Double Dipping Gold

I just hit the jackpot of school/work balance. The topic for class this week - motivation. The assignment - assess your company's reward and recognition program. One of my deliverables at work (that keeps getting pushed down on the priority list, incidentally) - revamp the project's internal reward and recognition program. This is when the chi gets good - when you can not only instantly apply theories (which I have been - I listen real good now) but put them into a practice that satisfies both your work work and your school work. To quote Jim Brewer, former SNL "Goat Boy" and current Pizza Hut product whore: "Jackpot!" Seriously, have you seen those commercials? They are nonsensical and disturbingly over-enthused. I imagine Jim's agent calling him, relieved that finally, finally, he would be on TV again. How they passed test audiences, let alone aired more than once, is a mystery to me.

Anyway, this "jackpot's" arrival came just in time - this weekend I started to feel the pinch of going to school, working and maintaining a normal life. Well, actually, it was less of a pinch and more of a anxiety-induced sweat rash catalyzed by sitting in a four-hour video taped management simulation taking place in a building that is not air-conditioned on Sundays trying to sort through an "inbox" of problems while prepping a speech to be graded by peers and formulating an informed point on potential CEO resumes when you realize that you are missing the Bears game and you are legitimately stressed and don't have the benefit of actually having been on the three-week African safari that led "you" to the simulated mess. Whew. The rash intensifies since all the while, work work and school reading taunt you from home. May I quote Mercutio? "'Tis but a scratch."

End of the world? Hardly. Do many people have it worse than me? Damn straight. What is my issue then? Good point. Moving on.

An interesting tidbit from class - a substantial chunk of the three-hour session is spent discussing management issues, our experiences and learned theory. The class is pretty varied in terms of experience, age and gender. As I blogged a long time ago, I was starting to feel that the stigma of being laid off was fading. A woman in my class caused me to re-theorize. The stigma of being laid off has softened among the seasoned work force. Among the millennials (which, technically, I am), or those who haven't worked long or faced the threat of lay offs head on, being laid off puts you in the sloth bucket. To quote: "Well, I am in HR and we always say we eliminate positions not people, but there is always a reason they go. That is just trying to soften the blow." She went on, I boiled.

Head Full of Maple Syrup

I really, really don't like cats. It's bad. I am hesitant type that, because as a lover of dogs, I wonder how someone can even be neutral to those wonderful animals, let alone dislike, or, hate them. Moreover, there are some wonderful people in my life that love cats. Like really, really love cats. For some reason, my freshman year roommate, Gretchen, comes to mind. She is probably the first passionate cat person I ever encountered. We had many mutual loves - junior mints, napping, strange roommate behavior - but we never quite saw eye to eye on pets. However, G did me a great service - she prepped me for a life of loving the owner despite hating the pet. (Thanks, G-ski!)

Why bring this up now, you ask? Where is it going? Well, I'm home from work right now, with a head full of what feels like maple syrup, unable to breathe through my noise, making beautiful hhhoouuchhhuuuuukkkkk klahhh klahhhh sounds and coughing up ungodly amoeba-like globs. I believe this is because of, and will continue due to, cats.

I'm pretty horrifically allergic to these independent, oh-so-sleek creatures. Two weeks ago, John and I went to Nebraska and stayed with a lovely, more than hospitable couple who has an adorable miniature schnauzer and a "world's smallest bear" cat. Having been there before, I stocked up on allergy meds, nasal sprays and prepared to get quite intimate with a Kleenex box. It was pretty much what I expected - runny nose, watering eyes, itchy throat - making me one attractive lady. However, what I forgot was this: after putting my system through such membrane strain, I usually catch a really sweet virus and end up sick sick. And here I am.

Tomorrow, we leave for Minnesota, to visit John's sister, a lovely woman who also loves cats. Perhaps I'll plead H1N1 and don a mask. Long and short, I anticipate another week of illness, which my coworkers seem to revel in and appreciate. Despite my best attempts to hide, "hhhoouuchhhuuuuukkkkk klahhh klahhhh" can be heard down the hall, even when I am in the bathroom. Sorry, esteemed colleagues and polished outside consultants.

