Survival of the Awkwardest

First of all, I would like to thank everyone who took the time to read my last post. Not only was it the best traffic this blog has ever had, but the subject matter is something that is incredibly important it to me, and the idea that it is important to others as well makes me absolutely giddy. Make the arts great again! Down with the MacGyver reboot!

I feel like the opening paragraphs of several of my most recent entries have been me apologizing for taking so long to write a new entry. This is me doing that again. Consistency of content is important.

I really am trying to get myself into an actual routine and thus I am hoping to be able to update every Sunday. If someone wants to hold me to that and possibly reward me with pizza, I probably wouldn’t say no.

I was good tonight, though, because I caught myself thinking that it was fine if I didn’t update, that nobody cares. But I kind of care. And also what would I have done with that time? Watched more episodes of a show I’ve already seen? The older I get, the more I despise the notion of killing time. The action is certainly aptly named.

But anyhow, I started my new job at the university. I am entering my fourth week tomorrow and I feel pretty okay about everything, but the whole thing has been a slew of adjustments for me.

For one, there is the commute. I’m not sure how many of you are familiar with Long Island traffic, but to put it in perspective, LI is a highly over-populated 120-mile long piece of land with, like, three roads that go all the way across. According to Mapquest, 50 minutes is a reasonable amount of time for my journey to take. However, because some genius many years ago decided everyone was going to work 9-5, 90 minutes has become the pretty-damn-good standard. Much of my life is now driving underneath the “Delays Until…” marquees on the LIE thinking they may as well say, “You’re gonna die here.”

However, this commute has allowed me to get really into podcasts—a medium I had never before dabbled in—and I’m learning all kinds of interesting things, so the time is not completely lost.

There is also the fact that I am working with people again, and really cool people at that. While I was in publishing, I felt like I never met anyone who truly cared about what they were doing. I think it’s because most of the small press business is watching numbers and praying a lot. At my new job, they want to get students engaged and they want to help them, and I’ve always wanted to help people, in some way. Also, did I mention the people? Yeah, that’s a real adjustment. It’s sort of like learning how to talk all over again: worrying about if I’ve said the right thing or did the right thing, am I listening enough, responding enough, is my talking-to-myself habit as blatant as it has been in the past?

I have realized I am terrible at feeling out when a conversation is over. Sometimes I think it is over and then I realize the other person is looking at me hopefully, so I try and add something really insightful and inspiring like, “So, yeah…” Other times, people are trying to get back to work, but wait, did you know about this joke that was on an episode of Parks and Rec once? Hold on so I can explain it to you in its fullest context so you can understand why it is so hilarious and partially pertinent to what we were talking about when you had the time.

Perhaps it is because my conversation with myself has been going on for 26 years, but frankly, I really wish I would shut up sometimes. I just go on and on to me, repeating myself, reliving the past through a series of self-loathing grunts and profanities. Seriously, me, give me some peace!

But the hardest adjustment has been not bumping into things. I have terrible depth perception and the bruises to prove it.

The crazy thing is, though, I feel okay. I feel like a future I can be comfortable with is unfolding before me. I feel like I’m getting the hang of myself. As Darwin has taught us, life is about adjusting to the changes if you want to come out on top. And I don’t even want to be on top. That sounds exhausting. The middle will do just fine.


When It’s Time to Change, Then It’s Time to Change

I thought about many titles for this entry, such as “Ch-ch-ch-changes” and “The Times, They are a-Changing.” Then I realized that whenever one needs a lyrical reference to define a point in one’s life, one cannot go wrong with the Brady Bunch.

Soooo…I quit my job last week.

It was a long time coming. Frankly, I hadn’t been happy there for the past 18 months or so—aka once they put me into a managerial position and suddenly it was my job to save a failing company and no matter how much effort I put into it, somehow they would still forget to pay me.

However, I wasn’t planning to leave so quickly, because change, even for the better, terrifies me. I told myself I would stay until December, make sure things were sorted out and my projects were completed. Then I had a breakdown at 2am last Monday and wrote a resignation email. My fingers shook as I hovered over the “send” button, unable to get even the smallest breath in. And then I had one of those elegant moments of clarity as my snot ran into my tears and the salty, snotty mixture made its way to my mouth. Nothing is worth feeling like this. And then, finally able to take a deep breath, I hit “send.”

As it turns out, my internet wasn’t working, and I had to make three attempts to send the email after that. It suddenly became one of those quintessential human vs. uncooperative technology moments. Lots of swearing, lots of huffing and puffing. If you ever want to witness the truth of human nature, watch a room full of people with slow computers.

