Tag: writing

Family

My Dad Was An Army Secretary

littleshoeprincess

In honor of Veterans’ Day, I thought I’d share the story of my dad in the army.

Until the day she moved out of her apartment, my grandmother kept an 8″x10″ black and white photo of my dad in his army uniform on her armoire. In it, he look at 14 years old, crew cut, clean shaven, hat and deer-in-headlights look on his face. She was so proud of him for serving in the army, you would have thought he won the war.

The other day, Little Mister was surprised to find out that my dad – his grandfather – was a veteran.

“What did Grandpa do in the army?” he asked me.

And with a straight face I let him in on the long-running joke I have with my dad: “He was a secretary.”

True story.

And I have been joking with him about it for as long as I can remember. Mr. KK’s dad was stationed on a submarine, working as an electrician on a boat, while my dad sat behind a desk and answered phones.

Apparently, sometime between when he arrived at boot camp and was trying to avoid getting the shots necessary to actually be in the army, someone found out that my dad could type.

I imagine it went something like this:

My dad – in line for some ebola or rabies vaccine at the army base – joking with his buddies. A Captain or a General is walking up and down the lines of newbies, picking out the ones who weren’t going to make it and the ones who would rise in the ranks. Maybe one of them muttered, “Man, I wish we had someone who could take notes really neatly.”

Upon hearing this, my dad’s ears perk up and his arm shoots into the air. “Sir, I can type 80 words a minute, Sir!”

Upon hearing this, the Grand Puba plucks my dad out of line. “Boy, can you type without mistakes? Can I count on you to take notes and memos?”

And just like that, my dad avoided combat and got himself a desk job. Pretty smart if you ask me. It’s like getting the best job at the worst place to work; it’s not great to be there, but you could be getting shot at.

At family gatherings, I will tease my dad, mimicking him typing on typewriter, and tapping the point of a pen to his tongue to start writing a memo. I’ll yell out, “You! Take an emergency memo! The troops are moving in! STOP. We must prepare. STOP.” and then we all laugh and laugh.

But jokes aside, I’m proud that both my dad is a veteran. Even if his greatest weapon was Wite Out.

hospital, parents

My Dad Slept Next to a Fugative

littleshoeprincess

Staying true to the tagline on this blog of “You can’t make this sh*t up”, get a load of this story.

A few Fridays ago, my dad had routine kidney stone surgery. This is when they give you propofol (aka: the good stuff) and put you to sleep and then go in with a laser and blast the kidney stones to smithereens. (I can’t tell you how excited I am to have used the word ‘smithereens’ on my blog!)

My dad has had this surgery before, it’s in and out of the hospital on the same day, then go home and rest and don’t lift anything heavy for a week. And this is exactly what we did. However, the weekend following the surgery, my dad developed a fever and the chills and was lethargic, and on Monday the morning the nurse told him, “Go to the Emergency Room!” And so Uber KK went and picked up Mom and Dad, and drove back to the hospital, this time to the ER. Blessedly, there was no one there and he was taken back immediately.

My dad was in his street clothes on a gurney, parked in the hallway due to no open curtained rooms. It’s possible my dad was one of the only sober person being treated. The guy behind him was hacking up a lung and throwing up on his gurney. A woman was screaming for hematology and ripping all the gloves out of the boxes that hung on the wall and throwing them all over the floor. Someone else kept a steady tempo of yelling “Nurse!” for a solid hour. During all of this they poked and prodded my dad, taking urine and blood and his temperature until finally they admitted him with an infection. (No medical training over here, but hearing his symptoms when I picked him up that morning, I diagnosed him with the same thing).

When they wheeled my dad into the room, there was already someone else there in the bed by the window. He was about thirty or so, walking with a limp and cane. His music was blaring and he was singing loudly. If he walked by us once, he walked by us a thousand times – grabbing pudding out of the floor fridge, handing out at the nurses’ station, visiting other patients on the floor.

