A Day Off

Today is the first actual day off I've had in a long time. When I'm not working full time at the make up counter I'm usually at the home furnishing store or doing a restaurant review. But not today. Today there was no where I have to be. No appointments, nothing. And so far it's been wonderful.
I slept in (relatively) this morning, took the dog for a long walk, went to the grocery store to big up some goodies for supper and then went for another walk with the dog and hubbie to get some soft serve ice cream at a nearby cafe. My flavour of choice? Pina colada. And yes, it was delicious. Now I'm just going to put my feet up for a little while, do a little leisurely work on writing and then prepare my (hopefully) amazing supper. What a fantastic day off. Not to mention Maddie (the dog) is happily passed out on the floor from all of the walking fun. Now if I only had a pool to go for a refreshing swim in (it's crazy hot and we have no air conditioning) then everything would be perfect.

I Like Being Funny

Sometimes, when I hear especially intelligent writers pontificate on their craft I feel a little bad about myself. I'm not that smart and I'm not that serious. I prefer comedy. I don't like reading Oprah's Book Club style novels. They stress me out and I often find them depressing. I prefer to use my leisure time for light-hearted and clever writing, something that entertains and makes me laugh. That's also what I prefer to write. I can't help it, I just can't take it all so seriously. I like being ridiculous and sarcastic. Comedy gives a freedom that serious writing just doesn't. When I give myself the freedom to be ridiculous and off the wall, my writing comes easier, flows better and is a lot less predictable. I'm more creative when I'm funny.
And so, I may never win a noble prize for literature, or a pulitzer prize, but I don't mind. If I can make people smile, and a few of them even laugh out loud, then I can hold my head high. I'm happy in the role of the playful jester. After all, some of the smartest and most universal things I've ever heard have been in jokes. And that ain't bad.

Why Do I Write? Because It Isn't There

Sometimes when having three jobs starts to get to me, when I'm feeling tired and frustrated and I can't seem to find the time to write, I forget why it is I do write. And the answer to that is because it isn't there. I write because I have experiences, opinions or small witticisms I want to share. I write because I love expressing myself and I love entertaining others. I write because it's fun, because it allows me to unleash my creative juices and go hog wild with boundless imagination. I write because I have to, because nothing else makes sense.
It's funny how simple it is when I actually sit down and write it down. There it is in black and white. This is why I write. And suddenly, it's a lot easier to shuffle my schedule, to pull out my laptop even though I'm tired and grouchy and all I want to do is turn my brain off with some good TV. Suddenly, the sacrifices of today are worthwhile, because who knows? Down the road writing might be my only job. But only if I make it a priority today.
"Why do writers write? Because it isn't there." Thomas Berger. Why do I write? Because there's a voice that's missing, and it's mine.

Time to Quit?

Today I went to my job at the home furnishings store. I've cut my hours back to only one day a week now that I work full time at a make up counter, and honestly the only reason I haven't quit is because I enjoy the safety net. I like knowing that if I quit one job I still have another job waiting in the wings, but today really made me think about quitting.
When I arrived at work, my boss was there (which she usually isn't) and I went out of my way to say hi and exchange pleasantries. Did she return the favour? No. She immediately demanded to know why I wasn't at the staff meeting last night. Why wasn't I at the staff meeting? Because it wasn't on a Monday. DUH. I only work here on Mondays. You know this. I've explicitly told you and put through paperwork to make it abundantly clear that I'm only available on Mondays. When I told her I was at one of my other two jobs, she didn't let it go. She wanted to know when I was finished. When I told her six, she told me the staff meeting had started at 7:00. Uh huh, but here's the thing: I only work on Mondays! I don't care what time I was done yesterday, I wasn't coming to work after.
Thoroughly disgusted with her lack of tact and common sense, I started my shift in a nasty mood. Which got me to thinking, why am I still here? Aside from the coworkers that I adore, why do I bother to hang onto this job? Yeah, the extra money is good, but it only amounts to an extra forty dollars a week. That's not really worth how irritated and bored I am with it, or the fact that I'm working six days a week (aside from my restaurant reviews) to keep it. Maybe its time to let if fall by the wayside and move on. Maybe its time to quit.

Tonight I'm Down

Sometimes life just gets you down. I was phoning restaurants today, trying to set up a review for this coming week, and one particular restaurant manager was especially rude. He snarled at me that I shouldn't phone on a weekend because people are busy having fun and don't want to be bothered. After I hung up I couldn't help it. I cried. He was a complete dick and obviously his restaurant will get no kind words from me, but it still shouldn't have caused me to break into tears upon hanging up the phone. I just couldn't help but feel completely frustrated. Here I was, doing his restaurant a favour, and he couldn't even do me the courtesy of being polite. And I still don't have anything booked for this week. Sigh.
I'll keep trying tomorrow, and hopefully get something booked. But tonight I'm down and I hope that karma takes a bite out of that jerk manager. (I'm not a big enough person yet to be above it all)

Mountain Climbing

Building a writing career is a lot like climbing a mountain. You start out at the bottom, trying to get your first foothold. Bit by bit you make your way up, reaching for the next hand or foothold, more often than not missing and staying exactly where you are. It's a trial of hard work and determination, never letting the feeling of despair or the almost impossible odds get you down. Inch by inch you begin carving your way up the stone face of your mountain, working your way up until you reach the summit. Very cheesy, I'll admit, but accurate. Although at least with writing it's very rare to lose a few fingers.

My Own Backyard

Lately I've been researching my own backyard. For those of you that don't know me, I'm a travel junkie. My parents own a travel agency, so I was lucky enough to grow up jet setting around the world since a very young age. The first plane ride I remember being on was at age six when we went to Germany to visit family, but I was on a plane even when I was still in my mother's womb, on a trip to Japan. This has resulted in a deep-seated travel bug. Every year I get antsy to go somewhere, to hop on a plane and see something new. Mostly, I prefer hot, luxurious locales, but I dig history and culture too.
In any case, despite my best attempts I'm not yet filthy rich, which means no vacation this year. It'll be the first time since my husband and I got married that we won't be going on vacation, which has been three years in a row. Sadly, 2011 has crept by without a single bought of jet lag or turbulence induced nausea. Am I a little depressed? Yes. But am I going to let it get me down? No! Instead, I've decided to research my own province and see what it has to offer in the form of luxurious, unique experiences. Perhaps a weekend getaway to a hidden local gem will lessen the sting of my airplane-free year.
At the very least, it serves as a perfect distraction from hauntingly tropical destinations and may just teach me to appreciate my own little piece of heaven here at home.

How Do I Do It?

I am SO busy. I honestly don't know how other writers do it. They all seem to have full time jobs and children on top of their writing and it positively staggers me. Even without children I feel completely overwhelmed. Not that my life is especially easy, I am currently working three jobs. I work five days a week at a make up counter (trying desperately to earn a very piddly commission), I work one day a week at a home furnishing and decor store, and in my free time (I know what you're thinking, 'what free time?') I write for VerbNews. My work doesn't end there, in what little time is left I try to write. I edit my novel, I work at getting a freelancing career off the ground, and even attempt to have a social life. And, honestly? I'm exhausted.
I took last week off from doing a restaurant review for VerbNews because I was busy working on my first feature for them, which was very exciting. That's all done and turned in, so I turned my attention back to my restaurant reviews and attempted to book a restaurant for this week. No go. I couldn't get a hold of anybody until it was too late in the week. Now I have to do three next week, because I've officially had two weeks off and completely lost the lead time I had from doing multiples before. Which means I had to book a restaurant review on the anniversary weekend I'd booked off to spend with my husband. Damn it.
I'm not a happy camper at the moment, and it's got me wondering what it's all for. How can I be working three jobs and still be poor? How am I supposed to get any extra writing done when I have so little free time? And how can I sequester some special time to spend with my husband when I can't even keep my anniversary weekend sacred? I mean, it's not all bad, I didn't book it on my actual anniversary. But I'm mad. I was hoping for two days off, back to back, just for the purpose of having a fun, relaxing stay-cation with my hubbie.
Which brings me back to my original question. You know that old question, 'how does she do it?' Well, I'm asking it. I've read articles about hardworking writers who work full time as freelancers, have three kids and still manage to churn out best selling novels. I would really like a sample of the drugs they're on that they're able to be that productive and work that hard. Because I'm tired, and I don't know how I'm going to do it.

Gourmet Prose

A few days ago I finished Gourmet Rhapsody by Muriel Barbery. This was her first book, but I'd read her second book first. I'm glad I did, because honestly her second book was better. By reading her second book first, I was able to appreciate the subtleties of the first. If I hadn't, I might have been a little too bored and given up. But because I was already familiar with her style, I could just relax and enjoy her beautiful prose.
Gourmet Rhapsody is the story of a food critic on his death bed. He hasn't been a very good man, he's a terrible father, husband and in general, human being. But on his death bed, when you'd think he'd be pondering all his failures as a person, he's thinking about flavours. With only 48 hours until his demise, all he wants is to taste a particular flavour once more. The only problem is, he doesn't know what it is. So he thinks back over everything he's tasted in his life, looking for the flavour that he's missing.
It's an interesting book, not especially riveting, but I really enjoyed the descriptions of the food. Muriel Barbery is an especially talented writer when it comes to crafting beautiful prose, but the story line was indeed lacking. But, if you're willing to just have a book that you take your time with and just enjoy the poetry of the language, then it's a fine read.

What Have I Gotten Myself Into Now?

