What I Want

I know what I want now.

I know what I want to do with my life. I know it truly and passionately. Indefatigably even, if I may use so many syllables. I finally realized it this morning. I know what I want.

I want my own business. I want to work for myself.

I don't want to work for you. Or him. And I definitely don't want to work for her. Sorry, ladies, I've had three female bosses now and they all leave a lot to be desired. One of them used to leave the office mid-day and then would call me at 4:55 to make sure I was still there.

Tight.

So, yeah, I figured it out: I want my own business.

I don't know what it is, nor do I care much about what it is. I don't know what I want to sell you, or what sort of service I want to provide, I don't know how to start it or what to call it, or where to open it, but I know I want it.

I want it bad.

You want to know why I want it bad?

Because, when I work for somebody else, I have to behave in the manner and tone that they have set for the operations of the business, and I'm tired of doing that. I'm tired of kissing the puckered, pimply ass of the ungrateful world, I'm tired of bending to everbody's will, including my employer, I'm tired of small-talk and going along to get along and I'm tired of politics and I'm tired of not being able to take my balls out and swing them around a little bit.

Yesterday, I was dealing with a guy, a sniveling, manipulative, unkind and obnoxious bastard of a guy that I just wanted to kick in the knee over and over and over again, until his patella turned to dust. Now, I realize that, even if I were the business owner I couldn't really do that, but, if I were the business owner, I could have told him to fuck off and never come back here, because that's my right as the business owner. My business, my property, I get to call the shots. Unfortunately, I work for a gentle-hearted 60-year-old woman who would faint or implode before she told someone to leave. Unfortunately, I had to do likewise. I had to stand there and eat shit and defend our business practices, and myself, in a passive-aggressive, sychophantic way that nauseated me so, disgusted me to the point that I found that I was hating myself even more than I was hating this incomparable prickball, and that made me sad.

And it made me want my own business.

My uncle has his own business. It's a failing men's clothing store that is stuck firmly in the year 1958. Yellow shorts with lobsters on them. Madras dress shirts that cost $179. Cashmere sweaters at the cost of a monthly car payment. That kind of thing. Whatever you want to say about my uncle and his general ineptitude as a businessman, he doesn't take shit from anybody. If someone comes in and makes a comment about how high his prices are, my uncle merely smiles and points to the door. And he's absolutely right. He shouldn't have to listen to that shit in his own store. Yes, his prices are high, and that's why I don't shop there. I can't afford it, even with the family discount, and I have no need for lobster shorts anyway. However, when you walk onto someone else's domain, you play by their rules, or you don't play: simple. If you decide that $179 is too much for a Madras shirt, then you walk out, you don't stand there and make comments or, worse yet, try to haggle.

When I worked as an optician a thousand years ago, my boss would not only bend over backwards for insipid, cheap customers, he would bend over backwards and lick his own taint for them. He did anything they wanted, took hundreds of dollars off frames and lenses, because he was petrified of losing even one customer.

"You know," I said to him one day, "some customers you really don't want here."

He nodded his head, but he couldn't help himself. A while later, my old boss found his balls when he threw out an Indian couple who hounded me relentlessly about the cost of their glasses.

"Is that your best price? Is that your best price? Is that your best price? Is that your best price?" they repeated endlessly, as if it were some sort of tantric mantra. Finally, my boss walked over to us and he told them to pay or leave. They left.

My father has had his own business since 1987.

"Daddy can't work for anybody else," my mother said to me.

At seven, I didn't understand what that meant and, truthfully, I didn't understand what it meant for a long time, but I think I do now. It's not that my father couldn't do what someone else was telling him to do-- he was a soldier in the Israeli army, for Christ's sake, he knew how to take orders, even from people who weren't as smart or competent-- it's that he couldn't work under the tone set by someone else. If you buy a t-shirt or a thigh-support short from my father's company, you'd better know your size, because his policy is "NO RETURN, NO EXCHANGE."

That's it.

He set that rule because he's the boss and he doesn't take shit from people, and he doesn't want your smelly, stained, discolored merchandise back. You think you're an A cup and you're really a B cup? Oh well. Now, if he had a boss, the boss might say, "Hey, you know, I think we really ought to accept this return, I mean, we don't want to lose business here..."

Lose business? My father has screamed on the phone at his own customers, called them names, absolutely freaked out. And, yes, he has lost business. But the fanatics keep coming back for more, because he's honest and he's decent and he manufactures good shit. And, for lots of people, that's enough.

There is a definite danger in taking too much shit from people for too long. You become Willy Loman. And I don't want that.

So, let's be our own boss. I have two questions:

1.) What should I do?

and

2.) Wanna come work for me?

Drinky Drink

Sometimes, our society really gets on my wick.

I guess it's good that I have a blog.

A thoroughly illuminating article appeared in the New York Times online edition today that centers around alcohol and work, two items that should never be combined in the first place.

