"I need a stay-at-home wife," I recently wrote my cousin.
I have worked outside the home for sometime now, but still find it a struggle to manage the professional routine without a stay-at-home mom. There's something about a mom at the house-- one that puts a cool hand on your forehead when you are ill, one that bakes cookies, that volunteers at school, and that mends the torn and worn clothes and stuffed animals. One that knows all the intimate details of a child since his or her birth. One that organizes everything. How does all this get done when Mom goes back to work?
There is a constant chorelist. So this week, I sat my daughter down before bed and thanked her for all she does to help maintain our home and pets. I told her I would increase her allowance on the condition that each day she complete a list of chores I give her after school-- many chores that normally I would do. The other night, she made the salad for dinner complete with chopping up vegetables, slicing eggs, shredding cheese, and adding spices. She set the table, folded laundered blankets, fed the rabbit, and walked the dog. She wrote her school supply list, sorted her current supplies, labeled her materials, and completed her homework to boot. And she did all of this cheerfully. Another night, she took care of the pets again, folded and dried more laundry, unloaded the dishwasher, set the table, and looked after her brother for a few minutes. She even prepared the fish for dinner one evening. Because she has undertaken all these things, we have been able to eat dinner early and still have enough time to run back-to-school errands before bedtime. While there are many things she cannot do yet (cook on the stove unsupervised, pay my bills, or raise Cain with a merchant over a badly written return policy), every bit of help she can give on the most minor of tasks relieves some of the burden of being a working parent.
My husband needs a man-at-home, too, I am sure he would say. Someone to open his mail, sort it according to priority, write out the bills, deal with insurance, wrestle with the IRS, mow the yard, mend whatever is broken, fertilize the lawn, change his tires, do his shopping, and iron his shirts. Too bad Tiny isn't 12 yet, not that I would ever trust him with an iron. He does little-man chores like feed the dog and make his bed. He can help put away groceries. Mostly, he is good at giving hugs and kisses, and both my husband and I can say that comforts any parent who works in or out of the home.
This evening, as I kissed my daughter good night and sat down to write, I thought, "You know, everything is going all right." Thanks to her, it really is.
Showing posts with label working women. Show all posts
Showing posts with label working women. Show all posts
Friday, September 7, 2012
Friday, July 22, 2011
"No Poo in the Office!" and Other Rules
Starting a new job has reminded me of all the critical lessons I have learned in former offices. For the sake of conserving time (working longer hours for someone else has cut into my creative time at home), let's just review the big three:
1. No poo in the office.
I never knew this was such a transgression, but apparently, in small offices where the restroom is located off the lobby, easing your bowels there may more noticeably perfume public areas. The first and only time I heard this rule was from one of my favorite managers so far, Ahmad, who in his slight Persian accent, would sing out, "No poo! There is no poo in the office!" One co-worker was so self-conscious about this that she would break into one of those deathly anus-clenching sweats trying to contain the urge as she ran out of the office to a gas station down the street. I grew so tired of watching what would one day be a catastrophic episode that I bought us each a bottle of some poo-be-gone product. You pump a few drops into the bowl before you go-- et voila! No trace of poo-scent. I still hear Ahmad in my head sometimes. He had other rules, such as no food at our desks, which I can understand, and no cold food at catered events, which I couldn't understand, but "No poo!" was my all-time favorite just because I loved hearing him say it.
2. Give the boss his space.
I worked for a man who was so tired of being bothered by staff during his lunch hour, that he would sit in the teacher lounge for his lunch and lock the teachers out--nevermind that the only grown-up potties were located in the teacher lounge and many of us were realllly reluctant to use the ones the middle schoolers were using. This guy did things like this to drive the point home, denying us privileges (or rights) when he felt we had overstepped various boundaries. His locking the lounge was done in conjunction with a lecture that he never bothered us on our lunch hour. I remember thinking about that during our first week of lock-down when he would locate me for work reasons during MY lunch time, but I was good and kept quiet about it. Needless to say, teachers quickly learned to give him private time at lunch, and ultimately we were allowed back into the breakroom.
