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March 24, 2006

recruitment

In my email this morning, in addition to the usual fifteen messages from online pharmaceutical companies (damn that one-time penis pump purchase!), was a message about an upcoming job fair in Seattle. Job hunting in and of itself can be exhaustive and grim. Years ago, having just been brutally laid-off from a job in the high-tech industry, I decided I would check out what this “job fair” concept was all about.

Following the online career advice I had been dutifully reading, I dressed as though for an interview: navy suit, pearl earrings, sensible shoes. I also brought the suggested stack of resumes. I went with a former colleague who’d also had his ass handed to him on a high-tech platter. Once at the fair, we decided that we’d go our separate ways and meet up again in an hour.

I hadn’t been unemployed for all that long and also have a fairly optimistic view on my general employability despite never being able to communicate to my family what it is I do (“something with computers”). So I was in a strange mood, strolling around and observing: the Army recruitment booths; job-seekers wearing hair-sprayed perms and pumps with purple skirts; a sense of hope and desperation as pervasive as the spell-checked resumes printed up on bonded paper.

As I was walking around, a petite young woman in a chocolate brown suit strolled by and gave me a slow, approving smile. She had long auburn hair pulled up in a loose twist and beautiful pale skin. Being in full “I’m so hirable it’s ridiculous!” mode, I smiled back, thinking the exchange was a bit odd but that was about it. I continued to cruise up and down the aisles, wondering if maybe a career in air travel was right for me, or if I should put my communications skills to use in an entry-level position with an up-and-coming real estate company.

As I rounded a corner, there was the woman again. This time, she said “Hi.” We introduced ourselves. Her name was Audrey and she said she worked in the entertainment industry. She asked for a copy of my resume, which I gave her. We chatted for a few minutes and she seemed to like me. I was only half-listening to what she was saying because she was so striking and also because the situation seemed slightly odd. Was it that easy to get a job at a job fair? Someone just walks up to you and you're hired? As I tuned back in, I realized Audrey was talking about needing attractive, intelligent woman to work with high-profile international clients. A little light went off in my not-too-clever noggin. Audrey told me her “father” ran the business and would be in touch. I wrapped up our conversation quickly and rushed off in search of my friend.

So the only resume I gave out at the job fair was to a hooker. In my (admittedly feeble) defense, I was recruited.

Posted by Max at 09:35 AM | Comments (0)

March 21, 2006

locked out

As adorable as Thaddeus is, the guy has no legs. He’s basically got four feet connected to his shoulders. So every time he has to go outside (often!), he needs help getting down the 250 steps from our kitchen, to the deck, to the yard. This means you have to hoist his dense, sausage-shaped, thirty-pound bod onto your shoulder while he makes himself completely stiff and tries to slide out of your grasp. To complicate matters, he’s often in a state of semi-arousal so you have to make sure your wrist isn’t touching his wee-woo because that would be unimaginably gross.

One recent morning, as I entered the home stretch of my husband being gone for a week, I brought Thad outside for his morning business. It was bitterly cold and early, because the Bean’s new thing is getting up between 5am and 6am and sneaking around the house like a weird little ghost. I picked up Herr Stiff Body and carried him down the stairs to the backyard. Much to my surprise, when I returned to the house, the door was shut and locked. There was Bean staring at me from behind an also shut and latched baby gate at the top of the landing inside the house. He’d done locked me out!

It was one of those situations when your brain quickly assesses the situation and shoots through a series of probable responses in about fifteen seconds:

1. The door is not really locked. (Test)
2. The door is locked. (Spare key?)
3. Check for key in flowerbox (Key is missing)
4. Curse husband. Unattended toddler inside house! Situation shifting from inconvenient to potentially hazardous!
5. Cell phone (Nope. And who would you call, Keys ‘R’ Us?)
6. Neighbors (Possibly, but it would mean leaving toddler alone briefly. Plus, it is too early, plus you hate them)
7. Break window, climb in (Choose potential window, check garage for weapon) Expensive option, may be dangerous with the broken glass etc.
8. Consider asking toddler to get his step-up stool and climb baby gate, then unlock door (Assess danger factor: high) Abort, abort!
9. Check all external entry points before breaking glass or contacting neighbors Click click click click (Yes. Proceed)

The Bean and I managed to stave off collective mother/son panic as I directed him to follow me through the house to each door and window. He was so cute and so brave; I could tell he was scared but he’s also really into being helpful right now so he was all business checking out various locks and trying to open them. Being two, he wasn’t that helpful in this capacity. Fortunately, my husband and I are big dummies so I was able to pop off a storm window and enter through a ground floor window that was conveniently unlocked. Hi! Come murder us! Once I made it into the house there was much celebrating, which involved hugs, jellybeans, and Dora references. Because we did it! Yes, we did it.

