I’m not a housegirlfriend anymore. Does that mean I have to change my blog? It seems to me that I have dumped Sam Hill (Hell) and gotten myself a new boyfriend (outside of Mike of course) called A REAL JOB.
Yes, ladies and gentlemen, I got a job. I’m giving up my duties as a housegirlfriend. Let’s start from the beginning, though, shall we? Let’s go back to a time when I was still dating Mike and Sam Hill.
So we all know I got a job as a key-holder selling smelly-goods at Bath and Body Works. It was fun. I enjoyed it. I was learning it. But it wasn’t paying the bills. Even on those beautiful chilled nights driving up the Cranberry Hill to the gold field on top with the silo, the student loans were out of their grace period, and Leon, my Dodge Neon, was dangerously close to 100,000 miles. It’s autumn in Franklin, and it’s beautiful and colorful and even though the heat is gone, we are all melting into hot chocolates and dancing among the leaves.
I applied to be a technical writer in the suburbs of Cleveland, Ohio. I’ve never written technically, only creatively. But I could do it, because damnit, I can write. I’ve got range. And I can’t pay my bills on a part-time smelly-good-selling job.
So my mom says, “Be a technical writer!” and I say, “OK!” So I apply to this job in Cleveland, two days later, I have an interview and an aptitude test. Halfway through the aptitude test, the wonderful woman who interviewed me says, “Can you stick around?”
“Yes. Absolutely.” All the sudden, I’m in a room with the president of the company and the head of marketing. They ask some questions, ask me what I think about writing in terms of marketing. They say I can be creative. They say I can do what I studied for for seven years. I say, “YES.”
On the drive home, Keith Urban’s “Somebody Like You” plays on the radio, and the sun breaks through the clouds for the first time all day, and I am happy.
Two days later, I get another call. Turns out, I am one of three final candidates. I am in love with the idea of this job. I go to the second interview, during which I meet the CEO. I feel good, but I’m nervous. Keith Urban’s “Somebody Like You” plays again on the way home to Pennsylvania. I smile, hope. When I walk into Mike’s apartment, he is on the phone with my mom. She tells me to call the head of marketing at this company. I call. Ten minutes later, I have a job. A real job. With benefits. And with good pay, and I can’t even begin to tell you how thrilled I am with this job environment. I feel comfortable there. I felt like I fit in already.
So Mike and I drink some Chocovine (chocolate wine) and decide it’s horrible. We go drive around and end up at the Grove City outlet mall, because it seems I may need a new messenger bag because I have an office job.
No bag was bought, but today, Saturday, Mike woke up damn early with me to go make a life-changing choice. I’ve never bought anything or moved into anything without my parents’ opinion.
Today, Mike helped me pick out an apartment to rent. I didn’t have my mom talking about where I could place my bed. My dad wasn’t kicking the walls talking about how thick they were. I went with Mike. I went with Mike like he was my family.
That’s right, folks, I have an apartment in Ohio. He helped me figure out what was the best deal, wrote me up a monthly budget, gave me a spreadsheet of all the apartments I should try.
In other words, Mike is a DAMN amazing man. And he wants me to succeed. And he applied for a job in Cleveland closer to where I will be. We are going to be together. For the first time in my life, I know we are going to be together. This is it, baby. I think Mike is my past, my present, and my future. He’s my green leaf, my red leaf, and my dead leaf…that sounded better in my head.
I love this man. I love that he wants to move with me. I love that he helps me. I love that I have a job. I love that I have benefits and a gym membership. I love that I have an apartment. I HATE that I am going to be 2 hours from Mike, BUT, I’ll have him again soon.
Job starts September 29. I move stuff in September 23. I am giving up my housegirlfriend gig. I am moving toward a career woman. I forgot to learn to vacuum with a martini. And I. Don’t. Care.