Work Matters

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Work Love

Last night, I had a phone call from someone I adore. Let’s call this person Jamie.

Jamie asked me what I’d been up to over the weekend.

“Oh, just working,” I said. “The good doctor was on call overnight on Saturday, so I got caught up on a bunch of work projects.”

Jamie’s response was pity: “Oh no! That sounds awful! Working on a Saturday!”

I don’t mind working on a Saturday, which I shared with Jamie. In fact, as I told Jamie, I kind of prefer it because no one else works on Saturday, which means I don’t have phone and email interruptions to distract me. (I like working on holidays for the very same reason.)

But I’ve found that this is a pretty common reaction to my working on a Saturday. Or to working late on a weekday. Or to taking a working vacation.

Let me be clear with you: Sometimes, like anyone, I get irritated with work. Sometimes I get overwhelmed. Sometimes I feel taken advantage of, overworked, over-extended.

When I’m feeling these things, I share them – in gory, in-depth detail – with my mom and my husband. (They should be sainted. For realz, yo.)

But for the most part, I love what I do. It challenges and invigorates me. I get excited about the projects I’m working on. I think about them all the time. I feel energized when I’m working, and I feel a sense of pride and accomplishment when I finish a project.

So I get a little miffed when someone’s reaction to my working is, “Awww, poor you!” or “Man, I hope they are paying you overtime for that!” or “You need to find another job.”

I think what people like Jamie are offering is commiseration. They want me to know they think I’m worth something… I’m valued… And they want me to know they feel outraged if I’m being exploited.

I appreciate that kindness, I really do. It’s wonderful to know that I have people in my corner.

But I guess I get a little sad, too… Sad that other people [a] don’t love their work or [b] don’t understand people who DO love their work or [c] can’t imagine that work is enjoyable, period or [d] don’t believe that the workday extends past 5:00 on Friday.

I’m not saying you should let your work define you… Or that you can’t/shouldn’t find fulfillment outside of your career… Or that there aren’t times when people ARE taken advantage of or exploited or underpaid or what have you… Or that you should devote your entire life to your job…

And believe me… I understand (finally, after several years) that you need to have down time, vacation, time away from work… That you need to have boundaries between your work life and personal life… That you need to be protective of your out-of-work life…

But I guess I think that if you work only until 5:00… Or feel that your job is chore, more often than not… Or feel that work is something to be gotten through, endured, tolerated…

Well, I think you need to find a new job.

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Monday Randomosity: I Promise You a REAL Post Someday Soon Edition

So. I went away for work.

My client paid for my plane tickets. They got me transportation to and from the airport. They put me up in a beautiful hotel. They even paid for my MEALS, y’all.

But the hotel?

No. Free. Internet.

Dubbya Tee Eff.

I am way too cheap to pay $9.95 for 24 hours of Internet connection. (And no way would I ask my client to pay for it, when there’s perfectly good Internet at the office.) Which is my way of saying, sorry I didn’t blog for nearly a week!

Now I am back and it is suddenly time again for another week and I am tired. So all I can muster is some sad, tired, jet-lagged, really?-$9.95-for-Internet-when-the-room-costs-god-knows-how-much? randomosity.

* The socks are still on the couch.

I don’t really know what to do about this, Internet. I do know that there’s a fine line between “reminding” and “nagging,” and an even finer line between “nagging” and “why did I marry you again?” so I haven’t even mentioned the socks.

By the way? They are not alone. They are accompanied by several t-shirts and several pairs of pajama/workout pants.

Were you in my position, socks-wise, what, pray tell, would you do?

 

* I crossed the blog life/real life barrier last night. For the first time ever.

I spoke to Anastasia on the phone!

And guess what? Not only is she a Real, Live Person… She is also super charming and nice and friendly!

But, as she and I discussed, it is a little weird when the neat and tidy little world existing inside your computer crosses over into your real life world. I wonder if this is what Jennifer Love Hewitt’s character feels like every week on the Ghost Whisperer.

 

* Speaking of Anastasia, we have our little Accountability Partner fitness/health/weight-loss website up and running. If you want to join, please let me know and I will “invite” you.

 

* My husband spent the weekend working on his fellowship applications. Which is at once exciting and exhausting. Exciting because we are getting closer! To the end! To the point where he is a real practicing doctor!

