Climb to Nowhere

Dear Fans...

noreply@blogger.com (Climb2Nowhere) — Tue, 01 Nov 2011 03:41:00 +0000

Fans of Climb to Nowhere have been sending me emails and asking for a new story. They want to be on the edge of their seats while falling over with laughter. Who doesn't? I mean really... Unfortunately, I've been busy working the past few months, but lately people have been asking me for advice regarding work. So I thought it might be fun to post some of the questions I've been asked and the answers I gave. Maybe it'll help your career the way it's helped mine. And if not, I hope it'll make you laugh.

One of my friends sells real estate and she's great at it, but one of the owners of the company was giving her trouble.

Q: "I don't know what to do, and I've about had it. I work for a small company where one of the owners does nothing all day. This guy is a real hot head and even though I'm one of the top sales reps there, he thinks nothing of yelling at me. If it wasn't for me his company wouldn't be doing half as well as it's doing. What should I do?" -- READY TO QUIT

A: Ready to quit? Get ready to yell. There is no way I'm letting you quit your job, during the bad economy, where you make good money, just because of a hot head boss. When someone yells at you -- you yell back. When your boss yells at you -- you yell back louder. Do not let him intimidate you. As a top sales rep, you hold all the power. Bosses that do nothing need workers like you to make money for them because we both know their lazy asses aren't going to do it. Bullies back down quick when they see you're not intimidated. After you take him out get ready for the groveling and the backpedaling, and maybe it's even time to get ready for a raise.

If you have a work/job/boss/life/whatever question you'd like me to answer let me know.

Rubies, Emeralds, & Diamonds, Oh My! (Part 3)

noreply@blogger.com (Climb2Nowhere) — Wed, 13 Jul 2011 22:54:00 +0000

It was THE RING. It was lost. YES! LOST! I was crazy upset, but pretending I had perspective. Even though I had only thought about moving to California for five seconds, suddenly I was into it.

I thought I lost it while going to the bathroom. I have this bad habit of every time I wash my hands, I take off THE RING. No matter where I am.

I had 24-hour notice about the interview, and I ran around like a maniac getting things together and preparing. And then once I was there, it was Suit after Suit. Talking. Questioning. Pretending to care. Feigning interest. Forced laughter. Awkward pauses.

While talking to Suit Four, I noticed THE RING was gone. I said, “I don’t mean to interrupt you, but I need to run to the bathroom for a second. I think I lost my ring.” I checked all over the bathroom, but didn’t see it.

I decided even though I was dying inside, I’d have to save my freak out for later. I wanted this job.

I told Suit Four the news. He asked me how much THE RING was worth. When I told him $11,000, he lost it. He kept talking about his Rolex, and how upset he’d be if he lost it. He called the manager, hotel security and then the police.

It was a big deal to me, but Suit Four was really taking it personally. He told me about the expensive jewelry he bought for himself over the years. The more Suit Four gushed about jewelry, the more I realized how dumb it all was. I didn’t want to be like Suit Four. Let’s face it, who does?

Finally he stopped talking about it, and we finished our interview. But there was still one more person to meet.

The Suit of all Suits. I can’t even call him Suit Five, because he was more distinctive. He was the boss. The Head Honcho. Numero Uno,

even to himself. And he was tall. Really tall. Tall people really do have an advantage in life besides being able to reach shit.

I wanted to impress him, but as Suit Four was walking away he said, “Did you hear? She just lost an $11,000 ring?” Somebody needed to smack Suit Four.

He asked me if I needed a minute after losing something so valuable, but I told him I was fine. He blinked and said the interview was over. I said, “I don’t understand.” He looked at me and said, “If anyone can get on a plane with 24-hour notice, interview all day, lose something valuable and then handle it like you have, that’s someone I want to work with. You got my vote.” And he left. It was over, and I flew back home.

It felt like I’d been gone from NYC for weeks. I walked into my apartment, and thought about ordering Chinese food, but went into the bathroom first. And there sitting on the sink was THE RING.

I realized I had taken it off while washing my hands right before I left for the airport. It was here the entire time.

A few days later I was walking around Columbus Circle. An unusually warm 45-degrees for that time of year, it was almost hot. My phone rang, and it was Suit Four offering me the job, but I respectfully declined. I told him, “Something had come up.” He asked me if I found my ring? Should I tell him the truth? He would be relieved but...nah, I kept it to myself.

I shut my cell phone and one sapphire in THE RING caught the light. It felt like Spring was just around the corner. Now that’s a good time to live in NYC.

Rubies, Emeralds, & Diamonds, Oh My! (Part 2)

noreply@blogger.com (Climb2Nowhere) — Wed, 13 Jul 2011 00:57:00 +0000

When I walked into the store, I was home. Rubies, Emeralds, and Diamonds. Oh my! Gold statues. Case after case of sparkle after sparkle. My newly trained eye zoned in amongst all this stuff and saw: THE RING. It was gorgeous. It was magnificent. It had everything. Weight. Color. Sapphires. Diamonds. Rubies. Pure love, the first time I saw it. I had to have it, but I wanted to play it cool.

“Oh my God. I love that ring. I want it. It fits perfect. It’s beautiful.” My NGBF thought it looked great. We bartered for a while. All the jewelry was on sale because the store was closing. Everything was marked down so much, they must buy each piece for a quarter. The saleswoman gave it to me for a good price. She said she just needed to get rid of everything and was happy to sell it. I found out later, when having it appraised, that it was actually an amazing price.

The ring is worth $11,000. If you saw it you wouldn’t think that. It’s some famous designer. Yada Yada Yada. I happen to love it, but not because of it’s value. It’s because it signified the official end of the Jewelry Spree. Good times. Good times.

After I bought that ring, there was an intervention by one of my friends. She talked about my spending versus my earning and made some good points. She was right. It was fine with me. I had THE RING. What else would I need?

And then it got cold. Real cold. Windy with no sun cold. Some people might say it was a bad winter. I’d say it was an

un-fucking-believably-no-human-should-have-to-live-like-this bad winter. My NYC loyalty was being tested. And with no shopping or new sparkles to look forward to, all I could think about was how to survive winter.

I’d walk outside, and even though I was bundled beyond belief in a hat, scarf, gloves, earmuffs, and layer upon layer underneath a heavy jacket and looked like I’d just gained 100 pounds, the minute I was outside, I couldn’t feel my feet. My nose was about to fall off, and my eyes teared.

I started to think I could live in a nice, hot suburb. I’ll learn how to drive. I’ll shop at Costco. I don’t care. Just get me out of this crazy ass weather.

And then one day while talking to my NGBF and cursing the temperature, I said, “This would be a great time to move to California.” She totally agreed. I said, “If I had a job, I’d move there tomorrow. It’s just one of those things you say like, “I’d love to run a marathon.” Or “We should jump out of an airplane.” Or “I’d love to date a guy from France.” It’d be great, but it’s never really going to happen.

Two days later, I was flying out to California for a job interview. Crazy, I know. My NGBF had mentioned it to a higher up in her company who had met me, and then found out they had a position they needed to fill in California.

But there I was in California, sitting in one of San Diego’s finest hotel’s lobbies, in the middle of craziness. I was with the manager of the hotel, hotel security and the San Diego Police. I was with one of the guys who was interviewing me, The Suit, and he was upset. They had me drawing a sketch. Answering questions. Going over every move I had made. It was nuts. But suddenly, I wanted this job, and I wanted to move to California.

TO BE CONTINUED...

Rubies, Emeralds, & Diamonds, Oh My! (Part 1)

noreply@blogger.com (Climb2Nowhere) — Sun, 10 Jul 2011 22:49:00 +0000

I love NYC, and I’m a die hard fan. And I’d defend this position to the death, but in the winter my loyalty can be tested.

Knowing winter was almost here, me and my NGBF (Non-Gay Best Friend) decided to book a quick trip to Aruba. We went to a travel agent and told her we just wanted to be warm and drunk. Easy. Simple. Right?

We left out a few important facts, because she booked us at this disgusting hotel. Totally gross. It smelled and looked like it hadn’t been updated since 1975. I knew there was probably gallons of cum on the walls, and when I pulled the blanket off my bed there was some hair on it. Potentially pubes.

I immediately checked us out of the hotel and told them it was because of the cum and pubes. Then I called the travel agent. Again the cum and the pubes story. She said she couldn’t do anything. Her boss got on the phone. Again the cum and the pubes story. Most vacations have more cum and pubes action as opposed to talk. This trip sucked so far.

After a ton of phone calls, we were booked into a five star hotel in Aruba, without being charged extra. Things were looking up. Our room wasn’t ready, and it was the middle of the day, so instead of going swimming, we took a cab into town to shop and drink. We needed some stress relief, big time.

Aruba is known for jewelry. So after a few margarita’s, we shopped. We were experiencing drunk vacation shopping therapy. Not good. And once we started, we couldn’t stop. We bought jewelry almost every day. Needless to say, it was a little addictive.

At this time me and my NGBF didn’t make much money. She had just changed careers, and I was at yet another sales job. We probably couldn’t really afford Aruba, which is why we ended up at the 1975 Cum Pubic Hair Hotel. We definitely couldn’t afford the jewelry we bought, but we thought it’d stop in Aruba. You know, as we were flying back wearing 14 bracelets, 4 rings and 10 chains, looking like a couple of ‘80s Guidettes, we figured we had enough new jewelry. But once back in NYC, we realized Aruba had kicked off a jewelry shopping spree unlike any other.

I’d be walking down the street to pick up my dry cleaning and instead buy a diamond bracelet. My NGBF would be in the middle of work, just running out to grab a salad, and then she’d come back to the office with a diamond watch. The flood gates were open. We were out of control. We needed to be stopped. Something. Anything. We were buying jewelry as often as we peed, and something had to give.

And then it happened. I saw THE RING. And the sparkle was amazing. You see, that’s what this was all about. I love the sparkle. I’ve always loved the sparkle, and once I started buying the sparkle, I couldn’t stop. I wanted to be covered in sparkle. The more the better. You know that woman that wears her entire jewelry box every day? I aspired to own her collection. Demented, I know.

