Might As Well Be Totally Honest

You know what - I don't think freelance is the thing for me. It's hard to plan ahead for slow months when almost 6 without any income. I started at a disadvantage, and this has turned into a quagmire. 

I thought maybe this would be some sort of insightful post about how it's still all worth it, but I don't feel like it is. If you asked me today if I felt like quitting my job was worth it, I'd say no. Today, I'd tell you that being that kind of miserable is better then this kind o miserable. 

I get a lot of "Yeah, we know - it's tough," and "Sometimes things get tight" from people. Like a lot of other details about freelance, I've come to find out that those are glossy overviews of just how tough and tight it can be. No one ever seems to just tell it like it is, and only in really private, shameful conversations do people really let on. 

Fuck that.

I've consistently complained about the complete lack of reality given when trying to find out about freelance. So here it is:

I can't pay my rent this coming month. Not in hyper-dramatic "I'll have to move money from my savings" kind of ways. No, I mean I don't have it now, and there's no way I'll make it. It's not just rent. It's like "how many meals can I skip, so my daughter doesn't" kind of ways. I'm ashamed to tell you the last time I ate, but I'm proud to say she hasn't missed anything. 

Saying it's tough or tight doesn't really imply eviction of hunger. Maybe people want to save face. Try not to let people know just how desperate things can get in this situation. But that's just an extra layer of terrible. I tell so many people that things are fine when they are everything but. 

I say the same, dumb glossy bullshit that irritates me. I lie to people's faces when they ask me how it's going. I'm not going to do that anymore. If beyond this there is Freelance Utopia where everything made of exploding glitter bunnies - great. For now, I'm not in a position to find out. 

Oh, Well Okay

Today some old woman scoffed at me at the grocery store for having tattoos. A brow-furrowing, judgmental head shaking kind of scoff. The kind of scoff I give to old, wrinkly ladies at the grocery store because I know they're about to be the biggest pain in the ass to check out. 

She's all "that girl is a hooligan" and I'm all "this battle ax is going to try to pay in Confederate dollars and then write a check." 

And one of us was right.

I'll admit, I may have been dressed like the suburban love child of a gothic beatnik and Chola stripper. I'll also admit I was buying an excessive amount of alcohol. Don't judge me; it's Mother's Day, and I chose to celebrate like Joan Collins. 

Plus, my kid isn't with me because I have an early doctor appointment tomorrow. Let's just say it was enough alcohol to question whether or not I'll make that appointment on time. 

Maybe I'm making up for all those years we couldn't buy alcohol on Sundays. Regardless...

So I have a cry for help cocktail fixin's, and some chicken because protein, and this woman is in front of me with some Lactaid, cat littler and Fancy Feast because Mr. Whiskerfrisk obviously can't have real mik.

I immediately regret getting in line after this woman, but the store was unreasonably packed with people who forgot they had mothers until almost sundown. I almost switched lines, but was blocked by a guy who looked like he was reminded by his wife that she existed by threatening to drown their kids in the bathtub if he didn't come home with an impressive (and excessive) assortment of flowers. Since I would need my inhaler and some gardening sheers to get by him, I was forced to stay where I was. 

Which means I got to witness Mrs. Grouchfire try to pay in change. Not dollar coins, mind you. No, in her childhood bff, Abe Lincoln's, penny.

Maybe that wouldn't have been so bad if her total was something like $0.10, but it was $26.59, so by the time we got to "...and 34...35..." I had basically had e-motherfucking-nough.

LOUDEST SIGH EVER!

Only it wasn't from me. 

It was from the cashier, channeling me and the rest of humanity. But the old woman automatically assumed it came from me, and thus, shot me a dirty look. 

And then she lost her place in her count.

"Oh tarnations! I lost my numerals...let's see...30...31...32..."

"Seriously lady?" say the nearly-divorced guy behind me.

But old lady apparently thinks that I look like the type to sound like an exasperated bachelor-to-be. 

"I don't need you rushing me. People like you have no respect for anyone or anything. Even your own bodies."

I'm thinking that's a weird thing to say to that guy. He looks kinda fit. Maybe his cholestrol is bad, but that's not like visible or...WAIT?! SHE'S TALKING TO ME!!

Despite being badass enough to loudly lambast that lady for paying in change, the man isn't badass enough to own up to it. Thanks for assuming the girl with the tattoos will get into it with the lady, sir. No wonder you need all those flowers. Enjoy your semi-aquatic children.

"I didn't say anything."

"Yes. That is what I thought."

Sometimes people are surprised to hear that I don't like conflict. I'm really nice. And impossibly patient. After all, I have an 8 year old. I'm well practiced in waiting for goddamn-ever on someone. So, while yes, I did wish that lady would pay in real money and hurry the hell up, I was far from losing with her. Still, there was no way I was about to let her think 1) I said that shit, and 2) that she needed to chide me. 

"No, that's not what you thought. You thought I sighed really heavily when you started counting out the contents of your change purse. You thought I mumbled something rude under my breath. Only you thought wrong. Whether it's because you're old, hard of hearing, or just the type to make snap judgments doesn't really matter because it was all incorrect."

Here's where I get all Julia Sugarbaker...

"So even though I think it's massively unfair to sit here and wait for you to count out what may be 2,600 pennies, I probably would've done it without saying anything. That's because I'm a nice person. Maybe all you have are pennies to pay with. And if you're life is so hard that you only have pennies, I'd hate to think I made it worse by acting like a jerk. So you go ahead. I'll wait. The guy behind me won't; the cashier might not, but I will."

And then the lady pulled her checkbook and bought both our groceries. Swear to God. 

