exitstrategy

So, here it is.  The last post of 2008.  Please manage expectations loyal readers, I am in the midst of a crisis so it is hard for me to be my usual comedic genius slash uber insightful self.  (Remember that expose on the jury system in America) This is the crisis - I think I have become filled with rage.  I am slightly nervous for my welfare and for that of the people I work with (or more likely, work for).  When I was in law school, I planned a law school trip to Argentina.  One of the classmates on the trip had a SIZEABLE rage problem.  He threatened to kill me (at least that was the subtext of his drunken explosion of anger) because he was unhappy with the tour guide we had selected.  I thought his reaction was slightly out of proportion.  I could not understand how a seemingly rational individual could lose control like that Well, fast forward three years.  Picture it (ha I am Sofia Patrillo, a dream I have had for many years): associate office, December 31, 2008, 9:10 AM.  A young girl receives an email that asks her for her “feelings” on a brief.  That young girl becomes enraged.  ”Why is this clown asking me for my feelings on New Years Eve day?  Why doesn’t he leave me alone until after the new year?” she screams, to herself, silently.  She is fuming (again, to herself, silently).  Then, after 10 minutes, she responds to the email with her “feelings” and then closes the email with “Happy New Year!!  Please Let me know if there is anything else I can do!!” As you may have guessed, that young girl was none other than me, Fat Spinsta.  I am not sure why a simple email would make me so mad.  Ever since Christmas I have been easily (and disproportionately) enraged.  And, clearly, it is an internal struggle since I lack the strength to air my grievances aloud (except anonomously to strangers on the internet). I hope that in 2009 I will go back to the breezy, care-free Fat Spinsta (or at the very least, the Fat Spinsta with selective memory who only remembers when she is care-free or breezy).  Only time will tell . . .  And by that I mean less than one day. Happy New Year!!!   GRRRRRRRR.  Glurp, Glurp.  (Be afraid, be very afraid) 

Ugh so I have another gripe - I know, how shocking.  Now, I am Jewish and as such I do not celebrate Christmas (although I do love how joyous and cookie-filled it is).  My brother in law is the token Jew in his medical practice and so he is forced to work over Christmas while he colleagues cover Yom Kippur (and clearly they would otherwise take that day off).  So, I should not complain when I have to work over Christmas but who are we kidding - I complain about everything. I went to MN for Christmas as I have mentioned several times.  When I am at home, I do not think about work.  Well, let me re-phrase.  I ALWAYS think about work and how sucky it is, but I do not think I should have to work when I am at home.  So, when I was emailed with some assignment over Christmas I was pissed.  The truth is I was asked to start work at my first job on Rosh Hashanah and I was asked to cite check some brief this year over Yom Kippur.  This should not be a surprise (especially since it is a holiday I do not even celebrate) but it is still annoying.  Why do people work so much?  Doesn’t anyone want to spend time with his/her family??And isn’t the period from Christmas to New Years an unofficial holiday?  Offices should be empty, no?  I agree.  And yet, mine was full.  And they were all wearing their business casual to boot.  I mean if you are going to make me work on a holi-week, you should at least let me wear comfortable clothes.  Enough is enough - tomorrow I wear jammies. 

I just returned from a week’s stay at my parents house.  We ate a lot and saw movies.  I highly recommend The Curious Case of Benjamin Button - it was a beautiful and haunting movie.  I am not sure what part inspired that one dude in Pennsylvania to shoot someone, but maybe the war scene really got him hopped up?  (As an aside, I also saw Marley and Me - it was cute but a renter.  Although, what do I know since it is the number one movie, but I guess that just shows I have different taste than the majority of America (read: I have taste)).

Anyway, so there was a part in the movie when Benjamin comes back to the house he grew up in after many years (don’t worry I am not giving anything away, except the shocking ending: he ages in reverse!!!!!!!!).  He said when he came home (something like) “the thing about coming home is that everything is the same, except for you.” 

 See, in my case, unlike Benajmin’s curious one, I am not sure if everything is the same, except me.  In fact, I settled pretty easily back into my habits as a 17 year old.  My house, on the other hand, is completely different.  My mom is on the third remodel of our house.  My childhood bedroom is now my dad’s office.  My oldest sister’s room, where I would stay during college visits, has been modified to remove all of my old stuff in place of judaica (my mom has rediscovered hashem).  And, to add insult to injury, there are no pictures of me except for the the baby pictures and senior high school glamour shot (you know - the picture with head on hands) that have been in frames for years.  My oldest sister, however - the one we call “the chosen one” is everywhere you turn.  Most of the photos are from her recent wedding.  It is as if my parents had a child who died in high school (me) and so they put all their energy into their other child (oh I have another sister, but my parents are luke warm on her).

