I Grace the Internet With My Presence Once Again

Holy cats.  It's been nearly a year since my last post.  A year!  Nearly an entire year has gone by where I've been either too busy or too uninspired to write anything. 

I have a few notes scattered randomly around on post-its and wadded up napkins in the various boxes of what remains of my home office in Dallas.  What I thought were clever turns of phrase, random thoughts and meaningful insights that I've been collecting over time and jotting down, I have recently discovered are actually wadded up bits of paper and napkin with smeary words scrawled on them that no longer have any meaning.

You'll just have to take my word for it - some shit went down in the last year.  Things happened regardless of whether or not they were documented on my poor old blog.  Some things were shitty and some things were great, but mostly MDH and I just plodded along the same as we always do.

I'm going to throw out some bulleted highlights of major events that passed to hopefully catch you up with life in Ladyland:

1.  Let's begin with this:  I got a job.  Yes.  Someone was wise enough to hire me for realsies.  A full time, permanent job with Large Corporation.  Fin-a-fucking-ly.  My contract was up in a week and my boss had been trying to create a position for me and get it ironed out and approved by the powers that be and it didn't pan out.  Fortunately his boss decided it would be silly to lose me so she gave me a list of open positions and said apply for one of these.  I did and then I was promptly interviewed, vetted and hired by the end of the week.  Full time.  Permanent.  Awesome.

2.  Unfortunately the day before I was offered the job, my poor darling was "let go" from his job.  The job we moved halfway across the country for.  The job that he had been reaching for throughout his career.  Basically he was fired without cause.  They gave him a six month severance and relieved him of his 2 year contract and subsequently the responsibility of having to pay back* a penny of the (enormous amount of) cash they gave us to move to Texas only a mere year earlier.

Frankly,  to me it was the best thing that could've happened.  He'd worked hard his whole life and soared to the eagle's nest on high only to discover it was filled with bird shit and decaying carcasses.  MDH got what he thought was his dream job, but his boss was the biggest, smarmiest asshole imaginable.  His boss, Satan, was the nightmare we all have of intense corporate greed combined with an arrogant ego gone mad.  My proud and brilliant husband was subjected to daily humiliations, and constant blame for the stupid and costly decisions his boss was making. 

I've never seen MDH laid so low.  Eventually the truth will out, as they say, and MDH's habit of saying exactly what is on his mind, combined with his bullshit intolerant nature began creating a stir in his company and causing Satan some discomfort.  Basically, MDH exposed the naked emperor.

3.  He was out of work for 6 months.  Six long, miserable months of doubting himself and thinking of desperate schemes for severe and ill-advised (ie. ridiculous) career changes.  Most of the time MDH is a cynical pessimist, but there is a hopeful spark in him that flared considerably during this time.  A pesky spark I was constantly having to tamp out because it kept coming up with cockamamie ideas like abandoning the experience and value of a 25 year career for opening hot dog carts, buying a bar, selling long term disability insurance or becoming a realtor.  These careers are totally fine and many people are quite successful in them, but MDH is a mega-star in his chosen field.  Also he loves what he does.  He was impatient and thinking like a desperate man.  I had to keep reminding that we were not desperate.  Hold on Babe, just wait, the right thing will come along and of course it did.  More than just the right thing, it was an amazing thing.  Dream job.  Dream company.
4.  Unfortunately the dream job with the dream company is located in Houston.  So we moved.  Again.  We live in Houston now, for what has been exactly one month as of today, and that's all I have to say about that at this time. 

*The relocation policy was pretty standard.  The company pays a butt load of money to move you, so they typically make you sign a contract that says if you leave the company before a certain amount of time has passed you have to pay them back all of the moving expenses they gave you.  It's usually 2 or 3 years.

The News Roundup: Much Ado About Pillows

Today I give you yet another set of numbered points filled with verbal wanderings and highlighted with photos of food and some new stuff I recently purchased, oh, and this cartoon:
1. I found the cartoon at Married To the Sea and it's almost eerily fitting for what I'm about to tell you, which is this: I finally heard back from the recruiter that has been helping me try to get a job with the company that was hedging on whether or not I was going to get a second interview (remember that? it was a couple of posts ago) and it made me angry. It made me very angry. It was not good.

Apparently the reason why they are not sure that I am the right candidate is because I mentioned during the interview that MDH and I love to travel. Apparently whatever I said about our love for travel gave them the impression that I would be off gallivanting all over planet earth so frequently that I wouldn't be able to put in enough hours working for them. Um...what? THEY ARE OUT OF THEIR GODDAMN MINDS.

Frankly I don't even really remember talking about traveling much at all, except to say that I like it, when asked the question that people in interviews so often ask, "what do you like to do in your spare time?" I pretty much always answer by saying that I like to read, cook and travel in lieu of the smarty pants answers that I'm tempted to give like, beat up nuns, masturbate and cry while watching QVC and making crafts from discarded dryer lint. I certainly do not remember acting like some kind of jet-setting prima donna, as though I would demand more vacation time than what would be offered with the position.

So in addition to being angry about the whole thing, I'm terribly confused. The recruiter was angry and confused and thought they were out of their goddamn minds as well. What-evs. As far as I'm concerned these people can suck my cock. I say good day. Next issue.

2. Wednesday night my lovely friend Ladette came by for another cooking lesson. This time I showed her how to make baked mac & cheese with bacon, pan seared pork chops rubbed with brown sugar and smoked paprika (and some other spices), and then we blanched and sauteed some fresh green beans. I made her do most of the work and she did a great job...

Speaking of masturbating and crying while watching QVC, after dinner I forced her to stay and watch TV with me. She sat through Millionaire Matchmaker and 2 episodes of The Mighty Boosh before I allowed her to leave. She even pretended to laugh a little which means she's not only a good student, she's a good sport.

3. Around September it dawned on me that the already shabby and stained toss pillows in the den were beginning to disintegrate and smell a little ripe. Those pillows get a great deal of abuse from us because we use them not only for decoration and back support, but since the den often performs double duty as a dining room, we also end up using the pillows as TV trays and placemats. Even if I didn't mention the drool, spilt beer and various other cat and human related fluids they have accidentally soaked up over the years you should be getting the picture - these pillows were exhausted.

After all this time I couldn't bring myself to spend the money on new toss pillows because I'm not working right now and the expense seemed rather decadent. Yet I couldn't stop obsessing about replacing them. It was a silent obsession because it's certainly not the sort of purchase that I can plan out and discuss in great detail with MDH. He has made it clear, typically via rolled eyes and grunting, that he is not interested whenever I attempt to bring up all things decorative. Especially when money is tight. If it were up to him we would not have new toss pillows (or anything nice) and in fact I might even venture to guess that I could have replaced the toss pillows with old horse blankets stuffed with dirty kleenex and cream cheese and he probably wouldn't notice the difference.

Anyhoo... I shopped and shopped but stopped short of actually buying anything because good toss pillows, or at least the ones I'm always drawn to, tend to be ridiculously expensive. I could never justify spending the money and I could not find a way to compromise my toss pillow ideals, namely: There must be 4 in total, they must be of a certain size (large enough to use as a TV tray or placemat), they must somehow be washable, and they must all be in a matching color or pattern that have (to me) a certain je ne sais quoi.

I knew that I'd know it when I saw it and late last month I saw "it" at CB2, or more specifically the CB2 catalog (because do you think there is a store like CB2 anywhere near the Tundra? No.). They arrived a few weeks ago and they are nice. I mean all cotton with a down pillow insert and removable washable cover nice. For $14.95 each.
My nook...

The loveseat...


I want to decorate the rest of the house in this color scheme. I don't think that MDH will notice. (Please pardon our hideous paneling).

