Of Lavender & Longing: Fantasies of a Would-Be Homesteader

Blame it on lavender jelly.

About six months ago, I started research on Homesteading, also known as the back-to-the-land movement. In the 60s and 70s, there was a huge surge in Americans desiring a migration from the concrete chaos of urban life to the simpler, self-sustaining existence of the country. It appealed primarily to hippies, disillusioned with the materialism and capitalism of big city life, but also to free-thinking and open-minded professional urbanites seeking a quieter, less encumbered reality.

John and I fall somewhere in between these two types of people. While we are certainly members of the workaday world, collecting our paychecks and attempting to get by in the most costly city in the country, we are also unquestionably hippieish. However, we are less "classic" hippie and more "postmodern" hippie. For example: we bathe, rarely go barefoot, and do not make hemp jewelry or psychedelic T-shirts. We are not the stereotypical hippies of forty years ago, but the contemporary hippies of today, embracing the philosophies and tenets of the hippie life while eschewing the physical manifestation of the traditional. To put it simply, we think like hippies but do not look like them.

Scott and Helen Nearing were two pioneers of the modern Homesteading movement. Before it reached its zenith -- indeed, long before anyone even knew what it was -- The Nearings were living the sustainable country life and educating the public about it. They wrote two now-classic books, "Living the Good Life" in 1954 and "Continuing the Good Life" in 1979. The couple devoted themselves to their teachings and their land, starting out in Vermont and eventually ending up in Maine.

Homesteading can be defined as the acts undertaken by a person or persons seeking a self-sufficient lifestyle, a "living off the land', if you will. Homesteaders usually own their own farms, which don't typically consist of hundreds of acres, but rather a few acres of manageable land. They grow their own food, work their own fields, and tread lightly upon the earth. Some are fortunate enough to have careers directly correlated to their homesteads: selling their produce at farmer's markets or to local grocery stores, making and marketing their own candles, soaps, or handiwork, or writing and educating the world on how to live the good life.

I can't even begin to tell you how attractive this whole concept is to me. I've lived in Boston for three years now, and with each passing day, the desire for a simpler life makes itself more and more plain. But heading back to the land is not a simple task; I daresay it's downright impossible in contemporary America. It requires an exhausting trudge upriver while the water is flowing downriver. We live in a society that values money and prestige and physical evidence of those "values". Homesteading requires the polar opposite: it is a simplifying, a great letting-go of the material and the monetary in the name of something bigger and more fulfilling.

But the bitter truth is that homesteading demands money just as every other facet of modern life demands it. Mortgages, utilities, insurances, vehicles, and credit card bills are not suddenly nonexistent because you switch the focus of your life and go against the grain.

And this is the crux of the matter for me. To even get started and take some initial small steps toward self-sufficiency, money is a necessity. Though John and I make decent money at our current jobs, we barely squeak by, living where we do. The prospect of saving money, any money at all, is an unreachable fantasy. To resettle our lives in the country, we would need a vehicle or vehicles, a down payment for a house, and the assurance that we would be able to make enough money to pay for everything.

There's also the rather obvious dilemma that neither of us are farmers. While I did grow up in Iowa, we always lived in town. I couldn't tell you the difference between a tractor, a combine, and a seed bell if my life depended on it. John has a much better grasp of how to plant and grow things, but he is by no means an expert in the field. It's frustrating that there is not a class called "Farming 101".

So as quickly as I began my research, I abandoned it as nothing more than a daydream, an unattainable fantasy that the great majority of us can never come close to. But then last week, I found a recipe for lavender jelly on a homesteading blog. It was just a recipe, explaining how to make jelly from freshly-collected lavender blossoms. For reasons unknown, this simple thing has reignited my desire to be a homesteader, with a passion bordering on infatuation. I am desperate to make this happen.

This is what I want. I want an old farmhouse on a few acres of land. I want to wake with the sun. I want to wake refreshed. I want to wake. I want to stop shaving and plucking and caring about how I look and smell. I want to tend to the land as the first flurries of flaxen morning crown the hills. I want to sing softly to myself while I plant, harvest, reap, sow. I want the wind to carry my song through the open windows of the room where John lay sleeping. I want to run through fields with the dogs. I want room to create plants and poetry. I want the courage to share my work with the world. I want to be a working writer. I want to be a working farmer. I want to be a homesteader. I want my life and my work to be one entity. I want to hawk my writing to publishers. I want to hawk our bounty at farmers’ markets. I want no discrepancy between who I am when I am at work and who I am when I am at home. I want to answer to no one. I want to be done with corporate bullshit, petty bureaucracies, ridiculous hierarchies. I want to work for nature and for art.

