03.16.2002 - It's a Song and I Wrote It About You

After getting the bomb dropped on me that I'll most likely be sans-job in less than a week, predicting that I might spend my Saturday nestled snugly in the corner of my blacked-out room alternately sucking on my thumb and a bottle of twelve year old Scotch wouldn't be too outlandish. Fortunately for me and my liver, I sucked it up and lived life thanks to a wonderful distraction.

Unable to sleep in thanks to five consecutive days of waking up far earlier than should be permissable by law, I fell out of bed relatively early and began searching for jobs on the Internet. Somehow the staggering lack of part time work didn't send me scurrying back into the comfort of bed, but instead motivated me to get my résumé together. Since my boss encouraged me to come into the office over the weekend to pick up some hours, I figured that would be as good a place as any to get some work done and make some much needed money in the process. Since Jackson was going to the Thrift Store Outlet and I avoid using my car at all costs, I hitched a ride with him and opened up the office while he shopped.

Of course, since people didn't know that we would be open at all on a Saturday, nobody came in to disturb my résumé making. The main advantage of doing this work in the office is that they have all my previous employment history on file, most of which I've forgotten. In three hours of work/dicking around, I slapped together a résumé that actually looks reasonably professional. I will get work.

During the aforementioned dicking around time, I committed the crime of doing a vanity search on Google. See, this kid came up to me at Borders last night and said, "I love your column, dude," and then quoted something that I wrote. I couldn't remember which column it came from, and because I'm too lazy to actually look through my stuff, I googled the phrase up. When I did, I found that this column had been sent out over the wire and has appeared in many a fine Christian University's newspaper, occasionally poorly edited and all without my knowledge or consent. If I weren't a total whore for attention, I'd be screaming "breach of contract" like a motherfucker.

Shortly thereafter, Jackson showed up and I finished cleaning out my desk while I had the office to myself. I didn't want to have to do it while my co-worker or, even worse, a favorite associate had to watch. It was a little sad, as I realized that regardless of how much I complained about this job, it treated me pretty well.

Shortly after I got home, I got a call from the intelligent/witty/foxy Katie, who I promptly invited over. The afternoon spent watching NCAA basketball bled into an evening of peanut butter/banana sandwiches, cider and High Fidelity.

"I'm not going to go into all that other stuff. You know, the who did what to whom stuff. You know that song, "Behind Closed Doors" by Charlie Rich? It's one of my favorite songs. I can say we had a good time. I can say we had a good time. I can say that."

I feel incredibly thankful that for whatever reason she decided to e-mail me last week, because if she hadn't and we hadn't met, my Saturday would have been a mess of agonizing about work and finances while pulling out what little hair I have. Instead, I can think only good things.

Optimism doesn't taste as bad as I thought it would.

Here's to foxy girls and more Saturdays like this.

-- Jeffy