Ho Ho Haiku
"Shopping-mall Santa"
Seems resume-worthy, but
I am a short girl.
Wednesday, December 22, 2010
Tuesday, December 21, 2010
It's a girl!!
The Journal of Unemployment Studies is proud to announce that it is now a book. More importantly, it has an ISBN: 978-0-557-53508-8. For a person who spent 30 years working in a book company, there is perhaps no greater thrill than to have purchased an ISBN. An ISBN of one's own! Unbelievable!
This ISBN does not, however, do anything yet. Well, maybe it does, but since it doesn't do anything on Amazon, it is a bit of an ISBN-falling-in-the-forest.
Ostensibly, in 6 to 8 weeks, it WILL be on Amazon. For now, it is on Lulu (http://www.lulu.com/).
I loved having the blog, but it seems somehow foolish to have the blog displaying the entire contents of the book. So I've left the Ionic Hairdryer Study, some pictures, and a few favorites. (I left Myth for Paul, because he liked it.) Also, the book has an honor roll in the back, listing way over 200 people who helped me out. If you think you are on the honor roll - and chances are, if you ever read the blog, you ARE on the honor roll - drop me a line, and I'll send you a book. It's the least I can do. No, really. (If you aren't on the honor roll, buy a copy, and give it to an unemployed friend. It would be a great kindness.)
Thanks!
This ISBN does not, however, do anything yet. Well, maybe it does, but since it doesn't do anything on Amazon, it is a bit of an ISBN-falling-in-the-forest.
Ostensibly, in 6 to 8 weeks, it WILL be on Amazon. For now, it is on Lulu (http://www.lulu.com/).
I loved having the blog, but it seems somehow foolish to have the blog displaying the entire contents of the book. So I've left the Ionic Hairdryer Study, some pictures, and a few favorites. (I left Myth for Paul, because he liked it.) Also, the book has an honor roll in the back, listing way over 200 people who helped me out. If you think you are on the honor roll - and chances are, if you ever read the blog, you ARE on the honor roll - drop me a line, and I'll send you a book. It's the least I can do. No, really. (If you aren't on the honor roll, buy a copy, and give it to an unemployed friend. It would be a great kindness.)
Thanks!
Sunday, July 4, 2010
Theme song under credits
Cue the Chiffons! They're gonna want me for a backup singer!
(Revised words below. Link to the original, which will really make your day, is at the top of the column on the left, above the two spirits/two people picture. If that doesn't work, here's another way to get there.)
wwww.youtube.com/watch?v=J8LmTaVrPl8
One Fine Day:
One fine day,
You'll look at me,
And you will know our love was
Meant to be.
One fine day,
You're gonna want me for your
(fill in the blank - your desired job title here).
The doors I longed for
Will open wide,
And you'll be glad to have me
Right down the hall!
One fine day,
You're gonna want me for your
(synonyms for your desired job title).
Though I know you're the
Kind of workplace
That only wants to explore options....
I'll be waiting and
Someday, darling,
You'll come to me when you
Want to Try One of Them Out!
One fine day,
We'll meet once more,
And you will want me like you
Never did before!
One fine day,
You're gonna want me for your COLLEAGUE!
(Shoo be doo be doo be doo be dooo wop BOP!
Shoo be doo be doo be doo be dooo wop BOP!
Saxophone solo!)
One fine day,
You're gonna want me for your COLLEAGUE.
You're gonna want me for your
One fine day,
You're gonna want me for your COLLEAGUE
(Fade out....)
(Revised words below. Link to the original, which will really make your day, is at the top of the column on the left, above the two spirits/two people picture. If that doesn't work, here's another way to get there.)
wwww.youtube.com/watch?v=J8LmTaVrPl8
One Fine Day:
One fine day,
You'll look at me,
And you will know our love was
Meant to be.
One fine day,
You're gonna want me for your
(fill in the blank - your desired job title here).
The doors I longed for
Will open wide,
And you'll be glad to have me
Right down the hall!
One fine day,
You're gonna want me for your
(synonyms for your desired job title).
Though I know you're the
Kind of workplace
That only wants to explore options....
I'll be waiting and
Someday, darling,
You'll come to me when you
Want to Try One of Them Out!
One fine day,
We'll meet once more,
And you will want me like you
Never did before!
One fine day,
You're gonna want me for your COLLEAGUE!
(Shoo be doo be doo be doo be dooo wop BOP!
Shoo be doo be doo be doo be dooo wop BOP!
