GothamGirl

Welcome to the Working World

I got laid off from my first job out of college (a great job as a researcher at a NY-based television station, which I love love LOVED) due to downsizing because of the crap economy, and I spent 8 months (well, 7 months, 19 days and 3 hours, but who's counting?) unemployed.  I temped here and there to make ends meet, which they sort of did in a two-frayed-pieces-of-rope-clinging-together-by-a-thread kind of way (by which I mean "not at all").

So when I got offered this job, I jumped at the chance.  My boss seemed cool; the small office seemed relaxed.

But my "cool" boss turned out to be a compulsive on-line poker player who blatantly cheats on his wife, leaving me to cover his tracks the best I can.  And the "relaxed" office means one in which my boss is so busy playing online poker and screwing skanky women that the other employees run amok.

My boss is, of course, too self-involved (what with the gambling and steady stream of skanks)  to notice what was going on right under his nose. It's nothing terribly illegal; more along the lines of major abuse of expense accounts and out-right lying to clients to get out of trouble for slacking off. (Though I have my suspicions that one woman -- this really sweet 60+-year-old woman named Rhonda -- may be taking off-track-bets bewteen customer service calls, but that's not confirmed.) 

I have no authority or power (I mean - I'm just a glorified secretary, really), but my job was constantly in jeopardy because, when my boss finalizing realizes something is amiss, I get blamed.

I've taken it for long enough because that period of unemployment was so truly awful, I never want to go back there again.

It wasn't just the eating-Ramen-every-day stuff; that wasn't so bad. And I didn't mind not going out; in fact, it was really nice to have friends over for beers on a Friday night to save dough instead of hitting a bar.  I spent a lot of time walking the streets of the city. I sat in Barnes&Noble and paged through loads of magazines.  I made good use of my library card.

It wasn't the money stuff that bothered me.  Part of it was feeling out of whack with society.  Anyone who has ever been unemployed says the same thing: they dreaded the inevitable "So, what you do?" when they met people. And -- yeah -- that was bad. But it was hardly the worst part. 

What was worse was the soul-sucking, bone-crushing feeling of being worthless. Of not having a job, and therefore of somehow having my identity taken from me. At my lowest point, it didn't even matter what others thought of me, as I thought absolutely nothing of myself.

So I took this job when it was offered.

It was hardly my dream. But it was something.

But I'm tired of this.  My boss is more interested in using me for my boobs than my brains, so even when I have a semi-intelligent idea to offer, it gets by-passed.  Then, add on top of that the ridiculous amount of responsibility I have for the foibles of my out-of-control coworkers.

The stuff with the mice was the last straw.  Somehow, the problem became my job to fix, even though it's nowhere in my job description as an "executive assistant" to exterminate rodents.

Let's revisit that job description, shall we?

*Answer phones? Check.
*Schedule appointments? Double check.
*Sit here and look cute and perky as a bunch of sleazy old geezers who may be future clients oogle my chest on their trek in and out of my boss's office?  Grossed-out check.
*Ignore the inappropriateness of my boss's encouragement to wear low-cut tops expressly for that purpose?  Check. ( A verging-on-sexual-harrassment check, but a check nevertheless.)

Whaddaya know. Nothing about the extermination and subsequent disposal of rodents in there.

So, yesterday, I got reamed out for an expense account approval my boss claims not to remember having signed (he had just come back from lunch with one of his lady friends and looked to have hit the sauce pretty hard.  Could intoxication explain his lapse of memory?  Most likely.).

And then I had to kill a mouse.

I was fed up.

And so, today, when my boss asked if I could please remember to book a hotel room for him and one of his trashy sluts for the weekend, I just said no.

He was shocked at first.  I mean, I had never said no to him before.

Then he got angry.  And demanded to know why not.

So I said something along the lines of "I'll tell you why not. Because I quit."

I hadn't even meant to say it.  It just came out of my mouth.

And, before I knew it, I was packing up my desk and then all of a sudden, I was on the subway with a cardboard box on my lap and I could feel the stares of fellow passengers boring a hole in my bowed head. 

