Last Thursday, I wrote a post on the fly while waiting to find out if I still had a [project management] job. Literally.
After three and a half hours of focused work and productivity, I finally got the alert that someone in senior management was ready for me. I steeled myself and entered her office.
“I don’t envy your job today!” I said as brightly as I could. I was relieved no one from Human Resources was present; it was just the two of us. Apparently, they trusted us not to staple anyone’s face or set ergonomically correct chairs on fire.
She gave a kind hello, but didn’t beat around the bush.
Even though, yes, this was the career equivalent of, “I love you, but I’m not in love with you” or “It’s not you, it’s me,” I’d have time to blog, to bake, to blog about baking…
…to stop and smell the roses, to follow signs from the heavens…
And I knew someone who’d be particularly happy to have me home every day.
Another silver lining to all of this? The outpouring of support and encouragement from colleagues, friends, family and you. Some of you have even contacted me offline about job opportunities, and the ridiculously thoughtful Misty of Misty’s Laws just sent this care package:
My last day is the 18th, and after that? Well, if you thought my blog contests were epic before, hoo boy.
Have you ever made or considered a major career change?
I know it’s been a little over a week since I’ve regaled you with talking animals and my ceaseless wit, so I thought I’d pop in just to let you know my life is in utter turmoil.
I kid, I kid.
Right now I’m sitting in a spare office waiting to see if I still have a job [in project management]. They’re laying off 20% of my division’s workforce this month, and today everyone in my department is getting called down to the principal’s office to find out their Fate.
You might think this is an odd time to blog. Especially since I might have a lot of time to blog in the very near future (ba-da-BUM!), but what else am I gonna do? Work?
Nah. I’d rather reminisce about last weekend in Hershey, Pennsylvania, where I did a little of this…
For those of you not still losing sleep over the story, let me refresh your memory:
So, you see, I had to ask myself a very important question: Would attending the meeting be worth the follow-up post potential?
It didn’t take long to answer that question.
I Would Do Anything For BLog Love (But I Won’t Do That)
Engage in any sort of therapy-inducing torture, including, but not limited to: team-building exercises, Bikram a.k.a. hot yoga (sorry, JM), Magic MikeCitizen Kane viewings, and sober anything.
Accept guest posts from advertisers. I will, however, continue to hope that the makers of Pipe Palz, glass smoking pipes with mustaches, follow through on their offer.
Review reading glasses for a free sample. (Contact me again in another two years when my eyesight is completely shot from checking my blog Stats page every seven seconds.)
Remember to pass along the blogging awards that readers so kindly bestow upon me. I am genuinely thankful. Will you please accept my apology and this picture of Uncle Jesse as a token of my affection?
Plug the living shiz out of my own contest. Just kidding. I will totally do that. COME ON, GUYS! It’s the best thing I’VE EVER DONE. And it’s for a good cause you might get to make-out with The Byronic Man.
Bloggers: Where do you draw the line? Blog Readers / All: What really turns you off about a blog?
Which is not something I usually get to say. Trust me. I work as a project manager for a pharmaceutical company.
Monday traffic and meeting madness aside, things were looking pretty perky by 9am. Because by 9am, I was staring at someone’s boobs.
Let me back that thing up.
I was meeting a brand spanking (ahem) new colleague to explain how great the department was, what kinds of things she could work on, and the dress code what to expect in the coming months.
The woman was in her 30s, attractive and friendly. The conversation started in the usual way: “How long were you without power [because of Hurricane Sandy]?”
Suddenly, out of the corner of my eye, I saw something unusual. Something not quite right. No, no, it can’t be, I thought to myself. I let my eyes dart down.
Yup. Yup. Oh my god. Black. Lace. Push-up bra. Cleavage many would pay to see. I felt my ears turn as crimson as her blouse. Of all the buttons to pop when she sat down…
I had known this woman for five minutes. How could I tell her we’d already taken things to the next level? But could I make it through the rest of the meeting without saying something, and then hope she’d use the restroom? No, that was just cruel.
“I’m sorry I’d want someone to say something if it was me,” I blurted in one breath, “I think one of your buttons came undone.”
“Oh no, it’s just this shirt,” she said, swinging the droopy silk collar that dangled over her va-va-voom.
I said nothing and waited for her to look down.
“Oh jeez,” she cringed once she realized what I talking about, and quickly fastened the rogue button. She thanked me for telling her and carried on with her earlier point.
Just like that. I had to give her credit. A little while later, she bid goodbye,
“I’m off to meet with [Mr. Big Boss] now.”
“Great – it was wonderful meeting you!” I replied smoothly, wondering how disappointed the Big Boss would have been if he’d known what he missed out on.
Later that morning, I had time to giggle reflect. I gasped, remembering: This wasn’t the first time I’d seen someone’s bra at work!
