Free Swag Bags and Swindlers by Dorothy Howell Page A

flawless.
    Just your average housewife wiling away a quiet evening at home.
    â€œThere you are,” she declared, and rose from the chaise. “I’ve been trying to reach you. I’ve had the most brilliant idea.”
    I was afraid of that.
    Mom often had brilliant ideas. She’d started—and abandoned—numerous businesses and hobbies over the years, most with disastrous results.
    â€œI’ve been dying to tell you,” she said.
    I braced myself.
    Mom drew herself up into her pageant stance—chin up, shoulders back—and announced, “I’m going to get a job.”
    Oh my God, where had she come up with that idea? No way had she thought it up on her own. Had she read an article in Elle, maybe?
    â€œI read an article in Vogue, ” Mom said.
    Close enough.
    â€œIt’s time,” Mom told me. “Time for me to step up and help the world.”
    Mom hadn’t worked for the entire time I was growing up—I’m not sure she’d ever held a job.
    â€œI’m not clear on how you finding a job is going to help the world,” I said.
    It was the nicest thing I could think of.
    â€œI’m going to focus on my career now,” Mom said. “I want to work for a truly worthwhile cause at a foundation or a large charitable organization. Possibly adopting pets. Saving the planet, perhaps. Maybe feeding hungry children in—Africa, Syria? Where are children starving?”
    â€œEverywhere, Mom.”
    â€œWell, then that just proves that I must find a position quickly,” she told me. “I need your help.”
    Oh, crap.
    â€œI want you to write my résumé for me,” Mom said.
    How was I going to write a résumé for someone who hadn’t actually worked anywhere?
    â€œYou found that fabulous job working for that big company downtown,” Mom pointed out.
    I’d never gotten around to telling Mom I’d left that job a while ago because the company had gone out of business and that I was working someplace new.
    This was definitely not the time to mention it.
    â€œI know you’ll do a fabulous job on a résumé for me,” Mom said, “and I’ll secure a position where I can make a real difference in the world.”
    As far as I knew, Mom’s greatest accomplishments were walking comfortably in five-inch heels and readily recognizing the subtle difference between the shades of ecru and eggshell.
    Not even David Copperfield could make a résumé appear that would get her a job. Still, I couldn’t fight her on it.
    â€œSure, Mom, I’ll get started on it,” I told her.
    â€œCall me if you have any questions,” she said.
    I saw no point in asking my how-the-heck-did-I-get-involved-in-this question, so I left.
    Â 
    â€œAren’t you supposed to be helping with the new employee orientation?” Sandy asked.
    I’d successfully blocked out my new assignment—though my visit with my mom earlier this evening was still rattling around in my head—but it all came crashing back thanks to that gentle reminder from Sandy, one of my Holt’s BFFs. We were in the housewares department packing throw pillows and small rugs into boxes and loading them onto U-boat carts.
    Sandy was a little younger than me, with hair that varied in color depending on her mood. Today it was red.
    Sandy didn’t seem to have a plan for the rest of her life—or the immediate future—beyond working for Holt’s and continuing to date her tattoo artist boyfriend, who treated her awful and who I often wished would be abducted by aliens.
    â€œJeanette asked me to help out with the orientation,” I said. “Is that tonight?”
    I paused, a brown-print throw pillow in each hand, wondering if I’d overlooked the announcement in the breakroom beside the time clock.
    That happened a lot.
    â€œAm I supposed to be doing the orientation now?” I asked.
    â€œNo,”