DDF Revolve 400X Micro-Polishing System

For most of my twenties, I was able to eat whatever I want and fall into bed with a full face of smudged makeup without any skin repercussions. This is not true anymore in my thirties. I’ve had to invest in night cream and a skin cleanser and a skin exfoliator.

Products are expensive. I went to one of those in-home product shows and was introduced to a skin care line that cost over $230. Trying to be polite I asked the consultant if she only had one product to sell, which one would it be.

“All of them,” she smiled.

“Let me rephrase this,” I said curtly. “If you could only afford to buy one item, which would it be?”

“All of them. It’s such a great deal.”

It’s not a great deal. It’s $230.00 for crap I didn’t know I needed before entering the room. I’ve stayed with the basics, my skin cleanser and skin exfoliator.

Doctor’s Dermatology Formula, or DDF, is a Proctor & Gamble company, the parent company over many of your favorite personal care brands. DDF is releasing into the competitive skin care market its new cleansing system, called the DDF Revolve 400X Micro-Polishing System, which, get this, is a skin cleanser and skin exfoliator in one.

The premise behind the device is simple:

For deep cleaning, use it once a day with the cleansing brush.
For exfoliation, use it twice a week with the foam exfoliator and polishing crystals.

The device adapts to your skin’s sensitivity needs. Just change the rotation speed. To discover your personalized recommended skin care regime with the DDF Revolve 400X Micro-Polishing System, use the DDF Skin Consultation Tool.

That stupid skin consultant lady said her skin care line cost $230.00. Competitors’ cleaning systems retail for $120.00 – 150.00. DDF is running a special offer on the DDF Revolve 400X Micro-Polishing System. From now through January 31st, enter code DDFMICRODERMA and get the system for $45.00 US, including free shipping. This is over 50% off the retail cost! The system includes the DDF Micro-Polisher, Cleansing Brush, Foam Exfoliator and a tube of the Polishing Crystals.

Translated Upon Request

I've had a hard time getting out of bed this week. First I realized that I have now officially been at my "new" job for longer than I was at the job I got laid off from. I like my current job and, more importantly, they like me, but I loved my old job. I felt special being at my old job.

At my old job, I was an editor with my own magazine. My picture was in it with "Editor-in-Chief" in below it in captions. I was responsible for writing the marketing for an entire line of global products. My words were translated in French and Spanish. Sometimes after work I would go into the store and look at the boxes on the shelves and see tangible proof of my work.

My current job is altruistic in nature. I get paid more. My commute is cut in half. I am one link on a very long chain that saves lives. My writing is now translated upon request.

Maybe it's my ego not getting fed. My work goes into a vortex that I'll never see again. Maybe it's that I'm at a job where again nobody really understands what I do and my parents couldn't even tell you my company's name. I just don't feel as special.

Today marks the one-year anniversary from being laid off from my razzle-dazzle job. I'm sad. I miss my co-worker whom I've shared two companies with. He's still there and told me this morning that the company is still laying off people and closing divisions, although he's still employed.

I was worried the first two rounds of lay offs it had, but I made it through them. My V.P. made a huge speech about how he was working with a bare-bones staff and that our division was safe from future cuts. And then the third round came and I was called in my boss's office at 7:30 a.m. and escorted out of the building by 7:45. I was in the unemployment office by 10 am. It turned out that I was the only person in the entire department of 40 people that had been cut.

The pain of being professionally dumped still stings. The company let me down easily with a nice severance package and a promise to answer late-night booty calls. It never stayed over though.

Schadenfreude at its finest

When my dog The Femme Fatale doesn't want to acknowledge my existence, she turns her face away from me. It's like if I am not looking at you, you can't see me.

The other day she was parked under the table in the living room and let out one of those double-syllable burps. Ba-burp! It was as loud as a human's and I shrieked with laughter at her. On cue, The Femme Fatale turned her nose and watched the wall. She did not like me laughing at her.

***

Last night at Tuesday Night Knitting I informed everyone of my new work status. "So now I get health insurance and vacation time," I finished.

And then I saw it. The three girls' noses turned away from me. Two pointed away from the circle and one stared hard at the lime green work-in-progress in her hands. No one said a word.

It took me a minute to register that the other three girls had previously held marketing jobs like me, but they were still laid off. Tuesday Night Knitting has operated more like a Knit while you Network since its inception at the beginning of the year. The girls share information on who is hiring and in what capacity as well as preferred yarn fiber and the best way to cast on.

