It’s 10:15 on Wednesday night. Tomorrow at 10:00 a.m. I have my interview with one of the only big, sweatshop firms I have a chance with.
Five minutes ago I went to go empty the litter box and, because I am exhausted, totally banged my head on a shelf giving myself a nice big bump on one of my already prominent frontal protuberances.
a) Stay up a couple extra hours icing my forehead in the hopes that the consequences of neither of the following two occasions reoccur:
- That time in third grade when I played center field (before I moved up to third base) on my softball team and I took one between the eyes that quickly drained to my face until I had two black eyes for weeks.
- That time in ninth grade when my normally gentle brother Jeff whacked me so hard I had a goose egg in the middle of my forehead so big it parted the waters of my hair-sprayed bangs.
b) Go to bed and hope for the best.
What makes this even THAT MUCH BETTER is Ethel. Ethel, who loves to bat things off their perches — earrings, water glasses, wine glasses FULL OF RED wine, my reading assignments. Bat them off and then either sleep on them or steal them away somewhere. Because Ethel has batted my concealer off into the dark underbelly of my apartment, never to be seen again.
I foresee an angry, black-eyed trip to Rite-Aid in the morning.
Kisses, Fred & Ethel!