An Admittedly Very Outdated Salute to Miranda Priestly

Stub your toe, and I weep. But if your boss tears you a (justifiable) new one, I'm gonna laugh and create a Top Ten list of why your boss was right. When it comes to work stuff, I'm not the place to go for sympathy. Come to think of it, I'm an unapologetic hardass.

Want to know how harsh I am? Want to know the exact moment I knew I was all grown up? I walked out of The Devil Wears Prada and couldn't get what was so awful about Meryl Streep's character. I thought she was really about the best boss that a recent college graduate could have. And I thought Anne Hathaway's character was a self-absorbed, entitled little whiner.

Back in the day, I could have really used a Miranda to set me straight. The first few years after college exist to tell you that you're not half so special as you thought, that you have to do the grunt work to get to the good stuff, that all honest work has dignity, and that whining is for losers. Well, ideally, you learn those things. If you didn't, godspeed and good luck in the unemployment line.

Think about it. Miranda:

• Has clear expectations and responsibilities for her assistants


• Rewards hard work with opportunities to grow (and a trip to Paris!)


• Expects her staff to dress for success and uphold the corporate image


• Teaches her staff about the industry (the infamous "cerulean rant")


• Doesn't yell (once you've worked for a yeller, you'll never do it again)
  

Sure, her expectations are sort of bonkers, the hours are long, saying "that's all" instead of "thank you" is pretty obnoxious, and the stress is extreme. But...raise of hands...who thinks being a personal assistant for a famous, high-level person in a high-pressure industry is going to be a 9 to 5 cakewalk with plenty of Gawker breaks? Nobody? Ok, then. Point made.

What cracked me up about Andy (played by Anne Hathaway in the movie) is that she really expected her first job to be sunshine and ponies, that she thought it would be OK to make fun of the people issuing her paychecks, and that she was somehow better than people who had toiled for years to get where they are. Pretty standard recent-grad behavior. Of course (disclaimer alert!), not everyone behaves that way, but enough do that the stereotype of the entitled entry-level worker holds some weight.

Of course, the job turns out to be a poor fit, and Andy resigns, which is OK. We've all taken jobs that we've regretted. Of course, it's not ever OK to quit by tossing your work-issued Blackberry into a fountain, and depart without giving notice. But, by that point, I was just ready for Andy to sack up and stop whining.

In the comments, tell me who you sympathize with more: Miranda or Andrea. Or tell me this post is about three years overdue.

A Tuesday Travelogue, TSA Edition

Back in 2002, I held one of my odder jobs. I worked for a small consulting firm, where I mostly had to research nifty excuses to kill the crap out of some whales (because apparently they are very, very tasty).

When I was done signing a death warrant for Shamu, my other client asked me to spend a week touring small museums. It felt like a small-town bandit road trip, except this time for pay.

I spent a day in glamorous Pensacola, touring the Naval Aviation Museum. (If you ever get a chance, GO! They let you geek out and climb around inside all of the airplanes.) I spent a stormy night stranded in Fort Wayne, Indiana, sharing a plate of nachos with a three-toothed man named Shiloh. I loved being stranded in six-gate Fort Wayne “International” Airport, so named because of the occasional flight to Canada. I conditioned my hair with hand lotion, ate at every Waffle House I could find, and learned about all the local murders from gregarious cabbies.

I found the last leg of my trip, to a submarine in Michigan, cancelled due to my delay in Fort Wayne. Then, by a wonderful stroke of luck, I found myself in Milwaukee with a four-hour layover. I spent most of those four hours tossing back beer and brats, making new friends, and watching my bad habits absorbed by the generous expense accounts of the Ford Motor Company.

Eventually, my Midwest Express flight was called. I wobbled on over, ready for home and a hot bath.

When I reached the gate, I was pulled aside for further inspection. My ricochets around America, last-minute flight changes, and imposing demeanor had landed me on a terrorist watch list.

My bag was searched. Unfortunately, nothing interesting turned up. Nowadays I travel with an econo-pack of condoms and a Magic 8-ball, just to give the TSA something to think about.

Then I had to step to one side, and put my arms straight out so I could be wanded. I’m not proud of what I did next. But bear in mind, I was floating on hours of free beer and cute businessmen.

I began to touch my nose with my pointer fingers and recite the alphabet, in the manner of a field sobriety test.

The TSA agent cracked a smile and waved me on board. When I reached my seat, the flight attendant gave me a cookie and a glass of champagne.

The lesson? Never turn down a chance to make a drunken idiot of yourself in front of Homeland Security. Because if you do, you'll get a cookie!

