What’s the Best Wine Pairing for Foot?

The second week of my new job basically involved me stuffing my foot in my mouth and seeing just how far I could shove it down my throat without vomiting all over someone’s desk, and other awkward occasions.

Don’t get me wrong – job’s still good. People are still nice. Me? I’m kind of an idiot.

My new immediate boss started Monday. It just so happens that, in the ongoing adjustment to restructuring our department, he wasn’t hired until after me. Not a big deal at all. But he has to get up to speed with how things are working so that he can then oversee how things are working. Pursuant to that, he had an informal staff meeting on Tuesday morning at which I opened my fat mouth and implied that I understood things that, being on my exact seventh day of working at the university, I, of course, did not, in fact, understand. This has long been a problem of mine. My natural air of confidence makes me seem as if I know what the hell I’m talking about, when in all actuality I’m totally making shit up half the time, and the other half I only think I know what I’m talking about, but I say it with such poise and certainty that people believe me. This is essentially how I’ve managed to convince anyone at all that I’m a grown-up.

And usually that’s harmless. But in this case, it ruffled the feathers of someone who’s been there way longer than me. Approximately 19 years, 11 months and 51 weeks longer. Because I thought she had new help with a client, and I was very wrong. She still does all the work herself. Yet I sort of came off as telling her she was wrong, instead.

On top of that, there was a covert kerfuffle over my title. Now, I can’t help what my title is. But I was hired with that title even though my associates, who do exactly the same job as mine, don’t have it. Naturally, they wondered what the difference was. They were told, before I arrived, that there was no difference. Joanne told them that. She hired me. She also told my immediate boss, Ron, that I have a leadership role over the others. Therefore, he kept coming to me for things, making me look like the new boss’s favorite. And she keeps talking me up like I’m the second coming.

Oh, please stop. It’s so nice to be valued and appreciated, but please, please lower the bar of expectation. I don’t know what I’m doing. You know that, right?

Then, last night, I went to a dinner in honor of some prominent graduates. Seated at my table were one such graduate and his family, along with two men I’ve met in the last two weeks – both clients I work with. The man to my immediate left was someone I hadn’t yet met. I asked him what he does within the university.

He’s the vice-provost.

Which is awesome, since the Office of the Provost is another one of my clients.

This was after I met the president of the university and couldn’t help but wonder if my v-neck was cut a little too low. Which I had been wondering all day. Which means the answer is probably yes.

In other news: Rick brought something up to my officle while I was in a meeting. I saw it briefly when I ran back to my desk to get something we were talking about. Then I wound up coming back to get what he’d brought, because we’d started talking about that. He’d stuck a Post-It note on it: “Sending you gifts (with a purpose). Enjoy.-Rick.”

I controlled the heart flutter, I think. Because it was just information on a construction project the university is doing. And a pen pimping said construction project. It wasn’t, like, roses. I did need the info.

But… I mean… the pen…

Anyway. I emailed him later to let him know his timing was perfect because we were discussing the very thing he’d brought to my officle while I was in the meeting. Then I asked for some quick information on the event he was attending. Except the event was the next night. “That’s tomorrow,” he replied, as I had known two hours before, but had forgotten. “Right now I’m stuck in traffic heading into the city for a dinner. If it keeps up like this, I might just bypass the dinner altogether.”

At first I thought nothing of it. Then I did some geographical calculation and realized that the city is south of the university, and the town where he’d been staying with his parents is north of the university. “Bypassing” in this case means continuing southward without stopping. And the town where he had lived with his girlfriend is south of the city.

So now I’m pretty sure he’s back with her. Which, by the way, is exactly what I have been telling myself all along, for the sake of my peace of mind. Supposedly. But I think he mentioned the “bypass” on purpose. Which I willfully ignored. Because this is a professional relationship. I will not wind up in the Friend Zone. And I will not ask questions.

After all the Foot I’ve tasted this week, I need to keep my mouth shut, anyway.

The First Week

You guys. I finished my first week of my new job.

First of all, did you know that you can work somewhere where people are all really nice and nobody is snarky? It’s true. I mean obviously it’s only been a week and everyone is probably on their best behavior and also really excited because wow, do I have a lot of responsibilities to take off their hands. I’m not complaining. I like being busy and I am going to know soooo many people. But no fewer than three officemates have told me I have entirely too many clients within the university. Like, triple what I should have, apparently? So that’s exciting. I’m looking forward to failing them all miserably.

I spent the week doing important things like having meetings with major players in university administration and also figuring out how the hell to work the phone. I couldn’t even log into a computer until Wednesday, so I was re-learning what it was like to write things out longhand and not be able to send email. I could place and receive calls, so that wasn’t a problem… I just didn’t have voicemail until Thursday.

I had to make a copy once. That was embarrassing. Here’s me, college-educated, working at a university, 16 years as a professional, and I couldn’t figure out how to make the copier go.

