A Millennial's Muse — Part 4: Irritated Sans Rash

Here read the true tales of a young twenty-something cubicle dweller by day – dreamer of "there's got to be more than this" by night – trying to find the moral of her everyday story. Walk with Jackie down cubicle lane every Wednesday as she humorously shares the pitfalls and high points of moving to a new city for her first job, building a life post 5 o'clock, and searching for meaning in every crevice of her stu-stu studio.

Dear Fellow Millenials,

In work, as in life, you have good days and you have days when you curse everyone under your breath. In the spirit of a bad day making you realize the value of an F-word-free day, I'll share some things that irked me as I acclimated to my first job. I promise to end on a high note.

Elusive Elevator Ecstasy

The security guard in the building where I worked quit. You know…the elevator miracle worker. How could she? Didn't she know that she was my Willy Wonka, the magic of my day? The guard's replacement – you were lucky if she was awake 30 percent of the time. The tone of lunch hour phone calls to my mom:

"Mom, guess what?"

Mom: "What cookie?"

"I had to push the button…again."

Mom: "Tomorrow will be better, don't you worry."

Elevator Fear Factor

You never know what you might encounter in the elevator of a large office building. On one memorable morning, I pushed the button for the 8th floor and a man pushed the button for the 3rd floor, but it required a swipe card. I asked him, "What happens on the 3rd floor?"

"[Name of media outlet in Asia]," he said. "We need extra security because we piss off a lot of people in Asia. Mainly the communists."

Great. So glad to be sharing a building with you. I then prayed that the building was equipped with a bunker.

A Very Lady Lunch

The average age of employees at the company was 25 years old. Quite often, I was invited to go to the communal lunch room where the aura of sorority life was resurrected. For my mental health, I usually went out to eat.

One day, I allowed my backbone to curve and went to the lunch room to become "one of the girls." Commenting on my brown-bagged edibles, one pledge said, "Your lunch looks fun!!" Fun? See, on planet Jackie, going to the movies, traveling across Europe, trying new restaurants – those things are fun. When did a granola bar become an amusement park ride?

Pe(e)ter

One of the executives, Pe(e)ter, concerned me. The route from Pe(e)ter's office to the restroom passed my cubicle (#8032), and he went 8 – 10 times an hour, without fail. Either he had a severely overactive bladder or was a compulsive hand washer. What made it weirder was that each time Pe(e)ter walked by my cubicle, he smiled, nodded and, depending on the time of day, bid me good morning/afternoon. Yeah, apparently not for you, Sir. And then in staff meetings I just had this recurring vision of Pe(e)ter asking someone to hand him toilet paper under the bathroom stall. Gross.

Jungle Fever

On morning jogs through the National Zoo, I developed an inappropriate flirtation with a cheetah and discovered the beauty of beginning the day with wildlife. Many a morning you could find me making kissing sounds in front of the cheetah exhibit, trying to beckon one spotted beauty in particular to the electrical gate that divided us and, on occasion, even waving to my new friend.

On my inaugural zoo jog, I called my mom (noticing a pattern?). Who jogs with their cell phone, you're wondering? See, before I left for college, my mom sat me down for an important talk, the kind where an indelible lesson is imparted.

She looked me straight in the eyes and said, "Pussy cat?"

"Yeah…?" (wondering why she used feline terms of endearment despite my severe allergy to cats)

Mom: "Never leave home without your cell phone."

"Ok."

Mom: "And never leave home without $5."

"Why?"

Mom: "Because you never know when you'll need a Diet Coke and a bag of Peanut M&Ms."

I looked at her wide-eyed and nodding, feeling like I was inheriting an overarching maternal truth. And that was that. The bulk of her work raising me was over, and I was left with a dependency on vending machines.

Back to the 6:15 am zoo phone call –

"Hi Mom. Guess what?"

Very groggy Mom: "What? What? Are you okay?"

"I'm great. I'm looking at a cheetah."

Mom coming to consciousness: "Jack, where are you?"?

"At the National Zoo, where else?"

Mom wondering where she went wrong: "Ohhh boy…be careful."

To this day, I wonder whether that cheetah was male or female. Any guesses?

In good times and bad,
Jackie

A Millennial's Muse — Part 3: All in the (Work) Family

Here read the true tales of a young twenty-something cubicle dweller by day – dreamer of "there's got to be more than this" by night – trying to find the moral of her everyday story. Walk with Jackie down cubicle lane as she humorously shares the pitfalls and high points of moving to a new city for her first job, building a life post 5 o'clock, and searching for meaning in every crevice of her stu-stu studio.

