How Not to Handle Rejection

It's been a big week over here at the homestead. And by big, I mean painful and cringey and slightly embarrassing.

But I am getting ahead of myself. You should know, first, that I have been looking for a j-o-b, a real one. After nearly 7 years of on and off freelancing I've discovered that my propensity for delayed showers and sordid internet journeys deep into Buzzfeed's lists is not serving me well. I want colleagues, grown up colleagues. I also want work clothes and collaboration and a clearer sense of mission. In short, I am tired of working in my underwear with little possibility for growth (except of the girth variety).

It started out swimmingly and I had an embarrassment of riches before me: branding jobs, editing jobs, marketing jobs. What I was most concerned with was which one I would pick. I spent a lot of time weighing the passion vs. money thing and came out clearly on the side of passion. I want to learn new things and be stretched. I want to work hard and spend very little time looking at the clock. I bought a snazzy new interview outfit and started to feel confident.

Then yesterday happened. Yesterday was the day I got two rejections in one day. No magazine editor job, no uber-hip branding job. One of them I really wanted, one of them I didn't really want, but both rejections stung. Here I thought it was going so well only to find out you don't want me.  It's just like I remember dating, only without all that fun kissing.

Then, this morning, we got the letter from the private school letting us know that Oliver didn't get in. It's totally fine because we weren't going to send him there anyway (so there), but that's not the point. The point is, they rejected my kid. My awesome, crazy-smart kid. What the fuck?

So here I am, back on my butt on the couch, in my robe if you must know, feeling like maybe this whole job thing isn't going as swimmingly as I thought and feeling like maybe I am doing something wrong, but mostly feeling like I want to take a Xanax to quiet down the squirming mass of earthworms that have taken up residency in my chest cavity. And like I want to take a nap.

But I am not going to do that. Take the Xanax and the nap, I mean. Instead I am going to write away this buzz of humiliation by airing my rejections publicly (check), then I am going to take a walk and hone my message to the universe. That's what my former nanny-turned-life-optimization-coach told me to do.  She said I need to be specific about what I want and ask for it. And I figure it can't hurt. I already tried the snazzy outfit and that didn't work, so it's time for the universe. Also, I'm considering botox.

Oh, and if you have any job leads for me, bring them on.

Camp at your own risk

When the kids were not quite one-and-a-half we went on a family camping trip to Mt. Lassen with my dad and brother. I also happened to be writing about it for Sunset. The trip was an unmitigated disaster from the filth-encrusted toddlers smearing their own excrement around the tent, to my normally low-key dad telling my brother to go "f**k himself." I cried all the way down from the summit, but not half as loudly as the kid I was carrying on my back.

Nine months later, the story came out, pretty and slick as can be.

Mt. Lassen, 2007 (total b.s.)

We haven't spent a night in a tent since. But on Thursday, we decided to give it another go. One night. Close to home. We were scarred, but ready to heal.

I'm not sure why it is so important to us that we camp with the kids. I don't even like it that much. I like the idea of it. I wish I liked it. But really it seems like a whole lot of work topped off with a terrible night's sleep. I prefer a nice day hike followed by a good meal, a warm bath, and a soft bed. My step-dad calls me "Mrs. Davey Crockett." It's ironic, in case you didn't get that part.

But I do like the outdoors and who am I to instill in my offspring my prissy dislike of dirt? So off we went, to China Camp State Park. Camping.

A word of advice: unless you have the types of three-year-olds who will run off to poke things with sticks and explore creek beds without you, don't take them camping for a while. You will be busy setting up the tent-Mahal you borrowed from your friend, and trying to start a fire, and dropping your pillow in the dirt, and blowing up the effing inflatable mattress. All the while your demanding preschoolers will be whining for food you did not bring along, peeing in their pants, tracking dust into the tent, absconding with the pocket knife, and asking if it is time to go home. You will fight with your spouse and yell at your kids and your feet will be cold once the sun goes down. You will deeply regret not bringing alcohol.

Sure, the campground is lovely, set as it is among the Bay Laurels on a bluff overlooking the Bay. And, yes, there were those pleasant 10 minutes when you got to point out the raccoon tracks and the flattened grass where the deer sleep.

