(Pics above: At Disney, Disney and Bubbie's Place. In pick #3 notice how we covered Bubbie's "mirrored table of death" with a blanket.)
Sunday, February 28, 2010
Friday, February 26, 2010
I'm Disorganized With A Bad Short Term Memory
The headline pretty much says it all up top. I am disorganized, and have a bad short term memory.
I sit at my desk, with papers to the right of me, notebooks on my upper right. I am not sure what is in my various piles of paper. I always can find stuff, eventually. But sometimes eventually is a long time coming.
At work I get things done, I make lists, I execute.
At home I let projects linger, I forget to turn off the coffee pot, and it burns all day. I've done this several times. I have said I am going to stain our butcher block counter-top since I put it together, roughly a year ago. I have the stain and everything, I even have the brushes. I even have the sandpaper I asked Randi to buy because the unfinished wood has started to get stained by food. But I haven't done it.
I have promises to myself about things I would like to do, but I not sure, right now, about all of them. Because I am disorganized and have a bad short term memory. I made a list with all these things on it, but I feel like I even left some stuff off the list. In time I will probably lose the list altogether.
All this would be kind of cute, but it's making my life measurably worse. It frustrates Randi to no end, and rightfully so, because I am the master at only doing part of a task that she asks. She asked me to pick up some medication from the pharmacy, and they gave me one set of pills, but she had told me they would give me two. I had to go back and get the other once I got home. This made me late for a special dinner she had made for me for Valentine's Day. When I got home it was cold and I had to eat it by myself.
I've been late on paying our power bill, I've been late in returning library books and videos. It cost real money after a while. Folks, we live NEXT TO the library.
It's hurt my ambitions. I have found it harder and harder to make my extra-credit projects for life finished. I have sent out my book proposal to five agents, but I have six more to send it to. I have had their names for weeks.
Being disorganized with a bad short term memory means forgetting, sometimes, where you put your checkbook. Not a good thing to misplace. It mean I lost my birth certificate and had to spend two hours getting a new one. It means I haven't called the tax guy yet, though I said I would. It means forgetting to go to the super market on the way back from work, and then going once I get home anyway.
It means making my friends and family feel like they aren't as important to me as they are, because I forget things that I said I would do, or was late to do something that would have been easy to be early on. It means making life just that much harder on everyone, all the time.
It means feeling like a stereotypical doofus TV dad, only there is no laugh track. And the show never ends.
It means needing nine when the stitch in time would have been better.
It means not following through on so many things that I would like to do, and that would be worth doing.
It means making people I love feel less important to me than they really are.
It means having to apologize for things that I never should have done wrong, and fearing that some day this apology will be to my daughter. And knowing that I could undermine her trust in me.
I have finally started to realize just how dire a problem this really is. I don't know if I can improve my memory over night, but I want to take the first steps in becoming more organized. I ordered a book from Amazon about getting organized. If I am organized enough to read it I might get somewhere.
As for the memory issues, I think I have to be careful when I agree to do things to repeat the thing I agreed to do several times to myself at the point of agreement. Maybe sing it, and definitely write it down. When I make a plan write it in my day book. Then consult this same day book often. Often I write something down in the book and forget about it. Then when I read it later it's a virtual surprise to me, like a real boring version of "Memento."
But being disorganized with a bad short term memory is no joke. It's kept me from coming close to what I know is my potential: as a husband, father, writer and person.
I just have to remember to remember more.
I sit at my desk, with papers to the right of me, notebooks on my upper right. I am not sure what is in my various piles of paper. I always can find stuff, eventually. But sometimes eventually is a long time coming.
At work I get things done, I make lists, I execute.
At home I let projects linger, I forget to turn off the coffee pot, and it burns all day. I've done this several times. I have said I am going to stain our butcher block counter-top since I put it together, roughly a year ago. I have the stain and everything, I even have the brushes. I even have the sandpaper I asked Randi to buy because the unfinished wood has started to get stained by food. But I haven't done it.
I have promises to myself about things I would like to do, but I not sure, right now, about all of them. Because I am disorganized and have a bad short term memory. I made a list with all these things on it, but I feel like I even left some stuff off the list. In time I will probably lose the list altogether.
All this would be kind of cute, but it's making my life measurably worse. It frustrates Randi to no end, and rightfully so, because I am the master at only doing part of a task that she asks. She asked me to pick up some medication from the pharmacy, and they gave me one set of pills, but she had told me they would give me two. I had to go back and get the other once I got home. This made me late for a special dinner she had made for me for Valentine's Day. When I got home it was cold and I had to eat it by myself.
I've been late on paying our power bill, I've been late in returning library books and videos. It cost real money after a while. Folks, we live NEXT TO the library.
It's hurt my ambitions. I have found it harder and harder to make my extra-credit projects for life finished. I have sent out my book proposal to five agents, but I have six more to send it to. I have had their names for weeks.
Being disorganized with a bad short term memory means forgetting, sometimes, where you put your checkbook. Not a good thing to misplace. It mean I lost my birth certificate and had to spend two hours getting a new one. It means I haven't called the tax guy yet, though I said I would. It means forgetting to go to the super market on the way back from work, and then going once I get home anyway.
It means making my friends and family feel like they aren't as important to me as they are, because I forget things that I said I would do, or was late to do something that would have been easy to be early on. It means making life just that much harder on everyone, all the time.
It means feeling like a stereotypical doofus TV dad, only there is no laugh track. And the show never ends.
It means needing nine when the stitch in time would have been better.
It means not following through on so many things that I would like to do, and that would be worth doing.
It means making people I love feel less important to me than they really are.
It means having to apologize for things that I never should have done wrong, and fearing that some day this apology will be to my daughter. And knowing that I could undermine her trust in me.
I have finally started to realize just how dire a problem this really is. I don't know if I can improve my memory over night, but I want to take the first steps in becoming more organized. I ordered a book from Amazon about getting organized. If I am organized enough to read it I might get somewhere.
As for the memory issues, I think I have to be careful when I agree to do things to repeat the thing I agreed to do several times to myself at the point of agreement. Maybe sing it, and definitely write it down. When I make a plan write it in my day book. Then consult this same day book often. Often I write something down in the book and forget about it. Then when I read it later it's a virtual surprise to me, like a real boring version of "Memento."
But being disorganized with a bad short term memory is no joke. It's kept me from coming close to what I know is my potential: as a husband, father, writer and person.
I just have to remember to remember more.
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
The NYC Triangle
When you live in Brooklyn, or any borough in NYC I guess, you always have to contend with what I've come to think of as The Triangle Of Real Estate Happiness, heretofore called The Triangle.
The triangle adds up to the three conditions needed for happiness, or at least what I need for happiness. I suspect there are a lot of my NYC peeps are in a similar boat. The problem with The Triangle is that it is virtually impossible to get all three points in order at one time. It's easy to get two, but three are virtually non-existent unless you are very, very lucky.
Rich people don't have to contend with the issues raised by The Triangle, by the way.
Enough with the mystery. Here are the three points of The Triangle, as pertaining to finding a great place to live. And why this is so impossible.
1. It needs to be affordable. For our purposes this means less than $2000 a month for a nice, at least somewhat spacious and comfortable two bedroom apartment. My out of town friends will now smack their head in disbelief that I could ever spend that much. My city peeps will in turn smack their heads that I am so cheap, yet so demanding.