Some sparkle over on Fifth Avenue was calling my name, and it was about time I made a purchase. I called my NGBF and she sped over.

TO BE CONTINUED...

Cinnamon Twists (Part 3)

noreply@blogger.com (Climb2Nowhere) — Fri, 01 Jul 2011 00:54:00 +0000

With Grub Chick ready to kill, suddenly the doctor came out. He barely noticed me. I tried to tell him I had brought cinnamon twists, but he walked by so quick I doubt he heard.

I walked out dejected, back into the waiting room, only to see the entire room had almost emptied out. My heart sank to the floor. I knew Grub Chick wasn’t in with the doctor, and she and the commentators were now all of a sudden gone. Most likely waiting on the other side of that door.

I needed to get out of this situation. Something. Anything. A miracle. I scanned the few people left in the waiting room, and an old lady locked eyes with me. Those eyes had seen it all. She shook her head. She knew. I knew. We all knew. I was about to get my ass kicked over some cinnamon twists. There was nothing anybody could do about it.

But wait. Maybe there’s one thing. I went back into the area behind the receptionist’s desk and took the cinnamon twists back. I was thinking of the old bait and switch. You throw the object of a criminals desire one way and then run the other way. That was my plan. Walk with my head held high and throw the twists.

I opened the door and stepped out into the sunlight. The coast seemed clear. I didn’t want to run because that would show fear, but I didn’t want to saunter like an idiot. I had to be careful not to trip on my strappy sandals. It was like dead woman walking.

No sign of the posse, I quickened my pace. It was more like dead woman sprinting. I started to sweat a little. Onto the grass, over the lawn, across the street, to my car, when suddenly I heard a car honking its horn.

My hands went onto the twists. My peace offering, my olive branch, my ridiculous plan. It was Her. Grub Chick. My Arch Enemy. The other crazy, fighting over food that cost five bucks!

In the distance, an engine revved. Click, Click thank god for automatic locks. I dove into the car making sure not to drop my twists and locked the doors just as fast. I quickly put my key in the ignition and looked up to see what was coming.

Grub Chick was in her car with the commentators. We made eye contact. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the twists had fallen slightly out of my bag and were on the passenger seat.

Safe in my car, suddenly I felt ridiculous for running. I had been the one who stood up for myself. I was the brave one. Now that I was safe, I wanted to win.

With one hand on the steering wheel, and both eyes on her car I was able to open the box of cinnamon twists. I put my car in drive, just in case, and with one dramatic flourish I took out a cinnamon twist and bit in.

Delicious as always. Worth every risk. I couldn’t help but smile. It’s fun being crazy. I finished my twist and flew out of my parking spot after one last look over to them. The look of shock mixed with admiration was enjoyable. Until we meet again Grub Chic.

Cinnamon Twists (Part 2)

noreply@blogger.com (Climb2Nowhere) — Wed, 29 Jun 2011 02:10:00 +0000

My response of “yea, they’re not for you” was not appreciated. Grub Chick didn’t like my back talk. She exclaimed, “Give me those cinnamon twists.” So I said, “No”. That was received by a room full of “Oooooh." The entire waiting room started weighing in on the fight.

This was much better than just waiting for the doctor. There’s about to be a fight between two bitches over nothing. What a great day! “Ooooh that white girl she just said no, just like that, just like that” “Girl, did you hear what she said, mmmm?” They were like a prison gang backing up the head bitch.

I didn’t even know what that person would be called in prison or gang talk because I’m a white girl from a middle class suburban area. I didn’t even understand why this was happening to me because I love black people and black people love me. Seriously, black people love me.

First off, I have a juicy booty. So that means all black men, plus hispanics, mexicans and puerto ricans automatically love me. Second of all, I have a filthy mouth, so that just means all men that aren’t uptight also love me.

And then females that are black also usually love me, and I love them. Black women are tough. They say it like it is. They like to have a good time. I really just like anyone who’s cool. So maybe that was the whole problem. Grub Chic was acting very uncool and as a result, this horrible, horrible event was taking place.
All I know is the commentators were a mixed motley crew of scary and scarier and my opponent was the nuttiest one of them all. A pyscho with a loud voice who was not afraid to say what she wanted. In another world, at another time, we would’ve been “besties,” but right now there we were in this world and the lines were drawn. On my side of the line, there was me. Just me. Dressed in white pants, a banana republic black tee and strappy sandals. On the other side of the line, there was this tall, scary, loud woman in tight jeans and a tight t-shirt with a tatoo of an anchor on one arm and muscles on both. She was backed up by a group of individuals looking just as tough, if not tougher. The commentators were agitating the entire situation and I needed them to go away.

I wanted them to shut up. Maybe this whole thing would just die down if they just shut up. I waited to see what would happen next as I tried to keep my breakfast down. All eyes were on Grub Chick. It was her turn. She looked at me and stuck with her basic demand. “I want those cinnamon twists.” I said, “If you want them, then get your ass in a car, and go buy them.” I couldn’t even help myself. Displaced anger is a real bitch. We all know if I had brought Baklava this never would have happened.

The receptionist behind the bullet proof glass pulled me into the next room, and I was unable to see my targets reaction, but could hear the uproar it caused. One for whitey! The staff knew about the cinnamon twist controversy and thanked me for them, but hadn’t touched them yet, sensing that this was not the end.

Suddenly she charged back where I was behind the bullet proof glass and exclaimed, “I want those cinnamon twists." I said, “You don’t give up do you?” She said, “You’re supposed to feed the poor.” The commentators looked in, waiting for my response. I said, “I don’t have to do shit.” Why couldn't she just let it go?

TO BE CONTINUED...

Cinnamon Twists (Part 1)

noreply@blogger.com (Climb2Nowhere) — Tue, 28 Jun 2011 02:11:00 +0000

When I took a sales job working in pharmaceuticals, the company described the area I’d be working in as being a little “rough.” Needing a job, and not knowing what else to do I thought, how bad could it be? Once I started working there, I realized it made the bad areas of the Bronx look like Scarsdale.

But for the most part it was fine. I adjusted. The people were nice enough, and it was all okay, until the one day somebody tried to take my cinnamon twists.

I was going to see a doctor who didn’t speak to me, so I bought some cinnamon twists hoping that would at least make him look my way. My dog responds to treats. Why not doctors? Besides, who doesn’t like cinnamon twists?

Can we talk about the genius who invented them for a moment? Fried dough, with sugar and cinnamon. Heaven! This is a dessert that makes sense. When I see shit like baklava, I wonder what douche bag thought of that. It looks like a pastry with meat loaf in it. I’m supposed to eat something that’s laden with fat and calories, and this is what it looks like. But everyone loves cinnamon twists. Delicious and beautiful. What’s not to love?

I walked into the doctor’s waiting room holding my twists proudly. The stagnant air in the office smelled like a mix between urine and sweat; like a sack of un-showered balls. It was dirty and crowded. People were sitting in their chairs as though they’d been waiting for years to be seen by the doctor. I hoped my twists would get me in and out quickly.

I walked up to the bullet proof glass, trying to get the receptionist’s attention with my box of twists, when this female patient in the waiting room screamed out, “I want those cinnamon twists!” WTF? I looked over to see this skinny chick with a ton of attitude defiantly looking at me. She was acting like the Queen of England. Did this grub chick think I was going to just hand over my cinnamon twists?

I gave her all attitude when I said, “Yea, they’re not for you.” Trust me, I was a total bitch. It surprised me a little because when it comes to work, I can really put on a show. I can be nicey, nicey, sweetie, sweetie pie sales rep 99.9% of the time. I can pretend to care all day long. But not this time. The demanding way she screamed out for my twists really pushed me over the edge, and I wasn’t having it.

Little did I know, there was about to be a chick fight over cinnamon twists, and I was totally out numbered.

TO BE CONTINUED...

Main Street Manhattan (Part 1)

noreply@blogger.com (Climb2Nowhere) — Fri, 17 Jun 2011 01:19:00 +0000

Most people who live in NYC don’t know their neighbors. You could be living next to a drug dealer, a prostitute, or Mother Theresa and usually you’d have no idea. Daily you’ll ride the elevator in your building, and even if it’s the size of an umbrella stand, and it’s just you and one other neighbor, you won’t exchange words. Even if you get out of the elevator only to realize they live next door to you, you’ll just keep walking without speaking. It’s what most people do in New York City, that is, unless you’re me.

I’ve always talked to everyone and virtually anyone that I see, on a regular basis or sometimes even randomly, during my day. I talk to the mailman when he’s dropping off my mail. I talk to the old, cranky guy who sits on the corner with his fold-up chair who makes comments about everyone. I talk to the deli guy where I buy my bagel, and I talk to the crazy lady who talks to herself if she happens to start talking to me. At the very least I like to wave to her. Some say it’s a curse, but I think it’s a blessing that I can talk to a wall. But sometimes it gets me into trouble.

I had just moved into a new building. Actually, it was a decrepit, rent stabilized, pre-pre-pre-war building. Trust me, all of the wars happened after this building was built, but it was new to me. It was an absolute steal for a huge, according to Manhattan standards, apartment with a big walk-in closet. A place for my shoes? I was sold. When I moved in, I immediately met all of my neighbors on the floor including some of the neighbors a few flights up. The building was small, so it didn't take me very long to make my rounds.

At first, it made no sense to me why this apartment was so cheap. Until I slept there the first night and was woken up to “HIIIII----YAAAAA!” My apartment was directly above a karate studio, who knew people get up early to practice karate? Why people find the need to be healthy or learn self-protective strategies at 8 am is beyond me, so it was tough at first, but soon I was able to sleep through all of the shaking, jumping, screaming and board busting that went on. Whenever I wasn’t home to take packages, the owner of the studio always took them for me. I figured if there was ever any trouble in my place, there were 55 black-belts nearby. I started getting comfortable in my apartment, and on my new block. I lived on Lexington Avenue and everyone from corner to corner knew me. I turned New York City into my very own Main street.

