On Eating Chicken Sandwiches in Montreal

Photo by myself outside a church on West 4th Street.

-
Here's a story about another of my site visits in Montreal, for the billionaire, M.

Our office had built a lavish city house for M. and we were working on a small country house for him about an hour and a half north, in the woods. The country house was on a large estate, complete with golf course, man made pond and acres of woodland. The house was sited at the edge of a gorgeous, large lake. There was a small boat dock on the shore and a floating dock too, so if you went for a swim you can stop for a breather.

Partway through construction, I had to travel to the site with Big Boss and a decorator, whom I'll call Eliot. Eliot was 'GD' in the skirmish I wrote about last year. He's an older, robust gay man who gives everyone a nickname. Some names are lewd, some innocuous, all are harmless.

Eliot calls Frank is 'Frankie Boy'. Sam is 'Samuel'. I am his 'delicate white flower' because I seem to bolt when he comes round to hug and kiss everyone, like Pepe Le Pew's love interest, the poor black pussycat.

Eliot calls the two women he works with variously 'doll', 'honey', 'lovey', 'lover' and 'bitch'. He's like a pimp with his posse. One of the women is happily married. The other is a swinging, outspoken single who seems to bed a different guy every week. Eliot's nicknames for her aren't so nice, though it's all meant in jest.

The three of them are inseparable. It sometimes takes the whole group to make a decision, which can be quite funny or frustrating, depending on your relationship to the decision. I've compared them to the three sisters in Greek mythology who share one tooth and one eyeball. I imagine them squabbling and hitting each other on the head, squealing 'Gimme that!'

Anyway, Eliot and I get along quite well and it was bound to be a good trip. We took a 6 am flight and landed at the airport in Montreal. We were to pick the Big Boss up at the city house, where he'd stayed the night before and drive to the country house.

When we made it to the city house, Big Boss had finished his breakfast and had us run around and take notes regarding upcoming improvements. Then he told us that he was being flown to the country house via M's helicopter. We'd have to drive.

Eliot and I jumped into the car and made our way North. On the highway, we hit traffic just before our exit. Eliot, who was driving, made the turn too late onto the offramp, crossing the solid line. Immediately we were pulled over by a surly Canadian cop. We were screwed.

Without hesitation, Eliot was on the phone to his bitches. 'Honey, you won't believe where I am,' he said in a furious huff. 'I'm pulled over with Kitty by a horrible f-ing Canadian cop. I'm not playing with you, lovey, I just got a ticket!'

Cars were stopped in front of us and behind. Minutes were ticking by. Both of us were famished, not having eaten a thing. What a disaster.

Without a word, Canadian cop waved us on. Eliot flicked him the bird and we drove with Eliot attached to his cellphone, gabbing to each of his assistants for moral support. It must have been nearly noon at that point, the morning's stopover at the city house having put a severe dent in the schedule.

Out of pure desperation, we pulled into a McDonald's for lunch on the way. I giggled at how brazen we were, sitting in the parking lot and cramming ourselves with chicken sandwiches. Eliot and I both worried about whether Big Boss was waiting for us, but we were starved.

Just as I was stuffing myself with french fries, I got a call on my cell phone. It was Martin, the French-Canadian contractor for the project.

'Kitty, 'ow are you? I make order for lunch. Is chicken sandwiches okay?'

'Oh Martin, that's so nice!' I said. 'We're almost at the house. We're probably fifteen minutes away.'

'Ah, good, good. We see you soon.'

Oh dear.

I ran out and disposed of the evidence. Moments later, Eliot and I were back on the road.

For earlier posts on M. and the bitches, click here, here or here

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On Jumping Ship

Photo by myself, on the platform of the G train in Brooklyn.

The G is rumored to leave people standing for fifteen minutes on the platform. My experiences so far have been positive.

--
I gave my notice today. As soon as the HR guy saw me with my letter in hand, he paled and stammered, 'Oh no, not the letter. Are you...?'

I'm sure he's used to it. That's his job - interviews, screening, letters, exit interviews. And in between, he makes sure people are relatively happy. He notes their days off and celebrates their birthdays. He handles the day-to-day.

Anyway, I felt badly and guilty, despite the fact that I'm the one leaving. That's just me. I know that I'll be going to a (hopefully) better place, but someone will have to pick up my pieces, decipher several projects partway through and deal with the same frustrations.

Meanwhile, the skirmish Frank started yesterday with the decorators has quieted. Frank is now openly snubbed when he walks through their workspace. Well-coiffed heads swivel round and give him a dead-eyed stare. I tell Frank that if it'd been me, or a gay guy, we would've had a better time of it.

