It’s All In The Wrist

Posted on December 16, 2012 by Jill Foer Hirsch

Last Thursday night was our firm’s holiday party, and don’t be frightened, but I was responsible for the thing.  Normally my assistant plans the whole thing and I just sign whatever she puts in front of me, but she abandoned me in mid-November.  I’m happy that she’s moving up in the world and all that, but it was still pretty selfish to leave me holding the bag.  I’m not saying I’m going to hold it against her, I’m just saying forgive but never forget.

I decided to take my hairstylist up on her offer to blow dry and iron my hair so I could wear it straight.  My primary goal was to be able to flip my hair over my shoulder with my index finger, and equally important, to turn my head and toss my hair back impatiently.  Here I am doing both at the same time…

I learned both these moves from the Queen of Straight Hair, Marcia Brady. Jan didn’t have those moves.  Cindy had those dreadful pigtails to deal with, and Carol was rocking that sexy short shag that Mike totally dug.

I don’t want to pin the whole thing on Marcia Brady, but I have a lot of hang-ups about my hair.  I know, I know, people with straight hair want curly hair and vice versa.  But no one wants frizzy hair.  My hair is 42.4% frizz, 40.8% curl, 16.4% product and .4% cat fur.  And no, I did not mean to do that, it just happened.  There are a lot of hapless hair victims out there; it’s just too stigmatized for anyone to talk about.

I can’t help but imagine what my life would be like with straight hair.  I would be thin of course, and drive a nicer car.  Obviously I would live in Manhattan or London or Paris.  I would have a more fabulous job in a glamorous industry, like advertising.  Clairol would likely insist that I personally star in their commercials, and I would nonchalantly concede.  If my hair was straight enough and shiny enough, the UN would maybe call me in for emergency talks about the correlation between frizzy/curly hair and world peace.

Anyway, my hair was freshly straightened and styled on Thursday.  I took an extremely careful shower Friday morning and wore it straight again.  Ditto for Saturday when we went to the Foer Family Hanukkah and people loved me more because of my hair.  They really really loved me.  And yes, I managed to squeeze out one more day today.   Tomorrow, I will have no choice but to wash it and go back to my frizzy/curly lifestyle.  It’s a little depressing.

In my mind all things are possible with the power of a hair toss.  Maybe I’ll start having it straightened more often, so Marcia Marcia Marcia, look out; there’s a new Hair Sheriff in town.

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Unimaginable, Incomprehensible

Posted on December 14, 2012 by Jill Foer Hirsch

The mission of my blog is to provide myself and others a little comic relief from the stress of real life.  Tonight I wave the white flag on humor.  Tonight there are hundreds, if not thousands of families and friends missing pieces of their hearts and trying to comprehend how it’s possible to live without their loved one.  How is it possible that they will ever sleep again, or eat, or do anything remotely normal?

How will the surviving children process something that the wisest people in the world aren’t able to understand?  How will millions of school children ever learn and grow in an environment where they feel unsafe?

What lethal set of circumstances persist in our country that repeatedly foment mass murder?

At the same time my heart is breaking for these families, I am selfishly cherishing my loved ones a little more.  I know that you parents out there are hugging your children a little tighter tonight, and your children are clinging a little longer.

Like everyone, I have lots of questions tonight and no answers.  There are no answers.  Just shattered lives.

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Meet Me At Le Club

Posted on December 12, 2012 by Jill Foer Hirsch

As some of you know, Dan and I really love to travel, particularly to Europe.  For many years our preferred carrier was Air France.  As always, my first priority is food, and Air France serves some really decent chow.  Almost equally important is the fact that going through Charles de Gaulle airport for a connecting flight means that you can pass time shopping for beautiful Limoges espresso sets and many other luxury items, duty-free.  Of course, you also have the opportunity to stuff two enormous wheels of brie in to your carry-on…at least that’s what I hear. 

Even with all that, we frequently had some time to kill waiting for our connecting flight.  Years ago we were looking around to find seats anywhere near our gate after our flight was delayed for the 4th time when we first noticed the inviting frosted glass door to the large, deluxe Air France club at CDG.  It seemed to be a delightful place to kill some time eating free snacks and chilling out. 

