RamonaCreel.com

Before you listen to any of my crazy shit, I need to explain why I have ANY right to talk to you about radically disrupting your mostly-comfy-but-not-quite-satisfying (or painful-to-the-point-of-intolerable, depending on what brought you to my site) circumstances in favor of a more authentic existence.

It’s ‘cuz I’ve been there too.

How True Are You?

I know how draining it feels to live a lie, how tiring pretense can be — keeping up appearances, yanking at that mask so it doesn’t slip in front of the wrong people, shoring up cracks in your façade, trying so damn hard to convince the world that everything’s “fine” when inauthenticity is chipping your soul away piece by piece, day after day after day.

I recognize how impossible the idea of changing all those way-the-fuck-outside-your-sphere-of-control circumstances can seem. I understand how confusing and demoralizing it is to be surrounded by misguided sheeple (many of whom are friends/family you care deeply about) — watching them normalize unhappiness and celebrate dysfunction as if were some kind of masochistic Puritan virtue. I empathize as you sit there wondering why nobody’s clamoring for something “more,” something “better.”

But more importantly, I get something most folks don’t — I know how to figure out what you were REALLY meant for, and how to create a world in which you have THAT.

How do I know? ‘Cuz I’ve done it myself.

And I’ve helped scores of others do it. And I know that you can do it too.

Of course this sort of authenticity does not come easy (especially living in a society like ours, where following the crowd is practically a religion). Whenever anyone envies my existence as an ain’t-nobody-gonna-tell-me-what-to-do entrepreneur, a spend-my-time-spewing-bizarre-thoughts-onto-canvas artist, or a run-away-from-home-for-the-rest-of-my-life wanderluster — I make damn sure they understand that nothing about the way I currently operate is the result of any single magical event. It’s a gigantically messy culmination of the many choices (both wise and dumbshit) I’ve made, serendipities I’ve experienced, boners I’ve pulled, trains I’ve wrecked, pooches I’ve screwed, and lessons I’ve (hopefully) learned.

I’ll say it again, this ain’t gonna be easy.

But “easy” and “worthwhile aren’t even close to the same thing.

What a lifetime of authenticity failures and victories has taught me is how VITAL this find-your-true-path-and-fuck-the-nay-sayers journey is to each and every one of our mental/physical/spiritual well-being — and how even-more-freaking-amazing-than-you-ever-imagined the end results can be!

I also want to assure you that it’s totally okay to do WHATEVER the hell you want with your life, even if it doesn’t resemble other folks’ definitions of success. Some narrow-minded folk believe that if you’re not ascending a stereotypical ladder in the socially-prescribed manner, it doesn’t count. (These people are morons.) I don’t work a 9-to-5 job or live a particularly “normal” existence — doesn’t mean I’m not proud of the things I’ve accomplished. So in defiance of “DaMan,” I decided to lay it all out in one giant autobiographical vomit that violates every possible principle of effective resume-construction — too damn wordy, written in prose, a mix of personal and professional, using colloquial language, with a handful of profanities thrown in for good measure. (Not like I’ll be applying for a job-job anytime soon!) If you’ve ever wondered what “career A.D.D.” looks like, here it is!

I want you to be just as excited about having what you want (rather than some half-assed substitute that society decided you “deserved”) as I am — so I figure the best way to give you some idea of what the long-and-winding road to authenticity might look like for you is by showing you what it has looked like so far for me. I’m hoping that by the time you finish reading this ridiculously-long memoir (sorry but brevity ain’t my shtick), you’ll be inspired to pack your bags and join me on the adventure of a lifetime!

In The Beginning…

What sent me down the road less traveled? This photo of me screaming is proof that I’ve been doing things different from everyone else since pretty much birth!

My sister was pregnant with her first as my mother was expecting her last, and they gave birth one day apart. My nephew is a leap-baby, while I had the good sense to wait until March 1st for my debut — so he’s simultaneously 24 hours older than me and 1/4 my age. Man, did that piss him off whenever February 29th came around and I had quadruple the candles on my cake!

(Every four years, I send him one of those little kid “You’re 9 today!” cards — he fucking LOVES that!)

I was born in Alabama — and even though I say “y’all” and “fixin’ to” (and know what “bless yore heart” REALLY means), I’m kind of a faux southerner. My folks had already parented three kids amid the 60s-era Birmingham race riots in one of the country’s worst school systems. Not particularly excited to have me experience the same upbringing a decade-and-a-half later, they (for no other reason than we’d vacationed there and my father liked fishing), moved me to the gulf coast of Florida just before kindergarten.

Yes, I grew up below the mason-dixon line. But you go far enough south, it becomes the north again.

I spent 100-degree-200-percent-humidity summers parked miserably in front of a box-fan (cursing my terminally-frugal father’s financial allergy to air conditioning). I burst into flame whenever I set foot outside, and came to accept post-swim sand in my crotch as functional inevitability. I also grew up surrounded by snowbirds, who drained me of my family’s drawling dialect. I consider being mistaken for Canadian quite the compliment — but I draw a big ass line at Dubuque or DesMoines. When folks ask what part of the midwest my accent-less-self is from, that’s when I pull out the really thick twang.

I can sound like a hillbilly if I need to — I just try not to need to very often!

A Little Left Of Center

I’ve always been a tad weird, fascinated by dead things and aberrant behavior and creepy shit from a young age (as you can see) — and I’ve certainly never done much of ANYTHING the way I was “supposed” to.

I may have been surrounded by transplanted yankees, but I was still brought up (at least to some degree) the southern way — like all G.R.I.T.S. (girls raised in the south, in case you’re unfamiliar with the lingo), being “good” was drilled into my head from the moment of ejaculation. However, my beloved clan was just the right brand of eccentric (‘cuz ain’t none of your kinfolk ever really “crazy”) to save me from the shy-wilting-magnolia-syndrome which took down so many of my peers.

And unlike other parents more concerned with “yes ma’am” and “no sir,” mine encouraged me to have opinions — hell, I was playing “devil’s advocate” against the adults (and winning) by the time I was seven.

I was an A+ student, well-behaved enough to dodge both jail and knocked-up-ed-ness. But no one tried to fit me into a mold — good thing too, because they would have failed miserably, once that red hair and fiery Irish temper kicked in. I was taught to have a mouth on me, to speak up when I encountered something unacceptable in the world — which got me booted straight out of the “belle” category at an early age. (They repossessed my hoop skirt in kindergarten, when I asked too many annoying Sunday school questions. My revenge? Stealing that damn bonnet for costuming purposes!)

When I look back at what I might have become if I’d had a different family (especially a different SOUTHERN family), dear lord am I grateful for the unconventional upbringing!

Book Learning Ain’t What It Used To Be

Like everything else in my life, ye olde educational plan has gone through several odd permutations.

Initially, I wanted to be a shuttle astronaut (I even wrote Ol’ Dutch offering to be the first child in space, but the bastard turned me down) — that is, until my first for-realz roller coaster made me puke.

I’d have considered medicine — if the idea of working 36-hour residency shifts, incurring massive amounts of debt, and collecting social security at my graduation had seemed at all appealing.

I thought I might teach — before accepting the fact that that I’d prolly send some kid home black-and-blue and get fired my first day on the job. Last-but-not-least, I contemplated a B.A. in English — but much as I adore a good musical, I didn’t want to end up living on Avenue Q.

Even though my family was seriously blue-collar, they never pressured me into a career I’d hate, just for the dough. But as the first of my crew to attend university, I needed to do something meaningful with my life.

I’d spent years lecturing loved ones about everything that was wrong with the world (and I was always driven more by passion than a paycheck)– so of course majoring in Social Work was a no-brainer. Pairing a B.S.W. with an M.U.R.P. to create an educational experience that sounds very much like serious digestive difficulty, I was going to improve conditions for the bungled and the botched — to quote either Nietzsche or Terry Gilliam, depending on your frame of reference.

Stranger In A Strange Land

Most who hire interns do so under the guise of mentoring industry up-and-comers — but it’s really just a way to dump crap gruntwork on peons who can’t quit without failing the semester. (Higher education and big business, working together to build a better America!)

I however, was blessed with slave-wage employers genuinely interested in helping me discover which career path would best suit me — I don’t blame them at all for the fact that I later fled screaming-and-tearing-my-hair-out from my chosen profession!

Much of what I learned I apply with my clients today — but in particular I walked away with two seminal experiences (one of them literally) that did a great deal to shape who I would later become.

My most memorable internship involved training, mentoring, and monitoring parents of at risk children under the age of two. Oh, the irony of a no-kidder (who favors terms like “crotch droplings” when describing people’s offspring) working in child-abuse prevention! Honestly though, why shouldn’t a non-breeder exhibit righteous indignation in the name of protecting semen-demons from neglect? I may not want the little buggers in my home — but if I catch you hurting a kid, I’ll rip your lungs out with a fork.

I knew I wasn’t anywhere close to Kansas anymore the moment I met my internship director. Pam, a fresh-off-the-maternity-leave-boat mom, was exceptionally proud of her recently-proven reproductive capabilities — so much so that three-quarters of my orientation was devoted to screening her birthing video. That camera was planted smack between my new boss’s legs. (Ready for my close-up, Mr. DeMille!) I watched Pam spray urine, lose bowel control, and split her perineum from snatch to bung hole in living technicolor — as a cottage-cheese-covered spam-loaf squeezed his way out of her hoo-ha.

I cringed and flinched, made a mental note to schedule my next depo-provera shot — then thanked Pam for bringing me on board.

A Failure Of The System

The first time I had my heart broken during that long, hot, sticky summer was by the parents of two recently-returned-from-protective-custody grade-schoolers and a newborn. As he breast-fed, I noticed crescent-shaped bruises along the upper curves of Baby Josh’s eye sockets — Mom said they were from a forceps delivery.

Yeah right. I may have been a childless know-nothing college student with zero real-world experience, but I knew damn good and well they don’t pull-em out by their fucking eyelids.

This was shaken-baby.

Pam confirmed my suspicions, then reported the family to HRS. When our investigator called to share his findings, my idealistic boss-lady invited me into her office for a “teachable moment.” To be fair, I did learn quite a lot — mostly about everything that’s wrong with how our society cares for its children. Even with bilateral subdural hematomas and a parenting history that included a dislocated shoulder, four healed fractures, and six cigarette burns between the other two kids — this investigator was unable to prove imminent danger. His response? “Two parents, the place is clean, other kids seem fine. Not much I can do.”

I had Freddy-Krueger-level nightmares for a month — waking up mid-nocturnal-panic-attack, imagining Baby Josh dead in his crib, all sorts of horrible trauma inflicted upon his tiny body (and me powerless to stop it). I’d held that child in my arms and looked into his eyes. Even now, I have no idea if he survived.

However, one thing was made very clear — I wasn’t cut out for child protection.

Childfree And Covered In Placenta

Then halfway through my internship (and her third trimester), I was introduced to a bulgingly-pregnant 13-year-old homeless girl named Tamika. She needed a birth partner, I needed to feel like I was actually making a difference — perfect serendipity.

We went for baskin robbins before lamaze. I helped select kinderstuffen that Tamika bought with yay-for-doing-your-homework credits through her Teen Parent Program. I spent countless hours on a disturbingly-stained floral sofa at the maternity home — pretending those dark spots weren’t amniotic fluid, and watching The Fresh Prince Of Bel-Air with a collection of what were essentially children in various stages of abdominal inflation.

I even cooked us dinner at Chez Broke-Ass-Crappy-College-Apartment — barely holding back tears when Tamika proclaimed my off-the-curb furniture and hamburger-helper the “high living” to which she aspired.

