Winning Through Jewish Geography

Here's how Jewish Geography works:

Jewish Person #1: You're from NY? Me too!
Jewish Person #2: Oh, that's so funny! What part?
JP #1: Woodbury, you?
JP #2: Five Towns, and my best friend was from Syosset.
JP #1: Really? What year did she graduate?
JP #2: In '94. Melissa Cohen/Rubin/Goldstein/Goldman/Goldberg/Blumberg/Bloom
JP #1: Wait, does she have a sister named Lauren?
JP #2: Yes!
JP #1: I know her - we went to camp together! 

At work, our subtenant is a law firm, which so far consists of three people. One of whom seems like a younger, gayer, more awkward, less-funny version of Jerry Seinfeld. Complete with the whiny tone of voice.

He's from the Bay Area, but his family is from Long Island. We started playing Jewish Geography, and within two minutes had found our one degree each of separation. His mother and aunt showed up to see where he worked (the mother made him pose pretending to be on the office phone at his desk while she took a picture), and I'm sure if I'd time to say more than hello to them, we'd have found more connections.

Perks!

When Turkey announced he was closing his law firm, I was in a panic at the idea of going through that whole unemployed period again. Everyone kept telling me it wouldn't be like that. They felt it. I didn't feel it. I'm one of those "don't count chickens before they've hatched" people. Apparently I didn't need to feel it though, because everyone else's feelings were right. Thank god for you people and your feelings and your chicken-counting ways.

When Gay Crush and I had our interview, it was interesting. There was no typical interview posturing on either side. He asked if he could give me health insurance through an HMO. I said no; he said okay and wrote down PPO. Health insurance is in the works.

He asked what I made working for Turkey. I told him my salary was $500 a year, but with overtime I earned $550 a year. He offered to pay me $525 a year. When I worked for Turkey the hours were 8:30 to 5:30. Now my hours are 8:30 to 5pm. That half hour makes all the difference. 

Gay Crush wears a t-shirt or polo with dark jeans and dress shoes each day. So I'm wearing jeans and a nice top. Not just on Fridays, but every day. 

"Health and fitness is very important to me, so I'd like to offer you up to $100 a month towards a gym membership of your choosing. Would you be interested in that?" Okay, now if you said that to a future employee and their response was, "Nah, I like being a fat slob," wouldn't you ... second guess your decision to hire them? Maybe they're not so smart after all. So I said yes not only because yay how awesome, but also because I wouldn't respect him if he respected me if I'd rejected the offer. My plan is to start gymming it up as soon as I have health insurance. If you get a call from someone crying and asking you to tell them to suck it up and go to the gym, it's me. 

Gay Crush gave me an iPad! He got a newer generation one and gave me his old one, but still. A real iPad! I am totally going to figure out how to use it just as soon as I get wireless. People keep saying I can download things onto it at work and then use those things at home without the wireless. But I don't know what things they're talking about, and if it's games, well ... I already fuck around enough in my free time. I don't need more easy ways to do that. 

I'm getting business cards. I'll be sending each of you five. You can put one on your refrigerator. When Gay Crush asked me, "Do you think you want business cards?" I asked back, "I don't know. Do you plan on hauling me around anywhere?" He doesn't know. Hey, he flies to NY a lot; I'd be more than happy to be hauled there! Nobody's ever given me business cards, but that makes sense, because legal secretaries really never leave the office. Sometimes people ask for a business card, but you just hand them the attorney's card. 

Another perk is that Gay Crush is ... mentally stable. Like, every time he walks into the office, he's got the exact same personality. He's a generally happy guy. If he gets upset with one person, he doesn't take it out on another, and gets over it quickly. He vents for ten seconds, and then moves on. 

Also, he doesn't have an ego. He left it to me to cut and measure the contact paper for the shelves in the office kitchen, but he would have helped if I'd asked. (I'll be asking tomorrow because I'm too short to reach the higher shelf. Just for placement help though; I'll do all the cutting.) Gay Crush has crawled under desks to get at outlets, picked up desks to access other outlets, etc. He doesn't waste his time, but he doesn't think he's too good to do things that need doing. 

