Among other things, like teaching restaurant and hotel management, my mom (a.k.a. Grannie Annie) is a nutritionist, menu planner and certified dietitian.
When I was a teenager (and the drinking age was still 18), my girlfriends and I were budding alcoholics. Night after night we would head out, with our fake IDs, to those bars in walking distance. Later, still with our fake IDs, we would hit the dive bars in the next town over.
As we left, my mom would always say, "Think of all of those extra calories. Instead of a beer, you could have a slice of bread." Huh? We would all crack up. Methinks she was missing the point!
For this reason, I could not help but think of her when I read the recent restaurant opening in New York magazine: Fat Annie's Truck Stop. Hello! Frito Lay pie and beer? It has my name written all over it!
Tuesday, July 31, 2007
Monday, July 30, 2007
Honeoye Lake
My girlfriend Meg invited the kids and me to spend the weekend with her family at her in-law's cottage this past weekend. Aside from it being a little too cool in the shade, we had a glorious, sunny weekend. We took the paddle boat out a couple of times and the kids had fun swimming, fishing and playing a game that was new to me: redneck golf. (Turns out there is a "sport" I'm good at after all!)
Her daughters, my boys and I also slept in a tent for the first time together which I loved -- except that I could barely sleep because every little noise freaked me out.
I read a story years ago about forgiveness, of all things, written by a mother whose youngest daughter was kidnapped from their tent while the family camped in Montana. The kidnapper quietly slit the tent while the whole family was asleep inside, pulled the daughter out, and later killed her at his nearby house. Although the story told about this woman's prayers for her daughter's safety and prayers/compassion for the kidnapper (who ultimately called her one night, they chatted for an hour and he was subsequently arrested), I have never been able to get the horror of this story out of my head.
But really, what are the chances of something like that happening? Close to nil. Yet reason and logic vanish in the middle of the night. The story played in my head over and over. I even dreamed of a dead girl speaking to me about her brother. Not exactly relaxing.
I need to get over this, though, because I used to love camping and don't want this irrational fear to ruin it for me. I'm thinking of taking baby steps: I'll start by "camping" in our backyard and gradually work up to pitching a tent in Manhattan. And I'll pack some mace.
Her daughters, my boys and I also slept in a tent for the first time together which I loved -- except that I could barely sleep because every little noise freaked me out.
I read a story years ago about forgiveness, of all things, written by a mother whose youngest daughter was kidnapped from their tent while the family camped in Montana. The kidnapper quietly slit the tent while the whole family was asleep inside, pulled the daughter out, and later killed her at his nearby house. Although the story told about this woman's prayers for her daughter's safety and prayers/compassion for the kidnapper (who ultimately called her one night, they chatted for an hour and he was subsequently arrested), I have never been able to get the horror of this story out of my head.
But really, what are the chances of something like that happening? Close to nil. Yet reason and logic vanish in the middle of the night. The story played in my head over and over. I even dreamed of a dead girl speaking to me about her brother. Not exactly relaxing.
I need to get over this, though, because I used to love camping and don't want this irrational fear to ruin it for me. I'm thinking of taking baby steps: I'll start by "camping" in our backyard and gradually work up to pitching a tent in Manhattan. And I'll pack some mace.
Friday, July 27, 2007
Communication Breakdown
My girlfriend sent me an email about a medium named Rebecca Rosen who her cousin and aunt just utilized and both had "amazing sessions." Not my thing at all, a little scary, religious views notwithstanding.
However, it did prompt my mother and me to chat about communicating with each other after she dies. Given that we talk 20X/week, the following questions seemed obvious: "Mom, is it possible that there is anything you'll still need to say that you haven't already told me?" and, "if so, can you say it in the next 20 years so I don't have to pay anyone to tell me more after you're gone?"
Knowing my mom's penchant for clipping, circling and sharing myriad articles of interest, as well as taking copious notes during her radio talk shows and occasional Oprah viewing, I now have a sneaking suspicion that my mom is going to contact me from afar on a daily basis with interesting tidbits from heaven.
I think I'll need to foster my own skills as a medium to save some money.
However, it did prompt my mother and me to chat about communicating with each other after she dies. Given that we talk 20X/week, the following questions seemed obvious: "Mom, is it possible that there is anything you'll still need to say that you haven't already told me?" and, "if so, can you say it in the next 20 years so I don't have to pay anyone to tell me more after you're gone?"
Knowing my mom's penchant for clipping, circling and sharing myriad articles of interest, as well as taking copious notes during her radio talk shows and occasional Oprah viewing, I now have a sneaking suspicion that my mom is going to contact me from afar on a daily basis with interesting tidbits from heaven.
I think I'll need to foster my own skills as a medium to save some money.
Thursday, July 26, 2007
Nostradamus
CNN ran a story yesterday about a cat who lives in a nursing home and is able to predict when patients are going to die. Apparently this cat, Oscar, cuddles up in bed next to people during their final hours and, so far, he's batting 1000 (25 out of 25 correct).
People quoted in the article were speculating on whether he "notices telltale scents or reads something into the behavior of the nurses who raised him" or if he is "driven by self-centered pleasures like a heated blanket." I personally find it hard to believe that patients only get heated blankets in the final throes of life. Surely there are other beds Oscar can curl up on, no?
When my grandfather was ill, my sister and I were convinced that my mom's cat, Ashley, knew he was dying. There were times when, I swear, it looked like she was watching people move around the living room who we couldn't see. A little freaky.
Like animals who sense impending danger (e.g., earthquakes, tornadoes), I wonder if it is possible for certain animals, like Oscar, to receive advanced warning signals of some kind. Maybe it's as simple as a change in atmospheric pressure or the ability to detect small tremors in the earth; but, perhaps it's something more intuitive.
A friend from grad school once stayed on our couch for weeks while looking for a job in the city. He told me that he always knew when I was coming home -- and it didn't matter if it was 10:00 a.m. or 6:00 p.m. -- because our cat, Stinky, would wake up from her nap and start to groom herself a few minutes before I walked in the door.
Whatever the cause, I'm flattered! If only my kids could tap into that psychic ability and pick-up their toys before I walk in the door, now that would be something.
