The Best Intentions

A few months ago I was asked by an debatably respected website for women to pen a "career advice" column. I was as surprised as anyone. Serisouly, I get paid shit. Anyway, the first topic was "Workplace Fuckups". I wrote a total of three pieces. The first was turned down. The second was just bad. The third was dropped into the abyss of the Internet and I have no idea what will happen with it. But, I still stand by it. So, for the loyal readers of Apartment 3R (all five of you. Right?) Here it is : A BusinessWomen Special. For Business Women: On the Job, Fucking Things Up


Jerome Kerviel is a former SocGen (French stock market) trader who, in January 2008, committed possibly the largest fraud in the history of banking. Basically, he started making fictitious trades, first very small and unnoticeable and then big and, apparently, very noticeable. He cost the market 40 billion dollars, the biggest loss in the financial world since the September 11th attacks.

Several things are interesting about Jerome. His personality. He is described as a very unassuming man. He was a computer whiz, quietly handsome, well remunerated and by all appearances seemed to have a long, steady career ahead of him. Some people said that he was a scapegoat, practically blameless, and whatever had happened under his watch was simply a mistake. Others said that he was back-room genius, a scam-artist professional, an expert locksmith who could not help but use his expertise to openly rob people blind.

What makes a story like this so delicious to me is that don’t you kind of get it? Don’t you kind of understand the impulse to fuck things up so terribly at work that when you make some hapless mistake, deep down, even you wonder if it might be intentional? It’s like what cutters do when they scrape themselves silly. They do it to feel alive.

Lately, I’ve been cataloging my own mistakes. I’m not too surprised to learn that they are frequent. Part of the reason for this, I think, is that I am very accountable. At least that is what they say on my performance reviews. I admit to them almost right away.

Oh me! It’s me! Me over here! I’m the one who misfiled the million dollar contract/leaked the top secret information to press/mistyped a number resulting in a myriad of excruciating conversations with people who thought they would now be rich.

Several women I spoke to agree with me. Everyone seems to be extremely good at admitting their mistakes. Guess who still won’t? Jerome Kerviel and oh my god, I’m sure that list is long. It is also pretty much understood that Kerviel could not have done this alone. He had someone to help.

It all makes me think about men and women and the mistakes we make. Witness this, in amplified form, at the now-legendary Christmas Party of 2005. My company had had a very good year. 2004 has been scary, our profit margins were in the toilet, and then, almost miraculously we turned it around. The graph titled upwards, steeply, and we were all getting bonus. The holiday season rolled around and our notoriously frugal corporate parents decided to splurge. A club was rented, sushi platters were brought out and every member of the company, from the highest to the lowest, was given full access to a complete and absolutely dazzling open bar. I remember walking into the brightly lit up scene, waiters were passing around unnamable things on sticks, the grumpy, dowdy secretaries had put on sparkly shirts, the mailroom guys were grinning, and the mighty and intimidating wove their way through the crowd, pumping everyone with handshakes. It was almost charming. Like some member of a fascist regime, I can remember actually swelling with pride. These people were my people, they are complicated and fascinating and we spend each and every day together working towards a common goal, a common good. The music played, people ate and talked and they drank. Oh, how they drank.

Unsurprisgly, this glowing moment soon devolved into a shit show of epic proporitions. Goodwill was tossed out the window, restraint slipped out the back door and tact took a permanent smoking break. Over the course of three or four hours, toxic amounts of alcohol amplified every petty argument, brought up old, contemptuous histories and emboldened the meek to finally, finally take matters into their own hands. A girl I hardly knew grabbed me by the shoulders and screamed at me that I was standoffish and mean and she just knew I was conniving to get every man in the office to bend to my will.

Rank and file, humiliation knew no bounds. My cheek was wet with the slobber of the CFO. A high-ranking member of the executive board whispered to me looking to set up his own shop. Affairs were revealed, affairs began. Hardly an innocent myself, I noticed a married member of the art department eyeing me sideways in line for the bathroom. I pounced. I have no excuse except for experiencing some unrestrained, wild joy at hearing Queen begin to play and in those moments, propriety vanishes. (Yeah. Also. My Queen phase was about 15 years too late). After the club kicked us out, everyone went to a bar where the bacchanal continued, unabated, until the wee hours.

It’s a fucking miracle that nobody died.