3. Be punctual--but be reasonable about it.
A good friend of mine would get busted for this at a nanny job in the same way I once did years ago: Due to be back from lunch at 12:30 one day, I was yelled at for returning to my desk at... 12:32. No kidding. This man was such a control-freak that when he banned us from working over-time, I began to check into work fifteen minutes early and leave fifteen after the hour at the end of the day to accrue overtime discreetly. Very passive aggressive--but two and a half hours of overtime made a big difference in my little paycheck. He was a loathsome character who ran us into the ground. In the end, I got my revenge. I quit, turned him into his supervisor for his crazy behavior, and he was fired shortly thereafter. Years have passed, but I am still conscious to the minute about time at the office. Most of all though, I am conscious of crazy bosses.
Having a desk in an office building has reminded me of all the joys and pitfalls of working with others, but so far, my new office is a pleasant environment where I am, shockingly enough, valued. Adjusting to the fact that the rules aren't hard and fast in this new office is a bit of a shock, but I am acclimating. And as I gain more confidence in the new environment, and crawl out of my cubicle more, there will be stories to tell here. So far, what I do have to say about it is all good.
And we can poo. We can poo in the office.
1. No poo in the office.
I never knew this was such a transgression, but apparently, in small offices where the restroom is located off the lobby, easing your bowels there may more noticeably perfume public areas. The first and only time I heard this rule was from one of my favorite managers so far, Ahmad, who in his slight Persian accent, would sing out, "No poo! There is no poo in the office!" One co-worker was so self-conscious about this that she would break into one of those deathly anus-clenching sweats trying to contain the urge as she ran out of the office to a gas station down the street. I grew so tired of watching what would one day be a catastrophic episode that I bought us each a bottle of some poo-be-gone product. You pump a few drops into the bowl before you go-- et voila! No trace of poo-scent. I still hear Ahmad in my head sometimes. He had other rules, such as no food at our desks, which I can understand, and no cold food at catered events, which I couldn't understand, but "No poo!" was my all-time favorite just because I loved hearing him say it.
2. Give the boss his space.
I worked for a man who was so tired of being bothered by staff during his lunch hour, that he would sit in the teacher lounge for his lunch and lock the teachers out--nevermind that the only grown-up potties were located in the teacher lounge and many of us were realllly reluctant to use the ones the middle schoolers were using. This guy did things like this to drive the point home, denying us privileges (or rights) when he felt we had overstepped various boundaries. His locking the lounge was done in conjunction with a lecture that he never bothered us on our lunch hour. I remember thinking about that during our first week of lock-down when he would locate me for work reasons during MY lunch time, but I was good and kept quiet about it. Needless to say, teachers quickly learned to give him private time at lunch, and ultimately we were allowed back into the breakroom.
3. Be punctual--but be reasonable about it.
A good friend of mine would get busted for this at a nanny job in the same way I once did years ago: Due to be back from lunch at 12:30 one day, I was yelled at for returning to my desk at... 12:32. No kidding. This man was such a control-freak that when he banned us from working over-time, I began to check into work fifteen minutes early and leave fifteen after the hour at the end of the day to accrue overtime discreetly. Very passive aggressive--but two and a half hours of overtime made a big difference in my little paycheck. He was a loathsome character who ran us into the ground. In the end, I got my revenge. I quit, turned him into his supervisor for his crazy behavior, and he was fired shortly thereafter. Years have passed, but I am still conscious to the minute about time at the office. Most of all though, I am conscious of crazy bosses.
Having a desk in an office building has reminded me of all the joys and pitfalls of working with others, but so far, my new office is a pleasant environment where I am, shockingly enough, valued. Adjusting to the fact that the rules aren't hard and fast in this new office is a bit of a shock, but I am acclimating. And as I gain more confidence in the new environment, and crawl out of my cubicle more, there will be stories to tell here. So far, what I do have to say about it is all good.
And we can poo. We can poo in the office.
Tuesday, July 12, 2011
No Pantyhose Required
This past Friday, I started a new job (and my old one will now be sandwiched into the night shift at home). I am a proofreader working as a temp employee for a large firm. I have never worked for a corporation this large, and had always assumed such positions in well-established and grand firms came with a strict dress code. "If it's anything like Capital One," said my husband who had visited that office for a project recently, "there won't be a tie in sight."
