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an utterly random discussion

Wednesday, January 26, 2005

Ted

The other day I was telling a co-worker about a guy I used to work for at my first job out of college. His name was Ted. (The guy I used to work for, not the co-worker.) Ted was an interesting guy, and if I had known then that all of my bosses would not be as much fun as Ted I would have maybe stayed at that job a little longer. Actually, that's no so much true. At the time he was kinda infuriating. But in retrospect he was a lot of fun to work with. Or for.

My job when I first started there was as receptionist. I swear, my first job out of college was as a receptionist at a non-profit theater. I made...I am not making this up...sixteen thousand dollars a year. That's less than some paperboys make. At first, my job was to answer the phones and order the office supplies.

The great majority of calls were for Ted. He got hundreds of calls a day. Literally. And his rule was that he was never in. Well, almost never. He was in for certain board members. He was in for one or two friends or business associates, unless he was trying to avoid them for some reason. He was always, always in for our more important donors. And of course he was always in for his mother. But the hard part was that Ted's rules for who he was in for and who he was not in for changed from day to day, and he frequently expected me to somehow intuit the new rules without him having to actually tell me who he wanted to talk to and who he didn't.

As it turned out, the great majority of people who called Ted didn't get through. I told them that Ted was either in a meeting or out of the office. And I took a message. I filled up at least one of those spiral-bound message books (the kind that automatically create a duplicate of every message you take) every other day. When each book was full, it was filed away in a specific spot for future reference. And if you worked for Ted, heaven help you if you took a message and screwed up the phone number, or, God forbid, forgot to get a phone number at all. Ted had a real thing about the right phone number. I lived in fear of screwing it up and I actually did screw it up twice. I'm amazed I only did it twice (I tend to be somewhat numerically dyslexic.) This job was made even more difficult by the "regulars" who called and expected you to not only know who they were as soon as you answered the phone and engage in witty chit-chat (while the other four lines rung and rung and rung) you were also supposed to remember their phone number. For example, some board members would call several times a day and they got irritated if you kept asking them for their phone number. They would say, "Don't you know it by now?" which makes perfect sense if they're the only person calling but what they didn't understand is that there were about eight million people who called Ted frequently enough to feel that I should not have to ask for their phone number anymore. This was irritating, but also frightening, because you did not want to annoy these important, influential people. So sometimes I was forced to page through previous weeks' message books, hoping desperately to find a leftover message from the last time the person called so I could get the phone number from that. It was nerve-wracking.

The cool thing about Ted was that he would eventually call all of these people back. He was a master at returning calls when he knew that people wouldn't be available. He could keep it up for weeks if he had to. The person would call back, he'd return the call, they'd call back, he'd return the call, and so on...he was really good at it.

We had an intercom system. Ted refused to use it. So even though he could have pressed two buttons and called me right at my desk, he preferred to yell out my name at the top of his lungs whenever he needed something. I'd be working, answering phones, taking messages, and I'd hear, "DENISE!" Even though he was two offices away he'd still just yell for me when he wanted something. And I couldn't just yell back, "WHAT?" I tried that once and he just kept yelling until I finally got up and went in there.

And when you did get in there, you never knew what he was going to have you do. Sometimes he'd want you to do some office-related thing. Sometimes he legitimately needed something, like a file or a copy made or something. Sometimes, though, he'd want to put you on the phone with his fiancee for no reason. Sometimes he'd have a famous person on the phone and he'd let you say hello (for example he was friends with the guy who wrote Other People's Money, Jerry Sterner, and I got to chat with him which was cool. Tommy Tune, Pat Birch, plenty of folks.) Sometimes he'd ask you to get him lunch, but most of the time he didn't know what he wanted. So he'd yell, DENISE, and I'd come in and he'd say, "I need lunch. I'm weak." and he would theatrically drape himself over his desk as if he just couldn't go on without sustenance. I'd say, ok, what do you want? And he'd either tell me what he wanted, or he wouldn't. Sometimes he couldn't decide what he wanted to eat and I'd stand there like an idiot saying, "Turkey? Tuna? Pizza? Salad? Roast Beef? Soup? Mac and Cheese?" until he settled on something. Finally, after three or four of these frustrating episodes I got smart and when he'd come up empty for what he wanted for lunch, I'd say, "Ok, you're getting tuna on rye." Or whatever, and walk out. I'd rotate the lunch choices, so one day he'd get tuna, the next he'd get turkey...but the thing you had to know about Ted was that he was raised kosher, so don't even think about putting mayo on things. Mustard. Always mustard. He seemed to be ok with tuna and mayo though. The first few times when I asked what do you want on your roast beef or whatever he'd look at me like I was nuts and say something under his breath about goy-this or goy-that.

