Three Guys At Work

The 1st guy

"To make these fit, there's a trick. You have to marry them together."
"I wouldn't call it marrying. I'd more say they were..."

I was tired. You could probably even say cranky. My day started with a 6am setup. Continued with a 3pm focus call. And now ended with a 10pm breakdown that didn't actually start til 11pm. I just wanted to go home. But we had to get shit done.

And he was new. So I got it. He was trying to be playful. Trying to make me smile. But, tonight, that wasn't going to happen until the truck was packed, I'd initialed my timesheet, and was walking back to my car.

"Please, not tonight. No vulgar jokes tonight. Normally I'd roll with it, let it ride, but just not tonight."
"It's just marrying seems too permanent for their situation."
"Yeah. Right."

I finished piling the lights in the bin and moved onto another project.

The 2nd guy


"No. Stop. Don't put those in there. They don't go in there."
"Why?"
"Because the four with bases go in there. Those go with the others with clamps."
"Fine. You don't have to get an attitude about it."

I don't like him. Not anymore.

At a certain point I did. I thought he was a decent tech, a decent crew lead. And then I worked with him once where I was his crew lead. He was passive aggressive. A couple of times he outright ignored me when I asked him questions. Thankfully I haven't had to deal with him as my crew since.

And, since, I haven't liked him at all.

So, when I was trying to tell him why he was making a mistake. When I tried to point out his error. When I tried to go against his laziness (because that's what it was). When I tried to instruct him in the proper way to pack that particular case, since I'd been there all day (one of only three who had), he said I was giving him "attitude".

I was just happy I didn't curse him out right there. Though, to be fair, I'm too nice. Even to people who don't deserve it. I'll turn my back and mutter expletives to myself before I stand face-to-face with you, telling you how I really feel. I view that as being polite. I'm sure some of them see it as being weak. And to that, I say, fuck them. My Mom raised me right.

I spoke maybe three words to that guy for the rest of the gig.

In my opinion, his problem is that he's pretty. Very pretty, in fact, so people will often let him have his way. Even when he's wrong. But, lately, not just I have noticed when he fucks up. And he's getting on more than just my nerves.

The 3rd guy


"Ooo, are you taking that home?"

He carried a small vase of purple tulips left behind by the florists. He held it up by his face and playfully stroked the buds.

"Would you like one?"
"Normally I don't accept gig flowers, but sure."

He picked one out of the vase and gave it to me. Another female employee walked over and commented on the flowers. He offered her one as well, which she accepted.

We pushed the last few cases towards the freight elevator.

As we waited behind another company, the group was finally in good spirits. Though we had started late, we were close to finished, having worked really hard to get everything broken down.

When we reached the truck, and pushed the last case on, a wave of relief washed over me. Long day done.

Everyone congregated by the crew lead and waited to initial our timesheetsReacher novel (which I could barely put down all day), in my hands. The purple against the white and red of the cover looked almost artistic. I smiled to myself, happy I'd brought the book inside to help pass the time of the hour wait before we started, and now knowing I'd be able to get back to it soon.

After everyone initialed, we slowly disbursed.

"What are you going to do with them," I asked him, referring to his small vase of tulips.
"I don't know. Hey, do you want them?"

He held it out for me.

"Um, sure."

I took the vase, put my flower back inside it.

I smiled, and remembered, Not every guy I work with is an asshole.

Groan

Waking up and my elbow aches because, in the middle of the night, I turned over and ended up sleeping on it funny. And now that I'm awake, I can't just drift back into a snooze-ful slumber because the pain, though not debilitating, is annoying enough to distract me.

Trying to snooze for an hour, only to finally give up, brush my teeth, and hop back into bed.

Gray sky outside is foreboding. I wonder if it will rain. No running today.

I sit up on my bed, pull out my netbook, and look up information for an open call for submissions. Jotting down the requirements, ideas for my story pop into my head. Revisiting an idea I had yet to flush out, I realize it's perfect. I start typing.

And then I stop. The ache in my arm is gone, replaced now with a desire to go back to sleep. But I know it will not be in my best interest; too many things to do before work.

And then I remember how I felt the night before as I tried to go to sleep. And I realize, "Shit, I have to dealing with feelings. Stupid stupid feelings. There went my morning."

I open my netbook back up. I type more, no longer caring about cadence or developing a story. I type my thoughts, all the feelings, until I have pages on my screen of the things I tried to ignore. All the things I hoped would be lost in my dreams.

I read the words back. I edit, add to, and save the document.

I do it again for other feelings, less impactful thoughts that still warrant some time. I flush it all out before I have to be more productive. I run out of time for more fun writing.

I get up. I throw on work clothes. I eat food. I watch a touch of NetFlix. I mend my work pants cause I don't want to buy new ones yet. I leave for work.

Outside today. I find a parking spot not effected by rush hour. I wait til closer to my call time. I keep a look out for meter maids. I try not to bake in my car. I pay the meter. I walk to the site. I work.

And work.

And work.

Four hours, what I was slated for, turns into five. And six.

I get really pissed. I cancel my dinner plans. I reschedule for Wednesday. I try to not yell at people who are being stupid. I remind myself I'm angry because my blood sugar has dropped. And I'm working outside. And my job sucks sometimes. I breathe.

I end work at the 6.5hr mark. I try not to be mad anymore since I am on my way home.

I drive a friend to their car. I buy fast food, cause at this point I really don't give a shit.

I sit on my couch with a roommate watching Nathan Fillion and Stana Katic be awesome. I feel better about my life.

I finish my food. I finish the show. I clean up some in the kitchen. I drag my ass upstairs to my bedroom.

And then I realize, after I start taking off my disgusting work clothes, that my clean clothes are downstairs in the dryer. GROAN. No bed just yet.

I drag my ass downstairs. I retrieve my clothes. I come back upstairs.

Brush my teeth. Get into bed. Open my netbook. Type. Wish I had more time to write, but a 6am call looms.

The good news: I learned today I was accepted into community college. Maybe less groaning in my future?

Frustrated

I hated my job tonight.

The short version is that someone else fucked up but I get the blame for the screw up.

I thought I did everything right tonight. Even with the pop up issues. Even with the running back to the warehouse for more equipment, rushing to finish everything on time. I thought I got it right.

And then I learned I didn't because of one small lapse.

The worst was the condescension in the voice of the persons pointing out my error. I kept myself from crying. I didn't want to give the air of loathing surrounding me the joy of seeing my pain. I gathered up my equipment and got out of there as quick as I could.

I keep playing the decision over and over in mind. If I had just... If only I'd... Why didn't he just...

You can drive yourself mad with What Ifs.

