The Allure of Sweets and Money

Tonight, I went to grab a coffee and dessert with my good friend, Lassie. Seems wholesome enough. But our little sweet stop was a sinister den of temptation, luring me toward employment.

Lassie and I strolled up to Ditmars Blvd. in our neighborhood of Astoria, headed toward a bakery she'd recently discovered. The streets were teeming with people, and though it was a Saturday night under a yolky-yellow full moon, I couldn't help but feeling something was up. 

As we approached the bakery, noting its full outside section, we saw what had drawn the uncharacteristically energetic crowd--a giant street festival, rivaling any typical street festival in Little Italy. It was a mesmerizing three blocks of arches of lights, an olfactory cloud of factory meats, and the obligatory layer of festival rubbish underfoot. Needless to say, we requested to sit inside.

Before the hostess sat us at the bar indoors, Lassie pointed to a sign posted on the door. "Hey look. Experienced server wanted." I felt a pang of temptation. I looked on approvingly as servers hustled from table to table, taking orders, dropping drinks, transacting cash. I could do this, for sure. A few days a week, and I'd probably make enough to offset any anxiety I have about spending money on frivolous but desirable things (like gelato!). 

The hostess led us past well-lit and well-stocked cases of cakes, tarts, cookies, cupcakes, and other treats that shall remain nameless. This is the treasure trove to which I could gain access, as an employee; I would have the key to the glass refrigerators. I fantasized about coming home with paper bags full of goodies, dripping with syrups and jellies, with boxes of pies stacked high in our kitchen.

I ordered a strawberry-banana layer cake, the size of which was obscene, and eating it was a gratuitous twenty minutes. All the while--as I said we were sitting at the bar, the hub of activity--I couldn't help but blurt out that sitting here made me miss working in a restaurant. That good frantic energy, the crossroads of coworkers and customers, the food...

Employment here called to me, like the street festival called to the neighborhood with false promises of joy and lovable freaks. But I knew better. It would be the siren song of my undoing. The ugly truth would be another period of my life exhausted, lost in the clamor of easy money and society. Feeling guilty and confused, I pulled out a $50 bill, no doubt evidence of my days at Cafe Gypsy, where good money is a given. 

We left soon after paying. When we got outside, the tents were coming down. The arches of lights, charming before, now seemed gaudy and mocked the refuse littering the streets and sidewalks. The smells had addled, the crowd had dissipated, and the carnies were no longer paying us any mind. The delusion had passed.

I walked home at a brisk pace, unemployed, but not uninspired.

Free

A couple of free things happened to me today, supporting my conviction that I can spoil myself this summer, despite my income-free lifestyle.

Maybe it's the fact that I'm looking for free stuff, or that I'm noticing stuff that I would normally get for free and therefore appreciating it more, or maybe I've acquired special powers--like King Midas, only instead of turning stuff into gold, I'm turning it into... Free? Whatever the reason, Free abounds.

In the afternoon, I enjoyed an informative tour of the Met with Pat Pillar, personal guide extraordinaire. I got in for free, via his $60 membership. Pat seemed to know the layout of the museum as if it were his own mansion. Not only did he know the layout, but he also knew the detailed history of everything we encountered; clearly, the museum is a place where one can whiled away quite a bit of the summer, a haven for the person with too much time and too little to do. I plan on making the $60 investment there soon, which will last me the year (hopefully long after my unemployment).

Then, onto a show at the Music Hall of Williamsburg with Juju & friends, to see a fellow Kansan's band, Woods (I got in for free, via a serendipitous encounter on my flight from MCI to LGA this past Tuesday). Juju & friends, though they paid to get in, were offered free beer by beer promoters; I'd like to think I'm attracting Free to myself and the people around me.

Then again, in a cleaning rampage today, I did foolishly throw away a $20 metrocard I purchased a few rides ago. Maybe the universe is simply trying to restore order for my carelessness by rewarding me with an illusion of Free.

Cloistered

I was supposed to go to The Cloisters today with Pat Pillar. Supposed to be inspired, to be humbled... something enlightening like that. But instead, here I am, in my room, waiting and waiting... waiting for my landlord to come by with tools and articles of plumbing so that he can fix my bathroom.

The kitchen, without an air conditioner, is roasting in hot summer sun, blanched in humidity. The living room, with large, undressed windows, is a blinding hell. And, with no one home, not even the dog, there is no reason to speak, and I'm a veritable monk for a day.

