Warning: It's another one of *those* posts...

I do not deal well with the overwhelming sensation of being completely and utterly fucked.

Mostly it means that I spend the majority of my time feeling as though I could burst into tears at any moment, and am one broken pencil away from being committed to the looney bin.

This afternoon, I sucked it up and went to a restaurant open call for servers. This, of course, means that the place was packed with dozens of other hopefuls who, like myself, have been scanning Craigslist for any and all possibilities for income.

I arrived 15 minutes after the time listed in the ad, waited 15 minutes while someone went and made more copies of the application, then waited for an hour and a half for an on-the-spot interview, only to be talked down to because I'd forgotten the difference between a scotch and a single malt.

First of all, I'd forgotten how fucking condescending restaurant managers can be.

Second, I waited tables in this city for three fucking years, and no customer has ever asked me that question.

"I HAVE A FUCKING MASTERS DEGREE!!" I wanted to scream. "I AM NOT A MORON!!" Moreover I wanted to look him straight in the eye and say "Look asshole, I may have been out of the game for a few years, but it's not like serving skills are something you can forget. I could wait tables in my sleep, and still do, on occasion, when plagued by a particularly wretched nightmare, and if you want me to memorize a bunch of facts about liquor give me a list and I'll come back in 45 minutes with the whole damned thing memorized, so why don't you just give me a fucking job!!"

I have a feeling that all of the above would have been counter-productive, but it's all true.

One would think that three years of NYC waitressing experience, plus three years of professional experience (which involves just as much smiling, multitasking, and ass-kissing as waiting tables), plus a goddamned Masters Degree to prove I'm not stupid, plus the maturity of 29 years of life, seven of them spent surviving in one of the most expensive cities in North America, and oh yeah did I mention the MASTERS DEGREE?? would be enough.

And one would be wrong.

He said they'd call if they "found a place for me," and I wanted to punch him in his smug little mouth.

Instead I smiled, shook his hand, and made my way to the door--being sure to straighten the chair I'd be waiting in on my way out.

How the hell is the service industry managing to stress me out when I'm not even working in it?

More of the Same

Today I trudged all over Upper Manhattan with a broker (the lovely Miss Ashley's broker, in fact) looking for the impossible: an apartment that I could pretend to afford that was bigger than a shoebox.

We finally found one. And managed to talk the management company down to a monthly rent that is $50 higher than the absolute (and already slightly unattainable) maximum I had set for myself.

I took it.

With my parents as guarantors, because apparently I am 22 again instead of nearly 30.

I should know by the end of the day tomorrow whether or not the application has been accepted. From what I gathered from my last phone call with the broker, it's pretty much a go (it had better be, for the $300 in application/background-check fees I'm paying for them to check out me AND both of my parents)...

So why am I more stressed out than I was before?

Maybe it's because I have to move on the 20th, which is, ummm... a little over a week away.

Maybe it's because this new apartment is half the size of the one I have now, which means some serious downsizing of personal possessions.

Maybe it's because I'm still not entirely sure how I'm going to pay for it, and with my parents as guarantors I can't just run my credit into the ground and squat there if everything goes south, because they'll be responsible.

The universe really needs to throw me a financial bone here, or I'm going to wind up with one hell of an ulcer.

Bad Frog

As you are most likely aware, I have some bad habits.

One of them is smoking.

Another is spiraling downward into an uncontrollable panic at the drop of a hat.

I try not to let them get the best of me, really I do.

Unfortunately, these two tend to go hand in hand.

Yesterday, I saw an apartment. A really great apartment. The kind every New Yorker drools over for the simple fact that it is WAY below market value, due to being classified as a low-income apartment. As in, there is a maximum allowed income for the occupant.

Score!

Or so I thought.

So today I rushed over to the broker's office to drop off my application, secure in the fact that, for once, my poverty would prove to be a boon rather than a burden.

He called me a few hours later as I sat in a hairdresser's chair with bleach searing my scalp, and lo and behold, in addition to there being a maximum income requirement, there is also a minimum.

Which is about $2000/year lower than the max.

And about $6000/year more than I can prove that I make.

Fuck.

So I'm scrambling... oh lordy am I scrambling... to try to find a way to make this work.

