Work History

I was listening to a friend this morning tell a story about her first job. It was a crazy job in a corrupt office but when it’s a first job, there are things that one doesn’t realize are not the work place norm. It got me thinking about the oddity of my first job. Out of college, that is.

During high school I’d worked as a stock girl for a friend of the family’s clothing company. There, I got to watch as the VP of the company pined away for the President following him around the halls with mooney eyes and marketing budgets. Later they had an ill-fated affair. I was to learn that this sort of thing is normal, however.

My first job out of college was truly a freak show. I would name names but I just googled the company and it still exists…much to my surprise.

The position in question was a receptionist gig for a small start-up. It was my first temp job. And you know how those are. The first time they call you, you have to say yes even if it’s cleaning up after circus elephants.

To be fair, I was fairly directionless after graduating. I’d gotten a BA in English from UCI and like most English Majors floundered around wondering why no one wanted to pay me to offer my witty insights to their business, art or life. My artist boyfriend at the time was experiencing a paralyzing case of won’t-work-for-the-man-itis and had moved back in with his parents. I’d moved in with mine too but was determined to get out ASAP whether that meant working for the man, the woman or, as it turned out, the total freak.

When I walked in to the house-turned-office in a small, Northern California town, I was seized with a competitive case of possessiveness. That formica desk in a room that used to be someone’s living room would be mine. Oh yes. Mine.

The office manager and company accountant, Lori, was a large and somewhat malodorous woman but aside from poor taste in parfum, she was a decent person. When, at the end of my first temp week I broached the subject of a permanent position she’d raised an eyebrow. I would later learn that meant “sucker.”

I worked with a sales associate named Kristi who was a pretty, spunky girl with an odd, pre-hunchback condition, a sales manger who insisted on being referred to by his initials and regularly regaled us with tales of his weekend conquests, and a vice president who thought of himself as a thinking woman’s Tim Allen. These were the normal ones.

The company made a specialized software application that had been dreamed up by a code geek with programming brilliance and not much business sense. Common enough in the pre-dot.com-crash 90s. The uncommon part was that he was a devotee of a small cult. I don’t mean he worshipped at the temple of HTML. I mean a real cult with gurus and followers and potlucks and gods and stuff. I’m not kidding. All the programmers were part of it.

The nice part about the cult was that they didn’t try to force their views on us or convert us or anything. But it made for a sort of unspoken dividing line in the office: the culties and the normals.

Even if they had tried to sell us on their value system, I doubt they would have had much luck. The cult didn’t believe in owning anything so they rented homes and pieced together furnishings and cars. They claimed this was a reaction against capitalism but really us normals felt it was in case the townsfolk rose up against them with pitchforks and torches they’d have an easy escape.

They also believed women had little or no value aside from as domestic workers and child bearers. I tried to obliquely broach this subject with the founder’s wife but she seemed quite content in her chattle existence. We spoke from time to time when she’d drift like a ghost into the lobby. She seemed to have had a fairly normal childhood and I could never put my finger on when she’d decided she was worth so little.

The communism and misogyny aside, the actual worst part of the cult was their bare feet. Somewhere in their belief system, there was some bylaw about comfort so they rarely wore shoes. If we were lucky, they’d shuffle through our offices in sheepskin slippers. That would not have been a very big deal. I mean this was hippie NorCal we’re talking about. The thing was they pretty much didn’t believe in bathing or cleaning themselves in any way. They never could provide an adequate reason for this tenant. But we all had to smell its nefarious results daily.

It is an understatement to say this contributed in a small way to the divide between the culties and the normals. We would never cross the line into the programmer room. It was akin to walking into a pig pen. And worse yet was the founder’s office. It was like a pig pen in a New York subway in August.

One of my duties was to water all the plants in the building. The founder had many, many plants in his office. Perhaps he felt his accumulating bodily dirt brought him closer to being like the soil for his treasured plants. I never asked. I would try to schedule my plant watering around his lunch hour so he’d be out of the office but he often didn’t take a lunch hour. Lucky me. I’d walk in and hold my breath as the stench of his BO hit me like a wave of manure. The worst were the days he’d be in a chatty mood. He’d open his mouth and the odor of his rotting, stranger-to-any-dentist teeth would roll through the air toward me. I’d struggle to think of ways I could cover my mouth and nose without being too obvious. God forbid he be offended by me!

As odd and difficult to tolerate as all this was, I was yet too green to know it was not normal in the workplace. In later jobs, I would come to know that inter-office affairs, backstabbing, nepotism and the old boys club were par for the course but hygienically-challenged cult members were not.

