Squeak’s Squeals

Have you ever sat at home - wide awake at 6 o’clock on a Saturday morning - and felt the itch?  The fierce internal need to go out and do something childish and stupid?  It’s like an urge for a mini midlife crisis (or in my case, since I refuse to count myself among the mid-aged, a mini PRE-midlife crisis).

I went through this a few years back - before meeting the Neanderthal - while facing the impending damnation that is and/or was my 30th birthday (oh, vile, evil day of despair - I still wear black to mourn the loss of my youth).  Anyway, it manifested itself as a serial dating binge - it was something insane, like 30 dates with 25 men in three months.  Then the Neanderthal popped into my life and it all stopped.

But the itch has returned.  The need to do something completely, utterly stupid is slowly taking over any conscious attempt to subdue the desire.  And, no, I don’t mean that I am desiring to date 25 more men (puhleez!  Once is enough, people!  Honestly, how many men can one woman tolerate before she snaps?).  What I mean is I just want to do something reckless and stupid like I would have done ten years ago - perhaps spending a weekend in an alcoholic stupor (one weekend is all it would take… my body simply can’t process that crap like it used to), or maybe grabbing the girlfriends for an improptu road trip with no map, no plan and no destination (ah, the good ol’ days), maybe a costume party in an outfit no one should actually wear in public (last time this happened, the GFs and I went as a pimp ‘n hoes…. holy cleavage, Batman!  I was so proud of my alabaster orbs).

Regardless, my point here is that there is a fire burning deep in the darkest recesses of my bowels and slowly working its way through the rest of my body where I will be overcome by the craving, the thirst - nay, the insatiable hunger - to spend a weekend living free and wild (and probably half naked).  Well, here’s hoping when I finally succumb to my fevered lust for immaturity that it is (1) blog-worthy and (2) without police intervention.  w00t!

The girls go wild at humor-blogs.com.

I am alone. I am utterly alone. At this exact moment Neanderthal and the munchkins are well on their way to meet Doofhead, father of munchkins, and I have the entire weekend to myself. Happy Mental Health Weekend!

What’s that, you ask? What did I do with my first moments of silence? Cranked some tunes, of course! The total silence is too deafening for my taste.

So how do I plan to spend my weekend of no responsibility? I have a few ideas:

1. Naked Solo (no relation to Han) House Party. But I’d be too afraid the neighbor’s dog would see me and keel over of fright in my backyard. How do you explain to a stranger that the mere sight of your sagging, wrinkly bosoms caused their beloved pet to take seizures and die? Worse yet, how do you explain it when you answer the door while holding your own nipples?

2. Gardening. But then you must consider that I am cursed with the Green Thumb of Death. Seriously, if it is non-mammalian, and I touch it, it WILL die. Fish, caterpillars, cacti, even a Chia Pet - I have slaughtered them all.

3. Chick Flick Marathon. But, honestly, who wants to spend their first weekend alone in seven years reduced to a flesh-toned, slobbering blob of hormones, hugging a box of tissues and feeling sorry for themselves?

4. Catch Up On Email. Then again, how many inspirational- send- this- to- everyone- you- know- or- the- seventeen- spawns- of- hell- shall- come- forth- and- eat- your- spleen forwards can a person handle in one weekend? Dammit, mom, stop sending me this shit!

5. Shopping. This would be a viable option if I didn’t hate shopping. I don’t even like stopping at the gas station, it’s too much like the real thing.

Eh, who am I kidding? I’m gonna spend the weekend in my bathrobe, drinking rum, eating Ben & Jerry’s, pwning noobs on Guild Wars and watching Monty Python. And I can’t wait to get started!

Break the silence! Go to Humor-Blogs.com!

Given the current state of things in my fluffy, pink universe, I am looking for full-time employment. I am not comfortable enough with the fluctuating freelance market to rely on it solely to support myself and my children. I will be continuing my life’s dream as supplemental income, however.

That being said, I had an interview yesterday for an Administrative Assistant (ie, glorified secretary) with a recycling company. The position is back home - where I will be within the next month - and required a 6 hour drive round-trip.

It was quite possibly the single most unique interview I have ever had. It was set up in 4 stations:

Station #1: Hide-N-Seek.

