A Friend! Not Just a Colleague!
I'd like to correct some terminology used in the previous entry. It's best, I think, to clear these little problems up as quickly as possible. Makes things easier in the long run.
In the previous entry -- please click here to peruse it -- I discussed being part of a group of friends who were helping a colleague move. The said colleague has since pointed out to me that my wording makes her appear to be less than a friend. Less of a friend, certainly, than all the rest of the crew helping to drag her stuff around.
And this is just wrong. For, as she pointed out -- this would be in the same conversation -- she's actually a friend. A good friend. A beloved friend, really. And indeed, on Tuesday when I show up on campus to find out if anybody has discovered the Secret Location of my furniture, and find out that they haven't, and also a bunch of my stuff is broken, we've set it up so that I'm to quick quick quick call her on my cell phone -- and she's such a good friend, I'd like to mention, that her number is programmed in so I can find it even if I'm having a temper fit -- and she's going to help me remember how to do my breathing exercises and find my happy place.
So I'm sorry I called her a colleague. She's a friend. As mentioned above. Several times. Four, I think. And I shouldn't have misled y'all.
Once I heard the memoirist Patricia Hampl speak, and she talked about the file she's got of all the letters sent her by former friends breaking off relations with her on account of what she wrote about them in her memoirs. Or, more amusingly (though only just), DIDN'T say about them.
Which, I think, is pretty much the situation here.
Hence this blog entry. Meant to stave off heartbreak. And really really stilted conversations about the graduate program.
In the previous entry -- please click here to peruse it -- I discussed being part of a group of friends who were helping a colleague move. The said colleague has since pointed out to me that my wording makes her appear to be less than a friend. Less of a friend, certainly, than all the rest of the crew helping to drag her stuff around.
And this is just wrong. For, as she pointed out -- this would be in the same conversation -- she's actually a friend. A good friend. A beloved friend, really. And indeed, on Tuesday when I show up on campus to find out if anybody has discovered the Secret Location of my furniture, and find out that they haven't, and also a bunch of my stuff is broken, we've set it up so that I'm to quick quick quick call her on my cell phone -- and she's such a good friend, I'd like to mention, that her number is programmed in so I can find it even if I'm having a temper fit -- and she's going to help me remember how to do my breathing exercises and find my happy place.
So I'm sorry I called her a colleague. She's a friend. As mentioned above. Several times. Four, I think. And I shouldn't have misled y'all.
Once I heard the memoirist Patricia Hampl speak, and she talked about the file she's got of all the letters sent her by former friends breaking off relations with her on account of what she wrote about them in her memoirs. Or, more amusingly (though only just), DIDN'T say about them.
Which, I think, is pretty much the situation here.
Hence this blog entry. Meant to stave off heartbreak. And really really stilted conversations about the graduate program.
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