Futonathon

It's time for a new futon. My current futon is not only lumpy, but the couch frame is literally held together by four uneven stacks of books and the wall. To be honest, the futon has been in a sorry state for well over a year. Of course, twelve months ago, it was only propped up by two stacks of books. It also didn't need the wall for stability. But as our sole piece of furniture, it had a lot of use, increasingly losing bits and pieces through the year. A nut and screw one day, a random spring the next, an entire bracer bar a few months later... And yet, we didn’t replace it until now for varying reasons—most of which are directly related to my writerly income (or lack thereof). But now that I have a little money these days—well—it's time to replace the futon.

To add to the urgency of replacing my futon, I have a houseguest coming this Friday. Of course, I’m too embarrassed to let said houseguest sleep on this lumpy "bookton" we currently have. But the manflesh’s parents and our friends—they’ve slept on this very off-kilter futon many times over. Strange, I know. I won’t even pretend to have a reason for you.

We could easily buy a new $50 metal frame to replace the former $50 metal frame. The last one—bless it’s cottony soul—was cheap and sturdy enough for a year or more, making it an excellent choice for us while we were college students. But I’ve recently discovered that once you graduate college, you suddenly have more discerning taste. With that diploma, you may not get a paycheck, but you certainly get a sense of entitlement to quality furnishing. The manflesh and I mutually decided that we want a nicer, more sturdy futon this time—one that will hopefully last much longer than three years. Consequently, I have dedicated what feels like a small fortune for obtaining the newest member of our household. All I know is that for over $200, this frame better out-last my immortal dog.

Deceased

For the first time in a long while, it's sunny outside. No rain. Today is a clear, crisp mid-winter day with deep blue skies. Dry pavement, warmed by sun.

You hurry on your way, dodging people and gapping sidewalk cracks as you huff up a busy pedestrian street.

When you reach your destination (the post office), you continue dodging people inside the dim building. Sliding quickly across the grayish once-white tiles, you fumble with the keys to open your PO Box. You bend down and begin to awkwardly pull out a catalog and what looks like two cards. The big card is from your mother's friend, who still sends you holiday cards for every major and not-so-major holiday. You have no doubt in your mind that she sent you a Valentine's Day card, and you feel a twang of guilt for not sending her one.

After sliding the catalog this way and that, you finally retrieve your mail, though the second card falls to the ground face-down. You pick it up and turn it over. The brightly colored Christmas stamp is the first thing you see. Your eyes sweep across the card, stopping at the recipient name and address neatly printed in blue handwriting. That blue handwriting is yours. It was a card addressed to your Great-Aunt Barbara—the one you call "Aunt Barbara", even though she was your mother's "Aunt Barbara". Angled over the blue ink characters of her last name are the neatly printed letters that read "DECEASED".

You pick apart each of those letters, confused. Confused at the letters. Confused at how your own relative is dead and you didn't know.

The Year in Review

Or: All of the things I was either too depressed to write about, too lazy to write about, or too scared to write about

I graduated and lost my cozy, fun, and completely awesome student administrative assistant job.

I was unemployed for 5 months. For the first week, it was like a vacation. After that, it was like running through Dante's 9 circles of Hell. During this period, there were a lot of really awful interviews on the scale of the Texas Chain-saw Massacre. There were also not nearly enough interviews- you know, the normal kind that balance out the chain-saw hell kind. A job was offered and then retracted after a day of work, followed by an exchange of many poisonous words when my promised paycheck never arrived.

I became horribly depressed.

6 months after graduating, an envelope came in the mail. It had two diplomas in it, which made me feel rather prestigious. Sadly, the feeling only lasted for a minute or two.

I took a two-month contract job where I copied and pasted cell phone help articles for Verizon Wireless' new website. I did a lot of re-coding of horrid HTML and some light editing and rewriting. Sometimes, I actually wrote an article from scratch, which made me happy. I had lots of nightmares about cell phones and Blackberries, but I was sad when the contract ended because I hadn't managed to save much money. The job did make me much happier, despite the long commute out of Seattle, the nightmares, and the boring work. After 5 months, having a weekly paycheck was just that exciting.

I started an editorial certificate program, hoping that it would help me get a job. Instead, it became another expense that I can't afford.

During my two-month contract job, I applied to over 140 jobs. Administrative, part-time, temporary- even a position that would clean up monkey poop at a research facility.

