The other morning I dreamed that I had whiskey for breakfast. A not-wee dram of single malt in a cut crystal glass with the sun sparkling through it. Very pretty, but even in my dream I was appalled at myself.
Later that morning, after one cup of coffee, I was buried in the paperwork for my new job (the preliminary forms, just so they'll let me in the door). That whiskey was looking a lot less appalling.
I didn't know it then, but "Whiskey for Breakfast" is a song. In fact, there are many songs. Listen to the pretty one [at].
I stuck with coffee and got through the forms, more or less. I am not sure what to put for my address: my permanent address or my local address in Alexandria? My indecision is an excuse to play with my collection of sticky arrow flags. I will find out the answer at orientation. Or perhaps I'll email the long-suffering HR lady.
One of the forms was a blank fingerprint card. The instruction directed me to go to my local police department and get fingerprinted. What, I can't get a stamp pad from Ben Franklin and do it myself? Well, that would be a bad idea. They only gave me one card and I'd probably make a hideous mess of it, my clothes, my kitchen, the cats … Surprisingly, people need to get fingerprinted often enough, outside of being arrested, that it's on the Police Department FAQ. And fingerprinting is pretty high tech now, I discovered. There is no ink, just a scanner, a laser printer, and a person to press your fingers onto the glass many, many times, until there's a good capture.
That's not the last of the forms by a long shot. The packet included instructions for some online forms to which I won't have access for another week.
I can hardly wait.
320 words | August 30, 2007 10:58 PM | Working for The Man