Just when I thought I'd finally pushed that rock up the hill...

Kaplan cancelled its March training session. The next one they'll offer will begin early in April.

I didn't even bother taking the retest. I was still shaky on the math and I didn't want to waste my one opportunity to retest if the training doesn't start for a month.

This is one of the more devastating stumbles I've faced so far. I've been counting on this job for a month. (I applied on the first day of February, and my interview was the next week.) I haven't done much in the way of other applying since it looked like this was going to go through. Now I've literally got nothing to fall back on. This was the m*****f***ing fallback.

Something drastic really needs to happen soon. In an attempt to nip any potential parental hand-wringing in the bud, I told my mother and father that I'd have something else by the end of the week. I don't really know how realistic that time frame is, but that's what I told them. I'm obviously not going to find a job that I want in four days. But apparently I'm not going to find a job that I want in six months either. I've been revisiting the idea of just getting into my car and driving away, but I feel like there's something keeping me around here for just a little while longer. Summer and beyond may be another story, but for now...

When I called to tell her the bad news, my mom had a few suggestions for where I should look next. She'd seen an ad on ESPN.com for an editor "with three years of national magazine experience." I told her that it sounded like I might be a little underqualified and her response was, "Well, doesn't the Yale Herald send subscriptions out all over the country?" Fundamental disconnect, anyone?

The idea of getting a burger-flipping job or something along those lines is frustrating, but more than that it seems like career suicide at this stage of the game. How is it going to look that I've held out for six months only to wind up doing something menial that I could have been doing all along? I worry that I'm doing serious, irreprable damage to my future career prospects. Even if I apply to law school, I'll have to account for this time. Will admissions officers see an unmotivated slouch and move on? Have these six months effectively nullified all the ladder-climbing I've done over the past 23 years?

I've been pumping a lot of motivational music through my speakers since yesterday afternoon. There have been a lot of commercials for the DVD of Rent, which led me to a few songs from that show: "Will I lose my dignity/Will someone care/Will I wake tomorrow/From this nightmare." I know, that riff is about having AIDS, but, hey, at least I can empathize. Sort of. Then there's The Killer's "All These Things..." which is probably the song I would write if I were able to write a song: "I wanna shine on in the hearts of man.../I'm so much older than I can take.../I need direction to perfection.../You know you gotta help me out..."

What a ridiculously lousy situation. I cannot wait until the day when I can look back and laugh at all of this goddam bullshit.

A nonfiction post

I've been distractedly distracted by some distracting distractions lately. I could start another whole blog. Or, as my pal Dan might chide, a whole 'nother blog.

Sorry to be withholding ("Look at me getting off." --Lucille Bluth). If you were trolling between the hours of 1 and 8 a.m. on Saturday morning, you may have been lucky enough to catch a mildly revealing, since-deleted drunk post. Hmm, drunk posting. Another potentially destructive practice to add to my post-drinking routine of drunk dialing, drunk texting and drunk emailing.

I've been taking the time to transform some of my recent experiences into fiction. Or creative nonfiction. Or whatever. Fiction doesn't really exist. I read a John Updike piece labeled as "Fiction" in this week's New Yorker. The piece was a about writer in his early 70s reflecting on the death of his father, his two marriages, his time as a Harvard student and his childhood in Pennsylvania. The man's name was Jim, and I'd be willing to wager that that is one of very few non-autobiographical details in the "story." The New Yorker must be trying to avoid getting taken down by Oprah (because you know she can take down whomever she damn well pleases). I have no idea what has been motivating the recent crusade to draw a sharp distinction between fiction and memoir. A lot of people are missing the point. Labels and genres are marketing tools. There's only one reason to write, and that reason is therapy. Barnes and Noble should be just one big self help section.

I'm taking my SAT retest tomorrow. I'm worried that my math skills may not pass muster. If I can't score as well or better than the smartest 10 percent of 17-year-olds, I can kiss Kaplan goodbye.

