Do I truly aspire to be a snobbish new york writer? This is the kind of question they should be asking me but are not. Instead they are saying "I've got this friend who makes her own greeting cards and sells them at rural-suburban new england craft fairs..." I woke up the other morning having just suffered a horrifyingly domestic sequence of dreams...in the moment before consciousness my mother was turned to me speaking with a look of blurred dissapointment saying "your tired of lawyers, jessie, its not that you're tired of being a lawyer" I read in a book once that in dreams the house represents the self, if there is a house. Now that I think of it I did not read this iin a book. I heard this off a 5 minute dream analysis segment on a morning talk show from the mouth of a very conservative looking, glossy and insecurely frosted mid 30 year old "dream expert" wearing a dress suit and clutching her hands in her lap. Still, I always think after a dream if I am the house then who is the babysitter? If I am the house, who is my mom?
In the apartment 7 winfield street, we currently employ 10-12 middle aged ladies of varying shapes and sizes on a semi to regular basis. Included in this estrogen rotation is myself, the youngest of the all female all sassy staff and the only live-in and blood related employee of the main subject, jestingly reffered to as nanee on the rare occasion, but most widely introduced and acknowledged and presented as Miss Josephine Zaikis, the main inhabitant and 3/4 loony 94 going on 95 year old of apartment A, 7 Winfield street, South Boston.
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