August 9, 2010

Job Losses. Spiritual Gains.

~April~

There’s always someone panhandling on the corner of Westheimer and Hillcroft—the snowy-haired dude with the limp and robotic, Salvation-Army-Santa hand gestures; the Mexican guy propped up in a wheelchair; the sun-bleached woman with eyes a little too wide and skin so leathery, it looks reptilian—but this one, I hadn’t see him before.

Because I’m stopped at a red light, I’ve got time to examine the man. He is thin, tall, and nerdy looking. Thick-framed black glasses—the kind that prettier people wear to be ironic—slide down his nose. Underneath his non-descript mesh cap, I spy a kempt brown fringe, sensibly cut. Plastered to dude’s chest is a white sign with hand-drawn black lettering that says: “Lost job. Will work. Do not drink. God bless.” The job thing strikes a nerve. He’s a geek—reminds me of every engineer I’ve worked with. I dig through my purse, find my wallet, wrench it open. And: no cash. My pocketbook’s empty, save for a sticky note, some lint and two rogue postage stamps. I sigh and think, if this was a cartoon, feathery moths would’ve flown from the folds.

When the light turns green, I speed through the intersection, leaving the man behind. I navigate a few streets until I find my destination. Once parked, I slip my hands into my pockets and search for hard plastic. I am like the panhandler, except I have this magic card. Nervous, I bring it into the bank and whisper to the clerk, “I’m not sure how this works … I lost my job and the unemployment office sent this to me. They say it’s a debit card and that you can give me money. Is that true?”

The clerk—all blotchy skin and bad suit—regards me with apathy.

As I take the cash, a bloom of fuchsia colors my cheeks. I am embarrassed, defensive. I think, who am I to be pitied? I’m not the stiff in an ill-fitting outfit with the lame-ass bank job. Still, something uncomfortable washes over me. It feels like sadness. It wreaks of shame.
—-

~May~

“I’m having a hard time keeping track of the days,” I tell Mary Helen, my sister in uncertainty. It’s been two months since I lost my job—six weeks since she lost hers, and we are seated on woven wicker barstools in our hosts’, Carolyn and Sam’s cozy kitchen.

“The only reason I know today’s date,” I confide, “is because of the holiday.” I shrug as I speak, smooth a wrinkle from the white linen pants I paired specially with a blue-striped tank and red beaded necklace. Mary Helen—dressed not-so-festively in pair of plaid-patterned board shorts and a white t-shirt with an oversized fedora and the words KING OF POP splashed across the front—nods; she understands all too well. Above our heads, a delectable bouquet of fresh-grilled Cajun sausage and slow-cooked brisket haloes. We salivate, and in my thoughts I muse, there is such thing as a free lunch. You just need to lose your job first.
—-

~June~

Ten weeks I’ve been unemployed and inside me there’s a tectonic shift; the terrain of fear I’d been laboring under, so desperate to keep my job in a lousy economy, is shattered. In fear’s place, (most days) lies an acceptance of what is—that I don’t have a job and that I am still OK—and a curiosity about the future. Where will I work next? How long will it take to find something? Will I be a contract worker or full-time employee? Will I still write for a living? If I don’t write, what will I do? Will I find work in Houston? Should I return to the northwest? These are the questions that bubble in my brain as I lounge by the pool, a golden, sweat-glossed goddess, luxuriating in the fact that I have nothing better to do.

…

Before the calendar flips to July, I’m shaking hands with strangers in a new office. My new office. First day of work and a sensible tab-sleeve blouse and black lattice-top wedges replace the swimsuit and flip flops that were the uniform of my unemployment. As I arrange my desk—carefully placing a framed photo of Andrew and I in the space next the metal caddy brimming with highlighters, pens and company-branded post its—I stop and smile. I realize that losing my job … well, it wasn’t much of a loss.

3 comments

June 3, 2010

Hair Today, Job Tomorrow?

Six weeks now I’ve been unemployed and some would say, I’ve been looking the part.

“You’ve got the hair of an unemployed writer,” Mom told me. I surveyed myself in her bedroom vanity and—noting the uninspired styling, abundant black roots, and the lackluster matte slicked to my skull—I agreed.

As Popeye says, I yam what I yam, but … I can do better. Through goodly employment and none, with God (and Mom) as my witness, I will never have bad hair again … until the next time it happens, of course.

So, no job yet, but I’ve got a new ‘do.

Where the old hair said: Unemployed Writer, the new hair says: Unemployed Writer Whose Been Watching Too Much Daytime TV, Most Specifically, The Real Housewives of New Jersey.

