Busy

Now that the children of the corn have left the coffee shop, my headache seems to have left with them. Or maybe it’s the ultra-grassy green tea I’m drinking? Either way, things have been busy. For those who don’t know, I no longer have a steady, 7-4 cubicle or barista-type job. I am a fulltime freelance writer and editor, working (for the most part) from home. Two common misconceptions I have encountered regarding this:

“Wow! You’re living the dream now!” Hmmm, as with most things, that phrase and its application relies on relativism. What do you consider ‘the dream’? If you’re living in India, perhaps, working as a slave writing 4,000-word articles for $2 US Dollars apiece and dreaming of staying at home and writing significantly shorter articles for significantly more while enjoying a glass of wine or a cup of Starbucks, surrounded by bull dogs, then yes, I am living the dream. If your definition, however, is sleeping in everyday, working a few hours, going for hikes, going out every night, and traveling the globe because you’re now a “writer,” no … not so much. I work longer and harder now than I ever have before; and this is coupled with the stress of usually having to find and negotiate for your work (and thus your paycheck). You can’t just show up and merely exist in a cubicle. 

“Are you now enjoying all the free time you have?”/”What are you doing with all of your time off of work?” Again – I’m not “off work” nor excessively loaded with free time. I am working. Believe me, if I was independently wealthy (writer does not equal independently wealthy) and had loads of free time, I sure as hell wouldn’t be bumming around Phoenix when I didn’t have to be. And I do frequent coffee houses, sometimes bars, sometimes random libraries, but I do this because I need to get out of the house. All of these places have free wireless internet. Due to the nature of my job, I need free wireless internet. I have it at my house, but I have learned that I have to exit the house on occassion, otherwise I begin personifying the dogs and I have mental wars with them. 

Nothing would make me happier than to write a book or a screenplay and get paid large amounts of cash for it. In fact, I have already done that – but due to the economical situation at hand, Big Publisher in New York is holding off at the moment. Lucky me. So hopefully my manuscript is being held down with a really really nice paperweight at their office in the Empire State Building. 

So for the meantime, for the numerous people who have said that they are “jealous” of my current lifestyle, or those obsessed with the idea that I’m a bad friend because I’m not always at their house – this is why. I’m at work. But all perceived complaining aside – I do love what I do, and I actually wake up everyday excited to begin working. I am done with the corporate scene – if I take another regular job – it will be doing what I love to do. And even that will have to be a pretty sweet offer; you would have no idea how fucking sweet it is to work when I want to and have all of this free time on my hands that I’m not spending in the car. And I love not having a job.

Toilet Manners

The one downside to freelance writing full time: you can’t always control your environment. I’m over working at a downtown Mesa coffee shop because the wifi at my house is on the fritz; no big deal. I’m sitting in a quiet nook when a family with about seven kids, all under ten years of age (not kidding), came in the coffee house. Not a big deal. Except you could have sworn this was their first public outing ever, that they were high on sugar, and the little house-converted-into-coffeehouse establishment was, indeed, Disneyland. 

My headache probably didn’t help matters, but I was grinding my teeth a bit at the tykes jumping up and down, and even remained calm when one fell on my laptop cord (which was next to the wall) and almost yanked my laptop off the table. 

Following this, two of the children had to use the restroom, which is in the same little nook (read: non air-circulating nook) that I am in. When they left, there was an unearthly … odor … emitting from the restroom. I get up to close the door. I notice they didn’t flush. I ask the mother, who is publically wearing a Winnie the Pooh nightgown, if she can have her children flush the toilet. I am not mean in this, but firm. The mother looks at me with a smile and says, I kid you not: 

“Oh, we teach our children not to touch the handles in the public restrooms, they contain germs.” 

Me: “They could use their foot.” 

Her: “But then the germs are on the shoe and they track the potty germs into the house. No one likes potty germs in the house.” 

Me: “No one likes smelling your children’s pooh [editor's note, I did really say 'pooh'] emitting from the restroom.” 

Her: “It’s just part of the nasty germs of a public potty!”

At this point I walked away, flushed the toilet, closed the door, and sat down. I have no hope left for the world.