Eggs on my face...

I love a good chopped salad, who doesn't, except maybe babies ... and those averse to green vegetables, I suppose. To them I say, "Fie!"

Before I offend non-salad eaters everywhere, I suffer my own aversions and one of them is a green-centered, hard-boiled egg. It's not that it tastes funny, maybe a bit dry, it's more that it looks funny and conjures thoughts of the classic Green Eggs and Ham, but who really wants to eat green eggs?

It's actually a sign you have over hard-boiled an egg which I'm sure is making you think, "You can over hard-boil an egg?" Yes. Just ask Mr. Breakfast.

I like a soft-boiled egg and typically come in at about a 7 minute boil time. Do not ask me what happened Sunday night that my eggs were not the perfectly soft-boiled goodness that I prefer. I can say that I was in the midst of a 'bad-day hangover' [i.e. befuddlement, exhaustion, and general crankiness due to a horrendous day beforehand].

I believe in my bad-day hangover I under soft-boiled my eggs and the result will live in egg infamy forever.

The first egg I peeled was the slightest bit runny in the center. Ew. I did not want runny egg on my chopped salad, however I also did not want to reboil the eggs. I freely admit I was lazy and hungry.

Ah-ha!!

I will simply zap the next egg in the nuclear [i.e. microwave] for a few seconds. I knew enough to peel the egg beforehand thus reducing the likelihood of anything bad happening, and 45 seconds later I removed the egg from the nuclear and set it into my handy egg slicer. As soon as the thin, metal wires hit the yolk -

"Poof!"

It exploded.

Now, I don't consider myself an expert in the physics of egg explosions, but I do consider this to be a fairly good explosion as there was a nice circumference of egg as far as 6 feet from where I stood. I wore a lovely sprinkling of egg which was definitely hot although I was lucky enough to escape any burns.

I shook the egg out of hair, brushed it off my clothes, wiped it off my face and the countertops, but opted to leave the bits on the floor for the dog who had himself a fantastic egg hunt when he got home.

Oh, and I laughed because really, what else can one do? It was funny, hilarious even. I don't think this was exactly what was meant by 'eggs on my face,' but conveniently enough I turned the expression into a literal meaning.

Yea me!

Enjoy some Oakhurst...

The End, [otherwise known as "The Beginning"]

Every Tuesday we had a "Team Meeting," a necessity for every mothership-conglomerate. Of course by "Team Meeting" I mean important people had better things to do so it would be me and the Nutjob who would only cancel the meeting once it became apparent no one else was going to show up.

The "Team Meeting" was a big one that week: Nutjob, myself, Calvin, and the guy who kept telling me to, "Hang in there." We hadn't had a showing like that in weeks!

I had pretty much entirely stopped taking any kind of notes in these meetings. Unless it was a direct comment to me to, "Call so&so," or, "Do this&that," nothing had any direct relevance to me or my job. It seemed these meetings existed to make others feel important, nothing was ever accomplished with the exception of new org charts. I took to doodling instead, writing, "I hate this job," and "This sucks," in the margins of my yellow legal pad. Childish, but it made me feel better.

At the conclusion of the meeting, "Hang in there" again recognized how slow it had been for me, but said it was going to get better.

It was at this moment that the Nutjob decided to add something to this convo which would forever a) brand her as the Nutjob and b) alter the course of my life.

She said, "Oh Amanda has been busy lately because I've been giving her all my shit work to do," and then she laughed as if this was the funniest thing ever.

I felt like I'd been punched in the gut.

To their credit, Calvin and "Hang in there" didn't laugh or even crack a smile.

Now, I knew I was given all her "shit work" to do as it was obvious every time she walked by a copy machine to ask me to make photocopies. I was managing to get by doing her "shit work" when it only existed between the two of us, like some dirty secret, but now the secret was out and everyone knew all I was good for was her "shit work."

I fumed the rest of the day, embarrassed, humiliated, and feeling like an idiot.

When I went to work the following Monday and started preparing to quit, a task made simpler by the deep cleaning I'd done a few weeks prior when the Nutjob told me I was being moved to another cube. I'd spent an afternoon cleaning and boxing up files, office supplies, and anything personal. Anything personal I took home, I wanted no part of the self I held sacred to be contained in that cube. Of course, after I'd boxed everything up and told the Nutjob it was ready for the movers, she told me she had forgotten to tell me that they'd changed their mind and I wasn't being moved. (See? Nutjob.)

By Wednesday I had cleaned out my electronic files, forwarded anything outstanding, and thrown out anything that said, "I hate my job," or, "This sucks."

