We've Moved!

Hi All,

I've moved to WordPress..... follow me there at:

http://lettingyouin.wordpress.com

As always, thank you for reading!

Meg

thoughts on the little things re: Office Supplies

I may be the only person who's ever experienced this (so contradictory, considering my last post), but I work at a desk -- that's not the unique part, just wait, I'm getting there. So all day long I deal with the things on my desk. I have a computer, a keyboard, and then various shaped containers that hold little things. These little things also vary. I have a little thing holder for paperclips, another one for pens/pencils/highlighters, another for pennies (and nickels, if I'm lucky). I also have one for push pins -- that's the dangerous one and I have to stop and warn myself: "Be careful Meghan, you remember what happened last time...."

I have a love-hate relationship with paperclips. They're annoying to refill, and they run out the second-quickest after staples. Staples are more fun to refill because they go into a neat gun-like object, that I get to test before putting to use. Paperclips just kind of sit there, and sometimes they get tangled, which is never fun if you're in a hurry, yet they are incredibly functional. 

I end up giving a lot of my paperclips away. When you work with lots of paper, it is necessary to gather this paper into organized piles, which then need to be bound somehow. More often than not, I end up handing off these organized paper-clipped paper piles, which, in the deep recesses of my mind is upsetting, because I know I'll never get that paperclip back. I deplete my paperclip stash daily, bringing me closer to the day I'll need to go to the office supplies drawer and yank another paperclip box from its clingy plastic wrapper to be dispensed into the appropriate little things holder. 

Subconsciously I have also, in a sense, rated the importance of said little things. For example, the staple suggests permanence. The staple pierces paper requiring the assistance of another object, the staple-remover, to...um...remove it. Paperclips require no such object. Therefore, there is a certain amount of judgement that goes down at that little desk of mine. I have the final say: Staple! Paperclip! These decisions are made without much thought, really, but they are made. All decisions are. 

Yes, I am writing about office supplies. I can't help it. I deal with them every day, handle them on the hour, and, honestly, could not live without them. Some people might say the same about their favorite accessory or lipgloss, and those people will understand where I'm coming from. 

I would like to think that we all have a quirky, relatively unacknowledged relationship with the inanimate objects of our lives. If you don't, that's OK, I'm sure you do. 

The deep, emotional connection that is Google.

Things. They happen. Things happen. Good things, bad things, just plain crappy things, things that annoy us, things that make us cry, or laugh, or shudder.


(I pause to contemplate the weirdness of the word things. Do it. Then come back to me...please.)


Unfortunately usually the things we harp on, the things we talk about to our friends and family, the things we really like to get off our chests (or, conversely, the things we never want anyone to hear about and always keep to ourselves) -- Those things we fear are happening to us and us alone.


I'm going to let you in on a little secret: you are not alone. In a world of 7.002 billion people it is extremely important to realize that you aren't the only one going through this.


I've been doing some simple Google-searching to validate this statement, and it occurs to me that the site itself serves as a tool for understanding our not-alone-ness. One could almost stop at the Google search bar to examine this truth.  Looking for "Why I have hair on my knuckles" Google tells me that not only has someone had the exact same search, but apparently people have hair in plenty of places besides knuckles, and they're wondering about them too!

"Knuckles." Right. 

It seems to me that when it comes to sadness or unfortunate situations, occupants of the web-o-sphere turn to irony, sarcasm, and humor. Yet, while I read (and giggle), I realize that the mere fact that there are hundreds of sites discussing a range of awkward, unfortunate, or even normal things that happen to us suggests camaraderie.

I stumbled upon an interesting site that rates the "badness" of things that happen to us. I cannot speak for its origins or credibility. It is a crude chart that measures (in dolors) the pain of situations from the every day to the extreme. Personally, I would add a few to the chart that have not been included, and delete a few (stepping on a sticker does not rate for me at all. In fact, I like stickers. I like them a lot.) My ratings would also be different. The point, however, is not how these things are measured, but that they are even on the list.


Books, magazines, and newspapers would be the most likely place to seek a better understanding of you, your concerns, worries, and fears, and the fact that there are others like you. But really all you have to do is flip to ABC's Modern Family, for example, and yet again, we find sameness! After all, that's why comedies are funny -- we can relate.


You are not alone, because we are all human.


