Chapter 13

Where, oh where have I left my stoicism?

I am a prickly specimen. While roses may be my favorite flower to cultivate in my garden, one of my favorite wild flowers is the thistle. This particular one cropped up in my garden in the early summer and in spite of it's very vicious leaf needles which grab at my ankles, I have enjoyed watching it's tight porcupine buds develop and then barely open enough to let the pretty silky purple threads emerge. It reminds me of two things: Scotland (my first favorite place on earth), and myself.

A lot of the time I don't like to be reminded of myself. While I am pretty confident in my capabilities, have learned to appreciate many of my gifts, and generally love the life I'm living, I am by no means so in love with myself that I enjoy seeing myself reflected in the world. However, in the thistle I see myself as I really am. I won't appear like a thistle to many people who know me, or think they know me, because I am medicated now. But ask any of my very oldest friends who knew me long before I ever went to therapy, long before I had my own home and found my stride, you will hear about a very prickly person. Hell, just ask Philip!

I used to come unglued if anyone read my magazines before I did, just to give you a little example.

I love thistles for reminding me of my alternative plan in life: to buy this little station house that was for sale in the highlands of Scotland (near the Great Glen Water Park) and cut myself a swath of garden, bake bread everyday, fresh scones, write, and take daily walks up the ragged hills to breath the freshest air I have ever taken into my lungs. The only reason why we're not there now is because we couldn't figure out how to make a living there.

Which is ironic because I'm faced with the same problem now, here in Oregon (my second favorite place on earth). But this is a tiresome subject. Just because I'm afraid of my pile of bills, the ones that haven't yet been paid, doesn't mean anyone wants to hear about my financial woes AGAIN. Unfortunately, my mind is preoccupied with how the hell to unload all this great stuff I have to sell that I seem unable to sell. What good does it do me to have great stuff if I can't sell it? It does tell me something though.

It may be time to accept that selling my used things, and the products I make myself, and the great products I've acquired from others, is not my calling. Seriously. Because the universe has put a protective shield around me that protects me from making money. So what if the only thing I'm really meant to do is write and keep house?

Which would be ironic, since it's truthfully the only thing in my life that I absolutely feel I must do, no matter what. I love to design products, and I design damn fine ones too, but I can't sell them for fortunes nor pennies. Everyone knows it's hard to make a living selling handcrafted goods, but I even had a store. I had a store front with great windows and I couldn't make it work. I have had a website for a year, a really nice one, and I have gotten a handful of orders (Thank you Pam, you wonderful friend! You make up at least a quarter of my on-line business!)

We used Google ad-words, we advertised our store, we even had a huge sale to try to unload most of our stuff and sent out close to 100 newsletters to tell our customers about our 40% off sale and no one came except Louise. Whom I love. If you have a store, and you put signs in the window that you're having a fabulous sale, and you tell everyone on your mailing list about it, and no one comes to shop it, it is clear that you are a loser at commerce.

I've had Dustpan Alley for three years now. I can't sell my stuff at craft fairs. I can't sell my stuff online. I can't sell it in a store. I can't sell anything worth a shit. Even when I'm desperate. Surely, surely that is a pretty clear message. I haven't lost confidence that I make cool things. I do. I know I do. People seem to love what I make, they just don't want to buy it.

I'm not whining, by the way. I'm just painting the picture. The truth. And trying to figure out what the right next move is. I'm tired of wasting energy on enterprises that go nowhere. More to the point, this last one has brought me to planet broke-ass. Philip has a job, one with a lot of potential, one he's really happy about. But the fact remains that for the time being, it pays about $1200 per month when our bills are about $3500 per month. Anyone can do that kind of math. So what next?

I am obviously going to look for part time work. I'm sorry if this seems weak, but if I'm working part time (provided anyone will hire me for the hours I can work while Max is in school, because, you know, we can't afford any daycare) I can't also work on Dustpan Alley. Not in addition to doing my mom gig, taking care of the house, and writing. The writing can't stop or I'll have to be sent to an institution.

This is all I think about all day long now. How I have so much to sell in goods I bought for the store, now in storage, that I can't even unload for 40% off, and I have furniture that is gorgeous and totally collectible that I tried to sell under it's value that no one wanted to buy off of Craig's list. (But when I decide to bring the price way down people gasp and say-oh but it's worth so much more! Can't seem to win. Besides, I kind of think that even if I try to sell it for dirt cheap, no one will bite.) Next month is coming and we're not even going to have enough for the mortgage.

I guess it's nice to have something other than my fat to worry about huh?

They take your house when you go bankrupt, don't they?

I don't want an empire. I don't want to be filthy rich. I don't want a complicated life. I just want to be comfortable. I just want to make the right choices for once. I just don't want to lose my house. I just want to not be scared every month to open my bills. We don't even have cable. We don't have cell phones. We don't have a second car. We don't have anything fancy. Our hugest splurge is really good quality food and lots of good quality beer, and going out to eat once or twice a week.

It's ironic that we went completely broke trying to make a living.

I'm tired, people. So tired. And totally scared every single day. And too paralyzed with worry to know what to do next. I can't even afford my health care. I cannot stop taking my medications so I guess I better find out how much they are without insurance and weigh that against the price of insurance.

Guess I'll let the kid vegetate in front of the videos again today and go hang out with the plants again. They don't have any answers for me, unfortunately, but perhaps they'll help to bring down the awful panic I feel rising in my chest.

Because I'm so worn out. I'm tired. I'm really effing exhausted.

Later: The more our situation is examined, the more clear it becomes that I will have to get full time work just to be only $1000 short of making our bills every month because the kind of jobs I'm qualified for out there pay about $8.00 an hour. I think the right thing to do is to close down Dustpan Alley as a company and keep it only as a blog. I could get rid of all that stuff in storage by selling it cheap at garage sales. Or maybe I should have someone else sell them who isn't a human money repellent, since I already tried to sell them cheap and no one wanted to buy. Do you think the Universe will be tricked by this ploy? The galloping in my chest is very bad today. We are out of decaf coffee which never helps.