Exhausting because oh man alive… The recommendation requests… The CV updates… The application fees… The personal statement… The blah blah blah SNORE.

I spent a lot of the day yesterday “helping” him write emails to people he hopes will write him letters of recommendation.

You know, saying very helpful things like, “You should just write, ‘Hey dude, wasssup? Wanna write me a recommendation? That’d be phat, yo.’”

Surprisingly, he spent a lot of the day yesterday ignoring me.

 

* Let’s just come right out and admit that I am not always super at follow through. I mean, how many weeks ago did I tell you that I was going to have a practice Thanksgiving? Like, three weeks ago? And then maybe last week?

Yeah. So I haven’t done it yet.

BUT.

I bought the turkey and some stuffing ingredients and some cranberries and I spent about 45 minutes in Sur La Table, staring at their meager yet indecipherable collection of roasters with complete and utter incomprehension.

So by the end of the week, I will have either made a Practice Thanksgiving (albeit a partial one – I decided to save the mashed potatoes and yams for another day) or I will have $40 worth of turkey going rancid in my fridge.

Honestly, it could go either way at this point.

 

* Speaking of spending ridiculous amounts of money. I bought a new dress! At White Black House Market! It has a ruffly halter!

Of course, once I had the new dress, I realized I needed to buy new shoes as well. And by “needed” I mean “totally didn’t need but really wanted and ohmigod they look so hot with the dress.”

I also needed the adorable little black wristlet purse with the big satin bow. But I was able to stomp on that need with my new black heels.

 

* Why do I need a new dress? Well, I have a Fancy Work To-Do coming up that requires Fancy Garb. My current collection of Fancy Garb is made up of:

– a party dress that displays more cleave-town than my clients need to see…

– an LBD that I love, but that is a wee bit on the small side (read: back fat overflow)…

– a floor-length Jessica McClintock gown I wore to a college ball years ago, apparently in a time when I sold my soul to the devil because there’s no other way I ever fit into something that size.

So. A new dress it is!

 

* The Fancy Work To-Do means that I need to hop on an airplane again soon. Which is not fun. I mean, does anyone really ENJOY flying these days? Maybe if you are in first class, which I wouldn’t know anything about.

I just know that people need to stop sitting in the window seat when they have the middle seat. I know you don’t WANT the middle seat. But neither do I, and I actually checked in at the plumber butt of dawn in order to ensure I had that seat. So just because you sit in it doesn’t mean I am going to forget about it and be okay with the middle.

Seriously. There is NO EXCUSE for sitting in the wrong seat. Even if you have never been on an airplane in your entire life. Your seat is clearly marked on your ticket. PLUS, you had to board BY ROW NUMBER, so you should automatically know that you are in rows 23-37 rather than in row 10. And if you don’t know what E means? Look at the handy little graphic right above the row that tells you E is a middle seat.

I have a lot of Travel-Related Pet Peeves. But sitting in the wrong seat is in the top 5. Above “Hogging Two Arm Rests” but below “Listening to Your iPod at a Volume Everyone Can Hear.”

 

* For the first time ever, I bought some baby clothes. Not for me, obviously. Or, you know, for the baby that I am NOT PREGNANT with. A friend had a baby a while ago, and I was going to be in her neck of the woods, so I decided to take her a little gift.

I first went to Baby Gap, because that is pretty much the only place I know of that has clothes for Teh Baybays.  And first of all? They should call it Toddler Gap, because there was a teeny tiny section of clothes for actual infants. The rest of the stuff was for kids 24 months and up.

So, going in, I knew that the baby in question was three months old and a boy. That’s it. I mean, I knew his name, but knowing that isn’t going to help me buy him stuff, you know?

Baby Gap had about four things for three-month-old boys. They had plenty of frilly pinkery for three-month-old girls though. Baby boys get screwed in the clothes department, y’all. It’s a wonder that new mothers don’t just give up and buy dresses for their baby boys. I mean, those things are CUTE.

Ahem. Back to Baby Gap. There were approximately ZERO employees in the entire store. So I kind of… stood around… And poked through piles of miniature clothing… And picked up an outfit… And put it back down because do moms really put their babies in miniature button-fly corduroy pants or off-white crocheted onesies?… And gawked at the Super Cute Teensy Weensy Shoes… And didn’t even touch them because three-month-olds don’t wear shoes, right?… And stood around some more.

