That's the title of one of the best books I have by Sandy Hotchkiss. It's a laymen's book on what she calls the Seven Deadly Sins of Narcissism: Shamelessness, Magical Thinking, Arrogance, Envy, Entitlement, Exploitation, and Bad Boundaries. There's also Lack of Empathy, which is sorely missing from this treatise.
I gave this book to a coworker, and now I have it back. It's definitely worth reading again. If only I had this ten years ago, I might not have made the choices I did. It's also a lovely bolster to all the coworkers, bosses, and general relationships--god, how I use that term loosely--over the years.
The first three items describe my current and former working environment at my last 3 jobs, the next two describe false friends I have gotten rid of since 1995, the last two describe members of my own immediate and extended family. It's such a useful book, I can't recommend it enough.
Even with all the setbacks, disappointments, hurdles and losses in my life, I was not shielded from the truth. I was not shielded from making sense of things myself, and I was never given special treatment. These things, as I have learned in this book, are the exact opposite of what the narcissist lives in. It's all about me, me, me, power and control.
The latest asshole with a violent sense of "me" entitlement is that serial killer in Wichita, Kansas. I won't mention his name since he's probably sitting in prison right now (and he got 175 years) googling his own name. This militant megalomaniac asshole sat in court two weeks ago and bragged about how he strengthened his hands to more efficiently kill his victims. Most serial killers suffer from narcissism at the extreme end, which is malignant and sociopathic. His victims were objects, the surviving children and the one guy who survived were just useless cockroaches who were lucky to escape. Nice, guy, huh? And the media plays right into it--the last thing anyone should ever do is mention this guy's name ever again, it's what he wants.
And to think, I thought I was NUTS. I might have a messy apartment, sleep too much, and buy waaay too much crap on ebay, but I'm no where near as bad as these people. They'd tell me the exact opposite, but that's why books like this are written.
If you're living in Asshole Central, I recommend it: Why Is It Always About You? The Seven Deadly Sins of Narcissism by Sandy Hotchkiss, LCSW. It's cheap on amazon.com. Take a look, you won't regret it.
Monday, August 29, 2005
Tuesday, August 23, 2005
My Beautiful Laundrette
at 7:30 a.m.
Got home too late last night to do the clothes, so I got up this morning at 7 a.m. to do them. Not bad, either. I just ran out of time and barely made it to my train. But my clothes were fresh out of the dryer. It was me, an old woman, two sleeping cats, and that fabulous Lotto commercial with the dog--on Telemundo.
"Perrrro???!!" the guy says as the dog goes by with the french poodles in the limo. It's funnier in Spanish, I swear.
My chomped-up leg is still purple and red, but the itching has gone done. I should've done my sheets, too--they're covered in Cortaid ointment. It works, but it's messy.
What I'm enjoying most is going on various websites to find the shortest most curt version of a resignation letter I can find. I've seen "friendly but stylish", "helpful yet elegant", and going-out-on-a-limb-before-I-leave, which I ain't doing. I want the Dry As Dirt version. I think that could be lovely.
And then of course, the thing I didn't think of---the 401K rollover. I don't want the check. I don't want the tax penalty. I also don't want them keeping my $ while I'm at a new place. I think I want the Roth IRA. I'll have to set up something with my bank. Just poke around and see what they offer. Then if I have my own Roth IRA, I can sign up for whatever comes my way at the new place. More sources of moolah.
My allergies are also back--this time it's my eye. I literally peeled my lids open due to pollen gunky weirdness. That can be my lovely excuse for tomorrow's meeting downtown. Ahh, the gunky web I weave...
Got home too late last night to do the clothes, so I got up this morning at 7 a.m. to do them. Not bad, either. I just ran out of time and barely made it to my train. But my clothes were fresh out of the dryer. It was me, an old woman, two sleeping cats, and that fabulous Lotto commercial with the dog--on Telemundo.
"Perrrro???!!" the guy says as the dog goes by with the french poodles in the limo. It's funnier in Spanish, I swear.
My chomped-up leg is still purple and red, but the itching has gone done. I should've done my sheets, too--they're covered in Cortaid ointment. It works, but it's messy.
What I'm enjoying most is going on various websites to find the shortest most curt version of a resignation letter I can find. I've seen "friendly but stylish", "helpful yet elegant", and going-out-on-a-limb-before-I-leave, which I ain't doing. I want the Dry As Dirt version. I think that could be lovely.
And then of course, the thing I didn't think of---the 401K rollover. I don't want the check. I don't want the tax penalty. I also don't want them keeping my $ while I'm at a new place. I think I want the Roth IRA. I'll have to set up something with my bank. Just poke around and see what they offer. Then if I have my own Roth IRA, I can sign up for whatever comes my way at the new place. More sources of moolah.
