Interesting article. Highlights below.
Can't Get No Satisfaction
In a culture where work can be a religion, burnout is its crisis of faith.
Today, in New York City, everyone knows that the ones “screaming and cursing these motherfuckers for calling me with their goddamned problems” are as likely to be hedge-fund managers as any species of do-gooders. Burnout is the illness of just about any averagely driven, obsessive New York professional. Bankers, high-tech workers, advertisers, management consultants, lawyers working in their mustard-lit honeycombed Hades—all of them are as likely to complain about burnout as schoolteachers and social workers. In 21st-century New York, the 60-hour week is considered normal. In some professions, it’s a status symbol. But burnout, for the most part, is considered a sign of weakness, a career killer.
. . .
And Farber often calls burnout “the gap between expectation and reward,” which may have the most relevance to New Yorkers. This has always been a city of inflated expectations. People with more modest aims for themselves seem less prone to disillusionment.
. . .
Pines’s work has also shown that people in fiercely individualist societies are more prone to burn out. “I once did a study comparing Mexican college professors to American college professors,” she says. “The Mexican burnout rate was lower. To them, the kind of lifestyle you describe in New York is insane. At noon, you come home, eat, and see your family. It isn’t even a question.” In Israel, she adds, she consistently found lower levels of burnout than in her studies in the United States, even though the lives of its citizens are tangibly threatened in a way that most Americans’ are not. “And one explanation I have,” she says, “is that it’s because of the existential threats to our daily lives. You feel your own life is more significant.”
. . .
If one of the surest recipes for burnout, as Michael Leiter has said, is the sensation of inefficiency—particularly if we’re still expending energy and seeing little in return—then there may be something about the modern office that conspires to burn us out. In 2005, a psychiatrist at King’s College London did a study in which one group was asked to take an IQ test while doing nothing, and a second group to take an IQ test while distracted by e-mails and ringing telephones. The uninterrupted group did better by an average of ten points, which wasn’t much of a surprise. What was a surprise is that the e-mailers also did worse, by an average of six points, than a group in a similar study that had been tested while stoned.
That’s right. Stoned. Those people were literally burned out, and they did better.
November 27, 2006
November 20, 2006
Happy Shmappy.
Dude . . . I just had to schedule a SuperShuttle pick-up time of 5:30-5:45 a.m. for Wednesday. Holy fifth of Jack, I'm going to need a nap.
I love the SuperShuttle. They're friggin' great. $22 for a trip from Manhattan to JFK?? And that's with gratuity included. LOVE.
I'm SuperExcited (I'm such a tool) about going home . . . even if I have to wake up at the ass-crack of dawn for it. I can't wait for some lounging around, no work, messing with my niece, messing with my Mum, getting my Dad cranky, playing some cribbage, eating and drinking as much as humanly possible in one sitting . . . oh, and the giving thanks stuff. It's going to be superb.
I love this time of year.
Man, I'm a loving SOB tonight, eh?
I don't love the filthy little asshole though. He's still making himself unpleasant. Not. Cool.
OK . . . Wow, this was a lot of nothing. I'm off to watch women rip each other apart and whine about some man who couldn't give a shit.
OOH OOH, and Studio 60 is on, too. Life, well, it just couldn't get any better this evening.
I love the SuperShuttle. They're friggin' great. $22 for a trip from Manhattan to JFK?? And that's with gratuity included. LOVE.
I'm SuperExcited (I'm such a tool) about going home . . . even if I have to wake up at the ass-crack of dawn for it. I can't wait for some lounging around, no work, messing with my niece, messing with my Mum, getting my Dad cranky, playing some cribbage, eating and drinking as much as humanly possible in one sitting . . . oh, and the giving thanks stuff. It's going to be superb.
I love this time of year.
Man, I'm a loving SOB tonight, eh?
I don't love the filthy little asshole though. He's still making himself unpleasant. Not. Cool.
OK . . . Wow, this was a lot of nothing. I'm off to watch women rip each other apart and whine about some man who couldn't give a shit.
