September 30, 2005
I Quit.



That's it. I quit.


She spends the whole summer refusing to take my advice -- about antidepressants, about career direction, about avoiding daytime TV, about not locking herself away from the world for days and weeks and months at a time -- and now all of a sudden everything is *her* idea?

I don't THINK so.

She started her new job on Monday. For three interminable months, during her prolonged period of Temporary Unfortunate Voluntary Unemployment this past summer, I urged her to take the first decent offer that came along. "You can't afford to dilly-dally," I reminded her. She has bills to pay, after all. She's putting a Tot through college. She has a shampoo habit to support. In *my* opinion, as a professional Life Coach-slash-Hand Puppet, she couldn't afford to just sit around in her Happy Pants all summer, watching Made-for-Lifetime TV movies and popping pills like breath mints.  

But did she listen to me? Nooooooo.

She spent the entire three months turning down one perfectly not-completely-terrible opportunity after another. ("I don't waaaaaaaaant to commute to Berkeley every day," she whined. Or, "I don't waaaaant to be stuck at a receptionist's desk again." Or, "I don't waaaaaaant to boil steer carcasses at the gelatin factory.")  And then when the "right" job did come along -- when she finally got off her butt, got off the drugs, got back out into the world -- she actually had the nerve to take all of the credit for her success. 

"See?" she said to me. "I TOLD you it would be worth the wait." And then she waltzed off to Mervyn's to buy new underwear for work.

So   ...  that's it. I'm outta here.   

Good luck at your new job, Secra. I'll admit that it's a good fit for you, professionally and personally. You've got a groovy new title. You've got another nice lady boss. You've got an office of your own: no more front desk. Your new office is literally right around the corner from your apartment: you can walk to and from work every day. (Plus you can come home at lunch and catch forty minutes' worth of Made-for-Lifetime TV movies, if you're so inclined.)

It beats boiling steer carcasses behind a receptionist's desk in Berkeley.  I'll give you that.

But when it all falls apart, three weeks or six months or eleven years down the road ... when you decide that you're sick and tired of THIS job, and you want to take another big chunk of dysfunctional time off, just for kicks ... don't come crying to me.  

Call a Life Coach-slash-Hand Puppet who CARES.

Disgustedly yours,






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she'll be back to brag about all of this in person next week.
stay tuned.