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.
Showing posts with label The Factory. Show all posts
Showing posts with label The Factory. Show all posts
Friday, May 22, 2009
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
The Tax Man Cometh
Being a Type A, slightly-more-than-a-little-neurotic person, I file my taxes the minute I get the last piece of paperwork in the mail. Which is usually ... oh the first of February.
I will also confess that I am generally the person who watches the 10 o'clock news on Tax Day and makes guffawing noises at the poor people in line to have their taxes postmarked by 11:59 p.m. Seriously people, you can't plan ahead enough to get your taxes in on time? It's not as if Tax Day ever changes. It is, and forever will be, April 15.
Lesson learned: Do not mock those whom you do not wish to join.
I knew the 2008 tax filing season was going to be a huge disaster right after receiving my W2 from The Factory last tax season - two months late, complete with the wrong state identification number. Once The Factory metaphorically collapsed, it only promised to get worse. Therefore, it was without any great shock that I did not receive a W2 from The Factory - neither did The Boss respond to any inquiries. (She did respond to my accountant, and told him she must have had the "wrong address" (ha!) - funny, it's been 2.5 months since she called and ... nothing).
I began the 2008 tax odyssey in February. February 17, as a matter of fact, which is the earliest you can begin pursuing tax preparation if you are missing a W2 that includes half of your income for that year.
It began with taking a very old friend up on his offer to give me tax advice (I'm sure he now regrets it, although he was more helpful than any of the other four tax accountants I'd spoken with prior to him - all who assured me that The Boss WOULD INDEED send a W2 because "she has to." Of course, that is assuming that this woman even cares about not breaking the law, which she doesn't.) Two months, four calls to the IRS (which garnered 4 separate answers), a dozen e-mails, 20 hours of effort (on his and my parts), 4 hours of number crunching and several headaches and bury-my-head-in-the-sand-and-hum moments later, I was ready to file.
Good thing too, since it was late evening on April 14 by this point. See, it wasn't just the missing W2, it was the fact that I had received only 6 pay stubs for 12 paychecks over six months. Combined with the fact that my pay rate changed 4 times. Combined with the fact that there was no discernible pattern to the withholding from any of the paychecks. Combined with my general lack of tax-aptitudeness. See the problems? Plus, the IRS recommends not filing until April 15 if you are missing any critical documents.
Of course, the missing W2 means the IRS won't let you e-file. For the record, I have not filed a paper return since 1997 - a year in which I made $3,500 and filed the short form. This of course means I should be forgiven for the insanity that ensued on tax day - and all mocking should be done lightly.
As it turns out, I'd have to pay to download the files I'd prepared (but couldn't file) online, so I had to print out the summary and then fill out the 1040 form and all the appropriate addendums as well as the state of Utah's ridiculous new "easy file" tax form (I seriously want to know which legislator thought it was a good idea to make us copy our W2 information over to the state's form rather than just sending the W2s in - mistakes galore will abound, I'm sure). That took several hours.
Then there was the matter of what to include with the tax forms. The IRS, in all it's brilliant booklet-producing wisdom, isn't exactly clear on that subject. So I called the only person I know who still files his taxes via the mail - my father. He
laughed at me, until I reminded him that it had been 11 years since I had had to mail in anything.
Then I was ready to send them in - right? Except, no - did you realize when you file a joint return that both of you have to sign it? Yeah, neither did I. Not an issue - except Himself worked until 8 p.m. tax day and didn't arrive home until nearly 9 p.m.
Himself arrived home, signed the forms, and then I realized I didn't have a single envelope (or stamp) in the house. I drove to the grocery store on the way to the post office with the automatic machine that gives postmarks until midnight every day of the year (only 3 in line there v. 5 times that at the post office tax party downtown). Of course, the grocery store had no envelopes. The drug store next door closes at 9. I finally found a store, relatively on the way to the post office (more or less) that had envelopes. Mission accomplished.
Then I went to weigh and purchase stamps for my two tax filings ... only to find out the automated postage machine won't do transactions less than $1. Wouldn't you know it that my postage added up to 1 cent shy of $1? I had to buy an extra postmarked stamp just to mail my envelopes. A tax on a tax for the taxes of sorts, I suppose.
I got home just in time to catch the 10 o'clock news, where they featured all the goofy people at the post office trying to get their taxes in on time.
This time, however, there was no guffaws, only sympathy, from my living room. As it turns out, not everyone who greets the tax man on tax day is actually procrastinating.
I will also confess that I am generally the person who watches the 10 o'clock news on Tax Day and makes guffawing noises at the poor people in line to have their taxes postmarked by 11:59 p.m. Seriously people, you can't plan ahead enough to get your taxes in on time? It's not as if Tax Day ever changes. It is, and forever will be, April 15.
Lesson learned: Do not mock those whom you do not wish to join.
I knew the 2008 tax filing season was going to be a huge disaster right after receiving my W2 from The Factory last tax season - two months late, complete with the wrong state identification number. Once The Factory metaphorically collapsed, it only promised to get worse. Therefore, it was without any great shock that I did not receive a W2 from The Factory - neither did The Boss respond to any inquiries. (She did respond to my accountant, and told him she must have had the "wrong address" (ha!) - funny, it's been 2.5 months since she called and ... nothing).
I began the 2008 tax odyssey in February. February 17, as a matter of fact, which is the earliest you can begin pursuing tax preparation if you are missing a W2 that includes half of your income for that year.
It began with taking a very old friend up on his offer to give me tax advice (I'm sure he now regrets it, although he was more helpful than any of the other four tax accountants I'd spoken with prior to him - all who assured me that The Boss WOULD INDEED send a W2 because "she has to." Of course, that is assuming that this woman even cares about not breaking the law, which she doesn't.) Two months, four calls to the IRS (which garnered 4 separate answers), a dozen e-mails, 20 hours of effort (on his and my parts), 4 hours of number crunching and several headaches and bury-my-head-in-the-sand-and-hum moments later, I was ready to file.