The new hair is Jersey-big! It’s Jersey-bold! It’s craving a projutto sangwich! And damn it, if you piss it off at dinner, it just might call out, “Prostitution whore!” before flipping a table and sending a cascade of linen and glassware tumbling down your front side.

In short: it’s fab … as is my random use of cat-as-prop. Don’t you agree?

13 comments

May 5, 2010

One In A (Multi) Million, Or Hey! I Just Lost My Job

I am a person who is always losing things. A necklace here, some car keys there, my grip, my sanity, my marbles, my way … and, as of April 12th, my job.

Yep, I am now one in a multi-million unemployed, seeking work in a rotten economy.

And to answer the question everyone’s been asking: no, I did not see it coming.

I did not expect that I would be laid off that Monday morning when I traipsed into the office as usual, high heels clacking, black cardigan whipped over a smart, vintage-style pink cotton top. I did not expect—as I sat at my desk and booted up my IBM laptop—that when I saw my coworker, Cecil lumbering down the hall cradling a cardboard box, a mixture of shock and sorrow playing out on his features, I would be next. I did not foresee the white hot tears, the trembling hands, the wash of embarrassment that enveloped me when my forlorn boss, eyes glued to the carpet, pushed a manila packet of severance papers into my sweaty palms. I did not know—could not have known—that when I left the office that morning, shamefaced and sad, there would be a huge car accident just two streets from the office, blocking my route home; the blistering sirens and staccato flicker of red and white lights echoing the panic that I wore heavy on my chest like a dentist’s x-ray bib.

The rest of the day was an emotional goulash. Shame, shock and sorrow mingled with relief, hope, and curiosity. Numbness and fear made their introductions around 5PM and by 10PM I was feeling slightly neurotic and entirely exhausted. Before I went to sleep, Andrew gathered me up into his great big arms and told me everything was going to be fine. That night I slept fitfully, entirely spent.

To answer another popular question: yes, I am OK.

Because I had the time (and frequent flyer miles), I took a quick trip to Alaska just days after the layoff. I didn’t tell my parents I was coming, I simply showed up on their doorstep, a springtime sluice of melting snow and globby mud caked on my feet. The look of surprise and excitement on Mom and Dad’s faces softened my job-loss sting and made my heart soar like the regal snowcapped peaks that press against my mother’s kitchen window.

I relished the time spent with family—I’ve had seven new members added the last three years and all of them live away from me on the west coast. An afternoon spent cuddling a trio of my insanely adorable flaxen-haired, cherub-cheeked nieces inspired me to tweet this:

Indeed, I am taking the good with the bad these days. What will I do next? I’m looking to network with recruiters and land contract work. In the interim, I’m going to use my time to read books (I’ve already finished 4 novels!), workout daily (can you feel the burn?) and improve my education—What Not To Wear reruns on TLC at 11AM M-F and so far I’ve learned (amongst many things) it’s a horrible idea to do home highlights with an aerosol spray can, and also to wear lingerie in public. Who knew? Not this working girl.

8 comments

April 9, 2010

The Write Time

I don’t know what it is about him—the heavily tattooed, sleek-haired stranger, a self-proclaimed “dirt poet” from Chicago—but he totally disarms me. And so, when he asks about my greatest fear, (following a discussion on his own terrifying experience running with the bulls in Paloma, Spain), I tell him.

“My greatest fear,” I say, uttering aloud the thing that no one else knows, “is also my greatest aspiration. And that is to write a book.” I explain that I want to publish. Red-faced, I confess that fear of failure has kept me from even starting.

My houseguest cocks his head, clasps his hands together. He points his intertwined index fingers toward me and very earnestly speaks.

“Hänni,” says the man sitting adjacent, “if you are scared of something, then that’s exactly why you need tackle it head-on.” His liquid dark eyes flash as he admonishes my trepidation. He tells me if I’m scared of something, I need to run up to it full speed and smash it’s metaphorical teeth out. “For all the night’s it’s kept you awake,” he explains. “For all the nights it’s stolen your sleep.”

I nod my head, yes, the truth of his words stirring in my stomach. The man touches his hand to the back of his neck, exposes a riot of black ink scrawled on caramel-colored flesh. He switches gears, tells me he’s enjoying his speakings in the south, and thanks me for letting him crash on my sofa. He is grateful, he says for the opportunity to tour and promote his second self-published book, a work of non-fiction called A Life Deliberate. I tell him it’s no problem, and I’m grateful as well, to have the ear of an author, if just for the evening.

As I lay myself to sleep that night, my duo of cats purring a lullaby and cuddling in the crook of my arm, I think to myself, if the man on my couch can publish, maybe I can too.

