Soon, I'll find myself unemployed. And while, really, all things considered, it's fine, after holding some sort of a job constantly for the last 20 years, it's still a shock.
If you ask my dad, he'd mark my debut in the business world at 5, successfully selling original artwork to neighbors in the parking lot of our condos for a buck a piece. Or, at 9, when I advertised as a babysitter in our apartment complex, only to find callers confused by my parents who were similarly seeking a babysitter for myself and my two younger brothers.
But officially, my first job with an actual pay check was at 14 - as a surveyor in the mall, asking what few passers-by I could talk into a few minutes of their time for a $5-spot what they thought of the potato chip samples or movie clip they just watched.
Yeah, I know. You're jealous of that job. I can feel it.
Since that sweet gig, I've held quite the assortment of positions.
As a teenager at Burger King, I sported a oversized polo and fugly khakis to offset my fine Adidas, and watched some shady deals go through the drive-through window while an even shadier "boss" hooked up with hoochie mamas in the supply closet, too stoned off his gourd to notice anything was amiss.
After high school, I worked as a nanny to a drunken richy-rich who once slurred that she wasn't sure she could trust me to safely transport her sweet little girl to the park, while she was cradling the open bottle of top-shelf vodka closer than I had ever seen her to her toddler (true story).
I worked as a floor manager for a Gap in a resort town, where I was subjected to thickly-accented foreigners who cared even less for their children than my previous charge, and whose nannies let the spoiled beasts run amok through the store and climb all over the new spring displays with muddy boots and matching wet ski parkas that cost more than my rent.
As a small town newspaper clerk, I bemoaned the local yokels who would line up at any of the five bars on the block, waiting for the doors to open wide and swallow them whole at all of 10 a.m.
Most recently, and for most of the last decade, I worked hard for a service company that utilized my customer service and fake-it-tip-you-make-it HR skills. Often days, it felt more like babysitting 40 grown men and trying to make my lone female voice heard above the din of chauvinistic thoughts. But in all, it was cool - I worked with my husband (which, to the surprise of most, worked really well), and was blessed with an understanding boss and flexible enough schedule that allowed me to still be a mom.
And now, shockingly, it's over.
After a few days of stewing anger, I've settled into a state of acceptance.
I'll take a few months off to find myself and figure out what I want to do when I grow up.
I'll play stay-at-home mom for the first time in the history of (my) ever for my two "used" babies, because nobody can call my 6' tall teenager or sassy-pants preteen a baby any more.
We'll go on adventures.
And, in the mean time, I'll write a few things down. Sort a few things out. Look to see what the future may hold, and see where the cards may lie. And you know... all that jazz.
So this, here, this is my experiment. My public journal. My way of working things out. This has become my place to record random thoughts and ideas. Knowing me, it's likely going to be filled with sarcasm. You'll find the occasional bits of snark, and probably an f-bomb or two. Don't be offended - that's who I am. And if you don't like it, don't read it.
And if you do like it, well, it's for sale. Enjoy!
But seriously, though... I'll sell you my words. For the real.
