Pretty

Sometimes I like to think about all the crazy things that happen in HR - the investigations into drugs, sex at work, violence, stalking, theft.  I think about the people I fired and if it was just.  Often it wasn't.  I had one job for 2 years where I fired about 6 people a week, mostly for dumb things like being late too many times or taking too long on a phone call or taking too long to use the bathroom.  

Of course, there are the people I wish I could have fired - the cruel, the bullies, the plant barfers.  And like the people that are always walking around at different events naked, they are never the ones you want to see naked.  Or employed.  

After 18 years of doing this, I like to think I understand people and their motivations, but I have been very very wrong several times, been fooled and driven by misplaced compassion.

There was a woman who was 8 months pregnant and her husband was stationed in Iraq.  She came to me one day crying with her supervisor because she said she was being stalked by another employee.  She recounted how they hadn’t met, but began talking on the phone and emailing each other.  She was lonely and he was showing her attention.  Then he showed her his photo.  Gorgeous dark brown hair, green eyes, a mouth I shouldn’t have thoughts about on a 20 year old kid. 

They arranged to meet for coffee and she never showed.  He began texting her, asking where she was, why didn’t she want to meet him.  She said she knew it was wrong.  She showed me the texts, some were flirty, but not violent or overtly sexual – but she was terrified.  Shaking. 

She showed me another text where he said enough creepy things that I was sure we needed to get rid of this guy, to protect a vulnerable employee and to protect the company.  No way was I going to have a pregnant Iraq vet’s wife hurt or threatened by another employee.

In stalking cases, I generally call in the police – so the victim can file a report and the police can decide if they want to arrest the suspect or just scare him or her (yep, there are lots of hers).  I did that in this case, had approval from legal, documented all of my sources – I was just waiting for IT to pull the rest of the emails so I could make sure I wasn’t missing anything.

I had him in the room next to me sitting with his supervisor, terrified.  He wasn’t the guy in the photo, he was a chubby, kind of smelly, unattractive guy.  He admitted he had sent the other photo to her so she would go out with him.  When I read the emails, they were awful – very sexually inappropriate and all generated from her.  He responded, it wasn’t like he wasn’t interested, and he was inappropriate, but nothing compared to her.

When I spoke to him about what on earth had happened, he admitted the flirting and that they had planned to meet, but when he showed up and texted her that he was waiting at the front door, she had taken one look at him and run.  His texts were little more than asking if she was OK and why she hadn’t shown up. 

I was pissed.  I had the cops there, all the pieces ready, and I asked her why she had lied to me.  She said, “he was ugly”.  

Home

Two days ago I was Auntie Jen (eh, anti Jen, where you put da kim chee?).  Body surfing, hiking the Pali, picking mountain apples, mango and lychee, having tree climbing contents with 8 year olds in Kailua, collecting beach glass with old friends at silver stairs, playing with baby monk seals (OK, I didn’t play with them, but I saw one!) – you know, the usual stuff one does when one goes home when home is O’ahu.  Today, I am scooping cat litter and going through emails in Seattle’s famous June Gloom. 

For years, my friends on the mainland have teased me about my determination to say Hawaiian words correctly.  It isn’t Hawieee, it is Hawai’i with a glottal stop.  It isn’t Kaa-vah, it is Ka’a’a’va.  And most importantly, it isn’t carey-o-key, it is Karaoke or “car a oh keh”.   It is usually the worst when I come back to Seattle after localing out and my accent is the strongest.  So today is pretty much make-fun-of-Jen-day.   Which should maybe be a national holiday or something.  Then I could go back to bed, which I need to do because I got about 5 hours of sleep last night and a combined total of 5 hours while I was at home.  The other home.  The warm one.

Sleep dep is nothing new in Jenlandia, but it reached epic levels over the holiday weekend.  Whether it was sand blowing in my eyes during my attempt at napping on Lanikai or various nieces, nephews and calabash cousins refusing to let me go to bed while they were on sugar highs, friends calling from the mainland blissfully unaware they were calling me at 4 a.m. Island Time or just the ever present fear that a large roach would try to crawl into bed with me at my dad’s house plus I couldn’t get to sleep until about 2 a.m. this morning and got up for work at 5:30 – I am officially cracked out. 

I love going to Hawaii and I love it for about four days.  After that, my patience is shot.  I was actually asked to leave the state by the Governor because I was too hyper and it was taking away from the Island Ambience.  That is the official reason anyway.  The real reason is in sealed records somewhere.  Everyone complains about Seattle drivers, but that is probably only because they haven’t driven in Hawaii or they haven’t driven in Hawaii and know where in the hell they are going.  I recall being asked on more than one occasion for directions by tourists, “can you help us?  We are looking for our car/a restaurant/our hotel and it is on a street that starts with a K”.  Oh my, we only have 13 letters in the Hawaiian alphabet and K is pretty prominent, so I believe you are screwed, sir. 

I have a few rituals every time I go home – I walk up to the top of our hill (about 40 minutes straight up), I drive around the island and stop in Haleiwa to visit my cousins, I go over to Kailua and body surf or swim at the beach with my friend Teresa and her son and I go to the far end of Kapiolani Park and walk the boardwalk that is getting even more precarious with time that is propped on the edge of the water by the Gold Coast near Sans Souci beach.  Driving around the island is gorgeous, but always a giant pain in the ass.  This time I had some friends visiting from Seattle and New York, so I was kind of on hyper mainland adrenaline anyway, so when the min van in front of me started going 20 mph in the 35 mph speed zone, I actually passed them on a corner in Hauula which is incredibly dangerous, but I was close to going insane.  I almost got in a fight at the park because cars were just idling waiting for someone to leave so they could park and I had the audacity to try to pull around them because I was actually planning to drive my car somewhere.  A pickup cut me off (so I could wait until the 5 cars ahead of me parked?) and my friend from NY flipped them off.  I told him, “Do NOT flip anyone off here.  I am probably related to them and if I am not, they are going to kick my ass”.  There was undeniable proof of the phenomenon I call the “Hawaiian break check” which is the tendency of people driving on H1 (the Interstate - tee hee!) to randomly slam on their breaks for no apparent reason.  It is endearing.  Not really. 

The other thing is that I generally stay with my family.  They can’t seem to fathom, after 27 years of being a vegetarian, what on earth I am going to eat.  They usually get really obsessed with it and start calling me the week prior asking me if there are special things they should pick up.  When we go to restaurants, my dad always looks over the menu and reads me the things that might be vegetarian.  As much as I appreciate it, I am 41 years old and not a scrawny elfin woman – I believe I can figure out what to eat.  We nearly had a fight over what to get on a pizza when my step brother and his family came over.  After about 30 minutes of going over what toppings to get, I finally screamed, “I don’t fucking care, I will just pull the meat off, but I don’t want to discuss pizza toppings anymore – this isn’t hard!”  They also seem to think that since I work in biotech, I am a computer help desk person.  I actually do employment and immigration law, but am fairly handy technically.  It is usually because they can’t recall where they stashed their photos from their last trip to South Dakota or Ohio. 

Did I mention Ohio?  Not yet?  Really?  Because I looked at the photos from their trip three times.  Every time someone new would come over, they would run the slide show again.  Some of the pictures were nice, but they were generally of places they had eaten or a bridge or something.  Once was fine, but after the third viewing, I kind of wanted to jump off the lanai and take my chances on the rocks below the house. 

I do love going home, though.  The food is amazing – in just one walk up the hill I found mountain apple, mangos, lychee, strawberry guava – all fallen to the ground and some edible – squished and fermenting like a bad batch of spotee.   Three days in a row I had kim chee fried rice and papaya and li hing pineapple for breakfast.  It is a surprisingly yummy combination.  This time, four days wasn’t enough and I didn’t get to have any haupia or long rice.  In the cab home last night, I was answering emails on my phone and I kept expecting the car to start heading right, up the hill, to my house in Honolulu.  Every time I looked up, it was just flat, wet I5. 

