I would like to take a moment to thank the president of my last company -- the job I had before I quit to become a freelancer.
One day he came into my office after I'd been working there for three years producing a radio show. The internet was this whole big new idea, and they were just deciding it was time to put out a website. He announced -- he didn't ask, suggest, or begin a dialogue on the subject. mind you -- he just announced they were going to change my job description and I would no longer be a science writer or a radio producer but that I would be the person who pulled together all the information for the company's website and be in charge of internet PR, and maybe occasionally writing a piece for the site.
I was probably 26 at the time. He finished his speech -- I had no warning ahead of time that this was in the works -- and I smiled sweetly and said, "No." He said, "what?" And I said: "I'm happy to do the job for you until you hire someone else to replace me, but I am a writer, and I want to be a writer and I'm far enough along in my career that I don't need to take a job in which I don't get to write." He said he was surprised, and that he would have to think about it. . .
. . . and then he didn't mention the subject to me again for a month.
A month in which I had zero job loyalty whatsoever, didn't know if I was even still supposed to be putting out a radio show, and during which the National Association of Science Writers happened to give me a free website.
I spent the month ignoring my job completely and putting together one of those really early Here's A Page With All My Friends On It! kind of websites. This is about the sixth incarnation of that original website. . . but over the years this website has netted me:
--A job as a dating columnist on AOL (and therefore subsequently Oxygen and Dating911)
--Two book contracts
--several dates
--two really good friends
--more articles than I can name
After a month, my boss finally gave him a nudge saying that I was still waiting for his final decision. The president had basically forgotten the whole thing, and came to my office to tell me off-handedly that oh, yeah, my job wasn't going to change. By the time I left the job two years later I had the columnist gig and had published my first book.
Thank you, thank you, thank you.
OK, here's my short mean thing of the day. . . What is up with the slow talkers? I don't mean speaking slowly in of itself. That's usually a boon -- and as everyone who has to replay my answering machine messages over and over and over and over again trying to understand that word I'm slurring knows, I could stand to speak a lot more slowly. But why do they have to insist on, like, actually finishing their sentences when you've already understood?
I mean they say things like: "Because this is in the blue category . . ." and you say: "Oh! It's blue so I have to push the BLUE button!" and they don't stop at all, but say ". . . you have to push the blue button. The reason you know it's in the blue category is because it's in a blue folder labeled with the word 'blue' written across it. So you can quickly and easily see that it's in the blue category, so that's how you can remember that you have to push the blue button."
I hate those people.
I once got a phone call from an angry scientist on a Friday morning around 11 AM.
"Ms. Fox?" He said. "Were you planning on calling me anytime soon? You said you were going to interview me today at 10 AM, I skipped the morning meeting I usually have so I could be in my office for you, I've been waiting for an hour and yet you haven't called. I don't have time for this kind of thing, I'm busy and I purposely made time for you, I expect the same kind of courtesy."
I was startled, but composed myself and replied calmly: "I don't quite know how to tell you this, Dr. -------, but I interviewed you LAST Friday at 10 AM."
It's been awhile since I had a desk job. . . which means I'm the perfect person to host this, since I don't have any work colleagues whom I can offend at the moment. My friends will be contributing some of their horror stories as they happen, however. If you've got some good ones, feel free to e-mail me with them!
In the meantime I offer just this one I-Can't-Believe-I-Work-With-These-People story:
Once a women I worked with knocked on my door to announce that a bunch of people were ordering pizza and did I want in? I said yes, and could we order the Quattro Formagio pizza. She looked dismayed and said, sorry, they'd already decided to order the Four Cheese pizza.
I just nodded and said that would be fine. It's tough being smarter than everyone else, isn't it??