My very first year on the job, a middle-aged woman I’d only just met grabbed me and pulled me into the ladies room.
“I need help! My bra!” she whispered, eyes wild.
I watched, stunned, as she freed one arm from her forest green turtleneck. I tried to figure out what was going on. Everything seemed normal. Except for all the parts that were totally fudged up.
I soon realized what she needed me to do. I reached down her shirt, grazing her moist, freckled back, fished out the dangling shoulder strap and re-hooked it to the front of her bra.
I left the bathroom in a daze. Twitter didn’t exist yet, so I saved the story for my sister-in-law-slash-coworker, who still fondly recalls Bra Lady.
You probably think this is the end of it. Oh-ho no. Peppermeister (Husband #1) read this draft post and reminded me of the crème de la crème.
A couple years ago, a coworker in her mid-30s returned from vacation in the Bahamas, eager to show me pictures from her trip. Call me crazy, but I’ve always been fond of vacation photos. Anything to escape the drab, gray cubicle walls.
I walked over to her desk and she pulled out a manila envelope.
“I hired someone to take these pictures while we were there,” she said, shy yet excited. “He said I could be a model.”
Each 8 x 10 photo featured her bikini-clad bod on the beach.
“You look amazing!” I gushed, admiring her toned figure.
She looked up and down the hall and then whispered, “I have to be careful about some of these.”
She flipped to the next few photographs.
And there she was.
It’s been two years, and I still don’t have the words.
Anyway. Today I’m bringing a wallet full of singles to work. Just in case.
Have you ever felt like a boob at work? Any good wardrobe malfunction stories?
***Hurricane Sandy Update: We finally got power back on Sunday night! My mood’s as boosted my coworkers’ chests! Thank you again for all of your well wishes! …Annnnd just kidding. Power went out again at 5am today (Tuesday).***
But she claims she has her reasons. And she might even tell you what they are. (Seriously. Who does she think she is?) So I guess in the meantime, get snappin’ and sending’ to Julie.Davidoski@yahoo.com. I’d hate to see what she’ll do to you if you’re late.
No no. This isn’t an Italian recipe post. It’s a post about a humiliating team-building exercise involving pasta. Obviously.
As some of you know, I spend my days working as a certified Project Management Professional in the pharmaceutical industry. Because what else would a gal with a Creative Writing degree and an aversion to doctors do? Don’t get me wrong – it’s a good job for many reasons, and I’m grateful to have it. The people I work with aren’t even nincompoops.
But there’s one thing I hate.
And that’s Team-Building Exercises.
No matter how well we know each other, or how team-y we’ve become, they won’t give it a rest. On Thursday, we had yet another staff meeting, featuring yet another mysterious team-building exercise. After seeing the draft agenda, I immediately tried to devise ways to get out early, before the game show questions or trust falls could begin. I still had 20 of those heroin cough suppressants; maybe I would O.D.
In the end, because I have a tendency to think one false move will get me canned, I went along with it. Again. This time the team-building exercise was a spin on the show Minute to Win It. They divided us into 4 teams, and we played 10 rounds. In each round, a single team member from the 4 teams had to complete a task in 60 seconds or less. Every time you did, you earned a point for your team. The winning team members all got $10 iTunes gift cards.
Not bad. And you know what? It was -I can’t believe I’m about to say this- fun.
Watching coworkers try to unravel rolls of streamers by flapping their arms like deranged flamingos (or in one man’s case, a flag squad champion), and others try to get a cookie from their forehead to their mouth without touching it, was breathtaking. In the good way.
Oh yes. I yucked it up.
Until my turn.
But my task didn’t look too hard.
I had to put an uncooked piece of spaghetti in my mouth, and try to ‘string’ 5 small pieces of penne on it – without using my hands. I put the spaghetti strand in my mouth and knelt on the ground in front of the table holding the penne, trying to ignore the fact that multiple people had their cameras out.
The timer started and the pasta wobbled between my teeth like Lindsay Lohan on the set of Glee. The circumference of the penne now looked like a pinhole. I somehow managed to get the first piece of penne on the spaghetti, then almost dropped it. “Aw, she’s shaking,” one team member called out, while another added, “You can do it! Don’t worry! Don’t look at the clock!” With 10 seconds left, and nearly a dozen people hovering over me, I had only gotten two of the five pieces of penne on the spaghetti. I was a pasta-stringing failure. How had I made it this far in life?
My teammates graciously applauded me, and I, red-faced and sweaty, tried to shrink into the background. I was 30 years old, for the love of all that’s vodka, and this was just a silly game. So why did it take a half an hour before I stopped wanting to cry?
Does this happen to you? Do you get freaked out in ‘public’ situations like this? How do you feel about team-building exercises?
P.S. – In case you were wondering, we came in second place.
P.P.S. – Screw you, team-building exercises. I never liked you.