Isn’t my brother talented?!
Along Those Lines
For the past eight years, I’ve held an annual “Hearts in the Beerlight” Valentine party, where I invite everyone I know over for chocolate covered strawberries.
It’s my favorite night of the year.
This year, we decided to keep it simple by scaling it back and having over just a few close friends. We ate chocolate covered strawberries, heart-shaped sugar cookies, brownies, and lots and lots of candy. We drank “Apple of My Eye:’ apple-infused bourbon on the rocks topped with a spot of ginger ale and a dash of bitters.
And, of course, we can’t forget the chocolate covered strawberries.
Then we played a haiku game with conversation hearts.
Everybody had to create a haiku out of the words on the candy hearts.
But I pulled a fast one on the crowd and made a special trip to the Pleasure Chest for “risqué hearts.”
Hilarity ensued. And Brandon and Jennifer, who won for their dramatic interpretations, walked away with an old fashioned Russell Stover chocolate heart, which I almost didn’t want to give up…
Here is a snapshot from my last day at TakePart/Participant. There I am in the middle, proudly holding the fruit bouquet that they presented to me, after listening to me drop hints for one for three years.
Example: “A fruit bouquet is the best possible present you can give to someone. It truly is a symbol of health and prosperity.” But, honestly, look: it’s a bouquet made out of fruit. The allure of the fruit bouquet lies in the endless possibilities: you can make a fruit salad, sangria, smoothie, or just generously hand off the skewers one by one, as I did throughout the day.
To my right, in the stripes, is Laurel. Though we started the same week three years ago, when I had to explain to her what a CMS is, she passed me on the corporate ladder like a game of leapfrog. She is a perfectionist, Type A personality, and you need that kind of member on every team. I learned a lot of skills from her that I definitely plan on taking to my next job.
Next to her, the striking blonde, is our managing editor, Jenna. It’s no coincidence that she shares a name with J. Crew’s boss, Jenna Lyons, because the woman exudes coolness. Not just because she was born and raised in LA, but because she knows how to deliver an aura of confidence and ease in the face of crisis. She also has the glamorous self-assurance of a movie star, and she’s super-smart.
Below, in the first row, bottom left is Allan. He is my closest confidante at work. We sat directly across from each other all day long, separated by a glass partition. This gave all of our conversations the feeling of a jailhouse visit. His stories of growing up in the punk scene in Los Angeles, editing Hustler magazine, and living with his 90-year-old mother-in-law kept me entertained throughout the day.
Next to him, with the curly locks, is Jenny. She is the sweetest person at the company. Normally, sweetness can get on your nerves, especially if it borders too closely with sanguineness. But Jenny’s kindness is genuine, maybe because she literally writes about orphanages and foster homes all day. In another world, I would want her to be either my mother or my wife. I can’t decide.
Next to her is Max. We bonded over a shared love of gossip, and he is one of the few people in LA who actually reads books. He is a fabulous dining companion.
Next to Max, standing up on the end, is Adam. He is very charming and can strike up a conversation about anything, yet he is also a mumbler. I sat directly next to him and could only understand every other sentence that came out of his mouth, yet I still feel like he really got me. He has a thick Philly accent, which you don’t find too often in Los Angeles. And he brought me a butterscotch Tastykake after one visit back home, so I am forever grateful to him.
Next to Adam is Salvatore, or Sal. He is the healthiest guy I’ve ever met. I don’t think he’s ever taken a single sick day. And the kid is a hard worker. It was not uncommon to receive work-related emails from him at all hours of the night. And, after staring at a computer screen all day, he would go home to write screenplays . He’s been dating a beautiful Puerto Rican chick for eleven years, but they are waiting till she finishes med school to get married.
Next to Sal, and to my left, is Tanya. She’s British.
Aside from Jenna, the boss lady, and Tanya, I have worked with this team for three years now. While I am not going to miss the actual work—my career goals have shifted dramatically since I started at TakePart—I will miss seeing these people every day. Part of the reason we worked so harmoniously together is because we each had a clear role, and we were able to count on each other for our given tasks.
The gender makeup also contributed to our compatibility as a group. There is an equal female to male ratio, and because we are all in relationships, there was never any sexual tension that usually clogs up the workspace. The domesticity we adopted throughout our 40-hour work week is akin to the tedious comfort level you feel in a family. We knew about each other’s car troubles, eating (and drinking) habits, and there’s a loyalty there that I truly hope to find in my next work place. Also, they had an unlimited supply of Honest Tea and all you can eat Kashi cereal at Participant, so I’ll miss that, too.
When Your Number Isn’t Up
After much neurotic advice-seeking and self-examination, it’s official: I’ve accepted a new job. I was very picky this time around, and actively, consistently looked for a job for over six months. Here are some tips that I picked up along the way…
Adopt Will Smith’s work ethic
At 2:56, you’ll hear Will Smith compare his ridiculous, sickening work ethic to working out: “I’m not afraid to die on a treadmill. You might be more talented than me, you might be smarter than me. But if we both get on a treadmill, you will get off first or I am going to die. It’s that simple.”
