I barely remember her.She was happy, had a fun job, someone who loved her, and life was just the best adventure ever.
This hell that passes for her life now is not what she signed on for.
Sunday, May 22, 2011
Thursday, May 5, 2011
statistics update
I need to update my statistics. I may be setting some sort of record, and it’s sure not a record I’m happy about.
I’m pretty sure I’ve surpassed the 300 mark in terms of job applications (that’s since about April 2008). The only reason I say “pretty sure” is that in the beginning I was not tracking them on a spreadsheet, just printing out the application or email, the reason for that being I never dreamt it would take more than a few months to secure work. When that folder full of printed applications and subsequent emailed rejections got too big to fit in the drawer, I stopped printing and started tracking electronically. I can account for 285 there….add another six months’ worth of search, and I think I’ve easily topped 300. One of these days when it’s too miserable to do outside chores (which could be any day now, we’ve had so much rain, and are predicted to have even more), I’m going to go through that file and record those, too. Call me morbidly curious.
Of all of these, I’ve had only 13 interviews to date. I’m not counting the countless treks to every agency in town. Turns out, most recruiting companies just collect resumes and collect your reference names so that they can turn around and call them. It’s bait and switch, near as I can tell.
I tell you, this is exhausting. It has been three years since I’ve had anything that resembles a normal life. I want normal back. I can’t begin to tell you how much I want normal.
I have resumes and business cards all over town. I’ve registered on every corporate job board I can think of and spend a good chunk of each morning sifting through all the computer-generated job leads, applying for those that match my expertise. I have pestered everyone I meet and everyone I know for either a job or a project or a referral. Full time, part time, project at a time….I like working, and always have.
Very few folks I know come close to understanding the strain. If the recession has not impacted their lives or lifestyle, they understand it even less.
If you know me at all, you know I’m motivated, energetic, intellectually curious, grounded, competent, and the polar opposite of lazy. I do not sit and watch TV and eat bon-bons. Hell, the TV in the kitchen has been broken for over a year; best I can do out there is listen to the news while I prepare meals, which is the only time the televisions in the house are turned on anyway (5am, 5pm), unless I have someone here who wants to watch…a rarity in itself.
As a former BF once wrote to me, “you’re not the do nothing kind.” He knows me and my capabilities and tells me I do good work. I just wish he’d help. I think he may have a lot of connections, but has yet to call any of them on my behalf. I wish he would.
As another guy I recently met recently said, “you must be a good money manager.” Yes, I am, but at some point you have to have some to manage. You cannot cost-cut your way to prosperity.
As another male friend said, just the other day, “you’ve got to catch a break sometime, Deb.” Well yes, you would think that eventually it will be my turn on the Good Karma Wheel of Fortune. It’s not like I’m not trying to make my own luck, either. The effort is there, every single day.
I haven’t given up.
I’m pretty sure I’ve surpassed the 300 mark in terms of job applications (that’s since about April 2008). The only reason I say “pretty sure” is that in the beginning I was not tracking them on a spreadsheet, just printing out the application or email, the reason for that being I never dreamt it would take more than a few months to secure work. When that folder full of printed applications and subsequent emailed rejections got too big to fit in the drawer, I stopped printing and started tracking electronically. I can account for 285 there….add another six months’ worth of search, and I think I’ve easily topped 300. One of these days when it’s too miserable to do outside chores (which could be any day now, we’ve had so much rain, and are predicted to have even more), I’m going to go through that file and record those, too. Call me morbidly curious.
Of all of these, I’ve had only 13 interviews to date. I’m not counting the countless treks to every agency in town. Turns out, most recruiting companies just collect resumes and collect your reference names so that they can turn around and call them. It’s bait and switch, near as I can tell.
I tell you, this is exhausting. It has been three years since I’ve had anything that resembles a normal life. I want normal back. I can’t begin to tell you how much I want normal.
I have resumes and business cards all over town. I’ve registered on every corporate job board I can think of and spend a good chunk of each morning sifting through all the computer-generated job leads, applying for those that match my expertise. I have pestered everyone I meet and everyone I know for either a job or a project or a referral. Full time, part time, project at a time….I like working, and always have.
Very few folks I know come close to understanding the strain. If the recession has not impacted their lives or lifestyle, they understand it even less.
If you know me at all, you know I’m motivated, energetic, intellectually curious, grounded, competent, and the polar opposite of lazy. I do not sit and watch TV and eat bon-bons. Hell, the TV in the kitchen has been broken for over a year; best I can do out there is listen to the news while I prepare meals, which is the only time the televisions in the house are turned on anyway (5am, 5pm), unless I have someone here who wants to watch…a rarity in itself.
As a former BF once wrote to me, “you’re not the do nothing kind.” He knows me and my capabilities and tells me I do good work. I just wish he’d help. I think he may have a lot of connections, but has yet to call any of them on my behalf. I wish he would.
As another guy I recently met recently said, “you must be a good money manager.” Yes, I am, but at some point you have to have some to manage. You cannot cost-cut your way to prosperity.
As another male friend said, just the other day, “you’ve got to catch a break sometime, Deb.” Well yes, you would think that eventually it will be my turn on the Good Karma Wheel of Fortune. It’s not like I’m not trying to make my own luck, either. The effort is there, every single day.
I haven’t given up.
Monday, April 25, 2011
april showers
Please send a dozen of your best goats.
I know....it's bad, isn't it?
We're all whining and wishing that the rain would stop. I've got my ark kit on order.
Meanwhile....let's look at it this way....
it's.....
not....snow.
Friday, April 8, 2011
my people
I have a small unhappy following of employees. Not my employees, but my potential employees. They belong to someone else right now. They whisper to me, periodically, are you still going to hire me?
I have told them I will. I have to think of a viable business, something that will make sense and a profit right from the beginning. As soon as I do, I will call them. They will likely have to learn entirely new skills, but that’s OK. I know they can. I know they want to. They already look to me for leadership, the leadership they’re not getting now.
I didn’t acquire these employees purposely. They have come to me over the years for advice, to vent, to ask opinions. They know I will listen, give them an honest answer, and they know anything they confide in me is safe. They know, too, that I will be a fair boss. All I will ask is an honest day’s work, respect for each other, and the willingness to do the right thing to make the company a success. What I won’t do is belittle, berate, or in any other way emotionally abuse them. I will not play one off against the other. I will not lie to them. My company, whatever it may be, will be a place where everyone is happy to be there, and no one need quake in fear when the owner walks by.
I’ve seen that. I see it all the time, and I’m seeing it now. Narcissistic, passive-aggressive owners are hell to work for. They’re sneaky, suspicious, irrational, and afraid of new ideas or anyone smarter than they are. They fear being exposed for the frauds that they are, so they strike out at anyone who would dare question them….even their own clients.
That makes no sense. And it’s no way for employees to live.
I’m trying, people. If you have a good idea about a new business, I’d sure be willing to listen. Let’s talk.
I have told them I will. I have to think of a viable business, something that will make sense and a profit right from the beginning. As soon as I do, I will call them. They will likely have to learn entirely new skills, but that’s OK. I know they can. I know they want to. They already look to me for leadership, the leadership they’re not getting now.
I didn’t acquire these employees purposely. They have come to me over the years for advice, to vent, to ask opinions. They know I will listen, give them an honest answer, and they know anything they confide in me is safe. They know, too, that I will be a fair boss. All I will ask is an honest day’s work, respect for each other, and the willingness to do the right thing to make the company a success. What I won’t do is belittle, berate, or in any other way emotionally abuse them. I will not play one off against the other. I will not lie to them. My company, whatever it may be, will be a place where everyone is happy to be there, and no one need quake in fear when the owner walks by.
I’ve seen that. I see it all the time, and I’m seeing it now. Narcissistic, passive-aggressive owners are hell to work for. They’re sneaky, suspicious, irrational, and afraid of new ideas or anyone smarter than they are. They fear being exposed for the frauds that they are, so they strike out at anyone who would dare question them….even their own clients.
That makes no sense. And it’s no way for employees to live.
I’m trying, people. If you have a good idea about a new business, I’d sure be willing to listen. Let’s talk.
Tuesday, March 8, 2011
It’s Business
It’s that time of year again, when nearly everyone on the planet becomes a tax expert. Small wonder that the IRS instituted a mandatory registration and education program for all who hold themselves out as tax preparers. The buzz this year? "Oh look! I can write it off!" The bad advice I overhear irks me no end.
One of my mentors, long ago, had a rule for his clients: do not make business decisions based solely on the tax ramifications. I couldn’t agree more, and have continued to advise my clients the same.
Manufacturers started salivating when the section 168(k) deduction (that’s bonus depreciation in layman’s terms) was extended, and the section 179 deduction increased late last year. (1)(2)
If you really need that piece of equipment, fine. Planning the timing of the purchase makes complete sense. Even so, if someone’s trying to sell you a fancy new widget-maker, and the only advantage to the purchase they can come up with is the great tax savings, walk away. Why aren’t they telling you how their product will increase your production or your efficiency?
Worse, if they’re trying to sell you a piece of equipment to start a new business, they’re probably the only ones who stand to gain; they’re likely selling you a pig in a poke or something that’s going to depreciate as soon as you take possession. You’ll be upside down in your loan and possibly unable to sell or trade the equipment, as the next best thing is no doubt just around the corner.
Step back and take a breath. Hire a CPA with expertise in the line of business you’re considering. Do some five-year realistic projections. Talk to folks in the same business. What makes you think you will succeed if they have not? If you do extensive homework, you’ll be able to make an educated leap.
Consider this: if the property you purchased is “listed” property (cars, airplanes, computers, boats, until recently, cell phones(1)), and the business usage drops below 50%, you’re subject to recapture (that accelerated depreciation you took) at ordinary income rates right then and there, no waiting until that equipment is sold. Furthermore, your depreciation from that point forward must be calculated using the (slower) straight-line method.
