Jobs I Would Enjoy That Are Not Writing Novels

*Alumni relations. I would like to be head of Smith's Alumnae Association someday. But I'll take others.
*Admissions
*College counseling for high school students
*Teaching writing. Nothing I hate more than bad writing. I could see myself being a worthy Classroom Grammar Maven.
*Career counseling
*Marriage and Family Counseling, though this would require lots of school.
*Arts Management, specifically running/fundraising/alumni relations-ing for an artists residency program (I am in love with art camp) or other worthwhile literary or performing organization.
*Reference and Instruction Librarian. Missed the boat on this one. Suppose I could hit up the library school for a few classes.
*Editorial type jobs (yes dictionary). Again with the grammar. Me + grammar = love.

Then we went and had birthday snackies at 24!

Oh yeah...I turned 34 yesterday. Now I am deeply ensconced into my 30s. And I'm getting a wee bit scared of getting older. I'm starting to look more like my grandfather. Though Granddad was an admirable fellow, he was a squat Armenian dude and it's not a nice look for a lady. Might be time to give into the scalpel and "have some work done." Yes, I am serious.

I find myself tuning out whenever political debates on the Austin Improv scene occur. I suppose I am content to be apolitical. Complaining about people who have never shown me (or anyone I can think of) a single unkindness makes me sad and as someone who reads the SAQ from cover to cover and rarely feels bad about it, I think I am able to congratulate those who are more successful than me. I long abandoned the idea that I could ever be Improv Hot Shit. Indeed, my novel requires the level of obsession that would take, and novel comes first, so I will forever be minor league in the improv realm and I'm okay with that. When I ask myself "what do I want from improv?" the answer is simply: fun and friends and a sense that I am learning and improving over time. I have that. I shan't complain.

My mantra: "IT'S JUST IMPROV." Perhaps this confession will make me even more unpopular. Whatevs.

That said, a new venue is opening in Round Rock (northward suburbs, home of IKEA) and IFE will be getting the first run of mainstage shows in the summer. Talks are underway to revive Cochise, the improvised '70s cop show that IFE staged around the time that the nuclear industry dialed our number and wrecked our lives. So Bob and I never got to do it (I was slated to guest). But now that chance may come around. And people north of us can enjoy improv without burning a lot of gasoline. Huzzah, everyone wins!

Tomorrow the painful event of releasing my husband into the care of Southwest Airlines and the state of Illinois must happen. Seriously: I feel as if I am owed two gallons of tears I didn't need to shed from over the past few years. I want Bob to stay here, damnit. Wanty wanty! He bought me sushi on my berfday and I lerv him.

I start my flight of web design courses at ACC in a few weeks. Education!

Other than that: 2010 is better than 2009. I would like some form of paid employment and to see my hubby more often, but I'm smooth sailing.

Cali!

Well...rather than standing around a steamy pile of hurl arguing about it, call BARF PATROL! That's right! BARF PATROL. Our specially-trained VOM SQUAD will arrive at your door in no time to decontaminate your festive environment so your party can remain rad and bitchin'.

BARF PATROL!

This could seriously make some money. The first expense would be (of course) a heavily tricked-out VOM-MOBILE art car to drive around town so people will point and say, "Ooh, look! A car with a vomit motif!" Then there would be the purchase of supplies.

We would also need a clever, cheeky advertising campaign with tons of barfing-sound audio.

BARF PATROL!
We're the ones to call when there's puke on your wall!

BARF PATROL!
Vomit? We're on it!

Projectile on the bathroom tile?
BARF PATROL will make you smile!

Did that frat daddy barf on your vag while going down on you, princess?
We don't clean vag, but we do clean:

CARPET
WOOD
TILE
FURNITURE
COMPUTER HARDWARE
AUTO UPHOLSTERY
MAJOR APPLIANCES
THE GREAT OUTDOORS

WE CLEAN YOUR VOMIT AND LEAVE A FRESH SCENT BEHIND!

But what about shit?

WE ALSO CLEAN:
DIARRHEA
REGULAR SHIT
HARD STOOLS
ANIMAL POOP
STUFF THAT MAY OR MAY NOT BE SHIT
URINE
BLOOD
SEMEN (quantities over one pint)

BARF PATROL!
Call or click when you are sick!