I want to be carried on the tide of the day, meeting the demands of the earth and the demands of the Muse. I want to take a nap in the afternoons, like they do in more civilized countries. I want to make my husband grand dinners eaten by candlelight. I want us to read e.e. cummings to each other, with the cats in our laps, by the beacon of the fireplace: a beacon leading us home, to one another, to the bed we share that is clogged with so much love. I want to fall asleep in John's arms to the lull of his snoring, the rhythm of his heart, the warmth of his belly. I want to look out the window just before sleep finds me, at the great round silver moon and the sky pearled with a million stars, and think to myself:

Yes. This is it.

Dream Jobs

Since I can never seem to find a job that I like, well-meaning people often ask me, "Well, what do you want to do?". These people, I fear, don't really want to know the answer to that question. The majority of the time they just inquire out of exasperation, as if to say, "You dumbass. Lots of people would kill for your job. Why can't you just come down off your throne of idealism and enjoy something for once? What is it exactly that you would rather be doing? What's your calling?".

My "calling". As if I'm a nun. I mean, am I supposed to believe that a stockbroker, for example, was just playing in the sandbox when he was a kid and suddenly heard a divine voice urging him to buy stock in AT&T, or sell shares in Tab cola? Of course not. The question is only posed to those of us who would rather eat our shoelaces than become stockbrokers. It's asked of those of us who have chosen unconventional career paths and who demand our work, however menial, is at least in sync with our passions.

But the question remains. While I try to become a working writer, what would my dream "in-the-meantime" job choices be?

Well stop asking. Here they are.

-Underwear Inspector. You may have noticed that when you open a new pack of undies, there is typically a small loose tag in the folds that reads "Inspected by #[insert number here]". This is actually someone's job. Standing on an assembly line, the inspector picks up every undergarment, checks it, and issues either a pass or fail. I don't really know what their checklist consists of, but I assume it goes something like this: Elastic waistband? Check. Equal-sized leg holes? Check. Enough support for even the most massive schlong? Check. Plus, underwear inspectors don't have to deal with the public. They deal with the pubic. Har-har-har.

-Amy Winehouse's Personal Assistant. I love Amy Winehouse and feel inexplicably protective toward her. I think she is insanely talented and insanely troubled. My fear is that she is going down the Janis Joplin road. I'd love to be Amy's assistant: trailing her all over London in order to shield her from the paparazzi, making 3 a.m. runs to 7/11 for candy and smokes, holding her hair back while she pukes. As an added benefit, you know that Amy gets the goooooooood shit, and she'd totally share.

-Pooper Scooper. I don't mind poo at all. It's a natural byproduct of being a living, food-dependent creature. Given these feelings, is there any more Zen-like job than professional pooper scooper? Some of these people make surprising amounts of money (I saw one ad offering $22 an hour!), and all they have to do is mosey around your backyard with a nifty contraption that collects caca. Dog, cat, rabbit, monkey...it doesn't matter. Poop is poop, and those who make it their business have a damn cushy job.

-Late-Night Cable Talk Show Host. Oh how I would love to have my own nighttime chat show on cable. It would have to be on cable since I would insist on a forum that allowed both my potty mouth and nude male dancers. The show wouldn't be tacky, though, in spite of the prodigious use of the F word and prominently-featured features of the go-go boys. I imagine an intimate setting, no studio audience, low moody lighting, and big comfy La-Z-Boy chairs. I would sit down with movie stars, singers, politicians, artists, and writers and would become known for asking the most unique, probing questions. Things like, "Tell us, Loni Anderson, who was the biggest slut on WKRP?" and "Dame Judi Dench, would you please satisfy our viewers and show us your boobies?". You know, important stuff.

-Sommelier. This one would be a toughie because I don't drink, but there's got to be a way to make it happen. When I was an imbiber, wine was always my favorite; a good merlot was better than any drug. And even with those days long behind me, the intricacies and biographies of wine still fascinate. I actually went so far as to find a school that teaches aspiring sommeliers, The Wine School of Philadelphia. You just know they have a rockin' graduation party.

