In the last month I have sat down repeatedly at my computer to begin building a decent resume to present to potential employers. I write my name, my address, my various alternative contact informations. And then I reach the line labeled “Objective” (a new addition to the professional resume since my high school days) and I come screeching to a halt. I freeze for a moment, commence my existentialist panic at having to identify and describe my whole objective in my potential life’s work, switch off the computer without following the formal log-out procedure, and run out of the room. This exact event has literally happened at least six times since the end of February.

Seriously, what the hell? I don’t know if I’m even qualified to obtain a decently-paying job in the first place and now they want me to sum up the [theoretical] ultimate goal, the great personal dream that will fuel and motivate me to push myself forward, working and investing my life’s energy to one day accomplish into a teeny tiny sentence that may or may not capture the eye of someone who is looking to hire me for somewhere around $10-$15 an hour?! Somehow that seems both extremely arrogantly brash, ignorant, and juvenile in addition to incredibly daunting.

As the weeks have flown by and slowly built up the frustrations at myself pertaining to my life/career’s stagnation and the notion that I’m not actively doing anything to remedy this ever-compounding frustration. So I did what I always do when I come to an unsolvable mental problem. I took it to my therapist. (Hey, the woman helped me pinpoint what I wanted to write about for my thesis after months of confusion and procrastination. She’s good.) I was sent home with the very very primitive homework of brainstorming everything I had done in the basic categories of “Education”, “Paying Writing Jobs”, “Paying Other Jobs”, “Various Creative Ventures”, and “Objectives”. Alright, cool. I can do that. Baaaaby steps. (Apparently, I just need someone to cut up my meat before I dig in to this Great Feast of Life. Hence all the therapy.)

So, after a week and a half of brainstorming I have a half-page (of notebook paper) pertaining to my completed education, a whole page pertaining to paid writing jobs I’ve had, a page devoted to paid other jobs I’ve had since 2001-ish (turns out I have 6 years under my belt with DG Golf Management! Score for longevity and versatility!), and THREE WHOLE PAGES of unpaid creative ventures that I’ve been directly involved with in the last 8 years.

(On a completely self-indulgent side note, I was honestly shocked to learn that I’ve been a far more productive flighty bohemian than I’d assumed. I’ve been a performer in six full-length plays and/or theatrical productions, I’ve been a makeup artist for a short film, I worked as technical crew for a community theatre, I ran my own ‘zine out my dorm room during my first two years of college (in the midst of developing problem, no less!) that was sold in a handful of indie music venues around North and South Carolina and was featured in a 2002 North Carolina Zine Directory, I was an artist’s model at NCSA, I’ve had numerous stories and photography published in a dozen magazines and literary journals (internationally! And some of which weren’t even student publications!), I’ve run a small consistent web store since 2003 and launched a small independent business last year with my Yum in the Tub stuff. I signed a contract after auditioning and being accepted into a burlesque troupe in Charlotte (that unfortunately lost funding and never got off the ground), I performed and traveled with a bellydance troupe, and I wrote, choreographed and performed with an award-winning comedy troupe in Melbourne, Australia. I’ve won a handful of awards for writing, photography and humble kayaking skills. And I’ve kept a blog consistently since the summer of 2003 that is now recognized by and featured in BUST magazine’s blog directory and is syndicated through Skirt! Magazine’s website.

Holy crap. I’m kinda productive. Who would’ve thought?)

And, still, I sit staring at the page titled “Objectives” with no idea what to write.

My first reaction consisted of basic, utilitarian answers:

• I want to work so I can get paid and have a house and feed myself and my family and not be supported by my parents for the rest of my life.
• I’d like to work at a job in my field of expertise that would allow me gradual advancement and a chance at happy retirement.

Next came the realistically-based goals, although somewhat irreverent:

• I want to work in an environment where I am not some arrogant superior’s “bitch” and am able to contribute to society without perpetually battling through a minefield of self-worthlessness.
• Please just pay me to do something humane.

And then were the goals that allowed my inner-self to fly fancy free and that would inevitably have me escorted from any HR office:

• I want to write an opinion column for a publication of some sort where I blather on about parenting or music or pop culture or whatever else I feel like.
• I want a 5-book deal with a major publishing house to sit around and put my bloggery into essay form a la Sedaris and then travel the globe on book tours. I don’t want to be terribly world-famous and I don’t intend to be revolutionary or even brilliant but I want to write about stuff that people can relate to, smile about, and maybe even remember enough to recommend to a friend.
• I want to be the ringmaster for one of those crazy, bohemian circuses like the fantastic Yard Dogs Road Showthat tours the country with firespinners and erotic aerialists and various oddities.
• I want to collaborate and perform with a burlesque troupe and pose for retro pinup clothing companies like the gorgeous Max Masuimi at Pin Up Girl Clothing.;
• I want a job that requires me to travel the globe and write about food artistry and movements.
• I want to be Tina Fey and write for SNL and then have my own self-produced/written/directed/starred-in sitcom that’s a major, massive, brilliant hit that redefines comedy.
• I want to be a lingerie or artist’s model without having to get any sort of reconstructive plastic surgery to fix all these baby-induced damages.
• I want to found a magazine or journal with my husband where he is the graphic designer and I am the editor.
• I want to own an indie record shop and host indie bands and have crazy parties when Bjork releases crazy new albums.
• I want to open that multiplex that shows old movies all the time.
• I want to pass the Bar and become a lawyer and help fight for laws protecting women around the world from genital mutilation and caste-system violence.
• I want to sing jazz at a night club every night and wear schwanky evening gowns along with a giant flower tucked behind my ear and Billie Holliday makeup.
• I want to own a house in the country where I work writing books all day and then tend to my garden and hike around our sprawling property in my spare time. We’d go fishing in the ponds and kayaking on the rivers and camping in the fields and every so often we’d have a big bonfire and invite all our friends out to have a Romany Gypsy-style moon party.
• I don’t wanna work. I just want to bang on the drum all day.

I’ve spent hours doing this to no real, tangible avail.

And then, out of nowhere, it sort of all came to me and was, in fact, the most obvious answer imaginable. What I’ve always really worked for and been passionate about is exactly what I want and plan continue to do for the rest of my life, regardless of whether I’m getting paid for it or not. Why didn’t I think of that?

Objective: To preserve, perpetuate and promote liberal arts, artistic movements, and creative mentality in any form or venue.

Yeah. Let’s see what kind of reactions and job offers I get from that.