Another Chapter for the Memoir

The end. Also known as "the beginning."

A few months ago, I quit my subtitling job of four years for a slightly more lucrative position at an online mall. "Editorial Assistant" was good for the ego, and granted me the financial security that allowed Fridays off for writing projects. Some of you envied me. Others applauded the move; I was finally moving up in the big bad workplace world.

But something was off. I was going through the motions, dragging myself to work every day. My daily routine felt destructive to my spirit. I operated in a state of defeat, mourning stunted creativity and envious of those who thrived at their day jobs. I just wanted to write.

Fast-forward to last Wednesday.

When I left the office on September 16th, I left it for good. I said goodbye to my "grass is greener" gig with no backup plan. I am free-falling career-wise, and I'm excited to see where I land. But maybe insanity does that to a person.

I've known this for a long time: None of my dreams line up with conventional 9-to-5-ness. And at 26, I'm already weary. I'm tired of having those dreams nag at me. Of having tiny regrets start to creep into my daily life. I don't want to sit back in 20 years and ask myself why I didn't just quit my job and go for it.

So I quit my job. And I'm going for it.

I'm a writer. The kind who likes to see "By Nadine Bells" printed alongside her words. I have a unique voice, but I never market myself. I'm not sure why. I'm about to find out. And I have a million little ideas swirling around in my head that I've never pursued, mostly for a lack of available time. Well, I have time now. No money, but time. And time IS money. So really, I'm set. And I'm already comfortable with the idea that most of you won't understand this life upheaval. That's okay. To the few who do, I love you. Honestly. I could hug and kiss you all. Right. Now. (Or maybe give you an awkward high-five. Whatever.)

This is also my opportunity for that life makeover that everyone secretly wants. No more excuses. My schedule is what I make it. Already I'm penciling in regular exercise, time with God, healthy-meal prep time, piano breaks and jaunts to my local library.

I'm starting to feel alive again. And that's priceless.

My name is Nadine and I'm a freelance writer.

P.S. Will write for rent money.

My Life as a Movie: One Week Ago

I survived the beginning. The middle. And last Wednesday, I left Meryl Streep sitting in the back of the limo and walked away from it all.

Welcome to the big beautiful question mark that is my life. Details will follow.

[image source]

Home Office Inspiration

[via white trash beautiful]

This weekend, I will be at home. This is by choice. I refuse to let you feel sorry for me. Music will blare. Dark chocolate will vanish. Decisions will be made.

Some of those decisions will have to do with creating a workspace that's both lovely and functional. Others will have to do with purging my darling apartment of unnecessary clutter. This includes the closets. The sheet music. The stacks of unsorted paperwork.

Believe me, you don't want to be here for the chaos.

The Other Blog: Pop Culture, Anyone?

Amy Adams bringing my life to the big screen in Julie & Julia.

Most of you know that I write. All the time. And everywhere. What you probably don't know is that I have another blog of pop-culture goodness that you should be reading. And maybe even commenting on.

Read Canada Pop Culture Blog. Join the discussion. Don't agree with my sometimes-snarky angle on celebrity gossip? Then call me on my crap in the comments. Hang out with me at work, folks. My blog needs more friends.

If you read now, I'll be kind when you're famous. Promise.

The Usual

I ordered a spinach salad with chicken today for lunch. The guy at the counter looked at me and smiled.

GUY: Didn't we do this earlier this week?

ME: Yep. I guess I'm pretty predictable.

GUY: But you were wearing something different.

Apparently take-out guys notice these things. I hope he liked Monday's dress. 'Cause today was a jeans day.

And while some gals would be unnerved by such observation (and subsequently persuaded to cut back on spinach salads), I'm considering this an opportunity to finally be a "regular" somewhere. Because my new work neighborhood is full of strangers. I miss the convenience-store man who used to ask my coworkers about me when I failed to visit his little haven of junk food and carbonated beverages.

It's fun to be known.

It's Not True

Someone sent me this last year. It no longer applies. Yesterday was my last day of subtitling. And my career ended with a super-appropriate project followed by a lovely evening on a patio with folks who will continue to be my friends long after we've all walked away from the job that once bonded us.

source

And this T-shirt is not true either. Because the future is no less exciting today than it was when I thought I'd grow up to be Amy Grant. (Or a bank teller. They had all the money.)

source

Dear Diary

Today I quit my job.

And then I ate ice cream.

And now I have Spin Doctors' "Two Princes" in my head.

I believe I've had a very good day.



Adorableness alert:

Interviewed: Me

Wanna know all about my life as a subtitler? Head on over to Jason Boyett's blog and read all about it. And then stick around. 'Cause he has some great stuff to say.

The timing couldn't be more perfect. Because as of tomorrow, my working-for-a-living world will look significantly different. Subtitles will only bookend my weeks, sprinkling my Mondays and Fridays with snippets of television greatness. Never fear, I'll still be writing in the midweek. But the words will be mine this time. (Details will follow shortly. Pinkie swear.)

Cue Hamlet's craziness (preferably with Kenneth Branagh's face): "Words, words, words."

