“Please don’t look at me that way. I told you the meeting probably wouldn’t go well…I mean, what can a girl expect with the screwed up economy? It’s not my fault - no one can keep a job. And I worked really hard, you know, and I gave one-hundred percent on the job all the time. I should be proud of that. You should be proud of that.”

I slowly slid the key into the ignition slot before turning it. What followed this action was something of a churning, bordering-on-hopeful roar, and then the usual sputtering hack that an eighty-year-old non-filtered cigarette smoker might have. On any other day I probably would have taken the key out, said a quick prayer promising God something we both knew that I’d never keep, and try again.

But it was Monday. And I had just showed up to some special meeting at work only to find out that I had been fired. I mean, who fires people on a Monday?

“Isn’t there some kind of rule from the Better Business Bureau stating you have to boot people out on a Friday so they can go home for a weekend, get hammered, and then go have that glorious be-all-end-all hangover before giving themselves some kind of you-go-and-get-‘em pep talk that inspires them to go out and rummage through the ‘Want’ ads?”

The look that Nixon returned to me in the passenger seat pretty much said it all. Basically, it reminded me that I could go home and search for a new job on Google – except that I no longer possessed the internet because the power company shut me down. Who knew they wouldn’t send you more than eight late payment notices before pulling the plug?

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