I turned in all my things today.

I drove down to corporate and handed over the computer and the phone and the American Express corporate card, and I signed a paper saying I was not knowingly leaving the company with any proprietary materials. I paused only briefly before signing, as I never did get around to changing my name in the Big Fish’s records, and so what I signed really isn’t my legal name anymore. I didn’t mention it aloud though. There seemed no point and I have a feeling it would only have confused them anyway.

I had to do an exit interview. I sat in a tiny office with a woman across the desk as she typed in what I told her. She wanted to know the reasons why I was leaving the Big Fish; what could they have done differently to make me want to stay.

So I told her that I was leaving because I wanted out of consulting, and had wanted out for a very long time. I told her that I would have been happy to transfer to another department (although I didn’t mention that it wasn’t any great loyalty that prompted that desire, but instead a preference to not have to deal with the changes in insurance and benefits and money), but the Big Fish doesn’t like it if you aren’t willing to be full-time at one of their corporate sites, even though I would have been working in a perfectly adequate satellite office much closer to home.

Then I took a deep breath and reminded myself that if this is to mean anything to anyone it must be constructive, and I told her my increasing unhappiness with the attitude of my fellow Big Fishian consultants, and- with a notable few exceptions – the management, the structure of the quarterly bonus, and how consultants are monetarily penalized for ever trying to have a life. And through it all she did not look the slightest bit surprised by what I was telling her. I wondered how many other of my fellow Little Fishians had sat in that or similar offices expressing the same frustrations and were met with the same polite indifference. I’ve held out a lot longer than most, I know. A great number of those who were assimilated with me have fled to other departments, or to other companies entirely.

I am not sure how I expected to feel when this was all done – I just know that it wasn’t this. Perhaps I should be feeling as light and free as I did last week when the job offer came, but that’s not the case. There is relief that nearly all the pesky details of my graceful exit are now completed, but there is also nervousness, creeping around in the darkest corners of my head. I’ve crossed the last bridge now. There is no going back, even if I wanted to. Prior to turning in all the paraphernalia of a consultant I could simply have gone back to my manager with a large amount of butt-kissing and made that two-week notice email quietly disappear, but now it’s too late. If for some completely obscure reason the new place withdraws their offer, I am completely and totally screwed. Call it the barest hint of family legacy, if you must – this uncertain dance with the worst case what-if’s. But I am too rational for this. I am firmly shoving those pesky little dithers as far away as I can.

While down there, waiting for the woman I was to meet with to turn everything in, I lurked in one of the break rooms. Several people came in with cheerful hello’s, and one – the type of man who looked as if he probably had the same attitude I’ve grown to despise in my fellow Big Fishians – asked me in his rather pompous voice if I was an employee there.

Only for one more week, I told him. Seven days and counting. One more week and then never, ever again.

Because I know you’re all dying to get the answer to this question, yes, I did finally paint my toenails too. However, instead of neon lime green, they are grape bubblegum purple.

I think I like the purple a lot better. I’m thinking that maybe the fingers need to be purple too. The lime green – bright and spiffy as it is – just doesn’t really go with most of my wardrobe. Not, mind you, that the purple will be much more coordinated, but at least all my digits will match. Hey, a girl has to draw the line *somewhere*.

And speaking of organized, matching wardrobes and other vitally important things in life, those of you with Palm Pilots, listen up. Have I found some incredibly useful things for *you*! These are programs you’re going to want to rush right out and upload onto your little handheld gem right away.

I mentioned wardrobes, right? Well, ever wanted to figure out what to wear but just didn’t want to be bothered with actually *looking* through your closet or dresser? Have no fear – the Wardrobe Manager is here to save the day. For the low, low cost of $10, this nifty little program tracks the date you last wore that outfit (because after all, it just wouldn’t do to repeat yourself too often, I guess), and also lets you know what is and isn’t availble – based on the maintenance schedule.

Uh. Okay. Maybe I’m missing something really important here, but since when did clothes have a *maintenance* schedule?

But while we’re on the subject of ‘programs for the completely shallow and self absorbed’, check out the Tan Turner. Only $3.95 will get you a little program you can set to beep when it’s time to turn over. Better run right out and upload that puppy before your next trip to the beach. We won’t discuss just what salt air and sand could do to the PDA while it’s timing your baking sessions, okay? Like, totally, ya know?

I am slowly starting to get used to seeing them, although there are still moments when they startle me – the shade brought out against a cat’s fur, or a flash of color as my hands twist underneath the faucet while I wash them.