You need a code.

Aha.

But now? Except for not understanding why the printer that’s directly under my desk doesn’t print, and not knowing where anything I print actually goes, everything is up and running! I even figured out how to find someone else’s scheduling calendar in Outlook. In my previous career, there was nothing like this. I didn’t know computers had made it possible for me to see the scheduling calendar for literally every blessed person on staff at a university.

I find it a little creepy, to be honest.

On Tuesday, I asked the administrative assistant if we had any of those big desk calendars – you know, the ones with the big squares for each day so you can write a bunch of stuff in there? I was teased for not just doing it all in my phone, but my phone is always dinging and buzzing about something and I start ignoring it, so that’s not really the best way to go. Anyway, the AA told me she’d order me one.

Next morning. On my desk. “It’s not very pretty, but there wasn’t much of a selection,” she said apologetically. As if I need a pretty desk calendar. I’m still in shock I got something I asked for immediately and without question. I come from a place where they line-item veto $0.26 worth of staples on a supply request.

I did not make that up.

Oh! And I have an officle. That’s what I call  it. Hard C, like “cat.” It’s not quite an office because it doesn’t have a door, so it’s more like a cubicle, but bigger, and there’s a window! Remember how I used to work in a basement? Now I’m on the fourth floor with a window. Right there! Big ol’ view! Blinds I’m allowed to adjust whenever I choose!

And you know what else? I can be away from my desk for hours and nobody questions whether I’m doing my job. In fact, they assume I’m doing it, by being out, having meetings and getting familiar with campus. Which is exactly what I have been doing when I’ve been away from my desk, except for the four hours of my life that HR owes me for the timesuck that was orientation. Three people in this session, including myself, and it took four freaking hours. I’ve never seen so much PowerPoint in my life. And soooo much paperwork. Just to exist. Just to get on the payroll. At a state university, you have to fill out 427 forms and they can’t put you on payroll until they get allll  of them back. Including your retirement selection, your health insurance selection and your fingerprints. Yes, you have to be fingerprinted. Which should be reassuring since it is a place that shapes young minds.

Oh, but you can get into buildings and work and stuff before they find out whether you’re an ax murderer. You just can’t get paid until they’re sure you’re not.

On Tuesday, there was a breakfast meeting that featured actual hot food. Eggs, home fries, sausage, bacon… plus pastry, fruit salad, yogurt, coffee, water, juices… and the whole meeting was called solely so that the boss could thank everyone for working so hard. Apparently she does this every couple months.

What?

Previous career: there might be an email from the boss once every three clusterfucks saying how glad he is to work with such smart people, but that email would be lost in a shuffle of 4,281 other emails about how we suck. And on Fridays there might be a rumpled brown bag of bagels and schmears of cream cheese all over a table in the breakroom. Tops.

People kept coming by all week and asking how I was, how things were going, telling me how happy they were to have me there, and offering help all over the place while I get acclimated. One guy, the guy I share a wall with (he has an office-office) left me a donut while I was at a meeting, and then came back and confessed he thought he’d gotten me a croissant because I seem more like a croissant person and donuts are too pedestrian. (He’s right about my preference in pastry.)  I learned he had not gotten donuts and/or croissants for everyone. Just some people. He also threw a Ferraro Roche candy on my desk. Clearly he’s trying to butter me up.

Now, those of you who have been playing the home version of my particular game of life might be wondering, “But, thesinglecell… what of that man you dated, Rick?” Well, I had decided, on my first day, that I would go say hello. His office is one floor below mine and he did help a lot and encourage me a lot when I was up for the job. But he wasn’t around that day. I saw him Tuesday instead. We sat in his office and chatted for at least half an hour, mostly about university- and legislation-related stuff. The next day, he came up to my officle with a newspaper in his hand, to show me (rather triumphantly) an article about a national effort to accomplish something we had worked on together on the state level for victims’ rights. We had nothing to do with the national thing, but it did piggyback off of our thing, which was pretty cool, and he was totally excited about it.

And then on Thursday, one of his big projects landed on my desk. It falls under the purview of two of my clients. I needed to get more info, so I emailed him, told him I was now on the project and asked him for whatever pertinent facts he could provide.

“I”ll stop up in 30 minutes,” he replied.

Ten minutes later, he was in my officle. He could have just emailed me, but he came up. And now guess who’s going to the site visit and the groundbreaking for the project? Me. Also him.

We looked at each other.

“Who would have thought,” I said.

“I know,” he said.

See, I really was hoping to minimize the number of times I have to see him all dressed up in a suit looking incredibly hot and stuff. But noooo. Right from jump, we’re pushed together again, after two years of strange pushings-together that seem (to those of us who are hopeless romantics slash terribly cursed in relationships) fated to lead to more, despite inner turmoil that has already pulled us begrudgingly apart.

Oh, universe. You are just hilarious.

