The Frustrated CFO

The Frustrated CFO on Ozempic®: Segment 1

If you, the reader, ever decide to delve into my crime memoir I Built This Prison,  you will find out (fairly quickly too, I must say, as I go into the whole "fat pig" thing as early as page 12 and then really expound on the matter in chapter 4 - Bucket of Tears... and Blood)  that I have been struggling with my weight since my toddler years... Nearly six decades now, dammit!

Pear-shaped, as the Nature supposedly intended, plus the squatty stature, plus the slowest metabolism in the history of the universe, plus the propensity for depressive eating... Dieting, severe dieting, extreme dieting... No fats, then no carbs...Atkins in my 30s for so long - I'm still working the accumulated cholesterol off with pills... Counting calories, like forever... Still voluptuous even in the thinnest of times... Then eating everything in sight for days, weeks, months, years... Terrible self-hatred and low self-esteem... Couldn't even blame it all on genetics - no one else in the family ever got THAT fat... A lifetime of endlessly galloping that vicious circle - both vicious and circular - with no escape...

And I'm not making national news here by telling you that with age, not only losing, but even just keeping the weight off becomes a virtually impossible ordeal for pretty much everyone. (Except maybe for Calista Flockhart, or Lara Flynn Boyle, or Meredith Grey... Sorry, I mean Ellen Pompeo.) It's not just the loss of the lean muscles and the further deceleration of the metabolism either. Nowadays, getting older comes with more uncertainties, more stress, more anxiety, more depression - hence, higher levels of cortisol. And it's no joke: even with my notoriously ravenous appetite, it used to be so much easier for me to stay hungry. At 20, I was able to do a seven-day water cleanse... I can't even think about it now. Seriously: as years went by, fighting off hunger got progressively harder and harder.   

Unless, of course, you are forcefully placed under the special conditions of deprivation... In nearly three years of my imprisonment, which happened to stretch between the 57th and the 60th years of my life, I ended up losing 70 lb. After 16 months of being out on bail and battling my criminal-proceedings anxieties with some pretty grotesque overeating, I went in as a blob of fat size 24, but came out as a yoga-practicing size 14.

Don't get horrified (Why would you? But just in case.), thinking that NYS DOCCS starves people in prison. They don't. Well, the food is pretty awful (it's prison food - there is a special section about it in Part III of I Built This Prison called Our Daily Bread and State Mandated Waste); and its level of nutrients ranges from low to nonexistent; and the last meal of the day they serve you is the 5:30 pm dinner, which technically imposes 14 hours of intermittent  fasting during the most difficult hours - in the evening, after work/school/programs... Nevertheless, I totally could've (and many do) gained, not lost, 70 lb.: people get packages full of carbs with long shelf life; buy a lot of bread, pancake mix, pasta, and boxes of Little Debbie treats at the commissary, thus mitigating incarceration with indulgence...

But I didn't: I didn't get food packages and I had strict rules about my commissary buys: mixed-greens salad pouches were the highest priority, then whatever proteins I could get within the imposed limits... Little Debbie was classified into the same mortal-enemy territory as the most antisemitic of correctional officers... I think the psychological reality of the Bill's of Rights loss as a punishment for my crime helped me to be as vigilant with my diet as I used to be very long time ago -  during the periods of intense romance in my youth.

Plus, I was made to walk everywhere - pretty long stretches on a large campus sprawled over the cheap land of Western New York. While writing I Built This Prison, I used Google Earth to calculate the distances I actually covered on an average prison day: it came to 3 miles... Just imagine - if you walk on your treadmill at a brisk pace of 3 miles per hour, it would take 1 whole hour to match that effort.

Stay on that regiment for 3 years (not 3 weeks or 3 months) and you get the 10-sizes body reduction... Then I came back into the "free" life...