It was a spur of the moment thing. I was rummaging around trying to find a nail file so I could smooth out a few rough edges and maybe convince myself to quit picking at my poor nails in the process, and I found a bottle of nail polish I’d almost forgotten I had. We bought it to go with the costume I wore for last Halloween, but what with everything else we had to do to get the house ready for the party, I never did have the time to put it on. And then after that there never seemed to be a good time for nails quite that color because in my (previous and soon-to-be) job I’m supposed to at least *pretend* to be professional (even though I can occasionally get away with wearing jeans and sneakers).

I don’t have to care about that stuff right now though, considering I’ve got that two weeks of freedom. So as of yesterday afternoon, I have green fingernails. Bright neon lime green ones, too – not even some somber dark green that might not quite catch the eye. No, this color screams out “Hey, look at this!” every time I see them, and I keep having to remind myself just why it is that my fingertips look weird.

I’m not sure this is a color I’d wear often. It’s not exactly flattering to my skin, and I’ll admit it can sometimes be a bit annoying to be forever distracted by my own hands. And at 32, well, let’s face it – I’m way past the appropriate age to be wearing neon green nail polish.

But all those reasons aside, I still have green fingernails. And if I get myself a bit more motivated, I might just end up with green toenails too.

After all, it could be rather fun, getting amusingly distracted by my own feet.

With this brand new house we have, I’ve suddenly discovered house pride, and I’m just not willing to let it sink into the sort of disreputable shape that every rental I’ve ever lived in has eventually reached. So this house gets cleaned a lot more often than any other place I’ve lived in, simply because it’s *ours*, and so there’s a vested interest in keeping the sinks from getting that lovely hard-water buildup, for example, or not letting the cat nose prints accumulate on the window so much that it looks as if we’re getting an early frost.

We’ve toyed with the idea of getting someone in to clean. We’ve even come up with time frames – once a month, perhaps, or maybe every other week. But so far I haven’t actually called anyone. I’ve been tempted, but I just can’t work up to the follow-through. There is this annoying little part of me that insists that by golly, we’re two perfectly capable grown adults and there is no reason why we can’t keep this house clean by ourselves.

It also doesn’t help that with the abrupt end to my most recent project for work, and then the rather extended vacation I took after the wedding to do the full-time job hunt, I’ve been home a lot more. This means not only do I get to greet Richard with home-cooked meals most evenings when he comes in from work, but also that I really have no excuse for not keeping the place clean. I can’t really complain about the housework piling up when my only excuse for not getting to it is that I was merrily engrossed in yet another rousing game of computer backgammon, or surfing the ‘net looking for more interesting journals to add to my already over-long list of daily must-reads. And while normally we try to divide the housework evenly, lately I’ve had a bit of guilt over nagging Richard to do more than the occasional whole-house vacuuming because he’s actually doing something during the day, while I’m being just the teensiest bit lazy. Okay, so with the exception of those two weeks I had to live down at corporate headquarters, the past few months have been spent making curtains and cooking and applying for jobs, but even I have to admit that that doesn’t eat up the entire eight-hour work day, especially when the hairballs are growing large enough to give the cats something to worry about.

In two weeks, I’ll be back into the workday grind (although this time I’m actually looking forward to it a lot more than I’ve done in the past two years since the Big Fish took over). We’ll see how things go, but if our work hours start to get overwhelming again (as they have in the past), we may have to revisit that whole idea of having someone come in to keep up with the seven little hair-shedding machines. Because despite my best efforts, all attempts at teaching the cats to operate the vacuum cleaner have met with miserable failure.

A while back, Richard and I decided to take one step further down the slippery path to Yuppie-dom. After visiting his parents at the ranch, we poked around and found someone who was looking to sell their share for a ‘if-we-don’t-take-advantage-of-this-low-price-we’re-nuts’ great deal.

The transfer of a deed is *not* a quick process, by any stretch of the imagination, so it wasn’t til this week that the final paperwork arrived in the mail, marking the share as truly ours. There were other things tentatively marked on the calendar for this weekend – the Scottish games in town, for example – but we both agreed what we’d much rather do.

The weather turned abruptly away from that cooler winter-is-coming pleasantry we’ve been enjoying for the past few weeks, and so it was quite hot. But the cabins were cool and we apparently picked a rather unpopular weekend for ranch visitors, so there were few other people to disturb us.

This was exactly what I needed. There is no way to relax quite like this at home. There are too many things waiting to be done – errands to run, stores to go visit, people to call and chat with online. No matter how hard we might try to just have a relaxing weekend at home, it is doomed to end up in us doing Something Productive.

We read books. We walked slowly around the grounds and at one point saw seven deer – their eyes huge and dark and watchful, ears perked as they tried to make up their minds whether to pretend to ignore us, or bolt further away from these intruders to their home. We slept and talked and slept some more.

