What to do with my life?

I used to spend half my day at work catching up on my blogs while writing my own posts. Since I'm not currently working, I don't exactly have the same routine.

I've been studying like crazy for the GREs, applying to grad schools and going on lots of job interviews. I also don't have a working computer in my apartment so I've been hitting up the Arlington library and stealing The Hoff's whenever I can.

My life just feels so chaotic lately because I have no clue what I'm doing with myself a few months from now. I could be in Richmond for grad school or still be in D.C. working. The only thing certain is that I will NOT be going back to my job.

I know I've somewhat alluded to it, but at the end of January I was called into my supervisor's office and told that I had been grouchy that week and that they had smelled alcohol twice.

I don't think I've ever been that shocked/mortified/appalled in my life. The first thing I did was vehemently deny being an alcoholic or ever drinking during work hours. I may enjoy my apple martinis, chianti and coors light, but I'm not stupid enough to jeopardize a job or my reputation. That's why happy hours were invented, after all - for the working girl to drink away her work problems cheaply AFTER 5 p.m.

Needless to say, I had a series of panic attacks and have been on leave since. The thought of going back is enough to make me feel like my chest is being crushed by a boa constrictor.

Anyway, the point of all this is to say I miss you, blogging world. In the words of Renee Zellweger, "You complete me." My professional life may be in shambles, but you have never failed me. And I promise to not be neglectful like I have been the past two months.

What it means to be a writer

Today marks shitty day number 224 at work. I've been there a year and a half, not by choice, but by necessity. Mama's got to bills to pay and red wine to buy.

I spent the day hovered over my keyboard, watching tears hit the keys one by one, rejecting any ounce of advice The Hoff solicited via gchat, because sometimes it's easier to sulk in misery than find a solution to the problem.

Here's my dilemma:

I'm on job #3 since graduating college three and a half years ago.

Job #1: Proposal writer for government contractor. First and only job offered to me upon graduation because it's the only one I applied to. I figured I'd be cool, since 'writer' was in the title. Yeah, um...not so much. I sucked at this job and finally decided after crying in the bathroom for weeks on end that I needed a change. It was around that time job #2 landed in my lap.

Job #2: Editorial assistant for two log home magazines and a timber home magazine. Gotta admit, I knew zero about log or timber homes. But I was applying what I learned in college, utilizing AP style, and editing documents on InDesign. Life was good. Until the economy went down the shitter, starting with the home industry, and my position was eliminated 14 months after I started.

Job #3: Information specialist for a government agency dedicated to women's health. Believe in the cause, not so much the organization. I essentially answer phone calls and e-mails from people who have the average IQ of a rock. I think I've mentioned I'm also a breastfeeding peer counselor before on this blog. I'm not sure how much talk of sore, chapped, cracked nipples I can tolerate.

Life is full of promise and opportunity when you graduate college. I envisioned myself as Kate Hudson's character in "How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days" or Jennifer Garner in "13 Going On 30," fashion magazine writer/editor by day and gallivanting girl about town by night.

Then, reality knocked me on my ass and I realized that you have to be Anna Wintour's goddaughter or have some divine intervention to be selected as an employee at one of the coveted fashion magazines. That is, if any of them survive this recession.

And I go to job # 3 day after day, knowing I'm better than what I'm doing, all the while being micromanaged by my supervisors. And all I really want to do is write. It's the only thing I've ever been above average at and the one thing that has consistently brought pleasure to my life.

But what do you do when you can't get paid to do your passion?

I watched "Julie and Julia" tonight, a movie any blogger can relate to, and Julie posed the question, "what does it mean to be a writer?"

-Do you have to be published to be considered a writer?
I'd argue no for the sole fact that numerous famous authors were never published during their lifetime, but that probably never affected their classification of themselves as a writer.

So how do you become a writer?

To watch Julie go through her own enlightenment, unfolding her talent and achieving her dreams made me realize something: If both Julia Child and Julie can go from government secretaries to published authors, then dammit, there may be hope for me yet.

But for now, I may not have a book deal or a movie offer, but I have this blog and that's incentive enough for now. Thanks for sticking around for the ride.

You're a Rotten, Mrs. Grinch

One of my superiors is quite the ray of sunshine.

You'd think during such a festive season, even the grumpiest souls could find joy somewhere in the depths of their cold hearts.

Not this woman.

Homegirl walks through the office looking like a 90-year-old hunchback with her arms folded over her chest and the worst posture I've ever witnessed. (Probably due to the stick up her ass.)

She could give Ben Stein a run for his money with her monotone voice and lack of facial expressions. She zaps any and all energy from the office because she has none.

This morning, I held the door to our suite open for her, and she didn't even acknowledge the gesture. No 'thank you,' no 'good morning.' Nothing.

I've met some of the most socially awkward people, and even they know how to say 'please' and 'thank you.' It's not a hard concept.

I avoid her like the plague. If I have to drop of something in her office, I wait until she leaves and then slide it under her door. And if, God forbid, I go to the kitchen to warm up my lunch and she's already there, I go back to my desk and wait five minutes until she'd done.

I just find it easier to interact with her as little as possible.

Wonder if there's any hope that her heart could grow three sizes and she would carve the roast beast? Now THAT would be a true Christmas miracle.

Where's Cindy Lou Who when you need her?

Miss Procras. and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad WEEK

Remember this book? I hadn't thought about it in years until I started brainstorming fun titles for today's post.