I've already written (multiple times) that I have to keep a day job besides writing in order to pay my bills. For nearly two years I've been working at a Home Decor store, but in April I started looking for a new job. I wasn't making enough money working there, I needed to upgrade. It didn't take me long to realize there wasn't much out there. For someone like me, a woman whose only secondary education was in massage therapy, there wasn't a lot of options. Every job I looked at paid just as terribly as my current job. So, I reached out to friends and family, asking them to brainstorm ideas of where I might be able to make a better wage. The only feasible idea they came up with was at a department store make up counter. Those girls were supposed to get paid much better, as well as earn commission - meaning I could have a little more control over my income. Excited, I set off to apply. Two months later, after four excruciating interviews (yes, four!), I had my first day.
Never in my life have I felt more defeated, deflated and depressed. When I signed the paperwork, I finally saw what they would be paying me. And I wanted to throw up. Ten dollars an hour and only 3% commission. Parking alone was $2.00 an hour to work there, so my wage was really only eight dollars an hour, and 3% commission meant that with every hundred dollars of product I sold, I would be paid only three dollars. Three dollars. Three f*cking dollars. I wanted to quit that day, but  friends convinced me not to.
"You don't know how much they sell in a day, it still might be worth it."
So, I decided to give the job another day to prove itself. Sadly, the outlook was horrible at best. The daily sales targets for my counter were two hundred dollars. That meant six dollars in commission, not even enough to cover parking. Determined to quit, I marched over to the manager and explained that I was actually making less money at this new job than at my old one, a feat I didn't think was possible. She convinced me to give it some time, explaining that the sales targets were so unbelievably low because no one had been manning the counter for such a long time. Frankly, I wasn't convinced, but I'd already booked the time off my old job, so I figured I might as well be earning something.
It's been two days now with me on the sales floor, attempting to sell my wares and I've only sold three hundred and seventeen dollars worth of product. The forecast for this job isn't bright. I'm waiting until after the weekend to give my pronouncement, but barring a miracle, I will be quitting soon.
I honestly don't know where this particular department store gets off offering such a shitty wage when the parking is so expensive. And offering 3% commission? Why not just be brave and slap me in the face? What a sneaky, underhanded way to insult someone. I don't know if I can stay, just from sheer disgust with the department store.
It's too bad, really. I actually really like the product. But I started looking for a new job to make more money, not less. And it's not as though working there is a carnival of ice cream and candy. It's work. It's long hour after long hour of work. If they aren't going to pay me properly for it, why would I stay? They need to realize this is why they're so understaffed. No one can afford to work there. You couldn't possibly live off the wage they're giving you.
We'll see what happens after this weekend, but stay tuned for the 'I quit my job' announcement. Because I don't think this place has a hope in hell.

My Fair Lazy

Today I finished the first book on my summer reading list, My Fair Lazy by Jen Lancaster. It was actually really surprising. It never takes me that long to get through a book, especially one by my favourite author. Admittedly, this wasn't one of her best. It was a little boring, not as funny. But I really enjoyed the ending. She brought it all together at the end and I just can't deny that I adore her. I love her unconditionally. Why? Because she was the one that first got me thinking about being a writer. Reading Bitter is the New Black was the very first step in my journey towards becoming a writer. It awakened a longing in me. I know it's silly, but I never realized an author was allowed to write about themselves when their lives really weren't altogether that fantastic or unusual. I didn't realize that an author could be funny, that they could break all the rules. Reading her first novel, with all of its hilarious footnotes, was like seeing an airplane for the first time. I didn't realize it was possible to fly.
And so, I will always be grateful to her. And I will always be excited to read her books. Because she proves that its possible to follow your dream. Maybe one day I'll get to tell her that in person.

My First Feature

Another small step for me (and my career). I've received my first feature. I'll be covering the Taste of Saskatchewan for VerbNews and I couldn't be more excited. It's the first time I'll have to conduct an interview and my heart is all a flutter. What if I ask stupid questions? What if I don't get what I need? What if my interviewee thinks I'm completely unprofessional or immature? As my nerves begin firing in a fit of stress and anticipation, all I can think to do is prepare. I've been brainstorming questions and researching recording devices so I don't miss a word. I'm hoping to cover everything I possibly can, in as much detail as possible, in order to properly choose the direction of my article. If no stone is left unturned then nothing is left to chance. My biggest fear is sitting down to draft the article and realizing I didn't ask some all important question.
The feature itself is quite small (just 500 words) but it's an opportunity I don't plan to squander. The more experience I get, the more varied my repertoire, the better chance I have of moving forward. Keep your fingers crossed for me.

Getting Some Sage Advice

Tonight I had coffee with Amy Jo Ehman, city editor at Western Living magazine and author of Prairie Feast, A Writer's Journey Home for Dinner. She was kind enough to sit down with me and let me pick her brain on magazine writing, freelancing and writing in general.
It was a lovely evening, Amy is a gifted writer with an incredibly kind and generous spirit. Talking to her started all the rusted wheels and cobs in my brain turning. She gave me advice on possible magazines I might want to try breaking into, on the types of pitches they're looking for and things to keep in mind with query letters. If there's one thing all potential writers should keep in mind, it's that a query letter should be of the highest possible quality. It's an editor's first taste of your writing, and if it isn't top notch, why would they keep reading? Having a great idea isn't enough, the presentation has to be stellar as well and fit with the magazine's tone, style and interests.
Talking to her, I felt the ideas begin to flow. After all, there's something so inspirational about talking shop with a fellow writer. (I use the term 'fellow writer' loosely, as she's clearly miles and miles ahead of me.) You'd think writers would be competitive and catty with each other (and God knows, some of them are), but as for the rest of us, there's a communal spirit, a comradery that binds us together. Maybe because we all know what it's like, the struggles, the ups and downs. Fellow writers get it in a way that others can't. I don't know what it is, but sitting with Amy I felt a renewal of hope, a surge of will to keep on trying.
I think it's important that all writers connect with the writing community around them. It keeps us motivated, challenges us to take our work to the next level, and offers much needed support. If at all possible, you should check out what's available in your area and tap into the creative channels that surround you. You'd be surprised just how much it helps to just sit down and have coffee with a fellow writer. God knows, it does wonders for me.

Starting At Rock Bottom

Being a writer is a very humbling experience. There are very few that start off already on top. I have absolutely no statistics to back me up, but my guess would be no higher than one percent. Think about J.K. Rowling, she started off writing notes on napkins. It seems that most of us come from humble beginnings.
I'm certainly no different. My day job gets me down some days. It's a hard hit to one's self esteem when you realize that others value your time at only ten dollars an hour. That hurts. You feel like a failure. Couple that with all the rejection that comes with writing and sometimes it's hard to get out of bed. But I just keep slogging through the mud, pushing through the pain and frustration, hoping that one day it will all be worthwhile. I don't need J.K. Rowling's level of success. I'd be happy just making my living from writing (no day job!).
A lot of the time it's just pure force of will that keeps me going, the belief that I'm worth more than my current state. My skin isn't always as thick as it needs to be, but the hurt helps fuel me on. Maybe if my day job wasn't so mind numbingly painful I wouldn't be so driven to follow my dream. I don't know if I'll ever be a success. But I do know I won't ever stop trying.

Expanding My Repertoire

Now that I've gotten the hang of writing for VerbNews I've decided it's time to continue my search for publication. Just because I have one job doesn't mean I shouldn't be on the search for another. After all, if I ever hope to make my living solely from writing, it definitely won't be with just one gig. VerbNews is great, they gave me the opportunity to get my foot in the door, gain experience and build up a few clips, but I won't be happy with just that.
I've decided to start small. I'm reaching out to all the small, local papers and publications, hoping to catch my second break. If/when I do, then I will learn all I can from them and continue expanding. Next will be more provincial publications, followed hopefully by national ones. I'd love to nail down a job blogging or writing a column. My favourite is the personal essay (aside from novel writing of course), and if I can find a few publications that like one or two enough to print them I'd be in heaven.
It's always a little intimidating plotting out an e-mail, reaching out to people, knowing that rejection is a major part of the game, but it's better than plateauing. I don't want to get too comfortable. Success requires constant drive and a never give up attitude. To be incredibly lame, I have to be like the little engine that could. Do you remember that story? "'I think I can, I think I can, I think I can...'" It's silly but it's true. With all the rejection, writing can sometimes feel like you're trying to ice skate up hill. Why bother? But I have to bother, I have no other options. The only back up I have is working a dead end job and I really don't like that back up.

A Comedy of Errors

On Wednesday night I was sitting at home in my sweats, waiting for my hubbie to get home with a pizza, when I received a text message. It was from the photographer I work with at VerbNews, it read: "Am I at the right place?"
I froze, feeling the ripples of adrenaline and shock start rippling through my body as the realization washed over me. I forgot. I forgot about the restaurant review I'd booked for that evening.
I flew off the couch like someone had lit me on fire. I dialed him up, screeching that I'd forgotten and I'd be right there, all the while ripping off my sweats and throwing on a pair of jeans. I ran out the door and down the walkway - and it's at this point I should tell you I'd been watering the lawn for the past hour - and biffed it. Hard. The phone flew out of my hand as I fell flat on my butt on the wet and filthy walkway. Foot throbbing, I grabbed my phone yelled into it that I fell (not sure why) and that I'd be right there. I jumped in the car, immediately realizing that I'd forgotten my notebook. I ran back into the house, snatched it and sprinted back out the door. I didn't bother to lock it, and as my neighbour came running, asking if I was okay, I realized I didn't have time to call my husband and tell him why he'd be coming home to an empty, unlocked house. So I asked her to tell him, and look after my house. Well, not so much asked as screeched hysterically. But she got the message and I jumped in the car and raced off to the restaurant.
On the way to the restaurant I realized that my hands, forearms and elbows were smeared with mud. So, of course needing to get cleaned up, I proceeded to lick my hands and rub them on the seat to clean them off. I know, I know, disgusting. But desperate times... in any case, it worked. I parked and ran down the street to the restaurant, realizing as I ran that my butt was wet from falling and people probably thought that I was a) crazy and b) had wet my pants.
I arrived at the restaurant and the rest of the evening was lovely. I had a wonderful time. It was only when I got home that evening that I checked out my foot and realized that I'd grated it like cheddar on the sidewalk and it was swollen to goose egg proportions. Which brings me to the next morning, standing on one leg in the shower. I was doing this because it hurt like hell to have my foot in the water, and as I shampooed I couldn't help but think, "if this is how I die... slipping in the shower, standing on one leg... I'm going to be so pissed."

