Too Legit. Too Legit to APPLY FOR A JOB.

Hello fledglings!

My apologies for the long, uncalled-for hiadas in posting. Truth be told, the hovel I'm currently residing in has NO INTERNET.

I know. It's like I'm a cave-demon. Get it? Instead of caveman. Cave-demon. OK...

So in my time of need, I've had to resort to pirating WiFi out of Starbucks and Burger King parking lots.

I have never felt less human in my entire hellish existence. And that's saying a lot because I'm not a human.

Anywho, do you know what I HATE?

Interviewing for jobs.

Yeah, I know. Pretty tame hate. Everyone hates interviewing for jobs. BUT I HATE IT MORE THAN ALL OF YOU.

As you've probably guessed, my recent relocation means that I'm turning over a new leaf, so to speak. Making my way in a foreign land. Embarking on a whole new rip tide down the River Styx.

So a natural part of this process is finding a job. Now here's a little snack of self-disclosure for you: my degree is pretty much USELESS. Seriously. A lot of people say this and most of them are lying and/or trying to get you to compliment their creativity and poor life choices. I'm not fishing for either response. MY DEGREE IS USELESS.

But of course, when I was in college, no one told me this. The matriarch of our family certainly FLIRTED with the idea of flat-out telling me that I was a dumb ass, but she didn't because she doesn't know how to pump gas and I do. So she had to walk on eggshells with my emotions, because one ill-planned move and she'd have to push her car to the senior center every Wednesday.

I get my degree and I'm STOKED. Finally! I can prove everyone wrong and get the well-paying, 401k and dental coverage job of my DREAMS!

I WAS MISTAKEN.

I go in to my first interview for a receptionist job, and I think I'm going to KILL IT AND BURY IT TEN FEET DEEP UNDER A PILE OF ROCKS AND COMPOSTED ORANGE PEELS BECAUSE I AM THAT WELL-QUALIFIED. So I go in and the current receptionist, who is about nine months pregnant and HATES ME because I'm still skinny and aggregiously attractive, seats me in an empty conference room and tells me that I'll be doing a Skype interview. So I have to talk into this microphone and look at this black dot on the wall, and I'll see my interviewer in a flat-screen TV to my right.

So this is basically what it looks like. And what I'm basically supposed to do is talk into the mic so the interviewer can hear me, angle my head towards the camera so he can see me, and look at the screen occasionally so that I know he's still watching me and breathing.

I look like this:

Yep. The face of a WINNER, ladies and gents.

So I'm sitting in this conference room, scared shitless because I've never done a job interview IN MY ENTIRE LIFE. Well, except for my morgue job. But all they asked me for that was if I got queasy at the sight of blood and how I felt about formaldehyde.

I'm waiting. And waiting. And waiting.

Finally, after about ten minutes, a woman comes into frame on the TV. She looks like this...

JESUS CHRIST.

So without even thinking, my knee-jerk reaction is to say, “Oh dear lord.”

She croons, “What did you say, dear?”

Thankfully, my mouth was nowhere near the mic because I was too busy looking at this swamp monster. So I say, “How are you today?”

She and I have completely dry and boring banter about weather and makeup for about five minutes. And, don't you worry, I took extensive notes about what brands of makeup she wears so I will NEVER BUY IT EVER.

So we're chatting and I'm starting to wonder if this is some sort of test. Is this going to be my boss? Do I want to work for a swamp monster? If so, is our office in the bottom of a swamp? If so, are there some luxe pothole lofts nearby that I can look into renting?

Then, as if she can read my dark and corrupted mind, she says, “Your interviewer will be in momentarily. I just thought I'd make you feel a little more at ease before he comes in.”

To which I respond, SERIOUSLY? Who thinks that the swamp monster is capable of putting me and/or anyone AT EASE?

Without even thinking, I begin to laugh nervously. Not a fake laugh, but that little titter that nurses in optometrist's offices give you. Kind of a, “Tee-hee-hee...”

So I do this without thinking and all of the sudden, she starts nervously laughing, too. “Tee-hee-hee...”
And then we find ourselves in an awkward nervous laughter battle because we have nothing else to say.

We do this for longer than it's funny or endearing. My cheeks start to hurt and her eyes glaze over. Then, as if God himself was intervening on my behalf, (hard to believe but possibly true!) the interviewer comes in.

PRAISE SATAN!

When he comes in, swamp monster is still "Tee-hee"-ing, so he says, "Do you girls have a case of the giggles?"