My allergies are also back--this time it's my eye. I literally peeled my lids open due to pollen gunky weirdness. That can be my lovely excuse for tomorrow's meeting downtown. Ahh, the gunky web I weave...
Monday, August 22, 2005
I'm Alive
Barely.
Some huge bug chomped on my leg. I prefer "chomp" rather than "feed." That's a bit too Bram Stoker for me.
I could not get out of bed yesterday. At ALL. I literally slept on and off from about 4 am Saturday to 7 am this morning. Strange dreams plagued me, too.
Lots of my childhood house, more marauding elves, dark streets, sewers, towers, and me being 4 ft. tall. No spicy food, either. In fact, I didn't eat at all yesterday. Once glass of water at 11:15 pm, and that was it.
I think I'm making up for all the years of sleep I didn't get. It comes on like exhaustion, too. I literally can't move.
Applied to a lovely Reuters position this morning. Since half my company is going over there, does it matter? I don't think so. Our resident closet Queen, JD, is leaving. Wonder where his bubblehead assistant is going to go. She came back after not working here for one year to specifically work for him. She has all the intelligence of a shoe string. Plenty of people are probably dancing in the aisles that he's gone. He had the charm of a (drag queened) cockroach. Good riddance, I say.
The mental burden of still being here is too much.
Off to Borough Hall on Wednesday. Let's see what happens there.
Some huge bug chomped on my leg. I prefer "chomp" rather than "feed." That's a bit too Bram Stoker for me.
I could not get out of bed yesterday. At ALL. I literally slept on and off from about 4 am Saturday to 7 am this morning. Strange dreams plagued me, too.
Lots of my childhood house, more marauding elves, dark streets, sewers, towers, and me being 4 ft. tall. No spicy food, either. In fact, I didn't eat at all yesterday. Once glass of water at 11:15 pm, and that was it.
I think I'm making up for all the years of sleep I didn't get. It comes on like exhaustion, too. I literally can't move.
Applied to a lovely Reuters position this morning. Since half my company is going over there, does it matter? I don't think so. Our resident closet Queen, JD, is leaving. Wonder where his bubblehead assistant is going to go. She came back after not working here for one year to specifically work for him. She has all the intelligence of a shoe string. Plenty of people are probably dancing in the aisles that he's gone. He had the charm of a (drag queened) cockroach. Good riddance, I say.
The mental burden of still being here is too much.
Off to Borough Hall on Wednesday. Let's see what happens there.
Saturday, August 13, 2005
A Lesson in Faith
Well, this whole week has been very sad for me.
The final toy and trinket count for Thelma is one Christmas ornament, one purple bear, one stuffed cat, three Christmas cards, one keychain, one pencil set with a notebook covered in angels, and an 8-inch poseable scarecrow. Most of them are on display and still used--except the ornament, which is packed away in my holiday "closet." She really has been with me all along.
I got up this morning and had to get my hair done, which is perfect timing: another job interview Monday. The tiny place is called Pier Luca, and if you can imagine sinks and blow dryers inside a tiny church? That's it: ornate, gold, littered with statues of angels, candle, depictions of Padre Pio (I kid you not), St. George, St. Michael, Mary, and the Infant of Prague. Given my solemn mood, it was nice to be near my old neighborhood and surrounded by the Catholic icons of my childhood.
There was only thing to do afterwards: visit St. Finbar's, the church where I was baptized and attended mass until I was 9 years old. Today, in Indiana, Thelma was laid to rest at Trinity Baptist church. This was all I could think about. A heavy feeling hit me, and it was more than humidity as I ascended the stairs. Amazingly, a mass in Italian was taking place. I passed the stations of the cross, a statue of Mary and Padre Pio (he's everywhere, I guess), and took a seat. From what I could understand, it was for a couple. Not a wedding, but something else-- then I saw two well-dressed seniors in take the altar. The priest began speaking in English about how they were there again where they were married to celebrate their 50th anniversary with all they knew. Almost half the church was filled, and it was clear I was not family. I smiled and nodded at those who turned around. The priest continued with an incredible sermon. I scribbled some of it down.
"Today we mark 50 years of faith for this loving couple. Faith and faithfulness are not popular things in today's world, but it is God's love and faith for each and every one of us that allows a successful union among those who believe. If you can believe, even in difficulty and in sorrow, the years pass maybe not with ease, but with strength. Strength comes from faith."
He quickly broke into Italian, and they re-dedicated their vows to each other. There was much weeping, myself included. It suddenly seemed strange that I was crying amongst strangers, so I left. As I turned the block, I stopped in a new restaurant (it wasn't there a few months ago) and had a plate of pasta. In honor of all my Italians. Good food, good life they used to say.
