I attended business school from 1997 to 1999, at a time when the economy was flourishing and companies were hiring. For most of my classmates, finding a job wasn’t a problem. In fact, the school protected us from contact by recruiters for the first couple of weeks of classes in order to give us time to settle in. We all knew when we had become fair game, because overnight, our mailboxes became stuffed with quality, albeit branded, gifts and invitations to lavish cocktail hours and dinners so we could mingle with company representatives.
When I decided to leave my first post-MBA position, I didn’t even conduct a job search because offers came to me through word of mouth, just from telling a handful of friends that I was considering leaving. I decided to take a job with a start up, in part because of the casual work environment. After years of wearing professional attire, I craved being able to wear jeans and open toed shoes to work. As my tenure at the start up progressed, I challenged the laxness of the rules. When would they say anything? It turns out that mini skirts, overalls, mid-drift baring shirts, and running attire weren’t enough to break the camel’s back. Of course, in the presence of clients, I was always appropriate and even kept an emergency “proper” outfit in my office.
After being laid off, I decided, helped by grim job prospects, to contemplate what career would make me happy rather than taking the first opportunity to come my way. I have always been interested in buy-side equity research, yet competition for such positions is stiff, especially given the massive lay-offs from the investment banks. I was excited about a connection to intern for a socially responsible mutual fund. The experience would give me the opportunity to determine whether the job function was for me, and I could tell a more compelling story about turning my hobby into a profession.
I had been under the impression that because the internship was unpaid, it was pretty much mine if I was interested. I spoke with the fund founder one Monday at 10:30AM. I was quite cozy in bed beneath my down comforter clothed in my fleece pajamas. He wanted to meet with me, so he was wondering whether I would be able to make it downtown for a noon meeting. I calmly replied, “No problem.” All the while, my mind was racing, “Where in the world are my suits? If I spray enough leave in conditioner in my hair, will I be able to pull it back into a neat ponytail? Do I even have a copy of my resume that I could bring? Since I’ll be downtown anyway, where should I go shopping afterwards? The Banana Republic downtown is really big. Stop thinking about shopping! You have no money! And, you have more immediate concerns. Where are my suits?”
I hung up the phone after getting directions, and I sprang into action. It’s depressing to discover that you’ve gained unwanted weight and size at any time, and even more depressing to confirm such suspicions while in the throes of trying to prepare for a spur of the moment interview. Not only has my body changed over the past 5 years, but so have fashions. I really don’t remember the football player shoulder pad look being popular in the 90s, but apparently it was, or at least it wasn’t so blatantly unpopular that it didn’t prevent me from wearing such monstrosities. I finally found a suit that both fit and was relatively hip.
The next step was what to do about my accessories. I knew I had some nylons somewhere, because I was always fully stocked when I had to wear them daily. I just had no idea where I had put them. I finally found two pairs of “nude” hose, though one made me look sickly and the other made me look unnaturally tan. I decided that the pale hose would be better for an interview. I didn’t want to give the impression that I had spent my months of unemployment lounging on the beach, though that’s exactly where I had been in Thailand and Hawaii.
My shoes were unworn, despite having been purchased sometime prior to 1997. I was proud of my ability to find them under such trying circumstances. Though once fashionable, they weren’t an embarrassment, so they would suffice.
My hair went into a non-descript ponytail, and my makeup was basic. I contemplated whether to wear a scarf, necklace, or nothing at all gracing my neck. Thankfully, I was not applying for a job in a fashion-focused industry. This was an old school mutual fund, and I was fretting about details that would probably go completely unnoticed.
