When The Chips Are Down

Posted on January 25, 2013 by Jill Foer Hirsch

For all my years of eavesdropping in restaurants, turnaround was bound to happen eventually.  I met my friend for dinner last night—we went to Old Ebbitt because they have an appetizer of homemade potato chips topped by generous amounts of bleu cheese. Well, they used to have that appetizer, but now they don’t and I was not a happy camper.

That’s not the point of my tale, but certainly worth a mention.  At any rate, we ended up at one of those tables that’s about 4” from the next table over on either side; in that set-up eavesdropping is amateur hour, not professional, but hey, I’ll show some respect.

I did start by bonding with the couple on one side of the table; I told them I was sliding in the back there and warned them that it was likely that I would either hit one of them and/or spill something on one or both of their laps.  I assured them that whatever I was about to do was completely unintentional, and I would take care of the dry cleaning.  They graciously accepted their fate, and as it turns out I only knocked over a couple of menus and took a corner of the tablecloth with me when I sat down, but I recovered before anything tumbled off the table.  I think my track record is improving.

We proceeded to bond with the gentlemen sitting on the other side of us, and then we all went back to our own business, as if we weren’t sitting in each other’s laps.  My friend commented that I must be excited that next Thursday is my last day, and then goodbye law firm world.  If you hadn’t guessed she happens to be a legal administrator as well.  We travel in packs for our own protection.

A minute or two later the nice man who dodged a bullet when I sat down asked if he heard correctly that I quit my job.  I confirmed.  He raised his glass and made a very sincere toast congratulating me.  I commented that I was pretty excited about moving into something new.  I think my friend was concerned that they didn’t fully appreciate what a big move I was making, so she leaned over and and said knowingly, “we manage law firms.”  Just as a statement in and of itself—as in, she’s not just leaving a job, she’s making a prison break and we hope she makes it out alive and gives the rest of us some hope.  I helpfully added “we try to manage law firms.”

I’m pretty sure these folks were tourists from Oklahoma or something and had no idea what she meant, because they nodded very seriously and said “oh.”  A little banter about whether they enjoyed their entrees as we were getting ready to order, and then back to either side of our invisible wall.  But things would pop up every few minutes and we seamlessly transitioned from 2 of us having dinner to 4 of us having dinner back to 2 of us having dinner. It was kind of sweet.

That couple left and some boring lady sat down and pretended she was in a bubble.  Fine, whatever.  The gentlemen on the other side were still there, and when my friend went to  the restroom I was able to properly focus on their conversation.  One of the guys was saying he thought he was getting a promotion, and the other guy said he was sick of the BS and was getting out of the game entirely.  Time for something new altogether.

I really wanted to congratulate him the way the other folks congratulated me, but they wouldn’t shut up and let me get a word in edgewise.  Annoying.  I finally gave up, and then they decided they should go get drinks and celebrate their good fortune.

It was a fun night, and I loved spending time with my friend, and our new acquaintances, but the bottom line is that Old Ebbitt doesn’t have homemade chips with crumbled bleu cheese anymore.  And there’s nothing fun about that.  I know I said that wasn’t my point, but upon further consideration, it’s pretty important.

 

 

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Need An Opinion? Email Me.

Posted on January 23, 2013 by Jill Foer Hirsch

I have an opinion on absolutely everything, and I’m typically not shy about sharing it.  Sometimes I assume that my opinion is so obviously the “right” opinion that I’m shocked when others disagree.  I guess some people call that close-minded, but in my opinion it definitely is not.

A friend of mine asked me to be on a panel discussion this morning, speaking with a group of vendors about how best to build relationships with their clients.  There were two others on the panel; one a non-profit COO type, and the other a legal administrator, like me.  Except, he wasn’t really at all like me.  He’s been a legal administrator for 25+ years, but does not network at all with other administrators.  In my mind that means he prefers to invent the wheel over and over again instead of calling a colleague or posting on the list serve, asking “how in the hell do you handle this?”, which I do on average 4.2 times a week, and not always on my own behalf.  It is a universal that partners in law firms want to know what everyone else is doing, but certainly not because they care or follow the flock.

