By contrast, Paul, who is the actual farmer in the family, spends his days out on the farm. He goes sun up to sun down doing what farmers do. He varies his routine each day. Some days it’s planting fruit trees that he started as seeds in containers and that are finally strong enough to fend for themselves. Other days he is pulling weeds and vines. And no, we don’t use some chemical to do this. He does this entirely by hand. Sometimes he’s trimming the grass, which grows at an alarming rate thanks to days that split themselves between endless sun and rain without ceasing. Some days he’s tending to the compost pile and picking up manure left by wayward cows. He loves those days because he gets to add them to the plants and he knows they love it! I can only imagine that during those times he fantasizes about having his own goats or a few horses. We are working on getting goats, so he’ll have that dream come true.

It’s hard work and by the time he comes home for the evening, he is tired. He frequently takes a nap at lunchtime and another one as I prepare dinner. There’s no glamour in his job but there is pride in seeing the fruits of his labor and boy is it laborious.

On the weekends I do get to indulge my fantasy and join him. I find the clothes that I wore the week before, although dirty from sitting, not sweaty or a hint of smell that suggests I have been working for a living. He gives me a task. Dig several holes and transplant the plant that he started as seeds into the ground. He always over estimates how many he thinks I can accomplish in one day. If he were doing it, he would work five times as fast. Little more than a weekend warrior, with music accompany to me, I spend equal amounts of time day dreaming and playing in the dirt. I sift it through my fingers and pretend I am a farmer and not a writer. Once something is in the ground, I don’t move swiftly, as he does. I make sure the mound is perfect and that whatever I have planted is perfectly straight. I don’t pour liberal amounts of water on the plant. Instead, I pour, and pat the earth. I pour, and pat the earth. I repeat this until the mound is sufficiently saturated and I am comfortable this little guy stands a chance. I stare at it and am so proud of myself. I actually feel myself beaming with pride!

After some time Paul will walk over to where he left me and break my concentration long enough to say, “Oh Sarah, nice job! You managed to get one plant into the ground.” Before me lay at least 15 more small somethings – spinach, lettuce, some kind of bean or some tropical fruit that he started from seeds – with only one thing in the ground. I check and two hours have passed. In that time Paul has managed to chop down 50 coffee trees that if left to themselves come autumn would be too tall to harvest more than five beans apiece. He’s sweating; he’s thirsty and my bet is that he’s unsure if he needs a shower or a nap more.

“Did you have fun sifting the dirt through your fingers?” He asks me.

“Oh, I did! It sure beats sitting on my ass and writing.” I reply.

“Think you can manage five more plants after lunch and before dinner?”

“Oh, I will do my very best, I promise!” I do really have wonderful intentions!

We go inside and I prepare lunch whilst he lay in the hammock and nap for 15 minutes. We eat and as we’re eating I tell him about the glorious day that I have had. I describe the songs the many beautiful birds sang, the warmth of the sun, how many times Hector, Gigi and Yum Yum came to visit me and how dirty my nails got as I dug my one perfect hole. I also tell him about a beautiful falcon, with an incredible wingspan, who averted my attention momentarily as he, mid flight, must have seen some animal he could eat. I spared no detail as I shared about how quickly I jumped to my feet to watch as he swooped down, surely approaching Mach 10, and caught whatever he spied and then went on his merry way.

“Man, we have a beautiful farm!” I tell Paul.

“Yes, we do!” Paul replies.

“We have such a wonderful life, don’t we?” I ask him.

“Yes, we do!” Paul replies.

“I want to be a farmer like you, full time. Maybe I could write only on the weekends.” I declare.

“Probably not a good idea. We’d starve at the rate you do things.” Paul replies. “I am glad you had a fun day out there.”

A little background. I have a friend whom we will call Sadie. She has been married for I think 18 years. She and Ed had problems conceiving for many years. They tried everything! IVF, and just as they were getting ready to set the wheels in motion to adopt, she found out she was pregnant.

I remember when she broke the news to me. I didn’t feel joy coming from her. She is a pretty introverted person and this clearly meant she was going to give up a lot of her independence.

There’s so much about her that I could say but the more I share about who she is, the more obvious who it will be that I am talking about. So I’ll stop there.

The more pregnant she became, the more of an asshole Ed became. At least these are her descriptions of him. My friendship is with her, and not him. I don’t know his version of events.

Their baby was born 18 months ago and big shock! Zelda wasn’t and still isn’t the glue that was/is supposed to hold them together. Only Sadie and Ed can do this.

About three months ago Sadie starts talking about some guy. It’s not clear to me how they met. I am still not clear. But he is friends with both Ed and Sadie.

