How to Survive When You're Sacked #PersonalStory

When my friend got sacked from his job, he approached me and we talked about it. While telling his "not-so-interested-story," I really had to show that I care, listening to him means a favor returned. His first sentence was:

"Getting the sack is far from being the end of the world." I felt guilty because I thought that he wanted to "throw the world" at me. But instead, continue reading.

Even if you don’t like your job very much, the last thing you want is to be sacked from it. Having the control over your destiny snatched away, finding yourself suddenly without an income, with no structure to the day and no friends in familiar surroundings, having to explain to future employers and the rest of the world why you weren’t wanted. It hurts and it’s messy.

The degree of hurt depends very much on your own resources and what you’ve got tied up in the job; someone whose sense of status is dependent on their position is going to take being sacked much harder than someone who derives their sense of worth from other, entirely separate things. And the person with a life-style (and debts) to go with the position is going to be more adversely affected than someone more flexible. But, however able you are to cope with the eventual outcome the moment the axe actually falls, even if you have been expecting it – always comes as a shock.

Even when in your heart of hearts you know it’s coming, you kid yourself for a while and think you must be paranoid. Even though, as I found out later, everyone knew when it finally happened it came like a bolt out of the blue. It was awful. I thought I was going in for a meeting to discuss some routine business and a few moments later I realized that business was me. It’s horrific to have to go through that.

Despite the shock I felt upset but somehow my instinct for self-preservation took over. I did felt damaged inside, but I used that time to work out what I wanted and managed to pull myself together. I went icy calm. I asked for an explanation, put my own case forward and maintained dignity throughout, which was good, it helped me think clearly. I said I should be paid off because I’d done valuable work. I knew work wasn’t the problem. This was politics. My new boss wanted his person in my place. I showed spirit and a sense of fairness, but I wanted compensation for what I’d been through.

I got the money right then – a very substantial amount. My superior just wrote a cheque. That sweetened things; it makes you realize you’re worth something. Really, it all went fairly decently and everyone involved was very pleasant about it. Employers want to be eased out of a situation like that because nobody likes it.

Surviving the actual sacking and getting what you think is fair... is one crisis over, but next comes the longer process of recovery.

The next six weeks were awful. You feel angry, shocked, depressed and miserable and you doubt yourself; it’s very upsetting being rejected. And I missed the place; you’ve lost something and you have to mourn. It takes time and you need to be easy on yourself and go at your own pace. At first I couldn’t look people in the eye. I was ashamed. But when I started telling others about what had happened. I found that lots of people had been in a similar position. That helped me cope. In my field of work these things usually happen because your face doesn’t fit, not because of incompetence.

After that I felt a sense of relief. It was summer and I was free. I had time to think out what I wanted to do next. And I told myself I was good. I had existed before and during the sacking and I was going to go on afterwards. So I thought of other ways of operating.

So, I did find another job of my interest and it was good for me. I got my confidence back. I hadn’t fallen off the edge of the world after all and I could keep plugging away. Also, I realized, I felt happier working in a big organization, so, after about a year, a well-paid job in a large firm was molding me positively.

After a half-hour-listening to this man, I felt embarrassed for what I'm thinking about...I thought the reversed otherwise.

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Strategies in Getting Rich #PersonalStory

A suggestion from my OFW friend who happened to be the most extravagant person in the world, negatively, a "nothing-to-prove" person but with guts to talk really big.


It isn’t easy to make a fortune the old-fashioned way, no matter what you’ve heard.

It means learning a trade, then slogging your way up the corporate ladder from cleaner to messenger to vice president, and so on. Nor is it any easier getting a bright idea and starting a business. Bright ideas by themselves are worth nothing.

Even if the idea is brilliant – like making small cars with giant rubber bumpers to reduce the danger and severity of accidents on the highways – it is a long road between conception and making a fortune.

So, why not make your fortune the easy way, by osmosis? No having to develop real estate, or drill for oil, or trade options – all those things you don’t have the foggiest notion about. All you have to do is sidle up to a proper billionaire, and “presto transfuso” you will make a fortune by osmosis.

Here’s how:

1) Selecting the Target: Identifying your target billionaire is the first order of business. This is complicated by the fact that many billionaires and millionaires are protected by phalanxes of secretaries and yes-men who guard them with their lives. You will have to get your billionaire on the outside, either when he leaves the office or when he is on vacation. There he is now. He is the little gentleman sitting in the back of the stretch limousine talking through a speakerphone to his driver, Simeon. He is telling Simeon that he wants to stop for a moment at a particular shop. It is now that you have to strike.

2) Positioning Yourself to Osmosis: The billionaire instructs Simeon to pull up in front of the boutique displaying the purple pongee polo outfit. You must move quickly. As soon as his car slows, you begin strolling in the direction of the boutique. As the billionaire walks up to the window, you move in close, right next to him. You can feel the heat from his cashmere hand-tailored jacket and the warmth from his Caribbean tan. He’s the genuine article alright, maybe $100,000 or $500,000 million or 900,000,000.00 Euros, etc. A big one. He’ll never miss a small fortune. Even his accountants won’t notice anything awry for a month or so. Gently, ever so gently, you bring your arm in contact with his. Not so he thinks you are strange or fruity, but just as if you are another interested party, a man of similar tastes and breeding who is also into purple polo outfits. There, you can feel it now, the sudden surge of power as hundreds of thousands of dollars course between the billionaire and yourself. It is a heady experience, and for a moment, you may feel flushed, as if you have earned it all yourself. Not to worry. You have not. You are still the same person you were, only richer as the moments go by.

