Everybody wants to Work (nah, nah, not me!)

OK, so I haven’t been unemployed for that long. But so far, I absolutely love it.

Actually, as BtT points out, I’m technically ‘on leave’, having Long Service paid out until August when my resignation becomes official, but let’s face facts here. I left work and I’m not going back. I don’t work now. I’m without job. I’m UN-EM-PLOYED.

It’s such a dirty word isn’t it?

“And what do you do dear?”

“Oh, moi? I’m unemployed.”

It’s like saying you’ve got Small Pox. Except worse, because you can’t catch unemployment. You choose it. Or it chooses you. I personally like being unemployed, possibly because I’ve never tried it before. I’ve worked non-stop since the age of fifteen (actually, fourteen and nine months I believe). Since that first application form to work at Woolies after school and on Saturdays, it’s been one job after another. Worked through school. Worked school holidays. Worked through uni. Worked after graduating uni in what they call ‘a career’. In my twenties I even worked another job each day after coming home from my career. Then in my early thirties I worked whilst studying even more uni, in order to progress my career (and therefore work even harder). When I look back, I can say… Yes, I bloody well worked. And now I don’t want to.

What I’m finding interesting is the cultural stigma and roles that come with unemployment.

I was discussing this with an actual unemployed person, one who would like to have a day job (unlike myself). He had gone for a job interview the day we spoke and was discussing the efficacy of unemployment benefits after the age of fifty (apparently you don’t need to check off as many job interviews or applications or something... ) Also, we questioned whether we unemployed folk can be classified as students if we only enrol in an evening course on llama farming.

OOO!!! I suddenly thought. I wonder if there’s a country somewhere, like… umm… Brunei possibly, that rewards people like me who work their guts out for many years, say, with a little ‘benefits’ package that I can call upon if I suddenly feel like ‘not working’ for a bit. I don’t particularly want to trudge around to job interviews, or fill in forms, or justify to the government the reasons for my temporary lack of interest in the workforce. I just want to swipe my fingerprint and COLLECT. I’ll take my benefits in Target giftcards and Qantas vouchers thanks.

I, of course, am ‘on leave’ so no Dole for this little ex-checkout chickie just yet. But what if I want to get some later on? From what I gather the way it works is that for twenty-three years, part of my tax has been going to support a welfare system for those who don’t work. Other people. Ok, granted, some of these recipients are old, some are raising sprogs, some are disabled… but there really are some people who just don’t bloody well work. So I’ve decided that I don’t want my taxes (what’s left of them) to pay for their lifestyle anymore. I want to cash in MY twenty-three years for a benefits package for ME. To fund a lifestyle by the beach that involves lots of … doing whatever I want, for as long as I want.

Since ‘The Move’ BtT and I don’t have a mortgage now so I just simply don’t have to work (because BtT, bless him, actually wants to), so any choice I make to re-enter the workforce will be by choice. Will there be pressure? Guilt? Will I get bored? Who knows?

I blame the feminist movement a little.

Yeah OK, so we, as a gender, made progress in whether or not to do some of life’s very important things. I can vote, wear uncomfortable underwear and have less than nine children if I wish. But I think women got it slightly wrong when wanting to equalise the workforce, because then, as a gender, we simply had to do MORE. Because then there came that nasty but entirely necessary ‘male housework training’ program that is STILL having to be taught as a mandatory pre-cohabitation subject, and c’mon… how many long-term ‘Mr Home Duties’ do you REALLY know? Hmm?? I could count on one hand the amount of guys in this country who know how to use a steam-mop.

I know that in the early 80’s my mum went ‘back to work’ in order to bring more money into the family home. To afford life’s little extras, like Timtams, a 120Y Datsun and the luxury of being able to afford to stay in a two-star motel rather than a tent during the annual Port Macquarie family holiday. I totally agree that more income is an excellent idea. But TWO people working? Nope. MY plan is simply just to get BtT to earn MORE to compensate for MY dwindling contribution. Perfect.

In return, I just whip up an edible dinner, put the dishwasher on, crack open a can o’ Jim after he showers off the tradie dust each day and VOILA! Oh Ok, it does sound a little 50’s housewife, but I really don’t intent to do it Stepford-style in a scanty apron blinking ‘Yes Master!’ like on 'I Dream of Jeannie'. I was thinking more… leggings and ugg boots:

“Hi honey… I’m home!”

“Yeah, here’s ya grog. Did ya make some dough today? Good. Get in the shower. I’ll slap dinner in the microwave before Survivor starts.”

“Thank you, love of my life. And might I say, you look beeeyyyoutifool today.”

“All for you, my hunk of paypacket!”

Which brings me to the ‘hair issue’.

