Moojinorbit

I’ve a basket of thoughts about bartending I’d like to share. It’s Sunday morning, I just finished up consecutive Friday and Saturday night shifts, and every cell in my body is still ringing. So, while I wait for an angel food cake to (hopefully) rise, I’m going to try to get ‘em down. In no particular order…

I’m starting to think of bartending as my second career, not just my second job, but more on that in a minute. The first question is, why do I have a second job anyway? I’m smart, educated, blessed to be in a career that I wanted and chose, not at any risk (yet) of losing my position as a professor. I do receive a salary and I even have some grant money this year to write in the summer (not that those dollars turned to be near as much as I thought). But I’m hustling my butt bartending on weekends at the hotel, with colleagues who are still finishing college, most of them working their way through one class at a time. What gives?

Well, one big secret of university life is that a lot of junior profs these days don’t get paid quite enough to cover their bases. At our particular university we’re paid about $15K under market, typically less than the starting salary of public high school teachers. This is partly because the university is cheap–but not for students or their parents–and Denver is so nice a place to live that good people will take it rather than end up at the University of Backwoods, Nowhere. Also, the market is glutted with PhDs who, at least for the first few years, hope to actually apply all that training to a job, so even the U of BN can pretty much take it’s pick. This leads to a rather curious statistic: the cost of attending my university for one year as a student, about $45,000, equals the starting salary of a professor in my division Arts, Humanitiess, and Social Sciences,  What universities “forget” as they undercut our salaries is that unlike two generations, even one generation ago, about half of us were not entirely funded in grad school, so we come out up to our necks in debt. Debt that for some of us like yours truly can easily equal a small home mortgage. Not to mention trying to raise a young family, compared with which my situation is probably a cakewalk.

Bottom line, my salary doesn’t always cover all my bills, especially in the summer. This is why I know so many other young professors with side jobs. Some do contract work, some have small businesses, many teach extra on the side–all while hoping to research and write enough to earn tenure. Most of us bite every little carrot the university dangles in the form of stipends for certain kinds of teaching (writing-intensive, service learning, etc.). One father of two I know does all that plus two of his neighbors’ yard work. The guy pretty much never sleeps.

For me it’s occasional teaching or editing gigs with my writing/editing business and bartending. As most of you know, I chose bartending last summer because I wanted a channel of quick cash flow and because from the time my dad ran a bar up in the High Sierras when I was a kid, I always wanted to learn the trade.

I just rounded my one-year anniversary with bartending. I am, for sure, a better person for it. I also like it even more than I expected, even when it’s hard, even at the end of a totally slammed night when I can’t sleep for being so deeply exhausted. And I realized Saturday night, in the middle of a very busy wedding, that I might be getting pretty good at it. Granted, I’m still a lowly wedding/special event bartender, not a club bartender or a superpro at a high-end restaurant, so take the following with a rim of salt. I also recognize that having the privilege of a career that meets my intellectual needs, not having to do this to survive is a comparative luxury.

What I like about bartending after my first anniversary:

• The pleasure of skill-based manual work. It’s an ideal venue for practicing focus, grace, and intentionality. I work on continuing to breathe through a rush; on eyeballing each martini to fill the glass just right; on achieving the perfect tap pour of Fat Tire; on pulling down little wineglasses from a too-tall shelf without breaking them. (I broke only one glass all year until last night when I shattered three in one night. Those of you who know my clutziness realize that such stats are nothing short of miraculous.)
• It gives me the security (if this is security) that I could bail university life or get denied tenure and have something to fall back on. In fact, at the right gig, a bartender can make twice what I make as a professor. I know a club bartender who routinely pulls in $1,200 a week, cold cash–working only three nights a week. Do the math: that’s over $62,000, not counting the hourly. At that rate, I could write my great American novel and still pay off my loans.
• My fellow employees. Sure, there are some jerky middle-managenent types at hotels, but the waiters, dishwashers, shift managers, cooks, and fellow bartenders I work with are mainly warm, interesting, and seriously hardworking people. I love the immigrants especially. I’ve gotten to know two guys from Lithuania, one Zimbabwein, one Ivory Coast guy, a couple from Kenya, an Ethiopian, a handful of Mexicans, and some Central Americans. The dishwashers are probably my favorite, every one I’ve met interesting, kind, funny. You can’t get this kind of experience or perspective in college.
• Banter across the bar, when it’s good. It’s fun to talk to people in the middle of a big event. Befriend them for the night, laugh with ‘em, watch ‘em get drunk, be their go-to gal. It’s fun getting so many compliments about my short, salt and pepper hair from straight guys who tell me it’s sexy. It’s fun being on the other side of the line. And when it’s ugly and people are lame, it’s fun laughing about it later.