I think the Nutjob knew something was up. She came to me and said, "Would you like the write the TPS white paper?"

In that moment, I knew without a doubt I was making the right decision, because...

"I already wrote the TPS white paper."

"Oh," said Nutjob giving me a good whack on the shoulder, "That TPS white paper," and she laughed. How she could forget was beyond me as that white paper had been sent out in a mass email and approved in a committee for distribution two months before.

An hour later I was turning in my resignation. What follows, is the last conversation I plan to ever have with the Nutjob.

Me: I'm turning in my resignation.

NJ: I'm not surprised. You're underutilized.

Me: I think when I started here we were all overly optimistic about what this job would be, that it would include more writing and-

NJ interrupts: And that hasn't happened.

Me: No, it hasn't.

NJ: If there were three things I could have done differently, what would they be?

Me: Well, for one, I would've preferred to have been kept a lot busier. And for another, for someone in my position who already feels underutilized, it doesn't help to hear you telling others that you're giving me all your "shit work" to do.

NJ: I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. That is not how I meant it. What I meant is that I'm giving you work that's beneath your ability.

Me: Well, it was completely humiliating.


My voice of reason was quite right in advising me to turn in a proper letter of resignation as opposed to just not showing up anymore. I derived a great amount of satisfaction in telling the Nutjob why I was quitting. And while I didn't go out in a blaze of glory a la Steven Slater, I did feel as if I'd made a point to the Nutjob that she would really choose her words a bit more carefully.

Then I went out and got drunk on beer and fried pickle chips.

Slothfulness

Sometime that fall, the seams enclosing the bud on the orchid finally broke open. The flower did not bud, but the rich burgundy color peeked out of its green home hopeful.

Each time I was in the Nutjob's office I stared at that flower and wondered at its slothlike progress. I felt a certain kind of kinship with it, though I did not feel so hopeful. Rather, I felt as if I'd fallen into a well and everything around me was black and depressing. I carried my well everywhere I went and infected everyone else with my darkness.

I lost the cute outfits and high heels. They did not make me feel any better about my craptastic job and the effort that went into dressing each morning was exhausting.

I stopped taking advantage of the packets of instant chai deliciousness when I found out each hot cup of it was 120 calories. 120 calories! Good grief, early on I was drinking as many as three a day!

I stopped bothering to arrive early and started to arrive 5 minutes late ... 10 minutes late ... 15 minutes late. It was winter. It was cold. Scraping windshields is a bother. The Nutjob did not seem to care.

I made an executive decision to stop calling committee members to alert them of canceled meetings. If they were stupid enough to miss the email stating the meeting was canceled and the Outlook Cancellation of the meeting then they were, well, stupid. Besides, I never got anything but voicemails and confused secretaries taking the message and telling me it wasn't on their calendar anyway. There were so many canceled meetings and so much disinterest that people assumed our ship was sinking prior to its actual sinking.

The Nutjob stopped lecturing about the bits and pieces of the mothership-conglomerate. Now she said things like, "Even if they close our department, they'll keep us because they still have to get the work done no matter what." I felt like saying, "What work? There is no work, you nutjob!" I could only dream that they would lay me off, I would have even volunteered!

Perhaps the strangest turn of events was that the Nutjob started to ask me if I had anything for her to do.

I'll allow a moment for that to sink in.

Was I in Bizarre-O World? Who worked for who here? It was a baffling moment. Perhaps at some point I'd done enough to prove to her that I was not the idiot she proclaimed me to be. Or perhaps she was as bored as I was and tired of sitting at a desk for hours each day killing time.

I knew I was in trouble when I started to actually picture myself killing time. Typically these fantasies involved a butcher knife and an angry look on my face. I'd stab clocks and desks and conference phones and printed agendas.

A gentleman within our department started to acknowledge my boredom. He'd tell me, "Hang in there. It's going to get better. You'll be able to start using that communications background of yours soon. We'll need you to coordinate schedules and meetings for all these new committees and that's really going to keep you busy."

I didn't have a communications background, but that seemed highly irrelevant so I didn't mention it. It's not like it's necessary to schedule meetings, order food for meetings, create agendas for meetings, or make photocopies for meetings.

Stick a fork in me and call me done. This was my life and this was my craptastic job.

I was moving in slow motion, just like the orchid.

My mom would call and say, "You need to find a way to be happy." I knew she was right, but I couldn't see another life. I needed a job and in our current economy they're a bit hard to come by. I knew I could find another secretary job (that may or may not have included a nutjob), but that wasn't the point. I was tired of being a secretary. I'd spent nine years as an administrative assistant which is nothing more than a glorified secretary, but at least I didn't have to be called a secretary which only conjured thoughts of ordering food and taking meeting minutes.

