Oh cursed, fowl foul working mother!
I did not get the job. More importantly, I did not WANT the job. Because it was for this guy, gah. Game over. I am embarrassed to say I considered it, would have probably taken the job if the company had been more open with my schedule. But no--their working hours are from 7:30am until 6pm, usually later (not to mention travel to Asia, trade shows and accounts). WTF? Tack on the hour commute each way and I would be gone from 6:30 in the morning until 7 or later every night. I would never see Zoey, much less be able to drop her off and pick her up from school. When I told Bryan he said, "why wouldn't you have been able to do those hours?" To which I replied, "because of a little thing called the space-time continuum, the love of my daughter and the distaste of dick bosses." Okay, I didn't really say that. I just sort of whimpered into my cell phone while pulling over to the side of the road in the rain. Big talk at the Petunia Face manor tonight regarding Shared Priorities and Goals. And then we'll watch an episode of Breaking Bad and discuss the relative merits of pushing meth (between the hours of 9 to 5 only, natch). I'm not gonna' lie: I feel angry right now. Discouraged. Scared and then, oh? What's that? Ah, yes, more anger. I want to write a post on working mothers, but right now it would surely come out sounding whiney and annoying as fuck. So I won't. Instead I give you this: not mine but I wish it were, especially the part about the sweatpants.
That is all.