Now I'm just left with fatigue and frustration. At my job. At the gentleman who didn't do his. At the women who treated me like an ill-informed fresh-off-the-boat oh-aren't-you-so-cute-but-you're-wrong-and-I'm-gonna-take-the-time-to-point-out-your-wrong-wrongness idiot.

I hated tonight. When I signed out, even with the large amount of hours for which I'll get paid, I was mad. Mad because I know I'll have to keep doing this for the foreseeable future. It will be at the very least two years of community college and a few years of medical school where I'll need this job to get by.

I appreciate that I have this job, knowing there are so many others who don't. But sometimes this job feels like an abusive relationship I just can't get out of. I know it pays my bills. I know it keeps a roof over my head and food on my table. I am grateful for that, really. But when do you say, "Enough is enough?"

Will it have to be like my serving days? Nightmares about customers. Getting yelled at and cursed out to my face. Finding a corner to cry in, only to come back to work to finish my shift. I don't want that.

I nearly cried tonight. Because of my job.

So I will probably get a complaint lodged against me because of the incident. That will make two in my last two gigs.

I got a phone call from my boss during Frolicon stating I had been doing a good job, but could I not talk about my personal life. Apparently someone had complained about me talking about my extracurricular activities. That is a whole other can of worms I do not want to open right now before I pass out to a hopefully blissful sleep. But I have to say, the mere fact that I tolerate shitty misogynistic comments by guys all the time yet I am reprimanded for talking about my life. Hypocrisy much?

Its nights like tonight that remind me this is not the sum total of my life. I don't live to work; I work to live.

This is not what I will be doing ten years from now. This is not my future. This job does not define me.

Work

There is this guy I occasionally work with.

He's not the most attractive man. Not particularly muscular or athletic in any way. He doesn't have a face you'd think of as handsome per say.

It's his eyes; the knowing behind them. And his demeanor; it's always obvious who's in charge.

Every time I work with, without fail, the thoughts come.

Recently I was standing in a hallway waiting for a freight elevator to return to the floor. I leaned against the wall, my arms behind me, my hands resting at the small of my back, my hips just a bit forward.

I knew he would be on that elevator when it returned. Instantly my mind painted the scene.

The doors opening. He'd see me, be looking at me already, right in my eyes, as the doors parted. He step straight towards me, pin me against the wall, gripping my arms. He'd lean down (He's much taller than me) and have this sinister look on his face. I wouldn't know if he was sizing me up or just debating what he wanted to do first.

He'd kiss me, taking the embrace rather than sharing a moment of pleasure. His nails would dig a little harder into skin. He'd bite my lip, pull on the skin as he stared at me dead in my eyes, daring me to react. I wouldn't flinch, wouldn't whimper. Not yet.

He'd unbuckle my belt, slip his hand in. Then I'd whimper.

My lip free, I'd instinctively close my eyes, lose myself in the dance of his fingers on my clit, his digits so close to my pussy. One long slow caress of my wet lips.

And then he'd bring his hand up, right to my face. I'd open my eyes, and lick my essence off of his fingers. I would demonstrate for him what I hoped would be in my future, another of his appendages in my mouth. My tongue licking the way I knew men loved. Rolling my tongue ring all over, flicking it across the tip of his finger.

He'd grip my hair, punishment for my brattiness. The resolve would return to my face. He'd take hold of my chin, tilt my head up. His eyes burning through me.

"Get to work," he'd say. And I would enjoy my labor.

Every time I come home from a gig where he is on it, without fail, my panties are soaked.

Why?

I've been asking myself that question a lot lately, mostly because of a friend's influence, although Doc has been encouraging it as well.

In regards to my theatrical career, there is one person who I believe owes most of the credit for my current circumstance: Mr. David Kriebs. He was the Production Manager for the Performing Arts Center at my college, and, on the first day of my first college Theatre Tech class, he uttered a sentence I will never forget: "We eat."

It was his pithy explanation of being a techie. We get jobs. We don't wait for callbacks. We don't hem and haw over whether or not the casting director liked us. We work.

And, for the first time, I thought about theatre as a viable career. Nevermind that I loved to act, would later learn I had a knack for directing, and had been writing since age seven. With Kriebs' one line, a seed had been planted. I could work as a techie for a living.

It doesn't really matter that I didn't drop my Math major for another year. I was already heading down the path, already set in the life I would live.

  "The question to ask, before you chuck it all to go raise horses in the desert or climb trees for a living, is: why? Take a look at where you are, because on some level there was something about being there that you wanted. Some quality about it reflects some desire within yourself, and that's why you made things the way they are...

It's important to know what parts of our lives are subsidized by the habits and environments we cultivate. Because change is gonna happen regardless; it's probably a good idea to only help it along when you're sure it's worth the risk." - Gray, from The Danger of Desire, Love.Life.Practice.



The problem, though, is that I sat up a false narrative in my mind with David's sage words. Techie equals job, pay, making a living. Acting equals maybe job, maybe pay, hard living.

I never gave myself the chance to be an actor, never gave myself the chance to explore that desire I had to be on stage, in the limelight, baring my soul for the world. Funny enough, my fears about relationships mirror my fears about being an actor: letting people in, letting people see me, raw, unfiltered, and their judgement that was sure to come.

Now, being a freelance tech, there are many reasons why I have kept this job. A big allure is the freedom. I'm never stuck at a desk, never bound by a steady nine to five life. FOMO, fear of missing out, haunts me at times. This job makes it less a likelihood. I won't lose my job no matter how much time I take off.

But now, thinking about a life I am pursuing where I know I will be sacrificing so much freedom, so many events I would normally attend, doesn't scare me. What scares me now is the thought of what I could've been if I had tried a little harder, made different decisions.

When it comes to medicine, there was something more insidious in my aversion of that path. It was my family, their influence, that pushed me astray. Two prominent female figures in my life, my mother and my cousin Ella, led me away from that dream.

I was in my early teens when once Ella asked me, point blank, "How would you feel if someone died on your table?" I didn't have an answer to her question. In my mind, that meant I was not capable of being a doctor, because surely others had thought of this and knew how they would react, knew that they could handle it. I didn't know how I would react, if I could take it, if it would break me. I still don't.

But then there was the subtle nudge of my mother. Her example of being less than. Once, when I was young, mentioning wanting to be a doctor, thinking about following in my father's footsteps, and her asking me to not say that. Somehow insinuating it wasn't "right", whatever that is. I don't know if my mother was ashamed of her life, of her role that she played as the loving mistress, but I suspect whatever reservations she had she unknowingly tried to pass onto me.

And now I'm here, in a job that pays my bills but I do not love, knowing I could be more.

Now I am starting a journey of trying to be something else, something closer to what I imagined when I was younger, something closer to what I hope will be better for those around me and the world as a whole. Because soon I'll be 30. And then 40. And then 50. And in the precious time I have on this earth, I want to be doing something I love rather than something I'm good at or something that is just safe.