This experience reminded me of when my husband and I went back to work after being home with the Bean for six months. My mom came out to Seattle to help with the transition. For our first day back in the workforce as parents, my mom had very sweetly prepared a delicious dinner and even filled our living room with candles to welcome us home. There was a torrential rainstorm that night, and that house also had front steps and a reluctant (different) dog. My poor mom carried our old dog down the steps in the rain, the wind blew the door shut and it locked, and there in the middle of the living room was our six-month old with lit candles all around him and the stove on in the kitchen. We pulled in front of the house to find her gibbering into a cell phone she had borrowed from someone walking by and clutching an also-borrowed umbrella. We were like, um, hello, what is going on? Tearfully, she explained. We all peered into the front window and there was the Bean, hanging out in his command center happy as can be. If he could have waved, he would have.

Like so many of my tales, this one has a moral: leave a key outside, put it back if you use it and please, let your mother know where it is.

Posted by Max at 10:37 PM | Comments (0)

March 14, 2006

magically delicious

Shimm shimma umm interviews ahem sumpthin sumpthin Ireland *cough* computers shamrocks Dublin. That's all I'm saying.

Since I've already succeeded in succumbing to my primary blogging pet peeve, I figure why not check off number two by writing about something that I can't really write about? OK! That's off the list, what's next pictures of my cat and bible quotes? Actually, those aren't pet peeves they are just, um, dumb. Maybe not if the cats are cute.

Speaking of dumb things, how badly does this suck? I mean, thanks for the coupons and the fricking god quotes, but I HAVE WORK TO DO and a CHILD TO RAISE. I was hoping that they would have trusted the Lord to keep the domain name sacred and thus didn't have dibs on the URL for long but no. Somebody put down the god juice long enough to register it for the next decade. Anyway, I am hopeful that very soon, somebody somewhere will come up for a term other than "working mom" or "mom who works outside of the home" or "forsaker of all that is sacred in pursuit of the mighty dollar". Actually, maybe that domain name is available. But listen people; "working mom" is for the fricking oysters. Meaning that that term sucks bilge water through little hairs on its lips.

Wow, I am all fired up tonight! Perhaps it was the gardenia body butter I rubbed on my hands just before starting this entry. Nothing says atheistic ex-pat feminist revolution like floral hand cream.

So my friend, ah, Martha, is being recruited by an overseas company and while this is exciting and great and everything, especially because the place where she lives now is like Stepford without the cute outfits, the concept of uprooting her family YET AGAIN to schlep them over into an actual foreign culture while starting a new job that invariably is going to stomp a mud hole in her ass with its "internationalabilty" is kind of making her freak right on out.

If anyone lives in Dublin or has lived in Dublin or has thoughts about Dublin or listens to U2 who I think are from Dublin, please drop a line. At this point, advice from virtual strangers is as good as anything else. Literally.

Posted by Max at 11:15 PM | Comments (0)

March 01, 2006

these links are made for clickin'

When I was but a wee lass, my beloved grandmother took my brother and me to see a little sci-fi film called "Star Wars". I don't remember exactly how old I was, but I was old enough to get crushes because after that film, boy did I have one. I found one of the characters so compelling, so fearless and strong, that I loved him from the minute he came on the screen. Did I want him as a protector? A father? A lover? I was a confused pre-teen so I wasn't quite sure what my feelings meant. I just knew I wanted him in my life. Therefore, this blog makes me insanely happy.

I am frigging grouchy. I am currently on the South Beach diet, which I agreed to go on only with the stipulation that my husband cook everything and just hand the food to me so I didn't have to think about it. He's been amazing: hand-grinding pistachios to make pistachio-encrusted seared tuna, bringing me green pepper and egg white omelettes in bed etc. However, I am a girl who likes me some cupcakes. And scones. And YOGURT, FRUIT, and GRANOLA etc. The fact that I can't have any of these things right now makes my body so sad and confused that I've turned into Miserable Millie. Yet it also makes me lose weight, which is a good thing. Perhaps I can have my husband make me a cupcake out of turkey and cheese.

So last night I went out to dinner with a woman from town and guess what? I liked her! She was cool! She drank Pimtinis*! I tried to stick to the principles of the diet while at the central hub of deliciousness in our immediate area but it was hard what with the drinking, which you are not supposed to do. Plus, I felt like an asshole for being all "Oh no, I mustn't have any of that four-layer chocolate cake you ordered for dessert because I'm on a D-I-E-T." I don't want her to think I'm one of those ladies who orders a wine spritzer and side salad and nibbles on a celery stick and then goes home and throws it up. I am traditionally one of those ladies who say "Is it cool if we get two appetizers, an entree, and a dessert while enjoying thirteen delicious cocktails?" Hence my problem, I guess.

* Please consider this my official announcement of the Pimmtini as my spring cocktail of choice. It's Tanquray gin, Pimms and sweet vermouth, shaken and served straight up, garnished with a flamed slice of orange. It kind of tastes like a less sweet Shirley Temple but with fizz and booze. Normally I am not a fan of "fancy" martinis, instead prefering to drink them "dirty", however I am willing to make an exception in this case.

Tomorrow I'm going to North Carolina for my aunt's 50th birthday party. I've never been to North Carolina, but I've been to me.

UPDATE: Jesus, is that song depressing!

Posted by Max at 09:09 AM | Comments (3)