I'm not going to keep you (oh, the hopeful me!) in suspense: 18 months later I was back at my pre-prison weight! Who does that?!!! And yes, I overindulged at the beginning... NYC and its limitless options, you know... I forced myself to never think about it while I was behind the barbwire and 370 miles away... But when it's right in front of you and most of it is literally at your fingertips inside your iPhone? For a life-long epicure like myself? After prison?...

...I don't know about you, but I loved all of David E. Kelly's Law-in-Boston shows, including The Practice. (I don't think it can possibly be qualified as a "spoiler" 22 years after its airing, so I'm not going to apologize for it): Season 7 finds one of the main characters, Lindsay Dole (Kelli Williams), in prison, serving a life sentence after being found guilty of a first-degree murder. Her husband Bobby (Dylan McDermott) comes for a visit and brings her a burger... Watching her devouring it within seconds, he marvels, "I've never seen anybody eating a burger this fast..." And she goes, "I'll talk to you after you go to prison..." Or something to that effect - I'm not going to look for the exact quote... But you get what I'm talking about, right?...

So, as fat as fat can be - again! Weighing as much as my daughter and son-in-law together. Granted, they are skinny people. Still, two humans... I despaired, then got a grip, and embarked on the same course of actions I've always employed under similar circumstances in the past: stopped cheating with the calories counting and faithfully limited them to the maximum of 1,250 per day Sunday through Friday with a 1,500 allowance for the relaxation Saturday; got back on the rowing machine, and even bought a walking pad. Of course, who's got the time in the "free" world to voluntary walk 3 miles? At - what counts for me as speed-walking now - 2.5 mph, it's like 1 hour and 12 minutes!!!! But! I do 3/4 of a mile absolutely every morning - no excuses... A lot of foods got banished entirely and the ordering-out was pretty much outlawed... It's a hungry and emotionally draining life... Talking about the struggle being real! 

And that's when the whole weight-loss-after-sixty factor became vividly evident... Here's the sad truth: After two years of sticking to that strict regiment... I've cumulatively lost 9 lb....

And yes, the vanity is still there: "It's not fair!!! I cannot fit my arms into my fancy suit jackets!!!" and stuff like that... But on top of that, there are far more detrimental aspects of being overweight in the twilight of your middle age: particularly the exacerbation of the natural body wear, which manifests itself through such unpleasantries as degenerative arthritis of your knees (a few episodes before the very end, Raymond Reddington [played by James Spader, who is 8 months older than I am] says, that it's the knees first and then the eyesight); or nonalcoholic fatty liver (and that's just heartbreaking - I've never drunk!); or the rising blood sugar (I don't even sweeten my coffee or tea and never drink soft drinks!).

The knee pain is particularly troublesome - it turns any type of stairs into a torture and completely removes the tiny grains of joy out of walking and rowing, turning any and all exercising into pure misery... So, a few months ago, during the semi-annual visit to my primary physician, I broke my "everything is fine as usual" routine and talked to him about the knee, and the walking, and the rowing, and the watching calories... And he went, "Well, there's Ozempic..."

"O-o-what?!" ...Now it seems inconceivable, but until he spoke that word I've never heard of it. Never-ever... Well, primarily, I guess, because I don't follow the mainstream celebrity gossip... AT ALL... But, once you know about it, of course, you see it everywhere...

The doctor said, "I know you always research everything. So, do that..."

The first thing I did, I mentioned it to my daughter. "Well, mom," she texted back, "Ozempic is the reason why Natasha Leone looks the way she does..." Damn! Having watched Poker Face, I was actually wondering about that... "Do you know its mechanism?" I, the life-long nonbeliever in weight-loss drugs, asked. She didn't.   

So, I hit all my research buttons... What I found out was life-changing-ly revelatory... It turned out that semiglutide (Ozempic's chemical name) works by mimicking a naturally occurring hormone GLP-1, which stimulates insulin secretion by pancreas and lowers blood glucose (hence its primary purpose as a Type 2 Diabetes remedy). But here's the thing: As the levels of this hormone rise, the digestive system sends a message to your brain, signaling that you are full. Reportedly, these mental prompts are quite similar to the effects of bariatric (aka stomach-stapling) surgeries...

