250

January 18th, 2018, 8:42 PM by Goddess

I got a call for an interview the other day. To a company I’d applied to back in November when I was originally put out on the street.

Although I am gratefully rehired, I took the call out of curiosity. Loved the interviewer. Loved the company. Love the location, the product, you name it.

Too bad I came off as a total idiot.

Accepting the call while at work was my first mistake. Hard to be in your mental happy place when it’s not necessarily your physical happy place. But I tried.

Then, she said look. You’re a director. This is mid-level. It “only” pays (she named a figure just below my current range).

“As a director,” she said, “you are probably making, like, what? About $250,000?”

When I hung up, I burst straight into tears. Their mid-level is what I’ve aspired my whole life to achieve. The director level should really be 250? Sweet Baby Jesus. Fuck you, LVP, for saying I was “expensive.” When YOU were making exactly that.

The job was a good fit but not a great one. I have all the editorial experience and then some that they could ever dream of. The marketing, I’m rusty at. Rusty, not brain-dead.

Although it probably didn’t help that, post-250, I might have let a lot of things come tumbling out of my mouth that I shouldn’t have.

Yeah. Totes awks.

In any event, I haven’t sent a thank-you. I have the letter written in my mind. She already said she loved my cover letter. I know exactly how to follow up.

But I’m not ready to let go of that spark of hope that I had for one brief, shining moment that maybe just maybe there’s a fun change just ahead of me. Especially if my sneaking suspicions are true that LVP might come back. Forget fun — I’ll just be wishing for bearable, if that prediction comes true.

Two-fifty. Damn. I will never get over that.



Same old, same old (auld lang syne)

January 1st, 2018, 3:25 PM by Goddess

Welp. After buying and losing tons of food, I was just told that I shouldn’t have bought it in the first place.

That it wasn’t my place to try to figure out what to buy. Which I did when nobody gave me a list because their memory is so bad from all the body pain that they can’t remember how to cook.

That’s why I didn’t get my lasagna (Gram’s recipe) or my orange cookies (my grandfather’s mom’s recipe) as requested.

And don’t get me fucking started on all the vegetables that have gone bad that I bought as side dishes for Christmas that never got cooked because GOD FORBID I went to spend three fucking hours with a colleage’s family who said come over for a slice of ham and a board game.

I asked for precious little this year. That was it. I begged for three months for these two things. And then I threw out the yucky ground beef (and I don’t eat beef anyway on a normal day), expired ricotta and jacked-up oranges that have been here seemingly since time began.

OH YEAH. And I bought a brand-new orange juicer at her request. Granted it was cheap. But still. I bring home the bacon and the damn contraption to make it with.

I mean, it’s not like she gets out to buy gifts. But this was the real wake-up call that her mind is really going.

And it’s not like I learned how to cook from her. I mean, I used to cook when I lived on my own. I even knew the recipes. But she’s also not a nice person in the kitchen.

I remember her throwing a box of Band-Aids not just at my head — but another at my grandmother’s, as she lay in her hospital bed in the living/dining room — when she got pissed off at us for breathing.

Since then, it’s not like I’ve tried to hang around in the kitchen and get the secrets to why her bacon-wrapped scallops are like the best thing EVER in this whole entire universe.

I’ve begged for years, write me a recipe book. I want to make my Great-Grandmother Anastasia’s Polish recipes. My other Great-Grandmother Jesse’s French recipes. My Grandmother Rose’s Italian recipes.

I already know I can buy all our traditional Jewish stuff at the local deli. And I can fake the Feast of the Seven Fishes just by raiding the local Publix and Costco meat counters.

But I can’t even spell half the things I grew up eating at Christmas and New Year’s. (Pierogi. And Paczki for Easter. Well that and Shit on the Shingles the rest of the year.)