Death, heartbreak, romance, losing your job, weight-gain, weight-loss, getting a zit on a first date, losing your house, pregnancy, disease, pure exhaustion, not getting into grad school, surgery, moving away from home.... these things are a part of life. They are things that you may have experienced once, twice, never before, or all at once. But with 7.002 billion people on this earth, you are not the only one. There are others who know precisely what you're going through. Whether you look for them or not, take comfort that they're out there.

five o'clock

Today as I left work, shuffling alongside the worked-out crowd of commuters, passing the same homeless, toothless men with their plastic bags, the same suited men and women, the same mothers and fathers anxious to get home to their children, today as I pushed the grimy metal turnstile again, I rewound my life exactly eight years.


On this day, eight years ago, at five o'clock. Would I have been home already? Probably not. I was involved in sports or theater or some extra curricular or other which keeps high schoolers out until dinner time. I guess track season is about right. We would have run outside today. Fifteen years old, and just starting to feel those pre-teen reigns slacken a little bit. Fifteen years old, and insanely uncomfortable in my body -- incredibly unsure of most things involving myself, but man, how perfectly perfect.


There's something special about that combination of adolescence and springtime. If I could bottle it up and give it a flavor, I would call it mojito: minty freshness with a squashed lime half at the bottom. I guess it's all one big metaphor, but it makes me think of running. Makes me think of my first true love. Makes me think about the start of young adulthood and everything there still was to learn. About the method in which I was taught.


If we're lucky, we are taught gradually. The big picture reveals itself slowly and steadily until we reach that age when we realize we don't want the big picture anymore. We don't want to commute with the masses. We want to run around the high school and come home to a warm house full of family.  We want that tunnel vision: homework assignments, and finish lines, and butterflies that accompany first kisses.


That is my favorite kind of five o'clock. What's yours?

a love story, a story of love

My cousin is getting married in three days. While she is not the first of my extended family to do so, she is the first girl, the first of our lady comrades to truly say goodbye to childhood and adolescence. Now that I'm old enough to understand this I have found myself in an inescapable state of nostalgia.


Our cousin-hood (made up of seventeen) is a very special one. I will let you in, I will give you a glimpse, but I promise you the magic will be lost here.


I remember distinctly the way we used to dress up in costume. Anything left over from years worth of recitals and summer productions was pulled from musty plastic bins and strewn across the basement floor. Only after we found costumes would we spend hours on the perfect script, which was scribbled in slanted penmanship on white copy paper. By the end of the day we had a full-fledged dance, play, skit, movie, and put on performance after performance for our parents who were endlessly entertained. Here our imaginations developed: an environment in which all of our parents endeavored to raise us. Encouraged by one another we would each eventually embrace this shared creativity in our own ways.


As we got older and more adventurous, family parties (the best chance for us to all be together) turned into vastly imaginative war-zones. It was here where I learned that light-up sneakers were unacceptable in a game of manhunt. My team and I expertly crafted makeshift coverings for my lights out of leaves. If we could we would have painted our faces black. As soon as it was dark enough we slithered through the varied terrain of our grandparents' property and that of their neighbors, quiet as mice, swift as deer, having memorized every tree or dip in the land. The moon was our light source. The moon and the warm lights of the house we all know so well. When at last a team admitted defeat, both troops returned to the party red-cheeked, noses running and covered in dirt.


Summer. Summer. Summer was heaven on earth. Eight weeks felt like a year, and nothing could top that feeling of pure exhaustion after a sun-drenched day of jumping waves and building castles. Fortunate we are to have a boat-owner in the family. Also a golf pro, beach town residents, and our very own island. Summer excursions provided solace from winter's gloom and relaxation for our parents and grandparents. But they were adventure lands for all of us. What better place to experience your childhood than aboard a ship, or on rolling greens, or sandy shores? Wherever it was, the shrill of laughter was sure to be ours.


One summer's perfection was punctuated, however, by the loss of the one matriarch we all knew. And so we convened again -- every single one of us -- to say goodbye to her. Guiltily, I relished the idea of being together again, and for the first time I learned that with death comes the celebration of life. It was okay to play, to laugh, to eat. So we did. All of us. Together.


And now as our lives come full circle, as we grow and build our own families, we will continue to gather. To play and laugh and eat as if we've never spent a day apart. We will recount the memories we've been lucky enough to make with one another, and aim for the same for our own children.


I am very excited for this wedding. I am very excited to see my beautiful, beautiful family.