Good thing too, since it was late evening on April 14 by this point. See, it wasn't just the missing W2, it was the fact that I had received only 6 pay stubs for 12 paychecks over six months. Combined with the fact that my pay rate changed 4 times. Combined with the fact that there was no discernible pattern to the withholding from any of the paychecks. Combined with my general lack of tax-aptitudeness. See the problems? Plus, the IRS recommends not filing until April 15 if you are missing any critical documents.
Of course, the missing W2 means the IRS won't let you e-file. For the record, I have not filed a paper return since 1997 - a year in which I made $3,500 and filed the short form. This of course means I should be forgiven for the insanity that ensued on tax day - and all mocking should be done lightly.
As it turns out, I'd have to pay to download the files I'd prepared (but couldn't file) online, so I had to print out the summary and then fill out the 1040 form and all the appropriate addendums as well as the state of Utah's ridiculous new "easy file" tax form (I seriously want to know which legislator thought it was a good idea to make us copy our W2 information over to the state's form rather than just sending the W2s in - mistakes galore will abound, I'm sure). That took several hours.
Then there was the matter of what to include with the tax forms. The IRS, in all it's brilliant booklet-producing wisdom, isn't exactly clear on that subject. So I called the only person I know who still files his taxes via the mail - my father. He
laughed at me, until I reminded him that it had been 11 years since I had had to mail in anything.
Then I was ready to send them in - right? Except, no - did you realize when you file a joint return that both of you have to sign it? Yeah, neither did I. Not an issue - except Himself worked until 8 p.m. tax day and didn't arrive home until nearly 9 p.m.
Himself arrived home, signed the forms, and then I realized I didn't have a single envelope (or stamp) in the house. I drove to the grocery store on the way to the post office with the automatic machine that gives postmarks until midnight every day of the year (only 3 in line there v. 5 times that at the post office tax party downtown). Of course, the grocery store had no envelopes. The drug store next door closes at 9. I finally found a store, relatively on the way to the post office (more or less) that had envelopes. Mission accomplished.
Then I went to weigh and purchase stamps for my two tax filings ... only to find out the automated postage machine won't do transactions less than $1. Wouldn't you know it that my postage added up to 1 cent shy of $1? I had to buy an extra postmarked stamp just to mail my envelopes. A tax on a tax for the taxes of sorts, I suppose.
I got home just in time to catch the 10 o'clock news, where they featured all the goofy people at the post office trying to get their taxes in on time.
This time, however, there was no guffaws, only sympathy, from my living room. As it turns out, not everyone who greets the tax man on tax day is actually procrastinating.
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
The Hand of Providence
My Sunday School lesson this week is on personal revelation. As I've begun to study the materials and scriptures associated with it, I've become extraordinarily aware of just how much personal revelation, promptings and answers to prayer have played such a key role in my life over the last 12 months.
For months, I prayed for a new job to replace The Factory, where I worked for the Wicked Witch and struggled personally, professionally and emotionally. For months, I received the distinct answer, "It's not time." Then the entire thing came crumbling down around me and I moaned, "I tried to leave - why didn't you let me leave?" Only to discover a better job for my situation sitting under my nose. One that would not have been there three or six months prior.
There were big things like that, but there have been little things over the last month that have proven to be just as significant. Like the fact that 12 days ago, I read an article on something about pains you shouldn't ignore - including non-muscular calf pain. Two days later, I end up with a sharp pain in my calf. I thought it was psychosomatic, but the doctor recommended I come in and be seen anyway. Turns out, there were no indicators of anything significant, but when the pain got worse, the doctor complied with my plea of "you have to do something - something isn't right" and ordered an ultrasound. Sure enough, several deep-vein clots had taken up residence in the vein behind my knee.
I was in need of a doctor early in the month. I asked for recommendations, looked at my insurance plans and fretted. I chose one - highly recommended online, by people I knew and accepted both my insurances. However, it was a solo practice. I just couldn't shake the feeling in the back of my mind that I wasn't quite comfortable - nor could I explain in any rational fashion why I wasn't comfortable. I ended up going with another practitioner at the last minute - one who practices in a larger practice that includes an in-house lab, several doctors and a connection with some key specialists in the valley. Three weeks later, I am eternally grateful for having made that decision, given the amount of time I've spent in the lab, with ALL of the practice's doctors and the time I will be spending with the specialists with whom they consult.
Sure, it could be coincidence, but too many things in my life have happened to put much stock in happenstance. It's easy to get caught up in living the life of Super Woman and forget that there are little times, little feelings/promptings/answers that guide you in a certain way. I'm a firm believer in mother's intuition. I'm a firm believer that there is Someone who cares very much about me and my life and if I'd only be patient (I would work on this, but my one stint praying for patience was such a disaster I now maintain - be careful what you pray for, you might just get the opportunity) I can see the Hand of Providence weaving a very careful tapestry of my life - just so.
I am beyond comforted as I prepare my lesson this week. I know it will be one of those weeks when I learn far more than the 15+ 15(ish)-year-olds who will shuffle into my classroom on Sunday. I'm comforted to recognize the big and little instances where God has directed my life, especially those of late, as I face some challenges, unknowns and decisions in the upcoming months.
Somtimes, it's good to know one is not alone, in whatever way that is manifested.
For months, I prayed for a new job to replace The Factory, where I worked for the Wicked Witch and struggled personally, professionally and emotionally. For months, I received the distinct answer, "It's not time." Then the entire thing came crumbling down around me and I moaned, "I tried to leave - why didn't you let me leave?" Only to discover a better job for my situation sitting under my nose. One that would not have been there three or six months prior.
