Archive for September, 2005 Page 4 of 4

Newer Entries »

The gift that keeps on giving.

Published
by
untitled
on September 6, 2005
in Family
. 14 Comments

My mother came to my house last weekend. Each of her visits bring a rush of mixed emotions. For I know that while she loves me, she loves herself more. And that is something no child should ever know. As I get older, it has become harder to love her. When I look back at my childhood, she played such a big part in so much of my sadness. And ironically, her selfishness was never more rampant than it was during the season of giving.

Growing up, our Christmases were filled with gifts of socks and underwear and maybe a pair of Sears Toughskins, each concealed in a haphazard mass of wrapping paper and Scotch tape, and individually placed underneath the tree. The things other kids got in their stockings or throughout the schoolyear were the things we got from Santa Claus. My mother would sit me and my brother down each December and assault us with her guilt-absolving monologue. “Christmas is going to be tight this year. Your father isn’t working. Just so you know.” Of course we knew. Kids always know. Once again, our Christmas would be filled with the reality of unemployement checks, money arguments broadcast through vents, and bricks of government cheese that always seemed to be on the top shelf of the fridge when a friend asked for a glass of milk.

My mom saw to it that we knew our minimalist holidays were a result of my dad being laid off each winter. The hardest part wasn’t in knowing my friends were unwrapping Cabbage Patch Dolls, Merlins, and Play-Doh Fuzzy Pumper Barber Shops while I was opening things that should’ve been placed in my drawers or hung in my closet on a Tuesday night after dinner. The toughest part was 9 o’clock at night. That was when all the TV Christmas specials ended. I’d lay on the floor by our artificial tree, its tarnished star bending obediently to the ceiling as multicolored lights flickered magical patterns onto the nicotine-stained walls. Through claymation and the hypnotizing drum beats of the CBS Special opening sequence, I was transported to a holiday wonderland where the other reindeer eventually quit teasing Rudolph and Santa was able to fulfill even the poorest child’s desire. On these nights, for an hour or two, I believed.

Surprisingly, I was wearing a bra before I admitted there was no Santa Claus. I thought if I gave him up, there’d no presents at all. As I got older, I learned that my grandparents (on my dad’s side) gave my parents $500 each Christmas to buy us presents. I’m not sure where the money went. It never ended up under the tree. Now that I’m an adult, I can look back and see how even through the winters, my mother never went without. She still went shopping every Monday, stashing her kill in the trunk of her car so no one would see it. Knowing that I have eaten egg salad sandwiches every lunch for an entire week so I could afford to buy my son organic milk, her selfishness overwhelms me. I spend too much time wishing she wasn’t like she is, and hoping I won’t ever become her. I look at her today, and I see her as she was, and is. As she furiously tries to make up for what the world has not given her, the things that it has are slowly slipping away.

Catholic wisdom.

Published
by
untitled
on September 5, 2005
in Family and untitled
. 1 Comment

“Maybe it’s because they are more religious down there.”

My Catholic mother’s explanation as to why New Orleans’ French Quarter wasn’t hit as hard as other parts of the city by Hurricane Katrina. Yes, Mom, that’s why they were spared. This is God’s version of a big timeout, and he didn’t want to punish the holy who reside in the French Quarter. Hate to tell you this, Mom, but those aren’t rosary beads.

On a more serious note, you may have noticed that I have not said much about Katrina in previous posts. In my gut, I feel it would be disrespectful for someone who’s currently sitting in the comfort of her in-tact home to offer up what might seem like a contrived statement of grief. If you want to help, you have a dozens of people telling you precisely how to do so. But personally, I found this way of helping quite interesting : Katrina Relief Auction Group at Flickr.

Rage against The Machine.

Published
by
untitled
on September 2, 2005
in Life, Rants and Work
. 3 Comments

Coming out of the elevators yesterday, I ran into this guy who used to be an internal client of mine. I barely recognized him, for he had gained like 80 pounds. Poor guy. I feel bad for anyone who is on the heavy end of their weight cycle. It was just shocking though, because this guy (a.k.a. “The Machine”) used to bike 20 miles every day before work.

With slicked-back hair and skin like tanned leather, The Machine would pull into the parking ramp every morning in his spotless white Cadillac El Dorado. Straight-up old school bad-ass. I’m guessing while the rest of us were watching “Sixteen Candles” and “Weird Science” back in high school, he was jacking off to “Wall Street.” Greed is good, brotha. Greed is good.

The Machine was known for calling 8 o’clock meetings on Fridays, to which he was always fifteen minutes early. He oozed so much confidence, people tended to stutter and stammer in his presence. And he liked that. He was one of the first in our company to volunteer to be a Six Sigma Black Belt (one to examine all company processes and make them efficient – i.e. job cuts).

Now that The Machine is fat (like me), I expect we’ll soon be chatting it up like old girlfriends, discussing our kids’ poop schedules, comparing our mother’s bracelets and ranting about the sucky bra selection at Lane Bryant.

Fat has a way of doing that – making one seem weak and therefore approachable. Maybe this deeply-rooted perception is primal. Bump into a fat person, and you’d simply ricochet off of them like you would one of those inflatable castles. Run up against a thin person, and there’s a good chance you’d be impaled by their hip bone.

But methinks the world should be more fearful of The Fat. Beneath our jolly exteriors, we’re secretly plotting a hostile takeover of the world. From our command center at Krispy Kreme’s corporate headquarters, we will issue our demands. Every store will have a drive-through, and airlines will be forced to rip out those ass-pinchers they call seats and install Lazy Boy’s.

So if I were you, I’d be nice to The Fat. I mean, we’re accustomed to instant gratification. We’re not about to wait for karma to get off its lazy ass and punish you for your evil ways. Which reminds me — perhaps I should e-mail The Machine and ask him if he’s Six Sigma’d lunch yet. I’m guessing not.

Sick Sigma.

Published
by
untitled
on September 1, 2005
in Work
. 3 Comments

At The Evil Empire (the large corporation where I work), they implemented Six Sigma about four years ago. Under this practice, they christen people with Kung Fu names (black belt, green belt, etc.) and review company processes, streamlining them to make sure they are done as quickly and cheaply as possible. And surprise surprise — this study in efficiency resulted in a “workforce reduction” about six months ago. So basically, each one of us is now doing the job of two people. If you need to take a bathroom break, you best schedule it in your dayplanner, people.

With all this focus on efficiency, I find it profoundly ironic that every day, several times a day, people in my department (me included) must leave our office area, walk down a long hall, ride the elevator up 7 floors, and then rat-maze our way to a tiny closet of a room to get, of all things, WATER. Keep in mind that, like most people, I probably get water 3-4 times a day. At 10 minutes roundtrip, this equates to 40 minutes a day spent on procurring water. Once you figure in the 4 bathrooms breaks it takes to part with said water (45 minutes) you’ve lost almost two hours a day to water. I would submit it as a possible Six Sigma project, but I’m betting on the fact that the end result would involve either catheters or IV drips or both.

Newer Entries »