Will the hair growth never end?

Sorry to be so blunt, but I can’t help myself. So if you’re squeamish about feminine bodily functions, stop reading now. I won’t be offended.

But here’s the thing: I’m starting to feel like a Chiapet. And not in a good way.

The other morning, as I was getting ready for work, I was horrified by what I found during a routine scan of my face for new wrinkles: One lone hair about the length of my pinky (yep, you so read that right). It was sprouting out from the tip of my nose as if I were a circus seal trying to balance it like a ball for a crowd.

Except I was alone. There was nobody there to clap or gasp in awe. It was just me, panicked and disgusted. Thinking that my life would never be the same again. And how I could never view the morning facial scan as a luxury anymore.

F*#*!

Because when you find a hair as long as dental floss hovering just north and center of your nostrils, you must embrace new realities. Like the fact that facial hair in the most ungodly of places is no longer out of the realm of possibility. And, no matter how sleep deprived, stressed, or cranky, you must do something about it EVERY SINGLE DAY.

Now don’t get me wrong. I’ve been tending to unwanted chin and unibrow hair since before Bush was in office and, truth be told, I’m just now making peace with having to deal with it. BUT ON MY NOSE?

Heavens to mergatroid, how early do I have to rise in the morning to make sure I’ve gotten it all? In between showering, shaving, blowing dry my hair, make-uping, yanking chin hair, trimming eyebrows, exercising, feeding the dogs, picking out an outfit for work (a feat in and of itself, after you’ve been working on your own and living in black stretch for four years), praying it still fits, and dealing with any extraneous emergencies or issues.

And will these middle-aged hormones every stop wreaking their unwelcome havoc on my mug?

Now I know what you’re thinking: Just pluck and be done with it, Jill, there are more important things to worry about. Our flailing economy. The big three in Detroit. 24 is coming back in January. Two wars. A Republican crisis of conscience. Global warming. Jewish Knee Syndrome (for those who may be new to my blog, that’s the little pockets of fat that gather around the knees of predominantly Jewish women–and they never go away, no matter how much you deprive yourself and exercise). A new job. Another birthday. Aging parents. Clutter in the basement. Snow.

You’d think these things would not only trump the unwanted frontman of my solo nose hair, whipping in the wind. But they don’t. Okay. They don’t.

See you how’d feel if you woke up one morning, and there was a long piece of string shooting out from just above your sinuses. What’s to stop, say, some sort of insect or something equally revolting from grabbing hold?

Okay, well, I’m sorry if you just read that while you’re eating. But I’m done now. Oh no, wait. One more thing: Since it’s Thanksgiving, let me just say for the record that I am NOT grateful for this. And to my own face I say, knock it off.

Okay, now that’s it.

Until next time. (A happier post, I promise, unless I find a hair sprouting out from my eyeball, in which case all bets are off…)

  Share

Will the hair growth never end?

Sorry to be so blunt, but I can’t help myself. So if you’re squeamish about feminine bodily functions, stop reading now. I won’t be offended.

But here’s the thing: I’m starting to feel like a Chiapet. And not in a good way.

The other morning, as I was getting ready for work, I was horrified by what I found during a routine scan of my face for new wrinkles: One lone hair about the length of my pinky (yep, you so read that right). It was sprouting out from the tip of my nose as if I were a circus seal trying to balance it like a ball for a crowd.

Except I was alone. There was nobody there to clap or gasp in awe. It was just me, panicked and disgusted. Thinking that my life would never be the same again. And how I could never view the morning facial scan as a luxury anymore.

F*#*!

Because when you find a hair as long as dental floss hovering just north and center of your nostrils, you must embrace new realities. Like the fact that facial hair in the most ungodly of places is no longer out of the realm of possibility. And, no matter how sleep deprived, stressed, or cranky, you must do something about it EVERY SINGLE DAY.

Now don’t get me wrong. I’ve been tending to unwanted chin and unibrow hair since before Bush was in office and, truth be told, I’m just now making peace with having to deal with it. BUT ON MY NOSE?

Heavens to mergatroid, how early do I have to rise in the morning to make sure I’ve gotten it all? In between showering, shaving, blowing dry my hair, make-uping, yanking chin hair, trimming eyebrows, exercising, feeding the dogs, picking out an outfit for work (a feat in and of itself, after you’ve been working on your own and living in black stretch for four years), praying it still fits, and dealing with any extraneous emergencies or issues.

And will these middle-aged hormones every stop wreaking their unwelcome havoc on my mug?

