How I failed to fail at a Waffle House interview.

I'm still unemployed, though it isn't for lack of trying. None of the seven hotels within walking distance are hiring; most of the businesses in the industrial park nearby are government-contracted, which thus renders applying to them confusing. The Italian restaurant isn't hiring and the sub shop where my brother worked abruptly shut down last week. (He also tutors math and science at his college, though, so it isn't as though he's destitute. Also, he got to bring home jars of banana peppers and 50-packs of sliced provolone and 3-gallon tubs of ice cream.) Even the freaking Denny's isn't hiring; the manager there told me he's had to cut hours. Shit's for real when even Denny's has to cut hours.

The one place that gave me an interview? Waffle House.

Obviously this is not my idea of a lucrative, satisfying job. But it is a job, and it pays. I'll fully admit to crying my eyes out this weekend - well, after about five Black Russians and a bong hit - at the idea of having to become an employee of a roadside establishment whose claim to fame is hash browns with chili on top. My friends tried to console me, but at that point I was too wasted and instead fell off my chair and then demanded to watch Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade. Let me tell y'all something: do not ever drink straight-up Black Russians starting at 7 PM and not stopping until 1 AM, because you will feel like a semi ran you over the next day.

Anyway. I just came back from the interview. It is literally impossible to fail an interview at this place. Lord knows I tried.

Manager: So what brings you here?
Me: I need a job.
Manager: No, I mean, why do you want to work for us?
Me: I have student loan bills to pay and I need money.
Manager: Fair enough. So when does that boot thing come off your foot?
Me: Well, I see the doctor on December 9th. I can walk and everything. This is more, like, for support.
Manager: Here's the thing. I want to get rid of four or five of my servers because they're honestly thieves. I can't do that just yet because it's the holiday, and I need to have people ready to replace them.
Me: I'm not into the thievery bit. Not my scene.
Manager: Can you work nights?
Me: I'd really prefer not to. I mean, if you need me to work at night I will, but I'm not crazy about doing it. [Let me insert here that they just got robbed two weeks ago. At night.] Hey, wait, what are you hiring for anyway?
Manager: Would you rather cook? I mean, when servers do really well and they want to learn to cook I train them in that.
Me: Nope. I'd rather just wait tables. I'm sorta tired of cooking right now. I mean, not like I might not change my mind after a while but right now I'm good with waiting tables.
Manager: Okay then. My big thing is honesty. If you're short on your rent or something, I'd rather you came to me instead of dipping into the till.
Me: Oh, I'm definitely honest.

He doesn't know the half of it.

Despite my clear lack of enthusiasm, wearing yesterday's jeans which smell rather herbaceous, and yawning through the whole thing, I've been given a second interview with the manager's boss on Wednesday morning. They must be desperate to find a waitress who doesn't steal from the drawer to support her meth habit.

My coffee is rather liberally dosed with anisette this morning.

This is what I do when I'm unemployed.

It's 10:49 in the morning and I am sitting on a dining-room chair dragged in here as a makeshift desk chair, listening to Nirvana to keep the silence at bay. My room is dark even with the curtains yanked as wide open as I could reach; the afternoon sun hasn't hit this side of the house yet, and won't anyway because there's no sun to be had today. I'm drinking lukewarm coffee out of a travel mug already reheated once. I had to grab the used napkin from a plate on my dresser to blot a drop of coffee from my front. It smells like strawberries. I usually don't eat in my room, much less leave dishes overnight. But I went to sleep and nobody took it for me. I can't carry a plate on crutches, so I'm leaving it. This one had half a slice of cheesecake on it. I'm careful, but the mug is designed stupidly and I always drip on my front no matter what I do.

