I Am (Apparently) For You To Poop On

Yesterday I had a job interview. And I looked hot if I do say so myself. I was wearing a red, ruched shirt, a black knee length flared skirt and a black blazer. The outfit was accented with pointy black pumps and a skinny, black patent belt. Invert the color scheme of this photo, add some pounds, and you'll have the general idea.

As I was walking to the metro stop, I felt something fall on my head, so I ran a hand through my hair in an Herbal Essences commercial sort of way, all hair flopping and wind blowing. Detecting nothing, I sauntered on to the metro. I noticed quite a few people giving me a second look. Well of course- didn't I just say I looked hot? In my head I was thinking to myself "I look good and I am going to rock this interview".

I got to the metro, rode five stops, changed lines, rode another two stops and proceeded to the interview. At the interview building, I had to go through security, because EVERY building in D.C. seems to thinks it's important enough to be a terrorist target. The sign-in book the even asks if I'm an American citizen. I can assure you that if I'm a terrorist, I'm going to be really comfortable with lying on a sign-in book. And let's say this building is actually hit by terrorist (god forbid)- the sign-in book isn't exactly an airplane black box. So the citizenship question really just seems senseless and I didn't bother to answer it.

I look slightly less hot at this point because it's a warm day and I am wearing a suit. I check in with the receptionist and ask her where the ladies' room is. The receptionist informs me that not only a key was required, but I also had to be buzzed through a glass door. Going to the bathroom in these places is also apparently a terrorist threat. After all, we don't want the terrorists to...use the bathroom?

After making it through homeland security to the toilet, I discover that I have - in the part of the bangs that swoop sexily over my left eye - a large quantity of bird poop in my hair. Again, that's BIRD POOP in my HAIR. I had ridden for seven metro stops with bird poop in my hair.

And for the first time, I realize I reek. Of poop. I dig in my bag in a fit of panic and pull out an ace bandage (and no, I have no idea why it's in my bag) and I start to clean the poop pellets out of my hair. After wiping off the chunks, I try to brush the rest out, but I still I find that my hair smells like a litter box. I know some culture believe that having a bird poop on you is lucky. Those cultures are stupid. Birds don't have sphincters - getting pooped on just means that the universe has aligned to screw up your day.

My confidence for this interview completely shot, I scrounge around in my bag some more and come up with hairspray. Ah, an alcohol based hair product, that will cover the poop smell! My hair, now laden with spray, hangs in my face like I'm Cousin It from the Adams Family and still smells poopy, so I decide to slick my bangs back behind my ear. I no longer look even close to hot; more deflated, mousy, and sweaty at this point. But I throw my shoulders back and march on to meet my interviewer.

He is a nice man, I even though I look and smell like crap, I feel relaxed. We chat and I notice that he keeps looking past me. Despite this oddity, I continue to try to make eye contact as we chat. And it's precisely 30 minutes into our interview that I realize that he has a lazy eye, and I have spent the entire time that we've been chatting, staring into the lazy eye. My mouth immediately goes dry, my palms go sweaty, and I think "I am a giant ass". I have treated this very nice man like sideshow freak. Damn damn damn. We conclude the interview, and I am now completely unable to look anyone in the face.

To round out the day, that evening I walked to the neighborhood grocery store to grab a movie, and I saw the hottest straight man I have ever seen in our neighborhood. And as I see myself reflected in the glass doors of the store, I notice that my fly is down.

If I weren't unemployed, I'd take myself out for a drink.