But somewhere around 9:30pm, after submitting a resume to a job I could totally do (elementary level textbook editor), but am theoretically not at all qualified for, the panic hit... and I found myself sitting in the middle of my diningroom floor, sobbing uncontrollably, while my cat sat next to me, purring contentedly, clearly too senile to comprehend the difference between Happy Mommy and Wigging-The-Fuck-Out Mommy.

Ahhh... pets.

25 minutes later I had relocated to the couch and was attempting to watch South Park, but every 30 seconds or so another sob would break through.

So I did the only thing I could think of that would calm me down.

I went around the corner and bought a pack of fucking cigarettes, and smoked one on my stoop.

Then I came inside and bookmarked a zillion Craigslist ads, which I will apply to tomorrow.

Now I'm going to go smoke another.

This bad habit may make me feel guilty... but a least it keeps me off the floor.

T.G.I... What day is it again?

Good grief, this month is slipping away from me faster than I thought possible! Which on one hand is a good thing, as my life will feel far less lunatic once November is over... on the other hand, the reason my life is so lunatic is that I've got a million things to do before the month is up and the days just keep disappearing!

Like, just for example, the paper that I realized only moments ago is due TOMORROW. Granted, it's a 2 page response to a storytelling performance I attended--a pittance in the world of academic writing. But I attended it last week. Let's hope my memory and the notes I took hold up until I get a chance to write that paper tomorrow morning.

Because right now? Tonight? I am going for a drink. Or several. Probably several, considering I am meeting the Lovely A, and it has long since been proven that "just one" is not in our vocabulary. Case in point, the last time she and I met up for a casual drink on a Friday ended up with me pouring her into a taxi at 4am, after speaking to her boyfriend on the phone to assure him that yes, she would be getting home okay. Why was I the one to determine this? I'm not sure, as I was certainly in no state to be making judgment calls... but I digress.

That being said, before Tuesday the 25th I need to:

1. Write 2 response papers.

2. Find time to see a play, written in the last 25 years, about which to write the second response paper.

3. Survive Hell Week for the play with the kiddos. (6 days with no less than 4 hours of rehearsal on each given day, oh my lord).

4. Come up with a 15 minute lesson covering some aspect of Shakespeare's plays as, hello! I have an audition for the one company in NYC that I would kill to work with!!. And I have a week to plan for it.

5. Nail that job audition.

Then, after the 25th, there's...

- Thanksgiving

- NaNoWriMo (I past the 25k mark! Halfway there!)

- Oh, right, THESIS!!

- And a play. That I have to write. For a grade.


Needless to say, this little frog is feelin' da pressure. Hence the drinking.

Happy Weekend!

Clusterf*ck Extraordinaire

So originally this was going to be a post all about how much I love Peru, and to make you all drool with jealousy as I wax poetic about sandboarding in the Peruvian desert... but instead, I feel the need to share with you life's inexplicable drive to temper every amazing experience with a little bit of dog shit.

You see, it seems that, despite all appearances, my subletter has turned out to be batshit crazy.

Oh, and an alocholic and a drug addict to boot.

I received this mind-blowing news around midnight of my last night in Brazil--when I was slightly drunk from our last-night-out festivities--and proceeded to have a complete and total mental breakdown to which Slater was witness and caretaker.  I am doing better with it now, but there is still a little part of me that is in shock.

Today I finally received a response to my two highly-apologetic emails to my landlord, first saying that she felt I intentionally mislead them about subletting (I didn't!!) and second detailing just some of the lunacy that has unfolded over the past several weeks, including:

• Crazy Fucking Subletter (CFL) wandering around the street barefoot and without underwear, completely disoriented and unaware of her surroundings, so that one of the landlords had to collect her and return her to the apartment, subsequently missing a day of work.  At this point he noticed that the apartment was filthy and my poor kitty apparently not well-cared-for.
• CFL and friends on the roof, and CFL later being out on the fire escape knocking on windows of other apartments, discombobulated, while her friends were still in my apartment.
• Perhaps as a result of the above, or perhaps due to some other incident, the neighbors have called the police on CFL, so the cops have been in the building taking her of her.