 

 

Working Staycation

Week off, day one. I was supposed to paint the front door today. It’s at the top of my To Do List. I’m kind of excited about it, because my front door is white and boring and I don’t do white and boring. Except for management meetings. *Rimshot!*

But Mother Nature (or, as I believe she’s called in my urban environment, “All Y’all’s Mama”) decided that, on Earth Day, she would throw down some irony and make it too cold for me to put a coat of latex-based fume-producing paint on the door.

Well-played, Mama. I see you your temperature fluctuation that prevents my ozone-damaging efforts, and I raise you whatever chemicals are in a Swiffer wet cloth.

Your move, lady.

This week is all about the To Do List, bolstered by my attempt to reprogram my body to go to bed early and get up early, so I can be ready to start the new job with grown-up hours next Monday. I got up at 7:30, my mind full of the list’s items.

As of 11:30, I had moved the car, put a load of laundry in the washer, and pouted about the door.

None of those things were on the list.

I also read the internet. Not the whole thing, but kind of a lot of it. I had set up a TweetDeck account so I can keep track of goings-on for the new job. So I read the stuff that showed up there, and do you know what happens when you’re done doing that? You have to read the stuff that’s shown up since you started reading. It’s never-ending.

And then I looked at the Bed Bath & Beyond website because my 20% OFF online coupon is WAITING, hello, are you going to buy anything, bitch? And I found Mister Steamy’s Dryer Balls by accident.

Well, obviously that is either brilliant marketing or whoever came up with it has absolutely no idea what all those words put together will do to my brain.

So then I had to post that on my friend Alicia’s Facebook page because she’s dirty like I am and we don’t work together anymore so instead of being inappropriate in person I have to do it on the internet.

And then I had to look for some art that I’d seen a while ago for my upstairs hall, to see if the price had come down at all. Which it didn’t, but it reminded me that I wanted to check out the website for a woman I bought some stuff from at a wine festival yesterday (it wasn’t wine), because it occurred to me after I walked away that her stuff would look great in my upstairs bathroom.

I was supposed to be cleaning my kitchen, by the way.

Then I went to change the laundry from the washer to the dryer and found a gray plastic hose just free as you please in the washer. Which is funny because I don’t remember putting one in there to be washed. I had a good feel-around and even dug the flashlight out to see if I could figure out where this thing came from, but there were no openings I could see. And then I consulted the internet, which sucked unusually badly at getting me the information I needed. But in the process, I began to suspect this hose was part of the drain tube. Which means doing another load of laundry would be a verrrry bad idea. So then I had to call the place I bought the machine from.

He remembered me from the three times he had to come to my house because the machine wouldn’t spin. He asked if I was going to be home today and said he’d call me when he was on his way out. So then I had to take a shower. Usually he shows up, knocks first, then calls, while I’m in the shower.

He showed up without calling at all (but at least he showed up and at least I was out of the shower), and it turned out that it was a drain hose. Just not my drain hose. Apparently it was a spare that had been stored in the rubber that encircles the opening to the washer and worked itself free somehow during the cycle. No harm, no foul.

Oh, also? When I discovered the hose in the washer? I smelled the tell-tale sign that the cat had, for some reason, chosen to pee on the basement carpet. It was dry, so who knows when this happened. Now, can someone please tell me why a spray bottle of Resolve is completely inoperable once more than half the bottle is gone? Here’s a product made to be sprayed on things like carpets and furniture. Which means it’s got to be pointed downward. Why on earth, then, do I have to hold it straight up to make it go?

FIX IT.

Eventually I did clean the kitchen, and the floors, and finish the laundry. None of these things were on the To Do List. Oh, but calling the hospital for which my shrinkapist works and figuring out exactly how much money I really do owe them now that they’ve figured out who to bill first was. And I did that. Yay me.

Writing thank you notes was not on the list, but it should have been, and I did that, too.

And I paid bills. Also not on the list. But clearly something that must be done. Paying bills is a little terrifying right now because I am allegedly getting my final paycheck in the mail from my old job, which will allegedly include payout for the vacation days I hadn’t taken yet… but then after that I will not see a paycheck until June.

June, bitches.

Because apparently it takes the state a whole entire month to get you into the system.

Which reminds me: create website whereby I will make lots more money on the side was supposed to be on the To Do list.

So as of cocktail hour on Day One, three of the 19 things on the list have been crossed off, and four things that weren’t on the list got added and crossed off.

And then I remembered I need a screen for the kitchen window, so I added that.

Math sucks.

Your Life Is Important To Us. Please Continue To Hold.

As Josh Lyman once said in an episode of The West Wing called “The War At Home:” I’m on hold. I’m on hold. I’m in some kind of hellish hold world of holding.

Super episode, by the way.

