Leave the Gun, Take the Cannoli

My Italian heritage is one of the things of which I am most proud. My dad and his 3 three brothers chose their brides, settled down and raised their kids in a very small town in Upstate NY. 

(The 4 lucky ladies that chose to marry into this family. Mary P. Gijanto, Mary D. Gijanto, Mary C. Gijanto...are you noticing a trend here,...and Isabelle H. Gijanto...leave it to crazy Aunt Izzy to mix things up.)

In no time at all there were loads of Gijanto kids underfoot. Family functions were plentiful, we were always getting together at this house or that house for meals and celebrations of every sort. Weddings, Christenings, Holidays, Holy Days of Obligation, Birthdays, Mario Puzo movies, you name it we celebrated it. Whatever the occasion, the format was the same. The ladies in the kitchen drinking wine, cooking and bitching about their husbands, the men in the living room drinking beer, watching sports or playing cards, and the kids running around stirring the pot.

My cousin Ann and I were the last to come through the pipeline; she was 15 months older than me and as youngsters we were inseparable. Sleepovers at her house were especially fun because she never had a bedtime, her parents didn’t care how much candy we mainlined and no television shows were off limits.  As we entered elementary school she blossomed into a beautiful, popular and confident girl.

Me not so much. To say I was an ugly duckling was a huge understatement. I was more like the ugly duckling that got annihilated by a big rig on the Jersey Turnpike.

And she was better than I was at all the really important things; she could throw a ball much further than I, she rocked an impressive pony tail and oh how the Nuns at Saint Mary’s loved her.  I both idolized her and wanted to choke her. As my angst grew so did the frequency of our squabbles. Every time we had a cross word, I’d run and tell my mother who was a big help,  “if you can’t get along with your cousin don’t play with her, but I don’t want to hear about it, now be a lamb and go slice me a fresh lime for my gin and tonic.”  Thanks mom, you’re swell.

Things came to a head in 1979. School portraits had just been sent home and mine was a beaut, up on the wall in all her glory. Mom either had zero fashion sense or a wicked sense of humor because she sent me to be photographed that year sporting a beige ruffled tuxedo-style blouse, a maroon velvet blazer and a plaid skirt...and don't even get me started on my giant plastic glasses. I wasn’t particularly pleased with the picture but she made me feel better about it by saying “so you’re not particularly photogenic, that’s OK you’re good at other things like spelling and being nice to old people.” Again, thanks mom, you’re swell.

Ann and I were at my house one afternoon when her gaze fixed upon the picture. She looked at it puzzled for a few minutes, head cocked to one side as though she were deep in thought, then she said it. The words that shaped my confidence level from then on.

“You look just like Benjamin Franklin!!” she practically shouted.

Well sir, that was it! I don’t care how important of a man Ben Franklin was, no 3rd grade girl wants to be told she looks like him.  

I figured that even though my mom didn’t want to get in the middle of our squabbles, she would come in any minute and stick up for me and my fragile ego. That’s when I heard it. A high squeaking-choking-wheezing sound I’d never heard before and have never heard since. I popped around the corner to see what it was and there she was, good old mom, doubled over, clutching her sides, laughing her fool head off.

Apparently I did look just like Ben Franklin.

Goin' to the Chapel

When I was 20 I landed my first “real” job filing, collating invoices and general administrative what-not for a small video game distributor. The headquarters were housed in the basement of a quaint toy store called Duane’s Toyland in a shopping center in Albany NY. The job was fine, the pay was fine, the hours were fine and my boss was, well I suppose he was fine too. 

The only thing not fine about this set up was after a short time working there I realized that one of the stock boys from Duane’s was “sweet on me”.  I knew this because every time I wandered into the break room or the stock room, he magically appeared. At first it was small talk, he loved chatting about The Mets (obviously he was barking up the wrong tree) or some comic book convention he had just attended or “boy this is some weather we’re having”.  He was pretty smooth. I was polite but always brief in my interaction with him. Mark was his name, and he looked and acted like the prototype for Napoleon Dynamite.

