In which I feel all the stress.

This morning, I was wracked with anxiety over something that happened in 1983.

I was in third grade and, as youngsters of my ancient generation were wont to do, I learned cursive. One day, we were assigned what I'm sure was supposed to be a "fun" task. We were to pick our favorite cursive letter and then write words that started with that letter - an animal, any sentence of our choosing, five names.

Five names.

I chose the letter L. And my little third-grade brain completely freaked out and couldn't think of five names that started with L. So, I carefully wrote out "Laura, Lonnie, Larry, Larueow, Leaomy." You know, in hopes that those last two were maybe, like, names? Names that kids would not be privy to, but that adults knew, and then my teacher would be super-impressed at my knowledge of obscure names?

Yeah. It didn't work that way. My page of lined writing paper came back with a big ol' "-2" at the top. I was heartbroken.

This morning in the shower, I found myself listing L names ... Laura, Laurie, Lorrie, Lori, Lauren, Laurel ... my God, I am so prepared now. I could pass with just women's names alone! And yet, I'm still anxious about that long-ago assignment and feel that I need to be prepared lest someone approaches me on the street and demands that I rattle off five names that start with the letter L.

It could happen.

This particular flavor of anxiety is just one of the cornucopia that I'm experiencing as of late. I'm guessing I'm not the only one who finds themselves saying, "He did what? Are you effing KIDDING ME?!?" at least once a day.

So, there's that. And there's my sweet Big Doodle, he of the bladder cancer and advanced age and zero patience.

Big Doodle can't sleep through the night anymore. Bless his heart, he will wake me up to let him outside. This can happen any time between 3 and 6 a.m. I take him downstairs, he does his thing, I go potty out of solidarity, and then we go back to bed. Or not, as the case may be.

I seem to have lost the ability to go back to sleep after I've been up. That has made life ... challenging. And Big Doodle's lack of any hip sockets to speak of means that he isn't always so psyched about going back upstairs after doing his thing.

Sometimes, we lie on the couch. Others, we go to the downstairs guest room. He sleeps and I ... try? I don't want him to feel abandoned, so if he doesn't go back upstairs, I don't either. Besides, we are having more Doodle Dementia Days.

You know, like the night he wanted to sit in the middle of the patio and look at the moon at 3 a.m. Or today, when he was going bonkers inside the house but would do nothing but bark at the sky when let outside.

I see this a lot.

I just got off of a work call. At the start of the call, all was calm and bright. Both dogs were asleep - Lil' Frankfurter in my lap, Big Doodle on a couch at the other end of the house. But about halfway through the call, Big Doodle came sauntering into my office. He got right up in my face and blarfed out the loudest, most "Oh dear God, are you dying?" hack that you've ever heard.

The good news is that the guy I was talking to laughed with me when I explained what happened. But for the rest of the call, Big Doodle would lie still and then cough cough HACK mucus HACK unexpectedly. I just kept my hand over my microphone unless I was actively speaking.

It might have been a career-limiting moment.

But I decided to focus on the funny. Do you know how much mucus an 80-pound dog can produce? Especially a geriatric 80-pound dog who has no personal etiquette? It's a lot of mucus. Mucus that he wants to show you by getting right up in your face. Because he loves you.

I should probably be feeling anxiety about this instead of something that happened when I was in third grade. It's not like that cursive assignment prevented me from going to college or anything. I don't look back on it as the turning point when it all went to hell.

I guess what I'm saying is that I'm working on perspective. Sometimes I have it, and sometimes I don't. And stress and weariness are making themselves known in odd and powerful ways.

How's with you? And what are your favorite / worst ways stress shows up in your life?

Like Kim K. But with less butt.

I've become 1 of those women. Evidently, I now have a stylist.

My Guy and I attended a gala benefiting the local children's hospital. It was a party! For the children! In a moment of generosity, I bid on 2 hours with a personal stylist. You know, to get the bidding started.

You know that chardonnay they serve at banquets? The free wine that after the first sip you think, "Oh, that's not good?" But after the third glass, you think, "Damn, that's a mighty fine wine?" Well, that same beverage helped me keep bidding on the services of the stylist even as the bids went up. After all, it was for the children!

So, I ended up winning 2 hours with a personal stylist. She can help me go through my closet or take me shopping.

"OMG. Your hangers don't even match?"