I ran out of the house. In order to catch the nearest MUNI train, I need to cross the block and descend 147 steps and two blocks. When I worked downtown prior to business school, the neighborhood would frequently hear the “clack, clack, clack” sound of my jogging heels on the pavement during weekday morning hours, my small attempt to compensate for prolonged wardrobe contemplation. My ankles were out of practice, my heels were new, and my stamina was lacking, because I missed the train that I would have caught had it been 5 years ago. Not to be outdone by the MUNI, I decided to run for the next stop. The train pulled away just as I was within feet of the door, almost as if to taunt me, but alas I admitted defeat. The last thing I needed to add to my appearance was a ring of sweat around my collar and under my arms. I decided to wait for the next train, not knowing when it would come and hoping that the socially conscious mutual fund would encourage the use of public transportation, thereby being aware of its frequent infrequencies.
I made it to the interview just a couple of minutes late, and all went well. I had some enjoyable conversations, and an hour and a half later, I was in search of the nearest rest room or changing room to remove the nylons that had been shielding my tan and to cover my feet with band-aids.
It’s often said that in order to move two steps ahead, you sometimes need to take a step back. I’ve accepted that I’ll need to learn some new skills and won’t be paid for my efforts, at least not immediately. I just wish the steps didn’t also have to involve nylons, blisters, and dated attire.
In the third grade, I had to make a diorama depicting a scene from a book and write a corresponding book report. I chose Charles Schultz’s A Charlie Brown Christmas because the book made an impression on me about how commercial Christmas had become, despite its pious roots. I think about that project almost every December.
I made the mistake of spending an hour of my time standing in line at a local Ross Dress for Less store on Christmas Eve. At first, I found the line daunting and questioned my sanity. I wasn’t purchasing anything time sensitive. In fact, I was in line to return something, and I thought that the return line would be shorter before Christmas rather than after. I decided to wait because I was taking in my surroundings.
My family doesn’t celebrate Christmas. We aren’t religious, and now that my sister and I are adults, we buy the things we need when we need them and contemplate the things we want until we convince ourselves that they are things we need. I sometimes think I miss a bit of the Christmas flurry, so my way of partaking is to hit the stores and observe the stresses of others. I experience Christmas vicariously.
On Christmas Eve at the Ross Dress for Less, there were families shopping for each other and shouting across isles, “Don’t come down here now!” followed by muted sounds of Mom asking a daughter, “Do you think Dad would like this?” After some contemplation, I see the daughter walk over to the next isle to Dad in order to ascertain his interest in the kitchen doodad. In the meantime, Dad is panicking, ignoring the probing questions and trying to determine whether Mom will like some random storage and organization item he found. They get in separate lines, hiding their baskets, and they negotiate who will drive the daughter home. Clearly, Christmas is a time to spend with family, even if not in the same isle, line, or car.
In the meantime, a couple is trying to determine what to get for one of their parents. They are being inspired as they walk down the isle and look for things that are roughly in their price range. The woman asks, “What about getting your mom a fondue set?” The man replies, “No, she can’t eat cheese.” The woman, “OK, well, maybe this fancy salt and pepper mill?” The man, “She already has one.” The woman, “Well, we’re running out of time and options. She can make fondue with chocolate.” I’m sure the guy’s mom will be touched by all of the care and deliberation that went into the selection of her gift.
I hope the couple at least took the effort to make sure the security sensor was deactivated. Every few minutes, the theft-alert buzzer at the door would sound. The clerks were completely unphased. Were people stealing? Perhaps. Were people too rushed to have the sensors from their purchases removed? More likely. How would you like to receive a sweater with a security sensor attached? Despite the whole seven degrees of separation thing, not all of us are on Winona Rider’s gift list.
One of my best friend’s fathers made sure he wouldn’t be disappointedly surprised with a fondue set or security sensored sweater on Christmas morning. He sent his daughter a catalog with the art supply items he wanted circled, highlighted, and dog-eared. There were three ways one could order from the catalog: by phone, through the mail, or online. He crossed out the first two options to emphasize his preference for an online order. He then called my friend a couple of weeks prior to Christmas to remind her to place her order that day because the mail delivery system during the holidays experiences delays, and he wanted to make sure his gifts would arrive on time. I’ve always thought that part of the fun of giving a gift is the thoughtfulness and creativity of determining the perfect item. If people are simply going to exchange wish lists, why don’t they just buy what they want for themselves and save everyone the hassle?
