Wednesday, August 7, 2013


I have had it. I really have. I don't want to work for anyone but me. I have actually known this since childhood, as I always envisioned myself in a screened in porch with lots of oversized furniture in whites and blues and a huge oak writers desk facing the sea, writing away whilst my children run amok in the backyard or forest as I am whimsical like that and hope my children are as much of tree-huggers as I was. I literally did hug trees as a child. I would sit in one in my yard with my arms lovingly embracing the trunk and pretend it was my boyfriend. Crazy? No, just wildly imaginative, thank you very much. Anyhow, in my fantasy I've already sold numerous New York Times Bestsellers and am penning another. My kids would come running into my creative space hollering and being kids and I would turn and look at them and say, "Mommy's working. This is mommy's writing space and writing time. You know this. Do you run and badger daddy in his working space? No you do not, so go play with frogs and build a fort and I will make you cookies when I am done."

Gosh I am going to be the best mom. I am literally already so pleased with my handling of sternness, and love, yet complete embrace of my children's needs for adventure and cookies. Anyway. I digress.

After getting a call about an interview today, only to realize it was one of those scammy companies that wants you to sell some unbeknownst product on commission, while pretending I am going to get to travel to the Bering Sea, I realized that I cannot work for The Man anymore. The job was a farce and I was prematurely wooed in with words of travel and growth opportunities, but the second I realized sales were involved--yuck, blech, vomit--all bets were off.
For a moment I was genuinely disappointed though as the job had seemed so splendid initially. So I did my usual song and dance of wanting to flail myself on the floor and cry over my crushed hopes, or take a dramatic two and half hour bath, just to showcase my disdain for being a part of the working class, or nap.
I huffed, flailed and produced about two tears for about two minutes, until I realized the effort wasn't worth it. Taking a bath, when admittedly I was already clean, seemed semi-pointless even for the relaxation and I realized the bathtub was in more of a need of cleaning than I was and that too seemed like far too much work just to make a statement. I opted for the nap. I laid down, but felt restless and not at all tired. Ten minutes later I was up and feeling vigilant.
I would work for no one I vowed! Well for now, I am going to continue being a bartender 12-24 hours a week, because Sallie Mae is a persistent lil snatch, but in the meantime I am going to tirelessly pursue a career working for myself. It dawned on me while I was trying to force a nap on myself like a reticent two-year old hell-bent on continuing playtime that if I were going to work for myself I had to be my own boss. And what would my boss say to me about sleeping at 12:30 in the afternoon?

"Get your keester out of bed and get to work! There is so much to be done! You don't have time to dilly-dally."

And just like that I was out of bed. And working on a whole slew of projects I have been putting off. That included getting out of my pajamas and even putting a scarf in my hair. Admittedly I've gotten into a terrible habit of not putting on real clothes until I have to leave the house. So DC comes home at 5 and I am still sitting in a nightgown with crazy hair (unless I have to work that is, then of course I am in my magician's garb). Lord knows why that man loves me so much.
The thing is I genuinely love accountability. I thrive on it, hence why it would stand to reason that I shouldn't be my own boss, because I like being accountable to someone. However, my complete restless and creative soul really doesn't mesh well at any job I've ever had. It has occurred to me that if I want to work somewhere that supports all my values and whims, yet fulfills and challenges me, I shouldn't keep tirelessly looking for jobs for someone else when I already know what I want, which is to work for one Ms. Cassandra Lee. I hear she's quite charming when after she's had her coffee and put on a bra.
I want to then say to DC, "Honey, I have to go write about the Great Wall of China, see you later," and go. Or take my treasure trove of vintage, refurbished items and photography and sell them around the country at little fairs and boutiques. Or run a Dude Ranch/Bed and Breakfast. Or make jams and pickles and sell them from my farm. How much do goats run these days and is it true that farmers have to be up at the God forsaken hour of 6 A.M.? Or teach white-water rafting and yoga. Or open a bakery. But that's still up in the air as I don't know if I trust myself around sweets all day.
So this is it folks, if I have never rose up in the hierarchy of any job I've ever had, it wasn't because I was unmotivated it was because I surely did not want to. But I want to if it involves, art, the outdoors, adventure, writing, photography or horses. I am telling you as I embark upon new business ventures because you should probably be a part of it. How you ask? By checking out my inventory of cool new crafts on my etsy page, for starters, as that's one thing I am doing for myself.