4. This afternoon I really wanted to get out of the house so I racked my brain and rifled through the utility closet and pantry trying to think of something we needed to buy so I'd have an excuse to go shopping. All I could come up with was paper towels so I went to Target to get some. On the way home I decided to troll around in TJ Maxx for awhile where I found these big sterling hoop earrings:

You try holding your hair back, turning your head sideways and taking a picture of yourself without looking like a total weirdo. Not so easy is it? Anyway... blogworld, meet my mole.

5. How could I forget? My poor little kitten (read 16 pound behemoth grown cat) has been sick. He is sneezing, has a runny nose, inflamed tonsils and a general malaise that is very out of character. The vet gave us some anti-biotic and some goo to help him digest hairballs and he seems to be feeling better, but a rather comical side effect of this illness is that he also seems to have laryngitis, so when he's not busy sneezing and going gack, gack, gack all over the place he does this weird thing that MDH have started calling the silent meow. It's really pathetic.

My heart won't let my feet do things they should do...

Wouldn't it have been great to start off my first blog post after three weeks of zip-o with a grand and exuberant announcement that I have finally after quite a few months (I'm not ready to use the word "several" just yet) landed myself gainful, full-time, permanent employment?

Wouldn't that have been great?

It would have been great, but I'm sad to inform you that I'm still bumming around the house trying not to eat everything in sight while I watch too much reality TV.

Some days are better than others, like the days when a new episode of Project Runway is on, the days when there are actually job postings that I'm interested in and qualified for, or that time that Lady Gaga made a guest appearance on Launch My Line. Good times.

Today's a very good day because not only did I find the first disk of season 3 of The Mighty Boosh from Netflix and this week's New York magazine in the mailbox, I also found the big box of tangerines that my mom and dad shipped to me from the orchards down the road from their house in Florida sitting out there too.

Anyhoo... my job searching hasn't been all terrible. I hit a hot streak a few weeks ago and had two interviews with two very different companies in the same week. Both were for decent jobs that I'm actually qualified to do. I got a little nutty that week fantasizing about how I could wow them both and start a bidding war for my amazingness but the first company gave me a rejection email within a couple of days.

I gotta say that at the same time I was a wee bit sad that I didn't get the job I was also kind of happy that they let me know so quickly. I was almost compelled to write and thank them for getting that shit over with. I think waiting around is the worst part and they ripped off the band-aid so fast, ka-pow!, and made my life much more bearable.

The other company I interviewed with later that same week - not so much. Still waiting. And it's not like I didn't hear anything from them in the mean time. I got glowing feedback after the first interview, glowing, and I interviewed with 4 different people mind you. Then the following week they had me fill out all different kinds of forms and personality assessments and then after that they contacted my recruiter to ask if I was available to set up a second interview. That was almost 2 flippin' weeks ago and at this point I'm near my boiling point. I can only assume that the kind of people who play these cruel waiting games have never themselves been unemployed or they wouldn't fucking do it.

It's not like I mind if the process takes a long time. I get it. I absolutely understand that these kinds of important hiring decisions should not be made in haste, but for the sweet love of Ray J at least let a bitch know when she can expect to hear back.

In the meantime I have Project Runway, Let's Talk About Pep, and the new season of Millionaire Matchmaker to keep me busy and I just signed up to teach English as a second language at my local literacy center, although it'll take awhile before I get to do actually do anything because they have to do interviews and background checks and I have to go through some training courses that don't happen until late April. Stupid interviews. I thought it was odd that they have the volunteer tutors go through such hoops but when an over protective husband who attended orientation with this wife asked if the tu-tees were background checked the literacy center lady hemmed and hawed and finally said she didn't know. Interesting.

Also interesting, while describing the types of people who come to the literacy center for help, she also quickly, and I almost want to say under her breath, mumbled some things that sounded remarkably like "work release" and "parole".

The over protective husband also asked whether or not his wife's time spent volunteering would be tax deductable and whether or not she would be reimbursed for mileage. What a jackass, although I'm glad MDH didn't come with me because those are exactly the kinds of jackass questions he asked me when I told him I wanted to do this. My answer to those questions: I don't give a shit - I'm doing it anyway.

In other news, after 3 failed attempts I finally found a pair of boots that work for me (insert chorus of angels singing Ode to Joy here). The only sort of flaw is that they are not real leather, but leather was merely a nice to have, otherwise they meet all my fucked up leg criteria:


1. Must have a full side zip as I cannot bend my right ankle to accommodate a pull-on style of boot.


2. Must have pointed toe. I can't abide a round or square toe. With my giant frame? It makes my foot look like a hoof.


3. Must have an extra wide shaft. Yeah baby, you heard me right, I said extra wide shaft. (Seriously, all sexual innuendo aside, I've got big calves.)


4. Must be flat or have extremely low heel. Fused ankle. What can I do? My foot is stuck in that position. Any higher than an inch and I can't walk.

So I found a pair that work. Halle-friggin-lujah. Attention People Who Know Me - be prepared to be sick of seeing them.

Something weird just happened. My fingers went all nutty while I was typing and now the font of this post looks janky. I can't figure out how to fix it either. Dang.

So where was I? Boots. Yep. I got boots. What else? Oh hell yes - MDH and I are getting an enormous income tax return this year and are going to buy a new bed. King size.

Our first big purchase as a couple 10 years ago was our queen size bed that we currently use. I use the word "we" loosely as most nights I start off in in that bed, but typically I end up running away to the guest room after having been driven off by some combination of MDH's ungodly snoring and my chronic back pain (because the bed now folds up like a taco when are both in it). I think it goes without saying that it's time for a new bed.

That's it for now except that I'd like to say a hearty congrats and sad farewell to my young friend Jogger who is getting married this Saturday and then moving away to Texas. Good luck kid. Stay in touch or I will hunt you down.

Here's the song I've been singing around the house today, hence the title of my post ...

Congratulations! Your identity is now available to be stolen and abused.

I had a phone interview this morning. Don't get too excited. I'm not. In fact I hesitate to write about these things on my blog anymore, which is why I haven't been blogging much lately because applying for work and having phone interviews is all that seems to be happening lately and you all are always so nice to me and wish me good luck and I feel the love, I really do ... and then nothing happens and I just hate to put myself and you guys through it over and over again. So I just simply haven't felt like letting you in on my current struggle.

But today... Today it went well. It really did. I was pleased, the phone screener seemed pleased and informed me that she will be moving my resume forward and will recommend an in-person interview. Great. Goody for me. I really was thrilled. Then she sent me a follow up email with a link and request to complete an online application within 48 hours.

It was all sunshine and kisses, unicorns and sex-dreams until I realized that I would actually need the entire 48 hours to fill out the application.

It should not take a reasonably intelligent, fully caffeinated, fully eager and fully alert grown up human lady over an hour to fill out an online job application. But that is exactly the ordeal I have just been through. People, I needed to get up and walk around to loosen up my joints and get some blood circulating afterwards. What the hell man?

It should not be this hard.

Especially considering the fact I had already filled out an online application for this job that I thought was pretty thorough, like I mentioned, and sent in a resume and a cover letter. How fucking much do these people need to know about me before I can even have an interview set up?

Apparently a lot. Jesus Christ on a pony.

And if I were not so goddamn desperate to find gainful employment I probably would have given up about 20 minutes into the spectacle when I filled out a form requiring my date of birth. My date of birth? Including the year. Why the hell do they need this information when I haven't even had a goddamn interview yet?

I am tempted (angry enough) to show some initiative and go that extra mile and take a big shit, snap a photo and email it to them. How ya like me now? Now here's some serious personal information about me.

The other weird thing besides filling out a 300 page application and taking pictures of my own poo is that it's just a regular job. The same kind of IT job I have been applying for all along and I assure you this not an organization providing security for the Pope, pelvic exams for Queen Elizabeth or even clerical work for the city, state or US government. It's a fucking insurance company.

