My Slip Was "Pink"

Professional “Searcher”

myslipwaspink — Thu, 07 Jul 2011 17:18:18 +0000

I’m back. It’s been a while and I can honestly say nothing much has changed. Unfortunately I still haven’t “found” anything. Except a few unwanted pounds. This is a bad dream. It’s like the U.S. has become this service economy with everyone selling insurance to eachother. I’m still searching. For the job. For the guy. And now… for the dog!

Westminster Dog Show

myslipwaspink — Thu, 03 Mar 2011 01:05:54 +0000

It’s winter and I feel out of my mind. I call T and start up with my stuff. “I’m going to end up on the street with my really nice wardrobe.” I’m having nightmares at night. I keep having this feeling that people are taking things out my refrigerator.

“That’s a nightmare. Its where you keep your shoes.” I know T was concerned. Let’s meet at the Barking Dog. Right now.”

“I’m on my way” I yelp.

Self-Education

myslipwaspink — Thu, 17 Jun 2010 00:25:17 +0000

I went to a conference on Twitter and found that I’m truly a “twidiot!” The best part, however, was seeing Martha Stewart in person and hearing her speak about important digital marketing matters. Like shoes…What I learned is that she’s really into them. In fact, she’ll even take a picture of your shoes if she likes them. I was sorry that she didn’t take a picture of my shoes. I should have worn the ones with the bows, or the polka dots. Not black patent flats…I would love to go for dinner at her house. But I would keep her away from my feet!

Signs-January

myslipwaspink — Sat, 12 Jun 2010 04:34:37 +0000

There is so much snow and ice. I’m sitting at my computter looking at job boards, but I’m thinking about going to Israel. The truth is, I’m afraid to do anything different. I go down to the street, and I see a broken down sign on the corner in front of the garbage. I move closer. It reads “Be your dreams.” I look on the other side. Sprawling across the back of the disgarded sign in proud, thick, black, bold graffitti is, “Be Your Dreams!”

My Personality!–January

myslipwaspink — Sat, 12 Jun 2010 04:06:05 +0000

I go to Flora’s apartment to get my test results and find out about my personality. Perhaps this test will help me finally understand who I am. I’m anxious. The living room is small but homey. I sit down and look around. I see pictures of her three children when they were teens living in Conneticut. As I sink back into a large puffy pillow, I note the crafts and small paintings she had collected, momentos of family holidays. I pick up some stray shells resting on the wood floor and cradle them in my hand. Flora looks serious, seated in her long caftan and crocheed hat.

“Pinkslip, I have your test results.”

“My personality. Is it serious?”

“Do you ofter feel confused?” she asks thoughtfully.

“I mostly feel confused.”

“Yes. This accounts for it.” she shakes her head soulfully.

“Tell me,” I brace myself.

“PinkSlip, You are an INFP. Introvert. An idealist. Dreamer. People like you account for less than 1% of the population.

“World or U.S.?”

“Not sure.” She sighs heavily. Princess Diana was won. If you get on the wrong track, there’s no way out. Yes, highly sensitive. Moody. So was Audrey Hepburn and Richard Gere. She puts on her reading glasses and ruffles through some papers. Come to think of it, so was Albert Schweitzer.

“Oh, what exactly did he do?”

“Hmmm, I don’t know. But he was very giving.” She jumps up from her chair,A Ha! I recommend that you become an actress as a way to ha rness your creativity.”

“I think I already did that. As a child. And how would I earn a living?”

“Babysitting.”

“I don’t like children.”

“Then walk a dog. Listen, how much time do we really have left? You don’t want to have any regrets?”

“I already have regrets. (Thinking about my investment in this session,)

“Oh nonsense. Think about Colonal Sanders . He started Kentucky Fried Chicken when he was 70.

“He was an actor.”

Myers Briggs-January

myslipwaspink — Sat, 12 Jun 2010 03:36:48 +0000

The counselor invites me to take a bunchof tests–including the Myers Briggs personality test. It is apparently based on a Jungian concept that there are roughly 30 something types of personalities. Actually, I think I’ve dated them all. It’s a battery of questions revealing your “authentic self”–whether ou like to pick up guys at parties or sulk alone in a corner…boss people at work or sit under your desk waiting for the cuts to be over hoping you won’t be noticed…It assesses whether you’re the kind of person who pays 30% interest on your credit cards like me and can’t keep a plant alive, but is dedicated to world peace. Or if you need a list to keep track of your lists.

