Tuesday, May 03, 2005

This Coffee's BITTER

First and foremost, it is extremely important that everyone head over to McSweeney's. Why? Because today's short imagined monologue was written by yours truly. Just scroll down past their announcements and it's right there on the front page.

As I've already mentioned to some, I'm aware that I may have taken liberties with the gender of Mr. and Mrs. Spears' dog. However, the monologue just wouldn't have been funny if it was a female and I refuse to let heteronormative paradigms of gender identity stand in the way of humor.

On to new business.

I came very, very close to calling in sick today. After my prospective new employer effectively pulled the plug on the cotton-candy machine of my dreams, I just didn't feel like getting up this morning. I easily could've stayed in bed until dark thinking up metaphors even worse than cotton-candy machine of my dreams (in fact, I'd started: derailed my rollercoaster of hope, pulled the wings off my butterfly of ambition, stole the very last piece of my Juicy Fruit of happiness, etc.).

I'd like to say that as the sun rose and daylight filtered through the poppy tree outside my window I came to realize that yes, opportunity will dawn for me, and I arose brightly from my bed with the vim and vigor of a child.

In actuality, the reasons I'm at work right now were totally inane: my alarm had gone off, I really had to pee, I'd bothered to put two new albums on my iPod, and I had ten fingers worth of pink nailpolish to peel off. It's also No Boss Tuesday, which promised me seven hours of uninterrupted wallowing, job-hunting, and wallowing.

It's incredible how fast my brain managed to take the perfectly polite phrase "We've decided to go with someone else; would you like us to keep your resume on file for future opportunities?" and mutate it, ninja-turtle-style, into the most gruesome, drooling, six-eyed ogre hybrid of my every insecurity. Soon after the ill-fated phone call, I was convinced the Human Resources representative had actually told me they'd chosen a much slimmer, more attractive candidate who'd graduated magna cum laude from an Ivy League institution. Additionally, she said, her name is Alessandra, her hair was as shiny as a new penny, her breath was like a summer breeze off a field of wild mint, and her dad is Salman Rushdie. So, Kathy, would you like us to shred your resume and use the bits to stuff the chaise lounge we're having built for Alessandra's cubicle? Or would you rather we post it as reading material in what we, over here in the world of successful publishing, call the "Stall of Shame" in the High-Level-Editors-ONLY bathroom?

That's what the HR lady said. I heard her.

After that she cackled diabolically and stabbed a curly-haired, bespectacled voodoo doll over and over again with a red pen. Then she screamed "HAVE FUN WITH THAT BOOK ALL ABOUT SEPSIS, SUCKAAAAAA!!!" and slammed down the phone. Then she called back and said, "Oh, wait, I'm sorry, there's been a mistake. I accidentally got my resumes messed up. You actually got the job! I apologize."

"Really," I managed to sputter through my sobs, "you mean it?"

"Psych! You're still a loser! SMELL YA LATER, TURDFACE!!" she shrieked, and hung up.

I swear, that's how it went. Their hiring policies are really brutal.

I managed not to cry in front of anyone, which is more of a pewter lining than a silver one--but I'll take what I can get today. I was feeling kind of emotional on the train on the way home and got up out of my seat to go stand by the door. If I was gonna cry on public transportation, the worst of all places to cry, I was at least going to do it nearest the exit.

I managed to navigate the narrow aisle blurry-eyed; so blurry-eyed, in fact, that I thought the woman already standing in the vestibule was doing tai chi. I wiped my eyes, replaced my actress-on-a-bender, tear-hiding sunglasses, and looked back at her. The bitch was definitely doing tai chi.

Yesterday was not the day to be staging demonstrations of radical, uncontainable individualism around me. Midway between the squat-'n-poop move and the drop-it-like-it's-hot stretches I was so tempted to kick her square in the ass I actually had to stand on my own foot to keep it from flying toward her posterior.

I didn't get my job; she can't tai chi in the middle of a train. I didn't get my job; she can't be a big fucking hippie. I didn't get my job; she is not allowed to loll her head around like someone ripped the neck-brace off a car accident victim, and then look around for approval. I didn't get my job; she is not allowed to take up all the prime standing room with her extended limbs, flagrantly being happy with herself, so happy she saw nothing wrong with performing a weird private exercise routine right in the middle of my misery.

The moral of the story, folks, is that when faced with crippling depression, a surefire way to take your mind off your sadness is to supplant it with unfair, blind rage.


Blogger Buckley said...

Really sorry you didn't get the job Kathy.

I suppose on two up-sides, you get to keep blogging and brightening up your reader's lives, and also getting published on McSweeney's is pretty damn sweet.

The article's really funny by the way.

Nice work.

3:48 AM  
Blogger DMo said...

I've always wondered what that little animal thought about Britney's chest.

Thanks so much for clarifying for me.

12:07 PM  
Blogger What'sHerFace said...

You're welcome, and if you should ever need a glimpse into celebrity pet psyches in the future, I'm your girl.

12:15 PM  

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