You know how once in a blue moon you literally have an epiphany that you've been missing something most crucial from your life? Well, that's what happened to me when it became vividly clear that my endocrine system simply doesn't generate that GLP-1 hormone. Because, I have never experienced the sensation of that blessed fullness... If nothing else, I've been hungry all my life.

On the other hand, I'm quite familiar with the concept of fullness: Not only that I've met people who underwent the bariatric procedures and felt nauseous after drinking a full glass of water, but I've also known naturally skinny individuals and I've observed them getting full - literally unable to take another bite - after consuming modest quantities of food... It's the reason why always say that when a skinny person says that he ate a lot and a fat person says he ate nothing, the amount of food consumed by the former is still smaller than that ingested by the latter.

And now these people (I mean, Ozempic's manufacturers) are telling me that I can get full? And quickly? On small amounts of food? This medicine will curb my appetite and will make the dieting easy? I need that shit!!! Now!!!  No, let me correct that: I've been needing that shit all my life!

And the doctor offered it! So, I can get the prescription and start my self-injecting weekly cycle, like, tomorrow! Right?

TO BE CONTINUED...

 

      

 

 

 

 

  

 

 

 

 

 

Off the Cutting Room Floor of "I Built This Prison" Memoir: Clip #2: Tears of Admiration vs. Desperate Crying

 

"My, as I call it, 'crying in awe' goes a little bit further than the conventional lacrimation with the divinity of the (oh, so appropriately named!) Requiem's installment -  Lacrimosa. It’s hard not to cry together with 35-year-old Mozart over the heart-breaking truth of him being within hours from the grave and  all his life's struggles as well as our own sins and fears of the unknown punishments yet to come. Everyone with a soul, no matter how shrunken, weeps listening to that.

I, on the other hand, is known to commence the waterworks even when watching a 'comedic' act - if it's brilliance manages to impact my aesthetic receptors. Like the first time I watched Bo Burnham's 'Make Happy' on Netflix: twenty minutes in, the tears just started pouring out of my eyes in recognition of the boy's astonishing talent. Stuff like that - in the movies, at plays, in the museums, over books...

And don't even get me started on J.Ivy's poetic contribution into Kanye West's 'Never Let Me Down' - it's profound beauty invariably triggers my tear ducts, every time I listen to the song... 

Unfortunately, that's not the bulk of my tears production. Genius is rare, desperation abound...

♦♦♦

...Even though they were the biggest contributors into all that wetness, it wouldn’t be fair to place the entire blame for it on my most prevalent pain bringers – my parents first and my employers later. Even in my personal safe heavens of academic institutions – the places where my abilities and efforts have always been singled out, appreciated, rewarded, and even lauded – once in a while, there would be somebody to trigger the tear ducts. This primarily goes back to my Soviet youth – the time when I was powerless to do anything about, for instance, a Philosophy Department Chair openly expressing his surprise about what he perceived as an incongruity between my wild Jewish hair and my deep knowledge of classical marxism. (Dude! I had straight A's in everything - that's just how I was.)  And that's the truth of it - sometimes random strangers can be as harmful as people who already know your soft spots. It’s funny how this type of small stuff sometimes ends up to be so devastating. It's so difficult to shake off such pointless rudeness. Its emotional violence feels as if a metal-studded cat-o’-nine-tails landed between your shoulder blades. And then, your breath catches, and you lose control of your ducts...

And what else can you possibly do but go and let it all pour out? In secret, of course... What other quick and ready means you have for mitigating the impulses to throw punches and yell, for disarming the triggers that have a potential of sending you into scandalous fits. Effectively, it helps you to dissociate: Regardless of what was happening inside my mind and at the center of my soul, I still went to work every day and performed all my duties, attended meetings and functions; kept the bosses’ businesses and my own household running smoothly, without a single visible glitch. Never a fucking mess in public. With all the pain hidden so deeply that other people, affected by the same terribly hostile environments, would frequently marvel, "How the hell do you manage to stay so composed? How do you bear this? How do you keep yourself so calm?” And I would just smile in response, while letting the nuclear devastation scorching away my sanity... Years of control-building and the aforementioned secret crying - that's how...