Normal

I went to a company holiday party last night.

I went to Happy Hour first, had drinks with friends, and made plans for the holidays, but then I left earlier than normal and found my way to the bowling alley where the event was held. It was hosted by one of the half dozen companies I work for, and, funny enough, the one I've worked for the longest.

Driving over, I was a bit nervous. Not as nervous as I could have been, considering I had two drinks before leaving Happy Hour, which relaxed me a bit. But still, I was little nervous.

The company hosting the event is the same company that my Ex works for. On the drive there, I was worried about making it before the party ended, and making sure the guy I was selling a scarf to* would be there. But also needling in the back of my head was whether or not I would see my Ex.

I was arriving late, fully 2.5hrs into a 4hr party. And last time I checked, my Ex didn't have a car. Maybe he wouldn't be there. Maybe I would show up, get my $25 from scarf guy, have a free drink or two, and leave. Maybe things would be okay.

Well, they were okay, but not for the reasons I listed above.

It was rainy. And not the fun-light-playful rainy. It was cold-windy-puddle-making rainy; decidedly not fun. I parked my car and sprinted into the bowling alley.

First thing I noticed, when I got inside, was that this was a nice bowling alley. New-ish carpet, mood lighting, and monitors in front of all the lanes as well as at the ends of the alleys. Okay, I thought. Guess they weren't skimping when they picked this place.

I looked left and glimpsed a "Private Bowling Lanes" sign above a set of French doors. Walking inside, I saw familiar faces. The first that caught my eye was my favorite work friend who I immediately walked towards.

"You're not wearing pants."
"No."
"This is my first time seeing you not wear pants."
"Yes, I have a strict no pants policy when I'm not working."

I was wearing my comfy gray skirt, red tank top, white snap shirt, awesome black & gray stripped socks, my purple flats, and my Santa hat. I gave him a big hug; then we began chatting.

But almost as soon as I struck up a conversation with him, I saw movement in my periphery. It was my Ex. He stepped towards me, leaned in, gave me a hug, and said, "Hi. You look really cute." I hugged him back and then we parted. He walked away while I stayed with my work friend.

To say that I was shocked would be to both over and under state my mental-ness at that moment. I was surprised that 1) he made a gesture of pleasantries towards me, 2) that it seemed warm and genuine, & 3) that it felt... normal.

It was just so normal.

We didn't speak again for the rest of the night, which was fine; I can't say we have anything to talk about. But there was never a cross word, never a leering look, never anything negative to speak of. I hung out with my group of work friends; he hung out with his. I genuinely had a good time.

All my nerves leading up to that moment now seemed silly, and, having had that simple interaction makes me hopeful that things are okay with us. Not perfect, because no breakup is perfect, but okay. And that's pretty cool, considering how far we've come.

So...yay. We made it to normal. It only took three years, but we made it to normal.



*So I've sold two scarves this season, and have an order for a third. Super awesome!

Shadow Career

Sometimes I hate my job.

I know this is true of most people. I suppose it's been true of just about every job I've had. There comes a point when all I want to do is scream at someone or to someone. I need to release my pain. I need to tell people how much I hate my life when I am functioning in this work capacity. But that release never happens.

What does happen is I question my staying. I question coming to work the next day. I question if this is what I want to keep doing. And my hatred for my job increasing almost every day after.

Recently I've had some shitty gigs. I was under staffed. Had little time. The gear wasn't correct. The client was demanding. You name it, I've probably dealt with it.

With me being in a leadership position, all the stress of my job gets heaped onto me. It's my responsibility to get everything set and ready by the time guests walk through the doors. It's my responsilibity to guide my crew, delegate projects, and do the hard parts of the job, the parts no one else is willing to. It all falls on me.

Lately I've been wondering if it's worth it. Is the extra pay really worth all the extra stress?

One element that hasn't helped is my current relationship status, as in none.

When I was with my Ex, it was very hard to go to load outs at night. I'd leave him, watching some random thing on tv, knowing he'd be asleep by the time I got home. I'd eat dinner with him, knowing there was a count down until I had to go. I hated it.

Since we broke up, I've realized how much harder it is to go through a busy seasn without that emotional support. For as many faults as he had (and there were many), there was still that person I would come home to and bitch about my day. And he always had this uncanny way of building me back up. He encouraged me, told me how great I was at my job, how kickass I was as a tech.

I have no desire to go back to my Ex. None. But I do miss the pep talks. The cuddles at night. The arms to hold onto me when I was ready to cry from all the stress.

NaNoRiMo is coming up. I'm going to be participating for the first time. I have my novel idea flushed out fairly well in my head, as well as some notes jotted down on paper.

I am a writer. And, lately, every time I've been at work I've asked myself, Why am I doing this? Why am I here? I should be writing.

Gray has been needling me lately. After I mentioned how I contemplated being a doctor when I was younger, he's tried to push me to research more about going back to school. He's said, and this is very true, people don't leave their positions in life until it gets too hard for them to stay.

I don't think I'll become a doctor, but I am coming to a point where staying in my current job is close to unbearable.

I am a writer. I know this in my bones. It's time I do more than this blog, more than talking about being a paid author. It's time I actually do it.

It's time for me to commit to my real career and let my shadow career fall away. It's time for me to be a writer.

The Question

"You work for X?"
"Yes."
"How are they with women?"

I was taken aback by the older woman's question. We had had no previous conversation, no words spoken at all between us. I was not in charge of the crew that day. Quite the opposite actually, having spent the past two hours working on my hands and knees on the floor setting up and wiring twenty-five uplights.

As soon as this unknown woman (who I believe was the client) asked this question, I did the only thing I could in the moment: I smiled, said, "Yes," and got back to work.

There was no way I could honestly or fully answer her question. She stood next to two of my bosses, chatting about the event happening that evening. I was low man on the totem pole, oddest possible person out. In fact I had only been standing there because I was waiting for the best moment to interrupt their conversation to ask one of my bosses about another project.

You can't ask that question while someone is at work. You can't ask that question with their boss right there. You can't ask that question and expect a real honest answer. I don't know why she asked, but that question has lingered with me since.

I couldn't say the thoughts that ran through my head in the following moments, as I pushed this case, packed that one, and was eventually cut til the load out.

I couldn't say how my industry is a sausage fest, how most of the companies are owned and operated by heterosexual white men, how often on gigs I am the oddest man out, a black woman surviving in this world.

I couldn't speak about the jokes I don't want to hear. The nicknames I insisted they stop using (which, to their credit they did). The dearth of female leads (let alone black female leads). I couldn't talk about my occasional nerves, my occasional annoyance, and my constant anger.

