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Okay, now that the SQUEEEEEE!ing has died down somewhat (and I thank all of you for joining your voices to my chorus of SQUEEEEEE!), I'll tell the whole story.

Having spent most of the day Thursday trading outrage with the Brit over the London terror attack--we're both solidly among the Tinfoil-Hat People, convinced that there are far greater powers behind these attacks than a nest of Muslims who "hate freedom" and all that hogwash--anyway, let's just say not much work was getting done, regardless. I was hiding out at the other building because I knew that if I was in my own office, I would be expected to "touch base" with Amy. I hate "touching base"; I also hate "stepping up to the plate", "thinking outside the box", and all other corporate crap jargon. And "touching base" has got to be my least-favorite of all concepts, at least as it applies to my current work environment, because it invariably results in a headache and a need to strangle someone.

But alas, eventually the moment of critical slacker-mass arrived, the moment where I could no longer justify the amount of nothing I was doing. So I wandered back to the main office, with the Brit in close pursuit--he had errands that could justify a nice early-afternoon stroll, and so we took the longest possible route back to the main building, laughing and goofing the whole way.

I am totally crazy about this man, have I mentioned?

Back at my office, I wasn't there ten minutes before Amy came sashaying in, wanting to--you guessed it--"touch base". Yecccch. I spent about half-an-hour in her office, listening to her "suggestions" about all the things I need to do differently in my job, which is to say, everything. By the time she was done, it was time for her to leave--you know, 2:45 and all. That's the end of a long day, expecially when you get in at 9:30.

Around 4:00, as I was sitting at my desk, my phone rang. "Gladys?" said Rachel. "Can you take this call?"

I sighed. The only "can you take this call" calls are generally from vendors, and I hate dealing with vendors because they always want something I can't give them. "Yeah," I told her. "Put 'em through."

"Hello, Gladys? This is Lois, from Human Resources..."

I knew immediately what she was going to say. Tuesday afternoon I'd gotten an e-mail from her, asking for my references, and Wednesday RuthAnne--about whom more later, because she was totally instrumental in getting me this job--called and said she'd been contacted for a reference. So I pretty much knew this was it.

And it was! "We'd like to offer you the position...."--details about money, vacation days, etc. So far, so good.

And then, the words that strike terror into the heart of any recovering addict: "...contingent on passing a drug screen."

Needless to say, I haven't done any heroin. I haven't even smoked any weed, though I was briefly concerned about the effects of secondhand smoke. But--remember after my surgery, how I was having minor withdrawals from all the morphine and Vicodin I'd been given? How I was going to taper myself down on the methadone over a couple of weeks?

Well, I did. But I wasn't sure how long ago I'd last taken any methadone, nor how long it lasts in the body. The second question was easily answered via Google: 1-7 days. It hadn't been ONE day, but I wasn't sure entirely that it had been more than seven, either. PRETTY sure, but not 100% sure.

So I did the prudent thing, and didn't tell anyone about the offer.

Well, except the Brit.
And LJ.
And Mom.
In that order.
(Somethin' ain't right here, folks.)

Everybody else, I figured, could wait til I was safely certified drug-free. Because on the off chance that I WASN'T...much less scandal this way, you know? I don't really need any more scandal.

At the risk of giving away the ending: I went yesterday to take the drug test, at a little facility in North Hell-And-Gone (thank god no one was at work to notice that my lunch hour was a bit...extended) and I passed with no problems whatsoever. Which I SORTA thought I would, but... just nervewracking, you know?

Back to Thursday. I had the truck, so of course I gave the Brit a ride home. I swear, he could not have been more thrilled if HE was the one who'd gotten the new job. In fact--and if you knew him and knew me, you'd be as amazed by this as I was--he actually patted me on the back, touched me on the arm, little things like that--more than once, even! (I am extremely standoffish, physically--like, to the point that when someone's last day at work comes around and they're going down the line hugging everyone, they put their arms out about halfway when they come to me and then hesitate a little, with that expression of "if I try to hug her, is she gonna snap at me?" I'm not at all sure where they get that--body language, I'd imagine--but it's fairly accurate. I am extremely guarded that way, and I'm not sure why. The Brit seems to be the same way--not a toucher, not a hugger, purely verbal. So for him to breach that invisible wall...um, SQUEEEEEE? Or am I overanalyzing things here?)

About halfway through the ride, he stopped in mid-sentence and said "God, I am REALLY going to miss these talks!!"

"Oh, we're GOING to keep in touch," I told him. (Though how I'm going to get around his girlfriend to talk to him will be another question entirely--he hasn't got a cell phone, so I'll have to call him at home. I can't imagine that will go over real well. Thank god for e-mail...but then again, e-mail doesn't have that gorgeous accent.)

So Monday morning, I'm putting in my two weeks' notice. RuthAnne and I had a long talk about that on Friday afternoon, when I called to tell her the good news. She had acted as one of my references--I didn't trust Beverly or Amy, and RuthAnne and I have consistently been on the same side of the database controversy--and she did an excellent job. (She told me exactly what she said, and at one point I stopped her and said "RuthAnne, that was some EXCELLENT bullshit! Thank you so much!" I mean, she made me sound like the Second Coming or something.) She's very disappointed that she won't be there on Monday to see the fireworks--an opinion echoed by everyone who's going to be on vacation next week, or out of town. I've offered to sell videotapes....Anyway, RuthAnne asked me what I was going to say in my resignation letter. I told her I'm going to be very straightforward and diplomatic...but that in my head, I was going to write a letter that would rival Tasha's exit letter.

To which RuthAnne responded: "Write THAT one down too, and send me a copy."

RuthAnne and I have had our problems--boy, have we!--but since the nightmare of the actual database upgrade began, we've pretty much patched up our differences and moved on. I realized that she's done most of the less-than-honest things she's done because she's in the same boat as I am--she's Beverly's whipping-child, and she's trying to cover her own ass. Which is a reaction I sympathize with, though it doesn't excuse some of the stuff that's happened--almost everyone in that entire office is, to one degree or another, trying to cover their ass against Beverly's irrationality. RuthAnne and I have been two of the people who have gotten the worst of it; finally we realized that and banded together against it.

I am seriously thrilled, now that it's all for real, all sinking in. The next two weeks are going to be rough--Beverly's going to make sure of THAT--but when they're done, they're DONE. I'm also really nervous about the new job, but then again that seems perfectly natural.

Mostly, though, I'm just gonna miss seeing the Brit every day.