Just because a boss is a few notches above you, don't assume he or she feels comfortable there. A lot of secretly (and not so secretly) insecure people become supervisors and a kind of paranoia seeps in. There's a constant fear that a real shiner on their staff is going to outsparkle them. The most likely candidates for insecurity are first-time bosses, especially those who have to manage former colleagues who may have been up for the same job. "If a former peer becomes your boss, move quickly and tell them you feel awkward, but you're willing to support them," says Yeager. "You'll probably be able to tell if they want you to come along with them or if they want to grind you in the dust." If you see the situation is not going to be a bingo party, you may be able to get them to help you make a lateral move in the company.
If you do find that the person in the corner office of your life is a bundle of insecurity, you've got to make every attempt to give her positive feedback and prove you aren't after her job (even if you are). Though it may make your stomach queasy, constantly reassure the poor devil of her authority. All this you must do so that your career won't be stunted by a weak person who can only deal with strength by shutting it out.
And you must do it until you can get a transfer to another boss who will gladly let you fly.
After researching this piece, I've surmised that my nightmare boss fell into the last category, which would have been helpful to know back then. I realize that she was insecure about her own abilities -- and so she took out her insecurities on me. I suppose she needed to prove she really did deserve to be where she was. You know, I can almost feel sorry for her. Almost. (-- Not! DH)
By Jeannie Ralston, New York City. FROM: Mademoiselle magazine, March 1991.
Tuesday, May 17, 2011
Wednesday, May 11, 2011
UP NEXT: Paranoiac Boss
UP NEXT: New York Re-examined? "Paranoiac Boss."
UP UP NEXT: Press Release!
May 17, 1990:
"How Oilgram gives readers a head start." Staffers who helped launch online Oilgram News.
UP UP NEXT: Press Release!
May 17, 1990:
"How Oilgram gives readers a head start." Staffers who helped launch online Oilgram News.
NEW YORK REVISITED, Part II
I knew it s soon as I walked into Penn Station. Up the escalator. Slowly, slowly, drop the suitcase, step quickly up.
A line of people waited on both sides. I decided not to walk through it, but edged my suitcase into the sidelines. There it was -- that quick pace, that upbeat, look alive, everyone's-got-character type of place. People, lookingat their watches, always moving, never still, not looking at you, plain clothes, travelers, maybe some students. A woman, casually dressed, hesitated before the escalator to the street.
"Go ahead," I said.
She laughed, then replied, "Never hesitate."
"Not in New York!" I said cheerily.
What a city!
People walking and jogging, eating and reading the paper, bicycling, and skating, and walking their dogs.
Let's go get our nails done. Let's get some ice cream. At Ben & Jerry's. So ornate. Black & white cows on a green backdrop. Wooden windows, part of the wall. Chocolate cookie mint.
A face on a building. Gargoyles and black dragons on wrought iron gates. The Fountain at Christopher Colombus Circle, gracefully spraying water. The statuesque fountain outside the Plaza Hotel. Yellow wrought iron gate before Essa-Bagel on East 18th Street.
White, long tee shirts pulled over black knee-length leggings. Walkin' real fast.
New York: the city that tolerates all anomalies.
Boston: It's like taking New York and placing it on the winding roads and hills of Connecticut. Dizzying. Nauseating.
"That dress looks terrific on you, Young Lady."
(Denise...Denise Dances...2011) -- 20 Years Later!
A line of people waited on both sides. I decided not to walk through it, but edged my suitcase into the sidelines. There it was -- that quick pace, that upbeat, look alive, everyone's-got-character type of place. People, lookingat their watches, always moving, never still, not looking at you, plain clothes, travelers, maybe some students. A woman, casually dressed, hesitated before the escalator to the street.
"Go ahead," I said.
She laughed, then replied, "Never hesitate."
"Not in New York!" I said cheerily.
What a city!
People walking and jogging, eating and reading the paper, bicycling, and skating, and walking their dogs.
Let's go get our nails done. Let's get some ice cream. At Ben & Jerry's. So ornate. Black & white cows on a green backdrop. Wooden windows, part of the wall. Chocolate cookie mint.