There are, however, no roaches at my house in Seattle.  And cats.  Lots and lots of cats.  It is good to be home. 

Libelous and Satirical Fun

So two of the great things about living in the USA are that you can speak the truth without fear of legal retribution.  Social retribution is another matter, but I am willing to deal with that.  Hell, I have been a jackass most of my life, so am somewhat used to this by now.  

This is going to be funny to some and rough to others, but I need to get it out.  Now. I will be 41 in one week and I do not want to carry this shit around any more.  “Demons!  Be gone!”  Did that work?  If anyone shows this to my dad, I will deal with it myself.  If I want to kill someone, I will take care of it (note to law enforcement, I am not planning to kill anyone and do not have the means to do so).

About a year ago, I feel in love with someone I had known for a very long time.  He was charming, funny and had an accent and I will do about anything for an accent.  But he had a medical condition that was previously undisclosed and I wasn’t strong enough to handle it. 

We had a great time, we were silly, I felt like I was a 16 year old.  It was crazy and weird and exotic and chaotic and then he proposed.  This was my first proposal and as I always say in business “never, EVER accept the first offer”.  But I did.  In the parking lot at Bel Square mall.  Eww.  A mall?  In Bellevue? What kind of crack was I on?  But I did.  I made plans to introduce him to my dad, we flew out to Hawaii and he actually asked for my hand in marriage.  My dad cried.  I guess he figured he would never get rid of the mouthy, insolent brunette only child and decided to go for it.  Did I mention he had an accent?

He wanted to move into our own place so we could start our own memories.  Fair.  I get that.  However, it was not my kind of place.  I like a house with a history and some places you can’t walk or you will fall in to the basement and maybe a slight smell of mold.  I grew up in this kind of house and it just feels like home.  This is why my own house is a little fucked up and you should be wary going down the steps.  But I love its quirky weirdness, I love its imperfections, much in the way I don’t have any respect for people that have bad habits.  Like heroin addiction. 

So we leased a (no shit) $5000 a month townhouse overlooking lake union.  My mortgage is $1500 and my income at the time was $5,250. It was nice, if you are into new money.  As the old saying goes, new money or old money, it is still money.  But I like shabby chic.  This was all stainless steel crap. 3 story windows and 4 bathrooms.  Look, I am not the kind of girl to hire a maid, but four fucking bathrooms?  Really, who needs to pee that much?

After we moved in, things went south, fast.  He was unable to work, feel into a depression and started behaving really strangely.  No, you can’t go to breakfast with your friends!  No, you have to come home right after work. One night I got home to find a butcher’s knife and razor blades floating in our bath tub.  He showed me the marks the next day.  I had lunch with an old friend who told me “horizontal = therapy, vertical = morgue”.  He also threatened me to the point where I said I would call the police if he came one step closer. 

I left that night to sleep on my own sofa.  At my house.  He came home hours later and demanded I come home.  According to sources, on nights he didn’t return, he came to my house to sleep there.  Should I get a new sofa? 

Now I am not a pussy, I do not do what I am told.  I DO NOT cave in to men, but I was scared.  A few nights later, he didn’t come home.  He claimed to have slept with two of my friends.  At my house. 

Now, this starts getting good.

Christmas Eve, 2011, I got several texts and phone calls from my friends.  “are you OK?  And I am just thinking”, and I am just thinking “did I drink and facebook post or something?”  He dumped me.  On Facebook.  On Christmas Eve.  While I was in the next room.  Warm fuzzy photos of us together, sad songs – am I dating a 16 year old?

Is this a bad episode of Glee?  I packed my clothes, my cats and my toiletries and slept on the basement floor of my house.  MY house.  I was still on the hook for rent and fuck knows what else.  All Christmas weekend I moved what I could carry.  I spent Christmas Eve and Christmas day moving what I could in my truck.  Merry fucking Christmas.

I had a friend move in while I was done (you do the math – Lease, $5000, mortgage $1500, income $5200) so had to couch surf in my own house for a week while we found her another place to live and had to move all of her shit because she had not planned for this eventuality).  Luckily, a very dear friend helped me move her to a house with 87 stairs so I could sleep in my bed and not the ground. 

Fast forward – he moves in with a Russian cupcake hooker while I am still paying half the rent.  He then moves out with an 18 year old (so my sources tell me) and demands I get my shit out of there within 3 days.  Tomorrow is the final walk through (learned that today).  So one more encounter with the ex, luckily one of my dear friends cut the engagement ring off my finger which will stay off.  For a very long time.  

Let the Games Begin!

I love walking/running around Greenlake – it always makes me feel better.  Not because of the exercise, but because there is always someone out there worse off than you.  After the long dreary winter, we have all gotten a little pallid and paunchy – some more than others and I am afraid I am in the “more than others” category. 

Today was a gorgeous spring day, like yesterday, and I was outside to soak it up.  After I got home from work both Saturday and Sunday.  At noon.  Poor me, I have a job I love and sometimes they make me work extra, I know I sound like a wuss, but couldn’t they have made me work extra in January?  Oh wait.  They did. 

Saturday was epic.  I had contractors at the house, a yard to mow, a meeting to attend, clothes to wash and then a charity event.  It was going to be non stop running no matter what.  Then I checked my Blackberry.  Shit.

DO NOT check your work email on the weekends, it can only lead to very bad things. 

I had gotten a request from our attorney that I knew would likely mean I would be rewriting the carefully prepared document I had spent the past two months writing and past six months researching in time for a morning committee call.  Yep, Sunday morning conference call.  I cried, I swore, I was able to get the document he needed from a colleague and do a best rewrite in a few hours while the contractors were here and mowed the lawn and did laundry in between iterations.  It led to some awkward moments – me telling the contractors I was going to have to take a shower while they were there (it just seemed like a really bad porno), me coming out of the shower in a towel to answer a call from the attorney and throwing around sentences like “409A valuation” and “salary compression compounded with increased market activity in the informatics sector” while dripping wet with soap left on my face and a half unshaved leg as they pretended I wasn’t really there and tried to look away in shame.  This was only a few minutes after they witnessed me throwing the weed-wacker across the yard and telling it to fuck itself.  They got really big tips. 

I was in a rush because I needed to get dressed for an annual charity event I attend with one of my oldest friends.  (Names WILL be changed to protect the uninnocent.)   I made it just in time for my meeting and showed up at a classic Seattle hangout dressed for a cocktail party.  Everyone else was in biker gear or goth cloth.  I took off my suit jacket to show off my tattoos so they didn’t flip me any shit and I kept flexing my pasty white arm (yeah!  You scared now!).  I hit three hipsters on fixies on my way off the Hill to make it back to pick up my reliable non sexual male life partner, Max, for the event. 

We arrived a little early and decided to class up Fremont by taking a walk down the Burke in dinner wear.  Then we entered the Hall of Darkness.  Or Fremont Studios or whatever.  The point is, the floor is uneven concrete and everyone at this event wears 8 inch heels, so we were all walking around trying not to fall onto the auction items or each other. 

I like to give a chunk of cash to charity because I think it is the right thing to do, and as a non profit veteran of 11 years, I know it funds the programs and salaries to support the key missions of the organizations I support.  Last night it was the Progressive Animal Welfare Society.  It holds a special place in my heart, because my mentor and manager at the City of Lynnwood, Robin Hall, SPHR, was on their board for years.  She died two years ago of cancer and the ache of losing her advice, friendship, wisdom and counsel - many years after I had moved on - is still there.  Plus, she convinced the Police Chief it was OK if I wore glitter on Fridays. 

So I bid on, and won, the cat topiary.  OK, you don’t “win” a topiary – you bid on it and hope you are more outlandish than the next person.  I won.  A cat topiary.  Which I have named Robin.  I have to water her every day.  Interestingly, the only living plant I have in my house is one given to me by my colleague Tracy at the City – it is still alive after 12 years, despite the fact that I am a vegetarian and it should be afraid of me.  Anyway, I now have to water the cat every day.  Hee.

