That thing I do for money has been wresting control of that thing I call my life lately, so less write-y and more anxiet-y.
But ladies and gents, there is a light at the end of le tunnel! It's called "I'm going to leave the country on May 24."
Of course, then, I couldn't find my passport -- but, the US managed to turn one around for me in a mere week. Now, on to getting that vital other document -- my Russian Visa.
Going to Russia (assuming they issue my Visa, dear Gods of the consulate, please say yes).
In the meantime, shaking off the existential angst of those eternal questions of life: How will I live after I've loved and lost? What if no one comes to my party? What if I can't get my hair cut before I leave the country?
When will I ever write that dang story?
Speaking of that dang story -- I will address a little of the storied past of my career.
So, I stumbled into PR from a short-lived and low-paid gig in public radio (glamour, a bit, money, fame, big city life, not so much).
I answered an advertisement (in the paper, of all things. Remember that? Made of paper?) and it said something about stuffing envelopes (which really doesn't happen that much anymore, now that the digital has edged paper out of the picture).
I went in, and I interviewed first with my perky, blond, young colleague-to-be, who, while literally looking around herself from her perch in the conference room (lest someone overhear) leaned over to deliver a conspiratorial whisper about Judi, the boss: "She's kind of a yeller."
Not like old yeller, peeps -- like full on bellows, high pitched screams, ranging from strident insistence to hysterical anger. Mostly about irrational details.
Certainly don't need to go into said irrational details - but let me provide you two illustrative ones:
She hired me based upon the results of a writing test. Not the kind wherein you write something and your writing is judged.
A handwriting test.
Granted, I do have a lovely hand -- but the computer she paid to analyze my handwriting said I would be hard working, meek, and easily manipulated. No joke. She actually pointed that out to me at one point during my six-month tenure, saying that she was disappointed that I did not turn out as this handwriting test had indicated I would.
I would like to suggest that perhaps the fine art of graphology, based upon this experience, is the highest grade of straight-up, pure bullshit. Cuz, me = easily manipulated? Perhaps. Meek? Never.
When I finally resigned after six tortured months, after six (6) colleagues were hired and quit (several after a single day, two after a single week), she announced to me that she wanted to kill herself. I have to say, as a twenty-nothing with zero experience, I was good, but not THAT good.
At this moment, you may be screaming to me: POINT! DOES THIS STORY HAVE A POINT!
I guess the moral of the story is -- It. could. be. worse.