Harvard Hedge Fund Event

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I planned to meet a friend at a Harvard Hedge Fund event who works for a major nonprofit organization.  Everybody shows up for it whether they’re in the industry or not—it’s like a big B-School garden party.  Come to think of it, I don’t know what a hedge fund is.  So, where did that name come from?  That large bush that surrounds the “masters of the universe?”  Or is a “hedge” a small malicious animal with sharp teeth—like a rat, trained to point fingers…or claws.  I didn’t want to come, but I figured there would be good shoes, cute guys, and shrimp.   I arrived early and we were not allowed to touch the drinks.  And there were no cocktail franks.  So, I had to survive the famine until after the panel discussion.  I walk toward the auditorium of the investment firm where the event was hosted, and signed a non-disclosure before I entered the inner sanctum.  I sit in my seat and inhale the scent of leather and power.  People are a whirl of Wall Street black and grey, furiously checking their BlackBerries.  The atmosphere is hushed and private—even reverential.  And it should be…

Some of the people in the room probably make more money than a small county, come to think of it.  We civilians in the audience are fascinated to be near this tidal wave of cash.

The moderator takes the microphone, “Nothing we say here is true.”  All the speakers nod silently.  The audience bows in reverence.  Each guru takes his turn delivering a market recap and prophesying the year to come.  We take notes hoping the wizardry will rub off.

The terms blurred…derivative…long position…Whatever.  When do we eat!

Fingers pointing, but all innocent.   They’re all good.  Right?  Like Lloyd Blankfein at Goldman Sachs who is doing “God’s work.”  What a relief.  And he’s just a blue collar guy.  I have shirts with blue collars too. 

The words echo,”Madoff was not one of us.  He was a broker/dealer.  He never would have received external clearance.

The room nodded.

There was no shrimp at the reception.  Only fried chicken.

The Poodle Girl Diet

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At 8am the next morning I call Dr. G my internist.  I speak with his assistant Shirley.

“Hi, Dorothy, It’s Pink Slip.  It’s an emergency I must wee the doctor today.”

“What is it—H1N1?”  she sounded concerned.

“No.  I can’t tell you.  It’s personal.  But believe me, it’s important.”  I pretend to cough.

“Listen Pink Slip.  He’s really busy, but I”ll squeeze you in.  Can you be here in one hour?

“Great.  Thanks so much” I say in my best hoarse voice.

I squeeze on my jeans  and run to the bus. I consider this to be my first day of excercise. 

Within 45 minutes I arrive at Dr. G’s office.

“HI  Ms. Pink Slip.   How are you today?”   Dorothy is a prim looking woman with large black glasses, who always appears dwarfed by the voluminous papers on her desk.  “You can go into the examining room.”

Thanks.”  I hang up my coat and cough.

Dr. G appears looking weary and harried.  He’s a studious looking man in a white coat and bow tie with thinning silver hair and wire framed glasses.

 
“So?”  He sits down across from me and crosses his legs.  He pulls out a pad and is ready to take notes.

“Well, come to think of it, I could use some happy pills.”

“I can prescribe an allergy pill.  What else?”

“I’m having bad dreams.”

“Just don’t go to sleep” he yawns.  “Trying to get out of something?  Jury duty?

“Actually, this is my problem.  I’m fat.  I’m just not getting picked up at the Harvard Club bar these days by loaded octogenarians.” I start to weep and he hands me a wrinkled tissue.  Probably from his last flu victim.

“Tell me what you eat in a typical day.  Like yesterday.”

“Well, I skipped breakfast.  Had a fudgy cupcake for lunch.  And, let’s see.  A margarita, a corn chips, and a half of a beef burrito for dinner at Tia Mia.” ( An incomlete inventory.  I know I ate the whole burrito.  My shame would allow me to confess just so much.”

“Sour cream?”

“Yeah, but on the burrito.”  I  smirk.    I didn’t tell him about the chocolate chocolate chip ice cream I ate in secret—even hiding it from Solace bear.

“That cupcake thing is juvenile.  That’s a child’s palette.”  We both pause and think.

“Let me calculate your Body Mass Index.”  He pulls out a Blackberry, flips open a manila folder, and makes some focused calculations.  “Hmmm, there is indeed a problem. “

I start to wail like I just lost my best friend.

“This is my suggested food plan.  Ok, (he looks like he’s delivering military secrets).  For breakfast, one apple and a sliver of cheese.”

“What kind?” I feel concerned.  That’s a change in diet for me.  I’m used to donuts and cupcakes for breakfast.

“I’m flexible. Gouda and Jarlsberg are fine.”

“What about lunch.  I’m beginning to feel hungry.”

He glares at me, “No lunch.  That’s a strict rule.”

“Oh please.  That can’t be so.  I’ll starve.”

He grins.  “You’ll burn body fat.  I do it every day.  Too busy to eat.  I told the girls in the office to do it and they cried.”

My stomach starts to growl.  “I’m already hungry.  This won’t work.”

“You’ll get used to it.”

“Dinner?  I ask weakly.

“You know how to chop salad?”

“No.”  For me icing is a vegetable.

“You’ll learn.  Every night you chop lettuce.  You like blue cheese?

“Yeah.  But with a porterhouse steak.”

“You put 2 ounces cheese in the salad.  Throw in another apple.  And that’s dinner.  The weight will melt away.” he punches his stomach.

