I'm an Indie-Author.

Just updated my About page and wanted you to see it: 

I’m an indie-author. For five years I worked in publishing, which gave me insight into author-contracts, acquisitions, and the pre-publication process, as well as how things work in that mysterious machine—the publishing house. Hint: it's not that mysterious and it's not romantic, really. But it IS a machine. A cold, heartless machine. ;) Plus, the velvet rope that separates writers from agents and publishers is disintegrating, much to the chagrin of those businesses.

What happened in the music industry (an industry that my husband worked in for five years in Nashville) is happening in the publishing industry. Why should I hunger for a publishing deal? I could get one. But it will trap me. You see, a publishing house fronts the money for editing, copyediting, proofreading, paper, binding, and any marketing they do. That's a loan. If an author doesn't sell enough books to pay it back . . .  well.

All that has prompted me to go it on my own and publish my own stuff using the widely available and easy to use venues like Kindle, Smashwords, and Lulu. Everything the publishing house would do for me, I can now do for myself. With the budgets of publishers shrinking and layoffs (they were a constant where I used to work) happening all the time, cover designers, story editors, and copyeditors are out on their own, freelancing. They're available to me as much as they're available to publishers or other indie-authors.

Most authors think that once they land a deal with a publisher, all the hard work has paid off and now they can rest on their laurels and simply write. Not true. Never rest on your laurels. Be ready to work hard for the rest of your life. I work for me and I love it. I'm saying these things for the other indie-authors out there who are secretly hoping to get a book deal or strike it rich. Maybe that could happen for you, but don't bet on it. Enjoy your freedom. Write for yourself and your fans. Work hard. Market yourself, you'd have to even if you had a book deal with a major publisher.

All that said, this is my website, which is a cross between an old MobileMe website that was sort of sci-fi and my long-running blog, which has always been sort of frenetic. I've loved sci-fi (Ten is mine!) and fantasy for a long time, and I think speculative fiction is the most gratifying of the genres to work in. But I’ve been known to write non-fantastical stuff as well. I liked Twilight, not ashamed to admit it, but I confess I’m worn out on the vampire crap and don't even get me started on zombies (hate 'em). I read Anne Rice growing up, but found it cold and soulless, which you might say is rather fitting. I like trying to come up with new ideas and things that haven’t been done to death in fiction already, but for all I know, I’m failing miserably at that. Give my stuff a try and let me know what you think.

The End.

OK, that's it! One thing I didn't mention there but will mention here is the discrepancy between royalties that authors get from publishers and those that Amazon and the other indie-publishing sites offer. For more on these things, read these posts that appear on J.A. Konrath's blog, A Newbie's Guide to Publishing: Guest Post By Barry Eisler and The Agency Model Sucks.

Not Being "the Best" and Contemplating a Possible Move. Plus Some Stuff About Vaccines.

So the past couple weeks I've been getting bigger and more miserable. That's why I've disappeared, sort of. It'll happen.

Plus I had company for a few days and then I was recuperating from having people stay at our house, and things just keep spiraling out of control. Did I mention that I was also undergoing a rigorous re-interview process to keep my job? Yes, that was fun too. I had to take a couple personality tests and editorial tests and just a bunch of crap.

And then I found out I'm apparently not one of "the best." Because the company wanted to assemble "the best team possible moving forward." Or some nonsense like that. So in January, I'll be asked to leave. January. But to get a severance, I must continue to come to work and do a "satisfactory job." Until January. I'm glad it's just "satisfactory," because that's obviously the best I can do. You know, not being "the best" and all that.

Anyway, I came to work today and the two lights above my desk have completely burned out. They were going slowly. There are like three or four lights in each fixture, but today they've all burned out. I'm in darkness here. I feel a little bit like Milton, from Office Space. I think that's his name. Tomorrow I'll show up and won't have a desk. Or it will be in the tiny store-room where people go to spray crap on artwork.

See, I've been really honorable, I like to think. I've worked here for almost five years and during that time, though the temptation has been extremely profound, I've never stooped to writing about the workplace. By writing about it, I mean really making fun of everyone and everything here.

And what has my honor gotten me? What does honor EVER get anyone? Usually nothing.

I guess the point of honor is to just be honorable. There's not really a reward, except the reward of an eternally clean conscience. I do like having that.

But I also wish I'd thrown caution to the wind and done more writing about the ridiculous. I love the ridiculous. And there's loads of it here. This place is ripe for parody. Even better than "The Office." The problem is that I tend to suffocate anything that I consider a base desire. And sarcasm and humor at the expense of others has always seemed base to me.

Yet, do I care now? I work in the publishing industry and it's crumbling. I only started working here four and a half years ago and since then, the only thing this company has done is lay people off. I'm actually surprised I lasted this long. So, really, while they've been paying me to come to work every day, they've also really instilled this crazy sense of instability into all their employees. "At any minute, YOU TOO could lose your job. So don't ____ with us."

Welp. At least I'll have my benefits long enough to have the baby. Right? Silver lining.

One thing that's been really consuming me, now that I have enough outfits for a newborn, is diapers. It's weird. I'm not exactly Misses eco-friendly or anything, but the thought of throwing away a trillion disposable diapers disgusts me. Especially after living through the late eighties and seeing the piles of disposable diapers in the landfills. Remember that? I think we got to see them in a the Scholastic Weekly Reader. They were brainwashing us early, those environmentalists.

So my younger sister got me on the cloth diaper thing. And of course I keep realizing I need more diapers. So then I spend several hours researching which wool diaper cover I want or what fitted cloth diaper will be good for the nighttime. And I read forums. Like Diaper Swappers. (I apologize for the abrupt change of pace, going from discussing my job to cloth diapers, but I really wanted to address something that's been bugging me since I read it.)

The other day I was researching nighttime cloth diapering solutions for newborns and I stumbled across a thread where one forum-poster listed herself as being the wife of so-and-so, the mother of so-and-so, and other neat facts about herself and her family, one of them being "non-vax."

You heard me. Yes, she's bragging about endangering the rest of her community. Unless, of course, she lives out in the woods alone, or something.

