So today I had a job interview at Goodwill. Hold your applause: I didn't get it.
I wake up an hour late to no alarm. I don't know what the hell happened, but I think I may be getting a little too good at covertly turning the radio off before my conscious mind catches my hand. So I leap out of bed - and my housecoat is in the wash. For anyone who cares to note this, I sleep in the nude. So I wrap myself in a sheet, somewhat resembling a certain jedi, and clumsily stumble upstairs. It was my responsibility to wake the kids today and get them ready, as their father was picking them up at quarter past nine. Like some sort of demented hobbit, I stagger from room to room, shaking their legs and mumbling incoherently. Realising I will have missed bus, I place a few panicked calls. My step-dad agrees to drive me on his way home with M and G and I quickly hop into the shower.
Of course there was no hot water.
Freezing and cursing the gods, I do my best to complete my morning routines. My laundry, sleeping innocently in the dryer, was not dry. I don't know why. It just wasn't.
So by this point I'm cold, damp, panicked and still host to the lines you get on your skin when you sleep on wrinkled sheets.
I try and print of my resume downstairs. My computer, the trustworthy leviathan I have come to love, crashes. I run back upstairs. I try and run a print on my Mum's PC. The printer jams. Like jams. I spend the next five minutes trying to release 3 sheets of 8.5"X11" from the unruly jaws of a silver monster.
By this time my step-dad and siblings are waiting, patiently, by the front door. I throw on shoes and lock the front door on my way out. I forgot my resume.
I don't have house keys.
Apparently my mother married a ninja. He decides he can break into a window in my house (which I stupidly left open - I never do that!) and he retrieves my resume. All is well.
I get dropped at Timmies and have a coffee, trying to calm my frazzled nerves. I have nearly half an hour before I am due at my interview. I psych myself up, and walk across the street, head held high.
Fast forward to five minutes later:
I walk back across the street with my head held low.
They don't have flexible hours in part time and you cannot request a specific schedual. Anna, the pasty thing behind the desk could only seem to say "I'm sorry but we are not able to offer you a position at this time".
In a funk and having an hour to kill before my shift at my "real" job - I bought myself a new book.
Never under-estimate the power of a good western.