Fired!

In my last post, I made a point of opening by laying blame on my friend Dominique.  Looking back, I think it was a good jumping off point.   It enabled me to proceed with a clear conscience knowing that my readers understand I am coming from a place of pure innocence and am clearly the heroine.  So, continuing with that theme, I’d like to lay the blame of this latest disaster squarely on the shoulders of my 3 year-old.

I got fired.  Yep, me.  That’s right.  Fired.

I mean, I’ve had at least 6,847 jobs.   I was a  library page (I’ve heard that no one likes a bragger, but I can’t stop myself from revealing that I can rock the hell out of some Dewey Decimal.  I’m throwing that out there.  Bam!  Can you handle it?) , a wing slinger, a barista, a copy machine repair tech, a public accountant (navy blue suit and all), the world’s worst sales associate at Merry Go Round (I actually told teenaged girls with their mothers’ credit cards NOT to buy the pleather pants and fringed bustiers.  Nope, didn’t get fired.), a sandwich maker (I did almost get fired from that one when I cut my hand and had the gall to bleed all over 3 freshly thawed bagels before the owner took me to the local women’s hospital who apparently only deals with childbirth.  Luckily there was a veterinary clinic next door, and they were kind enough to stitch me up and recommend a tetanus shot – presumably to protect me from the knife and not the fact that I just got sewed up at the animal hospital, but what do I know anyway?  I’m no doctor.  Heck, I’m no vet either.), a cigarette girl (My job was going bar to bar handing out free cigarettes, so I went only to the bars with open mics.  I would rollerblade in –oh, didn’t I mention that part of the job?- cut in line to jump on stage and play a few tunes, throw smokes out to the crowd, and then move on to the next venue to be greeted by my fans:  “Cigarette Girl!!!!”  Yes, my mother was so proud.  One particularly lazy night, I changed course and watched a double feature at the Brew N’ View and passed out cigarettes during the intermission.  That ruined that obviously promising career because a man really let me have it about how I was killing people and all of that, so from then on I just picked up cigarettes during the day and stashed them in trash bags under my bed before heading out at night.  I mean, I got paid by the hour, so I obviously still had to go to the bars, right?  Oddly enough, I didn’t have any friends who smoked, so I didn’t know what else to do with them, and my conscience would no longer let me pass them out to unsuspecting victims who assuredly thought they were full of vitamin vapor and dried kale.  Anyway, did Winston fire me?  Nope.), an LSAT, GMAT, and GRE tutor and teacher, a private accountant, a music publishing lackey (I got paid in “smiles” for the first 6 months.  This time it was my dad – who paid for my 300+ hours of college and was now paying my rent- who was super proud), a hostess with the mostess, a private tutor (Whenever the tutoring service got a call for a subject for which they had no tutors, they’d call me.  That’s how I ended up tutoring , among other things for which I have never and will never be qualified, conversational Spanish, the MCAT,  and medieval Icelandic folklore), a public school teacher, heck I even cleaned the kitchen twice a day so I could live for free across the street from a nude beach in Australia (that probably deserves its own post).  I could go on and on, but I will let you know that I was NEVER fired!  Nope, I was never fired until now.

We laugh a lot in my house.  I mean, we don’t just laugh; we guffaw, snort, and convulse.  We also dance.  We dance a lot.  We do NOT dance well.  Good Lord, that is an understatement.  We don’t even dance in any manner that is publicly acceptable.  If anyone saw David and myself dancing somewhere in public, they’d rush to our assistance on the assumption that we were having some kind of synchronized lethal fit.  Anyway, we do those things consistently.  We do not, however clean consistently.  I mean, if you want to have fun, come to our house.  If you want to eat off the floor or sit on something that doesn’t stick to your butt, go somewhere else.  I’m very aware of this deficit, so I hire someone else to clean.  I feel horribly guilty and like a huge failure because of it, but at least it keeps us from contracting communicable diseases within our own home. 

Well, recently I left the house early so that “Sally” (obviously that’s totally her name) could make everything squeaky-clean.  30 minutes later I got a text-essay about how she could no longer keep coming to our house and being miserable and watching all of her hard work be undone each and every time.    I guess I should back up and let you know that Sally had spent several hours over the course of two visits cleaning Big Boy’s red crayon masterpiece off the dining room wall.  I was a bit miffed, but a little less confused when I walked in the door and noticed the GIANT dark blue marker masterpiece now there instead.  “Big Boy, did you do that?”  “Yes, I do!”  “WHY did you do that??” “Cuz Mama wash off my awesome red picture, and blue is my favorite.”  So yeah, Sally fired me.  And it was totally BB’s fault, see?  I wish I could tell you I’m going to be better about cleaning things myself, but I’m not here to lie to you.  So if that’s your thing, you might want to invite us to your place instead (at your own risk, of course).  But if you’re looking for somewhere to laugh until milk comes out of your nose (Yeah, I’d probably clean that one up right away), or if you just want to awkwardly dance next to a giant blue scribbly masterpiece, the door’s open.

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