Also: a word-of-mouth publicity stunt to distribute the misinformation that you can pay extra for midgets.
Also: awesome swag. Like, free BARF PATROL baseball hat for outcalls of over $100.

Wouldn't you rather pay a professional than clean that up yourself?

Bread and Puppet specializes in human-size or larger paper maiche puppets. Full body puppets. Their performers often use stilts for added larger-than-lifeness. These are not puppets of the Muppet aesthetic--far from it. I suspect that the local Trouble Puppet Company takes much inspiration from B&P. These are puppets worn down by life, impoverished in body but not soul. These puppets rise up against corporations, call for social and economic justice, have heavy-handed political opinions about nuclear power and the Israel/Palestine conflict (the only two areas of B&P philosophy I vociferously disagree with--the puppets aren't big on showing both sides of a debate). They perform a "circus" every Sunday afternoon from May-October. Their museum is open most of the year, and, OH MY GOD, if you ever find yourself driving through remote northeastern Vermont on your way to a Phish concert or the Quebec border or to buy a big screen TV tax-free in New Hampshire, do yourself a huge favor and stop at the museum. It is quite possibly the most beautiful and moving collection of American sculpture in the whole damn country, and it's free. They sell posters and postcards. After the circus, the founder, Peter Schumann, hands out homemade bread with a garlicky pesto spread. The first time I went, in October (foliage-gasm!), I started crying because it was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen in my life. There were carolers singing old-timey hymns, I had a piece of warm, delicious bread in my hand, and I was standing in an old New England barn surrounded by forty years worth of Neutral Milkish puppets from floor to ceiling. I have pictures, but I don't think they do the experience justice:

Caveat: the B&P farm has no running water. Outhouses only. Hold your poop for later.

My nuclear statement: Bread and Puppet makes me feel bad about improv.

Another: I am an atheist looking for god in art and so far, I've only found god in Vermont.

Most people in my life would probably not like the Bread and Puppet experience. Either the one-sided political message, which is about as subtle as a punch in the face, will turn off most people (I could see Bob getting pissed off and walking the 9000 yards back to the car in a huff). The extreme hippie aesthetic, complete with off-the-grid communal living, might not be for you. I've looked into their apprenticeship program. The only thing that stops me is those damn outhouses.*

But it wasn't until I went to B&P that I recognized how many barriers there are to theatrical performance. Human-imposed barriers. B&P gets rid of all of them:

MONEY: Think of all the cash that gets laid down to do a show. Lights, theater rental, sound, air conditioning, sets, man hours for everything. Insurance. If you do a show out in a field in the summer, the sun is your lighting rig, your voice is your sound man, the earth is your theater. There are no tickets; all performances are free, as is the bread. They make a small bit of money selling posters and homemade merch. I wonder if they are insured?

CASTING: Basically, any schmo with a tank of gas is invited to be in a B&P circus. All you have to do is show up three hours before showtime and do the run-through with them. A B&P circus is about the most unpolished theatrical experience I've ever seen outside of an elementary school, but therein lies the charm. Sort of a Howard Finster painting come to life. No auditions. No height/weight requirements. No head shots. No "who did you study with?" People of every age, size, color, and education level are welcomed to participate. No "no."

Surely there are things that I can't know about, not having been on the inside. What sort of politics arise? Is everyone really invited, including conservatives or employees of the nuclear industry (Bob huffs and pouts in the car, waiting for me to finish paying the Rainbow Guy)? What are the barriers put in place, Mr. Schumann? You've taken away barriers everyone takes as gospel, but there must be something else, too.

It pains me that I have been a party to barriers to the stage. It pains me that I experience these barriers myself. Part of me wants to be all "fuck barriers! I'm going to go do improv in a field in Vermont and anyone who wants to can show up and play!" I feel my life is all barriers these days and I'm tired and find myself craving monasticism. One answer is not to wait around for someone to give you what you want, to do it yourself, to grab what you REALLY want. For me, that's hard and scary.

I know it's dangerous to believe that all human failings that irk me don't exist in Vermont and that just because a place is pretty and has no dress code, spotty cell coverage, and giant puppets that I could possibly spend the rest of my life there in dumb bliss because it's a magical asshole-free zone. Maybe I am tired of looking at my life and saying "Is that all there is?". Maybe I'm tired of being told I'm not good enough, of feeling not good enough. There are few things in my life these days that are not open to criticism.