Summer Reading List

I've noticed a lot of my favourite authors putting out their summer reading lists of late, and it inspired me to do the same. However, there is a twist. This is not a list of books I recommend you read this summer. This is a list of books that I intend to read this summer. I can't say for sure whether or not they'll be good, as I haven't read them yet, but you're more than welcome to read them along with me. I'll be posting updates on the books as I finish them, letting you know which ones I find good and what not. But as for right now, I give you: The List.

Skipping a Beat - Sarah Pekkanen

Now, this book I've actually already read but I decided to put it on the list just for your benefit. This is Pekkanen's second book, the first being The Opposite of Me (another amazing novel), and I have to say, she's an amazing writer. Her characters are exquisitely written. They're complex and empathetic and you can't help but feel everything they're feeling. Her stories are beautiful and unexpected, and I honestly can't say enough good things about her books. So give this one a try, and if you haven't read her first one I highly suggest you add it to the list as well.

My Fair Lazy - Jen Lancaster

I know what you're all thinking, that book's been out for a long time. Jen already has another book out (her first work of fiction - Wish You Were Here). But here's the thing. I love Jen Lancaster and her work. I have to own it, but I only like seeing paperbacks on my shelf so I've been waiting for the paperback edition to come out. I could have rented it from the library in the meantime, but the thought of having to bring it back was torture so I very impatiently waited until it finally arrived on my bookstore's shelves. She has quite a few other books as well, which I highly recommend. (My two favourites are Bitter is the New Black and Such a Pretty Fat)

Gourmet Rhapsody - Muriel Barbery

I read her other book, The Elegance of the Hedgehog, and positively loved it. They are translated from French and her prose are beautiful. She offers a profound look at human nature and philosophy, all wrapped in exquisite story telling. The first book was a little dry at first but well worth staying with it. I'm hoping Gourmet Rhapsody is just as good.

The Sweetness at the Bottom of the Pie - Alan Bradley

Alan Bradley offers the unique idea of a Nancy Drew type character (the lovely Flavia de Luce) that solves actual murders. She's also obsessed with poison and chemistry, often using chemistry in solving the crimes. So far there are three books in the series. The first is the above, the second is The Weed That Strings the Hangman's Bag, and the third is A Red Herring Without Mustard. I must confess, I've already read the second one. Yes, I'm reading them out of order! But I can tell you this, they're charming. They're unexpected and the character of Flavia is enamoring. It's a fabulous concept.

A Red Herring Without Mustard - Alan Bradley

No need to elaborate on this one.

The Particular Sadness of Lemon Cake - Aimee Bender

I have been staring at this book on the bookstore shelf for ages now, thoroughly intrigued. I've never read anything by Aimee Bender but the concept for this novel is too enticing to pass up. It's about a young girl who begins tasting her mother's emotions in the food she bakes. She realizes her mother isn't as happy as she appears and it leads to the uncovering of family secrets. Intrigued yet? I am.

Bite Me, A Love Story - Christopher Moore

I won't lie. I've read everything he's ever written, and with the exception of Fluke, I've loved every one of them. This book is the third of a series. The first being Bloodsucking Fiends and the second You Suck. I highly suggest you read all of his works, especially Lamb: The Gospel According to Biff, Christ's Childhood Pal, The Stupidest Angel, and A Dirty Job. But honestly, they're all exceptional except, of course, for Fluke.

The Great Night - Chris Adrian

I've never read Chris Adrian, but I was intrigued by the story line of this novel. Simply put, it's a retelling of a Midsummer Night's Dream in a modern scenario. I have no idea if it will be any good or fall completely flat, but I'm going to give it a try.

The Raising - Laura Kasischke

Again, I have no idea how this one is going to turn out. It's a mystery about the death of young, straight A college student named Nicole. Some aren't sure she's really dead. I'm most attracted to this novel due to the raving reviews of her prose and apparently masterful storytelling. I'll let you all know my verdict when I'm done.

And that about does it for now. I'll be adding more to this as time goes on, as this definitely won't last me all summer, but for the time being I feel it's a reasonably good list to start me off. If you read any of them, let me know what you think!

Unsupervised

I'm sick of my day job. I think I desperately need a vacation, you know one, two, maybe three months. That ought to do it. But seriously, I'm really having trouble being anything other than miserable at work lately. And by lately, I mean since January. The trouble is, it's too regimented. They recently put in a new computer system and now we have to clock in and out for every shift. We're timed down to the minute. We even have to clock in and out for our lunch breaks.
It doesn't end there. The management team watches us all like a collective hawk. We're not allowed to talk to each other on the sales floor, just the customers. We aren't allowed to leave the sales floor without letting a manager know and even then, we don't dare stay away long.
We are constantly reminded of our sales target, prodded and nagged into remaining "customer focused". They never let us forget. And it drives me insane. Maybe, if we were paid decent wages I'd feel more responsible for our sales numbers. But we're not. We're paid garbage wages and our bonuses are terrible. We don't receive extra money at Christmas. We receive store money. Money that we can only spend in the store. What?!
To make matters worse, they're now going to be installing security cameras every where in the store. Somehow I don't think it's going to be used to catch shoplifters. I'm more than a little sure it's going to be used to monitor us instead. As if we weren't being watched enough.
Recently we received 'merit increases' and reviews. You know how much of a merit increase I received? 3%. Hmmm. Thanks? We aren't even consulted in our reviews. I'm used to the system in which you sit down with your manager, discuss your review and debate over your raise. You demand high and then barter down to something that's reasonable for both of you. Not here. A review is left on the staff room table for you, letting you know what they think of you and your performance. There's no discussion, you don't get to weigh in on how much you think you deserve.
It's a weird system. Maybe these little irritations wouldn't stand out so much if I hadn't been there for so long. But I'm closing in on two years and I'm beginning to realize I need to get out, or work there a lot less. Because it's all getting to be too much. I make no money, I'm supervised like a two year old by a babysitter, and I'm still dealing with customers. It sucks. I think I need a job where I can work independently and for better money. I need to be unsupervised, but that's a tough one to find.

The Terror in the Buzz

Today started off great, a perfectly normal and lovely morning. I got up early, showered and dressed, took my poor senior citizen car into the shop. I even walked home, stopping first to get a bagel and a lemonade (hadn't had breakfast yet) and had the forethought to stop along the way to pick up a sandwich for lunch since I'd be house-bound all day. After my care free walk through the glorious spring morning I was feeling efficient and hardworking so I put in a load of laundry, unloaded and loaded the dishwasher and finally nestled onto the couch with my laptop to get some work done.
And then I heard it. The buzzing. Very, very loud buzzing.
I stood up and looked around, terror filling my heart as adrenaline pumped through my veins. The buzzing was coming from inside the house. (You'd think a grown woman would have outgrown her terror of bees and wasps by now, but I haven't. When they show up I'm still very much a five year old girl, running, screaming and being reduced to tears). I pivoted slowly, attempting to locate the sound and find the intruder. He was trapped behind a picture I'd wedged into a window frame. Realizing I had precious little time before he figured out how to get out of there (basically, fly upwards), I grabbed my keys, phone and the dog and escaped my house. That's right. I ran away. Well, walked away, but it wasn't a proud moment. Not to mention it solved nothing. The bee would still be in my house, waiting for me (and my soul), when I returned.
I took the dog for a nice, long walk, attempting to formulate a plan (even going so far as to phone my sister and have her talk me down). When I finally returned, I hoped against hope it would be dead, but alas it was not. After ten minutes of circling around in my peaceful house, looking for it, I heard the buzzing again. He was still behind the picture.
I went outside, coming around so I could see the window from the outside and get a good look at what I was dealing with. The thing was gigantic. And furry. And gigantic. Shudders of disgust crept through me. He was still very much alive and I had no idea what to do. Until I saw the shovel.
What I liked about this particular shovel was its obscenely long handle. I could stand several feet away from the window and still use the shovel end to pry open the window. Fighting down waves of nauseous panic, I worked the shovel under the window and pushed up. Success! The bee flew out, I threw the shovel to the ground, the window slammed shut and I raced inside, slamming and locking the door behind me. (You know, just in case).
Who knew today I would prove myself a hero. I faced down the bee and survived.

One Small Step for Me...