I was cutting out of work early one Friday to go to the beach for the weekend. It was going to be a weekend full of drunkenness and sun. I ran in from work and since it’s about 8000 degrees in NYC in the summer at all times, I immediately hopped in the shower. Between the entire city smelling like a urinal and feeling like you’re walking around in a sauna all day taking showers twice a day is critical to not feeling repulsive. I was psyched that I was going to have a great weekend and that I was getting an early start. I was packing a bag while standing in a towel, when my phone rang.

“Hello,” I said.

“Hi. I’m your neighbor Frank. I live in the apartment above yours.”

“Oh, hi. It’s so nice to meet you. How’s it going?”

I didn’t question for one minute how the guy got my phone number, how he knew my name, or why he was calling. I was living on Main Street, and I was enthusiastically talking to my new neighbor Frank who could only be calling with good news.

“It’s going okay, but there’s a little problem with our apartments. It seems that there’s a hole in my floor that goes into your bathroom.”

Wow, I was glad he was calling to tell me that. But then he said...

“Basically I see you when you shower, and I know when you get period.”

Okay, first of all, gross. I walked into my bathroom and looked up at the ceiling, and I didn’t see any holes. But with the building being 500 years old the ceiling was shoddy. I quickly exited Main Street and came back a little Jersey.

“Really? You can see me when I’m in my bathroom? Well I’m in my bathroom now, so what am I wearing?”
He said, “A towel. I’m only calling to help you out...”

Unable to hear anything else after “towel,” I freaked. “You’re trying to help me out? You call me up and tell me that you see me when I shower and you know when I get my period and that’s supposed to be helpful? Thanks alot *^&%&* I guess I’ll be caulking my ceiling this weekend!”

I hung up the phone, and I ran out of my bathroom and got dressed in my kitchen. Creeped out and not sure what I should do next my phone rang again. Is this guy kidding?

Gruffly into the phone I said, “Yeah?” But the voice on the other end was one of my coolest friends. She was calling to see what I was up to for the weekend. I told her about the phone call from Frank, and she came right over to call the police. The idea of the police coming made it seem serious. Plus before my friend called me she had just smoked a ton of pot. But even in her stoned state she insisted I call the cops, so I threw some sunglasses on her, and we made the call.

TO BE CONTINUED...

Main Street Manhattan (Part 2)

noreply@blogger.com (Climb2Nowhere) — Thu, 16 Jun 2011 02:06:00 +0000

On Main Street the cops don’t have to be called in because some weird guy is tracking your menstrual cycles. On Main Street the cops walk up and down the beat and know you by name. The two cops that showed up at my place were not like the cops in my Main Street utopia. One was nuts and was just looking for an excuse to go Rodney King on someone’s ass. He was a short, Italian, cursing lunatic about to explode from the slightest provocation.

When I told him about the whole “I know when you get your period” thing, he screamed and punched my wall. Usually I’m not really into psycho cops, but when some weird guy is laying on his bathroom floor looking at you shower through a crack, suddenly you’re happy there’s a psycho cop who wants to help you.

His partner was the exact opposite. Composed and calm that wasn’t the only thing that made him standout from Psycho Cop. The partner looked like he was in the process of getting gender re-assignment surgery because he was definitely wearing blush and had serious man boobs. His voice cracked and seemed to be high for a man. I’m sure Psycho Cop wasn’t happy being partners with Gender Reassignment Cop, but I was happy to have the balance. Psycho Cop needed it, and if the other cop was in the process of turning into a girl, he’d know how I felt.

Stoner was trying to stay in the background and avoided acting paranoid. Gender Reassignment Cop thought they should go upstairs and talk to Frank, so me and Stoner ate some cheese doodles while they went upstairs.

When the two cops returned to my apartment they looked a little confused. They asked me questions about what Frank had sounded like on the phone. I told them he had a heavy NY accent, and he was loud. The guy who lived above me was a gay, Frenchman, and they believed he had no idea what they were talking about when they questioned him

about the call. Luckily for Frenchie’s sake he wasn’t involved because if Psycho Cop had thought he was the one, it would’ve been ugly.

The cops left and told me to call if anything else happened. I finished packing my bag and went on with my weekend plans. I came home late Sunday night and thought it was all behind me. It was late, and I was exhausted. It was

almost midnight and the lights in my apartment were on. I have to admit that I was dreading shutting them off. One of my brothers called me to tell me something, but then said he had to call me back because he had to watch some stupid baseball instant replay. I hung up the phone and then it rang two seconds later. Thinking it was my brother, I answered it. Heavy breathing. “I see you.” More heavy breathing.

You know how when you watch a scary movie and something like this happens, the heroine just sits there and doesn’t move and you wonder what you’d do in the same

situation. Secretly, you think you might also be a dumb ass and react the same way. I don’t wonder about that anymore. Within seconds, I jumped out of bed, called the police, put clothes on, and was getting my sneakers when the cops showed up.

This time it was two other guys. I was crying. I couldn’t believe I didn’t feel safe in my own home. I started to tell them what had happened on Friday and now on Sunday, but they could’ve cared less. Total douche bags, they didn’t even wait for me to finish getting my stuff together to leave. They told me to get caller ID, and they wanted me to stop calling the police. The least they could’ve done was walk me out of the building.

Standing on my beloved Lexington Avenue, at midnight, holding my arm up to hail a cab, Psycho Cop and Gender Reassignment Cop pulled up. They said they heard my address over the car radio, and they came right over to see if I was alright.

I sat in the back of their patrol car. Psycho Cop had a screaming fit after I told him what happened and Gender Reassignment really empathized with my situation. They said this was now a stalking case, and they were taking it seriously. They were putting a tap and a trace on my phone, and all I had to do was answer the phone, and they’d have him. I told Psycho Cop about the Douche Bag Cops and what they said, and he told me not to worry, he’d take care of them. I was happy Psycho Cop would be able to take his anger out on someone.

TO BE CONTINUED...

Main Street Manhattan (Part 3)

noreply@blogger.com (Climb2Nowhere) — Tue, 14 Jun 2011 23:08:00 +0000

The next day was Monday. Day One of having a trace and tap on my phone. I was dying for Frank the Stalker to call. I couldn’t wait. I sat by the phone willing it to ring. Most people would hope the stalker would have stopped calling by now but not me. I wanted to know who it was. I wanted to see Psycho Cop go Rodney King on his ass. I wanted some peace of mind.

He didn’t call all day. I called out sick from work and everything. I guess most stalkers like to stalk at night. Cowards. Since I had the day off from work, I went out and bought a book about stalkers. If I had one, I should try to learn all about them. The one thing I took away from the book is that overly-friendly nice people get stalked. If you’re a total cranky bitch even stalkers aren’t interested. Cranky bitches really get all the advantages. If you’re not famous, then you know who your stalker is. It suggested to make a list of all the people who give you the creeps, or who you think might be “a little off.”

In NYC, with my overly-friendly ways, it was a pretty long list. I studied the list. Some of the guys seemed weird, but too lazy. You have to be motivated to stalk. Lazy guys don’t have enough enthusiasm to get the job done. You also need a guy that's committed. Let’s face it, in NYC that cut the list to only a few. One was actually one of the black belts who taught in the karate school below me. I made a mental note to be more of a bitch to him. The other was this limo driver who took me back and forth to the airport a few times. I thought he was strange, he kept asking me out even though he was a 100 years older than me, and it was weird I kept getting him. Then there was this guy in the deli, but I wasn’t sure if he was stalker material. My best guest was the karate guy, but how would I know for sure?

I became really good at locking my door the minute I walked into my apartment and waiting by my phone. Instead of waiting for a hottie to call I was waiting for someone mentally deranged. Where did it all go wrong? If anyone called I told them I couldn’t talk because I didn’t know if the trace or the tap would work with call waiting. I had friends on rotation staying over every night because that’s when I knew Frank the Stalker would call.

Everything was in place, but suddenly Frank the Stalker had given up on stalking. I wondered if his real life had conflicted with his secret, stalking life. It was all very confusing, and I was totally on edge. I was waiting for a friend to come over when my buzzer rang. Thinking it was my friend, I talked into the intercom to confirm it was him.

Nobody answered, but I heard someone come into the building. I ran and got my bat (I was sleeping with one under my bed) and waited at my door. I was staring out the peep hole, thinking thiswas it, when a short, skinny, little man started pounding on my door. Who the hell was this?

“I am Antoine! You called the police on me! You are a stupid, stupid, woman! Open up your door!”

It was Frenchie who lived above me. Was this guy on crack?

“&^%^&* you Antoine! I will not open the door and you have no idea why I called the police! And if you don’t stop pounding on my door I’m going to call the police again!”

He was knocking on my door so hard I thought it was going to break. It was so bad that the 55 black belts that I always hoped would help me in time of a crisis came flying up the stairs to see what was going on. Except for one. The creepy one conveniently was missing. When the black belts came up, Frenchie ran, and he proceeded to jump up and down on my ceiling like a lunatic. The owner of the karate school was concerned, but I didn’t even want to open my door for him. This was nuts, something had to give. I needed Frank the Stalker to stalk me again and end all of this madness.

Then HE called. The next night. I was being babysat, by this guy Ralphie who was driving me nuts. One of my friends couldn’t come, so she sent her cousin. He’d lost like 100 pounds doing The Zone Diet, and I had to listen to him give me a blow by blow of what he ate all day every day. I was sitting there eating a vat of Tasti-Delight frozen yogurt covered with peanut butter chips while listening to this guy tell me about the fat/protein/carbohydrate ratio of the 25 meals that he ate per day. Then I had to listen to his workout routine. When the phone rang I wasn’t even thinking about Frank the Stalker because I was trying to figure out how to get Ralphie out of my apartment. I picked up the phone...

“Hello.”

“Yeah, you know we’re still having a problem with our apartments...”

It was Frank the Stalker. Finally! If you can't even count on a stalker stalking what was this city coming to?

I said, “We're still having a problem? Good. Go fuck yourself.”

