Author: myslipwaspink

Retrospective-Thanksgiving Day Invictus

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“Jane, come out to Long Island for a Norman Rockwell Thanksgiving.”

“Thanks  Dave.  But we’re not “dating.”  I’m the girl you “passed” on.  You know, that Tiffany ring thing.  So, I shouldn’t do holiday fraternizing  with your family.  But, come to think of it, after five years, I should get a gold watch or a plaque .” (other than arterial sclerosis.)

“Ha Ha Pink Slip.   Everyone loves you.  There’ll  be dogs.”

“Listen, I have other plans.  I’m going to go to the Harvard Club and sit and the “orphan’s table.”  Sorry, they call it the “community table.”  Women in funny hats.”

“I’ll pick you up at 2:00 he says.  At your mother’s place.  Try arguing with an attorney.

He shows up promptly in a blue blazer looking unusually handsome.

“Some irises.”

“These are my mother’s favorite flowers! How did you know?”

He smiles and looks unusually charming.  (Does he know her maiden name too?)

We walk into my mother’s bedroom, her new throne, and take our positions on the bed with her.We watch the “Toy Dog” segment of the Westminster Dog show on TV.  This is a sacred ritual and no one is allowed to speak until the “Best of Show” is revealed.

“Remember, Pink Slip, when we there in person?  Then we went downstairs and saw all the dogs,”  she breaks the silence.  We all think about happier days and try to avoid looking at the delicate floral urn on my mother’s dresser that’s housings Dora’s ashes.  I ache.

The three of us are mourning the death of my mother’s Maltese dog, Dora, her beloved companion, who died this past May.  We look at the pictures stationed around the room–many of which were shot by Dave.  My mother’s bedroom is a shrine, not to the memories of her two grown children and grandchildren, but to her departed Maltese. She now exists with  the two mechanical cats that I purchased in a drugstore–Miss Kitty and LuLu, “The Non-Life Breed”.   My mother continues to babble about how the “girls”  are watching the show, but what they really love are cartoons and they have their own schedule.  “One ran out of batteries so she’s just relaxing now.  We’ll have to deal with that situation.”

I pretend not to hear the request for batteries.  I’ve been giving my mother dinner for the past three hours, and I’m about to pass out from exhaustion.  So far every aid has quit, but it’s difficult for a daughter to turn in her walking papers.  Throughout dinner, she continually lapsed into anger. I don’t know when my mother will erupt.  Constantly walking on eggshells makes me feel like I will break.  I look at her skin and see that  is becoming translucent.  There is a sad beauty in what is left–even in a fading leaf.

I drift of to sleep to the sound of a Purina Dog Chow commercial.  I’m dreaming.  A really handsome man is walking me on a pink rhinestone leash!   (I’m not going to tell you whether I’m wearing my dog coat and booties…) Yippee!  There is an afterlife.

“Let’s go Pink Slip”  I hear Dave command.  “We have a train to catch.”

I feel relief as I peel myself off my mother’s bed.  I kiss her goodbye.  She is angry, but resigned.  I wonder if this is our last Thanksgiving together.

We emerge from the elevator onto the street.  I feel like I’m under a spell.  The cold air hits my face.  I’m filled with grief, exhaustion, and loneliness.  I can hardly stand.

Dave starts to babble with his nose in a train schedule,” Well, we can catch the 6, then the D, then the trains to Great Neck.  They run pretty frequently…”

I erupt in anger, ” Listen, let’s take a taxi to Penn Station.  I’ll pay for it. I”m exhausted.  Or maybe I’ll just go to the  “orphans” table.”  I am exhausted from years of frustration.

“No that’s OK.”  Silence.  I can be a jerk sometimes.

We sit in silence on the train on our way  to the “perfect” Thanksgiving.  In 45 minutes, we arrive at the “perfect” home  in North Shore horse country as  the “perfect” couple from NYC.

We walk up the stone steps and Dave turns to me and hurls ” You know, Pink Slip , you really have some of your mother’s characteristics.”

