Monday, July 31, 2006
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Letting Go*:
(*also known as; The Longest Post Ever)
He sat across the table from me and just stared. Then I saw his Adam’s apple bob slowly. Very, very slowly. I knew what was coming.
“Ari,” he began, “I didn’t plan this. I wasn’t looking for someone new. I was happy with how we were going along. I need you to understand this. I was quite happy.”
“OK.” I really didn’t care for the why, I wanted to hear our conclusion.
“A friend of a friend knew someone. So, we met, just a cursory meeting, you know, just to be polite even.”
“OK.” For the love of god man, get on with letting me get on.
“And it’s a perfect fit. I know, well, I think you’re not so happy with our arrangement so maybe this isn’t even so bad.”
I was being fired. No, he repeatedly corrected me. I was being let go.
“Semantics.” I’d respond. Because really.
I wanted to jump out of my totally non-ergonomic desk chair and lick his face. I have never liked loved the Geezer so much ever. Well, I liked him over a year ago when during a meeting he scribbled many rounded digits on a napkin and slid it over to me. The beginning and the end, the only two times I cared what came out of his crusty, white caked mouth.
He was going to pay me for ten days of vacation time even though I’ve already taken two days – fuck, I knew I should have been sicker more often. Even when I’m getting screwed by others I still have to shove a metaphorical fist up my own ass first. I never learn. He wants me to stick around for two more weeks, I’m free to interview all I want, he told me he expects nothing less. He told me to give him as a reference. Yeah Douche, you, the girl who’s boyfriend I dated and the school nurse I once told would be way less ugly without tat furry ‘stache over her lip, you’re all on my reference short list.
“That’s OK, I’ll ask Ronnie.” (Ronnie, my co-worker). If you need to let me go then consider yourself on the list of people who will no longer have an iota of power with which you could affect my future. Was I sitting there and drooling? No? Then consider me; not retarded. He assured me he’d say nice things. Sure, he assured me I had a job too – how much weight in the world would I possibly put in his assurances? Why do people use only a millionth of their brains? My god, use the whole damn thing, it doesn’t cost any extra.
He asked if I’d stick around for another two weeks. “We’ll pay you.” He added that as though that were incentive. As though for a fraction of a fucking second I’d considered volunteering. Poor guy really must have alzheimers. Then he said if I wanted to, I could work for another month, of course, should I find something sooner I was welcome to it. I was waiting for him to permit me respiration, sleeping on cotton sheets. How dare he permit me what I was already entitled to. But I knew he wanted me to react. I knew he wanted to see tears or yelling (he’s quite accustomed to the sound of my voice at decibels way higher than most ever hear from me). But no way. Never ever let “them” see you care. That’s death and it’s also handing over any miniscule power I might hold. I smiled, nearly manically, as ever word stuttered and stumbled out of his mouth. They want to pay me to sit in their air conditioned office until I find something? A-OK with me Dumbass. I’m not big on cutting off my nose to spite my face. I’ll take whatever money I can get from here, especially if all the while I’m Monster.com-ing it and going out on interviews. And for the record, I'm being notfired but let go because our consultant is leaving and the new hire has an office manager of his own - not because I'm a delinquent - they somehow never really even managed to discover that little attribute of mine. I did want to quit on my own though - I wanted to march right in there and tell him very specifically (in NO uncertain terms) why I was leaving, too. See, what I lack in class and grace I make up for with scads of pettiness and immaturity (only true-ish).
Besides, I’ve done all I can do there. No. Really. I learned book keeping and fine tuned my knowledge of QuickBooks. I learned to reconcile our accounts, bill our clients and I learned the wonderful world of collections. Afterhours, Joe and I smoked pot in every crevice of that space. I had (godawful) lunch break sex there. I got to hear someone who fascinates me speak at our annual dinner. There was really no more for me to learn or get away with there. I never tried not showing up, the ultimate in faking-it but I wasn’t that goal oriented. A few simple, sneaky little pleasures – that’s my style.
