Friday, January 16, 2009
Economic Crisis
I don't care for money related activities. Borrowing, lending -- both horrible. I'm uncomfortable negotiating my salary, doing my taxes, even going to the bank. (I'm convinced I'll get robbed) I'm no good at games that involve money. I despise the host of Mad Money on CNBC, but who doesn't?! He needs to CALM. DOWN.
I don't even like that Pink Floyd song about money. It's creepy.
On some level, I think I blame money for my less than stellar resume. Must pay rent./Money pays rent./Jobs make money./Get a job! It's a vicious cycle...like dieting or STDs. And the jobs I've had? Yikes. I know, some people just love their jobs. They're out there right now -- all "fulfilled" by their work -- enjoying travel perks, health insurance, hot cubicle romances and the mysterious 401K. I'm just not one of them.
Don't get me wrong. I don't have room to complain. My jobs haven't exposed me to bullets or lethal carcinogens. (that I know of) Still, is it wrong to want more than that? For three decades, I've had nothing but tasks that left me to wonder...when is lunch?
And, worse yet, to have this exact conversation more times than I can count:
"How was your weekend?"
"Not long enough!"
"Don't I know it!"
It's as though the company motto is always "Let's Wish Our Lives Away in an Elevator!"
I wasn't always like this. I used to have ambition. A raw, money-driven lust that knew no bounds:
October 31, 1982
Today is Halloween but we celebrated it yesterday.
I asked my mom if I could have a job to do each week to earn some money. She said I could fold clothes. Now she says I can't because she doesn't think I can do it right. That shows how much she trusts me. For GOD'S SAKE! I'm 11 years old, not 5! It makes me so mad! The worst part of it is, I know I can do it. I wish she'd learn to trust me.
I'll have to try my best to find a different way to make money.
The desperation! It's a wonder I didn't become a hooker. This entry leaves me with several unanswered questions.
-- Why did we celebrate Halloween yesterday? Didn't people think we were odd knocking on their doors, demanding snacks while dressed in costume for no apparent reason?
-- Why did I need money? Did I have my eye on a stylish new training bra in the "intimates" section of the JC Penneys?
-- And was I really that bad at folding clothes?
Regardless, I've come to realize that some people have careers. Other people have jobs. Me? I have "jobettes". You don't look to get promoted at a jobette, you just look for another jobette.
Among the notable jobettes I've had over the years is a summer spent as an ice cream scooper. It left me with a freakishly large right forearm for a 15-year-old girl. Unexpected perk: I fell in love with a handsome, gay college man who waited tables in the cafe where I scooped. (I didn't know he was gay. At that point, I was still convinced I would one day marry George Michael and follow him on the next Wham! tour)
His name was Dave.
Dave was tall, blond and perfect. Well, not entirely perfect. He wore pink madras shorts. He was way too tan and always sweating out last night's hangover. I didn't mind. Dave was 19 (!) and he came from a romantic faraway place in Michigan called "Bloomfield Hills." He was willing to teach me how to drive in his very own Jeep. I still remember our long talks, the romantic things he'd say to me like: "Never do coke."
And I never did.
Years later, I moved to Los Angeles and got another whopper of a jobette. I was an assistant at a high powered talent agency for a year and 1/2, which I'm told is a really long time in assistant years. Turns out, it's not as glamorous as you might imagine (if that is the sort of thing you waste your imagination on).
The fear of missing an important phone call was overwhelming. God forbid you let it go to VOICE MAIL! You would get a verbal lashing that would break your insignificant soul. As a result, I would regularly put off going to the bathroom for the entire work day. Once, when my boss was out of town, I broke down and ran in for a quickie. When I came back, the dreaded red message light on.
"18 new messages..." the automatic ladyvoice said.
18?! How can there be 18 new messages?! I could feel the acid filling my stomach cavity.
The over-styled assistant who worked the desk next to mine was metrosexual way before Seacrest; we nicknamed him "Vanilla Weitz-Weitz, Baby" or "Nilly" for short. Nilly had seen me run into the restroom, and he took the opportunity to call my work line as many times as humanly possible in three minutes, say the word "vagina!" and then hang up. Good one! Of course, I had to listen to each and every message in order to make sure there wasn't a real business voicemail somewhere in middle of ALL those vaginas.
I miss that kid.
Yes, there have been countless jobettes, from waiting tables to coordinating television shoots with cannibals. One lateral move leading to another, and each leading me nowhere in particular.
My general jobette dissatisfaction really says more about me than it does about the duties at hand.
