Day 1- You are what you wear. I had a job interview for a big gig I REALLY wanted. My City. Good Salary. Totally creative. World travel. I was so excited to go talk to these guys--and I knew I had a good shot at it. I thought the interview with the first person went well. But when they brought me in to see #2--the first thing she said even before hello was, "Banana Republic 2003!" I thought--okay--"Old Navy 1999 to you too!?" I had no idea what she was referring to--until she said it again--only this time added--"Your coat! I did the marketing for that coat--Banana Republic 2003!" I looked down at my cute teal coat and thought--oh--my coat--2003--yikes, its old. I really didn't remember when I bought it.
Now normally what I wear to a job interview really doesn't matter--just as long as I look nice and professional--maybe just a little hip or creative, right? Not today. I immediately thought--oh jeez. She thinks I'm out of style. Not fashionable. That could be a problem. You see---big job interview was with big designer company that puts little red labels on their jeans. All I could come up with in response was "I don't shop much." And then an added whimper "I don't wear it much because I was living in Sacramento and it's hot there." Didn't matter. Her interpretation : It's 7 years old. I might as well have been wearing a hoop skirt and pantaloons as far as she was concerned.
Needless to say--I doubt little red label company will be hiring me as their Director of Content. But then--I guess if they don't hire me because my wardrobe--it's not a good fit for either of us. (no fashion pun intended.)
Day two - I got bitch-slapped by a blogger: The week continued to tank along. The next day, I had a run-in with a young blogger who wrote an article about one of my clients. An article that clearly had errors and mistakes. Now, it's my job to clean up communications messes for this organization. So I contacted the blogger. I simply asked her to repost her article, because her information was wrong and it could potentially hurt innocent people. Sounds fair enough, right? Wrong.
She bitched me out. She literally pulled the "oh no you di-dn't just email me to say change your blog?'" She asked me -- "I don't know how you have time to read my blog, aren't you supposed to be working? Maybe you should spend YOUR time writing something?!!" Whuck? When did asking for accuracy become MY problem? I've spent many years working in the media--and granted, it wasn't always "New York Times quality" stuff--(IE: Dr. Phil Show) but one thing I always strive for is accuracy. I learned in college journalism classes--check - your - facts!
I was sad to learn today, that no longer exists OR is necessary. In this new era of fast "citizen journalism," a tweet can be reposted incorrectly to infinity. And that apparently is the norm. It's why I stick to blogging about my zits and dateless pre-menopausal life. If I need to fact check--I just look in the mirror.
Day Three: What year is this? I got a Facebook message from a guy I met five years ago--a work acquaintance of my ex. "Antonio" is some Italian guy who used to live in my hometown. We had emailed a few times after that first meeting. He knew I was in a relationship, so after that--I really didn't hear from him until now. So when I got the FB message---I groaned a teeny bit at the "wanna have coffee" invite--because I wasn't into him then and wasn't about to be now. So I didn't really think much of it. Was just going to ignore it. Until my mother called.
She said she got a strange phone call --from an Italian woman who was asking about her beautiful daughters--particularly "the one who lives in X?" (protecting the innocent aka: me) "Is she married? Because my Antonio lives near her! How old is she?" Really? The dude who contacted me on FB got his mother to call my mother? Does that even still happen? What year is this? Suddenly 1953?
My mom replied, "She's 48." Strange Italian mama: "Oh that-sa too old for my Antonio. He wanna be a daddy." Okay. So not only do I have strange men's mothers call my mother, I'm now also too old to be with strange men--even if I wanted to. Great. My mom laughed. I started crying. Why is everything so crazy right now? My clothes are old, so I dont' get a job. My journalism style's too old, because I abhor inaccuracies. And now my ovaries are too old--for--well--pretty much everyone including Antonio.
I wanted to rip "Antonio" a new one on FB. But instead, just replied nicely, "I'm fine. Hope you are. I'm moving. Ciao." And I mean it. Ci-ao.
Day five: Bye-bye Box. The last straw during this mad moon week, just happened. Someone informed me that my ex is somehow involved with a woman I used to be friends with. Now I know, you're thinking--so what? I'm glad you asked. This woman hurt me. Kicked me when I was down. Dumped me-- after I did so much for her, simply because she was worried she'd lose her job, when I lost mine. AND I HIRED HER. Thanks for doing all you did, but I no longer need you. It's going around.
I mentioned this in a previous blog, when I first got an inkling of this--but when I asked him about it--the ex just denied it and called her a "fan." (of his local garage band.) Stupid me. I bought it. Especially since the ex and I were trying to be friends again. (go ahead, yell.) But when I got an email today, to view a link to a video--starring this former gal pal of mine--accompanied by a soundtrack that was Mr. PP's band--I didn't quite know how to react? Except to over-react. And remind the guy that he crossed a boundary exes don't cross. You don't involve yourself with someone who hurt your ex. Didn't "I love you" mean anything? Can't loyalty survive a bad break up?
Not going into the details on this one--because it's keeping me up at night--but the minute I saw it--I took "The Box" (pls read previous blog entry on The Box) taped it up, ran to the post office and shipped it -- Return to the lying sender. Everything. Jewelry. Cards. My precious Charlie Brown books he gave me. In that moment--I didn't want any connection to the guy. Did he really find another TV producer to play with? And someone who was my friend--until she too dumped me when I couldn't do anything more for her? The two actually sound perfect for each other, to be quite honest. But it hurt. Like the day they both left me.
Day Six: I'm tired. After all the week's wildness, tonight I sat outside with a glass of wine and looked at that big harvest moon--starting to lose a little of it's fullness. I still loved it. I thought about everything that transpired this week--and wondered if there WAS some weird magical force that contributes to us all going a little haywire once a month when the moon is full? As I stared at the sky--I started to cry. For the job I didn't get at NASA this year. (I really love the moon so natural this came up again) For the weird guy who's mother called mine. For my ring I sent back. For the job I didn't get this week because I didn't wear Levi's (there I said it.) and for that break I've been waiting for-- for many moons. In that moment, I realized the week was coming to an end and I stopped crying. Like the moon--life gets full and wild and bright--and then small and quiet and sometimes dark. Life's a circle. Why would there be a saying "What comes around, goes around" if that wasn't so? I know, like the full moon, the good will be back. But this time, I'm not gonna wait for it--counting the days on the calendar. I'm going after that fullness now.
The box is gone. And hopefully so is the rest of the crap.
Oh--PS - Title: "Moon over my-hammy" is my favorite "Denny's restaurant title for ham and pancakes. Random I know. But fun to say. And eat.
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