So. I’m still waiting to hear from the university about the job. I’m not going to hear about it until at least next Monday, when Joanne gets back from vacation. She did email me yesterday, the first day of her vacation, to ask me for three references. I had already provided a list of three, two of whom are either recently retired from her department or currently working one floor below her in the president’s office. So I guess she wanted three more.

I could go for days, boss. Refer away. Or whatever.

But seriously? Make the call. You’ve told me you want to hire me, you’ve told me you don’t know why I didn’t get the last job I interviewed for there, you asked me for free advice, some of which you actually took, you sang my praises to Rick twice the next day… HIRE ME ALREADY. Or I’m totally billing you for that shit.

Meanwhile, I had to schedule the interview I don’t want, for the job I don’t really want. That’s because I had put my old and potentially new again boss on hold, because I was on hold with the university. And then when I learned I wasn’t going to hear from the university until at least the 25th, I couldn’t keep David on hold anymore. So that interview is Friday.

Which is Rick’s birthday. I had foolishly taken it as a vacation day, thinking maybe I’d make him a nice dinner. That was more than a month ago, when we were swimming along nicely. Cut to now, at which point I haven’t seen him in almost a month and didn’t hear from him between Friday afternoon and this morning. And all he can say to me anymore is, “Did you hear anything about the job yet?” Even though I have told him I won’t hear until next week. It’s like that’s the only way he can think of to continue some sort of contact.

I almost gave the vacation day back, but then I realized it would be the best way to go to the interview I don’t want for the job I don’t really want.

Since I turned my blog into an interactive forum on dating, I’ve been doing what it seemed most of you recommended: responding when contacted, but not reaching out. Which is really no different from what I’d been doing all along. So no behavior modification was necessary. Psyche modification – different story.

Therefore, I am grumpy as hell. Which, I’m told, hath no fury like a woman wondering what the eff is the deal with the seemingly endless procession of men in her life who can’t get their shit together with super glue, compounded by the nearly four-year search for a way out of a basement that didn’t include a spoon and a Raquel Welch poster, which is presently taunting her because it’s like she can smell the fresh air but she can’t get to it.

Or something like that.

Even Sam isn’t getting back to me. Days have gone by and nothing. I think he might be dead. I emailed him yesterday to ask. No reply. So it’s possible I’m right.

I’ve heard it said that God has three answers: Yes, No and Wait. I suppose it’s possible that I’m getting a bunch of Waits lately. But still, I would think God would have a better way to communicate. Burn a bush or something.

But tell me what the burning bush means first, so I’m not all, “It’s a sign! Wait… what?”

Yeah, I Take It Back. This Is NOT What It’s Supposed To Be Like.

I am typing really hard. Just so you know. 

The university where I’m trying to get a job is in the middle of a kind of public relations clusterfuck right now. (I had censored that word a little, but then I remembered we all know I swear in this blog. Much more than I do out loud in actual life. See? You get extras!) I’m not in PR at the moment, but I do have some level of knowledge about it, so the woman who would be my immediate supervisor called me at 10:00 last night looking for some free advice.

It’s possible I didn’t really let her ask me the question she wanted to ask because we just sort of got into the conversation, but suffice it to say we talked for 30 minutes about how to staunch the bleeding. And I don’t love giving free advice (apart from “hire me”), but if it’s going to help nudge them in the correct direction vis-a-vis my employment, I’ll throw them a bone. She had told me, without prodding, that she was sorry the process was taking so long, that everyone really liked me and wanted me on the team, but that they weren’t sure which position to slot me in. Not a great sign, since if it’s not the one for which I interviewed, it would be the one below that… $2,500 below that, and a rather significant $2,500, at that. And if you’re calling me to help save your ass from the mess you’re currently in, then maybe you should hire me for something indicative of the fact that you need me to save your ass. 

I had talked with her on the phone on my way home from work. Pulling into my parking spot at 11pm, I had not yet heard from Rick. The night before, I had heard from him rather late, but the exchange had been fine. I was still pissed, though, about being blown off on Friday. But, since I had an update on the employment situation, and only because of that update, I decided to reach out. 

“Just finished a 30 minute conversation with Joanne. She called asking for help with this fiasco. Apparently I’m a consultant now.”

His response was…

…wait for it…

“Congrats! Tell me about it tomorrow. I’m out of it right now. “

Are you freaking KIDDING me. Period. Not question mark.

By “out of it,” do you mean “high?” Or “drunk beyond conversational ability?” Because, um, the possibility of my getting hired at this university is kind of a major point of interest between us, and you’ve been lobbying for it for weeks, and just yesterday you asked if I had heard from Joanne. And now you want to tell me you’re too “out of it” to move your fingers around on a keyboard?

If I hadn’t laughed out loud at his douchenuggetry I would have been furious. I might still be. I reserve that right. And I will, in fact, NOT be telling him about it today. Because I will not be speaking to him today. Not really sure when I’ll resume that, actually.

