I’m supposed to be over at church, right now, watching a video presentation about “Bad Girls of the Bible.” It’s the first session of a new study group, and even women who won’t be able to attend regularly (which I will not, because I am going to be working soon you know) were encouraged to come see this “meaningful and surprising” video.
Bad girls, bad girls, whatcha gonna do?
Whatcha gonna do when they come for you?
Bad girls, bad girls….
Guess why I’m not there. Go on! Guess!
You might think it’s because every time this particular bible study has been mentioned, every woman’s head automatically turns in my direction, and I’ve decided to be a little bit less predictable. You might think that, but you’d be wrong.
You might think it’s because I’m not interested in the bad girls of the Bible. But that’s not right, either, because I am all over any story of a woman who was supposedly bad turning out to be okay. For no particular reason, of course. So that’s not it.
No, I’m not there because attending that session today would conflict with my Grand Plan For Excessive Wallowing. It’s an awesome plan, really. Who doesn’t love a full-scope wallow, once in a while?
So, here’s what happened. Yesterday, I called and left what will be my last message with my contact at Big Company. I dunno what’s happening there, but from here it looks like… nothing. I’m clearly being given the corporate cold shoulder. (Was it something I said?) So I decided: one more cheery phone message, then move on.
And then I woke up this morning–after not enough sleep–and decided that I needed to stay home today just in case Big Company calls. We all know Big Company is not going to call, right? But if I stay home all day and cancel my plans just to sit by the phone, then I’ll really have exclusive wallowing rights tonight when I have to face the fact that they are not going to hire me.
Because being unemployed and perpetually rejected with two kids and a big mortgage isn’t wallow-worthy enough, ya know. Not if you’re me. If you’re me, that’s small potatoes. But missing “Bad Girls of the Bible,” on top of that? That’s wallow gold. I can just see me now:
“Not only did those bastards never call me back, they hindered my devotion to God! Now I’m jobless and damned! And it’s all their fault!!”
I’m available for parties, by the way. Call 1-800-BAD-GIRL to make a reservation. The wallowing keeps me pretty busy, but mention this blog for a 10% discount and I’ll do my best to work you in.