DONE WITH JOBS: THANK GOD I'M FREE AT LAST!

Applying Elbow Grease...(at work) 1990
Today ended 37 years of working at jobs outside of Art. I'm done. And it's wonderful. I'm not retired, dead, or divorced; I'm free. I've worked as a Good Humor Lady driving an ice cream truck--from which I made no profit because I ate so much--a secretary--which was the worst I think; a Recreational Therapist--that had good points--and an Real Estate assessor. I must have had other jobs; I just can't remember. I didn't fit into any of them because I rebel against authority and I reek of being a person who thinks my own way. But I'm quiet too, shy, and compassionate. I like honest open people very much and I tell them. But I've got a bad temper too and I've too often said way too much and regretted it later. I still felt the same way about the other people, but I knew I should have kept my mouth shut for my own sake. Oh, well. I still got my little boy through private school and college and earned a pension. What more could I ask for? As an artist, I've done exceptionally well and being me, I'm amazed.
It seems like I've met the worst people in my life at work. I'm not sure which job was my first but I remember being hired at Thrivo, a small company that made dog food. I was eighteen and terribly innocent even though I'd already been married for more than a year with a baby. The owner and manager stepped over the dead mice and insects and made dirty jokes all day. In my great wisdom, I decided this was wrong since I was uncomfortable, so I gave them dirty looks. That was the first time I was fired. So I took the clerk-typist test for the City and eventually was hired, working in Center City Philly. Every day I dressed up in a little dress, stockings, and high heels. I had no idea how adorable I was with long black hair, petite, thin, and very pretty. (I'm 57 now and very "chubby". I think it's okay for me to say how pretty I was.) My calf-skin shoes cost $16, which was expensive then, and I still remember them. I sat at a desk with a typewriter amongst a bunch of other young women also at typewriters under the watchful eye of our supervisor, who seemed to be on a desk higher than ours so she could watch us minute-to-minute. We weren't allowed to talk or stay long at lunch. The woman at the desk in front of mine was perhaps a year older and maybe had worked a year longer so she designated herself as my supervisor. We didn't get along well at all, so shortly after I asked for a transfer and ended up at an installation in the northeast part of the city. I'll leave that sad story for later. For now, I'll go paint.