Yet, the bile's buildup had to manifest itself on the surface in some ways..."

                                                                 Deleted from Chapter 4 - Bucket of Tears... and Blood  

 

  

 

Video Quote of the Week: The Best Meditation Guidance for the Frustrated Likes of Us

No comments necessary!!!  Simply the best!

 

Fable of the Week: You Say Pessimism, I Say Realism

Once upon a time (but not very long ago), Kroshka Roo, the quick-witted sidekick of the mighty goddess Shiny Crow, was making a protein potion for himself - to keep his strength and virility at the level tantamount to the demands of his arduous life.  The brew, prepared in accordance with a recently unearthed ancient recipe, looked like a swamp in South-Eastern Asia after an especially long winter season of inexhaustible rains: It was muddy-green and thick, with a texture that gave an appearance of something heavy and hairy swimming right under the surface. 

Kroshka Roo took a sip.

"Does it taste vile?" asked Shiny Crow, testing her partner's commitment to the noble cause of survival in the Crumbling World.

Kroshka Roo didn't skip a bit.  "I looked at the liquid," he replied, "And just knew exactly what it would taste like.  My expectations were completely met and I am at peace with the potion."  He then proceeded to consume the brew in its entirety.  

Quote of the Week: Self-Help Advice from David Foster Wallace

"Don't worry about getting in touch with your feelings, they'll get in touch with you."

David Foster Wallace

The Frustrated CFO's Means of Self-Therapy

I was standing there at Terminal 5 yesterday, listening to Alt-J performing their 2012 Mercury Prize winning album An Awesome Wave live, cheering with the rest of the audience at the first notes of each song in recognition of their sublime quality.  And once again a familiar notion formed inside my head.  It happens to me every time I experience something that momentarily separates my  being from all the negative garbage in my life.  I think, "If I didn't keep on, I wouldn't have received this gift, I wouldn't have come to know these songs, I wouldn't be bobbing in rhythm right now."

I claw my way through the long stretches of hard life, full of frustration and disappointments, from one moment like this to another.  This is what forces me to continue - the hope that there is another wonder ahead.  And when they come, I use them as my self-therapy: I imprint the intimacy of the experience in my memory and let it carry me over the next hurdle. 

It's like mantra:  If I didn't endure I wouldn't have exited the Bullet train onto the platform of Shuzenji station and felt my rusty armor melting away; I wouldn't have seen that astonishing photo my daughter took a few months ago; I wouldn't have watched Radiohead, The Mars Volta, Tool do their on-stage magic;  I wouldn't have heard Andrew Bird's heavenly sounds in the Guggenheim and in the Riverside Church; I wouldn't have read new Egan, Carson, Cunningham; I wouldn't have stood in the middle of the Red Forest breathing the ancient clarity...  And I wouldn't have been at Terminal 5 yesterday.

So, here is my personal tip for everyone who, like me, is overwhelmed with frustration and prone to desperation: find something powerful that can make you forget about the dread, look for opportunities to experience it whenever you can, and hold on to the sensory memory of each occasion for as long as the shittiness of this life allows you.  And let's hope that the gaps between the moments of joy will not get any longer then they already are.

Acknowledgements:

I would like to thank my daughter for treating her mother as an equal and sharing all kinds of awesomeness.  And thank you very much, the dude from Bumblefuck, IL.

 

That Elusive Sense of Self-Worth

The other day one young woman was telling me about her dinner with Mr. X.  The man was not in a good place: he was being down on himself, feeling gloomy, dissatisfied, depressed. 