One time many moons ago, on a really hot day, Turkey arrived at the office with a Jamba Juice smoothie in hand. He stopped at my desk to pick up his messages, looked at me sweating under the skylight, and thought out loud, "Oh. I should have asked if you wanted anything." I smiled and said nothing. Yes, that would have been nice. Turkey wasn't that kind of nice. Turkey was the kind of nice where he wouldn't fire you if you were five minutes late coming back from your lunch hour because he made you pick up his lunch on the way back. 

Then there's Gay Crush. Every time he runs out for a coffee, he asks if I want anything. If I said yes, he would refuse to take money from me. We agreed that I will do some personal errands for him, and he always encourages me to take as much time as I need, and reminds me not to use my lunch hour. So far I've bought him conditioner.

So technically, at the end of the year I'll probably have earned less than I did working for Turkey. That's okay though, because it's only $3,000 less for 120 fewer hours per year, and my quality of life has skyrocketed.

Can I Play?

When I was a little girl, my grandparents lived in Queens, NY. There were all these projects surrounding a playground, and I loved that when I stayed with them, we could go on a playground walk, and just a short walk away we could run across three or four playgrounds.

To me, this is the all-time best kiddie exchange to ever be experienced:

Kid walks up to group of kids already playing...something.

Kid: Hi, can I play?
Other kid, looking you up and down: How old are you?
Kid: Five ... and a half.
Other kid: Okay. Go stand over there.

And you run off in the direction they pointed, exhilarated, and only thinking two words as you run to your spot. I'M IN!

Then you start worrying you can't figure out what the hell game is being played, but console yourself with the plan that if the ball (because there's always a ball) comes near you, you'll catch it and start running and listen for the other kids to scream directions at you so you know where to run.

Meanwhile your grandma or grandpa sits on the bench, talking to an old-people friend who is there watching their grandchild while doing a crossword puzzle.

To me, that entire experience was the best part of staying in Queens. Making friends in the span of ten seconds, being accepted by 10 kids who've never met you before, simply because you tagged someone on the other team out or caught a ball or ran fast. This value system was so black and white, and worked well for me. On the bitchy, haughty part of Long Island where I grew up, there was a completely different value system, and it didn't work for me at all.

(I have been keeping an eye on what's going on in New York this week and wanted to write something positive about the city. This is what came out.)

NYC in SF

I miss New York sometimes. Not all the time, but sometimes. I miss having a car. I wouldn't want to have to pay for a garage or circle a block looking for parking, but I miss getting places relatively quickly. Yesterday I was going to a kosher-style deli, and had to stand around on a street corner in Chinatown for 12 minutes, waiting for the bus to chug its way up the hill. While standing around lamenting my lack of book to pass the time, I noticed the street sign for the alley across the street, smiled, and jaywalked over to take a picture (see attached).

While I don't hang out in Chinatown on a regular basis, I've been there in the past, and never seen any crime. Yet while on the bus on the way in, the bus driver announced three times, "Next stop, Chinatown, watch your wallets!" The Chinese kid (mid 20's?) in a suit sitting next to me laughed and nodded his head each time. All the tourists looked scared and grabbed their purses and kids a little bit tighter. For the entire 14 or so minutes I was in Chinatown, I continued my apparently lucky streak of not seeing any crime.

Summer 2011: Airing of the Grievances

1. Not identifying yourself when calling someone. It's one thing when you're calling your friend that you've known for seven years, someone you're so close with that you know her husband only has one ball from that time he fell funny on the monkey bars. But when you're calling your lawyer's office? You need to realize that I *will* lie to you, with zero hesitation about whether or not Turkey is in the office, depending on who you are. You can't possibly know all the criteria, so you've got to just hope for the best, hope you're at the top of Turkey's priority list and announce yourself. Every single time I call anyone Turkey works with, I say, "Hi! This is Green, from Turkey Burnstein's office. How are you?" I ask how they are not because I care, but to give them time to process what I said and figure out who I am. When I answer the phone and a voice just starts talking at me (and no, my law firm does not have caller ID), I am not going to give out any information about whether Turkey is available to talk, or to meet with their expert, until I know who they are. Please, I beg of you. Practice saying your name, and when you call someone, announce it.
   