The feelings that bubbled up after she asked her question feel like a monkey on my back that was once quiet but is now cackling. It isn't one specific company; it is the industry. It isn't one slimy guy; it is the culture of ignoring their behavior and promoting the men anyway.

So no, I didn't answer her question honestly. And for her to believe I ever could or would was just a different form of privileged folly.

Random Observations

Some random observations that came to mind while at work this evening:

1- Baby, It's Cold Outside is really rape-y.

Like really rape-y. Not all of it, mind you, but parts of it are really REALLY rape-y.

"Baby don't hold out"
"Say what's in this drink?"
"What's the sense of hurting my pride?"
"I simply must go/The answer is no"

I've owned the Glee rendition of this song for quite some time now, I think almost a year actually, and yet it wasn't until I listened to it tonight when I realized just how rape-y it is.

My best guess as to why it took me (a person who prides herself on actually listening to the lyrics of songs) so long to come to this realization is the structure of the song. With two overlapping vocals, I often found myself listening (and singing along) to the "female" portions. (Female, for those who do not know, is in quotation marks because the person who performs that part for the Glee rendition is actually a gay man who happens to be a natural soprano.)

For some random reason, I listened to the "Male" portions more acutely tonight and I found myself smiling at how rape-y the lyrics are.

With a sly grin, I wondered if any kinky folk out there had already beat me to the punch. There must have been, or there must be, a scene with this song as inspiration. Hmm, or maybe I'll write something.

Ooo... new blog post coming soon.

2- Why do we not have unisex bathrooms?

When I left the vendor room to use the restroom, walking in front of me was a gentleman and a little lady.

You know the type: the flower girl with the huge poofy dress with a large bow in the back, twirling, giggling, getting lost in the fabric, the type that makes me smile and melts my heart and reaffirms my want of a podling some day, hopefully.

Well the gentleman led the little lady down the hall to the restrooms and opened the door for the men's room. The little lady then turned around and pointed at the ladies' room door behind her, saying, "I go in there."

The gentleman (I'm assuming her Dad) replied, "Only if your mother is in there."

I slipped by the two of them during this exchange.

As I chose a stall, I could hear the pitter patter of the little lady as she checked every stall. No one else was in the restroom except me. The gentleman yelled, asking the little lady if her mother was in there. And, since she wasn't, he beckoned her back out.

Here's my question: Why didn't he just stand there and wait while the little lady used the facilities? Did he really think someone (meaning me) would be offended? Was it that big of a deal for a man to be in the ladies' room?

I'm sure I could go off on a tangent about our shame based culture, about Puritanical beliefs and practices, societal norms, and blah blah blah...

It's just... Since attending a number of kinky camps, and sharing bathrooms with all genders at the same time, I realized at that moment, witnessing this exchange between a man and his daughter, just how much I didn't care if the man was in the restroom, and just how much he did care.

Our society (okay, tiny rant) has all these rules but for what? That little girl needed to use the restroom; would it really have rocked the world if the gentleman watching her waited patiently for her inside the restroom?

Maybe it's because I don't live a Puritanical life. Maybe it's because I don't give a shit about a lot of random little societal things.

It's just... dude, it's okay if you're in the ladies room. The world will not end. And I really didn't care.

Oh and by-the-way: he took her into the men's room.

Daydream

As soon as I saw him, I thought Shit, here we go again.

He fit a type I like: tall, broad shoulders, attractive face, and funny. He was to be my crew chief for the day and this was a ten hour call.

Still, there were many distractions. First, and most prominently, there was the Sun, which beat down on us all day. The few times we were granted reprieve included under the couple of trees shading our resting area, when the stage canopy was still up (it was gone before lunch), and the passing moments when clouds magically appeared to aid us or an errant breeze kissed our skins.

Then there was the work itself. Highly physical, sweaty work. Lift this. Move that. Push this. Disassemble that. All day. The danger of falling off the stage after we'd removed the decks. The multiple fork lifts criss-crossing the area. The rental trucks from other companies coming to pick up their gear. There was a lot going on.

But still, I knew it would happen. I started stealing glances at him, and I smiled to myself, and BAM! another crush was born.

Many hours later, it dulled. I saw how he was with other women, two other women. I saw the familiar nature, the flirting. And it dawned on me: I wasn't his type.

But there was a moment that stuck with me.

With about ten minutes left on our fifteen minute break, I sat on the grass and leaned my back up against a tree. It wasn't luxurious, but it was enough. I closed my eyes. I breathed in deep. I let myself drift, my mind floating to the voices I heard around me.

And then, for some unknown reason, I opened my eyes. He sat not five feet in front of me on the bench of a picnic table. He had been quiet the entire time. I never knew he was there.

I smiled a little, and then closed my eyes again.

I imagined him grabbing my hair, pulling me over, and resting my head on his knee. I knew this would never ever happen, but it was a great day dream.

Soon we were back to work. He flirted with other women, but never me. I did my job well. And, many hours later, I was cut and went home.

We never engaged in a full conversation. I never learned his real name; he was always referred to by a nickname. I don't know where he lives, or if I'll ever work with or see him again.

But I still remember his face, his frame. I still remember that day dream. And I glimpsed that he wore a tongue ring...

Stress

Sleep deprivation sucks.

Nausea. Short temper. Easier to tears. Micro naps while I drive. And, frankly, I stop giving a fuck, at times acting like a bitch.

It's the busy season; I am very sleep deprived.

When I woke up Sunday morning, my room was muggy and hot. I had gotten to sleep around 5am. It was 12:26pm when my body could not stand the heat any longer.

Even though I got a relatively good amount of rest, this followed multiple days of 3-5hrs of sleep and a few 20hr days.

As I laid in bed, I contemplated all the things I had to do. There were, in fact, many errands I wanted to run. It was my first day off since Tuesday.

I didn't want to get out of bed. I didn't want to do anything. But I had a mound of dirty clothes that I absolutely had to wash, not to mention health care paperwork to fill out and Shibaricon packing to start.

Forcing myself out of bed, I grabbed my clothes hamper and lumbered down the stairs. I heard my roommates laughing and talking in the dining room, but choose to not say hi.

In the laundry room, I put down my hamper and opened the washer; clothes inside. I checked the dryer; clothes inside.

I huffed, and then headed to the dining room.

"Whose clothes are in the dryer," I asked, I hope not grumpily.
"Doesn't matter," said DeepEnd. "The dryer's broken."
"Really!"

I stomped my feet. I put my head against the wall.

"I have to go."

I could feel the tears coming as I went back to the laundry room, grabbed my hamper, and rushed back into my room. I stripped off my pajamas. I crawled back into my bed. I cried into my covers, squeezing Tessie tight, wanting the world to go away.

