I have to tell you guys, so far, semi-unemployment really looks good on me. When I announced my intentions to leave the ADA to pursue freelance writing, a corporate writing job, or both, when I wasn’t getting looks of disapproval for leaving a safe and solid full-time gig in an awful economy, I received skepticism from those who wondered what I’d “do all day.” In reality, I have spent only a minimal amount of time drinking wine and watching all the programs on my DVR, as I had fantasized. I have actually been busier than a one legged man in an ass kicking contest, and I love it. Why? Because frantic as I have been, the actions I perform are twice as satisfying. Instead of working for “the man” doing things to further someone else’s agenda, that I may or may not believe in, everything I have done this week is for myself or my family. Though the compensation in terms of dollars is much lower than what I am used to, I am infinitely more satisfied.

I have published another article for the life coach in California. Here is the link for anyone interested:

http://www.surviving-infidelity.org/internet-cheating-online-affairs.html

I also published my first small piece for the Institute for Public Dialogue. Scroll down to the small section on China and Tibet:

http://ifpdialogue.org/case_studies.php

I must confess that researching and writing this latter bit really got my nerd juices pumped and flowing.

I continue to apply to different freelance postings, as well as sending out resumes to “standard” corporate entities, as long as the work is writing related. But the most important assignment I am occupied with at the moment is the tribute I am preparing to deliver at Jesika’s second memorial service on Saturday, May 23rd. I have been chosen as one of the lucky people who gets to talk Jesika, a woman who affected my life so positively for 16 years. It is important that I write my speech out and practice it beforehand. I believe that repetition of the material may help in preventing a public emotional breakdown. Those of you who know me realize how possible that is.

I miss Eddie, who is away traveling for work in South Carolina. I always long for him when he is gone. I have a small voucher left to use on American Airlines and we are currently working out a plan for me to join him in the South for a few days at the end of the month. I will drive his rental car around and explore while he works.

I realize that my posts on this blog can be a huge downer at times. I am, I have admitted before, a relatively serious person, alcohol misadventures notwithstanding. But right now, I am feeling fine.

I have been afraid to laugh the last two weeks. Well, the first week plus after Jesika passed, I just didn’t have the urge. After her funeral however, whenever I started to feel that familiar tug at the corners of my mouth, I supressed it as quickly as possible. Humor felt disloyal, on the one hand to Kevin and others whose awful grieving process is only beginning. But more importantly, any experience of mirth also felt like a betrayal of Jesika, as if the world could ever go on as normal without her in it. To giggle seemed, on some level, as though I might be forgetting.

In recent days, I have begun to rethink my position. I could not forget Jesika, even if I really tried. She is still with me, every third or fourth thought throughout my day. 16 years of her light in my life is not so easily extinguished, and certainly not through the form of a good chuckle, an expression of humanity Jesika both enjoyed and encouraged like no other.

My new attitude toward laughter could not be more timely, as my husband Eddie powerfully tested my resolve to keep a continuous straight face yesterday. We drove out to Woodfield Mall in Schaumburg for what seemed like an innocent day of lunching and shopping together, two activities we both enjoy. However, on this warm spring afternoon, my husband left an imprint of quirks, idiosyncracies, and downright hilarity across the Northwest suburbs.

We began with lunch at the Olive Garden. Now traditionally, I am reluctant to patronize chain restaurants, being the champion of urban individuality that I am known to be. But when it comes to the OG, I am powerless to resist. I lay the blame at the feet of the bottomless salad bowl, with that delicious and zesty dressing which must contain crack as its secret ingredient, given I have never consumed fewer than three full bowls per visit. But I digress…

The nice part of being in a committed relationship is that, with any luck, you can freely be yourself. I confess, I eat like a man in front of Eddie: both because I love food and secondly, because he seems to enjoy my hearty appetite. This works both ways. For as well-built and handsome as my husband is, his eating habits are very much akin to a seasoned sumo wrestler in training. Knowing these things about each other strengthens our bond, and yet even I was shocked as our waitress set the first of Eddie’s soup bowls in front of him, and he sort of nonchalantly reached down and undid his pants. Yes, he did. As though we were watching reruns of “Everybody Loves Raymond” and eating sloppy joes in our living room. I do believe he was discreet enough so that none of the other patrons noticed. But at the end of the meal, I felt a sudden urge to jump up and stand in front of him as he calmly rebuttoned before we made our way out the door. Men of the world, I say to thee: if you must unfasten your drawers to enjoy a big meal, please, for the sake of your beloved, buy a bigger pair of pants to wear out to dine. I would have hoped it went without saying that your wife does not want to sit across from you as your boxers are on full display to the children crawling under neighboring tables, but apparently, it does not.