I hung up the phone and called the police, but he was stalking me from a cell phone that was untraceable. Psycho Cop and Gender Reassignment

Cop said if he always called from that phone there wasn’t much they could do.

Friends urged me to move, but there was no way I was going to leave Main Street. Nobody was pushing me out of my apartment. I changed my number, had it unlisted, and stopped being friendly to anyone I thought was a little off. I wasn’t going to totally change but there needed to be some adjustment. I knew I could take care of myself no matter what happened, so I stopped having someone with me all the time, and I put my faith back into Main Street Manhattan. The 55 black belts had helped when they thought I was in trouble. All of my friends had rallied. I had done everything I could. I knew I’d be fine.

Oh yeah, and I started dating Psycho Cop, and he practically lived in my building for awhile, so guess that helped too.

***I'd like to thank everyone who expressed concern for my safety after reading this story. I'm out of that building now, and I'm fine. Thanks for all the love!

I Just Want To Do Whatever (Part 3)

noreply@blogger.com (Climb2Nowhere) — Wed, 25 May 2011 23:37:00 +0000

Should I just quit? How bad do I really need money? I can’t miss a trip, but I definitely needed money, so quitting was out. Should I fall while we’re walking and break my nose? That would be hard to do plus I wanted to hook up while I was in Cancun. Should I call up crying and say one of my dead relatives died again? I don’t think dead relatives mind if you use their names. They are dead after all, it’s really not a lie, but what if she wanted to send flowers?

Luckily, my NGBF is a pharmaceutical rep, and she’s only had bad bosses. We came up with a plan that was fool proof. It was definitely risky, and it would take the two of us to pull it off. Timing would be crucial. We plotted out both of our moves precisely. If all went well, I’d be sipping cocktails in Cancun in less than 24-hours. If all didn’t go well, we’d both be up a shit’s creek.

I texted Oh My Hummer and told her we were going to meet early at the Manhattan VA. There was a client I wanted to see there (lie number one.) She said that was fine, and that she was looking forward to the day. I said I was looking forward to it too (lie number two), and then got sick to my stomach. This needed to work.

Barely able to sleep the night before, when I woke up I jumped into action. This was it. The big plan. Was I going to be able to maintain my easy, breezy life while working for a crazy-ass boss, or would this be the end of my job? I know most people would just skip the trip to keep their job, but I was determined to keep something more precious than my job: my freedom.

My car was parked in front of the hospital on the street when I saw Oh My Hummer getting out of a cab. She was right on time. I was definitely sweating this one. My suitcase was packed in my trunk, and I needed my NGBF to pull through. If she didn’t, and I had to work with Oh My Hummer all day, not only would I miss my trip, but it’d look weird to have a suitcase in my trunk instead of samples. I got out of my car and saw my NGBF sitting in her car a few cars behind mine. Oh My Hummer was at the entrance of the hospital.

I walked up to Oh My Hummer, said hello, and then we went into the hospitil. Once my NGBF saw us walking into the buiding, she’d only have a few minutes to do what she needed to do. As we were walking down a long hallway over to the psych ward, my NGBF pulled her car out of her spot and slowly started driving up to mine.

It’s 8 am in the morning, but in Manhattan there’s still a fair number of people out down by the hospital. My NGBF double parked her car next to mine. Her heart was racing. She got out of her car and looked around.

While walking down the hallway, we ran into a nurse I knew who stopped us from going any further and told me the client we were about to go

see was out today. Damn, helpful people! I knew that, but I needed more time. “Thanks,” I said and smiled, wanting to kill her. Oh My Hummer wanted to leave to get breakfast. Shit!

Looking around. Thinking of what to do, I told her I needed to use the bathroom first. I went into the bathroom and looked at my watch. I tried texting my NGBF to see if everything was taken care of, but my phone had no reception. AT&T had failed me again! Can they suck any worse?

I figured I’d just sit in the bathroom for a few minutes, but it smelled really bad. I was watching the clock. It was brutal. I tried holding my nose, but I needed to breath, and I still smelled it. But then somebody started knocking on the door. I said, “One minute.” But they kept knocking. Was it some nut from the psych ward? Trust me, they didn’t want to use this bathroom. It was disgusting. I hoped the smell wouldn’t attach to my clothes. This whole protecting your lifestyle and freedom at work thing was hard.

Meanwhile my NGBF was quickly looking around to make sure that nobody happened to be looking her way. She went into her bag and took out her swiss army knife. Ironically, it was a gift she won from a pharmaceutical contest. She quickly plunged the

knife into my front tire.

The knocking. The smell. I had to get out of there. I flushed the toilet and walked out of the bathroom, hoping I’d given my NGBF enough time. We started walking toward the entrance of the hospital.

My NGBF ran back into her car, and drove down the street.

My cell phone rang, and I pretended it was a client, as we stepped out of the hospital. I said, “Hello” and then heard, “The eagle has landed.” Massive relief. The deed was done. Ole’!

Me and Oh My Hummer, once in my car, started to pull out of the spot, but it's not easy driving on a flat tire. Oh My Hummer exclaimed, “Oh my you have a flat.” “Honestly, that’s so weird. I must’ve driven over some glass. Honestly, this day is ruined!”

Oh My Hummer immediately left and told me to take care of it. She called up the Brooklyn rep up and told him she was coming to work with him. Can’t she just take a day off? I felt sorry for him, but this really wasn’t my fault. Typical Pharma Bitch was to blame, and she’d get hers eventually. My NGBF pulled up from back around the block and waited with my car for the tow truck. I grabbed my suitcase

and hailed a cab to go to the airport.

Freedom is worth everything. Sometimes you slash a tire. It’s not like you’re slashing a face. I definitely owed my NGBF a big favor, but she knew I'd be good for it. I watched Manhattan pass before my eyes as the cab sped down the FDR drive, and I smiled about my future of mojito’s, guacamole, and doing whatever I wanted.

I Just Want To Do Whatever (Part 2)

noreply@blogger.com (Climb2Nowhere) — Wed, 25 May 2011 00:09:00 +0000

It was my first day working with Oh My Hummer, and we had never met. She had me meet her in a McDonald’s for breakfast. Gross. As we sat there in the bolted down chairs, and I stared at my hash browns, I was ready to heed my old boss’s advice. First, I started repeating my own weird phrase, “Honestly?” over and over again. I can be sarcastic, so I love saying, “Honestly?” when I think something is ridiculous, but I don’t overuse it. It was funny to listen to her say, “Oh my” while I got to say, “Honestly?” over and over. If I was going to be a character it might as well be amusing.

Oh My Hummer wanted to go over my entire client list before we started working. As we went down the list, she asked me about each client. Before I’d get into it, I’d say, “Honestly?” and roll my eyes as though I were frustrated that the doctor wasn't

writing enough. As though I were agreeing with her. I wanted her to think I was crazy extreme like her. I prepped all my clients the day before and told them I was coming in with my wacko boss, and I wasn’t going to be acting like myself. I called on psychiatrists, and when I told them my plan, they were interested to see how it’d work. They’re nuts too.

All day we drove around in the car visiting clients from sun up to sun down. It was exhausting. It definitely cut into my couch time, but I persevered. If I made it through this test, I’d start to get my freedom back. She hummed, and I whistled. She said, “Oh my” and I said, “Honestly?” We were like two mental patients saying catch phrases while humming and whistling unknown tunes. I was ultra-aggressive with the clients, and I rolled my eyes at them all day to her. By the end of the day she loved me, and I laughed to myself. Coolest Boss in the World had hooked me up one last time.

Things didn’t go as well for Typical Pharma Bitch. When they worked together , they fought all day and Oh My Hummer tried to make her cry. I had told Typical Pharma Bitch to do what Coolest Boss in the World had told us to do, but she wouldn’t listen. Stubborn and annoying, this was why most people hated her. They were having a power struggle, and we all knew who would lose.

However, I soon became Oh My Hummer’s favorite rep, and everyone knew it. I was the only one who didn’t get screamed at. I was the only one who she didn’t make cry. She never questioned what I was doing or where I was. As long as when I saw her, I was whistling and honestly-ing her to death, everything was fine. Everyone on my team thought it was hysterical, except for Typical Pharma Bitch. She was the type who wanted the bosses to love her, but they never did. Apparently, being a pain-in-the-ass is annoying even to angry, humming people.

I started getting comfortable. I started cutting back on the whistling and the “honestly’s.” We stopped meeting at McDonald’s and started meeting at an actual diner. I was in. Work life was great. Everything seemed to be getting back to normal. Sleeping in. Pajama conference calls. Four hour work days. Three day weekends. My sales were great, so I figured there was nothing to worry about. I went to California for a few days, and then to Miami, without putting in for any of the time off. Just like the old days. My easy,

breezy job and lifestyle were back. So what if I had to act like a crazy, obsessed sales person? As long as my life was good, who cared?

Oh My Hummer totally trusted me, so I had nothing to worry about. But then I booked a trip for a long weekend in Cancun and mentioned it to Typical Pharma Bitch. That was my mistake. We ran into each other in a bar at happy hour. Alcohol had failed me again.

I saw my phone ringing with Oh My Hummer showing up on the line. Typical Pharma Bitch was supposed to work with Oh My Hummer the next day. I didn’t understand why she was calling me. She told me that Typical Pharma Bitch had just called out sick, a stomach flu, and since she was going to drive into NYC anyway, she might as well work with me instead. What was I supposed to say?

I wanted to kill Typical Pharma Bitch, but I’d have to save that for later. With a flight leaving at 11am the next morning, I’d have to come up with something. Why was she screwing me over like this? There was no way I was going to miss that trip, but I couldn’t call out sick. As soon as I hung up the phone, I called my NGBF (Non-Gay Best Friend) to discuss what to do.

TO BE CONTINUED...