Bragging about endangering the children of other parents. I mean, that's something else, really. Baffling. It's not enlightenment. It's sheer stupidity and selfishness. This is particularly important to me right now because there have been several cases of outbreaks in Utah, where I'm from, of diseases that should be gone, and the numbers of people who are not vaccinated seem to be growing. And of course, those diseases are spread by the people who have consciously chosen to not vaccinate their children.

Recently there was a measles outbreak, spread by an unvaccinated family who went to Poland. There have also been several cases of pertussis (which requires a booster shot for adults to not spread it to babies and children). Now that I'm about to have a family of my own, we've been hoping to move back to Utah. Why stay here now, right? I haven't been selected as "one of the best" to be on the team "of the best." It's like the choice made itself.

So anyway. Do I want to go back to that apparent hotbed of unvaccinated deep-thinkers? It's the LDS crowd who are doing it, I think (not to insult them. I'm LDS myself).  People on the outside—especially ex-LDS members—love to call Mormons sheep. But actually, in many ways they're extremely thoughtful. To the point of blaming vaccines for things that are not the fault of vaccines. And thus we have this high population of unvaccinated individuals spreading disease. And bragging about being non-vax. And going abroad to parts of the world where extremely contagious diseases still run rampant. Like Poland.

I propose isolating all conscientious vaccine-objectors in the Pacific Northwest where they can hang out together and die together of measles, mumps, and rubella, in addition to pertussis and polio (it's totally going to make a comeback). Who better to surround yourself with?

The problem I have with them not isolating themselves in an area with others like them is that they benefit from the willingness of everyone else to become vaccinated by mingling in regular communities of people who blindly (to the objector's mind) submit to vaccination. Without all those other people taking precautions (and, in their minds anyway, taking the vaccine risk), the unvaccinated would be in more danger. And it will sound callous, but they deserve to be in danger because they made a choice.

Yes, the children had nothing to do with the choice. It's the parents gambling on their child's life and it's sad that they don't value it more.

The problem is partly that there are specific vaccines infants can't get until they're older. But the diseases don't wait to strike until the baby has been vaccinated. A three week old baby can die from pertussis, who can't get the vaccine until six months. And yes, babies do die from pertussis.

All this to say that, to me, at least, bragging about being a conscientious objector to vaccines is tantamount to bragging about speeding through a school zone when school's just let out. You're endangering a community and you don't give a crap. It's all about you and your individual choice, made at the expense of a community that needs herd immunity to protect itself from the ravages of deadly diseases. So, good job. You're really awesome and smart and waaaaaaaay more enlightened than the jerks who just let the doctors vaccinate them like mindless beasts in a feed yard. Yep. The rest of us are just cattle. Moo!

Government Gets My Bonus

$570 bonus minus Fed Withholding minus Fed MED/EE minus Fed OASDI/EE = $384 bonus. SWEET.

And you ask, am I FOR redistribution of wealth? Hell no.

We hear stories about wealthy people trying to get out of paying taxes and whatnot, I can't say that I blame them. I look at a bonus check like that and I feel like throwing up. If I had a check for $500,000 that was taxed at the rate I'm taxed now, I'd consider it too. Oh, I'm so greedy, right? Right. I work. I went to eight years of school for that modest bonus (not that I'm complaining, ANY bonus is awesome, but the fact that the government takes their enormous share is what's unsettling). I'm paying back student loans that I will most likely carry with me for twenty years or more. I did the leg work and found the job -- the government didn't GIVE me my job. So the problem here is that I am being punished for trying hard, while people who don't seem to try at all are being coddled and pampered and certain presidential candidates are promising to CODDLE them MORE.

Here's the kicker. If I really get my shit together and hustle and somehow manage to increase my earnings, this type of proposed tax system will take MORE from me and give it to the poor. That's a real great incentive.

Office Doomsday Narrowly Avoided!

At least for me. Some people weren't so lucky. I feel very fortunate at the same time as feeling like a huge ass.

Doomsday in the Office

Well today is doomsday for me. I have a meeting at one o'clock where I will supposedly find out what will be happening with the project I've been working on. About two months ago the manager of my department called us to a meeting out of the blue and told us we'd be putting everything on hold for sixty days while they determined what our future would be.

It was one of those moments of exquisite alertness. Prior to the sudden meeting, we had all just read the president's quarterly report. It was full of awful metaphors about the workplace being like a dance and other terrible pop culture references to things like reality shows. On the one side we're congratulated for being so fruitful and making loads of money and meeting goals, and on the other side he slaps us across the face with a 2x4 for not making MORE than the goal.

And then out of nowhere, in this report, he mentions my unit and says there's room for improvement with us.

And so we were all talking about that and fretting sarcastically that we were about to get the axe as we walked to the meeting -- because why would he even mention my unit if it wasn't some kind of corporate foreshadowing? And one person* brought up the incredibly funny stuff from Arrested Development about Black Fridays, and how George Bluth had everyone take their computers out to a moving truck, telling them they were going to be getting new computers, only to close the door of the truck once the old machines were in and tell everyone they're fired. Hilarious.

Office humor is the best, except for when it's your reality. We joked about getting the axe and then the manager of my unit told us, her face grim and unreadable, that they were putting a hold on all new contracts and other stuff. I was listening mostly to my breath and how quiet it was. Noticing how everything froze and instead of feeling upset, I felt this horrifying calm. I was shocked. I've never been so aware of how my chest rises and falls with each breath. I was suddenly aware of the sickening sound of the white noise they pump into the office.

I don't even remember a time when I imagined my life would be part of a corporation. I never did. I never knew what it meant. I never understood that my mom and dad would leave for work and sit in cubicles or offices and tap at keyboards and make up ideas and design things and get paid and get benefits, all to come home at night and feel a measure of security.

It makes sense to think of the farmer out in the fields, tilling and planting and hoeing and harvesting. It makes sense to think of a man herding sheep and tending them for their wool and feeding them grass and hay and caring about the weather because it affects his livelihood in a way much more urgent than whether or not he'll need an umbrella to keep the rain off his business attire. Those things, farming, herding, taking care of animals because you both benefit, those are intrinsic. They've been a part of our identities far longer than the cubicle and concrete.