Wednesday is March 1. Another month is coming to an end. And you know what that means...

It's time to pay my credit card bill.

Uncanny prescience

And now a word from my just-turned-17-year-old self.

5 December 1999

Seeing as the millennium is fast approaching, I thought it would be good, for posterity's sake, to predict my own future. In the year 2025, a quarter century from now, I will be 42, and hopefully comfortably settled into some sort of stable lifestyle. I should be relatively healthy, if a bit overweight. I will have gone to Yale, and afterwards gotten some kind of advanced degree elsewhere. My first job will most likely have been some kind of internship or had some sort of family connection. But I will then have gone on to become a teacher, in spite of the fact that I currently believe that I will become a lawyer.

I found this gem in an old journal. And it's me, all right. Note the characteristic verbosity, and the overabundance of commas and adverbs. And the almost crippling lack of surety ("some sort of...some kind of...some kind of").

As a matter of context, I should note that getting into Yale was a major preoccupation of mine throughout high school.

I'm not surprised that I thought I would end up as a teacher. It's the path of least resistance that I've been trying to swerve off of for a while now.

I am surprised that practicing law was on my mind so early. Did I sincerely want to be a lawyer, or was I already so disillusioned that a more creative occupation seemed hopelessly out of reach?

Over six years have passed since I wrote the prediction. Half has come true. I would make a few revisions to the second half, but I'd be afraid they might come true.

Busy weekend

I was in rare form this weekend. That is, I didn't spend 72 hours on my couch watching Arrested Development DVDs and trying to think up interesting blog topics.

Friday night was a relatively run-of-the-mill bar night, with the notable exception of the presence of a couple of Corinne's college roommates. Saturday night I drove down to Ridgefield to have dinner with a couple college buddies. On Sunday, I went to my first live rock show in a very long while. The band was Live. (Note the capitalization.) They played at the Webster Theater in Hartford, which is a relatively small venue that looks like it was once a community theater or movie house. There isn't any seating in the hall, which wasn't as big a deal as I thought it would be. The show was very good. But I'm an easy sell.

Monday morning, bright and early, I set out for Ludlow, Vermont. My aunt and uncle and two cousins ski at Okemo and they'd invited me to stay with them for a couple days. Before this weekend, I'd been skiing for about 11 days (sprinkled over the past three years). Now I've got days 12 and 13 under my belt.

I've come to enjoy skiing, but I also find it slightly horrifying. The whole idea is kind of absurd: strapping waxy fiberglass planks to your feet and shooting yourself down a steep snowy hill. And the number of extra hazards along ski trails never ceases to astound me: jagged exposed rocks, broken tree stumps, metal snow-making pipes jutting out of the ground. One Okemo trail traversed two narrow concrete-walled tunnels. When I pictured skiing in my mind, I imagined big soft snow banks lining the sides of the trail waiting to cushion the fall of a novice skier. But when I gazed down from the top of my first bunny hill and there were no nets or padding or protection of any kind, I wondered what I had gotten myself into. It didn't take long to learn what should be the first principle of skiing: personal responsibility. The only person looking out for your safety on the ski slope is you.

Sorry. That was my best attempt at a post. I'll think of something good for tomorrow

There's not much on my to-do list. Aside from studying for the SAT.

Some news...

There are no exclamation marks in the title of this post. And for good reason. The news in question is of minor significance. It should not be construed as a major milestone, some grand tectonic turn of events in my post-baccalaureate life. It's a nibble on the line.

I've been invited to enter the Kaplan teacher training program. But first I have to take a diagnostic exam and score at or above the 90th percentile. If I succeed, I go through five weeks of training (4 hours of class and 2-3 hours of preparation per week). Upon completing training, I get to teach a Kaplan SAT prep course, either as a private tutor or as a classroom teacher.