And if you don't want to support me there, fine by me, look and get ideas for your own crafts, or maybe you don't like crafts at all, in which case, I suggest you talk to my boyfriend about sports and get out of my hair.
I kid, I kid. Just support me here instead, by reading or donating as I happily accept fundage to foot the bill writing about adventures like the Great Wall of China, well the adventures are a little more localized for now, but mark my words that will be written about one of these days.
But, anyhow my new boss is a real slave-driver and she tells me I am just being verbose now and have to get back to work photographing and listing treasures for etsy and looking into the cost of goats and old victorian houses.

Tuesday, August 6, 2013

Not everyone has a DC

I am not sure what to say other than I'm hungry. So hungry. For success, fulfillment, travel, chocolate croissants, an old wagoneer and surfboard, though the surfboard a little less now that Shark Week has been on religiously in our house all week. Oh and I am dieting, so basically every time I have seen food today, whether it's a food I like or not, I pined for it right fierce. Actually at one point I started drooling prematurely during a commercial and it turned out to be cat food. This is why I hate to diet, any time I restrict all I can think about is the fact that I am restricting and it drives me mad. But that's not the point of this post.
I honestly don't really know what is, I just felt compelled to write and not hound DC. I have been in the throes of yet another existential crisis, almost all day and have been trying not to burden him with it.

What's there to say?

Honey, I am deeply fulfilled by your love, yet somehow there is still a gaping abyss inside of me that yearns for a purpose that is more than pouring decaf coffee and making Bloody Mary's. That combined with feeling an acute sense of shame over the state of my checking account has left me positively drained.

I'm just rotten aren't I? I've begun to think that's it. That I can't just happily accept my starving artist status and say I'm a bartender/writer and believe I am on my way. Instead today when I tried to pay for my gym membership and found the cost a little steeper than I imagined it to be, yes poor planner me, I promptly left the gym sans a workout as I could not pay, got in my car (correction my boyfriend's car) and wept, repeating to myself, you're just a waitress. You are just a waitress.

Then I watched Steve Martin on Conan, playing his banjo, cracking jokes, being brilliant and I simply ached. Ached for all of it. I want to write music and then play it. I want to be in skits and plays. I want to walk the red carpet. I want to see the whole world and I want to tell everyone about it, while being superbly witty and sensational. I want to be grand and I always have. I am not ashamed to say so, either.

I can't understand why I yearn for so much, though. I saw a commercial where this guy looked as if he were at some big bash in Mexico, there were a lot of colors, people, and a painted elephant. I didn't really get the gist of what the product was, probably beer, but I just thought, I want to be at a party with a painted elephant.

It's not even that I don't appreciate the small beauty of what is, I truly can and do, it's just the what isn't feels so large that it swallows the what is.

But here's a what is that was really wonderful. I found a sliver in my thumb today, one that I suspect I got days ago and didn't realize was a sliver until now. I panicked as I don't have my mom to take it out and I surely couldn't do it as I am a sissy and a half.

I told DC and held up my thumb to show him. He promptly said, "I'll get it out." I would say I was stunned because I would never have the cojones to get a sliver out of his thumb. Nor would I offer to share my frosting off my cupcake, or give away my pickle spear that came with my meal, or any one of the things that DC easily and lovingly does for me without thought because he knows how happy it'll make me. So it came as no surprise that he again knew how much I would appreciate not having to remove my own sliver and took initiative.

He couldn't get it out, as it was really down in there, but the gesture has been warming my heart all night. I mean truly, I am more impressed with this man and the fact that he was willing to stick a safety pin in my thumb, than I would be if he bought me a dozen long-stemmed roses and a Tiffany's necklace. I mean it. He is the tops.

So I guess that's the point. I had to write this to understand that I may not be parading around with a painted elephant (today at least) but I have a man who loves me enough to share his pickles with me and do pre-op on my finger. And while people may have nice jobs and 401k's, not everyone has a DC.