The Jobless Goddess

Shit’s starting to get real. I actually worked four full days this week. Now, naturally, this would be for two different employers, hence not reaping the benefits (no, of course I”m not jealous) my coworkers have. All I know is the older I get, the more 32 hours feels like 40. I’m all like: “Yeah, I worked full-time this week.” And my daughter Cate’s like: “Wow, really? Weren’t you off Monday? I thought you did a half-day Thursday?” Whatever. It felt full time. Couple things overheard at the library last week: Really together-looking grandma comes in with a little boy who immediately goes over to the wooden trains and starts building Penn Station. Grandma busies herself by getting to know the other children.  “Hi, what’s your name?” perfect Grandma asks a little blonde-haired girl snuggled on a bean bag reading Amelia Bedelia. “Skyler Poop,” she says. L.L. Bean Grandma looks horrified and retreats over to the graphic novel area, which we all know isn’t her cup of t...

Seriously, what is my motivation? I’m pretty sure I don’t have any. Is that really possible?  I’m trying to think about what gets me jazzed and all I can come up with is a new oversized man shirt, an eight-pack of Guinness, or a day off. Apparently I’ve turned into Homer Simpson. Unfortunately, that’s not a real stretch. I wish I could at least be Marge, her hair always looks so nice. Nope. I’m much more like Homer. Don’t even get me started on donuts. I’m lucky I’m not standing at an exit ramp with a sign that says “Will work for chocolate frosting.” Sometimes it feels like I’m working for a lot less. I used to get excited when a story I wrote was printed in the newspaper. Now all I can see is that stinking comma that’s out of place or the lede the editor rewrote because my original one sucked. Thirty years and I still miss the comma before and? Sometimes I do.  This all tells me that I’ve become a woman of a “certain age,” or as Webster says: “no longer young.” The ...