2. Shit, I forgot.
3. Oh yeah. In New York, when you are buying something in a store, the cashier tells you, "That'll be $1.82." In response, you say, "Out of $2," while digging out two singles. As soon as you tell the cashier how much you'll be providing, they start pulling together your change, based on that. Thus, you hand over the bills in one hand and the cashier puts your change in the other hand. This doesn't work in San Francisco, and it drives me nuts. If I say, "Out of $2," nothing happens. The cashier just stands there looking at me. This is supposed to be such a trusting place. People hitchhike here! Why don't they believe the money's coming? It could save so much* time!
   
4. Being habitually late. It's one thing if Something's Happened and you're late. Especially if you call the person to say you're running late. But to be late for everything, every single time? Completely unacceptable. It says you have zero respect for the other person. For the time they took out of their day to make time for you. Turkey is late for everything. For everyone. He will schedule a meeting for 10am, show up at 10:14 (or 10:44, whatever), and say to the person, "Oh, you're early!" I started noticing lately that I disregard every deadline Turkey gives me. Because he doesn't stick to his own schedules and deadlines, what's the purpose of stressing myself out to stick to them? He's constantly telling me something "must!" go out today, and three weeks later it will still be waiting for his final approval. If someone has a kid, I give them a pass. Maybe their kid saw a rock on the ground and were fascinated and needed to talk about it Right Then while staring at it. Or maybe your dog slipped past your legs when you opened the door to leave and you're late because you had to run after it. Or maybe you're in trial. Things happen. But when you're late for everything? All the time? Unacceptable.

*Yes, it saves like thirty seconds. But those second can add up!

Phoebe Prince

So this girl in Massachusetts, a 15 year-old ninth grader, hung herself. Supposedly it was because of relentless bullying. I think we can all agree bullying is terrible. Wrong.

But what defines bullying? If you say anything that's mean is that bullying? So if a girl in the lunchroom asks if her outfit looks good and you say, "No, it makes you look like a fat cow," then have you just bullied her? Lots of people use the "but I was just being honest" stance as an excuse for being mean. If you bully someone, does that make you a bully? I really think all these questions need answers.

I bullied a girl in high school. For about a week. She did something trivially unfair to me, it flipped my rage switch, and I went on the attack. A teacher I liked pulled me aside and told me to cut it out and get ahold of myself. I felt ashamed, and stopped. The following year, after I'd graduated, I went back to the school to visit. The girl had changed, gotten tougher, marched right up and confronted me about what I'd done. I told her she was right, apologized to her sincerely, and she nodded, satisfied. Over a decade later she friended me on Facebook, and one night when she told me another classmate of ours had died in a car accident, I brought it up. Apologized again. She said she couldn't remember that happening. I don't know if she was lying or not, but either way she's clearly moved past it.

Honestly? If she'd killed herself over it, I never would have gotten over it. I remember everything - I remember friends' outfits from second grade, how your sister met her husband, everything. Luckily, she didn't kill herself. Luckily in the above instance, because I'd been bullied in the past, when I got called out on my actions felt guilty to know exactly how horribly I'd been making the girl feel.

An investigative reporter named Emily Bazelon has been writing for Slate about the Phoebe Prince suicide. She doesn't think Phoebe Prince was relentlessly bullied. Not by six kids. The district attorney is going after the six kids full force. Elizabeth Scheibel seems to have a history of being (what I think is) needlessly harsh on teenage defendants. If you know me, you know I'm pretty black and white on breaking the law. Unless you were literally saving a life, breaking the law is always wrong. That's how I feel. It's fair to get in trouble when you break the law. Elizabeth Scheibel seems to think you should get in more trouble than I do for breaking it though.

There's no question Phoebe Prince was what you might call "a troubled girl." She'd tried to commit suicide before, she was a cutter, etc. Girl had problems.

Several years ago, when I'd first moved to San Francisco, I was walking somewhere during my lunch hour when a homeless man made a rude comment to me about my body, the skirt I was wearing. Basically, he called me fat. To be honest I haven't worn a skirt since, so I can't say it didn't affect me. At the time, I don't think I told anyone, didn't cry, or do anything. Except never wear a skirt again. Adults are better at letting cruel comments roll off their backs than teenagers are.