Alright, I’ve gone on long enough and have probably bored you to death. Next week may be another story, but for now I’m loving my second career.

Yes, I realize it’s been awhile since the last post. As much as I love the blog–one of the great things I look forward to in life– I’ve had some other priorities elbowing out my post time. For example: grading, course prep, more grading, taking students on religious field trips on weekends, painting in my new “creativity center” in the basement, grading, sketching a super-skinny nude guy in a life drawing session with Andria last night, and, oh, bartending at the Magnolia.

Which is what I want to post on as I sneak time in between classes today.

I know I’m still an amateur in the bartending field (though I’m getting much smoother, I must say), but I’m not an amateur in the practice of social observation, and, let me tell you, being behind the bar at weddings is one prime vantage point for watching the social rituals of the fascinating cultural environment that is American weddings. Well, I should be more precise: the weddings of white Anglo Saxonish Protestants, which, from what I can tell, are the only ones I’ve had the opportunity to observe at the Mag so far. (Yes, there’s been one African-American groom at that first wedding, and his people added a touch of soul that has been lacking at the subsequent events I’ve attended, but the rest of the party was way WASPy, so I lump it in that category.) I haven’t done a Jewish wedding yet (can’t wait), or a Latino one, or an African immigrant one, but I promise to post when I get that lucky.

Meanwhile, four weddings down and I’m observing some distinct social types–characters that emerge repeatedly in the ‘white wedding’ milieu. The bartender position, while not allowing for participant-observation in the central circle of the event, does provide a unique node for ethnography, a lens from which to observe these types. People’s “bar moments” are interstices in the wedding–moments in which the flow of the event is temporarily paused or shifted from the perspective of the participant. S/he comes to the bar for a drink, and in those moments, takes a few breaths, glances at the wedding from a couple steps “outside,”has an opportunity to engage with someone separate from the wedding circle (the bartender), maybe concocts a new strategy for reentering the scene, and in that “crack” in the event, frequently, briefly lets down his/her guard.

In these interstices, we bartenders get a glimpse of who people ‘really are’ (for the moment) and how they are relating to the wedding psychologically, socially, emotionally. Yes, they are just moments, but through a series of such moments over an arc of four or five hours, you really start to see fascinating patterns. Now that I can make most drinks without fixating on whether I will be successful or not, I can enjoy them.

So, tell me if you recognize anyone in these types:

SDG - Stonefaced Drinker Guy. At the last wedding I worked on Saturday night, this was the guy who ordered 5 or 6 double Jack and cokes over the course of the evening and never for a moment seemed drunk. He was also the only guy not wearing a tie, he had a shaved head, and looked like he was going to ride off on a Harley. Oddly, he was probably the most dignified person in the room.

YWW - Young Working on Wasted. When the bride and groom are under 30 and not rabidly religious, this category encompasses almost everybody in the room, and this is true whether or not there is an open bar. I did not realize, prior to this job, how much weddings function for so many heterosexuals as open season on being as wasted as possible on their friends’ dime. I thought frat parties were bad, but they’ve got nothing on the manic, get-me-another-drink-ASAP vibe of weddings full of young people. The YWWs are the first to the bar and the last to be pried off it, sticky fingernails digging in for dear life. Only maybe half of them tip decently and about 10% get increasingly aggressive with their orders as the night wears on. Female YWWs are fun when they start using your name and come to you to help give them soda water to sop up the stains on their cute dresses.

GOG - Generous Old Guy. This figure is a prize for every bartender. Usually an old friend of the bride or groom’s father, this guy is, I think, looking for inconspicuous ways to demonstrate his loyalty to the family. He casually strolls up to the bar, tips a twenty or two, thanks you for your service, and wanders off, maybe with a Scotch on the rocks. I love that guy.

