Blame It On the Economy

My beautiful, pristine, 11-year-old Chevrolet Lumina’s windshield was attacked by what I think was a meteor the other day. In my panic, I had a brilliant idea. I would put lipstick (it was the handiest) on the glass at the end of the gash to measure the speed of the spread. But by the time I opened and aimed the tube while driving 70mph to keep up with traffic (not one to cause problems, after all), the crack had already grown a couple of inches and was continuing to spread. Into my 10 and 2 region. I reached my destination, but I'm sure I could’ve easily died a fiery death. With shards of windshield in my head and lipstick in my hand. 

Apparently, the replacement glass industry is a competitive one hit hard by the economy, because while still getting estimates, I received a few callbacks lowering the price. The winning bid was $150. Speaking of lipstick (on a pig), I now have a shiny, new windshield on a car whose floors are coming apart, whose Service Engine Light never goes off, and whose fuel efficient days of youth are long gone.

Waiting on it to be fixed, the shop owner explained his economical situation (people do like to do this, thus this post, I s’pose): a big chunk of his business depends on the trucking industry and when people buy less, truckers truck less and need less repairs. His biggest customer has parked a third of its fleet. 

Sad.

Closer to personal, I have a friend who is looking for a new contract. His talent is in work as a Business Analyst. He was recently sent on an interview requiring a tie. A tie!! And we laughed (instead of crying) about a recent email about a job touting a pay range of $18 - $22 an hour. He has four children! And they’re girls!! The really expensive kind of kid. 

Sad. 

And I can’t remember the last time I was called or emailed about a technical writing job. The number of corp-to-corp.com emails in my inbox has even dwindled. I’ve never expressed interest in any of their projects, but it was oddly comforting to know that India was still doing AOK in the IT industry. 

So, all this to say that I am determined to get my project off the ground this fall. I have a November 1st launch date in mind, because that date screams the beginnings of the number 1. It keeps me occupied and hopeful, if nothing else. I especially enjoy the creative work and the conversations with freelance artists. This project is my company. Hopefully, in the professional sense, too. Wouldn’t that be nice!

I don’t want to talk about it too much, because I have a hard time keeping the faith about my own endeavors. I am being professionally coached through this process, and that’s been priceless. I want to write about that here, but I’m also having a hard time writing this month. Growing up is hard. And, boy howdy and stomping feet, how I’ve been forced to grow this month. The initial relief from all the moving and settling chores has been replaced by some discombobulation and sadness. I haven’t lived in a tiny place of my own for….well….ever. It’s just awkward. Everywhere I turn, there I am. And the silence. Sheesh. They're right, it's deafening.

Oh well, Interwebs. Thanks for listening. I think October will be better. It’s my favorite month of the year. I make lists and plan for the upcoming year. I love the falling temps and falling leaves and football and cocoa and tiny town festivals and sweaters and long pants and socks in bed and Halloween candy and the scary smell of a groggy heater. I even love remembering long drives with a boy. Thank God all that sort of nostalgia is usually gone by November, but it is nice to feel a little girl-y for a month every year. Plus, my mother always comes around in some way on the 17th of every October to teach me something grand. 

I hope October begins a new season for this country (and world), too. We all could use some more hope for 2010.

Five weeks, four - teebajillion lists, three moves, two deaths, but only one meltdown in a pear tr......er, cubicle

I love a good list. I love making it, I love organizing it by time of day or priority, and I especially love crossing things off it. So, you can imagine how happy I’ve been the last five weeks. Moving me. moving my son and moving half the house to the Homeless Veterans Foundation has required lists to keep up with lists that keep up with other lists. Two households since July 15th. Dependencies that require spreadsheets. Too many phone calls with Customer Service. Too much cleaning. Documentation. And sweating. Yes, some sweating has occurred. But the lists! The silver lining in it all.

Everything ended last Tuesday with my driving away from Bloomington to my new tiny home with no television. I should be grieving now, but I’m not. Last year involved two weeks of unexpected crying jags. This year, nothing. Just relief. Relief at nothing to do, nothing to think about, nothing to worry about. Not even dinner or finagling around someone else’s nighttime work schedule or what silly reality TV show is gonna tick me off for being on the air in the first place.