2. It needs to be safe. This is self-explanatory. Well, I will explain a little more. Safe, to me, means I don't worry about my wife and daughter walking around together in the daytime, and I don't worry about either my wife, or I, walking around alone at night.
3. It needs to be walking distance to cool stuff. Stuff like good bars, restaurants art, stores, the subway, all that. You know, the stuff that made you want to move into the city to begin with.
Okay, here is where the paradox of The Triangle comes into play. I have found it impossible to get all three points to align. (Or perhaps a better way to think of this is as the three legs of a stool) When two line up the other one slips away, it's like a Rubik's Cube, or something. The more you try to fix it, the more it refuses to be fixed.
Let me run through some examples:
If you live in Park Slope Brooklyn you get: safety and a good, fun neighborhood. But a comfortable, affordable apartment? Dream on Aerosmith!
If you live in Ditmas Park Brooklyn you get: safety and affordability. But you're pretty far from a lot of stuff, and it's not THAT affordable. I know my Cortelyou Road-loving readers will castigate me for this, but DP isn't dense enough with cool stuff to qualify as a happening 'nabe, at least not to me. You still have to travel pretty far for a lot of things, like going into Manhattan!
If you live in my old neighborhood in Manhattan, Hell's Kitchen you are: safe, and close to cool stuff. Affordable? No way.
Of course it's easier to get space, and even proximity, if you are not that keen on safety, but I can't make that sacrifice, especially with a child. So, Crown Heights and Lefferts Garden are not options for me. (I have a feeling I will get pilloried for this.)
Most of the places I like are basically too expensive, and I'm unwilling to give up safety. So, for me, proximity is the most easily sacrificed point of The Triangle. Where we live now, Windsor Terrace, is sweet, pleasant, with a great neighborhood vibe. But we're at least a subway ride away from any sort of real, active neighborhood--in this case including Park Slope and even the more happening parts of Windsor Terrace. Manhattan is accessible, kind of, but then you have the issues that come with schlepping a stroller-bound toddler on the subway; namely that after doing it enough it starts to break your back. Then you don't want to do it so much.
So there we are, New York. One leg short of a stool, one point short of The Triangle. If I am missing some magical mystery neighborhood that has it all--safety, affordability, and is either in or quite close to cool stuff--please let me know.
The triangle adds up to the three conditions needed for happiness, or at least what I need for happiness. I suspect there are a lot of my NYC peeps are in a similar boat. The problem with The Triangle is that it is virtually impossible to get all three points in order at one time. It's easy to get two, but three are virtually non-existent unless you are very, very lucky.
Rich people don't have to contend with the issues raised by The Triangle, by the way.
Enough with the mystery. Here are the three points of The Triangle, as pertaining to finding a great place to live. And why this is so impossible.
1. It needs to be affordable. For our purposes this means less than $2000 a month for a nice, at least somewhat spacious and comfortable two bedroom apartment. My out of town friends will now smack their head in disbelief that I could ever spend that much. My city peeps will in turn smack their heads that I am so cheap, yet so demanding.
2. It needs to be safe. This is self-explanatory. Well, I will explain a little more. Safe, to me, means I don't worry about my wife and daughter walking around together in the daytime, and I don't worry about either my wife, or I, walking around alone at night.
3. It needs to be walking distance to cool stuff. Stuff like good bars, restaurants art, stores, the subway, all that. You know, the stuff that made you want to move into the city to begin with.
Okay, here is where the paradox of The Triangle comes into play. I have found it impossible to get all three points to align. (Or perhaps a better way to think of this is as the three legs of a stool) When two line up the other one slips away, it's like a Rubik's Cube, or something. The more you try to fix it, the more it refuses to be fixed.
Let me run through some examples:
If you live in Park Slope Brooklyn you get: safety and a good, fun neighborhood. But a comfortable, affordable apartment? Dream on Aerosmith!
If you live in Ditmas Park Brooklyn you get: safety and affordability. But you're pretty far from a lot of stuff, and it's not THAT affordable. I know my Cortelyou Road-loving readers will castigate me for this, but DP isn't dense enough with cool stuff to qualify as a happening 'nabe, at least not to me. You still have to travel pretty far for a lot of things, like going into Manhattan!
If you live in my old neighborhood in Manhattan, Hell's Kitchen you are: safe, and close to cool stuff. Affordable? No way.
Of course it's easier to get space, and even proximity, if you are not that keen on safety, but I can't make that sacrifice, especially with a child. So, Crown Heights and Lefferts Garden are not options for me. (I have a feeling I will get pilloried for this.)
Most of the places I like are basically too expensive, and I'm unwilling to give up safety. So, for me, proximity is the most easily sacrificed point of The Triangle. Where we live now, Windsor Terrace, is sweet, pleasant, with a great neighborhood vibe. But we're at least a subway ride away from any sort of real, active neighborhood--in this case including Park Slope and even the more happening parts of Windsor Terrace. Manhattan is accessible, kind of, but then you have the issues that come with schlepping a stroller-bound toddler on the subway; namely that after doing it enough it starts to break your back. Then you don't want to do it so much.
So there we are, New York. One leg short of a stool, one point short of The Triangle. If I am missing some magical mystery neighborhood that has it all--safety, affordability, and is either in or quite close to cool stuff--please let me know.
Sunday, December 20, 2009
Unemployment Diary: Getting To Know Your Baby Daddy
The counselor at the Department of Labor, in Brooklyn, asked me if there was anything else I might want to discuss. We had already talked about the sorts of jobs I had done, and the sorts of jobs I might want to do that I hadn't already done. But now that he asked there was one additional thing ...
I asked if I could take what they call an "interest profile." I figured, why not? It's a little extra time for them that they have to spend with me, but I've already paid for it via my taxes. I might as well get everything I'm entitled to. I wanted to see what sorts of jobs and careers, in addition to journalism, I might be qualified to do, and have an affinity for. After all, if not now when?
My counselor, Mike, said sure. He called up a program on his computer and we were off. The program had 180 questions and I was supposed to answer them either like, dislike, or I did not know. The goal was to find what skills and occupations I might like independent of whether I might be qualified to do them. Don't think about it too much, Mike said, just answer them from the gut.
The questions broke down into some fairly obvious categories right away, I saw. Question number two, for example, asked me how much I would like to be a guard for an armored car. That would be a good example of "dislike."
Others were perhaps a bit unrealistic, and not anything I had thought about before but I put down "like" anyway. For example, I was asked if I would like to dance in a Broadway show. Sure, why not? It will never happen, and I have no burning desire to make it happen but if it happened I would probably like it, or at least like the story it would give me.
And so it went. There were a few that had me stumped, though, and I had to check I don't know. Such as, would I want to work in a lab curing infectious diseases? It might be interesting, but I never liked chemistry. On the other hand helping all those people ... I had to say I didn't know.
The test didn't take all that long. As instructed I went with my gut, and didn't think about my answers too much. Thinking, or in this case rationalizing, wouldn't have helped me, and it wasn't a pass/fail test anyway.
After about two minutes Mike tabulated my scores, and a very strong set of correlations emerged. There were six categories in which I could score: realistic, investigative, artistic, social, enterprising, conventional. I will explain each one, from lowest score to highest.
Realistic: Here my score was a big, fat, whopping zero. "People with Realistic interests like work activities that include practical, hands-on problems and solutions." They like working with wood, tools, plants, and being outside a lot. They don't like paperwork or working closely with others.
