On The Verge

Having just read two articles in the Chicago Sun-Times demonstrating 1) How moronic people are in regards to how they treat children, and 2) How moronic todays children are, I want to pull my hair out.

Article one:  A new study shows that kids do more remedial work  than ever in their high school classes, are less apt to discuss politics, and sight “Make a lot of money” as their top priority when pickig what they want to do with their lives, and where to go to college.

Article 2:  Some moron with a degree in child psychology has made it her mission to expose kids to Shakespeare.  Not a moronic goal in and of itself, but the way she goes about it?  Make Shakespeare short, and introduce them to the comedies first, basically implying the tragedies like Romeo and Juliet and Hamlet are too heavy and boring for kids in schoool.

There are so many things wrong here, I don’t know where to begin.

But I suppose I’ll begin with the big picture and move backwards:  We have to stop appealing to the most selfish and lazy aspects of people and assume this is how they will learn and appreciate things.  This simply isn’t true.   How about, instead of putting on our condescending mommy voices, and cooing, “It’s not so hard!  School, and learning, and making something of yourself and being enlightened is no harder than watching a reality tv show!”–instead of rewarding people for the most minimal of efforts, instead of making everything easier to understand….I don’t know, is it so crazy to say to kids, “Work harder, and you’ll get more out of your education”?  Is that nutty?  Apparently it is.

In regards to the first article:  I’m baffled by the complete and utter lack of regard for the world around them these kids possess.  Few political leanings or convictions, and money trumps raising a family, bettering the world, doing important work artistically, scientifically, socially, etc.  These attitudes are not born in a vaccuum.  When I was a kid, everyone wanted to be a vet or teacher.  What the hell has happened?

I’ll tell you what’s happened:  We’ve instilled the fear of poverty into today’s youth so much that to go through even a couple of years of strife in order to persue actual dreams seems catamount to suicide.  I wonder if people even tell their kindergarteners to share their toys anymore, or if they encourage hording….

But the HILARIOUS thing is that while the focus is on making money and intellectual pursuits are dumbed down until they no longer resemble anything intellectual, there is also the most ridiculous of intellectual snobbery happening.  A myth is being perpetuated:  Trade school is for nobodies; Liberal arts study is for somebodies.

Is it just me, or is everything ass backwards around here?  With this bizarre, hypocritical and selfish attitude, are we not telling our kids to be as useless as possible?  “Don’t learn a trade, study liberal arts.  And by study, I mean not in any sort of serious way, because intellectual/artistic/social/scientific persuits are for losers.  As are trade schools.”

What?  No wonder every person under 25 has a sense of entitlement and no brain or work ethic.

And the reason why is perfectly demonstrated in the second article about teaching kids Shakespeare.

Where to begin….where to begin.  Well, first of all, I would like to acknowledge that the woman with the child psychology degree is not the first person to do this “abridged/get the kids laughing” approach.  It’s done all of the time.  So I’m not solely blaming her.  Jesus, I WISH it were just her…

Okay, first of all:  Nobody sees or reads Shakespeare because it’s easy.  So to dumb it down will only make it (maybe) tolerable to the kids with no interest in it, but will not instill an interest to read further, and may squash any interest that kids who would otherwise like Shakespeare might have.  It would be like handing a kid a Infinite Jest, condensed to 300 pages and all of the big words taken out and saying, “Do you appreciate David Foster Wallace now?”  No.  Because that wouldn’t even remotely be a David Foster Wallace novel.  You would have removed all of the beauty from it–all of it’s appeal.

