Halloween

One of my favorite things about Halloween is the persistence of old-fashioned homemade creativity in celebrating it. The old-man shirt and faded overalls stuffed with leaves from the yard, sitting on the front step with a hand-carved pumpkin head balanced on top. Tissue paper ghosts hanging off the front porch rail. Or the elaborate yard display my neighbors a couple doors down set up, complete with a mini cemetery of cardboard gravestones that cropped up in their front yard. Maybe it's because Halloween is all about mess and gore, decay, and scaring people, instead of the impossible to achieve perfection of a sparkling Thanksgiving dinner or beautifully presented Christmas gift. Or maybe because we are given license to dress up as anything we want, to disguise ourselves, to become something or someone else for a day, that we feel free to be creative.

My own childhood costumes revolved around dreams of being something I was not. Most popular with my sisters and I was to be a gypsy, probably because it guaranteed mom would let us use her tube of red lipstick and root through her jewelry box for the most sparkly things we could find. The gypsy theme persisted into junior high when I told fortunes for the participants at the church Halloween party one year. (This was before we moved to small-town Kansas, where Halloween was considered pagan and definitely un-Christian, and the Baptist preacher's wife across town organized an anti-Halloween party where you had to dress up as your favorite Bible character.)

I dimmed the light in the ladies powder room, set up a small table covered in a fringed scarf and acted like I could see into the future of the women who came through the door. Their willingness to believe I held some kind of intuitive power was more convincing than my performance, but they definitely bought into the act. This was probably one of the first moments in my life where I began to realize that adults were vulnerable and not the all-knowing beings I thought they were. Mrs. Parker was hanging on my every word--she really thought I could see into her future, and she really wanted to know what was in store for her.

This year, my new workplace--an affordable housing management non-profit--allowed us to dress up for Halloween. Of course, this came with a long list of warnings and disclaimers from HR to make sure we wouldn't offend anyone or be too sexy or too horrifying. I had to come up with something besides the zombie bellydancer I was last year (too sexy). So I went for horrifying and creeped out the property managers by dressing up as a bed bug. Big paper bag cut out like a sandwich board with some hairy, segmented legs drawn on the front, my boyfriend's welding glasses with some pipe cleaner antennae attached, and a nametag, just in case there was any question about my identity. I won for most creative.

Maybe with the economy in such a shambles and everyone needing to save money, we'll all replace blind consumerism with a rediscovered creativity. Let's celebrate by enjoying lumpy mashed potatoes and homemade pies with dripping fruit filling for Thanksgiving. We'll make some nametags for the table out of folded-over index cards, and start thinking about what lovely imperfect gifts we can create for our loved ones this Christmas. I plan to use the hand-knitted pot holder my friend Denise gave me to pull some Italian cookies out of the oven, from the recipe another friend shared with me as a house-warming gift. Let's all spread the creative love!

Playing House

The house I grew up in, on Coomer Avenue in Warren, Rhode Island, had lots of great trees, especially the flowering ones. My sisters and I spent many hours playing "gas station" in the spoon magnolia out front. Our bikes were the cars and jump ropes hung over the branches acted as the gas pumps. And yes, there was a mechanic on duty who would turn your bike upside down and inspect it right there on the lawn.

We also had a flowering cherry tree whose branches we would shake so you could feel like a queen or a bride with pink flower petals raining down on you. And in the back, two dogwood trees--one pink and one white. The photo albums have lots of pics in front of these: in Easter dresses or with mom for Mother's Day, or later on, Heidi with a prom date getting her corsage pinned on.

The dogwoods were best for playing because you could hide inside them like a house, and I still remember the day my mother let us move all our play furniture out underneath one. With our small table and chairs, a cradle for our dolls and a kitchen cabinet we were living outside. Way better than the "house" we would make out of piles of leaves raked into room outlines in the fall, or even the dropcloth over the clothesline tent my dad would set up. My imagination ran wild under that tree.