I managed to compose myself after this Mother’s Day lunch rush shame spiral, at least long enough for Eddie and I to enter Macy’s. I was after a new set of gym shoes and a bathrobe to replace my decade-old version, mottled with wine stains and burn marks. I confess in this case, I should have been able to anticipate Eddie’s coming somewhat unglued in the women’s lingerie section. He has never been able to so much as utter the word “panties” without becoming visibly excited (no I did not mean THAT way – get your minds out of the gutter!). Right before the section of the department dedicated to bath robes, there were three female manneguins on display, draped in expensive looking thong underwear. I was able to breeze right by this, but I should have had the presence of mind to ensure that Eddie was moving with me. Because the next thing I know, I wheel around the to the sight of my husband massaging the plastic buttocks of one of the aforementioned manneguins. I had a momentary Andrew McCarthy/Kim Cattral flashback before I sidled up to Eddie and hissed urgently in his ear, “Just what kind of perverted shit are you doing to embarass me now?”

The excuse given, wait for it, was the following, “I was thinking of purchasing some new panties (there’s that word again) for you, and I was feeling the quality of the fabric so I could decide if it was worthy of my wife.” It was at this moment that the bullshit sirens in my head began to blare excruciatingly loud. Instead, I merely yanked Eddie’s arm of out his socket as I pulled him away before any mothers with young children could complain about the freak feeling up plastic asses in the store.

Ok, I admit, it took me about a half hour to recover from this incident, but bravely I soldiered on. Eddie and I finished our shopping and made our way back to the City. He had been complaining about back pain for the last two days and repeated, for about the millionth time in 48 hours, that he wanted a massage. It is, however, stereotypical for a reason that people of Indian descent are woefully penurious. Eddie loves the pampering of a Mario Tricoci spa, but balks at paying more than $50 for things he feels ought to be a given in life. A cheap metrosexual – where did I find this guy?

But Eddie was in luck. There is a “massage parlor” on Lawrence, right down the street from our apartment. Why do I put this title in quotes? Because I have long been suspicious of this place of business, with its requirement that one rings the doorbell before entering, the darkly tinted windows and their odd business hours: open until 9 PM or later most days of the week. Let me put it this way: it’s no place I would ever step inside, and for quite some time I have referred to this storefront as the “Happy Ending Hut.” Well after a full of day behaving like a registered sex offender, I was hardly suprised when Eddie expressed a desire to find out how much a massage would cost him. I pulled the car over and he went in after inquiring if I were interested in going with him. I believe my look of profound disgust said it all. It turned out, Eddie could avail himself of a one hour massage and access to the sauna for the low price of $75. Now all jokes aside, I wouldn’t have tolerated this price inquiry were I the least concerned about Eddie’s fidelity. He is a weird one, never afraid to do what he pleases on the off chance that society might find him odd. But he is definitely all mine. So with my intellectual writer’s curosity leading the way, I encouraged him to go for it.

I went for a jog around the neighborhood and reviewed my Woodfield purchases. When Eddie came home 90 minutes later, surprise, surprise he found the experience a bit seedy. He mentioned low ceilings and dark light, bizarre music. But I finally had my “I told you so moment” when my husband revealed that, toward the end of his treatment, the masseuse firmly demanded he remove his towel. To hear Eddie tell it, they nearly got into a tug of war about it. Might this have been the inevitable attempt to provide my man with the “happy ending” I predicted, or simply the miscommunication of a language barrier? I will never know, but my warped sense of humor is dying to conclude the former.

Eddie left again this morning. He has started his first series of business trips for Blue Cross that will take him to Columbia, South Carolina for the next few weeks. How will I adjust to the lack of his presence, especially now that I am free from the 9-5 corporate world, and I do not have anyone else in my life who will drop trou, hit on plastic women and visit the Chicago version of the red light district, all in one day?

