Was It Something I Said?

I’ve never been rejected from any job I’ve ever interviewed for.  If I make it to the interview stage, I will usually win the day.  Whether its my stunning good looks or my incredible poise, I don’t know but let’s just say I handle myself pretty well in those situations.

Therefore, when I had two interviews a couple of weeks ago and NO OFFERS of employment from either party, I was stunned.  And hurt.  And angry.  I don’t handle rejection well (except with regard to my writing where it happens more often than not and it’s just part of the game). 

In addition, I know when I’ve aced an interview.  You just know!  Don’t you?  If you and the interviewer have a great rapport, there’s no dead air, all questions are answered with grace and aptitude, it’s usually a slam dunk in my favour.  I came out of both interviews feeling pretty good and worried about which one I’d have to turn down.

Have I lost my mojo?  Worse yet, what if I’ve lost my mojo but am now unable to detect said mojo deficiency and cannot compensate for it in interview situations?  There’s nothing worse than someone with no mojo thinking that they’re on fire.  It’s pathetic and it just might be me.

I have wracked my brains and I have gone over every word spoken in both interviews, I’ve analyzed all the facial expressions and body language of both interviewers and I have found NO telltale signs of rejection. 

Maybe its just that office…after all, when I left the first interview (with the owner) about two weeks before these interviews, I thought I’d never hear from them again.  Why?  Because she said (and I quote):  “You have too strong a personality for this type of position.”  I thought, well, that’s it.  If they’re looking for a “yes-girl” or a doormat, then they’ve barked up the wrong tree.  But, lo and behold, the owner called me back and said two agents wanted to meet with me.

I can blame them for giving off confusing signals all I want to but still, it rankles.  How will I ever know if it was something I said or the way I wore my hair (I knew the dreds were a bad idea) or some other thing that turned them off me…I did bathe that morning, after all. 

The mystery may drive me mad…until the next interview…yikes…can I hack it?

Helpless

I’ve been watching the news – who hasn’t – and I leave my television, usually in tears, feeling utterly helpless.  Yes, Napoleon and I have sent money but I still feel helpless.  I want to be there.  I want to hold the hand of a crying child and offer a pair of warm, caring arms.  I want to hand out food and water.  I want to DO something besides write a check. 

If I were there, I have no doubt I’d be more of a hindrance than a help.  The sheer chaos of the place would freak me out.  I think of all the aid workers down there, risking their lives.  How do they cope?  Surely there are new people among the ranks who have joined up – probably without a second thought – and who are now under unbelievable stress and yet, still helping. 

I applaud everyone down there from the doctors, nurses, civil engineers, just plain people – who are giving it their all to help a people and a country that have long languished out of the spotlight.  Haiti cannot afford one more piece of bad luck.

I wonder about all of the tourist hot spots near by – Cuba is a winter getaway for all Canadians as is the Dominican Republic.  How can anyone lie on a beach, relaxed and utterly self-absorbed, while only a short haul flight away, there are bodies rotting in the streets and children wailing from hurt and hunger?  My sister-in-law and her boyfriend are on their way to Cuba right now and I wonder if they know how close they are? 

Should I denounce those who I know are fully capable both physically and financially of helping who don’t?  I’m torn.  Yes, everyone who works hard deserves a holiday but I wouldn’t sleep at night knowing  almost within sight of the island I was basking on was hell on earth and I could do something about it…

Maybe I just suffer from too much Catholic guilt.

Diary of a Day

I try to live by the karma rule:  what you put out there comes back to you.  Or, something like that.  Anyway, I try to put good karma out there into the Universe in hopes that good karma will float back to me.  So, why am I greeted first thing in the morning with dog poo all over the floor?

Poor Boomer (see blog Boomer Cheats Dr. Death) – I know he doesn’t mean to do it.  He’s 13, recovering from major surgery, and probably doesn’t have the best muscle tone but seriously?  Really?

Napoleon leaves the house around 6 am which he somehow thinks absolves him from having to let Boomer out.  I stumble down the stairs at 7:30 and make lunches, rouse sleepy & reluctant children, feed them, feed myself and yes, I let the dog out.  I let him out bright and early and still I turn around after and there it is.  On my good rug, no less.

