The Man is job-hunting. This is eerily reminiscent of the whole grad school application process, in that the process seems to be a) gather up a lot of papers and documents (electronically or otherwise) and b) throw them into the ether and hope someone responds. Oh yes. And there's spending scads of money to get some of those papers and documents sent (electronically) from point A to point B. It's a little obscene. It's a lot disempowering. It's a little (lot) scary, too. No idea where we'll be in a year. Six months. Gah. And we might not know until May or even June, and the lease here runs out in June (unless we wrangle an extension). We found out we were coming out here something like, oh, two months before we did. Before that, it looked like we were going to Madison. Anyway, what it means for me is losing another career-sorta job and carting off a couple thousand miles across the country and probably starting over on that whole career thing. Unless, you know, a novel sells this year or something for more money than first novels in SFF tend to sell.* Oh yes. And I'd like a pony to go with that.
But seriously. One of his recommenders has had 'problems' uploading her letter to the website on which letters live. She's had these problems twice. Part of that is no doubt because she is in Afghanistan embedded with an Army unit in the combat zone. But that doesn't stop me from quietly hating on her because, well, our future could rely on her internet connection. The job market's ugly enough without missing letters and administrative hiccups that will turn a committee off just because they don't have to look at anyone whose application isn't perfect.
Luckily there is good wine, good beer, yoga, and Xbox.
*Which won't happen if I don't edit the draft, which I am not doing while I am blogging.