-Angelina and Brad's Seventh Child. As I write this, Angelina Jolie is pregnant with twins, her fifth and sixth children. If I could find a way for she and Brad Pitt to make me their seventh, I'd be set for life. My mommy and daddy would be gazillionaires, as well as humanitarians and Goodwill peace ambassadors. I have no qualms about shamelessly fabricating a tortured past: my Arctic village was burned to the ground by a drunken Mrs. Claus when I was just a child, and I've been subsisting on seal blubber and polar bear milk ever since. Adopt me, Brangelina!

In closing, if anyone knows where I can pick up applications for any of these jobs, please email me. I am an expert multi-tasker with solid references. I look forward to hearing from you soon. Thank you for your time.

Where It's At: Redux

So I didn't get fired today. And I didn't quit.

In fact, I didn't even get the "talking to" I was so anticipating.

I did talk to the "big boss", though, and told her that despite what she may have heard, I have good reasons for my actions. I gently reminded her that there are always two sides to every story. She responded by telling me that she didn't know how to respond. That she wanted to take the weekend to think it over.

In the company for which I work, this is lingo for, "I hope you forget about this over the weekend so we don't have to worry about it anymore."

If only I could.

If only.

Where It's At

"An unfulfilled vocation drains the color from a man's entire existence." -Honoré de Balzac

"When people go to work, they shouldn't have to leave their hearts at home." -Betty Bender


It's here.

Judgment Day.

My Judgment Day. Tomorrow.

Years ago, my therapist handed me a slip of paper (which I still have) that contained a gentle reminder. The words are meant to help shatter my cycle of unfulfillment: the mad spiraling in which I have often found myself. It reads, "I live my life in accordance to principles that are false. And that is where it's at."

That is where it's at.

In my apparently-outrageous attempts to do my job well, I have stepped on one too many toes, bruised one too many egos, and refused to take part in any childish games. It seems I have offended someone in a position of power at my place of employment, and for that I will pay. Tomorrow I am expecting yet another "talking to".

I've never found myself in a situation like this before. I have been damn good at all the jobs I've ever held, and my current job is no exception. Anyone who knows me understands that if I do something wrong, or handle something inappropriately, I am the first person to fess up. I have no problem admitting I made a mistake. I have no problem apologizing.

But in the issues at hand, I made no mistakes whatsoever. I've handled myself with professionalism and skill from day one, and I am simply not responsible for how someone else -- even an authority figure -- might interpret my actions. In fact, I think I've successfully handled everything that has come across my desk in the last eight months, despite working for a company that is structurally and operationally a total disaster. I wholeheartedly and unwaveringly stand by every decision I've made.

I must remember this tomorrow during my "talking to". I must remember that I live my life in accordance to principles that are false. It behooves no one for me to apologize and atone for things I've done, when those things require no apology or atonement. Tasks were done effectively; they do not demand an explanation or a defense. I must hold fast to this. I must tell my truth in an assertive, professional manner. I must stay calm. I must quash the desire to apologize and be made into the bad guy, just so someone else can feel better about their own position. I don't owe anything to anyone, except the truth.

Will I be fired? Probably not. Will I be so shaken that I walk out? Possibly.

But what I must remember...what I must always remember...is this:

I live my life in accordance to principles that are false. And that is where it's at.

Piss and Vinegar

"I'm filled with piss and vinegar! At first, I was just filled with vinegar." -Abe "Grampa" Simpson

When I was a kid, I loved Beverly Cleary's Ramona Quimby books. In one of the books (and for the life of me, I can't remember which one it was; if you remember, please let me know, I'd love to reread it), Ramona spends a great deal of the story in a state of righteous anger and responds by planning to do something she's never done before: swear. Most of the book is comprised of Ramona telling various people in her orbit that they better be careful because she's going to swear one day very, very soon. Different people have different reactions to the thought of the precocious little girl cursing a blue streak. Her parents, I recall, are supportive of her desire for self-expression, but make it clear that swearing is not the best way to handle her anger and pent-up emotion. But feisty Ramona is undeterred, and in the book's climactic scene, she finally lets it rip:

"GUTS!" she screams. "GUTS, GUTS, GUTS!"

