This is where I question whether a power suit and a sharpie can fix everything
My two fake bosses want to have a fake meeting with me and I’m nervous, really nervous. I’ve had knots in my stomach for days mainly because I’ve no idea what the hell the meeting is for.
But I know they’re expecting something from me. One of them keeps coming over and reminding me about it and asking about my overall objectives and where I am in my tactical plan for the company.
So far I’ve come up with this:
- Overall objective- to complete 6 weeks work placement without getting fired.
- Indicators- that I’ve accomplished this will be when I don’t have to come in anymore.
- Tactics-turn up everyday until I no longer have to.
I’m wondering if that would look better in a word document.
I’m tempted to go for the Allen Gregory approach in which case I will need
- White Board with a large and small circle drawn on it
- Long pointing stick ( the kind teachers used to use)
- A power suit (Dallas style-lose the perm but keep the shoulder pads)
Without saying a word I’ll get up and point to the large circle with the stick and say
‘this is all the money in the world and this‘
(pointing to other circle)
‘is your business‘
( Back to bigger circle) ‘AND THIS IS WHAT WE’RE GOING TO ACHIEVE‘.
Obviously I’ll really need to sell it at the end there. Maybe introduce music.
So 5. Bring power ballad CD
Inanimate objects never live, yet at the same time live forever – Brett Shandler
I have a fake job for a few weeks or a “WORK PLACEMENT” as they like to call it in the biz. I’ve come to realise that work placement is the name they give to work experience when they feel the person undertaking it, is on the mature side. A revelation that resulted in a bottle of wine being drunk and some tears being shed and while I’m not entirely sure the wine wouldn’t have been drunk anyway the tears, the tears are on them.
“I’m encouraging my co-workers not to grow attached or to feed me scraps from the lunch room”
Fake work, I’ve come to discover is a lot like real work except without the pay or dignity. I’ve done a few of these over the years so I know the drill. You’re a bit like a stray dog who’s allowed to stay until its real owner turns up. So I’m encouraging my co-workers not to grow attached or to feed me scraps from the lunch room. I know how damn lovable I can be plus once you feed me there’ll be no getting rid of me, just ask any of the sample givers in Supervalu.
So far I’ve completed three weeks of my designated six and I believe I’m making quite the impression. The boss has taken to regularly not noticing I exist in any shape or form. He appears quite startled anytime he accidentally meets me in the break room. and says things like ‘Oh I didn’t know you were in’ or ‘I didn’t like that picture you put up’. I of course play along as though I know exactly what picture he’s talking about or even where the hell I put it up. The other day he asked my co-worker if I’d been in that day which was a little disconcerting as I was sitting three feet away on the showroom floor at the time. It also offended me that he hadn’t noticed the four Instagram followers I had gained that day, granted I had lost one by close of business. But three out of four ain’t bad especially when you’re doing a rather good impression of an inanimate object.
Apparently me and Jennifer Garner are having difficulty sleeping. The only difference is hers is a result of separating from her movie star husband whilst mine is a repercussion of sleeping in until 2 o’clock every day because I have nothing better to do but Hey potato, tomato I say. Either way I like the idea of her watching awful late night television like me. I wonder does she too enjoy the mesmorising effect of E! where the flashing lights lull you into a cross between zoned out consciousness and an epileptic fit. I find the egotistic ‘Keeping up with the Kardashians’ particularly good at turning me into one of those aliens off ‘Toy Story’. Every so often I let out an OOOOOHHHH and a ‘Kris is my master now’. I like the way it allows my brain concentrate on more important issues than job seeking like, ‘just where is Bora Bora?’ or ‘If I had to be stuck on an Arran Island with one, which Kardashian would I prefer?’. I pretty sure I’d pick Scott. I’ve always thought he was a hop, skip and a jump away from going all American Psycho and I’d take that blood bath any day over a conversation with Kim.
