The Jobless Goddess

This past month has been crazy. Meetings out the wazoo and then some. I’m pretty sure I went to one meeting that was about having a meeting. The only good thing about all these gatherings of people with a supposed common purpose is that sometimes you get things accomplished. Of course that takes about 347 meetings, but who’s counting? I remember early on in my work life when I thought it sounded so grown-up to go to “a meeting.” I used to wish I was asked to go to one. I’d wear something a little snazzier that day. Maybe my black shoes with the one-inch heels. Little did I know that it would become such a regular part of my life. I guess that really kicked in when I had kids. And it mostly kicked in when they were in trouble, or in Dan’s case, because of his autism.  Now that he’s almost ready to leave high school, I’m having more meetings than ever. I feel like I have to pave the way for Dan’s adult life. Sometimes that involves one of those giant steamrollers and other ti

This joblessness is something. I have whole weeks where I scour writing websites, local help wanted ads, and journalismjobs.com. I panic and eat bags of salt and vinegar popchips because I’ve convinced myself that they’re healthier than the other brands. Then I try to settle myself down and remember that I’m a freelance writer after all. Like that means I have an actual job. Lord.  Then I spend hours chastising myself because I know real freelancers who actually make a living at it. I think they must be very organized and very together, while I’m calling myself a freelancer and I wear the same pajama pants for three days in a row and get sidetracked by Googling how to make pesto without nuts.  Oh, I get assignments sometimes, and since I live on Martha’s Vineyard they range from writing about artisan pretzels to tracking the number of homeless here. It’s really not a humdrum work life really. I just don’t like the sporadic nature of it all. And how it lends itself to embracing