As a kid I thought being an adult would be great, because adults were mature. They wouldn't bully or be cruel for the sake of hurting someone. Oh, how very wrong I was. I was shocked and so disappointed to find out that mean kids often just turn into mean adults.

It seems like at Phoebe's high school bullying was a bigger problem than at other schools. Is Phoebe responsible for all her own actions? Is the school responsible since she knew the kids who bullied her through school? People in this country like to blame. People like things to be somebody's fault. I think it's everyone's fault and nobody's fault, all at the same time. Is Phoebe responsible for deciding to kill herself? Not really, since she was mentally unstable. Are the kids who bullied her responsible for Phoebe killing herself? If you believe that if you aren't part of the solution then you're part of the problem, then yes, to some degree they are. Is the school responsible for not doing enough to protect Phoebe? Emily Bazelon seems to think so. So does Elizabeth Scheibel, the district attorney, which is why she went after the six kids so harshly.

The whole thing is a mess, and sad. Very little happened to the kids who bullied me in public school. Despite the fact that I graduated in 1994, it has stayed with me. I am hyper-aware of when I am not wanted somewhere. Nobody ever wanted to be associated with me in any way, and because of that to this day I am still hesitant to call anyone my friend, lest it embarrass them. Yes, I am a sensitive snowflake.

I definitely think bullying needs to be taken seriously in schools. At the same time, kids need to be reminded that high school is all bullshit. That they can and should move on from it, and I think kids should be encouraged to have a lot of things going on outside of school, in places where they are interacting with peers they get along with. Poor Phoebe Prince. And Poor Phoebe Prince's little sister, who not only has to deal with her parent's separation and moving to a different country, but now also has to deal with her big sister having killed herself.

Outta Twenty

In New York when you're in a store and paying for something, you can say to the cashier "out of five" or "out of twenty" or whatever, and while you're pulling out that five or twenty, they are getting your change. It's a time-saver, and there's nothing New Yorkers like more than that.

It drives me nuts that Californians do not seem to grasp this concept. If I say "out of ten" to them, they just stand there, waiting. So yesterday when the cashier starting pulling together my change as I dug that twenty out of my wallet, I got so excited that I did something completely out of the norm. I turned on the charm and chatted with the cashier. He confirmed that he is from Jersey, and made a joke about how Californians are a distrustful lot and that must be why they won't start making change until they've been handed the actual bill.

I've been the cashier. I know how the pressure feels when you look up and see a long line of people waiting for you. It just seems like good sense to never stop moving when ringing people up.

I would never make it in the South.

Forward Thinking

When I was a kid, my father told me to always assume the worst. That way I'd be prepared for anything bad that happened, and if something good happened, it'd be a pleasant surprise. It's a protective way of thinking, and it worked for a long time.

People in San Francisco don't think that way though. They believe in thinking positive, karma, putting out positive vibes, all that stuff.

For the last three years - the last year more specifically - my life has been on a downwards spiral. When I first stopped working I hoped. With every resume I sent out, I hoped to get a new job. I don't know when it happened exactly, but I stopped hoping. It happened over a period of time. With each attempt at networking when people would say "Oh, that's hard, good luck" and make it clear they weren't going to do anything that would help me. With each application I filled out at a retail store. With each unanswered e-mail I sent out. Eventually there was just no hope left in me, and I started waiting to become homeless, or for whatever happens to people once their unemployment runs out and they can't pay their rent or get a job.

I haven't temped since January. A week from Monday I will start a two-week temp job at a firm I temped at last year that I really enjoyed a lot. My hope is that Barb is the secretary I will be covering for, that she hasn't already retired. My hope is that she will have such a nice time on her two week holiday that when she comes back she will give notice that she is retiring. My hope is that the partners will love me so much that as soon as they finish attending Barb's going away party they will insist to HR that they call me up and get me to replace her.

Don't Tease Me, Bro!

