King Kong
My ex-boyfriend’s new girlfriend is an airplane pilot, and I am pissed.
Now my ex is pursuing his pilot’s license, too. They’ve been flying around the world (on regular flights, I’m assuming) hiking the French alps, dipping into exotic places like a bunch of hooligan jet-setters. They’ve driven across the US of A at least once, stopping at all the national parks, having picnics on their damn car in the middle of the godforsaken work day. They fly in her little Cessna plane over San Francisco and Malibu, my ex posting pictures of the view from the only other seat in the plane.
Oh, yeah. Also, I am following him on Instagram.
But since we’re on Instagram, let’s talk about this: I am applying for jobs, yes, everybody knows this. There are several social media-forward online companies I have interest in to whom I have sent my resume. (Ooo, that last sentence was a doozy. I hate it when I feel the need to say “to whom…”) My thinking was that it would be a good idea for me to kind of troll around a little bit and drop comments dappled with wisdom and a little bit of humor on these companies’ social media sites. Some of you know I have been forwarding posts, usually because I like what I see, though sometimes I must admit it has been because I haven’t met my quota. Most of these companies have a really big following, so I’m sure they don’t notice my small contribution in the waterfall of their comment feed. Some of it feels really fake, though, like I’m trying out for a team of sirens, and I’m not at all sexy or smooth. Take yesterday…
I was scrolling around on a site where food is the main digs. Someone posted a post to start a forum on cranberries. Comments were slewing in. And I remembered a recipe my mom makes that happens to be my favorite recipe in all of Thanksgiving. I’ll tell you now. It’s very precise. You take some oranges, then take some fresh cranberries, then take some walnuts and a little bit of sugar and you put it all in the food processor and you food process the hell out of it. Until it’s in tiny shreds, at least. Except, in this post, instead of saying “food process the hell out of it until it’s in tiny shreds,” I said something like, “food process until the hell is almost out of it.” I know it’s a nuanced thing, but I hit send and immediately regretted it, as I often do. I looked for a place to delete, to no avail. I waited.
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Sure enough the moderator of the site responded with an, “Oh my! There are some interesting takes on recipes here.” That message was sent directly to my inbox. I looked back at what I had written in shame and disgust. The moderator has to keep the comment feed on the upswing, and perhaps just by virtue of her commenting on my comment the vilest brutes and beasts would stay away.
But then the post came down.
So late last night, among the hours when they tell you not to touch your computer, I decided to send an email to the editors of this particular company. The highlight of the email was this, in regard to my post: “Thought it was funny initially, had several meanings all of a sudden, couldn’t delete and felt bad. I only aim to be positive and constructive. I so enjoy reading through your posts and your feed. I love cranberries.”
I comment on a lot of stuff on Instagram, most of the time without thinking after going over and over whatever I am to write in my head. Still, there is some reticence when it comes to dropping my comment kids off at the feed pool, so to speak.
Here is my plea: If I leave droppings instead of flowers on your glorious post, please know the intent was not to offend.
Also this: If I accidentally oafishly stomp all over your pretty things, please understand.
One more thing: If you’re a food company and you’re reading this, please send my ex-boyfriend some of those delicious guano truffles you have. He’ll probably eat them off the top of the coliseum while defending Amelia Earhart from King Kong.