Then, it was the next morning. We had to go back. The sun rose boldly on our shame and the whole building seem to yawn in response. Very few people called in sick. That would too obvious, it was a matter of pride, and besides we weren’t that drunk and 3 AM wasn’t that late. As everyone sat limply at their computers, I began to notice the girls of the office skulk down the hallways, lean into doorways and balance themselves in cubicles. They were apologizing. Apologizing profusely. Apologizing all OVER the place. They apologized for their kick lines, their wayward vomit, secret confessions or inserting their wagging tongues down every willing throat.

My office then had about a 40/50 ration of males to females. However, in retrospect, I can’t help but think that even in places where our presence is dominant, the attitude is not. Women, I find, work very hard to squeeze themselves into a model of working life that is, in reality, very male. So when we bring more female attributes to this model-built-for-male, sometimes, things don’t work right. Every single guy in that office, no matter the magnitudes of their sins, sat at their desks, sipped their coffee and then went out at lunch to rehash the evening with each other. They felt fine.

The girls paired off in two’s or three’s. We drew a line in the sand and in the end, as conscious as we were of our indiscretions, we were even more conscious of each others. Who was the bigger mess, the bigger whore, the one msot certain to feel some repruscussions from their stupidity and lapses in judgement. There was no camaraderie, no shared sense of what was. We lashed ourselves in silence, quietly convinced that whatever we had built for ourselves, would come crumbling down like a house of cards. We probably felt the type of shame that should only be reserved for the likes of Lynddie England (and, face it, only a few of us will ever even be faced with an opportunity to strip naked, bind and gag war prisoners. You know, glass houses. ) and look at how she was dragged over the coals and denigrated so thoroughly for playing her own (yes, entirely disgusting) part in the boys club.

There is no girls club. And, trust me, if there were a girls club, I’d be the last one to join. God knows it would take three lunches before someone would start to talk about Pink Lady jackets or something and um, that would really undermine every female cause ever thought of, okay?

It is worthy to rail against the status quo, to fight for fair maternity leave and equal pay and workplaces free of discrimination and blatant sexual harassment. In the meantime, though, and in workplaces everywhere, we keep squeezing ourselves into models and into ways of life that don’t even work for us. And as we try to get comfortable and as we lift up our leg, or put our hand behind our ears to make for some more room for ourselves, look at what you really might be fucking up. Or fucking over. Not your job. The girl next to you, smushed helplessly to the side , and about to break apart.

Danny Grinberg finally had his housewarming party at 415 Leonard St. What a treat! He has a beautiful new 1 bedroom with a balcony, a gourmet kitchen, and a view of the city.

At the party we not only enjoyed good company, we also enjoyed good music, gouda cheese, and a great pair of sunglasses. Wow those sunglasses got around.

Above you will see how each person looked in said sunglasses (you may see some VIPs in there twice), as well as the whiteness of Danny's walls.

Are You My Mother?

There is a new blog out there that I wish I had thought of. Check it out!
http://postcardsfromyomomma.tumblr.com/

In similar spirit, here are some emails from my Mom from over the past year or so:

On Children:
I never like it when people talk a lot about their kids ( I mean, who gives?) so I actually don't talk a lot about you guys. For example, my co-workers know you live in Brooklyn and do something with books, but they don't know about your new job or anything. Also, what is your brand of mascara? I really liked the look.


On Haircuts:
Well, I’m very very happy for you, Laura. I know you’ve been feeling like Job, though you have always been beautiful. Who cut the bangs shorter, you or your friend? Do you curl them, or keep them very straight?
I can’t believe you actually took my fashion advice on ANYTHING! I’m proud of myself.

On Romance:
You are f****** gorgeous and f******* funny and f****** out of his league.

On Faith:
Your sister is a little atheist these days. She cracks me up.

On Money:
Well, she started at 50, so I assumed she was well over 60 by now. You will catch up and then some, and you’ll be in an industry that’s interesting.
I know Michael got another raise- I bet he’s about 55 now.
I know Geoff got another raise. He went in to the boss’ office to resign and they threw a LOT OF MONEY at him. He must be making buckets.
Let’s see… who else can I mention to make you feel bad today? I don’t have any idea how much Emily makes; I know she despises her job. John Bonner doesn’t make much. I don’t make much. Mary doesn’t make much. Dad does.
You lucky dog!