I have another universal question:  when throwing up or pooping, why is it children and animals go for the absolute hardest thing to clean?  Has anyone ever noticed that?  Boomer has had very few accidents over the years but he is something of a puker.  I have witnessed him actually veer off the hardwood or stone floor areas and aim for the carpets.  And, just for the record, he prefers the stair carpeting.  Don’t even get me started on the kids…

So, that’s how the day started.  Napoleon and I are on a post-holiday cleansing de-tox regime and I am literally, hungry all the time.  Of course I crave all that I’m not allowed to have.  Perhaps it’s affecting my karmic output.  I know it’s affecting all my other outputs, as it were.

Napoleon now leaves me little sticky notes in the a.m.  My own “honey do” list.  Thanks.  He’s afraid I’ll start renovating if I have nothing else on my plate…

My Grade 7 daughter called me at lunch time asking if she could go to a friend’s house after school.  When I replied yes, her reply was “Sick!” and she promptly hung up on me.  Is “sick” an expression of happiness?  Or sadness?  It’s hard to tell these days.  I sound like an old fogey.

I called a local retailer today as they had a “Help Wanted” sign in their window.  You really don’t see those types of signs too much at the moment.  Sadly, they want someone with an affinity for accounting – that is SO not me.  I have trouble with all numbers.  I was traumatized by a math teacher as a child…very sad stuff…will spare you.

So it is mid-afternoon and I sit, once again, contemplating what I should do with myself.  I could write a short story and send it off to someone.  I could finish one of the innumerable short stories sitting in my desk and on my hard drive and send it off to someone…I could forage in the cupboard for food that meets the stringent requirements of the Wild Rose Herbal De-tox regimen.  I could search Monster.ca or Kijiji for part-time jobs. 

I went for a walk, ran my errands, fed my dog…clearly as sense of purpose is missing from my life at the moment.

What I can do is relax a bit and savor the peace before the thundering hordes (aka children) return from school and demand snacks and all sorts of other things.  Sounds like a plan..Boomer is already on task, snoring away at my feet.

Lack of Focus?

 

Ok, so you know this whole blogging thing is new to me and while it’s great to have an outlet for my little stream of consciousness rants, they’re pointless unless they have a point and someone reads them.

So, what is my point?

Good question.  I ask myself that daily.  I have a busy little brain but it tends to get off-topic quickly.  I was once diagnosed with ADD and it certainly seems plausible (although I laughed at the time).  All of my primary school report cards said the same thing, roughly:  “she tends to daydream, she doesn’t seem focused on her work, she is very smart but doesn’t apply herself…”  Yawn.

Perhaps this little focusing problem explains why I have about 150 short stories, would-be novels, and other assorted projects lying patiently in folders in my desk waiting for my focus to return.  Regularly, I go back and read stuff and think, “hey, this is pretty good…” I may start it up again but I get distracted shortly thereafter.

My point is this:  I need to focus on earning a living my way and my way is writing.  In order to do that, someone has to read what I write, publish it, pay me for it, etc. 

This blog, while fun for me to write, has no purpose other than being an outlet for my gazillion thought threads.  I need a blog that is at once entertaining and perhaps educational (?) or at least it’s a place where other peeps can come and read and feel, “Oh, yeah, I’ve experienced that or I’ve done that” and they connect with it.  And me.  And my writing…

Ideas:  blog on renovation/design, blog on writing (God, how many of those must be out there already?), blog on stay-at-home-motherhood-with-ancient-senile-dog?  I think its interesting that now, as my kids are entering their teens, is the time that I have the strongest desire to stay at home.  Most mothers are chomping at the bit to get out of the house when their kids reach this age…see here I go…tangent…hmmm…I’ll have to give this some thought.

After thinking, I must research (believe it or not I am an ADD personality who is pretty good at research) ways to get people to read my blog.  And, not just Napoleon.  Christ, even he hasn’t read it.  My best friend hasn’t read it…nobody loves me! 

FOCUS!!!

Boomer Cheats Dr. Death

 

Our dog Boomer is 13 years old.  He’s had a few close calls in his day but none as close as the day the vet came to put him to sleep. 

We’d been told the sad news just after Christmas that Boomer had cancer.  There was a baseball sized tumor on his spleen; the vet thought his demise was imminent especially if the blood vessels surrounding the tumor ruptured.  We paid for test after test to see if the cancer had spread but everything came back inconclusive.  Given his age, no one thought he had much chance.

Sadly, Napoleon and I agreed that no heroics were going to save him and we simply were not in a financial position to afford both surgery and ongoing chemo the dog.  I am very firm in my belief that although pets are precious, going to fantastic lengths to save family pets is more for the humans involved than the pet.  I am not selfish.  Boomer has had an awesome life and been an incredible joy but if he had to go, I wanted him to go peacefully and with some dignity.

