Thanksgivings: The Mothership

Hello from chilly Chicago! (Or, more accurately, a suburb therein…)

My flight from Asheville to Atlanta was wretched. My seatmate probably had not showered in the last seven weeks. He smelled like a mixture of wet dog and swiss cheese, and he put his oversized carry on between his feet, which  meant he took up more than his fair share of space. I couldn’t put the armrest down.

My connection was on concourse C, which is my favorite concourse, because there is an Atlanta Bread Company there. Here’s a hint from me to you: DO NOT EAT A TUNA SALAD SANDWICH AT THE AIRPORT. Even if it comes from Atlanta Bread Company. That fucking thing screwed me out of a date with one of my favorite people. Instead of dishing over drinks with one gorgeous lollygagger, I spent last night praying for merciful death. Luckily I was finally able to fall asleep, and was a lighter shade of green when I woke up this morning.

This is a gratitude post, though, so let me get on with the warm fuzzies.

Beyond being thankful for having a good job with a decent company, today I’m grateful to have had a chance to visit my friends at the mothership. There’s my friend in the IT department, who rescued me from the lobby when all of my finance peeps were stuck in traffic this morning. That was just his good deed for the day- he’s always saving my ass by resetting whichever of my seven hundred passwords I’ve forgotten, mapping some arcane network drive, and is a dear personal friend. Then there’s my Chicago mom, who tells me not to be self-conscious, bugs me about wearing my coat in this wet and chilly weather, and then sneaks me off of the grounds to take a real break for a few minutes. It had been way too long since I’d seen the manager they sent to infiltrate us right after we were acquired. I reminded him of a deep conversation we’d had the last time he was in town, and he didn’t remember. I was surprised, but then he asked me if we had been drinking. We always drink when we go out. We drink, and we talk, and I spill my guts, and he tells me what he thinks, and then says “for Christ’s sake, darlin’, don’t tell anyone else all of this!”. Seeing him was like coming home.

Mostly, though, I’m grateful for my high level Finance peeps. The ones who explain things to me, that give me tools and resources and ideas to make my job easier. The ones who don’t make me feel bad when I trip on the stairs and manage not to bust my face open, but do manage to spill coffee on them in the process. The ones who feed me well and genuinely enjoy my company. The ones who pick a place right down the road from my hotel, because we all know that I can’t find my way out of a paper bag. They tell me not to rush in in the mornings. They ask me if I want dessert. They make sure that I’m happy and comfortable and that I have what I need.

None of these people have to do what they do for me. They could easily just hand me an agenda and leave me to eat alone and solve my own problems. It would be less work for them to let me fend for myself, but they make the effort because they truly care about my success. Professionally and personally.

Come to think of it, Chicago is a pretty warm place after all.