The Last Day

When I first arrived at HRG, I was on crutches, had an IV port implanted in my upper left arm, and was recovering from a badly beaten ego. I was doing two intravenous doses a day. at 90 minutes each, of an antibiotic called Vancomycin, a.k.a. "the antibiotic of last resort." The crutches were so I could keep the weight off my left foot, from which I had just had a piece of bone removed where my doctors believed the source of my MRSA infection was alive and well and having parties in my bone marrow. The medicine was doing its damndest to try to kill the infection, or at the very least, force it to get some sleep. Lastly, the beating to my ego was inflicted by the strain of the past three months of trying to do a 90 hour a week job, please an implacable, insane and ignorant supervisor, and fight off a potentially fatal infection at the same time.

It was January of 2007. I had left my old job on the 6th and started at HRG on the 9th. At first it was just four or five hours a day, answering phones, entering data. Something, my sister told me, that would be easy, just right for me as I struggled to recover from my illness. And it was nice to have something to break up the tedium of watching that IV line leach its half-cure, half-poison into my arm.

Today is my last day at HRG, and while I'm definitely sad about it, it's also good to see how far I've come since that first day back in that sick and scary winter of '07. Since arriving here as a quasi-temp receptionist, I managed to be promoted to director of marketing communications, execute some truly fabulous branding work, build a dozen or so websites, and help a number of local and national not-for-profits do what they do even more successfully.

When I think about how damn sick I was, how long it took for me to get better, how the auto-immune souvenirs of that illness, while still sticking around, are so much better than they were, and above all, how it helped me to realize, through some great colleagues and clients, that my former boss at my old job was pretty much the only person I've ever met who didn't like me or the way I did my work. It is even more fulfilling that in the ensuing three years, she has totally gotten what she deserves. And so have I - I leave HRG with countless friends, the gratitude of my awesome clients, and a real sense of a job well done. Even better than that, I leave with faith in my potential -- that I know wherever I land, I will have a chance to do fulfilling work that is even better, at an even higher level, than the work I did here.

In the time I've spent here, it has allowed me - while still doing some great marketing work, learning new technologies, and seeing what life was like from the for-profit point of view - to take better care of myself, to lose 70 pounds, to handle health challenges, and to figure out what it is I want to do next. While working here, I learned my book would be published. I let go of a horrible person or two. I fulfilled a seven year dream of taking on a larger role at my temple. And I managed to learn that you don't have to stay in bad situations, no matter what sort of noble or faithful reasons you may have for hanging around. If the good in a bad scene is good enough, it will follow you on the path away from the negative and destructive. And if it doesn't, maybe it is really part of the bad.

So as I say so long, farewell, auf wiedersehen, adieu (to you and you and you) to my time here, to the little company that could, and to the sick and shattered person I was when I arrived, I look with faith towards a future where anything can happen. Where even, perhaps, I can make it happen for myself.

The To-Don't List for 5770

Yeah, I know: it's (once again) been a while. But it has been an eventful while. First, I should let you know that all was well that ended well with the dreaded Electric Hemorrhoid Bridesmaid's Dress (tm). Even with the two hotel washcloths stuffed into the bodice after the failure of the adhesive bra (really just a fancy name for ineffective boob-shaped scotch tape), and the fact that I had lost more weight after the final fitting and thus, had way more space in the dress than I thought I'd need, the damn thing didn't look too bad. I submit a photo for your approval here:



Coming back from the wedding (which was wonderful!), however, and coming off a weekend of alcohol-soaked bliss (I put my car away in a Philadelphia parking lot on Thursday night and didn't retrieve it until hungover on Sunday), wasn't so much fun. On my way home that afternoon, I found myself undone by said hangover and an eye infection. Not to mention a tiny incident, which I won't detail here, which sent me into a relative tailspin with regard to a relationship that I once thought was stable and happy and good - it isn't, it wasn't, and it's not likely ever to be. That was enough to put me into meltdown mode, making me in fact wonder how many hours in one lifetime do I have to spend crying in the bathroom on the New Jersey Turnpike. (The Grover Cleveland Service Area, to be specific, seems to be my service area of choice in 2009.)

