Ok. Listen. I’m not gonna lie. I’m kind of loving my first intentionally full time gig. Or I’m loving having a full time gig: Facebook is boring because I’m not spending hours posting all day so have few notifications, which is relieving on both accounts (brain is clearer to think of other things). The sitting all day makes me really in the mood for yoga at the end of it. And even though I’m sitting all day I feel like I’ve accomplished something. I have all these projects I want to work on and because of the limited time I have to focus on them I’m spending less time on tv, even though I have yet to work out a schedule and work on the projects. Like in eleventh grade history class more brilliant ideas are coming to me and because I’m making a comfortable income compared to my cost of living, my brain is free to roam the possibility of moving up in this position, taking on adjunct work or other sort of educational projects in the area or plan once again to go teach English in Dubai for a few years to really pay off the loans before racking them up again to do a PhD. :D
I think my point is, it may not last long, but for right this second, anything’s possible and I’m quite happy.
So. I just watched an advertisement for Pronto heating and air conditioning in Minneapolis. It was recommended from an entrepreneur I follow to show good marketing. Just a Minnesotan guy talking about what their heating and cooling company can do for me. And something ticked. I laughed and laughed. Giggled really. It wasn’t funny. And I wasn’t making fun. It was like feel good. Then, the next video in the post Erika Lyremark shared, a family Will Smith’s their way to Christmas jammies. It’s funny, right? A family dancing and singing in their pajamas in their driveway. I cried. The first marketing video - just made me want to hire her (a photographer) - so feelings of resolution and hope? Clearly Valentine’s Day wine and chocolate reverses my emotions. But don’t take my word for it, have a look yourself. If you aren’t interested in learning how to market, or sell without selling, just skip the text.
let me just paint ya a picture: you’re watching tv and after like fifty episodes of the same show you realize the main character reminds you of this boy you had a crush on forever ago. then you realize. you. can’t. even. remember. that. dude’s. name. like. you thought he was sooooo cute and your palms sweated a little every time you ran into him on the street, except maybe that was the alcohol because you were drunk quite a lot then. but still, you did that thing where your tongue can’t quite form words and though you were better than that time you had this other crush who quite literally didn’t know you existed because you saw him playing in a band once and you he was on the opposite side of the aisle you turned down in Sam’s Club and you had to leave the aisle, because yeah, he’s totally going to know you have a crush from fifty or so feet away when he doesn’t even know you know who he is. nonetheless your heart pounded out of your chest. or that time your cute classmate soren asked you your name and you stuttered Walkup and he looked at you and sad That’s what people call you? Well. No. and the wah wah sound played in your head as your stomach crawled to your throat. it wasn’t bad as all that, but somewhere in the mix this super cute boy you used to crush on made you a little light-headed and nervous and five years later you can’t even remember his name.
this must be the reason they invented Facebook.
It’s seven a.m. on a Sunday morning. The bang of feet running across the wood floor above my head and balls continually bouncing startle me awake. Five. Five in the morning is when I went to sleep. My body stings. Physical pain from too little sleep and being awoken too abruptly. My nephew.
My mom, B’s grandma, is upstairs. K, the momma, is sleeping after a night of JT. The nephew rarely gets up this early, but Mom slept in the twin bed with him last night and I imagine that throws off the sleep pattern. I call upstairs, not only unwilling, but unable to slip out of bed.
"Are we keeping you awake?"
"Can’t you feed him breakfast or something?" In his booster chair all I’d hear from down here is the muffled chatter he engages in, sometimes of which he hollers my name from upstairs: DIBBY. And I holler back: BARRETT. Singing just a little, bringing the "RET" down a few notes. I love him so I’m not angry, but I’m almost certain if he were a girl we’d be teaching him to sit and play nice by now.
"He already ate," Mom says a little exasperated, probably she’d like a few extra minutes of sleep too.
"What time’d he get up?"
Among all of the other reasons, this is going to be a long year if I don’t turn my sleep schedule back around. Now. I’ve got to go let the dog inside.
I’ve finally got around to posting my story on the wall again. I must be feeling like I’m home.
Though my book is taking a temporary and proverbial backseat to Ginger Piglet for the next few months while we restructure the website, marketing plan and (finally) put the next issue out, I want to be sure that I’m spending a little time with the book tentatively titled Friday Night Fargo each day. Even if it’s just recognizing that this storyboard/outline thing is here.
The only problem? The tape doesn’t seem to hold up on natural wood the same way it did on sheet rock and paint. Some of the pieces fell down overnight and apparently Copper, the dog, doesn’t like a few chapters and would prefer I take them out: