Feng Shui for freelancers

I have finally realized what's been wrong with my life:
there's clutter in the southeast end of my house.

Contrary to Feng Shui beliefs, the southeast corner is the one place where you should keep your life clean and uncluttered for wealth and prosperity. 

I've been dropping off my keys, glasses and loose papers in this corner because it's near our back door. What's even more alarming? This is where we store our tickler file of unpaid bills. Had we known the bad luck this would bring, we would have been keeping our buckets-full-o'-cash there. We might have actually made a profit last year! But the southeast corner is where the closet and the dripping coats live. It's where we dump our recycling and our reusable bags. And it's where we store our muddy shoes, smelly cleaning products and our dog's food.

Glad I figured THAT out.

The pilgrims prayed as the sailors swore.

Here's a story my high school-age daughter wrote when she was in third grade. I'm thinking of making it into a children's book for adults:

Katie Romoser
November 20, 2001

Chapter 1: Europe
In Europe towns folk were very sad. They were forced to go to an established church, but the towns' folk had different beliefs. They would hold secret meetings and got scared when put in jail by the king. The townspeople moved to Holland. (Some of them.) But did not speak Dutch. So they could not get good jobs, so they could not earn good money, and did not want their children to speak Dutch. In September 1620 their lives changed. They heard about a place called Virginia. They got a ship called the Mayflower and the Speedwell. But first made a deal that for seven years they would give fish, fur and lumber. Then they set off. Twice the Speedwell sprang a leak and had to head back. Finally they decided that the Mayflower would go alone.
OFF TO VIRGINIA!!!

Chapter 2: The Crossing
Once they were on board they were very happy. They drank beer and salted fish. Yuck! That was when they realized it was bad. It was beginning to rain. There was a huge storm! William Bradford, directly related to Hannah Jones (how would you know Hannah Jones? She's a friend of Katie's), helped people stay calm. When the storm was over it was only a little better. People heard rats scratching. The only thing the kids could drink was beer. If they drank salt water they would get crazy. A girl named Dorothy slipped on some ice and fell over board and died. Then during another storm the main beam broke. Some thought all was lost, but it was repaired by an iron screw. The pilgrims prayed while the sailors swore. During the third storm a man was thrown overboard, but managed to grab hold of a rope and was pulled to safety. Finally they reached their new home!

Chapter 3: The First Year
Finally they reached America. But they were way off course. They got off the boat and went off exploring. They saw a boulder and called it Plymouth Rock, and then they saw a broken down hut with big mounds of dirt. They unburied the dirt then saw a lot of corn! They brought 40 pieces back to the boat. Then when they went back to get more they heard a strange cry, they were Indians. The pilgrims shot guns and the Indians shot arrows. Luckily no one from either culture died. The pilgrims ran home. When they got home they found a new baby had been born, and called him Peregrine White. God be praised! Then finally their captain asked if any one of them wanted to go back. None of them did. About 14 days later, a bad disease spread and a quarter of the pilgrims died. Then one of the Indians came over. His name was Samosack. He taught them (the pilgrims) how to plant
crops and other things. Finally the pilgrims were happy, and free! (Totally free.)

Chapter 4: The First Thanksgiving
Once the winter was over, half of the pilgrims were dead, and only four women were left. The pilgrims decided to have a feast, it was called The First Thanksgiving. The First Thanksgiving was on the 22 of November. All of the pilgrims came, 90 Indians came to. Back then The First Thanksgiving was called The Harvest Festival. When everybody came, (there were no cars back then) it was from miles around. Everybody brought food because the relatives they visited are getting served their food, so they would bring food. So that it would be kind of pay off. So if they had been gathering food all summer they would not be wasting their food on friends or family. The feast would last 3 days because they usually do not walk about 5 miles to their relative's house and only come for dinner and then leave. So that is why back then Thanksgiving would last 3 days.

The kids would play games like grab a pillow (a very soft pillow), go to a very soft spot and try to push the other kids over. The men would shoot muskets (guns) and see how good they were at shooting.

The women would cook turkey and pie, those were the things that they would eat for the feast. The Indians would go and hunt for deer and meat.

FINALLY EVERYTHING IS READY!

THE END

To market we go, or just write?

What pays more, advertising or writing? What's more enjoyable?

I've been wondering if I should just jump ship from the marketing world and focus more on my writing. Of course, it doesn't pay worth crap to just write. And you have to research, and then double check facts -- you don't have an account executive feeding you the facts, the elevator statements, the latest market research and demos. No call to actions. No stress over "did it sell?"

