Family Portrait

Whoa, the moment has finally arrived and the results are in: I am the official loser of my parents 3 kids. It took a photo posted on facebook to arrive at this conclusion (another reason for my love/hate relationship with fb). My sister has 2 kids ... 4 and 2 ... she's 42. I was somewhat sufficiently jealous of that, but always so so happy for her because she wanted kids for a long time, went through immense challenges regarding pregnancy (emotional and otherwise), so when it was finally her turn, I rejoiced. Now, my brother just became a first time dad at the age of 40 ten weeks ago to a little girl. He and his wife just visited my sister and her husband ... and the photos of that visit have surfaced. My sister's two kids and my brother's infant. Everyone is smiling, big hands, little legs, cousin holding baby cousin, cuddling, holding ... the awe of it all ... the pride, the "I present you, My Family" looks on the parents' faces. Taking in the photos, it felt like the first time I saw Titanic: I saw, I cried, I wanted to jump off the bow. My brother and I aren't close, so to see him, a father in photos ... is a little odd, but mostly, I just feel so far removed ... from him, them, that experience. It was the first time for my sister and brother to hang out as parents ... the visit being a definitive recording of a milestone in their lives. They've come full circle ... closed the loop ... have successfully launched into the world of unconditional love, responsibility, and the your-life-is-no-longer-just-about-you-ness of it all. My brother's baby is so (cliche, I know) ... precious. Just two chubby, creased legs and a heavy head. His huge arm cradling her effortlessly, protectively. What a thrill that must be for his wife to see. She is witness to his home stretch of growth, a fuller spectrum of emotions, and his life forever and beyond tied to hers. I don't think I could feel more alienated, more broken, and more alone.

Sick of Me

I might have it all wrong ... the way I think. I was pondering the feeling I'm so terrified of: the feeling that if I don't have a child/become a mother, etc., I will never know the love I have subconciously desired my whole life ... to be relied upon, to be taken seriously. It's so fucked because here I waited all this time to find the kind of relationship I now have, to even feel like I would like to procreate with this person, and once I have the person, he doesn't want to. So, the question now is: will I feel the same kind of love, happiness, fulfillment; as a childless woman? Or, will this be a deathbed regret? Dunno. From what I understand, there is no substitute for the love of/for a child. I get that. I buy it. I mean, yes, I love my mother, I love my dog, but is/can it be the same as the love felt for a life created by my body? They say no. "They" meaning everyone I've heard/read, decided now NOT to hear/read (because it brings up too much pain) ... insists that it is a love you've never known until you experience it. So, how can that be duplicated?? Am I supposed to breed Boston Terriers, or adopt a child from Malawi? Take the helm of a Greenpeace ship and save soon-to-be slaughtered harbor seals? Or pretend that I might have the slightest of impact on my boyfriend's kids? Am I supposed to be an amazing step-mother? Or ... a-hem ... step-girlfriend? (Marriage is about as realistic right now as taking a trip on the Good Ship Lollipop) Oh my God! I'm going to be that volunteering 75 year old woman wearing dark lip liner talking about how awesome Whole Foods is ... because I'll be able to afford it! It will be just me. And a dog ... a small one, because I'll have given up on dogs over 35 pounds ... and a bill from Direct TV. I'll watch Dancing With the Stars and care about who should win American Idol, and how Katie Couric is wearing her stupid pixie on the evening news. Jesus Christ. Everything will be just as I want. What I want, when I want, how I want. Which is the life I've lead for the past twenty years. I don't want to be a mom because I want to be loved, I want to love ... want my life to stop being all about me. I'm sick of me. But for now, I have to continue this sick, co-dependent, unhealthy relationship with this chick I know ... her name is Kimberly.

Hell in Heels

So, I had the interview ... 2 hours and 15 minutes! I was shot, emotionally and physically (only had coffee for breakfast) and was totally exhausted by processing the duality of caring ... and not. I figure for every job offer I've received, I've suffered through at least 5 interviews. So, I busted out my size 8 BeBe pants (I get that a size 8 might not be considered "skinny", but I bought those pants when I was 29!, so fuck off), a proper business shirt covered with a vest and my high heeled business shoes ... cuz it was business time. So, I drove the 40 minutes (the job would be 70 miles round trip) to the building, and checked in. After meeting with HR, I took a computer test. The typing test consisted of like 8 pages! My wrists and fingers were seriously tired. I get the whole typing test thing, but for the love of God, why so many?? After that, there was a computer test, which I thought I'd nail, but once you're actually tested whether or not you're a geek, you realize how much you're NOT! One of the questions asked was about .... yawn ... the information section of a computer. I second guessed myself: is it a processor ... or a hard drive? Processor or hard drive? Hard drive or processor?? I know this! Damn! I felt like a tool. I took for granted how much I knew ... or didn't know ... about computers. Anyway, I guess I passed the test, because HR took me to shadow two positions. After that, I spent one parched, shaky hour on the other side of a sand colored Formica table in front of 2 men. For all of the interviews I've suffered, these words I'm about to utter are un-utterable: they were soooo nice ... super sensitive ( I know ... it was a job interview) and concerned about maintaining the culture of the company ... which I respect. I left the building so thirsty my tongue was heavy as silt, starving- yet nauseous, nerves fried. As a consummate job seeker, I've developed a cell in my brain that keeps me from caring ... from getting excited ... putting the cart before the horse, if you will. It's similar to the part of our stomachs that used to digest bone ... an anatomically, mammalian trait established for one's survival. Call it the job seeker's Darwinian approach. See, cuz I've had too many interviews and read too many consultant articles and tips from the top to be at all hopeful. Here's the truth: employers have made a decision about you within 10 seconds of your arrival; your appearance is the most telling story an employer has to make about you; and if the hiring manager was kicked in the shin by a redhead in 7th grade, I'm fucked.

