Withdrawal...

I spoke to Australia early this morning. It was late at night there, but mum was still up, and ready for her 'fix'. (She often employs the parlance of the common junkie when referring to her children, which should perhaps be disconcerting, but is also kind of awesome.)

I myself had been jonesing for some contact with Australia; (hyperlink for mum's benefit... not sure she's that advanced yet) an unexpected bi-product and perhaps overreaction to the receipt of my 'Greencard' or, Permanent Resident's card.

That word, permanent, has been thrown around quite a bit since getting married and applying for legal residence in the United States, and since finishing my last job, exactly three whole weeks ago, I've had a bit too much time on my hands to think about what it means.

So, it is always nice to be saved from the plughole of my own brain with an uplifting chat to mum, and to hear tale of the latest from way down under.

She tells me a story about my seven year old niece, Anastasia, who came to lunch at her grandmother's house today. In her pajamas. Evidently she 'couldn't be bothered getting dressed', due to a 'big weekend with the cousins'.

Most unfortunately mum didn't have a picture, but I'm rather fond of the one in my head. I love the idea of my goddaughter, too spent to change out of her flannels, casually throwing on some sneakers and a coat, heading off to high tea with the grand matriach. I'm still trying to decide whether this makes her rockstar, or a welfare mother.

I'm not good at not working. Or rather, not being paid by someone else to do something. Every time I have a break from it I suffer from severe withdrawal, in every sense; I crave work, and I react by disappearing into a big black hole... this time in Brooklyn.

Later in the evening, as I'm crashing from the mum-high, the phone rings and it's my most lovely friend from grad school, David. Recently moved back to Pittsburgh (or as Sienna Miller affectionately dubbed it 'Shitsburgh') so he could live rent free and reassess the world. As I bemoan my lack of employment, he reminds me, 'it could be worse, you could have my job'.

David recently started work at a call center for a cable company. It's not telemarketing, but it's only one rung above. He gets paid about $19,000 pa, and he won't receive any sick leave or vaction pay for twelve months.

He tells me a story about a recent conference with one of the bosses, where David felt the need to ask the question about what he should do if he needs to visit the bathroom outside of his one allocated lunch break (45 mins) and two allocated ten minute breaks. His manager replied, 'I don't like to answer that question'.

I listen and then laugh at my poor, compliant friend, thinking his boss doesn't want to answer because it will embarrass him. ('What do you think you do? You get up and go! We're all grown ups here'.)

In fact, it turns out that what his manager doesn't like to say is that technically, 'employees are not allowed to get up from their desks, EXCEPT during those allocated breaks, and if absences of more than two minutes are logged by their computers, employees will be docked.'

I say, 'QUIT! QUIT NOW!!'

'I can't', David says, 'Not before Wednesday. Wednesday is Mudcup Day, every employee gets a free chocolate pudding.

I tell him to start a blog. You can't make that stuff up.

The truth is, I'm not unemployed. I'm self employed. I have plenty of work to do. Lots of self promotion and hustling and nose-to-the-grinding... but my manager is a lot less rigid than David's. I can go to the bathroom whenever I choose. And I can drink bourbon while I'm there if I want.

If history is anything to go by, rehabilition is inevitable. Something will come up. A big hand will reach into the black hole and pull me out. I'll be back on top, and wondering what all the fuss was about. And hopefully in fewer than twelve steps.

Meanwhile, I might take a leaf out of Ana's book, and enjoy the pajamas while I can.