Anyway during one of my late night session me and no doubt Jennifer came across an episode that was, dare I say it, particularly thought provoking. And while I don’t have the sophisticated tools needed to eloquently describe the narrative of a ‘Keeping up with the Kardashians’ episode. I’ll give it a shot in the dark, in the hope that you too may gain some wisdom in your life or Kardashdom if you will.
So Kris the manager/manager/manager, had forgotten how much she liked to play tennis so makes the decision to start playing again. This apparently requires a film crew to be present while she announces this decision to Kim, Kourt and Khloe. And to be fair I’m glad the camera crew were there because what happened next was unbelievable! Basically the 3 K’s laughed, get this, in Kris’s face. I mean that woman is practically like family to them. So Kris because of this doesn’t want to play tennis anymore because she felt stupid and not just because she was wearing a full tennis outfit complete with head and wrist sweatbands at the time. No, it was because they were insensitive to her feelings. Anyway somehow the girls managed to work this out in between working half an hour a month in their own stores and apologised to her. Which was lovely and the episode ended with the girls watching Kris playing tennis for ten seconds before being handsomely paid for their efforts. So basically the life lesson here is that Bora, Bora is is a small island northwest of Tahiti in the French Polynesia. YOUR WELCOME.
My ‘perfect version of me’ got on the bus the other day. I almost missed her after all you don’t expect that sort of thing to happen on Gardiner street. But there she was, The enviable seasoned traveller I’ve always wanted to be. A person unafraid to stay in a hostel and share a communal bathroom. The type of person who doesn’t require a months research on travel adviser before booking a weekend away in Cork. Oh how I envy her type Even her outfit oozed a coolness that only comes from a Summer spent building huts for orphans in some remote area. She had on an Aztec orange skirt with worn hiking boots and thick woolly socks and she somehow managed to look as though she’d just stepped off a vogue travel shoot in between casting calls. She had with her this perfectly sized blue backpack the kind that didn’t hit people in the face whenever you moved or required an apology because it took up a seat reserved for elderly people. No this bag was manageable and effortless just like her. I realised our bus was beginning to near the airport and I found myself panicking. She’s going to get off and go somewhere amazing and I’m not and then it occurred to me. Maybe I could beg this complete stranger to take me with her? I mean sure it might be awkward for a few moments but then perhaps she was in the market for a travelling bestie or yearned for a conversational companion. I mean I wasn’t naive I knew I’d probably have to sell her on the idea. I figured I could start off by telling her about my jewellery making experience and how I felt certain I could finance our entire trip by selling beaded necklaces on exotic beaches to people who appreciate the abstract if she could just see her way to paying for my first plane ticket. If she was at all hesitant I would bring up my 2 weeks training in dance and I assumed once she heard I knew all the steps to Michael Jackson’s Thriller, well lets just say I felt pretty confident what her response would be. But before I’d even finished wording my speech in my head she was gone. The ‘traveling version of me’ had gotten off the bus. I lost her to terminal 2, along with her air of knowing exactly where she’s heading. Still at leased I’ll always have my beaded necklace empire.
image courtesy of the brilliant Steve Heath, check out the rest of his images at https://90steve.wordpress.com/tag/robert-frost/
info about his licensing http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-nd/3.0/us/
I was summoned to the ‘Fake Fas’ office the other day. They’d moved to a new building which seems to be causing much confusion amongst the people of North Dublin. As the whole way there I’m met by a series of buildings with signs outside saying they are ‘not’ the new employment office. Eventually I spot a couple of men with pads and pens and figured I was heading in the right direction plus I realised I really should have brought a pad and a pen. I’m beginning to think my damn tiny handbag is holding me back. This is the second time it’s left me ill- prepared. As I enter the new office, a case worker is outside giving a prep talk to a teenager. I wonder why I’ve never been given a prep talk. I respond quite well to that kind of ‘softly, softly, catchy monkey approach’. It’s why I stayed so long in band practice even though I never got to play an instrument. I spent a year practicing blowing into a bottle for the flute that never came.