All I wanted was to wash my fucking clothes. All I wanted was to get something, anything done. This was suppose to be my day off.

I was angry. I was upset. I was sleep deprived.

I needed to do something. I wanted to pound a wall, rip something apart.

With a start, I got back out of bed, put on my workout clothes, and went downstairs. In the kitchen, I grabbed a banana and poured a glass of Silk.

"Hun, what are you averaging? An hour of sleep a night?" It seemed SkinnyBitch had an idea of my problem. I gave her a grunt of an answer.

Quickly finishing my food, I went into the Sun Room.

On my iPhone, I started up my Dance/Pop Mix. I turned on the treadmill and started walking. After a minute, I increased the speed. And again. And again. Each minute or two I kept making it go faster, until I was running. Really running. My feet flying up in the air, breathing heavy running.

It was the first time I'd really ran on the tread. My workout is normally a mix of fast walking and jogging.

As my feet pounded on the tread, I imagined my footfalls pounding away my problems, pounding out my anger, pounding away all the bullshit that was my life.

After a few minutes, I lowered the speed. Slowly I came down. Slowly I returned to walking.

And, somehow, it made it all better.

I joined my roommates at the dining room table, feeling more like myself.

I completed no errands Sunday, and, frankly, I think I am the better for it.

Location, Location, Location

I work for about half a dozen different companies. However, there is one in particular I work for the most. They pay be more per hour and offer me more total hours than any of my other companies (score!).

Still, there is one rather large downside to this particular arrangement: the location of the company's warehouse.

I function in multiple different capacities for this company: general production had, crew lead, occasional shop worker, and truck driver.

On Wednesday night, as I drove the truck back to the shop, along with two other female coworkers in the cab, we all noticed something odd as I pulled into the lot: a man in his car, dome light on, alone and shirtless.

Apparently I was the lucky one of our trio. Being that I was concentrating on driving, I did not notice the man was indeed completely naked and jerking off in his car...in front of our warehouse...with no one else in sight.

One of my coworkers yelped and started laughing. I can't remember what the other did. I kept driving the truck, past our warehouse entrance, further up the parking lot. I turned sideways, able to glimpse the man about one hundred feet away. Thankfully he quickly drove off.

Both of my coworkers found the incident funny. I would have too, except a dark thought came over me.

There have been times when I've been alone at the warehouse, returning the truck, no one else with me. There were times when not only did I return the gear, I also offloaded the cases by myself. This has not happened in quite some time, but it bothered me all the same.

This most recent happening is not the first incident to occur in the industrial complex we house. Twice I've seen men in their cars, enjoying the services of a prostitute.

Once I happened to drive past an SUV, my lights washing the vehicle, and a lady's headed pop up from the distraction. For some reason, I distinctly remember there being a handicapped tag on the rear view mirror.

During the other sighting, I drove by and saw a man standing by the back driver-side door. It seemed like his pants were down. As I kept going, it finally clicked what he was doing.

Amorous dealings aside, other not-so-amusing activities have also peppered the area. Drag racing down a long stretch of road leading up to and past our building. Multiple car fires, the exact number of which I'm not quite sure.

And then there was this morning.

Today I woke up at 7am to make it to the warehouse by 8:30am to pick up the truck for our gig. As I pulled into a 7-11 near the warehouse, hoping to grab breakfast before work, three cop cars sat in the parking lot, one specifically blocking a vehicle entrance. I popped a U-turned and instead got food from a small Mom&Pop eatery.

When I parked at the warehouse, I popped my trunk and put on my work shoes. As I sat, tying my laces, I heard a vehicle pass by, blaring Latin music. I didn't think much of this, except it kept playing rather loudly. The person had not turned their car off.

One of the company trucks blocked my view of the vehicle, so I walked past the truck and into the line of sight. I saw a man's back. He stood near a bush. I did not see his actual anatomy, but understood he was relieving himself about seventy-five feet away.

I turned and walked towards the office door. As I entered, a second vehicle passed by. This was turning out to be a busy morning.

Inside I grabbed my truck keys, the pertinent paperwork for today's event, and departed.

As I walked towards my truck, parked all the way at the end of the lot, I saw that there were now about three or four men standing around. I kept my head down, and gave myself about twenty feet of cushion between myself and the small crowd.

When I passed them, no one followed. No one said anything to me, in fact. I opened my truck, got inside, locked the door, and drove off.

I'm not sure what to make of the situation. I love this job, and do not plan on leaving anytime soon. And seeing as they comprise about 60% of my income, I make far too much money to not work for them.

Still, it would be nice to not show up to the warehouse wondering what new story I will have to impart about my job.

My Necklace

I walked away quickly, checking that I had everything as I went, when it struck me...

My neck was bare.

Rushing back to the guard post, I asked him if he had my necklace. I dropped to the floor and looked all around his station.

Standing, he said he had found it. His stand was hollow inside, with one hole at the end. My necklace laid at the bottom of the stand, having fallen down that hole, very much out of my or his reach.

He smiled, saying he didn't have a key, but his supervisor should. He would call him.

He shooed me off to the side as others entered the building. I stood, waiting anxiously as he checked them in. After the mini-rush died, he still had made no call, either on a phone or over a radio.

"Um, Sir, when do you think you'll be able to get my necklace?" I explained I was in the building to work and would need to leave soon. He took down my name and phone number.

And then his supervisor approached. I hoped I would not be long parted from my jewelry. But this new man just reiterated with the first had said. They'd call me when they'd retrieved my necklace, saying instead of the key, which no one knew where it was, they would use a clothes hanger to fish it out.

I walked away, anxious. As I sat waiting for the rest of the crew, I found it hard to think about anything but my necklace.

There was no way for these men to understand how much the silver at the bottom of their stand (which by-the-way, WHY IS THERE A HOLE IN IT!?!), no way for them to comprehend how much that object means to me.

The necklace itself is chainmail, bought at my first kink event. On it is a charm with the Chinese symbol for love and a ring, silver in color but certainly not the type of metal, a piece of costume jewelry from a relative who died many years ago.

My profile picture for most everything is a shot of my necklace (less the ring). What people don't know, what I don't talk about much if at all, is the name I have for that picture.

True, the necklace is a "chainmail collar". I have had people ask me up front if I'm owned. (More on that in an upcoming podcast.) I tell them no, I am not. But that is only half true.

The name I gave to my profile picture is "I Own Me".

When I was with the Ex, the one way he managed to show affection and give me some reassurance was through a necklace, his necklace which he put on me. It was made of black and red beads with the symbols of his clan. (He's one of the Pensic folk.)

Absentmindedly, throughout my day, I used to play with that necklace. When I was stressed, I often stroked it, remembering there was someone who cared for me and would be there when I got home to make things better.