Last week on Friday the 13th something amazing happened. I was published for the first time. It all started on April 28th, although now that I think about it it actually started a lot sooner than that. The real truth is, it started in April of last year, when I decided I wanted to seriously pursue becoming a writer. I'd dreamt about it since I was little but I never believed it was possible, and all the people I talked to confirmed it. But in April of last year something clicked. Instead of saying 'I can't' I started wondering 'why can't I?'
My first steps were shaky ones. I didn't know what to do or where to start. I didn't know what was expected of me, or what I even expected of myself. It was at that time that I experimented with trying to write my first book (which I finished but let's just say it was a trial run - not publish worthy but I proved to myself that I could finish something I started), as well as Suite101 and blogging. But nothing was really happening. It was in November (I think) that I got my idea for my second book. It started off innocently at first, as something that was just for fun that I could send in portions to my sister to amuse her. Then, with her encouragement I started to see the broader picture. This could really be something. It had potential. But I still suffered from a crippling sense of self doubt. I had no idea if I was any good at writing.
I'm not sure how I happened upon the information on the Writer in Residence, but somehow through my googling I found her. All I can say is, it was meant to be. I had my first appointment on December 1st, and I most recently had my last one on May 4th.
I was so freaked out at my first appointment, but it was amazing. It was exactly what I needed to light a fire under me. I think what made the biggest difference was how seriously she took me and my writing. She asked me the tough questions, why did I want to be a writer? What was I interested in writing? Not only that, she told me what I needed to hear. I was good. My idea was good. (Not that she didn't have plenty of constructive criticism - God knows I needed it!) and after that I was hooked. I worked feverishly on my manuscript, tried to meet with her once a month, took her classes on personal essay writing, editing and publishing. I learned the most important lesson any budding writer could learn - the art of editing.
I'd always thought that all great writers were great from the moment they'd clasped their pens, but it's not true. You have to be willing to write badly before you can write well. As Margaret Atwood once said, "If I waited for perfection, I would never write a word." And ain't that the truth.
It was because of the Writer in Residence that I started submitting personal essays to magazines, and it was because I was brave enough to send my writing into the void that I was brave enough to apply for a Food Writer position with VerbNews. And on the night of my highest honour yet as a writer, they gave me the job. It was on that night, that I was a featured writer in Writers in Progress. What's that? Well, every year at the end of their residency, the Writer in Residence in our program asks ten of the many, many people they work with (in my case over two hundred and fifty) to share a piece of their work at Writers in Progress. I was one of the lucky few granted that honour, and I couldn't have been prouder. My moment in the sun was made even more glorious by the news that I'd been chosen for the job as Food Writer (based solely on my writing sample) and I was over the moon.
And on Friday the 13th, of all the strange days for such an occurrence, my first article was published. It's nothing amazing, just a small four hundred word review of a restaurant, but it was a victory of epic proportions for me. I'm a published writer. I have my foot in the door, and I'm not pulling it out to save my life. Instead, I plan on having the rest of me walking through it, and I'll have the first draft of my new novel done by the end of the month to prove it. As the great author Alice Kuipers once said, "There's no point in spending your life in the pursuit of something that's easy." Amen, sister. Amen.

Shaving the Couch

Today I found myself bent over my couch with a dull razor, giving it a shave. Why you may ask, was I shaving my couch? No, I haven't gone crazy (relatively speaking). My couch has the nasty habit of becoming rather fuzzy. And after exhausting all other options to no avail, I followed a friend's advice and attacked my couch with a razor, desperately attempting to return it to its prior flawless condition.
I think the real question is, why would a fuzzy couch drive me to such extremes? Well, lately things have been rather out of my control, and every free moment I have I feel the need to fill with something. I write, I garden, I de-fuzzify the couch. I just can't sit still, because sitting still means allowing the clouds of worry and terror descend upon me and my fragile mind. Instead, I need to be occupied. Busy. Productive. The only way to maintain my sanity seems to be to act crazy. Why am I worried and feeling out of control? Well, I'm currently looking for a new job, as is my husband. My husband's job has finally ended (which is no surprise, we've known about it for a long time), but as such, I can no longer be content with the insufficient hours and low pay I receive at my current job. So, both of us are on the lookout. And there's only so much you can do. You apply and apply and apply, and then you wait. It's mind numbing. For so many jobs the process seems endless, and in the meantime all you can do is wait and worry. It's out of your hands.
Which brings me back to shaving my couch. I guess I just need to feel in control of something. When I do yard work, or shave the couch, I can see change occurring. I am affecting something, I am in control of it. Whereas with job hunting, so much of it is out of my control. So, I will continue to shave my couch, weed and rake my yard, scrub and clean my house, in an attempt to save my sanity through this nerve racking process. At least my couch is finally getting a good shave.

The Upside of Having a Day Job

I've read advice from many prominent writers in which they pontificate that having a regular day job can actually help with your writing. It provides valuable inspiration. I don't know about any of that, I work because I have bills to pay and I enjoy eating. Writing is something I have to make time for on the side, in hopes that it will one day be my only job.
I will admit that I do get a lot of my inspiration from my daily life and the experiences and actions of the people around me. I often find myself channeling my frustrations in any given situation into a piece of writing. The two are connected. I don't think I'd have near as many ideas if I didn't work around people as much as I do. People are strange creatures, and one can spend their entire life trying to understand their motives.
I'm still hoping to one day have writing as my only job, but until then I can appreciate my day job for what it brings me, money to pay my bills and buy food, and loads and loads of inspiration.

The Lesson The Hedgehog Taught Me

I recently read a novel called The Elegance of the Hedgehog by Muriel Barbery. It was beautiful. The author, an extremely intelligent woman, is not only a gifted story teller, but has untold skill with language. Her prose were utterly beautiful. I never thought a good book should have beautiful prose (not to say it should have bad or awkward prose, but rather that the author shouldn't be overly obsessed with making the words beautiful).
I'd always held the belief (and had read enough to back it up) that the power of a story would get lost in beautiful prose, that the reader would get too caught up in the language to appreciate the subtleties of the story. Instead, I found myself luxuriating in the silky flow of her words, puzzling over the intellectual phrases, and still finding myself immersed in the clever observations of the characters. I became invested in the main character's journey, so much so that the ending brought me to tears. But I wasn't upset. I appreciated the way the author chose to end it. I saw the beauty in the moment she created, the beauty of the ending itself, not just the lovely words she used to describe it. The book challenged me not just on a human level, but as a writer. It made me want to be a better. And for that, I will always be grateful.

A Call for Spring

Will winter last forever? As we near the end of March, I can only hope that spring will show its face sometime in April, because (and I'm sure you feel the same way), I can't take it anymore. There's something about winter that wears on you, that pulls at the corners of your soul and drags you down. Maybe it's the bitter cold and the way it nips and chews at your skin, the way it locks you indoors. Maybe it's the several hundred layers you need to pile on if you dare to leave your house. Maybe it's the snow and ice drenched roads, causing you to ponder the sum total of your life's accomplishments every time you leave the house. I suppose it could be the infuriatingly dry air (both indoors and out) that causes your hair to buzz and crackle and your skin to dry and crack like a sun baked desert. It could be the mind numbing abundance of grey. Either way, the magic twinkling of Christmas has long since passed and all we are left with now is the cold and the dreariness.
I imagine when spring finally does arrive, the peoples will stagger forth from their houses, arms outstretched like the thirsty reaching out for rain. Just as spring causes the seemingly dead trees and plants to burst forth with fresh blooms and greenery, we too will be as the dead coming back to life. That is, if it ever arrives. With each passing day we grow more hopeful and more depressed. It isn't here today, perhaps it will show up tomorrow? We're like a lonely old man, continually checking the mailbox for letters, or the window for a visitor.
Do you remember the story of Rip Van Winkle? I wish I could go to sleep and wake up when spring arrives. Although, in a way, I guess I am asleep. How else can you describe the sort of sleepwalking we all seem to be doing? We're shut down, waiting for spring to wake us up again. But it can't be much longer. It may not have shown up today, but maybe tomorrow...

Dwindling Patience

I've noticed lately that I have even less patience with people than usual. Take work for example. The other day a couple of our regular shoplifters came in, so sadly I, being the first one to see them, was forced to follow them throughout the store in an effort to prevent them from taking anything. I made no attempt to disguise the fact that I was following them, I had no desire to prevent their embarrassment or make them anything less than uncomfortable. So, when they eventually turned and demanded, "Are you following us?" I saw no reason to tell them anything but the truth.
"Yes," I said with a completely straight face. I made no attempt to look apologetic or polite. I simply didn't care anymore. They looked a little shocked, I guess they assumed I'd get embarrassed, lie and say I wasn't and abandon the chase. Nope. Sorry. I don't care. Frankly, I just want you out of the store so I can get back to doing my real job. I never signed up to be a babysitter, and I'm not a big fan of it now. I don't know what they expected to happen, I certainly didn't stop escorting them through the store. Even after they left I stayed by the door for fifteen minutes, as they have a tendency to leave, wait a few minutes and then run back in, grab something and run back out.
The next day I was back at work, this time at the till. Every time we ring through a customer we are required to ask them for their phone number and their e-mail. It's optional, they can say no, but what few seem to understand is that it isn't optional for us to ask. We have to ask. It is our job. Yes, it's annoying, but such is life. After one too many harsh answers and looks of sheer hatred for daring to request their e-mail, I became a little on edge. When the next customer gave me a blunt and rude "No" to the request for their e-mail, I couldn't help but look them in the eye, smile sweetly and say, "No, thank you." Luckily, she said nothing about my correction. That could have been the kind of thing that developed into a big issue. I was aware at the time that I shouldn't, that I should just hold it in, let it go, but I just couldn't. What has happened to basic courtesy? Where are our manners? When did it become so expected that staff should be ground under the boot heel of their customers? I blame the old adage "the customer is always right". No they're not. They are very often wrong.
Look, just so we're clear, I have no problem with providing excellent customer service. I just don't see why we can't also be treated with respect and good manners. You wouldn't expect your kids, your friends, your coworkers or your neighbours to talk to you like that, so why would you think it's okay to do it others? Others who've been nothing but kind and helpful to you?
Frankly, I think I just need a vacation. Or a new job. People are never going to change, it's a terrible idea to expect them to. But still, I find myself wondering if I got through to that one customer. Maybe next time, when someone asks her a question she'll think twice and answer with a no thank you, or a yes please. I hope so, cause that would mean a lot.

Dusting Off the Brain Wheels

Ah, ambition. You make it all seem so easy. And yet, I find myself staring at the computer screen, waiting for brilliant words to flow out of my fingers and onto the page. Suddenly, it isn't so easy any more. Suddenly, it's overwhelmingly hard. Even after I've managed to pour some questionably brilliant thoughts onto the page, I must tear it apart again and again with editing. Fiddling and adjusting, rewording and getting rid of entirely. All in an attempt to create literary perfection. Cruel, cruel brain that can't supply immediate genius.
At least when the words come out I have something to play with. It's when they won't that I'm really in trouble. What then? I sit, staring, waiting, giving an awkward cough now and again as though I'm sitting in a doctor's waiting room. Wishing the rusty wheels in my head would start turning, praying for something smart to come out, or at the very least entertaining. Being a writer is not an easy job. It requires miles of creativity, hours upon hours of hard work and worst of all - self discipline. It is not just literary accomplishment I strive for, it is a better, more responsible self. I don't just want to be proud of my work. I want to be proud of myself.

