Bettie Bookish

Striking out

Bettie Bookish: Entrepreneur.

That's right, I'm going freelance again. Hide the children. Batten the hatches. Send me work.

Actually, I'm working on a couple of really cool projects. I can't say much more because you'll steal all my good ideas and make the millions of dollars that are mine MINE.

That's right - I said millions. (Thanks, Oprah, for helping me clarify my instructions to the universe!)

I will share a funny conversation I had about one of my ideas with a kid who obviously grew up in a different environment than I did.

Me: The only problem with my idea is that I hate selling and don't want to spend my time finding sponsors.

Kid Who Drives A Saab: What are you talking about? Go to a couple cocktail parties at the country club and you'll have all the sponsors you need.

Yes - and then a silver unicorn will fly out of my ass and take me straight to Diamondtown.

Heh. Country Club.

Can this be right?

On Sunday afternoon, under a blue sky on the shores of Lake Eternal, we watched our son graduate from high school.

That is him as he walked into the arena. He and his ladyfriend, with whom he recently celebrated a 1-year-of-dating anniversary, walked together.

Have I mentioned it was a beautiful day?

When he got his diploma, he leaned in for a kiss with the superintendent of schools.

Here he is with my brother Thor and his beautiful/talented/envy-inspiring wife Lila.

This one actualy was taken at the baccalaureate, but I love it, so I'm including it under the general banner of "graduation activities."

All of the cliches hold true about watching your child graduate. I can't believe the time has gone so fast. And while I would never, ever want to delay his entry into the big, wide world of adulthood, it seems downright flipping impossible that the kid who used to sit by my desk at work every day after school is grown up.

At the same time, I know how lucky I am. The photo on my son's t-shirt is of a classmate who died in a car accident four days before Easter. We sat behind the young man's mother during the graduation ceremony. She has created a memorial scholarship for her son, and she was there to receive his diploma.

After all the awards had been announced, and all the students received their diplomas, after the speeches and photos, the class president stood at the podium and spoke about losing a friend that this class of 90 had known since they were in elementary school. He was not saccharine. He was not sentimental. He was composed and funny and inspirational. He managed to carry off something that most adults wouldn't have even attempted.

And then he signalled for the class to open their graduation robes, revealing that nearly all of them were wearing t-shirts with their classmate's photo.

Argument for Nature

as opposed to Nurture:

Tonight, while putting Bee to bed, she sighed and asked me, "Can we clean my room tomorrow?"

It's not even messy, people.

Job therapy

My Hot Shot Husband says I need job therapy, and he’s probably right.

The job I’ve had for the past two months is miserable.

There are parts of the job I love. And there are parts I’m not crazy about. And then there is the weekly production grind that lasts 14-17 hours. Every. God. Damn. Week.

When I took the job, I was tasked with making a plan to improve the work schedule. I’ve come up with more than one plan, and each time I’ve been told why it won’t work. And all the reasons boil down to the fact that my publisher would rather work until 3 a.m. than add staff, enforce deadlines or change anything else about the status quo in order to achieve a tenable schedule.

Meanwhile, it’s just getting worse rather that better. And in addition to being a miserable job, it’s not even paying my bills.

And so my HSH and I had a conversation the other day about how I’ve got to find some other place to work. That’s when he told me that I probably won’t find a job that makes me happy until I get job therapy. He says I was inculturated to be miserable at work by the decade+ I spent at that one job.

Maybe he’s right.

I’ve been trying to think of jobs I loved. I loved working for that year and a half at the church. I love writing. I do not love newsrooms of any size.

I have fantasies of one day owning a stationery and card shop on Main Street. Advice anyone? Where my stationers at?

A former colleague and I have been talking about starting our own business offering a variety of marketing, writing, event planning and communications services. We worked together on a project earlier this year, and I think it went pretty well. The product she orchestrated is beautiful, and I think I could learn a lot from her.

We met for lunch day before yesterday, and we talked about where to begin. I said we should start by coming up with a really cool name. Then I said we should figure out all the services we could offer.

She said, “No. I think we should start by articulating the kinds of lives we want to live, and let the rest of the plans follow that guide.”

As a woman who is working 50+ hours a week and still not covering my basic expenses, clearly the notion of planning for a happy life has not recently occurred to me.

I do not know if she and I will really get it together and start something. But the thought of it gives me hope on those days when my boss asks me whether I’ve noticed $kunk$ seem to be getting wh1ter.
“Um. No?”
“Yeah,” he says, with great excitement. “Say, I think that would make a great story.”
“Again, I have to say No.”:

So I’m not totally happy there. I am happiest working for myself or at least enjoying the “free” part of “freelancer.” But I also am a lousy freelancer in regard to my talent for selling myself.

Maybe I need to read "The Secret."