I will be taking a long lunch today.
Well. Not for lunch, exactly. I will be taking a long mid-day break, in order to attend a meeting.
Where? Oh, that. At the French Culinary Institute. You remember that. The school that will help transform me from a cooking dilettante into a gastronomic wonder.
See, yesterday I got a call from the fellow I interviewed with last year. He said that he had noticed my recent request for information on the school and was hoping I was still interested. I explained that the sole barrier to attendance is the nigh-astronomical $26,000 entry fee, and I was requesting a new set of information so that I might reapply for loans now that I have almost nine months of continuous gainful employment under my belt.
He set up an appointment so that we might discuss options. Or, as I like to think of it, so that we might effect the working of a miracle.
I am tremendously anxious about it -- this morning, I woke up from a dream in which someone from FCI called me to say that the meeting had to be postponed until next Tuesday. I think that might have been my first dream in which a day planner significantly figured.
Also, there is a creepy cosmic undertone to all this. Take a gander here, discovered while skimming through my archives (as is my narcissistic wont) earlier this morning. My first mention of the French Culinary. February 20, 2002. I like to pretend that I am not one to put much stock in fortuitous coincidences -- but really, I really really am.