It irritates me particularly because the sweater I'm wearing isn't mine. It once belonged to my father, a cream-colored scratchy cable-knit wool cardigan from the western coast of Ireland. I don't know where he got it. I remember him wearing this a lot when I was small and he was still young and had a wiry runner's build and his hair was all-dark, and when he'd scoop me up his mustache would tickle my face. He shaved it off when I was seven and I begged him to put it back. The sweater hangs in my closet now, because I am always cold. Suddenly I'm very affronted by the audacity of this coffee beading up on top of the wool.

I slide the top all the way closed and shove the mug away.

I'm writing this while the narcotics kick in.

I had to have the surgery, which was this previous Wednesday. It went just fine; I'm put back together with a metal plate and about six screws, or so I'm told. The doctor is great, and I'm glad I ended up with him instead of someone else. He's good at explaining things in a way that isn't overly technical but doesn't condescend. I was absolutely scared shitless, but I think I handled it pretty well. At least the day of, I did, cracking jokes with the nurses and only squealing minimally as the anesthesiologist took 35 minutes prodding the back of my knee to inject the block and waking up in the recovery room to ask for my glasses and put in all my earrings without a mirror, then proceeding to go home and haul my sorry ass upstairs to tear into a chicken caesar wrap. I'm glad for the splint and the Ace bandage covering it all, though, because I nearly faint when I see that five-inch-long incision held together with staples and oozing whatever it is that giant wounds ooze.

Hey, I'm a cook, not a Rotten.com editor. And I'm goofily delighted by the big foam wedge I was given by the hospital. It's enormous and yellow and looks like a piece of radioactive cheese, with a channel cut out for my leg. I like it a lot more than the body pillow I was using to prop up my leg, because my foot doesn't sink into it. I'm also stuck wearing a compression stocking on the good leg for the next two weeks. It's ugly and itchy and I hate the fucking thing, but better that than the possibility of deep-vein thrombosis.

It's now, after the fact, that I'm starting to have the major freak-out. I suppose it's had time to sink in and all that. Every morning I pore over the classified ads in the county newspaper, sift through all the scams on Craigslist, send out e-mail inquiries and record voice tests. Anything to find a job I can do from my bedroom, because bills don't stop coming just because my car's in the junkyard and I can't walk to any of the businesses that would conceivably pay me to do work for them. I know I shouldn't be discouraged, but it's getting frustrating. I don't like being so god damned useless. And I can't do much cooking, either. I have to sit at the kitchen table and have stuff handed to me. Which is better than not being able to hop out to the kitchen at all, I suppose, but when I've dedicated the last two years of my life to this and now suddenly can't stand at the stove daydreaming over beurre blanc if I damned well please, I think it's understandable that I now wish to throw things. I can only get a shower every few days because it's a fairly big undertaking - my mother helps me, and I have gotten over my embarrassment at her seeing me naked for the first time in twenty years because I pretty much have no other choice if I ever want to bathe. So in between I have to make do with hooker baths and no-rinse shampoo, which does a good job, actually. This, however, does hurt my pride because I am one of those people who prefers a nice long hot shower every single evening, and I have a pathological fear of smelling bad.

I don't know what I'd do without my friends - one sent me a care package last week and another wants to send me one too; I've gotten a million texts and e-mails and IMs and phone calls from them. But it's not the same as knowing I could just go drive to someone's house if I felt like it, which I can't, obviously. JD is going to drive up next weekend if I'm up to it, presumably to get me out of the house for a belated birthday celebration. Most of the time, I'm pretty much left to my own devices. I can't really carry stuff unless it fits in the little bag I bought to snap around the hand-grip of my crutch, so my parents pack a little cooler of ice with drinks and food and leave it in my room so I don't hurt myself trying to fix lunch. Even with everyone being so nice - and honestly, I'm fucking floored by the concern I've been shown - it's still a pretty damn lonely existence, and every day I don't have a job is another day to be made acutely aware of it.