Not a surprise that this didn't interest me. I like people, I like ideas, I even like paper. I don't like building stuff, and have no mechanical or technical skills. I once tried to solder a pickup to my guitar and after an hour of sloppy labor realized I had put it in backwards. There were only two wires. Guess I won't become a general contractor anytime soon. Darn.
Conventional: My score here was a "1." These folks, as befitting the name "conventional," like jobs with set procedures and rules. They like data and detail, not ideas. They like precision. They don't like judging their own work, but conforming to others' standards. These people are often accountants. Unless they are the dreaded "creative accountants."
Enterprising: My score "2". They like to start up and carry out projects, especially in business. They like persuading people, and taking risks for profit. They like action rather than thinking. These people are the smug butt-heads who helped destroy our economy. No way man!
So, I pretty much hated all these areas of interest. Now here is what I did like.
Investigative: Here I scored "11." These people like ideas and thinking, rather than physical activity. Big shocker to those of you who have ever SEEN an actual journalist. They like to search for facts and figure out problems in their heads, rather than persuade or lead people. In other words these people like to sit in the back of the room, make a bunch of smart-assed comments about stuff and then let everyone else figure out how to actually solve the problem in the real world. Yes, I have this side of my personality (just ask my wife!), but interestingly I scored higher in two other areas ...
Social: Here I scored "14." These folks like jobs that help others and promote learning and personal development. They prefer to communicate more than work with objects, machines or data. (Guilty!) They like to teach, give advice, or be of service to people. These people are Counselor Troi.
When I saw this I wasn't shocked. I always loved mentoring younger writers and reporters, even when I didn't always know that much more than they did. I felt gratified when I saw them learn and improve. It often meant more to me than my own writing. This felt good to hear, and is an entire part of my personality that needs to be expressed.
But the winner was ...
Artistic: Here I scored "16." These people like, well, art. They like self-expression in their work. They like jobs that can be done without a clear set of rules.
I agree I have this side of me. I sometimes would get very creative even with the most basic investing story. (Not with the data, just the way I wrote it!) I agree, this is part of me too. I am just not convinced it is the leading part of me.
Nonetheless, the evidence spoke volumes. I like thinking problems through, helping others and being creative. I don't like hard physical labor, data-entry or destroying our economy.
The issue now is finding ways to put all these affinities into effect in one place. Jobs that are intellectually stimulating (preferably allowing me to write in a meaningful way), while being intensely social and creative. Journalism can be that, if you get the right job, but it's not the only place to look.
The neat part of the process was that I was then hooked up, via computer, with a whole range of jobs that are relatively close matches for what I am naturally strong in. Editor and reporter came up but so did a lot of jobs in education (at all different level, including special ed, adult education, middle school, pre-school, high school and college) and counseling. And because I had to be a smart ass I was also told I might want to consider a career as a choreographer.
All this leaves me with an interesting dilemma, and avenues to pursue that I might not have considered before. I love writing; always have and always will. But I also love working with people, counseling them and helping them. Of course when the deadline pressure is on and someone turns in something craptastic you end up doing a lot of counseling, boy, do you ever. But I might want to consider the other kind too. And you do a lot of educating as an editor, which is what I often liked more than the actual editing, at least sometimes.
Well, that's it. It was an interesting thing to see. I just hope I can benefit from the knowledge, without making the process to hard or lengthy on myself or my family.
I asked if I could take what they call an "interest profile." I figured, why not? It's a little extra time for them that they have to spend with me, but I've already paid for it via my taxes. I might as well get everything I'm entitled to. I wanted to see what sorts of jobs and careers, in addition to journalism, I might be qualified to do, and have an affinity for. After all, if not now when?
My counselor, Mike, said sure. He called up a program on his computer and we were off. The program had 180 questions and I was supposed to answer them either like, dislike, or I did not know. The goal was to find what skills and occupations I might like independent of whether I might be qualified to do them. Don't think about it too much, Mike said, just answer them from the gut.
The questions broke down into some fairly obvious categories right away, I saw. Question number two, for example, asked me how much I would like to be a guard for an armored car. That would be a good example of "dislike."
Others were perhaps a bit unrealistic, and not anything I had thought about before but I put down "like" anyway. For example, I was asked if I would like to dance in a Broadway show. Sure, why not? It will never happen, and I have no burning desire to make it happen but if it happened I would probably like it, or at least like the story it would give me.
And so it went. There were a few that had me stumped, though, and I had to check I don't know. Such as, would I want to work in a lab curing infectious diseases? It might be interesting, but I never liked chemistry. On the other hand helping all those people ... I had to say I didn't know.
The test didn't take all that long. As instructed I went with my gut, and didn't think about my answers too much. Thinking, or in this case rationalizing, wouldn't have helped me, and it wasn't a pass/fail test anyway.
After about two minutes Mike tabulated my scores, and a very strong set of correlations emerged. There were six categories in which I could score: realistic, investigative, artistic, social, enterprising, conventional. I will explain each one, from lowest score to highest.
Realistic: Here my score was a big, fat, whopping zero. "People with Realistic interests like work activities that include practical, hands-on problems and solutions." They like working with wood, tools, plants, and being outside a lot. They don't like paperwork or working closely with others.
Not a surprise that this didn't interest me. I like people, I like ideas, I even like paper. I don't like building stuff, and have no mechanical or technical skills. I once tried to solder a pickup to my guitar and after an hour of sloppy labor realized I had put it in backwards. There were only two wires. Guess I won't become a general contractor anytime soon. Darn.
Conventional: My score here was a "1." These folks, as befitting the name "conventional," like jobs with set procedures and rules. They like data and detail, not ideas. They like precision. They don't like judging their own work, but conforming to others' standards. These people are often accountants. Unless they are the dreaded "creative accountants."
Enterprising: My score "2". They like to start up and carry out projects, especially in business. They like persuading people, and taking risks for profit. They like action rather than thinking. These people are the smug butt-heads who helped destroy our economy. No way man!
So, I pretty much hated all these areas of interest. Now here is what I did like.
Investigative: Here I scored "11." These people like ideas and thinking, rather than physical activity. Big shocker to those of you who have ever SEEN an actual journalist. They like to search for facts and figure out problems in their heads, rather than persuade or lead people. In other words these people like to sit in the back of the room, make a bunch of smart-assed comments about stuff and then let everyone else figure out how to actually solve the problem in the real world. Yes, I have this side of my personality (just ask my wife!), but interestingly I scored higher in two other areas ...
Social: Here I scored "14." These folks like jobs that help others and promote learning and personal development. They prefer to communicate more than work with objects, machines or data. (Guilty!) They like to teach, give advice, or be of service to people. These people are Counselor Troi.
When I saw this I wasn't shocked. I always loved mentoring younger writers and reporters, even when I didn't always know that much more than they did. I felt gratified when I saw them learn and improve. It often meant more to me than my own writing. This felt good to hear, and is an entire part of my personality that needs to be expressed.
But the winner was ...
Artistic: Here I scored "16." These people like, well, art. They like self-expression in their work. They like jobs that can be done without a clear set of rules.
I agree I have this side of me. I sometimes would get very creative even with the most basic investing story. (Not with the data, just the way I wrote it!) I agree, this is part of me too. I am just not convinced it is the leading part of me.
Nonetheless, the evidence spoke volumes. I like thinking problems through, helping others and being creative. I don't like hard physical labor, data-entry or destroying our economy.
