A light read for those of you who love being lashed.
I’m a little rusty…
It’s been a while…
I’m not sure what to say really, apart from… I GOT A JOB!!!
This is no ordinary job though, this is a job that involves getting everyone else a job. The scary thing is that I am actually doing it and I must say that although its tough it’s heavily invigorating. The fact that I get up in the dark, and that it’s not daylight for at least two hours after I’ve got to work is something that I have come to accept because, you see, I feel cherished and loved again. I feel appreciated and also quite happy to be paid for it.
Anyway, I’m not gonna bang on about how happy I am, because nobody wants to hear that, do they? I’m gonna bang on about how unhappy I was. Yeah, so suck it up!
Let’s go back to the start, shall we?
It all started about a year and a half ago when I got this job selling door knobs, yeah, door knobs. Everybody loves a knob, small ones, big ones, shiny little pink ones… it turns out that there is a lot more to knobs than you can imagine. Anyway, I was selling, I was writing press releases, I was working the social media, advertising, photo editing, updating the website.. Damn it, that doesn’t sound so bad does it? In fact that sounds like a pretty awesome job, for someone like me, and it was until it all went bad, all because I was enjoying my job a little too much. The thing is, if your boss thinks you’re having fun at work and getting a little bit cocky with it then they probably start to doubt the quantity of paper that is going your way. Why, I should have been paying them! I was enjoying it so much and I think the fact that social media doesn’t pay the bills had a big factor in my demotion.
So the cash flow faltered, things got tight and the knob took a big knock.
Things changed after that. There I was, left with that funny little thing called e…bay. You know, it’s like selling your soul to the cyber-devil, the online market. I was a market seller but I was in a virtual battle with every other market trader out there and not just the ones in my local town. I was up against…the Worldwide Economy with my little size 4 feet under the table surrounded by a load of knobs.
It was ok for a while. Me and Thee Bay became like two peas in a pod. I would edit the photos, write all day about fancy colours and textures and then Theresa Bay would do the rest. It was a special friendship until the novelty wore off, we got bored with each other. I ran out of words. She wouldn’t improve my rankings and that was that. Although we were good friends and we went way back, it turns out that in virtual reality it’s not who you know it is literally what you know, and it was like the computer was saying NO all over again. It wasn’t cool. I was left with a bitter, metallic taste in my mouth as if the fibres of the electronic fabric had worked their way into me, interlinking my nerve network with electrically charged wires shocking me into believing I had become one the computer and that no knob would put asunder. I felt like I had become physically attached to the computer, that my brain was pervious to the matrix of virtual electrodes passing from Thee Bay through the air and into me. I had been Thee Bid.
You see, I spent days studying the fruits of her wondrous, glitching network, testing her savvy texts, learning her native computer language and pressing all the right buttons and for what, for nothing, is all. I had become brainwashed by her and I just couldn’t take the abuse anymore. It was time to pull the plug. Like a broken marriage, our relationship drifted into cyberspace only to be replaced by a new, improved website.
We went our separate ways, it was for the best and I can quite honestly say that I have never looked back because, speaking to people and getting up before the postman is so much more fulfilling than drifting off into cyberspace. Sorry Theresa Bay, I hope you’re happy now.
It landed (the job) like a stork delivering a baby.
If you followed my job-seeking blog, you’ll know I revamped my CV, had interviews, I searched, I applied to a gazillion jobs, put my Resume in front of agency after crazy ass agency and although it brought me stress and at times It felt like the death lord had come down to violate me, I couldn’t give up.
To be honest, the confidence eventually followed this misery and like a loyal friend, reminded me that I was exceptional in my former –job-life, then offered me a pedestal and convinced me that there was a chance for me and that somewhere along the line I might locate my inner brain cell.
Final thought: Just remember that what begins really badly could actually turn out okay in the end…or it might just end up like this…
Keep it r
Keep it real Kheapitreal, because lying’s bad, but not crying, no. No, crying isn’t bad. Crying is okay, so long as it’s not done like that.
So I dipped my toe into the world of Interviewing, I fell in and ended up in a whirlpool. Yes, then I ended up swallowing a lot of salty water. I was almost eaten by a shark but it’s fine. Apparently sharks are clever but it turns out that I am more clevererer…er. Here’s how to survive if you decide to bite the bullet and go to that interview…
Be prepared, laden with maps and GPS and arrive very early, early enough to get lost twice.
