August 27, 2008
This is my first installment of my new employment filter, wherein we all look for jobs and try not to assault people who helpfully remind us that “The economy rilly, rilly sucks, you know? It’s, like, hard to find a job!”
Have you ever noticed the ones talking about the economy sucking are the ones with great jobs that they totally take for granted? And when we try to tell them how desperately scared we are because we’ve been looking for work for fucking months and getting ZERO CALL-BACKS–not even form e-mails saying Thanks for playing, but no thanks for entry-level jobs way under our current experience and skill-level–
–they bust out with their sagacious analysis of the economy like that’s supposed to be helpful in some mysterious way that only employed people know about?
The next employed person who tells me about the current fucking economy gets their wallet jacked. I’m not fucking joking. I’ll take their cash and buy fucking groceries.
“The economy really sucks” doesn’t mean shit. WE STILL HAVE TO WORK. We can’t just go Oh yeah, the economy sucks! Doy! Now I can sit back and watch daytime TV! We do not have that luxury. We know it sucks. WE STILL HAVE TO WORK OR WE LOSE EVERYTHING WE HAVE.
Today I’m dyeing my roots with drugstore hair-dye I bought on sale at the Rite-Aid, which I was able to afford because I sold some of my much-needed anti-anxiety medication on the local black-market. Why? Because I’ve got an interview with a lady on Thursday for a freelance job doing people’s makeup, and I lied and said I had experience doing freelance makeup work. I am actually totally shit-fingered at putting makeup on other people–I can do my own pretty well, but when other people flinch and squirm it just gets all over them, and my hands shake, and they end up looking like they got shot with the makeup gun on the Simpsons (stuck on “Whore” setting). I only got the interview because a friend begged her boss to at least talk to me about doing on-call work for events.
But still. The roots have to be done. And I’ll wear the Business Lady pants I bought for $20 at J. C. Penney a month ago, for the one interview for work I’ve had since I lost both my freelance gigs. And I’ll cover up my tattoos.
The horrible thing is that, being unemployed, all you want to do is sleep all day. I’m still in my pajamas because there’s nothing for me to do outside the house, and I’m depressed and ashamed of myself for having nothing but receipts and coupons in my wallet.
Okay–roots now.
I’m on so many databases–University of Washington, City of Seattle, King County, even the US government–and so far I’m not even getting considered for entry-level office support work. It’s like some kind of Bizarro World where all of a sudden, all your viable, hard-won professional skills are actually giant flaws that make people toss your resume straight into the garbage can. I’m like Oh hai, I wrote two books and they’re like OH MY FUCKING G-D, GET THE FUCK AWAY FROM ME! I HATE YOU AND I HATE BOOKS! I swear I’d be getting call-backs if my resume said I was straight out of rehab with no work history except dealing meth.
Roots roots roots. I’ve never used this brand before. I hope it doesn’t make my hair fall out.
I dreamed of stabbing people with knives and swords last night, but their clothes were so tough I couldn’t get the blade into their bodies and they were like Hey, you dumb bitch, stop trying to stab me and they’d shove me away and I’d drop the sword or knife.
Impotency dreams much?
*****
August 28, 2008
Holy smokes. For a member of the lazy unemployed, I sure did a lot today.
1. Up at 8am after 2 hours’ sleep (stupid insomnia).
2. I was in a full face of makeup and Business Lady clothes and out the door to my freelance makeup artist interview by 10:30am. I wore an antique aquamarine square-cut engagement ring so I’d look like the spoken-for property of a middle-class man. I observed people noticing my ring and markedly treating me with more respect. Amazing–one little gem on a gold band made the difference between ass-kissing and disdain! I’m still wearing it and may never take it off.
3. Strolled in to the interview exactly on time. Was told the Boss Lady was running late and would be there in precisely one hour, at 12 noon.
4. I went on recon. I visited the makeup kiosks at the competing department store and sucked up the various professional makeup artists’ sneaky stylings. Hated the assholes at M.A.C., who wouldn’t even talk to me and didn’t greet me at all. Didn’t like the gay black dude at L’ancome, who tried to push me into buying stuff even when I said (and I quote), “Thank you so much, darlin, but I’m just looking today–not buying. I’ll let you know if I have any questions, though!”
Gay Black Dude also tried to rub makeup on my face. NO–you rub it on my hand if you absolutely have to, but don’t you dare touch my freshly-done Business Lady face! I’m wearing wearing three layers of sunblock, foundation, and powder on my skin, plus eyeliner, mascara, and lipgloss! Do not touch my magically-enhanced face!
I liked the Prescriptives girl who greeted me, asked me what I was looking for, heard my “please leave me alone” response, and respectfully acquiesced, while making herself discreetly available for any spur-of-the-moment queries. I would have liked a little more fawning, though, because I looked pretty cute and she could have complimented my minimalism (but telling attention to shaped brows and good skin). I noticed her noticing my ring and straightening her spine respectfully.
5. I went back to the makeup counter for my interview ten minutes early, and asked the sales associate behind the counter about the new trends for the line, which apparently include (I am not joking about this) a vibrating mascara wand. I feigned delight while cringing in horror at the idea of holding anything vibrating that close to my eyeball.
6. At noon, Boss Lady arrived. She shook my hand, gave me some brushes, and told me to sell makeup. Jumped in. Shit–at least the Crips only have to get beaten up! Despite my ineptitude and total lack of product knowledge, I sold a bunch of makeup in 45 minutes by mumbling like a crazy person about eye gel and lip stain. I swear half the people just bought stuff to shut me up.