So, let’s review:

First six weeks of dating: everything is great. Everything is so different from my previous experiences that I think I might have found a truly good guy now. But I don’t want to get ahead of myself.

Seventh week: slight intensification followed by perfectly acceptable conversation about taking things slowly. We are in complete agreement.

Eighth week: Still pretty decent, but definitely less great. One plan to see each other cancelled.

Ninth week: Haven’t seen him in three weeks. Substantially less great vibe. Actually verging on sucky. One possibly attempted blow-off that I thwarted because it didn’t even make sense, followed 24 hours later by an actual blow-off. Four days later,a huge blow-off. 

You know what? I think we’re done here.

So here, dear readers, is where you come in. I’d like to ask for your opinion on how I handle this. I’d love to set up one of those poll thingies, but I don’t know how and I don’t feel like figuring it out right now. Instead, I’ll give you numbers by the options I’d like you to choose from, and you can just comment with the number of your choice. Plus, of course, anything else you might like to say. Mmkay?

1. Ignore him. Don’t answer any communiques from here forward. 
2. Option 1 with the caveat that he can be answered if he realizes on his own that he owes me a huge apology and actually provides it. 
3. Call him tonight and suggest that we end this attempt at dating, since it seems he is not truly interested at this point.
4. Call him tonight and tell him off. Who cares if we might wind up working together? Who cares that we have to be at a governor’s award luncheon together in three weeks? He made his bed.
5. Set fire to his car. Leave a note: “Tell me about this tomorrow. I’m out of it right now.”

Aaand… GO!

I’m Gonna Need My Meds For This

OMG, you guys.

So every once in a while, Rick calls me from work to update me on something connected to the crime victim legislation we worked on together. He stays in touch with a lot of the people he used to work with, and he tries to stay on top of some of the initiatives he worked on to make sure they get done.

Anyway. A while ago, before he left the senator’s office, he told me I was nominated for a victims’ advocacy award. Which is crazy. And it was an honor just to be nominated, of course, just like the Oscars, and I would have been fine if they had Ben Afflecked the whole thing. But he called me earlier this week to tell me that not only am I in fact getting said award… I’m actually getting two.

Whaaaat? I didn’t, like, do anything. I wrote a letter. And, admittedly, persistently kept in touch with him to see what was going on with the plans to do what I’d proposed. Sure, I’m doggedly determined, but still, I didn’t do any of the actual work. He did all that.

Happily, he’s getting an award, too. There’s some sort of group award that they’re giving out this year, and he’s getting it because he made this happen, even though he doesn’t work for the senator anymore. And I’m sooo glad, because he deserves it more than anyone does. So much more that, before I found out he was getting one, I actually thought about giving him mine.

But it would have my name on it, and I thought scratching it out with a nail and etching his name in there instead would be too… obvious.

So yeah, apparently two awards for just, I don’t know, being outraged, and the governor is going to be there to give them to me or something. It’s a governor’s award thing. I don’t know if the governor actually hands me the awards. But the governor will be attending. I’m told.

So then, yesterday, Rick calls me again from work. I know he’s going to have something to tell me about the victims’ advocacy efforts or about the potential job I may or may not get (second interview is Tuesday) at the university where he now works, because he’s calling from the office phone and he won’t use that for personal calls. So he tells me, “I have even more good news for you.”

Okay…

“I just talked to Ann, and not only are you getting two awards at the luncheon, but you have also been invited to be a guest speaker.”

To which I responded with all of the eloquence that has convinced these people that I deserve such things: “Holy crap!” And found myself otherwise speechless entirely. Which bodes well for this event. I mean, Rick and Ann and some state senators have heard me speak before, because I testified to a state senate committee in favor of the bill. But I also just had an argument with my cat. In Cat. So let’s not get too complimentary.

“Yeah, you’re kind of a celebrity down there. She’s sending you a letter about it, but I wanted to tell you,” Rick said. Which is the same thing he had said two days before, when he called to tell me about the awards. I think he likes to hear my reactions to these things. And it’s good that he tells me, because I just closed my PO box and started having whatever mail was still going there forwarded to my house, and I don’t think Ann has my new address. And I feel like I can’t really call her and say, “I hear you’re giving me awards and adulations. Here’s my new address so you can tell me all about it.”

So now I’m trying to figure out a few things, like what to wear, and what to do about work that day since I thought initially Rick said it was from 11am to 2pm but the website I found says it’s from 12:30pm – 3:30pm and I would definitely be really, really late to work at that point. And then I remember that if I get the job at the university, I might not even be working at work anymore. So problem solved! Except not, because then that would probably be my first week at the new job and I don’t want to miss a day in my first week at work and–

“You’re getting. Two awards. From the governor,” Rick reminded me. “It’s a state school. I think they’ll be okay with it.”

Oh. Right. Huh. Okay, then.

