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.