They knew. I could tell that they knew.

I am again jobless.

Enough for now.  I think I am going to have to go get really really drunk.

Of Mice and (Wo)Men

Nix the poison.  Someone pointed out that, if you poison them, they up and die in the walls where you can't find them and then stink to high heaven.  Better to die in the traps, where at least I know where they are.

Speaking of traps:

So I'm going about my day (if, by 'going about my day' you mean trolling the internet for inane celebrity gossip that, in all honesty, I don't even care about, but I just feel like unhappy employees are supposed to spend their days doing that.  God, even my dissatisfaction with life is cliche) and a mouse runs under my desk.

I leap up, glancing wildly about for a frying pan (since, of course, that's what they kill mice with in cartoons).

Nope. No frying pan.

But I do have a large Yellow Pages near my desk. (How is Yellow Pages still in business anyway? Where would you ever be that you'd have access to this ridiculously heavy phone book that you wouldn't be able to log on to a computer?)  It's paperback.  Too soft?  But if I throw it really hard, I might get it.

But it doesn't matter.  The rat runs across the sticky trap.

It gets stuck.
I breathe a sigh of relief and collapse onto my chair.

Disaster averted.

But -- no -- I spoke too soon.

The mouse struggles for a few minutes, then begins to emit a horrifying, high-pitched squeak.  Only, it's not really a squeak, but more of a squeal.  Or maybe not a squeal, but it's a .....

Regardless, it's one of the most terrible noises I have ever heard in my life.

And no one cares. 

I go to tell my boss. He tells me it will die soon enough.

But this noise is continuing and, though just a few moments ago I was griping about the unsanity nature of these rodents, now  all I can think about is how it's this little, alive thing that is in pain.

It's a rat, it's a rat, I try to tell myself.

But now, all of a sudden, it seems like maybe it could be a mouse (what's the difference anyway? I never figured that out) and it's just this tiny thing and I am the reason it is hurting.

So I go tell Jane, my co-worker who is my only ally in this shithole of an office, but she's equally traumatized, if not more so, because she's vegan and so cares about this (still gross and disgusting, if I'm going to be totally honest) mouse just as much as she cares about the cute, cuddly and yummy animals she chooses not to eat.

But I can't just leave it like that -- lying there, squealing and dying. It's a mouse, but it's still inhumane.

So I search for someone else -- anyone else -- but it's a tiny office, so there aren't a lot of people to pick from in the beginning and it's lunchtime, so whoever would normally be here isn't right now.

I have one option: Ron, the chubby/greasy guy from Accounting.

I don't want to do it (he leers and always has food in his teeth and grease stains on his tie that I hope are from food he eats, but which, in actuality, I believe may be coming from his own body).  But I have no choice.

I go over to his desk. He's chowing down on a greasy hamburger. 

I clear my throat.  No response.  So -- again.  Then: "R-r-r-ron?" I stammer, and he finally looks up, wiping his oily hands on his slacks.

He grins.

There is a piece of lettuce between his front teeth.

"There's a mouse stuck in trap," I begin.  I give him a basic low-down of the story.  Can he help, I ask?

"God, you're such a girl," he says with his mouth full, then laughs at his own joke, almost choking at a piece of half-chewed burger in the process.  "It's just like squashing a bug. Don't be such a wuss."

Well, that sets me off. I am not "such a girl." I can take care of this myself.  I tell him "thanks, but nevermind."

And I go back to my desk and I grab the Yellow Pages.  I stand on my chair, thinking added height will increase the gravity which will add to velocity and -- oh, heck, I should have paid more attention in physics class -- and I throw it.

The squeaking stops.

I think I did the right thing, but I have never felt worse in my life.

This was very different than squashing a bug.

And the infestation continues

Came into work this morning hoping that yesterday was just a bad dream. 

Nope.
Rats are still here.

Or mice, rather -- as everyone feels the need to correct me.  Not rats.  Mice.

Big freaking difference when your office is overrun by vermin.