I turned up my old block to see my first butterfly of this summer. Two little girls told me they adopted a caterpillar and the cocoon broke open. This tiny black and yellow creature sat on the girl's finger perched like a sparrow. Shame that butterflies don't live very long, I thought. As if reading my thoughts, she said, "I think we'll have him a long time." Ah, children. They believe no matter what.
And that's what summed up my day--the faith that while Thelma's body finally gave out, her spirit remains. It is only with news of her passing, that I can think of how steeped she in my mind, my memory, my life. This was a woman who gave and gave with what she saw as an unlimited amount of strength, but it was her faith that truly allowed her to keep going. When we knew she might collapse from exhaustion, she did not.
I will always see her toys and cards and think of the incredible cheekbones and laugh filling the 6th floor studio as she grabbed hot chocolate in the morning, and tea in the afternoon. Her perfect teeth and burgundy lipstick as she smiled and laughed. Her long, curved fingers in that exact shade of golden bronze nail polish. The encouraging notes she left me when I told her I was leaving that job. The cartoons we shared, the puns, the jokes...all of it still fresh--always fresh--in my mind. She told me I had to have the courage to ask for more. In my paycheck and in life. "Why settle? There's always gonna be someone who wants it more than you," she told me. "Get ON with it!" she would say, and how I laughed. She was right of course, and my current job search certainly exemplifies this point. I must have faith that things will improve, and that the right moment will turn my way. Plenty of events in my life tell me otherwise, but that's what I need to block out. I am lucky that time moves forward and does not stand still.
A passing, an anniversary, a memory, a butterfly. There is always hope.
The final toy and trinket count for Thelma is one Christmas ornament, one purple bear, one stuffed cat, three Christmas cards, one keychain, one pencil set with a notebook covered in angels, and an 8-inch poseable scarecrow. Most of them are on display and still used--except the ornament, which is packed away in my holiday "closet." She really has been with me all along.
I got up this morning and had to get my hair done, which is perfect timing: another job interview Monday. The tiny place is called Pier Luca, and if you can imagine sinks and blow dryers inside a tiny church? That's it: ornate, gold, littered with statues of angels, candle, depictions of Padre Pio (I kid you not), St. George, St. Michael, Mary, and the Infant of Prague. Given my solemn mood, it was nice to be near my old neighborhood and surrounded by the Catholic icons of my childhood.
There was only thing to do afterwards: visit St. Finbar's, the church where I was baptized and attended mass until I was 9 years old. Today, in Indiana, Thelma was laid to rest at Trinity Baptist church. This was all I could think about. A heavy feeling hit me, and it was more than humidity as I ascended the stairs. Amazingly, a mass in Italian was taking place. I passed the stations of the cross, a statue of Mary and Padre Pio (he's everywhere, I guess), and took a seat. From what I could understand, it was for a couple. Not a wedding, but something else-- then I saw two well-dressed seniors in take the altar. The priest began speaking in English about how they were there again where they were married to celebrate their 50th anniversary with all they knew. Almost half the church was filled, and it was clear I was not family. I smiled and nodded at those who turned around. The priest continued with an incredible sermon. I scribbled some of it down.
"Today we mark 50 years of faith for this loving couple. Faith and faithfulness are not popular things in today's world, but it is God's love and faith for each and every one of us that allows a successful union among those who believe. If you can believe, even in difficulty and in sorrow, the years pass maybe not with ease, but with strength. Strength comes from faith."
He quickly broke into Italian, and they re-dedicated their vows to each other. There was much weeping, myself included. It suddenly seemed strange that I was crying amongst strangers, so I left. As I turned the block, I stopped in a new restaurant (it wasn't there a few months ago) and had a plate of pasta. In honor of all my Italians. Good food, good life they used to say.
I turned up my old block to see my first butterfly of this summer. Two little girls told me they adopted a caterpillar and the cocoon broke open. This tiny black and yellow creature sat on the girl's finger perched like a sparrow. Shame that butterflies don't live very long, I thought. As if reading my thoughts, she said, "I think we'll have him a long time." Ah, children. They believe no matter what.
And that's what summed up my day--the faith that while Thelma's body finally gave out, her spirit remains. It is only with news of her passing, that I can think of how steeped she in my mind, my memory, my life. This was a woman who gave and gave with what she saw as an unlimited amount of strength, but it was her faith that truly allowed her to keep going. When we knew she might collapse from exhaustion, she did not.
