So I have a knack of somehow just being stupid. Nine times out of 10, I’m able to stop a disaster, or recover from it. This time, I fear it’s fatal.
Well, not in the mortal sense of the word, but you know? Right? Anyway …
Last week I lost my car keys. I walked from my apartment to the local weekly paper where I freelance write and design. It’s over a mile there, but that’s not to bad the walk there is downhill. Of course, the walk back isn’t downhill, so there’s a lot of heavy breathing, but I digress…
(I like ellipses… is it ellipses or ellipsis?)
I’ve lost my car keys. You know, the $120 dollar kind that you can’t just replace at the local hardware store? And I don’t have a spare key, so don’t even think of asking if I have one. The lady at the local T-Mobile store, where I stopped to ask if anyone had turned in any car keys, told me as I was leaving, “You should have had a spare!”
Gee, lady, thanks for the advice.
I’m a little bummed. I was contacted by the sports editor of the Santa Cruz Sentinel to ask if I could help her out in a bind. She had a few freelancers bail on her, and asked if I could help. Well, I didn’t want to tell her that I didn’t have a car because my boneheadedness lost my keys somewhere between David Ave., Forest Ave., and Grand Ave. So I fibbed. I may have blown my shot, but I’m hoping those freelancers bail on her again.
I had to decline. It hurt really bad. It’s sometimes one of those shots that turns into a career. That’s how I became involved in my last job. I started freelancing sports stories, then I was offered a part-time position, which evolved into full-time. I then because the Assistant Sports Editor (they like to call it Deputy Sports editor there, but it’s the same thing.)
I worked my way up to Sports Editor, then Presentation Editor (basically I was in charge of making sure everyone followed the design format), then Director of Visual Content and Operations — which means I did a whole lot.
Anywho, you get the point. I lost my car keys. I lost my shot at getting the foot in the door — hopefully temporarily — because my dumbass couldn’t just stuff them in my pocket like a normal human being. I let them dangle like a janitor does.
Anyone have some cheese to go with my whining?