You see, when you go to an interview, they test you and try and throw you off by giving you a wrong postcode, they expect you to find them from their website and when you arrive panting and puffing because they aren’t where they said they would be they make you wait for ten minutes until your mouth is really dry and then they say that getting to the interview was part of the test. (before you victory dance your way into the next test because you’re thinking you must be pretty awesome, I mean, some people don’t even bother turning up), be prepared for a covert test…
Yes, be sure to squeeze the presented hand hard, but no pumping, just a firm grip, squeeze that hand like your life depends on it, but not the fingers, make sure you have the full hand. NOW you can do that victory dance, assuming you haven’t broken their fingers, that is.
Role play, online tests and knowing your CV, along with what you had for breakfast 10 years ago, at what time and where you want to be this time in 5 years.
When some one asks you to come along for a ‘chat’, they actually mean “I am going to lure you into a false sense of security, and when you least expect it, I am going to pummel you with some viscous, uncomfortable questions not only to check your knowledge but to see if you have the right personality. Take a few hours out of your calendar, you are not leaving for a long, long time…”
When you are having one or two interviews a day for weeks on end, you turn into a Professional Interview Automaton. You develop the cyclical nodding, the overactive enthusiasm and the desperation to sell your miserable ass by basically elaborating on what is already clearly printed on your CV, in front of the interviewer, you are completely and utterly composed. That comes with practice. What I am trying to say is that interviews become your meaning in life and when they stop you basically became a goony…
Little Rabbit Foo Foo Kheapingitreal was getting a little bit cocky and bopping all the interviewers on the head. So the Regional Director good fairy gave me a call came down and said she was not going to offer me the job give me one last chance or turn me into a goony.
Be ruthless and conniving, but be honest to your boss. The weekend came and went and seeing the missed call on my phone on Monday morning only meant one thing… that I’d got the job! Yes, the manager said yes, the regional manager said yes and so did the regional director, my role playing was excellent and then I answered the test honestly and accurately. The call sounded like this… “Hi…” “Hi, yes really sorry but the computer told us that you don’t want the job, therefore we cannot offer you the job.” “The computer doesn’t have to work with me, the computer is not going to pay my wages, the computer doesn’t even know me!” SLAM!
It would seem that regardless of whether I want the job or not, that the oracle has spoken, and my destiny has been chosen once again, by a computer. Wish I’d bopped the forking computer over the head instead. If you want to see the full version of Little Rabbit Foo Foo (It might make you think about your behavior in future)
This reminds me so much of my recent interviews. I’m so glad there is a title for my nervous introverted babble. Well said, RFL!
Everybody please put your hands together in party-clap fashion for today’s guest poster, Rachelle from A Rich Full Life In Spite Of It, as she dances her way down the Soul Train line and takes her place in front of the podium and hot-mic. *Feedback* Be sure to check her site out HERE, where Rachelle gives her humorous take on parenting, women stuff, books, and life. And check out her frizzy hair too.
Take it away, Rachelle. *Feedback*
Whether you’re an introvert or an extrovert, we’ve all experienced those painfully awkward moments when you say something with the best of intentions, but are immediately overwhelmed with regret after the foot enters the mouth. Statistically, these moments probably occur less often for introverts than for extroverts, simply because introverts speak less. But, when they do happen, they tend to be more horrifying for the introvert for the same reason.
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Sometimes it hurts when people say it to your face, but sometimes you just need Moonface there to make everything better and then you can just go about your day without any hindrance. Tell me, DAME SLAP, say it to my face. What up?
(About my trip to The Magic Faraway Tree recruitment agency, using the characters from the Magic Faraway tree) I play DAME WASHALOT in the script, but I’m sure you don’t need me to tell you that. You may not even be bothered but in case you wanted to know, See DAME WASHALOT, that’s me, that is.
INT: DAY – THE MAGIC FARAWAY RECRUITMENT AGENCY – UP THE TREE
DAME WASHALOT: (Knocks on the door)
Dame Washalot in Dior
THE ANGRY PIXIE: Come in! Is That…
DAME WASHALOT: Hi. Yes it’s Dior, darling, Vintage 1950’s to be precise.