With heavy hearts, we agreed to have him put down after New Year’s Day.  Napoleon, tough little emperor though he may be, went through the next few days awash in tears.  So did I.  We were absolutely devastated but we didn’t want the dog to die in front of the kids from internal bleeding which the vet kept telling us was a distinct possibility. 

The Day of Reckoning for Boomer dawned chilly and snowy.  I sent the kids off to school without a word.  Napoleon came home early to be here with us when the vet came.  We took Boomer for one last walk along the snowy dog beach along his beloved Lake Ontario.  We walked and cried and reminisced while Boomer loped along the shoreline, oblivious to our breaking hearts.

We walked up the long hill to our house, our feet getting heavier with every step.  Boomer laboured up the hill but still looked positively perky…he did NOT look like a dog at the end of his days.  His tail and ears were up, there was a bounce in his step…he showed more sparkle on this day than he had in weeks. 

The few minutes we had left before the vet (now unkindly nicknamed Dr. Death)arrived passed slowly.  Napoleon decided, in view of the situation, that Boomer should eat whatever the hell he wanted.  Boomer’s tail thumped on the kitchen floor as my husband fed him:  Greek pork souvlaki, cheese, 2 dog biscuits, and assorted other goodies from the fridge.  The dog was going to leave this world with a world-class case of indigestion.

The vet knocked softly on our front door.  I’m sure this is not the favorite part of his job.  Boomer bounded to the front door to greet him.  “Wow.  He’s looking great,” said the vet.  “He has such…spirit…”  We all looked at each other and then the Great Debate began.

For half an hour, with Boomer lying at our feet, we debated his survival.  It was the most soul-wrenching, nerve-wracking conversation I’ve ever had with anyone ever.  We debated his age, the type of tumor we were most likely dealing with, every symptom, lymph nodes, toenails, you name it we covered it.  Finally, the Dr. D concluded that this dog was not ready for his maker.

As the vet left, we both got down on our knees and hugged the old guy.  A foul odor wafted up from his tail end. Napoleon looked at me and we started to laugh and cry at the same time.  “That Last Supper you gave him is going to haunt us for DAYS!” I said. 

Update:  Boomer had surgery to remove the offending tumor and his spleen.  He’s recovering nicely.  We await test results to see what type of tumor it was and what to do next.  Well done, Boomer!!!!

Too Much Time

 

I sit in my little house.  It is quiet.  The husband and children are gone.  My gaze travels around our open concept living room/dining room.  

Sigh. 

When we bought this house back in July, I’d seen it once.  I knew it was a good house even only seeing it briefly and through a throng of other prospective buyers during an open house.  It has good bones.  Small but perfectly formed.  However, even then I noticed some quirks (and some shortcomings – laundry room, I’m talkin’ to you) but I didn’t have time to make much of them.  Toronto was in the throngs of a hot seller’s market and we were going to be in a bidding war on any property we went for. 

Fast forward to October.  We moved in and realized very quickly that this house was t-i-n-y and our furniture is big.  Our last house was big.  The other thing I noticed fairly quickly is the house is dark.  We have an overhanging porch on the front (East) and our house is a semi-detached so we get no southern exposure.  The western sun is great but once it goes behind our maple, its gone.  The paint colours do nothing to lighten things up. 

Easiest solution?  Paint.  I love to paint; its like mindful meditation for me.  Colour doesn’t scare me.  But, I can’t find any of my paint brushes…and Napoleon got rid of my car…hmmm… 

 Another solution would be to knock down the weird wall between the dining room and kitchen.  Flanked on the left by a pseudo greek column (sounds worse than it is), the wall has a tiny 3 x 4 pass-thru opening that serves no function and just to the right of that is the weirdest configuration of glass block I’ve ever seen.  You have to wonder…were they drunk? 

If only I could find my sledgehammer…where the hell are my tools? 

If that wall came down, there’d be more light.  

Weird…I can’t find any of my implements of destruc…I mean renovation.  Something’s fishy here.  

Well, there’s no money in the bank anyway (not that no money’s ever stopped me before).  I could definitely make some improvements.  