The People's Republic of Freelancing

For years I've heard that freelancing, working for yourself, being a consultant, blabbity blah blah is the best move you'll ever make. And now that I've finally done it myself, I've decided that everyone who ever touted freelancing as being the shit is an asshole monkey-faced liar. 

While - on the surface - freelancing sounds amazing, it actually isnt'. Similarly - on the surface - Communism sounded amazing, but it isn't. Everyone working selflessly toward the greater good. Sharing, collaborating, etc. I mean, what could be better than that?

Well...money. Money could be better than that. And then science, logic and Warren Buffet proved money is better than that!

I'm beginning to feel like being a successful freelancer is either a pipe dream or a Utopian fallacy. It just doesn't exist, and what's really going on is that you're crawling through the driest of all deserts, chasing an oasis. And, just when you're ready to cannonball into that pool of freelance awesomeness, you find that you're really about to paper cut your face on a NSF notice from your bank about your rent check. 

I've gone back and forth about whether or not I could hack it in the world of contract work. Like I said - it sounds amazing, but it's also a lot like trying to DIY your own rocket ship to Mars. I don't have a motherfucking clue what I'm doing, and once (if) I get there, I'll probably die because I STILL DON'T KNOW WHAT THE MOTHERFUCK I'M DOING!

"I just love working for myself!"

Oh really? Because I hate working for myself. She's a bitch and payroll is a little sketchy. In fact, myself insisted I work overtime, asked me to run a bunch of personal errands, and then told me to work through my lunches. Which is ok, I guess, since myself isn't paying me enough to each lunches. 

Wanna know what I had for lunch today? Lime-flavored tortilla chips. They were leftovers because I had that shit for dinner last night, too. 

And tomorrow, I'm going to have tortilla-flavored tortilla chips or unsalted pretzels because I had to decide between seasonings and toilet paper! 

It's January all over again, folks. 

My Brainstem

Today I was thinking - can you imagine how hard it is to be my mom? I mean, it’s hard enough already just to be a mom, let alone be my mom. That poor woman has had to deal with my nonsense for years. All while putting on a brave face of unconditional love, even though I’m sure there were points where she thought, “Fuck...this is what you’re doing, now?”

Although, I’m fairly sure my mom would never say the word “fuck.” She rarely curses at all, but when she does, the choice word comes out all small and wispy, like a bunny sneezing. 

I spend a large part of my life overly concerned with the safety of my brainstem. I was fairly young when I first developed an awareness of my brainstem’s location and its importance to the overall function of my entire fucking body. Probably from one of those educational science shows on TV. Anyway, I immediately came to the conclusion that God had done a really poor job with its placement, leaving humankind entirely vulnerable to injuries of the brainstem. 

IT’S HOW MY BRAIN TALKS TO MY BODY!!!

Why in the actual fuck wasn’t it covered by some armadillo-type plating? The meeting point of base of my skull and the top of my spine seemed so massively inefficient. 

My mom tried pointing out that this was actually my neck, and not the location of my brainstem, but it didn’t matter. Four year old me was fanatically worried about the brainstem, wherever it was. 

Sometimes she would tickle me by grabbing the back of my neck. Except I wouldn’t laugh like a normal child. No, I would shriek and accuse her of trying to pinch my brainstem. It was traumatic for both of us, and looking back I imagine these were probably the times my mom would curse to herself like a bunny sneezing. Eventually she just stopped trying to tickle my neck entirely.

Years later, well into my 20’s, and long after my hyper-vigilance about my brainstem appeared to have died down, my mom squeezed the back of my neck while I was seated at the kitchen table. My response was the same - shrieking and accusatory. Despite my mom never having tried to extract my insides through some sort of alien pincers hidden in her fingertips, I responded as if it had always been a risk. 

“My brainstem!”

“Your what? Oh, Jessica Leigh, I mean really. I have never once tried to pinch your brainstem. That’s not even where it is. When will you grow out of that?”

“Apparently never. At least not as long as you’re willy-nilly tickling might damage it. You’ve lulled me into complacency over the years, woman but I can see you are still a threat to it. I’m surprised I’ve made it this long without being paralyzed by you.”

And then my mom would look at me, blink slowly, sigh and walk away. 

Rainbows and Sunshine (are not in this post)

"I'm going to write this amazing and inspiring talk about not being afraid to follow your dreams even if you don't have any. I know that doesn't make sense, but the point is to not be afraid."

"You know, if I wanted to hear an inspiring talk, I wouldn't look for you to give it."

Unfortunately, that's probably the most accurate assessment of me and inspiration ever. For a brief moment, I thought about doubling down and proving my tactless, but spot on friend wrong, but - he's right. I'm not MLK. 

Or - if we are really trying to make an association between he and I, it would be that I am more like Martin Luther King Avenue than the man himself. 

It's not that there isn't inspiration to be gleaned from what I say, but it's not going to come out in some sort of profound monologue, from which you can pluck quotes for motivational posters. 

As an aside - ever wonder where those quotes come from? Personally, I find those posters annoying, so I hope it's a dreary factory full of lackluster ex cons. And that they stamp out motivational posters like license plates on big industrial presses. 

Because really, if you're getting your motivation from a fucking poster...well, you're doing something wrong. Not that I know where motivation comes from. I hope it's more like Skittles commercials. Or as a remake of Awakenings, but as a musical. Just not from posters.

Yes, that aside went very, very far aside.

Motivation isn't from posters and it isn't from me either. It comes from within? That would be shown as an ornate box cracking open with light spilling out of it. Like Pandora's Box only you should assume the light is motivation, not sin. Or evil. Or whatever the hell was in Pandora's Box. Matchbooks probably.

I really hate those posters. 

And I was about to make a really valiant attempt to bring this all back to my original point, but I don't want to. Let's leave it here.