Does It Come With Benefits?

A week or so ago, all within a few days of each other, I saw two things that have been haunting me ever since.

The first was a bumper sticker. It read: "Remember Who You Wanted to Be."

The next was a cartoon I saw in "The New Yorker." It shows a man talking to a woman who is sitting behind a desk, and the caption reads, "I'm looking for a position where I can slowly lose sight of what I wanted to do with my life, with benefits."

And so here I am.

I mean, I actually heard myself say to someone, not too long ago, "It doesn't pay much, but the benefits are great." Who have I become?

If anyone told me, five short years ago, that I would be living in the middle of Montana, working some low-paying state job, married with a kid and a mortgage, and that I would spend the bulk of my free time battling catnip infestations and dandelions in my backyard, there is absolutely NO WAY that I would have believed them. I mean, at the time, I was having a blast living in New Orleans and I had just met Brent -- who is now my husband -- but I certainly didn't foresee any of this.

Would I have run away screaming if I had?

The jury is still out on that.

3% and I'm Supposed To Be Happy

I used to make a lot of money. Not like so much money that I didn't know what to do with it all, but enough money so that I rarely had to think about money. I didn't realize it at the time, but what a luxury that was.

Then I had my son. I always thought I'd go back to work like two weeks after I popped out a kid. But I had never had a baby, and until I had one, it was really lost on me just what a life-altering experience becoming a mother is. But I knew, once I held my son, that I couldn't resume by 60 - 80 hour work weeks, and my 20-25 day a month travel schedules, leaving my son with a nanny and his dad -- no matter how much money my company offered me to stay.

Keep in mind here, that I do not have the luxury of having married well. I married a guy that was essentially unemployed until the DAY BEFORE I gave birth. And now he's a gd social worker. I mean, I'm all for doing good in the world, but his paychecks are something of a cruel joke. (I should have held out for a lawyer or a doctor or anything other than a gd social worker.)

So it was my salary that kept us afloat and allowed us to do things like take great vacations, buy what we wanted, and eat. Quitting my job then was a bit of a stressful decision, because all of a sudden, about 90% of our combined income flew out the window. Brent's salary didn't even pay our bills, let alone get us groceries, buy diapers, and pay for other very pricey baby supplies.

Luckily though, I'm rather shrewd and I had managed to sock away quite a lot of cashola. So I remained unemployed for six months. I spent those six months basically resembling Michael Keaton's character in "Mr. Mom" -- wearing the same clothes, getting fatter, and covered with baby spit-up and other bodily functions. For a self-professed workaholic, being unemployed and staying home with a baby all day was a hell of a lot harder than I thought it was going to be. I certainly wasn't sipping martinis poolside, which was what I originally envisioned unemployment to be like.

I knew if I didn't find something to do soon, we'd be out on the street, wearing burlap sacks for clothes and holding out cups for people to drop their spare change into. Not to mention that my own sanity was teetering on the brink. I felt like I was about to become a toothless, hollow-eyed, stringy-haired loony-toon. I mean, I hadn't had a complete thought without interruption since before I started labor. And, because of Brent's very strange work schedule, sometimes days would go by before I talked with another adult, and as adorable and absolutely brilliant as my son is, he's not all that interested in carrying on a conversation about something we had heard on NPR. I was lonely.

But I ended up getting a job. I started right when my son was about six months old. It's a pretty cool job, and it's only part-time, which is also pretty cool. But I work for the State. Now prior to my own work at the State, I was convinced that all state employees were worthless bureaucrats who spent more time on "break" than they do at their desks cranking out the work. I had always vowed that when I got to be governor, I'd halve the entire State of Montana workforce so the employees that were left were actually forced to do something for their paychecks.

But now that I'm a State employee, I actually think a lot of state employees do, in fact, work pretty hard. And a lot of them are grossly underpaid for what they do.

The State has this completely backwards pay system. You get hired in at a certain rate per hour, and you pretty much stay there NO MATTER WHAT. Like you can not show up for work for weeks at a time, and you will not get fired and still get paid. Or, on the opposite end of the spectrum, you can be the world's most kick-ass state employee, doing all of these very, very cool things and working your buns off, and it doesn't matter because you're certainly not going to be compensated for that.

So, essentially, the State of Montana rewards mediocrity. You get the same amount of cash whether you do the bare minimum or whether you totally rock out.

Not to mention that the State of Montana pays pretty damn terribly. I mean, when I got my first paycheck, I actually called the HR person and was like, "Uh, yeah, hate to bother you, but someone screwed up my paycheck because I'm making A LOT less than I thought I would be."

