My mother was not in a hurry, for once we travelled leisurely. She and I, two temporary pals setting out on a suburban journey. Free from much thought, no tense conversations. Our roles of mother and daughter turned off. Just us gals. Me with my thighs stuck in a pleasant way to the vinyl seats in the station wagon, Her with one hand on the bottom of the steering wheel and one hand rolling down the car window.
Time for another cigarette. A perfect moment, she is alone in the car, without another adult judging her. The short frantic grope of her purse, her fumbling. Me helping in my way. My emotional support of her rather than my help with the search of the cigarette pack. She finds them once I steady the bag and she steadies the wheel. The swift snap of the lighter and deep penetrating drag of the cigarette. The once coveted lighter now quickly thrown in the direction of the bag, so quickly forgotten once the cigarette was lighted.
I am six years old.
We drive to an antique shop. It is 10 o’ clock in the morning and in the middle of summer. All the windows are open in the long shop. Is it dark? It is a bit. A storm is coming. A summer storm. I hear my mom across the store. She speaks to the shop owner about what we are looking for. Small talk. Wind through the windows. I look around. I have figured out that I can pick up things in store, small things, even expensive things as long as I set them down carefully and no one is around. Cautiously like my mother. My hand moves over a ceramic cow creamer. I pick it up turn it upside down like I have seen my mother do, look at the price tag on its belly and right the creamer and set it back down on the shelf. Softly. Expertly. No one is looking.
A man approaches, he says something matter-of-factly. I freeze as he drops his pants. I am aware how much distance is between my mother and I. He rubs his flaccid penis up and I see it fall against his leg. Snap. My breath is short. Then a blur to find my mother. Fast, fast. I find her laughing in the shop with the shop keeper. The shopkeeper gives a history about antique violins. My mother discusses the Stradivarius that hangs in our hallway. My grandfather would play it when no one was looking. He also played the piano when I would visit then stop playing when people started to gather around him. His little secret. Music wasn’t something farmers respected. He thought of them as silly parlor tricks and the like. Life was to be planned and earth to be tended. Around me he was a miracle. Frivolous and throwing me in the air. I had all his attention. He followed me everywhere. He would laugh so hard when I tried to catch the geese that settled in the fields.
Mom and I climb into the station wagon. It smells of home and safety. I am in the back seat. If I sit in the front I smell the cigarettes too much and the view was better in the back. I have all the space back there. We are separated. My brothers Star Wars figurines roll forward at the light. I watch them roll under the seat again. A light turns green.
I tell my mother about the man and how he took his pants down in front of me. I tell her as best I can but I am a child. I am suddenly aware of how small I am, almost useless. She carefully asks questions. Everything is strange because everything is so careful. I try to tell her he touched himself. I am not sure what I am saying but she gasps and then does something amazing. She says “okay” then covers her mouth. She pulls back into the parking lot of the antique shop. We sit there and she has both hands on the wheel. A small bit of time goes by. She then heads the car in the direction of home. She is afraid and turns the wheel softly and carefully. I have done something wrong but am relieved she is not yelling at me. Usually there is yelling. We continue to head home. She is afraid and I have frightened her. How is that possible? She is huge and I am terribly small. I am sorry. I want to forget the whole thing. I want to take it back suddenly wiser now. I am exposed. Silence. I stare out of the window and fumble with my brothers toys in the back, all alone again.
Thursday, February 26, 2009
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
Welcome to the Party
It was a Friday afternoon and I was exhausted from the usual work week nonsense. All of us agreed to go to the local Irish pub after work for some Irish car bombs. It was a running joke in the office as most are either from Irish or English backgrounds. Literally it meant a shot of Baileys dropped into a pint of beer. You can only do so many before the room starts spinning. Everyone at least has two, then the verbal fights break out, calm verbal fights, masked behind some corporate correctness.
The pub was located across the suburb-office-stripmall-land to the other side of the suburb-office-stripmall land. Traffic was an absolute nightmare at 6 o’clock on a Friday afternoon, a balmy 69 degrees and the sun shining. Although I could see the top of the pub on the hill, it would take at least 25 minutes for traffic to allow me to order and receive my car bomb.
I couldn’t wait to get there.
My cell phone rang. “Sweetums!” My dad sang out. “What do you say?”