The issue now is finding ways to put all these affinities into effect in one place. Jobs that are intellectually stimulating (preferably allowing me to write in a meaningful way), while being intensely social and creative. Journalism can be that, if you get the right job, but it's not the only place to look.
The neat part of the process was that I was then hooked up, via computer, with a whole range of jobs that are relatively close matches for what I am naturally strong in. Editor and reporter came up but so did a lot of jobs in education (at all different level, including special ed, adult education, middle school, pre-school, high school and college) and counseling. And because I had to be a smart ass I was also told I might want to consider a career as a choreographer.
All this leaves me with an interesting dilemma, and avenues to pursue that I might not have considered before. I love writing; always have and always will. But I also love working with people, counseling them and helping them. Of course when the deadline pressure is on and someone turns in something craptastic you end up doing a lot of counseling, boy, do you ever. But I might want to consider the other kind too. And you do a lot of educating as an editor, which is what I often liked more than the actual editing, at least sometimes.
Well, that's it. It was an interesting thing to see. I just hope I can benefit from the knowledge, without making the process to hard or lengthy on myself or my family.
Monday, December 7, 2009
Unemployment Diary: The Upside Of Unemployment
I just laid Stella girl to bed, she had put her head on my shoulder, like she does many nights. I had sung to her, the same songs I sing on many nights ("Golden Slumbers," "You Never Give Me Your Money," "You Are My Sunshine" are some faves), right after I had given her her bath, which, again, I do on many nights. And after I fed her her dinner, which I also do on many nights.
Randi, of course, also does all these things on many nights. Which is to say we do them together.
The past month, though, has seen a very special, and wondrous bond develop between father and daughter that I am so happy about. I talk to her, she understands, she walks over, sometimes gives me a hug. I ask her to hand me something she shouldn't have, she does, no drama. At least if I do it right. In the car when we pick her up from daycare (which I also drop her off at two mornings a week) we all sing to one another, and it is sweet.
I might start it.
"Stella," I'll sing.
She pause for a moment and then answer, "Dada."
We'll go back and forth this way, and then she'll say "Momma." Or it might be reversed with "Momma" first. The way she says it is so nice, so sweet, so gentle. It melts my heart, even more than fourteen bears.
All of this is a long way of saying that being unemployed for the last month and change really hasn't been all bad.
I know, I know. I'm not supposed to admit this. It's taboo. I'm supposed to be worried sick all the time. Someone somewhere will pull my guy card. Because we Americans are supposed to work hard and play hard, and when we get sick, presumably die hard if we don't have health coverage.
I think about an episode of "Man Men" where they had to let fun lovin' Freddie Rumson go, because he drank too much on the job. But first Don and Roger took him out for a night on the town. Finally when it was at the end they said he could come back in six months after drying out, but he demurred.
"If I don't go to work in the morning who am I?" Freddie asked, a former military guy, reduced to this, not feeling like he had any real identity outside of his work. Freddie turned down their offer, and immediately found a worse job somewhere else, just to have somewhere to go.
I don't feel this same lack of identity as Freddie. In fact, unemployment has been a really nice, cool experience in many ways. True, we've had to fight hard to even get the semblance of affordable health care through COBRA (and I have more to say on that issue, but maybe for another entry), and the money this, and the money that, and all that stuff. Yes, it's true. We know money is a scary topic.
And it's also true that at the start of this little process I complained, in this blog, about Stella bothering me while I was trying to dig up leads.
But somewhere in the past few weeks my attitude started to shift. I'd drop her off at daycare on Mondays and Wednesdays, and I would enjoy our time alone in the car. Sometimes I would put on the radio, and she liked it, other times not. I became better about remembering to pack her water and snack for when we pick her up. I got really good at getting her coat and shoes on. (One tip for getting on the coat: put the hood on her head first, then it's easier to put her arms through the arm holes.)
Then Randi and I worked out a system where during the mornings when Stella was with us, she would have her. And I would take her in the afternoons. Of course there was overlap and the lines blurred, but it's mostly worked out. If I had an interview or anything important that took precedent, but mostly we agreed to let it go this way. If I was wiped out Randi let me sleep in a little, and I did the same for her.
And just being around Stella so much has kind of brought out this really cool, semi-telepathic bond. Like, for example, I was playing guitar today for her. She walked over and strummed it hard, really hard, and tried to get me to stop playing so she could basically smack the guitar. I thought maybe this wasn't a great idea, so I told her not to, and she walked away in a very huffy mood. She picked up two sealed paint containers (kids' paint, btw) and kind of stamped her little foot while holding the paints. This is just what she does.
Then I started to talk to her. I told her it's okay, we can try again, come on over. From halfway across the room she walked to me, dropped her paints on the floor (again, the containers, not the paints themselves, no mess) and, as I spoke to her, started to strum the strings, much more gently.
Readers, she's 19 months old! I don't know if this is unusual, but I was shocked by how much she could understand of what I said, and how she had become so receptive to me. We have a very clear and direct connection now, and it was only possible because I've been given the rarest luxury of all: time.
Of course this stage is also fraught with some stress. For most of it I networked and hit up my contacts as well as I knew how, and thought, as much as I could, about how I should conduct the rest of my working life. I came up with some answers, and still have some questions. And I am very lucky to have been laid off when I was because even if I complained about how expensive COBRA still is I can't fathom how to pay for it if we had to pay the full price. Right now my unemployment checks total $810 a month, and it would have cost $1100. Randi works two days a week and that more or less covers daycare. This country, I hate to say it, is not geared to help those who need it the most. I can't call this anything but shortsighted. And I'm being nice.
Believe you me, I've also hustled for jobs, busting my ass. I've gone on quite a few interviews within just the past few weeks, and when I'm not preparing for them, I worked to make them happen. But there's another side to this time.
Because overall, I can't say I am all that sorry with how things have worked out so far. I am not bitter about being laid off, I don't feel like a failure for being in a profession that basically collapsed. I only feel like a failure when I've ignored the voice inside me that tells me the truth. That points me to the things that matter to me. One thing unemployment does for you is allow you to once again connect with your priorities, and, yes, principles. Hopefully those two things can meet in the middle.
I also don't feel like less of a man without an identity now that I'm not going to the office every day. Like how we all heard those stories about how Japanese businessmen were so ashamed of getting laid off that they rented empty offices, right? And then they killed themselves.
Well, I don't feel like those guys, because I know who I am. I am Randi's husband and Stella's dad. Or dada, I guess, but, really I think it's better if that's just between me and her.
Randi, of course, also does all these things on many nights. Which is to say we do them together.
The past month, though, has seen a very special, and wondrous bond develop between father and daughter that I am so happy about. I talk to her, she understands, she walks over, sometimes gives me a hug. I ask her to hand me something she shouldn't have, she does, no drama. At least if I do it right. In the car when we pick her up from daycare (which I also drop her off at two mornings a week) we all sing to one another, and it is sweet.
I might start it.
"Stella," I'll sing.
She pause for a moment and then answer, "Dada."
We'll go back and forth this way, and then she'll say "Momma." Or it might be reversed with "Momma" first. The way she says it is so nice, so sweet, so gentle. It melts my heart, even more than fourteen bears.
All of this is a long way of saying that being unemployed for the last month and change really hasn't been all bad.
I know, I know. I'm not supposed to admit this. It's taboo. I'm supposed to be worried sick all the time. Someone somewhere will pull my guy card. Because we Americans are supposed to work hard and play hard, and when we get sick, presumably die hard if we don't have health coverage.