But I recommend you think hard and you think long about whether all the work, the resulting loads of laundry, and the massive and unprecedented post-trip meltdowns were worth it. Because I suspect they are not.

Then again, maybe you don't have twins.

chicken pozole and huge egg giveaways

That's a decoy egg so they know what they are supposed to do in that box

This is the one year anniversary of this blog. My second entry, back when I was still a blogging newbie, was about the Sonoma Co. Fair and we are headed back this afternoon to ride more ponies and eat fried things off of sticks. The circle of life and all that.

As of yesterday at 5 o'clock I am officially unemployed. Although I am not all broken up about it, I do feel at loose ends. As I've said, I'm not exactly sure what's next for me. I'll be doing a lot of work shifts at my kids' co-op nursery school. I plan to get totally ripped. I'm going to write a draft of the novel I've been working on. I might chip away at my 39 Things list by building that headboard, and I'll definitely clean out the garage. But I'm sure I'll also spend way too much time shuffling around the house, organizing the junk drawer, getting sidetracked by old photo albums and picking at otherwise invisible facial blemishes until they turn into scabs. It should be pretty fun.

I will also be minding my remaining chickens, biding my time until they finally start laying eggs. Which brings me to our next topic: The Guess the Date of the First Egg Contest. Today they are 17 weeks old. According to most experts chicken begin to lay around 20 weeks. But it could be earlier. Pick the correct date and I will hand-deliver a dozen fresh eggs to you. If you don't live in San Francisco, I will send you an Eggling planter so you can grow fresh thyme. It's a score either way, so start your guessing. The comments are open.

Finally, Tilly was delicious. First I made him into broth then I made him into pozole. He fed 8 people and we still have some soup left over. Thanks, Tilly.

Tilly all naked and ready to go

Tilly all picked and ready to be soup

Tilly pozole

Lee Anne happily sniffing Tilly pozole. Yum.

Multi-tasking self-starter seeks sugar daddy

It’s official. I’m losing my job. I sort of can’t believe it took this long, frankly. I signed up for a five-month gig nearly three years ago and well, I’m still here, putting together stories on lawn alternatives and editing The Top 10 Seaside Hideaways. Until August 6, when I am kicked out of the cozy nest that is Sunset Magazine (yes, people really do drink wine at lunch and subsist on organic produce).

Except for the whole eating canned beans for every meal part, I am kind of looking forward to my life as a lady of leisure. I’m hoping it will give me time to decide what to do next. I feel a big mid-life crisis coming on. I want a new career. I want to move. I want to reinvent the rest of my life. Magazines don’t hold the allure they once did (they are sort of like the 21st century buggy-makers--soon to be obsolete). Plus they are never actually written for people I believe exist (if you coordinate your table linens to the season, buy $5,000 purses, or consider $250/night a bargain hotel, feel free to alert me to your existance).

I was thinking of becoming a nurse midwife. I’ve always really enjoyed all that pregnancy, vaginas, lactation stuff. But then I saw this horrible You Tube video of a pelvic exam and decided maybe it wasn’t for me. I had no idea it was going to look so rubbery.

Aside from my interest in hoo-has, I also like books, gardening, fixing up furniture I find on the street, travel, being my own boss, not sitting in an office, photography, laughing, staring off into space, overeating, drinking too much wine, reading Dr. Seuss books in funny voices, analyzing other people when they are not in the room, walking, sailor pants, watching So You Think You Can Dance, sunshine, babies, and the planet.

Unfortunately I have no mind for making money. None. I haven’t the foggiest ideas how people make money. But if all of my interests happen to coalesce into the perfect career in your entrepreneurial mind, please do let me know. Sugar daddies also welcome.

Until I hear from you, I’ll be applying for this. And this. And probably also this. Cause, you know, I’m a people person.

A lid for every pot

Just when I am feeling burnt out at work and wondering if magazine work is the life for me, I get a press release like this and my day just shines right up. There are options, people. You can become a "nationally recognized cheese lady." It's a real job.

FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE

Angela Hxxxxx

Food Insight

(515) 669-xxxx

Photos available upon request

Ar-R-R-Rg, Cheese Lady Be Tying the Knot

Wisconsin Native Using Cheese to Celebrate Nuptials

(Manitowoc, WI) - On July 4, near the shore of Lake Michigan, Sarah Kaufmann, “The Cheese Lady,” will marry Bill Parry in an outdoor ceremony in Manitowoc, Wisc.

Sarah Kaufmann, born and raised in Manitowoc, is better known as Sarah “The Cheese Lady,” a nationally- recognized cheese sculptor. She has carved hundreds of commissions across the globe including several dozen wedding requests.

Sarah met Bill, a retired U.S. Naval officer, while traveling to San Diego to present a 600 pound, six-foot-long USS Ronald Reagan cheese carving at the home-porting ceremony. “We met because of cheese and everything we do is because of cheese,” Sarah says as she explains her wedding plans.

Sarah and Bill will host a pirate-themed wedding, complete with a 32-foot long ship, christened the MV (Matrimonial Vessel) Cheese Lady near the banks of Lake Michigan. Guests received their cheese carving illustrated invitations via messages in glass bottles and have been instructed to attend in full costume. On the wedding day, yellow flags with blue anchors announcing “Love Anchored in Cheese” will fly from the ship’s yardarm and decorate the tents. “Even our wedding rings are designed to look like cheese – bands of gold with cheese dimples and holes!” exclaimed Sarah.

In true “Cheese Lady” fashion, Sarah has ensured her favorite food will be fully incorporated. Sarah will create a Jolly Roger cheese carving for the appetizer table; Bill will cut out cheese hearts of Pepper Jack, his favorite, and gold "dubbloon coin" circles of yellow cheddar. There will also be a Wisconsin artisan cheese tray, made by Sara Hill of the Wisconsin Milk Marketing Board.

The “Supper for the Crew” menu created by Linda Miller and provided by Jim Vnuk of All Occasion Catering in Manitowoc, will consist of whole turkey legs roasted pirate style, roast pork with sauerkraut, corn on the cob, summertime garden fresh salad, chunky fruit salad, carrot cake with Jolly Roger flag art and Cedar Crest ice cream with Wisconsin summer berries and chocolate fudge sauce. Beverages will include lemonade (with or without grog!), Wisconsin microbrews, Wisconsin old-fashioneds, Captain Morgan spiced rum, and other assorted spirits. “And Limes! So we don’t get scurvy,” Sarah added.

In full pirate garb, surrounded by friends, family and cheese, Sarah and Bill won’t need to “Say Cheese” to keep smiles on their faces.

About Sarah “The Cheese Lady” -Sarah “The Cheese Lady” is a nationally recognized cheese sculptor. Since 1996, she has received hundreds of commissions for her cheese creations, which have captured countless media impressions. Kaufmann creates some sculptures in her studios in Cincinnati and San Diego and also appears in person to sculpt cheese at a variety of venues: food wine festivals, supermarkets, tradeshows, state fairs, sporting events, civic celebrations and other special occasions.

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A thing I like

500 Pieces of Prudent Advice for My Baby Daughter is the best blog I've read in a long time. I opened it and immediately read all 126 posts in one sitting. And let me just say, they all ring true, every one. I wish I had had a list like this to start me out; it would have saved me a long and painful learning curve in many cases. My favorite:

#111 Root for other people.

It seems obvious, but as you grow you'll find yourself occasionally surprised by something selfish languishing inside of someone where you didn't expect it. Try not to think it's intentional, somewhere in our DNA it seems to be programmed that for every success for someone else, there is one less success for us. For every book published, there is one less book we will publish, for every baby had, there is one less baby for us to have. Of course, that is illogical. Fight off those thoughts; there is an unlimited amount of potential for everyone in this universe. Championing others is kind, and even more, it's a display of optimism that will seep into you and color your view of this life.

I don’t mean to whine, but IKEA only serves Pepsi

I’ve been kind of down in the dumps lately (I know, just what people want to read about after a long day in the trenches, but bear with me).  It’s hard to explain why, but it has to do with some curdling mix of trying to write a novel, and reading Mountains Beyond Mountains and feeling as though doing anything that is not in the service of others is shallow and meaningless.  There are so many people out there who are fucked unto the Lord, as Anne Lamott would say, and here I am trying to write amusing sentences about a twelve-year-old girl.  And, like, who needs me when the world has Michael Chabon and Lorrie Moore and Richard Yates?  

