well, if the other interviewees' outfits are anything to go by, I'm definitely in. Exhibit A: girl with a bad, brassy dye job and 3" roots and the tight-ghetto ponytail (but she was decidedly un-ghetto), worn with tan character shoes, sheer white pantyhose (that is wrong in so many ways), burgundy tweed dumpy skirt, RED tweed jacket, and some sort of blouse that felt it necessary to have stand-up Shakespeare ruffles around the neck and all down the front of the shirt and encircling the cuffs. It made my soul cry just thinking of the outfits she must've discarded when choosing that one.
Exhibit B: Miss Cali, in her 4" patent leather slingbacks ("I just sprained my ankle, but I didn't want to wear flats!") and her grey skirt suit. The skirt suit would've been rather nice, had it not been unfortunately accessorized by 8 yards of baby-blue satin ribbon on every seam (the jacket even tied with a blue satin ribbon!) and three layers of ruffles on the bottom of the skirt. In my head, I referred to her as My First Interview Barbie.
Yes, I'm a catty bitch. Point being?
In all seriousness, I do think I got in to UCincinnati this past weekend. I'm thinking of them as my #4 choice (behind Madison, Yale, and the Art Institute), but I'd be pretty pleased to go there. Plus, apts in Cincinnati are hella cheap, and there is a Trader Joe's. That's important. I'll hear from them in about three weeks, and hopefully get a "yes" + graduate assistantship to take care of that teeny little problem of $.
Two stories from downtown Cincinnati, neither one heartwarming:
On Saturday night, post-interview and post-dinner, I change back into jeans and sneakers and make a quick run to the CVS on the corner for a pint of Haagen-Daaz, which I plan to eat out of the carton whilst propped up in bed with 6 pillows, watching Law & Order. Granted, I'm pretty buzzed from my multiple beers with dinner, so I'm not really paying attention to the counter lady as she rings up my Dulce du Leche treat. As she begins to count out my change, I notice that she's talking: "stupid. ugly. stupid. ugly. stupid. stupid. ugly." I'm more confused than insulted by this arrangement, and as she turns to hand me my change, she looks right at me and says "Ugly! Stupid! Have a nice night!"
God, I hope it was Tourette's.
Sunday morning at 4:45! in the morning! I'm waiting just outside my hotel for a cab to the airport. A skeevy-looking woman in cheap spike heels is tottering over to the valet, asking for a light. She smokes and tries to stay upright, and then starts yelling "pow! right in the kisser!" over, and over, and over, and over.... probably a dozen times before a homeless guy comes up to the woman I've now decided is a hooker and asks for change. She hugs him and yells "Pow! Right in the kisser!" again, and at this point, two well-dressed middle-aged men come out of the hotel and prop her up. One says "baby, where'd you go? I woke up and you weren't there! C'mon back inside and we'll have some more fun" as the other grabs her ass.
1) why are you still wearing a suit at 4:45 am, sirs? If you're alternately fucking a hooker and sleeping, wouldn't you remove the suit to avoid wrinkles?
2) if you can afford a nice hotel and a nice suit, why can't you splurge on a decent-looking whore? Priorities, man.