The benefit was awesome – kitten kissing booth (with real kittens!), photo booth, live auction, silent auction and free wine.  Again, as a non profit veteran, the mantra is “get ‘em drunk and make ‘em cry”.  They succeeded.    As designated driver, I abstained even though my host had bid on a sommelier for the table for the evening and “won”.  I think I vaguely remember this from last year.  I think I bought Max.  I am not sure.  Or a beaver costume.  Whatever.  It is for charity. 

Let’s just say that a good time was had by everyone but me.  I cried, but since I couldn’t get drunk as the DD, I had to just sit there and be annoyed with everyone else.  Someone kept yelling “penis”, someone else was stealing votives and everyone else was sneaking the free wine into non portable containers.  I have always preferred hosting luncheons.  No one gets tossed and steals the Girl Scout cookies.  And no one dare yell “penis”. 

After efficiently (and bitchily, I will admit) taking care of the final details, I drove home to try and sleep before getting up at 6 a.m. to prepare for the committee call and finalize the documents.  My CEO thinks I am kind of a spaz (and he is kind of right, which is why I put it in my performance review and he initialed it, unedited), but I wanted everything to be perfect.  So I could not sleep.  I think I took 12 hits of Benadryl.  I hallucinated, but didn’t sleep. 

Finally get up at 5 a.m. and go in to work, rewrite everything.  By 9:30 a.m., everyone has changed their minds and we are back to the original document.  By 9:45, it is changed again and we are on our third revision, then we just declared a universal “fuck it” and let it roll.  Let’s just say that the call went well and I will be living at work between now and the Board meeting.  Send caffeine.  And maybe some sailors. 

After the call, I tried to sleep, but THE SUN was OUT, so I hoofed it down to Greenlake for a walk around the lake.  I lost my iPod to my EE (Evil Ex) but still have my fake mpg thingey.  It was gorgeous!  And everyone was as winterlogged as me (except for the 4 year old girl in a princess dress and razor scooter – I think that is taking the princess thing a little too far, man).

When I got home, I found I was sunburned.  Which is fucked up because I am from Hawaii and we are born with SPF 30.  Oh well, I cracked a new book and took it out on my hula hoop for an hour. 

(Boss, this means I won’t be at work for weeks due to my impending hip and knee rehabilitation). 

Welcome to Seattle, summer!  

Tater Tart

What is unfunnier than a writer writing about not being able to write?  A writer using the excuse of being unable to write anything good by figuring out what to make for her annual Easter Party!!!!

No offense to my good friends at work, but I almost jumped out the window at the sheer glee of dying in a bloody heap outside of the CFO’s office and right in front of the Thai Truck last week as I was forced to sing the Sex Pistol’s version of “God Save the Queen” in a fake English accent.  In all fairness, I did chose the song, but it was only because I was afraid if I didn’t pull something out of my ass quickly, we would have to do a tribute to The Monkeys (RIP, Davey).  One of my colleagues had returned from London with an absolute addiction to tea sandwiches.  No one knows why this is, but I think he was accosted by a bunch of hooligans in Pimlico and forced to ride the Green Line (Go Green!  Go District!) eating tea sandwiches dressed as Posh Spice.  

He called me one day and said, “Jen, I don’t know why, but I fucking love tea sandwiches.  I can’t stop eating them.  I have to have tea sandwiches ALL THE TIME”.  It was like dealing with an old school opium addict.  So we did what any good colleagues would do and we threw him a tea sandwich party.  We mainlined that cucumber sandwich right into his veins.  As he slumped onto the floor, drooling slightly out of his mouth, he said, “thank you.  I fucking love cucumber sandwiches” and died. 

I probably could have survived this, even though he is a very old and dear friend, but it turned into a “proper English tea” with frilly table cloths and games.  So I did the best I could and called my band, “Jenny Rotten and the Science Pistols”.  I really would have preferred to sing the Toy Dolls, but since no one knew the Pistols, they sure as hell weren’t going to be able to do a decent rendition of “Spiders in the Dressing Room” or “Dougy Giro”.

Remember that movie from the 1970’s, I think it was a drug scare film, where the kids smoked PCP and tried to run through the glass window of an office tower and it broke and they died?  I tried that, but we are only on the first floor and I was only on Earl Grey, so I just got a bump on my head and tried again.

Since I am a quitter and unable to even kill myself properly, I just wrote an Anti Corruption policy and promised to do better at my next party.

Easter.  Glorious Easter.  A true gift, a magical wonderland, a place of bunnies and rainbows and chocolate and chickens and Spring and flowers and bunnies (I am really into the bunnies – do not mess with the bunnies) and experiments in food.

I have been a vegetarian for 26 years (you are welcome, Morrissey and I think it was totally dickish for you to convince me to become veg and then not rescue me from high school – do you know how awful that place was?) and all of my friends have food allergies or only eat things from within 50 feet or that have been blessed by Durga – so throwing a party is always a challenge.  

The gluten free folks are the hardest- last year I did mac and cheese, but it got too dry.  I am still going to keep the long rice salad (bean thread – no gluten!), but have decided instead of mac and cheese, to develop something I have been thinking about for a long time.  Tater tot pie with no meat, no dairy and no gluten.  I am pretty sure it is going to have to involve Cajunized tots with a vegan gumbo (where do you get file around here?) that you can scoop out.  Of course it will taste much better if it is warm enough for everyone to dress like sluts so we can play hockey bunny in the street and start our egg hunt.  

Oh!  And this year?  Team activity- Peep Dioramas depicting famous hair bands (or no hair bands).

Tart-tastic.  It better be.  

Confessional

Forgive me blogger, for I have sinned.  It has been four months since my last post.  I have a really good excuse – work is eating my brain.  It already had holes in it from the 1980s, so it probably wasn’t that hard to get in there and sop up the last bits with a nice slice of Cibatta. 

I love to travel and this whole thing started because I kept going on these amazing adventures and wanted to tell my friends about the beautiful, grotesque, absurd and holy things I saw.  I still can’t believe the juxtaposition of the sacred and profane, the innocent and the wicked, and the terrible beauty of hope in a hopeless time and place.  Which brings me to Westfield Mall in Culver City, California.

After the epic travels of the past two years (India!  Australia!  Indonesia! Hawaii – which doesn’t count because I grew up there), the only trips I have taken recently are to our LA office.  I am a pretty aggressive driver, but the idea of driving in California freaks me out (because I think that is where Tina learned to drive and she makes me look like an elderly woman in an ’79 Buick that can’t see over the dashboard), so my world is limited to my depressing hotel, the lab and whatever I can find to do at Westfield Mall, which is in walking distance to both my work and hotel.

I am not much of a mall rat.  If I have to get something, I run in, grab it and go before the overstimulation of people and things vying for my attention sends me into a seizure.  For this reason, I can never enter a Costco and no one will ever get a Christmas present from me again.  But when I go to California, there just isn’t much to do rather than analyze the offerings at the local Target.

When I had employees in California before, they were in Orange County and the woman I reported to had a French Pedicure which I thought was weird because you toenails would have to be long enough to have two colors on them and that seems a bit gross.  Plus everyone had frosted blonde hair and wore pastels, so I felt like a complete outsider with my “I used to be a goth and can’t stop wearing black” attempt at corporate wear and chipped toenail polish.  Culver City is different, though.  People seem more normal there and by normal I mean there is actually some diversity in the place.  Meaning it isn’t like the Real Housewives of whatever.

This post doesn’t even make sense to me, so don’t worry if you are confused – I just needed to get back into the habit of writing.  After making some big lifestyle changes, I figured it was time to get back on the horse.  Get the rat through the snake.  Lasso the broncho.  Prime the engine.  Write.