“Wow.  And what about exercise? ” I’m getting more disheartened.

“I don’t believe in it.  I’m too busy to go the gym.”

“Oh, and every once in a while, throw in a really low calorie dinner” he shakes his pen.

“Lower than lettuce?”

“That’s right.  One cup Cheerios and milk.  That’ll keep you on track.  Anything else?

“That’s not enough food for an upper east side NYC poodle!”   That’s what I’ll call it.  “The Poodle Girl Diet.”

We’re Fat!

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I’m experiencing the January blahs…sitting in my apartment amidst the Mallamar wrappers and discarded boxes.  Perhaps you can relate.  It’s Thursday at around 8:00PM.  I’m lonely.   I should be out having drinks. But here I am watching Grey’s Anatomy and eating Twizzlers with my bear Solace.  There’s something wrong with this picture.  I call my best friend Rita, who lives in my apartment building.

“Rita, we’re fat,”  I cry sinking into my bed.

“You just discovered that?”  she laughs.  I hear her toy poodle Gucci barking in the background.  ”  That mutt is the only one of us in this family who doesn’t have a weight problem!”  I hear a sucking noise.  “Oh, excuse me.  I didn’t mean to interupt your menage a trois.”

“You’ve got it!”  I’m indisposed.  With Ben and Jerry!”

“I’ve dated them.    Expecially Chubby Hubby.”  I turn on the remote to watch American Idol.”

“Yeah, it’s smooth, but reliable.”  Rita is a pretty blonde who looks like a plus-sized Chistina Applegate.  A clinical psycholgist, she’s highly analytical and is prone to long explanations of things.  Resigned to single life at 43, she adopted the toy poodle we dubbed Gucci after our favorite bags.

“Diet” I declare.  That’s we have to do.  Including the poodle.

“Listen PinkSlip.  Diet is a four letter work. Nite!”

I think of the Gone With The Wind.”  Scarlett O Hara was determined to succeed despite overwhelming obstables.  What did she say?  “I’ll never go hungry again!”

Well, that’s not going in the right direction, but she did eat turnips for a while and looked mighty trim when she visited Rhett Butler in that green curtain.

Volunteer Assignments

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I was inspired by the noble actions people have taken to help Haiti.  We are all connected.  So I start to think.  What can I do to help?  I look at some web sites.  Cure the sick.  That’s important.  I look at New York Presbyterian Hospital.  It’s in the neighborhood and there are doctors.  I see  a number of volunteer opportunities.  Two stand out:

Milk Shake Service

Escorts

Praying Haiti

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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.

New Years’ Message–An Abandoned Sign

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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

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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

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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

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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?

Cyber Snoop

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I’ve noticed that dating and interviewing for jobs are very similar.  But what do YOU think about “Googling” a potential date before you’ve even met them?  Does it really give you some kind of competitive advantage over drinks?”    I don’t know.  Personally, I think it’s unromantic and downright mercenary!  Do  you  think someone has the right to review all the details of your life , before you’ve both been severely inebriated together?  Now that’s romance!  Should a potential dating candidate (in the name of transparency) hurl , “I FacedBooked you!  I guess you graduated high school when you were 9…?” 

Maybe I am old fashioned,  but I believe in these times of  “the meet-up” , “the hook-up”, and “ the cybersnoop”, one should just let things unfold the natural way!

The New Date

We stare into each other eyes.  There is chemistry.

He asks:

I noticed on Linked-In that you’re a marketing strategy consultant.  What do you do all day long?

(Perhaps I should wink and say I will “do you!” )  That would make me popular.  I eat a pretzel.

“Do you own or rent?”  (Referring to my apartment. Not my body parts.)

(“Oh, of course I own.” I lie.  I shove a cracker with cheese whiz in my mouth.  And what about you?)

“I live in hospital housing.” he smiles.

(What does that mean?  Is he a doctor or an in-patient?)  I twirl my hair seductively in case he’s a doctor.  Damn.  I should have “Googled” him!”

He  circles back to the apartment. “When did you buy?”

That’s a very important asset question.   He’s also trying to figure out the capitol gains for when he moves in, divorces me, and claims ownership of my apartment.  Smart.  He must be an MD!

I smile coyly, “I can’t tell you that since I’ve frozen my age.”

He points at me with a a pretzel, “Got Ya!”

“It’s the new math.  Got it?”

“Where does your mother live?”  he asks.

“Not with me.  But I’m a good daughter.  I visit her every week. ” My smile is frozen.

“What is her address?” he commands as he puts his hand on my leg.  That is his way of eliciting secret information from me.  I stare blankly.

“Does she rent or own?” he continues.

” I don’t remember” I say weakly.  He senses huge capitol gains and squeezes my leg.  I start to stand, and he grabs my arm.

“Wait.  We’re just getting to know each other.  When did she buy?”  Just a few more questions.”  He pulls out a crumpled list.

“I noticed you only worked with American Baby for one year?  How come?”

“How many pairs of shoes do you own?”

“Do you have long term care insurance?”

“Do you believe in decorating for the holidays?  If so, with what?”

(How do you want me to decorate you, honey?)

“Do you believe in “Soul Mates?”

“How much money do you make?”

“What do you think about ME!!!”

“Tell me about the perfect relationship.”

“I really like your orange jump suit.  What did you DO to get it?”

I say:

I think I’ll have some nuts…