So now I don't have to pretend to play house since I bought my very own last year. It has a nice bit of woods behind it where the neighbor kids sometimes construct forts complete with white flags of surrender. And the house next door has a beautiful old hydrangea bush that blooms now in late summer, its white flower puffs cascading almost to the ground to create a magical space for a child to hide and play and imagine. The girls next door have built a small fairy house in it's branches, and I witnessed them singing songs from Annie and sprinkling petals on each other underneath it last night.

Out front of my house, the sunflowers are blooming and the morning glories have almost reached the top of the string I tied up for them to climb. The garden is gifting us with too many zucchini and summer squash. The plans are turned in to the permit officed to redo the roof, and we successfully sold the extra car to pay for the job. I don't have to play house--it's more like work now. But I want to capture that feeling again, the wonder of finding and creating your very own space, and let my imagination run wild there.

Stress Dreams and Interview Advice

Success! First interview in the bag. Invited for a second interview which happens this afternoon.

Continuing my unnecessary worry about everything under the sun, last night I dreamt I arrived much too early for the meeting, overheard managers discussing the candidates, forgot my notes in the car and forgot where I parked so I ended up late for the interview (how can you be both early and late for an important date?!). Caught on from comments by reception and HR that this was a place I wouldn't want to work, then proceeded to be put in a room with a fat, disabled old Catholic man with a visible colostomy bag who proceeded to smoke the whole time, while asking me questions about God and suggested that "kisses" would get me the job.

Thankfully, what I dreamt up is far worse than any situation I will likely face today or ever, so I can laugh at the comic relief my subconscious has provided. My friend ML says she always pretends when she goes for an interview that she doesn't need the job. She also likes to believe that there's no right answer to any question, so she can't go wrong. I suppose I could also take the advice Marcia Brady (or was in Greg?) was given when she had to give a big speech in front of the whole school: imagine them in their underwear.

My one main goal for finding a new job is to locate a position where I'm not faced with solving impossible problems. I think this potential job fits the bill, so wish me luck!

Unemployed in Vacationland

For the first time in my life I've been laid off and qualify for unemployment insurance. This couldn't have come at a better time seeing as it's summer in Maine; a short-lived, blessed, "the way life should be," "Vacationland" time of year that has a mythical sheen to it when you're huffing 4 feet of plowed snow from the end of your driveway again in January and you forgot what it's like to walk barefoot.

But in typical perfectionist fashion I am unable to completely enjoy this time unencumbered from the nagging feeling of responsibility. I have created stress city for myself: Oh, where to find 3 suitable jobs a week to apply for? Why can't I just apply for something completely out of my league and be done with it? (I am expecting the professional job search police to fine me for wasting precious company HR time or to note that I didn't read the qualifications required in the job description and blacklist me forever) Do I chance applying for a job I don't want since I will have to accept it if I get it? Is it too cheeky to send a cover letter that simply says "here's my resume, have at it"?

For those of you new to the world of UI (that's unemployment insurance, not some kind of urinary tract infection), it is of course full of bureaucratic rigamarole and busywork. And threats of punishment for any hint of fraud or noncooperation. I'm someone who likes to know she's following the rules to the letter. So much for my summer vacation. So much for 26 weeks of freedom, plus another 13 since the economy's so bad (thanks George W)...

So I guess it's a good thing that I've scored a job interview after 8 long weeks. Yes, only one so far. It's Maine after all, and I live in the largest city of a mere 65,000 people. Not an overwhelming amount of career opportunity for someone with a BA in English.

Yes, tomorrow morning at 11am I will report in full professional garb to officeland armed with my list of skills and abilities with vignettes to back them up, and try to act like I can solve any problem they throw at me. It's nice to think about working again, nice to belong to an organization, to have an explicit purpose in life that doesn't need to be uncovered each morning, or that involves something more meaningful than doing the dishes again. Or picking Japanese beetles off the bean plants. Or comparing the cost of laundry detergents.

Yes, tomorrow a little of the snow will melt off my self-esteem, my reason to be, and I will maybe, just maybe, catch a glimpse of the first little green shoot of possibility, the tight bud of a real, honest-to-goodness, paycheck in the bank, job.