Here’s the deal with me; here’s a little insight. I hate change. I fear change. I’m not so sure there’s a difference between fearing it and hating it, so I might as well say both. I am loathe to make change. Conversely, I am one of the very best adapters I know. Strange how that works, huh? Even a sniff of change and my hackles are UP. It freaks me out, I’d swear to you that I couldn’t deal. Yet every time it comes and happens? I do. I deal. Way better than I would ever anticipate. I felt this way when I faced the prospect of leaving the college I adored to transfer to a big, strange, stone edifice of a campus, markedly different from my lush campus, where there were rolling hills and endless lawns, stables, horse grounds and even a rose garden with a maze. A maze! Imagine trading all that for jagged-, cobble-, and flagstone. Just the idea made me feel cold and bruised and I hadn’t even gotten there yet. When I sat on my bed, with a yellow legal pad in my lap and made pro/con lists for why I should stay with him/run from him – just thinking of no more him made cold sweat slip out my hair and sprint down my back. No more him? Where would my hundreds of him-hours go? I was never the bros-before-hos girl, I hadn’t let a single of my friendships slide when he and I became, I didn’t have to worry about bridges I’d burnt. But I did have to worry about who I’d wrap my cold legs around in bed if not him. Who would I spend days arguing/foreplaying with over the phone and on IM, if not him? For all the blogging I used to do from my old job, which I also didn’t like, I’d just sit there and blog my dislike. But get off my ass and find another? Ha. Way too scary. The evil that you know is better than the evil that you don’t… how was that written for everyone and not just me? Shocking. Staying, to me if often (pathetically) more appealing than seeking. Seeking is so vague. It’s forging for crying out loud. Is forging even a current word? No, I didn’t think so. It’s an outdated word for an outdated verb. It’s like verbal equivalent of a petticoat. It was perfect for George Washington, of course. But for me? Not so much. There’s no set approach, no one who’s been there before and can tell you ALL about it – I don’t even own a compass - I don’t like what I don’t know. I’m not proud of this mind you, I’m not wearing it on sandwich board or putting it on a JDate profile. I’m just telling it as it is. I yam what I yam. (When in doubt quote comic books). I never run, not from anything. I’d be the worst character in a horror movie. I’d be the idiot, frozen in stance, mouth gaping open as the monster neared. I’d want to stare at it, take it in with my own eyes, test my effect on it. But run? Me? Ha.
But it turns out differently, as most things do, when they are out of your head and realized. The con side of the list turned out to be much longer, it was time to run, it made me feel sick to my stomach, I sobbed like a bitch, but in the end, I found ways to spend my time and I found that sleeping in socks wasn’t as icky as I thought it would be. It turned out that taking a new job didn’t kill me. It didn’t even cramp me. It turned out I found a place to get my morning coffee. I found places to waste lunch hours. I found that I could get up and go to a job even if my bright spot moved from 6 inches to two miles behind me.
I find that things are rarely as massive and terrifying as I plan (yes, plan – I’m sick I tell you!) them to be. I hated (hated) that job and I’m thrilled to be seeing it go. So thrilled, that I called my Bright Spot as soon as I heard, and invited him to a celebratory lunch. I’m happy, genuinely happy. I’ll have a cushion of time to find something I hate so much less I maybe even like. I won’t get wrenching stomach-aches every morning as I dress for a job that I despise. I won’t have to bitch about the Geezer to my friends on IM anymore. My only regret is that when he dies I’ll be so out of the loop I won’t know what grave, at which cemetery, to do a petite jig on. But maybe, now, after he’s emancipated me, I don’t hate him anymore. Maybe I appreciate him a smidge for forcing me to do what I should have done months ago.
Maybe, just maybe, I even owe him one. Hmm…
Not likely.
Wish me luck on my brand new opportunity to make myself happy.Labels: elation, job
7:31 PM
Sunday, July 30, 2006
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Just Stuff:
Mel Gibson, eh? Yeah, who’d a thunk it? I can’t wait until the next brain surgeon tells me how not-Anti-Semetic Mel-Jew-Hater-the-Holocaust-is-A-Lie-Gibson is. Couldn’t have happened to a more deserving bigot. And how nice for him to really sit back and wait until his career was truly in a diarrhea filled crapper to reveal his deep Jewish love. At least I can say with (nearly all) certainty; it didn’t look like that guy was going be making any more movies I’d miss seeing. What a piece of shit.
Brad Pitt. Am I the only girl in the world that no longer thinks he is remotely hot? (In semi-related news, I have an old Playgirl featuring him as the cover boy – anyone want it? All I was able to glean is that he’s fairly small and Gwyneth had saggy little booblets). I read something in some chick magazine my mom had lying around. The author gushes over Brad’s pockmarks hotness, his philandering on then subsequent leaving of his wife Jennifer commitment to family and his totally glomming on to the aesthetics of whatever woman he’s with fine tuned fashion sense. I think the last time I thought Brad was hot, he was wearing chaps and standing betwixt Sir Anthony Hopkins and Henry Thomas (which would make any guy look hot – and no, I don’t care how much you loved E.T. – Thomas is ug. Ly.).
Peter Cook cheated on Christie Brinkley with some over-tanned, crinkle haired, tater tot of a girl. Am I genuinely meant to care about this? I mean, I realize that the New York Post really believes that I might – but what in the fuck? He’s probably little more than the Kept Ken Doll that he looks like and as pretty as Christie is… yeah, I still don’t see where the hook is that’s meant to grab my attention. A couple of Hamptons socialites fall out. Ooooh. Like I could bring myself to give a shit what goes on in the Hamptons. The Hamptons; just as catty, elitist and cliquey as your high school cafeteria, but with SAND!!! Sounds like hell to me (and yes, I’ve been, I know of what I speak).