For a liberal person, I find straying from conservative office-dress code to be a bit of a shock. After all, I grew up with stories of ladies wearing white gloves to go shopping on Canal Street and lived in the no-show era. The no-show era, as I term it, describes a time when it was considered in poor taste to have visible slips or bra straps, visible bobby pins, and visible toes--we weren't allowed to wear flip-flop style sandals anywhere except the beach. My mother always insisted on pantyhose, telling us that women who wore high heels without them were White trash (Yes, Mom, you did say that--don't make me call my sister to back me up!). In those days, even open-toe shoes required pantyhose, with the distasteful seam tucked uncomfortably under your toes. Simply stated, we were raised to dress. If Sundays required ironed skirts, camis and slips, stockings or hose, and styled hair, work was the weekday extension of churchy dress code. I even remember my mother objecting when we wanted to wear jeans to church; she herself was allowed to wear pants to work only on Mondays (which, in the museum world where she still works, is a house-cleaning and organization day).
Times have certainly changed. With advances in technology, all things to make our life more convenient and comfortable, so have we adapted the more convenient and comfortable method of dressing for work. Of course, I despise pantyhose, knowing that it was conceived by some man to torture American women. And I don't for one second miss the feeling of my toes curling against the pull of exceptionally rigorous and gut-squeezing nylon action. I don't miss the red line across my stomach where the hose attempted to cut me in half after lunch. And in particular, I do not at all miss how easily those things ran and were ruined. The expense of keeping my legs glazed with form-fitting plastic-based threads was ridiculous.
I can gladly say goodbye to the hose, but I still find casual Friday in an already business casual office to be a bit of surprise. This past Friday, a woman sailed past me on the stairs in her Bermuda shorts and flip flops. I just cannot go there, even in a former office where jeans were the norm, I still made sure that on a jeans day, the rest of me looked mighty polished. Maybe those norms die hard.
So this morning at the office, I checked my reflection. My make-up was understated and my jewelry complimented my sleeveless dress, which once-upon-a-time was a no-no as well. Feeling pretty and put-together, In my high-heeled open-toe sandals (no hose, thank you), I swished down the hall where I spotted a man with wildly waving hair splayed Einstein-like from his forehead and face, the hair in a thin halo down across his shoulders and back. Maybe he has a rock band on the weekends. Maybe he is the new model for anti-corporate-conformity in a corporate-comfort setting.
For a liberal person, I find straying from conservative office-dress code to be a bit of a shock. After all, I grew up with stories of ladies wearing white gloves to go shopping on Canal Street and lived in the no-show era. The no-show era, as I term it, describes a time when it was considered in poor taste to have visible slips or bra straps, visible bobby pins, and visible toes--we weren't allowed to wear flip-flop style sandals anywhere except the beach. My mother always insisted on pantyhose, telling us that women who wore high heels without them were White trash (Yes, Mom, you did say that--don't make me call my sister to back me up!). In those days, even open-toe shoes required pantyhose, with the distasteful seam tucked uncomfortably under your toes. Simply stated, we were raised to dress. If Sundays required ironed skirts, camis and slips, stockings or hose, and styled hair, work was the weekday extension of churchy dress code. I even remember my mother objecting when we wanted to wear jeans to church; she herself was allowed to wear pants to work only on Mondays (which, in the museum world where she still works, is a house-cleaning and organization day).
Times have certainly changed. With advances in technology, all things to make our life more convenient and comfortable, so have we adapted the more convenient and comfortable method of dressing for work. Of course, I despise pantyhose, knowing that it was conceived by some man to torture American women. And I don't for one second miss the feeling of my toes curling against the pull of exceptionally rigorous and gut-squeezing nylon action. I don't miss the red line across my stomach where the hose attempted to cut me in half after lunch. And in particular, I do not at all miss how easily those things ran and were ruined. The expense of keeping my legs glazed with form-fitting plastic-based threads was ridiculous.
I can gladly say goodbye to the hose, but I still find casual Friday in an already business casual office to be a bit of surprise. This past Friday, a woman sailed past me on the stairs in her Bermuda shorts and flip flops. I just cannot go there, even in a former office where jeans were the norm, I still made sure that on a jeans day, the rest of me looked mighty polished. Maybe those norms die hard.