People quoted in the article were speculating on whether he "notices telltale scents or reads something into the behavior of the nurses who raised him" or if he is "driven by self-centered pleasures like a heated blanket." I personally find it hard to believe that patients only get heated blankets in the final throes of life. Surely there are other beds Oscar can curl up on, no?
When my grandfather was ill, my sister and I were convinced that my mom's cat, Ashley, knew he was dying. There were times when, I swear, it looked like she was watching people move around the living room who we couldn't see. A little freaky.
Like animals who sense impending danger (e.g., earthquakes, tornadoes), I wonder if it is possible for certain animals, like Oscar, to receive advanced warning signals of some kind. Maybe it's as simple as a change in atmospheric pressure or the ability to detect small tremors in the earth; but, perhaps it's something more intuitive.
A friend from grad school once stayed on our couch for weeks while looking for a job in the city. He told me that he always knew when I was coming home -- and it didn't matter if it was 10:00 a.m. or 6:00 p.m. -- because our cat, Stinky, would wake up from her nap and start to groom herself a few minutes before I walked in the door.
Whatever the cause, I'm flattered! If only my kids could tap into that psychic ability and pick-up their toys before I walk in the door, now that would be something.
Wednesday, July 25, 2007
Don't Hate Me Because I'm Beautiful
The other day, as I was leaving for work, my husband commented on my fairly new (within the last year at least) BCBG dress.
Hubby: "You wearing that?"
Me: "Why, is it bad?"
Hubby: "Not if you're traveling through a time warp to 1986."
Me: "I don't have time to change."
Hubby: "Well, you can probably pull it off."
Me: "I don't want to 'pull it off'; I want to look good."
Hubby: "There's always tomorrow."
The bad news: everything else in my closet is worse.
The good news: I just got a raise! Mama needs some new clothes . . .
Hubby: "You wearing that?"
Me: "Why, is it bad?"
Hubby: "Not if you're traveling through a time warp to 1986."
Me: "I don't have time to change."
Hubby: "Well, you can probably pull it off."
Me: "I don't want to 'pull it off'; I want to look good."
Hubby: "There's always tomorrow."
The bad news: everything else in my closet is worse.
The good news: I just got a raise! Mama needs some new clothes . . .
Tuesday, July 24, 2007
Best Friends Forever
Aside from a brief moment of knowing where a certain document of my boss’ was (in the wrong client file), I haven’t had a strong intuitive experience in many years. The last one I did have was really strange, however.
In NYC, I had a girlfriend with whom I did everything. Drinks, dinner, shopping. My favorite thing of all, however, was sitting with her on the rock by the pond in
One night, she and I went out to meet some friends of hers and then we shared a cab across town. I was heading home and she was meeting up with her boyfriend (who my husband referred to as “Chinless”). She asked me to come into the sports bar where she was meeting Chinless to make sure he was there before I took off. I did.
She then said she would walk me home if I waited for her to use the bathroom. The minute she left, Chinless turned to me frantically. “Did you see anything when you came in?” I had no idea what he was talking about but it couldn’t have been good.
When we went to leave, he said he wanted to come outside with us for a moment and smoke a joint. He went to get his coat and, as he walked away, he whispered something to my friend. She asked aloud, “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” I shared with her what he said to me. She looked pissed.
When we got outside, they were smoking pot while I was doing a handstand against the building (one of my default stress-relief mechanisms). Then, as we went to leave, he and I hugged goodbye slightly. She spewed, “get your hands off her.”
To make a long story short, we walked toward my apartment and then stood by the river at
When I hugged her goodnight, a big booming voice sounded in my head, “You will never see her again.” It was so loud, I was taken aback.
When I got inside and told my husband, he told me I was probably feeling some weird vibes because she was stoned. I wasn’t.
She was my best friend for years and I’ve never seen or heard from her again. And sometimes I still miss her.
Monday, July 23, 2007
Perfect Timing
When I was little, I was psychic and it was effortless.
One day, my father and I went to Coney Island while my mother and sister went shopping. (I must have been really young because I haven't turned down a shopping expedition in a long time!) I'm pretty sure my brothers were with us too but I can't remember for sure. I do remember, however, that out of nowhere I suddenly told my dad that we needed to leave immediately. I wasn't panicked; we simply needed to go meet my mom and sister.
We went back to the subway, hopped on the next train (after witnessing a homeless man getting mugged) and, after switching trains again, made our way up to Bloomingdale's. Sure enough, the minute our train -- just one of hundreds -- pulled up to the 59th Street station, we spotted my mom and sis as they, too, arrived on the platform. "There they are," I told my dad. I wasn't even the slightest bit fazed. He was incredulous.
There's no way of telling what may have happened had we not met them. Maybe nothing. It was just clear to me, for whatever reason, that we needed to get there so we could all be together.
One day, my father and I went to Coney Island while my mother and sister went shopping. (I must have been really young because I haven't turned down a shopping expedition in a long time!) I'm pretty sure my brothers were with us too but I can't remember for sure. I do remember, however, that out of nowhere I suddenly told my dad that we needed to leave immediately. I wasn't panicked; we simply needed to go meet my mom and sister.
We went back to the subway, hopped on the next train (after witnessing a homeless man getting mugged) and, after switching trains again, made our way up to Bloomingdale's. Sure enough, the minute our train -- just one of hundreds -- pulled up to the 59th Street station, we spotted my mom and sis as they, too, arrived on the platform. "There they are," I told my dad. I wasn't even the slightest bit fazed. He was incredulous.
There's no way of telling what may have happened had we not met them. Maybe nothing. It was just clear to me, for whatever reason, that we needed to get there so we could all be together.
Thursday, July 19, 2007
Same Games, Different Millennium
My middle brother, who is closest in age to me, was in town from NC -- just for dinner -- last week. It was awesome to see him, albeit briefly. The strange thing is that, now that I have two little boys, I feel like I’m reliving much of my childhood with him. I can still hear him badgering me to stay in the lines as I sit on the floor at night coloring robots and racecars. And he and I played endless games of “pig” (i.e., basketball) and Battleship: two things I’ve been doing a lot lately. But finally, at least for now, I have the advantage. “Mama, you’re really good at basketball.” Yep, and I’ll take on any five-year-old who dares me.
Like him, my boys are nascent drummers and both are even sporting the same, short, military haircut that he modeled in the 60s; they’re just lacking the Buddy Holly, thick, black-framed glasses to complete the look.