I believe that club membership is rather pricey, but I wouldn’t know about all that.  What I do know (with all credit due to my brother Barry) is that if you walk into a place as if you own it, full of confidence, charm, and in this case joie de vivre, very few people will question your right to be there.  The French, in particular, prefer not to stoop to asking to see your card or show ID; very distasteful.  I’m going to be honest, we were tired, cranky and straight up desperate to get in there.  We figured it was worth a try.  Dan followed me through the door as I greeted the hostess with a warm “Bon Jour!” and a confident smile.  I gestured to the lounge and asked Dan if he wanted to see if our usual seats were available and he readily agreed.  “Merci!” and a little wave to the hostess, and we walked right in to the place. 

We settled in with snacks and beverages, put our feet up and relaxed in the big overstuffed chairs, and found ourselves half hoping that our flight would be delayed again so we could take in a little more of the ambiance.  When we finally had to leave I waved and said “au revoir!” to no one in particular, and even had the raw nerve to wink and blow a kiss to the hostess on our way out. It worked so well the first time that we began to go straight to the club every time we went through the airport.  Ah oui, life was good.  We should have known it wouldn’t last forever. 

After pulling off this stunt repeatedly for several years, a hostess finally stopped us at the door and asked, in a painfully polite fashion, to see our cards.  You would think that at that point we would have had the good sense to turn around and leave.  To be honest though we kind of forgot that we were actually sneaking in; we started to feel entitled to our usual seats and accoutrement.  So when the hostess stopped us, I said “of course!” and pulled my wallet out of my purse.  I started rifling through credit cards, a library card, a Starbucks card, the Monopoly get out of jail free card that I have been known to carry…tsk tsking that I couldn’t find my card.  Dan followed my lead and took a cursory look in his wallet.

I flashed my most charming smile and told her that we were terribly embarrassed, we must have left our cards at home in Canada.  Yes, Canada.  What am I stupid?  These were the W administration years; it wasn’t safe to be American!  We put our passports in red maple leaf covers, said “’eh!” a lot, and hoped for the best.  Sometimes for dramatic effect we would speak affectionately about our pet moose.  And hockey.

Anyway, the hostess gave us a charming smile and said it was not a problem, but could we just tell her the color of our card so she could look it up?  Yeah right.  Still, without a moment’s hesitation I confidently told her we had the silver card.  She smiled and shook her head no.  Oh my goodness, I’m color blind!  Dan honey, is that card more of a blue?  Another negative from Madame Hostess.  Oh, now I remember!  It’s red!  No dice.  Gold?  Nope. I seriously doubted that Air France would have a green card, or orange or purple or something, so there was nowhere left for me to go.  

I was dangerously close to telling her I was going to call my butler and have him fax a copy of the card immediately, if for no other reason than to win an Academy Award nomination, but even I knew it was pointless and silly.  Still, I had to save face, so in my haughtiest tone I turned and said to Dan “I certainly hope you are going to call François and tell him how poorly we have been treated!  This woman clearly has no idea who we are! 

I know she had me with the card color, but surely there is an executive at Air France named François.  Probably two.  Let her worry about which of them will be calling her to get to the bottom of the situation.

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Happy Hanukkah To All, And To All A Good Night

Posted on December 11, 2012 by Jill Foer Hirsch

I know many of you are getting excited for Christmas, but as you are probably aware my people are 3 days in to the 8 day Festival of Lights, Hanukkah.  For those of you who aren’t familiar with Hanukkah, rest assured that there’s nothing terribly compelling, unless you consider the alleged miracle of a tiny amount of oil burning for 8 solid days (you’re catching on now right, Festival of Lights, 8 days?).  I defy you to find any religion that would dictate that the best way to celebrate the miracle of the oil is to cook delicious vats of deep fried foods.  Yes folks, as a Good Jew I am compelled to eat fried bits of stuff the entire holiday.

That being said, please understand that Hanukkah is the most minor of Jewish holidays, and is really just for kids; it’s been blown well out of proportion in the U.S. because it is around the same time as Christmas every year. There are approximately 582 Jewish holidays in a year, and 581 of them commemorate thousands of years of the persecution of Our People. These are great opportunities to be bitter and self-righteous, and we love every minute of it. But then with Hanukkah, suddenly everything is supposed to be all joy and light (except for the deep fried food of course)?

This happy crap just doesn’t sit right, and the whole thing has turned into a rather embarrassing competition with Christmas. Do you understand that because of the Christmas influence Jewish people now bake cookies this time of year? With all the persecution and the running, we never had time to roll out dough and cut it into little dreidels and Jewish stars. And who knew from icing and sprinkles as we wandered the desert? Geez, if you were paying attention at Passover last spring, you would know that we couldn’t even let our bread dough rise before someone was after us again.  Now we’re rolling out cookie dough?  Pretty silly if you ask me.  I do eat a lot of them, but just to be polite.  And please don’t ask me how, but I know for a fact it’s a bad idea to give your camels egg nog with their cookies, even if you are wandering around the desert for 40 years.