OOH OOH, and Studio 60 is on, too. Life, well, it just couldn't get any better this evening.
November 19, 2006
Smell my pants. My pants smell funny.
FOR FUCK’S SAKE (does that apostrophe belong there?)
There’s a dead mouse stuck in between my kitchen sink and the wall. The space between the sink and the wall is about 3.5 feet tall and a quarter inch wide. The only way to get the filthy little asshole out is to remove the sink/cabinet . . . at least this is what the maintenance man told me. I called the emergency line this morning because when I got home last night, my place stunk. After the smell didn’t go away overnight (not for lack of trying with candles, incense, liquid plumber (thought it was a “drain” problem), open windows, and a little airwick thing that managed to make the smell even worse by making it floral), I really thought an emergency call was needed. BUT, as said, the sink/cabinet has to be removed . . . and that can’t happen until Monday (if I want it to at all) . . . so the maintenance guy buried it with caulk. Yup, entombed the sucker with caulk. The smell is mostly gone but I’m still getting wiffs of it when I approach the sink area. And I can’t relax. I know that filthy little asshole is rotting away in a little corner of my apartment and all I can imagine is that its filthy little asshole relatives are going to come looking for him soon. Oh good God . . .
The thing is . . . this isn’t the first “odor problem” I’ve had this week. No not THAT kind of odor problem, Cristina. Although this next sentence would make you think otherwise:
I Febreezed my pants.
Jeans, to be exact.
I Febreezed my jeans.
In the bathroom at work on Thursday.
Because they smelled like mildew . . . YES, it was the pants.
Apparently, when I did my laundry last week, air-drying my jeans wasn’t completed properly. Have no idea why . . . I normally hang-dry quite a bit of my clothing.
Anyhow, I didn’t notice the smell when I threw on the jeans 2 minutes before leaving my apartment for work. And I didn’t notice the smell when I walked to the bus, waited for it, and then got on. And I didn’t notice the smell when I got off the bus and walked into work. I DID notice the smell after I’d been sitting at my desk for 10 minutes. And after noticing the smell, I did a “what is that?” swivel with my head a few times. I didn’t REALLY think it was my pants until I got on the elevator with 5 other people and someone mentioned that it “smells like mildew in here.” Oh. My. God. THIS led to the Febreezing incident. I went and bought myself a bottle and spent 10 minutes in a bathroom stall spraying my jeans and waving them around to dry them out (FYI: you Febreeze clothing until it’s damp—this doesn’t lend itself well to quick bathroom Febreezing). Drying the pants took a little longer than I had time for, so I definitely wore damp pants out of the bathroom. But at least my ass had a lovely breezy smell for the rest of the day.
*I honestly can’t believe I just told the MILLIONS of people that read my blog about Febreezing my pants during work.*
It's all so interesting, eh?
So, my plan for the next three days (the last three days I am in NYC before heading to VA for Turkey Day with the family):
1. Talk to Management Company about filthy little asshole
2. Wash jeans and other “mildew-smelling” items of clothing
3. Invest in stronger perfume
There’s a dead mouse stuck in between my kitchen sink and the wall. The space between the sink and the wall is about 3.5 feet tall and a quarter inch wide. The only way to get the filthy little asshole out is to remove the sink/cabinet . . . at least this is what the maintenance man told me. I called the emergency line this morning because when I got home last night, my place stunk. After the smell didn’t go away overnight (not for lack of trying with candles, incense, liquid plumber (thought it was a “drain” problem), open windows, and a little airwick thing that managed to make the smell even worse by making it floral), I really thought an emergency call was needed. BUT, as said, the sink/cabinet has to be removed . . . and that can’t happen until Monday (if I want it to at all) . . . so the maintenance guy buried it with caulk. Yup, entombed the sucker with caulk. The smell is mostly gone but I’m still getting wiffs of it when I approach the sink area. And I can’t relax. I know that filthy little asshole is rotting away in a little corner of my apartment and all I can imagine is that its filthy little asshole relatives are going to come looking for him soon. Oh good God . . .
