Catching Up

Seems like life has been a whirlwind since my last real post in August of 2010:

• Road trip to Galveston with J
• Floated the Comal River with friends
• Had a little Cali adventure
• Celebrated 30th birthdays
• Got pregnant
• Watched J survive two layoffs with his company
• Had a beautiful baby boy
• Tried balancing working from home & taking care of Baby
• Almost got canned myself
• Quit my job

Guess that's about it in a {really big} nutshell. I feel like I'm finally starting to unwind a bit, and finally getting to enjoy Baby (and life) without the added stress of trying to juggle a conference call with a blowout diaper.  And a stressed out husband.  And a messy house.

So many stories, so little time.  Oh, wait.  Now that I'm a "Domestic Engineer" {ahem}, maybe I finally do have time.  

Whoop whoop!

Case of the Mondays ... er, Tuesdays

For some reason, today feels like Monday. Maybe it's because I didn't get anything accomplished yesterday. Maybe it's because I'm getting a little bored in my job, and all the days seem like a "blah" day.

I'm trying sooo hard not to get burnt out at work. I couldn't ask for anything more -- great pay, flexible schedule, cool boss. But is that enough? Here lately, I've been craving something new, something more creative, something that might make a difference is this ginormous world.

Right now I'm supposed to be creating a 12-hour training class. But, instead, I'm sitting on the comfy leather couch at Legacy Books, sipping on a cold Diet Coke and blogging. Because I just can't find the darn motivation to get crackin' on my presentation. Seems like the story of my life here lately.

I've been at this job for almost two years now -- which is amazing considering I usually change jobs like I change shoes. Guess I'm just itching for something different.

But what?

Copiers & Cocktail Dresses

"The number one sign you have nothing to do at work: The 4th Division of Paperclips has overrun the Pushpin Infantry and General White-Out has called for a new skirmish." ~ Fred Barling, 'Humorscope'

This morning I spent half an hour wrestling with the copy machine / printer / monster at work. Surprisingly, I actually found the paper jam and removed the infestation, only to have the darn thing flash "warming up" for an hour. In fact, I think it still says "warming up". Bastard.

Fridays are pretty dead around here. I have a meeting in two hours, so until then I'm pigging out on Baked Doritos and Diet Pepsi. By the scornful looks in my direction, I think the guy in the cube across from me is tired of hearing me crunch. You'd also think by now that I would have learned to not wipe my hands on my pants ... Doritos and tan slacks weren't exactly made for each other.

I'm going wedding dress shopping with Minxy after work, so we're wasting time IMing links of beautiful dresses to each other. Which reminds me, at some point I also need to buy a cocktail dress for a Christmas party tomorrow night. Not even sure where to start with that one -- my pasty legs have been quite comfortable hiding away for the winter. Would jeans be too taboo? More than likely. But if everyone's drunk, will anyone even care?

Happy Birthday to Me

"Age is strictly a case of mind over matter. If you don't mind, it doesn't matter. ~ Jack Benny"

I'm now three chocolate Krispy Kremes and a Diet Pepsi into my birthday. Yesterday, a lady at work asked how old I was turning. She was shocked by my answer. "How old did you think I was going to be?" I asked. "At the most, 25," she responded with a laugh. Now, don't get me wrong, I usually relish the idea that people think I'm younger. But this time it only made me frown. Do I come off as a young person in an immature way or something?

I love practical jokes. I'm always late. I'm lucky if my pants get ironed before heading to the office. Heck, I'm lucky if they're clean. I don't have kids. I eat craploads of candy. I wear socks with little smiling turtles on them.* I don't always act my age or dress my age ... but, then again, how is my age supposed to act and dress?

Wow. All of a sudden I feel really rusty. I'm now two years shy of the big three-o. Twenty eight. The big 2-8. It hadn't really bothered me until now. Maybe I come across younger because I think I am younger. I mean, J had to remind last week how old I was going to be because I couldn't remember. It's as if I hit 25 and have just forgotten the rest of the numbers. Boy, 25 sure was my favorite age -- old enough to have it all and young enough to get away with anything.