More importantly, I don’t think anyone actually gets what I do for a living (although won’t be doing for much longer!) other than a fellow administrator. We speak in shorthand and swap war stories and I guess do what everyone who is bonded by a specific industry does.  Ultimately we’re no different than a group of used car or time share sales people, but we’re better dressed and for the most part classier.  In my opinion, and no offense to anyone out there who makes a living doing either or both of those things.   And at events with open bars, all bets are off on the classier thing.

OK, so maybe he’s just not the networking type.  There’s more.  First, when discussing what not to do, he mentioned that he is “old school” and expects someone to call him Mr. Smith until he invites them to call him Joe.  Ack.  Other than job candidates, I am annoyed when people don’t call me by my first name right out of the gate.  First of all, there is far less chance that someone will call me Mrs. and incur my wrath for being referred to as someone’s property by virtue of that damn “r” in the middle.  If they get it right and call me Ms., I feel like I might be getting scolded by one of those sarcastic school teachers; “Well, well Ms. Foer”  As a side note, if anyone ever let me be a teacher, I would be the queen of comments dripping with sarcasm.  You probably already guessed that about me.

Mr. Smith was a proponent of doing things himself rather than relying on an expert.  As the great Tom Peters preached, “stick to the knitting.”  In today’s business jargon we call that a wheelhouse, but it will be something different within a month or two.  I know a lot of stuff about a lot of stuff, but I also know what I don’t know.  Mr. Smith seemed to feel that he had some very clever tactical moves by doing things himself.  To use one example, when negotiating a new lease for my firm, I let our broker take the lead.  That’s what she does for a living, and she kicks butt.  While I agree that negotiating can be a lot of fun and in my opinion I can be incredibly impressive, that’s not my “knitting.”

As if all that wasn’t enough, we got to the call v. email question.  Obviously, email is the best approach.  Calls are annoying; I’m usually in the middle of something and I can’t focus.  99% of the time I let it roll into voice mail and then get annoyed sitting through a long message with no information whatsoever.  I don’t have to listen to someone garble their own name and number to the point that I just give up and delete.  On the off chance someone calls who catches my interest, why am I sitting here taking notes instead of you writing it all up and sending it to me, so I can forward to others and if absolutely necessary claim the work as my own and look smart?  So you can already guess that Mr. Smith enjoys the personal touch of a phone call rather than an impersonal email.  It’s almost like he didn’t understand that impersonal is really the way to go.

Anyway, I’m cool as a cucumber and never let my reactions show on my face or express exactly what I’m thinking through exaggerated body language.  Nope, I’m pretty hard to read.  So I didn’t raise my eyebrows, or silently mouth “wow” or say “huh, that’s different.”  Well, not that much.  As best as I can recall I never even said “okey dokey then!” in a way that indicates I think the other person is crazy. I did have my fair share of “isn’t that interesting—I feel completely differently.”

As always, I open up comments to anyone who agrees with my correct opinion.  If you have a wrong opinion, shoot me an email.  I’m more than happy to explain why I’m right.  And if you don’t have an opinion on something, I’m delighted to let you know what you should believe.

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I Accept!

Posted on January 21, 2013 by Jill Foer Hirsch

I am new to this blogging community; my dear friend Mimi inspired me with her blog http://waitingforthekarmatruck.com, which always makes me laugh, cry, shake my head yes, and sometimes do all of the above at the same time.  She is pure genius.

I am very flattered that Mimi nominated me for the Super Sweet Blogging Award.

super-sweet-blogging-award

Even as I accept this award I am both proud and astonished.  No one has ever accused me of being “sweet.”  So I will have to assume that in this case “sweet” is a broader term that encompasses my wacky ways.

I was most excited at the prospect of making a long, intensely meaningful acceptance speech, but I guess everyone has had enough of that today, so I will (for once) dutifully follow the instructions issued to me with the award:

Thank the person who nominated you.

Thank you Mimi, for this and so much more!

Answer the following questions:

1.  Cookies or cake?

Too hard to choose-a cake made of cookies I suppose

2.  Chocolate or vanilla

I don’t understand this question or have any knowledge of something called “vanilla”

3.  What is your favorite sweet treat, cheesecake or frozen yogurt?

Cheesecake, with a frozen yogurt chaser

4.  When do you crave sweet things most?

Anytime I am not in a coma

5.  If you had a sweet nickname, what would it be?

This is a tough one; as noted above “sweet” is not the first thing that pops into anyone’s mind when they hear my name…but I guess I’d go with a chocolate cupcake; it’s short, squat, dense and makes a mess, but everyone loves it.

