A few months ago I applied for a job and got a call back. It was an okay job. Not perfect, not great – but 2012 had really punched me in the nads and I desperately needed the work, so in true Beej fashion I overlooked every possible negative, convinced myself this was the ABSOLUTE BEST JOB EVER CREATED IN THE HISTORY OF JOBS — and went about the business of making it mine.
As it turned out, “making it mine” involved navigating through an unreasonably long and complicated interview process. Phone interviews, in-person meetings, extensive email exchanges, really REALLY stupid personality assessments, complex written assignments… each step was like some kind of death challenge I could survive only through the cunning use of my skills, wit and charm.
You know, like Skyrim or something.
But, whatever. Fuck it! This was, after all, THE ABSOLUTE BEST JOB EVER and I AM BEEJ! I can do anything! This is nothing, a mere bump in the road. I shall win. Win. Win at all costs.
So I unrolled my pack of weapons and magic and went at it. I jumped through the fiery hoops and slayed the scary monsters and juggled the knives and danced the jigs and the whole time I just smiled, smiled, smiled — like my fucking teeth were on fire.
And it was working, y’all! They loved me! They said so! And I loved them, too, I swear I did – even if they didn’t offer dental.
In every interview, every email, they begged me for more. They showered me with attention and love and glowing praise for my amazing talent and mind-bending smarts and incredible beauty and keen fashion sense and it all felt a lot like this:
This job was mine. In my head I was already at my new desk, chewing on a pencil as I came up with yet another brilliantly conceived piece of work. I went on a mental shopping spree with all my extra scratch. I planned trips to the doctor, since I’d finally have health insurance again, and worked out my entire first-week wardrobe.
All I had to do now was sit back and wait for the call. Which was just about to come in. Any minute now.
Three days after the day they’d said they’d let me know, I called. No one called me back. I waited another day (didn’t want to seem too desperate) (and you’ll appreciate the irony of that in just a minute), then emailed. No one responded. I called again.
To an outsider it would’ve seemed obvious that they’d chosen to “go a different route” — but to me? NOPE. Nothing “obvious” about it. As far as I was concerned, until I heard it from their lips or saw it in black and white, hope was still alive. Seriously! There were a million other possible explanations!
Perhaps a large bookcase has fallen on top of the Hiring Manager and he’s trapped. Or maybe he’s contracted a burning case of explosive diarrhea and can’t get to the phone. Should I call someone to check? Ebola could be eating his face, for chrissake! Who KNOWS what tragedy has befallen this poor man??
The silence was deafening. I mean really, COME ON. It’s so douchey to leave me hanging like that. At least have the balls to give me the “It’s not you, it’s ME” speech or something! (Although in hindsight, I’m not so sure that would’ve made a dent. At this point, I was pretty much set to lose my shit no matter what.)
And so the email blitz began.
“Hey, there! Just checking in! Any decisions about that job yet?”
“Hey, again! Haven’t heard from you, hope everything’s okay…?”
“Hey, you. Sorry to bother you again, but I’m really starting to get worried over here, sure hope you’re all right!”
“Listen, if I’m not hired for the job that’s fine, but I just really need to know one way or the other. Could you please get back with me?”
“Hey, I’ve had another opportunity come along [lie] and just really need to know what to tell them. If you could let me know whether I’m still being considered for the position, I’d sure appreciate it…”
“You know, it’s really rude for you not to respond. I’ve had lots of other offers [lie] and unless I hear from you soon, I’m going to have to start exploring other options [empty threat].”
“(tap-tap-tap) Is this thing on?”
“Okay, I’m starting to get a little angry over here, mister. I poured my heart and soul into that interview process, and all I’m asking is for you to just tell me one way or the other.”
“FUCK YOU, HIRING MANAGER! Just FUCK YOU! I hope ebola IS eating your face right now! I HATE YOU!”
