Smile

This morning I opened the freezer door and finally decided I was never going to eat the bag of blueberries from the 2006 crop. I tugged the bag out from the back corner and deposited it in the trash with a heavy, frozen thud. Then I opened the refrigerator door and yanked out the chocolate cake that once had Good Luck Sarah! scrawled across the top in baby blue icing. My coworkers got it for me my last day of work, three weeks ago, and all that was left was a lonely Luck in the upper right-hand corner. I grunted as I put the cake on top of the trash and drug it to the door.

"What are you doing?"

I turned around and saw a sleepy Scott tie the terrycloth belt around the robe he "borrowed" from me a year ago.

"It's trash day. The valet is going to come by in a half hour to pick it up; I'm just putting it by the door for him." I grabbed my tea and my purse off the kitchen counter. "Sorry, I didn't think I was being that loud; I didn't mean to wake you."

"You want me to walk you out?" he asked, his hair still disheveled from sleep.

"Yeah, that would be nice! Wow, I've never seen you awake at 7:30 in the morning before." I chatted as we left the loft and headed into the parking garage. Scott was barefoot and still in his robe. The Femme Fatale trotted a few paces in front of us without her leash on. As a family, they were seeing me off to work. It was the very first time and it felt great.

As we entered the parking garage, the Femme Fatale ran full speed to her patch of pine straw where she takes her morning pee. I turned right and got in my car.

"Smile!"

I looked up and saw Scott standing a few paces away from me with a camera pointed in my direction. I bought a new car last night- late last night. The dealership had stayed open an extra two hours just to ink my deal, and when I was handed the keys to the biggest purchase of my life, it was dark out, the lights had all been turned off, and they were trying to shoo me out of the lot so they could lock it up. I turned to Scott, placing my old truck keys in his hand, and said I was sad no one could take a picture of me with my first new car.

Scott must have taken the moment to heart because here he was, standing barefoot in front of me with my pink camera clutched in his hands. "Smile!" he said again.

I held up my car keys and gave him the biggest grin I had.

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.

Sexity

"I think I'm going to see Sex and the City today," I said thoughtfully as Scott tied his shoes while getting ready for work one Sunday morning.

"No, don't go see it by yourself," he protested.

"Going to the movies by myself doesn't bother me. Really. I worked at a movie theatre for six years, I'm well used to seeing movies alone," I retorted. And because I worked at a movie theatre for six years, I never go anymore. I wait for them to come out on DVD and I order them through my Blockbuster on-line membership. But my father had given me a $25 gift card to the movies for my birthday, this was the only thing being released in the near future that I could stand making the trip to the theatre for and sitting upright for two hours.

"No, don't go alone," he said again. "I'll go with you."

"You heard me, right? Sex and the City?" I raised an eyebrow.

"I'll go see it with you!"

"I thought I was doing you a favor by going to see it alone!" I laughed.

"No, I'll go," he shrugged, acting all nonchalant, like this was a part of his boyfriend duties.

Over the past two weeks while we've been trying to get our schedules to coincide to actually see the movie together, I've replaced my Gilmore Girl-sized hole in my nightly routine with the Sex and the City discs I bought off eBay years ago. (I got the entire series for $40. The only downside is that it is from Taiwan and occasionally a Chinese character appears in the corner of the screen. But really who cares when you have the entire series for 40 bucks?) And while Scott carefully avoided the bedroom when Lorelai and Luke were on the TV, he always found an excuse to join me when it was Carrie and Big. "I miss you, baby," he'd say. "I don't mind watching it if I get to lay with you for a few minutes."

Eventually I got tired of waiting (and avoiding blog posts discussing it) and brought up the subject of going alone again, "Really, it's no big deal. I'm not going to do that girl thing and secretly pout because you wouldn't go with me." And after he protested yet again, it hit me.

My boyfriend is a closeted Sex and the City fan.

And as we sat in the theatre last night drinking my $4.75 Coke, the person who laughed the loudest was the man sitting behind us.

He Loves Me

We began with a bang. How cliché is that. What isn't cliché, however, is that the bang was me laying a Vespa down in the middle of the road.

That particular bang was a year ago, today.

At 12:01 a.m. Scott went outside to get something out of his bike while I climbed into bed and opened a book. He brushed back the curtain that separates the bedroom from the rest of the loft and carried a bouquet of roses and a card. "Happy anniversary, baby," he said.

The roses are beautiful; I've never seen anything like them. At first glance it looks like the petals are aging, but actually they're red with darker red tiger stripes. I tried looking the breed up this morning to see what kind they are, but I haven't found them yet. The card personified Scott's personality: it was sweet with a hint of romance, but it opted for the joke instead of exaggerated sentiment. It was like it was written for him.

"I decided to give you this tonight instead of tomorrow because I won't be here," he explained. "I asked the girls at work what I should do, and they said to give you this tonight, otherwise they said you're just going to sit at home alone tomorrow and stew. I'm sorry I can't be here."

The scheduling between us has been difficult. By the time he gets home from closing the restaurant, we only have about an hour before I have to go to bed in order to be up for the morning. He works weekends too so there isn't going to be an anniversary date. Not even a dinner. He even has to stay late tonight, so I'll probably be asleep before he gets home.

I understand this and I'm not upset over it. I was the one who wanted a better job for him; he took it for me. For us. And these are the consequences.

I spent the morning trying to think about my other one-year anniversary with The Alcoholic-- Mark and I split up three weeks before our one-year anniversary, so The Alcoholic would have been the only one. I wondered what I did all those years ago. How we celebrated. But I couldn't remember a single detail about it, not even what season of the year it fell on. It took me hours to realize that we didn't have one either. We took a break two weeks before our anniversary and got back together two weeks afterwards. This is the first time in my life I have ever made it an entire, consecutive year with someone. This is my first anniversary.

It makes me wish we could do more-- do things properly. But the fact I'm going to be spending tonight watching The Other Boleyn Girl while eating Chinese takeout doesn't even matter, because I think about all I have gained within the past year: I fell in love, I gained a partner, I gained a roommate, a car washer, a scratcher of backs, a lover. Someone who laughs when I painstakingly clean out the refrigerator, but forgot to turn it back on so everything in the freezer melts over my efforts. Someone who holds my hand during the season finale of Grey's Anatomy. And I am just so unbelievably happy.