For reasons I still fully cannot grasp, I stayed at that job for a whole year before I realized I was on an Andean goat bus to nowhere and got the heck out for a job in an Ad agency. Finally I was surrounded by normals. And now I was an executive assistant. They already had a receptionist; a six foot five, caked-on-makeup wearing, post-op Trannie. Ah the professional world.

Feeling Clapton

No, I cannot miraculously play like a guitar god. But this week, I got a taste of Clapton circa Tears In Heaven.

My dog has always been something of a mama’s boy. In fact I seem to be rather skilled at attracting mama’s boys to my world. Explains why I like Italians. But Simon Le Dog, despite the fact we’ve been together for seven years and I always, amazingly, return home, is still convinced each time I shut the door behind me he’s been left forever. He’ll emit such plaintive yowls they can be heard for blocks and I’m quite certain my neighbors think I must keep hot needles in his paws.

I can understand his separation anxiety to a point. When I got him from the pound he was five and had been dumped twice. Our session in the pound meet-and-greet enclosure was cool at best. I sat in a chair while he walked away and sat with his back to me with an air of “yeah lady, sure you want to take me home. I’ve heard it all before.”

We’ve gotten very close over the years and it pains me to think he still thinks I’d ever leave him. I mean I’ve dumped boyfriends who didn’t like him. Our mutual attachment is strong to the point where I can instantly make myself cry if I think about life post-Simon. He’s twelve now after all.

This week it seems he took solving our daily separation into his own paws. My across the street neighbors who adore Simon and often sit for him called me when he showed up on their porch, limping and sheepish. “He knew he’d done something bad.” One reported.

Best we can surmise he somehow got himself up onto the window sill in our bedroom. He sees the cat up there every day so he must have figured, why not? It seems at a certain point, he realized this was not a good place to be as we live on the second floor and the stairs to the street end just below, fifteen feet down.

From the claw marks on the sill, I think he tried to turn around and slipped, going out back end first. That he made that fall and survived at all is nothing short of miraculous. That he survived with no broken bones or internal injuries is amazing. I believe the cat is now short a borrowed life or two. It’s a testament to his youthful spirit. He has no arthritis and is as active and playful as dogs half his age.

Many hours at the emergency vet later, the only serious issue is a blown ACL that will require costly surgery. Only - like that’s somehow not crazy-serious and more money than I have. But it so easily could have been so much worse.

Now my days are filled with surgeon and rehab research and countless calls to vets, friends and fellow dog-owners. And guilt. What kind of mom lets this kind of thing happen? I should have known he might try something crazy and unthinkable, shouldn’t I have? I guess I was in denial. I mean what kind of intelligent being flings himself out a second story window? I thought the fear of falling would be enough to stop any such impulse. I swear he’s a really smart dog.

So, a day late and a dollar short, all my windows are now screened and barriered against further mishaps, although now I really doubt he’d try it again. But I don’t want to be in denial about it. Apparently one of us has to be a responsible adult about the whole thing and I think for too long, I expected it would be him.

I know our experience has very little in common with what Eric Clapton’s family went through losing his son to a fall from an open window. But I understand how he must have felt. You just never think things will go that far; that basic survival instinct will prevail...that you’ll be able to prevent tragedy by the sheer force of your parental will. And I’m sure Clapton’s guilt and sorrow were a hundred fold mine. My furry son lived after all. But I’m sure he dealt with the guilt and judgment of others and I bet he he hoped people would grant that it was a very unfortunate accident. As a parent, you beat yourself up enough. And I have been. I’m the worst mother ever. Must be. How could I ever hope to actually give birth?

My mother called in the midst of all of this self-flagellation. “Oh honey, you can't think that way. Remember your hands?” She then reminded me of the time when I was just learning to walk and my aunt pulled a roast out of the oven. Before she or my mom could react I toddled over and lost my balance, falling hands first onto the open oven door. I have pictures of me with huge mittens of bandages cradling “See Spot Run” and other favorite titles as I retreated into my literary world for healing.

I told her about a friend in New York who’d been bathing her new born in the kitchen sink when he flailed up and hit the instant hot water spigot resulting in 3rd degree burns over his whole tiny body. As mom and I talked it seemed like every parent we knew of human or fur baby had dealt with some crazy accident or other.

“Every parent makes mistakes. We all just do our best. We can’t think of everything. He’s lucky to have a mom who loves him so much.”

I felt better. Not let off the hook or anything but human in my erring.

So Simon and I are housebound for the time being. He cries if I leave the room now and I tell him this was all a silly way to get my attention. He gets pain meds twice a day while I research our best course of action. Mostly I’m just glad he’s here on his pillow next to me. I’m sure that day back in the pound enclosure neither of us would have guessed we’d ever get here. But here we are. Happy to be together. And maybe, in spite of all this, I’ll make a good human mom too. Someday. For now it’s time for another milk bone.