Tell me some of your strengths

I have a job interview tomorrow. This is good news in this job market and despite how many times I've interviewed over the past 10 years, I'm already nervous. I HATE interviewing. Hate, hate, hate it. Plus I don't like to talk about it because again, when you interview over and over and then don't get the job, you really lose your hope. And honestly, I'm not even sure why I was called for this one. It's a customer service position for a company that specializes in real estate and mortgages and brokers and appraisals and stuff I haven't a clue about. They seem like a really good company and I'm stoked they did call me, but I feel like this is so not my area of expertise. I can produce a newscast for you ... or a documentary on your favorite celeb, but I've been a renter my entire adult life and feel like real estate is a grown up's game. But, I have to do the dog and pony show: do more research on the company, know their history and philosophy, pick out my outfit the night before -- professional casual pants and shirt, preferably not stained, do the hair pulled back thing, and bust out my sensible shoes. God, I HATE this! Eight years ago, I was once again trying to get the hell out of television and I landed an interview to work for an employment agency. I had ... count them ... FOUR interviews!! That's four suits, four pairs of NYLONS, eight firm handshakes and forty-thousand fake smiles! I had to go to stores I loathe like Fileen's Basement and Ross for business attire. I ended up getting the job ... and then getting fired. At least I still have the suits. So, here I go again. And I know you need to interview to get a job, but whyyyyyyy do they make such a big deal out of it? I mean, in the age of no such thing as a lifelong job and so many companies going freelance so they don't have to pay bennies, is the "where do you see yourself in 5 years" question still necessary? Oh, I know them all: what are your strengths/weaknesses, why do you want to work here, how would your previous employer describe you, what management style do you like/dislike, and I love the catch all warm up: So, tell me about yourself. Christ. Okay, my neck is getting tight just typing this.

Take the A Train

I experienced another first today. Another random, so-not-my-former-life experience, due to my dating a dad ... who obviously has friends with kids. Obviously. We're in our forties. The only people without kids are the psychotically selfish, the barren, and the socially inept guy who still lives at home and will only ever truly love "Mother". Even meth addicts, gay couples in their fifties and amputees have kids. But I digress. I went to a jazz recital today. Two of my boyfriend's friend's kids were performing. One sang and one played piano. It was held at a piano store and a local music teacher sets her students up to perform in a nice little room off to the side. We were a little late, and dressed for a beach party, so we sat in the last row. The 13 year old played piano first ... jumped right up there on stage in her darling black ensemble, took a confident bow, and played 2 songs like it was nothing. Then her sister took the stage. She's almost 15 and sang a song from Pocahontas ... "Colors of the Wind", I think it's called. I knew she was nervous ... she's new to performing, but she breathed and was in key and most importantly DID IT! I got teary eyed. I was nervous like a parent ... it was ridiculous. I've only known them for about a year, or so, but I was enthralled by her. I had to remind myself she wasn't my kid, then pondered what it would be like if she was. To see your own child up there ... so proud of them pursuing a musical endeavor. To practice, and then have the balls to get up in front of peers and strangers to perform. I think my chest would burst open. Then again, maybe it's no big deal. Or maybe that feeling wears off the more they perform. Dunno. We sat through what felt like a hundred more performances and then did the congratulations, beaming parents, and eat cupcakes thing. This is where I embarrassed myself. I was standing and talking with the 15 year old ... her parents nearby ... when the music teacher approached with her camera and said she wanted to get another snap, and pointed it at the two of us. I thought it was odd to want a picture of me with one of her students, since she knows I'm not her mother ... and quite honestly, looked homeless. But, I thought, "Oh well", put my arm around 15 year old and started to "cheese". That's when my 15 year old buddy left my side, walked in front of me, and put her arm around her mom to pose with her parents. I was clearly out of the shot. As the music teacher snapped a shot of the three of them, I pretended to be intensely fascinated with sheet music from The Phantom of the Opera. God, I'm such a dick. As if watching 2 hours of other people's children sing and play piano, while sitting next to a bus load of nursing home patients boistrously questioning their Saturday "outing" wasn't enough ... I actually thought I was part of the group for a second. Yeah, it was an innocent incident ... seemingly inconsequential to an observer ... but only because they have no idea how much I want to be in the picture.

