What’s My Line?

Posted on December 4, 2013 by Jill Foer Hirsch

Despite the fact that I totally love this whole writing thing I’ve been doing, I feel like it’s time for me to get another real job. Not too terribly real; definitely not legal administration, but something with a little structure. There are several reasons for this, not the least of which is that I am a social being not meant to live the lonely writer’s life. I know this about myself because my cats told me, when we were deep in conversation the other day. Let’s just all agree that I need to get out more.

So I have started browsing job postings, and what I’ve discovered is that I don’t know anything about the great big world outside of legal. There are entire careers I’d never heard of; I recently came across an ad for, and you know I couldn’t make this up, a Scrum Master. The listing read:

Prepare for and facilitate daily scrum meetings, biweekly sprint planning, review, retrospective, backlog grooming meetings, and planning poker sessions with technical team

This is 110% true. That is the job description. I don’t know what daily scrum meetings consist of, but if they have coffee and donuts at the meetings, I feel certain I can ease my way in. As to sprint planning, backlog grooming, and poker sessions…I have no clue at all.

Always curious as a cat, I did feel compelled to look up Scrum Master and discovered if I really want to be taken seriously in the glamorous world of, uh, Scrumming, I need to become a CSM; Certified ScrumMaster. I mean, this Scrum business is serious, check it out:

scrum

I read the whole first page of the website, and the explanation of Scrum is as inscrutable as, well, Scrum.

If Scrum is not your thing, there is also something called Ruby-on-Rails (ROR for those in the know), or you could be a Sharepoint Administrator, or a Social Media Manager. I’ve also begun to decipher certain code that runs rampant in job ads. For example, the longer the title and the more detailed the job description, the less likely it is that there’s an actual job available. I think it’s mostly to prove that they couldn’t possibly hire someone because that person doesn’t exist. When an ad says they are looking for someone dynamic who can grow with the organization, that is shorthand for we can’t pay you, but we might be able to someday. And you know, I’ve already got that job.

I like job ads that go on and on and really say nothing. Why would you put “looking for someone intelligent” in a job posting? Presumably, stupid people don’t know they’re stupid, so they’re not going to read that and say darn, I guess I’m not qualified. Acronyms are also a problem. Not everyone is living in the same little bubble. Let’s say this came up on a game show of some kind (one I’d like to host): You are charged with managing the TI and RLS for the OID across DGs and throughout the life cycle. What’s That Job? It would have to at least be multiple choice for anyone to even have a chance.

The bottom line is that I am much clearer on what I don’t want to do than what I want to do. But I might go ahead and become a CSM, just so that when someone asks me what I do, I can say “I, my friend, am a Certified Scrum Master.”

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A Thanksgivukkah To Remember

Posted on December 2, 2013 by Jill Foer Hirsch

This was a landmark year for my family, so earth-shattering that I felt compelled to make awkward sentences that rhyme!

‘Twas the month before “The Holidays” and both brother and sister

Looked at the calendar and said wait a minute, mister!

What did their bleary eyes see?

This November, could it be?

The day designated for giving thanks

Was the first day of Hanukkah, noted the cranks.

How could there be stuffing and turkey?

When they should be eating potato latkes you see!

Oh brother said sister, it has to be

You have no choice but to leave Hanukkah to me!

And all through the family were aahs and oohs

She doesn’t know how to make latkes for you

Maybe she doesn’t even have a menorah?

Please said her mother, don’t give it a kenahora!

And so they made plans that fateful year

To change up everything they held dear

Thanksgiving went off as usual without a hitch

But now Hanukkah had to be conjured by that…witch!

All day long, potatoes she did grate

And all that evening, latkes they ate

With bagels and applesauce and sour cream

Until the brother and his son thought it was a dream

For here they were celebrating Hanukkah away

But they were still stuck making latkes all day!

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My Thanksgiving Dream Come True

Posted on November 27, 2013 by Jill Foer Hirsch

I know that according to Blog Law I should be writing something meaningful about Thanksgiving, and all the things for which I am grateful. And I am by all means grateful for my charmed life. Of course I would be most thankful if my family members engage in antics that give me solid blog material. I live for something wacky to happen so I can write about it.