My sibs and I were in CT this weekend for a combo housewarming/dad’s birthday party. Want to feel young and hot? Spend the day with 50+ year olds. I left CT with a bag of soft, yummy mini-bagels, a Tupperware full of fresh fruit salad and the biggest head I’ve had in recent months. The almost-elderly are a complimentary as fuck bunch. I spent all day hearing how pretty I am and how great I looked (white RL sleeveless polo, olive knee-length skirt and J. Crew lobster flip flops – ie: nothing remotely special or designer gown-like, yet compliments abounded). The only weird part of the day was when my parents totally weird neighbor/friend Harold (a 60+, married) told me that I was highly attractive. He then quantified it by adding “and take my word for it, because I used to really love women.” Uhm… ‘k.
That was almost as weird as a house party incident we had a few years back. My parents were hosting a random party for a random reason. I was post-collegiate and living in NYC (as I am still) but had gone home for the party. I was in my house, standing near the coat closet when I’d heard a slightly leering voice behind me say; “turn around, let me get a good hug goodbye.” I couldn’t fathom who would say that, so I turned around. Harold. Of course. As soon as he saw me he stepped back and offered this gem;
“Oops - thought you were your mother.”
Gah… was that was meant to reassure me in some way? He’s not a skeevy older man, nope, he just seeks inappropriate hugs with married women?! Such a weirdo. Naturally my dad called afterwards and say; “isn’t he strange? If your mother and Annette weren’t so close… that fucking weird guy.” My sentiments exactly. But the rest of the 50+ crowd was delightful. If only ONE of them had a cute son for me.
By far though, the funniest part of the day was at the very end. My brothers had been testy with each other the entire ride back to the city (the 1.2 hours, mind you). One was driving and the other was in the backseat. Finally they erupt and the one driving pulls over to punch the backseat brother. Of course this only escalates to the point where they are standing on 86th Street throwing awkward punches at each other. Still fighting like they did 15 years ago (also perhaps the last time I saw this sort of fight between them), I know I should have been bothered, or at the very least, peace-seeking, but I just stood back and laughed. (It ended quickly and bruise free).Labels: assholes, brother, celebs, CT, jewish
3:57 PM
Monday, July 24, 2006
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Miami Weiss; #1 New Show!
Maybe it speaks to my mental acuity but I have to tell you; every time I hear a commercial for Miami Vice I think "Man, they are so mispronouncing that”.
Damn stoner flicksLabels: pot, random
11:25 PM
Wednesday, July 19, 2006
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I’ve…
dated tall guys, short guys, guys just my height. I’ve dated the dark haired, the blond, the gingi, the bald and those with straggling stag follicles. I dated guys that live alone and guys that live at home. Ones with exes, ones with not-so-exes, ones who weren’t sure. Jewish, non-Jewish, and back in 2001 even a Chinese guy was tampered with slightly. I dated hedge fund fucks, Wall Street wankers, piss poor students, office monkeys, a mover, an electrician, countless “computer” guys and the guy that worked at my local bodega. Guys who did no drugs, did some drugs, sold drugs. I went to Connecticut for a date with a Red Sox fan, I dated perhaps the world’s most loyal Mets fan. I dated guys that couldn’t tell you what BP is, what a fielder’s choice call is or were even remotely aware that the Mets and the Yankees never play at home on the same day. There were suit guys and the guys that in their 20’s and 30’s had yet to own a suit. The ones that met my parents and the ones that I knew would never make it that far. Democrats, Republicans and guys who have no idea where their voting station is. Beer drinkers, gym rats, morning people. Guys with dogs, cats, birds, one even had a ferret (hi Seth). I had a friend whose college boyfriend had a wolf. Amazing kissers, so-so kissers and that guy from sleep away camp, David Something, whose tongue actually tasted sour. Guys that go down, ones that just expect free head and even the one that has no predilection for blow-jobs whatsoever (yes P.M.; I mean you). Guys that want to cuddle and guys that don’t. Ones that are meant to stay over and ones that I should have never brought home. Guys whose last names I imagined having and guys whose last names I never even knew. Nice guys, not-so-nice guys, guys that cried and jerks I wouldn’t set up with the cow that fucked my barely desirable prom date.
