Gas just hit $4 a gallon, and there's a chance we'll see snow in San Francisco tomorrow. The end is nigh.
Okay, not really. But it's still pretty freaking crazy over here.
Life is...life. Deadlines are looming, an epic battle is waging between my immune system and the Office Cold, and I am losing sleep for no apparent reason. Actually, there is an apparent reason: I can't convince my body that it's okay to go to bed before 1 am. It's a real problem, you guys.
I'm starting to sound like a broken record, but I feel like I have zero time to do anything but work, eat, and sleep. Still kinda loving it, though. Granted, I think I need a hobby, because I find myself checking my email compulsively and I really don't want to become that person. Rock climbing was supposed to be that hobby, but I'm finding it very difficult to set aside two whole hours for the gym, AND find a partner, AND muster up the willpower necessary to actually do anything but veg out on the couch. Maybe I'm a lost cause.
Still, work is great. Ridiculously busy, horrifically stressful, pushing me so far out of my comfort zone you wouldn't believe...but great. And when it seems like I just can't take anymore and miiiiight just snap, I take joy in the little things: bonding with my coworkers over a common enemy, debating the probability that one of our writers has multiple personalities, or listening to the jingle that the electric kettle plays whenever the water starts to boil. Ah, yes...love is in the air. Not happily-ever-after-spend-the-rest-of-my-life-with-this-company kind of love, but still love.
Ugh...I just used the "L" word. It really must be the end of the world.
Friday, February 25, 2011
Thursday, February 17, 2011
Cubicle Monkey
I am one. Seriously. Every time we run up against a deadline (namely, every month), I start living in the writer's room. Technically it's not a cubicle - I don't have one of those - but "writer's room monkey" doesn't have the same sort of ring to it.
It could be worse. At least I get to talk to people, which is something the real cubicle monkeys don't get to do. Whoever controls the thermostat is a sadist, though...turning on the air conditioning when it's cold and wet and rainy outside. Evil.
My birthday happened. That was kind of a thing. There was a family dinner at a delicious German restaurant in San Jose. Meat. Cheese-covered extravagances. Apple strudel. Oh, and liters of beer. That's right. Liters. Of beer. The food coma lasted for days. Okay, that's a lie. It lasted for about an hour and then I had to stuff myself full of birthday cake. But then that food coma lasted for days. Mmmm.
There's not much else going on. I've been so tightly scheduled these days that I haven't had more than five minutes to do anything but work, eat, sleep, and gym.* And you guys know how much I enjoy being lazy. What a shame.
I have other things to tell you guys, but they can wait until our next Skype session.
*It's a verb now.
It could be worse. At least I get to talk to people, which is something the real cubicle monkeys don't get to do. Whoever controls the thermostat is a sadist, though...turning on the air conditioning when it's cold and wet and rainy outside. Evil.
My birthday happened. That was kind of a thing. There was a family dinner at a delicious German restaurant in San Jose. Meat. Cheese-covered extravagances. Apple strudel. Oh, and liters of beer. That's right. Liters. Of beer. The food coma lasted for days. Okay, that's a lie. It lasted for about an hour and then I had to stuff myself full of birthday cake. But then that food coma lasted for days. Mmmm.
There's not much else going on. I've been so tightly scheduled these days that I haven't had more than five minutes to do anything but work, eat, sleep, and gym.* And you guys know how much I enjoy being lazy. What a shame.
I have other things to tell you guys, but they can wait until our next Skype session.
*It's a verb now.
Sunday, February 6, 2011
Not So Common Anymore
The topic of tonight's post, friends, is common courtesy. Wow, that sounded really passive aggressive. I'm not accusing you guys of being uncourteous*, I swear! No, the target of my ire is my next door neighbor.
I shall call him George.
No, George is too awesome of a name for him.
I shall call him...Wonston. That's right. Wonston. It was going to be Winston, but the "i" and the "o" are really close together on the keyboard and it's too late to turn back now, so Wonston it is.
Wonston has been living next door to me for a couple of years. I've never spoken to him (our neighborhood is not what you might call "friendly"), so I have no idea how many people actually live in his house...but they have seven cars. Seven freaking cars, people. Two are parked in their driveway. Three are in front of their house. And two are in front of my house. Most of the cars rotate in and out - sometimes the Jeep is in the driveway, sometimes it's the Corolla with the "Jesus Loves You" license plate frame - but the ones in front of my house never move. They're just there...in front of my house...forever.
