I will be the first to admit that my writing is often lacking in emotion. It can be simply flat -- clear, logical, but uninspiring. A former editor described my writing as "cerebral," which I could never figure out whether he alluded to my coverage of esoteric issues like carbon credit trading and regulatory control or the fact that half-way through reading he fell asleep.
I was drawn to writing about business and government because it was a natural home for my type of journalism: tell me what I need to know, explain the dirty details in a way the average person could understand, and place the topic within its proper context. "Who's this going to hurt?" or "Who's ticked off about this?" were the typical themes. Yes, I did get to have some fun with pet stores, geek parties and coffee shops, but those articles were more pithy and smart than awe-inspiring.
As goes my nature, this blog has been much of the same. Mind over heart, as it should be.
But I was moved today by the blog of a reporter friend whom I shall leave nameless. She started writing six months ago about her adventures in her first full time staff reporting gig in Connecticut. She's always been a bit more literary than I, an aspiring novelist and past contributor to magazines, and her posts are subsequently fun and funny.
Today, however, she wrote something that made me shed a tear, something I admittedly could never write. I won't link it or share the dirty details to spare her some semblence of online privacy, but in sum she shared, in the spirit of what would have been her mother's birthday, an account of their last moments together.
As emotion welled up in my eyes and sinuses I wondered why this was moving me so. I looked at the calendar and saw it was March 31, a bittersweet day in my family too.
It would have been my sister's 20th birthday.
In the few minutes I read my friend's blog post, I was not only given a captivating story but also given a chance discover a connection with someone who admittedly is not the closest of friends. Now ever year at this time I'll think of Lisa Jane, but I'll think of my friend's mother too.
This is the power of blogging. Sharing the emotions of life that can be so hard to express in conversation, but to some writers, falls like rain on a piece of paper or computer screen. Sometimes I wonder if I've lost the feeling in my literary voice by papering over the emotions in my life with a facade of dispassionate intellect -- or decoupaging one tragedy over another, slowly forgetting what lies underneath the layers.
If my posts have been mediocre thus far, maybe I've found a diagnosis. The only treatment I can think of, though, is to keep writing. Thank you, reporter friend, for reminding me of this.
Wednesday, March 31, 2010
Sunday, March 28, 2010
A reporter's best friend is a good editor
So proofreading on allergy meds is never a good idea. So credit to NN for noting the typographical error in my last post.
Friday, March 26, 2010
The Empire Paradigm
Opportunity is a sneaky salesman. He's knocked at my door several times in the past three years, but by the time I get up off the couch, comb my hair and put on a bra he's gone and all that's left is an industrial size roll of plastic wrap and a bill for $30.
So it's funny that when I told people I was moving to New York they said, "You're going to the concrete jungle where dreams are made of." Yes, New York is filled with opportunity. But maybe there's a such a thing as too much opportunity.
I admit that I'm a distracted person by nature. Don't take me on a tour; I haven't changed from the Fifth Grade when I got lost at Sturbridge Village because I wanted to go see the blacksmith for a second while everyone else was with the cooper. I read 3 or 4 books at a time because I get bored with reading the same thing every day, and my to do list always is half done because I go on tangents even with cleaning.
Moving here would be the opportunity to leave the dead-end world of newspaper journalism behind and find a career where I could ascend to the top, be a leader, have a higher salary curve. Yes, I took a pay cut to work for a nonprofit but one day I'll be running that nonprofit and running it more sustainably too. I will go back to school, get the Ivy League degree I always dreamed of but was too afraid to pursue and use that to launch my career. I'll write a novel, then a memoir, then run for public office. In-between I'll get back into acting, learn how to be a gourmet cook and go help poor children in Africa.
That's a lot of dreaming but not much making. Every time I start pursing those must-dos and reach a bump in the road, it's far to easy to cut losses and jump to the next item on the list. Or drop the list entirely.
The day-to-day hassles and harried lifestyle that every American endures is a major impediment to pursuing those things, particularly the ones that require money or self-motivation (something I lost somewhere in my 18th year on this earth.) I applied to that Ivy League school and am waiting on a yes or no before I pursue less lofty academic goals and my work has proven to be far less intellectually challenging than I previously thought. The book, well every time I begin to write my lack of confidence stops me in my tracks. If I can't be Steinbeck or Sylvia Plath, what's the point?