I Just Want To Do Whatever (Part 1)

noreply@blogger.com (Climb2Nowhere) — Mon, 23 May 2011 00:20:00 +0000

I just want to do whatever all of the time. Really, doesn’t everybody? Yea, I’m sure there are those ultra-regimented people who want consistency and rules, but I’ve never been one of those people. Let’s face it, work can be inconvenient at times. I’m not sure who thought Monday through Friday, eight to six, would be a good time to go, but those times don’t always work for me. After all, I have a life. But when you’re in sales, most of that goes out the window. Sales lets you have freedom which makes it all bearable.

In pharmaceutical sales you have a ton of freedom, but all of that freedom depends on who you work for. Your boss makes or breaks the job. Yea, you have to increase sales and do a few things, but doing all of that leads to freedom. If you have a cool boss, the lifestyle of a pharmaceutical rep is incomparable. But if your boss happens to be a nut-job, then nothing is worse. No freedom equals nightmare job.

I was lucky enough to have a job with the coolest boss in the world. All he cared about were your sales results. That’s how it should be. When you did work with him, you’d go to an expensive lunch, and then he’d leave. He was funny. He was easy-going. He thought he was a dog in another life. It was perfect. I did my job in a few hours, went home, and never worried about anything. I wanted to work for him forever.

But then one day at around 10 in the morning, Coolest Boss in the World was ringing my phone off the hook. He knew I was sleeping, what the hell? He kept hanging up on my answering machine, and then ringing back. Finally, he screamed into the answering machine for me to get out of bed to answer his call. Totally unlike him, I should’ve known that his phone call was the beginning of the end.

The company we worked at was creating a new division, and they picked top reps from all over the country to join it. I was going to be one of those reps. Were the other reps in the company out of the country for the entire year because I barely worked? How the hell did this happen? I pleaded with Coolest Boss in the World to try to fight for me to continue working for him, but he said he had no choice in the situation. When I asked him who I’d be working for, he almost didn’t want to tell me. He said her name, and my heart dropped. I was about to work for the craziest chick in the company: Oh My Hummer.

She was from Connecticut and constantly said the phrase, “Oh my” while humming all day. (Why did you think I called her that?) I don’t think people should hum. And I take a very hard stance on this. I don’t care if you’re old. I don’t care if you’re in a play and practicing the tune out loud. I don’t care what your situation is; you should never hum. I’m pretty sure people who hum have some form of mental illness. It’s not a pleasant sound, you look strange when you do it, and nobody can ever figure out what song it is.

These humming people are definitely on the fringe of society. No doubt! I bet right before people go ballistic they’re humming. “Hmmm, hmmm, hmmm, hmmm time to chop up my family, hmmm, hmmm, hmmm, hmmm.” Am I wrong here? Either sing the song or shut up.

The humming was horrible, but it wasn’t the worst of what she did. She spied on reps, bragged about making them cry, was over aggressive with the clients, called you at all hours of the day, was cheap with the company money, had unrealistic expectations for your sales, and watched you like a hawk.

The company also moved this other rep from my team over to this new division. She was the typical annoying rep who's totally miserable in pharmaceuticals. Typical Pharma Bitch was tall, skinny, worked Manhattan, and took the job too seriously. She was hated by doctors, and other reps. You’d think she’d like the idea of working for a nut job, but she was upset too. I figured Oh My Hummer would love her. They’d be like two peas in a pod. What chance would I have?

I was telling Coolest Boss in the World my fears about working for his polar opposite when he said, “I’ve lasted in this business for years and the one thing that’s constant is that it’s always changing. You won’t have to work for her forever, but while you do make it work for you. Let her think you’re just like her and act like you are as into the job as she is. Do whatever it takes to make her like you, so she’ll leave you alone. If you do that, you can’t lose.”

TO BE CONTINUED...

Naked on the Subway (Part 3)

noreply@blogger.com (Climb2Nowhere) — Thu, 10 Mar 2011 22:50:00 +0000

While riding the Path train, trying to avoid eye contact, my mind was a jumble of thoughts. Where am I going to get dressed? What the hell am I going to do? Why didn’t I just get dressed at the laughing Chinese Lady’s shop? Why can’t I get up on time? Why? Why? Why?

I was suddenly interrupted by this guy. He was staring. Hard. It wasn’t a quick peek and look away. It was a mouth watering, I-haven’t-been-laid-in-6-months-and-I-want-to-get-to-know-you-naked-girl-

on-the-train type of stare.

It made me uncomfortable, and I didn’t know what to do, so I stared back. When in doubt, be confrontational. I finally said, “Is there a problem?” He said, “What’s the matter? You didn’t have time to get dressed this morning?” I said, “Haven’t you ever heard of dress down day?” And then I ran off the train.

I ran up the steps and down the block only to think that things looked different. I knew it was early but it just seemed... and then I realized I got off at the wrong stop. That crazy stalker/starer had rattled me so much that I got off at 23rd street, and my job was on 34th. With no money for a cab, I jumped onto the 9-train.

My eyes search the train for coworkers so frenetically that I look like an epileptic patient. I’m so close to work that it’s almost inevitable I’ll run into someone. Hottie Boss is going to kill me.

The people in NJ had been staring, gawking, whistling and waving, but my beloved New Yorkers barely blink. I’m naked on the subway, and someone else is really a man dressed as

a woman, and someone else is crazy talking to himself about peanut butter, while a blind man, who appears to be able to see, begs for change. I’m with my people. I’m home.

I pop out of the train a block from work. I run into the Manhattan Mini-Mall because I know there’s a set of bathrooms on the top floor. I have 3 minutes. I would get dressed in the elevator, but it’s made of glass. This karma bullshit sucks, when it happens in reverse to you.

I’m running towards the bathroom when two maintenance guys call out, “Excuse me, the mall is closed.” I turn around, with only a moment to spare, and plead like my life depends on it. I stare straight in their eyes, and say, “Listen. I. Need. To. Use. Your. Bathroom. Now!” I punctuate each word by looking at my body hoping they understand. One guy moves into action. He quickly unlocks the bathroom for me. I run in, throw my suit on and run out. Please let me get to work on time!

I sit down in the meeting with a second to spare. Hottie Boss looks over at me and smiles. It was all worth it for that smile, and the confirmation that I’m in the clear with him for the time being. I’ll still get to do whatever I want.

And the next day, as I’m buying my usual salad at lunch from the top floor of the food court at the Manhattan Mini Mall, a guy walks over to me and hands me a note. I don’t recognize him at first, but it’s one of the guys who had let me into the bathroom the day before. The note says, “Dear YOU” in capitals, “We would love to take you out. Love, Joey and Vinny.” It’s hard not to laugh to myself. Maybe there is something to this getting up early in the morning thing after all.

Naked on the Subway (Part 2)

noreply@blogger.com (Climb2Nowhere) — Tue, 08 Mar 2011 23:39:00 +0000

I arrived at the dry cleaners, and the Chinese woman who owned the place knew me by last name. She said, “I’ll be right back.” I was thinking about how I would phrase my request of, “Can I use your back room,"or “Do you have somewhere I can get dressed,” when she brought out 10 suits. She started to give them to me when I said, “No, I’ll just take the blue one.” She laughed and said, “You get dressed here.”

It really annoyed me. Can we discuss the level I had taken this non-morning person thing? I’m one of those rare breed non-morning people who, not only can’t wake up in the morning, but when forced to be up early, I can’t speak. Or I can speak, but it’s with great difficulty, that’s for sure. I mean, who really wants to talk in the morning?

Maybe if I hadn’t had so much to drink the night before, and didn’t have a hangover, things would’ve went differently. Maybe, if in the past I had been able to handle a morning question like, “Would you like some orange juice,” without wanting to commit murder, things would’ve went differently. Maybe if I got more sleep in general, but shoulda, coulda, woulda for some damn reason the Chinese woman telling me, “You get dressed here,” pissed me off. I thought it was rather presumptuous of her to tell me I was getting dressed there.

And that laugh. Ha ha ha ha. It wasn’t a full laugh. It wasn’t a sneer. It was an, “I’m happy and don’t need coffee or anything in the morning, I just wake up," type of laugh. Maybe she

laughed, because she was nervous. Or maybe she actually had a sense of humor. Maybe she was laughing because I was obviously naked and needed a place to get dressed, and how the hell did this happen?

But in the morning, I can’t think straight. I can’t think of all these logical reasons. The laugh was part of my anger. If she had said without laughing, “I know how hard it is to get up in the morning and then to get dressed on top of it is too much. Here, come in the back and you get dressed here.” That type of understanding would’ve made all the difference.

But that didn’t happen. Instead, “You get dressed here. Ha ha ha ha.” So I showed her by walking right out and potentially losing the only place I had to get dressed in. I said, “No, I’m taking that suit for later,” which made no sense. Displaced anger is a real bitch.

As I walked down Washington Avenue, people seemed to notice me. A police man waved, a construction worker whistled, and I got a few up-and-down look overs from men and women walking by, but somehow I thought this was totally normal. I had convinced myself that nobody really noticed anything amiss.

I walked fast to the Barnes and Noble that was right next to the Path train. My plan was to get dressed in there. As I got closer, I realized it was closed. I’d never been by there that early to know that it doesn’t open before 8. Shit! I’m going to have to ride the Path train naked. How is this my life?

TO BE CONTINUED...

Naked on the Subway (Part 1)

noreply@blogger.com (Climb2Nowhere) — Sun, 06 Mar 2011 23:03:00 +0000

IT'S ONE YEAR SINCE I STARTED CLIMB TO NOWHERE. THANK YOU TO ALL OF MY FOLLOWERS. YOU'RE THE BEST! IN THE SPIRIT OF FUN I'M REPOSTING THE STORY THAT STARTED IT ALL!

Right now, I’m naked on the subway. I’m afraid to sit in fear of showing my crotch. Is this my life? Really? The 9 train is moving fast, but my heart is racing faster. I’m. Naked. On. The. Subway. What? My mind flies in every direction.

I wish there was some crazy hook up story of random hot anonymous stranger sex, but instead it’s a story of laziness. I’m not a morning person, and I’ve never wanted to be one. Let’s face it, morning people are annoying. But this was one day when I wished I had that sunny can-do attitude that my morning counterparts seem to pull off effortlessly. I can be sunny, just not before 10 a.m.