I think that rigorous political debate around the dinner table is the hallmark of civilized society, and is certainly alive and well in my family. By “rigorous political debate” I mean being reduced to spouting half-truths and name calling. That’s what I call fun! And that’s why I can’t help but love this particular marketing piece I received from the DNC today:

This time of year, the only thing more annoying than holiday traffic is an awkward conversation with family about politics.

dnc

Don’t get me wrong — I love the Republicans in my life. But nothing ruins a slice of pecan pie faster than talking through immigration reform with a cousin who spends too much time listening to Rush Limbaugh.

That’s why we’re launching YourRepublicanUncle.com. And if you want to make sure that the political debates around your dinner table this Thanksgiving stay tethered to reality, you should check it out.

Regardless of your political persuasion, whether you are the lesser of two evils a Democrat, delusional a Republican, or even having a psychotic break a member of the Tea Party, you have to appreciate an absolutely brilliant marketing campaign. You have to. Those are the rules.

So in addition to being grateful for good health, a wonderful husband, a loving family, amazing friends, four beautiful cats, and all that other crap I’m supposed to be thinking about right now, I am astoundingly grateful for the intern Senior Strategist who came up with this idea. The website has many great tidbits from which to choose, but I am particularly fond of this one:

climate

Because your Republican uncle no doubt went to the School of Don’t Blow Smoke Up My Ass, and harbors a vague suspicion of scientists and all their so-called proven facts.

Wishing everyone a Happy Thanksgiving, and to my closest family and friends, please, please do something either brilliant or idiotic that my readers might enjoy.

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Feelin’ Hot Hot Hot…And Not Not Not

Posted on November 25, 2013 by Jill Foer Hirsch

I tend to run hot. By that I don’t mean I look sexy completing a marathon, although I guess that could happen in a parallel universe. In a galaxy far, far, far, far away. What I mean is that when most people are chilly, I am warm. I’ve been this way my whole life; as a child my very Jewish mother would bundle me up like an Eskimo when the temperature dipped below 50 degrees, and I would yell “I’m BOILING!” as I tried to squirm out of my coat.

Chemo changed all that. Suddenly I was cold all the time, and I turned into one of those people who always has a sweater. Sweater. To sweat. It’s ironic when you think about it…sort of. But I digress as usual. My point is, I got a little taste of how the other half lives, and I liked it. Who wants to be hot all the time?

The fact is, chemo did all kinds of great things for me; for example I came to realize that I have a perfectly shaped head. It was also supposed to eliminate the symptoms of menopause. But it looks like my luck has run out, because I am absolutely experiencing the dreaded, notorious Hot Flashes. Hot Flashes sounds even sexier than running hot, but trust me, it’s not. I’m sitting around minding my own business when suddenly sweat is pouring off my face. This can happen at any time, in any place.

Normally, when the weather turns cold as it did this weekend, we run our gas fireplace non-stop. It’s very cozy. Various cats sleep on the hearth until they are literally hot to the touch. Nowadays, I’m loving the fire when I’m freezing, but when a Hot Flash hits I feel like I am in hell. Literally. I mean I’m sweating and there are flames and truth be told I’ve generally been a good person, undeserving of an eternity in rings of fire.

hell

OK, it’s true there have been some transgressions, but hey, net net, I still think I come out ahead.

angel2076

Wow. Are digressions another symptom of menopause? Because mine are out of control. The point is that one minute I am freezing and the fire needs to be blazing, and the next minute the fire needs to be turned off immediately. Then there is the question of my electric blanket. Normally, Dan turns it on when he goes to bed so it will be nice and toasty by the time I get upstairs, but nowadays I don’t know if I’ll be freezing or sweating at that point, so it’s always annoying that he either has or has not turned on the electric blanket. Poor Dan.

Of course it always comes back around to the cats, doesn’t it? The cats’ desire to pile on top of me is in inverse proportion to my body temperature. If I’m shivering and cold, there is not a cat to be found. If I’m sweating, all four beasts have an intense need to be on my person. This can result in me waking up with a mottled furry look that is really unattractive. Really. Unattractive.

