Mercy, Mercy Me

I had been wrapping up another 12-hour babysitting shift when the doorbell rang. Placing the baby on my hip, I opened the door to find my fiancé standing in the hallway with paperwork in one hand, and the other hand behind his back. Before I could ask him anything, Steve outstretched a bottle of Veuve Clicquot and said, “I got a job. It’s in Charlotte!”

Less than two weeks later we had packed up and moved into our new home in North Carolina. One week after moving, we got married in Pittsburgh, left immediately for an impromptu honeymoon in Cabo and then returned home to an unfurnished, box-lined house.

Once back in the States, I began to unpack as well as continue my job search. It seemed to be the same story, just in a different city. Blanketing the South with my resume, I was relieved to receive a call from a hiring agency a few towns over.

The recruiter was a woman who if had introduced herself as Paula Deen, I would have believed her and asked for an easy pork chop recipe. Ms. Deen said that the hiring company, a non-profit, wanted to meet with me immediately in regards to an event planning position. I asked her for the company’s name and received a long pause.
“It’s the Sisters of Mercy,” she said cautiously.
“Nuns?” I asked.
She confirmed my suspicion and quickly gave me the address.
“I’ll go,” I said imagining myself as an extra in the real-life version of Sister Act.

My dreams of Whoopi Goldberg quickly faded upon entering the front door of the campus as I was greeted by multiple women sporting bowl cuts and Christmas turtlenecks that seemed to be straight from the Michelle Duggar clothing line.

Nonchalantly, I fastened the top two buttons of my blouse and strategically placed my tattooed foot behind me. Jesus and Mary statues lined the halls and seemed to scrutinize me as I was led into the conference room. There I was given the job description and was told that my main role woud be to host coffee socials for geriatric nuns. The "perks" to the position would be free lunch daily in the convent, prepared by the blind, deaf and generally senile sisters.

Thanking them for their time, I headed back to my car for the 45 minute trip home. While on the road, multiple accidents created an interesting detour that had both my GPS and me confused and in need of a cocktail. Not knowing where I was or how to get home, I laughed to myself.

Even in a new city, I couldn't escape the nunsense.