Managing expectations is a key part of maintaining sanity as an adult. As a child we dream big things knowing we don't yet have the skills to achieve them, but as an adult it's hard to align dreams with reality. Maybe I will become a CEO of a nonprofit, maybe I will write a book. But it won't be perfect, and it certainly won't happen without trying and maybe failing a time or two.
So it's funny that when I told people I was moving to New York they said, "You're going to the concrete jungle where dreams are made of." Yes, New York is filled with opportunity. But maybe there's a such a thing as too much opportunity.
I admit that I'm a distracted person by nature. Don't take me on a tour; I haven't changed from the Fifth Grade when I got lost at Sturbridge Village because I wanted to go see the blacksmith for a second while everyone else was with the cooper. I read 3 or 4 books at a time because I get bored with reading the same thing every day, and my to do list always is half done because I go on tangents even with cleaning.
Moving here would be the opportunity to leave the dead-end world of newspaper journalism behind and find a career where I could ascend to the top, be a leader, have a higher salary curve. Yes, I took a pay cut to work for a nonprofit but one day I'll be running that nonprofit and running it more sustainably too. I will go back to school, get the Ivy League degree I always dreamed of but was too afraid to pursue and use that to launch my career. I'll write a novel, then a memoir, then run for public office. In-between I'll get back into acting, learn how to be a gourmet cook and go help poor children in Africa.
That's a lot of dreaming but not much making. Every time I start pursing those must-dos and reach a bump in the road, it's far to easy to cut losses and jump to the next item on the list. Or drop the list entirely.
The day-to-day hassles and harried lifestyle that every American endures is a major impediment to pursuing those things, particularly the ones that require money or self-motivation (something I lost somewhere in my 18th year on this earth.) I applied to that Ivy League school and am waiting on a yes or no before I pursue less lofty academic goals and my work has proven to be far less intellectually challenging than I previously thought. The book, well every time I begin to write my lack of confidence stops me in my tracks. If I can't be Steinbeck or Sylvia Plath, what's the point?
Managing expectations is a key part of maintaining sanity as an adult. As a child we dream big things knowing we don't yet have the skills to achieve them, but as an adult it's hard to align dreams with reality. Maybe I will become a CEO of a nonprofit, maybe I will write a book. But it won't be perfect, and it certainly won't happen without trying and maybe failing a time or two.
Sunday, March 21, 2010
Flying by the seat of my pants
I think the most succinct description of my personality was provided by my sister in the first line of her toast at my wedding.
"I know our family knows this, but Jackie runs the show."
There is nothing more disconcerting to me than being out of control of my destiny. The feeling is more than simple anal retentiveness: I need to be in control of what I'm anal about and what I want to just let go, and but there's always a master plan to it. Life is a puzzle, and it's a matter of getting all the pieces to fit just right.
So it was a minor miracle that I stayed calm on my 11 hour sojourn back to JFK last night.
The details are too esoteric to get into -- the vagaries of FAA ground stops and takeoff slots are real yawners -- but to sum it up I spent 2 hours on the tarmac in Jacksonville before they would let us take off to go to Atlanta which would make me miss my connecting flight, the last of the night. By the grace of God my flight from Atlanta was delayed an hour, enough time to grab Pizza Hut and a Starbucks iced coffee.
Travel is inherently a stressful undertaking, but add 150 miserable people and a hot plane and things can get a little dicey. Yet I was able to take things in stride: talk with a friendly Atlanta-based Coke product manager, express my sympathies to a half-dozen Canadians that unexpectedly had their golf weekend extended by 2 days with no compensation, and play a few games of solitaire while contemplating my own fate. Maybe it was because I was lucky enough to have plenty of contingencies -- someone to stay with if I was stuck in Atlanta, 3 potential airports to fly into and a flexible enough job to not have to fret over being late to work. I was just going with the flow.
But there may be another answer to why I didn't blow a gasket last night. I'm beginning to realize the tighter grip I think I have on my fate, the more those plans go awry. I was going to be a high-flying political reporter before I met the love of my life. I never thought I was going to stay in Boston after school until an opportunity I couldn't pass up came to me. And I certainly never though John would get a job in New York.
This experience so far in New York is a great lesson how to function in the passenger seat. There are so many things every day out of my control, from the structure of my job to whether I get squeezed up against a particularly smelly person on the E train. And just as I begin to fall in love and get comfortable in the city, we could be off to wherever Uncle Sam calls us next.