And while he was a nice enough fellow I wasn’t interested, yet he pressed on. It became a cat and mouse game and every time I left my office chair, there he was, lurking in the hallway waiting for me. I gave up coffee so I could minimize bathroom breaks, but he found me anyway. I started packing my lunch so I wouldn’t run into him at the sandwich shop next door, but he found me anyway. And there was one place I couldn’t avoid him, the common stock room where each week I had to go and pull orders for customers who sold cassette tapes wholesale at swap meets in Boca Raton. 

And that’s where it happened. I snuck in early one morning to try and handle the task before the toy store opened.  I worked efficiently stuffing Michael Bolton and Lisa Lisa & Cult Jam cassettes into padded envelopes and dropped them into the mail slot just as quickly as I possibly could. Gathering up my paperwork I thought phew I made it but as I turned to leave, there was Mark, with flowers ready to pounce. 

He wasted no time “so uh would you like to have dinner and see a movie with me tomorrow night” awkwardly thrusting the carnations into my hands.

Busted! Being a terrible liar and not having any actual plans I wildly searched my brain for any reason why I couldn’t take him up on his offer. I didn’t want to go, I didn’t want to hurt his feelings and most of all I didn’t want to be on the receiving end of any wrath from the giant red-head Store Manager Terry who I was certain was behind this entire business. 

Shit, I had nothing, “uh sure, should I meet you some place?”

“Well I’m still working on getting wheels of my own so I was thinking my Uncle could drive us.”

(Silently) Oh good Christ can Kip and LaFawnduh come too while we watch and see if your Uncle Rico can throw this here football over those mountains.

“I’ve got a car, I’ll pick you up, what’s your address?”

“Cool! My mom’s house is at 672 East Fountain. How about you pick me up at 6:30?”

(Silently) Of course you live with your mom, why don’t we just skip the date, head straight to city hall and get hitched!

“630 it is.” 

Vote for Pedro

Being good, God fearing Catholics, my parents married young and had three children one after another after another in record time; then waited 10 years, had one too many bourbon sours at the Elk’s Lodge Annual Dinner Dance and BOOM along came number 4. 

SURPRISE!

After raising the first three kids in a mostly normal fashion, they decided that my youth would be significantly enriched by splitting time, half the year in upstate New York, the other half in mainland Florida. You see there’s an unwritten rule, actually I have no ideas if it’s written or unwritten, that says if you’re from Upstate New York, you’re required to vacation exclusively and retire in Florida. My parents were over achievers and took it one step further.

Every September they packed me up into our green Ford LTD and with Johnny Cash blaring on the 8-track away we went.  It was three days of bliss really, dad did the driving and mom worked the map. This formula guaranteed lots of huffing and puffing, hollering and then the ensuing silent treatment. I was in the back seat wondering what all the fuss was about and trying to figure out how much longer until we hit Pedro's South of the Border. For anyone who hasn’t trekked the eastern seaboard, Pedro's is a filthy tourist trap slash motel slash diner turned meth haven on I95 on the border between North and South Carolina.  It’s a thin slice of heaven. At the time it was the best part of the trip.

For the 50 miles leading up to the joint there is some of the campiest advertising ever conjured. Every mile a new sign, each more ridiculous than the last, but it kept me glued to the windows and occupied so for about an hour everyone in the LTD was happy.

Once we arrived, I couldn’t get out of the car fast enough. There was so much to see and take in. The165 foot statue topped with a giant sombrero, Pedro’s Coffee Casa where mom let me eat whatever I wanted to just get us the hell out of there and then finally the enormous gift shop where I was allowed to wander around unattended while mom and dad slammed Bloody Marys at the bar.

“Here’s $5 bucks, get whatever you want, but don’t forget to buy some fireworks for your Uncle and for Christ sake don’t talk to any foreigners, we’ll be back to get you in a half hour, maybe 45.”

"Sure Dad" I was picking up what he was putting down.