Finally, I left. I went to Nordstrom, which – much to my great shock – had a baby section. But guess what? They have clothes that don’t fit age ranges, like in Baby Gap. Instead, they have clothes for three-month-old, six-month-old, and nine-month-olds.

Which is REALLY confusing. Because how do you know? Do you buy the three-month-wear and hope that it will fit the kid until six months? Or do you buy the six-month stuff so the kid can grow into it? SO CONFUSING.

And I had to actually ask a salesgirl – who was probably 10 years younger than I am and, while I know she technically could have a couple kids at that age, I am going out on a limb and guessing that she knows exactly as much about kids as I do – for help and she gave me the You Are a Huge Idiot eyebrow.

So I bought a cute little outfit with a guitar on it in the six month size and gave it to my friend and she loved it the end.

Oh! I did remember to ask the cashier if they had any baby legs for boys. I learned about baby legs from Jen, who is awesome, and from whom I probably could have purchased some baby legs if I were capable of planning ahead. The cashier did not, in fact, have baby legs for boys. But I was very impressed with myself for remembering to ask. The end for real.

* Is it just me, or is everyone having babies? I swear, everywhere I look, a high school friend or a college friend or the wife of my husband’s friend or a blog friend or a blogger I stalk is getting  pregnant or popping out a kid.

Some days I wonder if there’s some sort of baby explosion going on. Like the planets are aligned in such a manner that people are getting pregnant out of the blue.

Other days, I think maybe this is the Volvo Phenomenon. You know, where you drive around in your Honda Accord for 10 years without ever seeing a Volvo, but then suddenly you decide your Accord is old and crappy and there’s no iPod dock in it, so you want to upgrade to a Volvo. And as soon as you start lusting after Volvos, they’re EVERYWHERE… In your apartment complex, in your dentist’s parking lot, on The Amazing Race.

This is what happened to me when I wanted my husband to propose to me. I started seeing engaged people everywhere. Everyone was wearing a diamond except me!

So I suspect that this Baby Explosion thing is just the Volvo/Engagement Ring Phenomenon of my late 20s.

 

Well, Internet, now it is your turn to weigh in on these and other weighty topics. I do hope you’ll stop in the comments section and say hello. But even if you choose to navigate away from this nonsense in deep disgust, I wish you a very happy Monday and a lovely week.

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Friday Randomosity: Move It or Lose It Edition

Well, Internet, another week has soared past me like a giant pelican with a half-eaten salmon in its beak.

And honestly? I don’t even know if pelicans exist in the same geographic regions as salmon. But I’m not going to look it up because that’s what kind of week it’s been.

BUT there is a beautiful tree directly outside my window that has made the slow transformation from green to yellow to orange… and now the top half is scarlet… and it looks so beautiful against the bright blue sky that I can’t help but smile.

In other words, it’s time for some randomosity!

* First up – the Asheville post is COMING. I know it is tops on your mind. It’s actually completely written and set up in Word Press, complete with over 40 photos and over 2,500 words. (Yes, now you REALLY want to read it!) But when I was getting ready to post it, my husband looked over my shoulder and noticed that I was using a bunch of his photos… which, DUH, he takes much better photos than I do… And he wants to make sure that photo-stealing-type people (which obviously, does not mean YOU! But he doesn’t know you like I do) can’t copy his photos. So he wants to install some html code on my blog and zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz. That is me falling asleep. Because once you get beyond basic computer-type things like typing and Googling, well, I turn into a drooling, eye-glazed idiot. I mean, we’re all very lucky I know how to post a photo to my blog. Or post a blog ENTRY for that matter.

Which is a long way of saying, I have to wait until my husband – who is now back at work BOOOOOOOOO – has a few minutes to find and install the appropriate anti-photo-stealing code on my blog. And THEN finally, after much fanfare, you will get to read my super-exciting vacation recap. And zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz. That is YOU falling asleep because I’m pretty sure my vacation is of interest purely to me and possibly my mother-in-law who is adorably fascinated by everything remotely related to my husband and his life.

