Years ago, I was forced into becoming a professional foodie. My casual dining career suddenly upgraded with the launch of our new All-American bistro and, like most sales and marketing “experts”, I had to cram for finals, or in this case, our grand opening. With stacks upon stacks of Food & Wine issues to peruse, I learned two important facts: Coq Au Vin is French for “your entire day is f**ked” and Dana Cowin is obsessed with Portland, Oregon.
Since then, I’ve finally “mastered” the preparation of Coq Au Vin simply by purchasing a Dutch oven and use of vacation days (the restaurant biz can be brutal). Also, several years and few boyfriends later, I hopped a plane from the Steel City to finally visit Rip City. Continue reading
I am not Richie Cunningham nor do I have a wife named Oprah.(Pop culture reference.) I AM fortysomething and can be fabulous when blessed with enough boredom to shut my laptop and ignore social media alerts. Lately, these blessings are few and far between so I thought why not be even more fabulous and write as much as I read and scroll. I have come to terms that my unused B.A. in Journalism will not make me millions but, what the hell? Those student loan payments have to count for something! Continue reading
The flu kicked my ass. It’s been years since I was sick in bed and not able to move. In my mind, I was immune. Forever.
It hit like a Mack truck. One minute I was on the phone with a colleague discussing my future millions in selling waist bands that burn fat… and the next I am sprawled on the bed cradling my cranium. Hands, arms, and elbows, shooting with pain, wishing for death.
No, I did NOT get a flu shot. It’s not the measles or polio and there is NO CURE. I refuse to trust anything that “prevents” the inevitable. I’m a believer in the theory that too many anti-biotics or anti-whatever the fuck can cause the body to weaken and not put up a fight. I had faith that my trusted superpowers would hold true and fight the “mother effin” germs that had caused the apparent “epidemic” this season. (It’s all over the news but I’ve learned not to trust the media…and the internet…and Match.com. (Blog will follow soon.) Continue reading
It’s been nine hours, five days, and six months since I was employed. June 15th to be exact. It wasn’t a surprise but a shockingly familiar expectation. Morale was down after the company was bought by an even bigger one. Folks were disappearing front of the house and back. Management was invisible and nervous.
I hated it. I hated it because I fucked up, once again. I’m 43 years old and should know better. But a cliche kicked my ass.
Turns out the grass was not greener, fresher, or better. It was turf. Artificial, unfeeling, turf.
I recently read a line from a magazine or online that we live in a disposable time. And, that we will always look for something better. I really wish I wasn’t in such a hurry to find the greener pasture. Didn’t realize I was already, for twelve years, in a field of fucking dreams.
I’m not writing this as a fable or lesson learned. This is a truly selfish and desperate attempt at therapy. It’s also a cheap one since I can’t afford health insurance.
Desperation can really be mother fucker. It hits hard and even harder to idiots like me in denial.
I’ve never been without a job since my freshman year in college. It NEVER took me more than two months to get work. I’m not buying this “the economy is bad” crap anymore. I’m taking it personally.
My resume is stacked with accomplishments and great references. I know people who know people who know people. And, yet, I’m getting nowhere. I’m close to being the perfect employee. Nothing. Known assholes are posting their new gigs. I want to rip their faces off. (I’m drinking way too much Hatorade.)
Consulting. Ha! Starting own business. Double ha! Networking. There’s always insurance and wealth management. And, the inevitable uplifting advice about believing in yourself and educating your mind is sweet but not cheap.
Where’s the love for us hard working morning folks who love the smell of stale coffee and shouting at crappy copy machines?