is the word 'diary' better than the word 'blog'? probably not.
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Voooowels.
Hey. I got some really sweet email today, some from people I don�t even know. So I want to thank any of you who sent me email to cheer me up after my last, admittedly downcast posting. Thank you. I�m OK. The bad news is still bad news. But I�m OK.
But Oy. And I mean that in the Jewish way of meaning �pain� and not in the Evany�s-stepdad-is-British way of meaning �hey there.� Anyway, Oy. I just returned from yet another 11-hour job interview. Looooong Daaaaaaays Abooooouuunnd.
I think it went well. From my perspective it went well, and I know they like me. I like them, too. In fact, at the end of the 11 hours, as I was walking away after dinner, I was thinking it would be too bad if I never saw them again. Then I had that momentary sadness that comes with experience, the experience of knowing that I might never see them again, because they might not offer me the job, even though I�m smart and qualified. They might never offer me the job because there might be some other candidate who is also smart and qualified and who also has some set of qualifications that fills more needs in the department, etc. That�s just how it goes. It�s all very mysterious, random, and, ultimately, has very little to do with me. The academic world is really, really crazy.
So let�s talk about something else. For instance, a friend of mine has started the cutest ever music blog. You should add it to your repertoire of reading.
Also: Last night Scrubs was a musical. I watched it here in the Holiday Inn on 57th Street in Manhattan. It did not even begin to approach the brilliance of the Buffy the Vampire Slayer musical, but it did feature a song about stool samples, which included these lines:
�why do you need a stool sample if you think I�m just a nut?
because the answer isn�t in your head; it�s in your butt.�
and
�it may sound gross, you may say shush,
but we need to see what comes out of your tush.�
That made me laugh, because I am a 12-year-old boy.
There was also a pretty good song about guylove, that kind of love between two guys who aren�t gay and are a bit afraid of how much they love each other. Of course it was a song between Zach Braff and Turk. I can never remember what the Zach Braff character�s name is on the show, but because his best friend�s name is Turk, I think of him as Purp. Why? Because of a very special pair of socks jointly owned by Evany and Marco, called PurpsNTurqs. That�s right, jointly owned. Much like how sometimes Caroleen and I are, jointly, Mittens (the cat, not the hand-warming garment of great utility), especially when we are a team in Puerto Rico defeating everyone else playing Dominos. Or when we are climbing at high altitudes, and resting every ten paces. Mittens 4ever!
Speaking of garments of great utility, in the last month I have twice had a conversation with other women about the frequency with which brassieres can be purchased. Both women were feeling guilty about buying bras too often. Both thought that bras should last for a year or more. And both were relieved when I told them they were crazy. So listen up. Ladies, if your rack-load is a D-cup, maybe even a C, but especially a D, your bras are doing a lot of work. They will last you three months or so, and then you need to let them go, and buy some more. You will be much happier, believe me. I learned this from another friend of mine, who wears a cup-size two sizes bigger than mine. Just imagine that! And keep your hands where I can see them, OK?
Tonight, after my latest loooong asssssss job interview ended, I walked into the hotel and straight to the bar, where I bought a glass of wine. When I gained enough self-consciousness to think about my surroundings (as I was waiting for change for my twenty dollar bill), I realized that a single guy was sitting at the bar a-looking at me a-expectantly, like, �hmmm, single laaaady.� He was soap opera handsome, by which I mean grotesquely handsome, and I felt myself about to have an unkind giggling attack because of the way he was looking at me as if there could be no disputing of his handsomeness. So I grabbed my glass of wine and walked straight to the elevator, and came up to my room.
Then I spent a looooong time on the phone. With my sister, and Wendy, and Cutest Boy, and Wendy again. My sister wanted to know whether I was going out with friends, and I told her I couldn�t imagine making my way to a bar or a restaurant and being articulate, and she said, �won�t anyone come up to see you at the hotel bar?� And I was all, �dude, I�m at West 57th Street and 9th Avenue!� And she�s like, �what does that mean?� and I�m all, �It�s like you�re in San Francisco and I�m in Emeryville!� Then she understood.
I�d like to stay longer, to see some people, and attend a cocktail party for a friend�s birthday tomorrow night, but I have a buuuuunch of work to do before the semester starts, and the semester starts on MONDAY. Tomorrow morning I am going to sleeeeeep iiiiiiinnn, order room service, check out at the last minute, and then get to the train station to take my lovely Amtrak ride back to Ardmore, PA, and then I�ll walk a mile home to QuakerBubble, where work and Hansy Blixy await me. And then!
(Did you know that my occasional use of "And then!" is always a reference to Dude, Where's My Car?? It. always. is.)
12:38 a.m. - January 20, 2007
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