Please Read This:

What’s the hardest thing you’ve ever done for a job?

Emotionally, it may have been my phone call today.

One of our clients is a really interesting community development organization that establishes public and private partnerships, funds neighborhood-based initiatives, strives to sway publish policy, and generally works to revitalize low-income neighborhoods. Since last year’s hurricane season, they’ve also worked extensively rebuilding the Gulf.

Part of my job is to find interesting angles of their work that we can highlight in an effort to get the organization some media coverage. One such angle was their work with the Mennonites, who they brought to the Gulf to rebuild houses. One house belonged to a 40-something-year-old woman, her husband, and her seven kids – many of whom have “special needs.”

Today, we got a request from a freelancer who was looking to feature women who lost their homes in Hurricane Katrina in an upcoming article. She wanted to talk about how they rebuilt their lives – and, since our client was involved in the rebuilding of her home, I thought this might be a perfect opportunity.

Unfortunately, I couldn’t find anyone within our client’s organization that could help answer some of the more detailed questions. So instead, I called the woman herself.

Now THAT was tough.

Karen Rosser, her best friend/husband, and their nine children – four of whom are adopted, the rest are foster children who they hope to adopted soon – lived pleasantly in her grandparent’s house for years. It’s a modest brick house just behind the Port of Iberia, and it was spared by Katrina.

Rita, however, had other plans. The hurricane completely destroyed the home, displacing the family for who knows how long. Karen struggled endlessly, fighting constantly to keep all of her children, finding hospice in her boss’s home. They didn’t know what they were going to do. Live in the FEMA trailer? That wasn’t a long-term solution. Look for new houses? She started sobbing on the phone just thinking about how hard it was to consider giving up the sentimental value of her family home.

“We had nothing, no where, and no idea of what was going to happen.”

That’s when someone from church said she could help Karen and her family. “I just starting crying, asking over and over again – ‘You mean you can really help me?’”

This woman was involved with the Southern Mutual Group, who organizes volunteers from the across the country to come to the Gulf and rebuild homes. Soon after, Karen had people from Canada, Vermont, Pennsylvania, Iowa, Michigan, and many more come to rebuild – piece by piece – her family’s home. The Mennonites were one such group. “They did the closets,” she said, “but everybody did their piece. I’m so grateful to all of them, because each group did a little work that brought us a little bit closer to having a home again.” Before the storm, they had put new wood floors in and bought new furniture for the boys’ bedroom. After the storm, with the help of these people from all over, they built a new kitchen and revamped the girls’ room. “We even had kids who decided to come help us instead of go one spring break. I mean, we even had 15-, 16-year-old kids workin’ on the house.”

She was so grateful that she's now volunteering herself to rebuild homes, and she donates anything she doesn't need herself to other victims - from hammers and nails to spare doors and other goods.

“Everyone was so nice, so wonderful, so helpful,” she said over and over. She was so grateful, so happy there were good people in this world. “At Christmas,” she paused – and I feared the phone was disconnected. But a moment later, she continued – her voice broken by sobbing tears. “At Christmas the sixth grade at the kids’ school – they attend a Christian school – they sixth grade came together and bought Christmas gifts for all my kids.” Her tears were evoking an inexplainable saddness in my own heart… I was about to start crying with her. “They came over, too” and her voice grew stronger, “and sang Christmas carols and did that sort of thing. They were so good.”

What do you say to a story like this? Here I was in my expensive clothes with a new pair of old Prada sandals, living in the heart of Cambridge with my dog and hardly a care in the world... and there she was, a true survivor of Hurricaine Rita.

I heard her husband ask in the background, “Who are you telling our life story to?”

“I’m doin’ an interview,” she said so proudly. “We’re gonna be on Oprah.”

I laughed a little bit. “I can’t promise anything, but I’ll try!”

“Oh I know, and thank you!”

The thing is, Karen was so hopeful. She talked about her children, about the 2- and 9-year-olds who suffer daily from intense special needs, about her home that’s still missing doors and cabinet covers and flooring, and she was so full of hope. “God has blessed us by keeping this family together and introducing us to so many good people who helped rebuild this house,” she said, “and we’ll just take whatever’s to come next.”

Every once in awhile during our conversation she had to stop to manage the children, who I could hear playing in the background. She sounded like such a good mom, so loving.

She’s still in the midst of a battle. In that area, hurricane insurance apparently didn’t cover most of the damage, since the houses were technically ruined in large part due to floods. Now, Karen must raise her home six feet in order to not be dropped from her insurance… but doing so wont bring the insurance cost down at all. Raising her house is particularly challenging not only because it’s brick, but also because she has a son who’s special needs means he operates at the level of a three-year-old; how is she to ensure that he won’t fall off and seriously hurt himself?

