I did actually decide to do the National Novel Writing Month thing. So, here is my blurb.
What goes on in a woman’s life when a new job, apartment, and bizarre pet all collide? Chaos, that’s what. Chloe is a 30-something woman that revels in her new independent status, so the job she just landed is a treasured gift. She was big on schedules and tidiness, and … predictibility. Kind of boring, she found. This new place signified a change. A big one. So what if she had to share that independence with a quirky animal she keeps, purely out of guilt? So what if her unboring habits are interrupted by the downstairs guy and his stodgy broom handle? SO WHAT if her job brings her the craziest, most over the top co-workers she has ever imagined?
Throw in the weather, her niece, and the most broken-down building the law allows, and she finds herself stretching her patience, her imagination, and her humor to the limit.
And that’s just the first week.
I did end up getting the job with EC&G. This worked out well because I just acquired a bird to go with my new apartment, and paying the rent was pretty important. Running through the last of my savings, I had been considering a loan from my parents. Erp. That is not a road I want to take at 34. Thus the perma-grin I wore as I found out the job was mine. After 3 interviews with them, might I add.
Note to self: Never open another EGG-OF-PANTYHOSE again. EVER. Even for a job interview.
Who decided to blend leg-wear and eggs anyway?? Just so that the name could happen? Dur! They are not made for actual women. Not women with actual calves and thighs. Have you seen how they come out of the package? Like a balloon, before it is inflated? I don’t know whether to blow them up or just add water. All scrunched up like the skin of a snake after it’s molted. Why not make the packaging a python, to warn women what it will feel like approximately 2 hours into the experience? Thighs and calves getting squeezed tighter and tighter, riding around in places you don’t want, and the heel always ending up on the front of your foot.
But I digress..
All the pantyhose moments were worth it as I stood in my new apartment, excited that I could keep it for the long haul. The windows showered the rooms with light. The kitchen was microscopic (I don’t cook, but there was enough room for my big microwave, so who cared?) and I had hardwood floors. But UGG! What to do with this bird? I wouldn’t have kept it at all, except it was from Patsy, the nice old lady next door in my last place. Such an endearing lady that let my niece, Emma, watch soap operas with her on occasion.
Her family consisted of her dog, Benny, and her bird (no clue what the official name was. She just cooed “Pretty boy! Who’s a pretty boy?”. Patsy taught the two of them to yowl in a duet as she played “Oh Su- (sung very softly) -zannah! sung with gusto!)” on the piano. (“Ye-awl!” they would sing, obviously in place of “Oh”, and then she would put in, “Suzannah! Don’t you cry for me…” ) Pure fascination, I tell you.
Patsy passed on after a long bout of sickness, and left yours truely an interesting list for inheritance.
1.-Fur coat. (Otter, maybe, and a fetching color of mauve.)
1.-Tapestry. (Used to cover the piano seat, therefore bringing a bum shaped fade to the middle of the piece.)
1.-Loud bird that doesn’t know its place. Barks like a dog, (a dog!!) and stares in a disturbing way. It’s yellow and gray, with a bald spot on its head, close to its eyes. As if it’s been stroked a few too many times. It does like raw potatoes and carrots, I was told. Odd.
So here I am with a bird I don’t like, an apartment I adore, and a job in the near future. Sounds like it’s time to Celebrate!
There’s just one thing. The welcome-aboard-so-glad-to-have-you! letter. It goes like this:
“Ms. Chloe Parker,
On behalf of EC&G I’d like to offer you a position as…Yada Yada Yada… fancy title for financial manipulation… With the compensation of…Measly Measly Measly…./hour. Please meet at such and such a day at 7 AM to start your training. Blah Blah Blah, buttering up with a dash of You- Are-So-Fortunate,
…I’ve Got A Bit Of Power…., /HR”
The hourly wage gave me the feeling that there was some sort of fruit pit stuck in the bottom of my belly. Quite a red flag in the handbook of Chloe’s Do’s and Don’ts. (No fruit pit agreements. Period.) I agreed to myself to call Lady ‘O Power in HR to clarify/restate the expected amount.
But not that night. That night, I celebrated! Belly dancing and cucumber salad? Naw. Moisturizing all the dry parts that happen in the climate that is Denver. And off I went