How to sully your reputation, by The Maven

It's been a very good week, despite the puke.

Intrepid may have barfed down the side of the playroom couch and been home for the last two days, but the rest of mid-to-late-February has been pretty awesome.

Let's start with the reason I haven't blogged in a week: I was applying for writing contracts, and then I got one.

I got one!

Just like that, someone decided to hire me - and this was after I directed them to my blog. I'm not too sure what that means, and sadly I forgot to ask. Either they liked my writing style or they thought that any woman crazy energetic enough to raise three boys full-time can pull off pretty much anything.

It was like a dream job in so many ways. It looked like something I could easily do, be creative with, and actually learn something new in the process.

However, the odds were clearly against me: I applied for it on a site where I had yet to be hired by anyone, had no feedback scores from previous clients (that would require having previous clients on said site), and had a big fat $0 in my 'total earnings' box. Basically, I looked like a complete newbie in Bigwig Freelancer Land, and it was a long shot.

But I won it, likely because my awesomeness transcended even my newbieness, and it became clear to the clients that hiring me was the only logical choice.

...Or maybe it was the blog.

Nah, it was totally my awesomeness.

Anyway, I had a phone call with the project manager on Monday to discuss the work. Right before it ended, he asked me how I got into this freelance writing thing.

Wouldn't you know it? Normally witty Maven went off on a business tangent about how I've been writing for a while, and I have a background in IT but this suits my lifestyle better, and I've done a fair bit of local work, etc. I was trying to act all professional-like, and tripping all over myself in the process.

Lame, and oh-so-boring.

Hindsight is, of course, always 20/20. The minute the call ended I came up with many other, far better answers to the question, like:

"The orthodontist made me do it."

"It was either this or I go back to the meth lab, you know?"

"I used to sell black market babies, but with the economy the way it is people are skipping the middleman these days..."

"I used to be a rodeo clown, but PETA's been looking for me."

"Actually, I just find the contracts- I make my kids do the writing. You don't mind a few typos, do you?"

"Well, it sure beats hooking!"

It's probably best I didn't use any of those...

In the end, I did a good job, was finished early, and the customer was happy. I got paid, and the now Intrepid's undoubtedly starving orthodontist can buy some groceries for his family. I'm feeling all professional and full of myself.

And if anyone said "When do you not feel full of yourself?" I'm going to lock you up in the meth lab. Don't think I won't do it.

Tomorrow -- if I'm not puking (so far so good) -- I'll write about an amazing seminar I went to on Monday night that dealt with tantrums, which was the other highlight this week. I'm pleased to say that since then, when Gutsy or Spawnling start throwing a fit, I have far less desire to repeatedly run myself into the patio doors until I black out. This is a good thing.

Five Things I'm Grateful For (Other than my Awesomeness)

Last night I had a dream that Geekster was made captain of one of seven space shuttles, all of which were taking off simultaneously on some cosmic mission. I remember feeling so incredibly proud of him and, of course, bragging my ass off to everyone who could hear me.

Then I woke up and felt kind of bad for the bragging.

This dream taught me two things:

1. I've been watching far too many space movies lately (can't help it - Captain Kirk and Han Solo are dreamy dudes) and,

2. After sixteen years, I still think a great deal of my husband

Let's face it: Life has been shit on toast the last few months. The Maven family has had a series of unfortunate events that, while not exactly book or movie worthy, have thrown us for a loop or two. We faced a minor health crisis, a serious money crunch, some fluctuations in our social circle, a small fire, and a whole bucket load of 'Why is this all happening at once?!' This has undoubtedly been our worst year in at least a decade.

But he's been there, that man of mine. A shining example of this was how, when we couldn't afford anything for each other on Valentine's Day, he woke up early and made pink pancakes for the entire family. I married an amazing guy.

He's been solid footing when life feels almost treacherous; a warm campfire when the path is dark and cold. I could come up with many other cheesy metaphors - I'm quite good at them, you know - but I think the point has been made without making you gag on my sappiness. While stress has certainly not passed my darling husband by, he's been the incredible best friend to me that he always is, and for that I'm very grateful.

In fact, I'm feeling a whole crapload of gratitude lately. Back when I was quitting the sauce, I was taught by the wise recovery gurus that gratitude and optimism are sometimes all a girl's got to hitch her sanity to in times of extreme sucktitude, lest she go out for a pint or ten. I've carried that knowledge all these years within my soul.

