former bosses

I have had a lot of bosses over the years.  All different kinds. Men. Women. Younger than I. Older than I. Smarter than I. Less Smart than I. Moronic.  Nice. Not nice. Political. Apolitical.  Capable.  Clueless.

Many I have stayed in touch with.  And a couple I have since become friends with.  But there are those I still cringe even to think about.

Heading the list of those I would never ever befriend are:

Don.

I worked for him a trillion years ago in Chicago at Blue Cross Blue Shield.  He was more Michael Scott than Michael Scott was.  He had a list of what he hoped to accomplish during his first 100 days.  He made a big deal about telling us, his underlings, all about it.  He tried to impose a business-like atmosphere into a world where claim adjusters were allowed to come to work in fluffy slippers.  He didn’t last long.

Bill.

He held a senior position at a major media company, until he was eventually fired.  Bill was incapable of making a decision.  I once saw his notes from a speech he was giving using a teleprompter.  On his notes he had written throughout, R, C, L, R, C, L.  I later learned these were notations as to where is eyes should be when he presented.  I mean really.  He’s overseeing $1 billion in sales and needs assistance as to where to place his eyes when talking to others.

But over the years, I’ve become friends with two of my former bosses.

Gail.

I worked for her at Gillette in 1981 after graduating from business school.  I consider this my first real job, and Gail, my first real boss.  All those who preceded her were amateurs by comparison. Gail was totally invested in my future.  Concerned. Bright. Protective. Creative. And fun.  But more than anyone before or since, she taught me how to be a good writer.  Gail and I were not friends until three years ago when we reconnected via LinkedIn.  It now feels as if we’ve been friends since 1981, not 2011.

Caroline.

I reported to her at CNBC in 1990.  She’s scary smart. Intense, and intimidating. But she’s also warm, and thoughtful.  We became friends when we worked together.  We even went skiing at Vail with a small group, including Eric (Alexander's soon to-be dad). But while I was on pregnancy leave, Caroline eliminated my job. We didn’t speak until I bumped into her at a party on Cape Cod 15 years later.  I ended up working for her on two different assignments at the company she was heading. Today we meet for lunch. The intelligence and focus that make her successful in business also make her a good friend. 

Collectively I’ve learned a lot from the people I’ve worked for.  I’ve learned what not to do as well as what to do. But when a former boss becomes a current friend, well, that’s pretty special.

unreachable

When Alexander was born, I foolishly believed that when he got to be about age five, I could finally stop worrying.  I don’t know why I thought five (or any age, really) would be the cut-off for a mother’s worrying about her child.

I guess as an inexperienced first mother, I worried about all sorts of things.  How would I know if my son were cold and needed more covers?  He likes to sleep on his stomach, but what about SIDS?  He’s almost six months old and doesn’t’ wave yet?  Is he eating enough?  Is he eating too much?  He sleeps through the night, is that okay?  All sorts of little things worried me.

And of course as Alexander grew older, bigger things worried me.  I needn't itemize that list.

So now my son is a junior in college.  I don’t see him so I don’t know what time he comes in.  Is he drunk or sober, stoned or straight?  Is he going somewhere in a car?  Is he attending all his classes? Are his friends all nice?  Blah, blah blah.

And even though my son has a history of ignoring my texts and calls, I still worry when he doesn’t respond within a few hours.  I think my parents had it easier.  In college, I didn’t have a cell phone or computer.  I probably spoke to my parents once or twice a week from a pay phone.  Or maybe I had a phone in my room. I don’t remember anymore.

So I call my son today.  I last spoke to him Friday afternoon.  I don’t leave messages anymore when I realized last year that he never listens to them; he just looks at his call list. Or at least that’s how he handles my calls.  I know, because he told me.

Around eight, I text Alexander, asking him to call.  Nothing.

Around ten, I start to get worried.  In my heart I know he's just avoiding me, but I start to picture all sorts of awful things involving gorges.

I text him again.  And again, nothing.

A little before eleven I am on the phone with M, angry and scared, but thinking I should only be the former.

Then I get an idea.  I’ll text his friend.  

John is great.  He does everything right.  Responds immediately.  Reassures me that my son hasn't been missing for days. And then offers to look for him.

My son’s usual excuses include, “Sorry, I fell asleep and just got your message.”  “I was in the library and couldn’t talk.”  “I forgot my phone.”  Tonight, just a few minutes after texting John, I get a new hybrid excuse from Alexander.

Amazing.  John's timing is impeccable.  He must have reached Alexander at the exact moment my son's batteries got recharged and he had returned from the library. 

I wonder, do all kids really think their parents are this naive?

I hope I learn from this.  But I know me.  When it happens next time (and it will happen again), I know I'll be worrying as if it's the first time.

not your typical wedding photos

I meet Jill to see a show,‘Til Divorce Do Us Part.  Adorning the lobby are poster-size photos of smiling brides and grooms.  In all of them, the groom's head is covered up, disguised as some cartoon character, or just x'ed out.