In the good old days when I was a kid, as far as most people knew America only had two kinds of people, Christians and Jews.  There were no Muslims or Hindus or what have you.  Amazing, isn’t it?  So public schools and the government got away with officially celebrating Christmas as long as they threw a gratuitous nod to Hanukkah.  Frankly, it hasn’t changed much.  I mean don’t we still have a national menorah next to the national Christmas tree?  As if that covers all bases or is even relevant.  I think many Christians believe we have Christmas-envy (as Sigmund Freud famously explored), so they make a huge deal of comparing the two and pointing out that they have just one day, whereas we have 8 Christmases.  Ooops, I mean days of Hanukkah.  It’s very sweet to try, but we’re talking about comparing apples to rutabagas.  Confused?  Now you get my point.

I’ll admit that for the most part I really do love this time of year; perfect strangers in elevators are concerned enough to ask me if I’m ready for Christmas, and it’s a lot of fun to say “Definitely!”  What they want to hear is that like them, I am running like a gerbil in a wheel trying to find gifts and stuff stockings and bake hams and yams and whatever else people do in preparation for the big day.  It absolutely annoys the hell out of people.  I also truthfully tell people that Christmas is 2nd only to Halloween in terms of awesome holidays.  If someone asks me what I’m doing for Christmas, I say “just a quiet holiday at home this year.”  This is because I spend Christmas sitting around in my pajamas watching TV.  The directive is to eat Chinese food and go to the movies, but I buck the system.

No matter your religion, may you have a Happy Hanukkah filled with crisp potato latkes, homemade applesauce (Lisa? No whiny excuses about work), love, laughter and lots of warm, bright light!

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Southern Comfort

Posted on December 10, 2012 by Jill Foer Hirsch

Now that we’ve covered just a bit of Yiddish, it’s time to delve into a language called Southern.  I live in Northern Virginia, where we speak English, but if you go just 90 miles south to Richmond, you are in The Deep South.  I’m not fluent, but I speak real good broken Southern real good.

It’s really a very beautiful language.  One of my favorites is “he needed killin’ ’” (g is never pronounced in Southern).  This is a concept I can get behind; there are some people out there who for a variety of reasons just needed to be taken out of their own misery, and ours.  So sometimes, the response to news of a murder is “well he needed killin’, so…”  If we assume that he needed killin’ because of some real or perceived mental illness, you would also hear the comment “he weren’t right.”  If there’s someone that needs killin’ but nobody’s gotten around to it yet, you could give everyone a hint by saying “He ain’t right.  Might need to get himself kilt”

Also note that Southern has a unique verb set-up.  In English we might say “I’m going to the grocery store.”  In Southern we would say “I’m fixin’ to go to the grocery store.”  Pronouns are also a little different.  Whereas in English we would say “I’m going to get some food,” in Southern the correct usage would be “I’m gonna fetch me some food.”  And of course the classics; I think we all know that y’all is singular and all y’all is plural.  So I would say to one friend, “What ‘er y’all fixin’ to do tonight?” and to a group of friends “What ‘er all y’all fixin’ to do tonight?”

I’ve recently learned another Southern expression, “Swamp Angel.”  Swamp Angels are prevalent throughout the south, but according to a reliable source they have a high concentration in South Carolina, and are particularly drawn to the Bootsie’s Thrills ‘N Chills Bar.  Many tourists go to Bootsie’s for Swamp Angel Sightings, but you can spot them anywhere as they are instantly recognizable.   Look for the telltale bleached blond, crimped hair; a modified mullet with bangs teased to within an inch of their life; almost always spotted wearing a halter top, Daisy Dukes and cowboy boots.  Most, if not all, have a tattoo of a heart with the name Jim-Bob emblazoned across their backs.  Sometimes you’ll see Jim changed to Joe, and you can still make out the remnants of the original tattoo underneath.

When traveling to regions in which Southern is spoken, these English to Southern translations may come in handy:

Guess = Reckon

Restaurant = Restrunt

Restroom = Tawlet

You = Ya

Your = Yer

To = Ta

The = Tha

Boil = Ball

Ball = Bawl

Bawl = Fussin’

Best = More Better

A lot = Mess Of

Creek = Crick

Pond = Redneck Bathtub

Vegetable = Okra

Pickle = Pickled Okra

Cousin = Husband (or vice versa)

Those = Them Thar

That = That Thar

Fight = Open a Can of Whoop Ass

Ought = Ort

I reckon that thar’s about it for now.  All y’all come back now, ya hear?

