the book of my life …

facebook post: March 23, 2012

cathartic morning … i feel a weight lifted … lighter … unchained but grounded … i am grateful for what has been offered me and i breathe a sigh of relief at moving forward and not looking back (too often) …

*     *     *     *     *

July 21, 2011 was the last day I was physically in my office in the building in which I worked for the division of the company that employed me. On August 1, I started a leave of absence in order to clear my head, regain my self-respect and dignity, and start rebuilding my self-esteem and self-worth that was sucked out of me by this job. I also need to confront the crippling depression and grief of losing my partner to AIDS.

From 2003 to 2008, I worked in a different division of this same company. They hired me to do what I do best: define and implement business processes to positively impact bottom line results. That job brought me to New York with my “at that time” boyfriend and it kept me in New York when that tumultuous relationship ended. It was a challenging and rewarding job. It pushed my skills as a business driver, stretched my partnership and influencing skills, honed my communication and training skills, and molded me into a more effective executive leader.

I loved that job and the company loved me. I excelled at my work and I wore the success well. Being alone in New York was a new chapter in my life. It was my chance to prove that I could embody “If you can make it there, you’ll make it anywhere.” That job was a crowning achievement in a career started almost by accident and definitely by necessity.

*     *     *     *     *

in the late 1980s, my career started by working in retail stores. I had a lack luster high school education and no college degree. I never planned for a career in retail. I planned to be a Broadway star with three Tony Awards under my belt by the time I was twenty-three. Clearly, I failed at setting achievable life goals. I did not have the discipline to properly train or hone my craft let alone the level of talent to make that goal a reality. Retail sustained me. It gave me a creative outlet and it paid the bills.

I have great memories from my in store days: opening and closing shifts, floor sets, store meetings, conferences, inventories, learning from great managers. I worked with amazing people and learned an unending amount of business acumen.

In 1988, I joined one of the best American fashion companies during its heyday. This was THE company to work for in the late 1980s through the 1990s. I grew up in the “backyard” where this company was founded and headquartered. I “grew up” professionally by working there. My store management skills helped me to work my way up and into the corporate environment where I excelled and advanced in the Store Operations arena. I worked in this company’s various divisions for thirteen years until I was laid off during its first ever “workforce reduction” in the recession of 2000.

I humbly worked in the stores of another great American company, as a sales associate selling home décor and furniture. In 2002, I met a man who moved us to Southern California, and started a new chapter of my life as a store manager with this same hard lines retailer.

Within a year, I was in New York with that same man and our dog. I landed a new job in a corporate role created expressly for me. This job was with a company whose name alone evokes the aspiration of wealth, opulence, and the American dream. It was a very “New York” company to work for. What I was asked to do was never done there; it was a clean slate. I was charged with defining processes, policies, procedures, tools, techniques and training to enable stores (and the division) to manage a $46 million dollar payroll budget. It was glorious.

I worked there from 2002 until 2007 when I left to start a new chapter of my life. I joined a UK fashion brand and worked in the US headquarters. This job moved my career in the direction I had always wanted. I supervised both the Operations Department and the field organization. I had three regional managers reporting to me along with Store Operations, Store Communications, Inventory Control, Facilities & Maintenance, and Loss Prevention.

In June of 2009, the poor state of the company’s financials made them eliminate my position. I was incredibly grateful for this. My partner was hospitalized in March and was released the week I was laid off. I spent the last six weeks of his life with him here in my apartment. He passed away in August of 2009. That chapter of my life started a deep depression that seemed as if it would never end. I didn’t make smart life decisions during that time. I was desperate to escape the reality that I just faced. That chapter tested me in more ways, but that’s a story for another day.

*     *     *     *     *

In November of 2009, I was asked to take a position in a different division of the company I left in 2007. I was told that my skills and experience were needed. I was told that what I accomplished before was still seen as important and my skills were needed in this challenged and evolving division. I was told I would take a $20,000 pay cut, and that the division’s culture was intense and demanding, almost like working in a “start up.” I needed the structure and a diversion from my sorrow. I was broke and desperate and the recession of 2009 was in full swing. I was told I was lucky to be offered a job “in these troubling and uncertain times.” I took the job and a new chapter of my life started.