I’ll open it up to you, readers, to come up with something better…but be nice.

Mimi tells me the next step is to pay it forward to a baker’s dozen, but this is embarrassing…right now Mimi’s blog is the only one I read.  I trust Mimi’s picks so I’m going to go with hers and those she selected, but I’m looking forward to soon having the time to read all of these!

waitingforthekarmatruck.com

makebelieveboutique.com

renardmoreau.wordpress.com

jmgoyder.com

thejolynproject.com

russtowne.com

drbillwooten.com

thehandwrittenlife.wordpress.com

almostspring.com

ivonprefontaine.com

life-with-the-topdown.com

throughmylens365.wordpress.com

gotoppm.com

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A House Divided

Posted on January 20, 2013 by Jill Foer Hirsch

A lovely young man I know has been dating a lovely young woman.  Everything is perfect except…The Mother.  The Mother lives with the young man and will not budge.  Back when the young man was a very young man he and The Mother bought a home together.  Seemed like a good idea at the time.  But somewhere along the way The Mother simply stopped paying bills.  So the young man has been paying the mortgage, the electricity bill, buying groceries, etc.  He pays for The Mother’s cell phone and car.

You might be thinking this is a sweet, helpless old woman.  No.  She is all of 52 years old, in good health, and has a job.  Although the job doesn’t pay terribly well, it is perfectly suited to her personality.  She is a School Bus Screamer.  There’s the School Bus Driver, who sits behind the wheel, and then The Screamer, who is paid to yell at the kids and call them nasty names every day.  In this The Mother revels.

The young man has politely and repeatedly asked The Mother to move out—and is even searching for a nice apartment and putting down the security deposit and first three month’s rent.  But The Mother simply refuses to move out, and since her name is on the mortgage the young man has few options for forcing her out.  It is clear that the young man needs to use some creative problem solving.

First of all, she seems to be lonely.  Sign her up at needsomebodytolove.com and then fabricate a dreamy new love interest.  For the same cost of keeping her in house and home, pay off some guy to sweep her off her feet and take her somewhere far, far, far away.  It’s bold, it’s romantic, and it just might work!

How about finding her a better paying, more appealing job in another city?  For all we know the MTA is looking for bus and subway screamers right now.  They don’t like to rely on just random crazy people for entertainment-they want to have someone there and at the ready to take over if there is a lull.  Turns out this is a good paying union job with full benefits.

Of course, the young man can always go old school with a haunted house.  Simply rig the house to make weird creaking noises for a while.  Then ease in to doors and windows opening and closing all on their own.  Next, murmuring voices from the attic.  With modern electronics, all things are possible.    If The Mother is still being stubborn, it’s time to slip her a mickey and send in a shadowy figure dressed like the grim reaper.

I’m eager to see which approach the young man chooses, and how it all turns out.  And don’t mind the woman screaming in the background.  She’s just fine, honest.

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A Tale Of Passion, Drama And Janet Reno

Posted on January 18, 2013 by Jill Foer Hirsch

Families, each and every one of them, are crazy. Believe me, I have plenty of stories about my family, but it’s so much fun to pick on someone else’s family that I have to indulge.

My friend, let’s call him Bill, has great tales that rival any Lifetime made-for-TV movies.  Having seen pictures of each family member, here’s how I would cast the movie:

Kathy Bates as Mom:  This pillar-of-society woman once held a position of power and influence, but now she’s on the prowl looking for a plot of land to build a “compound” of some sorts.