I'd done everything I was supposed to in order to better my life, my position, my career, and instead I had taken two steps back. I had been better off as an admin because at least that job came with more responsibility and respect than this Secretary III one came with. If this was all my college degree had got me, why had I even bothered?

These thoughts consumed me when two things happened that made me realize I could not go on like I was.

One morning driving to my craptastic job, I had the strong desire to turn the car around and go home. I didn't have the desire to go home for the day, but to go home forever. Not to call them and say I was sick, but to never show up again. I knew it was crazy and that I had to go to work because I needed a paycheck and it was what I'd always done. I'd never quit a job like that before and couldn't do it now, but the feeling got stronger as I pulled into the parking lot and turned off the car. I sat there a moment and thought, "You're an idiot. You know you have to go in there," so I opened the door and started walking.

To say the walk was difficult is an understatement. I felt like I'd been given a pair of cement boots from someone on the Sopranos and was walking against a gale force wind that only I knew existed. I thought, "This is not what you're supposed to be doing. Going in there is going against nature and you need to turn around and go home," but I didn't. I leaned into the wind, lifted my heavy feet, and kept on going.

It did not get better once inside the building. I sat down at my desk and was about to burst into tears when I felt the Nutjob's hand on my shoulder. Why the touching? Always the touching! It creeped me out. Sometimes she'd give me a big, hard "Whack!" on the shoulder like we were in the locker room after a basketball game. I hated it. I answered her question, she left, and I found I couldn't cry.

I emailed my friend and said that it felt like the hand of God was pushing me back saying, "DON'T GO IN THERE!" Was this a figurative feeling? A literal one? I really didn't know if it was my soul crying for mercy or what, but my friend responded that perhaps I'd better listen.

I was considering this when the following day, a second thing happened which sealed my fate.

But I'll leave that until tomorrow.

Have you ever had a moment when it felt as if you were living the wrong life? As if you were going against your fate and had made an awful derailment somewhere?

A Gold Star

I went to work the next day in spite of the fact that I was embarrassed by all I had to learn and would have preferred staying home with my pity party of one. At some point in the night I decided to take the bull by the horns and let the Nutjob know I was actually capable of a fair amount.

My routine was to go into her office each morning and ask if there was anything for me to do. She typically gave me a few craptastic tasks which were seldom difficult or time consuming. That day was no different, but at the end of her spiel I said, "You know, I can really handle a lot. I can do all kinds of different things." It felt like the job interview all over again and I was nervous saying it, but apparently it needed to be spelled out for her. I'd been asked to do very little that first week, shown even less, and had next to no training in the actual job I was supposed to be doing.

I think she knew what I was referring to because she got a bit nervous herself and started fidgeting with her hands and straightening papers on her desk. She wouldn't look at me, but mumbled that we'd need time to get to know one another and learn to work together.

Oh boy, I couldn't wait for the future considering how splendidly it was already beginning.



To my relief, the Nutjob failed to comment any more upon my incompetencies, at least to my face, and so we continued on in peace.

Too much peace really, for within two months I'd already run out of things to do and the Nutjob had run out of tedious tasks to give me. She solved this problem by loaning me out so others could give me their craptastic jobs to do. Something was better than nothing to do and already I could see this job was going nowhere and was just a way to collect a paycheck.

One day I was given a rather large mailer. There is nothing complicated about mailing envelopes, even if that means collating half a dozen sheets into packets and coordinating names on envelopes to the names on the packets. Even if it's 500+ envelopes and they're giant envelopes and it's thousands of sheets it is not difficult. Time consuming yes, difficult no.

The individual who was overseeing my collating and coordinating and stuffing of envelopes was a very nice gentleman who had very little faith in my abilities, perhaps he'd heard I had a lot to learn. We'll call him Calvin because you could always smell him coming due to the cloud of Eternity around him.

Calvin stopped in to give me pointers on collating.

Calvin stopped in to make sure I wasn't having a problem coordinating the names on the collated packets to the labels on the envelopes.

Calvin stopped in a number of times to see how far along I was and if I was done yet. I kept a running tally in my head of how far along I was by counting the rolls of stamps I'd used. It was really fun.

Upon completion, there was much rejoicing. An email went out to the department stating the mailer was complete and another would follow shortly. Calvin was kind enough to "Reply All" and let everyone know what an organized, stellar employee I was because I had successfully collated, coordinated, and mailed all 500+ packets - what a tremendous achievement!!