The thing is . . . this isn’t the first “odor problem” I’ve had this week. No not THAT kind of odor problem, Cristina. Although this next sentence would make you think otherwise:
I Febreezed my pants.
Jeans, to be exact.
I Febreezed my jeans.
In the bathroom at work on Thursday.
Because they smelled like mildew . . . YES, it was the pants.
Apparently, when I did my laundry last week, air-drying my jeans wasn’t completed properly. Have no idea why . . . I normally hang-dry quite a bit of my clothing.
Anyhow, I didn’t notice the smell when I threw on the jeans 2 minutes before leaving my apartment for work. And I didn’t notice the smell when I walked to the bus, waited for it, and then got on. And I didn’t notice the smell when I got off the bus and walked into work. I DID notice the smell after I’d been sitting at my desk for 10 minutes. And after noticing the smell, I did a “what is that?” swivel with my head a few times. I didn’t REALLY think it was my pants until I got on the elevator with 5 other people and someone mentioned that it “smells like mildew in here.” Oh. My. God. THIS led to the Febreezing incident. I went and bought myself a bottle and spent 10 minutes in a bathroom stall spraying my jeans and waving them around to dry them out (FYI: you Febreeze clothing until it’s damp—this doesn’t lend itself well to quick bathroom Febreezing). Drying the pants took a little longer than I had time for, so I definitely wore damp pants out of the bathroom. But at least my ass had a lovely breezy smell for the rest of the day.
*I honestly can’t believe I just told the MILLIONS of people that read my blog about Febreezing my pants during work.*
It's all so interesting, eh?
So, my plan for the next three days (the last three days I am in NYC before heading to VA for Turkey Day with the family):
1. Talk to Management Company about filthy little asshole
2. Wash jeans and other “mildew-smelling” items of clothing
3. Invest in stronger perfume
November 15, 2006
dream a little dream
**The following was emailed to me this morning by my lovely friend Julia (aka Goolia). I found it so highly amusing, that I'm posting it (subject line included—check "title" of blog entry) for your reading pleasure.**
Ma’am,
I had the craziest dreams last night. Everything was as it is, except not, you know? Like we both lived in the UES, but the UES was all residentially like normal life, not NYC. And we lived down the street…like four houses (opposite sides) from eachother. My place was blue and rundown. Yours was white with red trim. And I visited you, and your Mum was there except that she wasn’t your mum she was your MOM, bc she didn’t have an accent. And you guys were decorating. Your place WAS HUGE. For a studio. I mean, you had a separate room just for sitting that was painted this pinky-coral color and had really nice white wicker furniture in it (I said “Mandy, this wicker is SO nice” and you said “Yeah, like EVERYBODy doesn’t own the same set!”) and beside the furniture you had this long buffet table in the room covered completely with vases of the most beautiful flowers (and I was like “OHHHH, this is the flower room you told me about!”). And I also kept saying, “Mandy, you said this place was small! It’s not small, you should see the dump I live in.” But then I think I had to leave for some reason. It was spring and beautiful outside and we lived in a real neighborhood, with kids riding bikes and everything. But you were like “wait” as I was walking out the door, and you grabbed my arm. “Look, she’s coming back.” And it was your friend Christina (?) who I don’t know at all, but in the dream she was ALSO a neighbor and you told me she was so annoying and always mooched off of you, and you kept saying “look, just look at her…ugh, I hope she doesn’t come over.”
Your place was really nice, though I didn’t get to see the upstairs, where your bedroom was. And your mom left rather quickly in my dream. I think she was going to Duane Reade to buy you stuff.
The End.