Ted also had no compunction about asking you to do stuff that was outside your job description. He would frequently call me into his office, take off his cowboy boots (he always wore cowboy boots) and hand them to me and tell me to get them shined and come right back. So he'd sit there behind his desk in his socks and I'd hustle up the street to get his boots shined. Once, I was sitting at my desk and I heard Ted coming in from the theater (Ted was six foot five, you heard him coming, trust me) and he stomped all the way up to my desk and stood there and yelled, "Do you know that there is no toilet paper in the men's room?????" Why he expected me to know that in the first place I'll never know, much less what he expected me to do about it.

One time Ted made me cry. (This was my first job out of college, I was young, dumb and naive.) So he's standing in front of my desk yelling at me and I look at him and start to cry. He gets this panicked look on his face and says, "Oh...oh no...oh no don't cry....uh....here..." and he opened his wallet and threw two dollars on my desk and ran away into his office.

He had rules for his staff. We were allowed, no, encouraged, to attend events at the theater but we were never to drink (even though there was always booze around.) We never, ever went to a meeting with a crummy disposable ballpoint pen in our hands, we were expected to carry a good pen. And things were never "crazy" at the theater, things were merely "busy." Oh, and the most important rule? When going to a meeting, always bring food. It is amazing how more amenable folks are to your requests and such if you show up with a box of donuts or danish or something.

Eventually, I moved up to a job in the development office (fundraising) and I was not working directly for Ted anymore. When I finally left (I ran, actually) my relationship with Ted had kind of degraded a bit -- not his fault, not mine either -- I know now that there were some other forces at work. I always felt bad about that because I knew Ted thought I'd betrayed him in some way but I couldn't figure out how. Nevertheless, on my last day Ted came in and gave me an antique silver pen from Tiffany as a goodbye gift.

A year and a half and two jobs later, I got a call from Ted. He was calling to see how I was and to say he was sorry for the way we left things. Apparently he'd uncovered some new information that explained a lot of the wierdness that went on there. I wondered why he was moved to call me -- was he in some twelve step group and he'd gotten to that step where you apologize to those you've hurt? Was he about to jump off a high building and he wanted to make amends? Was he born again? I didn't care. I just thought that making that phone call was a really classy thing to do, a sign of a real stand-up guy.

Ted's out in California now, running a theater. I still tell Ted stories all the time.


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Sunday, January 23, 2005

Lesson number three

So here's the riding lessons update. Before I begin, let me remind you that I had a bad experience when I was like, ten, that kept me from getting back on a horse for twenty-six years. And since I've started taking lessons again, the one thing I was most worried about was learning to trot. I know it sounds funny, I'm sure there are all sorts of jokes to be made about that last statement, but it ain't funny to me. I'm skeert.

So going in, I knew that this lesson was the one where I'd have to trot or get off the pot, so to speak. To add to the misery, the temperature was a very chilly 18 degrees when I set off for the stable. I was actually mildly nauseous when I got out of the car and made my way into the barn.

So we get into the ring, mount up, all that fun stuff, and before I know it it's time to trot. The nausea intensified a notch or two.

For a horse, the trot is a bouncy gait. Because the horse's legs move in diagonal pairs (for example, left front and right rear) you have to do this thing called "posting " or "posting to the trot" in which you basically stand up just a little and sit back down along with the beat of the horse...really you more like pick your hips and butt up and move them up and out of the saddle a few inches and right back down again, along with the horse's gait.