By playing this news down I'm not trying to be coy. There was no ecstatic jumping up and down when I got the email with the news. It certainly wasn't altogether unexpected. If anything, I was a little bummed to think of all the time I wasted when I could have been doing this kind of thing for months already.

Once the (paid) training begins I'll no longer unemployed, technically. I'll be making money and clocking hours and all the rest. But there won't be much of an internal change.

This Kaplan gig isn't the ineffable thing that I've been waiting for. It's a BandAid to staunch the bleeding of a five-and-a-half-month-old wound.

At this point I don't anticipate much of a change in the tone or content of the writing on this site. I think it'll still be a while before I emerge from this tangle of thorns.

Miltonsprogeny returns!

A moment ago I was browsing through some of the statistics on my hit counter. (Forgive me for delving into the staid and self-aggrandizing topic of my hit counter, but I assure you that I do it only because there is mystery and intrigue afoot.) One of the features of the counter is that I can view the "Referring URL" that directs someone to the blog (e.g., if someone clicks the link on my Facebook profile, a link to my Facebook profile shows up on the counter). So I was perusing these links when I came across one that left me completely aghast:

http://www.google.com/search?hl=en&q=miltonsprogeny

Someone did a Google search on "Miltonsprogeny"! And this website is the only link that comes up for that search! And the Googler followed the link to this page!

(If "Miltonsprogeny" isn't ringing any bells, go back and read Private Call.)

Now, I've misinterpreted hit counter information before. But in my mind, this bit of evidence-- this electronic footprint, if you will--can mean only one thing: the elusive Miltonsprogeny himself executed a Google search of his own email address and discovered this blog (and presumably read the pertinent entries).

I had almost forgotten about the Miltonsprogeny ordeal. I stopped sending belligerent emails to that address a week or so ago, once it became clear that I was never going to receive the (dis)closure that I felt I was entitled to.

But I'm glad to have the opportunity to revisit the situation, because my wounds are still sore. I hope that the owner of the Miltonsprogeny email address will return to this space at some point in the near future. Perhaps he will read these very words. If so, I would like to address the following remarks directly to him:

Dear Sir-

Thank you for considering me for the editorial/personal assistant position you posted on Craigslist New York. I appreciate your interest in my application, and was glad to be able to speak with you (or someone who may have been your associate) on the phone.

However, I find it rather unseemly that the caller failed to identify himself to me and abruptly ended our conversation--after less than one minute--without providing me with any information as to whether I was still in consideration for the position in question.

It is one thing to decline to pursue a job applicant upon evaluating his submitted application materials. But it is quite another to solicit further information from an applicant via a spontaneous telephone call without providing so much as an introduction or the most basic concluding courtesies.

I have applied to many similar positions, and in my experience this kind of conduct is wholly unprecedented.

A job applicant must operate on the assumption that a job listing is reputable and trustworthy, and that any personal information which he submits to a potential employer will be used appropriately. By even the most meager standards it would be hard to classify the use of my personal information, including my private cell phone number, as anything but abuse in this instance.

If you have read this, I would sincerely appreciate any response that you would care to provide.

Do I think Miltonsprogeny is going to read that statement? Nope. But I liked writing it.

Honestly, I have no idea who, other than the pseudonymous (that's probably not a word) author himself, would be Googling Miltonsprogeny. If you did and you're reading this (and you're not the owner of that address...or even if you are), seriously, leave a comment or send me an email. This is really going to nag at me...for a while at least.

(See, I told you I'd try to post more often.)

Down and out

I still haven't heard from Kaplan. I'm about ready to dig a hole and bury myself in it.

The Kaplan people were supposed to get back to me in "3 to 5 business days." I auditioned last Tuesday. Friday was the third business day; today is the fifth. I've been trying to run scenarios in my head, but I can't think of a single rational reason why I wouldn't have heard a word with little over an hour left of the fifth business day. Are they pulling a Food & Wine on me (i.e., inviting me to interview and then neglecting to inform me that they've decided not to hire me)?

