Excuse me while I sweep up the cobwebs and blow the dust off the ol' Nutshell...
That's better. Let's just jump right in.
I did not get the dream job I wrote about several weeks ago.
There. I said it.
Now, excuse me for a minute while I repeatedly smack my head onto my granite countertop.
That's better. Dull the pain with more pain.
To be honest, I was pretty devastated. The afternoon I found out, I called Jason at his office and just howled into the phone. I was a mess. I was crying so hard I couldn't catch my breath. So, after all the "Oh honey, I'm so sorry..." business, Jason did what any good husband would do:
"Okay. I'm coming home right now. We can do whatever you want this weekend. We'll go to all your favorite restaurants. We can go see whatever movie you want to see. I'll even take you to see your Edward movie again. We'll go shopping. I'll open the really good champagne."
"You don't have to watch Eclipse. Candice hasn't seen it and we're going to go together."
I'm sure Jason was thinking, "After all I mentioned...food, champagne, shopping...that's her takeaway from the conversation?"
But Jason came home and found me laying on the couch, having cried myself to sleep. The previous evening's episode of So You Think You Can Dance was playing on the DVR. (Therapy through reality tv. Don't knock it 'till you've tried it.) He let me wallow in my misery a little longer and then I got up, washed my face and we went to the mall. After that, I felt a little better and decided I was up to going to the Durham Bulls game that night. Mainly because I really wanted a Dillard's BBQ sandwich from the concession stand, but whatever. And being at the game made me forget about my personal tragedies for a while.
But then I woke up on Saturday morning and the pain was fresh again. So we had a lazy morning and then went to The Diner for lunch. A shrimp po' boy sandwich, some onion rings and a Dark n' Stormy cocktail (Those who know the organization that rejected me will understand what an appropriate choice that drink was. And perhaps the rest of you can figure it out now...) went a long way in the healing process.
It was at lunch that we discussed what to do with the rest of our afternoon. I mentioned that I needed a fresh pedicure. My Chanel Miami Peach polish was fading something serious. And then a thought struck me. "Umm, do you want to come with me? Those machetes growing out of your toes are starting to make me reconsider our bedtime cuddle situation."
So Jason took it like a man. Well, sort of...
And I, having spent weeks getting rather conservative colors on my toes in case I happened to...oh, I don't know...have a JOB INTERVIEW or something to which I might wear my very nice peep-toe heels, decided it was time for a statement. And I was making that statement with my toes:
In case you can't tell, that's blue. Here's a picture I stole online to show you just how very blue it is.
See? A very vibrant blue. A blue that says "I ain't got no job interviews so eff off, world!" (That's what it said to me anyway.) OPI calls this color "Dating a Royal" but I'm calling it "Rebellion".
The recovery process will continue in my next post. But here's a hint:
Snoopy's hot dogs