Me, So Phony? Yeah? Not Quite.

A happy Monday to you today.  We’re in week 3 of 2019, and I feel it necessary to publish a new issue of my continuing series of Behavioural Issues.

It’s been awhile since I’ve blogged about anything on here.  Whether the absence has been noticed or not, I feel it necessary to catch you up on what’s been going on.

My position as a Data Entry Specialist ended just before the holidays were about to begin.  A lot was happening, not just with the recent move into my new place, the holidays kicking off, and the recent addition of my fur-son, David Meowie (pictured below), but also the job itself lent a helping hand to my ongoing anxiety.

This is where the main topic comes into play.  It’s been an issue I’ve had to deal with for at least the past two decades, but I was not aware there was an official diagnosis, nor even a name for it.

Misophonia. Please…save the “me so horny” jokes for another time. I’ve got a flow going.

misophonia

 (mis-ō-fō’nē-ă),

Dislike of sound.
See also: decreased sound tolerance, phonophobia, hyperacusis.

A “dislike of sound”.  Correct, yet an understatement of the severity of the condition.

So let’s rewind a little, yes?  Take stock of exactly what we’re dealing with here.

From as far back as I can remember, I have had some level of noise sensitivity issues.  As I’ve gotten older, the sensitivity has progressed; the issue grew larger and harder to ignore.  Fire trucks, police cars, ambulances, all of them driving by with their sirens blaring weren’t greeted with just a cupping of the ears, but also the additional wincing and the anxiety levels rising.  Boxes and pallets dropping at a work site, or in a grocery store, would have me jump so high, there was a good couple of inches between my feet and the ground.  Fireworks?  Forget it.  My noise-canceling headphones get their full use on New Years’ and Independence Day.

I have had to work as a security guard for a lot of concerts and sporting events.  Not an ideal situation for someone with noise sensitivity issues.  It frequently got to the point where I was posted at spots of the arenas that were nowhere near the event we were there for.  I would end up guarding backstage areas that only heard a humming of the action, a peep of audience members (read: loud fans) so that I wouldn’t get myself in trouble, and the people could enjoy their evenings without an incident of a cranky guard.

In New York City, things got even more heightened.

I lived in a 2nd Floor walk-up in Brooklyn, where the tenants below me were a bunch of guys who wore their CAT boots indoors.  I could hear them walking through their apartment, and it felt like Hulk was walking through in a bad mood, thus putting me in a bad mood.  I used to live in that apartment, and there was a couple who lived above me, and they drove me nuts with their pounding and chaos as well. 

When the landlord finally got rid of them, he invited me and my flatmate at the time to move upstairs, thinking he had solved a problem.  We all thought the problem would be solved with this switch.  The flight of stairs was a warm welcome compared to the situation at the time.  We happily took the offer, accepted the fact we’d have to pay a little more, and shifted things upwards and onwards.

Months later, said flatmate had left to move in with her fiance`.  I couldn’t afford the apartment on my own, though I badly wanted to have it to myself.  I interviewed prospective tenants, and found a new one, who took the weekends off from the apartment to stay with her boyfriend in Massachusetts.  Everybody won with this arrangement.  She was quiet, unobtrusive, and most of all, didn’t walk through the apartment with shoes on.  Salvation!

Then she decided to move out, and it was a series of nightmares after that.  Conversations with boyfriends or girlfriends at ridiculous hours, clunking and clomping through the apartment with heels on.  I finally got another good flatmate, but then the boys of a Monty Python skit came into the picture, and forget it!  My blue heaven became a living hell.

Jobs I had to work had similar issues of noise.  Again, there was the pounding of shoes on hardwood floors, heels clacking, mindless chatter in the adjacent kitchenette.  All of these were things I could not control, nor was I in any position to try and ask them to keep it down.  I was a temp; they were (mostly) permanent staff.  The restraint to say what was irking me took a lot of strength, energy and emotion.  I was crying in the bathrooms on more than one occasion.  My walks home from work involved a lot of pit stops to liquour stores and Trader Joe’s, buying wine, Jack Daniels and/or beer.

Coming back to present day, and the issue persists.  I cannot handle the uncontrollable, ongoing chatter of people around me at work.  Especially when I know their conversations have nothing to do with the job.  I have had to deal with a manager calling out loudly to her staff about non-work-related topics.  The manager’s staff would (and probably still are) talking loudly and cackling, behaving like over-caffeinated children at a Build-a-Bear Factory.