THE ANGRY PIXIE: Oh, I’m THE ANGRY PIXIE!
DAME WASHALOT: Hi, Hi I’m THE ANGRY PIXIE, I’m DAME WASHALOT. Sorry, I didn’t intend to repeat your name or make an ass of myself for that matter. I am actually quite a capable person, honest.
THE ANGRY PIXIE: Erm…Hi, take a seat over there (points to the green chairs in the corner of the room…next to the Water Machine.)
DAME WASHALOT: Sure, thank you.
THE ANGRY PIXIE: I’ll get DAME SLAP to come and speak to you shortly. Now sit there and fill in these
time-consuming and boring forms about all of your employment history and feel very sleepy and bored. We don’t use your CV, No we make you write everything out all over again as if it’s a test to see if you brought your CV with you.
DAME WASHALOT: I didn’t bring my CV with me, you already have it, is that…ok?
THE ANGRY PIXIE: (Goes to the water machine, fills up a cup to the brim and spills it on DAME WASHALOT as she walks past, with a grunt).
DAME WASHALOT: (Goes to the water machine and gets some water in a cup, sits down and begins filling forms out)
THE ANGRY PIXIE: Oh, and don’t write on that form on this side, you see it’s one of those forms that transfers through to the other one, y’know, those pink and yellow ones.
DAME WASHALOT: Have you ever heard of a photocopier or a scanner? The Eco system? Thought about going paperless? No?
THE ANGRY PIXIE: Don’t get smart with me; we do things the old fashioned way around here. You’re not at home doing the washing now, you know, this is the real world so I suggest you stop trying to be funny and have a word with yourslef!
DAME WASHALOT: Looks out of window at the sunshine. Slumps into the chair and continues filling out the form.
20 MINUTES LATER…
DAME SLAP: Hi, DAME WASHALOT, I’m DAME SLAP, Can you come with me so we can go over your forms please?
DAME WASHALOT: Oh, sure, yes, of course.
DAME SLAP: Come and sit here on this (green) chair.
DAME WASHALOT: It’s very green here, is that why you’re called
Forrest The Magic Faraway Tree Recruitment Agency? Ha Ha!
DAME SLAP: Um…so, You used to work as a Cleaning lady. What did that involve?
DAME WASHALOT: Well, I would wash the clothes, dry them then iron them then put them back in the wash again, all day long.
DAME SLAP: Let’s get you doing some tests to see just how fast you can wash. Please come into the other room where I will leave you with the test. I will be back in 4 minutes. Please
write wash 100 words shirts.
DAME WASHALOT: Sure, I could do it with my eyes closed. See you in 4.
(In-head dialogue) Okay, this is easy 1, 2,3…10 shirts
words. Hang on a minute! What the hell does that look like? That is not the way that shirt is meant to be spelt look that is not grammatically correct, should I put two ‘ands’ shirts in at the same time? Oh freak! Should I be doing a spell shirt check as I go along? There are a lot of red words shirts here. Oh my, she’s coming back.
DAME SLAP: Oh, a few mistakes there then? Ooh lots of red
lines shirts there, huh?
DAME WASHALOT: I’m normally much better than this, honest.
DAME SLAP: Okay, let’s see how you are with your drying, shall we?
DAME WASHALOT: (In-head dialogue) DAME SLAP is going to get a DAME SLAP in a minute if she doesn’t stop being a little madam.
DAME SLAP: Come on, you can do it! I’ll see you in 2.
DAME WASHALOT: (In-head dialogue) Okay so that goes there, I can do this, that goes on top of that one then I need to sort them into colour order and Alphabetical order then I need to work out how much is in each pile…
DAME SLAP: I’m baaaack. Let’s get you back in the other room shall we?
DAME WASHALOT: Whaaaa….t the…f…
DAME SLAP: It’s ok, this happens a lot when people have children and let their brains go to Jelly. I bet all that washing powder has gone to your head, hasn’t it? I don’t have children. I don’t intend to give up work when I have children; I will happily work full-time and guilt-free too. I cannot get you a job because you have NO CURRENT EXPERIENCE and even if you did, people just don’t bother doing all that washing these days, they have machines. Look, time has passed while you were away. People have been replaced by machines. It’s ok. It happens to the best of us. Don’t look so sad.
