now i have even more people to hate

The interview last week went much as suspected. Interview on Thursday. Rejection letter on Friday. Though it wasn’t actually a letter, but rather an email…because rejection done electronically is so much faster. To top the week off, I got a note from my landlord on Saturday. It seems that my rent is going up by quite a few Abe Lincolns starting in August, which, coincidentally, is also the month that I’ll stop receiving unemployment.

And the newspaper is now even taunting me.

The Post-Gazette has started to run a weekly column summing up all the ‘movers and shakers’ that have recently been hired by the more prestigious companies in the city. Not only does the paper report those folks that have been hired into impressive sounding jobs…jobs which have names such as CEO, and Vice President of Marketing and Public Relations…but even crummy sounding jobs like Mortgage Consultant and Admissions Officer are posted.

And while I view this as the city’s way of rubbing my face in the fact that I don’t have a job, I think there’s something more to this column. Getting a job around here is much akin to winning the lottery. Your chances are slim, at best…unless you enjoy working retail for minimum wage, that is. So the fact that some people are actually being hired in Pittsburgh and given a salary that they can actually survive on without needing to scrounge around in McDonald’s dumpsters for dinner, is a major event. A human interest story and the newspaper’s way of assuring us, the unemployed population, that ‘there are jobs out there, and people are getting hired…just not you’, with an emphasis on the ‘not you’ part.

This morning while scanning through the ‘Newly Hired’ column, I saw before me a picture of some lady that was hired for a job I recently applied for. And I doubt that I’ll be getting a call for an interview now that this job was given to Tara Rush.

While I don’t know Miss Rush personally, I now hate her. I don’t like her stupid Liza Minelli looking hair-do. Or her giraffe-like neck, atop which sits a large pumpkin head. And I don’t like her smug, better-than-you attitude…which I couldn’t really tell from the picture but that I’m sure she has.

But I suspect that my hate for her has less to do with ‘HER’ and more to do with the fact that she has a job. MY job! Or, rather, a job which could have been mine if I had been offered it instead of Tara Rush.

And did I mention just how much I hate Miss Rush?

no sale

Part of the problem with sending out hundreds of thousands of resumes is that there comes a point when you have no idea where you’ve applied or what position you’ve applied for. Between clicking the little ‘send’ button on multiple internet sites to printing out resume after resume and dropping them into the mail, I no longer have any clue who may end up getting my resume or why I sent it to them in the first place.

Granted, I could always keep a running tab on where I’ve applied by creating a fancy little spreadsheet with the company name, position applied for, and date that I sent it to them, in order to be the perfect example of organization…but this takes work and time which could be better spent, such as watching Dr. Phil solve many of the world’s dire problems like catching cheaters on tape. Besides, if I had a physical record of all the places I applied too, I’d simply end up being depressed upon realizing that not one of several thousand businesses which I applied to felt that my resume warranted a call back. And at this point, more watching of Dr. Phil would be needed to cure my depression.

So when I got a call for an interview last week, I had absolutely no idea what position I was interviewing for. Luckily, the lady who called to set up the interview mentioned the name of the company before she hung up and I was able to reconstruct what I had probably applied for…which, I was certain, was a sales position with a textbook company.

By this point in my unemployment, with the number of weeks that the government will actually continue providing me with money rapidly dwindling, I’ve come to realize that I need a job pretty fast. I’ve interviewed for other sales positions…selling insurance, selling advertising space, selling corn meal to Mexican immigrants in order to increase productivity on their chicken farms…but have never shown enough enthusiasm for the act of selling. I ask questions about promotions within the company, which lead the interviewer to correctly assume that I really don’t want to sell…which then leads the interviewer to not hire me.

Thus, I was determined to show Pat, the lady who was interviewing me today, that I loved to sell. That I was put on this Earth to sell. That while all the other kids in elementary school wanted to grow up and become firemen, and policemen, and movie stars, my ambition in life was to become a salesman. And while I don’t want to be a salesman and I generally dislike salespeople, my desire to continue getting paychecks is stronger than my desire not to sell.

So I went into the interview prepared to convey my love of selling things to Pat. I was certain that if I could project the proper enthusiasm and love for sales, the job would be mine.

We sat down and Pat asked the standard question, ‘so why did you apply for this position?’ And my answer was perfect. Never in the history of interviews has an answer been so well crafted. I only wish that I had a tape recorder on hand to capture the profound and articulate response that I gave, which I could pass down to future generations of job seekers. My answer was just this good.

And it remained a truly great answer, right up until the point where I mentioned how my combined education and business experience made me a perfect candidate for selling textbooks. Because it was at this point that Pat gave me an odd look and said, ‘We don’t sell textbooks.’

Not to be deterred, I quickly switched tracks and waxed poetic for a few minutes on the importance of technology in education, thinking that the sales position must be for the technology and software end of the company. I assured Pat that I would be the ideal candidate to sell educational software.

