Not Cancer

"Severe pre-cancerous cells."
The words came out hard, crisp and packaged. This line had been said before, and the person who said it was flawlessly rehearsed. The voice on the other line had the perfect balance of sympathy and medical detachment. There was a silence on my end. The scent of my morning tea, so refreshing only seconds before, was beginning to make me nauseous. I sat down and took a deep breath.
"How much to remove them?" my shaky voice questioned.
"A crap load of money" was the prompt response.
Not really, but that's what I heard, and that sums it up in a nutshell.
I had already forked over a crap load of cash for the previous procedure to detect any questionable cells. Life with no insurance in America was looking more and more grim. I yearned to be from Denmark like Michelle, or ANY European country with a social welfare system who doesn't let there people just fend for themselves.
I hung up the phone. Panic set in, followed by morbid thoughts and self pity.
" I have The Cancer." I whined to myself. "I'm only 25 and I have THE CANCER!!"
Tears streamed down my face and I immediately called Dustin. My voice shaky and fragile, I morosely conveyed the news to him while sinking further into my self pity.
"I'm coming home." he said decisively while on his way to work.
He did, and he held me. Held me while I whined and fretted. Held me while I morbidly pontificated on how I had "The Cancer" and would most surely suffer an untimely death. He held me as I cried and cried.
"Its not cancer." he said softly and wisely. "And you're definitely not dying. It will take years to develop into cancer and you have caught it early enough to just remove the cells that are suspicious. It happens all the time. Its not a big deal."
It took a few more rational male monologues on his part to sooth my irrational, panicked, and highly active female imagination. He was successful. I calmed, took more deep breathes and came back to reality.
Later that day I received flowers at work-only proving that I truly do have the most amazing boyfriend on earth. On the card he wrote was a quote from Bob Marley:
"Dont worry, 'bout a thing. 'Cuz every little thing is gonna be alright."
I focus on those words, and realize how true they are and how lucky I am on so many levels. Tomorrow I'm calling the doctor and making an appointment to remove those pesky cells that arent and never will be "The Cancer."

it aint hapenin.

The sun is shining, the grass is rising, the flowers are blooming and I have writers block.
Somebody send me a subject-and I'll go to town on it.
Please.

Searching

"We'll call you in a week."
That seems to be the mantra of the month as I spend every day I have off searching for another part time job.
I suppose I should be thankful that I am even getting interviews, but all I want to hear is: "Can you start tomorrow?"
I spend at least an hour in the mirror, deliberating over which outfit is suitable. It must be both sexy and conservative-eye-catching and subdued. The perfect outfit is chosen: all black with a splash of red to match my lips. The only accessory is my shiny black resume folder. I am ready to hit the pavement.
Every restaurant I pass is a maybe. A no vote is cast when its an Elmers or Sherrys. I have my limits. I walk in, ask if they are hiring (smiling all the while), and hand over my resume: the single sheet of paper that sums up my working life in a nutshell. All they will know about me is in the quick scan their eyes make across that paper: "Selene K., table whore extrordanaire, with a bit of front desk clerk and barista thrown in-hey I'm a crazy gal-I like to mix it up!" Hundreds of my resumes lie in piles on desks across the city. In an industry with more turn over than apple pastries, I do get my fair share of interviews.
The interview process is a strange thing, and everyone has their own individual style. A week ago I went into a cafe to be interviewed for a breakfast server position. The man who interviewed me walked out of the kitchen looking like he hadn't had breakfast or coffee for about a month. He was half my size, skinny as hell with eyes so shaded and droopy it made me wonder if we wasn't supplementing his food with smack.
"So....um...yeah...you know Ryan?" he mumbled, referring to his employee who used to be my co-worker, which was the reason I had the interview in the first place.
"Yes I do." I said and proceeded to let him know how and where and shamelessly plugged myself, saying what a great server I was when we worked together.
"So....um......" He said, barely audibly, his eyes wandering out the window onto the trendy streets of the Pearl District.
I sit, hanging on the last "um" waiting for him to start the actual interview.
"Ummm.....'" he continues, and I feel as if this has been going on for an hour already.
"uhh....yeah"he finally gains momentum."Im going on vacation for two weeks, but I just want to get this out of the way now so I don't have to deal with it later."
"So, you wont actually be hiring for two weeks" I ask as politely as I can.
"Um....yeah." he says.
I try to hide my irritation behind my massive, fake smile and take a deep breath. I am still waiting for him to interview me. The only question he offers up the entire time we sit there is:
"So....um..like, why should I hire you?"
What the hell am I doing here? WHY should you hire me!?! I dunno asshole, but you're the one who has my resume, you're the one who called me in here, so you're the one who should be answering that question, but not before asking me some better freakin questions than that!!!!
But, that is not what comes out of my mouth. Oh, no. My fake smile is plastered even bigger on my face as I launch into a monologue about what a fabulous, experienced, hard working table whore I am.
His only reaction is one sleepy blink, like he just remembered he was here, in this moment and that he was "interviewing" me.
"Umm....ok, thanks. We'll call you in like, a week."
The next week finds me sitting in a smoky bar, the likes of which I said I would never work in again, but the shifts they are offering are too good to turn down, so there I sit.
The dude who is doing the interview comes up and sits down. He at least looks more together and aware than the last. Then come the words:
"So, I lost your resume...do you mind telling me the last three places you worked?"
You have got to be kidding me. What the hell is wrong with people.
I then proceed to give me an oral version of my resume, gritting my teeth in a fake smile all the while, trying to mask my frustration at the disorganized, unprofessional format of it all.
The usual questions abound, we shake hands and the interview is over.
But, not without these last, parting words:
"We'll call you in a week."
So, here I sit, those words echoing in my mind after hearing them again yesterday in another interview.
I try to stay positive and think: In a weeks time, one of 'ems gotta call right?
Lets hope so.
In meantime...the search goes on.