and of course, i end up being the miranda

When I decided to start blogging, I wanted it to be whimsical musings about the inconsequential and a hyperbolic retelling of the things that happen in my life. Entries were supposed to have a beginning, middle, and an end, as well as a title and a theme. The one thing I did not want my blog to be was the “why didn’t he call me back????????????????????????????” sort of nonsense that plagues the internet—and the minds of people everywhere. “This song speaks to exactly how I feel (which is sad)!!!!!!!!!”

But, I started my blog on a Monday night, and on that Tuesday (also known as, less than 24 hours later), I got laid off. But, it was the holidays and hope was high and on and on. But now, hope is low. The “why didn’t he call me back” applies to every employer in New York City. Like, sure, I would love to come in for three interviews and just never hear from you again. My life has sort of a Sex and the City vibe—living in NYC, meeting up with men and women all over for lunchtime rendezvous, giving strangers my phone number and wondering why no one calls. Except without any of the alcohol, friends or sex. He’s just not that into you, indeed.

Job-hunting is not so dissimilar from the world of dating, except instead of wondering if you are going to die alone, you sit around and wonder if you should give up things like health insurance or dental floss or Netflix (for the record, Netflix would go before dental floss but probably after health insurance). So instead of blogging about iPads and dry cleaners and my Justin Bieber haircut, I only really feel like I think about Corinda (my unemployment specialist), which toiletries I could do without (I’m thinking razors and cotton balls), and what sort of daily activities can I do that are free (go to the library, walk the dog, watch Designing Women clips on Youtube) (Dixie Carter, rest in peace).

So, as much as I try not to be a downer to everyone I meet and everything I touch, it just spills out everywhere like the inside of a jelly doughnut. Go ahead and ask, “So, what’s new?” It begins with an exaggerated sigh, followed by an emphatic “nothing AT ALL.” Then we go through the journey of my last couple of fruitless interviews (he answered his cell phone in the middle!) and new life plan (which are sounding more and more like defeatist get-rich-quick schemes). My apologies to anyone I’ve interacted with since, say, mid-February.

I am sure the grass really is greener on the other side, but I find myself looking at people working and feeling like a street urchin staring in on a glorious Sunday Roast—my face pressed up against the window of a Citibank, looking longingly at the desks and phones and mindless Solitaire playing. Please, sir, can I have an interoffice envelope and a Rolodex?

So, what do we do? Stop by the local Dunkin’ Donuts and offer to take the midnight to eight AM shift? Find a senile heiress and marry her on the quick? Learn how to drive a cab? I mean, I live the life that I assume most people would kill for—I get a solid 12 hours of sleep a night, I read books and watch all the TV I want and have plenty of time to do my hair in the morning (and by morning, I mean mid-afternoon). So, I could be doing a lot worse. But soon enough, something’s got to give.

So, gentle reader, I do apologize for blog as of late. You know what they say about our best-laid plans. I had great ideas (and by great, I mean “not pathetic”) that just never came to be. I do have a couple of things cooking, though. So, stay tuned. I do have thoughts on Tiger Woods and new airline fees and the fact that I am wearing a pair of basketball shorts underneath obscenely torn pants because I’m too poor to buy new ones. You’re all on the edges of your seats, I’m sure.

also, i apparently equate winning dancing with the stars and passing health care reform. in my life, i'd really take either

I have now been unemployed for over a quarter of a year. That’s an entire season. My unemployment baby is now in his second trimester. It took Donny Osmond less time to win Dancing with the Stars. We actually got the House to approve the Patient Protection and Affordable Care Act faster than it took me to get a job. Also, the next person who refers to it as “Obamacare” gets punched in the face. In the Netflix queue of words that make me want to vomit all over myself, Obamacare is somewhere in between Brangelina and FTW (pretty high up the list, in case it isn’t obvious).

