Clareified

I don’t know what it means that I found two hours of looking for a job to be completely and utterly overwhelming and exhausting.
I need a nap, a massage and some ice cream. Not necessarily in that order.
Oh, and I need to not have to go out looking for a job for at least three years (which is good, cause that’s just about how long I usually manage to hang on to those steady paychecks.)
As I pounded the pavement, in my black suit and sensible brown shoes, I wondered why I waited until I was living on the fumes of my savings before shaking the trees for my next source of income. Of course, as I sat in my third waiting room of useless magazine covered coffee tables, I just as quickly realized that there was no fucking way I’d be doing this if I wasn’t two Amex card statements away from liquidating my IRA in the shittiest market in the history of shitty markets. I fucking hate job hunting. Ironically, I don’t really have a good reason for hating it. Getting jobs has always come real easy to me. Like super duper I got a phone call when I was 19 asking *me* if I wanted to work at the White House easy. I kid you not. In general, I’m a pretty good interview and my credentials are just about as stellar as credentials can be for a woman that’s been unemployed for a year. And yet…and yet, I had to repeatedly remind myself that no matter what thoughts were racing through my head I would not in fact prefer eating glass to meeting one more old white guy in a suit. No siree, Bob. Glass would probably be icky! Though, Bob was pretty icky too…
I made some good connections today, including my very own “No, I’ll wait,” moment with a secretary when I showed up unannounced with no appoitment, resume in hand to meet her boss. That was actually a pretty funny interview. I hand over my resume, the secretary is all “well, if you don’t have an appointment she won’t see you,” and I’m all “dude, she’ll see me. Three hundred years and two hundred thousand bucks says that she’ll see me.” Sure enough, I sit in aforementioned crap waiting room for ten minutes when her boss comes out and shows me to the conference room. She’s all “I usually don’t meet with “walk-ins.” I smile politely, name drop appropriately and fifteen minutes later, I’m filling out W4s. I might even be all employed by next week — doing something vile and awful, of course, for way less than I would like — but it’s cash. Oh and halfway during the interview, she goes “Ocean Parkway, huh? That’s where all the Lababaviches are, right?” I stare blankly and she goes “you know, the Jews with the curlly things on their heads,” and uses her fingers to gesture curly things down heads. I decide this must be a trick and continue to stare blankly. So then she goes “it’s okay, I’m Jewish, so I can say stuff like that.”
Hawesome.

This entry was posted by Dawn Summers on Thursday, February 12th, 2009 at 12:29 am and is filed under Personal. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.