writing from home

Since this is no longer an income-generating blog, I check my stats here mostly only out of curiosity. When I need a good laugh, I skim through the list of recent keywords folks googled to find me here at write-from-home.com. My favorites this week:

1) schizophrenia and perfectionism

2) crazy new syndromes

3) i have a nutjob working for me

4) reality show and nocturnal custom cabinets

5) pantyhose obsession confessions

The best part? Even though none of these folks found what they were looking for, every one of them stuck around and clicked on at least two more pages. (And none were spammers.) Must say something for my exquisite wit and fine writing skills, eh? [insert giggles here]

Care to share any crazy, arbitrary results from YOUR recent keyword analysis???

Ostriches rock. And because I’m procrastinating on a project — shocker, I know — I thought I’d stop in to bring you a bit of ostrich trivia, so that you too can dig my long-necked role model. Ostrich facts (according to wikipedia, which means they might not be true, but if I felt like fact-checking I’d go back to the job I’m getting paid to procrastinate on):

1) Ostriches can run faster than any other bird. 40 mph.

2) When threatened, the Ostrich will either hide itself by lying flat against the ground, or will run away.

3) If cornered, it can cause injury and death with a kick from its powerful legs.

4) Mating patterns differ by geographical region, but territorial males fight for a harem of two to seven females.

5) An Ostrich can live up to 75 years.

6) There have been no observations of Ostriches putting their heads in the sand. Ostriches do deliberately swallow sand and pebbles to help grind up their food; seeing this from a distance may have caused some early observers to believe that their heads were buried in sand.

7) Ostriches are large enough for a small person to ride them, typically while holding on to the wings for grip, and in some areas of northern Africa and the Arabian Peninsula Ostriches are trained as racing mounts.

I’m allergic to horses, so I never got to ask for a pony. Maybe in my next life, I’ll ask for an ostrich.

Who (or what) is your role model? And why?

Aside from the fact that he seems content in flashing his cute little rump to anyone within eye-shot, how many of you don’t feel like this kid some days? Short limbs, teeny tiny hose, big-ass garden to tend to: metaphor for your life too, or is it just working for me?

I received a lovely pamphlet from the village yesterday containing a report of all the fun chemicals in our town water supply, in addition to a complicated spreadsheet of who is allowed to water their lawns on which days, between which times, and with what types of hoses. (I’d love to be kidding.) All I can say is the village should take this moment to thank a variety of gods that I don’t own property, a lawn, or a sprinkling system of any type. Because rules? I’m all for breaking them. In fact, if I had a hose I’d probably be walking up and down my street right now looking for some water sources to tap into in pure defiance. (Specifically, because the cost of these fancy-ass pamphlets could have been put toward — oh, I don’t know — saving a really big rain forest somewhere.)

The absolute BEST part of the pamphlet was the part where they went on-and-on-and-on about the conservation of natural resources. Included were tips on how to brush one’s teeth without running water, as well as how to do laundry in a bucket. I’m seriously considering writing to the folks in charge and asking them to have their heads examined. Last I checked, we were spending tens of thousands of dollars to build (plastic) playgrounds in the (rich) part of town so the (spoiled) kids (who spend all day playing video games) would have some place to play (even though now that the parks have been built no one plays there). Fast-forward two months, and we are apparently very earth-conscious and so poor we can’t afford water. (Yet a lovely field nearby is being plowed over down the street where a new subdivision is being erected.)

But I digress.

The whole thing got me thinking about gardens — and how I’ve always sort of wished I had a garden. Except for that whole part about how I can’t grow plants because I kill them, and I like weeds too much to pull them up, I think I’d be really cool with a garden. I could sit in one, maybe have a little pond of fishes, and watch the butterflies. And my bunnies could eat some cabbage — assuming I could grow cabbage, which I cannot. Folks over the years have told me I could learn to garden if I practiced. I’m pretty sure that’s a huge lie, but I don’t have the patience to find out.

My father used to say the secret to keeping plants alive is not to over-water. I am starting to wonder if his theories about gardening also might apply to the whole freelance life.

A little water goes a long way.

I tend to be OCD. I over-think everything, obsess over stupid shit, make my clients think I’m the most indispensable person on the planet, and workworkwork myself into a state of burnout I have trouble bringing myself back from. Big fire. Little hose.

My new plan: learn to tend the freelance garden with less water. Clients don’t need me to respond to their emails at 3am (even if they think I do). Blogs don’t require five new posts per day, and comments don’t need to be immediately responded to (even if the Blog Gods might disagree with me). Not every new job lead has to be followed up on, especially when I don’t need any new work at the moment. Must conserve resources. Must learn to let the plants live.

You’ve met these schnickelfritzes, haven’t you? The crazy multi-tasking corporate dudes on the train who are working on their laptops, talking on their cell phones, reading the Wall Street Journal, drinking a grande Starbucks and chasing it with a Red Bull, all while their Blackberries are buzzing in their pockets and the nannies are beeping in on the call waiting to remind these guys what their kids’ voices sound like?

I sat by one of these men on the train the other day. He was visibly shaking — possibly from over-caffeination, or perhaps from the stress of trying to balance all these technological devices on his lap while not spilling his coffee. He sneezed at one point, and when I said bless you he looked at me like how dare you disturb me with your platitude? Don’t you know how important I am?

I laughed. Not because it was funny — because I actually felt a little sorry for the guy — but because that’s totally the path I was headed for. Somehow, I detoured and derailed myself from that existence. For that, I’m grateful. Sitting next to Mr. Schnickelfritz was a happy reminder that sometimes I don’t realize how lucky I am to have freed myself from Corporate Hell.

Don’t get me wrong; I have my own workaholism as a freelancer, which is totally sick and twisted in its own way. I’m addicted to my iphone. I spend way too much time online. I care about my clients more than I should. But I can also kick back with some tunes and a book for a thirty minute train ride and not worry that the world I’ve built for myself is going to come crashing down around me. However, I would never have gotten to that point had it not been for spending several years observing oh-too-many folks like this, all of whom inspired me not to want to be like them.

So thank you, Mr. Schnickelfritz, for the lesson.