Well, today at work I almost paid homage to Ms. Quimby's tirade by letting fly a few choice words of my own. Granted, they would've been far more colorful and far more offensive, but they would've been appropriate. The day called for a swear of massive proportions, but I kept my maturity in check.

This is surprising because typically, in the course of my conversations (and writings) throughout the day, I am not so mature. For I do love to swear. I mean, I really, really love it. There isn't a single swear word I dislike or won't use. They are all so totally powerful and diverse, and most of them are interchangeable. I like the fluidity of the multi-purpose swear best, as these words can be acceptably used in a variety of circumstances.

Example: I might say something along the lines of, "That moronic f--k! He/She wants me to read the entire f--king catalog over the phone. F--k that!" Notice that in this one sentence, I am able to use the F word (and slight variations thereof) as a noun, an adjective, and a verb. This excites me.

To be entirely honest, not a lot of people in my life swear. My friend Tony, for one, never swears. Never ever. It baffles me as to how one can go through life without the beauty of an expletive passing between one's lips, but I have the utmost respect for the much more dignified road he takes. It is inevitable, though, that every time he and I have even the most basic and unassuming of conversations, I come off as a wizened, bitter, flannel-clad truck driver. But that's OK. That image captures my swear-crazed self pretty accurately.

The truck driver almost made his first appearance at my workplace today. You see, I realized something huge about my job and the lack of satisfaction I have with it. All along, since the day I started, I'd thought something was wrong with me. That I am the crazy and ridiculous one who just can't make the job work. But today it became evident that I am not the crazy one at all. I am quite sane, and the responses I've had to various people and situations at work are totally understandable. Not just understandable, but sane. I am working in a company rife with INsane (and I mean that quite literally) office politics, fragile egos, and misguided energy. And when you're one of the few sane ones in a setting like this, you have two choices. You can A) join the batshit craziness and respond in turn, or you can B) step away from the damaging environment in the name of self-preservation.

Despite it all, despite everything I've been through in my life, my sense of self-preservation is unshakable. It guides me with its fountains of awareness and knowledge and miraculously remains intact in even the most clusterf--ked of circumstances. Ah, there I did it again: a short prologued word slapped on, and f--k has yet another meaning!

It's grown apparent that I need to leave my job and find better employment (and money), and hopefully some small grain of happiness, with another career. But the idea of starting the job search again is about as appealing as getting pistol-whipped. And, of course, there is the very probable chance that I will land the exact same job with another equally-unfixable company.

This brings with it massive amounts of frustration and anger. When my mini-epiphany happened today, I wanted to jump on my desk and let loose with every swear word in the book. Partly in frustration, partly in anger, and even partly in celebration. Making a realization like I did can also be tremendously liberating. It can light the fires of change. Hopefully that fire will burn directly under my ass, so I can hightail it outta Dodge with no regrets.

I see now that having the truck driver show up at work today wouldn't have been appropriate. More appropriate would've been Ramona Quimby. Had she had the courage to show herself, Ms. Quimby could have captured my thoughts, my sadness, my rage, with one inoffensive and powerful statement:

"GUTS! GUTS, GUTS, GUTS!"

Guts, indeed.

Conjuring My Inner Sally Field: A Treatise On My Six Month Work Review

Today was my first day back at work after a three-week vacation. I had hoped to dip my toes back in slowly, which I figured was pretty realistic given the fact that I don't really do anything at my job. And also because the single task I have (answering the phone on the off-chance it rings) is now impossible since they took my phone away from me and gave it to the new guy. I feel more and more like Milton Waddams every day. Soon I'll be sitting in the basement, mourning the loss of my Lucent Multi-Line and checking the rat traps for rodent corpses.

Anyway, all plans to ease myself back into the workaday world were blown to bits when I learned -- literally three minutes beforehand -- that I was to have my six-month review with my boss.

Let me just say right now that I adore my boss. She is cooler than cool and is one of the only aspects of my job that make it not-entirely-painful to show up every day. But I've never excelled at improv, and I need a little warning before sitting down to chat with the boss about my job performance. I need to sort out my own issues in my head, prep them into something resembling coherence, and then psych myself up for a "serious talk". Because the issues my job brings to the fore are, for me, quite serious, I require time to plan my words.

Yet I wasn't given that opportunity, and in a matter of minutes I was sitting face to face with my boss to hear my "performance evaluation". Performance Evaluation. Who the hell am I, Mary Lou Retton?