Inside I spot a lot of people filling out clip boards which turn out to be updating our employment history. At this stage mine resembles a mind map and a haunting reminder of employment past. Soon we are led into a small room. Inside I can’t help but think of the x-factor audition stage where there are two rooms and one gets all excited and screams because they’ve made it through and the other room is sad and depressing because they’ve been told they’re the losers and have to go home now. This is like the latter except there was no anticipation beforehand or ‘lifelong’ friends made. There are however awkward shuffling and careful consideration to not sit beside anybody.
On each chair lies a hand-out and it soon becomes apparent that the hand-outs are print outs of the power-point the woman is going to read off word for word for the next twenty-two minutes. I know its twenty-two minutes because a man kindly announces this to us at the beginning or as he puts it ‘around twenty-two minutes’. Which leads me to believe he’s off for around a twenty-two minute coffee break? The woman giving the talk clearly lost the coin toss and does not look happy about it. At the end of reading the powerpoint/hand-outs verbatim, she announces ‘well if nobody has any questions, I’ll see you at your meetings’. Nobody dares raise their hand; we’ve all been in the game long enough to know a rhetorical question when we hear it. Besides none of us want to get onto her radar, there’s only so many times one can get out of bed before 11 before being unemployed resembles working.
I saw a job advertised the other day and thought I know this job, I could be good at this job. I felt certain this was the one for me and I know what you’re thinking, it’s not like the other times, I swear. This one’s for real, I can feel it. I went over my entire job history. Putting down anything that resembled what they were looking for. I felt like Keanu Reeves at the beginning of the Matrix when he was waiting for that mysterious man at the door with the two pills or in my case a missed call from an unknown number. By the time I’d finished with the application I was mentally exhausted. Reading people’s mind is not as easy as Darren Brown makes it out to be. And then I read you could send in a C.V. as well. Does that mean they want a CV or they don’t want one? That would require more hours of work and basically repeating what I put on the application form. But maybe that’s their screening process.
Maybe anybody who doesn’t send in a CV is instantly pushed aside as being lazy for not having enough gumption. Do I have Gumption? Do they want gumption? I decided to just send my precious application with no CV. Perhaps ballsy is what they’re looking for more. Perhaps they want me to read between the lines after all why have an application if they in fact want a CV. I’m finally ready to send the application when it occurs me what do I do about the essential cover letter. Do I just put it in the email? Do I attach a separate cover letter which of course means I would also need an attention grabbing email to lead them to the cover letter that brings them to the precious application? I don’t know why she swallowed the fly perhaps she’ll die. I finally email it in. I set it free. I felt certain it loved me enough to come to me. I handed it over to the gods or at least a man named Derek in small caps. I felt relieved. I had agonised over this for a week and a half and finally I had my evening back to enjoy. Call me Derek for the love of all that is Holy call me or at the very least send me a rejection email.
(The following was written after watching Sin City 2 and I may have been slightly influenced by it)
My eyes linger over every word. I eat them up like a cute puppy with a Dental stick. Over and Over I read it, searching for the clues, the answers, the EVERYTHING. I may not know much in this God forsaken life but I know a job description is the holy bible of jobs and I’m too long in the tooth to mess this one up. It’s got everything. 22 grand a year, holidays, a pension plan. That’s not something to be laughed at and I ain’t giggling no more.
I read through the description over and over again searching for clues. I may not know much in life but experience has taught me, this is where I will find the answers. If I could just break their God damn code, God dammit. I might just make it through to a job interview. The precious interview which now seems as elusive as an actual job. I re-read, I make notes, I draw diagrams , I compare and contrast and align my experience with what they want. Then I finally feel ready to conquer the 8 page application. I start off nice and easy, no sense in stressing me out this early on: Name, address, Phone number so far so good. I begin to feel at ease. I can do this I’m an individual with average intelligence and a knack for witty dialogue. I can fill in an application form. But just as I’m beginning to get cocky I come to the work experience section. I know this is what they really want. This is the money shot. Fuck this up lady and you’re going nowhere faster than an x-factor winner after Christmas.