It's just a strange, political fact of life. I think it's just easier to yell at and torment a straight guy in conservative clothes than it is a female dressed relatively fashionably or a gay dude in wide wale cords and Ralph Lauren moccasins. I don't know why. I can't explain it.

HR guy said there will be an announcement Monday about my departure, but who knows. I wouldn't be surprised if they kept a lid on my leaving for a while. The thing is, unknown to the office, another of my work buddies, Sam, is accepting an offer to the same office where I'm headed. Sam and I are backbone and one-fourth of the team, heading four projects of various sizes between the two of us. The office has been quietly shaken by my leaving. In a couple weeks, they will be reeling and reaching for a strong drink.

I feel badly for Frank, whom Sam and I are leaving behind. Trapped as a non-American in immigration limbo, Frank also has an inhuman amount of work on his plate. Sam and I will visit and email and commiserate over drinks, but it won't be the same.

We won't be there when poo is flung or when fashionable gloves are thrown down. Poor Frank will be on his own.

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Let the Hair Pulling Begin

Photo by myself on University Place.

--
Today marks the start of World War III.

This morning, Frank, an architect at my office, had a skirmish with some decorators over the conference room. The decorators had booked the room but somehow, their appointment wasn't recorded in the log book. Frank was mid-meeting in the room when a group of them swung by, surprised and insulted.

Words were exchanged and suddenly it felt like 'West Side Story', with the Jets meeting the Sharks. The flamboyant expressive decorators were riled up in a huff and we, the stolid sensible architects didn't stand a chance.

Usually, we folks get along like monkeys and giraffes in the zoo (it's questionable, however, who are the monkeys and who are the giraffes). Our personality types are on opposite ends of the spectrum - the architects draw lines on computers, abstract representations of physical spaces. Meanwhile, the decorators use itty bitty swatches of material and paint chips to describe the same spaces.

They run around chattering giddily and calling one another 'Girl' and 'Lovey', regardless of gender. We call each other by our last names and sit quietly at our desks. They dress in stylish, color-coordinating ensembles and astonishing footwear. We dress tastefully in conservative greys, browns, blacks and the occasional green. They're the disco queens. We're the nerds.

Anyway, while Frank told me what happened with the conference room, we received a group email from a teammate showing the following: multiple portraits of a cartoon character sitting calmly, before spontaneously spazzing out. Above the cartoons, the email read 'Do someone a favor. February is National Mental Health Month. Send an email to an unstable person you know.'

'Why don't you forward Them that email we just got?' I suggested.

Frank giggled maniacally and started typing on the subject line, 'Ladies, don't cry.'

'Are you trying to start a war?' I asked. 'That's like lobbing the first grenade.'

Sensibly, Frank used the backspace key. He thought a bit before typing, 'Can't we all just get along?' and hit return.

Minutes later he received the reply, 'Not on your life, suckass.'

The first grenade had been lobbed from their side. The war was on.

For more posts on the divafest, click here, here and here

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Filthy Rich

I've been wrapping up a project for a kajillionaire in Canada. This thing will never end.

The billionaire, whom I'll call M, made his money manufacturing widgets. Someone's gotta do it. He's in his 50's, divorced, with two grown children. He is scary, crotchety and very opinionated. He wants a lot done and doesn't want to pay for it.

It's too bad I'm an ethical (and paranoid) person. I'd love to post photos of the house that's been going up in the country, as well as the city house our office built ten years ago, in Montreal. I get the feeling that I'd be invoking some extremely nasty karma, so the best I can do is describe with words.

The country house, at the foot of a lake, is nestled with two other houses on a sprawling, woodsy property. Each house is spacious and unpretentiously elegant. There's also an outdoor pool, a man-made pond, and a private, landscaped 9-hole golf course.

The city house, on the other hand, is at the other extreme. Absolutely formal, the house is filled with gilt decorations, twelve-foot ceilings, antique everything, and a Matisse. Personally I prefer the country residences, but hey, I could settle.

So the other day, I was emailing one of the decorators on the project. My email went like this:

'Bitches -

Do you remember whatever happened to M's weathervane? He bought it at auction last year.

The contractor has been asking for it, and I want to find it before there's too much snow on the roof.

Lemme know,

- K'


Eventually, we tracked the bugger down overseas, in a London storage place. There were emails and phone calls back and forth - how much does it weigh? how long will it take for air or sea freight? what are the costs? can we get the weathervane onto M's private jet, which is with his brother in Spain?

Yes, this is the kind of stuff I deal with.

But good news, the weathervane is on a boat. It will arrive in three weeks. The house isn't done, but there's one less thing on the list. Thank god.


