messages in bottles

I know what it's like.

You apply and apply and apply. You send out those little bottles of hope from your desert island. And you hear: nothing. Not a word. Did those bottles even make it to a passing ship or distant shore? Were they simply eaten by sharks or join the Alaska-sized island of floating plastic in the Pacific? Were they scooped up and put on display in Anthropologies to sell nautical themed jewelry? Was it intercepted by the NSA?

For those of you out there, suffering from the unhappiness and anxiety that job hunting brings, I have one piece of advice: apply to Germany. It may take awhile, but rest assured that you will get the most polite, sincere rejection letters. Apart from the ones sent to you in German (it's an easy mistake, but they're trying).

The typical rejection letter emphasizes what a long task it was to evaluate everyone's portfolio and application materials. They sound quite distraught that they have to inform you that you were not selected. They really stress that you should not take this rejection as a critique of yourself either as a designer or a human being. They want you to continue to live.

Actually, compared with the long silence from applying, this kind of rejection letter makes me almost want to send them flowers and a note with "hug :)"

I got a note like this the other day actually. The name of the company was familiar, but not that familiar. I have a big spreadsheet with places I've applied, contacts, details, date of application, desirability, location, etc. I'd applied at this firm so long ago that they weren't even on my spreadsheet. I think I must have applied there with a hardcopy portfolio and a printed resume, flown from Mexico to Germany not too long after I started working there.

Anyway.

The rental house went live on the market Thursday morning. Today, there were no less than three realtor groups drop by. Sounds like it will sell fast. Zara came out to greet each one of them in hopes that she would be adopted out of this unending nightmare of feline denigration.

For lunch I took Larry to a Mexican place I'd passed a few times driving around. The name of the place is Taqueria y Birrieria Jalisco. It's a place with no 'inside,' just a big covered patio and they bring food out to you. It also became quickly clear that this was a solomente Espanol kind of place since the only English on the menu was the required FDA warning about eating uncooked shellfish. And the waitress also didn't speak any English.

We each ordered two tacos al pastor, and two tacos birria, as well as some horchata. The chips and salsa they brought out were really good, but really spicy. Loved the salsa actually. A few people online had declared it the best al pastor in Phoenix, but I've been to Mexico City, pendejos, and Santisima to boot. Actually, I think Santisima had the better al-pastor taco. The birria (roasted goat) was spectacular. It tasted like it came right out of the street markets of Mexico City. Super moist, tender, great.

It's a kind of place which is a visceral reminder that Mexico and the US are intertwined, regardless of what people want to think. There is a lot here which is tinged or tinted with a Mexican heritage, but even more so is the dramatic interlocking fingers of Mexican culture with American.