Bread and Puppet, just so you know, isn't even the least bit cheerful. Those puppets are kind of dark. They're not funny. If you laugh, it won't be because they want you to.

Another day in Texas, pondering the Vermont in my heart.

*The outhouse comes with pedantic written instructions on how to use, including: if you are male and you just have to pee, go in the woods. If you are female and you have to pee, use this specially-labeled hole. For #2, there is this special hole--please pour sand over your leavings. Yes, the outhouse reeks of shit, the windows are open so there is no privacy, and yes, the outhouse is a problem for me. Defeated by the luxury of the modern toilet I am.

**Although I am a lifelong atheist and wholeheartedly reject the notion of an almighty sky god in the judeo-christian tradition, I do relish and identify moments of wonder, of magic, and of alchemy that I occasionally find myself privy to. In my mind, it is these moments, not some stupid book or some asshole with a pulpit, I find my reasons for taking another spin around the coil. G. and C. didn't meet by accident for nothing.

Dad was a little too ahead of his time. He had all the scars of a depression kid but was also extremely liberal. He enlisted in WWII even though he didn't have to because he "didn't want to miss the show." Indeed, he claimed the war to be the most fun he ever had in his life. He majored in physics at Tulane but spent his life in rote business jobs. He worked for Bugsy Siegel in LA briefly during the '50s. He sired, 34 years apart, two oddball children. Indeed, we are the end of dad's line, as Older Brother does not have kids and I shall not either.

His first wife was 12 years his senior, his second 35 years his junior. He was the youngest of 13 kids in a large Catholic French-Canadian clan. They owned a pharmacy in Waterville, Maine, where my father worked until he made his Maine jailbreak (seriously, Maine: you're creepy as hell and every time I visit you I feel the ghosts of my ancestors) when he got accepted to Tulane. A priest messed with him; he became a lifelong atheist and raised me to be one as well. As such, in our conversations about his inevitable death (we talked about this when I was maybe 8. Probably fucked me up but at least he was honest) he told me that when someone dies, they are dead. They are gone. They live on in the memories of others and then when those people die, you're gone. You get a Warhol 15 here in the universe and that's it. So when people suggest my dad is in heaven, I get kind of pissy. No he's not. He's nowhere. He's just dead.

The things you say to 8-yr-olds tend to stick.

My memories of him include his hatred of Reagan. He often yelled at the TV, "you're an idiot and you weren't even a good actor!" He also ate a lot of Le Menu frozen dinners and kept the hard plastic plates.

He got a little scary towards the end of his life. He refused to bathe and he was relentlessly negative about everything. I was a teenager going through my own shit, and my old daddy made me very angry. Having an elderly father in your teens is enough psychic abuse; having one who told you that life is shit is something else. He was lonely and frustrated, though. He didn't want to miss the big show but he didn't want to be in his old body anymore. He lamented often that he wished he could have his brain moved to a younger man's body.

I think that you're either more your mother's child or more your father's child, and I'm definitely more my father's. We look alike and in the short amount of time we had together, he managed to transplant his personality onto me. I suppose that in the great cosmic jumble, there was something about George Daviau that had to live on into the 21st century and I was plucked from the ether to complete his work. I think it was irresponsible of him to take part in having me in the first place--he didn't want to, he knew he was too old, but he loved my mom and couldn't say no.

He didn't fit into society and neither do I. I share his disappointment and frustration with the world and feel helpless to change it. He died because he knew there was nothing to look forward to. He stopped returning my phone calls a few weeks before he died. That really hurt me but at the time, I could see he was finally sparing me from the harsh realities of life. He abandoned me to my crazy mother, leaving me enough money to go to one of those Seven Sister schools we had talked about. "Vassar's coed now, but you could always go to Smith...I think that one's still all women."

I miss him so much.

HOW DO YOU GET THERE, MO?

Work for VSC. They require a year's commitment. I want to do this but feel I can't because of Austin/the house/Bob.

2) Start a writing space similar to StoryStudio in Austin. WE NEED THIS.

HOW?