I have exactly twelve memories of my dad while my parents were still married. They are foggy but they are there. Things like birthday parties and his telling me about how wonderful spiders are while we watched one spin a web so carefully on the back porch. He left my mother when I was 6 and my brother 8. I don’t know if his leaving did more good than harm. I am always left struggling for words when I speak to him. He is to this day one of the strangest people I know.
I could tell my dad had been enjoying his Friday cocktail hour already. “Havenn a little vinno” my father slurred slightly. “Well good for you” I said wanting to toss the phone out the window. “WeEELL I have been doing some research..” I shifted in my seat. “TURNS out OUR relatives - in Germany -THE ZIESSES sold their camera lens company to the Nazis during World War II”
What an opener, even for him. “What?, Dad come on...” I whined. He swooped in. “Nope! You got it, our family -- our ancestors were compliant ..even lets say..hospitible to the Nazis during the second World War.” A car horn beeped behind me. “What?” I said, shocked. “What are you saying?”
Dad went on, “What I am saying is...our family, your ancesters...were profiting ...off the Nazi Regime ...in World War Two.”
“What would the Nazis want with a camera company, Dad?” I begged.
“Lenses for their rifle scopes!!” He chirped.
I suddenly really needed that car bomb. My father has always had a flair for the dramatic. I took a breath and told myself it was nonsense. “Come on dad, I am in traffic.. what are you telling me?”
“What I am saying is that you and Hitler could have been cousins!” He shouted.
“Cousins?” I panted, then I struck back. I wasn’t going to let him get me. “Great!” I said “I’ll invite the Nazis to go to summer camp with us”
“Heard they got a few camps open!” Dad shot back. Another car horn.
“Well so much for the Senate” I whispered.
“Yes, you know, if you’re serious, you could have gone that route.” How loaded was he? “Well you know I am old buddies with the Coutiers and the Behars...” He bragged. “Great, more Nazis” I barked.
“Hey listen you can’t deny your heritage, good or bad.” He said.
“I think this is pretty bad, Dad”
“Well at least we are not as bad as your mothers family, hell, one of her great-great Aunts was Hilter’s nanny”
“Dad, stop” I begged.
Then this from him. “You know how she tied his shoes?” “How Dad? I gulped.
“In little knot-zies!” He exploded with laughter.
I hung up the phone.
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
My unexceptional life
Print is dead and I don’t feel so good either.
Print is dead people - there I said it. I realize this blog is going out to people I know in the industry namely print designers, marketing directors and printers.
This begins with my former VP of Marketing, who knew nothing about modern and e-savvy marketing - telling a marketing group with miscellaneous titles and job descriptions, that we were all dinosaurs.
The thing was he was looking right at me when he said it.
Me a dinosaur? What does he know? He fired me and the rest of the marketing staff 6 weeks later. One AE was promoted to another position. But the rest of us sank like a vintage Chris-Craft sailing along the East African coastline in Pirate’s Cove. But I add color merely to distract from the truth. I was depressed and pissed. I filed for unemployment. I took a client from them who still had a marketing budget, I demanded my husband get a job (he was a stay-at-home-dad and fine artist) I cursed the economy. I developed my own blog. I went to many a cocktail hour (and have the bar-marks on my forehead to prove it) and I sobbed to friends: “Why can’t I find a job?” I was after all:
Promoted three times within my marketing group finally becoming the creative director.
I was passionate about my work and its quality.
I worked well with the other marketing folk - and don’t belittle this, we had some real weirdos and pain-in-the-asses there. I laughed and made others laugh. We moved fast and had a good time doing it.
I stayed late and sweated and did way more to make sure the materials and the branding were emotional, memorable and targeted. We made sure all budgets were maintained.
The logos, elaborate materials and beautiful brochures our team created were always, ALWAYS admired by my fellow print designers.
But I was shit-canned without notice, obligation or memory. Granted I was in the housing industry and was not too surprised, right? Not too surprised? Right. I was blown away. But I work so hard?
I realize now, that although I have a craft, I am in fact a dinosaur in this business. My idiot boss knew it and well I guess I knew it too. I need only go to Talent Zoo or any blog or marketing placement service post and realize the geeks have taken over the studio. They are web savvy and certified.