I know a thing or two about Mr. X and even met him a few times.  By conventional standards, he is, to put it mildly, a very accomplished and impressive guy.  A self-made man, he has spent the last three decades propelling himself into a progressively narrower sector of the income-distribution pie.  Forgoing leisure, he devoted most of his waking hours to his work: hundreds of companies successfully bought, restructured, guided to success, sold - efforts resulting in considerable wealth shared by him and his partners.  Now, in his middle age, he is at the point, where the proverbial 1% seems to him like a large group of people with meager resources.  Not only that he warranted the best opportunities for the future generations of his offspring, but he has the luxury to be generous to other individuals, and very charitable to organizations of important cultural value.  

So, what could possibly make this strong, smart, and powerful person with a long list of achievements hate on himself?  The destruction of the planet?  The intellectual downfall of humanity?  Maybe he feels inadequate as a parent?  Those are universal equalizers that should make us all feel agitated.  Should, but not necessarily do.  As it turns out, it's his professional self-assessment: he feels that he could've done better for the partnership; that he didn't achieve his best results.  He gives his performance a moderate grade of B+.

How curious...  I constantly feel like a career failure as well.  Only my reasons are sort of the opposite of Mr. X's.  I know that I've given 110% to every job.  From a purely academic standpoint, my professional efforts deserve nothing less than an A+.  But, due to a huge entanglement of reasons, including my gender, I have never received matching rewards, was forced to accept comparatively inadequate compensation and insufficient recognition.   

On the other hand, maybe my marks are always A+ because my undertakings are a tad below my true capacity.  What if there were no obstacles and I would have opportunities to embark on  Herculean tasks - the business pursuits of much larger magnitude?  How would I do then?  Would I still be able to impress?  How would I feel about myself and my results?

Maybe the real reason we both feel so shitty about ourselves lies in the betrayal of our true destinies (or, at least, what we think they should've been).  As a student, Mr. X was deeply affected by the brilliance of Marcel Marceau and was a part of a street-performing innovative circus troupe.  And all I wanted to do since I was 15 years old was to write cultural critique - absorb, decipher, and opine on various art forms.  Instead, both of us made a choice of going the practical route: killed the dreams and embarked on money-making pursuits (different amounts, same principle) in order to support our families.  In his new book Missing Out, psychoanalyst Adam Phillips argues that we care about the lives we failed to live more than the ones we actually endure.  Adam Phillips, dude, I feel ya!

Then again, let's say both Mr. X and I did have a chance to realize our wildest creative fantasies... but the only grades we could achieve were C's and D's.  Or what if we received A's from others for doing what we loved, but inside our neurotic heads still felt that we had not risen above F's?  What then?  

We don't know.  It's unlikely we ever will.  Meanwhile, here we are: two very different individuals with incomparable pasts, presents, and futures, but virtually in the same imaginary place - a dingy dinghy with a sad name Gloomy Fool. 

Who Is Your Favorite Avenger?

I cannot really call myself a comics fan just because I am familiar with the names and overall stories of the most famous characters.  That's just popular culture saturation.  I know some real devotees, and those people can discuss different genres, know the names of artists, aware of obscure series, and dissect the aesthetics of comics with the same depth I apply to theater, cinema, or literature.  Yet, I do appreciate the idea of a superhero, a human with extraordinary abilities and skills.  In a sense, Ayn Rand's John Galt is a superhero.  Some of the stories written by comics' authors are just as dark and prophetic.  And, I've seen the original drawings of the best creators: there is no question in my mind - it's art. 

On the other hand, cinematic interpretations of graphic novels, the money-making machines of Marvel and DC Comics, rarely measure up to the original sources.  I don't even remember when was the last time that I saw a comic-based movie on a big screen...  Until this summer's release of Joss Whedon's The Avengers.

I've always had a weak spot for Joss Whedon's creative powers.  His visions, both phantasmagorical and futuristic, yet so human, are among my guilty pleasures.  Amazingly, the man is capable of making all sorts of creatures sexy and soulful.  After all, he brought vampires with various personality traits into our lives way before the recent wave of the blood-sucking hype.  He is to current supernatural TV programming, what Nirvana is to contemporary Rock.  