On Hope (and the audacity, thereof. Thanks BARACK):

Faith, faith, faith, just a little bit of faith. Old song, but wise.
The faith is not in the job you have or don't have, or even the relationship you have or don't have, but that you yourself have a meaningful life that is blessed to yourself and to those around you. You are probably, for now, where you are physically supposed to be. That might change in a single day, but I have a sneaky suspicion you are in the right place for today.
Do you think there's something you're not doing that you should be doing? Then do it. Otherwise, let the day be the day that it is, and know that good is coming.

I Have a Skin Complaint

If you search for ‘rash’ in a thesaurus, it provides ‘skin complaint’ as an alternative. Oops. I didn’t mean to start this web log (aka ‘blog’) as most high school students begin their history essays (“Webster’s Dictionary defines ‘tyranny’ as …”). I’m just saying that ‘skin complaint’ and ‘rash’ have essentially the same definition, but one word will start rumors and the other probably doesn’t elicit any response at all.

I have a skin complaint on my legs. I have a skin complaint about my legs? I’m pretty sure it’s just a wicked case of razor burn, but as the bumps don’t seem to be going away, I finally decided to make an appointment for a professional opinion.

In my place of business, there are no secrets. In the spirit of Bloomberg’s bullpen, the office is set up so that everyone sits in the same open space within eyesight and earshot of everyone else. The walls of the cubes that surround our desks hit at about bridge-of-nose level. If you’ve ever been to a public restroom where the stall door only rises to about your chest when you stand up, it’s a similar concept with a similar feeling; you won’t do anything naughty if everyone can see and hear your business and you feel, well, exposed. While this setup took some getting used to, most of the time I’m fine with it. As far as business is concerned, I’ve got nothing to hide. However, when I’m breaking up with my boyfriend or when I have to call someone about a … um … skin complaint, I’d like some privacy, ok?

Instead of taking a minute to make a personal call (on a cell phone) from the comfort of our own desks, we’re forced to either go out into the hallway (that we share with another company) or go into one of the conference rooms (that have transparent glass walls anyway). There is no option for complete privacy. When making my doctor’s appointment this morning, I elected for the hallway. Everything was going fine until she asked for my insurance ID number. Shit. I left it at my desk. I kept the receptionist on the line while I walked all the way back inside the office and then back to my desk to retrieve my insurance card from my wallet. No big deal; people probably assumed I was ordering a sweater over the phone or something. “What is the purpose of the visit?” Shit. If I had thought that she might have had a thesaurus handy, I would have said, “I have a skin complaint.” Instead, I asked her to hold on another minute while I walked back out into the hallway to tell her, “I have a rash on my legs.” Despite my best efforts, I was still in earshot of a co-worker who was on his way back from the bathroom. While I’m sure he really doesn’t care enough about my skin complaint to mention it to someone else, I simply wouldn’t be surprised if someone else asks me if my condition is improving.

Thanks a lot, Bloomberg.

The Girl Who Couldn't Blog

HI! Whoa. Is this thing on?

Well, Stephanie and Laura have been blogging for some time now, so I guess it is time for me to enter my first blog.

First let me write blog one more time. Ok. On your mark, get ready … BLOG!

The weird thing is, I used to have all of these random thoughts in college, but there wasn’t really an outlet to share them. I tried to use “away messages” through AIM to share funny thoughts, and well, I guess that kind of worked. However, I had longer, more luxurious weird thoughts that didn’t quite fit into the AIM character limit. Instead of writing them down, I merely shared them with Karen, one of my college roommates. For example, I thought a good idea for a movie would be a romantic comedy that was pretty standard in plot and characters, except they could also fly. There would be no mention of this ability; it would simply be something people could do along with walking down the street and buying groceries. Anyway, my point is that now that blogs exist, I have nothing left to say.

I’ve been walking around New York City since the creation of Apartment 3R, just waiting for something blog-worthy to happen. Turns out, things are pretty normal around here. Two weeks ago I was riding the subway to work in the morning on a relatively empty L train (Empty L train? I know! Weird!), and I chose to stand near the doors, leaning against the metal bars with my gym bag at my feet. A middle-aged man in business attire got on the train and stood right in front of me. As most straphangers know (look at THAT term! I’m a real New Yorker!), if someone stands face-to-face with you when your back is at the door, it usually means that A) the train is crowded B) that person is your significant other, or C) that person plans to exit the train at the next stop. None of those things were true. This guy basically had me cornered, the train was practically empty, I was not dating him, and he didn’t exit the train at the next stop or any of the next 4 stops. I should have said something rude to him or just moved, but I decided to stand there since gathering my gym bag would have been a difficult maneuver at that point. Instead, I opened my copy of Metro (look! Another thing REAL New Yorkers do!) in his face. I had my arms fully extended with the paper fully open, creating a barrier from face to just above the crotch region. If this didn’t give him the message that he was being an asshole, I’m not sure what would have. Still, in this city, that’s not such an outrageous story, and I’m not sure someone would want to read about it in a blog.

