#119 The Story of How EVERYTHING IS FINE.

Okay, it's very important that we start this story with the following reassurance:

It's important because, at various times over this tale, you are likely to wonder if (a) the house burned down, (b) Elliot is okay, and (c) if I had the state called on me as an unfit mother.

So, I repeat...

EVERYTHING IS FINE.

On with the tale.

Yesterday was my first Friday at work.  For those of you who don't know, I've recently taken a new job.  It's great, I'm super happy with the company, and, more importantly, it has the best working mother schedule in the world.  Most of the time I only have to be in the office every other Friday; when they cater lunch and then have cocktail hour at four and we all play Beat Saber.

Right?
RIGHT?

Bask in the glory.

Anyway, since I was just starting I've had a few extra office days recently, but they always either were scheduled so I could be home around the time the kids got out of school, or someone else was here (for instance, I was down in Boston all day Wednesday, but my mother-in-law was here so that was no big.)

Yesterday was the first day I was (a) in the city and (b) no one else was home.

On top of this (and this detail is critical to the story) Elliot is currently awaiting a new school placement.  So he's at home, being homeschooled until the new placement goes through.

If you're quick, you've realized that this means he was going to be home alone yesterday.

Now, to be clear, I did not just swan out the door without a care.  Elliot has a way to contact me on his computer.  I had also previewed the day with him, set him up with the school work he needed to do, made sure he had set an alarm for lunch time so he'd remember to eat, and put out food for him.  He felt confident, I felt--well--at least moderately okay, and I figured we'd give this a shot.

So I go to work and I'm not really thinking too much about it until my phone rings at 11:30.

Now, this call is coming from Charlotte's account on Hangouts.  (Hangouts is the google messaging app.)  This confuses me because Charlotte is supposed to be in school.  I answer the phone immediately.

"Chaz?"
"NO!  It's me!"  My son sounds slightly panicked.  "I fucked up really bad!"

I die.  In this moment, I am dead.  Something has happened.  The world is coming to an end.  I am forty minutes away from my son and something is horribly, horribly wrong.

He continues.  "I locked myself out of my email account!"

The world stutters and my heart starts beating again.

"Oh."  I say, barely able to speak due to the adrenaline spike that now has nowhere to go.  "Ah, what happened?"

Turns out my dude had tried to fix the ad settings on his YouTube (yes, some of his school work involves educational videos on YouTube) and had, in all innocence, given google his real age, whereupon google had promptly booted him.  He was calling from Charlotte's account because he was locked out of his own account.  I logged in, fixed it, proved I was an adult with the right to do this, and got him set back with his account and told him to leave the ad settings alone.  Crisis averted, right?

Well...

About 90 seconds after I hang up with Elliot, my phone rings again.  This time it's an unknown number.

"Hello?"

"Hi, Jessica, it's Linda."

This is Linda Rosa, the social worker at the school that Elliot used to attend and Charlotte currently attends, calling me (I can only assume) from her personal cell phone.   That does not normally happen.

"Is Charlotte okay?"

"Charlotte is perfect, but I've gotten this email from Elliot..."

My son--my brilliant, problem solving, alternative thinking son--had apparently not immediately thought of using his sister's account to contact me, and had instead logged into his school email account and used it to contact Linda.  According to her his email was as follows;

"Help, I've fucked up really bad!  Please call Mommy and tell her I need her."

I feel like maybe Elliot and I need to sit down and have a chat about how to word things.

After assuring Linda that he was fine and that I had spoken with him and that it had actually been a fairly minor issue, we hung up the phone and I moved on with my day.

Well, I tried to move on with my day.

Three minutes later, my phone rings again.

This time it is the Parker Elementary main number.

"Hello?"

"Hi, Jessica, this is Chrissy, I'm calling because I've got this email from Elliot..."

Y'all... I cannot accurately describe my emotional state in that moment, but it was a bizarre mixture of guilt over their worry combined with wild hilarity.

Chrissy (the current principal of the Parker) told me that she had heard from (in no particular order) Elliot's third grade teacher, his fourth grade teacher, the Behavioral Analyst, and the old principal, all of whom had heard from Elliot and were worried about him.

I sent them all an email.

Then I contacted my son.

Y'all...

So anyway.  I get home from work yesterday, and Elliot comes bounding down the stairs with a big grin on his face.

"Well!  That was quite an exciting day, wasn't it?"

You can say that again, dude.

#118: Slam Head Into Wall. Repeat.

I've got some furniture I'm selling.  That's not the point of this story, it's just a critical detail so you can understand what is to follow.  In the process of selling this furniture I'm talking to a lot of strangers.  The conversation I am about to relate is with one such stranger, whose name has been changed out of respect for his privacy.

Such sources of drama.

"Hi, Dudebro?  This is Jessica with the king bed."
"Oh, hi!"
"So, I have some unfortunate news.  The box springs were stolen out of the back of my van last night, so I'm calling to--"
"That's illegal!"
"Yes, I know, I'm--"
"Someone went into your car and took your property, that's breaking and entering!"
"Yes, I know.  What I'm calling about it--"
"Have you talked to your husband about it?"

beat

beat

beat

Now, for anyone who knows me even the slightest bit, you will understand that this question pushed the rage button in multiple directions.  For one thing, there's the assumption that I have a husband.  For another, there's the assumption that, if I did have a husband, I would be going to him in order to deal with this.  For a third, there's the fact that once upon a time I did have a husband and, frankly, that's a slightly touchy subject for me.

So I really don't know what to say in cases like these. 

or just a light maiming?

