Working Girl

Occupation. My pen came to a stop as I considered what to write in the blank. The doctor’s waiting room was pretty full, and I suddenly feared that the girl next to me was looking over my shoulder to see what I would say. I wasn't so sure myself. I looked around as if about to commit a crime, or tell a lie. But it wasn’t a lie - a fantasy maybe - but not a lie. No, it wasn't a fantasy, I told myself. My first paycheck was proof of that. Finally, I took a deep breath and filled in the blank.

Writer.

I’m a writer. Not a magazine editor or journalist or novelist, not yet anyway, but I am a writer. To be more specific, a copywriter. It’s been kinda slow to start, and I only have a few clients, but I've been writing for brochures, ads, websites…I’m a copywriter.

Even now, I’m scared to commit to the title. What do I know about copywriting? Surely someone will find me out any minute now, right? But they haven’t yet, and perhaps the more I embrace my new occupation, the more I say, “I’m a writer,” the more convincing I will seem. Roger always says people will believe pretty much anything, as long as you say it with confidence (he happens to excel in this area - after five years, I'm still falling for it). So from now on, I will confidently announce that I’m a writer, and with those few words, everyone will think, “Oh, a writer – she must be good.”

Taking a break with two of my assistants...
Me working on my blog at Gary and Laurel's house.

Of course, one of the great things about being a writer is the ability to work from home. However, that particular perk isn’t so fabulous when your home life involves a psychotic mother-in-law. At least the work gives me a reason to hide upstairs all day, but it can be a bit lonely. Lucky for me, my brother-in-law owns an advertising agency (which happens to be my number one client) and has welcomed me to bring my laptop and work from the office. It’s exactly the kind of office you would expect a cool advertising agency to have – open space, loud music, action figures in the break room, weird light fixtures, rubber duckies in the conference room, a Zen garden out back. I love it, and just being around the people there makes me feel creative.

There’s one small problem, though. In my former life I was a real estate agent, so work began around ten-thirty, and I think this is a perfectly acceptable time for the work day to begin. (How can anyone possibly be productive before ten?) So, since I’m not a full-time employee – I’m not an employee at all – I usually stroll into the office mid-morning. I’m a freelance writer so I charge an hourly rate, and it’s not like I have that much to do. My rationalizations don’t matter. My good-girl guilt kicks in, and I feel embarrassed that everyone else has been working since eight-thirty, and where have I been? Of course, the guilt isn’t so overwhelming that I feel compelled to stay until five. Surely no one expects me to fight rush hour traffic, do they?

You can see that my six months of unemployment have spoiled me just a tad.

I left my job in Atlanta right before Christmas. It was perfect timing. I reaped the benefits of my December closings without going through the January/February slump. I also got to travel to Chicago, Mexico and Los Angeles, and still had plenty of time to pack up my belongings and organize my South African visa and do all the other crap that goes along with moving across the planet. I had plenty to keep me busy before we left, and since we’ve moved, well I’ve managed to keep myself occupied here as well. It’s amazing how much you can find to do. In fact, I often wonder how I got anything done when I was working those pesky forty hours a week. That’s the danger of unemployment (other than potential poverty and starvation, of course). The danger is once you stop working, it’s hard to start all over again.

Despite my questionable hours, I’m excited to be working again. After all, not working can be pretty hard on the self-esteem. A friend of mine is currently considering taking some time off from the working world. She’ll live off of her savings while she regroups and decides what her next move should be. I told her to go for it…I'd be quite the hypocrite if I didn’t encourage her to follow her heart, right? My only warning was to prepare a solid answer to the question, “What do you do?” and replying with, “Nothing,” is not a solid answer. “I’m between jobs,” is also not so good for quality conversation. Everyone complains about their jobs, but when it comes down to it, without our jobs we would not only be bankrupt, but also pretty boring. Just see how fast the conversation ends when you answer the job question with, "Nothing.” (Disclaimer: My comments exclude retired people and stay-at-home moms and dads. I'm sure they've racked up enough experiences to make them anything but boring.)

Now, when people ask what I do, I tell them I’m a writer. I usually blush a little and explain that I’m just getting started and it’s only part-time and my brother is pretty much my only client…but next time someone asks, I’m going to make a conscious effort to cut out the pathetic bit. Confidence, right? I’m a writer.

Let’s just leave it at that.

More Adventures at the Wheel

Now, don’t panic. I don’t plan to bore you with all of my driving escapades (that alone could fill a book), but as an addendum to Sunday's post, I thought it only appropriate to share my most recent near death experience.