There were big things like that, but there have been little things over the last month that have proven to be just as significant. Like the fact that 12 days ago, I read an article on something about pains you shouldn't ignore - including non-muscular calf pain. Two days later, I end up with a sharp pain in my calf. I thought it was psychosomatic, but the doctor recommended I come in and be seen anyway. Turns out, there were no indicators of anything significant, but when the pain got worse, the doctor complied with my plea of "you have to do something - something isn't right" and ordered an ultrasound. Sure enough, several deep-vein clots had taken up residence in the vein behind my knee.
I was in need of a doctor early in the month. I asked for recommendations, looked at my insurance plans and fretted. I chose one - highly recommended online, by people I knew and accepted both my insurances. However, it was a solo practice. I just couldn't shake the feeling in the back of my mind that I wasn't quite comfortable - nor could I explain in any rational fashion why I wasn't comfortable. I ended up going with another practitioner at the last minute - one who practices in a larger practice that includes an in-house lab, several doctors and a connection with some key specialists in the valley. Three weeks later, I am eternally grateful for having made that decision, given the amount of time I've spent in the lab, with ALL of the practice's doctors and the time I will be spending with the specialists with whom they consult.
Sure, it could be coincidence, but too many things in my life have happened to put much stock in happenstance. It's easy to get caught up in living the life of Super Woman and forget that there are little times, little feelings/promptings/answers that guide you in a certain way. I'm a firm believer in mother's intuition. I'm a firm believer that there is Someone who cares very much about me and my life and if I'd only be patient (I would work on this, but my one stint praying for patience was such a disaster I now maintain - be careful what you pray for, you might just get the opportunity) I can see the Hand of Providence weaving a very careful tapestry of my life - just so.
I am beyond comforted as I prepare my lesson this week. I know it will be one of those weeks when I learn far more than the 15+ 15(ish)-year-olds who will shuffle into my classroom on Sunday. I'm comforted to recognize the big and little instances where God has directed my life, especially those of late, as I face some challenges, unknowns and decisions in the upcoming months.
Somtimes, it's good to know one is not alone, in whatever way that is manifested.
Sunday, October 26, 2008
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 ...
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 ...
Friday, October 17, 2008
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 ...
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 ...
Monday, October 13, 2008
Black Tie
The Office had it's Annual Lifetime Achievement Award Gala on Saturday. It was the first event I've worked on since I left Virginia. I have missed event planning immensely ... it's the adrenaline boost I haven't had in 16 months. I started working at The Office three months ago - at the tail end of planning, but I was able to roll up my sleeves and get involved, which I loved.
John Walsh was our honoree this year. Let me just say this - he is one of the most generous, warm-hearted people I've ever met - celebrity or otherwise, which made me even happier we were honoring him for his 25 years of crusading for children's safety. He is the real deal - he truly cares.
He gave an unscripted acceptance speech which was passionate and powerful. We found his notes later that he had scribbled on the back of some scratch paper during dinner - five bullet points - and yet his speech was as polished as anyone's on the teleprompter.
It was the only black tie charity event I've ever gone to where I felt good about the result. Yes, the gala was at the only 5-diamond hotel in The Frontier. Yes, we dined on salmon and filet mignon. Yes, it was black tie. Yes, the giveaways were beautiful. But we gave $900,000 away to three organizations who make keeping kids safe their mission - National Center for Missing & Exploited Children, Internet Crimes Against Children Taskforce and the McGruff Safehouse Network. There was no cheesy auction. We raised $50k of that at the dinner through pledge donations. It felt okay to have a big celebration for donations of that magnitude. It especially felt okay to have a big celebration for John Walsh.
It is refreshing to see that in this economy there are still individuals and organizations who care enough to realize that there are still crimes, still predators, still kids who go missing. It was refreshing to see all of the celebrity figures there - entertainers, actors and the award recipient - who were human. Who didn't act like the world owed them a favor. Who were gracious and kind and generous and warm-hearted.
It was nice to sit and de-brief and talk about next year - to feel part of a team - to share highlights and lowlights and know that the ones who have a say are actually listening.
It is such a contrast with The Factory. The Factory wasn't generous. It didn't care about anything or anyone or any cause that couldn't connect it to big names. It didn't listen. It didn't trust. It stripped people of humanity and feeling and only championed a call for "more money!"
Slowly, my faith is being restored in humanity.
HUGE thanks to Erin for volunteering to help us out!
John Walsh was our honoree this year. Let me just say this - he is one of the most generous, warm-hearted people I've ever met - celebrity or otherwise, which made me even happier we were honoring him for his 25 years of crusading for children's safety. He is the real deal - he truly cares.
He gave an unscripted acceptance speech which was passionate and powerful. We found his notes later that he had scribbled on the back of some scratch paper during dinner - five bullet points - and yet his speech was as polished as anyone's on the teleprompter.
It was the only black tie charity event I've ever gone to where I felt good about the result. Yes, the gala was at the only 5-diamond hotel in The Frontier. Yes, we dined on salmon and filet mignon. Yes, it was black tie. Yes, the giveaways were beautiful. But we gave $900,000 away to three organizations who make keeping kids safe their mission - National Center for Missing & Exploited Children, Internet Crimes Against Children Taskforce and the McGruff Safehouse Network. There was no cheesy auction. We raised $50k of that at the dinner through pledge donations. It felt okay to have a big celebration for donations of that magnitude. It especially felt okay to have a big celebration for John Walsh.
It is refreshing to see that in this economy there are still individuals and organizations who care enough to realize that there are still crimes, still predators, still kids who go missing. It was refreshing to see all of the celebrity figures there - entertainers, actors and the award recipient - who were human. Who didn't act like the world owed them a favor. Who were gracious and kind and generous and warm-hearted.