Mixed in to this existential crisis is the fact that my kids have learned the word “hate,” and the little scraps of patience I was sometimes able to muster have mutinied and fled. Then there’s my inability to be skinny, and my irritation with myself for still believing, after all the evidence to the contrary, that skinniness equals happiness. 

Furthermore, it looks as though my trip to Italy may not materialize. I’ve decided I do not like writing workshops. Our chickens are constantly shitting in their water, considerably adding to my stress levels.  I have disconcerting joint pain.  My house feels small and cluttered and there is juice on the floor that has been there a week. I wore out my expensive shoes and now they look bad.  Oh, and I’m losing my job but I don’t know when.

Guess if eating alone in the IKEA cafeteria this afternoon helped my mood. 

 

A thing I like

First of all, I forgot to update you on the completely successful neighborhood potluck I had in my backyard after the weird run-in with my icky neighbor.  It was great, really.  All these people I didn’t know came and signed up and ate chips and drank beer and, I don’t know, it was a little glimmer of hope in my otherwise shitty week.  So, there’s that—the fact that a lot of people (or at least 10 people) want to make our neighborhood a better place.

Then there’s this, which starts tonight and is a big reason why summer is my favorite season.

See? It’s not all bad. 

My big fat demotion

This place is like the Spelling mansion compared to my new cube

Ok, I know it's completely unsmart and impolitic to complain about work on a blog. I should take a cue from Dooce and just shut the hell up but, um, they are moving me out of my huge office with the view of the gurgling fountain and blooming lavender and they are putting me in a cube in the hall that was apparently designed for little people, and temps. My screen faces out, like towards the masses.  Translation: no more watching SNL videos at work.  No more personal email.  No more oh-my-god-no-waying with my friend in Milan.* Sigh.  

*Note to boss: I'm just trying to be funny.  I've never really done any of those things at work.

A thing I like

Hula Seventy's Polaroid Party.  Lots of Polaroids.  Just the way 

I like them. Plus, this one is of a donut.

Naked Gardening, James Beard, and How to Make A Baby

via The Washingtonian

First of all, a massive congratulations to my Sunset coworkers on their James Beard Award!  How cool is that?  They won in the food blogging category and if you haven't already been following the one-block diet blog, may I suggest that you do?  They may have single-handedly started the backyard chicken craze that's sweeping the West.  Plus, James Beard?  He was huge!  And so is the award named after him.

Also, I can't believe we didn't take advantage of this holiday at the twins three-year-old birthday party on Saturday.  It would have made what was a pretty hectic and disorganized gathering of preschoolers (my mural painting idea was ruined by the rain) a lot more interesting.   Oh well, next year.

A thing I like

This "How to Make a Baby" video, via Mighty Girl.  

It's in Spanish so if you need a translation, just ask.

Why your life is not like a magazine

I'm in the Phoenix airport right now, on my way back from a photo shoot in Tucson.  I like how that sort of makes me sound like a model.  Alas, we were shooting a house, not me in my awesome bikini (look for the story in the July issue of Sunset!).Here's a little secret I'll let you in on: very few houses actually look like they look in magazines.  They may be beautiful, well-decorated, impeccably tricked out, but they still don't look like they do in magazines.  I know this because we just spent two days clearing all the unphotogenic stuff out of the house so we could shoot: Speakers? Out! Plants? Out! Art? Out! Personal photos?  Out!  As our style editor said, "It's all about editing," meaning it's all about getting rid of your personal effects and replacing them with our own, brand new and much better looking items.  No junk mail, fridge magnets, pony tail holders on the bathroom sink. It's all fake.  I just want you to know so you don't feel bad about yourself. 

Still, it wouldn't kill you to dust every now and again. 

Our style editor Miranda making everything pretty, pretty, pretty.

A thing I like

The Sonoran hot dog. People, are you ready for this? A hot dog, wrapped in bacon and served in a bun with pinto beans, tomatoes, mayo, mustard, guac, and cheese with a big cheese stuffed chile also wrapped in bacon on the side.  They only have them in Tucson (and it can be assumed across the border in Sonora, Mexico.)  I had my first one yesterday.  And yes, it's a little gross.  But in a completely delicious way. Take that, vegetarians!