You know what, Wonston? I would like to park in front of my house.
I live on a corner, Wonston. You know that, because you live next to me. Around said corner, there is room for at least six of your multitude of cars. Why do you insist on trying to fit both of your humongotron pickups in the space between my driveway and the handicap ramp for the crosswalk? This isn't the twilight zone. Neither of them magically shrink when the other is present. You either block off the ramp, leaving wheelchair-bound folks SOL, or you extend a good half-foot into my barely-big-enough-for-one-car driveway, forcing me to go off-roading every time I stop home for lunch.
Wonston is my mortal enemy. And he knows it, too. (Why yes, I am being melodramatic. Why do you ask?) Last week, the parking duel came to a head: I was walking up my driveway as he was leaving his house. I opened the gate, turned, and spotted him. We made eye contact. I glanced meaningfully at my car, then at his, and looked at him. He gave me a nod, seeming to understand. He walked to his car. I loitered at the mailbox. He turned the ignition. It roared to life. He looked at me. Smiled. He got something from the glove box, turned the car off, and walked back inside. CURSES, I thought. Curses indeed.
Also, before you say that I should be a little less film noir with my narrative and actually talk to the guy, there is some shady stuff going on at that house. Unless he just has a bunch of friends who enjoy stopping by at all hours for a quick chat through the windows of their cars. Yeah. I'm sure that's it.
Pretty exciting, right? See what all of you are missing?
First day of bike commuting to work tomorrow. I bought a bell. Here's hoping I don't die.
*It should be a word.
I shall call him George.
No, George is too awesome of a name for him.
I shall call him...Wonston. That's right. Wonston. It was going to be Winston, but the "i" and the "o" are really close together on the keyboard and it's too late to turn back now, so Wonston it is.
Wonston has been living next door to me for a couple of years. I've never spoken to him (our neighborhood is not what you might call "friendly"), so I have no idea how many people actually live in his house...but they have seven cars. Seven freaking cars, people. Two are parked in their driveway. Three are in front of their house. And two are in front of my house. Most of the cars rotate in and out - sometimes the Jeep is in the driveway, sometimes it's the Corolla with the "Jesus Loves You" license plate frame - but the ones in front of my house never move. They're just there...in front of my house...forever.
You know what, Wonston? I would like to park in front of my house.
I live on a corner, Wonston. You know that, because you live next to me. Around said corner, there is room for at least six of your multitude of cars. Why do you insist on trying to fit both of your humongotron pickups in the space between my driveway and the handicap ramp for the crosswalk? This isn't the twilight zone. Neither of them magically shrink when the other is present. You either block off the ramp, leaving wheelchair-bound folks SOL, or you extend a good half-foot into my barely-big-enough-for-one-car driveway, forcing me to go off-roading every time I stop home for lunch.
Wonston is my mortal enemy. And he knows it, too. (Why yes, I am being melodramatic. Why do you ask?) Last week, the parking duel came to a head: I was walking up my driveway as he was leaving his house. I opened the gate, turned, and spotted him. We made eye contact. I glanced meaningfully at my car, then at his, and looked at him. He gave me a nod, seeming to understand. He walked to his car. I loitered at the mailbox. He turned the ignition. It roared to life. He looked at me. Smiled. He got something from the glove box, turned the car off, and walked back inside. CURSES, I thought. Curses indeed.
Also, before you say that I should be a little less film noir with my narrative and actually talk to the guy, there is some shady stuff going on at that house. Unless he just has a bunch of friends who enjoy stopping by at all hours for a quick chat through the windows of their cars. Yeah. I'm sure that's it.
Pretty exciting, right? See what all of you are missing?
First day of bike commuting to work tomorrow. I bought a bell. Here's hoping I don't die.
*It should be a word.
Thursday, January 27, 2011
Born to Run
Yeah, that title has absolutely nothing to do with anything; it was just the answer to a pub quiz question from the other night. That's right! I've finally found people who enjoy pub quiz! They're not supergeniuses or anything (not that I lump myself into that category either), but they're cool. Meetup comes through again!
Anyway, I told myself I was going to try and post here more often now that the calendar's rolled over to 2011. I don't know if the content will be any better, but at least more frequent posts will mean shorter posts. That's good, right?
I've discovered in my...nine days as an editor that lists are good. Let's stick with lists.