Friday's Story: Profiles in Occupational Hotness

Before I began my lucrative career in the secretarial arts, I had a different brush with occupational hotness. Librarian? No. Nurse? Not even close. Instead, I applied for Arjewtino’s favorite sexy career: Flight Attendant.

I had just finished college, and was looking for a job. In 1998, job hunting involved actual newspapers, circling relevant want ads with a red pen, and mailing off resumes. With stamps! That you licked! We also churned our own butter and wore bonnets.

So, one day, I was circling ads by the pool when I came across an open call for flight attendants. Hey, who is better qualified than me? I have a degree in journalism from a top-flight state university, for heaven’s sake. I can pass out pillows and cans of Coke, and see the world at the same time. Plus, I could fly for free and meet lots of cute pilots.

Harsh Reality #1: If you want to see the world, don’t apply to work for a prop-plane regional airline.

So I went to the open call. It was very similar to the Disney intern open call I had gone to several years before. Namely, very happy people make very depressing jobs seem like the funnest thing ever.

For the record, prop-plane flight attendants only get paid when the cabin doors are closed. And they have to gather trash and clean the plane after every flight. So, much like my housewife era, I would not be paid to pick up after others. And the money is so hilariously bad it makes my current wages look like a king’s ransom.

And you have to live at the airline’s hub. Well, you sort of live there, but really, you don’t. Because you’re so broke you do things like fly standby for the free peanuts.

Harsh Reality #2: Let's move to glamorous Newark!

And I almost forgot about the uniforms. Which you had to pay for yourself. They were made of a fascinating sandpaper/polyester hybrid fabric. The things even smelled flammable. If the plane went down, everyone would die. That's because there would be no flight attendants left to remind people about their seat cushion flotation devices. The attendants and their poly-blend getups would have all combusted at the first spark.

Nonetheless, I wanted to be sexy stewardess. So I stayed for the spiel, I stayed for the group interview, I got a callback for an individual interview. All told, I was there for three hours. Only then did they tell me that I’m too short to reach the overhead compartments.

Harsh Reality #3: I’ll never be tall enough to be truly hot.

That’s when I said, “Oh well, secretaries can be sexy, too! I’ll just take that job at the hotel.”

And that's how I became the woman I am today. Inspiring, no?

Temporarily Yours

I'm breaking a rule here, because I almost never discuss work. If you read between the lines, though, it's pretty obvious that I'm an office temp. I do mostly higher-end, longer-term assignments, and have been with the same agency for five years (not counting my stints overseas when I worked for the guv'ment).

There are some really great things about being a temp. Actually, if it paid more, I'd temp forever.

The Highs:
I'm always meeting new people and learning new things
If a position isn't a perfect fit, it isn't forever
I have contacts all over town and have made a lot of friends
I can refer to myself as an "office anthropologist"
I really and truly enjoy (and rock the house at) administrative work
People are very appreciative of the work I do, and I get lots of coffee gift cards and free food

The Lows:
Not much stability
Would YOU want to be 31 years old and paid by the hour?

I've been hunting for a permanent job for a while now. I specifically took time over the summer just temp and write, but started my job search in earnest in the fall. I'm grateful for the experiences I've had, grateful to have a roof over my head, and really happy I got the chance to try out so many different industries and jobs. The last year has given me a much better idea of who I am, what my strengths are, and who I want to be.

So, if you're at loose ends, give temping a try.

Cruise Director Julie?

I'm a planner. An anticipator. A logistical freak. A Type A cliche.

Those are all very handy things to be on the job. I'm a professional secretary, so those traits are my bread and butter. Are you attending a conference in Vancouver on 10 days notice, with no hotel, no rental car, a flight reimbursement cap of $750, and a meeting back in DC the following morning? I'm your girl. I can throw the whole thing togther for you in 30 minutes.

If your office is a mess, I'll fix it. I'll inflict my organizational systems on you, along with a heavy dose of Secretarial Zen philosophy. You'll love every minute of it. I truly enjoy scheduling, organizing, and coordinating.

I've noticed, however, that these traits are far less appealing in my personal life. Friends hesitate to invite me over, in case I secretly optimize their closet space while they're off answering the phone. (Of course, some friends invite me over in the secret hope that I'll reorganize their closets for them.)

I spend a lot of my free time cruise directing happy hours, home-cooked dinners, and museum outings. My calendar is booked well in advance. Not RSVPing, no-showing, and last-minute flakeouts can give me an insurmountable case of the crankies.