**Isn't this email what dreams are made of? Fantastic. Super-fantastic.**
Ma’am,
I had the craziest dreams last night. Everything was as it is, except not, you know? Like we both lived in the UES, but the UES was all residentially like normal life, not NYC. And we lived down the street…like four houses (opposite sides) from eachother. My place was blue and rundown. Yours was white with red trim. And I visited you, and your Mum was there except that she wasn’t your mum she was your MOM, bc she didn’t have an accent. And you guys were decorating. Your place WAS HUGE. For a studio. I mean, you had a separate room just for sitting that was painted this pinky-coral color and had really nice white wicker furniture in it (I said “Mandy, this wicker is SO nice” and you said “Yeah, like EVERYBODy doesn’t own the same set!”) and beside the furniture you had this long buffet table in the room covered completely with vases of the most beautiful flowers (and I was like “OHHHH, this is the flower room you told me about!”). And I also kept saying, “Mandy, you said this place was small! It’s not small, you should see the dump I live in.” But then I think I had to leave for some reason. It was spring and beautiful outside and we lived in a real neighborhood, with kids riding bikes and everything. But you were like “wait” as I was walking out the door, and you grabbed my arm. “Look, she’s coming back.” And it was your friend Christina (?) who I don’t know at all, but in the dream she was ALSO a neighbor and you told me she was so annoying and always mooched off of you, and you kept saying “look, just look at her…ugh, I hope she doesn’t come over.”
Your place was really nice, though I didn’t get to see the upstairs, where your bedroom was. And your mom left rather quickly in my dream. I think she was going to Duane Reade to buy you stuff.
The End.
**Isn't this email what dreams are made of? Fantastic. Super-fantastic.**
November 14, 2006
November 10, 2006
November 3, 2006
For the love of everything good and pure . . .
You're both off the list. You both know who YOU are.
Hmpf.
Hmpf.
October 31, 2006
Happy Halloween and Miss Plath.
I think my niece just might be the cutest damn kid ev-er.
In other news . . . this is pretty friggin' cool: Student Finds Unpublished Plath Poem
In other news . . . this is pretty friggin' cool: Student Finds Unpublished Plath Poem
October 30, 2006
Happy birthday to me, Happy birthd . . . is that wine?
Can one write a “birthday blog” 3 days after one’s birthday? Um, I’m pretty goddamn sure one can.
First off, thank you thank you Cris: Birthday wishes for my BFFFF. And thanks for coming into the city with the champagne this weekend. I had a spectacular, if not a little fuzzy, time.
I took Friday off from work because there wasn’t any effing way I was going to be at my place of employment for "MY DAY."
So, due to my complete lack of imagination, I’ve decided to rip off Cris and put down my own list of 27 wishes for the next year. Get ready for it, this list is sure to change your life . . . or at least make you want to cry.
I wish . . .
1. To never get thrown out of another bar. (Let’s just say that Friday night didn’t end well.)
2. To get my health back.
3. To make a considerable dent in my debt.
4. To remember to send greeting cards.
5. To stay in better touch with my friends.
6. To figure out what I want to do with my career.
7. To take vacations. (Yup, that’s plural.)
8. To take more chances.
9. To be more organized and tidy.
10. To stop looking back and move on.
11. To let things go.
12. To curb my spending.
13. To stop comparing my life to other people’s.
14. To hug my niece at least once a month.
15. To learn how to walk into a drug store and leave with only the thing I went in for—and not $50+ of other crap.
16. To be less ansy.
17. To read more.
18. To cook more.
19. To start drawing again.
20. To learn how to play my dad’s old guitar.
21. To figure out how to make my camera take un-crappy photos.
22. To gain more confidence in my work.
23. To realize that life’s too short to let anyone’s asshole behavior get to me.
24. To sucker someone into dating me.
25. To find a way to take down myspace.
26. To become best friends with Brad Pitt and (because I'm fond of Angelina so I can’t have Mr. Pitt) have him introduce me to Mr. Clooney AND in turn seduce Georgie until he realizes that I’m the love of his life. (Did we all get that?)
27. To start playing basketball again.
And we’re done.
First off, thank you thank you Cris: Birthday wishes for my BFFFF. And thanks for coming into the city with the champagne this weekend. I had a spectacular, if not a little fuzzy, time.
I took Friday off from work because there wasn’t any effing way I was going to be at my place of employment for "MY DAY."
