Dont Mince Words

When my nephew, Sam, was two he came to stay with me in Brooklyn for a week.  He liked going to happy hours and museums so much, he came back in 2002.  Unfortunately, his younger brother, Dave, never made it because I moved to California and the soul brothers moved to Denmark and then China.  This summer I went on location to New England to test they hypothesis that my camp is more fun than hookers and blow.

After I recovered from a red eye, we took the train to New York.  Did you know the presence of electric plugs to charge devices makes kids happy?  Me either, but if they can continue to get their game on, the when-will-we-be-theres stop.  We walked from Grand Central up to Central Park.  The first official stop was Dunkin’ Donuts so Dave could get his #4 and I could get coffee.  Then we had to stop at the Apple Store to touch stuff.  Because that’s what ‘tweens and teens want to do.  We took a quick handsome cab around Central Park before walking down to the diner around the corner from my old Hell’s Kitchen apartment.  We made the Wicked matinee where Sam stated, “wow, these are good seats.” and I replied “I’m no cheap, boring aunt.”  Of course, during intermission, the Twizzlers, M&Ms, and other treats made me realize this was not going to be a inexpensive adventure.  These kids eat like every 2.5 hours.  Jacked up on candy and more bacon cheeseburgers, the soul brothers were able to power through two Aunt Marna happy hours where I was able to enjoy my friends and my favorite food group – beer.  The next day, after more museums and bacon cheeseburgers and pizza, the boys realized there’s a lot to do in New York.  We trained back and they made their list for the next time.

I had a few recovery days which are now hazy.  I remember more ice cream.  More cheese burgers.  More pizza.  And boys in their rooms with the doors shut.  It’s hard to make them stop whatever they do in there, but I managed to get them to figure out what they wanted to do at the Boston Science Museum so we could get our geek on.

While technology has changed, what I discovered this summer is kids haven’t changed.  They’d be happy staying in their rooms playing Minecraft all day.  if it were me, and it was the 70’s, I’d rather be in my room reading Judy Blume and T.C. Andrews books.  So, I get it.  I think the boys had fun with Cool Aunt Marna.  And they did giggle when I nicknamed them “Little Bitches” because the whining and the “do we have to” and “I don’t know” just made me laugh at them more.

Am I more fun than hookers and blow?  My friends would say so, but the soul brothers would probably say I’m OK, but not as fun as computer games.  Next summer, guys. You wait.

The Pentagon, south parking view

Thirty years ago today I started the best job of my life.

Several months before the end of high school, my parents convinced me that I should enter a lottery to get a summer government job.  They both had served and felt it would be a great way for me to lock into a good, secure job that I could possibly come to after college graduation.  I wasn’t sure about that, but I was sure I couldn’t spend another summer working as a secretary at the ophthalmologist’s office.

The lottery was random.  You didn’t know what government agency you’d get or what functional division.  I just knew the pay, GS-4, which was $6.18 an hour, was much better than my $5 an hour office job.  And all of this beat minimum wage which was $3.35 at the time.

The lottery letter came.  I was sure I was going to get something boring like Department of Agriculture, or worse, Taxation.  But the return logo was the U.S. Air Force.  I was selected to be a Pentagon intern working for the Secretary of the Air Force, Office of Public Affairs, in the Media Relations division.

During the next four years, while on college breaks, my writing was sharpened.  My work at the Pentagon actually helped me select my major, English, and later my master’s, Mass Communications.  I wrote press releases, talking points, and prepped spokespeople for media.  I learned about spies, whistleblowers, and crisis communications.  I managed the early work on the B-2 “Stealth” bomber rollout.  The guys taught me about life-work balance as well.  My softball team position was first base cooler.  I proudly made office beer runs, rolling my keg-on-dolly past Pentagon tours.  The early-to-mid 1980s was a crazy time to be working in defense with all the contract awards and changing news cycles.  I was always learning and laughing.

My internship never evolved into a full-time, permanent job due to budget cuts.  But I did gain a professional network of mentors.  I learned so much, gained more responsibility with each project, and was recognized for my achievements.

In my lifetime, I have yet to have a professional experience that matches what I got working for the Air Force. I’m still connected to many of the officers I worked with.  While they remember me as their little intern, I remember them as the men that shaped my life.  I am proud I got to serve.  Thanks for making me a winner.

Angry Marna

Anyone who has known me for more than two weeks knows I bitch about my lady parts.  Usually it’s a nice dose of sexual inactivity complaints, but the majority of the debate is about my period and 37-year relationship with Procter & Gamble products.

In the ’70s, male gyn’s generally felt the solution to long periods was a hysterectomy.  Radical, it seems and yet after another 45-day period I felt it was the only modern-day solution.  Bid my blood bag adieu.  The $20-30/month saved on feminine products could be spent on alcohol.  I searched on Blue Cross for a doctor and decided to find the oldest, whitest guy possible.  Surely he’d authorize the surgery.

I assumed the position in the exam room and waited for him.  The old guy waltzed in, looked at my card and my complaint and 10 seconds later said, “You have a confused uterus.  You are 47 and your uterus isn’t producing the right levels of estrogen and testoserone so it doesn’t know if it should ovulate.”  I tried to counter that with humor while he was blowing out the cobwebs and fingering me.  “Well, living in Santa Barbara can confuse any uterus with the lack of viable, age-appropriate sexual partners,” I said.

A week later, biopsy results came back and I can’t blame any of this on cancer.  I just have a confused uterus which means I’m going on birth control for horomone control, not because my lady parts are actually seeing combat.  So, it looks like P&G and I will be best friends for a few more years.