I went to New York, using a plane ticket I received as a graduation and going-away present from my awesome coworkers at my student job. While there, I stayed with my good friend, Dan. I had lots of fun, and spent some money. I also received a lot of calls for interviews while away. Then, I was so inspired by how good my friend's and his girlfriend's lives were, that I freaked out about my stale life.

I came home from New York and realized I was too poor to apply for graduate school this year. I also missed the deadline for the JET Program by one day.

I interviewed for a number of jobs- contract, part-time, full-time, temporary, and permanent. Only one of the many interviews went poorly, but it wasn't on the scale of the Texas Chain-saw Massacre. I did, however, encounter a lazy recruiter for a dream job who squelched my chances at a second interview that had been offered- all thanks to her laziness.

I spent the holidays unemployed and trying in vain to receive unemployment benefits. I later found out that I couldn't receive benefits because I didn't earn enough work hours while a student.

I was offered a part-time, temporary position at the UW two weeks before Christmas. I took it, and had to wait until the New Year before I could start working.

Sipping Poison

My former boss asked me how I felt today.

How do I feel? I feel like I was really thirsty. So thirsty, that I asked for a glass of water. A woman I didn't know agreed, and soon returned with a glass of clear liquid that she set down in front of me. Grateful, I thanked her and gulped the liquid down. It was only then that I noticed the liquid smelled and tasted funny. The woman had brought me a glass of poison instead of water. And being so thirsty, I foolishly drank it before realizing.

That's how I feel. That's how I feel about working for one day, riding the bus for two hours to get home, only to walk in the door, answer the phone and have my newfound "employer" call to say that she found someone better. Someone who had a science background. Someone who could comprehend the chemical reaction between baking soda and vinegar for a children's rocket kit more than me. But it's not about me, it's because I, the creative writer, don't know anything about science and they specialize in science kits for young children. I'm a wonderful writer and have amazing design skills, so it really isn't me. It's just that it won't work out even though they originally asked for a creative writer with design skills. It's because I'm a creative writer that I can't possibly understand those kits, and therefore can't possibly write the marketing materials for them.

I told my former boss that I was very bitter.

On Being Unemployed

In case you didn't know, I'm unemployed right now. That means that I have a lot of free time on my hands. I usually spend my days holstered in my apartment reading, making jewelry or watching movies on my iBook. Sometimes I write, take the dog out for walks to the waterfront or get up early in the morning and go to my P-Patch to weed. The weeks since I've graduated have blurred into one very long, hellish vacation full of mediocrity.

If I had known that I was going to be unemployed this long— as in "not even able to get hired in retail"— then I would have planned some daring cross-country trip using only $1,000 to survive. I would have written about it on this website and garnered international notoriety and a book contract. Who needs a job when you get a book contract? After all, writers are paid so well.

Mindalee is Unemployed and Worthless

I've been working on a portfolio site for the past 72 hours. I'm excited to actually have some of it up on the web now- it's always like a burden is taken off my shoulders after I upload bits and pieces of my newest web project. Being able to see that it's finally starting to take shape after endless hours of staring at five different TextEdit pages full of code is what makes the thankless task of web design rewarding to me. I'll never be one of those people who waits until their entire design is complete before they put it up on the web- never.

Despite having the design mostly done, the content creation part is always the slowest- even more so than creating any graphics. Perhaps it's because I'm always so vain about my designs that I'll spend hours of wasted time staring at the overall design again and again when I could be finishing everything up. For now, the "about" and "words" pages are complete. The "resume" page is mostly complete- I need to figure out some sort of navigation thing for it. The "design" page is only partially complete as there are a lot of graphics and writing that need to be added. "Contact" will hopefully be done by tomorrow. As for "musings"- well- that one's going to take awhile longer, but it's the least important page at this point in time.

While I was finishing up the "words" page, I received a rejection email from Richard Hugo House for a marketing position I applied for. It's hard to keep working on a webpage I'm using for job applications after getting rejected for a job I really wanted. I stopped for a half hour and laid down on the bed, berating myself for how my cover letter must not have been perfect enough.

I was really excited about this position and even spent most of last Friday making what I feel was an amazing portfolio complete with matching resume/cover letter to show off my creativity and design skills. To not even get an interview after all of the time I spent on my application is really disheartening. To have them email me a rejection note after having my resume for no more than two or three days is also really disheartening. All of this being disheartened while working on "job stuff" makes applying for other jobs extra disheartening. Right now, there's a nagging, pessimistic voice in my head telling me over and over again that there's no point in applying for jobs when I'm so worthless that I'm only going to see rejection email after rejection email.

