Time marches on. My sister is wrapping up her five-month sojourn to Europe. I'm not positive, but she might be the reason the Pope is feeling so feisty and progressive. She's hard to resist, that girl. My friend Bravadita has been subsumed by the burbs and mass transit. If I'm lucky, she'll crawl out of the whirlpool for the Willamette Writers meeting next month, and I'll have the privilege of meeting her for tea and driving her back to the burbs.
Yes, time marches on, but some things seem stuck in amber. Me, for instance. I just want to spend a month in the tub drinking coffee and reading science fiction and smutty paranormal romances. But the body demands food, and acquiring food requires earning money, and thus, when I should be tubbing, I'm editing. The research job I completed in December has yet to generate a check in my mailbox, so I'm editing.
I'm glad to have the work, don't get me wrong, but I might as well be paying my employer, the editing agency. I'm donating far more value than the client is paying for. I blame myself, of course, although I would anyway, blame myself, that is, even if it weren't my fault, which it definitely is. Yes, this one is definitely mine.
The good news, besides the relatively balmy weather, is that I have a niche. Yes, a niche. No, it's not a disease or some special kind of spider that bites you on the belly and in the armpit while you are sleeping (if you know what that spider is called, besides dead, I'd be interested to hear). No, a niche is a slice of the customer pie. The best niche is deep, narrow, juicy, and easy to poke with your marketing fork. It remains to be seen if my niche will be juicy and easy to pork. Poke. Whatever. But at least I know who they are now, my niche. That's progress.
My scrawny mother came over this morning, ostensibly to rub my cat's tummy, but really to bestow some cash on me. She's such a mess of mixed messages, it's hard to know how to respond. She tossed a beat up envelope at me, while at the same time telling me that she's still waiting to find out how much the electrician's bill will be from her recent furnace replacement.
“You've been such a big help to me,” she said as she carefully folded herself to the floor to pet my cat. I opened the envelope, wondering how much my big help was worth to her. $200? $1,000? I saw two twenties and a ten. That's what my help is worth, $50.
“I gave your brother some money for replacing my outdoor service light,” she said, forestalling my protests.
She can't really afford to give her kids money, but she feels guilty and gives what she can as payment for our help. Maybe she doesn't fully believe that we would gladly help her for nothing. Oh, maybe we'd grumble a bit now and then, or roll our eyes at her more outlandish requests, but certainly we are willing to help with no expectation of any reward. We know she won't be around forever. Maybe not much longer. Any day could be the day that things change.
I thanked her and stashed the cash in case she needs it back later. She managed to get herself up off the floor. Victory! I walked her out to her old green Toyota, which has probably accumulated a total of about 150 miles in all of 2014, that's how little she drives. The air was crisp. The sun was valiantly trying to burn through the fog. She got in and proudly held up both hands to show me her driving gloves, one of which had a rubberized palm so she could firmly grip the steering wheel. I tried to look interested. We both know her driving days are numbered.
But everything is numbered, isn't it. There's no escaping time, marching on.