So, due to my complete lack of imagination, I’ve decided to rip off Cris and put down my own list of 27 wishes for the next year. Get ready for it, this list is sure to change your life . . . or at least make you want to cry.
I wish . . .
1. To never get thrown out of another bar. (Let’s just say that Friday night didn’t end well.)
2. To get my health back.
3. To make a considerable dent in my debt.
4. To remember to send greeting cards.
5. To stay in better touch with my friends.
6. To figure out what I want to do with my career.
7. To take vacations. (Yup, that’s plural.)
8. To take more chances.
9. To be more organized and tidy.
10. To stop looking back and move on.
11. To let things go.
12. To curb my spending.
13. To stop comparing my life to other people’s.
14. To hug my niece at least once a month.
15. To learn how to walk into a drug store and leave with only the thing I went in for—and not $50+ of other crap.
16. To be less ansy.
17. To read more.
18. To cook more.
19. To start drawing again.
20. To learn how to play my dad’s old guitar.
21. To figure out how to make my camera take un-crappy photos.
22. To gain more confidence in my work.
23. To realize that life’s too short to let anyone’s asshole behavior get to me.
24. To sucker someone into dating me.
25. To find a way to take down myspace.
26. To become best friends with Brad Pitt and (because I'm fond of Angelina so I can’t have Mr. Pitt) have him introduce me to Mr. Clooney AND in turn seduce Georgie until he realizes that I’m the love of his life. (Did we all get that?)
27. To start playing basketball again.
And we’re done.
Effers.
I am displeased, to say the least. I think a strongly worded letter might be called for.
Studio 60 Cancellation Imminent
Studio 60 Cancellation Imminent
October 26, 2006
I'll take two, thanks.
They are so friggin' cute. mmmmmmm . . .
I definitely stalked Tiki for Cristina last week when he was in a store near my work doing some sort of press. I DEFinitely saw the top of his head . . . the one above his shoulders, that is. (So inappropriate.)
I definitely stalked Tiki for Cristina last week when he was in a store near my work doing some sort of press. I DEFinitely saw the top of his head . . . the one above his shoulders, that is. (So inappropriate.)
October 25, 2006
October 24, 2006
Jacktard.
I just got a call from a headhunter place where my resume ended up (I’m guessing from one of the very FEW listings to which I’ve actually applied) . . . so that’s headway, no? The chick was pretty cool except that she works primarily with freelancers. Now I’m contemplating leaving work to freelance full-time. How do we feel about freelancing and not having any benefits or security?
I love that now I'm contemplating freelancing full-time. Two hours ago I was thinking about looking up grad schools (for what, who knows) in Boulder or Nashville. (Um, WHAT is with my fascination with Colorado and Tennessee?)
I've really got everything sorted out for myself, eh?
I love that now I'm contemplating freelancing full-time. Two hours ago I was thinking about looking up grad schools (for what, who knows) in Boulder or Nashville. (Um, WHAT is with my fascination with Colorado and Tennessee?)
I've really got everything sorted out for myself, eh?
October 20, 2006
Spell check is for chumps.
In my "research" for the job-search I plan on starting, um, soon, I found this most helpful collection of information from Killian Advertising: COVER LETTERS FROM HELL. And by helpful, I mean pretty damn funny. These are definitely worth looking over.
My favorite: "I am seeking a new position as i have recently been laid."
My favorite: "I am seeking a new position as i have recently been laid."
October 19, 2006
Colorado, maybe? Tennessee?
This is pathetic.
Over there in the fridge door is your basic condiments: jam, mayo, Italian salad dressing, etc. And, of course, the Brita water pitcher and a bottle of wine. On the top shelf of the fridge would be dessert wine someone gave me THREE YEARS AGO. I’m going to guess that I should probably get rid of it. Considering I don’t drink dessert wine . . . especially dessert wine that’s been sitting in my fridge for 3 years. Does dessert wine go bad? How many more times do you think I can say dessert wine?
This is a little less pathetic.