It was nice to sit and de-brief and talk about next year - to feel part of a team - to share highlights and lowlights and know that the ones who have a say are actually listening.
It is such a contrast with The Factory. The Factory wasn't generous. It didn't care about anything or anyone or any cause that couldn't connect it to big names. It didn't listen. It didn't trust. It stripped people of humanity and feeling and only championed a call for "more money!"
Slowly, my faith is being restored in humanity.
HUGE thanks to Erin for volunteering to help us out!
Tuesday, October 07, 2008
Some of You Might Want to Know This.
Written by Erin, in response to The Great Job Disaster of '08. Pass it on.
--
While the country turns it's attention to the Wall St bailout, it is time for Utah to turn it's attention to the laws that allow these things to happen. With many of Utah's start-up businesses and new companies financed, not by profits, but instead by venture capitalists and loans from outside interests, many companies are suddenly facing going under. Many of these employers will choose to use the Utah code to their advantage and just walk away, never paying their employees. With our current code, employees may never see a dime.
This isn't just about Wall St or bad investments. This is about a bad law that protects employers, while doing nothing to protect employees. Say an employer decides it is in his or her best interest to walk away from the business and go find other employment, leaving the employees without a paycheck or employment. Utah actually protects the employer from having to pay the employee!
According to Utah Admin Code R610-3 Filing, Investigating, and Resolution of Wage Claims, employers who fail to pay their employees are first sent a letter, and then sent another letter, and another, and another. Eventually, after 90 days, (assuming the Wage and Labor Commission moves quickly and efficiently), the claim gets moved to the Attorney General's Office, where, you guessed it, another letter is sent. Eventually, when these busy agencies have time, the case is moved to an arbitration and mediation court. It then takes about 5-8 months to get an appointment with that court. And if and when that magic day ever arrives, it will be determined that yes or no the employer owes the employee. If it is determined that in fact they do owe them wages, a lien is placed against the employer's assets.
How long does it take for that lien to produce anything for the long-suffering employee?
Yes, you read that right. An employee may have to wait EIGHT YEARS to get their wages! There is no “golden parachute” to help these employees who are suddenly both without a job and screwed out of their wages.
When we go to work we put our trust in our employers that they will provide for us in exchange for the labors we perform. We put our livelihood in their hands and rely on the fact that as long as we do our best, we will be paid, and in turn be able to provide for our families.
But Utah employers who get tired of running a business, or lose financing, or simply decide that there is more money to be made elsewhere can walk away from the business and the employees that depend on them, with little consequences.
This is not moral and this is not right! Employers should face criminal charges for running faulty businesses and failing to pay their employees. Men and women CEO's who chose to leave their businesses for higher paying salaries with other organization with no thoughts or cares to the employees they screw over in their wake should face public punishments, and not just inconvenient fines.
Utah, take a look closer at home and ask yourself if you will be protected if your employer goes under or walks away from the business. Will you be paid? Will you be prepared to wait eight years before seeing those wages? Will you be able to survive on unemployment at a fraction of your past earnings?
Don't just sit and watch Wall Street. Take action here at home. Let's change these laws that protect employers and not the employees. Let's make it criminal to not pay employees! Ask the state legislature candidates what they plan to do to protect employees. Challenge the law. Stand up and make it clear that we will not allow employees to be taken advantage of!
--
While the country turns it's attention to the Wall St bailout, it is time for Utah to turn it's attention to the laws that allow these things to happen. With many of Utah's start-up businesses and new companies financed, not by profits, but instead by venture capitalists and loans from outside interests, many companies are suddenly facing going under. Many of these employers will choose to use the Utah code to their advantage and just walk away, never paying their employees. With our current code, employees may never see a dime.
This isn't just about Wall St or bad investments. This is about a bad law that protects employers, while doing nothing to protect employees. Say an employer decides it is in his or her best interest to walk away from the business and go find other employment, leaving the employees without a paycheck or employment. Utah actually protects the employer from having to pay the employee!
According to Utah Admin Code R610-3 Filing, Investigating, and Resolution of Wage Claims, employers who fail to pay their employees are first sent a letter, and then sent another letter, and another, and another. Eventually, after 90 days, (assuming the Wage and Labor Commission moves quickly and efficiently), the claim gets moved to the Attorney General's Office, where, you guessed it, another letter is sent. Eventually, when these busy agencies have time, the case is moved to an arbitration and mediation court. It then takes about 5-8 months to get an appointment with that court. And if and when that magic day ever arrives, it will be determined that yes or no the employer owes the employee. If it is determined that in fact they do owe them wages, a lien is placed against the employer's assets.
How long does it take for that lien to produce anything for the long-suffering employee?
Utah Admin Code R610-3-14-2. The docketing of an Order shall constitute a lien against the real property of the defendant situated in the county for a period of eight years.
Yes, you read that right. An employee may have to wait EIGHT YEARS to get their wages! There is no “golden parachute” to help these employees who are suddenly both without a job and screwed out of their wages.
When we go to work we put our trust in our employers that they will provide for us in exchange for the labors we perform. We put our livelihood in their hands and rely on the fact that as long as we do our best, we will be paid, and in turn be able to provide for our families.
But Utah employers who get tired of running a business, or lose financing, or simply decide that there is more money to be made elsewhere can walk away from the business and the employees that depend on them, with little consequences.
This is not moral and this is not right! Employers should face criminal charges for running faulty businesses and failing to pay their employees. Men and women CEO's who chose to leave their businesses for higher paying salaries with other organization with no thoughts or cares to the employees they screw over in their wake should face public punishments, and not just inconvenient fines.
Utah, take a look closer at home and ask yourself if you will be protected if your employer goes under or walks away from the business. Will you be paid? Will you be prepared to wait eight years before seeing those wages? Will you be able to survive on unemployment at a fraction of your past earnings?