I guess ultimately this too shall pass. In the meanwhile, I’m dressing in layers.

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I Meant To Do That

Posted on November 22, 2013 by Jill Foer Hirsch

I overheard a quote so good recently that I wrote it down to be sure I wouldn’t forget it. Because honestly, I forget my own name some days. Anyway, a dad was walking with his little one, and I heard the toddler say “uh-oh.” I think we adults must say this a lot without realizing it, because it seems to be every toddler’s first phrase.

So I heard a sweet little voice say “uh-oh,” and then I heard the dad say sternly “It’s not an uh-oh if you do it on purpose.” Yep, just like that, in the middle of the sidewalk, something so profound from a stranger. The dad went on to say “if you throw your toys down, it’s not an uh-oh.”

It made me think, and you know I hate that, but, it couldn’t be helped. Admittedly, the first thing that came to mind is that I would like for every member of the U.S. Congress to really absorb that information. They seem to do a lot of stuff on purpose, like not governing and representing The American People they love to talk about so much, and then wailing (a metaphorical) uh-oh.

I can’t even tell you how many times this quote would have come in handy in my career as a legal administrator. Had I heard it before, I would have had it engraved on a plaque and hung it right next to my flying pigs. So for all the people who mucked things up and disregarded my sage advice and then came crawling back to me asking me to clean up their mess: it’s not an uh-oh if you do it on purpose.

To all the “shoot first and ask questions later” and “it’s better to beg forgiveness than ask permission” people, admittedly including myself at times: it’s not an uh-oh if you do it on purpose.

To those people who do something they shouldn’t and get caught, and then blame the problem on the getting caught part rather than the they shouldn’t have been doing it part: it’s not an uh-oh if you do it on purpose.

I love this quote so much I might have to reconsider getting a tattoo. I might have to run for office using it as my campaign slogan. Bumper stickers and t-shirts at a bare minimum.

The great philosophers of all time. A wise anonymous dad joins your ranks.

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Driving Ms. Wilted Daisy

Posted on November 19, 2013 by Jill Foer Hirsch

Dan and I went through the harrowing experience of buying a new car last week. Harrowing because:

a)      I don’t want a new car

b)      I don’t want a new car payment

c)       I don’t care about cars and couldn’t pick my car out of a line up (like in a parking lot)

d)      All of the above

You picked d) didn’t you? My readers tend to be very clever! Nonetheless, Dan and I are the semi-proud owners of a new Subaru Outback. This presents a number of problems. First of all, I’m known for being both an excellent driver and a “gentle grazer.” That is, I occasionally hit, scrape or sideswipe parked cars, Metro buses, fire hydrants, etc. While I never set out to develop this skill, it has come along quite nicely, and when I’m driving my old beat-up Camry it’s not a big deal if I gently graze a pole that jumped out at me in the middle of a garage. It happens. With a new car, though, I suddenly have to care again.

Second, buying a new car made me feel old. In addition to getting used to a GPS system and having a TV screen in my face on the dashboard (I know, it’s not for watching TV, but still), I now have a back-up camera to contend with. Yes, when I put the car in reverse a camera pops up on my TV screen and shows me the pole that just jumped out at me. Not only that, there are green lines and red lines to show me how close I am to the pole. This will help with the gentle graze situation only if I can watch TV instead of look over my shoulder while backing up like I’ve been doing for 33 years. I guess this is where my addiction to reality TV might actually be useful.

So there’s all that stuff, and then there’s the parking brake. The parking brake is electronic. Rather than stomping my foot on the big old extra pedal when I park on a hill, I now have to study how to use an electronic parking brake. The sales guy spent a good 8 minutes explaining how to use that brake, but I was daydreaming because I didn’t realize he was talking about a feature I use. Anyway, the whole thing seemed pretty silly until I parked on a steep hill yesterday and stared at the piece of equipment that now purports to be my parking brake. Bah.