I held Tamika’s hand during pelvic exams and gasped at an ultrasound image of John Hurt’s Alien stomach parasite. (The radiology tech assured me that her fetus WAS actually human.) We toured obstetric suites, asked questions about meconium aspiration, and inhaled enough rehearsal-breaths to hyperventilate a school of blowfish. I worried that I didn’t know what the hell I was doing any more than this poor knocked-up adolescent — but at least I sort of knew what to expect. (Thank god for Pam’s video, right?) And my presence, at the very least, alleviated her fear of having to go through it all alone.

Then Tamika’s water broke. And her OB/GYN was away at a funeral. And some man we’d never met breezed in, ordering Tamika around sans even a basic “hello.” When Doc What’s-His-Face pulled out a syringe, I polished up my professional decorum. “Excuse me, but is that an epidural? Tamika decided against that — if you check her chart.” He brushed me aside. “All my medicaid girls get them.”

Oh no. No, no, no. Hell no. This wasn’t your girl — this was MY girl.

And she was a patient, not a motherfucking charity case!

Hands shaking and legs trembling, I (for the first-but-not-last time) whipped out my most menacing Social Worker voice and went into full-on Tarantino don’t-you-con-den-scend-me-man mode. “Well. That’s not really your choice — it’s hers and she’s already made it. I know Tamika’s rights, and I strongly suggest that you NOT stick her with that needle against her wishes.” I don’t think any of the Quackmeister General’s “girls” had ever spoken to him like that. He glared and threw the hypodermic down.

But then later on, when Dr. Asshat pulled out his scalpel, I again protested. “No episiotomy, she wants to tear naturally.” He snapped at me, “I don’t do that!” — and cut her anyway.

Oh, but it gets even better. Once the head appeared, this jackass actually told Tamika, “Now don’t you push unless I tell you to, Missy. Or you’ll make me drop your baby on the floor!” Who says that to ANY pregnant woman, much less a terrified little girl??

When Baby Monica squirted out (minus the falsely predicted floor-droppage), I held her first. It was amazing! Witnessing the emergence of this tiny new person, seeing the miracle of birth up-close-and-personal. The vaguest glimmer of what it must feel like to create a life flashed before my eyes — and I immediately thought, “Nope. I sure as hell never want to go through that!”

Our favorite gynecologic butcher had one last task, sewing up the gash he’d made in Tamika’s lady-taint. It hurt, she flinched — I’d have done the same. So what does this fuckball say? “Don’t you move, Missy. You’ll make me break this needle off inside you.”

Once Tamika was back in her room and I’d suppressed my urge to kill her physician, I went straight to a pay phone and called Pam. She filed an AMA complaint — which was promptly dismissed because of the “duress” Dr. Mengele was under. (You know, having to serve an on-call patient. Over the weekend.)

Strike two against a system that was supposed to be protecting my clients from harm.

I couldn’t handle strike three — so I shifted my focus to affordable housing.

Trying Not To Be A Typical Government Employee

Of course, the only openings after I tossed that mortarboard in the air were either late-shift babysitting of homeless patrons at a shelter for minimum wage (fine use of that spendy shingle on my wall) — or executive-directing an entire agency (the thought of by-some-fluke landing this in-over-my-head position made me want to piss myself in terror). But it only took six months of temping before I found something I was actually qualified for. Way the hell better than kids do nowadays.

Despite said internship frustrations, I started the paid portion of my Social Work career bright-tailed and bushy-eyed at the Atlanta Housing Authority — committed to serving disenfranchised populations with the respect they deserved, ridding the world of injustice, and making sure no one ever went to sleep in an unsafe place again.

Yep. That’s how I began.

Friends said, “You’ll end up punching a time clock, just like all those other cogs in the government machine.” I slammed my fist and told them (in the most dedicated tone of voice I could muster), “No way — I’m going to change people’s lives!” So young. So naive.

To this day, I’m not sure who else’s life I changed — but I do know that after three years, my own had become exhausted, disillusioned, and exceptionally gear-like. (Not to mention the fact that every member of my tribe was bleeding from the mouth, as they tried their damnedest NOT to say, “I told you so!”)

Phase I of my job involved re-certifying Section 8 recipients whose vouchers were up for renewal (as exciting as that sounds). I filed a lot of paperwork, affixed massive amounts of red tape, and waded through a ton of bullshit. However, I didn’t recognize these activities as first steps toward ratcheted-wheeldom — because I found something truly rewarding in my personal interactions with clients.

These folks had grown far-too-accustomed to being maltreated by the system — so just to mix things up, I decided to address each individual on my caseload as I would a paying professional customer. I can’t tell you how many times I had someone hug me at the end of an appointment and thank me for being nice. Apparently, the bar is set so low that all you have to do to make a person’s day is simply regard them as a human being. It’s pathetic that a little kindness is considered “going above and beyond.”

But those moments of connection made the intolerable government stupidity worth it.

(For a while, anyway.)

Then I became responsible for relocating tenants out of the oldest public housing in the country. I’m talking decrepit, blighted apartments that were next door to falling down — nasty-ass places to live, and legitimately dangerous for residents. The city was bulldozing these moldy-mildewed-rodent-infested-bullet-riddled-gang-banger-run-crack-dealer-laden health hazards — rebuilding said tumbledown deathtraps as shiny new mixed-use housing. (Some units rented at market rate, others subsidized.)

I’ll let you in on a little secret. Segregating poor people from the rest of society does not fix their problems. It makes them worse. (Destitution, crime, babies-having-babies — all about folks following their neighbors’ examples, just as much as golf memberships and landscaping in the rich part of town.) Creating incentives for the prosperous and economically-challenged to cohabit not only shows that lower rung how upward-mobility works, it gives the privileged set a much-needed insight into how the other half lives. (How they REALLY live — not the ridiculously inaccurate poverty-shaming depicted on Fox News.)

And you’d best believe that full-price Chester College or Patty Professional ain’t gonna shell out fat stacks for roaches, leaky roofs, and malfunctioning toilets — so subsidized residents enjoy better maintenance by association. Most importantly, since no one unit or building is designated “too-po’-to-afford-the-o-r,” you’d never know whether the family in 1-A is paying retail or on a voucher.

Buh-bye welfare stigma!

My job was to help folks who’d only ever known public housing transition into privately-owned digs while their complex was re-built. I’m not sure I can adequately express what a challenge this was — no matter how crappy the living situation, they did NOT want to vacate. Scared of landing in an unfamiliar part of town, of being surrounded by strangers, single moms worried about finding work and upheaving their kids, disabled/elderly concerned about medical conditions or losing their support systems.

Hard work, long hours, highly stressful, but I tackled it with gusto — I am, after all, the problem-solving-master!

Helping Folks Break Free From Public Assistance

After a year of diligently relocating clients, everyone was settled, the demolition was underway — and mama needed a brand new bag. Fortunately, those in authority were launching a voluntary welfare-to-work program. And guess who was chosen (mostly because I clamored for it so loudly) to plan-then-head this new Family Self-Sufficiency Unit?

So here’s how the whole thing worked. My clients’ housing expenses were based on their income — as take-home swelled, one became responsible for a greater and greater portion of the rent. That gave my folks zero incentive to seek better employment, because a raise just forced you to fork out more money on a place to live. (And we’re not talking big bucks here — $7 an hour was a good wage for my peeps.)

Let’s say you started out unemployed, contributing nothing toward your $800-a-month lease — then you got a job, and your bill jumped to $250 (with the government now paying $550). On my program, the taxpayer moolah that your landlord no longer received ($250 in this example) was put into savings for you each month — as your earning power increased, so did your stash. After five years (or once you were covering the full rent yourself), you left Section 8 and every penny of that cash went with you. You could use it for whatever you wanted — car, house, college education.

Pretty goddamn good deal for both sides!

I was delighted to be a part of this undertaking — and quite willingly ran around like a cranially-deficient barnyard fowl, locating resources for my enrollees. I networked with adult ed programs. I visited trade colleges to negotiate reduced-rate admission. I talked local unions into offering special journeyman training. I chased down child care, health care, transportation. When folks told me how their lives sucked, I found ways to make them suck less. (Same as what I do now — just a different kind of suck.)

I did what I thought was expected of me. I climbed my way up the non-profit step stool (you get three rungs max, then there’s nowhere else to go). I busted my ass, stayed nights/weekends, and took my work home with me — giving 110% to my career (the way I thought you were supposed to when you loved your vocation). I can safely say that I ran myself ragged, trying to create an environment supportive of client self-sufficiency. And every day, I found myself enjoying this job less and less — I was too young to feel this tired and worn out by my job.

No one clued me in that it was important to have a life outside of work, as well. Dammit!

Turning Point

My bosses were generally well-intentioned people — but they were caught up in that famous government bureaucracy that keeps these kinds of programs from having any meaningful impact. It was near-impossible to change lives without resources. (No supplies, no cash, no help — if I couldn’t beg-borrow-steal it, my peeps were S.O.L.)

The straw that broke the camel’s back (why is it always a camel?) came when I suggested increasing the budget/staff to “more than zero” so I could actually help some folks. That’s when I was told point-blank that our only goal was increasing enrollment to get HUD off our backs

I was speechless. (Which is a rare occurrence!)

Once I regained use of my vocal chords, I let them know that this most assuredly was not MY top priority. I had dedicated my life up to this point to affordable housing. And now I was being told that my job wasn’t really to help anyone, but to make HUD look good – well screw that! If that was all my employers cared about, they could make it happen without my help.

My response to this crisis? Peace out, bitches!

Well, not exactly. First I went home and at the tender age of 26 had my first nervous breakdown.

I spent the weekend eating chocolate, drinking red wine, watching Lifetime  women-in-jeopardy movies, all while trying to figure out what the hell I was going to do with my life — the one I had chosen obviously wasn’t working, so I was going to have to scrap it all and start over. (Mid-life crises ain’t just for half-centenarians — they’re incredibly cathartic at any age.)

A future asking “Do you want fries with that?” was looking perilously likely (not an attractive prospect while I was still paying off student loans for that damned degree I clearly wasn’t using).

I had never felt so stuck.

With every godiva dark truffle, I contemplated my talents — somewhere around the half-dozen mark, I wondered if I couldn’t turn natural anal-retentivity into some sort of a career. (The mental health community may have deemed O.C.D. references “offensive,” but they can’t take Freud away from me!) As a kid, I’d sorted Barbie’s wardrobe by season, arranged picture books categorically-then-alphabetically, and stored my homework in a Trapper Keeper far more orderly than most corporate filing systems. But if “organizational proclivity” was a valid job-skill, why hadn’t a single teacher (especially one who’d suffered through my infamous color-coded class reports) ever suggested that I could be methodical for a living??

It was during the darkest moments of this career conniption (when things got so bad, I actually turned to Oprah for inspiration) that serendipity hit. Thence, I tripped over the organizing industry, like a pile of crap left lying on the floor — and with it, a whole cadre of overly-efficient-excessively-tidy-wonderfully-systematic-ducks-aligned-with-a-yardstick-and-spirit-level folks who greatly resembled me. They spent hours talking about racks and hangers and calendars, they took field trips to IKEA and The Container Store — what’s more, clients actually paid them to fix their broken homes/offices.

That’s what I was gonna do!

Fuck This Shit

As I typed up a letter of resignation (and put it in my bag for Monday), I was struck by the impending magnitude of this potentially-hasty decision. My parents had practically tattooed it onto my brain that quitting was bad, quitting was for losers, quitting meant giving up. I’d suffered through several truly horrible experiences earlier in life because I feared losing face if I bailed — what made this situation any different?

