It's fiction dontcha know. If you've made it this far, you were probably invited. Enjoy the writing process with me and feel free to leave feedback.

Monday, June 26, 2006

I Clicked On PBS For Chloe

and plopped her onto the loveseat with a rascally kiss on her cheek chub. Okay, fruit cocktail. I opened the can and spooned half of it into her purple Barney bowl and slid the spoon in the side. She seemed transfixed enough on Sesame Street that I figured I had time to make a call to the temp agency without interruption. I looked up the number and dialed. The woman on the phone looked up my work history on the computer and invited me to come in the next morning for “some clerical testing”.

“Are you available tomorrow morning?” Her Royal Perkiness said.

“Sure, I can be there tomorrow morning at 9:00 if you have an opening.”

“We are wiiide open. We’ll see you tomorrow, CeCe, at our office at 9:00 a.m., okay?” HRP said confirming. The pitch of her voice rose and fell in exactly the same place as it had in every sentence before, always ending in something close to a squeak.

“Yes,” I said oh-so-professionally. “but could you tell me if you have any jobs available that are temp to permanent starting this week?” Man, that didn’t sound desperate.

“Uhh, well, um. Well, not as of today; however, we receive job queries daily and after you have re-entered our system, we will be notifying you just as soon as we receive a query that matches your skills and abilities.” She answered as if she were reading from the Kelly Services handbook.


“That sounds great. Thank you so much for your time and I will see you tomorrow at 9:00 a.m.” I said hoping to have disguised my exasperation.

“Oh, um, yes and please remember to dress as if you were attending a job interview.” She quickly interjected.

“Thank you, I will.” I said. She bid me a great day and we hung up.

I slouched on the loveseat next to Chloe with the bowl of fruit cocktail and coaxed her into a few bites. When the credits began to roll on the screen I scooped her up and made for the laundry closet. I slung my clothes off and traded cut off sweats for the ankle length cotton skirt and the pit-stained white t-shirt for the creamy pink, knit top. I tossed a yellow cotton sundress over Chloe’s top end, ran upstairs, and grabbed the jewelry bag. I caught a glimpse of my reflection passing the dressing table. I looked like a blonde Alice Cooper in drag. I smeared the stale mascara smudges away with some foundation, freshened up my lashes, dusted with some powder, and pouted up my lips in a petal pink gloss. I sat Chloe on the floor next to me as I did the closet dive for a matching pair of appropriate shoes. Appropriate for this mission was something a little sassy. It didn’t’ matter that the walk was at least a mile, each way. As my makeup artist friend Andrew always preached,

“It’s far better to look good, Dahling. It’s the unspoken commodity.” He would say gesturing off to the side with his ivory cigarette holder, exhaling streams of clove cigarette smoke from his nostrils. Andrew was the most hateful queen in the Bible Belt, the grande-dame. He'd earned every crown in his china cabinet, hands down.


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