Twisted Job Interview &/or I Hate Pretending I’d Hire Myself

Oh, I present so nicely at an interview with my toothy midwestern smile & expensive highlights & thick silver rings.  My laugh is pleasant and I make comments that clearly show empathy for how difficult the interviewer’s job must be.  After all, I did hire a chick to replace me once and she was an absolute disaster. 

(Her name was Jameelah and she changed all the computer file names for multiple appellate death penalty cases, with a brief due the following week.  Then she quit.  The attorney nearly had a nervous breakdown.  Clearly, I am not personnel material.)

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But let’s put it out there right from the start, I hate sitting in an interview pretending like I’m an employer’s dream, because it’s the rare job I’d ever hire myself for.  What can I really say that’s genuine?  “You’re taking a big chance here and I really appreciate it, I’m completely unreliable, totally unpredictable and even I consider myself a royal pain in the ass.”  Then maybe we could laugh together and have a shot of tequila.

There are a multitude of qualities that make me say such a thing with utter conviction:

(1) I rarely succeed at doing anything I don’t really want to do & quite often people want you to do such total shit.  Yes, I cleaned houses for a while and I was great at it, I remember being on my hands and knees with my head in some bitches toilet.  But later that day I did masturbate on her bed. 

I am laughing like crazy as I write this, knowing I should never admit to such a thing but fuck it.  The ultimate in passive-aggression.  But then I was also caught by a co-worker doing the same thing in a restroom stall at work on third-shift in a NYC law firm, so maybe it’s more about needing a better hobby.

(2) My moods are like a crazy, bumpy wooden rollercoaster ride.  Admittedly, it’s exciting.  You never know if I will show up on time, or at all.  You will hear entertaining tales of broken limbs, dead relatives and endless car problems, all explaining why it’s not my fault I am a complete loser.  You may call my home and I will say “This isn’t Pam, this is Pam’s sister.  But I can give her a message!”  in a friendly, melodious voice.  (One ballsy supervisor said, “Pam, I know this is you.”)

Or I might quit in the middle of a shift, like the day I tried dish-washing in a college residence hall or the night I left tables of customers wondering, “Where is that damned waitress?”  Oh, it was one of the most freeing experiences of my life.  I hated that fucked up job with people leaving me quarters for tips!

Granted, I sucked.  I can’t remember shit, my hearing is shot.  It can be difficult for me to serve my own children, let alone strangers.  I am amazed by people who put 3 complete meals on a table for the little buggers.  I mean, what the fuck, take a break!  Like everything else, I blame my lack of real nurturing qualities on my mother, but who the fuck wants to go down that muddy road again?  Not me! 

In my head I am the most nurturing person on the freaking planet!  I am so loving!  I am so giving!  It’s in translating those thoughts into action that the snags of reality occur.

As my beloved author Augusten Burroughs is so often quoted saying from his book Magical Thinking:

“I myself am made entirely of flaws, stitched together with good intentions.” 

(3) I expect to be paid highly, very highly, for things like my spelling ability and knowledge of current events, even though those qualities are worthless.  I don’t like cooking, filing, copying, or being ordered around by anyone  . . . unless it’s a great looking man who laughs at my jokes.  Like my dentist.  I would definitely boil him up a pot of ramen noodles for, say, $25.  I would even pour it in a bowl.  But because of the increase in gas prices I would want mileage.  See, that’s where my current events knowledge comes in handy.  If I wasn’t paying close attention I could have lost out in that transaction.

(4) I have a superiority complex infused with low self-esteem.  In other words, being my boss can be a nightmare.  I will nearly always believe I am smarter than my supervisor, but can’t handle the responsibility that comes with a position of authority.  I am a big fat pussy who thinks mean thoughts.  Luckily, people like me anyway because I tend to say those thoughts out loud and then laugh at myself and say how stupid I am.  It is my saving grace, the realization that my thoughts are insane and the ability to admit it. 

I thank my second grade teacher for this quality.  She wrote something on my report card about the fact that I would always honestly admit to my part in whatever misbehavior was going on.  It occurred to me, “You mean you can actually be rewarded for doing something wrong if you just apologize afterwards?”  This gave me tremendous freedom to continue to be a little shit.  Thank you, Mrs. Johnson.  It has taken me far in life.

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So, anyway, I had this job interview today in a group home for girls, most who come directly from hospitalization, and I am positive I will not be hired.  The reason is I did something so incredibly dumb, I sat back and told Rodneisha all about myself. 

Oh, yes, I admitted I quit my last job and was re-hired 4 times.  I told her I can easily be intimidated and I curse a lot.  Although I did lie and say I can control it.  Fortunately I did not mention my obsession-like fear of bed bugs.  But I did admit my daughter is homeschooled.  Oh, that one is a doozy.  I might as well have said I believe in UFO’s and spend my weekends digging for gold in grocery dumpsters.

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It’s a serious job.  I told her I have experience with many of the things these girls are going through and I do: the loss of a parent at a young age, inappropriate sexual shit, anger at the world, abandonment and PTSD.  (God only knows, I scream every time a family member walks unexpectedly around a corner, I cannot dry my hair without being freaked out by my own daughter.)

I told her I think a sense of humor can diffuse situations and it’s my preferred style.  But I doubt they’re looking to hire a comedian.  When I told her I’ve had lots of people die and so I consider it a success when everyone is alive at the end of the day she probably thought my standards were low.  Then when she asked me how I would handle aggression and I admitted I would rather sneak in cookies for the girls than restrain them it may have sealed my fate.

I’m not against holding children to keep them from hurting themselves or someone else, but I’ve seen where restraint can be overdone.  It can be contagious.  (For those of you who are unfamiliar with the term, it’s a way of taking a child down to the floor and holding their legs with your legs and their arms with your arms, like a controlling hug, as they try to fight their way out.  You can easily be hurt, children have been seriously injured and even died on rare occasions.  It’s commonly used with psychiatric disorders.)

I’m not big on discipline, even though I know there are occasions where it is absolutely necessary, particularly with certain types of children.  I know the rules must be followed or it can be disastrous.

But at my advanced age, 50 instead of 25, I feel motherly toward women in their 20′s and 30′s, let alone teenagers.  It’s no longer a competitive female thing, it’s about looking back and seeing why they should take it easy on themselves because they’re doing the best they can in this moment. 

For this line of work, though, that sounds like enabling.  These little chicks are going to have it rough for a long time and they have to be able to make it on their own.  Coddling is probably the wrong way to go.

I’ve even seen it happen with my niece.  The more love I show her, the more angry she becomes with her mother, the more she realizes how cheated she’s been.  Yesterday my sister screamed at her, “Call Pammy!  Tell her all about it, I know you tell her everything!” 

God forbid the dysfunctional chicks of the world were just loved and adored by their own mothers.  But then there wouldn’t be any dysfunctional chicks.  It would just fuck up everything.  There would be no whores.  Men couldn’t get blow jobs as easily from chicks begging for attention.  Tremendous self-esteem increase, lots of high-falutin bitches.  Think of the titty bar industry!  Lots of complications from that stupid idea.

Lord only knows, hiring me to work with twisted people is quite an oxymoron.  Yet, in this instance, I might be highly qualified.