I'm just trying to get a job, not adopt a Chinese baby boy.

Ordinarily I might have told these people to get bent as I wouldn't normally provide this kind of information until after I have accepted or even been offered a position. But I need a job and this one seems like a goody, so I kept going. I not only gave these people permission to crawl straight up my ass, I also provided them with a map and flashlight. I gave them every scrap of information about me and then I gave them permission to get even more information - driving record, criminal background check, credit check and promised that if they hire me I would submit to drug tests, aptitude tests and I'm pretty sure a pap smear.

When I was finally finished I convinced myself that it wasn't so bad. I went to the kitchen refilled my coffee and had a slice of pie for a reward. Then about half an hour ago I checked my email and discovered yet another email from this company. This time an auto response to my online application that said "Congratulations!" in the subject line. As if to acknowledge their asinine method is purposefully ridiculous. I wanted to laugh, but it came out more as a hysterical and high pitched Ngah! Mainly because I had a mouth full of pie.

Anyhoo... maybe they set it up like that to weed out the riff-raff, but they do not know who they are dealing with - I'm like a fucking cockroach - you can't get rid of me that easily. You will interview me, I will be fabulous and you will be crazy not to hire me motherfuckers. Ridiculously complicated and confusing online applications? Bring it.

Employment History Part 2 - Talents and Trade Secrets Revealed

In my last post I wrote about my first job out of high school working in the cash office at Gold Circle. I really liked that job and totally lucked out because it didn't require me to sell anything, deal with the public or talk to anyone at all really unless I felt like it. I could pretty much go in, get my shit done and go home. It was part time and I was done by noon most days and that totally rocked.

On the other hand though the job had 2 major drawbacks:

1. It cramped my party lifestyle. I had to be there 6 days a week at 7am and getting up, dressed and forcing myself to be alert enough to concentrate on doing my job that early in the morning at age 18 when most nights I was out partying, drinking and doing god only knows what until scant hours before my shift started was extremely difficult. There were many days when I suffered through that job (or perhaps the job suffered through me) hung over or still drunk.

2. I already mentioned other major drawback to this job in my previous post, my cash office mate Missy, who found a way to suck every atom of joy from the air of the very tiny room we were forced to live in together for 5 hours each day but Sunday. Then again upon further reflection and after re-reading the last sentence of #1 listed above a couple of times over it has occurred to me that perhaps being trapped in a small airless, windowless room with a hung over or possibly still drunk teenage baboon like me may not have been exactly pleasant for her.

3. I know I said there were only going to be 2 drawbacks but upon even further reflection I am now wondering about the validity of #1 in total. I mean if I was going work hung over or possibly still drunk from the previous nights partying or god knows what then that probably negates the job cramping my style doesn't it? Sounds more like neither one had any effect whatsoever on the other. The job didn't seem to stop me from partying and the partying never seemed to prevent me from showing up and doing my job.

4. Fuck it then. The only drawback to my job at Gold Circle was Missy and frankly she may have had a point being nasty to me and giving me a hard time because I was a hung over, smelly drunk so who could blame her really? I mean, that room was pretty small.

I suddenly realize that I have abused my numbered bullet point privileges and at this point I'm rambling so it's time for an anyhoo...

Anyhoo... what I really wanted to tell you about was the job that I had after the cash office which I referred to as "the greatest job in the world". Are you still reading this?

I quit the cash office gig because I was going to start attending college and I needed a job with more flexible hours. I applied at several different retail shops, but the job I had my heart set on and didn't think I had a chance in hell to get because it was ranked pretty high on the coolness scale and I lived in a college town so there was always lots of competition for crappy paying jobs in cool stores was at a smaller but national chain that rhymes with Beer Ton Pimports*. Do you know of it?

It's a much different kind of store now. Back then it was only just morphing into the brand image it has now and many people (like my cousin J and his stoner buddies) thought it was a fancy head shop and sometimes when I told people (like my cousin J and his stoner buddies) that I worked there (oh, yes - in case you hadn't figured it out on your own - I got the coveted job) they would make bong and rolling paper jokes.

Beer Ton Pimports didn't sell bongs or rolling papers or any other smoking accessory except for Italian marble ashtrays and sandalwood incense. No. They sold the most beautiful and wondrous things. They sold rattan furniture made in Thailand, Japanese paper lanterns and jasmine scented potpourri. They sold cut glass Romanian stemware, bamboo fans from China and carved boxes made of teak wood from Brazilian rain forests. They sold English tea pots, Scottish shortbread cookies and itchy cable knit wool "fisherman" sweaters from Ireland.

For a young woman who yearned for travel, and didn't really see much chance of it happening anytime soon, it was a wonderland.

I started off as a cashier, but within a year was promoted to Assistant Store Manager. I love, love, loved that job. I got to be around all that cool stuff and between the shipments of new merchandise that needed to be unloaded from the delivery trucks, displays that needed to be built and the various trials and tribulations associated with working with the public, every day was new and different.

It's the only job I've ever had where I actually left smelling better than when I came in.

It was at this job that I discovered my uncanny ability to solidly and successfully assemble cheap furniture armed with only Taiwanese instructions, an allen wrench and wood glue without ever once bursting into tears. I would often return from having taken a few days off to find heaps of furniture left for me to make sense of by my frustrated and distraught co-workers who had tried in vain to assemble them in my absence. I was (and still am by the way) a furniture assembly goddess.

It was also at this job where I learned that working with the public is not for me. I continued to do it for quite awhile but eventually lost the ability to control my facial expressions enough to hide the disgust I was feeling behind a big shiny grin when confronted with:

• The woman screaming at me at full volume because I would not allow her to return a dress with filthy yellowed armpit stains and no receipt. She threw a ball point pen at my head.
  
  
• The children allowed to run loose all over the store and smash bath oil beads onto the floor I had just finished mopping while their parents argued over the fabric quality of $12 toss pillows.
  
  
• The wild-eyed man who banged on the door after closing time and tearfully demanded to be let inside. He shouted, "I can see you in there! I just need to buy a papasan!". Allrighty nut bag. Key indicator of nuttiness not so much the wild-eyes, door banging or tears but the word "need" used with "papasan" in the same sentence. Who in the hell has an urgent need for a papasan chair? He was out of his fucking mind and I called the cops.**
  

Mostly though it was a great job. I worked there for almost 3 years and made a lot of great friends. Here are some of my more fond memories:

• The morning my co-worker Jay broke all the jars in a spice rack and we used the jar labels instead of our name tags. I immediately snagged Rosemary and Jay grabbed Basil. As the day wore on some of our other co-workers including the store manager got into the act and we had Sage, Paprika, Nutmeg and Thyme all working at the cash wrap stand. I'm not sure why this was so funny. But trust me, it was. Epecially when you'd get one of those eye contact customers that make a point of reading your name tag and using your name when they pay. Thank you Nutmeg!
  
  
• After I moved out of my parents house I didn't need to buy groceries because I was able to live off of the free fortune cookies we gave away at the cash wrap.
  
  
• The time that I had excruciating pains in my abdomen and thought I was having appendicitis. My co-worker had just picked up the phone and started to dial 911 at the point in which I realized it was just some push pins that I had forgotten in my apron pocket stabbing me in the gut every time I leaned into the counter.
  
  
• Being in charge of the clearance book which gave me an inside edge into knowing all the items that were on 75% clearance. You see depending on the sales of an item we didn't always mark everything down as low as we could have. But using that book I was able to legally mark it down as low as possible for store employees. Handy.
  