Now I know what you’re thinking: Just pluck and be done with it, Jill, there are more important things to worry about. Our flailing economy. The big three in Detroit. 24 is coming back in January. Two wars. A Republican crisis of conscience. Global warming. Jewish Knee Syndrome (for those who may be new to my blog, that’s the little pockets of fat that gather around the knees of predominantly Jewish women–and they never go away, no matter how much you deprive yourself and exercise). A new job. Another birthday. Aging parents. Clutter in the basement. Snow.

You’d think these things would not only trump the unwanted frontman of my solo nose hair, whipping in the wind. But they don’t. Okay. They don’t.

See you how’d feel if you woke up one morning, and there was a long piece of string shooting out from just above your sinuses. What’s to stop, say, some sort of insect or something equally revolting from grabbing hold?

Okay, well, I’m sorry if you just read that while you’re eating. But I’m done now. Oh no, wait. One more thing: Since it’s Thanksgiving, let me just say for the record that I am NOT grateful for this. And to my own face I say, knock it off.

Okay, now that’s it.

Until next time. (A happier post, I promise, unless I find a hair sprouting out from my eyeball, in which case all bets are off…)

  Share

On Wednesday, I started my new job. And please forgive me for not posting on the day, but as you may imagine, I came home feeling like I’d been tossed around like a football at a Green Day concert. And have been in the unruly fog and haze of information overload ever since.

So many new things to process, so little time to pontificate on it for an audience.

Even though it was only a three-day week, it still left me grateful for Friday. Not that the work is the bad or the people are exhausting. To the contrary, the work is promisingly creative and the people incredibly welcoming. It’s just that it’s tough to be the new girl at a new school. And the first day, while exciting, can also be the most daunting, no matter how delicately you’re treated.

Mine started at 10 of 9 in the morning, when I arrived. I was scheduled to meet with the gal in HR to gently run through some paperwork and protocols before heading over to meet my new workspace and colleagues. I was looking forward to an idealistic doctrination that simmered slow and steady like a delicate stew.

Instead, however, and as life would often have it, I was whisked away by my new boss and into a meeting where 15 or so of my new “internal clients” (i.e., publisher, associate publisher, VP circulation, etc., not a slouch in the bunch) were discussing the week’s business.

We walked in to find everybody rapt in PowerPoint. Since all of the seats were taken, my boss nodded for me to hop up on the desk that was in the back of the room to sit.

Please let me get up on that desk gracefully, I prayed as I bent my knees to build momentum in preparation for the hop. Because even though the desk wasn’t especially high or difficult to negotiate, I’m the kind of person who consistently trips over nothing.

And since I was already feeling like the elephant in the room (although, in reality, nobody paid me that much attention), I didn’t need to hop up only to fall short, and land with a loud thud on my donkey.

Because aside from being incredibly embarrassing, falling hard on your ass 11 seconds into a new job is not good for one’s credibility.

Fortunately, I hoisted myself up just fine. And sat there, smiling a “hi-nice-to-meet-you-I-know-you’ve-never-seen-me-before-but-I’m-new!” sort of unoffending and humble smile at anyone who looked in my direction. Until finally, the leader of the meeting asked us “new people” (my boss included) to introduce ourselves.

While my boss spoke briefly and most eloquently, all I managed to pop out was a “I’ve been here for like 12 minutes and am happy to see your delightful faces…” like a robotic freak.

I know this sounds overly melodramatic, but that’s what being new is all about: Being mortified by your impulses. Awkward. Overly-obsessed with making good first entrances and impressions. Wanting acceptance.

It’s also about wishing you could propel yourself ahead in time to where you’re finally comfortable: You know everything there is to know about the job, players, and processes. Information is reflexive and your creative is nothing short of artful. You’re humming along, like high-grade white noise turned symphonic, known for your skills and abilities in moving key dials North.

You are a well-oiled athlete at the height of your game–the you you know is possible. And nobody else does, at least when you’re just starting.

Doesn’t matter how old I am or how many jobs I’ve had, this new girl feeling came rushing back to me on Wednesday like a particularly memorable strain of influenza. I also remembered how eventually it did heal and pass.

Even though I don’t want to wish my life away or settle too much in the outcome versus the journey, I can’t wait for that moment here. To be 100 percent up to speed and the task at hand. In this space and time and opportunity.

Until then, however, I’ll do the best I can. Try not to torture the person charged with my training (sorry) too badly. And get up and over that learning curve as fast as possible.  

Should be interesting. Stay posted for more insights on week 2!

  Share

On Wednesday, I started my new job. And please forgive me for not posting on the day, but as you may imagine, I came home feeling like I’d been tossed around like a football at a Green Day concert. And have been in the unruly fog and haze of information overload ever since.