The pain itself has gotten worse since surgery. Before, it was more of a general grinding ache, and didn't bother me so much unless I'd been doing a lot of hopping around. Now it's sharp, and acute, and the muscles of my bad leg have atrophied and twitch violently whenever they damn well please and makes me shriek hysterically in pain. I hate when that happens, because the shriek is inevitably followed by crying, which never fails to quickly turn itself into hyperventilating and hysterical sobbing. And it scares me, because I'm wholly unused to losing control of myself like that. Yesterday it took me until dinner time to get me to stop it entirely, and actually I'm grateful to have been left alone for most of the day. I can't stand anyone seeing me a total wreck, even if I write about it publicly.

I don't know if anyone reads this blog, much less cares about some chick they've likely never met and don't give a shit about. But it feels good to write. Writing gives me something to do and takes my mind off how soul-crushingly numb I've become. But then, losing everything you've worked so hard for will do that.

I have no hope left for humanity. None.

I met Graham through my best friend JD. He's funny and smart and a fantastic writer. He also has cerebral palsy, which means he's confined to a motorized wheelchair. Unfortunately, this means that despite the fact that he's practically a human encyclopedia of music, he does not get a lot of girls. (I'd date him in a heartbeat if I swung that way.) He spends a lot of time not just listening to music and writing about it, but going to shows. Graham is well known at the various venues all over The City, and as he is impossible not to like, he's quite friendly with all the security guards, who set up little roped-off areas for those in wheelchairs so they won't get crushed by mosh pits and the like.

Well, he posted a blog about what happened at a show last night.

Some drunk fuck would not leave the wheelchair area, despite being told by a few security guards to move. The guy got in Graham's face, and Graham, being a non-confrontational sort of guy, ignored him. This tactic did not work, and Graham told said drunk fuck to leave him alone. Dude flipped him off, so Graham did the same and went about his business, trying to listen to the band. Guy went away, and Graham was able to enjoy the concert in peace.

Until this piece of shit, halfway through the last song, crept up behind Graham, and punched him in the face. The asshole was immediately taken down by security and a couple of nice guys helped Graham grab his stuff and get the hell out of there. Nothing was broken, thankfully, and Graham's dad - a lawyer - came down and they decided to press charges. To which I say, good. Get him for all he's got.

Now. Let me put this into perspective for you all.

This piece of fucking slimy shit from the bottom of an outhouse is six feet tall and weighs twice what I do.

Graham is five feet tall and weighs 85 pounds.

Takes a real man to punch somebody in a fucking wheelchair from behind, doesn't it?

My life as a gimp, Act One.

My ankle is broken.

It is so badly broken - the word used was "shattered", actually - and in such a weird way that the orthopedic surgeon refused to treat it, and instead punted me to a foot/ankle specialist. I'm having a CAT scan on Friday, so as to determine if surgery is needed - and thus all the plates and screws and bolts to hold my tibia together - or if they can just pop a cast on it. Obviously I would prefer the latter, as I am terrified of surgery. Also, if they don't have to do it, I'd rather not. I've never had surgery before, and I don't know how I react to anesthesia.

Either way, I'm going to have massive arthritis in a few years' time, so that essentially cuts out any career where I must stand. Even though it won't show up for a while, standing constantly day in and day out only aggravates and accelerates it. Meaning, I will probably never become a chef. If this were Reader's Digest, in five years I'd be writing that I'm a millionaire or something, in one of those inspirational stories they love to print. The only thing I'm inspired to do right now is fume and rage as I try to putter around the top floor of my house and not fall over and land on my ankle as I already did once this evening, thus causing hysterical screaming on my end and abject horror at my agony on my father's end.

What is making this bearable is the prescription for 55 Percocets I've been given to tide me over until we find out what's going on with the CAT scan/possible surgery/whatever. My chest and shoulders and neck hurt too, which makes it harder for me to move around anyway, because I'm basically drained of all strength.

My father has been amazing about this. He's the entire reason I was able to get out of the house at all, or make it into the podiatrist's office and out again, and then back into the house. I'm lucky that he's so physically strong, or I'd still be collapsed at the bottom of the stairs, crying. My mother, too, has been amazing, getting water for me and bringing a TV tray into my room so I can type and eat more comfortably. My brother is trying to get into nursing school, so I suppose I'll let him practice on me. I promised not to let him see my ass.

