Wait, Not Yet

I had an epiphany this week (they do still happen, if only rarely, while pregnant): last year at this same time I was stuck in a job I'd been praying to leave for six months. Everyone told me to quit my job - my friends, my head shrinker, my family. (Himself did not - in self-preservation he tried not to talk about my job at all, as it would inevitably result in some sort of mass hysteria on my end). Normally when everyone is saying "RUN" I run, but this time ... the quietest voice inside said, "Wait. Not just yet."

Wait! Wait? What?! I spent a good deal of time telling Him exactly what I thought of that answer - couldn't He understand that I was dying a little every day? Couldn't He understand that my boss was a tyrannical lunatic who changed her mind as often as Heidi's daughter changes princess dresses? Didn't He get the fact that when one is financially dependent on one's paycheck having it be days, weeks, late was a problem (not to mention the bounced checks or the incorrect checks)?

Never did it cross my mind that it probably wasn't a good idea to try and explain things to God. Yet, despite all the logic and advice in the world, I waited. And waited. And cried. A lot. At least I listened, even if I did murmur about it for six whole months. Unfortunately, it's more likely because I was too afraid of being unemployed for a long period of time than any grand display of faith.

Then, the events of Friday the 13th occurred, and I was spun into a web of absolute devastation. If only I had quit, on my terms, I wouldn't be facing someone who was telling me I wasn't competent and did a terrible job. I spent the weekend begging Him to reconsider the "wait, not just yet" answer. Days later, I received the answer I'd alternately hoped for and feared for six months: Now.

I gleefully quit my job. I laughed all the way to the parking lot - during the points I wasn't thinking about how on earth I was going to make an income without a job.

Days later, The Office - a client - hired me full-time almost immediately. Same pay. Less stress. MUCH less drama. I said yes because that option felt best for my family and I eventually felt peace for the first time in months - even if I was bored stiff and deeply wounded, feeling as if I'd been shattered into thousands of pieces.

As it turns out, The Office was the answer to the six months of trying to change God's mind. He knew all along. I couldn't see past my immediate misery to understand it wasn't permanent. The boredom has passed and The Office has allowed me to expand my skills, to experiment with new ones, to rebuild my confidence, to have a consistent (correct, non-bouncing) paycheck, to make a difference. Not to mention, it often allows me to work from home, flex-time and whatever else I need to do in order to be the best mother I can be while I have to be employed full-time.

More than that, however, this week, I learned, that The Office will allow me to do the one thing I haven't dared hope for: have paid maternity leave. Not for long - 6 to 8 weeks of full-pay - but more than I ever expected. I can't begin to put into words the enormity of the burden this has relieved from my shoulders. This time, I did not have to bargain with the Devil and sell my soul, my sanity and the first six weeks of my child's life in order to keep my job. This time, I do not have to work part-time eight days after giving birth - and be railroaded into feeling guilty for not being available whenever The Factory felt like it. This time, I can celebrate the birth of our daughter, revel in the love of my two little girls, and go crazy handling only the demands of motherhood. Not other option I have had over the last 18 months would have granted me all of that. None.

Of course you know why I had to wait ... there wasn't the freedom in the budget for The Office to hire me before the Friday the 13th episode, nor was their relationship so tainted with The Factory that they'd even consider breaking their contract to hire me away. It required a perfect, and painful, storm on both sides.

It has been quite the journey. Months later, with the clarity of hindsight, I can say that "Wait. Not Yet" has been one of the best answers to a prayer I've ever received.

I send my apologies and stand quite humbled. And quite blessed.

Dear Recruiter/Employer

My resume is hanging out in cyberspace. I haven't touched in in four months, but it's still there.

Every once in awhile, a recruiter/employer sifts to the bottom of the stack and finds my lonely, not-updated-since-June resume. A resume/profile where my last four jobs use the words "Director" or "Manager." A resume where one job uses the world "million" several times in relation to budgets, development portfolio value, etc. A resume that clearly states I have managed teams, processes and people. A resume that demonstrates I have been employed, full-time for all but a year of the last decade.

There is one title that uses the word "sales" - but if you read the title and/or the line items of what I do, one would quickly grasp that in addition to my mostly marketing-management tasks, I managed sales processes, sales training. I DID NOT SELL ANYTHING.

Also, random pet peeve and useful piece of information: SALES and MARKETING ARE NOT THE SAME THING! In a perfect world, marketing support sales and the two work closely together but they are not, nor will they ever be, the same thing. (While we're on the subject, telemarketing is not marketing either).

So WHY on earth I keep getting random calls/e-mails from recruiters or employers asking me to interview for ANY of the following positions is beyond me:

-Marketing Assistant. Sorry, I'm not interested in going BACKWARD down the career ladder to the tune of 7 jobs ago.

-Sales anything. I don't sell. I don't want to sell. You clearly have not read my resume even though your e-mail to me starts out, "I'm impressed by your real esthate sales experience." No you aren't, because I've never sold real estate.

-Telemarketing call center manager. Just because the words "marketing" and "manager" happen to appear in my resume, does not mean I'm qualified for, nor interested in, a job that would also add "tele-" and "call center" to my resume.

-Entry-level anything. I am not kidding when I say I have had two phone calls in the past four months regarding an employer wanting me to interview for a marketing position. Upon further discovery, I found out it was an entry-level position. What on earth could they possibly be thinking? The first woman was a bit startled to realize what my salary requiremenet would be. I can't imagine why.

You have not read my resume very closely if you still think I am in DC. I haven't lived/worked there in (gasp!) 17 months. I could be persuaded to relocate, but saying, "since you are in the DC area..." does not fill me with great confidence as to your reading abilities.

Telling me you're interested in me interviewing for a position, but how would I rate my ability to use the Internet doesn't win you any bonus points either. Let's just dispense with the obvious - I've worked for two "dot coms," and I've had four different positions where my SOLE responsibility was online marketing/pr/advertising. It is a fair question if you haven't seen my resume, or if you were talking to me in 1997. But you have, and it's not.

Contacting me about a job that is in the $25-30k range is not going to win you any brownie points either - unless it is a part-time, work-from-home, consulting gig. Then I might think about it. I don't even have to put my salary range on my resume - even though I was chronically underpaid (this is not just wishful thinking, this is a documented fact) for my first five years out of college, the words "manager" or "director" on my resume combined with anything remotely geographically connected to DC should tell you something. $25-30k isn't going to persuade me to take a job - even one in the middle of nowhere. I'm already there.