One last thing before I head off, though: a poll. Do you guys enjoy living vicariously through me as I work my way up the corporate ladder, or would you prefer I stick with less day-to-day and more "hilarity ensues"?
Anyway, I told myself I was going to try and post here more often now that the calendar's rolled over to 2011. I don't know if the content will be any better, but at least more frequent posts will mean shorter posts. That's good, right?
I've discovered in my...nine days as an editor that lists are good. Let's stick with lists.
- I've been to the cubes! Well, I've been past the cubes in search of the printer. That counts, right? I am starting to learn people's names, though. Kind of. They all start with "D," so it's super confusing.
- I have a key! It's not technically mine - the picture on it is a thirty-something Asian lady - but I have one and I don't get locked out anymore! Couldn't have come at a better time because I've become the absent-minded professor over here. They say that multitasking actually makes you less efficient overall, and I'd definitely have to concur.
From the Daily Mail: The human brain doesn’t multi-task like an expert juggler; it switches frantically between tasks like a bad amateur plate-spinner. True that.
- I just bought a fancy schmancy new laptop bag so I don't kill my computer on the commute to work. Now I just need a headlight and I'll be good to go for epic bike riding. Well, it won't be that epic. Five miles round trip, I believe. And I have two steadfast rules: (1) no spandex, and (2) no reflective pant-leg-holder thingies.
One last thing before I head off, though: a poll. Do you guys enjoy living vicariously through me as I work my way up the corporate ladder, or would you prefer I stick with less day-to-day and more "hilarity ensues"?
Sunday, January 23, 2011
Life Is Like a Hurricane Here In Duckberg
I'd say my life right now is about a category four, but I expect it to increase by a few kilometers per hour and hit category five in no time.
The last time we spoke, I mentioned that I was going to become a full-time employee at some point in the near future. I still had to put the finishing touches on my guide, but it was expected that I would start once that was wrapped up. Namely, I had planned on becoming a grown-up on February 1st.
Yeah...aboooout that...
I'm a full-time employee! And I have been for five whole days now. (It would have been three, but I had to work the weekend. Both days. So it totally counts.)
Long story short (partially because of my non-disclosure agreement and partially because I have been on this stupid computer all freaking day), I got an email on Tuesday night asking me if I could start "tomorrow." I could feel the desperation in The Editor's keystrokes (yes, I'm calling everyone by their titles). I was kind of burning out on my project anyway, so I agreed. Unfortunately, that meant a little less than 12 hours of freedom before officially becoming an adult. I had a minor freak-out along the lines of "oh my gosh, this is going to be my life now," but with that behind me, I was ridiculously excited to start work.
I won't bore you guys with the details of my first few days (actually, I had kind of an awesome time), but here are some observations for you:
1. There seems to be a clear divide between the "creative types" and the "engineering types." I know that's probably the case in every office, but it seems especially stark at my company because there's actually a physical barrier: a giant glass wall. The writers are all together in "the pit" (which is basically just a room with a giant table) so we can talk to each other, and the non-writers are all in the cubes. I've never even been to the cubes. I just look at them from afar and wonder who's back there. I'm thinking about bringing cupcakes once this project is finished, though. Maybe that will help bridge the gap.
2. Something needs to be done about the key situation. Right now, I think there are three keys milling about: an Engineer has one, The CEO has one, and The Editor has one. This would work out just fine if they were the first ones to arrive in the morning, the last ones to leave at night, and just stayed in the office all day. But they aren't, and they don't. So, on my first day, I was locked out. And on my third day, I was locked out twice! I'm going to need to figure out a way to get me one of those key cards.
3. My office is one exit away on the freeway. One exit! If I ever have time to get to the bike shop and get a new headlight (and maybe a bell, just so I don't die) for the ol' velocipede, I think I'm going to start cycling to work. I've gotten - how do I put this delicately? - squishy since coming back from school. I didn't know it at the time, but riding my bike to class was the only reason one delicious Chipotle burrito a week didn't leave me buying new pants every other month. Not that I've had to buy a whole lot of new pants or anything, but the ones I do have are fitting just a little tighter these days.
I'm sure there are other things, but I can't remember them right now. All I can say is that this job is even more perfect for me than I thought it would be. I get to spend all day nitpicking other people's work, and whenever I need to write something of my own, I get a subject and a length and then get to do whatever I want with it. I also get paid to research things like Horatio-isms (from CSI: Miami) and the Guinness World Record for skipping stones (51). And I get coworkers! Coworkers who don't smell and who don't sneeze on me or creepily read over my shoulder. It's amazing.