And then we came home, to a houseful of sleeping cats who stumbled awake to greet us with yawns and demands for attention. And that was exactly what I needed too.

I was prepared yesterday morning to find enthusiasm – somehow – for this project. I was determined that I wouldn’t let my frustration get the best of me once again. I turned the radio up high on the drive to the office and sang along at the top of my lungs so that when I arrived, I was actually smiling. As a step in that direction I even compiled a few extracts from my private journal into Wednesday’s entry, hoping that getting my dissatisfaction down in writing – put together in a cohesive way – would help to push it out of the way even for just a day.

As I was typing out the note to my notification list for Wednesday’s entry, my cell phone rang.

I got the job. I actually got the job.

When he told me, it was all I could do not to either scream my excitement or burst into tears from sheer happiness. Instead I calmly collected a pen and paper and wrote down all the pertinent details, trying to ignore the fact that my hand was shaking and my heart pounding. And all the while this voice kept screaming in my head, until I could barely sit still “I got it! I got it! I got it!”

I gave my two week notice – first over the phone to my manager and then formally in email. I spent the remainder of the day trying to convince both my own manager and the manager of this project that they really didn’t need me to stay down there at corporate – that I could add no value for the remaining two weeks. At 4pm they finally agreed, and I shut down my computer and ran before they could change their minds. I was supposed to meet a friend for dinner but I sent her an email, begging forgiveness. I need to go home, I told her. I desperately need to go home and have it be over, finally over.

This morning I spent some time clearing off the work laptop. I sent an email out to a list of coworkers letting them know I am finally leaving. And more importantly, I sent an email to my manager’s direct supervisor, letting him know how incredible she has been through all of this to me, and how much I appreciate her. I needed to let him know that my manager has been one of the few bright spots of my time with the Big Fish. I have wanted to send that email for some time now, but I decided that it was best sent as I walked out the door, when it can do me no good at all.

I drove home last night during the worst of the Bay Area traffic, but I didn’t care. I will most likely have to drive back down to corporate at least once to turn in all my things and do my exit interview, but I don’t mind. All that matters is that, after wanting and wishing and hoping and working for so long, it’s finally over.

I am free. I am finally free.

Yesterday morning I got in my car and the windows were all fogged over from the cold. I managed to clear the front, but as I pulled around the parking lot, the sun hit full force and I was completely and utterly blind. I could barely see out enough to pull off into a parking space, where I got out of the car and cleared the windows as best I could with the huge towel that lives in the trunk for just this sort of thing. This morning wasn’t nearly as bad, but I still wiped down the back window as a precaution, and let the defogger run a bit before I braved that direct sunlight.

There is one other woman here who worked for the Little Fish before we were swallowed two years ago, and we have a perspective on things that the manager of this project probably doesn’t exactly want to hear, but at least admit he needs to hear anyway. She and I have talked a bit already about our frustrations on what we’re seeing on this project, and the blinders that the rest of the team seems to be wearing. There is a bit of comfort in at least knowing that I am not alone in what I am seeing here.

The sad thing is that despite my reservations about this project, normally I would probably be interested in this, happy to get involved, energetic and enthusiastic. I need to remember why it was I’d normally be excited and try to find that center again. I need that energy. I need it to get through this week, and then past when the week is over and they call about those interviews to let me know they aren’t going to hire me after all, or that they can’t afford to pay me what we need me to get paid to make this work. I need to find that energy or I’m going to end up depressed and miserable, annoying the others on this project with the remnants of my frustration and despair over the loss of what, so far, has really my only means of escaping this company I never wanted to be a part of.

After work tonight I headed for the open mall across the freeway and found a bookstore. I wandered the pitifully small sci-fi/fantasy section until I finally found a few books by an author I’d never heard of. The titles sounded interesting and the summaries a bit more so, so I bought two and then took them over across the huge parking lot to one of the large chain restaurants there. I sat at a teeny booth and for nearly two hours I picked at my dinner slowly while I read one of the books cover to cover. And for that nearly two hours I completely forgot about everything else – being here, this project, the interviews and the job I want so badly. It was almost odd to emerge from that little bubble of unreality as I paid the check and left for my little corporate apartment. I hadn’t realized quite how badly I needed to relax.

“It’s back!” came the cry and a ragged cheer circled the room. There’s ten or so of us in this little computer lab – tables, chairs, and rows of laptops and desktops all hooked up, busily running tests and writing code on this software we’re creating. And all of us – not just those in our little room, but all the rest of the unlucky who have suffered lo these many days – feel the same relief. It’s back. Access to the outside world is finally restored.