Little did I know that things were about to get worse. That Wednesday, I was told that my company was eliminating three positions. Mine would be one of them.

So, there I was, finally having achieved many of the things I've been struggling with for years: I'm down 68 pounds, stopped biting my nails, wrote a pretty damn good piece about an incident in my past which has been an issue for some time. There I was, feeling like I was finally me. Like a woman who could even look decent in a pink dress made for a 22 year old. Like I was going to be all right. Like I owned it. And then: G-d laughed.

Now, perhaps I'm overdramatizing the job loss. Certainly I know a lot of people who have been laid off, had their jobs eliminated, etc. But for so long, I really thought I was safe. I thought I was going to beat this recession. But I didn't. Now, I'm a statistic. A statistic who is moving back home with Mom.

After all these years, it's a huge bummer to lose my home - and all of the privileges that go with it. Like making myself a peanut butter and jelly sandwich at 1AM because I feel like it. Watching repeats of Family Guy before bed. Post-midnight phone conversations. And of course, the obvious freedom that comes with not living at home. I've been on my own for more than 17 years and it just feels like part of my life is over. Like I'm in mourning for my independence. To that end, my friend Todd recently asked me that if one is sitting shivah for their sex life, does that mean you cover the mirrors on your ceiling? I know none of it is forever, but it is depressing just the same.

Which leads me to where I am now - while I'm trying to focus on the positive (no rent check every month! getting unemployment! writing another book!) I just feel so angry and worthless and messed up that I don't really know what to do. Out for dinner last Thursday night, upon hearing a joke I realized that it had been so long since I had really laughed or smiled. I'm just mad all the time. Today, after a soon to be former colleague publicly treated me like crap - bascially ordering me to do admin work for her, and figuring she can because I'm no longer worth treating nicely - I heard myself wishing a slow painful death on her. Out loud. Really, this economic instability is a bad thing. I'm not quite sure whom I have become.

Given that we're less than a week out from the Jewish holidays, I think if my personal atonement is going to be worth anything, I have to be more conscious of just how horrid and unpleasant I am these days. I know I have limited patience, and limited resources, and there's a big part of me that just doesn't feel like being nice, and is tired of good things happening to rotten people. So in that vein, here are the things I am hoping I will stop doing, at least in the immediate term:


The To-Don't List

1. Stop wishing a slow and painful death on people I don't like. You know who you are. Besides, I always have books in which to kill them off.
2. Stop coveting Rock Band, the two Remastered Album collections, and all other Beatles products that are out of my budget right now: I'm only making myself miserable.
3. Stop being a bitch in committee meetings. No one wants to be there. Not just me.
4. Stop wishing in vain for a change of heart. Inertia is a cruel mistress.
5. Stop skipping my first dose of metformin. If I didn't need it, the doctor wouldn't have prescribed it.
6. Stop worrying about moving back home. Mom is cool and she loves me. Maybe I will even learn how to share space with someone. It'll be fine.
7. Stop feeling restricted by other people's expectations. Dude, I am almost 40. Old enough to know better.
8. Stop drinking Coke. Even though I'm only drinking it once a week. Metformin does NOT make it OK.
9. Stop wasting time on Facebook, Twitter, etc. I have another book to write. At least one.
10. Stop feeling so awful. Find yourself. Look outside at the sunlight. It is still a beautiful world, full of light and love and friends and chances. I am going to be OK.

Right?

A new year awaits. May we all be inscribed for a better one.

Shana tova u'metuka.

Follia

The MSN Italian to English translation says that the word Follia means 'complete irrationality.' It is also a "feminine" adjective. How perfect that I have actually reached a state of complete irrationality at this point, and all because of a bridesmaid's dress.