Now I have done this before -- but it was two and a half decades ago. Think of it as if you last rode a bicycle when you were ten and you didn't touch or even look at a bike for the next twenty five years. How much of it do you think you'll remember? Plus, the last time I did this I got thrown right off the back of the horse. So you can imagine how apprehensive I was. Could I do this? Would the feel of posting come back to me? Would the horse get away from me like it did last time? Would I actually be able to face my fears and move past this mental block I've got? I could either leave feeling like a big fat loser or a winner. It all came down to the next few moments.

They had us all in a line on one side of the oval (one of the short sides) and you would all trot, one by one, while the instructor yelled helpful tips. One by one, six other riders went -- and all of them failed miserably. Nobody got the hang of posting...most bounced around painfully on their horses, arms flapping, butt banging into the saddle...some even allowed their horses to get away from them, cutting directly across the center of the ring instead of going around it. It did not give me hope (you must remember that in any situation I assume that I am the stupidest and least skilled person there -- so I'm thinking that if these other folks couldn't do it, there' s no way I could.)

So it's my turn, and the instructor comes up to me and quietly tells me that my horse likes to go, so to be sure to keep him under control. (Oh, great.) We move to the starting point, I give him a kick, and we're trotting. For the first two or three steps, I founder a little, trying to get the feel of the horse, and suddenly -- click -- I've got it. I'm posting. I'm sitting up straight, my hands are low and the reins are tight...we are miraculously moving in a perfectly straight line, exactly where we're supposed to be...I can't tell but I think this is what's supposed to be happening...

Suddenly the teacher yells out, "You! What's your name?"
"Me?" Still trotting, mind you.
"Yeah, you -- I know your horse's name but not yours."
"Denise. " I say, my spirits falling, thinking I'm about to get yelled at for doing something horribly wrong.
The teacher turned to the rest of the class, who are all at one end of the ring, waiting their turn, and said, "Everyone! Everyone, stop what you're doing and watch Denise. That's a perfect post. That's exactly what it's supposed to look like."

You can imagine how thrilled I was.

For the rest of the class, every time it was my turn to go, she made everyone stop and look at me. I swear this really happened. If I could bottle this moment and save it I would.

The funny part is that now all my classmates hate me. I mean they refuse to even talk to me. After the lesson we were all crammed into this little room, changing out of our boots, and not one person said anything to me...not "good job" not "good night" not "see you next week"...nothing. Big babies.


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The Blizzard of '05. (Yawn, stretch.)

There is nothing like a snowy day to keep you inside and blogging. If I sound like I'm unhappy about that, nothing could be further from the truth. I love having an excuse to do nothing -- you have no idea how much -- and my day has been made even more luxurious by the fact that my tennis club (don't I sound like a big old snot? Me and my "tennis club"? Trust me it's not very hoity-toity at all despite the fact that I have played on the court next to former NJ Governor and Chairman of the 9-11 commission, Tom Kean) is closed today, so I can't even get out to play my 2:30 tennis game. Which leaves me plenty of time to hang out here, blog, do laundry, catch up on these damn thank you notes from Christmas (yes I'm embarrassingly behind but considering that most folks don't even bother sending them at all I don't feel too bad) and that sort of thing.

I'm looking out the window now onto the street that they just plowed and believe it or not I can actually see blacktop -- the snow's melting already because the sun is out. I didn't check in the last hour or so but when I got up this morning to take Mickey out it was a balmy 20 degrees out there -- a world of difference from the 4 degrees it was yesterday. Humidity is high, also, so it feels wonderful out there...plus the snow is light and fluffy, beautiful perfect powder, and it's blowin' around out there like crazy. It made the most bizarre pattern of drifts on the driveways in my complex -- it looks like a moonscape, or a mogul field. Very cool. I hate the heat, but I love this weather. It is so beautiful out there right now.

There are kids trying to snowtube on the hill outside my window. I don't have the heart to lean out the door and tell them not to bother because it's deep powder, not good sledding snow unless it's packed down. They've spent the past hour or so hauling the tube all the way up to the top of the hill and plopping down into it, ready for a ride, and instead just sinking straight down into the snow. I'm enjoying watching the learning process, however, because most of the kids abandoned the tubing after one or two unsuccessful runs, but one very tenacious kid has taken the time to painstakingly pack down the snow in a track up the hill...essentially creating a very nice little run for himself. I'm impressed.

