Can't A Girl Just Be A Housewife Already?

This past week's PostSecret featured one card with particular relevance for me:

 

"What  do we want?"

"More oppression!"

"When do we want it?"

"NOW!!"

But in all seriousness, there's something about this sentiment that really gels for me. Ever since quitting my remaining "real job" back in April (I have since picked up a bartending gig one night a week, but that's not exactly what I got my college degrees for), I've been spending a lot of time around the house. Some of it's spent working to grow our design business, some of it's spent blogging for The Art Abyss, and some of it's spent wrastling the fur babies. Okay, more than some.

The view from my office chair. How do you not wrastle that?

But business grows slowly, and blogging can only take up so much time. Fur babies aside, that means I end up engaging in the selfish acts of

a) working out (which is justifiable as good for me, but feels like stolen time)
b) reading books (possibly justifiable because all great writers should be great readers (right?))
c) attempting to clean house (justifiable if I actually get something done - therein the rub)
d) browsing endlessly on the Internets and making too many Facebook posts (tangentially justifiable under the heading of "the more you know," but highly suspect on a productivity scale)

a significant portion of the time. And then my husband comes home from his 9 to 5, and I wonder how I can make it look like I actually accomplished something that day.

On a blog titled "Mrs. Degree," you might be surprised to find such angst about semi-housewifehood. But let's remember, that title's a send-up of something my grandmother said to me when I was going into college. I have every intention of having my own career, making my own living, creating my own arc independent of that of my husband. And please believe me when I say I know I wouldn't be able to be making the go of things the way I am if it weren't for his emotional - and financial - support. And that's where it gets sticky.

Right now, I am a woman with the capabilities to make a living on her own -- perhaps not my ideal living as a self-supporting artist and writer, but a living that supports a solo apartment, some nice dinners, the occasional vintage hat splurge -- but because I have the support of a gainfully employed spouse, I'm able to pursue my ideal professions without having to freak out about where the next paycheck is coming from. Sure, since switching to freelance "full time," we've had to tighten our belts and go out less, but hey - it's all in the name of pursuing a dream, right?

Yet until I have our business chugging along, until I start seeing my writing and my painting bring in regular paychecks, I still feel like a housewife playing work. And though I absolutely respect the women and men who have chosen to care for their household full-time while their partner works (there's even evidence that such arrangements may be more efficient), for me personally, I feel like I'm not living up to my full potential -- even to my full obligation. And that leads to some very real feelings of guilt.

Confessions of a Shopgirl: Luck Unlooked-for

You may be wondering how my job is going -- and even if you're not, I'm far too tired to come up with a different idea for a blog post. As to my job, it's actually going really well! I like the people I work with (for the most part), I loooove the part where I get to do makeovers on people, and I'm really gaining a great deal of experience and knowledge with all the ins and outs of cosmetics (which will be very useful in my future part-time gig as a makeup artist). BUT, the transportation situation to get Mr. and I to work is positively unsustainable, and I don't just mean in the environmental sense -- so thus again go I into the breach, to find a job with better hours and a shorter commute.

Yet I cannot overemphasize how lucky I have been in getting this job - not in working it specifically, but in how this job has modified my story arc in wild and wonderful ways. First, there was the day I showed up an hour and a half early (I'm still getting used to this shifting schedule thing). Grumpy and at a loss for what to do, I wandered over to the craft store to pick up some holiday decorations and gift supplies - when lo and behold, I stumbled across a "2 for $1.00" one-day sale on mini ceramic casseroles. They were the perfect size and color for gifting little loaves of bread, so I snatched them up before any of the other deal-sniffing ladies that frequent craft stores could grab them.

Bummer.

Then there is the whole makeup application aspect of my job -- I'm learning about prepping the skin, matching and applying foundation, taking care of multiple-person-use products (aka testers) and more, all while getting paid for it instead of attending beauty school. Score!