Dear Fellow Millenials,

What about not doing your job and still being paid for it? As much as I tried to fill the shoes of an Education & Programs Assistant during the beginning phase of my new job, I was bored and left unattended (baby's bassinet floating in Cubicle #8032) while my boss, who was also new, tried to find her bearings in our newly created department. Can't something be old or borrowed or blue?

I tried to pass time perusing the company's internal library of online resources. After reading an article on how to draft a Memorandum of Understanding (MOU) and another on the do's and dont's of negotiation, I resorted to peeling off old scotch tape from the surface of my desk. Then, I turned my attention to things like building mechanics and co-worker dispositions.

Spin Me Right Round, Baby, Right Round

Those initial mornings when I entered the building where I toiled, I met the weird stare of the security guard on duty. Observant one that I am (sometimes), I realized that others entered the building using the standard pull/push doors while I utilized the more ornate revolving door. Was it just there for decoration? Did I appear like a hillbilly just being introduced to her Beverly? Not one to cave in to peer pressure, I revolved the heck out of that contraption. What would you have done?

Elevator Ecstasy

The same security guard must have had a magical button behind her desk, because the elevator doors opened and the bell would ding the moment I appeared before them. Her timing…ohhh her timing. The first time I witnessed this simple miracle, I called home (story of my life).

"Mom, want to hear something amazing?" Then I'd reveal the elevator trick.

Each remaining day of that first month:

"Mom, guess what?"

Mom: "What, Sweetie?"

"She did it again."

It's All Relative

I'd like you to meet some characters who were integral members of my work family:

Top Gun
My boss – I called her Magnum. Why? Because she was a pistol. A tough cookie – the toughest – a biscotti if you will. She's the type of person who thought that being born in New York made her somehow cooler than people born elsewhere. I was born in South Beach, a place that exudes pretentiousness, and I'm not cool by birth. Not one bit. I was the president of the National Honor Society in high school. Brace yourself…and the president of the National Junior Honor Society in middle school. Birthplace is bologna.

Dark-humored Dan
Armed with a very dark brand of humor, Dark-humored Dan added just the right amount of bitter and spice to the workplace. If Magnum asked him to do something, he'd respond with, "Sure, but can I poke my eye out first?" or, "Do you mind if I kill myself after?" In the midst of stuffing envelopes for two days straight, he turned to me and said, "I think it would be more fun if I lit myself on fire."

The "Male" in Mailman
I'm pretty sure I could have broken the office no-dating policy with Renaldo, the middle-aged, heavy-set resident mailman. While I didn't receive a single piece of mail in my first few months, Renaldo never failed to park his mail cart next to my cubicle and say, "Let's see if we got anything for you today," with an exaggerated nod of his head, a raised brow and (if some higher power really wanted to punish me) a lick of his lips.

Hi-dee-ho, Friendly Neighbor
Just over the shared wall of my cubicle sat someone who I will always regard fondly as "Neighbor." Early on, I was terribly impressed by her phone etiquette. I also heard Neighbor talk to her dad often and thought to myself, she can't get through the day without a phone call home either? We were like the TV sitcom Home Improvement, only separated by a fabric partition instead of a wooden fence.

After a few weeks, I felt like I knew Neighbor really well despite having never spoken to or seen her. I had no legitimate reason to walk down her row of cubicles, so how would I ever see the face behind this now familiar voice? When curiosity eventually lit a fire under my seat, I opted to take the longest and most indirect route to the restroom (loo) and there she be. Definitely a face a cubicle neighbor could love.

Any Neighbors in your world?

Wandering yuppie,
Jackie

A Millennial's Muse — Part 2: Navigating New Terrain

Here read the true tales of a young twenty-something cubicle dweller by day – dreamer of "there's got to be more than this" by night – trying to find the moral of her everyday story. Walk with Jackie down cubicle lane as she humorously shares the pitfalls and high points of moving to a new city for her first job, building a life post 5 o'clock, and searching for meaning in every crevice of her stu-stu studio.

