You work Monday through Friday at a job you like. Sure, it's not perfect. And there are things you'd love to change. But basically, you like what you do.
You're a hard worker. In fact, you're one of the best performers in your office.
Every Monday when you get to work, your boss stops by. "Hi Lucy, how was your weekend?" he asks. "Great thanks, and yours?"
Despite the pleasantries, you know where the conversation is heading. It's the same one you have every time you've been off for a day or more.
And it doesn't matter how well you've been doing. In fact, there's zero correlation between your performance and what's coming next.
"So Lucy," your boss continues. "This week we're going to have to decrease your paycheck by 38%. I'm sorry. But at least it's better than two weeks ago." He's referring to the two weeks prior when your paycheck was reduced by 63%.
In fact, last week it was only reduced by 20%, but lately it's been closer to 40. You have no control over the level of reduction, nor does your boss.
There have even been times when your boss has had to have the more difficult conversation.
"Lucy, I know you've worked really hard this week. And we think you're doing a great job. But unfortunately we can't pay you at all this week. But we can loan you a little bit of money that you can pay back next week. We hope you understand. It's not that we don't appreciate all that you do, and the hours you put in. It's nothing personal, just business."
I'm Lucy. Welcome to my world.
Sorry, it's been a rough few weeks.
(Oh, and the scenario above may be imagined, but the numbers are real).
Friday, April 28, 2017
Wednesday, April 26, 2017
a different look
I would love a new apartment.
One with gorgeous hardwood floors, new appliances, beautiful baseboards and new doors — ones that haven't been painted over for 50 plus years. And of course more space. But none of this is going to happen.
I'd also love to get a new sofa. A new end table. And a few other new pieces of furniture, especially dining chairs as I now have none. Most of this is not going to happen either, except for the dining chairs, those I need.
I plan on having my apartment painted soon, and have sent an email to the painter to schedule it. It's been over a week and he still hasn't responded. But eventually he will. When it's painted, the letters on my son's door (they spell his name) will come down. They were put up when he was an infant and should have been removed years ago, but I kinda like them.
After weeks of asking, two of the guys who work here helped me move around some furniture. Even though my son's door is now mostly blocked, I like the openness — especially now that my TV no longer sits in front of my window. It feels more welcoming.
Once I get my photos framed and hung, put my TV on the wall, get the windows and rugs professionally cleaned, and find some dining room chairs and a rug for underneath them, I'll be mostly there.
But for now, I'm enjoying my new view.
One with gorgeous hardwood floors, new appliances, beautiful baseboards and new doors — ones that haven't been painted over for 50 plus years. And of course more space. But none of this is going to happen.
I'd also love to get a new sofa. A new end table. And a few other new pieces of furniture, especially dining chairs as I now have none. Most of this is not going to happen either, except for the dining chairs, those I need.
I plan on having my apartment painted soon, and have sent an email to the painter to schedule it. It's been over a week and he still hasn't responded. But eventually he will. When it's painted, the letters on my son's door (they spell his name) will come down. They were put up when he was an infant and should have been removed years ago, but I kinda like them.
After weeks of asking, two of the guys who work here helped me move around some furniture. Even though my son's door is now mostly blocked, I like the openness — especially now that my TV no longer sits in front of my window. It feels more welcoming.
Once I get my photos framed and hung, put my TV on the wall, get the windows and rugs professionally cleaned, and find some dining room chairs and a rug for underneath them, I'll be mostly there.
But for now, I'm enjoying my new view.
BEFORE
AFTER
Monday, April 24, 2017
afternoon break
I need to buy dinner. There's really no reason to cook if you live in New York and you're the only one at your dining table.
I walk to Agata (a half block away). It's crowded. I'm trying to get to the dessert section. "Excuse me," I say to the blond in front of me. No reaction. "Excuse me," I try again, this time louder. Again, nothing. I try a third time. I'm almost yelling. And again, this chick doesn't move. I have no choice but to squeeze around her, bumping into others as I squish between her and the tiramisu cakes. That's when I notice. She's so engaged in her hands-free phone conversation, she's oblivious to her surroundings. I'm all for multi-tasking, but not when it tunes out and inconveniences others.
