::Shebytches::

The problem with being unemployed is that everyday starts looking prettymuch the same as the next. Like that Bon Jovi song, "Dead or Alive," where Jon Bon Jovi moans that he can only tell the day by the bottle that he drinks, I only tell the day by the shows on TV. "I guess it's Friday since that dumbass morning show is having Fashion Friday today. I wonder how generic their makeovers will be today."

I don't do much during the day. I surf job sites. I look at corporate websites, desperately hoping everyone's hiring freeze ends. I apply for jobs online using crappy web-based software that makes every experience a painful one. I write and rewrite cover letters so that, depending on the job, I can sound like a software developer, a software architect, a financial researcher, or a broadcaster. When I get bored of the job hunt, I surf the web. When I get tired of surfing the web, I read books. And when I sicken of reading books, I write for shebytches. Except when I get writer's block.

When I get writer's block, I watch TV. I watch daytime TV. That means soaps and talk shows. The talk shows are the worst. If I have to hear about another (hetrosexual, natch) couple who is having sexual difficulties because of stress, I'm going to yell. The story is usually that the wife feels overwhelmed raising three children, including a promiscuous teenage daughter (it's always the daughters who are promiscuous...the sons are usually on drugs) and her husband, who is an advertising executive who works long hours, feels that his daughter's free sex is causing strain on the couple's sex life. The good-natured and benevolent host/doctor obviously points his finger at the daughter, telling her that her destructive behaviour must stop or else she'll ruin her parents' marriage. Daytime talk shows actually make soap operas sound san.e. For example, on "The Bold and The Beautiful," Ridge is engaged in a fashion house battle royale with his half-brother, Thorne. While Ridge is the head designer of Forrester Fashions, Thorne is the only true heir to the Forrester fortune since Ridge is actually the illegitimate son of Massimo, an oil tycoon who is now in a vegetative state after having a massive heart attack when he found out that his wife, Jackie, was having an affair with the private investigator he hired to spy on Jackie. See? It almost makes sense.

This is not good for my mind. It's turning it to mush and I know it. In fact, I'm so worried about my brain turning to mush that I'm verging on cracking open my General Relativity book and trying to finally figure out Christoffel symbols. This is how bad it's become.

Mind you, I could do what my friend's wives have done when they've been unemployed. All my friend's wives went on major cleaning and decorating binges when they were unemployed. While they were at home alone, they took the time to keep the place tidy, organize their boyfriend/husband's stuff and dust the computer. Hell, one of them even repainted!

My boyfriend and I were recently invited to a friend of ours' place to see how his wife had redecorated the place. She's been unemployed for a little less time than me and she's filled her days with making doilies, pot warmers and slip covers. She showed them all off to us. She showed us how much better the apartment looked now that she eliminated all traces of her husband from the place. She also showed us all the chorizos she bought at Kensignton Market. She also bought a veriety of spices and other expensive things so she could make tasty dinners for her husband.

I could do stuff like that, but it really isn't me. I don't like cleaning and my boyfriend and I have so much stuff that redecorating would require a few months. I could go down to Kensignton market, but that would be time that I could spend looking for work. Finally, I really don't see the point of making doilies. My grandmother has already filled my trousseau with enough doilies to last me a lifetime. When I was nineteen, my grandmother gave me a full tablecloth set with matching embroidered beadspread, so I don't need to work on my needlepoint.

But what am I supposed to do with my time? I'm obviously not cut-out for being a housewife. I go in and out of writer's block. I don't have a job. I hate staying home. What am I going to do? Watch more soap operas? Ugh. My brain rots. ROTS! I need a job. Not that my brain won't rot in a job, but at least, for a while, I'll be able to good-naturedly bitch and whine about my job.

In the meantime, I guess it's just me, the job hunt and my writer's block. Man this sucks.