I found myself sitting in the HR department of one of the most famous companies in America. My ice queen soon to be boss wanted me and I knew it. After all, I had graduated from a pseudo impressive university and I looked really good in my Ann Klein suit. Problem was, I'd never worked a day in Corporate America and I had just turned fifty. Hard to teach an old dog new tricks but the bills were piling up and the only place my freedom loving artistic spirit had gotten me was down and out in New York City.
I was offered the job; mostly because the actress in me conjured up Sigourney Weaver in Working Girl, a dash of Faye Dunaway in Network and I performed a nifty little improv using the shrewd and sassy elegance of Judy Holiday and Melanie Griffith as rather impressive role models. My stunning performance worked and there I was, embraced by my new corporate family and occasionally loaned back out to the rest of society, my pet Pomeranian and my old disco buddies.
After filling the pages of my gratitude journal for at least six months, and thanking the universe for this rather prestigious position, the honeymoon wore off and I became increasingly shell shocked. My co-workers were very strange indeed. I didn't feel that they were family at all, but that's what having a job is called on the Planet Corporate: family. Oh, they like putting us in teams too. Teams connote competition and a great rah, rah spirit. In my old world they called it "opening night." Here they call it "making goal." As you can imagine, I was confused.
I had a hard time understanding these people. They talked about a lot of things that didn't really interest me. When they weren