Diary of a Sex-Starved Pseudo-Mennonite, Part 43

The thing about drummers is they don't really like to talk. They prefer to bang it out. Which explains Pam Anderson's undying love for Tommy Lee. I wasn't lucky enough to see the sex tape. I just know.

Drummer Boy is in Europe on a holiday military tour. We connected a fair amount via text when I was recently in Ft. Myers Beach playing the younger and illegitimately unemployed crasher to an otherwise legitimately retired senior party of 3. Flying to Florida made me think about Drummer Boy even more than usual, because we met when I was on a plane flying to Florida at summer's end. In fact, he was just in Ft. Myers Beach about a week before me, for a gig, but left before I got there. Back when we were seeing each other, he flew to a job in my hometown over a weekend without realizing he was working where I grew up. Home alone in the West yet free to fly, I texted him fervent and explicit restaurant recommendations. He and the band enjoyed Rudy's Tacos and Hungry Hobo, per my insistence. Drummer Boy and I, we keep passing like 2 planes in the night, not connecting flights but heavy in each other's atmosphere. Or maybe that's just me. I can't read his mind. Or can I?

I am currently in contention for 2 jobs. One is the kind your mother would approve of: a 9-5 salaried copywriter position with medical, dental, vision and probably a logo golf shirt I get to wear on Fridays with tidy Mom jeans and uncomfortable footwear. Dress shoes with jeans; a corporate workplace classic. The other is a part-time situation (to start) that might threaten your mother's definition of employment. It's a contract deal that pays per project, is fully remote, and requires me to write lightly hypnotic scripts to help customers achieve positive transformation in their lives after listening for just a few short minutes a day. Were you aware that I am a certified Hypnosis Practitioner and Licensed Hypnotherapist in Washington state, at least through March? And a Master Neuro-Linguistic Programming Practitioner? I mostly don't tell people. As with so many certifications, 80% of the time, I forget I have these capabilities. But it's true. I'm a slyly certified spooky little bitch. Outside of a professional context, I don't use my fringy credentials on others because even on the rare occasion that I remember I could, my intuition about what someone else needs is stronger than my training. All I have to do is feel and listen to what I feel. No thinking required.

The brain-training outfit operates in the West (obvi) and the proprieter was featured in the film version of The Secret. Which freaks me out, because I haven't read The Secret, but referenced its ideas in an earlier blog and defended them even. And now I am on the cusp of working for a dude who was in The Secret and lives it 24-7 and this practice made him a baller. That dude is my new boss and co-writer. I say this because part of The Secret's magic is you just start consistently saying to yourself that a thing is true and then it becomes true. No shit.

So if I follow the formula, what comes next is the proprieter loves my script sample, picks me immediately for the coveted full-time Lead Script Writer spot, and finds me so invaluable that he pays for me to relocate back to the West so he can probe my brain in person as needed. Then boom: Drummer Boy smells me in the vicinity, hops aboard my flight, and we live happily ever after. Right? Right.

I believe I will get both jobs. Which leaves a life tethered to the Midwest in my near future, so I can report to the hybrid 9-5 the required 2 days in-person per week. And a far out future life hangs in the ether, a life where I live wherever I want, the idea dangling in front of me like a sweet Lindt milk chocolate Easter carrot, should my part-time remote script-writing gig turn full-time and committed. Which will it be? Or will it be both indefinitely, and then when will I have time to blog if I write copy all week and script write all weekend and working that much, how will I ever meet anyone beyond the Drummer Boy I already know and love? I am not a workaholic. But I love to write and 2 different organizations have never wanted to pay me to do this before at the same time. So it could happen. 

In my current housing development, just the other day a neighbor bellowed zestily across the lawn to another, "I always tell my son, do what you love--you never work a day in your life." The jolly fellow spoke as if he invented this phrase and the saying was not trite, yet I appreciated his confident delivery. Was this message actually for me? A sign that I will love my future workaholism so much that I won't even notice the lack of social life, lover, and family of my own? Will this previously unknown job-love cause me to operate my life like Drummer Boy, working so impossibly often that we can't reunite, each passionately romancing our vocations until we pass into the next life? Dare I dream of us getting it right in THAT incarnation, where I get to be the musical 29-forever blond with zero body fat and he plays the equally sly and naive silver fox?

Drummer Boy surprised me 1 night this past fall, charging the karaoke setup at a bar near my house and taking control of the situation. I didn't know he could sing. He hadn't told me he loved me yet and used the performance to say so down low, looking across the bar at me when the teleprompter made him sing, "In other words...I love you." He sang "Fly Me to the Moon." Another flight reference. Drummer Boy was a 29-year-old punk, yet he chose Sinatra as the vessel to intimate his love. Drummer Boy delivered so well, I dared not take the stage after.

Fly by in the new year to see if I really am capable of loving my work with the same fervor once reserved for a black clad millennial tasting of whiskey and mango vape.

Until Next Time, Sweeties!

Ness Sweet Ness