Last week, the Big Fish was hit with a rather nasty double-whammy – not just any old worm and virus, but two of the biggest, newest, and nastiest ones out there. So in response, they slammed closed the gates and we were locked inside, allowed access only to the internal network. No more cnn.com. No more yahoo stock quotes. No more hotmail pop3 email downloads. Just annoyingly barely updated webpages telling us what happened and promising us restored internet access ‘soon’.

But at last it’s back. Perhaps it was only a minor annoyance to those who work locally and get to go home and check their personal email and do their online banking on their own, personal dial-up accounts. But for the few thousand of us consultant-types stuck in hotels or charmingly provincial corporate apartments, far away from our regular happy DSL connections, this loss of internet connectivity left us gaping. It got so bad I was forced to endure primetime TV for entertainment, for pete’s sake!

********

After a lovely weekend home I’m back down at corporate for another week of fun-fun-fun running test scripts that are woefully out of date, trying to keep the stand-alone servers needed to test this stuff from crashing my laptop every time I blink, and swearing under my breath at the refusal of the system as a whole to play nicely like I’m begging it to. I drove to my apartment this evening with my brain on autopilot until a few well-placed flashes of lightning in the sky before me jerked me out of my self-pitying reverie. The air has smelled like rain all day and it seems there might actually be a good reason for it.

********

Second interview this morning for the job. I didn’t realize til after we’d talked and he handed me his business card as I stood to leave that this was the Director of Research and Development, not simply one of the other people on the team I would be joining, as my befuddled brain wanted to believe. I think I’m glad of my mistake. I’d have been infinitely more nervous if I’d known beforehand, I’m sure of it.

After this morning’s interview, and the phone call that followed it, I am even more hopeful than before, but I am still desperately trying to maintain perspective.

I suppose it’s only fair to admit that I’m failing miserably. But at least I’m trying!

The dreams come sporatically, and it wasn’t until recently that I realized quite how often they were coming. I am in the passenger seat of a car. I do not know who is driving – what is important is that I have no control over this car. We are speeding toward an entire group of cars ahead of us who all have suddenly slammed on our brakes, and yet we are not stopping. Lately this dream wakes me up over and over at night, often enough to make me conscious of having it, time and time again.

It is not a nightmare – or rather, I do not have that shaky feeling of a narrow escape that often accompanies waking from a nightmare. But I can close my eyes even now and relive the tension I feel when I am in the seat of that car. I can see the area very clearly, and the cars in front of me, and my foot is slamming down on empty air in front of me in the futile hope that somehow I will be able to stop the car through sheer force of will.

********

The interview went well. I may be being falsely optimistic, but I don’t know when I’ve been less nervous at an interview before. The sample work I had to do as we sat there was easy and quick. This is work I would love to do. This is a position where, finally, I’d no longer have that continual feeling that I’m always one step behind everyone else.

I must be patient. What other choice do I have?

As I’m scheduled to be on this project for at least four weeks (and as I suspected, talks with others here indicate that that time period could be doubled or tripled. Shudder), they’ve set me up in corporate housing. I’ve a twenty minute drive down the freeway – luckily against traffic there and back – to where I get to stay.

The complex is large, but has no map anywhere easily accessible for which building is which. The leasing office closed at 5pm, so by the time I got there at closer to 7pm, I had nowhere to turn for questions. Because it is a gated community, getting any further than the front visitor’s parking lot requires a gate remote – a remote that was sitting on my dining room table when I finally did find my apartment, so thus did me absolutely no good trying to get in to the apartment complex in the first place. I was reduced to squeezing between a gap in some bushes, weighed down with suitcase and computer bag before I spent the next fifteen minutes muttering Unkind Words about the obscure numbering schema used to completely confuse any newcomer into being nearly unable to find anything.

They put a lock box on the door with the key, but situated such that in order to extract the key, the door would have had to have been open. I finally managed to twist it around and slam it enough that the key slid out of the slot anyway, but not for any lack of swearing on my part. I at least was lucky in that there was still enough light (dim though it was) for me to at least see to put in the lock box combination. A coworker was not so lucky and ended up having to turn his car around and shine his brights toward the door in the hopes of getting enough light to actually see the tiny little numbers so he could extract his key.

The apartment floor slopes so severely that the drawers in the end table near the bed refuse to stay closed. I shut them, only to have them slide open again, as it leans too far forward. The mirror on the bureau also looms forward a bit alarmingly. that you do not have yet because it’s sitting in your apartment, should you even be able to find it in the first place. I find it amusing that the furniture and decorations in this apartment are identical to that in the corporate apartment in which I stayed last time I was down here. I suppose somewhere this rental agency must have a huge warehouse full of rows and rows of identical couches, fake plants, and cheap pine bedroom furniture.