(no subject)

Today, I am missing the glamorous (*cough*) life of a freelancer. I think mostly because I would like to have a lot more time to write the several pending stories and things I want to write, and also because when I took breaks, I could hang out with my cats. It's cold, I miss tea in the afternoon and warm blankets and a cat on the desk or at my feet. I miss stock on the stove while I wrote. I miss the intersection of work and domesticity. There. I said it.

I don't miss the pay, the feeling like I should always be working, the isolation. I made the right decision (for now).

That still isn't going to get these stories written.

Not that they necessarily would have gotten written before -- they didn't pay well enough to spend so much time on, you know?

Because let's face it: what I really want is to be wealthy enough to stay at home and dabble. Or for someone to like my work so much, they subsidize it for art's sake and damn the market. I'm not sure I'd work so well under patronage, but I'd be willing to give it a shot. As long as the tea was good and the meetings were short.

Class Marker, In Passing

I told a dinner companion last week about an unusual class marker of mine: my father encouraged me to learn how to eat sandwiches in public with a fork and knife. His urging was strong and consistent. It was something he clearly thought I needed to know, part of how to comport myself properly in the world. When eating with strangers, I should eat everything with a fork and knife. Everything.

In general, my father was quite concerned with my table manners. One of the biggest fights we ever had growing up was over how I held my fork. (All the anger and frustration was on my side, btw.) I described his attitude as "aspirational working class." Later, in a different conversation, I said that the fighting came because I could sense something was "off" about the enterprise, but I was too young to really parse the situation for what it was. I was reacting with my usual stubbornness to the imposed expectations of others. Not my father's expectations, but the unquestioned expectations of others. I was rebelling against a dimly perceived power structure by refusing to hold my fork correctly. Really.

My father's lessons took anyway. Nowadays, I pass well. I am comfortable even in the fanciest of places. And I know how to eat a sandwich with a knife and fork.

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