I don’t believe in making my issues – because I’m self-aware enough to know they’re only mine in the immediate environment I’m in – other peoples’ problems.  I had approached the manager about maybe relocating me to another area of the office that was a safe distance from the noise, explaining my “noise sensitivity issues”.  It was a no-go from him, so I had to find an alternative resolution.

So I brought my noise-canceling headphones to work.  I could still hear them.

I brought in cotton balls, to stuff into the headphones.  I could still hear them.

I brought in earphones that could plug into the computer, that rested on top of the cotton balls, that were tucked into the headphones.  I could still.  Fucking.  Hear them!!

During the hours of 12 -2 pm, I would take my lunch hour, and then relieve the receptionist so that she could take her lunch hour.  The front desk is across from the door that gets used fairly frequently.  It also slams.  Frequently.  Loudly.  Shaking the frame.  The same cackling, Happy-Hour-All-Day-Bitches-Yeah! people, they were the door slammers as well.  I could not get away from them.  I smiled through tightened lips, tried my best to ignore them, and left the unspoken argument about sound alone. 

One day, when I had to relieve the receptionist for a larger chunk of the day, I put up what I thought was a friendly, well-meaning sign, requesting that people please close the door quietly behind them.

I said “please”.  I even omitted my favourite colourful adjectives.

Later that day, the sign went missing, never to be seen again.  Someone call Robert Stack!  Oh wait…..shit.

These two issues – separate that they were – coupled with the fact that I had a sabotaging supervisor, made the position a painful one to endure.  The pay was great, but the problems were greater.  I handled the aggravations as best I could.

The assignment ended the Friday before Christmas.  I’ve been in search of a job ever since.

I’ve been labeled as “odd”, “weird”, “difficult”, “bitchy” and a myriad of other terms much more denigrating than that.  I take it with a pinch of salt, knowing what I know.

Why can’t I control this?  I don’t know.  I’ve tried.  I truly have.  It’s like an invisible bully.  It keeps pushing you, pushing your triggers.  You can only ignore it for so long.  It’s similar to when kids flick rubber bands at you.  You want to get away from it, you’d do damn near anything to get away from it, but the danger stalks you.

How did this start in the first place?  What was the initial incident that sent all this rolling?  Again, I don’t know the exact thing or day, but it started in high school, and it’s grown like a sea monkey ever since.  I would go to the library on lunch break.  I was the only kid I knew who cut lunch, and it had nothing to do with any diet.  This has been nearly 30 years now.

I’ve been through multiple temp assignments, some more successful than others.Looking for jobs that will accept someone such as myself is not easy.  I’ve been on the hunt for literally a month now.  Almost every ad is “high-paced, fun environment!  Fun activities after work!”  Why can’t I get a job that promotes “Quiet!  Low-stress!  We all mind our own business and work quietly!  Introverts UNITE!”  I’m at the point now where I have to take whatever I can get, regardless of the noise level, if I don’t want to end up homeless, sending David Meowie back to the shelter.  An idea I cannot bear to consider.

While I wait for that Golden Ticket  job to peek out from under a candy bar, I’m just coming up with other ideas to try and get some income.

I have a Teespring store, where new designs are being produced on a somewhat regular basis.

https://teespring.com/stores/4-eyes-2-c

In the meantime, I’m also looking for writing and blogging gigs, while working on this one.  I’ll also be pursuing dog-walking, pet-sitting and cat-company gigs as well.

If you like what you’ve read, and you want to read more from me, some monetary encouragement would go a long way.

https://paypal.me/seecouzens

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In Transit(ion)

For all intents and purposes, I am currently homeless.

No, I am not writing to you from the sidewalk outside of a Starbuck’s, there is no paper cup to collect dollars or change. Nor am I seeking shelter from the rain. (Can we please get some sun, already? Come ON!)

No, instead I’m working as a receptionist today at a school on the Upper East Side, with several crying/screeching/bumbling children in the lobby. Birth control at it’s finest.

When my shift ends, I can either walk around (weather permitting — would you just fucking PERMIT already, Weather?), or I can head back to my temporary rental in Queens and get my stuff sorted back into the various cases and bags I arrived with in the beginning of May.

