Despite finding something to wear to my interview yesterday, things didn't go as smoothly as I had hoped. It wasn't a bad interview, per se, but it wasn't my best. Even though I did spend most of the day being bummed about that, I finally woke up today to realize that, in the long run, the worst that could happen is that I don't get this job and will have to apply at a few other companies. Not really cause for a panic attack. Not yet, at least.

Anyway, here is the promised picture of me standing in front of the door in our kitchen...

The door leads to the basement, which I guess is why there is a lock on it. You know, to keep little ones from tumbling headfirst down some not-at-all-cushy stairs, the ones that end in a concrete floor. The only reason we ever use the lock is to show that the cats have been put in the basement for the night and to warn the world that anyone who lets them up will suffer The Wrath of the Father.

I guess I could make some sort of segue between physical doors and doors of opportunities, but I'd rather just go make myself a mid-afternoon batch of s'mores. Please keep your fingers crossed about this job, though . . .

Eleven hours and seventeen minutes until I'm due at Mr. Tom Bruise's office. (No, not his real name. Yes, there is an explanation.) I can't sleep at the moment because I'm coming to the awful realization that I have nothing to wear to an interview. I haven't had the money to purchase new clothes in a really obnoxiously long time, which isn't that much of a problem when I'm at college and pajamas are considered appropriate attire for most any occasion. However, with less than twelve hours to go until my first official interview for what would be my first official not-a-cashier job, I'm realizing that flannel pants and a t-shirt probably won't cut it this time.

I guess I can either wake up at the butt-crack of dawn tomorrow and go shopping before the interview—because that's always such a success—or try to creatively rearrange something from the Stuff I Only Wear to Church collection. On the plus side, maybe this is my one chance to wind up on TLC's What Not to Wear! Hot dang, that would be awesome.

Hopefully, I'll remember to have my mom take the obligatory picture of me standing in front of the door in our kitchen that leads to the basement. This is, of course, the place I stand before the first day of school every year, before any graduation ceremony, before any dance or prom or whatever . . . Most likely, I will also stand in front of that door to pose for a picture before I am allowed to get married, give birth, or die. Perhaps having photographic proof of all my bad fashion choices over the years will spare a few good souls from making the same mistakes.

In any case, neither the picture nor the interview will be happening unless I find at least a few articles of clean clothing in my room, so I suppose it's time to start praying to Stacy and Clinton for a miracle.

Tomorrow's the big day. I'm officially going in for an interview. With a guy whose name sounds a lot like a celebrity's name.

Pretend this man's name is Tom Bruise. (I'm trying not to get dooced before I even get this job.) I'm pretty certain that at some point, I'm going to call him Tom Cruise. That's really not the kind of first impression I want to make on day one with my potential new boss. Then again, maybe he'll think I'm clever and original, hire me on the spot, and allow me to call him Mr. Cruise because it makes him feel special.

Five minutes later, Santa will swing by to ask us for directions to the local Giordano's, where he would inevitably be meeting up with the Easter Bunny and the Tooth Fairy for a taste of the world's best pizza.

Anywho, if y'all could be thinking of me on Wednesday at 1pm, I'd greatly appreciate any prayers, rabbits' feet, crossed fingers, or four-leaf clovers you could throw my way.