According to Jody Queen-Hubert, executive director of cooperative education and career services at New York's Pace University, you shouldn't go out boozing with co-workers and/or your boss.

Wow. Who knew, right? So glad I read the NYT for actual information and not just snob appeal.

Cy Wakeman, president of a human resources consulting firm agrees, stating that "the risk is very high that something negative will come out of it." I wonder if having a beaver-bumping party with your supervisor counts as "negative" but let's assume for the moment that it does, or at least that the fallout from it does. Certainly sticking your foot in your mouth, making an inappropriate comment about minorities or the well-endowed or the emotionally disturbed may earn you demerits, even if you manage to keep your hands to yourself and/or your peenie locked up in its pleated, gabardine cell.

Let's face it, though I don't drink and never have, I'm well aware that people aren't exactly on their A-game when they've been tossing back a few, regardless of what they may think of that themselves. When you're in the company of the suits, you always want to be on your A-game, and gabbing it up while sloshed doesn't seem to make a whole lot of sense. That said, I'm left to ask the question: why is alcohol a part of work culture at all? Now, working in the non-profit sector, and a very small non-profit at that, I can't imagine having a three martini lunch with my executive director, though I admit the ensuing mayhem would probably be You Tube-worthy. Obviously, we're talking about the for-profit, corporate culture. I don't know what it is about alcohol that makes it pervade into even the occupational facet of our lives, where we're supposed to be competent, sober professionals. What is this seductive allure that comes with introducing alcohol into work relationships? Is there anybody who actually thinks it's a good idea?

When it comes time for the advice section of the article, Queen-Hubert gives some pretty shitty advice:

If colleagues regularly have drinks after work, order what everyone else is having but sip it slowly. “Make it last all night,” Ms. Queen-Hubert said. “Holding a drink without drinking is a way to feel like part of the crowd without compromising your judgment.”

No offense, Queenie, but what the fuck is that? Why should I have to spend $8.00 on a glass of wine because the other assholes sitting at the table are drinking? Why can't I drink a Diet Coke? Or water? What the hell does it matter what I do? Why can't they just do what they want and I do what I want?

Ah, because, amongst drinkers, abstaining is not allowed.

See Section B of said article:

Q. How do you politely decline to drink, especially if others are urging you to have one?

Well, here's my A.

"I don't drink."

Any further questions? Go fuck yourself.

I think it's pretty amazing the balls people grow when it's time to grill someone about why they don't drink. If you order a hoagie with no tomatoes, does everybody sitting at your table you at Quiznos bombard you with interrogatives about the abberation of your order?

"I just don't get it, man-- why don't you eat tomatoes?"

"Like, what's up with that?"

"Dude-- we all ordered tomatoes. What are you-- a fag?"

Somehow, though, in our culture, posing unrelenting, personal questions to the unfortunate teetotaler in the room is perfectly acceptable behavior. Why do we need a "polite way" to refuse a drink? Aren't I polite about everything else? Why is this even an issue. You do what you do, let me do what I do.

The problem, as I see it, is that people who consume alcohol, particularly large quantities thereof, want to feel their behavior being normalized. In order to accomplish that, one of two things needs to happen:

1.) They need to harrass and harangue anybody who is not participating in their behavior or.

2.) They need total compliance, participation, and assimilation from everybody in the room.

Otherwise, their behavior becomes questionable. And we cannot have that because, in our culture, engaging in the consumption of alcohol is acceptable and "normal," and abstinence is weird and suspect.

Q. When you attend business-related social events with more-senior colleagues, they always seem to be holding a drink. Could your refusal to do the same draw attention to your youth and inexperience?

Funny, I thought that refusing to do what everybody else is doing might draw attention to your independence, logical thought and self-preservation instinct. It might show that you aren't a squabbling little toadie that only wants to play dress-up in Daddy's big shoes and pretend to shave like the big boys. Of course, those participating in the New York Times article disagree with me, stating emphatically that you must "play along to get along."

"If you are at a high-profile event and all the executives are having a drink, you may feel you need one to be part of the club,” she noted. “That being said, you can still drink very little of it or have one drink and then switch to water.”

Man, fuck that. If that's what you need to do to be accepted in corporate culture, if working hard and making intelligent decisions isn't enough, fuck that. Hard.

The icing on the cake, or perhaps I should say "the ice shavings in the bourbon" comes like a thunderclap in the closing paragraph of the article in answer to the question, "How can you tell if you have a drinking problem that needs to be addressed?" The answer stunned me:

"A. If you can relax at professional events only by having a drink, that could indicate a problem... You may be using alcohol as a crutch when navigating uncomfortable social situations."

Well, yeah-- isn't that what your article just advised its readers to do-- use alcohol as a crutch? "Look, as long as you have that all-important scotch in your hand, that Holy Grail of corporate America, you'll do just fine." I mean, you're kidding me, right?

There are a lot of things about this world that I wish were different, but attitudes towards alcohol rank pretty high on my list.