CFL has now been removed from my apartment by the landlords, and for the next week and a half of my absense my lovely friends will be stopping by to look after my poor neglected kitty so that hopefully she doesn't hate me when I get back.

I am somewhat terrified as to what, exactly, I am going to return to.  Are my landlords going to kick me out for this?  Has my apartment been completely trashed?  Are things missing, broken, or stolen?  Is my cat malnourished and miserable?  These are all of the thoughts cycling in the back of my head as I am off on this great adventure.  I am sitting here in one of the most beautiful places I have ever seen, but part of my brain is back in New York, wondering what sort of shit storm awaits me when I get back, and wondering why it is that whenever something in my life is going so wonderfully, something else has to go straight down the shitter alongside it?

Clusterf*ck Extraordinaire

So originally this was going to be a post all about how much I love Peru, and to make you all drool with jealousy as I wax poetic about sandboarding in the Peruvian desert... but instead, I feel the need to share with you life's inexplicable drive to temper every amazing experience with a little bit of dog shit.

You see, it seems that, despite all appearances, my subletter has turned out to be batshit crazy.

Oh, and an alocholic and a drug addict to boot.

I received this mind-blowing news around midnight of my last night in Brazil--when I was slightly drunk from our last-night-out festivities--and proceeded to have a complete and total mental breakdown to which Slater was witness and caretaker.  I am doing better with it now, but there is still a little part of me that is in shock.

Today I finally received a response to my two highly-apologetic emails to my landlord, first saying that she felt I intentionally mislead them about subletting (I didn't!!) and second detailing just some of the lunacy that has unfolded over the past several weeks, including:

• Crazy Fucking Subletter (CFL) wandering around the street barefoot and without underwear, completely disoriented and unaware of her surroundings, so that one of the landlords had to collect her and return her to the apartment, subsequently missing a day of work.  At this point he noticed that the apartment was filthy and my poor kitty apparently not well-cared-for.
• CFL and friends on the roof, and CFL later being out on the fire escape knocking on windows of other apartments, discombobulated, while her friends were still in my apartment.
• Perhaps as a result of the above, or perhaps due to some other incident, the neighbors have called the police on CFL, so the cops have been in the building taking her of her.

CFL has now been removed from my apartment by the landlords, and for the next week and a half of my absense my lovely friends will be stopping by to look after my poor neglected kitty so that hopefully she doesn't hate me when I get back.

I am somewhat terrified as to what, exactly, I am going to return to.  Are my landlords going to kick me out for this?  Has my apartment been completely trashed?  Are things missing, broken, or stolen?  Is my cat malnourished and miserable?  These are all of the thoughts cycling in the back of my head as I am off on this great adventure.  I am sitting here in one of the most beautiful places I have ever seen, but part of my brain is back in New York, wondering what sort of shit storm awaits me when I get back, and wondering why it is that whenever something in my life is going so wonderfully, something else has to go straight down the shitter alongside it?

Etc.

Good Morning Campers!

I may have been sucking at life on my own blog lately, but today I'm published over at Indie Bloggers so at least I'm not a total waste of space...

I am starting to get stressed about my upcoming travels. I mean, come on... this is me we're talking about. A stress-fit is pretty much inevitable.

There's still just so much to do... I went to the travel doc yesterday and got my malaria pills and travel diarrhea meds (fun!), and I was amazed that she agreed to my request to give me Ambien to help with the jet lag! OTC sleep-aids actually keep me awake, and the melatonin I used in Africa may or may not have been useful, so I thought I'd try the prescription route and see if it was any more effective.

She gave me a full prescription too, so that Ambien may also be helping with the pre-travel stress that's keeping me up at night... we shall see.

Also I haven't found a subletter yet. I've been trying to find one through friends, rather than go the Craigslist route, because it feels safer, but it does not appear to be panning out. Also I have yet to a.) tell my landlords that I am leaving for 2 months, or b.) talk about re-signing my lease before I go. Not that I think they'll pose a fuss, I just... I don't know. I have absolutely NO idea why I keep putting it off.

I'll do it tomorrow.

(How's that for not procrastinating?)