When man relied on Nature to provide rain for his crops and sunshine and good health for his animals, it inspired reverence in him for the power of the unseen. There was spiritual potential for him because there were forces beyond the realm of man at work. People took part in the role of creation and something spiritual went on.

The office life is dead. We work in cold hard spaces with cold hard machines and it makes us cold and hard inside. Doesn't it feel that way sometimes?

Anyway, I know I'm romanticizing the things of the past. I know there were probably lots of lonely farmers in the world who really wished to buy a suit and go to Wall Street and sell their souls for wealth. I'm just really bitter for feeling like my future is possibly in the hands of someone who doesn't know its worth.



*Me.

Records, Compost, and Rain Barrels

Two weeks later and here I am. My blog looks better on a Mac, with two big flat panel screens, if you know what I mean. Last week was rough, the kind of rough where you think you might not make it out alive, and when you do you wonder how the heck you ever doubted yourself. That happens to me all the time, perhaps because I'm just a negative S.O.B., right?

But it looks like I made it, baby.

Totally unrelated, I bought the most perfect gift for Christy Baugh. It's a record. She's going to love it. I found it sitting right out there in front of everyone at Phonoluxe in Nashville. I can't believe no one else picked up this sweet gem before I got to it. That's all I can tell you about it, but I wish, I really wish I could divulge more info about it. I might snap a picture of it and post it up here, but who knows. I'm usually all talk when it comes to taking and posting pictures. I'd tell you I'm more of a Polaroid girl because that sounds interesting and borderline artistic, but it would be a lie. The truth about me is that I'm lazy and unartistic. Before I married Stoker, two and half years ago, I started working on this present for him that involved some creative effort. It was going to be a wedding present.

I'm still working on it.

I have some good news. I found a place to buy a compost bin for $40. I've looked into them and have wanted to start my own little home compost pile, but I've only found the bins online and the cheapest the good ones run is about $100. Plus shipping and all that. So when I found out that my city, the Metro Nashville Public Works people, offers them for $40, I almost had a stroke. I was that thrilled. It means no shipping and no waiting for UPS. I also found a local place that sells rain barrels for relatively cheap (Gardens of Babylon), especially when compared to the stuff online and shipping costs. Anyway, that's where I'm at. Looking for rain barrels and compost bins and maybe some backyard chickens.

Now I just need to build a small chicken coop. I've been doing my homework. If I get some chickens, I'll definitely post about it, maybe put up some pictures. Again, that could be a lie. I like to keep you guessing. Honestly though, I might get a beehive and buy a colony of bees. And for sure I'll plant a garden this spring. I'm all over it.

Job Security

Almost two weeks ago, I got some unsettling news. "They" were "reorganizing" the "company."

It was difficult to hear my boss telling us what was happening. She talks quietly and sometimes it seems like the timbre of her voice blends with the beautiful white noise the "company" pumps into our office space. Sometimes I really appreciate the white noise, other times, like when we're being told borderline bad news, it's infuriating.

She delivered the news. Everyone stood there. "What is she saying?" We were all thinking. Our job descriptions were changing, we were all being bumped up, would be earning salaries instead of hourly wages, we'd do less copyediting and more farming out. "So, we're not being laid off?" I asked. I could tell everyone was kinda sorta wondering the same thing. I also asked if some other employees in our office would stay where they were. They would. And those employees were also wondering the same thing. I'm a mind-reader.

But two of us would be moved to another department. Everyone was thinking the same thing: it would be me and the other employee who was hired about the same time as I was. Last in, first to go. So we prepped ourselves for the move. We heard nothing else about it, except that the change needed to be completed by February. We had two weeks to adapt to the news.

The following Tuesday morning, just as I walked in, a coworker asked me if I'd heard that it was me that would be leaving. I hate mornings, and though it's been on the books for many years that I'm waiting to become a morning person, I especially loathe Monday mornings. I even feel snarly on Tuesday mornings masquerading as Monday mornings. This was one of those. So I wasn't in the mood to deal with emotional upheaval first thing Tuesday morning. My co-worker -- there were two of them actually -- asked me if I had heard the new news. I said "no."

"You're the one who's leaving," they said.
"Just me?" I asked.
"Just you," they said, nodding.
"Oh."

I sat down, trying to hide from their eager faces. I couldn't tell if they were glad or what, exactly. They seemed excited, but it wasn't clear whether they were excited that it wasn't them (or the person who was hired two weeks after me -- that person is, admittedly, better than me at what we do. Older. More experience), or if they were just putting on a happy face about it for me. I felt a little let down. It was one thing to be shuffled around along with a coworker, a peer. Another to be the only one picked out of the litter to be carted off.

A senior coworker asked if I wanted to go see where I was moving to. I said maybe later. Then, literally a few minutes later, after I'd been stewing over my irritation that the "company" had lied to me, that it was only me leaving and not two of us like they'd said, the senior coworker popped into my cubicle with my future boss, and insisted on introducing us. They led me back to the new cubicle.

Two flat panel computer monitors. A Mac G5. Oh how those sweetened the somewhat bitter deal. Yes, I can be placated by better technology (for a time). Because I love technology.

And the raise isn't so bad, either.

But I ask myself, over and over again: is all this worth my life? My life is the time I sit here in this cubicle, fulfilling the dreams of other people. This isn't my dream. How many of us sat through high school classes, elementary school classes, and dreamt of a far off cubicle decorated with pictures of loved ones and other reminders of why we endure the bourgeoisie torment? There are worse things, but in this society where we are buffered from physical suffering and other oppressions, isn't this numbness exactly what we fear?

Or maybe I'm just spoiled. I know I am. When the news came that one of us would be going, first I was thankful that we weren't being laid off (though deep inside I felt skeptical, wondering if this was some sort of preliminary song and dance before they cut us off completely), and second I felt bitter that they could bandy me about like an object, a resource sans feelings and opinions (I wasn't ever really asked if I wanted to go). Sure they can placate me with the promise of more money, but what have they taken in exchange for that?

We exchange our dreams, I guess, for the security of a promised income and the benefits to patch the wounds we cultivate from sitting motionless in our cubicles. Some of us break away and become the owners of the "company," and they know just what we'll sacrifice for those feelings of security, because once they were one of us.