I was living in Hoboken and working in Manhattan. The entire commute was 30 minutes

door-to-door. I was a sales rep selling something else this time, and I went to work late everyday. I had the best boss, a total hottie, who made a great deal with me. Hottie Boss said, “Do well and you can do whatever you want.” I love that phrase, “Do whatever you want.” It has a wonderful ring to it. My sales were always at the top which allowed me to sleep in everyday. Fantastic, I know.

Hottie Boss called me into his office the day before my naked trip to work and stressed that I needed to be on time for work tomorrow. This meant being in the office by 8 o’clock in the morning. I said, “No problem,” but he gave me a look and said, "I'm serious.

There’s a big meeting, and you can’t be late.” All of a sudden I’m not allowed to be late? What kind of job is this? No wink, no smile, no pat on my ass- what’s going on?

I needed to pick up my suits at the dry cleaners, and then all I had to do was get up on time. Simple. I got into the elevator to go home, when I ran into a few friends, who invited me to grab drinks with them. Luckily, there was time for drinks and picking up the suits. But then I stumbled back to my apartment drunk around 11 p.m. As I was falling asleep, I remembered the suits. How could I forget? Alcohol is evil. I guess I’d have to wake up even earlier than I was supposed to and do it in the morning.

Of course, I overslept. It was almost 7:15, when I remembered all my suits were at the dry cleaners. I had nothing else to wear. I needed those suits. The only way I could get to work on time was to get dressed at the dry cleaners. I threw on my bra, panties and my very short raincoat. Some thought it was a blazer, but it was just a really, really short coat.

I threw on pantyhose. Can anything be more uncomfortable or ugly? Pantyhose should never be on your legs. They should only be worn over your face to rob someone, but the company I worked at was very conservative, so I threw on pantyhose.

I had on a bra, panties, pantyhose, 4-inch heels and my “blazer” raincoat. At another time- definitely not in the morning- with a garter and maybe a pair of handcuffs, this could’ve been the beginning of a fun fantasy sex romp. No such luck. I needed to get to work on time. I didn’t want to let Hottie Boss down.

I ran to the dry cleaners as fast as I could. And it was there that my non-morning person attitude got me into trouble.

TO BE CONTINUED...

My Dog is a C*#?% Block (Part 3)

noreply@blogger.com (Climb2Nowhere) — Fri, 25 Feb 2011 03:13:00 +0000

We walked in, and now that it was almost two in the morning and the dogs were alone for hours, it was a shit storm of barking like I had never experienced. They were going nuts. I needed to take them out for walks. “Gay or Straight?” had walked in and sat down on the floor just like I’d asked, but it wasn’t helping. I can’t imagine that it would’ve been worse. I started getting their leashes to take them outside and told him to stay in my apartment when I noticed the books in my book case. And then the book next to my bed.

A friend and I had recently decided we were going to start our own business and become matchmakers. We were in the Hamptons one weekend after partying our asses off, and thought it’d be a fun business, so we ordered a ton of relationship books, and they were all in my book case. I had started reading one, and it was sitting next to my bed. What if this guy wasn’t gay? He’d think I was one of those people who read self-help

books. Many self-help books. It’d make me look like I was a basket-case. Quickly, I changed my mind and told him to come outside with me. I’d deal with the book next to my bed once we went back up.

Up and down my street. A thousand times. We walked the dogs around the block. Across the street. All over. And they wouldn’t go to the bathroom. All they wanted to do was sniff and bark. Not only did they want to bark at “Gay or Straight,?” but they barked at everyone and everything that passed us. They were pissed after being left alone so long and one dog spurred on the other. A few times “Gay or Straight?” started to “massage” my back while I stood there holding the dogs. The things I was putting myself through were ridiculous. It was turning into an awful night. After an hour or so, a guy on my block who lives street level came out to complain. I didn’t think people in NYC complained about noise, but it was close to four in the morning. We crossed the street to the other side, and I told “Gay or Straight?” I’d take a raincheck. He left. The dogs quieted down, and finally they both went to the bathroom. What a night!

I never did cash in that raincheck. I spoke to Sweet But Has Boring Friends who confirmed my suspicions. She thought he was gay too and her GBF also thought he was gay. Gay But Acting Straight, I guess. Maybe he was Bi. Who knows, but I can’t imagine

who’d like that weird back move.

I had been thinking the dogs were c*#?% blocks, but they had saved me from sleeping with a gay guy. Dogs have loyalty, smarts, and gaydar? Who knew? They had rescued me without me realizing it at the time, and woken up the entire neighborhood, but who cared.

Now when my dog barks I try not to get as annoyed. You never know what she might be trying to tell me, and let’s face it, I owe her one.

My Dog is a C*#?% Block (Part 2)

noreply@blogger.com (Climb2Nowhere) — Thu, 24 Feb 2011 03:11:00 +0000

I wanted to ask Sweet But Has Boring Friends if he was gay or straight, but I didn’t know what the etiquette was. Plus she was in deep conversation with her boring friends so it’d be tough to drag her away. I continued to play the game in my head, and then noticed it was almost one in the morning. I had to get back to the Barkersteins. I was late and the dogs were going to be nuts!

I said goodbye to my friend when “Straight or Gay?” jumped up to leave with

me. We walked out, and he offered to grab me a cab. I told him I was going to walk a little, so he started walking me home. Next thing you know we’re kissing on the corner. While I was kissing him I kept thinking, is he straight or gay? I just didn’t know. I was really attracted to him, but when we kissed it didn’t do it for me. But maybe it was because I was still asking that nagging question.

We kept walking, and then he started doing something that isn’t straight or gay. It’s weird. Whenever we stopped walking he’d take his fingers and do this weird pushing thing on my spine. Some type of accupuncture I guess. Luckily it was dark because my face was showing fear and a little bit of pain. Sweetly, I said, thanks for

the massage? I shouldn’t of encouraged him because he kept doing it every time we weren’t walking, but I really wanted to know what the hell he was doing.Then I just started kissing him because anything was better than this weird thing up and down my back. Was this supposed to be a turn on? It felt like a medical procedure. The kissing was definitely getting hotter so I overlooked the odd massage.

We finally got back to my apartment, and he asked me if I wanted him to come up. I did want him to, but I still wasn’t sure. I thought there was only one way to really find out so I was going in. We needed to really test things in the lab. These weren’t unchartered waters. I wasn’t the first woman in this dilemma. As long as he cut the shit out he was doing to my back I figured it'd be

okay.

Once we were in the elevator I remembered the dogs. So I told him about them and asked him if he could do something for me. I told him to walk in the apartment and immediately sit on the floor. If he stood there I figured it’d be worse, but if he got down on their level I hoped it’d be better.

TO BE CONTINUED...

My Dog is a C*#?% Block (Part 1)

noreply@blogger.com (Climb2Nowhere) — Wed, 23 Feb 2011 03:35:00 +0000

My dog likes to bark. All of the time. I’ve taken her to trainers. I’ve socialized her at the best doggie day cares in Manhattan. I walk her for miles a day. She has giant biscuits to chew. But none of those things take away her will to bark. Barky is never deterred. She has a best dog friend, and he’s the same barky breed. He’s sweet and lovable, and they are the most adorable pups, but he barks all the time too. When you put them together it usually equals the noise level of ten Dobermans, three German Shepards and four Dalmations...it’s enough to want to kill them.

There’s an unwritten rule in dog ownership. If you watch my dog, I’ll watch yours. It’s pretty simple. I’m sure people with kids do the same thing, but kids don’t bark. They do other annoying things, but the barking... So when my friend takes my dog and watches her, I know I’m going to have to reciprocate. But at what cost?

I was watching the dogs one weekend in the summer and they were driving me nuts. I only have one neighbor on my floor so whenever I watch them together I keep extra beer in the fridge as my peace offering to him. My friends dog, is really needy when he comes to stay, and it makes it hard to leave the apartment. He acts nuts if I just throw out the garbage and then come back. I was working on some writing projects that weekend so except for going to a party I’d be home most of the time.

Even with me being home they were both crazily barking non-stop. Every noise. Every move. Bark. Bark. Bark.

They're just awful together. I live in a studio apartment making it impossible to escape them. I couldn’t wait to go to my party for a break. Even though I knew the party would be pretty boring. One of my friends is the sweetest, but she has the most boring friends. It was sorta my obligatory birthday visit, but with the nuttiness of the dogs I couldn’t wait to leave.

The party was at this amazing bar downtown. It’s one of my favorite spots, so I left early to get away. My plan, once I got to the party, was to have a few drinks and leave. I got there late, and I was still the first one to arrive. Sweet But Has Boring Friends and her Gay Best Friend (GBF) were doing a combo party. I figured the gay guys would be fun at least. This really cute guy showed up, and he was friends with my friends GBF, so I figured he was gay. Gay guys are so cute, it’s so sad for women.

The guy was flirting and talking to me all night. So I started playing the game “Straight or Gay?” in my head. It was such a dilemma. Flirty and staring at my chest. Straight. Talked about his mother and sister. Gay. A do-gooder. Gay. Hand on my leg. Straight. Best friends with the gay guy at the party. Gay. Referenced his ex-girlfriend a few times. Either. Strong sexual energy towards me. Straight. But it was so confusing I didn’t know what to do. Women in Manhattan have been second guessing themselves ever since metro-sexuals showed up.

TO BE CONTINUED...

Binge Life (Part 3)

noreply@blogger.com (Climb2Nowhere) — Thu, 13 Jan 2011 16:49:00 +0000

Despite being exhausted, we started getting nervous. It was really happening. We had to run 13.1 miles the next day. We decided to go eat a proper meal, and then go back to our hotel and rest. We went and had Japanese food. Healthy. We were walking back to our hotel, shopping here and there, when we decided we were still hungry. So we had Italian. Carb-loading, I guess. Then we stopped for gelato. Unnecessary. Then we had Philly cheesesteaks. Totally nuts. We were so nervous about running the next day, and about what we had done the night before, that now we were binge eating to calm ourselves. By the time we reached our hotel, we all felt sick. We decided to go to bed early to finally get some rest. It was turning into a disaster weekend. Old habits die hard. But then...