Once it finally went through, I wish I could say I felt amazing and triumphant because not only had I overcome the machine but had also overcome my fears and negativity. But I didn’t. Instead, I tossed and turned all night asking myself what the hell I just did.

The amazing, triumphant feeling sets in slowly, gradually, when I think of the next job I could have, one with a steady pay check and benefits and security and some time on the side to do the things I love. One that doesn’t have me answering emails and taking phone calls on weekends and late at night that leave me wishing all my fingers were middle fingers.

I have decided to apply to graduate school for the fall at the very last possible minute because that’s how things happen for me. I’m going to study student affairs administration with the hopes of doing academic advising and career counseling for a university. Because despite my complete and utter inability to figure out my own life, I am damn good at telling other people to stop screwing around and to pull themselves together. I am the pot and you are the kettle. Let’s get all steamed up!

I will leave you with a few sometimes helpful clichés: life is ephemeral, do what makes you feel alright, the perfect job is not out there, perfection is not out there, but if you find yourself screaming your feelings of hopelessness into your pillow every night, then it’s time to make a change. And as the Brady Bunch would say, it’s a sunshine day, you’ve got to be in love to love a love song, let me hear some of that good time music, and we’re gonna keep on keep on keep on keep on dancing all through the night.

My Top 5 Biggest Job Interview Fails

I was going to write an entry about how I’m adapting to a new-old routine, which would playfully explain why I’ve been absent from blogging and also why I am currently in the throes of an existential crisis. But frankly, I’m tired of all that! Let’s have some fun.

I will, however, add that I think one of the reasons for my recent depression was a very poor diet. I decided to commemorate my leaving Astoria with a takeout extravaganza. This turned out to be less of a celebration and more what my stomach has been training for for the past 25 years. Since moving back to my parents’ house, I’ve been drinking water and eating salad like some human or something and it’s made all the difference in the world. Cheers to you, FDA. Make no mistake, folks, they ain’t lying.

Anyway, onto today’s topic. A lot of those closest to me are on the job hunt and, suffice it to say, they are finding it to be a grind. We all know the old paradox: you need experience to get a job, you need a job to get experience (plus, in today’s economy, some witchcraft and a rosary might help, just so you have all your bases covered…or do they cancel each other out? I should learn math). It took me two years after college to find a “real” job (the quotes are based on the somewhat misguided colloquialism that blue collar work isn’t real work and the fact that I don’t think my current job is that real). I had some admin experience by the time I got to this point through internships and the like, so it wasn’t hard for me to land the interview.

However, if you couldn’t guess where this was going so far, and if you’ve never met me or read anything on this blog, you might be surprised to learn that I do not interview well.

I’ve gotten better. You live and you learn. I read advice articles and whatnot. The funniest thing was that the number 1 piece of advice on most of these articles was “be yourself.” Over the course of my job search, I learned the best course of action was to most certainly not be myself. I am the person who will get the job done, but when most of these extroverted HR whackos interview you, they also want someone they can have fun in Vegas with. Hey, I could go to Vegas! Someone needs to hold everyone’s stuff.

Anywho, here are 5 times out of many when I walked out with a more than fair degree of certainty in my failure as an interviewee.

Where am I, again?

Interviewer: So, do you know what we do?
Me: No.

I had no idea.

This was part of a freak two-week period where I just had a marathon of interviews. I was tired from the 2-3 hour commute and from the essence of complete hopelessness that filled the air. So here I was at another agency possibly vaguely related to my career goals for a low-paying assistant position (or maybe it was a receptionist position?), not ready for anything other than another rejection.

She explained what they did. It turned out to be incredibly boring. But that doesn’t mean you should miss the lesson here, kids. Do your research.

I like to think, though, that since the interview was cut very short once it became obvious that this wasn’t my passion, the interviewer was able to use the extra time to accomplish amazing things.

Look Good, Feel Okay

I had landed an interview at a fashion firm (I hope you weren’t drinking anything as you read that, and if you were, I apologize for the spit take). I’m not a fashion person. I hate shopping. But this was one of the first positions I interviewed for that had any creative aspect to it whatsoever. So, I had dressed for what I thought might be success.

I walked into the conference room to meet my interviewer. He gave me the once over.

Him: Well, the font on your resume was pretty.

It was the shortest interview I’ve ever had.

Cutie Patootie

 The interviewer introduced himself to me. He was really, really good-looking. You can see where this is going.