Pretty much everyone I know from the East Coast loves Dunkin Donuts coffee better than any other chain's coffee. I don't drink coffee, but I do love hot chocolate, and have found that the hot chocolate taste test aligns quite nicely with the coffee test. There is not one Dunkin Donuts in California. (By the way, I've found that Coffee Bean & Tea Leaf & Names of Coffee Shops That Are Too Long has hot chocolate most like Dunkin Donuts, so their coffee may also be most similar.)

Anyway. There's been a grassroots effort to bring Dunkin Donuts to California. Ben Affleck even started a Facebook page all about it. It hasn't happened yet, which makes me sad. However. Dunkin Donuts is now selling their packaged coffee in West Coast supermarkets. Of course this does not help me, the hot chocolate drinker, but I'm still supportive of the overall cause.

Lately, because of this supermarket thing I suppose, when watching tv Dunkin Donuts commercials appear. Since I don't drink coffee I forget all about the coffee-in-supermarkets thing, and stupidly get all excited, thinking surely Dunkin Donuts wouldn't advertise here if they weren't here! Then I remember about the coffee-in-supermarkets thing and my heart sinks. I hate being teased. I don't even like to window shop unless I can afford to pop into the store to buy whatever catches my eye.

So Dunkin Donuts, please come to CA. You could start small - set up shop at LAX and SFO to see how it goes (it'll go great, I assure you!) before branching out to shops all around town. It would be great on multiple levels. Fabulous, inexpensive coffee and hot chocolate, but also, we'd always know where to find a cop when we needed one! You'd be providing a community service, when you think about it. Okay then, so I'll look forward to seeing you soon. Glad we had this little talk.

Have They Always Been That Big?

The other day I was at someone's house and there were two pizza boxes on top of the stove. When asked for a slice from the bottom box I held one in each hand as I changed out the boxes, being careful not to knock over bottles of wine or wine glasses that were nearby on the counter.

Since moving out of New York, I haven't found good pizza. I won't even try pizza from places that sell other things, like subs, because some foods just don't belong together. Growing up we got pizza about once every two weeks or so. Often it was my job to take the pizza boxes out the the garage, stepping on them to fold them into quarters so they'd fit in the big garbage pails. Now I am just one person, so I never buy pizza pies. I don't really touch pizza boxes that often anymore. Maybe these were extra-large pizzas that came in extra-large pizza boxes. Or maybe the pizza boxes have always been that big.

Less Than Two Days Left

For most of last week and all of this week, I'm temping at a law firm, covering for two new-to-the-firm partners whose also-new-to-the-firm-because-they-brought-her-with-them secretary is on vacation for two weeks.

These are like the nicest partners EVER. Seriously, just such a pleasure to work with, they give me plenty to do, etc. I even said something to the female partner today while I was filing in her office about how much I'm enjoying my time here, and hey, has Barb considered retiring? I swear to you it was due to major restraint that I managed not to break into song and dance when the partner confirmed that yes, in fact Barb HAS floated the idea by them.

I sit next to a lovely Italian woman from New York who is the assistant to HR. It is such a breath of fresh air to chat with somebody so direct, with somebody who talks fast, somebody who understands why it's great to find a nearby place for lunch that sells Boar's Head meat.

So far, I have not heard anyone screaming, nor have I seen anyone crying in the bathrooms. Both of these things have happened at other firms.

The desk I have been sitting at is covered with turtles and pictures of cats. On my very first day, I said something to the next-door woman about "I guess Barb like turtles," and she leaned over conspiratorially and as she pointed to the picture of two turtles said, "This is George, and this is Elizabeth. Wait, maybe it's the other way around. Anyway, George and Elizabeth ... ya know ... do it. When Barb puts them together they stay connected for five whole days! And Elizabeth here, she has a delicate bladder, and what with her uterus being right next to her bladder, well you can imagine the problems! So Barb has to be very careful in making sure George doesn't hurt Elizabeth."

Even the staple remover at the desk is in the shape of a turtle. Apparently this firm never hires temps and everyone is confused as to why these two partners need a temp. I can understand this being confusing, especially considering that each secretary (aside from the one I'm covering for) has four or five attorneys (which is too much!).

