A Comedy of Errors & Illustrations of Said Errors

Hello free blogging hobby! I had an interview this afternoon that very nearly went horribly wrong, but happily, did not because I apparently have good karma.

My chief concern this morning was picking between two completely different interview outfits.

I brought this quandary to Beau’s attention because he works with Conservative Types and therefore, would be able to best answer whether the bright blue shirt ensemble or the white shirt/coral necklace outfit would be most appropriate for an interview at a Conservative Type Place. Beau picked option #1 which secretly pleased me because that meant I didn’t have to iron the horribly wrinkled white shirt. Yay one less thing to do!

Instead, I ironed my hair to make it less poofy and more straightish while watching reruns of Golden Girls (and, yes, I know this goes against the cardinal rule of my last entry but I gave myself a break since I was going to have an honest-to-God interview and I needed something to calm my nerves because going into public gives me agita now that I rarely leave the apartment and when I’m nervous I start defecating because nervous pooping runs in my family. When my cousin got married a decade ago, all the bridesmaids had to crowd into a bathroom stall to help lift her dress so she could pooh without obstruction. Ahh, longest parenthesis interjection ever! How much longer can I make it?! Ok I’m done).

Next, I ironed the skirt part of my suit so it could match my hair in its lack of wrinkles. I looked down at my project while I chortled at Sophia’s antics and noticed that the first pass of the iron had done more than just de-wrinkle. It left a white chalky residue which I lamely swept at, still calmly chortling. But it did not go away and I began mentally freaking out: “What the fuck?! The iron came on the fuckin’ black skirt that I have to wear to a Conservative Type Place?! What is that?! OH GOD!!”

I ran to the sink and began scrubbing just hard enough for the Iron Jism to really set into the fabric. Then I upgraded to wet paper towel. Then to Mr. Clean Magic Eraser which has saved articles of clothing in the past. Then in a moment of temporary insanity, I turned the faucet on full blast and dunked it in. Then I realized I had an hour to pull myself together and dry a now soaked “dry clean only” garment. Then the nervous pooping started. Then I only had 55 minutes to dry the skirt.

In a full set of penguin-print flannel pajamas, I tore down to the basement, ignoring the electrician working in a corner, and threw my shame into the drier which I cranked up to the max. Back up in the apartment, I simmered down slightly and began searching through my closet for other skirts I could wear with the suit jacket. The first thing I tried on looked ridiculous but not because the pieces didn’t match into a real suit. They looked ridiculous because the jacket looked like a sack. I checked the tags, assuming I grabbed one of Beau’s suits, but unless Beau has started shopping at New York & Co, then it was mine. Turns out being poor is making me skinny and for once in my life, I was not thrilled with this.

I gritted my teeth and dug to the depths of my closet to pull out my very first suit which I bought right out of college and made me look like a sausage the last time I put it on about a month ago. Granted it was still snug today, but a much closer fit than my newer suit. With mere moments to spare, I ironed the white shirt which is Iron Jism resistant by nature of already being white, slapped on some make-up, and looked in the mirror before running for the train. Here is what I saw looking back (except for the letters floating around my body; those are for explanatory purposes only):

Now I will use those floating letters to explain everything that was wrong with my appearance when I walked out the door this morning:

A) Entirely too much eye shadow applied by a girl who reads every issue of Glamour but still can’t figure out cosmetics.
B) A giant underground zit that popped up somewhere between nervous pooping and make-up application and is now hiding under a thick layer of concealer which actually conceals very little.
C) Pin stripe suit that I bought OVER TWO YEARS AGO (on second thought, I’m going to give that one a silent fist pump)
D) Scab from scratching at dry skin. Ew. Do you even want to know these things about me?
E) Elastic lines from the fuzzy argyle socks that I wore all morning
F) Mystery bruise from mysterious source. Possibly obtained during Mouse Hunt.

Somehow, in some magical, cosmic way that I will never EVER understand, points A, B, and E resolved themselves between the train and my arrival at Conservative Type Place and the others suddenly didn’t look like an issue. Furthermore, I had a lovely interview with two charming ladies who appeared to like me, genuinely laughed at my jokes, and made allusions to a second interview next week. On my way home, I thanked the universe for pulling through for me on the big day by emptying the contents of my change purse into the collection pot of a very surprised looking Salvation Army bell-ringer, despite being dirt poor, despite not having had a paycheck in almost 80 days, despite having sworn off Crystal Light Iced Tea which was a major addiction and source of happiness that cost me an unjustifiable average of $4/week without providing nutritional sustenance or inebriation.

So, thanks Universe for throwing me a bone and letting me have a good interview today. Here’s $1.08 in nickels and pennies for your trouble!