You have watched me struggle through the waist-high muck and mire that is the bureaucracy of graduate school for the past four years.  I picture you laughing the day I returned home in the middle of finals one fine semester to find a (false) letter of rejection from my school.  I’m sure you chuckled when one of my professors neglected to post a grade, postponing my degree by a month.  And you must draw continued pleasure from my current state of unemployment.  Your governance is the reason I am sitting here in my room today instead of making my mark on the art world and no, I did NOT vote for you.

George Bush, you are the reason I am unemployed and you are the catalyst that has caused the Smithsonian, The Met and all the other great art institutions of our nation to wonder where their next meal will come from.

Bush: you anticipated, you plotted and schemed, and at the perfect moment you sprung your trap.  You are as wily as that coyote and I hope you are proud because you’ve brought the art world to its knees.

You have taken food out of the mouths of so many wonderful institutions.  Institutions of learning, whose sole purpose is to elevate the masses, to expand our future leaders’ minds, to disseminate beauty upon the American people and to inspire the next generation to think and create wonderful things.  And all for free, no less!

Bush, you have stolen the art world’s funding and have diverted it to the art of war.  In my wildest dreams I cannot imagine what 50 million dollars a month could buy for the museums and art institutions of this country.  But I can see what 50 million dollars a month can buy in the art of warfare; ineffective armor and outdated tanks, soldiers with post-traumatic stress disorder, children with no parents and a United States that has been exposed on the world stage for the uncoordinated and ineffective giant it is becoming.

You sir, are a monster.

I am unable to pay my sky-high utilities bills this month; gas and electricity are sky-high because of your sinking economy.  Now, to be fair, I have never actually paid utilities as four years ago my parents graciously agreed to support me while I worked through grad school.  All with the understanding that I would make more money and generally be more successful with a post-graduate degree.

Well, the joke is on my hard-working dad!

Not a week ago I interviewed for a part-time job which paid $11.50 an hour with no benefits.  I was and continue to be desperate to find some, any, source of income and was simply excited to get an interview at all.  Despite my B.A. in art history and M.A. in art history and museum studies, as well as numerous internships with many prestigious museums in the area, I was declined.  From a part-time job.  With no benefits.  I HAVE A MASTER’S DEGREE.

I.   Am.  Demoralized.

In any other economy a fresh-faced post-graduate such as myself would have been snatched up.  I would have been a prize gem for a museum.  I probably would have taken an entry level position and spent my lunch breaks searching for the next bigger and better position.  I would have jockeyed for a promotion or maybe demanded a raise after a couple of years.  I would have spent happy hours with my young professional colleauges and networked, giving out cards and always keeping my eye out for my next strategic career move.

Instead, George Bush, I am here.  In my room.  Applying for glorified secretarial jobs with the sick feeling in my stomach that I will be told once again, that I am unqualified.  Simply because there are so many who have lost their jobs, because people are taking pay cuts and need second jobs, because the museum I’ve applied to is to embarrassed to explain that they’ve had to put a freeze on all hiring just to keep their own heads above water.

So I pray that I will get a job soon, that the utilities will not become more expensive then they already are, and most importantly that my father doesn’t lose his job.  Because if he does, then who will pay for my utilities?

                                           okay, maybe later.

As I lay here in my bed, the sunlight streaming through my curtains and “Star Jones: The E True Hollywood Story” blaring from my tv, I can’t help but wonder: will I ever get a job and get my shit together?

Last week I busted out of grad school, bright eyed and fresh faced, ready to take on the world.  I even checked J.Crew.com to see if they had any cute winter-ish suit-skirt sets on sale–then on to the Spanx website–for any potential interviews I might set up (they didn’t; also, no interviews scheduled).  Due to a lack of winter-ish skirt-suits being on sale, I ordered some new skinny cords and planned how I would eat only Lean Cuisines and egg white omeletes until I dropped the ten pounds necessary to fit into them; felt much better.  

Graduated?  Ou, non.