But I really enjoy writing. And I'm pretty sick and tired of the mad men and women of marketing.

Ohh, but I do love that show.

Tough market, baby!

Remind me to never work for a friend or even entertain the thought.

Especially if she uses the word "karma" in the interview.

Hometown via the Web

Image via Wikipedia

Have you found a bunch of people from your high school lately? Folks you never thought you'd ever hear from again? 

Being from Flint, Michigan, I've learned to say goodbye to many things. Koegel hot dogs with Angelo's coney sauce. Halo Burgers and the heavenly Vernor's ice cream floats we called Boston Coolers for no clear reason. Central High School. Massive layoffs, (wait, I take that back). My grandparent's farm in Swartz Creek. The myriad cousins and relatives I grew up with and only see every other year. 

Same with old work friends and school buds. But social sites like LinkedIn, MSN network, Facebook (gawd, I love Facebook) and Twitter have replaced the phone call, even e-mail for me. 

Let me give you an idea: In the span of one week, I connected with my entire block of friends from the East Village and Court areas by finding one person. From that one person, I found a web of friends who spanned the globe from Slovenia to Atlanta, Seattle to Singapore, Kalamazoo to Grand Rapids, Naples to Key West. And of course, Flint. Now we play online games together, share pics of family, crack each other up, reminisce and decide again if we want to be friends all over. Some people drift off, those who stay in touch would have likely been my cadre of friends if we'd all stayed in one place, had kids like our parents and grew old living our parallel lives blocks away from each other. But the point is, many of us didn't stay in our hometown. We moved on.

We have a new set of friends we've cultivated from our 13-plus years here. This place is home. My kids have that favorite road to grandma and grandpa's house. They associate the familiar "sounds of summer" with Seattle -- no crickets, no cicada hum and no fireflies (not that they made noise, they were just so frickin' cool). And in the winter, we don't hear the steel of snowplow blades hitting the pavement. Snowplows can't make it up these hills. We just hear, nothing. Snow fall and occasional wind. 

Campy camping

Image via Wikipedia

Walking into the backcountry this weekend with wine and frozen steaks (cool protein technology -- saves on weight, not as tasty as ice in your cocktail). 

I'll carry a journal with me, crossword puzzles clipped from the newspapers we always seem to have in a pile in the corner, and a fishing rod. I can't bear the thought of using live bait. As a kid I'd beg to pluck a worm from a can and ... ewwww. Struggle for survival. In a pinch, I think the worm skills would come back if needed. 

Don't ask my husband where we're going, he'll just give a non-committal, "Oh, North Cascades." Keeping the spot a secret. He's been growing a beard for a week now. I'm growing the hair on my legs in case we encounter a wolverine.

I am SheRah of the Jungle. 

So if we go missing, please find the sealed envelope on the kitchen counter above the junk drawer. Which junk drawer you ask? Very funny. Inside are plans to enter a gorgeous campsite via a washed out road with our backpacks, wine and a red wagon pulling Michael's beer. 

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• Wolverine caught on camera on Mount Adams (seattletimes.nwsource.com)

I suck at directions

Tonight my son and three of his friends attended a party. Recently, they've become friends with girls they met at a dance who do not go to their public school, girls who go to a private school. A very nice private school. These girls seem to have one thing in common: intense parents. Wait, two things in common: intense parents and houses in far-flung neighborhoods.

Tonight was no exception.

The party was taking place a mere 18 minutes away if I followed the Mapquest directions. No problem. I confirmed the pick up time, sat down to watch a movie with Michael and soon fell asleep.

Michael woke me at the time I had said I'd pick up the boys, so I bolted out the door a little sleepy but still confident I'd get there with plenty of time. In Seattle, it's not uncommon to find neighborhoods with streets that become stairs that travel up a hill or dead end, only to reconstitute into a street once again a block later. I realized I'd have to call for directions. So I call my kid, who ended up giving the phone to a parent. I say thanks to this mom, thinking my minutes of being lost are thankfully over now, but I'm wrong. 

The woman on the other end of the phone opens with an unusual phrase, 

"You're lost? I'm trying to survive this night!" 

"Oh? I'm sorry ..." I say, hearing what the woman just said, but also worrying that my son was partly responsible for her quest for survival.

"Nevermind, not really, I just want this party to end. The kids have destroyed my house." She laughs.                   