From here, it’s a 3-day writer’s retreat into Vermont that begins this Wednesday, followed by a couple of days with a friend in New Jersey, and then a flight to California, where I will live indefinitely.

Sky’s the limit, bitches, yeah!

So you may be asking, how did you manage to avoid the bedraggled, wayward life of so many other homeless people?

Strategising and fighting. That’s how.

Working an exhaustive 12 hours a day for a few months, and being so tired by the time I got home, I didn’t want to spend money on anything. All I wanted to do was veg out and sleep.

While I don’t miss that gig, I am very grateful for the money it has allowed me to save to be able to do this. Getting more cushion for the California pushin’.

When I tell people, “I’m moving to California”, it is usually accepted with a response of, “oh, California is very expensive.”

Ahhhhh, Pot? Kettle is on Line 1.

Yes, California is not cheap by any stretch of the imagination. I know this. In the beginning, there will be struggle. I’m used to struggle. I know Struggle so well, we snuggle.

I snuggle with Struggle. And then we drive off in a Buggle. Leaving my mind a fuggle. My heart strings all a-tuggle.

Damn it, I went too far again.

Telling someone wherever they’re going, or whatever plans they’ve made is going to be difficult, is like telling a cancer patient that they can live, but they’ll have to take chemo treatments and/or drugs.

This is not a newsflash. It doesn’t enlighten the person. Maybe you think you’re doing them a favour by warning them, but you’re really just bringing them down on their new adventure. When someone needs a boost over a fence, you don’t drop weights on their feet.

In a week and a half, I’m heading west by planes, trains and automobiles. I have my stuff, my notebooks, and my tenacity. How far that will get me is anybody’s guess.

Oh, The Places I Go!

Hey there, stranger!

A lot has happened since the last post.  Ideas have shifted, suns and moons have alternated, several decisions made, multiple promises broken.

Somewhere along the way, I’ve ended up on a more Southern terra firma.  A new destination that was a nice surprise as much to me as anyone else.

I’m in Austin, y’all!  (Couldn’t help it.  Wasn’t trying.)

I do realize I should back up in this story a bit.  It’s a random step up from Eur-tweaka, California – I know.

Or is it random?

I had been looking at Austin for the past ten years, but had always come up with an excuse to not go, not visit, or even consider the alternate lifestyle that is Austin.  What those reasons are, I honestly don’t remember.  Probably political.

Quite frankly, I feel foolish for not following through on this earlier in life.

Okay, so backing up:

In February of this year, I had been neck-deep in my third bout of depression.  I had friends, but they were work friends, and there wasn’t anyone I felt comfortable relaying all my darkest thoughts to.  I was on the other coast, far off from all my – remaining –  friends.  I had some that had just given up on me for varying reasons, some that had passed away, and one who turned out not to be a friend at all, whom I felt tremendously betrayed by.  She had told me she’d be moving to Eureka to live with her “boyfriend”.  Said mate has turned out to be an abusive alcoholic who somehow felt justified in throwing bottles at me while I was trying to get my things together.

She’s still not in Eureka.  Shocker.  What’s more, when I informed her of what transpired in the argument I had been in with him, she took his side, and has sought fit to ice me out altogether.  Not only is she not living with her “boyfriend”, she’s moved in with parents again.

Very adult.  Classy.

I digress.

After all that had happened, my depression had gotten deeper and deeper, to the point I was considering suicide.  Testing out the strength of rope versus the tie from my robe.  Trying to estimate how much cough syrup it would take to make sure I never coughed ever again.  Watching cars speed by, gauging if an 18 wheeler would be less or more painful than your average truck.

I feel the need to explain something to you at this point.  This wasn’t a Screw-the-world-I-wanna-get-off mindset.  This was more along the lines of Someone-else-could-do-better-with-this-life.  With perhaps a dash of Maybe-the-next-life-will-have-better-choices.

Now of course I didn’t go through with it, and of course whatever life I have, it would still be the kinds of decisions I make that would have the outcome I deserve.

There’s that word…”deserve”.

We all have this subliminal idea of what we deserve, what we think we should be entitled to, don’t we?  We don’t deserve to be spoken to in a certain way, we don’t deserve whatever unfortunate situation we’re in.  It’s this same sense of self-entitlement that generally causes more harm than good, isn’t it?  You can tell someone you “don’t deserve that” and walk off, sulking, returning back to your respective corner of the world.

