And just as the referenced religious comment, hurled from on high like a lightning bolt, I saw that there was another caller on my line. And the conversation with Ma, for now, would have to wait. I rushed her off the phone to see who was on call waiting, a concept that, after all these years, she still had trouble grasping. Why would you make another call wait to pick up another caller who is waiting, she riddled. And as usual, I had no retort for my mother’s lock-tight logic.
“Maybe it’s Dr. Ursula,” she said as I hung up to take the other call.
It was Emily, my assistant—oops, make that former assistant—who was in full-blown panic mode. I tried to reassure her, as much for my benefit as her own, that everything was just fine.
“Em, things end when they should, not before and not after,” paraphrasing the words that I had just been chagrined to hear my mother use.
Young, naïve, first-time job assistant Emily did not know what to make of this sage advice. She was a well-manicured, giddy girl with a high-pitched voice who always seemed like she was about to break into applause at the slightest piece of good news. Not surprisingly, the slightest bit of bad news could always be expected to turn her into a basket case. An incessant up-talker, she had the unusual habit of constantly asking questions, and before anyone had a chance to answer her, she would answer those questions herself. That emotional exterior made her immediately likable, and her sensitivity to everyone else’s needs made her the perfect publicity assistant.
“I am just so sorry that I was not there when you left…a bride’s work is never done, as they say.”
In an instant I was transported to the mania that Emily’s wedding had created. It was as if she turned a switch to become an entirely different person when talking about Jordan Almonds and peonies. At least something had remained the same in my topsy- turvy life; not even my getting fired was going to stand in the way of Emily’s wedding preparations. And for that, I felt thankful.
The sun shining through the blinds woke me from a fitful night’s sleep. It was Tuesday and I had nothing to do. But more than an absence of task, I was struck by an absence of purpose. Yesterday’s late afternoon phone calls had given way to an ominously quiet atmosphere this morning. In my world, busy was currency: the busier you are, the more powerful you are; the less busy you are—well, you get the idea. Save for a late night text exchange with my office husband, Daniel, the lines had gone ominously dead.
From my bedroom, which was situated at the front of my railroad apartment, I passed through the living room, which still carried the physical and emotional remnants of last night: empty water bottles, a Hot Pocket wrapper, the half-read manuscript, its pages now strewn across the floor, and, of course, the tote bag still waiting for its contents to be given a new home. I was starting to relate to the tote bag’s displaced status. Feeling edgy amidst all this accumulated stuff, I rummaged through the pile and located my iPad, which looked defiant in its hot pink case. As I reached for the power button, an errant piece of pesky clutter got in my way and I idly brushed it aside.
It turned out to be the severance package from my now former employer. Even though Rita in Human Resources had urged me to sign on the dotted line yesterday, I had the presence of mind to wait and review later. Like a good procrastinator, I decided to save reading these documents for another time and instead began to sift through the detritus of the living room, beginning with the coffee table.
Procrastination, by definition, is the opting out of one task to choose a more pleasurable one. I knew this because instead of reading the documents or cleaning up the living room, I chose to surf the web to find the true meaning of procrastination. Further reading suggested that procrastinators are really just putting off the inevitable. In other words, that nasty task you just put off will still be waiting for you when you return, and may even be less desirable. With that bit of internet wisdom, I started purging the top layers of the coffee table.
Within an hour, I had cleared the coffee table of 20 old magazines, most I had never read, the half-read manuscript (written, by the way, by the niece of someone at work), two unmatched flip flops, three tubes of lip gloss, and one of those cushy balls designed to relieve stress. Finally, I freed a yoga mat that had somehow trapped itself under the bottom rung of my coffee table. By this time, I had managed to fill two garbage bags and two recycling bags. One thing I saved was an inscribed copy of Smart Blonde, Dr. Ursula’s first book. If times got really rough, I might have to sell it on eBay. On my way to the recycling bins outside, I started rehearsing my responses to anyone wondering why I was home on a workday. As if there were a giant “F” for “Fired” on the front of my hoodie, I felt like a community outcast, like an unemployed Esther Prynne. I planned to take control of the dry cleaner first. I walked down the block to confront her by surprise before she could see me.