Uh, I mean my fat cells, which is clearly why I carry the extra weight around. It all makes sense now, doesn't it? Someone pass the bag of chips; It's for a good cause.

So, in lieu of writing yet another depressing post about how we had to spend our grocery money to fix my windshield and Geekster's birthday money on groceries, I'm going to take a few moments to mention the good things in my life.

I know: big of me, right? Just flexing my well-used optimism muscle, that's all.

I've already mentioned my husband. He gets top billing. Then there are these beautiful little guys. Here they are this afternoon, smiling widely and loving life:



You're right: I'm full of it. They were totally fighting when I took those.

I'm also grateful for Spawnling's drawings. Like all good artists, his work is able to invoke several emotions simultaneously. When I see his work, I'm first proud that he's drawing sensible shapes.

"Snowmans"

"Daddy playing guitar" (Guitar added in by daddy upon request)

Then I'm somewhat confused because they look like potatoes with toothpicks, or drunken amoeba.

"Daddy hugging me."


"Daddy and me, but I drew Daddy with hair, and he doesn't really have hair, so... oops."

Then I'm a little annoyed that every single one of them is either Spawnling and daddy, Daddy being a rock star, or some inanimate object. You'd think having given birth to the ten pound turkey, I might get my own cracked-out single-celled organism look-alike, but apparently not.

And finally I laugh a little, because they're gosh darn cute, just like their maker. And their maker's maker, obviously.

I'm grateful for the family members who have stepped up and helped out with babysitting so Geekster and I can preserve our sanity and our coupledom, bought outerwear for the kids so we don't have to worry about clothing three gremlins for next year's winter season, given us a hand up financially until things get better, and just been generally supportive and understanding.

I'm grateful for the friends who text just to tell me they care, tow away the gremlins to make our house less chaotic for a little while, take me out for breakfast, drop by with coffee, and listen to my incessant complaints about Murphy and his damn law.

It's really hard to be depressed around you guys. You give me little opportunity to drown my sorrows in melted chocolate. Thank you.

Husband, gremlins, creepy/adorable pictures, family, friends. That's five, right? Counting is hard this evening. I went skating with Gutsy's grade 1 class and accompanying grade 6 class today. After tying that many skates and watching a kit throw up in a garbage can a few times, my brain is a little fuzzy.

Oh! And finally, I'm grateful it wasn't my kid throwing up in the garbage can. That's six.

In Which The Maven Calls 911 and Dreams of Whips

It started like any other weekend, but better. Finally, we're in a place once more where I can afford a decent cup of coffee and not lose sleep over it. Remortgaging earlier this month left us with fewer bills to pay with Geekster's reduced salary.

The husband and I discussed how we still need to be careful; With only a small amount in our emergency savings account, we could face monetary challenges should something break. In a few months, we'll have more saved up, and we could probably be a little less vigilant at that point. But for now, we should stick mostly to necessities.

... But that's so boring, you know? And there's a world of lattes out there just begging for me to taste them. So I had a couple. Sue me.

And Old Navy had a sale on denim. The boys needed new jeans. Hey, it's not my fault the gremlins go through knees faster than I go through a bag of peanut butter cups.

Yet, I was proud of myself; I didn't go crazy. I would say I was rather responsible in my spending. But I should have put at least half that money away instead of throwing caution to the wind and breathing the air of those who can afford a few extras. Silly, naive little Maven.

As the old adage goes:

It's all fun and games until someone loses both a windshield and a dryer on the same weekend.

My windshield has had a pock in it for about two years. It was filled, and I was told it shouldn't get any bigger. Well, it cracked. It was an icy cold Canadian winter day, and I blew hot air on a cold piece of glass that was already stressed, and it split faster than Drew Barrymore and Tom Green.

No worries. We have a little bit in savings - enough to cover a new windshield. We could claim it on our insurance, but we've had two such claims in the last three years - one for a cracked windshield, and one for the back window of Geekster's car that was smashed in by rowdy youth last summer. Any more claims right now and we'll be looking at a premium increase. Gag me.

Then, on Sunday, as we were standing in front of the dryer, discussing how poorly it was drying our clothes as of late, I said "I smell something electrical. Oh my God..."