I am a slave to the feeling of security. Will I ever achieve my outlandish dreams while sitting in a cubicle? Or do I have to up the ante by putting myself in harm's way first, by losing the benefits and the steady income? Who knows.

Reader's Digest Is Like Rain in the Desert After a Day Here

I've got to vent.

My job….if it had a neck, I would throttle it. Punch its face, if it had one. Kick its shins. Smack it. And I'm not even a violent person. I'm not. Really.

Somehow I landed the unenviable position of copy editor. I'm surrounded by words all day long, and I love them. I do, honestly. I enjoy the way they sound, the ways they can be fitted together to make a sentence, their precision, and the possibilities. I love struggling to find the right words. There is a right word for everything. There are those who are skilled at finding them. And there are those who are not.

And it's irritating when a writer is one of those who is not. It's also irritating to read books all day long written by people who aren't in love with language. They're writing to make money (not much, usually . . . but there's always the chance that this, THIS could be a surprise best-seller), to prove a point, to gain recognition in their circle of colleagues, to be able to say, "My book is actually about this very subject we're discussing . . ." or even, "I've arrived, yes, this is my thirtieth book . . ."

Editing someone else's work isn't easy. I enjoy it on many levels, but it also makes me apprehensive. Will the author be offended by what I've changed? I wrestle with myself, knowing I could have said that sentence better. I leave the sentences as they are, unless they're totally confusing. Then I try to clear it up with just a few changes. I only change what I must, so the work reflects our house style, which usually follows the Chicago Manual of Style. And I correct to fix grammar errors.

But you get prissy authors. Princesses who can't stand to have their work altered. They feel it, somewhat understandably, like a slap to their face. It stings their pride. They revolt. You should see the wars they wage. If you were sitting in this desk and you were me, you would have probably already asked your evil, mad scientist sister to train her death ray on them.

I joke. But seriously. I'm not saying my writing inspires awe or anything like that. I'm saying there are rules and I can't argue with every author who thinks they know better than the Chicago Manual of Style. They think their book is the only book I'm working on. They think they're God. They think their book exists in a vacuum, that it is THE book to set all standards, that all rules about grammar, common sense, punctuation, spelling, SHOULD FLOW FROM IT.

It's exhausting. I've written SO MANY e-mails, trying to salve their stupid wounds, explain our house style, explain WHY their sentence is unclear (I can't be the first to have read this . . . can I?). I'm not diplomatic by nature. I just want to tell them, "Listen, you sucked right here. This sentence? I had absolutely no idea what the hell you were saying. Fix it, or be embarrassed when it hits shelves. Thanks."

If only.

ABBA: Stress-buster

It's weird how stress makes you not want to work. At least, it makes me not want to work. It makes me want to listen to ABBA and stare at a blank wall, reminiscing about simpler times. Or it makes me want to vacuum vigorously. Clean like there's no tomorrow, or rather, that tomorrow there will be a panel of judges filing through my house to score my work.

Stress makes it difficult to focus. For several weeks the stress has been gathering. I got a cold sore last week, and then wonder of wonders, Cassi got one. Cassi's my youngest sister. She lives in Omaha. She blamed me for the cold sore, claiming that because I told her over gmail chat that I woke up with a cold sore, I cursed her. It seems impossible, but what do I know? I tell her at 9 am that I have a cold sore, at 5 pm she calls to shout into the phone that SHE has a cold sore.

Remember the Simpson's episode where Burns is in a tank outside the Simpson home, about to get revenge on Homer's mother, and Flight of the Valkries is playing (I think that's the piece)? And Burns is like, "I've waited for this day . . . " and he's wearing a helmet and looking all evil and formidable, and then the song suddenly turns into "Waterloo! I was defeated you won the war!" It's ABBA! It kills me. Smithers is like, "I'm sorry sir, I accidentally taped over your song."

Oh man. It's funny on so many levels. I was just thinking about that, because I'm thinking about ABBA and how great ABBA was, and is. Seriously, Benny, Bjorn, Agnetha, and Anni-Frid can't be outdone. They're right up there in the pantheon of rock gods.

We close on the house today. At 2:30. Remember when I was just a little girl writing about how I was in love with Stoker and I resented him for going to California without me, and then he was asking me to marry him, and now here we are, buying a house in Nashville, Tennessee? NASHVILLE! How does that happen? I was in SALT LAKE. Now I'm in TENNESSEE.

That's some crazy shit, that's all. I'm probably the only one who gets it. Well, I'll take some pictures of the house with my disposable camera, then I'll develop the pictures. Then I'll send you copies. I'm technologically backwards. I don't know how to post with pictures. Everyone else has their digital SLR. I have my camera, which is constructed of paper.

I Really AM Thrilled about the House in Nashville

I've been swamped at work. One of my (lazy-ass) coworkers left the company and I inherited one of his projects. Needless to say he had only done a small fraction of it. I was also in the midst of two other projects and so now I feel like I'm treading water, trying to get through them but going nowhere.

We close on the house on Friday. Thrilling. No, really, I'm thrilled. But a part of me just really wants to retreat to Utah. I blame the recent developments in my allergies on Nashville, and yesterday I found out that my allergist is charging ME for the allergy shots (immunotherapy) that I was doing. It's very shady. After the allergy test when they said I should do the shots, they told me my insurance would cover the shots. I didn't really want to do the shots. But, the prospect of perhaps getting over allergies at some point . . . and hell, if the insurance is going to pay for it . . . so I went ahead with it.

Do you think I would agree to pay for an allergy shot once a week? Hell no. Plus I have to drive to the hospital for the shot. I would have done the sublingual drops instead (insurance does NOT cover the drops. But is this really so different from NOT PAYING for the shots? The difference is the lie, so, NO), which I believe I could give to myself, from home. Anyway, I'm going to tell the doctor they can duke it out with my insurance company, since both of them seem to have lied to me.

I didn't have this ear problem in Utah or Arizona, though I HAVE had allergies my entire life. So, does it make sense why I'd want to go back to the mold-free desert? Yes? Good.

To sum up: house - Friday; allergies - racket, lying doctors; Utah - oasis; stray cat - new cat.

Oh yeah, I ran into a starving stray cat. A kitten really. We took her home. Too many animal ghosts haunting me for what I didn't do.