 When I asked my parents what was the deal with the photo discrepancy, my mom responded, “oh Fat Spinsta, there is a picture of you in one of your sister’s wedding photos.  See that is you in the back with your eyes closed, looking demonic.”  Hmm, mom.  After all these years of knowing my mother, I have learned to read between the lines.  My mom is really saying, “Fat Spinsta, get married and we will have wedding pictures to display!” 

As you can imagine, as I sit in my apartment in Chicago - a one hour flight or 5 hour drive away from my parents, I can’t help but think - there is no place like home.

Hope you all had a nice holiday.  And, have no fear, the Spinsta is BACK.

I was planning on going home for Christmas tomorrow night.  But, because they are predicting blizzards tomorrow night, I booked an earlier flight.  That means I have an extra day without work this week.  It is so exhilarating!!!  I basically left in the dark of night - I sent an email to some dude at 5 PM.  Merry Christmas to me!!

I know I am not the first person to appreciate how there is no place like home.  And, I do not even like my family or where I am from, but I still understand the sentiment.  Maybe it is because my mom takes care of me like I a child?  Or, maybe it because there is no sales tax on clothes and shoes at home?  Or, maybe it is because my mom usually offers to buy me something that has no sales tax? 

 So, tomorrow night I will light the third candle on the menorah with mom and pop.  And, I will continue to light candles with my parents until I leave on Sunday.  It it like the miracle of Hanukah.  See, Judah Macabee made a little bit of oil burn for eight nights.  And my mother, sorta like Judah, will make me explode in a much shorter period. 

Happy Hanukah!! 

So, this morning I was literally blown away. The artic “breeze” took a hold of me and lifted me down the street. I am still windblown and freezing. I do not understand why this weather is still a shock to me. I mean I grew up in Minnesota. I am no stranger to freezing weather. Once, when I was in high school, my car got stuck in the ice while ascending the hill heading to school. Since it was before cell phones, I had to walk three blocks to school to call AAA. By the time I arrived at school, me and my carpool mates resembled the people on the plane in Alive - yes, I was prepared to go canabalistic on their asses. I have had my tears freeze in my eyelashes and a whole host of other things freeze. I guess it is like all other things in my life - even though I should be prepared for how crappy things are, I am still surprised every time I get reviewed, etc.

That being said, I think perhaps today was the coldest day I have ever experienced. The cold air was pushing against me so strongly that I could not even breath. I contemplated just giving up and going to heaven (ha wishful thinging, slash not even my religion, but you get the gist) right there on the street. It was bad.

And, I was struck with the realization that we live in a terrible place. Why do I stay in the arctic? For those of you who read my blog, you know the answer. I am too lazy and indecisive to make any real changes, but I can still ask the question. For those of you reading this blog from Chicago, Illinois, I ask you, what is wrong with you??

I consider myself an amateur psychologist. Based on my training (i.e. reading those Chicken Soup for the Soul books), I know that dreams are very telling about your inner feelings. I have read dream interpretation books. See, if you dream that you are going somewhere naked, then you are nervous about something. If you dream that you are being chased, you are anxious about something. If you dream that your teeth are falling out, you are afraid that you are ugly. And, if you dream that you are getting married, well then you are a real dreamer.

I rarely remember my dreams. They are usually about work. Sometimes I dream that I am my mother - ugh those one’s are freaky. When I was studying for the bar exam, and really stressed out, I had dreams three nights in a row that involved Little Richard trying to attack me. Once he carjacked the cab I was in, once he pulled a knife on me, and once he just chased me. Yeah, I am fully aware that I am crazy.

But, here I am, in a rut at work and it has somehow seeped its way into my subconscious. Last night I had a dream there was a new guy at work. He was sorta cute and we liked each other. We had lunch together in the cafeteria, and then I said to him “I love you Steve Salumi.” And, then my alarm went off and I had to go to work.

I mean why can’t I dream about some sexy artist? Or a beefy cop? Or a doctor (are you listening, g-d)? No, instead I dream about some lame associate that I work with. And, he doesn’t take me somewhere good. No, we eat at the nasty cafeteria that serves either taco salads or ham sandwiches. And, of course, his name. Steve Salumi?