Secondly, to give the kids Shakespeare’s comedies is actually counter productive to making it “easy.”  First of all, the comedies are not particularly “funny.”  In honesty, I’d say they’re about as funny as the tragedies–which also feature comic relief.  But some moron said, “Oh, these are comedies, they must be funny!  Kids like funny!”  Ugh.  No.  All comedy means is everyone gets married at the end, and not too many people die.  Not to mention, in regards to the things that are funny in Shakespeare…many of the jokes require so much deciphering and historical context that yes, when examined, they are funny–but upon first glance, you’ll only really succeed in convincing kids that no, Shakespeare isn’t funny.  Because you didn’t bother to teach them an appreciation of the language first.  You’ve given them no reason to want to delve deeper and figure out the jokes.  This is why high schools used to start with the tragedies.  Because you don’t have to get some archaic joke on top of everything else.  You can focus on the language.  Which is another problem with overly abridging a Shakespeare play–NOW LISTEN TO ME TEACHERS:  The appeal of Shakespeare is not his stories.  The stories, for the most part, existed prior to Shakespeare.  The appeal is what he did with them.  The appeal is the language, and the very human way he told these stories.  If you reduce Shakespeare to just the stories, and strip all of the other stuff out, it’s not terribly impressive.  Nobody will give a shit about reading more Shakespeare–they will think they’re done.  Sure, they’ll learn enough to pass your class, but no one will actually have learned anything.

But that’s the mantra these days:  Do enough to get by, and at the end you’ll have a big freaking pile of money waiting for you. 

But for anyone interested in teaching the younger generation something:  Don’t assume they are morons from birth, because you made them that way by setting the bar as low as humanly possible.  Remember, you can’t make everyone smart, but when you cater to the lowest common denominator, you can succeed in making everyone appallingly stupid.

Dating and being single are not what they used to be.  The current state of romance is defined by facebook standards:  Single, In a Relationship, Engaged, Married, Widowed, and It’s Complicated.  All of these, except single, imply two people in a romantic entanglement, including “It’s Complicated.”  Afterall, if you involve yourself with somebody already in an “It’s Complicated” relationship, you will still be regarded as a homewrecker.  If you are in an “It’s Complicated” relationship, and you date other people, you are still considered a cheater in the heart of your significant other.

What does “single” imply?  Just that:  Solitary, alone.  It means you are either looking for someone to be in a one on one relationship with, or you are off the market romantically.  It means you are not currently in a state of romantic entanglement of any kind.  And to that end, romantic and sexual encounters while single must either be entirely meaningless and without feeling, or must beg the question, “Where is this going?  Will this person eventually qualify me as ‘In a Relationship’?”

So just whatever happened to dating, courting and playing the field?  And why does harboring an affection for more than one person qualify you as some sort of polygamous swinger?

Is it so unreasonable to view singledom as a time when you can live in the moment, fall in love with whomever you choose, in as many numbers as you choose, and as often as you choose?  Today’s version of playing the field is having as many meaningless sexual encounters with people who are unmemorable (or in some ways even repulsive) as you can before you find someone to open your heart to and be entirely monogomous with.  Masturbation sounds more fulfilling than this.  One hopes you at least have an affection for yourself.

I see no reason that being single has to preclude the enjoyable company of the opposite gender.  Nor do I see why sex has to be the goal of any romantic flirtation while single, and can’t just be a pleasant side effect.  If one isn’t sure that they want to spend the rest of their life in the exclusive romantic company of one person (and one assumes that until there is a marriage proposal, or at least a talk of commitment, this is the case), why be immediately bound to a monogomous relationship the minute it’s apparent that you enjoy a person’s company?  Is it so wrong to pass a perfectly lovely evening with one gentleman, and then enjoy another perfectly lovely evening with another gentleman when you are single?  Most people would say, “Of course not.”  But their behavior would suggest otherwise.  We go out of our way to ensure we do not form attachments to people when we are single.  We fear caring too much–enjoying another person’s company too much.  And once we do care, a monogomous relationship tends to immediately follow. 

