quick story

em the hunter

It’s been a while since I’ve blogged. Forgot my own password in fact.  This happens when work and family get in the way of a healthy blogging habit.

Well, I no longer have the old "job" excuse. I was laid off Sept 25, a few days before the whole economic collapse escapade. It’s been almost 5 weeks. I’m on the trail of a few good prospects, although each has pluses/minuses.

• Editor, dental publications: Would be a reprise of working for Charismatic but Volatile Executive, but this time at the company that he started when he left my former employer at the first acquisition. Trying to navigate these complex financial times himself, he can only offer 60% of my last salary. Welcome to 1995. Ouch.

• Editor, retail publications: Step down both financially and professionally, just not sure to what degree.  Not a bad commute (25 miles of highway). Have met with them twice now, the first session consisting of a personality test and several aptitude tests.  Welcome to 1979. Guess I faked my way through, however, since they called me back in for more interviewing. According to HR director, it could be several more rounds--including a dinner out (?!)--before a decision is made. Note to self--elbows off the table.

• Editorial director, medical projects: Right in my wheelhouse--variety of media and topics, fast pace,  good company. But! A 90 mile commute.

• Community publisher, physician networking Web site: Electronic media is where I need to go, given the die-off among print publications. Interesting work too, involving courting of key opinion leaders, acquisitions, long-range strategizing, audience generation efforts, and writing and editing. But! Would entail moving from lovely Trenton NJ to a suburb of Boston.   Not impossible, just daunting.

• Senior editor, medical publishing: A women-owned medical communications company, I’d be taking a step down, financially and professionally, but it seems like a great place to work. Another 90-mile drive to the office, but as a nonsupervisor,  I think I could finagle a work from home arrangement.

Lock and load.

Denny Crane.

em the player

Now that I'm bigger than Donald Trump, I thought it was time to step out and hobnob with the city's elite, so on Sat evening I attended the Stop the Wrecking Ball Ball at the Liederkranz Hall on South Clinton Ave.

Hosted by the Trenton Historical Society, the Stop the Wrecking Ball Ball raises money to preserve Trenton's diverse architectural legacy. Due to its current sad state, many interesting buildings in Trenton have been allowed to slowly rot prior to a speedy demolition by real estate developers who want to toss up more office space. Like we need more state office space downtown. Trenton is the state capitol; thus, there's a lot of state offices--80% of the buildings are state offices. The trouble is the state pays no local property tax, so no revenue comes in for services and schools and whatnot. And lord knows all those state worker bees don't want to actually *live* in Trenton. It's too scary. So woebegone Trenton remains woebegone.   

The Liederkranz Hall was a very cool venue. It was originally the clubhouse or whatever for a German singing society; next it became a furniture warehouse and then it was abondoned for some number of years before being resurrected by a public relations firm that's now slumming in Trenton. The cocktail party was on the unrenovated first floor, a large drafty room with rustic brick walls, a worn wood floor, and ceilings too high to see in the gloom. The caterers had set up several hors d'oeurves stations around the room--a shiskabob area, a root vegetable area, and a desserts area. The food was pretty good, but as always I was distracted by the open bar and a big bottle of top-shelf vodka. I topped off my drink about every 10 minutes, for free hee heeee! By the end of the night I was successfully tipsy and surrounded by olde fartes in gowns and tuxedos. The potential-for-serious-trouble quotient was high. And who did I spy among the gowned and cummerbunded? My ex-husband's ex-girlfriend, C, who was evidently working the crowd trying to drum up paying customers for her photography business. My old pal David, who made a very handsome date indeed, deftly steered me in another direction when I decided I needed to shove C down on the floor and liberate her camera. Party pooper.

Hands down best part of the night? The band--The Main Squeeze Orchestra. An all-girl accordian band, they rocked the house with covers of the Beatles, Joy Division, and a spot-on rendition of Bohemian Rhapsody. I don't think the gowned and cummerbunded got it, but I refrained from pushing anyone down because they talked through the music.         

Groupie em

My neighbor B has some sort of turbo-charger on board. He's got 4 kids, works a challenging job, is president of the school district, and as a side thing, he coproduces concerts at the local cathedral, a Grand Venue if ever there was one. plus he and his partner S are stand-up stand-ins for me, because katie spends about as much time at their house with Naomi as she does at mine.

Anyhoo, point of the post. When he put out an emergency call the other night for overnight hosts for his latest performers, a traditional folk music group from Tsibili, Republic of Georgia, who are touring the states, I was more than happy to provide a few beds. They didn't roll in until midnight or so, but i regathered my slumbering hospitality energies and enjoyed a lovely Stolichnya with the band, Fodor, |gor, and Gregor. Lone foggy observation: when they talk together it all sounds like "ishka bishka dovbro kobrovka." I'm pretty sure they were saying, "ooo, lovely American lady. but where is her big American breasteses?"

