CrankMama

Pretty Work People

After suffering through several sleepless nights waiting to see whether my last boss(es) would give me a good reference, I received a job offer last week.  I'll be doing financial analysis at a local nonprofit (the one with the men) half-time.  It's a temporary gig through the end of the year and if it turns into another pile of bad soulness, I can leave.

Today is my first day.

Having been through a relatively traumatic recent job experience/ job loss (what the hell do I call it anyway?), I'm less confident and sure than I've ever been.  There's only so much positive self-talk one can engage in while preparing toast for preschoolers:

"It's ok, you'll be fine ----PEANUT BUTTER? -- It's just spreadsheets --STOP! MOMMY HASN'T HAD HER COFFEE -- The hair isn't that bad, they won't notice -- LISTEN! JUST SIT & EAT & STOP HITTING YOUR SISTER!--spreadsheets are fun -- BECAUSE I SAID SO!"

Maybe I'll walk in and see all the nice pretty work people and the angels of balancing spreadsheets and sassy sister friends will smile down upon me and all will be well... Maybe.

Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps.

I Am The Job

I was raised in the 70s by a mother** who changed her name to Miranda for awhile and engaged regularly in free self-expression and morning drinking.  The upside of all this freedom from convention was that while some of my suburban friends were busy driving around in BMWs and trying out for cheer camp, I was encouraged to contemplate poverty and my role in applying my "gifts" to ameliorate these and other societal ills.

All of this good will culminated in a final chapter that I never could have predicted. I came to this last job with the usual jumble of hubris, hope, and naiveté. It was my first executive director gig and while the struggling nonprofit had a spotty financial history, I was determined to turn things around.  For awhile my efforts seemed to work.  Some of the people who couldn't spell and were rude on the phone moved on to other opportunities, while smarties skilled with people and Excel took their place.

Times were good and the work we were doing helping primarily low-income moms transition to parenting seemed worthwhile and effective.  We moved to be closer to my work and my husband found a fabulous job with a small company 10 minutes from mine.

What happened next seems so surreal even now, that I'm still reeling. After the nonprofit's financials took a dive due to some state budget cuts and after some staff people decided they weren't after all amused by having an executive director keen on change, I was effectively asked to resign.

Many tears and confused phone calls later, I was delivered my personal effects to my home and I'm now without a job in this new town of ours. 

I don't know if any of you have ever effectively been fired, but it does get one right in the gut.  One is left with this sinking feeling that all those good grades and kudos from the past might have been wrong after all. 

Making sense of betrayal and one's place in the order of things is not one of my strong points.  I can be a smart-ass, make jokes, and be silly with the best of them. But faced with something as unfunny as this, I'm left with only a pea shooter and one bean against an entire army of self-doubt.  Until then, thanks to Andie for this comic interlude:

**Baby Miranda is in the CrankMama sig picture at the top of the blog.