“Beautiful day for a vacation,” I blurted out to her.
“Beautiful, yes, beautiful, nice weather, don’t work too hard,’’ she replied, little realizing the irony of her innocent comment.
“You, too,” I responded.
There is a rule in media training that no matter what the interviewer asks, you stick to your copy points. Most authors rarely prompt an interviewer to intentionally throw them off or embarrass them in some way. Especially my self-help authors, most of whom were diet gurus, advice columnists, or fitness specialists dispensing top-10 tips on how to lose weight and live a healthier lifestyle. I would tell them to stick to the key messages of the book and to enjoy themselves. Once, I even told household guru Peggy Post to lighten up. After all, she didn’t start the Iraq war; she just liked seeing napkins folded nicely.
It was now time to take my own advice. And that, my dry cleaner friend, was how these conversations were going to work in the future. I knew it wasn’t such a big thing to clean up your living room and walk outside in the sunshine, but I was starting to feel a little better, a little closer to normal and less like a vampire, forced to shun the light of day.
This sense of self-empowerment I was experiencing was pure Dr. Ursula. Thinking about her immediately launched me back into a frenzied state that Emily and I referred to as Ursula time where we were acutely aware of all of her comings and goings, her media appearances, her lunches, even her downtime. At any moment, we knew where she was, whom she was with and where she was going next. It was our job to think for her, be two steps ahead of her, to take care of her, and, most important of all, keep her happiness utmost in our minds.
I wished now that I could divorce myself from our professional relationship and ask her for her advice. What would Ursula tell me to do? In truth, I missed her. She was difficult, but she was my difficult. I knew how to handle her in crisis; shouldn’t it work the same way now that our roles had been reversed? But they weren’t. As I tried to take my own advice, I was reminded of how difficult taking care of her could be.
During last year’s sales conference, for instance, the good doctor had been waging her own defensive. The Smith & Drake sales conference was a long-standing publishing company tradition, which involved transporting the entire staff, complete with all the attendant office politics, to an off-site location, preferably some place warm, such as a resort in the Bahamas. Ironically, most of the conference was spent indoors, in freezing cold conference rooms, rendering the pools, tennis courts, day spas, and other resort amenities completely useless.
At this particular conference Dr. Ursula’s credibility was being used to defend her latest controversial book. Wonder boy editor-in-chief Alex Sheffield was on the podium, providing a convincing argument about her track record and media appeal. Almost immediately, he met some resistance from the chain store sales manager who, although not officially, was really in charge of the company. Were it not for good sales numbers from a big stores, such as those in her accounts, Dr. Ursula and others like her would be forced into the murky world of self-publishing. It was the great equalize
r in a way. Once thought to be the slayers of small independent stores, these big box retailers held sway to such a degree that they were now the saviors for some fortunate authors, enabling them to be published on their say-so alone.
Online giants were another factor, but could not deliver the visceral impact of Dr. Ursula’s life-sized cardboard figure outside a storefront in the Mall of America. Lilly Crowley, of the superstore giant Winters Books, was the first to break ranks, as she was one of the first female sales managers in publishing and had enough experience and power to speak her mind without consequence.
“Why is she doing a male-bashing book?”
“I don’t want to see men as useless. I like men. I even like you, Alex,” charmed the good doctor.
Alex shifted and re-shifted his papers, organizing his rebuttal. He interjected some salient points about reaching a new audience and new market. There was plenty of room in the market, he said persuasively. But Lilly would not budge. She lingered on each word in her reply, making her southern accent even more distinct.
“Winters won’t touch that book.”