$5 bucks went along way in the seventies and even further if you were at Pedro’s so after slowly inspecting every dusty item in every cramped aisle and chatting with a few squatters I loaded up on candy, gum, Mad Libs, t-shirts, toys and of course the fireworks for my Uncle that were illegal in both New York and Florida. 

As soon as we drove away I was already hopped up on Fun Dips and calculating how long until we saw Pedro again in the spring.

Old Guys Rule

I was traveling to NY for a bit of an extended vacation that included a college graduation ceremony for my niece, a surgery procedure for my sister and hopefully lots of family time. Getting to Upstate New York from Los Angeles is never an easy journey. It involves at least one plane change and anywhere from 35 to 90 minutes in the car depending upon exactly where I was going.

Today was no different, after touching down in Chicago and grabbing a quick bite to eat, I still had 2.5 hours to kill before I boarded and I was already tired. Tired from traveling and tired of all the people. People being impatient, people being rude, people shuffling around the crowded airport with seemingly no place to go and all day to get there. The people with the raging body odor were no treat either. “It’s not just BO, it’s BBO.”

Without much in the way of a carry on bag and with no need to fight for overhead space I waited until the end of the cattle call, I was the last person on board.  I was looking forward to collapsing into my seat and sleeping away the last part of my trip.  That’s when I spotted him, a tiny old-timer sitting in 35B. I glance down at my ticket just to be certain and YES in fact I was in 35A, my mood skyrocketed.

As I as drew closer I sized up my seat-mate who looked to be around 90. He wore old man blue jeans hiked well up to his chest, a rumpled, well-worn plaid shirt, a weathered ball cap that read “I Heart Jesus” in faded letters and in his gnarled fingers he clutched a small tote that had probably housed cassette tapes back in the 80s. In his breast pocket was a pack of Sweethearts candy. I wondered how long it would take him to offer me one.

About 11 seconds.

Not having made full contact with my seat yet, he leaned in and quietly said “I’m Roy Lester Atkinson, would you like a candy heart?” How could I refuse “Why Roy Lester I’m pleased to make your acquaintance, I’d love a candy heart.”

For the next 70 minutes I learned all about Roy Lester. He told me he was anxious to get home to his calico cat Loreli, he’d been gone about a week and he sure did miss her. And about his trip to Colorado where he went to visit his brother, who wasn’t doing well, he had "the cancer" and Roy Lester’s face darkened slightly. And about his garden, he hoped the gophers hadn't cleaned out the lettuce in his absence..."dang varmints". And all about the time he served in the Navy, Roy Lester sure did love the US of A. . And about his wife, who had “gone up to be with the Lord” 15 years ago, his face darkening again. And boy did he ever love to sing in the church choir, sometimes they would travel to the local nursing homes and sing for the folks there. Laughing out loud Roy Lester said even though his voice sounded like two coon-hounds makin’ pups they let him sing just the same and that made him happy.

In the blink of an eye we arrived in New York and I was a tiny bit sad our time together was coming to a close. I could’ve listened to Roy Lester Atkinson for ever.

“The best classroom in the world is at the feet of an elderly person.” Andy Rooney

Naga...Naga...Not Gonna Work Here Anymore Anyway

Spring 2012 and I was looking for consulting projects.  Keli, a gal who used to work for me called saying she was going on maternity leave from her post at a leading toy manufacturer and would I be interested in filling in for four months? It was a very interesting concept as I had never done any toy marketing before. What a great chance for me to grow my skill-set and Rolodex into a new category. We chatted details, I met her boss Maxine and even though I was very careful to make sure everyone knew I had no toy background, they thought my years of management experience coupled with Maxine’s help on the toy side was just what they were looking for to oversee the Disney Princess and Disney Fairies lines of dresses, wands, shoes, makeup and kitchen sets. Wheeeeeeeeeee.

