[Note: this post is
brought to you by cheap wine, clear skies and the letter b…]
Monday night Friend,
U.L.O.L. and I traipsed over to North Bar for trivia. Turns out we were whizzes
(pardon the pun) at Toilet and Beekeeping trivia. Unfortunately, our general
knowledge, and definitely our current events were a little weak. But you guys!
North Bar is the sort of establishment that celebrates mediocrity! Since we
were “rounding out the scoreboard” at last place all night, the Trivia Master
let us pick a category for next week. Obviously, my knee jerk reaction was to
choose Buffy the Vampire Slayer, not taking into account the fact that U.L.O.L
and Friend have never in their whole lives seen a single episode.
 |
| Buffy is incredulous |
Whoops. Clearly the only
remedy will be to watch every single episode of all seven seasons in one week.
If you don’t hear from me, it’s because I've been sucked into the
Hellmouth.
Between episodes I have
managed to do semi-productive adult things. These include laundry, feeding and
bathing myself… oh yeah, and applying for jobs. Wednesday I got callbacks for
not one, but two interviews! After scheduling both, it occurred to me that
everything in my closet looks like it survived the zombie apocalypse. Barely.
The weather was beautiful and I had planned on squandering another blissful day
of funemployment wandering aimlessly (AKA “getting acclimated”). When faced
with Grown-Up Responsibility, I’ve found you have several options:
1. Ignore it until it goes away
2. Suck it up and do what you need to do,
grudgingly
3. Concoct a freakish, hybrid itinerary which
includes simultaneously shirking and embracing said Responsibility.
Obviously, as a
perpetual over-committer, the latter was my only option. So I resolutely
tightened my Chacos and set out for the nearest department store (about two
miles away). I figured I could save myself time by walking instead of going to
the gym, get my daily dose of Vitamin-D and still have plenty of time to
purchase interview-worthy duds.
On an unrelated note:
does anybody remember Vitamin C? Whatever happened to her?
 |
| So much for that whole put-a-smile-on-your-face gambit |
Several obvious flaws to
this Frankenstein plan: trusting myself to voluntarily enter a department store
after experiencing a glorious spring afternoon, relying on only one store to
assemble an entire professional wardrobe and believing whole-heartedly that I
had any idea of how to combine “professional” and “fashionable”. I encountered
the first glitch when I got “lost”. Seriously, this store is right next to my
gym so it’s the only route I’ve driven daily since moving to this city. I could
have driven to this store with my eyes closed. But somehow my mutinous feet
dragged me down side streets and alleys before I even knew what had happened.
After a stern talking-to, they got us back on track. Serious uphill battle.
I made it to my
destination before encountering the second glitch: every pair of dress pants in
the store fit my body strangely. To be fair, most of the dress pants were more
of a faux-professional slip-on type deal by “Flirtatious” brand. Obviously I am
not a 13-year old anymore, and these were not designed for me [Note:
they probably wouldn’t have fit me when I was 13 either, but I would have worn
them shamelessly]. Furthermore, my 24-inch inseam makes buying pants in the
best of times a trying ordeal. These freakishly short legs are my blessing and
my curse. They’re excellent for the running/jumping/sprinting, and they afford
me a considerably low center of gravity on the pitch. But let’s face it; they
weren’t designed for office wear. By some miracle, after about an hour of
frantically pawing through the racks, I found a pair of pants that fit well and
were only about 3 inches too long. At this point, sweaty and starting to mumble
to myself, I probably would have settled for anything.
Third disappointing and
predictable glitch: there was not a single vest in the entire store. By this
point in the day I was thoroughly convinced that the only possible way I could
get hired would be whilst wearing a stylish vest layered over whatever other
boring clothes I found. I was literally distraught about the absence of vests.
I trudged home dejectedly. I didn’t even enjoy the sunshine. Luckily, when I
got home there was a care package from Lo! She baked me a batch of what she
called muffins and I determined to be cleverly disguised cupcakes. Let’s split
the difference and call them muff-cakes. When I went to bed last night there
was a single muff-cake left… it never saw the light of day. Lo, roomies and I
are eternally grateful. Also, I am currently drinking wine out of my
commemorative glass.
After several muff-cakes
and a sandwich I was ready for my vest quest. You didn’t think I would give up
that easily, did you? After some legit sleuthing, I determined Maurice’s was
the only store in this town that could guarantee me stylish vests. I’ma spare
you the details of how lost I got, how many children I nearly mowed down trying
to read street signs, so on and so forth… Suffice it to say I eventually made
it to my destination. Maurice’s was like a vest utopia. I swept in there, a
force to be reckoned with, scooped up all of the medium sized vests in the
whole store and disappeared into a dressing room before they could say “20% Off”.
Let’s get real for
minute, guys. There are very few things I get legitimately excited about,
especially in the fashion realm. To-date I have fallen deeply in love with
Chacos, bandanas and rugby jerseys. You guys. Trying on those vests was like
babies discovering the existence of their own toes. I was enchanted! I was
unstoppable! I had to buy one in every color!
Me: I just compulsively
spent $75 on stylish vests…
Friend: I’d say that’s a
good inVESTment!
I spent a whole hour
getting ready for my interview this morning. Keep in mind this is the longest
I’ve taken to get ready any morning in the past… 1,825 days. Give or take.
Slet.
[Note: “slet” is an
inside joke I would like to invite you all into, but it really wouldn’t be
funny if I tried to type it out here with no context. Suffice it to say after
approximately 10 hours of drinking at the Silvertip Casino, J-bot coined a
term. Imagine if you smooshed the phrase “She’s let herself go” into a single
word and then extracted the “s’let” portion and verbified it. To slet is to
become generally disinterested with the basics of being socially acceptable
(ex. bathing, exercising and brushing one’s teeth).
 |
| I ended up looking like this... |
My thoughts from
10:40am: I’m sitting in the parking lot of my Potential Job, about 20 minutes
early for my interview. I’m sweaty, I haven’t had any coffee (although I did
swill down two mugs of green tea, attempting to preemptively kick an oncoming
cold) and I can feel my heartbeat somewhere deep behind my eyes. I. Am. Ready.
I’m not going to bore
you guys with the rambling details of how I potentially charmed my way into a
kick-ass job. About 7 hours later I was
finally headed home. Last obstacle is tomorrow’s drug test, and a background
check. I’m 99.9% sure I’ll be ok on both of those fronts. Side note, not a single mirror in this house is conducive to taking
pictures of oneself. This is U.L.O.L.'s mirror. She is a tiny human being.
Anyhow, this post got
considerably longer than I expected it to. I hope I didn’t bore you guys too
terribly. Wish me luck; I may soon be gainfully employed.
Lucy,
I had a dream that you’ve been touring Australia and Europe. You called as soon
as you were back stateside. It may have been a dream, but it was damn good to
hear your voice.
As
always, I love and miss you all.
-b
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