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Everything Sounds Better In Yiddish

Posted on December 9, 2012 by Jill Foer Hirsch

There are some Yiddish words you’ll need to know to follow this blog:

Schmy = browse, meander; Schlep = lug around; Goyim = non-Jews (goyisha = behavior or habits of the goyim); Shiksa = goyisha girlfriend; Fapitzed = all dolled up; Kvell = pride, particularly that of a parent for a child or grandchild; Mensch = good guy; Oongapatchkie = over the top with too much jewelry; overdressed for the occasion; Kvetch = whine, complain; Shvieg = shut up; Kibbitz = joke around; Mishegas = craziness; Schmooze = schmooze; Yenta = gossip; Gelt = money; Mishpukah = entire family, large group of family members; Chutzpah = nervy.

My brother CJ and I have long wanted to open a store called the Schmy ‘N Schlep.  We envision a department called Gifts for the Goyim; a lingerie department called Shake it Like a Shiksa; evening gowns in a department called Feelin’ Fapitzed; baby clothes in a department called Kvelling for the Kids, and a little something for the gents in the Menswear for a Mensch department.  Costume jewelry will be housed in the Ogle the Oongapatchkie department.

I have another business idea too—a nursing home called the Kvetch ‘N Kvell.  There would be a library called Shvieg A’ready, a game room called Kibbitz and Mishegas, a social hall called Schmooze with the Yentas and a bank called Gelt Real.  Family would visit in an area called The Whole Mishpukah.  Weekly open mic nights would be billed as Who has the Chutzpah?

Awesome right?  I have lots of other beloved Yiddish words too.

Loosely translated, Kenahora means jinx, but it’s not just a word, it’s a whole concept.  Jews have such a hard time believing that anything good can happen to them that they think talking about it is bad luck.  There is no doubt in my mind that when Moses parted the Red Sea, someone said to his mother “what a strong boy you have!” and she responded “don’t give it a kenahora.”

Shanda means shame, but it is most commonly used in the phrase Shanda for the Goyim, which means bringing shame on all Jews for the goyim to see.  Bernie Madoff is the epitome of a shanda for the goyim.  On behalf of all my people, I apologize.

Fakakte means dysfunctional, screwed up as in “this fakakte computer is acting up again”

Plotz means have a cow as in “I was plotzing when I met the shiksa my-son-the-doctor is dating.”

Tsuris means heartache, worries as in “Such tsuris I have, my-son-the-doctor is going with a shiksa.”

Mostly I learned Yiddish curse words when I was growing up, but I know it will not come as a surprise to anyone that the first Yiddish word I ever learned was klutz, in reference to my own clumsy ways.

Now you know just enough Yiddish to be dangerous.  More to come, I promise!

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Wide Awake

Posted on December 8, 2012 by Jill Foer Hirsch

Some of you may find that I am a bit insecure.  There are many good reasons for that.  Let’s start with the fact that everyone in my family loves Dan more than me.  They openly admit this, and in fact reiterated it recently over Thanksgiving dinner.

Just to be sure, I asked my mom, in front of everyone, who she loved more, and without so much as a moment’s hesitation she said “Dan, of course.”  As casual and matter-of-fact as you please.  I looked around the table and everyone was nodding their heads in agreement.  As it turns out, blood is not thicker than water.

I often think that it’s only a matter of time before Dan realizes he’s been married to a crazy woman all these years, snaps like a twig, and kills me.  Not to be dramatic, it’s just that I watch a lot of Lifetime made-for-TV movies so I know this kind of thing happens.  I’ve watched the movie over and over again in my mind.  The police investigate and arrest Dan for the crime, but there’s my entire family protesting in front of the jailhouse, chanting FREE DAN, HE’S OUR MAN, FREE DAN, YES YOU CAN!!  Who knows, my niece might even dust off her pom-poms from her cheerleading days.

When he finally goes to trial, the prosecution calls my mom as its first witness.  Dan gives his defense lawyer a high five and a wink.  My mom gets up and tearfully explains how sad it makes her that her daughter was such a pain in the ass that the only thing anyone in their right mind could do is kill her.  Then she would blow kisses at Dan because she loves that kind of thing.