My qualms are not with monogomous relationships generally.  Rather, I only wish people enjoyed them the way they were meant to be enjoyed.  You encounter people who make the rest of the world fall away entirely–with whom monogomy is a completely natural and organic state.  With these people, and in this state, there is no wish to cheat–you are content with only each other.  To force this state upon a relationship that doesn’t warrant it is asking for heartbreak.  It also seems that closing your heart to any connection that doesn’t warrant monogomy, reducing it to “just sex” or nothing at all, will result in missing out on some wonderful and splendid times.

Enjoying yourself, enjoying your freedom need not mean you’re entirely free from love.  Rather, I prefer to think of it as the freedom TO love–over and over again.  Monogomy is a different kind of freedom–the freedom to plan a future with someone.  And you can’t do that with just anybody.  It’s no wonder people scoff at marriage:  Forming monogomous relationships with anybody whose company you enjoy devalues such a commitment.   Playing the field only makes a commitment more meaningful, and makes your single days more passionate.

My new year’s resolution:  Bring dating back.  Bring courtship back.  Bring “playing the field” back. 

In short, I’m bringing sexy back.  I encourage you to join me.

Am I the only one who finds it hilarious that in a world where every business has a customer service department, and within those departments there are dozens if not hundreds of employees, true customer service is nowhere to be found?

Yes, I’m talking about AT&T. How did you guess?

I’ve been a customer of AT&T for almost a year now. My livelihood, in fact, depends on being provided with a landline and internet. And in this day and age, isn’t EVERYONE reliant on those things?

A few days ago, though my AT&T account is current (which they do not dispute), my internet service was turned off. On Christmas Eve, no less.

After talking to four, (FOUR) “customer service reps” trying to determine what happened and more importantly, what would be done to fix it, I discerned that their decision to cut off my service was due to the unforgivable act of paying my bill early! That’s right. I’m enrolled in automatic bill pay, meaning that they automatically debit my bill from my bank account. Some months ago, knowing that there wouldn’t be quite enough money in my account to cover it, I used a Visa Gift card to ensure that my bill would be paid not just on time, but before the due date.

However, somewhere, in the fine print of something (My bill? My contract? Nobody has pointed me in the proper direction), apparently it states that you must notify AT&T five days in advance if you’re going to pay early. My bad. But since everybody was paid, and paid ahead of time, no harm no foul, correct?

No, that is incorrect. This whole “paying my bill early” thing was strike one against my account. The reputation of my debit card had been tarnished.

This month, I’ll admit I committed a worse sin. I paid my bill a few days late for the first time in the year that I‘ve been an AT&T customer, though my bill was, in fact, paid. They tried to withdraw funds from my account to find their wasn’t enough in there. Strike two against me. Did I mention that at AT&T you only get two strikes?

And so, after a year of paying my bill on time and in full, I paid my bill, albeit a couple of days late, and it seemed everything was fine. My service was still connected, I was current with bill, not having another bill due for some time. But on Christmas Eve AT&T cut my internet service off.

It was explained to me that they had chosen Christmas Eve to kick my debit card off of my account. Since I was enrolled in automatic bill pay, with no card on the account, there was no longer an account. I tried to explain to them, “Well, even if you think my card is no good, I’m paid up through the end of the month. Shouldn’t I at least have service until my next bill is due?” “No, that’s not how it works.” The customer service rep kindly explained to me. Oh. “But you realize that doesn’t make sense?” I pleaded. “No, it doesn’t make sense, but that’s how we do it.”

This customer service rep was clearly working in the wrong department, as she had brilliantly come up with a solid ad slogan that accurately depicts the AT&T way of doing business that separates them from the rest.

Several customer service rep transfers later, I was on the phone with Shiranda (she did not give me the spelling of her name, so my apologies to Shiranda if her name is misspelled). I immediately liked Shiranda. Shiranda had a “can do” attitude. Shiranda wanted nothing more than to help me get this straightened out. Shiranda was the person I wanted to talk to. With a few clicks of her keyboard, it seemed she had me all set. “Okay, we’ve got your account straightened out and your internet will be back on in eight to twelve hours.” She said with a smile I could hear over the phone. “Are you satisfied with my service today?” “Okay, wait–eight to twelve hours, I will have the internet? That’s what you said?” I had to make sure. “Yes, your service will be back up in eight to twelve hours. Is there anything else I can help you with?” “…….noooo…No. That’s it.” “And were you satisfied with my service today?” “….yessss. Thank you Shiranda.” “My pleasure! Have a great day!”