Boom. Boom. Boom. We were staying in the hotel that the marathon had suggested. Boom. Boom. Boom. What the hell was that? In our pajama’s we walked all over ourhallway, but we heard nothing. But once we were back in our room. Boom. Boom. Boom. Our room was right above the ballroom which had a wedding going on. That was the base from the deejay’s music at the reception. We wanted to switch rooms, but there were nomore rooms available. The hotel was booked between this wedding and all the people running the marathon. After everything else, now no sleep! This is what you get for revenge running a marathon.

Around 5 AM, we were awoken by our wake up call, and none of us moved. We all felt dead. But we eventually got out of bed, laced up our sneakers, and headed out to the starting line. We hoped our debauchery all weekend hadn’t destroyed all the weeks of work we’d put in. They shot the gun and everyone started running. We knew we wouldn’t run the whole thing together, but wanted to run some of it with each other. We had matching t-shirts to look for each other. They said, “Might Die!”

It’s going to sound strange, but the first few miles were a blur. There were so many spectators. People cheering all of the runners on. Music. It was really nice. Before I knew it, I was at mile-8. I felt great, like I could run forever. But then I hit mile-10, and I started having problems. I had hit THE WALL.

I had heard about THE WALL, but had never experienced it, but I guess with everything I had done the last 48-hours I should have been surprised I hadn’t hit it sooner. THE WALL is when your body starts to experience extreme fatigue. It has something to do with your body not being able to break down carbohydrates into fuel fast enough. All of a sudden, I wanted to collapse and my body wanted to stop. But because I didn’t want to give up, instead of stopping, I started crying.

I was passing mile-10, with only 3 miles left, crying while wearing a shirt that said, “Might Die!” I thought about smug runners everywhere and cursed them. Why did I have to run my mouth off about being a runner? I cursed myself. Why did I ever do this? What was I thinking? All the doubts. All the reasons to quit.

I was cursing and running and crying, when I finally just stopped running. I stopped running and kept crying. Standing and crying. I felt so alone. But then in an instant, I was surrounded by runners. All of these hot, male runners surrounded me and encouraged me to keep going. Was this a mirage? Was I having some weird out-of-body running experience? I was surrounded by athletic men telling me to keep going. Saying that it was going to be all right. That I could do it. They knew I was hitting THE WALL, and they were pushing me through it. This was the “high!” This was what all of those weeks of training and pain were all about!

So I started running again. At first slow, but then with more speed. Mile-11. Mile-12. As I was coming up on the last mile, I ran into Time of Our Lives and BFF. We ran the last mile together. I told them about hitting the wall and meeting the hot guys. They told me about stopping at 10 porta-potty’s from being sick from everything we ate the night before. I never ran into my Ex again. He was probably training for his next race, but who cares because now I was an athlete. I actually loved running. And after we crossed the finish line, and got our complimentary massages, and made our way back to the hotel, we made a pact. Never to do that again.

And then the next day we signed up for a triathlon.

Binge Life (Part 2)

noreply@blogger.com (Climb2Nowhere) — Tue, 11 Jan 2011 22:33:00 +0000

We were still motivated after our first run, so each run that week got slightly better. The weeks started passing, and it was getting easier. But then we had to start doing long runs. In other words, more than 4 miles, and we all struggled. We didn’t want to give up, so we needed to make some changes.

We cleaned up our diets. We stopped boozing every night. Time of Our Lives stopped smoking. BFF took care of her ankle. I gave up burritos. It was hard work. Revenge running a half marathon sounds great at first, but then when you actually have to do it, it sorta sucks. I gutted out each of the runs, but when I met my friends to do our group run, I was the only one left in the group.

I needed to do this for myself and maybe by myself. It’s not as fun running by yourself. At least for me it wasn’t, but on the bright side, I was running longer runs, so at least I’d finally experience that “runner’s high” that Smug Runners/Happy

Couple had talked about. I ran 7-mile, 8-mile, and even 9-mile runs, and there was no high to be found. Nothing. I did sprints to increase my time. I ran longer distances than I was supposed to, but still no high. No nothing. I’d gotten higher by just walking around the village from inhaling second hand pot than from running 10-miles! I still couldn’t eat whatever I wanted. And with no end in sight, I realized running really wasn’t what it’s cracked up to be. WTF?

I had one of my longest and last runs in the park and who meets me there out of nowhere, but Time of Our Lives. She’d been majorly missing in action, but had been keeping up with the running despite being out of touch. She brought BFF who had a slower pace because of the bum ankle, but was able to run the entire course without stopping. We were in pretty good shape for the race the next week. I couldn’t believe it was finally going to happen.

The race was in Philly. We did a road trip down on Friday, thinking we’d hang out and relax until Sunday. But then while driving through Pennsylvania, we passed a casino

and decided to stop in. Smoking, drinking and gambling all night really isn’t a great way to prepare for a half marathon. We were only going to stay an hour, but we were winning money, and when you’re on a roll...

At 3 in the morning, I was coughing from inhaling tons of smoke, Time of Our Lives was almost broke, and BFF was limping from standing all night. We drove the rest of the way to our hotel, and got there while the sun was rising. But there was hope because we still had all day Saturday to relax.

We took showers and quick naps, and then went to the marathon check-in center to get our numbers and register for the race the next day. Starving from being up all night, and hung over, we were eating huge Philly pretzels while checking in. Who do we see, but Smug Runners/Happy Couple. They were checking in too. They looked well-rested. Tan. Lean. We were some sort of unkempt motley crew of degenerate gamblers, smokers, and gigantic pretzel eaters. We all said hello and talked about the race the next day, but when we left, I felt worse than before. Why is it that some people always have it together and others...?

TO BE CONTINUED...

Binge Life (Part 1)

noreply@blogger.com (Climb2Nowhere) — Sun, 09 Jan 2011 17:07:00 +0000

Running. I used to think of running in terms of running away from something. Commitment. Responsibility. A mugging. Never as something anyone would do voluntarily. Why would anyone ever run when they could walk, drive, or stand still? It makes no sense. But then I ran into my Ex, and he was with his fiancée. That’s another type of running - "running into" - that sucks. He couldn’t stop talking about running. Running, running, running. He went on and on about how they - the happy couple - were training for a marathon.

My Ex was annoying before, but now he had become a smug runner. He was marrying a smug runner. You know the type. Runners that casually say they’re going for a 10-mile jog at 5 AM, as though it’s a trip around the corner. They always eat whatever they want, while forever fitting into a size 2. Athletic by nature, they effortlessly and easily run and barely break a sweat. Damn their good genes.

My Ex had mastered soccer, baseball, downhill skiing, volleyball, and now he ran marathons. Listening to him talk about running was boring and annoying, but it lit something inside of me. A fire. A passion. A need to not be one-upped, while I was standing on the street with no make-up on, eating a bagel, having just rolled out of bed around 2. It was the day I became a runner. I didn’t run that day, but my mouth sure did.

Running is a solitary sport. You don’t need much except for a pair of sneakers and some road. Unless you’re me. If you’re me, you need the best running sneakers, the perfect sports bra and shorts, and your best friends. There was no way I was going to train and run a half marathon by myself. Did I mention I told the Smug Runners/Happy Couple that I was a runner as well, and that I was going to be running a half marathon in a few months? As it turned out, so were they. The next thing I knew, I was bullshitting that I was going to be running the same one they were running. I also lied about my mile time, and that I’d ran a bunch of half marathons before this one, you know, as jelly was dripping out of my bagel. Sometimes, I don’t even know why I talk.

I conference called my BFF (Best Friend Forever) and Time Of Our Lives (She is always looking to have the time of her life). These are my two friends who are ready to get involved in any hairbrained scheme I come up with. The three of us are

cut from the same cloth. All or nothing. Live or die. In or out.

Extreme, crazy, and ready for anything, when I told them what happened they were on board right away. We needed to train and compete in a half marathon in a matter of months. None of us had been running at all. We had all been doing the opposite. Binge drinking, binge eating, binge sleeping, binge binging. We’d been having a binge life in every type of sloth-filled way. Now we were about to start binging on being healthy. The most exercise I’d been doing was a yoga class that let you lay down for half the class. BFF had a bum ankle. And Time of Our Lives smoked two packs a day.

I found some running program on the internet, so I had our running schedule for the next 12-weeks. We’d run once a week together and do the other runs on our own. We met in Manhattan in Central Park at the Reservoir for our first run. It’s about 2 miles around. After the first 2 minutes, I was out of breath, BFF was limping, and Time of Our Lives thought we should take a break. It was cold. We were all hung over from the night before. This was not how we thought the first day would go. This was supposed to be the first run of the rest of our lives. Instead we all left each other discussing ways we could ice our bodies.

TO BE CONTINUED...

East Coast Millan (Part 3)

noreply@blogger.com (Climb2Nowhere) — Thu, 16 Dec 2010 20:59:00 +0000

Before we knew it, we were at the house. My GBF had been driving. He turned onto the block and cut the lights a few houses down. We silently rolled up alongside the curb and shut off the engine. We all looked at each other and started to argue about what to do. I was scared. It was all very Pulp Fiction/Seinfeld to me.

While my GBF was arguing with his GBF, I looked out the car window up at the house. It was an older looking house. It was unkept. There were only a few lights on inside. The house was scary. The neighborhood was scary. Gay guys can argue forever so I finally said, “Let’s just go around back. See if there’s a ton of dogs or anything going on back there. If that doesn’t work, you two can knock on the front door, while I hide in the bushes. I’ve got the cops on speed dial, if we need them.” We quietly got out of the car and ran up the side of the house. There was a lock on the fence into the backyard so we had to hop it. I had on high heels. Dog ownership can be brutal. This was turning into a nightmare. The backyard was empty and an overgrown mess.