Don't just sit and watch Wall Street. Take action here at home. Let's change these laws that protect employers and not the employees. Let's make it criminal to not pay employees! Ask the state legislature candidates what they plan to do to protect employees. Challenge the law. Stand up and make it clear that we will not allow employees to be taken advantage of!
Wednesday, September 24, 2008
This Is The Stuff Nightmares Are Made Of
Thanks to an old friend for bringing this to my attention.
Brings back memories of our all-day Thursday work sessions with our ad agency when I worked in Virginia.
Unfortunately, they were often just like this.
Brings back memories of our all-day Thursday work sessions with our ad agency when I worked in Virginia.
Unfortunately, they were often just like this.
Friday, June 27, 2008
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 ....?
.
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 ....?
.
Tuesday, June 17, 2008
Yo Yo
The weekend was awful. I didn't sleep, I couldn't function and I snapped at everyone and everything.
I started to cry when Himself thought letting Baby Girl eat "krispies" (rice krispies) off a plate on the floor was a good idea - resulting in rice krispies all over the living room.
I forgot Father's Day and made DH get up with Baby Girl so I could bury my head in the pillow and forget about getting up and having to teach an incredibly spiritually draining lesson on Sunday.
Yesterday brought some calm, some of that giddy "I get to play with my kid" feeling I knew existed somewhere. I gleefully fled the office after my requisite 4 hours, not looking back.
Today, I'm back in a funk, realizing how much I hate being at The Factory. I hate the patronizing assurances of "that's so great you're working part-time this summer!" and the fact that I now sit at the front desk, completely isolated from the rest of the team. The fall from grace has been quick and furious, and I just want out - to the point I just sent my college-aged brother on an errand to his CEO (with whom he has a personal, non-work relationship) with my resume for a job they have - in a town 250 miles away from The Frontier.
For those of you who have heard me swear never to move any closer to my hometown, hold me back now. Remind me I'm insane.
If one more person tells me I should be happy to have more time to sleep, I think my sleep-deprived brain will trigger a crying episode. I wish I could figure out how to feel. I wish I could feel better about working part-time, but the expenses all stay the same - my commute, the cost of the sitter (to whom I now owe a $50 late fee because I forgot to pay her after last Friday's debacle) - all the same. I wish I could sleep at night. That part is no worse or no better, but it a decade of chronic sleep issues combined with anxiety and a new baby have meant it is a minor miracle if I sleep more than 2 or 3 hours at a time.
Forget yo-yo dieting, this yo-yo emotional stuff is for the birds.
I started to cry when Himself thought letting Baby Girl eat "krispies" (rice krispies) off a plate on the floor was a good idea - resulting in rice krispies all over the living room.
I forgot Father's Day and made DH get up with Baby Girl so I could bury my head in the pillow and forget about getting up and having to teach an incredibly spiritually draining lesson on Sunday.
Yesterday brought some calm, some of that giddy "I get to play with my kid" feeling I knew existed somewhere. I gleefully fled the office after my requisite 4 hours, not looking back.
Today, I'm back in a funk, realizing how much I hate being at The Factory. I hate the patronizing assurances of "that's so great you're working part-time this summer!" and the fact that I now sit at the front desk, completely isolated from the rest of the team. The fall from grace has been quick and furious, and I just want out - to the point I just sent my college-aged brother on an errand to his CEO (with whom he has a personal, non-work relationship) with my resume for a job they have - in a town 250 miles away from The Frontier.
For those of you who have heard me swear never to move any closer to my hometown, hold me back now. Remind me I'm insane.
If one more person tells me I should be happy to have more time to sleep, I think my sleep-deprived brain will trigger a crying episode. I wish I could figure out how to feel. I wish I could feel better about working part-time, but the expenses all stay the same - my commute, the cost of the sitter (to whom I now owe a $50 late fee because I forgot to pay her after last Friday's debacle) - all the same. I wish I could sleep at night. That part is no worse or no better, but it a decade of chronic sleep issues combined with anxiety and a new baby have meant it is a minor miracle if I sleep more than 2 or 3 hours at a time.
Forget yo-yo dieting, this yo-yo emotional stuff is for the birds.
Friday, June 13, 2008
Beware of Friday the 13th
I'm not superstitious, but after this Friday the 13th, I just might be.
Intern 2 got stuck at work today for half hour in the lobby because none of the early risers at The Factory were, in fact, early risers. When I got in at my regularly scheduled time, she was sitting there waiting for someone to come and unlock the office suite.
Tim Russert died. Sudden, shocking death always makes me pause and mourn. I've never met Tim Russert, but he was on my list of "fascinating people I'd love to meet someday" along with Tom Brokaw, Madeline Albright and other people Himself deems as "only people Sara would want to meet." In fact, he was one of my favorite journalists and my favorite political journalist, period.
I had barely recovered from that shock when I went to my normal Friday afternoon meeting at The Factory. It was there I learned that a formal memo was being put in my file about my "failure to meet expectations" and suddenly my job was 20 hours a week and my income was being slashed by 65% and I was demoted. They said it was to keep me from going crazy, to help me find myself. That's what they told clients and the rest of the staff. But the memo is scathing. The Others have said "if you want to read it that way, it's up to you," but the two people with whom I've shared the memo outside of work agree with me.
I was told to leave my laptop at the office and take a complete break for the weekend, so I could catch up on sleep and enjoy myself.
Except, when a household loses 2/3 of its household income, it's rather hard to sleep or enjoy one's self. I walked around like a zombie tonight. I long to go hiking tomorrow - to physically work out my anger, desperation, self-loathing and disappointment, but no amount of cajoling can get Himself to agree to go hiking with me, and I'm sure it was safe to go hiking alone in a canyon entirely unfamiliar to me.