Pat, again with the blank look on her face, said, ‘while technology is important, that isn’t what you would be selling either.’

And as it turns out, I had applied to the segment of a textbook company that sells neither textbooks nor software. Rather, they sold educational supplies. Supplies that, I highly suspect, I won’t be selling anytime soon.

the biggest problem with renting

While I dislike household chores of any kind, there are some that I can stand behind more than others. Vacuuming the floor, for example. When finished, I can look at that floor and feel a sense of accomplishment. A floor that is clean, and will remain so until I accidentally dump a bag of half eaten Doritos on it or forget to take my shoes of after walking through a muddy patch on my way up to the apartment. At this point, the carpet will no longer be clean and steps will once again have to be taken to restore order to the universe.

Washing dishes is another chore that, while I don’t particularly care for, I can endure. Because at a certain point, every dish I own has been washed and is clean. Short of going to Wal-Mart and purchasing more dishes, or eating off of one which I have just washed, these dishes will remain clean and in pristine order.

But what I truly despise doing is washing clothes. Not so much because the work is hard, tiresome, or complicated, but rather that it’s never done. Even once every white, dark, color, sock, and undergarment is washed, I can’t sit back and relax knowing that ALL my clothes are clean. Like it or not, the clothes I’m wearing while having washed my unworn clothes are dirty…or, at least, in the process of becoming dirty. Thus the whole washing clothes task is never done.

By living in an apartment and being a non-washing machine owner, I’m forced to go elsewhere to wash clothes. And, unfortunately, I’m not really at liberty to remove too many articles of clothing when in the Laundromat. Eventually, I get down to an article of clothing that, if removed, will land me in jail. But by keeping this last piece of clothing on, my washing job is never truly done.

And while I’m happy renting, I can easily see the appeal of owning your own home and washing machine. Personally, I would always wash my clothes in the nude. This way, I would clearly know that my job of washing is done. I would bask in the completedness of my task and laze around the house naked for hours…possibly days, content with the knowledge that I have no clothes which have accumulated dirt and needed cleaning.

Yes, if I ever buy a house, it will be for this reason.

there are such things as a stupid question

Yet another round of graduate classes has started up, this time of the statistics variety. And while the students in class are not the most statistically adept people in the world…hence the reason we’re in the class to begin with…you do expect everyone to be at least somewhat versed in math. Things like addition, subtraction, and at least a little bit of knowledge regarding numbers should definitely have been aced somewhere along the way in order to make it to the graduate level.

The professor was introducing a new topic when a student named Daniel raised his hand to ask a question.

“You know how you mentioned these whole numbers a minute ago,” Daniel asked.

“Sure,” the professor answered, “when discussing discrete random variables, the value must always be a whole number. With continuous random variables, however, this isn’t the case.”

“Yeah, yeah, but what’s a whole number?”

And for the next five minutes, we were transported back to elementary school while our professor had us all counting out loud, explaining that whole numbers can also be called ‘counting numbers’.

As if this weren’t bad enough, during the break Daniel approached a group of us and started talking about how itchy his ass was…because, Dan told us, he enjoys tanning in the nude. His proclamation was followed by irrefutable proof when he pulled his pants half way down his rear to reveal his burnt buttocks.

You know, I truly want to believe that this degree is going to be worth something. A degree that will help me get a job. A degree that, when other people hear where I got it, will respond by saying what a ‘good’ college it is, thus adding a touch of prestige to the little piece of paper that I’m paying so very, very much for.

Yet, I’m quite sure that the students at Harvard all know what a whole number is and don’t go around interjecting and providing visuals about their sunburned butt.

Sadly, the school I chose to attend is clearly no Harvard.

car hunt

I have a very nondescript car. There are cars, such as Ferraris and Porsches, that really stick out and make people take notice…but alas, my car is not one such car. And while I wouldn’t mind driving around in a Ferrari or Porsche, I have accepted that this will never happen. Not unless I decide to live in this Porsche or Ferrari…and not eat food for several months. The whole food issue aside, the very fact that there would be no possible way to get cable inside my car pretty much puts an end to the possibility that I might establish a permanent residence in it.

And being that my car is so commonplace, many other people drive a car exactly like mine. Which, normally, shouldn’t cause any problem at all. If anything, I should take solace in the fact that I have chosen such a popular model, thus firmly establishing myself in the norm, thus avoiding any label of ‘freak’ by the general population.

Problems will often present themselves when trying to actually locate my car, however. In my apartment complex there are no assigned parking spots. It’s strictly a ‘first come, first park’ kind of arrangement. And if you’re lucky enough to find a spot close to the main entrance, the desire to remain indoors and not leave your apartment for several days is very strong. The choice becomes, go to the supermarket and get a loaf of unstale, non-moldy bread, or be assured that the number two parking space a mere 20 feet from the front door will remain yours. When faced with this choice, you often realize that fresh bread is greatly over-rated in comparison to an incredible parking spot.