Consider this possibility as well: say your accelerated depreciation deduction threw you into a lower tax bracket, but a year or two down the road, you’re back in the highest bracket (partially caused by the low depreciation expense you now have). Voila. Your recapture will be paid at higher tax rates than the tax rate you took the deduction/savings on a few years back. Did that salesman tell you that?
If you have an overwhelming need to divest yourself of some cash to obtain a tax write off, rather than buy unneeded equipment, why not consider giving to a charity? You get the same deduction, you won’t be paying property tax on a piece of equipment as long as you own it, or making loan payments or paying for repairs on same-said equipment. You win, the charity wins.
***
Footnotes:
(1) The Small Business Job Creation and Access to Capital Act of 2010 removed cell phones from the definition of listed property. The Act also increased the maximum deduction for qualified Section 179 property to $500,000 and the investment limit to $2,000,000 for tax years beginning in 2010 and 2011.
(2) The Tax Relief Act of 2010 increased the bonus depreciation to 100% from 50% for the period September 9, 2010 through December 31, 2011. The bonus reverts to 50% for 2012.
Saturday, February 19, 2011
the case for (real) books
I heard two troublesome bits in the news last Wednesday the 16th….
First, Borders’ filling of Chapter 11. It’s a reorg, so it could be worse, but they’ll be closing a lot of stores. Not that they were my first choice bookstore, but I hate to see any bookstore fail, and I hope, when they emerge from bankruptcy, they make a comeback.
The other statistic was even more distressing (in my eyes, and I realize I may be the only one who sees it this way) – CBS reported that Amazon now sells more digital books than both hardcover and paperbacks. Experts predict that digital vs. print books will reach 50% each within three years. This makes me sad, and is not a milestone I welcome. I’m no Luddite. I love technology and I keep up to the extent my finances will allow…and to the extent it makes sense.
But books?
Near as I can tell, I’ve been a book lover since birth. I was surrounded by books as a child. I “worked” in my grade school library one summer, cataloging and shelving the new books as they came in. Come to my house now and you’ll see. Two rooms have floor to ceiling bookcases, with a library table so you can pull one off the shelf and read. Another full bookcase is in a back hall. In the kitchen are another 100 or so cookbooks.
Among my collection:
A 1943 edition of The Joy of Cooking, with my mother’s (maiden) name written in it, by her, 1949.
My childhood version of The Tale of Peter Rabbit (Beatrix Potter’s amazing illustrations).
A 1956 copy of No Children No Pets, which still smells like the sun, where I read it, multiple times.
A 1945 edition of Black Beauty, The Autobiography of a Horse, inscribed in my mother’s handwriting, “To Debbie – from Daddy – September 16, 1961.”
A copy of Grimm’s Fairy Tales, so old and tattered and yellowed that I can’t find the publication date, but it has my scribbling all over it. I’m guessing the 1930’s or 1940’s.
A 1947 edition of The Lincoln Library of Essential Information, inscribed in my grandmother’s handwriting, “The Fishers, January 12th, 1949.”
And my paternal grandfather’s old bible, his name in the front, dated October 17, 1911, and on the next page, a note from his mother, quoting scripture, dated September 20, 1912. If I have the story straight, he took this bible with him to both World Wars.
So again, what’s not to like about ‘real’ books? They’re tactile. You can scribble in the margins, highlight phrases you like, autograph them, write a note in the cover, let them slide to the floor when you fall asleep reading (how many times do you think your reader will take that kind of abuse?). The old ones have that old book smell. Can you say that about your reader? Curling up with a machine and a blanket and a glass of wine next to a fire just doesn’t sound the same, does it?
Don’t get me wrong; I see use in some cyber-applications. It makes total sense to me to read electronic magazines and newspapers, anything that would typically be disposable anyway. But I read those on a computer or smart phone, not a reader or pad computer. With all of the technology out there (desktop, laptop, pad computers, readers, smart phones, TV’s with computers in them) capable of doing the same thing, isn’t it a matter of time before there’s a convergence of systems anyway? Who needs all those gadgets?
I wandered off point. Sorry.
I tried on line dictionaries and thesauruses, but gave up on them and bought an Oxford thesaurus that I use constantly.
So, when the day comes, my will won’t read “I hereby bequeath all my eBooks to…,” it’ll say “here are all my books, a lifetime’s collection spanning more than 100 years. I hope you enjoy them as much as I did.”
First, Borders’ filling of Chapter 11. It’s a reorg, so it could be worse, but they’ll be closing a lot of stores. Not that they were my first choice bookstore, but I hate to see any bookstore fail, and I hope, when they emerge from bankruptcy, they make a comeback.
The other statistic was even more distressing (in my eyes, and I realize I may be the only one who sees it this way) – CBS reported that Amazon now sells more digital books than both hardcover and paperbacks. Experts predict that digital vs. print books will reach 50% each within three years. This makes me sad, and is not a milestone I welcome. I’m no Luddite. I love technology and I keep up to the extent my finances will allow…and to the extent it makes sense.
But books?
Near as I can tell, I’ve been a book lover since birth. I was surrounded by books as a child. I “worked” in my grade school library one summer, cataloging and shelving the new books as they came in. Come to my house now and you’ll see. Two rooms have floor to ceiling bookcases, with a library table so you can pull one off the shelf and read. Another full bookcase is in a back hall. In the kitchen are another 100 or so cookbooks.
Among my collection:
A 1943 edition of The Joy of Cooking, with my mother’s (maiden) name written in it, by her, 1949.
My childhood version of The Tale of Peter Rabbit (Beatrix Potter’s amazing illustrations).
A 1956 copy of No Children No Pets, which still smells like the sun, where I read it, multiple times.
A 1945 edition of Black Beauty, The Autobiography of a Horse, inscribed in my mother’s handwriting, “To Debbie – from Daddy – September 16, 1961.”
A copy of Grimm’s Fairy Tales, so old and tattered and yellowed that I can’t find the publication date, but it has my scribbling all over it. I’m guessing the 1930’s or 1940’s.
A 1947 edition of The Lincoln Library of Essential Information, inscribed in my grandmother’s handwriting, “The Fishers, January 12th, 1949.”
And my paternal grandfather’s old bible, his name in the front, dated October 17, 1911, and on the next page, a note from his mother, quoting scripture, dated September 20, 1912. If I have the story straight, he took this bible with him to both World Wars.
So again, what’s not to like about ‘real’ books? They’re tactile. You can scribble in the margins, highlight phrases you like, autograph them, write a note in the cover, let them slide to the floor when you fall asleep reading (how many times do you think your reader will take that kind of abuse?). The old ones have that old book smell. Can you say that about your reader? Curling up with a machine and a blanket and a glass of wine next to a fire just doesn’t sound the same, does it?
Don’t get me wrong; I see use in some cyber-applications. It makes total sense to me to read electronic magazines and newspapers, anything that would typically be disposable anyway. But I read those on a computer or smart phone, not a reader or pad computer. With all of the technology out there (desktop, laptop, pad computers, readers, smart phones, TV’s with computers in them) capable of doing the same thing, isn’t it a matter of time before there’s a convergence of systems anyway? Who needs all those gadgets?
I wandered off point. Sorry.
I tried on line dictionaries and thesauruses, but gave up on them and bought an Oxford thesaurus that I use constantly.
So, when the day comes, my will won’t read “I hereby bequeath all my eBooks to…,” it’ll say “here are all my books, a lifetime’s collection spanning more than 100 years. I hope you enjoy them as much as I did.”
Monday, February 7, 2011
paging Mr. Wright
*No, I don’t like camping. Never have. Never will. Don’t even try to convince me otherwise. My definition of camping is no room service and no coffee available as soon as my feet hit the morning floor.
*You are not as cute as you think you are when you’re drunk.
*Getting me drunk will not make you look cuter. Bad news for you - I can keep my wits about me no matter how much booze you pour down my throat. Try that on an 18-year-old instead. OH. You did. [For the record, I don’t think women are cute when they’re stupid drunk, either.]
*There is not a chance in hell I’m going out with you if you send me a text at 6:45pm on a Saturday night. Seriously, I’m way over booty calls. Develop some manners and ask me out properly at least 36 hours in advance, and you might have a chance. It’s called respect.
*If I hear you say you don’t want any drama, I’m not going to believe a word of it. I’m betting you not only love drama, you thrive on it, and you most likely create it all yourself to get your kicks. I’ve had enough of drama-kings. Your head games bore me. Watch me run like the wind in the opposite direction.
*Listing yourself on match.com as ‘separated’ when you’re not isn’t cool. A bimbo might not catch that, but I can.
*I really don’t have a penchant for guys in uniforms, and I don’t care what color or how many stripes that uniform has either. If you’re sincere about a job that requires you to wear one, fine. It’s those guys who wear it arrogantly and only for the attention a uniform garners that I take issue with. It’s been my experience, too, that a guy with more than one “uniform” career may have authority issues.
*I’m not impressed with the stereo in your car. Woofers, tweeters, whatever you call ‘em, I don’t care. I’d rather we had a conversation.
*It would be very cool if you could cook. I mean really cook, not just burn something over a grill. But please, I beg you - expand your epicurean repertoire beyond fried chicken, steak, and French fries. Chicken wings is not a food group.
* Chewing gum makes you look like a cow.
*I can learn a lot about you from seeing you at work and your interaction with others. If you bully your employees or lie to your clients, I will know you’d treat me the same.
*Liars, prevaricators, and Joe Cools need not apply.
*Those of you with WDS* need not apply either.
By now, all you Y’s have probably thrown up your hands.
“What,” you ask, “do you women want?”
It’s simple, really. Security. Fidelity. A friend.
The thing is, I know what you look like. I know the sound of your voice. I know you’re out there somewhere.