Except now I'm somewhat paralyzed. What do I say to a stylist? Here are some options:

• "I would describe my personal style as 'OK?'"
• "I work from home and don't want to look like a frazzled mom because I don't even have kids and actually have time to spend on my appearance even though I obviously don't?"
• "I wear jeans and t-shirts and Banana Republic stopped making my go-to t-shirt so can you please just recommend a new t-shirt brand? Thanks."
• "I used to be skinny and somewhat fashionable but now I'm 40 and I don't care. Well, I care, but I don't care? I just don't want to look Amish? Does my hair make me look Amish?"
• "I look dorky but I'm actually really cool. Like, mega-cool. Just take my word for it. Please?"
• "I recently hurt my foot so all I can currently wear are sneakers, but that doesn't mean I'm Generation: Easy Spirit. See also: I'm mega-cool. Just take my word for it?"
• "Please don't make me shop at Forever 21."

I'm torn between 2 options. The first is that the stylist and I will become fast friends, and she'll introduce me to all her stylish friends as "My FAB friend Becky - you know, the one with all the great accessories who's always so pulled together and such an inspiration to me both creatively and as a human being?" The second option is that the stylist will berate me for being so completely unfashionable and will then describe me to all her stylist friends as "That HORRIBLE woman with the jeans that were hand-me-downs in 2004 and who must appear homeless 97 percent of the time and who basically looks Amish except less stylish?"

These seem like the only 2 options.

The truth of it is that we all want to look our best. And we all need a fresh set of eyes every once in a while. But also ... I feel like I'm dressing for a part that I haven't yet defined.

I'm not a mom. I'm not a corporate denizen. I'm a writer, but not a sweaty, hardboiled journalist or a flowery romance novelist. I'm 40. I'm 40 and I'm still trying to figure out what I want to be when I grow up.

There. I said it.

Yes, I am a big spender.

I have discovered the witching hour for grocery shopping. Obviously, the best time to shop is at 2 a.m. because the store is deserted with the exception of some drunks. They are provided for our entertainment.

But for those of us who prefer to shop during the day? And away from people? Because people generally don't understand basic cart etiquette? Turns out that 2:30 on a Wednesday afternoon is a pretty chill time.

It was just me and 1 other lady in the whole of the produce section. No randos abandoning their carts on a diagonal so as to block all the apples and all the root veggies. No soccer moms on their phones, leaving their $500 purses open and unattended in their carts while they grab organic arugula. I'm no thief, but even I want to grab a purse every once in a while just to say, "See? Do you see how easy it is? Do you see how stupid you're being?"

I'm great fun at parties.

The thing about the produce section is that it makes me feel slightly crazed. Not because of my purse-snatching proclivities. No, I feel loopy because it's the location of my greatest splurge.

When I was but a wee lass o' 30, living in a not-great apartment and trying to get my freelance business up and running, money was tight. Real tight. Trying-to-only-spend-$20-a-week-on-groceries tight.

During those days, I was crazy skinny. It was great. But I was skinny because I was unhappy, and I was skinny because I did crazy things like limit my yogurt intake to 2 cartons a week. I wasn't trying to cut back on dairy. No, those 89-cent cartons of Yoplait were a splurge.

I knew I had made it when I started buying yogurt with abandon. Some folks know they're successful when they buy a car or nice clothes. For me? It was eating yogurt every day. Like a boss. Whenever I bought 7 cartons of yogurt, I felt secure.

Now? Now, dairy is not my friend. We broke up. And I don't feel the need to limit my grocery spending, although I am constantly amazed that my husband expects to eat every day. But I still try to be smart about our grocery dollar.

My big splurge? Cilantro.

Hey there, cilantro. Say 'hi' to your mother for me.

I know. I know! It costs anywhere from 50 cents to a dollar. And I buy a bunch each week. Because it makes me feel fancy.

It used to be that whenever I made a recipe that called for fresh cilantro, I'd just throw in some dried cilantro and muddle through. It was fine.

But then? Then, I realized how amazing real cilantro is, since I'm not of the sad group that thinks it tastes like soap. And even though most recipes are fine without it, I buy it and I use it. I even use it when it's just called for as a garnish. Because I'm worth it! And it makes me feel like an adult and a good cook and possibly also a princess. Because nobody scrimps when it comes to garnishing for royalty.

My cilantro habit probably costs me about $30 a year. Decadent? Obviously. But it's worth every penny.

What's your big splurge?

Why I highly recommend giving slightly outlandish gifts.