Him: Hi, I’m Adam.
Me: *long pause* I’m Jill.
Him: Is that tape?

He pointed to the hem of my pants, where the duct tape I had used to shorten them in a pinch was falling out.

Me: Yes. Yes, it is.

Some things never change.

Cry Me a River

For this one, I didn’t even make it to the actual interview. I was having a hard time finding the office, so I called, only to be told the position had been filled and no one had bothered to tell me in advance.

And I was so frustrated. I’d been looking for a job for over a year. I was exhausted, I was lost, I was emotional. I tried to hold back the tears. I cried at him into the phone while saying, “Thanks…for *Sniffle* letting *snort* me….knoooooowwwwwww.”

Not really an interview fail, but super duper awkward.

Dreams Can Probably Come True if You Don’t Make it Weird

 One of the first interviews I had was with a publishing house. It was an internship that paid minimum wage, wouldn’t even cover my train fare, but it was something I really wanted. A step. I was so excited for it. And extremely nervous.

I was also fresh from homecoming weekend at my alma mater and was probably still a bit hung over.

Him: So, what sort of aspects of publishing are you interested in?
Me: Editorial.

I ended it there. I felt no need to expand. Why would I? I had answered the question. We were off to a great start.

Him: *Drumming his fingers on the table, thinking about the nap he could have had instead of interviewing me* Did you do anything fun this summer?
Me: No.

I’d actually had a really fun summer that year. I had worked at a Shakespeare Festival. I’d gone zip-lining for the first time. All of these things escaped me and shockingly, he did not find me to be the most interesting person in the world. Stay where you are, Dos Equis man.

For the interview with my current company, I knew where I was going, what I was interviewing for, and the interesting things I had done that summer. I wore the same outfit I had worn for that fashion interview. The best thing about publishing is we’re too occupied with hiding behind our words to notice what we’re wearing.








New York, I’m Breaking Up With You

New York and I had a whopping nine months together, and all I can say is we’ve gestated a pretty ugly baby.

When I was in college studying acting, everyone always talked about how they were going to live in New York after graduation. I tried to hop on that bandwagon, envying their starry-eyed aspirations and the glamorous outlooks they had for their futures. I made plans with friends to move to New York, to pound the pavement, looking for our big breaks. But in the back of my mind, I knew both acting and New York weren’t for me.

However, because the world works the way it does, I ended up having to move to New York City for a job.

Hi Jillian,

Will u go out wit me?

YES      NO

Xoxo New York City

Eh…I guess?

And so, I packed up what I could fit in my new tiny, overpriced room, and headed off to the big city.

In some ways, I was really excited about it. I had a lot of friends living in the city and I thought it would help improve my social life. Despite the fact that many people think I’m this really intense and serious person, I’ve never had much ambition when it comes to my career. All I’ve ever really wanted was friendships like the ones on I saw on TV. And if you ever did find me staring at you like you’re nuts, it’s simply because you’ve gone off script.

I’ve now found out that New York City friendships are rooted fundamentally in the, “You’re broke, I’m broke, and you’re either in another borough or a far walk from my apartment, so let’s just text each other occasionally” mentality.

And now, because fate is a fickle fiend with a twisted sense of humor, after nine months, I have to leave New York, once again for work. Because my boss no longer wants to pay a monthly fee that could feed a family of four for a cubby with no ventilation.

And while I’m always the kind of person who gets really anxious about any sort of change, and the kind of person who clings on to nostalgia, I can look around at my New York apartment, my first real adulthood home, and feel absolutely nothing.

I suppose in some weird way, I will miss being on the subway, told that I am being delayed because of the train traffic ahead of me, cursing the MTA under my breath, avoiding the overly affectionate couple next to me while I vigilantly scan the train for suspicious characters until some old lady does a hip hop dance for quarters. I will miss the constant threat of terrorism. I will miss how every Starbucks has an inexplicably long line. I will miss thinking I have money until the 1st of the month arrives. I will miss walking in the rain with my arms full of groceries. I will miss the church bells across the street ringing every hour, starting at 7:30am on weekends.  I will miss the tremendous sense of culture I felt whenever I got yelled at in another language. I will miss being enveloped in the hot scent of old sewage like a warm hug. And I will miss you, people who blast Kanye West out of your car at 3am, so loudly that my walls shake. You, I will miss most of all.

In a completely serious, non-weird way, I will miss the fact that Coldstone delivers. And speedily, at that.