I liked it for the first few months, but soon it deteriorated into something I wasn’t expecting. I supervised a team filled with talent, energy, and drive. We had fun times, hard times, late nights, early mornings, long days, many laughs, and many venting sessions over many drinks. We created and implemented good solid creative work.

I had three direct supervisors with three different approaches and three different perspectives on what needed to be done and how to get it done. My job became trying to get their alignment on the initiatives and work approach, keeping each of them up to date on projects and progress, and navigating through the conflict between them.

The CEO of this division made Amanda Priestly, from “The Devil Wears Prada,” look like a dream boss. Stepping into the office, one never knew if you’d be meeting with Dr. Jekyll or meeting with Mr. Hyde. He had a very democratic approach in the verbal abuse he doled out and occasionally one could fall victim to his violent outrage. Eyes rolled, voice raised and yelling, fists pounded and fingers pointed, cups thrown, papers tossed. Being called a fucking idiot, worthless, ignorant, stupid, and a waste of time was routine. Being thrown out of meetings or his office was common, while “Why the fuck did we hire you?” or “We pay you money for this shit?” or “What the hell were we thinking?” trailing off as you’d slink out of the office picking up shreds of dignity and scattered papers off floor. He was known for firing people on the spot.

Turn was high and morale was low. Within the division and parent company, this behavior was defended as being part of that divisions’ “culture.” 

My peers – the divisions’ other department heads – were often told that Store Operations was not an important part of the business by this CEO. After all, we were a fashion brand based on design and visual display. Store Operations gets in the way, hinders progress, and is inconsequential in everything we stand for. Partnership and inclusion was not necessary.

The Store Operations team was moved to a separate floor away from the rest of the division. We were told that our workspace was needed to accommodate the growing visual team. The work area that my team vacated was filled with boxes and props for weeks after three of us moved into a 5’ x 8’ office nine floors away from our employer.

I could no longer gloss over or protect my team from the “culture” or attempt to motivate them to deliver quality work. They were all too wise. I struggled to motivate myself. One changed departments. One, with amazing potential and a great future, quit. One position remained open for more than six months, during which several workload intense initiatives crested. Potential candidates, including the best I have interviewed in years, were turned down by this CEO. Even after being interviewed and approved by the VP of Human Resources, VP of Stores, VP of Operations, CFO and COO.

After two and one-half years of working 60-70 hours per week, and of being beaten down, feeling like each day was a fight, and of trying to overcome devastating emotions, I hit rock bottom. I was given the worst performance appraisal of my career. Some criticism I agreed with, but many points I rebutted. These rebuttals were acknowledged with nods of agreement by two of my three direct supervisors, along with “that’s a good point,” “yes, that’s what we discussed,” “hmmm … you’re right,” etc. The third supervisor was not present and was unaware that my assessment rating was so low. Hmmm … I wonder how much input she had on my assessment.

Because of this rating, I was ineligible to move to a different position within the parent company and was ineligible for my annual bonus and stock options. I felt pushed into a corner. I had no options. I was stuck.

I snapped. I left one day and I couldn’t go back. Emotionally broken, spiritually bankrupt, I fell into a deeper depression that no amount of alcohol or drugs could ease. I needed to get as far away as possible from this dysfunctional and abusive relationship. I needed to end this chapter of my life. I hit my bottom. I filed for a leave of absence. I went to rehab and I started intense therapy.

*     *     *     *     *

I have been out of the madness since August and I am now completely sober, in use and in thinking. I have focused on my physical and mental health, slowly regaining my soul and learning how to think positively about life and myself. It has not been easy.

I have worked hard my entire career. The service industry suited me because I am a people pleaser and prioritized the needs of others before my own. Now, finally, this time, I am living my life for me and not for anyone else. It is my life on life’s terms. This is the most important time in my life. This has been the hardest work I have ever done.

