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.

DEAR FUTURE EMPLOYERS:

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.

Sincerely,
Robin Holmes

I Got Your Hey-Oh

1. I am only somewhat amused by the gleaming white toilet currently adorning my neighbor’s side yard. It’s been a month now and I’m more than tempted to gather up a bag of cat shit and dump it unceremoniously in the bowl. I wonder if my neighbor is confused about the generally accepted functions and locations of a toilet. I mean, maybe they're from the hills of Uzbekistan where a toilet is considered a Tool of Satan. Maybe they like hovering over a hole in ground. Maybe it’s an art installation piece and I’m just too uncultured to appreciate its bold statement about the struggle of humanity against oppressive societal norms. Or maybe they’re just lazy. Total toss-up. Also, the piece of plywood propped up against the toilet tank does nothing to disguise the actual fucking toilet sitting in the yard. The YARD, people.

2. Whenever I go to the grocery store I have to drive past a giant green billboard with JESUS in pristine white letters. It’s always confused me because there is no church affiliation stamp to lead Jesus-seekers to the proper Jesus location. Just Jesus. All the time. I also seem to pass the disgusting foot sore billboard, at least more than I would consider my fair share. I’m all for people getting foot ailments taken care of, but I’m not sure it’s really necessary for me to see a giant gaping quarter-sized crusty hole on the bottom of some customer’s foot. Because, EW.

3. My new work schedule makes every day feel like Saturday. Only I’ve discovered I don’t much like a never-ending Saturday. I get the impression I’ve been sucked into some Groundhog Day-esque time warp. Let’s do the time warp again! God, sorry, total flashback to my college days and dancing to the Rocky Horror Picture Show soundtrack dressed up as Snow White. That whole Snow White thing is a complicated explanation; just rest assured I was a bitchin Snow White. I had chin-length dark hair with pale skin and cartoon-proportioned breasts. Put me in a blue dress and it was like sending out a homing beacon to all the cranky dwarves in the world.

4. I’m pretty sure someone just got shot in the house next door. Only logical explanation, really. I heard a pop, followed by an OH SHIT, followed by a BITCH! followed by the sound of rubber not making good contact with wet pavement followed by police sirens about ten minutes later. The last time I heard someone get shot I was living on the corner of Broadway and 16th. Don’t judge, it was a wicked cute apartment. Anyway, as it happened some young delinquent with robbery (and crack) on the brain decided to break into my neighbor’s restored Victorian house. The delinquent was obviously new to the ‘hood because of all the houses to pick, THIS WAS DEFINITELY NOT THE ONE. The guy gardened with a 22 by his side, for goodness sake. His car was covered with NRA and ‘God Bless George W.’ stickers. Put two and two together and you’ve got a gun-toting right-wing Republican. I recognized him for a man not unlike my father, who told me if someone ever tried to break in our house that I was to aim for the head and drag the body inside the house. Didn’t want the little fuckers suing us after a disabling shot. As for my neighbor, he aimed the gun through his window when he heard the lock being jimmied. He missed the first, second and third time. But then he got good and warmed up, jogged out the front door and shot the would-be deviant as he was running down the street. All in all, it was quite the good time.

Praise the Lord and pass the ammunition

It’s not to say that I’ve become disenchanted or disillusioned, because that would imply I had grandiose illusions and, um, enchantments to begin with. Is ‘enchantments’ really the word I’m looking for? Because short of stewing toad legs and newt eyes in my spare time, I can’t say as I’ve ever let myself be enchanted by much of anything. I’m nothing if not a realist. Maybe a very optimistic realist, but a realist nonetheless. I’m aware that kittens get run over, puppies are bludgeoned and little old ladies have their life savings stolen by men of ill repute, men who normally lack a full set of teeth. Maybe the grannies relate to their lack of toothedness, I have no idea.

I’ve spent the past few weeks simmering down from my full boil of righteous anger after a boss of mine was treated horribly. This, in turn, means that what little morale we had left around this place has gone directly down the shitter. It’s gone down so far and so hard, not even Heidi Fleiss can relate. Here was a man standing up for us, speaking his mind (as he was encouraged to do) and running our department with the kind of intelligence that makes me struggle with ever referring to myself as a Smart Kid. Then one greasy old cheeseburger of a woman gets her panties in a twist, smiles smugly and says There’s the door, sonny.

It started back in October, when my boss, we’ll call him the Can Can Man, got wind of some change in the air. The change had the kind of odor that accompanies Important Decision Makers within general crumbling companies that are struggling to keep their very large heads above water. This odor is greatly reminiscent of dirty asshole, because more often than not these Important Decision Makers have their heads firmly lodged in someone else’s rectum. And if I had someone’s head lodged up there, I’d have a hard time keeping that particular area clean, too; hence, the smell of dirty asshole. Not pretty flowers, just asshole.

The rest of us got the news at the start of January. Happy New Year, ya’ll! It was a shock to say the least because, hello, we make money. Oodles and oodles of money. The Big Company? Not so much. We’re better and quicker and faster than The Big Company because down here in Aw Shucksville, Arkansas, we don’t fuck around. It’s too hot for all that. Plus, there’s a rule in the handbook about putting your head up where the sun don’t shine. It ain’t sanitary, it ain’t healthy and it sure ain’t conducive to getting your work done and heading on home for a cold beer on the front porch.