Eleven years ago this month, I moved out of the house I'd shared with my boyfriend of 7 years. We broke up, and I was completely broken.

I moved into The Apartment of Despair and everything was just ... wrong. I didn't have any plates that could go in the microwave, so I ate most of my meager meals off the same Pyrex pie plate. Since I suddenly found myself with 2 dogs and no backyard, I tried to navigate walking a psycho dachshund on ice. It did not go well. And my freelance business was ... fledgling at best. I knew it was going to work out, but times were hard.

I got a job working holiday retail, which gave me a reason to leave my apartment. And I tried to figure out how things were going to come together financially. When I decided to leave Ex-Ex, I had exactly $25.35 in my bank account. I'll never forget it. I was so ashamed, and wondered how I had gotten there, both financially and emotionally.

Christmas was to be a pared-down affair. The big gift for the family would be that my brother would fly home from Ireland, where he'd been living. We didn't need any other gifts. I think this was my mom's clandestine way of ensuring that I didn't feel like I needed to spend money I didn't have. We were just going to hunker down and celebrate being together.

There were a few notable gifts, though. Poochie brought with him a huge Milk Tray chocolate assortment. His coworkers from the factory in Ireland had chipped in and purchased it as a going-away present since his visa was expiring. These people were all Indian and Middle Eastern immigrants who assembled belts that jiggled your gut for supposed weight loss. To a man, they sent most of their earnings home to their families. These kind folks adopted Poochie, and had him to their homes for holidays. He brought their kindness home to us.

There were also envelopes from our grandpa. He was still reeling from the death of his wife of 69 years. It had been almost 3 years, but after 69 years ... that's barely a heartbeat. But he was doing his best, playing a little golf, going on a few excursions at the assisted living facility. He still wrote his letters referring to "we." It was both heartbreaking and a case of, "well, of course!" They had started their married life together on a farm in western Kansas during the depression. Their love was an example of "through thick and thin."

Poochie and I each got an envelope. Our folks had no idea what was inside. I opened mine first.

The note read:
Christmas brings memories of happy times of celebration with our family and great appreciation for all the thoughtful and caring things that you do.

Your grandma's legacy continues to grow in many ways. It is my pleasure to share this with you during this holiday season. Enjoy!

With love,
Grandpa

And there was a check.

In the grand scheme of things, it wasn't a ton. But to me? It was a gajillion dollars. It was rent and groceries and being able to breathe. It was moving forward instead of being moored to the idea that I had made huge, irreparable mistakes.

I cried. Ugly cried. The kind of sobbing you don't want anyone to see, except I was doing it at Christmas. I couldn't speak. Too much mucus.

My family couldn't figure out what was in the envelope and why I was so emotional. My brother opened his similar envelope, and everyone figured out quickly that I was good ugly crying, not bad ugly crying.

In all the photos from that holiday, I look rather raw. My eyes are red. I'm too skinny. But there's a glimmer of better things to come, of resilience.

A different Christmas. But just as magical.

And that's what I think about when I hear great stories about Secret Santas, people handing out cash at thrift stores, or folks covering bills for others. You just never know how that not-so-big-to-you kindness will size up for the recipient.

For me? It was king-sized. It was huge. And it reminded me that everything was going to be OK.

Have you been the recipient of such a life-changing gift? Warm my heart this Christmas and tell me all about it!

Oh, I'm on my way, I know I am.

Ten years ago this summer, I spent a lot of time alone in a sticky home office. The window A/C unit that had been passed around the family since I was in college whirred away, and I made beaded jewelry.

I had this idea that in addition to being a freelance writer, I'd also be a jewelry artist, selling my wares at art shows. Between the fledgling writing and barely there jewelry careers, I was flat broke. This was before I realized that I like wearing jewelry a lot more than I like making it, and that 1 self-employed trade was plenty.

But I would sit in my uncomfortable, second-hand metal desk chair, night after night, beading bracelets and listening to Cat Stevens. I was still young; that was my fault.

I was alone because my live-in boyfriend was gone all the time. He traveled for work. And when he was in town, he managed to be out of the house. At the gym. With friends. With a particular female friend. Not with me. Not interested in me. I was just starting to admit that perhaps this wasn't going to work out.

I would listen to the Cat Stevens CD that my brother had burned for me illegally off a library album. He'd told me about his Cat Stevens epiphany, about how the music had shifted his outlook. I took the CD, skeptical. But I'd listen to the album, and I'd be overcome with what felt like a giant bubble in my chest. It was overwhelming, like I was about to explode. But I wasn't the exploding kind. I was the nice, make-it-work kind.