Sadie and Dude start spending time together doing stuff that doesn’t include Ed. I tell her this is dangerous. She poo poos it.

The point at which it was obvious she was emotionally involved with the guy (he doesn’t deserve a name) is when she tells me she had an argument with him over text. He didn’t respond to one of her texts immediately and she was pissed! I asked her if she gets pissed when girlfriends don’t respond to texts immediately? She said no.

I told her flat out what her options were.

- Cut this dude off!
- Get couples counseling
- Or leave Ed

Having an affair is not the answer! For all of my supposedly extroverted and liberal ways, I am extremely conservative when it comes to marriage. I don’t believe in affairs, period.

Although I have a wonderful marriage and cannot imagine life without Paul, I am not naïve. I am not deaf, dumb and blind. We are human and find others besides our spouses attractive. But for a hundred and one reasons we don’t act on it. With the baby, that’s a hundred and two!

So two weeks ago she announces that Ed has to go out of town for a week. Sadie is not happy about staying home with Zelda alone for a whole week. Sadie works full time, Zelda is in preschool, and so we are only talking mornings and at night.

Ed, in his brilliance or blindness, asks three people to come stay in his home whilst he is gone to help Sadie out.

Melissa is straight and married, she is Tuesday night. Roberto is gay and living with a man. He was Wednesday night and dude is Monday and Thursday night.

Is Ed stupid, blind or brilliant?

I don’t hear from Sadie for seven full days. I hear from her today.

She says she barely survived the week and she and dude spent the entire week together. No mention of the other two.

“Girl, I don’t know what to do. I am having an emotional affair.” she tells me.

This is what I said to her in email.

So, Sadie! I’m just so unsure what to say! It’s not about me but I am like wow! You know what you have to do and this is not the way to go about things. Dude is just a symptom of a larger problem, which is that your marriage no longer works. When I first suggested that this was imminent, you said that divorce wasn’t an option because you didn’t want Zelda to grow up like that. I respect that, but not if the alternative is running around behind Ed’s back to see your man. you know that. Dude should know that. Do you two talk about this?

Forget Dude for a moment. He doesn’t count. Deal with your marriage. Go to couples counseling or call it quits. This can’t be the way to deal with this. You know that. I know you know this. When Ed and you got married you agreed to work things out and communicate. Ask yourself how devastated you’d feel if he were having an affair. How do you know he’s not having one?

Girl, I’m your friend, you know that but I have huge issues with cheating. I don’t want anything happening to our friendship because I think you need a friend. But I am going to say this as plainly as I can. Deal with your shit! This is not an alternative to avoiding divorce for the sake of Zelda. I know shit has been steadily going down hill between Ed and you since you found out you were pregnant but this is not the the way to handle it and I know you know this!

Deal with your shit! Don’t make me come over there and knock some sense into you.

We bought it from a man named Víctor and his wife Lisandra. We learned from many people that prior to our owning the farm that it was one of the most productive coffee farms in the area. Not interested in owning 5000 coffee trees, after this year’s harvest, Paul started cutting down most of the trees to make room for what we want to plant.

Yes, that’s a lot of cutting.

So, we discovered something after we took possession of the farm, after the construction was completed on the house and we moved in, which was two years ago. Like all farms, ours has many stories to tell.

Utuado, like most of Puerto Rico, has no street names. We all live in barrios, which are neighborhoods, which are broken down further by sectors, sort of like sections. Giving directions is always fun. “drive up road number such and so, till you see the intersection. Bear left. Pass the TV antenna, pass the abandoned house on the right and keep bearing left. Go 6/10 of a mile, make the first left turn. A mile passed the mailboxes is Olga and her brother Mickey’s house. Drive past their house until the road narrows to one lane and is undulating. Take this one more mile, see another abandoned house (the one we tried to buy) and the very next house, which is another half mile or so, is ours.

Whether we had friends coming to visit or the chauffeur was delivering gas for our stove, it has always been a challenge. Everyone knows Olga. Nobody usually drives passed her house because it’s really rural and the road ceases to be cared for. Only residents come down this way.

So one day I am in the store to buy a tank of gas for our stove and I am trying to give these directions in Spanish no less. The owner, who’s of course not the chauffeur, is terribly confused. Apparently he does not provide Olga with her gas or he’d know Olga. I’m screwed.

There is a man who walks in as I am trying to describe how to get to our farm and he is listening to all this and mind you people are very patient with me. Hey, I try! I really, really do. I am not like the other Americans in my town, none of whom speak Spanish, despite being here many more years than I have.