On Christmas Day and I didn’t have internet service. I’d been duped. Nobody was in the office. Afterall, can I reasonably expect people to tend to my needs on Christmas? Why yes. Yes I think I can, when AT&T chose Christmas Eve as the day to fuck me over.

My complaints against AT&T really boil down to this: It seems they take an “Us (the company) against them (the customer)” stance in their customer service. Their business practices aren’t just stern, but in fact seem mean spirited. Even if I had been delinquent on my account instead of entirely current with them (as I am), the idea of cutting somebody off on Christmas Eve is positively Scrooge-like. And I will even admit to having made a couple of mistakes. Perhaps I should have notified them that I would pay my bill early. No, I shouldn’t have paid my most recent bill a couple of days late. But I find the idea of “punishing” a customer who has paid all of their bills in full by fucking with them on Christmas is more than unsettling. Afterall, they are the ones out to make a profit here. Whatever happened to “the customer is king,”? “The customer is always right”? Rather, AT&T takes an attitude of “Fuck the customer! WE’RE always right, even when we’re wrong.”

Obviously, as I post this, I finally have the internet.  But I’d love nothing more than to send them a bill for the potential money lost while I was without service.  Since I work as a phone sex operator and get paid by the minute, I’ll just take 2880 (the number of minutes in 48 hours), multiply it by $2.50 (what we charge the clients), which comes to $7,200.

 Do you think they’ll pay that bill on time?

I once noted (as I’m sure others have as well) that it is not the having of what you want, but the wanting of it that makes you happy.  I find this to be particularly true now, as I try desperately to get everything in my life fixed before the New Year.

Normally, such an arbitrary deadline would mean nothing to me.  In the back of my mind, I’d be saying to myself, “yeah…but if I don’t get it done by the New Year, then by Valentine’s Day….”  But New Years Eve holds a particular significance to me.  I find the holiday so symbolic of new beginnings that the importance of getting my shit together by the stroke of midnight on that day is more important than any due date notice on any bill.  And with such a close “due date” at hand, I find myself almost happily chugging towards reaching my goals.

And so, it’s time to review the lists:  The lists of those things I’ve already accomplished, the lists of those things I have yet to do.

Accomplished: I’ve been invited to renew my lease, in spite of being behind on my rent.  So no longer do I have the terrifying notion of being kicked out on February 1st to wander the streets of wintry Chicago.  I know where I’ll be living for the next year.

I’ve raised enough money to cover last month’s rent.  This month’s rent is almost halfway paid for.

My apartment has been rearranged and is almost thoroughly cleaned.  Still working on that….

I have a weekly schedule I intend to follow, which allows for flexibility but will hopefully keep me on track.

I’ve found a way to take my acting classes for free–which also involves working closely with some of their company members, giving me more of a chance to network.

I’m now singing backup in a very cool band called Chameleon World, which, while it will by no means bring in a lot of money, might provide me with a means for a social life and perhaps, on occassion, a little spending cash.

I’ve made enough of an impression on the acting company at Artistic Home, where I take acting classes, that I am being personally invited to some auditions.

And most importantly, I’ve accomplished the very difficult task of knowing myself better after this year than I ever have.  This should aid in all other things.

To Do: Raise enough money to get all of my bills paid in full!  This will happen through a combined effort of work and fundraising on my own behalf.

Furthermore, to raise enough money besides to get a secured credit card.  The beauty of a secured credit card is that is is both a way to build credit, and a way to put money away into savings–two things I desperately need to do, and want to get in order before the new year.