I think about the orphan turkey that I lost…

Thanksgiving Day

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Time is speeding by and it’s already Thanksgiving.  There is a chill in the air and I still don’t have a job.  The good news is that I’ve cleaned out my sock drawer.  And I found every birthday card my mother every gave me.  What do I do with these memories?  I used to take her to the Harvard club for Thanksgiving dinner.  It was our tradition.  We would get drunk on Cosmos sitting by the picture of Helen Keller.  The last two years were really rough.  She was angry, yelling in the dining room.  I was just pissed I had to do it.  But it really didn’t occur to me that time runs out…

So now I’m watching the  parade on TV and I’m gearing myself for visiting my mother, who is now living in her bed.

When things are crumbling, I guess we must be grateful for the pieces!  We are blessed to have this day.  I wish you all a happy Thanksgiving!

No “Pink Slip”-My Liberation!

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With this parting thought, I drag my frayed shoe box through the building, into the elevator, onto the street.  I stand in a pink vapor, waiting for a taxi to rescue me.  My heart aches.  I feel naked and alone on a NYC street corner, except for a single pink slip clinging to my body.  But the cars whiz by me as I am now invisible. I lean against steel, as the new icon of 2009.  Workers, standing in front of office buildings.  Worldly belongings shoved into torn cardboard boxes.  No pink slip.

But somehow, at this dark moment, I see that the expanse of 9th Avenue is my Red Sea.  I am liberated!  I know I will  travel through rough, frightening  terrain.  In this case, oncoming traffic. With all my soul, I understand, the journey of my life has finally begun.

Packing The Tent

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I return through the dark corridor to collect my shoe farm.  I forage for boxes, and I fortunately find one in the main conference room.  I use my door “clicker” to be admitted to the inner sanctum for the last time.  No one has moved or changed position since I left.  They still sit like wax figures at the computer—eyes glued, guarding confidential company files.  I gently arrange my shoes in the cardboard box like it’s a cradle.  I have trouble breathing through the heavy silence.  I start to panic!

“Where is my pink slip?”  There’s absolutely no evidence that I’ve spent the past 12 months working 60 hour weeks.  I type in my password on the computer.  It’s frozen.  I hear a familiar voice echo behind me “Let’s not drag this out!”

The Firing-Exiles and Dreams

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I’m always the first one to get into work. Our tiny office is in the not- so- chic area of Manhattan—9th Avenue and 38th Street.  It’s an indistinct neighborhood in between the theater district and Chelsea filled with grime and fast food.  Here’s my routine.    I get off the subway at Penn Station and march straight into Cupcake Palace for my early morning sugar fix. They have any concoction you could imagine, but it’s either “Devil Dog,”  “Marshmallow” or “Twinkie” and a small coffee with skim milk.  (Sometimes I really go crazy and order a “Red Velvet” cupcake.  That’s for Valentine’s Day.)  But today, I come in earlier than my usual 8AM.    The door is open and the light is on.  I walk in and everyone in our one room office is assembled, eating bagels and muffins like automatons, glued to their computer screens. As a researcher, I know this is suspicious. They never stroll in before 10:30, and even stopped giving excuses like “They were shooting a movie, I was trapped in the train for three hours and my BlackBerry was down.”  That was creative.  Or “My ceiling was leaking, my roommate was drunk, and I had to collect the droplets in water glasses.”  The best was the explanation for a sudden and unexplained five day disappearance, “I was searching for a friend in Tibet.  You can give me a donation.  Or a raise.”    However, right now there is an absence of speech.  They grunt “hello” not raising their heads. Big Moe, the owner of the agency, who typically arrives mid-afternoon, is already on-line.  I have a feeling of dread.

“Hey “he IM’S.

Hi.”  I IM back.

“Would you come into my office” he shoots back.

“Yikes,” I think.  This can’t be good.  I was told that I could take a long weekend after a year of hard labor without a vacation day.  The troops were regrouping, planning my demise. In my last minutes, I frantically search the computer for clues.