I have gone out dancing the last two weekends (rocked it tonight, Lara!) and it feels so good just to lose yourself in the music and dance.  Especially to trance – it is a truly spiritual experience to dance through your exhaustion and come out the other side in a meditative state.  Until someone has to put on breaks or dub step and ruin my vibe, but whatever.  I did notice a new trend the past two weeks, however.  It seems that people have stopped wearing pants.  I mean that everyone (under 30, female and skinny) seems to be dancing in their underwear and GoGo boots.  I don’t recall this trend from the rave days.  We were all in hoodies and ratty jeans and sweaty Sketchers.  Now it is all sparkle pony hot pants and Elton John’s shoes.  Maybe it was always like that, but now I am sober so I actually notice.  I don’t know.   

Today was a good day – the garden is thriving, I caught up with some old friends and met some very interesting new people.  Tomorrow I am going to have to brave Target to start getting ready for Easter.  I know it is still a month away, but Hop, Bock, Chirp, Meow XII (my annual Easter party) is the crowing jewel of the spring party season.  Hockey Bunny will certainly be making a comeback as will Linda’s secret quiche recipe.  And it is the only day of the year I get to hop around in bunny ears eating chocolate and tossing a small, fuzzy stuffed bunny to Tina with a lacrosse stick while shouting “car!” as we play in the street. 

Now I will say my Hail Marys and sleep - all is forgiven.  

Living underwater

This is a letter from my uncle Bill who lives with his wife in Thailand about the floods.  I thought it was pretty fascinating - particularly the boredom and the truce between the dogs and ducks - read on........

Jen

If we could be totally objective, its really beautiful. The skies are clear blue, the temperature has dropped so its not so hot, and as far as the eye can see there is green vegetation, flowers  and water. Its one of those scenes that ordinarily would make me very happy to be living in Thailand. The problem is that there is too much water, it has damaged households and livelihoods, and a lot of this water is in our yard.

This is the 16^th day of our captivity. The water inundated the fields and roads around our land on October 21 and entered our grounds steadily on October 22 and for several days thereafter. Fortunately our house sits on a rise roughly two meters above ground level  and water has never reached the first floor; water has entered the room under the house which has forced us to cut electricity to some parts of the house. We lost the fresh water supply to our house about day # 3 when our  water pump quit. The water level must have peaked somewhere around October 27 and has since dropped a bit. At peak the water level was about mid-calf level up against the foundation of the house and about 90 centimeters deep  or about waist level at our front gate. The drop in the water level was about 20-30 cm and has since slowed.. We find we have way underestimated the length of time this whole thing is going to take; we have stopped talking about days and started thinking in terms of weeks.

We are a long way from anything. We are about 500 meters from Klong 4(Pathumthani) but there is nothing there since everything has been closed by the flood. If we want outside contact we have to paddle our boats about 3-4 km to the intersection where the Outer Ring Road(Rte 9) crosses over Klong 4. There we can meet friends or Paew’s relatives who are waiting for us with supplies which we load on our boats and paddle back home. We have also discovered that at that same point on the Outer Ring Road a market has sprung up. People in pickup trucks bring in vegetables, fruits and water which they sell from the backs of their trucks; the prices are a bit fancy but we don’t begrudge them their markups for the service they are providing. The sense of isolation is more than this. I said to Paew “suppose we could magically lift up our car and plunk it down on some road which is dry, I would still be uncertain about where to go”. All the markets and malls we use or are familiar with are closed or have very uncertain access. What are we supposed to do, go to Siam Paragon?

We have also been receiving “care packages”. We don’t actually get them at our house since we are too isolated but if we paddle out to Klong 4, the packages will be waiting for us. at a neighbor’s house We have gotten packages from our Nai Ampher(district chief officer), Channel 3, Princess Ubolratana’s Poom Foundation and one other whose name I cannot remember. We are very happy to get these packages. Not only are they large, but it is obvious people have gone to a lot of care to provide things useful to flood victims: water purifiers, mosquito repellant, medicines, rice, canned fish, canned pickled vegetables, etc. We are very grateful .

We have harvested many kilos of bananas of all types. We had to rush to gather them ahead of their normal time because slowly but surely the flood is killing off our banana plants. When we moved in here in the year 2000, a relative gave us forty banana plants of 5 different varieties; these had multiplied into about 100 banana plants since that is what these plants do:multiply. We have been enjoying large harvests ever since. I suspect that this and the loss of three jackfruit( khanoon) trees that have already died will be the physical loss from the floods that will mean the most to us in the long-run: These bananas and khanoon had been the source of delicious eating for many years not only for us but for friends, people at Thammasat, etc.. Machinery can be repaired or replaced ; but replanting and nurturing  bananas and khanoon will take years.

Something has happened during the flood that I cannot explain. We have six geese and one duck who thinks he is a goose and then we have six ducks. We also have seven dogs, three of whom(mostly the younger ones) have a strong tendency to attack and kill geese and ducks. For years we have kept these two groups apart; they are never wandering about our yard at the same time. The flood came and we could no longer keep them apart. They are now together and on a much smaller land area than normal. But nothing  has happened; geese and ducks wander amongst the dogs and there is not even the slightest hint of a possible attack. Do these animals have some instinct that allows them to declare a truce in difficult situations? Will the truce be over when the flood ends? Can somebody explain?

The case of the factory next to our property is very instructive. Their property is very large extending from in back of our house all the way to Klong 4 some 500 meters away and consisting of seven large buildings, access roads and a football pitch(right behind our house). They were very well prepared for flooding: two meter high walls around the 3.8 of the 4 sides of their property, the remaining 0.2 entrance was heavily sandbagged, there were large pallets of sandbags strategically placed at many points inside their perimeter ,and they had many water pumps ready to go .Water still entered their property in large volumes  which they first diverted to the football pitch( which is a sunken area some two meters below ground level) and then pumped out over their walls. At least three pumps(the ones we can see) have been pumping without stop 24 hours per day for the 16 days since flooding began and they appear to be achieving somewhat of a draw in the sense that they are now pumping out as much water as is flooding in and the water level in the football pitch appears to have declined a bit. This is a victory of sorts since water has not entered any of the seven building but it is taking a massive effort to achieve this. If you are a dry area in the same area and at the same level as has been flooded, there will be pressure for water to enter and you must defend yourself continuously.

I actually got out today. One thing you discover very quickly living in a flood zone is that you are living in a “cash  economy”: banks are closed, many of the kinds of places that accept credit cards are shut down, ATMs have been shut down and checks are not generally acceptable, and so you had better have lots of cash. Two weeks ago I had started out with what I had thought  was enough but I had underestimated the magnitude and length of this crisis. When Paew’s relatives brought our supplies, they offered to drive me to where they were sure some banks were open –the Thai Market at Klong Luang .Thai Market was very strange: one half of the market is under water and the other half is behaving as if everything was normal. There, all bank branches were open except for my normally reliable Kasikorn Bank(they will get an earful when they reopen, letting people down in a crisis is not acceptable); no matter ATM machines from some alien banks were open. This trip was fascinating since it took us past Klongs 4, 3, 2, 1 all of which were heavily flooded and massive amounts of water along both sides of Klong Luang. There was also massive flooding on all the local roads around Thammasat/Rangsit which were not usable and what looked to be a large amount of water on the campus itself. There are people living on bridges and on the parts of Klong Luang road that are slightly elevated relative to the land on both sides. On the way back, we picked up a man who was going to Klong 6. He told us that two crocodiles had entered houses along Klong 6. We told him  that keeping the crocs confined near Klong 6 would be greatly appreciated.

The water level appears to have dropped some 50cm from its peak according to what we see on our property. The water level has another 80-100 cm to go before hitting ground level. We are pleased but not really very excited since it is likely to take many days  before we hit dry land.