Driver em

Katie rides the bus to school now. The *long* bus people. sheesh. In fact, it’s probably at least 50 yards long.  I, unfortunately, have to drive her to the bus stop--at the first hint of dawn--because she now attends public school in the school district where her father lives, and they ain’t sending a bus out Trenton-way. In fact, the district has an armed force of District Eligibility Officers who are tasked with keeping us po' folks out of their crapass schools. These guys lurk around school bus stops looking to snag Trenton parents trying to sneak their kids into the "good schools" out in the ‘burbs by pretending to live out that way. And there are penalties for this--expensive penalties: they bill you at the student per diem rate. Ouch.

According to district rules, however, Katie and Joe are eligible to attend school in the suburbs-they need only wake up in the district (at their father’s house) 3 mornings a week. But on the other 2 mornings, it’s a mad dash to the bus stop. On more than one occasion, we’ve hit the bus stop at 50 mph with doors flying, just as the bus driver collected the last kid at the stop onto the bus.And only once have we ended up out of position behind the bus and had to chase her to her next appointed stop. That bus driver knows how to giddyup those 50 yards of sleak yellow school bus on down the autobahn! The careening vehicle in her rearview was no distraction whatsoever. But now she's beginning to recognize my car as the lunatic white sedan that launches itself sideways under her front wheels, and she waits for Katie to tumble out and slink over to the bus with not the slightest hint of mortification.

Problem is that Katie's father has had his fill of Katie's fledgling puberty-fired ways, and he has delivered her back to me along with all of Katie's belongings, boxed, onto the floor of my house with a thump and a snarl. "Her behavior is UNACCEPTABLE!! She can't come back!!"

Whatever dude. Good thing I've got this whole Flying Under the Radar thing going, so if those District Commandos ever stake out her bus stop, they'll never notice us.    

Lame-o em

I'm gonna be that cranky old grouch who yells at you "Don't you walk on my grass! Get offa my property!!" I'll be permanently stationed at a window, and I'll peer at you from behind the curtains and yank them back in place when you look over.

I will never leave the house--a few brave delivery men will pile household necessities on my steps. I will wear the same sweat-suit every day, except when I'm "cleaning" it. Laundering it consists of step-step-steping on it, like I'm squishing grapes, in a few inches of grey bath water that I keep. I keep forgetting that I don't like the taste of that water. I will accumulate too many pets and name them all "You!" The wild cats out back will be named "You Get!" and they will pick at the garbage that I leave outside the back door. It will smell in the general vicinity of my house.   

I will watch TV at top volume. In the blue glow of the TV I will wander from room to room, looking out each window, vigilant. You don't want to come ring my bell. You will give my place a wide berth.

And then, maybe Neighbor 1 won't sit on my porch on a hot and humid Saturday morning for an hour and a half and talk at me while I hold my unread newspaper in my lap. Talk at me until he and the heat and humidity have sucked what remains of the oxygen from the air and running becomes dangerous. And maybe Neighbor 2 will stop walking right into my house without ringing the bell and wandering around until she finds me in some remote room. And maybe I won't have to hide for 30 minutes in the kitchen because Neighbor 3 thinks I must be in there somewhere and rings, and rings, and rings the doorbell. And calls, and calls, and calls me on my phone. And yells, and yells, and yells for me through the open living room window. 

I love my neighborhood. It's a friendly neighborhood--there's almost always someone sitting on a porch somewhere to stop and say hello to. I'm a sociable neighbor, but I usually don't stay to chat long--I operate according to a simple rule of thumb--it's time to push on when I've finished the coffee/water/beer in my hand. Over-staying is more than just impolite, it's cruel. Especially to those of us who for some unknown reason are incapable of making any lame excuse in the book to extricate. 

em the athlete

I was merciless.

I was the pitcher, and I threw windmill style. Like a whirling dervish, but keenly focused, I mowed 'em down with hard strikes on the corners. One of the opposing team's players had the impertinence to smack a line drive up the center, but the finely-tuned em reflexes snagged the ball before it got past the mound. On my at-bat, I blasted a long ball to center field—a standing triple. We won't mention that I booted an easy grounder at third base with the bases loaded. Nevertheless, file Monday night's mother-daughter softball game in the Ws column.

Tuesday morning, my right arm fell off at the shoulder. This would not normally be a problem, but I'm also dragging my left leg behind me because a previously undiscovered leg muscle tore free of its mooring and rolled high up into the left em buttock, like a cheap window shade.

Did I say we won?

Eagle eye em

I had a boon weekend as far as strange and fortuitous sightings. 

1. While gardening Sat evening a storm suddenly blew in, and I was forced to quickly gather up the garden tools. But before I ran inside, my eye was caught by the lone remaining big tree left out on the island in the middle of the river--a rowdy wind cell had caught ahold of it and was bending it this way and that way with great force, and then I heard a CRACK! like a quick thunderclap and it slowly and noisely rumbled its way down to the ground. How often are you looking right at a big tree when it decides to lie down? Hope it's not an omen.

2. While bike-riding on Monday I came upon a Turkey Buzzard while it ate the eyeballs out of the carcass of a mangled deer on the side of the road. Turkey Buzzards have much to do with your basic life-death-decay-life cycle, yet I've never seen one on the ground. I've seen them up in the air--they have the wing span of a Piper Cub. But on the ground, these things are HUGE. And frightening. I came up over a rise and found myself face to face with it--it slowly flapped once with its enormous wings and then glided just above my head and alongside me as I tootled along on my Schwinn. I did not appreciate the escort. Hope it's not an omen.

