So, the interview, right? First, let me preface all of this by saying that I love interviews. It’s something I enjoy whether I want the job or not. I don’t know what to compare it to… it’s somewhere between the joyous overstimulation of being at Disneyland and the calmer, more focused amusement of being the sole contributer in a huge lecture. It’s just fun. I went whatever morning last week especially jazzed because my last interview for this county position, albeit in another county, was not only wildly entertaining and stimulating but also rather long. I knew it was going to be another panel interview (sweet!) and that I was no doubt going to be given scenario questions (double sweet!). I’m gonna ruin it for you right now by blurting that this interview lasted twenty minutes. And they asked me all of six questions. And one of those was literarlly, “Is there anything else about yourself that we should know”. Disappointment doesn’t even begin.
Returning to the part about government employees having at one point been on the receiving end, upon parking and walking towards the front door, I hear someone loudly speaking on a cellphone. She’s also smoking and wearing a camo tee and those platform-ish Sketchers from the mid-nineties. Her hair is that weird non-color between strawberry and dirty blonde. Her fingernails are trashed and yet grasping the last few flecks of purple polish. Basically, just because you don’t see the intravenous drugs doesn’t mean they don’t exist. A car pulls up and a woman yells to her – why…all the yelling, friends? – to which the first woman, did I mention she’s in her late forties or at least has been rode hard and put back wet, and gives her something through the driver’s side window then begs a cigarette off her. And finally. I was at the door. That twenty paces was frightful. But on to better times: I walked in to the building. And was immediately like…wait….wait….this can’t also be the actual work site… unless there’s some Wrinkle In Time-like fold somewhere that allows us to be transported to some other, larger building… it was one story… and sort of like what it must look like when a hillbilly takes their flat, long modular home and uses trailers to extend it so that as one walks down the hall, there is an unexpected slide downhill and the sturdiness goes from being that of the airport terminal to that of the bridge leading to the airplane. That and the walls, though they go from floor to ceiling, start looking more like those carpeted cubicle partitions. Un peu rickety, mon frere. Oh and I didn’t have to go through security. As I aforementioned: I walked right in. That’s safety for ya. So, there I am in the front office of an elementary school – or so I would have assumed – and there’s noone at the desk facing the door but there’s movement in the slightly more privatized desk to the right of the entrance. As I round the little bend of the “office” corner and am confronted with the slightly more sober sister of the woman outside, I desperately and quickly search the area for some identification of who this woman is. My guess is that she’s here for some court-mandated session and has been given permission to use the telephone. But no. No. She signals she’ll just be a moment and then soon after asks for my name. Thinking this could be an elaborate con, I consider giving my pseudonym. … That being Olivia Benson. Or, Elle Stabler. Unfortunately, this really is the clerk or secretary or whatever. So she tells me I’m early – with a tone that seems not to recognize the virtue of punctuality – to have a seat and read some bulletin that basically says how I can’t do what I’m preparing to do, which is to share the questions or information dictated in the interview. It takes almost fifteen minutes before I’m taken back to the interview room. In that time, my excitement is nearly depleted. For you see, out of nowhere appears a woman who walks past me to use the copy machine I’m facing as I sit perpendicular to the entrance. Let me start by saying that on the floor where I worked in Sacramento, there were no less than four stations – for use only be FR Social Workers – in our workspace that each had a couple copy machines and in some cases, fax machines, time stamps, etc. These stations were usually the same dimensions as the cubes in which we were housed. So, you’ll imagine my perplex-ocity when – from some mysterious corner and department – several people appear to crowd the nook in which a copy machine is squozen. This area literally used to house a water fountain. And nothing else. What distracts me from that hilarity is one of the women who approaches it. For you see. She’s wearing what I can only refer to as a gray suit. Made of denim. A gray, denim “suit”. And she’s proud, my friend. With the contrasting white seaming and the way it pancakes her already waffled backside all the while emphasizing what probably wouldn’t even have looked like saddlebags had she not been wearing skin-tight clothing a good size and a half too small… I wanna say her shoes were unimpressive. And by that I mean the suiting was so bad, I have no recollection of shoewear. She may have been barefoot for all I know. What I do recall. Is her “hairdo”. There are some women, some special women, who have seemingly embraced the split ends that they delusionally credit with giving their hair volume. When in fact it’s a swollen, coarse, rat’s nest. It’s fashioned in a “style” that only seems plausible on very young yet “fast” tweens or on older women with a diagnosed mental disability. That look where they’ve only curled – with, no doubt, a huge barrel – the hair framing their faces. And have somehow entirely overlooked or just been unaware of the hair at the back of their heads. For this hair. This hair looks as though they sleep on an unkempt bale of hay. And the color. The color can only be attained at a county fair, in the drug-abuser’s hair salon or in a double-wide. Your God-fearing, law-abiding hair literally will not absorb this color. It knows better. It’s that same strawberry, dirty blonde with the meth-head finish that we previously identified on Smokie the coke head outside. Where the hell do they find this color? How the hell do they make their hair that texture? Why the hell do they mistake it for “thickness”? I often am credited with being able to keep a straightface while forcing other people to break and give away their amusement. But let me assure you that this is never the case when I’m confronted with people who quite simply confound me. Then I’m at the mercy of my facial contortions.
*Long Sigh* I’ll try to talk about the actual interview later. I’m spent.
Final comments: Ezra told me I was beautiful, then that he loved me, then that he wanted to marry me! I’m completely in love. I can’t believe how a three-year old can make you feel like the only person that matters. I’ll never forgive him for his teenage desire to separate from me. Even before it’s happened. It breaks my heart. I just know he’ll never understand how our lives revolve around his happiness. I assume. I was pretty in love with my parents and stayed that way with my Dad all the way through my teenage years. Is there any way to ensure that Ezra is the same way?!?!?!