Here is a listing from Jason: Jason S. - website design, html/Xhtml, Flash Animation/Action Script, CSS2,Web2.0 - Freelance Website & Graphic Designer.
Huh? HTML? Action Script? What happened to CS3? I make things pretty, damn you!?!
And you know the response I get from print designers? Oh, but you are a designer, you work WITH programmers. This may be true. I certainly would rather look at a Domino magazine than WIRED. Oh man, “wired”? Really?
But you know how many job interviews I have been on in 6 months? One. ONE. Web is where it is at and the less you know, the less you are valued no matter how talented you think you might be.
This will be an interesting process for me; I’ll keep you posted.
Print is dead people - there I said it. I realize this blog is going out to people I know in the industry namely print designers, marketing directors and printers.
This begins with my former VP of Marketing, who knew nothing about modern and e-savvy marketing - telling a marketing group with miscellaneous titles and job descriptions, that we were all dinosaurs.
The thing was he was looking right at me when he said it.
Me a dinosaur? What does he know? He fired me and the rest of the marketing staff 6 weeks later. One AE was promoted to another position. But the rest of us sank like a vintage Chris-Craft sailing along the East African coastline in Pirate’s Cove. But I add color merely to distract from the truth. I was depressed and pissed. I filed for unemployment. I took a client from them who still had a marketing budget, I demanded my husband get a job (he was a stay-at-home-dad and fine artist) I cursed the economy. I developed my own blog. I went to many a cocktail hour (and have the bar-marks on my forehead to prove it) and I sobbed to friends: “Why can’t I find a job?” I was after all:
Promoted three times within my marketing group finally becoming the creative director.
I was passionate about my work and its quality.
I worked well with the other marketing folk - and don’t belittle this, we had some real weirdos and pain-in-the-asses there. I laughed and made others laugh. We moved fast and had a good time doing it.
I stayed late and sweated and did way more to make sure the materials and the branding were emotional, memorable and targeted. We made sure all budgets were maintained.
The logos, elaborate materials and beautiful brochures our team created were always, ALWAYS admired by my fellow print designers.
But I was shit-canned without notice, obligation or memory. Granted I was in the housing industry and was not too surprised, right? Not too surprised? Right. I was blown away. But I work so hard?
I realize now, that although I have a craft, I am in fact a dinosaur in this business. My idiot boss knew it and well I guess I knew it too. I need only go to Talent Zoo or any blog or marketing placement service post and realize the geeks have taken over the studio. They are web savvy and certified.
Here is a listing from Jason: Jason S. - website design, html/Xhtml, Flash Animation/Action Script, CSS2,Web2.0 - Freelance Website & Graphic Designer.
Huh? HTML? Action Script? What happened to CS3? I make things pretty, damn you!?!
And you know the response I get from print designers? Oh, but you are a designer, you work WITH programmers. This may be true. I certainly would rather look at a Domino magazine than WIRED. Oh man, “wired”? Really?
But you know how many job interviews I have been on in 6 months? One. ONE. Web is where it is at and the less you know, the less you are valued no matter how talented you think you might be.
This will be an interesting process for me; I’ll keep you posted.
Saturday, January 10, 2009
Why I won't read your email.
1) You have been hit on the head and think that text messaging has replaced good old fashioned literacy. Sentences are not capitalized. Words are condensed and you is replaced by U. It isn’t and it hasn’t. Please be careful, my time is precious and so am I. You are however a pain in my ass and you own too many cats.
2) YOU WRITE IN ALL CAPS!! PERHAPS YOU ARE ON THE WAY TO THE HOSPITAL WITH A COKE BOTTLE TRAPPED IN YOUR ASS. NO? Then stop writing like you are 13 years old.
3) You have a quote from Margaret Thatcher and think that I am some drooling idiot who needs to be saved and repositioned in society and will somehow be changed by reading this dumb ass philosophy that you even can't fully grasp.
4) You take four paragraphs of space and countess moments of time to say something you can quickly say in, lets say 2 seconds. But no, you give me details. And you like details. And More details. Do you not feel important anywhere in your life? Is that what this is about? And then you’ll add some brackets that (well, contain a separate thought when a comma will do) Then you continue to spell things out even more clearly. My Goodness, this is a long email! Oh and a quick quip to pull it all together!! But guess what?? I stopped reading about your email and am considering what my husband said last night about my fantasies about Joqwuin Phoenix or however you spell that guys name. Funny, Sid is spooky when he reads my mind like that. I mean, how can he know these things? What? Where did you go?