I think about an episode of "Man Men" where they had to let fun lovin' Freddie Rumson go, because he drank too much on the job. But first Don and Roger took him out for a night on the town. Finally when it was at the end they said he could come back in six months after drying out, but he demurred.
"If I don't go to work in the morning who am I?" Freddie asked, a former military guy, reduced to this, not feeling like he had any real identity outside of his work. Freddie turned down their offer, and immediately found a worse job somewhere else, just to have somewhere to go.
I don't feel this same lack of identity as Freddie. In fact, unemployment has been a really nice, cool experience in many ways. True, we've had to fight hard to even get the semblance of affordable health care through COBRA (and I have more to say on that issue, but maybe for another entry), and the money this, and the money that, and all that stuff. Yes, it's true. We know money is a scary topic.
And it's also true that at the start of this little process I complained, in this blog, about Stella bothering me while I was trying to dig up leads.
But somewhere in the past few weeks my attitude started to shift. I'd drop her off at daycare on Mondays and Wednesdays, and I would enjoy our time alone in the car. Sometimes I would put on the radio, and she liked it, other times not. I became better about remembering to pack her water and snack for when we pick her up. I got really good at getting her coat and shoes on. (One tip for getting on the coat: put the hood on her head first, then it's easier to put her arms through the arm holes.)
Then Randi and I worked out a system where during the mornings when Stella was with us, she would have her. And I would take her in the afternoons. Of course there was overlap and the lines blurred, but it's mostly worked out. If I had an interview or anything important that took precedent, but mostly we agreed to let it go this way. If I was wiped out Randi let me sleep in a little, and I did the same for her.
And just being around Stella so much has kind of brought out this really cool, semi-telepathic bond. Like, for example, I was playing guitar today for her. She walked over and strummed it hard, really hard, and tried to get me to stop playing so she could basically smack the guitar. I thought maybe this wasn't a great idea, so I told her not to, and she walked away in a very huffy mood. She picked up two sealed paint containers (kids' paint, btw) and kind of stamped her little foot while holding the paints. This is just what she does.
Then I started to talk to her. I told her it's okay, we can try again, come on over. From halfway across the room she walked to me, dropped her paints on the floor (again, the containers, not the paints themselves, no mess) and, as I spoke to her, started to strum the strings, much more gently.
Readers, she's 19 months old! I don't know if this is unusual, but I was shocked by how much she could understand of what I said, and how she had become so receptive to me. We have a very clear and direct connection now, and it was only possible because I've been given the rarest luxury of all: time.
Of course this stage is also fraught with some stress. For most of it I networked and hit up my contacts as well as I knew how, and thought, as much as I could, about how I should conduct the rest of my working life. I came up with some answers, and still have some questions. And I am very lucky to have been laid off when I was because even if I complained about how expensive COBRA still is I can't fathom how to pay for it if we had to pay the full price. Right now my unemployment checks total $810 a month, and it would have cost $1100. Randi works two days a week and that more or less covers daycare. This country, I hate to say it, is not geared to help those who need it the most. I can't call this anything but shortsighted. And I'm being nice.
Believe you me, I've also hustled for jobs, busting my ass. I've gone on quite a few interviews within just the past few weeks, and when I'm not preparing for them, I worked to make them happen. But there's another side to this time.
Because overall, I can't say I am all that sorry with how things have worked out so far. I am not bitter about being laid off, I don't feel like a failure for being in a profession that basically collapsed. I only feel like a failure when I've ignored the voice inside me that tells me the truth. That points me to the things that matter to me. One thing unemployment does for you is allow you to once again connect with your priorities, and, yes, principles. Hopefully those two things can meet in the middle.
I also don't feel like less of a man without an identity now that I'm not going to the office every day. Like how we all heard those stories about how Japanese businessmen were so ashamed of getting laid off that they rented empty offices, right? And then they killed themselves.
Well, I don't feel like those guys, because I know who I am. I am Randi's husband and Stella's dad. Or dada, I guess, but, really I think it's better if that's just between me and her.
Sunday, December 6, 2009
The Story Of Fourteen Bears
Writing this at 2:23 a.m. because now that the kid is finally sleeping nights I have had a relapse of insomnia. Oy. I'll take the trade any day, but this is not so much fun.
Anyway, that's not really what I meant to write. I meant to write to tell you about this really strange thing that centered around my favorite book from when I was a little child. The book was titled "The Story Of Fourteen Bears," and when I was a toddler and pre-schooler I loved this book to death, and made my mom read it to me again, again and again.
A plot synopsis: A momma and papa bear live in the forest, with their 12 cubs. Each cub, and indeed momma and papa, lived in a different hollow tree. Each hollow tree is decorated in a cool and sophisticated way. One cub's home is what "modern" looked like in 1969 when the book came out (I loved this one as a kid), one looks like a castle, one looks like a boudoir, and so on. The bears wear some clothes. One has glasses and likes books, two bear cub twins wear tutus, the baby cub, Little Theodore has a cap. (I identified with him, and later thought of myself as the Baby Bear, and my mom as the Momma Bear. Okay, you cynics, stop laughing. I was four years old.) Anyway, the bears go swimming, but they don't hurt the fish so the fish like them. And, again, each bear wears different stuff when they swim. Some have floaters, some have life jackets, etc.
Moving on from there the bears then lay out in the sun until their fur is warm and glistening, then they get some honey that one of the cubs has, except the honey is flavored and looks a lot like delicious ice cream, especially to my young mind. There were flavors like chocolate, vanilla and coconut, which was special.
After that the bears, paw in paw, all go home, back to their hollow trees for the night. As before you see each bear in their individual beds, some bears say prayers (which rhymes!) and Little Theodore sleeps in a crib at the foot of mommy and daddy's bed. Again, as a little child this seemed completely excellent to me, and I wished I could sleep peacefully each night in the same room as my parents at the foot of their bed. They had other ideas, no matter how much I appealed, and they were not swayed by the this early, illustrated example of co-sleeping.
And that's pretty much the entire book. Suffice to say as a kid I devoured this world. Why? After all, the story's basic. I think the art had a lot to do with it. The bears just looked so nice. They each had this amazingly sweet and friendly look and the artist really illustrated the familial love they all shared. They lived deep in the woods, and I was so intrigued by all the architectural layouts in the hollowed-out trees. When they would walk through the woods the artist made so much detail; little animals, birds, rabbits, all there for a child to seek out. I simply identified with these bears, and wanted to be one of them.
So that was the book, that I loved way, way back when. But by the time I was older and could actually, you know READ, I had outgrown the fourteen bears. I put it aside and moved onto other things, like comic books, and all the rest. The bears were forever special to me, but I didn't revisit them often.
Then three years ago we moved out of the home that I grew up in, and I lost track of what happened to the book. I hadn't really thought about it in ages anyway.
So, about four days ago I am thinking that, you know what? I would love to one day read Stella "The Story of Fourteen Bears." I figured our copy from when I was a kid is likely gone, it was in bad shape and I didn't save it. My mom is notorious for throwing away almost everything so I doubted she kept it. But, I figured, I could just go on Amazon.com, and pick up a cheap, beat up old copy of the book.
I logged on. After a bit of searching I got just about the biggest shock I'd received since being laid off. They had the book, alright, as they have virtually all books ever printed, but not at the price I had expected. I thought I might pay $5 or $10 for the book. But when I looked it up I found, to my dismay, that the CHEAPEST copy to be found anywhere on Amazon was $85!