Happy Valentine’s Day, Mr. Wright!
***
* You figure it out.
Sunday, January 23, 2011
negative reporting
Maybe it’s time all of us long term unemployed stop reading the “experts’” articles. They’re not helping. “Folks above the age of 15 will never work again.…if you’ve been out of the workforce longer than two weeks, your skills have slipped….you’re a fossil…you’re irrelevant.” And on and on they go. Today's article in the Star is a prime example.
You can’t you won’t you never you shouldn’t you don’t.
I heard enough of that kind of talk when I was married. The negativity is toxic. It can work on you, if you let it.
And yes, for the record, I do think there is discrimination going on when an employer won’t even look at a candidate whose work history and skill set match the job opening in question.
Last week, I got the chance to prove the pundits all wrong.
Let me back up and just say that somehow, I became known as a solid troubleshooter of spreadsheets and data bases while working at my favorite job ever. I’ve also prepared more financial statements in my accounting career than I care to admit. The opportunity came via an operations director/MBA I’d had a phone interview with a few weeks back. Nice guy. Liked him a lot; we mentally track alike, and he didn’t sound like a plodding relic either. His company needed someone on site daily; we both concluded it was crazy for me to drive that far five days a week, and he’d asked if he could use me, contractually, for some “heavier” work, if needed. Sure. Absolutely.
So that call came last Thursday. Three year projections had been prepared in house, but something was wrong with them. Balance sheets didn’t balance. Cash flow statements showed negative millions. They needed a fresh set of eyes, and had a deadline. He emailed it all over.
Tabs upon tabs of data. I hadn’t seen spreadsheets this complex for several years. For a fleeting moment, I was worried. Then I jumped in. First, I isolated and corrected all the issues in the balance sheet, both data and formulas. After that, it was easy to locate the flaws in the premises for the projected growth. I was done and sent it back in three hours.
I love this stuff. I know, I know, it doesn’t sound creative or sexy, but you throw down a puzzle like this in front of me, and I can’t resist and I won’t quit until I figure it out. Go ahead and call me boring if you want, but it makes me glad I decided to become a CPA.
That’s what a potential employer would get from me. Does that sound alike a lazy, out of date fossil to you?
You can’t you won’t you never you shouldn’t you don’t.
I heard enough of that kind of talk when I was married. The negativity is toxic. It can work on you, if you let it.
And yes, for the record, I do think there is discrimination going on when an employer won’t even look at a candidate whose work history and skill set match the job opening in question.
Last week, I got the chance to prove the pundits all wrong.
Let me back up and just say that somehow, I became known as a solid troubleshooter of spreadsheets and data bases while working at my favorite job ever. I’ve also prepared more financial statements in my accounting career than I care to admit. The opportunity came via an operations director/MBA I’d had a phone interview with a few weeks back. Nice guy. Liked him a lot; we mentally track alike, and he didn’t sound like a plodding relic either. His company needed someone on site daily; we both concluded it was crazy for me to drive that far five days a week, and he’d asked if he could use me, contractually, for some “heavier” work, if needed. Sure. Absolutely.
So that call came last Thursday. Three year projections had been prepared in house, but something was wrong with them. Balance sheets didn’t balance. Cash flow statements showed negative millions. They needed a fresh set of eyes, and had a deadline. He emailed it all over.
Tabs upon tabs of data. I hadn’t seen spreadsheets this complex for several years. For a fleeting moment, I was worried. Then I jumped in. First, I isolated and corrected all the issues in the balance sheet, both data and formulas. After that, it was easy to locate the flaws in the premises for the projected growth. I was done and sent it back in three hours.
I love this stuff. I know, I know, it doesn’t sound creative or sexy, but you throw down a puzzle like this in front of me, and I can’t resist and I won’t quit until I figure it out. Go ahead and call me boring if you want, but it makes me glad I decided to become a CPA.
That’s what a potential employer would get from me. Does that sound alike a lazy, out of date fossil to you?
Saturday, January 8, 2011
random bits
I have so many ideas swirling around my head for posts, yet not one of them will cooperate by solidifying into an entire story. If you could see them, they’d look like egg whites do when they first touch hot chicken stock and you begin to stir them in; making egg drop soup, they turn to floating free-form threads. There’s something in good there, you just have to look for it. So today, it’s a random day…
*I got so red-hot pissed a few days ago that I must’ve surely lost some brain cells due to the heat and smoke generated by all the illogical this-does-not-compute craziness. My poor little synapses are starting to mend now, I can tell. I have returned to speaking in complete sentences, have stopped meandering from room to room, and remembered to feed the dog. Maybe it’s a good thing I didn’t become a lawyer after all, though if this exchange had been in a courtroom setting, it would’ve been at least semi-civilized, subject to rules of order, and no extraneous irrelevant crap allowed. My attorney would’ve been jumping up and down like a jack-in-the-box, objecting to every falsehood uttered by my accuser, and same-said accuser would’ve been reduced to mincemeat on cross-examination, because, of course, I would hire a brilliant attorney. Whew. I feel so much better now!
*It looks like I may not become the knitter I had hoped. Not yet, anyway. Yesterday I sat down with the pattern for a scarf MK brought over and a skein of gorgeous cream silk yarn. It’s delicate, fragile, scattered with beads. Stunning stuff. I’m working away, come to SSK, no problem. Come to the first SSSK, that’s a bit tougher. Come to the second of those, botch it, try to undo it. Screw that up. Say OK, I’ll just rip out this row back to the pearl row and try again. Do that. It’s a big confusing mess and my eyes cross. I rip it all out. It wasn’t like I had that many rows or hours in it but really, who likes to start over? Then I decide perhaps things would go better if I’d take the time to wind the yard. I begin that process, skein draped over a chair. Halfway through the process, it slips off the chair and into a jumbled heap. It took me about six hours to untangle it and as it is, I will probably have to cut out about two ruined yards. I may switch projects and start the snood instead. At least that’s your nice and safe k1p1.
*Have you ever looked into someone’s eyes, expecting to see brains or a rational thought process behind them, but gotten an eerie look you just can’t place instead? The person is just sure they’re right about something (though probably not sure why) and will not listen to reason. It’s like arguing with a goldfish. What’s in back of those eyes anyway, oatmeal?
* I have a phone interview coming up for another controller’s job. Not to get my hopes up (again), but the location couldn’t be better, the CEO is involved in his industry, and the company is dedicated to putting out a flawless product. For the love of Heaven, if you read this, please send out positive vibes.
*When did the word “hot” become the preferred adjective for flattery? What happened to “beautiful” or “stunning” or “gorgeous?” Just for the record, I was called this by an oh-so-much-younger man this week. No, it’s not gone to my head. I was surprised. Then I giggled. Good thing it came in text form, and far be it from me to dissuade him of his opinion or clue him in as to our age disparity.
Time for the fireplace and football. Maybe I’ll go make some egg drop soup. Go Colts!
*I got so red-hot pissed a few days ago that I must’ve surely lost some brain cells due to the heat and smoke generated by all the illogical this-does-not-compute craziness. My poor little synapses are starting to mend now, I can tell. I have returned to speaking in complete sentences, have stopped meandering from room to room, and remembered to feed the dog. Maybe it’s a good thing I didn’t become a lawyer after all, though if this exchange had been in a courtroom setting, it would’ve been at least semi-civilized, subject to rules of order, and no extraneous irrelevant crap allowed. My attorney would’ve been jumping up and down like a jack-in-the-box, objecting to every falsehood uttered by my accuser, and same-said accuser would’ve been reduced to mincemeat on cross-examination, because, of course, I would hire a brilliant attorney. Whew. I feel so much better now!
*It looks like I may not become the knitter I had hoped. Not yet, anyway. Yesterday I sat down with the pattern for a scarf MK brought over and a skein of gorgeous cream silk yarn. It’s delicate, fragile, scattered with beads. Stunning stuff. I’m working away, come to SSK, no problem. Come to the first SSSK, that’s a bit tougher. Come to the second of those, botch it, try to undo it. Screw that up. Say OK, I’ll just rip out this row back to the pearl row and try again. Do that. It’s a big confusing mess and my eyes cross. I rip it all out. It wasn’t like I had that many rows or hours in it but really, who likes to start over? Then I decide perhaps things would go better if I’d take the time to wind the yard. I begin that process, skein draped over a chair. Halfway through the process, it slips off the chair and into a jumbled heap. It took me about six hours to untangle it and as it is, I will probably have to cut out about two ruined yards. I may switch projects and start the snood instead. At least that’s your nice and safe k1p1.
*Have you ever looked into someone’s eyes, expecting to see brains or a rational thought process behind them, but gotten an eerie look you just can’t place instead? The person is just sure they’re right about something (though probably not sure why) and will not listen to reason. It’s like arguing with a goldfish. What’s in back of those eyes anyway, oatmeal?
* I have a phone interview coming up for another controller’s job. Not to get my hopes up (again), but the location couldn’t be better, the CEO is involved in his industry, and the company is dedicated to putting out a flawless product. For the love of Heaven, if you read this, please send out positive vibes.
*When did the word “hot” become the preferred adjective for flattery? What happened to “beautiful” or “stunning” or “gorgeous?” Just for the record, I was called this by an oh-so-much-younger man this week. No, it’s not gone to my head. I was surprised. Then I giggled. Good thing it came in text form, and far be it from me to dissuade him of his opinion or clue him in as to our age disparity.
Time for the fireplace and football. Maybe I’ll go make some egg drop soup. Go Colts!
Thursday, December 30, 2010
real knitting
I did it!
My first “big” knitting project is complete.
Here is it, modeled by Delores the Dummy.
The pattern is easy (oh yeah, right). It is, really, sort of. The biggest problem is staying awake through 32” of rib knitting. More than once I’d come to and look down in a panic to see what I’d done in my sleep.
