I didn’t get into Northwestern’s creative writing MFA program. I cried my eyes out for a few hours on Friday night, but I’m getting over it now. Not, however, after having declared that what I ought to do is finally accept my own mental vacuity and as yet unexploited fertility and unavoidable Trophy Wifedom, and to start focusing my efforts to that end.

The funny part is that, bruised though my ego may be, I still truly and honestly like my writing better than that on the blog written by the woman in charge of the department (cancerbitch (dot) blogspot (dot) com — I won’t link directly; I may be disrespectful but I’m not rude). Reading her blog, and thinking mine is better, is what gave me the confidence to apply in the first place.

I realize that, in saying this, I’ve essentially ruined any chance whatsoever of being accepted to her program in the future. Not that I’d apply again. It’s not that I’m too proud; I just much prefer to relish the idea of someday being wildly successful on my own and having the opportunity to shove it back in their faces. You know, when they ask me to become an adjunct professor and I tell them exactly where and how they can get off.

Remember the movie The Mighty Ducks? My brother watched it over and over and over again as a child (as well as the Beethoven movies, and Home Alone, and home movies of himself waterskiing), so that I know the entire scripts of these classics by heart. Something about this one line in The Mighty Ducks stuck with me and has since informed my reactions whenever I find myself in a compromising situation. In his first (albeit failed and morally questionable) attempt at coaching his team, Emilio Estevez teaches the kids to:

“Take the fall! Act hurt! GET INDIGNANT!”

In another day or so, I’ll have done just that. And I’ll have a plan.

Northwestern can keep their crummy degrees, and I’ll keep my twenty grand a year (which, incidentally, is the brightest side of this all, as far as Rob is concerned; hello, down payment!). The college path has never worked out quite right for me, and I’m finished trying to play their game. I’ll go my own way. I never want to, but I always have to. I don’t know why I thought this time should be any different.

Happily, I had a lot to keep me busy over the weekend. Rob came home from work on Friday night with flowers, and before the sun went down — I repeat: before the sun went down — and took me to Hopleaf for enough porters and stouts and pommes frites with garlic aioli to make me seriously sick to my stomach.

I spent the rest of the weekend helping Jen set up her kindergarten classroom.

What can I say? I enjoy a theme, and we all know how I feel about manual labor. I may have missed my calling as a kindergarten classroom decorator, if there ever could be such a job. (I’m not foolish enough to think that I might be a good kindergarten teacher; just the thought of the five-year olds coming in and touching my beautiful handiwork with their grubby grubby paws is enough to send me into a tailspin.)

And tomorrow is another day.

After days of checking my mailbox compulsively, and even joining Molly at her post by the window, holding vigil for the mail carrier’s uncertain arrival, I became the annoying applicant who called in to ask when decision letters would go out.

First, I was told last Wednesday. Then I was assured they went out Monday morning. Today, I get this email:

Dear Amanda,

Best regards,

Graduate Admissions Office

So I hold my breath and log in.

Dear Amanda:

Best regards,
Graduate Admissions

WHAT?!?

So I email them back and ask if I should anticipate a more detailed message to appear in the system (seeing as how I logged in to the system a mere three minutes after the email was sent). The reply:

Hello Amanda,

Best,
Lori

Um, whaaa?

Also, yeah RIGHT. They were mailed on Tuesday. Yeah freaking right.

I might expire.