With kudos like these there was nowhere to go but up, up, up!!

[Insert sarcasm.]

If I were 10-years old, this would be expected, anticipated, and yes, maybe even an impressive accomplishment. At 34, it was not. I was a chimp, a one-trick pony whose reputation had obviously preceded her what with all the educatin' that she still needed.

If I had created a cure for cancer, I think excessive praise would be called for. If I had successfully made a presentation to a room of VIPs and made a kabillion dollars, again, excessive praise. But this, this was humiliating, and thinking about the others who would read that email was just plain embarrassing.

For me, the bar had been set so low that if I successfully limboed under it, it was nothing short of miraculous.

Ever underwhelmed people? Doesn't it feel FANTASTIC?! Do share.

And so it began...

In spite of my "tread lightly" approach, I was hired for the job of "Secretary III" and conviently ignored the bits of the job description I was leery of. I pretended words like agenda, scheduling, and meeting minutes were outside my vernacular because I was more intrigued with words like newsletter, white paper, and communications. It was easier that way. Since I'd been unceremoniously dumped from my research job into this new mothership-conglomerate (buy-outs are rubbish), I had little choice if I wanted a paycheck. A "Secretary III" I was - woohoo!

The first week was rather uneventful. I was given little instruction from my boss, aka: the Nutjob with the burgundy orchid. I organized my new, rather spacious cube complete with the much coveted Red Swingline (oh yes, it does exist). I attended meetings about stuff I knew nothing about. I wore cute outfits with high heels. I beat a path to the cafeteria after discovering the deliciousness of the free, instant chai packets. I called committee members to tell them a meeting had been canceled in case they'd missed the Outlook meeting cancelation, or the follow-up email stating the meeting had been canceled. I was again given the interview lecture about the department and how it contributed to the mothership-conglomerate. I ate soup. Nothing seemed amiss, and though that first week was a bit slow, it did appear the cogs on the wheel were turning and I was in a place where I would be needed!


Day five began with a 5:30am alarm. Early hurts, but regardless, I was going to rock the day and prove that I could be a morning person! I arrived early and promptly got lost in the bowels of the basement, aimlessly searching for the "Paiute Room" at the off-site meeting locale. Finally finding it, I was relieved to see the meeting had yet to start. A few people milled around and gathered breakfast while I placed a packet containing the agenda and handouts at each chair, each having been carefully collated and stapled with the lovely Swingline. I skipped breakfast so as not to impair my minute taking responsibilities. This extra step turned out to be completely unnecessary since there were few opinions, action items, or even interest ... about anything.

At the meeting's conclusion I booked it to the restroom. One cannot be a bright and chipper morning person without copious amounts of coffee thus necessitating bathroom breaks. Upon my return, I filled a plate with danish and fruit and sat down to happily consume a completely free breakfast. I attempted to nonchalantly listen to the chatter around me but was specifically tuned in to the Nutjob,  who just happened to be talking about moi. I was slightly outside of her designer-glassed peripheral vision.

"She's got her English degree and she wants to get her Masters and I think it'll work out just fine ... but she really has a lot to learn."

Suddenly my free breakfast wasn't so delicious anymore. A knot developed in my stomach as I considered what she'd just said, what it meant, and the nerviness of saying it 12 feet from where I sat. Who does that? I freely admit that on occasion I may have something to say about somebody, however at the very least I understand that you say that something behind their back.

Having never before been in this situation, I wasn't really sure what I should do, but then Nutjob brought the individual she'd been speaking with over for an introduction.

Awkward.

For me, anyway. Nutjob pretended nothing was wrong whatsoever. All I could think was that this person I didn't even know already thought me a complete failure. What an introduction. "This is Darcie; this is She-who-has-much-to-be-learned." What could I say but, "Hi, it's nice to meet you."

I walked to my car dejected, deflated, and shocked. Driving back to our office I considered going home and not even bothering to continue in this lame-ass job I was already failing miserably at. I considered crying but had no tears, instead I called my boyfriend - the voice of reason. He convinced me that it could've meant anything and I had just started the job, perhaps she was literally saying that I really did have a lot to learn about this amazingly complicated department and its mothership-conglomerate. But I knew, I knew it didn't. I knew then and there that this woman had some craw to pick with me. Maybe she didn't like my heels, or the obvious abuse of the free, instant chai packets. Maybe I unknowingly slurped my soup.