Dear Fellow Millenials,

My grand entry into the working world came and went without much pomp and circumstance (can't yet seem to let go of school benchmarks for comparison). I set three (3) alarm clocks and my cell phone to ensure that I would wake up on time for the first (and second, and third…and fifth) day(s) of work. My mom also called me at the designated wake-up time in case the batteries in all four (4) alarms (and who even knows how many she set) all happened to die on the same day at the same time. Comment if you have a neurotic Jewish mother (who you love more than anything).

Pajamas See the Light O' Day

Free coffee was served in the lobby of my building every morning, and while other caffeine-seeking residents came dressed in collared button-down shirts, I showed up everyday at 7:12 a.m. in pajama pants (usually bright-colored, not forgetting my roots with the Sunshine State) and a Gators t-shirt.

I would look around in hopes that someone else had joined the Victoria's Secret PINK collection pajama brigade – wearing pants with the word "PINK" (written in bright pink ink) stretched across their rear; butt my status as a trailblazer was consistently reaffirmed.

I'd take said coffee back to my living room (which was also my bedroom, kitchen, closet, and bathroom. Life in a studio…sigh), feeling proud to be an individual. Then I'd sip to the tune of The Today Show. Matt Lauer is a fine way to start the day. Trust me. Were you also devastated when Katie Couric bailed?

Button Up

Can we talk about work attire for a sentence or two? Pricey threads, kids. Each pair of lined, pleated pants at Banana Republic or Ann Taylor Loft are around $80. Add another $12 – $15 (in the District of expensive alterations) when you fall into the "good things come in small packages" height category.

With three (3!) as the dominant number in your salary, such circumstances were hard to reckon with. And as hard as you tried, nothing from your Urban Outfitters college wardrobe could pass for business attire (been there, looked dumb).

Making My Mark, One Staple at a Time

First day on the job, I checked my new email account and stumbled upon a treasure of a message with a username and password to order "new hire" office supplies from Staples. I believe the instructions said, "anything you need." In that instant, the multi-million dollar corporation I worked for basically handed me a license to kill (them…financially).

Look under the Jackie covers and you'll spot an obsession (likely incurable) for school (now office) supplies. Tied with chunky peanut butter, I think the annual back to school section at Target (and no, I refuse to say Tar-jay) is the best thing in life.

The Staples website became my new virtual playground. It didn't matter if the other kids weren't playing. Who needs friends when you can gorge yourself on iridescent thumbtacks and star-shaped post-it notes?

Large bold-faced headings – Office Supplies, Furniture, Technology Supplies – appeared on my wide-screen monitor (the width of which made me dizzy for a week until my eyes adjusted). Then, like a burp I never felt coming, 20 sub-topics within Office Supplies hit me…they hit me hard. Desk organizers, drawer dividers, highlighters and adhesives just to name a few. I didn't know where to begin, so I closed my eyes, clicked, and landed in the stapler category. Symbolic, you think?

During this virtual shopping spree, my boss stepped into Cubicle #8032 (without knocking first). I casually probed her to see how much her recent "new hire" order had been. She revealed, "$100, maybe a little more." I looked at my sub-total of $70 and thought to myself, what a wonderful world. I clicked the "continue shopping" button with conviction.

I was told that if I placed my "new hire" order before 3:00 pm, it would be delivered the next day, but anytime after 3:00 pm and it would arrive in two days (perish the thought). At 2:39 pm, I began to sweat. I'm proud to say that I pulled through for next-day gratification. Phew.

My boss returned (again without knocking) to tell me that the minimum office supplies order is $30, so when people need to re-stock and are under $30, they ask others in the office if they need anything. And I thought I had dreams before this job. I really couldn't wait for the day when someone in a cubicle neighboring mine would shout, "Anyone need some supplies?" and I could respond with, "I'm in desperate need of multi-colored paper clips!"

Faux-feeling professional,
Jackie

A Millennial's Muse – Part 1: Hello Cubicle, Hello World

Here read the true tales of a young twenty-something cubicle dweller by day – dreamer of "there's got to be more than this" by night – trying to find the moral of her everyday story. Walk with Jackie down cubicle lane as she humorously shares the pitfalls and high points of moving to a new city for her first job, building a life post 5 o'clock, and searching for meaning in every crevice of her stu-stu studio.

Dear Fellow Millennials,

A Millennial's Muse draws open the curtains of the window into my young professional's soul. Today begins an anecdotal series of revelations detailing the peculiar, perplexing and playful journey of the last 20 months spent in Cubicle #8032 somewhere in the nation's capital. Beginning with the deliberative acceptance of a job offer and ending with the awkward terrain of two-weeks notice, this virtual journal o' mine will contemplate work/life equilibrium ("balance" is so overdone), longer than legal lunch hours (please don't tell), happy hours redefined, family relationships when all members are now "adults," extracurricular amusements, and mo'(re).