So this morning at the office, I checked my reflection. My make-up was understated and my jewelry complimented my sleeveless dress, which once-upon-a-time was a no-no as well. Feeling pretty and put-together, In my high-heeled open-toe sandals (no hose, thank you), I swished down the hall where I spotted a man with wildly waving hair splayed Einstein-like from his forehead and face, the hair in a thin halo down across his shoulders and back. Maybe he has a rock band on the weekends. Maybe he is the new model for anti-corporate-conformity in a corporate-comfort setting.
Friday, June 10, 2011
Cafe Telecommute: Coffee, Company, and a Little Bit of Work
Working at the cafe allows me to accomplish a long stream of desk chores, creative writing, and work that home sometimes doesn't; laundry awaits there, the dog has needs, something cries out for cleaning. And here, where I currently sit clicking away at moderate speed, I listen to the music of voices, the clink of flatware on plates, the belching of steam from the coffee machine. The pleasant white noise of public conversation and dining relaxes me. And after coming here for almost a year, I have begun to know by sight many of the other telecommuters who park themselves in front laptops as they await their own steaming cups of java.
As my step-daughters will tell you, people-watching at this particular cafe is a blast. Today there is the ambling, shaggy-haired server who had one too many last night and could not remember to bring me my bagel, much less toast it. The sweeter of the two women who usually work the AM shift is behind the counter. She always smiles, and earlier this week shared with me conversation about what we endure comfort-wise to live in the aging homes of this historic town. The business people are here--some in suits and wound up tighter than a clock. They come with mouths clamped awaiting business partners, prospects, or interviews. The telecommuter crew like myself comes in dressed casually. Our body language is more relaxed at our ends of the tables. The unshaven gentleman to my left, in fact, legs sprawled apart as he half-reclines in the comfort of his t-shirt and shorts, is an example of that. And as I write, he has taken a business call, the nature of which completely contradicts his pose and dress. The woman to my right has come in to complete her Bible studies. She has folded her legs neatly to the side as she writes, her prim pearl earrings a perfect compliment to the tailored blazer that Jackie O would approve. Even her shoes have a swirl of blue that echoes the pale turquoise of her outfit.
My favorite people here are the crust punks. They come in wearing black or brown, but whether the fabric they sport initially started as that color is up for debate. Some boast burls of spiked or dreadlocked hair (some things White people shouldn't even attempt). The tattoo jocks visit here as well, their t-shirts blasting calligraphic swirls and designs that echo the ink illustrations embedded into their skin. The hairy-legged lesbian couple that comes in on occasion receives enthusiastic cheers from the crew working the barista bar. They are a genuine gender-plex and I am afraid to slip and say "ma'am" to one of them should we bump into each other.
At 10:45 AM, it's not too early for wine, according to the woman with the glass of Chardonnay across from me. Her husband, almost as wide as he is tall, has opted for a more breakfasty approach with his own toasty bagel and coffee. They sit beside each other as opposed to across from one another. The yoga students come and go, pecking at the counter for the vegan products (this is nearly entirely an organic-based foods cafe, by the way). Tired mothers trip in with chubby, bouncing babes in the crooks of their arms and chic retro-themed diaper bags slung across their shoulders.
On other days, I have met quite interesting people: the Italian who sells Italian products for restaurants, the private investigator who transports people safely away from their stalkers, a blogger who makes quirky cartoons of his cats and has a rather large following of like-minded folk. And there are the people that raise questions within me. The bleach-blonde short guy who comes in regularly to read on his Nook (I never see him working. What does he do?). And one day, I sat next to a young man in the most oddly mismatched outfit, the best part of which was his pair of screaming-orange capri pants. He slept with the hood of his parka across his eyes for the entire duration of my visit. Why was he so tired?
This cafe attracts a wide range of clients due to its location at the base of our walk-to-shop district in the center of town. We drink locally grown coffee and eat breads from independent bakers. A well-known local artist has a long painting of landscape and highway streaming down the length of one wall. A bank of windows lets in gentle light from the west. The counter crew, while they don't quite seem to know how to interact on a child-friendly level with my kids, has been kind enough to help me feed a local, homeless man.