I wonder, however, if either of my kids will get his bizarre sense of humor. He once told me that we went to private school because we were mentally challenged. “Haven’t you ever noticed it says ‘SLOW Children’ right where the buses park?” Nice.
My girlfriends loved him because he used to make Mickey Mouse-shaped pancakes for us during sleepovers. This was after he would wake us up just to “make sure we were sleeping okay.”
He and I were the ones who rode in the back of station wagon together, facing backwards, on every family trip. Then, when he learned to drive, he would purposely hit every bump on the road if I was applying mascara in the passenger seat. He later taught me how to drive.
Because of my brother, my heart now aches when I witness kids in the neighborhood not wanting to play with the younger kids -- not because the little ones feel left out but rather because it must be such a huge drag for the older kids when they are forced to include them. My mom always strong-armed my brother to let me tag along with him and his friends even though I am a girl and four years younger. And then he would get in BIG trouble when his friends would ditch me. Especially when I got home first and promptly told my mom (like the time I made the perilous journey back from the next town over, sans supervision, along the train tracks). D'oh!
It's hard to believe it's been over thirty years since we hung out as kids. It feels like only yesterday.
Wednesday, July 18, 2007
The World Can Change in an Instant
Son #1 fell in the Erie Canal yesterday while fishing with his dad and little brother.
He kept his cool, swam to the edge, held on, grabbed my hubby's hand and was pulled out.
Everything seemed fine last night. We all played tennis and the boys spent some time rolling down the hill by the courts; but, he was pretty scared when he finally climbed into bed. He began crying and told me that he was really glad to be alive because he really wanted to stick around and "see the sights." He also discovered that he wants to live for a really long time because he "likes it here on earth."
I like it when he's here on earth, too.
He kept his cool, swam to the edge, held on, grabbed my hubby's hand and was pulled out.
Everything seemed fine last night. We all played tennis and the boys spent some time rolling down the hill by the courts; but, he was pretty scared when he finally climbed into bed. He began crying and told me that he was really glad to be alive because he really wanted to stick around and "see the sights." He also discovered that he wants to live for a really long time because he "likes it here on earth."
I like it when he's here on earth, too.
Tuesday, July 17, 2007
Rochester: Made for Living
The cover of the current issue of Solar Today has the following headline, "Sustainable Cleveland: How the city is reinventing itself as a clean, green center."
I read this and wondered, why isn't Rochester doing something like this? We've lost our brand identity -- if we ever had one. We have no impassioned "hook" to get the general populous reinvigorated about living and investing here.
Ignoring the Radio Shack-inspired logo, our homespun "Made for Living" campaign simply covers the basics on why Rochester is seemingly a good place to live. But, it's flat. And I'm not pointing fingers at whatever ad agency developed it. They were just working with our current state. But what is Rochester's future?
I've been thinking about this for a few years. Ever since I read an article in Yoga Journal about how the tiny Himalayan nation of Bhutan is measuring itself on "Gross National Happiness." According to this article, they used Buddhist principles to identify four specific "pillars" upon which Gross National Happiness rests: good governance, cultural preservation, environmental conservation, and economic development. These may be difficult to quantify but presumably can be analyzed objectively.
Although "happy" is not a word I would even remotely use today to categorize Rochester, with a little work it could be. The city itself is a dichotomy. One one hand, we have urban decay (i.e., a soul-less inner city complete with housing projects on our riverfront) and nothing inviting along our lake shore except an infamous local rock club and tattoo parlors. On the other hand, we have pockets of hope for city revitalization (e.g., ARTWalk, Corn Hill Landing), stunning natural resources (e.g., Lake Ontario, the Genesee River, the Finger Lakes), a number of architectural gems, amazing cultural institutions (e.g., the Rochester Philharmonic Orchestra, Rochester City Ballet, Rochester International Jazz Festival, Geva Theater), top-notch school systems, and in my opinion, one of the best talent pools in the world: highly intelligent and well educated. In addition, unlike some other cities, the people here are extremely down-to-earth and, for the most part, willing to work hard. I really love the people here: they are by far our best differentiator.
With that said, why can't we reinvent ourselves? We have so much to offer. What would it take to become "the happiest city in the U.S." or "the healthiest city in the U.S."? Are either even desired? If so, how would we measure ourselves?
I have this daydream where I win the lottery (which may be difficult given that I don't really play). That aside, in this dream, I gather local leaders and economists (business, political, not-for-profit, education, religious, etc.), couple them with interesting, non-locals like Malcolm Gladwell, and use the money to treat Rochester like an incubator and invest in out-of-the-box recovery programs.
Like painting over the graffiti in the NYC subway system, maybe we could hire unemployed teenagers in the inner city to paint houses and plant flowers. We could train them and equip the teams with free paint (perhaps with a generous donation/co-branding opportunity from a firm like Benjamin Moore) with the hope of getting people to take greater pride in their homes and neighborhoods . . .
Along those same lines, perhaps we can create our own "Trading Spaces" program where the unemployed learn basic design principles along with useful skills like reupholstering. Donated items could be refurbished and either sold to raise money or given to hardworking but impoverished families in dire need of an internal "face lift."
From my distant standpoint, it appears that there are a number of organizations working independently to make a difference. Don't get me wrong, this is not a bad thing. However, I do feel we might be better served if we had a cohesive, collective vision for the future of Rochester along with fully aligned resources. But I'm a political outsider. If any of this is being done today, then someone needs to market it more effectively.
Please, give us hope.
I read this and wondered, why isn't Rochester doing something like this? We've lost our brand identity -- if we ever had one. We have no impassioned "hook" to get the general populous reinvigorated about living and investing here.
Ignoring the Radio Shack-inspired logo, our homespun "Made for Living" campaign simply covers the basics on why Rochester is seemingly a good place to live. But, it's flat. And I'm not pointing fingers at whatever ad agency developed it. They were just working with our current state. But what is Rochester's future?
I've been thinking about this for a few years. Ever since I read an article in Yoga Journal about how the tiny Himalayan nation of Bhutan is measuring itself on "Gross National Happiness." According to this article, they used Buddhist principles to identify four specific "pillars" upon which Gross National Happiness rests: good governance, cultural preservation, environmental conservation, and economic development. These may be difficult to quantify but presumably can be analyzed objectively.