So many new things to process, so little time to pontificate on it for an audience.

Even though it was only a three-day week, it still left me grateful for Friday. Not that the work is the bad or the people are exhausting. To the contrary, the work is promisingly creative and the people incredibly welcoming. It’s just that it’s tough to be the new girl at a new school. And the first day, while exciting, can also be the most daunting, no matter how delicately you’re treated.

Mine started at 10 of 9 in the morning, when I arrived. I was scheduled to meet with the gal in HR to gently run through some paperwork and protocols before heading over to meet my new workspace and colleagues. I was looking forward to an idealistic doctrination that simmered slow and steady like a delicate stew.

Instead, however, and as life would often have it, I was whisked away by my new boss and into a meeting where 15 or so of my new “internal clients” (i.e., publisher, associate publisher, VP circulation, etc., not a slouch in the bunch) were discussing the week’s business.

We walked in to find everybody rapt in PowerPoint. Since all of the seats were taken, my boss nodded for me to hop up on the desk that was in the back of the room to sit.

Please let me get up on that desk gracefully, I prayed as I bent my knees to build momentum in preparation for the hop. Because even though the desk wasn’t especially high or difficult to negotiate, I’m the kind of person who consistently trips over nothing.

And since I was already feeling like the elephant in the room (although, in reality, nobody paid me that much attention), I didn’t need to hop up only to fall short, and land with a loud thud on my donkey.

Because aside from being incredibly embarrassing, falling hard on your ass 11 seconds into a new job is not good for one’s credibility.

Fortunately, I hoisted myself up just fine. And sat there, smiling a “hi-nice-to-meet-you-I-know-you’ve-never-seen-me-before-but-I’m-new!” sort of unoffending and humble smile at anyone who looked in my direction. Until finally, the leader of the meeting asked us “new people” (my boss included) to introduce ourselves.

While my boss spoke briefly and most eloquently, all I managed to pop out was a “I’ve been here for like 12 minutes and am happy to see your delightful faces…” like a robotic freak.

I know this sounds overly melodramatic, but that’s what being new is all about: Being mortified by your impulses. Awkward. Overly-obsessed with making good first entrances and impressions. Wanting acceptance.

It’s also about wishing you could propel yourself ahead in time to where you’re finally comfortable: You know everything there is to know about the job, players, and processes. Information is reflexive and your creative is nothing short of artful. You’re humming along, like high-grade white noise turned symphonic, known for your skills and abilities in moving key dials North.

You are a well-oiled athlete at the height of your game–the you you know is possible. And nobody else does, at least when you’re just starting.

Doesn’t matter how old I am or how many jobs I’ve had, this new girl feeling came rushing back to me on Wednesday like a particularly memorable strain of influenza. I also remembered how eventually it did heal and pass.

Even though I don’t want to wish my life away or settle too much in the outcome versus the journey, I can’t wait for that moment here. To be 100 percent up to speed and the task at hand. In this space and time and opportunity.

Until then, however, I’ll do the best I can. Try not to torture the person charged with my training (sorry) too badly. And get up and over that learning curve as fast as possible.  

Should be interesting. Stay posted for more insights on week 2!

  Share

Tomorrow, I start my new job. I get up and actually leave the house with purpose for the first time in a very long time. And I’m nervous. Excited too, of course, but chewing my nails as if they were repercussion-free chocolate.

That’s because I don’t know (like anybody else who starts in a new role): What does my workspace look like? How close is it to the bathroom? (After all, I have a peanut-sized bladder.) How are my new colleagues? Who will sit to my right and to my left? Are they loud or are they quiet? What’s going on right now? Are there preparations being made for my arrival–perhaps somebody asking somebody else to leave a big pile of folders on “…that desk for the new girl”?

Or am I boring news?

I spent two hours last night filling out the employee paperwork that makes me official, in preparation for my early morning meeting with Miranda–the human resources gal who I’ve been working with.  And I’m sure I’ll spend at least two hours tonight angsting over what to wear for my first day and whether our alarm clock is set properly.

Not that I’ve been living a life of leisure or don’t get up at the ass crack of dawn every morning. It’s just that tomorrow, well, being up and alert is especially important.

And today? Well, I’ve got client projects to finish. Dogs to cuddle (after all, they’re gonna have to get used to watching Oprah without me). And healthy meals to prepare in anticipation of coming home from work too hungry and exhausted to think logically.