"Collectible" editions started at $200.
I was thunderstruck. What the HELL was going on in this world that could ever justify that a throwaway, albeit lovely, childrens' book could be worth that much? And what was I going to do? Even if I could afford to buy it, and I couldn't, what would be the point? I wouldn't enjoy the book like I had because it cost so much, and as for reading it to Stella, forget about it. Kids books are not meant to be preserved and left alone, they are meant to be read. Reading it to her would mean that it would get worn out, pages ripped, all that. Because this is what I did to my copy of the book way back when, so I should know.
Intrigued I started to do some research into the book. It was a "Big Golden" book, I learned. So I looked those up on E-bay. Maybe this brand of book is collectible.
Nope, none of the other "Big Golden" books were worth jack. Lucky me it was JUST the fourteen bears that commanded this premium.
Then I looked into who wrote it. And now it started to make more sense.
I found out that author Evelyn Scott did not exactly crown her literary career with "The Story Of Fourteen Bears," or even with its sequel "Fourteen Bears In Summer And Winter" (a book I didn't even know about until this week! The crime! I would have LOVED me some summer and winter bears way back when!) In fact in her long, interesting and noteworthy literary career her four books for children are but an interesting footnote.
No, she is a reknowned Southern writer and poet, and noted proto-feminist who produced several major, important works in the '20s and '30s.
In addition to her "'Bears" ouvre she also wrote books with titles like "Breathe Upon These Slain" (maybe about someone who got between the bears and their coconut honey?) and "A Calender Of Sin." Heady company these bears were keeping. (In addition, Scott died, I believe in 1963. My book didn't even come out until 1969, so it was a posthumous work.)
Now it all started to make sense. These books were anomalies of sorts, literary oddballs, of worth to scholars, perhaps, although what they would learn from the bears is hard to say. They certainly weren't just your run-of-the-mill kids' books. Add in that they had been out of print for decades and the price started to make more sense.
Fascinating stuff, but I was still screwed in my actual attempt to GET a copy of the book. What should I do?
Of course the next thing I did was call my mom, and tell her this whole crazy story. When she heard the price of these books she emitted a small gasp. This was followed by ...
"Wait, wait," she said, "I think I have it."
I was amazed, my mom, the great cleaner-upper, who can be so pragmatic had KEPT my book, from when I was just a little child, even though I hadn't even asked her to? It couldn't be. But then she said ...
"I am holding it in my hands."
I could have cried with joy. Not because it was worth whatever it might be worth. No, really, I just wanted to look at my bears again, and someday share them with my daughter. And even share them with my wife.
Long story short (too late!) we were at my mom's this weekend and she showed me the book. I opened it, and, again, I almost wept. There they were, in bright, beautiful color. The book held up. Yes, the story was simple but Evelyn Scott included all I needed to know about these bears. And the illustrations, by Virginia Parsons, were as lovely as ever, so rich in detail, so good-natured, so vibrant of color. I read it as soon as I could, then I read it again, again and again.
Then I tried to read it to Stella and she immediately started to rip a page. It was okay, this is what kids do. I wasn't mad. It's a book to be used, not hidden away. I will simply share it with her when she's a little older. And I'll be happy to read it to her again, again and again, too.
Anyway, that's not really what I meant to write. I meant to write to tell you about this really strange thing that centered around my favorite book from when I was a little child. The book was titled "The Story Of Fourteen Bears," and when I was a toddler and pre-schooler I loved this book to death, and made my mom read it to me again, again and again.
A plot synopsis: A momma and papa bear live in the forest, with their 12 cubs. Each cub, and indeed momma and papa, lived in a different hollow tree. Each hollow tree is decorated in a cool and sophisticated way. One cub's home is what "modern" looked like in 1969 when the book came out (I loved this one as a kid), one looks like a castle, one looks like a boudoir, and so on. The bears wear some clothes. One has glasses and likes books, two bear cub twins wear tutus, the baby cub, Little Theodore has a cap. (I identified with him, and later thought of myself as the Baby Bear, and my mom as the Momma Bear. Okay, you cynics, stop laughing. I was four years old.) Anyway, the bears go swimming, but they don't hurt the fish so the fish like them. And, again, each bear wears different stuff when they swim. Some have floaters, some have life jackets, etc.
Moving on from there the bears then lay out in the sun until their fur is warm and glistening, then they get some honey that one of the cubs has, except the honey is flavored and looks a lot like delicious ice cream, especially to my young mind. There were flavors like chocolate, vanilla and coconut, which was special.
After that the bears, paw in paw, all go home, back to their hollow trees for the night. As before you see each bear in their individual beds, some bears say prayers (which rhymes!) and Little Theodore sleeps in a crib at the foot of mommy and daddy's bed. Again, as a little child this seemed completely excellent to me, and I wished I could sleep peacefully each night in the same room as my parents at the foot of their bed. They had other ideas, no matter how much I appealed, and they were not swayed by the this early, illustrated example of co-sleeping.
And that's pretty much the entire book. Suffice to say as a kid I devoured this world. Why? After all, the story's basic. I think the art had a lot to do with it. The bears just looked so nice. They each had this amazingly sweet and friendly look and the artist really illustrated the familial love they all shared. They lived deep in the woods, and I was so intrigued by all the architectural layouts in the hollowed-out trees. When they would walk through the woods the artist made so much detail; little animals, birds, rabbits, all there for a child to seek out. I simply identified with these bears, and wanted to be one of them.
So that was the book, that I loved way, way back when. But by the time I was older and could actually, you know READ, I had outgrown the fourteen bears. I put it aside and moved onto other things, like comic books, and all the rest. The bears were forever special to me, but I didn't revisit them often.
Then three years ago we moved out of the home that I grew up in, and I lost track of what happened to the book. I hadn't really thought about it in ages anyway.
So, about four days ago I am thinking that, you know what? I would love to one day read Stella "The Story of Fourteen Bears." I figured our copy from when I was a kid is likely gone, it was in bad shape and I didn't save it. My mom is notorious for throwing away almost everything so I doubted she kept it. But, I figured, I could just go on Amazon.com, and pick up a cheap, beat up old copy of the book.
I logged on. After a bit of searching I got just about the biggest shock I'd received since being laid off. They had the book, alright, as they have virtually all books ever printed, but not at the price I had expected. I thought I might pay $5 or $10 for the book. But when I looked it up I found, to my dismay, that the CHEAPEST copy to be found anywhere on Amazon was $85!
"Collectible" editions started at $200.
I was thunderstruck. What the HELL was going on in this world that could ever justify that a throwaway, albeit lovely, childrens' book could be worth that much? And what was I going to do? Even if I could afford to buy it, and I couldn't, what would be the point? I wouldn't enjoy the book like I had because it cost so much, and as for reading it to Stella, forget about it. Kids books are not meant to be preserved and left alone, they are meant to be read. Reading it to her would mean that it would get worn out, pages ripped, all that. Because this is what I did to my copy of the book way back when, so I should know.
Intrigued I started to do some research into the book. It was a "Big Golden" book, I learned. So I looked those up on E-bay. Maybe this brand of book is collectible.
Nope, none of the other "Big Golden" books were worth jack. Lucky me it was JUST the fourteen bears that commanded this premium.
Then I looked into who wrote it. And now it started to make more sense.