**End of Rant** Off my soapbox.

My apologies to Heidi, who is one of the finest recruiters/headhunters I've known. My apologies also to the other fine recruiters/headhunters with whom I've had the privilege to work. This is not about you.

Thinking Out Loud, Part IV

A Continuation of This...

Spring came in fits and starts - teasing with warm weekends and sunny days here and there - enough to keep hope that the snow wouldn't last forever. With spring, the backyard of the Hobbit Hole came alive in color - tulips, blossoms, the first hint of green in grass.

With spring, came news that the Hobbit Hole was up for sale. The news felt as if I had swallwed a grapefruit whole. Coming from the real estate world, I knew what it took for a home to sell - pristine cleanliness and staging. The Hobbit Hole regularly looked like an F5 tornado had struck inside, since I could barely make myself cook dinner, let alone function enough to keep my house clean every, single day with only an hour's notice. I spent much of the season on pins and needles. I felt the weight of the world beging to press down even harder. Wife, mother, employee, chef, maid ... and what about that stack of mail that hadn't been opened ... ?

Using the excuse "I forgot" about mine and Woodstock's hospital bills was ridiculous. No one in his right mind in the billing office would believe I had curled up in a mental ball and hibernated for the entire winter. During the course of the winter, I hadn't answered the phone either. I went three weeks without answering it at all. I would sit and stare blankly at the wall and listen to the machine click on. Only rarely would the fact that someone had left a message even register. Himself would answer it if it turned out to be someone he knew - otherwise, he let me ignore it.

He let me ignore everything. During the course of his unemployment, at the urging of my head shrinker, he spent a lot of time with Woodstock. He spent more time cleaning and cooking. He tolerated my sharp recoil at the thought of being touched or held as well as could be expected. He deserves far more credit than I could ever give ... for just hanging on.

The first really warm weekend - one warm enough to wear bare feet outside - came in late April. With it came the Hobbit Hole's first open house, following a week of hell at The Factory. I cleaned and panicked. I stayed up late and got up early, scrubbing and organizing - frantic to make everything perfect. Woodstock had an allergic reaction and wasn't feeling well. Himself, who by now was employed, worked late, then had to work Saturday too.

An hour before the scheduled open house I had a full-blown panic attack - calling the landlord's wife and sobbing on their machine. "I just can't do it." Their house was perfect. The one I was renting from them would never look that way. I knew they needed it to sell. It had to be perfect. The agent showed up and I was feeding Woodstock in the nusery - showered, but still in messy pajamas, a look of frenzied desperation on my face. My The show went on. I came home after the open house and realized I had nothing to do - the house was clean. I had no hobbies. No mindset to relax. And no cleaning to do. I paced the house for an entire hour. Woodstock was sleeping. I began to feel like a caged animal. I felt like I was suffocating.

Spring continued. While I started to feel again and have some hope that I could return to "normal," The Factory continued to crumble - I would put in my time at the office, come home, fix dinner, take care of Woodstock and work long into the wee morning hours after she (and Himself) had gone to bed. I was sleeping 3-4 hours a night, if at all. There was no time to continue to heal, and the anxiety portion took control - the background static of life drove me to the brink of my sanity. I was working 12-to 14-hour days trying to juggle ridiculous Wicked Witch requests that got in the way of clients. I couldn't keep up with the ridiculousness of what was being asked. I kept most of what I saw and heard to myself, trying to protect my team. Scathing editorials of my performance were a weekly occurance because it was impossible for me to do what was asked/expected. I walked on eggshells.

I made promises - to my friends, my family, myself, random people ... and I couldn't keep them. Breathing took almost all of my effort. I continually thanked God that He, in his infinite wisdom, had sent me Woodstock - whose happy little soul seemed never to need more of me than I was able to give.

And then, for the third time in just over a year, the bottom of life as I knew it fell out. It was the worst day and the best day - as sometimes liberations are. I could not keep up with the demands The Factory put on me, nor was I willing to play the ridiculous game. Even a healthy person wouldn't have been able to put up with it long. I felt like I had failed my team - that I hadn't been able to protect them from The Wicked witch. In the process, I had failed myself ... I cried because I had begged to leave, and always the answer was "not yet."

At that point, the entire summer stretched ahead of me, deliciously sunny, hot and bright ... if I didn't care about the bank balance.

To Be Continued ...

Thinking Out Loud, Part II

A Continuation of This ...

The problem was ... it is all I did. Ever. I worked. I thought about work. I hung out with people from work. I loved what I did, I didn't have any kids, my house would be messy whether or not I was actaully home to clean it, I didn't exactly have any hobbies and Himself's schedule was never predictable.

It wasn't so much that work was an idyllic life - far from it. It was more that work was where I felt the most comfortable - in my element. I was good at what I did. Adulthood did nothing to diminish my love of learning - whether it was about motorcycles, construction or new technologies. Going to work was like going to school - a place to learn, be challenged, meet friends and think.

Then came the pregnancy, numerous upheavals in our already topsy-turvy life and an almost spur-of-the-moment move to The Frontier. No worries. I had a plethora of interviews with good, solid, name-brand firms. None of the jobs would be in real estate, but the writing was on the wall - the economy wasn't going to sustain a huge real estate employment base for much longer, and I was up for a new adventure.

After a weekend of nerves and prayer and reflection, I took a job with "The Factory" a small tech start up, which weeks later rolled into another start-up - the kind of things that The Frontier is known for. I broke my previously iron-clad rule of working for only medium-sized and larger companies. Himself found a stellar job with even better benefits (no matter that he was bored stiff). I didn't actually like my job, but it didn't worry me. It typically took me six months to acclimate to a new situation and I was seven months pregnant.

Woodstock came during my favorite month, at the beginning of my previously favorite season (it's hard to love fall in The Frontier when you know winter is coming right behind it). The first few days of her life were perfect - light and sunny, I was surrounded by family. And then everyone left me. Himself went to work. The Family went home. I remember the sunlight streaming through the Hobbit Hole's windows ... longing for Woodstock to get big enough I could take her outside. At the ripe old age of 2.5 weeks she made her first trek to the grocery store. At 3 weeks, she made her first road trip. Never one able to just sit at home, I took advantage of Woodstock's perenially sunny, even-tempered nature and made it a goal to set out on an adventure each day, even if it was just around the block in my pajamas with her in the Snugli.