Oh, Shakespeare. Always relevant. Always.

You've Got Mail

I took a mail day today. This is similar to the common sick day, however no illness is involved. It is a day in which you stay at home and wait for the mailman. I even did this honestly, calling my workplace late last night and explaining my FedEx dilemma, having already missed the first delivery attempt of the piece of technology that would forever change my life. Oddly, my anguish was understood. And so I spent the majority of my day in my tiny abode, awaiting my Knight in Vehicular Armor.

The doorbell doesn't work at my place. I've lived here for over three years and have only heard it ring once. And when it did, I just stared at the door in amazement, ignoring the poor soul who actually wanted to come in. Because of the lack of chime, people must knock. FedEx men, charming as they are, have not figured this out.

I was typing away by the front window, the blinds up so that I could see strangers coming and going, when I noticed a man with a package stepping off the front porch. I must have been so caught up in the Tuscan-inspired resort wedding I was describing (I'm running out of inspiring nuptial adjectives, folks) that I didn't hear the doorbell that DOESN'T WORK. And there was no knock. He just walked away.

I have no pride when it comes to mailmen. In Vancouver, when the long-awaited Purolator man returned my camera to me, I greeted him in a rather scandalous tank top with wet hair dripping down my back, a hoodie half on (only because I was trying to dress as I ran for the door). So the fact that I was in old slippers and baggy sweatpants did not deter me from running out my door and across the front yard to fetch him. (Yes, I just used the word "fetch." But not in a Mean Girls way. Or in a "You look rather fetching this evening" sort of way either. But I digress.) I was that crazy woman waving her arms and shouting, the one you probably intentionally don't look in the eye when you meet her on the street. The one with the fashion sense of a toddler, the grace and poise of a fourth-grade boy in dance class, and the speech patterns of Tarzan.

But he stopped. He turned. He didn't even ask me my name. He just handed me my future in a box. I thanked him profusely, signed his high-tech thingamabob/freeze ray, and waved goodbye to my hero of the day.

Fast-forward a few hours.

The MacBook sits on my table, partially opened. While it whispers to me, I ignore it. Because as much as I want to play with it, I must resist the temptation to spend the rest of my evening (and into the wee hours of the morning) with a piece of aluminum when I must first fire off invoices created on a clunky PC that deserves a noble retirement. Oddly, now that the laptop's here, the eagerness has settled into simple comfort. There is no rush. We have forever to get to know one another.



Hmm. Maybe this is what it's like to be a boy. To be excited by the chase. To be more concerned with the acquisition than with the relationship. To profess love for something not there, and then to back off a little once it's sitting in the kitchen. Not that girls sit in kitchens.... Oh, wait. No. Never mind. I take back the entire analogy.

I knew I was tired...

...but not THAT tired.

I should have suspected that I was suffering from some sort of severe exhaustion yesterday when...

• I didn't feel the effects of six caffeinated beverages.
• I went to the grocery store to buy eggs and grapes. My fridge was already stocked with eggs and grapes.
  
• My brain cycled through highly unusual and insanely ridiculous thoughts. ("I hope it's not a date. Why do I assume it is? I'm way too charming. I should look into an arranged marriage....")
• I couldn't focus on anything. At all.
• I ate my way through an entire bag of chocolate macaroons without noticing. Until I felt nauseous.
• I took three hours to write the equivalent of a half hour's work.

I woke up this morning to discover that my light was still on. I passed out at some point during my getting-ready-for-bed routine last night. And didn't move for eight hours.

Today was better. Less caffeine, more productivity. I made $68 more writing at home than I would have had I showed up at the office. And I squeezed in three loads of laundry between projects. (I try to avoid the domestic multitasking when working from home, but I couldn't resist.)

It's raining. I'm not at tonight's Sam Roberts show. (All three shows this weekend are sold out. Not impressed.) But Don Draper made me smile, my sheets are clean, and I have no early morning plans tomorrow. Sleep is so good. I think I should embrace it more often.

And so I shall. Starting...uh, soon.

Freelancing Friday Vs. BBTW

I was a writer yesterday. Sure, I've been a writer for a while (the Film Fest introductions happily confirmed this for me), but yesterday I was writing, at home, on a weekday, making money from the written word. And what a beautiful day it was.

I probably have a lot to learn when it comes to productivity, time-management and discipline. I did make myself shower and wear non-pajamas, though. That was a start. And I set mini-goals, most of which were reached. I even made about $10 more than if I were subtitling. So this writing thing might actually be worth it. Once the laptop is part of my life (the Macbook is coming, I promise), I may have to write in coffee shops and libraries instead of in my little abode. Because there's that overwhelming urge to get up and do laundry in the middle of the day. Or watch television. Or do laps in front of the fridge....

It's also hard to distinguish between the workday and the post-workday. How do I walk away and not continue staring at my computer, wasting hours reading blogs and Twittering? And then there are the freelancing issues like invoicing, receipt-collecting and budgeting. Yes, I can write off part of my Internet bill. And the purchase of bridal magazines. The thought of getting organized financially is a little overwhelming.