The truth is, sir, I'm not sure. But I'm afraid and I really need a decent dental plan.

Finally, swamp monster leaves, but ends up walking backwards while still staring at me and "Tee-hee"-ing. At this point, I've stopped "Tee-hee"-ing entirely and swamp monster looks like a total FREAK.

But now the interviewer and I are completely on our own. One on one. Uno por uno. I don't speak Spanish. I'm trying to be more ESL friendly. Yep.

So he and I are going to sort out our brass tacks. And, for the record, this is what he looks like on the TV screen....

Yup. He looks like a straight-up Q-Tip. But this actually works for me, because I can't see his washed-out face so I'm feeling pretty confident that I won't pick up on his haughty social cues.

We discuss the weather and how I'm feeling today. Truth be told, I feel as though the inferno is burning through my esophagus and consuming my spinal cord. But this is how I always feel, and people don't respond too well when I say that in social situations. So I say, "Oh, I'm just great!" with my crazy eyes.

Then we get down to business and he starts asking me questions, but weird ones. He calls them "behavioral response inquiries". So the gist of it is that he asks me about situations that I've been in at work and how I responded to them.

What they don't tell you about these questions is that they're super-easy to lie about and you can make yourself look like a much better person than who you actually are if you have half a brain.

To give you an example, he asks me, "Tell me about a time that you were doing one task, then had to abruptly switch to another one."

(On a side note, I'm at the supermodel Starbucks. Literally every supermodel within a 50 mile radius is in this Starbucks. COME ON.)

OK, back on task. I could feasibly tell this man the truth about my multi-tasking ability. So this is the truthful answer...

"Hmmm. My job is pretty simple. I embalm bodies and drive them to the cemetery. Once I was embalming a cat, and suddenly this trash bag of cats was delivered to the mortuary and my boss told me that I had to embalm them all in two hours. So I waited until he left, and then I put the bag in my trunk, drove home, and buried them in my backyard under a pile of flat tires."

But this response most likely makes me look like more of a sociopath than I actually am. So this is what I really said...

"Hmm. At my RECEPTIONIST job, I spend a great deal of time entering invoices and doing payroll. I also created an electronic filing system by hand in twenty-six minutes. So when I'm entering these invoices for thousands of dollars, I also have to answer the phone. So when I have to answer the phone and make business transactions worth thousands of dollars, I'll put a Sticky Note on the invoice I have to finish so that I'll remember to finish it as soon as I'm done making my company FIVE TRILLION-MILLION DOLLARS. I also love babies and old people."

NAILED IT.

Every single one of my answers is awesome like this, because they can't fact-check me. I'm unstoppable. I'm like Anna Nicole Smith!

Wait... Umm....

So at the end of my interview, Q-Tip man tells me that he'd like to schedule a secondary interview. AWW HELLZ YEAH!

Fast-forward to Friday, and I'm coming for my secondary interview. I go in with an aura of cockiness, because I'm a bad-ass and no one can stop me. I'm like Heath Ledger!

Wait... Umm....

But this time, it's different. No TV screen and camera and mic. This time, it's real. And my interviewers are two fat chicks.

FUCK.

So I sit down and they ask me the same questions, so I give the same responses. But I'm slipping. They're staring at my hands and I realize, about halfway through the interview, that I have blood and tufts of fur stuck under my fingernails...

Then I make a fatal mistake. FATAL. One of the interviewers, we'll call her Tubby #2, asks me, "Describe a difficult situation that you had with a co-worker. How did you deal with it?"

To which I respond...

"Hmm. Well at my job as a RECEPTIONIST where I make millions of TRILLIONS of dollars for my company and I don't sleep because I love my company so much so I want to make money for them instead of sleeping or eating, I work with lots of older men-"

FUCK.

"And by older men, I really don't mean "older" men. Like, in their late thirties-"

FUCK.

They both drop their pencils and stare at me.

I forgot to mention that the two fat chicks that are interviewing me are both probably in their mid-forties.

FUCK.

So they retort, "Oh, are we "old"? How "old" do you think we are?"

FUCK.

How do I know this shit? Obviously I'm young, and I don't know what old people look like because old is a disease that I don't want to catch. So I avoid old people.

FUCK.

I blew it. But not really, if you think about it. I mean, I'm way too young and attractive to be working in a stuffy office building full of old people and Rogaine fumes.

Phew. Glad I dodged that bullet.

It's so nice to be able to bitch to you again, my 90 FOLLOWERS! Be thankful for NOTHING this Thursday. Or don't be. Whatev.

Lucy