Who got rejected today? Thumbs are pointing at me.

I don't know whether to cry or laugh or pick up the bottle.

I followed up today on a part-time receptionist position I had applied for two weeks ago, and I was informed that while I have an "interesting" background, I am not being considered for an interview. The reason had something to do with other candidates more closely fitting the position's requirements.

Answer the phone? Check. I talked to strangers, usually pleasantly, every day at my last job.
Order supplies? Check. I am the CEO of this household, and I know when it's time to buy toilet paper.
Organize the mail? Check. I worked as a bank teller and was an assistant in my high school guidance counselor's and principal's offices, where much organizing was done.

Not to mention that I have a college degree and years of professional experience. And I would agree that I have a darn fascinating background.

OK, so I won't pick up the bottle. I shouldn't even joke about that sort of thing. Besides, I'm a light weight, and it wouldn't do much good. I've laughed a little already. But I might have a good cry left in me.

Butternut squash rules, pumpkin drools

I love all things pumpkin.

Pumpkin lattes. Pumpkin muffins. Pumpkin bars. Pumpkin bread. Pumpkin cookies that more closely resemble muffin tops, which I made last week, by the way. Pumpkin Chai tea lattes. Pumpkin ice cream. Pumpkin ravioli.

You get the idea.

But in a competition between butternut squash pie (which I made) and pumpkin pie (which my brother-in-law made) this past Thanksgiving, butternut squash pie came out on top.

I still love all things pumpkin, even pumpkin pie. But when it comes to pie, my pie rules.

Oh crap, have I really applied for 18 jobs?

I just stumbled across a description for a job opening that made my heart flutter. I don't feel qualified, but, hell, I'm applying. It would only be the 19th job I've applied for during the past two and a half months. I know rejection like Victoria's Secret knows underwear.

I'm not going to be able to support my husband's habit (spending lots of money to attend b-school), if I don't get hired.

Let the cover letter writing commence!

In other news, I turned 26 yesterday. I have mixed feelings about being 26, and I will share them soon. Be patient, my friends.

Happy anniversary, Indie!

Today is adoption day in our household.

One year ago, Ben surprised me with Indie, who at the time was just a scared little thing who had piddled on my rug. He is still timid, but he has transformed into a smart, adorable, charming and, most of all, loving pooch.

He has made our lives better. He cuddles and kisses. He protects us (he's a big dog in a little body). He keeps us warm on cold nights. He is our therapy dog. He is our baby.

Happy adoption day, Indie!

Giving thanks.

Today I was jogging along Lake Michigan, snot forming and tears running (because of the wind), when I considered how thankful I am for my current state.

I may not have a job, but I have my health; the freedom to run at 1 p.m. on a weekday (along Lake Michigan!); an adoring husband and loving dog; a writing class where I'm learning a ton thanks to a smart, thoughtful writing instructor; supportive friends and family.

This week alone, I will have the good fortune to have a birthday lunch with my friends, attend National Public Radio's "Wait Wait...Don't Tell Me" and see "Twilight: New Moon" with my husband, who will just have to endure my swooning over Robert Pattinson.

Life is good.

The nice things wives do for their husbands...

I hurt today. My knees, my inner thighs, my butt and even the area of my arm near my armpits.

When I met my friend for our 6:30 a.m. run today, I asked if we could go an alternative -- shorter -- route. My knees woke up angry today, and I wanted to be nice to them. Turns out, we ran a route that is just as long as our usual one. But this one was prettier -- along Lake Michigan -- and so I forgot about my knees.

Who knew that 45 minutes of flag football could make you sore! It's a good kind of sore. The kind where you're reminded that you did something beneficial for your body. I'm happy I'm sore. But I feel old whenever I climb up and down the stairs to our third-floor apartment.

Adult intramural sports.

My husband's intramural flag football team was hurting for players today, and without enough players, the team would have had to forfeit.

And this morning, Ben warned me that I might have to fill in.

I pushed his comment aside, got dressed in jeans and a turtle neck and trotted back to our office intent on job searching. I thought that if I went about my morning, in the office out of Ben's sight, he might forget that he needed me to play ball.

But about an hour before the game was scheduled to start, he asked me to get dressed. He didn't know if his team would need me, but would I go anyway?

I put on my angry face -- eyes rolling -- and changed into exercise clothes. I wanted to lecture him on commitment. If his peers sign up for football, they should show up.

Other wives and husbands might have been happy for an excuse to escape from their apartments to spend an hour outside. To play football. In the middle of a weekday. But I don't play football. For those who knew me when I was a kid, they know that ball sports and I DON'T MIX.

The kids used to call me butter fingers. The few times my teammates threw me the basketball during elementary school, the ball always slipped through my fingers. And when I played summer softball in junior high, I oddly could always catch the ball in practice but never in a game.

We drove to the football field, but I waited in the car with my book. I told Ben to get me if he needed me, otherwise I would keep on reading until the game was over.

About 10 minutes later, he motioned for me. Arms crossed, I walked to the field and tried to give his teammates the stink eye.

One asked me, "Isn't this better than running marathons?"

Did he know that I can't catch a football? Or throw one?

The game got underway, and I ran back and forth on the field as I had promised.

"Run up and down the field. That's all I'm going to do," I told Ben.

I also cheered on my teammates. I huddled and pretended to know about "options" and "blitzes." I covered a girl who was decent, who got to run with the ball a few times. I even made a "tackle," and I have the grass stains and sore knee (hours later) to prove it.