HR Beasties

Today I had a phone interview for an editorial assistant position with a local publishing company. Unlike the last interview I had, this one was with a faceless human resources lackey. Regardless of actually wanting this job and feeling lucky to have gotten an interview, I can’t help complaining about the conversation itself which consisted of The Most Generic Questions Ever which I answered in my usual evasive, political way (thanks presidential candidates for teaching me how to give a 30-second sound bite without giving any semblance of a real answer!). I talked about professional growth, my intellectual curiosity, and my understanding of the words “deadline” and “organization.” Meanwhile, deep in the corners of my mind, my real personality was hog tied and gagged with a tube sock because this is how she wanted to answer these questions:

Why did you leave your last job?

I put eye-drops in my boss’ coffee or, they caught me negotiating with the janitorial staff for a bag of pure, uncut Colombian, or, I got sick of collecting mugs and scrubbing at stubborn tea rings, or I hate answering the switchboard phone, or, I am the lizard king.

What is your understanding of this position?

Despite rereading the job ad 5 minutes ago and actually having it open on my laptop right this very moment, I have very little understanding of what I would do in this position because your advertisement uses the same kind of flowery corporate phrases as are present this interview. I’m aware that I will book flights, send form letters to annoying people that my superiors don’t want to talk to, and go to occasional conferences where more than likely, I will watch a married editor get drunk and tell me he’s gay before vomiting in his briefcase and passing out in an Applebee’s bar.

Why do you think you’d be good at this job?

I’m good at everything that I’ve ever tried except sucking at life.

What are your future goals?

Well, short-term I intend on using this company as a source of income, title, recommendations, and new facebook buddies. Long-term, I hope to flee this country, become a snorkel tour leader in Bermuda or barmaid in a small village pub in Ireland where I’ll own several large Labrador/Shepherds mixes. I do not see myself as part of the intelligentsia and have limited interest in the disciplines covered by your company (literature, anthropology, sociology, political science, etc.) but would be interested in founding a division on crude humor.

How much money do you want?

I need $75K a year, access to the corporate jet on the weekends, and also whatever you have in your wallet right now.

Phew! It feels better to have gotten that out of my system. Anyway, I think the answers I gave out loud were sufficient enough. Fingers doubly crossed for this one and the interview I had last week.

More Projects I Started and Then Forgot About / I Still Have a Blog?!

I’ve made it through almost a month of unemployment and besides a booming social calendar and a dwindling checking account, I have very little to show for my time other than a touch of insomnia. While I wait for this Benadryl to knock me out so I can finally get a good night’s sleep this week, I thought I’d check in. Nothing puts me to sleep so well as listening to myself talk. In the dark. To the Internet.

I’ve had a couple of complaints from my Only Fan that updates have not been coming at their usual frequent pace. For this I apologize and offer the following excuse: I have very little (good) material to share with you. For monetary and liver-tary reasons, I’ve scaled back on drinking (except for last weekend which was a shit show in New Hampshire where I took shots and ate sauerkraut in the same day which is a VERY BAD IDEA) so I have fewer wild and crazy stories to divulge and also I fall down less often. Mostly I putter around the house, read 19th century fiction, water plants, do laundry, and spy on my neighbors.

I also voraciously apply to every publishing house in the Boston area while our economy crumbles and hope that someone employs me soon so I won’t have to start bootlegging gin out of the washing machine (no bathtub – it’s the only option). On that note, I just had my second interview with an awesome company that felt promising but now that I’ve jinxed it and probably won’t get it, I’ll come back and cry to you next week when I hear back. I also crawled back to that grad program that I deferred in the spring and told them I’d be enrolling in the spring (hopefully part-time if this whole getting-a-job thing works out). So, I’m theoretically back on track to get a Masters in Books. We’ll see how that goes.

In my puttering today I discovered that we once again have a mouse which is not unusual in an old Victorian in New England at the onset of cold weather but nonetheless grosses me out when I want a piece of toast and find that something has chewed through the plastic bag and nibbled a circular portion of my whole wheat bread. This happened sometime last year when I left an unprotected loaf on a shelf with a large obvious mouse hole, but this time the food was in a bowl with tall, smooth sides on a counter devoid of holes. This led me to believe I have not just a rodent but indeed a Super Spiderman Ninja Mouse that carries nun chucks and wears a little black mask like Zorro. Bologna (who is visiting for the weekend) disagreed and demonstrated vividly how the villain might climb up the pipes under my sink, through a crack in the stove, hoist itself up on the ledge around the counter and from there jump into the bowl. So, OK, either I have a Super Spiderman Ninja Mouse or a Super Intelligent Mouse with Logistical Powers and Planning Ability Far Exceeding My Own. Neither makes me feel comfortable in my kitchen. But so help me God, if I see that thing crawling around on the ceiling like the baby in Trainspotting, I will spray its ass with Raid faster than you can say “Hey, I think the Benadryl kicked in.”