Between outings, feedings, diaper changes and middle-of-the-night 'naps,' I worked. Part-time, it was supposed to be. Part-time, the pay was. Part-time work, it wasn't. I was expected to be available at the drop of a hat, take calls, answer e-mails - feel guilty if I wasn't accessible. Heaven forbid I take a nap. Sleep depravation and desparation to keep a job I'd only held for weeks drove me to the brink of insanity.

I sobbed the day I dropped Woodstock off at Miss Jan's for the first time. The leaves crunched under my feet, the air blowing down the canyon nipped at my nose, my heart felt heavy and my eyelids felt like they'd never open if I let them droop closed in slumber.

I cried when I sat in my car and listened to Radio West (in the mornings) and Fresh Air (in the afternoons) while I pumped. I'm not quite sure if it was for leaving Woodstock at 7 weeks old or the hormones or because I was so utterly miserable every day. Maybe it was because The Wicked Witch chose those times to try and track me down, leaving messages that told me I needed to be "more accessible," as if I was out joyriding in the company car.

And the snow began to fall...
To Be Continued ...

Thinking Out Loud, Part I

Once upon a time, I was an awkward little kid who had to run around the building at recess because I was so klutzy and had a phobia of falling off of things that I didn't actually play at recess. I'm probably the only kid in the universe who could have listed recess as my most-hated subject.

Even at 6, I was well aware that I was odd. No one else had to run laps around the building. No one seemed to understand that I didn't exactly hate running around the building, I just hated being singled out. I still do. Let me plan the party, dress
in black and manage logistics. Don't make me play hostess.

In my small town back-in-the-day, sports were everything, which is why recess was such a big deal. Athletes were worshiped. I spent many afternoons crying after school because I knew, even at 6, that I wasn't designed for anything requiring athletic ability. My dad taught me to play baseball and basketball and croquet (not sure how that fits into this, but it is humorous that he taught me a lawn game during a time we didn't actually have any lawn). It wasn't that I didn't like sports or activity - I loved playing with my family. I loved watching Braves baseball games and Cougars football games with my dad. I just didn't like recess. At all.

One day, after a particularly showy display of snot and tears after school, my mom told me, "People have different talents. Some are good at some things, others are good at other things. No one is good at everything." She told me that school was my talent.

I spent the rest of my life pursuing school with every ounce of talent I had. As it turns out, I was pretty talented musically as well, but, blessed with a practical brain, it was a side project and I never put much work into it.

The academic pursuit propelled me through a series of jobs that were just perfect for me. Jobs that were chronically underpaid, but full of opportunities and mentoring and growth beyond my wildest dreams. Jobs that allowed me to travel, manage teams, manage multi-million dollar budgets, develop and execute campaigns, meet some of the most talented people in business and grow exponentially. All things that were worth far more than the abominable salary I made my first five years out of college.

And I thrived.

To be Continued ...

Back to School

I always get a little nostalgic at the beginning of a new school year (now that I don't have to plan my commute around school busses on the back roads through Reston/Vienna).

School supply sales still get me excited - though I never actually venture into a store when they are going on for fear of ending up with, I don't know, 24 mechanical pencils (um, like Heidi). I kind of miss getting excited about wearing something new on the first day of school. I miss seeing old friends and meeting new ones. I even miss the learning portion (though I most definitely don't miss ridiculous homework assignments).

You would think, having been out of college the better portion of a decade, I wouldn't feel that way. But I do. This year, even more so.

I have half a dozen friends who starting back to grad school this fall. A couple are on year two, most are starting for the first time. It makes me even more nostalgic. I know I made the right decision to lay my grad school plans aside, but knowing it is the right thing and feeling 100% fabulous about it are two different things.

Johns Hopkins apparently managed to locate me in The Frontier and has begun sending me information on their Real Estate/Urban Development program - the only thing that ever tempted me from my MBA dream. The last one came as the same day as the ShopKo ad for school supplies. I felt oddly sad as I threw them both in the trash before I even went inside. It's a bit weird to be slightly jealous of one's thirtysomething friends headed off with their new laptops and iPhones to the first day of classes.

There have been many days over the past several years when I feel like I haven't lived up to my potential - especially the last year when I've been so bored at work. (Discounting The Factory insanity, which had nothing to do with being challenged and everything to do with utter nonsense). Thing is, it's not so much about work or school. When it comes down to it, I know at this moment in time it's not really what I want. It's the lack of a challenge - of feeling like I'm using my brain.

Don't get me wrong. Motherhood is challenging (probably more so for me than some, given my lack of my warm-fuzzy-maternal genes), but everything else is mind-numbingly repetitive. Not to mention the fact that I can't even work a full crossword puzzle or read a magazine article without falling asleep. I want to use my brain. I want to think, to analyze, debate ... learn. It won't happen in a classroom anytime soon (I'm not willing to concede grad school into the "never" category yet - maybe when Himself has settled into his career and Woodstock and any future child(ren) are in school ... maybe), but there has to be some way to feel challenged, excited, alive.

Then again, there's the whole falling asleep every time I sit down thing ... maybe my Back to School wish should be for a full night's sleep more than once a month.

This is the part where panic sets in...

...or should set in. Would have set in if I hadn't broken down and amitted (while being gently poked by the head shrinker and the doctor) that I had to do something to stop the several-times-a-day near hysteria. It is amazing how, well, NORMAL 1/2 of a little blue pill can make one feel, now that the insomnia and headaches have passed.

It is also, apparently, prohibiting me from feeling any sort of panic about the fact that I am no longer technically employed or drawing an income - me, the one who earns 80% of the household income. I just can't summon up the gumption to be panicked - or care much at all.

In truth, I suspect only part of it has to do with the little blue pill. I suspect most of it has to do with the fact that for the first time in a long time I am feeling empowered. I feel IN CONTROL. In TOTAL control of my life.

For a control freak, that's a pretty big deal.

Bill Gates and Sara: Two Peas in a Pod

Okay, so only because we're both cleaning out our desks today as we move on to other things.

Today is my last day of work at The Factory, and I have nothing to do but clean my computer, re-organize files and remove my self from the premise.

I want to cry.

I've alternately dreamed of, and loathed, this day for the last four months. Last week, I was relegated to sitting in the kitchen (prior to that, I sat at the front desk ... see the trend?). It's isolated, quiet and I cannot be seen from the main hallway. It also means, I feel as if I've been kicked to the curb already. No one even seems to remember that I'm here today.

