Sitting Ducks

I like hearing how people have earned their money. Usually a lot of it. If you're more middle-class, sometimes on the verge of low - like me, wearing your husband's clothes because at least they're different and living off sandwiches eaten over a grubby white keyboard - not so much. But if you have a house on the blue, clear lake of Tahoe, in the flats of Paris, or planted on the isle of Coronado, spill it.

Just Being Frank

While writing from home and applying to local gigs and watching Netflix episodes is maddening when your neighbor is drilling up every inch of their concrete surroundings, we otherwise wouldn't have found out that avocado farming (go figure) can be a lucrative business, including selling the more mature regular trees that dot Walmart parking lots. Our neighbor was out and about and too kind to be mad at for the incessant, house-rumbling construction. So we found out their household apparently did a proverbial "fall" into the nutritious, green egg business. Meaning they paired a good idea with a good brain filled with business skills and not B.S.


I wish I knew other neighbors' careers or history, especially when they have one of the blue and gold Coronado Historical Association signs perched in front of their home, reading "Home of a Naval Aviator." Why are there so many of these? What the hell kind of career did they lead? I jog by mansion after cottage, beach house after craftsman after villa, and I want a tour, to chat, to sit in the glowing gardens with an iced tea, or patrol the spooky halls of the brick mansions shuttered tight above expansive lawns for so small an island. I might have to settle for open houses and a tour at The Del unless I can figure out how to use being a freelance reporter to my real story-craving advantage.

White Collar: It Takes a Thief
By Ghostey at DeviantArt

As I submit yet another application to Kashi and The Active Network, and play the 23rd episode of White Collar, I realize maybe thievery is the way to go. White Collar is in the vein of true story Catch Me If You Can: Successful thief (except for that one time you get caught) turned FBI consultant. I could stop...retire at one billion or whatever. No guns. No partners. If I were clever enough. And that's a big 'if.' Plus, it's tough to be a theif when your husband believes in things like justice and hard work.

(But this islet's bound to be home to mounds of wealth behind those trusting unlocked doors!)

While I may not have the brain waves or skills to be a master of purloining, I also find I wouldn't be that useful in an apocalypse. Even though Cary and I have a great zombie plan - get to an island (check), blow the bridge, and kill all the zombies in residence, (his idea though). I can't shoot let alone stand the idea of using a knife or my weak, bare hands; I can't provide healthcare; I can't lead a group of idiots with my wisdom and charm. I can, however, compose the perfect corporate Facebook post. WTF?

HowIsHow

Somehow, I got the idea in my head in school that writing for a meager living and having the time to read and watch everything I desired, was more for me than learning more about the remarkable reproductive system and ushering life into this world at 2 a.m. on Christmas Eve. While I don't regret the choice except in random conversations and on random shopping trips, I do wonder what role I'll play in the inevitable dire situation.

Until then, I guess someone does need to teach the leaders of the free world how to tweet.