Not so long ago, I made enough money to live comfortably, travel occasionally, and pay the bills without a struggle. The only time I had to pay late fees was when I blanked out and forgot to pay the cable bill.

These days, life is different.

I chose to leave that career path with a goal in mind: happiness. The goal to be happy, specifically with your job or career, is widely regarded as a lofty one. So many people toil away in jobs they can’t stand, working for companies they don’t respect, and spend a lot of time (and money) trying to relieve the stress that builds from the situation. Some of those people just think that’s the way it’s supposed to be; you’re not supposed to like your job, it’s just something you have to do. A lot of people I’ve known look at work solely as a means to an end: they work their way up the corporate ladders or take the high paying but back-breaking manual labor jobs so that they can have money or a nicer house, car, whathaveyou. They don’t like their jobs or find any tangible amount of fulfillment in them, but as long as they can have the material things they want, it doesn’t matter.¹

I’m not like that at all. Actually, I wish I could be like that; I’m generally good at whatever I put my mind to, and I’m sure I could work my way up the ladder quite well if I could let the stress of it all roll off the way so many others do. But I put my heart and soul into whatever it is I’m doing, and if I don’t feel like I’m getting something out of it or helping others along the way, it just makes me crazy. The way I figure it, most of us spend more waking hours at work than at home, so I need to be able to find some enjoyment in what I’m doing.

I’ve sampled a lot of different jobs in my relatively short time as a working stiff. I’ve worked in a couple of restaurants, a cash office (sort of like a bank job), several record stores, a snack bar and a gift shop in an airport, a convenience store, a couple of clothing stores, and a couple of hotels. I did a short stint as a market research rep, some telemarketing while I was in high school, and cleaned offices for a little while. I worked as a music writer and editor without pay while sliding by on unemployment for a bit. I even tried my hand at home-party sales at one point. (Though it was more or less just a multi level marketing junk sort of thing.) On the higher end of the salary scale, I’ve tried tech support, software engineering, customer service management, and project management.

The only times I’ve been truly happy though were when I was working for a really small company in a position that allowed me to work with people and to truly contribute to the business while working for someone who I respected and admired, regardless of the amount of money I was making. Which is to say that I was truly happy when I worked for Marshall at a record store 10 years ago, and and I’m truly happy working for Marshall in the stores now.

What I do now is just a few steps short of my total dream job. In fact, the only thing I think that really keeps it from being my total dream job is the pay. As a struggling small business owner, Marshall is paying me what he can, and truth be told, if I could afford to work for free I would. That is how much I love what I’m doing and how much I adore the man I am working for. I don’t want to make a lot of money; being rich is a nice thought in the abstract, but it’s never really been a goal of mine. But I would like to make a little more than I do, just because I would really like to be stress free. I traded job stress for financial stress.

I had it planned out when I decided to leave corporate America. I had a nice little nest egg that came from a stock option sale, and I had figured out how to reduce my expenses so that I could squeak by comfortably enough. The problem is, no matter how well you plan things, the unexpected can really throw you for a loop, or two, or three. It took longer for my boyfriend to find a job than we’d planned for (and we had planned for 6 months of unemployment, so that’s saying something) and he still doesn’t have a permanent job, which has meant intermittent periods of unemployment between temp positions. His car was totaled in an accident 3 months after he’d finished paying for it, and he was only carrying the minimum insurance required by law so he was basically left with nothing at the end of that. Then last summer I had to have back surgery, which meant medical bills and time out of work. As time goes on, just as we start to catch up (or at least tread water) something new pops up to kick us in the ass. In the past month it’s been an emergency dentist visit, an emergency vet visit, and a power bill that almost literally made me cry. It’s been a frustrating time period, and I’ve been affected with a bit of depression over the whole situation. Things were starting to look a bit desperate.

But things are looking up, at least temporarily. Today we learned that my boyfriend - due to his hard work - is getting a raise for his temporary job. It’s still a temporary job, so there’s still a hurdle in the way of security, but the raise is substantial enough that as long as he has this job (which they think will last for at least another couple months), we’ll be ok. We might even manage to catch up some.

