Here's the deal:
I was enjoying the comfort and complacency that only comes from working a job longer than any other that I've worked in my life, when the inevitable stray monkey threw a steaming pile of poo into the works. Up until recently my employment has been considered "temporary" and "part-time", despite working not only full-time, but overload for the last 5 some-odd years. It's kind of like refusing to admit that your crack addiction has reached "Intervention" status, even though you sold your younger sister AND a kidney last night for a bit of the rock (yes, I'm watching a lot of addiction-based reality TV lately- it's like I'm addicted to it- HA! I slay me.)
I was working my ass off, yet I wasn't considered a "real" employee yet. Such is life.
My arbitrary status was freeing, in a way. I did not feel obligated to fully participate in 2-day workshops, choosing instead to go, check in, then leave towards the end to go and have a nice (semi-liquid) lunch and do some shopping midway through many of them. If hating "breakout sessions" with every fiber of my being is wrong, I don't wanna be right, dammit. I've never really been any good at that corporate-esque brand of bullshit anyways. Also, I never felt all that bad about not getting to know the names of most of the people that worked in the building with me, other than the janitors and "that dude that wears funky shoes."
That's a name, right?
Anywhat...I, along with 2 of my coworkers, were notified 3 months ago that our jobs were being "posted" (being put up for permanent status), but we'd have to apply, interview, and sweat it out just like any other schlub trying to steal my job from me- stealer! (And several schlubs did indeed try- and fail- to do exactly that. One of the contenders was compared to Julia Child, a la Dan Aykroyd via SNL in the 70's. I guess it was hilarious- I'm sad I missed it.)
Long story short- three months, one night of trying to figure out how to write a cover letter (I seriously haven't had to apply for a job since 1999), two grueling interviews that made me consider becoming a nun, one teaching demonstration and endless obsessive (bordering on mental illness obsessive) e-mail checking later, I'm in.
Like that Flynn guy.
So now I can go back to my regular life, whatever that is. I'm choosing to think it involves making out with Clive Owen on a daily basis, as well as having a personal masseuse, eyebrow groomer, and toenail trimmer. Until anyone tells me otherwise, that's my story and I'm sticking to it.
