Not to be rude, but I currently have three degrees.

Back when I was immersed in the agony of my student teaching (or “internship,” if you want to be all glamorous about it), I frequently daydreamed about leaving the world of education behind and getting a job as a secretary (I’m sorry, administrative assistant). The idea of working nine to five and spending my days filing, answering phone calls, and maintaining calendars was exactly what I wanted. But, after sending out countless applications and resumes to various and assorted advertisements for just such a position on Monster.com and Craigslist which got no response, I came to the realization maybe (on paper) I’m not secretary material.

The job market is dismal and I’m poor, so even if I had a secure teaching job in the fall I’d have gone out looking for the summer job. I was thrilled to land the Not-A-Real-Job job a few weeks ago, and I was slightly looking forward to the banal world of retail. Folding shirts and ringing up customers (or “clients,” since we’re classy retail) is just the sort of job that requires little to no thinking I wanted. Earn money and not have to use your brain? Perfect. Give me forty hours a week. Give me overtime. Give me shirts to fold and pants to hang.

Alas, I didn’t get forty hours a week. I got twenty. This is why, after being there until eleven o’clock last night, I am showered and preparing to leave to be there at eight o’clock this morning: extra hours. I’m also not making nearly enough money for the sort of manual labor I’ve been doing recently: hoisting mannequins and other heavy objects into the loft, sorting display hardware, dusting and cleaning areas of the backroom that may have never been dusted or cleaned since they were installed. Last night, probably around ten or so, as I began trying to lay another pile of sweaters flat and the tedious work of tucking all the tags into the sweaters (we’re classy; being able to see the price and size of a piece of clothing isn’t classy), the thought of the two master’s degrees and countless hours and thousands of dollars that have gone into getting me to where I am today crept into my head. Eight dollars an hour tucking tags into pieces of clothing doesn’t really seem fair. Or right.

I don’t mean to complain. Beggars can’t be choosers. I work at a great store, and I get a very nice employee discount (that I can and will extend to all my friends, even though I’m sure that’s breaking some sort of company policy). My legs and feet hurt from all the standing and walking to and fro, I barely got any sleep last night, and I had counted on having today off so I could go get some work done on my apartment (otherwise known as Boxville). I think some of what I’ve been doing is worth more than eight bucks an hour, but other things (like the infamous tag tucking of last night) really aren’t. I do have a job, though, and while there are a thousand things wrong with it, it’s still a job. A paycheck.

But still. Three degrees and I make eight bucks an hour, part-time. Boo.

Bringing AnorSEXYa Back–Day Five

Yesterday someone called me at “work” to ask what our summer hours were. It was probably a faculty person, but since everyone in the entire building except us has a phone with caller ID, and because of this everyone assumes we also have caller ID and no one ever identifies themselves to us, I can’t be sure who it was who I spoke to. But after assuring her we were open at 8:00 AM, she asked (in an almost snarky way) if the person who was opening at 8:00 AM was someone who actually arrives at 8:00, or if it was someone who would straggle in at 8:10 or 8:20. This is a valid question, considering my boss never gets here before 8:30 (and even that’s a stretch), our administrative specialist (assistant) doesn’t come in until 10:00 (I’m not sure what her malfunction is), and my fellow GA likes to arrive places five or so minutes after she’s supposed to be there (she’s consistent, though: if she decides she wants to be two minutes late to class, she’s always exactly two minutes late to class). I’m probably the only one who works here who believes that the hours we say we’re open are the actual hours we should be open. Still, the woman on the phone irked me, because if you were the least bit worried that was the case, might should you just show up at 8:15 or 8:20 or anything after 8:00? I made doubly sure I was here on time, though, and the mysterious Give-Me-The-Exact-Second-You’re-Going-To-Be-Open woman still isn’t here (it’s about 8:20). Part of me thinks she’s going to show up with a Big Emergency that involves something I either don’t know how to do or don’t know how to do quickly, and because neither my boss nor our administrative specialist (assistant) is here I’ll make the whole place look bad due to my incompetence.

Let that be a lesson to future bosses of the world: Don’t leave empolyees alone, dreadfully alone, unless you’re sure they’e fully capable of launching attack missles (did you hear about those guys who fell asleep?) or solving the world hunger crisis without any help from you.

—

It’s that time again:

The Fatness™ The Ten Pounds in Two Weeks Challenge

or

Bringing AnorSEXYa Back

Day Five

I’m sort of out of the habit of weighing myself incessantly (though I’m not quite sure why, since it’s so much fun), which means what I said was Day One really should have been Day Two, and then I decided I’d just weigh myself every two days and talk about The Challenge, except that didn’t pan out either. But now I’m on the ball. I weighed myself yesterday morning only to find out I weighed exactly the same: 162.8 (Boo!). Then I weighed myself yesterday evening (you should never do that) and saw the day had brought another pound to the grand total. Today is officially Day Five, though, and I am 161.6. To celebrate I took the elevator instead of the stairs this morning. I also think my pants fit looser, but that’s really because I’ve worn them a few times since I washed them, and they’re all stretched out and comfy now.

The true test of any weight loss plan is whether or not your pants, especially jeans, fit comfortably/loosely the first time you put them on after washing them.

Mom went home yesterday morning, and I was as sad to see her go as I usually am (slightly, but not terribly so). I’d like if Mom lived close enough for us to get together on a more regular basis, making the time we spend less intense and less stressful for me. I don’t want to see her ever single day (I’m not nearly emotionally stable enough for that), but I think more time together would alleviate the pressure of her dumping all her worries, concerns, and complaints on me repeatedly, basically at one sitting.

(I just want to point out that if I were marking up this blog entry the way I mark up student papers, I would have made a note that I was being redundant in that last paragraph, since I basically explained the same thing two ways, one right after the other. But, as I keep telling my Arch Nemesis, until I get paid for this here writing, I’m not editing it.)

Since Mom and the stress of making sure Mom thinks I’m happy is over, I will be able to dive into The Challenge with gusto. Eating is a bad habit, though. It’s hard to break such a delicious habit. It’s much easier for me to not be eating and not have any interest in eating, only eating when it’s absolutely necessary. Like anything else, though, the more you eat, especially tasty things, the more you get used to eating and the more you want to eat. The Pro-Anas and Pro-Mias say, “Nothing tastes as good as thin feels,” but I think a whole thing of chocolate fudge frosting is pretty close.

(By the way, I’m a huge fan of the Pro-Ana and Pro-Mia internet movements. I should find out if I can add my fandom in Facebook, since Facebook is the end all be all completely accurate representation of who a person is.)

To sum up: The Fatness™ Ten Pounds in Two Weeks Challenge isn’t going as fabulously as planned, but sometimes a slow start means you feel even more fabulous when you reach your goal. Or more depressed when you don’t. Either way, a Challenge is a Challenge.

—

I’ve been wearing my glasses a lot lately (i.e. yesterday at work and today at work, and probably about six months ago). This makes me want to go and replace my black frames the dog chewed up. I really don’t think I’m nearly as cute and semi-hipster-ish without glasses with black frames. Unfortunately I can’t afford to replace the glasses. I really need to look into selling myself on Ebay or something equally degrading and profitable. I’m not above prostitution. It’s a shame, because I’d like to be, but then again I’ve always been a crappy feminist. Might as well just screw the whole feminism thing completely and go right for the degrading sexual exploitation of prostitution. I’m sure everyone will be behind me.