Yes, yes, no new updates. Before this would have been caused by existential crises. Now it is caused by an utter lack of interesting developments. All entries would read:
“Today I went to work. And then I came home.”
It would be really dull.
The thing is, work is not dull. But as I have learned from the many before me, it is unwise to blog about work unless your boss knows and sanctions such a thing and you haven’t, like myself, signed numerous confidentiality agreements that prohibit you from telling the really interesting bits. Bits that involve state troopers. Bits that would summarize my day in saying “And then I started screaming and didn’t stop.”
This “wanting to scream” thing is particularly true today. And I didn’t have the time or energy to roller-brush my hair dry, so it is wild and big, not unlike the mane of a lioness. And I’m dressed all in black. So I’m tramping around campus, an ever-enlarging onyx she-creature stifiling the primal noises that are but an inch from surfacing.
Behold, I am Mid-level College Administrator. Fear me.
In other news, Josh Groban has a new CD out. And I did not buy it. Hear me out on this. First, this “new” CD has songs on it that were all previously released some place else. And they sound better on the other CDs. I’ve heard the man live and I know he can sound amazing in person; I don’t think he needs to have production cover up flaws in his voice. However, live recordings rarely do their artists any favors--why do I need new music with screaming in the background? And the new CD comes with a DVD of a concert set I saw in person (third row!). Why should I spend money on that? The Internet pre-order edition has different cover art and, like, two extra songs I also already own.
Despite all of this, last night I was on Itunes and I listened to the ever-so-slightly different version of “Weeping” and I almost relented and bought the album. Because Groban does that to me. Because his curls coil, Medusa like, around my heart and bind me inextricably to the Warner Brothers marketing machine. “I will change the world with you, Josh Groban!” I cry. And George Bush did just send me that economic stimulus check . . .
But no, for once, I was strong. I urge you to resist this CD and DVD set too, unless you actually watch concert DVDs more than once and you will never see him in person.
But maybe I’ll listen to the other 6 recordings I have of him. It will at least muffle the screams.
The Horoscope for Cancer, April 25, 2008:
“If you feel like you’ve been a bit overwhelmed or stressed out lately, just try to bring a positive attitude to everything you do today. If you can just manage to do this, you’ll see how much it ends up affecting not only you but everyone else around you right now. The right approach could really help you impress others and could contribute a great deal to your long-term success.
Just be aware that a variety of professional concerns could really end up requiring an awful lot of your time and attention today. But don’t let yourself worry about it too much because the payoff for your efforts should eventually prove to be more than worth your while.”
Well, thank you oracle. I imagine you are speaking of when today I was telling a friend that I was expecting a call from the outside vendor who was to provide summer storage for our students. And the friend almost choked on his panini and shouted, “OH JEEZ, NOT *insert the full name of the man from whom I was, in fact, expecting a call.*
“Uh, yes? How did you know?” Perhaps he, like you, oracle, could see my future.
“Do you remember that debacle a few years ago when *insert name of many Boston area schools* stored stuff for the summer, only to have it lost or mishandled and then eventually had to send their own movers to actually go find the stuff at some warehouse someplace?
“Yes?”
“That’s this guy’s company! He changes the name of it every year because schools won’t do business with him! He’s crazy! He’s terrible! He’s . . .”
“He’s the only option I have with two weeks until move out.”
*Silence.*
But now, oracle, I won’t let myself worry too much about this, because I know the payoff for my efforts will eventually prove to be more than worth my while. Thank goodness for divination. I had almost started to lose it there. But the stars spelled out, in large, friendly letters, “Don’t Panic.”
And obviously, this indicates an accurate guide.
"One day, you’re going to be the mom calling the school.”
“Ohhhhhh no. My kid is going to ‘roommate relationship camp’ all throughout her youth, and taking Saturday classes on mediation and negotiation.”
“Yeah, but what if she has a crazy roommate?”
“Whatever. Unless there are bodies in the closet, I’m not calling the school. Even then I’ll have to make sure they were ritually sacraficed. Then, THEN, I’ll consider it.”
“I can’t believe you just said that.”
“That’s because you are in Student Activities.”
“Wow.”
There used to be a time when I could clean the house, do the laundry, and run errands during my lunch hour, complete 15 tasks at work, and then come home and yell at Peter, “Why aren’t we living? Seize the day! Let’s walk to Coolidge Corner!”
Gone are these days. Today I managed to waddle down the street, convinced Peter to buy me a ridiculously overpriced Fenway Park hot dog, and then was so tired when we to the grocery store that I almost threw myself on the ground and wept when Peter didn’t think we should by the 25 dollar a gallon ice cream.
“But it’s the kind I WANT,” I wailed.
The third trimester is starting with a bang, friends.
It has not been helped by this whole “holding down a full time job” thing. Or, I should say, it is not helped in holding down a job where so much hate is directed towards me. I am hated for hiring practices. I am hated for housing lottery. I am hated for the weather in Fiji and, I’m pretty sure, sunspots disrupting television coverage of a cricket match in some far flung fjord in the East.
The hate, it is tiring. And I’m trying to make all parties happy, but apparently that this just can’t be. So much so, in fact, that I received the following email the other day.
“Dear Adrienne, I am a resident on your floor and I need a room change now. My room is hot, dark, and barely leaves any room for me to stretch my legs. I am forced to share it with a nervous, loud woman who constantly wakes me up for her own amusement. I can’t get a decent stretch of sleep and I think she is stealing my food. Please do something immediately.”
I didn’t recognize the email address, so I wrote back, “I’m very sorry that you are having such trouble. Would you consider a mediation? In what room do you live?”
The reply came. “There is no reasoning with my roommate. I depend on her to let me be and then she drinks soda and everything gets even crazier. I live on the first floor in 113.”
“That’s impossible,” I immediately wrote back. “I live in 113.”
Then I received a swift kick to the ribs and a jarring head-butt to the bladder.
“Oh.” I thought. “My bad.”
So I sat down with my unborn child and we made a deal. She can have a room change to much bigger accommodations as soon as she can breathe, unassisted, on her own. I agreed to stop pumping her full of sugar and poking her until she moves, and she agreed that she would continue to do whatever the heck she felt like. I’m not sure it’s the best arrangement, but like I always say, it’s about what works.
I’m pretty impressed at my school’s wireless connectivity though. And I guess I deserve this for eating that laptop too.
In the future, I don’t think I’m going to look for employment as Head of the Department Where You are Most Hated. I hope to upgrade to Middle Management Employee in the Department that is Usually Ignored.
It will be better for all involved.
