Daydreams & Fingernails

    So this is what it’s come to. My now months-long unemployment has me spending inordinate amounts of time contemplating some pretty ordinary pursuits. For example, this morning I wasted a good 20 minutes on debating whether or not it would be entirely frivolous to buy some of those shorter “sport” fake fingernails at Leslie’s Drug Store on Main Street.  And when I say debate, that little argument took place only in my head with myself as the main opposition. I talked myself out of it again. Unfortunately that’s not the first time. I can’t bring myself to spend my husband’s hard-earned money on what I think may be fiberglass fingernails. I love him too much.

   Then there’s the fact that I keep considering there’s a dirty bowl and two spoons in the sink that require my attention along with two baskets of dirty laundry, the bathroom sink, window sills and floors to think about. I maul that over while I’m eating the remnants in the bottom of the salt and vinegar potato chip bag while I sit in the recliner and sneak a few minutes of “Kourtney & Khloe Take Miami” reruns while no one is looking.

   I know what you’re thinking. “Why doesn’t she look for a job?”

  Easier said than done my friends. We moved to Martha’s Vineyard four months ago and when the population dwindles to 15,000 in the winter, there aren’t a lot of opportunities for employment. Now I know you’re asking another question. “She lives on Martha’s Vineyard!? Are you kidding me? I don’t want to read this rot!” Well you see, not everyone who lives here produces cable television shows and writes best sellers while playing golf with presidents. A lot of folks work at the grocery store, grow their own tomatoes, pump gas, bus tables and clip coupons because the view here is, I’m not going to kid you, drop dead beautiful and they’ll do just about anything to stay, including paying monthly rent the price of Liz Taylor’s old diamond. The big one.  We fall into that category. As a new-found friend told me the other day, your dog groomer or your waitress is likely to have a doctorate in philosophy around here. So you see, I’ve got some pretty stiff competition.

   Scouring the job opps is what I do every morning after I put my son on the school bus and before I break into the potato chips. Usually I find two or three ads I might be qualified for and then I realize that means I have to leave the house every day and I won’t be home to get my son off the bus and I can’t afford someone to stay with him 15 hours a week after school so I can give half my paycheck to a stranger. And what about all those teacher in-service half days on his schedule?  Then the next day it starts all over again and I read the same ads all week until they change on Thursdays, which is when all the ones that were halfway interesting are gone with nothing to take their place.

   This place is filled with creative types so you would think I could pull myself together and find some way to make money. I have all day to daydream myself into the ranks of all the talented people here. I imagine them starting their businesses from the money they got from recycling their old beer cans. I picture myself creating a start-up with all the Guinness cans I’ve so carefully saved. I wind up rubbing elbows with Larry David at the fish market and telling him about my exclusive handmade paisley pizza warmers. He orders crates of them for all his Hollywood friends and we buy a tiny beach house where my husband sews the pizza warmers and I type on an old typewriter Lillian Hellman-style. Ahhhh it’s a beautiful dream.

    Guess I better get going. Those dishes aren’t going to do themselves.