I’ve met them in the dark, kissed them in the park, separated from them on a lark. We’ve gone to bars, made out in cars, fondled in cabs and argued over tabs. We’ve gone to museums, stand up, and amusement parks. On chilly nights, under blankets, we’ve watched; Annie Hall, A.I., Can’t Buy Me Love, Minority Report. We’ve had drinks at the Campbell Apartments and kissed in the shadow of the Empire State building. We watched a little league team play baseball in Central Park before kissing on a giant rock that overlooked the 86th Street transverse. We played drinking games in a beer garden and kissed up against the Radio Shack on 87th Street. We went to a Yankee game and sat in the first row. We went to see Made the night it came out. We drove around in my parents’ car before going to their vacant house to fool around til the sun came up. We went away for the weekend as friends and you fell asleep with your hand on my right breast. You invited me out to a club where you oddly enough, introduced me to your-unknown-til-then-girlfriend. That was fun for me. You came over after guys night out and I met you at the door in high heels and a slip dress with nothing on underneath. That was the night we fucked over the sofa. Yes over, not on. Figure it out. We danced at your parents 50th anniversary party before sneaking out to do shots with your cousins out by the pool. I spent all day taking your sister shopping downtown when she visited the city a mere month after we started dating. You thought my mom was wasted when she was stone cold sober. I didn’t tell you I thought it was sad that you had two kids and were talking about “scoring some ecstasy”. You sat in my brother’s Nissan Maxima with me for three hours when I waited for the auto club. You even brought us soda in glasses and a fat joint from your apartment - across the street. I thought you were gorgeous to look at, amazing in bed (or on the sofa, on the floor, your immaculate granite kitchen countertop) but dull as fuck to talk to. I threw a drink in your face at Jade Lounge in Midtown, left flowers outside your 67th Street apartment building and cried over you sitting on my bed. I kept the black t-shirt of one and returned the white t-shirt of another. I told you I loved you when I didn’t. And I didn’t when I did. Sometimes, I faked it every time.Labels: about me, assholes, dating, romance
10:42 PM
Monday, July 10, 2006
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Last Week I:
* had two glorious days off from work.
* went to CT with Heather and my brothers. Hung out with the parents, went out on the boat, lounged around on the deck, ate a crappy dinner and visited Mecca Target. I also managed, with NO assistance from that lying bitch of a GPS (I’m learning to ignore her fakely sober voice – as experience has taught me [repeatedly] that she’s a drunken whore), to traverse between New York, New Jersey and Connecticut without getting lost once. For an instance. Rock it, Motherfuckers.
* went down to the local promenade and watched the stunning fireworks. Unlike Heather, I love ‘em. Like Heather I too, am dead inside, however, I love ‘em each and every year. Just like I love Christmas and the icicle lights.
* watched McConaughey, McConaughey, McConaughey… uhm; I mean this. It was cute, I liked it. Now, who do I talk to about ending the spate of naked geezers in flicks? Terry Bradshaw’s naked ass? Are they fucking kidding me? Enough. No more naked Diane Keaton, no more naked Kathy Bates, no more naked saggy people. My corneas are almost entirely warped.
* met a cute guy for drinks at a pretty cool rooftop bar. The guy was nice but the spark that I felt in email was dead in person. Dead. Minimally, awkwardly, so. He was completely pleasant and told relatively inoffensive stories but I just didn’t feel it – he did email today though, so maybe I was wrong.
* while heading to aforementioned date I caught myself staring at a guy as he crossed the street in my direction. Then I realized he was staring, and pointing back. Within seconds we had yelled each other’s names across East 42nd Street and were hugging. Unfortunately he had to get on a 6:05 train (it was 5:59 at the time) so we kissed hello and goodbye and I gave him my email address – but only verbally so who knows. Ladies and gentlemen, my eighth grade crush.
* watched, as two blocks later George Pataki walks right past me. New York City turns a complete blind eye. Not a single person seems to notice. Well done George, well done. Running for president, are ya? Good luck with all that. I suggest Commissioner of the PGA or somesuch - more your crowd, more your speed. Bid politics farewll buddy.
* fell asleep at 6pm Friday night – because I’m very cool, all the important items of furniture were appropriately covered in doilies and I felt the crocheting could wait. Ack.
* finally made it over to see Superman Returns. I don’t know how to break the news, but it tanked. Bryan Singer broke Superman. Here’s all I’ll say; at one point Superman is in the hospital. I repeat; SUPERMAN. IS. IN. THE. HOSPITAL. What the fuck? Really, what the fuck. The Man of Steel does not EVER require hospitalization and insurance forms. I’m disgusted and enraged. Superman in the hospital … (continues shaking head and muttering).
So far this week – I took half a valium and narrowly avoided killing an old person. I bought this as a reward:
Now tomorrow… well, tomorrow is another day (ha! Just wait til you hear about that!) Right Heather?Labels: CT, dating, heather, random
9:14 PM
Tuesday, July 04, 2006
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 Labels: holidays
10:19 AM
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