I start trawling through old curriculum vitae’s for lingo that might make me sound good when that fails I turn to the expansive internet to fill the gabs. I re-read the job description over and over and OVER again and use a thesaurus to reword what their asking for. I mean I’m sure nobody’s ever thought of doing that before. This is my DiVinici code. Here lies the secret to a successful life and I will crack it. Three days later I finish the work experience section, I’m a little tired and worse for wear and have spent the past two nights waking up abruptly, sweating and mumbling job jargon. I think the end is in sight then I turn the page and find a whole section for ‘why I think I’m suitable for this position’ which they’ve kindly informed me is how they’ll decide who gets an interview. I feel a throbbing headache coming back and wonder if it’s this hard to get into Yale because in all the movies I’ve seen it usually involves a less than intelligent person giving them a sob story which greatly moves the professors. I consider writing one of these for my application.
Dear Sir or Madam, I haven’t gone impulse shopping in five years and while most people would learn a valuable lesson on the uselessness of consumerism, all its taught me is how much I want stuff. I want stupid stuff and pretty stuff and expensive stuff and stuff I don’t need. And stuff I do need but most of all I don’t want to have to spend forty five minutes in Primark trying to choose between three pairs of €15 boots because I desperately want all three but will probably only wear one and actually can’t really afford any of them. So please give me a job so I can release the consumer monster within. I promise to arrive promptly, work hard and look stylish and funky for all occasions.
I think losing my job is actually a really good thing. Oprah says ‘ you have to open yourself up to possibilities’ and you can’t get more open than jobless. Yes I’m sure the universe is now going to offer me my amazing experiences. I should do up a dream board and make a list of my dream jobs. I may even discover that I’m the most talented person in the world at jewellery making/cake designing/teaching/administrative office skills. I could be the missing link in turning this recession round. God I’m so glad I lost my job. I never would have discovered the person I was suppose to be if I hadn’t.
I hate everyone. Every…single…person. Everytime somebody asks me what I do for a living I just want to slap them about. I have no go-to answer anymore. There are only so many times you can say ‘Not right now’ before the look of pity you receive makes you boil with rage. I don’t need your pity I just need to you to ask me about something other than the parts of my life that I’m failing at. For example movies, my dogs, world events (at a push, it would really have to be big for me to have read about it), Irish celebrities who annoy me and the weather. I really am a fascinating multi-faceted person who just happens to not be working ‘right friggin now’. So ask me any other ‘effing’ question.
Dear Mr Interviewer, if you give me this job I promise to turn up every single day on time, no scrap that, early, I’ll be there before the cleaners. Unless you want to hire me as a cleaner in which case I won’t even bother going home. I will never get sick ever again. My entire period of unemployment was me preparing my body for peak physical fitness. I’m talking Krypton factor obstacle course style. Whilst taking a whole heap of illegal probiotics. I will never ask for ‘acceptable working conditions’, nor expect over-time pay. I will accept the sleazy comments as ‘friendly banter’ and I will always, always fake interest in football/rugby/Zumba when required. I promise to be the single greatest employee you have ever hired.
Get up out of bed around one, stay in pyjamas. Combine breakfast, lunch and snack time by having cereal, toast, a sandwich and half a packet of biscuits. Watch terrible daytime television that you hated when you first became unemployed but has now become part of your daily routine. Those loose women sure have some interesting points. Change into tracksuit that’s resembles pyjamas to walk the dogs. Buy crisps on way home. Get back into pyjamas. Watch 8 hours of Netflix before falling asleep with pizza slice on your face. Repeat the next day.
Doing some ludicrous employment scheme because it reminds you what a capable human being you are. And because your jeans don’t fit anymore and you can’t afford new ones.