single mom


As I’ve posted before, I got pregnant in the Big Easy. When a local subcontractor presented his plan to capitalize on Hurricane Katrina’s destruction, Rooferman jumped at the idea. We could work together, helping rebuild the city while making some cash for our future married life. We wanted to buy a house, but with the average home price in Durango topping $400k, it wasn’t a reality.

Until that fateful day I quit my job and moved our belongings to the deep south.

Things didn’t go as planned. There was plenty of work, but the post-Katrina chaos had opened a can of worms for insurance companies across the nation. Claims sat unsettled for months, houses rotted from the inside while adjusters debated water versus wind damage.

All the while, our little Colorado construction crew slaved away, gutting houses, repairing roofs, patching holes, cutting drywall, salvaging landscaping and other valuable items.  At the end of each day, we’d wait to hear from our fearless leader. Each day he would promise us that our checks were coming, he just had to work things out with the local contractors.

For a few weeks we had faith in him. We understood the mayhem and confusion that surrounded us. Grocery stores and post offices were hardly functioning, let alone office buildings and other administrative work. At the end of the day he would buy us hamburgers and cheap beer, making sure our bellies were full.  It was just going to take a little longer for the checks to come in.

We continued to work, washing the mold and dirt and grime off our bodies with a hose at the end of the day. As always, the 18 pack of Bud Light would be sitting there waiting for us. But no checks.

The money never came. After I got pregnant, I couldn’t even indulge in the beer after hauling garbage in the 100 % humidity. I sat on the concrete slab, miserably watching Rooferman chug and laugh and pretend that we weren’t slowly draining my savings account.

As the days went on, I began to have a violent reaction every time I saw this contractor’s smirking face. I would get sick to my stomach. I couldn’t tell if I was having morning sickness or if the hatred and despair I felt was too much for me to handle.

Does he think he’s paying in beer and everything is going to be fine that way?

Jump to today:

I sit in my cubicle and I remember this story. Why? Because I feel the same anger I did then. I feel placated. I feel condescended. I feel appeased. When there is a problem in my office, it is never addressed. When we are required to do something unreasonable, we are never allowed to ask why. We are assumed to be a loving, sisterly UNIT, one that never wants to disturb the water. One that suffers together in silence because that’s what women do.

And to make things “better” in our land of florescent lights and hideous cubicles, a box of chocolates will present itself in the break room. As if to say “sorry about your problems, here’s some endorphin stimulants…SUCK IT UP LADIES.”

My boss is telling me that I can be bought with chocolate. The same way that contractor told us we could be bought with beer. Keeping our moods only high enough so we could tolerate the situation we were in. Solving the problem was NOT a priority, only keeping peace among the ranks.

It’s insulting. It’s offensive. It’s infuriating. And it shoots me right back to the  sweaty, smelly wasteland where I watched the heart and soul slowly drained from the bodies of me and my loved one.

I admit, as painful as the ordeal in Louisiana was, and as heartbreaking my custody battle has been, both the events made me a stronger person. But only because I got through them. They had an end date. Something had to give, and I moved on. 

This may be over-dramatic, but I see my job situation as something that could possibly never end.  Something I could be stuck in forever. I don’t want to be a 60-year-old administrative assistant. I know some think that’s ridiculous, since I’m only 27, but I see it everyday.

That’s who I work with; 50-60 year old Administrative Assistants. That’s who my boss is: An aging secretary who pushes candy on us until she can sail into retirement. Why ripple the pond? Why bring up things that need to be changed? Why make a fuss about something that probably won’t ever get fixed anyway?

Unlike the custody battle and construction disaster, I don’t see anything good coming out of my job, except more jobs like it. I don’t see myself becoming a stronger, better person because of what I’ve learned in a cube. On the contrary, I see myself becoming a weaker, less human, more jaded, soulless, “who cares” person.

I don’t want that to happen. I’ve got to get out of here. I’ve got 75 pages on my screenplay. Another 45 to go. At least the thought of being a decrepit old Admin Assistant is motivating me to write.


11 thoughts on “Placation”

  1. Well, somebody has to stir the pot; why not you? Becuase you are right-it shouldn’t be that way, but it IS. And unless you are willing to take a stand, it won’t change. What if the screenplay doesn’t work out, you know? Just throwing out there that maybe you should keep this job and start looking for another one just in case-and SPEAK YOUR TRUTH.

    There. Enough nagging. Glad to hear from you.


  2. I know that feeling well, and I can totally relate to how terrifying it can be, but it probably won’t be that way for you. There is the option of trying to find other work, and in the meantime, you’re pursuing your dream. And I know from my own life how things can happen that are completely unexpected, but can also turn out to be good things. The best thing that can happen from the terror you’re feeling is to keep pursuing your dream, and maybe brush up your resume too!


  3. I totally know this feeling. I hate my job so much right now. The only thing that is keeping me going is knowing that I’ll be leaving it in less than a year.

    I’m glad you’re pursuing your dream even while in the middle of a soul crushing job. I hope that your screen play is a success and no matter what, I hope you find a career you love.


  4. And to think, I’m actually TRYING to be a 40 y/o admin right now. Just a friggin JOB will do. And yet I can’t seem to find one. But I get it.

    You do have the blog and the screenplay to keep your sanity – and be thankful you have a job. It’s tough w/out one.


  5. It’s SO easy to become placated. I’ve sat at many a job like you describe wondering how I got there and how I can get out.
    Hang in there, things will get better.


  6. If you really want to make some money, turn THIS story into a screenplay. An indie film about a single mom. People would be all over it. Something with the same vibe as ‘Little Miss Sunshine. ‘ Send it to producers like the Duplass Brothers, indie filmmakers who could do something with it.


  7. I can relate. I’m worried that all of this is for nothing and I won’t ever amount to anything and I am destined for a life of poverty and struggle and, and, and…

    Step 1. Finish screen play.

    Then take it from there.

    It’s good to hear from you.


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s