Napoleon thinks the house is perfect, just the way it is.  I know better.  If we had more money, he’d be swinging his own sledgehammer right beside me… 

In our last house, we kept having incidents…let’s call them accidents.  Napoleon would come home and there’d be a tiny pile of tiles on the bathroom floor.  “I don’t know what happened…I was in the shower and they just popped off…” or he’d come home and there’d be a hole in the laundry room wall.  “Well, I guess the washing machine was out of balance and slammed into the…” Yeah, he didn’t buy it either.  It got to the point that whatever project I wanted to start, the demolition and re-construction had to all take place before Napoleon got home from work.  This worked fine when he commuted from Calgary to Chicago every week or when he traveled to Europe on business. 

Sadly, I have to face the lack of money in the bank account.  All projects have to wait.  Oh well, gives me time to find the sledgehammer…

Been Awhile…

 

Usually I’m a very consistent writer but I have to admit, this holiday season and all of its accompanying chaos, got the better of me. 

When last I wrote…well, I can’t even remember…I believe Christmas was bearing down on me like a freight train.  Yes, I’m sure that was it…with all birthdays in December except Napoleon’s and the dog’s (not counting Jesus), things get a bit frenetic around here.  We had the usual out of town guests, last minute shopping extravaganzas and a very sick dog.  More on him in a later post… 

Also, the pressure to find “acceptable work” weighed on me as Christmas came and went.  Although the house in Calgary finally sold (yay!!), the price wasn’t enough to pay off both that mortgage and the line of credit we had to get to keep us afloat after we arrived in Toronto.  Thus, there is still more money going out than coming in.  I put acceptable work in quotations because good old Napoleon has his own ideas about what I should be doing from 9-5 not realizing (or perhaps just ignoring) that what I am doing at this very moment is exactly what I should be doing.  In fact, if I could write for a living, I would do it every chance I got and not just from 9-5.  

Alas, in the meantime, I must appease both Napoleon and the ever-dwindling bank account.  Jobs I’ve considered so far include:  real estate assistant (I used to be a Realtor so I figure I can do it), veterinary receptionist (I love, love, love animals), doggy day care worker (really? Is that what they’re called?)  A sad little list of things I would lower myself to do on a daily basis.  The list of what I will not do is much longer!  

I will not put up with stuck up, snooty, self-aggrandized jerks.  I have a wealth of experience dealing with such types on my resume, thank you very much.  I won’t work for anyone who has no intellectual curiousity (that actually eliminates most Realtors as does the first sentence).  Yes, I realize I’m severely limiting myself to anything but welfare-dependent hermit as a job.  Am I being too picky?  Napoleon would just roll his eyes…perhaps it’s best that I work with and for animals as opposed to humans! 

Is there a job out there for me???

Talking To Myself In Public

Ok, so its evident that I have a blog that no one reads. 

 That’s ok.  No, it isn’t.  It’s bad.  Very bad. 

Having a blog that languishes, unread, is like being caught talking to yourself in public.  Sad.  Embarassing.  And, I know whereof I speak.  Usually, I have Boomer with me (if anyone out there read this you’d know that Boomer is my aged Lab/Chow mix) so when I have these conversations, I can at least pretend I’m talking to him.  Still sad but not as sad.

I’ve put the word out there that I have a blog – I’ve told friends and family.  Well, ok, not all of them.  And, yes I know everyone is very busy.  I haven’t told Napoleon himself (again, if you were keeping up, you’d know who that is) as he would not approve. 

Napoleon wants me to get a real job; a paying job.  Perhaps he’d like me to have a writing job but frankly, he could care less what I do as long as it brings in some dough.  Yes, I know there are people who earn money blogging but the question I have is: who are these people, how did they get started, who do they work for and is there any work for me? 

That was more than one question, I realize.

I can write.  I can write in any style, any format, in any voice.  I can be stern and strident.  I can be cold and clinical.  I can be easy and breezy.  I can be just me.  I know what I’m doing but I just haven’t found anyone to believe in me.  I haven’t found anyone to read me.

What oh what shall I do?

I have prowled Helium, Suite 101; I check out Deb Ng’s site almost daily.  The problem?  I have no material, no clips, no substantiated proof (published proof) that I know what I’m doing.  Maybe I don’t know what I’m doing.  Maybe being able to string a sentence together isn’t enough.

This feels very familiar to my household:  I talk, no one listens.  I can follow behind the children and Napoleon and be completely ignored.  I’m sure all they hear is “Wah, wah, wah…” like the teacher in the Peanuts comic strips…

Can anyone out there hear me??????

Oh hi, Boomer.  There’s a good boy…

Sigh.

I’d like to know the following:

1. what am I doing wrong?

2. how can I fix it?

3. how do I get my writing out there so people can see it?

4. what does it take to get read?  And, is getting read enough?