FSTG - Fat Slutty Tipsy Gal. At this point, I think I could pick out this one from across the street. Not much to notice at first, just a chubby, usually young woman ordering, say, a Captain Morgan’s and pineapple and politely pulling the tip out of her cleavage. But fast foward to after dinner and girl’s getting her buzz on. By the time the dancing starts (three drinks later) she’s got cannonball energy, blasting recklessly through the crowd and colliding with men of all shapes and sizes. Shaking her shimmy with mighty abandon, curvy parts bounding out of low cut dresses, she sweats and winks and flirts her heart out. Some guys bite, some flatten against the wall. Nevertheless, I think this girl gets taken home from weddings a lot by male YWWs, but I worry about what happens after that and how she feels about herself in the morning.

ARP - Anxious Recovering Person. This male or female approaches the bar solemnly and in precise 45-minute intervals to order their Shirley Temple, Diet Coke, or soda water. The wedding thing has got to be a nightmare for them; how to live through all this free flowing alcohol, all these drunk idiots, with handcuffs on? It’s a brutal realism, and I admire the stamina.

SDGG - Self-Designated Groomside Guy. You know the guy who drags five groomsmen to the bar and makes them all hammer shots? That’s this guy. He feels he’s failed as a friend if he doesn’t organize this time-tested ritual, and even if 60% of the guys are gagging visibly as they choke down their shot of Crown Royal (?), he’s gonna make it happen. He also, always, is yelling.

SABB - Self-Appointed Bridesmaid Bitch. I see this one coming and I reposition myself, let the other bartender take her. Good Lord, she’s bossy. She barks her own drink orders and insists that all service come to a halt when the bride needs a drink. Okay, fine. But later she’s the one causing the drama when she doesn’t feel appreciated or hasn’t gotten enough attention. This usually means flirting unabashedly with one of her friends’ husbands, then frothing about something unrelated or tearing up and woefully apologizing when her needy ass gets called on it.

MOB - Mother of Bride. Anxious, tightly strung, tight updo, ordering water most of the night, until she slings back a glass of hard stuff at the end.

BUL - Bitter Unmarried Lady. The strange thing is that these women are often some of the most attractive ones in the place, or at least I think so. Usually 40-ish and gorgeously styled, they can be obnoxious or not; it depends. But there is (if I’m not just projecting) an underlying exasperation bubbling under their smooth surface, which isn’t disguised (or is perhaps revealed) in the cool, determined way in which they dispense with their drink of choice–usually vodka martinis. Also, BULs are reliable and generous tippers even if they may wait until they’re done drinking and tip a ten at the end. I often see them engaged in what appear to be intense conversations with men, but leaving alone in the end.

DCG - Drunk Crazy Grandma. Last week the DCG was shaking her bahdumpadump up against men 50 years her junior–to Timbaland beats, throwing her head back and cackling with pleasure. LOVED her.

Okay, I don’t want to make you tired by going on, because Lawd knows I have categories to add to this list and more tales to tell. Let’s just say that if a wedding is a fishbowl with a lot of fish and a big plastic castle inside, I’m having a heck of a time peering into that universe, suckers and all. Weddings are joyful celebrations, sure. But they are also a vortex of anxiety, insecurity, bravado, and social awkwardness. A total circus. I can’t wait for the next one.

The world looks very different from the other side of the bar.

Granted, my first night bartending a Magnolia Hotel event was largely a blur. Chris, the chief but disgruntled bartender, to whom I tried to endear myself in vain, walked off the job five minutes after I showed up. Ten minutes later the wedding guests were pouring in, mobbing the bar to take advantage of the hour that the bride’s family was buying drinks. Once my boss said the magic words, “Nancy, can you get behind the bar? That’s the father of the bride coming in and he wants to see three bartenders,” I was off and running, which meant learning everything I could by, well, just figuring it out. 

Doubtless I learned more in those 7 hours of bartending-out-my-butt than I would have in three times as much “shadowing” the real bartenders. Thank god for Shawna (also her first night at the Mag, but not at bartending) and Corey, who provided models for how to pour, what to do with the used glasses, how to run credit cards manually, and where the heck the bloody mary mix was. It was more stressful than fun at the time, but pretty cool in retrospect. Somehow the rhythm of it actually felt natural to me; watching my dad from upstairs in The Yodler all those years must have paid off. And, Lord, my legs haven’t hurt that much since I worked at the sporting goods store in high school. I’m kind of psyched to do it again.

But being on that side of the bar is a whole new perspective, and despite the madcap pace of the evening, I remember a few things. 