I also still have a LOT of reading to do, and I haven't finished my review board application to cut through the 8billion miles of red tape surrounding my research project next semester.

I am extensively glad that I am unemployed. If I had to deal with a job on top of all of this, I think my head might explode.

In the mean time I need to just calm down and remind myself that everything is going to work out just fine.

This is me. It always does.

Knock Wood.

When Worlds Collide

The blog world and the real world, that is.

The idea for this post occured to me this morning as I did my best to rise above the fact that my shower downright refused to maintain a consistent water temperature for more than 60 seconds. In the end, however, I decided that, Nah... it's been done... so I wouldn't bother.

Five minutes ago, I changed my mind.

But first, let's back up to where my alternately scalded and frozen head was this morning.

Last night I was having dinner with some friends. These friends happen to be my only "real world" friends who are aware that I have this blog. One of them, in fact, has been reading daily (hi W!). When I'm with them I can say something like "oh, that's on my blog" or "dude, you've got to check out this other blog I read..." Anything I post on here they're likely to hear from me anyway, and I know they'll keep my little secret so everything's kosher.

Except somehow I always sort of feel like a dork when the words "my blog" come out of my mouth in front of non-bloggers. It's like this little community we've created, with so many of us invested in our anonymity, is its own little universe, ne'er to be discussed in the open.

For example, I didn't tell them that I kept thinking about Deutlich all evening because my friend made German food and it was sooooooo good that now I'm fantasizing about going to Germany just for the cuisine. Granted, they know that now, because they're reading this, but at the time I kept mum.

The first rule of blogging is... you don't talk about blogging.

Or something like that.

So what was it that drove me to post this? Like any efficient Executive Assistant I have fuck-all to do at my job (in case you hadn't already figured that out on your own), and so I was poking around the forums on 20Something Bloggers, looking for entertainment. I stumbled across the goldmine that is the "Best of 2007" thread and started clicking away.

And I clicked on a blog.

And read for a few seconds.

And thought "Wait a minute... I think I know this guy..."

I began scanning the links and subject headings with steadily increasing speed as pieces of the puzzle slowly clicked into place.

Remember how I said I was thinking of going to Florida to visit an old friend I called FuturePhD?

Turns out he has a blog. Many of you, my regular readers, are on his blogroll.

And suddenly I became paralyzed... Do I come clean? Admit my identity? Widen the slowly growing circle of people who actually know who I am in the Real World?

The jury is still out.

And if it was so very easy for me to recognize him in a matter of seconds, would it be the same for anyone who stumbled across my blog? Are there secretly hordes of people out there reading this who know who I am? Is that why they lurk but never comment? Is my carefully guarded anonymity actually completely transparent? After all, it only took DS a matter of days to figure me out, and at the time we barely knew one another...

This path of thinking could easily lead to a full-fledged panic attack, and so I choose to abandon it for the time being.

Denial... it's not just a river in... you know.

So I've formulated a plan. If you happen to be reading this, FuturePhD, stand forth. A simple anecdote involving a golf cart will serve for purposes of identification. Do that, and I'll switch your moniker and add you to my blogroll.

Until then I'll stay over here in the shadows, clutching my anonymity with white-knuckled dread.

Who knows? Perhaps you're clutching yours as well...

Vacation? Well, that's debatable...

Just a quick-ish one today to let you all know that, no, I have not been in a Turkey Coma for the past 4 days. But my life? SO not my own right now. So here's the holiday recap:

The Friday after Turkey Day was lovely. I had breakfast with my Girls, where there was much exchanging of gossip and exclaiming over babies and toddlers and bellies. The BFF is ready to pop with baby #2 any day now, and her daughter is getting SOOOO big. And feisty! I really wish I could see them more than a few times a year. However, when I'm back for Christmas the new baby should be here (and his name? perfect!), so I'll get to see him while he's still itty-bitty.

Also on Friday was the much-anticipated visit to the llama farm! Now, I know that most of you here in blogland squee over friends and engagements and cute little babies, but me? I squee over llamas. It's a little weird, yes, but photos of our wooly friends are forthcoming. And I got an eskimo kiss from a llama! That really may have been the single cutest experience of my life. I also got some handspun yarn, so I can knit myself a llama scarf.