I’m feeling a bit more optimistic tonight… it’s a good feeling. I hope it sticks around for a while.

¹I don’t mean to say that everyone who makes money is miserable; many people who live comfortably enjoy what they do. So very many people I’ve met though hate their jobs with a passion.

The kid who comes to hang out with me at the store will turn 16 tomorrow. He’s excited about turning 16, but is too busy fretting over not being 18 to enjoy it completely. I can remember what that was like quite clearly. At 16, you think you know everything and should be able to do anything or go anywhere, but of course, you can’t. That’s probably a good thing overall. But being under 18 rarely stopped me from doing what I wanted. I couldn’t wait to be 18, so I just started telling people I was.

The first time I can remember lying about my age was while on vacation in Myrtle Beach, SC with a friend. We were 12 years old, but we both looked a little older than that. We were walking along the strip when a car full of cute boys pulled alongside us to chat. After a few minutes of conversation, one of them asked how old we were. We looked at each other (in retrospect: stupid move) and said in unison, “16.” The boys laughed out loud and said, “Yeah, sure you are.” and drove away. We vowed to have the answer ready next time, no hesitation. We were a tad more convincing to the next group of boys we met and before long I had learned to be very good at lying about my age.

As I’ve mentioned before, I started going to nightclubs when I was around 14 years old. Clubs are pretty serious about preventing underage drinking most of the time (not because of some sense of serving the greater good, but because they can be heavily fined), but most of the places we wanted to go were 18 & up, and I usually managed to pass for 18 with no problem. I can remember a night around the time that I was 16 when the doorman argued with me after I presented my two hands to be branded as underage with the big X’s made in black magic marker. He wouldn’t believe I was under 21, and he refused to mark me as underage, even though I had no ID. Sadly, I had known the bartender there for several years already and he knew damn well I was under 21, so I didn’t get to enjoy the benefits of passing for older.

A new club opened in town once that was a little stricter about enforcing the 18 age limit. The first time we went there we were able to worm our way in by claiming we were from out of town and with the band (which the band verified for us), but that didn’t work a couple weeks later. One of the guys that worked the door there was really cool though, and he told us that we didn’t need to have a state ID or driver’s license; we just needed to have something with our pictures on it that said we were 18. He said all this with a smirk on his face that told us he knew that we weren’t 18, but was willing to help us get in. He allowed us in that night (Probably because he was checking out my friends - hot chicks in slutty dresses can get nearly anything they want.), but warned us that he wouldn’t be able to let us slide the next time.

The next week we descended upon a local check cashing facility that sold ID cards for $5. We gave them all fake information, and they gave us photo ID cards that claimed we were over 18 years of age. Despite the fact that the cards had “Non-verified information provided by cardholder” stamped on the back in all capital letters, they worked. It wasn’t really a fake ID as it wasn’t a falsified state ID, and it wasn’t like we were trying to get bar priviliges out of them, we just wanted to get in to see the bands.

By the time I turned 21, I was nearly a staple of the Charlotte bar scene, at least in the ones that featured live rock bands. (I’m not sure that’s something to be proud of really, but there you have it.) Because I was finally hitting that magical age… that age where you really are allowed to do everything (well, except rent a car, but really, that’s not so magical) I decided I wanted to have a really big birthday party. I arranged to have use of a local club (The Milestone) and lined up 4 bands that were friends of mine to play. Marshall played the part of a DJ between sets, and I was the hostess for the evening. Nearly everyone I knew in the world was there - friends from the bar scene, friends from work, even a few friends from high school (some of which I hadn’t seen since graduation). I got lots of happy birthday wishes from everyone there, but I also had this conversation with several of my bar friends:

“So… how old are you really?” *wink*
“Um… 21.”
“Girl, I’ve known you for 5 years, and I first met you at [insert nightclub name here]. There’s no way you’re just now turning 21.”
“Uh… yes I am. Wanna see my ID?”

I actually had to show it to a couple of them.

After 21 though, it was sort of all downhill from there. There wasn’t really much to look forward to age wise, and damn if time doesn’t somehow speed up after that birthday. Though it’s hard for me to believe, I’m approaching the 10 year anniversary of that birthday party, and my thoughts on aging have shifted a bit in those 10 years.

