I have a “no writing about work stuff” rule on my blog, but I’m making an exception to explain my recent job shuffle. I may regret it, but the story is too important to me not to get out there.

When Dre and I returned from the honeymoon, I found myself back in the basement, working for the same client I’ve worked for off ‘n’ on since 2002. The client was never able to commit to needing me for more than two weeks at a time (although often my contracts would stretch into the six-month range), but I was willing to put up with the unpredictability for a variety of reasons: the work was very easy for me, I liked the people I worked with, I had a walking commute, the work load was really light, etc.

One thing about this client, however: they paid me much less than my market value. When they first offered me the job, they offered it at one rate, and then a week later I found out that due to an “accounting error,” my pay rate was actually 8% less. I worked at this lower rate for my entire time with them.

When I returned after the honeymoon, however, I decided it was time to ask for a raise. Not even a REAL raise: just a bump back up to the hourly wage they’d initially offered me, almost three years ago. I won’t get into all the details, but I’ll say this: I inarguably deserved the raise. It was still several dollars below my market value.

Here’s the thing, though: I didn’t just ask for the raise — I demanded it. I let my agent know that the wage increase was a deal-breaker: either I got the rate I was asking for, or else I couldn’t work for the client. Do not ask me where I got the balls to do this. Usually I’m quite the compromiser. My agent seemed a little taken aback, but did the best he could, calling the manager and explaining the situation, and then following up with her repeatedly to get an answer.

My manager, meanwhile, dragged her heels. I worked for a week with no idea what rate I was working at and then I upped the stakes even higher: I staged a one-woman strike. Since the manager couldn’t commit to a wage, I wouldn’t commit to going in until I had an answer. It’s not smart to work when the contract is under negotiation. I also knew the way things work with this client: very…very…slowly. So I forced her hand. I decided to play hardball.

And then, well, I lost. The raise was declined. My coworkers, who’d all be cheering me on from the sidelines, fell silent.

Gulp. Deep breath. The air can get a little thin up here on Mount Righteousness.

In some ways, bland jobs are like bland relationships. You can come up with a million reasons why it’s good enough, why it would probably be hard to find anything better, why it’s nice and secure. My old job was just fine. But it wasn’t challenging me, I wasn’t learning anything, and I know myself well enough to know that I don’t do good work in that environment. There was no opportunity for advancement, and I was starting to deaden. I was having trouble getting motivated on my own projects because I spent 8 hours a day in a mouth-breathing haze.

In a way, I set myself up. I backed myself into a corner to force my OWN hand. I knew I wouldn’t make the decision to quit straight out, so I did it sideways. Rather than just storm out, I wanted to give my former client a last chance. Sure, I probably should have been smart and not been so demanding when I didn’t have anything else lined up, but it’s almost like I couldn’t help myself. I just went and did it without thinking. Who knew I could be so uncompromising? I sort of surprised myself.

It felt good until I realized with a twinge that being uncompromising might not feel so good after six months of unemployment.

The same day as I found out about the old client (gulp!), I had a phone interview with a prospective new one. A week later, I was offered the new job. A week later, I started it. And three days in, it seems like this new job is the perfect fit. Sure, sure: hard to tell after only three days. But I’m one of those people who trusts intuition and instinct as though it was a tablet from the heavens. And gut response says, “Cool job.” After my third day with the old client, I was already thinking, “Can I deal with this?”

I’ve gone from a basement to the 21st floor. My view has switched from a sliver of light with the occasional ankle passing by, to a territorial view of Pioneer Square. I genuinely liked the people I used to work with, and I genuinely like the people I work with now. My two fellow editors (aspiring screenwriter and ska fan? yes, please!) share my snarky sense of humor and irreverent take on pop culture. My day consists of doing things I enjoy: researching entertainment-related shit online (movie reviews — whee!), using a content manager to build web pages (geekery — whoo!), and writing snarky bits of copy (things like We’ve heard whispers of Rob Lowe being connected to the movie, “Iron Man.” The whispers say things like, “Rob’s rosy cheeks, blue eyes, and chiseled jaw would coordinate nicely with a suit of full-body armor. A really tight one.” Oh, and I got to make fun of this creepy picture.) Oh and best part? I’m making 20% more than I was at my old job. Now is the part where I resist the urge to dance around, both middle fingers extended, squealing, “THAT’S RIGHT, MOTHERFUCKERS!” Oh wait: I guess I didn’t resist it. THAT’S RIGHT! I AM DANCING AROUND RIGHT NOW.

I want to say that I totally lucked out (and oh: did I ever!), but there’s a typically-hidden woo-woo side of me that wants to believe that in part this is a reward for knowing what I’m worth, asking for it, and sticking to my guns when it wasn’t given to me. I really want to believe that somehow this is a sign that it’s smart to know your worth and stand up for yourself in getting what you deserve. Ultimately, even if you don’t win that battle, you win a bigger victory. THAT’S RIGHT, MOTHERFUCKERS! (sorry, sorry: like I said the air atop the Mighty Crag of Gun Sticking is a little thin.)

But really, I think I just seriously, seriously lucked out. Lucky stars are officially thanked.