The carnage is unbelievable. We watch the TV in disbelief and profound sadness. I just gave my donation to Doctors Without Borders. A nominal act. I am struck by a vision indomitable hope. In the remains. Deep in the rubble. There are people whose hands are clasped in prayer. They do not allow their suffering to break therm or the force of their belief. They accept the mystery of suffering, and forge ahead.
Uncategorized
New Years’ Message–An Abandoned Sign
It’s a new year and a new decade that will hopefully bring health, happiness, and prosperity. Well, at least one of the above. Some weeks have gone by and NYC has been in a deep freeze. So have I. But I feel that spring is coming. I walked down the steet and I saw an abandoned sign left for garbage. It said, “Be your dreams…” Hmmm, I thought to myself. Maybe someone was selling a mattress or something, or one of those learning seminars. I wondered if the universe talks? So, I walked past the “sign.”
But then I walked back to it. I looked at it in the face and I asked the scrawl,”Do you really have anything to way to me.” I looked at the reverse side. There was the same exact message was scribbled across accross the ragged board.
“Thanks,” I said for all freezing pedestrians to hear. It was one of those artic cold and miserable days. So, this is MY new years message. From an abandoned sign.
Twinkling Christmas Lights
I watch them putting up those tiny Christmas lights as I enter my mother’s building. White, blue, and red flashes of light signaling the holiday season–like prized race horses bolting out of the gate. My breath is frosted. Another aide called me in a panic. In broken English, she pleads telling me about my mother’s rage. I tell her that she wasn’t always like this. Neither was I…
I try to appeal to her compassion. I pray that she does not leave. I have lost count of how many have been in and out. In and out. Like my breath. Or the waves hitting the beach at Seaside.
I look up at the massive high rise my mother still calls home. I see tiny twinkling sparkles on bare branches. There is a soul fading. I shudder.
I start crying in the middle of the street. I want to be a child again at the beach in Seaside. My father and I would occasionally take walks down the boardwalk . The mission was threefold: frankfuters, dounts, and knishes. “Now, don’t tell your mother” he would growl as he shoved a cruller down his throat. Other than that we were silent. I would listen to the cries of the gulls and the waves breaking against the beach. My favorite book then was “Jonathan Livingston Seagull.” It was really popular. I think the bird flies away at the end.
Distant memories. My father is long gone. Cancer. Like the seagulls in Seaside.
There will never be a feeling of protection again. Always walking in shrapnel.
Tiny lights.
Twinkling like …bait.
Signaling the end.
Or worse.
TIPS!
Internet STD
I’m on my computer checking my email. I’m minding my own business . In fact, I’m even thinking about starting my job search. Suddenly, I see an email from a partner at a law firm who once referred me to a marketing executive at his company–one of the top ten law firms in the world.
It says, “Pink Slip, why do you think I need Viagra?
“What? Would you please clarify?” I never even met this guy. Then I look at the email.
To my horror, an email has been sent in my name to members of my address book, endorsing the use of Viagra. I, Pink Slip, am the new love goddess pushing the drug, not only for men, but for women too. You would think they would at least send me some free samples!
I panic and call the partner, and due to some miracle, he picks up his line.
“Hi Pink Slip.”
“I’m so sorry. I don’t know what to say!” I feel like I’ve been compromised without having any fun.
“Listen. It’s a clear case of identity fraud. I’m not that familiar with it. But it’s becoming more common. Take care of it.”
“Ok. Thanks. I mean I’m so sorry….”
“Oh no…” I ponder. ” What next. I have internet clap.”
Bimbo Doll
T and I have been good friends for a while. She’s an investment banker and has a no nonsense approach to life. With long blonde hair and large green eyes, I can safely say that T is not only brainy but beautiful. And she’s tough. But I can’t tell you too much about her or she’ll come after me. So, we’re sitting at the Harvard Club crying about our misery. Not enough money and no good men.
“I’ll tell you what men want, Pink Slip.” she grins seductively eying the men in the room.
“You would know”, I drown myself in Pinot Grigio wondering how does she ever walk in those shoes.
“The Bimbo Doll!”
“I get it. She’s blonde and blue-eyed like Barbie, and her boobs are totally disproportional. And she can’t talk except when you pull her string. Oh, and she comes with no clothes.”
“Perfect” T smiles.
“Except for a tiny Perla thong and bra.”
“Bimbo has a hoarse voice like she’s had the swine flu.”
“Yeah.” I go for the pretzels and cheese whiz. I’ll start my diet tomorrow. (How does T stay at a size 2?)
T shoves a carrot in her mouth. “Oh, baby you’re so great. You’re just what I want…
I chime in to stop her from going all the way “Oh, Oh, Oh, I really need your big…reference?”
“Oh Pink Slip, get a job already!”
She’s right. But doing what?
Retrospective-Thanksgiving Day Invictus
“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…
The Firing-Exiles and Dreams
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?
Jane Ranzman Writer 