In March, the depression seemed to have lifted for a little while.  I threw myself into my work at the store, and came home with a fresh bottle of cabernet every night, self-medicating at home while verbally abusing Alexa.

April came, as did another cloud of depression, where I took no notice of the fact the same component was keeping me down as it always did.  The alcohol.  The wine.  It wasn’t solving any of the myriad problems  that shrouded over me like so many black veils (you’d think I was in an imaginary Italian funeral, or an extra in a Harry Potter movie).  No, it was a warm, one-armed hug from a demon who was deftly tying an anchor with the other arm.  But the one arm was all I wanted, so I paid no mind.

On it went.  The days of mindless retail work, being verbally abused by a mother of three named Karen, who thinks her 4 month expired coupon for Febreeze should be honoured because “I said so.”  Then going home to a round, black, talking disc, a quick dinner and a long drink. I was a functioning alcoholic, so long as I didn’t have to handle too many functions at once. Like handling civil conversations with Amazon customer service reps in The Philippines.

Towards the end of April was when things shifted. “I don’t deserve this” was returned to the Self-Entitlement Store – without a receipt – and traded in for “What the fuck do I want?”

The only word that came to mind was “out”.  But it wasn’t referring to life in general terms this time.  More like an elaborated explanation of  “I want out of Eureka.”

It wasn’t a secret that not only did I not like it there, but it was crystal clear to even Helen Keller six feet under that I didn’t belong there.  The town itself depressed me, yes, but I was already depressed.  It was like adding more sugar to a fully iced cake.

Dammit, now I want cake.

I couldn’t go back to New York.  I couldn’t afford it.  I love that city beyond words, and despite my British accent I consider myself a New Yorker to the core.  But I couldn’t afford it.  Nothing about California appealed to me anymore, but I would go to Sacramento if I couldn’t figure anything else out, just to see what it was about.  San Francisco had a minimal allure to it.  All those paper dragons.  They had some great bakeries there, great cakes.

Shit, Carrie, let go of the cakes already!

What about…?  What about…?  What about…

Austin?

Austin?  What’s in Austin?

It’s big dog-country there.  Big music-country as well.  It’s the only blue part of Texas – politically speaking – that will let you be weird, be openly gay, and also has a thriving job market.  Things actually get done there.  It’s progressive.  They’re practically on the cusp of letting you get legally high.  Don’t ask me how I know.

From there, my moods shifted North while I contemplated moving South.  This was as good a time as any to explore a city that had frequently piqued my curiosity.

I had a plan now.  I was on Team Austin all the way.  All I needed now was the money.  The job in Retail Hell was not going to get me to my goal in 5 years, much less by the end of this year.  By mid-May, I was saying goodbye to red circles, and hello to office chairs in the non-profit sectors of the area.

Working on this plan, I was too busy working on a goal to bother with how I was feeling, or what I deserved.  I was in action, so if I was feeling anything, it was enthused.

June came, and I was doing a daily exercise regimen of two long walks a day to and from my job.

A co-worker texted me early one morning, before I was even fully awake.  It was a news story on Anthony Bourdain.  Dying of an apparent suicide.

Hello Depression #6!  Come on down, the price is right!

Admittedly, this news of one of my favourite American icons stopped me in my tracks.  I had to go to work – in tears – trying to keep my shit together while my brain imploded.  At the end of that day, it was two bottles of Cab that comforted me into a deep slumber.  When I eventually woke up, Austin seemed pointless.

Mr. Bourdain was smarter than most men I’d ever met.  He was brilliant, had a healthy amount of salt in his recipes AND his attitude, a world traveler, he was charismatic and he taught the world that it wasn’t enough to read a book about other countries; you needed to talk to the people living there.  This man seemingly had everything.  So if he was saying good-bye to a world he knew better than most, what the fresh fuck was I doing here?  What was I contributing?

It took me a solid two months to snap out of that funk, and re-orient myself to my reality.  Instead of asking “what do I deserve?” or “what do I want?”, I was focused on “what will I be willing to do to get out?”  The answer?

Anything and everything.

