Why I Love My Job.

When I'm not screwing off on Photoshop and making ridiculous stick-figure cartoons, I actually do have a job. As many of my frequent visitors are aware, I write for a living. I spend my days sipping gin and waxing poetic, and when the muse strikes me, I sit at a computer and effortlessly spew grand thoughts and momentous epiphanies onto the page. Then I send the books to JK Rowling, Stephen King, or whichever other big name author I think of at the time, and they get me in with their publishers so I can score mad advances and spots on NYT Bestseller list.

Yeah. Right.

No, it's actually a job. It's definitely work. Some days, the body is willing but the brain is weak.
Hey, I'm human (so they say). I have my limits. So, I have to just take a day off to recharge. And on those days, if I'm not out snorkeling or causing general mayhem around Okinawa, I spend some time drawing comics for this blog. Hey, guess what I'm doing today?

Ironically, I'm cartooning about my job today. You know why? Because I freaking love my job. Even on days like today where I just can't get the words on paper in the correct order, I wouldn't trade this for the world.

And it's not just because I get to spend all day, every day writing stories. Or the fact that I get to spend a lot of time dreaming up crazy new places and ways for people to DO THE DEED.

Crazy new places and ways...
(images courtesy Free-clipart.com)

Though that is a perk. I mean, seriously, it's entertaining as all hell. And I love love love writing like I can't even tell you.

But today, I'm highlighting all the reasons I love the fact that I work at home. Now, if you're a fan of The Oatmeal, he touched on a lot of the pros and cons here. If you haven't read that page, do so at once. It's fucking hilarious. Seriously. Go now. Here's the link again in case you missed it.

So I don't need to rehash all the awesomeness of that.

One of the best things about working at home? The commute. You see, this used to be my commute:
Yes, that was my actual commute. 80 fucking miles. Each way. Every damned day. And I had to be at work at 7 am. Do the math.

Then I moved to Virginia, and shaved over 50 miles off my commute, instead condemning myself to grinding through forty-five minutes of some of the planet's most godawful drivers en route to my cubicle:
This morning? My commute took 1 minute, 47 seconds, counting the time it took for me to stop by the fridge for a glass of juice and step around my cat:
So now I'm at work. I work alone. My cat sits on my desk, I have people to talk to via instant message, and sometimes my husband is around, but for the most part, I work solo.

Which means: No overheard conversations from the next cubicle.

If there was one thing that drove me crazy while working in a cubicle environment, it was the conversations my co-workers would have.
True story - One of my co-workers started EIGHT CONVERSATIONS in one day with that line. And I was chained to a desk that was well within earshot, with neither headphones nor earplugs to spare me the Chronicle of the Colonoscapades. EIGHT TIMES.

But no more! I have complete control over my work environment now. No intestinal tales here, no sirree. And it probably benefits the rest of the world, too. I mean, my own conversations these days would be NSFW in any other work environment.
Yes, my friends have as much ADD as I do.

There's also the matter of unwanted conversations. Nothing quite like trying to work, and having someone pester the crap out of you about politics, workplace gossip, moldy lettuce, sports, or other things you couldn't give two shits about. When working at home, relief is but a click away:
Not only do I not have to put up with other people's obnoxious conversations or subject them to my own, there's also the matter of music. I have yet to work in any kind of communal office environment that didn't, at some point, have some teeth gnashing and general spark-striking over the volume or content of music. For whatever reason, headphones have always been forbidden wherever I've worked, so the music battle never ends.
Working at home? There's no arguing over the volume, radio station, or how many times a particular song is replayed. I get to listen to WHATEVER THE FUCK I WANT, and no one else can hear or complain about it.
Yes, those are the most-played songs in my iPod. Don't judge me.

Then there's the perk of not having people watching my every move. So what if a link is NSFW? It's not like anyone knows or cares what I'm looking at on my computer.

Well, aside from Rex.
But Rex doesn't really count. He can't exactly do anything unless he thinks there's a reason to tip off the CIA about my recent searches relating to the climate of northern India, how much gunpowder it takes to create a decent-sized explosion, or aqua regia (all of which I've googled recently).

In an office environment, though, someone is ALWAYS WATCHING:

And it's fucking maddening, amirite?

So I have no one looking over my shoulder. I'm in my pajamas, listening to whatever music I want, blocking out the universe if I feel like it, and generally able to fuck off if the mood strikes me. No time cards. No peer pressure to be a team player. No boss demanding I actually, like, do something.