Lots o' money. Writey friends to teach. I'd only want to handle administrative stuff, as I do not feel confident as a teacher of writing, unless it was just to lead a critique group.

I should look into this...I bet I could rent a space for under $1000/month. Rent studio space. Classroom space. Reading series. Maybe have a big enough space to float it for rehearsal space to improvisers. Hmmm....

1. What did you do in 2009 that you'd never done before? Moved from a city that I loathed by myself, leaving behind my darling husband.
2. Did you keep your new years' resolutions, and will you make more for next year? FUCK RESOLUTIONS.
3. Did anyone close to you give birth? Liesl made an Olive.
4. Did anyone close to you die? My mom's best friend, Bernie. She fought cancer for five years.
5. What countries did you visit? USA. Almost made it to Canada but VSC pals said no.
6. What would you like to have in 2010 that you lacked in 2009? a literary agent. A jobby-job.
7. What date from 2009 will remain etched upon your memory, and why? The entire month of July. It was the most fucking amazing month of my life.
8. What was your biggest achievement of the year? Not jumping on the El tracks. Finishing the 1st draft of my novel. Revising said novel.
9. What was your biggest failure? Giving into fear. Not being as kind a person as I wish I could be.
10. Did you suffer illness or injury? I fell in a parking lot and have a big ol' scar on my knee.
11. What was the best thing you bought? A month at VSC. A teapot for various tea-drinkings.
12. Whose behavior merited celebration? Bob, for loving me enough to let me move back home with his blessing.
13. Whose behavior made you appalled and depressed? Cunts Cunts Cunts.
14. Where did most of your money go? Moving back to Austin.
15. What did you get really, really, really excited about? The summer in Vermont, moving back home to Austin.
16. What song(s) will always remind you of 2009? "Colorado" by Grizzly Bear.
17. Compared to this time last year, are you:
happier or sadder? happier
thinner or fatter? the same
richer or poorer? uh...
18. What do you wish you'd done more of? Writing, classes at Annoyance.
19. What do you wish you'd done less of? Crying my face off.
20. How will you be did you spending Christmas? Xmas w/my mom and bro in S.D.
22. Did you fall in love in 2009? I had lust in my heart, Jimmy Carter style.
23. How many one-night stands? No.
24. What was your favorite TV program? Mad Men.
25. Do you hate anyone now that you didn't hate this time last year? I wouldn't say hate. I'd say monstrously disappointed. My Shit List definitely got longer this year.
26. What was the best book you read? HOW I BECAME A FAMOUS NOVELIST BY STEVE HELY!!!!!!!!!
27. What was your greatest musical discovery? Grizzly Bear. I know, old.
28. What did you want and get? my house in Austin back.
29. What did you want and not get? my husband back in the house in Austin.
30. What was your favorite film of this year? Dunno. Not a movie person.
31. What did you do on your birthday, and how old were you? Ate Ethiopian food w/Bob and wandered the Art Institute of Chicago. 33.
32. What one thing would have made your year immeasurably more satisfying? hot sex.
33. How would you describe your personal fashion concept in 2009? Skirts 3 days a week, jeans 4.
34. What kept you sane? Therapy and hope.
35. Which celebrity/public figure did you fancy the most? Anyone who sees TJ & Dave perform will be moved and rocked, unless they're made of stone.
36. What political issue stirred you the most? Health care reform
37. Who do you miss the most? Bob.
38. Who was the best new person(s) you met? N. Bender, S. McCarthy, S. Serpick, M. Danforth, A. Carter, and P. Mollach, my VSC peeps.
39. Tell us a valuable life lesson you learned in 2009. Obsession and depression are a dangerous combination.
40. Quote a song lyric that sums up your year:
"As easy it was to tell black from white,
It was all that easy to tell wrong from right.
And our choices were few and the thought never hit
That the one road we traveled would ever shatter and split."
--Bob Dylan
"Bob Dylan's Dream

Basically, I'm selling nostalgia. Memories as means of pulling money from pockets. But also facilitating memories. Isn't that why I got into archives? Me and stuff, we have some problems, but me and people and memories...we may have something.

If Bob doesn't get to telecommute, if he's going to be in Ill-Annoy for the foreseeable future, then I'm sending this thing off in exchange for a year as "staff." I can put on my resume that I developed an alumni relations program AND have enough time/support to knock out Novel #3 all in the middle of great beauty and never having to eat alone.