If there is one word which sums up our personal experience with flooding, that word is “boring”. The flood came very, very slowly and with much advanced warning; we had plenty of time to prepare. About the only point of excitement for us was when water began to enter the underground room in quantity and we had to make the decision whether to shut off the electricity to that area which would affect a couple of other rooms.  We  spend parts of our days hauling, filtering and treating water to make it more safe to use (our most time consuming activity)and some days paddling out to the ring road to  pick up supplies. Otherwise we have to think up ways to fill the time in our days. And we now realize we are going to have to keep doing this for many more days, even weeks ; we have no idea how much longer before our lives become normal again. Oh well, we have managed so far and we will continue as long as it takes. But when we think of people who are living in refugee centers, or are living on the streets, or are living on bridges, we realize how incredibly fortunate we have been. We are getting through this crisis relatively well.  

We think that everyone in Thailand should begin to think more optimistically. After the flood crisis is over, we will all be able to buy sandbags very, very, cheaply.

Bill and Paew 

Are you Warren Beatty?

I am on an airplane again.  Do you know how I know?  It isn’t the fluffy white clouds floating by my window.  Although they are beautiful – images of buttes and snow cones and Marge Simpson’s hair and thunderclouds in the Midwest.  No, it is because when I went to the bathroom, I found I had gotten my period early.  Again.  On a plane.  With no sanitary supplies on board and no room for asking my boss and colleagues if we could “maybe just find a drug store real quick”.

We were on a 6 a.m. flight to LA, I had gotten up at 3:30 to prep for the work day because I was staying later than my colleagues to do some due diligence for our stock option plans and bond with the team from LA.  The night before, I had been totally unable to sleep putting my two day total of REM at about 45 minutes.  The last time this happened (my period at an inappropriate time on a plane, I was headed to Indonesia) and was too afraid to just publicly appeal to my sisters for help. 

This time, I went with a total fuck-all after trying both slots of two airport bathrooms at LAX and finally screaming in the last one, “does anyone have a tampon?  I will give you $20”.  Two women responded and both declined my offer of cash.  Sisterhood can be powerful.  We may trash each other at work and hold grudges for years and borrow your favorite dress and “forget” to return it, and try to steal your boyfriend, but when in serious need (emergency child care, death in the family, lack of sanitary supplies, pantyhose-related emergency) we come through for each other.

I was headed to California for my new job.  My old job.  My new old job that used to be my old job but only kind of.  It makes sense if you have been fragmented or suffered intestinal parasites in Indonesia and a broken heart courtesy of the world.  My new job is working for a biotech company that was born out my old academic organization. 

I have been out of the biotech world for about a year.  I followed my heart to a sexy job that involved public policy and international employment law and a cause I believe in strongly.  I learned a very important lesson – the most important thing to me is the people I work with every day, not the sexy trips to Asia (that cease being sexy when you have to wash your shoes in the toilet after a day at the office).  It is the comfort of being able to face plant in front of the CEO and have him give you a high five for your efforts.  It is the very popular mid afternoon “does anyone need popsicles?” run.  It is the comfort of knowing you can make an inappropriate joke at a meeting where two members are Nobel Prize Laureates and they will follow on with an even more inappropriate response.

Still, I had to man up to relearn this ever changing field of biotech.  Biochemistry up rather, because I had forgotten how to explain things like biomarkers and how a mass spec works and microfluidics and what a peptide was. Is.  Peptides are. 

The people I work with everyday are willing to explain to me the meanings of the vocabulary words I wrote down during a scientific progress meeting and not think I am stupid.  Some will even draw a diagram on a whiteboard for me.  Or develop a software tool to analyze why I can’t accurately predict the presence of white bloodcells in a precancerous unicorn tumor.  I was so glad to be home.  With my nerds.  With my peeps.  (And, they don’t understand things like employment law and having really uncomfortable conversations with employees.  I get the HR stuff, they get physics, so everyone is a winner.  I am not judging – except for one employee that played cello as a child in a sailor suit.  Your parents kind of set you up, dude.) 

While we were in LA, I didn’t see any of the things you would expect (sun, small actresses with small dogs in small purses, pedicured nails or the outside of a cab and/or Hilton conference room).  I did see the most beautiful Maldi-Tof mass spec on the planet and a bunch of colleagues I consider among the best on the planet and the kindness of strangers in an airport bathroom. 

Flying home, jet lagged, sweaty in black clothes, faced with an eight a.m. meeting tomorrow about my future employment options, headed to house in need of a few loads of laundry, unread Facebook invites, an unplanned outfit to a costume party on Saturday, and all I can think of is how much I have to do at work.  And I can’t wait to get there tomorrow.  I love my nerds, I love my peeps and I love me some science. 

Epic Fail

It was my fourth day of my new job.  My new job is kind of my old job with special sauce instead of Thousand Island Dressing.  By this I mean I am working with a lot of the same people I worked with for the past few years, but it is a spin off company with a for-profit bent.  I haven't had a dot com behind my name since the very early 2000s, but it was time.  After spending nearly 10 years in non profit, I had learned to run my organizations with duct tape (don't you want to say duck tape?) and safety pins.  Working for an organization that could actually afford to hire someone to clean the bathrooms (other than me) was a new experience.  I love science and this is a diagnostic company.  I love scientists and there are millions of them here.  I wanted to kick ass, I wanted to impress my new boss.  I didn't.

Starting every new job in HR, there are two things I always do - look at the files and talk to the people.  My first HR boss Ann told me, "the history of the people and the company are in those files".  She was right.  And, it is often the first thing an auditor or plaintiff's attorney will look at during discovery.  I audited the files and guess what?  Humans forget to turn things in.  Oh well, no one is going to die, we will just get everything updated.  I started making appointments to talk to the people.  Things were going well - I had a good rapport with most of the new folks and had been working with the veterans for a few years.  I was just about to meet with one of the team members when.....

I fell.  Flat on my face.  It is every woman's worst nightmare.  It is up there with the nightmare you have of showing up to school naked on the first day of class.  (That actually happened to me too, but I am not prepared to discuss it yet - I need more therapy).

I developed a taste for shoes early in life - they are one of my three guilty pleasures.  Four.  Five.  Maybe let's just call it an even 10.  When I turned 38 and my long term relationship unraveled, I learned how to wear heels.  I lost about 80 lbs in 2 years and decided to become a foxy 40 year old for the next phase of my life. 

As I mentioned, it was my fourth day of work and I was dressed to impress - matching funky suit and heels.  My favorite heels - Fleuvog's with a Mary Jane strap - yum!  I tend to walk fast anyway, but I was really booking to make this meeting.  My rubber soled shoes caught on the concrete floor and I went in to slooooowwww moooootion.  Noooooooo!!!!!  I recall thinking as I swam towards the floor.  Never underestimate gravity.  Or intelligent falling, as I call it. 

I fell.  On my face.  In a skirt.  In front of the Chief Medical Officer, Director of IP and Legal and General Counsel.  And the employee.  And the elevators. While the doors were opening.  I wanted, truly, to die.

As I tell employees, scandals last about a week before people switch gears to find the next big thing.  It has been a week, so my time in purgatory should be complete and I can talk about it now.  The awesome thing is when I told my boss, he high fived me.  My other boss said, "please don't stop face planting, every organization needs a face planter".  They were both serious. 

I love these guys which is why I turned down THREE offers for HR Director jobs in the first two days of consulting for them.  They know the employee morale impact of the HRD face planting in front of everyone and jumping up to declare victory.  They understand that part of what makes a team successful is how they treat each other after not just success, but epic, epic, failure.  They get that it takes failure and painful learning to be successful.  I love these guys. 

Working with these people again feels like I have come home.  From war.  The most beautiful thing anyone can experience is acceptance - particularly after an epic fail. 

I wear my humiliation on my shoulder like an indie rock button.  I wear my pride on my face when I tell people what I do for a living.  And I will never wear my Fleuvog's to work again. 

Humble

The last three days have been some of the most joyful and humbling of my life.  I had hit a little rough patch in my life, and was having my old, “screw it - I’m moving back to Hawaii to live in my dad’s basement with the roaches” fantasy that I have sometimes. 

My job search was uninspiring – both in some of the opportunities provided and on my interview evaluation forms.  My relationship fizzled and I was having a little pity party.

