How the hell was Dolly getting away with 9 to 5? No one works 9 to 5. You start at dawn and keep going through the best part of the day.
This is what I have learned about real life and being a grown up. A grown up who's moved back in with her parents, but still. No more late night runs to Sonic (because Bountiful doesn't have one) or T-shirt shopping runs. I have to dress like a grown up. For the record, I am not a dress-pant kind of girl.
To be more explicit, I have moved home to Bountiful and begun working as a receptionist (full time, 8 to 5) at the law firm where my dad is a partner. Which is not the only reason why I got the job. My MA in English also has nothing to do with it. My MA in English has nothing to do with anything.
Speaking of advanced degrees, it looks like this year was a bust on the PhDs, despite the wait listing. Most programs had their primary offers accepted, and since I wasn't on that golden primary ticket list, I'm, well, a receptionist. And yes, right now I am feeling sorry for myself. Even though I love my job, which comes with all the Diet Coke I can drink, I want to be writing poetry and talking about poetry and basically living my life the way I thought I was going to get to live it. And there's nothing poetic about that line.
This is going to be my last spewing forth of self-pity. This does not mean the blog will die. There are many work stories to be told already. . . have I told you the therapist story?
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5 comments:
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See? This is what's awesome about my job. With a bit of planning, you can work 8-4 nearly every day.
if the blog dies, i die.
grad schools are lame. and i'm so sad and sorry--truly truly truly. life can be so stinky.
[on the bright side, which doesn't look bright, i'm sure, so i'm putting this in brackets, a break from academics might be a good thing. wondering if i ought to have taken one. maybe i'll be taking one perforce when i flunk my classes :)]
Screw them.
And that's my professional opinion.
Actually, yes, I have heard the therapist story. But I could listen to it again and again.
Stupid U. They were supposed to make my life better by bringing you closer.
editorgirl,
You are NOT a receptionist. Pam Beasley is a receptionist. We are going to fix this somehow. I'm not sure how just yet; right now my only thought is to shake that bloated, silver-spooned pig that is academia like it were a crying baby until they let you in. Maybe after you have published your first volume of poetry and my nerdy roommate (heroofgeeks.blogspot.com) has designed the book cover they'll be kicking themselves for not inviting you in and they'll come crawling to your receptionist desk on their knees.
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