It reminds me of a Ziggy cartoon I discovered in high school. Basically it's Ziggy traveling down this windy road and he says that instead of looking at the things that happen in life as a bunch of distractions and detours, maybe they're a part of the original path and we're wasting our energy complaining about them! For a silly Sunday cominc, I think there's a lot of wisdom in that.
I can't promise I'll give up the urge to want to be the ringmaster in certain parts of my life, much to the chagrin of John, but every once in a while I think I'll try to enjoy flying by the seat of my pants.
"I know our family knows this, but Jackie runs the show."
There is nothing more disconcerting to me than being out of control of my destiny. The feeling is more than simple anal retentiveness: I need to be in control of what I'm anal about and what I want to just let go, and but there's always a master plan to it. Life is a puzzle, and it's a matter of getting all the pieces to fit just right.
So it was a minor miracle that I stayed calm on my 11 hour sojourn back to JFK last night.
The details are too esoteric to get into -- the vagaries of FAA ground stops and takeoff slots are real yawners -- but to sum it up I spent 2 hours on the tarmac in Jacksonville before they would let us take off to go to Atlanta which would make me miss my connecting flight, the last of the night. By the grace of God my flight from Atlanta was delayed an hour, enough time to grab Pizza Hut and a Starbucks iced coffee.
Travel is inherently a stressful undertaking, but add 150 miserable people and a hot plane and things can get a little dicey. Yet I was able to take things in stride: talk with a friendly Atlanta-based Coke product manager, express my sympathies to a half-dozen Canadians that unexpectedly had their golf weekend extended by 2 days with no compensation, and play a few games of solitaire while contemplating my own fate. Maybe it was because I was lucky enough to have plenty of contingencies -- someone to stay with if I was stuck in Atlanta, 3 potential airports to fly into and a flexible enough job to not have to fret over being late to work. I was just going with the flow.
But there may be another answer to why I didn't blow a gasket last night. I'm beginning to realize the tighter grip I think I have on my fate, the more those plans go awry. I was going to be a high-flying political reporter before I met the love of my life. I never thought I was going to stay in Boston after school until an opportunity I couldn't pass up came to me. And I certainly never though John would get a job in New York.
This experience so far in New York is a great lesson how to function in the passenger seat. There are so many things every day out of my control, from the structure of my job to whether I get squeezed up against a particularly smelly person on the E train. And just as I begin to fall in love and get comfortable in the city, we could be off to wherever Uncle Sam calls us next.
It reminds me of a Ziggy cartoon I discovered in high school. Basically it's Ziggy traveling down this windy road and he says that instead of looking at the things that happen in life as a bunch of distractions and detours, maybe they're a part of the original path and we're wasting our energy complaining about them! For a silly Sunday cominc, I think there's a lot of wisdom in that.
I can't promise I'll give up the urge to want to be the ringmaster in certain parts of my life, much to the chagrin of John, but every once in a while I think I'll try to enjoy flying by the seat of my pants.
Sunday, March 14, 2010
Lights out
I must carry destruction karma with me. Just two weeks ago, the day I was scheduled to depart from Boston, a major storm ripped through the North Shore knocking down trees, power lines, lamp posts outside my door and otherwise turning Beverly into Beirut. Yesterday was a repeat performance.
After shlepping over town in the driving rain to mail off transcripts, drop off dry cleaning, dump old electronics off in Levittown and treat myself to two new pair of shoes, I wanted to relax with a therapeutic activity. I decided to start baking Irish Soda Bread. Ever the messy cook, there was flour and sugar all over my kitchen but I was enjoying the activity which brought me closer to the homeland (albeit a bastardized version of it, since American soda bread is nothing like what's really made in Ireland.) Listening to the driving rain, I was just beginning to pour the buttermilk/egg mixture into the dry ingredients when lightning struck.
I was baking in the dark.
"This is no good," I thought. "I spend all this money on baking supplies just to have bread dough I can't cook. My Irish ancestors must be spiting me."
Standing there with white goop all over my hands, my first reaction wasn't to run for the flashlight. It was to call MSN, my Paula Deen, to ask whether I should leave the dough out or throw it in the fridge, even if it wasn't turned on. My sticky fingers dialed.