I will always see her toys and cards and think of the incredible cheekbones and laugh filling the 6th floor studio as she grabbed hot chocolate in the morning, and tea in the afternoon. Her perfect teeth and burgundy lipstick as she smiled and laughed. Her long, curved fingers in that exact shade of golden bronze nail polish. The encouraging notes she left me when I told her I was leaving that job. The cartoons we shared, the puns, the jokes...all of it still fresh--always fresh--in my mind. She told me I had to have the courage to ask for more. In my paycheck and in life. "Why settle? There's always gonna be someone who wants it more than you," she told me. "Get ON with it!" she would say, and how I laughed. She was right of course, and my current job search certainly exemplifies this point. I must have faith that things will improve, and that the right moment will turn my way. Plenty of events in my life tell me otherwise, but that's what I need to block out. I am lucky that time moves forward and does not stand still.
A passing, an anniversary, a memory, a butterfly. There is always hope.
Thursday, August 11, 2005
Funeral news
For those of you who visit here often, this is the info.
Thelma's viewing will take place tomorrow from 2-8 pm at Guy & Allen Funeral Home,
2959 West 11th Avenue in Gary, Indiana (46404).
The mass will be Saturday at Trinity Baptist Church, 1831 Virginia St. (46407).
It's easier than sending tons of emails. The zip codes are here, too, for those of you who want to send flowers. 1800flowers.com does same-day delivery.
Last night, I found a Christmas card from 1999. What I really want to find is the purple teddy bear she made a joke about. The memories are coming...
Thelma's viewing will take place tomorrow from 2-8 pm at Guy & Allen Funeral Home,
2959 West 11th Avenue in Gary, Indiana (46404).
The mass will be Saturday at Trinity Baptist Church, 1831 Virginia St. (46407).
It's easier than sending tons of emails. The zip codes are here, too, for those of you who want to send flowers. 1800flowers.com does same-day delivery.
Last night, I found a Christmas card from 1999. What I really want to find is the purple teddy bear she made a joke about. The memories are coming...
Wednesday, August 10, 2005
Meditations on Thelma
This one will take more than one entry, so this is a primer.
A friend and former co-worker passed away this weekend. I got word on Monday about it. She's been on my mind, and I keep her trinkets and toys that she gave me on display in my apartment.
I think I'm going to describe them in the coming days. Let it be "Meditations on Thelma."
It's going to be funny, too. She was a teacher, actress, earth mother, chef, prankster, diva and sargeant to us all. Friends, students, coworkers...anyone who crossed her path can hear her laugh and see those incredible cheekbones lifted into a smile, or sharply set into a stare.
There's a scarecrow she gave me for Halloween 1999. I think I'll start there.
Stay tuned...
A friend and former co-worker passed away this weekend. I got word on Monday about it. She's been on my mind, and I keep her trinkets and toys that she gave me on display in my apartment.
I think I'm going to describe them in the coming days. Let it be "Meditations on Thelma."
It's going to be funny, too. She was a teacher, actress, earth mother, chef, prankster, diva and sargeant to us all. Friends, students, coworkers...anyone who crossed her path can hear her laugh and see those incredible cheekbones lifted into a smile, or sharply set into a stare.
There's a scarecrow she gave me for Halloween 1999. I think I'll start there.
Stay tuned...
Monday, August 8, 2005
Se Poun Fe?
That is what I said as I exited a cab this morning. The driver's name was Roger Hippolyte. How a Haitian man ended up with a greek name is beyond me, but then again, my friend Patrick was named after St. Patrick and his family is steeped in Voudoun tradition.
How did I know he was Haitian? He had a cd of "Haiti musique" dangling from his mirror. I could not find the strength to walk 5 blocks in this heat, so I took a cab. I tipped him well, embarassed that my legs no longer work like they used to. He said in accented English, "You err day best." To which I said, "Se Poun Fe?", which is Creole slang for 'What's happening?' He burst into laughter and clapped, shouting "I love you! I love you!" He waved and drove off smiling.
I then stepped up onto the building ramp, looked down, and saw a penny. I picked it up as a lady passed. I looked at her and said, "Who knows? It might help."
"Damn straight," she answered.
I am wearing one of my pendants today, an Abramelin seal of the Earth, in order to bring good spirits near me. It's a feeble attempt to stave off the sorrow I feel upon hearing Peter Jennings had died last night. His voice was the one that took me through 9/11 coverage, the evening news, international correspondence, and charming chatter during Olympics, the Gulf War, and the invasion of Iraq. His mellifluous Canadian tones are the ones that comforted me, and I'd say he is this generation's Walter Cronkite. A visibly upset Diane Sawyer spoke of his attention to detail, but the camera did not cut away fast enough at 12:10 a.m. last night--you could see her break into a sob as Barbara Walters called in.