It's not like I mind being older or dread getting older. It's just startling to hear it out loud. Twenty-eight. Eh, I guess it doesn't sound that horrible. But maybe it's time to throw out those turtle socks ...


*In my defense, I only wear them when I know they can't be seen, like with boots or pjs.

Meeting with the Bobs

I waited around the office yesterday until 5 and never received my Notice. It took several phone calls today to figure out that consultants -- that would be me -- aren't part of the proceedings tomorrow. Something about the company not having legal responsibility over us.

So, my bosses will find out if they still have jobs tomorrow and then find out if they have to let us go. And since every one's banned from the office tomorrow aside from their designated appointments, I'll be keeping my fingers crossed until Friday. It's as if a hurricane is blowing through tomorrow, and we'll be sorting through the wreckage to see who's left to do the work.

I imagine the appointments tomorrow will go a little something like this scene from Office Space. Classic.

A Whiff of Unemployment

"A lot of fellows nowadays have a B.A., M.D., or Ph.D. Unfortunately, they don't have a J.O.B." ~ 'Fats' Domino

This morning I received a "corporate letter" e-mail from the President and CEO of the food & beverage company I work for, announcing a realignment and semi-massive layoff. In an attempt to "streamline our business," the company will potentially be sending nearly 300 packing at my office.

Our building will be closed Thursday and, instead of working, we're all supposed to meet one-on-one with designated managers to find out if we've been canned. We are to receive notices today with explicit instructions on what time our individual appointment is, where to park, and where to vomit as we exit the building. I really hope the mail guy is wearing a jock strap.

I can't believe it really. Sure, the economy majorly sucks right now. But I never thought a Fortune 500 company of this magnitude would ever layoff employees at the company's Headquarters. But who am I kidding? Of course we'd be the first to go. The factory workers and sales team bring in the real money. The "fluff" we do at Headquarters doesn't really count for much. I mean, who needs marketing? Eh, screw product innovation and consumer research. And HR? Or even capability & training -- the team I work for -- who needs that crap, right? (And yes, I'm being totally sarcastic here.)

*sigh* I need to get dressed, stop by the office and pick up my Notice. But, instead, I'm sitting here in my pjs with tear-stained cheeks, trying to delay the inevitable. I suppose I could always wait tables at TGI Fridays, wearing my 30 pieces of flair and striped shirt while singing "Happy Birthday" to gramps.

I wonder what the productivity level will be at the office today with the smell of unemployment lingering in the hallways?

Gas Pump Betrayal

“It's better to have beer in hand than gas in tank” ~ Anonymous

Lucky I awoke in a good mood today, otherwise this morning would have really sucked. I have a job where I normally work from home, but occasionally have to go into the office for meetings. Today was one of those days.

After struggling with my hair for what seemed like an eternity (and finally forcing it back into a stubby ponytail), I dressed and headed for the door, sidestepping kitty's fur ball in the hallway. I step outside and realize that my black tweed pants are actually brown. And I'm wearing a black button up shirt and black heels. Hmph.

I get in the car and the low fuel light glares at me. Damn. It takes 30 minutes to get to the office ... meeting starts at 10 o'clock ... and it's 9:20. I floor it to the gas station. I get out, scan my card, and reach for the gas pump to begin filling my car. Next thing I know gas is spraying everywhere. We're talking Old Faithful style. Not sure if it was a faulty pump, user error or just God's way of getting in a good laugh, but four letter words flew from my mouth as gas drenched my pants, splashed over the side of my car and began to form a pool under my back left tire.

I managed to control the pump enough to get five bucks actually in -- and not on -- my car before gas began to spew out of my tank. What the hell? I give up and return the pump to it's holder. I sadly watch as ten bucks drip off my car while paranoia sets in. Is my car going to catch fire when I start it? Am I going to die? A quick call to J assured me I wasn't going to burst into flames, but he said that I needed to tell the store employees.

