Interview II: The Office Yeti

My hardcore job search has been on for three months now with little progress. I did manage to get the part time job with health and dental insurance options, and plenty of downtime for reading. However, because it is part time, I don't work enough hours to be able to afford even my meager lifestyle, and my original, full time job doesn't offer any health insurance. So I remain stuck working 55 hours a week, daydreaming about marrying a wealthy man so I can quit both jobs and stay home and eat imported Gouda all day. I'm a feminist like that.

I've applied to a plethora of jobs, looking specifically for that Big Girl Career Job with a writing component, but there are a lot of jobs where I've just said, fuck yeah, I'll apply to that - Dog Park Attendant? Sign me up, I love pugs! Barista? I'll have to get an asymmetrical haircut, but yeah, here's the application! I have to walk 40 minutes, and then get on the bus to get there? Yeah! I'll do it! I want to get out of Jurassic Park - the full time job where they still call me by the wrong name after three years - that badly.


Applying for jobs is not a simple process. One has to be diligent enough to seek out and religiously check a variety of websites for job postings, figure out if one can fudge a little bit about the Photoshop skills required, and then write a cover letter that will really blow Sir or Madam's socks off.  One also needs a resume that distinguishes the applicant from all of the other English majors out there, and that confirms that one KNOWS THINGS and has SKILLS even if they don't directly pertain to the job being applied for. I might not know CPR or how to wrestle alligators or build a basic website, but I am really good at writing awesome raps as my dinosaur alter-ego, Velociraptor the Rapper, having wedding therapy sessions with my engaged friend, and dancing (reference: Boyfriend).


After these hurdles comes the wait, and I usually swing from being overly optimistic to being depressed and grumpy. I've made the cut a few times, which means INTERVIEWS, which are a roller coaster ride of fuckery in themselves.  Most of the time, it goes well, but sometimes there is so much disorganization and awkwardness, you forget that you're interviewing for Receptionist and not Head of the Lobotomy Patients. My second interview was like this - just full-o-fuckery.


I should mention, at this point, that it was a non-profit.  I would gladly work for a non-profit, and I believe in what non-profits do, especially at the community level. But I also know many are vastly underfunded, which probably contributes to the lack of organization and direction that I've witnessed at several places (and a few of those have stabilized since then, operating now with efficiency). This particular non-profit seemed to be in one of the not-so-organized spells.


Once I found the building, there were several choices for entry. I picked the middle door, which seemed the most prominent, and walked in on some young woman working in a cubicle. Unsurprised by my random presence, she told me to go to the next door down.  I did as directed, and was met by a dimly lit hallway. A woman walked by, and I introduced myself and told her my purpose, and she lead me into another room, dimly lit as well, which seemed to be the reception area; there were chairs, but no magazines, a desk, but nobody behind the desk - at least, until a lady of gargantuan stature appeared, to use the fax machine. She asked me if she could help me, and I told her who I was here to see. "Oh, that's me," said the Office Yeti, and continued poking at the fax machine.

A few moments later I was lead into another dark, small room, with three ladies wedged in around a desk. While I had previously thought the female Yeti to be the ringleader, a shorter woman with glasses asked most of the questions - what were my strengths, weaknesses, etc. - while the Yeti and her youthful sidekick got sidetracked and talked about copying a certain flier, and where the original was. It was a short interview.


Despite this fuckery, I wanted the job - if only to escape from Jurassic Park. When I didn't hear back after a few weeks, I called only to learn, from the voicemail, that the Office Yeti was no longer there. I was directed to two different people, neither of which I could remember meeting at the interview. I called and left a message for one of the woman.  A week later, a different woman called back and left me a message, apologizing for not returning my phone call right away, and that the position had been filled.


Just a few days ago, however, I noticed the same position at the same non-profit back up on the online job boards.


I did not apply again.

Networking, Socially.

Crossed off of the TO DO list today:


Making a fancy link to the When I'm President of the Moon Facebook page!  It's right there, on the right hand side of the page, because the left side is evil. Feel free to click on it.  THEN WE CAN SOCIAL NETWORK.


