I love how you guys just cut to the chase - no small talk here! There are so many wonderful questions that I'm going to address them in batches so as not to bore you with endless drivel.
Here we go. Ready?
Ashley wanted to know:
what exactly is it that you do for a living? inquiring minds want to know...
agirl added the following:Also, how do [you] seem to spend so much time in cubicles/offices, when you're so clearly not one of those people?
Megan chimed in:
Do you work in advertising? (I do, and that's what it sounds like you do, but not sure).
I have a little game that I play at parties to amuse myself, which is to see how long I can go without talking about my job. This is more challenging than you might think in a place like New York, where many people feel defined by their work. I, on the other hand, think my job is the least interesting thing about me, unless you are interested in the psychosis behind what keeps me here. Also, I find that withholding information adds dramatic tension to the play.
See? I'm dodging.
I used to tell people I was an interpretive dancer, but that got old when a few people took it really, really seriously, which meant having to spend the rest of the evening unwinding the lie. The sad part was that they looked so disappointed - they were waiting for a new interpretation of the Holocaust, and all they got was a cocktail olive.
I'm doing it again.
This is what I do:
I am a connector of people and people who need people.
I advise on the very thing I can't figure out myself.
I do it well, but it doesn't make me happy.
I'm wondering what I should do with myself. It's an extremely vexing problem.
I like to think that my career angst gives me the air of a sullen Slav with a dark world view and a penchant for aubergine hair dye. Isn't that cooler than middle class naval gazing?
_____
Madge asked:
how do you spend a normal day and what are the highlights?
Morning: Wake up with one of The Fucking Cats asleep on my head. Pop Benedryl after scratching florid hives blossoming all over neck. Pry swollen eyes open. Listen to NPR. Run shower for several minutes to rinse pool of cat urine, provided daily by Verne. Shower, pointedly ignoring dire need to shave. Scoop Roy out of sink to brush teeth. Rummage around laundry hamper for something work appropriate and realize that nothing fits. Whatever. Belt it! Cinch it! Febreeze it! I'm already late. Sweat through strange, shabby work ensemble while waiting on the subway platform. Pretend to read improving book about male prison rape while strange man with B.O. asks to pray with me. Try not to breathe through nose. Sneak into work twenty minutes late, citing 15th dentist appointment of the month. Coffee, free gummy orange slices, voicemail, email. Attend several hours of meetings. Mention critical need to
"identify value drivers", "partner for organizational change" and other meaningless, out of context jibber-jabber.
Afternoon: Lunch, followed by
laser-focused dicking around on the internet. Phone calls. Staff meeting involving employee smack-down. How can we be more engaged? Answer: pay us more and provide free lunch. Coffee and more gummy orange slices. Write lots of bullet points.
Evening: Raid farmer's market before it closes, assembling odd assortment of incongruous vegetables, most of which will eventually rot in crisper. Stop to chat with Yemeni shopkeeper and his Jewish sidekick. Bask in the smug liberal glow you feel after seeing their Islamic-Judeo friendship. Jews and Muslims walking hand-in-hand! We are all People of the Book! Alhamdulillah. Remember garden. Lug gigantic bag of fertilizer up five flights and distribute among roses on balcony. Coo over garden until smell of partially processed cow dung permeates hair. More NPR while chopping strange vegetable combination. Eat while standing in kitchen. Read blogs and plan ill-fated DIY projects. Watch random "Sex and the City" episode for the 47th time and wonder what appendage I'd spare for a life of thinness. Decide pinkies are useless in the face of slim thighs. Whoop when Fauxhawk comes home earlier than usual. Force him to watch film about sex trafficking/female genital mutilation/Edwardian love triangles. Fall asleep halfway through.
Notice streak of cat vomit down side of bed. Threaten to drop-kick Roy off balcony. Kiss Fauxhawk. Sleep.
Images: Top, via Audrey Hepburn Complex. Bottom, via Lavender Lines.
