Gahhhhh!

I HATE interviews.

And here's why.

Ask me to write about my mad skillz, and I will paint you an accurate, rosy picture. Ask me on the phone, and if you're engaging, and non-threatening, I can elaborate with the best of them. When I'm at ease, I am one suaaaaave motherfucker.

When I am nervous, or can't get a bead on someone? I sound like the biggest moron on the face of the planet. I make George W. Bush sound like Martin Luther King Jr. Seriously.

And when the person interviewing me is a combination of BastardBob*, my high school principal, and Coach Cutlip from the Wonder Years, I am going to sound like maybe I've had a lot of head trauma. Guess how today's interview went?

*headdesk*

I could do that job with one part of my brain tied behind my back, probably. However, I doubt highly that I'll be getting the chance to. Gahhhhhhh! Damn my nonexistent social skillz! Why can I not just walk into an interview and say "Look. You're busy, I'm not an idiot. Tell me what needs done, and not only will I DO it, but I won't bug you every fifteen seconds to ask you what I should do next. I work reasonably cheap, but I need health insurance. Also, I have no life, which means I'm loyal and flexible. So make with the job offer. Ok?"

So I was prowling Monster.com, and found another staffing service nearby, that I'll give a shout to. It couldn't hurt, and it may fill the gaps until something else comes along. Dangit. G. Monkey's putting her feelers out too, and who knows, mabe the flower shop people will call, but I'm not holding my breath.

In other news, Silent Bob's home, and pacing. Which is sad, but kind of funny, because her back-end isn't working too well. Also, the lovely ladies at the vet's office are lovin' me, because I took them cupcakes (yellow butter cupcakes with chocolate frosting) for being so swell. Evil's camped out in the basement, but did eat a little today. I got her some "easy to digest" food, and some Iams wet stuff. She has a hard time chewing the biggish pieces with the Iams, so we'll see. She's just so damned SKINNY. (I know. I know. Kat Kancer will do that.)

Anyway. Off to go take some pictures of me playing banjo on the front porch, to send to that interviewer, just in case he wants documentation...






*Bastard Bob actually screwed a dead employee out of a day's pay, because she didn't punch out the morning she left work and was killed in a car crash. "How do I know what time she left?" Ass. I think he docked her for her shirt, and her nametag too.