(Look up “snarfer” in the dictionary and, sadly, there I am–scowling, and prone to eating an entire Charlie Chips-sized can of pretzels and salsa and then a can of soup and three pieces of string cheese and the two sugar-free pudding cups with whipped cream and then maybe an apple and another pretzel WELL before I’ve even put the chicken in the microwave for defrosting…)

So wish me luck, please. Think about me tomorrow morning, just as the sun is rising and you’re wondering why you don’t have a hot little servant man-boy to bring you your cafe ole (oh wait, that’s me…). And I’ll let you know how it goes.

Until next time!

  Share

Tomorrow, I start my new job. I get up and actually leave the house with purpose for the first time in a very long time. And I’m nervous. Excited too, of course, but chewing my nails as if they were repercussion-free chocolate.

That’s because I don’t know (like anybody else who starts in a new role): What does my workspace look like? How close is it to the bathroom? (After all, I have a peanut-sized bladder.) How are my new colleagues? Who will sit to my right and to my left? Are they loud or are they quiet? What’s going on right now? Are there preparations being made for my arrival–perhaps somebody asking somebody else to leave a big pile of folders on “…that desk for the new girl”?

Or am I boring news?

I spent two hours last night filling out the employee paperwork that makes me official, in preparation for my early morning meeting with Miranda–the human resources gal who I’ve been working with.  And I’m sure I’ll spend at least two hours tonight angsting over what to wear for my first day and whether our alarm clock is set properly.

Not that I’ve been living a life of leisure or don’t get up at the ass crack of dawn every morning. It’s just that tomorrow, well, being up and alert is especially important.

And today? Well, I’ve got client projects to finish. Dogs to cuddle (after all, they’re gonna have to get used to watching Oprah without me). And healthy meals to prepare in anticipation of coming home from work too hungry and exhausted to think logically.

(Look up “snarfer” in the dictionary and, sadly, there I am–scowling, and prone to eating an entire Charlie Chips-sized can of pretzels and salsa and then a can of soup and three pieces of string cheese and the two sugar-free pudding cups with whipped cream and then maybe an apple and another pretzel WELL before I’ve even put the chicken in the microwave for defrosting…)

So wish me luck, please. Think about me tomorrow morning, just as the sun is rising and you’re wondering why you don’t have a hot little servant man-boy to bring you your cafe ole (oh wait, that’s me…). And I’ll let you know how it goes.

Until next time!

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I have to say, now that the excitement of the election is over, I feel a little let down. Like I did on the day after my wedding. Or the first time baby lost 20 pounds and started to promptly gain it back.

After all that anticipation and agitation, I’m left with a sense of wondering what’s next: Other than the fact that it’s getting cold outside, the leaves are starting to fall off the trees, Thanksgiving is around the corner, there are already Christmas lights up in the borough (good grief), and another birthday is quickly approaching (December 22).

This year, I’ll be 36. (SHUT UP, YOU.)

Oh wait, there is something (hello): MY NEW JOB. The first full-time-out-of-the-house-I-have-to-be-there-every-day-at-a-certain-time-in-something-other-than-stretch-pants in four years. One that requires me to be up at dawn and out on the roads quickly like every other country-loving, gaper-delay fearing commuter in America.

Now some of you have written to ask what I’ll be doing. To wit I say: Beats the heck out of me. All I know is that it’s something in marketing that will provide me with a regular paycheck, a healthy abundance of challenges, and yes (wait for it) DAILY AND FREQUENT HUMAN CONTACT.

WeoOOO. AhaAAAA. YippeekiOHkiay. (Sorry my little pooches, close your ears.) Oh happy day. (Sway with me.) You can’t see me, but I’m twirling. Spinning like a short, chubby, red-headed Hanukah dreidel, like genie dust out of a bottle, with a slightly larger-than-normal puff around the donkey…

And let me tell you, I’m ready for it. In fact, when I told my comrade Beth, a reformed freelancer who’s fully entrenched in an outside job, what I was doing, she wrote me with this:

“I feel you, girl–it’s not easy living in a bathrobe in the back bedroom and trying to explain to people, ‘No, I’m not clinically depressed. I’m a writer. There IS a difference.’”

Yes, Beth, you’re so right. There is.
 

—————————————————-

Now that I have the gig, I can say that the process of getting it was interesting–beyond just sending off resumes, completing writing assignments, and “speed interviewing” (kind of like speed dating with the prize being gainful employment instead of a good mans).

At the end of the day, I came away from the hunt with two hard offers and another on its way. So I had a choice to make. And, in doing so, realized something important: That life did not turn out as I’d planned.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m thrilled to have a new gig, one that feels and looks to be a winner. It’s just that I never imagined I’d find myself here at age 45–choosing between a job in marketing or corporate communications, weighing factors like location and work/life balance instead of which of my bestselling novels to read from on but another European book tour.