That’s not to say it worries me or that I freak out over aging. I just marvel at the amount of time that’s passed in what seems like a flash, and I no longer feel the need to lie about my age. If I did, of course, it would be to claim that I’m younger than I really am, but I don’t even feel that need. Aging happens.

Sometimes I feel as though I’m constantly inundated with advertising that’s aimed at the vanity in all of us, urging us to stay looking young, spending as much money as necessary in order to appear young if nothing else. Just the other night The Daily Show featured a segment with a 50-something who credited her youthful appearance to the regular application of a hormone laced vaginal cream to her face. Though we all age - every single damn one of us - it seems like no one wants to admit that they’ve aged.

I refuse to succumb to this fountain-of-youth-hysteria as far as my appearance is concerned. I am much more concerned about mental aging, and I’m fighting that at every turn. I want to feel young forever, and so far I’m on track. I look forward to new episodes of Foster’s Home for Imaginary Friends with the same fervor that most women my age save for Desperate Housewives. The movies I’m most looking forward to seeing when I can swing it are Howl’s Moving Castle and Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. My car is adorned with stickers, the majority of them being cartoon characters. The last time I bothered to decorate my apartment it was with music and movie posters and up-all-year-long Christmas lights. I still go to rock concerts as often as my budget will allow (which, oddly enough, is less often than when I was 14) and I still have that soft spot in my heart for the 19 year old goth boys.

Don’t assume by this that I haven’t matured though - my priorities have changed and I do have a responsible streak. My budget for rock concerts is lower these days because I will actually pay the car payment before I blow the money on a concert ticket, even if it means I can’t purchase that ticket. (Which is why I am sad to report I will be missing the Nine Inch Nails concert later this year.) I just can’t think of myself as a grown up.

Though, I have to cop to the fact that my rebellion against the multi-million dollar industry of youthful appearances is probably still intact because I am one of those people who has remained young looking. I’m sure the nose ring and multi-colored hair contribute, as people tend to think once you hit a certain age you stop doing things like that (hitting 30 only made me want to do it more), but I really do still look young. If my mother’s appearance is any indication of what I have to look forward to, I will still appear young for a while yet. So maybe it’s not really fair for me to claim that I don’t care about looking young… I don’t look my age. (Not that 30, almost 31, is all that old anyway.)

That’s not just vanity talking there. I’ve been carded for cigarettes twice in the last week - though I actually sort of doubt the sanity of someone who would believe I am under 18 years of age. And as much as I think I don’t care about aging physically, I do have to admit that when the one lady told me she thought I was about 22 or 23 I got a little kick out of that.

I guess I do want the body to match the spirit some, and I plan on being a kid at heart until my heart gives out.

So, aside from this little mention here, once I’m through the next week or so, I’m just going to pretend that July didn’t happen. There were numerous stresses (far too many to detail), the worst of which hit early this week. Let’s just say that after spending ungodly amounts of money (that we didn’t have to start with) on diagnoses, both my boyfriend and his cat are taking multiple daily doses of antibiotics, and their ailments aren’t even related. (And having to wake up 3 hours earlier than normal to administer a pill to a cat is not a fate I’d wish on my worst enemy.)

As soon as it’s over, July will be hereby excised from my year. Here’s to hoping for a better August.

On our way home this evening, we discovered an estate sale on the corner across from our apartment building. Despite the fact that expendable income is in seriously short supply in our household, we decided to check it out. It turns out this is sort of an estate sale clearing house sort of event; it’s a sale of what’s left over from several estate sales combined. This made for a very interesting assortment of stuff… There was a large collection of Marilyn Monroe memorabilia, a number of Barbie dolls and Britney Spears dolls, several framed and signed movie posters (including a poster for The Wizard of Oz signed by Ray Bolger), some games, some toys, lamps, housewares, clothes, paintings, and bigger items like ski jets, boats, and exercise equipment, among a lot of other stuff. It was fun to browse.