And…that’s it!  Well, that’s it prior to the New Year.  THEN I can embark on day to day goals, like being more organized, throwing myself into dating, etc.

For now, though, it’s apparent I’m well past the half way mark for meeting my pre-New Year goals.  Granted, what’s left on the list is incredibly difficult–but I’m confident I can enter the New Year with a clean slate and a positive attitude!

Every holiday season, without fail, my life manages to spiral wildly out of control.  Both financially and emotionally (are there any other aspects of life?), everything turns to shit.

It’s as though the whole of the year–every mistake made, every deadline not met, every project procrastinated, every bill not paid, every way in which I’ve screwed up comes back to haunt me.  And this year is no exception.  Fresh financial hell and emotional obliteration has rendered me terrified and at the end of my rope.  Upon breaking up with my live-in boyfriend over the summer, I worked hard to quickly adjust what I earn, though I did not adjust quickly enough to escape falling behind.  This holiday season has been as lean as it can possibly be, earning wise.  The figure modeling prospect, which I’d hoped would supplement my income, fell through.  What’s more, it’s almost time to renew my lease, which is all but impossible if I’m behind in rent.  Furthermore, ending a lease with back owed rent is sure to make finding a new apartment that much more difficult, and in the dead of winter to boot. 

And so, in the past week, I’ve set about the highly draining, embarrassing and difficult task of fixing every thing in my life, determined to go into 2010 completely free of 2009’s troubles.  This involved sending an e-mail to everyone I know asking for small donations on my behalf, in order to not place the burden of help on any one person for an exhorbitant amount.  They’ve been kind enough to respond, and with no malice or scorn, but only good will and generosity, to my call for help.  I’m now close to pulling myself out of the muck.  Close–but there will still be some hefty juggling to do if it will be pulled off entirely.

I’m also still in the process of doing a thorough, deep clean of my tiny apartment, in order to get myself into clean place, mentally and physically.  But this optmistic undertaking has also proven to be draining and slightly depressing.  I had never taken the ex’s books off the shelves to put in storage.  And so today, as I filled suitcase after suitcase with his many books, I was flooded with memories of when it was “our” place.  As the room grew emptier and emptier of his things, I looked around and thought to myself, “These are not our books.  These are MY books,” and I cried.  Not because I missed him, though that, I’m sure is part of it.  Mostly, though, I was overwhelmed with how much I’d been through in the past year–some things not entirely appropriate to speak about in a public forum such as this–viewing this visual manifestation of how my life had changed.  How I had changed.  And after I cried, I was exhausted, but also, for seemingly the first time all year, relaxed. 

After spending all year in the trenches, fighting it out with myself, I’ve made many valuable self-discoveries (for lack of a better term).  And if bringing into perspective the extent of my personal resources, the depths of my capacity to feel, the kindness of my friends, and my ability to endure is the payment for this year from hell, well then, perhaps the hardship has been worth it.  In fact, I think I may have gotten a bargain. 

I have a good feeling about 2010.  Out with the old, in with the new!

It’s been a rough week.  I’ve been working nonstop to try and make more money, but the holiday has kept the wankers from being able to call, resulting in me making even LESS money despite working more.  My cell phone is cut off.  I’m trapped in my house and I feel lonely.  I have bills coming due that I can only partially pay, and I’ve only eaten turkey since Thanksgiving.  It’s hard not to feel like a big, fat failure.

In times like this, I can only console myself with the fact that in many ways, this is a self imposed state.  While many people my age are living in houses with up to five people contributing to their bills, upon my last break-up, I gave myself a goal:  Learn how to be completely self sufficient.

Like all things, this is harder than I thought it would be.  Having contributed to bills since the age of sixteen, having supported others on a measley barista salary in the past, I somehow thought I was a magical being who could transition into being COMPLETELY on my own with ease.  But it is a whole new ball game–as I’ve come to find out.  Even supporting others, these situations were only temporary, and the people you support offer their own networks of help in times of real trouble.  I only have me–and my network has worn a bit thin.