  
• Our secret employee stash of full price merchandise that we all kept hidden wrapped in a tarp in the rafters over the stockroom. If we fell in love with something but couldn't afford it (and it was small, lightweight and pliable enough to be wrapped in a tarp and stored over hour heads) we would hide it in the stash and hang onto it up there until it hit 75% clearance. Brilliant.
  

*Perhaps some of you (who have made it this far and are for some reason still reading this post) may be wondering why I felt the need to hide the name of Beer Ton Pimports, but not Gold Circle and that would be because Gold Circle no longer exists as a corporation, but if balance is important to you may refer to Gold Circle as Cold Gircle as you continue to read this post.

**It's possibly the most useless piece of furniture known to humankind (it's a actually a tie between the papasan chair and the wicker bookshelf but for the sake of my post today papasan wins). It doesn't store anything, is flimsy as all hell, it slides all around when you even think about sitting on it and if you do finally find a way to get comfortable sitting in one for any longer than 90 seconds will give you curvature of the spine or at the very least a stiff neck.

Congratulations, you're still in the running towards becoming America's Next Hot Mess

Forgive me Blogland for I have sinned. It has been 20 days since my last confession, I mean blog post. I have been a right mess and until recently was in no mood for much of anything other than playing endless games of Big Kahuna Reef (it's like Jewel Quest except with seashells and tikis) or watching endless amounts of mindless, syndicated television. Here are 2 important things that I have learned:

1. Tyra Banks is an ass.

2. I need the company of other human beings.

During the first couple of weeks in September I morphed into a weepy, be-sweatpantsed, mascara smeared, unemployed lady-blob.

Early last week I almost reached the tipping point and was moments away from an apathetic and joyless life consisting of eating all my food straight from a can and wearing nothing but mumus, but thanks to a kind email from Gwen with a picture of a kitty, the hope provided by an online Oracle class offered by my local community college, the company of my good friends Jogger and Ladette, and a well timed, real job opportunity I was able to start snapping out of it.

I shook out my pony tail, showered, got dressed again, and put on make up.

I started doing all those things that I had planned to do in order to take advantage of all the free time I had. I started making the bed every day. I finally took down and washed the living room curtains. I got my cholesterol checked (high, but not too bad) and made appointments for teeth cleaning and an eye exam. I even sucked it up and applied for unemployment (even though everyone kept telling me you can't get it when you were a temp, which turns out not to be true) and discovered that being on the dole isn't so bad.

Yes. This upswing lasted for about 4 days.

Just when things were looking up for me I was suddenly and violently shoved back into my sweatpants. I was struck back down into raccoon eyed, ponytail hell by what I can only assume was the flu. I don't know what kind of flu, but to please Gwen we'll call it the Heiney Flu (H1N1) although it could possibly simply be that it's a rotten head cold and I'm a big baby.

Anyhoo... What the hell man? This is like the 4th or 5th time I've been sick this year. Fuck. I like to think of myself as a hale and hearty type, but since last Tuesday I've been wallowing around in my jammies wheeling around a sickroom humidifier, that I rigged up on an office chair with a bath towel to catch any spills, with me from room to room. My glamorous entourage of late, in addition to the humidifier, includes the following:

1. A giant box of tissues with lotion.

2. A bag of sugar-free cherry cough drops.

3. A bottle of saline nasal spray.

4. A tube of medicated lip balm.

5. A box of the most potent decongestant available over the counter. It's the kind from the locked cabinet at the pharmacy counter that you have to sign for because people make crystal meth from it. My philosophy about cold meds is that if it isn't harmful to pregnant women and I'm able to operate heavy machinery then it's no good. I want the hard stuff.

6. A plastic grocery sack filled with all my used tissues - I call it "the sad sack".

So today I'm finally starting to feel a little bit better and I'm learning to live without the humidifier (it broke anyway - I'm sure I wore the fucking thing out) and the meds (I ran out). I started back up again with my online class and found my way back to my blog.

That's all I have the strength for at the moment. Stay well and keep busy.

Love, Lady

Yeast Pilot

They won't have me to kick around anymore... fuckers.

I didn't mean you. You are lovely and not a fucker. Not at all. I love you man. No the fine folks at Large Corporation are the fuckers. You are marvelous. And looking fantastic by the way - have you lost weight? Well, whatever you're doing, keep it up, I'm serious, you look great.

Anyhoo... my last day at Large Corporation is Friday and I have mixed feelings about it. OK. Not really. My feelings are not mixed. I'm feeling pretty solidly shitty about it from all angles. I've been furiously looking for another job and have had a couple of interviews recently, but at the moment I'm in that place where I really hate to be - in suspense.

The world has gone all topsy-turvey, I'm at sea and have no idea what my future holds. It's frightening. The only thing I know for certain is that I cannot work for Large Corporation anymore. Fuckers. Not you.

Meanwhile I'm trying to make the best of a sorry situation and have been socializing like crazy and exchanging digits (in case my elderly uncle Dan is reading this - Uncle Dan I'm referring to phone numbers and email addresses, not fingertips, calm down old man) with my fellow contractors and we have been meeting for drinks after work on an almost weekly basis. Drinking is fun!

Also fun, last Wednesday instead of going out for drinks after work my fellow contractor friend, and soon to be married lady, Ladette and I threw back a couple of margaritas at my place and I gave her a cooking lesson. Under my careful tutelage she made baked rigatoni and a gorgeous Caesar salad. Overall it was a win-win situation. She got to learn 2 easy recipes that she will be able to use the rest of her life from the short-cut master (Rachel Ray and her 30 Minute Meals can suck my balls) and I got to pompously bluster on and on about how smart and great I am and showcase all of my excellent kitchen gadgetry.

In other news - I need to make an announcement to some folks who are contributing to news stories about the economy, I think I know who you are, and it goes a little something like this:

Please stop claiming that every kind of sales industry is a barometer by which we can measure economic recovery. So far I've heard stories about how monitoring the heightening or declining sales of heavy equipment, lipstick, home furnishings, and now the last straw - today I heard a story about how the sales of men's underpants is an economic barometer. It's not. I promise you it's not. At least not more than the sales of anything else.

When the the news story referred to the MUI, a.k.a. the Men's Underwear Index I swear that my head burst into flames. Stop it all of you.

Now that I've got that off my chest, and thank you for listening, I can tell you about Yeast Pilot.

Well, actually I can't tell you very much about Yeast Pilot except that I have no idea what it means, but it was written in dry erase marker on the schedule board of the woman who sits in the cube next to me and I must have walked by and read it about 100 times last week.

Intriguing no? Say it with me... Yeast Pilot.

Most likely it's some new kind of nutritional supplement that Large Corporation is planning to produce and market to whoever they market that stupid shit to.

I however have decided that it is a terrific new slang insult.

Douchbag? So passe.

Say it with me again - Yeast Pilot.

All the cool kids will be saying it.

Same Old Song & Dance

Another position has become available at the company where I'm contracting so I am once again trying to balance that fine line between being assertive and being a giant pain in the ass.

You thought I was going to say aggressive didn't you?

My efforts to gain permanent employment at the company where I'm contracting have moved way past aggressive.

It feels like campaigning and it's what you have to do apparently to get the attention of management and human resources around there. You have to continually make phone calls, ask people for your support and ask them to call the manager of the department with the available position and speak on your behalf.

It's like a fucking telethon and I'm the good cause.

Then you have to meet with people, upper level management type of people, and express your interest in the position even though the managers you are meeting with are not necessarily the managers in the department that has the available job, but the managers you meet with should know the manager of the department with the job so that they can give that manager the heads up about how great you are.

It's also a good idea to meet with at least two or three of the people who actually work in the department that has the available job and express your interest in the position and ask them intelligent questions about the department and the work they do and than also ask them to speak with their department manager on your behalf. This is also a good way to get the skinny on who else may have applied and get a fix on your competition.