The woman's tempo is anxious and harried. I start forming an image in my mind of a platinum blonde chain smoker holding a martini in one hand while gesturing wildly with her other hand standing inside a bombed out shell of a home. So I say the two things that come to mind in an effort to move the conversation to directions.

"I'm sorry about that, I'm trying to get to your house to pick up my son." 

She tells me to start my journey back in Madison Park and take a left at a street with a landmark (gas station). When I ask what the name of the street is, the mom says, "I don't know, just take a left at that light and drive away from the water." 

OK, I say. Driving away from water is sound advice. And I do. Then I hear her begin to question a kid about taking food from her freezer, a lot of food. She starts yelling at the kid. Apparently, from what I can hear of the conversation, which seems to be directed into the mouthpiece of her phone and into my ear, this kid has helped himself to a substantial number of Otter Pops. 

A box of the frozen treats. 

I interject, "I hope that's not one of my boys." 

Oh no, she said, she was sure it wasn't. She was sure that I wouldn't raise a child that was so rude. She launches into a new line of questioning, this time toward me.

"Where are you now? Have you taken that soft right I told you about?" 

"What's the name of that street?" I ask. 

I don't know, she says a little louder, faster and frantically than I would consider "normal." She's clearly becoming exasperated with me. And then she starts yelling at a whole group of kids, who had apparently taken chips from her house, a lot of chips. Whole bags of chips. 

"Who are you talking to?" I ask.

I hear her screaming at a kid, "What's your name, I asked what's your name?! Billy? Billy is his name but it's the whole pack of them."

"He's one of the kids I'm picking up."

This opens up a line of assaults that Billy had committed included taking her Otter Pops. 

I was feeling defensive for Billy, and I was becoming worried about my own son. This crazy woman was the only connection I had to the boys and it was imperative she remain compliant enough to ensure I got to her burnt out house of hell. Not looking good though, because I was also lost, again, and asked for the next step to get closer to her house to rescue my son and his friends. 

"Where are you now? Are you following my instructions!" Her question sounded more like an accusation. 

"Yes, I took the gentle right but I'm looking for the next turn." 

"You should be driving up a hill!" 

"I'm actually driving down hill. What's the name of the street?" I ask. 

"I don't know! I don't know any of the names of the streets around here. Wait! The boys say you just drove by. You have to turn around!" 

Whew. I feel a wave of relief. 

Perhaps I'm not lost after all and the end of this weird exchange with the harried mom is coming to a close. Even though I can't see a soul on the streets, I turn around. I start driving back in the dark.

"Wait, are you driving a SUV?" 

"No, I'm driving a Volvo."

"Oh, never mind, they were wrong." 

Well, how could my kid be wrong? He knows what kind of car I drive. I can hear her whisper something like, "Whose mother is this? She really sucks at instructions." 

Oddly enough, I'm thinking the same thing.

I finally pull over and put the car in park and interrupt the woman.

"I need to know if I've taken the wrong road."

"Oh, did you turn around? I'm sorry the boys thought you had driven past! They were wrong! Oh wait," she says, "another dad is here. He's driving a white Cadillac (what does that mean?) and he's offered to meet you at the crosswalk at the school and bring you back here."

"That would be great."

She starts screaming at the kids again, "Who raised you?" and "Why do you think you can take other people's things?" The verbal assaults continue, I'm beginning to feel quite anxious by this time and I want to rescue the boys.

She hangs up the phone and I wait for my knight in the white Cadillac to appear. He does and he gives me directions with street names and other helpful specifics. I thank him and take off up the street making the right turns at the right intersections, rolling up to my boys and a harried woman who is smoking and walking briskly to my side of the car.

"Get outta here!" She yells at me. 

It must be a joke because she continues to babble about how she doesn't know the names of the streets but I should just do the opposite of what I did to get home. 

Thanks for the advice I say and I tell the boys to get in quickly. 

We roll up the windows as she walks back into her house. As I drive off I turn down the stereo volume that always seems to increase exponentially whenever my son gets into the car, opening a flood gate of comments from all the occupants in the back seat. 

"They told us we could help ourselves to any of the leftover party food."

"I only took enough pop for all of us."

"That dad was screaming at us, he said we were all (expletives)."

"Otter Pops are like $2 for a box of 80."

I let them go on for a second and then I stop the car, turn around and say, 

"You boys are not allowed to go to any more parties at that house with that family. She freaked me out and there was something very, very wrong with her. "

"She said you sucked at directions, mom."

I know honey, I know.