The Joys of Being Self-Employed

By Dvortygirl (Own work)
[CC-BY-SA-3.0
(www.creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0)
or GFDL (www.gnu.org/copyleft/fdl.html)],
via Wikimedia Commons

Last winter my friend, an artiste extraordinaire, vowed: "The monsters said, 'You will make a bad picture.' And so every day I will make a picture until I prove them wrong." (Or something like that. Facebook's satanic timeline profile won't let me find her exact quote.) My monsters say that I cannot write, and so regardless of the outcome, write I shall. In that spirit, here is today's post.

This morning, I reveled in my self-employed status by:

• sleeping until 9 a.m.,
• grabbing the peanut butter and banana toast that my stepdaughter insisted upon having yesterday and then dismissed as gross after one bite and that I refused to throw away out of the fridge,
• taking aforementioned toast back to bed to enjoy,
• unknowingly knocking onto my pillow a banana slice that would later freak me out as I put my hand down on it thinking soon-to-be-mentioned dog had puked up something disgusting,
• spoiling my dog by letting her snuggle with me in the bed,
• indulging an unhealthy Facebook addiction,
• and then deciding to write a new blog post,

all in the comfort of my husband's "borrowed" sweatshirt and undies (my own). Which was awesome until I publicly admitted it.

I am a writer and soon-to-be starving artist, and I truly believe that I can and will be able to make my way in this world outside the confines of conventional 9-to-5 jail. (Again, I feel lame admitting it because it sounds cliche, so go away judgey monsters and nay-sayers.)

But I'm not about to tell my in-laws this. This leads to the following obligatory, broken-record, bi-monthly, fakey-fakey, sicky-sweet conversation with Tristan's aunt Vanessa:

Vanessa: "So, Jen, how is the job search going?"

Me: (internal monologue: I've applied to be an astrophysicist with NASA, a cat-hair weaver at the flea market, and a secretary at approximately 50 million bureaucracies. And I'm hoping your god will gouge my eyes out with a spoon rather than damn me to one of those positions.) "Slowly. But I've applied for several government jobs, so we'll see."

Vanessa: "Oh...well...that's good. Having been a park ranger you probably have a foot in the door already."

Me: (Actually, not at all. Being a seasonal park ranger has no bearing whatsoever on city and state government jobs, since the National Park Service is administered by the federal government.) "I hope so." <fake sweet smile>

Vanessa: (internal monologue: I'll pray for you.) <awkward silence>

Me: (Please don't.)

In the desperate hope of NEVER having to have this conversation again, I have begun compiling random, blatantly false responses to this question. If you too share my despair (or just need a good laugh), see below:

• "I'm starting a cult. Services are every Tuesday at midnight if you'd like to join us."

• "I have a penguin in my pocket."

• "I'm moving to California for six months to take up Julia Butterfly's tree-sitting legacy." (Actually, I'd rather join Steve Sillett's redwood research team - I'm so jealous!)

• "I'm doing a stint as an oboe soloist at Jo-Jo's bar downtown Wednesdays at 3 p.m. Right now it's a comedy routine, and the crowds are really tough because they haven't gotten liquored up enough yet to appreciate the humor. But at least they're not drunk enough to throw beer bottles at me that early in the day. Someday I hope to abandon the stand-up scene and be taken seriously as a musician." (I would love to play the oboe again. I did the summer before ninth grade, but had only mastered "Frere Jacque" before abandoning it because the only other girl in marching band who played the oboe kinda scared me.)

• "I've just been hired as the executive director of Louisville's new gay pride non-profit Rowdy Rainbows, and I would love it if you could help make banners for our parade in May." (Actually, this would be awesome if it were true. Alas, it is not. But it does remind me that I need to put my "Pride Family" stickers on my car. This response also only works on my uber-conservative, fundamentalist Christian in-laws, and it might start a jihad. And, yes, I know jihads are for Muslims, Christians go on crusades - it's called irony.)

• Courtesy of Bridesmaids Brynn (because everything's funnier with a British accent): "I'm on a tourist visa. So technically I'm only allowed to tour. I have no way of earning money. Unless I just go and prostitute down on the street. Hello, fellas. Here I am. Put your American sausage in my English McMuffin." 

• And a la Say Anything's Lloyd Dobler: "I don't want to sell anything, buy anything, or process anything as a career. I don't want to sell anything bought or processed, or buy anything sold or processed, or process anything sold, bought, or processed, or repair anything sold, bought, or processed. You know, as a career, I don't want to do that. My father is in the Army, but I can't really work for that corporation. So what I've been doing lately is kickboxing."

• "It's a sensitive subject, and I'd rather not talk about it." (Actually this one is blatantly true. Novel concept, honesty...)

Sigh. Honesty. It's hard being an adult. I should simply say, "Actually, I'm writing," and then stand with my head held high as the inquirers and monsters roll their eyes.

So maybe what I'm really doing with my life is learning to be an adult who values her own belief in self and art over the conventional wisdom of those who lead more practical lives. 

But I probably should put on some pants.