(no subject)
Today at work I received a call from Dr. Karel K------, a very thick-accented man from Detroit. After 30 seconds and a few preliminary questions, it became apparent that I had to give him and his Czech friend Magdalena some upsetting news. Their manuscript, on causes of drowning in the Czech Republic, had not only been rejected - it had been rejected 3 months ago, and despite numerous emails no one that thar side of the Nevada state line has gotten the message. I weighed the options mentally for a while, and then asked him to hold while I transferred the call to our managing editor, thankyouverymuch.
This ditching-of-the-dirty-work is not really representative of what I do, sorry to say. Usually I do handle it; and by "it," I mean all manner of ridiculously simple online shenanigans that PhDs somehow cannot navigate. We get requests all day, every day, from respected and reputable doctors throughout the world, frantically telling me that OHMYGODICANNOTCLICKTHISBUTTONTHATREALLYNEEDSTOBECLICKED, DEARGODWHATWILLIDO, OHYOUMEANITISALREADYTAKENCAREOF?. I field such panic attacks, as well as my other varied responsibilities that recently have included correspondence with ABC and NBC news (!).
Every morning I walk to work, 1.5 miles, past stucco-pink apartment complexes and palm trees. I blast all manner of things through my iPod headphones, periodically going over my Spanish flashcards when I'm not afraid of being hit by a bus. So far I have learned only preliminary words - la cama, el clima, una maleta - but I have three CDs full of typical phrases and High Hopes, more importantly. I have "cooked," or more appropriately bummed rides to various eateries; I have found the ever-so-godly-yet-deadly mix of Jones Berry Lemonade and vodka. I use illegal wireless internet without paying a penny; I got $5 free Tuesday night by virtue of walking to the Social Sciences building. At Price Center recently, I held the door open for a professor and he told me I could be a princess (in a more complimentary, less creepy/ironic way). I have spent hours tanning by the pool, Anais Nin in hand, planning barbecues and missing people. My sheets smell like sunscreen.
Oh, summer in La Jolla.
This ditching-of-the-dirty-work is not really representative of what I do, sorry to say. Usually I do handle it; and by "it," I mean all manner of ridiculously simple online shenanigans that PhDs somehow cannot navigate. We get requests all day, every day, from respected and reputable doctors throughout the world, frantically telling me that OHMYGODICANNOTCLICKTHISBUTTONTHATREALLYNEEDSTOBECLICKED, DEARGODWHATWILLIDO, OHYOUMEANITISALREADYTAKENCAREOF?. I field such panic attacks, as well as my other varied responsibilities that recently have included correspondence with ABC and NBC news (!).
Every morning I walk to work, 1.5 miles, past stucco-pink apartment complexes and palm trees. I blast all manner of things through my iPod headphones, periodically going over my Spanish flashcards when I'm not afraid of being hit by a bus. So far I have learned only preliminary words - la cama, el clima, una maleta - but I have three CDs full of typical phrases and High Hopes, more importantly. I have "cooked," or more appropriately bummed rides to various eateries; I have found the ever-so-godly-yet-deadly mix of Jones Berry Lemonade and vodka. I use illegal wireless internet without paying a penny; I got $5 free Tuesday night by virtue of walking to the Social Sciences building. At Price Center recently, I held the door open for a professor and he told me I could be a princess (in a more complimentary, less creepy/ironic way). I have spent hours tanning by the pool, Anais Nin in hand, planning barbecues and missing people. My sheets smell like sunscreen.
Oh, summer in La Jolla.