Etiquette at Work: the Workplace According to Me

As I near the end of my second year in the professinal world, I feel like I've been working in an office for a thousand years. I'm beginning to consider myself an old hat at this. In honor of my upcoming anniversary, I've collected some of my wit and wisdom, as well as the secrets of my success to share with the adoring public. Here you go:

1. If you happen to see a co-worker leaving or entering a bathroom with reading material, resist commenting. Sometimes you can let the context guide you. If, for example, your co-worker tries to hide their reading material in their shirt or under their arm, they're probably not ready to admit they were multi-tasking. In fact, it's best if you pretend this never happened. The question is: who doesn't read in the bathroom? The answer to this questions is: how much would it cost to attach magazine holders to the stall doors?

2. Tank tops at work? If you have to ask this question, you shouldn't be in a professional environment. Quit your job and sign on at Hooters or Christie's Cabaret or at one of Nashville's many "premier gentleman's clubs" where partial and full-blown nudity are encouraged. No one really gets to dress the way they'd prefer to at work. If we could do it, most of us would be here in our pajamas. Ideally, a professional environment should be a place where people can communicate and think clearly. It's difficult to hold a conversation when a woman's breasts are in danger of spilling out onto the conference room table. Everyone feels uncomfortable, not just men. So, do everyone a favor and save the tank top for the pool, beach, or Saturday yard work.

3. Caught your co-worker "scratching" their nose? This will happen. A similar phenomenon occurs when someone "scratches" their nose in the car while driving alone. The sensation of being alone and invisible is simply too real for some people. When this happens your best bet is to pretend it never happened. Just launch into your question or conversation as though you saw nothing. If your co-worker apologizes or brings up what happened, insist that you didn't see anything. Most likely, however, the nose "scratcher" will be wondering whether or not you saw anything. They'll attempt to pretend nothing happened and for the sake of everyone, just go along with it. And then, later, you can add that person to your list of people to never touch. And also, never touch their stapler or anything they've ever touched. And wash your hands a lot.

4. Occasionally, in a meeting or in casual conversation between two people in the workplace, someone will say something that could have multiple interpretations. Let's face it, just about anything could be misconstrued to have a sexual meaning. What really matters is how it's said. In any case, when a co-worker says something that you find to have a hilarious double meaning, please, remember we're at work. This is especially true when in a meeting. Not everyone is on your enlightened level of maturity, and besides, you don't know who else is listening. If you're 100 percent certain no one is listening, and you know you're co-worker will appreciate your singular take on the moment, by all means, cut loose. Just remember, the walls have ears.

Smaller Than Life

If I really think about it, I can't believe how small my life is. And I'm getting old, but I don't feel older. I still feel like this little kid whose big dreams keep her moving forward.

It's weird. I come to work every day and I sit here being real small and unimportant. Some days I have a lot of work to do and other days, like the past few weeks, I have nothing to work on. So I sit here and try to make sense of all this free time. Stoker teases me about it and we both get a kick out of how this tiny cubicle in the basement of this ugly building has nurtured my antisocial behavior. And by antisocial, I don't mean that I'm a nutcase. Although one could argue that that's what it is.

I research things on the web that I'm curious about and I check out Phd programs and I pine for all the things I secretly want but haven't the courage to go for. If I were a hustler like Stoker (and by hustler I mean a go-getter, nothing to do with the seedy magazine. Curse them for ruining a perfectly good word), I'd be generating an income in this free time. I'd be writing magazine articles and pitching ideas to magazines and publications all over the place.

But I'm an indecisive, over-analytical sort of person who pines away but never does anything. I mean, I do some things. But I don't do the right things. And I never make my mind up about anything pertinent. Because I'm so afraid of making the wrong choice, I never make any choice. It's pathetic.

And so my life is small. And it always will be. I'll always be smaller than life. And if you met me, you'd see that it shouldn't be like that, because I don't seem like a smaller than life type. I seem like I should conquer nations and manipulate political powers. Yeah, that's how I seem. Trust me.

I realize that all this is a total contradiction of my previous post. But if you knew me like, say, Stoker does, you'd see how it fits. It does. Believe me.

The Houseplant Liberation Committee at Work

I feel bad for the plants in my office. I just barely noticed that we have a few of them in my immediate work area. I have to say that if I were a plant, I'd want to be in a room with windows.

How do they even survive? There's absolutely no trace of sunlight in here, reflected, stray, or otherwise. Everything I've ever learned about plants is that they like to be in direct sunlight or at least near sunlight (indirect).

I suppose some of my co-workers keep the plants as a cheery reminder that there is life beyond this cold, dark dungeon where we work. Unfortunately for the plants they have no legs and thus no choice about being here, there, or anywhere. They are where we put them, whether it's in a cold cellar (like my workplace) with no light, or out in the middle of a treeless meadow with too much light.

Fortunately for us, when we're done with our shift here, we get to leave this dank basement behind to go outside and go home and along the way feel actual, real sunshine on our bodies. And we don't even need the sunshine for energy production like plants do.

I'm about to liberate some houseplants. I'm going to do it. Don't try to stop me!

Red Lights, Bad Moods, and Bakery Sweets

Oh man I'm in one of those moods. I'm liable to bite someone's head off if they try to speak to me. I'm mentally lashing out at everything. My question is how can I feel like I didn't sleep a wink when I have a bed, a pillow, and air conditioning? It's not like I slept on a park bench or on a cot at a shelter.

Sometimes it's stupid. I get that I'm in one of those moods, but I just keep the bad mood going. It's like I relish it and fuel it by thinking worse and worse things. It all started this morning when I ran a red light. Obviously I blamed it on the damn delivery truck in front of me. I couldn't see the light! It was his fault, the bastard. I would have made the light if I'd been in front of him, and I would have made the light if he'd been a bit quicker to accelerate.

And then I got irritated when Stoker called right after I realized I'd run the light: the ring startled me; I thought it was a policeman. Then when I tried to tell Stoker I had run a red light, he had his own agenda for conversation and talked over me and didn't hear what I said. That's always been a pet peeve of mine. When he stopped talking I was too annoyed to explain that he missed what I said. So I went along with what he said and tried to suppress my irritation. I got off the phone, but was still irritated as hell. Yes, nursing the bad feelings I had for the delivery truck driver who made me run a red light.

