Seriously, do you? I can’t seem to find it and I have looked everywhere.
My paranoia suspects someone snuck into my house and stole it (and my Social Security Card because I can’t find it either). I hope I put both into the same “safe place” that I can’t seem to remember right now.
If you see them, please let me know.
I started my new job today. They had a vase of flowers sitting on my desk to welcome me and almost everyone introduced themselves to me. My friend who works for the sister company had the IT technician set my computer wallpaper to a photo of her and my other friend with a welcome message. It is nice to be wanted.
I also attended my grandmother’s funeral. It was a meaningful service with laughs scattered amongst the memories being shared. I had never been to a gravesite before, as my grandfather died during the dead of winter and the ground was frozen. It felt like a scene out of a movie, only more sad because it was real. My family clung to each other in a row, holding tightly as we cried at our last sight of the casket. Earlier during the funeral service, my five year old niece peered up at me. “Are you going to always cry now?” she asked. “Today I might,” I replied. “Today I might.”
I have been saying this gleefully to anyone who will listen. Most of the time I am met by concerned faces and questions of clarification. Fr. John S. paused and said, “Congratulations.”
With my newfound unemployment, I have been able to accomplish various tasks (like a complete bedroom closet clean out and reorganization) but I also have been able to watch Oprah. Of course Oprah has various life-changing pieces of advice, but one of her recent episodes amused me during a routine trip to the store earlier this afternoon.
The episode featured Steve Santagati, author of The Manual: A True Bad Boy Explains How Men Think, Date, and Mate–and What Women Can Do to Come Out on Top. Under the guise of offering single women inside tips on how to catch a man, he encouraged guests to always leave the house with make up on, hair done and possibly a short skirt because you can meet a man any where, any time. Also, walk with confidence as men can sense and is drawn towards confidence. Men, after all, are animals, he explained.
Armed with this insight into the male psyche and being sincerely amused by the thought of meeting someone at La Jimenez, I considered this advice as I ran to the stores for tomatoes. I decided a trip to the store did not warrant the completion of make up (strike one!), but did pull out the skirt. To be fair, all my jeans and track pants were in the wash. I left the house only half made up but did my best to walk with an extreme amount of confidence.
Damn it all to hell, it worked.
“Hey blondie, you are so beautiful, blondie!” a man cried quickly in Spanish as I walked by. “Gracias,” I said. “I love you, I love you!” he finished in English.
I understand the confidence part of the advice; not only do I think it is true in love but I also believe it is true in business as well. But a short skirt? Make up? Putting yourself on display? Is this truly what it takes to find a man these days?
“Are you taking time off between jobs?” my coworker asked. “I have two weeks off,” I replied. “What!? How did you score that? That’s not fair.” “Well,” I explained, “my grandmother died.”
My last day is tomorrow. All week I have been called “short timer”, been asked what I am even doing here, and interrogated about what it is that I am actually working on. To announce my departure, the president sent out the following email to the agency:
Hello everyone…
If you haven’t yet heard our C.S. will be leaving us to tread upon a different career path. I truly valued and am thankful for the time that C. has spent with us. Please join me in wishing her the best of all things to come. C., you will be missed.
While my time at this agency has been nothing short of a roller coaster ride, I have formed amazing professional and personal relationships. What struck me about the email was that he claimed me as belonging to the agency, despite my most recent career decision. When we spoke of my resignation, he made me promise to at minimum grant him a conversation about what it would take to rehire me . . . should I ever find myself unhappy in the future. I am blessed to be held in such high regard; something I do not take for granted.
The other aspect I am going to miss is the camaraderie. I am the Mayor of Shantytown (the nickname the Creative department gave the Account Service department, characterized by the piles of boxes and furniture in disarray). Not only did I name myself the Mayor without an official election, but my creative friends hooked me up with an official sash and propaganda. News of Shantytown spread and everyone played along, as if it was completely normal for a place of business. “Good morning, Mayor,” became the usual greeting, in lieu of my given name.
My first week will be spent releasing the pain accumulated through the low points at this agency. Shaken confidence needs to be rebuilt, hurt feelings need to reconciled and a soul needs refreshing.
The second week is my grandmother’s funeral, bringing with it closure of a different time. Childhood memories will be shared, clothing will packed away and affairs will be put in order. Most likely this will also bring to a close the yearly Fourth of July summer vacations and family gatherings will become more infrequent.
“This is the circle of life,” my brother explained over eight years ago when my grandfather passed. “With death comes life.” At the time I thought this to be a little too practical, maybe even borderline callous, but I now know he is right. I am horrible with goodbyes because I focus on the permanence. The finality. But with it comes a new beginning.