Book A Week: Book 1

A couple of weeks ago, I read in the NY Times an article about a woman who has vowed to read a book a day for a year. That's right. One book. One day.

She's retired and apparently very well off. She has some rules about what she reads. Some of them make sense and some of them are challenging. The books she reads are between 250 - 300 pages long. She never reads two books by the same author. She's going out of her way to read books from different cultures. And I'm guessing Jude Devereaux is not on her TBR stack.

A very, very long time ago, I made a resolution that I would read a book a week. I kept that resolution for a long time but have fallen off a lot in the past seven years. There were actually a couple of years when I probably read less than 10 books.

So I'm going to try to go back to this resolution now. I will read anything. Anything over 500 pages gets two weeks. Anything by Dostoevsky gets three weeks.

Fiction, non-fiction, new, old, I don't care.

I have made amends with the library (I had two books displaced by the infamous cleaning lady that were ridiculously overdue) and last week, picked up Relentless by Dean Koontz. Which I read. In a week.

And now I will tell you about Relentless by Dean Koontz.

Early in his career, Dean Koontz was a boogety-boo writer. Something happened maybe five or six years ago that changed him around completely. Oh, he still does some boogety-boo stuff, but the wonderful thing is that his work no longer seems to have this black cloud hanging over everything. In fact, most of what he writes now has a non-existentialist ending. This makes me happy.

Relentless is about a writer (go figure!) who is married to a wonderful woman (go figure!) and together they have a beyond-genius son. The main character gets a slashing, venomous review from a renowned critic. This delights the writer's agent but scares the writer. He's gotten bad reviews before but this seems vindictive and spiteful and very personal.

After the review, the Bad Critic (cast in my head as Philip Seymour Hoffman) appears almost magically in the writer's life and bad things, terrible things happen. The writer's house gets blown up. They take it on the lam. And yet, the Bad Critic is everywhere and always doing terrible, cruel things.

And why? Because the writer is just too damn happy. Too optimistic. Too non-existential. In fact, artists and writers who show these traits have had terrible, terrible things done to them, too. Because some people just don't want you to be happy. That's why.

I have a feeling I'm not the only one who noticed the uptick in Mr. Koontz's mood. No doubt he got a snide review from the Times or some such because of his new outlook.

This will not live on in the annals of great American literature. (Is there one? I mean, after Mark Twain?) It was a good quick read.

The part of Mr. Koontz's oeuvre that will live on, should live on are the "Odd" books. Sweet and poignant and with one of the best main characters I've read in years. I love Odd.

Next week, maybe:
"My Life as a Guinea Pig"
or
"Unquenchable"

Oh, the cover shown here is the British one. The American one is just too boring.

Do You Buy It?

Yesterday, I went to pick up my box of food from Angel Food Ministries. Among other things, there were the usual pound of hamburger, breaded things (I have enough fish sticks to start a day care center), pork chops, a quart of milk, a dozen eggs, and (tah-dah!) a box of Starbucks lemon loaf.

I like this. I like this a lot. I haven't been in a regular grocery store in at least six months. Not only that, my groceries are already packed and are carried to my car. All I have to do is haul them inside and unpack.

I went to BJs and Target to fill in the blanks. There was a packet of beef stroganoff but no noodles, so that's what I went for, little items like that, and fruit.

When I was at BJs, I didn't even look at what was in other people's carts, something I used to make a game of. I had buzzed by the book section and didn't even look at the CDs or DVDs for sale.

The last time I bought a CD was maybe two years ago. I made a raid on the $5 bin at Wal-Mart about a year ago.

I buy my clothes at the Salvation Army. I think the last time I went to a real, non-diner restaurant was in January and someone else paid. I cannot remember the last time I went to a posh restaurant.

I do have a weakness (surprise!) for books and I bought one at B&N last week.

But I forget how I used to live. I forget how I lived as a couple or as a member of a family. I'm okay with it. It's probably best that I don't remember.