I was offered a severance agreement, although they could have filled my seat once my short-term disability claim ended. The thought of signing it surfaced different emotions to face and conquer. My life has been defined by my work and I have defined myself by my work. Without work, what defines me? Signing it meant I was no longer, for a fact, employed – not working. No job. I had concerns about what would define the next chapter of my life.

As a final act of self-respect, as a way of getting the last word, as a way to prove that I was abused, wronged, and driven to near insanity, I wanted returned only one piece of paper from the files and paperwork I had left on my desk. This contained my response to my performance appraisal that I had not turned in before I left.

I wanted to sign the agreement and include this response with it. I also wanted to send this tyrant CEO an object d’art, like a bookend-sized king’s chess piece with a note saying, “You win, you fucking asshole.”

I asked about my personal items. They were boxed up and put into storage and once located I could come and find what I needed. The box was located and I was then told to provide my shipping address, as “It will be easiest for all involved to send it to you.”

I received the box and it sat in my hallway for two days. On March 23, I finally decided to open it. I found project files, paperwork, and my business cards (like I’d use those again). I did not find my assessment response. Naturally, I thought it wasn’t sent because I specifically asked for it and this was the only item of importance I wanted. I went mentally ballistic. I lost my mind.

I wanted to get the last word! I wanted one moment to prove that I was right. I could rewrite it!I would rewrite it! I booted up my computer. I was going to get my revenge, a great skill. I used to say I excelled at this because I was born a ruthless Scorpio.

Some have called this behavior vengeful, bitchy, malicious, or passive-aggressive. I used to call it relief, power, control, or “my right” because I “am right.” I now see this for what it really is: insecurity, fear, and self-doubt run amuck.

So … instead of doing what I would normally do, I did something that I have recently learned. I did what I don’t normally do. I did the opposite of what I wanted to do. I took a deep breath, I let go of resentments, anger, and harbored ill will. I closed the box and pushed it out the door for recycling. I signed the severance agreement and sent an email asking for messenger pick up. It was done.

And with that, another chapter ended. A new one will start, but I am in no rush. Metaphorically, I need to put the book on the shelf for a while. It may collect dust, start to smell musty, get cup stains from use as a bedside table coaster, and turn yellow and crack. Whatever its state, my life is now my life.

And all of this, whether good or bad; all of this, whether or not you can relate; all of this, whether or not you choose to judge me – all of it – is a part of the book of my life.

*     *     *     *     *

facebook post: March 23, 2012

cathartic morning … i feel a weight lifted … lighter … unchained but grounded … i am grateful for what has been offered me and i breathe a sigh of relief at moving forward and not looking back (too often) …

costs money

When I was a child, we had a dog who we called Fritz. Fritz was a little black dog, around 40 pounds, with Doberman-like markings. Dogs were not called “mixed breeds” in those days; they were just plain ol’ mutts. Fritz was a scrappy little mutt. Actually, Fritz was one of the best of them plain ol’ mutts.

He had wiry hair and a tail that curled into a perfect circle. He ears were always perked up, not floppy like some dogs, and he had soulful eyes. Fritz was a dog’s dog. He did what dogs do, or at least he did what dogs did in those days. He kept me company, played with my sisters and me, barked when the mailman arrived, and ate cheap canned food or Chuck Wagon kibble with water for dinner. He seemed to enjoy the savory gravy that the powdered kibble created.

He smelled like a dog, too, and I do not mean that he sniffed the ground or hunted cats. He had a knack for getting out of the backyard – we called it “running away” – and for finding his way into the neighborhood’s garbage cans. Where he found these garbage cans nobody knows, but he would return home smelling like crap and rotten food, and was drunk on being a bad dog. I am sure those whose garbage cans were overturned knew our Fritzy well.

He wore one of those antique plastic pest control devises known as a flea collar. I am not sure they still make flea collars like that, since “modern” dogs such as mine use Frontline to control fleas. Fritz’s flea collar had to be trimmed with scissors to ensure a proper fit and it carried the faint smell of pesticide when it was brand new. Accompanying his flea collar were his dog tags, a chain with his Santa Clara County dog’s license and a tag with his name, our address, and phone number on it.