A face on a building. Gargoyles and black dragons on wrought iron gates. The Fountain at Christopher Colombus Circle, gracefully spraying water. The statuesque fountain outside the Plaza Hotel. Yellow wrought iron gate before Essa-Bagel on East 18th Street.
White, long tee shirts pulled over black knee-length leggings. Walkin' real fast.
New York: the city that tolerates all anomalies.
Boston: It's like taking New York and placing it on the winding roads and hills of Connecticut. Dizzying. Nauseating.
"That dress looks terrific on you, Young Lady."
(Denise...Denise Dances...2011) -- 20 Years Later!
Motorcycles!
10/4/91
Motorcycles!
A broken nail dryer, humming, sounded like a motorcycle to my friend, Nicole.
"It's my heritage," I said.
"Motorcycles are in your blood," she said.
Is this a sign? I wondered as I walked up the street. I eyed a big Harley Davidson with black leather fringe, parked on the side of the street.
We both admired my new nails, polished fire engine red for tomorrow's wedding.
More Motorcycles 10/7
The cab made its way around Colombus Circle and as I turned to look at The Fountain, I saw something else. Rows of motorcycles stood parked on the pavement, slanting in the sun.
Another sign? I thought. I turned my head to look out the window on Seventh Avenue. A man was riding a small motorcycle, gliding between the taxis and trucks, cars and limosines.
Back in Brookline 10/8
I walked down the small familiar sidewalk, striding past the slower inhabitants, my sunglasses a shield between me and them. On the cement before me, lay an elastic, looped into a heart.
Motorcycles!
A broken nail dryer, humming, sounded like a motorcycle to my friend, Nicole.
"It's my heritage," I said.
"Motorcycles are in your blood," she said.
Is this a sign? I wondered as I walked up the street. I eyed a big Harley Davidson with black leather fringe, parked on the side of the street.
We both admired my new nails, polished fire engine red for tomorrow's wedding.
More Motorcycles 10/7
The cab made its way around Colombus Circle and as I turned to look at The Fountain, I saw something else. Rows of motorcycles stood parked on the pavement, slanting in the sun.
Another sign? I thought. I turned my head to look out the window on Seventh Avenue. A man was riding a small motorcycle, gliding between the taxis and trucks, cars and limosines.
Back in Brookline 10/8
I walked down the small familiar sidewalk, striding past the slower inhabitants, my sunglasses a shield between me and them. On the cement before me, lay an elastic, looped into a heart.
Monday, May 9, 2011
UP NEXT
Summer is coming and I would like to wrap up this, my one year Book Blog! I am happy to announce that I plan to join SECAPA as a member in August 2011: Southeastern Connecticut Authors & Publishers Association, in order to recognize my goals and dreams. For the good of humanity, of course!
Stay tuned for Motorcyles Everywhere and Paranoiac Boss. There will be a press release, a memo; poetry from Corporate HQ and my Willimantic college days, as well. Finally: prize-winning fiction.
Until, um, Wednesday? (No, that's a good beach day. How 'bout Thursday?)
Denise
Stay tuned for Motorcyles Everywhere and Paranoiac Boss. There will be a press release, a memo; poetry from Corporate HQ and my Willimantic college days, as well. Finally: prize-winning fiction.
Until, um, Wednesday? (No, that's a good beach day. How 'bout Thursday?)
Denise
Wednesday, May 4, 2011
UP NEXT
UP NEXT, NYC REVISITED: Motorcycles! Closely following the blast from Debbie's past, we will have "Paranoiac Boss."
New York Revisited
10/4/91
That same hot, metallic smell that holds conflicting memories for me: midtown, where I first lived, my mean roomates from college, and the office where I worked, and;
the Village, where I lived for two summers.
The hollow sound of a car's horn, echoing against the bare buildings, and bouncing up, having nowhere to go.
The hurt I felt when I first walked out on my job of three-and-a-half years. The uncompromising gray buildings rose all around me. Cars screeching by on every avenue and side street, criss-crossing the entire city.
That hurt little girl, so long ago, in the navy blue skirt, harmed by an aggressive blond woman in a business suit. Wandering among the vertical gray jungle of New York, as a car screeched through Manhattan and disappeared.
THE SOUND OF MUSIC
Opera is everywhere.
