48. The Week in Me

I think I’m taking a job. I may have accepted an offer as of writing this. I may not have. I just do not know.

I don’t find myself to be a woefully indecisive person. I am a woman, so I by biology am Rachel McAdams here:

This is normally not the case for me, someone who decided at 12 years old that Daniel Radcliffe would never disappoint me and guess what? He never has. I willed that shit into being by pure industrial decisiveness. I decided at 15 that my proclivity towards cutting myself in the high school bathroom to Elliott Smith songs meant that I should never add drinking to my mental fuckedness, and at 32 here I am with 32 years of sobriety to my name.

But I don’t know what to do here.

For the many, many (over 900 who are you people) new faces here, I am an executive assistant by trade and was laid off in September with a big Bezos Bucks¹ severance. I’ve been interviewing ever since, including for one company where the CEO met with me and spent our interview trying to conduct a Ticketmaster transfer to her sister. The market sucks, apparently, and the recruiters asking me to run to Target at the last minute to buy a blazer because my I don’t know, forearms with their dash of ethnic fl(hair) or pudgy batwings might not indicate that I am the professional who once supported nine executives during an IPO listing at the same time in 2020. I figured my midaxi² turtleneck sheath dress would be conducive to relief to these employers, that I don’t have the Danzig elbow tats I keep threatening.

I’ve, over these last few months, felt burnt out of the work I’ve spent the last six years doing. And really, the last six years. I have not been on a plane since 2019. That was to Pittsburgh, to see my best friend. Pittsburgh, despite me being a Steelers girl, is not the rolling hills of Scotland or the turquoise beaches off a Sandals resort. When I lost my best friend last August and fell into the worst desire to shuffle-ball-change off this mortal coil I have ever known, when I saw past death, I did not take a single day off. When my grandma died, I didn’t work on MLK Day, a stated office holiday, and apologized to my team. Profusely. I took one day off for the wake. My boss called and yelled at me that day, because I didn’t cancel a meeting he did not ask me to cancel. When I say I have worked the last six years, that was 11:30pm text messages. Sunday nights prepping itineraries. No PTO longer than three consecutive days except for the Christmas week, always a staycation since every member of my entire family lives within 45 minutes of me. Every job I’ve had as an executive assistant had to pay out my unused PTO, en masse.

I’m burnt out of work thats best accomplishment is invisibility, no bubbles in the asphalt your boss walks across towards the credit, the acclaim, and so much more money than you will ever see. I’m burnt out of my job being deletion: clearing inboxes, resolving conflicting schedules, bulldozing a path for your executive and their vision. My Aunt Annette said it best at Thanksgiving: “Well, you’re a creative.” It has taken about the first 750 of you here to say “yes, yes I actually am. Huh.”

And I always was. I wanted to be an actress when I was little. I have a permanent callous between my thumb and pointer from all of the scissor work I did collaging as a preteen. I’m 200 pages deep into writing my novel. I have an EP out, and according to Spotify Wrapped people listened to it over 20,000³ times this year. I come here every week and try to make my broken little soul funny for you. And I love doing that. More than I ever assumed I would. (Thank you.)

If I have to work, if I have to suckle at the chapped dick of capitalism with its unplucked terminal hairs and that seam down the middle and that white bump no really what is that white bump, what do I have to show for it? I have been considering a seismic career change, halving my commandable, commendable salary to return to production work (I’ve worked on a couple of indies, and been in a few music videos) or events (I’ve been an untitled event planner at every job I’ve had). A producer I worked with on my last movie sent me a script to read; I sent back damn good notes and I know it. I’ve done some events work this summer, wielding a power drill, getting quotes from companies that will screenprint a company logo on a promotional mug or brand it onto your intern’s left ass cheek. And I asked smart questions, questions rappelling from some innate place of capability. I found the last prop crystal ball on Long Island. I can do this.

But these are insecure areas of work. Girl, the strike. And girl, the pay chasing. The COBRA plan. The hustle. The hours.

I went to the cemetery yesterday to ask my grandmother for clarity. I hate bothering her. She has more than earned her rest, and with the number of cousins I have I figure she’s getting dinged for favors all day. But I was scared and this time I needed her. I sat on the ground above her grave, so she could spiritually pinch my tush from the ground below (she loved and loves butts - both boyfriends I took home had to turn and present for her to inspect whether or not they’d be “sturdy” enough for me). I went home, took an Arrested Development angry nap⁴, and woke up and…realized that the thing I want to create is right here. This blog, this writing, this work. This dream. And as much as I’ve loved working with my hands, as much as I love having a set crush every film shoot (oh, Lou) my writing is work with my hands. I’m building. I’m making. And I can’t do that if I’m on my feet sixteen hours a day.