Clearly, I don’t ever want to eat Shit on the Shingles again for as long as I live …

But it’s real hard to make the same “No Bullshit (insert year)” resolutions when that is EXACTLY what is emanating from the kitchen over the cajun pork tenderloin I picked up on a whim (hey! We are actually going to eat that!) and sauerkraut that I really want to know how to make but, really, what is the point when it might as well join the Halushki recipe that’s been lost to the ages.

I know I am going to regret these rage-filled posts. But if it keeps my trap shut and prevents a fight, I’m all about beating the shit out of my keyboard instead.

(Also, neighbors kept us up till 6 a.m. with what sounded like roller-skating across the ceiling, and Electronic Dance Music blaring. I fucking hope they die. Choke on a dick, you miserable fucks.)

Christ, I feel like a husband. Maybe I should find a good wife instead of looking for a man. One who has the Italian, French and Polish heritage who can feed my fat ass well.



This is what my limit looks like

October 29th, 2017, 5:52 PM by Goddess

Got screwed for the third time at a favorite restaurant today.

Three visits in a row now, I’ve not been able to eat at the same time as my friend or mom. Always have to send someone’s food back to be redone.

The thing is, the food is always great when it’s fixed. The managers are fantastic, and totally make up for the sucky server and/or cook. Two out of the three visits, I got my meal comped.

The thing is, it’s like any job. If the corporate equivalent of servers and cooks can’t get it right — and the manager ends up doing everything anyway — why do you need “help”?

I’m already at my wits’ end about so many things. Is it so much to expect that when I order grilled salmon, the fucking thing touches some fire at some point and isn’t oozing its innards all over my plate?

Maybe I’m just annoyed because it’s Sunday night and I have work to do that I would like to be done right. Without 75 questions that require more effort than tackling the project itself. Without “well I never did this before” from someone who’s been there exactly a year and a half LONGER than me and I KNOW my/our old boss didn’t do jack shit so SOMEONE had to do it.

And I have a sneaking suspicion I have to cancel next weekend’s plans. Unrelated but equally infuriating. Especially since I’ve spent money I guess I can’t afford anymore to make it happen because my landlord is putting me on the street AT CHRISTMAS.



Do-over

September 17th, 2017, 9:25 AM by Goddess

Every once in a while, life throws you a do-over.

I went to a Brad Paisley concert a couple years ago. Facebook Memories likes to remind me of it every year around this time. And thanks to the power of a free ticket and a friend who knew I needed a do-over, I got one this weekend.

I was everything I dreamed it would be. So happy I got to go again and enjoy every single moment.

Southern Boulevard selfie.

Rewinding a couple years … I started out doing well the last time Brad came to town. Ate healthfully, had one (admittedly big-ass) beer, and that was that.

Then it rained. And we took cover under the tent of another group of tailgaters. Who had Fireball. Lots and lots of Fireball.

Yeah, the next several hours are a blur. I remember upgrading our tickets and getting super-close to the stage. I also remember going to the bathroom before the main performer’s set … and losing my ticket.

Kept this one!

I vaguely recall arguing with the people checking my ticket. Like, you just let me in there before. I dropped my ticket. YOU KNOW ME. Let me in. I even have a brand-new spiced-rum-and-diet-Coke sitting under my chair … waiting to be reunited with me.

No luck. So I sat on the sidelines and watched the concert on the Jumbotrons. And did some texting I shouldn’t have, that finally gave permission to someone who was trying to start a relationship with me to do so.

In any event, fast-forward to today …

This time I had a small beer in the parking lot. That’s it. Sat on my little square on our little blanket the whole time. Didn’t have to run to pee because I wasn’t drinking.

What was really cool is that we went to the very back of the lawn, high atop a hill that overlooks two lakes. I didn’t get any photos because my phone sucks.

Well except this one.

But that’s OK. We were far from the cigarettes and pot and, even better, other people.

The ground was soaked from Hurricane Irma. It quickly permeated the blanket and my jeans.

It was OK. We lived through the storm — now the skies were clear, a million stars were out and we were seeing a fantastic show for free, thanks to Brad donating a bunch of tickets to local first responders … many of whom were working the show so their families could go and invite their friends. (I.E., how I got there.)