You see, when I was a little girl and even through my 20s and 30s, I was convinced my life would be about choosing covers and revising pages and speaking to large groups about the writing process and dining with agents and even the occasional producer.

I used to think I was going to have this big life (don’t we all?) when suddenly, I find myself sitting on my perfectly ordinary sofa in my perfectly ordinary house angsting over something as trite as whether to take a job that requires me to drive on the turnpike.

I never imagined it would come to this–or that my big dreams wouldn’t happen.

And yet, as I continued thinking about which job and what next steps and how I’d gotten so derailed, I eventually realized something else: That it’s not the big dreams that make our lives grand (although, I haven’t given up on writing that New York Times award-winner yet).

It’s the little things that count–like a three-pound weight loss in one week and flowers from my husband for no reason and new boots (retail) and, yes, the chance to choose what comes next: marketing or corporate communications.

Oh, and pizza of course.

Can’t forget pizza.

Thin crust. With spinach. Extra cheese.

Until next time!

  Share

I have to say, now that the excitement of the election is over, I feel a little let down. Like I did on the day after my wedding. Or the first time baby lost 20 pounds and started to promptly gain it back.

After all that anticipation and agitation, I’m left with a sense of wondering what’s next: Other than the fact that it’s getting cold outside, the leaves are starting to fall off the trees, Thanksgiving is around the corner, there are already Christmas lights up in the borough (good grief), and another birthday is quickly approaching (December 22).

This year, I’ll be 36. (SHUT UP, YOU.)

Oh wait, there is something (hello): MY NEW JOB. The first full-time-out-of-the-house-I-have-to-be-there-every-day-at-a-certain-time-in-something-other-than-stretch-pants in four years. One that requires me to be up at dawn and out on the roads quickly like every other country-loving, gaper-delay fearing commuter in America.

Now some of you have written to ask what I’ll be doing. To wit I say: Beats the heck out of me. All I know is that it’s something in marketing that will provide me with a regular paycheck, a healthy abundance of challenges, and yes (wait for it) DAILY AND FREQUENT HUMAN CONTACT.

WeoOOO. AhaAAAA. YippeekiOHkiay. (Sorry my little pooches, close your ears.) Oh happy day. (Sway with me.) You can’t see me, but I’m twirling. Spinning like a short, chubby, red-headed Hanukah dreidel, like genie dust out of a bottle, with a slightly larger-than-normal puff around the donkey…

And let me tell you, I’m ready for it. In fact, when I told my comrade Beth, a reformed freelancer who’s fully entrenched in an outside job, what I was doing, she wrote me with this:

“I feel you, girl–it’s not easy living in a bathrobe in the back bedroom and trying to explain to people, ‘No, I’m not clinically depressed. I’m a writer. There IS a difference.’”

Yes, Beth, you’re so right. There is.
 

—————————————————-

Now that I have the gig, I can say that the process of getting it was interesting–beyond just sending off resumes, completing writing assignments, and “speed interviewing” (kind of like speed dating with the prize being gainful employment instead of a good mans).

At the end of the day, I came away from the hunt with two hard offers and another on its way. So I had a choice to make. And, in doing so, realized something important: That life did not turn out as I’d planned.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m thrilled to have a new gig, one that feels and looks to be a winner. It’s just that I never imagined I’d find myself here at age 45–choosing between a job in marketing or corporate communications, weighing factors like location and work/life balance instead of which of my bestselling novels to read from on but another European book tour.

You see, when I was a little girl and even through my 20s and 30s, I was convinced my life would be about choosing covers and revising pages and speaking to large groups about the writing process and dining with agents and even the occasional producer.

I used to think I was going to have this big life (don’t we all?) when suddenly, I find myself sitting on my perfectly ordinary sofa in my perfectly ordinary house angsting over something as trite as whether to take a job that requires me to drive on the turnpike.

I never imagined it would come to this–or that my big dreams wouldn’t happen.

And yet, as I continued thinking about which job and what next steps and how I’d gotten so derailed, I eventually realized something else: That it’s not the big dreams that make our lives grand (although, I haven’t given up on writing that New York Times award-winner yet).

It’s the little things that count–like a three-pound weight loss in one week and flowers from my husband for no reason and new boots (retail) and, yes, the chance to choose what comes next: marketing or corporate communications.

Oh, and pizza of course.

Can’t forget pizza.

Thin crust. With spinach. Extra cheese.

Until next time!

  Share