Fortunately, my bedroom--the master bedroom I won in a coin toss--is a 170 square foot playhouse, with a piano and a keyboard, depending on how classy I'm feeling; a new batch of books I harvested from my trip to Kansas; a ceramic hen, a paper llama, and a pair of bronze alligators; and two jars of coins I may very well decide to organize and hand-count for the heck of it. This is no austere retreat.

Unfortunately, though, my bathroom--the master bathroom--is out of commission until my landlord so chooses to show up. And until then, I wait in my room alone, apart from anything else.

An Oath

I'm having a hard time with the financial restraint involved with unemployment.

Since I stepped foot off the plane last night, I've blown many dollars on many unnecessary things. Take jalapeno margaritas, for example. Three of them. A wise man would have purchased a full bottle of tequila and infused it with jalapenos in the comfort of his own, frugal home. Isn't it more satisfying to get drunk off of your own infusion, anyway? 

Tonight, Pat Pillar, my mentor from the other side of the unemployed tracks, critiqued my purchase of a few scoops of gelato for a few friends. "Uh, shouldn't you not spend money... like that?" 

Old habits die hard, especially when it involves velvety, cold, flavorful Hola, Bonita gelato. But he was right. I was being foolish. I'm in exile from a land of ice cream truck songs and triple-scoop camaraderie, and I need to start spending like it. So from here on, I pledge an oath of gelato celibacy. No gelato for me; no gelato for anyone else around me, from me. But... please, give me a bite of yours. 

Pat Pillar, in the midst of an art history infatuation, told me about this museum up, way up there on the New York City map, called The Cloisters, an architecturally monastic museum. In light of my gelato oath, a trip there tomorrow would only be appropriate. 

Suggested donation: the money I would have otherwise spent on something delicious and insensible.

Parallel Unemployed Universe

Just under the 40th Parallel, in the posh suburbs of Kansas City, I'm in a parallel universe of unemployment.

Here, and elsewhere too, not having a job isn't necessarily a sign of laziness, discontent, or misfortune. Employment, in some universes, is inversely related to the quality of life. 

Take my life today, for example. 

I woke up, had a health-conscious peach-mango soy-protein smoothie--one packet out of a whole, expensive, diet-system of packets that my stepfather couldn't bring himself to enjoy, no matter the price. Then, I watched an episode of The Golden Girls while working out at an easy pace on the elliptical machine in the basement gym. There's also a Bowflex there that I'm too afraid to use, though I'm sure I could have flipped through the channels and found an instructive Bowflex infomercial. I certainly wasn't in a hurry to get anywhere.

After taking a shower and walking my mother's hyperactive shih tzu, Barley, I was driven to a spa about a 90-second car ride away for a facial appointment that my mother had scheduled and purchased for me. As my mother points out, there's no reason I shouldn't look as pretty as possible before going back to New York City--you just never know who you're going to meet! 

My facialist asked me what I did, and I told her I wasn't working, but that I had just traveled to Greece. She asked me, then, if I was married, or had a boyfriend maybe... 

Nope, not involved with a wealthy older man yet, if that's what she was really asking me--but I'm sure as hell living like it today, in this sweet, parallel unemployed universe.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to prepare myself for a dinner-date with an old girlfriend of mine.

The Worst Unemployed Person Ever

I'll be honest. So far, I've been a relatively unproductive unemployed person.

Let me explain.

I started out, with high hopes of hitting the ground running down the path of unemployment. I thought I would have to overcome the trials and tribulations of filling my vacuous days with meaningful activities. I thought I would be living ascetically, drenched in the sweat of knowing that there would only be an output, never an input, of funds for the next few months of my experiment. 

I thought I would be melodramatically wringing my hands, in full-on regret of quitting my time-consuming and lucrative job at Cafe Gypsy. But, I'm almost a month into real unemployment, and I haven't slept in my own bed since the 28th of May. (It's mostly been sofabeds, if you're curious.) I've been making my rounds visiting family all across the midwest, not to mention going on a Greek vacation... 

It's not that I haven't had anything to write about--I certainly have--but none of it has anything to do with my quest for gainful unemployment. I mean, what kind of unemployed person has so many people to visit and so much to do? I haven't been paying for much either. Poor me, all entertained and rich and shit.

I'm going to try to savor it while it lasts though, because on Tuesday, I get back to my own bed. On Tuesday, the misery that makes for good entertainment begins.

Or maybe this whole thing is just doomed for anticlimax and I should just get a damn job.