Blogs and Feathers

Wednesday, September 8

 

The main unemployment office is a mire but also my friend; I’m chaos too. There are satellites and the one I hang out in is clean and almost empty. There are cubicles where you can learn about how to be a candidate. I figure I’ve got a shot already. My desperation is unique. I do politically incorrect powwow dances, like those they made us do in Kindergarten. I smoke pretend candy cigarettes. Then I check my phone to normalize. An email about a stray sock found at my husband’s family’s shore house has come in. Next, an aunt adds a butterfly ear-ring and a loofah. I lie to the group and say they aren’t mine, just because it seems like too much trouble. The aunts always make up new places for lost and found, like an out-of-the-way drawer I can never find, so the pile gets bigger. I should claim the charger but that makes me exhausted. It’s mine but I don’t know what it charges. The best is the purple underpants. If I claim that, every male in the family will identify me by my underwear. Ding. They found a weapon. They call the police and I quake. Calm down, I tell myself, it isn’t loaded. The bullets are in my bandolier. I bought a loofah to shine the gun until google gets pissed: “No way, that’ll leave scratches." The gun’s legal but how long before they trace it to me and I get blackballed. No beach. No ions.

 

 

Thursday, September 9

 

Tee hee, there isn’t a real gun. I was just checking your sense of humor. It’s how I cope: not being able to sleep, switching from bed to bed, turning ceiling fans on and off, getting confused by their switches and hanging cords, eating masses amounts of sugar, drinking, freezing because I’ve turned the air conditioner on triple high, and trying to write my blog that begins as scribbles of heavy black marker that I’m sure is genius.

 

The day brings clarity and my purple underwear. I have found them, along with the pretend gun I’m sure I’ve bought and the bandolier to go with it because pawn shops are open all night and people who go to them are usually desperate, like me. The dealer, I imagine, thinks I’m drunk because I’m stumbling and muttering, “Purple underwear, purple underwear, purple underwear.”

 

Upon awakening, I’d searched frantically for the gun, bandolier and purple underwear, while I blared the show of women who didn’t know they were pregnant and push the handsome baby out near a marina or inside a fast food bathroom so as to calm myself down figuring that’s worse. Don’t get me wrong, I love my girls, but that “season,” as they say on those very fundamentalist Christian shows, is over.