Adventures In Unemployment

Last week I applied for six jobs and internships. That is a personal best for me. As a person in the creative field, I often find myself strutting down Unemployment Boulevard. It's parallel to Alcoholic Avenue and intersects with Hermit Junction. Usually I catch the ForeverAloneTransit Bus on the Rejection Loop. Other times I take the Toyota Prius, or as I like to call it, the Booty Patrol. If you are my father, then you just call it "My Car." I like to call him "My Elderly Chinese Roommate."

Of course, I'm not just squatting with my elderly Chinese roommates forever. While I have yet to score a full-time job like a proper grown-up with salaries and team-building exercises with co-workers named Glen and Susan, I have had some luck as a freelance designer. I scour for gigs on Craigslist like that scene in The Dark Knight where Bruce Wayne uses a sonar device to track every person in Gotham to find the Joker. I even use the Batman voice while I'm job-hunting to get me in the entrepreneurial spirit. "THIS IS NOT THE LOGO THIS COMPANY NEEDS BUT THE ONE IT DESERVES!" I'm kind of a public servant to small businesses. In the meantime, I'm still moonlighting as a waitress at Ocean's Seafood and Grill where my elderly Chinese roommates become my elderly Chinese supervisors. Being physically unable to escape them is good motivation for me to search harder for the Joker.

Job interviews are my new social life. If I went on as many dates as I do job interviews, then I would be George Clooney but with a classier Batsuit. I do have to class it up for interviews. If I'm not lurking Craigslist gigs or charming my way to generous tips from old, middle-aged seafood connoisseurs, I'm wearing yesterday's pajama bottoms and looking more and more like the face of meth. The latter ceases to apply now that my eczema has cleared up so I really just look like your typical starving artist.  In the tradition of superheroes, I must conceal my true identity, and this goes for all potential employees in this rickety job market. We are beautiful, special snowflakes, and nobody is ordering snow cones at the office, honey.

When I land an interview, I am no longer the eyesore who falls asleep on trash cans. I can talk about penal codes without cackling. I do not show up at social gatherings only to be accosted with "Hmm, I didn't know this was a slumber party." I am a capable adult, and my car is not called the Booty Patrol. When I meet a potential employer, I give a firm handshake that says, "Julie Sheah, always a good decision!" They may ask me about my past experience, and I will regale them with bubbly anecdotes that display my capability as an employee and do not at all suggest that I may have just eaten an entire box of Valentine chocolates that I purchased myself. When they tell me that they like my portfolio, I say "Thank you" even though what I really mean is "I love you." My face emotes a friendly, docile expression that says "You can trust me with this job... I'll even shingle your roof to sweeten the deal." I charm and dazzle as if I have nothing to lose. Thus far, my superhero approach to unemployment has proved rather successful for me. It's probably due to my method acting; I really have nothing to lose.

Upgrade My Body, Please

Serving food to the elderly community has taught me one thing; the human body is a machine. When one part ceases to function properly, it is completely normal to replace it with a new part. Organs, limbs, teeth, it seems these hospitals and clinics have them all. They may as well change the name of UT Southwestern to Lone Star Spare-Parts Wholesale Deluxe Superstore. Like any superstore, you can even use Groupons to purchase your body upgrades, except they call it "Medicare."  There must have been a Groupon sale for lung transplants recently because it's all the rage among transplants right now. You may even be able to get a BOGO deal on lungs at the rate they're giving them out. Like our beloved computers that require software updates and new operating systems installed regularly over time, our bodies too are eligible for premium upgrades and  installations. I've met a startling number of old men and old women who have undergone multiple procedures to keep their bodies chugging along with new parts. In the most unnatural turn of events, humans are becoming invincible.

From reinforced sets of teeth to titanium hips, old people are more and more resembling Frankenstein's monster. Their hodgepodge of human parts work together to sustain a walking, nightmarish creature from the Antiques Roadshow. Their numbers grow as modern medicine allows them to cheat death with greater and greater ease. I look out into the sea of old people munching on grilled salmon with their new teeth and twirling spaghetti with their Luke Skywalker 2.0 hands, and I think, "When I grow up, I want to be a cyborg."