I would sit, and I'd bead, and sometimes I'd bead with tears running down my face. I didn't know why. I began to sense that I was on the cusp of something big. I didn't know what it was, or I didn't want to face it yet. But it was a huge change. I was lonely. And I was scared. And I had no idea how to even begin to put any of it into words.

So, I made some truly heinous bracelets, and a few that were OK. My friends bought my jewelry because they are good, kind people. Perhaps they knew that they were investing in my future, providing seed money for my escape. I didn't realize it.

I would sweat and string beads and cry. I thought I was at the end of the world.

Turns out I was only on the edge of the world I had known.

Things got worse before they got better. But they did get better.

This weekend, I gorged myself on free HBO. Seeing Cat Stevens inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame made me think of that sticky summer, and that now-battered CD. Yusuf, I'm sorry my brother pirated your music, but I like to think that you understand. I also like to think that you know how appreciative I am of your gift of music. Thank you.

What music defines a period in your life?

Call me maybe.

Looking for a new way to feel completely demoralized and become sure that you're a social leper? Might I suggest becoming a freelance writer?

I'm working on yet another newsletter article for Bob's Mattress Shack. Bob himself is a real nice guy. People love Bob, and agree to whatever he asks of them. However, when Bob asks people to talk to me for a newsletter article? They tell him, "Of course, anything for you, Bob!" And then they tell me ... nada.

Like, they don't take my calls. They don't return my calls. They screen my calls.

One guy put me on hold for so long that it took me back to the fateful summer when I waited too long to procure summer employment. The pickin's were slim, and so I worked ... as a telemarketer.

Yes. I called people with Conoco credit cards and offered them life insurance. It was miserable.

If you ever wonder where dreams go to die, look no further than a telemarketing floor. Nobody grows up wanting to be a telemarketer. And as if having a job you don't like isn't enough, that job you don't like involves people actively hating you.

I got yelled at, hung up on, and called names. And yes, folks would set the phone down to go get the person I asked for ... and they'd just leave. I sit there and wait and wait and wait, while my stats tanked. I knew my supervisor with the leather tie and safety-pinned "dress" pants would be mad, but it was so nice to have a moment when I wasn't actively being crapped upon. Sitting in silence was actually preferable to real human interaction.

There were some bright spots. I spoke at length to some very lonely people. I was miserable, they were lonely, and we cheered each other up. Also, if you're looking for a vocation that will keep you in school, out-bound telemarketing is it. I think only shoveling shit could be worse.

So, this time around, with the guys who don't want to talk to me about Bob's Mattress Shack? Well, I'm sure they're busy. But for the love, is it really so hard to just say, "No, thank you?" If you can't tell Bob, tell me. Stop wasting my time. As much as I hate confrontation, if I - of all people! - am telling you to be vocal? Perhaps you should do it.

The difference between interviewing for a newsletter article and telemarketing for Conoco life insurance is that I'm a touch mellower now. Bob's Mattress Shack hasn't made me cry, and I cried almost every day telemarketing. It was difficult for 19-year-old me to be very, very bad at something.

I was a horrible telemarketer. People would tell me "no" and I'd be all, "OK, thanks for not calling me a low-life telemarketing bitch" instead of going into the 3 scripted retorts. My coworkers would take smoke breaks and slam cans of Jolt and I'd be the quiet college girl drying her eyes in the bathroom, taking it all way too personally.

One guy I called politely turned down the life insurance, and as he was hanging up, I heard his conversation with a friend. "Dang," he said, "She sounded hot."

So, if writing doesn't work out, I guess there's always phone sex.

My heart isn't the only thing that's cold.

I'm compiling the index for an academic book right now. Yes, the life of a freelance writer/editor IS that exciting.

The good news is that I find the task rather delightful. It speaks to my nitpicky editorial OCD. And I love having immediate, tangible results. It's one of those jobs that makes me think, "The world NEEDS me!"

The bad news is that indexing has completely infiltrated my brain. I dreamt about it last night, and today? Today, I keep thinking of my day in terms of how I would index it.