“Oh! You own Pepin Maldanado’s farm. Your farm is just passed Lino’s.”

Lino is our 88-year old bad ass neighbor who walks everywhere and can frequently be seen carrying a resimo (stalk) of bananas. One resimo weighs between 50 and 75 pounds.

He got the direction right but we bought our farm from Víctor.

“nobody knows Victor. I do because I worked on that farm. But he bought it from Laura, who was Pepin’s woman.”

I trust this man and tell the owner that this is the right house.

Gas is delivered that afternoon.

I ask Olga who Pepin was. She, too, admits that she never met Victor.

She tells me that back in the day (between the late 40s and mid 70s, the three main farming families were the Zedas, Ocasio (Lino’s family) and the Maldanados). She tells me some wild stories about the cowboy known as Pepin.

She is a Zeda. Pepin not only owned our farm, but he was the foreman for her family’s farm. He was a nut! He had numerous enemies and yet nobody was apparently man enough to confront him. The only times his gun wasn’t aimed at someone was when it was holstered. The former was a regular occurrence; the latter was almost never.

I think for the next few blogs I will talk about this gunslinger, womanizer with 23 kids, and legend.

In the meantime, now Paul and I are forever branded, “Oh you’re the Americans who bought Pepin’s farm!” we hear this several times a month. giving directions is quite easy, now. “we bought Pepin’s farm,” is all I have to say now. It somehow gives us juice.

Stuff legends are made from.

Stay tuned!

So try as I do to distinguish myself from Americans and for all the preaching I do about assimilation, it is painfully obvious when I am out and about that I am not Puerto Rican.

The first obvious signs that I am not Puerto Rican:

- my hair is not long and flowing
- at the moment it does have highlights
- I do not relax my curl, either through chemical process or by use of a blow dryer and flat iron
- my nails are my own and they are pretty short and unattractive. They are clean, for the most part.
- my natural nails aren’t long and painted (or airbrushed) elaborate colors and designs
- instead of 3-4″ heels, I wear Birkenstock sandals. Don’t gasp! They’re not as hideous as they used to be, despite being the most comfortable shoes for frucked up feet.
- I have them in every color, so at least I am not wearing shoes that poorly match my shirt and shorts.
- speaking of shirts and shorts: my outside attire varies between a vintage Bruce Springsteen concert T and one of many cotton Ts, of various solid colors.
- my shorts are either army green, navy blue or black dockers. They fit and thanks to Paul, are washed regularly.
- on “cold” days, meaning when the temperature drops below 78F, I will wear army green, navy blue or black capris. On really cold days when the temp drops below 60F and it is combined with rain, I’ll wear the same pair of Levi’s I bought in California over 8 years ago. No crease down the center, just button fly 501s.
- with my cold attire jeans, I’ll either wear Merrell closed toe and heel shoes or their combo sandal and sneaker. For me, they are the next most comfortable shoe on earth next to Birkenstock.
- all this without a hint of makeup.

It would never occur to me, even when I worked outside the home and couldn’t wear my PJs or sweats to work (okay I did once, but that’s a long story), I never looked nearly as sexy at work, or for that matter at a party, as these women do shopping at Sam’s or Home Depot.

Decked to the 9s, full on makeup, spike heels, perfectly manicured nails, and tight jeans, my jaw wants to drop when I get out of the house all of twelve times a year. Clearly time was put into their appearance; it’s very important to them. And this isn’t limited to a particular age group. Women of all ages take extreme pride in their appearance.

Often on the arm of a man, equally gorgeous and slamming, I do wonder if shopping at Sam’s is their foreplay.

I am not judging nor am I comparing. We are on different planes. Mine just never really took off.

A feminist, I have long believed that the sexier a woman is, the less seriously she is taken as someone with a brain. Remember, machismo and catholicism rule the day here.

Again, I am not judging the women; hell they’re simply gorgeous to look at. There are times I wish I didn’t know about how most of this stuff plays squarely into the subtle and not so subtle subjugation of women. This is not to presume that all women in 3-4″ heels, with acrylic nails, a long main of thick hair, wearing tight as shit jeans and her breasts trying to peek out to say hello, are subjugated or treated poorly.

Women work full time jobs but still are tied to the home and their children. Women still aren’t as free to decided that they don’t want children. It’s still expected.

Anyway, despite the looks I get from women here, and it’s not disdainful or hateful or competitive, once I open my mouth, show them that I am doing my best to assimilate, I am immediately accepted.

It’s just so painfully obvious that there is but one barrier here that I will never be able to cross. You can’t unlearn what you know.