To all of you tried and true New Yorkers out there, I am not mocking you. I have nothing but envy and admiration for artists, for dreamers, for those who can look at something like New York and see unending possibility, see home. I look at New York and see a TV show I might enjoy if I didn’t have to keep getting up to shift the antennae.


Hi New York,

I have 2 break up wit u. I like da suburbs now.



P.S. As a small update from my last entry, I came home to find the dead bird had finally been swept off the ledge by the rain and is now resting comfortably in the grass. I like to think it was some kind of metaphor.

What Not to Do When You Work Next Door to David Tennant

No, I do not work next door to David Tennant. Dreams do come true, but not those dreams.

I do, however, work next door to a man who looks…exactly…like…David freaking Tennant. And he is British and awesome. And naturally, I want him to think I’m cool.

…And naturally, when I want people to think I’m cool, my tactics for said coolness usually result in some sort of natural disaster. Here comes Hurricane Awkward! Whoosh!

So…I’ve never actually really said a word to the guy other than, “Hello,” because I know what I would do if I let it get any further.

He is still incredibly nice to me: always smiling, saying, “Good morning,” etc. Probably because he hears my coworkers and me talking about his David Tennant-ness constantly.

Here are some things I’ve thought about doing that you definitely should not do when you find yourself face-to-face with an FDA-approved David Tennant doppelganger.

-Stare at him without responding to his greeting because your thought process is always as such: 1) Is that David Tennant? 2) Did David Tennant just say hi to me?

-When he comments on the lobby art, say, “Better than angel statues, am I right?”

-When he pretend-chides you for being late, use the term, “Wibbly wobbly timey-wimey stuff.”

-When he excuses himself from conversation: “Have fun in your tardis…I mean…office.”

-Refer to his grumpy-old-man office mate as his “companion.”

-Do your best impression of Detective Alec Hardy by saying, “Miller” over and over in a heavy Scottish accent.

-Ask him anything about Sandbrook.

-Call him Kilgrave whenever he goes with the purple tie. Follow-up with a sinister, “Jess-i-ca.”

-Pretend he can control your mind.

-Yell, “CONSTANT VIGILANCE!” As you walk away from him.

-Ask if Professor Moody is in his filing cabinet.

See guys, I’m learning!

P.S. Special shout-out to my friend, Tom, who wrote a wonderfully entertaining awkward-inspired Valentine’s Day entry. Tom’s an awesome writer, and you should read his blog here.

The Top 5 Most Awkward Public Bathroom Situations

I haven’t done a Top 5 post in awhile, and this is a topic I’ve put a lot of thought into recently, now that I am in an office building with stall bathrooms (my last office building only had two co-ed, individual bathrooms, where men and women from all over the floor would go to have a nooner, which may merit a post in and of itself).

Public bathrooms are tremendously efficient, but they are by their own nature very flawed. By creating the public bathroom, society took processes that we have been taught are the most private things and have made them…well, public. We have become forced to share the most intimate aspects of ourselves with strangers, in an enclosed space. No behavior is safe in a public bathroom.

Because of this, they breed self-consciousness. Because of this, they are awkward incubators.

The Acoustics: What sort of sadistic bastard designed these things? Fun fact: bathrooms are number 4 on the most reverberant rooms, after cathedrals, concert halls, and speaking venues. Seriously, dude?! Sure, let’s just take the noisiest materials and make people pee on them. That’ll be fun. Then everybody waiting on the ever-present, inexplicably long line will have something to listen to. They can get an extra bit of excitement if I have to open a pad. Oh, who me? Nope, I don’t have my period. I’m just enjoying a nice bag of Doritos on the can. Don’t mind me. La di da.

The best are the people who think they stand a fighting chance of covering up their bodily sounds by rolling the toilet paper, flushing repeatedly, or turning on the faucet. Cry woe, everyone. Cry woe for the naïve. There is no escape. Pee streams are one of God’s most powerful creations.

No Toilet Paper: Has anyone ever been in a more terrifying situation than when you’ve rushed into the first empty stall you’ve found to finally relieve yourself, only to discover there is no more toilet paper? Has there ever been a time in which your critical thinking, emotional strength, and grace under pressure has been more greatly tested?

You do have options in such a situation. You can find auxiliary toilet paper in your bag. Surely the Duane Reade receipt won’t sting as much as you think it might. You can just shake it dry like a wet puppy and hope for minimal discomfort, but then there is that feeling in your heart (and in your pants) that everyone who sees you that day will know what you’ve done and will hate you for it.