To make matters worse, two of the girls had interviews the previous week and neither were selected for the open positions. Their own depression rendered them unable to be happy for me in any capacity. It had taken on some perverse form of reverse-Schadenfreude.

Even Christopher gave me a cursory "That's great" when I told him. At least he made an unconvincing effort.

It's really deflated my joy in my accomplishment. Last night I opened USA Today and read that unemployment in my state reached a double-digit all-time high, the national debt topped 1 trillion dollars for the first time ever, and the 800-billion dollar stimulus package has had no effect other than stemming the bleeding. Even recent college graduates in China were pushing each other down to clean toilets.

I thought back to my immediate circle friends and counted. Seven of them have been laid off and have yet to find work. Three of those have been out of jobs for over a year. I am already thankful for the opportunity I've taken advantage of, but it's made me ashamed of my good news. No one wants to hear it. They would rather keep company with others' doom and gloom.

So I'm not telling anyone else about my job/apartment. And that makes me feel inferior.

Letter from the Editor

My predecessor's face smiled at me from the upper-right corner of the Letter from the Editor page. She's pretty. She's very pretty. She has a boyfriend in TV I hear.

It's hard seeing who I'm replacing. With her facsimile of her appearance, I imagine she's also brilliant, and funny, and rich- everything I'm not. I already know she has natural style. For her photo she paired a black open-collared button-down with a chunky turquoise necklace. I don't own a chunky turquoise statement piece; the closest thing I have is a mock-vintage black beaded necklace from Ann Taylor.

My issue doesn't compare to hers. As far as journalistic integrity and proper grammar, I win. I can follow the rules like anybody else. But I think my writing lacks the flair hers had. I didn't insert any personal anecdotes. I didn't have time to come up with marketing genius wording, I was juggling too many projects and the deadline kind of snuck up on us all for that. My interviews are good. My ad copy is good. It's just going to have to be good enough.

I had my photo shoot for my editor's headshot today. I couldn't get an appointment with my stylist because of the holiday season. The photographer compensated by saying my dark roots looked punk rock. Awesome. I am so not punk rock. He said I smiled easily and he liked the shirt I wore: a raspberry two-in-one where it looks like I'm wearing a white collared shirt underneath from TJMaxx. But my nipples give the thinness of my shirt away because it's cold out today.

Now the graphic designer has my photo and he's asking since my smile is so cheeky—I'm not smirking, I just have big cheeks—does he have my permission to remove some lines on my face? Hell yes, he does. But then another graphic designer gets involved and I can hear them critique my photo, and thus also my appearance.

"Here's before," he zooms in on a cheek-induced crinkle below my eye. "Here's after," the crinkle has disappeared.

"I mean, the before isn't that bad," I hear the other designer remark.

"Hey, that's my face you're talking about!" I shout from my desk.

"Don't do too many touch ups though, it should look natural," the second desginer advises.

"Shut up, Chris!" I holler again.

Before I know it, the original designer is back at my desk and inspecting my face. He points to my lower lip, "Is that a beauty mark, or a blemish?" he asks.

So he must have noticed it on my photo. "It's a mole," I respond blandly.

"I better leave it then!" and he disappears back to his desk while I feel more and more like a monster.

A few minutes later, he shows me the photoshopped version. It looks like me, but I still don't like what I see. Each of my cheeks and my chin form a noticeable triangle around my smile. Maybe that's the human form, but it looks awkward on me. They say I look friendly and helpful in my photo, but all I see is a big face of awkward- the same as that 7th grader whose face hadn't caught up to her lips yet and sported braces and had cowlicks in her hair.

"I bet you took really great school photos," the designer remarks.

I think back to my 7th-grade self, "Nope."

I wonder if my predecessor will pick up the new issue of the magazine. I wonder if she'll stare at my photo now in the upper-right corner and I wonder what she'll think about me.

Yeah, I'm okay. I'm still here

The rumor of layoffs had been circulating for about a month. I'd get a phone call from my friend in IT and he'd whisper any new information in hushed tones. We exchanged anything we knew about secret meetings in which all the managers suspiciously had the same time blocked off their Outlook calendars. More than once, he called to tell me it was happening tomorrow, when in reality it never did.

But the last time he called, I had the feeling. This was it.

At 7 a.m. the next morning, I sat at my desk reading the morning news and any e-mail. A new e-mail from Mike popped on my screen, with a link to MSN Money. It detailed the company's third quarter outcome and announced plans to lay off 20% of the staff. I was stunned that I had to read it off the Internet before my manager said anything to us personally.