DAME WASHALOT: I’m not sad…I’m F..Very ANGRY and you are going to get a…piece of my mind…
MOONFACE: Hi guys! What’s going on here then? Who wants a nice cuppa tea?
Your dream job is up there somewhere guys, you’ve just got to climb the employment tree first!
I became and eBay Junkie this week, selling my soul along with some other stuff.
It all looked so good, mapped out inside my head. I would sell stuff, people would like me and give me good feedback, everything would arrive at the customers home in perfect order and everyone would be, well, nice, y’know?…And the world would be sparkly, especially the inside of my purse, Y’all.
I’ve been selling anything I can get my hands on (hide your children!) It’s even got to the point where I am rummaging through the garage and sneaking my husband’s golf clubs out of his bag, one-by-one. Why would he need a “Lob-wedge” anyway? Luckily, he is not a keen golfer and I have been getting away with it thus far. So far I have made enough to put food on the table for half a week, which to me, is progress.
I did regret my actions momentarily when my 4-year-old asked where her Peppa Pig house was. “Mummy, I can find the bath but there is no house.”
To which I replied “Pigs love bathing in the sun. Let’s go outside and give her a bath. I will get some water.” Any thing that involves sand or water with kids is a given distraction (or bribe, whatever you choose to name it.)
The eBay thing is easy enough to do, and little did I know that everyone, yes, everyone is doing it. There I was praising my efforts at being an Entrepreneur but really I was just like anyone else. No, Kheapingitreal, you are just another fish swimming on the eBay fish market, trying to make a buck here and there.
Anyway if you don’t do this kind of thing and you think it’s probably simple, then let me just stop you right there. And for those of you who do sell stuff on this awesomely
frustratingly, irritatingly useful website, you will know and surely will have come across the following archetypes:
1# The perpetual whinge-bags
Seriously, there might not be batteries with that toy or there might be a tear in that dressing up dress, The elastic might be a bit loose in my maternity pants or that button might not match the rest completely but hey, you got a bargain, what’s the problem? It’s not like I’ve sent you my husband’s sweat stained shirts with yellow armpits, or a fake designer label or some designer beauty potion that I’ve rinsed myself and refilled with baby lotion. I am honest and what you read about in my ad is what you get so stop whingeing and give me a break! How about YOU spend your evening going back and forth with YOU all for £1.24 and see how YOU feel about it.
2# The Perverted stalkers
Yeah, maybe the dress I was selling was a little tight up top and may have I posed in it for the item picture but that doesn’t give people the right to say “I bet you’re really hot in real life”. That is a no. no in my book. I just thank God he didn’t buy the dress so he couldn’t get my location. This is not a freaking pick-up website, you can only buy the dress, nob-head. PERVERTS YOU ARE ON THE WRONG SITE! Go rub your thighs over someone else’s items.
3# The Chauvinistic man-bayers
So I may have sold a golf-club, sorry to keep going on about this but I am not a man. Stop speaking to me like I am one, the other guy thought I was hot and you think i’m a man?! Look at my other listing and you will see that I am clearly not a man.
4# The Happy BFF Biatches
These are the nice people on E bay.These are the people who just email for the sake of emailing nice things. These are gracious and kind people who guilt you into giving them good service so much that you almost want to give them things for free because they are so nice.”Hey, wait a minute, I have a top here you would look gorgeous in, let me send you that… FOR FREE! In fact, let me give you a refund for the whole lot, mwah mwah let me kiss your ass like you’ve been kissing mine…”
5# The tight-arsed time-wasters.
“Hi I really love this top you sent me. It’s great. But you’ve overcharged me for postage. The postage was more than £1 less than what I paid for it”.
Here is the reply that I was compelled to send…
Dear Mr Tight-Arsed-Time-Waster,
I have taken it upon myself to write you this letter in order to clarify my position. I do not have a job of any sorts. This is currently my main income and I have a family to feed, don’t you know. I am an educated individual and am thus aware that your package was indifferent in cost to my originating request of £3.20 which, might I add is for Postage & Packaging. I feel it is important at this stage to make you aware of the following.
the petrol that gets me to that distant post office was approximately £0.25,
the packet it was enclosed in was £0.75
and the postage, to my appreciation was less costly than first suspected by myself at a mere £2.34
and therefore it seems to me that you, in fact owe me the sum of £0.14.