Will Smith studied box office patterns on the set of Fresh Prince in the early-90’s and noticed that the top grossing movies had special effects with creatures and a love story. So he made his choices from there and went on to become one of the highest grossing movie stars of my generation.
Since I graduated from college, all of my jobs have been on the Internet. I’ve always worked in media and content. But after spending some time studying the Internet, I noticed that the two biggest groups driving Web traffic are gamers and moms. Since I’m much closer to being a mom than a gamer, it only makes sense that I take a job focusing on that market. That allowed me to really narrow down my job search.
Use the Internet the right way
-Set up Google Alerts for your job field, so that every day you get an email with listings that you might otherwise miss. Examples that I used include: Los Angeles E-commerce jobs, Los Angeles marketing jobs, Los Angeles social media jobs.
-Update your LinkedIn account: Make sure to have a picture where you are smiling, do not upload your entire resume, and god help you if you have a typo on that page
-Sign up for alerts from Indeed and ZipRecruiter
-Make appointments with recruiters. 24/7 recruiting is a good place to start
-Follow @AskAManager and @Careerdiva on Twitter for tips on job etiquette.
Don’t be afraid of networking
Let your friends and family know that you are actively looking for another job. And make sure to help as many people as you possibly can along the way. This builds karma points. Keep in mind that the people who are most comfortable in their own positions will be the ones who will be the most likely to help you.
Also, make sure to really put yourself out there. Networking can be a drag, but it’s important to be visible in your desired field. There were nights when I just wanted to go home, eat dinner, and watch Downton Abbey, but I made myself go to social media events and bullshit with other people in the field. Take as many different meetings with as many different people as you possibly can.
This is ultimately how I found my dream job. I connected with my new boss after an SEO panel during Social Media Week. We kept in touch and our “interview” was more of a really good conversation that took place during lunch at an Italian restaurant in Beverly Hills. He never even asked for my resume. Ta da.
In A Silent Way
You are not allowed to write about butterflies or grandmothers.
I had a poetry teacher in college who opened up the first day of class with that line. I still keep in touch with him, but a year after my grandmother’s death, I am finally ready to break his rule.
Everyone who ever met her fell in love with her.
The first thing to know about my grandmother, Mary, is that she was absolutely lovely. She was a real lady. Throughout her entire life, she had weekly hair appointments, wore the same color nail polish to match a carnelian ring that she wore on her right hand, and dressed with immaculate precision.
She was classy, too; she could count on one hand the number of times in her life when she had been drunk. Red roses were always a part of her weekly grocery list, her first love was Clark Gable, and her favorite holiday was Valentine’s Day.
Her personal presentation was part of being from another era.
She was very vain, but it was only because she was very feminine. When we went out to eat, after we paid the bill, we would wait at the table before leaving so she could powder her nose and reapply her lipstick.
She also had a perfect recall for clothes. She could remember to a tee the details of an outfit that she wore to an engagement party in 1958. “It was a light blue, floor length dress with a matching bolero jacket and black patent heals.”
This is why I think of her every single time I get dressed. Not only do I have the physical mementos —the 1940s leather clutches that she kept in perfect condition, the 1920s art deco jewelry, the 1950s silk scarves— it is also the ritual: the makeup, the perfume, and the anticipation for whatever event you are attending, whether it’s a work meeting or a party.
I learned everything about design from my mother—it’s best to keep the same color palette when working with small spaces—but I learned about beauty from my grandmother. She was never afraid to be too feminine, and from her I realized that it is always better to look pretty than cool.
Family was everything to her.
Her sisters were the exact opposite of my grandmother. In their youth, they were brash, finicky, and eccentric. They turned into cranky, bitter old women. There were four sisters and a brother. My grandmother was the youngest, the baby. Like I am. I heard once that the baby of the family always remains a baby. They were all children of the Depression.
Her parents, my great grandparents, eloped. I always wondered if this is why she had such a strong longing for romance. One night, my grandfather was visiting my grandmother in her village, and the Cossacks burned his village down.
My great grandmother’s parents did not want him to marry Rose because she was the best cook in the family and they wanted to hold onto her for as long as they could. They offered him another one of their daughters, but he only wanted Rose. So he put a ladder up to her window and they eloped. Like in a Chagall painting.
All of the stories about my great grandmother, Rose, revolve around cooking. She mostly spoke Yiddish, though my great grandfather insisted she speak English. She came over on a boat from Russia by herself (my great grandfather left earlier and sent for her), with three young babies. There was a ferocious storm and the boat split in half, but she survived and they all made it to America.
My great grandfather had established a successful furrier business in Philadelphia, so they were well-off during the Depression. Around the age of 5, a neighborhood boy bragged to my grandmother about owning a car. So my grandmother went home and asked her father for a car. Nobody in the family knew how to drive. But my grandfather bought her a car just so she could play with it in the driveway.
My grandmother never told my mom to marry a nice, Jewish doctor because she wasn’t sure they existed.