I run into the gas station store and wait in line to tell Apu what happened. There's a young guy in front of me digging in his pockets for change. Upon closer inspection, I realize he's wearing pjs, an old bathrobe and slippers, and he's purchasing not one but two 24 oz cans of Natural Lite beer. At 9:30 in the morning.

He finally finds enough change, and I tell Apu about the sea of gas I created outside. I can't understand him and I wonder if he even understands me. He walks off and begins shouting. I can't tell if he's shouting because he's panicked, or shouting because he thinks if he talks louder, I'll understand him. Five minutes later he grunts and points to a man outside. I walk outside and tell Apu #2 what happened.

"Pump 15?" he asks.

"Yes, pump 15," I reply.

He begins to laugh and I'm not sure why. We walk over to the Sea of Gas and he shrugs his shoulders.

"Pump 15 is broken," he says.

"Broken? I didn't see a sign," I reply, frustrated.

"No sign, it's broken," he says. So now what? "Don't worry, I clean up with special powder."

"Fine, so I'm not going to burst into flames?" I seriously ask. He laughs again and shakes his head. What a waste. I get into my car and it's now 9:47. Damn. I floor it down the highway, getting high off the gasoline trapped in my clothes and shoes.

As I near the office, I glance to my left to see a black Oldsmobile barrelling down the wrong side of the road. Holy crap. There's a grassy median separating us, and I wonder if he realizes we're not in England and that he should be on my side of the road. I see him swerve around a couple of cars before losing sight of him at my turn.

By the time I circle the building and find a parking spot half a mile from the door, I'm twenty-eight minutes late for my meeting. Sweating, I sit down as quietly as possible. It wasn't long before someone asks, "Does anyone else smell gasoline?"

Perhaps the smell distracted from my mis-matched outfit. Perhaps I'll get a raise because I look (and smell) like a bum. Regardless, tomorrow I'm staying home in my pjs.

Musings from Starbucks

"He had a fool proof plan for not getting a job -- In the event of an interview, wear flip-flops." ~ Alan Davies

I've been working at Starbucks all morning, just for a change of pace. That, and my cat won't quit chewing on my power cord when I'm working at my desk at home. (That's a story within itself -- someday I'll tell the novel of my bi-polar kitty.)

I've actually gotten a ton accomplished. I'm sure my boss is turning off her blackberry as we speak, not wanting to receive another cheery e-mail from me or PowerPoint to review. She's probably thinking that I'm off my rocker as I hardly ever get anything accomplished on Fridays ... or any day before lunch. Perhaps it was the Diet Coke for breakfast or the Grande White Chocolate Mocha that's got me wired like a caged gerbil on a wheel.

Anyhoo, the characters here this morning are interesting. Surprisingly, I've noticed that more women drive thru while men park and come inside to order. And, the majority of those coming inside are holding an already empty Starbucks cup, which they proudly chunk in the trash and hurriedly jump in line. Talk about a caffeine fix. Mid-day jitters, anyone?

Right now, there's five ladies of various ages sitting at a table next to me. One skinny middle-aged lady is undergoing an interview by the other four plump ladies. She's wearing cropped pants, a sleeveless shirt, open-toed sandals, and more makeup than the Chanel counter at Dillard's. Last I checked, this wasn't the most appropriate attire for a job interview.

But, as I listen closer, neither are her comments. She's interviewing for a job at a pre-school and admitted to leaving her last job as a teacher because she couldn't stand the kids. Interesting. Norah Jones is blasting in here, so I can't catch all of the conversation (and I'm pretty sure they're hoping that the creepy girl in the corner -- that would be me -- would quite staring at them).

An apron-clad barista just came around and passed out free snicker doodle and gingerbread* samples. The ladies giggle and all take one except the interviewee, who sneers and rudely proclaims that she's watching her weight. The four plump women sheepishly set their warm sample down, glance at each other, ask a few more questions and then quickly thank the lady for coming. As the interviewee exits the door, the women indulge themselves and smile.