I am checking out. My items total $20.26. I hand the cashier $21. She hands me back the one and says, "I have extra change I want to get rid of or else my register will be over." It's a small thing, but sweet.
On my way home, I bump into a Moncler-clad two-year old. He's in the driver's seat of a toy, electric Mercedes Benz car. He's at the wheel, strapped in, and appears to be driving along the city sidewalk. His dad — dressed in matching Moncler — is walking next to the child-driver. In his hand is some kind of handheld remote device. I smile at the boy and the dad says, "For now, I'm the one actually controlling the driving. He's only two. Too young to be driving alone in New York."
I know what he means, but it still makes me smile.
I walk to Agata (a half block away). It's crowded. I'm trying to get to the dessert section. "Excuse me," I say to the blond in front of me. No reaction. "Excuse me," I try again, this time louder. Again, nothing. I try a third time. I'm almost yelling. And again, this chick doesn't move. I have no choice but to squeeze around her, bumping into others as I squish between her and the tiramisu cakes. That's when I notice. She's so engaged in her hands-free phone conversation, she's oblivious to her surroundings. I'm all for multi-tasking, but not when it tunes out and inconveniences others.
I am checking out. My items total $20.26. I hand the cashier $21. She hands me back the one and says, "I have extra change I want to get rid of or else my register will be over." It's a small thing, but sweet.
On my way home, I bump into a Moncler-clad two-year old. He's in the driver's seat of a toy, electric Mercedes Benz car. He's at the wheel, strapped in, and appears to be driving along the city sidewalk. His dad — dressed in matching Moncler — is walking next to the child-driver. In his hand is some kind of handheld remote device. I smile at the boy and the dad says, "For now, I'm the one actually controlling the driving. He's only two. Too young to be driving alone in New York."
I know what he means, but it still makes me smile.
Sunday, April 23, 2017
weekend of ups and downs
Horrible Friday
Get to work and check my numbers. Between Monday and Thursday, while I was off, I had $1,907 in returns; I want to cry.
Work hard in the remote back corner of the store — most of the activity is in the front.
End the day just covering my returns. In other words, eight hours of strenuous work to breakeven.
Via messes up and I wait almost twenty minutes — when I was told six — for my ride to come.
Eat an unhealthy dinner; too tired to care.
Have another Kafka-esque call with AT&T Wireless — an hour of conversation ending with an accidental disconnect — wish it were easy to change carriers.
Crawl into bed early, exhausted and stressed.
Stellar Saturday
Assigned to work up front near elevators (we are rotating through May 10); it's the best place to be.
Customers all treat me with respect and appreciate my help.
Busy all day, ending with sales of $8,504. Finally, a good day.
Walk 9.1 miles — in boots, not running shoes, on a cement floor, not a dirt running path; but happy with the exercise.
Have a major return investigated that turns out to have been a mistake; good that I check my commission report.
Love the book I'm reading: Everything You Want Me To Be by Mindy Mejia.
Neutral Sunday
Semi-busy until four. Then nothing for the next three hours.
Walk 7. 1 miles.
Feet and toes hurt by end of day. Really, two toes are actually throbbing.
Can't find my Metrocard, again, and fear it's lost.
Love Sunday nights — no work again until Friday, giving my aching body time to recover.
Get to work and check my numbers. Between Monday and Thursday, while I was off, I had $1,907 in returns; I want to cry.
Work hard in the remote back corner of the store — most of the activity is in the front.
End the day just covering my returns. In other words, eight hours of strenuous work to breakeven.
Via messes up and I wait almost twenty minutes — when I was told six — for my ride to come.
Eat an unhealthy dinner; too tired to care.
Have another Kafka-esque call with AT&T Wireless — an hour of conversation ending with an accidental disconnect — wish it were easy to change carriers.
Crawl into bed early, exhausted and stressed.
Stellar Saturday
Assigned to work up front near elevators (we are rotating through May 10); it's the best place to be.
Customers all treat me with respect and appreciate my help.
Busy all day, ending with sales of $8,504. Finally, a good day.
Walk 9.1 miles — in boots, not running shoes, on a cement floor, not a dirt running path; but happy with the exercise.