I've thought about my last days at other places at which I've worked, and that is what makes me want to cry. When I left the last two companies, there was a week of celebrating, tears and promises to keep in touch - it felt a little like the last week of senior year of high school - without all the appropriate high school drama and the "U R a QT" written in my yearbook. I've spent a minimum of three years at my last companies, so leaving after only a year means the ties aren't as strong.

Leaving because I can no longer tolerate the environment means there are no farewells. I am alternately sad to leave the team and business and clients I've built and worked with and for and joyously happy that 60-hour workweeks are done.

But even under the circumstances, leaving is tough. I hate change as a general rule. I eat the same thing for breakfast 80% of the time. I have the same morning routine. I struggle to make friends, so leaving any tenuous friendships behind is tough.

There are job options. Several. Nothing that strikes me as the greatest job ever, but jobs that are stable and will compensate me reasonably well.

I wonder what Bill Gates is thinking as he clears out his desk today ....?
.

40 Weeks to Change a Life

Today is rather anti-climatic.

For the past 9 months, September 4 (or thereabouts) has been the countdown day - almost like counting down to Christmas or counting down to the day I finally turned 16. Except ... Christmas and my 16th Birthday were guarantees. The countdown ended at a specific time, with a specific result. I woke up this morning feeling a bit like I'd been taken advantage of by an oily salesman. Ta da! I have arrived - only to discover that there is no prize to be had today for patiently (and sometimes not-so-patiently) counting down the months, weeks, days.

Intellectually, I knew that a due date, is in essence, the sort-of mid-point of a 5-week window in which you are "full-term." Yet when the entire world revolves around the calendar flipping each week based on an end date, it's a little disconcerting to arrive at said date only to realize nothing is happening.

And I mean nothing.

What this morning did bring was a lot of thought about how much my life has changed in the last 40 weeks. If someone would have asked me 40 weeks ago today what I would be doing on September 4, 2007, there are several words that would not have entered my answer: Pregnant. Baby. Labor. Childcare. The Frontier. New Jobs (yes, that is plural). Moving. And so forth.

I realized in the past 40 weeks, my life has taken a drastic turn, and not just the normal "we're having a baby" drama. In the past 40 weeks:

-I have interviewed more than 40 times, all of them while pregnant
-I have had four jobs and worked for three companies
-I have been laid off twice (yikes - is there a pattern?)
-I have moved 2,300 miles
-I have gone from a brand-new apartment to the Hobbit Hole
-I have gone from the world of big-business, high-stress career to tiny, quiet agency which is helping set me on course for independent consulting
-I have gone from my isolated "friends are family" life to "family is only a few hours away" life

That is in addition to all the fundamental changes that rush through you when you're confronted with the impending title of "parent." I've begun to see Himself in the light of a father (odd, since he's been a father the entire time I've known him - though it's somehow different when he is the father of your child, not someone else's). I don't think anyone thought it was possible, but I think I've become slightly more domestic (emphasis on the "slightly" part, don't get too excited). My priorites have shifted. My perspective has shifted. I've spent the past 40 weeks sharpening my worrying skills.

And there are other, more subtle changes - Mexican doesn't hold nearly the same appeal as it once did for me (it's been gone so long, I'm not sure the appetite I had for south-of-the-border food will ever return). My body is now the full-fledged body of an adult woman, bearing the scars of childbirth before I've even birthed a child. Having a few empty days on the calendar a week feels refreshing rather than feeling like indisputable evidence of a massive failure in social achievement. I turn my head at every pregnant woman or every infant I see - wondering how I look, wondering what Baby Girl will look like. My daydreams are of the kind of personality she'll have (though I have a good idea she'll be like her father - she's already going on stubborn and late), who she'll take after, what she'll do with her life, how many tears I'll shed over her.

40 weeks ago, I was on top of the world. Now, today, September 4, I am still on top of the world - it just happens to be another planet all together.

If You Ever Interview With Me ...

Not that any of you would, but if you do, I offer the following "advice" (yes, some are quirks, but as the interviewer I'm entitled to those quirks) - gathered from the candidates I am interviewing at The Factory for an entry-level position on my team (I use the term "team" losely - The Factory isn't exactly in the thousands of employees range), and from internship and other entry-level candidates I interviewed in past lives.

1. If the "application instructions" are specific - FOLLOW THEM. They are specific for a reason.

2. If you mention a job in your cover letter and include portfolio samples from that job, it should be on your resume. I thought that went without saying, but apparently not.

3. Wear a suit. For crying out loud, wear a suit. I realize I'm of an East Coast, my-entire-wardrobe-is-various-shades-of-black mindset, but wear a suit - or at least something that looks like it didn't come from the casual side of The Gap. Even Himself wears suits to interviews and he gets to wear his pajamas to work on a daily basis.

4. Don't apologize for lack of experience. It's an entry-level position, posted as such. I know you don't have any experience. Instead, tell me what in your life (internship, volunteer work, academic, side job) qualifies you for the position. Don't tell me you have no experience and no qualifications, but will learn everything. Learning is good, but I can't (nor do I want to) teach you everything. You have to bring something to me to work with.

5. Don't make me feel old (see yesterday's post ). This is one of those weird "I'm the interviewer quirks," but don't assume I don't know something about something just because you are younger than I am. I probably don't, but that is irrelevant.

6. Don't send me your resume for a position which wasn't posted. If it says "entry-level" or "internship," I'm not even going to open your e-mail that says "Director" or "Senior Manager" resume - that's me. My job is filled. If it becomes available, someone else will let you know.

7. Don't ask what the salary is on the first interview. You gave me a salary range, you got an interview. Assume that you're in the ballpark or close to it. Those who weren't didn't get invited in. The salary will depend entirely on who is hired.

8. If I start to count how many times you use the word "like" in our conversation, it isn't a good thing. I promise.

9. Do me a favor, take the facial piercings out. I understand freedom of self-expression, but it goes along with wearing a suit. Just humor me.

10. Don't act desperate. I've interviewed 40+ times this year alone, for countless jobs. I thought I was desperate. I wasn't. Trust me, you're not desperate until you're 8 months pg, the primary income and spend 90 minutes unemployed. Even then, don't act desperate. I don't need to know you are so excited (with those dreaded multiple exclamation points!!!!) to get an interview finally because you having a hard time finding a job. It makes me wonder why. I don't want to wonder why.