Then at the juncture where total surrender and deepest despair intersect (surrounded by bon-bon wrappers and pinot bottles, with Terms Of Endearment  on the tube) — something wonderful happened. I learned that walking away from a “toleration” is the most empowering thing you can ever do. I went home and told my ex, “I’m quitting my job tomorrow!”

(Did I mention that I married my high school sweetheart in grad school? Oh man — that’s a whole ‘nother authenticity story. Hang tight, we’ll get to that in a minute!)

Anyway, he said, “Okay, but don’t you want to think about it first? Maybe just sleep on it?” I agreed. I went to sleep, woke up the morning, sat up I bed, and said, “I’m quitting my job today!” That’s how a little W.C.-Fields-ian wisdom became the core of my personal and occupational philosophy. (“If at first you don’t succeed, try try again. Then quit! There’s no point in being a damn fool about it.”)

I went into work, pulled my resignation letter out of my drawer, and took it to my boss. She tried everything to talk me out of it, but my mind was made up (When I decide to do something, get out of my way!) I spent my two weeks notice setting up my business plan, creating marketing materials, getting my license, incorporating, consuming every entrepreneurial manual I could find, and practicing my fantabulous organizing skills on my co-workers.

I ate cake at my going away party and went home — I had no actual paying work yet, but I got really good at telling anyone and everyone I met how much I could improve their lives by clearing their clutter. I joined the Chamber of Commerce and set up a table at one of their business expos (this is before I’d ever landed a single client, you understand) — I was so convincing that folks hired me for realz, and got my first 6 gigs from that event.

I was off and running. Within 6 months, I had more clients than I could fit into my schedule and I raised my rates for the first time. Fake it ’til you make it, right?) And I figured I must be doing something right when they proclaimed my services more valuable than therapy.

I systematized filing systems, cleared clutter, and trimmed to-dos. I fixed ergonomically-broken kitchens and offices and garages. I planned-down-to-the-last-details moves and yard sales and meetings. I regained control over supposedly-uncontrollable projects and finances and children. I worked in schools and churches, social service agencies and multi-million-dollar businesses, homes and retail stores. I taught household CEOs, empty-nesters, educators, students, work-from-homers, corporate bigwigs (and even my former colleagues) how to function better and simplify their daily routines — and I freaking loved it!

Frankly, someone with career A.D.D. like me was never destined to earn that gold watch in the first place. Sure, it was scary quitting a supposedly-secure job and striking out on my own — but passion for your vocation goes a long way toward alleviating those fears.

Within three months, I had more clients than I could handle, and a career was born. I can’t tell you how good it felt to be in charge – no employer hanging over my shoulder, no irritating co-workers to deal with, I could structure my business any way I wanted, and if I felt like blowing off work on a Tuesday to go screw around at museums all day, I could. For almost 3 years, I basked in the glow of self-employment. Screw your swimming pool and big-screen TV — entrepreneurship’s the American dream! Then I began to realize that there were a couple of drawbacks.

One was that my now-ex was still chained to a job that was making him increasingly miserable and that only gave him two weeks of vacation a year. And the second was I had to see clients to make money (those paid vacations sort of go away when you work for yourself!) Sure, I now had unlimited freedom to set my own schedule and take a random weekday off (by myself) any time I wanted – but if I didn’t schedule a certain number of appointments each week, I couldn’t pay the bills. I was finding myself trapped in the same 9 to 5 grind, just with me as the boss.

I’m sure you know the punchline before I even tell it. Peace out, bitches!

Blazing New Trails

So after a couple of years, my fabulously autonomous self-employed way of life was now feeling a few sizes too small. I’d escaped the horrors of cramming my time card into someone else’s slot, but I still had what amounted to a 9-to-5 job — no appointments, no bacon. Even as lead mariner, I was still butting heads with that age-old dilemma of money versus freedom. Dammit!

I read The E-Myth by Michael Gerber, decided it was time to move my business out of its adolescence. So I got the brilliant idea that passive income was the next step toward simplify my life (remember, this is a process, not a destination).

Then one morning, I woke up and realized how much time I’d been spending in the vastness of cyberspace hunting up tangential products/services/info for my tribe. (How much, you ask? Too much!) And that’s with fair-to-middlin’ search-patience and mad google skillz — god help any disorganized person looking for a quick and easy solution on the interwebz.

So I got the semi-brilliant idea of starting a one-stop-shop offering everything folks could possibly need to create order. At the time, this was one helluva revolutionary concept within the industry — a comprehensive organizing community focused not only on teaching Timothy Tardy and Cathy Clutter how to calm the chaos, but also helping Polly Productivity in her quest to become a more effective business owner.

I spent nine years developing something truly groundbreaking and original. I launched efficiency solutions that might otherwise have never seen the light of day, brought thousands of pages of content to the net (seriously ruining my eyesight in the process) — and assisted scores of newbies in getting their own companies off the ground. I dominated the expo at our annual NAPO conference, won professional association awards in five different years, and turned OnlineOrganizing into a household name.

That’s when my career ADD kicked in and I needed a change.

I sold my precious offspring for a healthy chunk of change (same as I’d prolly do if I had a real child). I packed up my toys, and went off to write The Professional Organizer’s Bible: A Slightly Irreverent And Completely Unorthodox Guide For Turning Clutter Into A Career (while still coaching colleagues through start-up and growth and the next level). Then I watched as the new site owner murdered my baby in cold blood — slowly, painfully, through gross abuse and neglect. She ran a profitable enterprise that had supported me for almost a decade straight-into-the-fucking-ground in less than three years, eventually declaring bankruptcy. The domain’s been decommissioned — but old-timers will tell you it was da bomb diggity.

I had been organizing clients one-on-one – and I was spending an incredible amount of time on the internet searching for information for my clients. There are all kinds of great resources on the web to help you get organized, but good luck finding them! And when you’re disorganized, you don’t have the time to spend navigating confusing search engine listings (how did I put in “closet organizing” and come up with a gay porno site? I wonder who programs these things sometimes…)

At the same time, I’d unearthed a whole heap o’ cool storage what-nots and clutter-controlling doo-dads, paper paraphernalia and time-saving gizmos scattered across cyberspace. But much as they could use the help, I knew my already-inundated clients weren’t going to spend hours grandma-googling organizational resources. I was convinced that what the interwebz needed was a comprehensive, cohesive portal for the chaotically cluttered!

Maslow had it right — when you’re holding a hammer, every frustration resembles like a nail.

Being addicted to problem-solving (and now seeing “digitization” as the key to professional independence), I had a vision. I’d launch a website that assembled every component the overloaded and overwhelmed needed to successfully simplify, all in one location. I pictured myself reclined in a chaise lounge at home working in my pajamas (this is before I discovered the joy of staying home and working naked). — as I lived off selling-productivity-merch-from-around-the-globe commissions. Moron! If I’d known what it took to build a multi-vendor e-commerce company, I’d’ve hightailed it. (Good thing my motto is “jump first, look later!”) Luckily I struckpaydirt, and OO became a truly awesome sight (site?) to behold — a super-duper-one-stop-shop-clearinghouse-a-rama for service referrals, D-I-Y products, and insane quantities of information.

This was just supposed to be a side-business – but it took off much faster than I had expected or was really prepared for. More and more organizers joined our network, companies started contacting me asking if they could include their products on our site, and each year our newsletter subscriber list and profits kept increasing. I was even quoted in publications like The Wall Street Journal, Reader’s Digest, and BottomLine. Life was good.

But you see, the web is like a child – crying and screaming at you 24 hours a day, continually growing and demanding more (it’s not good enough that I let you stay out until 11PM, now you want the car keys too?!) It will take up every spare minute of your time and send you to the poorhouse if you’re not smart about things. Of course, there is a good side, too. A “virtual” business means that you can run it from anywhere – even sitting on a beach in Tahiti, as long as you have a long enough power cord and an internet connection). But you have to re-arrange your whole life around your business – and I was finding that I couldn’t do it all myself.

I took out a loan (which took me years to pay off – I’ll never do that again!) and hired a programmer to automate the processes that took up the most of my time – namely, filling orders and giving out referrals. It cost me around $40,000 per project – I still get night-sweats thinking about it. And don’t even ask me how much money I’ve spent on upgrades and servers and other expenses since then! But I learned a huge lesson about running a successful business. Sometimes you have to make a really big, scary leap to move to the next level. These were two of the most expensive and most profitable decisions I have ever made for my business.

I adored being a virtual touchstone for those in need of structure — but it tweren’t all about me, anymore. I now represented POs all over the world. Their behavior reflected back upon my business, and that mirror image needed to be a prepossessing one. No matter how touchy-feely-hearty-warmy yanking a client away from the very brink of disaster might be, it was still a professional enterprise. And we anal-retentives had some flippin’ standards to uphold, if we were to gain the respect and recognition we deserved! I didn’t want our collective web presence to become the online equivalent of holding hands and singing Kumbaya with the discombobulated masses — so I took it upon myself to raise the bar through education and training.

“Teaching-colleagues-to-kick-ass-and-chew-bubblegum” became one of my services — and I discovered a whole new raft of coaching aptitudes, along the way. I pinpointed (then maximized then marketed) strengths, identified wet-dream clients, led my peeps over/under/around obstacles, and offered the kind of ongoing guidance necessary for long-term success. Holy-lo-and-behold, I’d become a career mentor!

While I still dearly cherish my organizing/simplicity folks, tutoring self-employment tribe members on the business of doing business fulfills me in a completely different way than curing clutter.

(And combining both is downright orgasmic!)

Keeping It In The Family

I am not a techno-geek and never have been. I used a computer for the first time in graduate school when I was told that I could no longer hand in papers typed on a typewriter. I didn’t buy a computer or get on the internet until AFTER I quit my job and went to work for myself. So I learned a tremendous amount in a very short time.

I come from a collection of consummate cheapskates, and I couldn’t stand seeing that much of my income go out the door each year – I had tons of programming projects that I needed done, and I wasn’t excited about the idea of paying $150+ an hour to get them done.

At the same time, my ex was getting pretty close to fed up with his job as an interior designer. He had threatened to quit once before, and to placate him, they let him move to the IT department. He was learning all kinds of new programming languages – but the corporate environment still didn’t suit him. One day I casually said, “You should quit your job and be my programmer. That way, all this money I’m paying for computer work can just go to you.” It’s amazing how many of our monumental decisions come from an off-handed comment like that (I’m not sure if that’s good or bad, actually…)

After a great deal of hemming and hawing, and trying to decide if we were making a huge mistake letting go of that guaranteed salary (especially after his parents hinted that we might go completely broke and end up living in a box under the freeway), my ex quit his job and came home to work with me. It was quite an adjustment at first – we lived in a 1-bedroom condo with space for one desk. I was summarily booted out of my office and sent to work at the dining room table (but I got a new laptop out of it, so that made it okay).

We had some headbutting about work styles and his initial lack of focus (he wanted to spend the day goofing around on the Playstation, and I said that I wasn’t paying him to play video games, and he said I wasn’t paying him at all, which was actually true, because we were living on just my income at that point). It was hard, but he eventually adjusted to the “entrepreneurial” mindset – you have to crack your own whip because no one else will do it, but you also have to know when to shut everything off at the end of the day.

We were never going to be Bill and Melinda Gates, but we made a decent living. Yes, we might have made more if we’d stayed in the rat race, but we wanted freedom, not the big bucks. We were what you call “lifestyle entrepreneurs” – we could travel when we wanted, we weren’t locked into any particular schedule, and we called the shots. Life should have been perfect, right? Not quite…

Not Such A Bright Idea

Simplifying your life is rarely a tidy series of positive steps that continually improve your life. Quite often, you make a wrong turn – a choice that you THINK is going to simplify things, and ends up complicating things even more.