But I still look good in purple.

When I was younger I would visit the city with my parents. Usually my sister and I wore matching oversized "dress" jackets for this special occasion... a purple one with a faux fur-lined hood comes to mind. Mom and Dad looked their best, and baby brother tagged along, white-blond hair combed to one side. We were the suburban family traipsing in (by car! gasp!) to the big city for a show, or museum, and dinner. The idea was to fit it. Look your snazziest, because in here, the people are gorgeous, near-flawless, and role models of a different kind.   

Going into the city was a treat -- something to look forward to, and, for our youthful imaginations, an adventure out of which dreams were made. And forget Broadway. Broadway was just about as much as my little heart could handle. Oh, how I wanted to be on that stage! And if there was a kid my age singing and dancing, what I felt was admiration mixed with pain: I can do that!

I remember reaching the age when I didn't have to hold my dad's hand to cross a city street. THAT was a day. I kind of peeked over my shoulder, double checking that they knew I was flying solo. Me and my sister, two doe-eyed, curly-haired (Not natural curls. Remember, this is a special occasion.) blonds leading the family past a yielded pack of yellow taxis, delivery trucks, and black suburbans. 

So now, here I am. Same City. Same girl. New sense of belonging. I still see those people. The ones who never seem to have an ugly day. The ones whose make up is so smooth I actually gawk at them as they walk in the opposite direction. The ones whose legs run miles long, with the perfect outfits, naturally. Every day is a fashion show, and so I am never bored walking to work. Outfit after outfit strolls by, and for each one I take note: must get those boots; remember to look for that jacket; love her scarf!!

How sad, really, now that I think about it. I have completely lost my childhood fascination with things actually worth looking at. I'm surrounded by some of the most interesting architecture in the country and all I can see is clothing worn by my co-inhabitants. 

Anyway. Today I realized that I am living a Broadway show. I am living Thoroughly Modern Millie. What I like about that show, aside from the clever tap number in the first act, is that it's not a story about a girl who wants to make it big on stage. Millie gives some validity to the often scoffed-at desk job. After all, not everyone can end up an actor. Thoroughly Modern Millie is a show about a girl who moves from her "one light town" to Manhattan, "The Eighth World Wonder."

Okay, where I come from there are about 15 stop lights that I can think of, however, moved into the city I have, and embracing it I am. I am no longer a guest. I am a working part of this bustling community. And while I am surrounded by sophisticated fashion sense and blemish-free beauties, every so often I see a man in a suit, tie, and...backpack? A woman wearing a blouse, skirt, and... running sneakers??

Yes, people actually have to function here. From now on I'm wearing my kicks to work, because that's how to really fit in in New York.

Photo: Meghan Cavanaugh

At last.

At last it feels like Fall is here. I know this because yesterday I had my first hot drink from Starbucks. Then later, I had my second hot drink from Starbucks, wearing my tan trench coat and a light-weight black turtleneck. 

Air conditioners are off, windows are open to let that cool, crisp breeze flow through the apartment, and a delicious new cinnamon scented candle will coat the months of October and November in a sweetness redolent of Autumns passed. 

Fall is almost as intoxicating as Spring, when we thrill at the thought of budding blossoms, and when all that lay dormant over the Winter comes back to life. Similarly now, we look at the exhausted plant life and understand that the time has come for all of the trees and flowers to take a rest. After all, we are tired too. The summer has been long. The sun has been hot. 

Welcome chill weather. 

C is for Cookie

I mentioned in an earlier post that my walls are bare and psychiatric-ward like. They still are, though I have a host of wall hangings leaning against my walls. 

I dress like this when I'm feeling handy.

It's a revelation for me. These walls are mine -- especially the four that make up my bedroom -- and for the first time I will not be disciplined for putting holes in them. My dad isn't here to make fun of the way I hang wall fixtures (thumb tacs had, until recently, been my preferred method of decorating); he also doesn't have to cover the holes I put into his house.  I don't have a persnicketty RA making sure I don't ruin the white washed walls of a college dorm room. And my old Italian(?) land lord loves us so much I'm convinced he thinks we can do no wrong. In short, I'm learning how to use a power drill and I think I'm in love.


The idea of spackling my own blunders gives me a definitive sense of ownership. I like this. I am a fan of this do-it-yourself, solo-trips-to-Home Depot-existence. I am empowered by this and other oddities that would typically be taken for granted.