Saxophone solo!)
One fine day,
You're gonna want me for your COLLEAGUE.
You're gonna want me for your
One fine day,
You're gonna want me for your COLLEAGUE
(Fade out....)
Monday, April 19, 2010
Where You Sit Is Where You Stand (And Wag) Haiku
When I'm back to work -
When I get up, shower, leave -
The dog will be sad.
When I get up, shower, leave -
The dog will be sad.
Friday, April 16, 2010
Hire Him
This guy has posted a bunch of flyers all the way up a local phone pole which also has a giant DEAD END sign on it. But if I get the DEAD END sign and the flyers, it's a really ugly shot.
How do I know he's a guy? If you check out the flyers, there's a url. He's a graphic artist with a lot of talent (and a lot of prominent clients). So the DEAD END thing is just a visual joke, and it appears he's doing quite well.
Sunday, April 4, 2010
Myth
On Friday, I had an informational interview at a prestigious local private college. It was a miserable day, with slashing rain and hail, but I left with so much extra time that I was able to stop near the college, have a cup of coffee, and mentally prepare. Then I drove over and discovered, when it was time to buy a parking permit, that my purse was left at the coffee shop.
Oops. Back, grab purse, back to college, park blocks from where the permits are sold, never mind, risk the ticket because being late to an informational is rude, race all the way across campus through the rain and hail to the President's office, drippping and bedraggled but still, miraculously, on time.
And the President is grace personified - finds a spot to hang my dripping coat, seats me in a big brocade chair in front of her fireplace, which is merrily dancing away, offers me tea, and spends an hour helping me imagine how I might serve higher ed. The President and I have two friends in common, which is how I have managed to meet her, but I don't deserve this luxury, this kindness, and all this time. It's lovely. It's the hidden treasure of job-hunting - sit in beautiful offices and talk to fascinating people about what they do - and this time there's a fireplace.
When I left, it was 11:30, and I realized if I tried, I could make it to a noon Good Friday service at my church. Why not? I raced back through the rain and hail, all warm on the inside, and drove across town.
Four blocks from the church, I was lined up to make a left in an intersection, and on the sidewalk was a man holding a cardboard sign. He was wet, dirty, and no doubt very cold, and his streetcorner misery in the weather was far from my residual fireplace warmth, or even just my dry car. I felt sad, and guilty, and unfairly lucky. And then there was his baffling sign, which read, "MYTH."
I had to think about that. The sign had not always said "MYTH." It had once been bigger. In the rain, the carboard was disintegrating: the bottom had fallen off, as had the sides. There was part of a letter buried beneath each of his hands. At some point there'd been a word with "MYTH" in the middle of it.
I couldn't think of one.
I made my turn, and got to church. I lacerated myself as a lousy Samaritan, in the bitter certainty that Jesus had been pretty darned explicit about not wanting anyone to drive past a cold, wet, poor man in order to go to church. I realized I'd misread the first letter. The sign had once said: ANYTHING.
Oops. Back, grab purse, back to college, park blocks from where the permits are sold, never mind, risk the ticket because being late to an informational is rude, race all the way across campus through the rain and hail to the President's office, drippping and bedraggled but still, miraculously, on time.
And the President is grace personified - finds a spot to hang my dripping coat, seats me in a big brocade chair in front of her fireplace, which is merrily dancing away, offers me tea, and spends an hour helping me imagine how I might serve higher ed. The President and I have two friends in common, which is how I have managed to meet her, but I don't deserve this luxury, this kindness, and all this time. It's lovely. It's the hidden treasure of job-hunting - sit in beautiful offices and talk to fascinating people about what they do - and this time there's a fireplace.
When I left, it was 11:30, and I realized if I tried, I could make it to a noon Good Friday service at my church. Why not? I raced back through the rain and hail, all warm on the inside, and drove across town.
Four blocks from the church, I was lined up to make a left in an intersection, and on the sidewalk was a man holding a cardboard sign. He was wet, dirty, and no doubt very cold, and his streetcorner misery in the weather was far from my residual fireplace warmth, or even just my dry car. I felt sad, and guilty, and unfairly lucky. And then there was his baffling sign, which read, "MYTH."
I had to think about that. The sign had not always said "MYTH." It had once been bigger. In the rain, the carboard was disintegrating: the bottom had fallen off, as had the sides. There was part of a letter buried beneath each of his hands. At some point there'd been a word with "MYTH" in the middle of it.
I couldn't think of one.