Have a major return investigated that turns out to have been a mistake; good that I check my commission report.
Love the book I'm reading: Everything You Want Me To Be by Mindy Mejia.
Neutral Sunday
Semi-busy until four. Then nothing for the next three hours.
Walk 7. 1 miles.
Feet and toes hurt by end of day. Really, two toes are actually throbbing.
Can't find my Metrocard, again, and fear it's lost.
Love Sunday nights — no work again until Friday, giving my aching body time to recover.
Wednesday, April 19, 2017
an atypical day
Leslie (not her real name; she likes privacy) and I meet for lunch at Boulud Sud. Later we are seeing a matinee of Sarah Ruhl's new play, How To Transcend A Happy Marriage at Lincoln Center.
All these are things I rarely do:
The first is obvious. I like to eat little throughout the day and big at night. I know this is the least healthy option, but I don't care. Dinner (with a good book or better, good friends) is something I look forward to.
I rarely go to matinees, but there is something appealing about them. First, I am more likely to stay through the second act — getting home late is not an impediment. And second, it's a better way to spend the afternoon than watching Judge Judy and doing stuff on my computer.
As for Leslie .... she is one of my closest friends yet I see her infrequently. Our schedules don't align as much as we'd like.
I get to the restaurant a few minutes early. It's empty. It starts to slowly fill but given the outstanding quality of the food, and the very reasonable pre-prix lunch option ($19 for soup or salad and entree), it should be packed.
Leslie and I both order the cold potato and sunchoke soup (whose name does not give justice to the exceptional tastes embodied in it) and the crispy chicken sandwich (that, too, is far better than its name implies).
While most of the other diners are appropriately mannered, the flannel-shirted young girl near us has her sneakered leg on the dining chair, and is texting as her grandparents converse.
After lunch, Leslie and I head over to Lincoln Center.
I have a low bar for theater, movies, books. It doesn't have to be that good — just please don't bore me. And the play doesn't. It's entertaining (more so the first act than the second) and well-acted (the cast includes Marisa Tomei).
But in the end, neither Leslie nor I are entirely sure what the play is about. Plus, any story (other than a children's fairy tale) where a person literally becomes a bird loses major points with me.
All these are things I rarely do:
- Have a big lunch at a nice restaurant.
- See a matinee.
- And meet up with my good friend Leslie.
The first is obvious. I like to eat little throughout the day and big at night. I know this is the least healthy option, but I don't care. Dinner (with a good book or better, good friends) is something I look forward to.
I rarely go to matinees, but there is something appealing about them. First, I am more likely to stay through the second act — getting home late is not an impediment. And second, it's a better way to spend the afternoon than watching Judge Judy and doing stuff on my computer.
As for Leslie .... she is one of my closest friends yet I see her infrequently. Our schedules don't align as much as we'd like.
I get to the restaurant a few minutes early. It's empty. It starts to slowly fill but given the outstanding quality of the food, and the very reasonable pre-prix lunch option ($19 for soup or salad and entree), it should be packed.
Leslie and I both order the cold potato and sunchoke soup (whose name does not give justice to the exceptional tastes embodied in it) and the crispy chicken sandwich (that, too, is far better than its name implies).
While most of the other diners are appropriately mannered, the flannel-shirted young girl near us has her sneakered leg on the dining chair, and is texting as her grandparents converse.
After lunch, Leslie and I head over to Lincoln Center.
I have a low bar for theater, movies, books. It doesn't have to be that good — just please don't bore me. And the play doesn't. It's entertaining (more so the first act than the second) and well-acted (the cast includes Marisa Tomei).
But in the end, neither Leslie nor I are entirely sure what the play is about. Plus, any story (other than a children's fairy tale) where a person literally becomes a bird loses major points with me.
Monday, April 17, 2017
purging
I could be a professional organizer.
I hate clutter and chaos.
Knowing that, I am in the wrong industry. Retail is a hot mess everywhere. Clothes are tossed unhung in dressing rooms. Go-back bars overflow with layers of toppled garments. Neat supply rooms quickly become piles of empty boxes. It unsettles me when I'm surrounded by disorder.