On Wednesdays this firm bakes cookies in the afternoon. At 3pm they just send out an email saying "Warm cookies are in the kitchen!" and there's a stampede to go get some. On Friday mornings they have bagels and pastries and fruit. Those are the good things. The bad things are the high lawyer to secretary ratio I mentioned, and the fact that you have to "punch in" and "out" on a virtual time clock. I mean, I don't have to, since I'm not an employee. But that can be a real pain in the ass. Say you're coming back from lunch or walking in first thing at the start of the day, and one of your five lawyers sees you and asks you to do something, telling you it's a rush. Of course you just start rushing and 28 minutes later when things have died down you realize it looks like you just took a leisurely hour and a half lunch.

The last thing I'm not a fan of is that this firm has terrible training. There are no instructions anywhere (granted, they never have temps, so maybe there's really no need) on how to do things, office protocols, who gets called for which issues, etc. It's pretty frustrating to come in to a law firm, wanting to appear competent and make a good impression, but then spend 10 minutes away from your desk looking for an envelope, or taking double the time it should take to get a copy made because nobody told you a user number was needed, or which one you should use.

As I said though, everyone's been super-friendly, so I'd rather put up with these frustrations than dealing with lawyers who scream. I hope they plan to hire some new baby attorneys for the fall. You know, like maybe five. Or Barb could just retire and spend her golden years with George and Elizabeth.

P.S. Apple has not said anything to me other than hello and goodbye when I say it to her as I walk past.

Facebook Has All the Info

Andy is not dead of cancer after all.

No, It's Not Mother's Day

1. I inherited my soft skin from my mother, who inherited it from her father, my grandpa.

2. When we were first moving to New York, we stopped in at a local drugstore. My mother ran in to get something and I followed her while my brother and father stayed in the car. I was three and a half then, and my favorite colors were pink and green (hey, some things don't change). While in the drugstore, my mother bought me a little hand mirror that said SMILE on the back and was decorated with pink and green. I loved it.

3. I got busted by my father for sliding down our banister and after he finished yelling at me I went to my mother, crying. After I confessed what I'd done, my mother smiled, put her brush down, and took me by the hand into the study, where she pulled out an old photo album. To show me a picture of her own mother, sliding down a banister in the late 40's or early 50's.

4. In second grade when I was sick and out of school for several days, I got sad and started crying one afternoon. When my mother asked why, I said it was because nobody from school had called to ask after me. She nodded and then excused herself. A couple of minutes later the phone rang, and my mother yelled for me to answer it. When I said hello, the person on the other end was my mom, calling me from our other line to ask why I'd been out of school, expressing how sad she was that I wasn't there, etc.

5. My mother will claim that all the animals she draws look exactly the same (except the pig, which gets a squiggly tail), but I claim that she used to draw beautifully. For every single holiday, even the ones nobody celebrates like Groundhog's Day, my mom would draw some cute little design on paper with different colored markers and leave it on my place-mat for me to find in the morning before school. I loved those.

6. My mother was willing to spend hours after school sitting on the couch, watching me do handstand after handstand, critiquing me so I could reach my goal of being perfect.

7. Just like they do in regular public school, my hebrew school also took yearly pictures. One year I'd really liked how my picture came out, but I couldn't find any of the pictures and got all upset about it. I worked up a whole speech in my head about why I should be allowed to have one of my pictures, and launched into it in front of my mother, trying but failing to hold back tears. After a few minutes she interrupted me, took me by the hand, led me into the den where she sat me down on the couch, and she sat down on the piano bench. With a little smile, my mother said, "Now, what did you want to talk to me about?" There on the piano was that hebrew school picture, in a white frame that had a pink and green design.

8. In seventh grade my mother taught me five years worth of math in one week. Because she really is that good of a teacher.

9. When I was 18 and very sick for months and months, my mother got a Carvel crunchy cake for me that said, "Feel fine fast."

Resurfacing

There were two middle schools in my town, and then just one high school. Richie came from the other middle school, not mine, and he hadn't been popular. He hadn't been unpopular, but he hadn't been one of the popular kids. When he arrived in ninth grade, everyone from my middle school thought he was outrageously cute and funny and nice, and we all promptly got a crush on Richie. When the girls from the other middle school realized what a diamond they'd had, they immediately all developed crushes on Richie too. He got voted school treasurer. Richie became popular overnight. For his birthday, my friend took him into the woods behind the school to give him a birthday blowjob.

