I may have judged Jilly, my account manager at the temp agency, a little harshly.
Yesterday she called me at 10 a.m. Predictably, I was in the throes of a soul-crushing headache and still lying in bed with a can of Pepsi pressed to my forehead. For once, this was not a result of what Alka-Seltzer refers to as "food and drink indiscretions" although I had dined on Coronas and chile relleno night before.
She told me a company was looking for someone to document-manage: basically proofreading contacts and streamlining the process of sending shit to people, blah-de-blah. You may think to yourself, my God that sounds boring. But that is exactly the point, friends. After having my innocence ripped from me by a brief career in watching firefighters pry bloody bodies from the wreckage of cars and receiving love letters from convicted sex offenders, I long for the boredom of being a human spellchecker and collating machine. And at nearly $12 an hour, the price is so, so right.
So I told her to go ahead and talk me up to these folks. She called the same day to tell me they were interested. That was yesterday. I interviewed this morning and may know tomorrow whether I got the job.
I had been pretty frantic up to this point, although you wouldn't be able to tell that from this blog. I still hadn't heard back from the makeup counter people and had planned on calling them nearly two weeks ago. But then I went to my next-door-neighbor's high school graduation party and who was there? Yes, my dear friend Open Bar.
The bounty of this bar was awe-inspiring. Ketel One, Bombay Sapphire, a gallon jar of olives promising many dirty martinis and its former inhabitants, stuffed with blue cheese and waiting to become soaked with vodka. (moan)
Add to this that I didn't have to worry about how I was getting home, and that made for more shitass drunkenness than I have indulged in in quite some time (cashiering doesn't exactly give a person with a $250 car payment much booze money).
Well, long story short, evidence indicated that I had finished a pretty rough vomit and somehow faceplanted on the bathroom floor, cutting the shit out of my lip inside and out. I woke up later on the pullout bed on a bloodsoaked pillow with a mysteriously wet T-shirt sleeve. I explored the damage with my tongue: I had miraculously spared all of my teeth, but cut a hole the size of a tic tac on the interior of my now very swollen lower lip. I just thanked the good Lord that I hadn't yet scored dental insurance and had braces applied.
Sparkling personality aside, I wasn't going to win over someone deciding whether I should man a makeup counter with that monstrosity on my already-mediocre face (I don't have a self-image problem, but I'm not the kind of person who naturally gets pumped for makeup tips, so to speak). So I haven't called.
I'm having all these fantasies about having weekends off and getting paid enough to do things. Watch for me coming to a town near you. And cross your fingers.