I found out that author Evelyn Scott did not exactly crown her literary career with "The Story Of Fourteen Bears," or even with its sequel "Fourteen Bears In Summer And Winter" (a book I didn't even know about until this week! The crime! I would have LOVED me some summer and winter bears way back when!) In fact in her long, interesting and noteworthy literary career her four books for children are but an interesting footnote.
No, she is a reknowned Southern writer and poet, and noted proto-feminist who produced several major, important works in the '20s and '30s.
In addition to her "'Bears" ouvre she also wrote books with titles like "Breathe Upon These Slain" (maybe about someone who got between the bears and their coconut honey?) and "A Calender Of Sin." Heady company these bears were keeping. (In addition, Scott died, I believe in 1963. My book didn't even come out until 1969, so it was a posthumous work.)
Now it all started to make sense. These books were anomalies of sorts, literary oddballs, of worth to scholars, perhaps, although what they would learn from the bears is hard to say. They certainly weren't just your run-of-the-mill kids' books. Add in that they had been out of print for decades and the price started to make more sense.
Fascinating stuff, but I was still screwed in my actual attempt to GET a copy of the book. What should I do?
Of course the next thing I did was call my mom, and tell her this whole crazy story. When she heard the price of these books she emitted a small gasp. This was followed by ...
"Wait, wait," she said, "I think I have it."
I was amazed, my mom, the great cleaner-upper, who can be so pragmatic had KEPT my book, from when I was just a little child, even though I hadn't even asked her to? It couldn't be. But then she said ...
"I am holding it in my hands."
I could have cried with joy. Not because it was worth whatever it might be worth. No, really, I just wanted to look at my bears again, and someday share them with my daughter. And even share them with my wife.
Long story short (too late!) we were at my mom's this weekend and she showed me the book. I opened it, and, again, I almost wept. There they were, in bright, beautiful color. The book held up. Yes, the story was simple but Evelyn Scott included all I needed to know about these bears. And the illustrations, by Virginia Parsons, were as lovely as ever, so rich in detail, so good-natured, so vibrant of color. I read it as soon as I could, then I read it again, again and again.
Then I tried to read it to Stella and she immediately started to rip a page. It was okay, this is what kids do. I wasn't mad. It's a book to be used, not hidden away. I will simply share it with her when she's a little older. And I'll be happy to read it to her again, again and again, too.
Friday, December 4, 2009
Unemployment Diary: Life Is Long, Be Nice
Oh life's ironies can be cruel and fast. Just about two and a half months ago I was if not on top of the world at least at the top of my game at my former job. The project I had helped launch was about to celebrate its one year anniversary and in honor of that the powers-that-were decided to hold a party. I was asked to invite pretty much everyone I worked with on the project and I did.
The party ended up being a whole lot of fun. It was about two or three hours, and even though the hors d'oeuvres looked like they came fresh from a Staufer's box (which should of been a tip off to me about what was in store) I had a great time. I may even have been the life of the party. Not because I drank so much, because I didn't. I didn't put a lampshade on my head, no thanks.
But because I knew just about everyone. This was MY network, in many ways. The project was successful, at least in part, because of the people I had brought on, or became close with along the way. And now I was mingling, laughing, making connections among people who didn't already know one another. I had a great time, and left feeling like I had just completed a pretty good year.
Of course a little over a month later the axe fell. Not just on me, but all the people at my level in the firm, with a few exceptions. I didn't take it personally, but as I waited in the rain for my cab, with my few cardboard boxes of possessions, I felt a little shocked that they were willing to throw us all a big party not long before they canned me. If it didn't feel wrong exactly it did feel a little perverse.
Still, I was kind of grateful for the party. Even if it hadn't been intended that way I felt like I had gone out with a bang. Seldom had I enjoyed a work function that much.
Now tonight I got to experience the reverse of this experience, far more completely than I had ever imagined.
About three months ago I booked a well known financial professional to appear on our video network. I liked his style, I liked his writing ability (he heads a well known financial website), I liked his outlook on life. As it went we hit it off, more or less, although I can't say we got to know one another all that well on a personal level. It's business, after all.
Well, tonight I attended his big holiday soiree, and just had a stone lousy time. It wasn't anyone's fault, it's just that the wheel of fortune has turned, and now that I'm the guy without a job the feeling was somewhat less celebratory for me than for the other guests.
The party was held in a loud, crowded but excellent BBQ place in Manhattan (and, no, not Dallas BBQ), a place I had been twice before and enjoyed. The food is excellent, although it's a bit on the noisy side.
Tonight before heading out Randi and I had a pretty strong disagreement about stuff I won't get into. Suffice to say I was not in the best of moods as I boarded the F train into the city. But, I thought, this is free barbecue, a chance to network, I like the guy throwing the party and I might even know a few people there. We'll see.
Long story short I show up, and almost immediately I feel like I had made a mistake. First, the invitation advised everyone to wear Western wear. I showed up in a flower print cowboy shirt, and am just about the only one who could even begin to pass for even an urban (or suburban) cowboy. Thank god I didn't wear the even more gaudy one, although initially I had planned to.
As I walk in they can't find my name on the guest list. After that's solved I am advised to "drink and have a good time!" The music is blaring, about a thousand people are milling about, in small or smallish groups, and immediately I am transported back to parties in high school and college that I hated: looking for people to talk to, alone, feeling like a loser.
The idea of "networking" here, at least for me, at least tonight, in the mood I am in, is hopeless. The music is too loud, and there seems to be no way into anyone's conversations. Whereas people at the party two months ago joked laughed and mingled, I felt like I couldn't break through, in any way. Maybe it was me, it probably was. But that was how it felt.
Making matters worse I wasn't even hungry, thanks to a "light" early dinner and the residue of feeling upset. But I did see my host, so I walked over.
He was speaking with someone else, and since he threw the party I knew he would be in high demand tonight. I wanted to thank him for inviting me, but the person he was talking to kept on talking. This lead to one of those awkward "hovering" situations, where I stood around like a ghost, waiting for my chance to pounce. Not good. In fact very uncomfortable for all concerned.
I did perceive a small break in their conversation, and I said hi, and thanked him for letting me come to his fabulous party. We chatted for about 30 seconds and I felt like such a goofball that I decided to shuffle on.
Then I looked to my left, oh great. Two young women that I used to work with at my old job, at the gambling tables. I didn't want to talk to them, because:
1. We were never that friendly anyway.
2. I would probably enjoy an additional 30 seconds of even more awkwardness.
3. I didn't want them to feel sorry for me.
That's the thing, when you've been laid off there can be a certain odor, I guess that seems to come over you. It's almost like Axe body spray in reverse, I suppose. Those that used to work with you, even if you had outranked them, now just kind of feel bad when they talk to you. As if someone just died, and that someone was you.
I then went downstairs and saw two journalists who used to work for me, who both now work for the financial website owned by our host. We had a pleasant enough joint conversation, but after not too long I could tell they wanted to move on, and felt, maybe, a little bit sorry for me too. Maybe I was feeling sorry for myself, and just imagined this is how they felt. I can't tell. They were nice to me, and asked me how I was doing, how Stella is, and all that. But it was awkward, again, there was no getting around it. After not too long one guy excused himself to go the bathroom (which is a move I do when I want to end a conversation gracefully) and the other one, a young woman, started a conversation with someone else.
By this point I'd had one beer, and checked my coat. That was about it. I didn't want to stay any longer so I then unchecked my coat, gave up, and went home. I wanted to see my wife, even if we'd had a pretty serious disagreement. I missed her.
