Wednesday, August 12, 2015


"Nice to meet you, Mollie. What do you do?"
"I'm SO glad you asked. I'm a substitute-teaching freelance journalist with a degree in landscape design."

 <wilted sigh>

At age 39, I'm still looking for my place in this world.  August heralds the reminder that with no definitive career, I'll spend the next nine months wandering through yet another school year, the nomadic substitute.

A little over a year ago I decided to put my A-L-L into becoming a certified teacher.  Jumped through hoops, passed an exam, contacted places of higher learning.  Turns out, it's just not in the cards.  Unless a university president is reading this and wants to award me free tuition, that is.  Wink, wink.  Yes, I see you reading this blog. and I have spent a lot of quality time together.  Indeed is a job classifieds site.  It's filled fresh each day with positions for administrative assistants, nuclear engineers and registered nurses.  If there's a job I'm not qualified for, they've posted it.
If there's a job that doesn't fit my schedule, they've posted it.
If there's a job that I would rock at but is over an hour away, they've posted it.

And yet the glistening mirage of my career beckons eternal.
I keep opening the app, hoping the perfect job will be there >>sparkling<< in all its digital glory.

But the cynicism is creeping in.  It's hard to fend it off sometimes.

It's not the money.  You don't go into substitute-teaching freelance journalism with a degree in landscape design to rake in the big bucks, obviously.  Although you do a lot of raking.
Thank goodness for Tall Dark and Handsome.  Or should I say Sugar Daddy?  Without him, MasterCard would've locked me out long ago.

Well, okay, if I'm being honest, it is a bit about the money. I'd like to make more than the girl handing out slurpees at Burger King, which is an increasing challenge. But there's a bigger bottom line on my mind: who am I?

Goodness.  Such a dark post.  You check in here to read charming nibs about my exploits with lost pruners and naughty grubs, not to delve into the depths of my self-worth.

Well, whether you made it this far, or gave up three paragraphs back, this airing of my thoughts is  therapeutic.  Even if my words echo hollowly back to me, there is something about posting them to the universe that scratches my mental itch.

Thank you.
I do feel better.

And for those of you that hung in there,  I have a point.  A horticultural one, even.

Remember this pic of my annuals-in-the-flat, left for dead by our house sitter?  Mollie the Horticulturist labeled them past their PWP (Permanent Wilting Point). Translation: it's a goner, with a capital G.

I splashed water on them anyway because Mollie the Eternal Optimist hasn't yet reached her PWP, even if she is drooping a bit.

The next morning, I found this.  

A love note from God to one of his hope-thirsty seedlings.   

Let the morning bring me word of your unfailing love, 
for I have put my trust in you.
Show me the way I should go,
for to you I entrust my life.  

Psalm 143:8
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