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Archives from 2002-2006

On Friday night we had a new babysitter come over, a wonderful lady we found through SitterCity.com (cannot recommend them enough based on my experience thus far*). The kids instantly fell in love with Diane, and Riley didn’t even whine as we left. “See you later!” he shouted, clinging adoringly to her pantleg while he waved a careless hand in our direction. “Don’t hurry back!”

We had a great evening watching Up in 3D (you may be tsk-tsking over the fact that we saw a kid-appropriate movie without the kids, but let’s be honest: it was more fun this way. Also, I know my preschooler and he would have filled his pants over those dogs) and when we got home the house was peaceful with the kids tucked in and asleep, which was a nice change from our last babysitter who routinely let Riley stay awake—half out of his mind with overstimulation and tiredness—until we returned.

Diane was full of smiles and said everything went well, and she’d even kept notes throughout the evening of when everyone ate and pooped and what books they read and when they went to bed. I had liked Diane from the moment we met her last Sunday, but I think her perfect cursive handwriting which so neatly outlined a comprehensive** play-by-play of the night sealed the deal—not that I expect or need such a thing from a babysitter, it was just the delicious little maraschino on the confidence-sundae she gave us.

We’re trying out another sitter tomorrow afternoon for a couple hours in order to go on a bike ride together, which I guess is kind of a lot of kid-fobbing for one weekend but next weekend we’ll be traveling and who knows what will happen after that, since eventually we will ALL die!*** The only way she could be better than Diane is if she gently floats down from the sky holding an umbrella, but I feel pretty good about her too. After nearly four years of not having a reliable sitter and being so far from family, it’s exciting to think we might actually have some regularly-scheduled date nights coming up. I’m not sure it always has to take a village, but it sure is nice to have backup.

* By the way, I keep seeing blog posts that seem to indicate there’s some ongoing Troubling Concern over whether or not the writer is discussing a product they received for free instead of paying their hard-earned cash for said item, hopefully by means of gainful employment that’s universally accepted as Hard Enough Labor to have deserved the purchase in in the first place because the only thing more abhorrent than a free product, of course, is one bought with funds earned via unsavory methods, such as, oh, I don’t know, maybe running blog ads. I don’t share this all-consuming desire to know how exactly a person who claims to like their SuckaDick brand vacuum came to acquire the Dick-Sucker in question, as long they’re being truthful about how much they truly enjoy the way the appliance does such a bang-up job of sucking dicks. Whether they paid for it by laboriously turning in filthy saliva-coated beer cans over the course of a year or Big Fattie CockBlow Co. sent them a brand-new model via UPS, if the review is honest, I don’t give a shit. But since I keep seeing so much hand-wringing over how blogging is being corrupted by the evil forces of marketing I’ll go ahead and tell you I’m recommending SitterCity.com because their service, which I paid for (by stripping, because don’t let anyone fool you, only like .0001% of bloggers make actual bank from ads), is awesome, and don’t worry, if I ever rave about something I got for free I’ll provide full disclosure so those who wish to disapprove may easily do so. Of course, the last freebie I got from a PR company was a press release about a pie-eating competition in upstate New York, but you never know when I might find myself on that exclusive Dick-Sucking list we all covet so dearly.

** Hilariously, the last note read, Cat suddenly appeared when I put Dylan to bed??? and we eventually determined she had been in Dylan’s room putting him down for the night when she heard a door open—she came out to discover a large fat yowling cat had seemingly materialized out of nowhere, thanks to Riley unlocking the front door and letting her in. Riley explained that he was trying to let her in the “kittycat room”, our utility room which has a nearly impossible to turn door handle, which she assumed was locked, and thus she had to spend the rest of the evening listening to the nonstop howls of an outraged cat who was trying to get to her food, when she wasn’t even 100% positive it was OUR pet.

*** A cheerful little phrase I like to shout at random moments, thanks to comment #94 on this post, which I think is maybe the best thing on the internet next to that weeping Leave Britney Alone guy. Just remember, folks: we will, someday, be alone with nobody who loves us unconditionally. GONE IT WILL BE FOR US ALL, amen.