So this is a blog that she wrote for a client of mine. Client asked for suggestions for her blog. She’s a ranter (client, but hey, so is Nicole). Client loved it but felt it was a little too out there for her. So, I was left with this blog. I loved it and decided to post it and link back to Nicole’s blog.

Life is funny! Who knew two years ago that one of my biggest clients would turn out to be a friend (okay, that happens to me a lot, thankfully) and would in turn start writing for me? Now that’s just how life goes sometimes.

Enjoy her blog! I loved it!!
To get to know Nicole better, please check out her blog: http://passtheham.com/

Psst! I Can See Your Butt Cheeks!
So, now it’s officially gone from, “pull your pants up, son!” to “lady, put your pants on!”

What is it with leggings as pants lately? It seems as if this silly trend has now ambitiously snuck its way into the far corners of everywhere, from New York’s Fifth Avenue to your neighbourhood market and even ackkk Walmart!

Everywhere I go, I’m seeing girls of all ages and sizes, wearing the leggings-as-pants look. Ok, I get it; it can be cute – as long as it’s done correctly. But currently, this trend has taken a turn from kind-of-sassy to majorly skanky in record time. Every day, I’m seeing a ton of very thinly veiled butt cheeks all over the place. This look calls for thick tights worn under a long shirt, or a flowy short dress, got it? In any case, if your rear end is exposed, you’re doing it wrong. And, ladies, this look is just not working for you.

Even this jeans and t-shirt gal can admit to giving way to trendy temptation. Yes, I quickly folded to the pressure to look cute, okay? I ran out, bought some thick black tights, a very long, button down jean shirt and I went out on the town. Yes, that’s right- I was pants-less in public. I’ll admit to being fairly comfortable, but being out and about without pants on takes some getting used to. Comfy yes, but it just didn’t feel right. My generous bottom, although covered, felt too exposed, too out in the open. I felt like a lazy mooner.

I think the trend started out innocently enough. Thick tights worn with a long shirt, covering the butt cheeks. So, what’s the problem? Well, you have a big butt. Look, I have a big butt. We all have a big butt. It’s nothing to be ashamed of. Let’s just let this trend go to the skinny-butted girls. Let ‘em have this one, alright?

And if you are so determined to fit in with this fiasco, let’s at least throw down some ground rules, okay?
Missy,
1. It is not okay to just put on dark-tone panty hose. We can see clearly your butt cheeks and we don’t want to see your butt cheeks. Thick dark tights are key here.
2. The whole idea behind this trend is to wear a long, flowing top. Do not wear your nasty cut off t-shirt with said tights. No one here is auditioning for Flash Dance today.
3. If you must wear this look, a thong is necessary. Because granny panties smushed under tights will never be in style.

We all know that trends come and go, normally morphing into something so very different from its original intent. Thankfully, some trends like cone bras or goldfish platforms will never be “in style” for most, but that doesn’t mean you can’t partake in the latest fashion craze.
Be brazen. Be adventurous. But, please be careful. The basics of dressing yourself should not be forgotten. Wear a bra, wear a shirt, some undies and please, whatever your style plans for the day please, let it include pants.

I am effusive in my writing. I can write a love poem to Paul but find it difficult when sitting opposite him to articulate all the reasons why I love him. And there are many.

I believe people assume because I am so extroverted that this means that I am naturally effusive, at least when in someone’s presence. I am not apt to go in for PDA, and only in private will I be the person people often assume I am.

This is difficult for me, all of this.

In my brain are feelings and thoughts that if only I were as people assume I am, I could express. Why am I like this? My guess is that it has something to do with the way I was raised. My father was overly affectionate, which often caused eruptions and my mother was, shall we say, reserved, which often caused eruptions.

As a child I had an awful stuttering problem. This is something that up until posting this in my blog, perhaps only five people in the world knew. It’s actually a double entendre that Paul calls me more animated than a cartoon character because the origin of this came from something my ex husband used call me, which was Porky Pig because my stuttering returned during the one year I was married to him. That was actually how I knew I was married to the wrong person.

Thanks to speech therapy and talk therapy, my stuttering, had all but disappeared for decades until I married my first husband, returned. And so I left him.

And so why do I share this today? Because I am grateful. In fifteen years with Paul, 11 of them married, while I am still not comfortable declaring my love for him while in the presence of others, I can in my writing, despite know others may read it.

It would be an understatement to say that Paul is the reward following many years of therapy. It’s also an understatement to say that every day with him is a gift. He is the best and most wonderful thing/event/gift in my life. I simply cannot imagine my life without him, nor do I ever try. I know people who do in their marriages and this is a terrible mistake.