“Please, Catherine,” she asked, crying again, “share my story. It’s a story of hope and of good people, and we don’t see enough of that.” She promised me the DVD of her husband approaching the house by boat after Rita struck, exploring the remnants and describing – in detail – the disgusting aromas that took over her beloved home.

And I thought about how our client would never be mentioned, meaning it’s something that I can’t do during business hours – because we have no one to bill it to.

But that doesn’t mean I’m not going to try.

Somebody has to be interested in speaking with a woman who gives extremely compelling interviews with video footage to match, and has a story of hope for the hurricane that is too often overlooked.

Chip at Department Shoe Warehouse

Some people know how and when to shut up. Then there's people like me.

See, I told Dianne I'd go shoe shopping with her after work. No, I don't need shoes, and I had no intention of buying any, but I know how sometimes us money-strapped women who are just starting up need the moral support of a girlfriend when purchasing hard-earned cash on sandals. Since Dianne's a fabulous girl – who carried my drunken ass from Porter to Davis Square – I really wanted to be there for her. Turns out, I'm the one who'd leave needing moral support.

At the DSW in Downtown Crossing, I found a rain hat. (Who wouldn't want a rain hat?) It was a little stupid looking, but it'd definitely keep me dry. Well, my hair, at least. So, after asking Dianne if she'd still be my friend if I wore a rain hat, I decided to purchase the item. Unfortunately, it was broken and the last one. It had some crappy little pin attached that was falling off, that I assumed I'd just cut off anyways... after I received 20% off.

I brought it to the register and showed the nice black girl named Jennifer behind the desk the problem. She showed Chip - her boss. "Mark it damaged," he said curtly before briskly rushing away. So I stood behind the counter, waiting for her to ring up my damage discount.

"Did he say discount or mark it damaged?" she asked her coworker, who was standing beside us.

"Uh," the colleague said, looking around cluelessly - but in a totally innocent way. "I think he said damaged."

Jennifer turned back to me. "Um, I'm sorry honey, but that means we'll send it back."

"But I want the hat."

"Yea, um," and she started calling Chip again. Chip couldn't have cared less.

This is when most people would know not to push. But I liked the goddam rain hat. So I left the hat on the counter and walked up to Chip. "Chip?"

"I'm with a customer." He said it so cruelly heads literally turned. I didn’t move. "I'll be with you when I’m through."

Taken aback, I returned to the counter. "I'm a customer," I retorted under my breath, but loud enough for all the customers around me to hear in an effort to save my pride.

Jennifer looked apologetic... and scared. "I'm sorry, he'll be right over."

He took his sweet ass time. But he did come back to the counter, and – when words failed Jennifer's suddenly shaky voice – I explained the whole situation. His response: "We get full price for this hat when we return it, so why would I sell it to you?" (Honestly, what kind of manager says that to a customer who has money out in hand?)

"Because I want the hat." Was this not clear?

"Well you can pay full price for it too."

"But it's damaged, and I do want to buy it, I'm just having a hard time doing so without a discount."

"I'm not going to give you a discount, so do you want it or not." It wasn’t really a question.

"Can I think about it?" Honestly, I was still being nice and friendly at this point. I’m often not nice or friendly, but I really was at this point.

He turned to Jennifer, who hadn't said a word yet. "Mark it damaged."

"But I want the hat." Now my voice was rising.

"Then buy the hat." His face was a little redder, clearly annoyed and anxious to walk away.

"Are you going to get more?"

"Yes."

By this point I think it was clear I wanted the hat. Should I have really have had to ask when?

"I don't know." He probably thought he had sufficiently answered my question, or at least that I wasn't worth any more time... despite my wallet still being out and poised for purchase. But I stood fast, and grew increasingly angry.

"Ok," the polyester hat felt especially smooth under my sweaty fingertips. "Can you let me know when you do?"

His words were quick, like he was hoping to lose me. "No, we don't do that kind of thing and we don't have any idea when. We don't order them ourselves so it's out of our hands."

"Do other stores have them?"

"I don't know."

It was about then that I really thought about how I was going to cut the bow off anyways, so why waste a normal hat? But if I couldn't successfully get the bow off, could I take it back since it was already damaged?

"Our return policy is 30 days with a receipt."

"Ok, thanks." I think I was still sounding cool and collected, whereas he was still in full-fledged jerk-mode. "Can you please just write 'damaged' on it or something?"

"What are you going to do with it?"

"I don't know," /cut it off... "try to fix it? Maybe make a tack on there or something?"

"You can't return it without the bow though, we won't give you your money back, obviously."

