T e m p orary insanity

According to my friend Moo, I don't want to work. Maybe she's right. Maybe I'm turning into a lazy couch lump in my 'old' age.

My obsession with 'The Golden Girls' now somehow comes into question.

The last few days that I've been home instead of at the office is because I have a summer cold...and I could tough it out and go in, but why bother when I can be home watching the Golden Girls, cuddling with my dog, and perhaps, looking for a BETTER job?

I'm a temp.

And I've become the Temp With A Bad Attitude.

I didn't start out this way--this monster was created!

This assignment obviously sucked from early on, but for a little while, I thought I'd be able to roll with it. After all, it's just a few months. But things began to add up, and I quickly lost any hope of salvaging this gig.

Transportation took there took an hour each way, every day. There was nowhere to eat lunch that didn't take half your lunch break to get to. Everyone wore a suit to work every day, and they were SUPER into their jobs, which included (for some) a degree of glee whenever some rent stabilized old lady passed away, so that they could luxurificate her apt and rent it at triple the price to 3 college students.

This same RE company put my best friend and her mother out of their apt in the complex after more than 30 years of tenancy there, alleging that it was not their primary residence, since it came up that they also had a house in Staten Island. That had JUST been built. Never lived in, didn't even have carpeting yet. But since Mom dukes was on the verge of retirement and had just built a house, she couldn't afford to continue paying a lawyer to battle their Eviction Dream Team. Proving that she had never had a break in her tenancy there was a lot more complicated than one would imagine, and takes time because the lawyers have better things to do...so they sit on your info while your bill climbs ever higher, and the clock continues to click.

And so, this tale ends with the new management deciding not to renew their lease, and Birdie & Mom had to scramble to pack up decades worth of their lives and hit the bricks. Birdie landed in Flatbush. ::shudder:: Mom, instead of renting her home in SI, now lives there. And hates it.

In short, it was a gig in corporate ass corporate environment, (worse than the one in finance I left) working for people that I equate with the Devil. I thought I could suck it up, but inside, I knew it wasn't going to work on any level.

After being subject to an active campaign to drive me out of my job at my last corporate gig, I decided that I wasn't down with that kind of mentality, and I could care less what the interests of the company are, because frankly, they could care less about mine. It also started to really really BUG me to be on the premises every day, watching the brown and yellow nannies of the new yuppie tenants strolling around those pale faced brats, sitting on the laws amidst hoards of college students tanning all day because mommy & daddy were paying their rent, popping around in their $200 jeans and nearly identical sunglasses, giggling.

YUCK!

Poo on these people, and piss on the company mission.

What is this business with calling it a mission, anyway? They're not on some quest to fulfill some higher calling according to some divine destiny, they exist to make money. That's great. But these poor worker bees aren't seeing any of that money. These people are so into their jobs, but none of them is a shareholder in the bottom line. They're just employees, who get paid to come in and get their hands dirty and grease the wheels of the machine...without realizing or caring they're nothing more than a tool to the company.

On the same level as a stapler. And perhaps more easily replaced.





People get attached to their staplers.

I didn't start out being the stink eye temp or being the angry worker bee. I used to not mind office jobs as much. In fact, till January, I worked in a corporate office of my own choosing. Endless political maneuvering drove me to my vehement rejection of this type of environment and model of employment, and it was pretty bad.

Let me put it to you this way: even my BOSS bemoaned the circumstances under which I left, telling her nephew whom I am friends with that "They" (HR) had finally did it, and driven me out.

::sigh:: As much as corporate jobs stink, this is NYC, and the rent comes due without fail. So about a month ago, I wound up at my recruiter's office, getting ready to ship out for this temp gig with this big corporate monster of a real estate company.

My one friend there was another creative type, the EA to the Managing Director. On one of those suffocatingly hot, humid days we had last month, she said to me--"Hey, just so you know, my boss isn't here often, but if he sees you in flip flops...he won't say anything, but he'll notice and make a mental note of it. So keep an eye out."

