Stuffed Sausage for Hire
Job interviews are an all day affair for me.
Whenever I'll be entertaining a potential employer, I like to sleep in until the very last minute possible and then leap out of bed with a rush of adrenaline that reminds me of all the things I should have done the day before when I was out roller skating or drinking bloody marys (sometimes roller skating and drinking bloody marys). Next it's into the shower where I shave my legs for unknown reasons and then, only then, comes the most time-consuming portion of my preparation: styling the "wash-and-go mullet" of which I recently became the proud wearer.
Next, I stuff myself into a pair of control-top hose and last year's suit to the point at which the shower and mullet-styling are deemed null and void by profuse sweat. I then ask Mysterioso to say something nice about me (which generally yields a comment along the lines of "You're really kind to cats.") and I'm out the door to print the copy of the 60,000 versions of my resume most likely to get me the job. Since I can't count on a 15-minute drive through Denver taking only one hour and not two, I say a little prayer that The General won't overheat and that my sense of direction will miraculously, after 29 years astray, appear during my drive.
During the interview itself, I smile and nod, and fight the urge to jump out of my skin and explain that I'm not really an automaton, that I'm a person who winds tales and has an alter-ego named Jayne Manslaughter, that I just got back from a really weird trip to Mexico and that, despite a dwindling cat-food fund, I can't stop my compulsion to rescue homeless felines. Writers are a dime a dozen my mind tells me while fielding questions about my strengths and weaknesses. We are all "creative" and have a semi-decent handle on grammar. So, all of the shit on our resumes being equal, let's get down to what really matters, I want to say. Thankfully, I never do.
All that, and I'm still unemployed.
Whenever I'll be entertaining a potential employer, I like to sleep in until the very last minute possible and then leap out of bed with a rush of adrenaline that reminds me of all the things I should have done the day before when I was out roller skating or drinking bloody marys (sometimes roller skating and drinking bloody marys). Next it's into the shower where I shave my legs for unknown reasons and then, only then, comes the most time-consuming portion of my preparation: styling the "wash-and-go mullet" of which I recently became the proud wearer.
Next, I stuff myself into a pair of control-top hose and last year's suit to the point at which the shower and mullet-styling are deemed null and void by profuse sweat. I then ask Mysterioso to say something nice about me (which generally yields a comment along the lines of "You're really kind to cats.") and I'm out the door to print the copy of the 60,000 versions of my resume most likely to get me the job. Since I can't count on a 15-minute drive through Denver taking only one hour and not two, I say a little prayer that The General won't overheat and that my sense of direction will miraculously, after 29 years astray, appear during my drive.
During the interview itself, I smile and nod, and fight the urge to jump out of my skin and explain that I'm not really an automaton, that I'm a person who winds tales and has an alter-ego named Jayne Manslaughter, that I just got back from a really weird trip to Mexico and that, despite a dwindling cat-food fund, I can't stop my compulsion to rescue homeless felines. Writers are a dime a dozen my mind tells me while fielding questions about my strengths and weaknesses. We are all "creative" and have a semi-decent handle on grammar. So, all of the shit on our resumes being equal, let's get down to what really matters, I want to say. Thankfully, I never do.
All that, and I'm still unemployed.