7 lbs, 3 oz of Envy

Ok, that's it. I can't take it anymore. I cannot take the baby pictures on facebook. I know that sounds really mean and insensitive and all that and maybe I am. A friend I used to work with a few years back just gave birth to her first and pics from her hospital bed were uploaded before the umbilical cord was cut. And I really like my friend, I truly do, so I'm not trying to be bitchy or judgmental. I'm happy as hell for her. She's supercool and totally deserves. The problem is me: I am a ravenous jealous, premenopausal 41 year old with eggs that at this point are probably more scambled than poached. The nanosecond I lay my eyes on those pics, I'm in a heinously shit mood, I hate my life AND my boyfriend and just want to say fuck it and move to Paris, start a brothel and get really skinny smoking cigarettes, drinking sherry and eating ham. Those pics represent such hope and newness and light. The powerful, yet fragile presence of the newborn and the soft gaze of the mother ... now and forever intertwined for this lifetime. I feel so small as I stare. So weak compared to her strength ... and lacking of a significant responsibility to have, to serve, to live for. I mean, I fucking went skiing today. The woman GAVE BIRTH for God's sakes. Even celebrities, who have reached the pinnacle of their art form ... Oscar winners and platinum album superstars will swear up and down that the truth behind their success, the reason why they get up in the morning ... is for their children. All the money, fame, attention, power ... still cannot come close to the sense of wholeness they feel as parents. I can't imagine anything more powerful. And although I don't really give a shit what Reese Witherspoon says, it's quite a statement when someone who has everything we all want ... is happiest with the one thing we can all have. Well, that's if you have a boyfriend who's willing to procreate with you, or you have enough money for either top-notch sperm, or to adopt a cute little LingLing or Oksana ... all of which, of course, does not describe my current situation. To my friend, I say a huge congratulations. I'm envious as hell, you look gorgeous, he's adorable and all that. Fortunately, she'll be way too busy for the next couple of years to read this blog, which is cool ... sometimes I wish I didn't have time to write it.

Job Fairs Suck

I kept an open mind, put on a nice outfit, actually wore underwear ... and gee, wouldn't you know it: the job fair at the Grand Sierra was a total and utter WASTE OF TIME. I'm a self-proclaimed expert at job hunting. I've had 16 jobs in 10 years. True story. So, I would normally never subject myself to a job fair at a casino in the state with the highest unemployment rate ... I know better. But, annoying people in my life (love ya!) kept telling me about this one because the goddamn news channels kept doing stories on it. The story went something like this: One-thousand jobs will be "up for grabs" at the Silver--Stud-Whatever Ballroom at the Grand Sierra today from 11am until 3pm. The event was put on by a credit union (?) that specializes in banking for gaming employees. I still can't figure that one out. But the news anchors would blab on about how 20 (OMG!) employers would be waiting for us with baited breath and I-9s to fill out. And who were the exclusive employers we lowly, desperate job seekers would have the pleasure of interviewing with? Get this: The fucking Army, and Navy, every crap-can employment/temp agency in the area (Apple One, Hire Dynamics, and Kelly Services) ... oh, and ... casinos!!!!!!!!!!!! Who, just tell you to go on their website and apply online anyway. But my favorite employer of all was the State of Nevada ... whose website states the following: The State has instituted a freeze on hiring along with an approval process to allow for filling positions that have been identified as critical for maintaining State of Nevada government operations. Therefore, only recruitments for positions that have passed the approval process will be posted on this site. I love you, Reno, but you're killing me! And I don't feel sorry for me. I feel for the hundreds of locals who busted their asses to get resumes typed up and printed on a computer at the unemployment office, borrowed a friend's tie or spanx, got someone to watch their kids, rode two busses, and wasted perfectly good Dollar Tree lip gloss on a bunch of bullshit! But who cares if our time is wasted ... we're unemployed. And at this stage in my life, I have more on the job experience than the ass-clown HR clerks sitting behind the bright blue polyester table cloths in their Burlington Coat Factory business casual. I am so bitterella I can't stand it. They're just JOBS. Everyone hates theirs, no one wants to be there, no one is appreciated and we're all underpaid. It's a joke. I interviewed once for a minimum wage, seasonal cashier position a few years ago and the douche Manager actually asked me where I saw myself in 5 years. "Sir," I thought, "the question isn't where do I see myself in 5 years, it's where did I see myself 5 years AGO? And trust me, it wasn't ringing up chap stick ... for you!"