I’m having a pity party and you’re invited to watch. Yeah, yeah, intellectually I know no one can find a job. And theoretically I know I wouldn’t hire me if I had my choice of applicants. But emotionally, I’m a wreck. I no longer dream of forgetting to attend Physics and being denied my diploma at the podium on graduation day . . . naked. I know longer dream of
Doom & Gloom
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
Gettin’ Some
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