MSN said to leave it out since it was bread and would want to rise. But how long could it stay out before going bad? Who knows? I started to kvetch about how I'm going to take all this money and dump it in the garbage when Mother Dearest got on the phone with a great idea: go to M&P's (her sister) in Astoria to bake the dough.
Duh, why hadn't I thought of that.
But first I had to navigate my way through the dark so I could make some semblance of the apartment. I found the flashlight (thank goodness for solar power) but not the BBQ lighter for the Wal-Mart candles someone gave John and I for Christmas. I got the dough and my cast iron skillet in the car and off we went.
M&P not only let me cook my bread but we ordered pizza and gave me some company as we fought with Time Warner over sketchy On Demand service. Living in a new area alone is tough, but thank goodness for family I can lean on.
I told John next time there's a blackout he better be here. First time, shame on you. Second time, shame on me.
After shlepping over town in the driving rain to mail off transcripts, drop off dry cleaning, dump old electronics off in Levittown and treat myself to two new pair of shoes, I wanted to relax with a therapeutic activity. I decided to start baking Irish Soda Bread. Ever the messy cook, there was flour and sugar all over my kitchen but I was enjoying the activity which brought me closer to the homeland (albeit a bastardized version of it, since American soda bread is nothing like what's really made in Ireland.) Listening to the driving rain, I was just beginning to pour the buttermilk/egg mixture into the dry ingredients when lightning struck.
I was baking in the dark.
"This is no good," I thought. "I spend all this money on baking supplies just to have bread dough I can't cook. My Irish ancestors must be spiting me."
Standing there with white goop all over my hands, my first reaction wasn't to run for the flashlight. It was to call MSN, my Paula Deen, to ask whether I should leave the dough out or throw it in the fridge, even if it wasn't turned on. My sticky fingers dialed.
MSN said to leave it out since it was bread and would want to rise. But how long could it stay out before going bad? Who knows? I started to kvetch about how I'm going to take all this money and dump it in the garbage when Mother Dearest got on the phone with a great idea: go to M&P's (her sister) in Astoria to bake the dough.
Duh, why hadn't I thought of that.
But first I had to navigate my way through the dark so I could make some semblance of the apartment. I found the flashlight (thank goodness for solar power) but not the BBQ lighter for the Wal-Mart candles someone gave John and I for Christmas. I got the dough and my cast iron skillet in the car and off we went.
M&P not only let me cook my bread but we ordered pizza and gave me some company as we fought with Time Warner over sketchy On Demand service. Living in a new area alone is tough, but thank goodness for family I can lean on.
I told John next time there's a blackout he better be here. First time, shame on you. Second time, shame on me.
Saturday, March 13, 2010
The 12-Step Program for Recovering Journalists
Hi, my name is Jackie. And I was a journalist.
If not in those exact words, that's how I start off every introduction to a new person at 1011 1st Ave. (gotta come up with a better nickname for it.) If I don't explicitly throw the J-word out in the first meeting, it comes out in conversations of all sorts: politics, economics, crazy people on the street, etc. Everything I do is in relation to a single fixed point, or two-and-a-half years to be exact.
I need help with assimilating back into the real world.
There are many things wrong with carrying around my reporting baggage, not the least of which is the getting off on the wrong foot with people who annoyed by the references to a past life (L, you know what I mean.) But I'm also beginning to realize that few people actually understand what it means to be a reporter always on the go, always under pressure. It truly is a bizarre world if you think about it.
And I'm not just talking about the drinking and the refined sugar consumption.
So far the hardest thing to assimilate into is the change of pace. My first five days were some of the most boring, and the most isolating, of my life (see past post.) I don't necessarily blame the management, however. In retrospect, my total one-track mind when it comes to work (get assignment, report, evaluate and synthesize, write, file -- often times multiple stories at the same time) does not necessarily match most other work environments. There are an infinite number of things I could be doing, but it's incumbent on me to come up with them and then complete them. It's a matter of finding my own way.
There are other major changes, too, like the drastically decreased amount of interaction with my office-mates, much less the outside world. I never thought I would miss the calls of random PR people pitching me stories about companies from Kalamazoo, Mich., but hey, it was someone I could yell at. I miss the sound of tens of fingers pounding keyboards on a Tuesday afternoon and the thrill of having it all come together at the very last minute.
But what I miss most of all is Friday morning, when I could pick up the paper with whichever hand wasn't holding my Starbucks cup and see the physical manifestation of my work for the week. There's nothing like that at God Inc.