The cat deck has been stacked against me from the beginning - between the allergies and the influence of my father, I guess my heart was never open. Here's a story for you:

When I was about seven or eight, there were some cats roaming around our neighborhood. One day, as he pulled into the garage in his sweet 1990 tan Buick LaSabre, my father spotted such a creature on our roof. Just arriving home from work, still in his suit and tie, he sprang into action (dare I say his reflexes had a cat-like quality to them?). As I watched with intense curiosity, he grabbed a rake from the garage and moved to the side of the house. I assumed he was going to encourage the cat off the roof by startling or poking it. This would be one of the many instanced in which I underestimated my father.

He laid the rake down, right in the cat's motion path. When I asked him what he was doing he calmly replied "Just wait." I still have a vivid image of him, never taking his eyes from the cat, carefully anticipating its path with the rake, tongue sticking out just slightly from the corner of his mouth.

Finally, at the exact moment that cat had all four paws on the rake, my father, with the precision of a color guard captain, whipped the rake up and sent that feline flying. I watched, and in what seemed like slow motion, the cat arced into the sky, meowed, then landed on its feet 20 feet from our house. I stood agog.

Being young and under the influence of farm books and the Bearnstein Bears, I asked him if he was worried the cat would get hurt. As the it darted away, he laughed and said "No, babe. They always land on their feet. And now, he won't be back."

So there you have it friends. Do I think kittens are adorable? Yep. Do I respect a cat's independence? Sure. Am I sorry for what my father did? Not really.

Now, I must stop because I get dizzy looking at computer screens. Thanks, Boo.

Overdue and Undertime

How lame is this? I am blogging into a Word document so I can copy and paste the text when I am live tomorrow, as our apartment is currently sans an internet connection (perhaps this is as lame as using the word lame). However, it’s been far too long since I last sat down to type it out, and, quite frankly, I miss LadyLaidOff.

Now, a little countdown of key events in my life of late. Since coming back to work I have:

• Been contacted by five (yes, count ‘em) recruiters for potential job opportunities
• Made four drop-offs to the White Elephant (the resale shop benefiting Children’s Memorial Hospital)
• Been accepted to three grad programs
• Lived in two apartments (it wasn’t eviction, per say, but it was a battle)
• Had one massive, debilitating migraine (and several just “pretty bad” tributaries)

Here’s a good story for you.

About a week into my new stint at the old company, I ran into someone who was pretty directly involved in my lay off. They walked into the break room to wash out their mug (sustainability, people!) while I was making popcorn in the microwave. These individual actions committed us to sharing a mildly awkward space for at least two minutes.

They start by asking “So, are you glad to be back?” I respond with my standard (trite, but truthful) “Oh, yes. It’s great. It’s great to be working again, have some new challenges.” From there, the conversasion goes a little something like this:

Person: “It’s funny how things have a way of working out, it’s great we could bring you back.”

Me: “I know, good connections, good people.”

Person: “So, what did you do with your time off?”

Me: In my head…Oh, yes, isn’t it nice how we can call it time off now?...Out loud “I…”

Person: “Were you even looking?”

Now, at this point, if, all at the same time, the record could scratch, the crickets could chirp, the room could fall silent and the waiter could drop the drinks, clichés that scream “STUNNED/STUMPED/STUPIFIED” would not be enough to describe the my incredulous befuddlement.

Me: (After a loooong pause) “Yes. Very much so.”

Person: “Ah, so it’s as bad out there as they say.”

Me: “Yes. Very much so.”

Person: “Well, then it’s great you could come back!”

Me: “Yes. Very much so.”

At this point, they may have realized I was acting as if Voldemort himself had just put a stunning and repeating curse on me, or perhaps the beep of the microwave was their excuse to leave.

Person: “Well, good luck! Great to have you back.”

Me: “Thanks.”

Truly, this was the most insulted I have felt in recent memory. After unlocking my jaw (no easy task – I have TMJ – if you don’t know what it is, look it up and be thankful) and taking my eyes down from saucer-size, I grabbed my popcorn and headed back to my cube.

With relative certainly, I believe this person didn’t mean to convey the message I received. I don’t think they pictured me sitting on the couch (imprinted with my ass, no less), covered in orange Cheeto dust, wearing holey XXL sweatpants and four-day dirty hair waiting for the phone call from Old Company asking me to come back. However, to ask if I had even looked? Child, you don’ gon’ crazy.

I Am Bee-Hind

Do I need to update? You betcha. Do I have the time? Not so much. Work is deliciously busy, the summer move #2 is imminent and grad school gallops closer.

Yikes.

You're Not a Chubby, Greasy, Poorly Dressed Person!

