Time to talk some trash, kids.
I thought I’d give you a little caveat before you started reading one of my oft-repeated bitches. And just like Eats Shoots & Leaves, you will notice there is no comma before the word “bitches,” hence I am not calling you a name. I am referring to my history of complaining. Or, as I tell my children, my “continuing lecture series.”
Let’s start by saying I was forced to go to Disneyland and California Adventure earlier this week. Well, not forced. It was more like subtly adorable coercion, because, hey, my grandson is very cute and it’s totally worth it when I’m his favorite companion on some of the more nauseating rides.
We were in the yellow one. Yellow, the color of cowardice and barf.
While dining on hot dogs in California Adventure, I noticed a sign in the seating area near “Muppet Vision 3D” that said something about the ride being “three-dimentional.” Yep, with a “t.” My husband suggested that I contract with the nice folks at Disney to walk around the parks finding typographical errors and correcting them.
Not entirely true. I also judge them on running me over with a stroller at Disneyland.
But I'm not as huge a stickler as others, and this isn't what the post is really about.
My younger daughter is working what’s basically a freelance job. She called to tell me that some of the company’s practices are being disputed by its contracted employees. I’m not going to get into it because she’s very private and I don’t want to create any domestic issues, particularly since she’ll be moving back home soon. Although her being mad at me would be a good excuse for me to not do her laundry.
So, after we discussed it and I offered my experiences and was told that my freelance work is in no way like hers, I decided to shut the hell up, which is always a good move for any parental unit.
But my opinion, since you're captive and she isn't, is that being a freelancer of any sort is the greatest thing in the world and the suckiest thing in the world.
Great: I get to work while wearing yoga pants, a fuzzy green hoodie, and a Mark Twain t-shirt that has what I’m sure is a legitimate quote from him.
From Headlineshirts.net. I'm wearing it right now. With no shoes. Yeah, that's right. I'm a rebel.
While I am still fabulously comfy in my great wardrobe, this sucky thing creates more work for me, which means I earn less money per hour. The argument my daughter made was that I get paid per piece, but she gets paid hourly, meaning I am not suffering as much as she. I disagree with her and feel that no matter what the payment arrangements, if you have to work harder to get a project finished, you are still making less money.
There was other stuff, but that argument stuck in my craw, whatever a craw is, and the dictionary says it's “the stomach of an animal,” which would explain the giant box of Omeprazole I got yesterday at Costco.
Speaking of which, I’m not sure what’s a worse ride—Costco Shopping Cart or Muppet Three-
From 123rf.com. Yeah, I don't know.