My eyes creaked open at 7:30 a.m. to the sound of one of the least annoying sounding alarms on my cell phone, but of course anything that blares in my ear and wakes me up before I'm good and ready makes me want to punch babies.
I smirked at the T.V. that had unidentified cartoon characters flying across it just below audible level. I'm one of those people that always falls asleep to Nick at Nite or TV Land, which usually results in me waking up to either Dora the Explorer or Bonanza, both of which make you want to roll over and go back to sleep in protest...and punch babies.
Laying there still unable to shake the precious few minutes of actual sleep my body allowed the night before I thought, "do I really want to do this everyday?" Then I remembered that I had no choice and that most people right at that crack-of-dawn moment were already operating heavy machinery in the form of a vehicle, starting their day by barreling down the highway with their coffee to their job that they probably hated.
It's been almost a year since I've had the privilege of having full time employment — something most people take for granted as they trudge to the jobs they hate with their coffee everyday. Though cranky and conditioned to a life that doesn't require me to wake up in time for Good Morning America, I felt lucky to have a reason to be awake that morning. I had an interview, actually TWO interviews in one day. I had one early last week, too, at a coffee shop, but was rejected via voicemail on Friday, which I have the sneaking suspicion prompted the binge drinking, dancing and subsequent day after puking. Judge me if you must, but walk a day in my hole-y, beat up shoes and then tell me you don't want a goddamn drink.
Both jobs are at basically opposite ends of the spectrum — one a full time, entry level office job that requires my degree and the other a part time gig at a doggie day care that requires me to love dogs and everything that goes along with them (i.e. shit, puke and general assclownery). However, they do have one thing in common — I will probably get peed on daily.
I see the good and the bad in all jobs. And, at this point in my hunt, the good is usually the fact that it's a job that will pay me money so I can eat, feed little Andy and not have to move back in with my parents. The bad usually being that the job is going to inevitably suck ass at least some of the time in one way or another, especially right now when the pickings are horrendously slim and I really don't have much of a choice in the matter if I want to live independently.
However, there's always that one good thing or few things that you hang onto to keep your sanity in order to make it at that job and at least attempt to make it enjoyable, especially on those bad days.
Take for instance my job as a newspaper reporter. Journalism is not funny. Not at all. We cover and write things that are either dry, sad or sappy and make it as entertaining to read as possible. Not that I didn't like the job and some of the things I wrote about, because I did, but there really isn't any humor or laughter in it, except for my column, but that was me writing about me. Not many journalistic duties involved.
Because of this, we had to make our own fun; our own humor to keep our spirits up in that job...and also because people are dicks...so quick to complain about EVERYTHING. I remember one lady called and screamed and cried on the phone at me for 10 plus minutes about a photo we ran of a man holding up a dead mountain lion. She claimed that she had to protect her son from the filth that that photo represented and OOOOOOOHHHH the poor mountain lion. First of all, I had no idea what the hell she was talking about because it wasn't the newspaper I wrote for and second of all, for fuck's sake lady, there are far scarier things that your son will come across in his lifetime than a photo of a giant dead cat in a newspaper, such as murder, rape, pillaging and double penetration porn. Stop hysterically screaming at me, lick my ass and get over it.
One of the only tasks that made my co-workers and I laugh was when it came time to publish the "letters to Santa" every Christmas. Little kids would write to Santa at the North Pole and we had the pleasure of reading all of them and typing them word for misspelled word. Some of this shit was hilarious. Those little turds would throw their brothers and sisters under the bus by telling "Santa" all the bad things they had done and suggesting coal for their stockings. We'd read them out loud and crack up until tears came out of our eyes. And, one little sass said, "I want an MP3 player, but not an iPod because, excuse my French, but iPods SUCK!" all in little chicken scratchy, backasswards writing. I nearly fell out of my chair and convulsed on the floor with laughter on that one.
On slower days, we'd also feed our humor hungry souls with in-office '90s dance parties which usually consisted of the techno hits like "Rhythm is a Dancer" or our personal favorite, anything by Blackstreet..."If you take your-love, a-way from-me I'll go craaaaa-zay!"
I laid in bed and smiled at the fond memories when Andy started doing this weird tongue flipping thing with a very concerned look on his face. Then he jumped down off the bed and began to do the hunched over I'm-going-to-puke-all-over-your-beautiful-rug song and dance out in the living room. This caused me to fling myself out of bed and squeal, "Andyandyandyandyandyandyandyandy!" in an octave only dogs can hear while trying to usher him towards the open door, or at the very least, to the kitchen linoleum. Neither one happened. Epic dog owner fail. Fuck. He must have been hungover. Like mother, like son.
So I started my morning scrubbing bright yellow, foamy dog barf off the carpet. But, hey, I haven't been that spry that early in the morning since my high school dancing days when I was spandex clad, in the right leg splits and rocking out to old school Janet Jackson by 7:15 a.m. I was now awake and ready for my interviews.
Both of them went pretty much as well as I could have imagined. I still see the good and the bad in both — expect now I have a more detailed good/bad evaluation than I initially did. But, I'm just really hoping one of these is it for me because I'm an exhausted, beat to a bloody-job-hunting-pulp young woman.
There are a couple other things to be happy about this week as well, but I'll cut this novel off now and save those for later.
All I know is that if I could consistently have a few more days like today thrown in here and there, I think I might just be OK.