There are some guys that are irreplaceable. Both Koppel and Rather came off as smarmy old guys trying to fit in. Jennings sat there as if he stumbled upon the job and was merely making commentary while impeccably coiffed in a suit. I'd say the only other newscaster that makes me feel comfortable is Stone Phillips. Other than that, it's a great loss.
So, I'm doing my best to seem upbeat today. I'm trying to smile. But like seeing my old boss two months ago, Jennings passing reinforces what I've known for a long time: there is no substitute for excellence. I sit here, day after day, toiling away planning my escape and I watch high-paid pretenders jockeying for the throne. There are some, like Jennings, who sit in that throne as if it were an easy chair. They don't even notice the gilt and velvet since it isn't their focus. They are trying to connect, trying to make sense of the world. The more questions they ask, the more questions they have.
Jennings said there was no "absolute truth." It is always tinted and cast by opinion, experience, geography. The world as we know it is many things to many people, but he tried to connect. With young and old, common and noble. Today I strive for that.
Whether it's a penny I might need or a language I speak sparingly. I don't like people all the time, but I try to understand.
How did I know he was Haitian? He had a cd of "Haiti musique" dangling from his mirror. I could not find the strength to walk 5 blocks in this heat, so I took a cab. I tipped him well, embarassed that my legs no longer work like they used to. He said in accented English, "You err day best." To which I said, "Se Poun Fe?", which is Creole slang for 'What's happening?' He burst into laughter and clapped, shouting "I love you! I love you!" He waved and drove off smiling.
I then stepped up onto the building ramp, looked down, and saw a penny. I picked it up as a lady passed. I looked at her and said, "Who knows? It might help."
"Damn straight," she answered.
I am wearing one of my pendants today, an Abramelin seal of the Earth, in order to bring good spirits near me. It's a feeble attempt to stave off the sorrow I feel upon hearing Peter Jennings had died last night. His voice was the one that took me through 9/11 coverage, the evening news, international correspondence, and charming chatter during Olympics, the Gulf War, and the invasion of Iraq. His mellifluous Canadian tones are the ones that comforted me, and I'd say he is this generation's Walter Cronkite. A visibly upset Diane Sawyer spoke of his attention to detail, but the camera did not cut away fast enough at 12:10 a.m. last night--you could see her break into a sob as Barbara Walters called in.
There are some guys that are irreplaceable. Both Koppel and Rather came off as smarmy old guys trying to fit in. Jennings sat there as if he stumbled upon the job and was merely making commentary while impeccably coiffed in a suit. I'd say the only other newscaster that makes me feel comfortable is Stone Phillips. Other than that, it's a great loss.
So, I'm doing my best to seem upbeat today. I'm trying to smile. But like seeing my old boss two months ago, Jennings passing reinforces what I've known for a long time: there is no substitute for excellence. I sit here, day after day, toiling away planning my escape and I watch high-paid pretenders jockeying for the throne. There are some, like Jennings, who sit in that throne as if it were an easy chair. They don't even notice the gilt and velvet since it isn't their focus. They are trying to connect, trying to make sense of the world. The more questions they ask, the more questions they have.
Jennings said there was no "absolute truth." It is always tinted and cast by opinion, experience, geography. The world as we know it is many things to many people, but he tried to connect. With young and old, common and noble. Today I strive for that.
Whether it's a penny I might need or a language I speak sparingly. I don't like people all the time, but I try to understand.
Sunday, August 7, 2005
Take Life One Donut at a Time
That's the logo on my Garfield sleep-shirt. It's pink, it's funny, he's slurping down Dunkin' Donuts coffee. I love Garfield. I also realized I love Kmart, since it reminds of that old Brooklyn staple, Korvettes. Anyone with me? Wasn't that the greatest store ever? Walmart and Target just doesn't give me that Korvettes vibe.
In my quest to reconnect with my city of yore, I rented two NYC gems last night on DVD: Taxi Driver and Night Shift. Both show how boring the hellish gentrification Times Square has become. Bring back the deuce, it was waaay more entertaining. Robert DeNiro in his twenties, Cybil Shepard pre-Moonlighting, Michael Keaton after Mr. Mom but before Batman, and the Fonz as a straight-up businessman with a funky prostie neighbor. Every now and then, I need to take a break and look back. It soothes me. Before Duane Reades, before Starbucks, there was the smelly, scary pit that Travis Bickle complains about in an old checkered Taxi. He makes a crack about making good money: "I can make $300, $350 a week if I work long hours." Funny, people are still making that now, with the same hours. Unless you're a yuppie. Then the money's supposed to be handed to you.