Just as my company was seriously taking off, I decided that I’d grown tired of my living environment. (Isn’t that always the way?) I was sick of featureless apartments, bent venetian blinds, someone else’s feet all over the carpet, everything either beige or bone — and a $150 penalty for changing the wall color without your landlord’s permission. Weighty first-world concerns, indeed.

My ex was a military brat – his father was career Navy and he moved about every 2 years until high school when his dad retired. We had been living in the same place for 10 years (the longest he’d lived anywhere), when we decided it was time for a change. We now both worked at home, our 1-bedroom condo was too small, and we wanted more space.

All of our friends had already done the “house” thing – we were behind the times because we had devoted all of our time and money to our business. And once you hit a certain age in America, people start to make you feel as though you don’t have any upward mobility if you haven’t bought a house. So we fell for the myth of homeownership hook, line, and sinker. We were suckers for a place to call our own (I think it’s all the years living in apartments, where you were never allowed to paint the walls anything but white – it scars you).

Worse yet, I’d been seduced by the idea of urban homesteading. (Blame them damn modern-day hippies and their dreams of a utopian society.) I wanted to garden and compost, to escape the grid and recycle greywater. I was going to be the anti-suburbanite – a model “greenie,” the ecological envy of every neighbor with almost no household expenses. And that, dear children, is when I bought hook-line-and-sinker into America’s favorite white picket fence myth. Dammit!

I lived with my friend Tracy for 3 months while I house-shopped — and of course I did this at the height of the housing bubble. Once I had recovered from the sticker shock, I picked out a lovely older but well-kept brick house on a half acre of property.

We completely fixed up that house – kitchen, bathrooms, wood floors, crown molding, new appliances, finished the basement. We painted, we stripped, we sanded. We did it all ourselves. And the whole time we worked on the house, we were miserable. We knew that we were doing a nice job – people have complimented us over and over again. But it was so stressful that we couldn’t enjoy the process, and it put a real strain on our marriage. While I’ve inherited a serious a do-it-yourself streak, I think this was more doing-it-myself than I cared for.

And the money we’ve spent! This house will nickel and dime us to death soon. There’s the mortgage, homeowner’s insurance, and property taxes (and don’t let anyone convince you that the tax break you get from your mortgage interest even comes CLOSE to balancing out the expense!) We had to buy more furniture (twice as much space means you need twice as much furniture). We were making trips to Home Depot and Lowe’s at least three times a week. And then there was the maintenance — we had a flood in our basement that cost $2000 to properly dry up when one of our pipes got clogged. Our furnace went out the one night that it decided to drop below zero – that was another $3000 to replace.

Since we had more space, we were spending a lot more time and effort to take care of it. House mathematics aren’t linear – home size versus energy expenditure is an exponential relationship. Housecleaning when we lived in a 900 square foot, 1-bedroom condo took about 30 minutes a week. When we had exactly twice as much space, we found ourselves investing several hours a week just to maintain the same standard of cleanliness.

And don’t even get me started on the yard! I did set up a compost pile (yay for me) – but beyond a half-assed attempt to keep the “weeds” cut (we don’t have any actual grass), we have barely spent any time outside. We haven’t planted the first vegetable, set up a windmill or solar panel, or even had the energy to try and keep the place from being overtaken by vines (the English ivy is slowly consuming the west wall of our house).

What we discovered was that these homesteaders can put so much time into these sustainable activities – and live so cheaply – because the only thing they do is homestead. You simply can’t be a pioneer and run a full-time web-business simultaneously (or at least we can’t do it). And we have never felt as trapped by our living environment as we did when we bought a house.

I spent six months converting my new real estate holdings into exactly what I always thought I’d wanted — turns out, I didn’t want that at all. The place was magazine-spread-worthy. But acting like Martha-Stewart-with-a-hard-on was so stressful and expensive, I couldn’t enjoy the process. And that godforsaken yard? Not even close. I did build a compost bin and make a half-assed attempt to beat the weeds into submission (yay me). Then I wore myself out on interior design before said external eco-transformation ever got started. (Never grew one vegetable, set up a solitary solar panel, or converted a single trickle of sink-water.) What’s worse, that fucking house signaled the beginning of the end for my marriage. Double dammit!

Once I realized that debt slavery in the name of domiciliary territoriality wasn’t my cup of tea, I got the freak away from home as often as possible. Yet every time I hit the road, I doubled my expenses — the usual monthly-bill-rigamarole PLUS hotel, airfare, and restaurants. (Another nail in that by-now-well-sealed ownership-coffin.) I’d moved my business online so I could work from anywhere, and I was supposed to be a frigging minimalist — this was all wrong! I wanted freedom. I wanted simplicity. I wanted out. But how?

Buckle The Freak Up!

Homeownership didn’t agree with us – and it left us feeling more burdened with “stuff” than ever before. I had taken pride in being a minimalist – instead of showing the world who I was based on how much I owned, I tended to self-define in terms of how little I had. But when we bought a house, all of that changed. I was ready for a change back in the other direction.

The other problem is that we love to travel, but extensive travel and homeownership don’t really fit well together. When we leave home, we have to spend time, money, and energy protecting our “stuff”. We worry that something might happen to our home while we’re gone – someone could break in and steal everything we own, our pipes could burst and flood the basement, the house could burn down, whatever. And, traveling causes our expenses to double – we’re still paying our mortgage, property taxes, homeowner’s insurance, utilities – plus our travel expenses. Think about it – what are the most costly aspects of travel? 1) getting to where you’re going, 2) someplace to stay, and 3) being forced to eat out for every meal because you don’t have access to your own kitchen and cooking supplies. Even when you’re a frugal traveler like I am, it’s expensive!

So one day, we were driving down the interstate, and we passed an old-fashioned Airstream travel trailer — and the first thought to enter my mind was, “Hells yeah!” Prior to this point, my concept of RV-ing was limited to monstrous obnoxious motorhomes – but this teeny, slick, hip-looking travel trailer really clicked with us. And it planted the seed in our minds. What if we decided to hit the road as full-time nomads? We could travel anywhere we wanted anytime we wanted. We would be able to reduce our ecological footprint in the way that we couldn’t owning a house. And it seemed the perfect “simplify your life” challenge — when you’re living in less than 200 square feet, carrying your entire home with like a turtle, how little can you get by with on a daily basis?

The idea of being a full-time RVer, living and working on the road, going wherever-I-wanted-whenever-I-wanted-whyever-I-wanted — oh-my-god-yes-please! And there are just too many places in this magnificent country that I’d like to experience for me to stay in any one forever. I was going to run-Forest-run away from that buying mistake, and keep on running!

We couldn’t be better candidates – we’re self-employed, our business that can be run from anywhere (as long as we have an internet connection and a cell-phone), we have no children (and no plans to have any, except for our 2 small hairy ones that poop in a box). And the technology is there – wireless broadband service means I can be updating my website or answering email even while driving down the interstate. Best of all, our living expenses would plummet once we sold the house and hit the road – campground fees and trailer insurance don’t even begin to compare to the costs of owning property, and we would pay for everything with cash and get rid of our only debt (the mortgage).

I’m not-even-close-to-new-age-flakey, but I do believe in kismet. When the time is right for something to happen, the necessary components just seem to magically self-assemble. It’s been my experience that, when it is the right time for something to happen in your life, things seem to just come together without effort and opportunities fall in your lap out of nowhere (on the flip-side, you can usually tell you’re headed in the wrong direction when you keep banging your head against a wall and still never make any progress). And this was certainly the case when I went Airstream-shopping. Once I made my intentions clear (via a cheesy-ass vision board), everything snowballed.

In April, I posted a classified on one of the Airstream websites, outlining our requirements for a suitable trailer. I got a call in May from a lovely couple of ladies about 2 hours south of us. These women were Airstream aficionados – they spent their weekends renovating vintage models, and were selling “Stella”, the 29-foot Excella that they used for their own personal travel. After a 2-hour phone conversation, Connie said that she thought we were a perfect match for each other. Stella was their baby, they really wanted to sell her to someone who would love her and take care of her, and they were thrilled with the idea that we planned to live in her full time. Would I like to come and see her? The very next day I drove down to Charlottesville to meet her.

I was floored by the condition it was in – after having looked at so many junky falling-apart trailers on the internet, this was heaven. Pergo flooring, oak cabinetry, custom touches like a stained glass window in the living room. It was the perfect combination of funky and tasteful – of retro and modern. Best of all, it was way less than I had originally planned to spend (have I mentioned that I magnetically attract bargains to me? it’s my only reliable superpower…) The “fixer upper” Airstreams that were going to need many thousands of dollars in work were selling for as much as $10,000 – a custom renovated trailer could run upwards of $40,000, and the new ones might cost $70,000 or more. Stella was delivered to our home for just $15,900. A new home for less than the cost of a car!

By the second of June, I was the proud owner of a 29-foot Excella (named “Stella,” for heavens sake) that had been renovated to better-than-move-in condition. Best of all, I paid for my digs in cash — with the extra dough I’d been stashing away in that stupid second-mortgage-equity-line-of-credit. Could it get any more fawesome?

I turned to the internet and found several websites about RV-ing. It turns out that full-timers are hugely generous with information about their lives – they are more than happy to tell you how to prepare for the nomadic life, how much it will cost, what steps to take, what obstacles you might face, etc. And after a great deal of research, I decided that this is a completely valid way of life – lots of younger people are living and working on the road (consultants, freelance writers, artists, computer geeks) and absolutely loving it.

We shrunk our life down from an 1800 square foot house to a less-than-200 square foot trailer – it’s amazing how much you have that you really don’t need when you look at things objectively. Why do we need dishes for 12 when 90% of the time, it’s just the two of us? What are we doing with 500 books when we can hit the library or a used bookstore anytime we want? Why do we need to stockpile canned goods as though we’re preparing for nuclear holocaust? Why do we have more of just about everything than we could possibly use on a daily basis?

So I systematically scoured every room in our house, dividing things into 3 piles – coming in the Airstream, packing away in storage (really only our memorabilia and tax records), or getting rid of. Radical simplicity requires that you get real about how you actually live your life, rather than how you would LIKE to live it in a different time or place. You must focus on the benefits that come from letting go. We’re excited about the freedom we will have, our decreased expenses (and increased disposable income), and the time we will save on home maintenance once we hit the road. We will be able to focus on our experiences instead of our “things”, and that makes it much easier to lighten the load.

I spent 18 months re-organizing my existence to suit the full-timing way of life — turning what most folks consider a weekend “recreational vehicle” into a permanent home, selling everything that didn’t fit in my trailer, handing that blasted house over to a rental company, moving my financial accounts online, declaring domicile, setting up a mail forwarding service, you name it. The day I rolled out of the driveway was simply sublime — but with all that weight off my shoulders, I almost immediately started to notice troubles in my professional life. (Seriously? Can’t both parts ever run smoothly at the same time??)

Starting Over Again (For The Third Time)

My site had grown into one of the planet’s largest virtual organizing resources — and at some point (when I clearly wasn’t paying attention) became a more-than-full-time job. I realized with dismay that I was at the world’s cyber-mercy, the morning I awoke to 2,500 in-box messages. (Interwebz is a bitch of a boss — 24/7, no patience, zero grasp of office hours, and completely unforgiving of vacation days.)