When I broke up with him, he knew what was coming before I even opened my mouth. I held his necklace in my hand, having only previously taken it off to shower. I gave it back to him that day, ending whatever we were.

I've worn the Chinese character around my neck since college. In my mind, having the symbol for love about me would be my quiet beacon out to the world, hoping someone would hear the call.

I put down the charm when he gave me his necklace. I put it back on when I left him, reminding myself there was more in this life than my time with him.

Now I keep it on, wearing it for me. My kink life. My openness. My freedom. My caring, affection, love for others. I feel like, in some small way, the charm works/worked.

When I finger the ring, I remember Aunties, Uncles, and Ella, a family passed on but not forgotten. So much of my life with three people so long gone...

When I rub the symbol, I remember that I am loved, that I have so much love to give, and that there are those who want and deserve my affections, both known to me and the yet-to-meets.

So yes, I was very anxious, and nervous, and downright distraught when my necklace dropped down that hole. I wear it everyday. I sleep with it on at night. I take it off only when I shower, and only rarely don't wear it out.

Thankfully, thirty minutes later, I got the call. They returned my necklace with both the ring and charm in tow.

Crisis averted.

His Smell

"You smell good."

Three of us sat on the plush couch. We'd speculated if he would sit in the center, snuggled between two attractive black women, or if he'd take the spot next to our white coworker, or just sit in a chair.

When he did sit in between us, the joke became assigning him his new nickname, "Bitches."

My coworker and I leaned into him. He draped his arm over my torso as I laid my head on his chest. That's when I smelled him. That's when I realized how much I was, am, attracted to him.

Of all the people in my work, he is by far the most attractive.  By far.

Even so, I know it probably won't happen. See Don't Shit Where You Eat for reason enough. And though I have just fucked guys I've worked with, and then nothing came of it, I don't know. Is it worth it to take the chance?

I like him as a person. He's funny, with a dirty sense of humor that isn't annoying or creepy. And he's thoughtful, if you ask his opinion. Helpful without prompting. And sweet at times. An overall good guy.

So no, it's probably not going to happen, but I'm okay with that.

As we leaned against him, I was quite tired. I was in charge of the crew today, and as such had to deal with the event organizer who was quite frazzled. Keeping calm, I was able to help her through, at least with my part of the gig. She was pleased with our work.

But dealing with her, not taking a lunch break, and setting up in multiple rooms had taken its toll. I was wiped.

With his arm holding me, his hand softly brushing my bicep, and my head on his chest, I barely noticed how giggly the rest of my crew was. So much so that I didn't realize they'd taken a picture of Bitches with his bitches. Once I glimpsed it, I saw photo showed just how tired I felt.

I went back to resting against him for as long as I could. But, as in all things, it ended. He had a phone call. I had to find the event organizer to deal with our meals. And eventually, with the party ended, we broke down the gear and left.

But I still remember what is was like against him. Still remember my head nuzzled on his chest. Still remember his arm around me. His body heat. His smell.

Seasonal Financial Panic

A few times a year, about once every season, I panic about money.

Being in a job where the work is either feast or famine, it's understandable that I have these fears. The funny part though is that since the end of my first year of working professionally, I can't think of a time when my panic was not dissuaded within a pay period.

Today I had my seasonal panic. I pulled up to a Wendy's drive-thru, ordered my lunch (not healthy AT ALL, but healthier than it could've been), and attempted to pay with my bank card. After a few swipes, the cashier said "No money." I had a sinking suspicion that I would not like looking at my checking account.

I paid the ~$5.50 bill with a credit card (ugh, I rarely carry cash), and pulled up in the lane out of the way. My fear growing, I looked up my balance on my phone (another big no-no). Sure enough, my account was in the red by about $50. One quick scroll showed me why. Both of my tax payments had been cashed.

Silly silly Kristen, believing both the state and Uncle Sam would take time before taking your money.

As I drove to work, I already regretted buying my lunch. I started devising ways to cut back.

Should I really go to Delicious this weekend to attempt clothes shopping? Maybe I shouldn't take Saturday off, but instead try to find last minute work. Should I skip Happy Hour tonight? Could I even get a gig for this evening?

With my brain whirling, I arrived at work. I tried to take five minutes in my car to sit and breathe. It went better than I might have hoped, maybe fifteen seconds where I was able to shut off my brain from crisis management mode.

When I arrived, my lead greeted me warmly as he so often does. He and I work well together, with a camaraderie I don't have with many others. He asked me how I was doing. Instead of my usual "Pretty good", "Meh" or "Okay", I instead said, "Um, well, I'm broke so I desperately need to pickup more work."

Not exactly the best way to start my work day.

Rationally, I knew I needed to fix my negative balance as soon as possible. During a break, I transferred some money from savings to fix the overdraft. It was also enough to cover my upcoming health insurance bill which I need to pay tomorrow before work.

As my work day progressed, it turned out my lead needed someone to drive an extra vehicle for the Load Out this evening. I was added to the crew and picked up extra money for the drive.

As I waited for the load out to start, something bugged me. Until I checked my account, I hadn't really been worried about my finances. I've been working like crazy ever since I got back from Frolicon, with little break in my schedule until Shibaricon. Why was my account so low?

Opening up my pocket planner, I quickly scanned my work log. And then it hit me.

I get paid in six days. Because my vacation lasted two weeks, I have a pay period lag. I have more than enough money coming in to pay for rent, my other bills, and replenish the cash I took from savings.

Not only that, but I picked up extra work this evening too. Panic averted.

For a moment there, I doubted my year long goal of 10+ events, and wondered if I should back out of things I'd already paid for or scale back my hopes and expectations for the year.

Nope, not gonna happen.

I am, in fact, doing just fine.

Three Moments

1) "Do you know how to coil rigging rope?"

Do I know how to coil rope? Hmm...

One of my projects at work today was, simply, to coil rope. But not just any rope. 3/4 inch braided black nylon, with a blue accent. Two coils. 150' in length, each.

They sat on the warehouse's concrete floor, two mangled piles waiting for my manipulations.

I picked up the first, the less messy of the two, and began to unwind it. The coil was semi in tact, but would have still been a nuisance to the riggers if I'd just chucked it into a bin for them to deal with later.

Finding an end, I pulled. I ran the rope through my hands, knowing full well no part of this chord would be touching anyone's sensitive skin. But still, I remembered my training.

Getting to the other end, I began my coil. I grasped the end while creating a large loop that extended all the way down to my knee. I carefully matched my next loops to this same length. As I worked, the rope began to twist. With my free hand, I spun the rope, pushing the twist along as I went.

After about fifty feet, I transferred the rope to my fore arm, creating the loops still, the nylon draping across so much of my skin. I was just barely able to hold all the loops the long length required before it was time to finish off the coil.