"Yea well," I looked at the ugly, glittering point of discussion, "I figured that."

"Well you didn't figure the other thing."

Excuse me? How dare he – a man so intelligent he’s the assistant manager of a shoe-store in a crappy part of Boston – talk down to me – a recently promoted college graduate who received her first official promotion before the time she turned 21? Maybe I’m being arrogant and sounding like I think I’m better than him – but how dare he be so condescending? Am I the customer? Yes. Am I the instigator here? No. I just wanted the hat. And I wanted a rightfully deserved discount, though I wanted the $20 hat more than not. Plus, he was a huge dick and was starting to really piss me off. "Alright, fine, bye."

"Excuse me?" Like I had some nerve. Buy that hat? How dare I!

"I said fine, I want the hat."

"Bye?" He looked so offended I had to crack a smile. "I work here. I'm not going anywhere." Funny, he was in such a rush to leave before.

"Fine." I retorted - much sharper than before, but still not in bitch-mode yet. "And I shop here, so I'm buying a hat."

All offended and pissed off, he demanded, "Then what'd you say 'bye' for?!"

"Because you clearly want to be somewhere else and you're being less than helpful." Now the head-shake-thing was starting, and the attitude rising.

"Not being helpful? Excuse me?"

"Yes," I looked him in the eye. Honestly, don't ever fuck with me. Just don’t do it. You’re life will be better. "I just had a simple question. I want this hat, it's broken, can you give me a discount or find me another one."

"And I answered the question and you didn't like the answer and now you're giving me attitude."

Actually, you didn’t. But I didn’t want to get into details. "Look, I'm buying a hat here, what do you want?"

And he huffed and stormed off. Here I am, tension rising, embarrassed in front of all the other customers, and still buying the goddam hat - at this point more for pride than anything. "Honestly, is he always such an asshole?"

Jennifer kind of nodded discreetly; her team manager was standing behind her on the phone. He, however, stopped mid-sentence, cupped the receiver and looked at me strongly. "Yes," he said. "Yes he is."

I smiled. "I am the customer here, still buying the hat, aren't I?"

"Yes," Jennifer chimed in - her voice much stronger now. "I'm really sorry that happened to you. Here, I'm writing 'damaged' on the receipt, so please feel free to return it. And just let whoever takes it back know that you spoke - for better or worse - with the manager on duty. I'll even sign it for you. Again, I'm really sorry."

Some people are so nice. "Thanks, I appreciate it. And don't worry - I'll be calling about 'Chip' here." She passed me the receipt. "Thanks again."

"No, thank you, Miss." She looked at me and in her big black voice, she said, "And really, you have yourself a really good day."

Chip sucks.

And now DSW is gonna know about it.

Let this be a message to the Chips out there: don’t suck.

The Weekend Ends...

Hahahaha – does it really have to end? Do I have to stop partying? Do I really have to go back to work tomorrow? DOES CHRISSY REALLY HAVE TO GO HOME?

The answer, of course, is yes. We’re just returning to the apartment after our casino adventure and God, will I be hurtin again as I wake up tomorrow/later today.

I’m torn – so happy, and so sad. It was so good to see my friends, so fun to celebrate with my fantastic family, and such a relief to know that no longer will I hesitate before going out. Never again will I feel uncomfortable if a coworker – or a client – asks me to meet for a drink. Never again will I have to lie to get into a bar, or recruit my friends to sneak me in. Never again will I suffer the anxiety of being a professional woman who can’t even legally drink.

And yet at the same time, Chrissy went home. I miss her already – how I found such a great friend, God knows.

And I’m so grateful to have met Dianne. She’s my girl, too – one of three. She’s fun, sweet, and we get along so well. She wrote me the nicest birthday card. I really appreciate her friendship.

It was fun tonight/last night to see Jon – who’s always hilarious – and his roommate – a rather handsome policeman who was hitting on my only other girlfriend – Shannon. Plus, casinos are always a good time.

But – for the first time legally – I gambled! Somehow I was rather good at roulette, although while playing I lost track of the important things in life… i.e. my purse.

See, I never carry a purse. My phone and wallet fit nicely into my back pockets, which over course is neither very flattering or safe. So my mother bought me a Coach “wristlet” for my 21st birthday (along with a BEAUTIFUL necklace!) Wrapped up in the game of roulette, I put my brand-new camera on the chair beside my purse, stood up and focused on that hypnotizing spinning wheel. When I turned around sometime later, I notice no one was watching my precious belongings and thought to myself: “Wow, someone could walk right by and steal my camera!” (I mean, who would want a purse, right?) Being cautious, I wrapped the camera around my body. When it came time to walk away, I noticed the purse was gone.