With the elderly's internal systems looking like Steampunk contraptions already, I am certain that the fast progress of medical technology will give rise to a new race of human beings. Evolution will spawn an elite race of human and machine hybrids. They will be faster, stronger, but most likely drive slowly. There will be a rise of the machines. It will be very much like the movie Terminator: Rise of the Machines, only Sam Worthington will not be there to bother us with his sad excuse for an American accent. In the war between humans and cyborgs, one must choose a side. The question remains, will you choose to upgrade? When I reach this new coming-of-age, I know that my decision to upgrade will be the right one. In an epic war to be the dominant species on the planet, I will side with the octogenarian cyborgs because I want to win and I want to live. Also, because I just love Werther's Originals.

When I get my upgrade, I plan to install any function and application I might need to survive a war. Of course I will cover the basics for my old age, like titanium hip replacement, a full set of reinforced dentures, oxygen tank, and tennis balls on my walker. Then for my war gear, I will need to replace one of my eyes with a digital scope so that I can see when Christian Bale is sneaking around trying to shoot me. For defensive purposes, I will need to install some kind of automatic weapon. I will probably get an uzi for its portability and street cred. I also want some sort of weapon that I do not need to reload so I will probably add some retractable Wolverine claws on my hand. Adamantium, no less. Some other items I might need in future wartime include a vacuum cleaner, pneumatic drill, egg beaters, etc. As an old lady, I need to be prepared to destroy enemies and provide snacks. I'll need to install a refrigerator as well, but I'll probably settle for a slim and sexy mini-fridge. I don't want a full-size one spoiling my otherwise delicate physique. I would also like a Slurpee machine, but that would just be ridiculous. I need to stay practical in a time of war. My basic package is a pretty standard upgrade for my decrepit, obsolete, human body to be able to function smoothly and without assistance.

The Rise of Valentine's Day Part II

Following up on last night's post regarding my anxiously awaited dinner shift at Ocean's, allow me to regale you with a tale that neither Nostradamus, Professor Trelawney, nor I saw coming. (you can read last night's post here http://legendarywig.blogspot.com/2012/02/rise-of-valentines-day.html)

Our hearty staff braced for the worst tonight. A torrent of happy, rabid couples looking for a romantic dinner loomed just beyond the horizon, we were sure of it. The foreboding moments before turning on the open sign felt like that aerial shot of Agamemnon's fleet in Troy; a thousand ships bringing suburbanites with dangerous appetites for love and shellfish to our shores. Aye, I was Hector readying my battalion, for I had the most years of experience at Oceans... also because I too have a chiseled jaw and a burly chest carved by the gods themselves. But I digress.

First a few regulars came in. Then a slow conveyer of customers began setting the moderate pace that would dictate the night. Everything was fine! My crew and I could handle this. There was no need to call for reinforcements or whip out the readymade altar for a quick bargaining with the gods to take back my chest of envy in return for mercy on this restaurant. No, everything was fine. It was smooth sailing in the horizon.

At the height of the dinner rush, a typical octogenarian couple entered the building and sat at my table. When I approached them to give my usual, enthusiastic speech, I realized that I had just transported into an Eli Roth movie. Upon the old man's bald head rested a boiling pustule of mammoth proportions. I stifled a shudder and diverted my eyes from what looked to be a goddamn oatmeal cookie of horror pasted on his head. Nothing in the world could have prepared me for this visual and gastrointestinal assault. While both he and his lady friend were cordial and generally nice people, the blight on his head made me want to run away shrieking "Troll! In the dungeon!!!" Perhaps that makes me a heartless person, but that's because my heart seemed to have left my body and perched itself on top of his head where it now sat pulsating and staring at me. Judge me all you want, but you weren't there. You didn't witness the horror that happened next.