“Listen, I’m sorry. I might have gone a little overboard just then. It’s just that I really need to know, you know? So could you please? Let me know, I mean?”
I couldn’t let it go. I KNEW I was acting like a total nut job… I even had the sense to be embarrassed about it. But I just couldn’t stop until I had my answer.
Now, if this had happened five or ten years ago I would’ve been over it within a day or two. I would have puffed my chest up — Oh yeah? Well, I didn’t want your shitty job anyway! YOUR LOSS, muthafucka – and bounced right back to find something even better without so much as a wince. But my bravado’s been slipping over the past few years. I don’t know if it’s an age thing, or a woman thing, or just a Beej thing – maybe it’s just one unfair, totally by surprise, we-fucking-love-you-no-wait-who-are-you-again? rejection too many — but whatever it is I just can’t seem to take the hard knocks like I used to. Even when they come from a job that, in all honesty, really wasn’t that great to begin with.
Anyway. The whole story ends exactly how you’d expect it to. I did finally get my response, and it was… well… let’s just say no restraining orders have been filed and I’m really glad about that.
But I do hope they’ll still consider me for any future positions that might come up.
- The endless cycle of Beej’s hair: grow out, get bored, cut, cry, grow out, get bored, cut, cry, and so on
- A “party” where you are expected to buy shit is NOT a party. It is a SALE.
- Hiding Out and Soul Man: Proof that both racism and statutory rape were a lot funnier in the 80s
- Side topic: Theories of post-80s life progression for Rae Dawn Chong
- The awesome sex dream I had about Matt Damon and how my cat ruined it
- The Vermont Country Store’s “Sexual Wellness” section: Because old people need vibrators, too
- The fact that it’s possible to get a pimple after the age of 40 is one of life’s greatest Fuck Yous.
- Pump Up the Volume was Christian Slater’s finest film – despite the presence of Samantha Mathis — and if you say otherwise I’ll punch you in the throat
- I have become convinced that I’m growing jowls
- NOEL does not mean what I thought it meant
- I want to adopt a potbellied pig and name it Amy Swinehouse, but I’m concerned this would seem disrespectful
- My anagram name is BLEW THE JELLY and I think this is wonderful
- How I walked into Home Depot for light bulbs and walked out with new blinds, a $500 gas grill, photos of a man with pomade in his hair and no light bulbs
- What the fuck is this Daniel Tiger bullshit and how can we put a stop to it?
- The multiple ways in which I continue to fuck up my life daily
- Fart bubbles
- Adam Carolla will never not be a douche
- Capri pants are a crime against humanity
- Mean girl drama wasn’t cute in high school and it’s even less cute at age 40
- Boob shrinkage
Obviously none of these ideas were good enough to publish on this here fine, highbrow blog. I passed them all up and wrote a poem about hair in my ass crack instead.
How I felt when the election coverage really started gearing up:
How I felt when the Republicans picked Mitt Romney as their candidate:
What I see every time I look at Donald Trump:
How I feel every time Michele Bachmann opens her mouth to say something:
How I felt about all my friends on Facebook BEFORE the election posts started:
How I felt about them AFTER the election posts started:
How I felt about Todd Akin’s rape remarks:
How I felt every time I read a post from someone suggesting that people in my political party are baby haters, family haters, country haters, god haters or some combination thereof:
How I felt watching the election returns:
How I imagine Todd Akin felt:
What I will look like next time I’m in Washington or Colorado:
What everyone at Romney headquarters looked like at the beginning of the night:
What everyone at Romney headquarters looked like by the end of the night:
How I felt during Obama’s acceptance speech:
How I hope we can all feel, now that it’s finally over:
Here’s to the next four years. Let’s make it work, y’all.
So this week I learned that David Gandy exists. Do you know who David Gandy is? No? Well, let me enlighten you.