It all starts when I notice that the gas gauge has dropped below the empty mark. After putting it off as long as possible (after all, gas is roughly five dollars a gallon!), I eventually drive to the Shell station. However the last time I tried to get gas, there was some sort of problem taking my debit card. On this occasion I don’t have cash, so before they start to fill me up I ask about the card situation. Apparently, the problem is - they just don’t take cards. Well, not my cards anyway. Not Visa, not Mastercard, not even the debit card from my bank right here in Africa. Nothing. I need a “garage card.” I want to throw a fit about how everything is easier in America, but instead, I just smile and tell the gas station attendant that I’ll be right back.

I make my way to the ATM successfully; it’s driving back that becomes a problem. As soon as I miss my turn, I know I’m in trouble. I remain calm though. I will simply make a U-turn…just as soon as I find a traffic light with a green right arrow.

I’m still looking for the elusive arrow, when I see that the cars up ahead are stopped. Lot of flashing lights, but no, it’s not an accident; it’s a road block. I’ve seen them before, but never been stopped. I’m not even sure what it is that they’re looking for. Drugs? Refugees? Dead bodies? Unlicensed American drivers? Terrified, I slowly proceed through the cars and pray that no one will ask me to pull over. What would I do? Give them my Georgia drivers’ license and hope that’s okay? Fortunately, I am waived through. Based on the drivers of the cars that have been stopped, I strongly suspect that this has something to do with my skin color.

But now I have another problem. I don’t want to make a U-turn and have to go back through the road block. Based on recent evidence, I don’t think I’d be stopped, but it’s a risk I’m not willing to take. So, I keep driving. I just need to turn somewhere, anywhere. Suddenly I realize that I haven't seen a traffic light in a while. The road seems to be getting wider and is sort of curving upward towards an overpass as if… it’s almost like… Oh God, am I getting on the highway? My heart is pounding and I start to sweat. It’s just like that scene in Clueless - “Not the freeway!” My eyes wide, I realize that I have to do something and fast. I see a break in the median that clearly states No U-Turn, but what other choice do I have? The sharp curve of the road may not lend itself to being the safest spot for a U-turn, but if I keep going, I feel sure that death is imminent. By attempting the U-turn, I at least have a shot at survival. I take a deep breath and go for it.

My eyes tear with relief when I realize that I’ve made it, but I’m not out of the woods just yet. I still have to turn off the main road before I get back to the road block. I take the next left. Then right at the dead end. Then what? Where to go? Now thoroughly turned around, I have no idea which way could possibly be the general direction of my neighborhood. That’s when I hear the engine sputter, or I think I do. I glance at the gas gauge. I didn’t know it could go lower than it already was, but clearly I was wrong. I turn off the air conditioner to save gas, but I’m still sweating with fear so I roll down the window.

What will I do when I run out of gas? Who will help me? Driving in circles, I begin to develop the worst case scenario. It involves me walking aimlessly though the streets, eventually joining up with a street vendor and hawking plastic hangers at a major intersection until someone eventually recognizes me and takes me back to my home. I’m trying to get comfortable with this image (at least it will make a good story, I think), when it occurs to me that I have a cell phone. I can call for help before I resort to hiking through the nameless streets. Of course, this country doesn’t seem to believe in street signs, so I’m not sure how I will tell anyone where I am…But the cell phone comforts me anyway.

I finally see a street name printed on the curb (I'm serious about the lack of street signs). I’m relieved to know that I can accurately report my location once I run out of gas. It then occurs to me that I have a map in the glove box, and by a true miracle of God, my car is still running on fumes. I pull over and get out the map. In my panicked state it's amazing that I remember how to use it, but somehow, I do. And I only have to pull over and refer to it two more times before I start to recognize where I am. I find my way back to the gas station and fill up the tank, vowing never to let the gauge go that low again.

So I’m learning…learning to drive, learning my way around, learning to keep the tank full. It’s always an adventure though – every time I get behind the wheel I am faced with an unknown journey.

And here, you thought my African adventures would involve lions and elephants…

To the Left, To the Left...

…Everything you own in a box to the left.

Okay, you may not see the relevance of Beyonce’s hit song, but I'm afraid it has become my mantra. I hear it over and over again in my head – okay, it's just that one part, and I guess it’s only when I’m driving. To the left, to the left…Left side of the road, that is.

I’ve been driving for over a month now, and I’m starting to feel a little more comfortable on the road. Well, comfortable enough to pump up the volume for Beyonce anyway (and please, no comments about my bad taste in music). The left side of the road, right side of the car situation is beginning to feel slightly more natural. Slightly. Other than repeatedly reaching over my left shoulder for the seat belt and turning on the windshield wipers every time I go for the blinker, I think I’m doing okay.