The plan was to start two weeks before Keli disappeared on maternity leave so she could help get the ball moving in the right direction and show me how to navigate the "craziness" as she put it. Sounded great, and while I was nervous I felt confident that with a little guidance, I’d have my feet under me quickly.  The night before I start Maxine emails me saying that Keli had gone into early labor and that unfortunately there would be no transition period, but that she was confident I’d be just fine on my own…oh and PS she was on her way to Europe for two weeks and she’d be in touch from the road. 

Shit.

Day one is lots of HR business, paperwork and meeting my team of 5 all with varying degrees of toy experience and none of whom have been at the company for more than six months. What does not happen that day is the issuance of a computer, network access or an email address. Who needs those anyway? I had a desk and some post-its, so I suppose I was set. On day two when no computer or network access was on the horizon, I started receiving emails on my personal gmail account. The first being a note from Maxine that went a little something like this:

“The TLP for 2012 and 2013 are due in 48 hours, please confirm that you have this under control and that it will be in my inbox Friday morning first thing.”

My first thought, “What the frig is a TLP?” My second “I’m having my very own Office Space moment.” 

Shit.

Day three, I receive a computer and determine that there is exactly one sane human being in the building. Bill works in finance and I pounce first thing in the morning, his coffee not yet poured. “Bill I’m supposed to do the TLP for Princess and Fairies, first of all can you tell me what that means?”

He chuckles. “You? They asked YOU to do the TLP? That’s hilarious.”

“What’s so funny” I’m both offended and confused.

Turns out the TLP or Toy Line Projection is an annual line item forecast and P/L. Bill then explains that no one in the history of the company has ever been able to complete one for the Princess line. There are 750 individual items that need to be forecasted and for each item there are 46 columns of data that need to be figured out and calculated. And while I know my way around a P/L I’m left wondering why in the middle of the year the numbers need to urgently be completed by someone who:

1) Knows nothing about toys

2) Has less than 20 hours of on-the-job experience

I dive in anyway. Painstakingly I pull the item forecast from the network, all 750 of them, then I beg, plead and bribe (with daily pastries) the finance team to help me unearth the data for each of these 750 items. For anything I can’t get my hands on, I start making numbers up working backwards from the bottom so that my forecast rolls up to a unit value and revenue value I’d heard bandied about in the hallway. “Princess should be a $90 Million dollar business” said someone not doing the forecast.  So $90 Mill it was. Check.

After 2 weeks of struggling, I hit send on the file and pray that what I’ve provided is accurate enough to get this friggin “to-do” off my list even if it was a week and a half late.

By now Maxine is back in the office, I give her a day to decompress from the trip and I pop her a quick note asking if she wants to review the TLP. “Yes, Yes, Yes, I need to get to that, I’ll set something up for tomorrow” she says every day for the next 2 weeks. Finally Friday afternoon she tells me to swing by so we can review the TLP. Great, let’s get this over with wondering how she’s going to review a spreadsheet with 35,000 bits of information on it.

After a twelve second glance she says “These Cinderella figures look on the low side, where did you get this data?”

“I pulled it from the sales forecast tool off the intranet.”

“Hmm well sometimes sales puts their forecast in the gross revenue database, you actually don’t have access to it, so I’m going to write IT an email saying you need urgent access, then what I want you to do is pull line item forecasts from both places for each product and then determine which looks more accurate. These numbers are two weeks old at this point so makes sense to redo them anyway.”

“Uh huh” 2 sets of numbers for 750 items, I've got nothing but time.

“Great and I’m going to go ahead and ask you to have this to me by Monday morning first thing, mmmkaaay?”

Sure thing, I’ll have them to you right after my meeting with “the Bobs”.  As I left the office that night humming a favorite tune, I knew I wouldn’t be back come Monday.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bUt_KF9vI10

I Heart Eric Stoltz

It was 1995 and Rob Roy was playing on the big screen. Since I had a mad crush on Eric Stoltz that had hung around since the mid 80’s I was pretty hot to trot to rush right out and see it. To state the obvious, the crush was on Keith Nelson in Some Kind of Wonderful not on Rocky Dennis in Mask.