I'm telling you this shit is exhausting and I don't even know if I'm going to get an interview yet.

And nobody tells you that you have to do any of this shit, but it's what you have to do to get noticed when you want to get a job here and are not already an employee.

They will always consider internal candidates before they consider you when you are not already an employee there. Even if the internal candidate is considerably less qualified than you, has all the intellect of a hay rake and all the tact and personality a pygmy goat (although they certainly are very cute aren't they?) the internal candidate will be considered more desirable than you.

Did I mention that this process of constantly and aggressively selling yourself in extremely high gear only to stand by helplessly and watch while internal pygmy goat candidates who are dumber than hay rakes get the positions you are supremely qualified to do is exhausting? Well it is.

You know what is even more exhausting? Having to smile and be nice to the pygmy goats who got the jobs I wanted and in certain circumstances, when professional courtesy has required it, actually congratulate them and welcome them to the team.

It feels like a punch in the gut every time.

I want to work there and will do whatever it takes.

So I campaign.

I would don tights, a tutu, tap shoes and a top hat, do a song and dance number on the table tops in the cafeteria and for my finale passionately scream out "who do I have to blow to get a fucking job around here??", if I thought that might work.

I hope it doesn't come to that. All my tights have holes in the toes.

Deep Dark Depression, Excessive Misery

Gloom, despair and agony on me.

I didn't get the job.

Not only that, but I was informed of it via automated robo-email sent to my gmail account. We appreciate your interest... careful consideration... decided on another candidate. Blah. Blah. Blah.

I see these people every day and have known them for almost a year and they couldn't even be bothered to send me a real email? Motherfuck. It was so impersonal. I cried when I read it. I might cry again thinking about reading it. Bastards.

So I remain a temp. (An angry temp.)

All I can think of is Bag O'Mice, my monumentally stupid old man past retirement age co-worker. How has someone like him remained gainfully employed for so long? We're talking over 30 years. He is a very stupid man.

Do you know I walked into the break room the other day and found him leaning down, with his face almost pressed against the window of the microwave staring at his lunch spinning round and round? He was riveted.

Em Face Iss On the Wrong Sill AH Bull

One of my co-workers, Bag O'Mice came up to me recently to personally let me know that he had updated one of the many thousands of SOP documents that we have to use to perform our jobs effectively. The first thing you might have a problem with the way this blog post is going is probably the fact that I used the acronym SOP in the first sentence of it.

Sorry, but that is what they are called. This ain't fiction baby and I don't make this shit up. I didn't understand for a long time what it meant either, but then I'm pretty terrible at acronyms, as I have explained in a previous blog post. Apparently it stands for Standard Operating Procedures, which is the second thing that may cause you to have a problem with this blog post.

Standard Operating Procedures. Ugh - It sounds so stuffy, doesn't it? I would be just as happy to refer to these documents as:

HT-DTS - How To Do This Shit

Anyhoo... the SOP's are constantly changing and being updated and it's not enough to merely change the documents - you have to let the rest of the team know when you've changed something. Usually we do this via email, like any normal person in the 21st century would. But I'm not sure that Bag O'Mice understands such high falutin' technical concepts like attaching documents in emails so he often makes photo copies and then hands them out personally. It's a charming touch, very personable, but I can see through him like used Neutrogena.

He's kind of an old timer and a totally nice guy, but he has to be nice... because the man is about as sharp as a bag of wet mice and niceness and good looks is all he's got going on.

It's amazing to me that someone as noticeably stupid as him has remained gainfully employed for over 20 years with this company, whilst I, on the other hand, and many others like me, have been slavishly clinging to my temporary position for dear life.

Bag O'Mice is so handsome, well mannered and soft spoken that when I first started working there it took me several weeks before I noticed that he is actually mildly retarded. It happened as we were walking back to our cubicles together after a meeting one day and he started to ask me pointed questions about the very same subjects that had just been discussed in some depth only moments before in the meeting.

So he cheerfully lays the updated SOP on my desk and points to the spot that he changed:

Bag O'Mice: There's been a change in country code numbers.

Me: Which ones?

Bag O'Mice: Blah, blah and CROW-AH-TEE-AH.

Me: Crow-Ah-What-Ah?

Bag O'Mice (pointing to word on document): See? CROW-AH-TEE-AH.

Me: You mean Croatia?

After he left I tried to think of all the reasons that a college educated, 50ish guy with a wife and 2 grown children might not have ever heard of Croatia. I know that he owns a TV, more than one in fact, and I assume that he listens to the radio because he always calls me a "Good American" in lieu of saying thank you like a normal person when I do favors for him. Then of course there was that little thing called the Bosnian War that was on the news every night for most of the early and mid 90's, right? Did I dream that?

Also the company has a market there. A small market, but we talk about it ALL THE TIME becaus it's kind of new. I'm postitive that somebody would have had to have said the word "Croatia" out loud to Bag O'Mice at some point during his career with the company, especially around the time that the country code for Croatia changed which is what caused Bag O'Mice to have to change the goddamn SOP.

I guess I am feeling more than a little embittered this week as I spend my evenings and weekends updating my resume and looking for work again while dumbass mother fuckers like Bag O'Mice are hogging the good jobs. I wish he would just retire already so that I could have a chance at career complacency and dumbassed-ness too.

Seriously, Bag O'Mice should be collecting disability.

Tell me in the comments about your dumbass co-workers please.

I'm Hired

No post today.

Only this: Some very wise people have decided to bring me into their project management team - in exchange for money. Yes. I got a job.

Pardon me won't you? I have to put a load of towels in the dryer and after that I am going to spend the rest of the day calling everyone that I have been avoiding for the last 7 months and squealing into the phone at them.

!

Begging & Choosing

It has turned out to be a good week on the job front after all. I got a call yesterday about a job where my friend Rachel works (it was a phone screen and they'll call next week to set up an interview most likely), and 2 calls today from 2 different recruiters about the same exact job. Weird. The interview I have tomorrow is with recruiter #2, who seemed more on the ball than recruiter #1.

The job with Rachel's company is not anything close to what I'd like to be doing, but I will do if they offer and if nothing else pans out. Beggars cannot be choosers and I'm awfully damn close to begging at this point. Wouldn't that suck though? To go all this time looking and end up doing something totally awful and not remotely on my desired path? I may have no choice but to find out how bad it sucks.

Of course I was awesome on the phone so I'm sure my interview with recruiter #2 will be a shorty as he probably just wants to check me out and make sure I don't look like Mimi from the Drew Carey show.

I'll be sporting my new bob, my lucky tweed pants with my new Liz Claiborne jacket that I bought today at TJ Maxx for $20, brown pointy shoes and tasteful Tiffany loveknot necklace. My standard interviewing uniform. Oh, and a big giant smile..

Jeezus, I hope someone will hire me soon.

MDH has informed me that his vendor partnership is over as of January 1st. Meaning he will lose the office space he has been using at his client's headquarters. The office space he has been occupying for the last 3 and a half years. Meaning he will be working from home full time from then on. Meaning I will be kicked out of my cozy home office as it will become his cozy home office. Meaning I gotta get the hell out of here before then.

Here is a picture of what my office looked like summer before last when I was working from home in-between gigs on the road. Messy (sorry SRU - I'm a slob, but I did eventually pick up the phone bill from off the floor and file it where it belongs)! But what a nice view outside, eh? I'll miss it.

Chutes and Ladders

Soon I may have to change the wording on my banner from "Shrill Reports From A Michigan Housewife" to "Shrill Reports From A Gainfully Employed Lady With A Housekeeper" or maybe just "Shrill Reports" because I really do feel like screaming.