Something warm flutters in my guts. It feels like butterflies. It feels like hope.

—-
For three years I had houseguest and author, Chris Gutierrez’ words bubbling in my brain. But it wasn’t until New Years 2010 that I finally resolved to Write! Write! Write!—to step into uncertainty and experiment with longer-form literary pieces; the kind of stuff you don’t post on a blog, but that you see in magazines and journals and as parts of a larger book-length work. To this end, I enrolled in an Inprint! writer’s workshop. This experience, it turns out, would further ignite my writing passions, and soon I would wake at 5AM on workdays so I could bang out some prose on my MacBook before heading to the office. Days I slept in, I missed my writing ritual, felt it’s loss like a phantom limb.

I’ve decided I want to publish. I’ve decided to smash fear straight in the face and give writing a serious shot. I don’t know what will happen if I do, but I’m fairly certain of what happens if I don’t, and that’s not the kind of regret I want to live with.

Next steps? The Taos Summer Writers’ Conference—It’s not inexpensive, but it is, I think, an opportunity I can’t miss. Here’s hoping that out there—in the desert place that nourished artists like Gertrude Stein, D.H. Lawrence, and Georgia O’ Keeffe—there’s some New Mexican magic for me as well.

2 comments

March 31, 2010

Wordless Wednesday is Kind Of A Cop Out

But I’ll play.

Wah, wah, wah. Writing is hard. I need a lobotomy, or this is also how the writer’s workshop is going.

7 comments

March 18, 2010

Simon Moth Critiques My Essay And Still I Live To Tell The Tale, Or This Is How My Writer’s Workshop Is Going, Part II

I decide to go balls out, because, really? That’s the only way this can go.

It’s Sunday night, 5 p.m.—week six submissions are due and I’m on the hot seat. Five weeks earlier—my creative confidence flagging–I almost quit the writer’s workshop, but tonight, tremulous and excited, I flip open my MacBook and ready my first essay for review. With one last check for glaring errors, I bless my piece for scrutiny by 12 people who were perfect strangers just weeks before. I hope their analysis is constructive and fair. I worry though, that the dissection of my work—like a careless slice job on a high-school science class’ formaldehyde frog—will leave me splayed out catawampus, my guts a grayish gumbo all over the tabletop. I do not like gumbo, and my guts, those that I’m mustering right now to steel myself against the cold winds of critique—I’m kind of fond of them—I pray they remain intact.

(Photo credit: Bascom Hogue@Flickr)

—-

Simon Moth hates my essay.

It’s Wednesday, workshop night, and of my submission, “Mother Fixer”—an essay about my step mom, over which I have agonized, scrutinized, and poured buckets and buckets of heart and soul and time and love and loss and neurosis and heartstrings and everything else into—Simon says, “I think its flat.”

“The beginning of the essay is no more compelling than the end,” Simon, a furrow-browed octogenarian intones. The first of the group to speak, he is dismissive, resolute, not at all concerned with starting the critique on a positive note. To punctuate his point, Simon scrawls tangled black letters, echoing his sentiment—that my essay royally sucks—into the margins of a printed copy of my piece, which he will give me at the end of class. When sufficiently finished scribbling, Simon cups his hands around a porcelain coffee mug; phantom wisps of white steam, fine as translucent vellum, float up and then evaporate into the tension-filled room.

“What I wouldn’t give,” I think, “to disappear right now, just like those fine white wisps.”

… But then, bright spots.

Irene, our instructor, her hair piled high in a haphazard bun, her large, gold earrings hanging like chandeliers from earlobes exposed, says she likes it; she thinks the essay works. “It’s a portrait,” she explains, “it’s not supposed to be revelatory. It’s a conjuring of a mother—and the literary world is full of mothers.”

“I loved the main character. She is larger than life!” Jen, the schoolteacher at the end of the table exclaims.

Miriam, the soulful Belizeer with the infectious smile, says that the work is great, beginning to end. “I wouldn’t change a thing,” she emphatically says. “I would not change one thing.”

—-

Later that night, back at the apartment, Andrew—languishing on our green tufted couch, his jewel-eyed Siamese stretched out alongside—asks how the critique went.

“It went well,” I say. I am pleased that my work, good or bad, resonated with a real-world audience. And then because the impulse strikes me, I corset my arms in an “x” across my stomach. I feel side ribs, soft flesh.

What do you know? I think. My insides are still intact.

Simon Moth be damned, it looks like I’ll live to write another day.

The jewel-eyed cat looks in my direction, purrs her approval.