So I'm always left with the same dilemma. I gotta be me, but how do I avoid freaking people out? Do I have to tamp down the control freak aspects of my personality, or should I just continue my hyperscheduling and allow people to fall in line if they want to? Who knows?

Vacation, All I Ever Wanted...

I have a 5-day weekend coming up, and I couldn't be happier about it. The last time I had any sort of real break, it was Christmas. I've been getting a bit burned out, truth be told, and need a few days to recharge.

No, I'm not going anywhere. No, I'm not doing anything in particular. I'm staying in town, mostly because I'm too broke to go anywhere, and partially because going anywhere is too much of a hassle to be relaxing.

So far I'm having a friend over for dinner, going to a party, and having lunch with a former coworker. I'm also getting my hair cut, which has become a stark necessity. If I were a superhero, I'd be The Human Kudzu. My hair and nails grow at an alarming rate. My bangs have gone from cute forehead decor to bizarre growths covering most of my face.

Beyond that, I might redecorate the bathroom, sleep in, and get rid of random junk. I couldn't be more thrilled.

In Praise of...Praise?

The Gen Y invasion of the workplace has been written about until even I'm sick of it. Apparently, kids today love iPods, won't pay their dues, and sass their managers.

At some point in the last couple of years, an important axis tilt occurred. I used to be one of the youngest people in any given office, now, I am usually one of the oldest. My town has surrendered to the twentysomethings. The average D.C. office looks like Logan's Run, minus the shiny futuristic jumpsuits. Everyone my own age has apparently given up and moved elsewhere.

So what does this mean in my day-to-day life? Mostly, that I receive fawning praise for the smallest of accomplishments. A colleague my own age or older will respond to a completed task with, "well done," "good work," or the always-appropriate "thank you." However, younger colleagues will respond to a completed task with something akin to unbridled joy. No matter how menial the task, I will be treated as if I rescued a tiny furry little kitten out of a burning tree, falling and breaking all four limbs in the process. I have had to forcibly block people from patting me on the head.

I'm all for praise and appreciation, but too much of it is overkill. It's also demeaning. Bouncing with joy because someone typed a letter without major mishap implies that the person who did so is incapable of doing anything more than typing letters.

Is this a generational divide? Do these endlessly studied, coddled, and indulged young professionals respond to everything with the same inflated levels of praise to which they've become accustomed? Or is excessive praise a byproduct of professional inexperience? Or, most likely, am I just a bitter old crank?

Dreary Fridays and the Nature of Work

This is just a random corraling of my thoughts on a dreary Friday.

I am absolutely, drag-myself-across-the-floor and smear-on-my-makeup-with-the-heel-of-my hand tired today. Yesterday, I worked my usual day job, then picked up some extra cash in the evening by taking care of some billing for a former employer. Then I went home and read a little bit of this month's Glamour. I tried to crash out, but just couldn't sleep. It's been a stressful and uncertain week, as I am most likely changing jobs yet again. Too much uncertainty and not enough control can make me headachy and weepy. Neither of those things are conducive to a good night's rest.

What kept me up last night was thoughts about work. (Note: this is far healthier than the time I stayed up all night ruminating on the nature of barn-raisings.) I don't know if it's because I'm in Washington, the nexus of unholy ambition, but it seems like this town has a bizarre relationship with work. The point of having a job is to provide yourself and your loved ones with food and shelter. If you can find something you enjoy, that pays you well, that's terrific. But in the end you're just putting food on the table like everyone else. Lions hunt, beavers fish, I code invoices.

I don't know when the notions of work and survival became so disparate. Is it because my personal version of Washington has gotten too cushy? Never once have I heard a friend describe a job as an avenue to paying rent. Instead it's usually about personal fulfillment, the jerk boss, and the meaning of life. And in job searches over the years, I have never once heard a potential employer show concern about paying a living wage. Instead the invisible hand of the market is supposed to ascertain my relationship comparative to the price of milk.

Sometimes I wonder if I'm weird for not caring about a career. I stay on task, I turn out good work, I'm smart and capable and very easy to get along with. I'm just not ambitious. I have no urge to be President (I can't be, anyway) or a CEO. I have virtually no use for money beyond buying the basics. If I could settle into a nice administrative job with good benefits, sane hours and a decent wage, I would cheerfully stay for years. Is that so horrible?

The Want Ads, Decoded

I am a firm believer in temp-to-perm, especially if you're an administrative professional like me. Because, let's face it, secretarial work is remarkably similar everywhere you go. So it's better to try a place out and get a feel for the environment before you sign on long-term.