I look at him, I think back on our 15 years together and often wish I could have met him sooner. But we met when we met and for the reasons we met and that couldn’t have happened sooner than it did.

I look at our life together. The culmination of every decision, ever paycheck we earned, every step we took all led us to where we are. And where are we?

We are on a farm, in the middle of nowhere. We have each other and our animals. We have the life we would have led had we not given into conventional schools of thought. We have each other and nothing, no person, no amount of money can duplicate or replace what we have.

Last Saturday
We decided in the middle of the day that a visit to our favorite bar, El Balcón del Recuerdo, which means the balcony of dreams, was long overdue. So, after our hike with the dogs, we left.

It’s not unusual to get to bars at 6:00. In the case of the Balcón, as we affectionately call it, given that it’s run by a husband and wife who are in their 60s, they like getting home before dawn. So we go at 6:00, we are home by 9:30 or 10:00 and we’ve managed to socialize with many of our friends.

We should have called ahead. There were ten times the number of cars than usual and we discovered why. They were hosting a promesa.

A promesa is a party that has food, usually a live band and a religious aspect to it. Often thrown around Christmas, and sometimes lasting into the months following Christmas, Puerto Ricans will throw one to gather people to pray for things they would like to improve in the new year. Rather than make resolutions, which we all know have the likelihood of being broken, praying in public gives someone who’s struggling with someone a better shot at seeing some success. Maybe it’s the act of asking for community support or maybe it’s just part of the culture (I have never asked), I have seen some pretty amazing things come from those who’ve participated in the praying part of a promesa. One woman gave her struggle of losing weight over to god and a year later she lost 150 pounds. And trust me, she didn’t have gastric bypass. That’s a luxury most people here can’t afford. In Spanish promesa literally means vow or promise.

Anyway, once again, Yoda digresses…

This promesa was thrown to honor and continue praying for the owners’ granddaughter. Nelson and Lecha’s daughter had a baby two years ago who was several weeks premature, and less than six months after the baby was born, the already tiny and not so healthy preemie had a stroke.

Whether you are a parent or not, I am certain your heart jumped into your throat. It has to absolutely be the worst nightmare for a family. The new bundle of joy who is surely supposed to outlive you, is now hanging on by a tiny thread. I am quite certain you can come up with all the feelings this family felt over the next 18 months as they sat powerless and prayed their baby would thrive.

She lost all ability to speak and all of her motor function. She was on a respirator for a few weeks following the stroke because she couldn’t breathe on her own.

It really is the darkest hour for a family going through this. Whether it’s Leukemia, a stroke, whatever can threaten the life of a small tiny being is or has to be agonizing and I am sure I am minimizing it greatly.

Lecha (that’s my unique nickname for her, I believe her real name is Elisa, but I started calling her Lecha (leecha, not leche, like milk) four years ago. I screwed up her name and they loved it. Anyway, Lecha, has an extraordinarily tight relationship with her sisters, all of whom we know. I think there are 8. In times of crisis, in times of celebration or just to hang out at each other’s homes, these sisters are tight! Not only were they there, but Lecha and Nelson’s other daughter and their kids and a ton of cousins on both sides were as well.

Paul and I crashed a family party. Way to go! Instead of being greeted with, “I’m so sorry but this is a family party, could you please come back next week?” We were greeted with hugs and kisses from not only Nelson and Lecha, but literally every single attendee. My favorite of the sisters (which is a tough call to make because I love them all) is Titi (Puerto Rican endearment for Tia, which means Aunt) Crema. They call her Titi Creamy. I like Crema. I sort of have a habit of butchering names and having them stick with people. You see there is a theme with this whole milk thing. I thought because Cremilda was nicknamed Creamy, Elisa was nicknamed Lecha! Anyway, Titi Crema was there looking so stylish in her 60s glasses (multicolored, like the ones that Meg Ryan wore when she played Pamela Courson Morrison, Jim Morrison’s wife/girlfriend in the movie the Doors).

Paul and I mingled with everyone. Nelson and Lecha thanked us profusely for coming and we had the feeling that we were invited but just hadn’t received the invitation. It’s possible because he asked where Leo and Alba were. So perhaps our invitation is with them. Never mind, we had an incredible time. The band was incredible, we ate, drank a little more than I wanted to and had such a wonderful time with people we have known and loved since before we moved to Utuado.