A sampling:

furnace. See not working
husband 3-4, 9, 10-15
     disgust towards 10
     out of town 11-15
     travel to Florida, even if it is for work 9
not working 1-20
     furnace 1-20
     my fingers and toes 3-20
thermostat not matching actual temperature in house 10
winter coat 15-18
     donning inside house 16-18
     feeling like a dork 16
     not caring 18-20
winter weather 1-20
     shoveling snow 0
     why I got married in the first place. See husband,
       disgust towards
WTF 2-20

I hope you're staying warm and safe and have a slightly better attitude than the one I'm currently sporting.

Every gig has its perks.

So, a few weeks ago, an angel from above directed an email to me.

OK, not really. Well, sort of. I got an email from an acquaintance looking for copywriting help at her marketing agency, just a few hours a week.

Kids? I got me a real, live J-O-B. I started today.

Yes. I'm doing copywriting for a small marketing firm, 5-10 hours a week. It's a nice complement to my freelance writing and still enables me to spend most of my time in yoga pants. Actually, I could wear yoga pants to this new gig, but I'm trying to view it as an opportunity to practice not looking like a hobo.

Speaking of being fancy ... the building that houses my new office is a mixed-use development. Basically, it's a high rise with some offices and a bunch of condos. And if you've ever watched "House Hunters," you know that high-rise condo buildings come with a bunch of stuff. So, with my 5-10 hour a week gig, I now have access to a movie theatre, a big ol' gym, and ... an indoor penthouse-level pool overlooking the downtown skyline.

I've never had a job that had a pool. Not even the summer I was a nanny ... we didn't have a kiddie pool, but just ran through the sprinkler.

During the building tour today, I tried to act all, "Oh, sure, every place I've ever worked or lived has had a hot tub - whatevs." But really, it just made me laugh - especially since I've been back on baseboard patrol at home. "Home" does not mean "community spray tan facility in the basement" to me. No, to me, home means "that place where you are slowly but surely repainting every surface and starting to consider trim painting as your number 1 hobby, or possibly even a religion."

I guess there are parallels with the spray tan and painting baseboards. Folk tend to be pretty hardcore about them both.

I'll take a kennel over a cubicle any day.

A year ago this week, I started a new job at Mega Corporate Behemoth. On my first day, I sat alone for 15 minutes in the lobby, waiting for my manager to fetch me. She was late because she had to stop for coffee. Because coffee was a higher priority.

I should have paid attention to the signs and run screaming from the building.

I have a friend who once took a new employee out for lunch on her first day. The newbie ordered an appetizer, entrée, and dessert, paid for by her new employer - and then never showed back at the office after lunch. Or ever.

My friend was horrified, but in a way, I admire that kind of moxie. Especially since sometimes, there are really obvious clues that a gig is not a good fit. See also: my first-day lunch at Mega Corporate Behemoth, wherein my boss and her harpy lieutenant invited me to dine, then ignored me and my attempts to join the conversation.

I was so unhappy in that job. Even thinking about it a year later makes me sad.

However, things are better.

I only had to sit in my Cube of Despair for 2 months until I was canned. That was a blessing.

In my next, equally boring but way-nicer gig at Globotron, I relearned that yes, there are nice people in Corporate America. I actually made friends. I also learned once and for all that I am not meant to be a cube dweller.

When My Guy and I agreed that I needed to say goodbye to Corporate America for good, he had 3 stipulations:

• Be happier.
• Don't feel guilty.
• For the love of all that is holy, no more dogs.

Well, 2 outta 3 ain't bad.

I'm still struggling with the guilt. I don't bring in the cash that I used to. And how could I possibly be a productive member of society when I'm unshowered and wearing yoga pants? Yoga pants with dirty paw prints on them?

I'm also struggling with how to describe myself, or explain what I do. My friends ask how things are going, and I'm at a loss, except to say, "Great!" and change the subject.

I'm kind of being a housewife and kind of being a writer. And I'm toying with calling myself an artist instead of a writer, because people expect artists to be a little crazy and defy description. What kind of writer can't even find the words to describe herself? But an artist? Well, that's different.

Here's what I know: I have 3 dogs curled up under my desk and a giant canine noggin resting on my foot. A dachshund is snoring. I am blessed.

A little frustrated at my difficulty in figuring it all out. But blessed.

Junior high never ends and mean girls are everywhere.

I was at a meeting where a female acquaintance sidled up next to me. "So, Cha Cha," she said, with That Look. "How's being a full-time self-employed writer going?"

Immediately, my inner junior high girl issued a red alert. I repeat, a red alert: Mean Girl in the Building!