Although "happy" is not a word I would even remotely use today to categorize Rochester, with a little work it could be. The city itself is a dichotomy. One one hand, we have urban decay (i.e., a soul-less inner city complete with housing projects on our riverfront) and nothing inviting along our lake shore except an infamous local rock club and tattoo parlors. On the other hand, we have pockets of hope for city revitalization (e.g., ARTWalk, Corn Hill Landing), stunning natural resources (e.g., Lake Ontario, the Genesee River, the Finger Lakes), a number of architectural gems, amazing cultural institutions (e.g., the Rochester Philharmonic Orchestra, Rochester City Ballet, Rochester International Jazz Festival, Geva Theater), top-notch school systems, and in my opinion, one of the best talent pools in the world: highly intelligent and well educated. In addition, unlike some other cities, the people here are extremely down-to-earth and, for the most part, willing to work hard. I really love the people here: they are by far our best differentiator.
With that said, why can't we reinvent ourselves? We have so much to offer. What would it take to become "the happiest city in the U.S." or "the healthiest city in the U.S."? Are either even desired? If so, how would we measure ourselves?
I have this daydream where I win the lottery (which may be difficult given that I don't really play). That aside, in this dream, I gather local leaders and economists (business, political, not-for-profit, education, religious, etc.), couple them with interesting, non-locals like Malcolm Gladwell, and use the money to treat Rochester like an incubator and invest in out-of-the-box recovery programs.
Like painting over the graffiti in the NYC subway system, maybe we could hire unemployed teenagers in the inner city to paint houses and plant flowers. We could train them and equip the teams with free paint (perhaps with a generous donation/co-branding opportunity from a firm like Benjamin Moore) with the hope of getting people to take greater pride in their homes and neighborhoods . . .
Along those same lines, perhaps we can create our own "Trading Spaces" program where the unemployed learn basic design principles along with useful skills like reupholstering. Donated items could be refurbished and either sold to raise money or given to hardworking but impoverished families in dire need of an internal "face lift."
From my distant standpoint, it appears that there are a number of organizations working independently to make a difference. Don't get me wrong, this is not a bad thing. However, I do feel we might be better served if we had a cohesive, collective vision for the future of Rochester along with fully aligned resources. But I'm a political outsider. If any of this is being done today, then someone needs to market it more effectively.
Please, give us hope.
Monday, July 16, 2007
Extreme Leadership
I now have something that historically sounded like an oxymoron to me: a sober boss. Two words I previously thought were mutually exclusive! Couple that with the fact that she's one of the most intelligent people I've ever met, insightful, driven, hardworking and genuinely interested in our clients' welfare, I finally have a solid, professional, work environment. My boss holds integrity at the top of her list of qualifications and, unintentionally but effectively, surrounds herself with Christians.
My boss is, to use Jim Collins' term in his book Good to Great, a "Level 5 leader." She embodies his definition: a mix of professional will and personal humility, ambitious for her clients first and foremost, sets all of us (staff and clients) up for success, is modest and self-effacing, is fanatically driven with an incurable need to produce sustained results and takes full responsibility if anything ever goes poorly (which it rarely does). Unlike many of my other bosses, she is not larger than life. In fact, she's tiny and somewhat unassuming in her cuff linked, Brooks Brothers suits—that is, until she takes control of a room.
One client, who is a black-belt in Karate, likens a day of Strategic Planning with her with "going 10 rounds." As he says, "I know what that feels like." She is intense.
As such, this is, by far, the best environment I've ever experienced. And I believe wholeheartedly that I got this job through divine intervention.
My husband wanted to move back to Rochester; I did not. I sent a million resumes to companies throughout Maine (where I wanted to live) and only one to Rochester—to a company I had never heard of before and one that did not even have a position posted. I simply researched where alums of the U of R were working and this one firm looked interesting. Unbeknownst to me, my counterpart here was praying for her replacement and a suitable candidate could not be found. It was perfectly scripted.
Six years later, it still feels right with one exception (and it's significant): I'm exhausted.
I remain a good fit here because, in a similar vein to cramming for exams and subsequently acing them, I work well under tight deadlines and bend over backwards to ensure everyone is satisfied. However, as a very intuitive girlfriend who I went to college with recently commented, "Sounds like you've been taking finals every day for six years."
It was as if a light bulb went off in my head. I had a Charlie Brown moment: "That's it!" That's why I am so fatigued. I keep telling my boss that she needs to find my replacement, and even have gone so far as to introduce her recently to a candidate, but she claims I simply need a vacation. Perhaps.
I, once again, await divine intervention because, in addition to sobriety, I now want "normalcy" which I'm loosely defining as "more time with my family and a less furrowed brow." Until then, I keep plugging away because I have promises to keep. And miles to go before I sleep. And miles to go before I sleep.
My boss is, to use Jim Collins' term in his book Good to Great, a "Level 5 leader." She embodies his definition: a mix of professional will and personal humility, ambitious for her clients first and foremost, sets all of us (staff and clients) up for success, is modest and self-effacing, is fanatically driven with an incurable need to produce sustained results and takes full responsibility if anything ever goes poorly (which it rarely does). Unlike many of my other bosses, she is not larger than life. In fact, she's tiny and somewhat unassuming in her cuff linked, Brooks Brothers suits—that is, until she takes control of a room.
One client, who is a black-belt in Karate, likens a day of Strategic Planning with her with "going 10 rounds." As he says, "I know what that feels like." She is intense.
As such, this is, by far, the best environment I've ever experienced. And I believe wholeheartedly that I got this job through divine intervention.
My husband wanted to move back to Rochester; I did not. I sent a million resumes to companies throughout Maine (where I wanted to live) and only one to Rochester—to a company I had never heard of before and one that did not even have a position posted. I simply researched where alums of the U of R were working and this one firm looked interesting. Unbeknownst to me, my counterpart here was praying for her replacement and a suitable candidate could not be found. It was perfectly scripted.
Six years later, it still feels right with one exception (and it's significant): I'm exhausted.
I remain a good fit here because, in a similar vein to cramming for exams and subsequently acing them, I work well under tight deadlines and bend over backwards to ensure everyone is satisfied. However, as a very intuitive girlfriend who I went to college with recently commented, "Sounds like you've been taking finals every day for six years."