I recall on question was “Do you enjoy planning in advance, or do what’s fun at the moment?” Well, that was a tough one, Every dayplanner I’ve owned has remained empty despite my franetic activity.

The Beginning Of Enlightenment

myslipwaspink — Fri, 26 Feb 2010 03:54:26 +0000

I’ve become attached to my blue sofa . What should I do? Weeks have gone by and I’m exhausted. I’ve gone to every event imaginable–Internet Marketing Mondays, Solar Energy Ice Cream Bash, Private Equity Pre-Olympic Drinkathon–and not a single job interview. My apartment is filled with business cards. I don’t even remember who these people are. How can I expect them to remember me? I think I left my self-esteem at one of these events. In the coat room.

The phone rings and it’s Cora Flowers, a career counselor I met at my flurry of events.

”So, PinkSlip, how’s it going?” she asks blithly.

I do not want to have this conversation. (I’m even getting pity from my manicurist. She looks at me and in broken English says, “How sad. At least I’m busy.” Well, I cut back and only had one hand painted.)

“Lousy” I moan. There, I said it.

“Well, where do you want to work?” she asks cheerily. One of my clients networked herself into a co mpany in two days after she was fired.”

Oh, give me a break. “Nowhere, I don’t want to work anywhere. As a matter of fact, I want to be “The Harvard Dog Walker.” Six dogs on a leash. I’ll recite Chaucer to your pooch while they poop!”

“PinkSlip, you need help. Please let me help you. I want you to take the Myers Briggs Personality Test and Strong Inventory of Interests. I won’t take no for an answer. “

I think, perhaps there is an answer…

Synogogue Job Search Group-No Rugalah

myslipwaspink — Sun, 21 Feb 2010 16:53:11 +0000

It was one of those freezing nights last weeks where I wanted to just isolate in my overheated apartment. I’ve been staying in alot lately and I’ve been blaming it on the weather. It’s cold…icy…slushy. But the fact is I really don’t want to be around people. I guess this is the opposite of “networking.” So, there’s an event at the synogogue accross the street from where I live at 7:00 and I figure maybe I should go. Perhaps there will be some good tips. I leave what’s become my cave and head for the meeting. I hope there are cookies. Not on the ”Poodle Girl Diet.” I make it across the street into the temple which has an awful smell. The meeting room is packed. Two slim, blonde women are heading the discussion who are obviously not part of the congregation. They are perky and animated, pointing to a powerpoint. (Irish Catholic I guess.) They talk about resumes and two minute pitches. Linked-In and FaceBook. All familiar jargon if you’ve been a professional. So where’s the rugalah and the turkey sandwiches. Apparently we don’t get food as we’re the disenfranchised. I notice a pamphlet on Jewish Poverty at the head of the table and I have trouble breathing. I young woman raises her hand and starts talking about her depression. She talks on and on and won’t stop. Out of the edges of my eyes I see old friends and boyfriends in the crowd. We do out best not to acknowledge each other. The program ends. No rugalah. I sneak out in shame and eat a bag of double chocolate Milanos in secret.

Harvard Hedge Fund Event

myslipwaspink — Wed, 10 Feb 2010 03:07:06 +0000

I planned to meet a friend at a Harvard Hedge Fund event who works for a major nonprofit organization. Everybody shows up for it whether they’re in the industry or not—it’s like a big B-School garden party. Come to think of it, I don’t know what a hedge fund is. So, where did that name come from? That large bush that surrounds the “masters of the universe?” Or is a “hedge” a small malicious animal with sharp teeth—like a rat, trained to point fingers…or claws. I didn’t want to come, but I figured there would be good shoes, cute guys, and shrimp. I arrived early and we were not allowed to touch the drinks. And there were no cocktail franks. So, I had to survive the famine until after the panel discussion. I walk toward the auditorium of the investment firm where the event was hosted, and signed a non-disclosure before I entered the inner sanctum. I sit in my seat and inhale the scent of leather and power. People are a whirl of Wall Street black and grey, furiously checking their BlackBerries. The atmosphere is hushed and private—even reverential. And it should be…

Some of the people in the room probably make more money than a small county, come to think of it. We civilians in the audience are fascinated to be near this tidal wave of cash.

The moderator takes the microphone, “Nothing we say here is true.” All the speakers nod silently. The audience bows in reverence. Each guru takes his turn delivering a market recap and prophesying the year to come. We take notes hoping the wizardry will rub off.

