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Friday morning spreadsheets.

23 Jul

When you get to sleep in, do you stay in bed for awhile after you wake up? Just sort of rolling around lazily and feeling the cold spots of your sheets, while you close your eyes and imagine that you’re still in your dream from five minutes ago? It’s pure bliss. It would take something really super important to tear me from that haven of comfort. Something really disrupting and alarming – like a phone call from a temp agency.

I’ve been with Pancoast Staffing since April or May, and haven’t worked a single job for them yet. There have been a few offers here and there, but never anything I was interested in or able to do. So yesterday, while I’m perusing their website, I see this:

“Copy Editor; Non-Profit publisher looking for someone with knowledge of Chicago Manual Style (or similar), Adobe In-Copy (or similar)…”

With fervor, I scribbled down information about the job for when I’d call Pancoast. I also found an administrative assistant position that sounded perfect, paying like $12 an hour and I’m totally qualified for it.

Which brings us to 45 minutes ago, when my phone rang and totally interrupted me cuddling with my own bed. In the spirit of lazy-bed time, I ignored the call and just checked the voicemail.

“Hi, Pam, this is April from Pancoast.”

Naturally, I jumped out of bed and ran to the computer downstairs. I read over the job descriptions again, ready to explain why I should get the copy editing position. Pancoast hasn’t called me in months, so I was pret-tay sure they were calling me because of my background in journalism.

Yeah. And maybe someday monkeys will fly out of my BUTT.

“So you’d be working one day at the West Deer festival with a chiropractor, having people sign up for free scoliosis screenings. Are you interested?”


Instead of screaming at this woman, though, I politely told her I was actually interested in other jobs on the website. We talked about how I don’t have 7 years of publishing experience and how I don’t know what Oracle is, but she seemed genuinely helpful and so I’m going to call her on Tuesday to see what progress there is.

Maybe I’ll just stay in bed until then.

I need a job.

20 Jul

I’ve had a number of run-ins with kids from my past, and there seems to be a running theme. Forgive my generalizations, because they certainly are generalizations at best.

People I went to college with are leading adult, professional lives.

People I went to grade school and high school with are living in the same city, with the same friends and the same lives they’ve always had.

Throughout my whole life I’ve fancied myself much more of a social-oriented person than a professional-goal oriented one. Who cares about money or extravagant lifestyles when you’ve got THE BEST FRIENDS IN THE WHOLE WIDE WORLD, right?!

Will you wear the other half of my Tazmanian Devil necklace?

But what fun is life without some kind of struggle? How can I expect to see new places or do new things if I can’t release my death-grip on everything familiar to me? How can I ever relax if I have nothing to be stressed out about?

The seven months since I’ve graduated have been some of the most valuable to me, in terms of what I’ve learned about myself and my own behavior. I need to achieve goals to feel like I’m worth anything. Like last week, when I felt a rush of happiness because I learned how to make bagel twists.

When you're excited about a bagel twist, you've hit rock bottom.

I’ve romanticized a lot about journalism. I know I’m not going to sit in an old black-and-white office with 1960s furniture, smoking cigarettes and talking about the latest scoop. I know I’m probably not going to find a reporting job. I know I’m going to have to write fluff pieces on local businesses and human interest stories no matter where I go. Hell, not even something as cool as fluff.

Regardless, I can remember what it was like to see my name in print. When I wrote for the Spectator, people told me how good my articles were – and I didn’t even have to pour them a cup of coffee to have them remember my name. I live for that. More than a billion parties with a billion hot guys who all want to tell me how pretty and charming I am.

"What's the latest scoop on that twenty-three skiddoo from last night, eh chaps?"

Those weekly borough council meetings, the Campus Dog, knowing university officials on a first-name basis; it all made me feel important. I haven’t felt that important to anyone or anything in so long.

I act like Dunkin’ Donuts couldn’t find another opening girl. Like there’s nobody else who could replicate my early-morning spunk and 99.9% accuracy at remembering the regulars’ orders. I’ve built this job up so much in my own head, that I almost made it important. Except it’s not. You could do my job. You probably don’t even know how to make a bagel twist, douchebag.

Don’t get me wrong.

I’m going to go into work tomorrow morning and do my darndest to get people their coffees and bagels on time. But I’m certainly not letting the creamer and powdered sugar cloud my foresight.