Omar Sharif as Dad:  An old school Lebanese gentleman with a passion for unbuttoned Hawaiian shirts and a weakness for flashy women

Meredith Baxter Birney (before she ditched Birney) as Stepmom:  Above referenced flashy woman, with a passion for Jello shots and men wearing unbuttoned Hawaiian shirts

Kristy McNichol as Daughter:  A beautiful, sweet young woman with a passion for other beautiful young women and a specific dislike of men wearing Hawaiian shirts, unbuttoned or otherwise, and their drunk flashy wives

Dean Cain as Son:  Once a wise-cracking juvenile delinquent with a penchant for electronics, now a wise-cracking adult with a passion for men not wearing shirts and a rarely diagnosed Big Daddy/Sugar Daddy disorder

Alice Ghostly (as Bernice from Designing Women) as Elderly Aunt:  Dad’s sister.  A sweet but nutso old lady with a passion for church and a love-but-don’t-like relationship with her brother; sadly, battling a fatal illness

Dog as Neurotic Dog:  Once just a neurotic puppy, now a full grown Neurotic Dog with a passion for fire hydrants, slippers and rabbits

Their story is filled with passion and pathos, drama and melodrama, hummus and pita bread.

Opening Scene: Dad, smelling of bad hummus and flashy women,  packing to leave his family.  Mom wild-eyed and chain smoking, whispering sweet nothings to her lover on the other end of the phone. Daughter, prophetically, watching Kristy McNichol movies. Son, staring dreamily at a poster of David Cassidy and fiddling with a couple of Radio Shack gadgets that allow him to record Mom’s lustful conversations.

Scene II: Thanksgiving dinner, Mom throws a turkey because Son is gay and refuses to cease and desist (see When Turkeys Fly, November 21); Mom discovers daughter is a lesbian and lobs a rather lovely stuffed goose. Mom realizes she is repressing her own attraction to women and throws a rack of lamb.  Neurotic Dog confesses he is attracted to rabbits and wishes he was born with floppy ears and a cotton tail and Mom throws a side of beef.  Dad long gone, no longer dodging flying proteins.

Scene III:  Mom in Appalachians looking for land to build her compound.  She has heavy artillery and 300 rounds of ammo for personal protection.  Dream sequence, Mom sees the perfect patch of land but then sees Janet Reno, with really heavy artillery and 600 rounds of ammo to enforce the ideals of justice.  Dream skips ahead and Mom is making out with Janet Reno.  Mom wakes up slightly uncomfortable.  Janet Reno wakes up smelling of gun powder and cheap perfume.  Neurotic Dog wakes up wishing he was a rabbit.

Scene IV:   Dad sitting in high quality La-Z-Boy in Elderly Aunt’s living room.  Dad tries to take the chair with him but fatally ill Elderly Aunt tackles him and shoos him out the door.  Dad, face in the window, asks Elderly Aunt if he can have chair when she dies.  Elderly Aunt pulls curtains and sends Dad letter-she is leaving all money and La-Z-Boy to  church.

Scene V:  Dad bedridden after back surgery, popping narcotics.  Stepmom falling down drunk; Dad and Stepmom get into a vicious argument.  Stepmom in kitchen, the sound of Dad screaming from upstairs.  Stepmom grabs 7 cans of Progresso soup and can opener, deposits them on Dad’s nightstand, disappears for a week.  Dad both angry and bewildered, pops more pills and learns to love minestrone.

Final Scene:  Mom, sitting in the dark with a loaded gun.  Shadowy tall odd-shaped figure in doorway, suggestive of Janet Reno.  Dad, lying in bed in dirty Hawaiian shirt; 7 empty soup cans on nightstand.  Stepmom, drunk and half naked dances on table at biker bar.  Daughter dresses Neurotic Dog in leotard, takes him to yoga class then acupuncture treatment.  Neurotic Dog prays hot rabbit down the street doesn’t see him.  Son with Elderly Aunt, bolts La-Z-Boy to floor.

The End?  Not by a long shot.

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Our Friends Across The Pond?

Posted on January 16, 2013 by Jill Foer Hirsch

Let’s get it straight from the outset that I love the British people.  Don’t you?  I mean, they always seem pretty classy, they think everything is brilliant, and they not only know how to make scones, they know how to make them so dry that thick layers of jam and something called clotted cream are the only things that make them edible.  Their word for dessert is “pudding,” which is a generally awesome word.  They made it safe for the rest of the world to noisily slurp tea, and they know a little something about throwing a big fancy wedding.

