Just my luck . . .

So today I shed my typical attire, buttoned up a clean, freshly ironed polka dot dress shirt, zipped up a black knee length skirt, covered up my arm tattoos with a black cardigan, and completed the ensemble with some flat silver dress shoes for my big-girl job interview off  of LaSalle Street in downtown. The morning was off to a good start, I made the train departure from Harlem Avenue, with plenty of empty seats (since Harlem is thankfully the starting point of the CTA green line). Some overly soap/hair gel smelling baby blue polo shirt takes a seat next to me, and opens up his Chicago Reader. I stare blankly at the woman in front of me, tempted to tuck her shirt tag in, wondering whether or not I lint rolled all of the dog hair off of the back of my cardigan. The train ride goes by pretty quickly, courtesy of tuning out with my ipod, but I'm sad to leave the huge crowd of people on the train, because they remind me that I'm not alone here. I trek down the stairs, off of the platform, and down to the street, until of course I realize I'm walking in the wrong direction, and casually turn a corner to backtrack. I walk past business suits, bike messengers, and homeless beggars, until I feel a tinge of pain on the toe of my right foot. I wince, and have to stop to take my shoe off and survey the contents. There seems to be nothing there, so I slide my shoe back on, and continue my search for 200 North LaSalle. Excited to have found LaSalle, I feel moisture building up in my right shoe, assuming it's just sweat or maybe some water. I'm sadly mistaken, the moisture feels warm, and I know it is blood. Now I have to go the bathroom, and I'm really really eager to take a good look at my foot, but I don't want to be late for the interview. I'm in the building, signing in, and up the elevator, to the wrong floor of course. I properly locate the office on the 24th (not 26th) floor, and proceed to sign in. While I'm waiting I look down to see blood beginning to seep in between the toe cleavage area of my silver dress shoe, and decide to tuck that foot under the chair. Finally I'm asked to go in to another room to fill out some questions and paperwork, and I ask where I can find the bathroom. The smartly dressed man from the front desk comes in with the key for and directions to the bathroom down the hall. I hurry to finish the paperwork, hand it in at the front desk, and scurry down to the bathroom. The key doesn't work at first, but I keep trying until the stubborn thing finally pries open. I sit on the commode in relief, removing my shoe to check out the damage. Yup, there's a puncture hole on the end of my big toe, and a puddle of blood in the foot of my shoe. I wipe it clean with some toilet paper, flush, wash up, and head back to the front office. I am then interviewed by a project manager, and then lead to another room to take some computer proficiency tests. The tests aren't as easy as I thought that they would be; there's no shortcutting commands allowed, and the typing tests do not allow deleting letters or mistakes, so I get a little frustrated. Even though it takes me a long time to complete the tests, I'm pretty satisfied with the results, and I return to the waiting room when I'm done. I then fill out tax paperwork, only to find out that I cannot be placed with any company until I present the company with two forms of government I.D. (all I have is my driver's license, everything else is in Pittsburgh) in order to complete the I-9 form. Crap. I have to come back here to fill that out. Crap, I just spent two and half hours of my morning sitting in this office, and I still have to come back. At least next time I'll know which way to walk, and what shoes not to wear.