I'm sure the longer I'm outside the asylum the more comfortable I'll feel. But I don't know if I'll ever get over seeing my name in messy black ink.
If not in those exact words, that's how I start off every introduction to a new person at 1011 1st Ave. (gotta come up with a better nickname for it.) If I don't explicitly throw the J-word out in the first meeting, it comes out in conversations of all sorts: politics, economics, crazy people on the street, etc. Everything I do is in relation to a single fixed point, or two-and-a-half years to be exact.
I need help with assimilating back into the real world.
There are many things wrong with carrying around my reporting baggage, not the least of which is the getting off on the wrong foot with people who annoyed by the references to a past life (L, you know what I mean.) But I'm also beginning to realize that few people actually understand what it means to be a reporter always on the go, always under pressure. It truly is a bizarre world if you think about it.
And I'm not just talking about the drinking and the refined sugar consumption.
So far the hardest thing to assimilate into is the change of pace. My first five days were some of the most boring, and the most isolating, of my life (see past post.) I don't necessarily blame the management, however. In retrospect, my total one-track mind when it comes to work (get assignment, report, evaluate and synthesize, write, file -- often times multiple stories at the same time) does not necessarily match most other work environments. There are an infinite number of things I could be doing, but it's incumbent on me to come up with them and then complete them. It's a matter of finding my own way.
There are other major changes, too, like the drastically decreased amount of interaction with my office-mates, much less the outside world. I never thought I would miss the calls of random PR people pitching me stories about companies from Kalamazoo, Mich., but hey, it was someone I could yell at. I miss the sound of tens of fingers pounding keyboards on a Tuesday afternoon and the thrill of having it all come together at the very last minute.
But what I miss most of all is Friday morning, when I could pick up the paper with whichever hand wasn't holding my Starbucks cup and see the physical manifestation of my work for the week. There's nothing like that at God Inc.
I'm sure the longer I'm outside the asylum the more comfortable I'll feel. But I don't know if I'll ever get over seeing my name in messy black ink.
Thursday, March 11, 2010
A night of rest
The well-laid plans of mice and (wo)men...
I promised myself when I started this that I would update every other day or every three days. It has been a week. My first full week of work at the Archdiocese has been a whirlwind of emotions and activities, which I will write about further tomorrow when I have more time to collect my thoughts.
Work is not the only activity that has absorbed my time. Chasing down recommendations for my grad school application, immersing myself in new volunteer opportunities with a new parish, seeing Merv in her first musical theater improv show, and the innumerable domestic obligations have pushed dinner to 9:30 or later. And then there are the things I have yet to do: research my freelance ideas, outline and pre-write my murder mystery, and last, but not least, blog.
So this is what I can say for now. Forgive me, but I feel like sitting down and watch TV.
I promised myself when I started this that I would update every other day or every three days. It has been a week. My first full week of work at the Archdiocese has been a whirlwind of emotions and activities, which I will write about further tomorrow when I have more time to collect my thoughts.
Work is not the only activity that has absorbed my time. Chasing down recommendations for my grad school application, immersing myself in new volunteer opportunities with a new parish, seeing Merv in her first musical theater improv show, and the innumerable domestic obligations have pushed dinner to 9:30 or later. And then there are the things I have yet to do: research my freelance ideas, outline and pre-write my murder mystery, and last, but not least, blog.
So this is what I can say for now. Forgive me, but I feel like sitting down and watch TV.
Friday, March 5, 2010
The Dregs of Hell and the DMV
Anyone who used to read my blogs for the Boston Business Journal knows about my now 5-month long existential crisis over changing my name. I was against it, then for it, then completely unsure. Right before I got married I thought I came up with a good system: I would change my name legally but still go with "J-No" professionally. But I did nothing with those plans at the time; John had received notice of his new job and the likelihood I would be moving out of state and thus need a new license was strong.
Today at the DMV I finally had an opportunity to take that big step in married life. I sidestepped it.
New York State is particularly annoying when it comes to things like licenses, even more so than Massachusetts' ridiculously named RMV. At least Mass. was up front when they lopped of dozens of offices and staff, giving the techno-savvy a way to figure out when the office is least crowded and go then as well as many more opportunities to skip the visit altogether. New York, not so much.