Even with help from a VA, I was chained to my computer, unable to walk away for just one blessed afternoon. I’d dreamt of being footloose and tether-free, managing my affairs from anywhere — unfortunately, “anywhere” was only as far as my longest extension cord and wi-fi signal would reach. Dammit!

I’d grown to hate, like “with-a-flaming-hot-passion-that-would-burn-satan’s-heinie,” my work. (Never a good thing.) I had problems with staff, problems with vendors, problems with customers. I dreaded e-mail, knowing how many motherfrakkin’ fires would need extinguishing — instead of making anyone’s life better, I tracked lost packages, fielded service complaints, and (even more awesome) refunded my hard-earned income when some drop-ship manufacturer screwed up an order! I loathed the fact that my reputation hinged on whether or not OTHER people did their jobs correctly. But I stuck with it waaaaaaay longer than I should have, because I was making money hand-over-fist. (Yes, even I am capable of selling my soul.)

Then W. took over, the economy tanked, revenues flagged, and my mortal spirit suddenly seemed a hell of a lot more valuable. Enough! I chucked that towel as hard as I could, and put my company on the market.

They say your business is like your child — well, I sold mine. (Like I’d prolly do if I had human offspring!) I did my baby’s hair up in curls, slapped some rouge on her cheeks, pulled out her best party dress, and put her on display. (I won’t bore you with the details, because they are highly damn boring. Suffice it to say, if I never see another  spreadsheet in my life, it’ll be too soon.) The whole thing felt like it took forever — I wanted to be free today, not tomorrow! But everyone I’ve spoken to is amazed at how quickly I found a buyer on the front end of a recession. (I closed just 58 days after posting my “sale” listing.) I was officially unplugged, and had been rewarded for my efforts with a nice wad of dough in the bank. Hallelujah!

I did some traveling, took up photography, published a couple of books (including The Professional Organizer’s Bible and The A-To-Z Of Getting Organized ). Got to enjoy my freedom for exactly two years — then life went into a SERIOUS tailspin, far more dire than anything I’d experienced before.

First the property management company I’d contracted with to rent-maintain-and-eventually-buy my house defaulted on the mortgage, forcing me into a panicked short-sale — then the woman who’d purchased my site declared bankruptcy while still owing me money. (Both are looooong stories best told over many drinks.) The next year sucked even bigger donkey phalli, when I lost my oldest friend and most ardent supporter without warning, the day my mother died. It was like having an icepick stuck through my heart. Not a nanosecond passes even now that I don’t miss her terribly — I’m forever changed by her absence.

One Relationship Ends, And Another Begins

But the pièce de résistance was still yet to come — when my rock-solid marriage flamed out and melted down like a ginormous dumpster fire. What had been 25 years of friendship, love, and business partnerhood devolved into a series of hateful screaming matches that ended with me spending more-nights-than-not on a friend’s couch. Blame it on whatever you like (wed too young, incompatibly different from the start, grew apart) — we’d stopped bringing out the best in each other. I’d been tolerating a lot of intolerables, and was no longer willing to compromise my life.

I fell down a deep dark couple-year-long bipolar-tinged hole. Most of the time, I gave not one shit about anything. (Couldn’t focus, couldn’t sleep, couldn’t work, couldn’t think.) But those other-end-of-the-spectrum shifts were marked by a crazed level of activity, designed to distract me from the mess my life had become — a year of manic travel, writing 16 hours a day with no break, spending more waking hours at the gym than at home. I experienced here-and-there periods of pleasure. But I also entertained the idea that I could just quit (I mean REALLY quit) if it ever got to be too much.

I extricated myself from marital bliss in the most painful manner possible, doing great psychological harm to us both. I ran away from everything, landed face-first in the city of angels, and skidded full-length down the boulevard of broken dreams — until I eventually came to rest, bloodied and battered, on the front doorstep of some very dear friends from college who’d offered me refuge. As I set about recovering my rolling home and rebuilding my shattered existence, I wondered if I’d forever ruined my life — or finally done something I should’ve had the courage for years ago. I doubted that I’d ever be happy again.

Then I found my soul mate on hide-my-face-as-I-admit-it-match-dot-com. (I cringe every time folks ask where we met — in my worldview, online dating equals stalkage by some dial-up-AOL-chat-room-weirdo-who-might-be-a-serial-killer. Fortunately, only one degenerate sent me an unsolicited penie pic. And he left me alone after I suggested that if this was the best he had to offer, he should keep it to himself.) I was blessed to connect mind/heart/body/soul with a kind and gentle man, also recovering from a terminal spousal situation — going through much the same process of re-evaluation and reclamation as I.

Ben’s laid-back nature balances my high-strung-ed-ness, but he’s also an active partner-in-crime — so refreshing after years of dragging my other half begrudgingly along behind me every time I got silly or outrageous. My man randomly bursts into both dramatic soliloquy and song, willingly dresses up like a fool, ain’t afraid to commandeer playground equipment, gets naked with me at Burning Man, and encourages all my creative endeavors (even the misguided ones). Out of nowhere, he’ll grab me for a spontaneous public dance or a smooch, never worrying about people “watching” us. He tells me (several times a day) how brilliant I am and how much he adores me. How could I NOT fall head-over-heels with that?

His honesty and tenderness have thawed my cynical heart, teaching me what true intimacy feels like. (And when we got affianced, that sweet boy custom-designed a SKULL ring for me — is he perfect or what??) I’m more closely linked to Ben than I’ve ever been with another human being He’s exactly what I always needed but never had, and I’m that for him. Together, we’ve discovered that it’s possible to come out the other end healed — wiser, better, stronger, more fulfilled. It’s been said that one day someone is going to hug you so tight that all of your broken pieces will stick back together. We did that for each other.

When mah sweetie proposed and I accepted, we decided that we wanted the craziest, most-over-the-top celebration the world had ever seen. And when we want it, we have it — the end result was the most AMAZING damn wedding ever!

It All Started With A Skull-Shaped Ring

It was actually our birthday month when shit went down. (An annual tradition — I get a week filled with fun at the start of March for my natal celebrations, mah sweetie gets on at the end, and then we just go ahead and jam the other two weeks with fun for good measure.)

Anyway, we were meeting friends for jazz brunch at a pretty cool little restaurant I’d found in LA for one of his events — we were dressed up moderately-fancy-but-not-quite-so-cray-cray-as-we-would-going-out-at-night. (Evidenced by this photo.)

The music was jamming, the company was stellar, and the food was delish — made-the-way-you-want omelettes, belgian waffles, all manner of nummy buffet nibbles, plus bottomless mimosas. I had just gotten up to head out onto the patio and refill my beverage — when Ben stood up and stopped me mid-floor. I thought he was going to grab me for a quick impromptu dance (as the boy is wont to do) — instead he dropped to one knee and took my hands. I had no idea what the hell was going on — until he asked if I would make him the happiest man on earth and pulled a jewelry box out of his vest pocket.

I was floored. I’m usually really good at anticipating the upcoming (which makes it incredibly hard to surprise me) — but he managed to sweep me completely off my feet. I blubbered, I kissed him, I said yes — we cried, our friends cried, the whole restaurant applauded. But best of all was my ring. He’d snuck around behind my back and had it custom-designed — a small skull on either side (each with two tiny rubies for eyes) and four bones framing the diamond. In my entire life, no one has EVER created anything so perfectly “me.” I’d already been pretty damned sure — but in that instant, I knew for certain that this guy was a keeper!

No Dead Hookers Allowed

When I started all this mess, I didn’t really think about the fact that for two individuals who grew up on the east coast, getting married in Los Angeles was the equivalent of throwing a “destination wedding.” We had friends flying in from all over the country, a couple of intrepid souls DRIVE coast-to-coast, and even a handful of overseas guests joining said in.

Making long-distance travel worth it for our far-away tribefolk + giving locals an excuse to do wacky shit they keep forgetting sounds fun = a pre-wedding week of weird-iconic-can’t-do-em-anywhere-but-the-left-coast activities. (And rather perpetuating sexist pre-matrimonial traditions, we planned a mixed-gender “No Dead Hookers Allowed Vegas Bachelor/ette Extravaganza.”) During the week before “I do,” we and a pile of our peeps:

• savored the irony as a “ban private automatic weapons” couple embraced “blast shit for entertainment” goodness, which included both firing a machine gun and launching a grenade, at Battlefield Vegas (If we’d won the lottery, we would have also run over a car with a tank and blasted targets from a helicopter while flying over the Nevada desert — but alas, budgetary limitations. Next time!)

• got to waste a perp during the “use of force” experience at the Mob Museum, see a piece of the actual wall the Valentine’s Day Massacre occurred up against, then tried some absolutely disgusting prohibition-era hooch at their speakeasy (I don’t know how anyone survived that era without ending up blind and brain-damaged!)

• sucked on the captain’s balls and munched bad-headhunter spring rolls (in the fiber-optic-torch-fake-tropical-storm low light, who knows what the hell we were actually consuming) — while enjoying a painfully-disney-fied adtmosphere (if only disney had velvet-nude paintings and leopard-print booths) and downing a giant zombie punch bowl full of what seemed like 187 different flaming alcoholic beverages at The Golden Tiki

• investigated ancient kama sutra scrolls, physiologically-impossible-looking japanese netsuke, and Eva Braun’s panties at the Erotic Heritage Museum (a sex-positive space founded by a preacher and a pornographer) — then enjoyed the ancient australian art of genital origami, quite impressively repped via the amazing junks-squooshing-sack-stretching skills of our two mustachioed weeny artists, at Puppetry Of The Penis (“the wristwatch,” “the atomic mushroom,” “the eifel tower,” “the flying squirrel” were all fine — but “the pelican” and “the Guy Pierce” were testicles-down my favorite)

• took a late-night helicopter tour of the strip, buzzing drunk tourists while basking in casino glow (and did it with the damn DOORS OFF — I told the pilot he was lucky I wasn’t sitting in his lap, as hard as I was cringing away from falling out the ‘copter if my seatbelt strap broke!)

• did a 180-mph-more-g-force-than-a-space-launch-no-roof-just-a-helmet-between-you-and-death indy car ride-along at the Las Vegas Speedway (3 laps, skin pulled back like an aging actresses bad facelift, tears being literally pulled from your eyesockets — it was AWESOME!)

• filled an afternoon with steins, shots, brats, spanks, and MC Johann’s alphorn at Hofbrauhaus (we all suck at the stein-lifting competition, and I couldn’t get ’em to play Tomorrow Belongs To Me — but on the plus side, our waitress didn’t slap my ass too hard in return for that tasty pear brandy)

• illuminated Sin City history with a pile of old Neon Museum signs on their “boneyard” tour (it made me so happy to see signs that hadn’t existed along the strip since my very first visit to Vegas way back in the mid-90s — and their “brilliant” is exactly that, a wonderfully creative way of showing you what The Land Of Second Chances was like back in the day)

• watched Ozzie the giraffe paint (solidly abstract in his artistic sense) and got to see the MGM lions up close (the youngster named Cecil did NOT have any use for me — started growling and hissing every time I came near, but I’m sure it’s just ‘cuz he’s jealous of my far-superior mane)

• indulged in a dry aged sirloin burger with forest mushrooms, swiss cheese, caramelized onion, frisee, and truffle mayo — alongside two alcoholic-ice-cream bamboozled shakes (“knight up” canadian-whisky-stout-beer-glaze-and-vanilla-custard for me, “drunken monkey” hazelnut-liqueur-peanut-butter-cups-and-banana-laffy-taffy for mah sweetie) at Holstein’s

• walked through a 1.3 million gallon shipwreck, surrounded by sharks at Mandalay Bay — then dined with a 360° view as night fell in the Top Of The World restaurant at the Stratosphere)

• partook of a little bullshit with Penn & Teller, ziplined between the two towers of the Rio, smacked a golfball up Gene Simmons’s tongue at the KISS Blacklight Indoor Mini Golf — then rose to the occasion for a late happy hour in the sky on the High Roller (an entirely fitting way to end a weekend jam-packed with fun)

• got smelly at The Stinking Rose (you can never have too much vampire protection, and that garlic ice cream is to-die-for) — and then were amazed by an evening of perplexing prestidigitation at the Magic Castle

A Win For Team Benajmona

The best way to describe what we created is “Ramona-&-Ben’s-big-ass-three-ring-circus-costume-party-sleepover-with-a-ceremony-in-the-middle-Wedding-Of-The-Century.” We were told over and over that no one who’d attended our nuptials had EVER been to anything like the party we threw.