It’s not the kind of theater Jill and I normally go to, but she has free tickets.  It’s a cutesy little musical with lots of talent.  The audience is mostly women over 50.  They love it.  At 60 minutes, it would have been fine; at 80 it is just okay.  Jill's succinct review, "I had such low expectactions coming here, it was actually better than I thought it would be."

I stop off at the Apple Store at Grand Central on my way home.  I walk up the balcony stairs on my way to the Genius Bar and come across an unfamiliar sight.

In the midst of people running for trains, a bride and groom are being photographed.  I am standing next to the person shooting away with an important looking camera.  “Is this for real,” I ask.  He assures me it is.

The reason I’m even here is that the flash on my camera isn’t working, thus the less-than stellar photo.

I later find out, through one of the geniuses, I had the flash set on Auto, and not On, as it should have been. 

When I come back, the bride and groom are gone. No chance for a better picture now.

kids change; my mother doesn't

I get this video from my sister Jean.  I open it and poof, I’m back 19 years. 

Alexander has just turned two.  Sally, Jean's daughter, is a month away from turning two.

v I see Alexander’s playful personality already emerging.

v I see the adorableness of Alexander and Sally together. 

v I see Alexander say nothing when water is poured on his head, and I hear Sally whine, just a tiny bit. 

v I see their indifference to being videotaped; I now have to beg my son for a photo.

v I hear Jim, my brother-in-law, and can picture his giant-sized and over-priced (as they all were back then) camcorder.

v I imagine my sister and I are taking a break from the our rambunctious toddlers. 

My mom is exactly the age I am now, and already a grandmother of five —one of the benefits of having your first child at 21.  And remarkably, she still looks and acts exactly the same.

a craig's list story

Years ago I was at my friend Brenda’s apartment.  While I was there, she looked at her dining table and decided she needed a new one.

When I came back a few days later, the old one was gone and the new one had arrived.  It was as if she had gone out that day with her to do list:  buy toothpaste, pick up library book, buy new dining table.

Not me.  I’ll search for years, literally, until I find the perfect whatever.  Sometimes it takes that long.  Maybe because I don’t’ have a big living space, I am careful about everything that goes in it. 

I will scour the internet and search the city until I find the exact whatever I need. But on occasion I “inherit” something I can use.

Such was the case with the country-style hand-painted buffet my sister gave me when she bought a new apartment in the city many years ago. 

It fits a lot of stuff, and for that it’s good.  But it’s too big for my space, and conflicts with the more modern look of the rest of my living room.  I don’t want it anymore.

I’ve been periodically posting it on Craig’s List.  I started at $800 (it’s probably worth that, but no one wants to pay that) and now I’m offering it for sale at $425.  I come across an email from a year ago when someone named Jennifer wrote to me and offered $400.  I said thank you, but no.

But today I think why not and write back to this Jennifer and ask if she is still interested. 

A few hours later I am doing some work for BAFTA and come across Jennifer’s name.  A couple of weeks ago Jennifer (with the same uncommon surname as the Craig's list Jennifer) and I had a phone conference regarding a BAFTA screening.  I wonder...

I call Jennifer and leave a voicemail and yes, it’s the same one. 

She doesn’t remember the hutch and asks for me to send a photo.  I do, and get this response:

Oh now I remember!! It's lovely.  We decided to do a built in ...  

We should definitely get together!

Wish the ending to this story were just a little different, but still, it’ll be nice to meet.

Know anyone who wants to buy a nice buffet at a great value?

nursery school then college, or so it seems

It may be hard to understand if you don’t live in New York City, but there is a whole lot of ridiculousness surrounding schools here.  Getting in early to the right school is an obsession of many city parents.

Alexander was just two months shy of his third birthday when he started nursery school at Shaaray Tefila.

 

September, 1995

There were six boys in his class and they all became friends.  I remember the two-week breaking in period where moms were allowed to stay for shorter and shorter periods of time.  They called it separation.  That was never a problem for my son.  He was ready to say his tearless good-bye on day one. 

I am running errands this morning and bump into Nina, a single mother I met when I was 7 months pregnant and looking for an apartment.  She had a six-year-old son, and was a better mother than I’d ever be.  She gave her son the bedroom and she lived in the living room.  I still remember this about her.  We never became friends, but occasionally we’ll see each other on the streets with a promise to get together that never happens.  Her son is now 27 and a lieutenant in the army. 

I walk a little further and see another mother I casually know.  Her son graduated Horace Mann with Alexander.  I pretend not to see her, as I know I’d be in a half hour conversation if I did, hearing all about her brilliant son’s exploits and internships and save-the-world projects.  I keep walking.

I then see this adorable and common site.  

A group of nursery school kids all dressed in red coats, connected by the rope they are holding.  

They don't realize how quickly that rope will disappear and they'll be on their own.  College is right around the corner.