As for the pseudo-NYers that interviewed me on Friday, one was from Queens (and he couldn't be bothered talking to me, he wanted to talk about himself), one was from California (she had no idea there were ice rinks in NY--that's what I get for dragging my skate bag with me with resumes shoved underneath), one was from Boston (although she's lived rent-stabilized on the West side since the 60's), and the receptionist was a straight-up homeboy from S.I. (imagine Puff Daddy answering the phones). They weren't too clear on what they wanted: a receptionist who HR can borrow to read resumes who can also work to edit the guy who liked talking about himself--he said he hates writing, then compares himself to Hemingway in the sense that he stands up when he writes (?????)--and the Bostoner/West Sider who didn't like it when I said doing reception is actually a step back for me so I can help her out on their outdated computer system. (AADA, anyone? Hell? Punishment? Thankless dead end? Anyone? Bueller? Bueller?.....Bueller?) I'm clear on what I want. They weren't. I pointed out their rather confusing advertising, and I got the "that's too bad face." A limp handshake from Ms. Why-do-you-have-skates-in-August and a "We'll be in touch" pretty much tells me all I want to know. I had a feeling I didn't want to work there, but I won't say no to an interview. I get to polish my verbal "package."
I remember when this used to be a straight-up no-prisoners kind of town. But, with the gentrification, brings with it the pigheaded disgusting melange of "Well, where WE'RE from, people aren't like that." Yes, my pretty yuppies, but it's New York you're coming to. What ever happened to When in Rome, etc. ? Isn't it when you go to a new place, you try and adopt the way that place is? Oops, sorry, wrong meeting. I keep making sense. Ridiculous.
So, I sit, ready to shop in the supermarket Duane Reade will buy out, across the street from my former sushi heaven which is now a Starbucks and wonder what tack I should take now. I also have to do laundry.
Sundays just keep getting stranger.
In my quest to reconnect with my city of yore, I rented two NYC gems last night on DVD: Taxi Driver and Night Shift. Both show how boring the hellish gentrification Times Square has become. Bring back the deuce, it was waaay more entertaining. Robert DeNiro in his twenties, Cybil Shepard pre-Moonlighting, Michael Keaton after Mr. Mom but before Batman, and the Fonz as a straight-up businessman with a funky prostie neighbor. Every now and then, I need to take a break and look back. It soothes me. Before Duane Reades, before Starbucks, there was the smelly, scary pit that Travis Bickle complains about in an old checkered Taxi. He makes a crack about making good money: "I can make $300, $350 a week if I work long hours." Funny, people are still making that now, with the same hours. Unless you're a yuppie. Then the money's supposed to be handed to you.
As for the pseudo-NYers that interviewed me on Friday, one was from Queens (and he couldn't be bothered talking to me, he wanted to talk about himself), one was from California (she had no idea there were ice rinks in NY--that's what I get for dragging my skate bag with me with resumes shoved underneath), one was from Boston (although she's lived rent-stabilized on the West side since the 60's), and the receptionist was a straight-up homeboy from S.I. (imagine Puff Daddy answering the phones). They weren't too clear on what they wanted: a receptionist who HR can borrow to read resumes who can also work to edit the guy who liked talking about himself--he said he hates writing, then compares himself to Hemingway in the sense that he stands up when he writes (?????)--and the Bostoner/West Sider who didn't like it when I said doing reception is actually a step back for me so I can help her out on their outdated computer system. (AADA, anyone? Hell? Punishment? Thankless dead end? Anyone? Bueller? Bueller?.....Bueller?) I'm clear on what I want. They weren't. I pointed out their rather confusing advertising, and I got the "that's too bad face." A limp handshake from Ms. Why-do-you-have-skates-in-August and a "We'll be in touch" pretty much tells me all I want to know. I had a feeling I didn't want to work there, but I won't say no to an interview. I get to polish my verbal "package."
I remember when this used to be a straight-up no-prisoners kind of town. But, with the gentrification, brings with it the pigheaded disgusting melange of "Well, where WE'RE from, people aren't like that." Yes, my pretty yuppies, but it's New York you're coming to. What ever happened to When in Rome, etc. ? Isn't it when you go to a new place, you try and adopt the way that place is? Oops, sorry, wrong meeting. I keep making sense. Ridiculous.
So, I sit, ready to shop in the supermarket Duane Reade will buy out, across the street from my former sushi heaven which is now a Starbucks and wonder what tack I should take now. I also have to do laundry.
Sundays just keep getting stranger.
Thursday, August 4, 2005
A Welcome Respite
Pinochet’s out today. What a relief. She’s a nightmare. I can’t remember the exact moment I decided to stop talking to her, but it’s because she has a tendency to jump down people’s throats. I’m not the only one with this problem. I’m tired of the snobbery, the holier-than-thou attitude and being corrected on things I know due to my four and a half years on this job. Just yesterday I was corrected on a name that I know damn well how to spell SINCE I WORKED WITH THE PERSON. She's never met him, but I don't know how to spell his name? Grrrr...
