Hello, Failure

Of all the enemies of literature, success is the most insidious

Tuesday, May 27, 2003

Failure of the Day: Counting Chickens And Then Deciding They're All Dead

Well, no call from MyPleasure.com yesterday. I did a pretty good job of convincing myself that the Lube Lady (as we've come to call the woman who interviewed me) actually meant that she'd call Tuesday because she forgot that yesterday was a holiday. That particular illusion lasted until a little after midnight, right when I was trying to go to sleep. And then POW!!! Bye-bye illusion, hello insomnia.

I am about 90 percent certain she will not call today. I still jump out of my skin when the phone rings because I have worked myself up into a fairly ridiculous and entirely unbecoming state. And each time it rings, it is still the damn Arbitron radio ratings people who are dying to know what station I listen to. And the radio is uniformly horrible, so I don't listen to it at all except sometimes KUSF and KQED, both of which are non-commercial, and radio ratings are used primarily to determine ad sales rates, so they really don't need to hear from me at all. But they still keep calling.

Anyway, it's only 10 AM (I would tell myself, if were actually holding out a shred of hope that the Lube Lady will call, which I'm not). It's not like she's the only job prospect I have right now; I sent out a butt load of resumes and pithy cover letters in the last two weeks, including one to a place looking for freelance copyeditors with computer book experience, and they would be nuts not to take me on. Plus, I already have a job, even though lately they have been falling short of supplying me with 40 hours a week of work, which is why I'm antsy to begin with.

I suppose this is all just part and parcel to the extended adolescence we're all enjoying so characteristically of our generation. I get to postpone traditional adult responsibility and dye my hair pink, but I also get to wait by the phone in high school-esque Will-He-Call anxiety.

Late-breaking (11 AM) update: It's official... the Lube Lady has no use for me. She sent me a swell e-mail about "more exact matches for the position" and so on. Oh well. I'm going to have some Fritos now.


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