|January 4, 2001
All of the horoscopes I've read today are warning me to lay low at the Totem Pole Company.
"Don't get too involved in the hullabaloo at work," says The Chron. "For all the talk of change, things will simply revert to the way they've been."
"January 4 and 5 are good for being a busy beaver," advises my pal Symboline at the Boston Phoenix ... the implication being that "busy" is better. And safer, probably, under the circumstances.
"Try not to get caught in the crossfire of a heated emotional battle today, Secra," ominously warns my Astrocenter forecast.
No problem. Staying out of the line of fire and avoiding heated emotional battles is precisely what I plan to do today -- and every day -- between now and the time I finally submit that much-ballyhooed letter of resignation.
You've already seen the resignation letter, by the way. It's the exact same letter I wrote a year ago. I like it because it manages to be both direct and vague ... courteous and cool ... outwardly professional and subliminally snotty, all at once. "A masterpiece of diplomacy and bullshidt," David called it, the first time he read it. I figure, why tamper with prefection?
Now that I've taken a couple of days to cool off a little, and to thoughtfully and objectively assess my career situation -- and to pull the cuticle scissors out of the fudking voodoo doll -- I'm not quite so anxious to shoot myself in the foot. I was so angry on Tuesday -- so filled with self-righteous Executive Ass indignation over the reception desk announcement -- that I damn near quit my job on the spot. This of course would have been professional (and financial) folly, especially for someone with not one but two weddings to plan in the very near future, including her own. Now that I've had some time to think about everything, logically and carefully ...
... I'm still gonna quit.
I'm just not going to do it today.
I'm probably not going to do it tomorrow, either. (Unless of course a miracle occurs, and the Balloon Company calls to tell me they loved my résumé and want me to start on Monday. At triple my present salary, of course.)
know WHEN I'm going to
make the leap, frankly.
Starting this week I'm launching a full-blown, all-points-bulletin,
no-stone-unturned job search effort. I know I've been yammering on and
on about "job-hunting" for well over a year now. But trust me
when I say that all my puny little efforts up until now have merely
been rehearsal. This is going to be the Real Deal. This time I'm
serious. And I swear to god that the next semi-decent,
doesn't-completely-suck job offer that comes my way -- as long as it
hits a minimum of eight out of ten bullet points on my *Dream Job* wish
list (or six points, maybe ... or at least four-and-a-half points,
plus free unlimited coffee and a T-shirt) ... I'm grabbing it.
shoulder: "she really
I have no idea how long that's going to take. But until then, I'm just going to continue to do my job, here at the Totem Pole Company. Quietly. Calmly. Unobtrusively. Out of the line of fire as much as possible.
With my door shut. (While I've still got a door, anyway.)
shoulder: "just watch.
Mind you: it's not going to be easy to remain cool ... especially this week. Right now Franz is getting ready to attend a week-long transportation industry conference in Washington D.C. Whenever he's preparing to go on one of these extended business trips, especially any trip involving flight reservations/hotel reservations/rental car reservations/any other kind of reservations he can fudk with at the very last minute, just for fun, he sort of goes haywire. He was fine this morning -- cracking jokes, handing out ugly engineering calendars to everybody, filling up his own coffee cup occasionally -- but in the middle of the afternoon he just sort of snapped without warning. The next thing I knew, I was on the phone with a cranky reservations supervisor at United Airlines, trying to talk her into applying 586 expired Mileage Plus points to a First Class upgrade. ("I'm sorry, Ma'am," she said. "When a Mileage Point is expired, that means you can't USE it anymore." "How about if YOU tell him that?," I sighed.)
Tomorrow will be even worse. It's almost as though the closer he gets to boarding that airplane, the more infantile he becomes. But as much as possible I'm going to attempt to just let it all roll off my back. The good news, of course, is that he'll be safely out of my hair next week: I can use the *down time* while he's gone to recharge my psychic batteries and finish my filing, once and forever. Plus I can cheerfully pitch in and help with the Big Move next Wednesday ... making sure that the new *Executive Receptionist* desk downstairs is up and running and fully stocked with paper clips and Post-It Notes and extra boxes of staples ...
... and plenty of nice sharp cuticle scissors.
My replacement is gonna need them.