Saturday we drove up to Bumblefuck for my cousin's wedding. I worked on school work the whole way there and back, and still wasn't finished with my stupid journal! However the wedding was nice, the bride is adorable, and there was plenty of food and booze at the reception. It was good to finally see that side of the family again, even if everyone was flustered with wedding business. One of my cousins now has five children. FIVE! They are all adorable though, and the newest--a four month old boy--is beyond all doubt the cutest baby I have ever seen, bar none! (Just don't tell any of the Girls that I said so!).

Sunday we drove back to the parents' house, and shortly thereafter it was time to take me to the train station--replete with an extra heavy suitcase full of stuff I was lugging back to NYC. Ran into an old friend from high school (who also lives in Brooklyn these days) while waiting for the train, so he and I ended up sitting together and catching up on the way back to the city--which totally foiled my plans to get work done on the way, but I think my brain needed a break anyway.

I got back to my apartment a little after 9:30 and much to my amazement my cat did not seem at all upset with me for leaving her for 4 days, nor had she expressed any liquid displeasure on any of the furniture! It's a miracle! And so I unpacked and immediately sat down to do more work, and finally finished my journal around midnight and went to bed.

And got up this morning and came to work.

I think I need a vacation from my vacation.

Or just my life.

Journal #1 is done, but I still have an obscene amount of work to accomplish in the next 2 weeks, hence the whole my-life-is-not-my-own syndrome in which I am currently ensconced. The GINORMOUS research project is due one week from today, and have I conducted a single interview? Oh, that would be... umm... NO. However I do have my first one scheduled for tonight.

My project is on women and body image (and idea that actually stemmed from this post and all of the positive responses it garnered--thanks guys!), and so A has agreed to be my guinea pig, er, first interview subject. While I'm glad that my first interview will be with someone with whom I am totally comfortable (and who can tell me if my questions suck), it also means that I will get NO work done once the interview is over, as I'm sure we'll end up chatting away for the remainder of the evening.

Good for my sanity, bad for my workload.

I need a cookie.

Ack!

Last night as I sat in Most Hated Class half-listening to the inane questions coming from my fellow students regarding our culminating research project ("Are our interview transcripts included in the page-limit?" ...are you shitting me?!), I began idly flipping through the syllabus.

Awesome! Only 2 more classes left! That was certainly something to celebrate.

Then my eyes strayed over to the requirements for the research project... and there it was:

Due Date: 12/03/07

Holy Shit.

That is only... (flips over to Outlook calendar and counts...) a little over 2 weeks away! One week of which is consumed by Thanksgiving and Cousin's Wedding.

Oh... FUCK.

I really thought this project was due during Finals week... NOT the last week of class!

And suddenly I realize that in the next 2 1/2 weeks I need to:

1. Finish (okay, okay, START and Finish) Research Project, including but not limited to: Refine my research question, which is currently very vague; Conduct and transcribe 3 half-hour interviews; Analyze data from said interviews through an ethnographic lens; Generate a reading list; Write the beginning of an ethnodrama based on information gathered; Determine what is still missing (which will be quite a lot); and Write up a plan of how I plan to continue this research in the future.

Phew! Oh, but we're not done yet. There's also...

2. Complete journal for Weekend Class (due Monday after Thanksgiving)

3. Shit, before I can do that I need to re-read the book for Weekend class.

4. Catch-up on and finish journal for another class, for which I have not journaled in, oh, about 5 weeks. At least I've been writing down the prompts.

5. Papier-mache giant head and half-mask for masks class.

6. Paint all masks made to date.

7. Start and Complete final project for Masks class--which will include 2 masks and a small puppet, even though we haven't actually been shown how to make a puppet yet.