It was as if a light bulb went off in my head. I had a Charlie Brown moment: "That's it!" That's why I am so fatigued. I keep telling my boss that she needs to find my replacement, and even have gone so far as to introduce her recently to a candidate, but she claims I simply need a vacation. Perhaps.
I, once again, await divine intervention because, in addition to sobriety, I now want "normalcy" which I'm loosely defining as "more time with my family and a less furrowed brow." Until then, I keep plugging away because I have promises to keep. And miles to go before I sleep. And miles to go before I sleep.
Friday, July 13, 2007
Social Experiment
I was worried about tackling the details of my next job, at an Internet start-up outside of D.C., on this blog because there was just soooooooo much that wasn’t right about the environment that I wasn’t sure where to begin (or end for that matter). I simply decided to write a few things that popped into my head, primarily in list form. But the most important thing to me is that, despite the mayhem, it was a really fun job for a while. It felt fabulous to be a part of something that we all thought had tremendous promise and opportunity. I actually enjoyed pulling all-nighters and arriving home after the morning paper had been delivered (even if I was nine months pregnant) and I loved the majority of my co-workers. We really banded together through thick and thin. And by that, I mean:
- Fists pounding on tables with the founders screaming “heads are going to f*ing roll”
- The assistant to one of the founders telling everyone about items he was expensing – including the alleged, ongoing, “happy endings” he was receiving from his masseuse
- A corporate “meeting” in the
- The production manager taking kick-backs from his print vendors—including an all-expense-paid trip to FL
- Endless stories that would often begin at midnight and carry on for hours (with the inability for anyone listening to extract themselves without appearing impolite) about living the bootstrap, rags to riches, American dream told with ex-military bravado
- The dismissive hand-in-the-air and “whatever” leadership response to anyone’s ideas—particularly ideas coming from whatever VP or Director was the outcast of the month (very inspirational!)
- Playing favorites—and then switching them without notice
- Finger-pointing and attempting to position everyone against each other with destructive comments—even though we were all really close friends and shared everything with one another
- The clandestine meetings of the VPs and Directors (either behind the gas station, God help us, or at a local restaurant) to vent
- Providing “false positive” news that everyone knew to be untrue—and then remaining clueless to their own transparency
- Shifting direction on a daily basis when the end was near—and a) having everyone scrambling to course-correct and b) blaming everyone and everything (IT, marketing, business development, the market, etc.)
- Worst of all: heaps and heaps of lies between the founders about members of each others’ teams. Bold-faced lies that would come out randomly (sometimes months later) with no recourse available at that late date.
The clincher came when, near the end, I was sitting outside on the curb with Dave and our boss came running out of the building with her typical, “get in my office/you guys are in so much trouble” sneer that used to evoke terror. She proceeded to tell us that one of us (and we knew who we were) made Margaret, yet another VP, come to her in tears. It was so completely incongruous that, a split second after she said it, both Dave and I began laughing so hard that we couldn’t stop. It was the much-needed catalyst that broke the cycle of stress. Relief had officially arrived in the form of profound absurdity. We were laughing so hard we were crying. And it didn’t stop. What our boss didn’t know, is that Dave and Margaret had been living together after Margaret chose not to renew her lease in D.C. and were best friends.
An ex-coworker, who remains one of my best friends in the world to this day, used to say she wouldn’t have been surprised if we were all part of some bizarre social experiment captured on film. One where sociologists were studying human behavior under undue stressful conditions. If so, the one thing I'm sure they would have found is this: when all else fails, head toward the margarita machine. And start smoking. It helps.
Thursday, July 12, 2007
Elie Elie Oxen Free
Since I seem to have gotten on a roll about my ex-bosses, it's only fair to share my next, positive experience: Elie.
After leaving the sex maniac (who I forgot to mention, not only got divorced but, I've been told, cannot visit his daughter without supervision -- God only knows what that's all about, if true), I immediately went into therapy. Why do I seek out, and find, such freakishly bizarre, often drunk, bosses? Do other people have normal work lives? If so, what does that entail? What is "normal"?
I went through months of unemployment while trying to find the "perfect job." During that time, I barely interviewed. Instead, I would meet my friend Todd, who lost his job when Isaac Mizrahi went under, and we would go to the beach. One day, standing in Grand Central and feeling guilty as we headed to a beach in CT, he said, "Stop and look around. Notice anything?" I didn't. He then said, "We're the only two smiling."
Much to my husband's chagrin, I finally relaxed and began to enjoy not working!
It was right after this that I took a train uptown to 125th Street, boarded MetroNorth heading out of the city, and took a shuttle bus to a nondescript office park in White Plains for my interview with Elie. As I waited for him, I knew for a fact: this suburban asylum is clearly NOT where I want to spend my days.
But as we chatted, I was very honest about my search and my resolution not to repeat my past mistakes. (More on that later.) Little did I know, at the time, that he was a spiritual guru. He meditates daily, prays before meals, goes on months-long silent retreats, and gives up one (just one) vice every new moon. Not the right boss for many but the perfect boss for me. He completely understood that I was trying to redirect my path and, possibly for that reason only, took a chance on me.
And he turned out to be a wonderful boss. Unbelievably smart. Intuitive. Always knew what was right for our clients (not that they always listened). And he constantly tried to make each of us into better people, personally and professionally. I love him!
So what do I do? I leave a year later, of course.
After leaving the sex maniac (who I forgot to mention, not only got divorced but, I've been told, cannot visit his daughter without supervision -- God only knows what that's all about, if true), I immediately went into therapy. Why do I seek out, and find, such freakishly bizarre, often drunk, bosses? Do other people have normal work lives? If so, what does that entail? What is "normal"?
I went through months of unemployment while trying to find the "perfect job." During that time, I barely interviewed. Instead, I would meet my friend Todd, who lost his job when Isaac Mizrahi went under, and we would go to the beach. One day, standing in Grand Central and feeling guilty as we headed to a beach in CT, he said, "Stop and look around. Notice anything?" I didn't. He then said, "We're the only two smiling."
Much to my husband's chagrin, I finally relaxed and began to enjoy not working!