But I cannot be bitter, for I am not alone. The nurses were wonderful and compassionate and gave me a pair of crutches they actually shouldn't have, but knew I couldn't afford to buy a pair myself. The podiatrist was gentle and kind and tried not to yank my foot around as he examined it. The pharmacist filled my prescription as fast as he could because he knew what kind of pain I was in. My parents and brother have kept me from doing more damage to myself by helping drag me around the house. My friends have called and texted and e-mailed me with commands to let them help in any way possible. One, in particular, is helping me to look for jobs I can do from home, as I'll be knocked out of commission for only the gods know how long.

I've already filled out one application, so I'll see what happens. For now I'm going to have a gyro and another Percocet, as the one I took three hours ago is beginning to wear off, and gimp myself into my parents' bedroom to watch the season premiere of House. I don't think I'll be going downstairs again for a long, long while. Good way to get myself to stop drinking soda.

My bad week trumps your bad week.

This week could only get worse if I were diagnosed with AIDS.

Returning from the bank after picking up my last paycheck from the Brewery, I took the turn into my street too sharply and plowed into a ditch.

I have contusions and abrasions from the seatbelt digging into my chest. I had to bend my ankh pendant back into shape from where it bent. There are scrapes and cuts in the shape of the Tiffany chain my parents gave me last year. And my right ankle...I can't walk on it. At all. Every time I try I nearly faint from the pain. I can still move it and all so I don't think it's broken. Been soaking it in ice water on and off for the past two hours. My brother and mother had to help me into the house and eventually to get up the stairs to the hallway I had to drag myself on my ass. Which, incidentally is how I got from the bathroom to my room just now. Mom found a cane downstairs but that doesn't do me any good.

I'm going to the doctor tomorrow to have my ankle looked at. My father is paying for the visit, which is nice considering that when I ended up in his pharmacy (long story) he screamed at me until a customer came to the counter. Apparently everything I do turns to shit and could I at least please try not to be such a fuck-up? His technician looked disgusted, but said nothing.

I didn't break down, at least not totally, until I got back home and was trying to get inside. Landed on the bad foot accidentally and screamed. Then I lost it and started crying so hard I couldn't breathe. But I had to make myself stop because I had to get inside. I don't know how I'm going to get outside and to Dad's car tomorrow. Maybe it'll feel better then, I don't know.

My car...it's totaled.

I have no job. No car. No way to get to another job.

Yeah. I'm royally fucked.

Reality hits.

I was scheduled to work 8-4 today. Currently it is 2:00, and I am sitting at home in civilian clothes. No, I didn't finish early.

I got fired for dropping a roasting pan of cooked rib racks.

The two managers on duty treated me like I was the worst piece of shit slacker know-nothing who ever walked into that kitchen, as if I never came in on days off or came in early or stayed late or volunteered my time when the dishwasher called out sick. It was utterly humiliating. I don't think that's even the best phrasing for it, but I don't know what words I could use. The worst part is, this morning I was told by one of the managers on duty that I'm very talented and have a lot of potential, and if I keep working on my timing then I'll be even better.

I've never been fired before in my life. I have no idea what I'm going to say to my parents when they get home from work. They're going to be so fucking disappointed. Not half as much as I am, though. At least I managed to get to my car and shut the door before I started crying. I wouldn't give anyone the fucking satisfaction of seeing me like that. I just shrugged and said, "Well, I'm sorry too. I really enjoyed working here. Hope it works out for you guys," handed my employee card back, and walked out - through the front door, with my head held high.

No. Let them think I don't give a fuck. It's better than being remembered as that weak little girl just out of school who only lasted three months and then fell apart and made a scene when she got the boot.

I guess I know how I'll be spending Monday.