I girded my loins and smiled graciously. "It's going GREAT," I replied. Inside, I was bartering with my big stoopid mouth: "If you don't mention doing laundry or how you empty the dishwasher like a boss, you can have ice cream later. Keep it together!"

Mean Girl flinched almost imperceptibly, but soldiered on. "Oh, really?" She raised an eyebrow. "What are you working on?"

Working on killing you with my mind, bitch. "I have a bunch of websites I'm working on, and a magazine article. It's really great," I said, smile still intact. Inside, I'm all, "Yeah, that's about right. 'A bunch' isn't that far of a stretch from '1 client website and my blog that I would never in a gajillion years tell you about.' I'm still telling the truth."

"It's really freeing to be away from Corporate America?"

Almost as freeing as it would be to kick you in the neck. "Uh-hmm." I AM STILL SMILING!

"Oh," said Mean Girl, admitting defeat in the battle but not the war. "You know, I do a ton of writing. You know, as a lawyer, everyone thinks all I do is courtroom stuff, but all I do is write. I write 25 or 30 pages a day."

Just as I was wondering if I was really going to have to play the female version of "Whose Junk Is Bigger?," Mean Girl Sidekick showed up and inserted herself into the conversation.

"Ohmigawwwwd, I write all the time, too," said Sidekick. "Nobody thinks an auditor writes, but I do, like, all the time. It's good that I've always been a really great writer. I write so much. So much."

About this point, I started attempting an on-demand out-of-body experience. Mean Girl and Mean Girl Sidekick spent 3 minutes and 27 seconds discussing the vagaries of deadlines, and how they aren't real. Which, of course, any "real" writer knows. AHEM.

I was trying to be polite, but finally I gave up on the out-of-body experience. I picked up my purse and excused myself, as I didn't feel like justifying homicide to the police.

I'm annoyed, but mostly I just call bullshit.

It's bullshit that some people always have to one-up the next guy, even when it's clearly not a competition. If it were a competition, clearly, I would win. Because I am a professional writer who writes all the time and is paid to write and studied writing and continues to work to perfect my fucking craft every damned day. Sure, I'm carefully crafting web copy for Bob's Mattress Shack, but I'm also typing my real self into personal words and stories, spreading my soul like homemade preserves onto thin, delicate bread.

It's hard. Even when exactly 2 people read, it's hard.

And because I write about my real self, I can also call bullshit on myself. I just might be a bit overly sensitive about my new role, and may have a teensy habit of projecting my darkest "Cha Cha is just a lazy loser" fears.

But worse than that?

You how I made myself feel better about this entire junior-high interaction? I looked at myself in the mirror when I got home. I looked at my mascara, and my antique necklace, and my kick-ass cowboy boots. And I thought, "Those bitches are just jealous because I'm so much cuter than they are."

Because again, we're all in junior high. I'm no better than they are.

But it did make me feel better.

Stop shoulding all over yourself.

I was recently asked to serve on a the board of a nonprofit. The organization is cool, but the board? Cats in need of herding and Ritalin. I declined.

Why?

I kind of decided to stop doing stuff I don't like to do.

A pal and I joked that if I don't return your calls, you know you didn't make the cut. But really, it's part of my larger effort to do what is right for me instead of what I think is expected of me. Because the list of what I think is expected of me is usually about 80% fabricated in my brain, anyway.

I hate going to meetings and find them generally unproductive, so I resigned from 2 boards. No fuss, no muss.

Now, I didn't just say, "I hate these meetings. Fuck you guys." I kind of wish I had. But I said I didn't have time anymore - which is true. I don't have time to waste on stuff I don't like. Folks were sad-ish to see me go, but nobody threw themselves in front of a bus in protest. If we're being honest, that was a bit of a disappointment.

My inner go-getter, who is absolutely mortified that I have days when my biggest accomplishment is emptying the dishwasher? Well, that bitch is a little uptight about my lack of civic involvement. She has a clipboard bearing lists of all the things I'm supposed to do, and she follows me around. She pelts me with questions like, "What about networking? How will you ever meet people? You're turning into a looooooser!"

My inner go-getter still hasn't gotten over my departure from Corporate America. We're working through it. Well, I'm over it, lounging in my yoga pants and having cake for lunch. She's straightening her pantyhose and retouching her lipstick, preparing for battle.

I'm not really bipolar. I'm just adjusting to new expectations: my own.

