Autofecalmeteorology

My boss, who I do like even if, as a manager, she's about as effective as Dan Quayle proctoring a spelling bee (yes, I cull completely untimely and unfunny jokes from my childhood. If you don't like it, gtfo), very kindly informed me that my contract will not be extended. I am done at the end of October.

I kind of already knew that, since the girl who hired me through my temp agency asked me a month ago if I knew anyone in the comms field looking for a placement nearby. When she sent me the job description, it was the exact same one I had been hired under. Verbatim. Now, I'm not saying it's not possible to recycle job descriptions, but uh... I'm not a moron. At any rate, my informed supposition proved prescient. Lucky me! I'm like a one-woman personal shit-storm predictor. 

"So, what do you do?"

"Nothing, really, but I do have a PhD in autofecalmeteorolgy from FU."

So I'm currently hiding in a bathroom stall on another floor writing this and trying to figure out what the fuck I need to do next.

The timing of all this is horrendous. Adam just proposed 10 days ago. My niece is due on Guy Fawkes Day. Christmas is coming. We've just sent out invites for our second annual, completely ludicrously over the top Halloween party. I think I've finally struck gold on a way of eating that allows me to sleep better and manage my moods. There are things to celebrate and embrace and spend money on.

Instead I'm hiding in the sixth floor ladies' room hoping no one can find me. (Not that they'd want to.)

My boss simply stated I wasn't a good fit for the company. I know that. She admitted that she isn't a good fit here, either. Ultimately, it doesn't bother me to go; I don't belong in a behemoth corporation any more than I belong elsewhere. The truth is that I seem to be unemployable, and that's what scares me most.

I'm uncompromising - not with others, but of myself. I don't hide my disdain for pettiness and frippery well. I can't reconcile bigotry in the workplace. And I certainly don't think it's acceptable that we should choose either a living wage or the ability to live with ourselves.

Regardless, I have a month or so of time to figure out our next move. Hopefully, Adam will get official confirmation on the job he's got in the hopper and we can coast until I sort my professional life - such that it is - out in some way. 

I'm not sad. I'm not angry. I'm scared. I guess I really am an adult, Tim.