So, in these three months, I have discovered what surely others have discovered—people have an endless supply of bad advice. I don’t mean bad as in advice that could have been fruitful but went the other way. You know, the “sure, yeah, invest in that stock” or “I am pretty sure she said fifteen feet” or “I think his name is Martin” kind of advice. Nor am I talking about the kind of advice that was, I’m sure, helpful back in 1955 or whenever this person is drawing knowledge from. Like my grandmother, who suggested instead of buying I desk, I make one out of orange crates. Which is great advice for the Okies making it across the country from the Dust Bowl, I’m sure. But seeing as I question the quality and safety of the actual oranges from most stores, I doubt that a crate is anywhere to be seen. Not to mention the scene of me stacking together these crates sounds like beginning of the story of how I managed to nail my foot into my hardwood floor.

I am talking about the sort of bad advice that is just never good. It didn’t spoil over the fifty years that have passed since it was opened. It was just always useless. And not only is it never good, it is not even advice. I’m talking about one specific thing: the “oh, I wish I had that kind of free time! You must be getting all kinds of things done.” Thus is born something I have deemed the unemployment curse.

Now, the worst parts of unemployment are obvious—no money, no health insurance, not much reason to leave the house daily, job hunting is actually crushing my soul, and every time you write a cover letter, an angel loses its wings. But people seem to think that is a great opportunity to find yourself and to do something you’ve always wanted to do. I think these are the same kind of people who bet they would get tons of reading done in prison. So, they believe, instead of focusing on negative, take a good look at the positive!

I think the problem really is that people have this expectation that the only thing stopping them from writing a novel or selling all their worldly possessions and backpacking in the Andes or finally learning how to play tennis is the fact that they spend the day in the office. Remove that, and dreams can come true. What I think people fail to remember is that you don’t leave the layoff meeting thinking, yes, I am ready (to plagiarize) to cease to be earthbound and burden by practicality. What you are thinking is, wow, if I don’t find a job very soon, I won’t be able to pay rent after next month. What a great time to start making hemp necklaces and selling them on Etsy.com!

So, while you spend your day changing the recipient’s address on your cover letter and trying not to use too much shampoo, you are also laden with the guilt that you should be reading more, visiting more museums, taking more walks, doing the sort of things that everyone should be doing. But instead of the typical excuse that work takes up too much of your time and energy, you have “nothing stopping you.” So why wouldn’t you finally tackle classic Russian novels or clean out that closet you’ve been meaning to clean? Think of it as your very own stay-cation (also on the vom-word queue)!

The curse is exactly that feeling that you are somehow wasting this horrible experience, that somehow when you finally do get a job again, you will look back at these few months and rue not having better used your time. Which is just mean. Why would you do that? You, that person who is down, let me kick you! Not only are you feeling rejected and useless and sad, you should also feel lazy and uninspired! Forget that you have trouble finding a reason to get up in the AM and put on clean clothes, you really should be trying to visit as many cultural institutions as possible. You’ll regret it if you don’t! People think that they are being helpful, but really, they are just being mean.

There are positive, optimistic people who see life in a way that is both joyful and enlightened. And then there are just stupid people who fail to see things as they really are. They are the sort of people who think that a smile and a dream can get them through anything, while at the same time they are unaware of their own pathetic tendencies. You know, the person who thinks that falling down all the time makes them endearing, not difficult to be around. These are the kind of people who cheerfully serve up what they feel is positive, optimistic advice that is actually terrible not-advice, specifically because they are stupid.

I am getting a lot of reading done, though.

jesse, father of david... you know, david and goliath... right, his dad.

I set a goal to wake up at 10 AM on Tuesday. So when I woke up at 2 PM, I showered, got dressed and headed out to the mall. I know that I live in New York City and could go shopping in SoHo and walk down 5^th Avenue and all of that. Meh. I went to the mall. I was just going to Macy’s and the Gap anyway, maybe smell some Cinnabon along the way. And while there, I remembered I love shopping for ties. They are arranged so neatly in their little color wheel. It’s all so sensory. I want to rub my face all over it. But I resist, for the most part.