We have traps down now.  We have snap traps looted with peanut butter.  (Supposedly, that lures the mice in, but I am doubtful.  We probably have a better chance of catching Ron, the requisite chubby/greasy guy in Accounting.)  And we have glue traps, which aren't traps per say, but rather just sticky pieces of paper placed face-up so that any mice who dare to tread on it get stuck.

I'm disgusted by the thought of them running around the office, but it's not much more comforting that they're lying dead in traps. 

Somehow, I think it's my job to remove them.

Oh, I don't get freaking paid enough for this.

==============================
Day 14:
Bought one.
Lost one.
Total: $16.
==============================

Who cares anyway?  Quite frankly, I'm thinking of blowing the kitty and investing in some good, old-fashioned rat poison.

 

Rascally Rodents

There are mice.

In my office.

Not a mouse.
Not a few.
Not a family.
Like a whole freaking colony.

In New York, subway rats are a matter of everyday routine and you can't let the occasional cockroach drive you crazy.  I don't live on (relatively pristine, I would assume) Park Avenue.  I live in the East Village.  My old apartment had holes in the floor -- convenient for sweeping (negates the need for a  dustbin) but not so good for keeping rascally rodents out.  I am used to this.

(Note: I wouldn't actually handle the darn things. But at least I stopped freaking out whenever I heard a trap snap.  I'd just calmly take necessary provisions -- a diet coke, my pack of cigs, the latest People Magazine -- and camp out on the stoop until my roommate got home).

But this is an office.

And it is disgusting.

This might be my breaking point.

Glass-half-full moment of the week: Yes, it's disgusting my office space is being overrun by vermin, but at least it's a catalyst moving me one step closer to the door.

==============================
Day 13:
Bought one ticket.
Won.
Two whole freaking dollars. You think that's enough to quit my job?
Total: $17
==============================

The Fifth Circle of Hell

So a few of my friends went to go see a show called "The Aristocontest" at The PIT on Saturday night.  (For those without an intimate knowledge of the improv scene, that's The People's Improv Theater.)

From what I understood, audience members took a shot at doing the age-old standup joke that was the premise of last year's film The Aristocrats in which a whole bunch of comedians (from Sarah Silverman to Hank Azaria to Carrie Fischer to Eric Idle) told this old vaudeville joke that is apparently widely open to interpretation.

I never saw the movie.  I really didn't care all that much.  I figured it was probably more interesting in concept than execution and that I'd catch it on DVD one of these days.  I also thought that there were better uses of my time than watching different comedians tell the same joke over and over.

Apparently, there are people out there who not only think it's funny to hear the same joke over and over again, but who don't mind hearing said joke over and over again by non-professionals.

I mean -- what kind of people do you find in the audience of an improv comedy show at 11pm on a Saturday?  Are they all comedians who would ordinarily perform another night? Or are they just losers who have nothing better to do at 11pm on a Saturday night than go to a show that will have other audience members perform.  If they were really funny, wouldn't they have their own shows at the PIT?

I am tired today. Mondays suck.
Worse than Sundays.

Oh -- and I'm back on the lottery stuff.  My four days have lapsed.

==============================
Day 12:
Bought one ticket.
Yup - lost again.
Total: $15.
==============================

The Sunday-Night Blues

Sunday nights in high school were the worst. Everything neglected over the course of the weekend came crashing down at once.  What a freaking way to start the week.

College, it was a bit better.  Not because I learned to forgo my procrastinatory ways.  But because it didn't matter if you didn't do the sh*t due Monday. There wasn't really sh*t 'due' ever.  You didn't do the reading? Big whoop.  Just make stuff up. Every class was a lesson in B.S. 101.

After I moved to New York, I started to enjoy Sundays for the first time in my life.  Hangovers (hopefully slightly less toxic than yesterday's) were nearly  cured by a big, greasy brunch with friends.  I could take an aimless walk. I could do an errand if I felt like it.  Heck, I could do anything if I felt like it.  Catch a double-header at the movie theater.  Go to Barnes&Noble and thumb through each and every one of the magazines I wish I could afford, but can't pony up the dough for a subscription. 

