I write stuff down. writer • humorist • activist
Last year my goal was to make $20,000 as a part-time, freelance copywriter. I made less than five. Disappointed but not broken, this year I vowed to wow the industry and return triumphant after the childrearing hiatus I survived. Nearly four months in, and I’ve billed $145.00. One hundred, forty-five. That’s billed, not received. Hmmmmm, apparently my return-to-work, I-am-woman-hear-me-roar work ethic has hit the economic tsunami, and while I pound
Yesterday, I was a lady who lunched. Three of us went; they had salad, I bit my tongue off, and the inside of my cheeks and my nails. We’re the only two friends this woman has anymore, and here’s why. Our lunchtime, um, discussion: Couldn’t vote for Obama because of his terrorist background. Our government is running a ponzi scheme just like Madoff. Reverend Al is a racist and hates white
In my town, if you start to look good, really good, it is assumed, rather accurately, you’re having an affair. Men or women, this is universal suburban slander for anyone over, oh, say 40. Forty is such an easy target. Too thin, too fit, good hair, nice clothes, shoes. Real shoes, instead of crocs, Uggs, or sneaks. Bingo. Marriage over, someone’s stepping out and so begins the gossip race to
With layoffs looming with every LinkedIn and Facebook request, I’m not sure whether I just know more people, or if I’m at “that age” where my demographic is the one quickly targeted for immediate, efficient cost-savings. Fired. Outsourced. Bought out. Early retirement. Downsized. Packages? Laid Off. Resourced. Eliminated. It’s easy to cut the old guys; we often make more money, don’t understand reality tv or Twitter, require more health benefits,
What a beautiful thing, to be glued to the tv, not in terror and tears, but in awe and aspiration. It’s a new day, and the list is long, but we have a new president and a new attitude and a new direction. There’s an energy in the air that’s almost palpable. Can you feel it? Get to work. Please. The for-sale signs line our neighborhood, friends are being re-deployed
I’ve been beating my brain to remember the names of colleagues and friends I worked so closely with nearly a decade ago. How I can remember where we kept the secret stash of copier toner to this day, but not my VP of marketing? Weird, that selective memory. We knew each other so well back then, how could I possibly forget? Day in and day out . . . nights too, and
New Year’s Resolution 2009: don’t be a Nana. I don’t want to be the woman who can’t work a tape deck. Or use an ATM. Or a VCR. Or drive a stick. Perhaps I was a bit behind the times waiting until the 90s to get a microwave, but that’s all changing. Today. The technological revolution has left me a bumbling grandma and I’m not 50 . . . yet. But I
An irreverent storyteller with a foul mouth and big heart, Kathryn Mayer (aka Kathy and/or Kate) is a writer, humorist, and (former) activist writing out loud with humor and grace about little life moments with big ripples, including the space between parenting and aging parents, social issues, angsty reflections of midlife, and, sigh, gun humpers. Still. Sometimes a big deal, sometimes not Mayer is a national award-winning columnist, according to the National Society of Newspaper Columnists, and her essays have been recognized as Voice of … Read More Here...
kate[at]kathrynmayer[dot]com
xo Kate