Not to belabor the subject, but life is bad enough when you know you're the fat maid and that none of the dresses are going to look that great on you. Let's face it. The bridal industrial complex has an image to sell. I think, when most women come face to face with that image, a fair number of them don't see themselves in it. I know I don't. But even women I know with gorgeous, nothing-to-be-ashamed-of figures fall prey to the lure of perfection. I would love nothing more than to be a perfect woman with a perfect figure for this weekend, but I've got some curves (or, calling a spade a spade, batwings and pooches) that need assistance.

In addition to having my dress literally re-made, because the three-sizes too big version was still too small in the chest, I've had to procure a number of frightening undergarments in order to, shall we say, smooth things out. I've got two different versions of the undercarriage model - one from Spanx and one from Dr. Rey's. The only real difference is that one has an additional giant panty installed in it, and I can certainly see how that would come in handy. I do not make this stuff up. I only report on it.

I have also purchased something called an adhesive bra. I will spare you the details of this monstrosity, except to say that I am unsure of its effectiveness on a hot, humid day in northwest Philadelphia. But I really hope the hotel has an engineer, or at the very least, a mechanic on call. Because it is going to be all jacked up underneath that dress.

Speaking of which...on my way to pick up the Bionic Dress yesterday, having gone through three fittings and seen the original Electric Hemorrhoid transformed into a charming taffeta and pleated chiffon deli meat casing with a ruffled hem and a back bow, I was, shall we say, detained by the Law in New Rochelle. Apparently, even when you're talking on your speakerphone, you can't pick it up to hang up the call. So, I've got my first moving violation. Ever. No points, but a blot on my eternally perfect driving record. And yes, I actually cried in front of the cop, which in addition to making me feel like a complete loser, resulted in me showing up to pick up my dress looking like a cross between a stewed beet and a hot, snotty pot of snuffling shame. This was in addition to having attended a funeral earlier in the day which was so upsetting and unjust that I can't even talk about it. Overall, not a good day.

To top things off, today I called Follia, the White Plains criminal enterprise operating as a bridal salon, to find out where the hell my shawl is since I have to leave in less than 48 hours. Follia called me back to let me know that it arrived. So I trekked down Mamaroneck Avenue, actually thinking sort of lightheartedly about getting a fruit smoothie or a sugar-free cookie at MeMe's, the awesome new bakery across the street. When I arrived, and ascended the stairway to complete irrationality, I was informed that it was going to cost me another $40 (cash only) to get my shawl, due to a so-called "rush charge" that I was never informed about.

Sorry for the bad grammar, I'm just all mad now.

Now, you know and I know that any decent business would give you a heads-up. And that they'd let you know about additional charges at, oh, say, the time of purchase. But no, with less than two days before having to leave for the wedding, this is the story I'm getting. The shawl actually comes packaged like one of those $2 pashminas you get in midtown. And she had it carefully packaged for me in a wrinkled, reused Stop and Shop bag. Yep: stay classy.

So having paid $64 for this piece of fabric, which is necessary for me not only to cover the batwings but also to preserve some small sense of personal modesty as I am not a wearer sleeveless or backless garments due to some religious reasons, it is now going to end up costing $104. For a piece of fabric. Seriously.

At this point, all thoughts of smoothies and cookies had flown out of my head. I was left feeling a hot, sick sense of rage. Rage that was massing red and purple and fuschia behind my eyes. Rage that matches the color of the dress. I had achieved, beyond all expectations, a state of Follia.

So I asked if I could come back with the cash tomorrow. I felt I would need time to gather my thoughts and words, because if I was forced to hand over the money just then, there might have been a homicide. Or at the very least, as my father used to say, a practical demonstration in police brutality.

And that's the story. I have some idea of the telling-off this bridal salon criminal is getting tomorrow. But in all seriousness, only my deep and abiding love for my friend the bride is keeping me sane. Because if I didn't love and respect and cherish my friendship with her so much, I would seriously consider jail to be a viable option this weekend. The honor of standing by her side as she continues her beautiful life journey is really what's kept me going - through the fittings, through the freakshows, through the Follia.

And so, on to Saturday evening. The big mazel. I can't wait.