Richie had two secrets though. He began working at the supermarket where I worked and that's how we became friends. One day my father drove me to work to pick up my check and Richie was there for the same reason. As he pretended to put money into the candy box he winked at me as he took a handful of candy. Exiting the office, paycheck in hand, we headed out of the supermarket together. It was pouring, and it came out that Richie was about to walk home. He lived in the opposite direction from my house.

But somehow, knowing it would be okay, I breezily said, "Oh, my dad will drive you home," and Richie followed me to the car. Leaning in, I introduced my father to him, explained he lived down near McDonalds, and asked if we could take him home so he wouldn't have to walk.

It was less than a five minute drive, and I don't remember what was talked about, except that Richie called my father sir, and I giggled (hey, I was 14, these things were funny then).

One day when we were working, I asked Richie if I could call him Dick. "Only once," he responded. I promised him I'd save the honor for a special occasion in that case.

In tenth grade I worked at Haagen Dazs. A kid named Michael also worked there, and he'd gone to Richie's middle school. He told me Richie's first secret, that his family was very poor. I never would have guessed. Partially because we lived in this upper-middle class area and barely anyone was poor, and partially because Richie and his older sister never gave any indication of being poor.

As Michael and I worked together longer, he told me Richie's second secret, which I found much more fascinating than the first - that Richie was a dancer. At some point when Richie and I were alone, I made some joke that involved some ballet words, and he laughed, but then looked at me like, "how did you know I'd know what that meant?"

Richie was actually popular enough that he could have told people he danced and not had his stock go down, but as far as I know he never did. Towards the end of 10th grade I left the high school, never to see Richie again.

About two years after graduating, I was in a composition course at a local college and ran into a boy named Andy from high school. Andy and I caught up during breaks and he told me Richie's life had gone downhill since we'd last been in touch. He'd developed a drug problem. A pretty severe one, that caused him to wind up in jail, in rehab, in a world of trouble.

Sadly, Andy showed up to class one day and told me he'd gone to the dentist for a routine checkup to be told he had a huge tumor in his jaw, and after that day I never saw him again.

Then I was working as a teacher's aide in the same high school I'd left in 10th grade, and who pops up in one of my classes, but Richie's little sister? When she walked in and told me her name I asked if Richie was her brother, and a horrible look came over her face as she confirmed. What Andy had told me came rushing back and I never brought up Richie to her again.

A few months ago, a girl I grew up with posted a photo on Facebook (where else?) that included Richie and I sent her a message, asking after him. She knew nothing. Two days ago, Richie's big sister commented on that photo. I followed her link, and there's Richie, alive and in his 30's.

There's a weird pallor to his skin now, and the light I remember being in his eyes is gone, even in pictures with family where he's clearly trying to present as happy. He just looks ... not like the same boy in ninth grade. The boy who was overwhelmed and flattered to have his own Sally Field moment, and totally ran with it and rocked it.

Thank You

Thank you all for the outpouring of love over my grandpa's death, which came in the form of early-morning phone calls, e-mails, blog-posts, Facebook wall messages, and all other manner of communication. I especially appreciate the people who said something despite not knowing what to say, because I know how hard it is to communicate the act of a big hug with no words via the internet.

Wojapi, over the last week I have wanted to spew Grandpa stories, feelings about what's been happening, and talk about how the last week has gone. However, doing that would involve spewing stuff about members of my family who are alive and know how to read, and they don't like that. Mama Nabi, one of the phrases my grandpa said to me often when things didn't work out the way I wanted/needed was, "You are slated for better things." It may be a cliche, it may be some trite phrase he got off a forture cookie and wrote down in his perfect handwriting, but it made me feel better when he'd say it. Hope is a powerful thing. You are slated for better love, MN. We won't let you accept anything less than you deserve, and it will come.