To dress inappropriately is one thing -- but to make a group of women feel self conscious? Tsk tsk.


*OH. MY. GOD. The gingerbread is AMAZING. Barista lady, come back!

Work Relief

Sometimes I think Peter from Office Space had the right idea ...

Joanna: So, where do you work, Peter?

Peter Gibbons: Initech.

Joanna: What do you do there?

Peter Gibbons: I sit in a cubicle and I update bank software for the 2000 switch.

Joanna: What's that?

Peter Gibbons: Well see, they wrote all this bank software, and, uh, to save space, they used two digits instead of four. So, like 98 instead of 1998? Uh ... so I go through these thousands of lines of code and, uh ... it doesn't really matter. I uh ... I don't like my job, and, uh ... I don't think I'm gonna go anymore.

Joanna: You're just not gonna go?

Peter Gibbons: Yeah.

Joanna: Won't you get fired?

Peter Gibbons: I don't know, but I really don't like it, and, uh, I'm not gonna go.

Joanna: So you're gonna quit?

Peter Gibbons: Nah-uh. Not really. Uh ... I'm just gonna stop going.

Joanna: When did you decide all that?

Peter Gibbons: About an hour ago.

Joanna: An hour ago... so you're gonna get another job?

Peter Gibbons: I don't think I'd like another job.

Joanna: Well, what are you going to do about money and bills and ...

Peter Gibbons: You know ... I've never really liked paying bills. I don't think I'm gonna do that, either.

Work. Life. Balance?

"We need to maintain a proper balance in our life by allocating the time we have. There are occasions where saying no is the best time management practice there is." -- Catherine Pulsifer

There's something amiss in a world where eating breakfast at your desk has become the norm. A norm established by longer work hours, less time spent with the husband, baby, puppy each morning. Will eating dinner at the office establish itself as well?

Companies already have started a trend by stashing free drinks, snacks and soups in break rooms, pushing the envelope when the clock ticks to 5. Just one more phone call, draft one more e-mail, consume one more hour. 5 turns to 6. Family dinner's pushed to 7. Or, you simply get a warm plate of scraps in the microwave after dark, left to eat alone, listening to the children get ready for bedtime. A kiss on the forehead for each, one for the spouse and off to bed. Tuck in, roll over, and it's time to do it all over again.

Work creeps into weekends too. Just a Saturday morning, they say. "We'll buy your lunch." Does free lunch really do it justice? Does it make up for missing a trip to the donut shop, helping in the yard, taking your boy to soccer practice?

I'm not a parent, but someday I will be. Someday I'll want work to stay at work, and for all of me to come home and enjoy my family. And I'll want the same for my husband. No begging for a day off to see an ailing grandparent. No skipping lunch with mom because a deadline is looming overhead.

Just work. Life. Separate.

An Inner Battle of Sorts

I'm currently fighting an inner battle about my current job situation. My previous contract position ended last week and I now have two offers for new positions on the table: Job A is a higher level position but requires four days a week in Chicago for at least one year; Job B is along the same lines as I was doing but working from home.

Sure, many might think "But dear, you're married, why would you want to be gone four days a week?" Because Job A presents a fantastic opportunity to gain awesome experience and exposure. Hubby's being as supportive as he can, but of course it's hard for him to be happy about it. Especially when Job B would allow me to work from home -- and the pay would be about the same.

Job B would be perfect for raising a family. And I tend to be a bit of a hermit and kind of relish the idea of working in my pjs. But will I gain enough to advance later in life?

My old boss says I need to figure out what I want out of life. He's the kind of person that lives to work. I think I work to live. The idea of Chicago is exciting -- but I know the glamour would wear off in a month or so. I would miss hubby. But would I regret not taking it later? Do I want the corporate career, the 8-6 schedule, wearing suits, networking with the company's elite?