5) You put exclamation points everywhere!!! So exciting!!! Fresh Coffee in the breakroom!!! Why, we get coffee everyday!!! But somehow this is different!!!! Look!! little chemical french vanilla pouches!!!!! Just like last month!! When you go home at night, are you in prison!!!???? Were you raised as a chicken by your senile grandparents like that poor boy I saw on television the other day???!! Holy Fuck, you are dull!!
6) You put photos of clouds or spirals from notebooks in the background of your email. Did you think I would forget that I am in a dreary office and not really outside? Do I think your computer came with a fountain pen-like mouse? And the clouds? We’re all real happy about working in gray cubical boxes in which the coolest thing about them is that they are kind of squishy and you can put pins and things in them but seriously - I know I am in a box. And guess what? You are not writing outside. Put the fucking clouds away. They make your email huge and they make me want to punch you.
7) You forward emails and never write a personal note. They are emails in which the returns are forwarded and the copy is huge and skips around and gives me bad dreams at night. I never read the body of the email but get the gist that Jesus won’t love me anymore unless I repeat your prayer on the bottom of the email and then add one of my own. Now you want me to pass this email on to six hundred of my coworkers who I am sure will look up to me after I pass along such a sophisticated piece of professional literature. Oh and did you know what I prayed for? For your queer-bait Thomas Kinkaid artwork to catch on fire.
2) YOU WRITE IN ALL CAPS!! PERHAPS YOU ARE ON THE WAY TO THE HOSPITAL WITH A COKE BOTTLE TRAPPED IN YOUR ASS. NO? Then stop writing like you are 13 years old.
3) You have a quote from Margaret Thatcher and think that I am some drooling idiot who needs to be saved and repositioned in society and will somehow be changed by reading this dumb ass philosophy that you even can't fully grasp.
4) You take four paragraphs of space and countess moments of time to say something you can quickly say in, lets say 2 seconds. But no, you give me details. And you like details. And More details. Do you not feel important anywhere in your life? Is that what this is about? And then you’ll add some brackets that (well, contain a separate thought when a comma will do) Then you continue to spell things out even more clearly. My Goodness, this is a long email! Oh and a quick quip to pull it all together!! But guess what?? I stopped reading about your email and am considering what my husband said last night about my fantasies about Joqwuin Phoenix or however you spell that guys name. Funny, Sid is spooky when he reads my mind like that. I mean, how can he know these things? What? Where did you go?
5) You put exclamation points everywhere!!! So exciting!!! Fresh Coffee in the breakroom!!! Why, we get coffee everyday!!! But somehow this is different!!!! Look!! little chemical french vanilla pouches!!!!! Just like last month!! When you go home at night, are you in prison!!!???? Were you raised as a chicken by your senile grandparents like that poor boy I saw on television the other day???!! Holy Fuck, you are dull!!
6) You put photos of clouds or spirals from notebooks in the background of your email. Did you think I would forget that I am in a dreary office and not really outside? Do I think your computer came with a fountain pen-like mouse? And the clouds? We’re all real happy about working in gray cubical boxes in which the coolest thing about them is that they are kind of squishy and you can put pins and things in them but seriously - I know I am in a box. And guess what? You are not writing outside. Put the fucking clouds away. They make your email huge and they make me want to punch you.
7) You forward emails and never write a personal note. They are emails in which the returns are forwarded and the copy is huge and skips around and gives me bad dreams at night. I never read the body of the email but get the gist that Jesus won’t love me anymore unless I repeat your prayer on the bottom of the email and then add one of my own. Now you want me to pass this email on to six hundred of my coworkers who I am sure will look up to me after I pass along such a sophisticated piece of professional literature. Oh and did you know what I prayed for? For your queer-bait Thomas Kinkaid artwork to catch on fire.