This was supposed to be my fallback. This was supposed to be my safety school, my shoo-in, my last resort. I was supposed to avoid teaching of any kind because I didn't want to wake up in 10 years to find myself standing in front of a room full of bored 10th graders, giving a warmed-over lecture on "A Separate Peace." Applying to Kaplan was an act of desperation, an act of hopelessness that may have been even more hopeless than I imagined.

For the first time in a while, I had trouble getting to sleep last night. I kept myself up thinking about all the applications I've submitted over the past several months. I was overwhelmed by the sheer volume, and by my utter failure to secure anything that I've really wanted. I've been submitting fewer applications recently. Disregard and rejection have come to look like foregone conclusions.

How did I get to this point? One year ago, things were going well enough. I may have burned out a bit toward the end of college, but didn't everyone? Putting off making plans was liberating. Once June began I'd have no obligations for the first time in forever. My options were more open than they'd ever be again. It felt like it would be a time to savor. If I had been able to see where I'd be today, would I have done anything differently? How much more pathetic would my current life look to my hopeful, ambitious, pre-graduation self?

I've been writing for an hour, and still nothing from Kaplan.

If I get the Kaplan job I'm taking it, and I'll keep applying to anything I come across that seems promising. I don't even want to consider not getting it.

Art (poorly) imitating (an uninteresting) life

I'm uninspired today. I'm still sort of recovering from this weekend's blizzard party (Three friends and I camped out at my place for the duration of this weekend's snow storm. Somehow we managed to misplace 7/8ths of the vodka from a bottle of Grey Goose. I'm still looking for it).

As I was rewatching my tape of the last four Arrested Development episodes this morning, I noticed an ad for a new show on Fox. It's called Free Ride. Here's the synopsis from the show's website:

Free Ride is a partially improvised comedy that follows recent UC Santa Barbara graduate Nate Stahlings as he boomerangs home to move back in with his parents in his small Midwestern town, Johnson City, MO, with no life plans past doing his laundry. Upon his return he discovers his mom Margo and dad Bob are knee-deep in marriage therapy and his bedroom has been turned into a gym. The good news is that Nate reconnects with cute former-classmate-turned-bank-teller Amber Danwood; the bad news is she's newly engaged. Nate also hooks up with Mark Dove, a guy who peaked in high school and has been cruising downhill in his monster truck ever since. The assistant manager in the auto section at the local Kash Kutters, Dove takes Nate under his "wing" to show him the local party scene, which turns out to be way more mild than wild.

Unsure of where his life is headed anyway, and hopeful that Amber can overcome that nasty little "fiance" business of hers, Nate decides to stay home just a little while longer as he transitions into the next stage of development: Real Life.

Well I'm speechless. Has Fox been following me with hidden cameras? They've made a few clever adjustments--for one, they've changed my cruising-downhill-in-a-monster-truck friend Carina (the assistant front desk manager at the local haircutters) into a dude--but the resemblance is undeniable. Changing my last name to "Stahlings" is kind of a knock over the head, though.

Ultimately, the joke's on Fox. Nobody's going to want to watch the show. Trust me. I've been watching it for a while now. It sucks.

Close call

I almost didn't want to write this post because, as you'll see in a moment, I'm still trying to decide whether the following situation is worth giving a second thought. But maybe writing about it will help me figure that out.

I have a standing Thursday dinner date at my grandparents. As I was pulling out of my driveway to head to their place, which is just across town, my phone rang. I picked it up and struck up a conversation with my friend Dave, who was on the other end. I hadn't had a chance to fasten my seatbelt, but didn't give it much thought because of the short drive (dark clouds on the horizon). It's actually unusual for me to drive without a seatbelt; I find that I feel vulnerable, almost naked, without it.