Within the hour the sheriff's department showed up. They guarded the exits and paced the hallways. The communication between Mike and me ceased. We were too busy focusing on ourselves and most likely just sitting in fear. I looked at my calendar, searching for signs that they planned to keep me. I had a training in the morning, but no meetings scheduled after that. I had no meetings scheduled for the rest of the week, nor the rest of the month. As if fate heard me sigh, at that moment I received a meeting request for that afternoon. I sighed again, this time with relief, and accepted it. Then I looked over the other members in the meeting and saw that it was my boss, my boss's boss, and my boss's boss's boss. My imagination told me it was the meeting where they would let me go. I frowned and sank in my swivel chair.

My boss came to get me for the training we had scheduled, as we walked to his car I knew I couldn't keep my anxiety in anymore. "Am I being fired?!" I blurted.

"No, you're safe," he laughed. "Unless I'm being misled, most of our department is safe. He listed off the particular people, and I noticed he didn't include everyone, but I kept that thought to myself. He started the car and pulled down the road, past IT's building.

Finally at ease and relaxed for the first time in weeks, I opened up, "Well it's pretty scary that they bring the police in to fire people."

"Yeah, they like to be official about this kind of stuff," he explained. This wasn't his first mass layoff experience at the company. "They go through the buildings and finish up by lunch. After lunch we'll have a departmental meeting where they announce who was let go and how we'll proceed."

I chewed on my lip and thought of the press release from the Internet. It said that the most of the employees being let go were people who didn't interact with the customers. I don't interact with any customers, neither does Mike in IT. Although I knew I was safe, I was still worried for him.

After the hour-long training, my boss and I exited the main building. It just happened to be raining that day, harder than it had in months. I zipped up my raincoat and pulled the hoodie strings tight. It was such a miserable day. Ahead of me, an older woman was walking through the parking lot with a single cardboard box. I didn't think anything of it until I saw the collage of her gray tabby poking out the opened top. There must have been six different pictures of her cat in various impromptu moments. I studied the woman's face: it was stone cold with red-rimmed eyes. I swatted my boss with my training materials.

"Oh, I didn't even notice," he whispered.

I buckled the seat belt in his car, and then turned around to inspect the front door. Three more people followed out, rolling their oversized briefcases behind them. "We're so far away from everyone else, I bet they're going to do our building last," I supposed.

"No," he corrected. "They're already done with our building."

I came back to my desk with the news that our small team of five was one person lighter. 20% lighter. Our department of 40 was 6 people lighter in total. I was told we were lucky to lose so few people. Entire operations shut down in other states. It was 10:30 a.m. and the local newspaper already picked up on the layoffs and covered it on their home page.

Mike sent me an e-mail titled "MY TEAM IS SAFE," but it detailed how he witnessed groups of 15 and 20 going into conference rooms and afterwards only 2-3 people would go back to their desks. I picked up the phone and called him, "How are they doing this, like American Idol? If I read your name, take a step forward. The rest of you can go."

"I don't know, but I nearly had a heart attack when one of the head boss's secretary came over with a clipboard and declared, "You're not supposed to be here anymore! Apparently we're moving cubicles, but the way she said it, I thought they lied and were letting us go."

That morning, there was a lot of walking up and down the hallway outside my cubicle. I couldn't decipher if it was people nervously pacing, people rushing to the bathroom to gossip, or people carrying their things to their cars. I was afraid to leave my desk.

We took an early and long lunch. We really didn't have a whole lot to say to each other, but we couldn't stand being in the office anymore. The environment was eerily silent as the remainders reflected on what just happened. I wish they had let us go home early after the uncomfortable afternoon meeting where they read the list of people fired. They should have let us regroup and come in fresh the next morning, but instead we sat at our desks. No one worked as personal calls were made: Yeah, I'm okay. I'm still here. I think the bosses knew we weren't working, but as long as we pretended to, it was good enough for the afternoon.

At home, Scott jumped up and down when he heard I made it through unscathed. Because we're one income family, we couldn't have made it if I had gotten laid off. But I couldn't share his jubilance. Inwardly I was relieved, but I couldn't be happy. It was such a miserable, long, oppressive day that I just wanted it to be over. "I'll be happy tomorrow," I told him, "But for now, I'm going to bed."