0 comments

March 16, 2010

Congratulations Hännihaus Blik Classic Chair Back Decals Giveaway Winner…

(Photo credit: Pink Sherbert@Flickr)

Rhi! You win! You win! Not only are you a winner in life, but you are also lucky #5. Your decals are in the mail—fortunately I got them to the post office yesterday BEFORE getting the flat tire which derailed the rest of the afternoon (oy).

Thank you to all participants. This was fun. We should really do this again sometime, non?

8 comments

March 11, 2010

Killing Simon Moth, Or This Is How The Writer’s Workshop Is Going, Part I

SIMON MOTH ATE 15 COOKIES.

I record this fact in my Barbie pink, Mead Five Star notebook. It is 8:30pm on a Wednesday and week 1 of the writer’s workshop in which I’m enrolled in as part of a New Year’s Resolution. I am sitting at a long, black Parson’s table with 11 other Personal Essay workshop participants, and I have been watching—discreetly through squinty-eyed side glances—the white-haired, bespectacled physicist to my right, quietly devour a formidable mound of delicate wafers. Deftly, steadily, Simon’s liver-spotted fingers hopscotch through the Pepperidge Farm sampler provided by our instructor for snacking; lacy rounds, buttery bars, twin crisps with velvet ribbons of decadent chocolate sandwiched between—none are safe from Simon’s eager maw.

(Photo credit: mconnors@MorgueFile)

And I’m a little worried. Should someone his age (what is he, 75, 80, 89?) be eating sweets with reckless abandon? What if he has diabetes like my grandma? What if those delicious little cookies that Simon’s fixedly putting to his papery lips are nothing but delectable death rockets primed to explode his blood glucose levels to atmospheric heights? What if all that sugar sends Simon flying, on one last trip through the strawberry fields of sweet crystalline bliss, only to plunge him into the perilous depths of a cookie-induced coma? What then? I can all but see the tombstone:

–Here lies Simon. He tasted of death; it smacked strongly of store-bought Milanos. R.I.P.

I unlock my tractor-beam gaze from Simon’s impressive confetti of crumbs long enough to jot in my notebook–it’s spiral wire curling through the perforated spine of 100 wide-ruled pages—a thought for further consideration:

“Is it wrong to kill your classmate,” I write, “before he’s even critiqued your work?”

…

I hold that thought. Something’s going on at the head of the table.

—-

She’s smiling as she speaks. Our instructor, Irene, her hair, a milk chocolate drape, is worn straight and long and frames her smallish porcelain face. Her cardigan is steely gray, her jewelry dramatic. From behind metal frames, brown eyes blink and sparkle. She is artsy, and young (probably my age), and already so accomplished. She’s finishing up her novel, she tells us. A literary journal is going to publish her essay in the spring, she says.

Because someone asks, Irene is telling us about the difference between memoir and personal essay. “Personal essay,” Irene informs us, “is a slice of life, usually exploring a question of what interests or troubles you.” The story length is relatively short, she says, so the audience should know why time’s spent on details. When someone asks about essay length, how long our pieces for class should be, Irene says thoughtfully, “I don’t know … I think 15 pages, double-spaced is the sweet spot.”

15 pages?! I scream silently in italics. Is she insane?

As a blogger, my goal is to condense and compress, to never exceed two pages per post. For me, 15 feels impossible, insurmountable, like climbing Mount Everest via Microsoft Word.

My stomach plunges and I feel nauseous. Pinpricks of sweat explode in my armpits. My panic is white hot.

Taking a page from Simon Moth’s book, I crabwalk my fingers toward the cookie platter. I am an emotional eater and right now that buttery square can’t make it into my grip fast enough. The middle of my confection of choice? It’s loaded with raspberry jam. When I bite in, I notice the filling quivers a little; it’s shaky inside, just like me.

On the drive home, I keep one hand on the wheel, the other wipes cookie dust from my blouse. Well that was an experience, I think. As the InPrint house—and Simon and Irene and 12 strangers and 15 nerve-wracking pages and one very strange night—fades behind the glare of my red taillights, I wonder if I’ll ever go back.

Because right now? I’m highly uncertain.

(Photo credit: Robert S. Donovan@Flickr)

9 comments

March 4, 2010

HANNIHAUS GIVEAWAY BLIK CLASSIC CHAIR BACK DECALS

Woops, in the process of pimping out my new apartment, I bought too much stuff. My bad = your awesome opportunity to win a fun and fancy set of Blik Classic Chair Back decals!