The look on my face must have been something special, because she continued.
"...Well, you know how it is."

Actually, I didn't. For a minute, the feeling of being the transfer student in a made for TV musical wearing a leather jacket amidst a sea of pristine blazers came over me, and I countered with my best 'Are you kidding me?!' look.

But she was not kidding. As a reasonable, independently functioning adult who wipes my own ass, I couldn't register how or why this would have any impact on me. Especially because technically, I don't really work there.

I never signed an employment agreement. I was never given a handbook stating the dress code, the vacation policy, the company holidays, or the fucking mission statement. I never attended an orientation. And my checks are issued and signed by the temp agency.

So why do I give a fuck if someone 'might notice' I'm wearing flip flops on my way into the office? IT'S 91º OUTSIDE! Should I break out the patent leather Nicole Millers on these dusty, broken pathways that are perpetually under construction for the 15 minutes walk from the nearest subway because someone might make a mental note of my flip flops? WHAT?!?!

The MD has no idea who I even AM. If he has nothing more pressing to do than agonize over a complete stranger's footwear, then he needs to take off his tie and go join the grounds crew and water some of those sad ass hydrangeas they planted 2 weeks ago that are already half dead.

This particular placement was NOT a success story for my agency. Hearing reports that I wasn't happy (oh, you care, how nice), the company mentioned it to the agency and asked if they should send a replacement.

When I took 2 days off this week to recoup from my summer cold, they decided a replacement was definitely in order. The agency let me know yesterday, and was kind enough to break it to me gently like I was worried; upon hearing the news I was practically turning cartwheels and farting rainbows.

I wouldn't have to go back, and I'd get a new assignment come Monday so that I'd have time to heal my scratchy throat and regain my energy (which I have been thus far expending blogging).

Ironically enough, when the topic of replacements came up on Monday, the company had initially suggested that they wanted me to stay and TRAIN the person who would be taking over for me.

You're kidding, right?

Cuz, uh....that sounds like a job for someone who works there. ;)

I'm just saying.

Leatherman Lessons: Perspective

The job hunt has been consuming me of late, and while I'm trying to keep a chin up, the dismal prospect of yet another dismal corporate job taken out of necessity looms ahead of me, and I took a break from the hunt to look through some old blogs and photos.

This one was written in 2005, and is always a favorite to go back to for perspective, and so I re-post it here from its original source.

*clearing*

...some days, i look for the answers.

...others, they find me.

A few lessons (re) learned on one of my weekend escapes.

*mellow yellow*

amazing how the smallest and simplest things hold such uncommon beauty when you just stop to look at them. do it more often before the days when the sun doesn't shine as brightly are upon you.

*focus*

a strangely comforting new friend. his lesson is that although we may walk many paths and although we may not always know which way our feet are taking us, there is a certain slow and meditative deliberation to traveling each path that is to be acknowledged, practiced, and honored. also, worrying about your shoes is a waste of time.

*broken heart*

this red trail blaze struck me as i walked past it, because its placement so looked like someone had shot this tree right through the heart...yet it stood strong and beautiful. don't allow past injuries or interferences in your plan to stop you from growing. wear your scars proudly, and keep reaching for the sky.

*rotary*

when you're looking to find out where you are, keep an eye peeled for signs...

*'Bama-rama*

sometimes, it's ok to wear a disguise, long as you can keep things in perspective and don't take it too seriously. going incognito can also be a lot of fun. useful for hiding from fans, stalkers, the paparazzi, telemarketers, and your job.