Truthfully, I’m starting to wonder if I’ve actually even graduated from grad school at all.   It’s possible that I’ve once again been duped by the trolls that work the in the registrar dungeon (for the second time).  I would really appreciate an email or something, registrar trolls!  I’ve checked my school email religiously since I turned in my finals last week and so far, nothing.  Not one grade posted.

I have valid reason to think that those dicks at my grad school are tricking me into thinking that I’ve graduated when I really haven’t.  I’m convinced that they’d do anything just to get my ass off that campus.  Let me explain.

Dicks.

I started grad school in 2oo6 in the wake of a massive, gut-wrenching breakup (which resulted in the awesomeness that was loss of 25 pounds) and going postal at my job at U.S. Airways.  The U.S. Air job filled my days with screaming from angry stranded travelers and travel agents and ended with my screaming at the supervisor that NO, I could NOT give them two weeks notice due to the fact that my job totally sucked and I would make more money dancing in the entrance of a Metro station.  

I limped into grad school weak and broken down but looking forward to my exciting future in the world of Art History.  What I pictured was: me sporting a hot pair of Gucci reading glasses taking notes in perfect handwriting all while wearing sexy-but-sophisticated tops with high-waisted skirts.  Traipsing around the marble halls of National Gallery in 5 inch stilettos and fishnets just peeking out from the back slit in my knee length pencil skirt and effortlessly chatting it up with curators at gala events for up-and-coming new artists.  

Besides the fact that I don’t own any sexy-but-sophisticated tops or high-wasted skirts AND that I can’t even wear heels because my ankles break due to my the excess weight I am currently storing in my lovehandle area, this all seemed totally feasible.

What I got was: sitting in a small, sweaty classroom the size of my car with a musty old professor still using notes typed from a typewriter back in the 70′s and wearing equally old sweaters, shoulders covered in dandruff.  

If I’d only had my straightener with me.

I’m a social person.  On the first day of class I realized that there was another grad student, a girl, who was in all three of my classes.  The next class day I arrived early and found her, let’s call her Margaret, sat down and introduced myself.

“Hi!  I think we’re in all of the same classes.”

     I introduced myself.

“Margaret.”

“Cool.  Nice to meet you.  So… where are you from?”

     Noticed at this point that Margaret is definitely not wearing makeup.

“Up north.”

     Noticed that Margaret is NOT wearing a cute outfit.  Looked around and noticed that NO ONE in the room has even brushed their hair that day!  

Continued strained and awkward conversation until gross old professor began lecturing from his crusty 40-year-old yellowed notes and faded slides; dandruff flying.

It’s ’cause I’m cuter.

I am not the most sophisticated person in the world.  But I am hella girly.  I do love my Britney Spears, Chanel bags, skinny jeans and shopping.  I sleep with my straightener under my pillow, as all us naturally curly girls do, and swear by Diorshow mascara.  Lord I could have gone crazy on Margaret if I’d just had my straightener and some mascara but honestly most of those people could have even benefited from a shower and brushing.

After much persistence Margaret eventually let me into her sad little world of going to class and then racing home to immediately do her reading for next week.  Once she even came with me to walk around Georgetown and ventured into Mac, and immediately back out.

And this is how it went for the rest of the semester.  Me: chasing Margaret around the room just to have someone to sit next to, them: discussing the finer points of the 1,000 page painfully boring and dense reading from the night before.  Me: asking if anyone saw the Britney Spears documentary on MTv last night?  Them: blank (annoyed?  angry?) stares.

TERMINATED!

Then in the middle of finals during my second year I came home to find, a letter.  A letter from my school.  A letter that more or less said, “you’ve been terminated from the program”.  I proceeded to throw my cell phone, push all the books and papers off my desk onto the floor (which was already covered wall-to-wall with dirty clothes), and cry in said books, papers and dirty clothes pile.  For days.

I am now convinced was ostracized from the Art History community at my school because, let’s face it, I’m cuter.

Don’t worry.  I met with the dean and was completely reinstated.

Cue Cher, “purely based on my powers of persuasion!”

