Reality hits

In less than a week, I've lost two potential jobs. The first was simply rescinded, while the second - the job for which I've been applying since early August, the job for which I wrote a piece on chintz china, of all things - was offered to someone "slightly" more experienced. I only found this out by writing the contact person, who was out of the office all of last week, but at least I now know, and only two weeks after the final piece of my interview was turned in.

Essentially, I'm now back at Square 1.

Anyone in the YGC may remember Jeff going on about how singing will improve your mood, and how you should thus come to practice even when you're stressed and all six of your midterms are scheduled for the next day. He's right, with one caveat: before you go to practice, you should drive for a few miles with your stereo blasting, 'singing' Eminem standards at the top of your lungs, since you can't very well tell the person who told you Yale was "a strange choice" of university to go jump off a cliff. I swear, Eminem helps. (Speaking of which: when even your dental hygienist tells you that she'd be pissed if someone told her her university was a strange choice, you know you're justified in thinking unladylike thoughts.) Then you should go to practice, laugh with sane, employed, people, and sing Messiah, and you'll feel better.

I'm still riding the Concert Chorale high right about now, and my dad left an encouraging note on the fridge before retiring, but not too far under the surface, I'm a seething mixture of pissed and relieved. Hell yes, I'm pissed - I did everything I could for this job, and if I'd turned them down before they turned me down, I might have had a $30,000/year job with benefits right now. On the other hand, I don't have to make up crap about ugly china any more. At least now Cindy, the lovely lady who does my nails and understands my low tolerance for estrogen over-exposure, won't have to worry about my sanity in the face of so many ruffles and flowers. Seriously, I was ready to whore myself, to the point that I was willing to wax poetic about chintz, and that's just sad.

Listen to me, people. If anyone ever tries to convince you chintz is the most gorgeous thing to happen to pottery since glaze was invented, send her my way and I'll whack her a good one.

In the meanwhile, back to the drawing board.