What it is Blik? What are chair back decals? Blik is an internationally acclaimed design company, famous for its quirky removable wall graphics. Blik’s whimsical Classic Chair Back decals allow decorators to spruce up their dining chairs on the cheap. Application is easy (really, they’re just big stickers), and is as temporary or permanent as you want it to be—the decals are reusable, so if you’d like to try a new look, simply unstick the chair backs and stash for later use.

What’s included in the giveaway? Six chair back decals (all white) valued at $30, and shipped via USPS direct to your home. Want more deets? Here’s the package info:

TO WIN: Leave a comment on this post with your email address included. Winner will be selected via random number generator next Thursday, March 11th at 6 PM EST. Giveaway closes Thursday, March 11th at 5 PM EST.

*Reeeeallly want to win? I’ll give you one additional entry (for two total chances to win) when you share a link to this giveaway on your blog, Twitter, Facebook, etc. Leave a link to your shout out on this post as your second comment to qualify.

Best of luck, kids!

—-
The fine print: (Though we really like ‘em), Hännihaus is not affiliated with Blik, nor has Blik sponsored this giveaway; giveaway items were purchased directly from Blik Web site.

15 comments

February 25, 2010

Haus Tour: The ‘this is not a crappy apartment’ edition

Me to crappy apartment: I can quit you, and in fact, three weeks ago, I totally did.

Once upon a time I lived in a place that I lovingly refer to as an ABSOLUTE NIGHTMARE (probably because it was trying to kill me … but I digress). Anyway, as it turns out, good things come to those who flee, cause now I’m cooling my heels in a classy-type complex.

Wanna see it? The new apartment needs work—I’ve only been here a few weeks, for chrissakes!—still, I respect your desire for sneak peakery; I get that you’re kind of a voyeur and I’m OK with that.

Without further ado, heeeeeere’s Hänni’s (brick and mortar) haus:

First up? The combined living/dining/office area. Isn’t she lovely? (Yes, I know the living space needs additional seating. I’ve set my sights on this little nailhead beauty. I just need to decide how many to buy. Can I go with the single, or do I need two cause it’s like a Lays Potato Chip situation where you can’t have just one? Decisions, Decisions …)

OK and here’s my office. Overlooking a bucolic scene, when my tush is flush with the clear acrylic ghost chair, I’ve got the best view in the house. It’s a great space for writing … and also, for spying on neighbors. The chick in 908 walks her trash to the dumpster. Psssshaw.

So what do you do when your man resolutely insists that he needs to display his die cast model cars in a public place? Give him a bookshelf, baby, and let him go wild! His and hers bookshelves–it’s a beautiful thing. (Mine’s the one with all the Corvette books, obviously. Ha ha.)

Media console. Judging the amount of time he spends stretched in front of it, I think this is Andrew’s favorite space. It’s probably because it’s so lovely with the decorative basket on the sub woofer and the Moorish mirrors above the TV. More likely though, it has to do with the ps3.

The sofa, don’t tell me that’s not the sexiest couch you’ve ever seen. Straight arms, single cushion, tufted seats, cat-proof upholstery–where have you been all my life? And that wall art behind it, uh-mazing! It’s kind of minimalist, non? (Hey, I told you the place is still a work in progress!)

This is kind of a pottery barn vignette-type situation. Inspired by my anal-retentive need to corral loose keys, change and other miscellany the moment I walk through the door, the idea of the console table (and its large, accompanying bamboo bowl) was born. Inspired by a Bower Power post, I decided to make my crap collector pretty.

This is the largest kitchen in the history of apartment kitchens. It takes like five minutes to walk from the stove to the sink. I “installed” (with fishing line and thumbtacks) the cheapie chandeliers over the bar to give me their crystal energy for cooking … except the chandeliers don’t actually have crystal energy as they are made of plastic, but I digress.

I don’t know WTF is up with the placement of the wall-mounted shower head, but the rest of the bathroom looks pretty good, huh? Still, I’m tinkering with this space. I’ve got art coming in the mail, and I picked up some moulding from Home Depot to frame the mirror. I’m just waiting on Andrew to do all the actual work, so I can take credit. (Oh the benefits of sinful, premarital cohabitation; they just keep adding up!)

Last stop on the home tour? My bedroom. The dudes on Cribs always say that this is where the magic happens, but I’ve been to Vegas and I’m pretty sure they have the market cornered on that stuff. Still, my throw pillows always seem to mysteriously multiply after a trip to TJ Maxx, so maybe there’s some kind of hocus pocus here after all.

In conclusion, I’d just like to thank you for attending this haus warming of sorts. And also, it’s only because I like to put a piece of myself into everything I do, that I totally photographed my pants leg in the bedroom mirror … or something like that anyway.