I turned down a job today. I know you’re probably thinking that I am in no position to be turning down jobs after seven weeks of unemployment. It was a job I would’ve been great at: helping kids right out of college create resumes, teach them how to act in an interview, etc. However, it is part-time, and not until she called to extend the offer to me did I find out how much it paid. Now salary has never been a big issue for me before, I just want to love what I do, but Steve said it best: “you can’t accept that: that’s what retards get paid.”
After declining one position, I interviewed for another. Now this one was a bit more promising. After my interview, I was told that I interviewed “awesome,” so if I don’t get this position, they must have found someone who is straight up spectacular. On my way to my interview, I was running a little late (waiting for my shirt to dry — it was still a bit damp), so I jumped into the trusty Saturn and started backing out. While doing so, I hit the maintenance man’s truck. I told him, “if there’s anything wrong with your truck, you know where I live,” but I highly doubt my plastic Flinstones car could do any damage whatsoever.
Before all of this madness, I took tucker on a walk. We were walking through a neighborhood when he decided to stop and squat. At that exact, inopportune moment, a large German Shepard came bounding towards us, barking as if he were rabid. Tucker and I both took of running and I started shouting, “oh my god!” until the rabid dog’s owner called him in. Tucker and I snickered (I know you doubt dogs can snicker, but my dog has a personality like I do) as the big bully was scolded and he sulked on inside. Thinks he so tough…what a pussy. But I could be mistaken here, perhaps Tucker was just snickering at me: being seven times his size and more of a pansy than him — how pathetic. That neighborhood is home of a rowdy gang of dogs; there’s a St. Bernard, that damn Shepard, and a bunch of large mangy mutts that look like strays but are caged behind fences. Tucker was jumpy all the way home, knowing I would be no help in time of trouble.
After all of these events, I went to Hy-vee and picked up Steve’s booze for the weekend. There I made small talk with the manager, who always seems to be working when I buy the weekend booze. I am quite sure he thinks me to be an alcoholic. When unloading my car, I recounted the backing out incident to the other maintenance man. While walking towards the mailbox, he shouted after me, “are you coming to the spaghetti feed tonight?” (our complex is always doing community events for their residents like this and i never attend). “We’ll see, but I just had spaghetti last night,” I replied (I really had Don and Millie’s chicken fingers). Then he tried to convince me: “I did too, and (trying to one-up my lie) for lunch today. But it’s free and you won’t have to do dishes.” I smiled at his persistence. I rarely do dishes, anyway. Nothing makes you popular with your neighbors quite like unemployment.