The recruiter called me yesterday and wanted to know what in the world I had done in my interview Monday afternoon. Apparently I knocked their socks off and they want to hire me right away. There is some weirdness to iron out such as the fact that the project I interviewed for has been cancelled. I kind of had a feeling that something was up because the interview was less than 30 minutes and the woman who interviewed me suggested that I look for other jobs in the company.

I asked her point blank if she meant that I wasn't suitable for the job. I had to ask. I mean I was sitting 3 feet away from her and had poured myself into a pair of Spanx (the ones that go all the way up to your boobs - sooo attractive), worn a suit and full makeup so don't bloody tell me I tarted myself all up for nothing. She got all weird and like, "NO!, No no. Not at all I think you are amazing and your skills are perfect." So I'm guessing she knew then that the project was cancelled and decided to interview me anyway.

The recruiter said that they want me but are trying to decide on exactly the right position/project team to put me into.

In the time allotted I did a lot of sock knocking. I was impeccably dressed, my resume was perfect, my manners were perfect. My breath smelled like rainbows and my palms were completely dry. I gave her the spiel I'd practiced about how much I love working with data and being able to transform the data and make it tell a story. I may have lead her to believe that I confuse pivot tables with porn. She was impressed. She was bowled over when I talked about If/Then statements and my love affair with project development.

My recruiter said I'd written the best post interview thank you letter she had ever read and asked me if she can borrow the format for future reference.

Speaking of references - also impeccable - thanks guys!

Things are looking up for me and I expect to be hired by the end of the month.

Funnily enough, I'm writing this post from MDH's laptop in a hotel room in Columbus. Well, that's not funny, but the fact that he has an interview tomorrow morning for an amazing, very well paying dream-type job in Ohio the week I knock an employers socks off is. Well, that's not really funny either. I may find out in the same week that I'm finally employed in Michigan and that my husband is taking a job in Ohio and we are moving again. I think the word I'm looking for here is tragic.

Not.

Funny.

At.

All.

iPod Strikes Again

Interviews make me nervous. I'm pretty sure that it is normal and correct that they should. My 3pm interview gave me the opportunitiy to be nervous about it all damn day. My husband calling me all damn day asking me questions about my preparedness and quizzing me makes me want to stick a fork in his eye. I also think this is a normal and correct response to being hounded like a naughty 5th grader. My poor darling, he can't help himself. He's the dramatic one in the family. I'm the stoic one.

If you were to see me, like him you'd think I didn't really care. I'm pretty composed and self contained most of the time. I'm like that when I'm drunk too. You probably wouldn't guess that I was hammered. But trust me, just because I'm not pacing the floors doesn't mean I'm not nervous. In here, in my blathering head there is non stop chattering between my ears. I'm nervous.

Wouldn't you know it that my iPod once again read my mind and knew exactly the song I needed to hear while I was driving to my interview?

Zoloft, by Ween

Here is a video of it so that you too may enjoy the tranquility and peace of mind only a song about drugs can give you.

I'm In Love, I'm In Love, I'm In Love

With a wonderful boy... I keep having to remind myself of this today as yet again he has decided to work from home on a day that an employer has decided to call me. So I have had to wing it and be witty in an impromptu phone interview - away from the computer and fumble around like .... well I don't know what, but I hate being denied use of the computer on that day that I actually need it. Where were these people for the last two days while he was in Chicago? That's it. That's the right tack. I'll turn it around and blame my mood on the people who may possibly hire me.

No. That won't work. They have asked me to come in for an interview in about 2 and a half hours. I'm ready. I'm professional. I'm Johnny(ette) on flippin' the spot. Come in today? Sure! What time? That's no problem at all. But my darling has already asked me why I'm not getting in the shower this very minute and what I am going to wear. Don't let the end of this day find me finally, gainfully employed and yet widowed. I'd like remain happily married and also gainfully employed. Please?

He's wonderful, he cares about me, he smells nice, he thinks my butt is cute - that's me trying to pick a new mantra to help me get through this day.

Today I'm not even going to make his lunch. That'll teach him.

UPDATE 12:43PM - I've had a brilliant thought. Since he has been working from home on the only 2 days an employer has called me in 5 months (yeh, 5 months.) he should work from home EVERY DAY. My rate of return on resumes sent may drastically improve.

Some Good Can Come Of Being Unemployed

For instance having the time to read and write blog posts. Today, to my delight, Some Guy tagged me. I visit his blog often because he too lives in Michigan, he posts a lot and I like to catch up on the comments, and I think he's funny. I'm quite flattered, as any lady should be, to be noticed by someone I admire.

TO DO: List 5 things you do, did or like that some may consider “totally lame,” but that you are totally proud of. Tag 5 others:

1. This one is easy and so totally lame - I play the Sims 2 and own 10 expansion packs. One of the highlights of my summer was the release of Bon Voyage, so that my Sims could go on vacation. There I've said it. I'm a 40 year old grown up woman who plays with virtual dolls. I have made Sim characters of all my friends and try desperately to keep them alive. Last year my Dan Sim was killed by a meteorite and I had to bring him back to life as a Sim Zombie. It was devastating. Also my Dan Sim's wife Stephanie Sim accidentally fell in love with my Brian Sim (it can happen if you don't pay attention) and now she rings her hands with guilt every 15 minutes or so.

2. I've had the same hairstyle for about 20 years. A short, tidy, blond highlighted bob. Through the years I've mixed it up a bit, the length goes up and down, the highlights may be more brown or red, but it's all just a variation of the blond bob theme.

3. I have an unconscious and magical knack for walking or standing in front of the television at exactly the moment that an amazing sports play is being made. I could be gone all day from the room, but somehow as the amazing pass is being made, or the winning corner kick or slide into the home plate is happening that is when I tend to show up to ask MDH if he wants marinara or clam sauce on his pasta, or complain that he didn't notice my new earrings. The year that the Red Sox ended up winning the World Series I was forbidden to enter or leave the den from the living room entrance. I had to walk to the back of the room and enter and exit from the kitchen on the other side of the room from the TV. It's not so tragic now that we have Tivo.

3. I have a subscription to New York magazine. In fact I heart New York magazine. That's probably not so lame until you know this: I have never been to New York and haven't any plans to visit in the near or distant future. I have been to New York once, but it doesn't really count because I was 16 and riding a bus from Newark Airport to JFK. Regardless, I enjoy knowing about all the hot new restaurants where I will most likely never eat and the price of condos in Chelsea. Each week when the magazine arrives I immediately flip towards the back to check out the Approval Matrix and then do the crossword in the back with a pen (and finish it).

4. I have a teapot collection. Very few know about it because #1, it's lame, and #2, I don't want the people I love to give me unattractive teapots as gifts. I'll keep them, of course, but they will go directly into storage in the basement. The collection is very specific, only usable pots with no decoration or cheap slogans on them. My mother has been the most guilty of buying these for me so I lied several years ago and told her that I don't collect them anymore. I'm not only lame, but a lying ingrate.

5. I am an excellent public speaker and have spent the last five years in a career that requires me to lasso large crowds of people and be the center of their attention for days at a time. Being good at this came as a huge surprise to me as I spent my high school years as a shy, chubby Daria-like girl who barely spoke to anyone. Back then a good day for me was when nobody noticed me.


The 5 people I will tag:
Playtah, Rachel, The Guv'ner, Dmarks, & Laaw-yuhr

I'm not sure if all of these folks are regular enough readers of mine to know they are tagged, so we'll see what happens. It's not like a chain letter is it? I wouldn't want to wish bad luck on them for not responding.

OH - and HAPPY BIRTHDAY RACHEL!

Five Minutes To Bridezillas

Most weekday mornings MDH wakes up at around 6:30 or 7am walks to the other side of the house and makes himself a bowl of cereal. I wake up when I hear him get in the shower and then I go out to the kitchen to make the coffee and feed the cat. By the time he leaves for work I'm on the treadmill. After that I head into the office to look for work anywhere from 1 to 3 hours and then it's off to loafing I go.