The thing about The Decision (the one that puts me out of a job in X amount of months) is it really does look good from a high-level perspective. Can Can Man made a note to point this out because it’s best to understand the rationale THAT PUTS ME OUT OF A JOB. But when the Big Company brings in a third party to run test after test, wouldn’t you think it would be a good idea to utilize that information? The information that says this company right here in Arkansas, whooo-eee do they get their shit done right- ya’lls yankee system ain’t near as fine as what they got right here, and we reckon you’ll lose a bunch of money by trying to reabsorb their business. Can Can Man thought so, too. And he wasn’t shy about saying it.

Ultimately this was his downfall. The Big Company just wasn’t used to hearing such clear, succinct words. After all, it’s rather hard to understand someone when they’re speaking from the general location of your colon. Can Can Man had valid points: why WOULD you destroy a system that generates millions of dollars to put it on your decrepit and function-less one? Why would you ignore processes and procedures that we can prove generate a substantial profit? Why would you ignore study after study after study that says THIS is the better system THIS is the better process and THIS is the better company?

Why? Because someone way up high, someone so high on the food chain they’ve retired their personal ass hat, said so. They deemed it so, and so it shall be.

They said it was Can Can’s fault that we were leaving in droves. They said he should have done more to keep us here until the end. The end where they hand us our meager severance check and we all pray for a job in the middle of this forest called Little Rock. What they didn’t, and don’t, understand was this: He was the reason we stayed as long as we did. He was our morale booster, our rock of knowledge. You don’t find those qualities much nowadays. Mostly you get the Vice President who kiss-assed his way to the top, or the one that knows his job but couldn’t begin to grow appropriate personnel skills.

And so, because I’m too low on the ladder for anyone to really listen to me, here’s what I’ve got to say:

Dear Big Company,
You are very cordially invited to go fuck yourself.
Sincerely,
Robin Holmes

Overall I’m just gravely disappointed, and I hate it that I didn’t expect to feel any other way. What little loyalty I had left was destroyed by the treatment of Can Can Man and you can bet I’m going to smile when you fall flat on your ass. Of course, you won’t really fall. You’ll just move your losses here and there, claiming that they’re capital interest or some such flumubbery. That spreadsheet where you showcase your loss-recoup time will casually be thrown in the shredder and you’ll all pinky swear not to tell the board of directors about your giant failure. No one but us slow-brained Arkansans will remember how you made a poor decision and went about that decision’s execution like a two-year-old and a plate of spaghetti.

I wonder how long it will take before I get fired for running my mouth.

I've got skills, just ask me

Before I get to the reason for my lethargic depression, I thought I’d make an attempt at pushing myself out the relentless need to stay in bed and read trashy novels by pinpointing the things I normally would have written about. Things that take normal people three sentences to accomplish but in my overly-verbose case, take forty-five paragraphs. I think I’ll start with the mysterious case of my magical healing powers:

Saturday morning I was awakened by Kimberly peeping her blonde head inside my bedroom and pitifully calling my name. We’d made an attempt at killing our mutual depression by walking downtown and tossing back glass after glass of cranberry juice and vodka. Then we ate an entire pizza, after which we deemed ourselves properly refueled and continued with the vodka concoctions. It was all in good fun until the next morning, when the effects of throwing down like a college student were clearly and painfully felt in our non-college student bodies. Kimberly slept in the guest bedroom until the early morning sun refused to abate, deciding the recovery process was best completed in the confines of her king-size bed and ample cereal selection.

I sleepily followed her to the door and locked it behind her. I was already up, so I decided that at least fifteen minutes of productiveness was in order. I focused my attention on the dishes from the 2am eggroll snack scattered across the kitchen.

When I was finished rinsing the last of the dishes, I reached across the sink to turn off the hot water. Only it didn’t turn off, not all the way. I was left with a steamy stream that was far greater than a trickle but less than a gush. I pounded and pushed and pleaded, all to no avail. The water continued to flow and I had a sudden image of next month’s electric bill, my ensuing bankruptcy and swirling demise into Crazy Destitute Cat Lady status.

All day long the water poured straight down the drain. It continued on through Sunday, paying no attention to the wealth of tools I half-heartedly waived in its direction. By Monday I was frustrated with my landlord’s lack of activity and his obvious disregard for my hot showers, showers that had become lukewarm at best. And so I did what any woman would do. I stared down the ornery faucet, stomped my foot and screamed in frustration.

That’s when it stopped. It slowed to a gentle stream, then to a trickle, coming to a complete and utter halt within seconds of my hissy fit. I cautiously approached the sink, reaching over to turn the hot water back on. Hot water gushed forth. Then I held my breath and turned the knob to the off position. Hot water stopped. No drip. No trickle.

I HAVE MAGICAL HEALING POWERS.