Working for myself and paying all of the bills myself is perhaps the ultimate in “sink or swim.”  While it can feel like I’m drowning at times, in truth I’m swimming–however frantically, however clumsily, however lacking in grace.  Sometimes I swallow a mouth full of water, but I’ve learned how to spit it out.

I can stretch twelve dollars to last two weeks.  I can work out a convincing deal with any bill collector.  I can use my talent to convince my acting teacher to let me into her class for free.  I can make more money working from home than I ever did working for an employer (even if my bills now eat up the difference).  I can live in the city I want, in the neighborhood I want, doing what I want.  Just barely–but barely still counts.

I may see my peers in their communal rowboats, happily going along, while I flail in the water.  This was my choice.  I want to know how to swim.  Eventually, they’ll outgrow their rowboats–they’ll crack and break.  They themselves will have to sink or swim.  And when that happens, I hope to be backstroking with grace and poise.

The word “feminist” has become a bad word among today’s twenty-somethings.  For our overblown sense of entitlement, among women today, to say you’re a feminist makes many feel greedy–as though we aren’t thankful for the progress we’ve made.  What’s more, we’re worried that men will find it unattractive–a very self defeating concern.

We act as though sexism is all but dead–sure, there are a few concerns–but we walk around pretty convinced that these items will take care of themselves.  Afterall, there are only about–what?–maybe five sexists left in the whole world?  

Very, very wrong.  

The internet is a beautiful thing.  We can speak into the void, and thousands hear our most private thoughts.  And in hearing those most private thoughts, we can determine that in fact, there are more sexists out there than we let ourselves believe.  Only idiots post on the internet?  Only five lonely idiots post this crap over and over again?  I think it’s more likely that we all view the internet as a place to put those thoughts not suitable for conversations in person.   Idiots aren’t the only ones posting on the internet–the internet is where we store our idiotic thoughts. 

A website that publishes drunken text messages sent (primarily) back and forth between college students is a real eye opener in this area.  When you get past the texts themselves, which make even this twenty something (sexually open, a believer in making drugs of all kinds legal) CRINGE at the recklessness of these kids, you get to the comments about these posts.  There are hundreds of comments.  Loud, obnoxious, and pushing a decidedly male agenda.  A girl sends a text about sleeping with someone on a first date?  Comment after comment about what a slut she is…in disgusting detail.  A man admits he thinks his sixteen year old neice is sexy? Comment after comment about how he should tap that, how sixteen year old girls are begging for it, detailed accounts of sleeping with teenaged virgins and how amazing it is.  And only a few voices of dissent, quickly shut down by still more comments about how women should shut the fuck up and just understand that they’re only good for fucking.

These are “jokes.”  And if we, as women, don’t find it cute, we are “femi-nazi bitches.”  Perhaps a joke here and there “mocking sexism” I can see the humor in, but when there are hundreds upon hundreds of the same joke, in succession, virtual high fiving all around, I can’t help but think there’s more than a kernal of truth in the joking.  That this is what people really think.  All women are whores, and we should shut the fuck up.

But it goes beyond this.  I was reading an article yesterday about how tests have proven men have more grey matter in their brains, women more white matter.  In a nutshell, it shows that men can store more information, women analyze and draw connections better.  It noted that this does not denote a difference in intelligence, but simply a difference in the way we compute information.  And comment after comment followed the article, stating that of course men are more intelligent than women, and condescendingly suggesting women just accept it–afterall, it’s not our fault, and doesn’t seem to make much of a difference (when it comes to making pies, the implication seemed to be).  These comments were not jokes.  They stated their arguments clearly.  The disturbing thing was the women who agreed, and liked to be surrounded by “intelligent men.”