Don't let me mislead you with sarcasm. I would be remiss if I didn't tell you that nearly the entire review was positive, complimentary, and appreciative of the work I do. But being a work review, there were, as could be expected, talk of "areas that need improvement". Or, as I prefer to call it, "parts of the job where you suck camel-toe".

These slightly-less-glowing observations were certainly understandable. There were only a few of them, and I do agree with most of the points mentioned. I find fault with myself easier and quicker than anyone else does (I don't think that makes me a doormat of low self-esteem: I think it makes me human). There was one issue brought up to which I did take umbrage, but being I had no time to effectively prepare an eloquent response beforehand (for I knew this issue would be inevitable come review time), I really could say nothing in reply.

Then the bombshell. I'm getting a raise. It's not massive, but it's significant enough to make my paychecks a tiny bit bigger. And this was the moment that my Inner Sally Field started to rumble.

Allow me to explain. Though I adamantly aver that I do not have Multiple Personality Disorder, or any other dissociative illness, I do claim to have several celebrities living inside of me. Aretha Franklin, Joan Collins, and Shirley MacLaine, just to name a few. There might be a Gary Coleman someplace in there as well, but the jury's out on that one. And, of course, I have Sally.

My initial reaction to learning of my raise was all Sally, circa 1984, when she won the Oscar for "Places in the Heart" and uttered the words which will forever be her catchphrase. "You like me! You REALLY like me!" I wanted to shout. I wanted to shake my Jheri curl and bounce my pert little boobies and exclaim to the world how thrilled I am at being liked. REALLY liked!

But on the heels of 1984 Oscar Sally came 1989 "Steel Magnolias" Sally. I felt like squeezing my little hands into fists, pressing my eyes shut, and bobbing my brown football helmet hair. I wanted to shout, "Whhhhhhhhhyyyyyyyy??? I wanna know whhhhhhhhyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy!!!" I mean, I don't do anything. Why give me a raise? The toaster oven, or the water cooler, or even the toilet bowls contribute more to the company than I do.

Does anyone have a urinal mint? Maybe if I put one under my tongue I would feel more deserving.

Argh. I'll just shut up now and take the money.

Meh (Or, Insert Clever Title Here)

In one of my favorite songs, Stevie Nicks declares, "Time makes you bolder/Even children get older/I'm getting older too". I've always loved those lines. It's only recently, though, that I've come to terms with the fact that the first four words of that verse are, in my case, just not true. I've always been under the impression -- and heard from a lot of aging folks -- that with age, comes wisdom. With the years, comes fearlessness. With growing older, comes some shred of authenticity. As I sit here tonight, admittedly not an Oldie Olsen with a walker and colostomy bag, but still old enough to not be called "young", I'm all sorts of pissed. Why, oh why, would Stevie lie to me? I'm more scared and cowardly now than I was at 18. Now I just have male pattern baldness and crow's feet on top of it.

Before I go any further, I want you to know that I'm aware of something important as I write this post. My fear when starting this blog was that I would eventually use it as a place to process all my "baggage": a sort of free association therapy with the world. I did not want that then, and I do not want that now. I have no intention of spewing up the dramas and messes of my life. My only aim in this post is to get some feelings out, since I feel I'm clogged with way too many right now to even see clearly. It's tremendously beneficial for me to write of my internal struggles because, as the great Joan Didion once said, "I don't think unless I'm writing." If I can touch upon some essence of my truth, and maybe yours too, then maybe this cautious soul-baring will not be in vain. I simply write what I know at this time, in the hope that maybe someone, somewhere can identify. Isn't that, when it's all said and done, the purpose of writing in the first place? To feel less alone?

The winter months have always been rough for me, and this year has been a doozy. I feel the lack of light not just in the waning days, but in the furthest reaches of my soul. Years ago, I was told I had Seasonal Affective Disorder (otherwise known by its more-than-appropriate acronym: SAD). I invested in one of those light boxes, but the damn thing is so artificial and bright that I get nauseous and have to wear my shades in front of it. I look like a gay Jack Nicholson sprawled out in my chair under the harsh lights, sunglasses intact and brutal fluorescent high-beams reverberating off my bald head; and thus blinding anyone in a six-block radius. I feel your pain, Jack.

