Grimace.

So, Teresa comes by my (and by "my," I mean Deb's vacant-only-on-Fridays when I move my itinerant ass in) office, and says, "Oh, you're in here today."

"Yes." I reply. I grimace.

"You should really go talk to Roberta." She says, solemnly, one hairy arm partially concealed by her other hand. "Has Deb or Keta mentioned any of this to you? I told them to. She's--I mean Roberta--is looking for an assistant, part time, you know."

"Oh," I reply, still grimacing. "I think Keta mentioned something about it."

"You should really talk to her."

"Um, OK," I say, clearly trying to give her the brush-off so that I can get back to what I was doing before she interrupted me.

She is undaunted, still standing in my (and by "my," I mean Deb's) office door, not ready to get back to whatever she was doing.

I slide my eyes longingly back to the computer screen and Wikipedia's entry on the Artist Formerly Known as the Artist Formerly Known as Prince. I mentally sigh. Work is so trying sometimes.

"Well," I smile, "the thing is, Teresa, I'm trying to join the wardrobe union right now, you know, with my career and so, I just don't know what my schedule's going to look like in the near future. I wouldn't want to make a commitment that I couldn't keep."

She blinks at me. "You know, I think she'd be willing to be fairly flexible with scheduling for the right person," she intoned. "And you seem to be the right person around here."

I grimace again, privately worrying that my face will freeze this way from all of the grimacing and biting my tongue over the last few months.

She continues, "I can show you where to go to talk to her." She still sounds cautiously optimistic.

My ass is firmly planting in my (and by "my," I mean Deb's) chair.

"Uh...," I falter. "Lemme just think about it and get back to you. I don't want to be rash, you know?"

I summon up mental images of my father being bossy and give her a curt--but warm--dismissive smile.

She finally leaves.

* * * * *

Why does no one seem to understand that I do not ever EVER want to work at this place, and certainly not on a more permanent basis. I hate it now. There's a reason I never show up on time, and you know why? Because I loathe coming all the way down here to use my degree to my best advantage, punching holes and stapling or copying and pasting in Windows. I have a real, honest-to-gawd CAREER, people. It's a livelihood. It's a skill and a talent and for better or worse it's what I do. Sure, I've hit a couple of rough patches here and there, but overall, I've had a moderate amount of sucess at it. And I'm damned proud of that. Stop trying to save me from the arts already. Sheesh. I feel like I've just had to fight off a Charismatic Christian proselytizing, trying to get me to be born again (which, by the way, I have been born once and that's quite enough for me thankyouverymuch).
And this is how my days really are at Chateau UIC. Gah.
That is all.