In any event, I’ve said before that if I could do-over the part about the text conversation that started so many summers ago, I wouldn’t do it at all. I always wondered what I missed while it was going on.

But I see now that life happened as it needed to. And it all turned out OK.

And at a time when my outside world is littered with dead, uprooted trees and debris and fallen electrical lines, it’s good to have my inside world tidied up again.



Can’t take it with you. Especially in an evacuation zone

September 12th, 2017, 6:05 AM by Goddess

In the mad dash to prepare for Hurricane #Irmagerd, I had the realization early and often …

I have too much stuff.

Not “good” stuff. Mostly lots of clothes and decorations from (C)Ross Dress for Less.

Mom especially has a veritable shitload of decorations from there and every store in Florida that has “Dollar” (Tree, General, Family) in its name.

And a part of me — the one that knew my “hurricane glass” windows would leak (and they did) — was sort of/kind of hoping most of that shit would wash away to sea.

I’m sure that’s what happened to my overpriced storage unit. (I have two — I pay for mine and mom’s down here, and hers up in Pittsburgh. That one is full of … decorations. Ten years’ worth of payments, for decorations. When I’ve bought her everything she’s wanted since then and SO MUCH MORE. She doesn’t understand my resentment.)

In any event, I’m sure my storage unit (here) is a mess. It’s in a low-lying area, and our area got pretty thrashed with rains and uprooted trees and shit. So that’s gonna be a big wet fucking surprise when I get back there.

I found two dresses I hadn’t worn, while I was there. I was so excited about them when I bought them. But they were too small then. So, into the bin they went.

Took them home this weekend and tried them on. They fit fine. Maybe a little loose. But … they looked kind of atrocious on me.

Didn’t find the dress I really wanted. An expensive one. If I’m lucky, the thing is waterlogged. If I’m not lucky, I’ll hate it as much as the other two.

Here’s the thing. I buy things in hopes of wearing or using them SOMEDAY.

Well, guess what. If this hurricane has taught me anything …

It’s that someday is TODAY. Rather, we should treat it that way.

So all my cute Paris stuff … sugar skulls stuff … DRESSES UPON DRESSES that I am saving for outings that haven’t happened yet …

Well, make ’em happen.

When it came down to it, the only things I wanted to save … if I absolutely HAD TO … were things that still had the tags on them.

You know, this shit …

Well, that and six hot-pink storage tubs of hot-pink sugar skull shirts, cookware, rugs, towels, candles and purses.

Know of any hurricane shelters that take pets and a Noah’s Ark of unused shit for your “someday” home?

And it’s not just that. it’s the good Zum Wash patchouli soap from Whole Foods. It’s the Moroccan lotion from fucking Suave of all things that I am absolutely in love with. It’s the “good” Dove Advanced Care deodorant that I save for when my skin is really in need of some TLC. It’s the Lodi wine that I keep holding onto because the place in Ft. Lauderdale that sells it is an absolute pain in the ass to go to.

It’s all the “luxury” shit I save for when I’m feeling worthy of using it … for when I buy a “backup” (Mom makes me buy two of everything. Including towels, rugs, dresses, shirts, and goddamn DECORATIONS. You ALWAYS need a backup, she says. And don’t use “just the one” if that’s all you have). Etc.

So during this hurricane, I wore some of my new T-shirts with tags on them. Drank the wine that I didn’t have “backup” bottles of. Ate the candy from Disney World that I would normally have saved, on the promise to myself that I will get back sooner rather than later to get more.

I know I need to apply this same attitude to many more things. (Career, car, apartment, etc.) But at least I know I need to let go of the shit that isn’t working … or fix what could be working better … to feel much lighter of spirit and, I hope, indebtedness to what’s mostly only holding me back at this point.

And the fact that I’d rather die than do most of it is a sign that I won’t miss it if only I can find something better to replace it with.