My brothers would testify that as far back as 1987 they warned Dan about me. “We all tried to love her your honor.  It’s just, well…look at Exhibit A.”  They play the footage from the day I capsized at the water park.  Exhibit B is the clincher though; that’s the footage of me repeatedly falling out of a golf cart that wasn’t moving.  The jury gasps!  The judge giggles…

Cut to the triumphant scene outside the courthouse, my brothers carrying Dan out on their shoulders chanting HE’S FREE, WE’RE FULL OF GLEE!  Well, probably not, cause that sounds kind of gay (not that there’s anything wrong with that), but you get the idea.

Anyway, I sleep with one eye open because of the raccoons hanging off my back door, and the other eye open to be sure Dan’s not going to smother me with a pillow.  I am truly exhausted.

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Meet And Mingle

Posted on December 6, 2012 by Jill Foer Hirsch

It’s that time of year, back to back lunches, dinners, cocktail parties, and other assorted events.  I will admit I love them all!  I don’t usually have an actual life, but this week I went to a party on Tuesday night, and a lunch today.  I also went to an event last Tuesday night.  Many of the guests overlapped among all three events; don’t be alarmed, but we’re talking about room after room full of legal administrators.

Naturally, we all try to mingle and chat with a different group of people at each event.  Some of you may remember my September 1 blog about greetings in the workplace; first time each day full smile, fourth time a nod and a half smile, etc.   There are unspoken rules that everyone understands.  Unfortunately, I’m still in the dark about some of the finer points of etiquette.

What if, for example, you see someone out of the corner of your eye whom you’ve known for 15 years, possibly more.  You manage to make your way over to the person without spilling too much of your drink, and when you finally get there to say hello, they give you a nod and a “hey” and go back to their conversation.  You are going right in for the hug, and suddenly you’re standing there looking awkward and you have to play it off and pretend that you were just stretching your arms.  It would never happen to me of course, but I’ve seen others fall prey.

How about if you see someone you don’t know particularly well, but you’ve been bumping into each other at 4 parties a year for the last 12 years.  Yes, that’s 48 times you’ve stood in line at the bar and chatted with this person.  There he is, standing in front of you in the buffet line, and you give him a medium smile, double eyebrow raise and a “hey, how’s it going?”  He reaches out to shake your hand and says “Hi, I’m Greg, so nice to meet you.”   Glare.  “Well yes Greg, I believe we’re meeting each other for the 48th time.  But hey, who’s counting?”

Of course there are always a few OSIPs (Obnoxiously Self-Important People) who may deign to speak with you but are constantly scanning around for someone more important to schmooze.  Maybe you test the waters and mention that you just got a pet walrus and put 2 of your 3 kids up for adoption because they’re cramping your style.  When you get a “hmmm, that’s nice” in response at least you’ll know where you stand.  Of course, you can always go for the fake out and wave to an imaginary person in the back of the room that’s just dying to talk to you.  Maybe two air kisses and a “ciao darling?”

At today’s lunch, everything was going splendidly.  Full smiles, half smiles, nods and eyebrow raises flying, and lots of hugs.  My friend and I saw two spots together at one of the tables and settled down.  I was eyeballing the salad and rejoicing at the little chocolate bars at each place setting, and hey, maybe I even glanced around for empty seats so I could harvest more little candy bars.  What of it?

Just as we relax and settle in, someone taps us on the shoulder and tells us we’re sitting at a super-exclusive, VIP reserved table.  Cool!  High five to us!  Wait, what was that?  We have to move so the “real” VIPs can all glom together at their oh so special tables?  Okey dokey then.

So much for sitting together, because by then there weren’t 2 seats together anywhere.  We parted tearfully and vowed to talk after the lunch.  We both landed at great tables with friends we hadn’t seen for a while, so it’s all good, but about halfway through lunch, my friend snuck over and whispered that I should blog about our unceremonious removal from the table.

Righto.  It’s official, we are VUPs (Very Unimportant People) and should be prepared for a frown, a single eyebrow raise, and a smirk as VIPs shoo us from the table.  My friend and I give a big fake smile and a head tilt, and narrow our eyes just enough to show that we’re hip to the game.

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My Quiet, Studious Side

Posted on December 5, 2012 by Jill Foer Hirsch

Kidding!  I don’t have a quiet, studious side.  I started young.  I learned the word loquacious when I got my 2nd grade report card and wasn’t sure if I was being praised or scolded.  My mom explained the word to me and I concluded I was being sort of praised and sort of scolded all at the same time. I was loquacious in Hebrew school, of course, but in English.  The one Hebrew expression I knew really well?  The one for shut your mouth, “sheket bevakashah!”  Traditionally, the entire class responds with a boisterous “Hey!”  So maybe I got scolded for talking too much, but I was allowed to shout back at least.