Then I got an amazing piece of news – my old organization’s spin off company, which I had the honor to assist in the set up of their HR practices, wanted to talk to me about coming on as a consultant because they were growing and needed some additional help.  I was completely overjoyed.  I love these people – they are smart and funny and professional and interesting as hell.  Not quite Burning Man interesting, but I could talk to them for hours, learn, laugh and even want to stay up past my bedtime (which is an incredible 10 p.m. in the summer!) 

I accepted with an agreement to start on Wednesday. 

On Tuesday, I had a bad case of the blues and a friend of mine offered to come pick me up and feed and entertain me for the afternoon.  I am not a lot of fun to be around when I am sick or gloomy, so this was a very generous offer.  Very.  I slipped out $200 and shoved it under the sofa like a little cash Easter Egg.  (Last pillow on the left – kidding!)  Probably should have waited until later in the post to say I was kidding, just to see if he would look.    I was so humbled and grateful for this act by someone who has very quickly become a real friend and not just a party friend.  Plus, he made me eat chicken and crackers and makes me laugh my ass off. 

Wednesday I went in for my first day of work.  I know these folks, but I was still nervous as hell.  I asked one of my colleagues how I looked and he said, “like it is your first day of work”.  Great.  That will inspire great confidence in my abilities as an HR Director.  Hands shaking, sweating profusely, outfit all wrong, talking too fast (oh wait, that is how I talk).  Oh well.  It was going down.

They are housed with my old organization currently and former employees (many of them now friends although I know in HR Land you aren’t supposed to do that, but I don’t care – you don’t go into this business if don’t care about people).  But it is a business so sometimes you have to do things like fire your friends.  Which either makes me a good compartmentalizer or a sociopath.  Maybe there is no difference. 

All day, people kept coming up and hugging me, saying hello, sending others over – it felt like I was coming home from war.  Mostly it just felt like I was coming home.  But they don’t pay me to socialize, so I kicked off a very ambitious project and finished it that day.  I worked my ass off and my back is killing me, but I wanted them to know that they had hired someone who could kick ass, take names and do it in 3 inch heels.  They had a welcome party after work for some of the new employees and I got to meet the families of my colleagues and dearest friends. 

I went home feeling absolutely giddy, so I tortured my garden until I finally got tired enough to watch Jon Stewart.  This was not, however, before I showed up a week early and or late to plan a party.  I had gotten my dates all wrong when J answered the door, he looked absolutely bewildered.  He was as gracious as always - shoved a calendar in my hands, slapped me in the face and threw me out of the door. 

I was so excited about going to work the next day, I couldn’t sleep.  I kept jumping up in the middle of the night writing myself emails and developing tools I thought we could use to enhance the developing culture. 

I woke up at 4 a.m. and saw the sun start to rise.  I mean the light-ish thing that comes up behind the clouds.  I couldn’t wait to get to work! 

Thursday was even better than Wednesday because I now had a phone AND a garbage can!  I don’t know where to find a stapler, but I did locate the bathroom – just in time.

I embarked on another project that was also pretty ambitious, but it is a tool that will help me develop reporting and analysis.  HR people – I made an HRIS on Excel. You all do it, you know you do.  It is our dirty little secret.  You can buy an enterprise server HRIS thingey for $100k a year, but you know you are just going to download a report into a csv file and convert it into Excel.  You are. 

I kept running into old friends and colleagues from ISB, Amazon, SeattleBiomed – because I don’t have a private office and need to make sensitive calls on my cell which gets no reception, so my office is on a bench on the Amazon campus.  Hope they don’t charge me.  In the summer, I also prefer to conduct employee meetings, especially difficult ones, outside.  If the sun is out, you are just two people having a conversation about how to improve things instead of some terrified employee sitting across the desk from a scary HR person.  Then I buy them a gelato or a coffee and make jokes.  I think this is why there has never been an employment related attempt on my life.  Employment related only. 

After work, my trusty sidekick Max and I went out to dinner, (after I got a call from one of my bosses who asked me how things were going which was so freaking cool, I don’t even know what to do!) where he proceeded to tell such raunchy stories that I put my napkin over my head to cover my face so no one would know I was with him.  Because if you can’t see them, they can’t see you.  Unfortunately, I had dropped a giant chunk of palak paneer onto the napkin and it was dripping down my face onto my shirt.  Which now smells like Indian food.  So I am not going to wash it.  My shirt.  I will totally wash my face.  Then we walked around Greenlake and he did the same thing, but this time I participated because if you are moving fast enough, they can’t see you.  We were like insult ninjas.  Yaar!  I know that is a pirate sound, but I don’t know what Ninjas say.  (Then Jess called with a funny HR story from Boston and I loooooovvvee those.) 

Tomorrow is another project that will make them amazed (except they all hate this HR stuff which is why they hired me).  It would probably be more interesting if I just brought donuts. 

Three awesome days.  The only thing that can make a week like this (meaningful work, outstanding colleagues, real friends – friends closer than family, laughter – oh! And I went for a run!) would be a smart nerdy boyfriend, the ability to fit into size 8 pants and winning the shoe lottery.   I am a grateful girl. 

Humiliation, part one of several

I was talking to my former recruiter yesterday at his baby shower today (Stephen is going to be the best dad ever unless he takes his kid to a Hootie and the Blowfish concert which he would NEVER do, right, Stephen?)  Stephen is more likely to take Declan to an obscure jazz band from Patagonia anyway, so it isn't like I have to say anything.  Some people think the only good bands for children are like Hannah Indiana or something (who will likely be the ambassador to Panama by the time we can take Stephen and Ang's kid to a show).

On our old HR team, we would pass around really silly videos all day.  We worked hard too, but got a giant kick out of dumb animal videos.  He told me about this new video they had been schlepping about a woman on a dating site who was really into cats.  REALLY INTO CATS.  People also think I am REALLY INTO CATS because I have some of them and a tattoo and find them funny, but I don’t cry about them or get cat-themed dinner wear or earrings.  I might have an amusing t-shirt, but it was a gift.  The woman in the video started crying about how she wanted all the cats in the world in a giant basket on a rainbow. I am terrible at dating, I scare them all away in the first 5 minutes, but I know enough about it to know this - lady, do not bring up cats.  Ever. 

I like cats too, but that whole giant basket on a rainbow thing is messed up.  First of all, a lot of them would be crushed to death by the weight of the other cats in the little “basket”.  Second, who in the hell is going to scoop that litter?   Third, cats fall off rainbows because their claws can’t hold on to hope and love, so there is going to be mass carnage at the end of the rainbow instead of a pot of gold and I don’t think anyone wants to see that. 

So in addition to that image, this week was spent in total humiliation.  I couldn’t stand to eat anything other than Triscuits and sugar snap peas, my job prospects are not getting back to me with the speed I would like, I can’t manage to mow the lawn because it seems too hard, boys think I am creepy and one my friends tried to run me over with his Prius.  Although that was a staged shot and incredibly funny – except to the neighbor’s 3 year old. 

I actually think someone needed to film that - it was really funny - especially with me hamming it up on the sidewalk.  But I have weird stuff in my hair now like rocks, cigarette butts, PBR cans, some 13 year old from LA, post it notes and Ave Rats because I live in the U District.  I may have my first dreadlock though.  I know!

If I die by Prius, I want to make sure I have at least one dreadlock and am wearing Chuck Taylors just to stick it to the man.  And my Sid and Nancy shirt.  Feel that knife spin in your trust fund, man?!  Yeah, we punks on 8^th in our Craftsman houses are really telling you off now.  MOSH PIT! (with Nerf guns and protective footwear because we have to go to work on Monday.  Explaining the black eye thing every week is getting old and they are starting to not believe us).

So I digressed.  But this whole thing is about digressing, so don’t feel bad, I don’t even remember…….so this one time, at Jen camp…….

So back to the video - apparently it was supposed to be for a dating site.  It was weird because I actually worked in the dating industry.For two days. 