My friend did some psychoanalysis on my dream. She told me that salumi is Italian charcuterie: salted meats. She said you are dreaming about a co-worker’s sausage. Hmm, do I have a crush on someone at work? Um, no definitely not. If you could take a scan of the office, you would know I was speaking the truth. So I told her that was not the case. “Hmm. Oh wait, I have got it!! You are dreaming about work and sausage. You are thinking that your office is dominated by men and it’s time for a change of control. You want to seize the sausage.” Oh, I like that analysis.

Or, of course, I am just hungry. Glurp, Glurp.

I am giving my secretary her Christmas gift this week. I took a poll of the associates at my firm to see what was standard. I mean, my secretary is like the only person I like so I don’t want to be cheap with the gift. So, I decided on a dollar amount to get for her and I was going to get a bag of other goodies.

I went in search of the best goodies to put in her goodie bag. And by search I mean I went to the food shop at the gym. But, in my defense, they have the best stuff. I chose 4 different candies. A large chocolate ornament, a big thing of peppermint bark (yeah not sure what that is), chocolate covered pretzel rods and chocolate covered pretzel twists. Each four candy treats looked so delicious. I looked at my goodie bag with pride - I really did good. I mean these candies were great. They were so great in fact that I was overcome by a desire for the pretzel twists. I tried to resist. I hid the goody bag. Of course, since I hid them myself it was not as if I did not know where I put it. Ugh - this is why I need a husband. That is the ONLY reason. Ha.

As you can imagine, I found the delicious pretzel twists and exactly 6 minutes later I was covered in white chocolate crumbs and filled with remorse for eating my perfect gift. I really am out of control.

When I was in college I was a member of a predominately anorexic sorority. The year I lived in the sorority house I learned some interesting “diet tips.” One of the big ones was to douce your left overs in vinegar or ketchup so you would not grab it out of the garbage and eat the rest. Note: most of the girls ate like 3 bites so the leftovers were substantial. I maybe left 3 bites, but whatever, I am healthy (um…)

I have learned my lesson, now. From this day forward, I will douce all secretary gifts in ketchup so I do not eat them before giving them away.

I am super jealous of Santa Claus. He gets to eat all the Christmas goodies and people sing songs about his jelly tummy. People don’t sing cheery songs about my jelly tummy: maybe, just a few bars of that Dave Matthews song about eating too much, drinking too much, TOO MUCH. The injustice of it all - I mean I am jolly. Ho, ho, ho. Now give me all of your candy.

So, as promised, here is part 2, the finale to the cliffhanger. You know like who shot J.R. Luckily, I am too young to know who shot J.R. or to remember anything about Dallas. But, of course, I am old enough to know that there was a prime time soap named Dallas, which means i am pretty f’ing old. But, I digress.

So, as I said in my last post, the past week has involved both highs and lows. The trip was the high. Sandwiched in between the high were my lows - the holiday party right before I left and my year-end review right when I returned.

The holiday party was pretty close to the holiday parties you watch on a thirty minute sitcom. The entire office was invited, along with their spouses, and they all came. People had been talking about the party for weeks and got all dolled up for the big occassion. I wore my go-to holiday party number: a tight turtleneck dress with tights and booties. Slightly inappropriate but overall acceptable.

I met the spouses of the other attorneys and a lot of the staff. Everyone, including the spouses, had the best things to say about the office. Or, we would talk about interesting anecdotes dealing with marriage, raising children, getting business, etc. Of course, none of the anecdotes were interesting. Most of the people I work with are freakshows when they are sober - you can imagine the whoppers that they were saying once sauced. But, I cannot really judge because in a pinot grigio haze I said a vaguely sexual comment to my boss. It was not intentional - I swear (don’t judge me just because I wear tight turtleneck dresses).

The crowning moment of the holiday party was when the dj transitioned from elevator music to popular music. The friendly, potentially alcoholic paralegal started grinding and several staff members followed suit. And, as you can guess from my confession in the last blog (that I am loking for a way to showcase my dancing abilities any chance I get) I too booty-danced in the small “dance floor” area that was actually just a little patch of floor in clear sight of every person at the party. I did not want to overdo it, and in truth the party was painful, so I planned to leave early but I was looking for the perfect moment. When the dj played Rod Stewart’s If You Think I’m Sexy, I could not think of a better moment. As I left, the paralegal (who is probably 50 years old) politely asked me if “he could watch me walk out.” YUCK.