And also I’m trying to figure out what to say in this speech I’m giving. I’m currently obsessed about knowing my audience. I believe it’s people who work in victims’ rights for the state, some political types, and crime victims. But I don’t know the percentages, or how many people will be there, or if anybody else will be there.

My mom wanted to come.

I told her no because I’m too old for my mommy and daddy to come to a thing where I get an award.

She said, “Okay, then don’t complain when you see other people’s parents there.”

“Mom…”

“I think the president’s parents came when he–”

Oh, Jesus. Seriously?

“Mom, first of all, that is a terrible analogy in that I’m not becoming President of the United States. And secondly, the president’s parents are dead.”

“That’s true,” she conceded. Though to which part, I’m not sure.

She wonders why I don’t tell her things.

So anyway, I feel like eventually the speech is going to be the easy part. Clearly I’m a writer. The harder part will be stuff like pretending not to be dating Rick and finding something to wear and not falling down.

Oh, these people have no idea what they’ve done.

Honest To Job

I am a terrible liar.

That’s the truth.

My (lack of) lying skills were called into service Thursday morning when I had to put off an interview for a job I don’t want but will take if the job I do want doesn’t come through.

It’s strategery.

I interviewed for the job I do want, the one at the university, on Wednesday morning. Interview by committee: four women (!) sitting in the small conference room with me. It went very well, and that includes the questions I refused to BS about (because, as previously mentioned, I’m a bad liar). I can sell myself, but if you ask me directly if I have any experience with something specific, with which I have no real experience, well… I’m going to tell you that I don’t really have any. Because what’s the point of lying about it? My face will turn red and my chest will get splotchy and if they hire me they’ll notice that I can’t do whatever it I said I could do. Lose-lose.

I actually think that being honest about those things in an interview is a strength. I have found, on the very few occasions when I’ve had to admit a lack of skill, that it’s appreciated. People even smile. Or say, “Oh, well that’s not really a problem.” As long as I’m not applying to be a nurse while having exactly no nursing experience whatsoever, everything’s pretty kosher.

I did take First Aid when I was a Girl Scout. And I’m very good in emergencies. So.

Anyway. Here’s the thing. I want this job even though it doesn’t pay enough and they totally know it doesn’t pay enough. (To that end, I suggested that they might let me freelance on the side, in a manner that keeps up connections with “stakeholders” – also known as People We Would Be Dealing With – but that avoids conflicts of interest. And they had no problem with that.) But as is so often the case with state jobs, the position must be publicly posted as an opening for no less than two weeks before the hiring manager can do anything.

When she said to me, “I just found out there are rules I have to follow,” I read that to mean, “We want to hire you and we might as well do it now, but we can’t because government.”

Fine. I get it.

Here’s the trick. This is where the lying comes in. The other job, the one I don’t want but will take if the university job doesn’t come through… that guy? Is gonna offer me the job like 24 hours after he interviews me for the third time. It’s common in my business for that to happen. I’ve already worked for him once, we’ve already talked on the phone twice; all that remains is for me to see the facility and meet the general manager.

And for the GM to like me, but whatever.

Which meant that I could by no means attend the previously scheduled interview on Friday. Because, even though it would be a Friday, I would have til like Tuesday at the outside before he’d be all, “Hey! Wanna work here?”

And I’d have to be all, “Um… can I think about it for approximately 8 days?”

And in the immortal words of Sweet Brown… “Ain’ nobody got time for that!”

So I punted. I thought and thought, and came up with the story that we’re already short-staffed at work, and now someone has a Thing and will be out for… oh, wow, let me see… I’m looking at a calendar… yyyyeah, like, two or three weeks.

Gosh… I hate to put it off that long, but…

It’s a damned good thing this was happening in a phone call, because I’m fairly certain that my chest instantly got splotchy, which happens when I A) have an anxiety attack; 2) drink some vintages of red wine; and third) lie. Plus, if a person can sound crestfallen, then that’s how David sounded. And possibly a little suspicious. He knows about the university job possibility. And the university job possibility knows about David. The only difference is, I told the university job people that I want to work for them… but that I have to hold David off until they can give me an answer.

You see now why I could never cheat in a relationship.

So for now, the university is stuck in neutral and David is in a holding pattern, hovering around me expectantly like a trained dog waiting for the okay to finally eat the treat that’s balanced on its nose.

I think I just compared myself to a dog treat.

Interview question: “If you were an animal, what animal would you be?”

My answer: “Well, I’m really more of an animal treat.”

Because any other answer would be a lie.

Help… Wanted

Oh, how I love a good Valentine yarn.

My post, “Wanted,” apparently generated some excitement among thousands hundreds dozens tens several of you. I confess, I had a great time writing it. Now here’s the version I wrote before I sexed it all up.

*****

I was sitting there at work, minding my own business, typing furiously with nine fingers and coming down from a brief work-related rage… and my desk phone rang. It was my old boss, David. We worked together for about six weeks back in 2001, just before I left Ohio to work in my current city of residence. I hadn’t talked to him since, and I had heard he’d gotten out of our business entirely. I remember when I left, he tried to talk me out of it. He told me it was a lateral move. He was, by the way, completely wrong.