Until today. Some song played that I don’t know the name of but remember being popular during a particularly emotional time of my life. And there it was taking its sweet time: the meltdown. It’s natural, I know, and there could be more to come.

But, the spawn is happy. Instead of a shrug and a “whatever”, I hear about him handling his new life with a spring in his step. It’s fun for me to think about. It’s the one thing I’ve really hoped for. So, that has minimized the sadness of it all.

Although, if I continue to connect the dots of grief, I have resorted to watching a few DVDs of Season One of the Brady Bunch. The ones when the kids were young and just starting their new family and Mike and Carol couldn’t keep their hands off each other, especially when they were answering the front door together.

Yea, I’d say there could be more meltdowns to come. When I start watching Mary Tyler Moore again with my usual glee at her life, I’ll know I’ve weathered the storm and made it, after all.

My How The Years Have Flown

Dammit, it seems that I’ve become attached to my son again and just in time for his August repeat departure. I swore this wouldn’t happen. In fact, how did it happen? It shouldn’t have, because we had some severe growing pains and a few not-so-clean fights this summer. I never thought in May that I’d feel this way by July. But, here he goes. Again.

I wonder now, while it is still July, how my separation period will compare to last year's. Then, I was better in a week or two. Now, it could take longer, because this is a real move (for the both of us). It involves purging and separating our stuff and purchasing new grown-up stuff and putting rent payments and utilities in his name. And for two full years. And, likely, for good.

Plus, I’m going to the south-side of things – where’s the attraction in that? At least this year I had the north on my side. He’d come home for a few days just to be within crawling distance of his friends. I do still have the dog, but she wasn’t much of a draw last year no matter how hard I tried (I’d send pictures, I’d even put her on the phone and give play-by-plays when I made him say HEY to her, but nothing ever was enough to come home very often). The bed and the quiet were the only real sellers, and he’s taking those with him.

Although, he will have his truck with him this year…..and a house with five other college boys. Maybe my stock will go up in time for the holidays. In the meantime, I'll watch you go and wish you oodles of happiness. Be a good boy and make lots of friends and be nice to the girls and have lots of fun and learn lots of biological stuff. And call me and the dog on Sunday afternoons.

Something Wicked (Good) This Way Comes

The best birthday in a while. Lovely dinner(s). Only people I like came near my work area. Wishes from people who mean an awful lot to me. Surprise wish from someone I haven't thought of in a while, but am so glad that she thought of me. A few cards including a pretty darn funny one about being old. My father's didn't, for which I am grateful because I really hope he's moved on. My son called and said, "Happy, Happy Birthday". Not only did he remember, but TWO Happies! I'm convinced he wants something, but I'll think about that another day. Nobody anywhere near me in Target and when I asked the checkout lady where the restroom was, she said, "Go ahead and go. You'll feel better, and I'll just save your place." That called for peanut M&Ms. Gas at $2.19. Nary a road riot. Brady Bunch (luvs) cards and a note from Austin. The return of thoughtfulness? UPS man delivered my new Rob Thomas CD, Once, and Quinn Cummings' first book. And then a second UPS man (the theme of two treats in one continues) came with new chair covers. Visa back to zero. Clean sheets. Clean dog. And just now, the little family of bunnies hopping and playing in the freshly cut grass. I guess they're as happy as I am about the 60-degree, breezy evening. I don't know what all this goodness means, but I'm diggin' it and figure it has to be the start of something really big.

It's Not Unusual

I do love a road trip. Tom flies in from Vegas, sometimes another place depending on his schedule but usually Vegas, and we get to spend a few uninterrupted hours together. After saying our hellos and flipping through inserts together, I slide his shiny, still too cool for school self into the little slot in the dashboard and off we go.

He sings and I listen. I sing and he just keeps singing. I talk and he professes his love in so many different ways – each about three minutes long and separated by tiny moments of silence for reflection. I like to reflect on his hairy chest and unbuttoned white satin shirt with the ruffles, and he likes to reflect on my crackerjack driving skills and uncanny knack for navigation.

We laugh (oh, how we laugh when we pass the sign for Stinking Creek Road somewhere in Tennessee) and we reminisce about our other road trips together.

Most of our time is spent talking and singing about life and love. I say I’ll never let him go (meaning, I won’t leave him when I return the car to Hertz), and he says that he’ll turn the tide for me with his hands (tide, maybe, but apparently ol’ Thunderball can’t do anything about the yay-hoos going 55mph in the left lane).

