Working on Life Support

 There's a certain irony in the fact that one of my past clients included
a job-seeker website. Also ironic that it too go cut from our company...

A couple years ago, I read Joshua Ferris' acclaimed novel Then We Came to the End which tells the story of a slowly dying advertising agency. Through lost clients, layoffs and personal tragedy the agency disintegrates character by character until there is no one left.

That book keeps popping into my head lately as I watch my coworkers deal with our impending department death.

We're lame ducks to some degree right now, putting finishing touches on projects we started Before The News. Handling the few assignments our clients beg us to jump on because they don't want to send them to the mothership in Sunnyvale. Mostly, though, we all come in and work on our resumes and portfolios and LinkedIn pages. It's rather nice that we're earning paychecks while we gear up for unemployed life.

It has been an interesting character study to observe the different attitudes of the people around me.

There are the angries. The people who say, "I'm checked out," and no longer want to invest in providing the service we once offered. There are the panic mode-ers who want a job immediately because the instability and wondering is just too much. There are the nostalgics who are most upset because this was a job they loved and they don't want to think about leaving.

And then there is me.

I am caught in the middle of a muddle of emotions.

I'm endlessly excited about having time off to work on my outside writing projects. Although my rational self doesn't feel scared about getting future jobs and income, there's a ratty little voice that has popped up a few times and said, "What IF you can't ever find a good job again?" Then there's the prickly little sadness that crept in over the weekend when I realized I won't get to be around the inside jokes and quirky personalities I've enjoyed so much these last 6 1/2 years. I suppose I'm feeling bittersweet.

I don't know how many more days we'll be in the office—if we'll actually continue coming in until our exit day, November 1st. I wonder if we'll just slip away unnoticed or if our client coworkers will feel our absence and rant about us being gone.

I wonder what my new normal will look like. Whether I'll segment my day into crafting, writing, cleaning and networking spells. Or if I'll talk Mr. Wonderful's ear off when he returns from his 12-hour days because I haven't had enough human interaction. Maybe I'll need to have skype lunch dates with people where I save money by eating leftovers from my kitchen, but still get to chat with a live person in the process.

I'm hopeful that the "great" will outweigh the "unknown." I'm hopeful that I will get paid to write in a new capacity that fulfills me more than ever. I'm hopeful that this job was not the pinnacle. And that I will continue feeling that this has all happened for an important reason. I am hopeful. I am hopeful. I am hopeful.

Night Terrors

One of the realities of living in Hollywood (especially when you're up the hill from the 101 freeway) is that you will routinely be woken up by the sound of helicopters. Or as some refer to them, "ghetto birds." They hover over your house, breaking the silence of your slumber with their rhythmic whirs. And they don't go away for what feels like an eternity.

Earlier this week, I was peacefully sawing z's when that familiar rhythm interrupted my sleep. Not one but two—maybe even three helicopters were overhead. I started to wonder if maybe there was a bad guy on the loose. And then I heard something loud coming from the very near vicinity of our house.

It sounded like metal banging. It sounded like someone was breaking into our sliding glass door. In fact, I was positive that's what was happening. The choppers were after an escaped con and he was now trying to take cover in our dining room.

I reached over and grabbed Mr. Wonderful with both hands, "There's a loud noise!" I whisper-shrieked.

He flew out of bed and immediately went for the bedroom door.

"Don't go OUT THERE!" I panicked.

But he didn't listen.

I prepared myself for the sight of him being hit with the butt of a pistol.

He took a step out the door, paused to listen, then turned back.

"It's the trash truck."

Oh. 

He has since instituted a new rule in our marriage. I am never allowed to put two hands on him to wake him up from a dead sleep. Giving him a heart attack over the morning trash pickup was apparently not an okay thing to do...

A Taste of Parental Pride

My niece and I dorking out with glow-in-the-dark headbands
and our best model faces on 4th of July 2008.

In June of 2012, my oldest niece is graduating from high school. She hasn't decided exactly where she wants to go to college (has it narrowed to a mere 15 universities), so in November, I'm traveling with her and my sister to check out some schools on the east coast.

The thought of her being so far away makes me feel anxious. I'm pretty used to having her around—I was even in the delivery room when she was born.

My sister and her husband didn't find out the sex of the baby, and when we saw she was a girl, we all cheered. I'll never forget watching her tiny arms waving around like a mad woman as the doctor and my sister pulled her out. It was one of the most amazing things I will ever witness in my life. I'm sure of it.

I guess because I was right there when she came into the world, I've sort of always felt like she was mine. I had no problem disciplining her when she was a surly toddler. I never hold back the million questions about what's going on in her life. I chuckle every time she's sarcastic because it reminds me of myself. 

But a couple weeks ago, I had what felt like the closest thing to a parental pride moment I think I've ever experienced with her.

Throughout high school, she has emailed me her English papers to proofread and help refine. Now, I should mention that the girl is a straight-A student, so she doesn't really need my help. But she sends them nonetheless and I enjoy reading them. Given this routine we've developed, it wasn't a surprise when she sent me a draft of one of her college essays to review.

She wrote about an experience she had while volunteering with her church in the Dominican Republic. Her writing was impeccable. Her story, so moving it nearly brought me to tears at my desk.

I have never been so proud of her.

Not just because she is aces when it comes to writing. I'm proud of the person she has become.

That must be the most amazing feeling for a parent to have. To look at your child and think, "Wow, you are really incredible. The world is lucky to have you in it."

I know she is going to go on to do great things. And I can only imagine how exciting it will be to watch her grow and succeed. How lucky I am to have a seat in the spectator box right next to her real mom and dad.