Month: March 2005 (Page 1 of 5)

Today is my day on Self Portrait Day, and I had to laugh at myself, because I just CAN’T answer the questions succinctly, apparently. Hi Jennifer, where do you live? OH blather blather blather and did I tell you about the time I got caught chewing gum back in Iowa and about the wild dogs? And about my body gnomes?

I think it’s fitting that, on self portrait day, I am laughing at myself. I was branded a Social Butterfly at the age of 9, and it’s never stopped. I love people, meeting new people, talking to strangers while we wait in line, making tiny connections with the world, because even though there are idiots and jerks and bad drivers (GOD there are bad drivers) out there, there are amazing human beings who also wanna say “hi” and who care about each other, whether it’s in line at the grocery store or across the miles via a computer. Everyone has a story & they just want, to quote John Prine, someone to say, “Hello in there……”

Cheers to all of you, because as long as there’s more of us than them, the world will be a better place.

I’m exceptionally light-hearted this week, gosh, wonder why? I am hesitant still to even blog about my Former Employer, because it feels a little too dirty-laundry-ish and would certainly seem like I was exiting with poor sportsmanship. So I thought I’d blog about an OLD boss I had, and in fact was the absolute CRAZIEST boss I ever did have, with perhaps the exception of the woman I worked for in college, who was agoraphobic and never left her home and basically I went through her mail, with her on the phone, sorted it for her, and had what she wanted to read delivered to her house. She was in charge of selecting films and such for the campus, so I also made the posters for the films. It was really quite an easy job, she just lived in denial and would talk about going out and playing tennis and whatnot, even though she hadn’t left her home & had all the windows covered in plastic, for years. So, she was just sort of mentally ill.

But my SuperCaliFragiCrazy boss, let’s call her “Jodi”, was WONKERS. Good god, the stories. She had her own agency. She actually wanted to be a movie star. She spent money like one, that’s for sure. Gosh, I hardly know where to begin and end with the stories. When I interviewed, she was nice as pie. She even wanted to compensate me with a CAR. A Lincoln Navigator. Hello, that is too big for me. I would have to get a running start to even make it into the front seat. I declined, preferring cold hard cash to a giant tax and gas burden. Anyway. She wanted to be big and important and glamorous. She was intensely paranoid, and had every single piece of email route through her computer, incoming & outgoing. She rifled through offices at night. Her apartment was above the agency, and she would listen in on the phones, thinking we didn’t know. One night, five of us had worked late & we decided to all go out and grab dinner. We headed to the 39th street area, planning on going to a cheap burger place over there. Jodi tagged along. We discovered said burger joint was closed, and as we did that sort of aimless-milling on the sidewalk trying to determine where to go next, Jodi commanded, “Follow me.” We dutifully did, and ended up at the now-defuct Cafe Allegro, one of two four-star restaurants in Kansas City. Now, the dinner that we had? This was how she entertained clients, and there wasn’t a client at the table. For seven people, our bill was thousands of dollars. Yes, you read that correctly. Like $2,500 plus tip. Are you staggering? We didn’t because we’d had so much to eat & drink it was a blur. What did we drink, twenty dollar bills blended with vodka? Yes, this will be the only time in my life that I’ve had wine that cost FIVE HUNDRED DOLLARS A BOTTLE. And she ordered two bottles. Her style was to order one of everything and if someone liked it, order two more. Keep in mind this woman eventually went bankrupt, and fled the state, with a million-$-plus lawsuit against her for unpaid accounts. You see where the money was going? I have so so many stories about her, and I only worked there four months. The breaking point for me was when she called me in to the conference room to scream at me over something stupid. Ordinarily, I am a pleaser. I want approval. I need it, I’ve always needed it, and have been learning the necessary lesson of getting it from myself, not others, as I grow up. At this time I was still a lot more over on the “must please” side of things, but when she started screaming at me, in front of two other people she’d just finished screaming at, all I could see were the ugly lines around her mouth and how unattractive she looked while she was yelling at me. And while she continued with the SHOUT SHOUT SHOUTING I was off in a corner of my brain, conferring with my gnomes, and we all agreed that I was so out of there as soon as I could get another job.