With about fifteen feet of tail, I wrapped the end around the entire coil. The coil was so large, though, that I had to wrap half way, hold the tail between my thighs, and grab it from the other side. I wrapped around the coil about eight times. I then brought the tail up through the top of the coil and cinched off twice.

"This about what you were looking for?"
"Yes. God, the riggers are going to feel like they're spoiled."

I repeated the process for the other length, sat it next to its match, and took a picture for posterity.

2) As soon as I walked into the house, I recognized the sweet smokey smell. DeepEnd was home.

He'd been away for a few days, and had returned the night before while I was asleep. I heard the thump of his drums before I entered the house. As I set my things down, I could feel the rhythm he played on his drums in the basement through the floor. The music, along with the cigar scent, made me smile; it felt like my home was back to normal.

As I headed upstairs, DeepEnd finished his set.

In my room, I disrobed, wanting to get out of my work clothes. Thursday meant DO Happy Hour, and I didn't want to socialize in my work blacks. As I took my clothes off, I heard DeepEnd say my name.

Yelling from at the top of the steps, I asked him if he'd called me. Actually DeepEnd had been talking to the dog, hoping I was home instead of someone in the house trying to rob us. I then pointed out we had nothing worth stealing. He concurred.

"Oh, and by the way, welcome home."

As I finished undressing, DeepEnd called for me. Throwing my robe on and stuffing my cellphone and its charger into a pocket, I headed into his bedroom.

On his bed, there was an impressive array: about a dozen cigars in a few different bags, a small Tortuga wooden cigar box, and a large empty humidor.

He showed me his new humidor, which needed to air our before he could use it, as well as all the sticks he purchased while on his trip. I marveled at the display.

DeepEnd also pointed out his minor boo-boo. While looking at this humidor, the lid to the box closed, striking him on the bridge of his nose. A small red line, about a half inch long, graced his face between his eyes.

DeepEnd talked about the different cigars he purchased, most notably a few rather large diameter sticks and a Rocky Patel 15th Anniversary, the #5 cigar of the year.

As we had stood there for a bit, talking shop and my marveling his stash, I asked DeepEnd the time. It was 5:20pm. Play time over. We both rushed about. He needed to go pick up SkinnyBitch and I didn't want to be late for Happy Hour.

3) "So I need someone to be co-topped by Lynk and myself for needles. They..."
"Yes."

FancyDancer, HoopFlyBurn, and N3rddom all snickered. We sat in the McDonald's just a stone's throw from our weekly happy hour bar. Both HoopFlyBurn and I snacked on french fries. N3rddom and FancyDancer enjoyed milkshakes. Big Sis ate a chicken sandwich.

"Hey, she just spent how much time back at Happy Hour telling me how hot he is."

And we were in the middle of a conversation about blood play, how I'm so easy, and the endorphin highs to come from Big Sis upping the ante with our needle play.

What else was I suppose to say:

Maybe, after I've seen your work, I'll think about it.

Possibly, if my dance card isn't too full, and I'm not feeling itchy.

I don't know; blood weirds me out.

Fuck that shit. Hot people AND endorphins. I'm surprised I didn't say, "Fuck yes."

Idiots

I don't consider myself a bitch, per se. I am highly opinionated, and, when it comes to my job, I am greatly annoyed when others do not know their shit.

And so it happened that today I had to deal with an annoying dumbass.

I'd worked with him before. For the first hour of our interactions, I thought he was new. Like brand new. Like just started in the business new.

I tried to teach him what I knew and help him with the work. It was a 5am call. I was tired. But I figured if I helped him learn now I wouldn't have to deal with his incompetence later.

And so it happened, that around 6am, as I'm explaining something else to him, he turns to me and says, "I've worked for Company Q before. You don't have to talk to me like I'm a child."

I could have reacted to him in many different ways. I could've just turned and walked away. I could've laughed, considering Company Q is thought of by many in my industry as being full of idiots who don't know shit. I could have told him how pathetic a worker I thought he was if he had experience with another company and yet seemed like he knew nothing.

Instead, I calmly said I was just trying to help him because it seemed liked he didn't understand something.

For the rest of my extremely long gig, I attempted to avoid him. For some strange reason, he seemed to take this as me liking him because he then decided to follow me around and try to talk to me like we were buddies. Like we were equals.

Frankly I was rather angry he was being paid the same amount of money as me to do a piss poor job.

Of course, since I had such a great time with him before, he just had to show up again. Today. Unfortunately he was the only other crew member for my department; therefore I could not get away from him.

I put my headphones in and concentrated on my tasks. At one point he got my attention, saying something to the effect of, "What? Do I have to say your name to talk to you?" Obviously the fact that my project was separate from his AND I was wearing my headphones didn't clue him in to my desire to not fucking talk to him.

He ended up following me around again.

His incompetence shined multiple times. Not properly securing equipment. Not know the correct procedure to manipulate the equipment. And messing with equipment from another department that had nothing to do with his task.

By the end of the day, I just wanted to sit back and laugh. This motherfucker was getting paid the same amount as me. This idiot who didn't bring the proper equipment to work. Who basically calls me condescending but then shows his incompetence at almost every step.

Sometimes I just want to scream.

Why can't people just show up, know their shit, do their job, and leave? Why do I have to deal with idiots?

Why?

[Of course I know the answer. It's because I'm not one.]

Avoidance

I often equate my job with being a hustler or a whore.

Since I am a freelancer, I don't work full time for any one company, though I pick and choose my gigs carefully. I work for about half a dozen different entities, going where the money is.

Company X is my favorite. They pay me the most and work me the least. Company Z is my least favorite. They pay me (almost) the least and work me twice as hard. I work for X a lot. I work for Z rarely.

However, recently, I had a gig with Z. It is the slow season and, frankly, when Z is the only work I can find it feels like I have no choice. I ended up on a rather large gig late at night, wanting nothing more than to finish and go the fuck home.

Sometimes life has this way of fucking with me. If I had chosen to take the slow elevator, I would have ended up working on the top floor. Instead I walked towards the faster elevator and ran into the crew head, who said I should stay on the ground floor.

This had two results. One, my work would not be as labor intensive, yeah. Two, I would have to work with the bitch.

I'm not using the term 'bitch' in a sweet or caring or loving manner. This chick is a bitch. I've known her for the entirety of my professional life and have yet to work a gig with her where she didn't piss me off in some small, large, or I-want-to-stab-her-eyes-out way.

She has this innate ability to make me feel like she thinks I'm stupid, I'm incompetent, or I should be worshipping at her feet, learning all that she knows. Her voice rarely imbues a tone that is not arrogant. She is one of the reasons why I avoid company A like the plague.

