Wednesday, April 25, 2007

Pants on fire

Back in January when my job and my cats and my bleeding esophageal region all decided to bare their vicious teeth and rip the limbs from my body, I thought I could perhaps turn the remnants of my energy into a job search. Washing clothes and scooping cat litter were not important, but labeling manila folders and organizing recommendation letters, resume’s and portfolio information were right up there with breathing.

My mother has always told me that I’m the most sporadically organized person she knows; meaning I have a specific order for plate distribution in the kitchen cabinets but will shove the cheese and the chicken and the grapes all in the same refrigerator bin. I organize my clothes by color and length of sleeve but care nothing about the top shelf of the closet, covered as it is with old Christmas decorations, clean sheets and a tool box. I will also re-make the bed after you, because you have no idea how to do it right.

The job searching turned out to be mildly fruitful with a whopping total of 1.5 job offers. The point five was an offer I knew was coming but couldn’t bear the thought of accepting, so I played my ‘No-Thank-You’ card before she got back to me with the salary information. The second offer came the day after we found out about the severance package, which means I suddenly had images of gold-plated sugar plums dancing in my head. Not really, because the package isn’t as gilded as I’d like to believe, seeing as how I have to stay here until the very end of the transition before I’m rewarded for my ::cough:: loyalty.

During this time frame I probably applied for twenty to twenty-five jobs. Jobs in Arkansas, jobs in Texas, jobs in the farthest, most ass-cold regions of Maine. I even applied for a job in Austria. What? They said they wanted English-speakers. But as the end of January drew near, I became less inclined to reply to emails or phone calls. I’d reached a point of acceptance with my current situation and had decided to give it until July, after the next Big Meeting with Big Information. This would give me a better idea of exactly how long I’ve got, rather than the speculation I’m currently running on.

Then two weeks ago I got a call from an unknown number. It was Jake*, calling from a company that I’d applied to nearly three months before. I’d heard through the grapevine that there’d been a hiring freeze and beyond that, the job application hadn’t registered on my radar. But Jake wanted a pre-interview phone interview- and if you’re confused with that request then trust me, so was I. He wanted to interview me on the phone before he actually INTERVIEWED ME ON THE PHONE. And if they liked me, I might even get a chance to come into the office. Whatever. I’m not in the habit of being outrightly rude. Cranky, maybe, if you cut me off on the interstate. And sure, I’ll give you a glimpse of my finger. But I very rarely flick people’s ears or hang up on callers, an action so unspeakably rude that my Southern sensibilities just bristle at the thought.

After he concluded the interview I rested comfortably in my seat, secure in the knowledge that I definitely wouldn’t be hearing from Jake ever again. He’d wanted me to do things with numbers. Like, add them. And analyze them. Which I could totally do, if the numbers were letters and I had to form words with them.

That afternoon I ambled home from work and decided that I had enough energy to check my sitemeter. I rarely do this, because honestly, who cares? I know that I will always have that one visitor from Tehran with a referring search of “Hot asien slutts,” a string of words that somehow sends them directly to my page. I’ve ceased contemplating how this happens.

Something strange caught my eye during my review of sitemeter- someone had read thirty-three pages of my blog with an IP address leading straight back to Company Blah, the same company that Jake the Phone Interviewer had called from two hours before. And the time stamp? Less than 20 minutes after we hung up the phone.

Maybe I’m being paranoid. It’s possible. But I just never considered the ramifications of pasting my In Living Color Real Name in the upper right hand corner. I wondered for a split second what it would be like to know exactly how crazy your possible employees are. Did he linger over high school stories detailing my ridiculously reject-like experiences? Did he pause over the purse-o-vomit story? Or did he wonder how long I was going to whine about my Weeks of Shittiness, effectively beating a dead horse that everyone had to read about, oh, I don’t know, seventy-five times. Only to say I beat the horse is a bit insulting to the horse, as I not only beat the horse, I drop kicked the horse into a branch shredder, a la’ Fargo. You might say I’m a bit whiny.

I contemplated a) removing this site, b) setting it to private and c) removing my name. But nothing felt right. This blog is far less unprofessional than some of the things people do in their free time. I don’t ACTUALLY beat dead (or living) horses. I don’t throw back a fifth of whiskey every night. I don’t cheat on my taxes. I just run my mouth. A lot. About total shit. Boring, ridiculous and nonsensical shit.