I am regularly tricked by the salesperson rhetoric. I don’t know why I am so trusting or so naïve, but I sincerely believe they care about my day or are legitimately complimenting my taste. Thanks, I say, with a big grin. I do enjoy the bold combination of lime green and chocolate brown. I feel like it’s a daring take on earth tones. I get a lot of generous nods in response. I wholly imagine when I’m old and alone, I will buy plenty of things sold by door-to-door salesmen and send my money to anyone on TV who seems like a nice young man.

It even happens in the most mundane of interactions. Like getting carded. I get a lot of odd looks at my ID because it is an out-of-state license (and, more likely, because I’m 25 and the picture is a 15-year-old Jesse with a mouth full of braces). So sometimes, they do the check questions. “What’s your sign?” What the bouncer doesn’t realize is that he’s about to get a whole thing about my opinion on astrology. Surprise! “Well, I’m a Capricorn, but I’m not sure how much I believe in that kind of thing. I mean there is absolutely a sense of connectedness we all have, especially to the natural world. And I do think there is something to be said for that. But, can we predict the future based on our birthday and the stars? Well, that I question.” I get a polite nod.

Once, it was, “Oh, you’re from California? So am I. Where did you go to high school.” Oh, that person did not know the package she opened. “Well, let me spin you a yarn about a little place called Archbishop Mitty! Sit tight, Trader Joe’s Wine Shop lady. This will take a while.”

And while we’re on the topic, why do people whose job it is to read IDs all day not know how to read an ID? Like, you have heard of a middle name, right? You might even have one. I get “Jesse Williams” more times than I can even know what to do with. First of all, it doesn’t even say “Williams” it says “William.” Second of all, what do you think that word after that is? My title? Jesse Williams, Duke of Hall. Did you just get lazy? I read two words, no more no way no how! Any words beyond that are lost! (Also, if this were a spoken word piece, this would absolutely have been said using the Emerald City Guard voice, which is a voice I like to pull out every now and again.).

And while we’re on THAT topic, an interaction concerning my name I have more often than “Jesse Williams” goes a little something like this:

Sign-in table person: Last name please?

Jesse: Hall.

Sign-in table person: Hong?

Jesse: …no no. That is not at all what I said. That is what you wanted to hear.

It has happened so often that I start spelling it and adding a “like the room.” To the end. To no avail. “Hall, H-A-L-L, like the room.” “Hong?” Yes, that room we all have. Our Hong room, spelled like it sounds, H-A-L-L.

And while we’re on THAT topic, why do people expect that “Jesse” is short for something? “What do you think it is short for?” I ask. “Jes..s…ica?” Yeah, that’s what I thought. Although once I did say “like from the Bible,” which increased confusion. “Jesus?”

What was I talking about? Rubbing my face on a table full of ties? Yes. So, I love ties. And I bought two. This is about as exciting as it gets nowadays, folks.

yeah, i'm about 8% sure i have a bed sore

Somehow, many days have gone by and little can be said about them. I’ve had an interview here and there. I headed out to Flushing to hang out with my best friend Corinda, my unemployment office representative. At some point I made a pie. Mostly, I’ve sat around looking at the job listings I’m not qualified for and eating food at my desk (and by desk, I mean bed). It has become hideously obvious how much of my life was defined by my job now that I don’t have one. This whole weekend went by without leaving the apartment (and by apartment, I mean bed.) (Just kidding. I had to use the bathroom sometimes, and once, I answered the door to get my Chinese food.)

I did go to my first pub quiz, which was a fine event. It was mostly just drinking some beer and surprising myself with my knowledge of the inane (What Olympic ring color represents Europe?) and of the things that no one should know because they shouldn’t exist (What is the full name of this season of The Bachelor?). I also knew how old J.D. Salinger was when he died, the number of boys in The Pet Shop Boys, and who sang “I Wanna Know What Love Is.” But I did not know any of the sports questions, did not recognize a single celebrity on a page of pictures, and did not remember the 2007 Oscar Winner for Best Picture. Well, I did know that the bantam in bantamweight was for a chicken but had no idea about fly or feathers. Chickens have feathers but can fly. Well they can sort of fly. Better than, say, I can fly. But really, how would I know about those weight classes? Clearly I was always a heavyweight. What did I need to know about the other ones?

