Joey the Sheister called this morning and offered me a job as a pharmacist. Under-the-table salary, no health insurance and a 10% profit sharing down the proverbial road. I'm starting in two days. Just in time to slow the bleeding of my sorely beleagered checking account. Is it possible I can now actually consider buying a dress for my friend Barbara's son's Bar Mitzvah? I was dreading that black woolen pencil skirt in total need of shortening which I just knew was never going to happen. The clouds have lifted, halleluyah. I mean, thank you hashem.
It's a brand new pharmacy. An easy thirty minute commute each way. I picture a sparkling clean store with a beautifully tiled bathroom, a shiny new computer, and finally, a radio where I can play my favorite jazz station, WBGO, or classical or anything I damn well please. So different from Walgreens where the ants marched single file around the toilet and you had to step over a dirty industrial mop to sit down, where the soundtrack of heart pounding top 40 hits played in a never ending mind-numbing reel.
I will be the only pharmacist there, god help me. It's been a good 3 months since I last handed someone Ritalin or a statin drug and things are really beginning to get a bit foggy in the brain. I figure I'll review my pages of notes from my last job and just keep my mouth shut about what I know or don't know. Oh, and I'll iron my dyed, frizzy hair.
I answered the sheister's ad way back when on Craigslist and pursued my usual mode of follow up--hounding the poor guy. I guess it worked because he called this bright Saturday morning sounding kind of desperate, saying he needs me to start Tuesday. "I guess there's no chance you starting today?" I did ponder it, but just let it pass.
Not to get ahead of myself here, but I can't help thinking maybe I can now consider having an open bar at Ben's Bar Mitzvah luncheon. I really would love for a waiter in a crisp white shirt and tie to hand me a ginger margarita with kosher salt, then one for my sister Beth, then my friends as we look at each other lovingly, give a sigh of relief and drink up. Hey Rona, drink up, you too Sally, drinks are on the house, but of course. I love you all. I'm happy. Ben did great didn't he?
Saturday, April 28, 2012
Friday, April 27, 2012
Well that was kind of easy. Powerhouse studios was too expensive anyway. They actually invited us for a full course tasting in May, filet mignon included. I'm there for sure. It took a few days but I finally decompress from my poor venue choices for Ben's party. What it does reinforce in me is that, who the hell cares, he probably won't like it anyway, so why exactly am I sweating it. Each and every day.
A few days later Ben comes home from school all sullen, telling me his classmate Coltrane is having his Bar Mitzvah party the same day and time as our party with the same sixty kids.
"He's walking around school asking kids which Bar Mitzvah they're going to."
"With that personality is it really a problem?"I blurt out.
"His father works at a radio station and he's telling everyone that a famous rap artist will show up."
So I guess it won't come down to personality. So we're screwed. I call over to his mom Leslie, who actually attendied the same high school as me, fifteen energetic years later.
A few days later Ben comes home from school all sullen, telling me his classmate Coltrane is having his Bar Mitzvah party the same day and time as our party with the same sixty kids.
"He's walking around school asking kids which Bar Mitzvah they're going to."
"With that personality is it really a problem?"I blurt out.
"His father works at a radio station and he's telling everyone that a famous rap artist will show up."
So I guess it won't come down to personality. So we're screwed. I call over to his mom Leslie, who actually attendied the same high school as me, fifteen energetic years later.
Tuesday, April 24, 2012
Going in Reverse
I drive the 40 minutes in Route 10 traffic to pick up Ben and his two friends from Ethan's Bar Mitzvah. This is Ben's seventh Bar Mitzvah, held at Powerhouse Studios in East Hanover. As they pile into the backseat of the car Ben announces, "This party was so much better than mine will be."
I'm shocked, floored, pretty much decimated. I've never heard him make such a comparison of venues before, or to put it so succinctly.
"The foods better, the dancers are better. I screwed up. I made you pick a place too soon."
His friends all agree.
What I should have said is, "well, Ben, that's all fine and good, but we already put down our deposit at the Maplewood Little Club and Maurice's Party Animals and basically we don't have a choice." Or maybe, something along the lines of, "well you just came from this party so of course this one seems the best."
But instead I panic. Is it too late to change everything I wonder. It's still 6 months out, maybe I should at least try. Against all better judgement, I decide to put everything for the next few days on hold: my job search, the dishes, laundry, my writing. I will try to reverse everything I've done so far for Ben's Bar Mitzvah.
Monday morning I call over at Powerhouse Studios to see if there is availability and to get prices. Next I call the DJ Maurice to see if I can back out.
"It's so far in advance," I tell him. "I thought maybe you could fill our date."
"Is there some kind of emergency?" he asks.
Why, I wonder, does everything have to be such an ethical issue. Why can't I just say my fickle 12-year-old son found a place he likes better. No hard feelings. Kids will be kids and such. But no, I have to come up with an emergency. Fine.
"My husband has a problem. It's medical. We may not be having a Bar Mitzvah at all." I can't seem to stop myself. My voice seems to be coming from an echo chamber, far away, foreign sounding. And yet, technically, it's true, just last month he was disgnosed with a prostate problem like millions of other men in their late 50's and early 60's. So, well, technically, ptth, ptth, it could turn into a more serious prostatic problem. In which case the Bar Mitzvah would be off. Ptth, ptth.
"Well I'm sorry to hear that. But we already contracted out our dancers and this date has been set aside. "
I'm shocked, floored, pretty much decimated. I've never heard him make such a comparison of venues before, or to put it so succinctly.
"The foods better, the dancers are better. I screwed up. I made you pick a place too soon."
His friends all agree.
What I should have said is, "well, Ben, that's all fine and good, but we already put down our deposit at the Maplewood Little Club and Maurice's Party Animals and basically we don't have a choice." Or maybe, something along the lines of, "well you just came from this party so of course this one seems the best."
But instead I panic. Is it too late to change everything I wonder. It's still 6 months out, maybe I should at least try. Against all better judgement, I decide to put everything for the next few days on hold: my job search, the dishes, laundry, my writing. I will try to reverse everything I've done so far for Ben's Bar Mitzvah.
Monday morning I call over at Powerhouse Studios to see if there is availability and to get prices. Next I call the DJ Maurice to see if I can back out.
"It's so far in advance," I tell him. "I thought maybe you could fill our date."
"Is there some kind of emergency?" he asks.
Why, I wonder, does everything have to be such an ethical issue. Why can't I just say my fickle 12-year-old son found a place he likes better. No hard feelings. Kids will be kids and such. But no, I have to come up with an emergency. Fine.
"My husband has a problem. It's medical. We may not be having a Bar Mitzvah at all." I can't seem to stop myself. My voice seems to be coming from an echo chamber, far away, foreign sounding. And yet, technically, it's true, just last month he was disgnosed with a prostate problem like millions of other men in their late 50's and early 60's. So, well, technically, ptth, ptth, it could turn into a more serious prostatic problem. In which case the Bar Mitzvah would be off. Ptth, ptth.
"Well I'm sorry to hear that. But we already contracted out our dancers and this date has been set aside. "
Oh great, now I'm stuck with him. He knows I'm full of shit, I know he's an arse and we will now have to do the pretend we like each other dance for Ben's big day.
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