When you think you have reached your goal – in this case a modest to large fortune – disengage from the billionaire just as smoothly and discreetly as you began, and move toward the curb. You will find a car and driver waiting for you. Your own car. Not as large or fine as the billionaire’s – maybe it’s a Mercedes and he has a Rolls – but a car and driver nevertheless, befitting your new station in life. Get in and say “Home Mike.” Perhaps when you run your stake into tens of billions, you can have a driver named Michaelangelo; but for now, it’s Mike.

In the second instance, you spot your billionaire while he is on vacation. Though your accommodations may be quite different – he has a penthouse suite, you have a modest single overlooking the parking lot – there are places at the Caribbean you have in common. The Rendezvous bar, for example – the one by the pool with thatched roof and the fantastic pina coladas. It is five in the afternoon, and the billionaire has left his yacht and is sitting at the bar with his two well-groomed blondes in attendance. Fortunately, the blondes are both parked to his left. You take the seat to his right and order a yellow bird. His ears perk up at the mention, and he wonders what a yellow bird is. When the drink arrives, the billionaire looks up.
“Excuse me,” he says, “but what is a yellow bird?”

“Try it,” you say. “It’s pineapple juice and 12 different kinds of exotic rums.”

You proffer your drink, as if to say, “Here, taste. Don’t be frightened.” Skeptical at first, the billionaire finally succumbs to his curiosity and reaches for the drink. It is at this moment that osmosis takes over. As the billionaire’s lips touch the glass and he drains some golden liquid from it, large blocks of stock from both the New York and American exchanges somehow are transferred to the glass and find their way to your account. They are not even on margin.

When you return home, you will be greeted with new respect by your broker. But for now, it will suffice that your room has been changed to ocean-view 12, and that an attractive brunette at the end of the bar is batting her eyes at you.

Making a fortune through osmosis is as easy as that. And now that you have the hang of it, you can meet billionaires and millionaires on vacation, in fancy restaurants, and at the club. In fact, that is why most people on their way up join clubs – so they can sidle up to other billionaires and continue to augment their fortunes. It is the American way? A Filipino way? Or, a worldwide phenomena? I suppose.

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Remembering Fashion Show Models #PersonalStory

I remembered my best friend the other day. She’s the most beautiful lady I’ve ever mingled with during my college days. She told me about what she felt while attending a fashion show – in a ringside seat. Read her musing, by way of “pouting your lips while reading.”


My trying-hard female friend’s musing about the fashion show and its models.

For a minute I thought the models had lost out. Or maybe I was facing the wrong way. The huge blot of passionate pink behind me deserved a second look, if not a few hundred more. Her dress, if I may refer to it in passing, was a magnificent monstrosity of ruffles, beads, ruches and stitches; her face a palette from one of Van Gogh’s particularly crazed moods.

Or should I turn my chair East, and face the multicolored splendor of “Pity-ya”? (Apologies to Michelangelo).

The 48-degree angle was also nice. Apart from the slight discomfort, owing to half-sitting on my neighbor’s lap. I would enjoy looking at the lady with white skin.

Or should I…

“Could you, for God’s sake, sit still lady?”

“I’m so sorry,” I say sweetly, “but I thought this was the real show.”


What is it about attending a fashion show that makes all of us declare war on sense and sobriety? As if attending a voodoo session, we dress and do up our faces to look like creatures possessed, who will any minute begin to writhe on the floor and roll their eyes to some throbbing mumbo-jumbo, as if to exorcise the little green monsters in the head. Thank God for the smudge-proof mascara, moisturizing eye shadow, and long-lasting lipstick. What would we do without these small mercies in life?

The thought of other women on stage, beautiful, lissome, with never-ending legs, dressed in exotic clothes, like rare birds of paradise fluttering provocatively on glossy branches, seems to rob us of all objectivity. Instead of being mere spectators to an event, we try to become the objects of attention ourselves.

There is nothing wrong with dressing to kill; it’s a happy death indeed that comes from the lethal arsenal of good looks combined with good taste. But when a public appearance becomes an occasion to plume one’s insecurities, the brighter the better, taste goes for a toss.

There is no point in envying the models on stage; it’s their business to look good, they are there because they look good. So, how about sitting back, relaxing, and enjoying the show, instead of being in a constant state of anxiety whether anybody is looking at you or not?

Each woman has her own kind of appeal, and while it may not be the kind to set the sky on fire, it’s not going to work for her either, if she hollers the battle cry and dons war-paint every time another beautiful woman is around.

The idea is not to simply draw attention, that’s the easiest bait for anybody to bite, but to draw the right kind of attention, and that can be achieved by an honest appraisal of your looks, the suitability of certain fashions for your body, and a healthy dose of self-esteem.

And there are times when it is infinitely more pleasurable to put your feet up, give up the unequal struggle and enjoy a chance to see rather than be seen.

Like they say, if you can’t join them, dear readers, give them a big hand.

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