At this, we laugh some more. He takes a sip of scotch (I’m driving) and starts singing “She’s A Lady”. I am reminded of how much he really does mean to me, so I pat his little jewel case, take back the unladylike namecalling and graciously accept the turning of the tide. 

Stay until tomorrow? No, I know. We say our goodbyes and he heads back to work. I take one last look as I put him back on the top shelf and can't help but smile. Till next time, young man, till next time. 

Happy Birthday, You, Wherever You Are

June 25th, nineteen years ago, at 1:23pm, Austin interrupted a particularly good episode of All My Children by FINALLY insisting on being born. If you see him, please, please, please sing to him. As loud as you can. And, preferably, while squeezing his cheeks. He loves that.

With each of his big events of late (18th birthday, graduation, the dropping off at college scenario, and so on), I post this video*, because it fits how I feel. I couldn't be happier about the man he's become, but I couldn't be sadder about his getting older and dragging me with him.

*Yes, I do other maternal stuff, too, like researching banana pudding recipes (which will hopefully go from research to implementation phase before June ends), putting a check inside a card (which is much more personal than transferring money at ourbank.com), and making reservations (nothing says "I love you" like a McCormick and Schmick's dinner).

Hillbilly Papa-razzo

I live in an area of Indianapolis known as Meridian Hills. It is within the city limits and is considered a more than decent place to live. Mostly professionals, mostly folks with a little money (I moved here for the school district and am in on a "just passing through" technicality).

The name is a little misleading, because you'd have to drive the area for an hour or so to find an actual hill. BUT, you can easily find the hillbilllies. They're next door to me.

When I talk about my neighbors, one might think I live in the sticks. It'd be an understandable conclusion, because it is exactly where they should be. They are recently retired campers. Not RVers, just campers. Their favorite place to go is the campground (and not "the new one") in Gulf Shores, Alabama (lookie there, favorite and Alabama in the same sentence!). They practice casting (throwing a fishing pole, right?) in the backyard. They have gobs of family over almost every day. They have a little fishing boat behind the camper and an overgrown diesel truck in their extended driveway. Sometimes, they rip the tarp off the boat and sit in it with the grandkids. (Don't they have video games to play with like normal children?) Recently, they repaved their driveway and had a big hoe-down in the front yard, grillin', sippin', I'm assuming spittin', and watchin' the tar dry.

Not much goes on in our backyard. Mostly just getting in and out of our cars, dog business, and lawn mowing. But, boy howdy, when something happens, it's like we're movie stars.

Today, we had someone cut up and haul off our downed tree (which every member of their extended family has come in the yard to get an up-close and personal look-see. Maybe they're hoping for Jesus or the Virgin Mary in it or something). When it was cleared and the man had gone, we went outside to approve the job and do a tiny bit of leftover clean-up. I glanced in the neighbor's general direction and saw a big ol' shadow in the screened-in porch. The hillbilly Papa. Just staring and not even flinching when we saw him.

Then, I stood outside and chatted with the cable repairman for a minute or two. And there ol' Pap was again. Unnerving me and cramping my style.

Later, I pulled up in my rental car for my trip to Charlotte for work tomorrow and there he was again. I'm not even sure he went inside. I don't know if or when his shift ends.

Maybe I should throw him a line. He must be drowning in boredom if we're something to see.

Moving Out of the Taj Mahal, The Trilogy

I’ve always heard that bad things come in threes. Since Friday at high noon, I’ve had my three and it better damn well stop there. (It's important to mention how much my kooky landlord thinks of his 1968 3BR, 2BA ranch-style house (although he doesn't spend a dime on maintenance of it - he's complicated like that). He has called me several times over the past two years to check on critical things like the paint, the bushes and the dishwasher. I pray that someday this man has children to worry about this much - no, scratch that, he'd ruin 'em.) 

Friday AM: Landlord receives email I sent Monday about lease non-renewal. He’s ticked. I can hear it when he tells me I’ll be showing the property, he’ll be “inspecting” the property for damages, and that he already has 20 inquiries he’s told to drive by and look at it.