THIS is David Gandy:
Uh, yeah. David Gandy EXISTS, y’all. He exists like a motherfucker. He can exist the hell out of me, anytime he wants. I found him by accident, doing something on the Internet that was probably really important, like paying my mortgage or researching a cure for diabetes or something. But then I found a slideshow of David Gandy photos and I was all, “FUCK THE MORTGAGE AND THE DIABETES. I’M IN LOVE WITH DAVID GANDY” and I spent the next hour or so just looking and drooling and looking and drooling and looking and drooling and so on.
I’m sure there are plenty of people already at work on that diabetes thing, anyway.
Lucky for everyone, the Big Bean happened to be sitting next to me when I came across this amazing gift from the sex gods and as I clicked from one flaming loins photo to the next, our conversation proved that (1) the Big Bean uses humor to mask his own insecurities and (B) We old.
ME: Oh. Oh, my. Wow.
BIG BEAN: (turns up volume)
ME: Oh, dear. (sharp intake of breath) Holy SHIT! Wowza!
BIG BEAN: (looks annoyed)
ME: (loud whistle)
BIG BEAN: Okay, what the HELL are you looking a—
glances over and sees this:
ME: I know, right?
BIG BEAN: I really could have gone all day without seeing that.
ME: Well, I couldn’t.
clicks to this one:
BIG BEAN: What the hell is this, anyway?
ME: It’s David Gandy. He’s a supermodel.
BIG BEAN: He’s not so hot.
ME: No, of course not. I mean, unless you’re really into guys with rock hard abs and bodies made of chiseled stone and magic sexy fairy dust.
BIG BEAN: Which you’re not into at all.
BIG BEAN: That must be the most uncomfortable bed in the world.
BIG BEAN: I guarantee, that guy was performing manual override just before this picture.
ME: Manual override?
BIG BEAN: Yeah, you know. Squeezing the weasel.
ME: (confused stare)
BIG BEAN: Pounding the flounder? Polishing the rocket? Beating the meat? JERKING OFF, honey. Come on, learn your slang. See there, where his pants are undone? And how exhausted he looks? That guy just had a jerkathon.
BIG BEAN: Kids these days, and their fucking fashion.
ME: Oh. Dear.
BIG BEAN: Is that guy humping a pillow?
ME: How come you never stand like that in your underwear?
BIG BEAN: Are you kidding? I do that all the time. I just did it a little while ago when I was changing out of my work clothes.
BIG BEAN: Um… someone should really tell him he’s doing that wrong.
BIG BEAN: Well, hell. Even I‘d fuck that guy.
Yesterday the Bean and I went to a carnival. We found it totally by accident, on our way to another event called “Touch a Truck” which was basically just a huge, dusty field lined with big trucks, a partially deflated bouncy house, and a big pile of dirt for kids to fuck around in and then track back to their parents’ cars. Awesome name, lame event.
Seriously, the only real thing of note there was the vanilla-flavored Sno-Cone I ordered just so I could say things like, “Mmm, I just LOVE having Vanilla Ice in my mouth!” and “I am going to swallow all this Vanilla Ice!” while my friends looked disgusted and my son looked confused.
Anyway, after standing in line for 20 minutes so the Bean could sit in the driver’s seat of a fire truck and *not* pose for pictures, we were both like, “Um… FUCK THIS,” and left to go to the carnival instead.
Hey, here’s something:
Me, age 12: “OMG OMG OMG THE CARNIVAL!! I can’t wait to run around with my BFF like we own the place! I don’t care at ALL that all the carnies look creepy and smell weird! And who cares that each ride is held together with chewed gum and fishing wire and costs $43 to ride? Sure as hell NOT ME! I’m going on every ride at least twice! And then I will eat an entire candy apple and jump on those revolving swings so I can barf in a trash can later!* I hope no cute boys are looking because I might want to make out with one later! YEAH! Whee!!”