I Know Exactly How Tom Brady Feels

Hi Internet! Sorry I’ve been ignoring you but I’ve been wallowing in a sea of self-pity and boredom and rabidly applying for jobs. And also acting like a complete teenager by having the following dialogue with myself daily:

Me: Woe is me, I am so bored laying on the couch watching reruns of Will and Grace.

Rational Me: You could get off the couch and do something.

Me: There’s nothing to do.

Rational Me: What about that elaborate page-long list you made when you still had a job? Ya know? The one with fun things like pickle-making, dress-sewing, learning-a-Beatles-song-on-the-piano, etc.?

Me: Why bother? Life is so bleak. Woe is me.

[Fade to black]

I used to get like this when I was bored at work too. I would spend all morning staring at a wall but when someone finally dropped a two-minute task on my desk, I would procrastinate an hour while giving it the stink-eye before I would actually get it done. This is in contrast to the days when I actually was busy, because then the two-minute task would be swept up in my frenzy and completed while I simultaneously did five other things. So the moral of this story is that I’m more likely to accomplish something if I’m already overwhelmed. But now that I am my own boss, I have no whelms. I am whelmless and as such I may not brush my teeth until noon.

Now that you know I am too lazy to voluntarily cross the room to pick up a coloring book for my own amusement, it should not come as a surprise that I haven’t left the apartment by myself in a week. I’ve been out with Beau multiple times but am seemingly incapable of mustering the willpower to leave of my own accord. That is until yesterday when the catalyst of T’s birthday party this weekend provided enough force to launch me onto a Boston-bound train to shop for a dress.

I found almost exactly what I was looking for:


There was only one problem: the tummy region. Despite my best sucking in efforts, it remained… slightly poochy. Luckily, technology has remedied this problem! I hurried off to the underthings department with the dress and belt in tow and found what Bridget Jones referred to as those “scary stomach-holding-in pants very popular with grannies the world over.”

I remained skeptical of corseting undergarments as the laws of physics suggest my body fat might just spill over into other regions creating even weirder bulges. With this doubt in mind, I hustled off to the dressing room. I put on the other portions of the outfit and then looked challengingly at the medieval torture device hanging on the wall. I had selected the largest size possible assuming it would be physically impossible for me to fit into what would be considered my normal size (On a side note, why do they make them in a size small? If you can fit in a pair of small Spanx then there’s absolutely no reason you should be wearing them).

I pulled them off the hanger figuring I would try them on in the same fashion as a new swim suit: quickly and with my existing underwear still in place to block passage of cooties. The garment was safely up my left thigh when it became apparent that there were about three square inches of space left for the rest of me. This wasn’t a complete shock as I already understood the point of this device was to constrict my existing flesh. I was less concerned by the bondage of wearing it than the logistics of actually getting into it. It was like trying to climb into a tin can.

In a burst of energy and unprecedented acrobatics, I attempted to thread my right leg through the remaining hole. To do so, I lifted my foot as close to my belly button as I could and quickly jammed the pointy end into the garment. This movement is not included in my usual range of motions because I don’t do yoga. A searing Charley horse ripped through my left side. I fell sidewise into the wall, howling in pain as the rustles and coughs from adjoining dressing rooms went silent. I stayed with my forehead pressed against the mirror until my left leg stopped twitching enough to put weight on it at which point I realized I was now firmly jammed into the scary stomach-holding-in-pants. I made the best of it and squirmed around until they were in the correction location. Though they did, as promised, make my stomach smaller and my ass higher, I realized I would be drinking at the party and would therefore need to reenact the scene in a small bathroom stall every time I needed to pee. Exasperated, I ditched the entire scheme and left the store. Hobbling.

Half an hour later, I was still in a good deal of pain which was no longer ripping through my entire left side. It was now localized. In my left ass cheek. I pulled an ass muscle trying on a pair of these. My vanity now has the ability to wound not my just my pride but also inflict actual physical damage.