Friday 5PM: First prospect he's given the address to pulls up in driveway, looks for cars in the parking area behind the house, looks in dining room window and leaves.

Friday 7PM: Kitchen sink explodes. When I turn the garbage disposal off, a Yellowstone geyser of water shoots up. Email to landlord (telling him it could indeed be our fault, not sure) and explain again about reasonable notice and my disdain for peeping toms.

Friday 10PM: Tree falls on power line to house, cutting power, cable, phone wires. It’s still 86 degrees outside with 75% humidity.

Saturday 11AM: Cancel my plans to leave for Charlotte. Make reservations at nearby hotel that accepts pets. Call insurance for ideas, etc. High volume on everything due to storm. May hear back next week.

Saturday 2PM: Call landlord about tree. It was like his own limb had been cut off. “We’re fine. Thanks for asking.” (to imaginary "How are you guys? Is everyone okay?")

Saturday 3PM: Check into hotel and cool off. Kindly send pics of tree to landlord for his homeowner’s insurance. “You’re welcome.” (to an imaginary "Thank you.")

Saturday 7PM: Drive back to house to pick up something I had forgotten. Note in the door from someone named Mark who wanted to see the house. Call Mark to find out what landlord had told him (apparently "Stop by! Knock on the door! Look in the windows! Check it out!"). Mark is drunk. And Mark left a trail of roofing nails in the driveway. Leave landlord another voice mail about this idiot and BEG him to make appointments after July 1st (45 days from move-out date according to lease) and not to give out the address anymore.

Saturday 8PM: IPL pulls up while I’m fuming at the house and restores power.

Saturday 11:30PM: Landlord returns call from 7PM and leaves pissy voice mail telling me all the things I owe him because he's been such a good guy. ("Remember how I had the heater replaced when it died that one dead o' winter time?" "Remember how I lowered your rent 6.84% the second year to keep you from moving after the first year?") 

Sunday 7:30AM: Check out of hotel, return things to fridge, and leave for work.

Sunday 11AM: Still trading email barbs with landlord. He thinks he’s done me great favors and I think he's silly. He's ticked that I'm ticked and now I'm ticked that he's ticked. He has now added “lawyer” to “inspector” on his list of professionals he’s going to contact about me. Uhhhh, okay.

Is this still just three? 

Update: Sink issue not my fault or responsibility. Looking so forward to another shit storm of whine from landlord when he gets rent check (less costs). 

This post was tedious, just me venting and has nothing to do with anything. I know this and am now as bored with myself as anyone reading this. 

Who Me?

I turned in a freelance assignment that I thought was pretty good. I added a little pizzazz, a little TGIF flair, if you will. Hip, happening, now kind of stuff. Just the right amount of (subtle) cuteness.

Of course, like any insecure writer would, I kept checking the site to see if he had posted it. Finally, around 9pm, there it was. But it didn’t sound like my piece. Truth be told, I didn’t even recognize it.

I was a little discouraged, because he must have edited the heck out of my work. And, if I’m honest, it was a whole lot better his way.

And then……

I opened up my original and he had only changed two words! Combined a couple of sentences with an “and”, but only changed two words.

So, two things: (1) I don’t even recognize my own writing and (2) Either he was that tired or I was that good. You can imagine the conclusion I have to draw here.

What'cha Doin'?

I guess with age comes the loss of things. Most notably friends. Lives change, people change, goals change, heck, even our personalities change. I’ve lost eight friends in the 21st century and, even though I’m sure it’s natural and the way God intended, every ending has stung a bit.

Last night, I woke up from a sound sleep at 3:18 AM thinking of one former friend in particular. Now, of course, I will worry about her for days and never know why.

There were signs that year that things were going to end. She was busy, and I think I became more of an obligation. We had less in common and were growing apart. I think we both knew it was time. We didn’t exactly lose touch, as they say, we just stopped all forms of communication. There was no talk about it, no warning about it, it just happened. Our last conversation was Thanksgiving Day 2006.

At the time, I thought it was especially bad timing, because she had recently won somewhat of a genetic lotto. Her father sold his business, and each of his three kids received millions of dollars. To this day, I’m afraid she may think the friendship ended because of money. Ironically, we had a lengthy conversation not too long before about how she’d soon find out who her real friends were.