When they called for the interview, they told me I would be interviewing at the main office. When I arrived at the main office, they gave me directions to the office I needed in the following manner:

Yes, ma’am, you are in the right place. Now I have to give you directions to the other office. You cannot write them down. I cannot repeat them a second time. Go to the end of the building, make a left. This will put you on a dirt road. Follow that road to building 470A and make a right. When you pass the container reading ‘Office Paper’, you will see building 62C on your left. Park on the right, enter through the glass door. The office you want is down the second hall to the left, third door on the right. You have ten minutes to get there. Good luck!

Station #2: I Heart Word Problems.

Upon entering the next office, I was met by a perky little girl with a ponytail and a Hollister t-shirt. She smiled, welcomed me to the next phase of this bizarre process and handed me a four page math test and a number two pencil. She then took my purse and cell phone, pointed toward a table in the next room and told me I had ten minutes to complete the eight question exam. I could not under any circumstances use a calculator and if I asked for assistance, I was done.

I took my seat and opened the packet to the first page:

Aluminum pays $0.70 per pound. Copper pays $9.50 per 100 pounds. Bob’s truck has a gross weight of 2,927 pounds. His tare weight is 1,012 pounds. 60% of his load is aluminum. The remaining weight is copper. Without rounding, how much money do we owe Bob? And how would you pay this amount (ie, number of twenties, tens, quarters, pennies, etc)?

A woman wearing jeans two-sizes too small and a tube top with an unsightly roll of belly fat took a seat next to me, opened her packet, stared at the first page for roughly three minutes, closed the packet and walked out of the building.

Station #3: Random Guess.

I handed in my handy dandy math test at the next office where they proceeded to hand me a vocabulary/general office knowledge test. It was five pages and, again, I had ten minutes to complete it.

This one was relatively simple aside from a few definitions:

Define a gross ton.

Define a net ton.

Correct me if I am wrong, but isn’t a ton a ton? Seems to me it’s a bit like asking which weighs more: a pound of feathers or a pound of lead? I have yet to find anyone who can give a definitive answer to this query.

Station #4: Human Interaction.

From there, I was ushered into a room with a live person who actually wanted to talk to me. It was a refreshing change from ‘Here. Do this. If you can’t figure it out, screw you.’

From what I was able to sneak a peak at on the interviewer’s paper, I was being scored on my ability to annunciate, professional self-presentation, overall personality, vocabulary skills and vocal tone.

I am assuming if you walk in with a tube top and a fat roll, you’re not going any further to begin with. In addition, again assuming here, you will not be called back if you sit down and proceed with:

‘Whelp, I’us gonna go gets sum help wit dat dere maff test, but them’ns told me I ain’t ‘llowed ta ask fer no help. An dat dere test were hard. I mean real hard.’

You may laugh, but we’re talking backwoods, podunk, redneck Pennsyltucky - Eighth-grade-graduate-on-a-bad-day IS the local dialect.

In the back of the room were two clearly visible piles of resumes/tests/personality profile forms. From my experience working in HR for various companies, I would wager one pile is the “Check these tests for call backs” pile and the other is the “Burn the evidence” pile. But they didn’t add your papers to a pile until AFTER you left the room.

The Aftermath

“We’ll be making call backs for second interviews later this week. Best of luck to you.” And with that, I was handed my purse and phone and pointed toward the door. Mind you, they didn’t even OFFER me directions back out of the place.

And now we wait. All I can say is if you’re gonna make me do stupid human tricks, you’d best be payin’ good. I mean real good.

Who needs a job when there’s Humor-Blogs.com?

In a recent article in the North Wales Chronicle, a tale is told of the Order of Holyhead Jedis from the UK Jedi Church. They have purchased a plot of moon land and intend to colonize it. All one acre of it. On the plus side, however, they DID purchase the land on the uber-desirable light-side of the moon. So… when will the First Evangelical Church of the Sith get to purchase land on the dark side? (Bad joke, but irresistible nonetheless)…

I want a super-monk cloak and a K-Mart light saber, too!

Hence forth, I demand to be referred to as Jedi Lunar Baroness Squeak, High Priestess of the Celestial Holyhead Jedi Order of the Galactic States of Jediism.

And they all said, “Amen.”

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