I’ve had my caffeine. I’ve eaten my shredded wheat. Still I can extract nothing from the brain today. I think I’m still suffering from a “Book of Eli” induced stupor. Seriously, DO NOT SEE that horrid thing. C.S. Lewis is more subtle.
Besides, my uterus hurts. It’s making me whiney. My thinking is so fuzzy I actually considered trying that DivaCup thing one more time before taking my bedazzler to its silicone hide.
So rather than stare at this annoying blinking cursor as it endlessly taunts my inability to come up with something witty, I’m recycling some shit. I’m greener than Kermit, doncha know (and it’s not just from the PMS).
Looking through the same journal that held the Firefly tale, I found this account of a job interview in my past. It happened somewhere between the heavy metal marketing gig and my stint in corporate America. I’m guessing 2005-ish.
The interview was amazing. I was kicking ass left and right. She was laughing. I was laughing. Her husband is a songwriter. We both are carbon-based life forms. We TOTALLY bonded. And then….the moment of despair.
“I like to see how people think on their feet,” she began. “I ask this of everyone. Tell me a joke.”
Blood rushed through my ears. I can do this, I thought. I know tons of jokes. Rocco tells jokes all the time. Granted they usually suck but…
Pen scratches on notebooks.
And then THE joke leapt to the front of my brain and refused to share my conscious mind with any other joke. Shit, I couldn’t stall anymore. This was the only joke I had. I did one last frantic brain scan hoping to find a lame knock, knock or dead baby joke. There was only THE one.
Well, I wasn’t sure about this gig anyway. Just go with it, then try and play it off, El.
“Well, it’s not clean but…” I looked at her for a reaction. She was smiling innocently in anticipation. I took a deep breath and dove in.
“These two women are sitting together at a table visiting, much as we are right now. The first woman says, ‘That jerk husband of mine went and got me a dozen roses, so now I’ll have to spend the next three days with my knees in the air.’ The other woman mulled that over for several moments then asked, ‘Don’t you have a vase?'”
I followed that doozie up with a nervous smile and waited for her to call security.
“Oh,” was her response. “That’s cute.”
Cute? Um, ok. That joke is a lot of things, but not cute. I had clearly tanked the interview.
“Well, it was nice meeting you. Thanks so much for coming by.” With that she quickly ushered me out the door.
So what’s the first thing an empowered independent gal does in such a situation? Call Mom! Ever supportive, she managed to gasp out short encouraging sentences between her guffaws. “Wait till I tell the tennis girls!” and “Oooh that’s good!”
Then she said, “Well Girl, you certainly conveyed your personality in that interview.” If you cross your eyes, I suppose that could be taken as a compliment. We both giggled for a solid five minutes longer before I headed to the subway. If I hurried, I might even still make it to the current job on time.
As I bounced along the tracks beneath the city, I mulled over other punch lines of the various jokes rumbling around in my head – “He fucks pigs,” “Turn her over, six year old boy,” “Super Pussy,” “One time I fucked a parrot – are you my kid?” I felt mild relief. Never mind, I went with the right one. Note to self: find new friends and family with cleaner minds before next interview.
Back above ground, my little red cell phone shook excitedly – voicemail. Who could Mom have told already?
“Hi, this is Carey. Could you come in for a second interview tomorrow?”
Mom and I laughed for another fifteen minutes…