Looking back on it, though, God knew what he was doing and ended this relationship at the perfect time. There’s no way we could have lasted. I’m a single mom, working multiple jobs, saving, paying for college. In a nutshell, she’s not. I would not have reacted well in any conversation about grand vacations and surgeries and jewelry and days, weeks, months, years with little to no responsibilities. I was happy for her, don’t get me wrong, but I don’t think I would have been able to appreciate the details. I’m probably wrong and small for that, but maybe I get points for honesty. Plus, I'm awfully glad I didn't have the opportunity to embarrass myself.  

She was so important to me during the divorce from my father. She made jokes at all the right times. We came up with elaborate and hilarious schemes for his (and his wife’s) demise (yes, two middle-aged women sitting in a parking lot planning all sorts of Fargo-type things) . She just sat there in silent and supportive agreement when I busted out in uncontrollable crying in the middle of one conversation I’ll never forget. She made the hurt of it all more bearable, and she made me feel validated and like I mattered when I knew I didn’t. Heck, even her mother got on board, and she was sure to let me know that at least one parent on the planet wuv’d me! I like to think I was a good friend during her nasty separation and divorce from her ex-husband and oodles of recurring family drama.

She was funny, sharp as a tack, and the most effortlessly kind-hearted person I know. I hope she’s well and happy and enjoying her life, her son, her new house and her family. I miss her. And I know it’s the way it’s meant to be.

But I do wonder what she might have been up to at 3:18 AM.

Lucky Charms

This morning, while stopped in an intersection waiting for an extended family of Canadian geese to cross the road, I started thinking about life in my potential new condo.

While I’m not thrilled about it, I am thrilled about it. There’s a pros and cons list, as with anything, but I think the advantages far outweigh the disadvantages. 

• It has a little spot for Sabrina to sit in the sun and take care of first thing in the morning and last thing at night business. 
• It has huge closets for stuff. 
• It has a good-sized enclosed porch area out front (with a front door an acceptable distance from anyone else's front door) and a deck out back. 
• It has fantastic new windows. 
• No kids. No basketball hoops. 
• It has a really 1970s kitchen which will probably limit my time in there (a very good thing). 
• It’s about half the monthly expense I’m used to. 
• I can still call someone when something breaks or gets a hangnail. 
• It’s closer to the highway and the airport for easier escape. 
• It’s a nudge out of Indy (no complaints, lovely place, but in the wise, wise words of Supertramp, "I really have enjoyed my stay, but I must be moving on"). 
• There are five people in this block of condos: The single elderly man on the end has recently been put on oxygen (so you know he barely moves and certainly won’t be sawing or hammering things). His single lady neighbor is a retired professor and walks dogs for folks. 
• Then, and this is the weightiest of all: the people who would be on either side of me. I know the neighbor on one side - a cool, single, retired lady who spends lots of her time traveling and working on research projects. The neighbor on the other side is a single male - a prosecuting attorney with grown and gone children who, rumor has it, hates noise! I love him already.

With all of this written, the cons hardly deserve a mention. Austin won’t be thrilled because it’s not a hop, skip and a jump to Broad Ripple, but hey and like he says, my decisions aren’t about him anymore.

So now I’m off to buy the most special-est of notebooks, because I have my first of six summer coaching sessions Monday, and I can’t wait to write down all I learn about creating my new life.

Nothing To Say

And He's Back

Austin got news recently that a great aunt in Atlanta committed suicide. She left no note, had just remarried her ex-husband and was preparing for her son to return from Iraq at the end of the month. Austin didn’t really know her and neither did I when I was married to his father, but it’s sad all the same.

“Dad called and told me that he went to the wake today. Betty’s son was there. They let him come home early to attend the funeral. Ironic, huh?”

“Yea, that is so sad. Poor kid.”

“He has a bunch of stuff in California, so he and his father are going to fly out there to get it and then take some time to drive back and see the country.”

“Oh, that’ll be FUN.”

“What?”

“I’d love to do that. Wouldn’t you?”

“Uhhh, I think it’s supposed to help the kid get over his mother blowing herself up with a shotgun. Nice, Mother. Very nice.”

“Oh, yea. I didn’t mean FUN fun. I just meant that it would be a cool trip to take.”

“AGAIN, Mother, the woman is dead.”

“Jeez. When did you get all caring and sensitive?”