On occasion, though, I do cruise the want ads. What I find there is usually so unappealing that I go back to my original temp-to-perm strategy. So, for all you employers out there, here is how job seekers translate common phrases:

"Fast-paced" can mean that you will have a busy, productive day. It can also mean that you will never have time to go to the bathroom, let alone eat lunch anywhere except for your desk. Please clearly delineate between "busy" and "hectic."

"Competitive salary and benefits" means their salary and benefits are competitive...with those of Indonesia.

"Excellent salary and benefits" means they pay slightly more than the "competitive" people.

"Other duties as assigned", like "fast-paced," can mean one of two things. Maybe teamwork is expected, and you have to pitch in on stuff here and there. That's fine. Or it means they don't really know what they want from this position and expect you to figure it out.

"Close supervision" means micromanagement, meddling, and a host of other unpleasant words that begin with the letter M.

"Rapidly shifting priorities" means only one thing: the boss is disorganized and one of those people that doesn't know what they want, and will therefore interrupt you constantly.

My preferred job listings have the following aspects:

They state their salary range upfront. Because if I want less or more money than they're willing to spend, why waste everyone's time? (Yes, sometimes I want less money, as high salaries often follow mandatory overtime.)

They give clear job expectations, without resorting to a bullet-pointed opus. I want a general feel for what the job entails, not an exhaustive list of everything I might potentially do over the course of a year.

They clearly state the name of the organization, and what they're about. This is a problem particular to Craigslist. Don't tell me it's a Glover Park real estate firm, or an environmental nonprofit, or whatever. What if your organization clubs baby seals or distributes kiddie porn? My resume contains my home address and phone number, and I have the right to know where it's going. What if you're not really an employer, but a psycho stalker with an office manager fetish?

Does anyone else have any want ad or job hunting pet peeves?

Marketing Rules!

I work as an office manager, which makes me a juicy target market. On a typical day, I receive all sorts of random sales calls, junk mail, and spam. I love it. As marketing gets more and more targeted, and the sheer volume of information increases, the attempts to reach me just get weirder and louder.

Oh, there’s the usual stuff, like growing my penis, reducing my debt, or finding love the Christian way. But the best spam I ever saw landed in my inbox today. Celebrate Memorial Day with a Honey Baked Ham! There’s no better way to honor America’s fallen heroes than with…pork products.

So now I’m wondering what product tie-ins I’ll get for the rest of the holidays. Viagra for Valentine’s? Should I honor Father’s Day with a Nigerian bank scam? Hey, let’s celebrate Halloween with some high-quality toner cartridges!

I’ve also been trying to figure out how in hell the ham marketers come up with this Memorial Day campaign. Did the marketing team conduct some sort of study? Maybe they did a focus group, where they asked participants to brainstorm new ham-centric holidays. Easter and Christmas are a given, but why not have an Arbor Day ham? Or maybe they paid an outside consultant to come up with a new campaign, “Ham: Not Just for Jesus Any More.”

Either way, I don’t see myself buying a ham for Memorial Day. Saint Walpurgis Day, however, is a definite hamworthy holiday. Well played, Honey Baked Ham people. Well played.

The Five Stages of Quitting Your Job

Denial, anger, bargaining, depression, acceptance. Now comes the super-secret sixth phase: soul-crushing fear. See, I've decided to temporarily forgo life in management track corporate America. I've quit my super career chick job with the suits, the giant keyring, and the door that closes. I'm going back to temping, in hopes of landing a decent secretarial post somewhere. This way I can try out different jobs and companies before I sign on long-term. I have one week left at my current job.

I realized I'd been using my job as something to hide behind. If I was really stressed out and came home dog tired, then I couldn't write, couldn't think, and couldn't deal with how completely loopy the last year has been. I could instead obsess about work. I've been told at least 100 times to write a book, and I never got up the nerve to do it. I never even got up the nerve to say I was even considering it. I don't know if it will ever really happen, but it definitely won't with the way my life is currently set up. If you can't get there from here, then it's time to change course.

I have no real responsibilities. I don't have a spouse, a mortgage, a car payment, or kids, just one very demanding houseplant. So if I'm going to take risks, now is the time to do it. Unfortunately, what with being 30 years old and all, I'm old enough to know exactly what it is I'm doing. Hence the soul-crushing fear.

So, yeah, eeeeeeek. But I'm happy. Scared, sure, but all that courage I've had to build up over the last year has to pay off sometime. At least that's what I'll tell myself as my bank account gets shot to hell.

Happiness is a choice, and sometimes it's the hardest choice that brings the most happiness.