I awoke last night at 4AM in a complete state of terror at the realization that there was a deranged psychopath loose in our neighborhood. Actually, right in my very own home . The once-human creature was more insane than Michael Myers, Norman Bates, and Jason Voorhees and Carrie’s mom all put together. It had to be. Why else would the monster quit her job during one of the worst economic times our nation has ever seen--especially considering she has basically no practical skills, a self-perpetuated reputation for being a drunk, and job titles such as “Elf” on her resume. Whoa! In two months, I am going to be income-free and living on a lake. After tossing and turning for an hour, I got out of bed and skulked around the house looking at the complete chaos and empty Rubbermaid containers waiting to be filled with either “Take,” “Store,” or “Sell” items. We already have someone moving into our home on December 01. I start interviewing people for my position tomorrow. There is no going back. I started to hyperventilate, drank half a carton of eggnog, and then picked up Oscar Brown the Meanest Cat in Town and cried into him like he was a pillow. After his fur was soaked, I gave myself a little talking to.
ME: You’ll find a job. You always do. You got this. You’re the Bourbonista.
MYSELF: Don’t remind me. Between the shit I’ve put on Facebook and this blog, no employer is going to touch me with a ten foot pole. I’m screwed.
ME: Calm down. You are totally capable of making a living. You just need to think outside the box.
MY SELF: Thinking outside the box shouldn’t be hard since I’ll probably be living in one. I’ll just wander out in the elements and ponder about a career choice.
ME: You essentially will be living in a box... by choice. A houseboat is basically just a buoyant box made out aluminum. You want to go live on a boat and write, right?
MYSELF: What if I can’t make a living an author? What if no one wants to read my book? It’s not like “The Miracle of Myrtle” flew off the shelves.
ME: Are you a writer or not?
MYSELF: Yes, technically, I am a writer.
ME: Then just pretend you are the main character of a novel and give yourself some job options. What could a middle-aged female living on a boat do to provide for herself and animals?
MYSELF: What about Frank?
ME: I consider him one of the animals.
MYSELF: And, I’m usually the snarky one.
ME: Focus. This is about you. What could you do?
MYSELF: Well, you know that lady that we see selling beet pickles and wild blackberry jam and produce out of the back of her pick-up at the fork in Palisades? She looks pretty happy. Maybe I could sell homemade canned goods from the back of the Scion.
ME: See, now you’re thinking.
MYSELF: Or I could teach ballroom dancing classes on the dock. Or make lamps with found driftwood and sell them at the Peddler’s Mall in Harrodsburg. Or I could be a reenactor at Shaker Village. I bet churning butter would totally get rid of my “Granny Bye-Bye” arms.
ME: And, don’t forget about your idea for the Floating Pepperoni pizza barge. That is money.
MYSELF: Or I could train the local otters and herons and turtles and do a “Sea World” type show right off the front deck. If it got popular enough, I could pitch it to TLC.
ME: Sure. Why not?
MYSELF: Or, I could fall in the freezing water, have a near-death, after-life experience and start my own religion. Being a prophet can prove to be profitable.
ME: I see a bourbon communion in our very near future.
the bourbonistA, Promoting Debauchery and stamping out political-correctness one blog at a time.