Before I moved to The City, I lived in the suburbs of The District. There, subway rides and riders are a little tamer. Sure, the NYC subway is relatively quiet during the morning commute, but it doesn’t really compare to the silence on the DC Metro during rush hour. No one speaks. No one looks up. Therefore, if anyone makes any sort of noise or movement that doesn’t resemble reading the Express, listening to music through earphones, or sleeping, it upsets the herd. For example, I’ll never forget the time this old, Asian man got on the train when we were at West Falls Church on the Orange Line heading toward DC during the morning rush hour commute. I had seen this guy before. He liked to share his love for Jesus through song, especially during the holidays. I found it rather obnoxious, because his singing made it difficult for me to listen to my iPod. However, this one time he got on the train, and the guy sitting in front of me (the seats on the subway trains are different in DC, don’t you understand? The seating is like that which you would find on a bus or Amtrak train) was not having it. The Asian man stood near the door and began singing a song about loving Jesus, and the guy in front of me yelled very loudly. His message was something like, “DO I HAVE TO SIT HERE AND LISTEN TO THIS! WHY DON’T YOU SHUT UP!?” I guess I was a little surprised that the Asian man was not fazed in the least by this yelling. I mean, this guy was really yelling. At this point, I was getting irritated because the singing and now the YELLING was really drowning out my iPod. Come on, people! Pipe down! This is DC! We’re all dressed in black, navy blue, or khaki; can’t we get along? The guy in front of me continued to yell, and then this woman across the aisle got up and told the guy in front of me to be quiet. “Let him sing his song!” She felt so strongly (I think about Jesus) that she got up and stood behind the Asian man trying to sing along with him from him book of hymns. I was nervous that the guy in front of me would start throwing punches. Random people were yelling at both the Asian guy and the yelling guy to shut up. I think the Asian guy and the woman (and possibly others on the train) really felt like they did something for Jesus that day. A real triumph for Christianity, if you will.

You see, in NY, the Asian guy would have been singing his song, but life on the train would have continued on as usual. Meaning, girls on their way to high school would continue to talk loudly about whom they plan to beat up and whom they plan to fuck (you can replace high school with middle or elementary school as well). The homeless guy or gal on the train would have continued to panhandle. The hipsters would have continued to read Nietzsche and generally look and feel ironic. No cause for agitation or hard feelings. Nothing unusual.

Anyway, so I’ll continue to look for things to blog about, but when the weird and unusual is standard, it’s like WHAT DO I BLOG ABOUT, you guys?

Causes of Eye Twitching via The Internet

Corneal irritation or injury
Stress
Lack of sleep
Fatigue
Prolonged staring or eye strain
Neurological disorders
Possibly Hereditary


I'm keeping my fingers crossed for Neurological disorders. I mean, March is SO boring. A hot neurological disorder could really shake things up for all of us.

Sounds of the City (as you can see, I like lists)

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You actually DO hear these sounds living in the city... just like in the movies!
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sirens

breaking glass on the sidewalk around two a.m.

honking

screeching trains on rusty tracks

honking

neighborhood ladies yelling at each other from across the street

sirens

loud whistles, "HEY", and "Ooooo, BABY YOU BE PACKIN!" shouted in my ear when I'm simply trying to cross the street.

Buses, trucks, and big engines racing onto the expressway, shaking my apartment's foundation

bike messenger bells

neighborhood ladies strolling down the street saying, "I need to go upstairs to get my pennies if were gonna play poker!"

Jack hammers and construction

Italian cousins in the grocery store going on and on about the Yankees.... or the Giants... or the Knicks (very rarely the Knicks).

honking
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Sounds I miss from the suburbs and small towns...
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marching band practice vibrating off neighboring houses

morning birds

silence

distant dogs barking at each other at dusk

squirrels playing in the gutter

silence

turn table playing Joni, wind whistling in through open windows, leaves rustling from the yard

delivery trucks slowly wheeling by - looking for an address

baby children happily discussing their latest thrill while digging in the sidewalk cracks for a rolly-polly

silence?
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