Friday, I went out with a former TRU colleague for lunch at a fast food place. There was a little shopping area and I watched 30-somethings walking around with shopping bags on their arms. What on earth did they need to buy, I wondered. They no doubt had a closetful of nice clothes at home. If they were buying a gift for their mom, what on earth could mom need or want?

It's beyond me. I don't want to puzzle on it too much. I have more than enough already. I have no idea what else I could possibly want or need.

I'm afraid of going into Macy's or Nordstrom or even Dress Barn because I'm afraid the Greedies will get me and that only makes me miserable.

What on earth are you people buying out there?

I Want To Go Home

Yesterday, I was IMing with someone I had known a TRU in the Crazy Eddie days. I liked her very much. She was a good person who had hit on very, very hard times when I first met her. She and her hubby had declared bankruptcy, were living in a tiny apartment, and her husband had been out of work for a couple of years because he got laid off after being diagnosed with a brain tumor.

She missed her house, her own house. She despaired at the high cost of everything in Jersey but at the same time, her family had a deep, long tradition here. In fact, one small town in the northwestern part of Jersey bears her family name.

Back then, we talked about the fact that TRU had several offices in the south. Big offices. She wistfully daydreamed about getting a transfer there, but as a contractor, didn't think she had a chance.

Then I went poking around on Realtor.com and found, in that city, a beautiful Craftsman style house for $100,000. I emailed it to her. Within three months, she had packed up her worldly goods and her husband and refugeed south.

Yesterday, she told me how much she loved it. That she had more opportunities to practice and play the violin (she couldn't get a gig here for love or money). That she had time to go home, feed the dog, and then go to her graduate classes. That she lived 12 minutes from work. That the skies were blue, blue, blue, even in February but they still had four seasons.

And this made me think about Richmond. I know I poked at this idea for a little bit earlier this year. But now I am (as we say in the south) studying on it. I don't think I'll do anything startling or drastic. The idea of refugeeing south sounds very good in theory.

I have a lot more investigating to do.

You might say, oh, but how could you leave New York? Well, here's the deal on that. I am two hours and at least $20 away from New York. By the time I get home from a day in NYC, I am exhausted, feel like I've been shaken by my ankles, and need a day to recover from it. When you go to New York, you enter a different velocity. You either go with it or get mowed down.

Throw a Broadway play in there, and there goes the gas and electric bill for the month.

I am tired. I am tired of scraping to get by. I am tired of living this weird little life. I may investigate and learn that my weird little life is just fine, but right now, I need to feel hopeful about something.

While I have colleagues of sorts here, there is no one that I could count on here. In Richmond, I might be able to count on several people, one for sure.

My former TRU colleague told me that her yearly property tax is $500. Mine is $5,000.

I'm starting to feel worn down at the edges and squashed in the middle.

A New Approach

This week at TRU, I tried a new approach.

I stopped thinking of myself as all hoity-toity and too good for the work I'm doing. Or rather, the work that I had been trying not to do for two months.

Things changed. I changed things.

I assumed a non-adversarial, if not deliberately subordinate position to Janelle. That's right, Janelle.

This has been so hard, but I've done it and it just may save my life. I have given up the internet at work. Last Saturday, I went to B&N and looked at books on addiction. I believe there is truly such a thing as internet addiction and I've got a jones for the internet. More than 20 years ago, I quit drinking. I went from just-about-over-the-edge-into-alcoholism to a non-drinker in the space of about 15 seconds. I hope that I've done this with the internet. I went on once this week while at work to check email for an interview and that was it, baby.

Because Geraldine and Janelle have both backed way, way off, I've had a chance - along with my new-found concentration - to sit and think about the crazy report. I do not respond well to people screaming or being hysterical around me. There's no point in pressuring me to do anything, because I tend to stop right in my tracks until the noise goes away. (I do not do this on train tracks, btw.) I shut down and the more you yell, the more I shut down. I have been able to figure out that the crazy report isn't that crazy after all.