The Book Party

Last night I went to a book party. My mother in law had invited me, it was an acquaintance of her's that had written the book. Initially, I was very excited. I couldn't wait to meet the author in question, even make a few connections in the publishing world. When I got there, however, I realized I was sorely mistaken. It was in a dark, nearly deserted basement of an obscure little hall. Confused, and a little embarrassed for the author, I sought her out in hopes of picking her brain. I wanted to hear all about her adventures in finding an agent, going through the editing process, selling the book to a publisher. As it turns out, I would hear none of it. She self published. Which of course immediately explained the deserted basement book party. Yikes.
I don't think I'll ever self publish. I think it takes away from the feeling of accomplishment. When you self publish, you only need your own approval. When you get published by an actual company, that means you passed inspection and actually warranted their investing their time and money in you. Even if you never become a best seller, at least you'd know that there were people who thought your book was worth publishing. Instead of, you know, just you. The whole night was an eye opener for me on how much harder I need to work, and how much it will all be worth it when I don't end up throwing myself a book party in a sparsely attended hall basement.

The Road to Improvement

Yesterday I took my first Personal Essay Writing Class. I'd signed up for it a while ago and was especially excited for it. I've been looking into freelance writing over the past little while, brainstorming pitches and what not, hoping to find a way to support my novel writing that didn't involve catering to rich, bored housewives who enjoyed using me as their personal slave. But here's the thing, I don't like writing dry articles.
After I'd bought a huge stack of my favourite magazines, snuggled onto the couch and begun reading them in the hopes of figuring out what the magazines were looking for, what had already been done and etc, I realized one thing. I don't read magazines. They're boring. The only thing I do with a magazine is flip through it. I never read the articles. They're boring. When it comes to a magazine I'm all about the visual, with the information in short, concise blurbs. I hate long articles. They're dry, boring, and exhaustive. I don't even enjoy the true stories. They're always about some brave individual overcoming some horrible obstacle like "I spent seven days lost at sea" or, "my brother turned out to be a serial killer". No thanks. I flip right past.
How can I write something I won't even read? The only articles I enjoy reading are the snarky, sarcastic, self deprecating personal essays. Which is why I took the class. Maybe, I could make my income writing hilarious personal essays on society, technology and everything else under the sun. Much the way my favourite author, Jen Lancaster, does. Each month she writes a personal essay for the Chicago Tribune. They're funny, completely unserious, and utterly delightful. I could do that.
The only problem? Newspapers and magazines aren't really looking for that. They're looking for articles, products, information. They don't care about my humorous take on movie theater etiquette. (Even though they should. Have you gone to the movies lately? It's insane.) I don't know what to do. I can't keep working retail. Every day I go in another piece of my soul dies. I have to find a way to support myself while I'm finishing the book. Perhaps the class can shed some light on the situation. Meanwhile, at least I'm attempting to improve myself.

A Rant on Texting

I think today's young people are getting dumber. Seriously, people today have no English skills. They can't spell, their grammar is in the toilette, and acronyms run rampant. Why is everyone in such a hurry? OMG? Really? Is it that much faster to say the letters?
I blame texting for most of our problems. It started out as a useful tool for getting quick pieces of information to someone when you didn't have the time to call. That's all it's for. It's for simple messages, quick blurbs of essential information. "Honey, I'm in a meeting. I'll be home late." Done. Instead, everyone has extensive conversations with it. Why? Why can't you just phone the person and get it over with in a quarter of the time? How much time are all your acronyms saving you that you couldn't just dial the number and talk to the person? Don't even get me started on "sexts". Really? You want to impersonalize and short cut foreplay too? Cause that seems like a step in the opposite direction.
Now we have a generation of young people that can't spell or form a proper sentence to save their lives. In one of my other blogs, it becomes especially apparent in the commentary. I'm sorry, but if you can't form a sentence I don't authorize it, which means a lot of comments never see the light of day. It's their fault though, if I can't understand what point you're trying to make, how is anyone else? I just assume it's spam and throw it out.
The other thing that bothers me about texting is the exaggeration. LOL. Really? That comment actually made you laugh out loud? It wasn't that funny.  Maybe it made you smile, but laugh out loud? I don't believe you.
Twitter is another of my sworn enemies. I'm sick of people belting out tiny insignificant thoughts all day long. If it isn't something you can write a paragraph about, it probably isn't a great out loud thought. I like cookies, but I'm not going to tweet it. I'm going to think it and then move on, or possibly go get some cookies, but that's none of your business. All I'm saying is, there's a thousand better ways to communicate. Remember letters? When was the last time you received a handwritten letter in the mail? You want to make your BFF smile? (PS I HATE the term BFF) Write her a letter. Believe me, it's a thrill to receive something other than bills and flyers in the mail box. Plus, it shows that you were willing to take the time and put in the effort to make her smile... with complete sentences. Just a thought.

Why I Hate Social Media Sites

I've come to the conclusion that I really ought to delete my facebook profile. Here's the thing, it turns out I have no social skills. Apparently I am without a filter. Facebook actually causes me to hate people I normally would have liked. It's too revealing. People are self indulgent, hypocritical, judgmental (yes that one is me), and to be perfectly frank - unbelievably irritating. And I can't keep my mouth shut about it (obviously).
You see someone posting insanely personal information and you have to wonder, who is this for? For instance, a girl I had as a friend on facebook recently posted three messages in one day to her dead grandma. I knew this girl in high school. I barely know her now, and yet I'm looking at this deeply personal message to a deceased loved one and I found myself thinking, are you on crack? Why on Earth would you think this is a suitable medium for those thoughts? Don't you have any close friends you can call? A counselor you could talk to? Hell, even a journal would suffice. Why are you putting that up on facebook?
There are many other seriously annoying habits people have with facebook which I won't get into at this time. I've made enough enemies this week alone by being honest and blunt about my feelings on the matter. All I can say is, facebook seems to cheapen relationships. If it isn't important enough to pick up the phone and call me about, it probably isn't worth posting. I guess I'm just old fashioned, I prefer real conversation. The only posts I actually enjoy are the ones that make me laugh. If it doesn't serve a purpose, don't put it up. If we all asked ourselves 'who is this for?' before we posted anything, there'd be a lot less random shit I'd have to scroll through. And remember people, be a good friend - don't put up a chain post.

Brand New Year

Well it's a brand new year and I have a few resolutions. Now, normally I completely ignore New Year's eve. I hate it. It seems like such an arbitrary celebration; "hooray the calendar is changing over, let's get drunk!" But this year, I'm actually taking the time to make a few resolutions. I've never really done that before because usually I'm pretty happy with the state of things in my life.
This year I'm making a few goals and I intend to see them through. Am I going to tell you what they are? No, they're personal and none of your business. But the point is I'm making them. I even took a little time last night to put them down on paper and outline how I planned on accomplishing them. Pretty organized right? We'll see how it goes. Perhaps by the end of the year I'll be able to proudly announce my resolutions and tell you that I accomplished them all. Thankfully, losing weight isn't one of them. I feel bad for people who make that their new year's resolution. They never do it. They wind up sitting at the table, making the same list each and every year without ever seeing change. It's sad. I don't want to be like that, I want to see my goals through.
If anyone else out there has made resolutions, I wish you the best of luck and hopefully we can all hold our heads high this time next year.

Miserable

Lately, I haven't had the best attitude. I find myself getting extremely angry at small inconveniences, and eight hour shifts at work that once flew by now make me want to hang myself just to make it end. The customers are grouchier, my fellow associates are grumpier, and I'm mentally disemboweling people several times a day.
I wouldn't say I have a thick skin (quite the opposite), but yesterday I cried the entire drive home from work and that's not normal. What got me so worked up? Nothing in particular, just bad customers and an even worse manager. It wasn't anyone's fault, it wasn't even the manager in question's fault. I actually like her, outside of work. But at work I sometimes daydream about slapping her. (Don't worry, I wouldn't ever act on it). I'm not sure what caused it all to bubble to the surface and escape out my eyes. I was just miserable. I still am.
Maybe it's all the holiday bustle, although that's unlikely because usually that puts me in a good mood, or maybe it's because work (which wasn't very fulfilling anyway) has now become endlessly tedious. It's not okay to expect someone to be able to smile and be cheerful for eight hours straight. Especially when most of the customers she must be cheerful and overly helpful to are rude, insulting and just plain cold. Without being able to distract oneself and give oneself some small feeling of accomplishment, it all becomes undeniably pointless.
I realize that this is a long and rather depressing rant, but I can't help it. Well I guess I could help it, I don't have to write any of it down, but I'm not going to help it. I just have to look at this as a positive. There are still things I like about work. I like a lot of the associates (many of whom bring homemade baking!), I'm allowed to wear jeans to work, it's relatively easy (except for the strain on my sanity with some difficult customers), and it's helping to pay my bills and feed my loved ones. That's not bad. Aside from the bad days here and there, overall it doesn't usually get me so down. This is just a momentary lapse. It'll get better, and until then I can always rant.

The Magnificent Writer in Residence

Today I journeyed to the great and powerful Writer in Residence for advice on the book I'm currently working on. What is a Writer in Residence you ask? Well, it's a program with the public library in which a published author offers their time and attention to budding new writers. They are available at specific hours during the week for you to make an appointment and offer some of your work for their editing and advice. You don't have to show them your work either. It can simply be about questions on how to get started, how to submit your work to a publisher, etc. Do you want to know the best part? It's free! That's right. You get editing assistance from a published author for free.
My experience was fantastic. The writer in residence was wonderful. She gave me fantastic advice on the work I was doing and really helped me delve into why I want to be a writer, what my voice is, where my strengths and weaknesses are and etc. I was positively delighted. She got me all pumped up to keep working on my book and gave me great guidance. To all the budding writers out there, I highly suggest you give this a try.