I won't bother to tell you how I spend the rest of the day. It's just too embarrassing. Not soap opera embarrassing, but suffice it to say I don't do much. These days mostly blogging (I'm having a lot of fun, thank you).

This morning I heard MDH get out of bed and then slide the pocket doors that divide the bedrooms from the rest of the house closed. I went back to sleep thinking I would wake up when I heard him come back to take a shower. Well, he never showed up and I slept in until about 8:30am. Realizing of course as soon as I woke up - oh shit he's decided to work from home today. Now I know I will be irritated with him the rest of the day.

I love him very much blah, blah, blah. I think I've written a few times before about how much I am in love with and appreciate my husband. Yeah, yeah, he's amazing and terrific. But that doesn't stop me from hating it when he intrudes on my turf. The house and the computer are mine from 8am to 6pm on weekdays dammit.

In the last 4 months I have become the Rainman of couch potatoes and my routine of sitting around all day doing nothing has been violated. I don't expect you to feel sorry for me. Not in the least. I know exactly how ridiculous I am. I know it and that is excactly why I got all pissy. When he works from home I am forced to acknowledge my laziness and general lack of drive and it pisses me off. I like living in denial much better. It's easier on my lower back too.

Anyway today was the most productive day I've had all week and I can't tell you how much I resented it. I did 100 times more housework than I normally do and even made him a special lunch, a grilled cheese sandwich and wedding soup. Not only that but I kissed him on his forehead as I served it to him in the office.

Yeah, I know.

Chuck A What?

Michigan is just simply a terrible place to be unemployed. The job market here is skimpy, especially for someone with my very obscure specialty. I've given up all hope of finding anything remotely similar to the work that I am supremely qualified for here.

In order to adapt to my environment I've expanded my horizons and have been applying to all kinds of jobs. Mainly things of an Analyst persuasion, things that don't involve any travel, and also some Office Manager, Admin Assistant stuff just so I feel like I've applied for something. I even created a special resume that highlights my old Office Manager job experience from before I had my degree.

The thing about finding jobs these days is that it mostly seems to take place online. The search, the application, the cover letter, the emailed auto-response. When I apply for something online I immediately check my email to make sure that I get that auto response. Otherwise I have no way of knowing whether or not, well anything. You send out all this personal information about yourself into the ether and then get nothing back but an impersonal blurb, a very reassuring impersonal blurb, if you are lucky and the places you apply have any manners what-so-ever.

The following is an auto response email that sets my ass to chapping each time I get it, which is each time I apply for administrative assistant jobs with a certain employment agency I've created an account with:

"We found your resume online and would be interested in speaking with you further regarding your qualifications and experience."

I read this first sentence of the message and even though it's from the employment agency about a job that I probably don't want, I say to myself, "Yeah!! Finally, somebody noticed me!"

Then I read the next sentence and I want to chuck a turd through their window.

"If you are within the (local) area you will be considered for opportunities as they arise, however at the current time the job market is not bearing your skill set."

This message by the way is usually received 2 or 3 days after I applied to the posting and have already gotten the auto-response telling me they have received my application successfully.

So which is it assholes? Do you want to speak with me or are you telling me to take a hike? I can take rejection. Really, I can. But don't get my hopes all up about your shitty* job and then make me disappointed a few words later that I'm not suitable for it.

I sent them an email back about it (seriously, I did and this is real):

Hello Employment Agency,
I'm a bit confused by this email. I get it every time I apply for a job on your website. It says two very different things. First that you would be interested in speaking with me further, and then that there's nothing for me. The first sentence gets my hopes up then in the next breath I'm all bummed out. So which is it? Are you interested in speaking with me or not?
Thanks for reading this!

The Lady

and this was their response:

Dear Lady,
The response you received was not an auto-response. It came from one of our staffing managers, who after reviewing your resume had determined that your current skill set was not what we were looking for at that time. Although, it may have been interesting to us, it just wasn't what we were looking for at that particular time.
I do hope this helps explain things.
Thanks,
Employment Agency

Initially this exchange made me feel pretty smug, but over time has only fueled the paranoia described in the post below.

*I was a receptionist, office manger, secretary, admin assistant for many, many years, so am in no way saying those types of jobs are shitty. They certainly are not. I'm merely saying that having to apply for all over again, a job you previously performed full time while studying your ass off nights and weekends for 6 years to get out of doing, is shitty.

Bitter & Paranoid Much Lady?

I hate looking for a new job even more than I hate being unemployed. It's getting to the point where I've become paranoid that all the HR departments in this town have ganged together and had a meeting about me.

HR Tool #1 - Get this Lunch Lady joker. Who the hell does she think she is?

HR Tool #2 - Yeah I know with all those fancy confident sounding words in her cover letters. She seems a right prissy, self-important bitch.

HR Tool #3 - I think we should put out an APB to all the other Tools in our bilious HR network to file her desperate emails as SPAM.

HR Tool #2 - That's a great idea, but I think we should also punish her by letting her find out, through various sources, that people much less qualified than her are getting hired for jobs she wants all over town.

HR Tool #1 - Ah, ha, ha, haha hee! What fun I am having at her sorry expense. You know I suspect, in addition to being prissy and self important, that she is also quite stoopid.

HR Tool #3 - Ooh! Shoot. Meeting adjourned. I've got to get busy planning the mandatory attendance Mid-Winter/Fall Season Gathering of Employees for a Rubber Chicken Dinner, Sparkling Cider Toasts and Bogus Prize Giving To Brown-Nosing Toadies.

HR Tool #1 - You mean the Holiday Party?

HR Tool #3 - No, no we'll have the real Holiday Party after all that employee bullshit. Hey you guys wanna get together for lunch?

HR Tool #1 - Sure but let's make it a long lunch. I've got an interviewee coming in on his own lunch hour later. I'm planning to leave him sweating at reception for a very long time so that he'll be late getting back to his current job. I've also gotta spy on him for awhile and see how much he fidgets and checks his breath. That's always such a hoot!

HR Tool #2 - Sorry can't. I'm busy covering up executive ass-grabbing in a sexual harassment case. Gotta write-up the ass in question for poor performance. You know the drill.

End Scene

If you have read this post and work in the field of Human Resources I hope that you have enjoyed this hilarious spoof of some ridiculous Hired Ranchers having a crazy nonsense conversation. Please click here for a copy of my resume. Whoo hoo! What fun, eh?

If you have read this post and work in the field of Hired Ranching well I just don't know what to say really. How embarrassing. I'm sorry if I have offended you and your profession.

New Rules

Since not much is going on in my life lately, as I have mentioned before, I will be pulling a story for you today from my past. A disgusting story from my recent past that gives me a reason to be glad I am not currently working. If you are the least bit squeamish stop right here. Come back and visit another day and I will do my best to amuse you at that time, but today for some reason this is the story that is foremost in my fat head and I'm typing it out come hell or high water. I may even hit the "Publish" button.

You have been warned.

My last week of work had the the unfortunate coincidence of also being the week that my supervisor decided that I would be a good candidate to have the newest member of our team tag along with me to observe my work. I was really good at what I did (oh, shut up - there is documented proof) so they did this to me quite a lot. In my cloud of emotion from quitting I totally forgot that the dude was coming with me until I got off the plane and heard his cheerful voice mail message on my cell phone saying that he was waiting for me at our hotel and very excited to meet me.

Norman Newguy had no idea that I'd quit my job hours before and I didn't see any reason to tell him. I decided that I would be completely professional and keep that information to myself and give him the best on-the-job learning experience possible. After all, it wasn't his fault I was disgruntled.

