So. Job hunting. A royal pain in the arse no one ever enjoys, unless you have masochistic tendencies and you just love filling in forms that are all suspisciously similar to one another, but then again you have to fashion ad hoc answers for each and every of them. And also, read endless About Uses and Our Valueses and Our Historys in order to pretend you had an eye on that specific company since primary school, because you were just dying to serve faux Italian food in a poor imitation of an Italian restaurant that suddenly mushroomed into a nation-wide chain of stores. Which are all my favourite place to eat of course.
Then there’s the trying to turn to your advantage every single thing you’ve done since you were allowed to use grown ups stuff like pens, scissors and credit cards – every single thing. Including that bloody awful poster for a student association that was thankfully covered by other equally dire posters in a matter of days, lovingly scrubbing soil off books (hoping your hands won’t explode with the combination of dust, powder and latex gloves), and of course every single Facebook page you created with 50+ subscribers (half of whom will probably be closely related to you and joining out of pity).
I have to say I still think my best application so far has been for a position as waitress. Easy peasy? Yes. Harmless? Yes. Surprising? Oh, yes.
The fact that no references of experience were required should’ve started me thinking probably, but the hell with it! I just applied, and was duly delighted when a new email *dinged* in my inbox after a few hours. They were probably stunned by my CV and all those amazing skills, and me gushing over my love for customer service of course.
My having a vagina and a pair of boobs was probably the best business card ever in that particular case – since , and here I quote, “There will be a set uniform for all hostesses, and although it hasn’t been completely selected yet, it will be an underwear set of bra and pants. It won’t be skimpy, you will be covered”
Just how can a set of bra and pants NOT be skimpy I wonder? My other thought was trying to start a career as a respected librarian, with a dark past as waitress-slash-stripper pretty much like Catherine Willows in CSI, minus a deaf boss possibly. Now that would be one hell of a TV show.
The you realise that you agreed five weeks of unpaid work some time ago, essentially you had lost all hopes of actually getting paid for your time and were just looking for stuff to buff up your CV. And all your plans of applying for that lovely position as sales assistant at Paperchase suddenly collapsed, because in fairness who’s going to wait a whole month before you’re actually available for working?
Oh, wait, if you could just adjust everyone else’s schedule to mine, that would be fabby, I’m available 5.30 to 6.00 and on weekends!
Anyhoo, let’s try and have a more positive outlook on life (or +ve, as my career adviser jotted down on my CV), and also let’s try to find a way to stick this gif
in a post about that time when I inadvertently walked into the kitchen to be greeted by my favourite flatmate frying pepperoni in a pan that could possibly be made into diamonds with the adequate amount of heat and pressure, and, once more with feeling, with the windows carefully shut and all sources of fresh air blocked, judging by the smell and a fog that scarily reminded me of the Necromancer (I might’ve heard some Black Speech being spoken in the middle of it).