The dogs seem to really like the snow. Mickey enjoys bounding around in it, despite the fact that it literally comes up to his little shoulders, and I watched my neighbor's German Shorthair have a grand old time flying around off-leash this morning. I just stood there for like twenty minutes with a cup of coffee in my hand, watching this dog have a ball in the snow. Reminds me why I'm so fond of dogs -- you rarely see humans let loose like that.
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Wednesday, January 12, 2005

I am not looking a school horse in the mouth, but...

I'm feeling rather hopeful about riding lessons. It's only my second lesson, of course, but I did notice that the horse I rode last week -- Whistler, who, in my opinion, was an absolute pleasure to ride, responsive, helpful and forgiving -- was giving his rider a really hard time this week. For example, he demanded to eat grass while he was waiting to get into the ring, and when we were supposed to walk slalom-style through a set of six cones (practicing controlling the horse) Whistler said "screw that!" and took off running, right past the cones. Heh heh.

Now, I'm not saying how great I am (quite the contrary) but I know I would never have let that horse eat grass in the first place, and I can't imagine that, based on his behavior the previous week, he would have tried that running past the cones crap with me. I wonder if horses -- like dogs (or more specfically, like Fox Terriers) know when they're dealing with a pushover and will behave accordingly. If this is true, then I am greatly encouraged by the fact that he was so well-behaved with me.
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I swear I am not making this up

I was listening to a talk radio show today and one of the callers, in referring to her lawyer, said she hired him because he had the reputation as someone who could teach her boss (who was allegedly sexually harassing her) a lesson. She said that she'd heard he was the kind of lawyer who could "...nip him in the butt."
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Friday, January 07, 2005

Ok, ok...

For those of you have emailed and called me to find out if I was still alive because I hadn't posted in so long, I'm freakin' fine. Quit yer worryin'. I haven't posted lately because I've been really busy, and thinking about a lot of stuff, but I'm not comfortable posting any of it. Sorry. It's unfortunate, because I'm so focused on these big, touchy issues -- family, holidays, all that sort of thing -- and as much as I wish I could dissect them here it's just not appropriate. Oh, well. So onto the trivia.

I'm sitting here on the bed, using my new WIRELESS NETWORK (Woohoo, thanks Owen and Eric!) and watching The Birdcage (Mickey is sleeping on his bed on the floor) and I remembered that the last time I was in the city with Eric and Lisa and my friend Laura we had dinner mere feet away from the woman who plays the mother in this movie, Diane Wiest. I noticed her sitting there and apparently my very subtle reaction was a tremendous embarrassment to my brother. You'd think I stood up and said, "Hey, lady, I know yew! Yore on that there TV show Law 'n Order, arntcha? Kin I get yer attergraph fer mah c'lection?" Which, of course, I did not.

In other items, did you know that horses are really big? They are also rather dirty (not that I mind) and quite strong. And furry. In the winter they grow a winter coat and they're furry. I'm taking riding lessons and I forgot how big those suckers are. Also the saddles are really slippery. Forgot about that too. I was pleasantly surprised, however, to find that I have "ass bones." I know this because they painfully announced their presence the next day and the day after that. Also I have to wear a dopey bicycle helmet during lessons. I will keep you posted on my progress, about which I am not optimistic but hey what the hell. Also, they have chickens in the barn, which I think is rather cool. Live chickens. They lay eggs, as chickens are wont to do. I will see if I can talk the nice folks at the stable into giving me an egg or two.

Also, for those of you who are into slapstick, I fell on my face (yes, again) this morning while walking Mickey. Of course I did this right as we got to the corner and there were, oh, a million cars there waiting for the red light. I didn't even see the ice, it was completely invisible, and one minute I was upright, walking along, and the next I was up close and personal with the sidewalk. Mickey helpfully came over and sniffed my face.

And, now for a couple links. I am a big fan of the guy in the Office Max commercials who does that Rubberband Man thing...well interestingly enough he was missing for several days in the tsunami disaster. Found out today, happily, that he is alive. But the bad news? BRAD PITT AND JENNIFER ANISTON ARE BREAKING UP! What is this world coming to? If Brad and Jen can't make it, is there any hope for the rest of us?




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