You have your boxes of rice and cous cous, and cans of corn and beans, to go with the chicken and fish that you don’t have. You have your soup, a couple almost empty bags of crackers/pretzels, and then, of course, your peanut butter. (Um, that “you” would be moi. I got carried away, sorry.)
This, my friends, is a pretty good indication of what my fridge and cupboards look like year round. I’ve been thinking a lot lately about my eating habits. Mainly because they’re horrible and I need to change them BUT I’m at a loss with WHAT to buy when I end up in the grocery store. I always get the same stuff . . . things that can be made/put together quickly. I must say, I’d love to come home and cook a lovely little meal for myself each night, but that’s just not going to happen. Especially when I’m getting home at 9:00 most nights. I’m sick of ordering out. I’m sick of soup and toast. I’m sick of omelettes. I’m sick of chicken/cous cous/corn. I’m sick of veggie patties.
Advice? Anyone? Anyone? Bueller?
I’m thinking Fresh Direct might be the answer. I’ve used them a few times and they’re awesome. But, doesn’t that eliminate the fun of grocery shopping and standing in aisles indecisively??
I think that all of this is just an indication of how speedy things have become. Everything in my life seems to be go-go-go. I have to do this by this time; I have to be there by this time; I need to hurry up or I’ll miss my train; It’s 9:00 p.m., I’m hungry, what can I eat RIGHT NOW?! It’s getting annoying. I’ve been daydreaming lately about moving somewhere quiet and slow-going. Where there isn’t so much pressure to go-go-go.
I wonder if I would miss the go-go-go.
Yup, I'm sure I would. I'm pretty sure I'm just tired from deciding to start tidying my apartment at midnight last night. I mean, I couldn't have started any earlier—there was perfectly fantastic television viewing to be done.
Over there in the fridge door is your basic condiments: jam, mayo, Italian salad dressing, etc. And, of course, the Brita water pitcher and a bottle of wine. On the top shelf of the fridge would be dessert wine someone gave me THREE YEARS AGO. I’m going to guess that I should probably get rid of it. Considering I don’t drink dessert wine . . . especially dessert wine that’s been sitting in my fridge for 3 years. Does dessert wine go bad? How many more times do you think I can say dessert wine?
This is a little less pathetic.
You have your boxes of rice and cous cous, and cans of corn and beans, to go with the chicken and fish that you don’t have. You have your soup, a couple almost empty bags of crackers/pretzels, and then, of course, your peanut butter. (Um, that “you” would be moi. I got carried away, sorry.)
This, my friends, is a pretty good indication of what my fridge and cupboards look like year round. I’ve been thinking a lot lately about my eating habits. Mainly because they’re horrible and I need to change them BUT I’m at a loss with WHAT to buy when I end up in the grocery store. I always get the same stuff . . . things that can be made/put together quickly. I must say, I’d love to come home and cook a lovely little meal for myself each night, but that’s just not going to happen. Especially when I’m getting home at 9:00 most nights. I’m sick of ordering out. I’m sick of soup and toast. I’m sick of omelettes. I’m sick of chicken/cous cous/corn. I’m sick of veggie patties.
Advice? Anyone? Anyone? Bueller?
I’m thinking Fresh Direct might be the answer. I’ve used them a few times and they’re awesome. But, doesn’t that eliminate the fun of grocery shopping and standing in aisles indecisively??
I think that all of this is just an indication of how speedy things have become. Everything in my life seems to be go-go-go. I have to do this by this time; I have to be there by this time; I need to hurry up or I’ll miss my train; It’s 9:00 p.m., I’m hungry, what can I eat RIGHT NOW?! It’s getting annoying. I’ve been daydreaming lately about moving somewhere quiet and slow-going. Where there isn’t so much pressure to go-go-go.
I wonder if I would miss the go-go-go.
Yup, I'm sure I would. I'm pretty sure I'm just tired from deciding to start tidying my apartment at midnight last night. I mean, I couldn't have started any earlier—there was perfectly fantastic television viewing to be done.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)