Jasper Johns, Flag (1954-55)

In third grade, my class did a project in which each student studied a state. Mine was New York. I was born in New York and–living in Virginia at the time–that was a very cool thing. Take that, Robert E. Lee.

Part of the project entailed an artistic re-creation of the state flag, or so I remember. In all likelihood, I had simply envisioned my project exuding grandeur (symbolized by an impeccably drafted state flag) and wouldn’t settle for anything less. The teacher would make a big deal over how wonderful my flag looked and how it really made my research on New York State rise above my classmates’ attempts at Vermont and Kentucky. Yes, I was that student. Apologies to those I stepped on along the way.

The problem was that my artistic rendering of Lady Liberty or whatever Greek ladies adorn the New York flag was not up to my own standards. And I freaked. If there’s one thing I can own, it’s when I make something that looks/tastes/smells (yup…you know what I mean by smells) awful. Even at age 8, I knew that the only state this flag was representing was a state of panic.

Luckily, I have a father who was obsessive–but not neurotic per say–about education. If I was studying George Washington in school, we’d go to Mount Vernon that weekend (not that it was all that far…we lived in Virginia, after all…but we were po’, which makes it more meaningful). If I wanted to be in band, we’d figure out a way to get a saxophone. Life was good like that. But back to New York. My dad stayed up late into the night drawing those Greek bitches for me. How long it took him, I have no idea. I was fast asleep. All I know is that I went to sleep with Lady Letdown and woke up to Lady Luck, because my flag looked amazing. In case I didn’t do so then, thanks Dad.

The byproduct of my gut-wrenching experience with the New York State flag made me realize something. I like simple flags. When I think about Jasper Johns’ paintings of the American flag, for instance, I become exhausted. I mean, do we really need all fifty stars on there? That’s a lot of work. Look at California’s flag; it has a bear on it. I don’t remember being good at drawing bears when I was a kid. Fish? Yeah, I could draw a mean fish, but a bear? That’s a tall order.

What this boils down to is that I should live in Japan. A nice red circle on a white background. And I love sushi. Done and done.

The ideas of flags, simplicity and parents doing their child’s homework make me think about “flags” in another sense–the kind that are cautionary. References to “red flags” pour out of my mouth like wine pours in (and that’s a lot). Whether in friendships, relationships, jobs or seat stains on public transportation, red flags are those ubiquitous indications that things just aren’t right. They can be slight or monumental, direct or obscure. The fact is, though, that they’re important. And symbolic. Sort of like a real flag.

For the longest time, all flags were red flags, or deal breakers for me. They would cause me to hastily end things, whether (again) a friendship, a relationship or a job. If things were feeling off, I was out. Then, over time, things changed. That artificial, obnoxious-doesn’t-begin-to-describe-it word, “sticktuitiveness,” comes to mind. Thanks but no thanks to the teacher who planted that seed of vile faux-cabulary that I can’t seem to shake. Regardless, red flags don’t seem to burn as hot as they once did. Perhaps it comes with age, similar to theories that time feels like it goes by faster as we get older because it becomes a smaller and smaller fraction of our  total lifetime. After so many red flags, I think my vision may be fading.

My red flag reexamination has proven a good thing. A healthy thing. While it has the potential to bite me, I’d rather be open, patient and understanding (within reason, obviously) than callous and fearful. My new outlook on flags is that they’re still popping up all around me, but their color isn’t evident at first. It’s like the terrorism threats at the airport. Flags can be yellow or orange or, sometimes, red. Sometimes they’re complicated, like New York and sometimes they’re simple, like Japan. The trick is to resist assigning them their color prematurely. And to refrain from underestimating your drawing abilities.

Life is full of flags; full of hints and warnings. We’re lucky to have them. But sometimes we need to color-correct them and other times we need to disavow them altogether. On the flip side, there are some that ought to be heeded. We’d be silly not to. It’s a fine line indeed.

While flag-burning may be protected under the First Amendment, we can really only protect ourselves from being burned by them.

Exhibit A

I mean, what did we ever do before email? Can you imagine Mad Men-style offices with typewriters? A legitimate use for United States Post Office? No way. It’s simply unfathomable. Email has changed everything.

Besides its mere existence, it’s also interesting to consider email’s evolution. I remember my first ever email address. Correction: I don’t actually remember it because it was through my high school and it had a ton of numbers in it and the domain had approximately fourteen words, all separated by periods. Weird. At any rate, did you know that people–once upon a time–would fax each other cartoons, jokes, etc. the way that people later began forwarding emails? Again: weird.

Even the older demographic has gotten into the email, which is kind of cool (maybe). I always imagine those Hughes Net commercials appealing to the old, retired couple that live in the country. It’s probably because the demonstration of download speed is a picture of a little girl with a balloon or something, which obviously appeals to grandparents. The old folks are suckers for anything grandchild related…we all know that.

