diary: A weeklong electronic journal.

Orianda Guilfoyle

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Posted Friday, Oct. 29, 1999, at 9:00 PM ET

I had a dream last night that my high-school trig teacher posted the following note in The Fray: "Orianda, I warned you what would happen if you didn't study for the SATs!!! A lifetime in a dead-end job with ties to the porn industry!" I wake up with my sheets tied in a knot.

The day gets off to a slow start. My voice mail seems to blink at double-speed when I sit down at my desk. I spill coffee on my shirt. My ritual morning Internet jaunt is cut short by a large clump of e-mail waiting for me in my inbox. Missing credit application ... spam from some officewide e-mail list that I keep meaning to unlist myself from ... a stern warning from my boss informing me that I typed the wrong phone number in one ad, and he's already received one complaint call from one very unhappy older woman who doesn't appreciate those late-night callers asking her if she charges extra for S&M ... a note from my mom asking how things are going. The paper hit the stands yesterday so if there are any mistakes, I'll hear about it this morning.

But because it's Friday I'm able to keep my chin up. I tell myself that this job is not my entire life, and it does not define me. (Reminder to self: Don't go to a high-school reunion any day soon.) I'm training for a marathon (OK--full disclosure--a half-marathon), and I have to do a 9-mile run this weekend. Ugh. My boyfriend and I still have to find costumes for Halloween parties we're attending this weekend. No word yet on what we're going as. I think everyone in Classy is dressing up as dominatrixes. Our clients can fix us up with discount whips.

On a bright note, I receive that rare gem that anyone working in a customer-service related capacity so desperately covets: a thank-you note. A chiropractor sends me a hand-written note thanking me for my help with his ad. He invites me to come in for an appointment, should I ever require spinal manipulation. I've never been a big believer in chiropractic, but when I get the note, I'm so seized with warmth for him, that I want to misalign my back just so he can correct it. I tack the note up next to my monitor. Cheesy, yes, but I'll be glad it's there to read over the next time someone calls to tell me what I misspelled.

At home, there's a heap of graduate-school applications on my desk. I read them occasionally, remarking to myself on the total uselessness of this job as preparation for any form of graduate study. (Although the person I replaced left to pursue a Masters in computer science at Carnegie Mellon, which pretty much deflates that theory. How she made the leap from Classifieds to programming is anyone's guess, but my hat's off to her.) What's really funny is imagining myself in an interview for grad school. I'm here to rid myself of the stigma of classifieds and to pursue a respectable, rewarding career in journalism/medicine/law/politics. Why journalism/medicine/law/politics? Well, it sure beats hawking ads!

For right now at least, in this city, in Classy, I'll try to make the most of it, and figure out what I do want to do. How I'll get there is another story. But right now I have ads to sell. John from Total Tanning is on hold. He's interested in a display ad (half page!!$$). Can I cut him a good deal? he wants to know. I feel a grin form across my face. Let me tell you about our new advertisers' special ...

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Posted Friday, Oct. 29, 1999, at 9:00 PM ET