Last night I was talking with Riley while he splashed around in the tub and I asked him what he wanted to be when he grew up.

“Hmmm,” he said, tilting his head to one side. “Let me think about it. Okay, I know. I want to drive a rocket.”

“Well, cool!” I said. “That sounds like an awesome job.”

“And what do YOU want to be when you grow up, Mommy?” he asked, looking at me while he trailed his hand through a pile of bubbles.

I didn’t stop to think about my answer. “A writer,” I said.

:::

A while ago I was moaning about my career angst to JB and at one point he said, “But don’t you want to run a marketing department, and make all the decisions about how a company does its branding and all that stuff? Isn’t that what you’ve always wanted?”

I opened my mouth to say something about how it depended on the job, the company, and a million other variables, and how it wasn’t that simple, and what actually came out of my mouth was No.

No, I don’t. I don’t want to be the decisionmaker about product positioning and messaging goals and PR outreach and ad budgets. I don’t want to spearhead the endless arguments over the myriad non-quantifiable areas of marketing. I don’t want to tell a designer how to do their job. I don’t want to decide if something is “on brand” or not. I want to offer my opinions when they’re asked for, but I don’t want it to be my job to hard-sell my opinions and shoulder-shove until I get my way.

Here’s what I really want to do: create good copy. That’s what I enjoy more than anything else. I am happiest when someone tells me what they’re looking for, I write some stuff, then they tell me if I did a good job or not. I’m interested by the entire marketing mix, but spinning words is what I’m best at, and it’s the aspect of every job I’ve ever had that’s been the most rewarding to me.

(Except for that horrible dotcom stint with the crazy pot-smoking husband and wife management team where the wife micro-managed every word I typed according to the whims of the rabid bats circling around the vast wasteland inside her skull.)

I’ve spent so many years trying to figure out how to make my career more meaningful to me, and I always thought I needed to take on more responsibilities and have a job with a better title and maybe some people reporting to me and a bigger paycheck in order to feel the measure of success I thought I should be striving for, and that moment when I told JB that no, I didn’t want to be some fancypants marketing director . . . somehow brought everything into view for me. I just want to write. Whether it’s about software, diapers, parenthood, makeup, computer keyboards, fitness, or sex pillows, I just want to make the words appear. That’s what I love to do.

If I refine it further, I want to write words that help me connect with people. I like corporate copywriting gigs because let’s be honest, they tend to pay the best, but the projects that really turn me on are the ones where I get to hear back from those who read them.

Since JB and I had that conversation I started a series of blog posts at Workplace that I’ve been really proud of. They’re about task management software, which, I know, right? Thrilling. Yet these articles have made me happier in my job than I’ve been in a long time. I enjoyed writing them and people seem to find value from them and they’re talking to me about them and jesus, why have I been naval-gazing all this time, because that is what it’s all about, right there.

The tiniest moment, an unexpected one-word answer, and it’s like I’m seeing my way clear of the inertia I’ve been struggling with for years. No. Instead of succumbing to the vague dissatisfaction and constant feelings of failure, I’m free to make a new path. To focus on the things at my job I find the most rewarding, and let the other stuff—the turf wars and responsibility-without-authority—be managed by other people. And at home, to make a true and honest effort to get a silly little book of poetry published (say, any agents out there looking for quirky parenting gift book titles?), and to plug away at something I’ve wanted to do all my life.

:::

“A rider? Like a bus rider?” Riley asked, wrinkling his forehead.

“No, a writer. Like someone who writes words, and maybe even stories and books.”

“Oh. Well, I think you’d be a good bus rider, Mommy.”

“Thanks, sweetie. Do you think I’d be a good writer too?”

“Maybe like if you had a really good crayon.”

“I need to get one of those, huh?”

“Yeah! Let’s find one together. Then you be a rider and I’ll drive a rocket, okay?”

“Deal.”

PS: Edited to add this fantastic diagram:

Borrowed from a brilliant post of Bud Caddell’s.

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