I chose poorly

(Click for big)

Breaking Up: Work Edition

As a writer, I felt like a total hack plagiarizing my letter of resignation from about.com. Granted, I replaced the County Library System with my own place of employment, and I tweaked it so as not to sound as airheaded as Dr. Tammy Powley ("I consider just about everyone I have met here to be friends of mine now," really? Just about? So there are people you don't consider a friend? Is it the person you're handing the letter to? And what's with the superfluous "now"? You have a PhD and you're seriously using that sentence?) Most people I know take a delicious pride in their resignation letters, carefully inserting such phrases as "previously unattainable opportunity" and "aptly rewarding compensation," and then deliver the letter with a broad smile and jazz hands. However, I was scared. I like the people and the commute and I'm safe here. Changing jobs is risky, so I wanted my letter to remain neutral to possibly receive a counter offer.

Instead of a counter offer, I got "You don't have to come talk to me about this," and "if you do stay, I'll know you're looking for another job," and finally, "When you put your two weeks in, that's it. You can't take it back and you'll be gone even if you change your mind." I sat in my boss's office dumbstruck. She didn't give me one word of encouragement whether I should stay or go. She told me to take the weekend to think about it and I walked out of her office with my resignation letter still in my hand.

I walked straight into my co-worker Dan's office and pointed to my boss's direction with tears rolling down my cheeks. I told him how I was threatened . "I'm sorry I'm crying," I said. "I'm just so frustrated. I didn't even quit yet!"

"You were caught off guard," he justified. "It would have tripped anyone up. I certainly didn't see her reacting like that."

I checked the clock. 4:45 p.m. "When are you leaving today?" I sniffed.

"Right now. Let's go." He stood up from his desk and we both walked out of the office 45 minutes early. On my way out, I passive-aggressively shoved my plagiarized resignation letter in the CFO's mailbox. We went to a bar and ordered 24 oz. cans of Miller Lite, the happy hour special. I sat at the table, tears still streaming. I was so hurt and embarrassed that I put in 2-1/2 years at a company that didn't give a damn about me. My stomach was in knots over my quitting, because I felt like I was screwing the company and leaving them without an editor and web guru. I cut my summer vacation short so I could give them more of my two weeks notice, when the July 4th week had been my scheduled vacation for months. And they didn't care. I never felt so small in my entire life.

I was assured that I am winning in the long run. That I'm getting this great new job, writing print advertisements for a major global company. This job will open so many new opportunities for me, not to mention my Big Fat Raise. I found out about my current loyalties sooner rather than later, and it all just proves that I made the right decision.

But I still regret not going in there with jazz hands.

This Morning

This morning I increased my net worth by $10,000.

In which finding a new job is like finding a new boyfriend

I walked in my coworker's office unannounced, closed the door behind me, and got comfortable in his chair. Dan raised an eyebrow at me and paused his music.

I took a deep breath. "So you know I got a call back for that one application, right? The one I felt least qualified for, but submitted my résumé anyway? Well he called me last night. Actually it was yesterday afternoon. It was 4:40. But I didn't pick up the call because I didn't recognize the number, and I didn't call him back yesterday because it was so close to the end of the day. Anyway, Mike talked me into calling him back at 9 a.m., even though I didn't want to. I thought it was too early and wanted to wait till midmorning. But stupidly I called at 9 a.m. and—of course—he didn't pick up. So I left a message. I wish I didn't leave a message: that way I could keep calling every 20 minutes until he picks up the phone, but now that I left a message I'll look like a crazy stalker. What if he doesn't call me back? When can I call again without looking desperate?" I resumed breathing again.

Dan by this point had raised his other eyebrow and dropped his mouth open a little. "First of all, Sarah, calm down. It's not like looking for a job is like--"

"Finding a date? It exactly is! I have to be breezy. I have to pretend I don't need this job. I am perfectly happy and content staying at my current job. When in reality, I want this job. I want a new job so much that I'm now sitting in your office with the door closed analyzing phone messages. I actually brought my phone in here and played the message for you! What do you think girls do, Dan?"

"I would keep calling until he picks up."

I stood up and leaned over his desk, "And that's why you're single, Dan," I hollered. "You have no game!" And with that, I stomped out of his office.

Instead, I chose to play the dating game. So I did what any girl would do. I called my friend who actually works at the company and had him check the company schedule to see at what time my contact would be free and at his desk, readily available to answer my phone call. And then I called 15 minutes after that.

***

This morning I got up and cheated on my employers. I dialed work when I knew no one would be in yet, prepared to leave a cryptic message about my whereabouts. I didn't want to lie, but if I sounded sick and they just happened to think I was sick, that's no fault of mine.