Thankfully, the purse had nothing in it but eyeliner, a debit card and my crappy-ass phone, which – as everyone later reminded me – no one in their right mind would want. All my cash and chips were on my person. For that, the security card applauded me as he scanned over the millions of films recording the roulette table, searching for the thief. It didn’t take long for the problem to be solved: just as I finished the paperwork a man approached the security desk and said, “Uh, I found this thing under a toilet in the men’s bathroom.” That thing was my purse, with everything still inside.

All they were after were cash and chips.


Funnier still was our adventure at the craps table. I was gambling, and sucking at it. (Apparently I can’t throw dice?) But, some young man across the table obviously thought Chrissy was cute.

Nerdy as he was, he asked the ‘dealer’ (what do you call those people?) “Can I put 5 up for that fine woman to throw?”

Can you call that ‘crap’py flirting?

With a chip donated to her name, Chrissy rolled. And she rolled and she rolled. The table loved her.

Some $40 later, her dynasty finally fell… to me, who promptly sucked. The table went cold, Chrissy lost all her winnings, and off we went… until her “sponsor” tracked Chrissy down.

I was ready to stay by her side, rescue her, protect her from strangers… but the boys dragged me off, promising it was funnier this way. “Right, until she gets kidnapped and raped.” “Cameras,” they said, “cameras.”

This man was young, tall and lanky. Awkward. “So, uh, what’s your name?”

“Chrissy.” She was obviously less than interested.

“Really?” he snorted out some combination of a grunt and a laugh. “That’s so funny! My name’s Chris.”

“Uh huh.” She raised her eyebrows and ran away.

What can I say? You just can’t buy Chrissy.


Aside from the continuous hilarities caused by Jon and his roommate Steve, the only other story I have is our walk though the pen of a poker room. That’s dangerous. Here we were, three girls looking hott, dressed to the nines and smokin’ anyways. We strutted through to the poker room, a basement-room cut off from the rest of the casino, radiating confidence. The place was packed full of dirty old men with hungry eyes. Caged animals. What do you expect from locking adrenaline charged gamblers in a tiny room with cards, beers, and other men? Bored quickly with Jon and Alex’s cards, Steven escorted us ladies out… and, just to prove a point, popped his collar and strutted like a pimp, while each of us clung an arm.

Yes, we got hollered at. Gotta love boobs.


We left the casino around 3. Stopped off in Mendon to rest up, then drove Chrissy to the airport for her God-awful-early flight. Now, finally crawling into my bed after three solid nights of playing, I feel the exhaustion set in. And just think – I have to wake up soon to go home and get my new NOT-vertical license from the Mass RMV. Hottness…

Casino, friends, bright lights and booze - what more do you want from a 21st birthday weekend?

Thanks ~

That was fun.

And it’s not even over yet.

I’m sitting at home – in Mendon – reveling in the extended birthday of 21. Last night was blast… and tonight promises to be just as fun.

We woke up this morning in a state of disarray. At 9:00am when I dragged my sorry ass out of bed (but in decent shape – thanks in large part to Chrissy), I ‘may or may not have been sober’ still. So I showered, thinking that might help.

It didn’t. I retreated to the futon, joined shortly later by Chrissy – who also could barely move – and followed by Alex, who takes the prize this weekend for being the best brother EVER.

Not many older brothers would play the role or host, bartender, chef, guardian, chauffer, and … for their obnoxious little sister’s twenty-first birthday. But mine did.

Last night he picked up the tab (for everyone except Chrissy and I, who got most of our drinks at the bar), mixed drinks at the apartment for everyone both before and after the bar, welcomed everyone and helped me stumble out the door to say goodbye, and – for better or worse – when men were hitting on me at the bar, he was right there to step in.

And this morning, when Chrissy and I were too hung over to do anything but groan and play Mario Kart, it was Alex who made us eggs and cinnamon toast.

Talk about nice, right?


And after Alex’s breakfast brought life back into our alcohol soaked bodies, we wasted the remainder of the day playing three-way video games.

Until now, of course, when we’re preparing for yet another fantastic dinner on the porch before Alex will drive our sorry butts to Foxwoods with Shannon, Jon and his friend.

Are we in for another party or what?

21. THANK GOD.

God, it is good to have Chrissy home. LOVE that girl. She arrived with bountiful presents and a particularly intriguing card - a simple white piece of homemade paper, with a black and white photo on the front of a photo of a sleeping baby... and a bottle of beer.


Inside: "My childhood was a blur." Appropriate, huh? But better still was her note: "Don't worry, I'll be there to pick your drunken ass off the streets of Boston." The foreshadowing - though slightly off - is immensely ironic.