Stephenie Meyer may list Shakespeare and Jane Austin as influences for her deplorable writing all she wants; and the story how the idea of love between a human girl and a vampire came to her in a dream on June 2, 2003 is a great PR ploy.  But isn't it uncanny that Joss Whedon aired the last episode of Buffy the Vampire Slayer series on May 20, 2003.  Maybe the young Mormon wife and mother was simply missing Buffy's heat.

So, because it's written and directed by Joss Whedon, I went to see The Avengers...   And it was very entertaining, exhilarating, sufficiently layered for those who want to look beneath the surface, and accessible to those who just want to have fun - in other words, it was very Joss Whedon.  I mean, who else would be able to take the Incredible Hulk and not only accentuate the character's original traits, but make him even more tragic, brilliant, powerful, soulful... and funny?

Yeah, the Incredible Hulk  as interpreted by Joss Whedon - oh boy, do I relate to that character, or what?  I mean, "That's my secret, captain.  I'm always angry," - it's like he went into my head and read it on my cerebral cortex.  Always angry, but in control most of the time.  Well, in my case, practically all the time, trying to channel the frustration through writing, cursing at the toilet bowl, or stomping on a piece of paper; only wishing that I could unleash the anger for real.

When I just started this blog, I took time to explain in several posts my take on frustration and its management.  In one of them, I nominated John McEnroe as the frustration release hero .  And, he definitely is that, but if I were to expand my search pool beyond mere humans... Joss Whedon's Dr. Banner/Hulk definitely takes the first prize - reserved, humble, unstoppable when angered by bad guys, and with a sense of humor regardless of his physical/mental state. 

Watching him handling Loki's arrogance was probably one of the most satisfying therapeutic experiences I've had in a long time.  For a hot second I felt avenged.  Oh, how I yearn for an ability to do that to some people!  In fact, I think it would work for me even better than Darth Vader's management style.

 

I Dream of "Star Wars," or Darth Vader's Management Style

At the risk of exposing myself to the readers' harsh judgement, I have to admit that there are moments when even my long-time experience of controlling emotions in the work environment is not enough to tame the feeling of... ENRAGEMENT some people manage to ignite inside my being. Hell, even the Page of Frustration doesn't help.

Some dense employees endlessly making the same errors, or chiefs of irrelevant operating sectors creating disasters behind your back, or (most likely) all of them causing damage simultaneously - these people can make you feel the urge to physically harm them in restitution for the emotional turmoil you experience: bite them, or kick them in the shins, or hit them with a monitor, whatever. Of course, you don't do any of that. You go and curse at the toilet bowl instead (one of my Personal Tools of Frustration Relief).

During such moments my mind frequently carries me to phantasmagorical events that took place "a long time ago in a galaxy far, far away;" to the image of a person (can we call him a person?) with no tolerance for poor work performance, unlimited managerial authority, and extraordinary motivational tools - Darth Vader. This was an executive who gave no time for excuses and perfected the methodology of frustration release to the point when he didn't even have to touch the failing underlings. He destroyed them telepathically!

"You have failed me for the last time..." Ta da! And the offender of the high work standards is grabbing the invisible fingers at his throat. "I find your lack of faith disturbing..." - same result! This definitely puts the audience on alert: every time there is a discussion of the Galactic Empire's failures or setbacks, you start wondering, will Darth Vader have to choke a bitch again?

People's opinion of George Lucas's writing and directorial mastery varies, but we cannot deny the fact that his ideas are brilliant and his intuition about mass audience response patterns can be matched only by someone like Steven Spielberg. Notice, how he populated the "Good Side" with heroic, largely self-sufficient overachievers, who would sacrifice their lives before they allow themselves to fail. It makes perfect organizational sense: if they were as fallible as the Dark Side's middle management, who would reprimand them? Yoda? Obi-Wan Kenobi? It would never work - they are too soft.

