I don’t know if you’ve heard, but I’m the teensy weensiest bit Type A.  And yet, somehow I’m also incredibly good at unemployment.  What can I tell you, Interwebz?  I’m an enigma.

The last time I enjoyed unemployment was fresh from my “downsizing” at Columbia Records.  (That is a story that you won’t get out of me without a publishing contract or at least three glasses of wine.)  I spent the summer writing in the park and flying home to participate in tennis clinics with Pegger the Kegger.

Just before my departure and while I still had access to the Sony Music catalog, I made friends with a low level peon (like me) at a book publishing company and traded a couple of Destiny’s Child CD’s for a series of recipe books.  Notice I didn’t say cook books.  I mean, there were probably some cook books in that cardboard box of goodness, but I chose to focus on The Complete Book of Mixed Drinks and The Ultimate Guide to Pitcher Drinks.  I am my mother’s daughter, after all.  Between my full calendar of social events and working my way through those two books, those three months flew right by.

Now I’m rolling up on month thirteen of unemployment.  Granted it hasn’t all been beers and backhands; I did spend a big ‘ol chunk of that time focused on not biting it and then recovering from not biting it.  Still, this is the longest I’ve gone without some sort of authority figure assigning random projects and tasks to accomplish.

Apparently that’s a bit of a problem for little ‘ol Type A Elly.  All this loosey goosey fly by the seat of my pants stuff occasionally makes my brain hemorrhage.  I need a PLAN (it runs in the family – just ask Mike).  I need deadlines and deliverables and Gantt charts and marketing plans and…and…and…phew.  I remind you, when Aloysius said I should do word puzzles and exercise my brain to combat chemo brain, I decided to learn HTML.  I have a tendency to aim a little…high.

So I’ve taken to creating random goals and deadlines for my self as I plug away at whatever the hell it is I’m doing out here in Hoboken.  Random, bizarro deadlines and goals that is.  I just spent ten minutes lecturing myself when I realized I’d exceeded my ten day time frame to read that new cheesy Stephanie Meyer book.  I know, right?  Could I be a bigger slacker?  Don’t EVEN get me started on the Portrait Project; it’s been two weeks since I decided to take a break from Elphabbie and I haven’t even sketched out the next piece.  I can assure you I’ve given myself quite a talking to on THAT subject.

…and poor Mom wonders if my visiting a shrink every single week is excessive.  Side bar: Last time I visited Dirty Diana (a nickname based solely on affection) she laughed at my outburst and said, “You’re really funny when you’re angry.”  The list of things I never expected a shrink to say continues to grow.

So in the sick and twisted little world I live in, I decided that I needed some outside arbitrary challenge upon which to base my self worth.  On Stalkerbook, I’d noticed that a whole mess of nifty friends had decided to take part in NaNoWriMo.  I sat down and pondered that possibility for all of fifteen minutes before Lazy Elly screamed, “Are you fucking crazy?” at Type A Elly.  “Need I remind you we weren’t even able to read a cheesy novel in ten days?  How the hell are we going to WRITE one in thirty?”  Even Type A Elly had to admit the task seemed a tidge extreme.

Enter NaBloPoMo.  Back on the first day of Movember, I pledged to write a blog post every single day.  Even Lazy Elly thought the challenge wasn’t too daunting.  I generally churn out a post six out of every seven days, what’s one more?  (No Lydia, I still refuse to publish more than one a day.  I’ve got a novel to finish reading, remember?)  There was no sort of requirement for length or quality so my usual silly ramblings should qualify, right?

But then it turned into the month from hell.  Lazy Elly tried to throw in the towel no less than fourteen times already (yes I’m aware it’s only the 15th).  Type A Elly will have none of it.  There’s even a pile of gold star stickers next to my Martha Stewart calendar so Type A Elly can savor each successful accomplishment.  So onward I trudge.

There’s a lesson here kids.  Don’t quit your job.  You’ll go nutso and start writing about the voices in your head.  Besides, that shit causes cancer.  Quitting your job, I mean.  The voices in your head just cause carpal tunnel.

NaBloPoMo.  NaNoWriMo.  Throw in a “Mr Roboto” and we could have a hit song on our hands!  Someone somewhere is having far too much fun randomly shorting and slurring their words.  Do we blame it on Jennifer Lopez or Washington Mutual?

I might have to start implementing the practice myself.  Tonight is SuNiDinWiRo (Sunday Night Dinner With Rocco).  Next week we’ll celebrate LiBroBiDaBa (Little Brother’s Birthday Bash).  Wait till I tell Aloysius I’m gearing up for LaLoCreTuHoNoMoCan (Lay in a Long Creepy Tube and Hope there’s No More Cancer) Day.

Anyone else feel the urge to chant Mekka Lekka Hi Mekka Hiney Ho?”