After some whimpering, MK took pity on me and whizzed through that row. Turns out there’s a trick to M1, and I’m glad I didn’t try this on my own. Off I went to finish the last 40 rows.
After still more whining and crying, MK stitched up the sides for me too; I just didn’t want to ruin it, after all those hours of work.
I’m looking forward to the next project. I now know what SSK and YO means. Who’d have thought?!
Tuesday, December 21, 2010
Night Before Christmas, My Way
I rewrote the traditional “A Visit From St. Nicholas” a few weeks ago. The occasion was the annual Tree to Toothpicks contest held by the local wine store I haunt (thus the references to wine throughout). Each year, the town where the shop is located situates a tree smack dab in the middle of a busy intersection. The streets in this village are tough enough to navigate as it is, being narrow and typically jammed with parked cars. The point of the contest is for everyone to make their best guess as to when the tree will be knocked flat. A few years back, folks started offering up their own creative ideas.
This year, I got creative….and won the contest. Here’s my entry.
This year, I got creative….and won the contest. Here’s my entry.
Twas the night before Christmas, and all through Z-town
Tired, restless shopkeepers waited to shut down.
Still, customers crowded Cottage aisles in a long line.
They stayed 'til they bought the very last bottle of wine.
The cellar was empty, and so were the the shelves.
Nothing to be done but ask help of the elves.
The Wine Guy looked north skyward and mumbled with a sigh,
"Oh Santa, one more case of Spottswood, and I could get by."
Down in Ft. Lauderdale, security eyed Santa with dread
As he came walking in from vacation, they started shaking their heads.
TSA agents protested, "We can't do that full body scan."
"Just look at Santa! He's too fat a man!"
Off belts! Off buckles! Shoes, socks and hat!
All in preparation for the full body pat.
Mrs. Claus, watching Santa, pulled out her iPhone
And Tweeted all the elves, "We may never get home."
An urgent text went out from the elves
To the reindeer, "Get ready, you may have to make deliveries yourselves."
All the elves and reindeer, upset at Santa's fate,
Determined they would not let Christmas be late.
NOAA called the North Pole hotline, "You'd better hurry.
This storm looks to be oh so much more than just flurries."
Elf Paul, one last time, checked Santa's Facebook,
Then called down to the shop floor, "You'd better have a look."
"The Wine Guy has posted a last minute plea.
His wine shortage has been declared a county-wide emergency."
"Not so fast," Elf Linda replied, "Check that naughty list more than twice.
Are you positive Wine Guy's been nothing but nice?"
Dasher & Dancer were marking their flight plans in red.
"Cottage has no chimney, we'll have to use an airport instead."
"Is it in Boone County, or Hamilton?" Dancer studied the charts.
"I don't know," Dasher answered, "We'll figure it out after we start."
The sleigh was piled high with bags, boxes, toys, clothes,
Over departure weight, but miraculously, into the sky it rose!
Just over Canada (it wasn't too long),
Something began to go terribly wrong.
The sleigh wandered left, then banked to the right.
Prancer grumbled, "Rudolph can't navigate! We'll be up here all night!"
An FAA controller stared aghast at his screen.
This was the worst flight pattern he'd ever seen.
Vixen stared at his cockpit and discovered the mess.
"Indy control, we've got a problem, we've lost our GPS!"
Comet peered through the blizzard, "I don’t like what I see.
I'd swear that bright light's not the airport beacon, but a TREE!"
"Pull back! Go around!" Cupid cried. "We're going to crash!"
But too late...the sleigh slid and skidded, into the tree…then...a huge flash…
…the sad tree lay in toothpicks, broken ornaments, lights and wire.
Sparks flew. Adding insult to misery, the tree caught on fire.
Snow fell. Mist and smoke arose to the sky.
From inside the Cottage, someone started to cry.
A quiet crowd gathered, hushed, fingers crossed,
Hoping for a Christmas miracle, that not all would be lost.
When, what to their wondering eyes should appear,
As the mist drifted skyward, there stood the sleigh...and all nine reindeer.
The bottles unbroken, Wine Guy laughed with delight,
"Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night!"
Wednesday, December 8, 2010
loyalty
After having a marginally shitty day…I find that some people on the planet are good…
…I’m in the kitchen, maybe around 6:30pm…Jasmine is outside, the garage door is hanging open, and she’s barking her fool head off. Turns out my landscaper was out there, delivering those huge poinsettias he brings every year.
Loyalty. Why is that so rare?
…I’m in the kitchen, maybe around 6:30pm…Jasmine is outside, the garage door is hanging open, and she’s barking her fool head off. Turns out my landscaper was out there, delivering those huge poinsettias he brings every year.
I’ve never been so happy to see him or that plant. I had to restrain myself from hugging him…especially when he told me that he was not charging me for the replacement of the lamppost. I had a hunch, since I’d not gotten a bill. He says, as I’ve heard so many other people say, that he can’t figure out how I’ve managed this long. I gave him a loaf of the Italian bread I make every year for gifts before he left. I hope he and his wife like it.
Lord. I wish more people on the earth were like him. He knows I haven’t changed. He knows I’m loyal. He knows that, once I get work, I’ll be back.
Wednesday, November 24, 2010
the Thanksgiving edition
Here I am, one year later, in that exact same two-day, pre-holiday-hell CPE class. The droning of the presenters is auditory tryptophan. And the topics…seriously, only nerds find taxes interesting. The seminar organizers got smart this year and dialed the room temperature down to 10 degrees cooler than comfortable, in a futile effort to keep us all awake. Good plan. None of us thought to bring blankets.
Mandatory sitting gives me time to reflect on the meaning of Thanksgiving, not to mention a debilitating backache. Because nothing has changed since last Thanksgiving, I decided I needed a different approach this year. Taking my cue from George Bailey, who looked beyond his personal bleakness to see the good, I managed to come up with a list of things that are positive about being on this unwelcome, interminably long sabbatical….a) My garden has never looked better. True, it would be nice if I could buy more plants to fill the rest of the beds, but with MK’s help, it’s nearly weed free. That hasn’t happened since 2004.
b) All but three closets have been ripped apart and reorganized. There’s something satisfying about knowing where your stuff is, and finding out you can make do with less crap.
c) I’ve found out who my friends aren’t. Now that sounds perverse and negative, but it’s really not. It’s been an education. The folks who say “oh, this must be just like being a broke college student again” (no it’s not; students {usually} have parents to fall back on, and a whole life ahead of them to craft a successful career) or “I’ll help you” (but never do) or “I’ll hire you (but don’t) are soul-sucking, energy sucking dementors. Hearing drivel like that should’ve been my first clue. I’m admittedly slow to discern self-serving intentions and motives or outright lies. I give everyone I meet the benefit of the doubt for years until they prove me wrong, but in spite of it all, I still believe most people are mostly good. And that’s another thing to be thankful for, right there.
d) I only have to fill the car with gas once a month now. That’s a plus, since we’re moving into the $3 a gallon range again. Less wear and tear on that leaking engine, too.
e) I’ve gotten to know several of my neighbors. It doesn’t happen much in this subdivision unless you have kids in school. Working full time never allowed for a causal stroll several yards down.
f) I have more time to write. Good for me; maybe not so good for you.
g) There’s more time to read and study, too. I subscribe to at least 50 newsfeeds and blogs, mostly educational….publications about aviation, business, accounting, law, as well as just fun stuff, like cooking and knitting.
A final note: I actually have someone to cook for this year. Those of you that know me know I enjoy special occasion cooking. Thanks to Mr. World for the idea and making it happen. You poor bastard. Don’t you know I consider all my dinner guests lab rats?
Happy Thanksgiving!
Sunday, November 7, 2010
the responsible child
This is the history of me. Or at least the outline. I’ve been at this meandering blog for a year now, and it crossed my mind that someone (anyone? hellooo, is anybody out there?) might want to know the person behind the madness. If you have a low tolerance for boredom, you may want to skip this post. I’ll write something more fun soon, I promise.
I was born and lived in Springfield, Ohio until mid-way through first grade (March, I think, 1960). 1430 Malden Avenue. The white clapboard house was within walking distance of the grade school I attended (Snow Hill), had only two bedrooms, one bathroom, an enormous weeping willow tree in the back yard, a detached one car garage. I remember sitting at the kitchen table (that awful plastic laminate with metal legs) on Saturdays, eating white bread grilled cheese sandwiches and Campbell’s tomato soup for lunch. I watched my parents, sitting across from each other, not speaking, resigned, tired faces, and it was that early that I realized my family was not a happy one. The neighborhood was safe enough that all of us kids, even at that young age, could run up and down the sidewalks from house to house, playing until dark, catching fireflies, and our parents never worried (though, in retrospect, I’m sure they were all watching). I loved horses. I got in trouble for peeing in a bucket in a tent in the backyard (hey, I was pretending I was camping, isn’t that how you do it when you camp?). I saw The Wizard of Oz for the first time, on a black and white TV set, and it scared the shit out of me.
My father took a job in Anderson, Indiana without telling my mother, and bought the house there without her seeing it. It took me most of second grade to adjust to my new school, but after that, I excelled. A’s nearly all the time. A natural curiosity for every subject taught. I received the American Legion award in 6th grade, which was a big deal back then. Class President…again, if you care about that in sixth grade.
My father was an electrical engineer at Delco, my mother a housewife, until she went to Ball State (accompanied by derision and resistance from my father) to take classes in library science, then got a job with the school system. We had an average three bedroom red brick ranch in a middle class neighborhood. I think nearly everyone there worked for General Motors in some capacity. Most of my friends belonged to Edgewood Country Club, but my father would have nothing of it, so instead of hanging out at the club swimming pool in the summers, I stayed around the house, went to the library once a week, read a book a day, played school. I got dolls for Christmas, just like any girl, but I liked the chemistry set I got better. I learned how to solder. I was fascinated by the nascent space program and wanted to be the first female astronaut. I started taking piano lessons at a relatively late age, about 12, I think. I started taking drawing and painting lessons before that.