This site is for my amusement only. I have never (now will I ever) indicate the name or location of my employment. I will not talk about a boss’s incompetence or how my VP left a stanker in the restroom. I will, however, write about cat shit and human shit and maybe even some goat shit. I will be long winded.

Please note that I am not serious when I refer to alien transmitters implanted in my esophagus, nor am I inclined to stab people with stilettos. It’s all in good fun, promise.

Robin Holmes

Wednesday, April 18, 2007

I need more drugs for my Crazy

Last weekend I spent my normally Reserved for Sleeping Saturday in the clutches of three children under the age of five, one of which still shits her pants. The whole diaper changing thing isn’t really a deterrent to care-giving because, hello, this is what I do every Wednesday and Sunday. I wipe poop from dirty bottoms. I wipe poop from dirty legs. I wipe poop from the bathroom floor when little Charlie mistakes the toddler toilet for a flesh-eating monster, taking a giant dump on the linoleum instead. But kids go into a different behavioral mode when they know Mommy Dearest is more than a few stairs away. They transform into needy heathen sticky monkeys who will climb your shoulder because that spot, right there? the clean one? the one not covered in Koolaid? LET’S SMEAR OUR LEFTOVER ICECREAM ON IT.

Of course the exasperation all melts away when the little girl who would not. stop. talking. less than thirty seconds before suddenly feels the need to curl contentedly in your lap. And says she loves you. But then she accidentally knees you in the shin and gets your hair caught in her zipper and you remember, with blinding clarity, that raising a child rates right up there with eating a bowl of urine covered earwax.

Later that afternoon, when all three children had finally (finally!) laid down for their afternoon nap, I took the opportunity to enjoy my friend’s snazzy new television and her plethora of channels. It was a nice respite, because for a solid hour I got to watch a program with actual dialogue and cuss words without the lingering fear that someone would turn their innocent eyes in my direction and ask, “Miss Robin, what’s a dildo?” To which I would reply, “An adult tool that leads to certain blindness.”

While I was laying on the couch, my friend’s husband commented on the fact that I had monkey feet. I’m not sure what this means, the monkey feet comment, but I know it doesn’t bother me that much. I mean, if he had said I had a monkey ass we’d be scrapping directly. Word. Those monkey asses leave something to be desired, especially when you get into the whole huge bulbous red ass on the orangutan thing.

The foot comment reminded me of a reader I had about a year ago out of the UK. Apparently he’d stumbled across my blog, followed by my Flickr website, followed by the picture of me showing off my One True Talent: the ability to flip you off with my left foot. My father can also perform this feat due to a nonexistent joint in the middle toe. Though even he admits he’d never fully realized his deformity’s potential until I came along.

My UK reader had a propensity for long winded emails, most revolving around his burning need for my feet and his outstanding career as a podiatrist. This merely cemented my feeling that foot-doctors need to be on medication. Strong, heavy-on-the-sedatives medication. Lucky for me, my UK friend had a whole network of feet-minded individuals and I saw a drastic upswing on my visitor log with a majority coming from the UK. All of them had a referring url of this , which leads straight to my post on ::retching:: corns. The corns I got on my pinkie toe after wearing shoes conducive to ripping someone a new asshole. Also known as the pointy-toe ones.

To say I began to get a bit panicked was a bit of an understatement. I kept seeing the scene in ‘Kiss the Girls’ when the police stumble upon a freezer full of feet. Feet. In a freezer. Freezer-o-Feet. I go out of my way to not acknowledge feet, especially anything associated with Sexy and Feet all in the same thought. I once sat at a dinner table while my friend compared her husband sucking on her toes to a mini-orgasm. I cannot agree or disagree with this statement because should someone come at my foot with an open mouth, I will probably assume that they’re getting ready to bite them off. Also, feet in mouth? Isn’t there a disease called Hoof and Mouth? Same thing, right?

So I kindly (also known as ‘curtly’) responded to the emails from my UK friend, indicating I did not share his foot fetish nor would I be willing to send him additional pictures of my feet. I haven’t heard from him since last August and I can’t say as I’m sad about that. I sincerely hope he’s gotten that whole foot thing under control and, if not, is harassing someone closer to home.