Among the mismatched, quirky, gender-bending and the straight up and down, tightly bound conservatives, I have found a home here: or rather an office away from home without all the red tape and politics. I don't have to get along with these people. I just have to sit beside them and watch pleasantly at the little circus of life flowing through cafe doors. I can't think of a better place to finish a tedious project.
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
Business Speak and Defining Work
I took my work to a café and was sitting there, plugging away with research and draft corrections over a rich cuppajoe… the one from the $11,000 machine I blogged about earlier this month… and could not help but overhear the conversation of two businessmen interviewing each other next to me. While I heard words such as market, promotion, Wachovia, and software, the rest of the conversation was unintelligible. Each question one man asked the other was answered evasively and no concrete information was ever exchanged. Questions about one’s own activity were answered with a story about what an associate was doing. At the end, they shook hands, and thanked each other for the shared time, and promised to talk again soon. What was accomplished here? I think the meeting was an excuse to drink the coffee and be late to what seemed like a fairly arbitrary kind of job. Regardless of the business speak thrown around, their occupations were never made clear. They were, however, wearing very nice suits.
Years ago, my sister was dating a man I couldn’t stand. I asked him what he did for a living. After hemming and hawing, he finally answered, “Consulting.”
“So you buy and sell people,” I said. I might have been twenty years old, young enough to be rude and get away with it, but I had a handle on the shadiness of his work.
I love “consulting”. How do you consult and how do you get paid for that? I can see this in the classroom:
“What do you want to be when you grow up?” a teacher may ask a child.
“A consultant.”
Exactly. Most likely, I sat next to two consultants today.
There is something to be said for blue collar workers. They were uniforms. They have name tags. They make things and fix things. If you ask the child of a blue collar worker what his father does, he will answer clearly, “Daddy is a plumber.” Or a fireman. Or a cable TV installer. Measureable, definable careers.
Once, to see what my own daughter would say, I asked her what her father does for a living.
“I don’t know,” she said, “but he sure does use the laptop a lot.”
This year, I finally explained to my daughter what her dad did for a living—in nice simple terms she would understand because there is a certain degree of abstraction to his upper management job. Then I asked her what she wanted to be when she grew up.
“A writer like you, Mommy!” She beamed proudly. It’s precious, really, although I’m certainly not raking in measurable amounts of cash yet, but she sees manuscripts come and go from time to time. We discuss subject-verb agreement and editor’s marks. I could just eat her up.
I cannot ever see this child as a grown-up dangling vague business speak with evasive tactical maneuvers over brand name java. I hope whatever she chooses, she can describe it confidently and with a healthy dose of pride. And I really hope, it doesn’t have the word consultant in the title.
Years ago, my sister was dating a man I couldn’t stand. I asked him what he did for a living. After hemming and hawing, he finally answered, “Consulting.”
“So you buy and sell people,” I said. I might have been twenty years old, young enough to be rude and get away with it, but I had a handle on the shadiness of his work.
I love “consulting”. How do you consult and how do you get paid for that? I can see this in the classroom:
“What do you want to be when you grow up?” a teacher may ask a child.
“A consultant.”
Exactly. Most likely, I sat next to two consultants today.
There is something to be said for blue collar workers. They were uniforms. They have name tags. They make things and fix things. If you ask the child of a blue collar worker what his father does, he will answer clearly, “Daddy is a plumber.” Or a fireman. Or a cable TV installer. Measureable, definable careers.
Once, to see what my own daughter would say, I asked her what her father does for a living.
“I don’t know,” she said, “but he sure does use the laptop a lot.”
This year, I finally explained to my daughter what her dad did for a living—in nice simple terms she would understand because there is a certain degree of abstraction to his upper management job. Then I asked her what she wanted to be when she grew up.
“A writer like you, Mommy!” She beamed proudly. It’s precious, really, although I’m certainly not raking in measurable amounts of cash yet, but she sees manuscripts come and go from time to time. We discuss subject-verb agreement and editor’s marks. I could just eat her up.