8. Hmmm, right. Go to the library and actually check out some of the recommended books on puppet making.

9. Get travel vaccinations for Uganda (happening tomorrow).

10. Go to Ugandan consulate and get travel visa.

11. Get haircut so I don't look like Cousin It at Cousin's Wedding.

12. Find pet-sitter for Thanksgiving Holiday.

13. Travel to PA, attempt to work on psychotically crowded holiday train if I am lucky enough to actually be sitting down, eat turkey, see family, have breakfast with The Girls, go to llama farm with parents, travel to Nowhere PA for Cousin's Wedding (do school work in car), attend wedding, get drunk, go back to motel and attempt to work on WC journal while intoxicated, travel back to parents' house (try to type in car while hungover), get on train, do school work (if I'm still awake), Return to NYC, get back to apartment around 10pm, sniff around the house to see if the cat's peed on anything (oh, damnit... 13a. find a way to piddle-proof the couch cushions), reassure the feline that I still love her before passing out from the sheer exhaustion of my "vacation," get up early the next morning and back to business as usual...

...all while working 30 hours a week, attending classes, and rehearsing for Outreach project, for which we have our first performance 1 week after we return from Thanksgiving Break!

*Thump*

Huh, what? Sorry, I think I blanked out for a minute there...

I am flashing back to a conversation I had a few months ago with another girl in my program, both of us saying "It's really weird, I thought Grad School would be harder... like, I thought I'd have more work to do, and really I don't..."

Do me a favour. If you happen to run into the Me of Two Months Ago, give her a swift kick in the ass.

And tell her to get started on that damned journal.

Remember the bit about getting my shit together?

Well clearly yesterday was not the day.

I slept late and awoke to a text message from M--a notoriously flaky friend from back home. He's recently taken on a job as a courier and was going to be driving into Manhattan. I haven't seen him in well over a year, so I texted back that I had a lot of school work to do, but if he wanted to swing by I could give him an hour or so and we could sit on the stoop and have coffee or whatnot.

In the interim between this agreement and his arrival, I did my yoga DVD for the first time in ages (ouch! I used to think this thing was easy!), took a shower, and got started on the mass of reading I needed to do.

Thanks to the glories of GPS, M made it here all by himself without need for directions from me. A good thing for all involved, as the only time I've taken a car from Manhattan to my current apartment it's been a taxi and I've been drunk (and, frankly, quite amazed to find myself at home the following morning), so my directions would have been vague at best.

The coffee shop was closed so we offered our custom to Dunkin' Donuts instead and wandered back to my stoop, where the promised 1 hour turned into something more like 4, until we were inside again and I looked at the clock and said "Shit! I've got to kick you out of here!" It was 5:30 and I had read all of about 7 pages. Yikes.

So did I buckle down to the school work as soon as he left? Of course not! I went to the grocery store, baked cookies (Snickerdoodles, yum!), and got dinner in the oven. Then I began reading.

I really need to rethink my game plan on this one.

I read until 10pm, and I have at least determined the topic for the paper due a week from today, but I had really hoped to have a draft written by the end of yesterday. Clearly, that did not happen. Granted, it's only a 7 pager, which I can easily bang out in a few hours, but still. I was trying to be responsible and NOT do everything at the last minute.

Also I have about 50 pages of reading to complete for tonight's class, which I will be doing in the 2 1/2 hours between work ending and class beginning. Fun!

I'm just angry at myself for blowing off my priorities. True, it was to see a friend that I haven't seen in ages, but then again, shouldn't some things be sacrificed in the name of my incredibly expensive education?

I'm just worried that I'm going to fuck all this up. It's something I've got a tendency to do.

Sunday Sunday Sunday...

It helps if you can imagine that title in a booming masculine voice with lots of reverb. Anyone who's ever lived in the sticks will get the reference to radio promos, usually involving monster trucks.

Anyhoo, had my first all-day weekend class today, and while getting up at 7:30am on a weekend isn't exactly my cup of tea, I've got a good feeling about this course. The professor is, as promised, thoroughly awesome, and the class seems like a good group of students. We delved into some interesting ideas about education today--the current state of affairs and the changes we'd like to see brought about--and there was definitely lots of interesting, well thought out commentary. Not a lot of people talking just to hear themselves speak. So I'll just have to deal with the early wake up call. Eh, it's only 5 weeks.

Oh, and did I mention that Maybe Crush is also in this class? Oh yes. I'm telling ya, I've got to either step up the game or get over it right quick, as 8 hours in a room with your crush is oh-so-very distracting! I swear, that boy is too damned adorable for his own good. Or mine.

