Donna Freedman Carol the Long Winded is the winner of the $50 Amazon.com gift card.
My writing is in three personal finance blog carnivals this week. “What do we want to be? A few thoughts on labor” was selected for the Carnival of Money Stories at Eventual Millionaire. “What’s with the shopping cart? Or: Art vs. commerce” is in the Carnival of Personal Finance at Sustainable Life Blog. Finally, last … Read more
Abigail at I Pick Up Pennies is frustrated by “We live on one income!” stories. The MSN Real Estate blog offers cheery news about pending rent raises. Liz Weston reminds us that you can run but you can’t hide from credit-card misbehavior.
But on the bright side, Financial Samurai offers hope to guys who still live in their parents’ basements.
Becky Blanton wrote introductory letters to women who answered a dating ad. Kerri Hopkins analyzes names. Dimitri LaBarge shoots videos with titles like “How to Start a Glee Club” and “How to Play Bingo.” Stefanie Strobel will sells personalized messages drawn on the beach.
The one thing they have in common: All four found and/or deliver these gigs online.
Selling yourself on the Internet is the topic of my most recent Living With Less column on MSN Money. “Need cash? Make extra money online” is a peek at some, uh, unusual jobs as well as the usual writing and editing freelance gigs. (Edited to add: Those old MSN Money articles are no longer available online. Sorry about that.)
“Freelance” is often construed to mean “writing,” but it ain’t necessarily so. For example, Web design is a very hot skill right now. But you probably have something to offer even if you’re not familiar with Strunk & White or HTML. Somebody will pay you to translate a document from Danish to English, knit a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle, act as a virtual assistant or roll around in public screaming his name.
There is a cricket in my dad’s house. Upstairs. I sleep upstairs. I had planned to sleep peacefully upstairs, but three or four times per night the critter tunes up: Eek-eek-eek.
My eyes fly open and my heart starts pounding. The noise isn’t scary, just unfamiliar – and unfamiliar sounds trigger the hyperarousal has been my companion ever since my daughter’s illness. It’s the one part of post-traumatic stress disorder that I haven’t been able to shake.
I’ll calm myself down, finally doze off and it happens again. Eek-eek-eek. My dad’s home has a nice big downstairs and a huge basement, but naturally Cri-Cri just had to choose the penthouse.
I’ve got nothing against crickets – outside.
J. Money, my favorite wedding-gift giver, thinks that plenty of things should be rented, not bought.
Tools. Textbooks. Prom gowns. Coffins.
It’s a little after 1 a.m. and I’m writing from my dad’s place in South Jersey. Already sweating, and boy, are those crickets loud. You forget.
Had to rewrite a paragraph for the next “Living With Less” column — didn’t want the editor to have to wait until tomorrow — so as long as I was up I thought I’d let people know what gives here in the land of tomatoes and prisons.
For starters, I had an excellent experience flying on United Airlines. Not a single flight attendant cursed or leaped out of the plane, beer in hand.
The random number generator chose Deedee as the lucky recipient of the soap-and-germ package. Yes, she gets her very own stuffed cootie to go with all that laundry detergent and softener.
It occurred to me, belatedly, that the little guy’s picture might be available on the Internet somewhere. It was:
Less than two weeks after getting back from Alaska I learned that my Aunt Bea has an advanced, inoperable cancer. I’d planned to go to New Jersey to see my dad in the middle of September. After thinking this over for a few hours, I decided to move up the trip by a month.
The day after tomorrow I’ll be on a plane to Philadelphia. About an hour from there is my home town, Fairton, known mostly for truck farming but more recently for prisons — two have been built there since I left. I’ll visit with Bea and also with her sister, my Aunt Dot, whose deathbed I raced to in early April. Well, Dot made liars out of the doctors yet again.
Sure, I could wait until next month. But I’d rather go for a visit than a funeral, so I have been making arrangements:
My newspaper didn’t show up today. A missing Sunday paper is particularly irksome because it’s top-heavy with sale and coupon supplements. Happily, another paper was delivered about an hour after I called the Seattle Times circulation department.
One of these days there won’t be a paper – and not because someone stole it, or because my carrier’s Saturday night stretched into Sunday morning. It will be because newspapers have gone the way of the dodo.
At that point I’ll be seriously bummed. So will dog lovers, bird owners and the thrift store cashiers who insist on wrapping each cup or plate you buy in sheets of yesterday’s news.