I do have to say, two things really impressed me this particular interview round:
1. The cover letters of everyone I called for an interview were excellent. I hate writing cover letters. I hate reading them even more, but in a writing-intensive job, they are critical.

2. Bonus points to those who asked me what my management style was. Double bonus points because no one said, "so how are you when you aren't pregnant?" (Okay, if someone would have asked, it would have been point #11, but I had to issue double bonus points, because HIMSELF did ask, when I was giving him the down-low on my day. Then again, he does get to wear his pajamas to work. I have to cut him some slack).

Happily Ever After

By the time life resolved itself (as much as life in my world is ever resolved) yesterday, I was too physically and emotionally exhausted to face yet a fourth blog post in one day. Things ended well, but I could go a very long time without that much emotional upheaval in a month, let alone a single day.

As I had hoped, the layoff wasn't as bad as it could have been. Within a couple of hours, my boss came back, announcing she had bought out the division of The Factory that I worked for, under her old company (I can't keep all the dealings straight of these venture capital/private equity guys). She offered me a job - the same job I have now (same title, benefits, etc.), working across the street.

It means a couple of things:
*A potentially more flexible work schedule when Baby Girl arrives.
*Definitely more growth potential for me, including the potential to consult on my own down the road.
*More opportunity in the business strategy end - which is where my real passion lies.
*An opportunity to provide marketing and pr consulting as part of the technology package, which we were restricted on under the current arrangement.
*Greater financial potential down the road.

Honestly, it feels better than even my current situation. I didn't have to think very long about it (hello - I'm 8 months pregnant, an offer of being employed doesn't require much thought at the moment). I knew things would work out in my heart, though my brain was just short of having a major malfunction before I got the good news. I knew I had made the right move in coming here, I couldn't imagine being stranded after making a right decision.

This morning I came in and was offered yet another job doing full-time consulting work for yet another key player in the business. I haven't even met the man. Apparently, my reputation proceeds me. I didn't even blink. The other opportunity, at least at this point, is more appealing. Still, it was reassuring to know that regardless of what happened, I would not have been unemployed for more than a couple of hours.

When I got home last night, Himself said, "You know, that wasn't funny, (referring to my 'I just got laid off' text message), I nearly drove off the road." (Surprise! Himself does have semi-non-rational actions when confronted with emotionally-charged information - I had no idea.)

I spent the evening in my surprisingly comfortable arm chair (I always hated it, but now that the ottoman actually fits in front of the arm chair, as it is supposed to, it is my favorite late-pregnancy perch), discussing with Himself everything in our world that had happened that day.

We went to bed feeling as if the day had ended much better than it had begun. One cannot ask for much more than that.

BREAKING NEWS: Hold That Thought!

Three posts in one day - Sara must either be REALLY bored, really chatty or ...

She got laid off.

(Side note: I always wanted to be one of those people who blogged about something as it was happening - well, here you have it, I'm in "process" - haven't signed the final forms, or received the final information, so it's truly "in the middle of breaking news.")

Yes. Second time in 4 1/2 months. This time is alternately worse and better than last time. I can't decide yet. I don't have enough information to process everything. Everything is up in the air. It will prove to potentially be a great thing, but anyone who knows me knows I absolutely cannot stand the unknown. How I've gone twentysomething years without giving myself an ulcer is a medical mystery and a miracle of monumental proportions.

So. Himself has a job. Making not what I was making, which wasn't *quite* enough to relax and say "we can survive on one income." And I don't. I need to be panicked. I need to be freaking out. I wouldn't be panicked except who on God's Green Earth hires someone due in 7 weeks? Really. Don't give me the schpiel about it being a protected class and a temporary disability. I worked in the HR industry for about 4 years - I know the game. I've seen it played. I've heard it admitted in the inner sanctums of corporate discussions. The ones which the EEO people aren't privvy to. People don't hire pregnant people. Especially not this pregnant.

Except I'm not. Because I don't have enough information to be panicked or freaked out yet. Because I might be doing something else - taking an equity stake in another start-up. Or not. Or starting on my own (that freaks me out in 1,000 different ways, even though it's what I've wanted my entire life). Or not. Or carrying around a letter of introduction, a bit like a homeless woman with a reference to soup kitchens, hoping that somehow people will think I'm just fat in an unusual place and not really 8 months preganant (though I don't look 8 months pregnant, even to me). It could mean greater flexibility when it comes to Baby Girl. Or not. It could mean more money, but probably not less - except during that oh-so-fabulous-time during which I'm unemployed. I haven't seen my severance check - it was referred to as a "final check." Final as in final paycheck or as in final paycheck plus a little something to tide you over? I'm praying it's the second option.

I have connections now. I know I took this job under divine guidance, and it was the right thing to do when I did. But, really. Can we just get settled? Can life stop throwing curve balls? This was supposed to stop when we moved. What happened to the "okay, I listened, let's get on with things?" part?

Holy cow. That's all I can say. Holy cow. Two layoffs, three different jobs, a move 2,200 miles away from anything familiar, pregnancy and its assorted madness, stressing about Himself finding a job ... remember that post about the experts and what they say? One major change a year? I'm all for it - except the pitcher keeps throwing unexpected curves and I can't quite make it to first base.

I'm trying to remember to breathe here while I'm rambling on and on and on. I seem to remember oxygen is an important part of Baby Girl's development. Food is as well, but I'm staring at my lunch and thinking that quite possibly, if I eat it, I will end up depositing it in some unfortunate place as the rest of my life unfolds this afternoon. So water and the apple and cheese I had hours ago will have to do for now. I'm trying to keep everything south of my neck from tensing up, but my abdomen keeps tightening up involuntarily and Baby Girl, who is amazingly in tune with my anxiety, is going beserk. (I've noticed that lately - she reacts instantly to my adrenaline levels - I'm going to give birth to a MiniMe - an adrenaline junkie).

Stay tuned. I can't even call anyone, because I can't say anything - not really, since it's a weird reconfiguration of sorts, and no one really knows what is going on. I sent a text message to Himself, who is on his way to the netherlands of the Frontier to pick up Son from his grandfather's - If he had done the same to me, I would have caused a traffic accident that would have made national headlines. He's a bit less reactive, a bit more rational, and a bit more patient, as he immediately called. I let it ring, then sent a message back that said, "I can't talk about it yet. Options. Could be good. Might not be." As if that is going to calm the man's nerves.