Clearly I Need to Become Independently Wealthy

November is nearing its end, and as I finish my first month of working strictly retail I can say only this: I really need to find a new career. It's strange how a job that is so fundamentally easy is so frustrating. I feel as though I have no purpose. Every day is the same. Be happy, achieve sales target, impress my managers with my sales and customer service prowess. I find as I bump into people I know I'm ashamed to tell them that this is all I'm doing. I shudder at that unavoidable question of, "so what are you doing these days?" It's horrible. I feel my face get hot as I explain that I work in retail and then scramble to add "I used to be a massage therapist but right now I'm just trying to figure out what comes next." What does come next? I have no idea. I want to be a writer, but that's not something you announce to acquaintances. Until something is published I'm just that sad little person chasing a dream, like those people who talk about being an actor or singer. It's just sad.

It's Done

It's done. My career as a massage therapist that is. My last day is behind me, all of my possessions have been brought home and my key returned to the clinic. Now, I look toward the future and try to assemble a new career. The only problem? (okay, not the only problem, just the most prominent). I'm lacking in the confidence department. Here's the thing, every time I read a delightful new book I get incredibly intimidated. All of a sudden my inner dialogue starts up with the usual, "I've never written anything as good as that" or "I'm not that funny!" and I feel my ambition shriveling away. It's hard enough getting motivated to write, let alone overcoming your inner self confidence demons as well.
Obviously, I can't piss away the rest of my working years in retail. I need a real career, something I can be proud of, and preferably something I love. I want to be a writer, but do I have it in me?

My Last Day

My last day of massage is tomorrow and my biggest regret is that I didn't clear out more of my stuff from work earlier. That's right people, after tomorrow I'm out of there!! And I can tell you right now that I'm not going to miss it. Ugh, there's so much crap I have to take home. I can't wait to be done with the place. Never again will I have to rub lotion on greasy strangers, listen to their obnoxious and idiotic complaints and have to feign interest in their tedious lives. I'm so excited! I'm not sure if tomorrow will speed by or if it will drag on like molasses. Either way, once it's done, it's done. Soon, a new chapter of my life will begin.

All That Untapped Genius Going to Waste...

It should please you to know that over the last few days I've been very productive. I've busily been editing my book (that's right - editing. It's done!), and today I spent the majority of my day cleaning the house. Let me tell you, it needed it! I was thorough too. I pulled out all of the furniture and swept underneath it. I found enough dog hair to make another dog. Anyway, my house is sparkling, I'm steadily making my way through editing, and frankly, I feel pretty good about myself. The only problem is that I will soon  have to leave to go to work. How unfair is that? Obviously my time is much better spent at home, and yet I must up and leave and trudge off to a quite literally, thankless job. (Would that be so difficult people? Thank your massage therapist when they give you a good treatment. And of course, tip!). It's so annoying knowing that your time is better spent elsewhere. It's irritating knowing that brilliant thoughts will go unwritten as I'm forced to rub lotion on strangers. Yuck.

Two Weeks Left...

I find it hard to tell my clients that soon I will be gone forever; mostly because they would try to book one more appointment with me before I left. Not to mention, it seems weird to just bring it up.
"Okay, well make sure you drink lots of water tonight and by the way I'm leaving forever."
Right? It sounds weird! I pretty much only mention it when people try to book with me for November, or when they ask me what's new. Otherwise, I don't bring it up. After all, there's quite a few clients I'm happy to disappear on. It makes me laugh to think of all of those slimeballs calling in to make an appointment with me only to find out that not only do I no longer work there, I no longer work anywhere. (I won't lie, it always makes me gleeful to think of them being someone else's problem).
Yes, I prefer to slip away into the night, disappearing from all of their lives. I suppose it's slightly unprofessional but I don't care. The grand majority of them never bothered to tip, so why would I bother to give them any notice?

My Feet Hurt

It has only been two days since my weekend and already I'm exhausted. Working seven days a week is no picnic. For instance, I need new shoes. My current work shoes have no real padding or arch support and after eight hours of standing on ridiculously hard floors my feet hurt like hell. My husband and I went for groceries tonight and when I wasn't hobbling along behind him I was riding on the edge of the cart while he pushed. Clearly if I'm going to be only working retail pretty soon I need to prepare myself (and buy better shoes).

18 Days Left...

That's right. I have only 18 days left before I'm done massaging forever. Or at least, I hope forever. I'll always have it to fall back on, but if it ends up that way then something will have gone horribly wrong. No, I pray I never have to return to my old profession again.
Instead, I'm focusing on my impending freedom. Halloween approaches and with it comes new possibilities and a future that is, as yet, undecided. True, I'm glamourizing a transfer into full time retail work but I don't care. As everyone begins to find out about my leaving the massage therapy profession, they always ask the same question. What am I going to do? My answer? I haven't the foggiest. I desperately want to be a full time writer, but how often does that happen? And it sounds so delusional to proclaim to all that I will be a writer. After all, if I don't make it then everyone will be aware of my failure. Not to mention, I haven't a clue as to what else I'm interested in. Writing is my secret dream, one I follow doggedly and relentlessly, but I accept that I may have to settle for something else.
As long as my new career is something that I love, than I don't care what it is. I just don't want to get out of bed every morning dreading the work day ahead. That to me is real failure. I just want to be happy. I'm sick of hating my job. I want to love my job. Is that too much to ask? Shut up no it isn't.

30 Days Left...

In just thirty days I will be done massaging forever, and I have to tell you, it couldn't possibly come fast enough. In fact, here is a list of things I will not miss about being a massage therapist.
1. The farters
2. The moaners (that's right. Some of you out there make weird, moaning, sex noises when you get a massage. Please stop.)
3. The greasy
4. The hairy
5. The bacne
6. The B.O.
7. All of the accounting
8. The creepers (by which I mean the excessively creepy men I so often find myself trapped in a treatment room with)
9. The weird and sometimes creepy tattoos
10. All of the people who never tip
11. All of the inane and irritating questions
12. The body aches and pains
13. The complainers
14. The bossy
15. The wuss bags
16. The crappy money

On the other hand, I will miss a few things.

1. The hours
2. Being my own boss

Clearly I'm making the right choice.

The Punishment Doesn't Fit the Crime

Tonight my husband and I had a minor tiff, after which he stormed out of the house. Normally this would annoy me, because he knows how much I worry and I realize that this is his passive aggressive way of punishing me when he feels I'm wrong. (Which I never am. As you can see, I'm very easy to live with). Anyway, tonight I was not so much annoyed, as furious. Why? Because not only did he leave and cause me to worry endlessly about his safety (I just can't stand the thought of something happening to him before we make up. Which is why he should really obey my rule that no one leaves the house angry), but he also left me alone with our little devil, aka my dog.
Which leads me to my tale of woe. As I began my nightly process of first reading my favourite blogs before beginning my own, I heard a weird noise coming from the kitchen. There would be a loud THUMP followed by silence, and then yet another loud THUMP. In my heart of hearts, I prayed that my dear puppy was merely playing with one of her many toys, but deep inside I knew I was wrong. As I walked out into the kitchen it became clear that my instincts were correct. Maddie had gotten up onto the dining room table and grabbed an avocado which she was now joyously picking up and dropping on the floor repeatedly. I let out an angry and shocked gasp, causing her to freeze dead in her tracks. I stood in front of her, staring her down, as she tried to look anywhere but my face. Slowly she sat down, still avoiding my face, and after a moment, raised a sorrowful paw and pawed gently at me, begging forgiveness. At this point I was desperately trying to hold in the laughter, so I bent down and gave her a big hug, all ready to make amends. That is, until I turned around and saw that my little "angel" had grabbed a couple of kiwis and proceeded to decimate them all over the couch, covering it in green goo.
Which is why I'm still mad at my husband for a minor tiff. I may not be easy to live with, but I tell you this; the punishment doesn't fit the crime.

Wet Garbage

Today I had a client who was not only creepy, but had the worst breath I've ever smelled in my life. It literally smelled as though he had eaten a plate full of wet garbage before his treatment. It was so bad that the entire room stunk after. It was SO bad that I became sick to my stomach half way through the treatment and contemplated stepping outside for a few minutes. I've never experienced anything like it.
Not to mention his creepiness. Or was he simply creepy because of the God-awful smell seeping from his rotten craw? No, he was definitely creepy. And sexist. The bastard kept calling me a "little girl" (Excuse me, fuckwad. I am not a "little girl". I am a woman) and saying retarded shit like,
"Wow, you sure are strong for a little girl."
What the hell is that? Excuse me buddy, I'm a lot stronger than your pot-bellied ass, and if you'd like me to prove it I'd be happy to have you literally weeping for mercy in a matter of moments. Not to mention, who gave you the right to make a visual assessment of my strength and competence?
To make matters worse, when the massage was done he kept smiling and winking after everything he said. You have no idea how desperately I wanted to snarl, "Gross! Stop that! And for God's sake, brush your freaking teeth!" He got my card too. If that fat sack of crap thinks he's getting another appointment with me then he's even more stupid than he looks. Ick.
And people wonder why I'm quitting.

I'm Nervous

I can't believe it, but I only have two months left before I'm done with massage. I have to give my notice on Monday. I'm scared to death. What if I'm unable to earn enough money to pay my bills? What if my boss hates me?
The truth is, there are things about massage that I'm going to miss. My coworkers for example. They're all really nice, especially my absolute favourite. He's been my inspiration for the four years I've worked there. From the beginning he was always full of wonderful advice like, "if you don't like the elderly, don't treat them!" and "if someone pisses you off, kick them out! You don't have to take crap from anybody". Sigh, my hero.
My favourite memory (one I will always cherish) is the day he kicked out one of his own clients. Why? Well, the bitch came in while he was still dealing with another one of his clients and loudly proclaimed for all to hear,
"Oh by the way, you know that problem of mine you've been working on for two years? I went for a myofascial treatment and it's gone."
He politely nodded and smiled and finished dealing with his other client. Then, he took her into his treatment room and began to berate her for her rudeness. He asked her why she would feel the need to announce this in front of his other client, and, if she liked myofascial so much better what the hell was she doing here?
Her answer?
"Well, I couldn't get in there for two months."
His response?
"Yeah, well you aren't getting in here either."
And then he unceremoniously kicked her bitchy ass out. My hero!!
Yes, it's the fond memories like these that I will cherish when I'm gone. Who will be bitter and make sarcastic comments with me? Not to mention the delightfully short hours. I hope I'm not making a big mistake (as I so often do), but every time I think of staying the revulsion rises in my gut and I know it's not an option. So, onward and upward as they say. In two months I'll be gone.