Anyway, my agency is switching to a new kind of pay plan that actually rewards people for the work they do and the skills they have. This is, literally, viewed as very forward-thinking in state government. And to start, everyone gets a 3 - 10% increase in their hourly wage. Now, I'm not one to look a gift horse in the mouth, but 3%??? I mean, come on. Am I supposed to jump for joy about the gd $2 A DAY (before taxes) they're tossing me? At one of my former positions, my raise essentially DOUBLED my salary. So 3%? Talk about a cruel joke.

The saddest thing, perhaps, is that I AM jumping for joy. I need to get back into business.

Quest For A Life

I can always tell how desperate I am if I play the lottery.

Today, I actually logged onto the Powerball Web site to see what I would win tomorrow night. $97 million, baby. Oh, what I could do with $97 million.

Like pay off my student loans. I don't owe $97 million. But with my financial situation as it is right now, that's what it feels like I owe. And the probability of me paying back my student loans is about the same as my winning the Powerball tomorrow night. Helllloooooo deferment.

Why isn't there a single finaicial aid officer in the entire country that pulls you aside as you're about to sign your entire life away, and says, "Go to the cheapest college you can. Work two jobs to pay for college as you go instead of drinking your young life away! Don't spend your summer job money at Abercrombie and Fitch! Make a check out to the college business office and pay for your tuition -- in cash! Apply for scholarships! But whatever you do, don't sign those loan papers!"

I mean, what is up with those finaicial "aid" officers? Do they get a kickback from the banks for convincing people that it's o.k. to sign the rest of our miserable young lives away? Is it like some kind of Amway pyramid scheme or something?

I mean, I've actually researched faking my own death to avoid paying my student loans. Immigrating to Canada. Declaring bankruptcy. Finding a crime to witness and entering the witness protection program. I am here to tell you that there is nothing you can do, legally or illegally, to get out of paying off your student loans. One more time for emphasis -- NOTHING.

All I know is that if I ever meet Sallie Mae in a dark alley, she better watch out -- whoever she is.

Ode to Maternity Underwear

My son is 14 months old now. It's not something I'm proud of, but I'll go ahead and admit it here.

I'm still wearing my maternity underwear.

There it is. Every single day I pull on gigantic granny panties. Not because they're the only panties I can fit into, mind you, as was the case when I was pregnant and had a 50 inch "waist." I wear them because I love them. I have loved them since the first day I tried them on.

It wasn't love at first sight. It actually took me a few trips to Jacques Penne to examine my pregnant panty options before I could commit to wearing beige or white giant cotton briefs. I hemmed and hawed in the lingerie section, eyeing the bikinis, the French cut -- even the regular cotton underwear. I contemplated the thong, and wondered if I only pulled it up so that it hit under my pregnant belly if it would be comfortable to wear. But strange things happen to your body when you're pregnant. Not only had my stomach expanded, but my thighs were the size of thousand year old oak tree trunks, and thongs are made for girls that can squeeze into things that don't stretch. So one day, when I could bear my discomfort no longer, I bought a few pair of the big mama panties.

I took them home and washed them, and then put them waaaayyyy in the back of my underwear drawer, delaying the inevitable for as long as possible. It wasn't that I was a teensy, eensy panty wearer normally, but there was just something about having to wear beige and white underwear that looked as if it could serve as a sail on a giant clipper ship that did some serious damage to my already fragile ego (thanks to lots of hormones for that one.) I just couldn't bear the thought of being a totally sexless being and that's what these underwear amounted to. But finally, weeks later, with the elastic from my regular bikinis cutting into my hips and thighs, I whipped them out and put them on. One word: Hallelujah!

And I haven't looked back. Granted, now I have no need for the biiiiggg panties, but they are just so amazingly comfortable -- even though the tops of my underwear now rise about 4 inches above my waist -- meeting my National Geographic boobies. (My mom used to warn me that my breasts would look like the National Geographic breasts if I didn't wear supportive foundation garments, but in reality, nursing a baby will do the same damn thing.)

I claim it's the comfort factor that makes me turn to my maternity panties, but I am wondering if there's something else. I was never "Miss Thang," but I sometimes felt like I was "Miss Kinda Thang" and I just don't ever, ever feel that way anymore. Maybe it's the National Geographic boobies. Maybe it's my sensible shoes. Maybe it's that I have always got food or baby grime smeared on me somewhere, and my hair is turning gray faster than I can make appointments with my colorist. Maybe it's a combination of all of the above and more. But I think I have become the completely sexless being that I was so afraid of becoming when I bought those damn Big Bertha underwear and now I can't bear to part with them.