Conjuring My Inner Sally Field: A Treatise On My Six Month Work Review

Today was my first day back at work after a three-week vacation. I had hoped to dip my toes back in slowly, which I figured was pretty realistic given the fact that I don't really do anything at my job. And also because the single task I have (answering the phone on the off-chance it rings) is now impossible since they took my phone away from me and gave it to the new guy. I feel more and more like Milton Waddams every day. Soon I'll be sitting in the basement, mourning the loss of my Lucent Multi-Line and checking the rat traps for rodent corpses.

Anyway, all plans to ease myself back into the workaday world were blown to bits when I learned -- literally three minutes beforehand -- that I was to have my six-month review with my boss.

Let me just say right now that I adore my boss. She is cooler than cool and is one of the only aspects of my job that make it not-entirely-painful to show up every day. But I've never excelled at improv, and I need a little warning before sitting down to chat with the boss about my job performance. I need to sort out my own issues in my head, prep them into something resembling coherence, and then psych myself up for a "serious talk". Because the issues my job brings to the fore are, for me, quite serious, I require time to plan my words.

Yet I wasn't given that opportunity, and in a matter of minutes I was sitting face to face with my boss to hear my "performance evaluation". Performance Evaluation. Who the hell am I, Mary Lou Retton?

Don't let me mislead you with sarcasm. I would be remiss if I didn't tell you that nearly the entire review was positive, complimentary, and appreciative of the work I do. But being a work review, there were, as could be expected, talk of "areas that need improvement". Or, as I prefer to call it, "parts of the job where you suck camel-toe".

These slightly-less-glowing observations were certainly understandable. There were only a few of them, and I do agree with most of the points mentioned. I find fault with myself easier and quicker than anyone else does (I don't think that makes me a doormat of low self-esteem: I think it makes me human). There was one issue brought up to which I did take umbrage, but being I had no time to effectively prepare an eloquent response beforehand (for I knew this issue would be inevitable come review time), I really could say nothing in reply.

Then the bombshell. I'm getting a raise. It's not massive, but it's significant enough to make my paychecks a tiny bit bigger. And this was the moment that my Inner Sally Field started to rumble.

Allow me to explain. Though I adamantly aver that I do not have Multiple Personality Disorder, or any other dissociative illness, I do claim to have several celebrities living inside of me. Aretha Franklin, Joan Collins, and Shirley MacLaine, just to name a few. There might be a Gary Coleman someplace in there as well, but the jury's out on that one. And, of course, I have Sally.

My initial reaction to learning of my raise was all Sally, circa 1984, when she won the Oscar for "Places in the Heart" and uttered the words which will forever be her catchphrase. "You like me! You REALLY like me!" I wanted to shout. I wanted to shake my Jheri curl and bounce my pert little boobies and exclaim to the world how thrilled I am at being liked. REALLY liked!

But on the heels of 1984 Oscar Sally came 1989 "Steel Magnolias" Sally. I felt like squeezing my little hands into fists, pressing my eyes shut, and bobbing my brown football helmet hair. I wanted to shout, "Whhhhhhhhhyyyyyyyy??? I wanna know whhhhhhhhyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy!!!" I mean, I don't do anything. Why give me a raise? The toaster oven, or the water cooler, or even the toilet bowls contribute more to the company than I do.

Does anyone have a urinal mint? Maybe if I put one under my tongue I would feel more deserving.

Argh. I'll just shut up now and take the money.