There’s one thing the Brits do that I find particularly endearing.  Like Jeopardy! contestants, they form all sentences as a question.  Haven’t you noticed?  Rather than stating “it’s a lovely day” Brits will say “Isn’t it a lovely day?” to which someone will respond “Quite, lovely, isn’t it?” to which someone else will respond “Well I certainly think it’s lovely, don’t you?”

This kind of thing will go around and around until everyone in a 5 mile radius has a puzzled look on their face while politely saying “I agree, don’t you?”  I don’t know why the Brits need so much reassurance about whether it is or is not a lovely day.  And frankly, “lovely” is in the eye of the beholder.  So on an 85 degree, 100% humidity day, when someone tells me it’s beautiful outside, I typically respond that it’s disgusting outside; I prefer 65 degrees and a gray-blue sky.  Maybe it’s not a problem for the Brits because they only get 4.26 nice days a year, and anything beats cold and rainy.  Doesn’t it?

It’s not just the weather though; Brits are seemingly insecure about everything.  If they love a book they want to know that you love it too.  If they hated a movie they check with everyone around them to make sure they hated it too.  If they make broad generalizations that Americans make broad generalizations about British culture, they need to know that others agree.

At the onset of the American Revolution, when Paul Revere was riding around announcing “The British are coming!” the British army was saying “We’re on our way then, aren’t we?”  It’s a little known historical fact that the Americans gained independence by doing away with all the uncertainty.  The American soldiers would say “Charge!” whereas the Brits said “Shall we charge now?”

Maybe it’s not insecurity but a ridiculous abundance of manners.  “I do believe we’ll charge that hill now, if you don’t mind too terribly much?”  Maybe it is a form of introspection, or philosophy.  Don’t you think?  Or perhaps you agree that it is the result of a keen intellectual curiosity?

Of course, we will never know the answer, will we?  For now, let’s take a spot of tea, yes?  Would you mind terribly if I asked you to pass the clotted cream?

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Brave Or Stupid?

Posted on January 15, 2013 by Jill Foer Hirsch

You know how sometimes you just close your eyes, jump off a cliff and hope for the best? No? Me either. And yet here I am doing exactly that. The day job is fascinating and all, but it really cuts in to my free time, and there’s so much more I want to do. Like write nonsense in my blog every day, and finish editing my book, as I will very presumptuously refer to it. Technically it hasn’t been published, but I never let minor details stand in the way of my rationalizations.

So I say goodbye to my firm on January 31, and move in to the exciting world of…free-falling I guess. There is a fine line between brave and stupid, and I may well have veered in to the wrong lane here.  Let’s hope that light at the end of the tunnel isn’t a train.

I’m kind of melancholy.  What child didn’t yearn to become a legal administrator one day? I couldn’t wait for the glamour and excitement of a fast paced (read: everything on fire at the same time), busy (read: 14 hour days) and challenging (read: politics and personalities) career. While it’s been more guts than glory, it’s certainly been, well, a good paying job and stuff. And of course completely rewarding and satisfying.

So I know what it’s like to chase a crazy dream and grab it by the horns. Who ever thought a middle class kid growing up in Northern Virginia could really make something of herself? Running with the rough gangs of 1970s Springfield; cruising around on my Schwinn and looking for trouble; anything could have happened.

But I clawed my way to the upper range of the middle, and then sort of the lower to mid range of the top, and here I find myself, at a crossroads.  You know that whole expression “do what you love, and the money will follow?”  That sure as hell better be more than a nice turn of phrase.  I have passion, I have hidden talents (really well hidden), I have the enthusiasm and energy to start something new…and I have a mortgage.

The good news is I will have lots of time to focus on my blog.  The bad news is it might get a little whinier, and I’ll still expect you to read every word.  Stay tuned my friends, and remember tipping is much appreciated.

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Rated EAYA for Early Afternoon Young Adult

Posted on January 13, 2013 by Jill Foer Hirsch

I get my day going every morning with the 70s station.  It’s just classic; everyone from Elton John to Olivia Newton- John (no relation) to John Denver.  But the morning music has recently become mourning music.  At 6:30 in the morning, for example, they were playing Nights in White Satin.  The fact that the band is the Moody Blues and the song is sort of eerie; not to mention that it has night in its title, clearly indicates that it is a song only to be played between the hours of 1:00AM and 4:30AM.  It’s for sure not a song that’s going to motivate you to get out of bed.

