How to succeed in business without really trying? Well, you've got to have more than a little Mel Gibson in you. And I don't mean of the drunken, anti-Semitic variety (although I'm sure the suits & ties higher up the food chain save that horseplay for the confines of their respective country clubs), but an all-consuming, almost pathological bloodlust. To worship red tape slashes with the fervor of Hollywood execs dumping third-rate horror flicks into theaters during the dead of January. Once you get in touch with your inner Apocalypto, breaking the news to an entire staff of employees that their services are no longer needed due to a "change in direction" becomes as impersonal as a handshake.

As I stood still among the entire roster of staff members hovered around our Managing Director reading our last rites, all feeling from head to toe just went numb. It wasn't enough that I had worn myself ragged this past week juggling workloads for two, playing the part of a team player since a co-worker fucked me royally by going on vacation last minute. But this was the cherry on the top of my bullshit sundae. All the instances of staying till ungodly hours, skipping lunch hours and inviting gray hairs to take up residence on my head had earned me the ultimate booby prize. A one-way trip to human resources to discuss transitioning and severance packages.

I can't say I was terribly surprised about this turn of events since the rumor mill had never quieted with whispers of consolidation for months. Since the first round of payroll cuts rolled off the chopping block last February, the hologram of job security remained just that. An illusion. However in true white collar fashion, even though the situation gave off premonition vibes, you're still never really quite prepared when innuendo becomes reality.

And the carnage kept on coming. The guillotine wasn't limited to falling just on us sacrificial lambs in New York. Fellow colleagues over in Houston met the same fate as their entire department of operations were also announced as closing. Factor in the additional cuts made in Maryland and the grand total of casualties soared past the 500 mark easily. But the real punchlines were saved when Corporate tried to put a positive PR spin on the unceremonious dismissals this way via e-mail:

"First, in a cost effective manner, this partnership provides ____ a competitive edge, giving us the flexibility to quickly add capacity and seamlessly respond to the ever-evolving needs of clients and changes in the _____ market.
Second, this partnership lets us leverage a strategic partner's existing assets, which include a highly educated and experienced workforce, and a track record of operational excellence and client satisfaction.
Third, with ______, _____ has created a truly global service offering, giving us access to talent around the world, allowing a "follow-the-sun" work schedule with 24/7 service capabilities.
Finally, and most importantly, the partnership allows _____ to maintain its focus on its core competencies, increasing our efficiency and furthering our ability to invest in technologies and resources that will continually help our clients."

Translation: "Fuck ya'll, suckas! We're outsourcing this bitch to barely competent Southeast Asians and pocketing your paychecks to keep our profit margins pleasing to the shareholders. 7 figure end-of-year bonuses for us! Schwing!"

The only silver lining to this dark cloud is that this frees me from the fear that was holding me back from pursuing what I truly wanted to make of my life. This job was never anything that fulfilled me and just waking up in the morning to get dressed was a daily struggle. I got accustomed to going through the motions so much that I forgot what trying to build a career feels like. I chose what pays the bills as opposed to what makes me happy and look where it got me. I don't care if I never get to see my byline gracing the front page of the New York Times, my time of being a bench warmer while my aspirations float off into oblivion is over... thankfully. And besides, the only thing better than using up vacation time in rapid succession is throwing caution to the wind with 2 hour liquid lunches. I mean, what are they really gonna do? Fire me? Oops, too late.

Labels: frustration, layoff, unemployment, work

One of the reasons why I've always preferred to travel with the only sane family member around (that would be the woman who gave me life) or winging it solo is because I've been able to sidestep the minefield of bullshit that comes with planning a trip with a friend. That is, until now.

Thought it would be cool to blow off some steam in the next few weeks with a quickie weekend getaway, but making the mini-excursion into a "girls nite out" theme. Well, more like a girl + 1 since my circle of single and fancy-free girlfriends have been shrinking faster than Mary-Kate Olsen. Damn near everyone I know is either getting or have already gotten hitched, on the inside track for the idealized amount of 2.5 kids while migrated into the blandness of suburbia. So, the cheese stands almost alone. Enter my homegirl Nadine.* We've been friends for eons, and when she moved across the street from me about 5 years ago, it seemed like we had made a 360° from sleepovers to just chillin' on the stoop with a couple of cigs talking about whatever.

So around September when I had the bright idea to make a weekend run out of the tri-state area, she was on the short list of candidates I could proposition 3 days of debauchery to. And as luck would have it, Nadine was up for the trip. But then again, who in their right mind would turn down some sunny skies and an excuse to drink in the daytime during the dog days of winter? The whole plan still hinged on whether or not she could get the time off as schedule was constantly schizophrenic due to the revolving nature of being a hospital staffer. I figured as long as she gave me answer before Thanksgiving, I'd be good to book the flight and then plot the hotel scouting.

September ended, nothing.
Halloween came and went, nada.
Thanksgiving rolled by, still no concrete answer.