Now I'm the first to admit that when things get rough, I make bad decisions. When I felt this disorientation setting in, way back in November, I immediately started smoking again. I tend to lose touch with all normalcy and order in the parameters of my life. Things like paying bills, cleaning the house, and even staying awake throughout the day are next to impossible for me. If I tally up all the hours I've slept this winter, you might as well just slap a green hat and tie on me and give me a sidekick named Boo Boo. Even the hours I've been awake -- or, more appropriately, have had my eyes open -- I've walked around in a perpetual fog.

Yes, I've seen doctors about this. A lot of them. I've tried everything from testosterone patches to gluten-free diets to medication changes to vitamin supplements. Nothing seems terribly effective. Last week, I even had to go to the emergency room because of some horrible, incapacitating chest pains that spread to the entire upper left side of my body, gripping me in a vise-like agony for days. Luckily, my ticker is fine: apparently, I have the heart and lungs of an athlete. Told to a smoker, this news is worthy of a Happy Dance.

The E.R.'s diagnosis? Stress.

I didn't look at my job as particularly stressful before this. I mean, I spend eight hours a day waiting for the phone to ring, reading Wikipedia, and trying to stay conscious. But in proper perspective, I can trace this to be the root of my troubles. Searching Wikipedia, attempting to keep my eyes open, hoping against hope that someone will call and order a book, is not my idea of a job. Yeah, I might be getting paid to look up useless trivia (Did you know that Tang Dynasty chancellor Cui Shi was believed to have risen to power through affairs with Shanggun Wan'er and Princess Taiping?), but this is not how I want to spend my life. There's no work to be done, we are over-staffed, under-managed, under-supplied, and in the middle of a battle of egos that is oftentimes laughable in its outrageousness.

This is never what I wanted. Instead of growing closer to who I want to be with the advancing years, I step further and further from it. Cowardice is abundant, but so is that dreaded human necessity of money. I've chosen to live in the most expensive city in America, and as a result I must settle for this unchallenging mind-paralysis. If I had my way, I'd leave tomorrow, move to the country, and write for a living, but these things are all so much easier said (dreamed) than done. I'm stuck, and I can see no way out. Saving up money to move is impossible; saving up money for any reason at all when you live in this city is impossible. Switching to yet another soulless, brainless job is daunting and unappealing. I wish I could just muster up a little bit of courage to do something, but all I really want to do is sleep.

A week from Wednesday, John and I leave for Bali for three weeks. This will no doubt be an exciting adventure, and one that I hope provides me with the time and space to just get a friggin' grip and decide where I'm headed. Hell, maybe I'll stay in Bali. That might be just the ticket. If you don't hear from me in a month or so, you can safely assume that I've become a rice farmer, toiling the days away in my lush green paddies, marveling at how close I've come to my ultimate goal of blissful, welcome obscurity.

If you'll excuse me, I must go get fitted for my conical bamboo hat. After all, if there's one thing I learned from my light box, it's that bald heads need extra protection.

This Stifling: On Work & Happiness

"Without work, all life goes rotten. But when work is soulless, life stifles and dies."

-Albert Camus


Webster's Dictionary defines work as "the occupation for which you are paid". It stands to reason that if you figure in Camus's above-mentioned view, you should damn well be performing work that is soulful and vibrant or a great repression can and will blanket your life. This blanket is wholly smothering and will affect every corner of your existence, even -- and especially -- those corners of your life that are far away from your place of employment.

I don't hate my job. That's my problem. Hate is a strong motivator, and for me, when I hate a situation I'm in, I do everything in my power to get the hell out of it. I have a tremendous respect for and sense of self-preservation. But while I don't hate my current work, while it's not sheer torture for me to show up in the mornings, I don't love it -- or even remotely like it -- either. For some, it's a dream job. For me, it's not, for the simple yet frustratingly complicated reason that it's just not what I want to be doing.

Herein lies the Great Dilemma of My Life. The two occupations I've ever felt born to do (italics are vital here) are not traditionally "easy" professions. They aren't jobs you just surf the classifieds, submit a resume, have an interview, and show up on your first day in a dandy new pair of slacks with a Dilbert coffee mug in hand. The fields of acting (film, television, theater) and writing (books, journalism, copy) are terrains one must "break into". The number of actors who won an Oscar for their first role are minimal; the writers who publish their debut manuscript are virtually nonexistent. I tend to look at people like Marlee Matlin (who won an Academy Award for her first movie) and Margaret Mitchell (who never published anything before or after "Gone With the Wind") as unicorns or Santa Clauses. They can't possibly be real. For the rest of us, a lifetime of 40-hour work weeks, water cooler gossip, and monotonous drudgery are the standard until we just might happen upon a break of some kind.

