Tuesday, April 5th, 2011

Radio Silence

Tuesday, April 5th, 2011 09:16 pm
radiumgirl: (remember who you are)
Guess who got a shiny new rejection letter in the mail? That's right. This kid. 

I generally try to be a good sport about these things. I make coasters out of the rejections from The Gettysburg Review because they're printed on such nice paper, with such nice calligraphy; they're such a nice way to say "no."

This one wasn't from The Gettysburg Review. I had a good feeling about this one. I thought this one might be it. 

I mean, not  it it, but a good step onward and upward. Yes? Yes. 

So. I spent the past day-and-a-half moping throwing a non-alcoholic pity party and I dove into work this afternoon because if I can't be the best damn writer ever, I can be the best damn temp ever. Or something. I even considered buying my co-workers donuts as a show of affection, then rejected the idea because the other admins will probably think I'm sucking up. They already think my professed love of stiletto heels is a bid for undue attention. Sometimes I feel like Dexter when I'm at work: it's all an elaborate act. 

Except for when it isn't. 

I also hung pictures in my new cubicle which, despite the suck-ass location and suck-ass commute, is actually Very Nice. 

This is my dad and I on Myrtle Beach in July, 1987. I'm five months old. 

I cannot fathom being this baby. I cannot fathom it to the point that this morning, while having a post-conference-call meltdown, I convinced myself that there is no possible way I could have ever been this baby. It was bizzare. I was sitting there wondering what happened to that baby when Dolores leaned over my side of the desk and ran her finger over the picture tacked up next to a snapshot of Owen and I, "Wow, you haven't changed a bit."


She tapped the picture, "You're one of those people who looks the same as a baby as they do as an adult. It's your eyes. You look like your dad, too."

"Everyone says I look like my mom."

"Well, you don't have any pictures of your mom hanging up so I can't judge. But I think you look like your dad."

It was a weird day. I might have to take the picture of my dad down. I keep getting into staring contests with myself, a delightfully monotone voiceover in my head going, "This is your life. This is your life. This is your life."

But hey, I didn't crawl into a bottle of Fish Eye Chardonnay on the way home from work, so I count it as a win. Gold star for me. I did my brother's financial aid paperwork for next year and wrote a For Keeps installment to make myself feel better, which I'm in the process of editing. I also picked two journals to submit original stuff to at the end of the month because I'm a total masochist. 

June 2011

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