The taxi driver's radio serenaded me throughout the city, as we made our way from Penn Station, up Eighth Avenue, through Times Square, past the McGrath-O'Connor buidling where I used to work - did I dare look? - only for a minute - by 306 West Fifty First Street, where I first lived in New York City, the hot metallic smell greeting my memory; around Columbus Circle and its ever graceful fountains, water spraying out of Cupid's mouth; up Central Park West to my former roomate's apartment.
A uniformed man approached the taxi. I reached for the lock. He pulled at the car door. I pulled at the lock. "Sorry," I said.
I walked through the revolving door. My suitcases were waiting with the uniformed doorman. I mentioned my name. "Send her right up," the concierge at the front desk said. The doorman lifted my suitcases and carried them to the elevator door.
A, B, C, D, E...H, I, J, K..L, O, MEN, O, PEE...Apartment 15K...H though P to the left. I walked down the green carpeted corridor, turned, and rang the doorbell expectantly.
"Who is it?" a familiar voice said, and once again, I entered the world of opera. A sturdy white bulldog greeted me. Flowers festooned the cozy room, big Laura Ashley flower prints on the two couches, delicate silk mums on the glass coffee table, flowers on the fluffy throw pillows, on the draperies over the big picture window which overlooked the castle-like dwellings of the Upper West Side. Four aqua turrets decorated a distant rooftop. The famous Dakota sprawled its somber haunted castle appearance past the courtyard to the sidestreet below. Various townhouses, all in a row, mimicked the Italy of the operetta song projecting outdoors into the balmy fall afternoon.
A small awning ruffled in the breeze, high, high above the street. Faintly in the wind, the tinkling of chimes dangling from a high window across the street.
"Do you mind listening to opera?" Nicole said.
That same hot, metallic smell that holds conflicting memories for me: midtown, where I first lived, my mean roomates from college, and the office where I worked, and;
the Village, where I lived for two summers.
The hollow sound of a car's horn, echoing against the bare buildings, and bouncing up, having nowhere to go.
The hurt I felt when I first walked out on my job of three-and-a-half years. The uncompromising gray buildings rose all around me. Cars screeching by on every avenue and side street, criss-crossing the entire city.
That hurt little girl, so long ago, in the navy blue skirt, harmed by an aggressive blond woman in a business suit. Wandering among the vertical gray jungle of New York, as a car screeched through Manhattan and disappeared.
THE SOUND OF MUSIC
Opera is everywhere.
The taxi driver's radio serenaded me throughout the city, as we made our way from Penn Station, up Eighth Avenue, through Times Square, past the McGrath-O'Connor buidling where I used to work - did I dare look? - only for a minute - by 306 West Fifty First Street, where I first lived in New York City, the hot metallic smell greeting my memory; around Columbus Circle and its ever graceful fountains, water spraying out of Cupid's mouth; up Central Park West to my former roomate's apartment.
A uniformed man approached the taxi. I reached for the lock. He pulled at the car door. I pulled at the lock. "Sorry," I said.
I walked through the revolving door. My suitcases were waiting with the uniformed doorman. I mentioned my name. "Send her right up," the concierge at the front desk said. The doorman lifted my suitcases and carried them to the elevator door.
A, B, C, D, E...H, I, J, K..L, O, MEN, O, PEE...Apartment 15K...H though P to the left. I walked down the green carpeted corridor, turned, and rang the doorbell expectantly.
"Who is it?" a familiar voice said, and once again, I entered the world of opera. A sturdy white bulldog greeted me. Flowers festooned the cozy room, big Laura Ashley flower prints on the two couches, delicate silk mums on the glass coffee table, flowers on the fluffy throw pillows, on the draperies over the big picture window which overlooked the castle-like dwellings of the Upper West Side. Four aqua turrets decorated a distant rooftop. The famous Dakota sprawled its somber haunted castle appearance past the courtyard to the sidestreet below. Various townhouses, all in a row, mimicked the Italy of the operetta song projecting outdoors into the balmy fall afternoon.
A small awning ruffled in the breeze, high, high above the street. Faintly in the wind, the tinkling of chimes dangling from a high window across the street.
"Do you mind listening to opera?" Nicole said.
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