I hate raining on his parade.
I really, really hate not knowing what is going on.

I think I want a new life.

Having it All

Yesterday, I had an epiphany on the way to work, a not uncommon thing, since I actually enjoy my commute now - 12 minutes of no traffic, zipping along at 40-65 mph (my favorite thing about the Frontier, other than the dry heat).

I am listening to a book on CD "Saboteur" about a small-town guy turned OSS spy in WWII France (**Sidenote: my absolute favorite genre is WWII spy fiction or non-fiction, for reasons entirely unknown). My ephiphany had nothing to do with the novel itself (no worries - no desire to be a spy here!), but had to do with the conflict of a woman in the story, Whisper Harris, and her deisre to marry, raise a family and keep house while her friend, Adele, just wanted to BE somebody - in her opinion, a totally different path altogether.

It made me think of one of my favorite pieces of Americana - the "I wish I were a man, I'd join the Navy" recruiting poster and the Rosie the Rivters - the women who joined the workforce in unprecedented numbers, started wearing slacks and (gasp!) blue jeans, and learning they could indeed make the world go 'round while the men were off soldiering. The women who taught their daughters there was more to life than housedresses and three meals a day, who grew up to teach their daughters that they could "have it all."

And that is where the epiphany came in. After years of wanting it all, and firmly believing it was possible, I've come to realize it is the greatest myth perpetuated to women. For a second, I longed to be Whisper Harris - to know what was available to me - to know what expectations existed: Marry. Have children. Keep house. Hold the family together.

Of course, me, the idealist, longed for the June Cleaver or Donna Reed version, not the version where one slaved to the whims of the man of the house, who came home at the end of a long day, sat in his favorite easy chair, read the paper, smoked the pipe, demanded dinner and then retired to bed while the wife cooked, served, ate, cleaned up, bathed and entertained the children and put them to bed, before getting ready to start the whole thing over.

I realized that somewhere in our campaign for equality of opportunity and equal treatment and respect, we failed to realize we were just asking for MORE, not something in exchange of something else. Society (albeit slowly) gladly heaped more and more upon women - "Okay, you want to work? Sure. Here is a job, then here comes inflation, things to make your life easier, convience items, luxury goods - now you have to work, but wait ... who is going to take care of the children? You can't shirk those duties, you know."

My epiphany is a "grass is greener on the other side" kind of thing - I realize that I am fortunate in so many ways for the opportunities, the education, the respect ... but at the moment, I'm so overwhelmed at having to do it all, that a tiny part of me wants to be able to be the pregnant woman who isn't allowed to do anything, who stays at home and nests, who has no expectations beyond caring for her family and the house. A big chore. Exhausting. But limited in scope. Finite.

Because guess what? I'm the primary breadwinner, and I still care for my family and the house and everything else. I still find msyelf feeling the need to be doing everything (like many, many, many women). Himself does a lot, to be sure, but it is still that unwritten "expectation," that I also be the nurturer, the caretaker - provider or not. Because society, while telling me I should be independent and liberated and look out for myself, doesn't make provisions for everything else women are.

It doesn't make provisions for days like yesterday when I couldn't keep food down and was tired and hurting and really just wanting to spend time with Himself, whom I've seen for a few hours in the last four weeks. It doesn't make provisions for providing for women who are growing or raising children who, like me, can't take time off or it takes away from the little paid time I get when Baby Girl comes. And I was mid-stream on a big project, but I couldn't concentrate.

I sat and realized I HAD everything (except a husband who has a job, but who's beeing picky?). An education. An ability to take care of myself. A career. A husband. A daughter on the way. A decent apartment, even one named The Hobbit Hole. A car. Stuff. Potential.

But I also had everything else: A realization that I HAVE to work. I have no choice, therefore Baby Girl will be with someone who is not a parent 5 days a week. A realization that I have two laundry baskets full of laundry. Boxes galore to be unpacked. Two weeks' worth of menus and a grocery list on the fridge. A stack of bills to pay. A realization of the finite resources in the checking account that will possibly tide us over until Himself finds a job. A husband to be a wife to. Sooner or later, church responsibilities. That I am not going to get a paycheck in September. That I won't get a paid day off between having Baby Girl and May of next year. And on and on.

I want to be a great wife, a great mother to Baby Girl, but I wonder how we as women got ourselves into the "have to do everything" mindset and failed to realize why it was a really dumb idea. Sometimes, it's so overwhelming. Sometimes I wonder if I'm missing out, if I actually resent being pregnant, deep down, because it limits me physically, emotionally, mentally - and it shows the cracks in my super woman facade. The facade I've worked for years to build.

The recruiting poster may have had it right - "I Wish I Were a Man" - if I were, I could join the Navy, sail away and leave someone else to handle the world and play superhero. Somehow, it sometimes looks like they got the better end of the deal.

Yes, I HAVE it all - but I realize, at the ripe old age of a late twentysomething, that I'm pretty sure I don't want it all, and I'm even less sure of how to give the unnecessary stuff back and start over.

From Somewhere in the Middle

This well might have proven to be an explosive issue today because I've had no sleep, and the day has continued downhill from there, but I doubt it, since it's been an ongoing aggravation for a good long time now:

Executive Nonsense.

I am beginning to think there are a few qualities that executive hiring committees look for when hiring executives:

-Inability to manage time
-Inability, even when laden with every mobile gadget known to man (and the latest versions of all of them) to respond to voice mails, e-mails, text messages, post-its on computer screens or any other form of communication in a timely manner
-Inability to conform to deadlines
-Inabilty to have a realistic expectation of how long some work takes to complete - (with that, an inability to realize that yes, some things are indeed IMPOSSIBLE)
-Inability to convey all necessary information at one time
-Inability to not change one's mind seconds before a deadline, final presentation or other immediate scenario
-Inability to not triple schedule everything on the calendar

It has been my experience, almost without exception, in every executive with whom I've worked that they all share these same characteristics.

From someone who is ensconsed firmly in a non-executive management position, the above list only serves to permanently bruise my forehead as I bang it against my desk. Repeatedly.

It makes me want to write the "From Somewhere in the Middle Credo," based on my collective years of reporting to senior-level executives:

-I cannot meet expectations or deadlines that change without my knowledge.