Came back to work on Monday. Same building, sitting one floor down. It's funny - when people first saw me, particularly if they didn't know I was coming back, they all said the same thing: "You look good!"

Even better was how most people I took by surprise said it: "You look...good..." As if, they were really blown away I maintained a standard of physical decency. The surprise in their voices pretty much said: "Huh. You didn't go off the deep end after being let go. Well done!"

Other frequently heard comments:

• "Your hair got long!" Well, that happens after four months, I suppose.
• "You look so well rested!" Yep. I've been sleeping about 10 hours a day for quite some time.
• "You are tan!" Well, let's just say that after confirming my new employment, I didn't spend my days inside.
• "You've lost weight!" Hm...perhaps five pounds, perhaps the all-black shirtwaist dress. I won't tell you which.

Don't get me wrong, I can be told how great I look all day long, but I just particularly enjoyed the tone of astonishment in people's voices. I suppose people do go off the deep end after being laid off - that's why I had to get a drug test.

Last Day of Unemployment...

...and I wish I could say I was going out with a bang, but that's just not the case. Why, you ask? Well, largely because I didn't get around to finishing my Loyola essay earlier this week. Why, you ask? Well, kids, the best laid plans... My intention was to wrap it up yesterday afternoon. That was until John called to inform me we needed to be out of our apartment by September 30. Please note, we moved in June 1. Whaaaaaa....?

They are converting our rental building into condos, and this requires a major gut rehab. If you've seen our place, you know. I love living here (or, rather, I loved) but it's not the kind of place you buy, unless you're cool with a dishwasher circa 1979 and windows so thin the trains on the L set your schedule. But, our sweet management company did a bang-up job of under- and mis-communicating the situation to us, since we first received a notice saying the building is going condo (good luck with that), but our lease will be honored. Several more follies ensued, but I'll spare you the details.

We didn't go overboard purchasing decor for the apartment, but Home Depot got some serious cash out of us as we built a custom microwave shelf, added hanging bars to closets and assisted in preserving the structural integrity of this building. Add to that moving expenses, man-hours cleaning the place (ever seen black mop water with nail clippings in it? Yea, that bad), and an army of friends who carried our crap (Tom has a very strict one move, per friend, per year policy, as he told us already) and it's just plain annoying that MTD Management doesn't believe they owe us financial recourse. We'll see, my friends, we'll see.

Tangent aside, today, last day of unemployment, will be spent finessing an essay. Then on Monday, I return to work. I don't know where I am sitting. I'm not sure what my title is. But, I think I know to whom I report. Small victories, big dance.

In the end, I guess the joke is on the former company. They generously gave me three months' severance, laid four and half months of unemployment on top of that, and now, the prodigal daughter returns. It would have been a bit more fun for me had I known the ending, but I guess that spoils the plot, doesn't it? It's been fun. And emotional. And stressful. And educational. And I think I need to share my learnings with others. So, the plan is to try and write a short book on what to do when you're laid off. We'll see if it makes it past the idea stage.

You Can't Go Home Again...

...But, apparently, you can move in next door.

I just found out that I will officially be reporting to my old group, (thus, my former boss) when I return to work on Monday. Thrilling news (I loved reporting to Leslie and greatly respect the work of the team), but it certainly threw me for a loop.

When I was let go, I pined so deeply to return to my old company, my old group, my old desk (check out this entry) I actually inhibited my own forward progress. I probably spoke to too many former colleagues about too much work stuff, too often and wanted so desperately to be part of this fantastic group again, I got myself in a knot. The only way to move on was to really let go.

That didn't mean not speaking to these people anymore; that would have been nearly impossible - they are my work family. But I did release any hope of being part of the team and I moved forward, feeling healthier all the while.

Now, I am heading back, reporting to the same person but doing very different work. We'll call it returning to the neighborhood. Well, I can't mull over the situation too long, I suppose, as I have been known to be a tad analytical (I can see my girlfriends rolling there eyes right now) - okay, yes, chronic over analyzer here. Today's' college dating patterns will turn any gal into a damn gumshoe. I digress. Familiarity will bring some comfort while I work out new challenges. In the meantime, I need to get a drug test.

What is that? You must pee in a cup? Indeed. Since I have been gone from the company more than three months (ahem, whose fault is that, ahem) they want to make sure I haven't gone off the deep end, blowing coke and rockin' the gange. No, no, dear company, my dismissal only led to a few too many happy hours and three packs of cigarettes.