I finish getting ready. Wearing just base and mascara on my face, I head down the stairs, figuring I can put on the rest of my makeup at a stoplight. (Yes, I am one of those girls!) As you can guess, I am running late! My foot reaches about five steps from the bottom and I realize I am caught! The right sleeve of my sweater is caught on the corner of a loose dowel rod attached to the banister! Consequently, I tumble the last five steps, landing with an all too familiar thud on the floor. My sweater is up over my head and still attached to the dowel rod which is now completely torn off the staircase. Words I can't say out loud come to mind, but I refuse to give in to speaking them. I just stand up and get my sweater back on my body as my housemate comes running out of her downstairs bedroom to see what all the commotion was; she just stares with her mouth agape. "Ouch! Ouch! Twice in three days," I say, half - whining as the pain of the fall is recognized by my brain. I have no time for condolances from my housemate cause I have got to run! I look at my sleeve, the sleeve of my absolutely favorite sweater, and realize that my sweater sleeve is ripped. This is like the nicest piece of clothing in my closet. It was awfully expensive, for me, anyway... "Man, that sucks!" I say as I take off back up the stairs. I remotely hear my housemate ask if I am okay and I half - heartedly yell a yeah as I hurry to grab another shirt.
I receive a call on my cell on the way out - the second time - from a lady at a computer distributor who wants me to come interview today at one. That's good news! I reach the broadcasting company and swing my Hyundai into the parking lot with seven minutes to spare. I stop and ask God to calm my nerves after the adrenaline rush of my morning start. I check my makeup. Huge bags under my eyes, check. Frizzy hair, check. I forgot hair spray and curling creme. I look like crap, but at least my skintone is even and my zits are covered. I'm like 26, by the way, and therefore should be beyond the acne stage of my life. Thinking about that fact makes me want to cry. Before the tears well, I quickly realize that today is going to be a bit of a battle. I refuse to give in to the sad feeling in the pit of my stomach, and I have no idea where it is coming from.
I switch my radio to (the Blitz) one of the stations owned by the company at which I am interviewing to get myself psyched up and ready to sell myself like a rack of cow ribs in a butcher's window. I always feel so violated at interviews. I don't know this person. I spill all of this info to him and he'll deliberate and still may not hire me. Meanwhile, my personal information remains in a file at the back of a drawer hopefully to be shredded and properly disposed of. Who knows where it will end up? I note to myself that I rather dislike the Blitz, because its music has no substance. In defense, some Slipknot song was playing as I turned off the engine and strode in the front door of the office. If you're gonna rock out hardcore, at least write some engaging, meaningful lyrics.
The interview went okay, I guess. One never can tell about these things. I thought that my interview at WSFJ went badly, but I got hired anyway. The second interview of today, I would not call said name. Miss Della did not "interview" me. She told me her story. Miss Della is in her late sixties and has seven grandkids. She wanted to stay home and take care of said children, however she "likes to work too much" and chooses not to retire yet. She drives from Mansfield to Dublin everyday. That's over an hour! Maybe it's just me, but when I signed up for this interview business, shouldn't I have expected to talk about myself a little?
Today was crazy. I felt this underlying sadness all day. I almost started crying in the cereal aisle at Kroger because I was thinking about my uncle and how long it's going to be before I see him again. I really miss him. I can't get over the fact that the only papers in his bible were momentos of his daughter, Jordan, a picture of my uncle Jerry when he was like 17, and a picture of me. I was that important to him. God, he was only 46! That is so young. He's too young to be gone. He'd probably tell me to stop crying like this about his death. He'd probably tell me to suck it up and then kiss me on the forehead, and I'd give anything for one last kiss on the forehead.
I am so blessed to be where I am right now. Surrounded by good friends and a family of people that love me. I feel like I can handle just about anything with who I have on my side. I am really thankful for all of those who have helped me out financially through this time. I am super humbled to be surrounded by friends who have listened to me cry or complain. I am especially grateful to you who have bought me movie tickets, knowing how much I love movies. I love you guys! Thank you so much.
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