I had been dismissed from one temp assignment, and moved on to another gig, three weeks later. That had sucked up my July, August, and part of September.  By then, I had had enough of all things California in general, Eur-tweaka in specific.  I couldn’t tolerate any more of the hostility, both from others and myself.  Gone was any pretense of affinity towards this town, the sense of provincial community that only locals and council members could identify out of a crowd.  My immediate air was thick with contempt.

I was on the computer, making travel arrangements.

One month later, I was in Austin, making life arrangements.

 

 

The Exhaustion of Semi-Success

I write from a new location and a (fairly) new life.

I write from Eureka, California, and it feels like an amazing thing that I can even craft together a sentence.

I’ve been living here for just over two months.  Of that time, I’ve been living alone for almost a month and a half.

I have my own apartment, I have my own corner of the world, I have my Nekkid Time!

It’s eleven-thirty on a Tuesday night, and I’m back from my second job.  A retail job, it’s not glitz and glamour, no.  But it does help me get established in what feels like a small town compared to the world-on-an-island also known as New York City..

So I’m not at the top of the game in anyone’s world, but much like Rudolph, I wasn’t much into games in the first place.

This city, with its tweakers and sneakers, its crabbers and snappers, its salty and its salty and its sweet.  For all intents and purposes, it is, in fact, home.

For someone who was sold on living out her days in Brooklyn, getting a coffee and bagel at the local deli seemed the penultimate on any given Sunday.  Now I just want a day off from both of my jobs so I can sleep in and visit the docks.  To get a nose full of salt water, acquire a gelato and get some pictures of the bay is a goal I yearn for.

Things are quieter and a bit calmer here.  We don’t Seamless or GrubHub here, we don’t have a subway, and Uber is simply a chic adjective in these parts.  I like it and am finding my footing in a somewhat sleepy town.

And now I sleep to dream.

Cali or Bust!

This has been an interesting year where my indecisiveness has run amok like so many A.D.D. children filled on sugar.

I knew I had to leave New York City. That much had been solidified well over a year ago. The precise direction in which I was headed was another subject altogether.

First, the idea of Oregon had crept it’s way into my labyrinth-like brain. Then there was the southbound direction of California waving it’s little flag in the air, like it just don’t care. (Because it’s a true playa, yo!) (I should stop.)

For a little while, the liberal-and-weird city of Austin, Texas beckoned at the back door of my brain. There was some timid knocking, nothing intense. After my constant whining about the heat of a New York City summer, said knocking had subsided, and Austin was sent away…kicking rocks back to the country of Texas. Even Austin knew it wasn’t meant to be.

I don’t even get a postcard.

In the beginning of ’17, it almost seemed like Rhode Island was going to be a reality, despite the fact it was the exact opposite direction of where I wanted to go. I took a bus to Providence, staying there with a guy I will refer to a Supah-Shady, and got a few surprises in quick, rapid-fire succession that were not of the happiest persuasion. So that idea was soon nipped in the bud.

I had debated whether or not to go through with the New England-bound plans, or do I trust my gut and stay put? Thankfully, I went with the latter, and it has made all the difference.

The moment I chose to stay in the city I love, my shoulders came back down to where they belonged, and I could use my ears again. Reason Pi you should always trust your gut. Plus, it always holds the best food.

Shoot to four months, a flatmate-from-hell, and one exhausting job later, and I’m at a brave-new-world kind of moment in my life.

I’ve moved out of the apartment I called “home” for the last four and a half years. I’m now in an Air BNB room for another week and change. From there, I’m off to a retreat in Vermont (thank you, Danielle!) for a few days. After that, it’s staying with my friend for a couple of days, and then?

…CALIFORNIA, HERE I COME!

EUREKA!

From there, who knows where my life’s journey will take me. But as the spectacular David Bowie put it, “I don’t know where I’m going from here, but I promise it won’t be boring.”

The Day I Cackled Into The Shiny Dome Of A Stranger’s Bald Head

I was encouraged by a good friend to share this experience with the world, about a year ago.

Before I get into it, I feel the need to preface this little memory with an explanation.

As many of you know, Facebook has this wonderful feature for people like me, who can’t let go of the past. It’s called “On This Day”. It shows posts from exactly one year, two years, red years and blue years ago of everything that happened on that exact day. I do enjoy this feature because it shows examples of how I ‘ve both grown and not-grown since the annual days of yawn, I mean yore! Yore! Totally meant yore.