My maternal grandparents were farmers in southeastern Ohio. I credit that grandmother for my cooking skills. I watched her cook everything from scratch, from memory, improvising with what she had on hand. My paternal grandparents lived in Marysville, Ohio. Actually, I never met my paternal grandmother; she died in childbirth, and my grandfather’s second wife was dead, too. He had a magnificent Italianate (?) house complete with a tennis court. He fought in both World Wars; I have a copy of his diary from the first, and the bible that his mother gave him before going. The ceilings of that house had to be 14’ high or more. I can still draw out the first floor plan, and part of the second. Parlors. No closets. It was that house that sparked my interest in architecture. I hear that it’s in a state of disrepair now.
Junior High was another adjustment. I still made honor roll consistently, but felt lost for several years. I got my first “C,” in history, and thought sure my parents would kill me when I came home with my report card.
High school was better, or maybe it was just that I had adjusted to the crowd by then. I was in honor society. I received a National Merit Letter of Commendation. There’s a photo of me in the senior yearbook with two other eggheads. I was too smart for many of the “cool” guys to work up the nerve to ask me out. I worked on the yearbook, was a member of student council, painted backdrops for the Thespians, and did all the paintings for the Junior/Senior prom, back in the days when proms were held in the school’s gym, and decorations hand-made. The paintings were on huge tarps and took months.
The guidance counselor told me that my SAT scores were high enough that I could go to any Ivy League school, any college, in the country. Any hopes of that were dashed when my father moved to California January 1, 1971. I graduated 18th out of a class of 402. There was no guidance, really, from either counselor or parents, only that I was going to college. Field of study was never discussed.
So I qualified for a state merit scholarship. Though I was accepted to Purdue, it was Ball State that offered four full years of tuition…so there I went. I still had no idea what I wanted to study. Too many things interested me. I tested out of all the English requirements, as well as 2 ½ years’ worth of French. Because of that, I have a BA rather than a BS. I started with a major in French, then changed to art the end of my freshman year. During the last quarter of my senior year, I took an accounting class pass/fail, my thought process being I’d need to know bookkeeping if I started my own interior design business. Taking that class was an ‘oh shit’ moment, when I found out how easy it was for me, realizing I should have majored in accounting or business, but had no options…the scholarship money was gone, and I now had a student loan, too.
I married the Jimmy Connors lookalike I met my senior year in college, the year after graduation. He worked to party; I worked because I loved to work. He thought he was getting a party girl and was disappointed. That marriage only lasted three years. (1)
My jobs went from AFNB (the muni bond department) to the State of Indiana’s tax compliance department, to a furniture store in Pendleton, to Kittles, to an architectural firm (where I gained my photo skills) (2), to a second architectural firm (where I learned the darkroom business), and it was then, that summer of 1984, that I determined I’d go back to school, originally intending to get an MBA. I met with a counselor at IUPUI, but, half an hour later, found myself downstairs, signing up for non-degree graduate courses in accounting instead. (3)
At the time, I was the reprographics manager at the second architectural firm. That meant I was in charge of producing all the bid documents for any job the architects put out for bid. I was the one who, once the documents were written and drawn, stayed up all night to print and bind hundreds of copies of books and blueprints to be distributed the next day. And of course, I was the only person responsible for the darkroom division of the business.
Late that year, the economy was bad, the company was teetering on the edge of bankruptcy, and I was laid off. I took my only credit card, charged all the darkroom equipment I needed, took all the darkroom clients, and started that business….all while going to night school. I never told my mother that I’d lost my job. I didn’t want to worry her. She found out when she called my former employer to talk to me (which was rare for her) and they told her I no longer worked there. I got B’s in a couple of classes because I was too tired to study.
About then, I met The Future Second Husband for the first time. The guy I was dating was not happy about my changing careers (flaky artist being much less threatening than CPA), and he arranged a meeting with his accountant (who turned out to be The Second) to dissuade me of the idea. We kept in contact maybe once a year; I ignored his admonition that accounting was a bad idea, and forged ahead.
The beginning of 1985, I applied for two positions with the accounting firm right across the street from my apartment. I am to this day grateful that Bob had the guts to hire an artist turned accounting student. I did tax returns during the busy season, and audits during the summer.
At some point, I think early 1986, I found out that the State Board of Accountancy had an exemption to the requirement for sitting for the CPA exam. That exemption read that if you had a bachelor’s degree in anything – not just accounting – you could take a pre-test, and if you passed that, you could sit for the “real” test. Back then the CPA exam was only given twice a year, and this pre-test was administered on the first day of that. It was only a half day test. I took that in the spring of 1986, at the State Fairgrounds. When I was notified of my passing grade, I signed up for the Becker review course, and spent the summer of 1986 at night classes again on the campus of Marion College….all while working a full time job and my darkroom job.
The CPA exam I took was November 5th – 7th, 1986, at the convention center. No adding machines, no computers, only pencils and paper, two and a half days in a row. Essay questions. No instant scoring. It was spring of 1987 when I found out I’d passed all four parts. I was working for a second accounting firm when I got the news.
Late in the ‘80’s or early in the ‘90’s (I really can’t remember for sure, and I know I should), the relationship with The Second turned from mentor to something else. I was by then working for a third CPA firm. I’d hoped that, as so often happened back then, one of their clients would hire me as their controller. But though I loved the clients I had responsibility for there, I did not see eye to eye with one of the partners (I called him The Peacock), and it was not a female friendly firm. The Second offered a financial safety net, and I quit January 1991, took a batch of clients, worked more than I ever had, and loved it more. I had tax situations I’d never had before, but I taught myself how to do it. Even now, when I talk to CPA’s with practices typical of what I had, none of them know how to do a multistate consolidation, none of them are familiar with all the estate tax returns…
The very year I married (1995), I started getting pressure and not-so-veiled threats from The Second to stop or slow down the working. I tried to be a good wife, but I didn’t understand why he would marry a career-minded woman, only to turn around and try to change her into a very dependent housewife. I ended up giving up most of the clients, save for his four companies and about four others. Nothing I did made him happy. He took a whore in Las Vegas. He had dalliances here. He threatened to have me killed three times. Somehow, I managed to wait it out until he realized that this was no way to live, and he moved out the week before Christmas, 2005. He managed to arrange that I would have to sign the final paperwork on Valentine’s Day of the next year. Visualize a lobby full of women receiving their roses (I was working by then – see below) while I’m signing my divorce papers, delivered by courier.
I was optimistic enough (or just foolish) to take yet another chance, and fell into a relationship. Didn’t intend to, really, it just happened. What felt like bliss/the right guy/my second soulmate turned out to be catastrophic; I found out he was not who he portrayed. I think about it a lot, and am cutting myself some slack. After living the way I had for so long, my bullshit detector was probably broken all to hell. I was missing hearing nice things, missing a friend, missing the companionship we all wish for in our marriages/significant relationships, and I thought I’d found that….but he was an accomplished liar. The loss of the friendship I thought I had I find especially distressing.
About a year before before The Second and I parted ways, I took a job at ATA Airlines. I knew I needed income quickly, more quickly than I could build my client base again. Of course, everyone knows what happened there. Aside from one temporary gig as a controller, a writing assignment (yup, I’m now an “official” author), and a few stray financial projects, I’ve had no luck finding full time work (see "Statistics,", October 20, 2010) since ATA folded.
So here I am…which is to say in a great big huge mess! Both personal life and career in the crapper. Talk about overachieving!
I look back on it all, and I see mistakes and wrong turns, and I wish I could find one alternative, one magic path I could follow right now that would undo it all and take me to another place other than where I am…but that sort of wishing is just a waste of time.
Nevertheless, if Anyone upstairs is listening….can I get a couple of do-overs?
***
Footnotes and addendums, November 9, 2010...
(1) It was during this period, I began to run, and have been a runner ever since.
(2) While working at the first architectural firm, February 1980, I met my soul mate. He drowned June 1981, four months before we were to marry.
(3) Before that, though, sometime in 1982 or 1983, I took the LSAT and applied to law school. Test scores? No problem. GPA? No problem. Admitted? Not so fast. I called the nice man in admissions, and he told me that, while my grades and test scores were great, I hadn’t taken enough ‘real’ courses during my Ball State days. Take 20 or so hours in something like history or political science, he advised, then re-apply. Right. Of course a flaky artist can’t be an attorney! Somehow, I forgot to go back and reapply. There are still days I wish I had.
I was born and lived in Springfield, Ohio until mid-way through first grade (March, I think, 1960). 1430 Malden Avenue. The white clapboard house was within walking distance of the grade school I attended (Snow Hill), had only two bedrooms, one bathroom, an enormous weeping willow tree in the back yard, a detached one car garage. I remember sitting at the kitchen table (that awful plastic laminate with metal legs) on Saturdays, eating white bread grilled cheese sandwiches and Campbell’s tomato soup for lunch. I watched my parents, sitting across from each other, not speaking, resigned, tired faces, and it was that early that I realized my family was not a happy one. The neighborhood was safe enough that all of us kids, even at that young age, could run up and down the sidewalks from house to house, playing until dark, catching fireflies, and our parents never worried (though, in retrospect, I’m sure they were all watching). I loved horses. I got in trouble for peeing in a bucket in a tent in the backyard (hey, I was pretending I was camping, isn’t that how you do it when you camp?). I saw The Wizard of Oz for the first time, on a black and white TV set, and it scared the shit out of me.
My father took a job in Anderson, Indiana without telling my mother, and bought the house there without her seeing it. It took me most of second grade to adjust to my new school, but after that, I excelled. A’s nearly all the time. A natural curiosity for every subject taught. I received the American Legion award in 6th grade, which was a big deal back then. Class President…again, if you care about that in sixth grade.