*vista past leatherman's cave*

the trail we hiked came past a place called Leatherman's Cave. the story was of a French trapper and furrier, who, hoping to win the approval of his beloved, took over her family's business when her father's health failed. he failed miserably, and drove the business into the ground. ashamed and unable to face her any longer, he made himself a 40 lb suit of leather and proceeded to wander. for over 20 years, he walked a loop around upper Westchester and Connecticut wearing this suit, accepting neither shelter nor conversation from well meaning strangers. he would accept food and the chance to sleep in their barns, but he rarely spoke, and became a bit of a regional legend. he retired to a cave in the woods of what is now Harriman State Park, where he was found dead, his body riddled with cancer, still wearing his 40 lb leather suit. just beyond this damp cavern, crawling with spiders and snakes and echoes, is a trail that leads to this beautiful vista with its miles and miles of sky and river and green.
Often we carry such heavy burdens, the weight of things that have long been forgotten or forgiven by others, that we fail to see that just past -this- are wonders waiting to make themselves known right before our eyes.

*wild ride*

always take your closest friends along with you for the ride. they are always the best source for endless support, laughter, shared sandwiches, and shared memories. hey, who else is gonna snap that photo for you!??! team tale telling is my favorite sport. keep company that will keep long car rides from feeling TOO long. if you can stand being in a car with someone for more than an hour, they're probably pretty damn cool.

*like, whoa*

but(t)--don't be afriad to set limits where you have to, even with your best friends...

*hot shit*

particularly in regard to how much time you allow to pass with your friend inside one of these before you begin to worry.

Lesson(s) learned.

Didn't you see Boyz In the Hood?

Both my best male friend and a co worker of mine recently smoking. I quit years ago, with no ill effects. They, however, are currently grumpy bastards. I think the idea of absorbing a drug thru your skin is weird and a tad disconcerting, but if that's the new thing, they should make a Prozac patch, or some other form of topical Happy Lotion to help keep John Q. Public going.

Besides K-Y, you nasty smart alec freaks.

Apparently the two are available together: nicotine and anti-depressants, I mean. (Not nicotine and K-Y. You can find that in any room at the St. Mark's hotel, along with an entire assortment of other fun things that are bad for you. Bring Your Own Needles, though, kids, please. This isn't the 80s.)

Isn't that fascinating? Addiction so strong that it requires treatment with anti-depressants--yet, this substance is still legal to sell to the general public. I almost admire people for whom a substance can counterbalance the effects of hunger, sadness, or stress. It takes work to be that lazy with regards to the world around you.

And do people get addicted to the patch? These are things I need to know to satisfy my curiosity.

*

The topic of patches reminds me of an evening in my old apt, when Sir Gonzo and I were reading my old Boy Scout manual. No, you didn't miss anything. I said Boy Scout. I am a book junkie, and I found this vintage print on the street many years ago when I was in about 6th grade; it hasn't left me since. I even took it to college.

Laugh if you will, but I was the only person laying out on that soccer field who knew what those stars we were looking at were.

Anyhow, we moved from the kitchen to the bathroom so I could resume scrubbing the tub, and Gonzo sat on the toilet lid and occasionally read aloud from the manual.

Not gonna lie to ya, that stuff can be pretty entertaining. There is an entire section on being "Morally Straight". It's cute and sensible in most ways; the manual encourage you to respect women and your elders, to be kind and helpful to others, and emphasizes self reliance . In short, it's full of things that I'd want my son to learn.

But then, like most things, what started out as a good idea just went straight downhill from there. When you take a closer look at the politics that have become involved with the organization of late (darn those politics!), you start to see how conservative values have been perverted by Conservatives to mean that espousing these values means condemnation of anything outside of the strict interpretation. These people go to COURT over this stuff--LAWSUITS, over the Boy Scouts because allowing homosexuals into Boy Scout leadership perverts the morals of youth!

This is ridiculous. With all of the REAL issues affecting the American family, like healthcare, loss of jobs, inflation, the mortgage crisis, gas prices, mounting debt accumulated while fighting a war we can't win, etc, you'd think the Bible Belt would find another dead horse to beat. But nope. All of these pressing issues facing our Congress take a back seat to the issue of gay marriage and how the gays are slowly ruining the American way of life for all of us.