“A-Hah!  Wouldn’t you know it?  My subordinate changed his email address to something long and flashy in preparation of his taking over my job.  As opposed to monkeyboy, he is now james.barrett3@bigsky.com.  There’s an old saying, “In times of distress, small organizations eat their leadership. “

My co-workers are still glued to their computers.  They’re pretending not to see me.  What fair weather friends!  What about my shoe collection?  I’ve amassed dozens of shoes under the make-shift desk I’ve put up with over the past year.  How the hell am I going to drag them home alone?  Like taxes and winter.  I saw it coming. My friends warned me.    I look back in a flash and it’s all there.  I was never busier, but there was this gut feeling of exclusion. And I blamed it on my cupcake coma—sugar induced paranoia. Yeah, I blamed it on icing.  But the fact is they were broke and I kept working.  “You are a pink cupcake” I scream inside.  I’m angry that I’ve played so fair, been so diligent, and left myself open to this exposure.  For the past months, I should have been stealing corporate files, not trying to figure out how to keep them afloat.  Idiot.  I certainly let my pink slip show!

Here we go.  “Think pink…”  I walk down the hall, and hear my heels clicking on the cold tile floor. I concentrate on that sound to calm me.  “Click, click, Jane is the mousy…”

I enter Big Moe’s office awkwardly. This is my one year anniversary. And I had helped him build the company from the ground up.   I haven’t been paid for 4 weeks

There’s Big Moe, reclining behind a large mahogany desk with several computer screens blinking. He’s a large thin man with a fixation for working out.   A runner (probably from the law) in his early 50’s, who’s traveled all over the world.  His photographs of children, flowers, and rice bowls from exotic places like Laos and Phuket adorn the walls.  Known for wearing outrageous attire, particularly to client meetings, I had to note what he was wearing for my “firing”– a blinding tie-dyed shirt topped with a brown suede vest.  I think he picked up the vest in a thrift store—it was frayed like a baby blanket and trimmed with juvenile piping (multi-colored butterflies and elephants.) Unique! A very large silver peace sign dangles from his long neck with a black cord.  He wears a green cap that says “Sustainable” referring to green marketing.  That was my idea. He wears sneakers, his uniform—the ordinary kind, which are stationed beside his pile of cast-away loafers.  I’m wearing a black pant suit with pearls.  I was always kind of overdressed.  “The serious one” like Hillary Clinton.   I look at the wire rimmed sun glasses by his computer that he thought were “so cool.” I remember just when he bought them.  He claimed they were “indestructible” and that’s why he paid so much.  A true necessity.  I was afraid he would throw them against the wall sometime when he got pissed which was often.  Sometimes he forgot people were breakable.  And a there’s a large stuffed goose with the inscription “Webbed Feet Hit Targets” Hah!  That was mine too.   We ate a lot of Thai food and deli during the late nights in this room.  Big Moe’s the kind of guy who’s either your best friend or your worst enemy.  I hope to see the smile that I knew so well in better days.  The one that was full of exuberance.  Big Moe looks guilty.  Even for him. And worn. I fix my eyes on a large female ivory sculpture that I always liked. She’s a shrine to sanity.  I say to myself, “Concentrate on the breath.  In and out.  In and out…”

“I’ve done some soul searching over the weekend, and I’m just going to make some cuts.  Starting with you.  I don’t even have money for rent or groceries.  My weekend really sucked.  All I could do was stay in.  Of course, I won’t contest your unemployment.”

“And what about the back pay”

“Well, maybe by spring.”

“I see.”

“You really have made a mark on this company.  Especially with the new website and logo.  “

I’m leaving with nothing.  No savings on a start-up salary with plenty of missed paychecks.  I’m numb.

“Maybe things will pick up in September. “ I lie.

“With your background, I think you’re a candidate for a CMO position.  You could be earning a quarter of a million dollars.”  he lies.

“It was the typo, right?”  “The one in the AsWell Presentation.”  Self-blame is setting in.

“We had a client complaint.”  He glares.  “You spelled ass.”

“I gave the copy to you to proof!”  It was so late!  And their analytics were excellent.  So, I’m getting canned over Ass Cream?”

“You know, I think I just might want to be a street performer again.  Or learn to fly.”

“Are you joking?  After all this!”

“That’s right.”  He darts me a menacing look.  “The others are going.  They just don’t know it yet.”

It’s futile.  What if I have cavities?”  I worry.

I extend my hand.  “Take care.”

I throw my keys on the desk, and think about past dreams.

What did I want to do when I was five?

Tell Me About Your Self—Is Your Pink Slip Showing?

