No more four o’clock sounds

Well boys and girls, the time has come. It seems like I’ll be trading in my flip-flops for Franco Sarto pumps.

Exactly five months after my first blog entry, Four o’clock sounds, I was officially engaged to rejoin the workforce.

I am extremely pleased. So is my bank account.

I will not be working in marketing or public relations, but I will be using all of those skills. I will not pitch media. I will not proof ads. I will be doing what I do best, which is charming the pants off clients. That’s actually my new title. Pants Charmer. I prefer Manager of Pants Charming, but then the business card will look awkward and, really, it sounds awkward too. Like I’m saying Prince Charming or something.

Unfortunately, this job does come with one bitter pill and that is the censorship of this blog. Although my employer has not asked me to, I feel like I owe it to them and to our clients not to blabber about the sausage making.

But, that’s not going to stop me from blogging about other topics. I will continue to use this forum to share my stories with you about my neighbors, my friends and the readjustment of a bohemian writer back into a cubicle.

I thank you for your continued support and readership, your comments and friendship – unless you’re a spammer. If you’re a spammer I could give a crap about you.

For those of you still out on the hunt, I wish you luck and I hope that you find exactly what you’re looking for. For those interviewing candidates, remember to treat people with kindness, and put yourself in their shoes – as you may end up wearing them.

Happy Friday!

Best Regards,

Mari, Manager of Charm

Like my corporate picture?

Finding purpose in my pajamas

Working from home is a dream for many.

Being your own boss. Wearing pajamas until noon. Blasting music. Watching daytime soaps on mute and making up your own story line. A dream I tell you.

But there comes a time when days meld into weeks and weeks turn into half a year, and you start feeling like you’ve started your 13th semester as a college senior. When landing temporary work isn’t celebrated, but given the “good, now find more where that came from” look.

It’s the time you realize you may have over-extended your stay and that you may have to leave the comfort zone of your make-shift office that is just a computer desk with a chair.


It is entirely another dimension. A dimension unknown to James Cameron and his 3-D glasses. It is a dimension as empty as space and as timeless as the blinking microwave after a power outage. It is the middle ground between employment and un-, between waiting for payment and submitting a claim for the week you didn’t work. It lies between the fear of leaving the house and the awareness that the Miami Herald Sunday paper renewal is due and it is 80 bucks.

This is the dimension our minds enter when we need to reevaluate our life decisions. The decisions that led us to this moment in time. It is an area which we call The Finding your Purpose in Pajamas Zone.


Hardly able to move, the young protagonist lies in bed, face down with two ice packs on her back. While she waits for the timer to ring, she takes advantage of being in her pajamas to let her mind wonder into The Finding your Purpose in Pajamas Zone.



Is what you do in life destiny? Like are you destined to work at a bank because it is written in the holy book of careers? Is there even such a thing as destiny? Was I meant to work from home? I think I’m really good at it. I’m a home worker. I like the sound of that. I’m a freelancer. Maybe I can French it up: Je suis fwee-liahan-ceiur, ho, ho, ho.

Man, all this time at home, I would’ve learned French. Or Mandarin, so I can finally decipher my tattoo. I mean, I must have been laid-off for a reason. I was supposed to be home for something. Writing novels, learning languages, painting, sculpting, getting a veterinary tech certificate, saving the world, inventing new feminine products. If I go back to work outside of my house, what will I have to show for this time? Twenty pounds, a back injury and a Twitter addiction?

Maybe I should stay right here. Right here at home. Safe in my pajamas.

At least until I can find a job that can envelope me in money, the same way my pajamas hug me ever so warmly. Then I’d drop my pajamas like it’s hot.

Damn, that ice is cold.