It's bad enough that Conservatives use the Bible to justify everything from hating Jews to subjugating women and not recycling...because religion has always been a way for people to leverage power over the vulnerable to further their own agenda. But you already knew that, right? To let you in on a secret, the natives of South & Central America weren't always Catholic, and neither were the natives of anyplace else.

But I digress.

Scouting is/was meant to be an opportunity to teach boys how to be strong and how to lead, and prepare them to be able men.
The commitment to "God and Country" doesn't mean to Jesus Christ and the governor. It means to a higher power in general, to the one to whom we will all answer for our existence and our choices. It's meant to remind kids that they are a small player in a large universe, that there are things greater than they that require respect. Like nature. Like society. Like our interconnectedness.

But it doesn't make the organization an automatic extension of the local parish's Sunday brainwashing and hate mongering *(in instances where this goes on, not to say that all churches preach hate against homosexuals). It becomes that when people/parents allow organizations to make parenting decisions for them, perhaps as these organizations made decisions for their parents. But really, in this day and age, with such access to information and culture? This kind of refusal to grow up and accept that human beings can be different and still worthy of love and respect isn't "tradition", it's pigheaded, stubborn FEAR stunting our growth as a nation and as individuals.

The purpose of the Boy Scouting community and code is supposed to promote civic responsibility, respect for oneself and others, and leadership...not at the expense of tolerance, understanding, and respect for individual choices. Children have no bias and no politics except for what they are taught. It makes me sad that something generally so positive has become increasingly politicized over the years as Conservatives continue to promote the myth that homosexuals are threatening the American way of life, Christian morality, and the sanctity of marriage and the family.

It makes me giggle when the First Amendment issue comes up of counties and towns trying to impose local dress codes for certain colors and baggy pants, because of what these articles of clothing, in their minds, represent. Ever stop to think that the boys whose parents put them in Scouting are just really wearing conservative gang insignia?

They've even got a handshake, man. Come on. Didn't y'all see Boyz In the Hood!??! This is like a gang! THIS IS PROGRAMMING and GROUPTHINK!

Someone should start an action group. Make a bumpersticker. Something.

JUST SAY NO

Which one of these is a junkie? The answer is, they both are. The real question is, which of them would you be more likely to cross the street to avoid?

The answer is pretty obvious. But why?

To examine, let's go back a couple of weeks and examine the last weekend in June, when yours truly was in the Hamptons. Yes, the Hamptons. Aren't you jealous?


Well, don't be. It was full of annoying drug addicts, and being without a car, a train, a bus, or reliable access to a heliport (::sigh:: the life of a commoner), I was stuck there with them, being the only person not having the OMG BEST TIME, EVER!

It could have been worse, right? I could have been lost in the South Bronx or Brownsville after 10pm, with my Tiffany jewelry and impractical shoes on, trying to dodge all of the outstretched hands and avoiding the empty, dead eyes of all those strung out broke asses. But that is a forseeable circumstance that anyone with two brain cells to rub together could avoid.

I was not in the company of people like Junkie #1 and his brown brethren. In fact, there was not a brown person to be found anywhere. (I'm sure there was some housestaff of color somewhere, but we were slumming it with people without servants.)

The junkies I was stranded with are of a more insidious nature. They are:

• white
• female
• attractive (this includes having teeth)
  
• employed
• reasonably educated
• generally charming and amusing when not altered on substances
• unfortunately, my friends, whom I had no idea were such fucking coke whores.
  

So what's up with these silly bored little girls who go the Hamptons to be fabulous and "party"? Why do they not consider themselves drug addicts, even when most of their leisure activities are accompanied by hard drug use?


Simple.

Location IS everything. And so are appearances. Poor people do drugs in the inner city, in crack dens and flops, in filthy squats and in project staircases. Those brown ghetto people are addicts. But you? Your pretty little blonde self is just having a good time. What harm can it do?

