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So my job is, as I may've mentioned, for ALSAC, the fundraising arm of St Jude. It is not particularly glamorous - I call schools and ask them to do the Mathathon. Check out the Mathathon, you guys, it has sweet trigonometry games.
I applied for the job for two reasons - it is for St Jude, and I thought it would help conquer my fear of the telephone (or, more accurately, my fear of TALKING to people on the telephone, as opposed to textual communications as the good lord intended us to do). The first reason is a kickass one; I think St Jude is an excellent foundation and cause, and the more I learn about how they run the operation, the more I admire them and their methods. I get warm and fuzzy thinking that what I do pays the salary of researchers and medical persons dedicated to saving the lives of weesters.
The second reason is working quite well; I am now very confident that I could call anyone in the entire world and talk about things and stuff without wigging out that I'm talking to someone I can't see (and make wild gestures at). AWESOME! I've been phone-shy for twenty-eight years, and now it's totally no big deal!
So, that's the ninety percent of my job that is neat, wonderful, and makes me happy - I have a set schedule to my day, I get to wear my office duds and not schlep around in workout clothes all the time, I pack myself kickass lunches, and I have office acquaintances whom I feel quite kindly disposed towards. There does not seem to be any office politicking so far (except that we are unanimously wary of the HR director, whose name I shall not speak because I think she is possibly canny enough to go Googling for herself, and then I might be in The Trouble), and quite a few persons are Sweet Southern Ladies who mutter "oh sugar" to themselves when balked.
Also to be honest paychecks are good, and the benefits are quite adequate indeed for someone who is as generally healthy as I am.
The ten percent of my job that drives me into squirmy knots is the fact that when you are signed up to raise funds, you have quotas thereof, and knowing that numbers need to happen is cramping my style. Today I had my deadline for the quota I needed to pass my probationary job period (as of tomorrow I'm fully on staff and don't get summarily booted if they don't like my face or whatever). I made my quota, with two left over, and the knots that eased in my stomach unnerved me with how heavy they'd been.
I feel a lot better about it now that it's done, but the quota resets tomorrow for the next period. Even though what man has done, man can do, ek cetra, I'm still nervy.
But not as much!
I was going to post about what I was writing, but I think I'd rather write it and talk about it later.
I applied for the job for two reasons - it is for St Jude, and I thought it would help conquer my fear of the telephone (or, more accurately, my fear of TALKING to people on the telephone, as opposed to textual communications as the good lord intended us to do). The first reason is a kickass one; I think St Jude is an excellent foundation and cause, and the more I learn about how they run the operation, the more I admire them and their methods. I get warm and fuzzy thinking that what I do pays the salary of researchers and medical persons dedicated to saving the lives of weesters.
The second reason is working quite well; I am now very confident that I could call anyone in the entire world and talk about things and stuff without wigging out that I'm talking to someone I can't see (and make wild gestures at). AWESOME! I've been phone-shy for twenty-eight years, and now it's totally no big deal!
So, that's the ninety percent of my job that is neat, wonderful, and makes me happy - I have a set schedule to my day, I get to wear my office duds and not schlep around in workout clothes all the time, I pack myself kickass lunches, and I have office acquaintances whom I feel quite kindly disposed towards. There does not seem to be any office politicking so far (except that we are unanimously wary of the HR director, whose name I shall not speak because I think she is possibly canny enough to go Googling for herself, and then I might be in The Trouble), and quite a few persons are Sweet Southern Ladies who mutter "oh sugar" to themselves when balked.
Also to be honest paychecks are good, and the benefits are quite adequate indeed for someone who is as generally healthy as I am.
The ten percent of my job that drives me into squirmy knots is the fact that when you are signed up to raise funds, you have quotas thereof, and knowing that numbers need to happen is cramping my style. Today I had my deadline for the quota I needed to pass my probationary job period (as of tomorrow I'm fully on staff and don't get summarily booted if they don't like my face or whatever). I made my quota, with two left over, and the knots that eased in my stomach unnerved me with how heavy they'd been.
I feel a lot better about it now that it's done, but the quota resets tomorrow for the next period. Even though what man has done, man can do, ek cetra, I'm still nervy.
But not as much!
I was going to post about what I was writing, but I think I'd rather write it and talk about it later.