So I’m taking the job. And I’m working on a dream from a place of yes, fear, yes, rugburn from the Sloppy Toppy Double Hand Twist Gawk Gawk 3000 I’m giving capitalism, but from stable ground. I can and will do events on the weekend, build my contacts, and maybe someday make my great escape.

So congratulate me, I guess? I’ll let you know. And if you wish, let me know in the comments about your second-lives, career changes, and radical thirties transformations. I would welcome the advice and perspective.

To read:

Matt has been making these AI-generated stickers on Facebook Messenger and he sent one I especially enjoyed:

And one I deeply hated:

My Road House review and a recap of the films I watched this month can be found here:

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I have been enjoying the Frasier reboot so damn much - something I did not expect to say given the departure of David Hyde Pierce (as my anxiety manifestation, Niles Crane) and John Mahoney (from Earth, which will never be okay and I miss him constantly). But I’ve found it to understand the basic premise that Frasier is a megalomaniac foiled by some valiant minor deity at all turns in his efforts to hoist his social status and/or petard. This interview with Kelsey Grammer delighted me.

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I found this

Jessica DeFino

piece thought-provoking, though I’m not sure I share the stakes:

When War Sells Serum

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Not to link to the New York Times but…I’m linking to the New York Times. There is excellent news here about climate change! I once performed “I Could Have Danced All Night” in a theater class and felt much the same way reading this op-ed by Dr. Kate Marvel.

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From

Zeba Blay

:

“Joy is not just a thing within you but all around you. Joy without regard for the suffering of others is not truly joy. Joy is a mycelium of truth, compassion and connection. Joy is regenerative, collaborative, expansive. Joy is resourceful. Joy provides the delicate tools we need to carve out a future worth living in. Joy reminds us of who we are and who we have always been beneath the detritus of white supremacy. Joy requires no permission. Joy is the opposite of terror. Joy is not delusional, dismissive, or detached. Joy is an act of resistance, yes, but to indulge in joy as the only mode of resistance in times of oppression and dire need is to entirely miss the point of its existence.”

sunday energy #43

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Please sign this petition calling on the Pennsylvania State House and Governor Josh Shapiro to “recognize the enrolled membership of the Lenape Nation of Pennsylvania.”

To listen:

It’s December, and so I bring you a holiday playlist!

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I saw Darlene Love last night, as I have for the last three years. I adore Darlene. She was second on my bucket list of sixties artists, only behind Brian Wilson, who I have yet to see. The first time I saw her, ten months after my grandmother died, Darlene started singing “Christmas (Baby Please Come Home)” and I with all my atheist sincerity felt my grandmother’s hand⁵ on my shoulder and a candleglow of white light, a white of perfect balance, the white she would have chose, it being her favorite color, her every outfit, the color of every iPod and TV and shoe we ever bought her. I sobbed for two hours, practically in tongues. I don’t believe in god, but I believe in my grandmother. I felt Her through Darlene Love, so yeah I go every year.

Last night, Bruce showed up. I diametrically suggest watching this on mute, because I blew out Matt’s eardrums screaming for twenty straight seconds at the sight of Bruce in a little sweater:

Listen to Darlene Love’s “Night Closing In,” written by Bruce.

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“In Strike Talk's penultimate episode, Billy Ray and co-host Todd Garner speak with the presidents of SAG-AFTRA and WGA West, Fran Drescher and Meredith Stiehm, about the challenges of negotiating with the AMPTS and their visions for the Hollywood labor movement's future.”

To watch:

Whether you’re single or situationshipped or married:

morganpresleyxo

A post shared by @morganpresleyxo

This is literally just Simone:

This is literally just three Lugosis:

hayvanormal

A post shared by @hayvanormal

Actually my babies:

From the vault! This is one of my favorite photos of the children because…how could it not be? Look at my son’s big, dumb head. I love him.

Various and sundry:

Me being so cozy in little socks:

pomkori

A post shared by @pomkori

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Hey Morgan Spector, can your hot wife Rebecca Hall fight/adopt me into a throuple with y’all?

I rode an elevator with Morgan once. I couldn’t breathe.

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I made a donation to Wildcare this week and I am just an unfettered delight.

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I hope this is the energy your coming week brings (taken earlier this year in Hoboken):

Love you bitches,

TG

1. Audible - this is public information so they can’t get mad at me about this

2. This is a real word and a real length of dress I promise.

3

4.

5. A hand that has stuffed unwrapped cannolis into my peacoat pockets and taught me how to crochet and held mine over a table I inherited in a kitchen I inherited. I know that hand. I know my girl.