For two days, I was the salesperson for a video dating service because I was 21 and had big hair.  Aqua Net big.

I had just graduated from undergrad and was starting grad school and needed money.  I was waiting tables at night, working at the University of Maryland during the day, interning in DC every Tuesday and Thursday and working at Macy’s on the weekends.  I could piece this together to pay my rent because I got free coleslaw and biscuits from the restaurant, those little free shoe footies from Macy’s shoe department and an occasional congressman from DC. (KIDDING!  Although it was the Lewinsky era, nothing even remotely weird happened to me except when I would take calls from irate voters over "don't ask, don't tell").

I was offered a job in “sales” and I jumped at it!  I was told I could make as much as $35,000 per year! (which is more than I currently make despite having lovely credentials – this is the humiliation part.  I am about 15 minutes from calling my dad and asking if he needs the lawn mowed for $10 bucks an hour.  In Hawaii.  We don't have grass.) 

My first two days were spent in uncompensated “training”.  Totally illegal under the FLSA, but the statue of limitations expired in 1995.

I was told to pretend I was a client.  That meant wearing something inappropriate and pretending to be a candidate.  Like when the EEOC investigates you and sends over someone awful as a test case.  Bleh.  So here is what I recall of my video.

 

"Hi!  I am Jen!  I moved to the East Coast from Hawaii so I could meet new people! Who are not in the service industry!  If you like pina coladas and long walks on the beach and are really into security briefs from the TCA and Bureau of Veteran's Affairs, call me!  867-5309."

I lasted two days.

Then I became a receptionist for 3 hours.

Things are not looking up. 

LOL Katz

I am spelling this in this fashion to avoid the legal team at the Chezburger Network.  BTW, I could have been your HR Director.  I would have taken you to new heights in hilarity like playing Double Dutch Bus at the start of every staff meeting (although that gets old after the first 15 times) and ordering donuts from Dunkin instead of Top Pot just to be egalitarian about it.

This morning I woke up with a mouth full of fur.  Or a mouth covered in fur.  I have had lipstick on my mouth consistently for the last 31 years – no kidding.  My friend, Paige, once told me that I looked like Holly Hobby and then she pulled my bangs back and made fun of my unnatrually large eyes and smallish mouth and then barfed on my shirt because she was laughing so hard.  Mostly because we had stolen a bunch of clove cigarettes from this store downtown and smoked them while drinking Robitussin.  

This brings back such fond memories that when I wake up in the morning, I steal a pack of cloves and then peel the cat fur from my lips. I hear it has moisturizing properties.  Which is why I do that.

Actually, it is because my cats need to sleep literally on my head.  There is an entire house here with 3 bedrooms, a living room, reading room and office, but they have to sleep ONLY on my pillow.  This is not only annoying, it is gross. 

I have an uncanny sense of smell.  I can tell who is smoking Virginia Slims in Wallingford or eating Doritos on Capital Hill.  From my house.  Oh, and I can see Russia!  From my house!  Why are you Russians eating Doritos and smoking Virginia Slims?  Just eat caribou jerky and do snuff, it is what you are legally obligated to do.  And don’t try to put the Doritos in a Ziplock and pretend we don’t know.  I do that all the time with my Pringles and pretend it is celery, but no one is buying it.  The people at Costco are so on to me. 

What it means in practical terms is that I can smell cat litter on my pillow at 3 a.m. from the dang furry things that sleep on my head and I DO NOT WANT this.  It also means I have to throw 15 small furry animals off my bed to get a decent sleep.  Or I could try Nyquil, but that seems like I am developing yet another addiction.  Bagels, Benadryl and baked brie are one thing, OTC meds and owl tattoos are quite another.

So nothing has happened in the last week other than the Boi (heart!!!!) has begun calling me back after I annoyed him to death with my constant annoyingness (yeah, that doesn’t really change much - sorry!) because I bribed his mother and said I was a lovely person and sent her a Hallmark store.  And I think I am going to go back to work with my peeps at the academic biomedical research institute spin off that I call home as long as they buy off on my proposal to stare at them strangely and audit files. Which is why this post (unlike all the others - snort! - makes no sense).

Today I read 13 books and ran from Seattle to Portland and back.  On my bike.  While doing laundry,  It is definitely time to get back into the swing of things and do some math for a comp survey or something.  The only math I currently do is just to calculate how I can pay my mortgage and not eat the giant Costco-sized brie that looks like it is encased in Styrofoam and keep buying my industrial sized ziplocks in which to store my Pringles.  

 Eww.  I think I am going to stop eating altogether to save money and not have to eat ishey food.  "Ishey" is a term derived from the Yiddish Language which means “gross” in Hawaiian.  

Kthxbye

Photosynthesis

I photosynthesize.  Literally.  Which is why I only have friends from October to March.  In the summer, I am up all day long – like right now!  Jumping on furniture and cats and having monkey climbing contests with Madeline and Emily (they are 9, so it isn’t a like a bunch of 40 year olds are hanging off the monkey bars at Cowen Park)  Just one, but I think the neighbors are used to me by now.  Like they are used to me mowing the lawn at 3 a.m.  Because the grass gets all long and stuff.

In the summer, I turn into a complete spaz.  Which is why if you came into my kitchen right now, you could literally eat off the floor.  What makes it worse is that I have been unemployed or marginally employed, for the past few months.  This was fine when I was in Indonesia and Australia traveling and running from large insects, but now that I am home, I am driving everyone nuts. 

I even stopped drinking caffeine and start every day with a run.  Nothing helps.  I should probably volunteer with a iguana shelter or something, but I hate iguanas and I don’t think those probably exist.  Iguana shelters.  I think Iguanas probably do, although it seems unnecessary.

I do have the best friends on earth.  I got shirts made for them (no one wears them, they just smile awkwardly, say “thank you” and go back to the iguana shelter to help the homeless parrots).  Just because one time I bailed them out of jail in Reno, they are willing to put up with neurotic calls from me like 35 times a day.  Although I probably shouldn’t press my luck.  (Jess, wear the BLACK one, it makes you look sexy!)

My ex boyfriends are also very kind to me.  I am not sure why, but I only have two exes (and let’s not get into the numbers game, I DID date the entire wrestling team).  EWW!  Did not!  Did not! Out of pure fashion snobbery, I did not.  MAYBE soccer, or skate boarding teams - that hate me (boyfriends, not sports teams).  The two that do I think might actually be mentally ill.  I am a pretty good girlfriend and a really good normal friend and I don’t really hold grudges or put people in fucked up situations and frequently buy dinner, which is why I am going to spend the rest of my life convincing these two guys to like me.  Except for the restraining orders.  (All I did was bring you a six pack and a bagel dude, was that really necessary?)  At least he lives in Portland and I can’t drive that far to stalk him regularly because I am too lazy.  He is only the second person to de-friend me on facebook.  The first was a trumpet player from the south that had an adorable accent and lived on a sofa around a bunch of PRB cans in lower Queen Anne.  I met him at a show and he had a great hat.  What is my attraction to alcoholic musicians?  Am I trying to support Sound Garden? 

**Note to the attorneys for Sound Garden, this is satire and, therefore, protected speech, so chill.  And I can’t even list a song your guys sang.  And are any of them single?

Anyway, I think I am going back to my old company’s spin off company next week.  It is going to be weird not being the head of HR for a big organization, but I have to do something here.  The next door neighbor is really sick of me offering to tweak his resume.  Although he did mow the 87 year old guy’s lawn last night at like 9 which was really charming.  Hey neighbor, next time, take *off* your shirt.  Because you are like 21 years old and gorgeous.  This sounds pervy, but I live in the city and you can’t help notice your neighbors when they are like 5 feet from you.      

