The Little People

“Can you tell Margaret that Jan called?” I asked.
“Sure thing!” chirped the enthusiastic twenty-something on the other end of the phone.
“How does she know you again?” Snap. Pop.
“I worked for her, um, about 9 years ago….”
“Wow. I’ll let Margaret know you called.”
Click.

That was two weeks ago.
Margaret hasn’t returned the call.

I decided it would be a great idea to give her a ring after the New Year. I’d learned my former boss had been promoted to Vice President of a great company. The job was in television news. The same industry we had worked in together almost a decade ago.
It was fast, exciting, glamorous, and fun. There were many evenings I sat in her office and talked about new ideas or different angles to spin a story.
Margaret was always positive. She told me I would go far.

That was 9 years ago.

Truthfully, I’m not sure why I called. I probably felt restless and wanted to catch up. Maybe I was looking for a job. Maybe I don’t know what I’m looking for and hope the person on the other end of the phone has answers.

But I do know this: I’ve had interns, subordinates, and coworkers who for one reason or another have called to touch base.

I’ve always returned the call.

The Greener Grass

I think I was into my fourth martini on Friday when I blurted it out-
“I need to move to LA and find myself.”
I’m not sure why I said it or where it came from.
But it's starting to make sense.

You see, I've been feeling a little lost lately. I’ve lived in New York, Miami, Madrid, Washington DC, Louisville, and a tiny town in Montana.
To me, L.A. is the only spot missing…and therefore, I’m convinced it’s the Promised Land.

“En vino de veritas,” Peter says. There’s truth in wine.
I think he’s right.

In fact, I’ve planned the great escape a thousand times over in my head:

Scenario #1
I move to L.A. I bust my buns for 2 years looking for the perfect job, only to find myself penniless and homeless on the streets of a foreign city. And worst of all, I’m older.

Scenario #2
I move to L.A. I bust my buns for 2 years, find a job I like, and realize that I miss my friends and family back home more than I realized. So I quit, return to Washington/Baltimore and start over. Again, I’m older.

Scenario #3
I move to L.A. I bust my buns for 2 years, find a job I LOVE. I decide to never come back and live my life in perfect bliss. Forever.

Sure.

An ex-boyfriend once had a saying that stuck:
“Wherever you go, there you are.”

Translation:
Happiness and fulfillment aren’t found on a map.

The Dream Job

I think being a 30-something can really suck.
It's the age where many of your friends have settled down, gotten married, maybe had children and live a comfortable life.
If you're not in that group- you're probably still guessing.....
and if you have career doubts you're what's called "S.O.L."
Or just like me- too old to be someone's assistant and too young to give up on the path you've chosen for yourself.
Which leaves me where I am today.

"There goes another one." I say as I pull up to a stoplight. I've become great at talking to myself since I spend my days working alone in my car.
"Plink. Plink." That's the sound of my brain cells hitting the floor in an escape attempt at a better life. It doesn't bother me, I won't miss them.

What does bother me is the feeling of golden handcuffs locked tightly to my wrists.

"Are you insane?" howls my sister. "I'd die to have your job and make that kind of money!!!"

Her response is not uncommon.
In fact, in the last 2 years I've been with company I've forwarded my manager more than 20 resumes. All from wonderful people aspiring to push pills.

So far, none were hired. I'm told the competition is fierce. Who wouldn't want a job with great benefits and little stress?

Plink. Plink.

Deep Thoughts

Do the contestants on American Idol pay for their own airfare and hotel when they get to the second round in Hollywood? Or does FOX pick up the tab?

Just wondering because Randy, Paula, and Simon seem to move people on to the second round even if they're not convinced the contestant has a chance in Hollywood. Seems like a lot of trouble and a big expense when the outcome stands to be a bigger disappointment for a kid with nothing but a dream.

Ringing in the New Year

“Ready to go?” Peter already had a foot out the door.
“Now?” I asked.
It was all happening so fast, but the night before Peter and I had decided to take our first look at engagement rings.
I was excited and petrified. I reminded myself it can’t hurt to look, and at this point in my life my only reason for procrastination was fear.
“Okay, I’m right behind you,” I hollered back as the door locked behind me.

Our first stop was the giant-sized jeweler on the corner of Reisterstown and Route 1. The place was enormous- the size of a factory warehouse- oh wait- it was a factory warehouse.
“Good morning” chirped the people greeter at the front door. She wore a floral suit, it looked polyester and was probably a great bargain at the local Wal-Mart. I wondered how a place that made such expensive jewelry could dress their greeter in such a cheap suit. I smiled and we walked on.
“Hello, welcome, I’m John,” said the oversized man standing at the glass counter. “How can I help you two today?”
Peter took control. “We’re engagement ring shopping.” He said matter-of-factly.
John’s eyebrows twitched, and he stepped over to the next counter. ”You’ve come to the right place….let me show you our faaaantastic selection.”

Did he have an accent? I hadn’t noticed it before. I listened more closely.

“What do you think of theeeese?”
My mistake- it wasn’t an accent. John just lengthened his words for emphaaaaaasis.
“Yeah, they’re okay, but not exactly what I’m looking for,” I answered. The rings looked old and flat.
“This must be the most exciting day of your liiiife.” John smiled.
God forbid. If this was the most exciting day of my life- why had I already guessed it would take 5 long strides to make it out the front door?
I smiled back.
“What’s in this counter?” Peter asked.
“Oh, that’s our 'previously loved' ring selection.” John replied.
“Previously loved as in “used”?” I wondered. I suddenly felt like we were talking to a guy named Larry trying to sell us his “pre-owned” vehicle. No thanks.
Peter grabbed my hand, smiled, and told Larry- I mean- John- we would think about it.
We walked out together. We were both a little discouraged.
But the search continued.

The crisp glass doors of Jay Brown’s jewelers swung wide open, and a woman gave us a wide toothy smile. She was a bit short, in her 50’s and very plastic looking. It’s almost as if she had glued her face to her head.
“Welcome,” she smiled, “I’m Shirley, may I help you?”
I wanted to run, but Peter had a strong grasp on my sweating palm.
“We’re looking for rings,” he chimed.
I loved the way his eyes sparkled. I instantly relaxed.
“Right this way,” Shirley said, and we followed her though the glass corridors to a velvet seat in the back of the room.
Shirley walked a fine line between enthusiastic and pushy. Nevertheless, the search went smoothly. I tried on rings of all shapes and sizes. Some bright, some gaudy, some plain, and one that felt absolutely perfect. Peter agreed- the ring was gorgeous.
I could see Shirley’s smile brightening.
“I could make you a good deal,” she whispered. And wrote a number on the tiny piece of paper she held in her hand. She flashed it at us.
“Ouch!” I cried. I felt like I had been hit by a golf ball at 180 yards.
“Oh, c’mon Jan, you knew that was the ball park price didn’t you?” Peter asked.
He was really fantastic in these situations.
“I dunno,” I stammered, “I hadn’t really thought about it.” But deep down inside I think I knew what we were getting into.
“Let’s look a little more.” I said.
Shirley frowned, but quickly covered it up. “Okay, kids, but this offer won’t be here forever. Just remember- ask for ‘Shirley’," she chimed.
Sure thing Shirls- we won’t forget ya.

The truth is- we probably won’t. The ring is beautiful. It’s bright and simple but has the perfect bit of flair. It’s me. And Peter loves it.

We looked at a few other jewelry stores that day but nothing could compete with that ring and Shirley. I have a feeling we’ll visit her again.
And maybe next time I won’t have sweaty palms, an escape plan, and a golf-ball sized fear of commitment fly out of nowhere to remind me that I’m making a tremendous decision.