Everybody looks cheerful and sparkly at first, decked out in their wedding formal gear–summery floral low-cut dresses, pressed suits, hair in place. Then comes the flush of the first and second drink, before sitting down to dinner, when the guests are basking in the glow of affection for the night ahead, the newlyweds, the possibilities. People are brisk in their drink orders, but friendly, curious, making small talk. 

As they dine and begin the toasting, we work on popping three cases of champagne in the same room, quietly. Interesting challenge. We’re told that once the open bar reverts to cash after dinner, things will be mellower, and Corey will probably go over to Harry’s to work the club. Instead, dessert ends and we are instantly and consistently slammed. I have a vague memory of seeing the bride and groom dance (I remember only because it was Sade’s “By Your Side,” which I love), but other than that my horizon becomes a sea of urgent faces trolling for eye contact. I’ve been that person trying to get the bartender’s attention a million tmes, but it feels crazy when it’s ten pairs of eyes beaming for mine.

Apologies for this, but two words keep coming to mind that Natalie used to say: “Desperate Heterosexuals.” There may be no better magnet than a wedding to bring these folks to the bar, over and over, especially when the newlyweds are at most 27 years old. By the end of the night, I started to feel like I knew some of these people, and not in a good way. Talk about too much information.

There was the poor grouchy faced, hook-nosed, chubby girl in a painfully cleavage-revealing black and red dress, who ordered five Captain Morgan and cokes in the space of 90 minutes. And the willowy redhead (with the outgoing aereolae) who began her descent when she had a “misunderstanding” with the bubbly blonde bridesmaid who was grinding her hips against every man but her husband. I appreciated the aggressive Latina who managed to get three or four older men to buy her expensive cocktails while she made the most idiotic, cloying small talk. Of course, there were the half dozen increasingly drunken (and strangely tall) groomsmen throwing double Grey Goose’s and shots of Courvoisier on one another’s tabs. The twenty-three year-olds who figured out that the leftover Champagne was free were sweet, and, as you can imagine, increasingly red-lipped, sweaty, and wobbly as the night wore on.

I did not at any point have the desire to drink. It looks pretty nasty from the other side.

Definitely my favorite, though, was the frat-boy looking guy who gingerly shuffled up to me every twenty minutes and shakily asked for a tonic water with ice and lime. Then after I handed it to him, every single time, he’d say anxiously, “This is tonic water?” Poor guy, I think he was recently sober AND obsessive-compulsive. Never once tipped, but totally sweet (and dangling on the edge).

Sociologically, the wedding had some unusual aspects, like the fact that the white, Jennifer Garner-like bride was marrying a handsome African American groom–which meant the crowd was atypically mixed, but also that the dance floor was a bit of an embarrassment for the white folks. Mercy me; it was hard to watch those dripping WASP boys trying to be down when the Kanye West came on. I have to say, many white folks compensated for rhythm challenges with some serious drinking. Apparently the groom hailed from Southern California, which might explain why both the other bartenders and I were pretty sure that Erkel (the grown up one) was hanging at the bar most of the evening. Seriously, this guy was the spitting image if not the real thing.

Tipping patterns varied. It’s not true that black people tip less. It is sometimes true that drunk people tip less, but others tip excessively. Young women tipped generously. Very few older women came up to the bar, but the ones that did were obNOXious drunks, and I can’t remember if they tipped. I kind of enjoyed watching the guys who acted like they were going to tip but then pulled their dollar back when they thought I wasn’t looking. In the end, I walked home with $128 in my pocket–not bad for a wedding with three bartenders in which I was the lone fraud.

All in all, ’twas a nice wedding from what I could tell between ice plunges and soda guns and steaming glasses out of the washer. But by midnight when we stopped selling drinks I was deeply glad my hair was short enough to discourage any desperate drunk guy trying to catch a number. Shawna, the petite blonde 26 year-old (I’m guessing) was not so lucky. The girl was fending off three guys trying to get her to meet up with them–and it did not look fun. Desperate hetero boys whose buddy just dropped off the edge of the earth…not a pretty sight. Also not my problem.

I’m interested in what the next gig will bring.

By the way, for those of you familiar with my danger to any and all glassware, I only dropped one glass all night, and that was after closing when my hands were so tired they could barely grip. Suhweet.

 

I have so much to report since the last post. I feel like I’ve been in some kind of tornado of events and energies, some of which really merit writing about, but given other duties pressing upon me, I may have to take it in bits and pieces.

