By Friday At 4:31PM, This Will Not Be My Fridge
I wanted to scream that my mushrooms don't buy themselves.
This is my fridge. It's my fridge because it has my mushrooms in it. It also has my co-worker's yogurt and the bottles of water that my eco-unfriendly employer insists I order twice a month from Staples. But at 4:31 on Friday, March 18, 2011, it won't be my fridge anymore.
Three weeks ago, before he left for a three week long holiday in Palm Desert, California, my boss told me that the position I've held for 6 months was being "reworked" and it would no longer fit me. I'm an administrative assistant/receptionist who lives in a closet sized apartment and spends more on student loan payments then I do on food (hence, the mushrooms for lunch); I'm probably never going to see Palm Desert unless I marry someone who has the power to fire secretaries and then go on holiday.
I don't really like my job but I wanted to be the one to leave. When he was laying me off, I wanted to grab my boss and scream, "NO! I'M THE ONE WHO'S SUPPOSED TO LEAVE YOU!" I wanted to scream that my mushrooms don't buy themselves. He can wander off to Palm Desert for 3 weeks to drink wine while I live in a neighbourhood that can only be described as "demilitarized zone."
For three weeks, while he swam and read and tanned and ate, I have continued to work at a job that doesn't want me and apply for other jobs that probably won't want me either.
And he didn't have to see my face every day or talk to me or watch me eat my sad mushrooms.