“I’m going out.”

“You didn’t answer my question. Wouldn’t you like to take a trip like that?”

“Not with you, so don’t even ask.” (smiling)

“We had fun in New York.”

“This would be in a car. For days.”

“We could find the big ball of twine.”

“I’m leaving.”

“Fine, Get out.”

“Exactly.”

I Choose Ed

I used to be a really good griper. Now, I’m a more of a mediocre whiner. Ever since I saw a documentary about Ethiopian women, incontinent from being hung from trees to give birth, the joy has sort of gone from my griping, making it sound nasally, insignificant and feeble, a.k.a., whiny.

My latest whine is about my neighbor, Ed. I don’t know him, nobody I know knows him, but everybody knows his name, I assume because there have been discussions about him. See, Ed mows his lawn at night. The minute the sun goes down, and not a minute sooner, Ed turns on his back porch light, as if to warn us, and starts up the riding mower.

It takes Ed about two hours to finish. In a neighborhood where driveways are within crawling distance of each other and ON A RIDING MOWER. I think it’s because Ed likes to mulch. A lot. Although I can’t be sure, I’m just trying to make sense of it all.

His yard is like mine – there’s natural growth all over it. It’s not pristeen, is what I mean to say. Why he has to go over the same spot ten times to cut it into the tiniest blades of grass possible is beyond me. But he does. I thought possibly Ed had skin cancer and didn't have an SPF suitable for, say, dusk, but my son saw him leave with golf clubs at high noon the other day. So, Ed plays golf during the day, but must mow grass in the dark. Oh, Ed.

Last night, the mower cut off at exactly 10:23pm. I was fuming at 9:23pm, so you can imagine. I just hate what seems idiotic. We’re supposed to embrace each other’s differences, but I can’t embrace crap like this.

Anyway, at 10:24pm, I let the dog outside and, standing on the deck to wait for her, I heard thumping. Fairly distant but all too familiar thumping. A few houses down, I saw floodlights and boys and the ball attempting to get through the hoop. Basketball. BUT...not next door. I suddenly had a new appreciation for Ed.

(The worst neighbor I will ever have was a basketball player. I support the passage of any bill banning basketballs in neighborhoods and radios and perfume in offices. Seriously, punishable by death or at least isolation.)

So, these were my choices. Which would I rather have? Ethiopian incontinence, Basketball Boy Jones, or Ed? Yea, God, I get it.

Doomed: Technical Writing

Yesterday, someone knocked on my cubicle’s imaginary door (done by saying, “knock knock” as you stand in the opening) and asked, “Can I ask you a technical writing question?” We chuckled, like it would be rocket science. “I have an assignment in my writing class at school and I’m not sure. Do you spell out enclosures at the bottom of a business letter?”

Huh?

Come to find out, this teacher of hers – first semester teaching at her school since transferring from Ivy Tech ( need I say more) – is lumping all non-creative writing into one and calling it technical writing.

Bloody fantastic. Way to go, teach. Way to bring an entire field’s rates down. Thanks.

I’ve never written a business letter, but I want to now. I wonder: do you spell out YAY-HOO or is there an abbreviation?

Again, not that technical writing is rocket science. It’s not. But, the few of us who actually have serious and lengthy technical backgrounds should be offended by what’s happening to the field. We should speak up every time someone lumps us in with secretaries. If not, we’ll all be fighting for $20/hour jobs soon. That’s when I start handing out straws and asking for folks' side item choices. 

Saturday Morning Commercials

I can’t tell you the last time I was in public at 8am on a Saturday, but if it weren’t for the get-up-and-go required, I’d do it more often. Despite being chilly and windy, a friend and I visited the Broad Ripple Farmers’ Market. A lot of the good stuff was gone, but I got some great tomatoes. (What are grocery store tomatoes made from anyway? I can’t really tell, but whatever it is, it’s a far cry from tomato seeds (or however that works)). I think this market will be great once the season really kicks in.

The Fresh Market at College and 54th was the nicest shopping experience I’ve had in a while, too. (I went to Marsh later in the day for something in particular and barely got out alive.) They have a lot of the typical things but a bushel of the unexpected.