So on a Friday afternoon, after the lunch rush and before the teenagers I thought, I dragged myself over to the Garden City RMV with my old license, passport, social security card, birth certificate, piece of mail, marriage certificate and a three-year old calf to sacrifice to the gods of Albany. (They probably would have wanted my first born if I had one.) I had checked to make sure my license had the date of renewal on it, just like the instructions on the DMV Web site said, and I was on my way.
But as I was driving on the Meadowbrook Parkway, I had a revelation: getting a new license with my married name on it was just the beginning. There was the social security administration, my passport, my work files and the piles of creditors that would have to be notified as well. And I am flying in two weeks: how would I get on the plane without my official license? (There is my passport, which I will have to carry around with me for beer purchases anyway.) Not only was the process going to be arduous, it would be expensive. On top of the license fee, I would have to pay an extra $10 to the DMV and a whopping $95 to get a new passport. All this for just official purposes; I planned on continuing to use my maiden name for all intents and purposes.
I panicked. This is too annoying, too expensive for something that really has no bearing on my status as a married woman anyway. John said he didn't really mind if I kept my maiden name and I'm not such a feminist to be offended if someone calls me Mrs. Thompson anyway. And if we have children, I can always revisit the topic.
So by the time I got to the DMV I had made up my mind, the name change was not for today. And good thing, because when I walked into the cesspool of government bureaucracy I immediately bunkered down into survival mode. Just get me in and out, whatever it takes and whomever I have to deal with.
It took 2 hours, $66, and a visit to 4 different desks (one a processing line, one an ID verification and eye exam line, one a photo line, and one to actually get my temporary ID and pay) to arise from the ashes. Other people were not so lucky.
Some people would say I am just being lazy about changing my name. I say I'm picking my battles, and the last place I want to wage war is in the DMV.
Today at the DMV I finally had an opportunity to take that big step in married life. I sidestepped it.
New York State is particularly annoying when it comes to things like licenses, even more so than Massachusetts' ridiculously named RMV. At least Mass. was up front when they lopped of dozens of offices and staff, giving the techno-savvy a way to figure out when the office is least crowded and go then as well as many more opportunities to skip the visit altogether. New York, not so much.
So on a Friday afternoon, after the lunch rush and before the teenagers I thought, I dragged myself over to the Garden City RMV with my old license, passport, social security card, birth certificate, piece of mail, marriage certificate and a three-year old calf to sacrifice to the gods of Albany. (They probably would have wanted my first born if I had one.) I had checked to make sure my license had the date of renewal on it, just like the instructions on the DMV Web site said, and I was on my way.
But as I was driving on the Meadowbrook Parkway, I had a revelation: getting a new license with my married name on it was just the beginning. There was the social security administration, my passport, my work files and the piles of creditors that would have to be notified as well. And I am flying in two weeks: how would I get on the plane without my official license? (There is my passport, which I will have to carry around with me for beer purchases anyway.) Not only was the process going to be arduous, it would be expensive. On top of the license fee, I would have to pay an extra $10 to the DMV and a whopping $95 to get a new passport. All this for just official purposes; I planned on continuing to use my maiden name for all intents and purposes.
I panicked. This is too annoying, too expensive for something that really has no bearing on my status as a married woman anyway. John said he didn't really mind if I kept my maiden name and I'm not such a feminist to be offended if someone calls me Mrs. Thompson anyway. And if we have children, I can always revisit the topic.
So by the time I got to the DMV I had made up my mind, the name change was not for today. And good thing, because when I walked into the cesspool of government bureaucracy I immediately bunkered down into survival mode. Just get me in and out, whatever it takes and whomever I have to deal with.
It took 2 hours, $66, and a visit to 4 different desks (one a processing line, one an ID verification and eye exam line, one a photo line, and one to actually get my temporary ID and pay) to arise from the ashes. Other people were not so lucky.
Some people would say I am just being lazy about changing my name. I say I'm picking my battles, and the last place I want to wage war is in the DMV.
Thursday, March 4, 2010
God, Inc.
In case you've been living under a rock, I now work for God.
In a figurative sense I've worked for God since my baptism (vice breaks aside), but as of March 2, 2010, I work for the Archdiocese of New York helping Catholic parochial schools stem the flood of students out their doors. A daunting task, one that I have only scratched the surface of the problems and potential solutions. I'm sure I will have a lot more to say on this topic as time advances, but for now I would just like to illustrate how big of a transition working for God is.