7. 12:42pm: I casually drop the bomb–the vibrating mascara. I am very excited about this trend! Has Boss Lady tried it yet? I can’t wait for the product launch! She becomes animated and explains that the vibrations actually coat each individual lash with “product,” gift-wrapping every hair (no matter how fine or stubbly) in 360 degrees of velvety-black splendor. I coo. I don’t mention the product’s off-use orgasmic potential. It is the elephant in the room. “Are the vibrations strong?” I ask. “Very strong,” says Boss Lady. I imagine a tiny, cock-shaped mascara tube. “We’re selling one every 17 seconds in Japan,” Boss Lady says. “That doesn’t surprise me,” I say.
8. 12:43pm: Second bomb: What products does Boss Lady personally recommend as an add-on for the current gift promotion, in which the customer must buy xx dollars’ worth of merchandise to qualify for the additional “free” swag? In reference to the mighty foundation, concealer, and powder trifecta, she actually uses the phrase, “Tell the customer the story of beige!“
I do so want to tell the customer the story of beige. I imagine Beige as a hard-luck story–underestimated and oppressed, Beige finds her own personal power as part of a trio of power-packed pigments women rub into their skin before vibrating their eyelashes into 360 degrees of gift-wrapped oblivion. I imagine Beige as a plucky little trouper. I can sell this story.
9. 12:45pm: Boss Lady says she has an event on September 6th that I can work as a freelancer. I have to call Boss Underling and set everything up. I have a one-day gig. I unstrap my makeup brushes, shake hands with Boss Lady and the other sales associates, and leave. I forget to ask how much I will be paid. D’oh! But I have a gig!
10. I go to yet another makeup store and purchase eye cream. Nobody tells me the Story of Beige.
11. I ride the bus home. I look like Trinity in “The Matrix” in my PVC designer knock-off coat. It’s not raining, however, so I also look a little bit like a pervert or an asshole.
12. I knock off things on my To Do list. I do 30 minutes of phone sex. It’s all I can stand, 30 minutes at a time. I use the word “instantaneously,” as in, “My nipples become hard instantaneously!” It’s a poor choice. I’m still thinking about the Story of Beige. Instantaneously is not a very sexy word, though I meant for it to sound crisp and exciting. Good grammar is kind of a boner-kill, though. I rally and finish the call.
13. I sign and pack up two books for mailing. I draw boobs in both of them. I color the nipples in with a red Sharpie.
14. I order a $25 used DVD player from Amazon.com. My old DVD player, which I inherited with this apartment along with the TV set, broke three days ago. I’m excited about the new one! I have a stack of Netflix to watch! $25 is a lot of money, though. I feel frightened and guilty.
15. I call and then send email to the Dior representative. She wants me to be a “fragrance model.” I refrain from telling her that perfume gives me migraines, and talk about the “Dior aesthetic,” which I am very much in favor of. I talk about foundation, and how French women know that full-coverage matte makeup is a classic refined look, whereas American women prefer to look lightly greased, as if they’ve been spritzed with nonstick cooking spray. I do not tell her the Story of Beige, nor do I use the word instantaneously. We will meet in two weeks when she’s in Seattle, so I can begin to freelance for Dior.
16. I call my father. THE OKLAHOMA ROAD TRIP IS BACK ON. The dog is staying home. My dad mentions seeing the Grand Canyon. I become teary at the thought of seeing something I never thought I’d see, a chasm in the Earth scooped out with G-d’s own hands. I have to book a ticket to Oklahoma City, stat. I will ride a mule down that Canyon if my father wants to. I will drive on the highway and play country music on the radio.
17. I fix a giant plate of spaghetti for myself. I eat it all.
18. More stuff. I forget.
19. Tomorrow: editing for my sweet client, more phone sex, and possibly a live appointment with a customer for a foot worshiping session. I get my feet licked for money these days. It’s surreal, dangerous, and grotesque, like a vibrating mascara wand. The less said about it, the better. It’s occasional and I cannot wait not to do it.
Tomorrow I also have to book my ticket to Oklahoma.
This is how this particular unemployed person spent her day.
I need a Jack and diet Coke.
*****
August 29, 2008
I have an telephone interview with the University of WA on Tuesday. Entry-level office support for which I am totally unqualified–I’m a shy writer who hates answering the phone and is face-blind (http://en.wikipedia.org/w/index.php?title=Prosopagnosia&oldid=234333223), which makes working reception a humiliating, frustrating nightmare for me. I can’t keep anyone straight–they all look alike to me. How’m I supposed to give them their phone messages and mail? Whatever. If I can’t get a job writing, editing, and/or actively fostering social change, I may as well cover my tattoos and pick up phones. I give up. I just want to pay my rent. I’m tired of being economically terrorized. I want to buy myself nice, small things again–treats. I’m selling out for treats.
There are hundreds of qualifying applicants, and they’re going to weed most of us out on the phone. We’ll see if I make it to the next round. At this point, I’m so demoralized that I don’t really care either way, to tell you the truth. It’s hard to muster any enthusiasm. This probably means I have a bad attitude, and am undeserving and lazy. Yeah, well.
I’m so tired. I finished an editing project today, and now I’m watching prison shows on MSNBC. The editing project means a check in a couple of weeks that’ll get eaten up by bills before it even hits my bank account. It’s just such a horrible, demoralizing treadmill. But when I try to hop off, everyone freaks out and tries to put me on antipsychotics and heavy-duty benzos. Apparently suicide is somehow worse than this living death. I think they just want me alive so they’ll have somebody to pick up their fucking phones.
Tomorrow:
1. Find OK ticket.
2. Record more pornography for phone-sex client. Ugh.
3. Go to shoe repair store to try on boots for alteration.
4. PAX party in the evening! Yay! Nerd Party!
5. Maybe–get a pedicure at the cheap nail salon?
7. Do one thing fun or festive. This is an order.
How are you guys doing, my fellow Lazy Unemployed?