The car selection itself was partially based on the fact that we are getting old and I have back problems and lowering myself into a regular old car has become increasingly perilous. Dan has knee issues that also demand a higher car. Demand. I’m not even kidding.

Third, I never pay a bit of attention to car commercials or dealerships or what kind of car other people have unless I am in the process of buying a car. It has quickly come to my attention that a Subaru Outback is portrayed as an “active lifestyle” car. In all the commercials, Subaru drivers are doing something called “off-roading” and driving into nature and wearing sports gear and stuff. I myself have a healthy respect for staying on paved, publicly maintained roadways, and just because my car is outside it doesn’t mean that I want to be. I am adept at moving quickly from inside my car to my indoor destination, greatly minimizing the time I spend out in the elements. And by elements I mean anything that isn’t inside. But with my new Outback and probably a dog, I may soon be living this woman’s life. Help.

car3

So even though I will never use it, we now have to buy a kayak and tie it to the roof of the car, to look as if we are Subaru-worthy. We may even need skis and snowboards to keep up the ruse.

car4

Last, but not least, is the color of the new car. I try to avoid the stereotype of women buying cars because the color is pretty or the vanity mirror has lighting that shaves 15 years off the age you are already in denial about. So I really didn’t want to care that the only car with the right features, at the right price, was a color called Tungsten. As it turns out, Tungsten is a beigey, taupey, light brownish sort of color, or as Dan noted admiringly “Awesome! It’s dirt colored!”

car

If you see me on the road, be sure to honk and wave, but only from behind where I can watch you on television. And if it looks like I’m parking on a hill…steer clear.

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Dried Up Pasta And Broken Cream Sauce

Posted on November 16, 2013 by Jill Foer Hirsch

Last weekend we planned to meet a friend for dinner, at a restaurant we’ve been going to for years. We got there and realized the restaurant was gone. Were we in the right place? Yep, it’s gone. But we were here just here a couple of months ago! Old news, it’s gone.

It had been a red and white checked tablecloth old-fashioned Italian restaurant, but in its place was a white tablecloth, dimly lit affair called Water and Wall. I think. Something close to that anyway. Being an open-minded person, I only interrogated the hostess for 10 minutes trying to break her on where she was hiding the old restaurant before deciding it wouldn’t hurt to look at the menu. But it did hurt. The menu was one of those what’s trendy right this minute foodie compilations, with things like pork belly and sweetbreads and quail which we all know is really a pigeon. Definitely nothing for the vegetarian palate, and, well, yuck.

We regrouped with our friend and went to another old-fashioned Italian restaurant that’s been around forever and ever. Manicotti and garlic bread. Happiness. The simple things in life. Our friend found on her iPhone that the other place was still around, it had just moved, and was actually now closer to our house. It was then that she came upon a Yelp restaurant review that was EPIC. I don’t just capitalize whole words for no reason; this was MIND BOGGLING. I feel like it’s my civic duty to share just some of this GEM:

When my girlfriend and I first started our courtship, I took her here for our first date thinking she was going to love it so much that she will stay with me. That was three years ago and we’re still going strong. Basically, this restaurant, and the fact that I’m a firm, yet gentle lover, is the secret of our relationship.

Who doesn’t love a restaurant review that starts off with a summary of the reviewer’s love life? Romeo went on to say that since the restaurant moved, it had turned TRAGIC:

We then ordered our entrées. This is where the sadness set in. My alfredo came out and I knew it was going to be terrible. I bit into it and confirmed my hypothesis. My lady’s entrée was inedible. This was very upsetting. The new location was terrible and we were heartbroken. I fear it is no longer the secret to our relationship, which in turn means my loving skills have probably gone to hell.

So there you have it. A classic love story; those first butterfly-in-the-stomach bites, days of Chianti bottle candles and fake flower arrangements, and the next thing you know the alfredo has gone all goopy and limp.

As we read this aloud over dinner, the enormity of the whole thing really hit us. One little restaurant moves just a couple of miles, and now two soul mates were going to have to go their separate ways. We sniffled a little, you know, in sympathy, but then I realized my manicotti was getting cold, and there’s no point in all of us suffering. Through my grief I was able to finish my meal, but it was super sad.