The lesson in this? I guess it's that you really better be nice to people, because who knows how fast fortunes can change. I had felt, and hoped, that I had been a good person, a good co-worker, and even a good boss, and I think I was. But now the shoe is on the other foot, and I am the one looking for a job, and my former direct-reports (who both had been laid off in advance of me) could be in positions to help me, or not.
It's hard to know if you've got enough good will in the "favor" bank with people you used to work with, so you better try and be good people all the time. Did I reach out to them enough when they needed help, when they were laid off? Even to buy them a drink or a meal? Probably not, though I did reach out. Now I wonder.
(Of course the best reason to be nice is simply because it makes the world a slightly better place. And you should do so without expecting anything in return.)
The other lesson is that in this world you can feel perfectly great, or perfectly lousy, but all some see is your job. If you don't have one they see right through you. Until it's time to see you once more.
A last irony: the last time I saw both of my former journalists was in the same BBQ place. We'd convened a meeting of the "markets" desk of the well known financial website where I had worked. I had been the deputy editor at markets, where they had both written for me. After that I moved onto my erstwhile "succesful" new project. So at the dinner I was the one in the catbird seat and they were both fairly down and scrambling for work. I was even giving advice. This was about six months ago. Tonight it was the complete opposite of that, in every way.
You know, maybe I should just avoid that place next time.
The party ended up being a whole lot of fun. It was about two or three hours, and even though the hors d'oeuvres looked like they came fresh from a Staufer's box (which should of been a tip off to me about what was in store) I had a great time. I may even have been the life of the party. Not because I drank so much, because I didn't. I didn't put a lampshade on my head, no thanks.
But because I knew just about everyone. This was MY network, in many ways. The project was successful, at least in part, because of the people I had brought on, or became close with along the way. And now I was mingling, laughing, making connections among people who didn't already know one another. I had a great time, and left feeling like I had just completed a pretty good year.
Of course a little over a month later the axe fell. Not just on me, but all the people at my level in the firm, with a few exceptions. I didn't take it personally, but as I waited in the rain for my cab, with my few cardboard boxes of possessions, I felt a little shocked that they were willing to throw us all a big party not long before they canned me. If it didn't feel wrong exactly it did feel a little perverse.
Still, I was kind of grateful for the party. Even if it hadn't been intended that way I felt like I had gone out with a bang. Seldom had I enjoyed a work function that much.
Now tonight I got to experience the reverse of this experience, far more completely than I had ever imagined.
About three months ago I booked a well known financial professional to appear on our video network. I liked his style, I liked his writing ability (he heads a well known financial website), I liked his outlook on life. As it went we hit it off, more or less, although I can't say we got to know one another all that well on a personal level. It's business, after all.
Well, tonight I attended his big holiday soiree, and just had a stone lousy time. It wasn't anyone's fault, it's just that the wheel of fortune has turned, and now that I'm the guy without a job the feeling was somewhat less celebratory for me than for the other guests.
The party was held in a loud, crowded but excellent BBQ place in Manhattan (and, no, not Dallas BBQ), a place I had been twice before and enjoyed. The food is excellent, although it's a bit on the noisy side.
Tonight before heading out Randi and I had a pretty strong disagreement about stuff I won't get into. Suffice to say I was not in the best of moods as I boarded the F train into the city. But, I thought, this is free barbecue, a chance to network, I like the guy throwing the party and I might even know a few people there. We'll see.
Long story short I show up, and almost immediately I feel like I had made a mistake. First, the invitation advised everyone to wear Western wear. I showed up in a flower print cowboy shirt, and am just about the only one who could even begin to pass for even an urban (or suburban) cowboy. Thank god I didn't wear the even more gaudy one, although initially I had planned to.
As I walk in they can't find my name on the guest list. After that's solved I am advised to "drink and have a good time!" The music is blaring, about a thousand people are milling about, in small or smallish groups, and immediately I am transported back to parties in high school and college that I hated: looking for people to talk to, alone, feeling like a loser.
The idea of "networking" here, at least for me, at least tonight, in the mood I am in, is hopeless. The music is too loud, and there seems to be no way into anyone's conversations. Whereas people at the party two months ago joked laughed and mingled, I felt like I couldn't break through, in any way. Maybe it was me, it probably was. But that was how it felt.
Making matters worse I wasn't even hungry, thanks to a "light" early dinner and the residue of feeling upset. But I did see my host, so I walked over.
He was speaking with someone else, and since he threw the party I knew he would be in high demand tonight. I wanted to thank him for inviting me, but the person he was talking to kept on talking. This lead to one of those awkward "hovering" situations, where I stood around like a ghost, waiting for my chance to pounce. Not good. In fact very uncomfortable for all concerned.
I did perceive a small break in their conversation, and I said hi, and thanked him for letting me come to his fabulous party. We chatted for about 30 seconds and I felt like such a goofball that I decided to shuffle on.
Then I looked to my left, oh great. Two young women that I used to work with at my old job, at the gambling tables. I didn't want to talk to them, because:
1. We were never that friendly anyway.
2. I would probably enjoy an additional 30 seconds of even more awkwardness.
3. I didn't want them to feel sorry for me.
That's the thing, when you've been laid off there can be a certain odor, I guess that seems to come over you. It's almost like Axe body spray in reverse, I suppose. Those that used to work with you, even if you had outranked them, now just kind of feel bad when they talk to you. As if someone just died, and that someone was you.
I then went downstairs and saw two journalists who used to work for me, who both now work for the financial website owned by our host. We had a pleasant enough joint conversation, but after not too long I could tell they wanted to move on, and felt, maybe, a little bit sorry for me too. Maybe I was feeling sorry for myself, and just imagined this is how they felt. I can't tell. They were nice to me, and asked me how I was doing, how Stella is, and all that. But it was awkward, again, there was no getting around it. After not too long one guy excused himself to go the bathroom (which is a move I do when I want to end a conversation gracefully) and the other one, a young woman, started a conversation with someone else.
By this point I'd had one beer, and checked my coat. That was about it. I didn't want to stay any longer so I then unchecked my coat, gave up, and went home. I wanted to see my wife, even if we'd had a pretty serious disagreement. I missed her.
The lesson in this? I guess it's that you really better be nice to people, because who knows how fast fortunes can change. I had felt, and hoped, that I had been a good person, a good co-worker, and even a good boss, and I think I was. But now the shoe is on the other foot, and I am the one looking for a job, and my former direct-reports (who both had been laid off in advance of me) could be in positions to help me, or not.
It's hard to know if you've got enough good will in the "favor" bank with people you used to work with, so you better try and be good people all the time. Did I reach out to them enough when they needed help, when they were laid off? Even to buy them a drink or a meal? Probably not, though I did reach out. Now I wonder.
(Of course the best reason to be nice is simply because it makes the world a slightly better place. And you should do so without expecting anything in return.)
The other lesson is that in this world you can feel perfectly great, or perfectly lousy, but all some see is your job. If you don't have one they see right through you. Until it's time to see you once more.
A last irony: the last time I saw both of my former journalists was in the same BBQ place. We'd convened a meeting of the "markets" desk of the well known financial website where I had worked. I had been the deputy editor at markets, where they had both written for me. After that I moved onto my erstwhile "succesful" new project. So at the dinner I was the one in the catbird seat and they were both fairly down and scrambling for work. I was even giving advice. This was about six months ago. Tonight it was the complete opposite of that, in every way.
You know, maybe I should just avoid that place next time.
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