Or do I want to have time to breathe during the day, enjoying life outside of work, having the opportunity to start a family sooner rather than later? We've been talking about building a new house, one that we can raise a family in, and that's exciting too. And I've always wanted more time that I can spend volunteering like I used to -- Job B would allow that. Flexibility is a rare gift these days.

Some say that I'm young, take the job in Chicago, it's a great career move. Others say I'm young, newly married and it would be too hard on the marriage. Then there's those who believe career will always be there later, so choose your marriage/family first.

I visited Chicago last week -- I do love big cities. But, the things that make Chicago wonderful are things I wouldn't experience because I'd be working or flying home. If the job was writing for a magazine, then I would sign the papers and hubby would back me 110%. But Job A is not my dream job and he knows that.

So I sit here now. Wide awake just like last night, and the night before. I'm waiting for a sign, it seems -- a huge blinking arrow that will fall from the sky and point me in the right direction.

17 Days

I'm starting to get ancy, unable to sit still. In 17 days, I'll no longer pull into the all-too-small parking lot here at this ol' building, driving around the half lot looking for a smidge of shade to park under.

I'll no longer have to exchange false small talk and awkward quips on the weather with the lanky guy who works downstairs. A nice guy, but my social skills aren't fully operational anytime before lunch ... or dinner. Maybe I'll run into him again at next year's Wheel of Fortune tryouts.

It's weird to feel like my life and work are entangled in one -- leading to some big changes here in the very near future. It's hard for me to grasp everything that I'm sure is to come, to test the boundaries of the connections that I've made here.

Like a wise woman said to me not so long ago, in 17 days I'll be staring at the rest of my life ...

A New Chapter

So I suppose my departure from this ol' job is now official -- it's funny how things have changed so much since I first started here. If you count the summer I interned, I've almost put two years of my life into this place.

And in those two years, I can honestly say I've grown. Now, I start a new chapter in my life. Between starting a new job, getting married, moving to a new town that's closer to Oklahoma than home -- that's a lot of changes to occur in just two months!

But I'm looking forward to it. Sometimes when I'm at work, I still feel like the college summer intern. For no reasons except my own mind associating the two. And the jeans and flip flops I wear about 60% of the workweek. It'll be an interesting change to go to a more "corporate" environment, where I'll have to re-prove myself, establish new goals, meet new people, wear stockings ...

Scary but exciting. That will be the theme for the next couple of months. I was blessed to have a wonderful job lined up before I even walked the stage at graduation. Now, it's like I'm starting from scratch -- revamping the ol' resume, dusting off the business cards, trying my hand at networking.

And I'm trying to remain focused. I still have clients to attend to and projects to finish. But it's hard not to put all my energy into the next phase of my life. It's amazing how time flies, sometimes slower than you wish it would.

Because Sometimes I Just Can't

Sometimes I just can't waltz into work like a breath of fresh floral air, ready to pounce on whatever lame or ridiculous project that lay before me, product of an outside evil with no sense of real time.

Sometimes I just can't listen to someone else’s issues because I have my own swirling through the undiscovered cave that is my mind.

Sometimes I just can't deal with the people closest to me and their melodramatic way of showing they care. Middle child syndrome can be conditioned to function in line with the rest of the world, and being an immature Mr. Clean does not give you a license to dole out relationship advice. Turn that mop inward, dammit.

Sometimes I just can't keep a straight face, not fall victim to the devil's advocate, keep comments to myself.

Life is frustrating. But even more so when you feel like a Stretch Armstrong doll in the jaws of a pack of wolves. A feeding frenzy of emotion, a roller coaster sickness, a waterfall of tears. It's an amazing thing to feel that much emotion, even for someone else. Someone else who just can't -- can't put any more heart and soul into the wee hours of the day, who just can't seem to move up the wobbly ladder, prove themselves worthy of another slap in the face.

It seems all anyone would have to do is cry uncle, throw up the tattered white flag, turn the table on the shits who put them in the dungeon in the first place. But sometimes, we just can't ...