As I pulled into my work parking lot, my irritation increased. A co-worker who I quietly compete with was here before me! How could it be? I was five minutes early, even. The way I compete with this guy is by trying to beat him to work (he didn't know about it until I accidentally told him and now he gloats every time he arrives before me). And I always want to arrive before another co-worker too, a girl. Today I arrived before her, so I was okay there. But this other dude.

Then I realized why he was here early. He must have gone to the bakery for sweets (as he calls them) for the party (as everyone calls it). It's someone's birthday today. See, I forgot to get something last night and I didn't remember I'd forgotten until I was already in my pajamas and dozing on the couch while trying to watch The Simpsons. It was too late to go out at that point. I figured it was a lost cause and I'd just grab something at the gas station in the morning (it's like this every time we have a "party").

Then, as I was trying to fall asleep last night, I had a revelation and was saved. Starbuck's cupcakes! I love them, those beautiful, vanilla cupcakes. They're delicious and everyone will love them. They'll be a big hit! I could see it all, unfolding in my mind. I'll be a big hit, too! Though I knew someone else was planning to bring a cake, I could also toss in a few mango-pineapple empanada's with my order, and it would all work out. And then I slept. I think. I don't feel like I slept, but I assume that's what I did.

This morning, when I got inside the building, this cold dungeon of cubicles, I saw that the guy who beat me to work had, in fact, gotten sweets from the bakery. Oh, the downfall. Which brings me to this moment, this present irritation.

Now what am I going to do? We can't have bakery sweets, a cake, AND cupcakes and empanadas! And if I ran, really quick, to a gas station and got my other favorite, Lays plain potato chips, I'm certain someone else will end up bringing them too (at the last party we had, two of us brought the enormous size bag of plain potato chips).

In rebellion of all things against me today, I'm not going to go try to find something for the "party." And I'm not going to eat any of the sweets, the cake, or even the plain potato chips someone else will most likely bring. Besides, on top of all these frustrations, I'm growing a zit the size of Jupiter on my cheek, next to my nose. Of all things!



p.s. Let this be no reflection on Stoker, who is a dear, even when I'm in one of those moods.

Work Sux

So, I edited this author’s manuscript and sent it back to him. He looked over the changes and chose to either accept my changes or reject them. I just think it’s funny, the changes he rejected. From my perspective I tried to save him from sounding stupid. I imagine that from his perspective a lot of my changes destroyed his coolest tricks. You know, he reached into his big bag of tricks and pulled out the most inappropriate words to describe things and thought that was a cool trick. Like when the kids say wicked to describe something cool. Or when Michael Jackson sings: “I’m bad, I’m bad, you know it.” And Michael means, I’m so cool I grab my crotch in public.

So I get all huffy and don’t want to adjust my changes. I want to keep them because I tried to protect the author’s image and he doesn’t get it. When he says he sits at his computer screen, I say, take out screen, you don’t need it. You don’t sit at your computer screen. You sit at your computer or you sit in front of your computer screen. But I guess I was just getting technical. He’s right. I’m wrong. How did I even get this job? I suck as a copy editor.

He’s thinking to himself, “I’m the one who wrote this book, I know more than you.” He’s thinking, “I wrote this book. What have you done?” And he’s right. What have I done? He’s thinking, “I have a doctorate. What do you have? A bachelor’s? Ha. Ha ha ha ha. That’s nothing.” And in a way, he’s right. What good is a bachelor’s these days? Ha. Ha ha ha.

He’s telling me certain words take an object and I’m saying, "We use Webster’s Collegiate Dictionary, 11th edition, what are you using?" He’s saying, "I learned this in the late 60’s, when I was in college." And I’m saying, "Wake up man! It’s 2007. Language changes, man! The only thing that’s the same from the 60’s is weed, man! Let’s have a joint! Yeah!"

Not that an Exorbitant Raise is Necessary . . . a Small One Would Do

Suddenly, I feel no satisfaction with my job. I’ve been working here since December and at first I was floored to have a position as a copy editor. But then my friend, Hotbaugh (aka Baughtronic, Kiki, CBG, Tofu, Baugh-baugh, Baby Cakes, Hotcakes, HEC, Honey Cakes, et cetera), blabbed her salary to me (I begged her to spill the beans), and now, it’s funny, I feel no job satisfaction. The polls say morale is low at the Nicole headquarters.

I’m reminded of an article I read recently in the New Schmorker about poverty. It was a bunch of crap. The most important thing I remember about it is that if you surround yourself with people in the same economic bracket, you can be happy. But, say your neighbor gets a new boat and you see it, you’ll feel unhappy. They’ve done studies on this. Not that they needed to, you know, because anyone intrinsically knows that it’s difficult to watch others have more than you.

Anyway, it’s the premise of lots of movies, books, and lore about witchcraft in certain Native American societies, and now it’s the premise of this blog entry. The point isn’t that I’m jealous of Hotbaugh’s salary or anything. For hell sakes. I’m really glad for her. She actually deserves more, and the funny thing is, she feels like she should be paid more. I do too. I also think I should be paid more. I mean, my big question is WTF?

Part of the problem is that I’m relatively new to the workforce. I put off entering it for as long as possible. In fact, because it’s so miserable, I might postpone this misery, leave the workforce and go back to school to get a totally useless PhD. What do you think?

Ok, so I’m new to the workforce. It makes sense that I don’t know what kind of salary I SHOULD be making. Plus, maybe Nashville salaries are lower than Salt Lake City salaries. How can I possibly know (the answer to this lame question is research. Of course, but why waste time researching that? The answer won’t lead to job satisfaction. Or will it?)? What gets me is that my mentality is “what I should be making” and not “Sally forth! Carve out your own destiny! Demand the salary you want! Capture the American Dream!” And by carve out my own destiny, I mean shrug off the cubicle life and do something else.

I forgot to mention that part of the desperation I feel about the job is the mindless slaughtering of writing as art. It kills me that people who don’t seem to respect the beauty of language write books. How can that be?! I feel as affronted as Mark Twain was by Fenimore Cooper’s cheap, quick literature.