You see, jobettes are safe. You don't have to be that good at them because you never wanted to do them in the first place. Passed over for a promotion? Paid less than everyone else in the building? Well good! All the more reason to leave early. Jobettes are just what you do to get by until. Until! Until you do that amorphous-yet-exciting thing that you REALLY want to do. That thing that you're going to be so badass at that you will pretty much rule the world. What is it? Shhhh...keep it to yourself. Saying it out loud would only ruin the surprise triumph.
"I was her supervisor," all those nasty boss types will say, "her direct supervisor - do you believe that?!"
No.
They don't.
What to do until the "until"? Well, all I can say is: TGIF!
Wednesday, January 7, 2009
Friends. (Forever?)
Friendship. There are movies about it. Books. Poems. Bracelets. Songs.
Winter, spring, summer or fall. All you have to do is call, right? Hell yeah, I'll be there...you've got a friend.
In the real world, friendship is more complicated.Winter, spring, summer or fall. All you have to do is call, right? Hell yeah, I'll be there...you've got a friend.
There are many different species of friends.
Childhood Friends (CFs) are mostly horrifying because you have nothing politically or personally in common with them anymore, yet they want to call you by old nicknames and reminisce about the time you choreographed an elaborate routine to the song "Hey Mickey" and performed it together in the school talent show. Be warned, CFs really love social networking sites like Facebook because it allows them the opportunity to post unflattering photos of a younger you wearing snug neon-colored outfits. Of course, you can always take solace in the fact that CFs tend to age poorly and have way too many children.
Work Friends (WFs) are essential for lunch company and avoiding copy machine related mental breakdowns. However, you must remember that most WFs can't be trusted to see you drunk unless you want to hear about it around the ole water cooler until you retire. Also, bear in mind, if you're starting a new job -- the person who is nicest to you on your first day will likely be the one you hate the most by your third week there.
Friends of Friends (FOFs) can go many ways. Some you resent and wish would move to Milwaukee. (unless you in fact live in Milwaukee, but either way, you catch my drift) Some you wish were YOUR friends, with no relationship or knowledge of your mutual friend at all. Still others you secretly want to make out with, but you can't because it could potentially sever the delicate branches of the friendship tree.
Primary Friends (PFs) are perhaps the most complicated. First, any or all of the above friend species can transition into PF status given the right circumstances. PFs can live around the corner or across the globe. Good friends (GFs) and Best Friends (BFs) are simply subsets of the overall PF category...and, Billy Crystal be damned, they can include members of the opposite sex.
You know who your PFs are. They're Kate to your Allie. Laverne to your Shirley. Natalie to your Tootie. Turner to your Hooch. (though technically thats a man/dog relationship, so I'll leave your Hooch out of this)
The bond is strong, this I will not dispute, yet...
Admit it. You kind of hate your friends. You like them too, why wouldn't you? They're your friends...but you also hate them.
They do things. Things that annoy you. They talk too much. Too little. You've already heard that story three times, and still they tell it. They beat you at board games or wear the same shirt as you. They are soooo wrong (even when you know they're right). They involve you in events that require you to leave the house and/or buy them gifts. They play the devil's advocate when you desperately need them to take your side. They're successful and thin when you're, well, not. And nauseatingly cheerful just as you've descended into darkness.
You wish they would call more. Or less. Or never.
Friend hatred is something I learned very early on:
Hadley was sick, but she went to the fair tonight. How dumb. I hope she barfed. When I'm sick I don't go anywhere.
Jenny tells me how Hadley shows off around Derek. I don't think she does. I think Jenny gets jealous about everyone that goes near him.
She acts like she owns him.
But I still like her.
Sadly, my bizarre hopes were dashed -- Hadley didn't barf (at least not until a few summers later when we drank a two liter of Boone's Farm in the back of my parents Astro van). But Jenny did act like she owned Derek, there is no question. I was gracious enough to overlook it, but this polarizing issue eventually ended the seemingly unshakable bond between Hadley and Jenny.
Sure, you can try to explain it away by saying they just grew apart. Hadley got increasingly "sporty" and developed an unusually deep voice while Jenny opted to become an exchange student in Norway and came home a year later with an aversion to deodorant and bras.
But I know what really happened. I was there. In the middle. Secretly hating them both.
There is a lesson to be learned from the tragic Hadley-Jenny fallout.
The key to maintaining close friendships is to never, ever let them know how deeply you sporadically despise them.
He married the homecoming queen and got shockingly fat, bald and middle aged.
But I still like him.
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