Who This Be?

Who am I to be a distinctive millennial voice? I'm not much different from you, really. Perhaps shorter, as I barely meet 5'2" on the measuring stick. I experienced the quintessential first job after college and, like Billy Faulkner (is that rude?) said, I couldn't not write about the whirlwind of new feelings I encountered on the cusp of yuppie-hood.

Before battling with the forces of work, I went to the University of Florida where I attended three football games in four years. All three games were blessed with rain and allowed me to leave early, for which I cheered. I wanted to major in Interior Design, but my dad told me that I "would starve." You can't plan life, but you can plan meals is one of my personal mantras, so I was not keen on the prospect of famine. Instead, I opted to major in the ultra lucrative field of Sociology.

I think life has a novelistic quality to it, thus I'm a big fan of saying (and writing), "Story of my life." That phrase will meet your eyes many times. Don't say I didn't warn you.

Shall we begin?

You're Hired. Who Me?

When your brain is trained to analyze and interpret society, what kind of jobs are you qualified for after graduating from college? I would have loved to spend my days sitting on a park bench or in a coffee shop watching passerby and caffeine sippers, respectively, but since money does not grow on trees (Dad aphorism again) nor is it disbursed freely by baristas, I had to look in the direction of paid employment.

Program Assistant, Program Associate, Programming Specialist – I know all too well the effects of Labeling Theory, and I was about to become one if its victims.

My job search narrowed to two viable options with two very different employers. Washington DC is home to the headquarters of many professional associations that serve as membership entities and networking hubs (read: adult tree houses where anyone can feel like they belong) for people in their particular career industry. Job prospect #1 was with a management firm for associations.

DC is also fertile ground for universities, and feeling bitter about my severed ties with academia, I thought working on a campus could be a great fit for me. Job prospect #2 would give me the license to wear school-spirited attire once again. Silent victory cheer for hooded sweatshirts.

I had two interviews with both employers and, being the anticipatory person that I am, thought I needed to decide which of the two jobs (I hadn't even been offered yet) I was going to accept. Yeah, I'm one of those.

I placed phone calls to friends, family, former internship supervisors and anyone else who would listen to my holistic assessment of the pros and cons of each potential position. Knowing that neither position would serve as my career destiny but more as that must-have element to my resume (a real job), I wanted to include factors other than what I would be doing at my desk in the decision making process.

Job prospect #1 was with a company of 200 employees at an average age of 25 years old. Job prospect #2 was in an office with seven employees, five of whom seemed like people that might very well have been teased in middle school. Since I moved to DC not knowing anyone other than my older (and less mature) sister, the viable pool of would-be friends at job prospect #1 was enticing.

I also considered the hours of the work day, flexible options for start and end times, ½ hour versus a 1-hour lunch, commute time, the quality of eateries near the offices, room for growth, how safe I'd feel walking to the Metro if I had to work late, proximity to a yoga studio and other deciding factors I'll reveal when I feel like we're better friends.

And the Winner Is…

I received job offers from both prospects within hours of each other (told you so). I had of course made up my mind well in advance of even needing to, so the only question remaining was how to respond to the voicemail from the offer I wasn't accepting. Did I need to return the call or could I just send a polite e-mail? "Mom…?"

Advised that I should consider their feelings and the generosity of getting an offer (what is this, dating?), I called back job prospect #2 to thank them and say that I accepted another position. The woman on the other end said that she wished she had called me sooner. People, don't hold back your feelings. When you love someone/want them to work for you, carpe diem.

And there laid the first stepping stone on the path I would tread as an underpaid and overworked Education & Programs Assistant with an association management company in a nook of DC that would satisfy my food, safety, and yogic concerns.

Tune in next week for my big first day and hyper-analytical accounts of new office supplies, studio apartment living and getting lost in a 5' x 4' cubicle.

Professional in progress,
Jackie

Here's My Resume, Wanna Make Out?

Looking at job postings is like perusing an online dating site. I wonder if my skill set (hobbies and interests) is compatible with the company's needs ("ideal mate" description). Will the company (he) ask me back (out) for a second interview (date)? What if I talk too much? Maybe the company (he) interviewed (dated) someone else you who raised the stakes (put out super fast). Or perhaps the other candidates (other girls) had better credentials (larger breasts).

