Although I spent the last twenty years of my career in Marketing Management, it was never what I really wanted to do. When I was very young, I knew that investigative work would be my first love. My Dad was a cop, and he worked patrol most of the time, but he also worked undercover. I loved seeing him in his uniform, but loved the “plain clothes” detail even more. He was a big man, and could be very intimidating (and that’s just when he was at home!). On the streets, I imagine he struck fear into the hearts of the bad guys from one end of SF to the other. Of course, a lot of this is childhood fantasy, but we all had them, didn’t we?
I worked from the time I was fourteen years old. My parents divorced and money was tight for my Mom. I had three younger sisters and the babysitting, housecleaning, odd jobs money was used to supplement our budget. This wasn’t a big sacrifice on my part, it was just what you did when your family was in need. Mom worked, I worked, and we managed.
I married and divorced young, and worked to support my two children. I was a file clerk, a typist, a secretary, a marketing coordinator, a proposal writer, and then a marketing manager. Not what I had expected from myself at all, but it paid the bills. When I stopped working a few years ago, I thought about what I had always wanted to do. I was too old to consider police work by this time, but private investigation was still a possible, if far fetched idea.
I spoke with my favorite cousin, Kelly, and she was having a mid-life crisis of her own at that time. We brainstormed and decided that we could start a detective agency. (Keep in mind that all either of us knows about detective agencies is what we have read in paperback novels.) Since we had no real idea about the setting up of this kind of business, or the requirements, or anything else for that matter, we concentrated on the type of clothing we would wear and what we would name our firm. The clothing was easy. Sexy, but not too sexy, maybe black jumpsuits unzipped to show just a little skin, stilettos, (of course) which could double as weapons, and quiet jewelry so we didn’t announce our presence to the bad guys. Oh, and fragrance, nothing too strong, maybe just a scent that whispered.
We decided on a name for our firm. We would hang our shingle and call ourselves the “Dickless Tracys.” Has a ring to it, doesn’t it?