First day back to work was exhausting. I didn’t stop answering the phone or filling out paperwork all day long. After a few hours though, you kind of get into your groove, like a runner at mile 11 in a marathon. Maybe I can track thisenjoyment back to my days as a pizza delivery girl, or waiting tables, where you somehow find your rhythm in all the chaos. Or maybe I can chalk it up to a sick sense of pleasure in escaping my hellish Christmas break; compared to dealing with Rooferman’s guerrilla tactics, a never-ending conference call is a slice of cherry pie.
Tomorrow is my interview. I’ve spent a few hours minutes rehearsing my pitch, flaunting my administrative accomplishments and humbly professing my desire for customer satisfaction. In screenwriting class, they called this “fluff”, and the less you had in your script, the better. I hated my Tarintino-wannabe peers so much, I played hooky a couple times to crash my gay roommate’s Public Relations class.
Afterward, I said to him,”you know you are majoring in the art of complete and utter Bullsh**?”
He looked at me and said, “Breeder.”
Speaking of my brood, LB has started narrating stories that usually go something like this:
“Onceponatime der was a little gul named LB who loved Mommy berry much and ate chocolate dinner. I SCARED! GO AWAY MONSTER! I NO LIKE TO GO POTTY! And on that farm he had a dog…Kachow! Deeeee End.”