Yesterday I picked up Henry Miller’s Tropic of Cancer–a fantastic book, he knows how to turn a phrase.  Published in 1934, I was struck by how much his views of women seemed to mirror the frat boys on the internet, commenting on how whores should be whores, and just shut the fuck up.  I have to admit, it’s harder to like the book now, faced with this realization, than it was when I first read the book in college, convinced it should be read in the context of it’s time.

That time is still alive and well for too many twenty-somethings.  A time when women float around men as, at best, sexual muses, here to delight their senses, and at worst, painful annoyances once they open their mouths.  I want to shake Henry Miller, and all the men who came after him, and say, “I relate to the things you say about art, about living passionately, about so many things.  Why must you make it a boys club?  Why must you assume we cannot understand?  Why must you turn us into cunts and nothing more?  You could have a friend in us, if you’d allow it.”  But instead, the battle of the sexes continues, with a refusal to acknowledge that such a battle exists.  And that’s a sure way to lose the battle.

I think we’re all of us, just “on the verge” all of the time.  I know I certainly am.  It seems every pay period, I think to myself, if I can just make it through the next two weeks, everything will be alright.  Then the same thought the next two weeks.  I wonder when I’ll finally get to the “everything will be alright” part.  A part of me thinks nobody ever really gets there.

This is not such a negative thing as it seems.  As humans, we’re perpetual problem solvers.  We thrive on improving ourselves, our situation, our society.  Once one problem is squared away, we look for or invent other problems to fix.  The high of overcoming a problem is shortlived.  And so, to a degree, we delight in our problems.

In college, I remember taking a psychology class on the subject of happiness.  Apparently, it isn’t the getting what you want that makes us happy so much as the wanting of it.  Funny, how the wanting of something, so fraught with frustration and angst, is in reality what makes us happy.  Perhaps we should be thankful for our problems and savor them. 

That’s a hard pill to swallow.  But luckily, we shouldn’t swallow it.  Liking our problems would give us nothing to overcome, and we would therefore be unhappy.  So I’ll keep hoping for this two weeks to done with, and dream of days that I can focus my energy on more fun problems than stretching my money.  I long to fixate on a boy or a shopping problem.  I hope for different problems.

Enforced merriment is always a trial.   I have so many happy memories of the holidays from when I was a child, I always go into the season with an air of excitement and cheer.  And it seems every year, it is not quite as magical as the year before.  But I tell myself that it is.

Perhaps the holidays seem so wonderful as a kid because you get all of the fun with none of the work.  I remember happily making pies with my mother and feeling like quite the grown up.  I never took into account the frustration my parents must have felt at banks being closed, getting all of the essentials to have ensure a gigantic and memorable event, coordinating schedules, burned turkeys, last minute grocery store runs from hell.  That is, I never took them into account until I started experiencing them myself.  No wonder people get depressed during the holidays.

But no matter.  As with every year, I’m determined to keep myself in good spirits.  No matter that I discovered my bank account was inexplicably overdrawn today (truly, I’ve gone over the numbers over and over.  It doesn’t make sense).  No matter that I found this out in an embarrassing way at the grocery story as I tried to buy cat food and butter (not the purchase you want to get declined on).  No matter that they would not let me use a gift card because the strip didn’t work and my name wasn’t on it (”Can’t I just punch in the number? It’s a gift card, of course my name isn’t on it!  What do you mean that’s against policy?  It’s Thanksgiving!  Take pity!  Yes, I WILL call your customer service line and complain about you!”).  No matter that George the Cat has been angry at me all day because I dared try to fix him some gourmet giblets instead of his normal can of food (it remains untouched by him).  No matter that it turns out my turkey is too big for my oven, and there is no room for pie crust.  No matter that said pie crust will be for apple SAUCE pie, and not regular apple pie, because the apples I bought two days ago have already started to go bad.  None of this matters.  It is Thanksgiving.  I am thankful.

This is just the universe testing me.  Afterall, it is easy to be thankful when you have everything you need.  Holidays like this are for the downtrodden.  Either that, or to mock the downtrodden.  But for the sake of the holiday, I will assume the former and not the latter.

