The 14th, I get a call from them. They want a second interview with me, on the 20th. (I think they smelled crazy hippie on me, even though I showered.) I go, am my usual either-charming-or-disconcerting self (I can never tell), and they say that they should have a decision by "Friday". Since this interview was on a Wednesday, I was unsure if they meant "Friday the 22nd" or "Friday the 29th", but it seemed likely to be the 22nd.
That weekend comes and goes. No word.
Well, it's not a big deal. I had to be in Portland on Thursday, the 28th, anyway, for Yet Another Doctor's Appointment. I could get my stuff out of storage then if I'm staying, since Chris isn't moving out of The Mold Pit until the 1st and I can use his stuff until then. Wednesday comes. No word, and I leave for Portland. I grab some stopgap stuff since I don't want to move an entire apartment full of stuff back in June if I'm not staying.
Friday comes. No word.
Well, shit. Did it get lost in the mail? Stolen by gnomes?
So today, I call.
They're behind, they say. It got buried on their desk. They should have it out by "Friday".
The problem with Fridays is that we get approximately 52 of them a year.