Things have been a bit hectic what with the full time gig, the holidays and whatnot. But the holidays are pretty much over and, with any luck, I will remain gainfully employed for the foreseeable future. So my choices as I see them are either make some time to write or bail and bailing is just not an option. Remind me to Google time management later. Do you think that they sell extra hours in the day on Amazon? They sell everything else.

I have found time, of course, to watch the Real Housewives of everywhere, my daily DVR’d dose of The Young and the Restless and many episodes of Hoarders and Intervention. I did draw the line at the Hoarders episode for which the trailer promised an infestation of rats. A possum or two, many cat carcasses and piles of unidentified feces are apparently fair game, but a man covered in rats, not so much. Good to know I have limits.

Speaking of good/bad TV, The Bachelor has returned to prime time and brought with it my car-wreck-gapers-reflex. But other than a fang toothed model, a dentist in a bad gold lame dress (with yellow tulle??) and your garden variety Fatal Attraction gal named Michelle (is it the name?), there might not be enough crazy to keep my interest. Oh who am I kidding? I will watch. I always watch.

In actual news, mah beloved Bears are participating in the biggest football game to hit the Midwest in about seventy years on Sunday and I can hardly eat. We are playing the Green Bay Packers, our (and I realize that I am not part of the team, but I choose to use the collective anyway) arch-enemy, for the NFC Championship title and a ticket to that big game that must not be mentioned lest we jinx ourselves. It is a wonder I have been able to focus long enough to write this. But I am on probation and I wouldn’t want to risk ticking off my boss.

It has been awhile coming, but honestly, I am so grateful on so many levels for the opportunity. I know how many people are looking for work and have been unemployed for unfathomable periods. I know how many people are struggling financially and, I imagine, psychologically. I can only count my lucky stars for the perfect storm of circumstances that lead me to this position.

I am also grateful on another level. Five years ago, even three years ago, I would not have been in a position, psychologically or emotionally, to accept this opportunity. I had to learn to live with out my best frenemy booze: a toxic relationship and a difficult breakup. I have also had to navigate my way out of the quicksand that is depression. Both will be ongoing battles but I am appropriately armed now.

The workplace has not changed all that much in my absence. People are talking about last night’s television between cubes, but now it is about Jersey Shore instead of The Real World. Fantasy football has replaced the outdated betting brackets. Instant messaging now camouflages the extended gossiping that used to take place at the copier. There are still happy hours, but the drinks have gotten more expensive. Oh, and I won’t be the one who drinks too much and becomes the topic of the aforementioned gossip in this iteration of my corporate life.

It is nice to be back among the living. I wasn’t exactly under a rock, but I wasn’t really out there either. So far I am taking to my new day gig like a fish to water. Speaking of fish and other odiferous food items, going forward I will have to remember that offices are a shared environment. A giant head of cauliflower purchased at the farmer’s market during one’ s lunch hour does nothing to improve the odor of one’s cubicle nor does said odor serve as a particularly good way to start a conversation with your new colleagues/neighbors.

I am sorry, I realize that things have changed over the last twenty years, but it isn’t as if I brought an abacus to math class. There were motor vehicles and televisions when I attended college. And I really don’t think the fundamental premises of business management (my major) have changed that drastically. In that I haven’t lived in a cave and have practiced both business and management during the elapsed time, the major changes that have occurred have affected me as well. I am vaguely familiar with the Internets and those new fangled smart phones. I know about social media. I tweet.

Once I had gotten permission from my original college to take two 300 level management courses at another accredited college or university to complete my degree requirements, I thought the hard part was over. It took the better part of four months, many emails and phone calls to accomplish that. It never really occurred to me that said accredited university wouldn’t happily take my money and let me register for a couple of classes. I could understand the need to see my transcripts to be certain that I had some core knowledge, but that they were “aged” (their term)? I was told that my transcripts wouldn’t even qualify me to transfer into the school. I was, needless to say, disappointed.

But as it usually goes, now I am angry. At what point did my education become obsolete? If I had completed my requirements for a degree would it also be considered to be obsolete? Is there some continuing education program for college degrees that I am aware of? Am I expected to start all over again as a freshman? Seriously, I can’t afford to gain the freshman fifteen.

Now I am back at square one and with a bit of a chip on my shoulder, but not enough to go all Norma Rae on the situation. It is hard enough to get the gumption up to try and fix one of your life’s regrets without having the people who should be helping, shut you down. I remain convinced that I will find a college or university that will accept my antique transcripts and I will just continue to look for it. After all, Bob reminded me about those really old people who get their degrees. And while that is inspirational (in an insulting sort of way) I would prefer not to actually be really old when I accomplish this.

Then came the second reduction income, really just an adjustment to the first. I began to panic. I admit there were tears and not just about letting the cleaning lady go. But I had a plan. Time to put on my big girl panties and get a full time job that pays actual money. My bonbon-eating life of leisure was coming to an end (’cause two part time jobs is kind of like that). No problem, right? Except for that little recession thingy and those annoying unemployment hoozits. Oh yeah, those things.

While I have had prolonged job searches in the past, this time is different on many levels. This time I am old(er) and it has been some time since I worked in the industry I want to return to. This time I am sending out emails (I said it has been some time, didn’t I?) without contact names with which to follow up. This time I have emailed my resume out a bazillion times for positions that I am confident that I am qualified for and I HAVE NOT RECEIVED ONE RESPONSE. Seriously, not one single response. That sound you hear is my self esteem crashing to the ground and shattering.

