Because sometimes a status update just isn't enough.

Because sometimes a status update just isn't enough.

11 August 2011

To be, or not to be... a dumbass

I called on a job I found listed in the paper yesterday, mainly because it contained the word "demented" and I couldn't pass that up.  (Also?  The only other job postings are for working in auto parts stores.  You think I'm kidding, but I'm not.) The ad read, as follows:

IMMEDIATE OPENING: About half-time job, mornings 8:30 a.m. to 1 p.m. Monday through Saturday, as a companion to 85 year old lady. She is very able to take care of herself physically, but is demented. Kindness and intelligence a must.
Seriously, who could resist?  The lure of working with someone who is demented was dangling like a carrot in front of my little nose.  
I called, expecting a nice lady (yes, I assumed it would be a woman... sue me for being sexist) to answer the phone and instantly hire me, based on my charm and personality alone.  What I was NOT expecting was a gruff man with a strong Archie Bunker-type New York accent to pick up and give me the third degree.  
Him:  "Yeah."
Me:  *using my polite phone voice*  "Yes, I'm calling about the position as a companion for..."
Him:  "Yeah.  That's my motha.  How old ah you?"
Me:  *stutter, stutter*  "I'm 48?"
(Why did I answer it like a question? Why?  I know I'm 48... why was I asking him?)
Him:  "You sound younga.  Ah you prepahed to show ID?"
Me: *caught so completely off-guard that it didn't occur to me until I hung up the phone how inappropriate his questions were*  "Ummm... errrrr... yes?"
(Dear God, please don't let him ask to see my ID.  I look like a drunken lunatic in my driver's license picture.  My hair is flattened on one side, I was sick and pasty, and I look like I have a lazy eye.  Ugliest.  Picture.  EVER. I don't plan on EVER showing anyone that ID.  EVERRRRRR.  And it's not like he's going to look at me and wonder if I'm old enough to vote.  There isn't enough Botox in the world for me to pull that off.)
Him:  "Do you have young children?"

Me:  "No?"

(Will I need to prove that, too?)

Him:  "Why do you want this job?"
Me:  *blathering off the usual kiss-ass bullshit that basically boils down to "I have no money and I need employment because dammit, I'm sick of doing my own nails and I really want a new purse"*
Him:  "Uh huh.  Well, you SOUND intelligent.  That'll at least get you the inta-view. I'll be in my orfice at 1:10 tomorra aftanoon."
(It took everything I had in me not to say, "Hmmm... I don't think I can do 1:10.  How does 1:11 work for you?"  Not to mention needing to stifle the urge to giggle when he said "orfice.")
Me:  *thankful he couldn't see me because seriously, my mouth was hanging open and I was gulping air like a beached guppy*  "Thank you, I'll see you then."
Well.  So.  Huh.  Hmmm.  
The first word that popped into my head was "Douche."  Not as a reminder to myself, but as an adjective directed at him.   (I feel the need to clarify, just in case there were any misunderstandings.)
Then I called Dan, and told him about my phone interview.
In typical Dan-like fashion, he found it amusing, but we were in complete agreement with the douchiness factor.
Dan:  "What a douche.  So are you gonna go to the interview?"
Me:  "Do you think I should?  The guy sounds like a total douche."
Dan:  "Do you ever want to get your nails done again?"
Me:  "So yeah, I think I'll go."
At 1:10.  Not 1:09, or 1:11.  As a girl who flirts with time as if it were a cute boy sitting behind me in math class, this may be a stretch for me.  If it were 1:00, I could be there at 12:55, no problem.  1:30, or even 1:15?  I'm your girl.  But 1:10?  How does one work that?  Do I show up at 1:05?  Do I get there at 1:00?  I have no idea how do to sixths of the hour.  
And what if I only SOUND intelligent, but in reality am a complete dumbass and no one has ever told me?  What if I've spent my life skating on the thin ice that separates quirky brilliance with total idiocy and that ice has cracked and I don't know?  What if I go plunging through all the way to stoopidness and can't stop myself?
What if I drool?
What if (a much more likely scenario) I trip and fall on my way into his office and pee when I hit the ground?  
What if I answer all of his questions with, "I know, right?" because I can't think of anything else to say?
Ponder, ponder...

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