Here’s the overview:

The Baby W. post generated a huge wave of (positive) energy and information that I’m still trying to absorb.

I had my first bartending gig at The Magnolia on Saturday and it was balls-out crazy, hair-raising fun.

For some reason, many in my friendship circle are going through monumental personal and/or relationship challenges this week, so I’m getting all kinds of phone calls that trigger various existential afterthoughts for me about the twists and turns of life.

I made three–count them, three!–significant plans about spending time with my dad during the next 6 months. This might be a little bit crazy but it will darn sure be interesting.

I’ve had a new colleague staying with me for the last few days, which has been fun but also totally throwing off my routine.

Said colleague helped me plant two rose bushes and is teaching me all about orchids.

So, I think I’ll start in reverse, with the Baby W. update. First off, I learned from the last post that blogging adds a whole new meaning to “putting it out in the Universe.” That’s what I dig about it. However, per my mother’s suggestion I edited out a few identifying details for security reasons (in case there’s some shadowy hater out there reading my posts and plotting to hunt me down). I guess we should refer to the hypothetical baby as Baby W. from here forward, then, ‘kay?

In a nutshell, you guys responded with this great big “YES.” My meeting with Marce and Dawn was similarly affirmative–which is putting it mildly. That meeting is worth its own post, but I’ll for now just note that by the end of the night we were referring only half-jokingly to Baby W. as “our child.” All of which generated many consecutive hours of concentrated baby-related thoughts that made my brain swim and swoon around like a thirteen year-old with a crush on the pool lifeguard. I’m not sure what I expected but I guess I didn’t expect that. Maybe a little more caution and warning and deliberation in the face of the magnitude of the project. But in the wake of all that “Yes, you can do it! We’ll help!” the clearest feeling coming through is gratitude. You all are amazing, and I am so fortunate to already be in an incredible network of love and support. Also: who said staying close to your exes doesn’t pay off??

I don’t know if it will last, but I’m starting to get this “how could I say no in the face of all that love?” feeling. Which, of course, generates a whole new round of fear and excitement.

To get a little more concrete, just in one day the following offers came rolling in:

• free maternity clothes, baby clothes, and other material “spoiling”
• kidfrastructure sharing
• $2,000 “start up” costs up front and $100 a month for the first two years
• 1 overnight babysitting gig every three weeks
• additional babysitting and childcare
• baby shower
• help with bills and/or groceries

I’m tempted to name names here but I don’t want to embarrass anyone. Suffice it to say, the outpouring is incredible, and it gave me some very interesting images to go with the larger vision. Images of a big, crazy circle/circus of love around a very appreciated and loved child. Images of a uniquely communal childbirth environment (at least until I kick everyone out). Images of people I love getting to be part of a kid’s life in a way they might not otherwise be. Moojmothers (and maybe some moojfathers? foojfathers?) in a web of support, helping a little person to read, to play soccer, to throw a ball, to fix a toilet, to roll down a hill, to play a fiddle, to make olive tapanade, to change a tire, to be a good person, to be a citizen–all the kinds of things my brilliant, loving friends and family do.

And then there are the scary images–me stumbling around sleep deprived and brain-dead in class, feeling constantly frazzled, needing help, feeling desperately alone, wondering if I did the right thing. Worrying stuff. But maybe not any different from what any potential mother thinks about.

So from here I’m just going to take it a piece at a time. I want to secure a book contract and know that my job is not in jeopardy before I start planning any kind of insemination. But for now I’m setting some goals and doing some more preparatory exploration and we’ll see what happens.

Now for the funny part.

The day after the post, my mom and I are videoconferencing about all this, using this Mac software, iChat. She goes, “I think you should use B.T.’s sperm.” [Initials changed to protect the innocent.]

B.T. is the son of some good friend of my mom and Jim’s. I don’t think I’ve ever met the guy. I go, “oh yeah, why’s that?”

“Oh, because the T’s are just such GOOD STOCK. They’re just great people, and he’s so strapping and smart.”

“Okay, but what makes you thing B.T. has any interest in offering up his sperm?”

‘Well, because he told me so,” she says casually.

“What??? He told you so?”

“Yeah, about a year ago I asked him. And he was totally supportive; he’d even fly out there so you could have it fresh and everything. He’s totally fine with it.”