Yoda spent so much time training Luke Skywalker for his intended position as a destroyer of the Empire. Yet, the boy wasn't quite grasping it. So, who did Lucas choose to show the young warrior what's what? Who else? Darth Vader: my son, my son, you still kinda suck at this. Let me raise the bar a bit. Whoosh! Luke's hand goes bye-bye. Now, try to overcome your weaknesses and harness the Force!

I sincerely apologize to the worldwide community of the "Star Wars" nerds, but, even though I admire it as a revolutionary breakthrough in filmmaking, I have to admit that the soap-operatic nature of the material always seemed silly to me. Yet, when the frustration rages in my head, remembering Darth Vader's chocking scenes is extremely satisfying.  Try it!

Insecure Business Owner/CEO

People write about insecure bosses all the time. There are blog posts, articles, book chapters, cartoons, movies, and TV shows devoted to the subject of dealing with a superior who feels threatened by his subordinates.  Hey, bosses are people and a vast majority of humanity is plagued by insecurities of various forms and degrees. The authors usually predict two possible outcomes of having such a boss: you will either find a way to overcome the problem and turn this person into your ally, or you get fired.  Curiously, in these writings "the boss" in question is usually another hired employee perched on a higher step of the hierarchy ladder.  (It has always surprised me, why these advisers never consider a possibility of you finding the way of getting the insecure boss fired.)

However, when your insecure boss owns the company that employs you, it's a completely different situation altogether.  Here he (or she, or they) was, the big boss with a business that he's built, thinking that he is the shit, the sharpest tool not just in some lousy shed, but in a suburban Home Depot... Until you came along, with your diverse expertise, broad fundamental knowledge, etc.

Now, you start discovering all kind of stupid stuff.  If you are indeed an experienced person, you are not running around like an idiotic show-off screaming that everything is wrong.  No, you tread lightly.  At the same time you must do your job and, therefore, correct the stupid stuff.  So, you say careful things like, "Excuse me, I mean no disrespect, but this and that is not done properly and will result in long-term losses; and, by the way, your accounting doesn't comply with prescribed rules."  You have no choice but to reveal painful observations such as, "You know, that operating system you bought just before your hired me (couldn't you wait?) on recommendation of someone you know, sucks!  You were misled - it's not an ERP, it's a retarded cousin of a real ERP twice removed."

Moreover, from time to time, things come out of your boss's mouth that are not just silly, they are embarrassingly incorrect.  Of course, you can ignore it, and yet you cannot, because if you don't clarify his confusions and educate him, he may say something stupid in front of your bankers, or investors, or auditors.  So, you have no choice but to find an appropriate way to straighten him out, raise his sophistication.

And even though you openly express due respect for his entrepreneurial abilities and acute commercial intuition, he cannot avoid feeling inadequate, insecure.  It's unpleasant and he doesn't like it at all.  Yet, unless you become rude and inappropriate, your job is secure.  The idea of firing you wouldn't even come to his logical conscious mind.  First of all, he knows that the company (i.e. his wallet) needs you and your improvements.  Secondly, you took over quite few tasks, freeing him for business development.   Finally, he doesn't have time or desire to go through the search process again.

Still, from time to time the subconsciousness feels pangs of wounded ego.  When that happens, he'll do anything to make himself feel better.  He will find one or another way to get back at you.  If you have an accent (Irish, Italian, Slavic, French), he will interrupt you in the middle of a meeting and ask the outsiders if they understand at least 30% of what you were saying, even though your English is fluent.  Your writing skills are likely to be far more superior than his, but he will make you run drafts of emails to important people by him, claiming their "political importance."  He may get into habit of reminding you that, considering your compensation, he expects a lot from you, even though you have exceeded all his expectations already.  And so on, and so forth...  

This behavior is childish.  The mere knowledge that it's rooted in his insecurity should help you to brush it off.  Don't let yourself to be hurt by it.  Don't think, "This is not fair, I am helping his business."  Don't take it as an insult.   Accept it as a testimony to your superiority.