Photo by myself, on Fifth Avenue.

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Will and Grace, or 'How are my Bitches?!'

Early this week, two coworkers had a screaming match. Fur flew. There was posturing. I was surprised it didn't come to hair-pulling, or a Zoolander Blue Steel walk-off.

The Incident took place between two equally excitable personalities, one proudly gay, from his pink, monogrammed oxford to his sockless, pea-green Ralph Lauren moccasins. In the other corner was his antithesis, a slightly macho, robust, football-loving, albeit equally preppy hetero guy.

It was inevitable - a Monday morning deadline, preparation all weekend, information handed off badly and much too late, two strong personalities with outside voices. The client was coming in, the work wasn't done, and gay dude started pointing (manicured) fingers at straight dude. The rest of us cowered in silence, listening intently.


GD: 'There is NO EXCUSE for not getting the work done. How on earth - '

SD: 'I was here all weekend, you guys didn't have your shit together - '

GD: 'This is about DOING YOUR JOB. Getting the job DONE. What kind of professional - '

SD: 'I'm not gonna stand around and listen to this. Your shit wasn't together - '


Straight dude didn't stand a chance, so he was the first to put the gun down. Gay dude continued to rant to the general population. Quietly, the emails started flying among the rest of us.

Fortunately, there's never an issue between the gays ('them') and the straights ('us'). They joke with Us all the time. Men and women are called 'bitches' or 'girrrrl', regardless of gender, in a playful sarcastic way. There's always comment about someone's wardrobe, or viagra, or who might be sleeping with whom.

Every day is like an episode of 'Will and Grace', only without the laugh track and with heaps of work. There is the sarcasm, the pettiness, the fabulous clothes. And there is always the feeling that a law suit was right around the corner.




I once joked that the office hierarchy went like this:
(from most powerful to least)

1. Gay men (understood here that they are outgoing and fashionable)
2. Straight women with fashion sense, outgoing personalities
3. Straight men with strong personalities, with or without fashion sense
4. Straight men with Type B personalities, generally zero fashion sense
5. Office dog
6. Straight women with less fashion sense, less outgoing personalities (sadly, I fall into this subset)


It's not so bad. For some reason, despite my low status on the totem pole, the gay crowd has given me immunity. I might not be invited to the Chelsea afterparties, but I have a sense of humor and am occasionally outspoken.

I haven't been voted off the island. Whew.


The famous Zoolander scene, below.

Top photo by myself, in Soho.

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The Latest

Here are some updates of things going on around me:

1. The Ill-Fated House
is being wrapped up at breakneck speed, since the owners want to move in asap.

On top of the list of Bad Things that have happened, the contractor just got through back surgery. My part in the house is wrapping up, so I don't feel like I'm in too much danger, but the decorator and I are treating the project as if it's hexed.

2. The Stray Cats
The grey cat I befriended turned out to be a female. She spent her days with a sweet, orange cat.

A group of us on the street where Mark lives are bent on rescuing these guys knew how limited we were on time. Soon enough, we noticed the grey cat's bulging stomach. Grey cat had kittens (two, as far as we know), and a couple weeks ago, mom and kittens were rescued from the street.

Orange cat is still at large, and hangs out with a new buddy, a black and white cat. Both are sweet and were probably housecats. They'll be rescued in the next week. Mark's neighbors and I have a website where we share information, and we're lining up homes for them.

3. The Divas
where I work are thriving. Sometimes they're infuriating, but they're generally hilarious and make my daily life fun.

'I'm looking for Stephen', I said one day, calling the conference room.

'She's not here,' was the reply. 'Stephen's got a cold and she's gone home for the evening.'

The divas where I work (mostly gay men) call each other 'girls' and 'bitches'. Sometimes they give each other attitude and the rest of the office quiets down, trying to overhear the small uproar over whose job it is to do whatever trivial thing they're bickering about.

After five minutes, the skirmish is over and the guns are put down. Conversation swings easily to the color of a particular carpet sample, or a fabric swatch. Never a dull moment.


Photo by myself of from Long Island City of the East River, beyond.

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Salud

Photo by Bluewave.
--
A fellow at my workplace greeted me the other day.

‘What’s that?’ His forefinger tapped my right cheekbone.

‘What? What do you mean?’

His blue eyes stared down at me, unblinking, coming close to my face. I held my breath.

‘It’s a rough patch, the color of pre-cancerous skin.’

I suppose this was a gesture of care on his part, but it was Monday and not yet noon.

‘You should get that checked out’. The eyeball withdrew and its owner patted me sympathetically on the head.

I was doomed.

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