I cannot ever see this child as a grown-up dangling vague business speak with evasive tactical maneuvers over brand name java. I hope whatever she chooses, she can describe it confidently and with a healthy dose of pride. And I really hope, it doesn’t have the word consultant in the title.
Sunday, February 28, 2010
Desktop Dinosaur
“You know what your problem is,” I said to my husband. “There’s no dinosaur on your desk.”
I said this to cheer him up because he is frightfully overwhelmed with work and responsibilities, but truthfully, there is a dinosaur on my desk that does motivate me. The smallest member of the house (not the rabbit) recently delivered to me a six inch tall Tyrannosaurus Rex. This wee beastie sits, mouth frozen in a silent roar, each two-toed front claw facing inward, in what should be a terrifying pose. Instead, he looks as though he is remarking on the weather. He is a cheerful reminder of why I wake in the morning, of who inspires certain aspects of my creativity, and that at a certain point in the day, the work must stop so my other job can begin—after-school hours with my children. The dinosaur is a countdown without being a clock, and a chemical-free mood lifter. The best thing about the dinosaur is that it doesn’t talk at all, unless of course, one might believe what the rabbit says about it.
“What can I do to help you, sweetheart?” I asked my better half. He cited taxes, reorganization of finances, the need to finish transcribing an interview. I think I’ll just put a dinosaur on his desk.
I said this to cheer him up because he is frightfully overwhelmed with work and responsibilities, but truthfully, there is a dinosaur on my desk that does motivate me. The smallest member of the house (not the rabbit) recently delivered to me a six inch tall Tyrannosaurus Rex. This wee beastie sits, mouth frozen in a silent roar, each two-toed front claw facing inward, in what should be a terrifying pose. Instead, he looks as though he is remarking on the weather. He is a cheerful reminder of why I wake in the morning, of who inspires certain aspects of my creativity, and that at a certain point in the day, the work must stop so my other job can begin—after-school hours with my children. The dinosaur is a countdown without being a clock, and a chemical-free mood lifter. The best thing about the dinosaur is that it doesn’t talk at all, unless of course, one might believe what the rabbit says about it.
“What can I do to help you, sweetheart?” I asked my better half. He cited taxes, reorganization of finances, the need to finish transcribing an interview. I think I’ll just put a dinosaur on his desk.
Thursday, February 25, 2010
Thoroughbreds
I once read a short story where a woman describes her visit to a museum restroom at lunch hour in New York. She portrays the women, who elbow and sneer their way for counter space, as thoroughbreds. Periodically, I am struck with this comparison of chic, svelte, suited women with race horses. I have come upon them often. Like the narrator in the story, I do not consider myself among them.
This past weekend, I socialized with a group of parents from my son’s private preschool. The women I met had definite, real, measureable careers. Careers that come with steady paychecks, benefits, and 401Ks. They were confident with the labels they were able to paste upon themselves as to who they were and what they did. One in particular struck me as the lead thoroughbred in the group. An established lawyer for a reputable firm, she had a business helping the community on the side. It put her in the six-days-a-week worker bee category, which made me wonder who was raising her children, but I was a little green as she spoke about her accomplishments.
When people ask me what I do, I am always in transition, always starting over with a career that comes second to family. I am always trying to get somewhere. Just when my nose is moments away from the finish line, so to speak, I find myself pressed to the rail with a tragedy, a massive set back, a life change. Things that take more than a few months from which to recover. As a result, my resume, which reinvents itself constantly, has a massive amount of unusual work experience in spurts. It is this creativity to adapt that I have started to cite in cover letters over the last couple of years, but I still, in a room full of polished professionals who don’t flinch at the sight of their child’s tuition bill, feel like the shaggy pony that could never qualify.
I don’t think I really want to be a racehorse in the way these women are. I wonder if deep down, they cringe at the time spent away from their children. But, I have always had aspirations of being something, achieving things, and have in fact, done some pretty nice things that occasionally startle a prancing racehorse into asking just how did that happen.