And I don’t know what happened to The Barking Dog Café, but it’s much better now than it was last year. A purple and orange (I know, but it works) theme, new awnings, new tables and chairs, and a crab roll to rival any I’ve tasted (not that I’m a connoisseur).

Speaking of not being a connoisseur, when Austin and I went to Ogunquit a few years ago, we could not stop talking about our fantastic meal at the Fisherman's Catchin nearby Wells. Well, and this says a lot about us as human beings, of course, the Fisherman’s Catch was just named top Maine restaurant by Yankee Magazine. See? We’re something, I know.

My Saturday morning friend turned me on to Farm Fresh Delivery. At this point, it might sound like I'm trying to be all obnoxious hoity-toity green, but I don't mean to - I've just always loved the idea of supporting small, local businesses. Anyway, she tried another local CSA last year, but wasn’t crazy about the inflexibility. FFD has lots of customization options. Hell, they even have soup. Tomato and basil soup with roasted pine nuts. Yea, I’m in.

Austin has been horizontal since he got home from finals Friday afternoon. I think he might get up today, though. It’s Mother’s Day, of course, and I think my present is weed-eating and possibly a pick-up at the Chinese dive up the street. Oh, happy day!! My yard- and take-out boy is back for the summer, and I'm taking advantage, because this could very well be the last one.

I just realized something odd. For the first time in my life, my tiny little collection of friends (which has changed and dwindled through the years as lots of things do) includes no mothers. Although, we’re all mommies to some awesome four-legged children, which makes us equally wonderful and lovable and deserving of the day. And our "kids" are probably better behaved and cuter and better spellers than half those human ones anyway. :)

Technical Writer Rates

Even though I’ve been doing this for a while, I’m still learning about the project “get”. Marketing is my most worrisome process due to some personality flaws, but, in these trying economic times, I’ve had to completely rethink contract rate negotiation.

Freelancing negotiation is fairly simple. Rate is always in the initial conversation and average rates have typically been researched by the company before contact. As long as both of you are in tune with the market, discussion can quickly focus on the project and how you fit.

When a contract agency calls, it can feel a little more like applying for a job. I’ve learned, though, that it’s best to throw out everything I’ve been taught about not discussing salary during a “real job” interview and talk rates right after both of us agree that I’m qualified, interested and available for the project. Details about the project and what I can bring to the table should come after the rate is negotiated. It’s been a fairly fast process, because rates have been competitive, limiting negotiation to just a few dollars.

But, throw in a recession and all bets are off. Contract jobs are less plentiful. As any business, contract companies depend on profit margins that, in turn, depend on volume. Less volume means more profit needs to come from fewer contractors.

Result: Contractor rates dive.

I didn’t think this through during a recent negotiation. I’m in the market for a new project, and I know opportunities aren’t coming my way as fast as they have in the past. So, I “interviewed” for something I was qualified for and would have enjoyed. A lot. And I never talked money.

When I was selected (yay!), I was told that their maximum 1099 hourly rate was $20 less than my minimum. They, of course, can depend on other, more unemployed, younger candidates, who will or can work for less. But what could I do?

How can we mid-career folks, who have responsibilities, who have worked every day for more than twenty years, who have struggled to make the middle-class money we make today, compete? The first answer that comes to mind is experience, of course. But, in contracting anyway, experience has little to no value in a recession. It’s a numbers game based on somebody else’s profit.

Lesson learned: More freelancing. More marketing. Less fear. Less whining.

Right. I’ll update this in July from the soup line all because of my ghastly fear of rejection.

Writing Encouragement

I have had the worst time getting back into the swing of my personal writing projects. In casual email with a writer friend who was also part of The Writer’s Success Group last fall, she encouraged me to sign up for the Free Write Fling that starts May 1st. And, today, she so kindly emailed with a link to the Vibration Magazine Blog for Using Flower Essences to Enhance Writing Projects.

I haven’t used flower essences for a few years now. A former college roommate and friend introduced me to them in 2003, and I wasn’t quite convinced. Funny, though, because I recall a good number of journal entries about feeling better about things in general.

So, my new creative, confident, fluid attitude should begin in 3-5 delivery days. The Fling starts on Friday, so I may struggle until I get my dosage right.

*There’s nothing in this world like a supportive writing group or friend. If you’re in Indianapolis, you may have to look outside the borders for this, but once you find one, hang on for dear life!