fuck this noise
I think I bawled more last night and today than I did when the people who helped me pack the moving truck mistakenly packed my coat with the moving truck keys in it. At least then, I had a good sob in the back of the moving truck, cautiously climbing over the boxes, and finally locating my coat and the keys to my freedom. With this, there was no relief. I got a really sincere and regretful letter from the Firm last night. It seems all the partners wanted to hire me--the letter said I was "the one we all wanted"--but the Founder was insistent about hiring someone with a strict business background and matching business education. The letter was gentle; I could tell the partners felt awful about having to send it. I felt a little better, but not much. I really, really wanted this job with all of my heart and knew I was going to change my whole life having it.
Some would say that there are other jobs, and that is true, but the job market is tough. Friends I know who are searching for employment are suffering. Extremely capable acquaintances are making an equally rough go of it. I mean, it used to be employers snatched me up on the spot. Now, I'm contending against hundreds of applicants who don't have something like Arcosanti on their resumes. Yesterday, I went to the Doctor's office, and it was a nightmare. At first, I wondered if some jokey television show was taping me. It was that bad, and I can take most bad. I'm desperate at this point, and I'll do almost anything to keep my tummy fed.
The "office manager" had a sweatshirt with dollar signs on it, girl gangsta tattoos, and pencilled-in eyebrows and lips. I am not about judging people for how they choose to ornament themselves, but in an office setting, a person should be professional. I felt like a sore thumb with my hopeful, pressed slacks; camel coat; and bright face. The office gangsta yelled at the Doctor when he asked her to show me the system and wouldn't say hello to me or address me directly. I sat with her for a few hours, learning what I could; it was hard because she addressed the other person at the desk, not me. No one had me fill out any paperwork or showed me my employee packet. Then, they put me in the back with their graphic artist, a four foot tall guy who immediately told me about his fractured homelife and started showing me pictures of squirrels that he collected. My desk was a filing cabinet and my computer was a broken laptop.
Just when I thought it couldn't get weirder, the office manager had to chase someone who tried to get away with not paying for a pain shot. A brawl in the parking lot ensued. No one told me about break-times or even offered me lunch. I didn't even know I would be coming in until the Doctor called twenty minutes before he wanted me there. Finally, the Doctor called me to the conference room. He had decided to change the details of our arrangement, not because of anything I had done, but because he decided he didn't want to pay insurance or benefits for another person in the office; part-time employees don't get benefits. Not only that, but he decided he'd like me to redesign his brochures, write scripts for his medical movies, write content for his website, organise a monthly magazine he puts out for patients, work with the squirrel enthusiast on a new web portal, visit area hospitals to do marketing and research, and work as an intermediary with patients--all for less than what an average secretary or drugstore worker would make. We hadn't agreed on no benefits and low pay. It made me feel like he gauged me, thinking I was a nice person and that I needed the work badly, so he thought he'd make an extra buck, effectively treating me like slave labour.
I left that behind at my last place.
Suffice it to say, I came home, soggy from the rain, teed off at life and jobs, and more than a little scared of my financial situation. I cried until my eyelashes became little star-points, and even wrote Oprah, saviour of the Free World, a letter. I slept the sleep of death, and woke up to look for more jobs. I do this probably ten to twelve hours a day or more. Something's got to give. I'm mad at myself for letting myself get attached to the job at the Firm. I'm usually more cautious about jobs than this. It's just that all of our meetings were so splendid, and I got a good read on everyone. I could tell by what they said and were doing that I was the Main Contender.
It's easy to go from Main Contender to Main Idiot, isn't it?
If that isn't enough, I was running a 103 fever from Sunday; and now today, I am exhausted, barely able to move, and at 96 degrees steady. I've a doctor's appointment tomorrow. Thank goodness that Shaun comes home with treats and kind words and still likes me, even when I am cross and red-eyed from crying and feeling lost.
Lessons, lessons.
Ms. Empty Pockets
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muse) wrote,