My father was an electrical engineer at Delco, my mother a housewife, until she went to Ball State (accompanied by derision and resistance from my father) to take classes in library science, then got a job with the school system. We had an average three bedroom red brick ranch in a middle class neighborhood. I think nearly everyone there worked for General Motors in some capacity. Most of my friends belonged to Edgewood Country Club, but my father would have nothing of it, so instead of hanging out at the club swimming pool in the summers, I stayed around the house, went to the library once a week, read a book a day, played school. I got dolls for Christmas, just like any girl, but I liked the chemistry set I got better. I learned how to solder. I was fascinated by the nascent space program and wanted to be the first female astronaut. I started taking piano lessons at a relatively late age, about 12, I think. I started taking drawing and painting lessons before that.
My maternal grandparents were farmers in southeastern Ohio. I credit that grandmother for my cooking skills. I watched her cook everything from scratch, from memory, improvising with what she had on hand. My paternal grandparents lived in Marysville, Ohio. Actually, I never met my paternal grandmother; she died in childbirth, and my grandfather’s second wife was dead, too. He had a magnificent Italianate (?) house complete with a tennis court. He fought in both World Wars; I have a copy of his diary from the first, and the bible that his mother gave him before going. The ceilings of that house had to be 14’ high or more. I can still draw out the first floor plan, and part of the second. Parlors. No closets. It was that house that sparked my interest in architecture. I hear that it’s in a state of disrepair now.
Junior High was another adjustment. I still made honor roll consistently, but felt lost for several years. I got my first “C,” in history, and thought sure my parents would kill me when I came home with my report card.
High school was better, or maybe it was just that I had adjusted to the crowd by then. I was in honor society. I received a National Merit Letter of Commendation. There’s a photo of me in the senior yearbook with two other eggheads. I was too smart for many of the “cool” guys to work up the nerve to ask me out. I worked on the yearbook, was a member of student council, painted backdrops for the Thespians, and did all the paintings for the Junior/Senior prom, back in the days when proms were held in the school’s gym, and decorations hand-made. The paintings were on huge tarps and took months.
The guidance counselor told me that my SAT scores were high enough that I could go to any Ivy League school, any college, in the country. Any hopes of that were dashed when my father moved to California January 1, 1971. I graduated 18th out of a class of 402. There was no guidance, really, from either counselor or parents, only that I was going to college. Field of study was never discussed.
So I qualified for a state merit scholarship. Though I was accepted to Purdue, it was Ball State that offered four full years of tuition…so there I went. I still had no idea what I wanted to study. Too many things interested me. I tested out of all the English requirements, as well as 2 ½ years’ worth of French. Because of that, I have a BA rather than a BS. I started with a major in French, then changed to art the end of my freshman year. During the last quarter of my senior year, I took an accounting class pass/fail, my thought process being I’d need to know bookkeeping if I started my own interior design business. Taking that class was an ‘oh shit’ moment, when I found out how easy it was for me, realizing I should have majored in accounting or business, but had no options…the scholarship money was gone, and I now had a student loan, too.
I married the Jimmy Connors lookalike I met my senior year in college, the year after graduation. He worked to party; I worked because I loved to work. He thought he was getting a party girl and was disappointed. That marriage only lasted three years. (1)
My jobs went from AFNB (the muni bond department) to the State of Indiana’s tax compliance department, to a furniture store in Pendleton, to Kittles, to an architectural firm (where I gained my photo skills) (2), to a second architectural firm (where I learned the darkroom business), and it was then, that summer of 1984, that I determined I’d go back to school, originally intending to get an MBA. I met with a counselor at IUPUI, but, half an hour later, found myself downstairs, signing up for non-degree graduate courses in accounting instead. (3)
At the time, I was the reprographics manager at the second architectural firm. That meant I was in charge of producing all the bid documents for any job the architects put out for bid. I was the one who, once the documents were written and drawn, stayed up all night to print and bind hundreds of copies of books and blueprints to be distributed the next day. And of course, I was the only person responsible for the darkroom division of the business.
Late that year, the economy was bad, the company was teetering on the edge of bankruptcy, and I was laid off. I took my only credit card, charged all the darkroom equipment I needed, took all the darkroom clients, and started that business….all while going to night school. I never told my mother that I’d lost my job. I didn’t want to worry her. She found out when she called my former employer to talk to me (which was rare for her) and they told her I no longer worked there. I got B’s in a couple of classes because I was too tired to study.
About then, I met The Future Second Husband for the first time. The guy I was dating was not happy about my changing careers (flaky artist being much less threatening than CPA), and he arranged a meeting with his accountant (who turned out to be The Second) to dissuade me of the idea. We kept in contact maybe once a year; I ignored his admonition that accounting was a bad idea, and forged ahead.
The beginning of 1985, I applied for two positions with the accounting firm right across the street from my apartment. I am to this day grateful that Bob had the guts to hire an artist turned accounting student. I did tax returns during the busy season, and audits during the summer.
At some point, I think early 1986, I found out that the State Board of Accountancy had an exemption to the requirement for sitting for the CPA exam. That exemption read that if you had a bachelor’s degree in anything – not just accounting – you could take a pre-test, and if you passed that, you could sit for the “real” test. Back then the CPA exam was only given twice a year, and this pre-test was administered on the first day of that. It was only a half day test. I took that in the spring of 1986, at the State Fairgrounds. When I was notified of my passing grade, I signed up for the Becker review course, and spent the summer of 1986 at night classes again on the campus of Marion College….all while working a full time job and my darkroom job.
The CPA exam I took was November 5th – 7th, 1986, at the convention center. No adding machines, no computers, only pencils and paper, two and a half days in a row. Essay questions. No instant scoring. It was spring of 1987 when I found out I’d passed all four parts. I was working for a second accounting firm when I got the news.
Late in the ‘80’s or early in the ‘90’s (I really can’t remember for sure, and I know I should), the relationship with The Second turned from mentor to something else. I was by then working for a third CPA firm. I’d hoped that, as so often happened back then, one of their clients would hire me as their controller. But though I loved the clients I had responsibility for there, I did not see eye to eye with one of the partners (I called him The Peacock), and it was not a female friendly firm. The Second offered a financial safety net, and I quit January 1991, took a batch of clients, worked more than I ever had, and loved it more. I had tax situations I’d never had before, but I taught myself how to do it. Even now, when I talk to CPA’s with practices typical of what I had, none of them know how to do a multistate consolidation, none of them are familiar with all the estate tax returns…
The very year I married (1995), I started getting pressure and not-so-veiled threats from The Second to stop or slow down the working. I tried to be a good wife, but I didn’t understand why he would marry a career-minded woman, only to turn around and try to change her into a very dependent housewife. I ended up giving up most of the clients, save for his four companies and about four others. Nothing I did made him happy. He took a whore in Las Vegas. He had dalliances here. He threatened to have me killed three times. Somehow, I managed to wait it out until he realized that this was no way to live, and he moved out the week before Christmas, 2005. He managed to arrange that I would have to sign the final paperwork on Valentine’s Day of the next year. Visualize a lobby full of women receiving their roses (I was working by then – see below) while I’m signing my divorce papers, delivered by courier.
I was optimistic enough (or just foolish) to take yet another chance, and fell into a relationship. Didn’t intend to, really, it just happened. What felt like bliss/the right guy/my second soulmate turned out to be catastrophic; I found out he was not who he portrayed. I think about it a lot, and am cutting myself some slack. After living the way I had for so long, my bullshit detector was probably broken all to hell. I was missing hearing nice things, missing a friend, missing the companionship we all wish for in our marriages/significant relationships, and I thought I’d found that….but he was an accomplished liar. The loss of the friendship I thought I had I find especially distressing.
About a year before before The Second and I parted ways, I took a job at ATA Airlines. I knew I needed income quickly, more quickly than I could build my client base again. Of course, everyone knows what happened there. Aside from one temporary gig as a controller, a writing assignment (yup, I’m now an “official” author), and a few stray financial projects, I’ve had no luck finding full time work (see "Statistics,", October 20, 2010) since ATA folded.
So here I am…which is to say in a great big huge mess! Both personal life and career in the crapper. Talk about overachieving!
I look back on it all, and I see mistakes and wrong turns, and I wish I could find one alternative, one magic path I could follow right now that would undo it all and take me to another place other than where I am…but that sort of wishing is just a waste of time.
Nevertheless, if Anyone upstairs is listening….can I get a couple of do-overs?
***
Footnotes and addendums, November 9, 2010...
(1) It was during this period, I began to run, and have been a runner ever since.
(2) While working at the first architectural firm, February 1980, I met my soul mate. He drowned June 1981, four months before we were to marry.
(3) Before that, though, sometime in 1982 or 1983, I took the LSAT and applied to law school. Test scores? No problem. GPA? No problem. Admitted? Not so fast. I called the nice man in admissions, and he told me that, while my grades and test scores were great, I hadn’t taken enough ‘real’ courses during my Ball State days. Take 20 or so hours in something like history or political science, he advised, then re-apply. Right. Of course a flaky artist can’t be an attorney! Somehow, I forgot to go back and reapply. There are still days I wish I had.
Thursday, October 28, 2010
a day in the life
4:15am. The hall light clicks on to begin the nudging hell, reminding me that I do have to get up and face reality.
4:35am: The “jolting” alarm goes off, which I promptly slam to snooze.
4:40am: The “soothing” alarm sounds, which I also immediately turn off, I just don’t slap it as hard as the other.
4:45am: The light in the bedroom flips on. I drag pillows over my head to block the light.
4:46am: The "jolting" alarm goes off for the second time; I shut it off again and pull it into the bed with me so that I don’t have to move so far the next time.
Fuck.
