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[Doin' the dirty work for you.]
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I am relying on my cover-letter writing skills to land me a few interviews despite my experiential shortcomings. Sure, I do not have the required three years of editing, but I have five years of writing instruction under my belt. I have, in the past, proved to be the master of persuasion, convincing employers to overlook the fact that I lacked the MAIN THING NEEDED to even have my resume looked at a second time. Unfortunately, I'm harboring a bit of self-doubt, and have been for a while. Sure, I'm much less wigged out, having left Ray's Place, but I'm worried that I just lost a good job reference and I'm worried that my situation last quarter -- despite the fact that I came across as nothing but honest and rule-abiding -- will paint me as unreliable (I *was* supposed to teach for a full year as an "annual adjunct"), easily flustered, and too easily angered (Though, I did have EVERY reason to be angry -- even my father instructed during the first week of last quarter: "Amanda, you need to tell that bum [referring to department head] to take that job and shove it.").
And, speaking of shoving a job, I ganked a Swingline stapler from the Adjunct Office before my departure. No, it is not red.
{abrupt end} |
[Duude, where's the flush?]
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A seasoned pro at pain management thanks to the mind numbing throes of my mold-induced migraines, I would think that this sinus infection would be a walk through the park. Sure, I'm not paralyzed in pain; I'm functional. I washed the dishes last night, which is something I generally do not do, even when well. But, for the love of Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, how, please someone tell me, just how all this fluid got into my head -- behind my eyes, behind my cheeks, in the layers of my skin! Ack! Pressing on my face is the equivalent of touching a fake boob, really. And that, my friends, is not good.
Speaking of fake boobs -- what the hell is up with those horrible Cinemax adult movies? The acting is horrible (not that I'd expect Oscar quality) -- even for adult cinema -- and, oh for the love of God, the porcelain veneers are blinding. And when adjacent to overly tanned, leathery skin, oh the horror! |
[non haec Calliope, non haec mihi cantat Apollo. ]
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First, again, let me apologize for my lack of posts. Full of excuses (usually), I have none today. I have been free of that horrible place of employment and "higher" education for over a week now and, with no papers to grade, no complaints to bear, and no low IQs to foster, I have noticed an elevation in my spirits, despite the fact that I am dealing with a mild sinus infection and, of course, the label, "unemployed."
I do, however, have a part time job, where I am lucky enough to don the title "substitute Diva" during "Diva Pong" and to harass the talented and illustrious Bobby, who has yet to zap me with his silly air gun (okay, he has gotten me a couple times), which has proved to be much safer and coffee cup friendlier than his former Nerf weapons of choice.
Next week, I am looking forward to the doubles Ping Pong tournament in honour of the Bengals new logo, which -- sorry -- seems pretty lame (And I must apologize to you all, again, as I am a closet football fan). Unfortunately, I am being paired up with Rich "Turbo D" Harkins, so playing beyond the first round probably won't happen. We'll see. I'll provide play-by-play details next week.
Speaking of sports, Xavier is in the elite eight! Pardon my "wtf!", as I generally avoid (and loathe) Internet "speak" or whatever (That's just how "lame" I am, I s'pose).
I realized that with no dreadful job to bemoan, I have nothing to write. Am I just that much of a misery chick? I mean, do I need stress in my life to produce meaningful Internet content? It seems so.
Oh yes, here's some stress. My phone bill is painfully overdue and must be paid Monday, else services will be shut off. But then again, Mike is giving me money for the website I am building for him (which I will link to soon) on Sunday, eradicating the money issue. Okay, so no real stress here.
I could bitch about my sinus infection, but it's really not that awful. I could have avoided the Urgent Care and the amoxicillin and just done the "take some days off works and drink a lot of fluid thing," but Sean insisted that I pay a wealthy man in a white coat to stick pointy metal things in my ears and throat and ass to make sure I wasn't dying (I wish I would have taken a picture of the "mass" I coughed up the other day -- it was so huge and dense that I had to force it down the bathroom sink drain). Unfortunately, the Clifton Urgent Care (part of the Devil aka Group Health Associates) is outside my "network" of providers, so in a couple weeks, I'll receive a slap on the wrist from Direct Care America in the form of a polite, yet terse, letter and, yet another, pamphlet listing "network" providers and institutions. C'est la vie, the goddamned Urgent Care is on my street and it's open on the weekend. I can take a bit o' chastisement for the convenience factor.
Fortunately, for myself and everyone else, I bought back my laptop and my digital camera from Ted's Pawn yesterday, so this means, yes, more frequent updates on my terribly uneventful, bland, bitch-free life. However, when it becomes blatantly clear that my two graduate degrees are hurting my new job hunt, rather than helping it (it is only partially clear at this point, and I'm a bit quixotified, being stress-free and all), the bitching will ensue. |
[Either by sword or by poison.]
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My apartment is in shambles. Sean is currently drinking Pepsi from a wine glass, as the dishes (accompanied by assorted parasitic types) are strewn -- without the threat of dishsoap -- about the kitchen: this having been the case for about two weeks or so.
I am such the horrible housewife. And the laundry, oh the laundry, seriously needs some attention. But, that can't be done, until the rest of the place is reasonably sanitary (clean clothes -- just a pet peeve of mine -- have no place amoung filth).
After my eight am Prep. Comp. "class" ("class" because it was the second day of students' said "final" and I just sat at the front desk translating Propertius III.V), I left for the Colerain Animal Clinic to pick up Faust, who, by the way, had a "mass" removed from his hind leg last night, for those of you who know and/or have met him. While Faust was at the hospital last night, Sean and I ate at Don Pablo's, meandered around Northgate Mall, and went to Wal-Mart (ah, the delights of the West Side, indeed), hoping that the patient would be ready for pick-up at nine. Alas, he was not. Dr. Tsao had just finished surgery when we arrived, and Faust was not ready to go home, still too out-of-it. But he is home now, his neck shaved from blood-work (he appears to be a vampiric host!), his hind leg bereft of fur and laced with sutures, and his fur scented of surgical scrub. I am glad he is home.
My eleven one-oh-three and noon one-oh-two were marked as "canceled" on the syllabus that I drew up over the Winter holiday. Convenient, yes. I stayed at home with Faust until trotting off to Propertius, where all Dr. Parker could do was curse Miller, his lousy textual annotations, and the overall screwed up nature of II.XXXIV. We got through the text, though. I will die,however, if it shows up on next week's final.
I am drinking at four:thirty. That can't be good. |
[Excuses. Excuses]
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To those wondering whether I still exist.
I do. I do.
And I will exist more, once this horrible "college" term is over. Though sad to leave Propertius, I will be elated to scurry far from the community college.
Far, I tell you, far, far.
As some might already know, I officially quit as Annual Academic Slave about four weeks ago.
Sure, I'd been thinking about it for awhile. But:
1) when an entire class of English 103 students fails to read "To His Coy Mistress" and "The Storm" for a scheduled quiz -- three students of this class sat, arms crossed, and scowled at me rather than attempting to *at least* b.s. an answer or two --
and
2) when (out of a class of twenty-some) only four students complete their preliminary drafts of a Literary Criticism Report (why I even ALLOW rough drafts is beyond me!)
and
3) when a former student blatantly flings insults at me in the hallway (what is this, OZ?) because I failed her last quarter . . .
The decision becomes as plain as the bright green parking ticket placed under my car's windshield wiper Friday afternoon thanks to the College Copper who failed to notice the Faculty/Staff parking permit, clearly visible on the dashboard. |
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