People who work in the arts don’t fit with the Kentucky Derby lifestyle of the world around them. Most of us do not wish to anyhow. It is our uniqueness, our un-fitness, that makes us notable in our arena, but we don’t get rewarded in measureable, tangible terms most of the time. I have never stopped painting or writing—not really—not for more than months at a time as I addressed a family need (a new baby, hurricane aftermath, an illness), but my work has resulted in being published without pay, in exhibitions where the cost of framing and travel has outweighed profits, or where someone has been too broke to pay, so they have traded a service or merchandise.
I could use a Derby Day just once in a while. Merchandise doesn’t pay the medical bills. And it would not hurt to be put in direct competition with one of the slinky, well-dressed women in the community again. In the meantime, I’ll just keep working, doing my thing. This time, I am hell-bent to create my niche as a person that thrives in a constantly changing environment and who enjoys as much time with my children as possible. I want them to see that it can be done, and not at their expense. I want them to see that the limitations that I have put on myself due to my choice can also be something that fuels a different kind of career. I guess you could say that I am racing with extreme caution.
And speaking of thoroughbreds, Seabiscuit, for all his glory, scratched a lot of races that would have jeopardized his health or that would not allow him to perform under ideal circumstances. His trainer's careful selection of when and how he performed caused sheer scandal and gossip, but he eventually raced Man O'War and won. And he was, for all intents and purposes, a creature that resembled a cow pony with crooked legs. Who knows. Maybe, in a way, that's me-- racing selectively, in it for the long haul, and an unlikely champion.
This past weekend, I socialized with a group of parents from my son’s private preschool. The women I met had definite, real, measureable careers. Careers that come with steady paychecks, benefits, and 401Ks. They were confident with the labels they were able to paste upon themselves as to who they were and what they did. One in particular struck me as the lead thoroughbred in the group. An established lawyer for a reputable firm, she had a business helping the community on the side. It put her in the six-days-a-week worker bee category, which made me wonder who was raising her children, but I was a little green as she spoke about her accomplishments.
When people ask me what I do, I am always in transition, always starting over with a career that comes second to family. I am always trying to get somewhere. Just when my nose is moments away from the finish line, so to speak, I find myself pressed to the rail with a tragedy, a massive set back, a life change. Things that take more than a few months from which to recover. As a result, my resume, which reinvents itself constantly, has a massive amount of unusual work experience in spurts. It is this creativity to adapt that I have started to cite in cover letters over the last couple of years, but I still, in a room full of polished professionals who don’t flinch at the sight of their child’s tuition bill, feel like the shaggy pony that could never qualify.
I don’t think I really want to be a racehorse in the way these women are. I wonder if deep down, they cringe at the time spent away from their children. But, I have always had aspirations of being something, achieving things, and have in fact, done some pretty nice things that occasionally startle a prancing racehorse into asking just how did that happen.
People who work in the arts don’t fit with the Kentucky Derby lifestyle of the world around them. Most of us do not wish to anyhow. It is our uniqueness, our un-fitness, that makes us notable in our arena, but we don’t get rewarded in measureable, tangible terms most of the time. I have never stopped painting or writing—not really—not for more than months at a time as I addressed a family need (a new baby, hurricane aftermath, an illness), but my work has resulted in being published without pay, in exhibitions where the cost of framing and travel has outweighed profits, or where someone has been too broke to pay, so they have traded a service or merchandise.
I could use a Derby Day just once in a while. Merchandise doesn’t pay the medical bills. And it would not hurt to be put in direct competition with one of the slinky, well-dressed women in the community again. In the meantime, I’ll just keep working, doing my thing. This time, I am hell-bent to create my niche as a person that thrives in a constantly changing environment and who enjoys as much time with my children as possible. I want them to see that it can be done, and not at their expense. I want them to see that the limitations that I have put on myself due to my choice can also be something that fuels a different kind of career. I guess you could say that I am racing with extreme caution.
And speaking of thoroughbreds, Seabiscuit, for all his glory, scratched a lot of races that would have jeopardized his health or that would not allow him to perform under ideal circumstances. His trainer's careful selection of when and how he performed caused sheer scandal and gossip, but he eventually raced Man O'War and won. And he was, for all intents and purposes, a creature that resembled a cow pony with crooked legs. Who knows. Maybe, in a way, that's me-- racing selectively, in it for the long haul, and an unlikely champion.
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