David was cold-calling me out of nowhere to tell me that he’s heading up a unit in Central Pennsylvania and he needs a #2 man. Or woman. Someone who can be very hands-on and work with the staff of 70 people to shape and develop them professionally while churning out consistent, competitive and compelling product every day.

I happen to know he’s been looking for a while. I didn’t realize he was the #1 guy when I had seen the #2 position posted in a job search email I regularly get. That was months ago. I had briefly entertained the notion of applying. Now here it was, Valentine’s Day, and poor David was desperate for a partner.

He said a lot of very nice things about me and my work, that he had liked me, thought I was solid, wanted to keep me around. He had already sent me a LinkedIn request. And then he called. So apparently he’s really digging the idea of me being his #2.

And of course, as he’s talking to me and understanding that I can’t really say much in response, since I’m at work, I’m thinking one thing: could I really stomach this?

I’ve been trying to get out of our business for three years. But I’ve actually thought recently that, in order to get more marketable management experience on my resume’, I might summon the strength to do a year or two in a position like this. It would leapfrog me up in my professional stature by a couple of ranks (and really stick it to the douche nuggets who have smacked me down for the last few years). Problem was, I wasn’t willing to move. Turns out, the PA job is the same commute in the opposite direction. And no one there hates me yet.

Huh.

But there’s still this nearby university job on the table. My interview is the 20th. It would keep my commute short and already gets me out of the business I’ve been in for nearly 16 years and moves me on to the new career I want. I wouldn’t have to deal with the craptastic 24/7 drama that is running a program like David wants me to. Though we all know I like being bossy.

No, I have no idea what this PA job would pay. That might be a huge mitigating factor. But I’ve said it before… I learned when I took my current job that it’s not a good idea to take a job that makes you money if it means giving up what makes you happy.

The flip side, of course, being the fact that I’d be in charge. Hehe. And aside from the obvious bonuses inherent therein, there’s one that I think I could really use: the return of my Stella-like groove. Though I would very likely be completely overwhelmed by everything I would need to do and learn, I would also have a chance to overcome all the insecurities my current job and bosses have hammered into my soul for the last 4.5 years. Get out of the business owning it. With serious management cred. I am happier when I feel like I’m actually accomplishing something.

And then there’s Rick. Rick works for the university where I’m up for a job. He’s surprisingly excited about the possibility of my coming to work there as well. And I like the idea of a regular 9-5 Monday through Friday job because it frees up my social life, which the position in PA would challenge. But of course, I can’t make a decision in any way based on the hope for something that is only one month old. Plus, it was Valentine’s Day at 5pm and I hadn’t even heard from Rick. Which I was 80% sure was because he was schmoozing lawmakers (he did tell me days ago that the second half of this week would be crazy)… 10% sure was because he’s gotten freaked out… 5% sure was because he was waiting for me to make the first V-Day move, 3% sure was because he’d lost his phone and 2% sure was Other.

Cut to me looking forward to a martini and hoovering an entire restaurant-portioned platter of chicken Alfredo into my face.

And I started this day so stable…

I did hear from Rick, of course. About ten minutes after I’d finished my huge and carbolicious meal. He was working from home, still not feeling well and commanded to stay away from the office. But he asked me to be his Valentine.

What is this, this working for people who don’t want you to come to the office when you’re feeling a little under the weather? Does not compute.

Another argument in favor of the university job.

Wanted

For more than 11 years, we hadn’t talked at all. I could barely remember his face, how he walked in his suit. Now, on Valentine’s Day, here he was… murmuring words in my ear I never thought I’d hear.

“I need you.”

Oh my.

“I remember you…” his voice came low over the phone. “How much I liked you. You were strong. Solid. I wanted to keep you around.”

He had a proposal.

He wants me bad.

It’s tempting. The power I could wield. But it might all be a deception. He would keep me chained. Held tight in the grip of a ruthless and cunning affair. And I’m working toward a new relationship, one with promise. A relationship with better perks than I ever could have imagined in my wildest dreams.

Something a little more comfortable for me to slip into.

Still, the position he wants to get me into would put such ideas in people’s heads… it would spice things up, make me a little more desirable. After years of being everyone’s second choice, I could finally be the one. This position would lead to other, hotter positions.

But then there’s the other proposition. The one that rescues me right now from the bonds of a passionate, but tempestuous and mostly one-sided love that, if I’m honest, I probably should have saved myself from long ago.

But oh, this new thing… this new thing would let me crack the whip. Dominate.

And I do like being bossy.

Of course, I would be overcome. Made breathless by all that this thing would do to me, all that it would take from me. But I could save myself that way. Redeem my suffering soul. Own it before I walk away.