The simple act of filling a glass jar with Nilla Wafers is special. Not because I can now easily grab a delicious cookie to pair with my strawberry ice-cream, but because the jar itself is a symbol of my adulthood. 


(All of a sudden, this silly post reminds me of a hastily written college essay: "I need a metaphor NOW....That'll work.")


When you find yourself owning both a box of cookies and a cookie jar in which to place those cookies, you have, I believe, reached a point of maturity that surpasses paying bills, cleaning your toilet, and commuting to work. 


Essentially, the cookie jar is just the start of more grown-up opportunities to come. For example, I recently filled another jar with a combination of wrapped Kit Kat and Reeses Peanut Butter Cups. This weekend, I will be hanging the shelves, and next week, who knows.

I'll be the first to tell you, once you're an adult the possibilities are endless, really.

(I'll let you know if I get around to vacuuming -- Let's not get carried away.)

The Interview

4:00am. 4:10am. The alarm goes off (a second time--let's not pretend that no one likes to round up and brag about how early they get up in the morning).

That's right, yesterday was my first official interview in New York City. That magical place, to quote Alicia Keys, and several other people I'm sure, "where dreams are made of."

At 4:10 my dreams were interrupted, which is just as well seeing as in my dream I was right about to be told "we've decided to cancel your interview, please leave now" by the higher-ups of my intended future place of employment. Out of bed, quick stretch and a groan, into the shower.

Post-shower, I decide to throw on a pair of shorts and a sweatshirt, leaving my suit and shirt (neat and pressed in that fancy garment bag) for later. Remember the apartment I just got? It has turned into the perfect rest-stop for travel to all places City and Beyond.

Clock ticks: 4:40. Blow dry my hair. Now I'm completely dry, dressed, deodorized, and determined to get on the road by 5:00.

Crap.

No, like actual crap.

As it turns out Izzie, our delightful little cavachon was so excited for my interview she pooped her little pants. Wait, she doesn't wear pants.

I try to convince myself that this is not a bad sign as I disinfect my flip flop and the floor. This incident sets me back about 7 minutes, but soon I'm in the car and on my way to the gas station.

No one, I repeat no one should do anything this early in the morning. You will forget which side your gas tank is on. You will not notice this until after you shut the car off and hit your car door on the gas pump itself. Another sign. I ignore this and try again.

Once in Queens, I wake up my cousin to unlock the dead bolt. She comforts me, the way a cousin should, because at this point I'm all nerves. I've even forgotten how to primp. Do I do my hair first, or my makeup? I put the suit on, I take it off -- saving the best for last.

By 7:45, I'm slipping on my panty hose. I feel sexy and confident, except for these traditional leg-wrappings that make me 10 degrees hotter, and scream: "I'M ON MY FIRST INTERVIEW!"

Hug from my roomie. Bag in hand. Panty hose suffocating my poor legs. I head to the subway. Soon after, I'm headed back to the apartment to meet my cousin for her unlimited Metro Card -- I was unable to buy one. I never have cash on hand, so sue me.

This set-back causes instant stress: A breath-taking tug, and you feel your stomach drop. A nice stream of sweat down your forehead. Did I mention it was also 90 degrees outside? Now I'm sweating through my shirt and trying to act like a regular on this subway train where I reek of outsider. 


I successfully reach my destination by 8:30. My interview is in an hour. I find a nearby Starbucks, as per my cousin's suggestion, and order an iced beverage, wishing it was vodka. By the time I get my drink, I feel as if I've run a marathon. Rolling my sleeves up, promising to pull myself together in a half hour, I find a seat directly below a delicious air conditioner, and sit.

It is physically plausible to calm yourself down with an iced latte. Another suggestion from my cousin, which I found absolutely perfect: go to the bathroom and run cool water over your wrists. Also -- remove any and all panty hose. Take 'em off girls. They're out-dated, and completely ridiculous in 90+ degree weather.

Panty hose removed, wrists a little damp, I unroll my sleeves, throw out my half full plastic coffee cup and make my way to the office thinking, I can certainly do this.

What about my Facebook?

I just finished perusing that delightful online portal that shoves into our faces the lives of friends and strangers alike. 

At 23 years old I am far from understanding myself. I sometimes imagine I am confident in who I am -- independent, strong, intelligent, sexy, and so, so cool. This revelation occurs once in a while, usually when I'm most fit -- the skinniest version of me, acne free, and happy with my wardrobe. This revelation also tends to occur when my finances are in order and all loose ends are tied up (be it at school, or in the office).