The last time we spoke, I mentioned that I was going to become a full-time employee at some point in the near future. I still had to put the finishing touches on my guide, but it was expected that I would start once that was wrapped up. Namely, I had planned on becoming a grown-up on February 1st.
Yeah...aboooout that...
I'm a full-time employee! And I have been for five whole days now. (It would have been three, but I had to work the weekend. Both days. So it totally counts.)
Long story short (partially because of my non-disclosure agreement and partially because I have been on this stupid computer all freaking day), I got an email on Tuesday night asking me if I could start "tomorrow." I could feel the desperation in The Editor's keystrokes (yes, I'm calling everyone by their titles). I was kind of burning out on my project anyway, so I agreed. Unfortunately, that meant a little less than 12 hours of freedom before officially becoming an adult. I had a minor freak-out along the lines of "oh my gosh, this is going to be my life now," but with that behind me, I was ridiculously excited to start work.
I won't bore you guys with the details of my first few days (actually, I had kind of an awesome time), but here are some observations for you:
1. There seems to be a clear divide between the "creative types" and the "engineering types." I know that's probably the case in every office, but it seems especially stark at my company because there's actually a physical barrier: a giant glass wall. The writers are all together in "the pit" (which is basically just a room with a giant table) so we can talk to each other, and the non-writers are all in the cubes. I've never even been to the cubes. I just look at them from afar and wonder who's back there. I'm thinking about bringing cupcakes once this project is finished, though. Maybe that will help bridge the gap.
2. Something needs to be done about the key situation. Right now, I think there are three keys milling about: an Engineer has one, The CEO has one, and The Editor has one. This would work out just fine if they were the first ones to arrive in the morning, the last ones to leave at night, and just stayed in the office all day. But they aren't, and they don't. So, on my first day, I was locked out. And on my third day, I was locked out twice! I'm going to need to figure out a way to get me one of those key cards.
3. My office is one exit away on the freeway. One exit! If I ever have time to get to the bike shop and get a new headlight (and maybe a bell, just so I don't die) for the ol' velocipede, I think I'm going to start cycling to work. I've gotten - how do I put this delicately? - squishy since coming back from school. I didn't know it at the time, but riding my bike to class was the only reason one delicious Chipotle burrito a week didn't leave me buying new pants every other month. Not that I've had to buy a whole lot of new pants or anything, but the ones I do have are fitting just a little tighter these days.
I'm sure there are other things, but I can't remember them right now. All I can say is that this job is even more perfect for me than I thought it would be. I get to spend all day nitpicking other people's work, and whenever I need to write something of my own, I get a subject and a length and then get to do whatever I want with it. I also get paid to research things like Horatio-isms (from CSI: Miami) and the Guinness World Record for skipping stones (51). And I get coworkers! Coworkers who don't smell and who don't sneeze on me or creepily read over my shoulder. It's amazing.
Saturday, December 4, 2010
Kit and Kaboodle
Newsflash, people: I am no longer unemployed. No. Longer. Unemployed. Meaning that I have a job, and it's a job that pays. Like, real money. What. Please bask in the glory of my new title: project-based content writer for [insert company name]. (I know somebody somewhere has a Google alert set up for that name, and I'd like to keep this blog just between us, thank you very much.) I'm currently working on a study guide for the high school exit exam, which means teaching tenth graders all about past participles and misplaced modifiers. It's awesome. Well, except for the fact that I need to learn all about that stuff first. Whoops.
The Story:
I stumbled upon the listing a few weeks ago and started writing my regular old three-paragraph, discuss-how-you-found-the-listing-then-discuss-why-you're-perfect-for-the-job-then-bid-them-a-courteous-adieu-type cover letter. Halfway through, I scrapped it and started over on something that actually expressed who I was as a person in the hopes that it would enable them to think of me as more than a piece of paper.
And it worked!
Who knows if it was my reckless abandon or if the company and I were just meant for each other, but they actually got back to me. They emailed me saying that they had already filled the position for which I had applied, but hey, a response is a response. About a week later, I received another email encouraging me to apply for a writer position. They seemed to be courting me. This was indeed a strange turn of events. I'd never really been wanted by a place of work before, so of course I was willing to play the game.