Writing Update

I thought it would be nice to let you know how my attempt at professional writing is going. The first draft of my book is done and now awaits a strenuous course of editing, I have my first possibility for a freelance writing job coming up in September and October for a sports magazine, and my suite101 career is... progressing. That's right. Read it and weep people, since the beginning of May I've made... $1.95.
Every month they publish the top ten earners for the past month (without names of course) and last month some lucky individual walked away with $2900. Sounds good right? So, to better equip myself and earn a larger amount of dough I looked into the owners of the top 100 page views for last month to see what was bringing in a lot of attention (and how many articles they had). Well, first of all they all had a staggering amount of articles - generally in the 700 range, and I noticed that all the authors had a general theme that their articles revolved around. What were these highly viewed authors writing about? The top writer wrote almost exclusively about anything and everything that had to do with college (which was funny because from her picture one can easily tell she's way too old to still be going there). The second wrote about everything in the world to do with pregnancy, babies and mommies. (Ick). The third - psychology, the fourth - dogs, and the fifth - cats. (At least we know that dogs did better than cats). I personally prefer to do book reviews, that way I don't have to constantly come up with new material. It's provided to me.
Well, that's where I stand right now. Obviously I'm not about to quit my day job. I'll update again soon, in the mean time - pray for me.
P.S. Don't you just love how my title works on two levels? It's an update about my writing, but I'm also writing an update. Get it? Well, I think its funny.

Each Morning I Wake Up...

I woke up this morning as I do many mornings, spooning my dog. Gradually I became aware that I was, in fact, awake and began asking myself those all important questions. Questions like, "what should I eat for breakfast?" and "where the hell is my husband?"
That's right. Nearly every morning for the past couple of months I've woken curled up around the dog with my husband long gone. The first time it happened I was obviously startled. I woke up that morning and turned over, reaching out to give my beloved husband an affectionate good morning kiss. The bed was empty. He was gone. When he came home later he informed me that he'd gotten up early to go to the gym. I was so hurt. Why hadn't he woken me up to say good bye? The answer? He did. Apparently, I'm one of those people that doesn't remember when they've been woken up. I really should have already been aware of this. After all, I take my birth control pill every morning at 6:00 AM and just roll over and go back to sleep. Half the time I wake up in a panic in the morning, positive that I slept through my alarm and didn't take it. Wrong. I did. I just have no memory of it.
And so, most mornings I wake up with my husband long gone (or playing video games in the living room) with no memory of his leaving me. At this point he no longer bothers waking me, I never remember it anyway. It's just one of those things. My body has programmed itself to ignore all stimulation until it has gotten what it feels is the appropriate amount of sleep. The only thing I'm able to wake up for is alarms. If I set an alarm to get up in the morning, the second it goes off I shoot out of bed like a rocket, fully awake. I can't explain it. Somehow I recognize that this particular alarm is the get the hell out of bed alarm. (It probably has something to do with my intense punctuality. If I even suspect I might be late my chest gets tight).
Either way, it seems I'm doomed to wake up each morning wondering where the hell my husband is. (Don't bother pointing out that I should set my alarm and get up with him. That's never going to happen.)

The Great and Nurturing Maddie

I love my dog. (Yes, I realize that we've already established this but hear me out. Or don't. No one has a gun to your head). Yesterday, I was sick. I had food poisoning and one thing I love about my darling dog is that when I'm sick she always knows. I don't know how, or why she even cares, but she does.
Yesterday I woke up feeling really, really nauseous. At first I figured it was because I'd slept in and hadn't eaten breakfast, and I'm one of those people that HAS to eat breakfast. So, I got up and made myself something to eat. Surprisingly, when I was finished I didn't feel any better. I always feel better after I eat. Slightly confused but still determined to go to work, I headed off to take a shower. No more than two minutes into my shower I became overwhelmed by sick feelings and threw up several times. In the shower. (Yes, it was disgusting). I sunk down to my knees and sat there, with the water pouring over me, shaking slightly, when I heard the clicking of nails on the linoleum. Maddie was there. She stuck her head into the shower and after I assured her I was okay she lay down on the floor in front of the shower doors, refusing to leave until I got out. I finished my shower and got dressed (yes I was still determined to go to work). After all, I felt a lot better. Or so I thought. An hour later I was back where I started, this time over the toilette. Needless to say at this point I threw in the towel and called in sick.
Throughout the day, whenever I got sick, Maddie was there. When I was shaky and exhausted and had trouble standing up, Maddie was there. She stood steady as I used her to help myself stand up. And when I asked her to walk me to the couch? She walked me to the couch and stayed with me until I was safely curled up on its cushy softness.
She's a hell of a dog. When she's good, she's really, really good. When she's bad, she's really, really bad. There's no half way with my girl. Hell, by late last night I was feeling back to normal and she knew. She'd broken into my gift wrapping closet, pulled out a whole bunch of tissue paper and shredded it all over my office. It's like I said, there's no half way. (And God help me, she knows when I'm faking).

The Death of Patience

I realized today as an angry motorist gave me the finger for being stopped at a red light (?), that the era of the kind and polite Canadian is at an end. Patience is dead. You see it every day on the road, in the stores and frankly, anywhere there happens to be a line. What happened to waiting for one's turn? Why is it so important to be first all the time? Where did this self entitlement come from? When did everyone decide that they deserved to be first and everyone else be damned?
I tried to be angry at the man in the truck, but I was too amused at his idiocy. Where did he need to be in such a hurry? Nowhere. He just couldn't stand the thought of waiting. Why is waiting so repulsive? It was a beautiful day, I felt sorry for him that he couldn't enjoy it. Not to mention, one day he's going to flip off the wrong person and they will joyfully beat his head in with baseball bats. I mourn the loss of our national pride, we no longer have an identity to cling to. I cringe at the thought of all these horrible people being our ambassadors to the world when they travel. What happened to taking pride in being polite and mindful of one's neighbours? I weep for the future.

Being Rude

Sometimes I wish I was rude. Okay the truth is I am rude, but I wish I was more rude. Rude people don't put up with other people's bull shit. Rude people tell the world where to put it. I like that.
Today I had a client whom I wish I had the balls to be rude to. He was an insignificant, unspectacular runt of a man who felt it was appropriate to boss me around. I hate it when people insinuate that they could do my job better, or that I'm doing mine insufficiently. First of all, I'm in on a Saturday on the long weekend so shut your mouth. Secondly, unless you have an understanding of human anatomy and how massage techniques create different reactions in the body and muscle tissue, then no you couldn't do my job better than me. Asshole. What I should have done, was rudely interrupt him and lecture him on why he's stupid and I'm not but I didn't. Because I don't know how to be that rude.
The same goes for every other situation in my life when people are stupid or rude. When I'm working at my retail job and a customer starts to freak out about a misunderstanding on the price of an item, I'd love to look her sternly in the eye and tell her to settle down, she's acting like a child. Or, when people just walk up to me and start talking to my dog and trying to pet her without asking when we're out for a walk. For God's sake people, I may have a schedule to keep and you have no idea if my dog is friendly.
If only I could be that rude, but I can't. I just don't have it in me. Okay, I have it in me but not the follow through. I guess it's for the best. Being rude gets you fired, and sometimes punched in the face.

Why Bras Are Important

Today I had a client come in who was the perfect example of why every woman should wear a bra. First of all, I could see her nipples. Secondly, her nipples were pointing downward. Thirdly, her breasts were so saggy that they were being held up by her fanny pack. (I know, disgusting visual right? A fanny pack!). If you think I'm exaggerating, I'm not. They were actually being held up by her fanny pack.
The woman was elderly, so clearly she'd lived a long life of unsupported breasts, hence the severe sagging. It was pretty gross, and to say the least very distracting. She was not a pretty woman, and with no where that I could have possibly wanted to look I ended up making fleeting eye contact only when necessary. People mock me for my severe addiction to sunblock, but after seeing her sun ravaged skin I feel thoroughly validated. You can all keep your disgusting age spots, thank you very much.
The massage was not a pleasant one. Her whole body was soft and saggy, and when she breathed out deeply it smelled as though she'd eaten a diaper she'd found in the garbage. Clearly it's appropriate that I will be done in three months. Things that would have only bothered me slightly four years ago now fill me with revulsion. Yep, it's time to move on.

How I Found Out My Dog is Better Looking Than I Am

My dog is beautiful. She's a Great Dane, which as most of you know is not the most common of breeds. Nearly every time my husband and I take her for a walk someone asks what breed she is, or exclaims over how beautiful she is, or pulls their car over in traffic just to ask us questions about her. What I'm saying is, she gets a lot of attention. This doesn't bother me. On the contrary, I'm a very proud mama. I always beam with pride when people gawk and exclaim over how big and lovely she is.
Yesterday, however, was slightly different. My husband and I were walking her as usual when a truck pulled over to the side of the road. He honked, but as we were well away from him, we figured he must be picking up someone from the house he was now stopped in front of and was signaling for them to come out. We were wrong. He got out of his car and called to us, causing us to turn and acknowledge him.
"Is that a bull mastiff?"
At this, I responded,
"No. She's a great dane." (Idiot. She looks nothing like a bull mastiff)
"No way! She's HUGE" (dur! Great Danes are one of the tallest breeds, you moron)
"Yes, well, she's a Great Dane."
He goes on for a while about how big bull mastiffs are and how surprising it is that she is also big (moron) before he then begins talk/yelling at my dog;
"You are so beautiful!"
I, of course, beam with pride and yell thank you, as I'm always pleased when people compliment my sweet little girl. He however, misinterpreted my thank you and felt it was necessary to correct me and say,
"No, I meant your dog!"
Through gritted teeth, I yelled back, "Yes I realize that," and turned to walk away.
I guess he realized that that was rude because he yelled after me, "You're attractive, I'm just saying the dog is really nice."
My husband and I didn't bother to continue acknowledging him after that and continued on our walk. Thanks, buddy. Way to make a girl feel stunning.