My first day started at a time I made up myself: I was never given a clear time to show up. Around 8:30 seemed a reasonable time, earlier than 9 in case the office was an early-to-work place, but not so early I would have to get up at the crack of dawn to be there. When I arrived, they looked for my supervisor but he wasn't there. But unlike most offices where they have you sit in an uncomfortable chair in a waiting room, they took me to a very comfortable couch. Also unlike most environments, EVERY person that walked by not only said hello but asked me if I needed anything. I thought to myself "I could get used to this.."
My supervisor did arrive and he escorted me to my own office. Yes, not a cubicle, an office with a door and 3 chairs and a desk with drawers. No window, but that means no distractions. (Note to self, must bring in greenery.) I then met three nuns, a guy who described his job as "preventing students from engaging in fornication" and the department mayor who painted her office Pepto-Bismol pink. Not my color, but illustrative of her personality.
Unfortunately, the first two days of work were far from intellectually stimulating. My first day on staff at the BBJ I was asked to turn around a story on the effect of the credit crunch and subsequent jumbo mortgage collapse on Boston-area mortgage brokers. I had never written about real estate or loan securitization. My first day at God Inc. I was asked to scour the Superintendent of Schools Web site to get to know how the all of the offices interconnect. Other than a few side jobs, only one involving actually talking to other humans, that was my mission. Thankfully they gave me Thursday and Friday off, implicitly promising they would have me start real work on Monday.
Getting familiar with the plant, personalities and politics of a new employer can be daunting. Working for God and his corporate heirarchy is not much different, albeit with habits and Roman collars. I was worried about how my always eccentric and sometimes brash personality with quiet church ladies, but while I have to modify my attitude slightly, it's not all Gregorian chanting. They guy whose office is adjacent to mine, the Catholic schools government liaison, swears like a sailor (even using the Lord's name in vain!) And those ladies love to gossip.
I think I can adapt to JC (or Archbishop D) as my new CEO. It just may take some getting used to.
In a figurative sense I've worked for God since my baptism (vice breaks aside), but as of March 2, 2010, I work for the Archdiocese of New York helping Catholic parochial schools stem the flood of students out their doors. A daunting task, one that I have only scratched the surface of the problems and potential solutions. I'm sure I will have a lot more to say on this topic as time advances, but for now I would just like to illustrate how big of a transition working for God is.
My first day started at a time I made up myself: I was never given a clear time to show up. Around 8:30 seemed a reasonable time, earlier than 9 in case the office was an early-to-work place, but not so early I would have to get up at the crack of dawn to be there. When I arrived, they looked for my supervisor but he wasn't there. But unlike most offices where they have you sit in an uncomfortable chair in a waiting room, they took me to a very comfortable couch. Also unlike most environments, EVERY person that walked by not only said hello but asked me if I needed anything. I thought to myself "I could get used to this.."
My supervisor did arrive and he escorted me to my own office. Yes, not a cubicle, an office with a door and 3 chairs and a desk with drawers. No window, but that means no distractions. (Note to self, must bring in greenery.) I then met three nuns, a guy who described his job as "preventing students from engaging in fornication" and the department mayor who painted her office Pepto-Bismol pink. Not my color, but illustrative of her personality.
Unfortunately, the first two days of work were far from intellectually stimulating. My first day on staff at the BBJ I was asked to turn around a story on the effect of the credit crunch and subsequent jumbo mortgage collapse on Boston-area mortgage brokers. I had never written about real estate or loan securitization. My first day at God Inc. I was asked to scour the Superintendent of Schools Web site to get to know how the all of the offices interconnect. Other than a few side jobs, only one involving actually talking to other humans, that was my mission. Thankfully they gave me Thursday and Friday off, implicitly promising they would have me start real work on Monday.
Getting familiar with the plant, personalities and politics of a new employer can be daunting. Working for God and his corporate heirarchy is not much different, albeit with habits and Roman collars. I was worried about how my always eccentric and sometimes brash personality with quiet church ladies, but while I have to modify my attitude slightly, it's not all Gregorian chanting. They guy whose office is adjacent to mine, the Catholic schools government liaison, swears like a sailor (even using the Lord's name in vain!) And those ladies love to gossip.
I think I can adapt to JC (or Archbishop D) as my new CEO. It just may take some getting used to.
