Work Work Work

I like to earn money, but the trouble is there always seems to be some work attached to it. You know, like the kind of work where you have to get up early, get ready and actually go someplace.
I prefer to get my writing assignments by e-mail, do them, return the finished job by e-mail and invoice by e-mail. I call them "pajama jobs."
Last week and this week I have been pressed into service by my alma mater.
It seems a journalism professor they have on staff is in East Texas dealing with her seriously ill daddy, so I am filling in as a rent-a-faculty.
I am helping journalism students publish their weekly newspaper, and by that I mean reading and editing their florid copy and weeding out the debris. Lots of debris.
With my car still in the shop, I am at the mercy of my friend Irene, a faculty member in the journalism department. She'll be picking me up and dragging me to school this morning at far too early an hour.
And I cannot slither out the door at 3:30 today, since I have no car and no skills with public transportation. So I'll be stuck all day in a room full of college students who worship at the altar of "to be" verbs.
Fortunately, some of them are nubile young coeds who call me Ms Zipdrive (not my actual last name, but you get the idea). That helps pass the time.
Paul my mechanic tells me my car will be ready by noon at the latest. I cannot believe it's taken him four days to accomplish everything, but I think he kept it this long just to justify the $1,500 repair order. In my next life I am going to be a mechanic. They seem to earn about the same as dentists or lawyers.
This week is almost shot and all I really wanted to do all week was daydream about my girlfriend. Late night and early morning telephone calls have put a sleep deprived, surreal quality on things, which kind of dulls the shock of having to be out somewhere working.
There's nothing like new romance to perk up the drudgery of having to earn a living.