I met with Norm about 30 minutes after arriving at the hotel. I asked if he minded if I smoked, he said not at all, so I lit up (my one week of cheating after having quit in December) and proceeded to tell him what I expected from him throughout our work week together. The rules that follow are based upon things that I finally figured out must be said out loud and made clear to new employees after several previous less than stellar experiences:

• You are observing only and are not to pipe in or interrupt when I am speaking unless it is of extreme emergency such as the building, me or a member of the class is on fire. If you are on fire, please stop, drop and roll and keep the noise down.



• If I have left a topic from the training guide or outline un-discussed I have done it for a purpose and do not wish for you to publicly point out my omission. You may ask me about it later in private if you wish, at which time I will make you feel stupid for questioning my logic.



• We, meaning YOU are to follow the rules of the clinic at all times. If the staff are not allowed to have a beverage at the front desk then neither are you. If they are not allowed to chew gum, then neither are you, etc..
  


• We, meaning YOU, do not accept invitations from clinic owners or staff without discussing it with ME first. YOU do not go anywhere outside of this practice (bar, strip club, home) with the clinic owner or staff without my permission.
  


• When I tell you "No" what I really mean is "Are you out of your stupid mind?" and do not wish to be questioned about my decision.



• You will not approach any animal no matter how cute, cuddly or harmless looking without permission from either the clinic staff or the pet owner. If you disobey this rule and are bitten and/or scratched I will admonish you later in private and make you wish you were never born. Do not expect any sympathy no matter how serious the wound.
  


• You will not leave your belongings strewn about the clinic and will take away with you each night what you brought with you each day. Do not leave your breakfast, lunch, laptop, car keys, cell phone, soda, or any other tangible item in the clinic for someone else to eat, spill, lose, drop, break, or (in one instance involving an incontinent clinic cat) pee on.



• You are not to gross out or act like anything, ANYTHING, you may see is beneath you. It's a vet clinic, kid. There will be poop, blood, guts and many other oozing oddities. I suggest watching several episodes of Emergency Vets if you have a problem with this.



• When you are on the job you are asexual. Do not flirt. Do not make any kind of overture that may be construed as being of a sexual nature. Do not refer to any persons body or body parts, tattoos or clothing (this is a point I tried to make especially clear for male trainees as most people who work in vet clinics these days are chicks).
  
• Oh, and don't wear black clothes. They're just a magnet for pet hair.

I think that covers most of it. Do you understand? Good. Let's have some fun!

Ordinarily one of the beautiful things about my old job was this - I did it ALONE.

The next beautiful thing about my old job was this - I was in complete CONTROL at all times. Doing the job alone helped to guarantee that I was in control. My voice, my decisions, my time, my choice of restaurant, and so on.

What interesting things you must be learning about me by knowing these particular facts, eh?

Here's something else about me: I have tremendous patience and empathy for grown-ups who are learning new things, having been one myself for most of my adult life. If not in real life, in professional situations my goal was always to remain calm, no matter how nutty or overstimulated my trainees were getting. It's not unknown for me to dance or sing to get people to refocus and stop freaking out. Most people don't adapt to change (learning new comptuter system) easily and tend to act like nut jobs. Poor lambs.

Another detail that is crucial to this story: The clinic where this training occurred had a kick-ass coffee machine. More of an elaborate brewing system really. I noticed it the minute we walked in the door and couldn't wait to test it out (once I'd established it was permitted of course). It was similar to what you see on the right here only it had a huge compartmentalized contraption around it containing coffees, teas, hot chocolate, froth packets, straws, stirrers, and cups. I suppose it's really the cups that caused the problem. Well that and complete brainless, thoughtless, idiotic, syahoaogaglakg!!! Gag, gag, gag.

Excuse me, please.

Moving on. Are you sure you want to keep reading? Very well then.

The coffee machine was relatively new for the clinic too, so everyone was as in love and impressed with it as I. Unfortunately I never travel with my own mug after my favorite one broke in my suitcase a few years ago. I, along with most of the clinic staff was using the paper cups that were located in the compartment contraption. Norm was too, only I didn't realize he wasn't drinking coffee.

Now if this were not my last job I would have had to add a new rule.

DO NOT CHEW TOBACCO PRODUCTS IN OR NEAR THE CLINIC

You may see where this story is leading.

After two days of Norm by my side in the clinic I was feeling very positive about his future. He was polite, charming, professional, followed the rules and it seemed to me that he may not be a pain in the ass after all. In fact I found him to be quite helpful.

We had finished the classroom style portion of the training and were sitting in the owners office going over some manager type stuff. Whatever it was you can be assured it involved me talking, pointing, ignoring Norm and concentrating on the client while Norm listened and was generally being a very good boy. I announced a recess and casually reached over for my coffee cup and took an enormous, queen-size swig.

And then I died a little inside.

You may have gathered if you've been reading this or any of my other posts that I'm kind of a priss.

It's hard to be prissy when you realize you just drank a big swaller of someone elses spit. Not just spit either. But spit mixed with menthol flavored chewing tobacco.

Spit mixed with menthol flavored chewing tobacco that has been resting between the cheek and gum of Norman Newguy for christ only knows how long.

It was body temperature warm, it was menthol-ish, it was slimy and I wished I was dead. I somehow maintained my composure and calmly clicked my prissy kitten heels to the closest bathroom where I immediately began retching up the vile mixture, thereby reliving the experience all over again in reverse.

Upon my return I could barely manage to say to Norm, "I'm going to step outside for a moment would you please come with me?"

In the parking lot I led him to the rental car without a word and bade him to get inside. I in the driver's seat, he in the passenger seat, I simultaneously gagged and screamed at him while he bleated out unaccepted apologies. I loudly pointed out to him how very lucky we were (HE was) that it was ME who drank his vile swill and not the clinic owner, who was also drinking out of the same type of paper coffee cup.

The rest of it was something like: Remove the tobacco from your repugnant mouth and don't ever, ever, ever, EVER DO THAT AGAIN. Anywhere, at any jobsite, alone or unsupervised ever, ever, EVER.

Why am I sharing this delicious story? I'm not sure.

A better question may be, why have you continued to read it?

What's the lesson here? Maybe it's this, look before you drink. Or maybe it falls into the category I've featured before about being direct and specific. Ask your new employees if they chew tobacco and if they say yes tell them not to. Or if you work in the bowels of hell where (I still can't imagine) tobacco chewing is permitted, tell them to clearly label their makeshift spitoons with some kind of warning.

Don't assume like I did that people (I say people so as not to be sexist even though I have yet to meet a woman who chews tobacco) who seem perfectly charming and normal have enough sense not to leave cups of their own expressed bodily fluid laying about for dimwits like me to chug.

Apparently the rules must be laid out more specifically than anyone realized. If you have to tell someone that it's not okay to roll diced dried weeds in your mouth for hours on end and then spit the remains into a paper cup within reach of woeij;vnaiv gag, gag, gag. Sorry.

We might was well lay down these rules of work behavior that people may have been taking for granted as well:

• Don't shit on the floor or anywhere but in a toilet. When and if you do please flush the toilet and watch to make sure your entire contribution has been dispatched.


• Don't use the key to the supply cabinet to clean your ears.


• Don't microwave onion and stinkloaf sandwiches in the break room at 8:15 am. It's not okay at any time, but less okay at that early hour.


• Don't take off your shoes ever, for any reason or length of time. Your feet stink and nobody needs to know this about you.


• Don't pick your nose and wipe the results under your chair. We see you. You don't think we can and you are wrong. You are a genuine pig and nobody needs to know this about you.

I think that covers it, but just in case:

• Don't move or speak


• Don't even open your stupid mouth or make eye contact


• Don't make me tell you again