After a delightful dinner with the fam outdoors in the Back Bay, the “youngins” returned to my Mass Ave apartment for the real festivities. My friend Dianne came, with her friend, and her friend’s friends. The more the merrier.



At this point, I can’t quite recall what we were drinking… but we drank. Heavily. Dane Cook was on Saturday Night Live. And that’s about the time I realized it was midnight – so off to the bars we went.

The Temple is a nice bar lost in the no-man’s-land between Harvard and Porter Square. Love the ambiance, but in my quasi-drunken state, the service sucked. 20 seconds at the table and I was already abound for the bar (with Chrissy at my side, like the incredible friend she is) – where, as usual, they didn’t card me.

“Guess what?”

Like the bartender cared. But he responded with a polite, “What?”

“It’s my birthday.”

“Ooooo, how old?”

I smiled wickedly, ran my fingers along the mahogany bar. “Guess?”

He finished the cocktail he was mixing, leaned his hands on the bar and took a few seconds to gaze at me. “Twenty three.”

“WRONG!”

And Chrissy whipped out the passport, perfectly on Q.

“Oh my God, 21?!” He was genuinely surprise – then laughed quietly. “And I suppose this is the first time you’ve ever been in a bar?”

Needless to say, he gave Chrissy and I some shots for free… before charging us for the cocktail we brought back to the table.

We sat as a group in that bar for God knows how long. Shots, martinis, a blur of laughter in a haze of great times. That about sums up the night.

I decided one more drink at the bar was appropriate. My friend the bartender asked what we were looking for and, though I don’t remember it, Chrissy said I demanded wine. Not just any wine, though. “I only drink French wine.”

So he poured me a glass of Chilean red. Once finished, the group decided it was time to leave – to go to some place “livelier.” (I think the girls had dancing on the bar in mind.)

And this is where Chrissy’s card comes in.

We were walking towards - as people know tell me – Davis Square, strung out along the sidewalk like a parade. Chrissy was up front with one of the guys, leading the way. Behind him was Dianne’s friend Mala and the other guy. Then me, and Dianne and Alex brought up the rear. I stopped to take in the evening.

It was about then that I noticed the world was a little blurry. Lights streamed across the dark sky - like car lamps in still photography. I turned around to face Dianne and announced with disturbing accuracy, clarity and poise: "I may or may not be sober right now."

And then I fell.

But it wasn't just any fall - it was a drunken fall that would never of happened to one who had not consumed martinis, shots, bottles of wines and possibly some beers.
I lost my balance. A sober person would have found their feet. Mine gave way.
I feel to one knee. A sober person would have risen. I was still thinking about my feet.
I feel to an elbow. A sober person would have put the other hand down, but my hand failed me.
And that’s when I gave up, and - while still staring Dianne in the eyes - I fell flat on my face.

Oops?

I rolled onto my back and looked up from the dirty streets of Cambridge, thinking of Chrissy's card, and met the laughing faces of both my brother - who refused to help me up it was so funny - and Dianne - who quickly came to the rescue.

"That made my night," she said through tears of laughter. "Because now I definitely know that you're fall-down-drunk on your 21st birthday."

: )

Mummy’s Birthday (& it begins!)

CHRISSY CAME HOME (again)! AND it’s my mother’s ## birthday. (I won’t mention the exact number for fear of her wrath…)

But the bottom line is, nothing feels better then having my family – Chrissy included – at home, around the porch table, sipping wine, eating cake, and having a grand old time on a nice summer night.

I love these guys.


Now… get ready for a great birthday-bash weekend!

YEA ME!!!

Hahaha!!!

Sometimes people are lucky to find something they're really good at. Sometimes, some people are lucky enough to love what they're good at doing.

I LOVE my job. I adore the people I work with. I'm surrounded by brilliant women who are poised to take on the world. My superiors are encouraging, caring, and (mostly) patient mentours. My peers are fun, fresh and full of life. And - as of today - my "underlings" are bright, eager, and ready to learn.

That's right: today I got PROMOTED!!! My direct supervisor - the wonderful Leslie - told me so. As assistant account executive, I will have more repsonsibility, more and greater opportunities, and people that I will have to manage.

Already, I've been told that - as a manager - I'm "easily approachable." That may be the first time I've heard that in my life, but I love it! My intern said I was nice, encouraging, and fun. I do my best to give him interesting projects in addition to the photo copying and "bitch" work. And when the new girl starts next week, I'm her "direct boss." Can you believe it?

I am just so thrilled that I can truly say - five years from now - that I received my first promotion before I turned 21.

Now that's hott.