For example, I’m just as snarky now as I was back in ’14. Only now, I’m more experienced at snark. I’ve smoothed some of the edges of my inner snark-statue. No chisels were used in the making of this snark temple.

I’m also just as inept at hiding my feelings when reading books in public now as I was, say, a year ago.

Sit tight, kiddo! Strap yourself into your high-chair on the roller coaster of Memory Lane!

Here goes:

“So I’m on the F Train heading home, and at the tail end of Jenny Lawson’s‘Let’s Pretend This Never Happened’, and laughing so hard that by the time we stop at Delancey, I literally cackled into the shiny dome of a stranger’s bald head. The woman standing across from me, Shay (we were standing by the doors), starts laughing herself because not only did Under-The-Dome jump, but about 2 or 3 people behind him who were also trying to get off got a little start at my walrus-like bark-cackle. Doors close, 4 petrified-wood people lighter than we were before, and the woman is gripping the door with one hand and a knee with the other, squealing ‘ohmygod!’.

She now has a couple leads of what books to read next, and I have a free ‘Sanders: Because fuck this shit’ pin.

Reading: Bringing people together.”

I haven’t done much writing lately. My current gig, which ends this Friday — THANK YOU, CHEESES! — has had me so exhausted by the end of the day, my brain has held no original thoughts by the time I get home at night in the span of the last 3 months. I haven’t even been able to get much reading in, shy of my sitting in the loo. And you can only get away with doing that for so long before you get those oval-like dents in your arse.

Yeeeeaaaahhh, you know what I mean. Yeah you. I see you, ya little sneak!. Waddling out like you’re pretending you didn’t finish a chapter in there.

You’re fooling nobody.

How To Have Fun With Customer Service Reps

It’s nearly midnight, and my guilt over not writing a post in the last couple of weeks is riding me…hard.  I can’t sleep until I post something.

Going through my Facebook feature of “On This Day”, a story pops up from a year ago about a chat I had with a Warby Parker Customer Service Representative by the name of Aly.

Before sharing the conversation I had, let me give a little back story on why this happened.

It’s two-fold, really.

First of all, I’ve been a customer service representative.  More often than not, I hated it.  Especially the call centre type of work.  You talk to random strangers for approximately 7 hours out of your day.  More than likely, it’s a multitude of calls telling you how much you suck, how much the company you work for sucks, how life sucks, and by the way, they want a credit/discount/validation of how right they are.

It’s not for everyone.  Unless you have the patience of a saint, that revolving door of employees is going to keep spinning like a vinyl on hi-speed.

Secondly, I’m a loyal customer to Warby Parker.  I believe in this company with all of my heart.  There’s a small number of companies I can truly say that about.  The full amount could probably fit into a Drumpf-sized hand.  They’re socially conscious, they give back to the community in that when a pair of their glasses is bought, they donate another pair to a kid in need.  So when I buy frames from them, EVERYBODY WINS!

I have three pairs from them:

My Upton Sea Smokes.

My Ainsworths

And most recently, my Wilders:

These gems start at $95, and they’re just as sharp, if not moreso, in my opinion, than any Calvin Klein, Donna Karan, or Dulce de Leche and Gobblin’ Ya.

Which is why the following conversation happened.

My online chat with Warby Parker rep, Ally, at the beginning of February 2016:

Ally Mon, 02/01/16 04:51:21 pm America/New_York

Hi Carrie! How can I help?

Carrie 04:52:06 pm

If I run through the store, calling out “I want them all, Daddy!” like Veruca Salt…will they call security right away?

Ally 04:53:02 pm

lol!! No, but we maintain the right to turn you into a blueberry 😉

Carrie 04:53:44 pm

lol, sweetheart, that won’t be hard. I’m wearing mostly blue and lusting over the blue Haskell frames – bring it on
My real question (yes, I did have a real one), is does WP ever do BOGO sales?

Ally 04:55:07 pm

We don’t, I’m sorry about that. We try to keep our prices low in general, so we never really offer promotions.

Carrie 04:55:34 pm

What if you made me your mascot?

