Except I think I should keep my original misspelling of "lenient."
I tried to photograph for you my nice interview outfit, but how do you photograph an entire outfit? How do you solve a problem like Maria? I couldn't even do it in the mirror without the flash ruining everything. Anyway, here's my interview head. Which makes a huge difference to the world.
Do you worry that I never leave the room with the orange crate pictures?
Here's an interview tip for girls: eat something. Yesterday I made me some toast, which I was so enjoying until Henry started licking it, and who ordered all these pets? So that ended that, and a few hours later I remembered to have a little leftover stir fry, but it was maybe a fistful of stir fry, not that I ate it out of my fist, and anyway I got to the dang Office of Excitement 40 minutes early because I am a psychopath, so I paid the parking meter and sat in my car for 30 minutes.
I cannot begin to tell you how much I am not over the difference between parking rates in downtown Greensboro versus anywhere in stupid Los Angeles. First of all, usually LA parking meters insist you have a quarter. What are you, a tampon machine? Who just happens to have a quarter at all times? And do you THINK businesses are willing to give you quarters for your dollars? Oh HELL no. They don't care about your business. Cuba Gooding Jr. is buying something. They don't need June Gardens' $49 purchase.
Also too, it is 6 minutes for a dollar or something to park in LA. I am barely exaggerating. Yesterday I put four quarters in the meter and got I think two hours. Go, Greensboro.
At any rate, as I sat there listening to Howard Stern and growing more and more concerned about Artie Lange, it occurred to me I felt a tad hungry. It was edging up on 3:00, and all I'd had was cat-licked toast and a fist. I chewed some Trident because dentists tell you to, but by the time I waltzed into that building? Oh, I felt dizzy. So I'm certain I seemed bright and on top of things during the interview.
Also thrice, I had to walk past construction workers, and I was all, oh no. Here we go. I have to hear all kinds of catcalls and see lewd gestures and such, right before an interview.
Yeah. Hi. I'm 44.
You know what's sad? Someone who's 44 and doesn't know it. Once my friend Sleeping Beauty and I drank at a Holiday Inn bar, and we were young and nubile, but there was this woman who was probably ...44, and she had on yellow thigh-high boots, trying to get young and nubile probably construction workers to dance with her, and it was sad. That was me yesterday, hoping against hope that that crew of The Village People, there, would start chattering like monkeys when my middle-aged self walked by. One kind of nodded his head, and I noticed that they did all watch kind of concernedly when I minced over a slushy patch. So I wouldn't break a hip. In my thigh-high yellow boots.
The POINT of my story is, the second interview seemed to go well. I met my would-be boss's boss, and he was really really nice, and they showed me around the office. You know that's always a good sign. They don't show someone around the office if you ain't gettin' the job. What's the point? I'd have a--gasp!--cubicle for the first time since 1998, but it'd be the corner one in the window so I guess I'll suck it up. What am I gonna do, demand my new boss move out her office so I can have it?
You know, I have a lot more going for me than most people in this office. I have a $175 sweater marked down to $19, I have a nice office that I kicked my new boss out of...