So, overall, I would classify myself as a great third member of a trivia team. Someone needs to know sports. Someone needs to know pop culture. Those are two big pillars of trivia. But then you need a Jesse, who doesn’t recognize Sienna Miller or know anything about the Pittsburgh Steelers, but has a loose grasp on literature, Bible characters, state capitals and Jenny’s phone number (you know, 867-5309).

Sidebar: Just as I think I’m a good third team member on a trivia team, I think I’d be a great third commentator for a sports broadcast. There is the main guy, who is probably a venerable newscaster of some kind. Been around forever. Bob Costas or Greg Gumbel. Then you have someone who has played or coached the sport. Jerry Rice stopping by. Brian Boitano saying things like “Triple Salchow, Triple Toe Loop!” You know, an expert with anecdotes a-plenty. And then you have just some third person who just fills in the gaps. It goes like this:

Guy #1: So, here you have it, 3^rd and 3. This has been tough for the team all season, these third downs blah blah blah

Guy #2: You said it, Guy #1. In cases like this, you want to stay focused, work on getting the ball down the field. Back in ’89 when I was blah blah blah

Guy #1: And here’s the snap. He’s looking, looking, throws it. Incomplete!

Jesse: Oh, they really wanted to catch that pass.

They help you know what’s going on. “Well, Smith finished the course in 3:45, so he’s going to want to get at least a 3:44 to qualify.” They help you empathize. “Oh, I bet she’s disappointed she missed that shot.” They even help in those tough spots when you can’t figure out the math. “Well they’re down by 2, so they’ll need at least 3 runs to win.” I feel like if anyone can get paid to do that, I’m just as deserving. How hard can it be? Anyway. Sidebar out.

So, pub quiz was all in all jovial affair. But it could have gone another direction. See, there is competitive Jesse and there is everything’s cool Jesse. Thankfully, throw a few beers in regular Jesse and he turns into everything’s cool Jesse, not competitive Jesse. Competitive Jesse might have vehemently complained about the question “What is the only sequel to win an Oscar?” Competitive Jesse would have said, “I think you meant ‘what is the only sequel to win a BEST PICTURE Oscar’ which is a flawed question and even still, my answer of Lord of the Rings: The Return of the King is correct (and you can clearly see I wrote The Godfather Part II first before doubting myself). So I think what you REALLY meant was ‘what is the FIRST sequel to win a Best Picture Oscar.’ Right? That is what you meant. Right? Because I think you should be a little more careful with your words, mister.” But everything’s cool Jesse let it slide. Why? Because everything’s cool! I got my Brooklyn Lager, had a couple of hot wings, and am feeling good.

Competitive Jesse would have also gone apeshit on the drunk Irish lady (yes, it is important to the story that she is Irish) who accused us of cheating. (Do you want to see all the texts I’ve sent?! Do you want to look at my internet history on my phone?! You best back down because you do not go around accusing people of shit without backing it up, bitch.). Competitive Jesse would also have been more upset that we lost (by ONE point. Well technically two to win. But by one question, for sure. A single question like, what was the FIRST sequel to win the BEST PICTURE Oscar.). But competitive Jesse is nowhere to be found. Happy to be out of the house Jesse was, well, in the house.

So, I don’t know how much I would make pub quiz a regular thing. Competitive Jesse has not seen the light of day lately, but he is always lurking underneath. That is a beast best kept deep down. Oh! Speaking of, for those of you keeping count at home, my winning streak of FreeCell came to an end. 676. (I believe I literally screamed “No!” out loud). The new current one is 16. But it just doesn’t feel worth it any more. Yeah, I need a job.