I Hate Interviews

Seriously, sitting in an interview as a potential candidate for a position is like sitting on the toilet while your bowels decide whether or not to release the mountain of crap inside of you, it's just plain painful.

I think the interviewer knows within the first ten minutes if they think you're suitable for the position. It's like dating, you know right away whether or not you want a second date. Unlike dating however, being in an interview requires extensive ass kissing. Between the obscene amount of smiling, laughing and generally attempting to look interested and genuine, I'm exhausted! Plus, do you know how hard it is for me to act proper for longer than 10 minutes? When I get to my car I usually call my husband and start spouting disgusting, rude and tactless comments. It gives a whole other meaning to the word turrets.

I never listen to anything people say if I'm not interested, especially at work. I just do the whole nod my head and make eye contact, but I'm either wondering what would happen if punched them in the face or what they would do if I took my shoe off and started licking it. Does this mean I'm destined to be like Michael Douglas in the movie, "Falling Down?"

I once went to an interview with a CEO of a bank that lasted 1.5 hours and the A-hole interviewing me didn't let me get a word in edgewise. He was too busy talking about himself including how effective his management style was, how he rose through the ranks to make a bazillion dollars and how big his dick is (I'm sure he thinks Ron Jeremy has nothing on him). At the end of the interview he gave me this book and I actually thought it was a nice gesture, until I got home that evening. Take a random guess about who wrote the forward...you're right, the A-hole! He was obviously just trying to spread his literary genius. Dick head.

Then there's the questions. The f-ing questions.

1. Where do you see yourself in 5 or 10 years?
Rolling around in a pile of money while watching you kiss my ass.

2. What were the five most significant accomplishments in your last position?
There's only one, not getting fired.

3. What do you look for in a job?
To work in an environment that allows me to write my blog during the workday, not be expected to follow through on assignments given and the ability to verbally berate customers who are not behaving in a fashion I deem worthy. Oh, I want to get paid a shit load too.

4. Can you explain your salary history?
Yeah, it's pretty lousy.

5. Do you have any questions for me?
Are you done wasting my time?

It's inevitable that I will have to wade neck deep in this crap if we ever want to hightail out of So-Cal. Thinking about it makes me want to kill someone.

Our House F-ing Sucks

So our house has been on the market for about 300 years now and there's no buyer in sight. I would eventually like to leave this silicone boob infested cest pool known as San Diego and move back to a simpler lifestyle.

I'm over spending my life on an interstate moving 5 miles per hour or at a dead stop with my palms sweating and my anxiety level at an all time high because I'm going to be late (when a reasonable person would deduce that leaving one hour in advance would be plenty of time). Back and forth, to and from work I spend anywhere from 45 minutes to 1 and a half hours driving 18 miles.

I'm over spending $16 for a pitcher of Miller Lite and no, this is not a joke. I would never joke about the golden piss. The other night, Donny, myself and my friend Heather went to happy hour. Well, there was absolutely nothing happy about it. Heather and I ordered the $3 happy hour house wine. "That's actually not bad" was the exact thought that went through my head, that is until I saw the size of the wine glass (shot glass would have been a more accurate description). One gulp and I was heading out the door to the liquor store.

I'm over spending an arm and a leg a month for our mortgage payment. By the way, our house is 1,000 square feet. And now that I think about it, it's not even a house, but a condo and technically, we don't actually own the land. So basically, we own the air inbetween the walls. Hmmm, I'm spending a shit load for air?

I know that if we ever actually got offered good jobs in Montana, I would probably shit my pants, but I miss the little things that made life easier. I know this is an atypical post for me, but I'm hungover and feeling a little sentimental.

Two Pounds Down, Ten To Go

Arg! I've gained 10 pounds (okay fine, 12 pounds) and I can't seem to lose any of it! I've basically had to purchase a whole new wardrobe (gasp!) because I literally can't fit into my work attire. Alright, maybe I can squeeze into a pair of pants, but I can't exhale, bend over or walk. Then there's this issue of my work out shorts...my thighs literally eat them. If I don't constantly tug on the nylon out of the cottage cheese, it ends up looking like my crotch actually eats shorts. I also get scared that if I don't constantly pick my ass, I will lose my workout clothes to a black hole. Who know's where they'll end up?

Oh yes, there's more.

I gain weight particularily in the thigh and ass sections (couldn't have guessed that one, right?) and I swear to God that's where each pound I gain goes to. I would be the most awkward looking obese person ever. The majority of my upper body would be relatively slender and from my calves to my ankles wouldn't be into too bad of shape either. I just wouldn't want anyone looking at my midsection. You've all seen a gross lady with a HUGE fat ass. You know it's actually as big as it looks because you can see the green cotton shorts stretching to barely cover the fatness (not that I've ever noticed such a thing).

So I've been hitting the gym like a complete psycho. For those of you who are familiar with me personally know that the word "psycho" is definitely fitting for my work out ethic (let alone my entire personality). Lifting weights, running, doing seemingly endless stints on the stairmaster and the eliptical machines and not to mention killing my abs has rendered a weight loss of frickin' two pounds!

Why does my weight fluctuate like twenty pounds in one day (you know what I mean)?!? Seriously, one day I was feeling pretty good and then the next day I felt like I was right back to square one! Alright, I know there's no mystery when I eat like an absolute pig and drink like a f-ing camel, but it's still a little frustrating.

The truth is I'm getting older and my metabolism is slowing down, but that still doesn't mean this bull shit doesn't f-ing suck ass!

I seriously think my body is changing. Or maybe that's just my excuse until I can fit into my pants without hearing the seam rip, but what if that day never comes? I can't bear the thought.

Then I somewhat take solice in the fact that I was unable to run for a couple of months because I aggravated a nerve somewhere in my ass and as a result, I got kind of depressed and started drinking and eating a little more than ususal. Fine, I ate and drank like I was being transfered to a concentration camp each and every day. I just remind myself that I didn't grow out of my pants overnight and I won't be able to fit in them in that amount of time either.