It makes me wonder, just a little, why moving to The Frontier felt like such a good idea a year ago - in that time, we've both lost our jobs once (even though my layoff last summer only lasted for 90 minutes), I've struggled with my health and we never see the family we thought we'd see on a fairly regular basis. With gas at the $4/gallon mark, it's just too far and too expensive for anyone to travel.
I can't even feel the giddy relief I know is in there somewhere about getting to spend extra time with Baby Girl, because I'm too sick to my stomach over feeling like the world's greatest failure.
Intern 2 got stuck at work today for half hour in the lobby because none of the early risers at The Factory were, in fact, early risers. When I got in at my regularly scheduled time, she was sitting there waiting for someone to come and unlock the office suite.
Tim Russert died. Sudden, shocking death always makes me pause and mourn. I've never met Tim Russert, but he was on my list of "fascinating people I'd love to meet someday" along with Tom Brokaw, Madeline Albright and other people Himself deems as "only people Sara would want to meet." In fact, he was one of my favorite journalists and my favorite political journalist, period.
I had barely recovered from that shock when I went to my normal Friday afternoon meeting at The Factory. It was there I learned that a formal memo was being put in my file about my "failure to meet expectations" and suddenly my job was 20 hours a week and my income was being slashed by 65% and I was demoted. They said it was to keep me from going crazy, to help me find myself. That's what they told clients and the rest of the staff. But the memo is scathing. The Others have said "if you want to read it that way, it's up to you," but the two people with whom I've shared the memo outside of work agree with me.
I was told to leave my laptop at the office and take a complete break for the weekend, so I could catch up on sleep and enjoy myself.
Except, when a household loses 2/3 of its household income, it's rather hard to sleep or enjoy one's self. I walked around like a zombie tonight. I long to go hiking tomorrow - to physically work out my anger, desperation, self-loathing and disappointment, but no amount of cajoling can get Himself to agree to go hiking with me, and I'm sure it was safe to go hiking alone in a canyon entirely unfamiliar to me.
It makes me wonder, just a little, why moving to The Frontier felt like such a good idea a year ago - in that time, we've both lost our jobs once (even though my layoff last summer only lasted for 90 minutes), I've struggled with my health and we never see the family we thought we'd see on a fairly regular basis. With gas at the $4/gallon mark, it's just too far and too expensive for anyone to travel.
I can't even feel the giddy relief I know is in there somewhere about getting to spend extra time with Baby Girl, because I'm too sick to my stomach over feeling like the world's greatest failure.
Monday, May 19, 2008
Before Going Postal ...
Today's bit of Factory office wisdom:
"If you're going to go postal, at least go UPS, their uniforms are better."
(Spoken by a wise woman after I made a thinly veiled reference to being "done with all this" at work).
"If you're going to go postal, at least go UPS, their uniforms are better."
(Spoken by a wise woman after I made a thinly veiled reference to being "done with all this" at work).
Thursday, February 14, 2008
Fire & Ice (or Snow, rather)
It snowed yesterday.
I realize that it snows frequently in The Frontier, even more so than usual this year (Global Warming, what?!), but yesterday's snowstorm was significant because we had been without snow for a whole week.
Not only had we been without snow, but it had been in the 50s (of course I was in DC for most of it) for several days, meaning that the snow on our driveway had completely melted for the first time in two months. (There was still a good 4" on the front lawn). No longer. There is now a good 8-10" on our front lawn, and the driveway has two deep tire tracks, as no one got up early enough this morning to actually shovel anything.
Making matters more interesting, the snowstorm hit its hardest during rush hour, always a great way to spend the entirety of one's evening - watching the snow from inside one's toasty warm car, cross-eyed from focusing so intently on the rear lights of the car in front of you, creeping along the bench at -5 mph.
The only relief is that it isn't supposed to snow again (according to the only-sometimes-correct weatherman) for another week. Maybe. Toes and fingers crossed.
So yesterday ended bad; today started out bad. Car was buried. Driveway was buried. Driveway into the sitter's complex nearly bested my poor, non-snow worthy car.
It continued along that course.
Our building caught on fire. One of the suites in The Factory's building had some sort of fire (albeit small) that disrupted the entire building's productivity for 30 minutes while the fireman fixed the fire and another 30 minutes while they scurried around trying to figure out why the alarm was still going off.
An hour later, everyone settled into their comfortable (and only semi-productive at this point) routines, the power went off - on the entire block.
We work on laptops - battery power lasts for several hours - unfortunately, the server which we connect to (owned and operated by the company with whom we office share) does not. I, having possession of the evil Blackberry, was the only one with internet/e-mail access.
It was off for an hour.
Seriously. I haven't even waded through the 100 e-mails I received overnight. Am I going to accomplish anything?
I realize that it snows frequently in The Frontier, even more so than usual this year (Global Warming, what?!), but yesterday's snowstorm was significant because we had been without snow for a whole week.
Not only had we been without snow, but it had been in the 50s (of course I was in DC for most of it) for several days, meaning that the snow on our driveway had completely melted for the first time in two months. (There was still a good 4" on the front lawn). No longer. There is now a good 8-10" on our front lawn, and the driveway has two deep tire tracks, as no one got up early enough this morning to actually shovel anything.
Making matters more interesting, the snowstorm hit its hardest during rush hour, always a great way to spend the entirety of one's evening - watching the snow from inside one's toasty warm car, cross-eyed from focusing so intently on the rear lights of the car in front of you, creeping along the bench at -5 mph.
The only relief is that it isn't supposed to snow again (according to the only-sometimes-correct weatherman) for another week. Maybe. Toes and fingers crossed.
So yesterday ended bad; today started out bad. Car was buried. Driveway was buried. Driveway into the sitter's complex nearly bested my poor, non-snow worthy car.
It continued along that course.