At home I avoid it.
I am preparing to have my apartment painted soon. The last time was February 2007. I am barely recovered from that major cyclone. But first, I want to declutter.
Today I work on bookcases. I give Alexander's text books to my neighbor (why do so many look unopened?); bring unread books (that will never be read) to the library; and toss old notebooks and souvenirs that have lost their value.
I have no remorse for anything tossed. If anything, I find the absence of things calming.
I hate clutter and chaos.
Knowing that, I am in the wrong industry. Retail is a hot mess everywhere. Clothes are tossed unhung in dressing rooms. Go-back bars overflow with layers of toppled garments. Neat supply rooms quickly become piles of empty boxes. It unsettles me when I'm surrounded by disorder.
At home I avoid it.
I am preparing to have my apartment painted soon. The last time was February 2007. I am barely recovered from that major cyclone. But first, I want to declutter.
Today I work on bookcases. I give Alexander's text books to my neighbor (why do so many look unopened?); bring unread books (that will never be read) to the library; and toss old notebooks and souvenirs that have lost their value.
With the walls and floors mostly bare, it is starting to look as if I'm moving.
Sunday, April 16, 2017
a visit home
"I'm coming home this weekend."
I love hearing these words.
Late Thursday night, I'm sound asleep; I awake with my son telling me he's home. Straight from the Bolt Bus, Alexander goes to a friend's apartment to hang out. I would too if I were his age.
I awake on Friday to uneaten chicken nuggets and fries sitting on my coffee table with no diner in sight.
Before leaving for work, I ask my semi-sleeping son, "Dinner tonight?" "I'll let you know." The major attraction of eating with me is that I will pay. That improves my odds for a positive response.
I finish an exhausting day of ringing up little and seeing returns diminish my sales to nothing. "Sushi?" I text. The immediate response is yes.
Alexander and I watch an episode of Law & Order. Eat dinner. Discuss the moral dilemmas the show always raises. And talk about life — his, not mine. After dinner Alexander meets up with some friends.
Saturday morning Alexander is up early. Before leaving for work, I enlist his help and that of my very nice and very strong neighbor in flipping and rotating my mattress. It's been about five years since this was last done so I'm way overdo.
Saturday night Alexander and I again have dinner together. When my son suggests having our sandwich, I know exactly what he means. Our sandwich is something we created at Agata's deli counter — prosciutto, arugula, mozzarella, and avocado,with honey mustard and balsamic on a roll.
Alexander has a friend over later and they go out long after I'm asleep. I don't realize he's even gone out until he tells me he's home around 3:30. I'm glad I didn't know or I'd have been worried.
Today is Easter and Alexander is meeting his grandparents for brunch. He has a special relationship with them, and I am so grateful for their involvement in his life.
My son seems happy, and therefore so am I.
I love hearing these words.
Late Thursday night, I'm sound asleep; I awake with my son telling me he's home. Straight from the Bolt Bus, Alexander goes to a friend's apartment to hang out. I would too if I were his age.
I awake on Friday to uneaten chicken nuggets and fries sitting on my coffee table with no diner in sight.
Before leaving for work, I ask my semi-sleeping son, "Dinner tonight?" "I'll let you know." The major attraction of eating with me is that I will pay. That improves my odds for a positive response.
I finish an exhausting day of ringing up little and seeing returns diminish my sales to nothing. "Sushi?" I text. The immediate response is yes.
Alexander and I watch an episode of Law & Order. Eat dinner. Discuss the moral dilemmas the show always raises. And talk about life — his, not mine. After dinner Alexander meets up with some friends.
Saturday night Alexander and I again have dinner together. When my son suggests having our sandwich, I know exactly what he means. Our sandwich is something we created at Agata's deli counter — prosciutto, arugula, mozzarella, and avocado,with honey mustard and balsamic on a roll.
Alexander has a friend over later and they go out long after I'm asleep. I don't realize he's even gone out until he tells me he's home around 3:30. I'm glad I didn't know or I'd have been worried.
Today is Easter and Alexander is meeting his grandparents for brunch. He has a special relationship with them, and I am so grateful for their involvement in his life.
My son seems happy, and therefore so am I.
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