Another one of Bag of Rocks wondrous decisions. They—these women--just keep getting worse. We do nothing but wade through tough contractual language, a myriad of lingo and niche services and what did he want? Someone in a nice skirt. Ridiculous. Aoife (Effa) deserved the job. Yes, she was Irish. Yes, she was built like a workhorse. Yes, she was a strong personality who had a film background of 3 months here, 4 months there. That’s the nature of indie filmmaking. She wanted stability. Did she get it? No.
The REAL reason she wasn’t hired? She was a strong woman. Aoife, my former co-worker, and myself were too much for Bag O’Rocks. Long hair, legs, high heels, and an indecipherable accent are infinitely preferable to the King’s English. His statement? She worked for four years at her previous job. Took care of her boss. Like IN THE HOSPITAL. Brought him food, visited him, cleaned up the room. Um, is that part of the job description? Or is this just another ass-kisser? You decide.
My former co-worker laid into Bags on the day I wrecked my shoulder, and I heard there were fireworks. Women have a tendency to make sense on matters of detail. Men? Well, some of them can only think with blinders on. Particularly if six-inch patent leather heels are involved.
I am really tired of myopic views and misanthropic people. I’ve gotten nothing but pre-judgment and nastiness over the years, and she is but one more example.
Which leads me to a strange thing: last night, I stopped to pet a black Pomeranian. I had an entire convo with the person holding the leash without looking at her. Or was it him? Don’t know. Wasn’t interested. I stopped to pet my black cat at the Arabic fruit & nut store, and again, didn’t look up. A man owns it, can’t tell you who he is. Not interested. There’s a pug in my building who’s walked by a thoroughly nasty woman. I know this because I’ve had altercations with her slamming the door on me and complaining about the junk mail all over the hall. She’s not nice, but I’ve figured it out: she doesn’t like people either. Just animals. Her pug is lovely: friendly, bouncy, pleasant. What does this tell me? Doggy is taken care of very well. If not, he’d be miserable like her. So, even though I don’t speak to her, she doesn’t bother me. We kind of agree on things, in principle.
And that’s kinda how I feel. The facts and my opinion, from everyone else around here, are starting to add up. I’m not the only one who’d had run-ins with her. It’s good to know I’m not crazy. I'm really starting to enjoy animals more than people. It's more than a phase.
Another nonprofit called. Interview tomorrow. Let’s see how this goes. They liked my writing sample, so I’ve got a chance to construct grant letters as I did ten years ago. That could be fun. Let’s see…
Another one of Bag of Rocks wondrous decisions. They—these women--just keep getting worse. We do nothing but wade through tough contractual language, a myriad of lingo and niche services and what did he want? Someone in a nice skirt. Ridiculous. Aoife (Effa) deserved the job. Yes, she was Irish. Yes, she was built like a workhorse. Yes, she was a strong personality who had a film background of 3 months here, 4 months there. That’s the nature of indie filmmaking. She wanted stability. Did she get it? No.
The REAL reason she wasn’t hired? She was a strong woman. Aoife, my former co-worker, and myself were too much for Bag O’Rocks. Long hair, legs, high heels, and an indecipherable accent are infinitely preferable to the King’s English. His statement? She worked for four years at her previous job. Took care of her boss. Like IN THE HOSPITAL. Brought him food, visited him, cleaned up the room. Um, is that part of the job description? Or is this just another ass-kisser? You decide.
My former co-worker laid into Bags on the day I wrecked my shoulder, and I heard there were fireworks. Women have a tendency to make sense on matters of detail. Men? Well, some of them can only think with blinders on. Particularly if six-inch patent leather heels are involved.
I am really tired of myopic views and misanthropic people. I’ve gotten nothing but pre-judgment and nastiness over the years, and she is but one more example.
Which leads me to a strange thing: last night, I stopped to pet a black Pomeranian. I had an entire convo with the person holding the leash without looking at her. Or was it him? Don’t know. Wasn’t interested. I stopped to pet my black cat at the Arabic fruit & nut store, and again, didn’t look up. A man owns it, can’t tell you who he is. Not interested. There’s a pug in my building who’s walked by a thoroughly nasty woman. I know this because I’ve had altercations with her slamming the door on me and complaining about the junk mail all over the hall. She’s not nice, but I’ve figured it out: she doesn’t like people either. Just animals. Her pug is lovely: friendly, bouncy, pleasant. What does this tell me? Doggy is taken care of very well. If not, he’d be miserable like her. So, even though I don’t speak to her, she doesn’t bother me. We kind of agree on things, in principle.
