Karmic Retribution

I think my cat is trying to tell me something.  Last night I go wandering into the foyer and note that my cat had puked in my shoe.  Like, in it.  The barf was neatly inserted, perfectly cradled by the insole, as if awaiting the moment I slipped my foot in and started hollering in digust.  She did not choose to barf in one of the many pairs of cheap sandals I have strewn about, no.  She chose my very cute and somewhat pricey Skechers that I had my heart set on for a year and finally bought once they went on sale.  I love them so, and I’m not a ’shoe person’ at all.

 So at 3:00 a.m., here I am scrubbing away at my sneaker insoles with stain remover and paper towels whilst cursing the fact that one cannot get shoes dry-cleaned in Toronto.  I know this because I’ve asked several local dry cleaners.  My inquiries were met with confused looks, requests to further elaborate on what I meant by ’sneakers’ or ‘running shoes’, followed by incredulous ‘no’s and a slow backing away as if they feared I may launch said footwear at their heads.   I had no idea this request was peculiar in any way.  They dry-clean sneakers in Amsterdam, a considerably smaller market.  And the Dutch dry cleaners were perfectly capable of understanding and performing the requested service, despite my broken Dutch.  There was no fear or wonderment in their eyes, but then again, the Dutch have seen it all and are pretty stoic about it, so it’s difficult to shock them. 

At last, I finish my sneaker cleaning activities and replace the shoes, while the cat pretends to slumber nearby, concocting an alternative plan seeing as her first attempt went awry. 

This morning I go to slip on a pair of the aforementioned cheap sandals and note that Meg has successfully executed her retaliatory plan.  The same shoe is now filled with considerably more fluid vomit.  This time the evil furball has the good sense to hide so that I don’t extract a more forceful brand of revenge on her ass.  Further shoe cleaning ensues and I have now placed the twice-defiled sneakers in a less accessible spot.  I then locate the perp, who is cowering under the bed with her ears folded back, and hiss:  “SPCA, Meg, you got it?  SPCA.  Next time it’s the needle.”

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Have you ever offered to do something you totally don’t want to do simply because you want to look good and you’re certain you won’t get taken up on it?  Don’t you hate it when you actually do get taken up on it and you’re forced to come through?  Kinda takes the joy out of garnering brownie points while making zero effort, doesn’t it?

I’m unemployed and the job market sucks.  I’m not going to launch into a diatribe about the soul-sucking task of job hunting, I’ll leave that rant for another post, but let’s just say that if getting fired isn’t enough to crush your dignity, jockeying for a new job will take whatever tattered shreds your former employer spared and grind them up into an unrecognizable pulp. 

 So I applied for this position that actually looked like something I wanted to do.  Not to mention I’m actually qualified for it, it would be a natural step in my career progression, and would make for excellent conversation at parties, where I would assuredly have one of the most interesting jobs in the room.  And then there’s the added bonus that it’s unionized, thus negating any chance of getting fired, save for criminal activity (and even then…)

After sending in the requisite resume and cover letter, the next step on your road to utter loss of dignity is the dreaded follow-up phone call.  You know, the one where you call whatever HR admin wanker is listed in the ad, ‘just to make sure’ they got your application?  And you know they’re all: ‘Leave me alone, desperate person, I’ve actually got a job to do here, unlike you.’  And you really can’t blame them because in fact, you are a desperate person with no job, unlike them. 

So I suck it up and make the call.  The HR admin wanker is surprisingly non-wankish and forthcoming with information.  She lets me know that they received over 300 applications for this one position, and that she and three of the managerial staff are meeting Friday afternoon to discuss who they want to interview.  If you hear from us, great, if not, you’re outta luck.  I thank her in my best professional voice, hang up the phone and promptly start to imagine myself living in a refrigerator box under the Gardiner Expressway.  After indulging in my little pity-party, I concoct what I believe to be a foolproof plan.  

I will use my investigatory (read: stalking) skills to hunt down the names and contact information of these managers and email them a request to have a phone conversation about the specifics of the job, because a job posting can’t really give you a feel for the day-to-day realities, blah blah blah asskiss.  My intention here is not to have this conversation at all– I just want these people to remember my name and think of me as a keener when my resume comes up in the Friday meeting.  I have no fear that anyone will actually volunteer to speak to me, after all, this organization is super-busy and who can spare the time to entertain the questions of a desperate unemployed person who is obviously angling for special consideration?

Well, apparently they can.

 Today I get an email from the Senior Manager, offering a little phone convo Friday morning, seeing as he’s in meetings all afternoon (you don’t say).  I enthusiastically take him up on his offer with hearty thanks and let him know I’ll give him a call at 11:00.      

Yeah, so now I’m shitting my pants.  What the hell am I going to ask this guy so I don’t look like a complete asshole?  How can I tread that thin line between the sycophantism of Eddie Haskell and the cool confidence of Arthur Fonzarelli?  What do I do to shut up the voice inside my head reminding me that my ass-kissing ways are utterly transparent and that my pulverized dignity is about to be blown away like so much dust in the wind?  And sweet merciful Zeus, how do I prevent myself from saying something totally retarded because I never fail to do so whenever I’m nervous?

Oh to hell with it.  I’m going to go watch Big Brother and try to remind myself that there are people out there far more dysfunctional than me who choose to have their idiocy aired on live feeds 24/7.  Or maybe I’ll save my cat the effort and just barf in my own shoes.