I just found a perfect job.
But it's in south San Francisco.
On the off-chance I get an interview/offer ... that's a big decision, to relocate across the country.
Regardless: It's nice to finally find a job I'd be excited about and not just a "oh well, I guess I'll apply here so we don't lose our home" position.
Happy Thanksgiving. |
To anyone who's entering college: Go into nursing or PT or health care. There's a shit-ton of jobs in that field. You'll never be unemployed, especially since the Babyboomers are getting old. (Sorry Mom & Dad!) The sciences and computers are other hot fields. The job postings for those are legion.
To the asses who post "volunteer jobs" on actual job boards: Stop it. Stop. Stop it. I'm looking for gainful employment. I want people to pay me for my work. Volunteer jobs are NOT jobs. They're volunteer opportunities. VEC (that's the state employment commission), I'm pointing my finger directly at you. You're tasked with helping the unemployed find employment. Volunteerism, while fantastic and gives everyone warm fuzzies and helps people/orgs who need help, doesn't do poop for those of us who need to pay a mortgage or buy cheese for their children who love cheese. There are plenty of places to post volunteer positions. Go use those and stay out of my employment pages. How hard is it to make a "volunteer" tab? Or to create a filter to unlist gigs that don't pay? Nothing makes my buttcheeks clench faster than seeing "writer" and "editor" positions, but clicking on the listing I discover it's "volunteer."
To the young Brian who's about to enter college: If I could time travel, I'd give him some better advice about choosing majors. (ie, see Note #1.)
To my wife: I'm sorry. I wish I was a genius and in a position to invent some fancypants widget to patent from which we'd make millions and viola! Our lives would be easier. You know that whole "for better or worse" and "richer and poorer?" This year has been one of those worse/poorer times. Cross your fingers that we don't score the "sickness" trifecta.
To companies who post jobs on Monster.com and then ask to apply on their site but don't actually have the job listed on their own site: You fail. You're wasting my time.
To myself: That screenplay is all but written. It'd probably never sell, but you really should write it. It happened, it's easy enough to pen, you have the time ... why don't you just do it? |
I can die a happy man now. I had the greatest day of my life.
Abigail came into the kitchen while I was making Carolina BBQ sauce and asked me about ninjas. I'm not even joking a little. She asked me about ninjas and their abilities and if I'd ever seen one. "Honey, if you seen a ninja, chances are, it's too late for you." I told her about ninja and samurai and she cheered because, apparently, samurai are also mentioned in the book she's reading. (Some sort of Magic Treehouse book where the main characters are learning to be ninjas.)
And then she got REALLY excited when I told her that samurai are like Jedi. In fact, the Jedi were modeled after samurai. Wow, you should've seen her reaction. It was like the chocolate-in-my-peanut-butter commercial where she found two great things that are great together. The conversation ended with something like this:
"Dad, you're really wise when it comes to ninjas and samurai."
"Don't you forget it, kiddo."
"You're like Yoda."
And then, as I was adding ingredients to the BBQ sauce, something hit the apple cider vinegar at the perfectly wrong angle and my vinegar, ketchup, pepper flake, tabasco, and blackpepper (read: all the ingredients used in non-lethal, crowd-control devices) sauce plopped a tiny droplet up into the air and into my left eyeball.
I screamed a very un-ninja like scream for mercy, sweetbabyjesusithurts, and pushed the women and children out of the way to flush my eye socket out at the sink.
...
Hours later, I can still feel it. It's like the power of Carolina BBQ is behind my eyeball. I bet I mutate into a Daredevil-like superhero overnight. Only, my mutant ability will be able to see BBQ from across the room. |
She turns 4 today! There will be cupcakes and presents and fun.
Happy birthday, kiddo!
(Here are a few semi-recent pics of her:)
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Kevin and I could've sworn we saw William Katt at the airport.
William Katt? says you.
William Katt, says me.
You know: The Greatest American Hero!
OK, it probably wasn't him. But I definitely stared a bit, trying to see if he was wearing any sort of red T-shirt under his button-down.
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I'm back in Charlottesville now, after a whirlwind 30+ hours of flying to Charlotte, to Chicago; of driving to Wilmette, to Lake Zurich, to North Lake; of being a pallbearer for Gramma Murphy; of hugging family members, clinging to them so tight it hurts ... hoping that maybe, just maybe, the pain will be lessened if we hold on to one another. I don't know if that works or not. It must, I suppose. I can only imagine the agony of what it'd be like if you had to bury someone alone.
My mom gave me a prayer card for Gramma. (I'm not sure what you call them. They're the little cards printed when someone passes. They usually have Mary on one side, the deceased's name and a poem or prayer on the other.) Gramma's had Melinda Sue Pacho's "I Did Not Die":
Do not stand at my grave and forever weep.
I am not there; I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow.
I am the diamond glints on snow.
I am the sunlight on ripened grain.
I am the gentle autumn’s rain.
When you awaken in the morning’s hush
I am the swift uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circled flight.
I am the soft stars that shine at night.
Do not stand at my grave and forever cry.
I am not there. I did not die.
It struck me on the flight home: I didn't cry yesterday. Not once. A few times I felt like tears might come, but they never did. And maybe I should've welcomed them because now, the finality of it is settling in and the shock is wearing off, and, well, it's been a hard morning. Kerri sat with me while we had coffee (the girls played quietly, perhaps instinctively knowing that I needed some time) and we chatted about yesterday. The prayer service, the funeral, the eulogy, the family. In the car my dad told me that it occurred to him this week: He doesn't have parents anymore. The corollary to that: I don't have any Murphy grandparents anymore. (And only one on the Nagel side.)