Me, yesterday: “Yay! The carnival! The Bean will LOVE it! Oh, look how happy he is! This is wonderful! Wait, why are there so many delinquent youths here? Are those two ugly preteen children making out on the Kiddie Barnyard ride? Gross. Huh… was the carnival always this expensive? There sure are a lot of people smoking around here. And that one gentleman running the Moby Dick ride looks an awful lot like one of those mug shots I saw on the Sex Offender Registry when I checked before trick-or-treating. Wait, you want me to ride what? Um, no thank you, I think I’ll pass on the Deathtrap Zipper Ride and the Vomit Spin. What do you MEAN children under 46 inches must ride with an adult? Fuck YOU, Sex Offender Carny. Just fuck you.”
But of course I DID ride every ride, because that was what the Bean wanted and if any kid has mastered the art of Getting What He Wants Via Sad Face, it’s my kid. (Inappropriately Proud Mama moment… okay, over it.)
So I tried not to barf on the Tilt-a-Puke (narrow success) and tried not to cry on the Demons of Speed and Force (less successful) and just blatantly SOBBED on the Paragliders of Death ride after my so-called “friend” Paige, who’s a court reporter, gleefully announced while we were still in line that she had done depositions on “lots” of injury cases thanks to carnival rides “just like this” and then I noticed that the fellow running this particular ride was missing several incisors. The Bean (who clearly doesn’t understand how unlikely it is that someone unable to perform even the most basic dental hygiene maneuvers will be motivated to follow carnival equipment maintenance guidelines to the letter) happily climbed on board without a care in the world and then laughed in the face of death while I wept openly and shouted things like “PLEASE GOD LET IT BE OVER” and “I WANT MY MOMMY DEAR JESUS WHEN WILL THIS END??!?”
Later, he told me that my torment only served to add to his enjoyment.
I’m just a *little* worried.
Anyway, I left about 80 bucks lighter and a bag of Kettle Corn heavier, with a stuffed unicorn and one very exhausted and satisfied Bean in my backseat. And on the way home, with sleepy eyes and blue cotton candy lips, he muttered (not to anyone in particular), “Best. Day. Ever.” And as much as I hate to admit it… he just might have been right.
* Really happened.
ME: Are you ready for some amazing news?
BIG BEAN: Oh, lord.
ME: No, really. This is fucking AMAZING.
BIG BEAN: Here we go.
ME: Wells Fargo has this new thing where you can take a PICTURE of a CHECK and send it in to deposit it!! You don’t even have to go to the bank or anything!! Isn’t that incredible? I mean, who knew?
BIG BEAN: Um, I knew, and everyone else knew, and all the other banks knew like two years ago.
BIG BEAN: I hate to tell you this, but other banks have been offering that service for years.
ME: No, they haven’t. If they had, I would have heard about it.
BIG BEAN: How would you have heard about it?
ME: On the news.
BIG BEAN: You don’t watch the news.
ME: Well, I read the Internet, and it would have been on the Internet.
BIG BEAN: You read the Internet?
ME: Well not the whole Internet, obviously. But I read some of the Internet. The part with the news.
BIG BEAN: You read the part of the Internet with the news?
BIG BEAN: So what did today’s news say?
ME: Today is Saturday.
BIG BEAN: Yes, it is.
ME: I don’t read the Internet on Saturdays. I take Saturdays off.
BIG BEAN: Okay then, what was yesterday’s news?
ME: Well, yesterday they decided to cancel the New York City Marathon and everyone was really happy about that. And Joss Whedon made a funny video about how Mitt Romney will lead the country to a Zombie Apocalypse. There were some SUPER cute Halloween costumes this year, New York & Company is having a big sale on tops and a lot of people are really thankful for stuff this month.
BIG BEAN: You got all that from Facebook, didn’t you.
ME: Does it really matter?
BIG BEAN: Just make your deposit.
He’s sexy and sparkly and a girl’s true desire.
So what if he’s an old, dead vampire?
It didn’t stop Bella from lighting his fire…
Shut the fuck up about Twilight.