This weekend-long costume wedding included a grown-sized-bouncy-house, campfire karaoke, unity volcano, severed-zombie-head-cake-pops, record-breaking-cards-against-humanity-game, horror-movie-and-alcoholic-snowcone-pj-party — this ginormous-crazy-boozy-burning-man-style event was 100% the sort of filled-with-peeps-we-love-insanity we’d dreamed of all along. And then some!

• throughout the weekend, guests were quizzing each other never-have-I-ever-style as a way of breaking the ice (approaching total strangers asking “so have you ever shared a sucker with your dog?” or “gotten poison ivy from having outdoor sex?” or “sucked on a toe?” or “required medical attention because there was a foreign object stuck inside you?” or “baked brownies with ex-lax and then given them to someone you disliked?”) — I don’t believe in small talk!
• we started the official festivities off with a record-breaking dinner involving the world’s largest four-and-a-half-foot-square deliverable pizza  plus a Voodoo Donut tower — paired with some alcoholically-enthusiastic campfire karaoke (cheater-s’mores, flammables, and a chance to prove how badly you sing after several hours of unrestrained drinking — frankly, it just doesn’t get any better than this!)
• as that 10PM outdoor-noise curfew hit, we moved to the activity hall for a ginormous Cards Against Humanity game with every expansion pack and all the boring cards removed (in an effort to break a record for the largest simultaneous laughter-driven pants-pee) — plus alcoholic snow cones and popcorn with amazing canadian-powdered-dill-pickle-and-ketchup sprinkles
• our guests woke to a waffle bar brunch, played yard pong and cornhole, made giant bubbles and walked-on-water in an oobleck pool, had the opportunity to break a neck in our adult-sized bouncy house (fortunately no one ended up in the hospital), and got blinged up at our mask/’stache-making station — the perfect complement to those costumes!
• while Ben and I went off to take pictures, our folk enjoyed a pre-nuptial cocktail hours with a signature “Vampire Blood” vodka drink and enough munchies to keep everyone’s belly happy until the reception
• Tony Clifton officiated the actual ceremony (which included a unity volcano, handcuffs, paper airplanes, cowbells, and Bob Ross quotes) — mah sweetie showed up as Dead Elvis and I was dressed as a goth showgirl
• during the reception, Ben and I performed our first dance to The Massochism Tango (followed by a Tom Waits Little Trip To Heaven slow number), then later waltzed to Rainbow Connection — folks contributed “where-you’ll-be-a-year-from-now” predictions to our me-shaped anniversary piñata, left snarky marital advice on our guest sheets, spun our “wheel of zero inhibitions,” gave us lap dances in order to make us kiss, ate severed-zombie-head wedding cake pops, toasted us with jello-eyeball-shots, and had an amazing fucking time
• the reception-after-the-reception was a late-night horror movie pajama party, showing the cheesiest-campiest-most-awesomely-ridiculously-gory films ever made

It was packed, it was crazy, it was ridiculously-over-the-top (a typical Ramona/Ben event) — what else would you expect?

Why Our Tribe Is The Freaking Best

My old college friends Dawn and David served as our Trauzeuge and Trauzeugin. If you’re wondering what-in-the-holy-hell that is — the not-so-traditional-and-far-less-formal equivalent of best man and matron of honor, sans peach chiffon and a bad tux (sort of emotional support “witnesses” and honored second-in-command guests at German weddings).

These two were bestowed said unpronounceable title, ‘cuz they’re a seminal part of our having ever gotten together — they’re the reason we met in the first place (for which we’re ever grateful), exceptionally tolerant of all our weirdities (for which we’re ever grateful), and supporters of every ridiculous step/project/ambition we’ve undertaken together (for which we’re ever grateful). The best thing to happen to either of us would never have happened without them!

Dawn also served as our super-amazing dance instructor in preparation for strutting our stuff in public.

The gorgeous pictures you see were taken by Catherine Aranda. Duffy Hudson served as our Tony Clifton. He’s an incredible one-man-show — The Duffmeister currently tours the country as Edgar Allan Poe, Houdini, Albert Einstein, Audie Murphy, George Burns, and every single character in “A Christmas Carol” (only man we know who’s memorized the ENTIRE book). Two of our favorite crazy Angelenos (known amongst their friends as a “weirdo power couple”) were our emcees — Sebastian Munoz and Redetha Deason — Sebastian also loaned us his children Will and Jelly for our ring-wrangler and petal princess. Musical-pals Jennifer Novak Chun (cello), Sasha Snow (ukulele), and Mike Guthrie (guitar) performed during the ceremony, Sandy Gabucan’s taiko group drummed for our recessional — and DJ Zanne spun both our wedding songs and a great 80s-90s-world-techno mix at the reception.

Finally Coming Into Focus

Once the cracks in my personal life had been sealed with psychic crazy glue, it was time to rebuild my poor neglected bidniss. Ye olde professional life was a hot freaking mess. For starters, my code-monkey-ex was halfway through a million programming projects when our coexistence spiraled down the drain — every vital functionality on my site was irreparably broken, and had to be rebuilt from scratch. (Party!)

I was also contemplating a parachute color shift. While I loved left-braining for my clients, I was tired of going in circles, listing to port. I wanted more balance between logic and creativity — time in my day for writing, making art, sharing both the beauty and absurdity of the world with my patrons.

And I still had to take into account the whole “recovering-from-fuckrupt” factor — if I couldn’t muster enough will to shower or get dressed (as had been the case off-and-on for months and months and months), I certainly wasn’t going to give a shit about marketing. It was a glorious day, when the sun broke through the clouds and I actually CARED about my career again. At long last, I was ready to don those fairy wings, throw on some sugar-skull makeup, grab mah glitter wand, and get back to causing occupational mayhem!

I returned quite eagerly to direct client services — this time focusing as much on tough-love-reality-check accountability coaching as hands-on/virtual organizing. I expanded my mentoring of other entrepreneurs, devoted more time to public speaking, and dug back into my blogs (sprinkling each with a nice dusting of swear-words this time around, just to keep things interesting). And I developed an including-the-kitchen-sink line of products designed to support my D-I-Y-ers — toolkits to e-books to audio recordings, and then some.

I dabbled in every possible visual arts medium (emphasizing sinister/impertinent subject matter as much as inspirational) — and started doing weird things with my photography. I flipped Shakespeare’s Taming Of the Shrew on its head, began a young adult novel about middle-school sexuality (as well as a musical about serial killers), and committed to finishing my delayed-on-account-of-divorce RVing travel narrative. I also added new titles like “fixer/ass-kicker,” “not-so-tortured artist,” “talking head,” “wordsmith,” “philosopher,” and “wanderluster” to my list of creds. Finally, outlets for all the different aspects of my personality!

I was in heaven — and the best news is, I’m still there.

Sharing What I Know With The World

Anyone who’s met me knows that my defining communication style is “enthusiastic verbosity.” I have a lot to say (usually quite loudly and with a great deal of fervent gesticulation) about EVERYTHING — don’t get me started on a topic I’m particularly passionate about, or I’ll go on for days! (I blame my English teachers. Had they not introduced me to the joys of term paper research and oratorical debate, while simultaneously failing to set a word/time limit — I’d never have gotten hooked on sharing my observations with such loquacity.) But I can’t complain, ‘cuz most folks seem to like what I have say (long-winded though it might be) — and those who don’t provide a rich source of “let-me-show-you-the-many-flaws-in-your-logic” counterargument fodder!

It’s true that the opinionated mind knows no bounds — too many interests and an endless willingness to share (a deadly combination) means I’ve covered just about every subject imaginable. I’ve taught essential life skills, shared my artistic processes, and ranted about social injustice. I’ve participated in podcasts and panels on topics ranging from the mechanics of writing to effective parenting technique, from life transition to defining happiness, from eliminating debt to entrepreneurial best practices. I’ve created written/video content for other companies (like Smead, Airstream, and Hewlett-Packard). I’ve crafted dozens of workshops, penned thousands of articles — and have either published or am mid-scribage-on a staggering number of publications (business manuals, instructional guides, picture books, socially-relevant YA fiction, wanderlust narratives, recipe collections, art retrospectives, and every genre in-between). Whew!

Helping Clients Move Beyond Organized

Teaching folks to set up a stress-free calendar or manageable file system (or garage they can actually fit the car into) is fine and dandy — but focusing entirely on these issues eventually becomes a tad limiting. My definition of “order” has always been more comprehensive than mere time-paper-space woes. (I want to improve the WHOLE situation, not just a desk or closet or media collection.) And that’s clearly what my tribe desires — during organizing sessions, I continually find myself picking other scabs at the behest of my clients. I’m asked over and over again for advice tangential to the reason they’ve hired me — repeatedly drawn into discussions about repairing their finances, relationships, health, job situation, child-rearing abilities, and flagging sense of personal fulfillment.

This is where the Social Worker in me collides with my Professional Organizing side — creating the vocational equivalent of a Reeses Peanut Butter Cup. “Hey! you got order in my enhanced well-being!” (If you’re not a Gen-Xer, go look that joke up on YouTube.) Turns out I can get away with asking the same annoying-ass questions about OTHER issues, as the ones I regularly use to attack clutter — then put my amazing problem-solving super-powers into play, and end up effecting positive changes all throughout a person’s life! I came to realize that my skills lie not just in categorizing or systematizing, not even in bigger-picture goal-setting and follow-through. I’ve discovered a talent for comprehensively helping my peeps align every part of their existence with their innermost values. I call this concept living “in integrity” — and it’s a notion folks embrace because it resonates at a far deeper level than just “getting organized.”

I despise the term “life coach” (an ill-defined and meaningless title) almost as much as I hate the phrase “it is what it is” (a vague and empty platitude, at best) — so I refuse to call myself that, no matter how many pins you stick in me! I prefer that y’all see me as an Accountability Guru. (How’dja like that?!) I definitely perform traditional coaching functions — pinpointing success-blocking complications, creating a structured work agenda, converting pie-in-the-sky goals into actionable tasks, hunting up relevant resources, and staying on folks’ collective tail-ends to make sure they maintain forward momentum. But this particular “help-me-fix-what’s wrong” relationship transcends your typical co-active model. I don’t just suggest challenges for clients to explore (then leave them to find-or-not-find their own answers) — I actively intervene to make sure my peeps are implementing realistic solutions to their problems. That’s right, implementing solutions to problems — feel the collective shudder within the coaching community.