Monday, March 1, 2010
Tits on a Bull
"That was about as useful as tits on a bull"
That was one of my first interactions with a Long Island-based service provider.
Today I spent five hours with Anthony and Simon, two Verizon FiOS installation technicians based out of Hempstead here to install video and Internet service into my apartment. When I originally scheduled the appointment, the online wizard said the process should take about four hours. I scoffed at that assessment; how hard can it be to hook up some wires and give me a disc to set up the Internet router?
Boy, was I wrong.
It started off easy enough. Anthony, with his cup of coffee and work boots, stormed into my apartment and looked at the coaxial splitter in the living room. "Great, it's on an exterior wall. This should take no time." He installed some small device into my electrical socket while I read Elie Wiesel on the couch, then went to grab his drill to make a hole for another box that apparently makes this service truly "fiber to the home." Then he disappeared.
Next thing you know, Anthony has an apprentice, Simon. They saunter in and out of the house, Anthony explaining why they have to do certain things. Then they take their smoke break.
Afterward, while Simon goes outside to run cable, Anthony and I chat about the weather, my new job, unions, Verizon CEO Ivan Seidenberg and politics. Typical New York banter, I surmise. He's an affable guy until we turn on the television and I see an error message in front of Verizon's version of NY1. So we call the number and wait... and wait... and wait...
Anthony and Simon stay with me while we try and figure out what this error message is about. The number we call is a customer accounts number; nonsense since I've never had a Verizon service, not even a cell phone bill. Anthony gets on the phone and tries to sort things out but they bounce him to about a half-dozen different people. We're on hold for a half hour.
Instead of being apologetic, both techs start raising a stink on my behalf. That's where the introductory quote came in. Eventually Anthony hangs up on the customer service person after I start getting angry with them. They swap out all of the equipment and magically the cable works.
Now I really should have been mad at Anthony and Simon, since they should have had the sense to swap out equipment before getting on the phone for an hour and a half. But for some reason, I appreciated their company. They're typical New Yorkers: affable until you tick them off. They commiserated with me, told me I should call up and push for some free services, and laughed when I started giving the lady on the phone a bit of attitude.
No BS: one thing I like about New York already. We'll see if that is true tomorrow when I start my first day of work.
That was one of my first interactions with a Long Island-based service provider.
Today I spent five hours with Anthony and Simon, two Verizon FiOS installation technicians based out of Hempstead here to install video and Internet service into my apartment. When I originally scheduled the appointment, the online wizard said the process should take about four hours. I scoffed at that assessment; how hard can it be to hook up some wires and give me a disc to set up the Internet router?
Boy, was I wrong.
It started off easy enough. Anthony, with his cup of coffee and work boots, stormed into my apartment and looked at the coaxial splitter in the living room. "Great, it's on an exterior wall. This should take no time." He installed some small device into my electrical socket while I read Elie Wiesel on the couch, then went to grab his drill to make a hole for another box that apparently makes this service truly "fiber to the home." Then he disappeared.
Next thing you know, Anthony has an apprentice, Simon. They saunter in and out of the house, Anthony explaining why they have to do certain things. Then they take their smoke break.
Afterward, while Simon goes outside to run cable, Anthony and I chat about the weather, my new job, unions, Verizon CEO Ivan Seidenberg and politics. Typical New York banter, I surmise. He's an affable guy until we turn on the television and I see an error message in front of Verizon's version of NY1. So we call the number and wait... and wait... and wait...
Anthony and Simon stay with me while we try and figure out what this error message is about. The number we call is a customer accounts number; nonsense since I've never had a Verizon service, not even a cell phone bill. Anthony gets on the phone and tries to sort things out but they bounce him to about a half-dozen different people. We're on hold for a half hour.
Instead of being apologetic, both techs start raising a stink on my behalf. That's where the introductory quote came in. Eventually Anthony hangs up on the customer service person after I start getting angry with them. They swap out all of the equipment and magically the cable works.
Now I really should have been mad at Anthony and Simon, since they should have had the sense to swap out equipment before getting on the phone for an hour and a half. But for some reason, I appreciated their company. They're typical New Yorkers: affable until you tick them off. They commiserated with me, told me I should call up and push for some free services, and laughed when I started giving the lady on the phone a bit of attitude.
No BS: one thing I like about New York already. We'll see if that is true tomorrow when I start my first day of work.
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