Still to do:


Read my old diaries. I've flipped through them, and they are basically filled with complaints about junior high and magazine cutouts of Limp Bizkit.


Good reading.

Bootylicious.

I walked into the women’s locker room at the gym a few Sundays ago and saw this.

Now, a little setting of the scene: I run. I’ve become dedicated to running, and I think it’s glorious to run for an hour while watching Patti Stanger and her gang of goths cut down another douchebag millionaire while helping the deserving find love. However, I didn’t make it an entire hour that Sunday - I’d fallen victim to the sea shanty of Captain Morgan the night before, and only managed to run for half an hour, maybe.  I had gone to the warehouse on Saturday night with my boyfriend, and my ears were still ringing.  I had also gone to bed at three, and woken up at seven, unable  to fall back into sleep. The boyfriend managed to sleep until nearly noon, the lucky bastard, but he was sleeping off the mental and physical pain of being slowly knocked down on the floor by the writhing singer of one of the local bands we had seen, who had crawled between his legs and grabbed his ankles. (The next weekend, he would see the same guy at a bar and declare, “That’s the guy I played Night Crawlers with!”)  He had also been hit in the head by the tambourine of fury, wielded by the blonde-wig-sporting, dress-wearing, high-heel-kicking male singer of another band.

So I had already been having a fairly difficult day, and more fuckery waited for me behind the innocent-looking door of the women’s locker room.  I understand that locker rooms are there for a reason - to change clothes, shower, gossip loudly - and there might be some nakedness involved. I understand that. However, there was no clause in my gym membership that stated “WE HEREBY ARE NOT HELD RESPONSIBLE SHOULD YOU WALK INTO THE LOCKER ROOM AND IMMEDIATELY HAVE A BUTT IN YOUR FACE.” Which is exactly what happened.

It wasn’t that this woman was bare-assed - I wasn’t offended by that.  It was that she had the audacity to stand right there in front of the door, leaning over the sink, when she had no under-roos on.  And the real slap in the face was that SHE WAS WEARING A TEE SHIRT. I'm not sure why she decided to put on a tee shirt and WHY IT WAS SO HARD TO PUT SOME DAMN UNDERWEAR ON.

Reflection: perhaps my hangover was Jesus’s way of telling me DO NOT GO TO THE GYM TODAY, AS YE WILL EYE BUTTOCKS OF AN INGLORIOUS NATURE RIGHT UP IN YOUR FACE.

I don’t think I even paused - I just walked on at a faster clip, tried to erase that ass from my mind, get my shit together, and GET THE HELL OUT OF THERE.
Later, I told this tale to my family during our Sunday night dinner, as, clearly, it’s an appropriate topic for family-dinner-table-talk. My mother theorized that the woman was washing her underwear in the sink.  That would be a valid reason to not be wearing underwear, but that brings up an entirely new set of questions: Why was she washing it?  Did she period herself? Was it her only pair?  Did she shart?

My mother then told us the tale of her friend, who’s niece-in-law got arrested for being incredibly shitfaced and decided to call my mother's friend late at night to come and get her from the jail.  This woman was nice enough to actually do that - a mistake, we decided - but when she went down there, she waited. And waited.  Finally, the girl came out, still drunk, and crying, to be released into this woman’s custody.  Apparently, she was crying not because of the arrest, but because it had taken her so long to get dressed - she had drunkenly put her pants on inside out.

Which is probably worse than just being bare-assed at the gym.

Sexy Results

I was at work this morning when a call came in.  As usual, I answered the phone professionally, in my non-sexy voice, stating a robust "Good morning!" followed by the company's name.

"Who may I ask is calling?" the woman on the other line said.

I was confused. LISTEN LADY, YOU CALLED ME, I wanted to say, but instead I went with "I'm sorry?"

"Oh . . ." There was some muttering on the other end of the line.  I was about to hang up, as I deal with a lot of this nature of phone fuckery at my job, but I decided to be nice.

"Who were you trying to reach?" I asked.

"I thought this was the phone sex line."

I hung up.