To the job that pays my rent
I've been extremely busy the past 2 weeks, working around the clock under inhumane conditions, not sleeping for 48 hours. After the 49th hour without sleeping, my body only filled with cigarettes and strong espresso, I entered a state of delirium, unable to see properly due to my contact lenses which were stuck on my retina and confusing my cup of coffee with my ashtray due to some insane optical illusion. Gulping an ashtray is outrageously repugnant, sickening, nauseating, abominable. I was flustered and shaky and then I got into an incoherent hallucination: I was imprisoned by an elephant in a small room. I couldn't get out of the room because the elephant was blocking the door. Then a witch appeared and transformed me into a cubbage. I really hate my job, why am I putting myself into this? I am not even good at it.Labels: Professional hardship
Post-Vacation Trauma
I deplore the Paris scene beginning of September; the season during which a detestable and constant questioning takes place from the French: “So, how was your vacation??” To which I respond with obvious hostility: “What vacation?” To which they reply back suspiciously and with a certain disdain: “That’s why you look sooo pale, are you going on vacation soon? You know vacations are mandatory!?”
Excuse-me !!?? What are these people talking about? Since when labor regulations impose mandatory breaks during the summer season? I’m not a college-kid or a boring “commute-work-sleep” kind of person. Neither am I a lazy 9 to 5 lifestyle aficionado. I strive for performance; I strive for the growth of the GNP in this lazy socialist country. Somebody got to work, you know?
Why do people, especially women of a certain age, who have just come back from their much undeserved vacation need to expose their suntan and, in passing, their no-so attractive nudity in the middle of the Paris avenues? Why on earth do they have to wear bikini like, flashy outfits in the middle of a polluted city as if they were in ostentatious Saint-Tropez or iconoclastic South Beach? A little bit of decency for those who have worked in August would be, much appreciated. . .Labels: Parisian life, Professional hardship
On-Line Shopping
I often wonder how life at work was before Internet was launched. When I am bored at work, I browse the Net. When I need a general information on a topic I need to write on, I brainstorm with Google. The Weddings & Celebrations section of the NY Times is my Monday breakfast partner. When I cannot concentrate on my work assignment, I shop on-line. When I a need a sugar shot but cannot violate my diet restrictive program, I salivate in front of Krispy Kreme. When I am hyped up with French tea-spoon sized espresso and long for a much wanted coffee with milk, I have a nostalgic moment with the Dunkin' Donuts screen. When I have a moment of illusion for a "Someday my Prince will come, someday, I'll find my love...," I look up the Cartier engagement ring site, before returning to the world of desillusion. I still haven't figured out how people entertained their boring business hours before Internet. But what I have figured out is the reason why I leave work every night after 10 p.m.: I lose my precious billable hours while browsing the Net...
Labels: Professional hardship
Hoboken, Belgium not Jersey
My friends all think that I have a sexy lifestyle with a high profile job because I travel business class. Well, my dear friends, at the risk of disappointing you, there's nothing sexy traveling business class. I don't sip burbon in first-class lounges. I don't get first class service from leggy blonde crew members. I only travel to industrial cities of Northern England or to gloomy villages in Belgium. How sexy is that? Okay, I admit, twice, I flew business on an international long-distance flight. The first time I was so tired I collapsed once I got onto the plane and woke up when I reached the final destination. I didn't have the opportunity to enjoy the glass of British Airlines champagne that they serve before take-off and the on-flight first class English service. The second time? Wasn't great... I didn't get the attention business class travelers usually get. I was the only woman on board the business section and by far the youngest by one generation. The flight attendants probably thought I was graded up... Ladies and gentlemen of AA, let me assure you that I wasn't graded up. I paid (well, the firm paid) full price so I deserved full service like anybody else !! I don't really blame AA for having mistaken me for a graded up tourist. While my fellow business travelers were all reading the Wall Street Journal and examining their files, I was listening to my iPod... All this to say that I don't travel to sexy places. The other day, for instance, I was forced to travel in a remote area of Northern Belgium near Antwerp. Not exciting at all. While driving there, I passed by a city called Hoboken... What?!! Hoboken, N.J.?? What the ....!!! what am I doing in NJ, I said to myself for a nanno second, but I realized I was in Hoboken, Belgium. I got curious of this Belgian Hoboken and drove around, not knowing what I was looking for. And suddenly, I saw, in amazement, in the center of the village of Hoboken, Belgium, a disgustingly looking, old-fashioned motel/restaurant called... "Garden State." I started to crack up. Dear owner of the "Garden State" motel/restaurant in Hoboken, Belgium: I am not sure your fellow villagers have understood your sense of humor...Labels: Professional hardship, Self derision
3 a.m on a Monday night...
It's 3 A.M., I am still at work. Sometimes I wished I were dumb and beautiful so that I could sip cocktails all day on an exotic island and live the life of a woman of leisure. But I am clever so I have a real job, which keeps me awake at this time of the night... Or maybe I am dumb that's why I am still at work.I drank about 10 cups of strong espresso and 3 cans of diet coke within a limited time-frame of 2 hours. I feel sick.Labels: Professional hardship, Self derision, Simply coffee
Monday Morning Ritual
Monday Morning at work (i.e., now, at this right moment), I'm knackered. No time to put my make-up on. My secretary said I looked tired. Hell no, I'm not tired, I'm simply not wearing my make-up on. Thanks for reminding me I look pale. Need my coffee with milk no sugar. Damn! Why don't they serve proper coffee here??? What the ... is this tiny and bitter grayish colored liquid they call coffee with milk? Oh yeah, I keep forgetting, this is an espresso with a drop of milk (in French "noisette." Translation: hazel nut. Why do they call it a hazel nut? Doesn't look like one... Or maybe it's because it's as bitter as a raw hazel nut?? )
Back to my Monday morning ritual. I turn my computer on. Ugh... it takes ages....! I should have turned it on before getting my noisette. ... ... ... ... ... ... ... .... (keep losing my patience...) Finally! It's on!! Browsing through the net, I go to NY Times, I open the Weddings & Celebrations Section. Some Mondays, I read the weddings & celebrations section with my colleague. She emits weird sounds while reading it: "awe, ahhh, soooo nice, awe, ahh, so cute... mmm... so romantic..." (Me: Uh-huh, yeah cute, kinda... well...)
I wonder. The majority of those couples in the weddings & celebrations section have graduated magna cum laude from an ivy league college and went to grad school and now are working in a high-profile firm on the 45th floor with a view to the river in some financial cities in the world. Do you need to do your undergrad at Princeton and get a law degree from Yale and work in a fancy investment bank or a top-notch law firm downtown to get your name + picture appear on the NY Times???
Oh ##%&&@# ! It's 11 A.M. already!!! What am I doing dreaming? I forgot! I have a deadline today!!!Labels: Professional hardship, Self derision, Simply coffee