“This guy is like the mayor,” my dad commented as our roommate hobbled by.

The next morning Uber KK picked up mom and then we headed down for another full day of bedside sitting at the hospital. I was reliving my childhood sick day dreams: glued to the TV watching Let’s Make a Deal and The Price is Right (RIP Bob), plus more hours of news in one morning and afternoon than I have consumed in the last 20 years.

A nurse came to check on our roommate, and – with those flimsy curtains doing nothing to block sound – I heard her ask: “Did you break your parole?”

Say what?!?!

Not long after this exchange, three hulking men in street clothes with multiple guns strapped to their legs and waists came into our little hospital room.

“Excuse us, ma’am,” one of them said to me. “We’re just going to move that gentleman to another room.”

It was like we were in a COPS episode. At once both of my parents started talking.

“SHHHHHHHH!” I commanded, waving at them to be quiet, my eyes bulging at them. “I can’t hear!” I whispered.

The cops moved the curtain aside and smiled at the roommate. “I’m going to have to take your phone,” the first one said.

A second officer glided in, ordered the roommate to lay down, and handcuffed him to the bed.

This was really happening!

With little fanfare, besides multiple men with giant guns and the arrival of a uniformed police officer, they starting wheeling our roommate out of the room. I didn’t know where to look! Do I pretend to be into the muted episode of Judge Judy? Do I bury my face in my phone? Do I look him dead in the eye…no definitely not that one!

“I need to finish my antibiotics,” he said to one of the officers. “Oh you will,” the cop replied. “And when you’re done, you can go back to jail.”

When my dad’s nurse came in to check on him, she peeked on the other side of the curtain to see if he was gone.

“See all this entertainment I provided for you?” she joked, taking my dad’s temperature.

I asked the obvious question: “He has been walking around this floor for two days, why did they now handcuff him to the bed?”

The nurse said matter-of-factly: “Oh, that’s because they just found out where he was.”

Oh.

“They came in here to arrest him. That’s what they just did. Now he’s in a private room on the other side of the floor.” She finished up with my dad. “They’ll be in soon to clean, someone else is moving in here.”

I looked at my dad. “We have to get you out of here,” I said. And then the news came on. Again.

work

The Job Market in 2025: 0/5 Stars

littleshoeprincess

I was laid off from my job last month.

When it first happened, those four words – I was laid off – were hard to think, let alone write or speak. How could I be laid off? I am a great employee, hard worker, and hell – I was even recruited for the role I was in. But, it happened anyway. My client just didn’t have the money to support keeping me on their business. So I was let go. Ugh, and that term “let go”, like I’m a kite or a piece of rope.

Part of my exit plan was to bestow all of my knowledge of the client and the business onto the remaining team members, as well as the senior team member who was going to take over my role. I showed up every day, gave them my best, and even traveled to manage a TV shoot for four days. Two weeks later, I mailed my laptop back.

In the days that followed my last day of work, I experienced all of the stages of unemployment: shock, anger, fear, grief, and then…a quiet acceptance. I would find a job, the right job, and I would fill my time in other ways. After all, I couldn’t just do nothing. I have always had a job, since I was 15 years old. I don’t know what it feels like to not have a job.

Here, in 2025, it’s easier to find Bigfoot than it is to find a job. Resumes being read by computers. Ghost posts of jobs that don’t even exist. Your application going into a black hole, your hopes and dreams along with it.

This is the actual applicant count for a job to which I applied.

The job market is so broken. 7,000 applicants? Sure, some of them are bots. Others are not qualified. But I have to think at least a few thousand of those 7700 have the chops to do the job. My LinkedIn feed is filled with hundreds of connections all looking for work right now. It’s scary. We’re all of a certain age, experience level, and salary. We’re all vying for the same roles. It’s bananas.

I can honestly say, I’ve been tremendously busy each day in the last month.