It is with a heavy heart that I stumble into the shower.  Feeling refreshed, I’m ready for the really loud raucous rock and roll music that I love.  Instead I hear Roberta Flack crooning Killing Me Softly.  Look, I absolutely love that song; surely one of the most beautiful songs ever, but it is clearly an 11:00PM to 2:00AM kind of song.

I’m thinking we could avoid all these problems if we labeled music with the most appropriate listening time.  My morning mix, straying into the 80s, would be more like Van Halen’s Jump and the Rolling Stones’ Start Me Up.  I’d be content with R.E.M. singing Shiny, Happy People with an assist from The B-52s’ Kate Pierson.  I’d enjoy full on B-52s with a blast of Love Shack or Simon & Garfunkel doing Feelin’ Groovy.  Arguably, the best possible morning blast is The Knack singing My Sharona.

There should also be songs labeled safe for the middle of the day (SMOD).  Journey, The Eagles, Billy Joel, and what the hell, maybe a little Paul Simon sans Garfunkel.  The most careful selection of all should be reserved for Getting Ready To Go Out (GRTGO) music; Alanis Morissette, Def Leppard, Guns N’ Roses, Lynrd Skynrd and of course Cyndi Lauper reminding us that Girls Just Wanna Have Fun. 

We probably need a category for Can’t Go Wrong (CGW) for bands like Led Zeppelin, Pink Floyd, The Who or The Talking Heads.  I think Fleetwood Mac and of course my beloved Stevie Nicks would fit in nicely as well.  The key is that even though you can’t go wrong with Pink Floyd in general, you still need to be cautious on song selection.  Wish You Were Here, for example, should only be played between 10:00PM and 5:00AM, whereas Time works from 5:01AM to 9:59PM.  A similar schedule applies to Stairway to Heaven and The Song Remains The Same.  And if I’m going to talk about My Generation, it’s going to be between the hours of 6:42AM and 11:54PM.

The only problem with this labeling system is that it would change for each 10 years a person ages.  In college, “morning” was noon, and getting ready to go out time was 10:00PM.  If you blasted Van Halen at 7:00AM, when I had just gotten to bed, there would be hell to pay.  My former roommate Julie tried a stunt like that and watched in horror as I grew fangs and claws.

So maybe we need an age specific labeling scheme, with MMA for morning, middle-age and MCS for morning, college student.  Plain old MC would indicate music appropriate for morning, for children.  You get the idea.

I guess I better get started.  It’s 10:45PM now and time to break out all my SNM (Sunday Night Music) selections…

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Betty: A Love Story Or Three

Posted on January 12, 2013 by Jill Foer Hirsch

Our dinner with Olivier and family in Paris may have been my most awkward, but there have been some other odd meals.  Let’s see, there was an interesting turn of events last fall while attending a conference in Atlanta.  Some of you may remember a board game called “Mystery Date”.  The board had a big door in the middle where after various trips and turns your very own mystery date would be waiting.

That has very little to do with what I want to tell you, but it was fun to throw it in there.  And I did kind of end up on a mystery date.  Anyway, one evening the DC chapter folks were all meeting in the hotel lobby, which takes quite a few minutes because as soon as the last person you’re waiting for comes down, you realize you’ve lost the first five people who had been milling around.  We finally got our act together and walked over to the restaurant.  I found myself walking with a woman I’d never met; she introduced herself and told me she was from a chapter in Florida.  Huh.  I figured someone invited her along.

I truly don’t remember her name but she seemed like a Betty.  Betty was aggressively over-tanned, sported some pretty big hair, and wore a shade of lipstick that reminded me of Bubble Yum.  But maybe that’s because she was also chomping on gum.  She seemed to be wearing clothing a size or three too small, and heels that were four or six inches too high.  It was a whole lotta look.  But I don’t judge.

We got to the restaurant and what do you know my new BFF Betty had chosen a seat right next to mine.  After we ordered I asked her a couple of polite generic questions, and that was all she needed to launch into the story of her life, which is annoying because clearly everyone was more interested in my life.