Either way, I think every report card I ever received said loquacious, or very social, or talkative (from teachers with no flair for language).  I spoke Spanish fairly well in high school, so even in an immersion class I chatted away.  I guess my Spanish teacher probably wrote “la boca grande, pero habla bien el español.”

As to my studious side, if my mom didn’t read my blog, I could tell you some stories from college. So mom, this is the end of the blog!  Good night!

OK, now that she’s toddled off to bed, let me whisper.  In college I was supposed to read a Spanish novel and write a book report about it.  The problem was that I never bought the book, so technically I never read the book.  So when the report was due…

Mom!  No horsing around—it’s time for you to go to sleep!

Man, she would kill me if she knew that I wrote a report, in absolutely flawless Spanish, about how I couldn’t afford to buy the book, but that I read the back cover of it and it seemed great.  I went on to describe what I thought the book would be about if I ever, you know, read it.  I was so bold as to question the character development of the protagonist, based on how I thought the protagonist would fill out if I ever, you know, read the book.  And you know what?  It came back with a “muy bien, B+”

Then there was my philosophy class.  It was a semester chock full of determinism v. free will.  I believe in free will.  So much so in fact, that I chose not to write any papers during the semester.  When the professor finally spoke to me about it, I proudly proclaimed my free will, and he said something about theoretical v. practical and that if I didn’t want him to determine that my free will and I flunked the class, I better get my sorry butt in gear and write a few papers over the weekend.  So I did.  Final grade?  B+

I think some professors really do appreciate a spunky/obnoxious kid.

Mom!  Is that you eavesdropping when you’re supposed to be in bed?  Scoot!

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The Real Deal

Posted on December 4, 2012 by Jill Foer Hirsch

You know I just can’t resist listening in on conversations around me…so naturally while I was sitting in the salon the other night I was all ears. There were two women chatting right next to me, and I started hearing snippets like “tiered partnership” and “associate messaging.”  The two women were both equity partners in different law firms, and were discussing how an associate makes partner, and why the tiered system is a sham.

Despite the fact the partner track had worked for them, they were despairing of the system and the angst it incurred. I know this is very hard to believe, because usually everything’s so fair and all, but being a great lawyer/manager/mentor does not necessarily have anything to do with making partner.  Shhhh!  Don’t tell anyone who hasn’t caught on yet! Let’s protect the baby lawyers for as long as possible before the light bulb suddenly flashes over their heads.

For you civilians outside of legal, a tiered partnership is where any number of people have the partner title, but do not actually have an equity stake in the firm. They’re kind of fake partners, but most garden variety associates have no way of knowing whether someone is a Partner or just a partner. It’s confusing for the associates, because they frequently find themselves kissing the wrong butt. Politically, it’s a minefield. I’ve worked at firms that had tiered systems, and firms that didn’t, and the tiered firms tended to be a whole Charlie Foxtrot, if you know what I mean.

Here’s how it works-remember when we were in high school and everyone said that when we grew up it would be completely different? They either lied or were steeped in denial. Everything is pretty much the same.  For example, the kids who used to win over parents and teachers with just a smile and a sparkle in their eye?  We call them rainmakers now; their title is partner, but many of us know they are equity partners.

Rainmakers bring in the business, but then someone has to actually do the work.  Those are little worker bees, like the kids who used to work so hard on science fair projects.  They buzz around making honey for the rainmakers to sell in the village.  OK, so my metaphor went off kilter-what are you going to do, sue me?  I’m trying to make a point here.  Their title is partner, but many of us know they are mere income partners.

In analyzing the partnership system women tend to take a collaborative approach.  They’re not too worried about the size of their…umm, desk.  They see two sides of the same coin; without rainmakers there’s no one to sell the honey, and without worker bees, there’s no honey to sell.  These women were so brutally rational about how it could all work, and even suggested that (gasp!) the partner system should be more transparent to the associates.

You know I couldn’t help but to butt right into the conversation.  I told them I was a legal administrator, and they both gave me the kind of look that says hey, I bet your life sucks.  They treated me very delicately, like I could go postal at any moment, and suggested that my job seems to be very difficult.  Wow.  Someone noticed?

In the midst of a salon buzzing with activity, we bonded instantly.

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