friendly fire
I woke up feeling good. For a change, and for a marvel. I was going to remember to take vitamins, wash my hair, finish the damn game at least once over, and start on my Vanna's Choice contest entry. And it was all going to kick ass, even if Jo-Ann decided to round-file me like everybody else. After all, I can't be sure of that one for a few days yet.
So the phone rings. "HE'S NOT HERE," I growl. But whoa, they're looking for me. Apparently, the LA Times only waits a couple of weeks before trying to get you back on board. I tell the guy I can't come back yet due to lack of job. Suddenly I'm talking to Mr. Job Coach. Everything I've heard ten times over from seminars, recruiters, online advice columns and random women knitting in craft stores is now being shoved at me in a condescending buddy-buddy tone with no room to get a word in edgewise and tell him that I KNOW. Believe me, I KNOW. Exactly how stupid would I have to be to have missed all this? Then he says, "Well, you know, if you're not pulling down more than $60k, applying online is just a waste of time."
No, really? And here I thought every submission was carefully reviewed, printed on vellum, and filed in a treasure box. I lost it. He clearly thought I was amusing, and that just made me yell louder. "Yeah. I know. You have to know somebody. But you know what, I don't know anybody so what else am I gonna do? And I'm sorry, but I don't need this anymore. Goodbye."
Not ten minutes before, I'd been ready to rip the day a new one. Now all I wanted to do was go lie down and bawl. I'm pretty sure that's not what he intended, but really. Who in this shithole of an economy hasn't heard all the platitudes, "secrets," and old wives' tales already? What kind of favor do you think you're doing by rubbing it in that the only things some people can reasonably do to apply are those with the worst rate of return? I was really sorry that I hadn't decided to use the other phone. It slams.
Ah well. I guess I should be happy I hung up before he could start channeling Dr. Phil at me.
So the phone rings. "HE'S NOT HERE," I growl. But whoa, they're looking for me. Apparently, the LA Times only waits a couple of weeks before trying to get you back on board. I tell the guy I can't come back yet due to lack of job. Suddenly I'm talking to Mr. Job Coach. Everything I've heard ten times over from seminars, recruiters, online advice columns and random women knitting in craft stores is now being shoved at me in a condescending buddy-buddy tone with no room to get a word in edgewise and tell him that I KNOW. Believe me, I KNOW. Exactly how stupid would I have to be to have missed all this? Then he says, "Well, you know, if you're not pulling down more than $60k, applying online is just a waste of time."
No, really? And here I thought every submission was carefully reviewed, printed on vellum, and filed in a treasure box. I lost it. He clearly thought I was amusing, and that just made me yell louder. "Yeah. I know. You have to know somebody. But you know what, I don't know anybody so what else am I gonna do? And I'm sorry, but I don't need this anymore. Goodbye."
Not ten minutes before, I'd been ready to rip the day a new one. Now all I wanted to do was go lie down and bawl. I'm pretty sure that's not what he intended, but really. Who in this shithole of an economy hasn't heard all the platitudes, "secrets," and old wives' tales already? What kind of favor do you think you're doing by rubbing it in that the only things some people can reasonably do to apply are those with the worst rate of return? I was really sorry that I hadn't decided to use the other phone. It slams.
Ah well. I guess I should be happy I hung up before he could start channeling Dr. Phil at me.