I get it — this story’s the stuff made of dreams.
Panties cream, from old moms to young teens.
But these books have been out fifty years, so it seems…
Shut the fuck up about Twilight.
The truth is, you just wish that you could be Bella
Young and dumb, with a rich, gorgeous fella
And an endless love bond, like you’re under a spell… uh,
Shut the fuck up about Twilight.
Yes, Edward gets you hot, bothered and weepy
But he’s pasty and broody and way too grim reap-y
And a soccer mom pining for him is just creepy
Shut the fuck up about Twilight.
The last movie’s coming, I hope that’s the end
Of the vampire-loves-dumbass-chick trend
Let’s start loving books that don’t suck balls, my friend.
Shut the fuck up about Twilight.
I just had a really terrible, stupid idea. And then I followed through with it, so now it’s more than just a terrible stupid idea, it’s an actual terrible, stupid thing I did.
If you’ve never had a blog you won’t understand how sinister that picture is up there, but trust me when I tell you, it’s fucking evil. NaBloPoMo, in addition to having the lamest name in the history of lamely named participatory events*, can challenge the resolve of even the most confident, prolific, hearty writers. For a writer like me, who’s pretty much the opposite of all those things lately, it’s downright brutal.
So obviously I’m totally doing it!
Here’s how it works: You sign up, you write a post. Every day. For the entire month of November. Which is 30 days, or so the little rhyme tells me. That’s 30 DAYS of panicking, grasping at straws, pulling your hair out, creating sub-par content that you would never publish on your blog ordinarily** and then blissfully hitting the “Publish” button anyway because what-the-fuck-else-are-you-going-to-do? and not even feeling bad about it later because seriously-you-got-nuthin.
I would write more about what a stupid idea this is, or about how tremendously I’m going to suck at it (because hello?? I never even write on this blog anymore!!)… but I’m already wondering what the hell I’ll pull out of my ass for tomorrow’s post so maybe (teaser!) I should save my bitchfest for then.*** Really, why waste words today when I can wait and waste them tomorrow?
JESUS it’s going to be a great November.
** Ah, hell. Who am I kidding? This entire blog is basically nothing BUT sub-par content.
*** I know, right? You already can’t wait to read it.
Disclaimer: The title of this post is “How I Spent Three Hours Looking at Fake Vaginas.” I called it that because I actually DID look at fake vaginas, and then I wrote about it. Here. In this post. There are also pictures of fake vaginas. Here. In this post.
If you don’t want to see pictures of fake vaginas, or read about fake vaginas, you should probably leave now. Because, again, YOU ARE ABOUT TO SEE FAKE VAGINAS. I don’t want to hear any whining about it. You’ve been warned.
So I have this friend who has a friend who works for a company called Fleshlight. And one day my friend was all, “Hey! You should totally pitch some freelance work to Fleshlight!” and I was all, “I don’t know what that is but it sounds horrible,” and he said, “No, it’s awesome. Check it out, I bet you could really write some great stuff for them.” So, being interested in marketing my superior freelance writing services to a higher end, corporate client fucking desperate for work, I opened the web site to see what it was all about.
And then I spent three hours on the Internet looking at fake vaginas.
With an expression on my face very similar to this:
I think I’ve hit a new low.
Anyway I told my friend that I’d never forgive him for making me know that fake vaginas exist and he was all, “Well JEEZ, Beej, I just thought you could write some funny copy for them or something, I didn’t know you’d get all into it or whatever,” and I literally gasped at the offensiveness of that. And when I recovered I explained that I wasn’t into it, but rather shocked and mortified and holy-shit-fake-vaginas-yuck… and all those things fall into a completely different emotional category.
He wasn’t convinced but whatever.
So then I took a hot shower. Scalding hot. For an hour and a half. Which, for the record, did nothing to cleanse the images of Fleshlight from my eyeballs. And when I finally got up from my fetal position, I started thinking about how I should maybe start doing a better job of time management in my life. Because three hours, y’all.