Moving along…

On Tuesday I got up in what has, of late, become my normal routine. I hit snooze for forty-five minutes before finally rolling out of bed and stumbling into the bathroom. I appraised the hair situation. Definitely in need of a wash. Full shower, conditioning and shaving was in order.

About a year ago I purchased one of those new-fangled vibrating razors. I’m a sucker for new shaving devices simply because my skin can sense a razor when I’m twenty feet away. It can sense it and it’s not happy. The skin expresses it’s unhappiness by screaming in pain and erupting into red fire. Therefore, I’m highly choosy with said razors.

The vibrating one seemed like an excellent idea. I mean, hello, it vibrates the hairs right up into the razor’s path. Surely this will be wicked awesome. Unfortunately, it was no different from a regular three-blade razor. I kept it anyway and used it on the no-way-no-how-vibrate setting because the little moisturizing strips were kind of nifty.

I wish I could somehow make this the enticing part of the post, the part where you visualize me in the shower, but in truth I’m as far from appealing in the shower as watching Donald Trump masturbate. Okay, obviously I’m more appealing than the Trump bit, but you get the point. I’m normally sleepy and cranky and unhappy that I have to rush through my routine because of my ancient water-heater. I have nine minutes to accomplish what should take normal women with ass loads of hair and body parts at least fifteen. Sort of like speed-dating, only naked and alone in your shower with shampoo, conditioner, exfoliator and razors to choose from.

After I finished shaving I placed the razor back in the shower caddy and rinsed the conditioner from my hair. I turned off the water and stepped out of the shower. But something was amiss. There was a strange noise coming from the bathtub. A noise that screams angry gremlins jumping around or, for the less imaginatively inclined, what could very easily be air in the pipes. It was loud and obnoxious but I was already late for work, so I made a mental note to call the landlord if the situation had not resolved itself by evening.

When I came home that night, I could hear the crazy noise from the hallway. Concerned that something had seriously malfunctioned in my absence, I warily walked into the bathroom expecting to see shattered tile and sewage. Instead, it was clean and white, just as I’d left it. I resigned myself to calling my landlord and began removing all the pretty bottles from the edge of tub, thinking that I could never be so lucky to get a hot, manly plumber that would appreciate my display. With my luck, I’d get a tubby, gelatinous mass of a plumber with low-rise dickies and a thin t-shirt. (All the better to showcase the man titties, m’dear.)

As I got to the shower caddy, I struggled a bit trying to lift it up and over the shower head. I finally succeeded and placed it in the sink. It was then that I noticed that the abrasive noise had mysteriously subsided to a dull hum.

Strange, I thought.

I stepped into the bathtub and placed my ear against the tile wall. Nothing. I leaned up and listened carefully to the showerhead. Nothing.

I stepped back out of the tub, my eyes going to the shower caddy resting in the sink. The noise, it had moved.

You know what’s coming so I won’t even try to deny it. I’d somehow managed to inadvertently turn on the vibrating razor, which succeeded in sending vibrations straight through the metal caddy, right into the metal pipes within the wall.

I AM A FUCKING IDIOT.

And finally…

There’s nothing like spending money when you know you don’t have it. I purchased an electric blanket on Tuesday night and I can liken the sensation of sliding into a pre-warmed and deliciously cozy bed to having someone handing you a check for a million dollars. No shit.

Now, to the real story….

My lethargic depression, which has manifested itself in many delightful ways, was caused by a rumor, a confirmation of a rumor with no additional information, and finally the Rumor herself appearing in person to deliver the news.

The company I work for is part of another company, which is, in turn, part of another company. It’s all a bunch of strategery, as George W. would say. The fun part begins when the big company has lots of big-minded and big-idea-ed individuals who make a decision and decide that come hell or high water, their decision will be carried out.

I’m being laid off.

This is oh so cliché, but it was the proverbial straw that broke the camel’s back.

Dead cats, bleeding esophageal lesions, compulsive vomiting, alien transmitters, nose catheters, poking and prodding and needle-happy nurses had only primed me for the news. Before I could emit my stomach contacts, I grabbed my first cigarette in two years, pulled the smoke in my lungs and waited for the blessed relief of nicotine to hit my bloodstream.

The thing is, and please feel free to groan, I quite like my job. I won’t say I love it, because that seems to invite all kinds of eye-rolling. But in truth, I kind of do. I appreciate that my bosses know more than I do. I love that everyone stopped by to hug me after Llama died. I like that I have never been micromanaged. I love that some of these people have turned into my best friends. I enjoy the work I do, the products I work with, the random bits of knowledge I add to the pile everyday.

In one fell swoop, my five-year plan was crushed all to hell. And that pisses me off. More than anything, it pisses me off that I finally find the place I like to be, the place where getting up in the morning doesn’t make me want to stab myself in the eye with a dull spoon, and some ill-educated loony-toon had to go and fuck it up.

I don’t want another job. I want this one, dammit.
On the somewhat-of-a-plus side, I will have a job for around ten months. And then I will get a severance package. And then I’m going to take one very long vacation. So no need to start sending me your canned goods quite yet. If a food drive is ever in order, rest assured I’ll let you know.