Charlie Brown may not be considered the brightest of the Peanuts characters, but I think he hit the nail on the head when he gets frustrated over how Christmas has deviated into a commercial chaos. If Christmas is simply about madly buying things for other people, I’m glad I don’t have the Christmas spirit. Bah Humbug!
I have always been a workaholic.
As a 5-year old with particularly strong fingers, I massaged my grandfather’s neck in exchange for a nickel. Starting in the 4th grade, I sold crafts on consignment at a store called Circle of Friends on Haight Street in San Francisco. My mom dropped me off after my weekly piano lessons so I could monitor sales and restock inventory. During the summer before 7th grade and into my undergraduate years, I taught for SummerGATE, an organization that runs summer programs for gifted and talented students.
Perhaps my frugalness is a result of my early start at earning money. I couldn’t help but to evaluate whether the 3 minutes of joy I would receive from consuming a candy bar costing a quarter was worth 15 minutes of teaching 2nd graders about the planets. I have always lived beneath my means. So, when I recently found myself without a job and without a severance package, I knew I would not starve, despite the tight job market and the influx of talented people looking for work.
I was, however, somewhat surprised when nearly every friend and acquaintance made comments like, “Well, at least you live cheaply.” Is it wrong of me that I don’t feel consoled?
Am I somehow supposed to feel relieved that I never got used to the comforts of taking cabs everywhere, so depending on public transportation with all of its delays and troubles is no big deal for me because I have come to expect the hassle?
Should I take comfort that I won’t feel particularly silly in my efforts to curtail PG&E costs by wearing layers of fleece and the occasional hat while lounging at home because I always look silly during this cold time of year?
Thank goodness I wasn’t in the habit of having professional manicures and pedicures. For most women of my age, such treatments are regular occurrences. What would those women do if they found themselves without a job? Which would they sacrifice: food, clothing, or shelter for professional nail care, or would they actually consider trimming their own nails? Thankfully, I’ll now have even more time to devote to trimming, filing, and polishing.
Not only am I disappointed that reactions to my lay off have been focused on my being “just fine,” given the low standard of living I’ve imposed on myself, I’m also struck that most people haven’t stopped to consider the more important psychological impacts of my situation. I am used to being incredibly busy. For better or for worse, I take comfort in losing myself in my work and finding self worth through professional achievement. In contrast to the assumptions of most of my colleagues, my primary concern upon learning of my lay off was not how I would alter my lifestyle to stretch $297 a week of unemployment insurance; rather, it was how I would spend my time without driving myself insane.
The verdict on how I will emerge from this unprecedented downtime in my life is yet to be rendered. Thus far, it sadly has me questioning what I have missed out on in life by working too many hours and restricting my comfort. Perhaps I’ll use some of my $42.43 daily allowance and treat myself to a cab ride from my heated home to a professional manicurist just to see how the other side lives.
Apologies to Major Henry Livingston, Jr., the author of the original, "T'was the Night Before Christmas."
T’was the month before Christmas and all through my house
There was but one creature stirring and it was a mouse.
A dozen various traps were set with care
In hopes that the mouse would find his death there.
I was nestled all snug in my big comfy bed
While visions of scurrying mice tortured my head.
When during the night there arose such a clatter
I squeamishly turned on the light to see what was the matter.
Under the door, the mouse flew like a flash
I wanted to hang myself with a huge sash.
The little rodent bastard, so lively and quick
It must have been hiding in a crack or a nick.
I desired nothing more than to catch the little vixen
And shouted expletives like, “You evasive fuckin’ blitzen!”
I wanted to climb to the top of my wall
And scream, “Dash away, dash away, dash away all!”
With each new poop found, out the window my patience flew
The mouse’s time of death had to be in 2002.
It seemed each time I would turn around,
More evidence of his intrusiveness was abound.