5. how can I get paid to blog without being an “expert” at something? 

Why am I writing this list if no one is going to read it?

Arrgggghhhh.

On Aging

I remember watching my mother, at the time probably in her mid-50’s, slathering Countess Marcella Borghese Crema di Notte (sp?) on her face.  The huge jar of sweetly scented cream always sat on my mother’s nightstand (right next to the pack of Virginia Slims).  I always remember my mother having wrinkles on her face.  She had a baby when she was 45 years old – enough to cause wrinkles in anyone.  Her beautiful hair stayed flaxen blonde up until the day she died. My father, on the other hand, had a head of snow white hair by the time he was 40. 

Guess whose hair I inherited?

At age 48, my hair is almost completely silver. I know it sounds weird but I just noticed this the other day.  I lay on my bed Saturday afternoon holding a mirror, mesmerized by the shimmering strands of silver.  I have to say it here, they were beautiful.  I scrunched my hair up on top of my head and played with my bangs making sure the silvery bits hit my face.  Wow.  Still beautiful…the silver against the few remaining strands of dark blonde really brought out the blue in my eyes.  When did this happen?  I knew I had bits of gray and my temples were almost completely white but the rest of it?  Shit happens when you don’t pay attention…

Waiting for me on the bathroom sink was a box of Miss Clairol #106 (some shade of ash blonde).  I knew what would happen if I let my hair “go.”  I would fall in stature from barely cool wife and mother in her 40’s to a haggard and wizened crone of indeterminate age, clearly falling apart.  I would henceforth be known as “woman who has let herself go.”

I see pictures of women in magazines, my age and older, who look ten years younger than I do.  Oh, I know they’re in a magazine so they are probably air-brushed to the hilt but still…they look beyond fabulous.  I look beyond haggard most days.  Maybe I should wear makeup but it’s a bother.  I have what the wrinkle cream ads term “deep wrinkles.”  I have freckles and spots.  And that’s just my face.  Don’t get me started on the rest of my worn and decrepit body.

But, just so you get the full picture, my body is not in great shape either.  I am not a disciple of exercise like I’m told I should be.  My husband laughs every time I lecture the kids on being fit.  “Do as I say not as I do,” he chuckles.  I’m sorry – looked in the mirror lately, Napoleon?  I see no six pack, sweetie.  So, I’m all jiggly on the bottom, wrinkly on the top, and capped with white like a human Kilimanjaro.  I think I’m beyond what air-brushing could do.

I stare at the box of hair dye.  Why don’t I have the courage to “age gracefully”? Or, is there still any such thing?  In today’s youth obsessed world, aging has become unacceptable.  We should all look like we did when we were 30 even though we’re pushing 60.  I’m only 48 but 50 is the new 30 so I’m what, 28? Ha!  Now, that’s funny.

According to the Mad Men of the 21^st century, I should have no wrinkles, no grey hair, a perpetual twinkle in my eye and bounce in my step, my breasts should be round and perky (even after breast-feeding two children), my legs should be always hairless, let’s see…what else…oh and I should always, always be in the mood for sex and I should have an ass you could bounce a quarter off of.  I’m sure I missed a requirement in there somewhere…as I said before, if we choose to ignore the advertisements and let nature take its course (while still maintaining our overall health and fitness),we’ve obviously given up and let ourselves go.

Really? 

In today’s world, to age gracefully is to aggressively deny the march of time with a battalion of age-defying products containing ingredients that no one but a chemist could pronounce.  Just as a sampling, I found the following products (some listing their miracle ingredients) in a home decorating magazine that I picked up:  Lancome Absolue Precious Cells claims to be an “advanced regenerating and reconstructing cream.”  Allegedly through the use of stem cells (?), this cream can recover the visible signs of younger skin in 7 days (for those of us in a hurry).  Elizabeth Arden, a few pages later, gets right to the point:  “Prepare yourself for the beauty battlefield.”  Wow.  We’ve gone to war.  In the November 2009 issue of Health magazine, I found Andie MacDowell declaring for L’Oreal, “Fighting deep eye wrinkles is a 24-hour job.”  On page 92, I found an article entitled, “The Ultimate Stay-Young Secrets.”  And, on p.142, I found four products that are supposed to give me great skin while I sleep.  One is called Lumene ExCELLent Future Deep Repairing Cream. Say what?  The names don’t make sense, the ingredients are chemical soup and their effectiveness and benefit debatable.  Why?

Is it wise to throw all of this money and all of these chemicals at Mother Nature?

