After the election and the holidays, I made my way into the city and got a temp job working for a law firm in the Financial District. I remember interviewing with the ladies of the office in a stuffy room on Battery Street above a Specialty’s and being surprised that they seemed just as nervous as I was. I was also surprised that the office digs reminded me so much of the Linguistics Department at UNC Chapel Hill. During the interview I was asked (naturally) what I felt like my weakness were and I managed to give some genuine answer that candidly combined my struggle of not having a true focus or career goal to be ambitious towards, and really wanting to be a stay home mom. And no, I wasn’t dating anyone at the moment. Ha. Apparently, out on the West Coast people assume you’d only keep your eye on the housewife prize if you’re currently in a relationship, but I was still brushing off the confetti from a million “Ring By Spring” weddings and engagements.
Out of all the jobs I’ve had, working reception/stepandfetchit was one of the most fairly compensated. It’s interesting though, because nothing they could have offered me would have kept me longer than the two months of my initial temporary agreement. They were lovely people, but I just really couldn’t bring myself to stay there. I’m always slightly paranoid of not quitting while I’m ahead. With that position (and several of its successors) the clear quitting date is what got me through a lot of the long days of working there.
I honestly have nothing but fond memories of failing to hail a cab to the courthouse, picking up the head honcho’s lunch orders, and being sent downstairs to buy mace as a defense against the colorful clients who would pop in unannounced from time to time strung out on substances. I just knew that my time there had run it’s course and for reasons I couldn’t really articulate, I felt “led” to work in the East Bay for a bit.
However, I hold as a souvenir my very own bright pink canister of mace that often gets mistaken as an inhaler.