Which means...I could pretty much not do anything if I felt like it. Yet, I work more hours now than I ever have in my life, and productivity isn't a problem at all. But how? HOW? How does one remain productive without being surrounded by slave drivers and given all the "motivation" that is rich in a corporate environment?

Well, besides the fact that I love what I do and wouldn't trade it for a date with Jared Leto, there is the part where I need to write. My characters want their stories told, and they don't let me sleep until I write those stories. Quite frankly, if you ever X-rayed my skull, chances are, this is what you'd see:
Yes, I'm insane.

And yes, this is the best job in the world.


(More cartoons to come soon; still have a couple of deadlines to meet this summer, and then I'll have some more time to draw stick irreverent stick figures)

Quick Update

Real life once again has me swamped with deadlines and evildoings, so I'm behind on getting my comics together. Rest assured, though: more stick-figure mayhem is on the horizon. I need to finish the book I'm currently working on, which I expect to be done this week. Then, assuming I'm not irreparably maimed at this weekend's paintball tournament, there will be a comic next week.

On what topic? What crazy tale from my slightly off-kilter world?

Only one way to find out. Stick around...

How I Went to See Sleeping Beauty and Wound Up Scarred For Life

This story hails from my younger days. It was way back in the year 1986. I was 5 years old, and my family was friends with the family across the street. They had two girls, and the three of us spent our formative years generally raising hell. By the time we were in 2nd grade, we were making bows and arrows out of sticks and bailing twine, and those suckers could get some distance. We were a force to be reckoned with, let me tell you.

Our moms must have tired of reckoning with our collective force, because they decided one afternoon to take us to see a movie.

Off we went...and yes, the car was totally rockin' the wood paneling. This was the 1980s, after all...
The film of choice was, you've probably gathered by now, Sleeping Beauty. You know, that old Disney film where Jessica Simpson falls asleep and some guy who looks like a brunette version of Vanilla Ice comes along and kisses her to wake her up. That dude must have had some seriously awful breath to wake her up after all that time. Come to think of it, after being asleep that long, I can't imagine her mouth tasted like roses either.
Anyway, we got to the theatre, which was one of those crazy multiplexes that showed like six films.
We got in line.
The long line.
Now, as the line crawled toward the box office where our moms would obtain our tickets, there was this dude who would occasionally emerge from the box office and wander along the line, saying "(movie title), sold out. (movie title), sold out."

My memory's a bit foggy, and perhaps he didn't take quite so much glee in his work, but with the forlorn looks and cries of despair that appeared in his wake, whatever he was doing had quite the impact on people. Heads hanging, eyes down, they'd trudge away from the line, looking defeated and totally bummed.

That kind of power is bound to go to someone's head, you know?
I didn't understand the reactions to his announcements, and I really didn't understand his announcements.
SHUT UP, I WAS FIVE.

So I asked my mom. Apparently "Sold Out" meant all the tickets for a particular show were sold, and anyone without a ticket was out of luck. It would seem there was a finite number of seats in every auditorium, and standing in line was not, in fact, a guarantee of seeing a film. Another childhood illusion ruined, and I wasn't even in kindergarten yet.

It was only a matter of time before The Bringer of Doom and Ticket Denials wandered down the line again, and my friends and I soon joined our line-mates in their forlornness, because he had this to say:
Our moms were not deterred, though. They'd already carted us a half an hour across town in the Glorious Wagon O' Wood Paneling, and they would not be denied their hour and a half of the three of us sitting still and being quiet. No, really. Park us in front of a movie, and we STFU. We were pretty cool that way. We'd be quiet, relatively still, and wouldn't fashion weapons out of barnyard debris. Total win situation for the moms.

They looked at the movie posters along the wall, and...ah ha! A solution presented itself!
This had to be a cute movie, they said to themselves. Or maybe each other...by this point, the three of us had probably been distracted by something shiny and had forgotten all about the movies.

But with a name like Critters, a barnyard in the background, and a clearly sci-fi theme to it (battle? Galactic? Oh! Star Wars!), it was probably something cute and reasonably suitable for us. After all, we watched all kinds of not-made-for-kids movies without batting an eye, so we were already cool with movies that weren't all glitzy animation and singing animals.

"Guess what, kids?" said they. "We're going to see Critters!"

None of us had a clue what this movie was really about, but we loved animals and Star Wars, so...win! The line was endured, the tickets were purchased, and seats were commandeered.
Now, this is where an iPhone would have been handy. One of our moms could have done a quick Google search, checked out the trailer, and perhaps seen that Critters had an alternate movie poster that was not displayed at our particular theatre.

