Got a Gig.

Darlin'... let me tell you- I'm allergic to being poor. I do not like it when the only people who get to celebrate every two weeks are the bill collectors. Yeah, i don't like them assholes. Since last January I've been job hunting, searching for that dream 35,000 just-graduated-need-my-own-apartment-grow-with-the-company JOB.

Well, when it rains it pours. Now its not the "35,000 just-graduated..." job, but it is three jobs. (smile) Ladies and gentlemen, I'm hustling here. On a grind-- got a six MAYBE seven-month plan and I'm sticking to it. I feel like, I'm 23 years old, I don't have any kids, no man, but I do have a horde of first-class friends. I should be able to go on vacation in February. Engage in first class shenanigans(t.y. Loren). Furthermore, I should be able to pay for a gym membership to keep all this svelte.

Plus... I'm trying to get the fuck out of Lake County asaptually (t.y. Kels). I am feeling particularly blessed these days. T

Thigh Highs.

Another late posting. Not much to say today. Please ladies and gentlemen don't be upset with me, I'll have more to say tomorrow I promise. Just been a pretty average day, took a long nap, did a lot of cleaning- in other words- didn't think about much today.

Although I will say that I think elbow-length gloves are necessary to life. As are corsets and peep-toe sling back pumps. Corsets... I could learn to live with them. As long as there's a pair of sweats for me to slip into after I undo my garter belts... Wish every day all day was fabulous, beautiful and over-the-fucking-top. You're probably wondering what I'm getting at here. Nothing really, just realized what I wanna be when I grow up.

A drag queen.

Black movies.

Posting a little late this evening.

Somehow after dinner of completely fried food, friends and I decided to have a movie night. Two classics: The Player's Club & Boomerang

Love boomerang-- shows a Black Corporate America (contradiction in itself), successful Negroes and Negresses in fly-ass (HUGE) New York apartments, good friendships, the makings of Halle Berry... Halle Berry and of course Eddie Murphy's laugh.

It was a good night. Good friends, good eats and good movies.

The Recession is real.

Today I attended an Online JobSearch workshop. My local library (which I cherish) has been hosting job and career-oriented programs for at least 2 years now. The facility was substantial, but the crowd was small. Plus I kept getting this feeling that this crowd is "The Crowd"- that is the same group of people who always attend, the guaranteed group of 10 people who are so frustrated but can't convince themselves to call it quits.

All-in-all it was a pleasant experience. Everyone had lots of advice, questions, and an optimism I honestly did not expect.

However, I couldn't help feeling out of place. For starters it took the hosts at least twenty-five minutes to get the projector/laptop/internet working. They had to call in the IT guy just to pull up an additional tab on Google. I got worried then.

I was even more worried when one of the library staff members recieved the shock of her life. Literally- the shock of her life. Somehow, in plugging in the projector, she shorted the entire system. Little amber sparks went flying everywhere and the whole room went dark. Fortunately no one was hurt. And with a little more technical difficulty, the workshop did commence. -- I tell you, you want job security- be the IT guy. Be that guy.

Really though, I felt out of place. I couldn't help thinking that this workshop was not for me. I'm going to make a BIG DISCLAIMER HERE: I am in no way "dissing" this workshop or all those hard working people who attend them. They do serve their purpose. HOWEVER, I feel like many of them are geared toward an older generation of job seekers. More specifically, our moms and dads.

For starters, almost every workshop I have attended (outside of college) has put a large emphasis on computer literacy, encouraged computer training, how-to courses & workshops... Like last week, I went to a (mandatory) workshop for my unemployment. Now I can understand why the government would insist upon job training for those on unemployment- can't have people just living on Gov'ment funds, but the whole experience really adds insult to injury. Not only do you not have a job, they send you a letter requesting your presence at this workshop because YOU MUST need assistance in finding a gig, you must not have a gig b/c you are NOT DOING EVERYTHING possible, you are inadequate somehow. So its 9:15 am at the local community college and a hoge-poge of people. They pass out pamphlets on computer literacy classes, keyboard classes, and refresher courses on MS Office. There's even staff to help you set up (mandatory) online profiles. My first thought is how do I get that gig. Helping 40-somethings master social media and search engines. I can do THAT for 40 hours a week.

My second thought is- I did this already. I've. Done. This. Nowadays you cannot graduate from college without the basic knowledge Illinois Unemployment Services believes is doing me a frikken favor by giving me. So I'm sitting there trying to pretend to absorb this "valuable" information that I would not have otherwise obtained unless I attended this (mandatory) workshop-supposedly.

Getting back on target: Where the hell are the workshops for people who JUST spent 40 grand on a couple degrees, or an MBA. All of us who need more than PowerPoint training to give us an edge in the workforce. Those of us who need experience to get a decent job, but can't get a decent gig to gain experience... yeah that shit. Let me know, where's our workshop?