But the funniest, craziest, most insane story was this: She had a business assistant and a personal assistant, because she was a movie star, at least in her own mind, not an advertising executive. Then one of them quit. I was already gone when this took place. She was upstairs in her apartment, getting dressed, and she couldn’t get her pantyhose on. Now, Jodi was a large woman, and as a large person myself, and most women in general will, too, I can attest to the fact that pantyhose are a pain in the butt. However, Jodi, living in her little fantasy dream world, wouldn’t buy the correct SIZE of pantyhose for her body, but a much smaller size. And thus, she couldn’t get them on. So she called both her assistant, and the assistant media planner up to her apartment to PUT HER PANTYHOSE ON HER. When her assistant told her, after hoisting and pulling & tugging and being way too close to her boss’ skin and underwear and things one never needs to see or know, that they weren’t going to fit, Jodi commenced with the screaming about how she KNOWS her size and she ALWAYS buys this size and they should just TRY HARDER. It became an ongoing joke with our group of friends – what would your annual salary have to be, to put pantyhose on your boss? And no playing the “well if my boss was Cindy Crawford” game, we’re talking your boss is Roseanne Barr before all the surgery and weight loss and ten times meaner. She finally screamed at the two assistants to leave and she found something else to wear.

As I prepare for my new job next week, I would like to go on the record to say that I will never. Ever. ask anyone to put my pantyhose on me. EVER. Because that, my friends, falls under the header of “things a boss should never do”.

I Quit My Job. That was the BIG news for today, in the World o’ Jen. Boy-o-boy chef boy-ar-dee, did it feel good to resign. I’ve got a job at another agency, as their media director, and it’s a much smaller place, with loads of opportunity. There will be loads of work, but hey, I’m used to loads of work, so why not get paid well and have more freedom and support at the same time? In any event, it was time for me to go. I start a week from today, so I’m going to try to enjoy a few days off, get some stuff done around the house, help my friend Mike with some committment-ceremony stuff, and in general try to rebuild some of my self that has eroded and pickled in my anger and resentments over the past couple of years. Can’t be done in a week, I know, but at least I’m aware it’s a rebuilding process. Thanks, BloggerBuds, for your well-wishes & positive thoughts on my behalf, because it worked!

WOw, I had no clue how bright that sunshine stuff was. I spent most of the day squinting & tilting my head, what with all the LIGHT, bright glorious light everywhere.

After Sunday Brunch with good friends, we had a big date trip to Lowe’s. All garden stuff, ka-ching! ka-ching! I am always amazed how much stuff adds up – but it was nice, we got a couple of cool iron trellis-y things, one for the rose by James’ workshop, and an obelisk thingy for the whiskey barrel planter, that will hopefully be covered with sweet peas in a month or two. I also got a bunch of bulbs for one part of the side yard, and we got wood to make a sign for the perennial bed out front, a sign that indicates our house address, plus a big “E”, because without fail, people will go to the West version of our address, and remain confused. My job is to paint the numbers/letter & backdrop board as well as come up with something decorative to draw on wood that will go above the sign – fun practice for James & his new scroll saw (from last week’s auction – easier to care for than a PUPPY.)

On the Folly update, I’m on the shoulder shaping for the sleeves. Whew. I swear, when this sweater is finished, I don’t care if it’s the middle of June, I’m cranking up the A/C and wearing the damn thing!!!!

Monday, Monday, fast approaching. Should be an interesting week!

It wasn’t even Easter. It was summer, circa 1972 in Knoxville Iowa. Since I’ve now told my father about my blog, I think it will be extra fun to start sharing ALL MY DREAMS in my blog from here on out. HAH!

This was one of those dreams that was SO VIVID, when I woke up, I thought it had actually happened. I was only 4 years old. But I dreamt that I had a giant basket of Easter candy, complete with a big ol’ chocolate bunny, sitting right by my bed on my nightstand. And I was SO DISAPPOINTED that it hadn’t happened. I even wanted to try to go back to sleep and see if the waking up without the Easter basket part was maybe the dream, and then there WOULD be a basket of candy waiting for me. Since we didn’t celebrate Easter, it never did happen, either. But every year, and now we’re talking 32 years later, I still remember that momentary flash of thought and hope & the realization that it was only a dream and the sunshine and the smell of grass and the reconciliation struggle between dreams and reality. That stuff never, ever leaves you. And often the struggle remains the same.