You can bend to see if there is someone in the stall next to yours. If there is nobody, you can enter Cirque du Soleil mode and carefully contort your body to reach underneath for some toilet paper, and nobody is any the wiser. If there is somebody in the stall, you can ask them for toilet paper, but then they hand you a ball of toilet paper crumpled up in their palm, and I mean, you know what they’re doing in there and you know they haven’t washed their hands either. Plus, you open up the possibility for stall talk. More on that later.

Of course, no matter what, there is that the next person who rushes into the stall before you can shout your cautionary cry, and they are only able to make one of two assumptions: 1) You’re the dick who used the last of the toilet paper or 2) You’re the weirdo who doesn’t use toilet paper. You can’t win. As women, we are at the mercy of toilet paper.

Clogged Toilets: If you accidentally clog a toilet, and no one is around to see, does that mean it actually happened? You can tell a lot about a person’s moral compass when they’ve owned up to clogging a public toilet. It’s only happened to me once. And as I felt a surge of water splash over my butt, my eyes widened with panic. I had no loved ones I could call, no one I could trust. My compass was spinning in a whirlwind of right and wrong. Ultimately, I decided the best call was to put on a pair of sunglasses, wrap my scarf around my head, put my jacket on over my now wet pants, and pass a written tip to the first person I saw. My moral compass remains solidly pointed Northeast to this very day.

The Stall Talker: If there was a reality show called Public Bathroom Showdown, I’d be the one who didn’t go there to make friends. Perhaps I’m a poor multi-tasker, but I have a very hard time doing what I have to do while the person in the stall next to me is expecting me to engage in polite conversation. Someone once asked me if there was anything worse for me than small talk, and I wish at the time that I had been clever enough to say, “Yes, stall talk.”

It’s different if it’s your friends, of course. I’ve had fulfilling conversations with my ladies through the thin stall doors. And stall talkers have become a rarity in the age of smart phones. But then there is occasionally that one lady whose bathroom anxiety gets a little easier if she can describe her stall with excruciating detail and ask me questions about the phone numbers and evocative poetry written on my walls. The worst was when the girl in the stall next to mine was broken up with via text message and started crying and asking me for advice. I am, without a doubt, the worst person to talk to about such a thing. I have too many emotions and other peoples’ put me into overdrive. I believe I said something along the lines of, “Well, looks like this won’t be your only dump for the day,” because, ya know, humor. And this is why I’ll be alone forever.

Bottom line, keep that shit in the stall. Your literal and figurative shit. Or call someone from the stall. I don’t care if you talk to someone else. Just leave me be.

Which brings us to…

Anything Involving Poop: Since you’re on the internet, I’m guessing you also may have observed that people have figured out white men are treated better than other people. I can only assume that has been known for awhile but now, with Facebook and Twitter, we can be exposed to all kinds of new and exciting opinions. As a woman, I firmly respect feminism and all of its plights. However, I wouldn’t start the fight with wage inequality or our sexual freedoms. I would start the fight with a huge problem we face everyday: a problem we do not only face when dealing with men, but with each other.

That problem is poop shaming.

The fact that women poop makes the majority of people very uncomfortable, including women. And that is utterly ridiculous. Why do men get the comfort of being open about the fact that they poop regularly, and everyone is just okay with it, but as a woman, I do not only have to conceal the fact that I poop from my suitors, but from my own kind?

Having to pee has gotten to a very acceptable point. We can now pee without facing major consequences. Yay progress! But still, when we’ve just had our coffee, and things start kicking in down there, we have to engage in CIA-level protocol in order to complete our mission.

We breathe a sigh of relief when we find we are alone in the public bathroom. At least no one has seen us, no one would be able to identify us should we be found out.  Quickly, we choose what we hope is the most inconspicuous stall, pull up Pinterest on our smart phones, and begin.

Then someone walks in and we must abort. We know they know what we’re doing in here, but they can’t have any proof. Begin the clench! Then we hear the silence from the other stall, and now we know what they’re doing, and they know we know they know what we’re doing, and we have reached an impasse.

After a time, everyone agrees we must go forth. As long as one waits for the other to make their exit, no one will have been seen, and everyone can go home safely. But then, oh no! Someone walks in to do their makeup. And the silence ensues once more. Even though all parties have finished what they had come to do, we must wait again. Our butts are getting tired, but it’s the only way. Don’t forget to cover up your scent later on because the smell of fresh lemons and crap is enough to ward off any detective.

This must be stopped. Only when women stop ignoring this fact about ourselves, about each other, can we achieve progress. Only then can we achieve peace.