Things change, though, when you hate your job.  For a while, I was dissatisfied, but stuck it out because it's safe and it's routine, and -- to be quite honest -- it's hard to apply for jobs when you're not quite sure what job you'd want next anyway. But now, I'm just miserable.  I get paid too little to work too many hours and I feel like I'm slowly making my way up a totem pole I don't care to be on in the first place.  So I've got to figure things out and find a way to get myself out of here.

Do you know that when you do a Google search for "sundays" and "I hate my job," you get 106,000 hits?

Yes, these are the sorts of things I do on Sunday nights -- when the good parts of the Times are all finished and Grey's Anatomy is over -- while contemplating just what to do to change my life.

This time, luck's not going to be the one to do it.  It's going to have to be me that figure's this one out.
 

I.Am.Never.Drinking.Again.

Okay, so that's a lie.  But I had the hangover to end all hangovers today.

It was one of those mornings where I shot out of bed at 9am, ready to take on the day.  "Wow.  I feel fabulous!" I thought to myself. " Hangover schmangover." I had partied pretty hard the night before (from what I could remember, that is).  It was a miracle of science that I was in such good shape.

Cut to me, thirty minutes later, lying on the kitchen floor unable to move. 

Nice.

I spent the large majority of the day flat on my back in bed (and, no -- not in the good way).  But, have no fear, there were back-to-back showings of "You've Got Mail" and "While You Were Sleeping" on TBS.

That said, Williamsburg was great last night. The band was bitchin' (yeah -- you heard me: "bitchin.'  I'm bringing the term back.) I shouted and cheered a ton and danced my a$$ off.  The way home is a bit blurry still.

I think I managed to drink my way through Williamsburg to the L-train, then vaguely recall being on the train with a beer in a paper bag (yep, that's me. The Queen of Class.) though I cannot for the life of me remember precisely how I obtained said beer.  My alcoholic rampage continued from 14th Street down 1st Avenue where I believe my intention was to go home, but I wound up crossing Houston, hitting a few places on the LES and then concluding my night by vomiting in a bar that shall remain nameless on Orchard Street.  (Again.  Super-classy. Yesiree. C'est moi.)

Today proved to be an interesting education in hangover techniques.  The routine "Hey. How did your night end up? Did you SEEE that douchebag I went home with" calls involved their fair share of coaching (yeah, yeah -- hair of the dog.  I've heard it already).  But far more useful was Hangover.net.  They offer cures in three categories: Classic (water, more sleep, Gatorade), Healthy (pound a V8, stuff yourself with Vitamin B, or have a banana for extra potassium) and -- my favorite -- Freaky.

A few gems:

Grab a Nipple (one guy swears by breast milk. Do you think it matters if it's from the bottle or the boob?)

El Lemon (rubbing lemon "under your drinking arm." At least they take the time to warn chicks not to do so post-shaving.)

Get a Soot Fetish (19th century british chimney sweeps claim that a nice soot milkshake always does the trick.  Ick.)

I had some strong coffee, juice and an egg sandwich. I'll try the sheep's eye in tomato juice next time perhaps.

Unhappy Hipsters

A friend from college (and by 'friend,' I mean an upperclassman I spent most of my collegiate career crushing on) is in a band and I'm going to hear them play in Williamsburg tonight.

I am psyched for the show, but dreading the trek.

I do not like going to Williamsburg.  Whenever I go there, I'm just struck by how unhappy everyone looks.

(Yes, this is round #12 of the "why is crankiness cool" debates.)

I'm no peppy cheerleader and my rebellious run with the wear-all-black-and-chain-smoke-morosely crowd was decidedly short-lived. I'm somewhere in-between except for one thing: I smile a lot.

I smile when I'm angry (an often-futile attempt to cover up my about-to-erupt fury).  I smile when I'm nervous (a tic of sorts, I guess).  I smile when I'm tired (wearily).And, yes, I do occasionally smile when I'm happy.