I won’t prostitute myself for either proposition. I have no idea what would be offered in exchange for my talents. This proposal today could yield more than the other. But I know that the john who pays more doesn’t always treat you better. I learned that the hard way.

And then there’s the new flame burning. Rick. Of course, I can’t make a life decision based on a match that’s only just been struck…

At 6:30pm on Valentine’s Day, I had two men and a woman vying for my attention, my affection, my services. Two of them would pay me. One of them might love me. Whatever I decide could change me forever. And cost me too much.

What is a girl to do?

Wanted: Blanket, Binky, Warm Milk

Once again, life has stepped up and slapped me in the face with the reminder that I am a full-blown adult now. 

I wish it would stop doing that. 

It’s mostly for a good reason. Yesterday, I got a text from Rick saying that a position had opened up where he works. It’s one that I had talked about with the woman in charge there, when I had applied for something else. I’ve already interviewed there twice, two and a half years ago, so some of these people know me. And for all they know, I come highly recommended, since the outgoing director recommended me for her own job, and Rick has recommended me as well (totally selflessly motivated, of course). 

“The thing is,” said the woman in charge, “the salary is right around the job you interviewed for in 2010.”

Which was, um… not fabulous.

I quoted it.

“Yyyeah,” was her response.

A beat.

“I mean… I might be able to squeeze it to about $2,500 higher, but that’s as high as I can go.”

Now, this is a job at a state university, so the funding is what it is. The state gives so much money for each position and that’s all there is to it. So there’s not a lot of room to push for more. Back in 2010, I was willing to see if I could make it work, but it would be tough. Now, it’ll be tougher. I have a mortgage, several completely unreasonable medical bills and constant fears that a Korean missile will hit my house and insurance will be all, “Oh, we don’t cover Korean missile damage.”

If she squeezes it to the highest possible number, it’s still more than $10,000 less than I make now. 

Oof.

I can write off $3,000 of that loss because I will no longer be driving 100 miles a day. I currently spend about $3,200 a year on gas. This would cut that back dramatically.

But still. Oof.

But it’s my ticket out of the sensory deprivation chamber known as the basement – the unheated basement – where I currently spend my mental energies and college degree in a business that’s flailing and increasingly run by bean counters who have no regard for little things like experience, judgment and people who have worked their asses off for, in my case, 15 years, only to be sentenced to an interminable life of working craptastic hours, holidays and (until last week) weekends. It’s a life of constant abuses, assumptions from bosses that I will have no problem filling in on the weekends I’ve just reclaimed for myself any time that any one of three different weekend employees want a day off… that they can change my schedule on a whim without telling me, like I work at McDonalds. This job opportunity might be a lot less money, but it’s a normal schedule, holidays off, and it gives me a chance to get my life back. 

I learned, by the way, when I took the job I’m currently in, that it is a mistake to give up the things in your life that make you happy just so you can get paid more. It takes the joy out of your life, and, in my case, then you get smacked really hard, take a 23% pay cut and get stuck working nights and weekends, so you wind up making no more than you did when you left your old job and now you’ve had to give up even more of your life.

But I keep getting stuck on the number. I haven’t gotten paid the salary in question since 2006 or 7. And I made it work then, sure. I took vacations and paid my rent and made my car payments (which I no longer have). I mean, it’s possible. It just seems backward. If I took this job (which, mind you, has not actually been offered), I would be making a full $28,000 less than when I took my current job in 2008, before the smackdown. That’s tough to swallow. 

But they’re just numbers. I already took the biggest hit. 

The other thing this job opportunity would do is give me a start at a new career, which I’ve wanted ever since I got smacked as I described above, and possibly even longer. As the woman in charge pointed out, it positions me for growth, promotions, etc. And really, I could do it for a year or two and then pursue other, more lucrative opportunities if need be. 

These are all the things that two of my coworkers told me when I obsessed to them about it last night. Almost everyone I work with is of the same mind, really. Get out. For God’s sake, get out of here. Send postcards. 

In the midst of all this adultness, I got a reminder that I am in some ways still a horrid teenager. Rick sent me a picture taken in New Orleans, in which his inebriated self is wearing neon green glasses and purple beads, making a face I don’t recognize and throwing arms around two girls. It hit me then that he actually met up with other people down there. I thought it was just him and his brother. Turns out these girls were friends of his. So then I had a fit of completely irrational jealousy and fear while freaking out about adult things.

So… 16 going on 40. Awesome feeling.

My interview is in two weeks. My meeting with my investment broker is in one week, to help figure out whether it’s feasible.

So, let’s review:
Mortgage
Medical bills
Investment broker
Existential questions vis-a-vis professional pursuits
Korean missile fears

Yup. I’m an adult. At least when you’re a kid people tell you what to do for your own good. Closest I can get to that is the investment guy going, “Contribute 10% to your 401(k).” Which I already do. 

I want my daddy.