His tags jingled whenever he walked. You could hear him coming. Tinkle-tinkle-tinkle-tinkle. When he scratched, which was often since those flea collars worked so well, his chain and tags tinkled loud and fast. Ting-ting-ting-ting-ting-ting-ting-ting. You could also hear him coming by the clack of his toenails. Clack-a-tinkle. Clack-a-tinkle. Clack-a-tinkle. Clack-a-tinkle. Clack-a-tinkle. Clack-a-tinkle. Clack-a-tinkle.

He would show his excitement when we would come home or when his dinner was being prepared by clacka-clacka-clacka-clacka-clackaing in place. We called it “tap dancing” and he earned the nickname “Fritz Astaire.”

He wasn’t great on tricks or commands. He could sit and lie down. He would come when he was called and he would stay sometimes. He would shake. He would attack and chew on your slippers if you made them out to be monsters, a game that delighted my sisters and me into fits of giggles. He would chase you in the fields at Rosemary Elementary School. He could catch a Frisbee, chase a ball, and walk on a leash. He was a good boy.

He did have one trick that was his specialty. It was called “Costs Money.” My mother’s father, Grampa Harry, taught him this trick. I am not sure when he was taught this trick, but it must most likely during a Thanksgiving or Christmas visit. Grampa Harry had a great sense of humor and was a definite clown. I am sure he loved teaching this little dog this trick.

Here is how it worked:

Fritz would sit. A treat would be placed in front of him. He would start towards it and would be told that “it costs money” in a tone that indicated, “you can’t eat that yet .” The phase “costs money” would be repeated in teasing proportions as the treat was moved closer and closer to him. He couldn’t eat the treat until he paid for it. And he knew it. You could see it in his eyes. He would sit there patiently and stare longingly at the morsel, whether a bit of Thanksgiving turkey, Christmas ham, salami, bread, or a charcoal Milk Bone dog biscuit. Sometimes he would drool. Sometimes he would need to settle into his sit again, or regain his balance, and his toenails would clack-clack-clack on floor.

“Costs money, Fritzy. It costs money.”

When it was time to pay, when services were rendered, the age-old system of barter was in play. The goods were presented, desired, and waiting to be enjoyed. But first, an exchange was needed in this commerce game. Oh capitalism, how you enthrall me!

The person who was withholding the bounty would extend their open hand and Fritz would swipe his paw into it. This was the equivalent of him reaching into his wallet, and placing cash in the open palm. At that point, the keeper of the feast exclaimed, “It’s paid for!” and Fritzy would gobble up his reward.

The phrase “costs money” has been top of mind for me lately. I hear that phrase everywhere I go. Everything everywhere costs money. Since leaving my last job, and still not working, my income has been greatly reduced. I have lived my entire life with income and I have lived my entire life with expenses. There has always been money coming in and I have been good at ensuring that money goes back out again.

Everything everywhere costs money. Eating out costs money. Ordering food in costs money. Groceries cost money. A new pair of mittens cost money. Learning to knit costs money. Buying yarn costs money. A manicure and pedicure costs money. A new pair of nail clippers costs money. A movie costs money. A book costs money. A newspaper costs money. Everything everywhere costs money.

A friend said once that the minute you walk out the door in NYC, you drop at least $30. And the sad part is that it is true. Even when attempting a “cost free day”, where you do nothing that costs money, you must budget at least $5. There is no such thing as a “cost free” day. You watch TV and it costs money. You turn on a light it costs money. You surf the internet and it costs money. You eat lunch and it costs money.

From my perspective, the only thing that does not cost money is sitting in my living room, petting my dog and thinking. This is something I do very often. I think about how we taught my childhood dog a trick called “costs money” and then I pet my dog, Victor. I think about how it is so true that everything really does cost money and I pet Victor again. I pet my dog and I think about how maybe I should write something about Fritzy or maybe something about “costs money.”

While I pet my dog, I think about how I need to get my taxes done. Even that costs money. It costs money to pay the government money. Pet, pet, pet, think, think, think.

It is a good thing that there is no way to tax thoughts or petting … yet.