And that’s kinda how I feel. The facts and my opinion, from everyone else around here, are starting to add up. I’m not the only one who’d had run-ins with her. It’s good to know I’m not crazy. I'm really starting to enjoy animals more than people. It's more than a phase.
Another nonprofit called. Interview tomorrow. Let’s see how this goes. They liked my writing sample, so I’ve got a chance to construct grant letters as I did ten years ago. That could be fun. Let’s see…
Wednesday, August 3, 2005
Multi-Legged Lament
hello
this is dexter.
i rote a pome.i hope yoo like it. my two-legger edettid it. for the rekerd, pods are sloh stupit mooveen peeple. (rd knoos all about thim.)
the podescent swath that cuts me in two
surrounds my inner squoonchiness
and overtakes me
over and under
in and out
i am but a fuzzer thwarted
inside a soulless catnip sock
i recline but i cannot nap
i crouch but my pounce leaves me
my dish is empty
my water is unfresh
so I roll in prayer
and stretch into the hallway
doorway covering me in its shadow
this is dexter.
i rote a pome.i hope yoo like it. my two-legger edettid it. for the rekerd, pods are sloh stupit mooveen peeple. (rd knoos all about thim.)
the podescent swath that cuts me in two
surrounds my inner squoonchiness
and overtakes me
over and under
in and out
i am but a fuzzer thwarted
inside a soulless catnip sock
i recline but i cannot nap
i crouch but my pounce leaves me
my dish is empty
my water is unfresh
so I roll in prayer
and stretch into the hallway
doorway covering me in its shadow
Monday, August 1, 2005
Grab Yer Cheese and Jump!
Matt Kelley has left the company.
Siobhan McDonough has left the company.
Brett Krasnove is leaving the company.
Reallocated Position
Reallocated Position
Reallocated Position
Well, kiddies? What you have just read are cut and pastes from actual job listings within our intranet system. Seems redundant, doesn’t it? What’s so funny is that one of them is joining Reuters (wish it was me), and the “reallocated” listings are jobs no one wants internally. This is the fourth posting for the first one.
It’s a sinking ship, but then again, fish tend to rot from the head down. The company culture has changed structurally and politically for the worse. These smart little rats are jumping ship to find some better cheddar. Good for them. I’m trying for Camembert myself. (Just found out the Reuters guy has only been here for 10 months and has been looking for “6 or 7 of them [months] to get away.”) His words, not mine, kiddies!
In other news, I had a fabulous weekend. Normal people are so refreshing. Off to Blorange’s house on Saturday (my friend’s son says her hair is blonde + orange, which is Blorange)and we grilled, chilled, had pina coladas, laughed at the dog, and watched a War of the Worlds bootleg. Tom Cruise annoys me, but it wasn’t a bad film. Spielberg knows how to grab you. Then I came home later that night to order a huge batch of huggable hangers off HSN, and play with Kashi. She’s now 3! Has the pudgy belly and monster sense of feline entitilement, too.
Yesterday was recycling, dishes, laundry, and cleaning out the A/C filter. Don’t want to keep breathing in that dust.
There’s plenty o’rats jumping for that cheese! I’ve got nothing to fear…
Siobhan McDonough has left the company.
Brett Krasnove is leaving the company.
Reallocated Position
Reallocated Position
Reallocated Position
Well, kiddies? What you have just read are cut and pastes from actual job listings within our intranet system. Seems redundant, doesn’t it? What’s so funny is that one of them is joining Reuters (wish it was me), and the “reallocated” listings are jobs no one wants internally. This is the fourth posting for the first one.
It’s a sinking ship, but then again, fish tend to rot from the head down. The company culture has changed structurally and politically for the worse. These smart little rats are jumping ship to find some better cheddar. Good for them. I’m trying for Camembert myself. (Just found out the Reuters guy has only been here for 10 months and has been looking for “6 or 7 of them [months] to get away.”) His words, not mine, kiddies!
In other news, I had a fabulous weekend. Normal people are so refreshing. Off to Blorange’s house on Saturday (my friend’s son says her hair is blonde + orange, which is Blorange)and we grilled, chilled, had pina coladas, laughed at the dog, and watched a War of the Worlds bootleg. Tom Cruise annoys me, but it wasn’t a bad film. Spielberg knows how to grab you. Then I came home later that night to order a huge batch of huggable hangers off HSN, and play with Kashi. She’s now 3! Has the pudgy belly and monster sense of feline entitilement, too.
Yesterday was recycling, dishes, laundry, and cleaning out the A/C filter. Don’t want to keep breathing in that dust.
There’s plenty o’rats jumping for that cheese! I’ve got nothing to fear…
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)