That's Right. It's Exactly What it Sounds Like.

We are nearing the end of one of my favourite events in Saskatoon, the Taste of Saskatchewan. Every summer restaurants from all over the city gather on the river to set up tents and present samples of their wares for the price of a few tickets. Many restaurants take the opportunity to show off some of their best and most delicious specialties, one of which I'm only allowed to eat once a year.
I am of course referring to the deep fried mars bar. That's right. It's exactly what it sounds like. They take a mars bar, dip it in batter, deep fry it, and sprinkle icing sugar on top. I doubt you've tasted anything more intense, or delicious in your whole life. In fact, it's so intense that you really won't want more than one. In many cases half of one is plenty. In any case, no matter how sick it makes me each year I always go back for another when summer roles around again. It's one of those decadent treats we all must allow ourselves at one time or another.

It's That Time Again...

Every year, just after the mid point of summer, something strange starts to happen to me. I start to long for the delicious and wicked escapades of Halloween. All of a sudden I'm surfing through the Martha Stewart website, reading up on delightful Halloween crafts, recipes and decorations. (She may be a bitch but damn that girl knows how to celebrate Halloween!) I can't help it. I know I shouldn't want summer to end, there are way too many months of winter as it is, but I just love Halloween so much. And yet again, the longing has started to come upon me and soon I will be counting down the days until I can turn my yard into a haunted graveyard.

Perhaps You Should Get Your Head Examined

For those of you who don't know, I'm a twin. Over the years my sister and I have had to deal with a lot of stupid questions, including "can you read each others thoughts?" and my personal favourite, "when you eat does she get full?" (yes that actually happened) To the latter my sister politely responded that he should have his head examined. The truth is, it's been great. It's not often that one is born already having a best friend in the universe. I never had to suffer through the first day at school alone, or worry about having someone to sit with in the cafeteria. Not to mention, she has to put up with me because we're family. Nope, no getting rid of me. She's also a constant source of entertainment. Take for example, the voicemail message she left me today.

"Dear (insert my name here),
Didn't you know you aren't allowed to work when I want to phone and talk to you? I wanted to chat with you and you're not there. Boo.
I just got finished up about, I don't know, ten-fifteen minutes ago with my second roofing quote. Okay, do you remember the first one? Well you know, shoot! speaking of which, oh my God she's probably screwing me! But at least I had a little more confidence in it. This one - okay number one priced fabulous! Guess how much it was. Guess. Guess. Guess. Lower than that, probably. I don't know what you're guessing. It was over $5000 less than the other one and the other one didn't include tax!
So, anyway I was talking with him, and there's a couple of things. I was waiting for him to notice the same things she did and he did notice some of the same things so okay that gives me a little bit more confidence but underneath there in this one spot it was quite obviously rotted and he's like, "oh no, no, I think that's just staining and stuff like that" and I'm like, "well if you get up there and it is rotted, how much will that be?" and then it would only be another $200. 'Cause I told him I was pretty sure it was rotted. And it's not including all of the things that she would have done but that's not a big deal.
So I wanted to discuss all these things with you and talk about the shoe party coming up because well, I wanted to plan some logistics and talk about all the people coming but you're not there. So yeah, I'm talking to myself. Well, to an answering machine but pretty much to myself. I will, I guess, try you later. Bye!

Small side note, I actually had to cut some stuff out. I know. My sister is the queen of the extensively long voicemail message. In conclusion, we're similar in a lot of ways. We're both hilarious, bitchy, judgmental, and gloriously beautiful. (Obviously we're modest as well. But hey, how can I resist complimenting someone who's identical to me? It's being nice and stroking your own ego at the same time. AKA win-win)

The Art of Avoiding the Sleazebags

Sometimes it's tough in my current line of work. There are a lot of clients (mostly male) that make me thoroughly and completely uncomfortable. My boss isn't the most understanding when it comes to my aversion to certain clients, after all, without them coming out and doing something obviously inappropriate I have only my gut feeling as evidence. It shouldn't matter to him any way. I pay rent to use my room and as long as it gets paid every month I don't see how my earning it concerns him.
I was always taught in massage school that you didn't need a reason to refuse treatment to a client, that your comfort level was just as important as theirs. If they made you uncomfortable in any way, you didn't need a reason to stop seeing them. Unfortunately, that's not the case. It's hard to have that tough conversation with a client in which you refuse service to them simply because they creep you out. Scratch that, it's impossible. So, I've had to come up with an alternative to being professional and handing out the unaltered truth. I alter it. That's right. I lie my ass off.
Take today for example. My boss phoned me yesterday and during the course of our conversation he casually mentioned that a client I despise had booked with me for the next evening. Now in normal circumstances that would suck, but this time was especially bad. He had taken the time slot when I would be completely alone with him in the clinic, everyone else having already gone home for the night. This especially bothered me because I found him all sorts of creepy. So creepy, that if policemen showed up on my doorstep and told me that he'd been arrested for being a serial killer I wouldn't be surprised.
I fretted and fussed all evening long until my sister made everything simple. She turned to me and said,
"Can't you just cancel?"
Hmmm, why couldn't I cancel? Why the hell did I feel like I needed a reason? For God's sakes I had one! He creeped me the fuck out!
The next day I called him and told him one hell of a beauty of a lie. I told him that my boss had not seen my note saying I was no longer working in the evenings and booked him in by mistake. And sorry to say, I simply could not stay late due to the fact that it was my grandfather's birthday and I couldn't miss it. (That's one of the things I love about writing, it's the perfect practice for lying). Needless to say he wasn't pleased. He couldn't make it out any other time but the evenings so sadly, we could no longer see each other. Delicious!
One creep down, oh so many more to go.

Another Day in the Life of a Massage Therapist

Sometimes life isn't as bad as usual. Take today. I thought it was going to be terrible, but as it turns out I was wrong. First I went to the clinic where I work and did a treatment, then I did something I've never done before. I made a house call. Generally this is always off the table due to the possibility of being caught in some sleazebag's house, and because it's just plain inconvenient to cart all of your stuff around to other people's houses. I made an exception today for several reasons. First of all, it was for a woman who is a good friend of my sister's. Secondly, the massages were for her three young sons and her brother who has a learning disability. Obviously it would be more convenient for everyone involved if I came to her. So I did. I wasn't too excited about it, but it turned out that it was a great experience.
The woman's brother was really nervous, he hadn't had a massage in at least twenty five years but he was in a lot of pain. He explained to me how much it hurt and where and eventually we got him up on the table and I went to work. Forty five minutes later I was done. He exclaimed that he was so relaxed that he didn't want to get up off the table so I told him to take his time and relax and went to talk to his sister. After updating her on his condition she went off to help him off the table. When they came up the stairs her brother was wiping away tears and was all embarrassed. At first I thought I'd done a terrible job or something but his sister gave me the biggest smile I'd ever seen, so I decided all must be okay. I treated her sons and afterwards when we were alone she told me that all her brother could talk about when he was lying on the table was how good he felt and when he stood up he burst into tears because his pain was gone. He had insisted to his sister that there wasn't enough money in the world that they could pay me for what I'd done and told her that anything less than a thousand dollars would be robbing me. Now obviously I would never have accepted so much money but I was thoroughly touched by his appreciation. It turned out it was a pretty good day.

Why I Hate My Job

I hate my job. I hate being a massage therapist. Why you may ask? After all, I'm my own boss, I only work four days a week and only for six hours shifts. Why would I hate my job SO much? Well, let me sum it up for you.
Last Tuesday a man came in for an hour and a half massage. He wanted a full body treatment and I of course complied. Near the end of the massage I was working on his quadriceps (or quads - it's the front upper thigh). When I got to the right side I draped the sheet so that his thigh was exposed and started working. As I was working my way up his leg I looked up and was shocked at a most unwelcome sight. The tip of his penis was exposed. How that could possibly have happened I didn't know, because I am a very careful draper. I quickly took the sheet and pulled it over the exposed body part, making sure to tuck carefully so he wouldn't come loose again. He immediately fiddled around until he was exposed again. I covered him again. He moved again. Thus the massage went on until the end. At no point did he say anything inappropriate or hint that he wanted me to do anything with it, but just the same I was thoroughly uncomfortable. I have no idea if it was on purpose or not, but the fact is it would not have kept popping out if he wasn't at least semi-hard. Ick.
Today I had another male client who makes me thoroughly uncomfortable. He is constantly telling me that he'd be comfortable completely naked and undraped on the table. Yeah, you might not mind but I sure as hell do! Today he seemed to try extra hard to get me to see him naked. The door to my treatment room has a window that's all blurry and makes everything look like colorful blobs. Having given my client plenty of time to get situated on the table I came and knocked on the door to see if he was ready. I could see from the window that he was standing completely naked (due to the vertical, human skinned shape) and he told me to come in. I told him that I would wait for him to get on the table and he kept calling that he didn't mind. Again, you might not mind but I sure as hell do! He got himself up on the table but refused to cover himself. I know what you're thinking, I should have thrown him out right there but sadly it's not that simple. I entered the room, immediately covered him with the sheet and did the massage without incident. The worst part was the smell. The man bathes in cologne. It's so strong I can feel it burning in my nose. The entire hour was spent mouth breathing and fighting back a sneeze. So very unpleasant.
That is why I hate my job, because of the clients.