Of course I’m spending time networking and job searching for roles that I truly can see myself in. After two days of panic applying to every job in sight, I’ve calmed down. I don’t just want to “work anywhere”. I’m looking to work for a company or brand, not a creative agency again. Titles like “Creative Director, Copy” and “Senior Writer, Brand” excite me. I love to write, and I’m good at it.

I’m also taking care of things that I could never find time for. Organizing. Appointments. Crafting (more on this in another post!). I end each day with a sense of accomplishment; checking items of a to do list or making time for myself.

Lastly, I’m freelancing until the right permanent role comes along. It’s giving me the flexibility I need right now while life is…life-ing.

When I shared the news of my layoff on LinkedIn, I was humbled by how many people from my past life and jobs reached out to me. Some I knew well, others I had managed, and a few were coworkers who were at the same company at the same time, yet we didn’t even work together. But their messages were all alike: “I’m sorry” and “they are crazy to let you go!” and “let me know how I can help”. These messages boosted me up and reminded me that I know a lot of really amazing people.

At the same time, I was disheartened by people I DIDN’T hear from. The ones who I thought for sure would say something (even just a ‘it’s been great working with you! good luck!’ before I was shut off from Teams). In certain situations, people will surprise you. And not always in a good way.

It takes a village to land a job in 2025, and I’m truly grateful to those willing to make a connection, pass on a resume, send a referral link. I certainly didn’t have “Get Laid Off” on my 2025 BINGO card. But I’m ready to play a new game.

octopus
Gifts, Life, Mr. KK

I am the Octopus

littleshoeprincess

We’ve all been there: you’re mindlessly scrolling on Instagram and your finger slips, accidentally clicking on a sponsored post of a dog dressed up as a newscaster, and all of a sudden your entire feed is filled with talking dogs. Or kids who swear. Or the clogs that will haunt you until you buy them. Or whatever plagues your feed.

For me, it was a ring. A gold ring that looked like an octopus. Except I didn’t click on it by accident, I clicked on it purposefully.

I’m not a big jewelry wearer. I have a ‘kk’ necklace that I’ll wear. And my wedding rings. But that’s about it. No earrings. Nothing extra.

But there was something about this ring. I couldn’t stop thinking about it. And then – because I clicked (or thought about it?) – it was everywhere in my socialsphere.

image from atolea.com

I showed it to Mr. KK one day casually. Like, ‘you know me, I’m not a jewelry girl, but this ring is pretty cool’. And then life went on, as it does.

In August, Mr. KK and I celebrated our 20-year wedding anniversary. I’m using the term “celebrated” loosely, because while the three of us had a nice dinner out on the actual day, we didn’t really do it up big. In the past, we likely would have gone away somewhere. But, because 2025 was such a bitch, our anniversary came and went quietly.

A few days after our anniversary, Mr. KK handed me a box. And inside was the octopus ring! (Mr. KK is always paying attention and listening! Even after 20 years!)

I love the ring! And not only is it a cool design, what it represents is so meaningful to me. My friend ChatGPT had this to say:

The significance of the octopus lies in its remarkable intelligence, adaptability, and regenerative abilities, which symbolize a range of concepts including versatility, creativity, resilience, and transformation….in contemporary culture, they represent problem-solving and innovation.

But that’s not all!

Octopus Symbolic Meaning

Intelligence and Creativity:

As one of the most intelligent invertebrates, the octopus represents problem-solving, creative thinking, and innovation.

Adaptability and Versatility:

Its ability to change its color, shape, and texture, along with its fluid movement, makes it a symbol of adaptability and the capacity to navigate complex situations.

Resilience and Regeneration:

The octopus’s power to regrow lost limbs symbolizes renewal, healing, growth, and the ability to overcome adversity.

Multitasking:

The eight limbs of the octopus are often seen as a representation of the human ability to juggle multiple tasks and responsibilities.

This is me! Maybe I loved this ring subconsciously because of what it represents.

I am the Octopus!