The 70’s Called. They Want Me Back.

March 25, 2010

in Blame The Sudafed

Let’s just start out when my day started.  I had planned to get up at 6am.  Because I’ve finally learned that anything I plan on doing will take at least twice as long once you include the Bobby factor.

What I didn’t plan on was my son trying to be SUPER helpful by deciding our day would start at 330am.  For the third day in a row.  Because, really, when isn’t it a good time to play with him?  And this way, I could spend some quality time with him before making a mad dash around the house trying to get ready in the 10 minutes before I absolutely had to leave to have any hope of making it to my interview on time. `My son? BRILLIANT!

So I’m on my way to the Big interview, doing the quick check in rear-view mirror (at the Stoplight, don’t worry Oprah) (btw, anyone else scared by Oprah’s ferocious advocacy of the “No Phone Zone Pledge“? Not that I disagree with it, but I’d probably be more likely to make a phone call or two on the road if I weren’t so afraid she’d come kick my ass for it.  Because that’s what she does.  Or has her people do.  Because she’s awesome like that).

Anyways.

(This is what happens when my day starts at 330am)

So, after I manage to smudge my eyeliner back closer towards my actual lashline and “blend” in the “extra” mascara that flaked onto my lids, I take a look at the whole picture.  Which is rather…sparkly.  Sparkly?  Sparkly.  Like an eighth-grader on her first day of school.  Before her mother tells her to go back upstairs and make friends with her washcloth.

I finally arrive at my Big interview looking like a disco-ball the morning-after disco died to realize that, apparently, when the person scheduling my interview mentioned that their dress code was “casual,” she didn’t mean “casual because we’re cool like that.”  She meant “casual because our office is on a FARM.”  A muddy farm.  Not that farms necessarily come any other way, being full of soil, but this one seems to have quite a bit of soil.  And because I just can’t show up to a first interview wearing jeans – I?  Am wearing white pants.

White pants.

Farm.

Enough said.

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