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Do you ever wonder what it’s all about?  Well, as the unemployment rate in NYC reaches 17%, I certainly do.  I’m a Harvard Business School graduate without a job.   And I’ve graduated Harvard not once, but twice!  With fifteen years of work experience.   You can relate.   Now that I think of it, I’ve spent most of my life “searching”.  For the right job.  And for the right guy.   But somehow my picket fence remains my 500 square foot studio on East 72nd Street    Have you noticed that interviews and dating are pretty similar experiences?   So, let me tell you about myself.  I’m Jane, and I’m currently lying in my bed on the upper east side of Manhattan with my teddy bear, Solace.  And multiple Hershey bar wrappers.  Where does one go from here?

Most recently, I worked for an internet marketing start-up in NYC.  Starting last January, business took a nose-dive as a result of the recession.  During the summer, we couldn’t generate any new business.  Nervous marketing managers slashed budgets.  “Spend” became the new “four letter” word.  Two weeks before my birthday last October, I’m handed my “pink slip”.  Happy Birthday Jane!

I gathered my shoes, photos, and mouse pad before my computer unceremoniously goes black. Looking back, I saw it coming. But I wasn’t prepared.  Now an outsider, I embark on a new journey.  To figure “It” out.  Life is a puzzle.

I must ask you, “Is your pink slip showing?”

My Broken Heart

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My life was a strange and unforeseen array of NY parties, openings, late night bars, dates, dumpings, Manolo buying, Manolo hocking, binge eating, food restricting, and Mallomar hiding, job hunting, and  firings that went on far beyond its expiration date. One day I’m walking to a meet a lunch date a Grand Central Terminal and my heart starts to hurt.  I figure it’s either the new angst of my life or my heels are too high.  Maybe it’s the fact that elder lawyers and accountants are on my speed dial.  After a three week battery of tests, I ended up in Lenox Hill Hospital for an emergency cardiac procedure.   I was there alone and was told to put the contents of my life into a small plastic bag.  (There went the Manolos!)  Thank God I was wearing lipstick!  “Pink Sweetheart”. And where is a slinky strapless gown and thong when you need it?   It wasn’t bad being the “babe” in the cardiac ward.  There were lots of captive men and residents to talk to. I watched my heartbeat, on one of those monitors, but then my cell phone crashed.    Three days later I took a taxi home and pondered the tenuousness of life.  I saw buildings and flowers with new color.  But this sense of wonder and gratitude faded as I renewed my various “searches “just three weeks later.  My heart has never healed.

Pink Slip’s Charm Bracelet

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“Handsome Jewish Blonde Husband” (Large white teeth!)

“White House in Suburb With Picket Fence (Without Room for MY Mother)

”Mother Who Calls Only Once A Day…Or Less” (The impossible dream)

“Size 6 Lilly Pulitzer Wardrobe”   (Let’s not forget the white sandals and beads.  )

“Chocolate Lab Who is Perfectly Paper trained.” (Muse for a perfect husband)

“Mother Who is Perfectly Paper Trained (and will not criticize new lime green wardrobe.)

“Blonde children who are biologically my own.   I am brunette.”   (Who of course are perfectly athletic)

“Unparallel cooking ability.”    (Specialize in game meats)

Cute boutique that sells expensive, but very small but objects that family and dog finds on world tours.

Facility to drink Grey Goose without slurring words and mistaking similar looking Aryan neighbor for husband.

My Slip was “Pink!”

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I ‘m just a small town girl from Seaside, LI. who grew up between a dump and the Long Island Power Company.  As I child, my Disneyland was watching the landfill rise under the silver twinkling light of fission.  I grew up on Cupcake Lane where all the houses looked pretty much the same. But the violence inside them wasn’t.  My goal was to leave Seaside once and for all.  To go to Harvard College, an institution that stood for tolerance.  This was some aspiration for a Jewish girl from Seaside!   My dream somehow was granted.  I studied Shakespeare, and it was wonderful.  I headed for NYC after graduation with the other lemmings and like “Carrie Bradshaw” had many exciting adventures. There were plenty of jobs, boyfriends, and shoes, but nothing ever seemed to stick.  Do you know what I mean?  And then the charms started to fall off the bracelet that I cherished.