4:50am: The television comes on. The nightmares that are the news are being read in non-committal murmuring tones, and I give up and struggle out of bed. I pull on worn red shorts, ATA t-shirt, a sweatshirt and flip-flops.
Coffee smells, if I had half the sense to load the pot the night before, beg me downstairs.
Jasmine, still curled on her bed, opens one eye, pretends she doesn’t see me, and doesn’t move until she realizes I’ve got her food bowl in my hand and am headed out the garage door to pick up yesterday’s ignore mail/bills, today’s paper, and her food.
Four cups of coffee or eight espresso shots and damned near an hour later, I am re-dressed and out the door to run. The iPod [thank you God for MP3 players] helps me forget that it’s dark and cold. I remember that Puckerlips once vented that the only reason I run is to impress men. Yep, that’s gotta be it. The streets are just lined with them at 5:30am, and they adore women with exercise-induced snot running down their faces, too. It’s quite attractive.
Back home, I read emails until I realize I’m freezing. Shower. Find something that fits and doesn’t have to be dry cleaned. Intend to eat fruit for breakfast (who am I kidding? What fruit?) , but I really want to eat any greasy thing I have in the house. I end up with a bowl of ramen noodles instead.
To the dentist. Seems that my stress level is playing havoc with my gums. I literally will the numbers to be better than the last time, and they are, so I am granted a three month reprieve from an expensive, miserably painful treatment.
Home for a few hours. Do laundry, knit, and wait for the guy who’s going to fix the lamppost that was trashed in yesterday’s storm. He never showed.
Load Jasmine in the car for her annual exam. Her dental issues are worse than mine, and she has to have a cleaning done, which I schedule for next week.
I find something in the depths of the freezer for dinner, but the microwave’s acting up again, worse than usual. I swear so loud and slam the door so many times that it starts working, out of complete fear. Good plan.
Memo to appliances – if you stop working, I will throw you out in the cold. I’d happily fix you, but the manger of the service department at Clark’s Appliances decided a few years back that he needed to hike the cost of a show-up call by twice what it used to be. Cook top? Kiss my ass; I will use the grill all winter long. At least charcoal and lighter fluid work. Dryer? I’ll hang my clothes in the garage.
I’m tired and fed up and have had two glasses of wine. I’m considering a third. I wouldn’t mess with me right now.
4:35am: The “jolting” alarm goes off, which I promptly slam to snooze.
4:40am: The “soothing” alarm sounds, which I also immediately turn off, I just don’t slap it as hard as the other.
4:45am: The light in the bedroom flips on. I drag pillows over my head to block the light.
4:46am: The "jolting" alarm goes off for the second time; I shut it off again and pull it into the bed with me so that I don’t have to move so far the next time.
Fuck.
4:50am: The television comes on. The nightmares that are the news are being read in non-committal murmuring tones, and I give up and struggle out of bed. I pull on worn red shorts, ATA t-shirt, a sweatshirt and flip-flops.
Coffee smells, if I had half the sense to load the pot the night before, beg me downstairs.
Jasmine, still curled on her bed, opens one eye, pretends she doesn’t see me, and doesn’t move until she realizes I’ve got her food bowl in my hand and am headed out the garage door to pick up yesterday’s ignore mail/bills, today’s paper, and her food.
Four cups of coffee or eight espresso shots and damned near an hour later, I am re-dressed and out the door to run. The iPod [thank you God for MP3 players] helps me forget that it’s dark and cold. I remember that Puckerlips once vented that the only reason I run is to impress men. Yep, that’s gotta be it. The streets are just lined with them at 5:30am, and they adore women with exercise-induced snot running down their faces, too. It’s quite attractive.
Back home, I read emails until I realize I’m freezing. Shower. Find something that fits and doesn’t have to be dry cleaned. Intend to eat fruit for breakfast (who am I kidding? What fruit?) , but I really want to eat any greasy thing I have in the house. I end up with a bowl of ramen noodles instead.
To the dentist. Seems that my stress level is playing havoc with my gums. I literally will the numbers to be better than the last time, and they are, so I am granted a three month reprieve from an expensive, miserably painful treatment.
Home for a few hours. Do laundry, knit, and wait for the guy who’s going to fix the lamppost that was trashed in yesterday’s storm. He never showed.
Load Jasmine in the car for her annual exam. Her dental issues are worse than mine, and she has to have a cleaning done, which I schedule for next week.
I find something in the depths of the freezer for dinner, but the microwave’s acting up again, worse than usual. I swear so loud and slam the door so many times that it starts working, out of complete fear. Good plan.
Memo to appliances – if you stop working, I will throw you out in the cold. I’d happily fix you, but the manger of the service department at Clark’s Appliances decided a few years back that he needed to hike the cost of a show-up call by twice what it used to be. Cook top? Kiss my ass; I will use the grill all winter long. At least charcoal and lighter fluid work. Dryer? I’ll hang my clothes in the garage.
I’m tired and fed up and have had two glasses of wine. I’m considering a third. I wouldn’t mess with me right now.
Wednesday, October 20, 2010
statistics
In my Outlook job search folder are 828 emails. I have a stack of applications 4” thick that I printed out before I abandoned printing and just started saving all the correspondence on the computer instead, along with an Excel worksheet.
From the beginning of my working life, until late 2008, all I had to do was apply for a job, and I got it.
More recently…
2005: three job applications, three interviews, hired.
2007: one job application, one interview, hired.
2008: three or four applications, that many interviews, hired.
October 2008 – July 2009: an estimated 50-75 job applications (at least two a week), three interviews.
July 2009 – present: 164 job applications, 10 interviews…..
I had hoped the interview of a week and a half ago would be my last…..apparently, it is not. The reject email arrived today.
Onward, then.
From the beginning of my working life, until late 2008, all I had to do was apply for a job, and I got it.
More recently…
2005: three job applications, three interviews, hired.
2007: one job application, one interview, hired.
2008: three or four applications, that many interviews, hired.
October 2008 – July 2009: an estimated 50-75 job applications (at least two a week), three interviews.
July 2009 – present: 164 job applications, 10 interviews…..
I had hoped the interview of a week and a half ago would be my last…..apparently, it is not. The reject email arrived today.
Onward, then.
Sunday, October 3, 2010
recipe of the month
Fall in the Midwest begs for soup. If your doctor’s been on your ass case to eat more vegetables, this recipe might be just the ticket.
A caveat about my recipes: I tend to throw in a lot of editorial comments. All my measurements – unless I’m making pastry or sauces or something where the science actually matters – can be called “more or less,” as I never measure that accurately.
This recipe is adapted from a recipe I found from The Moosewood Restaurant.
Autumn Minestrone
2-4 tablespoons olive oil
1 cup chopped onions
2-3 garlic cloves, minced or pressed
2 ½ - 3 cups peeled & cubed winter squash (acorn, delicata, buttercup)
2 -3 celery stalks, diced
½ -1 cup peeled & diced carrots
2 ½ - 3 cups cubed potatoes
1 tablespoon dried oregano
2 teaspoons salt (to taste)
½ - 1 teaspoon ground black pepper
6 – 7 cups chicken stock (or water)
4 cups chopped kale
1 15 ounce can of cannellini beans, drained
Warm the oil in a large soup pot on medium heat. Add onions and garlic, and sauté for five minutes. Add squash, celery, carrots, potatoes, oregano, salt, pepper, and stock and cook for 10 minutes, or until the potatoes are almost done. Add the kale and beans and simmer until the kale is tender and the beans are hot.
So, the notes:
This is not a good recipe to prepare while drinking. By the time you get done peeling the squash, you’ll wonder why you ever thought this was a good idea. I’d recommend using a smooth-skinned squash, so you can at least use a vegetable peeler. Ever tried to peel an acorn squash? I just did. I’m on mysecond umpteenth glass of wine now, if that tells you anything.
You could add cubed chicken breasts to this soup to make the non-vegetarians in your household happy. On the other hand, those folks are probably going to fuss about “that funny green stuff” floating in their soup bowls anyway. Give up. Make them a hamburger.
I think a dusting of parmesan would be good, too. I serve this with fresh French bread and obviously, wine.
A caveat about my recipes: I tend to throw in a lot of editorial comments. All my measurements – unless I’m making pastry or sauces or something where the science actually matters – can be called “more or less,” as I never measure that accurately.
This recipe is adapted from a recipe I found from The Moosewood Restaurant.
Autumn Minestrone
2-4 tablespoons olive oil
1 cup chopped onions
2-3 garlic cloves, minced or pressed
2 ½ - 3 cups peeled & cubed winter squash (acorn, delicata, buttercup)
2 -3 celery stalks, diced
½ -1 cup peeled & diced carrots
2 ½ - 3 cups cubed potatoes
1 tablespoon dried oregano
2 teaspoons salt (to taste)
½ - 1 teaspoon ground black pepper
6 – 7 cups chicken stock (or water)
4 cups chopped kale
1 15 ounce can of cannellini beans, drained
Warm the oil in a large soup pot on medium heat. Add onions and garlic, and sauté for five minutes. Add squash, celery, carrots, potatoes, oregano, salt, pepper, and stock and cook for 10 minutes, or until the potatoes are almost done. Add the kale and beans and simmer until the kale is tender and the beans are hot.
So, the notes:
This is not a good recipe to prepare while drinking. By the time you get done peeling the squash, you’ll wonder why you ever thought this was a good idea. I’d recommend using a smooth-skinned squash, so you can at least use a vegetable peeler. Ever tried to peel an acorn squash? I just did. I’m on my
You could add cubed chicken breasts to this soup to make the non-vegetarians in your household happy. On the other hand, those folks are probably going to fuss about “that funny green stuff” floating in their soup bowls anyway. Give up. Make them a hamburger.
I think a dusting of parmesan would be good, too. I serve this with fresh French bread and obviously, wine.