Unemployment is full of little paradoxes. Although I now have more time in which to schedule hair maintenance and general grooming, I really have very little reason to do so. A wash and a brush and we’re done. I really don’t want to talk to a hairdresser unless I absolutely HAVE to and no one's removing stubble without a darn good reason. I hate it when service industry people want to interact with you.

“Sooo…. How’re things with Youuuuuuuuu?”

“Fine.”

“I love movies. Have you seen any latelyyyyyy?”

“No.”

“Really??? OMG. I just LOVE your top. Very noice. Where’s it frommmmmm?”

“Target.”

“Oh, loike the other day, I was in Target and it was loike… SO good! I LOVE it. ”

“Uhuh.” (Just cut the damn hair and LET ME GO!)

I slapped a home dye in the ‘mop’ to cover the grey, in preparation for my new driver’s license photo this week, but that’s pretty much it for this month. Maybe I’ll do something about when we go to Phuket. Surely they won’t want to talk to me there. Or I can ignore them, claiming ‘language barrier’ as an excuse. Maybe I can just pay extra for the stylist to shut up.

“You want head rub tooooo?”

“No, just make me look amazing and keep your talking to yourself. Ta. Oh, and can I have a wine?”

One thing I LOVE about unemployment is that I can go shopping on Monday mornings.

I’d never actually thought about it, but I was, for many years, a ‘peak hour’ shopper. But Monday mornings… oooooo….ahhhhh…. you know there’s NO ONE else there (except shift workers, sprogs in strollers and their legging and sneaker-clad mothers, old people and my unemployed ‘colleagues’)? You can GET A PARK! I KNOW!!! Amazing! Also, you can go to the Post Office and NOT LINE UP! I went into a jewellery store to get something for BHG a few weeks back and the sales assistant practically bought me a cappuccino she was so keen to meet my needs. Normally I would’ve gone with any old pussycat charm I could find, but NOW… well, I felt quite within my rights to ask her to get them ALL out. Every. Single. One. The only real ‘push n shove’ on that Monday morning was at the K-Mart clearance racks (the grey army… gotta watch ‘em). After that I went to the coffee shop and got an extra-hot-skim-chai-latte without lining up. I was able to really emphasise the ‘extra-hot’ and mention (without hesitation) that she’d be making it again if it were not perfectly hot. I discussed my eco-cup and there were no eye rolls. I didn’t even have to give my name for her to call out six times when my bevvie was ready because my e-h-skim chai latte was her only order for a good couple of minutes. I then sat, read the complimentary paper (we unemployed folk don’t BUY papers), sipped, sipped some more, ignored the odd gurgle and mother’s group banter, then left.

The thing I’ve noticed is that you really just have TIME when you’re unemployed.

I have time to read the checkout chick’s nametag and compliment her on the new nose piercing (briefly of course, I don’t want to actually get to know her…). I have time to scrapbook the weekly junk mail specials and write a detailed nightly menu for the fridge (excellent idea BTW, saves all manner of “what’s for dinner” conversations!) I even had time this week to interrogate One-eyed Wayne the Cement Guy who’s putting a new footpath in out the front. All this and I’m still tucked up on the lounge ready for The View by one o’clock. I’ve pre-ordered my mum’s Mother’s Day present online (early!!) and participated in several surveys and studies. I was paid to road-test the new Chokito Bar before its release in order to rate the crunchy choc-ball to caramel ratio (which is damn near perfect by the way). I have had time to determine whether I need to stock my home with Enjo or Danoz Direct products (I don’t think I do actually, but it’s good to work these things out). I’ve earned a Coles voucher for giving my opinions on mattresses in an online forum and I’m off to the pub this Thursday evening to give $60 worth of my thoughts about the local electricity company (hope there’s free drinks...) Sometimes, in the afternoons, I chop fruit into little, even-sized pieces. I’ve developed a myriad of things to do with pumpkin (father-in-law had excellent crop this year) as well as persimmons and lillypillies. I've even read a couple of books for no apparent reason! Is there NO END to the things one can do when one doesn’t have to waste ten or twelve hours working??

However, even though I personally don’t want to work, I am pleased that others are still out there slaving away. I do need the nation to churn along to fix the Gross Domestic Product or whatever it is. I need someone out there to be ‘checking’. I used to constantly check the finance report, check whether interest rates are rising, check the Aussie dollar, check the weather to see what to wear to work tomorrow… so please, in the best interests of the nation, I urge some of you to keep checking everything in my absence. Oh, and those of you edumacating Australia’s youth, please continue to do so. They sure as hell need it.

However, if you need me, I’ll be in the hammock out the back with a glass of Fruit Lexia ($4 a litre…bargain!), letting out a loooonnnnng sigh of unemployed relief.

Taking life one bad hair day at a time.

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Everybody Wants to Work (nah, nah, not me!), The Uncanny X-Men, 1984.