Our building caught on fire. One of the suites in The Factory's building had some sort of fire (albeit small) that disrupted the entire building's productivity for 30 minutes while the fireman fixed the fire and another 30 minutes while they scurried around trying to figure out why the alarm was still going off.
An hour later, everyone settled into their comfortable (and only semi-productive at this point) routines, the power went off - on the entire block.
We work on laptops - battery power lasts for several hours - unfortunately, the server which we connect to (owned and operated by the company with whom we office share) does not. I, having possession of the evil Blackberry, was the only one with internet/e-mail access.
It was off for an hour.
Seriously. I haven't even waded through the 100 e-mails I received overnight. Am I going to accomplish anything?
Wednesday, February 06, 2008
So if you are in Virginia, you MUST read this
I am coming to Virginia.
Beloved homeland (okay, not really, but possibly - and it's not the frontier).
I am coming TOMORROW as in 25 hours from now I will be landing.
I am FREAKING OUT. FREAKING OUT. FREAKING OUT.
I booked my ticket 30 minutes ago. I opened my big fat mouth, made a recommendation to a client, and *poof* just like that I'm leaving on a jetplane.
AAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHH.
On one hand, I'm excited - it's Virginia, there isn't as much snow there. I get to see at least one friend.
On about 12 other hands, I'm panicked, terrified, and anxious.
Do I leave Baby Girl here? Do I take her with me? If I do, whatever am I going to do with her for the time I'm working at a convention? But I'm not coming home until the end of the weekend. Four days is a long time to be gone. I'm panicked at the thought of leaving her and panicked at the though of bringing her. I don't know how to fly with a baby. Good grief, the amount of stuff she required for a DRIVE four states away was enough to confine us to a small travel suitcase, because she and her entourage of stuff took up the entire car.
I don't have life insurance. I've never not had life insurance. Why this even bothers me, I have no idea.
I don't have ANY clean clothes. As in I'm wearing the last pair of clean dress pants I have right now.
I HATE FLYING. As in deathly afraid of flying. I usually have MONTHS or at least WEEKS to panic. I have - um - 16 hours.
Someone tell me that this is a good thing.
And those of you in VA - I might have time for a quick hello. And! I could return Oliver & Kristin's handy-dandy rubbermaid container they lent us the morning we left for The Frontier (if I'm not so panicked that I forget to pack it).
AAARRGGGGHHH.
Wait, I already said that.
Beloved homeland (okay, not really, but possibly - and it's not the frontier).
I am coming TOMORROW as in 25 hours from now I will be landing.
I am FREAKING OUT. FREAKING OUT. FREAKING OUT.
I booked my ticket 30 minutes ago. I opened my big fat mouth, made a recommendation to a client, and *poof* just like that I'm leaving on a jetplane.
AAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHH.
On one hand, I'm excited - it's Virginia, there isn't as much snow there. I get to see at least one friend.
On about 12 other hands, I'm panicked, terrified, and anxious.
Do I leave Baby Girl here? Do I take her with me? If I do, whatever am I going to do with her for the time I'm working at a convention? But I'm not coming home until the end of the weekend. Four days is a long time to be gone. I'm panicked at the thought of leaving her and panicked at the though of bringing her. I don't know how to fly with a baby. Good grief, the amount of stuff she required for a DRIVE four states away was enough to confine us to a small travel suitcase, because she and her entourage of stuff took up the entire car.
I don't have life insurance. I've never not had life insurance. Why this even bothers me, I have no idea.
I don't have ANY clean clothes. As in I'm wearing the last pair of clean dress pants I have right now.
I HATE FLYING. As in deathly afraid of flying. I usually have MONTHS or at least WEEKS to panic. I have - um - 16 hours.
Someone tell me that this is a good thing.
And those of you in VA - I might have time for a quick hello. And! I could return Oliver & Kristin's handy-dandy rubbermaid container they lent us the morning we left for The Frontier (if I'm not so panicked that I forget to pack it).
AAARRGGGGHHH.
Wait, I already said that.
Thursday, January 31, 2008
Your Vegas is Showing
I love the new Vegas commercials - so much more than the awful ones with the devilishly creepy man in the red suit in the previous Vegas series.
I don't particularly love Vegas itself - the glitz, glamour and insanity are really not something that I've ever warmed to. One too many business trips there. One too many flights in and out when I flew in to visit The Parents from the East Coast.
But, no matter ... my Vegas is going to be showing next weekend, and while it's not quite Hawaii like Heidi, it is warmer than The Frontier and comes sans snow.
I'm delighted to spend two days in warm(ish) weather, even if it means networking (ugh) at a client convention (ugh) for dental professionals (double ugh). But it will be my first night(s) away from Baby Girl since her arrival. I'm not sure how to feel about that.
Himself isn't sure how to feel about it either ... but we pay the sitter all week anyway, so if he's employed (pray he is) by then, he just has to drop her off/pick her up and attempt to dress her in something that fits and matches (the former being much more challenging at the moment than the latter).
I don't particularly love Vegas itself - the glitz, glamour and insanity are really not something that I've ever warmed to. One too many business trips there. One too many flights in and out when I flew in to visit The Parents from the East Coast.
But, no matter ... my Vegas is going to be showing next weekend, and while it's not quite Hawaii like Heidi, it is warmer than The Frontier and comes sans snow.
I'm delighted to spend two days in warm(ish) weather, even if it means networking (ugh) at a client convention (ugh) for dental professionals (double ugh). But it will be my first night(s) away from Baby Girl since her arrival. I'm not sure how to feel about that.
Himself isn't sure how to feel about it either ... but we pay the sitter all week anyway, so if he's employed (pray he is) by then, he just has to drop her off/pick her up and attempt to dress her in something that fits and matches (the former being much more challenging at the moment than the latter).
Monday, August 27, 2007
Viral Marketing At It's Best
I have to post this - I heard about it through a blog I subscribe to for work on viral marketing.