Kitchen chairs makeover (or another reason I'm not getting much writing done)

Remember that date I had with the Mister?  And the trip to the upholstery warehouse?  Well, I'm ready to debut the new dining room chairs we found on the street, and which were 100% inspired by these beauties I saw on Design Sponge and then again on our very own Sunset Home blog.   

But first, a breakdown:

Cost: chairs-free, paint and painting supplies-about $30, fabric-$22 TOTAL: $52

Time: a week, but if you were more industrious and say, maybe laid off and single, you could get it done in a weekend (including dry time).

Unanticipated side effects: numb right index finger from prolonged depression of spray paint button.  Sudden and acute need to buy new kitchen table and paint the walls. It's never ending, really.

BEFORE

Ok, so maybe they don't look so bad here but let me 

just say that the maple is fake and the fabric was filthy.

And—wait for it, wait for it.

AFTER

Yes, we did all four chairs.  I just got sick of posing them.

What we did: sanded, primed with a spray primer (1 coat), painted with Rust-Oleum American Classics in Blossom White (3 coats), covered seat with a Schumacher fabric remnant. And, voila!

Magnolias in bloom

You can buy this image here.

It's drizzly and gray again here.  We desperately need the rain, and yet, sigh, it's not exactly a mood elevator.  Except, of course, when you happen upon a Magnolia tree all bursting and blooming and gettin' crazy with huge pink blossoms.  My Magnolia calls them "Maggie trees" and whenever I point one out to her she nods and says, "Now open your eyes and look for an Olive tree for Ollie."  Isn't that magnanimous of little Magnolia? 

Speaking of twins.  If I lived in this Brazilian town, I would STAY AWAY from the water.

A thing I like

Photo originally published in Domino Magazine

I'm sort of addicted to decorating and home blogs (not the nerdy ones, just the room-porn ones).   I didn't used to be like this.  I used to take my ma's old castoffs (Hello, chipped lavender nightstand. Hello, dresser I've had since birth.) and call it a day.  Now?  Well now our little 1941 house in the Sunset is under constant scrutiny and in the throes of a hundred DIY projects.  It's all due to my job as a home editor at Sunset magazine, where pouring over beautiful homes is part of my job description. 

Anyway, right now I am, like everyone else, loving Design Sponge.  I especially like this little tidbit on how to go about remaking a room.  Personally I start by manically perusing Craigslist for used stuff, but some people, as I understand it, start with a grand vision. 

Encaustic painting, Doris Day and Carmel-by-the-Sea

Doris Day owns my hotel.  I'm in  Carmel-by-the-Sea, a town so Thomas Kincaid-esque, it make me feel as if I might come-face-to-face with Bilbo Baggins all snug in his Christmas elf suit.  Everything is so dimiutive and quaint and incredibly chi-chi.

See for yourself

They have a shop here that just sells handcrafted lampshades.  Another devoted entirely to an aviation theme—you know, flight jackets for babies and massive framed photos of fighter jets against the blue, blue sky.  

Clint Eastwood used to be the mayor and I have trouble understanding how he could have taken it all seriously.  His first act in office?  Legalizing ice cream cones.  Apparently the city had an ordinance against take-out.  Not anymore.  I just now polished off a bag of Chinese.  Alone.  In my hotel owned by Doris Day.

I am here on a women's art retreat, an assignment.  I'm learning encaustic painting (painting with hot wax) in the company of six other would-be artists.  I've learned three things so far:

1.) I LOVE encaustic painting.  It's luminous and lovely and just so fun to play with.

2.) Being a visual artist is much more fun than being a writer, especially with a staff waiting on you hand and foot (Chris, more wine.  Clap!  Clap!) 

3.) A lot of women own and wear fur coats without a trace of guilt or self-consciousness. (What would Doris Day think?)

Oh, and if you took all the diamonds off all the fingers in Carmel, you might just be able to bail out the economy once and for all.

Here's my first encaustic painting (they have a tendency to look a little tie-dye Dead Heady)