The bitch has, in the past, submitted her resume to company B in hopes of generating more work. Since company X is small, the crew coordinator asks members of the current crop of workers about anyone who shows interest in joining the crew base. All of us flatly told them to never, ever allow this woman on their crew rotation. She is a great worker, but yes, she is that bitchy.

And so I found myself working with her, kicking myself for not going upstairs, but also for accepting the gig in the first place. But I did my usual mental jujitsu. Whatever, I need money.

So we began working.

And a funny thing happened. I barely had to deal with her. I choose a kind of shitty project that I knew would take me the better part of my shift to complete. I was perfectly okay with this because I realized, after I volunteered for it, that I would be able to avoid the bitch almost completely for the entire time.

Avoidance is a mighty fine thing. I practice it often in my life. Yes, I know I should face my problems and issues head on, but sometimes I conclude that the hassle of dealing with certain motherfuckers isn't worth the effort. In my family life, it is my crazy preacher Uncle. In my kink life, it is those who fall into the category of crazy. In my work life, it is the bitch.

As I performed my tedious menial task, far far away from the bitch, I was quite happy. Even as my back ached a little (I had to keep reminding myself to engage my core as I bent down), inside I smiled. I knew I was doing a good job. I knew that no one could say shit about my distance, seeing as the equipment I packed away was spread out and I'd picked the project what no one else wanted to do.

So, at the end of the night, when I finally had to deal with the bitch momentarily, I was golden. I knew I only had about fifteen minutes left and hoped she wouldn't be able to piss me off too badly in that time, seeing as there were lots of other people around to buffer her. And I was right. She only mildly annoyed me, a great improvement from our past interactions.

So, let this be a lesson. Yes, it is important to discover and own your feelings. Yes, it is important to face obstacles head on and conquer them. But, sometimes, a little avoidance can go a long way, especially when it comes to dealing with bitches.

Freedom

Recently I was offered a full time job with a company I like. The work would've been nothing difficult and it would've paid me more than I made in all of 2010 by about five thousand dollars. I turned it down.

For nearly the whole of my professional life, I have worked as a freelancer. I've spent six years in an industry that often chews people up and spits them out. I'm getting to the age where one of three things happen:

1- You accept the fact that you will always be a grunt and just work more to earn more.
2- You get a full time job in another line of work and walk away with the many stories from your days as a freelancer.
3- You move up, advance, or find some other position with a company that does not work your body as hard.

Recently I spoke about how I now have to deal with the challenges of leading more for certain companies. In my industry, I've kind of made it. I believe I made quite a bit more this year than last year, though I'm still waiting on my multiple W-2s to confirm this.

Taking this job would have been smart. It would have been guaranteed work with a set schedule. No surprises, no slow seasons. Just ten hours a day five days a week, 10-99 (no taxes taken out). But I didn't.

The reason why my life is so brilliant currently is the same reason why I couldn't take that job: freedom.

I choose my schedule. Granted it is dependent upon me finding work for the days in which I wish to get paid, but that comes down to hustling. When I want to take a day off, I just say I can't work it. If my friends plan something and I get enough notice ahead of time, I will cancel a gig. I've canceled with every company I currently work for and they still call me back.

Why? Because I'm good at what I do. I show up on time (if not early). I come with not only a degree, but the knowledge I've built up in my six years of experience. Six years of dealing with bullshit. Pushing through when all I want to do is sleep. Being a bleeding heart liberal black woman who still works well with misogynists and nepotists and racists and conservatives.

They trust me enough to toss me keys, tell me the warehouses to visit, pick up their gear, and bring it back. They trust me enough to send me out with a truck full of equipment, a basic idea of what the client wants, a crew of 1-3 people, and belief in my ability to load in, watch over, and break down a show.

With my kink life soaring, with my new found status of social butterfly, I could not accept that job. I already paid for multiple events. I already planned out parts of my year. I set goals. I know what I want for the next eleven months. A full time job was not it.

Just last year I thought I was going to get a stable and secure position in an all together different industry. I submitted an application, along with an extensive resume that included my job history all the way back to college. I interviewed, twice. I went through drug testing. I thought I had it in the bag. Then came a curve ball, and it was over.

And ever since, I've been so happy that it didn't work out. In the allure of the stability, I forgot how much I love my freedom, love that I can lead the life I now have. Love that I can be me without hiding, without (too much) judgement. Love that my life is how I shape it, not fitting into a monotonous mold.

So no full time stable job for me, at least not in 2012. 2013...? Let's see how the next eleven months go.

Acceptance

Tonight I had a panic attack.

In my car, on my way to my gig, my heart raced; panic and dread and fear grappled through my body. But still, I kept driving. I'm nothing if not reliable, especially when it comes to work.

I know, specifically, why I loathed going to my Load Out: PTSD. Now, before anyone gets pissed at that obvious case of self diagnosis, let me say right now I respect anyone who puts on a uniform and fights for our country. I'm not willing to, pacifist and bleeding heart liberal that I am. As such, I honor those who choose to do what I can and will not.

Having said that, my reaction to what was going to be a simple, almost fun, gig is directly related to a horrible, tears worthy, event I experienced previously: namely the first gig I ever led, for the company I was about to go lead for again. What's worse, I would be with the same circle of leads, and again I was elevated last minute by the same person above me. The situation was eerily similar, though the venue had changed.

And there in laid the difference: ghetto vs high class.

But, I digress. So, as I drove down 13th St, noting the five punch buggies on the way, but no joy derived from them, I allowed myself to sit in my fear, wash in my dread, and panic to my heart's content. Once I got to the venue, with some time before I needed to go inside, I pulled out my phone and played on the Internet; this helped a little. I walked in, found my crew, and checked back in with my superior just before he fluttered away.

Amazingly, in my goodbye to him, I reminded myself of an important fact: it's just a Load Out. And with those simple words, I found my calm, my quiet, my woo-sa.

I allowed my mind to sit in the space, see all around me, and accept that this night was my fate. There was no running away, no giving up. I was going to lead, and, no matter what, everything would be fine.

If I broke every light, slit open every sandbag, and dropped all the truss from the Mezzanine, it would be okay, because, really, none of that was going to happen. However, if it did, then it did.

I don't think I'm explaining this well, but these words are all I have. I just stopped, accepted, and worked on. And to my great surprise, the gig went fine; I laughed and chuckled with some work friends, and am now I'm writing this post.

This is not the first instance where I just took a breath and accepted my fate, whatever the next few hours had in store for me. In fact, it's quite common for me at work. Tonight it just happened to be more powerful, more profound, because I went from horrible, to shitty, to ok in a matter of ten minutes.

In this blogger's humble opinion, that's pretty fucking awesome.