A moment of silence. I’m astounded. She just smiles. I’m thinking, okay, what does it mean that my mom’s been out there pimping sperm for me? Where in the hell do I put that information?

“Mom, I can’t believe you did that. That’s so…thoughtful. But I can’t believe you did that. Is the guy married?”

“No, he doesn’t even have a partner, but I think he’s heterosexual. He’s just supportive. And he’s really strapping! You should meet him!”

Deep breath. This is already a crazy, crazy ride.

 

 

Hello again.

For those of you who thought I might have fallen off the planet, no, I didn’t. I did, however, spend four days in Tennessee, which is a bit like falling off the planet. Maybe I’ll tell you about that sometime; for now, I’m leaving E. (and the South and the Army) out of all this. 

For those of you who thought I was kidding about bartending, you should know that my target, The Magnolia Hotel, appears to have hired me as of this morning, though it won’t be official until my criminal background check comes back (and god knows what that will mean given my checkered past). I interviewed with the Food & Beverage Manager, Jim, a gentleman I quite enjoyed, and we both agree that I seem like a good match for this part-time gig as a banquet bartender and occasional fill-in at Harry’s. (I also may have sold a business writing workshop through the Write Doctors to the hotel.)

Okay, but backing up a little. I posted about my bartender ambitions back in May, but then I didn’t update you. Long story short, I first just thought about it, then scoped out some bars with Dawn and Andria, only to conclude that I still wanted to try for The Magnolia, my first instinct. Then I couldn’t figure out how to apply, so I sat down one day and wrote a crazy cover letter that I ran only by Tanya, who liked it. Then I tromped downtown and left it for Jim, the guy at the Mag. I tried to give it to some other hotels, but they were so massive scale that they basically shuttled me like a rat into grimy back corridors where I was supposed to fill out application forms and stuff. It was actually pretty intimidating and made me feel like a desperate loser in seconds flat. I started down one of those corridors and then decided that before I went through with it I probably needed to figure out who I’d put as references, given that I’ve spent the last 10 years in academia and none in point-of-sale jobs (or at least not the same kind of point-of-sale jobs). I pretty much ran out of there and called Tanya who kindly took me out for the best mojito in town, which I sucked down while nervously marveling at my hair-brained schemes.

Over the next week I more or less forgot about the letter, figuring that it was probably laughed right into the trash. If not, I figured, the Universe would take care of it. Actually, I felt a bit embarrassed every time I thought about it. But today, when Jim told me how much he liked it and how he actually showed it to two 20-year old DU students (gulp; hope they don’t know me) as an example of “showing some go-to and focus on what you want,” I glowed a little. So I’m going to share it with you. I’ll tell you more about the job on Saturday, after my first wedding shift.

***

June 12, 2007

Dear Bar or Food & Beverage Manager,

I dropped by your hotel today to speak with you about a possible bartending position. Sorry I missed you, but I hope you will consider this rather unconventional pitch for a part-time job.

I am actually a young professor (ok, 39) at the University of Denver—fully employed and occupied, as you might expect, with active projects. But my teaching schedule permits a fair amount of flexibility, particularly in the summer, I don’t have children to take care of, and I would love to bring in some extra cash (as professors don’t make a ton). So I’ve been seriously exploring part-time bartending jobs. Ideally, I imagine myself in one of the better LoDo hotels like yours. I’m confident I’d be a great bartender and I’ve always wanted to learn the trade.

Have I ever tended bar? No. Is this some kind of oddball fantasy? Maybe. But my father owned a large bar in a California ski resort town when I was growing up, and my brother and I helped out a lot, so I am pretty familiar and comfortable with the business. I also make delicious martinis and other cocktails, have a decent understanding of wine, and am a darn good study. I figure, if I could pass the brutal oral exam on Latin flower names when I wanted the florist job in high school, I can do anything! In short, I am skilled, smart, and totally trainable. Plus, I’m happy to start with the less-desirable shifts.

My father always told me that the main things he looked for in his bartenders were reliability, trustworthiness, a strong work ethic, and no alcoholics. The rest, he said, could be learned. I am all of these things as well as attractive, careful, a good conversationalist—and I can make change counting backwards! Before and during grad school, I held lots of different non-academic jobs, including retail, and I’m used to working hard. I can certainly provide references if you’d like.

I hope you’ll consider me should any positions become available. Thanks for taking the time to read this.

Sincerely,

Nancy Wadsworth