That is what I am thinking about. As much as I love Austin, there is a serious lack of opportunity that is oftentimes grating. I remember why we left. We just went to the wrong place, for me at least.

I really need a structured environment, which is why I was so dang happy in Vermont. Established mealtimes, the expectation of artistic productivity, likeminded people. Man. That was the life.

I am not convinced that living in pairs is the answer. Whoever dreamed that up was too focused on sex and child-bearing. The world is HUGE and no one person can be all things to one person.

COMMUNE!

Of course, having a 9-5 job might clear up some of this anomie, too.

Again, people would kill to have my problems.

2009...FUCK. YOU. Seriously, asshole year. I don't need to write about all the other shite that happened but do know that for the first time in five or so years, my back went supernova and I spent Thanksgiving lying around the Ap Fam Manse in pain. You should have seen me trying to get in and out of the car. It reminded me of something I saw on the #1 bus the first week I lived in Austin back in 2000: this guy got on and started demanding the first row of handicapped seating because he had a straight leg, i.e. no knee. Even after the folks sitting there skedaddled he kept yelling "I've got a straight leg!" I was beyond gimpy. "I GOT A HURTY BACK!"

Back spasms are the worst. Your muscles squeeze the shit out of whatever they're protecting and as such they lock up. Owwy.

Also: a lot of people died in 2009.

I have a ton of stuff to do now that I'm back in CIudad Happy, such as grocery shopping, picking up the house, rolling cans of trash and recycling to the curb, several improv rehearsals/performances/tech responsibilities, and confronting El Novelero. My back is still sore and I'm afraid of hurting it further. I definitely need it for all the improv stuffs this weekend. Eep! Must. Not. Hurt. I do not have readily available manservant Bob handy to pick stuff off the floor for me.

I have three improvs this weekend:

Friday:
8pm This Week Tonight (news-themed show)
10pm Improv for Evil: The Musical!

Saturday:
9pm Battle-Axe returns to the Cagematch...for blood.

Plus two rehearsals and some sounding for Dickens. I hope I can sit on that little stool without wanting to die. Fortunately, I can be gimpy and limpy in Battle-Axe. It works perfectly.

I have Vicodin. It's all good.

1) I AM THANKFUL FOR BOB. I have an awesome husband. 2009 was a shitball of a year for us. I cried, he worried, I packed up and moved back home. Bob could have easily dumped my ass for that maneuver (I wouldn't have blamed him, either), but he didn't because he loves me and I love him. I am very lucky to be loved in such a way that triumphs over adversity. I LOVE YOU BORPE!

2) I AM THANKFUL FOR IMPROV FOR EVIL. I really love these guys (and gal). I had no idea that a troupe could be this awesome, laid-back, AND supportive, not have a rock-solid turd up their asses AND turn out amazing work, too. I feel honored to get to work with the Evil Ones. They are wonderful friends, balls-out creative, back-having beyond belief, and fucking sexy, too. :)

3) I AM THANKFUL FOR CORTNEY. Cortney has been a really good friend to me, especially since she met me during a really shitty time in my life. She also reads my novel and gives me good feedback. I am lucky to have her.

4) I AM THANKFUL FOR MY MOMMY. She doesn't understand the dream, but she does support it in the form of buying me shoes and groceries. I love you, mommy!

5) I AM THANKFUL FOR THE BEST JULY OF MY LIFE. OH, VSC...summer camp for grown-ups. I came, I ate, I wrote, I swam in a lake, I made friends, I barely slept, I drank cheap rum, I danced, and I went home a better person.

6) I AM THANKFUL FOR HONESTY. It really is the best policy.

7) I AM THANKFUL FOR CHANGE.

8) I AM THANKFUL THAT I GET TO LIVE IN AUSTIN AGAIN.

9) I AM THANKFUL FOR BURRITOS.

10) I AM THANKFUL.