It was right after this that I took a train uptown to 125th Street, boarded MetroNorth heading out of the city, and took a shuttle bus to a nondescript office park in White Plains for my interview with Elie. As I waited for him, I knew for a fact: this suburban asylum is clearly NOT where I want to spend my days.
But as we chatted, I was very honest about my search and my resolution not to repeat my past mistakes. (More on that later.) Little did I know, at the time, that he was a spiritual guru. He meditates daily, prays before meals, goes on months-long silent retreats, and gives up one (just one) vice every new moon. Not the right boss for many but the perfect boss for me. He completely understood that I was trying to redirect my path and, possibly for that reason only, took a chance on me.
And he turned out to be a wonderful boss. Unbelievably smart. Intuitive. Always knew what was right for our clients (not that they always listened). And he constantly tried to make each of us into better people, personally and professionally. I love him!
So what do I do? I leave a year later, of course.
Wednesday, July 11, 2007
A Cancer in the Organization
When I left the company run by one of New York's Worst Bosses, I was hired immediately by a well respected not-for-profit that was run by two co-Executive Directors: clinical and business management. The latter of the two became my boss.
During my interview, the clinical Executive Director warned me that my soon-to-be-boss told off-color jokes. I assured her that it didn't bother me in the slightest. I had, in fact, met him at a a Broadway show where he introduced himself as a proctologist. Not all that funny but whatever.
Everything at this job went fairly smoothly. He would leave around 11:00 a.m. every day to go to lunch and come back to the office around 3:00 p.m. drunk. Because he left me alone to do my job, his behavior didn't actually bother me at all. And the majority of his sexual innuendos were stated in front of others presumably for comedic effect. They usually elicited a chuckle from me.
One day he took me and my girlfriend, who was then working for People magazine, to lunch and began peppering us with all sorts of questions like "where is the wildest place you've ever had sex?" (She later confided in me that she made all of her answers up because her real life sounded too boring.) It was a strange lunch but not, for whatever reason, alarming. I think because he seemed so benign at the time -- and I was just grateful to be in a relatively stress-free environment.
A few weeks later, our institute held a black-tie, fund raising event at the University Club after which he invited me for drinks. I declined. The next day, he came into work still in his tuxedo and shared with me that he had gone to a neighborhood bar, picked up two young girls, went back to their hotel room and had a threesome. "You should have come with me."
Please note: this man had a wife and young baby in CT.
Finally, I started getting the creeps. He then began asking me to lunch and I kept putting him off until one Friday, I agreed, under the premise that we were going to talk about my performance and possible new initiatives.
We sat down at a two-person table with banquette seating. There were customers dining at tables on either side of us who were so close that they could have joined in the conversation. Instead, they just listened in.
My boss then proceeded to tell me that he loves making sexual comments in front of others because my chest heaves (ew!) and that he fantasizes about "doing me" in the Board room. Why I continued eating, I'll never know. What else was said, I cannot remember. I just remember the silence at the tables on either side of us. And his silence when I finally stood up and quit.
For whatever reason, we walked back to the building together in silence, and then road the elevator together with the silence punctured by my co-worker Lisa's friendly, "Hi guys!" greeting as we joined her.
Lisa later shared with me that I was one of a long string of women hired for that position. Same story; different girl.
She also shared with me that, after I left, this same man brought in a package of rub-on tattoos and told the entire staff that whoever put a tattoo in the most interesting place on his/her body would get a day off. He then sat in his office and screened the results, one-by-one, behind closed doors.
Needless to say, he was ultimately fired but I still can't imagine why he wasn't let go much sooner. When I told my story to the other Executive Director, her only comment was, "I warned you." No, you didn't. In my opinion, off-color jokes are vastly different than sexual harassment. Both, however, may qualify for dismissal.
I wonder what, if anything, he was holding over her head.
During my interview, the clinical Executive Director warned me that my soon-to-be-boss told off-color jokes. I assured her that it didn't bother me in the slightest. I had, in fact, met him at a a Broadway show where he introduced himself as a proctologist. Not all that funny but whatever.
Everything at this job went fairly smoothly. He would leave around 11:00 a.m. every day to go to lunch and come back to the office around 3:00 p.m. drunk. Because he left me alone to do my job, his behavior didn't actually bother me at all. And the majority of his sexual innuendos were stated in front of others presumably for comedic effect. They usually elicited a chuckle from me.
One day he took me and my girlfriend, who was then working for People magazine, to lunch and began peppering us with all sorts of questions like "where is the wildest place you've ever had sex?" (She later confided in me that she made all of her answers up because her real life sounded too boring.) It was a strange lunch but not, for whatever reason, alarming. I think because he seemed so benign at the time -- and I was just grateful to be in a relatively stress-free environment.
A few weeks later, our institute held a black-tie, fund raising event at the University Club after which he invited me for drinks. I declined. The next day, he came into work still in his tuxedo and shared with me that he had gone to a neighborhood bar, picked up two young girls, went back to their hotel room and had a threesome. "You should have come with me."
Please note: this man had a wife and young baby in CT.
Finally, I started getting the creeps. He then began asking me to lunch and I kept putting him off until one Friday, I agreed, under the premise that we were going to talk about my performance and possible new initiatives.
We sat down at a two-person table with banquette seating. There were customers dining at tables on either side of us who were so close that they could have joined in the conversation. Instead, they just listened in.
My boss then proceeded to tell me that he loves making sexual comments in front of others because my chest heaves (ew!) and that he fantasizes about "doing me" in the Board room. Why I continued eating, I'll never know. What else was said, I cannot remember. I just remember the silence at the tables on either side of us. And his silence when I finally stood up and quit.
For whatever reason, we walked back to the building together in silence, and then road the elevator together with the silence punctured by my co-worker Lisa's friendly, "Hi guys!" greeting as we joined her.
Lisa later shared with me that I was one of a long string of women hired for that position. Same story; different girl.
She also shared with me that, after I left, this same man brought in a package of rub-on tattoos and told the entire staff that whoever put a tattoo in the most interesting place on his/her body would get a day off. He then sat in his office and screened the results, one-by-one, behind closed doors.
Needless to say, he was ultimately fired but I still can't imagine why he wasn't let go much sooner. When I told my story to the other Executive Director, her only comment was, "I warned you." No, you didn't. In my opinion, off-color jokes are vastly different than sexual harassment. Both, however, may qualify for dismissal.