My grandmother is no sucker, but she is one such computer proficient senior. She’ll check in with me from time to time, laying the “why do I never hear from you?” guilt on thick. It’s cool, though, and very much deserved. These emails are nice. I picture her making her once-a-day trip to her desk, turning on the computer and waiting, patiently, for the screeching sounds of dial-up to get her online. Don’t ask me why, but I just assume everyone over age 55 has dial-up internet. I balme it on the Hughes Net commercials, so feel free to correct me if I’m wrong.

Anyway, it’s pretty cool that the internet really is universal. What’s not cool, however, is how not everyone uses it in the same way. [Dramatic sigh.]

Enter Exhibit A, pictured above. These are a sampling of forwards from my Grammie. As you’ll see from the dates and the unread messages, I stopped opening her forwards sometime around June 2008. The gap in chronology points to the fact that I have deleted most of them as they arrive. Perhaps I should feel guilty about this. I actually do, but have perfected the squashing of that pesky “guilt” emotion as soon as it rears its needy head.

The truth is that I don’t feel I even need to open these forwards, as I know, from subject alone, what to expect. Or so I imagine. Let’s run down a few of these, shall we?

“FW: I love my attorney!” = Some cliche take on attorneys being sleazy, unethical thiefs.

“FW: Zip Lok Bags…….Tip of the Week…….” = Something I would potentially be interested in but am too distracted by whether or not “Lok” is the correct spelling to pursue. And the over-use of ellipse–it’s all too much for me.

“FW: All God’s critters” = There is no fucking way I’m opening this.

“FW: Cabbies” = Something racist.

“FW: Impaled by a Taliban RPG” = Something racist and right-winged (or is that redundant?).

“FW: WARNING…..809″ = If you get a call from this area code DO NOT answer it or that grandchild in the picture with a balloon will be killed. Instantly.

“FW: Please read quietly and send it on its journey” = Cyber spirituality is creepier than that guy in makeup singing to JonBenet Ramseys on TLC’s “Little Miss Perfect”.

Grammie, we’ve always had a unique relationship of respect whereby we can be honest with each other when no one else is. Let the humor I find in your email forwards continue that wonderful dynamic…so keep ‘em coming; I even started a separate email folder for them, just for shits & giggles.

I love you! (And I’m still in your will after this, right?)

There’s little doubt that I’ve taken a…uhhh…sabbatical from writing. It’s been more than a month since dedicating any time to pursuits other than working and consuming every conceivable food and beverage product. But the time has come to get back to the basics. And by basics, I mean communicating my criticism of people, places and things on the most public of platforms that I have access to. No, not my too-popular-for-her-own-good dog, my blog.

While my overall consumption problem is epic, that’s nothing new. The greater reason behind my recently dried-up ink well is my new job. That’s right, people. A new job. NPR should come get their sound byte because my months of looking finally led to something pretty damn good. The Tide of Terrible has turned; if not for the entire country, at least for this Natalean life. All Things Considered, you have my number.

The rewards of stable and challenging employment are obvious; the process of getting here, however, was arduous. Searching, applying and interviewing for a new job proved a nerve-racking mind-fuck and, because of this, directly parallels my dating life.

It’s seldom discussed, but nonetheless true: the processes of interviewing and dating are one and the same.

From initially putting yourself out there and exposing your vulnerabilities to making the ballsy move of applying or approaching a potential match, interviewing is dating and dating is interviewing. By this standard, jobs are relationships. And relationships? They’re work. Makes a frightening amount of sense, doesn’t it? I think so, too.

As we all know, the worst–and I mean worst–part about both of these endeavors is the unexplained ending. The out-of-the-blue Houdinis; the ending because one party simply forfeits their appearance. “Things were going so well,” you think in disbelief after the second or–worse yet–third interview/date. Guess not. And here’s the hard part: accepting that it’s over and stop facebook stalking. They’ve moved on and the job posting isn’t on craigslist anymore. They both went with another candidate.

There’s a special place in hell for employers who don’t follow up with job candidates. That placeholder becomes increasingly cemented with additional interviews. Snub me after one interview? Fine. Spend eternity on an overcrowded city bus. Have fun. After three interviews? You’re so spending your next life as Kirstie Alley. Makes the bus look pret-ty nice, doesn’t it?

And with dating? The Houdinis? Well, I’m not all-too-familiar with how libel works and my bestie is a patent attorney, not a litigator, so I should probably leave that one alone. Consider yourselves lucky.

Having now completed this process (the job hunt, that is), there’s a peace that comes over me when craigslist is no longer in my web browser history. Career Builder is one less site I feel compelled to stalk each day. I can focus on other things, like when Bethenny Frankel’s baby is due.

The search for new professional opportunities also lends itself to some rather heavy self-reflection. Looking back at my work history, I realize that I’ve opted out of some pretty great opportunities with some great companies (and some very not great ones…*ahem*). The great ones would never have revealed themselves–even in hindsight–without the juxtaposition of the unsavory. They’re the ones I probably shouldn’t have given up on so quickly; the ones I should have realized, at the time, how good for me they really were.

Like I said, it’s seldom discussed, but nonetheless true: jobs and relationships are one and the same.