Blah

I'm tired, grouchy, uninspired and I blame all of my problems on the towering crates of beanie babies shoved next to my desk. The sad thing is that I've already sold and mailed half of them. This beanie baby experience has made me vow that I will never collect something as excessive as my mother had done- never. Books I will make an exception for, but that's because I'm a junkie. I like to justify my habit by telling myself that an English major should collect books and that I only keep those I like enough to reread or that are useful as references. However, any time you have to make a justification, you're just lying to yourself.

I would now like to close this post with the following words:

Damn you Ebay!

I have a really strange post brewing in my mind for tomorrow. Yeah! Creativity returns!

My Life in a Box

First there was my random assortment of plastic necklaces from the 80's that I had adored before I was in school. I would never wear any of these necklaces, and haven't since Kindergarten, but they brought back memories of shopping with my mother at the Bon Marche and coming home with a bag of work clothes for her and one plastic pastel necklace for me. After much indecision, the necklaces went into my "To Ebay or Throw Away" pile on the bed.

I like to call the transition from my current apartment to my future apartment The Great Move. I've given it this name not because it's the first move I've ever made, nor because it's the last, but because it's the first move where I have to downsize all of my possessions. Most of my friends haven't had to experience this yet as they are on good terms with their parents and can keep their unneeded but wanted belongings in their old rooms. I, however, am not on good terms with my father and accordingly was forced to either move every last possession of mine or suffer having him throw them away. I choose to take everything that I owned when I first moved into my current apartment, including the 13+ giant tubs of beanie babies that consist of my inheritance. Now that Tyler and I have found the most perfect of perfect apartments to live in, which so happens to be only 505 square feet (our current place is about 700), I am forced to analyze the volume of all my possessions and try to decide what to keep and what not to keep.

Then there were the micro machines and die cast cars. These brought memories of pushing them on the kitchen floor in an attempt to see how fast and far they could go before our terrier (or terror) mutt attacked them. Since they were small and wouldn't consume much space, I placed the mirco machines and my first ever die cast car (a silver DeLorean with doors that can be opened or closed) into my new and much smaller memory box. The remaining cars went into a paper box full of small toys that I am going to try and give away to trick-or-treaters this upcoming Halloween.

Because of the 13+ giant tubs of beanie babies, downsizing all of my possessions is a ghastly task. I did what I would in most circumstances- I tried to prep myself for the work by starting with the simplest task first. The simplest thing to downsize just so happened to be what I call my memory box. I used one of those plastic under the bed containers and filled it with random bits of junk from my childhood on through my last days of high school. It also ended up containing a couple of items from my mother that I inherited when she died. Most of the contents wouldn't be bought on Ebay, which in my mind means they're completely useless junk. However, when I opened up the contents of the box and dumped them onto the bed, I soon remembered the reason why each item had made its way into my memory box in the first place.

Items that might be considered important- such as my high school diploma- went into the new memory box next, with the cars filling in the wasted space of plastic groves beneath. A bag of marbles I had loved, tapes from past orchestra concerts and collectable coins given as gifts took up the rest of the space, leaving a little left for the odd assortment of pig and westie figurines I had bought my mother for one gift-giving occasion or another. My mother's old glasses, random key chains, and other junk that had indifferent memories attached went into the "To Ebay or Throw Away" pile.

After I had sorted all the contents of the former memory box into their various destinations, I carefully examined the contents of my new memory box and found myself satisfied. I then decided to throw out the items that didn't make it into the box or find another useful purpose. While collecting the random trinkets and junk into an old grocery bag, I found myself wondering how it was possible to attach so many memories to inanimate objects. Because each item I had kept, no matter how small and useless, had a pleasant memory attached to it, I soon realized that the contents of my box were not junk but physical memories.

A memory, whether physical or mental, is a hard thing to throw away.