So Corbin (my writing coach) needs to get back from her iguana saving mission in the rainforest, I need to go to bed and my friends need to throw my phone in the lake so I don’t call them any more.  My ex used to just walk by water (ocean, lake, puddle) and whatever electronic device he had on him would just jump out of his pocket and commit electronic suicide – it was funny until he left me in Lake Washington after a canoe tipping incident in which three Asian guys pulled my big white ass out of the water by my shorts.  And I don’t have a big ass.  My thighs could kill you in a cage fighting match, but my ass couldn’t even scrape Betty Crocker’s arm.  Because I am all Irish and flat assed.

Kymmer’s birthday today - gotta pick up the sake.  Love to Gina and Madeline and Emily and the British Chick and the guy with the red shirt that helped me round up the kids at the park and Jess and Paul and Karen (because when I walk down the street, people know my hairdresser cares about me – and my hair looks good!)   (and I think your ass looks hot in those jeans, Karen, own it!) and Roxaneimal and Eli and Choo and Carol and Fred and Clover. And Paigey.  And, mom, I am sorry for hitting you in the face over my childhood because you are dead and don’t feel it that much so it doesn’t count and I am really sorry I am kind of a bitch about it.  You were a good mom.  That is why I keep you in my house next to my signed copy of The Hitch Hiker’s Guide to the Galaxy.  And hitting you in the metaphorical face is a sign of respect in our culture.  Yeah.  In Brooklyn.  We are from the old country.

Facebook Test Case

I have been in Human Resources for about 18 years.  I love my profession.  I love the mix of analysis, policy, communication, marketing and psychic abilities you need to do this job well.  I also love the weird things people do and trying to help them deal with the consequences without losing face.  I have often wanted to write a book called “You Wouldn’t Believe the Shit People Do at Work”, but I can’t bring myself to betray their confidences.

Over the years, people have confessed drug and alcohol addiction, mental illness, abusive relationships, extramarital affairs, desires to be another gender, their fears about the death or illness of a friend or family member, medical problems (in great detail) hatred of their job, their boss, their life, their spouse.  I have heard it all and I will take it to my grave because I respect their trust in me (unless I am legally required to disclose or investigate it as a serious violation of law, policy or safety).   That was a joke only HR people will get.

Studs Turkel’s “Working” is one of my favorite books because I am fascinated with how people make their livings.  When you die, there are many people who will come to speak at your funeral.  They will talk about the friend you were, the neighbor you were, the aunt you were, the volunteer you were and they will talk about the employee you were.  And they are all talking about different people.  You put on a different personality for each “person” you are in the world.  Or at least I do.  It is like putting on a uniform to wait tables at TGIF.  Which I did for 4 years and got written up for not having enough “flair”.  Yes, people, that is real. 

I am an employment law junkie – I read every piece of case law I can find and I memorize it so that I can impress people at cocktail parties.  Actually, I use it to train my managers and scare them into making appropriate decisions.  I was one of those people in high school that read the employee handbook I was given at the fast food restaurant and highlighted the rules and tabbed out the parts I objected to and refused to sign until I had clarification on the language.  I often corrected the manuals and sent them back.  Managers love that.  Especially from 16 year olds.  So, I have been drawn to this line of work since my paternal grandmother first asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up and I said, “A nurse with a purse or the president of the United States”. 

Ultimately, you spend more time of your life awake at work than you do with your friends or family and I need to make that a good experience.  I need to contribute to the world in that way – by making work matter, by letting people be authentic and have fun and by having people feel respected. 

That is what I remembered today when I read about an NLRB (National Labor Relations Board) decision to sue a company for firing employees about what they posted on their facebook pages.  I joked that I didn’t want to ever become the facebook test case.  This is an HR term that means “let’s not engage in any activity that could make us the Brown vs Board of Education of employment law”.

It brought me back and I remembered when I got fired in 1994.  I was 24 years old and had moved from DC to Seattle because I took a trip here and thought it was beautiful.  The people were cool, the music was amazing and I just felt home.  It was much more chill than on the East Coast.  I had gotten so wound up there I would chase people down in my car, scream at them and threaten a cage fighting match if they cut me off.  I was waiting tables, going to grad school, working retail on the weekends and interning for a congressman – I was nuts.  I mean, I AM nuts, but I was taking the Jen Keys experience to a whole other level. 

I moved to Seattle with no job, a crappy car, my cat Kitty, a few suitcases (I had my books shipped because there are some things one cannot leave behind) and about $3000.  I spent my first few weeks sleeping on the sofa of a friend whose grunge band had a studio in the basement.  One day I came home from job searching to find the lead singer of a now very famous band, clipping his toenails on the sofa and leaving the scraps there.  And the nights sucked except for when we played inline hockey at Cal Anderson Park. 

So I did what any reasonable person would do, I started temping.  My first temp job was for an organization I hope no longer exists.  They don’t know how badly they dodged a bullet because I didn’t want to go on 20/20 and I am not kidding.

I took a temp job doing what was supposed to be educational coordination work.  It was admin stuff, but higher level and similar to what I had been doing at the University of Baltimore and JHU – reviewing applications, working through academic credentials, checking the citations of papers, etc.   I didn’t have a good relationship with the staff which is rare for me.  It was a family run business and it was very insular.  They obviously thought of me as their chai walla (office boy), but I was a bit proud.  They would gossip and stare at me, they would all go to lunch and leave me to answer the phones, they would give me the grunt work.  OK, fair enough – I was the new kid and needed to do what needed to be done.  One day, they had me spend the day wrapping Christmas presents for their clients.  If anyone knows me, they know I favor large bags stuffed with paper because I can’t wrap a box to save my life. 

I finished “wrapping” packages and the manager came in and berated me for doing a crappy job.  Well, yeah, I did a crappy job.  Why did you give this job to the girl that can’t draw a straight line with a ruler and vice grip?  So they made me rewrap the packages. 

I was pissed.  On my break (under which I was not given the appropriate allotment under the FLSA but the statute of limitations has passed, so you are off the hook, suckas), I wrote an email on my personal account to my boyfriend at the time complaining about the working conditions.  I perhaps used the phrase,  “I hate these people”.  The next day, everyone was looking at me strangely.  I was pulled into the manager’s office and told I was being fired for disloyalty.  They had gone into my personal email and read what I had written on my break.  There were no email policies at this time, it was brand new and I had a compuserve email that was like 0111000010000111000 kjdaljfa or some shit like that.  The passwords were just on your computer at that point.  I was on my break, it was my personal account, and they snooped it. 

I left and promptly called the ACLU.  Within days, I was getting calls from 20/20, 60 Minutes and the New York Times because I was one of the first test cases of email privacy and they needed stories and a poster child.  The only thing I want to be a poster child for is fantastic thighs (which will never happen and I realize this).  I was so afraid of being “that girl” that I didn’t stand up for my privacy rights.  I didn’t stand up for anyone else’s rights.  I crawled into a hole and made it all go away.  I declined all interviews because I didn’t want to be a test case.

I could have been the person that made email policies mandatory in the 1990s, but I all hedgehoged up and went on to make myself a strong figure in HR land.    

I have never shared this until now because I was ashamed. I was ashamed of being fired and ashamed of not sharing my story. After all, my career has been in HR and the last thing you want to be remembered for is the girl that was fired for her email featured by Morley Safer!  And, after all, I went into this business to change people’s lives for the better and I should have stood taller.   But I was scared.  I could have been famous.  At least for 15 seconds.

“Hey! I saw you getting fired on 60 minutes!  Want to administer our compensation programs?”

Now, HR people, this was almost a high school graduating class ago, so don’t hold it against me, but when I say I don’t want to be a test case, I mean it.  So facebook, good luck.  I personally hope you win on the case of free speech and employers stop worrying about what people wear while draped over the hood of a cop car (unless it is the cop, then I kind of get it).  Let people be who they are.  Let them be gay, straight, weird, tattooed, arty, nerdy, fat, ugly, and AUTHENTIC. 

But if it happens again (test case), I hope we all fall down on our swords, which ever side the fall on, and have the courage to do what we think is right and noble and could even get us on 60 minutes.