It was definitely time to put down my foot
And turn the rodent bastard into nothing but soot.
I re-scrubbed, re-baited and put the dozen traps back
I didn’t want to give the mouse time to pack.
One fateful Tuesday night, a loud snapping sound made me merry
Did the new cookie dough bait do the trick better than a cherry?
The “Better Mouse Trap” had snapped shut his teeth
On top of my microwave, above my bay leaf wreath.
He had a long tail and a little round belly,
Perhaps from eating all of my bread and jelly.
He was chubby and plum like a little elf
Would I have to dispose of him all by myself?
I eventually psyched myself up in my head
And gingerly approached the corpse fully gloved and with dread.
To finally catch him took a great deal of work
But he had it coming, that little bastard jerk.
I wrapped him up and removed him from sight
And from then on had a peaceful mouse-free night.
Now that I've adjusted to the leisurely life of unemployment, I've finally gotten around to writing about Cambodia. Here is it. More updating will follow, once I figure out how to transfer my photos to my computer.
One of the key lessons I learned during my trip through Southeast Asia was that there are very few concepts that are not relative. If it is 95 degrees and humid, then 90 degrees and humid can feel refreshing. If a shirt that was once white has turned brown with dirt, then a quick rinse with a touch of Woolite makes the light brown shirt clean. Our time in Cambodia reinforced this lesson and taught me a few others.
Lesson #1: You get what you pay for…usually… but not when it comes to purchasing transportation from Bangkok to Siem Reap.
With usual attention to detail and a keen eye for a bargain, I researched our land transportation options to travel from Bangkok, Thailand to Siem Reap, the closest more developed town to Angkor Wat in Cambodia. The travel options all sounded the same. We would be treated to a Super VIP bus to the Cambodian border, then we would transfer to a minibus to travel the roads from Poipet to Siem Reap. We would be picked up at around 6AM, and we were scheduled to arrive in Siem Reap at 5PM. The prices ranged from 90 to 250 Baht. I opted for the 90 Baht option. Robin was hesitant, believing that we would get what we paid for. Yet, I was convinced that the rides were all the same.
The start of our journey was like most others. There were a ton of mostly European backpackers. We were dropped off in some random place and weren’t told what was happening. The first bus driver took our tickets, and I had to almost fight with him to get our tickets back to show proof that we had paid for the entire trip to Siem Reap. Perhaps to add weight to what he hoped would strike me, the pushy untrusting American, like a bolt of lightening, the driver threw me not only my tickets but also those of the other travelers. Once we sorted through the pile of receipts, we took a place on the sidewalk. Like most of our fellow travelers, we had become somewhat accustomed to waiting and hoping for the best, though we had not picked up the most popular, time tested means of passing time – smoking. So, I dodged the smoke of fellow travelers and wondered when the Super VIP bus was going to show up.
We managed to find seats together on the bus, though the Europeans in front of us reclined so far that even my knees were crushed. Robin’s long legs found relative comfort in the walk way. We stopped near the border and were told to purchase a Cambodia Visa for 1200 Baht. However, we knew that we could purchase a Visa at the border for $20 USD or 1000 Baht. So, a small group of 6 of us refused to purchase the Visa from this make shift rip off service. Everyone else handed over their cash. We figured that this 200 Baht surcharge was to make up for our 90 Baht ticket. Robin was getting frustrated, thinking that I had erred in judgment and that we should have spent the 250 Baht, assuming we would have avoided this scam. It turns out that some on our bus had paid 700 Baht for the trip, and based on talking with other travelers, all of the trips from Bangkok to Siem Reap are the same, Visa scam included.
Lesson #2: If it sounds like a scam and looks like a scam, it’s a scam.
The Visa service people weren’t quite sure what to do with the militant 6 of us who refused to pay them an extra 200 Baht for nothing. The main group who paid for the service waited in the covered heat while we went to the border to get our Visas, along with the guy who took everyone’s passports, money, and Visa applications to process their Visas.
