yummy

01-26-00

It's nice to start one's day by thanking the greater powers. When I went into work this morning, I found out that my "favorite" dog, Shepa, was brought in for an emergency after I left on Monday. Overnight in the kennel, she had a seizure and died. (Could that have been what woke me at 5 in the morning?)

I'm not exactly thankful that she died, though it will be nice never to have to clean up her shit again. That nasty dog. What I'm thankful for is that I had yesterday off, so I didn't have to clean her up. You know what happens to dogs when they die, right? Those good old bladder muscles relax, along with everything else. Shepa is a huge German Shepherd who shit all over the place when she was alive, but at least when she was living she could move herself out of the mess so someone could clean it up. I am so glad I wasn't there yesterday. Words cannot express my gladness.

I've been watching the Australian open in the afternoons, squeezed into the couch cushions with my big denim crazy quilt and a few giant pillows. Fleck loves to sleep under the covers, so he usually squirms his way under the blanket and snoozes for the afternoon. So really, I haven't been accomplishing much lately. I'm just devoid of energy.

Fleck sleeps with us at night, too. He pounces on our feet until I think I can't stand it anymore, and all of a sudden he's up by my head and I have a chance to smack him a good one. Then I feel him prodding around by my shoulder. He wiggles his nose under the blanket, flattens himself into a cat patty, and creeps in. He slithers down to a point, usually around our feet somewhere, curls up, and goes to sleep.

Only once or twice has one of us accidentally kicked the shit out of him. Just the other day John awoke from some rodent-ridden dream or something, didn't recognize the furry, warm thing by his feet, and frantically kicked poor Fleck all the way out of the bed.

Okay, I'm back for more. I've had about half a Bell's Double Cream Stout and I'm ready to talk.

The reason the beginning of this entry is so shallow is because I was in a pissy mood tonight. I was in a pissy mood for about half the day. I've been pissy a lot lately. I'm not keeping anything from you, my faithful readers, by not writing when I'm pissy. I'm just not in the mood to type. Typing my problems out in this entertainment forum seems to trivialize them. This is not a trivial problem.

I need a real job. I've always hated people who say that, ever since a bagger at one of my grocery stores asked a lifetime grocery employee if she ever wished she had a real job. I prefer to say "a job in my field." A job in the field in which I possess a Master's degree.

Well, today I was told how much my master's is worth. Precisely, it's worth Shit. Shit is what I got myself $15,000 in debt for. The only thing a master's is good for is that after you get it you can go get a fucking doctorate.

I knew that when I got it. But today a hypocritical, non-hungry music department chair at a middle Georgia institution of higher learning actually told me that I'm worthless.

I called to inquire about available positions. I sell myself as a low brass instructor who can also teach music theory, if needed. He politely told me that they're not looking for anyone in those areas. I politely asked if they offer a master's in theory, since I might be considering adding one of those to my resume.

He asked me if I have a degree.

Then he gave me a lecture that I didn't need on how small colleges like "this one" never hire anyone who doesn't sport a doctorate, or at least some doctorate studies. He acted like I had no idea that jobs were hard to come by. One thing you don't need to tell a professional euphoniumist is: "Oh, yeah. Jobs don't just pop up all over the place LIKE FUCKING DANDELIONS!"

Okay, it should be obvious, but those are my words, not his.

I had to force the emotion out of my voice before I spoke, telling him I was new in the area and I had very few connections, I was just looking to find out what might be available, and I would happily consider part-time or adjunct positions. I wanted to tell him that I KNOW the tuba professor at his school, and I KNOW that professor has only a fucking Bachelor's degree. But I didn't.

The whole thing set me off on my tear that's become so frequent lately. I need a job. A real job. I need to stop answering phones and scanning groceries and hosing dog shit. I am going insane.

I scare myself. Some days, most days, I don't even want to try to find a job. All I want to do is watch tennis on TV and play with the internet and write my little journal entries and do ab exercises, and anything but music. When I practice, I feel like it's not doing me any good if I can't get a gig, anyway. But if I don't practice, I go insane. I'm going insane.

I like to make ultimatums to myself. I also seem to break promises that I make to myself. Does that say something about my self-worth? I don't keep promises because of self esteem? Whatever, bullshit. What it comes down to is this: if I don't get a job--or at least a direction--within a year, I'm leaving.

I'll go back to school. Probably in Michigan. Not a little bit of this temper tantrum is caused because I found out that a euphonium gig at a prominent Georgia university was simply handed to a kid who's younger than me, sheerly on the basis of his having known the professor there. In Michigan I had connections that took me 20 years to build. Those people can't do shit for me down here. But if I were still up north, I'd be in line for about six college teaching jobs. I'd have 40-50 private students and I'd have college professors lining up to get me doing master classes and recitals.

Part of this is my fault; I should be taking advantage of the southern connections I do have and I should be pimping myself as a private teacher. But part of it isn't my fault. I hate Georgia.