-I cannot read minds. While I am working on this, I anticipate it taking much longer than this lifespan to accomplish.

-I cannot be held responsible for your failure to read/listen/respond to the forms of communication because a) your voice mail is full, b) you left your cell phone on your desk (or in your last hotel room), c) you have "too many" communications.

-If you do not feel like you know what is going on, it is likely because there is a stream of communication of which you have not read/listened to, and not because I've failed to provide the required information as requested.

-If I tell you something is impossible, trust me, I've explored every possible avenue. It does not do any good to tell me that I need to do more research. Some things just cannot be done in the required amount of time.

-Failure to plan does not constitute a national emergency. Failure of your boss to plan, might feel like it constitutes a national emergency, but it doesn't. The world will still continue to function. Even if he/she says otherwise.

-Just because you can't sleep and issue a comminique at 3:30 a.m., does not mean I will receive or respond to it prior to normal working hours, typically because I have no way of knowing you can't sleep.

-Suggestions presented as "suggestions" are just that. Not set-in-stone-commandments. If they are to be treated as such, they should be properly conveyed as such.

-Just because you are overscheduled and need to change something, does not mean that I can be expected to drop everything to conform to your liquid calendaring. I will do my best. Please refer to the statement about some things indeed being impossible.

Until then, I will sit and bang my head on my desk. Repeatedly.

Confessions of a Chronically Clueless Pop Culture Flunkie

I am the last person on earth to whom my friends come for updates in the world of superstars, television, movies, music, entertainment or anything else that might be labeled as "pop culture." In fact, one friend felt I was so chronically clueless that every new CD she purchased was immediately shared with me (in hopes, I'm sure of dragging me, even kicking and screaming, out of my black hole of cluelessness).

My entire knowledge of pop culture happenings comes from reading the tabloids in the supermarket checkout lines (yes, I confess, I actually avoid the "child friendly candy- and tabloid-free lines - how else am I going to get my dose of gossip?). Considering that I typically visit the grocery store twice a month - and I only ready the headlines on the outside of the magazines - it's a pretty sad commentary on the state of my interest in, and knowledge of, pop culture.

To be fair to myself, I can generally hold my own in conversations surrounding politics, business, economics (thanks solely to NPR), front page news and even sports (especially if it involves college football or basketball), but don't expect me to even know what movies are playing (or, heaven forbid, even opening) at the local theater tonight or who is dating whom in Hollywood.

So, when I caught myself typing a commentary to a PR associate today about the way YouTube is revolutionizing the media landscape (YouTube is Set to Surpass BBC in UK Visits or YouTube and CNN set to Revolutionize Presidential Debates for instance), I had to stop and chuckle. Confession: I've never even visited YouTube.

My entire world at the new job (I'll call it "The Factory" to protect the employed) revolves now around the pop culture of the Internet world. And guess what? I'm just as woefully clueless in that arena. I can talk trends, movements, demographics, business transactions and implications. I can sell you our technology, market it and sound intelligent, but I couldn't tell you whether MySpace or Friendster is the moment's coolest place to be. Which is probably an embarrassing admission, because The Factory specializes in reaching targeted audiences on social networking or "commutainment" sites like those. The sites are not even blocked on our server (then again, we don't have a dress code, so judge for yourself) because we have to be able to visit them to demonstrate our technology in action. Yesterday I found out, I am the ONLY PERSON in the ENTIRE company who:

*Doesn't have a MySpace page (or Friendster or FaceBook or whatever the latest hot spot is)
*Has never even visited MySpace (or YouTube, as I just confessed)
*Doesn't have an iPod or an iTunes account (the iTunes account is soon to be remedied - I work on a Mac, it's almost required in such an instance)
*Still thinks Internet Explorer is the only web browser worth having (Hello! Case in point - I'm using Safari, with which Blogger's tools aren't compatible, so I have to hand-code anything I want in here)
*There's more, but enough of the embarrassing confessions.

(Again, in my defense, The Factory doesn't even have enough people to have a full football team with a second-string backup).

I'm not completely abnormal. I am not Web-stupid, unless it falls under pop culture. My mother would tell you I've always been this way (the only notable 80s network program I ever watched was The Cosby Show, making me a source of intrique among my college roommates) because I was born old. I have bought a new-release CD in the last year (I'll ignore the fact that it was the soundtrack to Gray's Anatomy). I've never NEEDED to be on MySpace (though that will be rectified - since social networking sites are part of our inherent success at The Factory). I am older than 20. And I really have good intentions of going to the movies, but I tend to fall asleep, so it always ends up being a waste of money. And I just told you that I do read the tabloid headlines - so I have some inkling of what is going on.

I'm waiting for the day when a MySpace (or similar social networking page) is mandatory for employees at The Factory. Then again, it will probably come the day I fail to be the most over-dressed person in the office, which will only happen if a) we ever end up with a dress code (which will mean we probably have an Internet policy as well) or b) I shrug off my "East Coast Basic Black" persona, which is even less likely to happen.

Maybe The Factory will reform me. My CD-sharing friend would be so proud.

When I Grow Up ...

I got to spend some time with my college-age brother this weekend. He's declared a major, but he is alarmed by the thought that he has no idea what he wants to do when he grows up. It made me think how my plans and career have evolved.

Age 10: When I grow up, I want to be a 3rd grade teacher (ha! can you imagine? Me teaching 9-year-olds?!). Of course, I never went to third grade and because I missed some multiplication skills, cursive and introduction to verbs and nouns, I romanticized it and thought it was the "most important" grade.

Age 12: When I grow up, I want to be a novelist. This has never really gone away. I still want to be one. I still have constant stories, essays and commentary running through my head. It's why I'm an NPR junkie - because I love that I can listen to the news in essay format.

Age 18: When I grow up, I want to be a political press secretary Four years of competitive speaking/debating and a love of politics and writing led me to think that life as a press secretary would be the life I'd always wanted. That is, until I met a White House press secretary and CBS's main White House correspondent, and I realized that while it would be enormously fascinating, there is no such thing as "a life" when covering political news. I later learned that while I loved the art and psychology of politics, I didn't love politicians, further preventing me from making a foray into that world.

Age 22: When I grow up, I want to work in creative communications - none of this business stuff that requires accounting, statistics and strategy. I flourished in my business classes (not accounting, but that would be an entirely different post), but disliked them. I did well in statistics, hated it. Strategy and analytics came naturally, but it bored me.