Mutti

Today, in the year 1949 at a hospital in Kansas City, my grandparents' first child was born- my mother. I've never been to Kansas, but all of the family pictures I've seen depict a flat and treeless backdrop with gravel roads. It's the kind of backdrop that one would imagine to be various shades of brown if the photos were in color. Of course, I can't forget the close-up photos in my grandmother's photo albums of cars dented beyond drivability from chunks of hail "the size of golf balls". I imagine it was a dry and dusty day, the kind of late summer day the natives cherished before the golf ball hail thundered down and unleashed its anger on shingles, windows and cars. When I think of Kansas, I think of when my plane from Seattle landed on the airfield strip in Salt Lake City and how I looked out to find a tumble weed rolling alongside my window from the force of the plane. Looking through the plane window, I thought of the stories my mother told me of how she and her sister pretended tumble weeds were horses and how they would corral them in the garage. My grandfather would come home after a strenuous day of work and open the door to have tumble weeds pour out on to him. After suffering from a mammoth allergy attack, he would storm into the house to find his two golden haired daughters playing quietly with their horse marbles and pencil corral. His heart would melt with pride and love and he would yet again forget to punish them as harshly as he had intended. Because lack of experience necessitated it, I transformed Utah into my family's Kansas by flattening the landscape and adding wheat fields where Mormons flourished. I hated Utah because it was too dry and lacked any sort of natural green, yet I think I would love Kansas if only because a part of me came from it and will always belong there.

Today, in the year 1981, my mother probably sat in her favorite arm chair and sung to me in a screeching voice only love made melodic. Her cocker spaniel mix, Suzi, a mild mannered tan dog about the age of ten, probably sat at the feet of her chair, gazing longingly at her former throne I then occupied. I would have been exactly three months and two days old. I don't remember what life was like then, but as I think back to this day twenty-one years ago, I slowly paint the picture from memories. My mother's chair was a small brown recliner with a very soft and fuzzy fabric. The fabric was so soft that it rivals the fleece blankets of today. Over time, the fuzz wore off and was replaced by bare patches of crisscrossing brown threads. But back then, the chair was much newer and would have lacked any bare patches worn down from years of hands resting against the arms and years of a young child climbing every which way on it. Her chair would have faced the large living room window of our cozy one-story home, a window that gazed upon the tree laden cul-de-sac and its peaceful neighborhood. In a few months time, the window would show a postcard image of a quaint snow-dappled neighborhood in a small town that made cows and grapes its livelihood. In front of my mother's window to the world would have been a humble color TV with a round dial used to change channels. The TV would have been perched atop of a skinny metal stand and would have either been showing "Days of Our Lives" or the blackened reflection of my mother rocking me to sleep. I couldn't have qualified as a birthday present for my mother, as I was born three months earlier, but she would have disregarded this fact and would have told my tiny ears over and over again that I was the best birthday present, Christmas present, mother's day present, and general everyday present that she had and would ever have.

Today, in the year 2003, I wonder what my mother would be doing. I would probably have taken the day off from work and taken her- and maybe my father- somewhere special. We might have gone to Mt. Rainier, assuming she would have used this week for vacation. Or perhaps we would have taken our family dogs camping in the Olympic Peninsula. These were the only places our small and fragile family went for vacation, but there are places I will always cherish and someday drag my children (if I have any) to. If she hadn't used her vacation time for this week, then I would have baked her a cake of her choosing, which would have been her favorite lemon bundt cake spiked with extra lemon juice and drizzled with lemon glaze. We would have then had a low-key family celebration where my father and I would not argue and where we would take my dearest mother out to the restaurant of her choosing. We would then end the day with presents, cake and ice cream. She would have a small slice of cake topped with vanilla ice cream. My father and I would have large slices topped with chocolate.

But, what really happened today was that I woke up early in the morning and lazed in bed for an extra hour thinking that I wanted to pay tribute to my mother, but not knowing how. The rest of the day followed very typically, until I finally returned home. When I opened up my "miscellaneous file", intending to drop in a receipt of payment for Tyler's housing application, my memorial service pamphlet from my mother's funeral fell out with a battered recipe for her favorite Lemon Cheescake Pie. I'm not sure how this recipe made its way into my possession, as my father had insisted on keeping her recipe stash to himself and not letting me so much as see them, but its presence brought tears to my eyes. It probably means nothing. It probably doesn't mean what most would tell me once they saw the tears streaming down my cheeks- that she's watching over me. Yet, I still find it a fitting tribute to make that Lemon Cheescake Pie tonight. So, today in the year 2003, I am going to fill my spacious and soon-to-be former apartment with the smell of sweetened condensed lemon and share one of my mother's beloved recipes with Tyler and any friends who drop by. Perhaps I will even offer some cheesecake pie to the landlord I hate so much.