Cover letters that will never be read
November 16, 2008
Prosperity Toy Company
Dublin, Ireland
Dear Mr. Gary Mullan,
I feel like I am buying a lottery ticket sending a cover letter to a dude (bloke) like you so with great courage due to little risk of this letter ever being read - Here goes:
Hire me right now. Toys? Children? Creative minds? Ire-freaking-land? Are you kidding? Might as well be on the moon! I am there, bro! Have the magic carpet pick me up at the end of the driveway (road).
Why do I even feel like maybe, possibly, I could be considered for this position?
I have lots of experience, I perform small miracles and I can spin plates on a ladder, 50 feet (15.24 meters) above an live audience, blindfolded!
But sadly all of these qualifications in the slack and sluggish US economy make very little difference. I have no shot at this job. Really. You did not get drunk next to me at the bar
I was sitting in and “accidentally” brush your hand across my breast more than once, burst into tears when confronted then back into my car, clearly visible to those of us at the bar - and speed away. In other words, I have nothing on you and that’s about what it would take for me to land this job. And that actually happened to me by the way.
The gall. The gall of you Mr Mullan, to post this make-believe fairy tale job on Monstor.com. You should be sued (slapped) A toy maker? In Dublin? Paying 150,000 pounds a year? What else haven’t you mentioned? That I have to be corporately fisted (rogered) at lunch and perform sex acts on dwarfs? (Leprechauns) Actually, that might be easier.
Thanks Mr. Wonka, which way to the chocolate factory? How dare you post this job and give hope to the unemployed, the freelanced, the fearful and dejected?
Wait, I am just kidding Mr, Mullan. I am really the candidate you are looking for, really. I am qualified, creative, pleasant. Well, I am sort of pleasant in the sense that I am bitter. You are Irish for christ sakes, you certainly can understand that?
See we have so much in common, why we are practically twins and not like those Siamese twins joined at the head I saw on the history channel (tely) the other day. But the normal kind sort of like the Olsen twins or England and Ireland. Maybe Scotland and Ireland? Never mind.
Well, I am exhausted (spent) from this letter (confessional) good luck on your search for your beloved candidate (queen). I hope the thousands of resumes (CVs) you receive fall on your head and you suffocate from toxic (non-organic) inks and chemicals.
Prosperity Toy Company
Dublin, Ireland
Dear Mr. Gary Mullan,
I feel like I am buying a lottery ticket sending a cover letter to a dude (bloke) like you so with great courage due to little risk of this letter ever being read - Here goes:
Hire me right now. Toys? Children? Creative minds? Ire-freaking-land? Are you kidding? Might as well be on the moon! I am there, bro! Have the magic carpet pick me up at the end of the driveway (road).
Why do I even feel like maybe, possibly, I could be considered for this position?
I have lots of experience, I perform small miracles and I can spin plates on a ladder, 50 feet (15.24 meters) above an live audience, blindfolded!
But sadly all of these qualifications in the slack and sluggish US economy make very little difference. I have no shot at this job. Really. You did not get drunk next to me at the bar
I was sitting in and “accidentally” brush your hand across my breast more than once, burst into tears when confronted then back into my car, clearly visible to those of us at the bar - and speed away. In other words, I have nothing on you and that’s about what it would take for me to land this job. And that actually happened to me by the way.
The gall. The gall of you Mr Mullan, to post this make-believe fairy tale job on Monstor.com. You should be sued (slapped) A toy maker? In Dublin? Paying 150,000 pounds a year? What else haven’t you mentioned? That I have to be corporately fisted (rogered) at lunch and perform sex acts on dwarfs? (Leprechauns) Actually, that might be easier.
Thanks Mr. Wonka, which way to the chocolate factory? How dare you post this job and give hope to the unemployed, the freelanced, the fearful and dejected?
Wait, I am just kidding Mr, Mullan. I am really the candidate you are looking for, really. I am qualified, creative, pleasant. Well, I am sort of pleasant in the sense that I am bitter. You are Irish for christ sakes, you certainly can understand that?
See we have so much in common, why we are practically twins and not like those Siamese twins joined at the head I saw on the history channel (tely) the other day. But the normal kind sort of like the Olsen twins or England and Ireland. Maybe Scotland and Ireland? Never mind.
Well, I am exhausted (spent) from this letter (confessional) good luck on your search for your beloved candidate (queen). I hope the thousands of resumes (CVs) you receive fall on your head and you suffocate from toxic (non-organic) inks and chemicals.
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