We did end up buying a few things. We found a couple of XBox games for $5 that we picked up, and a set of Trivial Pursuit cards (the 1980’s set, for $3). And since I was writing a check for the total, I went ahead and splurged on a couple of mementos that I found interesting: a scrapbook that was filled with newspaper clippings circa World War II, and a package of telegrams. I could only see the top telegram, but it was dated April 27, 1927, and just the sheer age of it was enough to pique my interest. The guy ringing up my sale quipped, “Those should make for some interesting reading.” I agreed… I love old stuff like this, and it seemed like a good way to spend $5 that would probably be spent on diet soda otherwise.

This turned out to be a very cool find. When I started reading through them, I realized these were part of a specific collection - they are all related in some way to Clifton Webb. There are 47 telegrams in all, with dates ranging from August 16, 1920 to October 15, 1966. In trying to determine whether these are indeed authentic, I’ve been doing a little research.

There are a number of telegrams from Clifton to his mother, Mabelle, and several from her to him. A little research shows that he was a devoted momma’s boy, who lived with her until her death. There are several addressed to his secretary Helen Matthews, who was taking care of him at the time of his death, expressing condolences for his death on October 13, 1966. There are a number from other luminary names from classic Hollywood, including Noel Coward, George Cukor, Douglas Fairbanks Jr., Gene Tierney and one signed simply Tallulah, which I’m guessing would be the infamous Tallulah Bankhead. There are a couple that mention Laura, a performance which garnered Clifton Webb his first Academy Award nomination.

I’m pretty convinced that these are real, and though it would appear that telegrams as memorabilia isn’t worth a whole lot of money (my dreams of striking it rich with an estate sale discovery have been dashed!), I still think this was a pretty cool find. If nothing else, I learned a little bit of Hollywood history, like the fact that it was pretty much accepted that Clifton Webb was a gay man, but that he avoided scandal and the other silliness by keeping his private life private.

My boyfriend commented that only I, being the gay culture magnet I apparently am, would stumble across a set of old telegrams relating to a gay actor of Hollywood’s past. This is just one of those things that happens to me, one of those fruit fly moments.

My favorite out of the bunch is this party invitation… I’ve been a bit fascinated by stories concerning William Randolph Hearst since I saw The Cat’s Meow, and though this isn’t specifically him, it’s close enough.

If you’re interested in seeing more, I’m just nerd enough to have scanned them all in for posterity. Go see them all and enjoy! (Somehow when I was resizing the images I lost some of the quality - cause I wasn’t paying attention to the settings - so they’re a little blurry. But it took too long for me to go scan them all again. If you *really* want to see them better, make me a financial offer I can’t refuse, and you can own the whole set!)

Life has caught up with me lately, and I had a couple weeks there where I felt like I simply had no time to relax. But then I was graced with a beautiful 2 days off in a row (first time that’s happened since Christmas), thanks to the July 4th holiday landing on a Monday, and it helped a lot. I think my recovery is coming partially because I actually did not turn my computer on at all yesterday. The practical reason for this was that the temperature was in the 90’s outside and my lair heats up quite nicely without the help of a computer generating extra heat. I also just decided I needed a break from my computer for a bit. Well, for a day at least. More than that and I’m pretty sure the withdrawal symptoms would frighten me.

With all of the other things going on in my life, I am way, way, way behind in my blog reading. Like over-800-unread-posts-in-Bloglines behind.

I like to read blogs (and comment on them), and even in the two year period where I wasn’t writing my own, I kept up with about 10 or 20 blogs on a somewhat regular basis. As I’ve gotten back into doing my own, I’ve discovered so many blogs that I like - so many people I dig, so many writers I admire - that I’ve gotten myself into a situation where I simply can’t possibly keep up with all of the blogs that I want to. And I feel guilty about that, even though most of the blog authors that I’m feeling guilty about neglecting probably don’t even know I exist. Those of you who do know I exist (because some of you lurk about here) I feel even guiltier about.

All this unnecessary verbosity is simply to say to the second group: sorry I’ve been away, and hopefully I’ll be back soon.

And maybe I’ll even write something slightly more interesting here one day soon!

Justice Sandra Day O’Connor is resigining from the Supreme Court.

I can’t help but worry what the future will bring. So many things about our way of life are about to change… and no, I don’t think I’m overstating the case.

This makes me very sad indeed.