I'm willing to bet that Geraldine's boss, one of the Lords of Boredom (also known as actuaries), has used this as a teaching opportunity for her. I recognize the hand of a practiced manager in what has happened this week. And since the LofB is traveling with Geraldine, I'm sure she's gotten an earful about me.

I have been told to email Geraldine when I get into work and when I leave for the day. I have done this, as well as kept my own time sheet.

Janelle sent me an email today (yeah, right, that was Janelle) listing my duties. Janelle is now unofficially my supervisor. She also wrote that she would send me procedures as soon as she wrote them up. I'm not holding my breath.

I've set up my perimeters. I am not friendly in my emails but I'm not unfriendly, either. I am a worker performing a task. My emails have taken on a formal tone. I've stopped joking around with my cow-irkers.

This is a measured and deliberate response from me. I hope that I can maintain this, going forward. And in the meantime, pick up my interview suit from the cleaners.

Gift-Giving Guide For Your Colleagues

Since Tontines 'R' Us is a global corporation, there are gift-giving guidelines on the corporate web site for every country in which TRU does business.

In some countries, you can only give even-numbered flowers. In others, only odd-numbered flowers. It's considered polite in Poland to give a gift when you first meet your colleague. In Japan, it's the height of rudeness. When you give your gift to your Japanese colleague after all is said and done, you must offer the gift with both hands and say, in Japanese, "Here is something of no significance. A mere trifle. I am giving you last week's garbage."

I have made some adjustments to the "Guide for Gift-Giving to Colleagues in the United States".

- Women must always be given flowers, preferably roses. Go to all lengths necessary to find out her signature color. The amount of flowers given must always number in the dozens. Fractions of a dozen are considered bad luck. That is, bad luck for you.

- Precious gemstones are always welcome. Again, go to all lengths necessary to find out her birth stone. (Mine is pearls. Lots and lots and lots of pearls. REAL pearls, thank you, and yes, I can tell the difference.)

- Spa gift certificates. Go to all lengths necessary to find out your colleague's favorite spa. Gift amounts should always be a multiple of 100. Anything else is considered bad luck.

- A month's lease on a luxury car, all expenses paid. There are no American luxury cars. Please keep this in mind. True luxury cars are made in England or Germany. No, the Mini Cooper does not count as a luxury car. Reserve Bentleys for executives. A chauffeur is always welcome, but not necessary.

- If all else is unavailable to you, a gift card from Nordstrom is considered a pleasant trifle. Again, the Law of 100 applies.

American men already have everything and make 25% more than women. They don't need anything else, unless you buy something at Brookstone for no more than $50.

Your American colleague will receive your gift with much enthusiasm. You will have great favor in her eyes. And remember, too much is not enough. Thank you.

10 Million Angry Americans

I read earlier this week that Americans who are lucky enough to still have a job are no longer working 40 hours a week. They are working 60 hours a week, trying to do the work of their ex-colleagues who got pushed off the boat.

Speaking as someone who is underemployed and underpaid and yet forced to work unpaid overtime, I can imagine the resentment and anger factor are not accounted for.

Then yesterday, I heard on NPR (so it must be true) that this is a jobless recovery because corporations have learned yet another Machiavellian trick.

When companies lay off people, this makes their expenses go down. Wall Street and investors notice the up-tick in the stock and the company is suddenly worth more money.

This has led to companies jettisoning employees for no other reason than to look good on paper. They outsource the work. They put the extra workload on their remaining employees. And their stock numbers go up again.

Of course it's evil and ugly.

At the same time, I wonder about this:

If you're the American government, do you really want a lot of decently intelligent people sitting at home, brooding about their lowly state? I don't think this has occurred to anyone, seriously, I don't.

Do you want those people connecting? Do you want those people to realize that it truly wasn't their fault they got sacked?