Within seconds, smoke was billowing out of the dryer, and my husband was running for the fire extinguisher and turning off the breaker. Meanwhile, I was getting the gremlins out of the house and calling 911 - well, after ran around the house freaking out like the proverbial chicken with her head cut off. My body wasn't sure if it felt like fighting or flighting. I chose flighting - across the street with my half-dressed children to our neighbours' house, minutes before the fire trucks pulled up.

There was no damage save to the dryer itself. I don't want to think what would have happened had we not been standing in front of it when it caught fire. Those are thoughts and feelings I do not wish to explore right now, thank you. We were there, we acted quickly, everyone is safe. That's all that matters.

So, we are now without a dryer and I need to get my windshield fixed. That's a lot of cash we don't have. The ironic part? I had just reached a decision to lay off trying to start my own business so as to remain focused on my main priority - being at home with my kids. It was part of my stress-reduction plan. After all, I told Geekster and a few friends, trying to write more than an hour a day with the demon child clawing at my legs does not exactly promote creativity. Had we neglected him a little more, maybe he would have learned not to come to me when he needs things. What where we thinking, giving him all that love and attention? Hindsight, and all that... It won't be long before Spawnling is in school and I find myself with more time than bon-bons and soap operas alone can fill. At that point I can focus on this career-thing people say is so fulfilling or whatever.

Unfortunately, while being at home fulfills me just fine, it doesn't fill the damn bank account. It doesn't pay for car repairs or major appliances. Looks like I'm going to have to find some more contracts. Let's hope I can convince someone that I have some kind of literary talent. Some people are gullible, right?

If things go south in the writing department, I may have to use my old fall-back plan of part-time prostitution. Sure, I may carry that little bit of Monday morning frumpiness with me the entire week, and my body is not as young and tight as it used to be, but I obviously know what I'm doing - I have three kids, after all.

I've never actually tried being a prostitute, but I hear you can skip drug use and even the fishnet stockings (A good thing, as it's cold up here in the Great White North). I've also heard rumours that there are men out there who like their woman curvy and rather plain looking. I do plain very well and have no problems maintaining my curves. Proof, once again, that I am the perfect woman.

The one problem with prostitution? The whole 'having sex with strangers' bit. Also, I don't want to sleep with ugly people, or people with bad breath, or people with bad clothing choices. Nothing would make me say 'keep your hands off my eyelet-embellished pleather mini skirt' faster than someone wearing pinstripes and plaid together.

If I could just find the guys who pay for an hour so they can complain about their wives and jobs, I'd be all for that. I'm a great listener. I'll hear your sob fest, and I won't even wince at the stench of your garlic breath unless you try to get to first base.

On second thought, maybe I could just be a dominatrix; They don't have to put out and they get to whip people. How could this possibly be a bad thing? Also, if I were to time appointments around my cycle, I could charge more one week per month due to uber-bitchiness. Lashings? Oh, I'll give you lashings. Do you know how bloated I feel right now? Did you bring me any chocolate? No?! You're a very *snap!* naughty *snap!* boy! *snap!*

Who says I'm not an entrepreneur at heart? And you thought these smarts were reserved for sock-sorting and fort-building.

Anyway, I'm hunting for a used washer as we speak. Maybe I should also look into a whip and some heels.

Dog Walkers Don't Need Cappucinos

I like Christmastime, I really do. The music, the lights, the warm hearts, family gatherings, and my belly full of seasonal lattes.

I won't lie: the lattes inch further up the list every year. Soon I'll be wishing everyone a merry Gingerbread Spice day.

And I like buying gifts for people. They'll be small this year to match our budget, but thoughtful and wrapped in love, with a pretty little boy of joy.

(I know that was puke-tastic. I wrote it that way on purpose. If Jobthingy can make us gag on her and her boyfriend's love every freaking Saturday, I want to join the party and stamp my blog name on some barf bags. It's good advertising until you get close enough to smell it.)

But something happened this morning that cracked my pretty snow globe and spilled Christmas spirit all over the kitchen floor. I got a flier (I hate fliers, by the way - they make trees cry) from Second Cup, a reputable Canadian coffee house. Excited at first, I opened it up and instantly lost my holly jolly. There were two reasons, and they are:

1. There are no coupons. How dare someone make a flier about coffee and not include a coupon? When I'm Universal President I will demand a law be put into place banning such terrible business practices.