A half mile from my grandparents' house, I pulled up to a four way stop, still seatbeltless and still talking to Dave on my cell phone (we were discussing what we liked about Capote and Good Night, and Good Luck). As I began to turn left, a car suddenly flew across my field of vision, a few feet beyond my front bumper. Seemingly out of sequence, a split second later I heard the squeal of tires and the sound of my own horn. The other car came to rest on the shoulder on the opposite side of the intersection, while I stopped, stunned, in the middle of the intersection, exchanging a frightened glance with a woman in a car across the way.

The guy got out of his car and walked halfway toward me with his arms in the air, as if I were the one in the wrong. I rolled my window down and said, "There's a stop sign there. It's a four way stop." He arms fell to his sides, his posture became sheepish.

Obviously, I was shaken up by this little incident. I've been trying to put it out of my mind, but it's been difficult. I don't want to think of it as anything more than a close call, but I've been tempted to look for meaning. I'm being ridiculous, I know. But I can't help being freaked out.

Thankfully I've got an outlet for my crazy mental machinations. I think this post and a few glasses of sangria later on tonight will be all the therapy I need.

Kaplan recap

Sincerest apologies to my 9-to-5 professional and 7am-to-3am academic regulars who have been deprived of fresh procrastination lately. There's no excuse, really.

Yesterday I had my Kaplan Test Prep audition. Brace yourself for the meticulous recapitulation.

My assignment was to prepare a 5-minute lesson on a topic of my choosing and present it to a roomful of other Kaplan hopefuls, the aim being to demonstrate my classroom demeanor and potential teaching ability. I had planned to do a lesson on how to write a sonnet. I know it sounds kind of flaky, but I gave a similar presentation to my AP English class in high school and it went pretty well. And I might as well get some mileage out of my English degree.

I had plenty of time to prepare this presentation. My interview was scheduled a week ago, and in theory I could have been tweaking the lecture since then. But by 5:00 p.m. yesterday afternoon (a mere hour before I had to be in New Haven for the audition), I was only beginning to run through the presentation for the first time. I came to the disquieting realization that I had reverted to my work habits of old. On second thought, maybe my frantic last-minute prep session wasn't so much a reversion as it was a reaffirmation of poor work habits that I've never actually lost. If I haven't found myself procrastinating and cramming lately, it's only because I've had no work to put off (aside from the work of finding work, of course).

With 45 minutes until I had to leave my house, it became obvious that my sonnet lesson was going to be much longer than 5 minutes. Since time management (i.e., keeping one's presentation to the time limit) was one of the primary evaluation criteria, I was in dire need of a retooling. I couldn't completely reinvent my topic, so I decided to take the first segment of my sonnet talk--an explanation of iambic pentameter--and make that the whole lesson. I rehearsed a few visual aids on my old erasable white board from college (board usage was another key evaluative element), stuttered through some spontaneous dialogue, and left the house with a slightly elevated heart rate. I was tempted to distract myself by listening to All Things Considered on the drive into New Haven, but I forced myself to recite the presentation a few times in the car (my broad hand gestures--blame my Italian genetic history--probably looked odd to passing motorists).

I got to the Kaplan office right on time, but I was the last to arrive. The audition was being conducted by an acquaintance of mine (a fact which I knew in advance) and I tried not to make it too obvious that I knew him because there were six other candidates auditioning.

The first guy to present was a vaguely familiar classmate of mine from college. He gave an eloquent, slightly droll talk about how to prepare the perfect rack of lamb (imported Australian meat is best, and a soft cheese with a hint of garlic flavor makes for an exquisite spread). A girl went next. Before she began her presentation, she wrote the sonnet rhyme scheme (abab cdcd efef gg) on the board. For a moment I was stunned. Was she going to lecture on how to write a sonnet? Could she pull of the topic that I failed to execute? Would she talk about iambic pentameter, and would she give a better explanation than mine? It turned out that her topic was much more general, "how to write a love poem," and she didn't get into any technical elements of poetic form or meter. (Phew.) She was followed by a slightly jockish guy in his mid-20s who spoke about how to plan "a ridiculous ski trip." He didn't utilize the board much, and he went long, so I'm doubtful about his chances to move on.