The year end review took place the day I got back from paradise. The review was only 12 minutes long but it was long enough to quash any lingering positivity. The reviews are conducted by 2 partners. All the partners review each associate, but the reviews are anonymous. Instead, the 2 partners who give the review, read the partners reviews and distill them into some themes about your performance. One of the 2 partners is a partner I work for a lot. He started the review. “If I were to review you myself, I would say you are off to a great start. But, looking at the other reviews, the feeling is that you are off to a pretty good start.” Then, the other partner added his two cents: “Yeah you are off to a decent start.” Ouch. I went from great, to pretty good to decent in 20 seconds?

Apparently, the idiots I work for don’t think I am enthusiastic about my job. That was the critique. For those of you who have been loyal readers of my work related rants, you are probably as surprised as I am that they found me to be unenthusiastic about my job.

Maybe I should have danced for them? Done a little cheer? I mean what lawyer is enthusiastic? Oh, well I guess that one who advertises on TV to ask if you have inhaled toxic fumes while working in a coal mine and want to become part of a class.

It has been a while, loyal readers. But, as you can tell from the title, a lot has happened since I last blogged. And, the title has two meanings. First, just like the divine Ms. Basset I had a magical caribean weekend filled with excitement and romance (well sorta). Second, the Spinsta has endured both the holiday party and her year-end review which means I have a LOT to complain about (yes, I have re-found my groove). So, this entry is part of a mini-series. I will start with the good - the trip. I will end with the ugly - the rest.

The Spinsta was on a verge of a breakdown. I really just needed a break — get out of town, get some time off work and get some sun. So, I went to Grand Cayman with two friends - Molly and Ade (note: names have been changed at their insistence, and with names chose by them). The island was paradise. Every day was 80 and sunny, the water was crystal clear, we ate fresh fish (except for when we ate fried food at a skeezy tiki lounge recommended by our concierge), we slept late, and we swam with stingrays (and even got what was called by a semi-skeezy crewman a “stingray massage”). But, the most paradise like aspect of our vacation was how we became the sole single ladies on an island of a bunch of dudes. The island is very small so it is not suprising that we met all of its inhabitants by the time our 5 day trip was over. But, we were the most popular mommas on the island.

On our first full day, we met our biggest fan: Concierge (note: name has been changed in case he is a fan of the Spinsta). Concierge was a Caymanian and he had become an expert on fine dining, a skill that he used to make restaurant recommendations to his hotel guests. We sat at his desk with a huge book of hundreds of restaurant menus and asked Concierge for some of his favorites. Our criteria were simple: somewhere on the ocean, good food, fun atmosphere, not a destination solely for lovers since we were 3 single ladies. After a few thoughtful moments, Concierge flipped the book to his favorite restaurant - the Cracked Conch. However, Molly does not eat fish and that was the only option on the menu. A few more minutes past, and Concierge flipped to his second favorite restaurant - Aqua Beach. Aqua beach was T.G.I. Fridays mixed with Senor Frogs and the Spinsta is serious about her cuisine so that was out as well. A frustrated Concierge made his final suggestion - Fisherman’s Reef. The menu had a mix of meat and fish and was outside so we had found our spot. We asked Concierge for a recommendation for after dinner - a good bar. “It is Sunday. The island is dead except for Friday and Saturday.” “But, we are only here until Wednesday. We won’t be here over the weekend. So what is second best?” “Nothing.” Concierge was clearly great at his job.

Concierge called up to the room shortly after crashing our dreams of having fun at night during our trip. “Hi my lovely ladies. I have talked to a friend and we will take you out after dinner. Come back to the hotel, I get off at 9.” Intriguing. . .

Concierge, always committed to our wellbeing, had arranged for us to share a cab with two gentleman who were also going to the Fisherman’s reef. These fellas were from Canada. We had polite conversation in the cab - talked about the weather, the economic crisis, Celine Dion. When we got to the restaurant, we were the only people there. Because it was perhaps the most akward situation possible, we invited them to join us for dinner. It turned out these Canadians were not a couple. Instead, they were brothers. “We are not gay lovers,” said brother Brad. “I hate them,” continued brother Brad. He was clearly a quality gent. But his brother Darryl seemed like a genuinely nice guy. Brad and Darryl were both married and had decided to come to Cayman for a boy’s weekend. As the dinner progressed, and the wine kept pouring, Brad became progressively more sleezy. We decided to get another drink at the hotel bar, because that is what you do with married brothers. Brad informed us that he had in his room a carton of smokes, some “reefer” and some blow. Brad also informed us that he was having marital problems. I cannot imagine why. Perhaps it was because Brad was doing his best to get one of us to agree to go back to his hotel room where he would inevitably sniff cocaine off one of our bare asses. Sorry Brad, the Spinsta values marriage vows. And you also have jacked teeth so its a no-go.

