My husband and I finally had an argument over this whole job thing last night… sort of remarkable, really, that it took us this long.
We are supposed to make our final decision about the new job today, and The Mid-Level Guy (T.M.L.G.) was supposed to get back to us yesterday morning with his counter-offer.
By 9 pm. last night we’d not heard a word, and began making plans about how to handle his silence. Tensions were a wee bit high.
We finally got T.M.L.G’s email at about 11 pm… no, he hadn’t heard yet from his superiors with the money part, but hey, before? When he said pretty dismissively that he couldn’t do anything for The Wife? Turns out maybe he could get Almostgotit a very low level, very poorly paid secretarial job in his own Development office after all, which could be a great entree into Development in general, which we all know is a growing and lucrative field.
Yes I do know, says I, to Mr. Almostgotit. And I’m trying very hard to appreciate his efforts.
But might I point out, says I additionally, That it’s the other city’s highest level Development/Advancement people (among others) who are calling me directly, on the phone (not just sending emails via my husband) and talking to me about writing and PR jobs in Development — instead of ignoring my updated resume altogether and offering an entry-level clerical job instead, citing my fracking “organizational skills?!?”
All else being truly equal, we both would rather stay in Tennessee, but
No one will ever just hand you a job, says Mr. A. You’ve got to try harder, or get another degree.
Maybe, counters I. But lots of people, especially those not occupying your own particular little part of the world, would say instead that the best way to get jobs is though connections, And how crazy am I to turn my back on this only time, ever, that so many people are going to bat for me, in the other city, right now??
(Besides, I add, much later. Besides. How can you say I haven’t tried??)
The man here is trying, says Mr. A. We should consider his offer. He’s right about it being an entree…
No, says I. If I wanted that kind of job, I could get one on my own. There are a million of them at The Institution that Shall not Be Named ( TITSNOB. *) Thank T.M.L.G for me, of course, but I am a terrible, terrible secretary. And I know exactly the job he’s talking about… I used to bring my paperwork to that person, buried in a basement office in a sea of filing cabinets and paperwork. That’s all she did. I’d die there. I’d DIE.
If you could get one of those jobs on your own, why haven’t you, says Mr. A.
Because I haven’t applied for any of those jobs, says I, a wee bit too loudly. And if I did want to be a secretary, I’d certainly not be one at TITSNOB, as the standard pay elsewhere in Knoxville is almost twice as much. I know, because I’ve looked into it, several times.
If we want to stay here, we need to find out more about the job, at least, says Mr. A. Do you even KNOW what you want?
Some, says I, voice stupid and wobbly. I know some of what I want. And I know I don’t want to be a secretary.
This isn’t just any secretarial job, says Mr. A., but could lead to higher things…
No it won’t, says I. It won’t. Name one secretary at TITSNOB who has ever gone on to other things, beyond more responsible secretarial jobs? Besides, there is so much paperwork at that place that I’d never have time for anything else. The world needs paperwork people, TITSNOB needs more than most, and some people are satisfied being paperwork people. Many paperwork people are delightful, but for me those jobs are a DISASTER.
Slight rolling of the eyes from Mr. A.
I’m not just being dramatic, or snotty, says I. I’ve failed in four clerical jobs, remember, and grown past them in any case? I keep wanting to push the envelope. I find the work-arounds that work better. I get in trouble in clerical jobs. I’m one of those people that OTHER job ads ask for: “A self-starter,” and that is exactly what TITSNOB does not want in its secretaries. I know that better than anyone else — remember?!?
We both have very mixed feelings, and clearly we are both a little whacky. But how I would love to thumb my nose at TITSNOB and ride the hell out of town without looking back. And how delicious it would be for everyone here to know that the deciding factor in our leaving was the great job someone else just gave to his wife — the formerly-known-pain-in-the-butt we call ”Almostgotit.”
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*Re TITSNOB: No, the acronym doesn’t really work, but that’s okay because TITSNOB doesn’t really work either.
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** Re Penelope Trunk: This post isn’t, strictly, like one of Penelope Trunk’s, because (a) I got my husband’s permission to talk about our argument and (b) I did not mention anyone’s genitalia, shaved or otherwise.
It may still be in the mid-nineties out there, but according to farmer’s markets all around Knoxville it is officially Autumn. The first home football game this weekend clinches it.