I was fourth, and I began by warning the group that another poetry lesson was forthcoming. I talked about how the terminology of poetry can be daunting, but that it's really not as incomprehensible as it seems. I used the board to write the definition of meter ("the pattern of rhythm and accent in a line of poetry") and foot ("a unit of measure of poetic meter composed of a combination of 2, 3 or more stressed and unstressed syllables"). I gave an example of an iamb, and a trochee, and ended by demonstrating iambic pentameter at work in a line of poetry ("My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun"). I was pleased, but the topic might have been slightly academic, and it didn't seem like the others were particularly enthralled.

The other presentations were about how to do a crossword puzzle; something about golf; and finally an extremely creepy tutorial on how to clip a bird's wings (Have a pair of needle-nosed pliers handy; if you clip a feather too high and it starts to bleed, you'll need to yank the whole thing out lest the bird bleed to death. [shudder]). As if the presentation could get any more bizarre, the presenter (a thin, bespectacled Southeast Asian-looking guy), had brought a visual aid: several tube socks tied together to resemble a bird, complete with eyes drawn in black Sharpie and a paper beak.

I expect to hear one way or the other by Friday. If I passed, I'll go in for training. If I failed, well, what else is new?

I haven't submitted any new applications in about a week. Have I mentioned that I'm sick of being ignored and rejected?

So, what happens when/if I get this Kaplan job? It'll only be a few hours a week, and I won't be making enough money to move out. Should I get something (anything) else to fill time and provide me with a regular paycheck? Do I keep applying to out-of-my-league writing industry jobs? Do I start studying for the LSATs? Or filling out applications for summer writing programs? Should I revisit the wwoofing option?

If nothing else, I'll try to get back to a more frequent posting schedule. As I've often said, regular writing has been my only worthwhile endeavor these many months. Plus, I don't want to leave too many long gaps in the historical record. I have my future biographer(s) to think of.

Latest job shenanigans

It's been a while since I've given a bona fide job update. In no particular order, here are the latest developments:

-I never heard back from Newsweek. Big surprise. Big waste of time and energy. But I'm not saying "I told you so." I'm greatful to all those who encouraged me to go through with it.

-The whole Miltonsprogeny "personal assistant" affair has been incredibly infuriating. It looks like last week's enigmatic phone call is the last I'll ever hear about it. I guess my public secondary school education and mid-3's GPA weren't up to snuff for the illustrious anonymous professor/writer. What's sad is that the whole thing is really just par for the course. I have still never heard back from the Food & Wine editor I interviewed with, even after scads of emails (in case you missed it, in November I went into New York to interview for an editorial assistant position and never heard back from them one way or the other). And then there are all of those applications that have never even been acknowledged. Not to sound shrill, but the intensity of the disregard that I've been shown over these past few months is often overwhelming. Nothing in my life has prepared me for this. It flat out sucks.

-I applied to a "copyediting assistant" position with Time Warner Books in Boston. I'd obviously love to land this job, and I took a lot of time crafting a cover letter. But I'm sure it'll be just another exercise in futility.

-My father is trying desperately to "be helpful" to me in my job search. He's enlisted his girlfriend to ferret out job opportunities at her company (Otis Elevator). If only there were some tactful way to say "leave me alone."

-Other than the Time Warner and Kaplan jobs, this week has been a total wash in terms of applications. I dawdled on Monday, on Tuesday a lunch date turned into a whole-day affair, Wednesday was tire day, and Thursday was dedicated to getting my college boxes sorted and laundering two months worth of clothing that had accumulated on my bedroom floor. I've got five jobs on the docket but I've already got plans to see a movie on Friday afternoon. My hopes are high but my expectations are low.

-I'm considering applying to summer programs in creative writing. The University of Iowa has one, and I'm sure I can sleuth out a couple more. Then in autumn I think I'll probably apply to a mix of writing programs and (gulp) law schools. Mom thought that was a good idea. "See where the chips fall," she said.