However. Within ten minutes of obsessively clicking from photo to photo of "friends" with lives drastically cooler than my own, the sweet self-content in which I briefly reveled turns into a green, sticky goo that makes me feel overweight, ugly, pimply, and pathetic.  

While the inner mirror that is Facebook brings out the harshest critic, I can't help but apply a certain social value to my own photographs. Who will frantically click through mine?? Who will think, "I wish I was as cool as her??"

I allow myself one small pity party (the latest led to this blog), then tell myself I sound like a high schooler, declare to never use Facebook again, slam shut my laptop, open my phone, and check the latest status updates, say a quick prayer that I won't always be this bitterly self-absorbed, and promise to head to the gym in the morning! 

A shower and a margarita later... I feel much better. About everything. Happy summer everyone. For now, I have chosen to forget about Facebook and all the insecurities that go with it.

Good Morning Mr. Centipede....

I have just spent two nights in a row in my apartment. How fabulous! The walls of my room are still bare and psychiatric ward-like, but I'm ignoring that. The sole source of color is a Tiffany lamp that my parents bought for me for $30 at an antique shop in Connecticut. I love it so.

This morning, as I was taking in the bare walls, I noticed a hole. A big hole....a hole with...legs...a hole with hundreds of little, creepy legs.

Hello. How did you sleep?

Welcome to living in your own apartment.... Dad? Where are you? Please just do something to get rid of this pest. I don't want to deal with this. Thank you.

Luckily, my bug-hunting boyfriend (who first unsuccessfully aimed to squish the centipede, missed by a centimeter, causing the bug to land almost on the center of my bed) did finally rid my room of the thing. He then found a wonderful website, which has decided for us what we're going to do today. Home Depot for a dehumidifier and maybe some pest repellent. Blegh blegh blegh. 

We also happen to need a curtain for the kitchen to keep out another quiet interloper -- neighbor Joe -- a kind older gentleman with a penchant for watching what we cook. He, thankfully, has less legs than a centipede. 

Daily Dose

Hello all (there are currently only two people "following me" on this website, but I am okay with that).

Hello all two of you.

I have recently been denied the ability to donate platelets. On my second trip to the local Blood Center, after filling out important medical/personal information, having my finger pricked once then squeezed for blood, then waiting excitedly for my iron results....I was told I could not donate.

I was one point under the required iron content. I left the Blood Center fists in the air, vowing to get my iron content up.
Here's what we all need to eat to keep our iron up, as suggested by the New York Blood Center:

Breakfast, lunch, and dinner for the iron-crazed.

Liver (Calf, beef, chicken, pork)
Hearts, Gizzards, Kidneys, Brain
Tongue

I don't want to up my iron anymore.

No wait, it does get better:

Check out WebMD's top 10 Iron-Rich Foods. That's manageable, right?

Of course, I should add a multi-vitamin to my daily routine. Will do this...and exercise...and not eat fried foods....Ever.

I will try to do this, and keep you posted. Also - for the two of you who are reading this: I got the apartment - and it's awesome :)

These are things I ponder

The nice thing about an English muffin is that it has two halves.

For the conscientious dieter, the English muffin is a friend. Pausing at the refrigerator, contemplating what to pair with my poached eggs, I toy with the idea of one piece of white toast.... Yes, but why stop at one, when I can have two pieces of "bread" guilt-free?

The guilt-free part, you see, is two-fold.

Firstly: Who, in their right mind, would (in their effort to be calorie efficient) break open an English muffin, wrap up one half, and continue on with the first half as if nothing ever happened. You will inevitably be affronted with "who did this?" by an appalled male family member -- left hopelessly to explain your dieting theories and eventually simply swipe the plastic-wrapped muffin-half from his confused, sweaty hands. You will now toast this half, eat it, and wonder if 60 calories was worth it.

Secondly: At 120 calories per muffin, who can complain? You're getting a whole breakfast sandwich without having to choose to eat one piece of bread. Your breakfast has been chosen for you once you decide to go with the English muffin. There is no option of eating one half, and 120 calories of nooks n' crannies,  won't harm your waste-line (unless of course you like your nooks n' crannies dripping with melted butter...).