What kind of janky ass position are you holding down if you can't get a yes or no from your supervisor damn near three months ahead of time just to take two days off? Meanwhile in the midst of all my thumb twiddling, American Airlines kept tempting me with new discounted flights smack dab for the time I was eying. A round trip of under $150 was just too much of a steal to pass up. So I put the booking on hold so I could run the numbers by her first. I call her cell and home numbers so many times I may have given myself carpal tunnel. No response. I'm pacing and getting antsy because I'm slated to lose the pending seats at midnight if I don't put the order through. Finally at 11:09 p.m., this broad calls me back feigning apologies. Never mind the bollocks, are you in or out? She says she's still going. So, I reserve the tickets at least feeling a bit more at ease since the biggest hurdle was cleared. Well, for the time being.

Now I was comparison shopping for the best place to stay, and of course I was the one doing all the work. Every time I would call her to stop over to take a look at the details and sit down to crunch the numbers, the heifer would pull some incognito bill-collector avoidance tactics.

This constant push & pull only served as a reminder of why I keep the socializing with broads to a bare minimum because this is the kind of nonsense that's far too commonplace.

Here's hoping a U.S. marshal doesn't put a slug in me if I happen to choke the living daylights out of her en route.

Labels: friendship, frustration, rants, relationships, vacation

How do I hate Cingular Wireless? Let me count the ways...

My descent into rage against the cellular began almost 2 years ago. Tired of AT&T Wireless, Cingular had just moved into the tri-state area as the new kid on the block. The bouncing orange logo, the reasonable phone plans (at the time) and wide selection of Motorola models was a decided upgrade so I jumped ship to see what the rookies would have to offer. Little did I know an upcoming merger wouldn't have saved me from the never ending quest for portable perfection.

I ordered a Motorola V400 and a nondescript Nokia for Ma Dukes since a multitude of specifications and features meant about a bag of beans to her and waited for the delivery to be shipped. And waited. And waited. And waited some more. Two weeks passed and the lovely USPS truck had yet to make an appearance on my block. This now warranted a trip to their field office to cordially tear a sales rep a new asshole. First stop on the "Ya'll Bitches Ain't Shit" regional tour was Westbury, Long Island. After being trapped on the Southern State Parkway for over an hour and half, I finally sped onto Old Country Road only to find the branch location had just closed for the day. Strike one.

Next stop on the opposite end of the spectrum: way out in Bay Ridge, Brooklyn on 86th Street. I hadn't been 'round those parts since the days of ditching classes and causing a commotion on the R train. Come to find out, the online order was botched from the checkout and to get the activation mishap rectified, a full payment of 3 C-notes would be required. What. the. fuck. ever.

After straightening out a rough courtship, it was smooth sailing for about 8 months into the contract before I hit another snag. Unbeknownst to me, I had signed the paperwork without being made aware that I was entitled a corporate discount through my company's affiliation with Cingular. A little percentage off never hurt anyone and I was due for a much needed reduction. Or so I thought. After stating my case to the arbiters of Satan better known as customer service clientèle, I was brutally rebuffed. I was left no choice but to forge a shit-eating grin and bare it until the contract had elapsed.

Now I have never lusted after a phone before... but I get tingles in my nether regions over this one.

So, while strolling down Broadway, I pass by the local Cingular store at the corner of Fulton. A cluster of disinterested fellas in rumpled button downs until I sign my name at the service guest book. Then I'm greeted with an 800-watt smile. Playing along, I tell them I'm interested in the RAZR. They immediately morph into "the-cat-who-ate-the-canary" predatory stance.

Luckily for me, I had brushed up on my fine print reading homework so when they inevitably started trying to blow smoke up my bum, I was more than prepared for the full court press.

The phone feels great. Thinner than Lara Flynn Boyle's waistline but sturdy enough to feel solid. The buttons are relatively large which is one of the things I loathed about the V400 from jump - those Scrabble-sized buttons. The screen is to die.

It also runs about $300 with taxes, hidden fees and other anal assaults not spelled out in the storefront window. And that's with a 2 year re upping to Cingular. There is no return policy at all. Like the neighborhood Koreans love to utter, "you break, you buy."

But, they had a supposed bargain for the taking. They would extend a "get out of jail free" card from my old contract (which is up in less than 3 weeks) for $50.00. Or, I could purchase the phone with no strings attached to the budget conscious tune of $450.00.

If I could freeze frame this situation like live TV on a DVR, I would've double checked to see if "punk'd" wasn't taped to my back. While the one sales associate is trying to lock me into this "deal", the other guy is retrieving my account info. "Uh oh." He says. "You're not eligible to upgrade your phone."

Say what?

Turns out, because I had bought the V400 at a discounted rate, Cingular wouldn't let me buy another phone until my contract was up. I was amazed to learn this wasn't some sort of wacky urban legend.

Pleading my case to two different managers who just couldn't seem to grasp my annoyance helped matters none. Well, luckily for me the nonchalance will extend to my intent to switch back to Verizon at the end of the year.

Hey Cingular... can you hear me now?

Bitches.

Labels: frustration, mobile misery, rants