The terms blurred…derivative…long position…Whatever. When do we eat!

Fingers pointing, but all innocent. They’re all good. Right? Like Lloyd Blankfein at Goldman Sachs who is doing “God’s work.” What a relief. And he’s just a blue collar guy. I have shirts with blue collars too.

The words echo,”Madoff was not one of us. He was a broker/dealer. He never would have received external clearance.

The room nodded.

There was no shrimp at the reception. Only fried chicken.

The Poodle Girl Diet

myslipwaspink — Sun, 07 Feb 2010 01:43:08 +0000

At 8am the next morning I call Dr. G my internist. I speak with his assistant Shirley.

“Hi, Dorothy, It’s Pink Slip. It’s an emergency I must wee the doctor today.”

“What is it—H1N1?” she sounded concerned.

“No. I can’t tell you. It’s personal. But believe me, it’s important.” I pretend to cough.

“Listen Pink Slip. He’s really busy, but I”ll squeeze you in. Can you be here in one hour?

“Great. Thanks so much” I say in my best hoarse voice.

I squeeze on my jeans and run to the bus. I consider this to be my first day of excercise.

Within 45 minutes I arrive at Dr. G’s office.

“HI Ms. Pink Slip. How are you today?” Dorothy is a prim looking woman with large black glasses, who always appears dwarfed by the voluminous papers on her desk. “You can go into the examining room.”

Thanks.” I hang up my coat and cough.

Dr. G appears looking weary and harried. He’s a studious looking man in a white coat and bow tie with thinning silver hair and wire framed glasses.

“So?” He sits down across from me and crosses his legs. He pulls out a pad and is ready to take notes.

“Well, come to think of it, I could use some happy pills.”

“I can prescribe an allergy pill. What else?”

“I’m having bad dreams.”

“Just don’t go to sleep” he yawns. “Trying to get out of something? Jury duty?

“Actually, this is my problem. I’m fat. I’m just not getting picked up at the Harvard Club bar these days by loaded octogenarians.” I start to weep and he hands me a wrinkled tissue. Probably from his last flu victim.

“Tell me what you eat in a typical day. Like yesterday.”

“Well, I skipped breakfast. Had a fudgy cupcake for lunch. And, let’s see. A margarita, a corn chips, and a half of a beef burrito for dinner at Tia Mia.” ( An incomlete inventory. I know I ate the whole burrito. My shame would allow me to confess just so much.”

“Sour cream?”

“Yeah, but on the burrito.” I smirk. I didn’t tell him about the chocolate chocolate chip ice cream I ate in secret—even hiding it from Solace bear.

“That cupcake thing is juvenile. That’s a child’s palette.” We both pause and think.

“Let me calculate your Body Mass Index.” He pulls out a Blackberry, flips open a manila folder, and makes some focused calculations. “Hmmm, there is indeed a problem. “

I start to wail like I just lost my best friend.

“This is my suggested food plan. Ok, (he looks like he’s delivering military secrets). For breakfast, one apple and a sliver of cheese.”

“What kind?” I feel concerned. That’s a change in diet for me. I’m used to donuts and cupcakes for breakfast.

“I’m flexible. Gouda and Jarlsberg are fine.”

“What about lunch. I’m beginning to feel hungry.”

He glares at me, “No lunch. That’s a strict rule.”

“Oh please. That can’t be so. I’ll starve.”

He grins. “You’ll burn body fat. I do it every day. Too busy to eat. I told the girls in the office to do it and they cried.”

My stomach starts to growl. “I’m already hungry. This won’t work.”

“You’ll get used to it.”

“Dinner? I ask weakly.

“You know how to chop salad?”

“No.” For me icing is a vegetable.

“You’ll learn. Every night you chop lettuce. You like blue cheese?

“Yeah. But with a porterhouse steak.”

“You put 2 ounces cheese in the salad. Throw in another apple. And that’s dinner. The weight will melt away.” he punches his stomach.

“Wow. And what about exercise? ” I’m getting more disheartened.

“I don’t believe in it. I’m too busy to go the gym.”

“Oh, and every once in a while, throw in a really low calorie dinner” he shakes his pen.

“Lower than lettuce?”

“That’s right. One cup Cheerios and milk. That’ll keep you on track. Anything else?

“That’s not enough food for an upper east side NYC poodle!” That’s what I’ll call it. “The Poodle Girl Diet.”