Okay, so my love life is simple. I love my fiance; he loves me. We're getting married in April.
My job situation, though, is like a love octagon from a bad, bad soap opera. It used to be easy to explain: I work for a publisher in Broomfield, doing CRM administration, a bit of copyediting, and a ton of administrative wizardry. You need an explanation of our e-book platform? Done. You want an e-book quote for 100 titles based on your university's full-time enrollment? You've come to the right place. You're desperate for typo-free advance book information tip sheets for all the titles set to publish in June of 2013? I'll have it to you in a jiffy, without letting the cover images drop out.
But then, strange things began to happen. Our entire Colorado sales team lost their jobs in September, but I was asked to stay. The caveat? I'd have to move to Santa Barbara. Unwilling to relocate, I was asked to stay on till mid-December. Then I was asked to stay on, well, until they find someone to replace me, or, until I find other employment. It kind of feels like I ended up in a surreal swinger-type employment relationship: they're looking for someone else; they know I'm looking for someone else, but in the meantime, we have an understanding, and I still show up for work.
And then I have suitors, I mean, recruiters, crooning to me on all sides. We have the clueless but persistent Careerbuilder, who shows up in my Inbox with the most ridiculous non-matched job opportunities on the planet. And then there's the slightly less persistent but very purple Monster.com, who keeps giving my number to employers who sell watches out of their metaphorical trench coats and shamelessly cat-call me for my Salesforce.com administrator expertise. Can't a girl meet a decent guy anymore? All they're after is my Salesforce.
And then we have the seemingly more promising PublishingJobs.com, who sends four duplicate love letters every day, with yearnings for software engineers and technical analysts. I'm starting to believe that if I only had more VMWare (is that a kind of lingerie?), then I'd be good enough.
Love is a tough game sometimes. Here are all these hardworking suitor-recruiters, asking for my hand, but I won't give them the time of day. And the local publishers, the handsome ones who make me swoon with jobs like Editorial/Production Assistant, or Associate/Copy Editor, will not call me back, even though I douse my cover letters with perfume and seal the envelopes with a tear.
What to do? Do I become a trophy wife for the next big company that sees my exceptional sales experience and offers me the diamond-ring salary and Cadillac benefits, or do I wait it out for the employer of my dreams, that looks past the pretty face and sees my Adobe CS3 skills and flair for writing? Trying to flaunt an English degree in Corporate America is like using a hairnet to catch the eye of a GQ cover model. Oh God, help me.
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