I’m watching Diane Sawyer on “When Daddy Becomes a Mommy” and it’s a pretty horrible way to wake up in the morning. Or awesome. Depends on how you look at it, really, it does. I looked at it on mute and it was much better.
I had a job interview yesterday, for a job I really want. I feel like a douche now because I kept saying, “WOW, everyone is so nice! Everyone seems like they LIKE to be here! I can’t believe…” The lady who set up my interview, who would be my awesome boss, assured me that not every day was magical. But I couldn’t exactly describe for her how absolutely awful every single day of my working life is at my current job. I interviewed with seven different people over the course of 2 1/2 hours, and during that time I was asked no less than seven times to describe my current job. I expertly wove a tapestry of shimmery bullshit about how “ohh, you know, it’s retail, but I love the people I work with…” and “I just don’t like the whole selling aspect of it.”
I have another interview tomorrow morning. I swear that the sky opened and rained job interviews on me, just when I was starting to completely lose my grip on the reality of possibility, just when I was starting to think that I might be better off staying in bed every day.
If I don’t get one of these jobs, I’m staying in bed every day.
Can I just say how awesome and great Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince was? Yes, I CAN, because this is my blog and I do what I want.
It was soooo great. It was SO GREAT. And awesome. And I don’t want to hear any more mean-spirited criticism of the little cry session I had toward the end. And the very little bit of a cry session I had at the very beginning. Look, this is what happens, all right? I have a LOT OF FEELINGS.
For Harry Potter, that is.
It’s funny, I often daydream about the short list of people I’d like to stab in the throat, and the longer list of people I’d like to hit with blunt objects. However, show me any scene of Harry Potter, wherein Harry feels lonely and sad and like he can’t go on, and my little Gryffindor heart melts. And that’s what it did, and that’s what it will always do. So.
I showed my apartment all day on Saturday. It was quite an experience, I must say. The worst part was when this short, stocky dude with alopecia all but let himself in my front door, when I had been expecting a girl at that time, and started barking questions at me. The girl hung back in the hallway, didn’t even introduce herself. She was this timid chick with adult braces, still in her ill-fitting black work suit. They both had on Chase bank nametags, and she introduced the completely hairless little ogre in my face as “my boss.” Well, her boss proceeded to tear through my place, saying things like “Well, it is definitely cozy,” with an air of contempt, as if I’d lied to him personally about the square footage or something. He spat so many questions at me, I finally had to say, “Wait, hold on, hoooold on a minute.” I hate it when people ask you six questions in a row, or ask you any question and then continue to talk. It makes me want to ask, “Sorry, do I even need to be here right now?” Eventually, I got enough of Baldyballs’ superiority complex, his “we’re-probably-not-interested-so-get-nervous” act, and just said to the girl, “You know what, Vanessa? There are a lot of people interested in this apartment,” (as there was a girl actually sitting AT my KITCHEN TABLE filling out an application at that very moment) “and it doesn’t sound like the place for you.”
Vanessa responded by cheerily saying “Oh, well, I’ll email you if I’m interested!” But Baldyballs got the point and they left.
Ugh. Get the fuck out of my house.
What the fuck is with the guys who work at Chase banks? Is it like that at every bank? Holy God, I hate them all. They’re all such loud mouthed douchebags. WHY? Is it a prerequisite for getting that job? I mean, there’s obviously no education requirement. I bet they just put you in a room and see how loud you can talk and make sure you can write your name and then give you a polyester blend suit and a paycheck. Going to a Chase bank to get anything done is, for me, like being in a terrible Viagra Triangle bar, only it’s during the day, and all the lights are on, but somehow I feel even more like I should protect my ass and not bend over to pick anything up. Waiting in line, I get the unmistakable feeling that assholes are checking me out. It’s because THEY ARE! And they make no attempt to hide it! They storm around like they’re busy and powerful and the latest contestant on The Apprentice, followed by a trail of CVS NightStorm cologne, they actually stare at you like you’re some kind of merchandise. And they YELL at you. I can’t go into a Chase bank without getting screamed at by some spiky-haired jagoff “YOU BEING HELPED? ALL RIIIIIIIIIGHT!!! YOU SURE?? JUST HANGIN’ OUT, HUH? LEMME KNOW IF YOU NEED ANYTHING!!!” It’s that, or I submit myself to the mercy of the angry black women tellers. They flash their ridiculous nails at you and mutter everything while looking in any direction but in your eyes, and scream at you when you ask them to repeat themselves.
Conclusion: the bank involves a lot of yelling.
Anyway, there are two people currently fighting over my apartment. I assume that the girl who is on unemployment will not be the winner. And while it makes me sad to leave my cute little single bunny-hole, I can always comfort myself with thoughts of all of the life-sized things made of chocolate that I will soon buy with the money I’m saving.