The arrogance in the part time junkie mentality is grounded the assumption that they are somehow special because 'earn' their right to 'party' because they work and pay their bills like the rest of us.

Hold up.
When did working and paying your own way become merit-worthy? Like you're doing something extraordinary above and beyond what the fuck you're supposed to be doing as a grown up by feeding, clothing, and housing yourself?!

Seriously, who do cats think they are? I have never once considered myself special because I'm a functioning member of society--it's just what you're supposed to do. You ain't special cuz you got a job, bitch! You're supposed to have a job and pay rent and bills. That's called participating in society, which is a given if you enjoy vacations, manicures, and text messaging. Otherwise, you can skip the working and paying bills part and go live in a treehouse and eat coconuts and various grubs, and no one will give a shit what you do all day.

Hard drug use is not any less self destructive or disgusting when it takes place on weekends or in an upscale setting. If when you get off the Jitney and you go back to your doorman building apt, the thought of copping and doing those same drugs with, say, the gutter punks in Tompkins Square Park on a Tuesday horrifies you, then you are the brand of stupid cracker I'm talking about who thinks that having a job and some money to shop at Pookie & Sebastian or get your hair done at Mudhoney disqualifies you from being a junkie.

WRONG!!!!!

If you feel like you need drugs to have a good time...
If you can recall exactly how long it's been since you last had a drug and are eagerly awaiting the next time...
If you cannot pass up an opportunity to do a drug when it is offered to you...

Then you are addicted to that substance, and you MIGHT be a freaking junkie.
It's kind of that simple. And as someone who knows better, I have decidedly better things to do with my youth than hang out with your junkie ass.


Why do these weekend warriors call snorting cocaine "partying"? This clever little euphemism compounds my distaste for this scene, because of its playful insistence that everyone's just having a good time.

I think my closer friends and I party quite a bit, and often there upwards of a dozen people floating around in my apt and on my balcony. I maintain an open house most weekends--food, beer, movies, conversation for anyone who wants to drop by. Sometimes we stay up all night, talking, laughing, eating, dancing...but without any drugs.

Did my peeps and I miss something in the "partying" handbook? Do we need to brush up on our urban dictionary reading? Because last I checked, "partying" was having a gathering, a social function, and enjoying a good time with other people.

Not sneaking off, AWAY from said social activity, to snort cocaine in the parking lot while sober friends and family members (including children) wonder where you are.

Weekend junkies, and soon to be former friends of mine, here are a couple of tips for when you're high around people who do not share your insecurities and bullshit need for approval and pleasure seeking activities to fill a hole in your inner selves:

1. Don't try to talk to sober people. They are not in on the great joke and will not be amused.
2. If you are uncomfortable with being high around sober people, then maybe you should consider that there is a good reason for that. Get high @ home alone, or at least the hell away from sober people and children. That is not cool.
   
3. Don't offer poor damaged suckers like me who don't "party" platitudes about understanding how they grew up around drug dealers and drug addicts, and how you could see how that would affect their view on drugs. Especially if you grew up in a nice house in the suburbs and have never been slashed by a junkie wielding a razor blade. I don't care how brave you think I am, you don't know me and you don't know jack shit about what drugs are really about.
   
4. Do not relay any segment of your personal tragedies as a means to relate when the topic of my disapproval of casual drug use comes up. It does not work, and it does not make your drug use in the presence of sober people okay. You cannot relate to me because I don't have a need to alter myself with substances to be comfortable in a social setting. Please stop trying to relate in order to make yourself feel better; if there's nothing wrong with what you're doing, there is no need to justify it, is there?
   

What I don't get is how people leave the NY scene to go to the Hamptons scene. Are there insufficient 'cool' clubs to go to to get high here in NYC, or are you too lazy to go to them?

At any rate, I can't travel that far to be aggravated. The next time someone asks me to go to the Hamptons, I'm going to JUST SAY NO.