Ever the married men magnet (the supposed “boys weekenders”), the next day we again asked Concierge for a dinner recommendation. He suggested Cracked Conch. No. He suggested Fishermans Reef. Went there yesterday, buddy. Finally, he suggested Aqua Beach. Unfortunately, the Spinsta caved. But, this was because Concierge promised to meet us at the bar next door. (Yes, he had ditched us the night before). We shared a cab with two new fellas. They were Floridians. We were convinced that these two were definitely a couple. One of them was a regular in the Caymans. He told us that the bar next to Aqua Beach was bangin’ on Mondays. He said maybe they would come there after their dinner.

Aqua Beach was nast but I never really tasted the food since this random dude kept buying us drinks. He would smile but not come over. Instead, he would send the waitress. Finally, we had had enough and told her no more drinks. He sent her three more times to see if we were sure. Apparently, our mysterious benefactor wanted us passed out. A true gentleman.

As we were heading over to the bangin’ bar, we were reunited with our cab mates (not Brad and Darryl, who had asked us to join them for dinner but we ditched them, we needed to spread the weath to some new married dudes). We were also pleasantly surprised to see the captain from our stingray adventure and his entire crew. We also saw a man that looked a lot like a bellman from our hotel named Dennis. And, finally, we were joined by the mysterious benefactor sans waitress. Oh, and our waitress from the first night was there as well as our cab driver from the airport. It truly was bangin’ on Monday.

Our newest married guys were not married to each other but were married to women, supposedly. One of them, F, prided himself on being a great dancer. Naturally, he and I had a dance-off (note - the Spinsta won best dancer in her law school class, I am still figuring out where to put that accolade on my resume). F was not a great dancer. In fact, he danced in a way that mimicked seizures. He would shake violently and then lift up his leg. Then he would spin around and flails his arms. He would pepper in his “dancing” with short bursts of grinding with one of the three of us. He also ground with the other married man.

The next night was our last night. We had decided to throw a going away party for ourselves and invite all of our new friends: the ship’s crew, the married Canadians, the married Floridians, Concierge, his co-workers, and some other random bartender at the swim up bar. We attempted one final time to get a dinner recommendation from Concierge but he again only suggested the Cracked Conch. So, we went to the restaurant recommended by one of the married Floridians. We had all arranged to meet at a bar after dinner. But, after thinking about the guests that would be at our going away party: the homophobic/wife-cheating Canadian bro, his other brother (who Molly and Ade are convinced was chaste but the Spinsta is always a cynic), the married Floridians that dirty danced with each other, and the assorted 23 year old ship crew, we decided that maybe the going away party should just go away. And, of course, we knew Concierge was gonna ditch us again.

So, we ate a huge dinner and went back to our hotel room to watch 3 back to back episodes of Law and Order.

In short, I had an island getaway a la Stella’s weekend in Jamaica. Of course, I did not get to do it with Taye Diggs. I did not get to do it with anyone. None of the three of us had any island romances. But, the Spinsta, like Ms. Basset, learned something important about herself. For Ms. Basset, she learned that age is just a number. For me, I learned that being a Spinsta is much better than being married to brother Brad. The similiarities between my weekend and the smash movie are UNCANNY.

And now scenes from tomorrows blogisode: freak dancing at the holiday party and a luke-warm review. Stay tuned. . .

What IS in a name? While it may come as a shock to some, Fat Spinsta is not my given name. My given name is somewhat unique and for some reason impossible to pronounce for many. I have been called many different variations of my true name. Sometimes I correct the speaker, sometimes I just go by whatever name he/she says.

After being called a name that is no where near my own, I got started thinking about names. I believe that what name you are given will determine where you will end up in the future.

For instance, if you’re name is Charity or Chastity, you will be a stripper. If you’re name is Alan, well I don’t know what you will be, but I do know that you are old. I mean have you ever met a child named Alan? I think they go from birth to adulthood overnight. If you’re name is Ronald, you will have questionable sexual proclivities. If your name is Carol you will be fat or a truckdriver - you have options.

Maybe the reason I am in a rut is because of my name. Maybe my exitstrategy is as easy as a name change. My new name (note: not rap name, Fat SPinsta is and forever will be my rap name) is . . .

Renee? Sophisticated, very euro. But wait, isn’t that the old dude married to Celine Dion? Nix.

Suri? Cute, well dressed, perfect coiffe. Even I know there can only be one Suri.

Shiloh? I don’t even dare to dream.

Blanket?

I can’t make this life changing decision. Oh great, I am stuck in this job FOREVER.