I put in my notice at The Other Paper. Now, I’ve formally resigned before (every time the computer crashes, when the coffee pot is empty or when Eric Lyttle uses a caption as a headline), but this time I actually mean it.
Turns out that writing stories a few months out of the year—you know, between maternity leaves—is just too hard on a girl.
So, here’s the deal. I just feel like with this weird work-from-home situation, both my kids and The Paper deserve better. Each moment my eyes are open I have to choose whether to ignore my screaming children, or my screaming Twitter feed. Nobody wins. Plus, with all these mouths to feed, I was starting to feel like an aggressive panhandler, which, I’m pretty sure, is illegal in Columbus. Anyway, who do I think I am? Some kind of assistant manager at Pizza Hut or something?
It’ll be good to step away for a while and realize all I take for granted.
The only thing I love more than vaginal delivery is working at The Other Paper. It is the only place I’ll ever be a staff writer. It is my favorite home. It takes a special humility to be successful there. Like working with handicapped children. But I felt myself drifting too far from the shore. Staying up late. Drinking heavily. Tweeting in bed. Having homosexual thoughts.
I could rattle on about how I am Raw Talent that was Grossly Mistreated or something, but that would be what we call in the industry, a ‘huge lie.’ Everyone was as sweet as pie and very accommodating to my breastpumping-every-10-minutes /goat herder/reporter lifestyle. They were kind enough to shut (not slam) their office doors when I had to bring in screaming babies.
Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh. A fulltime mama. Can you feel the relief in the air?
BRING ON THE UTILITY DISCONNECT NOTICES.
Now that I’m on my way out, the sarcasm is dripping off me like creamy calamine lotion. Maybe Seth will get to rip up the tape on the cordoned-off “No Sarcasm” zone in our home. We can open our entire floor plan to genuinely SAYING what you MEAN without CYNICISM. Deep breath in.
You know those coffee table books for people who own loft condos? The ones with the black-and-white pictures with poor people on their porches? There they sit—in just horrid conditions—and the whole family is covered in dirt and you look at them and think, “My God–Why do they look so pleased with themselves? And what on Earth is that child planning to do with that giant stick? Is that a mountain lion?”
That’s going to be me for a few years as I fade into oblivion, pursing my dreams of writing blogs and books and crafting AMAZING Facebook status messages—all with the single hope of making some poor, abandoned sacrificial parent laugh. Because staying at home with kids can be hard and dull and this particular population needs to laugh to get through it or else they might put the whole family on Craigslist.
There will always be time for journalism. If you think about it, lots of journalists way more talented than you have been working to keep our government transparent for decades—and the problems are only getting worse. I mean, if you can’t outsmart a publicly educated dad making $13 an hour when he’s not off on a furlough-cation, well … you might want to step down from politics all together, amirite? The scofflaws grow smarter, the ranks of journalists grows thinner and their opponents grow increasingly better at hiding their egos and mischief. Actually, don’t think about that for a minute. That is depressing. Come out and play with my goats with me.
Ironically, (is this actually ironic???) I haven’t yet paid off my student loans for my journalism degree, so I’m not throwing in the towel. I’m just takin’ a minute to freelance part-time while I watch these tiny creatures shoot up at the speed of light. And it’s not like politics is going to be any less ridiculous by the time these children stop pooping up their backs.
Now we’ve got one week left: Let’s see if we can’t get Ben Marrison to label me as a domestic terrorist.
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