Or maybe THIS plan....

Throughout the winter I have been exploring my options in an attempt to formulate some kind of strategy about my Next Step. My strategies generally prove maddeningly elusive and change as rapidly as those choose-your-ending books I loved as a teen.

I will move to Maine! I will have a small home on many acres, grow vegetables and keep bees. I will make soap and have an art and pottery studio in the barn. I will sell honey at the farmer's market. 

I began the job search. I had my sights set on a botanic garden and sent off my resume. I got a response (I'm moving to Maine!) that said they had no gardening positions open, but I might want to consider an educational assistant position (sounds a lot like a job that can't pay me to move to Maine). The job description detailed leading children through a kids' garden, talking about plants, feeding chickens, general upkeep. Nothing sounded scary or odd, and if  nothing else would afford me the opportunity to shape the next generation of tree-hugging vegetarians.

If I get a decent job offer from Maine, I'll move to Maine. If the pay is low, I could maybe buy a mobile home. Or rent in a depressed area.

They wanted me to send a resume for the position, so on the advice of a friend I created an entirely new resume, underscoring previous mentoring/educational experience. With youth.

The result was a stellar example of my ability not so much to teach children (although I can) but to create a narrative where teaching SAT classes twenty-five years ago, a few months of supervising teenage interns, and nine months of babysitting made me the love child of Mary Poppins and Mister Rogers.

"Instilled expectations of good behavior and a respect for nature through games and play, daily trips to parks and beaches, and by exploiting children’s natural love of routine, ritual, and expressive communication."

Yes. I actually wrote this. It was fun, this challenge to elevate instinct to skill, and mundane activities  to intentional education. This blurb was my respectable distillation of "We walked to the park! We threw rocks in the lake! We waved hello to the cottonwood trees! I taught them to pull up their shirts every time I yelled 'MARDI GRAS!' I trained them like I train puppies, because it was fun, they loved it, and because I could."

The visit to the street vendor of corn chichas almost made an appearance as, "Developed an appreciation of international cuisine and multicultural interpersonal interaction," but I couldn't quite bring myself.

I heard nothing, but was OK since the pay was super low.

I was in talks with landscapers who were very interested in hiring me, but they operated in southern Maine, which is not much cheaper than Massachusetts. Generally, any area in which a president summers (The Cape, Kennebunkport) is unlikely to present a wealth of cheap apartments or thrift stores, opting instead for four-figure weekly rentals and Consignment Boutiques.

In the end I met with a local landscaper who wants to hire me and is going to get back to me with a job offer once he figures out his crew for the season. I've offered him less than full-time so that I can build my own business.

And so it is that just as I'm waiting to hear from Local landscaper, I get a call from the head gardener at the botanic garden. The Educational Assistant botanic garden. This garden that never has gardener openings now has two openings for full-time seasonal gardeners. On one hand I was a little excited; on the other I was annoyed at this ping-ponging, and a bit sulky about the lack of response to the three hours of brilliant resume writing to reinvent myself as the gardening world's Maria von Trapp.

The Head Gardener was very nice and we got along well. I asked what the position paid, and the level of hemming and hawing made my stomach sink. This was not the response of someone unembarrassed by her answer.

"Interns make about $11 an hour; for regular we could go up to about $13. I mean, it's Maine."

Thirteen. Dollars. UP TO. The last time I'd made that little I'd only slept with two men in my life. I mean, I was a late bloomer, but still.

Shit, I can't afford to move to Maine on what they pay. I'll work here and buy a place in Maine. Then I'll eventually move to Maine.

So I'm here for now, which is fine, if not perfect. I see my aunt in the nursing home regularly, and my sister and I get together and have fun. I know the area, I'm getting my business stuff in order, and if I'm lucky, I'll make a real living this year.

I could just buy land in Maine and grow things and keep bees there. I could get one of those huge room-like tents for when I'm up there. 

I can poop in the woods.