march 10, 2000.

All work and no play make Jack a dull boy.

All work and no play make Jack a dull boy.

All work and no play make Jack a dull boy.

All work and no play make Jack a dull boy.

All work and no play make Jack a dull boy.

All work and no play make Jack a dull boy.

All work and no play make Jack a dull boy.

All work and no play make Jack a dull boy.

All work and no play make Jack a dull boy.

All work and no play make Jack a dull boy.

Etcetera.

Blah. Stacy's having a get-together tonight and I can't go because I have to work on my essay(s). Stupid T.A.'s returning to work in time to make a final essay feasible. What happened to an inflated notion of self-worth? Why didn't they hold out for paid tropical vacations on top of signing bonuses & a modest allocation for dental work? ArrrRRGhh.

Today wasn't the greatest of days all told. Yesterday evening I was lounging around, doing the reading thing, when the agency called. They had a 6-month position available, starting today. This is, of course, subject to negotiation when I find out which school I'll be attending next year and when they want me to report. And the wedding doesn't seem to be a problem. In fact, the only real negative issues surrounded my volunteer & camp work. I won't be able to go into the schools during the week any more and I won't be able to be a camp counselor this summer. I may bitch & moan about the kids and the occasionally mean things they do, but it is substantially more enjoyable to spend time with 12 year olds than it is to watch the clock in a florescent-lit basement.

I had a hard time making my dad understand my regrets. "But it's steady money!" "But I enjoyed being with the kids." "But it's steady money!" "But I was really looking forward to camp this year." "But it's steady money!" etc. It's funny. My parents seem to have this persistent idea that if they show the slightest bit of understanding in these matters, I'll decide that I want to live off them for the rest of my life. Or something - I really haven't figured out what their picture of ultimate doom might be. My mom's a bit more understanding than my dad. At least she understands that it hurts to give up the things close to my heart. Then again, she's a former union member. My dad's management and he doesn't sympathize much with those who aren't properly grateful for every cent they earn.

It was in this spirit that I visited the Grade 6 class during my lunch. I figured that I owed everyone closure, including myself. Some of the twitchier boys should be happy to know for sure that I will no longer be sitting at the back of the class with a full view of whatever they want to hide under their desks. But mostly I went back for the little girls. They seemed so concerned with my absence when I was gone throughout January. I thought it might be nice to tell them up-front that I probably wasn't coming back.

Understand, I tried very hard to have no expectations about this little leave-taking. I remember all too clearly the way I parted company from my first cabin: they didn't even say goodbye as they shot through the door, and I'd gotten along with all of them. That's why it just about killed me when a dozen girls moaned disapproval at my news...then crowded in to hug me goodbye. One asked if I would come in on my lunches every day. Even Mike, my little nose cracker, asked me about the location of my job. Gah.

I have to admit, it almost made me cry. I didn't want to embarrass anyone, so I held back. But man...I mildly regret committing to this job. Money versus simple geometry? Steady work versus science projects about space? Working with spreadsheets versus chasing kids off the stage during gym? What was I thinking.

"Come on guys, give her a hug."
- anna, the one with the badtz-moru pencil

As for the job itself, it doesn't seem to be too bad. I'm replacing a girl who's moving to another department in a week. She was sick today, so I did some odd jobs for the people in the department in between taking notes on 19th century Canadian divorce law and figuring out my earnings per calendar month. The position seems to entitle me to a cubicle of my own, not to mention a security pass. I've never had either...perhaps I should query Nigel on matters of etiquette, as he seems to shuttle from one Scottish cubicle to the next, security badge clipped to his chinos as he looks for train passengers to satirize. Although I can't help thinking that Scottish cubicles must be more exciting than Canadian ones. But maybe that's just my colonial pride once again.

Besides, there's no use in roving that far afield: most of my real life friends are office apes. Then again, they're all insane. In between shooting his boss with a Nerf gun, Dav pretends that he's piloting a submarine from his desk. Stacy insists that she can't get through the week without hearing a phrase on the order of "strap-on shemale." Q is alternately treated like pirate booty to be divided and a precious commodity to be spoiled (I wish someone would give me a laptop for being discontent). Then there's Morgan's customers, who tell her how "sexy" her voice is...and she does cell & beeper tech support over the phone, for heaven's sake!