Dim Footlights

My producing partner and I recently went to see a play in Pasadena. One of the principals was an old friend of hers so we wanted to support him and also see if he might be someone we'd cast in our film projects. She had a hunch he'd be perfect for a particular part.

The play managed to be preachy, self-indulgent, and unoriginal. But the friend did indeed display the kind of intensity we were looking for. In the end, we milled in the lobby waiting to greet him. Hugs and handshakes were exchanged and we told him about the project and the lead role we were considering him for. He talked about my partner's new address. And then expounded about how he'd forgotten to eat that day. He never asked about the film or even about us.

Meanwhile, the lead actress from the play came up and essentially did her best to cock-block us from any further conversation with him. Ooooo, theatre company drama! I mentioned to her a girl part we had and she proceeded to be flippant and icy, answering my "how old are you anyway?" with a shrug and smirk that I think she thought was meant to be sassy and cute. Then she turned her back to me and went on and on to the old friend/actor about how her performance was so amazing tonight because she smeared dirt on her hands and she doesn't normally do that.

"Oh yeah, wow," he agreed, "great idea, great job."

My partner said our goodbyes and walked back to my car for the long drive back from Pasadena.

"Was that weird?"

"Yeeeeeeeesssss."

Here we were, two nascent producers talking about potential film roles and these two actors did nothing to endear themselves to us or even connect with us. We are both former actors and understand what it takes both on the performance and business side. We also know first-hand how freakish actors can be. As a former theatre kid, even I now say: what's the point? No one cares about theatre on the west coast. Even as a writer, why would you bother writing a play when you could write a screenplay? No one here cares. Call me crazy, but I want to be more relevant than that.

"How stupid are they?" My partner wondered aloud what we were both thinking.

We sat for a moment before it hit me.

"There's a reason they're doing theatre in Pasadena."

The Importance of Pleather

When I was in second grade, I had my favorite teacher ever; Mrs. Walsh. She was the coolest. We got to do craft projects to keep track of our math progress which was way better than just doing math. She brought her guitar in all the time and taught us songs about being able to spell hippopotamus.

Even I knew I was a problem kid but I felt like she didn’t hold it against me. She protected me when I told her the other kids bullied me. She taught me how to rub my temples when I got a headache. Plus she was a secular teacher in a Catholic school so I felt a sense of refugee kinship with her.

That year I was madly in love with a tall, blond kid named Mike Green. I don’t think I ever spoke two words to him but for whatever reason I was convinced he was the cat’s pajamas. I wouldn’t tell anyone though. I saw how girls that confessed their crushes got teased. Nope, this was one secret I’d take to the grave.

One day I was following Mike home from school at a safe distance so he wouldn’t try to talk to me or anything. I was close enough, however, to notice a familiar briefcase sticking out of his backpack. It was the pleather snap-top case my dad had gotten as swag at some work convention or other and had given me. It was the late seventies and pleather was a must-have. Naturally I prized it above all my school supplies but, being six, didn’t have much use for a briefcase. I’d stashed it with my other stuff in the coat closet where it lived for several months while I tried to figure out what to do with it. Now, it seemed Mike had answered that for me.

I was stricken. Sure I wasn’t using it, but it was mine, dammit. I couldn’t tell Mike that though. What if there was a chance he liked me and if I asked for the briefcase back he stopped liking me? This was more than I could risk. So I followed helplessly watching my prized but unused case stride away at the next crosswalk.

The next day I did what I did whenever I had an unmanageable crisis. I told Mrs. Walsh. Surely, she would fix this for me. She’d tell Mike that he’d taken something that didn’t belong to him and make him give it back. She would restore justice and unwittingly protect my secret crush. What a gal. I had bravely endured math hour and story time, breathlessly waiting all day to talk to her. Now I sat at her desk unloading my heart. She listened and then sighed.

“Well, Heidi, you just have to ask him for it back.”

My world ground to a halt. What? I think I sputtered in protest because she went on then about how I had to learn to stand up for myself and she couldn’t always fight my battles for me and so on. Of course she was right but that is not what I learned that day. I learned that people you love and trust to protect and help you will let you down. When push comes to shove you’ll be left standing alone.

I dragged my feet slowly home that afternoon. Bewildered and hurt by this turn of events. I couldn’t believe Mrs. Walsh didn’t understand that the depth of my feelings for Mike dictated that I never speak to him directly. How did Mrs. Walsh not know how desperately I needed her intervention this time? Why was today Teach Heidi a Lesson day? I resolved to let go of any hope of getting the briefcase back and I resolved to never fully trust a grown-up again.