Winters Books was based out of Nashville, Tennessee, deep in the Bible Belt, where “women’s lib,” as Lilly explained it, was a real threat to hard-working families. I loved Lilly, although her usual commentary was a public relations minefield. Thank goodness I never had to media train her for The Today Show. She may have taken credit for the Iraq War, in fact. Her liberal use of the words “women’s lib” always made me chuckle but they would likely have offended most modern women.
“They just won’t take it, Alex. And I am not sure that I even want them to.”
This statement transformed the stylish top editor into a struggling senator grappling for balance between the blue and red states. Regardless of his media training and obvious charm, the group of sales managers in the middle of the room were already choosing sides. Dr. Ursula’s readers were women, conservative for the most part, who had strong family values; they would read about empowerment, but this new departure would have them wondering, right along with the red states. As Alex floundered in his own verbal quicksand, the room was becoming unruly.
“She isn’t saying that marriage is a bad institution; it’s just that she thinks all people should be able to get married, but probably some shouldn’t.”
This compelling urban argument did not increase confidence as Lilly persisted.
“Winters won’t touch that book.”
She repeated in much the same manner as the condemnation speech by Pontius Pilate to the onlooking crowd that crucified Christ. Alex was truly on a cross of his own making. The title of the book alone, Marriage Sentences, was enough for most conservatives to condemn it. And to run a publishing business, you need people to buy books, plain and simple, even if you don’t agree with a book’s message. But this was taking free market capitalism a bit too far. Not to publish a book because one account doesn’t support an author’s views seemed shortsighted, to say the least, but that is where the business was heading, whether any of us liked it or not.
Dr. Ursula was going to have to score big on her welcome to dinner speech this evening, taking place in the Aloha Ballroom. But before that, we all had damage control to attend to. Dr. Ursula, Alex, and I planned an impromptu emergency summit in the Ocean Vista suite. While Alex and I discussed strategy, the good doctor searched in her Hermès bag for the perfect lip color.
One might have questioned the look and style of such an accomplished therapist, which was more Vegas showgirl than degreed researcher. A leggy blond who empowers people who are less good-looking and not as smart had endless media appeal. Her Chanel suit was cunningly tailored to reveal half of her thigh, the look reminiscent of naughty young Hollywood starlets who, once empowered, were more than happy to show a little leg.
“Men are not capable of long-term, monogamous relationships.” Her comment revealed more about her current situation than the subject of the book launch.
“Look, no one needs to know that Timothy has left,” I redirected.
“We can spin it in the press to seem that you got too successful and he couldn’t handle it. You were going in different directions.
“This is really what you want to say, isn’t it?”
Timothy, her husband of 25 years, had recently left her for a younger woman, a holistic health counselor who was more open to his needs, dietary or otherwise. While concentrating on the relationships of others, hers had fallen apart. How ironic. That evening, she approached the podium with a steady confidence, but we knew that she was disguising wounds that would take time to heal. No one wants to follow a wounded soldier into battle, even if she is clad in $1,000 shoes.
Like so many times past, while waiting in the wing, Dr. Ursula asked me for a final cross-check, which meant cleavage, lipstick, and hemline. I gave her the customary thumbs up as she made her way into the room, her insecurity fading as she grabbed her notes and mock-up book jacket, and charged into the breach. This time, it was me giving her advice, which, ironically, was her own.
“Keep moving forward.”
Fed up with my own inertia and the helplessness associated with having to explain unemployment to everyone who did call, I conquered procrastination and finally read the exit letter in its entirety. I was moving forward, as well. In signing the agreement letter in my corporate unwelcome package, I was entitled to outside help from an outplacement firm. Outplacement is a program for downsized corporate executives to find out how to get back to the wonderful world of corporate America, a goal that seemed ill-conceived, if not insane, at the current time. At first, the idea was out of the question; why would I want to spend time with all those unemployed people? My mother summed it up with one simple statement.
“You are unemployed, too, dear.”