I submitted the writing samples they wanted me to submit (thanks again for the corrections, by the way), and then the waiting began. It was another week before I got a call from someone at the company. I missed it, of course, and when I called back, I managed to mispronounce the company's freaking name! Ugh...so like me. Naturally, this all happened on a Friday so I was able to thoroughly get my worry-wart on.
A few days later and I had a callback (no mention of the mispronunciation), a brief phone interview, and then the magic words: "I'd like to set up an appointment for you to speak with the CEO." Set for later that day. She called. We talked. I went to Cal. She went to Stanford. Irreconcilable differences? I think not. She asked about trivia. I impressed. She laughed. I dazzled. She hired.
On the spot, ladies and gentlemen. On the spot.
Never in a million years did I think that I would be making money as a writer, but I suppose my saving grace is that they actually like me as a person. They like my voice. I get to write for work the way I write for this blog. (And they actually think it's funny! Who knew?) Even though I'm writing study guides for high schoolers, I don't have to be stuffy and pretentious. I can just be me! It's kind of cool. Also, it doesn't hurt that I set my own hours and get to work from home. That part is pretty great as well.
I'm still not sure exactly what effect my new job will have on this here thingamajig. I thought initially that maybe I would be so sick of sitting in front of my computer that I would neglect to do anything non-work-related until my project's due date. But then I remembered that I love procrastinating almost as much as I love food. (Well, it's more of a love-hate relationship with the laziness, actually.) So I think I might be writing in here more often. After December, that is; I can't bring myself to mess up my perfect updating record until I am able to start afresh in 2011.
Happy holidays, friendlies!
The Story:
I stumbled upon the listing a few weeks ago and started writing my regular old three-paragraph, discuss-how-you-found-the-listing-then-discuss-why-you're-perfect-for-the-job-then-bid-them-a-courteous-adieu-type cover letter. Halfway through, I scrapped it and started over on something that actually expressed who I was as a person in the hopes that it would enable them to think of me as more than a piece of paper.
And it worked!
Who knows if it was my reckless abandon or if the company and I were just meant for each other, but they actually got back to me. They emailed me saying that they had already filled the position for which I had applied, but hey, a response is a response. About a week later, I received another email encouraging me to apply for a writer position. They seemed to be courting me. This was indeed a strange turn of events. I'd never really been wanted by a place of work before, so of course I was willing to play the game.
I submitted the writing samples they wanted me to submit (thanks again for the corrections, by the way), and then the waiting began. It was another week before I got a call from someone at the company. I missed it, of course, and when I called back, I managed to mispronounce the company's freaking name! Ugh...so like me. Naturally, this all happened on a Friday so I was able to thoroughly get my worry-wart on.
A few days later and I had a callback (no mention of the mispronunciation), a brief phone interview, and then the magic words: "I'd like to set up an appointment for you to speak with the CEO." Set for later that day. She called. We talked. I went to Cal. She went to Stanford. Irreconcilable differences? I think not. She asked about trivia. I impressed. She laughed. I dazzled. She hired.
On the spot, ladies and gentlemen. On the spot.
Never in a million years did I think that I would be making money as a writer, but I suppose my saving grace is that they actually like me as a person. They like my voice. I get to write for work the way I write for this blog. (And they actually think it's funny! Who knew?) Even though I'm writing study guides for high schoolers, I don't have to be stuffy and pretentious. I can just be me! It's kind of cool. Also, it doesn't hurt that I set my own hours and get to work from home. That part is pretty great as well.
I'm still not sure exactly what effect my new job will have on this here thingamajig. I thought initially that maybe I would be so sick of sitting in front of my computer that I would neglect to do anything non-work-related until my project's due date. But then I remembered that I love procrastinating almost as much as I love food. (Well, it's more of a love-hate relationship with the laziness, actually.) So I think I might be writing in here more often. After December, that is; I can't bring myself to mess up my perfect updating record until I am able to start afresh in 2011.
Happy holidays, friendlies!
Wednesday, November 3, 2010
Don't Rain On My Parade
Before I begin, I just wanted to ask (both of) you for some feedback on my new-ish layout. I, personally, think it's pretty and relaxing and makes me want to take a vacation to Hawai'i, but I'm not the one who has to stare at it for minutes at a time. So, thoughts? Is the background too busy? The font too Times-New-Roman-y, perhaps? Or maybe just too small? Let me know, and I will gladly make changes.
