There are several benefits to working as a medical receptionist...
And by that I mean none... There are NO benefits to working as a medical receptionist... not even medical benefits, believe it or not.
So for 15 years, off and on, as I drag my sorry ass out of bed to the piercing sound of my alarm clock's devil cry, I have told myself that someday, SOMEDAY, something has to come of this personal hell I've created. That wading through the feces and the crazies and the tales of herpes simplex 1 would all someday prove to be worth my while. And I would cease to live a life of cynicism and regret. The burning hell fires of hatred would extinguish in my formerly hopeful heart, and I would once again see a glimmer of possibility.
That day came on Saturday. In human form.
As anyone who knows me, or doesn't know me, or that has perused my blog, or been within ear shot of my obnoxiously loud speaking voice can tell you... I am a reality TV whore. I will openly and proudly sell myself for a DVR'd episode of any number of trashy reality fare. I live vicariously through the effed up lives of others in a desperate search for their 15 minutes. Or Prince Charmings. Or size twos.
As an actor (or someone claiming to be an actor) I, unfortunately, cannot allow myself to participate in such juicy spectacles... for they are career suicide... wait, I have no career... hold on, I have to go nominate myself for The Bachelorette...
Okay, thanks for your patience...
Where was I?
So there I sat, all a twitter, waiting ever so patiently for the next installment of (insert name of dignity consuming shit show here) when I get an email from my dear sweet goddess of a mother, who works for the same company I do.
Subject: New Wing Opening
We just booked BOB HARPER from The Biggest Loser to come speak at the opening of the new wing! Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh! Invite the girls!
It felt like YEARS would pass before that fateful day when my gay boyfriend Bob (sexual orientation still unconfirmed, but c'mon now) would go rogue and propose to me in the ultimate Love-At-First-Sight-So-Intense-It-Forced-An-Impromptu-Team-Switch situation. But as I trudged along, day after day, hour after hour, I FINALLY had something keeping me going.
And then it was Saturday... the Saturday. I had hardly slept the night before, like a crumb-snatcher on the eve of Christmas... or a tween on the eve of the next Twilight movie release... or a Biggest Loser contestant on the eve of... a mountain of chocolate chip cookies...
My bestie and I arrive with the vain hopes of simply catching a glimpse of Bob's beauty in the flesh, or a lewd conduct arrest for bum rushing him onstage and dry humping his skinny jeans. Either way. Just being in the same room with him was reason enough to bring me to Satan's Lair (i.e. my place of employment) on my day off.
My glorious mother, who was one of the people in charge of the event, informed us that she had reserved us front row seats for Bob's inspirational hub-bub (which was "technically" not allowed... but my mom is a rock star).
She then showed us around the new wing, of which I could not have been LESS excited to see, and we took our seats in frenzied anticipation. Five minutes before Bob was to take the stage, my angelic maternal figure appeared with a sharp and terrifying "COME WITH ME RIGHT NOW!" And as we hustled through the masses, at mach speeds, my mind raced... Knowing my mother she was taking me to meet some medical big wig that she had told all about me, who's son was an actor in Paducha, Kentucky, and had just landed some local furniture commercial that was sure to be a hit. My hopes were not high.
But as she led my bestie and I through closed access doors and down hallways lined with security, my heartbeat accelerated ever so slightly... was this it? Could this REALLY be happening? And then the woman who bore me shoved me around a blind corner and I was face to chest with the one and only BOB HARPER (that mo fo is tall as shit). What happened next is a blur... I made a face that only belongs on registered sex offenders, which surely terrified him as the reaction on his face was one of "SECURITY!", I said "Hi, Oh my God, I'm Jill", to which he smiled and stuck out his hand and shook mine, my bestie introduced herself in a much suaver fashion, and we were whisked back to our seats, as quick as we had came.
Bob was then introduced to the masses, those poor insignificant peons, and we sat and "listened" (salivated) and felt snug in the knowledge that Bestie and Bob and I had an unspoken and unparalleled connection, and these other fools were just room fillers. We laughed, we cried, Bob talked some shit on the Biggest Loser bitches. When he told stories he made direct eye contact with bestie and I, and we had soon earned the hatred of every straight woman and gay man in the joint.
It was surreal.
There was a book signing, with a line that rivaled 4am at Wal-Mart on black Friday... which, of course, we didn't have to stand in, because our books were in Bob's "green room", awaiting his personal message.
And then it was over. Just as quickly as it had started.
We were later informed that minutes after our personal handshake meet and greet, Bob looked about the joint and asked "Where did those cute girls go? It was so exciting for a minute." And then he immediately added "Jill + Bob 4-eva" to his inked out torso...
And it all fell into place. 15 years of hell is a small price to pay for a soul mate. But you just can't deny kismet.
13 hours ago