I wonder what, if anything, he was holding over her head.
Tuesday, July 10, 2007
Do More
When I worked at American Express, I had some of the best co-workers in the world. Smart, driven, professional. We all worked exceptionally well together -- which was incredible given that our incentive structure actually encouraged us to compete against one another for the biggest piece of the "bonus pie." Regardless, one of my co-workers and I used to spend early Saturday mornings together, with our laptops, drinking coffee and compiling research at the now defunct DT-UT on the Upper East Side. And it was fun.
In addition, our senior management team was also amazingly strong. Very intelligent, strategic and fair. With that said, I believe Amex may have coined a "skips a generation" talent management ethos. Our directors were completely clueless, spineless, and devoid of inspiration.
One of my first directors used to ask us to go around during our staff meetings and share what we were working on. One of my co-workers stated, week after week, "Nothing. I'm bored out of my mind and you need to give me more work." No joke, one day he came in and announced that he had hired a new guy to offset our workload. No discussion beforehand. No input in the interviewing or hiring process. And a complete moron, to boot.
This same co-worker, Marsha, and I spent months working with HR (mainly her effort, not mine) to develop a new sales compensation model that was equitable, controllable and would drive the right behaviors. After presenting it to our team and requesting feedback, I stopped by my boss' office where he and Andrew, the new hire, were writing numbers on the white board. "What are you working on?" I asked. Their response, "We're assigning bonuses to the sales reps." Completely arbitrary. Pulling numbers out of their @#*. Not even a piece of paper to highlight anyone's performance. Nice work. I'm glad I worked so hard at nothing.
But my favorite boss at Amex was a woman who didn't give a crap what any of us did -- as long as we made her look good. She would sit in her office, feet on the desk, and shoot the breeze all day long with anybody/everybody. She told us about her weekend blow jobs, abortions, dates, bowel movements, etc. She would break in the middle of meetings and ask urgently if anyone had a tampon. And she insisted on repeatedly sharing with us how she personally molded Henry, a successful co-worker who had been with Amex for years, into who he was today. I'm surprised he never killed her.
The straw the broke the camel's back for me came when, after working hard all year, I had lunch with this woman. I drank iced tea; she had two glasses of wine. She was wearing blue jean overalls and Candie's shoes; I was in a suit. She proceeded to tell me that she fought hard for me to get a fabulous bonus but that two things worked against me: 1) I was too nice and smiled a lot and 2) I wore a brown sweater that was too big on me.
Note to self: stop smiling, wear spiked heals and start talking about my sex life. Or leave the company.
In addition, our senior management team was also amazingly strong. Very intelligent, strategic and fair. With that said, I believe Amex may have coined a "skips a generation" talent management ethos. Our directors were completely clueless, spineless, and devoid of inspiration.
One of my first directors used to ask us to go around during our staff meetings and share what we were working on. One of my co-workers stated, week after week, "Nothing. I'm bored out of my mind and you need to give me more work." No joke, one day he came in and announced that he had hired a new guy to offset our workload. No discussion beforehand. No input in the interviewing or hiring process. And a complete moron, to boot.
This same co-worker, Marsha, and I spent months working with HR (mainly her effort, not mine) to develop a new sales compensation model that was equitable, controllable and would drive the right behaviors. After presenting it to our team and requesting feedback, I stopped by my boss' office where he and Andrew, the new hire, were writing numbers on the white board. "What are you working on?" I asked. Their response, "We're assigning bonuses to the sales reps." Completely arbitrary. Pulling numbers out of their @#*. Not even a piece of paper to highlight anyone's performance. Nice work. I'm glad I worked so hard at nothing.
But my favorite boss at Amex was a woman who didn't give a crap what any of us did -- as long as we made her look good. She would sit in her office, feet on the desk, and shoot the breeze all day long with anybody/everybody. She told us about her weekend blow jobs, abortions, dates, bowel movements, etc. She would break in the middle of meetings and ask urgently if anyone had a tampon. And she insisted on repeatedly sharing with us how she personally molded Henry, a successful co-worker who had been with Amex for years, into who he was today. I'm surprised he never killed her.
The straw the broke the camel's back for me came when, after working hard all year, I had lunch with this woman. I drank iced tea; she had two glasses of wine. She was wearing blue jean overalls and Candie's shoes; I was in a suit. She proceeded to tell me that she fought hard for me to get a fabulous bonus but that two things worked against me: 1) I was too nice and smiled a lot and 2) I wore a brown sweater that was too big on me.
Note to self: stop smiling, wear spiked heals and start talking about my sex life. Or leave the company.
Monday, July 9, 2007
The Devil Wears Issey Miyake
My husband got "The Devil Wears Prada" DVD out of the library for me last week. Although I had read the book when it first came out, I was reluctant to watch the movie out of deep-seated fear that it would cause further nightmarish flashbacks of my ex-bosses. I'm thankful to report that enough time has passed where I am now, officially, flashback-free. I'm also embarrassed to report that it felt somewhat tame, to me.
One of my least favorite bosses was highlighted this spring on Gawker's online poll entitled, New York's Worst Boss. I didn't bother to enter my comments given they had so much disturbing fodder already; however, since she didn't win, I'm regretting my omission.
On my first day at this horrific firm, my boss looked me up and down and ordered that I get my hair cut and colored at her salon and that her assistant take me out shopping for new clothes. It was as if I interviewed well and then arrived at the office looking like Jerri Blank.
After I was hired, I was never directly spoken to again unless it was over the phone. Literally. She would relay messages to me through people while we all sat in the same room . It's almost comical if it wasn't so demeaning!
Lunches were free and catered daily. I had access to a car and driver but preferred to walk to work every day. However, we were expected to be at work from 9:00 a.m. to 3:00 a.m. five days a week and to be "on call" all weekend. One Sunday, after an early morning conference call, I went to hang up and head off to church. My boss' comment? "If I had known you were a Christian, I would never have hired you." What a shocker.
After hours, the housekeepers would walk around with a tray of wine -- but everyone was forewarned to drink only the white in case, heaven forbid, any spilled. The owner, meanwhile, was out every night with famous politicians, luminaries and celebrities and would arrive home night after night stinkin' drunk.