                 

           

I convinced a few of my friends to join me and we decided to make an evening of it.  We headed to the mall after work, grabbed a quick drink at Applebee's or some similarly wretched place, did a hot lap through Banana Republic, purchased some over-priced sweaters on revolving credit and then headed to the show.

Now anyone who knows me today, knows that I'm neurotic when it comes to movie going. I have two issues. The first, I am fearful that no matter where I sit, someone sporting an Abraham Lincoln style top-hat is bound to sit directly in front of me, this has never happened but the fear remains. The second, I am freakishly steadfast in my requirement to arrive before the lights are dimmed for the previews and most definitely before the lights are killed altogether for the feature presentation. This story will explain the origin of neurosis number two.

Because of Applebees and Banana Republic we arrive a few minutes after the beginning of the film.  The theater, as my dad would say, was blacker than the inside of a cow. So dark that it looked 100% empty. This was great news for me so I led the charge to score the perfect seats. 1/4th of the way down the aisle and I scooted directly to the middle, my friends in tow. I was pretty excited about our prime location even if we did miss the first few minutes of the show.  After visually confirming I had chosen the seat directly in the middle, down I sat.

CRUNCH. And then a startled “Excuse me?” I had firmly landed on a bucket of popcorn that was perched in some lady’s lap. For a split second the lady, the destroyed popcorn and I all occupied that one very popular seat. It’s important to note that this is not the most embarrassing part of this story.

Jumping up, mortified and offering a brief apology I high-tail it into a vacant area of the theater. With my friends mercilessly laughing at my misfortune and me feeling ridiculous we sit and watch Rob Roy. Actually my friends watch Rob Roy, I sat in the dark theater wondering if I should go buy the woman another tub of popcorn while fine-tuning my exit strategy. The plan, when the movie ended was to quickly and as stealthily as possible exit the theater ensuring that my victim would never figure out who exactly rump-smashed her $18 snack.

As the final scene draws to a close and the screen turns to black, I'm already on my feet figuring I could meet my friends in the safety of the anonymous parking lot. 

Not so fast slick! 

Up came the lights before the credits were even rolling and that’s when I realize there were exactly five people in this enormous theater. Me (red faced), my three friends, and the poor woman who’s world I had just rocked one hour and 35 minutes prior. Serves her right for choosing the best seat in the house, I wonder if she hearted Eric Stoltz as much as I did.

The Beauty of Seven

It’s Sunday and my furry sidekick and I are out exercising, which consists of a leisurely walk around the neighborhood. And by “the neighborhood” I mean the neighborhood next to mine where the houses are nicer, the yards are bigger and the cars a bit fancier.

It’s not quite evening yet but the sun is sinking and the day is quickly turning to dusk. I notice plenty of people out and about enjoying the last bits of the weekend. Folks doing yard work, an older couple sitting on their porch enjoying a highball, and kids, lots and lots of kids. Laughing, running, tossing a ball, goofing around; playing their little hearts out before it’s that time when mom or dad calls them in for bath taking, teeth brushing, pajamas, prayers or whatever the Sunday night ritual holds in preparation for Monday morning.

It feels like spring, the weather is warm, and while school is still in session the end is near and everyone knows it. Parents and kids alike are preparing for the perpetual playtime of summer.

As I watch the kids I am reminded of my faraway childhood and the loveliness of “playing my hardest” all the time.  I can tell by the gasping for air that each child is using their every available resource.  As a 40 something, who has to have a 15 minute motivational speech with herself to get off the couch and walk the dog this is most certainly a foreign concept.

“Why are they moving at top speed if they’re not late?”  I wonder to myself.

Or

“Why are they running their fastest if there’s no one around with a stop watch or a clip board?”

It’s all very confusing for a brief moment and then it hits me, that’s the beauty of seven, the desire, no, the absolute undeniable requirement to play just as hard as you possibly can without needing to save anything for tomorrow. Pure joy.