Job interviewing and dating are concoctions of a similar beast. The former can provoke anxiety during the waiting game that ensues between an interview and a much-hoped-for offer, while the latter, an ever-scarier monster, can also make a level-headed woman crazy as she eyes her cell phone in the days following a good date.

If job interviewing seems like an unfortunate pattern of bad dates, it's because the same feelings of disillusionment and hypertension find you when you're in search of a good career.

Think back to your first interview as a recent college grad when your perspective on the world was that it wanted you. Now ponder your adolescence, when in spite of braces and blemishes, you also believed that someone wanted you.

First interview (kiss) jitters over whether the interviewer (he) would notice if you really meant (knew) what you were saying (doing) had you practicing responses in advance (making out with your hand). Even if that first interview wasn't the job (guy) of your dreams, saturated in administrative tasks (he had a severe lisp), it was practice and you had to start somewhere. In time, you paid your dues (he was shorter than you) and developed the confidence to pursue something (someone) better (taller).

Responding to a resume is a lot like flirtation. Even the automated response from an online app sends your opportunistic heart aflutter. The prospective employer seems to be interested, but you can never be entirely sure.

Maybe it's a testing of the waters to see how worthy (beautiful) a candidate they can acquire (attract). However, genuine or dishonorable the employer's intentions are for having you waste precious vacation time and lead co-workers to believe you are sickly (another doctor's appointment??), you prepare for an interview much like you would a date, thinking of key successes to mention (no STDs here!) and selecting an outfit to match the company's culture (heels low enough so as not to be taller than him).

The interview provokes that giddy feeling of meeting someone new. You deceive yourself into thinking that this position will be void of the pitfalls of your current job (he'll be different from the other ones). Don't get your hopes up too fast, ladies.

There's another candidate (female archetype) who could just as easily get the position (him), despite your far superior portfolio (unique charm). And if the position presented in person sounds (looks) nothing like the job description (his picture) you read (saw) in the paper (online), then you'll regret dry-cleaning that suit (shaving your legs).

During an interview, the etiquette for both vested parties (love seekers) is an uncertain terrain where manners are subjective and the right answer is usually forced (faking "it"). Think of the "Can I get you anything?" question posed on the long hallway (wedding aisle) to the interview room. Sure. You'd love some coffee, because ingesting something and being articulate simultaneously is a reasonable behavioral expectation. Only if a stained, collared button down shirt advances one's candidacy should you accept a beverage (kiss on the first date). Mind your manners, fellow job seekers (hopeless romantics).

When the interviewer is a woman, you find yourself eyeing her left hand ring finger, looking for sparkles that add a shiny layer of self-torture to the hire-me equation. You have an enviable job and found a man fearless in the face of commitment? Who are you, Wonder Woman? And it looks like these rare breeds do Pilates. Regularly.

Irrespective of gender, the interview afterbirth carries the expectation that you will make the next move with a hand written note of thanks. Yes, thank you for making me recount my strengths and weaknesses. It was great fun.

Then, you wait. You wait for a resolution, and the more time that passes, you consider temping (prostitution). Hang in there. It's a dirty world and you don't want to work for (sleep with) just anybody. A week passes, maybe two, and then you become frantic. If there had been a second interview, you shed a layer of feminism in your why-aren't-they-calling sob-infused rant. A second interview (date) means the feelings must be mutual, right?

In an effort to be proactive (move on, "Sister"), you sign on with a recruitment agency and the theme lyric for your headhunter becomes, "Matchmaker, matchmaker make me a match." If you can't land a job on your own, maybe a headhunter has a good listing on file (knows someone who hasn't been divorced twice). Don't let this be a rebound phase where you interview for positions you don't even want (guys you'd never bring home to Mom and Dad).

Such heartache we endure for $.81 to a man's dollar.

Here writes a variation of many young women in their early twenties with an impressive resume (love to give) and no job offers (no one to share it with). Devastation crept upon me when a pronounced lull followed two stellar interviews (dates with "Prince Charming").

The prospective employer (future father of my children) responded to a late night are-you-going-to-hire-me-or-what email within minutes, citing his wife's imminent inducement of labor as reason for the delay. But he chose another candidate. Wait, so I'm not getting the position and you're having a baby with someone else?

He told me I had great skills. ("It's not you, it's me.")