2. There is a list of people one should "remember" to buy gifts for. Surprisingly, this list is my biggest beef; moreso than the lack of coupons. Maybe it's because I'm not a commercial kind of gal. I shudder when, on the morning after Halloween, I find Christmas decorations hanging in the grocery store. I despise hearing Xmas muzac pumped of mall speakers any time before December 1st. So frankly, this list made me want to jingle someone's bells, and I mean that in the least jolly and least perverted sense possible.

There are plenty of occasions to give plenty of people the gift of coffee. Pretty much any time is fine with me (like when the Coffee Fairy did so this morning, which was so good of her). However, there are certain people I do not feel the need to buy caffeine or caffeine-related products for at Christmas time. People like:

Workmates, from the boss to the mailroom boy: Um, seriously? If you're going to bribe your way to the next promotion, at least make it sparkly and diamond shaped like, oh, say, a diamond. And the "mailroom boy"? For reals? I didn't realize we were living in a 1950's comic book.

Personal trainer and yoga instructor: Thank you for showing me how weak and pathetic my body is. Please accept this gift of carb-filled hot chocolate mix, which of course I will not drink because it might make my soul fat.

Nanny and babysitters: Wait. You can have both? At the same time? Why wasn't I aware of this? I don't have either, but if I did I'd be really broke and couldn't afford to get them much anyway. However, speaking from experience as a former daycare provider, if you're going to spoil anyone this year, make it the chick who wipes your kid's butt for (very little) money. She's a gift from the heavens and you should treat her as such.

Hair stylist and esthetician: I tip them every. single. time. Now I have to buy them a Christmas gift, too? I appreciate what they do, but doesn't my monetary gratuity reflect that already? (Incidentally, I don't have a regular hair stylist or esthetician at the moment. But if I did I suppose I'd have the means to buy them gifts)

School bus driver and dog walker: What the hell? Are you lumping the person who walks my canine and the person I trust to get my child safely to and from school in the same category? This is not equal billing. It's like saying "Influential artists, like Beethoven and N*Sync" I don't have a dog walker, but I'm sure they're lovely people. Still, they don't drive a large vehicle full of loud children down busy streets to and from a busy school. That person is a saint and deserves some Christmas cookies. I never forget the bus driver.

Doorman and cleaning people: Aha! Now I'm starting to figure out who this pamphlet is really for. People who live in Manhattan. I've seen enough movies to know that all doormen reside in Manhattan.

Doctor, dentist and veterinarian: Are you kidding me? There have been years when I've indirectly purchased a new game console and half a trip to Maui for my family's medical professionals. They should be buying me Second Cup gifts.

Neighbours and friends: And maybe acquaintances, too? Oh, and that guy who drives past my house in the morning? And the old lady I sometimes see in the produce section of the grocery store on Tuesdays? We are in a recession, people. The money tree I planted hasn't bloomed yet, but as soon as it does I'll start boxing up a little something for all my Twitter followers, too. Promise.

What was supposed to be a handy dandy guilt list checklist has now been picked apart by yours truly. Second Cup, I may have been more forgiving if you had included a $1.00 off coupon or some such. It would have lessened the blow of your blatant faux pas - the one where you insinuate we should buy for absolutely everyone, thus sucking the life out of our bank accounts and destroying the earth simultaneously.

Everyone needs to stop killing Christmas. Besides, I'm sure just knowing me is enough of a gift for most people.

Rant over. Goodnight.

Let's Talk About Debt

I want to be someone who has no debt and is married to someone who is also debt-free.

And then I woke up.

Funny stuff, right? Well, maybe not. I do know a select few people who don't have a cloud of balance owing hanging over their heads, don't cringe at the first sign of a bill, and for whom Christmas is not a dirty word. They are few and far between, even in my sizable circle of friends and acquaintances, but they do exist. When encountering such a person - and after the tsunami of envy retreats back into my ocean of inappropriate feelings - I like to pick their brains about how they've managed to wind up in such a good place. What I've concluded is that the debt-free are made up of three types of individuals described below:

1. The Ex-Indebted

This is the woman who used to have enough shoes in her closet to lose a small child, or the guy with a television and entertainment system impressive enough to make him both blind and deaf. They received too much schooling and not enough salary, bought a shiny new penis-extender sports car, and have a great deal of Facebook pictures of themselves on a beach somewhere. Or, in some more unfortunate cases, they simply fell on some really hard times. In short, they have a checkered financial past and escaped it by the skin of their teeth. These are the people who are either completely reformed cash-only spenders, or in between huge money mistakes. Either way, they currently have no debt and that's good for them. Jerks.