Saturday, September 11, 2010
bridesmaid
“You are a wonderful candidate, but…..”
“She was a sharp candidate, but….”
And the standard “while your skills are certainly impressive, we have decided to pursue other candidates……” which we all know is a boilerplate line of steaming horse whooey.
I swear, if I hear any of this one more time I will scream.
The premise, when I started this blog, was that I would write about being single and jobless. Yes, yes, yes, I realize I’ve deviated from that plan a wee bit, but most all of my travails spring from those two issues.
Being single and unemployed sucks. It’s as simple as that. Taken individually, they’re not great places to be in life; finding yourself in both of those situations simultaneously is more than any one human should have to bear. Oh, to hell with that nice phrase. It’s bullshit. It’s pure living hell, is what it is. I am fed up.
You married people that think for one minute us singles are having great weekends? Think again. My standard Friday/Saturday night typically involves wine, canned goods or rice, cookies if I’m really lucky (which hasn’t happened since, oh, April 22nd, to be exact), and falling asleep fully clothed with the TV blaring. Wild life, eh? [Ok, so maybe the marrieds have similar evenings, but at least you’re doing it together.] Living single means there is no one around to help you if you find yourself puking your guts out in the middle of the night, too sick to go out for 7-Up (no, it wasn’t alcohol related, it was really horrendous stomach flu); no one there to listen; no one there to notice if you make it back from your run or not. Now I’m an independent sort of woman, but this is getting old.
You do find out a lot about your friends when going though the rough stuff. You find out who they are or aren’t. I could write a novelette on that topic alone. [I know I’ve written about this before, but I think it bears repeating.] If you’re rich, you have lots of friends. Find yourself in the financial crapper, and a shocking number of those “friends” scatter like cockroaches on the kitchen floor of the dump you used to live in back in college. Single women are rarely invited to couples events. For now, I’ll just say this experience has been a depressing but useful education.
I found out yesterday that I was runner up – again – for a job I interviewed for earlier this week. That interview was the second one for this position, and a two and a half hour marathon grilling by three head honchos. When I got through reading the rejection email, I promptly got into my car, drove to the store, bought both tequila and vodka, and a family sized bag of Tostitos for good measure. This has seeming become my way of handling the stress and disappointment. It’s that or fling myself off the roof. When I got home, I wrote MK to assure her that I’d lock myself in the house for the night. The last time I went on a tequila bender, I decided to go walkabout in my front yard at dusk and fell into a very large hole.
So…I’m the runner up every frigging time, in both personal and business arenas. I swear. It has to be my turn sometime soon.
“She was a sharp candidate, but….”
And the standard “while your skills are certainly impressive, we have decided to pursue other candidates……” which we all know is a boilerplate line of steaming horse whooey.
I swear, if I hear any of this one more time I will scream.
The premise, when I started this blog, was that I would write about being single and jobless. Yes, yes, yes, I realize I’ve deviated from that plan a wee bit, but most all of my travails spring from those two issues.
Being single and unemployed sucks. It’s as simple as that. Taken individually, they’re not great places to be in life; finding yourself in both of those situations simultaneously is more than any one human should have to bear. Oh, to hell with that nice phrase. It’s bullshit. It’s pure living hell, is what it is. I am fed up.
You married people that think for one minute us singles are having great weekends? Think again. My standard Friday/Saturday night typically involves wine, canned goods or rice, cookies if I’m really lucky (which hasn’t happened since, oh, April 22nd, to be exact), and falling asleep fully clothed with the TV blaring. Wild life, eh? [Ok, so maybe the marrieds have similar evenings, but at least you’re doing it together.] Living single means there is no one around to help you if you find yourself puking your guts out in the middle of the night, too sick to go out for 7-Up (no, it wasn’t alcohol related, it was really horrendous stomach flu); no one there to listen; no one there to notice if you make it back from your run or not. Now I’m an independent sort of woman, but this is getting old.
You do find out a lot about your friends when going though the rough stuff. You find out who they are or aren’t. I could write a novelette on that topic alone. [I know I’ve written about this before, but I think it bears repeating.] If you’re rich, you have lots of friends. Find yourself in the financial crapper, and a shocking number of those “friends” scatter like cockroaches on the kitchen floor of the dump you used to live in back in college. Single women are rarely invited to couples events. For now, I’ll just say this experience has been a depressing but useful education.
I found out yesterday that I was runner up – again – for a job I interviewed for earlier this week. That interview was the second one for this position, and a two and a half hour marathon grilling by three head honchos. When I got through reading the rejection email, I promptly got into my car, drove to the store, bought both tequila and vodka, and a family sized bag of Tostitos for good measure. This has seeming become my way of handling the stress and disappointment. It’s that or fling myself off the roof. When I got home, I wrote MK to assure her that I’d lock myself in the house for the night. The last time I went on a tequila bender, I decided to go walkabout in my front yard at dusk and fell into a very large hole.
So…I’m the runner up every frigging time, in both personal and business arenas. I swear. It has to be my turn sometime soon.
Tuesday, August 31, 2010
broken
I’ve got a laundry list of all the events and challenges that’ve been thrown in my path, like stop sticks, over the past four and a half years. It’s all happened between 2006 and right this minute, 2010. I’m not sure why I haven’t stuck my head in the oven yet. Who would blame me? Oh, wait…it’s probably broken, too.
Broken and replaced: washer, dryer, computer, sump pump, water heater, home air conditioner’s compressor.
Broken and repaired: car’s transmission, oven, heat pump, garage door, wrist (1), house siding (2)
Broken and sitting, waiting their turn: car’s air conditioner (3), ice maker, various rotted windows, another refrigeration unit, car’s head gasket, door latches (4).
Not broken: my septic system, but the powers that be forced a sewer system through the neighborhood. I’ll be paying that bill for years. Literally.
Lost: to urinary tract disease or old age and loneliness - Monet, my gray cat, and Margaux, my black cat. Inseparable littermates. Both irreplaceable.
Lost: to alcoholism and untreated borderline personality disorder - a second husband (5).
Lost: to Tiger Woods Disease/WDS (6) - one boyfriend, who I thought was surely the right guy for me; the emotional abuse and psychotic head games took their toll, the person I thought he was still haunts me.
Lost: two jobs within six months of each other, and none found…yet (7).
I’m still here. To quote from the movie, Shakespeare in Love, it will turn out well…“How? I don’t know. It’s a mystery.”
***
Footnotes:
(1) Surgically. The doc was a magician, though. I have full use of it, which, considering the number of bits and pieces, I still consider a miracle.
(2) Once the raccoon was removed and relocated; see http://uncontrolled-airspace.blogspot.com/2010/01/raccoon-resort.html
(3) Not the best summer to have to drive around without it.
(4) How I wish I could find an all-around handyman.
(5) Divorce can be construed as good or bad, but it’s stressful, nonetheless.
(6) WDS is not fit to print…Wandering d*** Syndrome…you get the idea…
(7) But I’ve had more interviews this year than all of 2009. That’s a good thing, right?
Broken and replaced: washer, dryer, computer, sump pump, water heater, home air conditioner’s compressor.
Broken and repaired: car’s transmission, oven, heat pump, garage door, wrist (1), house siding (2)
Broken and sitting, waiting their turn: car’s air conditioner (3), ice maker, various rotted windows, another refrigeration unit, car’s head gasket, door latches (4).
Not broken: my septic system, but the powers that be forced a sewer system through the neighborhood. I’ll be paying that bill for years. Literally.
Lost: to urinary tract disease or old age and loneliness - Monet, my gray cat, and Margaux, my black cat. Inseparable littermates. Both irreplaceable.
Lost: to alcoholism and untreated borderline personality disorder - a second husband (5).
Lost: to Tiger Woods Disease/WDS (6) - one boyfriend, who I thought was surely the right guy for me; the emotional abuse and psychotic head games took their toll, the person I thought he was still haunts me.
Lost: two jobs within six months of each other, and none found…yet (7).
I’m still here. To quote from the movie, Shakespeare in Love, it will turn out well…“How? I don’t know. It’s a mystery.”
***
Footnotes:
(1) Surgically. The doc was a magician, though. I have full use of it, which, considering the number of bits and pieces, I still consider a miracle.
(2) Once the raccoon was removed and relocated; see http://uncontrolled-airspace.blogspot.com/2010/01/raccoon-resort.html
(3) Not the best summer to have to drive around without it.
(4) How I wish I could find an all-around handyman.
(5) Divorce can be construed as good or bad, but it’s stressful, nonetheless.
(6) WDS is not fit to print…Wandering d*** Syndrome…you get the idea…
(7) But I’ve had more interviews this year than all of 2009. That’s a good thing, right?
Sunday, August 15, 2010
Brooks
He was just about the worst physical specimen for a Gordon Setter you’ve ever seen. He topped out at 120 pounds one year, until I put him on a diet and got him down to a “reasonable” 100. Breed standard for males is about 80-85 pounds. He was big boned – really. I know, that sounds like the excuse we all make for being overweight. This animal’s front leg bones were bigger than my wrists. He had droopy eyes, crooked teeth, a sagging jaw line, and a pretty poor excuse for a tail, for a Setter.
He was a dreadful watchdog, too. He never met a stranger. He’d bark, alright, but then he’d run to the door to greet anyone there, whether I knew them or not. It’s a wonder he didn’t just let the burglars in and help them carry out anything they wanted.
Repairmen would come to the house, but never ask after my girlfriend or me. They always asked about Brooks as soon as they got here. Two women in the house, and they want to talk to my dog instead??? My florist loved him, too. If I remember right, he was upset the first time he came here and found out Brooks was gone.
I was thinking about him today. It was six years ago this morning I had to let him go. After going into shock, and a long complicated surgery for cancer, he just could not fight any more.
So, here’s to you, Brooks-y-dog. I’m not the only one who misses you!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