So just what am I thankful for?  I’m thankful that no matter what, at the end of the day I will have leftovers–however inedible.  I’m thankful I have a place to live–however late I am in rent.  I’m thankful for my job, which I can thankfully escape into while my turkey cooks (working from home is a wonderful thing.  Most importantly, I’m thankful that Thanksgiving doesn’t happen every day.

I was once under the impression that everyone in the world hated their job–particularly people in the arts, who had to suffer silently through their days, so they could persue their passions at night.  The day job was just one more reminder to me that no, I hadn’t “made it” (whatever that means), and if I wasn’t careful, I would wake up at forty, still working food and bev, and wishing I’d studied something practical.

That is, until I became a phone sex operator.  For the first time, I found a job that I truly enjoyed, that put my brain to use, that employed my college education, and that I looked forward to doing every day.  Even as I work my day job, I am writing and acting.  I set my own hours, I work from home.  The calls are ALWAYS interesting, and I automatically have the most exciting job at parties.  What could be better?

Well, making more money would be better.  People frequently ask me how much money I make at my job–a rude question, but seeing as how, for many, I’m the first phone sex operator they’ve ever encountered, it’s perhaps understandable they should ask.  All facets of the job are mysterious to others.  And still others, upon hearing the perks, are wondering to themselves if it’s something they should try.

The truth is phone sex operators make anywhere between ten and one hundred thousand dollars a year.  This is a wide range–and it’s because one of the many perks is that you’re very much in control of what you make.  As a phone sex operator, you essentially run your own business.

Unfortunately, I make closer to ten thousand than I do one hundred thousand.  Those who make the big bucks are entirely serious about their business, and work as hard as any stock broker.  If you’re like me, and you take on the job because it is so flexible, you also have to be flexible about how much money you will earn.

However, now living on my own, wanting desperately to get my credit in order, dreaming of one day financing my own art projects, I’m faced with the conundrum of maintaining my flexibility in order to persue my passions in the here and now, while soomehow trying to find a way to make more money so I can save for the future.  I’m determined to have my cake and eat it to, while simultaneously keeping up my carefree bohemian lifestyle–a difficult thing to do for someone who started life with such humble beginnings, and started adulthood with a mountain of debt.

Not always being able to predict when people will call me for a phone session, it’s become apparent that if I want to reach the above listed goals, I will need a second job.  Phone sex pays my bills, but leaves nothing for savings, and while my hope is to one day figure out the magic formula that other pso’s have figured out for being able to make a certain figure every pay period, until that day a second job is crucial. 

The criteria for a second job:  It must be freelance (something I can stop doing and then pick up again should a theatre gig take me out of town).  It must make me enough money to justify the effort put into it.  It must not resemble those jobs I worked in college, which led me to believe life would always be miserable.  It must not include have (real) sex for money.

And this is how I became more interested in my friend, the figure model.  She sits (or stands) for art classes, students sketch her.  She works about 30 hours a week, and makes fifteen dollars an hour.  The perfect supplementary income.

I’m supposed to get a call from the university she sits for sometime this week for an interview.  While a part of me is trepidatious about telling people that on top of talking dirty, I also take off my clothes for a living, a part of me feels smug for my uncanny ability to think outside the box.  As with my experience with phone sex, I know that people are often only judgemental when they are jealous they didn’t think of it themselves. 

Besides, I also delight in the idea of being a professional muse.  I’ve known a few women who have worked as strippers–something I could never do.  Obviously this is not due to any sort of prudishness, but because the lifestyle is a dangerous one.  Stripclubs are full of drugs, the owners of stripclubs are notorious crooks, and being a naked woman in a room full of liquored up, horny men sounds exactly like what it is:  terrifying.  But posing nude, during the day, for a group students who are merely interested in creating a good likeness?  This fits perfectly into my bohemian lifestyle.

I am:  Fantasy maker and artistic muse.