We walked around the entire backyard and found nothing. We were walking around the side of the house to go back over the fence, when a car pulled up. We threw ourselves up against the broken shingles and ducked down. A tall guy got out of his car along with two puppies. Mutts. He walked right into the house. We listened for barking. Nothing. My dog barks when someone enters a house. Any house. Even if it’s a house on TV. Always. The panic on my face that we didn’t hear anything coming from the house must’ve been obvious because without speaking we all jumped over the fence and ran to the front door. GBF’s GBF ran right into the house, so we followed him.

Not knowing what to expect. Crazy high on adrenaline and fear. Hoping we would find my dog and get her out of there. And then I saw her and screamed her name. She was sitting on some old guy’s lap. She leaped off his lap, and jumped into my arms. East Coast Millan was there. The other guy with the mutts was there and confused. GBF started saying my name. My dog was wagging her tail. I looked over at East Coast Millan and screamed, “What is my dog doing up here in Westchester? Why haven’t you called me back? What the hell is going on?”

East Coast Milan stuttered and stammered from shock and from my demands, but before he explained anything, he introduced me to his father and brother. As I started to calm down, I noticed his father was in a wheelchair. He brought my dog up to see his wheelchair bound father. As it turned out, his father loves Dachshunds, and he thought it’d be a nice thing to do. His brother is also a dog trainer. All of them love Dachshunds. This is what I get for having a pure breed.

I realized I was standing there in front of three grown men and that one was in a wheelchair, and maybe that should’ve been enough of an explanation, but it wasn’t. I yelled at him for not calling me back. For taking my dog out of the city. For worrying me to death. It was very unprofessional. How could he do this? My friends chimed in and backed me up.

East Coast Milan didn’t know what to say, and his father who was in the wheelchair felt bad for me. He apologized and told me how much he’d enjoyed spending a few days with my dog. It reminded him of when he was younger, before his stroke, when he could walk. Then I felt bad. Really bad. As soon as anyone pulls the “when I could walk” card, they could puke on your face and you’d be apologizing to them.

Then GBF, GBF’s GBF, Me, East Coast Milan, and his Dad and brother were all hanging out hearing stories about when East Coast Milan’s Dad was a dog trainer and some of the dogs he trained. He and his sons both had taken such a liking to my dog. They were really nice, and I was happy my dog who had disrupted and barked at everyone for months brought joy to someone else’s life. We ended our visit/kidnap/rescue mission with hugs and directions on how to get back to NYC. East Coast Millan assured me that my dog was now a quiet well-behaved dog.

Driving back to the city nobody spoke. I had really been wrong about East Coast Millan. He was weird, but he was all heart. The best part was that my dog was cured. My friends dropped me off a few blocks from my apartment. I walked my

dog, and she was quiet like a mouse. Wagging her tail. Happy as could be. It had all been worth it. I walked into my building, and I was talking to the doorman. Usually my dog would be going nuts, but she was calm. It was so nice. But then a Doberman walked out of the elevator and my dog barked and barked and barked some more. And then a woman walked out of the elevator without a dog, and she kept barking. All the way up to my apartment, over to her bowl, she stopped to drink some water, and then she barked over to her bed. I started cracking up laughing. After all that, but I was just glad she was back.

East Coast Millan (Part 2)

noreply@blogger.com (Climb2Nowhere) — Tue, 14 Dec 2010 22:09:00 +0000

East Coast Millan then proceeded to call me every day. I got a full report on her activities and what was going on. She was coming along fine and getting along with the other dogs. He had 7 puppies that she played with all day. She was still scared of the bigger dogs, but that would come in time. I was so happy. World’s Greatest Worker was walking dogs for him now, and she had seen my dog and thought everything looked good.

But then all of a sudden, the calls became less, and then they stopped. No return phone calls. I called World’s Greatest Worker to see if she could find out what was going on, and nothing. She had been walking dogs, but she hadn’t been to his place. I asked her to go over there to see what was going on. What she found? Disturbing.

East Coast Millan was in love with my dog, no doubt, but he was taking things too far. He had her on a leash attached to his belt, and she followed him everywhere all day. He told World’s Greatest Worker it was for trust. We both thought it seemed fishy. World’s Greatest Worker took my dog for a walk with East Coast Millan, and she was seemingly cured. No barking. Nothing. But he said he needed to keep working with her, and then went back to his place and told her he was going to take a nap with my dog.

I’d never seen Cesar Millan sleep with any of the dogs on his show. East Coast Millan finally called me back and left a message saying things were going well, but it’d take a little longer. But I still had this nagging voice inside me saying, “What the hell is this guy doing with my dog?” Why did he need her for a few more days?

Crazy busy with work, it actually helped that he had my dog, but I wanted her back sooner than later. World’s Greatest Worker went by his place. He wasn’t there and neither was my dog. When she inquired where the barkiest dog in Manhattan was, they told her that East Coast Millan had taken her to his house upstate! Dognapping? I furiously started calling. And calling. And calling. I left message after message, but when I came back from my meeting there was still no answer.

I called my GBF and my GBF’s GBF (My Gay Best Friend’s Gay Best Friend) and told them I needed their help. We were going to steal back my dog. Luckily, World’s Greatest Worker was on the inside. She got the address up in Westchester of where East Coast Millan was staying and GBF and GBF’s GBF and I rented a car and took a ride. We figured we’d have to case the joint, and then get my dog. We all wore black, but since we live in NY, that’s all we really own. We went once it was dark.

My GBF thought we should just go up there and tell him that we were taking my dog. But my GBF’s GBF didn't agree. He thought this place up in Westchester might have tons of dogs. We might have to call the cops, animal control, who

knew what we were getting ourselves into? GBF’s GBF thought I should stay in the car, while they knocked on the door, pretending to be lost and then storm the place. I didn’t know what to do. I just wanted my dog back and couldn’t believe the steps I had taken to try to get a quiet dog. I cursed myself. I cursed East Coast Millan. This never would’ve happened with Cesar!

TO BE CONTINUED...

East Coast Millan (Part 1)

noreply@blogger.com (Climb2Nowhere) — Mon, 13 Dec 2010 02:07:00 +0000

I have a dog, and my dog likes to bark. She barks all of the time. The only time she doesn’t bark is when I’m not there. If a tree falls in the forest, does it make a sound? It might be more like that in regards to my dog barking when I’m not home. Who knows? She’s nervous. High strung. Protective. Crazy. It’s hard when you’re a seven pound Mini-Dachshund. Life must be a scary place. Life in NYC: Even scarier.

When I moved to California, she became a different dog. Of course, at first she did her usual “Barky McBarkerstein” routine, but after a few months she started to enjoy the California lifestyle. She entered into LA LA mode. She became lazy, if you will. I thought she had become a pothead, this dog had such a turnaround. Nothing seemed to bother her. The sun shined every day. She’d lay in my beautiful, spacious, cheap (compared to NYC) apartment, and bask in the glory of West Coast living. In LA, nobody reads books, and dogs don’t bark. It's a real utopia.

But it didn’t last because then I moved back to NYC. High stress. Cars honking. People everywhere. She was back in the big city, and not only did my dog start barking, but she became even more pissed off than she was the first time we lived here. I had to do something. Fast.

When I came back to NYC, I moved into my GBF’s (Gay Best Friend's) apartment for a short time. He had just bought a new apartment, while trying to sell his old apartment. Now he owned two apartments. Gay guys have so much money, it’s unbelievable. The building was upscale. Very upscale. And I was living there illegally. There were doormen. Neighbors. People who didn’t want to hear a barking dog. And there were other dogs that didn't bark. My barking dog was disrupting the peace and harmony that all of these other dogs had created in the building. I was trying to move into the building unnoticed. Impossible. Something had to give.

I wished I had taken my dog to Cesar Millan, while I had lived in LA. Cesar Millan, the world-renowned dog behavior specialist who takes dogs from nuts to normal on his hit show on Animal Planet, was just what I needed. That’s the dream of every unruly dog owner. That Cesar Millan will swoop in and calm the most savage or barky of dogs. But my dog in LA was on best behavior. I didn’t need Cesar. Now on the East Coast, I was in desperate need of help. And then one day, my prayers were answered.

Enter East Coast Millan. The dog whisperer of NYC. But instead of a “ssshhhh, ssshhhh.” He said, “Fooey!” I’m sure he wanted to say “Fuck!” but he was on the Upper East Side. I liked how he rolled. Instead of being fit and Mexican, he was fat and white. Instead of being charming and wise, he was rough around the edges and looked like an ex-con. East coast, baby! All the way! But the one thing he did have in common with West Coast Millan was that he was magical with dogs.

East Coast Millan met my dog, and in one fell swoop while she was barking and acting like a nut, they fell in love. He lightly tapped my dog and said, “Fooey,” and my dog paused. She walked over to him and started wagging her tail. She seemed docile. I’m not sure if that’s how West Coast Millan does it. You know, the whole “falling in love” thing, but this was how East Coast Millan did it, and it worked.

I took his card and called his references. Everyone gave him rave reviews. But...he wanted to keep my dog for two weeks. He needed her to be with other dogs night and day. He wanted her to be in stressful situations and learn not to bark. He told me we’d be reprogramming my dog. The references were people like me. They thought East Coast Milan was a little weird, but that he had done wonders with their dogs. They loved him, and he loved their dogs. He was a third generation dog trainer. It was in his blood. He was almost a dog himself. What did I have to lose?

While I was deciding if I should hand over my dog or not, one of my friends was looking for a job. She’s a writer and needed some extra dough for the summer. She’s also the world’s greatest worker. East Coast Millan was looking for some dog walkers. It seemed like a perfect fit. World’s Greatest Worker met with East Coast Millan, and he hired her on the spot. It made me feel better giving my dog over to East Coast Millan knowing World's Greatest Worker would be hanging around.

I dropped my barky dog off at his place, hoping she’d be okay. The place smelled like dogs. I met the other guys that worked there, and they were also a little rough. It reminded me of some halfway AA house. East Coast Millan assured me that everything would be fine, and that if my dog was trained quickly, she’d be home even sooner. What a relief!

TO BE CONTINUED...