Now, approximately 20 hours after the incident, I’m still limping which provides me an awesome excuse not to leave the couch for another week.

A Sorry Excuse for a Blog Entry

Unemployment wears well on me. I spent four days being a human slug at Beau’s Cape house (mostly having a stomach bug that interfered with my drinking, but otherwise tanning). While there, I spent a bit of quality time with Beau’s sister, She-ra, so named because she very casually does triathlons every few months making me think that she could probably pick me up and throw me if I got too rowdy. Plus she has style flair just like her namesake and if you aren’t impressed with the embellished toga/cape/Uggs combo, then I just don’t know how to reach you.

On Monday night, I found myself on the couch with She-ra and her friends who introduced me to a new substance to go with my ice cream. I’ve never tried it before because I thought it was shameful, detrimental to my overall health, and dangerous. They say you’re hooked after just one dose, and they’re right. I am speaking of course of The Hills which I will more than likely watch next Monday and every Monday thereafter while drooling a little from the side of my mouth.

In other news, I’ve jumped on the housewifery bandwagon to fight the threat of cabin fever. In my first day alone at the apartment, I got up early to pack Beau’s lunch, did all the laundry I could find, exorcised 2 liquefying tomatoes from the kitchen, and did that puttering thing where you find problems you didn’t even know existed when you had a life. Like dusty baseboards. Faced with the prospect of continuing on a cleaning rampage thereby becoming my father, I rounded yesterday afternoon off by reneging on every bad thing I ever said about Corporate America and trolling Craigslist for job openings.

I Said “More on That Later” and Now is Apparently Late Enough

The time has come to explain what I meant when I elusively mentioned in my last post not getting a job until October. I’d like to preface this explanation by saying that I had to completely rewrite this post because it turned into an incoherent three page diatribe ending in a poorly constructed metaphor involving colonialism in early America, so, please be aware that this is the calmer, friendlier, 50% less bitter version.

In short, I have determined that work sucks. I don’t want to overwhelm you with my wisdom so why don’t you take a minute to let that sink in.

Specifically, I’ve come to abhor office work. I’m resentful of every minute I fritter away in front of a computer under fluorescent lights in a room with no windows. Less than three years into the work force and I’m already sick of office politics. I realized earlier this month that if one more customer/superior/random neff they pulled off the street gives me an attitude, insults my intelligence, or is just generally nasty because they’re constipated, I might actually just walk out on my job. Like literally. Take my purse and leave this place and never come back because this doesn’t feel like the way to really live one’s life.

Instead, I’ve luckily had a quiet month of training my replacement and saying my farewells. Originally, I quit in anticipation of starting grad school in the fall. After weeks of agonizing (both in my head and out loud to everyone I know… thanks guys), I deferred my acceptance for two main reasons:

1) I have no idea what I want to do with my life and I’m finally comfortable with that. I’m not prepared to waste $30,000+ figuring it out. I highly doubt sitting in a classroom will lead to existential resolution anyway. So, if I go back for more education, I’m going to be damn sure I’m going to use it. Without that assurance, I don’t think it’s not a good investment. And no, I don’t believe graduate programs are generally beneficial in landing a fulfilling career. For those stalwart proponents, I suggest reading Barbara Ehnrenreich and Penelope Trunk and then polling the cashiers at Barnes and Noble and baristas at Starbucks to find out how many have PhDs in English.

2) Any graduate program I’m both qualified for and interested in will launch me directly back into an office environment which, as we’ve already discussed, I find loathsome and soul-sucking. The thought of paying someone so that I can come right back to the same general thing under a fancier guise is downright horrifying to me.

I fully respect those who do office work. Working outside of one can be tough – I know, I’ve been there. I understand that we need someone to staff the organizations that make the world go round. I’m aware that my humble efforts photocopying play a role, albeit a minor one, in keeping these giants afloat. I get that you’ve got to start at the bottom where the work is boring and unrewarding and work your way into a more stimulating position. My understanding of the way the world works does not change my reluctance to participate in it. And yes, I am five minutes from following Thoreau’s lead and building a house in the woods. Preferably on someone else’s property (hey Bologna, how’s the new house search going? Still looking at that one with a few acres of forest that you won’t be able to easily monitor?)

As such, I’ve given myself a break in September, both to goof off and also pursue projects of my own interest. It’s entirely possible I won’t be able to support myself in my freelance endeavors (which I assure you are farfetched and completely unstable means of earning a living) but I owe it to myself to try before resigning myself to a means of existence that I personally find distasteful.