Do I say "Well, I would talk to my husband about it, but it turns out he was a figment of society's collective imagination and the woman he really was is arguably more feminine than I am, so, really, I'm the butchest one around and I'll have to make do?"  Because, let me tell you, the temptation to unload that one and just really confuse the fuck out of them is SO STRONG.

Or do I say, with a catch in my voice, "My husband is no longer with us." and then start sobbing?  Because, I'll let you in on a little secret y'all, some days remembering my husband does actually make me cry.  I mean, mostly I'd be doing it to lay the world's largest guilt trip on this asshole making assumptions, but there would definitely be an aspect of authenticity about it.  And if I have to get the little stab wound of being reminded that I no longer have a partner to help me deal with the difficult shit, then I don't see why I shouldn't spread some of that misery around.

Or do I say, with every ounce of radical Feminist condescension I can muster, "That is an outrageous thing for you to ask.  March your feet to the base of Mount Shame and begin your climb, oh wretched man, and return not here until the wounds of self-flagellation can be clearly seen upon your hide-bound flesh."

SHAME!

Of do I say none of these things, because I do not want to deal with this man right now, I just want to deal with my furniture?

If you've selected that final option, you have, in fact, sussed out my chosen path.

With one little question I was suddenly ass deep in frustrated anger, but hell, I had other shit to do that day, so I simply ground out;

"I don't have a husband."

At the time it truly seemed like the better part of valor, but I had cause to regret my forbearance.

"Oh!  I'm sorry."

It flashed through my mind to wonder if he was apologizing for his question, or if he was saying he was sorry I wasn't married.  Like, honestly, it could have been either.  But I was goal oriented here, so I pressed on.

"Yes, but what I'm calling you about is--"
"  I just meant you've had a B&E.  What you should do it call the cops and report it and--"
"YES."  There was a deep breath in here while I tried to find a way to say what I needed to say without being utterly rude.  "I am completely capable of handling that myself.  The reason I called--"
"You can handle a B&E yourself?"
"yes."
"Oh.  Okay.  It's just my family is in law enforcement."
"Well, what I'm calling you about is to find out if you still want the mattress."
"Oh.  Yes."
"Fine.  Then come pick it up."

And after all that, folks?

He didn't come get the mattress.

motherfucker

#117: On Behalf of Artists

So, recently I've been having a lot of conversations that surround--not art itself, but the commercial aspects of making art.  That's gotten me thinking about artists, and value, and, you know... advocacy.  Because with me, everything is about advocacy, right?  So, I thought I'd write a brief little note about art, artists, and value.

And if you yourself happen to be an artist and want to print this on paper airplanes and sail it at the people around you, please do feel free.

Artists Have Imposter Syndrome

Okay, like, obviously #notallartists.  But, seriously, yes, all artists, this is a thing.  The artists in your life do not know that they are any good.  They make their art because they love it, and they delight in it, and they can't imagine NOT making art.  But they also know what they're not good at.  The woodworker you love knows how difficult they find dovetail joints.  The watercolorist knows all the places where the color bled the wrong way in their last painting.  The sculptor knows where they had to completely change their last piece because they couldn't make it form the precise way they wanted.  And because artists always want to be better at their art, they frequently look at a piece and only see the flaws.  What they got right isn't particularly relevant to them.  It's what they need to improve that they focus on.  And that's good for growth and what not, but it's bad for appreciating your own skills.  

So, hug an artist.

But not me.  I'm not an artist.  

I'm just not good enough.

#impostersyndrome

Art is a Demanding Sugar Baby

Art is so expensive to do.  SO EXPENSIVE.  Okay, (since apparently I'm doing this) obviously #notallart.  You can do beautiful things with paper and pencil.  But then you start thinking about how much better your work would be if you just had that really nice sketch paper that handled your eraser better.  And, speaking of erasers, you could really use a super high quality one that doesn't make such a mess when you use it.  OH!  And wouldn't your line work be better if you had varying pencil leads?

It's a slippery slope, people.

Anyway, art is expensive.  High quality paper, pigments, clays, fabrics, woods, yarns, beads--ALL THINGS ART.  They cost money.  They cost LOTS of money.  And here's the thing: the only way you ever get better at art is to make art.  Which means there's no way to practice your craft without sinking in at least SOME money.  Which you do.  You do for the joy!  You do for the love!  You do for the satisfaction!

But sometimes you look at your art supplies (of which you have a vast plethora and still not the thing you really need to do the latest piece that is obsessing you at the moment) and you wonder if art really loves you back, or if it's just in it for the things you buy.

Artists Don't Make Money

FFS YES, #NOTALLARTISTS, MKAY?

But, statistically speaking, artists don't make money.  I've already established that materials are expensive.  But, on top of that, artists don't work for a big art company.  They don't get health care, or dental, or 401k's, or work spaces, or paid time off, or ANYTHING.  There are none of the support things that come with a regular job, which you can supply yourself, but all cost money.

So, that really, really, really expensive painting that's hanging on your wall that cost $400?  Well, your artist probably spent at MINIMUM $50 on supplies.  Then they spent a week working on it.  And $350 a week for fifty weeks a year is a whopping salary of $17,500.  That's below the poverty line.  AND they're covering all the things normally covered by a regular job.  

And yeah, it's about the art, not about the money.  But it's about the money if you want to live long enough to keep making art.  So, forgive my mercenary moment here, but REALLY YOU AREN'T PAYING ENOUGH FOR YOUR ART.

All of Which Is to Say:

Appreciate your artists, folks.

Art is important in our lives and culture.  And the people who make it often do it despite how emotionally taxing it can be, and how it's generally a path to lifelong impoverishment.

Hug an artist.

Pay their asking price without blinking.

And once in a while buy them some nice art markers, okay?

They totally deserve it.