Ally 04:56:01 pm

We already have one! https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Blue-footed_booby

 

Carrie 04:56:25 pm

dammit, work with me here
lol
I’m sending back the 5 try-ons tomorrow
And I’m having a hard time choosing between the Eatons, the Wilders and the Haskells

Ally 04:57:38 pm

There’s a $10 discount in your account – feel to reference this if you come into the store or call in once you place the order online, and we can apply it 🙂

Carrie 04:58:10 pm

ooooooooooohhhhh, now I’m getting really into it.
the cobalt blue Burroughs are also high on my list

Ally 04:58:32 pm

The Eaton Wilder and Haskells are all a bit different – whats the look you’re going for?

Carrie 04:59:14 pm

the I’m-Smarter-Than-You look, but apparently I need better hair for that too.
When is WP coming out with Ziggy Stardust frames?
And how did I end up with a $10 discount, if you don’t mind my asking?

Ally 05:00:55 pm

I like to think the Percey in Maraschino are very Ziggy Stardust!
Because this is the most fun chat I’ve had all day! 🙂

Carrie 05:02:04 pm

lol
agreed!

Ally 05:02:31 pm

Can you be smarter than everyone in a bright color frame?
I think the blue Haskell are smart AND fun?

Carrie 05:03:41 pm

abso–bloomin–lutely
I really love the Haskells, they’re so smart
if you look through Instagram, I’m eye_c_books, and I have quite a few WP posts

Ally 05:05:02 pm

Right on! Very smart. I feel like a lot of our frames are traditionally “smarter” (square, statement, black/brown) but the Haskell are smart with a twist
Ally 05:06:48 pm

Wow, great pics. The Wilder looks awesome on you!

Carrie 05:09:20 pm

thank you! The Wilders and the Eatons seem to be getting the most votes
I like the Eatons, because I wear jeans a lot, and they kind of have a denim feel/hue to them
I’m wearing my Ainsworths now.

Ally 05:10:19 pm

Very true. They also have gotten the most instagram love – gotta trust the followers

Carrie 05:10:29 pm

right?

Ally 05:10:55 pm

I think that’s the move!

Carrie 05:10:58 pm

thank you so much for tolerating my silliness, one last question

Ally 05:11:15 pm

Thank you for brightening my day! I could use a little entertainment at 5:15!

Carrie 05:11:17 pm

What are you currently reading?

Ally 05:11:29 pm

Great question! My book club is reading Fates and Furies – you?

Carrie 05:12:54 pm

I’m wrapping up The Man Who Sold the World: David Bowie and the 1970s
After this, it’s either M Train by Patti Smith or Bazaar of Bad Dreams by Stephen King
Ally 05:14:16 pm

Can’t go wrong with Stephen King! I’ll have to look up M Train – never heard of it!

Carrie 05:14:39 pm

It’s her follow-up to Just Kids, have you read that one?

Ally 05:15:20 pm

I haven’t! I just graduated from school in the spring so I’ve been doing a lot of academic reading these past few years, I have a lot to catch up on.

Carrie 05:15:46 pm

Ohhhhhhhhh, you HAVE to read that one! One of my all-time favourites!
Patti is quintessential New York!

Ally 05:16:24 pm

I’ll put it on the list! My book club is a bunch of twentysomething‘s trying to get cultured so I’ll recommend it haha

Carrie 05:16:43 pm

lol – Have them revisit Vonnegut then

Ally 05:16:54 pm

not THAT cultured 😉

Carrie 05:17:05 pm

And anything Neil Gaiman!
lol

Ally 05:17:30 pm

I’ll recommend them!

Carrie 05:17:31 pm

what were you studying in University?

Ally 05:17:53 pm

The history of science and technology!

Carrie 05:18:01 pm

nice!
So you’re loaded up on Hawking I take it?

Ally 05:18:58 pm

Yes – and I’m still not sure if the universe exists, let’s just leave it at that!

Carrie 05:19:19 pm

lol – keep watching Dr. Who, you’ll be fine.
or read The Elegant Universe by Brian Greene – THAT will blow your mind
I’m a huge bibliophile

Ally 05:21:12 pm

Jeez, it looks like you have a lot of reading list on your hands – we better get you some new reading glasses then!

Carrie 05:21:35 pm

exactly! thank you for the discount, by the bye
I won’t take up anymore of your time, you’ve been awesome

Ally 05:22:12 pm

You’re very welcome! Thanks for the afternoon entertainment! Have a great rest of your day

Carrie 05:22:25 pm

lol my pleasure and you too!