We had our $20 USD ready, as 1000 Baht is about $23.50. The border officials conveniently pretended not to understand any of us who were all prepared with our twenties. They only accepted Baht. We reluctantly paid in Baht, only later to read in a Siem Reap travel paper about the border officials who scam tourists by insisting that we pay in Baht, pocketing the $3.50 for themselves. In a country where the per capita income is $260 per year, and given the long lines of tourists entering Cambodia by land, those border crossing officials must be living large.
Lesson #3: If you bring playing cards, know some card games.
Robin had the brilliant inspiration to bring playing cards with him. We sat in an office for some time waiting for a critical mass of people so the travel agency would allow a truck (our so called minibus) to leave from Poipet to Siem Reap. As we sat in the office, we got to chatting with some visitors from the US who had been waiting for a ride since 9AM in the morning. The travel agents kept telling them that they would be leaving momentarily. It was already around 2 in the afternoon, and this guy was pissed. He was arguing to get his money back, as he and his dad had decided they had seen enough of Cambodia are were going to return to Thailand. Once he left, there wasn’t much entertainment to occupy our time. We had considered playing a card game for days, and now seemed like the perfect opportunity. The problem was that neither of us knew how to play a damned thing, aside from Old Maid, Go Fish, Poker, and 21. In Thailand, I had figured out a version of Solitaire based on my hours of Palm Pilot enjoyment during Muni commutes, but as its name suggests, Solitaire is not exactly a group game. So, we acknowledged the lameness of our ignorance and decided not to attempt a card game.
Lesson #4: It’s all fun and games until someone loses an ass.
We had read and heard about the road conditions in Cambodia. Let’s just say that the term “road” is used rather loosely to describe the land paths in Cambodia. They are dirt paths riddled with potholes, ditches, and sometimes swamps and overturned trucks. We had developed enough of a critical mass to finally depart Poipet for Siem Reap. The back of a truck was lined with all of our backpacks, and about 15 guys climbed into the back of the truck, mostly sitting on the edge of the truck bed. The 3 women were treated to the back seat in the cab of the truck, and some loner older guy took the front seat. We departed with a Cambodian driver and a second Cambodian who rode in the back, whose role would become clear as we embarked on our journey. We were stopped a few times by police. Negotiations seemed to occur, ending with the driver giving the police officer some money, and the police allowing our truck to pass.
The roads were so horrible that the circuitous route we took to avoid craters probably added an extra 25% of distance to our trip. And, the potholes that were unavoidable were so deep and constant that my chest, secured with a sports bra, hurt from the vibration, causing me to hug my torso in support.
Cambodia gets flash floods, and we heard thunder and saw lightening. We came across deep pools of water with overturned trucks. Locals were out helping direct the trucks through the water, showing the driver where the shallows parts were, then running in front of the truck to ask for money in exchange for the help. Yes, it’s Cambodia’s version of New York’s squeegee service. The Cambodian riding in back was there to roll up his pants and map out a route when we came across flooding. Sometimes, the driver didn’t seem to trust the guide, so he got out to scout the route. Amazingly, we didn’t get stuck.
Along the way, we picked up a lady with two huge bags of yams. She was insisting on a ride into town to sell her yams. We didn’t think it would be possible for her and her yams to fit. But she squeezed in, making the ride even more challenging (exciting?) for the guys in back. Along the way, we were passed by quite a few mopeds carrying live pigs. Surprisingly, my taste for pork continued even after such sightings.
We finally reached Siem Reap quite late at night. The driver took us to a hotel on the outskirts of the town, and we protested because we didn’t want to undergo yet another scam. We were going to have a sit in and not get out of the truck, but we soon realized that the driver didn’t seem to care, so we got out and walked the half-mile or so into town. The guys were walking a little funny. Turns out that the rough ride was pretty hard on their asses, with Robin’s literally being bruised.
Lesson #5: It’s never too early to learn to use a cleaver or beg.
