The admin assumed I was there to interview for the open admin position

“We need a girl upstairs.”

I asked what was the girl upstairs expected to do, and the nice lady working directly in front of the second floor elevator (which would drive me crazy if that’s where my desk was) figured out I was there for the open writer’s position.

I suppose in a power suit, I rarely look like a writer. I was flattered she mistook me for the new admin because that meant my shoes must have been rockin’ it. Where do they get the money on those salaries to buy those clothes? I think that means I have the wrong idea of how much those assistants make. This one was wearing a fur-collar cashmere sweater and a perfect pedicure.

The hiring manager (no cancerous mole) and I had a great conversation in which I rambled on like he was my husband or somebody. There was a Rudy’s BBQ right up the street and, perhaps had our relationship not been so strangerous, we would have grabbed lunch together. On his credit card, no less.

The wait begins. I have thank-you notes to write and I am notoriously forgetful about those. If I can find some quarters in an old jeans pocket, we’re having KFC for dinner as I tackle the kitchen, and I’ll write the notes in the morning. That’s pretty much my to-do list. I’m too hungry and stressed to think much further beyond that.

Thanks for the well-wishes and happy interview vibes. I hope KFC still carries branded Chinette in its inventory. We don’t have a clean dish in the house, stupid broken dishwasher and general laziness that I prefer to call medically reasoned fatigue.