I made my turn, and got to church. I lacerated myself as a lousy Samaritan, in the bitter certainty that Jesus had been pretty darned explicit about not wanting anyone to drive past a cold, wet, poor man in order to go to church. I realized I'd misread the first letter. The sign had once said: ANYTHING.
Monday, December 7, 2009
Anatevka
I choreograph high school musicals. I have had the honor to do Fiddler on the Roof three times.
Fiddler has this amazing arc, where the first act is nearly all comic, and then the soldiers break up the wedding at the end, and the second act is progressively darker and darker. It’s a giant ocean liner of a musical, and somehow the cast has to get the audience to change course, stop laughing and start feeling their hearts break. Somehow, the kids in the cast need to get the kids in the audience, many of whom aren’t used to shows that change in mood, to sober up.
The song where the ocean liner really, finally, has to make the turn is Anatevka. When we’re close to opening night, I give a little talk:
At the beginning, in Tradition, Tevye talked about Anatevka, where everybody knows who he is and what God expects him to do. It’s like being in a play, really, where you know who you are, and what the director, and the choreographer, and all of the cast members, expect you to do.
This is about how you feel when that ends. It’s not about some people in Russia at the turn of the twentieth century who had to move away from their homes. It’s about you. You have been in rehearsal for six weeks. You know who you are, and what you are expected to do. You know that the entire show falls apart if one of you misses a rehearsal, or a cue. You know you are important. You know you are valuable, and valued. You know who your friends are, and you see them every day. But in SIX DAYS, it will be closing night, and we will NEVER, EVER be together as a group again. Never. Our community will scatter. We will be lonely. We will miss rehearsing, we will not know what to do with ourselves, and homework and laundry will not fill that hole in our hearts. Our community will be DESTROYED, forever.
About this time, the most sleep-deprived girls usually begin to weep. And by opening night, everybody gets pretty misty singing Anatevka. And the audience comes along.
My former company was sold today. Those friends of mine who hadn’t already been laid off will all be unemployed in 60 days, some a little later than that. I have been back only twice, to pick up a couple of packages. Granted, I am grateful not to have worked there this last agonizing year, not to have had to shut it down myself. But there was, until today, a place where a fair number of people I care about congregated. There will no longer be such a place. I will continue to be in touch with the individuals I am fondest of, but the community will no longer exist.
This diaspora happened at the end of college. It happens all the time. I'm a person who puts down deep roots. The breakup of a community makes me grieve.
Fiddler has this amazing arc, where the first act is nearly all comic, and then the soldiers break up the wedding at the end, and the second act is progressively darker and darker. It’s a giant ocean liner of a musical, and somehow the cast has to get the audience to change course, stop laughing and start feeling their hearts break. Somehow, the kids in the cast need to get the kids in the audience, many of whom aren’t used to shows that change in mood, to sober up.
The song where the ocean liner really, finally, has to make the turn is Anatevka. When we’re close to opening night, I give a little talk:
At the beginning, in Tradition, Tevye talked about Anatevka, where everybody knows who he is and what God expects him to do. It’s like being in a play, really, where you know who you are, and what the director, and the choreographer, and all of the cast members, expect you to do.
This is about how you feel when that ends. It’s not about some people in Russia at the turn of the twentieth century who had to move away from their homes. It’s about you. You have been in rehearsal for six weeks. You know who you are, and what you are expected to do. You know that the entire show falls apart if one of you misses a rehearsal, or a cue. You know you are important. You know you are valuable, and valued. You know who your friends are, and you see them every day. But in SIX DAYS, it will be closing night, and we will NEVER, EVER be together as a group again. Never. Our community will scatter. We will be lonely. We will miss rehearsing, we will not know what to do with ourselves, and homework and laundry will not fill that hole in our hearts. Our community will be DESTROYED, forever.
About this time, the most sleep-deprived girls usually begin to weep. And by opening night, everybody gets pretty misty singing Anatevka. And the audience comes along.
My former company was sold today. Those friends of mine who hadn’t already been laid off will all be unemployed in 60 days, some a little later than that. I have been back only twice, to pick up a couple of packages. Granted, I am grateful not to have worked there this last agonizing year, not to have had to shut it down myself. But there was, until today, a place where a fair number of people I care about congregated. There will no longer be such a place. I will continue to be in touch with the individuals I am fondest of, but the community will no longer exist.
This diaspora happened at the end of college. It happens all the time. I'm a person who puts down deep roots. The breakup of a community makes me grieve.
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