Don’t be surprised if you see a classified ad that reads “Seeking SWF with a good Italian restaurant nearby. Must value a firm, yet gentle lover and be able to bring my alfredo back to life.” Fare thee well, my sad friend. Fare thee well.

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Arf Or Art? Woof!

Posted on November 13, 2013 by Jill Foer Hirsch

We had the opportunity to once again visit with our favorite artist, Yuri Gorbachev, at our favorite place, The Byrne Gallery. I blogged before about a certain incident that happened with a woman I shall call Dog Lady. Now we all know I love my cats, but Dog Lady absolutely lives for her Dog (yes, when she refers to her dog you just know she’s saying it with a capital D) and also seems to feel that world renowned artist Yuri Gorbachev lives for her Dog.

I thought I’d seen the worst of Dog Lady before…but how wrong I was. This time around, I heard her before I saw her…who else would be talking about Dog racing in the middle of an amazing art show? I managed to steer clear of her at the gallery, but at dinner afterwards, no such luck. Dog Lady plopped right down across from me.

Apparently, Yuri wasn’t going to have much choice of where to sit either, because she stuck to him like white on rice and got him situated next to her. Yuri is very entertaining and dove right in to funny stories about his life and times. For example, let’s suppose that an extremely well-known performer happens to be his neighbor in his West Side NYC apartment. Not really a has-been, but not of the moment either, and famously reclusive. Let’s further suppose that said performer gets lonely and depressed and hangs out in the lobby of the building looking for people to talk to. In that circumstance, when the doorman is fed up with babysitting Ms. Fabulous, he calls Yuri and tells him he is needed in the lobby to help talk her off the ledge.

“Why me?” he asks, and we all nod along knowingly. Who else could it be, when he is so charming and engaging? So in between being an unbelievably successful and talented artist, he takes his turn talking to a depressed actress/recording artist/diva.

In the course of telling the story, Yuri tells us where he lives in NYC, and I made a comment about where I lived in NYC. Dog Lady says to me, without a hint of irony, “Oh, that explains why you’re so aggressive. You’re a New Yorker.” OK, if by “so aggressive” she means politely listening to the guest of honor while scarfing down some delicious eggplant parm, then yes, I guess that’s me. I nicely, and in a completely non-aggressive fashion point out that I lived in NYC for less than a year, and was born and raised here in DC. I got The Look, and possibly a tongue click, it’s hard to say. After that Dog Lady commenced to calling me “New York” when she wanted my attention, which was frequently. I commenced to calling her Dog Lady, and as long as I was being accused of being aggressive, I may have bark-coughed a few times.

So Dog Lady finishes her meal, and despite the fact that Yuri hasn’t been able to touch his food and his plate is growing cold, she shoves her phone in his face and starts showing him endless pictures of Dog. There is talk of commissioning a portrait of Dog.

Yuri creates amazing work like this:

Yuri Gorbachev

Yuri Gorbachev

But apparently what Dog Lady wants him to paint for her is more like this:

Cassius Marcellus Coolidge

Cassius Marcellus Coolidge

Crazy, right? I mean, maybe Dale Chihuly is available to change the bulbs in her chandelier so that Dog has plenty of light.

Dale Chihuly, Naples Museum of Art, Icicle Chandelier, 2000

Dale Chihuly, Naples Museum of Art, Icicle Chandelier, 2000

Whack-a-doodle. But it’s not enough for Dog Lady to pester Yuri non-stop with Dog pictures. She also wants to snap pictures of him. She hands me her phone (although with me being “so aggressive” maybe I just grabbed it out of her hand), and asks/tells me to take a picture of her with Yuri. She tells me three times to hit the little button with the camera on it. Yep, got it. Then she tells me her phone is extremely sensitive (much like Madame Dog, apparently) and I must be careful not to touch anything else. I take the frackin’ picture, and of course, her eyes are closed. Well, you can guess who got yelled at for that.

