As I write this post the last hours of Official Summer are whizzing past. The alarm clock has already been dusted off and inspected for operability and now we’re just killing time on our way to its first rude squawk since school let out in June.

I always get pretty depressed about the end of my summer. Not so much the weather part of it. That is guaranteed to hang on for another three months in these parts. I’m a little bummed about the end of Official Summer during which there is no school, no PTA and therefore no obligation to set down the tequila or put on clothes. I’m not ashamed to admit it: summers around here are kinda sorta clothing optional. 

Not strictly speaking of course - we don’t run completely naked through the hallways of Matulich Manor - it’s just that short of a presidential visit, I rarely find occasion to dress myself or my offspring up in anything more formal than swimsuits. I even managed to start my own salsa company last July wearing nothing more complex than a stringy tie-dyed number.

Pajamas. Bikini. Pajamas. Bikini. Pajamas. Bikini. Sunrise. Sunset.

Therefore I figured that I’d mark the final morning of Official Summer by jumping into the ocean for a swim over and through the massive kelp forests of Monterey Bay. 

I even wore a bikini for the occasion because I’m sentimental like that.

And I wore a wetsuit over the bikini because dude, that water’s freezing.  

If a better way to spend time has ever been devised I have yet to discover it. There is nothing more enjoyable than treading water offshore in the lift and roll of swells, pulling oneself through kelp beds in a half swim half crawl and watching the tourists watch the sea from the sea. Where else but a kelp bed can you lay around and watch the harbor seals pop their cat-like heads up close enough to cop a whisker feel?

And when it was over I was kinda bummed that this really, truly was IT. The End. Adios. Over. Gone. The period at the end of a well-loved quote.

I tried to be ok with it. And I was for a little bit, until I found myself sitting at the top of the stairs at my in-laws house in Santa Cruz where I could still smell the saltwater and seaweed coming off my sand-covered flip flops.

And that’s when I realized that I need to sell a ton of salsa or begin a life of high-paying white collar crime so I can just hang out at the beach year round.

I’m planning on launching my own salsa company next month because, you know, a marriage, two kids, mortuary school, training for a triathlon in August and another one in September, a half marathon in October, a convention and writing a book? Totally not enough chaos for my over-caffeinated ass.

No, I need more stimulation. Also, I need money to fund all the stuff I’ve already signed up for and all the stuff I have yet to do: like cage-diving with great whites. Because I’m not leaving this world until I’ve found my way into a shark cage even if it means saving for a couple of years because yikes people, have you seen the price tag on that little adventure?

Anyway, I figure what better way to generate some cash than to start up a little side-gig doing something I love to do and would do and already do regardless of whether I’m being paid to do it or not?

To this end I’ve checked out tomato suppliers, gathered jars, learned how to can, experimented with growing a bunch of my own stuff and armed myself with some fancy accountin’ book-learnin’. I’m even opening an online store.

The only thing missing is label art, but I haven’t been too concerned because for once my dedication to ambivalence has given way to certainty and I know EXACTLY what I want. I have a mental picture of the perfect label to complement my new company’s name and I have no doubt that once I put it all together I’ll be able to take over the world one tortilla chip at a time.

Plan? Meet monkey wrench.

Enter my boundless lack of creativity. I’ve never been able to draw. My kids look at me sideways if I so much as eyeball a crayon. Forget software, I can’t even name a single program for illustrating much less one. In short, I’m having a hell of a time getting what’s in my head onto a flash drive so it can be printed on a sticker that can be slapped on a jar.

Until someone sent me this:

Which contains almost exactly what I was looking for in this:

Don’t get me wrong. I still have no clue how I’m going to make the changes I want before getting this onto something as useful as a label. Still, I now have my skeleton dog safely stowed in a file on my desktop and every so often I’ll whip him out so that I can stare at him admiringly in between yelling at my paint program for not being Adobe Illustrator. And yes, I had to google “illustrations software” to come up with the name of that program.