That's enough for one update, methinks. It's bedtime now, and I might have a busy day tomorrow.

The day's accomplishments

Today I changed a flat tire. And scheduled an audition for a job with Kaplan Test Prep. Of the two accomplishments, I'd say changing the tire was much more fulfilling.

As I was pulling out of my mother's driveway last night, I noticed something strange about the way the car was driving. At first I thought the roads were icy, because it felt like I was driving on something gravelly, like hailstones or small rocks. After about 100 yards, it occurred to me that I might have a flat, so I let go of the wheel for a moment and the car immediately began to drift to the left. I pulled over, got out, and discovered the flat in front on the driver's side. I drove the car back to my mother's and borrowed her car for the evening.

My father told me I should just call AAA in the morning, rather than attempt to change it myself. Ever the rebel, I decided to go against father's wishes and do it myself. I Googled "how to change a tire" and found that the first link was a very helpful website with lots of detailed info. I took a few notes, and drove over to mom's. Once there, I was thrilled to discover that all of the tools I would need were nestled snugly under the mat in the trunk: doughnut (i.e., non-full sized spare), jack, lug wrench. The "jack location" was clearly marked under the car, and the lug wrench doubled as a handle for the jack--it was an incredibly efficient and simple procedure. All I had to do was loosen a few nuts, turn a crank, switch tires, tighten some nuts, and turn the crank again. Even an unemployed English major could (and did) do it. I drove to the tire store with my caution lights blinking, half as a safety precaution and half to draw attention to my successfully installed doughnut.

As for scheduling an audition with Kaplan, it constitutes a bit of a surrender. While it would be something to occupy my time and good money, it contradicts a lot the principles I've tried to adhere to. But look where those principles have gotten me up to this point.

I feel confident that I'll be able to land the Kaplan job. The main requirements are (1) that you're an engaging teacher and (2) that you've scored at or above the 90th percentile on the SATs (or whatever other test you'd be teaching). I think I'd make a fine and entertaining teacher. People seemed to like my Mellon Forum presentation, anyway. As for my percentiles, I went back and checked and while my Verbal score is fine (smugly: of course) my Math score was only in the 89th percentile! Eek! Either I'll have to retest (1600s no longer exist, otherwise I'd be all over it) or maybe they'll be nice and waive that last percentile point.

Working for Kaplan would give me something to do and an income while I continue to pursue the brass ring (or better yet: the Golden Snitch. Hey! I just got that!).

One final tidbit: my mother's husband's cousin sent me a few tips on job applications and interviews. One tip was that unaccounted-for time on a resume is a major red flag and should be avoided. I realized that June 2005-January 2006 (and beyond) is a big chunk of unaccounted-for time. How could I possibly justify all of this time on a resume? Then, in the shower, it hit me:

"June 2005-January 2006: Travelled extensively and devoted significant time to writing creatively, supported by grant money from Davenport College of Yale University."

Bingo! I mean, how good does that sound? And in saying that, I'll only be taking the tiniest liberties (nothing James Frey-ish). The money I got from Dport was more of a prize than a grant (I won an award for being a Davenport senior majoring in English with a demonstrated interest in music. I was one of two people who fit requirements, and we both won the award.) Also, the clause "writing creatively" refers primarily to this blog, and I could see how one could contest the assertion that this endeavor constitutes creative writing. But I do spend a lot of time doing it, so that must count for something. (Sidebar: Apparently blogging existed before the internet. Bloggers of old were called "diarists," and they wrote on paper with quills or Bic pens. You'd think that webloggers without the web would be "loggers", but that was something else e.g. Paul Bunyan).

Recap: Today I engaged in my first manual labor since I shoveled the driveway on Thanksgiving, took the first step toward selling out, and figured out a way to make 6+ months of indecision and laziness look admirable. All in a day's work.