When she started talking about Dog again, I told her I remember her telling me all about Dog, and that I thought he was tied up right now curing cancer or studying with the Dalai Lama or something. I mean, you want aggressive? Oh, I can give you aggressive with two twists of acerbic wit and a dash of sarcasm. Snap. Dog Lady gave me a Death Stare that rivals only my own, but I didn’t blink.

Trust me, many other antics ensued, but I’ve already rambled on long enough. Besides, I think Lassie re-runs are starting now…

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You Still Love Me. You Really, Really, Really Love Me.

Posted on November 11, 2013 by Jill Foer Hirsch

Sometime in mid-September, people stopped commenting on my blogs. I kept posting, but no one had anything to say. I was sad but figured hey, just keep moving, one foot in front of the other. No one loves me anymore. Sniffle, sniffle (side glance to see if anyone is watching so there’s someone to feel sorry for me).

What an odd phenomenon! I mean, absolutely everyone stopped commenting, all at the same time. Oh boy. This is why you should believe me when I tell you I’m a moron! Did it ever cross my mind that there was a technical issue and comments were being tossed out into cyberspace somewhere? No. As with everything else in life, in my mind it became all about me.  My writing just isn’t as fresh anymore, there are a million blogs better than mine; I am losing readers left and right from sheer boredom. Not that I got carried away or anything. It’s not like I have such a fragile ego…nervous giggle. Still, I forged ahead, bravely blogging about nonsense like always. Nothing in particular to say.

So the other day, Dan casually mentioned that he backed up my blog but can’t get all the lost comments back. They are gone…possibly to float in darkness for all eternity. I said, huh? Dan explained that the spam plug-in, which I used to really love, stopped working mid-September, and just rejected all comments. Oh. Staggering. It wasn’t about me, it was simply a technical issue? The cruel winds of fate once again whispered in my ear, “you’re an idiot, and this is a mind-numbingly bad metaphor.”

Anyway, I’m not sure what any of you possible commenters saw when you hypothetically commented on my crystalline wit and stunning observations about the human condition. I can only guess that you said things like “brilliant” and “what a wit!” and “incredibly insightful!” and “whatchu talkin’ ‘bout Willis?” And all like that.

So, uh, never mind. And thanks for stopping by.

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Fighting Weight

Posted on November 8, 2013 by Jill Foer Hirsch

A recent guest in our home looked at Mrs. Helen Roper sleeping on a chair and asked if she was pregnant. I was taken aback. I said no, she just looks f-a-t in that fur. Helen looked hurt for a minute or two, before dozing off again. That’s exactly what I did the last time someone congratulated me and asked me when I was due. I get it, OK, no more empire waists!

helen

But poor Helen never gets a break. Dan got me a Fudgie the Whale cake for my birthday, and as we were admiring it he pointed out that it bore some resemblance to Helen, in its whale-like perspective. I covered her furry little ears so she wouldn’t get her feelings hurt.

Janet inspecting the cake for quality assurance

Janet inspecting the cake for quality assurance

We had little sugar replicas of our kitties on our anniversary cake, and I can’t tell you how many people remarked that the sugar Helen seemed slimmer than the real Helen. I can only be grateful that Helen wasn’t around to overhear any of those comments, and she doesn’t read this blog.

Helen, Jack, Janet, Chrissy

Helen, Jack, Janet, Chrissy

We hear a lot about bullying these days. Bullies at school, bullies at work. But what about cat bullies? I’m worried about Helen’s self-esteem and body image. She was so distraught about all this I was worried about a hunger strike, but thank goodness she did manage to waddle over to her food dish for a little sustenance.

I feel guilty about the whole thing because if we’re totally honest, Helen gets this from my side of the family. I mean, she and I are both…big-boned and we both retain a lot of water. Like gallons and gallons. To be totally honest, Janet has also put on a pound or two, and I noticed her fur is a little tight around the middle, but I think she still feels good about herself. I’m hoping no one says anything stupid in front of her and makes her feel self-conscious.

Dan, Jack and Chrissy maintain their svelte figures, but they try not to gloat. Can’t we all try to be a little kinder today?

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