An excersize.

This blog is no online journal. Rather, Stilletos, Lace & Sweet Cigars is an exercise for me and my favorite past time. Not too long ago I might have called myself a writer. However for the last 3 years I've had a vicious case of writers' block. At least, I've been blaming "the block" for almost 3 years. Haven't written a thing worth reading out loud or saving. Every now and then I'll set pen to paper and five pages will come out easy. Other times I fix a good pen in my hand and I sit there staring at the blue & pink margins. Even a blinking cursor can put me off.

So as long as I have this daily obligation, maybe I can work myself out of "the block" and get back to doing what once brought me peace of mind-that which is so hard to come by. I remember (you remember too Rae-Rae) when I could hole myself up in a room and write and write-just write. Instead of pages, I would tear through chapters. I could edit for hours too, almost always to a fault. The editing often prevented me from really finishing anything from being pleased.

Most of all I want this blog to help me find my voice, or at the very least settle on my voice.

Sundays.

Back in Lake County. As always on Sunday I high-tail my ass [and/or schlepp --> thank you Rae-Rae] back home from the city after weekend shenanigans [thank you Loren].

Saturday consisted of

1 Birthday Cookout
2 Bombs (one "Irish Car", the other "Jäger")
2 Successful Wedding Gift Purchases
1 Drag Show
1 Engagement

and 1 Black & Mild

Now usually... Sundays suck.
I get through them with comfort food and TrueBlood (HBO Series). If you're not addicted, shame on you- you're missing all the way out. For now I won't go into detail about my adolescent study of Anne Rice & Bram Stoker, but I warn you-don't go posting something stupid after this. My pitch for this show is so fucking good, HBO should pay me. Or at least give incentives- you know like credit unions: "For every person you get to open an account we'll give you 50 dollars on a Home Depot gift card ..."

True Blood: 5
Twilight: 0

Love you Lafayette.

Gimmie.

You know I could really screw myself for saying this out loud-well writing it out loud. I woke up yesterday morning and something kinda genius clicked. I'm sitting there under the covers, nodding my head and stroking my upper lip. Yes, this makes sense. Yesterday morning I woke up feeling particularly shallow.

Now calm the fuck down because this will be my standing condition for at least the rest of the summer. This I know. I want things. And unfortunately I want them now. See, now, I'm not supposed to say things like that. Among other things, I'm supposed to be practicing patience. However, I think I've been quite patient sitting here waiting for rain and getting sandstorms. I'm supposed to be grateful for those sandstorms somehow. Everything happens for good reason. But me wanting "things" is not all in the sense of some man giving me things (smile)-that's only part of it.

I want my goals and hopes to come to fruition.
I want to bust my ass and have it really and truly pay-the-fuck off.
I want it all to fall into place
be challenging, but worth it
be brutal and still beautiful.

See. My American Dream is simple: Become that self-made woman; building up my own brand, giving back, picking up the slack for all the fuckheads that are always in the way. And I'd like to haul some people up there with me. Gimmie that please.

Next gimmie another who can handle all that. That will accept the cranky but put a halt to the bullshit. I need support, but I also need someone who is going to demand the best of me. What the fuck do I want with someone who is fine with me staying exactly the same. Gimmie a partner IN LIFE, a man to grow with me, challenge me, upset me, and occasionally piss me off. The last thing I want is a bore. I also need to laugh, and frankly I like to be shown off. I like to be doted on and thought of. Gimmie that please.

Now gimmie my house, my crib, my space with the gourmet kitchen and the DEPARTMENT STORE CLOSET. Give me flowers in mason jars, biscuits and granite counter tops, bookshelves and paintings, pillows and showcases, photographs, post-it notes: "Cheese... Milk... Scotch tape...", a chaise and ebony hardwood floors. Give me closets. Give me closets. Give me CLOSET SPACE!

Next loud ass fucking kids, smart kids who dig in the dirt but know Cavali when they see it. Kids that respect their elders, love their nappy hair, but know bullshit when they smell it. Give me children that know I love them with all my being, that respect each other, go to bat for one another, embrace one another. Give me forts and midnight snacks. Movie nights and family field trips. Give me the Smithsonian and Mount Fuji and the London Tower with sticky juice-packs and "MA! My feet hurt...". Gimmie that please.

Most days I'm happy.
Most days I can remind myself to persevere.
...lalalalala ... patienceis a virtue... lalalala

Fuck that. Gimmie GImmie Gimmie.
I scream it to the sky, I scream it in my pillows in my phone in my-resume. Gimmie.A.Job.
Most of the time I'm screaming for this. For "things".
And all the time, its ME that I'm screaming at. Gimmie Gimmie Gimmie.

Introductions.

A friend told me the other day that I have too much to say. You need to journal she says. So here it goes.