Really though, I'm not sure what more a gal can do! Other than going out of my way to interact with him (often enough to signal interest, yet not so often as to appear creepy) and smiling pointedly whenever I catch his eye, today I picked a piece of fluff out of his hair, and later told him that clearly I was stalking him because we have so many classes together. He didn't appear to object to either. Agh! I so wanted to just leap across the table and make out with him, but somehow I think the other students might have objected. Damn.

So that about sums it up for me today. I need to sit down and process today's class for my journal (which is a decent chunk of our grade), but I am totally distracted. I was hoping that blogging would help, but that doesn't seem to be the case. I also have a million other school-related things that I need to accomplish within the span of this evening and tomorrow's blessed day off. I realized about half an hour ago that I haven't even made a dent in the reading due for Tuesday's class, and I also have to get started on a paper for the same.

I'm thinking that if the weather is nice tomorrow I'll head down to Prospect Park (or, barring that, the small park near my apartment) and try to get some work done. Being out of my house is clutch, as then I can't be distracted by things like cleaning. It is SO easy to justify not doing schoolwork when I'm doing something else that could be deemed productive (AER I know you hear me on this!). And the coffee shop, while convenient and cozy, has the temptation of wi-fi to drive me to distraction.

This current state of indisposition has me worried. In the past when I've fallen into this sort of rut of non-productivity, it has generally taken a rather large kick in the ass (usually in the form of a poor grade or strong reprimand) to serve as the necessary wake-up call and snap me out of it. However, at $1100+ per credit, I really can't afford even a minor catastrophe.

I'm not settling for less than a 4.0 in this program. I just need to find a way to make my drive match my ambitions.

Really, I'm only mildly panicked.

(So much so that I just published this post without actually typing anything in the body. Clearly, I'm on my A game today.)

Today would normally be a relaxing day here in the office. For starters, it is the first day of my school-term hours, 10am-4pm, which I can already tell I'm gonna love. Second, nobody else in the executive corner of the office is in today. There are: 2 vacations, 1 business trip, and 1 personal day, leaving Froggy here all by her lonesome, and finished with the one menial and laborious task she had to complete. Ahhhh, nothing to do but surf the internet and watch the last 25 minutes of the day tick quietly by.

So what, you may ask, is the problem?

The problem is that tonight is my first class as a grad student and I am bugging the hell out.

I shouldn't be, I know this. I'm a good student. Always have been. Hell, I only applied to ONE graduate school--one of 2 in the country that offer my specific program--and I got in! That has to count for something, right?

But that doesn't stop the nagging little voice at the back of my head that looks at my 18 page syllabus and wonders "oh dear lord, what the hell have I gotten myself into?!??"

Also there is the fact that, when it comes to certain things--like my education--I can be a bit, oh, let's say anal. At the beginning of my undergrad I sat down with the coursebook and more or less plotted out the next 4 years of my academic life. Not down to the minute or anything, but I knew which classes I was going to take in what year, and how hard I'd have to work to make up for the smaller number of credits I'd earn on my year abroad. I walked into my first advising appointment with everything figured out, much to the surprise--and apparent relief--of my advisor, who had clearly been dealing with panicked freshman all day.

And that felt good.

Now here I am at a large university--instead of the cozy, tiny-liberal-arts-school atmosphere I know and love--and they don't tell us ANYTHING. I feel like that panicked freshman who doesn't know what to do, because the answers aren't even out there for me to find on my own! There aren't even course descriptions in my department! My classes were chosen based on the title and comments like "oh yeah, that's a good class" from my advisor. I asked about the requirements for my degree (ie- what classes do I need to take?) and her response was "oh don't worry, you're with me, it'll all work out."

While the above might be my philosophy to life in general, it most certainly is NOT my philosophy in terms of the $35k in student loans that I took out to finance this particular year of my life. I want ANSWERS people! I want definites!

I want to go home and take a nap.

Oh, but did I mention that my landlady called at approximately 8:30 this morning to let me know that the plumber was coming today to tear up the floors in my bathroom and get started on the 2-day ordeal that is fixing my crummy drain?

I just hope he remembers his promise to reconnect the toilet so that I don't come home from my first night of class to discover that I must pee in a jar.