I haven’t even worked my last day at the ADA yet (that is tomorrow), and I already have more freelance writing work than I can handle. Ok, excuse the bit of proud hyperbole. I can handle it just fine. I just can’t believe my good fortune. About a week ago, my Aunt Diane sent me a link to a web site where they post all these “work from home” writing opportunities. I replied to quite a few of them and was surprised at the results. I would have been happy to get even one return call, and didn’t have my hopes very high that would happen, given my lack of experience. However, I will say that my StreetWise piece, and the work Jen and I have done on this little blog, have paid serious dividends in short order. I used them both as examples of my work. Obviously, I did not send links to the pieces about my drunken hijinks in Atlanta. Funny sure, but doesn’t necessarily scream, “Take me seriously dammit!”

My first client is a life coach from California. He takes his work very personally: relationship counseling, with a focus on infidelity. He wanted a writer to develop short 500-1000 word pieces on various topics with a focus on making the articles very easy to read (8th grade level), and increasingly “hittable” on Google. There’s a whole science to it that Jay explained to me. Not to sound arrogant, but I found it a challenge to “dumb it down” at first. I am normally so verbose with my work (as you good people can attest), that I usually end up tripping over my own tongue, word count rising at an alarming rate, while I do my best to appear intelligent. My first piece for Jay was published today:

http://www.surviving-infidelity.org/husband-is-gay-why-men-cheat-you-discovered-that-your-husband-is-gay.html

The topic: how perfect for me right? My regular readers are aware of my fondness for all things gay. The second client I just took on is a company that writes sample term papers, thesis and reports for colleges and universities to use as reference materials. Basically, they give me an article and a question, and I write about it as if I were still in school. At the bottom of my heart, I am nothing more than a bookish, academic nerd, so this is right up my alley. These folks are so busy they were ready to get me started yesterday, but I put them off until next week so I can wrap things up nicely at the ADA first.

The money I make from both of these jobs will be just about enough each month to pay mine and Eddie’s cable, phone, internet and electric bill. I have to keep reminding myself this is not the point. No one becomes a writer to get rich. My issue (isn’t there always one?) is that I have to fight the persistent fear that I am a selfish freeloader. Freelancing keeps my skills sharp and gives good copy for my resume while I hunt for full-time work. I am still doing that. I just have to be patient. I am so lucky to have a partner who has more of that, and more faith in me, than I do myself.

My heart is still a bit raw, but I feel the tiniest amount of closure after yesterday’s funeral for Jesika. Oddly enough, it was not the funeral itself that allows me to feel I am starting to heal, but the events that happened after my family, friends and I left the site of our girl’s memorial. It was hard to connect with Jesika within the confines of the church. For one, heavy makeup and treatments had been applied to disguise her last days’ suffering and the fact that she’d been deceased a week already. The body I saw in the chapel had none of Jesika’s naughty smile, playful eye and droll wit. I felt Jesika during the tributes delivered by her two older brothers, Brandon and Kyle. However, it was difficult to reconcile such a somber setting with the light spirited person that was Jesika Thompson.

When I was a freshman, I was part of a four person crew: Jesika, myself, my best friend Gary, and our other pal Danielle. After graduation, Gary and I sort of lost touch with Danielle, as tends to occur when people grow, move and change. We hadn’t seen her in more than 10 years before she walked in the door of the Joliet chapel yesterday morning. It was like no time had passed, as the four of us, in addition to Jen, sat close, whispering, sharing funny and irreverent reminiscinces. It was as if Jesika was there right there with us, egging us on to perform mischief at an inappropriate time. Gary, Danielle, Jen and I decided we’d take Eddie, Max and the girls, skip the anticlimatic part where Jesika’s long lifeless body was laid to rest, and head to a place where we could catch up and tell old tales about Jesika’s enormous stock of bravado.

We headed for Rosemont, Danielle driving in the front, myself and Jen following behind in our cars like a funeral procession in microcosm. We were in search of T.G.I. Friday’s, a place sure to sell cosmos, Jesika’s favorite drink, at 1 PM in the afternoon. The mood of Friday’s seemed appropriately unserious, as I think Jesika would have appreciated. The best part was that Jesika’s boyfriend, Kevin was able to drive up to join us at the end for a celebratory, tearful, but humorous toast to a life well lived by a woman well loved.

I chose this title because of its intentional double meaning. The group of us celebrated Jesika as she was, warts and all, loving each and every precious fragment of memory she left with us. These memories often include tears of laughter so intense, you wake up the next morning with sore abs. At the same time, our little Jesika convention began to remind me that she left me and so many others with unbreakable ties, as her brother Kyle said yesterday, her own “rainbow coalition.” I will always miss her. But as alive as she felt at that T.G.I. Friday’s table, I know Jesika will never be difficult to find.