What do you want to stop doing? What's stopping you from stopping?

Potpourri.

Potpourri for $200
Do you ever have a day when the best you can say is, "Well, I emptied that dishwasher like a boss?" Because that's pretty much the most impressive thing you did all day?

Yeah. That's been my day.

Potpourri for $400
This means that I made no progress on the new business venture that My Guy and I thought up. We have an exciting new concept for a Journey-themed bed and breakfast. It will be called The Don't Stop Believe Inn.

Potpourri for $600
I'm hoping that a rock band-themed B&B will mean guests will give us some leeway on cleanliness and food. Like, they should just be happy that there are no cigarette butts in their Anyway You Want It Omelet, right?

Potpourri for $800
Perhaps I am not well-suited for the life of an innkeeper.

Potpourri for $1000
I must be doing something right with my life. I've had the WKRP in Cincinnati jingle for Ferryman's Funeral Home in my head all day.

Hey! You're young and swingin'
No time to think about tomorrow
But there ain't no way to deny it
One day, you're gonna buy it
Maybe tomorrow!
Ferryman! Ferryman! He's the man with the plot! The man with the plan!
Ferryman! Ferryman! He's the mortician man who loves you ... a lot!

Believe it or not, Hulu has complete episodes online for free. Go to the 14:00 mark here to revel in the glory of this best commercial ditty ever.

Cha Cha: Ace investigator, household heroine.

Today, I've been Productive. Like, not messing around. I have gotten shit DONE.

I've written a bunch for some clients. I've vacuumed and changed beds. For the love of all that is holy, I even did some laundry. I am uh-MAY-zing!

I sometimes feel like taking care of the house is a full-time job. Miraculously enough, I found proof.

The 1940 census is online. You can look up any address and find its occupants ... along with personal info like age, race, occupation, income, and place of birth. It's pretty personal stuff, which is why the info is released 72 years after it's collected. It's a lifetime.

So, my house was built in 1938. And in 1940, Howard and Gladys lived here, along with their 8-year-old daughter, Shirley ... and their live-in housekeeper, Effie.

Yes.

That little bedroom upstairs was Effie's room. She was a 50-year-old widow lady.

Now, God love Gladys. She worked for an insurance company and made almost as much as her husband! Lady made bank. I picture her like Rosalind Russell in "His Girl Friday," all sharp suits and witty comebacks, holding her own in a man's world.

But I hope she was nice to Effie.

Was 50 really old in 1940? I'm guessing that as a widow, Effie didn't have a lot of options. She was born in a rural Missouri county, but she completed 2 years of college, which would have been crazy amazing in 1910.

I wonder if Effie stuck to the housekeeping schedule I learned from my grandma. Wash on Monday, grocery on Friday, clean in between.

I can't find any record of Effie's marriage or her death. Mostly, I hope that she was happy in this little stone house, that she and little Shirley took a shine to each other.

I'm thankful, too, to have a sanity check, and the kind-of imaginary friends. I'm sure Effie got sick of washing these floors, too.

Because I don't want it all.

I've had folks come up to me and proclaim, "Ohmygod, are you just looooooving being unemployed?"

I've also had friends send me job listings. Listings for jobs that have absolutely zero to do with me, my skills, or anything I might ever, in any lifetime, be interested in.

I am not unemployed. I am self-employed. There's a huge difference.

Self-employed means that I don't wear pantyhose. Ever. It also means I do stuff in my own time on my own schedule. Stuff like run up our water bill.

I'm sitting in a chair just outside the cracked door to my bathroom. Inside the bathroom, 2 of my dogs are lounging on their very large beds and enjoying their mom-made sauna. The shower is on and the fan is off.

One of the labradoodles sounds like she has the croup. Our vet appointment isn't for a few more hours, so white trash medspa it is.

The other labradoodle clearly would prefer not to be trapped in a humid bathroom with his Darth Vader-sounding sister. However, she freaks when they are separated, so he's doing his moist sibling duty.

If I were working for Globotron, both labradoodles would be out in their dog house, in the cold. Lady Doodle's breathing sounds like a vacuum cleaner that just ate a sock.

A few months ago, I asked my mom about her experience as a working woman. She juggled kids and household obligations and marriage with a job that became increasingly more demanding. She was on the front lines during the floppy-tie-and-shoulder-pads 80s.

"Mom, I kind of feel like my generation has been sold a line with this whole 'you can have it all' thing," I said. "What do you think? Is it possible to have it all?"

