The Daily Grind

It's been awhile. That doesn't mean my life hasn't been funny, though.

Two years ago:
"Sarah, we'd like to offer you this job. You don't even have to apply for it; it's yours for the taking."

Me: "No. Sorry, but no. I think I want to work on nursing school pre-requisites. Besides, I LOVE my job at the vet clinic."

(Paraphrased conversation)

Present day:
I began loathing my job at an unknown, recent date. Somewhere between adopting my kitten, Jack, and applying to nursing school.

Many factors have contributed to this feeling, but when asked exactly why I feel the way I do, I lose my vocabulary skills and simply sum it up as:
"I hate my job." (Doesn't that tell you how I feel?)

A few reasons include an employee turned bully/work goddess where no rules apply and an office manager who I swore, (up until this last week, that is) had developed a deep hatred of me. This wasn't always the case. No: It was my boss who encouraged me to become an EMT. Upon my certification, she got me a pair of socks that said "EMT" on them (so official!) and she was, once upon a time, one of my greatest advocates.

But then I got flushed down the toilet. Squashed like a bug. Forgotten about. Ditched.

So there I was one day, leaning against a cage door, watching a dog recover from surgery, on the brink of a mental breakdown. Surely, you've been there before: manic, ready to cry, having irrational thoughts, ready to walk out of your job, never looking back.

In about a half-hours time, I was surfing the Internet. Yes friends, I was surfing the Internet at work. *Gasp* And I got an idea to look up other jobs. *Double gasp* And I found a job. One that I actually wanted. *Triple gasp* And it was the job I had turned down two years ago. *Quadruple gasp*

What was this job? I'm not quite ready to divulge that information, yet. But it involves law enforcement.

Naturally, I applied. The following week, I got a call to take a test and then to interview for the position.

The week before my interview, my boss cut my hours. When I asked her why, she told me that there were "too many people on the schedule".  Hello! Have you forgot me, your stellar employee?! 

I then seethed. My eyes turned red and stream poured out of my ears. I had had it.

Then my boss appeared. Ever so bravely, I said "Boss, I feel screwed over because I'm only a part-time employee."

Her charming response: "Yup"

She then tells me that I could have some horrible weekend hours that she doesn't want. That's like telling someone they could have the chewed up, hairy piece of gum you just dropped on the floor.

Naturally, I declined. She said "Oh well" and walked away.

Walked. Away.

Then she had a private meeting with the practice owner, which usually means that someone is about to get canned.
~
The following week, I had my interview. It went well, but I was convinced that I hadn't gotten the job. I was certainly bound to stay at the vet clinic for the rest of my natural life.

Two days later, I got a call that I had a conditional offer of employment if I passed a thirty page background investigation. No big deal, thirty pages. No big deal...

The day that I turned in my background investigation, I got a call from a detective from the department:
"Sarah, I called the vet clinic and they were very surprised to find out that you're a pedophile."

Dot. Dot. Dot.

Have I mentioned that I've known this detective for almost four years? So I told him "Little known story" to which he laughed merrily, and told me the real reason for why he was calling.

Anyway, I passed the background investigation.

In the few weeks since I accepted the job which will start in May, strange things have been occurring at the vet clinic. My boss actually said good morning to me and asked how I was doing. If you knew my boss, you'd realize how monumental this truly is. It was a first in the three and a half years that I've been employed there. She's been grateful, kind, and has recently offered me as many hours as I could ever possibly need or want.

Meanwhile, I've kept the news about my new job a secret. I'll give my notice soon enough. Eventually. When I work up the nerve.

Today, the owner of the practice called me into his office. He asks me to close the door and to take a seat. This never happens unless, well, unless you're about to get fired.

He is a man who avoids conflict at all costs and who never calls in his employees to meet privately with them. That's the job of my practice manager, who is oddly not around this week.

I sit down. I stare at him. He tells me that he never does this, but there are a few things that I need to know. My thoughts go wild: He knows! Give it up, Sarah! Disaster ahead!

Instead, he tells me how valued I am as an employee. That clients love me, and that I am so wonderful to work with. I'm great with people on the phone, I'm great with people in person, and best of all, I'm a low-key person and he means that in the best possible way.

And oh, he's giving me a raise.

And I'm still quitting in about three or four weeks.

And I'm a jerk.

And I feel like one, too.