This is when I decided to break down all that time I’d spent looking at fake vaginas. You know, for better analysis and stuff. Because clearly this was a MUCH better use of my time than paying the mortgage or picking my son up from Kindergarten or finishing that project I was supposed to turn in yesterday.
And here it is.
MY THREE HOURS ON FLESHLIGHT
12:00-12:30 Opened home page to find a shiny, golden naked girl covered in chains. Why aren’t the chains attached to anything? Is she a slave who’s escaped from an underground gold mining operation? Is her punishment just to CARRY the heavy chains, like Jacob Marley? So many questions. So few answers.
Wait. Why she is holding that magic golden eye? Why is it winking?
12:31 OHMYGOD THAT IS NOT A MAGIC EYE.
12:31-12:45 B-b-b-but… where does the… how does the… what do you do with the… ???
Realization: I can never un-see this.
12:45-1:00 Initial shock wore off. More information needed. Commenced investigation. Located selection of fake vaginas…
…and assholes. Because of COURSE assholes.
1:00-1:15 Time spent feeling insecure about the inadequacies of my own vagina. Research on possible surgery to improve my vagina’s textural condition, because apparently this is a thing that’s important. I had no idea.
Particularly intimidated by the “mature orifice” and “prize-worthy texture” of the M.I.L.F. Hunter.
Product description: “Get your cock loaded and assume the stealth position! Introducing the M.I.L.F. Hunter by Fleshlight. Made from our patented SuperSkin™ material, the M.I.L.F. Hunter Fleshlight product features a mature orifice with a prize-worthy texture, and comes with a camo-green case. Order now before you miss your shot!”
1:15-1:30 WAIT. STOP. NO. WAIT.
Is that vagina…
(Additional time spent coming to terms with the knowledge that I will never be okay again.)
1:30-1:45 Perused the new and exciting “Sex in a Can” product line of fake vaginas/mouths/assholes — cleverly disguised inside fake beer cans. For when you need to take your vagina/mouth/asshole on the go, obviously. Yes. This is necessary.
Product description for Lady Lager: “Born in the heart of Texas’ hill country, Lady Lager is carefully handcrafted by masturbrewers with our patented SuperSkin Material for a truly lifelike feel. This lady combines the choicest lips and the rarest sensations you’ll always fill up and will never let you down.”
Masturbrewers? Never let you down? Everything about this makes me realize that I am a total failure as a copywriter.
1:45-2:00 Oh hey! They have a Halloween section!
Oh. Dear. They have a Halloween section.
Seriously? Bumpy, veiny zombie and Frankenstein vaginas and dildos? THIS COULD NOT POSSIBLY GET ANY SEXIER.
2:00-2:15 Um… now, wait a minute. I’m confused.
Isn’t this the kind of thing that penises usually wish to AVOID?
Here my confusion led to extensive polling of my male friends, with questions like, “But… ouch? Right?” and “In what way is this good?” Their answers were generally just as confused as I was. (Favorite comment: “I think my penis just tried to crawl back inside my body.”)
2:15-2:20 Hmm. Now, what could this cute little contraption be?
2:20-2:45 Ooooohhhh. I see. Oh, my.
2:45-3:00 And now, for the rest of my life, I will imagine every man who enters my frame of vision humping a cat tree.
Thank you for that, Fleshlight.
3:00 At this point, I realized that the Little Bean had been waiting for me to pick him up from school for about 45 minutes. And that is the one and only reason I stopped looking at fake vaginas.
Side note: I am the best mom ever.
So. The good news is, after proper analysis I’ve come away from all of this a little wiser and a whole lot more skanky. Which, I’m pretty sure, is EXACTLY the kind of freelancer a company like Fleshlight needs.
Forthcoming: My pitch letter to the Fleshlight Powers That Be. With samples.
Tags: my real vagina is sad