As you may or may not know, and I hate it when I say that because effectively that phrase means absolutely nothing, I have had no work to do since January 5, when I dropped my last statistics book off in the
This, to put it mildly, has disturbed me. I kept picturing us all on the street, wearing barrels. And really, why would a cat need to wear a barrel? But there they were. In my mind.
And I know what y0u're thinking. You're thinking, June. With your talent at the Paint program, how could you be without work for even one day? Because that barrel doesn't at all look like a football with a hole in it. Or anything.
So I was gettin' a tad antsy about the no-work thing, and was totally ready to sell my body to the night. Roxanne. Except for the part where who is out there getting their debit card ready for a chubby 44-year-old?
But the good news is, this morning I got a call and tomorrow I have an interview for a part-time job, and oh! how I wish I could tell you what it is, because you would say, June. Other than creating photos using Paint, this job is redunkulously perfect for you. And it's a funny kind of a job, too, and I hate this part where I have to kind of be anonymous.
So then I was all running around the house trying to fashion together something to wear to said interview–
and oh, let's talk.
I own one suit, because I had an interview somewhere fancy once in 2002 and I ended up getting that job and working there a day and three hours but let's not talk about that because Marvin STILL hates me for that one. But anyway, I put on said suit today and oh, my. The pants.
The pants. They splooted and sploomed across my hiptual area, and I realize I have just completely ceased making sense, but oh, dear God. They were so tight.
I looked like Tom Jones. Seriously. It's not unusual to be interviewing someone's ovaries. I mean, hello. They were not looking roomy, is what I'm saying.
What's new Pussycat, indeed.
Ooohh, woah, woah.
Anyway, I cobbled together an interview ensemble which will be fine as long as I can convince my new boss that it's 1999, and in the meantime I got an email from the publishing company, and they are sending me a new book to proofread. Tomorrow.
Then I got another email from another person saying, "I'm sending you some work."
So okay. I guess I'm good now, workwise.
I'll let you know if I bowl them over tomorrow. In my fashionable ensemble. At least if I get this job, I will be too busy to keep eating all the time, and maybe I'll fit back into those interview pants. Which will be useless because I will have already gotten the job.
I hope I can convince them I'm a lady. Oh-oh-oh, I'm a lady.