We made it to Siem Reap and treated ourselves to a relatively nice hotel room with a bathtub and air conditioning. We spent a day recovering from the journey. Robin was still at the tail end of his sickness. We took in the town, which took about 20 minutes. We ate at the Red Piano, a restaurant that seems to have mistaken sugar for salt in its pasta dishes. Patrons can leave their business cards under the glass tables, so we could see who had been there. An HBSer from the class of 2003 had visited. We’re everywhere.
We spent a day at Angkor Wat, taking in the impressive structures. I was starting to feel a little ill, so I took it easy at one of the temples while Robin climbed to the top. He returned with a little boy in tow. The boy talked about the temple and seemed pleasant enough. As we left, he asked for money. When Robin didn’t give him any, he cursed us by saying he hoped that we would not have good luck for the day.
At lunch, we spotted a cute little boy running around. He was probably around 2 years old. We saw him pick up a cleaver and cut some coconut for a treat. No adults stopped him. I snapped a photo that will be posted as soon as I can download the photos. My laptop doesn’t have the proper port. Bummer.
Near the end of the day, we wanted to buy water. At each stop, children would swarm us trying to sell us a variety of items. We decided to buy water from a lady with a less aggressive approach. A boy followed us saying, “You bought water from her even though I asked you first. Oh my God. Oh my God.” When we tried to get rid of the kid, he threw something and seemed to take a swing at Robin’s leg. I was about to clobber the little s*** except that Robin hadn’t felt anything. Begging and cursing us is one thing; inflicted physical harm is quite another that I will not tolerate. Blame my pugilistic father and my early boxing training, if you must find a reason for my instinctive behavior.
Lesson #6: If you have to “go,” you have to “go.”
We enjoyed the temples. They were quite majestic, and I couldn’t help but to wonder how the society would be different if such efforts had been focused on building infrastructure like roads rather than religious structures.
One would think that the temples would be a sacred place highly protected. Surprising to me was the smell of urine everywhere throughout the temples. I guess when you have to go, you have to go, even if it is in Angkor Wat.
Lesson #7: Mopeds have extra foot pedals.
Learning from our ride to Siem Reap, we sprang for the $25 USD boat ride to Phnom Penh. We were interested in seeing the Killing Fields and the genocide museum, and Phnom Penh is on the way to Ho Chi Min City, Vietnam.
We decided to share a moped to the genocide museum. I sat on the back, hanging on to Robin and the moped for dear life as it traveled along the very rough roads. My ass was horribly sore. Robin didn’t understand why I was vocalizing my pain – again an instinctive thing for me. I didn’t realize that there was a set of foot pedals for me, so my tailbone and back were absorbing my entire weight as we bottomed out every few seconds. It was one of the most painful experiences of my life. Luckily, it was short lived.
Lesson #8: Not all bones make for good soup.
The genocide museum was formerly a high school that had been converted to a prison during the Khmer Rouge. Those who were perceived to be against the ruling party (pretty much anyone who was educated) were rounded up, tortured, then killed. We saw the cells where the prisoners were kept and we viewed some of the means of torture. Women’s nipples were cut off and poison was poured into the open wound. Makes me instinctively cover my chest. Men’s heads were held beneath water so they would drown.
Perhaps the most disturbing element of the museum was the display of bones. Human skulls and bones were haphazardly thrown into some display cases for us to view. In a room on one of the upper floors, there was a chest of bones open with no guards or signs. I literally could have picked up a skull or femur and stuck it in my pocket or bag. Of course, the smell of urine wafted throughout the museum. What a sad display of disrespect.
Cambodia was an interesting place. I’m not sure that I will return, but I’m glad I experienced it. Upon our return to the states, we rented the Killing Fields and thought it was well done, though I don’t think that it really speaks to the tragedy of the Khmer Rouge. Apparently, the book, “They Killed My Father First” is interesting reading. Angkor Wat is worth visiting, but if you have the money and don’t have a whole lot of padding on your rump, consider flying into Siem Reap.