Please let me know how you would like to proceed
And by the way, you got the shirt for £0.99, Dry-head, get real!!!
I entered a poetry competition!
It wasn’t a good poem, let’s be clear about this. It was amateurish, whingey and morose. I sent it. I waited. Then I got an email a week after entry…
I drifted off into my head…
KHEAPINGITREAL… WINNER OF THE POETRY COMPETITION AND WINNER IN LIFE!!!
No, it was merely an email to remind me that I had not submitted the poem.
I suddenly felt a huge weight of responsibility resting on my shoulders, the heavy hand of the poetry judges. I chewed my bottom lip a bit like this…
…I bit my nails a little and I don’t even bite my nails so it was a bit like this …
I Panicked. They are waiting for me to send my poem, I thought. Let’s see. How long have I got? Maybe I could do a re-poem (like a re-blog) or even pinch some words from a song, no one would notice.
Or maybe I could just submit my really gloomy poem and change my name. So I did that. The poem guy wished me luck. I nearly started up some banter with him, in order to increase my chances of winning but realised this was futile.
So I wrote a different poem for this post, since it’s poetry month…but it was a bit pants.
I sat and thought about my funny poem, my whinge; my non-poets poem, re-read the words and realised how sad but true they were.
The bit about the smelly socks and talking to the iron really brought it home. And then there was the bit about the man from Ebay giving me feedback that said “Good Man”. I checked my facial hair at that point, and granted it probably needed a little more tending in that region but really?
People, they, bring you down sometimes don’t they and really we just need to love ourselves a little bit more.
How can I love me more?
I went onto YouTube and found this and it really gave me hope. I recommend this is fast forwarded after 1 minute so you can speed up the Chimp-like movements.
Anyway, did you tap? It’s actually really soothing even when you’re lying on the sofa in your dressing gown with the curtains closed and Subway Surfer is being played really loudly on your TV by
monsters beautiful children. The thing is though, and you may experience this yourself if you watch it, after a while I started to sense a slightly narcissistic vibe…
It ‘s good to love man, but don’t over-love cause that’s like narcissistic, dude.
The Covert Marital War
Today I returned from the school run to find a skipping rope in my bedroom, a post-it note which read “A” on my dressing table and a sock on my chest of drawers. It’s not the first time I have found a cryptic scene laid out before me like a game of Cluedo. I stop and scratch my head. It was Miss Scarlet in the bedroom with the skipping rope because she had found yet another bothersome sock left by her husband.
Stop right there!!! This is not any old sock. This is the sock that has been haunting me for over a week now. This is the…SOCK. And I hasten to add, this is not my sock.
Every now and then I get a gentle reminder that I have forgotten to do something. Sometimes the vacuum cleaner is strategically placed in the hallway by my husband, just so I don’t forget to vacuum up all his beard trimmings. Last week I arrived home to his shirts which were hanging on all of the door handles around the house, just to remind me that I hadn’t ironed them. That’s all very well, I don’t respond to his gentle reminders I walk around them and then in return make my own ‘gentle reminders’, because although he may be the boss of this household, he’s not the boss of me. That’s the way we have war in this house. We don’t’ need to argue, there is a constant covert war going on and nobody else need know about it.
I like to get my own back by shaking a few of his beard trimmings into his pant drawer. Or sometimes I put his nice crisp white gym socks in with the pink wash. It’s nothing that bad but you know what it’s like being married, if you said how you really felt you probably wouldn’t end up being married for that long. It’s good to express yourself but there are other measures you can take that don’t involve arguing.
The darned sock!
So back to this god forsaken sock! I came across this lonesome sock last week. It was in the washing pile. I washed it along with the dark wash and hey presto it appeared again when I was hanging out the washing. I’m not one to worry about a stray sock. Stray socks are ten a penny in this house. So I sort the washing and I send the sock to the drawer of its rightful owner (not me) and we are done.
We are not done.
The next day the sock appears on my dressing table. So I pick it up and put it back in my husband’s drawer but it keeps making its way back into my drawer, day after day it is passed covertly to and from drawers until today.
Today this ENDS.
Today this sock is going to have a sox-change. I get my needle and thread and I stitch some eyes and ears onto the sock then I put it back in his drawers. If it comes back again I am going to stitch it to the front of his underpants.