Something Resembling a Vicious Universe

Once again, I'm looking for a job. I think the Universe is trying to tell me something. What is it, do you think? I feel like my entire life has been a series of moving and looking for a job. I mean, except, of course, when I was a child and lived with my mom. At that time, I was pretty lucky to have some kind of something resembling stability. Since I turned 18 and left home, I've had nothing of the sort. An insistent roller coaster ride. That's what life is.

Yes, yes, I know I should count my blessings. At least the country I live in isn't in uproar and we're not constantly wondering what our national boundaries are, like some countries. Or are we? I mean, is the U.S.-Mexico border, really a border? And what about that hilarious U.S.-Canada border?

The borders, they're just laughable. I can't help it. Right now I feel like busting up. It's all a bunch of pantomiming, this false sense that there's a division between Mexico and the U.S. Take, for example, when Stoker and I were coming back from Cabo San Lucas. In the airport in Mexico, their customs consisted of a line with some men in something resembling an official uniform, who told us to push a button, one person at a time. If the light flashed green after you pushed the button, you were okay, move along. If it turned red, you were not okay and you had to be searched. Stoker and I split up and went in different lines. Green for me, okay, go ahead. Red for Stoker, not okay, bludgeon him on the head. Just kidding, they're not that serious about customs.

They opened our bags. Actually, I think we switched the bags before they looked through it because Stoker had the bag with all our dirty laundry in it, and no one wants to air their dirty laundry in a Mexican airport. Ha ha. The officials did something resembling a baggage search, and whatever we had in there was okay. No drugs, no fruit, no illegal firearms, that sort of thing. So they let us go free, much to their dismay. They were so hoping for the chance to detain some unlucky American.

Yeah, so anyway. The job search is promising. I'll keep everyone updated. Perhaps the next thing you'll know, I'll be some top record executive raking in the dough.

Goodbye Wildoats

So, yes, I quit.

Suddenly. It's strange, too, walking out of a place like that, when you hadn't planned on it. Liberating. A tad dramatic. But I couldn't help it, really. I was walking out to escape the drama. What drama? you ask. Something similar to what you find in high school.

You see, I take the blame for opening my mouth and saying what I did. I can do that. But the way it was handled: ridiculous. I figured before it could balloon any more out of proportion, I'd leave.

I'll spare you the suspense. What I said was that I think bisexualism is sort of a cop out, an excuse, an unwillingness to choose one and stick with it. Well, all I actually said was that I think it's a cop out, I just thought I'd elaborate on the idea while I was here, writing about it. And then I said, "See, gays, who have picked what they are, I can get behind that because they've made a choice and that's great. But the bi-thing, I can't get behind that." And the whole "get behind that" was a joke, sort of, an allusion to the William Shatner/Ben Folds/what's his name punk guy song. I was joking a little as I said it, because that's my way. I'm a big joker, sometimes.

Anyway, I thought she'd get it. But she didn't. And in the first place, I stopped saying what I thought about the bi-thing because I didn't want to get into hot water or hurt anyone's feelings. But she egged me on. Seriously. This is a better detail of how the conversation went, with my commentary in brackets:

Me: Do you like guys or girls? [This is not an offensive question because probably a good 50% of the people at Wilds Oats are gay or what have you. And I was asking her because I thought she would like to go out with Stoker's co-worker if she was straight, because I thought she was cool enough for that. And I didn't know what her preference was, but it could go either way.]

Her: Well, it could go either way. [See, she wasn't offended by the question.]

Me: Oh, so, that's how it is, huh. [With a very joking tone, because I'm a joker, you know.]

Her: What do you mean?

Me: Nothing, it's just that . . . no, nevermind. [Here you can clearly tell that I was trying to back out of the conversation. I know what can happen when I say the wrong thing.]

Her: No, what? Say it.

Me: Well, I don't know, I've always just thought that the whole bi-thing was a cop out, you know, an excuse, so you don't have to choose. I guess it's always seemed more about sex, than love, to me. [In a very humble tone, like "I'm not stamping on your ideas, just tiptoeing around them," as though to figure out what they are without scaring them off like small animals.]

Her: Yeah, well that's what a lot of people seem to think, but that's unfair. I mean, certainly there are girls who say they're bi and fool around with it, but only to get guys because they think guys think it's sexy and hot to have two girls together. They're not really bi, but all that pisses me off. Anyway, bisexualism isn't all about sex.

Me: Really? I'm just saying that's what I've seen. That's based on my experience, [or rather, what I've observed in people] you know, so I don't know what else to think about it.

Her: I just think it's about more opportunities for love. [Or something like this. This is all paraphrased, since it happened yesterday I don't remember every word of the conversation.] I've certainly dated more men than women. [She's 21, by the way.]

Me: Hmmm, yeah. Well, I guess I did have a boyfriend who, I found out later, was bi. And he was really good and loving, so, I think for him it was more about love than sex, I'd forgotten about that whole thing. So, I guess it's possible that it could be about love and not sex.

That's about it. Anyway, I thought my last statement was diplomatic enough, that I'd relented a little and allowed for the possibility that my opinion was wrong. You see, I wouldn't have said a damn thing if I hadn't thought there was a rapport between us. I'm not entirely a bumbling idiot, you know.

But, then next thing I know, she's coming out of the front office, wiping her eyes like she'd been crying. I asked her if she was okay and she said something about how she just can't talk about that subject because it always ends up that her feelings get hurt, or something like that. By "that subject," she meant bisexualism. At that point she was counting my drawer, because she's an assistant manager. I said to her, "Wait, what? I thought we worked it out? I told you about my ex-boyfriend and that I thought it could be about love and everything. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to hurt your feelings." But she didn't seem to listen. She left to talk to an old employee who had quit, but was doing some light shopping (a member of the now split band, Neutral Milk Hotel. But, she was never nice to me. And I'm sure she'll be even less nice to me now. I'm 100% positive the ass. man. told her this story and painted me as a horrible, intolerant bigot).