Betty’s tale was certainly interesting though.  We started with her living in Idaho or Montana or some other alien place with her high school sweetheart.  They were married for a while but then he got sick and died.  Yes, it’s sad, but whatever, it’s not like I knew the guy.  Although, by the time she was done I could tell you how he liked his coffee and his favorite flavor of ice cream.  But like I said, he’s kind of expired now so I’m probably not going to be fixing him coffee or anything.

Betty pulled herself together and moved to West Dakota or something, where she met man number two.  When she finished that story I knew her second husband preferred tea and frozen yogurt to coffee and ice cream, and that he too had died or left her or jumped off a bridge or something.  Perhaps I could have been more sensitive, but I was nodding off by then.

I saw an opening and turned around to start a conversation with someone else, but it wasn’t long until I was back in her grips.  Okey dokey, husband number 3, which is what, or who I guess, brought her to lovely southern Florida.  I was about to doze off again but realized she was telling me something vaguely interesting.  It turns out she met victim number 3 on the internet.  It was romantic and exciting and between chatting online and talking on the phone their love deepened and developed like a fine wine, or some crap like that.  So she moved to Florida and married him.  Huh?  Yes, they knew they were meant for each other so about a month after meeting him they went ahead and got hitched.

I know I watch a lot of television and have a vivid imagination, but I couldn’t help wondering if he was a serial killer or an ax murderer or just a garden variety scammer.  I said that was a big leap of faith and asked if she had done a background check on him or anything.  So you already know that she didn’t, right?  Then again, didn’t she already have two husbands who vanished?  Maybe he’s the one who should have run a background check.

Either way, right back to awkward-ville with me smiling and nodding my head and feeling like she spoke another language.  The last thing I asked was how she had hooked up with the DC chapter?  Well, she didn’t seem to get the email about her own chapter dinner (there’s a big surprise) and she saw us hanging in the lobby and it seemed like we were having so much fun she decided to join us.  A fully unilateral decision.

I went back to nodding and smiling…seemed like the safest retreat.

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What Goes Up Must Come Down

Posted on January 10, 2013 by Jill Foer Hirsch

Like many others I suppose, right as we start to slide in to Thanksgiving I start anticipating the joys of the holidays.  Before long our neighbors are putting up their lights and Santa pigs and all, and I start to really settle in for a nice season.

Yes, there’s the peace and love and family and all that, but there’s so much more.  I think peace is a nice idea and everything, but it doesn’t necessarily trump the joys of two or three weeks of absolutely no traffic.  On a good day we were getting downtown in 16.5 minutes.  Not that we keep track or try to set a record or anything.

Also, the holidays are a time when nearly everyone eats the same way I do all year-long; a little more of that, a little taste of this, and yes I’m on my 3rd dessert, you wanna make something of it?  For a few short weeks I feel slightly less guilty about having a side of brownie with my cookie.

I also happily anticipate getting a little time off; Christmas, New Year’s and the truly excellent week in between when although I’m working, there are lots fewer people in the office to get on my nerves and constantly disrupt my day.  I’ve already opined on the joys of jeans week, but let’s not forget that’s the icing on the cake.

And then in a snap it’s over.  Traffic is worse than ever, everyone goes on a freakin’ diet and I need to pick up my real clothes from the dry cleaner.  I have no choice but to finally respond to one email after the other that says “Enjoy the holidays and let’s deal with all this in the New Year!” Ugh.  All those things I could push aside for a couple of weeks on the theory that everyone but me is on vacation.  I think it’s only fair that I indulge in some post-holiday blues for a week or so.  But at a certain point, right around now, enough is enough.

And just as I’m snapping out of my blues and back to my perky perky self, there is one thing that keeps haunting me, reminding me of the good times we all just had.  Why is the Santa pig still on display?  Why do people still have their full light display glowing every evening?  Is that flamingo up the street still ice skating?  Everything that seemed so charming a week ago now annoys the hell out of me.

I know there are two schools of thought on this, because of course Dan disagrees completely.  It’s reassuring for us to argue about whether or not the lights are still charming and if they should come down on January 2 or closer to St. Patrick’s day because we obviously need to argue about something or life would be pretty boring.

I’m just ready to move on with my life.  Is it Valentine’s Day yet?  I’m hoping those are some heart-shaped blinking lights I see up ahead.

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