I had Mrs. Walsh again in fourth grade. We were still close but I’d changed. I’d become a little less Sandy and a little more Rizzo. Without the smoking and the teen pregnancy of course. I was only eight by then for chrissake. I like to think our relationship was one of cordial professional respect that year. I regularly got sent to the principal’s office for questioning Dogma in religion class and Mrs. Walsh didn’t bring her guitar or sing silly hippo songs anymore. We’d both grown. I never spoke to Mike Green or saw my briefcase again. I also never left a prized possession where just anyone could get to it. Even if it was just pleather.

From Where He Sits

In general I’m a nice guy. Thankfully busy with work again, I keep to myself mostly but now and then I try to get out with friends. No real time for romance or inclination to get involved in something that messy again having survived a long-overdue divorce. I don’t ever want to have the words “My wife” in my vocabulary again. Things are good as they are. Good enough.

My neighbor, the social butterfly, invited me to dinner. There was a girl there. Cute. Funny enough. Turns out she lives down the street. We both had a lot to drink and long night of talking and music. Really, that was all, I swear. I liked her. Nice girl. And she seemed pretty into me. As much as I don’t need it, I’ll admit it feels nice to have a girl look at you like that.

Over the next few months we hung out a lot. Always just talking. We walk the neighborhood. Sometimes hit the café up the street for breakfast. She’s fun. Makes me feel younger. I even met some friends of hers. A couple. The husband’s my age; the wife is the girl’s age. Not that I’m thinking that way at all but it was interesting to see that it could work. You know, in a non-clichéd way. Anyway, I liked the couple. The husband and I had a great conversation about music. I don’t meet very many people with a musical background and knowledge like that – like me. It was a good night.

A few weeks ago now, the girl invited me to dinner with her and that couple at a French place we’d all talked about. As it got to be the day of the dinner I realized I was too swamped with work. And maybe thinking about how much time I do or don’t want to spend out at fancy dinners with this girl. But mostly just swamped with work. I emailed her about noon to cancel and went about my day.

This is where it gets weird. Later that night I got a voice mail from the girl saying she was ready – this was five-ish when I would have been picking her up. But like I said, I was busy and figured she had my email. The next day I see her walking and her face is all funny. Hard. She says she didn’t get my email and was waiting for me, all done up. Well it’s not like I didn’t try to give her as much notice as I could. Doesn’t everyone have a Blackberry these days?

I asked if she and the couple went to the French place anyway, without me. And she says no, but practically spits the word at me. What the heck? Is a guy not allowed to change plans?

So this all just reminds me why I don’t want these complications in my life. Especially with some emotional young girl. Even if she is pretty and fun to talk to. She’s emailed and called a few times, trying for our walks and so forth. I either don’t respond or tell her I’m busy. I’m hoping she’ll get the message and let it go. I just don’t need the drama, you know?

And what he doesn’t know…

My friends and I had planned for dinner at the French place for months. Saving up as it’s not the kind of place any of us can actually afford but this is important. It’s business. I’d promised them he’d be there and we’d been working on a plan. Between us, we’d been so inspired by this man’s musical career that we had a documentary project ready to pitch him. Everything about the project was inspiring and relevant. We couldn’t wait to get to that dinner and pitch him. In addition to being fun and potentially lucrative for us all, it would be flattering for him and that was important to me as I had genuinely come to care for this new friend of mine.

But instead my friends and I had sat dressed up, made up, prepped and ready for him. As the appointed dinner hour came and went and my voice mail went unanswered I worried something was wrong. When my internet came back online later that night I got my answer from the email he’d sent at noon. Yeah, I was upset. I wouldn’t tolerate being treated that carelessly by someone I was dating. But wait, it wasn’t like we were dating. Even for just a friend not to call to confirm that I got the cancellation… I was annoyed.

What was just a simple dinner plan to him was an important, exciting opportunity for us. What he read on my face that next day wasn’t a woman scorned or a hurt date as I’m sure it must have looked. It was the guilt I had in disappointing my friends and my helplessness in not being able to communicate with him. It was the frustration of one more idea for a film project slipping away. And I couldn’t tell him in that moment: But wait, I’ve got a pitch for you! That would have gone over well - right out of left field.

Though I had resolved to keep my relationship with him as friendship and hopefully professional, now it was all mixed up and seemingly ruined on all fronts. And that’s that. He ignores my emails now and even looks away when he drives past me.

My dad recently imparted a great wisdom to me: approach every relationship as though it may be a long-term friendship and professional connection. Don’t come at it from the “would he be a good date?” perspective. If something develops later, great but the fact is usually it won’t and you’ll have lost that potential friend or business connection.

So I’ve learned – or should I say relearned - my lesson, the old saw: don’t shit where you eat. No more mixing business with pleasure. Definitely no more mixing neighbors with flirting. Sounds like a good idea in general would be: don’t mix dating with life.