Now, my sweet mama can hold her own in all situations. However, my dad generally has cornered the market on profanity in their household. So, when she busts out a 4-letter word, you best take notice.

"Having it all is complete bullshit," she said. And then she put her head on the kitchen table, overwhelmed at the challenge that is now 15 years in her rear-view mirror.

I trust she knows what she's talking about. Right now, I'm happy to have the time to steam my dog's lungs open. The self-employment is, admittedly, in its infancy. But I'm happy to be working on it.

Vote for me in the Miss Loser Freeloader pageant!

It's my second official workday away from Corporate America.

As my gift to the world, I washed my hair today. A few days of going to bed with wet hair and then not bothering to even look at it the next morning left me with meth-head mugshot-worthy hair. You're welcome, America.

Other than that ... I'm trying to figure out what to do with myself. I started a baby quilt for my soon-to-be niece. And I'm cleaning the basement ... you know, all the boxes we've never unpacked since moving 2 years ago? And all the crap that we stashed to just get it out of the way? Again, you're welcome, America.

I had this email exchange with BFF:

BFF: Are you just running around, singing about freedom?

Me: Yes. I am running around the house singing civil rights songs, and then mixing it up by getting all nekkid and singing George Michael's "Freedom 90" and acting like all the models in the video.

Except I just watched the video and the models aren't nekkid. And I'm not really nekkid, because I've been wearing the same fleece pants for 3 days.

Yes, America, you're welcome.

So, obviously, I'm still figuring this all out. And I'm trying to let go of some old messages that are haunting my brain.

See, back in the day, when I decided to be a full-time freelance writer the first time around, I was still living with Ex-Ex. While he was initially supportive, his day-to-day actions were not empowering. He saw no reason for his lifestyle to change simply because I no longer had a steady income and was starting a business. However, he still expected me to pay 50%. He would say things like, "Well, that's not how I'd do it, but if that's what you want to do ..." or "I feel like you decided to become a 'housewife' but just didn't tell me."

And then, he kind of cheated on me with his high school girlfriend and stopped speaking to me. When I finally moved out, he opened every cupboard to see what I'd "stolen" and then complained to me that he couldn't afford living room furniture since I'd taken my couch.

I know. I'm such a witch.

So, clearly, I have some emotional baggage. My reptilian brain still believes that self-employment and romantic partnerships do not mix, and that I am a obviously a freeloader and a loser. And My Guy will clearly take up with some hussy and I will be out on the street. Obviously.

Now, I know. I know! My Guy and Ex-Ex are not even of the same species - thank God! And my sweet husband and I have talked and plotted and planned and we're in this together. But there's still part of me that thinks that if I don't have the entire basement organized when he gets home today from his "real" job, he will judge me and start thinking about what employed ladies he could find to take my place.

I know. I know!

So, I guess in addition to quilting and cleaning the basement and getting my wits about my consultant / writer self, I am also busy rewriting some scripts and letting freaking go.

My to-do list is looooooong.

Be the change.

My Guy has been traveling all week. This has left me with a solid 4 hours every night during which I must entertain myself.

Have I been reading? Sewing? Writing?

Oh, silly kitten. No. I've been cleaning. And doing laundry. And cleaning the big labradoodle's ears.

I know. I know! I don't know why, either. I should have used this time to at least watch all the stuff on the DVR that my husband hates. But instead, I've been vacuuming.

I felt all productive and June Cleaver-ish ... until I realized that tomorrow is my last day at Globotron.

So, Friday, I have an appointment with my periodontist at 8 a.m. What am I going to do once 9 a.m. rolls around and my gums have a clean bill of health?

Cleaning would have been an easy win - something mindless to make me feel like I'm still a productive member of society. Instead, I'm going to do ... what? Because I feel like I need to be doing something.

Big picture, I'm going to do consulting and writing. But it's still a big transition from being Corporate America's bitch for years. And it's not like I'm rolling out of bed Friday morning with a giant to-do list. I'm ... transitioning. Not like gender reassignment, but, like, who-the-hell-am-I reassignment.

I know I don't fit in the corporate mold. I know I'm much more artistic and creative than I have allowed myself to be. Rationally, I know that part of allowing myself to be artistic and creative means that I need to allow myself to not have a to-do item to cover every waking moment. I know I don't have to earn my keep as a human being.

I know these things rationally. But emotionally? Well, it's going to take some getting used to.