My grandfather was a Freudian psychoanalyst and was part-romantic, part-Mad Men-era male. He was a brilliant, difficult man. Their marriage was a series of contradictions — the negative halves I only discovered toward the end of my grandmother’s life, either because she felt I was old enough to finally hear them or the distance from her husband’s death was great enough that she could finally look at their relationship through an honest lens.
She prepared three meals for him every day, chilling the salad plates in the fridge before presenting them on the table, cutting his grapefruit into sections so it would be easier for him to eat. Did he appreciate these touches, as he should, or were they just taken for granted?
She had told my grandfather that, in grade school, she went through dozens of Ivory soap bars in an attempt to carve the Roman coliseum for a class project. Years later, he took her to Rome with him to a psychiatric conference, and surprised her by reserving a room with a grand view of the Coliseum.
But if she came downstairs with the wrong shade of lipstick on, he would make her go upstairs and change it. His anxious male authority seemed to know no limits.
You don’t think, I think for you.
When they were packing up the house that they had lived in for over thirty years, she recalls coming into a room and starting a sentence with, “You know, I think that we should take this box…” which he completed with: “You don’t think, I think for you.”
I was 12 years old when he died of a heart attack. She was in her 70s, and they had been married for over 50 years. They were closing the deal on their house in preparation to move from Philadelphia to Nashville, where I lived with my family. He dropped dead at the bank just after they signed the papers. He was a doctor so he knew what was happening; he handed my grandmother his wallet. My grandmother moved to Nashville alone.
They were meant to start a new chapter of their lives together. He was going to teach at Vanderbilt and she was going to spend more time with her grandkids. Only the second part came true.
Saturdays became our days. We would go to the movies, out to lunch, and shopping. Of course, shopping, her favorite pastime.
She told me, many years later, that she had wished him dead at that moment when they were packing those boxes.
You don’t think, I think for you.
She wasn’t a pushover, by any means.
It’s easy to see how someone could take advantage of her kindness. Waiters, shopkeepers, hired help; they all knew what a generous tipper she was.
Once, in high school, I was rushing around, getting ready, and I couldn’t find a particular skirt I wanted to wear. I was frustrated and agitated. In her own quiet way, she left the room and reappeared holding the skirt. She was a proficient enough housekeeper to know where the stupid skirt was and she was a gracious enough woman to not reprimand me for my short temper. Gloating is counterproductive.
The summer after I graduated college, I lived with my grandmother. I waited tables all day to save money to move to New York. That summer my grandmother was my sunset. I went to her after work. I listened and looked.
When we moved her into the assisted living facility, for the last two years of her life, she finally let loose.
My grandmother had been dieting her entire life, but now she was free. The opportunity was presented to eat ice cream with every meal and she took it. She grew a belly and transitioned from sweater sets to silk pajamas. Her cheeks, always rounded, became even fuller. To me, she was more comfortable. I loved her hugs. But you had to check yourself in the mirror after her kisses, because they always left lipstick trails on your cheeks.
The last time I saw my grandmother was on December 29th. She died on February 15th. For the past twelve years, since I moved away from home, I had talked to her once a week, always on Saturday, usually for an hour at a time. Saturday was our day. For the last year of her life, I called her every day. For the last month of her life, she was unable to talk for long amounts of time. She was out of it, mostly.
My mother wouldn’t let me come home to see her in that last month of her life. I dream of my grandmother at least once a week. The dreams are never complete narratives, but she is always as I last saw her: White hair, no makeup, smiling, but frail. Very frail.
We found out later she had stomach cancer. The last month of her life was spent in agony, and I know, from my mother’s description, that she did not look well. My grandmother didn’t want me to come home, didn’t want me to see her like that. At the end of her life, it was not vanity, but care for me. I am grateful because that is the version of her I would have in my dreams and she knew it.
Perhaps it is because she went through the same cycle with her own mother. So my mother went through that cycle with her and I, of course, will go through that with my mother. This is what women do.
When Henry broke his foot a month before our wedding, taking care of him did not come naturally to me. I was resentful and rushed. The act of caretaking needs to be acquired for some.
She never, ever complained.
The hospice nurses argued over who would sit with her. She was their best patient because she never complained. She flattered people and was overly generous. She always found compliments for people. When she died, the hospice nurses sent me a note, telling me all of this. I’m sure they do not do that for all granddaughters.
Nobody will ever love me like my grandmother did — without criticism, without conditions. Also, I will never love anybody like I loved her. She is the only person in my life whom I was never mad at.
The last time I saw her, she told her favorite story: When I was about three years old, my parents woke me and my brothers up one morning to tell us we were going to the beach. We flew to the Bahamas, where my grandparents surprised us. I was overwhelmed not only to be seeing the beach for the first time but also by seeing my grandparents out of context. Her favorite part of that memory is that I ran around and around her, screaming, “Is that you, is that really you?”
Thanksgiving is the one holiday my family does exceptionally well.
HAPPY ENDING?
There are no happy endings.
Endings are the saddest part,
So just give me a happy middle
And a very happy start.
-Shel Silverstein