When I returned to take their order, I avoided the glare of his massive boil by staring down at his menu while he decided on what he wanted to eat. I thought, "This is safe. Don't look at it, I'll just take their order and... what the sweet baby Jesus on a biscuit is that?" I notice a red dot on the page of his menu. A dark red dot. Against my better judgement, I peered up, following the red dot's trajectory until I reached the site of its launch. Sweet Lady Gagalupe of the Holy Pokerface, it was just as I feared. His boiling pustule had breached its containment. The cherry on top of his cranial sundae of nightmares was dribbling down and planting itself deep in the fibers of our menu. I suddenly felt the cold sweat creep all over my body. Did someone turn on a fan? I started to feel a little lightheaded as I took the now-contaminated menu from his hand. 

"Keep it together, man. Don't freak out...." I thought to myself as I walked away as steadily as I could, holding the infected menu out in front of me like a bomb. Normally I am not a weenie by any means when it comes to blood, but this time I felt like I deserved an Oscar just for acting normal after coming into such close proximity to a real life creature from The Walking Dead. I am proud to say that I did not throw up, faint, or cry. While my instincts told me to burn the menu, I put it in isolation containment for disinfection at the end of the night. At least the page that came in direct contact with the droplet was a throwaway Valentine special.

Later on I was informed by my co-worker Justin that the blight on the old man's head was not a boil. It was some sort of medical Play-Doh that doctors put on one's head after removing infected flesh. Well this was something I did not know. I'm not a doctor. I'm not George Clooney. I don't know anything about medical Play-Doh. What I do know is that there is a doctor out there who is being remiss with his Play-Doh seals. Never before has the term "paper-bag it" ever  been so appropriate at a restaurant.

Happy Valentine's Day!

click to enlarge the horror!

The Rise of Valentine's Day Part I

Tomorrow is Valentine's Day. I'm sure you and your significant other will have a delightful day expressing love for one another and feeling that warm sensation in your heart and in your pants. That is all good and well, but for me, Valentine's Day means one thing: the dinner shift at Ocean's Seafood and Grill. Tomorrow night, I expect to be bombarded by hoards of googly-eyed, happy, shiny people seeking a romantic evening. I can't even run away from my doom. In fact, I must do the complete opposite of run away; I have to cordially greet them and do my utmost to make sure that their evening is as romantic as it is delicious. If need be, I am prepared to dazzle them with my rendition of Celine Dion's "The Power of Love." There will not be a dry eye in the house due to the sheer magnificence of my voice, as well as to cataracts and glaucoma (our patrons are rather seasoned members of society). As I cater to their every whim and fancy, I am forced to acknowledge and dignify every question of,


"So do YOU have a boyfriend?"

"What are YOU doing for Valentine's Day?"

"What is this corkage fee, do you even know who I am, you sniveling imbecile in an apron?"


with a smile and speedy response that assures them that their night is not ruined, that they are winners because someone loves them and cared enough to join them for a seafood dinner special.

Am I bitter? No, I love all holidays. I find any excuse to celebrate and eat more decadently than usual. If I had my own kitchen I would even bake a Kwanzaa cake a la Sandra Lee, the whitest slice of white bread of a lady on Food Network. Holidays are about sharing happiness, and it just seems to me that Valentine's Day is the most obnoxious holiday that is exclusive and does not promote sharing. Share the love, people! I see people sucking each other's faces off like the facehugger in Alien, and not ONCE do they ask me if I want a bite.

Tomorrow night I am going to be giving my attention, giving my seafood recommendations, and giving a complimentary salad with every meal to these obnoxious facehuggers. I am going to be giving delicious plates of noodles to go with your incessant canoodling, and what will you give back to me? Empty plates! You probably won't even save me a piece! If it weren't for a juicy tip at the end of the bill, I would not hesitate to besiege you with my scorned and seething interpretation of One Republic's "Apologize."

With Valentine's Day looming its sweet, ruffly head tomorrow, I share with you my series of personalized Valentine cards, inspired by the Rise of the Planet of the Apes. Not only do apes and I share DNA, but we also share similar feelings in regards to Valentine's Day.

Birds of a Feather Flock Behind the Counter

Today while I was slowly decaying into the inevitable husk of my former self behind the restaurant counter, I looked out the window and saw an impressive flock of birds descend upon our shopping center. Hundreds of black bodies in spectacular formation maneuvered themselves like a blanket, settling in trees and scattering over the concrete lot. As usual when my mind feebly fights mental stagnation, I began to wonder.