I ponder these things because today we find out if we've been approved for our apartment. By this afternoon, I will either be delighted that I've written this paragraph before the news, or mortified. Mulling over the nuances of the English muffin calms me and ultimately completes my morning. Eating the English muffin does the same.

A week later...she looks for an apartment.

There are several things to do in lieu of going to grad school. Turns out looking for an apartment is one of them.

The apartment hunt, dutifully led by my cousin with whom I will be sharing a "lovely 2BR apt, in a quiet location, with a lot of light, shiny hardwood floor, high ceilings, brand new ceramic tiles in the kitchen and bathroom, brand new electric appliances," has commenced. (Notice we only get one hard wood floor, but multiple high ceilings-- I've learned it is important to pay close attention to details such as these.) 

We have yet to find an apartment, that isn't
a. located atop a sketchy barbershop....

b. at the end of a long hallway overlooking a dimly lit alleyway full of garbage and abandoned furniture,

c. reeking of cat litter....used cat litter.

And when they say electric appliances, they mean the standard refrigerator and oven. Don't get excited. Nobody's throwing in a free toaster or smoothie-maker. You will have a refrigerator. You will have an oven and a stove....they will (most likely not) be brand new. You will deal with this.

At the end of the search, exhaustion sets in, but ultimately you're stuck in a dream world. It looks like this:

2 BR loft only $1550! No broker fees, in a beautiful, safe area. Not a barbershop in sight.
Available exactly when you're ready to move in and not a moment before!

Snapping out of this dream world, you will be faced with the fact that your first-ever apartment will probably resemble this:

$1625/mo. Pets under 30lbs welcome.

Good to know. Now, where's the damn scale?

I promise, the search is tons of fun. And by June, I know I will have that lovely apartment with hard wood floor(s) that I'll probably cover with an area rug, wall-to-wall furniture, and eventually lots of clothes, clean and dirty. I have just negated the appeal of hard-word floor(s), but I ignore this realization. Floor or floor(s), half of it is mine, all mine, and I can't wait :)

What exactly does one do the day after she's been rejected from grad school.

Well, for starters, she doesn't go to the gym, she doesn't emerge from her room, and she doesn't get in the shower to start her day on time....


Wait, I haven't done any of those things any day for about 3 months. {Phew} I guess I'm fine then, thank goodness.


Here's what I'm thinking: Every cliché ever in the history of things to say when you don't get something you want. Below are a few examples: 

• You shouldn't have thrown all your eggs in one basket.
• Everything happens for a reason.
• When God closes a door He opens a window.
• This isn't the end of the world.
• Back to the old drawing board.
• Grad School is overrated.

I added that last one. It's not really a cliché, though it does make me feel better. 


And now, once all of those meaningless, overused phrases are out of the way, I'm still left with a wounded ego and no clue what to do next. 

One of my major concerns with the prospect of getting into grad school was that I simply would never have enough time to pursue that Broadway acting career I secretly still dream about when I'm home alone applying makeup before a huge mirror. There. Now that the time-consuming schedule of night classes, day-time internships, and studying has been swiftly taken away from me, I'll have plenty of time for Broadway. So that's Plan B.....

mmmmmm maybe not. 


Okay, fantastical dreams aside, what to do about all of the people I have told about applying to this fine school? 


The very obvious thing is that I tell no one, let them assume I've been accepted, then move out of my parents' house, get a job as a waitress (a honed skill), and read every novel of any list entitled Top 100 Books Everyone Should Read Before They Die.


This plan will ensure that I will be well-read, (self) educated, and verbally impressive; I'll be ready for all of those 20-something social gatherings, where my colleagues, who have in fact been accepted to grad school, won't be able to tell the difference between my 'library' of knowledge and theirs.


That's simple enough. Now all I have to do is train myself to stay awake when I read....


And finally: The dilemma of the cautious B.A. in English. 


There are children all over the world who don't have money to even think about going to grammar school, let alone University. So I'm done complaining about that one. (I wish I thought of this approach sooner. Would've saved me a year of feeling semi-unaccomplished.)


So to answer my own question what exactly does one do the day after she's been rejected from graduate school?


I will listen to my own clichés and those of others, never quit dreaming of Broadway, furthering my education, or raising baby tigers (....I didn't go into that here, did I?), and never let on that rejection was close to getting the best of me. When I look at things that way I can't help but be enlightened by the fact that in the scheme of my whole life, this is, as they say, merely a bump in the road.