A Little Vignette
When Paul and I came to Utuado in the summer of 2008 to see if this is where we wanted to move, it’s literally by a stroke of luck that we even found Utaudo. We had been in Puerto Rico the summer before and had asked for suggestions where to stay. Not surprisingly, most of our friends pointed us in the touristy areas for fun. Although we had fun, we knew for certain we didn’t want to live in San Juan, Ponce or any of the touristy spots we visited. Apart from the fact that we wanted to buy a farm and be self sustaining farmers (the idea of me being a writer hadn’t yet come into being yet), but we didn’t want to live amongst Westerners, which would, we felt, negate the purpose of moving to a foreign country if we “stuck with our own kind.”

And so for second visit, at the suggestion of a good friend, we looked up vacationrentals.com and decided the first place we saw that wasn’t along the ocean we were going to rent for two weeks and use as a base while we did our reconnaissance.

As it turns out, Leo and Alba’s second home was the only home that wasn’t near the ocean. It was the only one in the mountains (huge plus) and the only one with farmland. We booked it for two weeks. Leo and Alba’s daughter Elizabeth and grandson Xavier coincidentally were vacationing in Puerto Rico the same weeks we were and we spent most of our vacation with the four of them. They showed us parts of Puerto Rico we certainly wouldn’t have seen if we had been regular old tourists. We spent many nights in their home eating dinner and Alba’s incredible cooking and getting to know the people whom we now consider our family.

So the first Saturday night after our arrival, Leo and Alba showed us “their Utuado.” They took us to the Balcón and introduced us to many of their friends. Leo, the biggest party animal I know, was tipped off that there was a Quinceañera (Spanish culture’s version of the Sweet 16) going on just up the street. He asked us if we wanted to crash it. We had to come up with a $50 donation, which between us we did. We asked Leo if he knew the hosts, he said he did not. We did it anyway and had the time of our lives! If any of you know me, you know that it is very hard to top me in the extroverted, more animated than a cartoon character, fearless and party lover categories. Leo has me beat in all those areas by a country mile! Leo is the quintessential party animal, just ask Elizabeth, who is almost 50 and can’t keep up with him!

It was there that I met Titi Crema for the first time and just loved her.

Back to the Promesa
This promesa was different from the dozens we have attended since moving to Utuado. This was to honor Lecha and Nelson’s granddaughter who out of the blue and more than likely to spite the doctors who told the family she would never walk, began walking about four months ago. She isn’t talking yet, but hey, let’s take one miracle at a time, shall we? I have purposely left out the daughter and granddaughter’s names.

And so here are Los Gringos, Paul and Sarah or as we are now known, Pablo y Sarita, who (in our minds) have crashed a private party (who may or may not have had an invitation, we will find out the next time we see Leo and Alba this week) to honor a little girl whose family was told she would never walk, who is now walking and smiling and is just as sweet as the rest of her family. But the truly wonderful thing is that at no time did we feel or were we made to feel that we crashed a private party. Not only were we welcomed in, we felt right at home with yet another family who is now our family.

But this isn’t a new client. This person who invited me to bid was actually one of my very first clients on Elance. It was a job that I really enjoyed writing. The job was to write travel itineraries for a tour company who brings travelers to Israel. It was actually a rewrite job. The first writer had not only done a pretty poor job with the writing, but as well in using facts for both historical and current events. Dates were wrong, historical people’s names were misspelled and distances between cities were way off. I had been warned ahead of time what the issues were and happily took on the job. I had fun learning about Israel’s history for the purposes of doing the job. I put a lot of work into it, was extremely proud of what I wrote for him and received some pretty horrendous feedback for my efforts.

The client accused me of writing in first person. I was confused because I hadn’t done what he accused me of but wondered if he felt I hadn’t done an acceptable job, why he didn’t simply ask for a revision. But I still reviewed each and every itinerary and could find no instances of my having used first person. It occurred to me that he mixed up my feedback with someone else’s. This was sad for me given how much work I put into it, but hey, stuff happens. You move on, right? I let it go, as it had no effect on my overall feedback, which is still, nearly two years later, a solid 5.0. And to this day it stands as the only negative feedback I have received, so there’s no need for me to be too upset over it.

My guess is that when he invited me to submit a proposal, he had no clue who I was. Since the incident, I have grown tremendously on Elance. I grew so much I am now a team lead and have several people writing for me. We are doing pretty well in the ranking as well – number 6 the last I checked – of over 135,000 writers.

But since I am and always will be my mother’s daughter, I decided rather than decline the proposal or be snippy, I would bid. Who knows, maybe he realized his error and this is his way of apologizing. Sometimes people have a funny way of expressing humility. Maybe, which is more likely, he truly has no idea that I am the same person and he did as many people do – invited the entire top 25 writers and has no clue that I am the same person he slammed in feedback almost two years ago.