Today, I will bite the ears off the bunny I got from my Operation Haremail pal, Leah, and then share the rest of the bunny with my hubby, who once hid plastic eggs with jelly beans all over the apartment to surprise me. Not only is he a keeper, he’s bona-fide. ;)

Here’s a little 8-track flashback most of you probably don’t have. I was 9 or 10 years old, just your standard 4th grade life in rural Iowa – except for the raised-by-hippies, never-gonna-fit-in thing, but anyway, I had a half mile walk to the county gravel road from our house. This is where the schoolbus would pick me up, and my dad would often walk me out in the morning with our dog, Ghost, and I would be on my own walking home after school.

But then that fall, some neighbor across-the-way (and keep in mind, neighbors in rural speak is anyone within an 8-mile radius of you, sometimes more) had basically lost control of his dogs. He let them go wild, and they were running as a pack, taking down deer, etc. It was quite the buzz. As a fleshy child, smaller than a deer, there was some reason to be concerned about my own safety. I can STILL remember my dad putting his hands on my shoulders and talking to me: “OK, Jennifer. There are wild dogs running on the property. Now, I’m going to do my best to meet you at the schoolbus after school every day, but if I don’t get there in time, here’s what you need to do-“
(me: GULP)
Dad, continuing. “If the wild dogs come (HOLY SHIT IF THE WILD DOGS COME? my brain was racing.) you need to climb a tree. (HOLY SHIT HAVE YOU SEEN ME EVER CLIMB A TREE? NO!) But there aren’t any really good trees to climb along the lane, so here’s what you do, you get a big stick right when you get off the bus. (HOLY SHIT I HAVE TO FIND A STICK. FIND A STICK. GOT IT.) Then, if the wild dogs come (OH MY GOD THERE’S THAT PHRASE AGAIN), you need to find a big tree, put your back to it and wave the stick around in front of you at them and yell. (YELLING, WAVING STICK. NOT A PROBLEM. ENVISIONING LOSING BOTH ARMS AND JUGULAR TO WILD DOGS.) I will be there shortly. (SHORTLY? LET’S TALK ABOUT WHY YOU’RE NOT THERE ALREADY, MAN.)”

All I could do was nod. TER-RI-FIED. And for the record, my dad met me every day at the bus, so this whole stick procurement/tree safety thing never needed to be put into place, not that I didn’t have stark visual images of it in my little 9-year-old brain. I have always been prone to delusions of grandeur, but I never fancied myself the hero in those imaginings, more like a terrified child watching the last few minutes of her life be images of a big wooden stick and the snapping teeth of a wild dog or three.

It didn’t end well for the wild dogs. They were “taken care of” one weekend when my father heard them down on the bottoms, and with his binoculars could tell that they were chasing deer. He called the farmer in question and informed him that he was going to go down there with his rifle and kill them. This was where, in terror, I thought it could all end Disney-like, the farmer would come to his senses, drive over and get the dogs and take them home and be a responsible person again, and everything would end well. No snarling snapping dogs anymore, just kind, gentle farm dogs that licked the back of your hand. URRRRRT, that fantasy screeched to a halt. The farmer said he didn’t care what happened to them, that he couldn’t control them anymore, and so my dad, along with one of the other hippies, John, went down and we could hear the cracking report of their rifles, and it STILL makes me sad, because they weren’t wolves, they were dogs, but they weren’t dogs anymore, either, they were back in the large food chain cycle, where large deer and chubby 4th graders all looked tasty on the buffet of life. Re-reading this, I also realize that Hippies with Rifles is pretty damned funny. They weren’t your typical hippies, my folks. Nothing about my life has felt particulary typical, but it sure does make for some funny stories.

Not that being attacked by wild dogs is funny, for let me tell you, I will carry that Wild Dogs Safety Lecture to my grave.

First off, we’ve apparently become the sister city to London. I went out to get pizza and beer tonight & it was damp, chilly & misting. I’ve forgotten what the burning orb in the sky even looks like. If it ever returns, I’ll be blinded for days, blinking like the Mole People. ENOUGH already, I needs some sunshine!

Second, if you haven’t heard Snow Patrol’s cover of Beyonce’s “Crazy In Love”, you are missing out. It’s one of those songs that makes me want to get up on a (sturdy) table and dance all hoochy-mamma-ish, slowly enough that I don’t slosh my drink everywhere. Therefore, if you are looking for a good laugh you should get me a drink, a sturdy table, and coerce the bartender to play this song.