This company had zero processes in place and employees were literally expected to be mind readers. The staff were supposed to pack the "briefcases" of the leadership team with information they may find useful -- even if they didn't attend the meetings and had no idea what any particular project entailed.
The owner would scream at people in the office if she got an incoming call and she didn't have information at her fingertips about the caller. "Why didn't someone run up here and give me a file on George Fisher?" Perhaps because we didn't know he would call? Maybe she should have hired Nostradamus . . .
One night she had dinner with two women from New Jersey as a favor to a client. The next day, she couldn't stop marveling aloud at their idiocies like the fact that they a) wore nude hose (how embarrassing!) and b) put an actual tape recorder on the table (vs. discretely using a miniature recorder). Needless to say, she was mortified to have been in public with them.
The company was a revolving door -- mainly of wealthy, young socialites. One really funny woman that I worked with (and who went to Switzerland on weekends to ski, as one does) kept vowing to "take her down." She had a plan, she claimed, that would ruin my boss' life for ever. It finally amounted to her FedEx'ing a package to one of our clients with damaging documents. Nothing ever came of it except, I found out months later, that I (me!) was framed for the act and my boss was, in turn, trying to take me down. No one remaining on staff had the guts to stick up for me, at the time, because they were worried that she would read between the lines and know that the entire company knew about "the plan."
When I finally resigned, my boss threw my resignation letter on my desk and stormed out of the building. No one would look at me for fear of what I could possibly have done wrong. Later that afternoon, I got a call from HR. "I understand that you attempted to resign but your resignation has been declined."
What? Nice try!
One of my least favorite bosses was highlighted this spring on Gawker's online poll entitled, New York's Worst Boss. I didn't bother to enter my comments given they had so much disturbing fodder already; however, since she didn't win, I'm regretting my omission.
On my first day at this horrific firm, my boss looked me up and down and ordered that I get my hair cut and colored at her salon and that her assistant take me out shopping for new clothes. It was as if I interviewed well and then arrived at the office looking like Jerri Blank.
After I was hired, I was never directly spoken to again unless it was over the phone. Literally. She would relay messages to me through people while we all sat in the same room . It's almost comical if it wasn't so demeaning!
Lunches were free and catered daily. I had access to a car and driver but preferred to walk to work every day. However, we were expected to be at work from 9:00 a.m. to 3:00 a.m. five days a week and to be "on call" all weekend. One Sunday, after an early morning conference call, I went to hang up and head off to church. My boss' comment? "If I had known you were a Christian, I would never have hired you." What a shocker.
After hours, the housekeepers would walk around with a tray of wine -- but everyone was forewarned to drink only the white in case, heaven forbid, any spilled. The owner, meanwhile, was out every night with famous politicians, luminaries and celebrities and would arrive home night after night stinkin' drunk.
This company had zero processes in place and employees were literally expected to be mind readers. The staff were supposed to pack the "briefcases" of the leadership team with information they may find useful -- even if they didn't attend the meetings and had no idea what any particular project entailed.
The owner would scream at people in the office if she got an incoming call and she didn't have information at her fingertips about the caller. "Why didn't someone run up here and give me a file on George Fisher?" Perhaps because we didn't know he would call? Maybe she should have hired Nostradamus . . .
One night she had dinner with two women from New Jersey as a favor to a client. The next day, she couldn't stop marveling aloud at their idiocies like the fact that they a) wore nude hose (how embarrassing!) and b) put an actual tape recorder on the table (vs. discretely using a miniature recorder). Needless to say, she was mortified to have been in public with them.
The company was a revolving door -- mainly of wealthy, young socialites. One really funny woman that I worked with (and who went to Switzerland on weekends to ski, as one does) kept vowing to "take her down." She had a plan, she claimed, that would ruin my boss' life for ever. It finally amounted to her FedEx'ing a package to one of our clients with damaging documents. Nothing ever came of it except, I found out months later, that I (me!) was framed for the act and my boss was, in turn, trying to take me down. No one remaining on staff had the guts to stick up for me, at the time, because they were worried that she would read between the lines and know that the entire company knew about "the plan."
When I finally resigned, my boss threw my resignation letter on my desk and stormed out of the building. No one would look at me for fear of what I could possibly have done wrong. Later that afternoon, I got a call from HR. "I understand that you attempted to resign but your resignation has been declined."
What? Nice try!
Tuesday, July 3, 2007
I Ain't No Saint but I am An Angel
Son #1 asked a while back if he could start calling me "angel" because I remind him of one. He doesn't do it often but he did call out to me as I was leaving the house this morning, "goodbye angel." He's such a sensitive kid.
This is the same boy who, when he was just a toddler, told me that he loves me so much that he needs 17 hearts to keep it all in.
If only there was a way to bottle all of that love and save some for when he's a teenager and wants nothing more to do with me!
This is the same boy who, when he was just a toddler, told me that he loves me so much that he needs 17 hearts to keep it all in.
If only there was a way to bottle all of that love and save some for when he's a teenager and wants nothing more to do with me!
Monday, July 2, 2007
I Wanna Be Sagated
What?! They had to tell me what it meant (as I am quite obviously not sagacious). This morning, I looked it up online and found that, as a vocabulary word, it’s more appropriate for high school juniors. This begs the question: do we really have to push our kids so hard?
Unfortunately, stories like these make me even more worried about Son #2 who, as the youngest kid in his school, was bumped up from pre-K to Kindergarten after our first parent-teacher conference last year. Suddenly, all of his preschool teachers’ words of advice, as they sat on the fence regarding his future placement, echoed in my head, “Just give him the gift of time.” Well, we gave him that gift and the school clearly thought we had made a mistake.
In an era when parents are holding kids back just so they can excel academically, be more mature (and therefore better) at sports, adjust well socially, or more effectively hone their leadership skills, our little guy is the odd man out. Although the immediate transition did serve him well in the sense that he instantly made friends and seemed to thoroughly enjoy himself, I’m already worried about the long-term ramifications of this decision.
A few weeks ago, the New York Times ran a story entitled, “When Should a Kid Start Kindergarten?” which gave me more discomfort than reassurance. On one hand, a labor economist at the
I’m hoping that our little guy’s ability to read chapter books in Kindergarten, coupled with his early “success” in school both academically and socially, will beget later success, as well.
Only time will tell.
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