Now, back to business. It's November! And you guys know what that means: my favorite food-based holiday is right around the corner! Ahhhhh Turkey Day, the crown jewel of holidays for gluttons everywhere. Okay, just gluttons in America, I suppose. Anyway, this time of year always makes me think about how much I love food. Seriously, guys, I love it a whole lot. I wanted to be a pastry chef for the vast majority of my childhood, and I would drop everything and go to culinary school in a second if I could actually afford it. But, sadly, I can't. So, I've been looking into the next best thing: working in a bakery/cafe/patisserie/chocolaterie. Surprisingly, there are a lot of them around here. A lot. (Sidenote: why haven't I ever been to any of these places? How could I have missed all the dessert-alicious wonder??)
So here's my dilemma: as a UC Berkeley graduate, can I bring myself to work a job where the only requirements are being able to stand for eight hours and lift ten to fifty pounds. Did I really go to college for four (and a half) years, and pay tens of thousands of dollars into the system, only to return to the types of jobs I was working back in high school?
Maybe I sound ridiculously haughty and pretentious, but I feel like the minute I hit "submit" on that online application, I'll be flushing the last five years of my life down the drain. No one will care that I majored in political economy if I'm working the counter at Starbucks. No one will care that I studied abroad in Germany if I'm restocking the display case at the local cafe. And that's the scariest part: no one will care. The glorious Berkeley degree for which I worked so hard, the thing I was told was a fail-safe even in the toughest of economic times, won't matter. In fact, not only will it not matter, it will be considered a hindrance; on my so-called "retail resume," my "education" section has now fallen all the way to the bottom.
I know that I'm not the only one facing this dilemma, and I know that my first job won't be the be-all and end-all of my career, but still...I don't want to go down that road. Not yet. Not after all this time. Have I really exhausted all of my other options?
And then an awesome (and, at times, super necessary) part of my brain breaks in with a little optimism. It says to Debbie Downer over here that it loves food, particularly dessert-type food, and it likes people, particularly dessert-type people. Would working in a chocolate shop really be that bad? Wouldn't walking into your office and smelling cupcakes wafting through the back of the house be kind of awesome? And Debbie Downer stops...and thinks...and says, "You know what? It would be."
Now, back to business. It's November! And you guys know what that means: my favorite food-based holiday is right around the corner! Ahhhhh Turkey Day, the crown jewel of holidays for gluttons everywhere. Okay, just gluttons in America, I suppose. Anyway, this time of year always makes me think about how much I love food. Seriously, guys, I love it a whole lot. I wanted to be a pastry chef for the vast majority of my childhood, and I would drop everything and go to culinary school in a second if I could actually afford it. But, sadly, I can't. So, I've been looking into the next best thing: working in a bakery/cafe/patisserie/chocolaterie. Surprisingly, there are a lot of them around here. A lot. (Sidenote: why haven't I ever been to any of these places? How could I have missed all the dessert-alicious wonder??)
So here's my dilemma: as a UC Berkeley graduate, can I bring myself to work a job where the only requirements are being able to stand for eight hours and lift ten to fifty pounds. Did I really go to college for four (and a half) years, and pay tens of thousands of dollars into the system, only to return to the types of jobs I was working back in high school?
Maybe I sound ridiculously haughty and pretentious, but I feel like the minute I hit "submit" on that online application, I'll be flushing the last five years of my life down the drain. No one will care that I majored in political economy if I'm working the counter at Starbucks. No one will care that I studied abroad in Germany if I'm restocking the display case at the local cafe. And that's the scariest part: no one will care. The glorious Berkeley degree for which I worked so hard, the thing I was told was a fail-safe even in the toughest of economic times, won't matter. In fact, not only will it not matter, it will be considered a hindrance; on my so-called "retail resume," my "education" section has now fallen all the way to the bottom.
I know that I'm not the only one facing this dilemma, and I know that my first job won't be the be-all and end-all of my career, but still...I don't want to go down that road. Not yet. Not after all this time. Have I really exhausted all of my other options?
And then an awesome (and, at times, super necessary) part of my brain breaks in with a little optimism. It says to Debbie Downer over here that it loves food, particularly dessert-type food, and it likes people, particularly dessert-type people. Would working in a chocolate shop really be that bad? Wouldn't walking into your office and smelling cupcakes wafting through the back of the house be kind of awesome? And Debbie Downer stops...and thinks...and says, "You know what? It would be."
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