Third, I am PISSED at Roadrunner because they keep jacking up my email / master user account and now it’s my name with a NUMBER, hello, I am not J LO on the 8, I am the ONE AND ONLY. Spent 20 minutes tonight on the phone with tech support so I could finally download my email – one email containing the aforementioned MP3 so I can sit here and imagine dancing on a table while I play the song over & over.

Fourth, I am almost done with the flowers for Folly. Let’s do a quick tally and pats on the back, shall we? 8 large flowers per color (4 colors) = 32 large flowers. 6 small flowers per color (4 colors) – 24 small flowers. (look, I’m doing all this math in MY HEAD, I am so RainMan.) 32 + 24 = 56. FIFTY SIX. This is the reason I will be the first person on EARTH, besides the designer, to finish THIS SWEATER. I have to stitch the last 6 flowers and then finish the sleeves. THEN, then, oh lord, could it be? DONE? I will need a drink.

Fifth, I discovered my local Gomer’s carries Herradura tequila. If all goes well, I will be buying myself a bottle next week & doing several shots. All tables in the vicinity had better watch out…….

My head is splitting in two this morning, and it feels like I downed half a bottle of Herradura tequila last night. Quick inventory. What did I do? Oh yeah, went over to Kristin’s for a knit night and the whole famdamily of gangsta knitters showed up. We were missing a few comrades, but if they’d shown up we would have had to put people in the bathroom.
Oh, mah god. My hangover is from laughter. I know Mary Englebreit’s got that cute magnet that says “When you reach the end of your rope, tie a knot in it and hang on”? Well, peeps, when I reach the end of my rope, I go down in a blaze of gunfire, sharp-tongued observations and maniacal laughing. Think Bruce Willis in the original Die Hard. Yippee Kiyay.

I can’t even capture the individual quotes and string them together to have them make sense. I remember shouting at Abbey “HEY, Only Child Bitch!” (Dont worry, I’m one too.) There was also a lot of discussion and jokes about the room Abbey & I are getting at Two Rivers, our local mental health facility. My chief complaint about our plans to stay there is that they do NOT have spa services, and the rooms do NOT look very luxurious. It also looks like they might have meetings and interventions and such, and I need to make sure I tell them when I check in that I’m NOT going there for that, the last thing I need is another fucking meeting.

So, praise the heavens, I’m laughing again, I’m feeling a bit more like the phoenix, and so perhaps I can rise this weekend myself. I’ve got a craving for the Herradura tequila now, but I bet they don’t let you bring it in to Two Rivers…..

For everyone who commented & wrote me, thank you! And on the puking dog front, Polly recovered beautifully – was her adorable loving self the following morning, albeit a bit hungry. :) Meanwhile, I’m off to work. Yes, off to work. You mean some people get today off? Huh? I am SO taking one of those mental health days soon.

Good lord, peeps, I don’t know what’s happening in the world, but it’s like the clock got shoved backwards & we were smack on March 15th all over again! Foul stuff happened at work, my friend David got stuck in Lee’s Summit last night because his car died, and he & Roger worked on it until almost 9 last night – and Polly threw up more times than I want to try and count right now, so I was up until nearly midnight, when I finally surrounded her bed with newspapers & unfortunately, the only thing she had left in her was liquids. I never even got dinner, because my stomach was so in knots from the events of the day and then, well, suffice it to say, cleaning up after a puking dog is not really an appetite stimulant.

I actually woke up before my alarm went off this morning, and I’m hoping that means today is going to be better. It has to be better. Hell, the dog has no food left in her to puke at this point, so already we’re off to a better start. I’d ask that you say a little prayer, or wishful thought, or even place an offering to Buddha, Vishnu, God, whomever guides you on your journey, to make my road a little less rocky right now. I’m quite prone to turning my ankles, and I just need things to settle down. With that, I give thanks in advance, because I know all of you who tune in to this blog actually will, because (not to get all Sally Fields here, but) you do care – I love the internet and its ability to bring people together across the miles! (it’s how I got my husband, who, thankfully, is coming home early & I will not feel quite so alone. I miss him. Did you know we met online? That’s a good blog entry. I’ll do that one soon.)

Thanks. From the bottom of my bruised, achey-breaky heart. :)