Whatever it was, I decided to give him the benefit of the doubt and bid. The job was actually interesting to me: write a keynote speech that infuses humor and can be delivered in both English and Spanish.

I will see what he determines when he realizes his error. I fully expect him to decline my proposal, but I will be so curious what reason he provides.

Below is my proposal, which I carefully crafted after a full cup of coffee. I hope I wasn’t too obnoxious; it wasn’t my intention. I meant every word.

Greetings Stuart,

Thank you for inviting me to bid on your job. My guess is that you have no recollection of who I am. Perhaps this is because I am no longer an individual and am now the leader of a team. I changed my name about a year ago, and so your inability to make the connection is more than understandable.

Although I know I would be perfect for this job (given my penchant for humor and that I can deliver this in both English and Spanish), I am not sure if you really want to consider hiring me for it, given our history.

Perhaps before I submit a proper proposal, I should offer you an opportunity to review the jobs you awarded the first week of April 2010. Indeed I had to scroll through several pages of my job history in order to find it.

If after reviewing your feedback you determine it was an oversight this morning to invite me to bid, I will, of course, understand why you wish to decline my proposal.

If, on the other hand, you realize that the actual error was made when you left me feedback that was not reflective of the job I turned in and to date stands as the only negative (or even neutral) feedback I have received since being a contractor on Elance, I would love to discuss your job in further detail.

I will await your determination. In the meantime, thank you again for inviting me to bid. I am always thankful when clients invite me to bid on jobs.

Cheers,
Sarita

Updated: 3:05 p.m. local time. I am really unsure what to make of this. He has declined four of the eight bidders. I am not among the declined bidders. I hear the theme to the Twilight Zone.

Updated: 9:30 a.m. 1/25 local time. I really don’t know what to make of this. He has declined 6 of the nine bidders and I am still in the running. I am hearing the theme from The X Files now!

- interest in the job
- expertise required to do the job
- price
- what the client is like
- time it will take
- price in relation to my bills

My assumption is that whether you are a freelancer or work for a company, all these things must be factored into the equation before deciding to accept a job or not.

I have my favorite clients, we all do. You might have your favorite bosses or clients. A musicians might be swayed to take a job in Australia because of the added benefit of locale but my guess is that if the client were a jerk, pretty location not withstanding, a better paying job closer to home for a client he likes may determine which job he will take.

Writing is no different.

All of these things are business considerations. I believe I have made more good decisions than bad ones in the time since I started freelance writing.

Last night I was asked to do an unusual job. Not unusual in the sense that it would compromise my integrity, but just a break from my normal type of writing. I loved the idea and told the client so. I have worked with this client maybe five or six times and I like him.

We discussed job details. I told him that it sounded like fun. He asked how soon I could start. I gave him an estimate based on my current workload. I have two clients who are expecting me to finish jobs before I start a new one. That’s a fair expectation.

We talk price.

I receive an email that rather surprised me. In essence it said that because the job would be more fun than I am accustomed to (an assumption he made, not one I expressed), which meant a benefit to me, and the expectation of future work, he hoped I would come down in price.

The old me might have. The old me was building a clientele list and needed to bend more easily.

Today I think differently. This was my response.

You work for company x. You are paid x amount of dollars per hour or week or year and this is based on a number of factors, some of which may have included the bills you have.

Your boss is happy with your work and asks you to take on a fun job outside of your job responsibilities. You agree to. Your boss did not request you do so for half your normal hourly pay. Your paycheck will be the same.

When review time comes around, your raise and possible bonus are based on your job performance.

You made a decision to take said fun job and certainly didn’t assume it would mean lowering your salary to do so. You know that unless you perform poorly, you will have new assignments coming to you.

Asking me to reduce my rate because of some perceived benefit (fun job?) is not how I decide my rate of pay. Dangling a carrot in front of my face that I will get more work from you is actually not an incentive. Your boss doesn’t do it to you; please don’t do it to me.

I have my regular clients for whom I do regular work. The jobs are steady. I can count on them. Nicole and Hanne come to mind. No carrots, just steady and yes, fun and interesting work.

I like this client, a lot I may add. But this is business and nothing else.

I never imagined 2.5 years ago when I began writing that there was so much business involved. I was naive.

About a week ago, Paul and I were coming home from Leo and Alba’s. We hadn’t stayed long this time, which meant we only consumed one bottle of wine, not our customary two bottles. This turned out to prove itself useful.