A woman got $142 for her $2 pack of Pokemon cards, due, mostly, in part to her humorous story in the auction listing.
Of course, it's spread like wildfire. The woman is a natural with words and the world is still puzzled at how she managed to make $140 profit on her kid's "accidental" contribution to the grocery cart.
Of course, it is great leverage for me to use when telling clients how to craft messaging that will enable something to become viral (it does not, as it seems the entire non-marketing world thinks, just 'become viral' for no reason and with no effort).
More than that though, I have another blog to read, Because I Said So. It's just as funny as the E-bay post.
It makes me never want to have six kids, but I definitely admire a woman who can and still be sane enough to be humorous and write about it.
And I'm happy to have a great viral marketing case study to peruse.
A woman got $142 for her $2 pack of Pokemon cards, due, mostly, in part to her humorous story in the auction listing.
Of course, it's spread like wildfire. The woman is a natural with words and the world is still puzzled at how she managed to make $140 profit on her kid's "accidental" contribution to the grocery cart.
Of course, it is great leverage for me to use when telling clients how to craft messaging that will enable something to become viral (it does not, as it seems the entire non-marketing world thinks, just 'become viral' for no reason and with no effort).
More than that though, I have another blog to read, Because I Said So. It's just as funny as the E-bay post.
It makes me never want to have six kids, but I definitely admire a woman who can and still be sane enough to be humorous and write about it.
And I'm happy to have a great viral marketing case study to peruse.
Thursday, July 26, 2007
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).
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).
Wednesday, July 25, 2007
A Treatise on Aging
Today, for the second time in less than a week, I felt as if I was aging much too quickly.
The first time came when I received and e-mail from a good friend, from whom I hadn't heard anything in awhile. She is expecting Baby #6 a short while after Baby Girl is due. She is a little more than two months older than I am. I am beyond happy for her, but at the same time, I felt my bones start to creak, my back ache and my lung capacity reduce slightly (okay, it might have something to do with the fact that Baby Girl has wedged herself, permanently, underneath my right lung in full breech position). I said to myself, "I cannot possibly be old enough to have a friend my age who has six children."
The second time came today, while interviewing candidates for an entry-level position at The Factory (I'm not coming up with a new name for my new job, since I was only at the last one for a short time). One candidate looked at me from across the conference table and said, "I don't know how old you are, but I'm young and this is my perspective." It didn't help that the candidate looked to be about 16, even though I knew from the resume that the candidate had to be at least 21.
Lesson #1: Don't make the person who is interviewing you (who is going to be your boss, if hired), feel old. (Lesson #2: Totally irrelevant to this post, but when you're interviewing for a professional position, wear a suit for crying out loud!)
In The Frontier, I've come to feel as if my aging process has sped up. In VA, I was "the norm" - having Baby Girl just shy of leaving my 20s, after having been married nearly half a decade - the epitome of young, professional women everywhere in metropolitan East Coast. Here, everyone assumes I am just starting my 20s. When they realize I'm not, I get the knowing look of "oh that's too bad, there aren't seven children in your future." (Side note: even if I had Baby Girl in my early 20s, there still wouldn't be seven children in my future - especially if I had to be pregnant seven times).
Aging isn't a bad thing. I've long proclaimed that turning 30 will be my favorite birthday. All of my post-30 friends claim 30 is a far better decade than 20. I have to agree, and I'm not even there yet - ones 20s are turbulent. They are full of self-discovery and adventure, to be sure, but they are also wildly unpredictable - a recipe for chronic heartburn and ulcers for a "plan everything out years in advance" kind of person like me.
Even still, I don't want to FEEL old until I am. Right now, I feel old, and I don't like it.
The first time came when I received and e-mail from a good friend, from whom I hadn't heard anything in awhile. She is expecting Baby #6 a short while after Baby Girl is due. She is a little more than two months older than I am. I am beyond happy for her, but at the same time, I felt my bones start to creak, my back ache and my lung capacity reduce slightly (okay, it might have something to do with the fact that Baby Girl has wedged herself, permanently, underneath my right lung in full breech position). I said to myself, "I cannot possibly be old enough to have a friend my age who has six children."
The second time came today, while interviewing candidates for an entry-level position at The Factory (I'm not coming up with a new name for my new job, since I was only at the last one for a short time). One candidate looked at me from across the conference table and said, "I don't know how old you are, but I'm young and this is my perspective." It didn't help that the candidate looked to be about 16, even though I knew from the resume that the candidate had to be at least 21.
Lesson #1: Don't make the person who is interviewing you (who is going to be your boss, if hired), feel old. (Lesson #2: Totally irrelevant to this post, but when you're interviewing for a professional position, wear a suit for crying out loud!)
In The Frontier, I've come to feel as if my aging process has sped up. In VA, I was "the norm" - having Baby Girl just shy of leaving my 20s, after having been married nearly half a decade - the epitome of young, professional women everywhere in metropolitan East Coast. Here, everyone assumes I am just starting my 20s. When they realize I'm not, I get the knowing look of "oh that's too bad, there aren't seven children in your future." (Side note: even if I had Baby Girl in my early 20s, there still wouldn't be seven children in my future - especially if I had to be pregnant seven times).
Aging isn't a bad thing. I've long proclaimed that turning 30 will be my favorite birthday. All of my post-30 friends claim 30 is a far better decade than 20. I have to agree, and I'm not even there yet - ones 20s are turbulent. They are full of self-discovery and adventure, to be sure, but they are also wildly unpredictable - a recipe for chronic heartburn and ulcers for a "plan everything out years in advance" kind of person like me.
Even still, I don't want to FEEL old until I am. Right now, I feel old, and I don't like it.
Wednesday, July 18, 2007
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.
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.
Tuesday, July 17, 2007
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.
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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)