But my smile is out of place in Williamsburg, the haven of the hipsters.  The only appropriate facial expression in the 'Burg is the holier-than-thou sneer.  Other than that, it's wall-to-wall boredom as a 'cool' affectation.  How miserable that must be for bands that go to play.  There's no jumping around and enthusiastic clapping at the conclusion of a song, let alone a set.  They think they're freaking Beatniks over there.

The Plan: Imbibe an inappropriate amount, then commence raucous cheering and clapping.

I may be out of place, but I'm going to enjoy myself and show it if it damn-near kills me.

Bueller? Bueller? Anyone? Bueller?

Did anyone catch the typo on ABC's LOST last night? When the doctor was telling Sun about Jin's infertility, his subtitle went something like 'You're father...'

ARE YOU KIDDING ME?

(I know -- I'm a total nerd.  I get off on restaurant menu mistakes and errors on signs. What's worse, though, is people who go the overly-pretentious route and spout out nonsense like "If you'd like to come to the movies with Sam and I..."  I mean -- c'mon.)

Anyway, it's a great show. I jumped on the bandwagon a bit late, missing the entire first season.  When they came out on DVD right before the start of the second season, I caught up on all of the episodes in a row.  I was like a freaking crack addict.  But seriously -- Heart-pounding action, a mystery slowly unraveling and sweaty and shirtless men (oh, Sawyer, how I love you) -- what else could a girl want?

Oh, and I've decided that I'm not buying tickets for the next four days to make up for my splurge. Five bucks in one day sort of blow the whole "dollar a day" extravaganza.  I'm really curious as to what happens if you do one a day.  I mean, if I come out a dollar ahead over an extended period of time, I'll be thrilled.  So here's to hoping...

I'm Sick of Snark

I'm sick of snark.

I'm sick of the word, I'm sick of the style, I'm sick of the people who have twisted the word (Dictionary.com defines it as " Irritable or short-tempered; irascible" ) to mean "crankily clever."

Snark has become a way of speaking, writing and being that tears down everything it touches.  It signifies dissatisfaction with the world at large and a desire to cut down whatever lies in its path.

I am not a snarkster by nature.  Granted, I have my moments.  But a diet of "all snark, all the time" leaves me feeling as bloated and unhealthy as that "SuperSize Me" guy who ate at McDonald's three meals a day for 30 days and documented all of the horrific things it did to his body.

There's so much in the world that sucks.  There's a great deal that deserves the snark it receives, but I can't help but think what a waste it all is. 

What's particularly bothersome is the snarkiness of criticism, be it for books, movies, theater, music -- whatever.  There's limited space out there; not every novel, film, play and album can be reviewed,( particularly in print forms as advertising dollars rapidly decline and available column inches shrink accordingly, but also on the internet where the space is there, but it's the manpower simply doesn't exist to review EVERYTHING that comes out).  Why are we wasting it on negative reviews?

Yes, it's a critic's duty to share their honest opinion with readers, but it seems to make more sense to have a showcase screaming "See this movie!" and "Read this book!" instead of a series of articles ripping apart someone else's work.

Yet snark is the critical version of rubber-necking.  It's decidedly more exciting to witness a brutal attack than a series of hyperbolic accolades. It has its place in society and culture and criticism.  It's a style, it's an opinion, it's a distinctive voice. And what a sad place we'd find ourselves in if all reviews were full of fluffy praise.

So it's just that aforementioned "all snark, all the time" I find bothersome.  I'm not advocating we transform into a "Chicken Soup for the Soul" culture.  But where do those voices belong? And why is hope and positivity shunned?

It's fun to let a zinger fly once in a while.  GOOD FUN.  But what a sad, sad person it is who walks through the world criticizing everything without ever enjoying.

It's a nice feeling to sit back once and a while and say, "Man, that was good."

Lastly, just to let you know --

==============================
Day 7:
Bought one ticket.
Of course, lost again.
Total: $16.
==============================