Firmly placed in humbling reality, I finally bestirred myself and left the relative security of my apartment to attend my first meeting at Morris, Field and Benjamin Counseling Services located right above Grand Central Station in midtown Manhattan. The location was perfect for any Metro North commuters who had recently been fired. I joined the realm of off-peak commuters. It reminded me of traveling in Los Angeles, where there is no rhyme or reason to the traffic. It was just constant; it made me wonder if anyone was actually getting to his or her destination, or if they were trapped in a constant traffic circle.
It was clear that working in a high rise from 7 a.m. until 7 p.m. was not the only way to make a living. People were setting up their virtual businesses in coffee shops where they could enjoy supersized coffee drinks and free Wi-Fi. Landscapers and cleaning ladies were tending to the million-dollar brownstones. Realtors double-parked along Washington Street in an endless exercise of borrowing keys from other realtors to show million-dollar townhouses. Nannies strolled with the children of those who lived in those million-dollar brownstones. In my town, at least, none of the people looked like they needed a big office to appear successful.
But more than busy activities, these people had purpose. They had the larger question of, “What do you do?” nailed. There was simplicity in this reply. “I am a gardener, a realtor, a nanny, a roofer.” Each had a marketable skill. In MFB’s welcome brochure, the determination of marketable skills was highlighted as a company cornerstone.
The thought of returning to a corporate environment where a prison like cubicle awaited did not seem commensurate with the deep understanding of the cracked psyche that outplacement promised to heal. After all, the ejector seat that was my office chair was still hot from launching me out into the path of finding myself just days ago. Confident that some sort of activity was better than none, I now forged ahead through the whirlwind of Grand Central Station. Once through the recently opened global food markets and a 35-floor elevator ride, with a 365-degree view of the atrium shops below, a visible and conspicuous ride ultimately delivered me to the dark-paneled offices of MFB.
T
he first stop was an interview with the placement director, who assessed where I should be in the corporate workplace by asking a series of seemingly unrelated questions. Based on my answers, and what I could only speculate as my lack of math skills and business acumen, my job recommendation was to work in public relations at a media company. Well, we all know how well that had turned out.
Before making my way down to door number two, I stopped at the impossibly cheerful receptionist to secure the oversized ladies room key. Somehow, even ladies rooms these days had velvet rope-like entrances. Pleasantries were exchanged about the changing weather and how hard it was to find just the right cardigan for the weather. Mine, as Diane shared, was just right and very “smart.”
“Thanks so much, Diane, now you have a great day,” I replied.
Maybe life at outplacement could be cheery after all. As I was heading for the ladies room, I passed a large glass-windowed conference room where an enthusiastic speaker was introducing today’s topic. She scrolled with a large erasable red marker on a wipe board.
“Empower Yourself through Entrepreneurism.” Even though the marker would likely be wiped off in the next session, no doubt entitled, “How Did I Get Here Again,” the speaker seemed convincing enough. Attendees scribbled notes and adjusted their positions. Poor souls, I thought to myself.
Frustrated by my lack of empowerment, I breezed by dismissively. In fact, I breezed myself all the way out of the building, vowing never to attend again. It was not until I reached for my wallet to pay for some vegetable samosas at a kiosk that I realized I must have taken the bathroom key with me. And like it or not, now I had to return to the scene of the crime tomorrow. My theft of this item would certainly not sit well with Diane the receptionist, especially not after we had shared so much personal information.
The great thing about being laid off and having so much free time on your hands is that you finally have enough time to spend with friends you’ve been neglecting during all those long workdays and business trips. The unfortunate part of this scenario for me was that I had no friends outside of work. Inherent in friendship was the idea of being there for them, listening to their problems, being accepting of their faults, essentially providing a buffer to the cruel and unfair realities of the world. But intrinsic to these elusive friend relationships was the idea of reciprocity, a concept I had been unfamiliar with over the last 10 years.
Best Friend for Hire Page 3