Wanted: Sketchy White Van & Large Bag of Beggin' Strips

“Tail at two o’clock” is the first thing I said when we got to the park last night as I craned my neck to watch a black lab run through the forest to our right. Beau thinks we’ve been taking walks for exercise but really, it’s just a cheap excuse to ogle puppies and use my secret dog weapon, a “misdirected” Frisbee, to cop a scratch behind their ears. Frisbees are to dogs what Huffies are to children. Lately the dog lust has gotten worse. I spent 15 minutes chatting up my landlord in the hall last night because his adorable mutt was alternately sniffing me and going through my laundry basket. I am the construction worker of the animal kingdom. I shout obscene things at your pets and they secretly feel flattered.

Luckily, they have places for people like me. Institutions that use our sickness in a constructive way: animal shelters. So, between my September sabbatical (Did I mention that? Yeah, I’m not getting a job until October. More on that later) and my willingness to be a free walking pooper-scooper, I’ve decided to volunteer a few days a week at the local animal rescue. Tonight is my second orientation. I’ll be touring the facility and getting a lesson in proper dog walking form which I believe involves triple sow cows but I’m not entirely sure.

God, Gin, and Something Trippy

This Saturday found me in a vaguely familiar place: church. I haven’t been to one of those since Christmas 2006 when Beau’s family dragged me to a midnight mass despite the fact that most of us were half in the wrapper. But this weekend wasn’t a holiday. It was a wedding. That means I stopped hissing at statues of saints long enough to quietly sit through a ceremony.

Let me preface this by saying that I was raised Catholic. I went to church every week in my childhood. I sat through Sunday school classes where I was scolded for asking questions, not understanding the concept of blind faith, and drawing fancy hats on Jesus in my work book (and then further reprimanded when I called my teacher an idolater for putting so much emphasis on a pictorial representation of Christ). I’ve studied the Bible more in depth than most Christians. That said, I am now an enthusiastic atheist. If that or blaspheming bothers you, now might be a good time to stop reading.

Anyway, I can be respectful when needs be, so I behaved. We were seated too far back in the church to hear or see what went on up front which was a pity because friends of ours were getting hitched somewhere up there. After a quarter of an hour of straining my neck and failing to catch anything, my mind started to wander. For awhile I watched everyone around me kneel and sit and chant and make elaborate hand gestures all the while thinking that truly, mass must count as cardio. I abstained from the general hocus-pocus except the standing bits (because my ass was falling asleep) and the hand shaking (because I like smiling and saying nice things to people on occasion). For the remainder of the time I admired the interior of the church with its marble columns and painted murals and wondered how much money could have been donated to charity instead of pimping God’s crib. Of course, studies show that God is between 17 and 30 feet tall so they had no choice but to vault the ceiling that high, but the rest is a bit much.

Eventually, the ceremony was over and we moved to the reception hall where I visibly relaxed and unclenched because there was an open bar and that is a religion I can wholeheartedly believe it. In my magnanimous way, I grabbed a few scotches for the boys before asking for my rumndietcoke. The bartender shook his head. I spoke louder as if he were hard of hearing, “RUM AND DIET COKE.”

He gestured behind him at the sparse array of bottles and said, “This is what we have.” No rum. Fuck, I thought, God is pissed at my sacrilege. The bartender suggested I try something else and handed me something blue and fruity. I was dumbstruck. Defeated, I took my blue cocktail back to the table and sat pouting while Beau laughed at me.

Five minutes later I returned to the bar with a friend all the while lamenting the plight of the rumless. She told me her drink of choice was gin and Sprite but she couldn’t have too much because it gets her into trouble. Trouble you say? I ordered a round for us.

An hour later, I was dangerously flirting with Tanqueray, sending texts to Bologna about this delicious mistress. The rest of the evening flew by in a blur of gin, baby quiches, and holding my new friends’ hair back while she vomited on the sidewalk. I spent the majority of the time dancing to Polish techno with a dozen accountants. At one point I paused to wonder how I came to be spinning with my arms above my head, surrounded by stupefied bean counters but then someone told me it was time for the second dinner and this one included meatballs and I lost my train of thought.

In conclusion, gin gives you a crisper feeling hangover than rum, don’t eat a bowlful of sauerkraut when you’re drunk, and God may or may not shop in the big’n’tall men’s department of Macys.