I pulled out nicer clothes than I normally wear to my job. Then I put on a full face of makeup— something my job hasn't seen since my first month there. And then I drove to another job.

The interview went well. The interview went really, really well. I Googled the company before the date and read up on background information. I asked insightful questions and laughed at the appropriate times. And when it came to expectations, I held my cards.

He said he'd let me know by the end of the week. Waiting three days to call, I thought, how so very like him.

Overheard

Female Coworker: Did you do anything for St. Patrick’s Day this weekend?

Male Coworker: No, not really. It’s just not a big holiday for me.

FC: It is for me. I’m Irish.

MC: So what did you do?

FC: Nothing. I had to babysit my brother.

MC: How old is your brother?

FC: 23.

MC: So why did he need a babysitter?

FC: Because he gets wasted and acts like a retard.

"Brighter Pastures," and Other Idioms that Describe both Work and Death

This year's annual review went a little better than last year's. For one, I knew I was getting a raise from back during that whole two monitor kick in the face. I'm still the butt of jokes at the office because of that, by the way.

The raise was nice and blah, blah, blah, I'm still going to leave the company. Mainly because of two comments my boss made. Bright lady as she is, she is completely socially inept.

"My ideal employee is one who can read my mind and do the work without me having to tell them to," she said when talking of her expectations. I smiled and waited for the inevitable but. But that's impossible! or But that's just plain crazy talk! or even But you'll do! The but never came and I felt my smile wobble until it was some sort of awkward grimace: lips curled back, teeth exposed. The lady was serious.

"So what are your plans after you work here?"

"Huh?"

"I mean, you obviously don't want to do this forever..."

This position? Not so much, but that's what things like promotions are for, right? You know, growing with the company? So I began to ramble about different aspects of the job I enjoyed. Writing company press releases and web design is fun, perhaps you'll create a marketing department and I can head that?

"No, I meant other plans," she clarified. "Like your coworker says she wants to go to grad school. What about you?"

Oh, you mean my job is a complete stepping stone and that there's nowhere for me to go in this company. That the word career apparently doesn't apply to me. And by the looks of this conversation, you don't expect me to be here this time next year, waiting for another raise. You plan instead to get some other chump out of college and pay them monkey wages instead.

I feel you now.

Evil Genius @ Work

A couple of months ago I asked for a raise, arguing that I had outgrown my position at the company. N had left and I was taking the senior position, including senior responsibilities; it seemed only natural to be paid accordingly. That and I recently discovered the receptionist was making more than me.

I was denied my request and told to "be patient." Instead, I received a second monitor for presumably double the work.

So you can see why I did not laugh when I saw this morning's Dilbert cartoon:

Work Flub

Sarah: Hey, boss. I'm doing the website updates and I notice the support plan for our software is increasing by exactly 1,000%. Is that right?
Boss: I know we raised the prices, but let me check. (Flips through some papers) Yep. That number is right.
Sarah: Oh, are we just trying to price ourselves out so no one will buy it anymore?
Boss: (Through gritted teeth) No, Sarah.

Why working sucks

Work continues to be padded-room crazy. The Hairless Chimpanzees, liking the work I do to maintain our company website, decided that I was cheap enough skilled enough to redesign our entire website.

In 5 weeks.

And, uh, I never took a course or even read a book on HTML and CSS; I've just picked everything up through my four years of blogging. Which means when my boss asked me to sit down and provide her with a project schedule, my head screamed, "How the #%$&! do you schedule in spending three hours on a margin that won't behave!?"

I'm used to working under the radar, and having weekly meetings with THE BOARD isn't exactly a position I want to be in. They can tell if I screw up so much easier when they're flapping at my desk every two minutes.

At first I was really excited about the redesign: I could use my artistic eye and fix a lot of problems I saw with our current website. My philosophy was if I wasn't interested enough to read the words, then no one was. I planned more white space, huge margins, a sidebar, clean lines, and a non-monochromatic color scheme. But while I was gone for Good Friday, THE BOARD redesigned my redesign and we're back to four different shades of blue and words jumbled every which way on the page.

It's very... whimsical.

(It's like when Word first came out and people realized they could have wavy text and shadow letters, and no one had quite figured out yet that they were ugly. Kinda like that. And by "kinda like that," I mean "exactly like that." Yes Virginia, wavy text and shadow letters are involved. Oh thank God they haven't figured out there is such a thing as blinking text.)

So this project has gone from something that I could ask for a raise and put on my résumé, to "No, Future Employer, my company does not have a website."

