Work


Phoenix

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Upon discovery, I emailed my mom to share the good news:

[Bestest Friend] is my emergency contact at work. So … if I drop dead or something, expect to receive the news from her.

I didn’t remember listing my Bestest Friend as my emergency contact until I checked my company profile today, saw her name and remembered how, when I was filling out the form over two years ago, we were emailing back and forth and I said, “I’m going to list you as my emergency contact!” and she was all, “Ooo, yes! Do it!”

I find it awesome; my mom asked if she could perhaps advocate for another choice.

My boss yesterday, while convincing me to accept her counteroffer instead of the new position: “Molly, not only can you work from home when you want, but during your school’s winter break, you can use my office if you’d like.”

Thirty-below-zero temperatures or a month in LA?

Sold.

This morning at the gas station, I parked the car too far from the nozzle. But it was morning and whatever, I’m lazy and the hose stretched. In the obvious procession of this story, I proceeded to fill up my tank. I then remembered that I had some trash in my car (my car is my second home), so I go to step over the gas hose, as I often do, not thinking that most sane people would walk around such an obstacle.

As I was performing my ever-graceful step-over move, my shoe became caught on the hose, causing the damn thing to be knocked out of my car’s tank. One would think that having the nozzle clatter to the ground would stop the gas or something. But no. Just kept right on spraying. As I stared at it like an asshole. Oh, ho-hum, that’s no good, fuck it comes out fast, etc etc. You know, general dumbshit observations while wasting nonrenewable, expensive resources.

When a small pond befitting a nice mallard family had formed around my car, I finally had the sense to reach down and turn off the damn thing.

My first thought was, “Hmm, I wonder if I am going to explode when I turn the car on.” Tilting my head to the side in puzzlement as I thought about this (because sometimes I am a caricature of myself), I concluded, “Well, I guess there’s only one way to find out.”

Turn key, start car.

No explosion.

I arrived at work shortly thereafter with a strong perfume aura permeating from the knees down, so I told my gas-station story as an apologetic explanation. To which my boss said, “So what did you tell the gas station attendant?”

Hmm. Logical question. One that I should have thought TO LIE ABOUT when asked by MY BOSS.

“I paid at the pump, yo. I just left.”

He looks at me like I am retarded, which, at this point, who would bet against such an opinion. “You destroyed a gas station and fled the scene?”

Yes.

In my first smart move of the morning, I didn’t argue over the semantics of destroyed or fled scene; instead, as a brilliant diversionary tactic, I asked if we were still meeting later to discuss a possible salary raise.

One of my jobs in college was a personal assistant/journalist for the Director of Swine Research. The scientific content and research results were interesting, but the job entailed afternoons in the basement of the Animal Science Building –a building which, at a big research-based campus, dedicated the basement solely to the computer lab and animal carcasses. The smell of fresh slaughter would spread throughout the entire basement, regardless of the quantity/density of walls. It was always there. This smell eventually caused my short tenure with the director. The job and future potential were pretty great but I couldn’t handle that smell.

My question for this Thursday: what has been your worst job or the worst specific element of a job?

“… and another thing you’re doing wrong: you need to change your email font. It’s too fancy.”

“But mine’s Times New Roman … ”

“Yes, it just has too much … personality.”

During today’s 7am breakfast meeting with my new (but temporary) boss, she, a medical doctor, ordered oatmeal and skim milk … so I got a bacon omelet and Diet Coke. It was 7am. I had to amuse myself somehow.

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