Good thing I'm in school

It's been, wow, three weeks since I quit my job. I wouldn't necessarily say that I regret quitting, but this whole "making money without a job" thing is proving harder than I thought it would be.

I have yet to find part-time employment. Plenty of positions have opened up -- in the bakery around the corner from my house, at a local bar, various work-study jobs at school -- and I have applied, diligently, with a personal, individualized cover letter, to each. No one wants me to work for them.

Most of the school jobs, in their very kind rejection letters, blame my schedule for their anti-me stance: "Well, we would love to have you, but we're concerned that your schedule wouldn't allow you to devote as much time to the job as we would like." I almost understand this logic, except for the fact that these are work study jobs. They are designed for students. In fact, you have to be a student, attending school at least half-time to even be considered for the job; it is the first qualification. I'm not a full-time student, and, unlike most of my classmates, I am not student teaching this semester. All I have is time. If I cannot devote enough time to the job, who at this school possibly can?

The non-school jobs -- the bartending and the bakery staff -- don't even call me back or write kindly rejection e-mails. I acknowledge that I have no experience in these particular areas, but, you know, I'm a smart person; I can learn! Most of the kids working at the bakery are just that -- children. What makes them more qualified than me? Is it just because they're malleable and cheery? Well, yes, probably, but I LOVE baked goods. Does that count for nothing?

The bartending rejections I'm less upset about. I probably wouldn't be a good bartender. I don't like loud places, and I'm not particularly well-known for being good-natured around the drunk and obnoxious. Also, I worry I'm not sexy enough.

Female bartenders always seem to be tousled and pretty and a little hard-assy, like dominatrixes who went into early retirement, before getting too hard looking. For one bartending job that I applied for on craigslist, I had to send in a picture, so I put on some chapstick (that's how I get tarted up) and did my best sassy bartender face for a quick pic on my computer. Just before sending, I felt like I had to add a post-script to my application e-mail, just to let them know, that, "oh, sorry, I took this at my kitchen table at 9 in the morning, and I'm happy to take some aesthetic pointers or make my look more of a 'type' or something." I never heard back from those people. Bars don't like nervous ramblers. Nor do they like girls with short hair who do not know how to apply eyeliner.

I've always had trouble finding jobs. I started at my horrible job after college because it was the only place that I could even score an interview. I eventually decided to go back to school because two years of searching for different jobs turned up nothing. I have no idea what the problem is, really. I blame my cover letters, which I hate writing because they're so awkward and self-promotional and always end up sounding the same even when you take the time to write a new one for each job.

It's weird to me how difficult it is to convince a bakery I am an intelligent, trainable person when Columbia University had absolutely no trouble believing such a thing, even when I applied late and had to call and beg them to look at my hastily-written essays. I suspect I am not qualified for anything except attending school, which, unfortunately, is even less profitable than working part-time with a bunch of high-schoolers.

(What I'm sure will be) The Ongoing Sasga of Financial Aid

My financial aid forms were finally processed and put through yesterday. I don't know how or why this very important work was done on a Saturday. My guess is for shock value.

I filed my FAFSA as soon as I heard that I was accepted to school -- back in May or so. Within a few weeks, I had received my financial aid "award package." They call it this to make it sound like something fun and exciting, when, in my case at least, the "award package" actually turns out to be a soul-crushing denial of what you may think you're worth to a school. It's like they know only a crazy person would turn down Columbia, and everyone else will surely find some way to cough up the cash.

Not that coughing up cash is a big deal to most of the people I've seen around TC so far. In my 35-person summer class, I was one of only two people holding down a job. That means there were at least 33 people spending $3000 or so dollars on a class and $xbajillion living in Manhattan on...their inheritances? Money saved from their previous lives as abstemious bankers? Highly mysterious; I must learn their secrets.

I have no money. Columbia chose not to believe this when doling out my "award," and I proved that they were right in doing so by agreeing to attend, and pay, anyway. Sometimes I wonder if this was some kind of test -- "Are you really stupid enough to go thousands of dollars into debt for this? Then ACCEPTANCE RESCINDED. We don't need fools tarnishing our good name." So far I have not been kicked out, mostly thanks to my dad taking the hit for Summer tuition (though I did pay for my book, which, despite being an electronic [i.e. almost totally free to produce] version, cost around $90. how do you explain that?).

So yes, anyway, my Fall/Spring/Summer financial aid has come through, leaving me with living expenses -- but, hey, not tuition! -- to worry about. Yay! It only took months and months and months, through which I fretted constantly over whether everything was going through correctly. I think I called or visited the financial aid offices at least half a dozen times since getting accepted, always with a different way of phrasing the question, "So how can I get some money from you people?" I was put on academic probation for about a week -- they said because of a computer glitch, but I think it was just to get me to ask them something different.

I'm not sure if this means I should always trust financial aid to come through in the end, or if it means I should never ever trust financial aid to do things without half a dozen desperate calls. Those people thrive on drama.