Outside of the few ‘choice’ spots, though, the exact position of where you parked your car becomes pretty hazy...especially in the early morning hours. Being that there are very few landmarks to help guide you to the location of your car, you’re left to simply identify by model and color. Much like an Easter egg hunt on asphalt…except that the Easter eggs are grossly oversized. Now, if my car was a Porsche, chances are I’d find it with no problems at all. But within my apartment building, there are several cars that look exactly like mine.

And just this morning, I headed to my car, stuck the key in the door, unlocked it and sat down prepared to drive off for the day. I glanced at the passenger seat and saw, to my surprise, that there was a purse sitting there. Quite sure that I didn’t own a purse, I was confused as to how it came to be resting on my passenger seat. The pink sunglasses sitting in the console were a bit of a mystery too…especially considering that I’ve never looked good in pink. I’ve always considered myself to be more of a ‘fall’ person. The clincher, however, was the sudden appearance of a sunroof directly overhead…because unless my car suddenly developed this sunroof on its own, this car was most likely not mine.

So I carefully slinked out of the driver’s seat, glanced around the parking lot to make sure nobody witnessed my erroneous car entrance, than quietly walked off in search of the correct car. However, due to my honesty of not looking through the purse which sat on the passenger seat…which I had thought was MY passenger seat…I rewarded myself with a mint that was in the console right next to the pink sunglasses.

Wondering what other cars my key might open up, I spent the next five minutes trying the doors of all the other cars that were identical to mine to see if I could open any of them as well. I only got to a few before I realized that other people were heading out for the day and were giving me odd looks. I quickly got into my car and peeled out of the parking lot.

And while I didn’t find any other cars that my key could open, at least I know exactly where to go for a mint next time I’m lost and wandering through the parking lot.

eating right

A few days ago, I enjoyed one of those Subway subs. And I tend to enjoy these little subs despite my distaste for all those Jarod commercials – Jarod with his size 67 ½ pants that are now much too large, Jarod with his insistence that Subway brand subs are so very healthy for you, Jarod and his bland personality proclaiming to the world that Subway will single handedly solve America’s obesity problem…if only we would all eat there all day, everyday.

Because at Subway, you have your helpful sub preparer poised in front of a salad bar of toppings, just waiting to make you a healthy, sure-to-lose-weight, sandwich. Now, I have never been a fan of any food that has a green hue. No cucumbers, lettuce, peas, beans, celery, or broccoli…never, ever, broccoli. Yet, when combined with a miniscule amount of chicken (which is the way chicken comes at Subway) and that Sweet Teriyaki sauce, I can handle some green hued food.

So at Subway, I basically get a sandwich with a side salad thrown on top…all for four tiny bucks…two if I go on ‘half-price Tuesdays’. And my last visit was no exception. After ordering a sandwich with toppings that included extra spinach, extra green peppers, extra pickles, extra onions, extra tomatoes, and extra olives, I was quite sure that my vegetable quota would be met for the next month. I could spend the next four weeks extremely proud of myself that I was doing such a good job at keeping healthy.

Shortly after eating my sub, though, I noticed a strange bumpish thing near the back of my mouth. I was pretty sure that no bump had been residing there prior to the sub, so I automatically jumped to the most logical explanation I could think of…obviously I had suddenly developed some type of allergy to either spinach, pickles, onions, olives, tomatoes, or green peppers, and my throat was swelling up…which obviously meant that I would soon be unable to breathe and most likely die an excruciating death. And the worst thing about dying this way is that, being dead, I wouldn’t even be able to enjoy the multi-million dollar lawsuit that would result from my Subway induced death.

Since I’m unemployed, I have no health coverage. Granted, I did find an ‘economical health plan’, but this only covers me in case of ‘severe emergency’, such as if a chunk of the moon falls to Earth and lands on my foot. My current coverage would pay for about half the cost of the cast that I would need. So, being certain that I was near death, but not wanting to actually call 911 since my rapidly constricting throat probably wouldn’t constitute severity enough to be covered by my discount insurance, I called several friends and instructed them to call me every 30 minutes and that if I didn’t answer the phone it would mean that I was lying on the floor, gasping for air, slowly being suffocated by my newly acquired allergy. This way, they could alert the proper authorities and I would be saved.

Oddly enough, not one of them called when instructed. Lucky for those lazy bastards that I call ‘friends’, my allergy wasn’t an allergy at all, but just some little bump.

A bump which was probably just an ulcer caused by the sudden shock of having healthy food in my system. Fortunately, this is nothing that a few weeks of fast food won’t cure.