When we left, it was about 5:00 pm. While we were there, sitting on their balcony eating, we were entertained by a howling wind; welcomed indeed because it had been very hot that day. We ate, we drank, we left early.

The trip back home is generally short. It’s about four miles from our house to theirs. The road changes dramatically as you leave their somewhat suburban area where houses line the roads perhaps one every hundred feet and farms are between half an acre and four acres, to our neck of the woods. In the campo, countryside, things thin out a bit. One can easily drive a half mile between houses, not all of which sit on the road, and farms are pretty consistent, measuring between 15 and 20 acres. Another dissimilarity is that the road narrows considerably from their hood to ours.

Once we leave suburbia and are in BFE, something else you notice is that landslides aren’t quickly cleaned away and this can sometimes cause a bit of a calamity. There’s no place to go but down on our narrow road and so if a tree falls or if the mountain gives way a bit, depending on your preparedness, you might be screwed until someone comes along.

Less than mile to go to our house, we encountered a felled tree on the road. We have to hand it to the city who thought enough of us jíbaros (hillbillies) to give us street lights that correspond to each house on the property. Unfortunately we were between farms and so it was pitch black.

We get out of the car to asses the situation. As we approach the tree we hear a faint voice. It’s a woman. I’m able to walk over some of the fallen branches, although it’s impossible for our car to drive around the tree because to its right is a considerable drop.

On the other side are two petite women, both in floor length skirts. My initial guess was Pentecostal. I ask if they are okay. One explains that they were visiting their sister down the hill and the road was fine two hours ago but now it’s impassable. Consistent with our version.

I speak. I tell her, “mi esposo tiene une machete en nuestro carro.” although grammatically I am correct when I conveyed that my husband has a machete in the car, my sentence structure in Spanish is jacked. I think I was supposed to say, in the car, have a machete my husband or something equally elusive. I’m not sure but I’ve given away the tell-tale sign that I didn’t grow up speaking Spanish.

“Oh, are you the Americans who bought Pepin’s farm?”

I’ll save that story for later but usually when I tell people we bought Pepin’s farm, we hear many stories about this legend. “si.”

By this time Paul has his machete in hand and is whacking away. One sister asks, “what church do you attend?”

Given that we are probably the only atheists on the island, this is not something we divulge. At least in these parts, if you’re not catholic, you’re Pentecostal, Jehovah or 7th day Adventist. It’s possible you’re Muslim but you believe in some kind of god.

I reply, “mi dios es en mi corazón. No tengo una iglesia.” My god is in my heart; I don’t have a church.

This was a bit much for the other sister, who hitherto had been the observant type. She begins to pray, perhaps for me who doesn’t attend church, perhaps for Paul who is now hacking away at tree branches. It’s what he does all day long, so I’m not as nervous as I used to be.

In between prayers the sister looks up long enough to say, “cuidado!” This means careful. Her prayers become louder as does her concern for Paul.

After about the fifth or sixth “cuidado,”
Paul responds, “gracias, señora.” now with each hack, it’s not clear whether Paul’s response is for the last cuidado, or whether he’s now a few ahead of her.

In the meantime, sister number one says to me, “please come to our church. God is waiting for you there.”

I ask where her church is. She gives me the road name and neighborhood. “oh! It’s the Pentecostal church just before you get to the area where the family Rivera lives.”

“you know our church, then?”

I know your church because when we were renting Leo and Alba’s other house, every Tuesday, Thursday, and Friday night until 11 a (insert expletive here) clock and on Sunday from 4 in the (insert expletive here) morning until at least noon, although we lived almost a mile away, it sounded like y’all were in our (insert expletive here) living room. Your pastor should have been an auctioneer and the only break we got from the yelling/sorry preaching was when you sang hymns. Made me wish we had had a catholic church nearby with an organ and a choir.

I don’t mean to sound rude but three nights and one day a week of something that loud of anything is way more than enough. I don’t want to listen to my dogs that loudly or my favorite music that loudly four days a week for that many hours. But of course I was thinking all this to myself and responded…

“yes,” I tell her, we know where your church is. It’s a beautiful building.”

The back and forth between sister number two and Paul by this point has a rhythm to it. Pray for 20 seconds, “cuidado,” followed by, “gracias señora.”

I look up in time to see the last branch fall and say, “gracias a dios!”

“you see, nena! God hears your prayers.” she pauses, “we have service every…”

“Tuesday, Thursday and Friday nights from 7:00 to 11:00 and on Sundays from 4 en la manana to 12:00.”

We shake their hands, wish them well with the customary, “novenos,” which means seen you later, sort of.