Of course, there is the small issue of entering the car. And Beyonce’s song is of no help, I’m afraid. I had just met Roger for lunch after doing a bit of grocery shopping, and I’m walking back to the car feeling quite impressed with myself. Driving? No problem. The whole morning had felt so normal…and those moments are somewhat rare. Usually, I am hyper aware that I have moved to AFRICA, that I've made a monumental decision and moved to the opposite side of the planet. So, those moments of normality are like little gifts, and I'm particularly wrapped up in this one as I enter the parking garage thinking, I’m gonna be just fine. I open the car door and slide in, only to find myself sitting in the passenger seat.
Dammit!
I quickly hop out of the car and instinctively look around to see if anyone has witnessed my rookie mistake. I scurry around to get in the other side of the car, but as I start to back out of the (very narrow) space I hear a light scraping sound and realize that I am scratching the side mirror along the cement column flanking my parking spot. Oops. Well, this feels normal anyway.

In addition to learning how to drive all over again, I am also learning my way around a new city - a city whose streets make about as much sense as a mythical labyrinth. Not only does First Avenue East have no correlation with First Avenue West, but Jan Smuts is also called Henrik Verwoerd, which is also called Main Road, which at some point turns into the William Nicol. It’s not confusing at all (she said sarcastically). And the fact that I can’t pronounce the names of 90% of the streets doesn’t help either.

I'm learning fast though: A yellow light means accelerate (unless you want to be rear-ended), and a red light only means stop if it's been red for more than five complete seconds. I've also learned that lanes are not designated by lines on the street, but by the width of the cars traveling on any given road. A mini cooper and a couple of sports cars? Well, that’s a four lane road. An SUV and a truck? Two lanes. Unless of course a taxi is involved. A taxi automatically gets its own lane. In fact, taxis have their own set of traffic laws altogether. The drivers of these vans make their money by carting the masses from the townships to the city…translation: they transport the maids and the gardeners from the poor parts of town to the wealthy parts of town. These taxi drivers notoriously have zero respect for the sanctity of life – certainly not the lives of their sardine packed passengers, much less the life of a tentative, terrified, driver like myself. No, these taxis enjoy their reputation for recklessness. So, I just take a deep breath and try to keep my little sedan out of the way…To the left, to the left…

I’ll get it eventually. I hope. Then again, some might say I never exactly mastered driving in America, so what makes me think I’ll figure this out?

You could have a point there, but at least now I have a theme song.

To the left, to the left...

African Skylight

The more I think about it, the more it seems that a roof is a bit of a luxury. Do we really need a roof? Sure it’s winter, but it’s not too terribly cold. And it rarely rains this time of year. Seriously, almost never. So who needs a roof? After all, there’s nothing quite like the African sky.

Okay, so it needs a bit more than a roof...
I’m talking about our cottage, of course. The cottage that is currently under construction behind my in-laws’ house. Am I crazy for moving into a cottage that is only fifty steps from my mother-in-law’s door? Well, yes. Clearly, we have already established this to be true based solely on the fact that I agreed to live under the same roof with her until the damn thing is finished! In my defense, it was supposed to be completed by June 1st. However, here we are, over a week past the deadline, and as I mentioned – still without a roof.

I don’t want to turn this into more whining about how miserable it is to live with my in-laws. We’ve been there and done that (oh, but the stories I could tell!). That being said, I’m still desperate to get out of this house, and that roofless cottage stands in the backyard like a mirage in the desert. It might be just fifty steps away, but I am counting on those fifty steps to give me back my sanity. I watch the painfully slow progress and dream of a time and place where I can once again be myself. I can wash clothes on my schedule. I can eat ice cream for lunch without judgment. I can shower without using the squeegee afterward. I can talk about my day over dinner with my husband. I can let Moose up on the couch.

It’s not that life with the in-laws is unbearable; it’s just not my life. I find myself trying so hard to follow the rules and meet the expectations that in the process, I’m fading into this person that I don’t really recognize. A girl terrified of breaking a glass or spilling something on the carpet, who is immobilized by the fear of being scolded for mixing her darks with lights. A girl who hides her dirty clothes rather than be the cause of yet another load of laundry, who’s never sure which meals qualify for use of the dishwasher and which ones demand immediate washing up. A girl constantly hiding upstairs while her in-laws wonder what the hell it is she does up there.

Roger will say I’m exaggerating and perhaps he’s right. I’ve certainly never been directly shouted at for improperly starting the washing machine. To be honest, no one in this house has shouted at me for anything, and if they did, I am confident that Roger would shout right back (have I mentioned how much I adore him?). So I’m not really afraid of being yelled at, but I’m terrified of doing the wrong thing and upsetting my mother-in-law…and she can get really upset. She openly admits that she’s anal retentive, and yet this does nothing to ease the pain of knowing that I have pissed her off, yet again.

Roger says I must ignore it. So what if a broken glass is enough to send her into a tirade about the proper way to wash dishes? That’s her problem. It’s just a glass and it was an accident. I know he’s right, and yet I’m crushed that something I did could irritate her so much. I’m in tears over the whole thing – pathetic, I know. It’s a part of my personality that I absolutely abhor. I’m far too sensitive, and I care entirely too much what other people think. It’s infuriating to think that my emotions can be so dependent on the actions of another person, especially when that person tends to be as explosive as the most recent season of 24.

