In which I have a red skull on my hand

So. Today I went on my first interview since the Great Potential Job Disaster of 2010 - of which we no longer speak. Anyway, this job was to be a press secretary for a certain U.S. senator. I studied studied studied and prepped prepped prepped for said interview, as I am not from the senator's state and have only actually been in the state one time, ever.

However, last night I made the mistake of going to a concert. That, in itself, was not so much of a mistake - except that I went with this guy who I thought originally was nice, but who turned out to be the kind of guy that wolf-whistles for cabs instead of sticking his hand up like a normal person, and then stands on the sidewalk and shouts for the cab to stop and pick him up (again, instead of JUST RAISING HIS HAND like EVERYONE ELSE DOES), and then, once in the cab, yells at the cab driver for driving without his cab light on. And also, the kind of guy who talks for 3.5 hours about himself and asks me approximately 2 questions, one of which was, "what, are you serious?" after I told the cab driver that we'd be making two - separate - stops at the end of the night.

Anyway. I say all of this because in going to the concert, I had to get my hand stamped - something I didn't think twice about until this morning, when I realized that there was an outline of a large, inky, red skull on the back of my right hand and there was no way it was coming off in time for the interview.

I scrubbed - and I mean SCRUBBED - my hand until I felt like I was going to scrub my skin right off, and STILL the red skull remained. Somewhat lighter than it was, but still - I HAD A RED SKULL ON MY HAND. Arrrrrrrrrgh.

"Ok," I thought. "No problem. I'll just...not let anyone see my right hand."

I decided the best way to accomplish this was to either sit on my hand during the interview, or gesture with it so quickly that it would be impossible to detect a red skull flashing around.

Yes. Perfect plan, no?

So, I show up at the senate building and proceed through security.

Security guard: "Excuse me, miss, but it looks like you have something on your - "

Me: "No I don't! No! It's nothing! It's just - I mean, I just went to this concert last night, and they had to stamp my hand, but you can hardly notice it, it's - "

Security guard: "On your - backside."

Me: "I - what?"

Security guard: "I'm sorry, it's just - you might want to stop in the ladies' room, it looks like you have some kind of a mark on your - um, backside. Like you might have accidentally sat on something, or.."

Me: [craning my neck around to look at my, erm, "backside" and spotting some kind of smudge] "Oh! Oh gosh, thank you, I - yes, I'll make sure to stop and, um, take care of that."

Security guard: "No problem. I would just brush it off myself, but, ah, well, that's a part of a lady that I'm not allowed to touch without getting fired."

Me: "Ah." Awkward pause. "Erm. Yes. Thank you."

So, I stop at the ladies' room, get rid of all awkward smudges, lament the fact that my hair, which was neat and straight upon leaving my house, is now a straggly mess after 5 minutes in the rain, and proceed to the interview, determined to keep the giant red hand skull out of sight.

Then it turned out that the woman with whom I was interviewing turned out to be super relaxed, super fun, and about my age, and didn't bat an eye at the red skull. Hooray!