My Life as a Hotfessional

There was one time, and one time only, that I came close to believing that something truly weird was happening that couldn’t be explained rationally. I still don’t know what the explanation is/was, but time has provided the distance so that I no longer sit and ponder it. Nor do I have to ask people what they think happened - but after today’s screening, I think I’ll go ahead and scribe it for posterity.

This is a true story. It did happen. I have witnesses. Of course, they’re probably laughing too hard to actually repeat it.

Sometime around early November, 2003, I was working on a training program for
our organization. It was a course on processes and procedures that needed to be
completed by all of the new “application support specialists” who were hired to
report to me and my two cohorts. We were spending a lot of time working directly
with our training director, Michelle.

Michelle and I needed to coordinate the schedules to accomodate 185 people, in 4 different states, so we were working closely together and on the phone to each other constantly. As usual though, there were times when those calls came at an inopportune time and went to our friend, Voicemail. Generally, the messages went something like this - “Hey, listen, it’s me. I’ll buy you an Appletini if we can start that class at 9:00 a.m. instead of 8:00 a.m. because I’ve got to meet with so-and-so at 7:30 and there’s no way I can face that and then 30 people without a cup of coffee or
12.”

or

“Okay, so I can’t make the 5:45 flight out of New York to get to Detroit the night before, so if we can move the class to the next day, I promise I’ll take you out for Margaritas after.” (Yes, there were lots of bribes that were paid off, not in greenbacks, but green liquor.)

Anyway, message that Voicemail passed along garnered a return call while I was out of the office running an errand - I think I was picking up missing ingredients for Thanksgiving dinner - just as a reference to the timing here. As I answered my cell, Michelle greeted me with “So, didn’t you get my page? I paged you earlier to talk about the Troy class.” This was, by the way, pre-Blackberry and I still had my old two-way pager and a separate cell phone. I apologized; we worked everything out (while I was, undoubtedly adding another bottle of wine to my cart and sampling the cheese cubes put out by the deli) and went on our merry ways. The call was about the shipment of the binders we were going to use to house the multitude of very boring important things that needed to be taught.

Binders that never showed up at the office. That fell into a deep, dark, black hole apparently, as the shipper claims they were sent, but no record of them having been delivered, signed for, accepted. (do do do do - think theme from Twilight Zone, it’s a little hard to come across through this browser)

Several months later (March? April? around Easter, 2004), long after the classes were completed, and the binders forgotten, I walked into my cubicle and there sat a
huge box. I opened it up, and there were the freakin binders. Immediately, I picked up my phone and called Michelle. She was out of the office. I told her voicemail - “Call me. I’ll buy you a cosmopolitan if you can figure out what just showed up at my desk.” Since she was on vacation I didn’t figure I’d hear from her for a while, but we’d have a laugh.

That night, I was sound asleep, and my pager went off. I grabbed it off the nightstand and blearily tried to read it. I tried again with glasses this time. Heck, it was 3 am, and I can barely see during daylight hours.

This was the message. “Call me when you get a chance. Michelle.” And, it was dated Nov 26, 2003. FIVE months earlier. When she had called me to discuss the ordering of the binders. The binders that finally showed up that day.

—- I’m not rethinking my non-belief in the supernatural, but I can’t pretend that I am really, really, glad that the 14th floor isn’t a smoking floor. —-

Babysitting - starting when I was 12. You had to be 12. It was like a law or something.

Parks and Recreation Leader - I was 16. The youngest leader that they’d ever hired. The town I lived in had been farmland and had just started the subdivision boom. It was 1979. There were all of these little parks in the subdivisions. Some had playsets and sandboxes and baseball fields. We got arts ‘n craft supplies. We even got to take field trips. Other than the cost of some of the field trips, it was pretty much free daycare for many of the parents. The kids showed up in the morning, (some even brought their lunch, or glommed off my partner and me).

Honestly, what could the township leaders have been thinking when they put 17 year olds out there with any number of juvenile delinquent-wannabes? We drove ancient vans to field trip locations (Wave pools, the Zoo, State parks) up to 40 or 50 miles away. That could never happen today. Surely Susie or Johnny would scrape their knee and their parents would sue for millions of dollars of damages and the program would be shut down.

I worked for Parks & Rec for 4 years. All the way through High School and my freshman year in college.

I remember one day, when I got one of the BIG parks (it had TWO playsets, and grills that we could use, and a softball field, and running water!). We decided to have a water fight. We brought the balloons and supplied a hose. We bought hot dogs and everything necessary to have a big cookout.

I went into the porta-john to change into my bathing suit. (I can tell you, I had the best tan ever those 4 years). Next thing I know, the potty is shaking. rocking. I’m holding onto the walls and trying to unlock the door, and screaming at the top of my lungs, and I’m hearing all of these shrieking evil laughs from those hellions. My partner had gone over to the other side of the park (this was a biiiiigggg park - it spanned a mile wide area) to get the charcoal and stuff out of the storage area. They were trying to fucking tip me over. In a Porta-John. That they had all used. Minions. of. Satan.

Jill finally got back and threatened to cancel all of the festivities. “DON’T MAKE ME THROW AWAY THESE HOTDOGS. DON’T MAKE US PUT THE HOSE BACK. DON’T MAKE ME TURN THIS CAR AROUND!”

Makes me shudder every time I have to use the outhouse at Shortman’s baseball games.

Veterinary Assistant: When I wasn’t being the target of the neighborhood hellborns’ antics, I worked after school in a local Vet’s office. Since I was planning to go to Veterinary School, I needed this job. Everything in this office was stainless steel. It was my job (in addition to the normal front-office stuff) to scrub everything in the office every day. With non-scratching cleanser. Softscrub. The. Whole. Entire. Office. I had the cleanest hands - you could have eaten off my hands!

When the Vet decided he needed someone to work during school hours and could only afford one of us, I was let go. It was the first time I ever lost a job. (But it won’t be the last as we all know).

Teller: My first foray into the banking world. I hated every second of it. I was 21 - and had NO patience. If the customer yelled at me, I yelled back. The only reason I didn’t get my ass fired was because my mother was the City Treasurer, and my Dad was a Police Lieutenent in the same city. I left when I got married and swore “With God as my witness, I will never work in banking again!”

Human Resources (Multiple positions including Payroll Coordinator, Benefits Specialist and Trainer): In. A. Bank. (See above…this was a mere 4 months later….so much for that vow) I worked for the absolute worst boss I ever had - and the last woman I ever worked for. She hated me. I had a college degree and knew Lotus 1-2-3! And she cried when I resigned. (What? Who was going to cover her ass when her boss tried to get her to do something on the p.c. instead of the IBM Selectric?)

College Instructor: I taught Computer Science 101. It paid for my tuition those semesters - when I went back to school after my divorce. I used to give extra credit to anyone who would come find me at Basketball games. I carried huge piles of 3.5″ floppies in my backpack. I discovered I hated grading homework and giving tests. No one failed my class. I taught the guy who would eventually kick the field goal that won us the 1AA Football Championship in 1992. THAT was the era “We Are! Marshall!” started, not 1970.

—- And that led me to where I am today. My current career started in 1992. 15. years. ago. God Help Me. I have GOT to start that resume. But I can’t seem to decide what I want to be when I grow up. —-