Roger tells me not to care so much, but that’s easier said than done. How do you change an elemental part of your personality? I’m hoping basic evolution will save me. My current living situation will force my survival instincts to kick in, and with each day I will care a little bit less. Who knows? Perhaps a psychotic mother-in-law is exactly what I need to cure my over-sensitivity. I will be forced to get tough if I plan to survive in this jungle of insanity.

We're all just trying to survive though. This isn’t an ideal situation for any of us. As much as my mother-in-law’s eccentricities are stressing me out, well, my quirks are driving her crazy too. So, it’s definitely not just me. All parties involved are more than a little anxious for the cottage to be complete.

I walk down to the cottage and once again question the necessity of a roof. We’ll want one eventually, sure, but perhaps we could go ahead and move in… I always wanted a skylight.

Schnapp Out of It

Last weekend, in my ongoing effort to make girlfriends, Roger and I attended a German Beer Festival with Mark and Carol (you remember, Mark is Roger’s co-worker and his wife a potential BFF). They were going with a group of friends around noon on Saturday, and they invited us to come along. Of course, we agreed to attend purely for strategic friend seeking reasons. Certainly we had no real interest in drinking beer all day, but hey, it was the price we had to pay.

I desperately wanted to make a good impression, but the thing is, I’m actually kind of shy. I don’t always know what to say when I meet new people. I’m good at the initial one-on-one small talk, but in a big group I tend to just smile and nod a lot. During this awkward period of smiling and nodding, I often keep my hands and mouth occupied by unconsciously lifting my glass to my lips at an alarmingly rapid pace until I discover that I do have something to say, and that something is charming and witty and I should probably keep talking all night. I was hoping to avoid this.

“Hey Roger,” I said before we left, “Maybe you could keep an eye on me, you know, make sure I’m taking it slow. I don’t want to get too crazy and develop a case of verbal diarrhea.” Roger laughed. “I’m sure you’ll be fine, my girl,” he said. Famous last words…

Once we arrived, the group got a round of beers and found a spot on the lawn. We listened to German music and made fun of the many men wearing knee high socks with Birkenstocks. I did a lot of smiling and nodding as I drained my beer. Before long, I was ready for round two. By round three, Mark decided we should all partake of a little Schnapps. My judgment already slightly clouded, I said sure. Why not have a little fruity liquor? What’s the harm? Except apparently, real German Schnapps isn’t fruity at all. In fact, it tastes how I would imagine gasoline would taste, and yet, everyone seemed to think we should all have more Schnapps. Somehow, in the beer and Schnapps induced haze, I forgot that I had the power to say no. At some point, I heard Roger on the phone getting the number for a taxi, and before I knew it I was curled up on the bed and wondering if I had made a good impression. Probably not.

When I stop and think about it, the whole thing seems crazy. Why do we do this to ourselves? What makes a group of seemingly intelligent people spend an entire Saturday afternoon sitting in a circle purposely making themselves stupid? It makes no sense, and yet, I admit that I’m the first to say ‘Cheers’ if there’s beer or wine to be had.

I blame part of my fascination with alcohol on the fact that growing up, it was a complete taboo. Drinking was WRONG. Sometime in college, it occurred to me that there was no eleventh commandment stating “Thou shalt not drink.” So, I decided that as long as I managed to avoid hurting myself and others while drinking, a little champagne might be okay. Before too long, I was throwing my own keg party (Mom, everyone was over 21 and no one was driving, I promise). Yes, any guilt associated with drinking quickly faded; however, I think that sense of enjoying something forbidden is still part of what keeps me coming back for more.

Of course, part of the attraction to alcohol lies in the way it slowly lowers your inhibitions. As I said earlier, I began the day silently smiling and nodding, but by the end, I was telling stories and inviting people over and making people laugh (With me or at me? I can’t be sure). For someone who normally cares too much what other people think, it’s nice to have a conversation without worrying if the other person will be offended if I say I think it’s disgusting how little we pay the domestic help in Africa or that no, I don’t think George Bush is the anti-Christ or that yes, I saw Paula Abdul in concert. Twice. Could I say these things sober? Of course I could, but I probably wouldn’t.

So what have we learned from this far too revealing study of my relationship with alcohol? To be honest, I’m not really sure, but now that I’ve totally humiliated myself (not to mention horrified my mother), I must come up with something wise and profound to say. Hmmm. Perhaps I should learn that people usually like me, even after they’ve seen the uninhibited version, so maybe instead of drinking too much, I should just stop worrying about what people think and relax. Yes, I should relax. You know, I think I’ll pour myself a glass of wine and do just that.