* My three favorite fall dramas are The Good Wife, Blue Bloods, and Parenthood. I am kind of obsessed with Parenthood and I managed to get my husband obsessed with it as well. I am more than a little bit in love with Crosby and Jasmine. The big problem with the show? It simultaneously makes me want kids and makes me NEVER want kids in a billion years. Although, to be honest, everything these days makes me feel that way. Which is a big difference from how I felt two years ago, which is: No kids, ever. Period. But now? Now, my ovaries are deeply conflicted.

* How did a lighthearted bullet about TV become so suddenly serious? Let us avoid any more discussion about the state of my ovaries.

* In good news, my husband got Christmas off! Which means we get to go to my parents’ house for the holiday. Yay! And my parents have kindly and generously offered to pay for our airline tickets as our Christmas gift, which is WONDERFUL. But now my husband and I are looking for plane tickets… And there are only a few flights to the airport near my parents (which is two hours from their house) and only a few seats left on each of those flights… And my husband hates flying – not that I like it AT ALL – so he’s very picky about number of connections and seat placement, which narrows our choices even further… And my mom mentioned that an airport in their town just opened up flights, which is GOOD… But those flights are on teeny tiny prop planes, which is BAD and also TERRIFYING… So now instead of being EXCITED and GRATEFUL, I am feeling ANXIOUS and OBLIGATED to find the cheapest flight even though that may mean making ten connecting flights and flying on a teeny tiny terrifying prop plane.

* Something has been stuck in my craw for a few weeks now… I went out – as in, to a bar – with a friend and her friend. Both girls are about 5 years younger than I am, 20 pounds lighter, and blond. While we were chatting, some Random Dude came up to Friend 2 and said, “Hey, you and your friend are so beautiful. Blah blah blah.” And he was talking about Friend 1. Who, admittedly, IS beautiful. But COME ON. I’m not saying I have any illusions that I am beautiful – only my husband and my dad think that. But I’m not horrifically ugly. And even if I WERE, what the hell, Random Dude? I know you are thinking with your Little Random Dude and not whatever fragments of a brain you may have… But in no way is it cool to approach three girls and say – within earshot of ALL of them – that only two are beautiful.

I think this is bugging me anew because I went out with Friend 1 again recently (who, by the way, is ALSO MARRIED and wears a giant diamond engagement ring and a wedding band) and it happened AGAIN. TWICE. Poor Friend 1… I mean, she was hideously embarrassed. It’s not her fault she’s beautiful. And clearly I am envious of her for her beauty… and my self esteem isn’t enough that I can laugh off these stupid Random Dudes. But I just think it’s poor form for people to do that. I would NEVER do that to someone. It’s hurtful. Even if the person is old and overweight and – god forbid – BRUNETTE, I would never point it out by way of complimenting the person right next to her for being NOT old or overweight or brunette. It’s enough to make me not want to go out with Friend 1, which is stupid. Because I should be able to get BEYOND that. I mean, you can’t go around comparing yourself to other people. You’ll usually come up short in some way. But really. It’s enough to give a gal a complex.

And now that I’ve got THAT off my chest, I am moving on.

* I had gravy for the first time in my life this past weekend. At IKEA. In the food court. It was surprisingly delicious. Especially when used as a dip for fries. Now I am not quite so apprehensive about making gravy for Thanksgiving. However, I still have yet to eat stuffing… I’m not looking forward to that.

* Speaking of Thanksgiving… With liberal help from you, The Pioneer Woman, and an episode of America’s Test Kitchen, I think I am going to try my hand at making some of Thanksgiving eats this weekend! I will report my findings slash failings slash successes.

* Something I have very little tolerance for is disorganization. I’m not talking about, like, a messy home. Lord knows I’m the master of the messy home. I have a pile of unfolded clean laundry sitting on the couch right this second in fact. But when it comes to work matters? Organization should be part of the job description, right? I mean, if you email me because you need me to find an email I sent you a few weeks ago or an email YOU sent ME a few weeks ago… Well, that drives me batty. Because clearly a) the item was not important enough for you to keep track of and b) your time is much more important than mine. That is all I will say about that, although I have many more thoughts on the subject. Many. More. Thoughts.

Instead of going on and on about it, I will direct you to this awesome comic by The Oatmeal.

* I have an IM addiction. I leave my instant messenger on from 9:00 to 5:00 so I can interact with graphic designers and clients and other people. And I am constantly hearing the little message notification noise… Even when no one is IMing me.

