Swimmin’ pools, movie stars!!

Hey, take a gander at last week’s paycheck from the temp job I have! Hope you’re sitting down because you’re gonna be shocked, SHOCKED by how much money I’m making.

Let me remind you folks that jealousy is a soul-killer, and if you let the green monster invade your being, it’ll hurt you in an Ebola kinda way.

You aren’t worthy. Really. The sooner you realize this, the better.

If you need me, I’ll be hanging out with Mitt while we move moneys around our Swiss bank accounts just for shits and giggles.

Have a piece of advice pie!

(Please excuse all typos, my poor grammar, etc. This was written at 30k feet with some wang in front of me who insisted on pushing his seat allll the way back, causing my computer to rest in my crotch. It’s tough to type when your elbows are in your nostrils, fyi.)

A year-and-a-half is a long, long time to be unemployed.

Especially for someone like me.

I’m starting to get bored and restless. Soon, I’m sure I’ll consider partaking in some sorta-middle class white woman WASPy adventure somewhat along the lines of “Eat, Pray, Love.” However, my outing would involve more cacophony and box wine. And dudes named Braulio, Hank and Cash. I’ll give it some clever title that will help my “brand” — “Binge, Douse, Snark” — or something. I’m still toying around with it and as always, suggestions are welcome.

One of the many downsides to being job-free for this long is allll of the unsolicited advice I’ve received. Yes, I’ve touched on this before but one particular piece of advice keeps coming up — kinda like the gag reflex you have when you think of what it would be like to fuck Bill O’Reilly. (Sidenote: I wouldn’t fuck him with Ann Coulter’s snatch. Wait…I’m not even sure she even has a snatch. You know what though? I don’t wanna know because I believe that knowing would scar me for life.)


Yes, that is the sage advice I’ve been getting from folks as of late. And, here’s a version of this conversation.

“You know what you should do, Jules?”

“What’s that?”

“You should start your own business!” Advice guru puffs her/hisself up, as if he/she has solved allll of my problems and then some. Smug facial expression takes over.

“Um, well. No.”

“No, why? It’s a great idea!” He/She gets more animated.

“Well, first of all, I’m not a business woman. I’m not an entrepreneur.” I say, with an exasperated sigh.

“Oh, you can go to school for that!”

“Yeahhh…I don’t see that happening.”

“Why? It’s a great idea! Start your own business!”

“Ok, if I should decide to do this, what type of business should I start?” I ask, eyebrows raised, jaw set, arms crossed over my chest. Waiting. This, I gotta hear.

“Well, what do you like to do?”

“Ok, first mistake. This isn’t high school. This is not ‘What Color is Your Prison Jumpsuit” or whatever that half-wit philosophy is.” I calmly reply.

“But, it’s a business, you’ll make a ton of money!” Arms raised! Smile huge!

“DOING WHAT?” I really don’t want to be Captain Obvious here.

“Well, you like to write, correct? And you worked in the movie business? And you taught film once upon a time?” Now, they’re looking at me like I’m touched in the head.

“Yep.” I say. Well it is true.

“You could start a business doing all three of those things! But just START A BUSINESS YOU’LL MAKE TONS OF MONEY!”

“Oy fuckin’ vey,” I say, sotto voce. I squeeze my eyes together tight and let out a big-ass sigh. The imaginary wall I’m banging my head against is causing me a real headache.

“Look, I appreciate your help. I do. You’re very kind. But you’re missing the point here: I have zero interest in starting a business. None. Zip. Nada. Zilch.  Not interested. I’m not an entrepreneur….” I get cut off yet again at this point.

“But… but you’re smart! How do YOU know you’re not an entrepreneur? You could go back to scho-”

“No, no more school. ESPECIALLY in a field that I have absolutely no interest in. None. Zip. Nada. Zilch. So going into even more debt for yet another ridiculous degree ain’t in my cards.” I’m exhausted by this point. I’m met with a snippy hand gesture and an even snippier head bob. The guru is also bored by this point and is starting to inspect one of the many pieces of David Yurman joo-ree she’s wearing, or pondering which Tory Burch flats she should purchase next. If the guru happens to be a guy, he’s slowly stroking his soul patch, pulling out his iPhone or contemplating which micro-brew he prefers with brauts.

By this point, the advice guru lets out a little sigh of disgust and a pitiful ‘Well, I tried to help’ look and writes me off as a failure. Soon, he/she and their Earth-shattering advice is gone, but not without a few more words of advice.

“I hope you’ll take my advice seriously and start your own business. It could be good for you!”

Shoot me. Shoot me now.

I don’t mind advice. In fact, I welcome it, but it has to be good advice.

Let this be a lesson to those who are into dispensing advice: Know your audience. If the person you’re talking to is someone like me, telling them to open a business isn’t helpful. It’s dismissive and rude. It also shows you know absolutely nothing about the person and what he/she is going through. Not everyone is an entrepreneur, and just because we aren’t entrepreneurs, that doesn’t mean we aren’t intelligent, savvy, creative, interesting, innovative, etc.

We’re just not interested, see. ‘Tis not our thang.

Next up–those who insist that I get back into teaching. What’s that word again? NO.

The agony of defeat

I can’t believe what a fuck-up I am.

It’s astounding. I’ve been spent the past few days going over and over in my head, racking my brain, searching my memory banks, peering into the deep, dark, disgusting depths of my soul to figure why I am such a colossal fuck-up. Who in one of my past lives did I piss off? Was I a Nazi guard at a deathcamp and now karma is kicking me in the ass? Did I abuse orphans in Calcutta back in the day? Did I kick puppies or something? Who did I pick on when I was a child that caused the universe to sit up, take notice, and make a point of making sure I don’t succeed in anything at any cost? Was someone recently a recipient of a dirty look that wasn’t a dirty look, but a witness to my face when I’m deep in thought? Who the hell knows.

Or am I a complete moron who happens to be a wonderful actress and has oh so many people fooled?

Somewhere in between lies the truth.

I’ve been in LA for a little over a month and it’s been a huge struggle, not a challenge, a struggle. I’ve had a few painful-as-hell job rejections and sent out tons of resumes for jobs that actually fit my skills set — more so than when I was in Chicago — but so far, nothing. There’s more opportunity out here for someone like me — this town seems to ‘get’ me. I’m more comfortable here, and can’t see myself living anywhere else. (well, maybe San Fran or NYC)

But, who the hell was I to think I could get a job out here? How delusional am I? Quite, obviously.

On the plus-side, I’ve met some great people who are fun, inspiring and NICE. That’s huge with me — NICE.

I’ve also “met” a lot of folks via email who don’t like to return emails. Or phone calls. Lordy, I hope they’re never out of work and in need of contacts because, well, we all know how karma works.

I’ve come to the conclusion, however, that I do everything wrong. EVERYTHING. When I try to make things better for me, I get slapped down in the most obscene manner. It’s astonishing to me. My friends and family who are experiencing huge successes, I curse them under my breath. “Die in a fire,” is what I hear the evil Julia saying more and more. Some folks I know aren’t any smarter than I am. The bad part is, the decent and kind Julia is taking her own sweet time at punishing the Evil One. It ain’t pretty, but it’s the truth.

So, what do I do about this? No clue. My psyche is spent. Worn out. Frayed. Beat. Fucked. I’m down to eating one meal a day because I don’t want to spend the money. I don’t answer phone calls anymore. Thank dog for voicemail.

I might as well take up running — maybe I’ll be as successful as Jim Fixx was.