Fast-forward 7 years ... I have now, unwittingly created a niche for myself that all resulted from my first job out of college, which I took in sheer desparation - the economy was starting to crack and I was bound and determined to flee my home state. I was the marketing assistant in a relatively new web division of a large company. My boss quit my second day. There had never been any marketing people, no one knew what I was supposed to be doing. Somehow, I managed to be promoted twice during my tenure there, finally leaving the division, and then the company, several years later as a manager. I now have a resume and experience that qualifies me as someone who specializes in strategic integrated communications planning and development.

As I was editing my bio yesterday to appear on my new company's website as part of the core management team, I realized that there are some definite trends in my career - none of which were on purpose.

*Every job since college has involved the word "Marketing" in my title. I hated my marketing class in college - now I wish I would have paid more attention.

*That said, I don't really do just marketing - I've created a career history in integrated communications - developing and executing strategic plans for integrated marketing, advertising and public relations.

*My degree is in PR. I strongly dislike the day-to-day PR tasks, but I love the part I hated in college - the strategic planning/vision/evaluation components.

*I have created a niche for myself in coming into companies with no marketing department and starting something from scratch - then, just as it gets off the ground and becomes successful, moving on to something else (this will be my FOURTH time doing this). I get bored. I don't like to work when it becomes mundane and routine, though I hate the first few months in a new space trying to figure out what it is I'm supposed to do. Yet, I've never PURPOSELY sought out a company or job thinking, "I want to work for a company with no marketing department - only a desire to have one."

*I have never replaced anyone. I've never worked in a position previously held by someone else in the same capacity. Interesting trend, no?

*I have no desire to work on the creative end of communications - haven't in years - a great boss, who knew nothing of marketing, but was a whiz at business strategy, was a wonderful mentor several years back. She recommended a couple of books, gave me some new tasks and unlocked a whole component of myself that I never realized I had - or was good at.

In short, I am a far cry career-wise from where I thought I would be seven years ago, armed with my newly minted degree and several years' experience in the communications/professional development arena, but it's not a bad thing. Little choices, little chances, little forays into new arenas, a few key mentors and a few key books, led me to somewhere I hadn't planned on going, but have found to be relatively satisfying.

I just hope my new job doesn't eat me for lunch - I am solely responsible for an entire department. Me. By myself. No one else understands what I'm supposed to be doing - just what I am supposed to accomplish. It's a glorious, sick feeling - one akin to the feeling one gets when stepping into the great unknown.

I told my brother, "Just major in something you love - you'll end up going in some completely random direction eventually anyway." He didn't get it.

Then again, seven years ago, neither would I.

A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to Adulthood

My expectation of becoming an adult was very different than that of almost every person I knew growing up. The image of the "adulthood" dream was born of childhood stories told by my grandfather of his formative years spent amidst the glamour and wealth of New York's Jazz Age, fueled with scenes from countless books and a summer spent in the Mid-Atlantic suburbs.

I longed to move. I longed to shake the fine red dust off my heels, throw off the confining expectations of small town life, don a suit and high-heeled shoes and conquer the world. (Funny how my imaginations of adulthood never included the flannel pajama bottoms I find myself wearing with alarming regularity on the weekends).

Everything I did in my formative youth was directed toward that dream. Everything. Every extra-curricular activity I participated in. Every school assignment. Every motivation behind choosing a college.

I wanted a life no one I knew had. I wanted to break free of small town mediocrity, of a life of "average" and live somewhere, do something, be someone extraordinary. I was calculating - I new how to get where I wanted to go. I knew I was painfully shy - so I joined the debate team. I wanted to be cultured, so I absorbed every piece of information my grandmother taught me about art, music, literature. I wanted to be able to talk about the world - I joined a competitive geography team, studied maps and poured over National Geographic. I wanted to be refined. At 15, I began my 10-year subscription to a news magazine. I read the paper every day.

I launched out as far as my fledgling wings and limited finances would take me - and fled to the sophistication and the urbanity of the East Coast at my first opportunity. I pursued my education like someone possessed. I dated stockbrokers, investment bankers and one hapless pre-med-turned-eternal-student-guitar major, who was the wrong fit from the beginning, but offered a certain-well-roundedness to my otherwise stringent requirements.

I ran the quiet, tree-lined streets of Chevy Chase, Md., and dreamed of living in one of the stately brick homes with a foreign SUV in the driveway and a healthy bank account. A year later, I boarded the train daily, mixing my $10/hour intern self in with the rising power elite of the other suburbanite commuters. I walked proudly into my downtown office every morning and sprinted to catch the 5:07 train every evening. It didn't matter that I left home and arrived home in the dark. I was becoming the adult I wanted to be. And so it went for years.

And then, a funny thing happened; it all came crashing down. In bits and pieces the life I lived - the one I was certain I wanted - first developed fissures along the foundation and then, over the course of several years, began to disinegrate piece by piece.

The last brick tumbled to the ground nearly two months ago, sitting in the dreaded HR office, when the news was handed down that in 5 hours, I would no longer be employed. Baby's pending arrival meant taking Option 2 - a medicore, less-than-fullfilling opportunity at the same company, that now has me temporarily working in Outer Darkness, wearing sneakers to work and improving my Spanish.

With the collapse of the reality I had worked so hard to construct for the past 18 years, I realized that everything I had ever done in my entire life had been to get to the point I was at 30 minutes prior to the News. And in mere seconds, the entire thing dissolved, leaving me to wonder what was left. I had been so focused, so determined, so passionate - I had left little room for anything else.

Himself claims I have no hobbies. I have almost no close friends that I see on any sort of regular basis. I don't like to sit and contemplate. I schedule everything. And, falling short of what I thought I absolutely wanted, but hadn't yet attained, I sunk into "dark and twisty" territory. I had left the only two permanent things in my life - Himself, who was my greatest champion in my sprint to my version of adulthood, even though it was far different than his own and Baby.

I stand now, on the brink of my 30s, at the brink of motherhood and wonder where the next version of "adulthood" will take me. Who will I become? Will I construct something from the rubble of my childhood visions or will Himself and I build a different version? Will my identity become as consumed as 'Baby's Mom' as it was by 'Current Job Title Here?'

I'm closer than ever to returning full-circle to the vision of adulthood I was desparate to flee from as a child. Adulthood has a funny way of being interrupted by reality.