And also probably because the dean was a guy and let’s face it, I’m cuter.

So until the registrar trolls decide to post my grades, until I’ve got my Master’s degree hung in the sparkling, glitter-covered frame I’ve designed just for the occasion, I’ll sit here wondering if I’ll ever get my shit together.  And if those skirt-suits on J.Crew will ever go on sale.

I’m proud to say that all of my friends are super-hot babes for different reasons–I wouldn’t be friends with them if they weren’t.  Some of them are fashionistas, some are domestic goddesses, some are brilliantly witty, hilarious, sassy betches, and some are the just the Hotness you see dancing their asses off in bars on Saturday nights in D.C.  

My fashionista friend has a closet so big that it spans the entire expanse of the upper floor of her home.  And it seems like she is constantly complaining about the technical problems she ran into while trading out her “Fall Wardrobe” with her collection of Diane von Furstenburg Spring sun dresses on her seasonal wardrobe rack, ugh.  Whenever this friend is invited to attend a random Tuesday night fundraiser in D.C. she always has on one of those dresses that makes you say “god I never would have thought of wearing that with fishnets and a feathered headband, but she looks so CUTE… and skinny… betch.”  She seems to have an endless collection of new clothes in her closet which she pays for with credit cards that don’t really appear to have bills connected to them.  Suspicious.  I have to wonder, where does one get one of those credit cards with magic bills that pay themselves?

The domestic goddesses are the friends who always plan and host our parties at their immaculate condos.  Seriously, homemade quiches… seriously.  They have amazing jobs, great wardrobes, they work out every day before work and still manage to rock out on the weekends and wake up to go get our post-rock-out breakfast of greasy egg-and-cheese on a bagel.

I have a whole collection of friends who are pee-your-pants-funny.  Just the other night we were out for our annual holiday party together (which, by the way, my other friend always manages to plan along with all of our other social events) and one of my friends had us ROLLING after she shoved everyone standing at the crowded bar while screaming “OUT OF MY WAY” so that she could do her own (hilarious) rendition of Womanizer.  And I’m not even going to get into the night we all took “The Pee-Hole Challenge”, but what I will tell you is that it involved a bottle of vodka, dancing at Rumours and the kind of Spanx that you have to have your friends help you pull up to your boobs.  Whether they’re falling ass-first out of cabs in Georgetown (as several of my friends have, actually), making out with a Wheaties box on the dance floor of a club on Halloween night or just generally wreaking havoc on the streets of D.C. my friends are ruining lives in the most hilarious ways possible.

Now meet moi.

My friends are newscasters, cheerleaders for NFL football teams and privy to the government’s secrets and then, there’s me.  I am the “Kendra” of our group of friends.  Kind of funny, kind of a tomboy and generally  looking like a hot mess (she can’t find someone to brush her hair before she does her spots on Girls Next Door?).  But seriously, I can totally relate to you, K.  

Right now I have is a Master’s degree, a closet full of wrinkled, balled up sweatpants, and a hangover from the Redskins game last night.  But what I want is to have a wardrobe like the fashionistas, to bake homemade cookies, to never miss a trip to the gym and always remember birthdays (and birthday parties, and weddings).  I want to be the friend with the amazing (preferably high-paying) job, perfectly manicured nails and organized closet all while baking five quiches from scratch and inviting everyone to my fundraising event in D.C.  Is that possible?  Oh, and also I want to loose 20 pounds.  What?!?!  So my question is, can anyone have all of this?  And if so, is there somewhere I can take lessons or attend a class called “Having it F-ing All and Looking HOT While Doing It 101″?

Don’t get me wrong, I like myself.  I am a fun, pretty, sometimes hilarious girl with good intentions, great friends and a perpetually maxed out credit card. I have been known to make a salad from time to time and I used to work out a lot.  Just the other night I hit up two Christmas parties and hit on some secret service guys.  They almost let me ride in their SUV!  So, all is not lost.  I just want to do it all and do it hotter, skinnier and with more money in my wallet.  And I’m working on it.