This week marked my six-month anniversary with CheeseGov. I celebrated by submitting a whole bunch of PTO requests, ’cause I’m finally eligible to – pardon me for being crude – tap that.
Half a year is nothing in the grand scheme of things, but I’ve outlasted a couple of other jobs already. Like my first gig in Rapid City: I quit after four days. But there were no hard feelings, and they began farming out freelance work to me, and eventually sweet-talked me into returning.
I made it three and a half months that time before quitting.
So hey, I’m on a roll here! Of course, the true test will be whether I’m still there in 10 years – which remains the longest I’ve ever held a job, and that one ended twenty years ago. But, much like I keep saying I’m never moving again, the same holds true for work: I sure as hell don’t intend to switch jobs again. Why would I give up a cushy job with the state, one with excellent retirement benefits? During my interview, I said I wanted to end all the job-hopping and was looking for stability, a place where I could round out my career.
‘Course, if Travel Wisconsin comes calling, all bets are off…
It’s a good job though, and I’m pretty happy there. It’s much less stressful than many places I’ve worked, and I keep earning praise for my work. Occasionally, I’m reminded of the disparity between me and some of the people who work there. Today, after clocking out (though I don’t actually punch a time clock; I fill in my hours later, if you want to get technical – think of it as the payroll honor system), I rode the elevator down to the lobby with the CheeseGov deputy secretary. We chitchatted during our six-floor descent; she mentioned she was heading to the governor’s mansion for a soirée, which I said sounded like fun. I didn’t have the heart to tell her my evening plans consisted of cracking open a bottle of rhubarb wine and watching an episode or two of Unsolved Mysteries.
Not that I begrudge her the hobnobbing. Hell, I’d love to nob hobs with our governor. He seems like a cool cat, quintessentially Midwestern like Tim Walz, but a little goofier, if you can believe that.
Even though it hasn’t truly felt like fall here until recently, I am super stoked for Halloween. How stoked, you ask? Stoked enough that I went nuts decorating the outside of the house. And then, just for kicks, doubled down inside, too.
I’ve obsessed over holiday decorations for as long as I can remember – and I usually put all my eggs into the Halloween basket (never Easter, mixed metaphors be damned). When Audrey and Rusty were little, it seemed like every house in the neighborhood had elaborate Christmas displays, so I focused on Halloween instead. There was less competition. (I’m looking at you, Christmas Light Kelly.)
This has worked out pretty well. We routinely have one of the more impressive Halloween houses in da ‘hood. Then again, I’ve been working on this for eons. Pretty sure I owned a fog machine before Rusty even started kindergarten.
Sometimes, though, I wonder if this might not be normal behavior for a fella at this stage of his life, ergo, one whose kids are grown-ass adults living hundreds of miles away. Should I still be so Clark Griswold-y, hanging plastic bats with little glow-in-the-dark eyes over the garage?
(They’re really cool, FWIW.)
I posed this question to Tara, who answered with a stunning display of diplomacy. “It’s great that you’re so passionate about it!” she said. “I’m glad that it brings you joy.”
“Does it bring you joy?” I wondered. I shouldn’t have pressed my luck.
“Would I go to this much trouble if it were just me? Not a chance,” she said. “If you were out of the country for three months” – (I can’t imagine any circumstances that would ever lead to this, but I humored her) – “I wouldn’t put up a damn thing.”
This doesn’t totally surprise me. When Tara and I were in a LDR and I visited her that first Christmas, it was the first time she’d put up a tree in years. (She did it just for me, which is super sweet, but I didn’t realize this until much later. I assumed she was as holiday-happy as me. Nope.)
And I get it. I feel a little weird about my obsession. Because, while Tara never bothered with decorations when she was on her own post-divorce – or even in her previous marriage, for that matter – I always decorated my house. Even when the house was a condo or an apartment. And long after the kids stopped caring.
I still don’t know if that’s weird or not. Probably yes. (Maybe don’t comment yes. I have a fragile ego.)
Tara added a stipulation that she would, in fact, decorate for the holidays if I were immobile, maybe laid up in bed with a broken leg or some mystery disease that has all the doctors stumped. Which filled me with a warmth, knowing my wife would do this sweet thing for me.
But then she added, “Reluctantly,” which kinda killed the mood.
Mark My Words 
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