I like my job. Not today, which is why I'm blogging and not editing, but in general. I definitely don't hate it (which, in the job world, is the same as liking it), and see it as that glittery little stepping stone that I like to call the "job-that-directly-precedes-my-real-job" job. Let's hope anyway...I don't LOVE it...

At times I, like any other non-robot, get to the point where I'm SO sick of waking up at the same time every single morning, going to the same job where I see the same people and do the same task repeatedly for 8 hours a day. It's like that movie Groundhog's Day. Nevertheless, there are interesting dynamics here. The company was conceived of, built, and maintained for 20 years by two women, who have since hired only women to work in the office. We have a full kitchen that is completely stocked at all times with company money (a girl's gotta eat!). There are eight of us - two sets of mother/daughter, one aunt/niece, and one (the neice) who is also the girlfriend of her boss's son. You figure it out... Now, while I know that such a situation sounds like the recipe for a competitive, judgemental, premenstrual-driven nightmare, the environment is shockingly very nurturing and supportive. My boss sends me emails about how much she appreciates my work (which does NOT make up for the raise-that-never-was, mind you -- See September 6 post), everyone is very supportive as we collectively try and fail at about 6 different diet fads a week, and having a period gives you every right to be a total bitch or burst out in tears for one week every single month, no questions asked. The latter ROCKS, you can't get that just anywhere!

But the only thing worse than the monotony of work, is not having enough work. Nothing makes me want to hone my red-pen-drawn tattoo or root-canal-carving skills more than having nothing at all to do. And leaving is not an option -- not because one of these skinny little gym-faithful mom/bosses won't let me go if I toss out the cramp defense, but because my landlord won't take the cramp defense as payment when I don't get enough hours. Times like these make me seethe at the conversation going on in the next office regarding, as usual, who is throwing the next jewelry/snacktime/tupperware/Mary Kay party. And if I hear another casual mention of how big someone's butt has gotten while they lick the cream cheese frosting off the carrot cake that is a necessary part of every single office birthday celebation, I might flip out......!