3. Also while on my Monday bike ride, I found some poor 20-year-old kid's discarded wallet, sans cash along the side of the road. It held the most elderly and decrepit-looking package of rolling papers (E-Z Widers) that I've ever seen. No omens there. 

4. While dining out Tues night with my family I was gazing lovingly into Joey's eyes when suddenly his nose started spurting bright red blood. He bled like a hemophiliac with hypertension, and I think we used an entire roll of the restaurant's paper towels to mop it up. He naturally was quite frightened by it and did do a bit of crying. The waitress earned her tip that night. Can't think what that might be an omen for.

Health nut em

The 2-part high-low diet is starting to yield results--3 weeks of high fiber meals and low beer intake has resulted in a net loss of 7 lb. Yay! Yup, I'm a regular diet guru.

And as always, part of the em regimen is the regular run. But because I've been pounding up and down the same routes for quite some time now without much, if any, increase in overall fitness and stamina, I decided that as of the running months of April through November, I will extend my distances, cover new ground, expand into new frontiers. Translation--I add a 10 minute loop to whatever route I'm taking that day. But this too will grow and expand, perhaps in direct correlation to the shrinking of the em backside...

In addition to the distances that I'm covering, I'm also working on other aspects of my running. It's my theory (and this may be stupefyingly obvious to you guys--if so, please excuse) that over time our body gets accustomed to exerting certain muscles in certain situations and at certain--minimal--levels. So even though we're "exercising regularly," our body is busy cutting corners and doing only as much as is required to keep the momentum moving in a forward direction. Consequently, the fitness level remains, at best, static. I've flat-lined. 

One problem is my gait--it's lazy. When I say I chug, I do--movements are minimal: arms are bent at the elbows with hands at hip level where they remain fairly still; pumping legs manage only to keep my feet from getting tangled in the uneven sections of the sidewalk. Back in the day, I used to run with a really good runner--a trained runner--and he gave me some good pointers for improving my running efficiency. But at some point along the way, I had disregarded these pointers in favor of the "going through the motions" type jog. So now I'm returning to my old form--I'm lengthening my stride and as I execute the heel-toe gait, I'm pushing off harder with my toe and kicking my heel up in a more pronounced way, as if to touch the back of my lower leg with my heel. I'm telling you I already notice a difference--I'm moving along at a faster pace without (much) additional effort and this makes it easier to cover more territory. The only thing is this adjustment to my gait takes some concentration to maintain or I fall back into the old slouchy chug. I'll try to remain focused.

So now I'm a kinesiologist too. 

Busy em

I really have to find more time in my day--I have places to go, people to see, books to read, troubles to wipe away, injustices to remedy, wrongs to right, and I simply do not have enough time to do everything and go to work every day.

So as you can see, something's gotta give. Aha--the job! *checks finances. laughs* Ok, let's look elsewhere then.

Saturdays it would seem are wide open. The current schedule:
    8:30--get out of bed
    8:30-10:30--read newspapers
    10:30-11:30--go for a run
    11:30-1:00--read newspapers, pt 2
    1:00-1:30--nap
    1:30-4:00--shop for groceries, shoes
    4:00-6:00--garden
    6:00-7:00--cook din
    7:00-8:30--blog
    8:30-10:00--watch TV
    10:00--8:30--sleep fitfully
As you can see, a very full and productive day.

Let's examine Sundays:
    8:30--awaken
    8:30-10:30--read newspapers
    10:30-11:30--go for a run
    11:30-1:00--read newspapers, pt 2
    1:00-1:30--nap
    1:30-4:00--shop for groceries, shoes
    4:00-6:00--garden
    6:00-7:00--cook din
    7:00-8:30--blog a bit
    8:30-10:00--watch TV
    10:00--6:30--sleep fitfully
Hmmm, similarly jam-packed with important tasks. Righting the Western World will have to wait, at least until I can fight my way out of this rut, which could take some time...

Criminal em

It looked bad. Very bad. She surprised me just as I was withdrawing my hand from the depths of her bag. "Ex! cuseme! Whatareyoutakingfrommy bag?!"

Did I mention that I suffer from vasomotor instability? (No this is not a form of kleptomania occuring in pure fools. It's what you call blushing.) I froze, in mid-air, but my neck followed by my face sprinted out to a bright shade of pink. Hot pink--sweat balls sprung out all over my forehead and upper lip.

I was rendered mute with confusion, incapacitated by embarrassment. The whole reason for my trip to Washington DC this week, my professional quarry as it were, stood next to me at long last. Mere moments ago she was thanking me for attending her organization's big annual governmental affairs and legislation session. And I was strategizing to myself over how best to hit her up for a regular policy/politics column.

I think they should ban give-away briefcases at these meetings. How's a person supposed to tell one from the other?

DC jails aren't so bad though, once the delousing and cavity searches are over.