Today is a great day to be a bird. As much as I enjoy and would like to travel, airfare, bus fare, life not being fair, and the trivial obstacles like responsibility and guilt have stopped my dreams from coming into fruition. This would not be so if I were a bird though! If a bird needs a round trip to Las Vegas, he can just up and leave. Literally, his body goes in the direction up, and he is on his way, without the faintest bother of boarding passes, arriving an hour before departure, or lurking the Ortbitz website with the dedication of Captain Ahab himself waiting for that sweet deal (word on the street is, Mondays!) Birds are terribly lucky having never known the financial perils that only we more evolved creatures have the luxury to suffer.

So Mr. Bird has embarked on his trip to Las Vegas. Let's call him Bernard. Bernard will fly for a few hours until he eventually needs to pull over to refuel. No gas station or diner for twenty miles? Please, he's a goddamn bird. The very earth is a traveling buffet: a Golden Corral so vast that God herself hasn't sampled every variation of cheese sauce yet. I believe that douchenozzle Ernest Hemingway so eloquently stated that "Paris is a moveable feast." Well eat my dust bins, Ernie, because I'm a goddamn bird; the world is my feast, and I'm the only thing moving. Whether Bernard is the healthy organic type and eats nuts, berries, and creatures from the Earth itself, or he follows his human foodies for deep-fried, over-processed sustenance, there is not shortage of food. What modern humans enjoy doing more than eating food, is throwing it away. For instance, I am such a modern, hip and happening lady of civilized society that I once dumped two containers of curly fries out by a pond and watched voyeuristically as the ducks consumed every last deep fried morsel. Trust me, food is not a problem for birds.

After dinner, Bernie will feel a bit sleepy, as buffets tend to have that effect. As any wary traveler, he'd rather not seek refuge in a hotel (motel?) with any form of the words "Value" or "Super" in the name, lest he become the latest on a long list of local birds gone missing. For the unbeatable price of $0.00, he can stay in the upper level suite of the nearest tree. Perhaps no trees are available in the concrete jungle of a cityscape. The nooks and crannies of buildings new and old alike are perfect abodes for Bernard. Having visited quite a few cities in my day, I can attest to the amount of shit I've seen; literally, buildings and vehicles covered in bird fecal matter. For that I must tip my hat to Bernard and his friends for having the audacity to defile our most sacred monuments and getting away with it. On that matter, rest stops are never a problem for a bird on a long trip. I'm sure the avian version of Mr. Hemingway would say, "The world, is a moveable toilet... and a feast." Oh that  Er. Nest Heningway and his irony. Fucking hipster.

Suffice to say that being a bird does have its perks when it comes to travel plans. Cost is virtually nothing, and... well, I can't think of any other advantage to flying to Vegas as a bird. That is pretty much the only reason I am envying those flying rodents out there. While Bernard has probably contracted a slew of disease and has a laundry list of mortal enemies ranging from hawks to Windex, he still has the luxury of not spending hours on end behind a counter. Also, if Bernard makes it to Vegas in one piece, the money saved on travel fare will cover the costs of all the staple activities of Vegas. He can blow as much as he wants on gambling, strippers, and well, blow. It's the perfect plan! Why has no one else thought to become a bird and go to Vegas before??? Oh, Bernard is still a goddamn bird, that's why. What the fuck is he doing in a casino?

In suit of many great literary geniuses before me, what I have written is an allegory to my own life right now. There is no Bernard. My sister Jenna is Bernard but without the diseases. She also doesn't shit on public edifices, at least not that I know of. Bernard is also a little bit of me, seeing as to how I am the one living behind a counter fantasizing about tree room service. And I too shit on public monuments, especially those memorial ones. Jenna and her troop of bridesmaids are on a quest to the Holy Land to seek the Holy Grail. And by "Holy Land," I mean Las Vegas. And by "Holy Grail," I mean Thunder from Down Under. We the Knights of Dancing on Tables want to cover her costs of reaching the Holy Land and delivering her to Salvation and Australian men in g-strings. We shall succeed. History may not remember us, but for that weekend in January, neither will we.