't be ready until tomorrow, I arranged to meet Adam for lunch at Port Royal, a cute little cafe in Santa Monica that serves Jamaican food.

We had a delicious buffet lunch comprised of black beans, rice, hot wings, pepper chicken, cabbage, and other types of spicy meat I can't quite remember.  Adam is particularly excited because next Wednesday the buffet will include one his most favorite dishes:  curried goat.  When asked by the owner if I liked to eat curried goat, I replied "only when I'm out of the country".  And even then, like is a strong word for it.  But when travelling, I do endeavor to eat as the locals do, although I might draw the line at organ meats.  I don't want to get gout, after all.  :-)

Well, after a satisfying lunch and a long walk home, I'm ready for a nap. 

Oh, one more development to share:  I've just booked a gig on a reality tv show.  Details to come in future posts, but I can tell you I'm excited!

Go Happy,

Amy

Reality? Check.

A few observations since beginning my "funemployment":

1.  There are alot of people at the gym at 10:30am.  Who are these people?  What do they do?  Are they unemployed like me?  Do they have night jobs?  Are they trust fund babies? (Probably no on that last one - I go to Bally's, a distinctly low-budget gym).  Having been holed up in a windowless cubicle from 9am - 7pm for the last three years, I'm amazed that there are people out and about during the day.  Riding bikes.  Shopping.  Having coffee.  Hell, there is more traffic on Santa Moncia Blvd. at noon than at 9am.  How is this possible?  And why has it taken me so long to join this terrifically sunshiney world? 

2.  In the 13 years that I have had my cat, I often find hairballs at least once or twice a week.  I have never actually witnessed him doing it, however.  No longer.  Now that I'm home during the day, I got to see it first hand.  It's pretty impressive.  One second - nothing there.  Next second - giant sticky, smelly mess on the floor.  Like magic.  Like it came through a wormhole.  Wow. 

3.  I have the ability to waste an enormous amount of time on Facebook.  Thank you, ny friends, for being  endlessly fascinating.

4.  Daytime TV is depressing.  I'm sorry Rachel Ray, but I find you kind of grating.  And don't even get me started on Oprah or Dr. Phil.  I'd rather gouge out my eye with a rusty spike.

5.  When I don't know what to do, or I am avoiding doing what I should be doing, I clean.  My apartment is going to be fucking spotless within the week.

6.  If I don't get out of my apartment regularly, I'm going to gain 20 pounds in a matter of days.  Food is my elixir for boredom and stress.  And the yogurt place across the street is constantly calling my name.

Still trying to sort this new reality out, but I'm definitely in it.

Go Happy,
Amy

I Had a Dream

I had a dream last night...

Okay, let me interrupt myself.  I don't often like to share my nightly dreams as I know that it can be excruciatingly boring for the listener, but I promise this one time it is relevant.

I had a dream last night that I got an 11th hour reprieve on my lay off, and was expected to report to work today.  In my dream I was devastated.  I did not want to go back there.  Lucky for me, I woke up shortly thereafter and realized with a sigh of relief that I would not be driving to Burbank this morning, and that I am, in fact, still unemployed.

Which leads me to today's biggest order of business:  filing for unemployment.

I received the above tome as part of my "separation packet" from my (now former) employer.  I must say, it's a little daunting.  I've never applied for unemployment insurance before, and if the stories from friends who have are true, what I have to look forward to are endless hours on hold, lenghty waiting periods, interviews that could go awry, and the possibility of a dispiriting appearance in Appeals Court.

Good times.

As I sit here in my pjs, I wonder just how many others are sitting in their pjs doing just as I am doing this morning.  If the statistics are true, today in the state of California it's approximately 4400 people.    That's an alarming number. 

I think before I endeavor to delve into this mass of confusing paperwork, I should head to the gym.  I believe it's going to be important to me to keep up my daily routine as much as possible, so I'll attempt to make sense of all of this at the more reasonable hour of say, 9:30am.  I'll let you know how it goes.

Until then, have a lovely Monday, dear Blog-Friend.

Go Happy.
Amy

What's this blog about, anyway?

So what's this blog about, anyway?

I'd say it's pretty obvious that this blog is about the fact that I've been let go from my job - "laid off" as it were - and this is what I have to say about that.

But, what, exactly, am I planning to say?  Or, more importantly, what exactly am I planning to do, now that I have nothing but a empty highway of time stretching out before me? 

Good question.

Well, for starters, I don't look at this whole "suddenly unemployed" situation as a bad one.  Quite the contrary.  I've been looking for a way out for awhile, and somebody went and had the balls to make my decision for me.  So I have to thank them for that.

For the last three years I've made it my business to make the lives of those that have employed me easier.  I've put myself, my real opinions and my true aspirations to the side in order to make someone else's life run smoothly.  I was really good at it.  And I really liked the people I worked for (most of them, anyway - let's face it, there are always a couple of douchebags in the mix).  But it had gotten to the point where I felt like suddenly The Man was totally in control in my life and somewhere along the way, amongst all my best intentions, I had let myself, my real self, slip away into the background.  That's no good.

So thank you, The Man, for firing me.  It's probably the best thing that could have happened.

Now what am I going to do?  Is this the beginning of an era, not unlike those three gruelling years of graduate school, where I unapologetically worship at the Temple of Me?  A little soul-searching, perhaps?  Where everything I do, everything I say, revolves around the exploration, discovery and mapping of my inner world?  Where, just like in that darkened movement studio so many years ago, I shouted (in my most well-supported voice, of course) "I have no apologies!" all while rapturously executing the entirely silly-looking physical exercises drilled into me by a megalomaniacal Acting Guru?

Maybe it'll be like that a little bit.  I hope, though, that the last three years of self-subjugation has driven home the point that there are, in fact, other people out there, who have hopes, dreams and fears of their own.  That while I may be the center of my universe, I'm not the center of THE universe.  So that while taking a little time for some self-discovery is all well and good and probably called for, that I musn't forget that I actually exist in the real world, with other people, and that what's going on with them matters, too.

That'd be good.  I'm gonna do that.  Well, I'm going to aspire to do that, anyway, and chronicle it here.  I'll endeavor to tell the truth, the whole truth, and not be boring.  And hopefully you'll enjoy reading it, dear Blog-Friend.  Or at least not want to throw tomatos at me.

Go Happy-

Amy

Buh-bye, windowless cube!