No. So you probably fill all the media outlets with job hunting tips and groups and divert their attention to finding another job in a corrupt environment where they will likely lose that job.

I'm not saying this is a government conspiracy. But if anyone is looking at the bigger picture, don't you think they'd be a wee bit concerned about all those mid-level and higher managers getting generally pissed off? And having all that time on their hands?

I don't know about you, but if I were a CEO, I'd be looking over my shoulder.

Just sayin.

In Which I Teach Wes the Appreciation of Chocolate

On today's stroll around the outside of Tontines 'R' Us, I asked Wes if he had tried any of the Oliver Kita chocolate I had given him.

"I ate two pieces of it, snap, snap! Just like that!" he said.

I shrieked.

"No! No! You can't do that with this chocolate. You...you have place it in your mouth and close your mouth around it. You have to let the warmth of your mouth begin to soften and melt the bitter sweet chocolate crust. And then slowly the filling will start to trickle into the back of your mouth, down your throat."

(I wonder if I should try to write porn? Food porn?)

He waved me away and said in his best Brooklyn accent, "Eh, I don't have time for that."

"You might as well eat Hershey or M&M Mars if you're going to treat decent chocolate like that."

And I worked hard on the end of our little journey to distract him away from his sorrow.

He had made friends with the mother of a little boy at M. D. Anderson, who just happened to live two towns over from him. The boy died over the weekend and this evening was the first visitation. Wes was agitated and annoyed, which was all a big cover-up for the moments he had of choking back tears. And I don't think any amount of chocolate would have helped that.

"I don't know why I let myself get so caught up with that kid," he said a couple of times. I think he knew why he did.

I hope Wes doesn't go to the funeral. He has enough sorrow in his life without willingly taken on a burden he doesn't have to.

On our walk, I tried to go slow. Even so, Wes was wheezing at the end of it.

I hate cancer. I f*ing hate it. I hate it. I hate it.

Sometimes the whole "Logan's Run" thing doesn't sound like such a bad idea.

Here Comes Mr. Sluggo!

I felt the Sluggo Headache creeping around my neck this morning. Especially when I got into work and found this in my email:

From: Geraldine
To: Becs
Re: Hours

I need you to send me an email when you come in in the morning and when you leave in the evening.

When I get back from California, I will come up with a time sheet for you.

---------

And I thought - why not my own personal little time clock on my cube wall? Or better yet, one of those anklet things not-too-terribly-bad prisoners have to wear.

Add to this that Geraldine has generously offered to let me work overtime for no extra pay for I can get paid for the day after Thanksgiving...well, some awfully naughty words are bubbling up to the top of my head.

----------

Then again - this is a really, really big deal - I made myself go through one entire day at work without going on the internet. This is a huge deal for me.

And maybe it's one of the reasons why I'm as exhausted as I am.

No - wait. That might be because I worked an hour and a half overtime today. Because I've got to get all this time in before the Thanksgiving holiday. Which is, ahem, next week?

Oh - and the last time I hated, viscerally, savagely hated anyplace as much as I hate Tontines 'R' Us was Evil Empire.

This cannot end well...

Up Your Nose

A couple of weeks ago, I was going through a little drama about seeing the yeti doctor. Observers have advised, "Get a neti pot."

To which I replied, "Ew! Stick salt water up my nose? That's gross. And weird. And how does it work, anyway?"

When I was in Walgreen's lately, I bought a little plastic neti pot with packets of buffered saline mix. With the packets, I don't have to actually mix up the stuff myself, saving me a lot of anguish and annoyance.

I followed the directions. I mixed up the saline solution in the pot, leaned over the sink and tried to drown myself. It is a weird, weird thing to have a stream of water coming out of your nose.

But it works. It does. To my amazement, I can actually breathe out of my nose. I don't wake up coughing and hacking. I don't have a problem with little tickles from (eww) post-nasal drip.

It's less painful than plucking your eyebrows although not as aesthetically rewarding.

I advise it.