While on my break I thought a lot about how screwed up this stupid world is. I felt bad about hurting her feelings, obviously, because that wasn't my intention. I thought about an old friend (no really, he's old. Older, anyway) and how he would have had the wisdom not to say anything at all, that he would have made the girl just feel loved, because he has this kindness about him, this benevolence that glows in his face. And I wished I had made her feel loved, not judged or whatever, and I wished to have the wisdom he has. But I know, as well, that his wisdom is hard won, that he's lived a lifetime to have it. You don't get that at 28. You get it by living and letting life make you smooth, not a crochety old jerk. Sometimes I think I'm halfway down the crochety old jerk road.

After my break, I went back into the store. I knocked on the door to the front office to find her. Someone else was in there, the guy who does the money and deposits. I could see her behind him, and I asked for her. He said she's busy verifying the deposit, was what I needed important. I just said no and walked away. Who knows if she was really verifying the deposit, but that was ridiculous. She knew what I was there for, to apologize MORE, and I wasn't about to beg to give an apology. My hell.

Anyway, to make all this short, when the service manager arrived, this girl was obviously getting petty about everything and so she told him I was five minutes late. I know this because the first thing he said to me was, "Can you get here at 7:45 from now on? Just be on time?" And I said sure. So, in short, all this bothered me. I fumed about it at my register and about how the girl was being passive aggressive (as though I had done her wrong by having a damn opinion), doing everything I needed her for, like for returns and stuff, very curtly and business- like while somehow managing to ignore me. So, I left. I told the service manager I was sick and left them all to their stupid devices.

I went back today, at 7:45 (yes, I was even early), thinking it had all blown over. Probably. The assistant manager didn't say much. At one point she went through my line (because I was the only cashier there and she desperately wanted some tangerines) and asked if I was okay. Hmm. Maybe she was completely unaware of yesterday and how she'd treated the situation and jilted my attempt at an apology and everything else. Other than that everything was fine. I could deal with the ignoring and all that.

But then, around 10:00 another cashier showed up and began acting strangely. I had thought this girl was my friend. I asked her if she was mad at me, and then she pulled all this stuff about how I had offended and hurt the other girl's feelings and that I judged her and by judging her I had judged this girl too because she was also bi(!) (I had no idea, seriously. Very unfair) and it made her feel bad and awkward and unfortunately, lots of people at Wild Oats are gay or bi and so I shouldn't go around saying stuff about how I think it's bad or whatever. I got really annoyed. "What is this? High school? It's completely unfair that she told you and totally misrepresented me. Did she tell you the other stuff I said and about how I tried to apologize but she hid from me in the office?"

I fumed some more at my register. Then I quit. I said a few goodbyes to the people who had relatively unpolluted and friendly views of me, and I walked out. As I drove away, feeling strange and liberated, "The Feel Good Program of the Year" by Goldspot played on my car stereo. It was like, so like a movie.


Author's Note: There's more to the story, I had to cut it short, it was getting too long. And more about my opinions, which are still not very represented here. If you even care, check back later.


p.s. I can't believe I wrote that stupid letter to TRUE. It's so embarrassing. What was I thinking? And then to post it on here? I must be mad. Seriously.

Blessed Brown Bananas

I have two extremely ripe bananas on my desk. I’m considering eating one. Mostly because with each second that passes, the yellow fades to brown. They look diseased and I’d say that if I don’t eat both of them pronto, my entire cubicle (a.k.a. cage) will begin to smell like a banana boat stuck in the doldrums.

Once, I actually found a bunch of black, shriveled bananas behind my computer monitor. Someone from my department had hidden them. I accused just about everybody and no one would admit to the crime. So now I look upon everyone with suspicion. And instead of getting a fresh bunch to put behind someone else’s computer monitor, I took the shriveled ones and hid them in my neighbor’s cubicle. Apparently I work with a bunch of jokers here and I’m just not joker material (if I was, I would have realized a shriveled bunch of bananas wouldn’t achieve the proper sense of hilarity. Then I would have stolen a fresh bunch from the break room on Monday morning to hide in a coworker’s cubicle). If you’ve read any of my previous posts, you’ll remember that no one gets my sense of humor, anyway.

So. The bananas. I don’t even really like them. But they were going bad in my mother’s pantry and I felt like it would be criminal to just to let them waste away like that in defeat of the banana’s higher calling, which is to feed me and provide me with sustenance. Blessed sustenance. So I brought two of them to work.

There’s also an apple on my desk. It’s been there since last week. I like bananas more than apples. But as you can see, I prefer pineapple. And I mean that. As far as I’m concerned, cottage cheese (of the low-fat variety) and pineapple is the breakfast of the gods. When I say gods, I mean Zeus and that lot of Greek gods who reside on gorgeous Mount Olympus, which I happen to have a great view of right outside my office window. I’m not kidding, either. Currently Olympus has a few feathery clouds crowding around it and has received a light dusting of snow. It’s been raining down here in the valley of the mortals and so I guess right now, we’ve got it better than the gods because at least it’s not snowing.

I keep eyeing the bananas. Like they’re my enemy. Like the smell is bothering me. Like I wish I hadn’t brought them to work because if I don’t eat them, I’ll feel enormously guilty. If you know me at all, you’ll know I have a deeply ingrained sense of guilt. I feel guilt for everything. For feeling annoyed at traffic. For not eating all my food at restaurants. For not recycling. For driving a car instead of riding my bike to work. For not wanting to eat the bananas. If only this guilt were balanced by an equally congratulatory feeling when I do something great, like eating a healthy dinner instead of a cheeseburger at the Dairy Queen, like when I refrain from flipping another driver off, or for recycling the rejected papers from the office printer instead of lazily throwing them in my own personal trash can. If only.

So. I’ll let you know how the bananas go down. And in case you’re wondering, the pineapple and cottage cheese this morning was divine, as was the sun momentarily shining through the clouds as it rose over blessed Mount Olympus.


p.s. My sister just came into my cubicle and asked me, as she pointed in disgust at the bananas, “You’re not going to eat those, are you?”

4th Floor Windows

I wish I could open my window and ask the window/building cleaners (yes, they're actually cleaning the building too, washing the red brick and everything) if they could please do my window again. They cleaned it yesterday. And for some reason, today they did the windows ABOVE it. The cleaning fluid has coated my window and now it's like looking out from inside a bottle of Extra Virgin Olive Oil. Greasy.

I can see them out there now. I wonder if they know sign language...