That poster looked a little something like this:
About five minutes into the movie, we started to wonder if we'd perhaps bitten off more than we could chew.
Then it got scary. Blood, guts, hideous creatures doing horrific things and cackling maniacally, and we did what any five year-olds would do in that situation.

We dove behind our seats.
I know, I know. Logically, we could have hidden behind the seats in front of us, but a terrified five year-old doesn't necessarily go through the entire plan of action before implementing it. In fact, I think it was about twenty years before it occurred to me that we could have just ducked behind those seats instead of leaping over our own. I'm a slow learner, gimme a break.

We endured the movie.


And afterward, we went home. And you know what that evening had in common with that afternoon? What common theme connected day to night?

There was no Sleeping Beauty that day, and there sure as shit wasn't any Sleeping Beauty that night.

Marriage, Insomnia, & Psychological Warfare

So I'm married to this guy. As married people often do, we sleep in the same bed. See? Here we are.
Now, I'm an insomniac. Sleep and I are not very close acquaintances. Eddie, however, has no trouble sleeping.
I'm telling you, the man sleeps like the dead.
It annoys the bejeezus out of me. I mean, it's just not fair. We're married. We're supposed to share everything, and I firmly believe we should share the lack of sleep, too. Especially when he throws it in my face by doing horrible things like getting up at crap o' clock...
...and bouncing out of bed like he doesn't know the meaning of the word "tired".
This annoys me. Greatly.
Since I can't defeat insomnia, I have other ways of leveling the playing field. Specifically, by using psychological warfare to screw with his sleep cycle so he can suffer like I do.

My husband also happens to be absurdly ticklish. Over the last nine years, I've conditioned him to fear the approach of my hand...
I'm a cruel, cruel wife, it's true.

With that conditioning, I can begin my evil plan.

I let him juuuuuuust start drifting off to sleep.
Then I throw a little whisper out there, just to mess with him.
Result:
But this is a slow, steady process. The mind is worried, but the body is strong, and he drifts off once again.
And I move in for the kill...
And before long...
Repeat until he's afraid to close his eyes.

And I, victorious, go to sleep.

On Popsicles & Diamonds

Every couple has their little stories that they look back on and swoon over. This is one that my husband and I share. Well, he probably looks back and winces, whereas I giggle uncontrollably, but I'd say that averages out to a romantic little swoon, so we'll call it good.

It all started when we met back in 2002.
La la la romance la la la dating la la la. Anyway.

In spite of the fact that it was Seattle, it was an epically hot summer. I mean, it was nuts. Horrifically hot.
Yeah. It was THAT HOT.

And since it doesn't usually get THAT HOT in Seattle, no one has air conditioning. While we were sweltering away one fine afternoon, my lovely boyfriend decided to be a dear and get us some popsicles to try to take the edge off the insane blistering heat.
(note:popsicle image courtesy of foodclipart.com, because I can't draw them to save my life)

Now, while it was only a short walk from the freezer to where I sat awaiting the promised treat of tasty frozenness, it was a long enough journey for some gears to start turning in his head.

He saw the popsicle in his hand. He saw my semi-lowcut shirt (which I had the figure to wear at the time...*le sigh*). And he had a thought.
Eddie, darling, this is where it all went wrong. You should have just let that thought go.

But no, he didn't. He reached the chair in which I sat, and he executed his badly-conceived plan...
Now, in order to explain what happened next, I must first explain a few other details.

First, I'm sure you're all aware of the concept of a kneejerk reaction:
Second, in spite of the oppressive heat, I was not wearing my Birkenstocks that day. No, I had been at work that day, and was thus wearing my customary not-slacking-off-in-the-heat footwear:
With those factors in place, and taking into consideration the height of the chair in which I sat compared to Eddie's height, the temperature of the popsicle that had just invaded my cleavage, and Eddie's unprecedented -- and not since repeated -- ability to keep a straight face until just before the attack, and...

...well, certain things were inevitable.
The aftermath, my friends, wasn't pretty.
Funny as all hell, but not pretty.

Eddie recovered, though there was much wincing and swearing.

The following day, in a preplanned and completely unrelated series of events, Eddie and I got engaged.
As I said, these events were unrelated. However, I have been known to make bizarre connections in my brain. I mean, when things happen in certain sequences, it just...makes me wonder.
With our tenth wedding anniversary on the somewhat near horizon, I've been doing some thinking. And I think I might like an anniversary band of sorts. I'm not usually a jewelry kind of girl, but...you know, it might be nice.

So, if the past is any indicator, I know exactly how to get the diamond I want...

(And for the sense of humor impaired, no, I am not advocating domestic violence. This is just a running joke between my husband and me.)