Teaching Entrepreneurs To Be Better Business People

One surprising thing I’ve discovered during my extremely “colorful” career is a talent for business admin. (I started out a leftist and ended up a capitalist — whodathunkit?) This gift appeared during a session with my first enterprise-level client waaaay back in the dark ages of the late 90s. I was playing a rousing game of “devil’s advocate” with the firm’s operating manual — poking holes in their procedures, challenging the board to rethink how they approached the business of doing business, generally being the ginormous pain in the keister my peeps have come to expect when they hire me. I wasn’t sure if this work would mesh with my basic anti-corporate nature over the long run — but in that moment, I was having a crap-ton of fun being exasperating. (Isn’t that what counts?)

Fast-forward to a few months later, when the CEO told me that my recommendations had thus far netted them a 15% increase in revenue — I was hooked! Unfortunately, corporate culture and I don’t get along terribly well. (All those bureaucratic decision-making layers drive me bats — and my nose-rings tend to clash with everyone else’s suits.) So I set my sights on smaller companies and individual executives, folks who could control their own destinies without having a dozen flipping committee meetings about it.

While I have a soft spot for solopreneurs and freelance service providers (especially my fellow Professional Organizers), I’ve found that I can help pretty much any company function more effectively. It’s not just because I’ve read nearly every business manual published within the last 20 years — it’s because I’ve been where they’ve been (no matter where they’ve been). I’ve functioned online and off — both incorporated and D.B.A.ed. I’ve worked alone, as part of a team, and managing staff. I’ve marketed artwork, intangible services, information, and physical commodities — created products from scratch, as well as overseen the packaging and retail sale of hundreds of other people’s merchandise. I’ve turned both my own and my colleagues’ expertise into workshops and books and training programs. And I successfully sold a profitable company that I’d built from the ground up — so I can speak to just about every aspect of entrepreneurship.

Balancing The Creative With The Logical

Thanks to my dear departed mother, I’ve always been a “highly imaginative character” (to quote Edward Scissorhands) — forever involved in some crafty endeavor or another. As a kid in South Florida, it was shell sculpture. (Pride and joy was that frog with the urchin-spine cigar in his mouth — until my stupid cat knocked him off the dresser and decapitated him.) As a teenager, I hand-made the most amazingly over-the-top bedazzled-beflocked-beribboned-puffy-painted clothing to sell at our local flea market. (Dude — it was the 80s.) In college, I shifted to hawking decoupage picture frames, foam cut-out Christmas ornaments, and dried flower wreaths at holiday shows. But it wasn’t until my marriage melted down that I formally incorporated these fartsy leanings into my business.

After I ran away from home and began to rebuild my life, I met a man whose artistic drive rivaled my own. His passion fueled my passion, my imagination threw lighter fluid on his — day after day, we encouraged each other’s wild ideas and fantastic visions, until we ignited a perfect firestorm of creative chaos. (Hooking up with a prop-maker, set-designer, actor, web-series-producer, and screenwriter does wonders for stimulating your corpus callosum — I guess that’s why I decided to marry him!) Ben introduced me to a local creative writing group. (I’ve now completed a play, am working on a novel, and am co-writing both a film script and a musical with mah sweetie.) He’s helped me achieve clarity when it comes to my visual art (both the “paint-a-picture” kind and the “screw-around-with-found-objects” sort). And he’ll tell me wonderful lies like, “No sweetie. That’s not too weird,” when I push an envelope. All creative-types need one of these!

As with everything else, I’ve got a serious case of artistic attention-deficit — I have a new project idea approximately every 30 seconds, and I’m physiologically incapable of limiting my interests to just one discipline or medium. The good news is that I’ve got enough entries on my “art to make” list to keep me busy until the day I die!

It’s All About Getting “True”

I’ve made a HUGE shift as I’m revamping my company, moving my business away from a narrow “organizing” focus (on the life side) and from simply being a resource for new POs (on the biz side) — both of which have come to feel severely limiting, like trying to cram my message into that framework is getting in the way of what I have to say to the world. (Frankly, it started when I published my “Organizer’s Bible” and “A-To-Z Of Getting Organized” — I’m coming to think that it’s getting those two projects out of my system which has opened up my mind to thinking bigger. It’s also led to me killing off a LOT of creative babies and achieving a great deal of clarity about how to I do want to package my expertise — and I’m going to be quite excited to share the end result with everyone.)

I’m embracing a broader focus, one that can best be described as “Authenticity Guruhood Meets Accountability Ass-Kickage” — helping my peeps have the amazeballs-awesomesauce-suits-me-to-a-t life they’ve always wanted (rather than the less-than-satisfactory-and-not-quite-where-I-want-to-be default one that society has handed them).

To that end, I’m developing a robust series of products/programs aimed at folks who’ve become disenchanted with their own personal status quo. They recognize something as “off,” but may not be entirely sure what it is that’s gotten broken — and even if they do, they sure as hell have no idea how to fix it! All they know is that they’ve been tolerating an existence which no longer fits, that’s out-of-alignment with their deepest values and secret dreams.

The damn thing just ain’t working anymore.

They’ve hit a breaking point. They’re tired of settling. They want (and finally feel they deserve) more, but can’t seem to get there on their own — they’re looking for someone to help them make it better, to guide them to a place I call “TRUE.”

(Rather appropriate, considering how if-y’all-are-gonna-do-it-that-way-I’m-going-over-here-and-doing-something-else I’ve been with my own life and career — dontcha think?)

And I mean hell, that’s what the last 6 years have been for me — a long drawn-out process of recognizing how out-of-whack my own world had become, followed by a long-drawn-out process of discovering what my new “true” looked like, followed by yet another long-drawn-out-process of figuring out the path that would lead me there.

The nice thing about going through all that shit is that it’s taught me LEAGUES more than I already knew (even compared to my previous organizing/coaching/simplifying experience) about what that process looks like — how to pinpoint exactly what’s wrong, how to ask myself the really hard questions and make the really hard decisions I’d been avoiding (out of a fear of change? a fear of failure? a fear of success?) — and how to take action that gets right at the heart of the problem, just nails it against the wall with an iron spike and FORCES your life to get its ass in gear!

A Different Kind Of Family

One thing I haven’t mentioned throughout this whole story of simplification is children — a hugely complicating factor in most folks’ lives, and one I’ve quite purposefully chosen to avoid. (Fortunately, my sweetie’s solidly on board with that one. His first birthday present to me was a vasectomy.)

When a stranger asks if I want kids, my response is generally something along the lines of, “Heeeeeell no! Although I actually did have a maternal instinct once in grade school. (Thank god it passed.) Then I asked for a tubal ligation on my 16th birthday, but I got a stereo instead. Honestly, the only way I’d have children is if they invented an automatic rug-rat-feeder, like I have for the cats — and even then, prolly not.”

When I’ve delivered my humor-tinged-yet-deadly-serious no-kidding spiel, most folks laugh, exchange some witty banter about the not-so-joys of raising offspring, then move on to the next subject. But eeeeeevery once in a while, I’ll hear the word “why” escape someone’s mouth. And that’s when all hell breaks loose!

Now, I’m pretty fairly easy-going. (I hear those peals of even-as-you-read-these-words laughter, thinking I’m about as high-maintenance as they come — but I’m talking about one’s ability to avoid PC-panty-twistage.) I truly never get “offended.” However, the fact that I’m expected to defend a perfectly valid personal decision in a way that someone who’s squeezed a mini-me through her southernmost bodily orifice isn’t, makes me snort milk out my nose. I made the active, conscious, and completely intentional choice not to reproduce. I took the batteries out of my biological clock a long time ago, and I regret nothing!

I knew early on that I didn’t need crotch-droplings to lead a full and complete life — and I never could have experienced the amazing things I have with a passel of mealy-mouthed brats in tow. (Melanie Wilkes, anyone?) Plus, I’m way too “selfish” for a house-ape. (Some of my cohorts prickle at that word, but I’m reclaiming it as a positive accolade — like my L.G.B.T. friends’ co-opting of the term “queer.”) And there’s nothing more satisfying than beating conversational troublemakers to the punch with a little reverse psychology. When I suggest that I’m too egocentric for parenthood, even those who might oppose child-freedom can’t help but argue — “Gosh no! You know what you want and don’t want, and that’s great.” Win!

I’ve given this a lot of thought. I have many friends who’ve reproduced. (I was even a birth partner myself.) I know exactly how hard it is to raise a child, and I’m just not interested in adding that much stress to my life — nothing about modern parenting comes anywhere close to resembling my definition of “simple!”

It’s not that I’m lazy. (Anyone who knows me will tell you they’ve never seen someone cram as much activity into a single day.) And I’m certainly not allergic to responsibility. (I’ve run my own business since 1998, and that’s at LEAST as hard as converting a baby into an adult.) I am however, fundamentally averse to screaming, crying, tantrums, drool, snot, diapers, and something three-feet tall telling me “no!” ‘Nuff said.

Celebrating The Atypical

I’ve never chosen a particularly conventional life — at least according to most standards.  I don’t care about having a big house or an expensive car. I place more importance on personal satisfaction than professional status. (I’m not even using the damned master’s degree I spent so many years paying off!) The only children I’ll ever have lick their own butts. And my home is a 29-foot Airstream travel trailer. However, I don’t consider myself an outcast or weirdo. (No matter what the photo says!) I have nose-rings and tattoos — I’m also well-educated and solidly middle-class. I didn’t grow up in a radical household. (My brother was a hippie, but he was in it more for the drugs than the politics!) My parents instilled me with a strong work ethic and taught me to want the American dream. I really did try to give it a shot — the career ladder, the house, everything except the kids. And I was “successful,” but something felt off.

Over time, I’d become more and more disenchanted with the traditional way of doing things — the “work-a-million-hours-have-no-free-time-make-money-buy-stuff-give-birth-get-old-and-retire-at-65” lifestyle did not resonate with me. (I’m obviously wired differently from most Americans, because that sounds very much like my idea of hell!) I watched my mother and father scrimp and save and delay their dreams so they could relax during those precious sunset years — then they each died prematurely, before getting to fully enjoy the fruits of their labors. I didn’t want to live that way. I refused to continually put my life on hold waiting for “someday” — I was going to have my retirement while I was still young enough to enjoy it!

People tell me how “courageous” I am to have skipped parenthood and lived life according to my rules, to have quit my job and started my own business, to have dumped the stationary life and hit the road. I guess — but it never felt especially brave to me, just right. I’m simply doing what I want, instead of what someone else tells me I should do. (If more people gave that a try, I’m convinced we’d all be better off!) But folks have a hard time listening to their hearts, because their stupid heads get in the way. They get their panties all in a twist over their “status.” Mirriam-Webster defines status as  “relative social, professional, or other standing.” The key word in that phrase is “relative” — when you routinely compare your life to other people’s, you’re setting yourself up for dissatisfaction. Figure out what makes you happy IRRESPECTIVE of what everyone else is doing. That’s the only way to find true contentment.

Part of the reason I’ve been able to follow my heart without worrying about how it would affect my status is that I am (on many levels) immune to outside opinion. Sure, if someone tells me that I suck, it hurts my feelings and shakes my confidence — but that’s not what I’m talking about. I mean that I’ve never really given much thought to “keeping up with the Joneses.” So many people focus on having what their friends and neighbors have, and that was never a priority for me. Our friends have decided that they need a house with a 3-car garage? Yeah, not so much. I’ll spend my money traveling, instead. Everyone else is having kids? Congratulations. I’ll come visit every so often, get them hyped up on sugar and caffeine, then give them back to you. Spending 18-hour days climbing that corporate ladder? Fuck that! I’d rather devote my time to creative projects!

