Ramblings on July 24, 2014

It must be so easy for some to write 750 words. I sit here with my Savignon Blanc, full on pasta and love from kittens, with the boyfriend napping and snoring in the background, and I have absolutely no idea what to write. I could write about how Trader Joe's two buck chuck has always been so good to me. I could write about how Cameron has always been so good to me. I could write about how cute our cat Esmeralda is. And how well she is dealing with the kittens we have acquired. I never thought I'd say this, but I think I am a little bit in love. With Cameron, of course, but also with four bundles of fur that have endless joy to give. I always thought I was a cat person. I will admit that. I knew I was a cat person in Mrs. Weeks' journalism class junior year of high school. Mrs. Weeks would show up in her classroom, and we juniors and seniors would flood in third period anxious to publish a newspaper and while we'd accomplish that once a month, we also sat and looked at pictures of her cats. Persian, siamese, tabby, but oh so cute and I wanted them. Mrs. Weeks was the epotime of what I wanted to be in life. I think. Never ambitious, but she had it all. A husband that loved her, a house in a cute neighborhood, a job she could be proud of and that was super fulfilling, and three loving cats. I see what she meant now. As I take care of the four plus Esme as Cameron is at work, I see just how much they need me. It's almost as if this is what I was meant to do. Except its not. I love the cats, and I love Cameron, and I love cooking and cleaning for him and the cats, but I know I was meant to do something more. I have an interview with and SLP in Marietta next Tuesday. If all goes well I should have at least a steady observation and shadowing gig out of the deal. At the very most I am going to ask if there is a position open for an assistant. Paid position. Someone that has a passion for research in the field and learning new techniques. Someone that wants more than where she is now. Someone that wants a career and not just a job. Someone that want nothing more than to interview with an ESL position holder and get the job. Mallory at Victory Church just isn't cutting it for me. Who doesn't respond to their emails? Even if she chose someone else, I would want her to tell me so. So what if she is an open book on the internet. She's battling cancer with a one year old. Maybe I dove too much into her personal life. It shouldn't matter. That's what you get when you put it all online. She's an open book! She owns her own domain name for crying outloud! Melanoma. It's not even a serious cancer. It's what you get when you tan too long. You can remove it in a half hour visit to a dermatologist? Right? But who am I to judge? So she doesn't have the life she wants. She's married and has a kid. That's pretty close to perfect, and what more can she ask for? A heavenly blessing to remove her sun scars? I hope she's happy. Because, no, I won't pay for a CELTA certificate right now. Not on my current budget. And yes, I do want to learn more of the trade of ESL teaching. No, I don't have experience with illiterate citizens, but the only way you get experience is by working, and that I am willing to do. I am nothing if I am not a hard worker. My first trait there. Everyone should know that. I at least diserve a response to my thank you and email follow up. That I feel is owed to me. But who am I if not a whiny, entitled millenial employee looking for a way to MAKE A LIVING AT SOMETHING SHE LOVES DOING. Is it that hard to do? Do I have to wait until I pass the READING SPECIALIST GACE with FLYING COLORS so that I can earn a spot in the SUBSTITUTE TEACHERS POOL of FULTON COUNTY? Yes, if you can't tell, just like the year I graduated, I am a little frustrated. I am a little more wise, a little more experienced, but I little more frustrated. And GEORGIA STATE HAS TO LET ME INTO THEIR SPEECH LANGUAGE PATHOLOGY program. No, I don't want to be a speical education teacher. I want ot be a SPEECH LANGUAGE PATHOLOGIST. AND THAT Is that.