mainsqueeze's Diaryland
Diary
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I Know You Tried to Change Things
Oh, boy, I have a crush, and not just any crush but a crush on a guy who is technically my boss, one who is smart and funny and adorable and successful, one who--and I have never said this before and I may not ever say it again--is way, way out of my league. Dan 1, who, god bless him, is now giving me man advice so that I may find somebody to fill his painfully vacant shoes, says that Dan 2 clearly likes me. Scheduling his dinner break two hours early? According to Dan 1 that means this is a sure thing. The collaborative art projects (which is freaking awesome, by the way) means, in Dan 1�s mind, that Dan 2 and I will be, as he so eloquently put it, �fucking by next Saturday.� Geez. Dan 2 mentioned liking a girl but not being able to tell her, said he spoke to her often but that it�s �complicated.� And Dan 1 insists that this must be me. Sigh. I can hope, oh, I can hope. The trouble with charming boys is that you can never tell if they really like you or not, if they actually want to be with you or if they are simply so naturally goddamn nice and charismatic that it just SEEMS like they like you. I am sick of all the Dan 1 and Dan 2-ing. Funny that two crushes would have the same name back to back, hmm?
Tomorrow, I have my third interview at Insert Huge Casino Name Here, where I will undergo an Abstract Reasoning test, a math test, and a �personality screening,� which I think is the part where they try to figure out if I am nuts or not. I know, money is money and boy howdy, I need more of it, but I am feeling a wee bit conflicted over all of this. If I get this job--and I am almost positive that I will--it will mean abandoning my seniority, my coworkers, my employees, and Henderson, my tiny corner of the universe where my customers have followed me since I was 17 and everyone knows me, where I get birthday cards and Christmas cards and hugs and kisses and kind words daily. And I will be abandoning my boss, which is the hardest part. Dan 1 likes to remind me that companies do this, that they instill this deep and abiding sense of loyalty to pay you less and keep you longer, but I love my boss, my Daddytron. He untaught me the stuff my parents told me about being quiet and passive and taught me to fight and to sometimes be a little tougher on others and a little easier on myself. Because of him, I can call bullshit when I see bullshit and I can stand up for myself in situations that would have had me shaking in my boots before. When Nicole died, he gave me eleven days off instead of the standard five, and he made sure I was paid for all of them. When I needed a wake up call-- several of them, actually--he gave them to me, and he was honest and cruel and he sliced me right to the bone but I have never, ever, been more sure that somebody wanted me to succeed like he wants me to. He said I�m his number three, behind my two bosses. I love the hell out of him. When he had to ask a supervisor to evaluate him, he chose me because he said he knew I�d be honest, and I owed him that, so I was. Maybe I�ll leave. Maybe I won�t. I know, more than most people, how worthless money really is. We�ll see where my road leads to. I have been known to make a wrong turn here and there.
The living situation is getting me down a bit as of late--I mean, I love my Gran, and it is so awesome that she�s letting me stay, but good lord, she�s not the same as she used to be. She�s so fearful these days, afraid of dogs and cats and cars and strangers and home invasions, which she is convinced happen at a startling high frequency, every hour of every day, in her neighborhood. Which, by the way, they don�t. You�d think she lived in fucking Compton, for chrissakes. Tiara said to me that she hates the way Gran always says she looks just like her Mom, her DEAD mom, every word of out Gran�s mouth a reminder that her mother is gone but that she has her face. She�s sick of hearing about her dead mother. I�m getting sick of it, too. It hurt, really fucking bad, in fact, and I do not relish the sting of having the wound torn a little wider each day. I love her, I miss her, but she�s GONE. Okay? Gone. And no amount of crying or self-flagellation will bring her back.
Update: I got the job. More on that later.
3:02 a.m. - 2007-07-15
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