What folks don’t realize is that following your heart is actually the path of least resistance. Believe me, I work hard for my dreams — but when you’re putting the time in on something you love, it doesn’t feel like effort. Raising children and showing up at an office every day — now that would be work! I recognize that I live an unusual lifestyle when compared to my friends and most people my age (actually, most people period). I can’t claim all the traditional trappings of prosperity — summer homes and boats, my name on an office door or an important title. I’ve traded all that stuff for free time and reduced stress — and I have to say, I feel pretty darned successful for having broken free from the mold!

For All The Credential Whores Out There

I have nothing against career climbers — I just don’t happen to believe that a pile of superfluous certifications equals success. (Sure, I was in the Who’s Who Of American Business — so flippin’ what?) One thing I’ve learned as an entrepreneur is that I don’t need 3rd-party degrees and designations to prove my services have value. (An eye chart full of letters after my name ain’t nowhere near as satisfying as changing a client’s life.) Plus, so much modern-day “credentialing” is little more than a money-making racket. Newsflash — purchasing an impressive-looking-yet-hollow resume doesn’t prove shit about your ability to do your job!

I’ve also never felt compelled to join every professional association on the planet, because most business groups are just an excuse to have meetings — and I hate meetings. Don’t give me that look — it’s not like I didn’t try! I’ve communed with women execs and the self-employed and a half dozen different Chambers Of Commerce throughout my career — but I never got enough out of these organizations to stick around. The list of affiliations that have made a lasting difference to my career are few (VERY few). I prefer to direct my energies toward accomplishing goals, experiencing the world, and having a positive impact on those around me (rather than listening to motivational speakers and eating stale doughnuts).

I also don’t hold a lot of stock in awards. I’m immediately leery of folks who start off a relationship by telling you how awesome the world thinks they are. Just be real, okay? I’ll probably like you better in the long run than if you act like a self-aggrandizing twit. And seeing a vague term like “award-winning” attached to a product or service is an immediate red flag for me. (Just remember, a book that gets the Bad Sex In Fiction trophy can claim to be just as prize-garnering as one that earns a Pulitzer!) Plus, even the meaningful recognitions fade over time. (Yeah, I was once Florida College Student Of The Year — and I won a crapton of Organizer’s Choice awards when I some sort of “rockstar” in the productivity industry. Big deal. Those plaques are long-since donated to a thrift store.)

If someone chooses to work with me, I want it to be based on what they see happening in my life/biz NOW — not because of some award I won a decade ago and am still showing folks. Read my writing, listen to my podcasts, evaluate what I have to say about the world — talk to me, listen to my clients sharing their experiences, and that should be good enough. If all that see if it resonates with you, we’re a match — if not, I won’t be the least bit offended.

All Work And No Play Make Ramona A Total Bitch

What I do with my free time is as important to me as the titles on my business card. I relish the chance to try a new extracurricular — especially a weird one most folks have never considered attempting. I’ve played drunken softball and grown-people-pretending-they’re-grader-schoolers kickball. I’ve parried and dodged (fencing), shimmied and slid (belly dance), emoted and projected and broken the fourth wall (acting). I learned to cave (where I overcame a pretty nasty fear of heights) and scuba dive (where I conquered an even more heart-stopping de-oxygenation worry).

Mah sweetie and I take advantage of every opportunity to dress like a fool in public, develop a bizarre skill, cause ourselves a life-long injury, or make a joyful-if-not-entirely-pleasant noise. I’m a Girl Scout (gold award recipient) and a Burner (playa names “Ragdoll” and “TeddyBen”) and a cosplayer (pretty much every con that comes our way) soon-to-be AT Thru-Hiker. Both Ben and I are Universal Life Church Ordained Ministers — just in case you need help with a baptism or exorcism or anything like that. For a short period, I was the reigning late-night-hula-hoop champion at the TikiNo Bar in North Hollywood.

Fame, Fortune, Or Freedom? Defining Success On My Own Muthafuckin’ Terms

I call what I do “plerk” (different from “twerk”) — play + work = plerk. My goal is to be a “lifestyle entrepreneur” — I don’t want to have to take out my nose ring or hide my tattoo or wear “banker’s business blue” (I was never built for the corporate world, I’m much too funky!) I will never make millions of dollars at my work, but I get to do what I love, from anywhere in the world. The line between work and play is blurred for me — I love being able to turn my life experiences into something meaningful for my clients. I can work from the back porch of my mother’s house or while camping in the Rockies or sitting on a beach in Tahiti — flexibility, mobility, and free time are more important to me now than money.

I have no interest in a set schedule — whether I wake up in the morning wanting to write blogs or take photos or sculpt or have a day off, I insist on having the freedom to choose. I don’t want my business to be limited to one arena — my career has to allow me to use all of my skills, express every facet of my personality, and give me complete creative freedom to head off in any direction I choose. I will only work from home, for myself, keeping my business small enough for one person to manage — I refuse to ever have employees or become a slave for someone else again!

(Big surprise, right? I mean, in light of my standard y’all-enjoy-that-conventionally-laid-out-path-while-I’m-heading-a-full-one-hundred-and-eighty-degrees-in-the-opposite-direction-from-normal-homo-sapiens modus operandi.)

My relationships are hugely important to me and I have to feel as though I’m making a contribution to the world — I want time in my schedule for friends and family, charitable work, my clients, my art, for whatever I feel like doing. I want to maximize my accomplishments and minimize the time investment, so I have plenty left over for “living.” I will not have my free time limited to Saturdays and Sundays, rushing around trying to fit in everything you didn’t have time for during the week — I like being able to go grocery shopping when everyone else is at work and hit the zoos and aquariums while the kids are in school. Most of all, I refuse to wait until I’m 65 to retire — I’m taking “mini-retirements” every day of my life, instead!

Keeping An Eye On My Progress

My intention is to spend every day “in integrity” — living according to my own highest standards, making every choice a conscious one, and serving as a role model for others in everything that I do. I want to operate from a larger perspective, seeing beyond my own doorstep, showing respect and compassion for all humans and their failings. I’m happiest when I’m in the moment — making sure every experience (from traveling abroad to washing dishes) is meaningful, finding enjoyment in even the most insignificant or mundane activities. I try to always be growing, expanding my horizons, and adding value to the world around me. I want to be known as someone who pushes boundaries, makes life better, and helps others increase their capabilities. That’s a tall freaking order!

Up, Up, And Away

It’s only after typing all this, that I can see how much my life resembles the Up documentary series — which makes me inordinately happy, ‘cuz it’s one of my faves. (Follows a group of British primary school kids, revisiting them every seven years to see how life has evolved — fascinating sociological stuff. Go check it out on netflix. Right now. I’ll wait.)

So the $64,000 question (at least in my mind) is how much of who you become’s determined by socio-economic status? Upbringing? The choices you make? Random encounters and dumb-fucking luck? In a nature-versus-nurture cage match, I’ll vote for self-determination to kick predestiny’s ass any day. But I also recognize that in many ways, we’re like tiny leaves floating along in a cosmic sea of opportunities. Our final destination depends a great deal upon where that day’s prevailing current is flowing — and even the most meticulously-scouted course means exactly jack shit when you get caught in a chaotic riptide! Next time you’ve got a few free minutes, try to recall what your life looked like as you entered each new septade:

• age 7 — living in South Florida, I was a girl scout and straight-A-gifted-program student — I dressed the cat in doll clothes pretending he was my “baby” (??), and spent my free time at the beach — a short-haired tomboy with an anal streak (already organizing my toys into neatly-aligned-color-coded categories), I wanted to be a doctor or the first kid in space — even wrote Ronnie a letter suggesting the addition of a new NASA division, but he could smell a liberal-in-the-making and turned me down

• age 14 — still a Neapolitan, I became a clarinet-playing-band-geek and possessing-more-shoes-than-Imelda-Marcos-crazy-80s-fashionista, plagued with braces and a horrendously regrettable perm — I went through a vile “week-old-burrito-under-the-bed-total-slob” phase, a rebellious “screw-homework-call-your-teacher-a-bitch-get-in-school-suspension” phase, a pathetic “crush-on-a-drummer-I-relentlessly-stalked-but-never-spoke-to-once-during-three-years-of-infatuation” phase — I wanted to teach elementary school, but flatly refused to babysit because I thought little kids were “retarded” (??)

• age 21 — now at college in Tallahassee, I was a Social Work major and Marching Chief, pledged to the Tau Beta Sigma music service sorority — I’d dated my high school sweetheart since age 16, wore yuppie-esque shoulder-padded power suits (??), and had grown my hair down to my ass (which earned me comparisons to Nicole Kidman) — I spent weekends scouring yard sales for books and cheapie home décor, pranking my brothers/sisters with TP and shaving cream, and making wedding plans

• age 28 — having married and moved to Atlanta after graduation, I quit my job running a welfare-to-work program to start an organizing and coaching business — I downsized to a minimalist condo in midtown, dressed like a hippie-chick in birks and long skirts, ate a mostly-raw-vegetarian diet, and worked out six days a week at a kickboxing gym — I hacked my hair pixie-elfin-boy-cut short (??), sang in a feminist choir with 60 lesbians and two other straight girls, and had firmly decided to never breed

• age 35 – now settled outside DC, I bought-and-fixed-up-a-house-’til-it-nearly-killed-me, and had been running a successful retail website with the husbert for almost a decade — I dyed my hair flaming red, got my first tattoo, then added a nose piercing for good measure — having embraced international globetrottage (Canada/London/India), I was gone from home 1/4 of the year, trying to become a travel photographer with my point-and-shoot (??) — I’d joined a simplicity circle and grown weary of suburbia

• age 42 — living on the road as a full-time RVer with Los Angeles as a semi-home-base, I’d sold the web business, ditched the house, bought an Airstream, and upgraded to a professional DSLR camera — I was split from my ex, and had met what would turn out to be the love of my life — I got four more facial piercings (including an eyebrow ring), then expanded my tattoo up my back and around my stomach — I’d traveled around the country multiple times, and had also visited Tokyo — published two books, become a public speaker, expanded my coaching/organizing, and even acted in a play (??)

Why Am I Sharing All This Shit?

So what’s the point behind this whole “life story” thing? Aside from my needing to do some public processing as I embark upon that next phase of evolution, it’s to let you know that I’m not some kind of Little Miss Smarty Pants Perfect — who’s known the answer to life, the universe, and everything since conception. (It’s 42, by the way.) My own road to simplicity is littered with plenty of curves, twists, and brake-slamming crank-that-wheel-hard-to-the-left-before-you-smash-into-a-brick-retaining-wall u-turns.

The path to fulfillment and satisfaction isn’t easy, but it’s unbelievably rewarding. Achieving your dreams ain’t an overnight chance occurrence — it’s about conscious decision-making that sparks a long, slow, gradual coming-together of goals and fortuities. The cool thing is that ANYONE can make it happen. Long as you’re aware of how the available options align with your values at every fork/knife/spoon in the road. (Sounds commonsense. But you’d be amazed at the number of people who find themselves careening the wrong direction down a one-way street headed straight for a concrete abutment — and just keep going!)

I’m sharing for three simple reasons — so you can:

• feel less embarrassed about your situation — and more comfortable asking for professional help (knowing that other folks struggle with exactly the same sorts of clutter frustrations you do)
• better understand how I work — the kinds of questions I ask, the problem-solving techniques I use, down-and-dirty organizational tools I favor, and real-life systems I implement with my peeps
• truly comprehend how much a few changes can improve not only your living/working environment — but also your stress levels, relationships, job satisfaction, and quality of life as a whole

My general life-philosophy is “I don’t know how much time I’ve got left, so I’m just gonna get weird with it” — who’s joining me?

Click here for reuse options!
Copyright 2014 RamonaCreel.com