So I did what any rational person would do, I checked my spam blocker to see if my settings were too high (the 2010 equivalent of checking to make sure your phone still has a dial tone). They weren’t. I checked my spam folder and found only spam. Then last week I decided to check my home voicemail because, while it is my cell phone number that is listed on my resume, well, I don’t know why actually. Just hoping. And there was a message from a professional sounding person asking me to call him back. I didn’t even listen to the whole message. I sat in traffic, congratulating this person for seeing past my patchy resume and realizing that I was quality people. What a visionary. I began planning the interview in my head; I was overcoming objections and explaining my experience all the way home. When I arrived at home and listened to the message in its entirety, I discovered that I was overdrawn in my checking account.

To add more insult to injury, I busted out all my best interview attire (for the interview that I may get someday) and it appears that I have, in fact, completely let myself go. I fit into none of my suits, the nicest of which still has tags on it. And to be clear I am not a doughnut or two away from fitting into these things, I am a three to six months of Jillian Michaels away. I took the suit with the tags on it to a tailor who politely suggested that I take up running by the lake as there was not enough excess fabric to accommodate my newly enlarged ass. The crunching you hear now is someone in steel toed boots stomping on my shattered self esteem.

I have heard from others, both younger and with better resumes, that this is the most difficult job market they have encountered. I know it is not just me. I also know that my wonky resume isn’t helping and my age may be working against me. But most importantly I know that I will eventually find a job that pays well and that I enjoy. The sound you hear now is me sweeping up the shards of my self esteem in a dust pan. With a patience and faith and a sense of humor, I can put it back together.

I work part time in what I lovingly refer to as “The Mommy Mall” and most of the time that is great. We have mostly delightful customers who have equally delightful children. I especially like the ones in strollers. (And may I take this moment to comment on the evolution of the stroller? Some of these things look like they were engineered by NASA.) I really enjoy the opportunity to chat with the adorable little cherubs, only some of whom look at me as if I were an alien.

Our particular store, however, is filled with sharp objects and more glassware than you can throw a toddler at. Please be forewarned: if you allow your children to treat the cook’s tool area as a toy box, I will have to hover to make sure Violet doesn’t lose a digit. If you permit your child to bang away on a $50 All Clad splatter screen while you chat on your iPhone, I will glare. Please don’t make me wrestle this object away from little Seraphina, because she may wail and interrupt your conversation.

If your child adopts an item that you are unwilling to purchase, may I suggest that you ask for it once and then retrieve said item from your child. Yes, I realize Brooks may cry and, while I am not a big proponent of making children cry, I may become homicidal if I have to listen to you negotiate unsuccessfully for twenty minutes. A retail environment is really not an appropriate place to let your children come to their own conclusions or whatever new age parenting method you are pursuing. On that note, I know that it is beyond thrilling that Asher is beginning to walk, but please steer him away from the Reidel crystal (and out the door) if you don’t mind.

While it may seem harmless to allow your children to play with kitchen tools in your home, it is not appropriate in a store. We are attempting to sell these items. When they have been in your child’s mouth they become decidedly less appealing, especially if your child is teething. I don’t know about you, but the only tooth marks I want on my spatulas are my own. The flour sifter you have at home may have been built to withstand sifting a plastic display lemon, but I can assure you, our floor model was not. Also some of the electronics are actually plugged in, so please, please, please do not let Charlotte press the buttons. We all love to press buttons, but let’s keep it to the ones in elevators, shall we? Unless of course, you want to mop up the double espresso that is shooting all over the floor.

Let me be clear, I love children. I really do. And being childless, I appreciate the opportunity to coo and gurgle at babies and have silly conversations with toddlers. I am simply allergic to unsupervised and overindulged children. And I judge their parents. I just do.

The first thing about my office that now strikes me as crazy is that we were allowed to smoke, not only inside the building,  but at our desks. I was a casual smoker when I began the job, but I soon graduated to junior varsity chain smoker as the boredom set in.

I reported to five up-and-coming, young, stock broker types who spent their days cold calling unsuspecting blue collar business owners to pitch the latest stock recommendations to come down from Dean Witter’s crack research department. All day long these young men would read their own personalized version of the script of the week, over and over and over. “Hi, Mr. Jones, yes this is Bill Smith with Dean Witter. Just wondering if I could take a minute of your time to tell you about blah, blah, blah?” Some prospects would hang up and some would wait to hear more. One such young man spent a full week calling all his prospects to keep them “up to breast” on a situation. We listened and we let him.

I was responsible for answering the phones of those broker types, particularly those who wanted to give the impression that they were more successful than they were. I was also responsible for copious amounts of copying – we had no regard for copyrights or trees in those days. My main function, however, was to type the names and addresses into copied form letters that would be sent with various investment literature or account documentation.

The job was mind numbing, but the industry was dynamic and most of the people I worked with were great fun. We were all young, fledgling alcoholics and happy hour was every night.  We girls didn’t often have to pay for drinks, as it was well known that we made less than no money. The jokes were all off color and no one thought to be offended. The idea of appropriate workplace conduct was completely unknown. By today’s standards there would have been at least one sexual harassment suit a week. Office relationships abounded and many were of the extramarital variety.

And to be clear – this was all in the eighties, not the Mad Men sixties that is all the rage now.

We danced in the aisles, literally. We swore openly and with gusto. We had liquid lunches. We napped on the lady’s room couch after late nights and paged one another when our lunch hour had ended. We photocopied our boobs. We made lifelong friends. We may have been the least professional people in the entire professional world.

I didn’t know it then, but it was perhaps the best first job ever.

I work in an office where these two kittys roam free.  They step on the phones, occassionally disconnecting people.  They shuffle the papers and rub and purr and make for a warm and weird workplace.  And they have these wrestling matches that elicit wails and moans from both.  In the midst of the battle they break to clean each other.

I am an animal person first, but more dog than cat.  Maybe all cats do this, but probably not in your office. I don’t find my work environment hostile – but that is only because I am not a cat.