Tuesday, February 25, 2014

One for the books...

I'm afraid I've been thinking. 

A dangerous pass time, I know. 

I've been trying to think about what I want to do with my life- what kind of a career I want for myself- and while the most obvious answer would be writing, I'm trying to be a realist. It's not that I don't have faith, or that I'm trying to make myself do something that I hate, there are simply bills to be paid, clothes to be bought, and books to acquire. Not necessarily in that order, mind you, but anyways! 

While I do for the most part enjoy my Chandler Bing job, I want to move up. Kind of. It's scary, okay? 

A while back I had a job interview for a position at our Head Office (which in the end, I didn't get but that's okay!). Now, my company's head office is a BEAUTIFUL building- we're talking modern everything, glass walls, fancy carpets... You walk in and immediately feel more sophisticated just for being there. That kind of place. 

I had been pumping myself up all day for it. I knew what they were looking for and felt pretty confident that I had all those pesky prerequisites down pat. I was dressed in a suit and had on my fancy-shmancy new high heeled boots. Like I said, fancy place, fancy clothes, fancy everything. 

I let them know I was there, hung up my jacket, and took an impatient seat in the waiting area. 

Things were going well, I made it there on time, found parking, didn't slip and fall ONCE on my way in, so naturally this is the point where things began to rapidly fire at the metaphorical fan. 

There are five minutes left before my interview. I am running over possible questions and answers in my head. I am the epitome of cool, calm, and collected. 

Then I glance down at my shoe. 

... huh... I must have tracked in dirt from my parking spot. I'll just wipe that off quick. 

I brush it off with my hand in a speedy, unthinking gesture. 

It smears. All over my shoe. And I make a startling discovery. 



 ... wait a second... that's... NOT. DIRT. 



It was a motivational gift from my giant beast of a dog!! I had unwittingly besmirched my spanking new heels in a heaping pile of Bear's finest brand and then smeared it all over my shoe with my BARE HAND. 

Four minutes to the interview. 

I scream like a lobster in a pot and stare at my hand like it is a bomb ticking closer and closer to detonation. Every fiber of my being is praying to god that the receptionist can't see through my back at this disgusting mess. The thought enters my mind: there's no saving my hand. It's a goner. Let's just Jamie Lanister this thing and go home. Cut our losses (pun intended) and GTFO. 

I am panicking. What do I do, sweet JEBUS what do I do?! My face is turning a shade that looks like crimson and eggplant had a love child. I get up. I hide my shamed limb and politely ask, in a somewhat hysterical voice, "Excuse me, where would I find the washroom?" I stammer as if I am hunting a wabbit.

The receptionist gives me a weird look that makes me absolutely positive that I am not concealing my nerves whatsoever, but she directs me down the hall none the less. I pivot and speed walk away from her. I've never moved so fast in heels in all my life, not to mention the fact that I'm probably dislodging bits of Bear's breakfast all over their fancy carpet as I go.  Fantastic.

I wheel into the bathroom. Three minutes to go. 

First, I scrub my hand in a fashion that would make Lady MacBeth concerned. Then I hustle into a stall and try to get rid of every inch of turd-support that I can. All the while I am cursing under my breath with terminology that would turn a sailors' ears pink. Pretty much just talking smack to myself. 

Ex: 

"Oh my God!! Oh my god. There is shit on my shoe. There is SHIT on my SHOE. GOD IT'S STILL ON MY HAND!! Oh my god, I'm here for an interview and what did I bring? DOG POOP. THAT'S WHAT I BROUGHT. DOG. POOP." 

It was slightly more colourful than that, but I'm fairly certain that would be inappropriate to write out. Even for the internet. It was that bad. Just know that I sounded like some complete psycho whispering madly under their breath. I was that creepy person that you would avoid at all costs. That was me. 

Two minutes to go. 

I emerge from the stall and scrub down my hands again like I'm prepping to perform major surgery. My face has maintained it's burning shine long enough that I'm beginning to sweat. Get it together. 

I hear a creak. The stall at the end of the bathroom opens and out walks one of my bosses' bosses. THEY HEARD THE WHOLE THING. Now they are looking at me like I'm some strange creature who shouldn't be allowed in public. Probably because of the fanatic mumbling that had been going on for the last solid minute. I freeze like a deer in the headlights of a semi and stare at them. Just. Stare. They leave. Quickly. 



One minute to go. 

I book it back into the seating area, surreptitiously looking for tokens of my embarassment on the carpet along the way. So far so good. 

I have just grabbed my notebook when both of my interviewers walk out to greet me. They extend their hands to greet me. 

On reflex, I reach out with my right hand and then freeze. 

Oh... y'all do NOT want to touch that hand. 



I do the only logical thing, and do the awkward hand switch and end up with some wet noodle of a hand shake that I will shudder about until the day I die. 

All through the interview, all I could think of was, "Did I get it all? What if I smell. Is there more of it? I think I got it all. Oh my god. I'm being interviewed by these people and I probably smell like I rolled around in a farm yard." Needless to say, all of my answers were slightly off. 

The hour ended and they walked me to the door to retrieve my jacket and tell me that they would be in touch once the other interviews were completed. 

I had calmed down by that point. Put on jacket. Get out of building. Simple, 1, 2, steps. Then, when I thought I was in the clear, the department head opens the door to the vesitbule of hot, ventilated, and sealed in air for me and goes-

"Whew! There's an awful smell in here! Do you smell that? God, we need to talk to someone about that." 

... You know that metal grating people use to get the snow and dirt off their shoes when they first walk into a fancy place? YEAH. THEY HAD ONE. AND GUESS WHAT WAS STUCK BETWEEN TWO METAL STRIPS. 



I bolted. It was like the scene from Anchorman where the Sex Panther cologne gets worn. Except I was the one who should have been hosed down like that time the raccoons got into the copier.  

I did the drive of shame all the way home, upon which I went up the back gate, opened it, and saw the perfectly preserved outline of my shoe in a pile of Bear poop. It was great. 

So, if ever you go to an interview and think, "Man I'm nervous," just be sure to check your shoes before you go in. Your results will be better than mine. 

Happy Tuesday! :)    

The next post with be my first book review! :) Red Rising by Pierce Brown. Stay tuned, internetland! 



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2 comments:

  1. First: A dangerous pass time, I know. GASTON

    second: OH MY DEAR GOD.

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    Replies
    1. I knew you'd get that reference :P and I know. Sigh... my luck is just spectacular haha

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