It's not possible for everyone to be a pallbearer at a funeral. I'd never been one before. The funerals I'd attended in the past (only a handful, but still too many by far) I'd always stood and waited for the words to be said and the procession to end. I'd always been witness, not participant. But yesterday, being a pallbearer, felt theraputic. Gripping the ornate silver handle. Placing a hand on the smooth blue finish of the casket; feeling its curve. Hearing the funeral director's whispered instructions to me, my brother, and my seven boy cousins. (The nine of us carried Gramma together.) There's something in the physicality of bearing a loved one to their final resting place that made me feel better.
I guess death left me feeling so helpless that doing something active, being useful, helping Gramma get to the ground where her husband is buried, made me feel like I was doing something instead of having something done to me. I felt less a victim of sorrow. Because I knew that ... if we're gentle in carrying her, if we're strong together in bearing the weight, then we're honoring her.
The sheer numbers of most funerals dictate that not everyone can participate. It's just not possible to have 25, 50, 100+ people squeeze in around the 16-foot perimeter of a casket. It's not practical. But if anyone ever asks you to help carry their deceased loved one, do it. Don't hesitate. It helps. Not enough, but it helps. Being a pallbearer for Gramma helped me get through yesterday.
Now I have to figure out how I'm going to get through today. I have nothing to carry but grief. And there are no handles for it. No one to help me bear its weight. It's sharp and painful. I'm looking around and my brother and cousins have all gone home.
...
And now I'm crying.
...
At Gramma's prayer service, someone from the church read the first part of Linda Ellis' "The Dash Poem."
I read of a man who stood to speak
At the funeral of a friend.
He referred to the dates on her tombstone
From the beginning to the end.
He noted that first came the date of her birth
And spoke of the following date with tears,
But he said what mattered most of all
Was the dash between those years.
For that dash represents all the time
That she spent alive on earth
And now only those who loved her
Know what that little line is worth.
For it matters not, how much we own,
The cars, the house, the cash,
What matters is how we live and love
And how we spend our dash.
I guess the living have to live. I need to recover (somehow) and move on and figure out how I'm going to have the dash defined at my own funeral. And the only way to do that is by living. By taking along with me the things Gramma taught and shared, and passing them on to my children.
Gramma had one helluva a dash, that's for sure. The eulogy dad and his sisters wrote detailed what an amazing woman she was. She set the bar high for the rest of us.
I love you, Gramma. Goodbye.
(photo: My gramma, Helen Murphy, and me at my cousin Kate's wedding, May 2009. This is the last time I saw her.)
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From DVICE.com today, a gadget blog for the SyFy Channel: The Box: QuickStart Guide.
Written by yours truly, and illustrated by the stellar Chris Kalb, of Breakup Girl fame.
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Isn't that what everyone says after someone dies?
My Grampa Nagel died before Christmas in 1984.
My Grampa Murphy died at the beginning of the new year in 1996.
I just got a phone call saying Gramma Murphy passed away. It's been a long time coming, as she's been pretty sick for a while ... but, it's still shocking. No matter how much you're prepared, the end is always sudden. I'm happy for her, in a way, since her suffering has been eased.
I've only known for about 35 minutes and it's stupid the things I'm remembering:
Gramma Murphy could say the entire alphabet backwards.
She made the best damned fried chicken I've ever had.
She was a card sharp; her poker skills were crazydelicious.
Waking at 4 AM to climb into a boat on Turtle Lake to fish as the sun was rising: Her idea of heaven.
She loved watching golf and basketball and tennis.
She loved her son and daughters, her grandchildren, and her great grandchildren.
...
I wish she'd gotten to meet Bridget. But that's a selfish thought I'll save for some other time.
I'll miss you, Gramma Murphy. |
It MUST be Halloween. The air is cool, the wind is blowing, clouds hang dark in the sky (without rain), leaves skate underfoot, and I parked next to a casket maker.
This morning I got a coffee from my local Starbucks and, as I was walking out, I saw something disturbing, on this day of all days: Parked right behind me was a casket maker. Not a hearsh. A casket-maker. A huge truck with a crest and a "since 1859" (or whatever) and "casket maker" stenciled on the side. It wasn't a holiday goof, either. Inside I could see the casters/rollers and tracks where you'd load caskets on, so as to easily stack them.
A crotchety old man got out and start walking; not into the Starbucks but across to the empty field. He climbed up a small dirt hill and started looking around. Perhaps to find a place to bury a body? Was he communing with the crows overhead? Most likely he just wanted to see how much developing was left to do with the land. He pushed his foot on an unburied sewer pipe, took off his hat and ... slowly turned. His yellow eyes met my blue eyes. In my hand, the cafe mocha curdled.
OK, that's not true. But the casket-maker and old man part was true. My mocha, however, stayed tasty and hot.
Happy Halloween. |
True story:
I just got my H1N1 shot at the semi-local fire department, provided by the state health department. It was a fast and easy experience: go in, fill out a short form, and you're ready for the shot. No fuss, no muss. Here's a real-life exchange that happened 20 minutes ago:
I sit down and roll up my sleeve.
"What do you need?" I say, holding out both arms, to see if she had a preference.
"We can put it anywhere you'd like," said the nurse. (I'm not sure if she was an actual nurse, but she was one in an army of people giving the shots. So, we'll call her Nurse.)
I raise an eyebrow.
Nurse raises an eyebrow.
I nod my head to the right a few times, indicating ... "behind me." I drop my trousers.
....
OK, all but that last line was true. I got the shot in my left shoulder. But it would've been awesome if I called her bluff on the claim of putting the vaccine in "anywhere." A bolder man than me would've done it. My ass doesn't get to see sunlight enough, and this would've made her day. Or, at least she'd have a story she could scare her family with this weekend.
"... and then, right there, in the middle of the entire clinic, he dropped trou. It was so incredibly white, I swear I had to shield my eyes." |
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