And frankly, when I get home the last thing I want to do is fight with Blogger and bang my head over more web stuff. I have stories. The boy is still around, but we've both been crazy busy (me with the Hairless Chimpanzees and him with whatever he does. He's IT and works for a website that's been having server problems while rebranding itself through the takeover of several smaller websites. The Wonderful World of Web.)

So that's me. I'm alive. Still kicking.

Damning the Man.

Work = 1, Sarah = 0

After this past week, I have finally come to the realization that it is absolutely phenomenal that my company produces a product that actually works.

I wouldn't normally expect that from a bunch of high-strung, drama-seeking, hairless chimpanzees.

Confessions of Selling Out

"I spend a lot on all the clothes that I got
Cuz all the geeks that I meet, they all look cooler than me...
Tell me I sold out, Tell me I sold out go ahead"
-- The Marvelous 3, "Freak of the Week"

I came home Friday afternoon and found a note taped to my door. It's time to renew my lease on my loft. I knew the rent was going to increase exponentially, which was why I was so grateful when I got my raise at work because all it meant was that I wouldn't have to move.

I grabbed the paper and opened it. I was expecting an increase somewhere between $80 and $100 a month. So wouldn't you believe I almost fell over when I saw that they increased my rent by $115 a month. My threshold was $100 and that extra $15 just hurt.

So I went down to the leasing office armed with floorplans and pricing from the competitive lofts down the street and threatened to move there unless they lowered my rent. They agreed to knock my rent increase from $115 to $100 a month, and then took another $100 off one month's rent for renewing early.

Still feeling broke, I took a second job to help afford me my yuppie lifestyle. This blog sold out and went corporate. That's right, I sold my soul and became a corporate wordwhore.

Nothing will change except for a completely random post about once a week that has nothing to do with me. And understand that I would not have taken this route had the evil complex not raised my rent by $100 freaking dollars a month.

I love my yuppie poseur way of life.

Meeting

It was a holiday for the underpaid
Everybody got a haircut and lemonade
-- Angie Aparo, "Spaceship"

"Will you come into my office, please?"

Oh fuck.

"Shut the door behind you."

Double fuck. Fuckity fuck.

"Fuck."

"What did you say?"

"Nothing."

She picks up an envelope off her desk and tries to hand it to me. "Open this, please."

I just eye it suspiciously, refusing to touch it. "Is it pink?"

She laughs, "No. We're offering you a raise." She extends her reach again.

This time I grab the envelope.

"When you get a minute come see me."

My entire department is out of town this week, leaving only me. It's quiet. I'm a bit lonely. I've spent all my time on the internet (which explains my sudden increase in blog postings, I can just sit here and think things up).

Yesterday afternoon was spent digging around in other people's archives. It's interesting to see how people got to the points where they are today. An e-mail pops up on my screen from a higher up whom I assume is my boss for this week: "When you get a minute come see me."

Shit. Shit. Shit. She knows I've done NOTHING this week and now she's going to fire me. Or at least have a stern talk with me about internet privileges. A warning. I'm going to get written up.

I knock on her office door and she invites me to sit. She, however, does not ask me to close the door. I lighten up a bit-- when they fire you they ask you to close the door. Her head is bent scribbling something down and there is a pause before she speaks. I begin to panic again. She leans back in her chair and takes off her reading glasses, "So how are yours and E's dating lives?"

I breathed a sigh of relief. I'm so not getting fired. E and I are the only single people in the entire company which is why we've gravitated towards each other. This higher up is neither of our bosses and she likes to live through us and find out what we're up to. E and I always have some crazy plan.

I laughed, "Well we're on perfectmatch.com for this month. E is doing much better than me. She's e-mailing 3 complete hotties and I think she really likes a police officer."

"Have they met yet?"

"No, but they are talking about it. I think they are going to make plans when she gets back in town."

"Well what about you?"

"I haven't had such good luck. I went out with this lawyer who turned out to be a dud. I've had a few people take interest in me, but that seems to be dissipating. It's tough, you know?"

"Yeah. You really have to treat a relationship like you would a job hunt. You really have to put forth quite an effort." She proceeds to give me an activity list of single's events she used to partake in not too long ago.

"We have a goal you know."

"Oh yeah? What's that?"

"We're trying to get dates for the Christmas party. Screw the holidays, we just want an escort for the Christmas party."

She laughed so hard I thought she was going to pee in her pants. "I like that. You're keeping things light!"

Yeah, so not getting fired. I must call E though and let her know about the conversation, because I know this higher up will corner her one day, asking about her date with the police officer.