My writing day did eventually come to an end, and after an evening of laundry and bathtub-scrubbing, I tried to go to bed. But BBTW (Boy Behind the Wall) decided to have a party. At midnight. One that included the blaring of techno music and the shouting of the odd profane phrase. The walls are thin here, and the head of my bed rests against his wall. So I know the details of his life (as I'm sure he knows mine) via auditory experience. Let's just say I am very aware of when he and his girlfriend are getting along marvelously.

I couldn't sleep. I wasn't in the mood to be angry at him either. I briefly considered throwing on a cute dress and crashing his shindig. But I am not a party-crasher. At all. Nor do I want to participate in something that too closely resembles fraternity living.

Instead, I lit a candle, turned on some Baroque music, and read the first twelve chapters of Pride and Prejudice by lamplight.

Ahh, how I heart Mr. Darcy.

I wonder if BBTW knows that his partying brought out the content old lady in me. Or that his adventures provide the writer next door with plenty of amusing material.

Girls Are Evil

As my contribution to a super-deep conversation about finding love on reality TV, I sent an email to my coworkers that simply said, "Girls are evil."

And Dave, always ready to back up such statements with proof, quickly validated my little sentence of truth.

This is what happens when you work with people who have mastered Googling and spend all day researching quirky unconfirmable facts. ("Abdula longbata" is not the lower part of the brainstem, Brendan Fraser. Sheesh.)

Dave, you should really revive your blog. In the meantime, I'll periodically blog on your behalf.

source

Workaholic

I subtitled for 11 and a half hours today. With no break, save for the odd trip to the kitchen for tea and a quick jaunt next door for a calcium fix.

I'm lucky I made it out alive. I hear your brain explodes at the 12-hour mark.

Computer Desks Are the New Gym Memberships

I spend a lot of time at my computer. To be more accurate, I spend a lot of time at computers. Plural. And as I look at more freelancing opportunities and writing gigs, I need to find a way to stay sharp. And maybe find a way to not die of atrophy.

I have found a solution. One that will keep me active, fit and stimulated. And I won't have to step away from my beloved computer either.

Ladies and gentlemen, the Walkstation.

Too bad my apartment is approximately the size of three shoeboxes. And my budget doesn't quite accommodate such a purchase ($4000?!). But I could probably pick up an ancient treadmill at a garage sale somewhere and balance a plank across it....

Check out Treadmill Desk and read about someone who made their own. It changed his life. Which depresses me. What has my desk done for me lately?

(The claim that I could lose 57 pounds in a year is a little alarming. I would die.)

On Wombat Leave

Australia's top treasury official is taking five weeks leave to look after endangered wombats.

Ken Henry, treasury secretary and animal conservationist, has warned that hairy-nosed wombats are "on death row".

But opposition politicians - and even wombat lovers - question if now is the time to be thinking about wombats.

Inflation is at a 16-year high, interest rates are up and fuel prices are rising. Mr Henry will also miss a central bank meeting.

source

I heart wombats. Now I must scour the employee handbook to see if I, too, qualify for wombat leave.

Wheels. Are. Turning.

She Works Hard for the Money

Who DOESN'T write in fishnets?

I believe I'm developing some sort of occupational ADD. I'm feeling significantly more scattered and distracted than usual. A subconscious itching, perhaps, for something a little more.... Well, more.

This is going to sound slightly insane (even bordering on nonsensical), but I've decided to be a workaholic for the summer. I know, I know, it's probably not the most logical strategy for overcoming a distracted mind. But I have my reasons. Some of them make sense.

I need to test my time-management skills. My drive. My ability to multi-task and my discipline for freelance. So while my inner Lazy Girl is hardly excited about the long hours that await me in the coming weeks, Delayed-Gratification Girl (my superhero alter ego) will be doing her "You can thank me now" dance in a few months. Or at least that's the plan.

So I'll be hanging out at the office this Saturday. Before blogging for four other sites. And possibly adapting a book into a play. Oh, and writing crossword clues.

Bring it on.*

*By "it," I mean "a very long nap."

Blog and Ye Shall Receive

Yesterday, I waxed poetic about Jimmy and my need to spend an evening with The Philadelphia Story.

This morning, I arrived at work to be met with a DVD of said film. Because I work with really cool people. I don't often blog about work or friends. Mostly because I don't wanted to get dooced.* Which apparently means "getting fired for something you've written on your blog." Oh, the stories I could tell....

But I do go to work. And I do have friends. Shocking, I know.

So, thanks, Kathleen. You're the Kate Hepburn of closed captioning. And will be recruited to write the comic-book version of this blog one day.

And while I'm in the mood to acknowledge coworkers, check out this gorgeous necklace.

This was my birthday gift last year. Made by Sarah. Check out her fabulous Etsy shop. And then buy stuff. Lots of it. Or all of it.

Oh, and if you're a coworker who feels excluded by your lack of mention in this post, you should blog. Or lend me movies. Or make me things. And I might acknowledge/link to you too. Maybe.

*Dooce.com is my newest blogstalking obsession. Thanks, Beth.
A blogroll will show up on on her toes shortly. Pinky swear.