April Fool's: One Day Late or Just a Shitty Morning?

I am supposed to be having a meeting this very second. However, the guy who is supposed to meet with me is not here. Where can he be?

The phone on my desk says, "Message for you." Perhaps he left me a message about the meeting? If that is the case, though, I'll not know, as no one in this office knows the voicemail password to my extension or how to reset it.

Maybe he emailed me. That would be rational, except that as of last week, I was still using my predecessor's email and that is what he would email me at. This week, the account was disabled, but I have no access to my email account because my computer, which appears to be circa 1999 (sorry Prince - no partying like it is), resets its setting every day, so until the guy who can put me back on the networks shows up, I can't check my email. Not that my meetee would email me there, anyway.

Also, it might be good that he isn't here. Since I lose my network settings every time I log off, I have no access to the shared drive, which is where the material we are to meet about is stored.

Happiness is a grassroots organization.

"The Onion" Speaks Truth

Every so often, I complain about how my gentrified neighborhood is rapidly becoming luxurified. Last weekend, while Husband was surfing the net for goodness knows what, he discovered that our zip code is now the 5th wealthiest in the nation. (The first four are all on the Upper West East (thanks, Anonymous commenter!) Side, including where Dr. P used to live, which sort of surprised me, as there is public housing near her old apartment. Come to think of it, there's also public housing in my zip code, so I guess the wealthy are so over the top rich that they dwarf the outlying poor residents on the bell curve, but I digress.)

Anyhoos, the humeros newspaper The Onion, which I have adored since my senior year of high school when I read a gut-busting article on the failure of pet vending machines (the inventor couldn't figure out how to fix the machine so that the pets weren't already dead when someone bought one), has a great take on luxurification. Check out Report: Nation's Gentrified Neighborhoods Threatened by Aristocritization. Totally.Fucking.Brilliant.

It's For the Best

As I re-read my blog post from yesterday, it occurred to me that whenever I was rejected by my top choice educational program, it always winds up being to my benefit in the long run. Had I attended NYU's law school, I likely would be a lawyer today. If I hadn't talked Columbia into taking me off the waitlist for the MPA program, I would've gone to NYU, had no debt from grad school (or very minimal debt), and been tapped into a much stronger and connected alumni network. So while my rejection from Hunter stings, I am looking at the positive side of it. It clearly was not meant to be.

Now we'll see if my tarot card reading was right. She strongly felt that I would be attending New School in the fall, and while I woulod be very overwhelmed at first, it would ultimately be a good fit for me. (Of course, she also thought I would get into Hunter, but the vibes from New School were stronger. We all know how Hunter worked out...) Hopefully, I'll get some notice yea or nay from them this week.

In the meantime, back to my exciting data entry and database management work. Thank goodness for mind-numbing repetitive tasks, right?

The Thorn is Out

When I applied to law school in 1996, the process was pretty straight forward. If you did well on the LSAT, had a decent GPA, and proved to be the slightest bit interesting, you were getting in somewhere. I applied to four schools, and was accepted to two second tier programs with scholarships, and waitlisted at two top tier schools. At the end of the day, I was glad that I did not get into my top choice program, as I suspect I would have felt compelled to finish law school and begin a miserable career as an attorney.

In 1997, when I applied to public administration programs, I knew that schools preferred people with some work experience. I hoped that my single year would be enough to get me through the doors of the two programs to which I applied. Immediately, I was accepted at one school and given a scholarship. The program I preferred to go to waitlisted me. Although I ultimately was accepted, I hated that the program was more business-focused than public service oriented, which struck me as odd for a public administration and policy school. I worked while I schooled, finished my two years there, and began a miserable career as a child care policy expert.

Given my history with graduate education, I am not sure why I expected it to be different this time. If anything, the admissions qualifications are even murkier: demonstrate talent. What the fuck does that mean? I tried my best, and sent my writing sample to two programs, knowing that only six people are admitted at one of them.

I knew that I didn't make the cut at Hunter when I didn't get a call in February (hence all my blather about silent bad news), but I didn't have an official rejection, either. At first, I just wanted it to be over with. The longer I lived in limbo, the more I knew that rejection would hurt. This morning, I sent an email to the program director, noting that I understood that the six spots were filled, but if something opened up in the late spring or summer, I would love it if they would consider me. She emailed me back a few hours later and said that she would keep me in mind.

Imagine my surprise when I found my rejection letter from the program in the mail when I got home from work. I realize that suggesting that they eat shit is inappropriate, but I sort of can't help but think it anyway. Fuckers.

Fun in the Sun

At the early hour of 10:45 PM on Friday, I met the train carrying my dear friend Alex at Penn Station. We stopped off on the way to my apartment to pick up some baked goods at the new Upper West Side Magnolia Bakery outpost, then chatted with Husband while stuffing yellow cake (chocolate frosting for Alex; pink frosting for me - in both cases, the cake was merely adequate) down our gullets. Husband packed it in around 12:30 AM, and Alex and I continued our conversation until 2:00. This is the latest night I have had in months.

Saturday morning was bright and sunny. Alex and I set out in a freezing wind to have brunch at a restaurant highly recommended by Sara. We were excited for our Meyer Lemon pancakes (Alex) and eggs and grits (me), but when the food finally came (worst.service.ever), they shorted Alex a pancake and my food was only OK. Still, it was a heavy meal, and we decided to walk it off in Central Park. Originally, we planned to run, but thought it was too cold to go out without coats. We were wrong, but enjoyed our 6 mile hike in the bright (albeit sort of cold) sunshine.

The evening was capped off at a party at sister-in-law's (SIL) 30th birthday party, in which a sommelier came to their apartment and told amusing stories about wine. The stories (and cheese and amazing cakes shaped like a wine bottle with SIL's name on it, a small cheese, and marzipan grapes) were the highlight of the evening for your teetotaling blog host. As usual, I ate too much and ended the evening with bad gas.

As there was more coldish sun today, Alex and I set out to run the reservoir in Central Park. We had a lot of fun, and it made me feel great. I haven't run in ages, thanks to sinus issues, the sea urchin spines in my feet, and general laziness. (It also made me miss Dr. P, who used to be my running partner when she lived in New York.) I resolved to start running regularly again.

And that's that.

And I Thought I Am Tall

Recently, I discovered that my brother-in-law's wife is shorter than I am. This discovery engendered a minor identity crisis because I have always been the shortest person in my in-law family. All these years, I thought I was short, but really, I am a tall short person. How distressing to live with such self-delusion for so long!

Anyway, while on holiday with my sister and her husband, I encountered two objects that made me feel slightly better about my situation.


This literal giant was housed near the giant penis armor of Henry VIII. (That made me feel small, too, by the way. Maybe I should pay more attention to all those spam emails I receive with offers to help me grow my penis larger...) Even with my hiking shoes, my head only floats a bit above the 5 foot mark.


Further, when a chocolate rabbit at Herrod's is about my height, what's to complain about? If Dana were not leaning in to take a bite, I think they'd be about the same height. I could literally eat my height (if not weight) in chocolate. Yum.

If Good Things Come in Small Packages, Keep Me the Fuck Away from Henry VIII

If my memory serves me correctly, this is Henry VIII's armor. I love that he had extra protection for his prized body part.