This Is My Life

I took a week off from avoiding phone calls from creditors and begging for work to deal with the death of my grandfather. Which I didn't deal with at all, because that's how I roll. I am scared that if I let myself feel it, if I start crying, I will never stop. I already take 4-6 hour daily naps. Imagine how much worse that would get. If we are friends in real live, please avoid me if it will bother you that almost every other sentence I say to you will start with, "My grandpa used to ..."

Now I am back to begging for work and trying to deal with creditors and unemployment issues while my grandmother is dying.

Yeah. You envy me. Admit it. You wish you had my life.

Overheard at JFK Airport

"Everyone needs to have a passion. I have a passion. It's bartending, at Milk and Honey."

Joseph, The Partner Who Got Fired - Part 3

Part one, part two.

There's something else I want to mention. Joseph's real name is not Joseph, but I chose it for a specific reason - it's a name that can be shortened to another commonly used name. Joseph was always the full Joseph. In fact, if anyone ever called asking for Joe, I knew to take it as a sign they were not close enough to be talking to him.

This is not a hard and fast rule, but in general, more than 50% of the time, it's a bad sign when a guy never EVER wants to be called the shorter version of their name. Not even in the midst of a joke, not even ever. In my experience, these people are control freaks. (Obviously, there are exceptions. It's something I keep in the back of my mind though, when I meet someone who tells me his name is Robert.)

Let's talk about 9/11. Joseph knew I was from New York. On September 11th, when I walked into work Julie, the secretary who sat next to me, told me a plane had crashed into the WTC. The secretary who sat on the other side of me was also from NY, and had a radio on at her desk. I listened in horror for half a minute or so, and then went to another floor where I knew there was a television.

Julie, her boss, and I stood in a conference room while we watched the second plane hit, while we watched both towers crumble. "This is going to start a war," the lawyer mumbled. I ran back to my desk, called my mother, and woke her up to ask if my father was in the city that day. I called my brother, and called a few relatives, both checking on people and letting other relatives know when I knew family members were safe.

While I was doing this, the conference room across from me was being used for an impromptu emergency meeting. In major cities across the country bomb threats were being called in, buildings were being evacuated. By 10:00 a.m., the door to the conference room opened, and lawyers started streaming out. There were rumors all over the place. The building is closing. The building is going on lock down. The firm is closing for the day. The firm is closing at 3pm.

I went over to the secretary from New York and she told me an e-mail was going out shortly. She was from Queens, and I asked about her family. We walked back to my desk together and while Joseph was standing nearby, she asked about mine.

Joseph started giving me a list of files he wanted put in a box, having all of us rush around, packing documents so he'd be able to work at home. At no point did he ever say, "Hey, you're from New York - is YOUR family okay?" Other people were walking by in shock, and people who barely knew me were asking. But not Joseph. He was busy flashing his shit-eating grin about the whole situation. There was a weird disconnect - it almost seemed like he was excited (which yes, I know some people can't deal with extreme stress and all - I used to smile a lot when I was nervous but that was when I was five). This kind of has nothing to do with anything, other than giving you a broader picture of Joseph's personality.

September 11th

Not that it'll happen, but it would be really nice, and cause me to feel the tiniest bit of respect, if the politicians said nothing other than some variation of, "You know, there's nothing I can say that hasn't already been said, and nothing I can say that will feel right to you, so I'm not going to say anything other than you're in my thoughts."

Because who wants to hear them talk about how this anniversary is connected with war or the military or the reason for our time for change, or any of that shit? Nobody.

*I found this interesting, in a morbidly sad way.

When You're Far You Get Close

Did you ever notice that when you're far from home, if you meet someone also from that same home, you automatically like them due to that common bond, even if had you met them at home the two of you would never have been friends?

No? Just me? Oh, then ... never mind, I guess.

I automatically give anyone from New York a second look. Even if they would have hated me back when we lived there. Even if that's the only thing we seem to have in common. Because I miss New York and love it (and am jealous of the people there, all the people there, even the ones who are miserable being there because they are twitterpated over a guy who's here and are being forced to watch the news all day long).

Will is from New York. Ohmygod, me TOO!
He's even from Long Island. Ohmygod, me TOO!
But he's from the county next to mine. Bummer.
Yeah but he's funny. Ohmygod, me TOO! Wait, I mean, umm...