_______________________________________________

So let this be a lesson to you; you can talk to and have fun with strangers.  Sometimes the candy ain’t so bad!

How Something Bad Can Provoke Something Good

This past weekend was a bittersweet one.

I did not march in the protest, though I wanted to. I wanted my voice in the chorus of power, to tell the country exactly where I stood. Certain barriers, though invisible, were overpowering. Barriers like anxiety, which are overwhelming at the most inconvenient times, can get Rudolph to keep himself out of the reindeer games.

As frustration mounts, I know that simply standing by the wayside is not an option. To be mute is as unforgivable as being with the opponents. Stagnancy has no place here.

So I revert to what I know makes me feel stronger: art.

Art is a great portal to a welcoming world. It is all-encompassing, it is all-consuming, or at least it should be. It is communication without speaking.

A test run

Art is the foundation from which happiness grows. It doesn’t have to be a Degas, it only has to be a you. It has to be genuinely you. That’s the only rule.

The piece above isn’t exactly breath-taking, but it’s all me. It was a message that railed against the walls of my brain. It would not be ignored until it was let out.

This is how you can protest. Fight with your head and hands, and you will always come out the winner.

Trying to Get the Success of Trump, Without Coming Off As A Rump

In a freelancer’s world, you can do whatever you want. However, whatever it is you want to do had better include some element of sales, or your “product/service” won’t get far.

Sales requires confidence. Regardless of whether it’s inherent, or more fake-it-til-you-make-it, it needs to exist inside of you.

This is where Trump comes in, and the hypothetical Achilles heel walks the path. It’s no secret that I don’t like anything about him. I didn’t vote for him. I was vocally for Bernie Sanders from start to finish. Trump’s self-esteem trampled over the line to the darker side of arrogance. His bluntly honest prejudice against races, sexes and sexual proclivities makes my skin crawl.

Having said that, let’s take a hard look at the last couple of years and use another term for what Donald Trump is; the “Underdog”.

Normally, I root for the underdog. Movies, sports, movies about sports, Davy versus Goliath, the one guy moving against the crowds, running in the opposite direction. Reality seems to be the only platform where I want the underdog euthanized.

From the beginning, Trump had everyone laughing that he was even going to try to run. Then the campaigning started, and the general idea was that this was simply a publicity stunt. People all across the nation were waiting for the punchline, where none existed. This orange dude was still going! He was saying some of the most repugnant things, unimaginable to the minds of us “liberals”, but he was still in the race, and we lost Bernie and had to back up Hillary, simply because she was the only front-runner who wasn’t Trump.

And he beat her.

Disbelief led to rage and tears, which led to a hashtag frenzy in this modern-day age of #notmypresident’s, #wtf’s , #fourmoreyears and so on. Everyone who has a heart and actually believes in equality was asking, “how could this happen?” Oh yeah, the electoral college. The new guy in charge won them over, and that’s all that mattered as far as he was concerned. They’re the ones with the money. They’re the ones who get the final say.

Whether this was a fact easily hidden, or easily forgotten, it matters not. It is what it is.

So how does this translate into the world of freelancing? C’mon, Carrie, bring this back to the start of the circle.

You have to make your audience believe you’re the best at what you do, that they won’t get a better product or service elsewhere. Whether by building a flashy website with examples of your work and references, or holding a meeting with a presentation and PowerPoint.

This — all of this — takes a lot of confidence and conviction in yourself. It also takes a talent of dancing on that fine line that – when plucked — quivers from “confidence” to “arrogance”. It takes time to build the foundation, naturally. But it’s time well spent if you believe in what you are selling. If your product/service is truly awesome, it oftentimes sells itself.

Here are five (and a half) important questions to ask yourself:

1. Do you know your audience?

2. Do you know the proper environment for your product/service? Is this something that’s only regional, or could it be taken nationwide?

3. Are your prices reasonable for what you’re doing?

4. Is there competition? If so, how can you “beat them at the game”?

5. What is your daily regime, and is there space for alternatives? Meaning, if you generally get up at eight in the morning, do your exercises, then have breakfast and then get started on your work, will a new contract that requires you to show up at their site by 8:30 a.m. throw you off your game?

5a. Do you have the resolve and flexibility to make amendments to your day?

These are all important questions to ask yourself. If you find yourself answering “no” to any of them, you might want to consider finding a way to say “yes” to them, at least initially.