That Girl's Got Woe

I met with Barb yesterday after work. She was honest about the likelihood of getting into WMU's PhD program, which I needed. Barb is my most loved and treasured professor from undergrad and she adores me, and in going to her for advice and guidance, a part of me feared that the entire conversation would consist of "You're beautiful and brilliant" because that's how alot of Barb conversations go.

And that part was there, and the ego-stroking was great because I was PMSing pretty hard, picked a fight with Owen, and bought a bottle of $3 merlot with the intention of getting completely obliterated; all in roughly an hour after leaving work.

But on top of that, Barb was honest. Not brutal. Barb is never brutal, unless you shamefully hand her a craptastic essay that you wrote about Dorothy Parker, knowing full-well that it's a giant pile of shit, and knowing that she will, in fact, call you on it later...not that I would know about that. *shifty eyes*

So, she's thrilled that I want to go on, thrilled about Owen getting the job in Kalamazoo, thrilled that I'm leaning towards the creative writing track because "Miss MaryAnn, you are one of the finest young writers that I have ever had the honor of teaching"...but WMU wants its PhD candidates to hold MAs or MFAs in English or writing or a comparable field. The requirements don't say that an MA in something else will automatically kick you out of the running, but I got the feeling that everything else you submit better be Fucking Amazing if you don't.

Barb agreed. Said to "cultivate several options". Said, above all else, "don't let a few rejection letters scare you, sweetheart, you have an incredible talent."

"I make coasters out of my rejection letters."

"You're beautiful!"

"Barb, I've gained like, twenty pounds since graduation."

"And you're curvy and womanly and Owen should look at you, stunned by your beauty, every single time."

"I haven't worn a thong since junior year, Barb...but yeah, no, I think he does."

And then she point-blank asked me if I was going to marry him. And even reeling from the fight that I picked, I blushed and grinned and said, "Yeah. I think I am."

I went home, armed with my "incredible talent" and bottle of wine. I called Owen and apologized for being a "psycho bitchface" to which he apologized for being "a bag of dicks." He's going to Kalamazoo to look for apartments on Saturday (his dad is going with him, so I wasn't invited) and he'll be in Michigan in three weeks tops.

I won't be there until September at the earliest. I have no idea when we'll visit each other, what with him having a real job and me having no money ever. I tried to explain that worry to him when he said he didn't understand why I was freaking out, that we got along just fine when he was in school in Cleveland and I was here.

"That was different" I said, "I worked two jobs and had like, no bills. I could just jump in my car and go whenever I felt like it."

"It'll be fine."

"And I always knew you were coming back at the end of the semester. This is permanent. You are moving to Michigan and that is where you will live. Like, for real."

"You're moving to Michigan, too, you know. Eventually."

Yeah. Eventually.

I freaking hate that word.