* What do you do when you buy some wine and it sucks? I’m not talking about a bottle being corked – which is undrinkable. I’m just talking about a wine that’s gross. Do you dump the bottle? Or do you do what I do, and drink it anyway?

It’s really weird. I’m so not the same way about food. If something tastes gross, I will throw it away with no compunctions. I mean, I’ll whine a little. But I’m not going to eat something yucky.

Yet with wine… It’s somehow different. I brought a bottle of a white blend back from my trip to Napa this summer and just opened it last night. And it was gross. I don’t know if it got old (in which case, that does not bode well for the winery I got it from)… Or if it is on the verge of corking… (Is that even the correct use of that term?) Or if I just thought it was better than it was. But… Yuck. And yet, I drank a whole glass. Now, the nearly-full bottle is still sitting on my counter, waiting for me to drink the rest.

* Do you do anything for Halloween? I think my husband is off that day, but my guess is we’ll just make dinner and watch TV shows off our DVR all night as per usual. I don’t think I’ve actually EVER gotten a trick-or-treater. This is what happens when you grow up in the boonies and then live in dorm rooms or apartments for 11 years. Of course, our lack of Halloween experience has not prevented us from buying plenty of candy. And eating it. By ourselves.

* I am going to a surprise party tonight. It’s filled me with anxiety ever since I first found out about it, even though the person whom we’re surprising is a person I see roughly once every six to eight weeks. When I went out for dinner with him and his wife a few weeks ago, I was so worried that I would blurt out the surprise somehow.  (I didn’t.) And now I’m fretting over the actual party. What if we park in the wrong spot and ruin the surprise? What if my husband doesn’t get out of work early enough for us to make it on time, and we get there just at the wrong time and ruin the surprise? What if I accidentally email the surprisee and ruin the surprise? (I don’t know if I even have his email address, so this is unlikely, and yet I’m still fretting about it.) What if he is reading this blog and I’ve ruined the surprise?

* I had a dream last night that I was eating candy corn. And the kernels (is that what you call them?) were made up of just the orange part. (The yellow part happens to be my favorite part of the candy corn.) (I know this is probably the equivalent of liking green M&Ms better than brown M&Ms.) It was terribly disturbing in the dream, like the world was irreparably flawed.

Now what the hell was my subconscious trying to tell me with THAT one?

* My husband likes to use the phrase, “Move it or lose it.” He’ll say this when I’m standing in front of the silverware drawer, chopping onions, and he needs to get a spoon. He’ll say it when I’m standing in front of the sink, brushing my teeth, and he wants to brush his teeth.

I GUESS I get what it means, in certain situations. Like, if you have your foot under one of those guillotine choppy things and someone wants to see the guillotine’s slicing action, you’d say “Move it [the foot] or lose it [the foot].” Because if you didn’t move your foot, it would get chopped clean off. But I don’t get that phrase otherwise. Certainly not in the context my husband uses it. (Although I suspect he uses it out of context purely to bother me.)

Likewise with “see you on the flip side.” The flip side? Does that mean “the other side of the day”?

Or “it just dawned on me.” I think of this as meaning something like, “the situation was just illuminated.” As when the sun rises and sheds light on a situation.

Or “as easy as pie.” What the hell does that mean? I’ve made pie before, and let me tell you: NOT EASY.

Sigh. English is full of weirdness. I love it, don’t get me wrong… But sometimes I just have to shake my head at all the common phrases I use that I don’t really understand.

What common phrases or sayings just don’t make sense to you?

* I’m thinking of getting my clients holiday gifts this year. My initial thought was to send them each a nice box of Godiva chocolates. But I’m not sure. Is that appropriate? Is it enough? I don’t want to be extravagant or anything, but I do want to thank them for their business. (Seriously. My clients are AWESOME.)

Do you have any thoughts on getting gifts for clients/boss-type people? Any gifts you’ve received from a colleague or business associate that you loved? Or hated, I suppose? Suggestions welcome.

And that, my friends, is all the randomosity I can handle for today. Unless you have some randomosity you’d like to share with me! I always enjoy OTHER PEOPLE’S randomosity.

Have a super weekend Internet! See you on the flip side. Whatever that means.