Truthfully, this list could have been a Top 10, 15, 25, 400 things. There are long lines, running out of soap, automatic sinks and towel dispensers that do not work no matter how wildly you flail, the social hierarchy of the stalls. So if you’ve got a great public bathroom story, share in the comments! And the next time you find yourself embarrassed in a public bathroom, think of me and women everywhere and know that we’re going through the exact same thing.

Too Awkward to Fail: My First Week as an Accidental CEO

On January 1st, I became CEO of my company. This is not because I am a power-hungry stony bitch who wears a lot of pencil skirts and is determined to claw her way to the top of the corporate ladder, nor am I a hip, young engineer, with a pool table and tap beer in my office, who has figured out a way to make apps greener or something. I became the CEO pretty much for being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

I’ve never been an overly ambitious person (ambitious people have to network). I’d always thought I’d end up a jaded lit professor at some mid-tier private college who spouted worldly wisdom in a 60-year-old-chainsmoker voice and gave everyone As because what does it even mean anyway. But I’ve always somehow ended up being in charge at nearly every job I’ve ever worked. This is because a) I cannot physically function without a system in place. I need to know when and where and how things are going to happen. Surprises are for extroverts. Give me schedules and reassurance! And b) I am very, very bad at saying no, especially to work, because I am too stubborn to admit that I am lazy.

To make a very long story short, my company was acquired by a much larger company as of January 1st. The acquisition was nearly an 18-month-long process filled with renegotiations, disputes, and a bit of grown men crying, but when it was all said and done, the new owner came to find he did not want the ex-owner (my boss) in charge. Then he met with me and asked me a question about finances, and I said something ingeniously along the lines of you-shouldn’t-spend-more-money-than-you-have, and badda bing…due to the age-old mixture of logic and spite, I was CEO.

I was technically asked but didn’t really have too much of a choice, and the position came with a bit more money, and I have essentially been living off of peanut butter and pretzels. So here I am, a CEO, and I feel really obnoxious about it. And after one week on the job, I can officially say I have no idea what a CEO does.

It’s true. I tried googling it and everything. I don’t really know what the nature of my job is. I just know Bernie Sanders hates me.

But like a true American, I suppose I’ll have to figure it out as I go.

Here are some of my observations based on my experiences of the last few work days…

  • CEOs delegate: I decide what gets done and when it gets done. This is actually something I can do. Time management is one of my two skills (that and rapping, obviously). The challenge here is being assertive enough to tell people to do something, and to occasionally do it faster and better than they are willing to. On top of that, I do not want to come across like an asshole. I do not like assholes. The people or the things (seriously, who came up with those anyway?). Thus far, this has resulted in a lot of stammering and confused sentences.
  • CEOs solve problems: Heat broken in the office? Either I talk to maintenance or everyone freezes. Freeze, it is! (Just kidding, I talked to them, but I did not like it one bit!)
  • CEOs make decisions: Keurig or coffee pot? Excuse me while I deliberate with myself for 3 hours.
  • CEOs talk on the phone: And evidently, it is often about things I know nothing about, like professional liability insurance, interest rates, and profit margins. My only hope is that I can confuse them with big words like “synergy” and saying things like “correct” instead of “yeah.” Still have yet to uncover the appropriateness of “okey dokey.”
  • CEOs sign checks: Which either makes me the most popular or most hated person in the room. I’ve always been too apathetic to be either, so this’ll be interesting.
  • CEOs look at spreadsheets: At this point, I’m just nodding a lot.
  • CEOs are the face of the company: Hope you like masks!
  • CEOs wear professional outfits: So I guess it’s time I learn how to walk in heels and if I’m an autumn or a summer. I still don’t understand a lot about fashion, and I especially don’t understand why I must get dressed up to sit in a cubicle. My computer has seen me at my best and worst and loves me just the same. I also could never get behind the “look good, feel good” mentality. Ya know when I feel good? When I get the extra fifteen minutes of sleep. But I am a CEO now, and so may my eyes be lined, may my blazer be pressed, may my pants be trousers, may my mirror be sturdy.

Clearly, I am currently faking it. Right now, I am sitting at my computer typing this with a furrowed brow and look of determination so my staff will think I am up to things of utmost importance. I really miss being an editor when I just got to read stories all day and nobody’s livelihood was in my hands. But I will not fail. I will climb the ladder very carefully in the hopes that I do not slip and fall in my insensible shoes.

That is not because I crave success. It is because I really don’t like it when people yell at me.