But finally, and most surprising out of the bunch, is the unexpected arrival of an opportunity for me to pursue my *real job* - my job of being an artist. Through talking to one of the other employees, I found out he's in a band and that they're releasing an album soon. When I suggested that I might be a great person to do their album artwork for them, he picked me up on it, and now I've got a tidy little commission project tucked away to finish this next week! That, plus the incredible stroke of luck the Mr. and I had in landing a graphic and web design gig for a local candidate, has equaled many nights of sleeping far less than what qualifies as 'beauty sleep' - in fact, judging by the way I look and feel in the morning I suspect I'm only getting as far as 'ugly sleep' - and finding my social life and leisure time almost entirely taken over by work on my 'second' job. But, this is exactly what Cracked.com said I could expect, so I'm going to take it as a sign that I'm on the right track. And of course, had I not been working at the makeup counter, I never would have started talking to my new client for the CD cover, and had I not been unemployed at the beginning of December, I never would have thought I'd have the time to build logos and a website. But here I am, with even less time than I had then, and I am doing it, and I'm having a great time, and it sounds like some of my job prospects are opening up as far as finding something that fits more reasonably into my schedule. Otherwise, I just need to keep on chugging and remember, no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should.

Confessions of a Shopgirl

That's right folks! Out of the apron, into the lab coat - the lab coat of a makeup counter salesperson, that is. Or will be, possibly starting on Sunday. I took the job, on the grounds that it's better to have a sure thing than to keep looking around in the hope that something I actually want comes up (so much for risking my talent, eh?).

Yes, there may have been some angry words, and tears, and a lot of grappling with that nagging voice that keeps suggesting I'll never succeed at anything -- but there's also the peace of mind in knowing that at least I'll have a job, that I won't be pulling down our finances, that I won't be taking advantage of anyone's generosity while I continue to search for my "real job."

Which brings me to Claire Danes. Or more specifically, Claire Danes' character in 'Shopgirl.' Yes, I'm comparing myself to Mirabelle, although thankfully I don't have the headache of a love triangle that she deals with over the course of the film. There are the easy comparisons: She's an artist! I'm an artist! She works in a department store! I'll be working in a department store! There are also the more subtle things, like how I can use her difficulty choosing Mr. Right as a metaphor for my internal debate regarding the question of my career(s). But the most important lesson for me to take away from the film actually relates to the secondary story arc. Along with getting a job in her field and becoming self-actualized in her relationships, Maribelle finally gets a solo show. Yes, this is an American romance - she gets the boy, the show, and the great job. But there is more for me to strive for in this end than cinematic cynicism. What if I can be Maribelle? I have the boy, now I need the show and the job. Surely this can't only be a Hollywood fairytale.

With this, Mrs. (hopefully) ends her series of posts on unemployment, job hunting, and the sturm und drang associated with the post-collegiate doldrums. On Friday, look for a new post describing whatever wacky and wonderful thing strikes her fancy at the time -- possibly, it will involve makeup.

Chumbawumba

Why? Because, that's why.

Also because, as Gershwin put it, "things are looking up" -- I've had a couple interviews and am working on getting a third scheduled. Honestly, it's just nice to know I'm being noticed. Sitting at home all day, or driving around on various errands in town, is not all high heels and pearls and perfectly coiffed hair -- there's a distinct lack of purpose going on there, too.

More like the woman on the right, is what I'm saying.

Now, I know - in the grand scheme of things, I'm supposed to be setting up my art practice so I can one day be self-employed, and being self-employed would eventually mean spending a great deal of my time at home in my studio - but for now, the lack of a direct link between my making art and my making money (and my fears stemming from the threat of not making money) renders the whole process rather empty for me.

Nevertheless, just as I am starting to have some luck in the job market (fingers crossed!), I'm starting to see things turn around in the studio. I hadn't put pen -- or charcoal, or brush, or pastel -- to paper for over six months, and this past weekend, I went into the studio, hung up a sheet of paper, and started to draw. A big, giant, Christmas Card of an image -- not because I needed to do it for class, and not because I think I could sell it or gain gallery representation through it, but because I was feeling an emotion that I wanted to put on paper (maybe it's part of "risking my talent?"). I stayed up till three a.m. drawing, and as I shoved Mr. back onto his side of the bed before laying down, I felt better. Not automatically happier, but more like I'd just had a really good cry without smudging mascara all over my face. And it wasn't because I accidentally pulled his hair and woke him up as I fluffed up my pillow -- though that was pretty damn funny.

And if making art or tugging hair ever fails, there are always other options . . .