40 hours a week. That is such a huge chunk of our lives. That's well over two thousand hours every year that we devote to work that isn't at all rewarding. Most people can do this, and, given my yen for the stage, you'd think I'd be an old pro at walking into crappy jobs with a crappy smile. And up until now, I've always been able to pull it off. But lately, as I get older, I realize there is an inherent danger to keeping up these appearances. Camus's stifling is very real. In the past, what I only sensed on the periphery has now become physically and emotionally manifest in my life. It bleeds into everything I do.

Two thousand hours+ per year. Think about that.

Infinite Things: Adventures in Customer Service, Part I

"Two things are infinite: the universe and human stupidity; and I'm not sure about the universe." -Albert Einstein

This is an actual phone call I received at work the other day:

Me: "Good afternoon, customer service, this is Donn."

Caller: "I want to speak to the head of the [magazine name] department."

Me: "I'm sorry, they don't have a separate department, we're all the same office. How can I help you?"

Caller: "You can't. I want to speak to them."

Me: "[Magazine name] is a publication that is written entirely by contributers, no one in-house. We're the publisher. Perhaps if you told me what this is regarding, I can better assist you?"

Caller (long, agonized sigh; the tone turns to one of utter condescension): "Nooooo!"

Me (ever-perky): "Ma'am, I'm just trying to help you. Does this have something to do with your subscription?"

Caller (firmly nailed to the cross now): "No."

Me (forced to wear Sherlock Holmes hat): "Is this regarding something you read in the magazine?"

Caller: "No."

Me: "Is this--?"

Caller: "I will speak to them about that."

Me (frantically trying to figure out a way to rephrase the fact that there is no them to speak to): "I'm only trying--"

Caller: "Look. Put me through to someone. Now."

At a loss, I transferred her to the VP of publishing, who, of course, transferred her back to customer service after giving her a free subscription (quick note: if you ever complain, you will get free stuff, it's the law of the land; contrary to popular belief, it is not the loyal, dependable, trustworthy customers who are rewarded in our society: it is the jackasses). Apparently, this customer had missed an issue of the magazine, which I don't need to tell you, is an issue handled by customer service.

Now I was really perplexed. What made this customer think that the head of a renowned magazine was going to be able to fix a subscription concern? We in customer service would have just as generously and just as quickly offered her a free subscription as penance for our wickedness, so why was it necessary to be so rude to me when the same result would've been achieved? Well obviously, I am not "someone".

Normally in a conversation like you and I are having right now, I would begin on a well-meaning, emotionally-driven tirade about how we need to respect one another, be kind to each other, realize that we're all on the same team, and blah blah blah. I would say something like, "I'm a person, too! Treat me with a little dignity, that's all I ask!" Then I would perhaps drop a picturesque tear that would catch the light just so, and you and I would go ride ponies into the sunset.

To hell with that.

This is what I'm proposing....

The next time you are at Denny's and the scrambled eggs in your Grand Slam breakfast don't meet the degree of fluffiness you require, don't send it back. Don't ask to have it remade. Don't even ask to speak to the manager. I want you to handcuff yourself to the plastic booth you're sitting in and tell them you are not leaving until you speak to the CEO of Denny's. Or until the police haul both you and the plastic booth off to the pokey, whichever comes first.

The next time you are in line at the post office, don't be discouraged about the 700 people in line in front of you and the two clerks working lackadaisically up front. Because once you get to the front of the line, you are going to whip out a length of chain and attach yourself to the counter until you get an audience with U.S. Postmaster General John E. Potter. For if anyone can right the egregious wrong of people having to wait in line, it will be John E. Potter.

You see where I'm going with all this.

It's not a time to rest on our laurels and just silently hope that other people become human. We have to take the bull by the balls and magnify their pomposity and arrogance in order to show them how ridiculous they really are. If we all do this, those people who need to learn the lesson will eventually get it.

If for no other reason than it will be very trying to get into a Denny's, or next to impossible to buy a postage stamp.