I like the weekend. It levels the playing field. For all intents and purposes, nobody else has a job on Sunday either -  no reason to get up early, trade in their p.j.’s before noon, or wash their hair. In that, I have a good two day head start on all the other folks, but it’s hard to say if that’s a bit of depression at work or me taking advantage of the opportunity to embrace my… natural state. Hey, I still showered! And over-processed hair is dry and brittle! Do not make me get defensive.

Remembering how bad it got last time I was laid off, when the reasons for living (forget washing my hair) grew harder and harder to come by, I’ve been, shall we say, aggressive about keeping a schedule and setting goals and glorying in every single tiny accomplishment possible. For instance,

Added a half mile to my morning jog? High five! You don’t need employment to prove you’re successful because you just busted your ass on that hill! You won’t see it on your paycheck, but one day the bathroom scale is going to reward your efforts. Promise.

Washed all the dishes after each meal AND made the bed well before 9AM? Hold out your hand lady, it’s gold stars for you! Sure, making the bed was mostly to keep yourself from climbing back in it to whimper on the cool side of the pillow, but it was also about order and organization – two of your very strong selling points. Use it in a cover letter.

Finished Level 2 of the 30 Day Shred and did not vomit on your carpet? Ordinarily you’d be tempted to reward yourself with a pair of slimmer fitting jeans. But seeing as you aren’t exactly a contributing member of society, your reward is the PROMISE of slimmer fitting jeans. And two gold stars and a nap. You’re going to want that nap once you stop hyperventilating.

Mostly, I’ve tried to keep a sense of humor about the whole thing to keep myself from really freaking out like I want to. Thanks to all of you for your kindness and support – it’s been a pretty good reason to get out of bed, if not, you know, to wash my hair. While Brandon was in town this week, he asked me what my go-to coping mechanism was. I thought about it long and hard. It’s not booze, comfort food or sleep these days – the three old friends that would normally get me by on those days when I want to cry myself into a snotty heap on the floor. So I decided it’s either exercise (oh, Jillian, the wind beneath my quivering wings) or blogging. Maybe it’s a combination of both. Which, overall, seems like an okay way to be.

Look, I am fully prepared to silver-lining the hell out of this situation, but let’s get this out of the way first: I liked my job. I loved (LOVED) the people I worked with. And I know some folks subscribe to the notion that this is all part of some bigger plan, and that something “better” is in store, but I’m pretty convinced  that if you are happy, there is no “better” and that the current economic downturn is responsible for me losing my job. And it sucks. But, if anyone knows how to be unemployed, boy howdy, I sure do.

Right now I’m camped out at my fellow laid-off friend’s apartment, on hold with the Texas Workforce Commission trying to apply for unemployment benefits. I’d do it online like all the normal kids, but with my rather complicated work history of the last 18 months, I’m just not like all the normal kids. Enter the 35 minute telephone wait set to very groovy tunes heavily accented by electronic piano. I’m working out the corresponding choreography. Pelvic thrusting will be involved.

One of the stinkier things about this situation has been that since 9:06 yesterday morning, all I’ve wanted to do is call my mom. I know that she’d coddle me for about six seconds and then unleash a steady stream of infuriatingly practical advice and right before I threw a gigantic hissy fit, she would invite me for Sunday dinner. Which, let’s be honest, I’d have to turn down because I couldn’t afford the gas, but the invitation alone would be enough. None of this has been possible, though, since mom and StepBob embarked Sunday morning on a two-week Mediterranean cruise. So I called my brother, who was supremely sweet and sorry, but not at all infuriating, so, you know, it was a mixed bag.

Um, screw. Turns out, I might definitely do not qualify for unemployment benefits in Texas. Hold please, while I find the silver lining for THAT.

A dozen or so of us lost our jobs today. I can’t seem to catch my breath. Or swallow.

Yesterday morning my car broke. Electrical issues (in other words, Stuff I Do Not Understand). It’s all probably under warranty, but you try telling that to whichever part of my brain is in charge of stress. Hoo boy. When the dashboard lit up like a Christmas tree with DANGER, VW DRIVER! EXPLOSIONS, DEATH & CARNAGE! warnings, so did the stress spot in my cranium. And the beauty of yesterday was, it didn’t stop there. Oh, no! Because last night when my BlackBerry stopped working, I rolled my eyes way back into my head, took a deep breath and said, “Oh, Universe. You’re such a kidder.”

Full disclosure: I unleashed a string of expletives, too – most of them beginning with F and ending with six exclamation points. But as this is a family show, we’ll stick to golly, gosh and gee willikers. Keepin’ it G-rated.

On the brighter, shinier side, I bought a plane ticket to Utah so I can meet my nephew when he arrives next month. That I never got an email confirmation or that my credit card hasn’t actually been charged (despite the Ticketed – October 8, 2008 message on the American Airlines website), I attribute to the general punishment that was yesterday. When whatever planet is in retrograde decides to snap out of it, I expect all to be righted. In other words, I cannot freaking worry about one more thing right now.

Which is why I’ve wisely (snicker) decided it’s probably time to start dating again. You know, with the purpose of not spending the rest of my life thinking only about myself, and having someone else to make the other side of the bed (seriously, that’s a lot of walking ’round and ’round). If you’ll remember, I made a similar decision last fall, and then opted instead to wander around Europe for a couple months making out with college boys on study abroad. Not bad work, if you can get it, but you see how far that got me. I’m STILL taking out the garbage every week (minus) and enjoying sole possession of the remote control (plus).  Anyway, if you are reasonably tall, funny and do not intend to take me too seriously ever (and I mean EVER), please start lining up at my door. I like irises and hiking trips and I laugh in my sleep. That’s pretty much all you need to know.

Ready… go!

See how I did that? Told you I’d be blogging but really I was having a nutso day and then running off to the Ranch for the long weekend? I know. Sometimes, I can be such a flake.

On Sunday evening as we were packing up the behemoth SUV to head back to the city, I stopped to watch a pair of hawks riding the air currents over the main house in big, swooping, lazy loops. I wanted to stay. One more day. Maybe five. I’d spent the last three glorious days napping, reading, jogging, shifting between sunny spots and the shade of the back patio – making the same sorts of lazy circuits as the birds. And now that we were leaving, I found myself wishing that I’d done more. More napping? More lazy?

More time out to just be, I guess.

If you live in the city long enough, after a while, you start to think you belong there. That you’re meant to breathe car exhaust and to learn to walk just so as to not catch the heel of your shoe in a sidewalkgrate, and to call fastidiously planned parks “nature.” To drink four dollar coffee out of a bendy straw in a crowded subway car and pay too much for a haircut. But then it happens that you go for a morning run in the clean air, or fall asleep to the sound of crickets, or take a walk with a borrowed dog just as the sun is coming up over acres and acres of green and you think, “Scratch that!” (or more likely, something far less ladylike). And you start fixating on how great it would be to sleep to crickets every night and really need thatshower you take right before bed. You’d have to take up a new trade, obviously. Cattle ranching? Ooh, or horse training! You could really get behind that! So maybe you haven’t been on a horse since you were fifteen and they make you a little nervous. You’re nothing if not adaptable.

There I go again, saying you when I mean me. Le sigh.

An item of business: Some of you asked questions in comment sections of the previous two posts about The 30 Day Shred, I swear I will answer them. Just give a girl a few (um, like 12) hours to get her head together.