The remains of the day went by in a blur and once I returned home my voice of reason asked me how I was going to proceed, except I didn't know. If I'd done something horribly wrong, it should've been brought to my attention. There was that meeting in which I'd failed to bring photocopies of the previous meeting's minutes, but that was easily remedied in 5 minutes with a photocopier. Not to mention nobody had said to me it was even a requirement. Was that my great faux pas? If so, I was in for a heap of trouble.

Tell me: Ever been in a similar situation? If so, what did you do?

Danger ahead!

Have you ever heard that little voice inside your head say, "That's odd..." and then you quickly smothered the bitch and burned the body so as to hide the evidence?

Bad call, my friend. Bad call.


I sat across from my potential employer and took it all in. Coat rack with one umbrella, but no coats. Orchid in a charcoal grey pot, with two blooming burgundy flowers and a third bud about to open. Ornate desk lamp with burgundy shade matched to orchids. Mini calendar featuring dogs. Crumpled piece of paper filled with crayon stick figures and proclaiming love for grandma taped to the closed, modular shelving. Paperwork in tidy stacks. Bookcase filled with books about managing employees and properly negotiating difficult work scenarios. And the woman herself: 60-ish, designer glasses, perfectly coifed hair dyed a dark blonde, black pants and an ivory shirt with printed bows on it that somehow did not match the personality of the woman in front of me.

She explained the department and how it contributed to the whole, but I admit, listening is not my strong suit when I'm nervous. I smiled awkwardly and didn't really digest her words until she began to flip through the packet of writing examples I'd provided and relayed the specifics of the job I was interviewing for. Those specifics included occasional meetings beginning at 7am of which I'd be expected to take minutes (yuck), scheduling meetings (boring), and writing. I distinctly remember there being writing by way of white papers, newsletters, and other materials. Writing. The magic word.

Enter the blip on the radar (aside from the 7am bit for a non-morning person):

She asked, "How do you handle conflict?"

"I tend to tread lightly until I have a better understanding of the circumstances."

"What if you come in and I'm very quiet and it's obvious something is wrong?"

"Again, I tread lightly because whatever is going on could be personal and someone might not want to talk about it."

"Well, I need someone who can come in and drag out of me whatever the problem is."

Danger, Will Robinson! You expect a new employee to come in and badger you for information if you seem a little emotional or angry? What is this - therapy? If so, may I just say, untrained. Highly untrained. And, will need to be paid a lot more money.

And here is where we will end the beginning story, but first let's discuss:

First, why are women such an enormous pain in the ass? You don't get shit like this from men unless their some kind of patsy. Women get bad reputations for this kind of thing, so why is it perpetuated? Wouldn't you like to break free from the proverbial glass ceiling and don't you think that's more likely to happen if you're direct and honest as opposed to moody and indifferent? And what would this mean for me as her lackey - an emotional, temperamental nutjob of a boss?

Secondly, at a near retirement age of 60-ish, how is it that this is the communication style she's chosen? At 35 I realize this technique is both childish and circumventive. It's better to air one's grievances willingly rather than let something fester ... isn't it? And what if the problem wasn't me, but a spouse or child or co-worker or Dr. Seuss - well, what then? A chaise lounge and a legal pad so the emotional scrutiny can begin?

Is it wrong to just want to go to work, do a job well, and then go home without the bullshit?

Tell me what your little voice told you that you completely ignored ... until later.

Let me explain...

I don't typically do things as they're supposed to be done. In fact, I have a history of taking the longest route possible to get somewhere while also injuring myself figuratively and literally along the way. My latest "experiment" is one such example. What have I done now? Well, let me tell you:

            1) Unexpectedly quit paying, benefits-providing, craptastic job to

            2) Pursue dream of being a working writer in any form that will pay cash
                money (i.e. copywriter, editor, fiction and non-fiction writer).

Neither of these things would be considered all that monumental if we weren't experiencing the worst economic crisis since the Great Depression. As it is, if my experiment doesn't work and I'm unhireable, untalented, uninteresting, or unmotivated, I'm totally hosed. Why? Because failure is another craptastic job not easily found in our current economy, another craptastic job until I retire in 30 years unless I die of a heart attack before then due to stress from previously mentioned craptastic job.

Good grief.

And so it is that I am here attempting to carve the life I want and not settle for the one I ended up with because I wasn't paying attention. But it isn't just that. The fear of not having paid employment contributed significantly which I have conveniently done away with by quitting the afore mentioned paying, benefits-providing, craptastic job.

But wait, we haven't met. Let me introduce myself properly:

"I am the Ah-ha! Copywriter and this is my experimental life."

More on myself, craptastic jobs, and my latest catastrophe, I mean experiment, to follow in the ensuing months.