Ok, here it is. I’m stressed, exhausted, and my underpants are on inside out. I’m supposed to be writing, because I’m a writer and that’s the stuff we do during the day, but if you read me before at my blog place, then you know about the endless parade of contractors and dudes at my house. It’s been going on for months, and it’s literally, almost every day. Today it was pool guys, and I can hear it now, “Oh, she has a pool, what’s she got to complain about?” Hey, there’s always stuff to complain about. But in case you were wondering, having a pool was a condition of me moving to Texas so there’s that. I’m not rich. Everyone in Texas has a pool.
So, I’m sitting at the kitchen table trying to write and the biggest air compressor known to man is just a few feet on the other side of the window. I could go work somewhere else, I know, but I don’t. What if the guys need something? I don’t want to be on the other side of the house if sopping wet men need me for something. Then the lawn men come and they have their own brand of cacophony. It comes with a side of exhaust fumes at no extra charge. I can hear it now, “Oh, she has lawn guys too, what’s wrong with this woman, can’t she do any work around her house?” The short answer is no. I cannot mow the lawn. It’s 100 degrees in Texas. Grass and heat stroke are not my forte.
Before I can settle into a rhythm, the doorbell rings. It’s the roof inspector from the city; only he never looks at the roof. He checks the furnace and he looks at the water heater. The water heater vent that’s supposed to allow carbon monoxide gasses to escape (vent) looks like it’s been out drinking all night and forgot to take off its silly party hat. Gee, is this why I’ve had an ongoing headache ever since the roofing job from Hell? I was starting to think I had a brain tumor.
Finally, everyone is gone and I’m left alone with my thoughts. It’s quiet and I have some time to work. I’m writing pieces that are similar to the book I wrote last winter to generate some interest in the project. My hope is that people will be more interested than aghast at the number of jobs I’ve had. That some might even wonder why anyone would choose to take this winding, zigzag, insanely mapped out career path of most resistance. Maybe there are people out there curious enough to read this book.
And then it dawns on me. A contractor, well, of course. Why didn’t I ever get a job doing that? It’s perfect. Show up when you like. Work only as long as you care to, and ultimately, if the customer doesn’t like your work ethic, you can just stop showing up. The world is your oyster, Baby. I’ll add it to the list of jobs I haven’t done. Yet.
What haven’t you done yet for work that you wish you had? Let me know.