I’m really sorry that I haven’t written in a few weeks I know that’s just not so good especially when you have a blog and you want people to keep coming back please do keep coming back, I promise, I’ll post more frequently once the holidays are over it’s just that there’s not enough time in the day I mean by the time I get up exercise eat drive an hour to work put in 10 hours and drive an hour back home cook dinner eat dinner and get into my pajamas so good what a great feeling those PJs are and I’m ready to collapse and the last thing I feel like doing is writing although I do love to write so don’t get me wrong and I especially love having my blog and appreciate each and every one of you taking the time to visit and read since this blog is certainly one of my greatest passions it’s just that when you add the holidays and all sorts of tasks and responsibilities that come with it like shopping for gifts and attending parties and being available to get together with friends to celebrate my 48th birthday which is on the 22nd and typically very inconvenient for most people this time of year which of course has made me only slightly bitter and heaven help me how the heck did 48 years go by so fast and well add it all up and you’ve got not necessarily a lazy blogger but one who isn’t as good as she should be in terms of keeping up with things but I’m trying I hear you Chris Brogan and I haven’t forgotten about all of you and so in this blog which will be a lead in to the famous New Year’s Eve resolution blog which will NOT include the resolution of losing weight well okay maybe it will but gosh I wish it didn’t have to but more on that later for now I’ll just tell you about a few things that have happened over the past few weeks that have elicited a range of emotions in me from whimsy which is really such a great word to melancholy and to wonder and to a happy belly and so once I get through it okay and then we’ll be all caught up so thanks again for your patience and really who needs punctuation after all it just confuses things don’t you think?
Riding the corporate jet
Yes, you read that right. Jill went for a ride on the corporate jet. Well, let me explain. It’s my understanding that our company rents two jets – one medium-sized and one small (think five seats and two short benches) for jaunts to and from various client meetings across the country. Last Wednesday, my boss came into my office and said, “[The big company cheese] wants you to accompany the team to a new client finalist meeting in Boston next week. And the good news is, you get to fly on the corporate jet. Of course, I had no information whatsoever about the prospect. No idea what I needed to pull together by way of presentation. Didn’t even know my team members in that part of the country, who’d be presenting with me. But none of that mattered. I felt, in that moment, that I had arrived. Me, on a company jet. Lil’ ol me. Lil’ ol’ OMG, meet you at the 50s Diner for breakfast, where did I put my favorite socks, sh#@ I forgot to take my vitamins, did anybody see my car keys me. Because, as you know, folks. I’m just a real person. Flyin’ on a real jet—the small one—with three of my colleagues and two pilots. And let me tell you, the experience was rather lovely.
Unlike having to strip down to your skivvies via the commercial route, flying on the corporate jet entailed this: 1) A personal greeting from the captain of the plane. 2) Letting him roll your small bag to the jet as he entertained with a bit of small talk (…good flying weather today, did you have a nice visit here in [insert city], we’re looking forward to smooth ride back…). 3) Reminding him that “it’s not my time to go yet (wink wink)”. 4) Climbing up onto the metal steps, stopping to turn around and offer a amateurish cupped wave like Queen Elizabeth even though the only people to receive me were my three colleagues (who looked at me kinda funny). 5) Walking to one of the five plush leather seats awaiting my precious donkey, sitting, and sighly deeply. 6) Telling the co-pilot that “sure, I’d love a seltzer water with lemon if you’ve got any” before dozing off just a bit (hopefully, my mouth wasn’t open).
As I now know, flying in the corporate jet involves absolutely no pat downs, no shoe removal, no production of small baggies full of baby shampoos and hair sprays. You don’t even have to take your laptop out of your case (unless you really want to). Instead, the corporate jet calls to you like a long lost lover. It says, “Just get on, baby.”
That’s it.
Lunch with the gang from the old neighborhood
Last weekend, my mother corralled two of her friends from the old neighborhood and one of her friend’s daughters (who I’ll call Sally), who is about six years older than me, for lunch. It was a reunion of sorts, since I was raised with Sally and grew up around the ladies—all of whom would act as perfect playmates for my birthday parties since when I was little, since most of my peers would be off to sunny Florida for Christmas break or engaged in alternative festivities when it came time for my inconvenient December 22nd birthday.