I'm not pining for anything.
Not worrying about anything.
I take one day at a time.
I have a good day. I have a bad day.
I work hard on my novel. I'm not worried about it getting published. It will happen.
I enjoy seeing my friends.
Living apart from Bob, while crappy, has allowed us to (I think) become better friends in a way. Without the day-to-day draggy parts of marriage, we actually have conversations! It's great!
Weather in Austin is gorgeous.
I like looking around at my surroundings and thinking, "fuck yeah!"
Things are really very nice in a quiet, normal, small, but sweet way.
Yay.

WORK: I've been interning at the offices of the Texas Book Festival. I swear, I am going to do every job that has anything to do with books. My next frontier should be at the Quebecor bindery plant! Anyway, I've really enjoyed working at the TBF. I mostly write e-mails to authors and publicists and am organizing and executing not one but TWO pre-fest parties. I have to find a proper costume, too.

The novel chugs onward. I'm really enjoying writing the second draft. It's like adding flourishes and color to an otherwise black and white picture. I am in need of a new writing group in Austin. But I'm keeping-on, which is important.

Also: inspired by my VSC buddies, I've taken up drawing and painting. I'm taking a drawing class at AMOA which meets Monday nights. I'm not a naturally talented artist, so I have to really work at this, but I can see that in five classes my eye and technique have already improved. I'm into drawing bananas. They have lots of surfaces and are actually harder to draw than they look.

IMPROV: I'm currently performing with Improv For Evil, keeping Bob's spot warm until he comes back. I'm also doing a two-person Bassprov-esque show with Aden that we're calling BATTLE-AXE. We play two old ladies who live together in a retirement community. We've rehearsed once and gone shopping for costumes twice. We have two shows coming up in November and I'm super-excited!

I've also been trying to get over being dissed by GGG. In some ways, I know that it's time to move on and try new things and play with other people who I'm more compatible with (like IFE--I LOVE playing with those guys) But it's profoundly hurtful to have to stomach the notion that people I thought were my friends actually were thrilled when I moved away and actually held meetings to talk about how much I suck when they heard that I was moving back. I know who my detractors are and I look forward to even more awkward face-to-face encounters with them in the future. The truth is, GGG is broken and is not about love or friendship but is run more like a business with no leadership. If there were problems, no one ovaried-up to say anything. Notes were given behind my back and I hear that some armchair diagnoses of my mental state were issued and used as an excuse to keep me out. I'm not the first member they've been shitty to. They do great shows but there's a lot of acrimony and shit-ass girl vibes underneath it all.

Makes me sad, but what am I gonna do?

PTA: I am not a member of the PTA.

KIDS: I have no kids. I am actually happy about this.

BOB: I miss Bob terribly but I am really happy to be back in Austin, even though I don't get nearly enough hugs and kisses these days. Bob really needs to be back here. He's sort of withering up in Shitcago. He still likes his job but now we've entered this phase where things are really much harder for him. He's in the middle of moving into his new smaller apartment, which is two doors down from a Jimmy John's and three doors down from a bar. Bob has also taken up mixology and daydreams about running a tavern. Hopefully in a few months he'll be back in Austin and we can put this shitty experience behind us and be happy again.

MY FUTURE: I'm looking for paid employment. Yeah, so is everyone else. I've enjoyed having all this time to write and I hope my novel is on your bookshelf in two or three years but having a job is nice, too. I still have dreams of running an artist's residency like VSC someday and would love to spend a year working there. I have some ideas swimming around in my head for creative projects. I just want Bob to move back to Austin. That's my main goal these days.

Also: NOVEL!

PERSONAL: I'm doing a lot better in the mental health category. Being out of Chicago is really good for me, as I don't wake up with a sense of interminable dread haunting my days. I'm enjoying a mostly empty house. I don't like a lot of stuff and clutter but that's how Bob lives. I put my posters up on my bedroom wall after five years of not having my posters. Makes me feel 21 again! Also, I've lost about 5 pounds from not eating in restaurants with Bob. Bob is fattening. But I miss him.

I still seek out positive activities and moment of wonder. I embrace melancholy and sadness as a normal condition of existence and do not feel I owe it to people around me to hide these emotions (though some might beg to differ). 2009 SUCKED but 2010 will be much, much better.

ALSO: if you haven't read Steve Hely's HILARIOUS book "How I Became a Famous Novelist," push yourself away from the computer and run to the nearest bookstore and buy it. YOU WILL DIE OF LAUGHING.

YES!