Mucho apologies for being MIA the past few days. I was so proud of myself for posting 4 times last week and thought-I've turned over a new leaf! I'll post more than once a week now! Yay me! Yeah, last week was clearly just a fluke.

But it's been a shit-tastic week. Let me explain-

Tuesday and Wednesday I was sick with a UTI. No matter how much cranberry juice I drink or how often I pee after doing the deed, I get these at least 5 times a year. F my life.

Then, today, I returned to work and was almost immediately greeted with a request to meet my supervisor in the conference room for a chat. (Just to refresh your memory, I was called into the conference room nine days ago because my dress shorts weren't considered office appropriate. This coming from a woman wearing a muumuu. But that's neither here nor there.)

Anyway, I sorta flipped my shit. I've been on my breaking point for weeks and this jolted me over the edge. I ran outside and called The Hoff to tell him I was going to quit. Luckily, he was in a more rational frame of mind and pointed out that a) I had yet to line up a new job and b) if I quit, I would have no health insurance.

I hate to admit it, but he raised two very legitimate points.

So, I went to the meeting, still pissed as hell, but not quite as gung-ho on giving my notice.

After being lectured for ten minutes, I was handed a memo. (To give you a synopsis of the memo, it basically stated that they are unhappy with my performance and attendance. You see, at the lovely company in which I'm employed, you have to accrue your sick days. That's right, ACCRUE. I would like to get my hands on the genius who thought of that. And since I didn't have enough PTO to cover my two sick days this week, they were not happy.)

Anyway, I wouldn't really consider a memo being an acceptable form of written communication regarding work performance, but what do I know. I read over it, found at least 20 typo-s, spelling and grammatical errors and was then asked if I had any questions or comments.

"Why yes, madame supervisor, yes I do. I'm not sure if you're aware, but you no longer need to add two spaces in between sentences. Also, the phrases 'becoming to the point' and 'more than often' are very stylistically awkward. Lastly, you may want to enroll in a basic grammar course to review comma usage."

No, I didn't really say that, but I wish I had.

Instead, I replied that I thought it would be best for both me and the company if I sought employment elsewhere. Considering the anxiety and stress from this job are what's affecting my health, it would benefit both parties for me to go on my merry way.

So, now the cat's outta the bag. No, I didn't give my official resignation, but they know I'm outta here on the first direct flight (read: job offer).

Btw, I know this topic is getting tired, so I'm retiring the rants regarding work. Hopefully my next job-related post will be to inform you that I got a new one!

The Donald is going to appear and yell "You're Fired!" any minute now

This week has been an interesting week at work. And not in a good way.

Yes, I was late every day, but that's standard. (Today I was only 9 minutes late, which I gave myself major kudos for.)

Tuesday, I wore a new pair of dress shorts I purchased from Banana last weekend. (They were this style, but tan.) I bought them specifically for work, and paired them with peep-toe brown heels and a dressy brown top. I couldn't wait to wear a fun, new outfit.

Around 11 a.m., I got an IM (yes, we use Instant Messenger at work-annoying as hell) from one of my supervisors that said, "Hi Miss Procras., may I speak to you in the conference room for a minute please?"

I knew this little chat was not going to go well. It's akin to being sent to the principal's office in elementary school. I could just hear the childhood taunts of "ooooooohhhhh! Miss Procras. is in troooooooouuuuuble!!"as I walked to the conference room.

Turns out, our little meeting was about my new shorts. Apparently they don't adhere to the company's dress code. Even though I've been wearing a gray and black pair all summer and even though another co-worker had on a pair last week (to which, my manager replied, that there is no rhyme or reason for who gets singled out.)

Now, I would have no problem with this policy if it were consistent. I would also have no problem if the dress code was more clearly outlined. When I first started, the dress code stated we could wear jeans on Friday. So, I wore jeans on my first Friday, then got a friendly IM that day stating our department does not allow jeans.

Does anyone else see a problem with this besides me? Why the F-ity F would you say something is okay to wear if it's not?! And why, if you're going to be anal, would you not be as specific as possible?! Especially since there are so many clothing options for women!

I was livid. I try really hard to project a professional, polished image at work. It's not like I go around, cleavage exposed, ass hanging out.

So I vented to The Hoff and my mom during my lunch break and drank a few cosmos after work. Cosmos cure all.

Then, on Thursday, The Hoff had a meeting he needed to leave for by 9 - the same time I needed to leave. I woke up, looked at the clock, and was horrified to see 9:45 flashing in front of me.

I rubbed my eyes. The time didn't change.
Thought maybe I had my days wrong and maybe it was actually Saturday. Pondered for a few seconds, and realized, unfortunately, it was Thursday. The Hoff had 15 minutes to get to Woodbridge while I was already 15 minutes late.

Panic set it.

As calmly as I could, I woke up The Hoff. I've never seen anyone fly out of bed as fast as he did. I've also never heard anyone curse that much. (Must be the Bahston in him.)

Honestly, neither of us can even remember the alarm going off. Definitely interesting explaining that one to the boss.

At this point, I'm so over my job I just don't care anymore. I keep telling myself to suck it up so I can continue paying my bills until I find something that actually falls in line with my career goals.

For my sanity's sake, I really hope that's sooner rather than later. (And before the Trumpster shows up.)

Thank the sweet baby Jesus it's Friday. Time to detox from work and intox (I know that's not a real word, but it should be) on alcohol!