Monday, January 31, 2011

Job, Work, Life

The HR Generalist gave me a positive evaluation. She said she's been asking around the office and received a terrific response with regards to my performance. I didn't immediately tell my dad about this, so being the worrywart that he is, interrogated his friend about the "meaning" of the probation period. He frantically called my cell and left a harried message: "Lily! It's baba. Call me!"

So I pull up to my garage and dial his number without bothering to exit the vehicle. "What's going on?" I ask him.

He proceeds to give me a 15-minute long lecture about how his friend ("who's worked in corporate environments for 9 years!") told him that by month's end, someone from human resources will approach me to discuss my progress (or lack thereof) and if they're happy with me, then it is implied that the candidate should stop sending out resumes.

"Uh," I respond. "Why are you so anxious for me? Someone already spoke to me about it last week. I thought I told you. I know I told mom."

He peppers me with questions: What did HR tell you? What were their exact words? What did they mean by that?!

O-M-G, dad! He is clearly terrified that I will end up as a freelancer again. You'd think he'd be used to the ups and downs after seven years, the pattern acting as a vaccine for his heart attacks (of child-rearing origin).


Paul and I have been discussing the possibility of marriage. The situation is surprisingly not dire. He is graduating in April and if all goes as planned, I will have my own place soon. My parents and I are in search of a condo downtown. Housing prices are ridiculous and don't even bring up the TTC (hint: I loathe it).

There are, happily, some new offerings on the market that don't demand diamonds for a cubby hole. We'll see where that goes.

Paul has been receptive to the idea of being a House Husband. I mean, he already cooks, cleans, and does the laundry (sort of. I believe Dr. King said, "[We] will be able to speed up that day when all of God's sartorial choices, darks, whites, delicates and wool, denim and silk, will be able to tumble to the words of the old Tide jingle: 'Now that's my kind of clean!'").

"I don't mind being a House Husband," he's been telling people recently. A friend of ours thought he was kidding, but due to his insistence on pursuing cinematography, the heart might really have to be where the hearth is. Gender roles aside, Paul knows that, whether famine or feast, he'll end up being the main caretaker of the home and that's all right by me. Strangely enough, both sets of parents are supportive of our planned co-habitation. "Strange" because of the uproar it set off the first time I did it (granted, on strictly pragmatic terms in a relationship of convenience) and "strange" because both our parents simply accept that we'll be exchanging vows. If not now, then in the definite future.

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