The war, should you choose to wage it, is e-x-p-e-n-s-i-v-e.  Even old standby Olay products are at least $25-$35 for a tiny bottle of magical potion. 

Don’t get me wrong, I am susceptible.  I bought some “night cream” the other day in a moment of premenstrual (or was it perimenopausal?) weakness.  I wanted to buy something natural so I went for Burt’s Bees “Naturally Ageless with Pomegranate & White Birch Bark Skin Firming Night Cream.”  For the privilege of smearing pomegranate extract and birch bark juice all over my face at night (to its credit, it makes my skin feel lovely if a little greasy), I paid $32Cdn for a 2 oz jar.  Ouch.

Women today, especially those in their 40’s and 50’s are being told day in and day out that they should be capable of looking 20 years younger than they are and if they don’t, they’re doing something horribly wrong.   Wouldn’t a healthy diet and good fitness be enough?  No, huge companies like Lancome and L’Oreal and Clarins are making BILLIONS of dollars on the insecurities of otherwise rational and intelligent women. 

So here I sit, freshly Ash Blonde.  Do I feel better?  No, I feel horrible and hypocritical but I have to admit that Napoleon’s opinion matters.  He literally shuddered when I told him I wanted to let my hair go natural.  If he is shallow then I am weak-willed.  I’m just not ready to be the crone.  Maybe in 6-8 weeks when the colour wears off…

Words on Working

A wise man (his own perception not necessarily shared by me) believes that if you do not slog to an office every day, you are not working.  He tells me, “You need to get a real job.”   Ok, I agree that a job that pays would be a definite improvement but who is he to say that if I’m sitting at my computer, writing furiously albeit in my PJs, I’m not working?

Again, writing for no pay is not necessarily working although I’ll bet every author out there who is working on a book or a collection of short stories would argue with me.  Let’s face it, I say to the wise man, the modern day perception of what is working and what is not has changed.  Until very recently, I had no idea that one could blog for money.  Who knew?  Ok, seemingly a lot of people but that’s beside the point.  My buddy the wise dude probably has a very murky idea of what a blog even is and I’ve been too indignant to enlighten him.

But, I digress…as usual.  Telecommuting has been happening for a rather long time.  I know a guy in Calgary who has been telecommuting for as long as I’ve known him.  There are many days when dropping my kid off for a play date, I would be greeted at the door by this intrepid telecommuter decked out in some really sad PJs.  He’s an IT professional and not some “flaky” writer. 

Ok, so you’ve probably clued in by now that the wise man I refer to tongue in cheek is none other than my husband, Napoleon Bonaparte.  He is a traditionalist through and through although he LOVES wearing jeans to work everyday.  Even business casual is too fussy for him nowadays.  So, I ask him, gritting my teeth, what is so wrong with writing all day in whatever mis-matched pajamas and fuzzy slippers I can find?  It is not the task that is the problem per se but the perceived lack of value in the doing it.  Man, that sentence sucked but oh well…

We, Napoleon and I, had a discussion about “acceptable” work just this past weekend.  My conclusion is that if I’m stressed out to the max and utterly miserable yet bringing in a substantial amount of cash monthly then I am working at an “acceptable” job. 

 Take my brief tenure as a Realtor for example:  I was sleepless with worry, obsessing over every transaction, irritable, and having chest pains throughout this time.  When deals didn’t go through, I was inconsolable.  That job was completely at odds with my personality; I am not a salesperson!  Napoleon turned to me and said, “Yeah, but you made $30,000 in three months!”

Yay!  I would’ve had a beautiful funeral too as I’d have only lasted another three months before the old ticker gave out.    Napoleon, it would seem, is a member of the “no pain, no gain” club. 

Even a “good job” at my beloved United Way turned out to be at odds with my inner voice.  My inner voice says:  Save the World, give to charity!  Do the right thing!  Help those around you in need!  It’s a no-brainer to give back; just don’t ask me to ass-kiss snooty rich people.  Which is exactly what I was called upon to do in my last position there.  Neither a salesperson nor an ass-kisser am I. 

Napoleon shakes his head.  I’ve given up telling him I want to be a writer.  It would never be considered an “acceptable job” unless it paid.  And, paid well.  We all know how rarely that happens.  But, I’m a Sagittarius.  I never give up and I never stop believing.  So I got dressed today (jeans, sweatshirt, fuzzy socks).  No pajamas.  I’ll save that outfit for when I start making some money! 

Please, Writing Gods, deliver me unto a paying writing gig!