The Edge to the Impatience is Slowly Rubbing Down

Are you tired of hearing intermittent updates about my graduate school status? If so, you have two choices: 1) stop reading or 2) keep reading. Be forewarned, though, that option 2 will make you roll your eyes and feel even more tired of these updates.

Portland State finally wrote back. They said, "Thanks, but no thanks." But they were much more validating than that, something I appreciated. My mom called me a few minutes ago to tell me the letter had arrived, and I asked her to open and read it because I didn't have any particular desire to wait another two days to see what it said.

I applied to a writing program there, and the letter basically said that after careful review, the faculty felt my style and work weren't compatible with their work, but that they encouraged me in all of my future endeavors and wanted me to know that some of the writing classes were open to not-enrolled students--that is, if the professors liked their writing. (And I'm guessing at least a couple of professors approved, since I got a much more personal rejection from them than I received from Chicago) But I don't think I'm going to relocate to Portland just to take sporadic classes.

But as I said, the up side of that letter is that I received a good deal of validation--something everyone dearly needs, but really hates to admit to needing.

So two down. And two to go.

And if neither of them accept me, I really need to figure out my contingency plan.

Graduate School Update #1

Saturday afternoon, I discovered a voicemail from my dad on the phone. "Hi, Katie. Just thought I'd let you know that when I got the mail this morning, you had a letter from the University of Chicago. All of my attempts to read it through the envelope have failed, so I guess I'll just have to wait for you to open it until tomorrow."

Yesterday I opened it. It was a rejection. My mom was astonished I was okay with being rejected. (Let's just say: I discovered a long time ago that it's much easier to be rejected by establishments than it is to be rejected by people.) She wasn't astonished, however, to know that the letter was a rejection.

She'd been at a Family History conference when the letter came, but promptly found a way of reading it through the envelope on her return home.

As she pointed out, when it comes to such types of snooping, Dad is an amateur. And now I sort of want him to hide away the rest of the letters that come into the house so my mom doesn't know whether I'm accepted or rejected before I do.