I just got up from my regular afternoon nap, about ten minutes ago. It was a long nap -- more than two hours -- and I feel better, which is not always the case when I wake up from nap time.
If I nap too long, I usually feel really, really crappy and just say to hell with it and go right back to bed. These naps are taken in bed surrounded by the puppy pile: Sophie crooked into my shoulder, Gordie with his chin on my ankle and Finnigan at the end of the bed. There is often drool that accompanies the long nap -- I'm talking about my drool, not theirs -- and my chest hurts from all the deep breaths I take. Also, my eyes are crossed.
The most efficient naps are taken on my big leather couch. Couch naps are best accentuated by premium cable. I take couch naps when I don't have a lot of time. I use gunshots or blood curdling screams instead of the alarm clock.
The nap is the friend of the writer -- and Mexicans. It recharges the battery. Allows for some pretty amazing dreams. Today, I dreamed that we lived in a big old farmhouse and I just realized we had one of those great wrap around porches that farmhouses have. And on the porch was a horse and a cow. Why didn't I realize the house came with livestock? I could sell them. A neighbor kid could get a pony. A starving family could get some prime rib. I could pay my cable bill.
Last night I dreamed that my friend Jennette bought me groceries and a patron coughed up a very nice cheque to cover all my expenses for the next few months.
Alas, when I woke up I was still unemployed and the cable bill was sitting on my desk with a big red stamp on it.
Unemployment is a bitch.
On the weekend, I signed up for something called Peter's New Jobs which is a website for people looking for hidden jobs. The good news is the website has terrific resources for the unemployed about writing the perfect resume. The bad news is that the jobs are still for software developers, bilingual communications specialists and engineers. My favorite is something called a "backend developer" which sounds an awful lot like a party planner for a gay night club.
Apparently, I can go back to school and learn a new trade.
At 57, I wonder what that would be? The government gives oldsters like me money to go back to school for two years to learn a trade. I could be a sheet metal worker, a truck driver or a social media maven like my 24 year old daughter. Now those are some great careers for someone approaching their Sixties.
I'm trying to be realistic.
I've applied for a job at a large pet retailer to work as a pet hotel operator, which is the person you see who stands in a small area while puppies and dogs mill around them. I have the qualification for that and it wouldn't interfere in my nap time since all the shifts are four hours.
I must go. It's time to make muffins for Scott to take to work this week. Today he's working all day making wine for booze hounds and in a few hours he's going off to his job at the car store to try to sell payment plans to people with upside down car loans.
Tonight should be a good night to sell cars. It's midnight madness and I hear it's a full moon.
Scott will have his hands full with drunkards and insomniacs.