2. The Very Fortunate

I try very hard not to hate these people, because they are normally quite nice - just too damn lucky. We all know them: they come from a good family - or at the very least a family where mom's drinking is done mostly in private and dad's little hooker problem is swept quietly under the rug. A family where Little Darling is put through college, her wedding paid for, the down payment on her first home taken care of. She got a job through a friend right out of college and makes good coin. Rich family members fall over dead at least once every decade and she inherits money for all those overseas trips she wants to take. No major job losses, marriage break-ups, serious illnesses or dismemberment. They are good people, happy people, god awful to be around people. However, their backs are take on a funny shape due to the large, golden horse shoe stuck way up their asses. At least you look better in a skirt.

3. The Angelic One

This is the person who, for whatever reason, has it all figured out right from the start. Maybe mom and dad were great with money, or explained to the kids how they should have done things, or taught them that credit cards were only to be used in an emergency. This person pays cash for everything, saves up money while commuting by bus instead of - gasp! - taking out a car loan. Perish the thought! They buy a modest home, live a modest lifestyle, completely ignore the Joneses and whatever they're doing, and are just... happy. These are the people I place high up on a pedestal and admire from below. I pace around them, trying to figure out what makes them so much better at this whole capitalist society thing than I am.

***

A few days ago, we noticed we haven't been able to make much of a dent in our debt situation in quite some time. The company Geekster works for has been bitch-slapped by this recession and that sting has been passed on to its employees in the form of hour reductions - two days every three weeks, to be exact. For a family of five on one income, that's not an easy pill to swallow. And for one who's been living at or slightly above its means while doing renovations to the fixer-upper home they bought two years ago, choking on the proverbial pill would be a more accurate description.

It's been a full year of reduced pay, and we've realized something critically important: Geekster pay doesn't really need to come back up (although that would be nice for many reasons), we need to reassess our lifestyle. We're piggish consumers in many ways, buying on emotion, on impulse. We're not horrible, but we don't always make great choices. Our latest not-so-great choice? The hot tub. How did we justify it? It was on sale, and still way less than any major vacation - which, by the way, we've never taken, not once, ever. It's easy to justify by saying it's like a vacation that keeps on giving, or some other crap. But the truth is that we couldn't afford it or a vacation. It was a dumb move.

See, we both left home at sixteen, and were faced with the harsh reality of sleeping in stairwells and shelters and half-way houses, lining up at the welfare office and the food bank, living with cockroaches and above some very scary drug dealers with an even scarier rottweiler. At nineteen, when Intrepid was born, a friend came to visit and said "He's very cute, but you realized you just fucked up your life." She went on to say we'd never get out of poverty and I would end up a single young mom with no education and nowhere to go. A really thoughtful thing to say to a new mom, wasn't it?

She has not received a single Christmas card from us, I'll have you know. And also, I think I'm way happier than she is. And more awesome. And somewhat prettier. Just sayin'.

It's been seventeen years since I left home, sixteen since I met the love of my life, and nearly thirteen since our first gremlin was born. Sometimes I think we're too hard on ourselves. Statistically, life should really suck right now. We shouldn't be together, let alone smitten with each other. Our son should be a delinquent who has a lot of trouble in school. I should probably have a litter of kids-- I suppose that part is somewhat true. Three is a small litter, right? And we should be quite poor and regretting the decision to keep our baby.

As per usual, I am pleased to be a statistic abnormality: Happy, married, good kids, food to eat, home owner, a vehicle to drive and good credit. Oh, and an adorable smart phone I can't really afford but have to keep for at least the next 2.5 years. You can see I'm pretty broken up about that.

Soon, I'll get discovered for my ravishing beauty or exceptional writing talents and we won't have to worry about juggling the bills anymore. Until then, I'll pat myself on the back on nights like tonight, when I walked out of a very tempting Tupperware party and didn't buy a single thing.

I'm ridiculously proud of myself.

Instant gratification. Wants masking as needs. We're as guilty and, dare I say, imperfect as the next person. Judge if you'd like, but I get to think about all my mistakes while sitting in my warm, bubbly, amazing, relaxing mistake of a hot tub. So there.

(I might let you into my hot tub if you tell me about your debt/lack of debt and give me some fantastic advice - and don't have any communicable diseases.)