Suffice to say, it was both melancholy and lovely to be with them, since, as you can imagine, much has happened over the years for us to reminisce about—the tragic death of one son, a 40-pound weight loss, the birth of seven grandchildren, a bout of cancer that didn’t, thank goodness, win.
The best part, though, was watching my mother morph into something else: A young girl. Sitting in between her friends, now older ladies replete with fancy jewelry and corral lipstick, reminiscing in full view about the life they shared when we (me and Sally and our respective siblings) were young and how much fun they had raising us all together. And how here they sat, some 50 years later, and could we believe it.
How did all that time pass so quickly?
Back then, they go on, not only were they younger, but much less burdened by the daily cares of the now 21st century. For example, they didn’t worry so much about whether salt was good for them, how many calories were in an Italian sub, whether their investments were safe from fraud, or even if their children, still too young, had gotten back to their homes, dorm rooms, or respective cities safely. Instead, they ate ribs without thinking. They surely didn’t have to worry about checking their emails, Blackberry’s, cell phones, or calendars. Life was much simpler then.
Instead, they wiled the days away, piling us children into the backseat of a shared car for doctor’s appointments and going to the swim club. And they played, while the husbands went to work and they stayed home to raise us kids and keep order in the homes that stood together like a row of tall oaks in the woods.
I missed all that—having children in my 20s, raising them with the neighborhood ladies, growing old together—as have so many of my friends and, I guess, the women of my generation. We’re all victims of the women’s movement, quote, unquote. Although I guess we have another whole genre of memories to reminisce about—like Spanx, and 60 hour work weeks, scars from bumping our heads against the glass ceiling, and sheer exhaustion from trying to do it all. Someday, perhaps, we’ll all gather in a fancy diner, like my mom and her friends. When our respective schedules can accommodate. Our Blackberries laid neatly by our forks and napkins. Our lipsticks and credit cards tucked safely away in our trendy bags.
The three-week manicure
All I know is that after the mom lunch, I went to get a manicure at my usual place (in preparation for the upcoming client meeting in Boston and for meeting the pilot on the corporate jet since I didn’t want him to think I wasn’t worthy…with my dirty nails…).
When I got to the salon, the woman who usually greets me was almost overly excited—as if she’d lost all perspective—to tell me about a new manicure technique that would ensure my manicure would hold, without chipping, for two to three weeks!
Lo and behold, I thought, will modern miracles never cease!
So I took the bait and watched it all happen: First, the regular cutting, filing and cuticle snipping. Then, a little rolling over the nail to make it porous. Then, one preparatory clear coat. Then a coat of nail polish (a bold berry color, so not neutral-loving me, but what the heck, it was a day of experiment..), five minutes under the dryer. Then, another coat of nail polish, under the dryer. Then, another coat of nail polish (this time clear), under the dryer. Then, one more coat of nail polish, under the dryer. Then, a quick alcohol rub and viola! Perfectly dried no-chip nails that have now lasted for two weeks.
TWO.
Technology is making the world a better place. Isn’t it? Am I right, anybody?
One last thing…
Last Friday, we went to see a client in New York City and, after giving what I must say myself was a fine presentation to their executive team, both in terms of delivery and design, my colleague and I decided to stop at the Stage Door Deli for some good Midtown grub, before heading into Penn Station to grab a train home.
The best part? The skinny blonde Russian hostess in super tight Jordache jeans (who I’m pretty sure couldn’t understand English, but that’s another post entirely) seated us in the window, to which my colleague exclaimed with great joy and excitement, “That means we’re really good looking! They only put good looking people in the window! Yay for us!”
I’m not entirely convinced that was the reason (the restaurant was fairly packed), but I took it. And thanked her for the early birthday present. I even thanked the hostess on the way out, to which she promptly pointed me towards the restrooms in the back in the restaurant.
But whatever.
So what’s been going on in your life? Do tell.
Until next time!